Chapter Track: Jesus of Suburbia – Green Day

Now that second semester has started, I've been forced into a required gym class. I hate gym class, more than I can possibly express in simple words. There are multiple factors that contribute to my abhorrence of this class, the first of which being the mandatory athletic clothing. The shirt is okay, I guess. Since my torso is long, I had to order a huge "South Park High School Cows" shirt, so it's baggy and loose like I like it, hiding my gawky, skinny body. The shorts are another matter entirely. I'd have gotten a larger size, but the larger sizes all slide right off of my hips – my only option was an extra small.

I feel exposed. Hideously, unfairly exposed. I stopped wearing shorts when I hit my growth spurt, at eleven. There's no such thing as shorts that fit me correctly, since my waist is too narrow and my legs are too long. And fuck athletic shorts, seriously. The first thing that Kenny said when he saw me in them was, "Gay, dude," because they're about a half-step from being short shorts, ending about six inches above my knobby knees (In case you're wondering, I hit him when he said this).

And somehow, my awkwardly tiny athletic shorts in combination with jogging laps indoors led Kenny to conclusions about how I spent my weekend.

Kenny just knows. At first, I wonder how he could possibly know, but then I realize that I'm talking about Kenny McCormick, and he inexplicably knows many things.

"You're in a good mood today," he remarks.

I can't really respond. I'm tragically out of shape, so I spend all my energy in gym class remembering to breathe, or otherwise trying not to humiliate myself. My efforts tend to be wasted, but I'd like to believe that I've saved myself – or at least delayed – a couple of trips to the nurse's office.

Kenny pats me on the back as we circle the gym for our twelfth lap, and give me an easygoing smile. He asks, "You have a good weekend? You look like you did." How can he even tell that? How? I've asked him if he's psychic on multiple occasions, but he insists that he isn't. He could be spying on me, I suppose. I wouldn't put that past him.

I want to reply, but I'm too busy dying. Fuck lungs, for real. In lieu of speaking, I look over at him and scowl.

"I thought so," he smirks. How is he able to run so effortlessly, and talk to me without breaking a sweat? There isn't a single stain of perspiration on his donated gym clothes. No wonder he has people falling all over him in hopes he'll sleep with them. He looks good while participating in a fucking gym class.

And Jesus Christ, I want him to stop bugging me about Craig. The way he's looking at me, he may as well make an announcement over the loudspeaker to the entire school. "Guess what everybody? Tweek Tweak and Craig Tucker finally boned each other! Let's give them a round of applause!" Because that is exactly what Kenny would say if given the opportunity.

I wish that I could manage words, and say something like shut up or fuck you, but instead, I take a page out of Craig's book and flip him off – without much fervor, sadly. I'm trying really fucking hard not to trip over myself and achieve my ninth gym class-related bloody nose of the semester.

"Cute," Kenny says.

Our gym teacher finally takes up her whistle and blows into it shrilly, shouting, "Okay everybody, take five!"

Fucking finally.

Kenny and I fall immediately seated on the lowest steps of the bleachers while others make a beeline for the drinking fountains.

He's still looking at me with that Kenny McCormick style I know what you did expression when he nudges, "How was it?"

Rubbing some of the sweat off of my brow with the hem of my enormous t-shirt, I wheeze, "Dude. Shut the fuck up."

"He's walking a little funny," Kenny remarks, "I'm surprised he let you top, he's kind of a domineering asshole –"

I punch Kenny in the arm. I was aiming for his chest, but, it works. He rubs his arm and glares, but I don't think he's seriously mad. I rarely ever see Kenny get actually upset about anything.

It seems that our pissy argument has caught the attention of Clyde, unfortunately, and he walks over to us with his sappy Clyde-smile. He wipes a bit of drinking fountain water (diseased shit that it is) from his chin and greets us with an enthusiastic wave and a, "What's up, guys?"

I feel self-conscious around these two while I'm in this stupid outfit. It's just that Kenny looks good in anything, and Clyde is boyishly handsome in an endearing, I-still-look-fourteen sort of a way. Then there's me, continuing to look like a circus sideshow with sprawling stick legs a gross, splotchy face I get when I run and can't be rid of for several hours. I don't look bad, necessarily, just weird and awkward…and weird and awkward are hard to sell as attractive traits.

