Chapter Track: Inside Out – Eve 6

Tweek stares at the bicycle for several long seconds before his sluggish brain kicks into gear. A bike. Bikes mean Craig, just like guinea pigs mean Craig and blue hats mean Craig, and making out in the backroom of his parents' coffee shop means Craig. Angry grunge rock means Craig. Black coffee means Craig. Anger means Craig. But more than most things, bikes mean Craig. Bikes mean Craig because they're just about the only things that make Craig smile if he's not paying attention. Bikes, the rodents that he calls his "babies" or his "boys," and sometimes, if he's lucky, Tweek can get him to smile too. He tries pretty hard, actually, and Tweek is of the opinion that it's more difficult than it should be.

Tweek makes most people laugh because he's crazy. They're there in the back of his head. Not always, but sometimes, whispering quietly like Tweek's brain is a church but they still need to gossip. The voices are strangers – they used to be louder, until his medication told them to be quiet. They listen mostly, though sometimes, if he feels too much, they aggravate him.

"Sweetie, are you okay?"

Tweek's head shoots up, away from the paper in his lap. His mom looks worried, more worried than she should look, but ever since he had to go to the hospital she thinks that anything can set him off, can make him as crazy as everybody says he is. That's sort of true when he doesn't take his medication, but Tweek is fairly diligent about making sure that he does. The few times that he hasn't taken his meds consistently – either because he forgot or because he was testing in the name of science – didn't go over very well.

When he doesn't take his medicine, the strangers in his head flip from below the threshold of hearing to cacophony. They make terrible noise, and say things that make Tweek twist up into knots everywhere and make him want to curl up and cry. The worst is when they say that they'll hurt his mom and dad, because his mom and dad are the only people that love him and the only people that treat him like he isn't two steps away from shooting up the school.

"Mommy," Tweek says carefully, because he hasn't actually had enough time to both process the letter and implement a plan of action.

"What is it, pumpkin?" she asks. She runs her fingers through his hair, untangling it in her mom-like system of doing so.

"Can, um. Can Craig come over for dinner!" he exclaims, louder than he meant to, because he only just thought of the solution. If he brings Craig to dinner, he can butter him up with a home cooked meal and then maybe sex things. After Craig comes, he clings to Tweek a little. Tweek would like to think of this as a sign that as much of a dick as Craig is, he still likes being held if he's being held by the right person, and Tweek is a right person. Maybe Craig won't be mad if Tweek asks about what's going on when they're naked and tangled up together. Most people are mollified by that sort of thing.

A flash of memory comes to mind, of the bruises that Craig had from falling off of his bike again.

There were handprints on his arms.

His gut ties itself into knots at the realization.

Tweek has to reason with himself when he thinks of the bruises. His brain jumps to wondering if it's the strangers in him that have hurt Craig – but no, no he knows that isn't it. It's Craig's dad. He tells himself that there really is a logical explanation for it and that the explanation is right in front of him, but it's difficult to believe. He's battling with his own brain and it doesn't seem to matter who wins, because no matter what, Tweek will also lose.

Jesus Christ, somebody is hurting Craig.

"Of course he can," his mom agrees. His mom likes Craig a lot, and she never hesitates to tell Tweek this. She goes on, "You know, that boy is good for you."

Mostly Tweek thinks his parents just believe in the power of sexual healing, which is why they don't object to their son being an unabashed slut.

Tweek frowns at the letter in his lap as his mother puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the post office parking lot. Typically he'd press his forehead against the window a let himself get dizzy from watching trees whip by, but he can't tear his eyes away from the penciled-in bike until he flips back to the words.

He beats me up, sometimes.

Sometimes – the word is there like an afterthought, like Craig doesn't want to make the fact that his dad is beating him seem like it's as bad as it is. Shit, Tweek has seen Thomas Tucker. The man is huge, and he has mean eyes. Tweek never trusts anybody with mean eyes, and for a damn good reason. Because if they're like Thomas, they hurt people. Some folks, Tweek has noticed, say that Craig hurts people – but he doesn't mean to. He can't help it. And Craig doesn't have mean eyes. He has sad eyes. Before Tweek left, Craig just had bored eyes, like life was just a humdrum party populated with uninteresting people.

"Do you mind if I turn my music on, sweetie?" asks his mother.

