Oh my god, I have FANART. Dfokhneqbio;jbvdkpozuga3mb78q3bo;9yvhq2yf;onviuaqSQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! You don't EVEN KNOW how happy I was when I saw it on Christmas Eve. I flipped shit. Seriously. I like, had a Tweek-esque spaz attack (only mine was of joy). It was SO AMAZING! It's still SO AMAZING! I ADORE YOU, ZEROMOTION! YOU CAN'T FATHOM HOW HAPPY YOUR PIECE MADE ME!! X333
Also, 87 REVIEWS, OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOD!! X3 =D
A/N: Ahem.
Tweek sings, ladies 'n gents. =3 Also, Hate Me © Blue October. No, this isn't even close to a songfic. Craig Mabbitt is lead vocals in Escape The Fate, Josh Groban is one of the world's greatest tenors (look him up, seriously X3), Jesse Lacey sings for Brand New, and Brandon Boyd is the lead for Incubus.
So, yeah, slightly depressing chapter (I think), so please don't hate me if it's not what you expected. It's also my longest chapter (19.5 pages hand-written – yes, I handwrite my story first =3). I'm moving into the actual relationship stage now. Repeat: moving into. Here's some fluff for y'all. =D Enjoy.
Chapter Ten
Craig's P.O.V.
Nightmares
Clyde wouldn't meet my gaze the rest of the period, and neither of us went in the middle for the trust game. I knew I didn't exactly trust him at the moment, and I even felt betrayed, as he apparently did, too. Mr. Takamiya had seen what happened, and pulled him aside for a mini-lecture – they were still talking when the bell rang for seventh.
"You have choir next, right?" I asked of the jittery blonde once we were in the hall, Kenny on the other side of him.
"Yeah," he quavered, glancing at the hooded boy next to him. "Why, ngh? Does it matter??" His huge emerald eyes widened anxiously. "HOLY CHRIST, are you in my class?!" he blurted, turning to face me and bumping into Kenny in the process; he shrieked, whirling again and running into me instead. "GAH! Sor—"
"'S fine," I murmured, rolling my eyes and holding his shoulder steady before he could run into a water fountain. Kenny grinned in agreement, shrugging like, What can you do? "Don't apologize. And no, I've never been in choir. I was just curious."
The thought of skipping English to follow him to choir that day didn't sound like a bad idea, though, and I found myself following the two blondes into the big, open choir room. Tweek didn't notice me enter, but Kenny raised an eyebrow disbelievingly at me, silently questioning my presence. Showing him my favorite finger, I sauntered toward the back of the tiered room, plopping onto the floor and leaning against the cold wall. The guys that came in and saw me looked both confused and nervous, and I knew they thought I was here to find something to mock them later with.
Ugh. Reputations, you know? I was a dick like that freshman year. Sophomore year I calmed down a bit, realizing insulting people just because I could wasn't actually all that fun anymore. By the time I'd turned sixteen, the only person I'd bullied was Tweek.
Wondering to myself why I only continued to bully him, my eyes found his chaotic hair, and I honed in on the sound of his voice as he and Kenny talked about a piece of music I'd never heard of before, probably because I don't know shit about choral music. But that's a little known fact about me – my hearing is immaculate. In fact, it was almost inhuman, since I could pick out certain sounds or voices specifically, when I wanted to. So chances are, if you say something and I ask "what," it's more likely that I'm skeptical than that I misheard or didn't hear you.
Kenny sang a note, in a… round sort of tone, and then Tweek matched it before going higher. My lungs emptied of air, and my heart thudded against my ribcage dangerously, only allowing me ragged breaths as I listened to the pair of them sing a few lines of a haunting melody in a minor key. He hardly trembled in his seat, his tenor clear and… clean. You'd think he'd do that wobbling thing with his voice like old people always do… what's it called?
"He has almost no vibrato. Weird, right?"
Startled, I blinked and frowned slightly, gazing up at the red-haired Jew with a quizzical expression. "Is that what it's called?" I mumbled in response.
"What're you doing here, Craig?" Kyle asked wearily, a folder under his arm dropping a sheet of paper. I bent sideways to pick it up, holding it above my head for him. "Thanks," he said. "Does he know you're in here?"
"I doubt it," I chuckled, with a shrug.
"Hm," Kyle hummed, watching Tweek and Kenny harmonize expertly. "Didn't think so. He'd be panicking." I had a good idea of why, but the temperamental guy explained himself. "He probably doesn't even know how much he freaks out about you. You certainly don't."
Oh. That wasn't exactly what I was thinking. I was secretly flattered, and a bit amused, but concern lined my thoughts. How often did he hurt himself when I wasn't around?
