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A/N: Not to be insensitive but…am I the only one who kind of laughed when they found out the hurricane names go 'Ike, Josephine, Kyle' this year? That's terrible of me isn't it? But still, what are the chances…Ike and Kyle? xD Oh I don't know, I'm absolutely the meanest person ever because I find that funny.
Well, I was going to have this to you guys yesterday, but then I realized I didn't like the ending of this chapter so I messed around with it until I got it to the point where I was happy with it, finally, but, fuck, I hate this chapter. You'll probably hate it too. Ugh.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?

Chapter Fourteen: It's Not A Crime To Want Me Still

When I was a kid Christmas was the most amazing time of the year. Somehow my family put aside everything. My dad was always home and my mom didn't touch alcohol. My sister and I didn't fight and all I ever wanted to do was open my presents and then play with whatever I got with my best friend – whoever that was at the time. My birthday was the same thing, and since my birthday is a mere four days before the Best Holiday Ever I got to experience the joy of waking up and knowing I was going to be getting free presents twice in a time span that was less than a week. Not to mention I've never had school on my birthday.

I wish someone would have told me, hey, that's going to change. Christmas is going to loose all meaning when you learn it's your parents putting the presents under the tree and you're going to start dreading your birthday at some point. Christmas lost meaning around the time I turned thirteen and I started dreading my birthday then too, in a time span that was less than a week. Not to sound melodramatic or anything, but that's what happened.

I don't know about anyone else who's turned eighteen, but when I open my eyes on December 21st, I instantly close them again and try to fall back asleep. Hopeless, really, is what that is, but I lay in bed for a good hour, buried under my blanket, pretending that I don't exist. Sometimes I think life would be a little bit easier if I just didn't exist – for everyone. I wonder how different things would be without me. Funnily enough I don't think anything would be affected all too drastically.

Anyway, it's about eleven in the morning on my birthday and at eleven in the morning my dad will be in his office. Office for what, I often ask myself, but I never ask him and I've never been in the room, I just know that he's in it all the time. Most of the time I stay clear of his office. It's not hard, the office is all the way in the back of my house and I don't make a habit of going there unless I'm stealing cigarettes or money from my mom. Too bad Kenny's plan calls for me to talk to my dad and this is one of the few chances I'm going to have to do so.

Step One (As According To Kenny): Get The House For The Party, Don't Mention Alcohol Until Your Parents Do.

"Dad?" I knock on the door lightly and it swings open easily. My father looks up at me in surprise, but nods me in. "What are you…doing?"

"Work for my job," he says, like that should be really obvious. I stare at him for a long, long time and he stares back. "I'm an architect, Craig, remember?" No, as a matter of fact, I want to say, I don't think you even ever told me that was your job. My dad is fucking Mike Brady, only we aren't too much like the Brady Bunch. God how I hate the 70s. I just shake my head. "Jesus, Craig," he says, flipping me off, "why do you think I'm gone all the time? I have to oversee the casinos we're building in Atlantic City and Las Vegas. You have noticed that I've been gone right?"

"Thomas don't be rude to your son!" my mom calls as she walks past the door to the office, apparently on the way to her bedroom.

"Yeah, don't be rude to me," I echo, flipping him off. He just flips me off again and goes back to his work, which, I guess, must consist of drawing and measuring and all that sort of shit. Weird though, out of everything he could have been, my dad is an architect. I think I liked it better when I was in the dark, when he was a mysterious gambler who was just saving us from the grisly details, instead of flying out to see how the structural integrity of some shoddy casino is doing. "Uh, hey, dad?"

Because I have reverted back to my 'This is normal, we talk like this all the time!' voice my father looks up at me, sighs, and drops his pencil, leans back in his chair and says, "Shoot." I bet that's what he would say if he was sentenced to death. You know, if they still did that whole firing squad thing. My dad would just flip them off and say that one word. Admittedly, there is a chance he isn't as big of a dick as I think he is, but honestly that's just the mindset I put myself in so that my request comes out as sweet and loving and innocently hopeful.

