Addict

A/N: I completely hate this chapter. Ugh.
So I'm writing this chapter, right? Right. And I think I have it saved, so I go watch Law and Order at, like, six in the morning and fall asleep halfway through. Well, I wake up and somehow, someway, my laptop got shut down and it turns out, no, I never saved the chapter. So basically, I have a terrible temper and refused to write for a day and then felt really bad and wrote all of this on a coffee hype. Sorry in advance.
Beginning of this is a dream, but it's short anyway. Thank you once again for all your reviews. Some of you leave these really long, epic, paragraphs and it makes me die with happy. Might I warn that things are slowly, but surely, getting fluffier? :D
The title for this chapter comes from 'Fall For You' by Secondhand Serenade. I'm not…whoever that guy is.
By the way I'm way too exhausted to edit this chapter right now, so if there are any mistakes, sorry. Dx
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 Five: Tonight Will Be The Night

"What are you doing?" I ask, reaching out to only feel the cool, glass of the mirror I'm looking into. The reflection smiles, smirks really, back at me. But it's not me, it never has been me. That person isn't me, no matter how much he's ingrained in people's minds. No matter how stubborn and unchanging he seems to be. He isn't me and I don't want to be him.

The only logical solution seems to be to destroy the mirror that hangs on the wall of this empty room that is my mind. But that leads me to wonder. Which one of us is real? If I destroy him, will I destroy myself by default? But he's taunting me, he's angry and he wants attention and he flips me off and smirks at me around a cigarette. And I want to get angry back, I want to match my reflection and lash out and break the mirror by sheer force, whether it destroys me or not.

Until Tweek comes. Because with Tweek there, smiling at me, even as he twitches and shudders under my touch, everything is perfect. Everything melts. The mirror is gone, and I'm just me and Tweek is just Tweek and the only thing that matters is that we're together. That is, until Tweek melts too, the second I get to hold him in my arms. Why does he melt? I'm incapable of talking, incapable of saying anything and now I'm completely alone.

Alone, just as I belong, because without fail I hurt everyone I become close to. It's only a matter of time before I destroy myself. The mirror is right in front of me again. I'm back in the empty room. "Why are you doing this to me?" I ask him – me – him, close to tears as he sneers at me from inside his own world. I answer myself, I become him, because even if I don't want to be him, I am him. "You're doing this to yourself."

Everything fades.

I wake up, nearly jumping off of my bed. I remember the dream completely, but I know I dreamed more than that. There was something before and something after, but that short interlude is all my mind chooses to let me remember. I kind of wish I didn't remember it, because it's going to end up plaguing me all day, infecting every corner of my mind with its vile truth.

It's early in the morning, it's Sunday, and right now I should be at church. Actually, as I walk into the kitchen and see the clock on the oven, I realize my parents must have just left.They didn't even bother to wake me up. Yesterday when I came home from Butters' house I skipped dinner, which is essentially something I've only ever done one other time, and retreated to my room for the rest of the night.

There's a note on the counter, in my mom's angry, scribbled handwriting, the left corner of it is stuck under the coffee-maker. I think God is playing cruel jokes on me these days. Maybe Jesus is even in on it. The note is a bunch of bullshit about how they're worried about me and they're going over to the Donovan's house after church and should be back around noon. I tear the note into neat little pieces until it's practically confetti in my hands and then throw it all up into the air, turning on my heel and heading for the bathroom.

I hate that awkward moment in time while you wait for the water of the shower to adjust. Usually I like the water burning hot, scalding. To the point where most people would would whine and complain about water pressure and whatever the fuck else they blame for it. I love it, but I hate waiting for the water to reach the temperature I want. What ensues is me flipping off nothing in particular, just the entire shower in general and glowering at it.