"Go ahead," he mumbles, without looking away from the page. He stares so hard at the blue lines and sloppy letters that his eyes start to cross. It's only then that Tweek lifts his head. His chest feels like a warzone, like little people are inside his heart shooting the fuck out of each other and getting blown up by mines when they misstep.

His mother turns on the stereo, flipping through the tracks on the CD. Tweek already knows what song she's going to choose before it even begins playing. It's his mom's favorite song. When he was little, she used to sing it to him when she tucked him in for bed. She doesn't tuck Tweek in anymore, though sometimes he hears her check in on him when she thinks he should be asleep.

"Oh, I could hide 'neath the wings of the bluebird as she sings," she sings along with the lyrics, nudging him to join in. Tweek would on any other day, but he feels sick to his stomach right now and he doesn't want to sing along with the Monkees. Instead, he tunes out his mom's cheerful singing and thinks about how much he wants Craig's chest up against his again, and how badly he wants to see Craig with all of his clothes off. And how after they do ten million delicious, terrible things with each other, how they'll hold each other.

Tweek plays with his Gameboy while they drive, but he still feels awful and impatient and likes he's way too far away from South Park. He doesn't like being away from home for too long, especially when he's upset like he is now. His brain seems to be working both too fast and too slowly. Paranoia seeps in under his skin, starting from underneath his fingernails and settling in his bloodstream. He keeps blinking hoping that the pencil bicycle on the paper on his legs will go away, but it stays. It stays and so Craig is staying, hurt Craig. Hurt Craig who has bruises around his arms like gold cuffs on a genie or ropes on a slave.

Fuck. Jesus. Shit – his mind moves a million miles but he is trapped inside it too, jogging desperately behind the thoughts whipping by like cars on a lonely highway.

When they finally pull to a stop in front of the Tuckers' house, Tweek shouts over the white noise of his thoughts and the strangers' gossip that he'll get Craig, and bolts from the car, almost tripping over his own feet when he stomps up the front porch's stairs. He rings the doorbell several times in a few short seconds, feeling like a killer might catch up to him if somebody doesn't let him inside. No, it's worse, because a killer won't be getting Tweek, a killer will be getting Craig and Tweek won't be able to get to his body where it's bleeding out on his bedroom floor.

His poor guinea pigs are probably squeaking for nine one one –

The door opens to Craig's mom, and the crescendo of Tweek's thoughts go stonily silent for a few awkward, painful seconds. Once, Mrs. Tucker was probably really pretty, or so Tweek guesses. Now she looks faded and unhappy, something that isn't helped by her high-waisted jeans or her yellowish, fake blond hair.

"Is Craig here?" asks Tweek, belatedly remembering that ringing the doorbell twenty times in a row is not considered polite and that he should probably turn on manners of some kind. He doesn't quite know how to do manners, though, so he only ends up smiling awkwardly and shuffling his boots on the welcome mat. Mrs. Tucker stares into his eyes with a little hitch between her gray-blond brows. Tweek wonders if looking into his eyes is like how a fortune teller might stare into a crystal ball – she can see his morbid mind and how he panicked about Craig's dead body and the guinea pigs calling for nine one one.

Mrs. Tucker points up the stairs and Tweek gives a hasty thanks. He bursts into Craig's bedroom without a knock, finding him splayed out on his back. His guinea pigs are sitting on him, padding around on his chest with their little feet. Craig jumps when Tweek busts open the door, sending both guinea pigs into fits of concerned squeaks.

"What the fuck, Tweek," he complains, scowling at Tweek before he pets his guinea pigs whispers a few soothing words to them under his breath.

"Come to my house for dinner," Tweek says, turning on his in-charge voice so that Craig will know that he actually has no option but to agree.

"Why," Craig says blandly, but he sets aside one guinea pig on his mattress and takes the other to the cage across the room, repeating for the second one.

Tweek rolls his eyes, "Because."

"That's not a reason, asslicker," Craig responds, even though he's slipping on his shoes.

"Whatever, dickhead. I'll jerk you off in my room after. Happy?" Tweek folds his arms in finality.

Craig glares at Tweek and hisses, "Not so fucking loud, you stupid fucker. I don't need my shitty parents knowing about my – that stuff."

