Insolence

by Takethe Blanket

After nearly everyone left for college, 22 year old Craig Tucker is stuck in a dying mountain town with a video camera and a few uninspiring faces. Slash.

3. Chapter 3

22:22:56 Dec 1 2012

"Get up."

Craig lifts his head and squints through the dark of his room at the silhouette of his sister standing in the door.

"What do you want?" he groans.

"I need a ride to a friend's house."

Reluctantly, Craig obliges. He swings his legs out of bed and toes on a pair of sneakers. Savannah tosses him one of his zip ups that was sitting on the floor. He checks the battery on the Canon that was watching him sleep, and before pulling the sweater over his head, he switches the current battery for one that's been on standby charging. He considers leaving his phone, but imagines how shitty it would be to get into a car accident in his boxers with no ride home, and grabs it last minute. Half dressed and camera in hand, he follows his sister to his car, where she is already in the passenger seat, reaching across the center console to turn the ignition.

"Where am I going?" Craig asks through a yawn, putting his car in reverse and listening to the snow crunch beneath his wheels. Savannah fidgets with the radio for a few moments, but gives up.

"Sierra Madre."

Craig smokes a cigarette out the window and ignores his sister's complaints about the cold air he's letting in. It is cold; his bare legs are covered in goosebumps and his lips are trembling, but the drive to Sierra Madre Avenue traverses town and is boring. He feels better doing something with his hands other than holding a steering wheel straight.

He pulls up the familiar street a few minutes later. Token's house is at the very top of the road, far past the other houses, on its own windy private path. Muscle memory has him heading for his best friend's house, and his stupor is interrupted by his sister's frustration.

"Stop the car, Craig."

He slams the brakes and the car slides a few feet in the snow. She gasps and glares at him. Rolling his eyes, Craig puts the car in park and adjusts the Canon from where it's slid around slightly on the drive. The younger Tucker is taking her time pulling on gloves and a hat, checking herself in the sunshade mirror and putting on another layer of lipstick. He doesn't understand women. Craig grabs an empty hot pocket sleeve from the makeshift trash can that is his car's backseat and aimlessly reads the directions on how to heat up and eat the ham and cheese snack.

The sound of the car door opening and shutting alerts Craig that his sister has finished her touch up and he is alone. He tosses his cigarette out the window and rolls it up, letting the heat actually fill the car rather than getting sucked outside into South Park's hungry chill. He puts the car back into drive and starts looking for a driveway to make a u-turn in. There's a ton of cars on the avenue today, and feeling irritated that every driveway wide enough to cater to his old car's poor steering hasn't been shoveled, Craig speeds off up the hill and adds an extra five minutes to his trip home just so he can turn around in the Black's expansive circular drive.

On the way back down Sierra Madre, Craig is finally waking up and it finally registers how strange it is for the street to be so crowded so late at night. His sister has long disappeared, but Craig slows the car to try to pinpoint what house she could have gone inside. Suddenly, it clicks. His eyes sweep around behind him to Firkle's house, curtains pulled shut to hide the activity inside. His calculating gaze then shifts to the cars parked along the avenue until they zero in on a 2007 black Jeep Liberty. Craig flips to the photo album on his phone, and scrolling past a few dozen pictures he took of his guinea pigs earlier, finds the most recent photo of this week's work schedule. He always works on Sundays, but praise Kyle, he doesn't go in until one pm.

Craig throws his car in reverse and drives backwards the entire narrow road back to Token's house. Speed dial brings Token's voice on the line.

"What's up, dude?"

"I'm at your house," Craig says, climbing out of his Honda. "And I'm half naked. I need to borrow some clothes."

"Bizarre. Alarms are off and door is unlocked. I'll meet you in my bedroom."

Craig grabs the camera and jogs up to the front door, pushing it open and sighing in relief when the heated home starts to warm his frozen skin. He moves up the stairs to Token's room, where his best friend is standing and staring into his walk in closet. He laughs when he sees Craig, and Craig flips him off.

"How the hell did you end up on my side of town in a pair of boxers and a hoodie? I'm impressed you even have shoes on."

"No socks," Craig confirms.

"So what do you want to wear?" Token asks.

"The most normal thing you have," Craig insists. "No kilts."

"I don't own a kilt," Token scoffs. "Yet."

Craig steps into the closet behind Token. It's a large space containing an impressive collection of clothes that have been almost entirely thrifted from hundreds of shopping trips he and Token went on in the past eight years. Craig has always had to shop cheap, growing up in a poor family, and he taught a fourteen year old Token how to find decent clothes off the rack at the Salvation Army. Craig takes personal pride in Token's absurd amount of eccentric clothing. This entire collection can't have possible cost any more than two or three hundred dollars. Token's style veered away from Craig's personal taste preferences around their junior year of high school, but it doesn't change the fact that this was Craig's doing. Token can afford anything he wants, but he still chooses to go on shopping trips with Craig to thrift stores when he needs something new.

He catches a pair of charcoal slacks that Token tosses his way and after studying them for a brief moment, Craig slips out of his shoes and pulls them on. They fit, but Craig opts to grab a silver belt from a rack of nearly a hundred others anyway. Token passes him a simple black button down and when Craig goes to pick his worn navy hoodie off the floor, Token clicks his tongue disapprovingly. He passes Craig a heavy cardigan, the heather grey wool knit with a subtle shine, nautical closures down the front and shiny black buttons decorating the shoulder pieces. It's a bit flashy, but he'll make it work.

"Here," Token says, handing Craig a pair of boots, clean socks tucked in them, "I have extra Docs."

Craig finishes getting dressed and both men turn to study Craig in the mirror. Token turns an extra light on above him.

"There, you look like a million bucks. Where are you going?"

"To a party," Craig answers, then hesitates. He struggles to act like a socially acceptable human being and friend. Fighting to hide his true feelings Craig asks a weak, "...would you like to come?"

"No, thanks," Token nods. "I'm working on homework downstairs. You go, have fun."

"Cool," Craig sighs. He picks the Canon up from the shelf where he had set it. With a grateful head nod towards his friend, Craig departs, letting his borrowed boots thunk down the stairs and out the door.

He leaves his car at Token's, knowing it's probably the best spot he'll find, but he stops by to grab his pack of cigarettes, needing the small paper wrapped flame to keep him warm on the ten minute walk to Firkle's house.

The butt he flicks at Stan's car marks the third cigarette he's had in twenty minutes, and Craig is already feeling light headed as he approaches the front door, but the exhilaration of a party causes the dizziness to temporarily render him weak. His night has been boring so far; he spent a few hours trying to masturbate and a few more asleep, and he didn't expect to find such good news following his sister's rude wake up call. Craig leans against the door to catch his breath, before gripping the cold door knob and pushing it open.

He is grateful he does not run into his little sister as he grabs a beer from the kitchen and jogs up the stairs to Firkle's room. However, his relief dissipates back into anxiety when he sees the quantity of people grouped around Kenny and Stan. Kenny is too preoccupied trading drugs for wads of cash to notice his appearance in the room. Craig curiously watches Kenny hand a ziploc of unmarked blue pills to a high school aged girl he's never seen before. He breaks Kenny's rule of no sales on camera and zooms in on the transaction. However, Stan is apathetically watching him, and with a slight shake of his head, Craig takes his signal to turn away.

It takes a few moments to pinpoint his target, the pale boy looking frail in the crowded room. Craig moves towards Tweek, shedding his borrowed cardigan as he goes, letting it fail to the floor and kicking it off to the side. The button up Token lent him is already short sleeved, but he gives each sleeve an extra cuff. Tweek is shaking his head at him and Craig shrugs, dropping to the floor where the other man has repositioned to make room.

"There's too many people in here," Craig muses, his camera between his own face and the one of the person he is speaking to.

"Gah! Right!?" Tweek jerks, almost shouting, as if Craig verbalized the one thing that's been irritating him all day. "Way too many people. It's way too loud!"

"Have you been here for long?"

"Yes! Too long! Gah, I've been here for like, an hour. I thought you weren't going to be here, shit!"

Craig watches through the viewfinder as the thin, pale creature beside him jumps to his feet, then seeming to immediately change his mind, crouch back to the floor. Sitting on his heels, Tweek is swimming in his oversized clothes, his shaking hands mostly hidden beneath stretched cuffs. Craig narrows his eyes, taken aback by Tweek's intensity. Craig finds himself lowering the Canon to the floor, and setting it in between their bodies. The other man is looking at him, his eyes flickering with uncertainty and an obvious inability to focus. Craig likes to think they've become friends over the past few parties, but this flinching, squirrelly man is hardly recognizable.

"Dude, are you on something?"

"What?! Ugh, no! That's the problem!"

"Jesus, then smoke or something. What were you waiting for?"

"I don't know! You, I guess!"

Craig lets out a mouthful of breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He nods, turning his attention towards Kenny, it is impossible to grab his old classmate's attention through the throngs of thrill-seeking teenagers. Stan is the one who seems to feel the burn of Craig's gaze, and the other man slowly turns his head to meet Craig's eyes. Stan carefully sets his beer down, and rises to his feet.