Most people take off their clothes to take a shower and, for the most part I'm part of that group. But today is a little bit different, I'm a little bit out of it, a little bit fed up with living inside society's norm. So when I feel the water and it stings my skin, I simply step in. Boxers, sweatshirt, hat and all. I just let the steaming water pour over me and before I know it, I'm crying. Let's get one thing straight. I don't cry. Well, obviously I do, but it's just not something you're going to catch me doing very often, if at all.

My emotional range tends to stay somewhere between angry, irritated and somewhat content. Rarely do I break out of this mold. For me to be like this, standing in the shower, leaning against the light blue tiles on the wall as the water runs over me, crying like a fucking baby, is very odd. Perhaps it's recent events, abandoning everyone, but I don't think that's it. I think it's everything. I haven't cried in a while, and I don't even want to think about the last time I cried.

The amazing part is, as soon as I reach down and turn the water on the shower off, my own waterworks are gone. Suddenly I'm angry at myself for letting this happen. I don't cry. I told myself I wouldn't after what happened a year ago. I made a promise to myself to stop being so vulnerable. I never showed it, but I always was. In the privacy of my own room I was the weakest person in the world. But after last year – last summer to be more accurate – I completely shut down. I became even more angry, more of a jerk, more full of myself. I'd like to say it's a defense mechanism.

But I think it's just who I am.

I walk out of the bathroom, drops of water falling soundly onto the carpet of the hallway. In a fit of rage, anger directed only at myself, I grab the soaking wet hat off my head and throw it down the hall. It makes a loud, gross sound as it hits the mirror that hangs at the end of the hallway. I hate mirrors, and it's not a recent hate from the dream I had. I've always hated mirrors. The world would be a better place if no one knew what they looked like. I have the urge to break the mirror and I'm almost about to.

But the doorbell rings. And at half past eight on a Sunday morning, that can only mean one thing. I open the the door up and find Kyle Broflovski looking at me sheepishly. "Hey," he says, surveying my appearance with interest. I can't blame him. I didn't take the time to dry off at all. My clothes are starting to get really uncomfortable and my hair must be doing crazy things.

"Hey," I reply. Then I turn around, leaving the door open so he can come inside, and walk towards my room. "I'm going to change," I say after I hear him shut the front door. I don't turn around, just walk into my room and quickly change. And I mean quickly. Like, record time. I peel off my sweatshirt and boxers because they're literally clinging to my form, and change into the same basic outfit, just different colors. I shake out my hair a few times until it's still damp but I can live with it.

Kyle's made himself at home. He's looking through my cupboards, probably for something to suit his Kosher and diabetic needs. I doubt we have what he's looking for, but I wait for him to notice that I'm back in amused silence. When he finally turns around he looks just as awkward as he did when I opened the door. "Why are you here?" I ask him as I lean against the counter. He's staring at the 'confetti' I threw everywhere.

"Did a paper shredder throw up?" he asks, sounding completely serious.

"My mom left me a note. I don't like when she leaves me notes," I say. Kyle raises his eyebrows and just barely hides a small smile. "Anyway, why are you for the first time in months?" No one ever comes over to my house besides Tweek. Everyone else hates how my family argues and how we all arbitrarily flip each other off. It makes them feel weird and out of place, I know it does.

"Clyde said he talked to you," Kyle says.

"Yeah, so?" I reply, not sure why this would matter so much to Kyle of all people.

"You were with Christophe, and Clyde said that, um, he was acting kind of – protctive over you?" he adds, voice automatically sounding melancholy when he mentions the French boy. Somehow he manages to keep his face blank, eyes avoiding mine as he traces abstract shapes on the counter top with his finger. I feel bad at the same time that I don't. Obviously he's confused and hurt. But at the same time, so is Christophe, and Kyle has made no attempt to, as far as I know, talk to him. Yet he has the nerve to come talk to me about it? Fucking Jew.

"It's a possibility," I tell him, smiling at him with blatantly fake innocence. Let him think what he wants to, it's fun to watch him get angry. It's not fun, however, when he shoves me, hard, and I stumble back, half from the the force and half from surprise because I had no idea he was about to do that. "What the fuck, Kyle?" I yell at him, using my favorite form of non-verbal swearing to double the impact of what I said.

