Addict
A/N: I seriously love you guys, I never expected this story to get the number of reviews it's getting. It makes my day better to get reviews, so I've been happy recently, haha. I have to warn you before this chapter starts, things aren't getting any better. I should probably make the second genre of this angst…
You know what I haven't mentioned yet and now feel like the biggest douche in the universe for? (Move over John Edward) The titles for the chapters. The first two are from the Queen song 'Don't Stop Me Now' and this and the last chapter's are from 'Millstone' by Brand New. And, contrary to what you might believe, I'm not Freddie Mercury or Jesse Lacey.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?
Warnings and Pairings: You know these by now, kids, no need to reiterate.
Chapter Four: And I Can't Fall Asleep In It
"I'm not talking about sex with you," I let Kenny know.
"We're not talking about sex," he tells me with a sly smirk. "I mean, if you were getting any at all, that might be the subject here, but you aren't, so it isn't. And vice versa, if you really think about it, since, well, we won't get into your lack of sexual appeal because then we would be verging into territory we shouldn't be, and God knows neither one of us is one to break the rules. No, Craig, you don't have to worry about talking about sex with me."
Do you see what I mean about Kenny? Jesus, it's like the boy has built up this persona. This ultra-confident, egotistical, self-assured person who isn't the real him. Or maybe it is. That's why it's so confusing. I don't know who the hell Kenny is. He's definitely not the same kid I remember in elementary school, or middle school, for that matter.
It was in eighth, I think, the last time Kenny died. I don't really remember. That's when Butters said he died last, and we all trust him with stuff like that. When middle school started and we all drifted apart, those two stayed together. Why? Don't ask me, really, don't. Out of all of us I would have thought that those two would be the least likely to stay close. Or rather, in their case, become close. Every time Kenny died Butters was the only one who mourned.
The rest of us were accustomed with it. In elementary school it wasn't a normal week if Kenny didn't die at some point. But for Butters when Kenny, the first real friend he had, died, even though he would inevitably come back the next day, it was the end of the world. In eighth grade Kenny died at some point. Spring I think. Yeah, it was spring, because we were playing baseball in Physical Education when it happened and I remember Kyle throwing his bat to the ground and calling someone a bastard.
Ever since then Kenny's been easily excitable. Even through that confident attitude he shoves in your face. You can tell by his blue eyes, just one look at them, that he's always worried. I would think it's because he's worried about dying. But I have the feeling it's something else. I think he's more worried about what him dying could do to other people – namely Butters. Because, if they were friends in middle school, they must be something more than that now. It's confusing, because you would think they're best friends, but that spot is filled by Cartman.
I overanalyze things.
I sigh; I need a cigarette, and by some luck I have one from a few days ago and I light it. We're by the basketball court, the one we used to play on as kids. Kenny takes a detour and I follow. There's a group of kids playing on the court. I recognize one of them to be Kyle's younger brother, whose name I can never remember, but whose face is easily recognizable. I glare. Stupid Canadians. Kenny sits down on a bench, so I do too. We watch them play basketball until it begins to feel a little creepy.
"So, what is it?" I asked, resignedly. Once Kenny has you, you're trapped, you're going to listen to what he says whether you like it or not. I know I won't like it. I instinctively tap my cigarette, the ashes fall down like burning embers to the blacktop. Kenny watches them with his eyes. I'm so extremely jealous of his eyes. We both have blue eyes. But Kenny's – shit, man, they're hypnotizing. He's about a million times more attractive than me in every way. Needless to say, it annoys the fuck out of me.
"Mm," he says, looking up at the sky. The same color as his eyes – cerulean. I think he's trying to figure out how to say what he wants to say. "Tweek's your best friend, right?"
"Yeah," I say, less naturally than I used to answer that question, but still assertive.
"But you want something more than that," he says, matter-of-factly, like its common knowledge or even a fact. It's not a fact, it's a stupid assumption he's come to in that sick, twisted mind of his and he has absolutely no proof behind it at all. But he sounds so confident as he keeps his eyes on the blue sky up above. "It's pretty obvious, to be honest. I think we all know, we just don't admit it to each other. It's unsaid, but it's well-known. You know it too, Craig, but you're not just keeping it from us. Oh, no."