"Anyway," Kyle began, interrupting my uncharacteristic worry. "We're about to start, and Sam will probably notice you're in here – you should sit in a section."
"Who?"
"Sam. The director. Sit in the, like…" He glanced around, looking for an empty seat. "Sit in the baritone section. You sound like a baritone. Can you sing?"
Sing? Me? I had no idea. Flipping him off, I stood and stepped over the chair, falling into it and giving the kid next to me a nonverbal "fuck you" as he eyed me unsurely. Kyle scooted past me and took a seat somewhere to my left, closer to Tweek and Kenny. He pulled something out of his backpack and handed it to Tweek. Tweek squeaked, thanking him profusely for returning his thermos to him. He had forgotten it on the bus the other day.
Now that I thought about it, the only person of the three that I would've been unsurprised to see in here was Kenny. Didn't he go to Romania or somewhere on a free ride for his singing when we were nine? But Kyle and Tweek… the thought never even crossed my mind. I wondered if Kyle was any good.
A tall man with a short haircut and stylish glasses sat down at the piano in the front of the room. He started playing some scales, and singing lowly. Soon everybody had stopped chatting and started singing the same thing. Following suit, I tried to figure out what exactly it was they were saying. It wasn't any real word or words, but more like articulated gibberish – not that it wasn't something I couldn't catch onto.
Hearing my voice in a sea of undoubtedly more skilled singers was bizarre – namely because I didn't stand out or sound like utter shit, like I thought I would. The sound coming out of my mouth reminded me of how much it changed since I was a kid. I used to be incredibly nasal, but now I was rougher, and while I wasn't… gravelly or anything, it occurred to me that I could probably pull off singing for a metal or alternative punk band. In fact, I reminded myself of Craig Mabbitt (what a coincidence). And while I was making comparisons, I picked out Kenny's voice and decided he could've been a teenaged Josh Groban, Kyle was a more controlled Jesse Lacey, and Tweek was a higher, younger Brandon Boyd. And that was just going up and down a scale.
The guy at the piano motioned in the air and cut us off. He shuffled some papers, and pushed his glasses further up onto his nose. "Now, for the duet, I want you two to sing out. It's so much more powerful when we can hear you guys!" he instructed to the ivory keys before him, and some people shifted to the edge of their seats, sitting up straighter. I copied the movements, starting to genuinely enjoy myself, already amused by the seriousness in the room. "Here are your notes…" He played four notes on the piano, and then went on. "I'll give you a two bar intro. Gentlemen… One two, two two—"
Nearly everyone in the room started a low, quiet, "Da da dum, da-da-da da dum," repetition, and I found a place in the sound, getting the feeling this wasn't an ancient religious piece, which was the bulk of the choral music I'd actually heard. There was a build in the volume, and I noticed neither of my increasingly interfering blondes were singing. A small smile shaped itself into my verbatim, and I watched with an almost sickening eagerness as they simultaneously took a breath.
"I have to block out thoughts of you so I don't lose my head," they sang in flawless harmony. "They crawl in like a cockroach, leavin' babies in my bed; dropping little reels of tape, to remind me that I'm alone; playing movies in my head that make a porno feel like home."
My jaw was stuck hanging open, my eyes locked Tweek's calmer form, fascinated with his steady, beautiful voice and its perfect fit with Kenny's professional sound. It wasn't until they reached the chorus that I finally recognized the song, and even then, I was ridiculously distracted.
"Hate me today," the pair belted out, a swell growing in the background singers and piano. "Hate me tomorrow. Hate me for all the things I didn't do for you. Hate me in ways, yeah ways hard to swallow. Hate me so you can finally see what's good for you."
For some reason, I felt a hollowness empty in my chest, and a sense of responsibility made me gaze down at my hands. It wasn't the first time I asked myself… Why doesn't he hate me? Why doesn't he hate me for all the things I did do? I let myself deliberate on masochism for possibly the third time.
Before I had time to pull myself out of my diversion, the song faded to a close, and I blinked. Again before my consciousness had registered the situation, I was applauding, a lone audience member in the midst of the performers.
Tweek shrieked, leaping in his seat and turning wildly to find the source of the clapping. Everybody else turned to me, too, brows furrowed with distrust and skepticism. The director glanced up at me, looking dazed. I stood, assuming it was only appropriate; facing the once more quivering coffee fiend and addressing him directly, I ignored Kenny's smug grin.
"That… was fucking amazing," I stated evenly, pausing for dramatic emphasis. "I should come in here more often."
"Who are you?" the man behind the piano questioned in a polite tone. I flipped him off, and he sighed tiredly. "Tucker. Right, well, you're welcome to sit in anytime you like. As long as you don't have another class…" Like I would confess to skipping English. Yeah right. "What enticed you here today?"
