suspicion
Craig's arm shot out from the warm cocoon of comforter to snap off the alarm. He threw off the blanket, doubling up the cover on the flattened lump beside him, and stretched his arms out, crucifixion-style. Tweek kicked like a rabbit to rid himself of the hot blanket, sending it over the foot of the mattress and to the floor.
"Tweek, go turn on the fan."
"You!"
"I think I'm sick."
"Aw Jesus—you probably caught it from me, I've been feeling sick the past few days—"
"Oh, me too. One of us caught it from the other. Shit, who will fetch us Seven Up—" his trachea suddenly exploded into his mouth. He coughed roughly, scraping the back of his throat somehow in the process. "Fucking shit!"
Tweek groaned, arched his back, and sea-sawed his way under Craig's arm.
"You're hot."
"Too bad."
Craig accepted his cuddly fate rather cheerfully. "I'm taking off. I feel like six sick sacks of shit." He cocked his head curiously at his own statement.
"Me too?"
"Yeah."
Tweek sighed. "We should just open a window."
"You."
"No."
"Let's make Clyde come over and do it."
"Yeah—arrgh—call your manager, I'll call my dad when you're done."
"You're shaking really bad."
"I'm sick!"
Craig bit his lip, brought the hand not pinned under Tweek's head to his mouth to cough, and reached over to the night table toward the phone.
--
Things had been going especially well since That Night—a few months ago. Out of guilt, Craig had been extending an extra effort to be sweet to Tweek—he hadn't hit him once, and had been submitting highly expressive little bursts of affection. Sort of a honeymoon phase. Tweek had most likely noticed the slight upward shift into some semblance of love song sugaryness, but probably not enough to actually question it; all the better. Craig's guilt had leaked free, leaving him to believe the mistake had actually been a good one—the fruits it bore were certainly nice. The high was starting to ebb—the little frustrations he had considered normal before, however, were gone.
Around ten, Tweek rolled free, leaving the areas where there skin had kept contact cold and wet and clammy, claiming the caffeine headache was worse than the effects of whatever it was they had. Craig was relieved; he hadn't wanted to get up, but was pretty sure that if the two of them, fevery as they were, had lain together much longer, the bed would have burst into flames. While he was already up, he brought Craig a box of Ritz and a huge plastic cup full of ice water, then retreated to the couch. The consolation prize of the TV was worth losing the bed.
Craig tried to munch a few of the crackers, but wished he had a trash can to spit them out in the moment he did. They tasted decent; the idea of eating was the gross part. He chugged water 'til it started to come up a little, then tried to sleep again.
At noon, he called the doctor and made appointments for the both of them.
Twelve thirty, he started to get lonely, and hauled his self out of bed to shuffle down the hall toward where his soul mate lay, scratching his ass in a most charming manner.
He made a nest of pillows on the floor, insulated away from the other heat source by three feet of tepid air, and extended a sweaty hand to hold onto the bare foot hanging a few inches beneath the surface of the cushions. He could sacrifice a hand.
--
technical stuff
"Baby is this—love for real," Craig mumbled to the impersonal room. The doctor had poked and peeked into all of his facial orifices, asked a lot of questions about his bodily functions, and put her dry hand up his shirt a whole lot. Now was the waiting. It seemed to be taking longer than usual. "Let me in your arms, to fee-ee-ul,"
Finally, the door swung open, and the doctor walked in, looking formally cheerful.
"Okay, Craig, it looks like you probably just have a case of pneumonia, but just to be sure, we're gonna get some x-rays, if that's alright." She stood with her feet together, showing too many perfect teeth.
X-rays? For pneumonia? Craig wasn't a doctor, or enough of a douche to question one out loud, but he knew something was weird about that. He nodded and followed her out of the room, regardless.
"Is Tweek getting one too?"
"Um, well, considering he probably has the same thing as you, we'll probably just start with you and then see from there."
He gnawed his lip.
--
They x-rayed his chest a few times (weird,) and made him go back to his waiting room for a another half hour (Tweek was probably bored out of his skull—and in need of caffeine.)
When she finally returned, she was joined by another doctor—a guy. The cheerfulness was gone, leaving just the formality. Okay.
