A/N:
Thanks to everyone who's been reading.
I do want to warn you, there's some questionable content in this chapter, so if anything non-consensual is triggering for you, I suggest you read with caution or not read at all. It won't get any worse than what's in this chapter, but I wanted to be as respectful as possible.

Craig freezes in place, stopping so quickly that it takes him flapping both arms like a panicked ostrich to regain his balance when his momentum tries to keep him going forward. All of his elation from two seconds earlier is sucked right out of him as visions of Tweek fade from his mind, replaced by the terrible reality in front of him. He crosses his arms tightly across his chest, hating how rapidly he can feel his heart beating, and narrows his eyes as he's forced to confront his worst fucking nightmare.

"What the fuck do you want?" He practically spits the words at Stan, the venom in them so strong they could burn a hole through the dorm's stupid blue carpet. Goddammit. Despite all of his best efforts, there is still a tremor in his voice and Craig can't fucking stand it. Stan fucking Marsh should not have this kind of power over him. Especially not now, not when Craig has, somehow, just started the beginning of what could possibly be a real relationship with Tweek, the most perfect person to ever exist in the whole entire universe.

He should be deliriously happy right now. He should be running up and down the halls cheering his lungs out like Clyde after he ate the entire contents of the piñata at Token's eleventh birthday party. He should be singing the cheesiest pop love songs ever recorded, off-key and everything, at the top of his lungs in the shower. He should be doodling C+T inside little hearts all over his notebooks, and counting down the minutes until he gets to see Tweek again, to hug him, to kiss him and taste cinnamon and coffee again.

He shouldn't be standing here in the hallway, facing down his mortal enemy, who just can't seem to fucking get the hint that Craig wants absolutely nothing to do with him.

It takes Stan a few more seconds than it should to get up from where he's been sitting with his back against Craig's dorm room door. He wobbles a bit on his feet and throws one arm behind him to steady himself against the wall while waving a finger at Craig with his other hand. "The ffffuck you think I want?" he slurs. "Where the hell were you last night?"

Craig's stomach clenches, all the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as a chill washes over him, making his blood run cold. Fuck. Of course he's still drunk. He's probably been drinking all morning. Craig instinctively takes a few steps back, towards the opposite wall, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the unstable, intoxicated mess in front of him as possible. Kenny's text hadn't been an exaggeration; Stan is clearly in the middle of a alcohol-fueled rage attack, and Craig wants no part of it.

"None of your fuckin' business," he says, as defiantly as he can manage, the dryness of his throat making his words come out in a growl. He doesn't owe this asshole anything.

A sudden fury flashes in Stan's eyes and he lurches forward, stumbling on the legs of his stupid-ass baggy jeans. Craig moves back again in response, realizing a split-second too late that he's about to run out of room. His back hits the wall hard and he lets out a grunt of pain, marginally grateful that at least he hadn't hit his head for the nineteenth time in three days. Maybe there's actually a chance he'll make it through Christmas break without getting a concussion.

His relief at not smashing his skull against concrete is extremely short-lived; almost as soon as the thought crosses his mind, a hand slaps against the wall right next to Craig's left ear.

"You don't fuckin' talk to me like that, Tucker, you hear me?" Stan snarls, swaying back and forth, his hand on the wall seeming to be the only thing keeping him upright. His dull blue eyes are narrowed and scarily unfocused, and he's leaning in so close Craig can smell the alcohol on his breath.

The scent is so strong it immediately gives Craig the urge to vomit and he turns his head to the side in an attempt to avoid it; as much as he would love to puke all over Stan, he just wants to get out of this situation as soon as possible. It's going to take at least three showers to wash away this encounter and he's only got two hours until he's supposed to be at work.

"Get the fuck off me," Craig snaps, trying not to breathe in any more than necessary.

He brings both arms up and attempts to shove Stan away from him; he's just barely touched him when, in a surprising moment of coordination given his drunken state, Stan roughly grabs the noirette's arms by the wrists with his free hand and pins them to the wall above Craig's head.

"What the fuck–?" Craig struggles to free himself, a swell of panic rising in his chest when it becomes apparent that even though he's wasted out of his mind, Stan's grip is far too strong for him to break. His heart pounding, Craig can't even move his legs enough to try to kick his way out of this; panic has him so frozen that he can only glare up at Stan, a mix of anger and fear swirling around in his gray eyes. God, he hates that he's three fucking inches shorter. "What is your problem, asshole?"

"Where were you?" Stan demands again, squeezing Craig's wrists even tighter. "That's my fuckin' problem!"