Clyde snatches the seat on my other side. My concern that he and Kenny are in league with each other becomes suddenly real when he awards me with a long, leering grin and remarks casually, "Craig's pretty mellow today. Huh, Tweek?"

I glance from Clyde to Kenny, whose grins mirror each other perfectly, and tug at my hair, whining, "Ngh – Jesus, why can't you guys just leave me alone?" I wish that they'd go bother Craig, but Craig isn't here because took weightlifting last semester, so he doesn't need a gym credit. And besides, Craig's lips are always sealed. You can't get anything out of him unless you want to. Kenny and Clyde are bothering me because they know, they fucking know that secrets sometimes just fall out of my mouth of their own accord. The bastards are using my big mouth to their advantage.

Kenny elbows me in side playfully, but his eyes are on Clyde. He says, "Yeah, Craig seems a lot less anal than usual."

A comment at which both of them laugh.

I keep tugging at my hair and snap, "Jesus Christ, you guys! We had sex! So what?"

Oh, fuck. My words echo throughout the cavernous gymnasium and just about everybody turns their heads to look at me. Kenny bursts into all-out, hooting guffaws, and Clyde just chuckles, like he's pretending to get a joke that he doesn't understand. I put my face in my hands and mumble, "Christ."

I've never been more thankful to hear the whistle telling us to complete our laps.

o.o.o.o

Craig is testy at lunch. I mean, testier than he typically is. I haven't seen him since before school started, and he definitely isn't – as Clyde put it – as "mellow" as he was this morning. Maybe it's that he's hungry, but I'm guessing that it's not. So I stand, and incline my head toward the door, "Gonna smoke. Wanna come?" I say to Craig, but I toss Kenny a no look, so that he won't follow us.

Craig mumbles a few but affirmative indecipherable words, tossing his mostly uneaten school-bought lunch in the nearest trash can.

We walk across the street in silence, side by side, but without touching. It's actually a pretty nice day. The air is a little biting, but it's sunny, and some of the other kids are eating outside to celebrate the first hint of winter leaving. They shouldn't count their chickens, seriously. We still have to have our freak spring blizzard. I shove my hands in my hoodie pockets so I don't mess with my hands.

The smokers' spot is thankfully clear, most of the other smokers probably took care of the habit at the beginning of the lunch period. I take out my cigarettes and stick one in my mouth.

"Can I bum one," Craig says, "My mom flushed mine last night."

And he was still in a good mood this morning? Craig is weird. I hand him one of my cigarettes and we light together. He takes a few drags and sighs softly, before saying, "They all know."

"Which part?" I ask, "The part where you're gay, or the part where you had gay sex?"

Craig flips me off, glowering. He takes a frustrated inhale of nicotine, and grinds out, "I'm fucking serious. How. How does everybody know."

"Um," I start picking at my thumbnail anxiously. I smile a little sheepishly and say, "Ngh – well, I kind of shouted at Kenny in gym. But I didn't say your name! And I just wanted him to leave me alone!"

Craig gives me a blank stare. Then he rolls his eyes in a way that says Oh, Tweek. He responds, "I fucking hate that guy. Why you hang out with him is beyond me." He crushes the end of his cigarette into the dirt with the edge of his shoe. He slaps my hand when he notices that I'm picking at them. Craig looks contemplative for a moment, at least, contemplative for him. He says, "What are we doing, anyway."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

He makes a vague gesture between us and says, "Us. What is happening here."

That's a damn good question, I think. I just shrug and reply, "Ngh – the fuck if I know."

"So," Craig states, "We're friends."

"Yes," I say, taking a final drag off of my cigarette before flicking it aside.

"And we just have sex," he finishes.

"Great sex," I correct.

"And you're cool with that," he says.

Yeah, I suppose that I am "cool with that," even if it would be nicer to have something a little more tangible. It would be fucking awesome if I could parade us around town and announce everywhere we went, "This is my boyfriend!" Unfortunately, shit gets around in small towns. Inevitably, if Craig and I went someplace even just holding hands, there would be somebody around that knows his parents, and that would bring it up to them. Hey, so I saw your son today. He was holding hands with another boy… According to Craig, that is exactly the opposite of what he wants. And to be honest, I'll do just about anything to hang onto him.