"What do you want, Tucker?" Stan groans, walking a few steps across the room into his direction.

"What do you have, Marsh?"

"Indica, Satvia, Spice, Molly, Vikes," Stan answers, a hand on his forehead, rubbing away either a headache or frustration.

"Molly," comes Tweek's voice from beside Craig, his eyes wide with fascination.

"You want to do X?" Craig asks in surprise. "At a house party?"

"Why- Why not?!" Tweek suggests.

Craig shrugs, looking from Tweek back to Stan, who is already back at Kenny and digging through his partner's backpack. He comes back to the two men on the wall and is holding a couple plastic bags. He frowns down at them, and Craig is bothered by his judgmental eyes. Tweek shrieks from beside him.

"Twenty for a bag of two. No sharing."

"How about ten for one?" Craig groans. "You guys are the worst."

"No. Plus, one tab is 100 mg, you're going to want both. And it's an extra five for a test kit."

Tweek is already handing Stan a twenty, and Craig follows suit, slapping a middle finger on the bill before passing it to the black haired drunk standing before them.

"We'll take our chances," Craig tells him, denying the Stan and Kenny the extra profit.

They make their exchange, and Stan is swearing something to himself as he wanders back to Kenny. Craig offers Tweek to share his Heineken, and unceremoniously, they both take their hits of baby blue.

"So you were waiting for me?" Craig asks, indulging in the ego boost.

"Fuck! I guess? What was I supposed to think? Ah, nevermind!"

"I didn't even know there was a party tonight. I was out doing other things and drove by. What's your phone number? Text me next time you're going somewhere."

"Agh! I don't have a phone!" Tweek wails, his hands flying up and covering his face. Craig recoils.

"You don't have a phone? How the hell do you survive?" Craig asks in disbelief, unable to comprehend a man in his early twenties not having a cellphone, his mind refusing to even question the circumstances that led to such a misfortune.

His head shakes from behind his hands, mumbling, "Facebook?"

Craig shrugs, picking up his camera and adjusting the aperture so he can better take in the environment of the dim room. There are a ton of kids in here tonight, and while Craig is aware that Firkle is still in high school, he's used to seeing the guy surrounded by Wes, Michael and Henrietta, not the groups of awkward sixteen somethings spilling their booze and kissing regrettable decisions. He zooms in on the face of the lavender haired host, who is laughing and shoving away a girl that is attempting to crawl over him and towards the bed, where there are multiple parties making out.

"Hey, Hollywood!" Firkle shouts playfully in his direction. "Get my good side."

Longing to avoid any sort of interest in him or his Canon, Craig lowers the equipment, setting it between his thigh and Tweek's boots once more.

"When should we start feeling it?"

"I don't know!" Tweek answers, his eyes snapping to Craig's face. "I've never rolled before."

"Huh, me neither," Craig says. "I guess we'll find out."

"Uppers aren't really my thing," Tweek confesses.

"So why tonight?"

"Gah, I'm not sure! Trying to find a new kind of high. Why do you ask so many questions?!"

Craig blows air loudly through his mouth. He'll be grateful when the high kicks in, because so far, this night hasn't been to worth getting dressed for. He studies Tweek, who is staring out into the room. Despite his erratic behavior, Craig still finds the other man attractive and he finds himself battling the same feelings that tormented him during his high school years. The desire to watch Tweek's fingers as they crawl slowly down his long, pale neck is outweighed by the intense desire not to be caught staring.

"Craig Tucker?"

He is queasy as he lurches out of his daze to look up at the origin of his name. Firkle is standing in front of him, and Craig suddenly feels small sitting on the floor in the guy's bedroom. He is flanked by Wes and Michael. The trio, still in black, is offset only by the sequins on Firkle's strap-on fairy wings.

"That's me."

"We have a proposition for you. Our friend Henrietta, she's your age, maybe you know her?"

"Yeah. The fat one?"

Tweek gasps from beside him, and Wes and Michael's eyes both seem to narrow in characteristic disappointment. Firkle smiles broadly.

"Yes," he answers. "The fat one. She's playing at an open mic in North Park next week. I'd love for her to have some nicely shot footage of her early years for when she hits it big one day. I know the owner of the club, I'll pay you in no cover and unlimited drinks for you and your date."

Firkle's eyes slide over to Tweek, who screams this time. Craig rolls his eyes in the direction of the date in question.

"You wanna go?"

"What?! No! I mean, yeah. Yes, sure."

"Fine, just raw footage. I'm not an editor," Craig answers skeptically, his eyes still on the uncentered man he chose to spend his evening with rather than the one he's speaking to. "What's the date?"

"The sixth. Open mic starts at eight."

Craig and Firkle exchange numbers and when the threesome of half-hearted gothic attire departs, Craig finds himself feeling oddly empowered. That was sort of a career move. He's filming something for someone other than Token for once, and for a few moments, he entertains the idea of becoming a professional filmmaker. Craig imagines himself touring with bands, shooting music videos and conducting interviews. He grapples for his camera on the floor, lifting it to his face before giving the room a good sweep. He is suddenly hyper-focused on the acts of young adult depravity and Craig feels proud of the anonymous girl getting fingered under her skirt on Firkle's bed. These are the kinds of things he'll think back on, one day, when he's famous.

When his panning falls to Tweek beside him, Craig is happy to see the other man has finally relaxed. The unfamiliar feeling of Tweek's hand resting as light as a feather on his thigh clues Craig into the sound of a relieved sigh leaving the other's lips. The other man seems to be listening to something beautiful through the ears that stick out from the side of his head like satellite dishes. He is aware of how much they must miss at these parties spending their time locked in a hot box with the same few users every week. The hall is a highway to different thoughts, feelings and experiences. There is much more outside this small world they're so passively sitting in, and Craig wants to see it all with Tweek.

"Come on," Craig tells him, "Let's go walk around."

Tweek nods, slow but certain, and he climbs to his feet after Craig. They walk out of the room and are washed in cool air. It smells a bit like teenager: perfume and sweat in excess, but it feels clean compared to the weed and tobacco smoke filling Firkle's bedroom. Craig wonders how Firkle manages to host these parties as he watches a baby jock try to slide down the Vargas' lavish banister. Beside him, Tweek cringes as the boy falls and smacks his head against the edge of a step, but he wobbles to his feet and high-fives his friends, surviving the near-death experience and not even seeming to realize it.

"Do you- Ah! High school is not what they show on tv."

Craig turns to the man standing next to him who is watching the people in the upstairs hallway, pale forehead crinkled with thoughts. It is beautiful to watch him think.

"You know, like, Degrassi, and Glee, and shit," His face turns pink with the admittance of being familiar with those shows. "Yeah, everyone is focused on themselves and doing things for their own gain, but high school on television and in movies isn't reckless. Real life is scary, everyone is stretching themselves way beyond their means."

Craig turns the camera to Tweek's face. He's close, so close as he films him. He wants to capture the fascinating thought process on film.

"You know that when you're a teenager, the part of your brain that processes like, repercussions and shit isn't developed yet. So once you pass the early stages of puberty and you realize you just have to deal with the shit being handed to you and try not to look like terrified in the process, your brain thinks it's okay to speed on a snowy road and drink until you puke and fucking like, snowboard off your roof." Craig has the modesty to chuckle uncomfortably at the last item. "TV doesn't show it like that. There's no danger or fear involved in tv high school even though there have been three school shootings this year."

Craig does not say anything right away, watching the twitching uncertainty in Tweek's face. He seems mostly calm, more akin to what he was like when he first appeared in Token's bedroom with a freshly shaved head and minimal eye contact.

"You keep track of school shootings?"

Tweek gives him a look that makes him snap his lips shut. "I keep track of people snowboarding off their roofs too, but you don't seem too concerned about that."

"Are you talking about me? That was not real snowboarding, my parents cannot afford something like that."

"Ugh! Sitting on a cardboard box is not better!"

Craig rolls his eyes, turning the camera out to watch some girls giggling together even though his focus is solely on Tweek. "That wasn't the worst thing, I survived."

"Gah! Clyde broke his tailbone! You both could have died!"

Craig laughs, remembering the way Clyde curled up in the foot and a half of show and cried. "I can't believe you were there for that."

"What? We were friends in high school. Kind of."

"I guess so," Craig says, studying the man beside him. He certainly does not look like any friend he has ever had beyond elementary school, when they used to go to Whistlin' Willy's for pizza and arcade games with Kevin. Even in the early years of high school when he had his acquaintances, Tweek was never one of them. "Were you Clyde or Token's friend?"

Tweek twitches at the tone in Craig's voice. Craig knows it sounds like he intended, that Tweek had to be one of their friends and not his. "Clyde's, I guess."

"Yeah, had to be Clyde."

"Gah! What's that supposed to mean!"

Craig leans back and rolls his eyes. "Just that Token is the nicest guy in the world, but Clyde has this thing for... he's empathetic, I guess." Tweek is glaring at him, full glaring. His eyelid and neck are barely twitching through the concentrated anger. Craig knows what he is saying is irritating Tweek, but he keeps an impassive expression on his face to combat Tweek's anger, his hands feel warm and damp on the camera. "Clyde just likes people more. Not that you're unlikeable. You- Clyde- He's a mother. "

Tweek's gaze gets harder, freezes, and then he bursts into laughter, genuine laughter that lacks the biting tone his words should have, "You think I'm some loser in distress or something. That's hysterical, Craig Tucker."