"Tweek," I answered flatly. It was the truth, and my crystal blue eyes never left the smaller, twitchy kid's emerald orbs, and he let out a panicked "ACK!" when I said his name. Smirking slightly at his vibrant blush, I asked the director, "Sam, right?" Without waiting for confirmation on his name, I went on, vaguely wondering if I got his name right. "When's the next concert again?"
"Next Thursday," he responded professionally. "It's a three dollar suggested donation to come. We'd love it if you did." He smiled as though he actually would, and wasn't just making a sales pitch. I could see why Tweek would take this class and even go out for a solo – this guy was intense, but just the kind of teacher he needed. Some part of me wanted him to be my English teacher. I can't stand Garrison. This made my smirk widen.
"I'm there."
-
The next hour went by in a disconcerting flash, and I'd gotten home with a spastic caffeine addict on my mind, having just sat and spoken with the kid. He'd been nervous the rest of his choir period, shivering constantly and continuously glancing over at me. Again "cute" and "adorable" hovered around the very thought of him. I just hoped I wasn't flushing as much as he had been, pushing my house key into the deadbolt on our front door, recalling fondly the way he'd apologized profusely on the bus for not noticing me earlier in his class, after which I scolded him for more unnecessary "sorry's." When I reached to ruffle his hair, and he whimpered, flinching, I congratulated him once more on an excellent job singing "Hate Me." He seemed to melt under my cold hand, his terminally worried expression relaxing, too, yanking on my goddamned heartstrings again.
Fuck.
It hit me as I peeled my shoes off, tossing them next to my little sister's girly flats. But it made no sense, and I threw my messenger bag on the couch in aggravation, standing stiffly in the front hall.
I do not have a stupid-ass crush on Tweek fucking Tweak. I don't. That's so completely ludicrous. Where the fuck did it come from?! I used to hate the guy! At least, I thought I did. He annoyed me the most, out of everyone (except maybe Cartman), since the third grade. So why the hell would I suddenly like him 'like that,' to use an archaic term. Shit, he's the kid whose life I ruined. How could I even dare to like him?
"GODDAMMIT!" I raged in my confused frustration. It's like I'd already admitted it – already accepted it! It's one thing to question my sexuality, it's another to finally and properly have someone to question it with. As if that wasn't what I was doing earlier. As if I was the first person to ever go through this sort of thing.
Clenching and unclenching my fists repeatedly, I took a deep, weary breath and whirled to stalk up to my bedroom when I nearly ran into my sister, who'd somehow appeared out of nowhere without making a sound. I froze, glaring down my nose at her. I so didn't have the endurance for her endless PMS-ing right now. "When'd you get here?" I growled impatiently.
"I've been here, Craig," she snapped tightly, flicking me off before putting her hands on her small hips. "What are you so upset about?" she asked with less edge, as though concerned.
A quick look downward told me she had been here, and I'd only been too preoccupied to notice. Her shoes and bag were on the floor, where I'd parked my own automatically. Brilliant, Craig, you're a bloody genius. "Nothing," I answered dismissively, annoyed to recall Clyde's use of the same question.
Aw, shit. Clyde. I'd better talk to that dumbass.
"Fuck," I muttered to myself, heaving a sigh and walking around my freakishly adorable sibling. "I gotta go, Ruby."
"Craig?"
The way she said it made me pause, and I looked back at her. "Yeah?"
"…I'm sorry I'm such a bitch all the time, and I hope whatever you're troubled over stops sucking soon," she said quickly, pressing her lips together indignantly. "I don't hate you," she added stiffly.
I blinked. What brought this on? "Uh. Okay," I murmured, smirking despite my mood. "Love you, too…" Turning to the door and tapping my shoes on all the way, I reached for the handle; I had to leap back as the heavy wood swung itself open first. I tensed as my father brought his bulky self through the threshold, throwing his briefcase on the nule post and glancing sideways at me. "Hi, dad," I defiantly said, instinctively taking an extra step away. "I was just—"
"I don't give a shit 'bout what you're doing," the grudging man barked, facing me full on and sneering. "Get out of my sight, boy," he ground out through his screwy teeth.
"—leaving," I finished flatly, putting my hands in my pockets after giving him the finger.
"Don't you flip me off, punk!" he raged, returning the gesture and sending the back of his free hand across my face before I could skirt around his overbearing form. A sting on my skin let me know his nails left a mark. "Get the hell outta my sight before I fucking kill you, you little shit!"
Ducking under a swing of his fist, I practically launched myself out the open door, taking off at a run down the icy sidewalk, my dad's screams for me seeming distant and muted by the white and dirtied snow surrounding me.
