A/N: So…time is…very warped in this here fic. ;; It's been a few years…that makes…NO sense. Ugh. W/e. Don't hate me, you read the prologue, Tweek be happy at the end! Albeit fucked up psychologically. Oh, and how annoying is it that I keep changing tenses? I should freakin' die.

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I get a misplaced sense of satisfaction upon surveying him. That he would do anything because I told him to do it. That one of his eyes was ringed in purple. That his split bottom lip was quivering perfectly.

"I'm really th-thirsty." He whimpered. His voice is scratchy, like there's something clogged in his throat.

"I think you're clean. Drain the tub, and then take one more shower. I'll go pick up some snacks. If you don't scrub hard enough, I'm going to do it for you. Okay?" His lime-pulp eyes widen. His arms, crossed under his chin, still bear the broken, white flakes of skin, rubbed raw sores sprouting from his elbows to his wrists. I lean against the doorframe, feeling sedate and calculated. If someone were to tell me my actions were at all odd, I would assume this person was insane. I didn't feel shaky, angry, frightened, or at all nonsensical. Perfectly calm, if a little buzzed.

Tweek was dirty, so I made him clean himself. For about twenty-one hours. He still bore traces of Other on him, that sticky, sweaty substance that clings to promiscuous boys and girls and cheaters and players, but never to my Tweek. But I felt I might be able to touch him again.

To test, I took a step closer. He flinched as I brought my fingertips close to his cheek, a hair's breadth away. Finally, after mustering all my shaking energy into the extended arm, I manage to poke him gently, causing the neighboring eye to close briefly. No go. I jam the hand under the bottle of liquid soap, slam my hand down on the pump, and crack it jaggedly down the pipe that connects it to the bottle. Swearing, I unscrew the leftover plastic ring, pour thick blobs of musky blue liquid onto my palms, and rub them thoroughly under the scalding flow of the sink. Tweek observes me with childish curiosity, head slightly cocked, as if he had no energy to support his own bones. I storm out of the bathroom, jamming my arms into my coat, and snatch the yellow and black tuque I'd found in the back of my car on the ride home. Like I was ever going to touch the offending blue earflap cap again.

---

My flesh burns as I grind stinging white soap into the open wounds. The folds of water-soaked skin have split, leaving long slits. One last rinse with icy water, all that's left and all I can stand, before I turn off the water and step, dripping, out of my porcelain cell. The drain gurgles. I pull a crumpled towel from the rack, wrap it around my hips, and scurry out of the bathroom.

Is this the apartment I felt so at home in? The blinds are closed, leaving only depressing slats of light to slip onto the furniture, causing contrasting stripes of color and darkness.

My first stop is the kitchen sink. Finding a glass would be too cumbersome. I bend down an inch or so from the faucet and suck up the stream, until I'm satiated enough to fill a plastic cup to sip from.

I've already half moved in. Boxes of my things sit around the circumference of the door, scattered into the living room. Already some things have freed themselves; my books have been squeezed around the boyish contents of his bookshelf, my PS2 has been hooked up. I pull off the lid of one box; dig through until I find the correct combination of clothing.

The door squeals open as I'm pulling on a pair of green-striped boxers. Craig chooses to ignore me as he passes by, dumping an armload of paper bags on the small bar. He pulls a large bottle of something amber from one, unscrews the top, and chugs it.

"Eat what you want." He says, as if speaking to himself. One hand tightly grips the bottle, the other the side of the counter. He sags slightly to one side, and I instinctively jerk forward to catch him—however, after a moment paused an inch south of his full height, he stumbles toward the couch, hits the arm at knee level, and plops down like a fallen tree.

I surveyed the cluster of paper bags on the counter. My stomach feels taut; no matter how misplaced it feels in the dead aura omitted by the corpse that was not be but was certainly mine on the couch, I need food. In my underwear, I empty each one. He's bought a new tin of coffee, cookie dough poptarts, a few mint milky ways, salt and pepper chips. Things he doesn't like but knows I do. Maybe he's not mad. I tear into the poptarts, cursing the loud ripping and crinkling it makes in the semi-awkward semi-helpful silence, break off a piece of suck on, and set about putting away the groceries.

"Tweeker?"

"Ky-AACK." A gallon of milk hits the floor. I lift it to inspect the fast leak.

"Do you hate me?"

Craig doesn't own a pitcher, so I attempt to pour the new milk into the old milk's near-empty carton in the sink, losing a stressful amount down the drain. "Wh-what? No! Why would I hate you?"

I hear air bubbles shifting in his bottle. "S'not…are you…afraid of me?"

I remain silent as I screw the cap back on the half-full milk and return it to the fridge.

"I killed Clyde. I'm a fucking murderer. You know I have it in me. I could kill you, too."

Oh Jesus he's got a fucking knife or something back there.

"Christ, I'm sorry, I was worrying…I could never h--…really…kill you. You know that, right?" I hear him shift. When I turn to finish the job with the groceries, he's staring at me with wet grey eyes. Craig could never cry unless he was really hammered. I know.

"I know."

"Good. Take a nap after you eat, okay? It's…almost five. If you were anybody else you'd be passing out. Jeez, speaking of which, have you ever gone this long without coffee?" He chortles, flips back around on the couch, and drains his bottle.

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A/N: OH. MY. GOD. This…this is…UGGH. Guess what I did today? Wrote 150-word responses to fifteen essays on the exact same thing; Plato and Aristotle. How many times can you say "ARISTOTLE WUZ POOR BUT PLATO WUZ RICH." But I haven't updated in fuh-evah. So I'll go back and do better later. Right now…I'm gonna listen to Caramelldansen and browse 4chan. HEDONISM!