I want to use different styles or a vocabulary of styles, as a writer uses different words. I think it is part of the technique of painting to be able to adapt yourself to different styles.
—David Hockney
Tweek's point of view:
There were only a few things better than sleeping in my bed with Craig and one of those was spending a two hour long car ride with him. For being a fan of boredom, he was very entertaining. Not only to me but to everyone around him. Although actually, he was probably more like one colossal embarrassment: singing belligerently with the windows down, trying to get others to participate when I adamantly refused, sticking his middle finger out and holding it there while passing someone by and attempting to hold conversations with people on the sidewalk.
He liked to know what people were doing and where they were going, said that it blew his mind to think about why people were heading in the same direction as him all at the same time and that it was extra incredible when he and someone else happened to arrive at the same place. It became a very psychological speech that half intrigued me and half scared me because I wondered the same things. I hadn't known that Craig did, too. He didn't come across as the type of guy who second guessed situations, especially coincidental ones.
As we got closer to his town, we stopped at a drive-through where all of the employees were in costume. None of them were in full head-to-toe garb―not like Santa or the Easter Bunny―and nobody was a zombie or a clown or anything of the scary sort so I managed not to feel fear throughout the short stop. I was then forced into feeding him his fries as he drove the rest of the way home, though it wasn't like I minded.
Halloween has never been a likable holiday for me. It was terrifying and distinctly smelled of pedophiles, rapists, and murderers. My only worry with this party was if someone showed up in a realistic costume. Sexy women in skimpy dresses and men dressed as jocks or the Flintstones were perfectly fine. It was the Freddy Krugers and villains I wouldn't be able to control myself around.
"I don't think I ever told you my idea for Halloween," he randomly said as I nibbled on one of his french fries distastefully. Fast food was gross. "I was going to face paint everyone a different animal. Like Clyde and Pretty Lady are going to be a chipmunk and a squirrel. Token's going to be a panther and I was thinking of being a dog. I want to do you too, so I just thought I'd let you know first."
A costume of my own wouldn't change my opinion on the holiday. No matter who I pretended to be, I was still filled with the same basic terror. I didn't like wearing masks or putting on low quality clothing, but face paint would be acceptable. All I'd have to do is wash it off.
"Okay," I agreed, crossing my legs in the passenger seat that was slowly becoming uncomfortable. "What animal d-do I get to be?"
"We could be opposites," Craig suggested. "I'll be the dog and you can be the cat."
My lips twisted into a smirk. "That sounds cute."
"I know, right? I'm just the cutest dude ever." I rolled my eyes at his conceited remark. "Do you want to get your hair done? My hair needs some styling if I want to remain at the top of my rank. Like maybe a quiff."
"You want a quiff?" I snorted, shaking my head while he nodded his. "What are you, a greaser? I thought you wanted to be a d-dog." He frowned. "Your hair is too long for that, anyways."
Craig grumbled stubbornly. "Fine. Modified-quiff. Do you want to get your hair done or not?"
"Are you t-trying to tell me that I need a haircut?"
"Nope." He reached out and ruffled my feathered blonde locks. "We can just get it styled for the party since, you know, I can get it done for free and all."
To be honest, a free styling sounded pretty luxurious, but I didn't want Craig to know that his job at the salon wasn't as stupid as it used to be, so I kept my expectancy quiet. "Styled how?"
"As if I have any kind of idea."
Except it turns out that he did, because that's how I ended up with Marla Singer's hairstyle from Fight Club. The one with the little Dr. Seuss-like Who hair tie at the top.
The girl who styled it had liked the texture and frazzled disarray of my hair so much that she hadn't wanted to do much to it. She'd tried to find a style similar to my own and Craig's suggestion of Marla had ended up being the one to stick.
He was working a palmade into it, ignorant towards the fact that I already had a stylist, to muss the strands and push them around my head. They stuck up where they pleased, regardless of direction or gravity. The three of us were looking at it in the rectangular mirror set within the girl's styling station. My opinion wasn't sure which direction it wanted to go. It wasn't that I didn't like what was done to me; I just felt more gay than usual.
Craig in comparison was such a man. His hairstyle was subtle, refined but noticeably sleek. It framed his face and highlighted the contours of his masculinity.
And then there was me: the gay blonde boy with Marla Singer's cute poof at the top. "You don't think I l-look extra homosexual?" I asked him uncertainly, flicking a few stray locks around my forehead.