"Well it's my birthday today," I say. Score one for the team, because my father goes pale and looks to the left and totally lets me know that my eighteenth birthday was not on his list of things to remember. Tragic, really, that's what the cat calendar is for, isn't it? "But since Tweek isn't here and all, my best friend, you know him right?" Two points, he nods but he has no idea what the hell a 'Tweek' is much less how I can be best friends with it. "Anyway, he's getting back the day after Christmas, so I was wondering if it wouldn't be possible for me to have a party then."

"A party," he says, slowly. He evaluates in his head, I can see him thinking. Alright, he basically forgot his only son's birthday. I'm rambling on about some Tweek thing that's my best friend and – might I add – sounding very distressed that it…he, whatever Tweek is, is not going to be here for my actual birthday. Which, once again, he has essentially forgotten about. So far he's not doing all that well and there's only one thing that can save him. "Yeah, sure kid, there's just one problem."

Please don't tell me I need to be chaperoned, please don't tell me I need to be chaperoned, please don't tell me I need to be chaperoned, is what my mind is screaming. I force a smile. "What's the problem?" is what I say out loud, the strain in my voice nearly rivaling the constant one in Tweek's.

"We're not going to be here," he says.

There have been several times in my life where people have grossly misunderstood what something they have said to me means. Clyde once told me he wanted to make movies when he got older. He meant movies, but I thought about what movies Clyde liked to watch and came to the conclusion that he meant adult movies, if you will. But this, what my dad just said, tops everything. There has never been a bigger misconception in my history of conversations.

"Well darn," I say in response, my voice monotone. In reality I have never been happier. Kenny told me I had to make sure they weren't here. And that's not even part of the plan, that's just because the alcohol tolerance levels of our classmates are dismally low and there's no way I would ever get away with having the party if my parents were home. Stan would end up puking at the foot of their bed or something. It would be a disaster, but it won't be because my father has just grossly misunderstood what the words 'We're not going to be here' do to me.

"You do realize what that means though, correct?" I blink. I don't know realize what this means, apparently, any more than I knew what my father did for a living. "If I hear anything from any of the neighbors about how anyone in this house was out of control you're going to wish you hadn't even asked me to have the damn thing." I leave his office and vow to never return to that room ever again, but, in all truth, I have never had a more family-like moment than that one.

My birthday is, well, uneventful. My mom asks me what I want for dinner but I just kind of shrug and tell her it doesn't matter. In the end I hang out with Clyde and we eat tacos, because they're his favorite and I haven't done anything with just Clyde in what feels like forever. My parents get me the complete DVD set of Red Racer – which is a really fancy way of buying me something I already have, but with added special features and other things I don't care much about. Clyde and I watch it in Japanese and try to figure out what exactly they're saying.

I missed stuff like this, I realize as Clyde and I walk up to the drugstore to buy loads of cheap food. Just hanging out with someone, no strings attached, hiding nothing at all. Turning eighteen isn't too bad, either, as decided by Clyde as I unflinchingly buy him this month's Playboy, as thanks for making the day a little less horrible than I thought it was going to be. Of course, I make him promise that he saves it until he gets home; I am not having him jack off in my room again. Yes, again.

He thinks it's funny that I have the picture from Stan's birthday under my pillow. "It's kind of like in ninth grade when Kyle told us if we put our Biology books under our pillows we'd know what mitochondria were," Clyde says while he looks at the picture probably remembering the things that stick out to him the most from that day. He's right, it is kind of like that stupid joke Kyle played on us in ninth grade, only I'm hoping that, somehow, the knowledge of how exactly things went from A to B, from sixth grade when I vowed never to talk to Tweek again to this moment, right now, when all I want is to talk to him.

