Expo '86

by Vcorrigan

Enter the psyche of society's base, add in numerous illegal substances, and you've got the expo of the century. Because neither can admit their faults, their feelings, the one thing that matters may be lost through their projections onto others. Tweek/Craig

2. 1 1 Confession

Warnings: Violence, crude language, adult situations, sexual refferences, slash.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, settings, nor the title "Expo '86", which rightfully goes to Death Cab For Cutie, who inspired this.

---

1.1 Confession of a Rattled Addict

con·fes·sion n.

1. The act or process of confessing.
2. Something confessed, especially disclosure of one's sins to a priest for absolution.
3. A written or oral statement acknowledging guilt, made by one who has been accused or charged with an offense.
4. An avowal of belief in the doctrines of a particular faith; a creed.
5. A church or group of worshipers adhering to a specific creed.

I suppose it's best to start at the beginning, correct? However, that is impossible, there never is a beginning, like there never is an end. Some argue the beginning is conception, others foreplay, others still pregnancy. But what about the acts before that, the delicate process of chemical turmoil? Socialism, heredity? It just proves the point again: there is no beginning. So how does one start a tale? Pick a point of significance and go from there? But how do they know the ending? "The End" never is the true stop, it's just the final words of fiction before imagination takes its toll. Death, happiness, togetherness, tyranny, dedication, all possible endings. But we were talking about the beginning, right? Hm. I suppose, for the sake of argument, the fourth grade will be our beginning.

---

Morning promised blinding white rays of sun, strong in the mountain air, although without the factories the O-zone was still living a prosperous life above the town of South Park. It was a Wednesday, another of the long autumn days flared with the coming season of death. Trees billowed in the wind, ruddy leaves snapping from thin fibers holding them aloft to drift in the violent torrent. Although a true beauty, the Rocky Mountains seeming to be in a natural flame, it was all a distant reminder of the harsh snow that would soon level the ground, kill many, leaving terror in its wake.

"It's all some conspiracy thought up by Mother Earth, by Him," a peculiar blonde announced, glaring out if his bedroom window toward the sky, swirling with fluffy clouds. "That's why the day feels old, although it's morning and just began, and—ah!"

He whipped around, messy hair obscuring his vision as the door creaked open, knee whacking the window seat hard enough for the blonde to register there would be a bruise. An exasperated sigh sounded from the doorway where his mother stood, mousy hair framing her young face.

"Well good morning, try to be more careful, Iestyn dear," she said kindly, noticing as he rubbed his knee with a frown. It alluded him as to why, throughout her profession as a mother, Eavan switched between use of his middle and true name. Beyond that, he'd always wondered why he'd have a Welsh name, until it dawned on him that there weren't many English names beginning with "I", and his comical father decided the initials "TIT" would be humourous for them all.

It wasn't.

"Mom, Jesus Christ, my name is Tweek!" he squeaked angrily, eyes narrowing to slits. With a sigh his mother crossed her arms under her breast, giving a slight nod before padding gently across the carpet. Silently Tweek thanked her for remembering the vibrations of a person's steps on the second floor was enough to send him into hysterics. Seconds later he regretted it, as Eavan bent down, tugging loosely on a stray lock of dirty-blonde hair, tsking.

"I think you need a haircut, honey," she said sweetly, pushing the mess back from his face, revealing his forehead, something she hadn't seen in years. "Your doctor says you consider it a stress reliever."

He sprang backwards from her touch, yanking clumps of his hair, a tremor shaking through his body. "What? No! Why would he say that?"

A smile playing across ruby-coloured lips she gently pried her son's hands from his hair, clasping them between her own in front of his stomach. Eavan noted they were shaking, though couldn't fathom why; she'd have to talk to the doctor about it. "He says it because it's true, sweetheart, as you just proved by trying to take handfuls of it out."

"But I'll still pull if it's short, and it'll hurt more! Gyah!"