"Not me. Clyde."

Tweek shakes his head, "I like Clyde. I thought you and I were kind of cool in high school, but I see I was wrong."

"No, no," Craig says, his eyes closing as he lifts a little further into his high. "You're fine. It's all me. Just me. He's the one on the world-saving mission. It's a very altruistic mission. I've never seen anything like it. Part of me is always waiting for his evil side to appear."

"Clyde is a good friend."

"He's like my only friend," Craig laughs.

Tweek is not laughing. He observes Craig, smiling like he did not say something terribly heartbreaking. The camera stays focused on Tweek's face. His thin lips drop open like he wants to say something, but no words comes out. Instead, he is stuck with an expression of affronted confusion.

"And Token. Two friends."

"I-" Tweek begins, looking away from the camera at a linked boy and a girl shoving past them. "That's sad."

Craig leans back against the wall, following the rude couple with his camera to ensure their drunken shenanigans were caught on tape. Once they turn a corner, he lets them go, turning back to a few guys with beers in their hands conversing loudly on the stairs. "They've always been my friends. What about you, Mr. Popularity?"

Tweek jumps when camera and the question turn on him. "Me? I don't know, I feel like I'm friends with everyone and no one. I like everyone, and they pretend to like me. I can accept that. I have accepted that. I can bounce around easily. It gives me less time to focus on myself. I can't get too selfish when I have twenty friends to appease."

"Wow," Craig sighs and zooms in so Tweek's face fills the camera. "That's deep. That's like, super heavy stuff."

"Stop," Tweek frowns at the punch of sarcasm.

"No!" Craig ejactulates, trying to repair the conversation. "I mean it. It's foreign to me. I think the last time I had twenty friends was when we were in baseball as kids. I wonder how I would have turned out differently if I had more friends in high school."

"I'm not sure you could have turned out differently," Tweek muses, his head tilting to the side as he studies Craig through the camera. "You isolated yourself. No one did it to you."

Maybe it's the ecstasy, but for once, Craig doesn't feel the chilling panic he normally feels when someone turns a critical eye to him. He lets Tweek look at him. Slowly, Craig lowers the camera so that there is nothing between the two of them. Tweek seems to be able to view Craig for what he is- nothing special, and yet, Tweek doesn't seem to hate him like the other ninety nine percent of South Park does.

"Sometimes things are supposed to happen in a certain way to lead to where you're supposed to be."

Craig nods at Tweek's words. He tries not to fall for sensationalist bullshit like that, but the words falling from Tweek's lips must be divine truth, because Craig feels like he is standing before the face of God.

"Perhaps we were meant to re-meet each other in our twenties. Had you not isolated yourself throughout high school, we may have been better friends back then, but it never lasts. We wouldn't be here talking to each other right now, and I feel like I was meant to be here talking to you right now."

"I feel the same way."

A rare and dazzling sight, Tweek's face bursts into a wide smile, his eyes cast downwards. Part of Craig doesn't want to moment to pass, but he takes a step back and encourages it to do so. He doesn't know enough about Tweek to let himself feel this way. He picks his camera back up and pans around the room for a moment before zooming back in on Tweek's face. The other man is looking back up at him, and there is a peaceful serenity on Tweek's face that Craig is happy to see there. Drugs are a beautiful thing, he thinks to himself. They equalize, bringing souls to the place their subconscious longs to be. From nervous to assured, from restless to content.

"We are better people when we're high," Craig laughs.

"I was born to be high," Tweek chuckles, leaning his head against the wall but fully facing Craig and his camera.

"I'm thirsty."

Tweek leads the way to the kitchen, and Craig films from behind him, taking in the scenes of the party as teenagers that are too drunk to stand somehow manage to jump to the side and make way for Craig and Tweek. They weave through people reduced to messes, sobbing or throwing back alcohol. It seems both foolish and profound. Craig tries to capture every face on camera, taking their lack of sobriety as consent.

In the kitchen, Tweek stops and looks around nervously, eyeing the empty bag of Solo cups. Craig's free hand grabs two used cups and holds them out to an apprehensive Tweek. The blonde rinses them out and fills them with tap water. He holds his breath a moment before drinking. Craig watches the display before downing his own cup of water, feeling warm down to his toes. He shivers with the sensation. The cup crumples in his hand and falls to the floor. His hands steady the camera.

Everyone else is a blur of color and motion around them. Craig's gaze rolls around them, but he cannot focus on anything but Tweek's face tilted up to him. Behind the camera, with the viewfinder up to his eye, and they're making eye contact through the glass, he smiles.

"I would have never pictured you as the party-going type," Craig admits.

Tweek chuckles, dragging a hand over his skull and looking around the room. "High school was a different time, man. I wouldn't have even thought about going to a party like this."

"Even with that shit-ton of friends you had?"

"On a Friday or Saturday night I'd rather be playing card games with Kevin and Leroy."

"No wild parties?"

"I hated high school."

The conversation takes such a turn that Craig does not say anything right away, instead replaying the last two sentences over, scouring for some sort of error or a word that he missed. He dumbly asks, "What?"

"I hated high school! Didn't you? All those expectations and everyone is unpredictable and reckless. I don't know how anyone deals with that stress and then there's puberty and teenagers are stupid. I was really bad at Literature. It's too subjective! How can you study something open-ended like that? It's like a vast universe of symbols and metaphors and interpretations. I read it one way, you read it another, and the teacher still fails us because he read it differently!"

Craig nods, his fingers grazing over the buttons and finding zoom. He absently narrows in on Tweek's face, making him fill the whole frame, overwhelmed by him and his presence. "I liked Literature because it's like movies."

"Nah, not for me," Tweek says, blinking his eyes quickly as he processes Craig's words and his own thoughts. "Math is safe. It looks scary but it all comes down to one answer. It's formulaic. There is no flexibility. It's stable."

"Well, I don't really like reading. Just like, the concept is cool."

Tweek eyes him harshly for a moment. It is not a mean expression, but Craig cannot interpret it. Judgemental, maybe.

"The school was a mess," Tweek says, changing topics. "Mr. Mackey and Principal Victoria are a destructive pair. They're so disorganized. They still run the school! I don't know how they got the promotion to high school, but whoever did it was out to fuck us up, man!"

Craig groans, "Fuck, Mr. Mackey. That guy had it out for me. It was like his nose had a direct line to my cigarettes. It'd be like six-thirty in the morning and I'd be smoking all the way over by the football field and he'd come waddling up to me and tell me 'drugs are bad, m'kay' and 'smoke will kill you, Craig.' What a fucking asshole. Mind your own business. Fuck."

"He once overheard me and Jimmy talking about beer-it was for a bit of his-and he ranted at us forever! It was unbearable! He was talking to the wrong people about the dangers of drinking. Meanwhile, every other kid is partying on the weekend except us."

"Principal Victoria gave me an hour-long lecture about tattoos after Clyde and Token drew all over my arms." Craig waves his free hand at his body. "Look at me now, Victoria."

Tweek chuckles awkwardly, and Craig is not sure if he zoomed in more or is Tweek is leaning in closer. It's strange to look at him from above when Craig so often has to film from his chest in order to achieve a normal angle, but with the camera to his eye, he can capture Tweek exactly as he sees him.

"It's stupid to hang on to this kind of anger. It was years ago."

"That's what therapy will tell you," Craig says nonchalantly. "But age will tell you the best thing to do is get revenge."

Tweek laughs. "That's not mature at all."

"But think about it," Craig says with an edge of excitement. "We could break it there and fuck shit up. Steal from Victoria and Mackey's desks, graffiti dicks in their offices, and knock shit over all around the school. Leave the water running in the bathrooms? Clog the toilets? Shave my undercut over a vat of pasta sauce?"

The splitting grin on Tweek's face is enough to ease the embarrassment of rambling for the sake of a laugh. He feels light, the drug floating leisurely through his system. It's a beautiful sight to see Tweek's sunken face illuminated with a smile.

"I'd love to see their faces."

"Then it's settled," Craig says cryptically. He watches Tweek turn and refill his cup. Craig is thirsty too, but he does not move to do the same, instead just capturing the blonde, whose muscles seemed to be mostly relaxed for once, akin to how he met him at the Thanksgiving party only a few days ago. He has a sort of elegant form-though Craig's tower perspective is skewed-Tweek is a good five foot eight and seemingly thin, a contrast to the thickness he carried around in high school, but it's difficult to tell under his layers of thick, wooly clothing. He gives the vibe of being snug in a bathrobe or about to rejoin his drum circle in the park. It's a strange, alluring look, no one Craig has ever known has looked like that, not even Wendy or Stan.

"What!" Tweek shouts, dropping his cup and snapping his neck to the side to look at Craig with huge, startling eyes.

"I didn't say anything."

