Things were fucked up in this town, that much I knew for sure. Inhaling forcefully, I drew in a mouthful of smoke, drawing it straight down into my lungs, twitching slightly as the heat caught the back of my throat. It was unpleasant, completely unpleasant, but it was cathartic, and calming. It wasn't the taste, not at all, these ones were pretty stale anyway. They tasted fairly foul. It wasn't so much the addiction either, I wasn't like that, I wasn't Tweek, Tweek and coffee, I wasn't the type who'd fall into the vague desperation of always looking for a unfulfilling sort of fix. I wasn't the addict sort. It was the smell, the smell and feel of smoke and ash, the way it felt to breathe it in, it reminded me of home; my home, my house, my mother, my kitchen, the scent smoke that clung sneakily around every memory, the scent of the cigarettes she tried to hide from everyone. But I could always feel it, in the air, on her clothes, laced so tightly round my stupid, dysfunctional home.

And I hated it, I hated it all, that house, those people, the shouting and the noise and the bitching and all the flipping off. But at the same time, no, I didn't. It was dysfunctional, and I knew people talked about us, and I knew how everyone saw us, but it was a functioning dysfunction. Messy on the outside, overtly Christian and crude, oxymoronic, all the swearing and the shouting, that little smack of middle-class white trash. Yeah, that's what people saw, but it was a bit like watching episodes of The Osbournes. It was dysfunction built on love. As pathetic as it sounds, as pathetic as it is, it was messy, but never wanting for love. And to me that's what cigarettes taste like; they taste like dysfunction and love. Like my mother. Like home.

Exhaling my lungful, I glanced back up at the sky, absently fidgeting the cigarette between my fingers. The town was dark, the streets deserted. It was quiet, too quiet. The sky was peppered with patchy clouds, drifting aimlessly around the stars, lightly migrating across the sky. The slight dusting of snow, the fragile flakes, seemed fairly pathetic when compared against the real, proper blizzards Colorado can blow. But then, it was nearly summer. It was very nearly summer, and it was still snowing. Only this fucking town would be fucked up enough to snow in summer.

I'd left Tweek standing in his kitchen, shaking with uncertainty and nerves and caffeine and God knows what else. He was probably still standing there, staring listlessly at the half-empty tray of eggs, wondering what the hell I was playing at. What the hell I was doing to him. I hadn't said anything to him, I hadn't tried to explain what I'd been doing, what I was thinking, why I'd just driven my face against his hair. There was nothing I could say, nothing too say, everything that was, everything that should have been said, it was too unapproachable, that darkened shadow lurking in the corner. All those things we didn't speak about. The love that dare not speak its name, or whatever the fuck they called it. It was too unapproachable, so we didn't talk about it.

But hey, it always went this way. I'd do something stupid, I'd get to close, he'd start, and I'd realise what I was doing. I'd stop myself, and then I'd just stalk away. He'd be left, confused and unsure, and then the sun would rise, and we'd never speak of it. Functioning dysfunction, functioning dysfunction at its very best.

Exhaling, I kneaded my hand across my face. I never put much steed in people. I never put much steed in myself. People are flawed, people are abusive, people are dicks. They let you down, they fucked you over, they take your birthday money and got you stranded in Peru. They left you stranded in your kitchen, staring at a tray of eggs. I'd learnt from a very early age that people weren't worth it, they were nothing more then retarded, disappointing dicks.

I was a dick, I knew that, it was awful of me to be doing this, doing it to Tweek. But I didn't know what to do. Usually I was fine with it, fine with Tweek, fine with our stupid little whatever that never even went anywhere. But there were times when it mounts up on me, when everything seems to get too much. When I just can handle any more awkward nothingness.

Usually I'm fine with it, fine with nothing, but there are times when I just want nothing to do with it, with him. Being so desperate, and so unable, unable to do anything, everything, I wanted to do to him, there are times when I wish I'd never even laid my eyes on him. There are times I'd wish it all away.