-
Stopping at the front walk of a familiar house, I allowed myself to lean into my knees to catch my breath, panting. Twelve blocks was hard to run when I hadn't exercised in a week. Standing up straight and carefully reaching to my face, I sucked in a quick breath as another sharp sting shot all across my cheek, tender from my father's angry slap. When I pulled my fingers back, I saw a small smear of red. Well, there goes the hope of it remaining unobvious.
"Dude. What happened?"
Snapping my head in the house's direction, I saw my best friend and semi-enemy watching from his front step, an eyebrow risen in question. When I didn't do anything other than automatically flip him off, Clyde strode up to me. "Your dad?" he guessed, quietly for him.
I nodded, cursing the injury and avoiding his hazel gaze with both shame and childish fury. Of course I was still mad at him for being a total asshole about everything, but this wasn't the first time I'd showed up at his house after a fight with my hateful father, however often they were one-sided. The friendship we had was still strong enough for us to temporarily forget the conflict of the day and for the brunette to invite me inside.
No one else was home yet, so we were left to our own devices, Clyde leading me upstairs to the room I'd visited countless times in the years we'd known each other. He dumped himself onto his bed, and I took my usual place on his desk chair, habitually swiveling around once before resting my elbows on my knees and hanging my head almost guiltily. Here we were, in a warm, comfortable room in an unnatural, atypical awkward silence, our personal choices of the day strangling all means of communication and leaving us to our thoughts. Normally, silence doesn't bother me – I'm not the kind who needs to fill every silence with desperate small talk – but this particular one was starting to grate on my already faltering forbearance. Just as I opened my mouth, Clyde beat me to the punch.
"Are you gay??" he blurted, turning his naïve hazel gaze to my normally indifferent blue one, challenge and betrayal in his face and tone.
I blinked, the question hitting me like a ton of bricks. Trying to come up with a decent response proved extremely difficult, seeing as I wasn't so sure myself. "What are you talking about, Clyde?" I sidestepped, evading the unanswerable.
Frowning as though offended, the headstrong brunette scoffed. "I'm talkin' 'bout you 'n Spaz—" My severe glare and small snarl accompanying it caused him to correct his mistake before he could finish making it. "You 'n Tweek," he tried again. "I mean, is he bending over for you or something?? Is that why you're not rippin' on him anymore?" he interrogated, accusatory. But I could sense the authentic belief, concern, and confidence in his… decision. Where did he get off on asking me that?
"Am I bangin' you?" I retaliated without missing a beat.
Clyde was definitely thrown, blinking rapidly and stumbling over his words. "W-what? What the fuck?"
"I don't rip on you, do I? As far as I know, you're not 'bending over' for me." Staring skeptically as my currently embarrassed friend gawked at me, I added, "Since that's what you're implying."
"That – that's not what I meant!" he protested.
Showing him my favorite finger, I bluntly said, "Yeah it is."
His frown deepened, and we competed in a classic game of Staring Contest. However, his attempt to beat me was futile, because I was well practiced in the art of blank and lasting stares. He soon became weary, turning away in frustration. I sighed.
"Do you actually want to know why I decided Tweek's not gonna be a victim anymore?" I wondered quietly, watching him neutrally.
"I wanna know why you suddenly decided to give two shits about him!"
Waiting for him to actually meet my eyes, I answered at last. "…I don't know," I murmured tensely, realizing that was as honest I could yet get, clasping my hands together tightly, riled with aggravation.
He stared again, trying to read my empty expression. Thing is, Clyde was never very good at analyzing people to begin with, and on top of that, there was nothing to find anyway. I wasn't lying when I told him I didn't know what I was thinking. What added to the suck-factor was that he genuinely wanted to know this time, and wasn't just throwing his confused frustration around like an idiot.
"All I know is," I started, having no idea as to what I was in fact going to say. "…I can't stand to see him hurt anymore." Slowly, I raised my face to meet his across the gap of still air between us. "It pisses me off. It's almost like I'm…" What was the word? "I'm possessive of him now, and maybe that stems from being his primary bully for all these years, but – whenever I see someone look at him with the same disgust and hate I once had for him, I want to knock their goddamned head off." Without thinking, I had swiped my hand down my face tiredly, but come away with more blood on my hand. Startled, I breathed, "Holy shit!"
"I'll get a washcloth," Clyde muttered, leaving and returning just as fast with a damp rag, offering it to me and digging around in his desk drawer for something. Putting the cloth to the cut on my face, I wiped the excess blood away. My best friend nudged my shoulder, handing me a band-aid.
"There's so much more to him than those twitches and spaz attacks, dude. I – I see it now. Can't you tell he's got so much going on in that messy blonde head of his?" I asked incredulously, blindly applying the bandage to my cheek.
"Uh, not really," he muttered honestly. Sitting back down on his bed.