He turns to look at me now, so fucking perceptive as he is, and says, "You're keeping it from yourself too."
"You're wrong," I tell him, looking away from that intense gaze Kenny as. "I mean, I love Tweek, I do. I'm not afraid to admit that. We've been best friends since we were nine. We're not Stan and Kyle or anything, but we're pretty damn close. We share everything; we know everything about each other. I look out for him and he does the same for me. It's that simple, nothing more; don't make it out to be something it's not, Kenny."
"But, dude, come on," Kenny says, imploring me with his eyes. "Think about it. I know you don't want to admit it. But just think about it for a second. You never stay in relationships, ever. The only people that you've ever been remotely close to, besides Tweek are Token and Clyde and well…and Thomas, but let's not get into that." At the third name I immediately tense up, because those are memories I never want to think about again. "There's something between you two, I just know it."
"What would you know?" I reply scathingly. "Jesus, Kenny, you're always giving out this sort of advice, but you never take it for yourself. Obviously you, fine, you do know shit about relationships and I'm not saying that means you're right, but if you're such a genius with all this shit, then why are you single all the time? You know, as well as the rest of us, that you're…"
"Fucking hot?" Kenny says with a snort. "So I've been told by practically every girl I've ever met. But who gives a fuck? If they're that shallow, and I know they are, I don't want anything to do with them. Besides that, the only person I've ever really…wanted, I guess, is definitely out of reach, and I'm not getting them any time soon."
"What happened to that whole 'never give up' shit you spewed at Stan about Wendy?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
"Hey, since when does the Preacher listen to his own sermons?" Kenny points out. "Anyway, that was a nice detour, but don't think you're getting me off topic that easily. Topic being, you can't ignore your feelings. Doing that doesn't make them go away." I take a long drag of my cigarette and glare at him, mentally flipping him off. "I don't care if it's right now or later, you're going to have to eventually do something about this."
"Why?" I ask, angrily. "Even if I do – but I don't – like Tweek that way, he's straight. We all know my sexual preferences fall under undecided, but his are constantly and consistently, forever and always, straight as a fucking board." My cigarette is nearly gone, but I'm not in the mood for it anyway, I throw it down to the ground and stomp on it, unleashing my fury on the inanimate object.
Kenny seems to actually consider this. Chances are, he hasn't thought of this yet. Kenny is completely convinced every one of us, here on this beautiful planet we call Earth, is bisexual until proven otherwise. "Well, normally, I'd say you don't know that," he admits, "but yeah, Tweek's straight, pretty much. With one exception." He holds up one gloved finger and practically glows as he pokes my chest. "You."
"No," I breathe, fervently, but quietly.
"Yeah, Craig, he likes you, I know he does, he wears his emotions on his sleeves, actually, I think he just wears his emotions, period," Kenny says, thoughtfully, leaning back to look back up at the sky. "I mean, seriously, you two are practically written in the stars. It's perfect, you're meant for each other. Do you know how hard that is to watch? Two people who are meant for each other just…throwing that away? Honestly, this is so easy for you two. You have the ability to be happy with him, why are you running away from it?"
"Because, for the millionth time, there's nothing between us," I tell him, exasperated. I knew Kenny was hard to shake off, I knew he would insist things until your head exploded from denying them, but I never imagined he would act like this. Usually he lets things go after a little bit. He's easygoing like that. Sure, he'll act like a smug bitch who knows something you don't, but by now he should have given up with the whole you're-gay-for-Tweek thing. It's preposterous.
"Oh, right, just like there's 'nothing between' Kyle and Christophe," the blond says, rolling his eyes as he says their names.
"What?" I cry, honestly and completely shocked.
"Yeah, that's been going on for, what, four months now?" he says. "August, September…yeah, four months. I can't believe no one else has noticed it. I called it when Christophe transferred in tenth grade, for Satan's sake. Too bad Kyle's got it bad for Stan now. Now that Christophe knows, him and Jewboy are totally falling apart and Kyle doesn't know how to tell Stan, obviously, because how would Stan react to hearing all that at once?"