"Oh, oh." Tweek runs a shaky hand over his head, his body tense again. "I, uh."

Tweek grabs Craig's arm, his grip tight. His eyes are on the colorful skin, but he does not seem to be seeing it, instead looking beyond. Craig remains silent, watching him. He can see Tweek's gaze drag slowly up toward Craig's torso, but his eyes are unfocused. Craig can practically see the clockwork in his head trying to jolt back from a kink in the machinery. He is used to the twitchy, tweeked out kid from his childhood, but this is different. Tweek's eyes blink back into focus. He runs a thumb over a large fish swimming upstream in the ocean of his left arm, leaving the dark depths of his inner elbow. He is not tracing it, just rubbing it. Craig wonders what the skin feels like. He knows what Tweek's feel like: warm and a little damp, the fingers squeezing his arm bony and sharp. Craig can see that Tweek has been biting his fingernails lately.

"Anglerfish are the scariest. They absorb their mates. They have like a million mates and they absorb them all."

Craig keeps his mouth shut.

"Those teeth, man."

Tweek's thumb bends so the dull tip of his fat thumb is gliding over the jaw.

"Why do you have a video camera in the ocean? And a tree?"

"It wasn't planned," Craig admits. The more he elaborates, the dumber it sounds. "I had all this stuff and then I wanted to fill the space. So I put in water."

Tweek rubs his thumb over the fish again, pressing down. Craig watches in fascination. He can feel his hand is trembling. Tweek's fingers are turning a yellow-white where the blood flows away to make room for the skin and bone to come closer together, and Craig wonders if Tweek is looking to see the same thing happen in Craig's inked skin. It won't.

"Terrifying," Tweek mumbles.

"What is?"

"Tattoos. You're just being stabbed a lot, and then it's like, dragged over your skin. There is ink in your pores. There is ink in your skin and it's always going to be there."

Craig's gut clenches. Tweek has his left arm, his right exposed from mid-bicep down under the sleeves of his borrowed black button-down shirt. Over the tight collar is his neck tattoo. This what he looks like, and it's exposed for Tweek's amber eyes to take in. It is not an unfamiliar situation, but it feels worse than it typically does.

Tweek smiles up at him with tight lips. "You're braver than I am."

Craig lets out one solid laugh, a heavy breath of amusement that takes his tension with it. Tweek turns around and looks at a group of sloppy kids taking shots, and he tugs Craig toward them before dropping his grip. Craig's arm tingles as he follows Tweek around the house, Tweek pointing out the things he should be filming, mostly passed out or making out teenagers. With the blonde shaved head and amber eyes as his guide, Craig feels like he's floating.

15:02:41 Dec 3 2012

"I always feel weird pulling up here in this bitch," Token complains, shifting the car into park.

"If you feel like your car is too nice, I have a business transaction you may be interested in," Craig suggests, unplugging Token's ipod from the auxiliary jack in the center console. "That, or I can just key it."

Token's expression is dark, admonishing, and sort of intrigued. Craig raises his eyebrows, letting Token know silently that he will happily beat up his brand new Audi for the sake of looking more like the middle part of upper middle class. His best friend seems to be considering it as they climb out of the heated car and into the biting cold of the neighboring Fairplay, Colorado.

Canyon Thrift is their favorite place to shop. Lacking morals, the for-profit company doesn't seem to screen their donations, or concern themselves too much with quality. The clothes are often unwashed and unusable, but as far as Canyon Thrift is concern, if they can sell it for a quarter, they're still turning a profit. That makes this location the favorite of a poor Craig Tucker and an insatiable Token Black, who gets hard at the thought of stepping into the pants another person may have perished in.

The drive was pleasant, and Craig felt occupied as they spent the time singing along to their traditional theme songs, and even now, Token is whistling the melody to Particle Man as they walk in the front door, but Craig starts to feel the uncomfortable itch of boredom in his skull. Token told him to leave the camera at his home, and without the Canon filling his right hand, Craig cannot stop himself from pulling out his phone and scrolling through Tumblr.

"You're so rude. Put your phone away. You're supposed to be hanging out with your best friend."

Craig groans audibly and shoves his phone back into his pocket, preparing himself for the onslaught of Token's opinions.

"Why do you do that, anyway?" Token continues, his critical eyes narrowed upwards at Craig's face. "Why do you always have to be staring at your phone. Do you have thousands of online lovers I don't know about?"

"No," Craig answers, pulling away from Token to start fingering through a rack of blazers. "I'm just restless."

"You're an alien. Not many people feel restless when they're resting."

"I don't consider shopping with you resting," Craig laughs, shaking his head at an oversized trench coat Token is making goo-goo eyes at. "Don't buy that. And I told you, I'm totally adopted."

"There's no fucking way you're adopted, dude. Look at yourself. You're the only person in South Park that's taller than your dad."

"Your hair is taller than my dad," Craig corrects him.

"Holy shit, you think so?" Token's face lights up hopefully, dragging Craig by the wrist to the nearest mirror where he forces them to stand side by side. They stand there for a few moments, trying to split their weight evenly between both feet and judge their heights. Craig Tucker: six four. Token Black: six foot. Token's 'fro: four and one quarter inches.

"It's over," Craig mourns playfully. "I'm no longer special."

"Oh, get over yourself," Token moans as he pulls away, returning to the racks to try on the trench coat Craig already detests. "You've never been special."

"I swear to the Blessed Virgin Mary if you buy that coat..."

"There's not a single defining characteristic about you, Craig. You've got average looks, an average personality, and an average story. You're like a foreign film with the subtitles off."

"I'm tall," Craig rebuttals, proving his point by grabbing a pair of jeans off the rack and holding them to his waist. The pants stop midcalf and Craig wiggles his foot around seductively beneath them.

"You are tall."

"But that's it," the friends say simultaneously.

Brief laughter dissolves into some serious thrifting. Craig is here because he needs a new winter coat. However, winter is the wrong word to use. In South Park, it snows seventy-five percent of the year and for the last two years, Craig has been living in a worn down hoodie that was once royal blue and a cracking black leather jacket, both of which were second hand when he bought them in the first place. It's time for something warmer, and maybe, something a little more attractive.

Clothes have a hard time fitting on Craig, and as he tries on leather jacket after leather jacket, the sleeves are either too short or the body too big. He thinks back to Tweek teasing him for wanting to be naked, but who can blame him? Clothes always feel like they're meant to be taken off. He tosses a fifth coat back on the rack, scanning the ominously long rows of clothing racks running through the store for where Token has vanished to. He sees the other man kneeling by a shoe rack, trying on a dingy pair of loafers.

"Any good finds?"

Token shrugs, standing up and rocking back and forth to test out the shoes. "Lots of shoes that'll look bomb with a little oil, but other than that, nothing heart stopping. What about you?"

"Not yet," Craig answers. "I guess I'm not sure what I'm looking for."

Token ties his fur lined boots together by the laces and throws them over his shoulder so he can strut about the store in the new pair of shoes. They move slowly together down an aisle, Craig dragging a heavy hand over clothes he isn't interested in, only stopping to rub fabric between his thumb and forefinger if he likes the color.

"Gary Harrison is playing at an open mic in North Park this weekend," Token begins. "I wanted to go, drink a beer in a broody bar, watch childhood friends spill their soul into a room of people that are hardly listening. It's not in South Park, but it'd be great for our movie. Something about how South Park kids have to leave town to grow. But I have class Friday morning."

"I'm going to that," Craig jumps in, feeling oddly excited at the ability to contribute to the conversation.

"Why?"

"I'm filming. Henrietta Biggle is playing too. Her friend asked me to film in exchange for free drinks for me and-" Craig cuts himself off.

"You and who?"

"Just me," Craig corrects.

"Pretty sweet deal," Token nods. "Are you going to edit it into anything?"

"In exchange for free drinks and zero cover? Fuck no, I'll send it raw."

"Not like you can edit anyway. You're a one trick pony."

"I can learn!" Craig defends, glaring at his friend. "Not my fault I didn't grow up with three computers and final cut pro."

"It's time you learn something new, anyway."

"So you'll teach me?"

"When we have time," Token nods. "When we finish this project we're currently working on I'll teach you how to edit."

"Cool," Craig whispers, pausing to study a letterman jacket from a high school he doesn't recognize.

"What exactly are you looking for?"

"What?"

"Clothes. What kind of clothes are you looking for today?" Token clarifies, studying Craig with those lowered brows and pursed lips that Craig always is skeptical of.

"A coat, maybe another hoodie. I'm not sure."

"Let me dress you."

Craig rolls his eyes, turning away from Token and flipping through another few jackets.

"Please," Token begs, moving between the rack of clothes and Craig so the other man is forced to look down at his friend. "I always ask nice and you never let me!"

Silence is Token's permission, and with a fist pump, Craig is led in front of a mirror, where Token forces him to stand as he wanders off again, looking for the right pieces. Craig is left to look at himself in the dingy surface. His trusty jacket and hoodie are lying at his feet, leaving him in just a plain white t-shirt. His eyes are drawn to the angler fish tucked inside his elbow. He swears he can feel the ghost of Tweek's thumb pressing into it, but his mind can drum up anything if he's anxious enough. Token already scolded him once for his phone, so with the device pocketed, he focuses on the exposed skin. The color has dulled over the three years since the fish was first ingrained in his flesh. Anglerfish absorb their mates. They're scary, Tweek told him. He never did learn why they have lights on their heads. His fingers itch to dig his phone from his pocket and google anglerfish.

