Addict
A/N: I'm glad people like this story. Seriously, Craig is insanely fun to write, so I would have been upset if I hadn't gotten a good number of reviews. That applies to every chapter though. It's not that I expect a lot of reviews; I just don't see the point in writing something that people don't take the time to review. You know what I mean? Anyway, let's get onto the incredibly angst-ridden chapter. Well, actually that's pretty inaccurate... There's a flashback by the way, nothing big, but you'll know it when it happens. Also, the whole last chapter and a lot of this chapter occur on a Friday.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?
Warnings: Swearing and lots of it, eventual slash. Honestly, if you don't like slash, don't read this, neither one of us benefits.
Pairings: Craig/Tweek, a million and one side pairings that even I'm not sure about yet. Probably some Style, Benny, maybe even some Frenchy Jew goodness, if you know what I mean. (by the way, if you like yourself some 'Tophe/Kyle you should check out sweet pandemonium's one shot about them, it's good, I promise)
Chapter Two: Just Give Me A Call
My mom is happy to see us. She always is. She loves when I bring one of my friends over, especially Tweek. I don't understand why that is. If I was her I would hate having Tweek in my house. He always knocks things over and spills things. There's still a dark red stain in the living room from a sleepover we had years ago. I kind of miss those days. Alright, I really miss those days.
I want to watch Red Racer. With Tweek, I always get my way, he just nods and we go in my room. It's bare, my room, that is, with dark blue walls and a beige carpet, but I have a television set with a DVD player, so that sort of makes up for the lack of decoration. For a minute the television won't turn on. I hit it a few times, flip it off for good measure, and it finally turns on – to static. I don't have cable in my room. But it doesn't really matter; I don't like what's on the television these days.
Everything is about a group of whiny teenagers living in California or some forty-year old dude trying to have sex with twelve year old boys. I'm not sure which one is worse, and I don't really want to think about it, because I kind of think the answer isn't what most people think it is. I find the DVD I want, put it in the player and then fling myself down onto my bed. Tweek sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress, pulling his legs up from the ground and encircling his arms around them.
He always does that. For some reason I find myself watching Tweek out of the corner of my eye, knowing he does that for the same reason he used to when we were little. A small smile forms on my face as I realize he's looking at me now. As for why Tweek does what he does, I know his motive is the same as it was years ago. After all, I think to myself, turning back to a show I've loved since third grade, nothing really changes around here.
"Dude, you invited Tweek over?" Clyde asked me looking almost ready to cry at the thought. "I'm not coming over then." I just flip him off. "Seriously, man, you could have invited anyone over and you chose that spaz? The last time I even remember you two talking was, like, last year, in the hospital." I felt kind of bad and squirmed, looking at the ground and tugging my hat down by the earflaps, until the dark blue material nearly covered my eyes.
"We've actually been talking a lot lately, on the weekends and stuff," I admitted, still keeping my eyes averted. "His dad gives us coffee for free and our mom's like to talk, so we kind of have to act like we get along." I bit at my lip, searching for how to tell Clyde what was going on. At the time it seemed like such a difficult thing to tell him, like we were breaking up or something gay like that. "I think he's kind of…my best friend." The last three words came out quietly, and there was no response until I looked back up at Clyde.
There were tears in his eyes. I swear, he could be such a fucking crybaby sometimes. I just wanted to tell him to suck it up, act like a man. Maybe it was my fault; I was always kind of picking on him. But he made himself an easy target and I can't blame myself for that. "Y-you're best friends with Tweek?" he mumbled. I just nodded. "Well, f-fine then, I guess I'll just go be best friends with Token or something." He sniffled, turned around and walked away. I flipped him off. What a dick, he just ditches me for Token.
I found Tweek a few minutes later and we walked to my house in silence. We planned on walking, but I didn't plan on the blond being so quiet. He always had something to say. Whether it was about his newest fear or his favorite flavor of coffee, it's never quiet. Except that time it was, the only sound was the crunching of snow and ice beneath our feet and the sharp intakes of breath in the cold weather.
