.Nunfuckery.

I

The Aberrant of Faith

It wasn't every day that he found his back slamming against plastered walls or lockers or concrete façades of the schools exterior, but it happened quite often—often enough that his mind grew impatient with these frequent confrontations. However, his body always seemed to react instinctively and he couldn't help the anxiety crawling beneath his skin once again as he was reacquainted with brutally cold eyes.

"Hey… Freak," his aggressor sounded playful, flirtatious even, but he knew the underlying maliciousness in that repulsive voice. He knew the qualms of the hands that began gripping at his uniform. A harsh grasp like that would leave wrinkles, he thought. Those callous, nitpicking nuns will see how untidy he was; they would certainly punish him.

He'd rather they splinter his knuckles with their unforgiving measuring sticks for the rest of his life than endure this on a day-to-day basis.

For every instance they'd crossed paths, he'd sometimes wish he could retrace his steps. Or hesitate more than he did at his locker. Maybe he could have had another break and run off in the other direction, swearing to the utmost divine being—hilarious because there can't be such a thing—that he should've believed in to keep him safe from his suspicions.

Yet there was no exception for him, not for Tweek.

He didn't like this school for many reasons; the very first being that it was another one of those inane schemes poorly executed by a certain nefarious group of boys. They—well, one of them for the sake of his only Jewish rival—had somehow involved the entire populous of South Park in what he'd like to call the Fifth Great Awakening. He turned the townsfolk into born-again Christians, even Tweek's parents, who were the kind to be open-minded about religious matters. With this righteous uprising, their mayor proposed his high school to be split down the middle (co-ed wasn't acceptable anymore) and converted into a Christian school. Soon enough, the most rebellious of students had rolled belly-up and the Goth kids couldn't handle conformity in such massive doses that they all fled for the sake of their existence to North Park before they were somehow brainwashed into another fad like before. Hell, everyone seemed brainwashed into this. Not him, though. He thought he'd lose everything that made him the way he was if the misfortune ever occurred.

He had been so sure that the mayhem would probably blow over in a month or two, possibly after Jesus threw a fit over never being able to escape his past or the fat ass who started it all involved this religion in a shameful scandal that lessened the credibility of it, but he had been horribly inaccurate. The days turned into months and soon enough, it had already been four long years since the actual brunt of what Cartman had done to the little mountain town.

Who knew how long this idiocy would really last?

"When are ya gonna give it up, Tweek, hmm?" The grip lightened, hands turning to slow caresses down his chest. The blonde shivered at the breath tickling his ear, trying to look past those cold eyes and burning palms to the indifferent pairs behind them, searching for help, although he knew he'd never receive it.

The blow was sudden, and left him in a daze.

"To think you'd believe in nothing at all—it's disgusting," Jason spat. "You are disgusting. You make me physically sick to my stomach."

That's just the bigotry talking.

Another set of knuckles colliding into his face. Oh… Did he really say that out loud?

"Token, you gonna help me out or—"

"What, g-gonna do to him what you do t-t-to me? L-Like that's g… good enough a th-threat."

"Shut the hell up, you lukewarm queer!" This time it wasn't Jason who struck him with such force to bring him face-level with the dusty linoleum; it was Token, an irreplaceable companion among the torturous trio that seemed to plague Tweek in the vacant halls of where he received the lowest quality of education. A new pain bloomed in his abdomen, where he had been kneed, and, in the midst of his gaping breathlessness, another as a foot pressed his face to the grimy floor.

"Look at him! You belong with the filth beneath my feet, you heathen."

He would've thrashed, seeing as he was sure he could feel the bacteria crawling onto the outermost layer of what used to be his clean skin, anticipating a breach to invade and conquer his system, if it weren't for the clacking noise rounding from another corridor that made his muscles stiff and blood run cold.

The staccato of these steps was, in a way, were lethargic and numbing to his ears as they idly became louder and more defined. If it was one of the patrolling nuns, they would all be punished and then Jason would be twice as harsh. And then, and then it would be a whole other world of hurt for him.