"Don't joke about that shit, Craig," Kyle says, getting a lot more irritated than I would have suspected. But I guess, knowing what I do now about him and Christophe, I'm forced to accept his reaction. "I know that I haven't exactly…been there, you could say. But that really doesn't give you the right to just, to just – take my place, like that."

"Kyle, I'm joking," I say, slowly, as if I'm explaining this to my little sister. "I mean, first off, I don't have a thing for Christophe, especially when you consider how much his bitchy alter-ego hates me. Secondly, even if I did take your place, you have no right to get mad at me, because you're the one that's avoiding him, not the other way around. If 'Tophe wants to replace you with me, that's his deal, and I'm not trying to play a part in it."

"But, Craig," he says, dragging out my name in that annoying way he does, "you don't understand."

"Alright, I don't understand," I agree, shrugging. "Why don't you talk to someone who will? Like Stan or something?" I'm trying to point out the fact that, out of everyone Kyle could have chosen to talk to about this, I am ultimately the most illogical. Hell, he could have talked to Cartman about this before me! He's obviously noticed that I've been absent from our little group for some time now and I've been spending my time with his…whatever Christophe is to him now, the entire time. So why talk to me?

I walk out of the kitchen and he follows me as I make my way into my living room. "Stan doesn't know, you know that," he says, voice still miserable.

"Kenny, then," I say with a shrug, sitting on the couch.

He sits next to me, just a little too close for comfort, which really isn't that close at all. Right now I don't want to be close to anyone. "He doesn't like it," Kyle admits. "Kenny thinks Christophe is just…not right. For me, at least. And, you know, maybe he's right, but I feel like he's being kind of biased, to be completely honest."

"Ah, he's more of a fan of you and Stan then?" I ask, thinking back on what Kenny said to me when we talked a few days ago. He said that Kyle and Christophe were falling apart, but just how much did the blond contribute to that? We all know Kenny can be rather persuasive, so it's likely that he was able to change Kyle's mind or at least confuse him sufficiently enough to make him give up on the French boy and go for his best friend. Kyle just nods, morosely. "This is going to sound really…odd," I say, slowly, "but I don't think you should avoid him. That's not going to solve anything."

"That's pretty hypocritical of you," he says. I notice, for some reason, that he's not wearing his hat. Neither am I, but there's a logical reason for it. I hate Kyle's hair for the same reason I hate Kenny's eyes. It makes me feel inadequate. He has this, like, tamed jewfro, random red curls sticking up every which way. But he always hides his hair under his hat, except for right now, which is odd. He should do this more often, not wearing his hat.

"How so?" I ask him, shortly.

"You're avoiding everyone, for one reason or another," Kyle says, tilting his head slightly as he looks at me. "I can't really understand why. Nothing has happened recently between you and anyone else that would make it reasonable. From what I can remember, you were angry for no reason on Wednesday, but that isn't rare. Then Kenny talked to you and suddenly you're Christophe's best friend and none of us are worth your precious time. I know there's a reason for what you're doing, though, Craig."

"Yeah, there is, Kyle, but it's honestly not something I feel like telling you." My voice is surprisingly soft and, I don't know, sort of caring. Not like me at all. I guess I can just empathize with Kyle's situation, because we're both avoiding someone who's important to us, for purposes that the person doesn't know about. "Look, it's – I don't want to do it. I didn't make some conscious decision to do this out of spite for someone. I have a reason for what I'm doing and you have to trust me when I tell you it's a good one."

"Fine," he says, with a little sigh. It must be hard for the nosey son of a bitch to not know what's going on. "I should probably go home, I told my mom I was just going for a walk. I didn't think you would be home anyway." I can tell exactly what went through Kyle's mind. He came over to my house at the time I was least likely to even be home. Kyle didn't want to talk to me, but he felt the need to try to at least. How very him.