"How in the fuck do you know all of that?" I ask in one breath, awed.
"I know everything, about everyone," he responds, simply. "Don't forget that, Craig."
I sigh, close my eyes, tight and lean forward. "The thing about Tweek," I say slowly, keeping my eyes glued to the blacktop, "is that…even if we did…and he…and I both…I would ruin it. I would hurt him. You and I both know I would. I'm not a good person, Kenny. I'd lie to him, I'd get pissed at him and hurt him and things would end badly and I just – I can't hurt him like that."
"You have a point," Kenny says, with a small shrug. "The thing is, anyone can hurt anyone. That's what relationships are. Trusting the other person to not hurt you and trusting yourself not to hurt them. So you've come to a crossroads, Craig, so fucking what? Everyone has to make this choice. Either you risk it or you abandon all hope immediately. You've just been sitting here, doing nothing. Well, now you have to make a choice. Do something or continue doing nothing. What's it going to be?"
I choose neither. I choose worse. I don't tell Kenny what I'm going to do though, because just the thought of it is killing me. I barely sleep and what sleep I do get is plagues with dreams where I mess everything up, where Tweek is left, broken to pieces, where I try and find Kenny to ask him what to do, but he doesn't hear me because he has his hood up again and Butters is crying because Kenny's dead. When I wake up I can't stop thinking about it, what I'm going to do, not just to Tweek but to all of them. I'm such a terrible person; I don't think I deserve any of them.
My mom makes breakfast, but I just stare at it in the morning. My little sister, Millie, pulls on my hat, my sleeve, my hair, asking me what's wrong, but I don't answer her. I just stay silent and stare at the food in front of me. My mom glares at me as I get up from the table and walk away. I don't turn around, but I know she's given me the finger, because that's how my family works. We're just a cycle of bad feelings and rudeness. Maybe I was brought up to ruin everything.
I wait for the bus in complete silence. I don't think I even breathe. It's like I'm immersed underwater but not making any fight to surface, just giving myself up complete to the mercy of the water that surrounds me, letting my lungs gasp for air, but getting some sick pleasure out of denying them what they so desperately need. The bus pulls up to my stop. I get on, I avoid everyone's eyes, and I walk right past them all.
It's just my luck – ha, like I have any – that Gregory isn't here today. I sit next to Christophe. He looks at me, wary, hurt, I can tell. What Kenny said was definitely true, because the French boy looks troubled, hurt, like he'll never be the same any more. Yeah? I want to tell him. Think you have it hard? I could tell him why I've got it worse. At least he had time with Kyle.
Because I've given it all up. I'm going back to the old days, in middle school, back to hanging out with the Foreign Kids. It works like this. I can't hurt Tweek, but I can't get over him with him being right near me every second, either. And we're a group, all eight of us. We eat lunch together, we go places together. I sleepover with some of them, goddammit. I can't be close to anyone, because then I have to be close to all of them, and then I have to be close to Tweek and I'm right back to where I started.
So here I am, here I'll sit, and here I'll get over it. Eventually I can go back, eventually I can see them again if they'll take me back and eventually we'll all get over it. I can explain it to all of them. Kenny knows what's going on, he gets it by now. Maybe he'll tell some of them what a pussy I am, for deserting them all just to avoid getting hurt. But this isn't about me, not in the least. I've said it before and I'll say it again. I never want to disappoint Tweek, and if I ever hurt him I wouldn't be able to live with myself.
I'll avoid them, do everything I can to prevent that from happening. Even though it hurts, more than you can know, to do this. No one will ever understand this, no matter how long I spend explaining it to them. It's this intense feeling, like hurting Tweek would be the end of the world, the proverbial Apocalypse, if you will. Maybe what I'm doing is stupid. Maybe I'll look back on this and ask myself why I ever thought it was a good idea. But right now?
Right now I'll just sit next to Christophe while we both pity ourselves and the choices we have to make.
"Cigarette?" he offers, a few hours later, out back during lunch.
I take one wordlessly, lean closer as he lights it for me and then I inhale deeply, enjoying the feeling of the toxins in my lungs and then letting all the smoke out, watching it filter, swirling and twirling in intricate patterns, up into the early afternoon sky. Tainting the bright blue with its deep gray. Neither one of us says anything for a moment as we sit, side by side, staring blankly ahead. Damien and Pip have apparently decide not to curse, er, grant us with their ever-growing one-person appearance.
