A/N: think of this as a filler chapter between arc one and arc two. Nothing much happens, but there's still a lot of important stuff buried in there, if you look for it.

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Unresolved

7

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Snow's been falling all night, and Tweek is forced to wade through it. The icy wind is like a slap, and he can't help but think that he deserves it.

By the time that he gets home, stumbling through the door, the streets are light and people starting to slump outside to shovel their driveways. One or two stop to watch him, smiling and waving, but he pays them no mind. Just steps inside and tugs off his sodden shoes.

He's halfway up the stairs when his mom calls out a greeting to him from the kitchen. Well, not just him. "Morning, boys. Did you have a good time at the party?"

'Boys'

Tweek doesn't wait around to reply, darting up the stairs in damp socks.

As soon as he's in his bedroom, he locks his door. Well, he does once he can get hold of the latch.

Scrubbing at his head in aggravation, he starts pacing across the cluttered floor, from dresser to drawer, from wall to window, until his stomach lurches up into the vicinity of his throat and he has to stop. Has to sit down, knees to chest, and breathe through it.

Problem is, it's difficult to 'breathe through it' when he's crying so hard that his throat stops working. He makes no effort to bite down on the sobs now he's on his own, and they wrack his body so hard he's rocking with the force of them. Soon he can't see, can't hear anything over his laboured breathing and loud, inarticulate wails.

At some point during his breakdown someone stops outside his bedroom; knocks on the door. They call something through the walls, but Tweek can't make out the words.

When it's clear he's not going to give them any kind of response, they leave him be.

It takes the blonde over an hour to cry himself out, by which point his rolling stomach gets the better of him. The rush to the bathroom makes him lightheaded, and he barely falls to his knees, pushing the toilet seat up, in time for his first heave.

Spectacularly miserable, he wraps his arms around the toilet bowl and shudders, his wet and swollen eyes streaming. He can't tell if he's vomiting from the stress or from the alcohol still in his system (the first is an unfortunately common occurrence, and the latter... well, he doesn't drink enough usually for him to tell), but it hardly matters. This feels like something he deserves.

During his episode, his mom enters the bathroom behind him, not saying a word, but sitting on the floor and rubbing his back in slow, circular motions.

Once the worst is over and all he's bringing up is bile, he slumps forwards, clammy forehead against the cold rim, and mouth burning with the bitter taste. His mom reaches around him, pulling the lever on the toilet and, while the acid contents of his stomach are washed away, tears off a length of toilet roll to dab at his damp chin.

His eyes are closed, and he allows himself a momentary lapse into the quiet, unassuming comfort that his mom offers. There are none of the pressing, needy questions and ramblings that his dad is prone to in times of immense stress, and for that he is unspeakably grateful. When she's done combing back his wild blonde bangs from where they stick to his forehead, she stands up to fetch a damp washcloth and a glass of tap water.

Tweek lets himself be propped up against the side of the shower, pressing the cold flannel to his sore eyes.

"Here, Tweek, take a drink," she steadies the jolting of his hands so the glass reaches his lips without sloshing down his front. "Slowly now, dear."

After he manages to drain half the glass in stops and starts, she takes it out of his hands and sets it on the side of the sink. With little to no fuss, Mrs Tweak manages to get her son onto his feet, and helps him to the sink so he can brush his teeth. Tweek doesn't look in the mirror - he knows he's probably blotchy faced and haggard without needing visual confirmation - but he does take extra care in scouring the blood out from beneath his nails, and then rubbing away what's crusted around the cresent-moon furrows in his palms. His mom waits until his hands have turned a vibrant pink from the hot water and the excessive scrubbing, and pats them dry with a quiet tutting. She applies antiseptic to the gouges in little dabs, dragging his hands back to her every time they lurch away.

Pulling his arm around her shoulders, she supports him as they make their way back out onto the landing, calm and quiet where Tweek is trembling so hard he can barely stand upright, unable to stop the involuntary noises he's making under his breath.

