"You're home early," Tweek remarked as Craig burst through his bedroom door. Looking Craig up and down, he added, "Was there a fire on the football field or something?"

Craig threw his down his cleats and shoulder pads, having removed them before entering the house. "Nah," he answered, ignoring Tweek's facetiousness. "I had a really shitty day. Do you care if I smell bad?"

Tweek tilted his head. "I actually can't smell anything," he said. "So, nope. Not at all."

With a brief awkward pause, Craig headed for the bed and hopped up. He was sweaty enough that this was mildly gross, but it was an easy enough thought to bypass. Pulling off his socks before shifting to face Tweek, he commented, "That's interesting."

"I know. I don't think I even realized until now." Tweek watched Craig ball up his socks and throw them on the floor. "You should put those in your hamper. But tell me about your day first."

Craig scratched at his neck, wondering where to begin. "I just feel like everybody is looking at me funny lately," he started. "Everyone is treating me different. And I mean, I think I am different. But I just don't know how to deal with all of this."

For a moment, Craig thought he saw Tweek's faint grin, but as soon as he'd noticed it, it was gone. "What do you mean, they're treating you different?" the ghost asked. "Why would they do that?"

At this question, Craig had to pause and consider his words. He really didn't want to share the details of the assembly, but wasn't sure how to explain his dilemma without doing so. "Do you think I'm different?" he questioned instead.

This time, Tweek's smile was unmistakable. "No," he said, looking Craig in the eye. "But I've always seen you for who you really are, Craig."

Craig stared back for a moment before looking away. "I feel like I don't have anything in common with any of my friends anymore," he admitted. "And I don't think they get me, either."

"What about Clyde and Token?"

"They mean a lot to me. But honestly, I don't think they know what to do with me," Craig sighed before making choking out, "I quit football today. I'd never thought about not playing before. I loved the team. But now, all I see when I look at them is a bunch of idiots who don't care about anything." He snorted. "Fucking Stan Marsh tried to stop me in the parking lot. Even Token and Clyde didn't bother doing that."

Tweek shrugged, still watching Craig closely. "Maybe Stan asked them to let him do it. He's co-captain, isn't he? And why did you quit?"

Thinking over this admittedly valid point, he answered, "Uh, yeah. He is. And I told you. I don't want anything to do with those guys anymore."

"But you didn't quit a sport you've been playing since fourth grade just because you didn't like your teammates, did you?" Tweek pressed. "And why are you so against them, again?"

Craig stared. "You know the people I'm talking about, right? Cartman, Kenny? Bradley? Even Stan and Kyle…You know what all of these people have in common, right?"

Surprisingly, Tweek's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why don't you just say what's on your mind, Craig?" he suggested slowly.

Lowering his head, Craig obliged. "All of those guys… They've been my friends since freshman year. And they all helped—when you—I mean… Anything I wanted those guys to do, they would do it." He waited for Tweek to comment, but seeing Tweek nod, continued. "And sometimes they would do stuff on their own. To you." He gulped. "And now that I know you, and we're friends, I think about it constantly. But I don't see any of them thinking about it at all. It's kind of…I don't know. It makes me angry. And guilty. I don't want to be the kind of person who doesn't care about anything anymore."

Tweek's expression softened. "Well, you aren't," he said. "And don't feel guilty. I don't want you limiting yourself for my sake. I told you none of this is your fault."

Craig looked up at his ceiling. "I'm not limiting myself, and you only say that because you love me." Realizing what he had said, his eyes widened and he glanced back at Tweek, embarrassed. "Uh…" he said awkwardly, but Tweek's beaming grin had reappeared.

"Yeah," he said, sounding somewhat excited. "It's okay. You can say it; it's the truth. Can I say it, too? I love you."

Craig put his head in his hands, smiling at the stupidity of having made this comment. "You know what," he said, changing the subject, "I could've sworn I saw you on the sidelines at practice today."

Tweek looked very interested at this development. "Really?" he asked. "You mean someone who looked like me, or you actually thought it was me?"

