A/N: UGH SORRY IT'S TOTALLY BEEN SIX MONTHS. 8| Seriously, I am SORRY and I totally can't believe how long this took. Well, I can. I take forever to finish everything. What else is new. ANYWAY...
I think it's ridiculous how many reviews this has gotten on the first chapter alone! Like, it's not bad at all, I am just in awe. I remember when I started in this fandom I would kill for this many reviews on a single chapter, a-and I hope to get more. 8( This chapter is like... I don't even know if I like it even after it's taken so long. I JUST DON'T WANT TO LOOK AT IT ANYMORE. I cut out an entire scene after I realized how unnecessary it was, and actually, everything before the last scene is UNNECESSARY BEYOND BELIEF, I WROTE IT BECAUSE I WANTED TO, OKAY and I want you to enjoy it. D: Fanfictiony goodness, how I've missed you.
SO YEAH THIS CHAPTER IS A FUCKIN DOOZY, THERE'S A LOT OF THE WORD "FUCK" AND IT GETS SO DIALOGUE HEAVY AT THE END, I'M SORRY I'LL SHUT UP NOW D: but but there are so many people involved in this too I CAN'T THANK THEM ALL but everyone who's helped me with this, writing and concepts and art and everything, THANK YOU, YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. :'D
Now, PLEASE ENJOY THIS LONG AWAITED CHAPTER, I hope I haven't lost any of you. 8( I am wishing for a review Christmas, but most of all you should just hdjlkhflsadjk ENJOY
EDIT: okay so it turns out I kept switching tenses so I tried to edit it. I AM SO TEMPTED to write in present tense because I like it a lot better, but nooo, Dee had to write it in past tense like 6 months ago. Sorry if it was distracting, those who read it in its UNEDITED FORM this has gotta be the longest chapter I've written for anything, so, EDITING IS A BITCH. Sorry! ENJOY IT IN ITS PAST TENSE GLORY, and if you see any raging typos, please let me know!
ii. the art of origami
Is everything okay?
Yes, everything is okay.
Are you feeling fine?
Yes, I feel fine...
Please tell me that you're alright.
Yes, I'm alright.
Everything was okay. That was all that mattered. Tweek was breathing. Tweek was living. Everything was okay, and he was on track. He was not going to die any time soon. He was not going to drop dead from the pollution in the atmosphere, and no burglars, like the ones he saw on the news, oh, God, the news, were going to crash through his window and take his most valued belongings, such as his cereal, which was a part of his balanced breakfast, which he must have every morning because he could never forget that breakfast was the most important meal of the day. And it was not complete without a couple of the Tweak family's famous (famous, within a few-mile radius from the Harbucks a couple of towns down) cup of coffee.
"Oh my God."
Cabinet doors slammed. Packages of assorted snacks were flung across the kitchen. They hit the wall and, oh, geez, did he have to clean that up later.
"Oh my God."
...
"Oh my God."
He just saw it. He knew he did. Could his eyes be deceiving him again? Well, of course, that would be a probable explanation and rather unsurprising, but this time, oh, God, he was so positive that he'd just seen it, it was driving him mad that he couldn't locate it again. He'd already looked in all his drawers, under the bed, the sofa, but why would he spare the kitchen? It could be anywhere, and anywhere means anywhere.
They were all organized! Everything he'd ever cleaned and laundered with fresh-scented linen softener was in their place at all times, arranged smallest to largest by percentage of spandex (most of which had the same percentage, however, should this be the case, they would be organized alphabetically by color). Tweek had also alphabetized the food in the fridge (by food group), alphabetized the food in the cabinets (by brand name), organized the cereal boxes in ROYGBIV order (Fruit Loops, Cap'n Crunch's Peanut Butter Crunch, Golden Grahams, Apple Jacks, Frosted Flakes, Raisin Bran), scrubbed every counter 'til he could see his reflection, vacuumed corner to corner, amongst many other things that fell under the category of "spotless," "perfect," and "completely and utterly obsessive-compulsive."
Now that a single thing had gone wrong, everything was ruined. The natural balance was completely destroyed. Nothing in this apartment would be right again. Until the item was recovered, the order could not be restored.
A single sock.
He could not go on until he found that sock. It was a black sock, with turquoise stripes ringing around the toe and heel area. What if he never found the sock again, and he would have to live the rest of his life with an uneven matching sock ratio? That would be, unless, he gave up the single sock he was already wearing that was obviously a companion to the lost one. But then, he would be one pair of socks short, and thus, he would have thirteen pairs of socks - one pair for every day for two weeks, minus one. And he couldn't just buy another pair, oh, no - he couldn't buy a pack of socks in less than groups of two - resulting in an odd sum of fifteen pairs of socks, one for every day for two weeks, plus one. He decided that wasn't such a bad idea, considering he could possibly use a spare pair of socks, but that also means he'd have another pair liable to be lost. Should he lose his spare pair, the cycle would repeat itself and he would spend much, much too much money on socks.
The potential amount of money he would spend on socks was absolutely nothing compared to how much time alone he was spending, just thinking about his socks.
He wouldn't blame the gnomes. Not this time. It was too obvious - why would they go for his socks as opposed to his underpants, which he so suddenly realized it was the briefs they were after, and not the boxers? They were not the Sock Gnomes, and they just couldn't take the blame for his responsibilities.
Singing. Singing made everything seem better. More cheerful, yes, yes, more calm and collected, and peaceful...
Where, oh, where, has my little sock gone, oh, where, oh, where could it beeeee? With its stripes so blue and its... stitches... so soft, oh, where, oh, where could it beeeee?
The improvised rhyme played itself over and over in his head, and his fingers stopped shaking, and he stopped biting his bottom lip. His left, sockless foot halted its tapping against the cold, tiled floor and he collected himself.
Everything was okay. He'd just... he'd just buy another pack of the same kind of socks and give the extra pairs to charity, along with the sock with its lost partner, and he'd never find that other sock again and he'd have a perfect fourteen pairs again.
But, oh, God, why would they want an odd number of socks?
What if he did rid himself of the lone sock, and he found the other one—
Bzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzz...
He answered his phone, "What? What do you want?"
"Where are you?"
The question was simple enough, but it sent Tweek's mind into a rush of more panic and instability. His eyes dashed across his surroundings, somewhat in search of an excuse that would make him sound like he was ready and not totally behind schedule because of a sock. To his dismay, there was no other way to say that he was at home, looking for his sock. Though, he could take a shot at twisting words.
Unfortunately, he had no time to think.
"I'm still at—God, no, I'm—uh, dad, I'm a little busy right now, okay?" He nipped at his own lip after speaking, caging in the trapped sounds and swears he wanted to yell.
"Do you know why coffee is wonderful? Because it's punctual."
He's so insane! "Yeah, yeah, dad, coffee is punctual, I'm just—" he gasped for air in his usual trial at speaking slowly and clearly to his own father. "I'm just busy. I'll be there in like ten minutes, okay?"
"I'd hope so."
"Okay, bye." But when he looked at his phone, he was relieved to see that his father had already hung up and he was free to scream. He didn't care who heard it or who thought he was out of his mind - he was respected enough, having the cleanest apartment on the entire floor, even with the elderly citizens occupying more than half the building (most of which were out of their own minds more so than Tweek could ever be). Their apartments were either cluttered with old cats or dying plants, and neither of those did any justice for the décor, nor the scent of the floor overall. Tweek's house smelled like (when he wasn't brewing coffee every other hour) those liquid plug-ins you get at the supermarket for a cheap price and you come home and they smell fucking amazing, but you have no idea how or why because it smells like a "fresh spring morning" and the plug-in container thing could be filled with Kool-Aid for all you know, but you don't want to risk drinking it because you'd probably die right then and there. The fresh spring morning one wasn't his first choice, it was the apple-cinnamon one, which he thought would make his apartment smell pretty fantastic, however, the scent ended up being stronger than real cinnamon, and it made his puppy sneeze everywhere.
