AN: Feel ripped off about not getting an update for so long? Well, go read my side project and hopefully that'll make you a little less mad at me. I don't own, yada yada, POV de Craig…
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"Tweekie, this in Mommy…" I stare at previously mentioned "Tweekie," eyebrows up, while he repeatedly hits his head on the counter. "Tweekie, I just called to tell you that I can't pick you up today. I'm so sorry dear, you'll have to walk. Oh well, have fun at work!" A beep signals the end of the call.
"Don't even start, Craig, I swear-" and then I'm laughing. "God damn it! It's not that funny! It not like your mom is any better!"
"Whatever you say, Tweekie," I manage to get out through my laughter.
"Don't fucking call me that, I'm not even kidding. I hate it when people call me that."
"Golly, who would ever call you Tweekie? How cruel! We better run and go tell Mommy," and then my laughter doubles. He yells in anger and storms out of the room. I stay in the back room recovering. I try to remember why we were back here to begin with before you were so entertainingly interrupted. Restocking? Searching for Richard's "secret" booze stash?... cash register. We need some extra change to put in there. "Yo, Tweek, what's the combination to the safe?" I yell out to him.
"What's to you, planning on draining us dry? You…" and then we lost him. I wait for his brain to reconnect, but instead I hear a crash.
Come to find out that Tweek's little leg decided that it didn't want to support the rest of him anymore. I do not rush over to him at all because I'm not worried at all and see that his head is off somewhere else. I attempt to pull him up, but working with particularly unhelpful body isn't easy. He wakes up about halfway through me trying to get him up. He starts throwing slaps for me to let him go, chanting about being able to stand for himself damn it, let go. So I did. And he falls again.
"Ow, damn it!"
"Are you okay?"
"Oh, yes, I just fell on my ass for the second time because it's fun! My freaking ankle hurts." I pick him up off the ground and set him on the counter. After much bitching on his part and much dodging of kicks on my part I come to the conclusion that he's fine.
"But it hurts," he whines. I know, I'm sorry, I'll try to help, but there's nothing I can do. I'm sorry.
"Oh, shut up, you're fine." He flips me off. I return the favor. He spends the rest of the day sitting in the corner miserably moping. He's not a huge fan of pain.
"How are you going to get home?" I ask near closing time.
"Damn it, Craig, why do you have to go and be all foresighttastic?"
…
"What the hell are you doing! You can't, you can't just- GAH, how the fuck did you get anyone to sign off on you getting your license?" yells the curled up ball to my right. Tweek is not a fan of my driving. What can I say, I've a very defensive driver. On the other hand-
"People who cannot drive cannot complain about the people driving," I inform him. He'll probably never be able to drive either. He gets too easily distracted.
"Hell yes we can!"
"Nope. Shut up and take it, sweetheart. You already took over the radio, another right only the driver is supposed to have." I receive a strong glare from behind the seat belt. It's kind of adorable.
I will hunt you down, properly prepare, and then consume your face if you tell anyone about that.
"I hate you," he says lightly.
"Well, you can just walk home if you like." We both know that won't happen. He was really not thrilled to be riding my Mustang ("deathtrap,") but it's better than limping the whole way back. He snorts at me. "You are a horrible klutz, Tweek."
"Shut up, Craig, it's not my fault!" I eye him for a minute, him staring back wide-eyed before he starts making wild hand movements (outside of the ones he already does) that I interpret as, "Keep your eyes of the fucking road!"
"Whose fault is it, then?" He just shoots me a look and stares out the front window. He mutters something, but I'm not sure if it was at me or himself.
Sometimes I wonder about that. The talking to one's self thing, I mean. It's not exactly hard to come to the conclusion that Tweek isn't quite right in the head, but I wonder about the extent of the… paranoia, I guess. There was nothing that could really freak him out that time in my living room, and random corners don't really call for speculation, and how he fell, and… I could go on. I would just come out and ask, "Hey, are you by any chance certifiably insane?" but that would be tactless. I may be a soulless bastard, but I am not one for awkwardness that can be caused by too honest statements or too nosy questions.
Also I just really don't want to upset Tweek, and I can imagine someone getting pissed if someone asks them if you're literally insane. Or on crack. I'd rather that Tweek not want to punch me.
"Craigidie, Craigie-Craig. Paging Major Painintheass. Landing from La La Land in three, two, one…" I flip him off. He snickers. His laugh is weird. It's always a little too loud and half the time it's silent, proven to be laughter by the strange, high-pitched squeak that comes whenever he forces in a breath. He hates it and I mock him for it. Ruthlessly. Now all I have to do is smirk at him and he's irked. It's cute. "Turn left."
We end up in Picket-Fenceville. All perfect and such, neighborhood of many a lawyer/businessman and housewife.
His house is horrible. It's white and perfectly trimmed and has just the right flow and so fucking boring. It looks like the kind of house that is created to mock the existence of such houses. But it's real. And Tweek lives there.
I am honestly a little surprised that Tweek hasn't pulled out all of his hair by now.
"See you tomorrow," Tweek says, but he doesn't make a move to leave.
"You can come over to-"
"Yeah, I know, I can't. Bye, Craig," he says, finally making the move into his house. I sigh and drive away, a strangely rejected feeling stuck in my chest.
…
There was a knocking at my door. I fully planned on ignoring it because it's probably just one of my apparently infinite amount of neighbors (seriously, they just keep coming and I hate them all.) But after a few bangs I hear an angry, "Jesus Christ, Craig, open the goddamn door!"
I open the door and say, "You shouldn't yell stuff like that, there's a Jesus Freak living a few doors down."
"Fuck 'em," he tells me as he storms by. Something tells me he's a little peeved.
"I've thought about it. She's kinda hot." No response, just the monopolizing of my living room, angrily kicking things as he goes and muttering to himself. "Okay, not in a joking mood. Que pasa?
"I took French, damn it!" he informs me as I manage to avoid the Path of Terror and lounge on the couch.
"Why?"
"I don't freaking know! All the bad guys in movies speak French…" he trails off.
"There's more Russian and such than French."
"Yeah, well, my school didn't offer Russian." He walks by me and I pull him down on me. He wriggles around for a minute before settling down, head on my chest. He groans.
"What's wrong?" I try again.
"My parents are insane," I hear him say. I snort.
"No shit. What brings you to this sudden epiphany?"
"Don't be an ass, I've always known that they're a little…"
"Completely, eccentrically protective to the point where it'd put you to shame?"
"Ha ha," he says drily. "I wouldn't go that far. But they're just so… gah! They're treating me like I'm five. I mean, I know that I'm not exactly, um, stable or whatever but I can take care of myself. 'Who were you riding with?', 'Don't talk to strangers,' 'You don't understand,' they say. Seriously? Jesus fucking Christ." I could feel that he'd keep going, so-
I don't know what made me do it. He was just sitting there on top of me (straddling me,) and all I could think was that he's really kind of adorable when he's angry and that I kind of want him to shut up…
So I kiss him.
It wasn't a hard kiss, or a passionate one, or a magical one, barely a kiss at all, but it was enough.
He pulls back after a minute. "Oh. Hm…" he says softly. I watch him think, laying there on top of me playing with his hair. I hope that he's not going to run. That'd be awkward.
Instead he sits up, looks me in the eyes for a second, and presses his lips against mine again.
This one is considerably better. His lips are so soft…
…
AN 2.0: So… te gusta? Reviews make me happppy. They also contribute to better chapters XD