Although he hadn't intended to share this at all, Craig figured there was no harm in disclosing a portion of what had gone down at practice. "Remember when I came in here last week, all pissed because I thought you'd followed me on a date?" He waited for Tweek to nod. "It was kind of like that. I was so sure it was you."

Shrugging, Tweek answered, "I guess there must be someone who looks like me around there. I don't actually leave your house, Craig. I'm not invisible..."

"I know!" Craig said quickly. "I'm not accusing you of anything. It's just bizarre. It really messed me up, honestly." He thought for a moment. "It didn't happen just once, either. I looked up at Kevin Stoley during a block and I swear, I was seeing your face."

For some reason, Tweek's interest appeared to be reignited, and he leaned forward. "Wait, what? No way you could mix me up with Kevin Stoley. He's Asian."

"I know," Craig said again. "I messed up the whole play, I was so surprised."

Tweek sat back, an inscrutable look on his face. "That wasn't me," he muttered, so quietly Craig could barely hear. "There's no way."

"Don't worry," Craig assured him, "I know better now. I'm just saying, it was really weird."

Frowning slightly, Tweek's look of curiosity faded. "This doesn't have anything to do with why you quit the team, does it?"

The answer was technically "yes," but Craig didn't want to get into it. "I don't know," he said instead.

The week went by slowly, with Craig dreading school every day. He'd skipped school on Tuesday, in spite of Tweek's disapproval, hoping to avoid confrontations from the rest of the team. His phone, inundated with texts from his teammates as soon as practice had ended on Monday, had been left in the corner of his sock drawer to minimize human contact. His dad had yelled at him about quitting football, but his dad yelled about everything, and Craig doubted he was too torn up about it. (He was mildly annoyed that Coach Cassidy had apparently called Craig's father personally, perhaps in an attempt at an emotional appeal. Unfortunately, Coach had failed to realize that Craig hardly cared what his father thought about anything, anyway.)

Wednesday, it had been Stan rather than Token or Clyde waiting at Craig's locker before school. Unlike Coach, Stan was very eloquent when he wanted something, and shaking him off had been particularly difficult. The worst part of all of it, he'd decided, was that he didn't even have a real answer for why he was doing what he was doing. All Craig knew was that he wanted change—he didn't really even know why. But suddenly, he was finding fault with everything he did and thought. Even sitting through classes had become torturous. He didn't want to see anybody, and he didn't want anybody looking at him, either. Voicing these insecurities to Tweek, he had felt understood. Tweek never judged what he said or looked at him funny. But when he'd finally had the courage to bring up the subject of reinventing himself to Token and Clyde at lunch on Thursday, they'd exchanged looks, and Token turned to him to say:

"Craig, you've been worrying us lately."

Couldn't anybody support him? He'd told them to forget it. It was like he had nobody on his side, not really. The only person he could trust was Tweek, and though Craig had been spending more time with him since football was out of the way, he still had to get through school.

So when Friday finally came around, Craig arrived late to ensure that he would miss homeroom. Stan and Kyle tried to catch his eye on his way to history class, but otherwise, he felt successful in evading pretty much everyone. In classes, people mostly seemed to realize that he no longer wanted to be bothered. Even teachers generally allowed him to pretend he wasn't there.

At lunch, Craig was faced with a dilemma. Though he wasn't too eager to join any of the tables that would usually welcome him, he was also reluctant to do something lame like eating alone in the hallway. He wasn't pathetic; he was just going through…something. He knew there would be an open seat waiting for him next to Clyde, but after having been embarrassed for being honest the day prior, he was loath to face even his only real friends. Entering the cafeteria a good five minutes into the lunch period, he scanned the room. When his eyes alighted on a nearly empty table, he considered—but quickly, realizing that the lone occupant of the table was Butters, he headed straight for it.

"Craig," said Butters, sounding slightly surprised as he sat down. "Hey. How, uh, how are you?"

"Good," said Craig simply. He turned his brown paper bag upside down on the table, dumping out the sandwich, protein bar, and bottled orange juice from inside. "You?"