I can't say I'm too upset about that fact.
"Where iz your blond, twitchy friend? Does 'e not 'old your interest as 'e used to?" Christophe finally asks. I look over at him. He's not smoking, but his cigarette is lit. He's using it to burn marks into those stupid, fingerless gloves he wears. Maybe in France they're all the rage, but he's the only one wearing them here. They're not practical in the least. But, who am I talk; I was the first one to sit in the snow.
"He's not my friend anymore," I say through gritted teeth, tensing at the mere mention of him. I don't know whether that last statement was true or not. If it was a lie, I could at least feel somewhat content telling it, but instead I have no idea how to feel. By now I haven't turned up at lunch for the third day in a row, and Kenny…well he knows what I'm doing. He'll have figured it out by now. But will he tell them?
"Ah, I see," Christophe says. He's moved on to the sleeves of his dirty, black shirt and actually succeeds burning all the way through the thin material. I watch, bored. "Zat iz odd, non? You two always seemed to be togezer, like et was, well, meant to be, I suppose you could say. Were you not best friends wiz 'im?" He says 'best friends' in the most hateful way you can imagine.
"Not. Any. More," I say, stabbing my cigarette into the snow with each word and leaving it there after I'm done speaking.
Christophe looks at me and I mean really looks at me. Not like you normally look at a person. He has this way of looking at you and seeing right through you. I don't mean that ignoring thing most girls do, not like I don't exist. More like everything you're trying to hide is hidden right behind you and he just uses X-ray vision to find out what you're hiding from him. Yeah, that's Christophe alright, a regular Superman.
"Not any more as Kyle and I are not any more," he says after a moment of silence, decidedly. He takes the cigarette and throws it a few feet in front of us.
"Well, not really," I tell him. Of course I'm avoiding his eyes, I avoid everyone's eyes. I don't want them to see what feelings are in my own or, worse yet, the pity I know is in their eyes. "I don't want to hurt him. I know I will, I'm a fucking dick. There's no question about it, we would end badly. And I'm just not up to hurting him, you know? I have to kind of get over him and I can't do that when I'm constantly around him."
"So you do not tell any of zem?" he questions. "Et iz only my opinion, I know zat what I say will not 'ave any effect on you, but zat seems a bit foolish to me. Now zey are all are not going to understand. Especially ze twitchy one. If you two were as close as I believe you were, zen zis will not end well for 'im in zis way either. But, et iz your choice, not mine, as I 'ave said, you are ze only one who can make zis decision."
"Will everyone stop telling me how this is my choice?" I cry out of frustration, leaning forward so my head is resting on my knees, so I can let the emotions flood my eyes without him seeing. "I don't want to do this, but none of them would understand. It's better that they don't know. I don't want them to know, especially not Tweek. If any of them knew I would never get over it. And I have to get over it, 'Tophe, there's no other way. As bad as this might end, that would be worse. Whether we got together or not. If Tweek doesn't feel the same way, he'll freak out about it and then there's no chance we'll be friends. If I hurt Tweek I'll never forgive myself."
"I understand," he responds, with a small sigh. I look up and see it instantly, the pain that fills his eyes. "I know, et iz like, wizout zem, you feel lost, but ze fear of 'urting zem, of et ending badly, zat iz a million times more painful, iz et not? You care about zem so much zat the very idea of zat 'appening iz enough to forfeit your own 'appiness to benefit zeir own. All because you love zem."
"I don't love him, not that way," I protest, weakly. Christophe just looks at me, knowingly.
"You can keep telling yourself zat," he says, quietly, eyes averting to the snowy ground, "but trust me when I say, et does not 'elp very much."
"I know about you and Kyle," I blurt out, blushing as he looks at me now. "I mean, I didn't know when I told you about…what I told you about. I just – Kyle told me and I thought he did something that he didn't. But, I just did the one thing I thought would hurt him." I'm playing with the long sleeves of my shirt, trying to not let my face grow any redder. "And I'm sorry, 'Tophe, that I was the one who told you. I really am."