Inside his room, Mrs Tweek leads him over to his bed, drawing back the covers and fluffing the pillow as he collapses against the mattress. She hums as she moves, a soft, familiar tune that stops his breathing from escalating again. He lies on his side and watches her. He loves his mom, and the way she potters about picking up all the dirty mugs that have gathered on the tops of his nightstand and desk, and clearing a path through the mess of strewn clothing and scattered crafting materials that live on the carpet.

"I'll go turn the kettle on, sweetheart. You look like you could do with a nice, strong coffee." She leaves him with a small smile, carefully shutting the door.

In the quiet of his room, Tweek let's his itching eyes slip closed. His head is full of noise; it's a little like his ears have been stuffed full of cotton wool, and he can't make anything out. The headache that's been hanging over him all night has amped up to something not far from a migraine, but he lets himself sink back into the pain, finding an odd sense of peace in it. There's a box of naproxen in the front drawer of his bedside table, but he doesn't even consider getting himself any. Focussing on his headache means delaying having to confront what happened.

He drifts, weightless and temporarily numb, and doesn't even notice when his mom comes back in with a huge mug of black coffee and his cell phone, which he must have left downstairs yesterday morning.

...

It's early in the evening when he resurfaces from his migraine, his dad jolting him from his sleepy reverie when he returns from Tweek Bros. and calls out a jovial greeting from the front hall. If he had the energy he'd get up and lock his door, but as it is, his dad doesn't often infringe on the privacy of his bedroom anyway. There's very little danger of him being disturbed - especially as he can trust his mom to cover his tracks for him.

What Tweek does do though is retrieve his cell from his nightstand and, with hands that are doing their best to make his life difficult for him, reaches down the side of his bed for his charger chord. He knows just from the fact it's not been trilling nonstop all day that it must've died overnight.

As much as he'd rather leave it untouched and try to ignore the world beyond his bedroom walls, he said he'd text Craig. One of Tweek's few redeeming qualities is that he doesn't break his word. If he says something, he means it.

He holds the screen a short distance from his face and, after a few minutes it starts up, the battery sign switching to a loading screen.

Almost as soon as he enters his pass code, the damn thing starts buzzing with a vengeance. Swearing, he drops it on the pillow in front of his face. Tugs at his hair until it stops. As soon as he's able, he picks it back up.

Three missed calls and seventeen texts.

There's a message from Token asking if they were going to turn up to the party last night, and another dozen from their group chat that he ignores.

All of the calls and the last four messages are from Craig. He taps on the missed calls first, and holds his breath as the phone goes through to voicemail.

There's rustling in the background, and wind whistles over his words, making it clears that he was outside. "Tweek, babe, come on... pick up. This is fucking ridiculous. Why are you running away when all I'm trying to do is sort this out?" A loud sigh. The screech of a crow in the background. "Just, please... phone me back."

In the next message he must be inside (Tweek thinks he can hear a T.V.), and his voice lower and more level. It almost comes across as patronising. "Look, okay honey, I'll give you some time. You seem to need it right now. Do your breathing exercises if you're stressed, and remember you can call Olive if you need someone to talk to about it, okay? I'll try again in a couple hours."

The final one is the shortest, and it makes Tweek grit his teeth. "Seriously, dude, it's half-five, and you haven't even let me know if you're okay. Stop being a fucking baby."

He has to take a moment to compose himself before reading the messages, in case he ends up hurling the damn cell phone at the wall. (It's not the cells fault Craig is acting like a dick, after all.)

08:34

babe, let me know when u get home, yh? im worried xx

11:17

can we just talk about it? i dont get whats wrong, just tell me dude srsly xx

14:09

look, this isnt cool. im trying my best to be chill about this but im starting to get fucking pissed x

17:56

u know what dude? fine, go fuck urself. when u want to grow the fuck up and talk about this like adults, u kno where i am. im not gonna play this game with u.

Tweek stares down at the texts and lets all the thoughts he's been trying to ignore swarm up around him. He's so angry with Craig for not giving him the space he needs, and honestly... he made it clear what he was upset about, didn't he? Does he have to spell it out?

Maybe you do, a small voice whispers, almost lost in the onslaught of hurt and frustration. Perhaps he needs to think it over properly himself first, too. To figure out why his reaction was so bad.