Tweek feels a pang in his heart so big he's afraid that it'll rip right out of his chest and pump itself dry right here in a pile of Craig's filthy clothes. As Craig zips his ratty hoodie over his chest, Tweek pulls wraps his arms around him, hugging Craig from behind. He kisses Craig's neck and works his way around to his face, before turning Craig in his arms and pressing a kiss to his lips. It's a really good kiss. Tweek makes sure of it, stroking his piercing inside Craig's mouth in slow, confident caresses. Craig groans into it before shoving away.

"Not now – later."

This makes Tweek dim a little. Kissing Craig is nice. It gives him something to concentrate on, something that's nice because it smells good and tastes good and makes Tweek feel good.

"So you're coming," Tweek says, just to be sure.

"I guess so," Craig shrugs.

When they land downstairs, Craig doesn't say anything to his mother, who's on the couch watching some cheesy show on TLC. She does give them a look though, one that Tweek doesn't like at all. He inches closer to Craig, reaching for his hand before he realizes that Craig doesn't want anybody to know that he's into guys, and holding hands with him probably qualifies as gay. Still. Tweek isn't keen on uncomfortable looks from evil ladies that let their son's body rot on his bedroom floor and can see into eyes like crystal balls.

Craig looks surprised when he sees Mrs. Tweak in the car at the curb waiting for them, like he expected them to be walking to dinner.

When they arrive at Tweek's house, Tweek's mom stops chattering to Craig only long enough to say, "We're having pork chops, sweetie, is that okay?" She's looking pointedly at Craig, and Tweek can tell by the way that she's fidgeting that she wants to fix his hair and brush him off just like she's always doing with Tweek. It isn't anything like the way that Craig's mom looked at him, like she doesn't even know who her son is and doesn't want to know, either.

"That's fine, Mrs. Tweak," Craig says, expression tight. He's in a bad mood. At least, Tweek guesses that he might be. His meds make him feel less, and it bugs him, because he can't feel what other people feel, either.

Tweek takes him upstairs, wishing that dinner was already over and done with so he could strip all the clothes off of Craig's perfect little skinny body and kiss him senseless. Ideally, Tweek would really, really like to fuck Craig, too – but he knows that Craig isn't ready yet for that kind of thing. It's frustrating, but he actually kind of likes Craig and he doesn't want to push him.

It's merely that sex brings Tweek down to a quieter level, a level where his brain seizes up and he can focus on primal movement and feeling nice and making others feel nice, too. It's one of the few things that he can concentrate on. Sex makes him feel safe. It shuts the strangers up.

On his bed, they kiss a little, mostly necking and kind of rubbing up against each other until Craig pulls back and says that he doesn't want to be hard at the dinner table. So they watch a movie together on Tweek's laptop, one of Tweek's absolute favorites – Rocky Horror Picture Show. Craig has never seen it, and loops a running sarcastic commentary as it continues on, until Tweek punches his arm, Craig punches back, and they end up on the floor, kissing just as quickly as they were hitting each other.

Right as Tweek starts reaching for the button on the front of Craig's jeans, his mom calls them down for dinner.

The table is set like Tweek arranged his tea party, with mismatched dishes and tableware. Even the candlesticks in the center of the table don't go together – one is an antique piece of silver that belonged to his dad's great grandmother, and the other is a ceramic holder that Tweek painted with rainbow stripes. The reason that none of their dishes ever match makes Tweek upset when he thinks about it and so he tries not to – ever since he was little, anger and confusion poured into him like rain, or maybe hit him like hard balls of hail, and in fits of rage he's smashed so much glassware and china that at eleven years old he started to collect it just to make pieces of art out of the ones that he smashed. There's a box of sharp-edged shards hidden in the back of his closet, behind the mosaics that he makes with them. If Tweek's parents found out about the shards he'd make them angry, or maybe sad. They don't trust him with anything even remotely dangerous.

Tweek, meanwhile, does not trust the strangers with anything dangerous.

He understands why his mom and dad worry. He really does. His parents don't want him to hurt himself. There's precedent for their worry. He's cut himself on purpose before, but they found out and hid things from him, and it make them so miserable that Tweek didn't gain any pleasure from doing the cutting anymore. For awhile, though, cutting his legs up felt better because it was a blood sacrifice, a sacrifice to the noise in his brain, the angry people telling him that his parents would be murdered in the night. He offered up his own blood instead, but it made everything worse.

Now he makes art instead. And drinks and does too many drugs, even though he shouldn't be doing either of those things. It says so on his pill bottles.