"Close your eyes."

Craig obliges, holding his arms out to his side and letting Token slide a jacket over his outstretched arms. When he opens his eyes, he is both horrified and fascinated by the Craig Tucker that stands before him. Token always finds the most ridiculous items from what always seems to be an average thrift store selection, but now as he Craig stands here in a ratty faux fur jacket, he seems to get why Token always dresses so ostentatiously. He doesn't speak as Token undresses and re-dresses him like a barbie doll. He is draped in a mauve raincoat, a kelly green pullover, and a colorful poncho. Token studies each piece carefully before replacing it with something else. The experience is similar to when Tweek was looking at his tattoos, but it does not feel the same. Token is the master in this situation, and Craig is appeasing him solely out of long-established love. He closes his eyes whenever instructed to do so, and won't open his eyes until Token gives him permission. He feels Token's hands pull at the fabric on his body, occasionally rubbing across his shoulders or down his sides to check fit. Craig thinks of Tweek while Token reaches up and around his neck to refold the collar on a hideous yellow sports coat and feels a ghost of the euphoric high they shared a few nights before. He opens his eyes and makes eye contact with the man standing in front of him. They study each other in silence for just a moment before Token announces, "okay, you're done." Token must have tried twenty separate things on his breathing mannequin, but now he only has four selections draped over his arms. Fur coat. White blazer. Silver windbreaker. Burgundy cardigan. It's a more or less normal selection. Satisfied, Token grabs his selections and walks smugly towards the register.

"Not all of those really fit," Craig calls out weakly, tugging his familiar hoodie back on.

"That's what a tailor is for, boo-boo."

"I can't afford a tailor," Craig scoffs, watching himself in the mirror for just a moment longer before turning to follow his friend.

"I can!" Token calls out across the store. "Consider it a gift!"

In addition to Craig's new pieces, Token bought himself the trench coat, three pairs of floral spandex pants, and the camel loafers. They drop their purchases off in the car, and without having to speak, they turn together towards the sidewalk and start walking along the same path they always take after a round of Canyon Thrifting.

Fairplay is only a little larger South Park, but has a few businesses that South Park doesn't have, like a FedEx and a Home Depot, so the town is frequented by South Park residents. It was on one of these errands that Craig discovered their destination for the first time. Ever since he showed it to Token, they've made a point to stop by anytime they were in the neighboring town.

It's a short walk a block South and a cut through a dirt lot to find the abandoned building. It appears to have once been a preschool, or an old church, but now it's empty and a little dilapidated, which isn't an unfamiliar sight in Park County, but the remarkable thing is the graffiti on the side of the structure.

The men stop and stare up at it, Craig lighting a cigarette before offering one to Token, who, like always, politely refuses. Thousands of little fish, painted in a spectrum of grey, blues and purples, school across the side of the building. Craig has never seen the ocean, and has only been to the Denver Aquarium once in his life, but these little fish are like old friends, having appeared all over Park County for the past several years. Most get painted over or buffed out within a few days, but this one expansive art piece has always remained. He thinks about the anglerfish on his arm, and wonders if these little fish are friends or foe or food.

They're swimming West, East, and West again, the fish in the back of the school several turns behind, but the fish at the front, swimming with a fast determination off the side of the wall. There is no background, no ocean behind the painted water-breathers. It is almost as if they don't belong on the building, just swimming through Fairplay on their way to another destination or at least trying to swim through, and maybe, they've been stopped by something. Craig wonders how many years they'll spend here before the city will paint over them and allow them to swim on.

They sit on a rusted out seesaw, both sharing the elevated side of the equipment now that it won't teeter. At one point, Token inhales as if he is about to speak, but their silence persists. There is a gentle breeze today and as it begins to snow again, the flurries whip up and around, bouncing off of the wall before them. When Craig finishes his cigarette, he stands and approaches the wall. He smothers the embers against the mouth of a minnow.

When he turns back to his friend, Token is watching him with a curious expression. Token's brown eyes see everything through the cheap plastic of his fake glasses, but Craig has nothing to show. He immediately lowers his head and pulls out his phone as he walks passed him back toward the car, checking to make sure his text count is still at zero. They head back to the Audi waiting patiently at Canyon Thrift with their new purchases in the trunk.

They climb back in the car, and Craig plugs in Token's ipod as his best friend pulls out of the lot. He changes the album to Flood, and it only takes half of a verse of Token's smooth voice singing along with Birdhouse in Your Soul before Craig mumbles along in his terrible attempt at singing. It's a comfortable environment, in Token's car Craig does not mind singing and letting loose.

Token goes to drop Craig off at his house, but Craig refuses to get out of the car, instead waving Token back to his mansion on Sierra Madre. At the house, Craig enjoys a meal of grilled cheese with ham and onions. Sometimes his dad makes grilled cheese, but he only melts cheddar cheese onto bread. Token's parents add the extras. Craig is never too humble to stick around the Black household during mealtime. Without the assistance of his camera to use as an excuse not to participate, Craig plays a couple rounds of Street Fighter with his best friend.

17:02:41 Dec 9 2012

His phone has been buzzing with text messages for the last half hour, but Token has been pointedly ignoring it. Marcus wants to have some friends over, and wants to know when Token will be vacating the premises. He managed to catch up with his work for his obnoxious upper level core classes, which for all their good intentions that Token appreciates as broadening his scope of knowledge, are weighing him down when he has his film project to work on. With all of his immediate homework done and tucked away in his brown leather satchel, Token can finally sit down with his laptop and notepad to watch the footage Craig sent him early this morning.

Token would watch all of Craig's life, save for the sleeping, if he had the time, but he cannot live Craig's life alongside his own, so he skims slowly through Craig's midday nap and him watching a movie Token does not recognize. He is careful to make sure he does not miss any details, but he knows some small things get lost as he uses the fast forward button. It's a sacrifice he has to make.

Film review and editing is one of the few settings in which Token will remove his glasses. They are folded neatly on the desk beside him as his naked eyes scan the screen. He clicks his pen against his jaw as Craig brings him downstairs to retrieve a bag of store-brand animal crackers that look vile coated in a slick pink icing. Craig does not seem to be off-put by the sugar, popping one after another into his mouth when he resumes his movie and washes it down with a cup of generic Mountain Dew that has been sitting on his bedside table all night.

The sky outside Craig's bedroom grows darker, and he flicks on a lamp when his movie is over and he seems to realize he has been sitting in the dark for an unknown period of time. He walks over to his guinea pigs and sits on the floor in front of them. He opens a hatch and pulls out one, Lenora, Token thinks, but he can't stand to be in the proximity of the same room as them without his allergies flaring up, so he really can't be sure which pet he is looking at. Craig cups her in his hands and coos to her, petting her angled head. He lets her climb up his torso even though he is shirtless, and does not move when he nuzzles her head along the slightly overgrown shaved base of his skull.

It is strange to see Craig showing affection. Even though he has always known this side of Craig has existed around his pets, it looks surreal in comparison to Craig's fascination with Tweek. Token knows there is a gentle side to Craig, he can hear it in the way that Craig actually talks to Tweek. Token has not heard him talk to anyone in years for more than a few necessary or snarky words except himself, Clyde, and their parents. With Tweek, Craig asks questions, provides commentary, and Token could swear he even hears him smiling behind the camera occasionally. He both proud of and horrified by the progress.

The lock on the door turns and Token looks up to see Marcus and a mutual friend of theirs, Shawna, both dressed up. They both look at him skeptically. "Dude, I thought you'd be out or whatever since you didn't respond. Did you get my texts?"

Token holds up his phone to show them the wall of text message he received.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

Marcus's lips are shut tight, and Shawn rolls his eyes at him. "I have a bottle of rum and I want to pregame with Lea before her birthday, and it's fine if you're not going out with us tonight, just make sure you text her, but the hermit I live with won't leave my room, so you and Marcus are the only option."

"And?" Token asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Aubrey and Lea are best friends."

Token frowns at the mention of his ex-girlfriend. Shawna and Marcus both have cautionary expressions on their faces, and they are watching Token carefully to read his thoughts. He keeps his mouth tight and glances back at his computer screen. "What time?"

"In like an hour."

Token shuts his laptop and stuffs it in his bag with his water bottle. He tugs on a coat and gives his friends a half-wave goodbye as he heads off to the library. Luckily, he does not run into Lea as he is exiting the dorm building, she is almost always standing outside smoking around a few planters.

There are a series of desks near the window on the second floor of Norlin that he prefers. It's a quiet area with a view, and although it's already nine in the evening, the library is on finals hours and will be open until a glorious 2 AM. Unfortunately, finals means that the place is flooded. Miraculously, he watches two women crushed together at a desk in his favorite area pack up and walk away, claiming that they're starving. Token quickly adopts the space, situating himself comfortably there. Token secures his headphones over his ears and hits play.