I get this feeling of absolute panic in my gut when I think about not having Craig around. I know that it hasn't even been like, five months yet. But I stared at him for so long. Thought of him for so long. Built this up in my brain for so long.

"Er," I start, "I guess." I don't know what he wants me to say. If I told the truth, I'd probably just end up sounding about as creepy as I feel.

"Okay," he says. I wish that I was better at picking out his emotions. I can't tell what kind of "okay" that was. A disappointed okay, or an okay okay, or what? Craig doesn't make any moves to indicate what he meant. He just fishes a pack of Trident spearmint gum out of the pocket of his ski jacket and pops a piece into his mouth.

So I say, "Okay." Have I fucked something up? I can't tell. I really, really don't want to fuck this up. And fucking Craig, he's just looking at me in his forever neutral, eerie way.

I start to mess with my thumbnail again. It has this little crack in it that I'm gradually making bigger, and now my nail is uneven, and I just want to rip the whole thing off. Craig steps closer to me and seizes my hand by the wrist, yanking me forward. He holds my hand up to eye level and comments, "You need to invest in some nail clippers. Seriously."

I try to come up with something to say, like a snappy comeback, but Craig kisses me. He tastes like smoke and spearmint. It's perfect. I melt into him and kiss right back.

I guess I didn't fuck up, after all.

o.o.o.o

After that, Craig and I don't have any more discussions about what the hell we were doing with each other. We revert right back to not giving a fuck and just going with the flow – which is essentially hanging out until we become unforgivable assholes to each other, or fucking. It's a pretty decent deal, at least decent enough that neither of us is discontent.

We're weirdly close, after our chat, though. Craig does things in public that he didn't do before. The difference isn't much, but I notice. We walk closer, close enough so that the backs of our hands brush against each other. At the lunch table we sit so that our thighs line up directly against one another. Sometimes he unconsciously pulls bits of string or lint off of my clothes, or tucks my tag in when it sticks up out of my shirt collar. And once, I caught him leaning closer to smell my shampoo (that time, I pointed out to Craig what he was doing).

I wonder if anybody notices that he does these things but me. I don't think Craig even knows that he's doing it.

But Kenny does, of course. I tell Kenny not to taunt Craig, but he does it anyway, because he thinks it's hilarious to get on Craig's nerves. It occurs to me that Kenny's favorite pastime has become making suggestive motions or faces across the lunch table or classroom – usually aimed at Craig, because Kenny knows that it'll downright piss Craig off, whereas I'm used to his antics enough that I'll only be mildly annoyed.

This is what Craig is bitching about right now.

It's the last day of March – and I'm kind of flipping shit because tomorrow it's going to be April and then it'll be May and then June and then it's going to be our fucking senior year. Then we have to leave South Park to make something of ourselves, or something stupid like that. I still don't know what I want to do. If it was up to me, I might just stay seventeen forever and do what I've always done – make teapots and watch anime instead of sleeping and watch movies with Craig and all the stuff that I'm not ready to give up.

"That fucker is going to tell somebody," Craig mutters. This is approximately the same thing that he's been muttering about for around five minutes. I wish that he would just eat his pizza. It's going to go cold at the rate that he's going.

I decide to just eat my own slice silently and continue internally worrying over senior year while he talks. Usually it's the other way around, me being very vocally worried about something and Craig being silent, but today is one of those weird switches. I guess I don't want to say anything about my own anxiousness because it seems stupid to worry about something that's so far ahead, and I know that that's exactly what Craig would tell me.

So I'll sit here and stew over whether my feelings are stupid or not.

Craig starts drumming his fingers on the back of my hand, finally taking a break to take a bite out of his pizza. I wonder if he should be touching my hand like that while we're in a crowded food court. Well, crowded for South Park. But it seems that pretty much the entire town is at the mall this weekend, probably because there isn't anything else to do around here. I can't remember why Craig and I decided to go out instead of staying in and watching a movie like we usually do.

"I don't understand how you can be friends with such an asshole," Craig goes on.

Oh, shit.

Craig's dad is coming out of the sporting goods store. He doesn't see us yet, thank god. He's with some buddy of his and I think they're talking about golf (seeing as aforementioned buddy is wheeling around a new set of golf clubs, and both men are looking at the set with interest).