Tweek did, in fact, after years of asking his parents as a child and gawking the pet store window for the majority of his lifetime, own a puppy. She was a cross between a Golden Retriever and a Black Labrador - her fur was soft and thick like that of a Retriever's, and the color was sleek and black. Her eyes glowed with a light warmth that gave Tweek a sense of protection during the night, and he loved her like a child.
And really, aside from any other human in the world, he cared that his dog thought he was out of his mind, or at least looked at him as though he were utterly unstable. His scream of frustration startled her as she sat in the doorway between Tweek's bedroom and the living room. She whimpered, and Tweek gritted his teeth at the sight of her face, sporting an expression close to concern, as far as Tweek could tell. She approached him slowly as he bent down to her level and set his shaking hand upon her head, steadying itself as his fingertips touched her fur. She nuzzled lightly and his sock suddenly didn't matter anymore.
The warmth of another living being under his touch filled him with a notion of reassurance - everything is alright, and he was going to get through the day, no matter what came his way, and no matter what stood in front of it.
And that made everything seem okay.
It was time to suck today's dick. That's what was on Craig's mind in the morning. It was rather ambitious, despite the three times he was woken up by Clyde that night, but was sort of an optimistic view in contrast - if Clyde hadn't already woken him up that morning, he may as well have been late for work.
"Craig. Craig. Craig. Craig. Craig. Craig."
The lump of man underneath a too hot blanket stirred upon hearing his name being repeatedly called. He hoped to God he was dreaming again and this wasn't something else to hate his roommate for. Again. "What."
"Are potato chips vegetables?"
Craig didn't open his eyes. He closed them tighter, along with his fists clutching the pillowcase. "You wake me up," he growled, "for the third time in this ungodly hour of the morning to ask me if potato chips are vegetables."
Clyde blinked. His knees were pressed against the tough railing of the sofa bed, and his arm held his only teddy bear of sixteen years, named Eric, reasons unbeknownst to him. Clyde's bottom lip poked out, not that Craig could see. His voice remained soft, but he said with light sadness and disappointment, "I just wanted to know."
Craig knew anyone would want to cancel out four-in-the-morning cockroaches, Clyde's ass and vegetable debates that never took place with the idea of sucking the dick of the day.
That might have been a little bit of a lie. He'd suck the dick of the day, sure, but the day was teabagging him right now. The sun was bright and the birds were chirping and he wanted to flip it the fuck off. Even his alarm seemed to be slapping him around right now, teasing him and making fun of him and screaming the same jingle over and over again in his ear. He would clench his phone so hard in his fist that it screams, not the same screaming sound that kicks his eardrums, but a muffled cry as if it's frightened of him, the scream of the hopeless, and then hurl it with all of his strength at the wall. He wants to see it dent the wall, and not like a little dent, but a well-sized, permanent sort of dent that he can pass by and pat with some degree of pride. And when his phone hits the wall he wants it to split into hundreds of tiny screaming pieces, bits of numbers and microchips splattered everywhere like technological gore, and every alarm on every phone and car and clock ever will never go off again.
And that was the last time his alarm went off.
He finally awoke. He stretched, arms up and behind his head, subconsciously flipping off the wall behind him, flopped down again and scratched his stomach.
He didn't make any coffee or food - he felt it was all spoiled. Clyde's food ventures the night (morning) prior had proved that they really didn't have much left to eat, and they had to plan a man grocery shopping trip together, and remember to never buy Easy Mac again (unless it was Spongebob-themed, Clyde would dream), nor would they buy the Celeste pizza with the sausages. Maybe they'd quit the Celeste kind and switch to Red Baron, or maybe Totino's pizza rolls.
In a matter of time, Craig was ready and he glanced at the clock. The clock read, "You're up too early to be serving dry pancakes to senile old people, Craig Tucker. You should be nestling your gorgeous self into the warmth of a sleeping bag made of a four-cheese Hot Pocket."
He agreed with the clock.
The door to Clyde's room was slightly opened. This didn't give Craig the chance to kick it down, he disappointedly thought. Instead, he pushed it hard with the palm of his hand, and it swung inwards and banged hard against the wall. There was an outline of the doorknob etched into the wall from how many times it'd been violently opened. The sound made it to Clyde's brain, but didn't completely wake him up.
Craig sat on the end of his bed. He slapped Clyde in the forehead, announced that the house was on fire, and dodged a kick to the head from Clyde as he flailed about the bed in sudden panic.
"Fuck, Craig, get the Pop-Tarts—"
"House isn't on fire, dude, I'm taking Tits, are you gonna need her later?"
Clyde flopped backward on his pillow. His head hit the headboard and he groaned, bringing his arm across his face. "... What time is it?"
"I think I'm gonna be out a little late, so—"
"What time is it?"
"It's a quarter past fuck you, do you need Tits?"
Another groan. "... Yeah, man, I have crabs today..."
"You have class today? Well, you're capable enough to take a bus, right? I'll leave you quarters in the fridge."
Good enough. Clyde wouldn't remember to take them, otherwise. The bus route in South Park was one that wasn't scheduled too consistently, but it hit just about every corner of town, which didn't take very long, anyway. If Clyde managed to wake up by alarm and not by false fire warning from Craig, he should have been able to catch a bus to the community college before he could accidentally start a flood or something.
The first day of the semester, it happened to be... for Clyde. The first day he planned to show up - the semester happened to have started two weeks prior, and he may as well have been passed out in the back alley of a Mexican restaurant in place of that time.
Clyde rolled over so his face pressed flat into the pillowcase. He made a sound that Craig sort of thought could have been a sentence or question, but decided to disregard it considering Clyde didn't make it sound important enough for his acknowledgement.
"Sweet dreams, Snorlax," Craig said, with the rusty doorknob in hand, door creaking shut behind his back.
Whilst on his drive to work, Craig experienced two things he thought would never take place without Clyde in the car: Firstly, in an experiment to take a different route to Main Street, he made the most illegal of illegal U-turns in front of the entire one-hundred and eleventh precinct. The only reason he thought he didn't get busted was because the cops had to have given him props for not dying in the process of this dangerous turn. "If he actually makes it, we'll let him go," they'd say. Craig raced in the other direction, at the speed of sound - and the children were safe! The Subway parking lot was untouched! Drivers everywhere wept in jealousy as they cruised in their inferior vehicles.
Perhaps Craig could appreciate Tits after all.
Secondly, during his drive to work after the momentous U-turn, he found himself gazing through the not-so tinted windows of a neighboring car. There were children in the car, but no, no, that wasn't important. His eyes were half on the road and half wandering to the near northwest, where a glowing screen hung from the ceiling of a mini-van. He made out certain images, until he realized—
"Shit, it's Pumbaa."
Wasn't he always taught not to watch Disney movies while driving? Maybe it wasn't first rule in the Driving for Schmucks handbook, but it couldn't have been completely legal to be watching the movie in another car while driving. He was going to stop. The light was about to turn green and he would keep his eyes on the road, except not really because this was his favorite part.
And then he hoped that no conveniently nearby cameras could film footage of Craig mouthing, "They call me Mr. Pig!"
Craig was satisfied. The car of lucky children hung a left and Craig went his merry way.
Merry.
Driving.
Driving.
Arrive. Check in.
"Craig, you look like a brick shithouse." A commenter. Craig knew who it was. Fuck that guy. In his mind, he pushes him aside with one finger and he goes bursting through the wall, and a fire starts and Craig walks away like he's got laundry to pick up. The laundry was actually a plate of dry pancakes that he served to senile old people, along with a cup of coffee with too little milk and too much sugar so he knew it was going to taste like shit and the cougar was going to complain and ask him to take it back.