"Alright." I stay where I am on the couch. Kyle just stands up. He doesn't make any move to reach out to me or say anything else; he just stands up and makes his way to the front door.

"Hey, Craig?" he says. I turn slightly to see him standing with the door ajar, looking back at me. "It has to do with…Tweek, doesn't it? Why you're not hanging around us anymore, I mean."

"I…yeah. Everything has to do with Tweek." The redhead nods, opens the door further and then leaves. I sit in the silence of my own home for an unknown amount of time, thinking about what I said, analyzing it and trying to figure out something that, in the recent years of my life, has had nothing to do with Tweek. All I can come up with is cigarettes, flipping people off and lying. It's painfully obvious, at least to me, that Tweek has always been something more than a friend to me. Maybe the counselor was right after all.

I wonder when the withdrawals will start…or if they already have.

"I was…thinking," I say, weighing the importance of each word as I speak, lacing my gloved fingers together as I do so.

"Well, it iz about time," the French boy answers me, giving me a fake, appraising look, like he's proud of me or something. Its French class and we've been left on our own. The teacher told us it's essentially a free day, but we're supposed to be trying to have conversation in French. No one is, because, really, none of us pay much attention. Grades are dismal, with the exception of course, of Christophe's and, to a lesser extent, my own and Kyle's.

"Ha," I say, frowning at him. I bite my lip and then shrug. "It's just, you know, it's been a while now. Since we started skipping, I mean." It's been a week, actually, and maybe that isn't very long, but it's felt like forever to me. "Maybe your teacher doesn't care, but I can only miss so many classes. And I really don't feel like failing Phys Ed, of all things, you know?"

Christophe raises an eyebrow at me. He seems to consider this for a moment as he absently taps his pencil against the desk. Usually I don't sit next to him, but Kyle was only too glad to give up the seat he's been awkwardly sitting in for a while now. He's behind us, pretending not to listen, but doing a horrible job at it. "Yes, zat would be most unfortunate," Christophe says after a few moments. He shrugs, like he doesn't care. And, hell, maybe he doesn't, but I doubt it.

"We could hang out after school or something, if you want to?" I ask, tentatively. This entire time we haven't been hanging out much beyond the time that school actually ends. An hour or so past then, nothing more. The fact that I'm offering this option now must seem pretty weird to him, but he doesn't really answer me, just does his X-ray vision and decides that it's his job to figure out what's really going on here.

It takes him longer than usual though. He does it for the remaining five or so minutes of class. I'm still skipping lunch with him, but he doesn't speak when we go to his locker and we both drop our French notes into the messy thing. Even when we're outside and Gregory's rambling on about how wonderfully he and Wendy are together – which really doesn't come as a surprise, it's just a matter of how long it lasts until someone else interferes – Christophe doesn't say anything.

Gregory hates me and I know he does. Well maybe 'hate' is too strong of a word. Still, it's an intense dislike and I don't know how I earned it. I thought, at first, it was because I technically stole Christophe from him, but the French boy was quick to let me know this wasn't true. Through everything he and the Brit have been acquaintances at best, only conversing because they've known each other since they were young. Something about going to the same elementary school for a few years. Whatever their story is, I don't remember it, nor do I care to. Because Gregory hates me and I know he does. How do I know?

It might have something to do with the fact that, despite him now knowing my name, he still refers to me as 'that wanker.'

But regardless of Gregory and why he doesn't like me, or maybe because of it or maybe – I don't know. Point is, Christophe doesn't talk at all during lunch and I'm forced to endure Why Gregory And Wendy Are Simply The Best Couple Ever, which includes such points as: they use the same shampoo, they do their homework together and it makes Eric Cartman insanely jealous. I'll have to remember that last one. Anything to be a bitch to Cartman.