"Do not worry about et," he says softly, putting a hand on my shoulder. His eyes are kind, and I know he means what he says, but it hurts him, I know it does, more than he'll ever admit. Because, fuck, Christophe is stronger than I am, than any of us are, and he'll get through this, I know he will. "I believe zat et was only a matter of time, before somezing 'appened. Per'aps we were not meant to be, or, more likely, I am destined to be alone, but zere is no reason to apologize, Nommel, for et is better zat I found out from a friend zen from someone who I did not trust."
When he calls me his friend I'm slightly shocked. Never before has he called me his friend. All through middle school when we hung out every day, we weren't friends. Even after I went to his house a few times and got thrown out by his mother every single time. I still wasn't his friend. But now he says I am, and I believe him. Right now I'm pretty sure he's the only friend I have, anyway.
To be honest, that's a little scary. Because I'm only friends with half of him.
The bell rings and we stand up. My pants are a bit damp from the snow, but I don't really mind, because he doesn't seem to mind either. We walk back into school together and I'm immediately scared. I didn't talk much through my first three classes, but everyone seemed to just think I was tired, and I am, I'm exhausted, but by now they must have figured out that I'm avoiding them all.
I must be walking too close to Christophe, because he kind of nudges me out of my little freak-out with his elbow and gives me a look. I somehow manage a pathetic smile to him and he snorts a little French laugh at me as we reach his locker and he spins the dial between his gloved fingers. My heart is pounding in my chest as I see Tweek along with Token and Clyde walking down the hall.
"Uh, uh, 'Tophe," I say, softly, my voice much too high for my liking.
He looks up at me from his Math book, looks at my face, then down the hallway and spots them. It's like he can read my mind. I think that's why he does what he does, at least, reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder. "Laugh," he demands, working up what I guess you could call a smile on his face. I cock my head, looking at him questioningly. "Just laugh, so zat zey don't see you looking like a pussy! Jesus, Nommel."
And so I laugh, not loud and fake, but normally, convincing, a lie without saying any words. Christophe doesn't laugh with me, but he gives me a smile and pats me on the shoulder. By the time he's turned back to his math book and I'm done laughing the three people I'm trying to avoid are gone. They've gotten the message by now. They just don't understand why it's being sent. My heart isn't pounding any more, it's pitifully broken.
"Skip sixth hour with me," I tell him.
"Why?" he says, warily, as he shuts his locker door.
"They're all in my class," I whine, well aware of how dismal I sound. "Please, 'Tophe?"
I know I have him when he flushes at the nickname. "Well, all I 'ave zen is Shop anyway. I do not even think ze teacher takes attendance. I suppose we will be skipping tomorrow, zen as well?"
"Zere iz a very 'igh possibility, oui," I say, mimicking his accent. He growls at me and hits my arm with his math book. Still, as we part ways I can't help to feel a little content with this situation. Christophe is a far cry from a replacement for any of my friends. But, really, he's the only one I've got. And while he might not be amazing and wonderful and simply peachy keen, he'll have to do for now.
"Love iz sheet," Christophe says. It's Friday, the third day in a row that we've skipped sixth hour together. We're in the park, sitting on one of the benches, watching old women with their dogs walk by and little kids play in the snow. A couple of people give us odd looks, but no one really bothers to say anything. By the third day we've realized that there's no point in trying to hide the fact that we're skipping.
In South Park, no one really cares.
"You can say that again," I agree with a nod, flipping off an elderly lady who stares at us for a few seconds more than she should.
"Not only," the French boy continues, "is love sheet. Everyzing zat comes along wiz it is sheet too. Because, I would 'ave to naturally assume, most love et iz unrequited, non? And, if zat iz so, zen only one person gets ze feelings of love, and zat iz never a good zing. No matter 'ow wonderful et iz to see ze person zat you love, if zey do not return your feelings zere is a certain emptiness. And zat is complete sheet."
"Fucking seriously, dude," I say, nodding again. "Who wants to feel like that all the time? And then if you even get together with them, it lasts, what, a few months." Christophe rolls his eyes and nods. "What the fuck is that? A few months of happiness and then it's all over with just a few words? It's fucked up. Even married people, they just end up hating each other or getting divorced."