Tweek calls me at ten our time, nine his time, in the evening. By that point Clyde is at his house spending time with the Playmate of the Month and my family is scattered around the house doing what we do best – ignoring one another in favor of things we really like, such as television and root canals. Perhaps this is why every member of my family stares at me as I walk through the house, talking on the phone animatedly. I don't let Tweek talk very much, I'll admit, but I can't shut up.

"So Kenny suggested that, y'know, I have the party when you get back, isn't that great?" I say, walking directly in front of the television while my sister watches some crap show about a teenage singing sensation who somehow doesn't manage to get recognized at school even though her only form of disguise is a wig. Millie flips me off, I do the same without skipping a beat or letting Tweek respond. "And it's like, not going to suck balls either, since I'm eighteen and all and my parents won't be home and I don't even know who the hell is coming."

"Wh-what if – gah – what if people you hate come to the party though?" Tweek cries, like that should really, honestly and completely be my biggest fear.

"You're going to be there so it doesn't matter," I explain flippantly as I walk into the kitchen. "Mom its Tweek, say hi to Tweek." There's a distant 'Ack, Craig!' from Tweek as I push my cell phone towards my mother who says a half-hearted greeting as she looks at me like I'm crazy. "That was my mom," I tell Tweek happily. "She misses you." But I miss you a lot more. "Oh, Jesus, Tweek, guess what?"

"I don't – guess?!" he says, his voice shrill. "There are a million things in the world you could be talking about. Do you even know how much pressure this is? Gah! Just t-tell me!"

"Well…I don't know actually," I admit. "I just like talking to you."

Have I ever been happier to hear Tweek's exhausted, but genuine, laugh?

I doubt it.

Step Two: After A Few Days Of Preparation There Is Nothing More Important Than Preparing The Alcohol

"You have your driver's license?"

"Yes, for the millionth time."

"I'm just making sure, because it would really suck if you got in there and realized you left it in your other…do you have any other pairs of jeans?"

"You know, I really have no idea." I don't, actually, know about the status of my clothing collection. There is a high possibility that I have several pairs of jeans and an even higher possibility that I think I only have one pair when I have a few that just so happen to all look exactly alike. I am not a clothes person, or a clean person or anything in-between. Kenny isn't either, he wears the same bright orange parka every single day and I never expect anything different.

Butters, on the other hand, is very much a clothes person. Now, I knew Butters was gay in fourth grade when he was playing Hello Kitty Island Adventure and the rest of us were playing football outside. There's never been a doubt in my mind. He's the stuff gay stereotypes are made of, positive and negative. Simply put he's one of the nicest people I've ever met, but at the same time he's irritably naïve and just too cutesy. And he dresses really nice.

"What are we buyin', fellas?" he asks us, all upbeat and smiling and smoothing out the wrinkles of his sky blue sweater. Kenny sighs, like, goodness, isn't that just the dreamiest, most adorable thing you have ever heard? No, really, it's not, but that's alright, Kenny can be wrong about what the most adorable thing ever is and I'm fine and dandy with being right, because of course the answer is Tweek.

I have found that there is a side-affect to no having Tweek around: becoming a bit of a gaywad.

It's the day after Christmas and Butters' obviously had a good one. As far as his parents know he isn't hanging out with Kenny, he's hanging out with 'Eric' and 'Eric' is just a darling in front of anyone over the age of really-fucking-oblivious, which just so happens to be all of the adults in South Park. 'Eric,' who is Cartman in disguise, helps Butters get out of the house and then, dejectedly, goes back home. I can't imagine what it's like to have Butters, who never ditches anyone, well, ditch you for Kenny. But I guess Cartman is used to it and, truthfully, I don't give a fuck about his feelings, so it's not my problem.

Christmas, though, was not quite the phenomenon you might expect. We actually all ended up hanging out at Token's house, playing video games and watching movies where people were killed in ways you never even knew were possible. It was nice, but it was devoid of everything I really care about. My sister and I both got fifty dollars, I mean, that's nice and all, but it just kind of shows you how little my family cares about the holiday now that there's no mystery to it.