I think it must have had something to do with the blond Brit. Either that or Christophe seriously needed to think about what he was going to say to me, because as soon as we're left alone – or as alone as you can be in the middle of a high school hallway – he says what's on his mind. "Ze reason zat you do not want to skip class today," he says, opening his locker door, "it iz because you want to see zem, especially ze twitchy one, am I right?"

"Yeah," I reply, quickly, "but 'Tophe it's not like…I don't know. It's not like I'm choosing them over you or something stupid like that. Just, well, as much as I'd love to avoid my problems, I can't do it forever." He looks surprised, but only slightly. Probably because these past few days I've been talking less and thinking more, only agreeing with a slight nod rather than an impassioned speech when he calls love 'sheet' and God 'ze greatest faggot of zem all.'

He confirms my thoughts when he speaks next. "I saw zis coming," he shrugs, slamming his locker door. "I cannot say zat I am 'appy, but I am not exactly sad eizer. It iz like losing a friend zat was never really mine to begin with, I believe."

"You're not losing me," I manage to say, somehow assertively, because even with a few simple statements Christophe has the ability to make me feel like the worst person to ever live.

"In a sense, oui, I am," he says leaning against the locker door, crossing his arms as he speaks. "Not to sound overly dramatic, but zis is really 'ow it iz meant to be. We do not exactly make ze best of friends, you 'ave to admit. All we 'ave done the past week is bring each ozers moods to new lows. Really it iz not 'ealthy at all." He looks calm, but I know he's really not, because he also looks cold right now.

"You're being dramatic," I tell him.

"Moi?" he questions, pointing to himself and smiling that stupid smile.

"Yes, you," I say, a tad too loud, because a few people walking by look at me like I'm crazy. I just barely resist the urge to flip them off, and by that I mean I wait to do it until I'm out of their line of sight. "Look, I'm always dramatic, I don't really think about what I'm saying or doing, for that matter, so I make everything out to be a big deal, but you keep things in perspective usually. I guess this just doesn't seem like something you'd get so upset about."

"I think zat it iz more of a matter of you making a big deal out of my reaction," he says, looking down at his black shirt, almost apologetically, like he didn't want to say what he just said. "I think zat…I am not as upset as you want me to be and your reaction iz to get angry at me for no reason at all, ozer zan to make yourself feel better. But, Nommel, you do zis all ze time, wiz ze sole purpose of making yourself feel better, and I do not zink zat it works out, am I correct?"

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, glaring at him even though he's looking in the opposite direction now. "Fine, maybe I'm wrong." I just shrug and Christophe looks at me blankly. "Okay, yeah, I'm wrong and you're right." Now he shrugs and looks away from me again. He really is right, but it's just that he never gives me a real reaction, at least not when it comes to our 'friendship' or whatever you want to call it. It seems practically dispensable to him, but I like to think that it's not. "Fuck you, 'Tophe," I finally say, not even bothering to flip him off, because I'm really not angry.

Suddenly he looks at me, not through me, at me, and raises an eyebrow. "Oh?" he says. He almost looks somewhat…proud of me; I guess that's the best description. I don't know why, but it's like he approves of me telling him to go fuck himself. "Well, I will see you after school zen," he tells me with his stupid, messed-up smile, "not zat I can hang out for very long."

"Grounded?" I ask, knowingly.

"Non," he says, slowly, a content look on his face as he stands up straighter. The bell rings, we're both late for class, but that's how things have been going for a while now with us. "Kyle wants to talk wiz me."

I almost consider running to the Shop class and finding the French boy so we can just skip again. But I know that's not an option anymore. I have to face things whether I want to or not, and Physical Education is the first step I have to take, even though it seems like the hardest. I assure myself that once I get through it, just one hour, everything else will be easier. But that, like most other things I tell myself and others, is a lie. Things don't get easier; you just get better at dealing with them.