His mother kissed his forehead as he twitched, brow furrowing as a chill ran through him. Heat receding, he knew she'd taken a step back and let go of his hands. Looking up he found er back at the door, watching him intently, with such a motherly look it made his mouth feel like cotton, an uneasy feeling spread from his stomach, but it was a good uneasy, referred to as the 'fuzzies'.

"Get ready, Tweek, we'll stop to get breakfast on the way to the doctor's."

As his mother closed the door softly, he let out a strangled breath, pulling on his hair in irritation. The said doctor was actually a psychologist that strongly believed in medication, no matter the age. The list of medication he was 'supposedly' on was too long, and got longer with each visit. It had been Mr. Macky's idea to have him looked at professionally, and his father's to return him on weekly visits.

He didn't understand why.

Watching the floor dejectedly he shuffled to the closet and threw it open, not bothering to check for gremlins and gnomes. There was nothing wrong with him, everything was chemically balanced, so why did he have to see the doctor? It was a question Tweek asked himself almost daily, but he'd yet to be answered.

Struggling from his pajamas the twitching boy changed quickly, pulling a jade shirt over his head that sported a cat on the front, the sleeves long enough to cover his hands. He'd long since abandoned wearing button-ups to the doctor, realizing all too well not being able to dress properly just increased the notion of craziness. Stuffing his orange-socked feet into Vans—the variety you didn't have to tie—Tweek cautiously edged down the stairs, checking each of them incase the carpentry was faulty.

Eavan waited at the end of the stairs, car keys twirling precariously on her index finger. At spotting her tremouring son she gave a sweet smile and extended a hand that he took without hesitation, letting half of his genes lead him out into the crisp autumn air.

It was an interesting thing, the trust children put into their mothers', he considered while his mother strapped him into the front seat. The utter dependency upon mothers ran in all species, but humans delved a bit deeper. Sure, the normal things were needed like shelter, food, water, protectiveness, but among that were comfort, advice, the knowledge the child wasn't alone, and several other things.

Tweek was no different in this matter. He'd always felt closer to his Mum, never having to doubt the fact she loved him endlessly and would do anything for him. His father, though, continuously joked about things that no father should like slavery; it was a blunt slap to the face and low shot to respect. Which was why the next question was spawned.

"Dad won't be there, will he?"

Eavan glanced to her son, disappointment evident in her gaze. She was well aware of Tweek's thoughts about Richard and the doctors, but couldn't help the worry of that distrust. Noticing he was staring, mouth slightly apart, waiting the confirmation she sighed.

"No, dear, he won't be there."

He gave a nod, head cocked to the side, seeming satisfied. "Can we go to Dunkin Donuts for breakfast?"

"You know what Doctor Rizzo said about drinking coffee before appointments, dear," Eavan said with a deep breath, switching to the fast lane. The only inconvenience about having a mentally disturbed son was the doctor's office was located in Denver, however it gave more choice of food to stop at, which Tweek enjoyed immensely.

"But I can't go on without the coffee! Gyah! It's too much, lemme out!" the blonde wailed at the news, a fit of twitching beginning as he pulled on the door handle, securely locked.

"Tweek honey, calm down."

Immediately sensing the stern words he froze, glancing up at her with watery eyes. She was his idol (after all, she could do laundry and make toast), so the scolding words were a slap to the face. With a mumbled, "Yes Mom," he began cracking is knuckles in a way very much akin to Butters'.

"Don't be like that, Tweek," Eavan said apologetically. "I'm not the doctor, and I don't want to go against his wishes. I promise right after your appointment we'll get you some coffee."

He perked at that, grinning happily. They stopped at the first Dunkin Donuts they came across, which happened to have a Baskin Robbins as well, to which the blonde happily named "Baskin Donuts" to go along with the multitude of "Ke Taco Huts" they passed (KFC, Taco Bell, Pizza Hut). Tweek ate happily, making small noises of pleasure through the mouthfuls of powdered sugar and blackberry goo that oozed from the donut centres. Eavan smiled to herself as she pulled into the doctor's office, her son sipping on a chocolate malt happily unaware of where they were at, or the sugar that painted his chin ghostly white.