"Um, Craig, it looks like you might have a sort of rare kind of pneumonia—" she handed him the x-ray, which he could make no sense of beside a few wispy ribs and a lot of white. "—it's called PCP, and…well, it's not really common in healthy adults. So we're gonna take some blood, alright?"
They kept asking his permission. He stuck out his arm, let the guy pop in the needle and steal some of his cells, and prepared for more waiting as they both left.
--
When they finally came back, a severely twitchy Tweek was at their heels. His eyes were winking and twitching as if he had just spent a very long time in a very dark place and was now coming into blinding sun—the usual behavior of a very nervous Tweek, probably not helped by his already being sick.
She was quiet, standing in front of them, staring at a clip board. "Um…" What the hell? "It…we haven't done any secondary tests yet, so this isn't 100%, but…it…sort of looks like you both have a very early case of HIV."
breakdown
Wow, had that Nothing always been just one step behind him? Did the no-dimensional no-think world follow him like a shadow, always just a step behind? It was suddenly so accessible, so open and welcoming and blank.
He only floated for a second before the noise reached him—dammit, how did it even travel in his airless space? It hit just the right pitch—the Tweek pitch, made by his voice and at his tone.
He wavered between the nothing and Tweek, conflicted and tired, before the feeling of duty sunk in. Annoyed, he let everything come back, coming into light like turning on a TV.
Oh shit, what just happened?
Tweek was curled up on the chair in the fetal position, head between his knees, shouting something—"OH JESUS OH JESUS WHAT"—with the doctor on her kneeling in front of him, trying to calm him down.
His mind didn't touch on why Tweek was doing it—he was built of instinct, paternal, maternal, you-use-it-you-buy-it responsibility. He grabbed Tweek by his head and pulled him partway into his own chair, shoving his face into his neck, trying to cover his mouth with it—he bit down, hard, either out of panic or rage, and Craig did all he could—hold the shouting boy tightly against his chest and rock him back and forth, dead silent.
Another nurse came in—jammed a syringe into Tweek's arm, pushed something into it, and pulled back out.
He felt the white hot mass gradually go limp, until, thirty seconds later, his head was lolled over Craig's shoulder, dead to the world.
--
Craig tapped the speaker end of the cell phone against the cartilage of his ear, gnawing his bottom lip fervently. The top layer of skin had been peeled away, showing shiny, sore red flesh beneath, though his teeth still dug in.
"Wha-at?" Kenny's voice drawled. The TV blared in the background.
"Kenny—you—wh—fuck, Kenny." He sputtered. How was he even supposed to approach this? Sympathetically? Accusatory?
This caught the other's attention; the TV was suddenly silenced. A distant lilting sound echoed it, Butters making some sort of inquiry.
"What?"
"Me…Me'n Tweek went to the hospital. For the—well, uh, pneumonia. Both of us—we have HIV."
Both worlds were silent, aside from the soft rasp of Tweek's sedated breathing on the check out table where he lay.
Butters made another noise—it trailed into the distance as Kenny moved away, followed by the sound of a slamming door. Another mewling sound, this time muffled.
Kenny breathed heavily, trying to gather himself, failing, starting to speak, failing, and trying again. "What the fuck do—did—who else have you fucked!?"
"You! Just you!"
"Oh God, oh God, oh God—no—"
"This is your fucking fault, isn't it?"
"I DIDN'T MAKE YOU—uh—it's as much my fault as it is yours! Oh, God, Butters!"
"Real fucking concerned over Butters now, aintcha? Wun thinkin' bout him when you started screwing nasty strangers?"
"It's not like that!" He was crying now—choking on it. "Look, I never—there—there was a couple things, at parties and bars and—I was never sober, I would never do anything like that sober, and my brother—he rapes me, Craig, he gets messed up and he—I can't control that, that's not my fault, but I would know if he had anything—Oh, God, Butters!"
"How 'bout Tweek? Huh?" Craig was unfazed by Kenny's confessions. He'd chosen his path, and sympathy was not it.
"Don't you blame me for cheating on him, you ass. It's your own fault you and him got—got it."
"And yours Butters probably did."