Tweek swoops in front of Craig and pulls out his chair for him, winning a smile from his mom for remembering his fucking manners for once. Craig gives Tweek a sidelong glance before tentatively taking his seat, unfolding the napkin on his plate and placing it across his lap. He's so robotic, clinical in his approach. Tweek wonders if Craig is like this when he's having dinner at his house. Craig says he mostly eats Tostitos and pizza rolls alone in his room when he's hungry, but they have to sit down as a family sometimes, right?

When Tweek sits, Craig leans over and asks under his breath, "Do you guys say grace or shit like that?"

"Grace?" echoes Tweek, "Like praying? No, we just eat." Tweek doesn't trust the god that made him like this, anyway.

Craig shrugs at that, and accepts a glass of water from Tweek's mother, as his father pours glasses of wine for the both of them. Normally they let Tweek have a little wine too, but they never do when there's company.

Tweek's parents ask Craig a lot about school, but they pick up on that he isn't interested in discussing it. Craig says he doesn't know if he wants to go to college. He's told Tweek he thinks that he should because that's what everybody tells you you're supposed to do, but he doesn't think that he's smart enough, that he's nothing like Kyle or even Bebe.

Tweek thinks Craig is smart. At least his brain isn't full of pudding and strange people.

Craig doesn't believe him. You're so full of shit, he always says.

Tweek is not full of shit, no matter what Craig thinks.

When they finish eating, Tweek doesn't do the dishes, and nor is he asked to, though Craig hangs back awkwardly by the stairs like he might be asked to clean something. Tweek moves in to kiss him but Craig stiffens up when he does, pointing to Tweek's parents, who are scraping leftovers into the compost can and pretending that they're not spying.

Tweek sticks his tongue out at them and his mom sticks her tongue out back. Tweek rolls his eyes. Sometimes, he is convinced that his parents are actually toddlers trapped in middle-aged bodies. They still get into tickle fights with each other, for Christ's sake. And that isn't even a euphemism for them fucking. They fuck and get into tickle fights.

Tweek locks his bedroom door behind him and herds Craig onto his bed.

"I want to see you naked," he says plainly. Naked bodies are Tweek's favorite, because you see everything and hide nothing. He hears tell that that's exactly why most people don't like nudity, but he loves it, being bare and seeing people bare and knowing that that's how they're supposed to look. There's nothing that they're covering up.

A tinge of pink colors Craig's cheeks, as though he thinks that Tweek shouldn't be so forward. Fuck that – that's what Tweek thinks. He thinks that the world would be a better place if everybody communicated what they wanted and didn't want explicitly, instead of beating around the bush and being bashful about their every little need. Needs and wants shouldn't be sins, they should be known.

"Why would you want that," Craig asks softly.

"Because," supplies Tweek.

Craig rubs his temples for a moment as though Tweek is giving him a headache and says, "How many fucking times do I have to tell you that 'because' is not a fucking reason."

"It is so a reason," Tweek retorts. He knows he's being childish, but he doesn't think he should need to give the reasons that he wants to take Craig's clothes off. Don't people just infer if you want to see them stark naked on your bed that you think they're attractive? Maybe not Craig, he supposes. So Tweek bites the bullet and clears his throat, preparing for a speech. He explains, "I want to see you with nothing covering you up and hiding you. You're so pretty, Craig."

Craig interrupts before he can continue, "Pretty. I am not pretty. Bebe is pretty. Kenny is pretty. I'm…gross."

"Just take your clothes off," Tweek says testily, and adds as an afterthought, "If you're okay with that, I guess."

Craig gives Tweek a hard stare before breaking his gaze tossing his head to the side. Without looking Tweek in the eye, he mutters, "Only if you do it too."

"Really?" Tweek brightens. He's perfectly comfortable with being naked. Hell, when nobody's at home, he likes walking around the house in the nude. He sits back on his leg and unbuttons his trench, draping it tenderly over his computer chair before tearing his t-shirt over his head and struggling with his jeans. Tweek manages to rid himself of the denim, though without an ounce of grace, kicking them off onto the carpeting.

"Jesus, Tweek," says Craig, as he yanks his briefs down and off of his hips. He isn't hard yet, but Tweek is generally okay with his body and isn't really worried about it. Before he started his medication and after his massive growth spurt he looked a little skeletal, but the meds caused major weight gain. He's average-looking now, and that's fine by him. He used to worry a lot about his body, before everything that happened – before he freaked out because they were definitely going to kill his parents he was powerless to stop them, and before he was taken away to the hospital because the strangers aren't really there. It's his brain playing tricks on him, they say.

