Addict
A/N: This chapter isn't as disappointing as the last one. Quick update, because…this chapter was insanely fun to write. Oh, apparently, or so I've been told, this story is getting translated into German. I found that cool. :D
Important: I have a proposal. I can either make this story end soon and get fluffy rather quick, or I can make it quite long, but the plot twists I'll be using the do that aren't the happiest of things. I'd much rather do that latter, but tell me what you think when you review, please.
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 Six: I Fall For You
"Kenny's not here."
The door gets slammed in my face and I'm left staring at the peeling paint of the McCormick's house. I sigh and look and Christophe, who's standing next to me. He doesn't say anything, but it's apparent he's bored. We've been looking for the blond for about twenty minutes now, which is far longer than I would have expected it to take. Hell, I thought I would see him on the bus, but he wasn't there and no one seems to know where he went after that, not even Butters.
Kenny doesn't have a cell phone and I'm not even sure where mine is anyway, he's not at home, which his mother's angry voice made quite obvious, and no one has seen him since lunch. Which is odd, because as much as you might expect Kenny to be the sort of person to skip school, he doesn't, at least not by now. Our school has a strict policy, if you miss more than ten days of a class per semester, you lose credit. Kenny skips twice a week for the first two months of each semester and then remembers the policy and stops.
Basically, there's not a chance in hell that he skipped after lunch. Yet no one really noticed except for, you guessed it, Butters and nobody listens to Butters, with the possibly omission of Kyle. But Kyle was too busy helping me with my problems and, so says Christophe, was probably thinking about his own quite a lot, too. What you have to understand here is that Kenny doesn't do this. Everyone always knows where he is, whether they want to or not, he tells everyone.
Now, all of a sudden, no one has any idea where he is. The one time I actually want to talk to him, he's nowhere to be found. Believe me, I've checked every conceivable place that he would be, and in a small town like South Park, that's not many places. He's not at Butters' house, or anyone else's for that matter including his own, he's not at Stark's Pond or hanging around the school campus. He's not even walking around town or in any of the stores I checked.
"Zis…Kenny, 'e iz ze one zat…wiz ze orange jacket?" Christophe asks.
"Yes, 'Tophe, that's him," I answer, shortly. I'm not having the best time dealing with people right now. Oh – ha – when do I ever, though? It's worse than usual though. I can't even be civil. I don't know what it is and I'd like to believe I'm just frustrated or angry for some stupid reason, but I know that's not all it is. I'm upset, and usually when I'm upset I make sure I'm alone. Because when you're alone, unequivocally and definitely alone, you can break down and pretend it never happened. But I'm in need of people right now. It's a disaster waiting to happen.
"Oh, 'e likes to give out ze advice to people who do not want it, oui?" Christophe says coldly. I look at him. We're walking on the side of the road now, nearing the railroad tracks. The French boy is lighting a cigarette. He's had two since school let out, so this will be his third. He's smoking like there's no tomorrow and I know it's because he's talking to his favorite redhead later today. "I zink," he adds, throwing the lighter to me, "zat 'e told Kyle some bad zings about me."
"Why do you think that?" I ask, keeping my eyes on the see-through green of the lighter.
"Ze day zat Kyle began to…ignore me, I suppose, was also ze day zat 'e talked to ze boy in ze orange jacket," Christophe says. "Just like what 'appened wiz you and ze twitchy one. Zat boy, ze…Kenny. 'e ruins zings for ozer people, because 'e cannot 'ave what 'e wants for 'imself." That's the thing about Christophe, you know, his cynicism finds the most negative points in people and he exposes them with flippant observations, because all Christophe sees is the bad in a person.
I could try to justify Kenny in this situation, but I don't. "He used to die a lot," I say, instead, "it's kind of weird if you don't know about it."
"Kyle told me about zat," he says. "'e always comes back, zough, and it 'as not 'appened for years now."
"Yeah it hasn't happened…for years now," I repeat slowly, my eyes widening as something occurs to me. No one knows where Kenny is, he's nowhere to be seen and he hasn't died in years so that's not exactly the first thing that would come to mind. "We have to go talk to Kyle," I state, stopping in my tracks. Christophe drops his cigarette and mutters an expletive. "Okay, fine, we can talk to Stan or something instead. They've got to know if something's happened by now."
