AN: Yeah, cause I have nothing better to do and felt like I needed to write a couple story with a new couple :-p. I hope you read and enjoy and review too!
I don't own SP, enjoy!
"Oh, this looks pretty bad. I think you broke it; I'm going to call your parents, they can take you to the hospital dear. Keep your hand in the ice, it'll help with the swelling. Here's some aspirin, I'm sorry I can't give you anything stronger. Are you alright?"
"Fine." His voice was monotone, devoid of any passion or emotion, completely incongruent with the state of his fractured hand or how he had obtained it.
"Alright, hon. I'm going to call your parents now; you call me if you need me." And then she was gone from sight, but still within earshot. She was only just outside this tiny room, making the call from her desk phone. He could hear her side of the conversation.
"-in at least two places." a pause. "Oh no, he seems to be handling it well." It was spoken a little too loudly, speculatively intentionally, a supposed benefit for his ears and ego. Then there was a whispered end, "I think he must be numb from the shock of it. I'm afraid the pain's going to set in soon." He rolled his eyes; trying to repair his supposedly emasculated and bruised ego was even more condescending than being here was as is. "Okay, good. I'll let him know. Goodbye."
She was back in the little room again, which seemed even smaller with her added girth in the tight space. He stared up at her from his seated position on the cot, still apathetic and still with his hand buried in a bucket of ice and cold-packs.
She smiled sweetly and gently. "How are you doing Craig?" She asked it softly, as though her
question might provoke a wave of pain he hadn't previously been aware of. Her tone had calmed down some, but her nervousness over his injury was still evident.
"Fine." He didn't elaborate. The less said the better, hopefully it would end the conversation more quickly; besides, it was his thing, if he said more than that she might've suspected a nervous breakdown of some kind.
Not that his broken hand didn't already cause concern.
"Now Craig," she sat down on the cot opposite him. Their combined sizes made it impossible to sit facing without touching, so she sat slightly to the side of him. "Why did you punch that wall?"
Saying "It felt right," sounded pretty fucking dumb right now, so he just shrugged.
She sighed. "Now Craig-" but she was interrupted.
"Mrs. Whiteside? Can you call my parents? I think I'm gonna be sick."
The unnamed student was whining from the main office, right next to them. The school nurse stood up and made to leave; her new charge awaited her and what little medical care she was legally allowed to provide.
"Craig, call me if you need anything. Oh, and your mother is coming; she'll be here in about twenty minutes. Can you wait until then?"
He nodded. She left. He was grateful.
He punched that wall because he saw something he wasn't supposed to see. He knew that, even if he didn't want to admit it. He had punched that wall knowing that it was concrete, knowing that it constituted as a rare display of emotion, and knowing that it would break his hand and hurt like hell; but he hadn't cared. His hand didn't even hurt right now, not really; it was a distant pain, something that he was aware of but didn't quite feel. Maybe he really was in shock. He just didn't know if it was shock from the broken hand or shock from seeing what he saw.
He saw Stan and Tweek kiss.
He had been rounding the corner from one hall to the next. He had been looking for Tweek actually; he was looking for his best friend, the only one he thought understood him and the one person that he wanted more than anything. On some level he was certain that Tweek knew that, sure of it. He was working up the nerve to say something to Tweek. He had been for the past two months.
And then this happened.
It was something obviously not meant for his eyes. They were touching and cuddling in the empty hallway in a way so private and intimate there was no mistaking what it meant. He had wanted to look away, but he had stood there dumbfounded. And then their lips had met. Stan had started to reach in and Tweek had met him halfway; their kiss was soft and sweet and tender and it broke Craig up even more.
It was only when they broke apart that they noticed Craig's frozen frame at the end of the hall; he was so still and stuck that he must've looked like a mannequin in a store window, body and face equally lifeless.
"Ack! Craig!" That was Tweek's immediate response; his previously calm and happy demeanor had gone and he was shaken and fearful again. His entire face was scarlet red and he instinctively jumped a half-step away from Stan.
"I'm sorry man, I was going to tell you! I was going to tell you I swear!" Tweek was apologetic despite Craig's lack of speech or expression.