"H-hey, Craig?" I looked over at Tweek, but he didn't look at me. "You and Clyde, I saw you guys talking and – gah – he looked really upset. You didn't tell him that we were best friends. I mean, I told you about how much pressure that would be! Ack! I don't even want to think about it." His hands flew to his temples, lightly massaging there. He was years away from getting his silver thermos at that point, so I didn't have to worry about it falling to the ground.
Instead I had to worry about this stupid 'best friend' business. The funny thing was, up until about a week ago I hadn't even been aware I was Clyde's best friend. It was like, once he felt me drifting away he felt the need to remind me that he was closer to me than anyone else. Right in time to make me feel like an ass for being best friends with Tweek. "If it's really that much pressure," I told him, my face serious as we stepped onto my front porch, "I can just go back to Clyde."
That just got him even more worked up. Even back then I was able to calm him down. It seemed so much more innocent when we were nine years old. So much more a simple act of friendship, rather than something I needed to reevaluate in my mind. Back then a lot was different and a lot was the same. We went to my room to watch Red Racer, but at that time there were commercials every seven minutes because the show was still on regular television.
During one of the commercials I looked over at Tweek. The blond was sitting on the edge of the bed, arms circled around his legs, chin resting on his knees, eyes glued to the glowing television screen. "Why are you sitting like that?" I asked, pulling my hat off of my head so I could run a hand through my raven hair. Despite the fact that South Park was in the midst of one of its coldest winters ever my hair was still slightly damp with sweat.
"Well, because – ngh – there are all sorts of things under people's beds, just hiding there and waiting to grab your legs and pull you under and rip you to shreads!" the caffeinated boy had cried, burying his face in his hands as he did so. The last few words he said were muffled as a result. "I just sleep on a mattress, at least that way I know there's nothing hiding under it waiting to – to, I don't know, oh God!" He looked like he was going to start gouging his eyes out so I figured I should do something.
It came naturally, surprisingly, throwing my arm around his shoulders, telling him that was silly, nothing was under my bed but dirty clothes, old toys and maybe a dust bunny or two. Certainly nothing that was going to rip anyone to shreads. He didn't believe me at first, and I had the irresistible urge to flip him off and just ignore him, because Red Racer was back on and I never missed one second of that show.
Yet I found myself on the floor, pulling Tweek down with me so we could lie on our stomachs and I could show him there was nothing under the bed. Nothing that would hurt us. He still didn't believe me, freaked out and grab my arm, forced me back to the bed where he sat, looking even more worried now. "I think I saw something under there with eyes, glowing red eyes, Craig! Ack!" he cried, pulling at his golden hair.
"Tweek," I had said, innocently, "even if there was anything under my bed, it's not a big deal, dude. I'd totally beat the shit out of anything that tried to hurt you. You're my best friend." With that, he stopped worrying, we went back to watching Red Racer, and I pretended I had never seen the faint blush on his cheeks. Or maybe I really didn't think anything of it. We were only nine, after all.
By now I was engrossed in the episode we were watching, even though I knew what would happen. I have this habit, another one, of running my tongue over my teeth when I'm worried. I think that it stems from when I got my braces off in eighth grade. Ever since then the enamel of my teeth has felt really sleek and nice, and somehow it calms me down when there's nothing to be angry about or lie about or smoke.
True to form Tweek keeps glancing down at the floor, probably checking for any monsters that are peering up at him, waiting for the second he slips his skinny legs down to the ground. He still hasn't gotten over that fear, no matter how many times I tell him there's nothing down there. I give him a reassuring smile and he gives me a tight one back, like he really has no reason to smile or something. That makes me feel bad.
I know he would never admit it. But Tweek hates Red Racer. Clyde actually likes it even though he makes fun of it; we get nostalgic talking about it and watching it when he's over. Token doesn't like it one bit and let's us know it; he doesn't even tolerate the show. Neither does Tweek, really. He just zones out, twitches a lot and pays very little attention. The thing is, he never objects to watching it, so I just go ahead and force him to sit through episodes with me.
For whatever reason I feel bad about that now. Like I should apologize to him for that. But I don't, I just wait for the episode to end and then look at him. He looks ready to say something, like he's been thinking about it for the twenty-something minutes I sat there, silently watching a show I should be long over. He looks thoughtful, even though his hands are shaking something awful and his cheeks are lightly flushed pink. He reaches out for my hand – and my cell phone rings.