"Honey, wipe your mouth and finish that quickly," she said with a light laugh, flipping the ignition off. Swiping the back of his sleeve on his mouth Tweek stared at the white smear from the sugar and shrugged before gulping down the rest of the malt.

To say the least, it wasn't a pleasant idea. Eavan shook her head, flustered as she led her yowling son into the waiting area, screaming about frostbite in the cerebrum and frontal lobe. She left him in a plush chair to sign in, several other youngsters staring at him wide-eyed, most likely fearing the untamed blonde. He bit his tongue, tasting copper, to keep from shouting absurdities, but he knew the children had already passed judgement.

I'm not crazy! He yelled to himself, tears pricking his eyes. Why was the world so keen on proving him mentally impaired? Hadn't these people ever eaten ice cream too fast, experienced a brain-freeze? It's not like he was crazy. Charles Manson was crazy, and because of him his parents didn't permit the blonde to listen to the White Album in fear he'd go off on a homicidal rampage and carve "Z"s into his friends' heads. Hat was pretty out-there too, killing twenty-three babies in "self defense", yet he was adored.

Before he could say something to increase the level of nervous around him, a small girl flounced over, long black curls flying behind her. Only inches from his knees she stopped and twirled in place, grinning, her two front teeth missing.

"Hiya Tweek," she sung, voice entirely too sweet and carefree. But that's why he liked little Jenny, despite what people thought of her and the baffled, disgusted looks she received (like now, one woman's nose had curled and she threw a glance of distaste in their direction), she remained cheerful, like nothing would ever get her down. And nothing seemed to.

"Hi Jenny," he replied around his fingers, gnawing on his nails.

"I sawed you at school an' waved, why didn't you talk to me?" she asked, pulling herself up into a chair, folding her legs beneath her. She seemed more curious than offended and disheartened, peaking Tweek's nervousness further.

"Didn't see you," he mumbled, watching his shoes. The truth was none of his friends took too kindly to kindergartners, and being seen with any of them—Kyle being the exception with his younger brother, Ike—was pure murder. That was his fault, caring too much about what other people perceived him as; Tweek hated it.

"But you looked straight at me!" she retaliated with a small frown, staring at his trembling hands. Tweek ground his teeth together in an attempt to calm himself, a much better solution then "finding the centre" as Doctor Norris, his old psychologist had said.

"Why are you shakin'? Are you cold?"

"What? No, Jesus Christ! I'm fine," he persisted, glancing sideways at the girl.

"'kay." She a smile she smoothed her skirt. "Hey Tweek?"

"What?" He held his breath, knowing the subject that Jenny was leading to. It as something she'd yet to drop in the months of knowing her, and her timing was predictable, always after smoothing her skirts.

"Would you eva marry me?"

Twitching under the scrutiny of several adults and children his age, Tweek shook his head rapidly, throwing his hands over his eyes. It wasn't the question that bothered him, it was the sickened looks the children threw, the adoration and admiration from the adults. It was too much pressure holding up to society's standards. Reputations meant everything.

"No," he finally moaned, wondering where his mother had went.

"Even if I love yoooou?"

"Love? Gyah! Love is just a chemical reaction by the brain engraved to increase the population! It's not real! It's not real!"

Jenny remained quiet for some time before busting into giggles. "But Tom Cruise said chemical weactions aren't weal!"

"Tom Cruise is a dullard with no sense of reality or direction; as he so notably said, he's a jerk."

"What if I was older?"

Tweek twitched, lowering his hands to look at her. In actuality if she was older—if they both were—he'd happily get married to her. Two crazies makes an antidote right?

But I'm not crazy! Gyah!

"N—no, I still wouldn't marry you! Jesus Christ!"

"Jenny sweetie, we've got to see the doctor now." They both turned to a curly haired woman, smiling at them both, easily recognizable as Ms. Thermine, Jenny's mother. Her eyes were rimmed in dark circles from sleep deprivation, but the laugh lines at he corners of those amber orbs were still quite distinguishable. She was a good mother, kind, gentle, and one of the few adults Tweek could stand because she held no false accusations.