But before any cougar has the chance to send back her putrid coffee—
"Craig."
What.
"... Bro."
Don't call me bro.
"We need you to get us coffee."
It's not even eleven o'clock yet. "But there is coffee here."
"It sucks."
"That's because I make it."
"So, stop making it."
"But you're saying you need me to get you guys coffee."
Fucking Joe sighed. The shorter ginger guy next to him looked up attentively and hopefully, like Craig was about to save his life or something. The ginger's nametag read "Lou" but Craig could have sworn he read "Douche." This is how Craig referred to him.
Douche coughed. "I really could use a caramel latte right now."
That's a stupid drink. "I don't know what you want me to do about that."
"And she wants a macchiato," F. Joe jolted his hairless head in the direction of a blond girl. The girl looked up, smiled and waved like a five year-old. Craig knew her. He didn't bother reading her nametag, but he thought she looked like a Beth so he called her Beth, though it probably wasn't even close to her real name at all.
"This information really doesn't have anything to do with me." Eye contact was completely out of the question right now. Craig stared straight over their heads. The wall was interesting.
"Listen to me, man," FJ spoke up, "You take this twenty bucks and get us—"
"I'm not taking your money." I should take his money. "I have to go make up for my own crappy coffee, thanks."
"I'll take care of Joan Rivers over there," FJ assured.
'Joan Rivers' was already scouring her general area for Craig, and she was holding her coffee cup in that way like her lips touched the surface and the mere stench told her she didn't want it. She looked disgusted, but Craig couldn't tell whether or not that was just the Botox.
"Come on."
"No."
"Dude."
"You just want to get rid of me."
"And Douche needs his caramel latte." FJ didn't say 'Douche' but Craig could have sworn that was what he heard, and he stuck to it.
"So you admit you want to get rid of me."
"No."
"Yes."
"So, yes, you'll get drinks for us?"
"No!" Whatever internal thermometer that was measuring Craig's anger was about to explode into a huge middle finger to the face, and maybe a punch to the stomach. "It is not even my fuckin' break right now." Teeth gritting and all, oh, the meter was high.
And then he could sense the woman's Botox cracking from yards away.
"Craig... don't be an asshole."
He didn't think. "Give me the money."
He ran.
When the crisp October air smacked him in the face, it came with a free lifetime supply of artificially scented pinecones which actually smell like God knows what, but that also came with a pleasing smell of pumpkins, which were still in the process of being arranged outside of the flower shop next door. Craig jogged past it without stopping for a closer whiff of them. But all he knew was, on the first of October, it was beginning to smell like autumn.
And when he burst through the door of Tweek Bros. Coffee, the small chimes at the top of the door chimed angrily, and everyone knew Craig entered the room. Well, at least a couple of people turned their heads, and it sort of reminded him of an old Western film where the wanted man would kick down the saloon doors with a toothpick in his mouth, and he's looking for someone to fight, and he's about to fight the ridiculous taxes on a fancy cup of coffee.
He walks in slowly, and the spurs on his cowboy boots are jingling with each step he takes - the whores with hearts of gold gaze at him, and the bartender shakes behind the counter.
He holds up his gun, and everything stops— "Give me all your coffee!"
Except, this wanted man actually walked in somewhat quietly and waited on the line like everyone else.
Waiting. Waiting. He should have turned back and curb stomp Fucking Joe's face into the ground. FJ would probably look the same. But Craig's shoes would probably be too bloodied for him to walk around in public. He wondered why he would worry more about his shoes than the fact that he'd curb stomped someone's face.
Well, shoes were more important than that, anyway.
He was looking at his shoes as he waited. He needed new ones. They were worn at the toes, probably from kicking around rocks as he walked and ramming his feet against the walls in his house out of frustration. He didn't even remember they were once decent-looking Nikes. He didn't even remember he once spent money on something that would die so fast. Much like goldfish.
"Next in line, please."
He was still thinking about his shoes.
"Next in line, please?"
I think I remember Clyde taking off the little plastic things at the end of the laces so he could tape them together to make a fucking straw—oh, crap.
He walked to the front of the counter while staring at the menu intently, expecting the things his co-workers wanted to be highlighted in a nice, bright font. He only remembered that gay little caramel latte that Douche wanted. 'Beth' wanted something that ended in an "O" and FJ didn't even tell him what he wanted.
Good. He didn't deserve a nice drink.
Craig fixed his gaze, to look directly ahead of himself. "Hi, Tweek." He just needed to get that off his chest.
"Hi." Tweek was quiet. "What can I get for you?" As if only mice could hear him.
"Could I get... a caramel latte?" He couldn't even believe he was doing this for people he didn't care about, he should just turn around, turn around right now and give them their twenty bucks and move on because no one was going to stop him from leaving this place right now.
Except, Tweek was serving him. He couldn't bear to lose his eye contact.
Craig blinked a little more than usual.
"Hot or cold?"
"Hot." It was the first word he heard. "And... can I also get, ah, one of those..." He scanned the menu for the word. He didn't know how to spell it. A few things looked familiar, but he was almost sure he found it. "A... mah-chee-ah-toe...?"
"Macchiato," Tweek pronounced softly.
"Right. One of those. Hot, too, I guess..." Looking at the menu again, he noticed prices. "What? Macchiatos are six bucks? What's it made of, the shit of Siddhartha?"
Tweek was alarmed. He dropped the sharpie he was using to write on the cups and shouted, "I don't make the prices!" It was a lot more worried and guilty than it was angry or defensive. "Besides, I think the shit of a Kshatriya would be more expensive than that, anyway!"
"I... suppose it would." Lamely stated. No emotion. No need for it. "How much."
"Nine sixty-seven!" Tweek said loudly, his 'OH, SHIT' mode still pumping.
"Sheesh, ten bucks for two drinks," Craig complained under his breath as he dropped the crumpled twenty on the countertop. When he was given his change, he put the whole eleven dollars and thirty-three cents into the tip jar. He didn't know whether he did it for Tweek's sake or he just did it as an excuse to spend all of their money.
He may or may not have heard Tweek utter a "thanks" on his way towards the door.
The wanted man had finished his business. If he didn't leave now, the police would come and take him away for his crimes. The saloon was empty, and a satisfying musical jingle played rhythmically along with his clinking boot spurs. He turned around, tipped his cowboy hat and left.
Except, this wanted man actually stopped before touching the door handle. He wanted to turn around and stay here and not go back to serve his co-workers expensive coffee. He wanted to turn around, turn around right now because no one was going to stop him from staying at this place.
He set the two hot drinks on a table and sat down with the most disgruntled of disgruntled expressions on his face.
Like he imagined, the "saloon" was now empty. It was nearing brunch time and most people were finished with their caffeine intakes. Off to work and places they probably didn't want to be.
The remaining bartender - barista - whatever Craig was calling him now - was the only other person in the room. With no one to serve, he was opening a nearby garbage disposal. Very carefully, he was handling the bag, with rubber gloves on and all. He was pinching the end of the garbage bag with his middle finger and thumb, like it was going to bite him.
"I don't want to go back."
Tweek froze. His light grasp on the bag loosened even more so. "Ah! Are you talking to me?"
Craig leaned back in the chair. Holding his arms out to present his surroundings, he rose his thick eyebrows. The thought of caterpillars briefly brushed Tweek's mind as he noticed them. "Is there anyone else around?"
Tweek's thinner eyebrows went awry about his face, as he frantically rotated his head in every direction. "No...? Is there? God, is this some sorta trick question?" He didn't see anyone, but that could have meant anyone could have been hiding under the tables to scare him, or maybe someone was in the bathroom with no toilet paper and he couldn't come to their rescue.
"No, I was talking to you—"
"Don't mess with my head like that, man! It's bad enough I hardly noticed you in here, you know!"