"Why not ze blond 'e iz always wiz?" Christophe questions. I know he doesn't want to see Stan any more than he wants to see Kyle. Stan is his competition, whether the raven-haired boy knows it or not, and Christophe dislikes him greatly for that, even if it does seem a little stupid for him to do so, I guess I can understand. I'm pretty sure he wants to talk to Kyle alone, anyway, not right now with me there.
"Butters?" I ask, with a sigh. "He probably would be the best one to go to. But if Kenny isn't dead we'll just freak him out. He's the most likely to know if something happened to Kenny, but I'd much rather avoid him if he knows anyway." Back when Kenny still died all the time, in middle school when he and Butters were becoming close, no one liked to be around Butters when Kenny died. Butters simple can't handle it, and while he would almost certainly benefit from being around people, none of us care enough to deal with him.
"I see," Christophe replies, slowly, reaching in his pocket for a new cigarette. He motions for me to hand him the lighter, but I just stare at him. "Give me ze lighter," he demands now, starting to get angry with me. Now, I like to smoke as much as the next nicotine-addicted teenager, but Christophe is about the light his fourth cigarette in less than an hour and it really seems unnecessary to me. So when I hear a car about to drive by I turn around and throw the lighter into the road.
The driver doesn't notice, but as soon as the car goes past the lighter is cracked. I have good aim. But this really isn't the time to revel in my ability to throw a plastic lighter in the path of a car. Christophe practically snarls at me and grabs the front of my shirt, pushing me into the road. It seems that I'm worth about as much as a ninety-nine cent lighter to him, because he throws me right into the path of an oncoming car. It's only by sheer luck that I manage to stumble far enough away and the driver manages to swerve just enough to miss me.
"Dude!" I yell at him, staring at him in shock. I'm still in the middle of the road, but there really isn't a lot of traffic at three in the afternoon in the residential part of our little mountain town. He doesn't look at me now, and I flip him off, and I really mean it. I threw his lighter into the road; he threw me into the road. Is that even logical? Somehow though, we're still walking with each other.
He doesn't say he's sorry or make an attempt to amend his actions, but I would honestly be surprised if he did. I'm not surprised, however, that he has another lighter in his pocket and doesn't hesitate to light his fourth cigarette. I don't say anything, because it's obvious that Christophe isn't going to listen to me any more than I listen to him. We seem to have made some sort of subconscious agreement that we're going to talk to Stan because we're heading towards his house.
Christophe has kind of trailed off behind me, but I can tell he's there, following me, because he's being loud and obnoxious whenever he exhales the cigarette smoke. I'm almost to the point where I want to push him into traffic, but we reach the Marsh's house before I get the chance. He looks less than happy to be here. Not angry, but not sad, just kind of empty. He's not really Christophe anymore. I wasn't planning on hanging out with the Mole to be quite honest, but here I am, standing next to him.
I'm too indecisive, I just stand there for a moment and the French boy has to be the one to ring the doorbell, although he does it rather rudely, slightly pushing me out of the way so he can do it and then muttering something about how stupid I am. Or at least I think that's what he said, he's speaking in French. Stan answers the door and wavers at the sight of us.
"What are you doing here?" he asks. He sounds confused, probably because it's not just me standing on his doorstep, it's the fact that I'm with the Mole on his doorstep.
"Do you know if Kenny's alright?" I ask, ignoring his question.
"Aww, goddammit," he mutters with a small sigh. "You guys might as well come in then. It's not like you're the only ones." The Mole and I follow him into the house. He wasn't kidding, I realize, when we enter the family room. Kyle's there, of course, and he looks at us rather apologetically. Cartman – now, Cartman, I wasn't expecting – just kind of rolls his eyes and mutters 'Jesus Christ' when he sees us. And then…there's Butters.
He's sitting next to Cartman, sobbing. It's this creepy, almost-silent sobbing, that makes me think this has been going on for a while now. Every few seconds he makes a little hiccupping noise, but he keeps his eyes on the carpet in front of the couch he's sitting on. Cartman looks pissed that Butters is sitting next to him, and I don't understand why the fatass is here anyway.
"So, he's…?" I ask, trailing off.
"Is anybody hungry?" Stan says quickly. I give him an odd look. Who cares if anyone is hungry?
"I am." Cartman, of course.