"You look adorable." My face was an inferno. Wonderful. Right in front of his coworkers, too. "I like it."
"O-okay, then." The only reason why I was relenting was because he was content.
Satisfied, he clamped his hands down around my shoulders and gave me a little shake. "Let's get out of here, then. We were supposed to be back an hour ago." Turning to the girl, he thanked her for the both of us and perhaps she would be at the party because she said she'd see us later. Getting out of the salon in general was a bit harder. Craig was a likable guy and everyone had to get in their individual goodbyes. I was nailed by numerous compliments before finally making it outside.
"Are you p-purposefully trying to get Clyde to kill me?" I whimpered. He was already upset at me for holding Craig's return back an entire day. His hatred was raising my anxiety levels. God, why had I thought it would be a good idea not to take any of my medication today?
And then I remembered that I'd be getting wasted tonight and had to tell myself for a second time that my medication and alcohol weren't allowed to mix.
"Of course not," Craig said. It was probably a lie. As we settled back into his car and began the last trip back to his apartment, he added, "Everyone thought you were the sweetest little thing in there."
My brows knit, but my stomach was bubbling humbly. "Really?"
"Yeah. When you were getting your hair done, they all came up to me and told me how cute you were. They want me to bring you back."
"That―" I didn't know what to say. That I was flattered? That it didn't matter to me if everyone he worked with thought I was cute just as long as he did too? "That's n-nice of them."
"That's nice of them?" He repeated, glancing at me amusedly. "Tweek, you know that you're good looking, right?"
Getting called good looking from Craig won out over all of his coworkers calling me cute. Compliments from him were the ones that made me blush. "That's not what you said last time," I teased.
The look he gave me was accusative. It said that I was taking advantage of him. "Well, aren't I just so sorry. I meant to say beautiful."
Flattered was now an understatement.
I already had a pretty catlike appearance with my straight nose and angular eyes, but by the time Craig was finished with me, I was literally a cat. Not even a regular house cat but a tiger. He needed to take up special effects make-up or some type of cosmetology career because it was ridiculous how impeccable his skills were.
The warm colors he'd blended into my skin were seamless and natural. My nose could've been mistaken as a muzzle and I had whiskers. Craig had trimmed these little plastic strings and attached them to my skin with something called Spiritgum. I was excited about a product with an eery name like that but he had swayed my decision with words like "temporary" and "easily removed." My black tiger markings were symmetrical and the wingtips on my eyes gave me a fierce approach. His overall design was sharp and the contrasting colors appeared realistic.
Clyde was the cutest squirrel I've ever seen and his chipmunk counterpart was a flawless match. Even without their buckteeth―they'd refused the ridiculing, signature characteristic―I knew what animals they were supposed to be. The panther face paint on Token was quite detailed despite its darkness and his eyes were a focal point, vividly enrapturing. All that needed to be done was Craig's own of which he was currently finishing in the bathroom where he'd done ours.
It was a suspenseful wait as I sat around the kitchen and helped Pretty Lady decorate when she needed the help. While Craig and I had been on our way back, she'd gotten through a majority of the apartment. From the first staircase to the front door was a trail of melting candles and carved pumpkins. The door had a gargoyle knocker and the doorknob was covered in fake blood so nobody would be tempted to use it. Inside, she'd replaced the kitchen table with a long rectangular one fit for a banquet. It was bare except for the halloween streamers and spiderwebs hanging off the sides as well as two sets of red plastic cups and two ping pong balls. There were bats in the living room and a skeleton on the couch.
In the kitchen on the counter was an array of corked bottles and little vials filled with liquids varying in color. Some appeared to be blood, others of green or orange concoctions. Tombstones were set along the walls, the lights were dim, a fog machine was billowing smoke from the cracked closet door, and the fridge was leaking something ghastly and dark. Dismembered fingers were dribbled around the floor and a foot was sticking out from beneath the couch. From Token's room, an LED light was flashing and the television rumbled with foreign music and heavy bass. The dogs were nibbling on each other's outfits, attempting to take off their mittens, and viciously shaking off their hats. Julibob was a Spartan warrior and Julibee was a turtle. She even had a shell and a little reptilian cap.
"Alright, guys." The bathroom door opened and we collected in the mouth of the hallway to see Craig's end result. He walked out, took one look at us, and my heart shattered. Sometime between the last time we'd seen him and now, he'd put on this cocoa colored sweater vest and a plaid button up buttoned to the top. I wanted to kill myself right then he looked so goddamn cute. There was a brown patch over each of his eyes that reminded me of a dog's floppy ears and his little freckles were just the sweetest thing. When he smiled, his doggy mouth smile too.