Kenny's poor and, I hate to say it, that automatically means Christmas sucks balls for him. He didn't even get fifty dollars. My best guess is that he got some rat poison for his room or something. Butters got a sweater, one that he is evidently proud of, and money, not a lot of money, but money that he was willing to give up so I don't even have to pay for beer I'm not going to drink. Which is what we're doing right now, walking up to the drugstore to buy cheap ass beer with my newly legal-status. There's a certain excitement in that situation, having the power to legally buy alcohol, and at the moment I'm relishing it.

"Stuff to drink," Kenny says to the blond, while I nod and wave my driver's license in the air. "Oh, sweet you – your picture is shit." I quickly return the identification card to the pocket of what may very well be my only pair of jeans and glare at him, flipping him off as he just grins benignly. "Well you do, at least in that picture. Not that most people's driver's license picture looks all that great, besides me of course." He puts a hand to his heart when he says this and I inwardly groan. Of course Kenny looks great, has he ever looked bad? Douche bag.

"Good luck!" Butters says when we reach the drug store, even though he has no idea why I would need luck to buy 'stuff to drink.' Kenny smiles at me like he couldn't care less if I was eaten by a polar bear, which I take as a cue to leave him alone with Butters and go on my Alcoholic Expedition. That's all I'm doing really. Kenny's invited people and explicitly told them all that if they want to get drunk chances are they'll have to have their own means of doing so. I'm just buying a case of beer to feel cool and manly.

The guy at the counter is a lot more interested in the same magazine I bought Clyde a few days ago and all he says when I bring the beer up to the counter is, "S'that all kid?" I nod and he rings it up. Him calling me 'kid,' made me think of my dad and, consequently, my whole family. They are all, as of six this morning, gone, gone and even more gone, driving to Utah to see relatives that I could care less about. They're better off without me there, last time I saw them I punched one of my cousins – my cousin Lily, to be exact.

I'm not upset that my family is in another state while I'm stuck at home, you know, having a party. But still, when he calls me 'kid' I kind of freeze and start to think about how much I hate Salt Lake City and Mormons and people named Lily. And because of that I take a good twenty seconds more to get out of the drug store. And because I take those twenty seconds more in the drug store until the guy at the counter clears his throat – because of those seconds, I miss something.

It's obvious something happened because Kenny just looks oh-so pleased with himself in that smug way that means he got something he wanted and Butters looks like he's conflicted between happiness and confusion.

"I'm not even going to ask," I say. And something about the look on Kenny's face tells me I wouldn't get an answer anyway.

Step Three: Reunion AKA Where Things Either Fall Together Or Fall Apart

It's a discerning thing to not know who half of the people in your house are. It's an even more discerning thing to have all of those people intoxicated in some way. But even worse than that? Even worse than two seniors breaking my mom's glass coffee table? Even worse than the very visible stain in the corner of my living room where someone spilt half a bottle of red wine that came from God knows where? What could possibly be worse than your house being trashed and the imminent punishment you are sure to get from your asshole father?

Tweek isn't here. And you know, number one, that's the whole point of the party. I'm not having it to celebrate being eighteen or to appeal to the student body as someone who throws reckless parties. I'm having this stupid fucking faggot-infested party to tell Tweek how I really feel and then to see what we're going to do about it. I think that's the genius of Kenny's plan, it has nothing to do with getting Tweek and I together, it has to do with us being honest with each other.

I think he's learning from what he's done wrong in the past. At least, that's what I get from it. In the past he's been too involved, what he's doing now is guiding but not much else. Learning from past mistakes, I guess. I need to take a page from his book, and I don't mean the one he's reading right now.