I jump off of the bed quickly. Much too quickly. I don't know why I'm trying to get away from him so fucking quickly. I don't use my cell phone much. I forgot it this morning, somewhere in a pile of clothes, like I usually do. After throwing a few shirts out of the way I find it. I recognize Token's number and flip the phone open. "'Lo?" I say in a monotone.
"Well, Jesus, don't sound so excited," Token says sarcastically. I hear someone talking in the background, a nasally voice that sounds like, who else, Clyde. Token's voice gets muffled as he responds. I turn to the blond in my room. He's watching me and I grin at him and mouth 'Token' so he knows who I'm talking to. He smiles back weakly. "Alright, sorry, Clyde's picking out movies." Which can only mean one thing. "You and Tweek want to come over?"
Looking up I see that Tweek is about to get off of my bed. This is a complicated procedure. He has to stand up on my bed first and then step back, take a deep shaky breath, and jump as far as he can. Which he does right now. He lands with a 'Gah!' in the pile of clothes in front of me. "Wanna go to Token's?" I ask softly, brushing his blond bangs out of his eyes. Golden eyes stare up at me and he slowly nods. "Yeah, Token, we'll be over in a little while."
The entire time we walk to Token's house I have to resist the urge to hold Tweek's hand.
Apparently Clyde does have a brain. Despite not being able to do simple multiplication, he's surprisingly good at looking ahead. He got a Tweek movie for us, a perfect world movie. He and Token are already asleep, laying in front of the big screen television in Token's living room. Token always falls asleep during these sorts of movies and Clyde just wasn't built for late nights.
As for Tweek and I, we're wide awake. Tweek never sleeps, or if he does none of us know about it. I, unlike Clyde, am a late night sort of guy. There's rarely a morning where I don't see dawn, at least where weekends are concerned. We're playing a drinking game, but it's with coffee, not alcohol. Every time the girl in the movie does this whiny noise – and believe me, she does it a lot – we have to drink coffee from these little tea cup things that Token's mom has.
Truthfully, it's not really doing much for us. It's just coffee after all. But Tweek likes it, he lets out these little laughs every time we have to take another 'shot' and whatever makes Tweek this happy is good with me. It's all going well, too. A normal night over at Token's. Whiny girl noise. Coffee. Whiny girl noise. More coffee. We're both wide awake, jittery and alive with caffeine coursing through our systems.
Until Tweek spills a 'shot' on himself and starts to freak out. I can understand why. We just made a fresh pot, after all, so it's scalding hot. But everyone besides us is sleeping and Tweek is making way more noise than he needs to. So I do the stupidest thing ever. I push Tweek so he's lying on the couch and straddle him, pinning him down with my own body. "Shh," I mutter to him.
He stares up at me, wide golden eyes, speaking a million words to my senses, while he keeps silent. Then he lets this tiny, tiny whimper escape his lips, like he's pleading with me for something; and somehow that's all it takes. No one wakes up when Tweek is screaming about how the coffee is going to burn through his skin like acid, but that stupid, little whimper does the trick.
"Did not need to see that." I turn to see Clyde sitting up, looking at us with a sleepy, but amused, expression. All of a sudden I'm eager to get away from Tweek. I back up as far as I can, all the way to the other side of couch, as close as I can get to the other side of the country at the moment. I give Clyde the finger and do the same for Token who hasn't said anything but is just sitting up. Chances are he didn't see anything.
"I spilled some coffee on myself, Craig was just, gah, he was just helping!" Tweek cries in protest to nothing that really exists. He's looking at all of us in turn, lacing his fingers together as his face grows gradually redder.
"Oh, yeah, straddling you was really going to help get that stain out," Clyde says, grinning now. "Tell me, Craig, if I ever spill something on myself will you help me?" He bats his eyelashes at me and Token snorts, then falls back onto the floor, exhausted, and back to sleep. I kind of wish Clyde would do the same, but he's looking at me with this look. It reminds me of how Stan looked at me, today at lunch. Like he knows something.