"All right, uh, Craig, come on, you can help me…get stuff, or whatever," Stan mutters. Oh, right, he doesn't give a fuck if anyone's hungry; he just needs to be able to talk to me in private. I start to follow him into the kitchen, but then I see Christophe – not the Mole – hanging back, trying to melt into the walls apparently, and avoiding everyone's eyes. Kyle is doing the same, but trying to sink into the couch.
"Do you want to come in the kitchen?" I ask him quietly.
"Oui," he responds, eyes desperately meeting mine. He looks really weak right now, which I suppose is because he hasn't been this close to the redhead in ages. Kyle still isn't wearing his hat. It's odd, but it's really not something I need to be worried about. Christophe and I walk into the kitchen and find Stan pulling things out of cupboards and the fridge.
"Dude, what the fuck happened?" I ask. Stan turns around and glares at me, more than likely because I said that rather loud and everyone out in the family room probably heard me.
"Butters was with him," Stan tells us, quietly, leaning against the counter and folding his arms. "I guess…Kenny did it on purpose. Well, I mean, he must have. Butters won't really say what happened, but as far as we can tell, he went up to Stark's Pond and saw Kenny. Obviously he was happy, since none of us have known were Kenny's been for hours, you know? So, again we don't know for sure, I guess Butters tried to talk to him, but Kenny just kind of ignored him."
"Isn't Stark's Pond frozen by now though?" I say, skeptically.
"Well, yeah, or at least frozen enough to the point where you would have to be trying to break the ice to even have a chance of falling in," Stan says pointedly. "I mean, for the millionth time, we don't know and won't know for sure until tomorrow, but Kyle's pretty sure that's what happened." He shrugs and looks down at the floor.
"But 'e iz 'appy." Stan and I both look at Christophe, who takes a long drag from his cigarette before continuing, thoughtfully. "I do not know 'im very well, but ze boy in ze orange jacket, 'e seems 'appy to me. Zere is no reason for 'im to kill 'imself, at least not a logical one, non?" Once again he places the cigarette on his lips.
"I – yes…I mean, no, I mean, just, yeah, I get your point," Stan stutters. "But, like I said, we just kind of pieced that together from what Butters has said in-between well, you saw him, and we might be completely wrong." The tone of voice he's using though, I can tell, there's no doubt in his mind that what he's saying is the truth. But, typical Stan, he doesn't tell us it like it's a fact, even if he thinks it's one.
"Shit," I mutter, putting a hand to my temple. "I really needed to talk to him." To a lot of people this might sound completely heartless. But there's no reason to think that Kenny won't be back tomorrow. Keeping that logic in mind, it's like he's just going to busy all night or got grounded or something. It's really none of my business whether this happened on accident or if Kenny purposely killed himself.
"Did he want to talk to you again?" Stan asks, raising an eyebrow.
"The opposite, actually," I say, after a few moments of silence, biting my lip. I don't know what's so awkward about admitting that fact, but it really is. Stan just sort of 'hmm's and turns around. I would ask him what's taking so long, Cartman will eat anything after all, but I realized, looking at the stuff he's rejecting, he's thinking about Kyle. Everything that has too much sugar or isn't kosher is put to the side, and he's left with essentially two choices. Both of which are healthy, neither or which Cartman will ever consider. When I say he'll eat anything, I mean anything bad for him.
"You want to talk to him about Tweek, right?" he says, grimacing at his cupboards. He's put everything back by now, but after a long minute of staring at what he's put back, he goes back to pulling it all back out again. I swear, he's hopeless.
"Mm, yeah," I admit. "Stupid as it might sound; he's really the only one who knows enough about what's going on, and the only one who would be able to give me decent advice as to what I should do." Stan nods, at me, and we exchange looks of understanding. Maybe it was about time Kenny died, we all kind of take him for granted anyway, and right now I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who could use the blond's all-knowing information. "You know, Cartman isn't going to care if his food is kosher," I finally voice, giving Stan an innocent look.
The other boy flushes and mutters something about how I'm an asshole, but just grabs a bag of chips and leads the way back out to the family room. "Jesus Christ, took you long enough," Cartman cries as Stan throws the bag to him unceremoniously. Butters has stopped crying, though he looks utterly miserable and doesn't even bother to acknowledge anyone's existence. Christophe is standing a little closer to me than usual and Kyle is keeping his eyes glued to the burgundy couch.
"As fun as this is," I say, "I should probably get going."
"Going to see Tweek?" Cartman asks, pieces of the chips he's eating flying out of his mouth with each word.