"Everyone 'as a soulmate," Christophe says, morbidly. "But what use iz zat when zere are billions of people in ze world?"
This is all we talk about. Christophe will be starting his God-is-a-faggot speech any second now. He's one of the most cynical people I've ever met and, believe it or not, it's that logic that's helping me through this. If I can believe the world is fucked up, then it's not just me. I'm not the bad guy here, the rest of the world is. We just sit wherever we feel like, today the park and yesterday the mall, the day before on the outskirts of town, and bitch about everything we think isn't fair. Mainly we talk about how fucked up and unfair love is.
Because it hurt both of us and we need to hear someone else agree, that we don't deserve this and it's not our fault. Even though, in my case, I think it is, and in his case, it's really no one's. We just like to hear that. It makes everything a little easier to bear. A little injection of anti-hope hopefulness into every day, that's what hanging around Christophe is for me. It's like this hope that there is no hope. Sort of like when people just decide they're going to die anyway so they might as well go out and start living life. Us? We just decided that love ends badly for everyone so why even bother with it.
"God just likes to play wiz our emotions," he growls. I knew it was coming. Now I can sit back and just listen while he rambles on, in some sort of '101 Reasons Why God Is A Cocksucker' list. It's relaxing in a weird way. "'e gives us ze ability to love someone but 'e also decides zat 'e can ruin it just like that." The French boy snaps his fingers in front of my face, causing me to jump slightly. He smiles that crooked, rare, half-smile of his. "And – ah, what do you want?"
I look away from Christophe to discover Clyde approaching us. School must have ended; time must have run by without us even taking notice. Christophe looks angry, almost protective of me, which is kind of surprising, I have to admit. Clyde just glares at him for a moment, and then turns to me. "Dude," he says, his voice harsh, "what…the fuck have you been doing the past few days?"
"This," I say, blandly. "What's it to you?"
"What's it – what the fuck do you mean, what's it to me?" Clyde says, his voice escalating in volume. "Fuck, Craig, do you even know – well of course you don't. Seeing as you've been spending your days simply attached to this fucker. Jesus Christ, haven't you even noticed what this is doing to Tweek?" I don't meet his eyes, I look away, my heart makes a tiny flutter in my chest when I hear his name.
"I don't care," I say, my voice barely audible.
Clyde laughs mirthlessly. "Sure you don't Craig," he says. "I don't know why you're doing what you're doing, but no one's happy about it. None of us are. Not only is Tweek freaking out about it, we're all losing a friend here. Even Cartman has looked a little less smug recently. I know Kenny talked to you and he won't say about what, but ever since then you're acting like none of us exist. Kyle said you requested to switch partners and now you're working with Gregory? Dude, you fucking hate him."
"Shut up!" I finally yell, standing up. I'd a few inches taller than Clyde, and he looks a bit surprised that I jump up and yell with such force, so he backs up a little bit, putting his hands up in defense. I echo his laugh of a few moments earlier. "Stop talking about what this is doing to all of you. Do you think that I like this? There's a reason I'm doing this. And it's none of your fucking business what is, Clyde! Make your own assumptions, try and figure it out, but don't accuse me of anything until you know it's the truth. I am not happy with what I'm doing right now, so don't think I am!"
"Then come back," Clyde says, his voice softening, his eyes looking sad. Just like him, exactly like him. Cold and harsh for a second or two and then reduced to looking like he's about to cry. It kills me, it really does, but I can't turn back now. I was getting close. I am getting close. I'm not over him yet, but I can do this if I have just a little while longer, I know I can. "You're our friend, Craig; nothing is going to change that. I just don't get why after all this time you choose now to desert us and for – for what…him?"
Now I get it. I see the look in Clyde's eyes. They've come to the conclusion that I chose Christophe over them. When that's not it at all. But when that's exactly what it must look like. I open my mouth to say something, but I have nothing to say, because I can't explain myself without having to explain what's really going on and I'm scared to tell Clyde. Because I'm lucky that Kenny's kept his mouth shut, but who knows how lucky I'll be with Clyde? So I do what I always do. I close up, harden, allow myself to get angry and flip him off.