"Am I that tough to notice?"
"You were quiet!"
A hush fell between them. They just looked at each other, expecting the other to come up with something to break the silence.
"I... I'm not going back." It sounded weirder coming out of Craig's mouth than it did playing in his head. He averted his attention to the tabletop, which was sprinkled with grains of sugar that itched at his elbows.
"Oh." From this, Tweek concluded that Craig would not be leaving. Where ever he was supposed to be, he wasn't sure. He was almost afraid to ask, "Where?" But, it slipped out.
"Two doors down. I got this coffee for some people at work, and..."
"Why?"
And then Craig didn't know how to answer. He sat in his thoughts for a while before answering, "I don't know."
Tweek then sat down across from him. He took off his gloves. He didn't have anything to say, but maybe Craig could save him from having to take the garbage out back—no, that wouldn't work. The trash wasn't going anywhere. And from this point, the two were simply parallel. They could have been playing Battleship or chess with the intensity of their warm-to-cold eye contact—and neither of them knew why.
"What are you... looking at?" It was Tweek.
Craig wasn't at all taken out of his trance. Long after the question was asked, he snapped out of it. "Oh," he said lowly, scratching ever the same spot on his neck, "nothing." Your cheekbones are insane. "So how are you? How's school?"
This was already a horrible, horrible conversation.
"I'm fine! School is fine!" Craig didn't quite believe him. 'Fine' didn't even begin to cover it for this guy. 'Fine' might cover it for Craig, if he was lying. 'Fine' might be something Craig would have to pay if Tits was parked in the wrong spot at the wrong time on a Tuesday. Today was Tuesday, but Craig didn't even consider getting up to move Tits' ass.
No matter the context, fine wouldn't do it for him, after years and years of responding with the lone word and knowing it never actually meant what it was supposed to mean.
"Fine?" he said, with the most interrogative tone he could muster. "Fine, like, how fine?" Craig internally asked himself if he sounded creepy right now. His sudden change in the pitch of his voice helped him decide that, yeah, he probably did sound a little creepy right now. He was leaning closer, only kind-of bringing up his eyes in this expression he'd never tried before. His eyebrows went higher, and, God, it was always the eyebrows. He never did not look pissed, and Tweek couldn't say it was the most inviting face to be talking to.
That was when Tweek started to fiddle with the small piece of paper that wrapped around the napkin holding a knife and fork. And that was when Craig noticed that there were even knives and forks at the table in the first place - didn't they only have coffee? They had little cakes and stuff, too, but...
Perhaps there was more to this establishment than Craig remembered.
Impulsively, Tweek started to fold the rectangular piece of paper, in a seemingly random manner. "F-Fine, like... Like when you... know everything is balanced and, and there isn't anything wrong happening, but not right either, you know, man? Fine!"
"Well, isn't that fine."
Tweek wasn't looking at him. He was still folding the paper. "Fine, yes, fine, fine, fine..." he murmured so lowly, Craig couldn't hear him.
"What."
"Nothing!" He shot up again.
The word "fine" was beginning to lose its meaning here.
Tweek started folding again, ripping small pieces off. The very faint noise of his fingers creasing the paper was almost breaking through the silence, but it was overtaken by the patter of rain on the glass windows. The sun was beginning to hide behind the dark grey blotches that were clouds, and the rain was pushing, forcing the orange leaves to stick and border around the rims of the windows, like some sort of school bulletin board border, so Craig thought.
Craig touched the drinks. They were still warm. He wasn't going to give these to those douches, so he carefully inched one of them in Tweek's direction, but before he could say, "You can have it," he heard Tweek say, "Lucy is afraid of rain."
He had Craig's attention back. "What," he said, "who's Lucy."
"Lucy," Tweek said, putting down the paper and then actually looking at Craig, "is my dog."
"You have a dog."
"She's a puppy!" Tweek suddenly exclaimed, "but I can't walk her in the rain. She hates it. I bet she's scared right now. I should go take care of her right now but I can't. I hope she can live off the kibble without me, but what if she runs out? What if I didn't fill it to the top this time or maybe she has water, but no food, or, or food, but no water? I've had her for a couple of weeks, but I can't help but think sometimes, I don't want to leave her alone, and—"
"Here." Craig finally pushed the drink close enough just to touch Tweek's crossed arms.
"I can't drink that!"
"Why not."
"You paid for it!"
True, this may have been, but if Craig could care less about who paid for it or who it was even meant to be for or what Brahmin's remains it may have been made out of. He was here right now.
"And isn't it for someone else?" Tweek asked.
"Yeah, well, I don't really care anymore." Craig had given him the macchiato. Guess that means I get the gayer drink of the two. "Just fucking take it."
"Okay! Okay, okay..." Tweek sipped it. Even though it tasted like guilt from the fact that it was supposed to be someone else's, it was creamy and well-done, so he had thought he'd done a pretty good job.
"And... I guess I can understand," Craig clung onto the previous conversation, "I had a pet once."
"You did?" Tweek put down the drink. "I mean, you did! Wasn't it like, a hamster or something?"
"A guinea pig," Craig pressed. "He was a guinea pig."
"Oh, oh, right, yeah..." Tweek felt wronged. At least he was close.
Craig then sipped his own latte, and he couldn't decide whether it tasted good because it was supposed to belong to someone else he didn't like, or it was just good. "I would leave him alone with a bowl of pellets and I would come back, and they would be all gone. He was a little fattie."
"Oh," said Tweek, who went back to his paper folding. "That's... cute."
"He was," Craig confirmed. "He was super cute."
"What happened to him?"
"He died," Craig said, shrugging, "on my birthday."
"Oh, God!" Tweek burst up yet again, "I'm sorry! Jesus, that must have been awful!"
"It was. It was awful. My mom said I would get a new one but I never did."
Tweek didn't know what to say now. He didn't know whether to pity him, or what, but Craig looked entirely without emotion (except for maybe his eyebrows again, but those were mad by default), so he then decided, talking to Craig was hard. Not that any social situation wasn't hard, but Craig was a challenge.
Tweek's thoughts were broken when Craig spoke again.
"My roommate is harder to take care of than any animal." He smirked. "I wouldn't get another pet now."
Tweek just nodded while he was folding the paper, which looked to be getting a lot smaller. "I didn't get Lucy up until recently... and I really kind of needed her." If Craig wasn't in the room, one would think Tweek was talking to himself, or to the piece of paper. "I was lonely."
Craig nodded, though Tweek couldn't see. Idly thinking about how good that drink really was, he then asked, "Why Lucy?"
"Why did I... name her Lucy?"
"Yeah."
Tweek put down the paper again, and curled his fingers over the lid of his drink. "Did you ever read Peanuts?"
"Did I ever read Peanuts? Do I look like I haven't been alive for twenty-one years?"
"Um, sort of? No, um, you look your age! I, I was just asking..."
"Yeah, yeah, read Peanuts, what about it?"
"Remember Lucy?"
"You named her after Peanuts' Lucy?"
"Yeah, kind of, um, you know how when Lucy holds the football out to Charlie Brown, and then he tries to kick it but she always pulls it out of the way and he always falls and he never really gets a chance to really kick the football? And then, then Lucy just like, laughs, and—"
"Wait, wait, what. Slow down a little, would you?"
"Never mind. Never mind..." Tweek shook his head. He pinched the tiny folded paper between his fingers and placed it in his right palm. He held it out to Craig. "Look," he said softly, "I made a frog."
Craig just stared. It was, in fact, a legit origami frog. Tweek put it down on the table and placed his index finger on the top fold. Pressing down firmly, the paper frog hopped a short distance across the table.
Tweek's lips curved upward into a small smile. "You try," he said.