"I told you, it's none of your fuckin' business where I was!" Craig does everything in his power not to wince when Stan slams his wrists against the concrete wall again; but he can't help the hiss of, "Fuck!" that escapes through his clenched teeth when his bone hits the concrete and sends a sharp jolt of pain all the way down his arm. "Get off," he growls again, once more making a vain attempt to escape.

"Oh, I took care of that," Stan sneers. "No thanks to you."

He leans back a little, a derisive smirk on his face as his gaze travels up and down Craig's body, lingering on a specific area south of Craig's abdomen for far too long and making the noirette feel incredibly, uncomfortably, exposed even though he's fully clothed.

"Y'know what," Stan continues, lifting his head. "I think– hey, you look at me when I talk to you!" He takes his hand off the wall and angrily grabs Craig by the chin, physically turning his head to force eye contact. "I think," he repeats, blowing a cloud of alcohol breath directly into Craig's face that makes the noirette's eyes water, "you just need a reminder of what you think you're suddenly too good for." A glint of something predatory sparks to life in his eyes; it's a look that Craig recognizes, and he knows he's about to be in a metric fuckton of trouble if he doesn't get himself out of this right the hell now.

Craig fights against Stan's grasp on his chin, so intent on getting free that it's a second before he registers that his arms are moving, being dragged downwards in between them. He feels something rough against the palms of his hands and realizes that Stan is pressing himself up against them, forcing Craig to essentially grope him in the middle of the fucking dorm hallway.

"Get– unnnnngh!" Craig frantically tries to yank his arms back so hard it feels like they're going to pop right out their sockets and detach completely from his body. He doesn't give a shit if he loses his arms; they can work fucking miracles with medical procedures these days. He'll become part cyborg if that's what it takes to get this piece of shit to back the fuck off.

"Oh, c'mon." Stan tilts Craig's chin down in an attempt to make him watch, but Craig just shuts his eyes tight and struggles even more, praying to every god available for strength. "You used to like this." He pulls Craig's hands up a couple of inches, dragging his fingertips across the top of the waistband of his jeans. "Or would you prefer to get a little closer?"

"Fuck you." Craig's voice is breathless both from the multitude of emotions coursing through him right now and from how hard he's fighting to get away.

"Soon as you stop pretending you don't want it." Without warning, that same douchebag smirk never leaving his face, Stan shoves Craig's hands down his pants; pulling his own arm out, he steps forward, crushing their hips together and using all of his weight to trap Craig's hands in place.

Craig's eyes pop open in shock but before he can say a word or even make another move to gain freedom, Stan's hand is on the back of his head, seizing a fistful of his hair so tightly it gives him an instant headache. Stan leans down and covers Craig's mouth with his, pinning him hard against the wall and kissing him insistently.

"Mmmph!" Craig's muffled shout of protest does nothing but cause Stan to kiss him harder and sloppier, his tongue taking full advantage of a miniscule bit of space between Craig's lips to shove its way inside. Craig gags the instant the combination of stale alcohol and essence of Stan hits his taste buds and he squeezes his eyes shut again as he tries to keep himself from vomiting. His lungs are aching for fresh oxygen but every time he manages to inhale through his nose it's the same thing.

Stan thrusts his hips upward, grinding himself against Craig's hands and moaning obnoxiously into Craig's mouth like a fucking dying animal. It's disgusting, he's disgusting, forcing himself on Craig like this like he's fucking entitled to something. Maybe he is. Maybe Craig had brought this upon himself by even letting himself get involved with Stan in the first place despite knowing from the start that it was a bad idea. Maybe he's just as disgusting.

Craig makes one final half-hearted attempt to get himself free before slumping against the wall in defeat and giving in, letting Stan just take what he wants, like always. Flashbacks of moments nearly exactly the same as this one play on the big screen of the theater in his mind; the difference between those times and now is that back then, the protests and struggling had just been part of the hatefuck relationship; they were still equals, despite how Craig allowed himself to be treated. Or at least, that's what he had told himself at the time. Tears form in the corners of Craig's eyes and he wonders if maybe that wasn't the case at all. Maybe it was just that he hadn't believed he could do any better.

And then he'd met Tweek, who had treated him so much better than anyone else ever had – with the possible exception of Clyde, but Craig had never wanted to date Clyde, so that was, as his best friend's fictional character twin would say, a moo point. Tweek is everything good that Craig has never thought he deserved: he's sweet, he's patient, he's caring, he's respectful, he's–

"Oh my God… Craig?!"

No, no, no, no, no, no, no…

–standing at the end of the hallway.

