Author's note: Just as Cherry Champagne, I can say that the first Creek fanfiction I read was written fantastically. And it was thanks to her. And, as you can see, it really hit me hard, even inspiring me enough to write a sequel. So here you go.
It was depressing, but not as much as reading the original. Go do it too, please, if you haven't done it yet. Give her your regards, because she is the author of the storyline and she really deserves it. I just redid it. It was "A Day in Life of Tweek" by Cherry Champagne.
...the ending is weak D: You write me if you got what I meant. Please?
Disclaimer: I do not own Craig, Tweek, Clyde, South Park, not even the plot. I'm lame I know D: Slash. Domestic abuse.
Walking home, I'm debating possible reasons of his for not picking up the phone. Part of me is scared to a point where I don't even want to think about it, part of me is just wondering what was it he fucked up this time. Again. But maybe he didn't and he got in some serious trouble...
Panicking, I throw the door open as I get home.
"Tweek, Tweek!" He doesn't respond - I kick off my shoes, throw the bag on the hallway floor and rush through the house. I peek into every room, stopping just in the bedroom, finally finding the one so precious to me.
He sits up on the bed when he notices me, cuddled in a blanket, looking at me with his huge turquoise eyes. There is fear reflected in them, tears forming, lower lip quivering.
Relief washes my worries away immediately, my eyes lighting up, my heart easing. I'm glad I found him alright in one piece, even when something is obviously wrong with him, I think as I come closer. "Tweek! What the hell, why is the phone disconnected?" I inquire, panic creeping to my voice. "I thought something happened to you!" I crawl into the bed to hug him, giving him comforting warmth. I love to touch him.
He looks up at me, with his loving gaze in adoration: Craig, my everything. I'm sorry.
"I- I- I..." he stutters, his voice breaking in despair.
"What? What'd you do?" I ask him softly, wanting him to feel my support, wishing he could feel secure, protected by my side.
He says he hasn't called the bank, despite me asking him to this morning. God, he messed it up. Again, and that means I'll have to fix it. Again. No matter how simple, primitive task it is, it always ends up like this.
"Why did you unplug the phone? Jesus, Tweek, I spent the last hour thinking you might be fucking dead, and you just had your usual pussy freak-out?" I'm trying to keep it together. I was so fucking worried for nothing?! I'm showing that I care for him, but he is perfectly alright, just being stupid!
"What if there was an accident or something and I needed you?" He's so egoistic sometimes. "Don't unplug the fucking phone!" I raise my voice and slap him across the face briefly. I don't want to hurt him any further though, so I stand up and think for a minute, staring nowhere, then walk away, swearing quietly. I don't feel loving him so much anymore.
I come to the telephone, picking it up and dialing the number of the bank. His whimpering is annoying me. I can hear it from the bedroom. I try to distract him from crying by calling his name and my request: "Tweek, make yourself useful and make dinner!"
Nothing. No response. Nobody picks up the damn phone. I'm tapping my foot, still waiting. I realize I'm hungry. I'm getting pissed. The tension slowly builds up in me as nothing changes.
"TWEEK! GET YOUR LAZY ASS OUT OF THE BED!" I shout on him, getting out the frustration from the work, discontent with bank services and anger on his uselessness all merged together. It doesn't help much though; I still feel like breaking something.
I can hear his footsteps emerging the bedroom, finally. My mood cheers up a bit at a thought of warm, tasty dinner, but then goes back down as I return to listening to the continuous beeping of the calling device.
I hear something hitting the floor over the monotonous sound in the phone, realizing he must've fucked up again. I sigh loudly, rolling my eyes, and slam the receiver down. I'm being aggressive again, but FUCK, am I imagining it or does everything go wrong today again?!
"The bank's fucking closed. Tomorrow's Sunday, for fuck's sake, I'm going to have to wait 'till Tuesday to get this shit taken care of." I frowned at the thought of losing half of my next day off by arguing with some goddamn secretary. "What are you doing? Get up!"
I watch him stand up clumsily and turn on the stove, looking as if he was fighting it or something. He rushes to the fridge then, and I'm starting getting curious about what are we going to eat.
Next moment I look up I lose my appetite. I should have known better by now; Tweek and rush has never been a good combination.
I can hear a loud "bang" as the bowl falls on the ground, and see my dinner splatter across the whole kitchen. The blonde idiot bursts into tears, not making a slightest attempt to help it somehow, just being good for nothing. As usual.
"What the fuck, Tweek? Can you do one thing, one fucking thing, without making another fucking mess for me to clean up? Are you completely useless?" I growl, glaring daggers, perfectly pissed off.
He slips just when I think the worst was over already. Stretching his arm to get a grip of something to prevent himself from falling, the idiot hits the burner. Stupid piece of shit! He cries out and jerks his hand back. Who would ever guessed it would hurt?! Here, try it again! Learn your lesson to remember it! I grab his hand and shove it back to the stove. It burns, yes! Whose fault is it if you can't comprehend such a stupid, essential thing?! But I don't need to hear him screaming again, so I jerk his hand away almost instantly, twisting the arm in not exactly natural way. I can see big red burn injury on his palm. Serves him right for being such a stupid useless thing.