Craig put away the guinea pig and is now standing in front of his closet, staring at the array of clothes before him. He told Craig he had to wear one of the new piece he bought and had tailored for him, and Craig decides on the white blazer. Token is both impressed and a little horrified when Craig matches it to a black wife beater, black skinny jeans, and his black slip-ons. He cannot be sure if Craig is being lazy, or if he has taken Token's bizarre fashion sense to heart, but he likes the result. Craig leaves his chullo hat on his dresser and instead stands in front of his mirror carding his fingers through his hair, making the mass of it full and lively. He picks up the camera and turns it off. Token opens the next video to find Craig walking out of his bedroom, presumably with a brand new battery in his camera.

Token watches as Craig cracks the window, lights a cigarette, and and turns up the radio as he drives. It's a wonder that Craig listens to the radio at all since for as long as Token has known him, Craig barely likes music. There are a few bands he enjoys, and he and Token can agree on They Might Be Giants, but Craig complains about nearly every song he hears. He thinks everything is too slow, too fast, bad lyrics, sappy lyrics, too much bass, too many vocals, and so on. Craig does not even seem the like the few bands he listens to on his own, but Token acknowledges that they aren't great either. Craig seems to only listen to music that has some sort of noise quality to it. He can't describe it, but it's messy, irritating, and arguably not very good at all. Craig tends to only like the first album of the bands he says he does not hate.

This is why it is strange for Token to see Craig walk into a bar in North Park advertising an Open Mic Night.

There is already someone on stage, a woman a few years older than them singing a piano cover of an overplayed pop song that Token knows Craig would not recognize. He barely seems to hear the music at all as he weaves through the people standing around and whispering to each other with beers in their hands. It's dim, and Token is having a difficult time seeing the surroundings in detail, but he does recognize Firkle Vargas sitting at the bar before Craig even approaches him.

"Craig! You came!" His white teeth glint against his caramel skin. He is lacking the glitter that usually gleams on his skin. He looks casual and older in a loose black sweater and tight pants. He waves a hand with a black X on it toward the stage. "I have a table reserved near the stage for you to set up. Henri's gonna be on the piano, and I've angled it so you can get a look full body shot of her from the table, but please feel free to walk around and get other angles as well. Now, I saw your date around here somewhere."

Craig does not respond as Firkle looks around the room. "Ah!" He waves a hand enthusiastically and soon enough, Tweek is approaching them, looking lost in a thick cardigan. He is an alien with his shaved head and thin body, but Craig does not seem to mind. Token can practically feel Craig relaxing when Tweek is beside him. Firkle spins in his stool and flags down the bartender, who approaches immediately. Firkle tells the woman that Craig and Tweek get free drinks for the evening, and she takes their orders. Craig gets a beer and Tweek mutters the name of a hard mixed drink.

Firkle is grinning at the men standing around him. He almost looks more devious outside of his party boy goth look and stripped down to a casual goth nearly adapted into society. "You ever film something like this, Hollywood?"

Token hears only the noise of the bar full of strangers chatting in response.

"I have total faith in you."

The bartender brings the men their drinks and Craig immediately takes off, Tweek in tow. They end up at the table Firkle had reserved for them. Craig takes a seat and angles the camera around to find a good way to film and using the current pianist as a body double. The shot pans over Tweek, who is sitting proper with his glass in both hands.

"You don't say much, man," Tweek says, barely audible over the loud music.

"Hmm?" The camera aims at the pianist once more, and Craig stands up to gain a new perspective.

"To Firkle. To everyone. You don't talk."

"I talk to you, don't I?"

Tweek twitches and looks down at his drink. He tosses back a quick gulp, his body practically vibrating while the liquid passes over his tongue and down his throat. "That's what I'm saying."

The camera lowers as Craig is in the middle of moving it around. It does not seem intentional. Clapping arises and Craig is excused from saying anything. A high school aged boy takes the stage with an accordion. He starts with a name, a few rambling words, and the sound of the accordion fills the room. It's unapologetically loud, and it drowns out the words Craig does not want to say.

He walks away from the table and to the other side of the short stage. It is barely two feet off the floor. He imagines someone sitting at the grand piano as he holds the camera close to look through the viewfinder, searching for the right angle, the right lighting. The kid onstage is stomping along with the music, but Craig hardly notices. He crouches down, aiming up. He stands up tall. He side steps left and right. It's clear to Token that this is a very new type of project, and although Token already knows this, he wonders if Firkle or Tweek can see it, too. The musician transitions from one song to another, and Craig wanders center stage, looking up at the boy before turning back to the lonely piano.

"How is it going?" Firkle's voice comes from behind the camera. Craig does not respond. "Don't worry, I have total faith in you, and I don't have faith in much. You should take that as a compliment, Hollywood."

Firkle is cheeky, smug, and acts much older than a high schooler. He's short, but his presence is large. Token can tell that the ever-stoic Craig is affected, even if only slightly. After all, Firkle is kind of giving him his first film job.

The boy leaves the stage and Craig walks alone back to the table that Tweek is waiting at, periodically swallowing mouthfuls of alcohol. Craig barely pays him any mind as a thick young woman walks on stage, a long black dress flowing behind her, and takes a seat at the piano. She shifts to find comfort, adjusts the microphone to her deep crimson lips, and begins to play.

Henrietta has a rich, dark voice that she compliments with the way she plays her fingers over the keys. Her eyes stay lidded with the occasional sultry glance out toward her audience. She is terrifyingly talented, and it takes Token aback. He has heard her before, but that was years ago. They were still in high school. Craig films her with reverence. He keeps the camera steady, moving from the full body view to showing her face from the front. The shaved side of her head faces the audience and a huge flower headband situated on the fuzzy side of her skull matches her lipstick. She is an art piece that Craig captures beautifully. He focuses on her face, and then on her hands when he moves behind her once more. Aside from it being a single camera, the film looks fantastic. Token is impressed by his best friend.

Token wishes he could see Craig and Tweek's face as they listen to the music. The lyrics are heavy. It sounds as though there is a love story sunken below the surface of vivid imagery and impeccable piano playing. Henrietta does not have to sing loud, her voice carries. Token can only describe the song as dark piano pop. It's mature, it's beautiful, and the room is much quieter for her than it was for the last two performers.

"Gentle princess, calm the reflex. Be our witness and float along the wind. Marry me after the gilded chapters, lost in silence, quiets our sin. Churches toppling all the steeples, buildings, pyramids, all the people, all the people..."

There is a story there, terrible and true. Token does not know much about her except that she skipped town immediately after high school to roadie for a band she wasn't too keen on. Rumor had it she stayed in the town the band ended in for a while before crawling back home. She generally avoids parties unlike her three friends, so what Token has heard of her story has all been pieced together by people he cannot trust completely. Listening to her play inspires him. He wonders what he can glean from watching her.

She leans back, her fingers playing on their own accord as she makes eye contact with the camera for a brief moment before scanning the crowd. A few last words ringing with a deep vibrato finish off the song and leave a reverent dead space before the clapping begins. She does not try to play a second song like the previous kid did, she just states her name into the microphone, thanks the crowd, and leaves.

Craig walks back to where he left Tweek, who is only a quarter of the way through his drink. Craig takes a seat and sets the camera down to face them as he finally attacks his beer. He swallows a few mouthfuls and looks up at the stage with a bored expression.

"She was really good," Tweek says.

"I think it came out alright."

"So that's all you had to do?"

"Yep."

Tweek fidgets with the lip of his glass, scraping his uneven thumb nail over the rounded edge. There is music playing and Craig is staring in its direction, but does not seem to be listening. He drinks a little more as he deafly watches. Tweek looks over his shoulder every few moments.

Craig sighs and stands up, taking the camera with him and approaching the goths where they are standing along a wall by the bar. Pete and Michael regard him warily, but Firkle lights up when he sees him. "How was it?"

"Fine. Good."

"Great!" Firkle cheers and claps him on the bicep. He pauses and looks him up and down. "You look sharp as fuck. Don't be afraid to order more drinks. It's on me."

Firkle turns to grab Henrietta from her conversation with Stan and Gary, who she is shaking hands with. "Goddamn it, Firkle," She swears at him, but he waves it off.

"Craig thinks the footage came out well."

Henrietta gives Craig a wary once-over. "Thanks, Tucker."

"Yeah."

"A match made in hell," Firkle laughs.

Stan smirks appreciatively. He does not bother to make eye contact with Craig. Stan is one of the few people who easily accepts that Craig does not want anything to do with anyone who is not Token or Clyde. Gary and Stan stand tall, broad, and athletic. They look too casual and normal to be at an open mic surrounded by young adults with new shapes and cuts in their clothes.

Firkle pulls a sharpie from Henrietta's backpack and grabs Craig's free hand. Token desperately wishes he could see the look on Craig's face as Firkle turns his hand over and writes his e-mail address on the light blue waves on the inside of his wrist. His wicked smile glints up at Craig. "E-mail me when you get it uploaded."

Craig tugs his arm away, but Firkle holds fast. "Take advantage of my payment."