To my surprise, Clyde doesn't get mad at me. I suppose I should have known. His eyes get wide, because he knows that wasn't just a frivolous thing. Not like usual. He knows that I meant it. But I didn't mean for him to get so upset. I feel a hand on my shoulder. Christophe, who has been watching to whole thing silently, pushes past me. "I suggest zat you leave 'im alone," he says. Not cold or harsh, but not kind either. Neutral and unfeeling. He looks back at me, then back to Clyde. "At least until 'e iz ready to talk to you, oui?"
Clyde sniffles and nods, gives me one last, forlorn look, and then he walks away, leaving me to sit down next to Christophe in this park full of people, feeling utterly alone.
It's the weekend and Christophe is grounded for calling God a faggot one too many times in front of his mother. "Et iz blasphemy!" he tells me over the phone. "I am only saying zat which I know to be true." I just laugh, because though he tries to joke about it and tell me I'll be fine this weekend I can't help but feel that I won't. I need people around me right now. And who else do I have?
"Goddammit," I mutter to myself as I stand on the porch of Butter Stotch's house.
We're not exactly friends, I muse, as I push the doorbell and hear the faint sound of it ringing from inside the house. We're not friends at all. But if there's one person who's completely forgiving and easy to talk to, it's Butters. And, for the life of me, I can't get angry at him, unless he naively doesn't understand something. Maybe it's desperation that's led me to his front door. Need for some comforting human contact.
The door is answered by his mother. "Hello," I say in a monotone, "is Butters home?"
"Why, yes," she says, plastering on a fake smile. "Would you like to come in?"
No, lady, I was just wondering if he was home so I could go back to mine and call him. I plaster on my own smile and push into the warm house past her. "I would positively love to," I say in a false, cheery voice, turning around to bat my eyelashes for her. She doesn't like me, I can tell. I'm going on the Kids Who Can't Ever Hang Out With My Son list. She's mentally memorizing my appearance. And next will come the fateful question.
"What's your name?" she asks, like she actually cares for reasons other than seeing if she knows my mom.
"Clyde Donovan," I say dryly. What can I say? Payback's a bitch. And so is Butter's mom.
"Oh, yes, I know your mother from the PTA," she says, the smile getting even more forced. I resist the urge to laugh in her face. She resists the urge to tell me to leave because my 'mom' is the kind of woman she hates. Clyde's mom is liberal. Not like Kyle's mom. Clyde's mom is more into woman's rights and she's constantly getting into fights, some of which I've witnessed, with her husband about it. Hence why they're constantly separated, then not, separated, then not and on until one or both of them die.
"She's a lovely woman," I say, slathering on the sarcasm.
"Indeed she is." We both smile at each other. "Well, Butters is upstairs in his room with his friend. The one with the orange parka. Normally I wouldn't allow them to be in his room alone but they're working on some sort of project." Oh, yeah, I can really see them working on a 'project' together. "Are you working on the same thing with them?" she asks, her smile twitching slightly.
"Oh, oh yeah," I say, nodding. Jesus, this smile is starting to hurt. How do people keep this up all the time? "We're, like, best friends, you know. We work on all our projects together." She nods and we smile for a few quiet seconds. "So I'm just going to go upstairs then. Now. Upstairs, to work on the, uh, the project." She nods again and I head towards the stairs, mind spinning.
Why didn't I just say I wasn't working on the project? I don't want to talk to Kenny and Butters. That's not the point here. The point is to get away from them. But I'm craving human contact; I'm craving real conversation, not just over the phone. I need to be face to face with someone. Right now I have no one else to go to, so this is the only option I have. The stairs take forever to walk up; each step I take is agonizingly drawn out. At least if it was just Butters I could get a little, stuttered welcome, but now I have no idea what to expect.
It's only when I get to the top of the stairs that I realize I have no idea which room is Butter's. But I would have to imagine it's the one with the drawing of an airplane on the door. There are two figures in the airplane, but I don't really give a fuck. I just push open the door and find Butters sitting on his bed and Kenny sitting on the floor, talking. They both stop whatever they're doing and look up at me.