Butters closed the textbook he'd been reading. "Not bad. The team has missed you," he tried, but stopped when Craig waved a dismissive hand.

"Let's not talk about that," said Craig. He noticed suddenly that the textbook was all Butters had before him, and he paused. "Where's your lunch?"

"I forgot," said Butters sheepishly, blushing as Craig pushed his sandwich and orange juice toward him. "It's okay," he said quickly.

"I don't want it," said Craig, nodding when Butters looked up questioningly. "I never see you eat anything."

Unwrapping the sandwich meagerly, Butters looked away. "I forget a lot," he admitted. "Usually I'm up late studying, and I don't have time to pack one."

Craig furrowed his brow. "If your parents make you spend all your time studying, can't one of them at least help you out with getting a lunch together?"

Butters shrugged. "They don't really care what I do, as long as I'm working hard and participating in extracurriculars." He rolled his eyes, something Craig had never seen him do. Butters, too, seeming to realize he had done something irregular, looked back up at Craig. "They want the best for me," he added. "They just want me to have a good life after college."

"What about your life now?" Craig asked, anger for Butters' parents forming in his brain.

Now smiling, Butters said shyly, "You know, Tweek used to say that exact thing all the time." He took a bite of the sandwich. "He hated my parents."

Craig now remembered faintly that Tweek always used to sit in the exact seat he was in. From his usual table with the football guys, Craig had sometimes shot him a glare when informed that he was being stared at. With this memory, Craig also realized that Butters had probably been sitting alone for nearly two months now. He watched with guilt as the blonde devoured his BLT. "They don't sound very nice," he said lowly.

Butters nodded slightly. "It's always kind of hard to explain your relationship with your parents to someone else, though, isn't it?" he asked, turning the cap on the bottled juice. He gulped it down easily, and didn't bother resisting when Craig slid over his protein bar, too. "Thanks," he mumbled.

"No problem," said Craig, distracted. Butters' comment about parents had got him thinking about Tweek's mom again. He wondered if there was a new pile of dishes forming in the sink. Perhaps the trash was overflowing. Had there been newspapers piled up on the front step?

No more dialogue was exchanged for the remainder of the lunch period. Craig simply watched as Butters returned to his bookmarked page in his textbook, leaving Craig to his thoughts.

"Can I come in?"

Mrs. Tweak's eyes had lit up when Craig arrived once more at her front door. "Of course," she said, moving aside to let him pass. "Richard isn't here."

Stepping into the kitchen, Craig glanced around. The dishes in the sink didn't seem too out of control, he noted. He had already checked for excess newspapers outside before knocking. Even the table was clear. He looked up and saw Mrs. Tweak watching him size up the room. When their eyes met, she smiled. "I've been doing well," she said quietly.

"You have," said Craig, grinning as well.

Mrs. Tweak pointed at the coffee machines, which appeared to have been cleaned, and poured herself a mug when Craig shook his head. "Will you sit with me, honey?" she asked. Knowing Craig's answer before he nodded, she turned and headed into the living room. Sinking onto the couch, she gestured for Craig to join her. "You're really an angel for visiting me," she said fondly as he obliged.

"No, I'm not," Craig mumbled. He looked down at his hands gathered in his lap. "But I was really regretting not visiting you sooner last week."

"I never expected you to," she assured him. "And I also never expected you to come back to check on me. But here you are."

Craig smiled at the excited tone in her voice. "Have things been any easier?"

"I've been finding things to do with myself," she answered. "You really gave me the push I needed." Sighing, she looked around the living room. "Of course, I wouldn't mind if my husband could be here a little more often. Even though I used to be here by myself anyway, the house felt a little less lonely knowing I had two people on the way, instead of just one. And Tweek was here on the weekends, mostly." Suddenly, Mrs. Tweak looked gravely back at Craig. "I'm sorry, dear, I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean to speak so freely."