"Yeah," I tell him, "what's it to you fatass?"
He glares at the words, but soon reverts to an innocent expression. Yeah, right. "You know, Craig, I don't really blame him for being mad at you," he simpers, "one day you two are perfectly fine and the next you're hanging all over the French faggot over there. I think anyone would be mad. Don't you agree with me, Stan?" Stan looks confused; he's not sure why he's being pulled into this. Cartman seems to know more about what's going on than any of us knew.
Kyle, however, looks pissed, and with good reason, and I'm sure he has a few words he wants to say to Cartman, but I don't give him the chance. You see, the only defense I have right now is to be immature right back. "Yeah well, Wendy's dating Gregory," I yell at him.
"Aww," Stan groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Craig, what the fuck."
"No she's not," Cartman cries frantically. He must be in denial.
"Dude," Kyle says.
"Oh, Jesus, you guys, he was going to find out anyway, sorry that I shoved it in his face!" I yell. I'm kind of getting fed up with all of them. By this point I'm the only one who's even begun to face my problems. "There you go Cartman, now your obvious sexual tension towards Wendy Testaburger has been said out loud; I don't really think it makes a difference in anyone's lives. And, for fuck's sake, Stan, you obviously can't stop thinking about Kyle, or at the very least what kind of food he eats, and there's definitely a reason for that. At the same time, 'Tophe, stop acting like a pussy and do what you're supposed to instead of getting this far and running away. All of you act so self-righteous and look at me like 'Oh, Craig, oh he needs to get his act together.' Well, I'm not the only one."
They're all kind of staring at me. Because I don't do this. I flip people off and lie to them and smoke a cigarette and then I feel better. I don't make little speeches to anyone; it's just not something I do. I think, out of all of them, Stan looks the most mortified, because I doubt even he realized just how much Kyle is on his mind. That's not to say that anyone else reacted lightly. Only Butters looks the same, but I doubt it has anything to do with me not saying anything to him.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go do something I've been avoiding," I tell them in a calm voice that takes everything I have to maintain. Even as I leave the room no one speaks, they all stay silent. I close the front door and lean against it for a second, taking a deep breath. I could really use a cigarette right now, it would be really nice to have someone to lie to or someone to flip off, but none of that really helps me. Sure it would be nice to do or have what I want, but I don't need any of it.
The best thing to do right now would be to go see Tweek, but I'm in a bad mood right now, and I do need some advice. So I go to Stark's Pond thinking, I don't know, maybe Kenny's there for no apparent reason and he can tell me how to solve my problems. But, of course, he's not there. The pond is frozen over and I stare at it until I find the crack. At the very edge of the pond it's really thin, and I follow it with my eyes. It trails towards the center of the pond, smaller cracks getting more and more frequent up to the point where the ice breaks completely and you can see the freezing water for a few feet until the ice starts again.
I think I see an orange blur underneath the ice, but I'm not going to think about that, I tell myself. The weirdest part about all of this is, I feel sick to my stomach. And maybe if it was someone else, that would be normal. But it's Kenny. I mean, Kenny dies all the time, he'll be back tomorrow and make some joke about sex and we'll all just laugh with him and this won't even matter. I don't even like Kenny.
Something is seriously wrong with me.
It's a little after four now and I still haven't gone to Tweek's house. I plan on going, understand that, but I need to talk to someone. I realized that after I threw up three times and it wasn't because I was sick. I'm stressed out, worried and I think all this anger I have is starting to fuck me up, seriously. After searching through my room for fifteen minutes I found my cell phone and stared at it for a while before deciding who to call. I haven't talked to them in so long, but it only came naturally that I called Clyde and Token.
Despite everything, they agreed to come over and talk to me. They both sounded concerned, Token more so than Clyde, but that's understandable. I feel like an ass now, because they didn't even have to think for a second about whether or not they would come over, even though I've ignored them for over a week. I don't get how this works. Our friendship is, currently, making no sense to me. I put in zero effort and they jump at the chance to try and make me feel better.
I honestly don't know if I deserve it. I don't mean 'oh, gosh, I don't deserve you guys.' That's kind of bullshit, in my opinion. What I mean is, how they're treating me. I don't know if I deserve it. Maybe I do, maybe I don't. We've been friends for years now, so a week or so of me being a dick. At the same time, I've been a dick to them for years. More than likely I don't deserve a fucking thing from them, but I'm not going to fight it.