Occasionally, oh so occasionally, when it all gets too much, I just need a release. I'll shut my eyes, I'll grip it just right, and I'll loose myself, loose myself in thoughts of normality, of boringness, of cohesion and mental stability. Usually it's just fantasies, people who didn't exist, people who never would, lives he could have had, the guys he so stupidly fucked. Occasionally I'll think of different things, of worse things, real things. I'd think of Token, or Clyde, or Butters, sometimes, of all people. I'd think of anyone, anywhere, anything that wasn't him. I'd think of that blonde guy I once knew, that dude I used to hang out with, the guy who let me do his laundry. Hell, I'd even think Kyle Broflovski, Kyle Broflovski and his stupid fat arse.

And if that didn't work, I'd just take my dad's truck and drive it up to Denver. There was always somewhere open, somewhere that didn't look too hard at the botched fake ID, somewhere that didn't care. And in those places, there was always someone. Someone lurking in the shadows, the dark outlines of guys either too scared, or way to sure of themselves. There was always someone offering you the chance to forget, offering to take all the angst away, offering cheap, fleeting euphoria. There were always the bedrooms, the motels, the public restrooms, clichéd and degrading. There was always cottaging.

And then it'd be over, and I'd be left shivering, shivering against catholic shame and unidentifiable betrayal. And I'd feel horrendous, awful, like the worst human being ever. I'd feel so dirty, and so low. Because in truth, I'd never want to wish it away. I'd never not want him, only him, to be there. Even if I couldn't touch him. Even as just friends.

So I'd get up, buck myself together, and vow to do something really nice for Tweek. I'd make him a very mediocre cup of coffee; I'd agree to sit up all night, clutching a baseball bat, watching out for underwear gnomes. I'd do whatever Tweek wanted. And Tweek would thank me graciously, he'd accept the coffee, he'd watch with owl-like eyes as I perched on the end of his bed, staring avidly at the floorboards. He'd be so thankful. But behind the thanks, behind the gratitude, there was always a shadow, that awful, lurking shadow. Because Tweek knew, and I knew Tweek knew. And neither of us could ever bring themselves to talk about it, about the stupid shit I did when it was my turn to act like a retard. So we just didn't. We just kept our heads down, and carried on like normal, wading though our painful nothingness, walking on fucking eggs. Functioning dysfunction at its very worst.

Because I couldn't, no matter how much I wanted too, not with Tweek. Tweek was too… Too Tweek to do things like that with. I'd probably just end up fucking him up even more, or breaking him or something. I couldn't risk doing that, pulling him down into the darker world of what humans do. I couldn't risk what would happen if I did.

I guessed that's why I liked Tweek so much. Tweek was an innocent, the skittishness, the nervousness, you had to approach him slowly, with you palms open, your hands outstretched. He had no malice to him, anything, everything he did, he did it clean and true, their was no evil in him, nothing bad, no lies. He was like an animal, but in the good way; not in the way that Marsh was like an animal, like some dumb, bounding dog, or like Broflovski was like an animal, like some cosseted, overindulged housecat. Tweek was like an animal in the good, pure way. He never did anything without a reason, without being provoked, he never did anything with malice, he never did anything underhandedly. He just was, and people were awful to him. But he just always was.

I never wanted to be one of those people who were awful to him. I couldn't risk hurting him over some stupid infatuation that wouldn't go away. I couldn't risk damaging him, not even I was that selfish. Tweek needed someone to look out for him, he needed a friend. But that was all he needed. And that was all I could ever be.

Cursing slightly, I recoiled my hand back, starting slightly. I hadn't been paying attention; my cigarette had burnt down to the filter, and caught the insides of my finger. Angry little bumps were beginning to form. I was probably going to blister. Swearing violently into the night, I sucked the burn, glowering down at the still smouldering cigarette butt, watching as the ember fought a loosing battle against the snow. I guess life's just fucked up like that. I guess I'm just fucked up like that.

A/N – Originally this story was just going to be a nice little fluff about poaching eggs. But the plan didn't really turn out that way. Vaguley plotless wangst ahoy, folks! Buckle up! (Be on the look out for the obligatory drunken party scene. Because everything I write seems to have that obligatory drunken party scene!)

Anyhoo, thanks for reading. Muches muches loves and thanks for reviewing, uber awesome fantastico of you, so awesome. Loves lovely candyfloss, X.