"Oh, h-hey, Craig!" Butters says, predictably innocent. He's leaning over a poster board, gluing little pieces of paper onto it. What do you know; they really are working on a project. "Well, golly gee, what brings you here?"
"Yeah," Kenny says, "what does bring you here?" He's looking at me indifferently. I know he doesn't really care about what I did. He's not like Clyde, he doesn't sound angry or upset. He knows I made a choice and maybe he doesn't understand it, but he's obviously accepted it and moved on, he just wants to know why the fuck I'm in Butters' house right now.
"Dunno," I reply, easily, walking into the room and closing the door behind myself. "Told your mom I was working this project with you, but that was just a lie. So if she says something, just tell her I'm working on it." I sit against the edge of Butters' bed and look at the poster board. It's something about Picasso, and I remember they're in Art Appreciation together. Butters seems to be doing most of the work, but of course Kenny's getting credit for it.
"Oh no, I can't do that," Butters says, shocked at the very suggestion. "L-lyin' is – it's wrong. My dad says, he does, 'Butters, y-ya ever lie to us and we'll lock ya in the basement like we done when you were in fourth grade. A-an' we won't feed ya or nothin' at all.' You shouldn't ever lie to your parents, it's just plain wrong." After this little outburst he goes back to humming and gluing a printed out picture of a piece of art onto the poster board.
I look at Kenny in surprise. He shrugs, but has this small little amused smile on his face. And he's staring at Butters almost dreamily, I think, sort of appreciative, I guess. But of what? I can't imagine. They're such polar opposites, Butters and Kenny, but I guess that's sort of how these things work. Still I never would have thought…or maybe I'm reading way too much into this. Angry at myself, I flip off no one in particular.
"So, Craig, why've you been h-hangin' out with Christophe so much?" Butters says, biting his tongue, literally, as he makes sure the paper is aligned just right on the poster board.
"Oh, um, you noticed?" I asked, surprised that he even brought this up.
"W-well, yeah," Butters says, seriously, looking up at me. "Ya look real sad all the time now, an' so do all your friends. 'Specially Tweek." He frowns to himself and then cracks his knuckles together. "Y'all look so hurt, I can't help b-but notice, ya know? An', well, I don' mean nothin' hurtful by this, but no one really hang out with Christophe, ya know? He's always a-all alone. So I always notice when someone is with him, 'cause that seems to make him happy. But what good is that, w-when everyone else looks so sad?"
It's the innocence and honesty, I realize, as I stare at Butters in admiration. That's why Kenny likes Butters so much. He'll unabashedly tell you what's going on and you can't get angry at him because he's so innocently right. He might not mean to, but he gets right to the point. He's so right, so completely right that it's shocking. I look at Kenny again and there's that look, the one he doesn't give anyone but Butters. Kenny respects Butters more than the other blond will ever know. At least, until Kenny tells him, but I expect he will one day. Or at least, I hope he will.
"Hey, Craig?" Butters says tentatively.
"Uh, w-what, Butters?" I ask, still in a bit of a stupor.
"D'ya…d'ya think ya love him?" he asks. "T-Tweek, I mean."
"I don't love Tweek," I say suddenly, harshly, painfully. At the same time that it hurts, I feel a rush of relief flood into my head. Quick balance, the line I tread so perilously between falling apart and imploding from emotional overload comes back into view. I can once again think, breathe and walk easily. Everything is alright with the universe all because I just said that.
Lying always calms my nerves.
A/N: 'Ah, omg, what, oh no, Craig you're such a bitch. Where the fuck is Tweek?' Things that went through my head while writing this and may have gone through yours while reading. Overwhelming lack of Tweek, I know. There's reason for this, obviously. Like, important part of the plotline reason, if you paid attention.
Please note, my mommy is getting married and I'm moving and all this hectic stuff is happening next week, so updates might be slower than they have been. Although I'll be a lot more willing to make time to work on this story if you guys continue being the great reviewers you are. Go on, entice me update quicker, you know you want to.
Also, any of you who have a Livejournal should add me. Message me if you want my username or just ask for it in your review and I'll reply with it.
Until next time, tweekers