"He's oblivious to the things that could actually hurt him, and more often than not, he injures himself. For some reason – for some reason, it hurts me, too, when he gets hurt." That totally didn't sound gay. Goddammit. "Why do you care, dude?" I sighed.
My best friend watched me unsurely, looking put out and… sad? The word didn't fit in a sentence involving Clyde Donovan. What the fuck was he thinking about?
"Dude," he began, "it's great that you're not a huge dick anymore – well, you're less of a dick, anyway – but you're more than just different, man! You've changed – you're changing. And it's freaking me out!" He stood indignantly, the frown on his lips almost a pout. "It really came outta nowhere, and you're ignoring me more! Why d'ya hafta ignore me? I'm your fucking best friend!"
His outburst caused a scowl to don my own lips. He was definitely pouting now. "Clyde, dude – grow up!" I chided, using my holier-than-thou voice. "I'm not trying to ignore you! You're not helping by being a royal prick, though, that's for sure."
"I don't wanna be replaced, man!"
"You're NOT being REPLACED!"
Puffing out his chest, Clyde stood his ground defiantly, as though I was a new challenger in the battle arena. "No, I guess I wouldn't be, since you aren't dating anyone," he ventured at last, expression shifting from insulted to arrogant. Oh great.
"What are you on about now?" I groaned, falling back heavily in my seat and closing my eyes. This was getting pretty old very fast.
"Craig," he stated, sounding final. "You don't see it?" he criticized, eying me suspiciously. "You're looking for what to call it?" he went on meaningfully. I blinked. "Craig – man, you're in love!"
I blinked again.
"Excuse me?" I exaggerated, raising an eyebrow in amused disbelief. "You think I'm what?"
"Dude, I've seen it, and you're definitely in love," he repeated, eyes wide, a grin growing on his lips. "Heh. You're blushing."
Well if I wasn't before, I certainly was now. Scowling, I stood quickly, balling up my fists. "Where do you get off on saying something like that?" I growled darkly, working mostly off shock rather than true heat. "You're insane," I accused coldly.
Clyde's regular dopey smile came back into place, and I couldn't help but quell a little at the sight of it. "You are!" he giggled. "That's fuckin' amazing! Why didn't I see it before?" he continued, seemingly to himself.
"It's been two days!" I shouted, arguing without incentive. "Two days," I emphasized, "since I… changed!"
Clyde shrugged, nonchalant. I swear, that kid's more bipolar than Ruby. "Romeo and Juliet fell in love across a crowded room," he cited, making use of what little he paid attention to in English class.
"He's a guy!"
He grinned hugely, reminding me of Kenny. "I never said who."
I snarled, moving to get up. "This isn't Shakespeare," I pointed out flatly, planting myself in front of him. He blanched slightly, stepping back. "In case you haven't noticed."
"So which one of you 's the chick, then?" he threw out mischievously.
"Clyde," I ground out, losing my patience.
Waving his hands in front of him, he edged around me. "Well, you're not, I mean, obviously."
A dramatic, weary, relieved, and exasperated sigh escaped from between my lips, and I even chuckled, shaking my head. "Suddenly you're not angry anymore?" I asked him, unconvinced and taking the chance to switch subjects. "What changed your mind?"
"Well," he started, but stopped, grimacing and furrowing his brow. "Well… how can I be mad at my best friend if he's only in love?" he purred, smirking triumphantly.
Love?
Holy fuck. Holy FUCK. It just fucking hit me.
Was I actually in love with a clumsy, paranoid coffee addict with untamable golden locks and fantastic, enormous emerald eyes? Did I really want a kid with a tendency towards panicked verbatim and acquiring head injuries? Was I infatuated with a small boy that trembled constantly and had warm, elegant, cut-up hands?
The answer was… yes.
I, Craig Tucker was somehow – in accordance with every single thing that's been out of whack in my world lately – in love with Tweek Tweak.
What. The fuck.
"Shiiit," I moaned, collapsing into my chair and feeling my veins buzz with new energy.
"Oh, and I don't care that you're a fag," Clyde assured me smugly.
Groaning, I gave him a light sock in the gut, on principle.
-
That night, Clyde offered to let me crash at his place, and I readily accepted. With my head running in circles like it was, my libido on its heels, how was I supposed to deal with dad again? My mom would get my text and breathe easy while I slept on the couch in my best friend's basement. Still wide-awake, I put my leftover energy into assessing myself for the second time.
One: I decided I was going to be Tweek's guardian. Fuck the consequences.
Two: I liked guys. It was official. It also didn't pose any immediate threat to any aspect of my life… unless you count—
Three: I might've had a small crush on Tweek. Maybe.
"Goddammit," I muttered into the pillow Clyde's mom had provided for me. "Goddammit."