It was all so dramatic, he thought, when a shadow loomed over him precariously. The aura emanating off the owner of this shadow was silently threatening, the worst kind of threatening to Tweek—although, he doesn't like loud in general. It was a silence that wrought potential, deadly potential to do harm, and that in itself was what made it horrifying. His eyes rolled slowly, setting his sight on the figure blocking the incriminating florescence that usually stung his eyes, twitching involuntarily and squirming once again as he reminded himself what his head is being pressed against. It was so dramatic because, of course, it wouldn't have been a nun—some-sort-of-god forbid it. It was the potentially life-threatening head of the triad, himself:

Craig Tucker.

Dramatic because once tawny clashes with grey, he was deaf to the world, only his life pulsing in his ears. He would relate this moment to a certain cliché about deer and headlights, but deer are fucking creepy to him since he watched that one show and he would never want to regard any kind of empathies to them or situate himself being caught in headlights because that would be a horrible way to die, being struck with such force that sends you flying—

Arabica. Robusta. Hazelnut. Happy thoughts, okay?

Dramatic because of the feelings that had arisen from his cold and blank staring were just too kind, too cautious for the likes of the indifferent boy standing far above him. Tweek never had an ill thought about Craig before, especially before the whole town decided to get in on this ridiculous scheme. Maybe it was because the boy never bothered with him—with anyone—sticking to the consistency of a life he had quite enjoyed before everything turned inside-out and bottom-up. Maybe that upsetting is what made him become so indignant of the social reboot. Yet, Tweek couldn't imagine it turning Craig into the God-fearing youth he was now, who preyed upon the hedonistic and the sexually wayward in order to achieve some sort of self-reward in the hopes of being ignored. He should've seen it coming, he concluded. He should've known Craig would do whatever it took to melt into the plaster walls of the hallways and be able to remain invisible to the rest of the all-male student body, to become the white noise.

He needed to be like one of them, something that Tweek couldn't bring himself to bear.

With a huff, he quietly uttered, "You're being too loud. I could hear you down the other hall."

"So? I'm sick of the teachers not paying any attention to this," Jason retorted obnoxiously, tightening his grip even more so if it was possible. "They should punish him for his disgusting tastes!"

Tweek had to cringe at that. Tastes… As if it was a conditioned preference. How insulting. Despite not helping who he was, Tweek sometimes wished he wasn't who he was. If he could change, he would have, but he had been so comfortable with this part of him for so long, he couldn't betray himself like that, so now he had to pay the price for not being able to handle the rest of the world ripping the rug from right beneath his feet.

Craig kept his stare long and hard, boring those caustic grey eyes on the blonde in contempt, some sort of ill feeling intensifying to the point of thoroughly convincing the others that the situation was soon to escalate to physical means. He was being shredded asunder by Craig's sneering, not feeling Jason's hold relinquish in exchange for Craig's gradual proximity, too enraptured by what that terrible look meant for him. Two, long-fingered hands gripped at the lapels of his uniform and unsteadily brought him to his feet.

"If they pay attention to him, then they'll pay attention to us. Never thought of that?"

"Well, of course I have! But it's worth putting him in his place," Jason sneered, almost inching to have his hands back on the blonde's quivering form.

Tweek felt that with each second, it was getting harder to swallow the thickening saliva pooling in his mouth.

"Hm, yeah, I guess. Better yet, they won't find us here and, if anything, they'll never know, right?" Craig's focus shifted onto Tweek once more, although his eyes never strayed in the first place.

Chewing on the inside of his bottom lip, Tweek gave a silent, jerky nod, undoubtedly loyal to the implied command. It was as if he was signing the terms and conditions to his ever-forceful harassment.

Always, it always started like this. Even with this fear and this loathing, he went about it as if trading homemade school lunches. It was strictly business and he knew that that wordless pact was a precursor to the upcoming pain and humiliation he'd face in the following school weeks, so it was all mundane by now.

He was picked on for being an atheist. Someone who didn't believe in religion being the nascent of mankind. Someone who didn't fit into the faith binary of this heavily Christian society.

His back was slammed up against the wall again and the collision sent his vision spotting and his head bouncing back like a rubber ball.

He felt pressure on his front as he clammed up on the wall, heart bouncing about his ribcage feeling every inch of Craig as the grey-eyed boy leaned in too close for comfort.