I kick him, hard. I've learnt how to kick hard and not break his ribs by now. I really hope it hurts when I'm exiting the kitchen, though. He is still lying on the ground, covered by the red spaghetti sauce that was supposed to be my dinner, sobbing. I'm hungry.
After few minutes we are still in the kitchen. I cleaned most part of the mess he caused and am currently sitting on the floor, enjoying my cigarette. I am still pretty pissed, but slowly regaining my composure.
Tweek is huddled under the table. He is silent, fear residing in his eyes, passively awaiting whatever was to come. He isn't moving. Which is only good for him, because I am still ready to kill him right there if he pisses me off once again. No joking.
I'm finishing my cigarette. I pull it away from my mouth for the last time, inhale and look up at him.
"Y' gonna go run off to Clyde's?" I ask him calmly, as if not interested, and put the butt out on his cheek. As if to show my dominance. He flinches a bit, biting his thumb to the point of bleeding.
I still ache to punish him some more for what he did, but I can't get myself to hurt him any more. I can just do little things like this to test him. And he better puts up with it. Because he deserves it. And he knows it. Just as I know he will still love me, no matter what I do to him. Adore me. Like a dog cowardly crawling at his master's feet, awaiting a kick, licking his muzzle, too scared to look up, but remaining on his place where it is fed everyday. It makes me feel sick.
"'S cold out, bring a scarf." I'm showing my concern, because fuck, I still love him, as useless as he might be. I can't overcome my pride and say something more useful to him though. So those are my last words to him before he scrambles to his feet, still shaking a little, and leaves the room. A minute after, I can hear the front door shut.
I remain sitting some more, slowly coming back to my senses. I feel like I finally can breathe again, feel the cold air in my lungs as the regret starts making its way to me. I stand up, looking around. I pull out and light up another cigarette. Noticing the stove is still on, I move towards it and turn it off. Then I head to the bathroom and clean the kitchen floor with a wet rug until the red is completely gone. I feel a bit better when the testimony of the accident is completely removed, as if it was easier to forget and get over then.
I have done many kinds of pointless things after that, such as turning on the TV, staring at it blankly, fetching a can of beer from the fridge, opening it, trying to watch the news, drinking some water, washing the dishes, skipping the channels. Staring to nowhere again. Thinking about Tweek.
How could I do this to him? I must have seriously hurt his hand, fuck. And face. And heart. I feel terrible. For the things I did to him, for the things I will do to him next time. For pretending that I don't care. For hating him for being useless, never fighting back, just suffering passively. I feel terrible for beating up the poor thing that would never hurt me. Never do anything against my will. Never stop loving me, adoring me. For degrading him even when he never wanted to get any higher than the lowest.
I have to swallow my pride and apologize. How could I let him go? Without treating? Just like that, not even looking up at him? I'm such an asshole, fucking dick. I wonder how can he even put up with me.
I stand up and head the same direction he did few hours ago, forgetting the can on the coffee table.
After seemingly short walk, I am finally here. I'm standing in front of Clyde's house, freezing, my teeth rattling. I can feel goose bumps on my limbs. My eyes are red, puffy and veiny because of the cold, tears and sleep deprivation. I gather the courage and knock on the door. Once, twice... I can't stop. After fifth knock I hear him asking: "Who's there?"
"Tweek?" I demand, even when it obviously isn't the answer. He eventually opens the door nevertheless, painful grimace on his face. I gasp a little. He is observing my face.
"Tweek... I'm so sorry... I'm such a fucking asshole, I've never wanted to hurt you, I'm sorry... I love you so much. Please, come back, Tweek, I'm so sorry... I understand if you don't want to, if you won't, but I need you... Oh god I'm such an asshole..." I stutter, repeating the same words multiple times. It feels like eternity, but at last he gives me a weak smile and a nod before he goes back inside. I know he's going to return this time though.
He does so in a minute and we start to walk home, progressing slowly, holding hands. He looks really exhausted; he keeps yawning and even trips for few times. In spite of that night's freezing, I don't feel so cold anymore, his touch is keeping me warm. It's dark and silent, no cars, no people, no howling dogs. Just a peaceful town. I notice him running out of energy, so I lift him up and carry him the last quarter mile. He dozes off almost instantly in my arms.
When we get home I try to kick my boots off, but can't make it like that. I have to put him down to get rid of it, but then scoop him again, heading for the bedroom. I lay him on our bed. I notice he borrowed some of Clyde's clothes as I take off his shoes. I pull down the sock, remembering that the other one is in laundry where I put it during the clean up. I kiss his bare foot as if it could erase my guilt if I try hard enough.
I know nothing can be undone. But if it could, I would make damn sure to try so hard my lips would be bleeding.