It was those eyes. Those bloody huge bright green eyes of his. You could see every moment of pain he'd ever experienced, every paranoid thought flickered across his glistening irises, his self-loathing proved all the more heartrending when you looked into them. It was from his eyes that the mind-numbing fear he constantly felt struck, stabbing me in the chest each time we locked gazes. It was the distrust and eagerness to trust wrapped in one solitary glance.
Or maybe it was the twitching. Sure, it used to piss me off to no end, but now that I really thought about it, now that I wanted to put a label on it, it's… cute. God, that word again! But it is. The incessant quivering, and even hid screwy speech mannerisms were fucking adorable. How could I ever have thought they were annoying? What a waste of time. but three days ago, I wouldn't have even let myself get within thirty feet of calling Tweek 'cute.' It just wouldn't have happened.
Not to mention he looks damned good with a thermos in his hands, and the skewed button-down is somewhat… endearing? Great, I sound like a fucking girl. But the trembling, and the blushing – oh god. The blushing. Even when I was abusing the guy at every turn, that hot pink or vibrant crimson would give me a rush. At the time, I would've dismissed it as sadistic inclination… which I guess it still is. Now I can see it as… well, more than just that. Jesus Christ, now that I've tried analyzing it, I'm going to be turned on next time I see it.
AW SHIT. Now I've jinxed myself.
That was my last conscious thought before I slipped into a mostly dreamless sleep.
-
It's bright. The kind of bright that should blind me, but isn't. I can't tell where it's coming from – there's no specific source, the light just… surrounds me. It's white, in case you haven't yet figured that out, the same white falling outside in the physical world. But this is the dream world, so the snowy white is more…
Pure.
Remind you of anyone?
"Who said that?" my voice demands of the stark white.
Well, he's not exactly pure, but you get my drift.
"Who SAID THAT?!" I yell, temper surfacing.
Tsk, tsk. Isn't it obvious? Who the hell else fucks with your dreams?
"Damien," I growl warningly. "What's going on?"
I want to show you something, Craig.
Suddenly, the light warps, and my limbs feel as though they're being torn from my body. I scream in agony, a powerful spike of pain injecting itself directly through my forehead. The pristine white siphons away, leaving behind a view of Stark's Pond bathed in a delicate moonlight uncharacteristic of South Park. Someone sits at a bench in front of the water, staring down at it. He's alone, this someone with a familiar mess of blonde hair atop a trembling head.
"Tweek," I call out thoughtlessly.
He can't see or hear you, Damien informs me, sounding a bit remorseful. This isn't like sharing a dream – that's easier. That's why it hurt to get you here, Craig. You're in his dreams, as an observer.
I want so badly to see his face, a strange panic pumping in my blood. Shifting my non-body, I see his hands stiffly grasping an empty coffee mug between them, his eyes wide. He's biting his lip again, and I roll my eyes, relieved. He's okay.
"You're nothing to him."
"ACK!" Tweek jumps, staring up at the intruder with absolute horror written in his humongous emerald orbs; I whirl around as well, startled. "D-dad??"
"He's just fucking with you. Why would he care about you?" the man with an ordinary face scoffs, and while I'm not exactly sure what was happening, I'm positive I want to punch "dad's" lights out. "No one cares about twitchy idiots with caffeine dependencies!" he laughs cruelly, his face transforming into something unearthly – something demonic.
Tweek shrieks, leaping off the bench and scrambling to get behind it, whimpering with fear. At first, all I can do is watch in shocked awe, my mouth agape, but when I come to my senses, I stand protectively in front of Tweek, clenching my fists and glaring icily at the man. The transformed man walks right through me, and I feel nauseous.
You're an observer, Craig. I told you that. You can't do anything here.
"He – he promised he wouldn't let me get hurt!" the small coffee fiend insists, not sounding too convinced with his own argument. "He even, ngh, got mad at his best friend! GAH!"
More recognizable people appear, their visages not unnatural – I get the sickening feeling that it's only a matter of time, however, and tense with each addition to Mr. Tweak's gang.
"Oh, Tweek," says Mr. Garrison, approaching said teen at a mockingly leisurely pace. "Everybody's screwing with you! D'you really thaynk even Kinny genuinely likes you? Don't make me laugh, boy!" He laughs anyway.
"We've told the FBI and the KGB about you already," says a sinister Stan, materializing behind the terrified boy and making him cry out in shock, whipping around to face him. Looming over his thin build, he adds, "They're very interested in you."
"And it's all thanks to me."
My breath hitches in my throat, and suddenly I wish I could kill myself. No, scratch that – I wish I could kill the me that stood before Tweek, grinning evilly and standing like a cocky film star, downright atrocious words spilling out of not-my mouth.