"You gonna feel God's will in ever aching bone in your body, Freak."

It's only because you're about to be pummeled to a pulp that you feel this way, Tweak.

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."

"Amen."

Man…

That word. It was such a lie to him. Amen was like the utterance of love from a teenager in the honeymoon phase of a relationship. That word spews mindlessly from the lips of the ever-faithful who ignorantly believe a Sunday's time sitting at the pews will bring them everlasting salvation. Amen.

"A-Amen." But he couldn't fight the church by not saying it as the homily had been spoken because somewhere was Jason and his family, the source of the glare he had felt stabbing his back in scrutiny for some time now. He felt like he was being watched by them, all three of them, and he couldn't just do as he normally pleased, fearing they would use it against him whenever they picked at him like the soul-preserving vultures they were. He stood with his parents along with the others who had risen to sing the post-homily hymn, pretending to sing the paean enthusiastically as everyone else's voice reverberated through the high-ceiling building and drowned him out. His parents won't question him further if he tells them he started to lose his voice. Even with the sudden change in their lifestyle, Mr. and Mrs. Tweak were still as obliviously neglectful as ever, unconcerned for the mysterious contusions that somehow appear on their son's body with every passing day instead of the boys who actually deserved it. Amen.

Halfway into the liturgy, where Father Maxi talked about one of his concerns, Tweek's eyes wandered in spite of trying his hardest to pay attention although it was difficult to when it was something he must have heard before in varying context throughout the years. It was nothing new for him, nothing he could wrap his compulsive mind around. Flitting from familiar face to familiar face (God, this town is awfully small), his eyes finally settled on a subject of interest in the second row on the left section of the church: The Marshes, or, more specifically, Stanley Marsh. He stood tall and broad, with the typical stance of a casually athletic boy. His hair was tussled in a last ditch effort to look presentable in his Sunday best, although he had slightly outgrown the tux specially reserved for these days, his eyes sunken and droopy from probably a late night catching up with Kyle Broflovski, who had moved to New York years ago on his mother's indignant demand since their faith wasn't well aligned. It was the result Cartman had wanted, after all, and the Broflovskis grew sick of the discriminant attacks on their religion. After Kyle's leaving, Stan stifled his opinions and conformed as he usually did since his parents already forced him to attend every Sunday with exception to illness, but somehow he had become an enigma. He didn't participate socially in school like he used to and he became rather passive of everything. He just seemed to float along as if he wasn't centerfold, and yet he used to be the one who stood out more along with the other three. It was "Stan and his group" and he had such a reputation just for that. Tweek recalled at one point in his childhood he had been a part of Stan's group, but the evidence of that doesn't remain. There's no sign of friendly recognition whenever Stan ambles by on the streets or in the halls. He doesn't speak much either. All his mouth is good for nowadays is to recite prayers.

The blonde sort of wonders if Stan is even alive at all.

Now that he had been quietly observing for a while, Tweek decided that despite his classic run-of-the-mill-back-door-country-hick-town-boy look, Stan was rather handsome and easy on the eyes, kind of rugged in that mountain-town way, but gentle from his wilting personality, something that Tweek liked in other boys.

Stan was attractive.

Amen.

…

Oh, Jesus Christ.

That small thought planted itself in his brain and took root, entangling and sprouting in every nook and cranny. From just staring at the Marsh boy, Tweek thoughts roamed freely after, thinking of what he could possibly look like in almost any situation. And then—oh god, and then, he wondered about him naked and he shouldn't be thinking about the Marshs' only son in that light, especially in a church, but, Someone Almighty, he'd be damned to disagree with his adventurous mind. The thoughts became further inappropriate as he imagined his face contorting into expressions only meant for the insides of bed sheet cocoons and mood-enhancing darkness, then the sounds of his sighs and breathy gasps and groans and grunts and choking on pleasure and—

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."

"Amen."

A-fucking-men.

As if Tweek's mortified (mortified because he never ever thought he would see Stan Marsh as a sexual deviant until this very moment) staring had an unignorably strong magnetism and was pulling it, Stan's focus was found disconnected from the Sunday rituals and allocated to the boy sitting center section, third row, who had now been abashedly imagining him in every which position he could think of. From the corner of his eye, Stan observed Tweek in his red-faced glory unmoved by the hasty movements Tweek made to volte-face the awkward situation, although Tweek failed in that from his exaggerated movements and disturbed, increasingly reddening face because how does one make open staring and eventual fantasizing of the person one openly stares at seem like a casual catch of the eyes? How?