"He was being loud! I was trying to shut him up so he didn't wake you guys up," I try to explain. But it doesn't come out convincing at all, I just sound pathetic. Clyde smirks at me; I glare back and have to fight the urge to flip him off again. "C'mon Tweek," I grumble, standing up and walking out of the room. Tweek follows me. He doesn't ask where we're going.
This has happened before. Not me straddling Tweek on the couch, mind you. But, Tweek spilling things on himself? It's a common occurrence. We're used to it, and whenever it happens, one of us lets him borrow their stuff. Since its Token's house, he'll have to borrow a shirt, or probably a sweater, since Token only really wears sweaters. Token's room, unlike my own, is bursting with personality. Posters of places he wants to go someday, movies and bands. The only poster in my room is, you guessed it, a well-worn Red Racer one.
I throw open Token's closet doors open in a fury. I'm still muttering to myself about how stupid this all is. I'm not even sure what I mean. This situation, this night, or just life in general? I have no idea. I find a green sweater in the back of the closet and throw it to Tweek. He drops it instantaneously from his shaking hands and I pick it up with a sigh, waiting as he tries to unbutton his shirt. He's having a hard time.
Resignedly, after a few minutes of him trying and failing to with every button, I help him with it. I don't look at his face, I know he'll be blushing by now, but I don't really care at this point. "Craig?" he says, quietly, when I'm halfway done unbuttoning his shirt.
"Mm?" I answer, not looking up.
"I'm sorry this whole thing…Jesus Christ, this was my f-fault, wasn't it?" he stutters out, miserably.
"What?" I say, backing away from him. There's no need to be so close to him, I have to tell myself, now that I'm done helping. I hand him the sweater and he takes it. I focus on his face while he slips off his shirt. Funny, I never had to focus before, I never thought about looking anywhere else. "It's really not, Tweek; I don't even know what I was thinking. You know how I am."
He nods and pulls the sweater over his head. It's much too big for him, and I'm suddenly aware of how small he is. Maybe it's all the coffee, maybe that shit really does stunt your growth. Tweek is short, to say that he's at average height would really be pushing it, and he must not weigh much either, I notice, because the green material just barely shows his frame.
"It's just," he says, shaky hands rising to circle around an invisible coffee mug I know he's pretending is there, "I, I, gah, I always fuck things up, don't I, Craig? I wouldn't even be surprised if you guys just ditched me one day. Ngh, I must, gah, really get on your nerves." He's shaking even more than usual, looking petrified at the thought of us leaving him, despite the fact that he says he wouldn't be surprised.
"Nah, not at all," I say simply, reaching out to play with his hair. He shudders under my touch, like he always does. "Don't be so stupid, Tweek. We've had eight years to ditch you. Sorry to say, but you're stuck with us." I smile at him, he smiles at me, and everything is back to normal. Balance is restored. All is right in the world, at least for that moment.
The weekend passes in a blur. I didn't finish the other eighteen French conjugations and I spend most of Saturday struggling with them. A few times I almost consider calling Christophe, but I can just imagine him inviting himself over to my house and seeing as how both of my parents work on Saturday, I don't exactly feel like risking that.
Sunday is ritualistic as usual. Church, home, sleep the day away because I got up so damn early, wake up in the evening, do the rest of my homework and then sleep again. By far that is the most wasted day of my week, every week. If I had to choose between dying and living the rest of my life on Sundays, I think I'd rather just drop dead right now.
Today isn't looking all that much better than Sunday though. Nothing exciting has happened at all. That may be because I skipped lunch completely to smoke, which I usually do on Monday's because, let's face it, it's the first day of the week and it's fucking stressful. Now it's fifth hour, Human Bio, a class my mom insisted I take and that I'm failing miserably. So when I get called down to the counselor's, I figure that must be why.
In fact, I'm completely prepared for a you-can-do-so-much-better-reach-for-the-stars speech when I walk into the counselor's office. She's typical, a Miss Something, messy, wrinkled red blouse, black dress pants, brown, mousy hair pulled up into a sloppy bun, peering at me over black glasses that she fixes every few seconds as she tells me exactly why I'm down here. It's not because of my grades.