Tweek screams again, whirling around to face not-me instead, the mug falling to the ground as he brings his arms up to his chest defensively. The evil Stan turns into an evil Kenny, and he seizes the smaller boy's forearms, holding him still even as he struggles frantically to escape, crying out repeatedly. I launch myself at the anti-Kenny, diving right through him; I forgot that I was completely ineffectual, and as I roll to a stop, I have to lift myself to my feet with a furious heart and a snarl once again on my lips.
I'm sorry, Damien echoes, sincere. It's going to take a bit more than that to materialize here…
The evil me leans into the fragile boy, making him flinch and recoil as he closes his tell-all eyes and clamps onto his bottom lip with his teeth. "I told them, because I hate you. Said how useful your fucked-up brain would be for their torture research," not-me chuckles, grabbing the tiny blonde's chin and forcing him to face not-me. "They especially liked it when they heard you like the guy who tormented you for years on end – masochistic minds were their favorite, they said."
"AUGH, JESUS CHRIST! I'm a masochist!"
Everybody laughs, and their faces morph, the same way his father's did. When the anti-me looks at Tweek again, the blonde shrieks, tearing away from the evil Kenny's grasp and bolting for the trees. The demonic torturers glide slowly across the snowy grass, laughter peeling through the silence. I follow after Tweek as fast as I can, ghosting through the monstrous horde and quickly catching up to Tweek.
The poor kid had fallen to his knees in front of a fat tree, fists above his head on the trunk, pounding on the bark. He had his head down, and for a moment, I think h's going to scream.
"Not even, ngh, in my dreams," he quavers, strained more than usual. "Not even in my stupid, ngh, DREAMS! GAH!"
I kneel, my chest hollow and my mouth dry. The snow wasn't cold – this was a dream after all – but I still feel numb and guilty. Very guilty. I saw a combination of his many fears play out in front of me, and even though they involved false notions of myself, I didn't – couldn't – do anything to stop them.
Yet this is all about me, isn't it?
"God, ngh, just kill me now," he chokes, and I finally see the tears I knew were there. "Make everything, ngh, easier for everybody! Craig won't hafta – GAH! – deal with me anymore, mom 'n dad can run the, ngh, shop in peace, and I won't ruin anyone's, ngh, day anymore, either."
Fuck. Way to break my heart, kid. Ain't easy to do.
The demon townspeople arrive, grinning with slime dripping from their sharpened teeth, watching their victim with yellow, snake-like eyes. They guffaw amongst themselves, making to mock Tweek behind his back as well as to his face. Tweek trembles with widened eyes on the ground. Like he doesn't get enough of that when he's awake. He had to get it even when he managed to fall asleep? The guy lives abuse, 24/7!
"Whatsa matter, Tweek?" coos the not-me. Not-Clyde joins him by his side. "Can't handle the truth?" he laughs, suddenly behind him, hoisting the small boy to his feet with a fistful of his chaotic hair. Tweek cries out in pain and freight, treacherous tears streaming down his beautiful face.
Beautiful.
It hit. At last. I thought he was beautiful.
In every way.
Oh. My. Motherfucking god.
"What truth?"
Well I'll be damned, Damien chuckles.
The scene seems to freeze. Not-me looks over at me, thrown off his game. I'm not supposed to be here, I'm fucking with the order of things in Tweek's dream world – he was supposed to be Craig. What is another Craig doing here?
Well, you can't beat the real thing, can you?
I stand, locking gazes with a bewildered Tweek, addressing the army of monstrous townspeople with renewing vigor. "Get out of here," I quietly command. "Go away."
The demonic creatures flicker, a VHS on pause, their world interrupted by a confident outsider. The not-me twitches, bearing his teeth in animalistic territorialism.
"And never come BACK," I low bitingly.
Releasing the blonde in his hand, the anti-me dissolves with a hiss into the temperature-free air. As soon as he vanishes, the other nightmarish apparitions fade, leaving me alone with a shaky coffee addict in the potentially chilly night.
Tweek stands unsteadily, hunched forward, clasping at his golden locks and chewing his bottom lip. We remain silent for a moment, and I listen to his erratic breathing. Taking a step closer, I begin cautiously reaching out to him.
"Tweek, I—" I start, only to be interrupted almost immediately.
"SWEET TAP-DANCING BABY JESUS, NO!" he screeches, leaping away and backing into a tree. "No! Ngh, that's not fair!"
I blink, fixing him with an unsure stare. "What's not?"
"There can't be a, ngh, heroic Craig! Craig has to, ngh, hate me! Cuz it would make me happy, and, ngh, I'm not supposed to be happy!" he explains hastily, screwing up his expression in anguish. "If I were to, ngh, be happy—OH JESUS! The universe would IMPLODE! AUGH, IT'S ALL MY FAULT!"