(He knows Craig was right on that count, even if admitting it makes him feel belittled.)

Honestly, it doesn't take too long to put his finger on the cause of his awful mood that morning. Not now he's sobered up properly.

It's the same damn thing that makes him pull back from Craig every time the other boy gets a little too touchy. It's the way he doesn't contest to his parents' rules about sleeping in different rooms despite the miniscule chances of anything ever happening between them, and why he doesn't get upset when he sees people trying to flirt with Craig at school. It's in his frustration at kissing in front of the guys the previous night, and the fear in what happened when they got to Craig's. Everything stems down to that.

(Everything always does, when it comes to Craig.)

The whole thing's in the past, but thinking about it still makes his stomach drop. The fingers of his free hand run over his thigh of their own volition, tracing the lines hidden beneath his jeans. He likes to think he's worked past those events now - something that his therapist ensured him would get easier to accept with time, but... it never stopped affecting him. Everything's been different for him, since then.

Stilted. Awkward. Painful.

But he's good at keeping that to himself. Mainly because people don't see past his shrieking and his twitching to the person underneath. Not even Craig.

(Especially not Craig. It's better that way. For both of them.)

He digs his nails into his thigh. Sucks in a long breath. Reconsiders the problem.

Okay, so... maybe all this is not so obvious, in retrospect. It's hardly something they've talked about. He's not sure Craig even realizes what started that whole shitty phase in Tweek's life. What's most likely is that the other boy has no idea Tweek knows about any of it. Craig just assumed Tweek would never figure it out, that he didn't need to know and that even if he did, it wouldn't affect him in any way.

(He was wrong. He was wrong.)

But it isn't something that Tweek can bring up now, after so long, without seeming petty or bitter. And he supposes that yeah, okay, maybe he is those things somewhere deep inside, but he's also scared. Of the ramifications if it gets out, and the damage it might do to whatever else they're going through. So for the last two years he's determinedly ignored that chapter in their lives, has pretended everything is fine, and that Craig hasn't ever hurt him.

(Yet another thing shoved under the rug.)

The damage that whole short, miserable period of his life had on him is enough to make anyone freak out in the aftermath of the previous night, he likes to think. Common sense decrees that he won't put himself through all the lies and secrecy again. It's easier to end it before it can grow out of hand. Before his world crumbles beneath him like so much dirt and dust.

Eventually he returns to his phone and, painstakingly slowly, starts typing up a reply. He has to go back over it several times, correcting mistakes and changing sections. It takes him half an hour to finish it up.

19:12

Look man, I tOld you I didn't wanna speak about it right then and that I had to think but you havent let me. I get you wanna figure this shit out and that your pissed off but I know 'talking' just means shrugging it of, going back to before and acting like nothing ever happened. f uck dude, I can't do that. not about this. Thats not something I'm gonna put myself through. We're not okay and Im not fucking cool with this shit. I can't just fuck around wirh you and then forget it. sex isn't just easy for me. it's meant to mean something. If I've gotta do that shit with someone I wanna do it with someone who I love that wants to be with me bc it's not just convenient and . I don't want this to make stuff worse, but it will if we act like nothing is diffrent. This won't just go away man

He stares down at his message for a long time before sending it. The reply is almost instant.

19:13

what then. what are u saying. spell it out for me dude

His fingers shake as he types out his reply. If he hadn't cried himself out earlier, he's pretty sure he's be sobbing again right now.

Dry eyed, he reads it over.

Presses enter.

19:26

it's nothing you've done. Im not angry at you. But I think we should stop pretending like we're dating. Were too involved and We need to stop so I can figure my shit out. I took things bad and I'm sorry. Your still like, my best friend dude

This time he has to wait longer, and when it does eventually come through, his heart sinks.

19:43

whatever. im done with this shit.

Well, he thinks. There's his clean cut. He should be happy.

(He really, really isn't.)

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A/N: I'd really love to hear what everyone's thoughts are on this chapter. It's been one of my favourite to write. (I'm weird, I know.)