"Mister, ah, Nommel is it?" she asks, as she looks at what I presume is my school record.
"It is," I respond, blandly. I just want to get out of here and get to Physical Education. I'm looking at the clock and trying to figure out how to drag this out for the rest of fifth hour, but find a way to make sure it doesn't stretch on into sixth hour. Because I'm so lost in this thought, I only just realize that Miss Something is talking to me again.
"I'm going to be frank with you, Craig," she says. I want to be sarcastic and say something like: 'Oh, I thought it was Mister Nommel. Is it now Craig?' But I resist. In fact, I'm resisting a lot right now, because I really want to give this ugly bitch the finger, but I have the feeling she won't believe me when I try to convince her I didn't do it. "I heard from a source that will remain anonymous, that you were smoking at lunch today."
I stare at her. That's what I'm here for? I want to laugh. I just want to laugh right in her face. Because if they called me down to the counselor, that means I'm not getting punished. What that means is I'm getting the smoking-is-bad lecture and I don't really need to hear that again. "Look, lady," I say, smirking at her and leaning back in the uncomfortable chair she has for me, "I learned why smoking is bad from some shitty presentation in fourth grade. Believe me, if you had seen these people, you'd be going through a pack a day, too."
"A pack a day, huh?" she says, scribbling something down on a pad of paper. I glare at her, because I know she wrote down that I smoke a pack a day, when I don't, that was just…dramatic exaggeration, was all. She smiles sweetly at me. I don't like her already. I have to cross my arms and grip my fingers around them tightly, so I don't do what I so desperately want to. "I have to wonder, Craig, why do you smoke? Not enough attention at home? Feeling neglected?"
"Yeah that makes a lot of sense," I quip, "I smoke at school to get attention at home. Goddamn, you're a miracle worker. I'll just smoke at home so my mom and dad notice my plea for their attention. Can I go now?"
"So why do you do it then, Craig?" Miss Something asks, her eyes never looking at me. She's distant, skimming the paper she was looking at before when she questioned my name. "Does it relax you? Keep your mind off of other things you want to do? Clear your mind of thoughts you don't want to think? Something like that?" She smiles at my wide-eyed stare because, fuck, she's pinpointed what smoking is for me.
"Yeah," I mumble, looking away from her gaze.
"Like what?" she says, her voice picking up in speed. She's excited, like a hunter that's closing in on its prey, she's found my weakness. Brown hair falls into matching eyes as she leans forward, over her desk, an inviting smile on her face. I hate to admit it, but Miss Something, whatever her real name is, is really something. Suddenly I kind of want to tell her what I need smoking for. I feel like she's someone to confide in.
"A lot of stuff," I admit. She nods, letting me know to tell her everything without saying a word. "It's just, I don't know, I have stuff that keeps me from getting stressed. Things that sort of keep me balanced. Smoking is one of them, and when I smoke every other urge kind of melts away. Like, flipping people off, lying, Tweek." I freeze at the last one. I did not mean to say the last one.
"Tweek?" Miss Something says, her face confused.
"He's, uh, he's my best friend," I choke out, feeling the blood rush to my face, as she 'hmm's and looks at the paper before speaking again.
"Well your transcript is pretty detailed with the fact that you…overuse your middle finger in vulgar ways," she decides to say slowly. I barely muffle my laughter with my hand and her smile falls for a second, but returns a second later. "Lying is self explanatory; you probably do that for attention. But, your best friend, this Tweek, is it? Why did you say his name?"
I'm still kind of pissed that she came to the same conclusion as Token, that my lying has to do with wanting attention, so for a moment I just stare at her blankly. Then I really think about it. Why did I say Tweek? It just came out so naturally. Smoking gets rid of thoughts about flipping people off, lying to people and Tweek. It's simple as that, but I would never admit it to anyone. Especially not the blond himself.
"I think you're addicted," the brunette adult says after I don't speak for a few minutes.
"Well, no fuck, lady," I tell her. "It's called nicotine."