My dad's still at work, he won't be home until at least six and that's only if he doesn't go to the bar after. My mom is at some school thing with my little sister so, by default, my house is empty. Clyde and Token won't be here for at least ten minutes. Because, in South Park, there's really no point in buying a car. We all just walk wherever and if we're really lucky our parents will let us borrow their car once a month or something to go out of town.
But it doesn't matter, everything's the same no matter where you go.
In the mean time I should probably try and look halfway decent. I don't know what it is with me lately – possibilities include Christophe, lack of sleep and lack of Tweek – but I really don't give a shit about my appearance. Not the normal, eh, my hair doesn't need to be brushed and I'll just wear that day old shirt kind of attitude either. I don't think I've looked in a mirror since this past weekend.
I look like shit. You know how after you don't sleep for a day or two you get bags under your eyes? Yeah, well, you can't even imagine how obvious it is that I haven't been sleeping. My hair isn't just messy, it's downright disgusting. I just pull my hat down further so you can only see a few stray strands of hair. I'm getting skinnier, as luck would have it, because I don't eat much. I skip lunch and breakfast, and I just end up pushing the food around my plate at dinner. I don't even know how I had anything in my stomach to throw up.
But really, I think it's kind of pointless to worry about how I look right now. Especially since it's just Token and Clyde coming over. I mean, no hard feelings towards them, but I look better on my worst days than they could even hope to look. Goddamn, I'm an arrogant little prick.
The pair shows up at about half past four and I let them in. None of us really say anything, which is probably obligatory; it had to happen, so it is. There's nothing you can do to avoid the inevitable. And silence is to be expected right now. But that doesn't mean I like it any better than I usually do. I just shift uncomfortably when they walk in and bite my lip when we all automatically go to the living room. Nobody ever comes over to my house; they haven't been over in almost a year.
"You look…," Clyde finally says, slowly, not finishing what he started to say when I flip him off.
"Terrible," Token finishes, unapologetically. "But it probably doesn't matter to you, does it Craig? You're still better looking than all of us, right?"
"Most of you, yeah," I mumble. Token just kind of blinks at me, a silent 'wait, what?' He was expecting a confident answer. I was too, to be honest, but it seems like I can't say what I'm thinking right now. "Yeah, I look like shit, Token, you caught me on a bad day, congratulations, I hope it makes you feel better about yourself." I could flip him off, but I don't really care enough to do so right now.
"Dude, you've been having a bad week, not a bad day," Clyde informs me.
"That's not relevant," I cry.
"Actually it really is," Token says, reasonably. "You've done shit like this before, for a day or two, and the last time it got this bad was during middle school. But this isn't middle school. No one else is going back to that except you, Craig. And I don't really know why, because last time we talked about it you said you'd rather hang out with Cartman than Christophe. Then we turn around and – I should have known, really. That was just a lie, wasn't it?"
"Probably," I admit, feeling pitiful. I can't even remember saying that. Which means it's likely that I was lying. The truth is easy to remember. It's the truth, it's fact, it happened and you can't erase it or forget the details because the truth just is. But lies…lies are much more complicated than that. Your mind can forget them because they aren't, they never were or they're just some twisted fabrication that you came up with. "I'm going to talk to Tweek," I tell them, offering this up as some sort of solace, like it fixes everything.
"He isn't talking to anyone," Clyde says. He's not going to say anything to me about what I've been doing, I know he's not. At least, he won't be up front and accusing about it like Token. He'll just sit there, like he is right now, and not meet my eyes. We've already been through this, him and I, there's no need to talk about it again. Right now he's just worried that things are going to change. That's all he's ever been worried about. Clyde likes stability, people he can count on. It's probably why he gets upset so easily when things go wrong. He doesn't have stability at home so he counts on having it everywhere else.
I hate to say it, but I'm not really in the business of stability. If I was I don't think any of this would be happening. "I know," I reply. My voice sounds snide and condescending, but I don't mean it to. "I know," I repeat, leaning against the mantel of the fireplace. I've been standing this entire time, my nerves are wound up. Token sits down now next to Clyde on the couch. For a minute there's that has-to-happen silence again. "I did this so I wouldn't hurt him. I kind fucked things up, though; I didn't really think things through."
"No shit," Token says, but he says it quietly.
