Disclaimer: I don't own South Park, nor any of its related characters.

Author's Note: On a rainy Friday night, I find myself sitting before my computer after two days of binging on Creek stories, deciding to try my hand at it. This isn't going to be easy for me - I'm much more used to writing Left 4 Dead fiction and things along those lines. A lot more challenging when I can't just throw together a gunfighting scene. :P

I make no promises, but I'm going to do the absolute best that I can to do this pairing justice. The majority will be from the perspective of Tweek (all of it will, most likely, unless some sort of Craig-muse hits me).

I hope you guys enjoy.


My therapist taught me, among a slew of other things that flew past me, that when I'm panicking or feel a paranoia attack coming on, I should shift my thoughts to things I can focus on. The taste of my favorite coffee - black - or the faces of my parents. Things that comfort me. Things that take me out of the moment.

I love to think about numbers.

They're fascinating. I don't tell anybody, they'd probably beat me up or make fun of me or something, but I love numbers. They're stable, they never change. Two plus two is always equal to two, no matter what's going on or who could be sick or injured or dying or whether or not gnomes are hiding beneath your bed waiting to grab your ankles if you dare try and make a midnight run to the bathroom. For years I've busied myself by making up equations in my head and trying to solve them if I feel an anxiety attack coming on. People tell me it's unnerving to see me completely and suddenly zone out when I look like I'm about to hyperventilate, but I don't care. It helps.

And my grades in math have been terrific since junior high.

But sometimes my system fails.

Mostly when I get overwhelmed. Sensory overload, my therapist called it. When a certain combination of sights or smells or sounds freaks me out beyond any hope of logical resistance.

Like whenever Craig Tucker walks past me in the hallway on his way to class and he bumps me with his shoulder and I get the slightest whiff of his weird grungy smell. He smells like what I think Kurt Cobain would smell like if he was in the 12th grade in Colorado in the year 2015. And he hadn't blown his head off.

I hope Craig doesn't blow his head off. The thought makes me twitch.

31,520 x 14...

"Ahem?"

My jaw snaps shut. A warm droplet of drool falls onto my exposed forearm, making me twitch again and let out a small noise. Ms. Olson, our Literature professor, looks down at me with pursed lips and a furrowed brow - which only really serves to make her unibrow more prominent - and she points, somewhat violently, at the paragraph in the textbook that we were supposed to be reading.

I hear snickers from people looking over at me. It's mainly Cartman. He giggles something about "Twitchy Tweak" into both of his chins and sharply turns around when Kyle, sitting next to him with a healthy buffer zone between them, jabs him in the arm with a glare. They've been somewhat civil toward one another since middle school. None of us are quite sure when it happened.

In front of them, Stan pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales in exasperation. A row over, Bebe giggles and blushes, and Wendy slams a gloved fist onto her desk. Bebe turns back sheepishly.

Next to me, Kenny shoots me a discreet thumbs up gesture. I return it, my eye twitching slightly. Kenny looks good now. His parents miraculously got their act together and now own a small business together, doing whatever it is ex-drug addicts do. They make more money than a lot of people in town, and it shows through Kenny; his old ratty parka has been replaced by a sleek leather coat that fits his body perfectly. He keeps an orange scarf tied around his neck at almost all times, though, kind of an homage. Whenever he's upset, he pulls it up over his mouth.

I don't talk to Kenny when he gets like that.

I look past him and see Craig in the corner by himself, absentmindedly writing on a scrap of paper. He's not doing the assignment, but nobody expects him to - not even the teacher. It's sort of an accepted fact at South Park High that Craig does whatever the fuck it is that Craig wants.

And nobody really knows what it is that Craig wants.

He brushes a black bang out of his eyes and looks over at me. It's not a challenge, but it's not a welcome glance, either. It's blank and expressionless, just like his voice. The perfect poker face. It's the look you give the police when you tell them you haven't heard about any missing children.

Oh Jesus. 31,520 x 14.

Kenny raises a thin, blonde eyebrow and follows my stare, turning his head slowly. Craig has lost interest in me by now, but I'm still looking at him. Granted, I've zoned out and I'm trying to focus on my math.

"Dude!" he whispers. "Stop staring at Tucker. People are gonna think you're gay or something."

It's a jab, and a shitty one at that. I am gay, and he knows it. Everybody knows it. I've been out since junior high when Cartman led some kind of inquisition to try and find the gay kids.

Nobody else really gave a shit.

"S-sorry," I stutter, tearing my eyes off of him. He's weirdly captivating. Sort of the way serial killers are captivating. Right up until they kill you.

Oh Jesus! 31,520 x 14, 31,520 x 14, 31,520 x 14...

"Tweek!" Mrs. Olson barks from right behind me. I shriek and nearly fall out of my seat, which sends Cartman back into hysterics, which pisses off Kyle, which sets off the whole chain of reactions again. The teacher rushes off to restore order and I readjust myself in my hard plastic chair, spasming. Kenny stifles a giggle next to me and I try to glare at him - which is offset by my eyes twitching again. He snorts, and I return, sort of, to my textbook. The commotion in the classroom, oddly enough, helps me focus.

441,280.

I smile triumphantly to myself and write the number on the palm of my hand with my green felt-tip pen, among the answers to other equations I've solved today. I survey my successes and, not thinking about it, glance back over at Craig. He's still writing on that scrap of paper, his pen moving in small, precise strokes.

It's horribly creepy and I spasm slightly when the thought crosses my mind, but I swear I see the tiniest possible hint of a smile roll across his lips.

I blush furiously, even though it had absolutely nothing to do with me.

12,169 x 27, 12,169 x 27, 12,169 x 27...

Kenny looks me in the eyes the second I look away from Craig, and his eyebrows soar skyward.

Oh, Jesus.


A/N: Just sort of testing the waters. Let me know, please, if you enjoyed this. I love hearing nice things, and they may just encourage me to continue. :)