"You haven't even seen the finished product yet," Michael drawls from above. "It may be shit not even worth scraping off my platforms."

"Platforms! Like you need to be taller. You too!" He accuses Craig. Firkle squeezes Craig's wrist and releases him. "I trust Hollywood, here. Have you seen his work humiliating Pete's classmates? It's brilliant."

"Is that what we're calling art these days?" Pete mumbles.

Craig leaves when the opportunity arises and he drops into his seat at the table. Token is a little surprised that Tweek is still there. He has gone through most of his drink already and Craig's neglected beer sits patiently beside it. Craig does not seem to worry about leaving his alcohol semi-unattended, and he snatches it back and swallows a mouthful.

"So just a beer, huh?" Tweek asks, his voice wavering and uncertain.

"Yep."

"I guess you're driving."

"I am."

They sit in silence for a bit as the performer on stage changes and a middle-aged man with a harmonica steps up to the microphone. The melodic screeching fills the room and Tweek twitches, sinking into himself in an attempt to hide from the sound. Craig watches him and says nothing.

Tweek makes several glances over his shoulder at the room behind him. The crowd is ever-changing. There are not many people, but there is a substantial amount, enough to make white noise out of mindless chatter and enough to make Tweek Tweak nervous. Token would have assumed that the blonde would have artificially mellowed out by his early twenties, at least around people he knows. But for all Token is aware, the Tweek he is seeing may be the mellowed version of what could be. It can be hard to tell with him.

Craig's eyes take slow paths to wherever they go. He travels from the stage to his drink to Tweek to the atmosphere around them. He takes everything in. He does not like to skip details, especially when he is in a new setting, which is rare for a man who hardly ever leaves South Park.

Craig looks at Tweek. Token cannot read the expression on his face. After all the years of knowing him, Token still has a difficult time reading Craig when he is closed off. Token is so often treated to the somewhat carefree Tucker boy now that he only sees him in isolation and not with other friends like he did in high school, that the careful way Craig has trained his emotions to stay in check is unfamiliar to Token. In person, he may be able to see a certain twinge in his expression that would hint what he is feeling, but it does not translate through dim light of the bar.

Token knows that Craig is interested in Tweek. That much has been apparent since the footage of the Thanksgiving party. He thought he was wielding a wild theory until Kyle watched over his shoulder and confirmed that Token suspected about his best friend. Token has been aware of Craig's sexuality for three years and suspicious for even more. Craig has never said a word, but Token can see it. Craig's own silence damns any secrecy he thinks he bears. Watching Craig be not just attached to but interested in someone is amazing. Token has been guarded lust in his friend's eyes, but never interest. Craig watches Tweek with intrigue that goes beyond physical.

Token can understand what draws Craig to him. There is something mysterious about him despite the barely contained way he lives. He is strange, and Token knows it is the sudden baldness revealing the gaunt face always hidden by shaggy hair that reeled Craig in. He does not always understand Craig, and he knows Craig is disconnected from his own sexuality enough that Token may never fully grasp what captivates his best friend, but he knows Tweek is doing it.

The twitchy blonde is twisting his neck to look over his shoulder when a tall body in a forest green velvet dress appears beside him and Tweek jumps, screaming and quickly slapping his hands over his mouth. Marjorine bends down into the line of view of the camera and puts a hand on his arm. "Oh, Tweek, I'm so sorry!"

Craig adjusts the camera so it can see her when she straightens up. She's tall with a short dress and long blonde hair. Her face is scrunched up in an apology. "I'm sorry, fellas. I didn't mean to spook you."

Tweek nervously laughs it off, dragging a hand down his chin and neck. Craig leans his chin on his hand.

"W-what are you doing here?" Tweek asks as he glances around the room. "It's too early to be out of school, right? Are Wendy and Nichole here?"

"No, just me! I have all essays for finals, so I'm done early! Well, I still have one more paper to turn in, but I'm almost done and I don't have to e-mail it until Monday night." She looks at Craig when she says, "And Clyde won't be home until practically the night of his party. Well, darn, Craig, I love that outfit. You looks fantastic. Tweek, doesn't he look fantastic?"

The man on stage finishes to a loud round of applause. Tweek sags in the chair.

"Is that-?" Marjorine asks, turning her attention to the stage. A teenage girl with a ukulele takes stage and Marjorine deflates, looking back to Craig and Tweek. Her phone is clutched sideways in her big hands.

"How is everyone?" Tweek asks.

Craig shifts in his seat. He looks uncomfortable. Tweek told Craig he had a lot of friends, and Craig is faced with one of them. He is trying to look casual as he watches Tweek and Marjorine chat. Tweek is smiling with her. Craig has an expression on his face that Token could take for jealousy.

"How is New York?"

"Perfect, as always," she chirps. "I started a new job this semester. You know I was working at Shake Shack, but it was too much. The pay wasn't terrible, but after a while the lines running out the door just isn't worth $9.02 an hour and I thought, hey, I know a little about fashion or at least Nichole has taught me enough to make myself look presentable-really turned my life around-so I applied to a few clothes store and now I work at Zara!"

Tweek's jaw twitches with uncertainty about what to say. He looks confused.

"Sorry, I forget where I am sometimes! It's a nice store. Middle-end fashion. That's where my whole ensemble came from!"

She brushes her long hair behind her shoulders and drops her hands to her sides. Token is finally able to admire her outfit. The green dress is topped with a white peter pan collar and her long angled legs are clad in black nylon. Token nods in appreciation, forgetting he is sitting in a crowded library during finals.

"It's a great job, I love it."

"Congratulations," Tweek tells her and she beams.

"How is South Park treating you fellas?"

Craig looks to the other man. It is not an expectant glance like he wants him to answer for him and spare him the conversation, but it is assuming. Craig assumes that he does not have to say anything and that the conversation, while including a plural address, is only aiming singularly at the blonde man.

"F-fine," Tweek responds, glancing around the room as he speaks and not holding eye contact for longer than a second or two. "Just working."

"You'll be back in school next semester?"

Tweek nods.

"Good, I want to be one of your models! Your professor will absolutely die when she sees my body!"

Craig's eyes narrow and his forehead wrinkles. Token mentally digs back through conversations he has witnessed between them. Craig looks suspicious.

"What are you fellas doing in a bar like this?" Marjorine asks pleasantly, changing the subject before Tweek is able to respond.

"Craig filmed Henrietta. B-Firkle asked her to so we got free cover. And drinks."

"Both of you?" She looks between them.

"Uh, just Craig filmed. I'm here for... I'm here."

"Huh," Marjorine smiled. "It just so happens I'm here to film Gary's first open mic for Wendy and Nichole, who were sore they couldn't come because of school and stuff, but I only have my phone, which is not the top of the line by any means," She says, waving around a Blackberry. "What could I offer you to use your services?"

Craig stares at Tweek for a moment before he realizes Marjorine is talking to him. Craig Tucker is the cockiest motherfucker to never assume anyone is talking to him. He blinks up at her, keeping his expression neutral.

She smiles patiently. "Will you film Gary for me? I have a twenty in my purse."

"Okay."

The answer was both surprising and expected. Token hums aloud in the library, impressed by Craig's shift in personality. Maybe it is the man sitting perpendicular him at the small table, maybe it's because he just did it for someone else and he may as well continue the work, or maybe it is the promise of money, but Craig does not seem an bothered as he usually does when showed affection, as Marjorine gives him a quick hug. "Thank you!"

She pulls away and starts typing on her phone, eyes glued to the screen as she says aloud, "This is great, let me tell Nichole and Wends that they won't have to worry about my phone's terrible quality. They will actually be able to see and hear Gary. Wendy is the most worried about missing it. She's been telling him to go to an open mic for years and he finally does it when she's stuck in New York."

Tweek is nodding as though he is very interested in what she is saying. Craig is looking at her, finally paying attention now that he has been drawn into the conversation through film. She makes eye contact with him and opens her mouth, but is interrupted by clapping. They turn to the stage to see the girl walking off and being replaced by the blonde god with perfectly pink Mormon skin.

Marjorine taps Craig on the shoulder and he picks up his camera, standing and walking up to meet Gary where the blonde takes a seat down center stage with his guitar in his lap. He adjusts the microphone as Craig finds the right angle.

"I'm Gary Harrison and this is Gold."

Token has heard Gary play the guitar on several occasions. They're friends, most through Nichole, who often has Wendy around, who often has Gary around. Gary is not always eager to play for his friends, but Wendy is a passable guitarist and Nichole loves to sing, so Token often bares witness to the golden trifecta of Wendy, Nichole, and Gary. Gary is the stand out self-sustaining musician because he is the most passionate. Gary could do something big with his music simply because he wants to.

The music that starts is similar to what Token usually hears. Patterned strumming lulls the audience and when Gary opens his mouth, the attention is drawn to him. His smooth voice sings the type of indie tune Token would listen to on repeat for hours while editing.

The bar around them must still be filled with the white noise of chatter, but Token is too focused on the music to hear anything else.