"Why would you hurt him?" Clyde asks, sounding honestly confused. He always has been kind of slow.
"Clyde, shut up," Token sounds frustrated, yet somehow amused at the same time. I wonder how long Token has known. Longer than I have, I bet. "Craig, you made a mistake," he says, turning to me, "but everyone makes mistakes. I mean, fuck, it's kind of just human nature. Do what you have to, but no matter what happens don't ditch us again. In particular, don't do this to Tweek again; I don't care what happens between you two. He needs you."
With that he's done. That's all it took. Not really advice, I guess, just those three words that Tweek needs me. That's enough to make me know what I have to do. It's all I need to hear and Token knows that. I think Clyde knows it too and there's this sort of knowing look that suddenly comes on his face and he's looking at me in a new light. We talk for a few more minutes about nothing important, which is something I've really missed, just talking to people, and then it's nearing five and I know I can't avoid it any longer.
"You know," I say, as we walk towards the front door so I can leave for Tweek's house and they can go home, "I need him too."
Tweek's mom lets me in the house. There are probably a few things you should know about Mrs. Tweak. First off, she's really critical of me and initially hated me being Tweek's friend. She much preferred him being close to Kyle and Stan. Secondly, she doesn't really help Tweek's nervousness or paranoia or whatever you want to call it. She, along with her husband, tends to aggravate his worries. And, third, over the years she's become like a second mother to me.
If you think about it, it really doesn't make sense. Most parents hate me and I can hardly blame them. But I'm around Tweek so much that I've basically become her problem child. Truth is, I see her and talk to her more than my own mother. Annoyed as she might be by me and as much as she might piss me off, that's how it works. So I can't really say that she's happy to see me when she opens the door, but she doesn't question my motives for being here in the first time in over a week.
"You haven't been here in ages, Craig," she says, standing to the side so I can come inside. She talks to me while I kick off my shoes and shed my jacket. "I'm sure Tweek will be really excited that you're here. He hasn't been himself recently, I'm sure you've noticed." I give a non-committal sigh in answer. "No one's being mean to him at school are they?" she suddenly asks. "I asked him that and he wouldn't tell me, but I told him, you know, kids do that and he does kind of make himself susceptible to them teasing him, so he shouldn't be so torn up about it."
"No," I say, eyes on the floor, "as far as I know no one is being mean to him." You know, except for me, really.
"Okay," she says, slowly, her voice disbelieving. "He's in his room, you know where it is." I do know where his room is. Upstairs, first door on the left, one window facing the backyard because he's been deathly scared of robbers since ninth grade and they statistically break into rooms facing the front yard or some stupid statistic like that. Everything in Tweek's life revolves around things like that.
His door isn't locked, but I kind of expected it to be. He's just sitting there and it hurts, it really hurts you know. Not like it hurts when I haven't had a cigarette for a while. Not like it hurts when I need to lie to someone. Not like it hurts when no one's around to flip off. Not like the anger hurts. It just hurts to see Tweek like this. So lifeless. Anyone else I could handle, but not Tweek. Jesus Christ, not Tweek.
Dead eyes look up at me and they really do look at me. I know he looks at me, because tears fill up his eyes and he quickly looks away, dropping the silver thermos he holds in his hands. It rolls towards me and I take the few steps necessary to pick it up and then walk towards the bed. He's shaking now and I know it's because he's not far from crying right now. Which, and this sounds terrible, makes me feel so much better. It means he's alive.
"Tweek," I say, softly, sitting next to him. But I don't know what else to say. Every apology in the world could come out of my mouth and I don't think it would ever be enough. I left him alone when he needed me and not we're both paying the price. He doesn't seem to care though; maybe all he needed was for me to be here. He breaks into these scary, completely silent tears, and I pull him close so I don't have to watch. I know it's my fault.
I don't know how long we sit there on his bed. It's not hours but it's not just a few minutes either. Neither one would bother me. However long he needs me to be there for him is fine by me. I'll stay there even if it's only a few minutes and even if it's hours on end. Whatever Tweek needs I'll give him. Right now I don't think he needs what I want though. Right now I think he needs his best friend, and that's what I'll be for him. When he speaks I nearly fall off the bed from surprise.
"I want some coffee," he says, quietly, with a sniffle.