Craig did the same. It didn't hop as far as it had before. But when Tweek looked at him, grinning a sort of grin that belonged on the kind of man that knew how to make paper frogs, Craig smiled back, grinning a sort of grin that belonged on the kind of man that was completely and utterly, eternally, fascinated with the man in front of him.
Tweek was simply fascinating.
Clyde Donovan is playing Robot Unicorn Attack!
"AAAAALWAYS I wanna BEEEE with you, and make BELIIIIEVE with you, and live in HARMONY, HARMONY, OH, LOOOOOVE!"
Oh, it was magical. His dreams were coming true. And he didn't even have to leave his apartment.
("Melting the iiiice for meeee, jump into the oceeeean...")
Two people had liked his Facebook status. Two people! That's twice the amount that had liked his last status. He was taking note of his high scores on an orange post-it. The highest score would be his next status. He knew bitches loved high scores. He'd even connect his brand new Twitter account to his Facebook, so he'd gain new followers - he had a total of thirteen friends, and he was waiting on dozens of requests to be accepted.
("When it's coooold, outsiiiide, am I heeeere, in vaaaa—")
And there went the vibrations.
Clyde wanted to believe it was a phantom vibration - the feeling when he thinks his phone is vibrating at his side, but the phone isn't even on him at all. Can't talk, making my wishes come true right now, he'd think. But when he exploded for a third time, he succumbed and realized he did actually receive a text message.
From: Craig
1:03 PM
Stop playing Robot Unicorn Attack and go the fuck to class.
Clyde began to type.
To: Craig
1:03 PM
but i'm making my wishes come truuuue
From: Craig
1:04 PM
I wish you'd put on pants and go to class. Don't leave the stove on when you leave. Lock the door and make sure you close the refrigerator.
To: Craig
1:04 PM
okay mom
From: Craig
1:05 PM
That's Mr. Mom to you.
The conversation could have lasted for eons, but Clyde slid his phone shut before he could irritate Craig in any way. He decided to play one more time before he updated his status with his high score.
("Open your eeeeyes, I seeee... your eyes are opeeen...")
His final score was thirty-three thousand, two hundred and sixty-seven.
Bitches love high scores.
Now, it was nearing time to go. He slammed his laptop shut and stuffed it into his bag, along with other assorted materials he was kind of sure he needed for class. He took the bus fare quarters out of the fridge, where Craig had left them. He also took a small yogurt to snack on, but upon realizing it was over-liquefied, he threw it out and cleaned out his mouth by attempting to stick his entire face under the faucet.
He made sure the fridge door was completely shut, the stove was off, and dashed out the door, locking it behind him - everything Mama Craig told him to do. Everything was going better than expected.
He made it to the bus stop in one minute and eighteen seconds flat, and waited it for him to take him to a day of productivity. He flipped his phone out and was ecstatic to see how many friend requests had been accepted - this made seventeen friends. Seventeen people to see his high score on Robot Unicorn Attack. He was even more happy to see the glowing sentence before him: Jimmy Valmer, Bradley Biggle and Wendy Testaburger like this.
He never took his eyes off his phone on the ride to the school.
He arrived. He had to find a sidewalk and shuffle through the backside of the buildings, avoiding delivery trucks and the security guards on their golf carts.
Well, he had a little time. He thought he was late. Turns out the class was later than he thought - damn you, Craig, and your mind games. I could be playing Robot Unicorn Attack right now.
With this extra time, he could have gone to the many places that this college had for him to loaf around in. There was the library, which was surprisingly nice. There were a lot of books, but who the hell reads books anymore? He wanted a computer, but they were all taken. There were even assholes at the scanner/printer-only computers, updating their Facebook statuses with some gay-ass Hinder lyrics.
Lucky he came prepared with his laptop. There were some desks by a wall, over by the books among books and more books, and they looked promising. They had two chairs on either side, meaning he could share these table with other people. But there was at least a single person at each of the tables, and he didn't feel adventurous enough to try and share one.
What if they sneak a peek at my screen and criticize my taste in porn? Can't have that.
There were also these chairs in this sort of open area, the kind of chairs that are usually found in Harbucks, that are minimally comfortable for about an hour and then your ass begins to hurt, and then you leave only to make room for another hipster with his ultra vegan nonfat soy gingerbread latte frappe. Because that's how Harbucks does their thing.
But he just wanted to check his e-mail (and more than likely, his Facebook), so he went to sit down where ever he pleased because he stopped caring two seconds ago.
He booted up his laptop and realized he should have changed his desktop before leaving the house. Whoops.
Whoever manages the WiFi here, Clyde thought, is technologically handicapped and deserves to be slapped. Because of his WiFi troubles, by the time he finally connected, it was time to go to class.
He jogged past some artsy-fartsy buildings, by some new-age-deco water fountain that is covered in graffiti penises, and a handful of people who are clearly ignoring the "no smoking" signs.
Excellent. He made it to class. Everyone was already there, and when he walked in, they turned and looked at him like he had jizz on his face.
What the fuck, assholes, I'm here for the same reason you are.
The teacher was late. He found an uncomfortable seat in the back. It was a rather cheap set-up - the chairs are flimsy, like the ones he sat in in Kindergarten, and every table had a leg that was just shorter than all the rest, so whenever he moved his elbow or hand or when he even blinked, it wiggled, and the person he was sharing it with glared at him and he just wanted to elbow that guy in the face.
With a chainsaw.
There was stuff on the whiteboard. It might have been math or some English or the secret to solving world hunger, but he couldn't goddamn read it. It was actually left over from the class that used this room before his.
His teacher finally showed up, and he was about as excited to be here as Clyde was. He can't blame him. Clyde wondered who woke up one day and decided, with a shit-eating grin on their face, "I'm going to teach community college. It is my destiny."
Everyone there was either fresh out of high school or two hundred years old. And he hated them all, and he thought about making a bitter Facebook status about these sorts of people, but he decided against it, only to keep his high score up there for that much longer.
There was that bitch at the far end who was always popping her gum and twirling her hair and texting her boyfriend of the week. Then there was this crazy Wiccan dyke who wants to become a masseuse, and Clyde wondered, who was going to let her hands on their bodies?
Then there were some jocks who just couldn't cut it for the talent hunters and failed algebra one too many times to get a scholarship. He was just there because he wants to bone that gum-popping bitch.
There were also a couple of those creepy emo-looking guys that made Clyde think he shouldn't come in tomorrow to avoid the bloodbath.
Everyone else wasn't that interesting and he didn't want to really get to know any of them.
The teacher got to work on what he was paid to do. Apparently, this class was English 101, and Clyde was enthralled to hear about basic grammar and sentence structure and the proper use of semi-colons, all the things he was too lazy to remember. But these were the things he learned in first grade, and apparently everyone else in this class must have been absent during that lesson, because they didn't know a goddamn thing.
I might as well kill them all before the emo kid does.
At this point, despite his usual academic failure, he suspected he was smarter than the teacher. There was no motivation here.
And now, thank God, class was over. He was hungry. Didn't bring a lunch. Fortunately, he could go to the cafe and buy a seven-dollar cheeseburger.
It was just like his high school cafeteria, only slightly bigger and there was no one there except for him and some dicks singing along to some gay-ass Hinder song, which he would join in on if he A, knew the words, or B, liked Hinder in the first place.
He got his seven-dollar cheeseburger and greasy cold fries and four-dollar Gatorade and an additional two-dollar cookie because he figured he'd been a good boy. He found a seat, and he was just about to whip out his iPod to drown out Hinder when some fuck in a baseball cap walked up. He was eating a salad and already he decided he didn't like this guy because he was trying to make him feel fat.
Turned out, Clyde when to high school with him and he used to be in his math class in whatever year he probably failed, but he never noticed because he was usually asleep while his teacher (who had no personality and looked like a serial killer) droned on about formulas he wouldn't ever need to use in his life.