Craig felt terrible, seeing the guilt in her expression. "It's fine," he said quickly. "I think it's good, if…if we can both be honest." He rubbed at a smudge on the knee of his jeans. "There aren't many people who really understand how important it is to unload what's on your mind."

Mrs. Tweak nodded vehemently. "Do you ever feel like your friends aren't really your friends?" she asked quietly, almost in a whisper. "I got so many voicemails and cards, all saying the same thing: 'If you ever want to talk, call me. I'm here.' But even if the sentiment is real, it all feels so fake. What could anyone possibly say? On my worst days, so many times, I've picked up the phone and dialed a number, but I could never make the call."

"Exactly," answered Craig, relieved to finally receive some validation in his own feelings. "People say they're there for you, but they don't even understand anything. It's too complicated for them."

Nodding again, Mrs. Tweak leaned back. "I'm so sorry that you even empathize with all of this," she said sadly. "You're so young, Craig. These are grownup problems, really. Or at least they should be."

"We never really feel like we're young when we're young, though," Craig replied.

To this, Mrs. Tweak let out a small laugh. "That's true," she said. "Craig, honey, I remember once when you and Tweek were, oh, ten? You were staying with us for a weekend while your parents were out of town. I told you boys that Rosie from down the street would be watching you kids while Richard and I went to a dinner party. You asked why you and Tweek couldn't just come eat dinner with us, and I told you it was a grownup party. Well, two hours later, when Richard went to get dressed, he found you boys mixed up in all of his ties and jackets, insisting that you could be grownups too." She chuckled to herself at the memory, which Craig sheepishly realized he could vaguely remember as well. "There were ties all over the floor, and neither of you could figure out how to tie a tie. It was so funny, we couldn't even be angry that Richard's clothes were all over the floor."

"Sorry," said Craig, blushing slightly. "I'm betting it was probably my idea."

"Probably," Mrs. Tweak agreed. "You could always convince Tweek to do anything."

They sat in silence for a while, which stretched into what felt like a long time, letting that statement hang in the air. It was true. While middle school shenanigans weren't exactly the freshest memories in Craig's mind, he remembered how Tweek had never questioned his less-than-genius ideas. While Craig had always been the sort of leader to his childhood group of friends, Token had never been afraid to challenge him. Clyde was up to anything that involved food or girls and against anything that would prevent him from being home by curfew. Tweek, on the other hand, had no strings attached, and would loyally agree to anything Craig had been mind.

Looking back, Craig could guess with embarrassment why that might have been. Still, there was no doubt that he had cherished having someone constantly backing him up.

He didn't know how long it had been since one of them had spoken when his stomach suddenly rumbled. He then remembered how he'd donated his entire lunch to Butters. Until now, he'd been successfully pushing his hunger to the back of his mind, but now it seemed painful.

Mrs. Tweak had looked up with a start. "Are you hungry, son?" she asked, rising from the sofa.

Craig's heart sank again at the word "son." "I'm fine," he said, not wanting to leave. He knew there would be ample food at home, but he wasn't in the mood to see his family yet.

"You know, I would—I would love if you stayed for dinner," said Mrs. Tweak timidly. She seemed nervous to suggest it, and Craig felt the same about accepting the invitation.

"I don't want to be any trouble," he said, also standing.

"You're not trouble, Craig," said Mrs. Tweak solemnly, looking him in the eye. "We could even just prepare it. Tweek used to help me cook sometimes, when he was home." She looked away, and Craig felt a pang. He could certainly envision it.

"Okay," he agreed finally, and they headed back into the kitchen. Glancing at the wall clock, he was surprised to see that it was already four-thirty.

"I was thinking of stir fry for dinner," commented Mrs. Tweak, peering into the refrigerator. "How about I cut up the chicken, and you take care of the vegetables?"

"Sounds good," said Craig, appreciative. He was fairly sure that Tweek's mom had known he wouldn't be comfortable with just sitting and watching her do anything. He washed his hands and set up a station on the free counter space next to the coffee makers, while Mrs. Tweak sat at the table with the chicken.