"I'M NOT DENYING THAT! SHUT UP! Crap, crap—I have no idea who did this—Jesus, I have no idea how many people I infected—uhhr, fuck—I—I have to…I have to talk to Butters. He's freaking out." The open-sounding air coming through the speaker behind Kenny's voice was suddenly cut off. He pulled it away, and saw the message—call ended.
There was nothing to do. Tweek was sleeping, the doctors were out—busy, no doubt, as any doctor they saw would be for the next…well, from now on—and Kenny was dealing with his own spectrum of the issue.
He cried.
He felt for Butters—he did, about as much as he felt for himself, his naivety may have been annoying, but somehow that dopey, loving trustfulness was what had ensured his death in a hospital bed, hooked up to wires and with the blinds drawn. Poor kid never deserved this—he didn't deserve anything. He felt for himself, as well. 'Course he did.
But the frozen emptiness in his gut was for Tweek.
He sat in the chair—pulled his knees up, buried his face in them, cried like a snotty kid—for only about ten minutes before Tweek burst fully-formed from his artificial sleep.
Face screwed up in attempt to regain vision, he sleepily raised his head to stare at Craig. Craig lifted his face to meet his eyes.
"Did you cheat on me?"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
"…Once."
"So you gave me AIDS?"
"HIV."
"Who gave it to you?"
"Kenny."
"Oh. Are they okay?"
"Are you?"
"I'm…drugged."
"Well imagine how you are, only without the drugs. That's them."
Tweek considered this fact while rubbing his nose on the back of his sleeve. His half-lidded eyes rolled around the room, before he pushed himself all the way up, 'til his feet hung over the edge of the bed, toes dangling high above the cold linoleum. "I kinda…trusted you."
Please don't do this.
"Like…pretty much only you. Wow. I guess this is what I get."
You fucking dick.
"I was drunk. I felt really bad about it after."
"That doesn't really change the fact that I have AIDS, does it?"
"HIV. No, it doesn't—I…I can't really do anything about that."
"Can't really do anything about having cheated on me either."
Craig had a strong urge to slap him out of this sedative-coated calmness—beat the smart-ass off him, 'til he reached the core of jitters and jerked-out tentative half-statements. Then that melted away, leaving heavy, blank pity.
For the first time in their relationship, Tweek was the one to look on in awkward shock as Craig was the one to dissolve into useless sobs, hugging himself tightly.
--
happy ending
As soon as he got through the door, Tweek rushed toward the couch; he climbed over the armrest to land face-first on the cushion farthest from the door, spread out in the definition of misery.
Craig stood, taking off his jacket and pulling his shoes off with the opposite foot, watching. He was drained, and had no idea how he was supposed to react. It was a completely alien situation, of course.
"How mad are you?" Why the hell not.
Tweek moaned into the cushion, pulling his arms up from either side of his torso up to clutch the fabric by his face.
"Like, I should leave?"
The tussled blonde head shook from side to side; a surprising no.
"You hungry?"
Another no.
"Well, you have to take some of these meds—for the pneumonia—and, uh, if you're gonna sleep, you should probably take the other ones." Not the best time to play responsible—but if he didn't, they would most likely have been forgotten.
They were still for a few seconds before Tweek managed to lift the front half of his body from the couch, not turning to face the correspondent of his words as he inquired, "What did I do wrong?"
"For me to have cheated on you?"
Nod.
"…Nothing. Well…no, nothing. I—I told you, I was drunk, I wasn't thinking, I was horny—if you were there I would've done you, swear to God." Maybe not. "I really, really, REALLY screwed up. Like…if you want me to leave…"
"Errgh--I said no."
"Entirely."
This was the statement Tweek deemed deserving of showing his face—he whipped around, looking aggravated. "Why would you leave!? Augh—I can't deal with this by myself!"
Craig lifted one eyebrow incredulously.
"So…you…forgive me?"
"No!" He cried it hysterically, with an 'obviously' undertone.
"…But you're not leaving me?"
"What good would that do!? Augh—you screwed up, and you cheated on me and probably killed me—oh God—but that doesn't mean I want to be alone on top of all that!"
Craig squinted slightly, as if trying to see past Tweek's face and into his mind. After just a moment, however, he gave up, shrugged, and moved toward the couch, arms out to embrace his quivering love, and quickly received a foot to the face—shoe included.