"Wait," Craig says. He reaches out and grazes his fingertips over the thick, fat scars across Tweek's thighs, hidden where nobody could know of his sacrifice. Now, the wounds are old and fine blond hairs are growing over and around the scars.

"Those aren't important," Tweek says, because they're not. Not anymore, in any case.

Craig frowns, and there's a wrinkle in his brow now, but he falls silent.

Tweek kisses Craig's neck a little and then asks, murmuring in his ear as he kisses and licks along his earlobe, because Craig doesn't seem very keen on removing his own clothes, "Do you want me to take them off for you?"

"Um," Craig says, sounding unsure.

Tweek takes the opportunity to pull off Craig's hat and run his fingers through through dark hair. He realizes that maybe Craig isn't okay with any of this, and then wonders if maybe he's pressuring him or being too persistent. He says it all the time in his own fucking zine: Consent you get through pressure isn't really consent. So Tweek pushes a close-mouthed kiss to Craig's damp lips and says, "We could watch the rest of the movie if you don't wanna do this." Of course, that would foil his plans for asking Craig about his bruises and his dad, but Tweek would rather make sure that Craig is comfortable before asking questions as invasive as he pretty certain his are. The least that Tweek can do before interrogating him about it as planned is to butter him up with an orgasm.

"No," says Craig, "Fuck. I do. Um. I just – yeah."

Tweek translates this from 'nervous Craig' into English and says, "You want them off," and tugs at the hem of Craig's old hoodie.

Craig nods.

So Tweek unzips and unbuttons and pulls, until Craig wears nothing but his tacky Red Racer socks, which are long enough that they reach mid-calf. Tweek ducks to tug them away, too, but Craig protests, "No. I want those on."

There are new bruises on Craig's chest. Tweek sees the old ones, too. They're greenish now, not like the new ones on Craig's abdomen, which are an ugly purple color that makes Tweek twist up into knots when he sees it. He ghosts his fingers over the damage and whispers, "Ow." The bruises are terrible battle wounds, and Tweek thinks that he should perhaps caution Craig to be more careful, lest he become a bleeding body on his bedroom floor. Then who would take care of those fat rodents that Craig loves so much? Corpses don't keep pets.

"Yeah, I pitched myself over another tree root yesterday," Craig says, chewing on his lower lip. Tweek stops him with a kiss, running his fingers back through Craig's hair just hard enough to scrape his nails against Craig's scalp. A moan leaks out of Craig like a hymn, long and low like he's praising what Tweek can do to him.

Tweek feels a little like crying when he rubs his fingers over the discolorations, because he doesn't want Craig to become a dead body, he wants Craig to be alive. He tips Craig's chin up just a little and stares him straight in the face, promising him, "I'll kiss them better."

Tweek kisses every last bruise. He kisses the healing, yellow ones on Craig's arms, the ones that look like hands. He kisses the ones on his chest, licking his lips before he lightly pushes against each one. Tremors shudder through Craig's body with each tiny touch of Tweek's lips. Craig doesn't groan and grunt like he usually does. He keens and whines, shaking fingers searching blindly for Tweek's hand, which he grips when he finds.

When Tweek is done kissing Craig's bruises, he reaches down to touch him, gripping Craig's cock firmly, and pumping it enough to make it hard. Craig leans up into Tweek and kisses his neck. His tongue is warm and wet and perfect against his skin.

And his brain is settling. Even if the pieces of his puzzled mind haven't been put back together, they're all at least in the same fucking box, if only for a few blissful moments of sexual peace.

"I don't want to hurt you," Tweek says, indicating to Craig's bruises, "You get on top, okay?" Craig looks at Tweek a little like a deer in headlights, so Tweek helps him, gripping him by the waist and careful to avoid the tender spots, and shifting so that Craig straddles him and his back is flat against his mattress.

Their cocks rub together and Tweek moans a little, closing his eyes and thrusting into it. Craig mimics him, pushing up against Tweek. His movement is smaller and more restrained, but when Tweek rubs against Craig again they fall into a rhythm, punctuated by uneven breath and muffled noises. Tweek grasps Craig's wrist and moves their hands together down over where they're moving together.