Standing in front of the locker room door is nerve-racking. The stupidest part is, no one should even be in there by now, I'm at least five minutes late to class, and 'life coach' should be about halfway through his speech by now. But I'm still standing here, in front of the door, unable to open it. Until someone opens it for me and leads me inside. It's Kyle, of course, and I'm almost surprised Stan isn't with him, considering the two of them have been hunting me down ever since Kyle and I talked on Sunday.

They're the entire reason I'm doing this, because they've told me what's going on. And a lot more has happened since I last saw Tweek than I even thought possible. Sure it's been over a week, but I never expected things would get as bad as they, at least according to Kyle and Stan, have. It's all my fault, as usual, because in the process of trying not to hurt him, I think I damaged Tweek more than I ever would have had told him everything instead of leaving him without so much as a word as to why.

"What do you want?" I ask the redhead as I open my locker.

"Making sure you don't do something you regret," he replies turning around as I start to change. How polite. "I don't know for sure, but he might freak out, I mean you've barely looked at him all this time and now you're going to try and talk to him and all, that would give him a reason to freak out even if he wasn't Tweek." I can't see his face, of course, but I pause for a moment, considering this.

"I thought you said he wasn't – " I start, thoughtfully.

"He's not, but…Craig, you're the only one who can sufficiently handle both ends of the spectrum," Kyle says, quietly. I bet he's fidgeting, tugging at his red curls, and I turn around, changed, to find I'm right. Our eyes meet. "What I mean is, you're the only one who can cause him to really, truly freak out and at the same time no one else can calm him down like you can."

"Is he still carrying around the thermos?" I ask, after a silent moment.

Kyle sighs and motions to follow him. "Yeah. But like I said yesterday, Clyde checked, there's no coffee in it anymore."

Tweek without coffee doesn't make sense. Tweek without coffee is like…me without flipping people off, Kyle without Judaism, Christophe without an accent, Kenny without his parka. It's simply illogical; the two should never be divided. Coffee-drinking is part of who Tweek is and without it he isn't himself. Which is exactly what's happened, I realize as Kyle and I reach the gym. 'Life coach' is just at the tail end of his speech and he gives me a weary look, but I'm not paying attention.

For the past few days, Kyle has told me, Tweek hasn't been himself. And I don't mean he's been a little quiet or a little less paranoid or even less twitchy. Kyle, with help from Stan, tried to explain to me what was going on, but nothing compares to seeing the blond as he is now. It hurts, physically, to see him like this. Tweek without coffee, Tweek without twitching, Tweek without any life in his eyes, just sitting there, holding the silver thermos in hands that barely move. It's not right, it's not Tweek, and it's almost scary to look at because he's someone else.

And then he looks up at me with those dead, golden eyes, and I don't know what I expected. That he would hate me and I would instantly know it? That he would return to his normal self just because of my presence? He does neither, he looks back down at the silver thermos and starts to shake. Not like usual, he's not worried or caffeinated, but he almost looks like he doesn't know what to be, and some part of me wants to reach out to him and tell him how to feel, that he has to be happy, because my own happiness depends on his, but 'life coach' yells at us to go do laps, and I'm frozen where I stand.

Naturally it's Kyle who drags me outside. "What did I tell you?" he hisses to me.

"I didn't think he was like – that," I murmur back, only barely audible. "I thought maybe he just needed…"

"That he needed you?" Kyle asks as we reach the track. "He does, but he needs more than you just standing a few feet away from him. Jesus, Craig, stop being such a pussy." And he pushes me towards the blond, who's standing at the side of the track, watching everyone else, and then the Jew runs off to his best friend, who he somehow can be around all the time without feeling awkward in the least. I flip him off for being better at something than me.

I think that scariest thing about how Tweek is acting is that he doesn't look at me. Even when he met my eyes in the gym he wasn't really looking at me. Sure, he saw me and I'm sure some recluse part of his mind registered that it was me, Craig, that dick that had ditched him for some French fag when we were supposed to be…are best friends. But Tweek didn't look at me, he just saw me. And there's a difference.