Well, if I'm taking astrology, then math would be pretty important... wait, isn't it astronomy? Astrology is that zodiac shit. Sucks, I would look great in one of those sick fortune teller turbans.
This guy turned out to be Bridon. He went on about what he'd been doing lately, in between bites of his awesome hipster vegan salad that his perfect-ass girlfriend made for him from vegetables she grew in her perfect-ass garden, and Clyde just wanted to slap Bridon and tell him he was a fag, but he listened and tried to stay awake while he ate his greasy burger like a Fatty McButterchubs.
For a minute, he panicked because it was Tuesday and he had astronomy on Tuesdays, and he was late. Then he remembered it was actually Wednesday and his next class wasn't for another two hours.
Bridon finished his salad and got up to leave, telling Clyde that he couldn't wait for his singing class that night, and how he struggled to fit it in between pottery and swimming aerobics.
"My Tuesdays are totally booked, man. But you know, it has just brought me and Heidi closer than ever."
"Yeah, that's great... wait, it's Tuesday?"
"Yeah, bro."
Shit.
Before exiting the scene, he called to Bridon that he'd add him on Facebook. He snatched up his shit and packed it, throwing away his tray into the garbage with such a slick move that it would have gotten him the gold if trash-tossing was an Olympic event. He regretted having one of those side-laptop bags, because even if it was on sale, and had a sweet Nike decal, it banged against his knees and his ass and made his shoulder ache. But he persevered.
He was shuffling down the hall in this half-jog, thinking he probably looked pretty stupid right now. His pants were falling as he tried to adjust his bag strap while walking. He held onto a belt loop and pulled them up, then, looking behind him to make sure that no one he knew was around to see him do that, he swore a wall had materialized in front of him and cause him to be knocked on his ass.
There was some dick in his way, and now they were both on the floor picking up their shit. Well, Clyde was fine, and he wanted to blurt something profane and rude but he only found it in himself to shout, "Sorry!" Like the nice guy that he was.
The person he knocked over, had a lot more things to pick up than he did. There were two books, both of which were particularly thick, and a pair of glasses that the kid was on his hands and knees for. Also, there was a small orange tin. With big, blue eyes, and when Clyde looked at it long enough, he finally deciphered, it was a ghost from Pac-Man! How exciting, for it looked to be filled with candy.
In addition to these smaller things, two large things seemed to be standing out. On the kid's back, there was a raging, in-your-face instrument case. On his belt, there seemed to be what looked like a lightsaber.
A fucking lightsaber.
This was just one of those nerdy kids Clyde didn't want to run into. Well, he did enjoy the Star Wars movies, but not enough to carry around a prop from the damned thing. The kid wasn't saying anything, nothing Clyde could hear, at that. He was murmuring as he picked up his glasses, and stuffed the ghost tin into his pocket.
And Clyde didn't even have a chance to help the guy with his things, because when he picked up his nerdy stuff in his nerdy arms he went his nerdy way.
"Hey!" Clyde called back as he was walking, "where are you going?"
The kid stopped, and he looked to his left and right to see if this was directed at anyone else. He then turned a one-eighty and said, "Class?"
"No 'sorry?'" Clyde trotted closer.
"I said sorry!" The other shouted defensively.
"I didn't hear you."
"Well, sorry," the taller of the two said bitterly. "Thanks for helping me pick up my stuff, too." Sarcasm. Clyde could play that game, too.
"You are welcome!" he said.
The other kid huffed and turned back around.
This was the point where Clyde was put in an even worse mood, and considered updating his Facebook status about it. He opened his phone and went directly to the application to inform his "friends."
Clyde Donovan just bumped into some guy in the hallway, not even an apology! rude :(
When he got to his next class, which was incidentally all the way across campus in a building he couldn't pronounce the name of, and up three floors with elevators that never worked, he found some dick had locked the door. So he had to wait until the teacher came to open it and let him in and give him a look that told him that he will never accomplish anything and end up teaching community college until he dies.
He sat in the back, again, for a good while until his phone began to buzz.
Happy day, someone had commented on his status.
Kevin Stoley I swear I said sorry, dude.
Wait.
He looked up. Across the room, the same greasy-haired kid was looking down at his phone.
Clyde commented back.
Clyde Donovan dude are you in astronomy right now
Three, two, one, buzz.
Kevin Stoley Yes?
Clyde Donovan don't look behind you
And alas, the one called Kevin looked behind him. Clyde waved. Kevin whirled back around.
Kevin Stoley Well, what do you know.
Clyde Donovan nice light saber man
Kevin Stoley Thanks.
Clyde Donovan didn't even recognize you
Kevin Stoley I get that a lot.
Clyde Donovan it's the glasses. you didn't wear them before
Kevin Stoley I lost my contacts. But I think my specs are pretty sweet.
Clyde Donovan didn't help you see where you were going
Kevin Stoley You were the one who was pulling a wedgie.
Clyde Donovan i swear nobody saw that
Kevin Stoley My specs don't lie.
Clyde Donovan dude how are we even fb friends
Kevin Stoley Everyone is friends with everyone. By the way, your RUA high score. Nice one. Mine is 83,018.
Clyde Donovan man are you serious. suck my dick
Wendy Testaburger You guys, stop commenting! I keep getting notifications. :(
Clyde Donovan UNLIKE THE STATUS THEN
Kevin Stoley Now, that's no way to talk to a lady. I thought you were smoother than that.
Wendy Testaburger Thank you, Kevin. :)
Clyde Donovan :'(
That was when Kevin pocketed his phone.
Clyde put away his own. The conversation was over, and maybe he'd inquire Kevin about a Robot Unicorn Attack showdown after class.
He stayed awake through the whole course, only daring to daydream of his future career of some super important astronomer, which involved him saving the world from a giant meteor to a sweet soundtrack by Linkin Park.
Old Linkin Park, not new Hinderbutt Linkin Park.
Before he could even finish his daydream, the class ended.
He thought it was amazing that he spent more time here than he did at his high school, but still could only get half as much shit done. He packed his things to leave, and as fast as possible so he could catch Kevin and talk about them unicorns. But when he looked up from his packing, Kevin was gone.
Clyde wandered across the campus to the bus stop, which was now so empty that it made him think his serial killer math teacher was gonna run up and disembowel him.
When he made it onto the bus in a cold sweat, he sunk into a deep depression.
Why are you here? Why didn't you apply to proper colleges like everyone else you know? Like Token? Why did you eat that burger? Is it because you danced too close to the punch bowl at your eighth grade prom and had to stand outside in the cold waiting for your mom to pick you up and you smelled like booze and she asked if you had been drinking and even when you told her no and the punch bowl had been spiked she grounded you for three weeks and you went home and ate twenty-seven lemon bars?
For a while, he tried to remember if there were any cliffs on this route that he could have convinced the bus driver to drive off of and put him out of his misery. But there weren't. Any large land formations were at least a couple hours' drive away in any direction, and it just wasn't worth it. There was leftover Easy Mac at home and he knew his roommate would be dead in ditchwater without him.
Oh, well. He'd be back next time and do it all over again.
It was easily past eleven in the evening, and the boys' bodies were aching with sleep deprivation, greasy food consumption and test tastes of adult partying. But those were the minor of the reasons their bodies were aching - they were jumpy and excited, and not just from the triple servings of soda they inhaled - it was Saturday, they were alone in Clyde's parents' car, and the music was blasting. The boys' fathers had taken the two to Hooters for the airing of UFC fights, wings and boobies, as well as to celebrate a sort of "moving up" ceremony from Raisins. Though, when they realized there were about thirty men for every pair of boobs there, they began to grow bored and resorted to chilling in an air-conditioned car.
Both the driver's seat and the passenger's seat were reclined back to one-eighty-degree angles, giving the two twelve year-olds the freedom to sprawl their bodies across the entire area of the car and hop about on their knees with youthful adrenaline.