"Craig," I say, withdrawing my hand.

He pulls my hand back and keeps playing with it, going on, "How does it not bother you that –"

"Craig!" I half-shout.

Mr. Tucker is definitely looking at us now. His gaze follows Craig's arm down to where he's playing with my fingers still, and his brow furrows. I snatch my hand away and hiss, "Ngh – Craig! Your dad."

Craig turns his head.

He goes paler than I've ever seen him go before. Paler than when I came to visit him on Valentine's Day and he had strep throat. Paler than he was on the morning after Token's New Year's party and we both had epic hangovers. He doesn't say anything. He and his dad are staring at each other, and it's fucking scary. I have never seen a Tucker stare down before, and I hope to Christ that I never have to again.

Craig stands abruptly and walks away.

I'm left at the table alone.

And now Mr. Tucker is staring at me.

I veer and chase after Craig.

"What about our pizza?" I call after his retreating back, like that will bring him back to sit down.

This is the worst thing that could have happened today. A UFO could have crashed through the ceiling of the food court and killed us both, and this would still be worse. Jesus Christ. I mean, holy fucking Jesus Christ. Craig and I have both spent our entire time together worrying that this would happen. That we'd be caught. We were only touching hands, though. Maybe he could weasel his way out and make an excuse. I try to think of excuses that would make sense for this situation, but my mind is coming up blank. Nothing. But this wasn't my fault. I didn't do anything. I run my panicked hands through my hair and pick up speed to pursue Craig.

He takes a sharp turn toward the restrooms. I burst in after him, but he's already locked himself in a stall. The stall furthest from the door.

That's my trick.

But I can see his shoes, so I know it's him. And I thank Christ that there is nobody else in the men's restroom. Thank you thank you thank you thank you. I bang on the stall door and say, "Let me in, asshole."

"Fuck off, you twitchy little shit," he snaps back.

"Hey!" I protest, because that is entirely uncalled for. I pester, "Ngh – I'm serious, man. Let me in."

"No."

Since he refuses to open the stall, I make an executive decision to crawl under and join him by force, instead. It's somewhat of a task because my arms and legs are so long and spindly. I bump my head against the bottom of the stall door and mutter a quiet, "Fuck," before wriggling my way all the way under and pulling my body up. I rub the tender spot on the back of my head and frown.

Despite not protesting during this maneuver, when I draw up onto my feet, Craig stares up at me sullenly and uncrosses his arms to flip me off. He expresses, "Dude. What the fuck. What if I was taking a shit."

"Well, you're not," I respond tartly, "And it's not like I haven't seen what's down there, anyway. Jesus." I probably shouldn't have said this. I know I'm only doing it to provoke him, but I'm still pissed off about the "twitchy little shit" remark. No matter how true it is, he's not supposed to actually say it. Dickwad.

There's a moment of silence that Craig uses to his advantage, giving me a long, penetrating stare. He finally says, "Fuck off, Tweek."

"No," I state, feeling childish. But that's stupid. I'm not the one being childish today. Jesus Christ, we're rubbing off on each other. I sarcastically mock, "And today, the role of Tweek will be played by Craig, everybody."

"You're a shithead," he says.

"You're an asshole," I fire back.

I don't even know why we're fighting. I think Craig is pretending to be angry when he's actually upset. He does that a lot. He doesn't want to be sad so he fakes being pissed off instead. I decide that I'm not going to be angry anymore, even if he did call me a twitchy little shit. I take a few calming breaths in through my nose (they actually sort of sound like angry breaths that way, but oh well), and say, "It's gonna be okay."

"No, it isn't," Craig argues, but like mine, his voice has lowered down, and we're not shouting at each other anymore. His eyes lower to the floor. That's how I know that I was right about Craig being sad. Nobody can stare down better than Craig (except his dad, apparently).

There isn't really any place for me to sit in the narrow bathroom stall. I wish that there was, so I could wrap my arm around him, or at the very least do something that looks comforting. But no, I'm standing, crunched in, while he sits on the edge of the toilet bowl. Awkwardly, I reach down and pat his shoulder. It looks stupid, but it's the only thing that I could come up with. I repeat, "It'll be okay."