"Well, Clyde...it looks like I'm going to have to break up with you," Pretty Lady declared. "Craig just stole my heart."
The brunette shared an understanding look with her. "That won't be needed. Let's just have a threesome."
Clasping a hand on either of his best friends' shoulders, Token said, "Count me in."
Craig was completely serious when he made a fist and lightly pounded his chest with it. "Fucking finally."
"This isn't an orgy without Tweek, though," Pretty Lady added.
"Yeah," Clyde agreed. I think everyone was surprised by his acceptance. "Not all of our dicks are going to fit inside my girlfriend."
Nobody responded, and to be completely honest, I had no idea how to even take his comment. And then Craig started laughing, brought the brunette in for a hug―careful of their faces―and said, "I call dibs on Tweek first."
About that time I decided it would be a good thing to be mortified. Pretty Lady saw my face and followed after Craig in humoring her boyfriend's terrible joke while Token excused himself from the conversation entirely. Lucky bastard.
"You guys suck," I grunted, taking the same route as Token by leaving. As they tried to bribe me into coming back, I entered the kitchen and snatched one of the vials with orange liquid.
Craig peeked around the corner of the hallway to watch me. "Tweek's starting the party without us," he told the others.
"That asshole," Pretty Lady swore.
"It's okay. That just means he's going to be the first to pass out." I'd just tossed my head back when I heard Clyde say that and immediately regretted doing so, both because I was now horrified by the thought of passing out first and by how disgusting that shot had tasted.
"Party hard, dude, party hard." It sounded like a congratulatory statement coming from Craig. "That was tequila."
Fuck. I needed to stay far away from the orange vials tonight. Tequila made me take my clothes off.
From within my pocket, a musical sound erupted. As I set the glass tube down and replaced it with my phone, I saw that Thomas was calling. "I'll be right back," I said to Craig, heading toward his room where I flipped off Clyde and his girlfriend as I passed them by. When the door was shut and I couldn't hear their laughter anymore, I answered my best friend's call. "I'm so screwed, dude. I just took a bigass shot of tequila."
"That's good, dude! Get drunk and get fucked." What the hell was going on tonight? Every conversation had to involve something related to me and sex.
"No," I disagreed. "It's not." He'd been with me the last time I drank tequila. There were pictures of me on his phone, passed out naked and on his bed.
Thomas laughed at my fretfulness, further dragging me into a state of anxiety. "Tweek, everything's going to be fine. Craig's going to take care of you. He won't let you take your clothes off the same way that I would." I ignored his inane giggling and focused on the nonsexual message of his reassurance instead. "You―fuck―need to have a good time. Stan and Kyle are here and they agree."
I knew he meant to console me, but just mentioning that he was with Stan and Kyle on Halloween without me made me feel guilty. "You should've come with me."
Out in the main room, the dogs started barking. "Are you kidding me? I'd ruin the mood! You and Craig need to get it on tonight without me even though I would love to get it on with Craig Tucker too."
"Nothing is going to happen, dude." I rolled my eyes and found a seat on the bed, shifting with the slight waves.
"Jesus Christ!" Thomas exclaimed. "Are you seriously unaware of how bad your denial is? Because it's really fucking obvious to me."
"I'm sorry," I said. He babbled to Stan and Kyle about how I was apologizing now. It frustrated me. "I'm just scared, okay? Everybody keeps talking and it's getting my hopes up. I don't want to get my hopes up."
In my head, I could clearly see him becoming just as vexed as I was. "It's okay to get your hopes up, Tweek. You're now officially allowed to. I saw Craig around you. We all did and he totally―"
The door opened. Before Thomas could finish, I ended the call and hid the phone. It was irrational, but my paranoia had risen since my medication had worn off.
Standing in the doorway was Craig. He had his hands raised in mock surrender and there was an upward curl to his lips. Somewhere he'd found an Egyptian headdress and was wearing it on his head. "I just took half shots for everyone who showed up so I thought I'd tell you to get your drink on. That and we're about to play beer pong. You and me are up first."
"How many people are here?" I asked, nervous to enter an atmosphere where everyone knew everyone and I was the only oddball.
"Eight so far," he answered. Four shots. "Come on. You'll recognize some of them from the salon."
Some as in two. There were only two girls who I vaguely recognized. Not including Bailey.