He assumed Tweek was apologizing as a best friend would for keeping a secret; or maybe he could read Craig better than Craig knew. Had he seen the shock flit across his face? Or maybe the pain in the dark pupils of his eyes?
Stan's face was tinged carnation pink, but he still stood tall. Stan's chest had puffed out slightly; he was watching Craig, waiting for a reaction. Stan moved closer to Tweek. He was getting ready to protect Tweek if need be; Stan was easy to read. It hurt. It hurt even more when Tweek seemed to unconsciously gravitate in Stan's direction, ready to accept Stan's role as the caring and protective boyfriend Craig was sure Stan would be.
Craig took a step back. As if a step back could really do anything; now he knew how stupid it was, but at the time part of him thought that it really could do something, that putting one foot behind him might erase the last few moments.
Everything had been in a haze. The only thing he could see clearly was the only thing he didn't want to see: Stan's and Tweek's faces, watching him: Tweek nervous and Stan tense, both waiting for his reaction. Had he given something away? He must have, the way they were looking at him. Time had stood still for that moment; he hadn't been sure of what to do and neither were they it seemed. Everyone was waiting for him to do something and he had no idea what to do; his lifetime of nearly complete apathy had not prepared him for this emotionally charged moment. So he did the only thing he could do.
He fled.
It was probably the most agitated movement he had displayed in at least two years. He heard Tweek call his name once. He didn't stop. Instead he sprinted down the hall full tilt: turn, another hall, turn, one more, dead end. No one had followed him; had he really expected them to? Had there been anyone in the halls? Had he just destroyed his prestige with this sudden explosion of energy? Fuck. He hadn't even been able to see if anyone was in the halls. He hadn't seen anything, at least nothing besides the remnants of Tweek's and Stan's faces staring anxiously in wait. And now he was doubled over, clutching his knees and panting out the last vestiges of his pride and apathy with each breath.
He was human, he always felt something, but this was out of control. Usually when emotions threatened to consume him there was Tweek: Tweek to take care of, Tweek to watch out for, Tweek to calm down. Over the past few weeks he had watched Tweek become more relaxed…happier; he had been so relieved he hadn't questioned it. He had even convinced himself that he could finally tell Tweek how he felt. He had thought this was his chance. He thought he could have everything.
Now there was nothing. This was too much.
That was when he had stood, turned, and with expert precision punched the painted concrete wall with a howl of raw anguish and anger. Then he stepped back and took one last shaky deep breath and let it out haltingly. And now as calmly and dispassionately as he might be on any other day he had stood straight and made his way down a few more halls to the nurses' office, his hand already swelling and coloring ugly shades of blue and purple. A few kids seemed to look at him, but his deadened gaze back was enough to make their heads turn away.
It was the same as always. Save for the distorted hand the scene was un-alarming, normal. As if anything about today had been normal. But that thought was far back in the haze of his mind. For right now everything from his hand to his memories was forcibly numbed. He liked it like that; it gave him time. Later he could deal, but first, this.
He stood in the open doorway in a blasé fashion and produced his now disgustedly swollen excuse for an appendage.
"Hi. I think I broke my hand." His nasal voice was steady and cool, ironic even, as he uttered the obvious.
"Oh my god! Craig, sit down! No wait, go lie down on a bed. I'll bring you some ice. Just go lie down and I'll examine your hand." She was a little frenzied, her middle-aged fat shaking as she tried to act quickly. This would be an exciting day for her; her usual patients consisted of girls with PMS and kids faking sick to skip class. The thought was kind of funny.
"Craig how did you do this?" her adrenaline-fueled question came as she rushed to procure a pathetic "remedy" for his pain- a concoction of ice and aspirin.
"The wall." It was self-explanatory and said dully, like being hurt by walls was an everyday occurrence for most people. Maybe it would be for him. He didn't wait for her reply.
He went and lay down in the quiet side room and sat up lethargically a few seconds later when she brought him the proffered bucket of ice and frozen packages of plastic wrapped chemicals and two little white pills. She left and he listened to her calls and words in the cool darkness. His hand was starting to ache. Soon the pain would be shooting through him, he knew it.
He wondered if it would start shooting through his heart then too.