The burst of adrenaline that explodes through Craig's veins when he hears Tweek's voice fills him with so much strength he feels like he could single-handedly lift the fucking moon. He wrenches his hands out from their fabric prison of Stan's jeans and places them both on Stan's chest, shoving him backwards with all of his might. Stan goes flying across the hall, landing on his ass and skidding back a couple of feet, stopping just short of the door to Craig's dorm.

Craig immediately wipes his mouth on his sleeve, cringing at the taste that still lingers on his tongue, but hardly even able to think about that right now. He turns, a thousand explanations dying on his lips when he sees Tweek's face, all the hurt and confusion and betrayal and anger in the blonde's expression rendering him speechless at a moment where he desperately needs to be anything but.

There are already tears running down Tweek's cheeks, dripping from his chin down to the cardboard tray he is gripping tightly with both hands. The contents of the two drink cups nestled in the cardboard splashes everywhere, onto the tray itself as well as the carpet, due to how much Tweek is trembling. Craig takes a halting step towards him but can't manage any more than that given that his legs are refusing to work properly; his heart is breaking, and he feels sick to his stomach, knowing that he is the reason Tweek is this upset right now. He has no idea what to even say.

There isn't anything to say, he realizes in the few seconds he's standing there frozen, opening and closing his mouth, like by practicing the act of speaking he'll miraculously come up with the right words. He can't even imagine what this must look like to Tweek; they had just had a conversation where Tweek had trusted him and opened up to him. God, he had even told Craig about how Stan had tried to kiss him without consent, and how he didn't like that Lola was dating him, and Craig himself had even said that he doesn't think Stan is a good person.

And now Tweek has just seen them, from his perspective, all over each other right out in the hall, not even bothering to have the decency to do it inside a room. If their positions were switched, Craig would feel just as betrayed as he's sure Tweek does in this moment.

"Tweek–" he starts, still not sure where to go from here but needing to try, needing to do all that he can to keep the best thing that's ever happened to him from hating him just like everyone else in his life. But that one word is all he gets out before Tweek's grip on the tray loosens and he lets it drop to the carpet, spinning around and sprinting back down the hall and out the doors of the dorm.

Craig stares after him, an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness engulfing his entire body. That's it. He's lost him. The only thing in his life that he'd wanted to hold on to forever is gone, just like that. Behind him, Stan groans from where he'd landed on the floor, all of a sudden all Craig can see is red. He whirls around, stomps over to the alcoholic disaster, and hauls Stan up by the collar of his t-shirt just to send him flying back down to the carpet with a fist to the face.

"Asshole!" he practically screams down at him. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

One hand rubbing his jaw where the punch had landed, Stan heaves himself back up to his feet, rolling his eyes and scoffing, "Seriously? You could have me and you're hung up on the twitchy freak?" He lets out a short burst of sarcastic laughter. "Don't tell me he's the reason you ditched last night."

"Don't you fucking talk about him!" Craig advances on Stan again, his fist cocked and ready to throw another punch.

"Oh, please." Stan stands his ground; the punch seems to have sobered him up, considering the fact that he can stand up straight without wobbling around anymore. "We both know he's too good for you."

Craig falters a little bit, Stan's words echoing his own thoughts with disturbing accuracy.

"You need someone who can handle your fuckin' attitude," Stan continues. "Lucky for you, I have some experience with your smartass mouth."

"You're a fuckin' cheating asshole," Craig snaps, trying to ignore the small part of him that is telling him Stan is right. "I told you when we graduated that I didn't want any fuckin' part of that anymore."

"I dumped Lola," Stan says, so matter-of-factly that Lola might as well have been a paper plate for all Stan seems to care. "So you can get off your fuckin' high horse, Tucker, and just admit that you want me." He cocks his head, another one of those infuriating fucking smirks on his face again. "And that nobody else has ever come close to what we had." His voice lowers, and in a twist so shocking Craig half-expects a studio audience to come out of nowhere and gasp, Stan says, "You know we'd be fuckin' great together."

That's the moment Craig hits his breaking point, and every emotion that's been typhooning around in his stomach since he'd gotten back to the dorm shoots straight back up his esophagus. He barely makes it to the nearest trash can before he's puking his guts out.

"Craig!"

He vaguely hears a voice call out to him, one that he knows but can't place at the moment, but he's in no condition to answer; he can hardly even get a handle on whether or not he's still standing. His sweaty hair clings to his forehead and Craig gags so violently he sees stars shimmering on the backs of his eyelids; and then a familiar weightless feeling begins to envelop him. As he feels himself begin to pass out for the second time in two days, all he can think is that Stan fucking Marsh had better not be at his funeral.