A/N- I do not own these characters nor do I own South Park. I am not making any money off this fic.
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Tweek's POV.
The smell of coffee is a luscious scent of a' more. It is a sweet heaven with trace amounts of yummy, melting chocolate that brushes over the skin and hugs me oh so tender close. I have always found that it is a good friend to me. Perhaps the best I have ever had. A female, yes, with a warm embrace like a mother sweeping her dearest babe close. When made right, of course. The weakest cup has left me shivering in cold shame. The bitterest like a temptress that bites back, cutting into the throat. Yet, when made right, how she draws me in, dancing with her laughter singing out a magical beat to a song far away in another time. That first sip is the first step, taking me further from the harsh reality that frightens me so terribly. I find no greater pleasure than holding a glassy mug of a rich, smooth brew and drinking down the intoxicating wonderment that is coffee.
I begin every day in such a manner. My home is a stale, uninviting place filled to the brim with the dark and light hues of the world. My parents bustle by and around my slow moving body as I drag myself from room to room, switching from yawning in the bedroom to shivering in a shower forever cold. To the kitchen I then slip, unnoticed. They have their world. I have mine. I'd rather it stay that way. My world doesn't need their useless chatter anyhow. In the mornings especially. I have no patience for it. My head throbs slightly and my twitching is frustrating when not focusing on the mug I long for from the moment my alarm cries hello at six.
With hardly anything to keep me from screaming, I find myself glaring at my mother. She complains about my flyaway hair. Unruly, she calls it. Vexing, really. I don't have time for such things. I can't stand still enough to care as it is. My hands quiver as my body shakes and my teeth grit and grind. Years of suffering from startling aftermaths have left me permanently shocked. My eyes are wide until they narrow and how I narrow them at her bobbing head and well meaning fascination with my hair. My hair. She doesn't care that it's mine so long as she can fuss. It really is a mess, she says, as she drifts away to get the paper my father reads before he goes to work. I ignore her complaints. I have looked the same for ten years and I'm not about to change. That's too much pressure. Much too much.
I'm no good with pressure. No good, no good, oh no good.
It is pressure that keeps me glued to the coffee pot. For addicts themselves, my parents have never figured out when to brew it. They start it early, but not nearly early enough. With five minute showers and a haphazard appearance, I am ready for that first delicious sip at six oh seventeen. Would be earlier if I could face the day without the snooze button. Really, though. Without coffee, I am no good.
The coffee's never ready, though. They have lives. I do not. I have friends who sleep until the first bell and not a hobby to speak of. My life is in the fields and meadows that dance around the scent drifting from the pots seated so firmly on my parents' counter. I stand there as I have always stood there. In my hands, I hold that white mug. I have countless ones. Presents galore and necessary as I always drop them when I twitch and fumble over the worlds I'm not prepared for. Lost in a mixture of mild delusions and frustrations, I cannot focus on much without that brew. When it's dripping drop by drop, I grind my teeth and grip my cup and wonder why my parents, who need three cups to be alert and remember my name, don't put it on any sooner than they do. Without realizing I could certainly do it myself, I just blame them. They're the ones who're up. I shouldn't have to do it, anyways. I'm up until four every night, shaking in my dimly lit room. I need all the sleep I can get.
I don't sleep. I can't. My body's always itching and jittery. I shiver and shake until I finally pass out from exhaustion somewhere close to dawn. People say I look weary. I've looked that way all my life. The kids call me Tweek for it. I shake and squeak and tweak and certainly act like a cocaine addict. It's not coke I'm addicted to. I crave the sensation of being swept up in the forever forgiving embrace of my Mistress coffee, however cruel she may be on my body and mind. Seeing things that flicker and hearing words in the winds and being unable to silence the chills that tremble through my bones are minor grievances compared to giving her up. I may be engaged in a vicious tug of war for my sanity, but it's worth it for the smiling ecstasy of the rich taste that smoothes my frazzled nerves.
My nerves get the best of me constantly. I wake up scared of the screeching of my alarm and fall dead asleep fearful of the gnomes that have haunted me throughout my star dazed childhood. The boys up and across the street could sneak in and Heaven knows that I've been kidnapped by those four enough. Worse still, the world could end and I just don't know what I would do then. I can't face Satan and it's to Hell I'm sure to plummet for my sickly unhealthy love affair. Nothing can be done to calm me down. Not a thing. Not a thing.
But the coffee. She slips over me and holds me to her bosom, rocking us around in a slow circle. The motions calm me. I can breathe when I'm with her. I can smile at a horizon tainted with those fours' wicked intentions. I can fall on my bed and not worry about whether I will open my eyes again. I put my lips to that sweetly warm liquid and everything just slows down to the point that I can pause for a moment. A moment I need. Lord knows I need enough of them. I give myself to them, dropping back into her arms so that she may take me away from this cruel irony of an existence. I fall into bliss with her. Only her. I have searched far and near and found nothing to compare to her company. So, it is her I seek out more than any other. She is a cruel Mistress, yes. But it is my own self inflicted agony that can be seen as I quiver and twitch and flinch in that uncontrollable manner of speaking.
To her I flee from minutes after I awaken. When the coffee pot is full and my body close to collapsing, I ease the heavy, glass thing from it's station. Into my trembling mug, I pour my first cup. It will be followed by plenty more throughout the day, but it is that first one that matters most. Without it, I don't know what would happen to me. I brace myself for that seduction. For a second, I lose myself in the swirling scent of that brew. I hear her in my distant memories, her laughter ringing out. She beckons me forth. I am not a strong man. I cave quickly to her coy cooing. I raise that burning cup to my lips and sip that overwhelmingly perfect mixture of sweet and savory goodness.
Her arms open wide and pull me in. I have never had a friend quite so good as she. No.
Fin.