Unlike Henrietta's performance, Craig stays in one place. The camera stays dead, just one shot of him from his knees up. He is well framed in the camera and not too far above Craig, the short stage keeping a tall Gary not too far out of an even taller Craig's range. Gary spends most of the performance with a faraway expression on his face. He is an actor when he plays, his deepest emotions bleeding through his lips and eyes. Token wishes he could see the audience. He wants to knows if anyone is on the other end of that gaze.

"If a door be closed, than a row of homes start building. Tear your curtains down for sunlight is like gold."

The song picks up. A hollowing emptiness fills the room to make it apparent to Token that the song could use an accompanying musician or two. It sounds sorrowful with only Gary but the effect is not unpleasant. Token watches him strum, and wonders if he should turn his camera on Gary a little more often.

When the song ends, Token leans back in his seat. Craig does not stay a moment longer before walking back to Tweek and Marjorine, who has taken Craig's vacated seat. Marjorine coos up at him, thanking him in her overly polite way that tends to make Craig cringe. He lets her touch him to slip a twenty in his pocket. She stands up and hugs him again.

"I'll message you on Facebook for the video," She says, seemingly unaware that Craig's Facebook is a hollow shell. "Thanks again!"

She hugs Tweek, the contact lingering for a beat longer than casual before heading over to Gary, who is being approached by Henrietta. When the camera turns back to Tweek, he is staring after Marjorine with a strange expression.

"What was that?" Craig asks.

"Gah! What!" Tweek jumps.

"Marjorine. The hug and the staring."

"Oh, uh, it's nothing." Tweek presses his lips together and bumps the lip of his glass to them. He sets the drink back down and swirls it around. The ice is mostly melted. "We used to hook up. Butters!" He runs a hand over his head. "Me and Butters used to hook up in high school. You know, before everything."

Token can be frustrated seeing the world only through Craig's eyes, but this is the most infuriating piece of information he is being denied. He wants to see Craig's face so badly he grips the edge of the desk and groans aloud, unaware of the irritated glances sent his way. Whether the man puts down the camera to watch both he and Tweek or whether Token sees Tweek through Craig's eyes is a fifty-fifty chance. It was like Craig knew.

"So just Butters?"

"What! What do you mean?"

Craig says nothing.

Tweek drags his hands down the sides of his face. His eyes flick to the camera several times. "Butters. Not Marjorine. Butters. Uh also a guy in North Park. Baahir. I don't know if you know him. You probably don't. I don't know why you would, just uh, Butters and Baahir."

Token knew this. Not in that detail, of course, but he knew Tweek was interested in men. He did not have any proof and his point of reference was shady since Craig is the only gay youth in South Park he is aware of other than Firkle and Heidi, and Firkle is too young and promiscuous and Heidi is a woman. He has his suspicions of a few people, but those were passing moments. This is concrete. This is Tweek admitting he has hooked up with men, whatever that means. He can only imagine the rush of emotions Craig is feeling and he thinks he can feel them, too.

In Craig's silence, Tweek's panic rises. "I don't mean to scare you away or anything! You asked, man! I wouldn't have said anything, but you asked!"

"It's fine," Craig says, surprising them both. "It's not a big deal."

"Oh. Thanks." Tweek's eyes keep looking into the camera. He is exposing himself.

"I'm going to get another drink," Craig says after the swallows the last mouthful of his beer. "You want?"

Tweek swallows and looks down at his drink, which is mostly empty save for an inch of watered down liquid. "Yeah. 'Beer after liquor makes you sicker, liquor after beer and you're in the clear.' Another of this."

Craig is silent for a moment before he lets out a chuckle. "You have it backwards."

"No! That's the only way it rhymes!" He shouts and then mouths the rhyme to himself again to make sure.

"'Beer then liquor makes you sicker.' You want the hard stuff first because the beer is easier. You down the heavy stuff and ease yourself through the rest. Do you get it?"

Tweek opens his mouth but immediately shuts it and nods even though he clearly doesn't get it. Token can see the purple pink flush of intoxication and embarrassment fanning out from around his long nose before Craig turns away and heads to the bar.

Firkle is sitting there illegally, and he waggles his eyebrows when he sees Craig but does not acknowledge him as he seems to be in the middle of a conquest. A boy who performed earlier is the dubious victim of flirtation. Craig orders two Coronas and takes both of them by the neck in one hand back to the table without paying.

He is intercepted by Marjorine on the walk back. "Thank you again! You're the best!" She looks like she wants to hug him again, but the beers and camera are in the way. She gives him an extra big smile and walks away, wishing him a great night. Craig does not walk right away. Token knows he is watching Marjorine leave and playing over what Tweek told him. They used to hook up before Marjorine found herself.

Craig does not set anything down when he arrives at the table and asks, "What do you mean by 'hook up?'"

"What!"

"Hook up. What do you mean?"

Tweek grips his shirt in one hand. "I, uh, mean hook up. You know. Oh man. We used to like, make out."

"Make out," Craig repeats.

"Yeah, well, with Butters. I'd make out with Butters."

"What about the other guy?"

"That is personal!" Tweek is irritated now, his forehead wrinkled with rising offense.

"Making out with Butters clearly wasn't."

"Dude, if you're, like, uncomfortable, I can leave!" Tweek shouts, starting to stand up. "It's cool, I get it!"

"No," Craig says and Tweek drops back down. "I'm not."

"Oh. Okay. Good. That's good because Baahir was not just making out."

Token can practically feel Craig cringe.

Tweek groans and buries his face in his hands. "I knew this would happen."

"It's not a big deal."

"Says the guy doing the asking."

Craig sets the drinks down and slides into his seat across from Tweek. He arranges the camera so that it is on the table facing both of them. Token sighs with the relief of finally seeing his best friend's face. The heavy stuff is over, and he suspects Craig will avoid going back into any scary topics now that his face is being shown, but Token can only harp on the past so much. What is done is done. He can only hope that he can glean something interesting from Craig's expression.

Craig does not look an uncomfortable as Token thinks someone would feel in his position. Craig, a man extremely uncomfortable with his own sexuality, was told the man he is currently attracted to is at least somewhat gay. He look unimpressed, but Token should not have expected anything more.

"I would have, you know, with Marjorine," Tweek offers, looking a little drunk. "But she was trying to work through some stuff. I didn't want to bother her! I kinda liked Annie and I guess I thought maybe that would be something? It wasn't."

Craig nods, his eyes wide but harsh, like he is trying to get a grip on his anger or jealousy. Token cannot read him as well as he would like.

"So I like girls, too," Tweek says boldly. "Can we walk around or something? I'm feeling closed in."

Craig picks up the camera and Token is deprived of his reactions once more. Tweek takes them over to the bar where they stand and chat absently about their surrounding while people push them as they walk by. They move to the side of the stage where the performers trot back and forth. They move over to where Marjorine is talking to Stan and Gary. She tries to draw them into the conversation and Gary seems pleased about it, but Stan looks unhappy, as he always is. Token always gets a kick out of his anger. He knows it's wrong, but he cannot help the living display of art that is an irritated Stan holding onto a very alcoholic drink.

Tweek walks away from them after a few minutes in favor of going outside. Craig follows silently. Token would consider it passive if it was anyone but Craig. They abandon their drinks rudely on an empty table before leaving the bar.

Tweek sighs when he is immersed in the cold air. The street lights and the lights advertising the bar light him up in fluorescent whites and pinks. The drunk blush on his cheeks fades into the neons. Token imagines that Craig cannot stop staring. Tweek is a strange creature. He rubs his hands together and then over his neck in a lame attempt to warm up. He pulls a big tan fleece-lined jacket over his sweater and wraps his arms around himself rather than messily button it. It's a wonder he still buys clothes with buttons.

Craig rustles the camera around for a few moments before letting it hang from the strap around his neck while he lights a cigarette. Before long, he is holding the camera with one hand and smoking with the other. Tweek eyes him warily. "That will kill you."

"So I hear," Craig mumbles around the cigarette before inhaling. He twists his neck to exhale away from Tweek.

"No, really, it will! Haven't you ever seen those Truth commercials?"

"Rumor has it those things are a bunch of shit. They're fake." Craig takes a long drag and his stiff body sags when he exhales.

"Are you drunk?"

Craig lets out a dry chuckle. "No. Are you?"

"Maybe a little bit."

"Do you need a ride?"

"No, my dad will pick me up. Oh," Tweek says, turning his sheepish expression to the collar of his coat. "That's embarrassing."

"No, it's not. It's whatever."

Tweek hesitates before making eye contact with Craig. He regards him with a blank reservation that looks bizarre on his normally open face. All of Tweek's feelings are usually worn on his face. He has no secrets. He could barely keep one if he had it. Token watches his face carefully in a way that he is sure Craig would do if Tweek wouldn't look back. "I don't understand you."

Craig hums. "That sounds about right."

The computer screen goes black and Token jumps. He run his hands over the laptop to check for an obvious sign of damage and groans when he realizes he forgot his charger in the room. He looks at the clock on his phone. Everyone should be gone from his room, but he is not eager to take any chances. He shuts his laptop and leans back in the chair with a notepad in his lap, replaying the scene in his head and scribbling down points of interest.