Currently Kenny is more drunk than I've ever seen him. Well, except for that time he died from alcohol poisoning in sixth grade when the older kids dared him to do it for ten dollars. He's sitting with Butters – big surprise there – and I can't hear his voice over the music that someone brought over, but I wouldn't be surprised if he's slurring out those three magic words over and over again while he leans against the other blond and traces little patterns in the air.

I would be jealous if I wasn't a tiny bit happy for him. The thing about Butters, though, is that he probably doesn't understand in the slightest just how much Kenny means what he says and Kenny won't elaborate on it when he's sober. But for right now, they're sitting on the floor of my living room in a world of their own. People around them are in far more sexually stimulating situations, dancing, touching, making out, eating, but Butters and Kenny?

They don't need that, they just are. And I would be jealous, but – it gets to a point, I guess, where you've watched someone want something for a long time and you can't be jealous because, hell, they deserve it. It makes me question that fact. Do I deserve Tweek? If, after all this time, he still doesn't want me, I suppose that I don't. I'm not going to fight with him about it, at all, if, once and for all, he wants nothing to do with me apart from being my friend.

Of course I'll be upset, but by now I've conditioned myself for a negative reaction.

Which is what Kyle has been getting from all of us for a while now. I find the redhead sitting in front of the door to the bathroom, rubbing at his temples and muttering something. I would be surprised if he was drunk, but I wouldn't doubt that he's had a beer or two. Most people I know drink for the hell of it, every time Kyle drinks it's because he's taking the edge off of something. And I'm sure he needs a lot of edge off because no one has been giving him any less than a really fucking hard time.

"What are you doing?" I ask him, sitting down next to him. I have nothing better to do, really. Everyone else is either drunk or better off being drunk and I don't feel like dealing with any of them. Besides that, I want to know what's been going on in the world of complicated French-Jewish-Whatever The Fuck Stan Is Love Triangles. Anything to distract myself from the fact that Tweek isn't here, too, I don't want to even think about what he's doing that means he's not here.

"Waiting for Stan," Kyle replies morosely, pointing to the bathroom door. "He's fucking hammered, I hate seeing him like that." But Kyle doesn't say he 'hates' to see Stan like that. He just hates it, I can tell, because we all know how Stan is when drunk. He's uninhibited and whiny and won't stop crying. And, this is more than likely why he's in the bathroom; he tends to puke a lot. Kyle will look after Stan while he's drunk, because Kyle doesn't 'hate' it like the rest of us do, it hurts him and he hates it. Because Kyle can't stand things that hurt him.

Irony; it's proudly on display all over South Park, get some today.

"What's going on with you guys?" I ask, flipping off a girl and a guy who stumble over me on their way to my parents' room. I don't stop them though, I don't care about what they're going to do or where. My family won't be back until the twenty-ninth and part of the plan is for everyone to help clean up. Sans Cartman, probably, but I don't think any of us even want him around, so too fucking bad on his part. I'll just tell Butters to clean up in there, he won't even know what he's touching.

Kyle moans and buries his face in his hands, mumbling something that I don't understand before he actually chooses to talk to me. "I don't even know right now, it's so fucked up. He's been sobbing to me ever since about ten, telling me how we'll never stop being best friends and he doesn't care who I'm with as long as I know he loves me and all this shit that's just – it makes me feel terrible you know? The only way I can get him to be quiet is to talk in Hebrew, because he's always liked that."

"He likes when you talk in Hebrew?" I ask skeptically. Because whenever I've heard Kyle talk in Hebrew it sounds like he's a few seconds away from spitting something particularly nasty at someone.

"Yes, Craig, he does," Kyle snaps. "Fuck, sorry, I'm just so – I know you probably don't care. But everyone seems so angry at me right now, even Christophe. He's been pushing me to hang out with Stan more. Not that I wouldn't do it anyway, but he did this last time too." Before he broke up with you, I want to say. But the Jew looks depressed enough, so I don't say anything. "And it's not that I don't want to be around Stan or that I don't want him happy it's just that I end up sacrificing my own happiness for his."