Tweek takes them both in his hand, stroking surely. After a moment, Craig's hand joins his, and they drive their hands over their erections. Noises erupt from Tweek that he can't help. He figures his parents have heard them by now and he doesn't give a shit, because he likes that people know about them. He likes that he's hand Craig's cock in his hand and he considers how he should really put it in his mouth more. The thought makes him click his piercing against his teeth in frustration.

This clicking sends Craig over the edge. He comes first, spilling over onto Tweek's stomach. Tweek follows after three succinct strokes, coming with a broken cry that veritably echoes through his bedroom, frightening away any nasty thoughts or leftovers from this afternoon's earlier scare.

The mattress sags on Tweek's left side as Craig lowers himself shakily. They're both sticky and the stench of sweat permeates the air and the sheets. Tweek feels like maybe he should clean them up, and lazily pulls a couple Kleenex from beside his bed to wipe them down half-assedly. He balls them up when he's done, tossing them onto the floor. He considers that he may need to clean up the tissues off of the carpet sometime soon. It's getting slightly gross, being that his bedroom floor is a sperm graveyard.

"Spend the night," orders Tweek, his voice is thick and tired. He wants something to grab onto tonight, and Craig is very good for grabbing.

"'Kay," Craig grunts. He turns his face against Tweek's arm and touches his lips to Tweek's bicep. Tweek lives for these moments. His mind is not silent. It never is. But after he's had sex, after he's come, everything deadens to something like TV static. Just for now, his brain doesn't feel like a crowded elevator, one that so many people stuffed themselves into that it's over the weight limit and is plummeting down.

Which means he has to ask Craig about the letter.

About the pencil drawing of the bicycle.

About Thomas Tucker.

Tweek pulls Craig close to him, petting his hair with his other hand. He's sure that Craig likes it but won't say anything. Sometimes, Craig seems like the main character in a teen novel to Tweek, with misplaced pride in strange places, and he's unwilling to give up any of it.

But then, he did give up some of his pride. He wrote to Tweek and asked for help. Maybe he didn't ask directly and maybe he clumsily attempted anonymity, but he knows that it's Tweek behind Are You Mental? and so he knows that he was writing to him. Somehow that knowledge makes Tweek's insides feel as though they're melting to goop inside of him. He doesn't know that anybody else would write his zine anymore if they knew who made it. He knows what everybody says about him, that he's crazy and weird and unpredictable, like a bomb that could detonate at any moment. Some of it is fair. He does have strangers in his head that tell him terrible things about the people that he loves.

But he isn't stupid.

"Craig," Tweek mumbles into Craig's dark hair.

"Just shut up and go to sleep for once," he complains. He shifts a little to reach for Tweek's comforter, which got stuffed on against the edge of the bed sometime during the sex, and tucks it over their bodies. Craig doesn't really like talking after he comes, he likes sleeping.

Tweek pulls out of Craig's loose grip and the blanket and crawls to the end of the bed, reaching for his trench. He pulls out the letters where he slid them into one of the silky inside pockets, shuffling through them until he finds Craig's.

"What the fuck are you doing, asshole," complains Craig, but it isn't with ire. He sounds annoyed, but tired. Tweek glances over his shoulder – Craig gazes at him through heavy-lidded eyes, before holding his hands out almost like a toddler would when it wants to be picked up and held. Craig sees the paper in Tweek's hands a moment later and his expression goes blank, completely erased. He enunciates his words carefully as he queries, "What are you holding?"

Tweek scoots back to Craig and tucks himself under the comforter again. He fingers the edge of the folded paper and says, "One of the letters to my zine."

"Why."

"Because it's from you," Tweek whispers. He feels guilty and upset, and the feeling of clear static and contentment in his head plunges back into dark, murky thoughts of Craig being dead and bloody on his bedroom floor. The guinea pigs crying for help. And nobody listening, because Craig's dad is a monster and his mom can see into people's eyes like crystal balls.

Craig gives a stiff, forced laugh and tosses his head away from Tweek. He says, "You're full of shit. I haven't written you anything."

"Yes. You have," Tweek insists slowly. He cups Craig's face with his hand and draws him over so that they face each other, pressing what he hopes is a reassuring kiss to Craig's swollen lips before he unfolds the letter and hands it to Craig.

Tweek sees it in Craig's face – he's been caught. The letter is his and he's panicking. He's shaking now, and it's not from post-sex happiness, it's from fury or fear, or maybe both of them. He tosses the letter back to Tweek and says, "That's terrible. But it isn't me."