"I'll make you some," I tell him. "Don't worry, Tweek, I'll make you some. Just stay here and, um, and I'll be back." Like he would go somewhere else. I start to get off of the bed he grabs onto my arm. I look back at him and he opens his mouth, like he's going to speak again, but thinks better of it and drops my arm. "Don't worry," I repeat, softly, with a small smile for him, "I'll be right back. I'm not going to leave you." He doesn't smile back, like I want him too, but he nods a little and that's all I can really ask for from him right now.
I hurry downstairs and find Mrs. Tweak in the kitchen. She looks at me in surprise. "He wants coffee," I say, barely containing my excitement. "He told me – he wants coffee."
"He did?" she asks, incredulously. She goes right to work with the coffee-maker on the counter as she talks. "So he talked to you then? Oh, wow, he hasn't talked since…church on Sunday, I would have to say. It must because you came to talk to him. I'm sure you know, he hasn't had coffee for about a week now. He won't drink it and whenever his father gives him a thermos full of coffee" – she presses a few buttons on the coffee-maker and then steps away – "he gets rid of it and replaces it with water."
"Oh," I say, biting my lip. I hate knowing all of this is my doing while she thinks I'm some sort of savior. The coffee-maker is making its required loud noises as it makes the caffeinated drink. "I was wondering," I say after a few seconds, "he didn't say anything about me, did he? I mean, before he stopped talking, you know?"
"Ah, I don't think so," she says, watching as the light signaling that the coffee is ready flashes on the coffee-maker. "Well, I asked about you once or twice," she admits. "Before church I asked if he wanted to go to the Donovan's after, since you were supposed to be there with you parents. You weren't with your parents though and, actually, you know, I think it was after we went there that he stopped talking." She has a cup of coffee in her hands now; I must have not been paying attention. "Did something happen between you two?"
"No," I say quickly, taking the coffee that she holds out to me, "I've just been…busy." That lies follows me up to Tweek's room. It makes me feel terrible. I haven't been busy. Not really. Not too busy to take a minute or two out of my day to see Tweek. But, I reason with myself, what am I supposed to tell her? I can't let her know that I was avoiding him and I certainly can't tell her why I did it either.
Tweek doesn't react much to my reappearance. Maybe he's back into his own little world, I don't know, but he does seem pleased to see the cup of coffee I hand him. He finishes it fairly fast ad he almost seems normal afterwards, twitching and shaking next to me on the bed, little outbursts from his mouth intermittently. This time when he talks it's more like him.
"Y-you're not going to – gah – you're not going to leave me, are you?" he asks, hands clutching onto my arm. It's like earlier, in Physical Education class, he wants to know that I'm here and that I'm real.
"No, Tweek, I'm not going to leave you," I reassure him. He accepts the words as truth, but I know that he doubts them. I doubt them too. I'm not stable; I'm constantly changing my mind. I know that and he knows that, but we can believe that I'm telling the truth about this, just this once. It might end up being detrimental, but right now I'm not thinking about the consequences and, for once, I don't think Tweek is either.
Eventually he falls asleep. I've been here for hours; it's almost nine in the evening, a lot later than I thought I would be here. Because Tweek rarely sleeps he's pretty hard to wake up when he does. That being said I'm able to leave without waking him up, although not without feeling guilty. I'll see him tomorrow at school and I won't leave him. Somehow I won't.
"Are you coming back tomorrow?" Tweek's mother asks me as I'm getting ready to leave.
I pause for a minute, sigh, then continue pulling on my jacket. "Yeah," I say, "as long as that's all right with you."
"Of course it is," she says, thoughtfully. "Even though you aren't who I would have picked for Tweek to hang out with, if it was my choice you know, he picked you. And, I have to say, Craig, he's always better when you're around. After you two became friends, all those years ago, he really did get better, even if it doesn't seem like it." She smiles at me, but I don't smile back.
I don't say anything; I just walk out into the cold night. I don't go home or anywhere, I just keep walking without a destination. I have a lot to think about.
A/N: This chapter almost didn't get uploaded. My mom caught me watching Matt and Trey making out (lulz at awesome movie moments) and she freaked the fuck out and shut down my laptop and took it away. Luckily I had already saved this to my ffdotnet documents and went to the library and uploaded it. I'm cool, I know. It also made me realize that Matt and Trey would find me insanely creepy. Oh well. :'D
Review; let me know what you want to happen from my question before and all that good stuff, mmkay?
Until next time, tweekers.