"No offense, Kyle," I say, playing with the torn hem of my jeans, staring at the material that was once one solid piece of fabric, but that was worn apart over time until it was so weak that it simply tore apart, "but isn't that what love is? Whether you want to actually be with Stan or not, you obviously love him as a best friend at least. And at some point you have to admit to yourself that that matters just as much, if not even more, as what you feel for 'Tophe."

"Craig – you don't really know anything about relationships. You know that, right?" Kyle offers with a sigh.

"And you know more than I do?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at that statement. "Last time I checked I wasn't the one who couldn't decide who he wanted to fuck."

"You don't even realize it, do you?" Kyle asks after a few seconds, turning to look at me in the most uncomfortable way I can imagine. It's worse than when Christophe sees right through me, worse than Tweek looking at me with lifeless eyes. Kyle looks at me like I'm some pathetic person, but it's not even just that. When he looks at me he makes me realize I ampathetic. "This is why Tweek doesn't want to get any closer to you. You're an asshole, Craig, maybe not to Tweek, but you can't just choose one person to be nice to and get away with it. He's not going to love you for choosing him to be that person; he's going to end up hating you for it."

It's at that point, when I'm staring at Kyle – who has just done to me what I've done to him numerous times in the past few months, pointing out something I've never even really given thought to – that the door to the bathroom opens up and Stan, complete with bloodshot, tired eyes, emerges, opening his mouth to say something to Kyle and then stopping when he sees me. But that's alright, because I just stand up and leave them alone. For all I care they can go join the nameless boy and girl in my parents' room. For all I care everyone currently in my house can do the same.

All I can hear is the bass in the music from the living room while I head for the kitchen – the underlying beats matching up with my heartbeat. Or maybe I'm just imagining things. In all honesty I think I'm trying to find Clyde or Token, but Clyde is asleep at the kitchen table and Token is nowhere to be found. Kenny is also asleep, still leaning against Butters in the living room, their fingers laced together secretly, I'm sure. I go to my room and Stan and Kyle aren't in the hallway or near the bathroom as far as I can tell. Luckily no one has decided to use my room to enrich their sex life and I'm able to grab my jacket without much interference.

Except for the fact that, well, I'm trying not to cry the entire time.

It's stupid and it's true – I am pathetic. Who gives a fuck what Kyle Broflovski thinks about me, right? Wrong. For whatever reason it made me feel like shit to hear his assessment. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he said Tweek is going to hate me. Because, and I'm going to be completely honest with myself here, I would hate myself if I was him. Kyle is right about one thing. The fact that I'm pretty much an uncaring jerk to everyone but Tweek isn't helping me any. It's not going to make him feel special or wonderful or at all like a unique snowflake. All it's going to do is make him hate me when he finally sees who I really am.

But who am I, really? I think I'm lost and maybe I'm not anyone at all. I know I'm not him; I'm not the guy who acts like an arrogant dickhead to everyone. I'm not really as angry as I would like people to think I am. I'm not that person and I never wanted to be him, but, right now, that's where I stand. That's the person I've been, ever since – forever. Since as long as I can remember and it's never really felt right. But you know, I can't go back and change it now.

Somehow, though, it's like I think I can. I walk outside and know immediately that my parents have probably been getting calls all night. You can hear the music even when I'm halfway down the street. Someone will eventually call the cops on us and if the police aren't too busy looking at porn or rich black guys they might even come out and do something about it. It's not my problem at this point. There's one thing on my mind and that's going back to when I didn't have these problems.

I end up at the elementary school playground.

Subconsciously it might be that cry for childhood again, but I think it's something more than that. Everything when I was seven, eight, nine, all of that made me who I am right now. Whether I like it or not everything stems from the time I spent playing football and spacemen and trying to stay away from girls up until the point that I actually tried to be around girls. It all happened here, surrounded by the same people who are at my house, drunk and emotional, right now. It's weird, because right now I'm legally an adult, and I feel more at home when I sit on one of the swings than I do at a party with alcohol and blatant sexuality.