"No! No hugs!"
"Right, sorry—killed you and all. In like, twenty years, though."
"Still counts."
"Wasn't saying it didn't—just—how long are you gonna be mad for?"
Tweek sighed as Craig rubbed his chin, kneading out the pain. "I'll let you know."
"Okay." He lingered for a little bit longer, before daring to add, "Y'know, kinda sucks that the entire gay population of our generation in this town has AIDS. Filling stereotypes, right?"
"Go to bed, Craig."
"On it."
---
It was another three days until Craig went back to work—the same shift as Kenny, the first time they would be seeing each other since discussing the incident. Lizzie, who worked as a nearly professional-level tension breaker, was unfortunately absent.
Kenny was bent over the desk, pushing a pen across a radial track. He pulled his finger away from the ball-point as Craig pushed open the door, ringing the bell, and gave him a completely neutral, yet wary, look.
:Okay, I've been thinking, and I have a shit-ton of wisdom to share with you."
"Wisdom?"
"Don't sass. Okay, number one—this is a challenge."
Craig leaned against the cold glass window that made up the front wall, waiting for Kenny to end his soliloquy before punching in and changing.
"And we will fight! Go Cows! Okay number two—we aren't trapped, like, mouse trap-trapped. It's like, we got picked up off the streets from an animal shelter and are now in a loving home. I know, it's just an analogy change, but pee-oh-vee counts for a lot. We're not rompin' around like the Tramp anymore, but hey, we got the Lady—and that movie ended happy, didn't it? I don't remember, I haven't seen it since I was little, I know they made a sequel, and if they made a sequel it has to have a happy ending—Bambi didn't have a sequel. Old Yeller didn't have a sequel. The Mighty Ducks had, like, ten. Anyway—that's number two. It's better to be trapped in a nice, safe place than free in a horrible, dangerous, HIV-filled one."
Craig's mouth titled to the side incredulously, but he sort of felt comradery with the blonde gesticulating broadly at the half-hexagon desk in front of him. And this time, he didn't have to try.
"Number three, I love Butters so much, I'm okay with not having it all. Hell, I'm okay having HIV! Well, no, not really—I'm kinda glad we both have it, rather than just one—well—no—this is weird, like, if it came between just him having it or both of us, I'd go with both of us. It's ours. You and Tweeker, you got yours—we got ours. He's not mad anymore. I told him everything. He is such a little cutie, I love him so much, I do. Yeah, okay, so it's fine that I don't get to do everyone ever. I get to do the most important person. There's number two of number three, I'm glad we both have it because we can still have crazy sex all night long. You heard me, all night long. Reason number three—I love Butters.
"And number four, we're all gonna die. Hell, I might die a few times before the AIDS gets me—which brings up the question, if I die again, will my HIV go away? I don't know, I haven't died in years, anyway, but there's always a chance—anyway—it's okay to die like this. Along with someone you love. One of us might be hit by a truck before we lose The Challenge, anyway! But if we don't me 'n' Butters get to go together. And that's nice." He crossed his arms, firmly nodded once, and smiled, proud of having enlightened his friend so thoroughly.
"So no more hot, hot, guilty sex?"
"Nope!"
"Well, now, I went and got AIDS for you, you dick, and now you shun me like I'm last—like—I suck."
"HIV. And you do suck, as shown by your inability to come up with a decent simile. Go change, faggot."
Craig sighed peacefully as he slipped to the back of the shallow store. Although a bit wordily, Kenny's wisdom seemed pretty on-the-ball. Yeah.
A Challenge.
Tweek hated challenges.
He laughed as he pulled on his vest. HIV and all, he was doing pretty okay.
AN: Oooh…I wouldn't submit this…but…I want reviews. Bad. So very, very little to do in my computer class…so very few unblocked websites…give me something to do, please. D: I know it sucks horribly. IDC. Tell me about your day. Give me a fun fact. ANYTHING. I have NOTHING to do in that class.—yahoo, wiki, and eBay. I spend all my money on eBay, and I gravitate toward pages that have to do with penises on wiki, which will someday get me in a lot of trouble, so yahoo's probably the safest bet here. BUT NOBODY'S REVIEWING ANYTHING. ARGH. TALK TO MEEE.