"No," she says, exasperation clear in her tone. I want to punch her, but instead I clutch my arms tighter, feeling my nails dig into the skin, even past my dark blue sweater. She was the one who chose to work with teenagers in a public high school; she should be more understanding, or at least patient. "Of course you're addicted to cigarettes, Craig, most people are after they smoke for a certain amount of time. I mean the other things. Flipping people off, as you so eloquently put it. Making up lies for attention. Even your friend, it's safe to say."
"I am not addicted to Tweek," I say with faltering certainty. He's my best friend. I can think about him all I want. Just because I think about him more than anyone else, that doesn't mean shit. Besides, since when has been being addicted to a person even possible? It's completely absurd. I have half the mind the just flip her off and leave; it's almost time for sixth hour to start anyway. But I know that's not an option.
"Hmm," she mutters, shuffling papers around on her desk. "Can you say that for sure? Do you even know what an addiction is?"
"Yeah, it's – when you…like, drugs and shit," I finish lamely. I know what addiction is, but it's not so simple to put into words. It just is.
"Yes, there's addiction to drugs," Miss Something says thoughtfully. "But there's also the sense of the word that means a strong devotion to something, and inclination towards it. A want, need or crave for something, which can also be a person. You might even feel the need to protect or help the person. Does that sort of sound like how you feel about Tweek?"
The funny thing is. That sounds exactly like how I feel about Tweek. I've never really thought about it before. Tweek has been someone I needed to protect since that day in fourth grade that he came over to my house. Ever since then I'm the one who calms him down, I'm the one who looks out for him. Maybe I am – "No," I say, trying my best to look bored. "He's my best friend, but I don't crave for him." I roll my eyes.
Lying makes me feel better. I loosen the grip I have on my arms and keep my bored expression. I think she knows that I'm lying now, but she just sighs and tells me to go to class. Somehow we've timed it perfectly to my liking and I'm only a few minutes late to Physical Education. 'Life coach' yells at me for a couple of minutes and I flip him off when he turns around to yell at the other kids for talking while he's bitching at me. I bet he wonders why a few kids are snickering at him.
"Where were you?" Token asks as I join my friends while 'life coach' drones on about how we should nevereverevereverever do drugs.
"Counselor," I growl, trying my best to look really pissed off about it, so they don't question me about it. I manage a smile for Tweek, because he always deserves a smile and he gives me a twitchy one back. Then I survey the class. There are a small number of people who know where I was at lunch today. This includes, of course, the kids I smoked with, but I doubt they told anyone.
Which leaves our group, and I know immediately who the culprit is, because he's blushing and avoiding my eyes at all costs.
Oh, yes, Kyle Broflovski made the biggest mistake of his life when he told that nameless counselor bitch what I was doing at lunch. God knows why he did. He knows what I have to hold over his head. But it doesn't matter why he did it, not anymore. I flip him off and he sees me do it and frantically looks away. I wonder if he thinks that's it. No, Kyle, you're fucked in more ways than one, many more ways.
It must be a shock when I get on the bus and don't sit next to Tweek. I wink at him as I walk past though, so hopefully he knows this isn't in bad spirit. I also exchange looks with Kyle. He sees the look in my eyes; I see the look in his. He grabs onto the sleeve of my sweater as I pass pulls me into the empty seat next to him. Stan isn't on the bus yet and he uses that to his advantage.
"Dude, let me explain," he hisses at me, green eyes pleading.
"Much too late for that, Kyle, but it was a valiant effort," I tell him, patting his green ushanka, and getting up so that Stan can sit next to him. Stan gives me a questioning look, but I just smile at him. I feel kind of bad for Kyle's best friend, getting pulled into something that really isn't his fault. It's all the Jew's fault, but he should have known before he went and fucking told on me like we're in elementary school.
I head towards the back of the bus, to where the foreign kids sit. "Get up," I tell Gregory, who's sitting next to my primary target. The Brit looks about ready to say a few choice words to me, but I give him the middle finger and repeat, "Get up, I just need to talk to him for a few seconds and then you can go back to stroking his ego, alright?" I'm rather proud of myself, because the blond Brit gets up, gives me an angry look and then sits with Wendy.