The playground is timeless in two ways. First, it looks the same as it always did. Maybe the paint is a little more faded and maybe everything is starting to rust a little, but if you squint it's the mirror image of the place I spent a lot of my time while I was growing up. I remember fighting with Tweek near the slide – which, incidentally, had to be replaced – and talking about how gross all the girls were by the back wall, when really I don't think I've ever liked girls any more than I did in fifth grade. I think things always stay the same, everything is confusing in a different way, no matter how old you are, you never figure anything out. All that ever happens is you begin to see the different sides of things and then you don't understand that. Life is pretty fucked up, not because it's unfair or difficult, but because nothing ever really makes sense.

But it's timeless in another way too. By the time I left the party it was a little after midnight and I know I sit there on the swing for quite some time. But, regardless of that, it feels like no time passes at all in-between when I get there and when Tweek does. We stare at each other for the longest time and for a few seconds I think I'm simply imagining things. In the moonlight he looks really pale, like a ghost, like if I went to touch him I wouldn't be able to and he would disappear – again. I never want Tweek to disappear.

"Do you hate me?" I whisper, quietly, because it's all I can think to say.

"Oh God," is all Tweek says for a minute, shuddering violently, his eyes closing tight. He's only standing a few feet from me, but he might as well be in Seattle still.

"Is that why you didn't come?" I continue, my voice still barely audible as I stare down at the ground. "Did you decide I'm not worth it? Because, Tweek, I wouldn't blame you if you did. If you hated me, I would understand. I just – I don't think you even know how hard it is to do this, Tweek. To have you stand right there and be a million miles away. I'm not – I'm not asking you to love me, just please don't hate me, Tweek, I don't know what I would do if you hated me."

I'm gripping the chains of the swing tight in my hands, not looking at the blond standing in front of me as I speak. My hands are going to be imprinted with their pattern for a while – my mind is going to be imprinted with these memories forever. The weird thing is I always thought it would be me, if anything. Tweek has never been the one to take initiative. He's too busy worrying about what the result of his actions is going to be. But maybe that's exactly it. He knows what my reaction is going to be and he's decided it's a good thing.

I don't know it's going to happen, I'm not prepared, I'm not looking at him, but it's hard to miss him grabbing my shoulders and pulling me close so he can place his lips on mine. It's awkward and clumsy and I'm quite sure it's the best moment of my life. It's quick and over in less than a few seconds and after we part Tweek kind of whimpers and buries his head in my shoulder, saying a few words that mean more to me than anyone can ever imagine.

"I could never hate you," he says, so softly and slowly that I know he's trying hard to keep his voice in check.

"Oh, good," I answer, breathlessly, the only words that come to mind besides 'holy shit' and 'what just happened,' the only word I can verbally say, the only words I can get out before I do actually start crying. I'm not sobbing or weeping or anything, just silently adding a few more faggot points to my already stunning reputation. A reputation that I think has been set into everyone's mind by this point, that kid who's a total douche and also happens to like his best friend, but doesn't have a chance in hell.

I think I might just have a chance in South Park though.

"Did you have fun in Seattle?" I finally ask him, trying in vain to wipe away a few recluse tears and blinking away any more that might decide to make me look even worse than I already do.

He looks up at me, his eyes full of surprise and he cries, in that alluring Tweek-way of his, "Who cares?!" His hands are still gripping onto my shoulders and his fingernails might or might not be digging into my skin, I don't care to notice, I just kiss him again, because at this point I figure I can. And if I can do something, sure as hell I'm going to do it. "Jesus Christ," he mutters as he leans away slightly. "I m-missed you a lot, Craig, I really – ngh – I really did."