"Yes. It is."

Tweek turns the paper over and gives it to Craig again. The bicycle drawing seems darker than it should be. It looks like an omen and Tweek doesn't like it. It's dark and scary.

Craig is stumped. His mouth is open as though he thinks he might have something to say but can't find it. He's cornered, and he knows that he is. Tweek has ruined their night, but he hopes it isn't without a reason or a result.

"It's none of your fucking business, Tweek," Craig says lowly.

"Yes it is! You wrote to me for help, you dumb fucker," Tweek insists, "I want to help. You – you're hurt, and if I don't help then you might bleed everywhere and die, and then who will take care of your guinea pigs?"

"Fuck you!" he shouts. It's loud. Tweek winces and covers his ears.

Craig shoves him away with enough force that it hurts, and scrambles out from under the covers. He kicks around the floor, looking for his clothes, and pulls on his underwear.

Tweek jumps into action, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. He says, "Stop it. Craig, I'm serious. I'll do whatever –"

Craig lunges forward and delivers a punch, cuffing Tweek in the shoulder and sending him back onto the mattress. Craig yanks himself away from Tweek's hand and yells, "You don't have any fucking idea what you're talking about. All I wanted was," – he pauses, as if he realizing that he doesn't know what he thought would come out writing to Are You Mental – "just fuck you. Stay out of it. It's not your fucking business just because we touch each other's dicks."

"No, but you made it my fucking business when you wrote me a letter," argues Tweek.

Craig's face is going purple like he's trying to hold in his breath. He releases that breath after a few tense seconds, exhaling out of his nostrils.

Before he grabs the nearest object, which happens to be the lamp on Tweek's bedside table, and hurls it at the wall. The lampshade flies off and the light bulb smashes. The ceramic base dents the wall and breaks in a few bigger pieces.

Then he's throwing everything he can get his hands on. Books, a case of drawing pencils that explodes on contact with the wall and sends pencils soaring in every direction. He shouts at Tweek, "I'm fine! I'm fucking fine!"

Tweek curls up in the corner of his bed and lets it happen, too frozen to know what he's supposed to do. Normally he'd probably hit back, or throw something at Craig, or even hug and him and kiss him until he isn't upset anymore, but none of those solutions seem right. This has never happened before, nobody has ever been this angry at Tweek before. They're always calm and cautious with him. Maybe he should be calm and cautious with Craig, but Tweek doesn't know how to be those things. He's never been those things.

Craig is terrifying. Tweek doesn't want him here anymore. He's transformed, and everybody in Tweek's head, including Tweek himself, is scared.

At the door, frantic knocks sound. Tweek's mom's voice worriedly asks, "Boys, are you okay?"

Craig stops dead in his tracks, dropping the next thing that he had been about to throw, one of the lunchboxes from Tweek's collection. It falls to the carpet with a hollow, metallic clunk. Craig is panting, running his hands through his hair and tugging a little, like Tweek used to do when he was anxious. He snatches his jeans off of the floor and pulls them on, followed by the rest of his clothing piece by piece. The last thing that he takes is his hat, tugging it as far as it will go over his hair.

When his hand touches the silver doorknob, Craig turns back and stares Tweek down with blazing eyes, whispering harshly, "Do not fucking tell anybody about this. I swear I'll – I'll fuck you up. Just stay out of it.

With that, Craig flings open the door, shoving past Tweek's mom where she stands in a long nightgown and fluffy pink slippers, and leaving Tweek stunned and naked on his bed.

o.o.o.o

Wow you guys. You really came out of the woodwork after the last chapter, and I am really thankful for the support. Thank you so much to my amazing reviewers: So Devious, NSRforevermore, Sami, lilykinz200, Kuutamolla, KeiMaxwell, if-i-had-wheels-id-be-a-wagon, Yui 88, DahmerEatsRainbows, SomeoneCMary, w0rmsign, MariePierre, TheAwesome15, Reverse Psychology, mallorymichael, KirstenTheDestroyer, Chasing Rabbits, (an anonymous reviewer), Crazy88inator, princessbelle212, WizerdBeards, and DevilMakesThree.

It means a lot to me, especially since I was so nervous about that last chapter. I know this one is a little different too, because it follows Tweek. And now you all know how unhinged he is.