"Tweek," I say, quietly, "look at me, please?" He turns to see me, but it's just those lifeless eyes again. It hurts so bad to look at him like this and know I'm the cause. But it doesn't make sense, not really. I know I was gone, I know I'm his best friend and I should have been there for him, but Tweek doesn't need me. Tweek needs coffee and things to worry about and, or so he says, someone to get rid of the gnomes that steal his underwear. But he doesn't need me. "Please, Tweek?" I repeat.

There's this tiny spark of life in his eyes for a moment and he kind of twitches, shudders involuntarily as I reach out, intending to – I don't know, put my hand on his shoulder or something like that, but I don't get a chance to do that because he grabs me and pulls me into a hug. It's like he's holding onto me to prove that I'm real, that I'm here. He's muttering something that I can't really understand, but it doesn't matter. He isn't better just because of this, I know he isn't.

"Tweek, please talk to me," I say, softly. He doesn't let go of me though and keeps his head buried in my chest, so I'm just left with his blond hair to stare at. I look up for a moment to find Kyle and Stan watching us, but they quickly look away when I see them. A few of the girls are watching, whispering amongst themselves as they walk, but I could really care less what they say at this moment. All that matters is Tweek. I didn't even notice, but the silver thermos fell to the ground with a dull thump at some point, and now that Tweek has let go of me it's his first priority to pick it up. Most of the time that would be hard for him, I would have to do it, because he end up dropping it several more times before succeeding.

But he's fine this time and I don't like that. I don't mean to sound like a controlling bastard, but I hate the fact that right now he didn't need my help with that. I'm supposed to be the only one who can help Tweek and now he can do that on his own. It makes me feel useless, because the life is completely gone again in his eyes and he's moved away from me more than he needed to now, watching everyone again.

"I'm going to come over to your house today," I try to say, acting as if he has no choice, but my voice is faltering and he just blinks and continues staring forward at the track. "Is that okay with you?" I ask, quickly. He looks at me, completely blank, and nods, once, and then looks away. We stay like that for the rest of class, it nearly kills me inside, and I can't even look at anyone else once we get back inside. I want to tell everyone that I didn't know this would happen and I never meant for it to happen, but there's no one to blame besides myself.

"Why didn't you tell me he was that bad?" I ask Kyle in a hushed tone outside of the locker room.

"Because," he explains, not even bothering to keep his voice quiet, "I knew you would try and blame someone else for it, dude. You saw it for yourself and now you have to deal with it." He shrugs when I flip him off. "Whatever, Craig. It's really not my problem, I don't have to do anything about it, but I'm trying to. There's nothing else I can do about it now, so it's up to you."

"Fuck."

"That could work," Kyle says, with a shrug.

"That's not what I meant, you douche," I growl.

"Just don't ask to do his laundry and I'm sure you'll be fine," Kyle quips. He only just manages to make it in the locker room, because that remark causes me to attempt to punch him in the face. Now I'm not sure what to do though. Tweek didn't talk to me once the entire hour and I doubt there's much I can do to change that. At least not on my own. No, this time, as much as I don't want to, I'm going to, for the first and only time I tell myself, be the one to seek out advice from a certain blond know-it-all.

A/N: Fun fact, yeah? I almost meant for this story to be a quick oneshot. And then it was just going to be three chapters. Now I'm thinking more, aha. It's funny the way things like that end up happening. But you should probably give yourself a little round of applause if you review, because that's what keeps me writing. So, I'm really sorry if this chapter was like…bleh. I've barely been sleeping lately, and you have no idea how much coffee I'm drinking (seriously, it's getting close to Tweek status) so every idea I have ends up with me reacting like 'OH GOD THAT'S SO GENIUS' when it probably sucks serious balls. Speaking of sucking balls…I don't know, just wanted to say that. I hate 'Tophe in this chapter. Yell at me for portraying him so terribly, please. Or at least leave a review, they make me happy. c:
Until next time, tweekers