The foggy windows were still closed, and tinted from the outside - one can only imagine what these two male pre-teens were capable of in this compact car, parked in the center of a parking lot with almost no other cars around.
"You, you know what this bird crap stain looks like, Craig? Craig? You know what this bird crap stain looks like?" There tended to be much repetition in Clyde's speech over the booming music - and he just couldn't help it in general when he was this giggly.
Craig was still snorting and trapping in laughter from a ten-minute old joke. "What?" he chuckled.
"It, it looks like a dick," Clyde said, pointing to the white stain on the window with his index finger. He touched it, creating an outline of the penis he saw in the abstract stain. His finger left a streak on the window with the small swirls of his fingerprint.
Craig leaned over and tried not to completely squish Clyde's face with his palm as he set it on the other seat for support. He squinted his eyes at the stain and burst out into another fit of laughter. "Oh, my god, you're right, it does!"
"That bird must have been like, an artist," Clyde retorted.
"I know, right?" Craig agreed quickly and loudly. The radio had halted its 80's hair band song binge, and resorted to advertisements in which men spoke inhumanely fast. Clyde tried to imitate the voices, but often ended his attempt with a "bleh" and stuck out his tongue.
Craig leaned forward and turned down the volume on the radio, as the voices annoyed him to no end. However, Clyde's attempt at being a radio announcer sent him into another fit of laughs that was half from Clyde's inability to speak so quickly and some other-other joke from like twenty minutes ago. Craig just liked thinking of it - he liked thinking of the great moments he did share with his best friend, even while those moments were still in motion.
Now, the two of them were lying on their backs, staring out the open sunroof. The stars were clear in the sky due to the minimal city lights in the town of South Park. There was a calm hush between the boys, aside from the tinny voices coming from the radio speakers.
Craig wouldn't stand the silence. He arched over to Clyde's side slightly and slapped him on his forehead, with a loud skin-to-skin smack bellowing between the closed walls of the car.
"Owwie!" Clyde cried on impulse, "what was that for?"
"It doesn't matter," Craig said, "it's in the past."
"Yeah, but it still hurts," Clyde groaned.
"Yes, the past can hurt, but the way I see it... you can either run from it," he sat up, "or learn from it."
Clyde began to laugh again. "Dude," he said, "isn't that from like, the Lion King?"
"Fuck yeah," said Craig. He dropped backwards again, putting his hands behind his head comfortably. "Rafiki's such a badass motherfucker."
"I know." Clyde yawned.
Craig seconded the yawn and they proceeded to lie in silence; that only lasted until they both heard a familiar, soft piano intro come from the radio. They both shot each other a look of excitement, of toothy smiles and eye glints that could be deciphered as, "Aw, dude, this is our song." Craig was the first to shoot up from his position and turned that shit up to eleven. No negotiations were held when they both rolled down the windows and belted out their summer song.
"JUST A SMALL TOWN GIRL, LIVING IN A LOOONELY WOOORLD! SHE TOOK THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN GOING ANYWHEEERE..."
Clyde stood up, with his feet standing on both seats (nearly stepping on Craig, but Craig dodged his foot smoothly and crouched farther back into the car), and poked his head through the sunroof by the time the chorus came along. Craig was smiling a bigger smile than he could ever remember himself smiling in his lifetime as Clyde told the population of South Park, "don't stop believing." Both Clyde and Craig held onto their feelings for the moment and were reminded that this, this was why they were friends in the first place. One would wonder, that with all the things Craig could call Clyde - annoying, stupid, annoying (Craig couldn't even think of a third word as the other two were so universal) - if Craig didn't even like Clyde. That's what most people thought. Clyde just followed Craig around all the time, and Craig just followed Clyde around because he wasn't Cartman or Stan or whoever the hell else Clyde was remotely cooler than. In simple terms, really, they got along. They got along with messy conversations and similar music interests and the fearlessness of belting out songs in cars. Craig wouldn't do that with anyone else. Clyde got Craig to speak, to sing, to feel alive.
Clyde inhaled the thick summer air surrounded him as a slight breeze wisped past his skin. He felt buzzed and energized, and his chest heaved for breath after singing his heart right out of his soul.
When the song faded into radio static and overproduced commercial voices, Clyde slithered down back into the car and fell backward, landing his head on Craig's lap. Clyde's head twitched in hesitation, because of his initial expectation that Craig would hit him in the head and tell him to get off and call him a fag. Craig didn't say anything, and Clyde comfortably kept his head in its spot.
Craig shifted a little, and Clyde received it as a signal for him to get off, though Craig was still silent.
Clyde sat up, eying the steering wheel from his corner. "I wish I could drive," he said.
Craig only huffed in response, but then the statement finally processed. "Me too."
"Then we could go, like, everywhere," Clyde said excitedly, "like Vegas and LA and Canada and Mexico and Australia."
"Australia's all the way on the other side of the earth, douchemaster."
"Well, I'm not so good with geometry."
"You mean geography?"
"I'm not good with that, either." The chubbier of the two pouted. Craig smirked as he climbed over to sit in the driver's seat. He set the chair upright again, and held a grip on the steering wheel. He stared ahead with an expression of focus. Clyde arched a brow at him. "What are you doing?"
"I'm gonna try driving," Craig said.
"What." Clyde hopped into the shotgun seat and pulled the seat adjuster - the seat shot up a lot quicker than he would have hoped, and the headrest smacked him in the back of his neck. "Oww—"
"What do I put it in, D, for drive?" Craig asked, one hand on the gear shift.
The seat clicked in position. Clyde rubbed the skin on the back of his aching neck. "You're seriously gonna do it?"
"Well, yeah. I've driven Go-Karts. It won't be that hard. I can at least get it into the parking space across from us." He rose a hand, gesturing to the row of empty spaces against a high, white concrete wall.
"Well, dude, it's my parents' car and if anyone's driving it, it should be me, you know?" He began to lean over slightly to the driver's seat, but Craig slapped him away. Clyde squeaked.
"No, you can't drive your own parents' car, 'cause you'll be in deep shit if you trash it."
"So, you're saying that you intend on trashing my parents' car?"
"No, I'm saying that there's a better chance of you trashing your parents' car and being in deep shit than me trashing your parents' car and being in deep shit."
"So, you're saying that you'd rather have yourself in deep shit than have me in deep shit."
Craig dropped his head onto the steering wheel and closed his eyes. He let out a breath and thought to himself that he's secretly always wanted to rest his forehead on a steering wheel when someone said something stupid. With his desire fulfilled, he sat up again and looked at Clyde. "No, Clyde, what I'm saying is that if I drive, neither of us will probably be in deep shit."
"Then I swear to God you better not put us in deep shit," Clyde said. "I don't know what I'd do if you did."
"Well, don't worry about it, because we're not," he assured his best friend, who was more than suspicious of what Craig was intending to do, and even more frightened of what was going to happen.
Craig stabbed the radio knob, a hush falling over the car. Clyde reached over to his right and brought the seatbelt across his chest this time - something he never, ever did. He always put the front strap behind his back so it wouldn't dig into the skin on his neck. This time, he needed to take extra precautions. He breathed in and out.
Craig did the same.
With the gear in drive, and one foot on the gas pedal, Craig held the steering wheel and knew he could nail this shit. And if he didn't, whatever happened, happened. Stuff just happens, and you can't control it. They're players on the stage of life and all that crap, and everything he ever learned in his short little life briefly brushed his mind before he stepped on the gas pedal.
And that was very briefly. Before he could finish thinking, or before Clyde could finish screaming, "We're going to fucking die," they couldn't see ahead of themselves, and they couldn't hear over the alarms, the ringing, or the crash.