A few minutes into the quiet process, Mrs. Tweak asked, "Craig? Are you cold, honey?" and he realized he was shivering. The Tweaks' house was always kept slightly colder than the typical household, perhaps under the assumption that anyone inside would be equipped with a hot drink at all times. He started to answer in the negative, but Mrs. Tweak was already up from the table. "I'll get you a sweater," she announced, washing her hands quickly before hurrying out of the room. In just a couple of minutes, she was back with a thick navy zip-up. Handing it to Craig, she washed her hands once more and returned to the table.

As Craig put it on, he was hit with the all-too-familiar scent of Mocca Java blend and realized, kicking himself for not thinking of it earlier, that the sweatshirt was indeed Tweek's. It fit perfectly, he noted, wondering briefly how that could be possible. Pulling it on tighter, he remembered how Tweek had often worn clothing in a size or two too big.

He felt eyes on his back and turned his head slowly to meet Mrs. Tweak's gaze. She was definitely staring, and he couldn't quite decipher the look in her eye. They watched each other this way for a few seconds before Craig finally said slowly, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she answered faintly, and Craig turned back around.

He returned home with a stomach full of home-cooked food, and promptly flipped off his mother and sister on his way upstairs when they yelled at him for not calling. Like it mattered, he thought, annoyed. As was custom for Friday nights, they'd ordered pizza.

Having taken a long drive around town before heading home, it was just past seven when he opened his bedroom door. "I saw your mom again," he announced when Tweek lifted his head. "She's doing really well."

"My mom," echoed Tweek, but Craig could see he wasn't paying attention. Instead, his eyes were locked on Craig as he approached and took up his usual spot on the bed. He continued staring as Craig leaned back on his headboard.

"Yup," said Craig, self-conscious. What the fuck was Tweek staring at?

"Nice sweater," Tweek finally said, and Craig remembered too late that he had forgotten to return it at Tweek's house. Tweek's eyes swept over Craig's entire body. "It looks good on you."

Uncomfortable, Craig suppressed the urge to cover himself up. "Uh, yeah, sorry," he said awkwardly.

Finally, Tweek's eyes settled back on Craig's face. "Craig," he asked slowly, but with a hint of a smile, "why are you wearing my sweater?"

"Your house is kinda cold," he said, slightly more defensively than intended. He felt his face flushing as Tweek's smile widened.

"I don't mind," said the ghost. He looked down at his own bare arms, revealing his scars once again as he traced a line with his thumb on his inner left forearm.

"It smells like you," Craig surprised himself by saying. I remember the name 'Mocca Java.'"

Tweek covered his mouth, and Craig was confused for a moment before realizing that he was trying to stifle a laugh. Removing his hand, he continued smiling at Craig. "You're cute," he said shortly.

Craig groaned and shut his eyes, thoroughly embarrassed. When he finally reopened them, he realized how heavy his eyelids felt.

Seeming to notice this, Tweek looked away to get rid of his grin before looking back to Craig. "Sorry," he said unconvincingly.

"It's whatever," Craig said, starting to yawn. "I just didn't realize how tired I was."

"Maybe you should go to sleep early," Tweek suggested.

"Maybe," Craig tried to respond, but he was already drifting away.

-Cpt. Essex Cole

AN: Arr, mateys! Okay, I lied about a long wait for the next chapter this time around. Turns out the essay I was so scared of came super easily, and the other terrifying assignment I had went great. But this time I really can't make any promises about a quick update haha. We will see.

Some important notes about the story:

-At this point we are just about at the end of October

-There are about four more chapters of progressive storyline left, one interlude chapter, and finally a super fun epilogue that I've been writing in my head since I began this story five years ago

-Mocca Java is a real coffee blend that is real delicious

-It's okay to tell me if I have a typo! Looking back at another chapter for reference, I saw that I had spelt "Mrs. Tweak" as "Mrs. Tweek" through nearly the entire thing—how embarrassing! I'm sorry about that, guys, and I'm going to make more of an effort to edit before uploading from now on.