I sit down next to The Mole. He's not Christophe right now, and believe me, they're two different people. Christophe speaks in somewhat broken English, helps you with homework and gives you strained smiles. The Mole yells at you, chain-smokes like a mother fucker and barely gives you the time of day. I can tell I'm not with Christophe right now, because The Mole ignores me, chews on his unlit cigarette and stares out the window. The best part of all of this is, I know how to get Christophe out to play. There's a method to his madness.
His eyes are cold and hard right now, staring out at the frozen landscape as the bus begins to pull away from the school. He doesn't give me a second glance, only a quick one when I immediately sit down, after that he decides I don't exist. Step one, full name. "Christophe?" I simper, softly, moving close so I'm almost touching him, but just barely. He stiffens, and then looks down at his own legs.
He still pretends I'm not there. Which means it's time for step two, nickname. "Aw, come on, 'Tophe," I say sweetly, almost directly into his ear. I didn't think it was possible, but he completely relaxes, even thought just seconds ago he looked like he had been paralyzed by my voice. Now I can see his eyes melting into Christophe, changing a bit, looking at me, but not in my eyes.
Step three, contact. I reach out and touch his knee. He shudders when I touch him. Not like Tweek, never like Tweek, nothing like my blond best friend, who seems to be invading my thoughts. But he shudders nonetheless and I know I've got him, not The Mole, but Christophe, within my grasp. "What iz et zat you want, Nommel?" he asks, voice hushed.
I surprise even myself, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and playing with it in my hand. He keeps his chocolate brown eyes locked one what my gloved fingers are doing. For a few more minutes I tease him, because I know what he wants. Then, "You know Kyle Broflovski right?" The French boy nods. "And Stan Marsh, his best friend?" Another nod, this one less friendly. This is going to be good. "Well, Kyle doesn't want me to tell you, but, truth be told, that just made me want to tell you more. It seems our little Jew is totally gay for his best friend."
Here's the thing. I don't know what I was expecting Christophe to do. I thought maybe he would find it funny. Perhaps he might laugh a little bit at it. Maybe he's more of a gossip than I know and he would tell the entire school. Something like that. I was not expecting him to snatch the cigarette from my hands and look at me with cold eyes. I was not expecting to have The Mole snap at me, "Get ze fuck away from moi, now."
As I head back to my regular seat next to Tweek I see that Kyle is looking at me. It's not his one of his usual looks of annoyance or friendliness; it's this mixture of hurt and anger. Like he doesn't know how to feel about me. I wonder if he watched what I did and, if so, did he figure out what I had done? Whatever he saw, he deserves the middle finger right now, so that's exactly what I give him.
When I sit down next to Tweek I'm reminded of what he said on Friday. How he told me that I shouldn't tell anyone else about what Kyle had confided to me. I suddenly feel like a terrible person. Not because I told Kyle's secret, but rather because I broke my word to Tweek, that he was the only person I was telling. That makes me feel like shit, like some sort of worthless piece of shit, for some reason. If there's one person in the world that I don't want to disappoint, it's Tweek. I think he has this idea in his mind that I'm some sort of superhero. But in the grand scheme of things, I kind of think I'm the villain. I think I always will be.
"Who were you talking to?" Tweek asks, sounding dejected. His soft, morose voice makes me jump out of my stupor. He's playing with the black top of his silver thermos, looking nervous. Not normal Tweek nervous either. He's nervous of what I'm going to say, I know it. I don't know why, and I can't see how it would matter. I wish Tweek wasn't so nervous around me.
I make Tweek nervous; Tweek makes me calm.
"'Tophe," I say easily. The silver thermos falls out of his hands and into mine. He looks at me with shocked, golden eyes. "Just for a second, Tweeky, about nothing important. Don't worry about it." But who am I kidding? This is Tweek, for fuck's sake; of course he's going to worry about it. Clyde and Token engage me in pointless conversation, but Tweek stays silent for the rest of the bus ride.
For some reason I want to reach out and touch Tweek's knee, like I did with Christophe. I wonder, how would Tweek react?
A/N: Aha! The story does have a somewhat substantial plot. Somewhat. Also, because I pretty much have epicly failed at including them in the story so far, Kenny and Butters are in the next chapter, rather prominently. Anyway. Once again, if you want me to continue, leave a review, because I only continue if I get reviews.
Until next time, tweekers