FUCK, my chest hurts! "Then what are you… allowed to be?" I can't help but ask, retracting my arm the slightest bit.
"Ngh, I – I…!" He pauses, panting and burning bright red. "Sad!" he blurts. "Broken, small, and… ngh, and…!" His eyes dart across the snow at his feet, searching for whatever he was going to say next. "I have to be everybody's, ngh, entertainment!" he decides.
"Why?"
I confused him. He makes an odd, strangled noise before answering. "Because – GAH! It's what I'm good at!"
All the words in the dictionary can't describe what I'm thinking. I'd like to simply give the excuse of, "you wouldn't understand," but you probably would, because goddammit – you'd better be thinking the exactly the same things I am.
"Tweek, lookit me."
Whimpering, he casts his gaze upward to mine, squeaking in surprise as he finds out I'm only a foot away now. At a painstakingly slow pace, I carefully reach with both hands and gently take hold of his face. His shaking intensifies, and his lip quivers before he bites down on it.
"You're allowed to be happy, Tweek," I murmur, forcing my expression to soften so it won't scare him. Bringing him closer as gently as I could, I wrap my arms around his tiny frame, imagining I could make him a protective shell. He stiffens momentarily, but begins to relax as I softly ease his head to my shoulder, similar to the way I held him on the floor in the nurse's office. "Don't believe anyone who tells you otherwise," I add firmly, resting my chin on his unruly entanglement of hair.
"This is the best, ngh, dream I've, ngh, had in years," he mumbles into my coat, hesitantly putting his arms around my waist, as if waiting to be pushed away. I suspect people pushed him away a lot, dream world or not. I wonder if he would still consider this his "best dream" even if I did push him away. Not that I'm even considering it. But the notion that it probably still would be makes my chest ache more. "I wish, ngh…"
"What do you wish?"
"AUGH!" His cry is muffled by my outerwear. "I wish this, ngh, was real," he whispers, giving me a weak squeeze. My heart nearly ceases beating. "Cuz, ngh, I… want to be happy." His voice breaks on the last word, and he nuzzles closer into me, falling slightly as his weakened knees give in. I catch him effortlessly, and he grasps at my coat, close to breaking down. I'm at a loss for words as he begins literally crying on my shoulder.
Does this mean what I think it means?
As I ease us to the ground, carefully hoisting him into my lap, I recall what the evil me had been saying, trying to destroy the damaged boy in my arms. 'They especially liked it when they heard you like the guy who tormented you for years on end…' This kid I'm holding is the kid that I made it my life to abuse for eight years. This is the boy I shoved, kicked, spat on, insulted, tripped, threw food at, stole coffee from… Obviously I'm one of the benefactors to his damage. If anything, it's all my doing. Everything he's been through since third grade is all my fault.
And he likes me? Maybe he is a little masochistic. But I can't say I'm not a little sadistic…
"Just cuz you're asleep, doesn't mean this isn't real," I quietly inform him, feeling my heart lurch at the weird notions going through my head. I swear, if Damien is screwing around right now… not even his dad could save him from the Hell he'll be in.
"What?" he squeaks, peeking up at me through damp eyes.
"Do you always have nightmares?" I ask, catching myself.
"Hrgck, yeah. Pretty, ngh, much," he murmurs, calming down.
"Tweek."
"ACK! Y-yes?"
"They're not coming back. Dream peacefully, okay?"
He doesn't answer, and suddenly I'm on the couch in Clyde's basement, an obnoxious buzzing filling my ears in place of his response.
-
I stared up at the ceiling for a while, deciding what to do. Would he even remember? Did he ever realize I wasn't just a figment of his tortured, overactive imagination? Did Damien plan this, and if so, do I kill him now or later? What would Kenny say? Or better yet…
What would Kenny do?
Blinking, I reached blindly for my cell phone, turning off the alarm and searching for a number I was unlikely to have. To my surprise, I found it. The only problem now was—
WHAT the FUCK am I doing? No matter what I do, Kenny will laugh, Damien will stake credit, and Tweek will have a panic attack and spaz out. What did I even want? That was the real dilemma. As far as I knew, the twitchy blonde was definitely in the equation. I couldn't make excuses anymore… but I could try and make him mine. Slowly. I'll take it slow.
…Better check with Kenny, though, just in case.
A/N II: OKAY, OKAY, I know the dream world sequence sucked ass, but I was writing at two in the morning, and my brain was fried, and I TOTALLY don't have the energy to make it NOT suck. TT_TT I'm sorry! D=
And I simply must say: YOU ALL ARE AMAZING, AND I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR YOUR WONDERFUL REVIEWS, THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!