"Yeah?" I say, standing up and kind of falling forward so I'm holding him. He shakes and so do I, a little bit. "It was weird without you, everything was. It all just went by in this big blur." I smooth down a bit of his uncontrollable golden hair, perfect in every way that it's not. "And Kenny had this stupid plan, but you never showed up at the party and I thought you hated me or something." But, God, am I the luckiest person in the entire world? Because if there's one person in the world who doesn't hate me at this moment, it's Tweek Tweak.

"My flight got delayed," he explains, his voice quickening as he begins to ramble. "There was really bad weather and they said they couldn't fly the plane and I was kind of – gah – a little happy, a little, because what if the plane had crashed and I had died and then you would have been alone!" For once I agree with one of his worries, that certainly would be a travesty and isn't entirely impossible. "But I tried to call you a million times and you never answered and then I thought that maybe you were playing with fireworks and you blew your hands off and you couldn't answer the phone!"

"Why would I have fireworks in the middle of the winter?" I ask, moving away slightly so I can look at him, but staying close enough so that I still have him right there.

"I d-don't know, it just, God, it sounds like something you would do, Craig!" he cries, twitching under my gaze and trying to escape it like, after all this time, I'm going to let him go and say 'Well I didn't you were that messed up, never mind then.' And, as far as Tweek knows, I might do that. I would certainly do it to someone else, but Tweek is a different story entirely. Tweek is Tweek and there is nothing about him that I don't like, because everything about him is undeniably him and that is, in my opinion, what makes him flawless.

"It does, doesn't it?" I admit, because, you know, it kind of does.

"You're always doing things w-without thinking," he adds, almost kind of pushing me away and for a second I think that's it and this was all just some weird dream I'm having and I'm going to wake up and realize none of this ever happened and I have to walk to school because the power went out and my alarm clock never went off. I could do things differently and never fuck up anything, if I could go all the way back. I would tell Kyle to never get together with Stan and to just let Christophe be – that things will fix themselves in the end. I'd let Kenny know he needs to stop trying so hard, that sometimes we all have to do things on our own, he can't help everyone. I would tell Tweek I love him and that it doesn't matter if nothing comes out of it, but that I would give anything to be where we are right now.

"I think about things a lot more than you would expect," I tell him with a small smile. He takes his hand in mine and I take his and just like that he and I are one. We walk towards the edge of the playground, where the snow is mixing in with the dirt and grime of the road, where no cars pass because right now we are the only two people in the world, where things transcend from childhood to being an adult. And I won't say things change completely when we take those steps, but I turn to Tweek and stop us before we leave the playground and ask him, "How did you know I was here?"

"I just…knew," he answers after a moment and then we leave without another word because nothing else needs to be said. That's it. Everything can be summed up in one small statement, like most things in life. We seek to make everything so much more complicated than it actually is. When really, that's all it ever has been between Tweek and I. Who knows how long it all stems back, who can say when it really all started and who could ever decide when it ends? Maybe I don't know any of that and maybe there will be no good answer when someone asks us how we got together. Maybe a year from now we'll hate each other or maybe five years from now we'll just be best friends again. But, I don't think so, I think – no, I know this is going to last, I have no doubt in that fact. And, how, I know someone will ask, do I know that?

Honestly, I think that's best answered with three simple words – I just know.

A/N: JESUS CHRIST YOU GUYS ARE SO AMAZING. Seriously, it took me a while to put this up just because I don't want it to end. The epilogue (which really isn't much besides a who's with who/Craig's melodramatic thoughts) should be up in a day or two. But yeah, if I could, I would just hug all of you. I mean, I don't want to sound like a queer or nothin', but I think I'm going to cry when this over.
Tell me what you thought of this chapter; I really, really want to know, because I redid the entire ending because it used to be even more overdramatic and terrible than how overdramatic and terrible it is now.
And yeah, no one said the three magic words and no one made out and everyone was probably hoping one of the two would happen, but yeah. No. Sorry.
:D
Until next time (aka, the last time), tweekers