The raven-haired boy kept his warm earthen eyes on the gawky and shaking blonde, but there was no change in his expression other than the questioning quirk of his thick brow. After an eternity of being under scrutiny, Tweek noticed Stan revert his attention back to the sermon from the periphery of his vision and sighed in an immense relief.

Goddamn, Stan Marsh. Goddamn.

And while his effort had turned to the front of the church, where it should've been, his eyes crash-landed to the first pew of the first row in the right section of the church, knocking into the glinting grey eyes of a similar-looking boy. It seemed like Tweek wasn't the only one staring at others with no reservations, since the deadly look he was receiving shouldn't have been present in sacrosanct vicinities like this one.

Blending in with the intense fury of his eyes was something else, something else that made Tweek's innards churn and entangle within each other to the point where he was sure he could feel his heart shoved into his throat and his intestines constricting around his stomach and liver because by Science the feelings invoked by that something else was shitting-yourself terrifying. The glint he had seen prior had to have been a reflection of Craig's mischievous concoctions. Even with the incontestable look of neutral calm, there were nuances of vehemence and spite that amalgamated into a blooming emotion that literally started to make Tweek's knees knock together. And just like Stan, his merciless mind made him think about it, anything about Craig.

He broke into a cold sweat and the physical contact of his parents being pressed onto him from the overcrowding pews was too much. He was suffocating. He couldn't—his skin was overheating and the blood felt like it would rush to the lowest part of him and escape through his pores. The chills were wracking his body, and out of spite to the holiness of this building he was smug as to compare himself to a vibrator. Despite how unyielding his anxiety was, he was happy to think of such inappropriate things in a place that housed everything he didn't believe in, that housed his torment and self-doubt.

This place didn't make him happy. And neither did the people standing beside him.

As the praise quieted from reaching the ultimate climax of today's service, Tweek hoarsely excused himself to attend a restroom because he still felt out of breath and continued to feel smothered in this thick atmosphere of hypocrisy and false promise. When he stood, he could feel the prickling of all their eyes on him as if to shame him for his minuscule interference in their service and now his heart being in his throat was a threat, obstructing his airway and making him panic from the sudden difficulty to breathe. He had to do something about his erratic nerves and cold water sounded like the apple of Eden. A footstep away from the wall that gave way to an obscured interstice led him to the door of the men's room and he now shamelessly forced himself in and wrenched at his slicked back hair through the tight gaps of his white-knuckled grip. The hair pulling had been a relief from the pressure he felt of his brain swelling against his skull in a dire need to escape his head and flee from the church, flee from South Park. He convulsed horribly as a return of his earlier quaking, a sudden feeling nagging in his gut, the intestines coiling around his other organs coiling tighter with this sudden paranoia that wouldn't go away.

Why?

Why did he have to think about those things?

Why couldn't he just conform in that aspect?

Not the religious way. He would rather die before truckling to their blind beliefs and giving up on this part of his identity. But why couldn't he at least not like dick? That had been the problem. If they ever knew he was flaming queer on top of being atheist? He'd be a goner.

Then again, what would it matter? He's already castigated for being a nonbeliever. Being gay wouldn't change that. The hatred would simply be more intense, more chaotic than ever.

The fear of exposure, however, was still leeching off of him, squirming along his insides like a parasite. Soon, it would reach his brain and turn him hapless.

He griped at the white porcelain basin of the sink, shaky hands holding the rest of him steady as he palmed the sides of it and breathed in through his nose and out of his mouth. Deep breaths—deeper breaths—ragged and wheezy, but wholesome, slowly bringing him down from the precipice of his sanity.

I am me.

I can't help being me.

Who I am should not be who anyone else is.

Individuality is cherished.

I am cherished.

I am a singular unit.

I am whole.

Just me.

Amen.

So aye, first South Park fic. I honestly don't know how long it'll be, but I'll probably figure it out sometime in the near future.