It happened too fast to think, too fast to realize and too fast to stop. It had happened slow enough for Clyde's hysterical bawling to be the primary thing noticed about the scenario, other than the fact that the frontal headlights and engine were crushed and destroyed, and now partially becoming a part of the wall they crashed into. Their heads were throbbing from the shock of the noise, the jolting and the banging. Both of their chests felt stabbed and suffocated from the large airbags that shot like bullets from the dashboard, but saved their lives otherwise.
It was on the cab ride home that Craig finally spoke to Clyde again that night. They both decided they'd heard enough talking and yelling and arguing, what with the fathers of the two bickering about responsibilities, insurance, and each other's integrity. Temporary issues had been solved for the night. No serious injuries had taken place, which gave Craig, in particular, hope and a little more belief in a God.
Whatever this was going to cost for the two families was beyond the boys' knowledge and control.
"Hey... hey, Clyde?"
Clyde twiddled his fingers in his lap, his face moist, his throat dry, and eyes glassy still. The only sounds he could muster were small hiccups and sniffs, and not a word left his mouth since the moment he thought he was going to die. He gulped, and cleared his throat of all the things he wanted scream at Craig and hurt him with and kill him with. "Don't talk to me," he said softly.
"I'm gonna talk anyway," Craig said. "Well, I just wanted to say that... um... that if anything ever, ever, ever comes up, you know, if something comes up where you ever do something as incredibly stupid as I just did, I'll forgive you."
Clyde stopped twiddling with his fingers. He let out a breath and turned his glassy eyes towards his best friend. "Don't think I won't hold you to that."
"You are so fucking DEAD!"
"What?—Oh, shit," Clyde stammered at the sight of the piece of paper in Craig's hand, "don't tell me you—"
"What in the fuck is this?" Craig's booming voice, along with the slam of the front door, made Clyde jump in his spot, and made him feel like he was about to shit his heart through his ass. There was one thing on his mind that could have possibly caused this rude entrance. He knew this day would come - he just forgot that it would come, the second he realized it was coming. Now that the day had arrived, he didn't know what to do, and he didn't know how to explain himself.
"Well, Craig," Clyde began. Quick, act like you're clueless! "What is that?"
"Great question, Clyde. I was kind of hoping you would fucking know what this is. I mean, if you could understand a word or two on this fucking piece of paper." Craig threw the paper at Clyde. Clyde waved his hands through the air in front of him in attempt to catch the paper in mid-air, but to no avail. It fluttered downwards onto the carpet, face-down. When he laid his eyes on the print, he recognized the words solely as, "You're fucked."
Clyde was expressing no emotion. He said nothing. His hands dropped to his sides and he looked at Craig in this way that Craig could only describe as retarded. "Can I see what you bought?" Clyde asked, gesturing to the convenience store bag Craig was holding in his left hand.
"Don't fucking change the subject. If you can tell me just what the fuck happened to what we were supposed to get, what, thirty days ago, we can talk about you letting you see my new deodorant, which is only if I don't punch your eyes out."
"Uhh."
"Read the letter. Did you read it? Read it." Craig's eyes were narrowed at Clyde, who was visibly shaking.
Clyde turned around and read it, mumbling to the words to himself. "You are hereby given notice that hmmm... rphmph... mmf... nmmeme... you are in breach because... mehmeh... in your payment to the undersigned of the sum of—shit."
"Yeah. Shit. And, why didn't I see this before? Why do we have a month to come up with this, Clyde? What happened to the first fuckin' letter? What do you expect me to do, blow the landlord to keep a roof over our heads?"
"Are you saying you don't have the rent?"
"What about you?"
"Looks to me like you're spending your money on deodorant."
"At least I'm not spending it on Taco Bell kids' meals."
"Taco Bell doesn't even have kids' meals!" Clyde shouted.
"You would fuckin' know that, wouldn't you?"
"Everyone knows that!"
"Yeah, you and your cock. If you start fucking the fleshlight you ordered off Amazon, I'm out."
"You looked through my history!"
"Fuck yeah, I did. What are you gonna do, update your Facebook about it? That's not gonna come up with this money, is it?"
"Why do you keep thriving on this shit like it's my fault? You haven't paid shit, either!"
"Because, dear Clyde," Craig turned on some artificial sweetness, "looks to me like we would have had more time to come up with this, if you hadn't fuckin' TRASHED THE FIRST WARNING!"
"I didn't trash it!"
"Oh, really, Clyde? Oh fuckin' really? Where is it then?"
"I... It's... It's in the Pile."
Craig was about to scream again, but his breath stopped. "It's... in the Pile?"
"Yeah," Clyde said, "the Pile." He gestured to the window.
The Pile—the hypothetical pile of crap that developed over time, as Craig threw things out the window out of anger. Yesterday, it had been the sausages. Weeks ago, it had been the first eviction letter that was stuck on their door, never to be seen by Craig.
"Are you... fucking... retarded?"
"I didn't want you to see it!"
"ARE YOU FUCKING—" Craig stopped again. He couldn't. He couldn't even speak. He couldn't even believe he was living with this son of a bitch. He wondered how Clyde could even get up in the morning and take a shit with all the stupidity clouding his brain.
"Calm down, I know it's your Pile—"
"No. Clyde. Don't even speak to me. Don't even look at me. Don't."
"We can figure this out. Dude." Clyde tried to calm him. "Bro. We can do this. We're the very best. Like no one ever was."
"What are we gonna do, Clyde? What does in the Pile, stays in the Pile, and you've fucked it up. You've defiled it, and on top of that, we're in a financial shit river."
"So the Pile is more important than our financial shit river."
"No!" Craig cried, "What in the Jesus fuck are we going to do."
Clyde beamed. "Okay, man, I got this all worked out. I'll stop helpin' my dad out at the shoe store, I'll stay and GameStop, but I—get this—can do stand-up."
Craig rubbed his face in aggravation. "Comedy."
"Yeah!"
"You're not funny, Clyde. You're not going to make any money."
"What kind of attitude is that?"
"The right one," Craig said. "Look. We'll just... cut down on expenses. No more luxury. No more Lucky Charms or Cocoa Puffs. We're going America's Choice."
Clyde frowned at him, and buried his face in his arm as he leaned on the wall. "Not America's Choice," he whined.
"Oh, America's Choice, alright."
"Why don't you get a second job? Other than, you know, gawking at cheeseburgers all day."
"Do you mean food or people?"
"What do you think I mean?"
Craig sighed. "That's not all I do." It didn't help much that Craig owed Fucking Joe twenty bucks as well as two coffees to the other kids. I kind of shouldn't have done that.
"I'm not gonna be the only one working in this house!" Clyde said.
"Fuck you, man, Robot Unicorn Attack is the gayest game ever."
"TAKE THAT BACK!"
"Ooh, but I already wrapped it up in a little fuckin' ribbon and gave it to you, sorry, keep it, cuntnugget."
Cuntnugget. Clyde wasn't sure he knew what that was supposed to mean. Though, what he did know, was that right now was the time to break out something he's been wanting to use for a long time. "Craig... dude. Remember when, like, you kind of crashed my parents' car?"
"No, I don't remember life-altering events in my life, why?"
"I just thought, you know, maybe, you could, like, forgive me for this and we can solve this humanely."
"Solve this humanely? I'm not sure if I can fuckin' handle you throwing out an extra thirty days to come up with this much cash! And did you even talk to the landlord, I mean—"
"YOU COST MY PARENTS FIVE TIMES WHAT WE HAVE TO PAY!"
"WE WERE TWELVE!"
"FUCK YOU, MAN, FUCK YOU."
"GO SUCK A FUCK, CLYDE."
"HOW CAN YOU EVEN SUCK A FUCK—"
"YOU'D FIGURE IT OUT."
And then there was silence.
Clyde spoke. "Okay. This'll blow over. Calm your nips, alright? We got this. Trust me."
Craig wasn't sure he could.