"No, it fucking won't," he argues again, "You don't get it. I'm gonna tear my whole family apart."

Jesus. That seems melodramatic, but considering the look that Thomas Tucker gave us, I wonder if there's legitimate merit to that statement. I'm suddenly overcome by the stabby-twisty-glittery feeling. I want to hug him. I want him to believe me when I say that things are going to be okay, even though they might not be. But then I'd be lying. And you shouldn't lie to people that you love.

Shit. My heart plummets down, until it feels so low that it could be in my shoes. I lift a hand up and start chewing on the end of my pointer finger. I hesitate for a moment while Craig and I both stare down at the bathroom floor. I feel like I'm going to crack into a million pieces when I say it, but I offer anyway, "We don't…um. We don't have to you know, be together. If that's what you want. And then it'll be okay, right?"

Craig's head jerks up and he says sharply, "No. Fuck no. I don't wanna…"

"Break up?" I say. I don't know if it would even count as a breakup, since I don't know if we're even technically together.

We both fall silent. I occupy myself by reading the graffiti while I gnaw on my fingers. Most of it is stupid, like Call this number for a good time, with the phone number crossed out. Or Such-and-such has a micro-cock. But there's one scrap of graffiti that my stomach lurches at, because it's perfect. I take my hand out of my mouth and wipe the spit on the side of my jeans, before pointing, "Look, man. Read that."

Craig turns look.

Right next to Craig's head, in thick, black sharpie, somebody has written, He who trims himself to suit everyone will soon whittle himself away. – Raymond Hull

Craig scans the writing. Then he scans it again. And he reads it a third time, like he doesn't quite understand.

After a few seconds, he stands. He puts his head on my shoulder and mutters, "Fuck everything."

I hold him in my arms for awhile and rub his back. I don't like when Craig's sad. He's almost never this sad. I know he thinks he has to choose between me and his family and I don't want that to be true. If it is true, I'm going to have to tell him that he doesn't have to choose me, no matter how many pieces I break into.

"Ngh – hey, Craig?"

"Mmph."

"You know, whatever you decide to do, I'll support it, okay?" I say.

"You're far more level-headed than people give you credit for," he comments into my shoulder.

"Maybe because I'm a twitchy little shit," I suggest.

Craig makes a frustrated noise and shoves me back against the stall door, but we both laugh. I think we're okay. Just to be sure, I press a small, experimental kiss against Craig's lips. When he kisses back, I know we're gonna be alright. Even if it's just for now, we're alright.

o.o.o.o

Craig doesn't make it back home until after dark. He wonders briefly if his parents decided to go out, since the only light on inside is the one in the kitchen. The front door isn't locked, though, and he lets himself in. He calls softly, "I'm home."

He needs to feed Stripe, but before he can get a foot on the stairs down to the basement, he hears his dad's voice from the kitchen.

"Craig, come here, please."

This awful feeling washes over him, like warm pool water. But Craig closes the door to the basement, turns around, and obeys.

His dad is sitting at the table, alone. That seems a lot worse to Craig than it would if both of his parents were sitting there together.

"What's this?" asks Thomas Tucker.

He holds up Craig's phone. Had Craig left it home? Shit. A million times shit. He just doesn't give a fuck about texting or any of that, so it's easy to leave the thing behind by accident. But he should have remembered. He should have. He's so fucking stupid.

The background picture on Craig's android is of him and Tweek.

o.o.o.o

Well, good day, my fine readers. A round of applause and lots of love for my spectacular reviewers: KirstenTheDestroyer, NightmareMyLove, Reverse Psychology, Wendlekins, sasukesgothgangstababy, sweet-and-somber, TheAwesome15, WizerdBeards, R.R. Miaera, animegafan123, lucy sinclair, blobblab, Chasing Rabbits, patsu, and MarriePierre.

Okay. And I have to tell you guys this. Jesus of Suburbia is a fucking Creek anthem. Just look at the lyrics. The title of the story was originally going to come from Jesus of Suburbia instead of Please Don't Touch, but I changed my mind at the last second. But seriously. There are a lot of pieces of that song that inspired events in this fic. And pieces of the song that inspired events that haven't happened yet. ;D

Also, loyal to Green Day forever. Haters gon' hate.