The girl sighed as she slid from her chair, smoothing out her skirts in pure habit. Satisfied she leaned over, hands placed on his knees and kissed Tweek's cheek with a sound like myah! "Bye Tweek," Jenny said with a smile, letting her mother drag her toward a door placed on the opposite side of the room where an assistant was waiting, seeming displeased by the display.

"What a cute girl," Eavan said from behind Tweek, startling him enough to nearly tumble from the chair. Twitching he wiped away the wetness on his cheek and mumbled praised to the Lord about cooties. His mother took a seat besides him, hiding her close-lipped grin, and held out paper and a box of crayons. "It might be a while, why don't you draw, honey?"

Knowing well the doctors would make him "artistically display his emotions" Tweek slid to the floor, legs stretched out in a "v" before him. He grabbed a sheet of paper and crayons, messily slopping down whatever came to mind. He'd long since abandoned the idea of actually doing art for the doctors, they would find something wrong with it anyway, so why not just give them what they wanted, that coloured version of craziness? Besides such a fact, his drawings were personal, and he didn't want that small part of his psyche becoming warped.

Throwing down a black crayon he held up the piece in shaking hands for his mom to see, waiting for evaluation. In the centre was drawn a large coffee cup with a rainbow on it, surrounding it things he disliked, coloured over in black—gnomes, phones, goblins, medication, cameras, bats, and Eric Cartman.

Eavan tsked as she saw the ladder shaped as a large circle with squinted eyes, the word "Ay!" written beside the plump boy. Though she knew the horror stories accompanied by the Cartman child and couldn't fully blame her son for adding him, though as a parent couldn't condone it.

"Honey, that's not very nice. What would Eric say knowing you did that?"

Tweek's eyes widened to impossible lengths, a tremour wracking his slim frame. "Oh God! He'll kick me right in the balls. Oh Jesus! Don't tell him Mom, don't tell anyone!"

"Let me see the picture then." As soon as the words crossed her lips, the paper was shoved roughly into her hands. Folding it neatly she placed it into her oversized purse, something Richard had bought for Christmas, and Eavan only used to seem grateful despite hating the thing. "Why don't you draw something else? What about a flower? A rose?"

The nervous blonde gave a short nod before grabbing the black crayon again and drew an oval in the centre of the paper, with two other ovals a tiny bit smaller blossoming from the sides of the first. Two half-ovals were drawn in the back, connecting the two side petals before two straight lines were drawn from the centre one. Eavan choked back a laugh at the representation, seeing an absorbed tampon instead of a rose.

Tweek didn't notice, though, as he grasped the red crayon and roughly coloured, ignoring the fact the colouring wasn't within the lines. It was something his mother hated about the psychological drawings verse his normal ones, the disorganized, cluttered feel. But as she watched, Eavan became increasingly interested. The child picked up the pink and coloured the top left corners of each petal, the colour fading out into the red the lower he got. Satisfied Tweek added a touch of yellow to the pink and coloured the stem solid green, before moving onto the background, done in hard-blue with an uncoloured beam of light from the top left.

It was about the time he was writing in his usual tilted, round script "A ROSE", the door opened into the office and an assistant called out:

"Tweek Tweak."

Hurriedly cramming colouring utensils back into the box, Tweek stood, handing the crayon pack to his mother before walking slowly to the door. Eavan gave back the crayons and extra paper to the woman behind the glass window at the front desk. The blonde had always wondered why the phone-ladies were put behind glass, as if the patients would rebel and go for them.

The assistant closed the door behind them and threw a fake smile, full of false cheer, though her body language gave off irritation, as if she wasn't paid twenty-three dollars an hour to walk patients to the correct door. Glancing up at the stiff woman Tweek edged closer to his mother, bumping against her hip. Instinctually a hand went to tangle amiss his blonde locks as they opened the doctor's door and entered.

The first thing that hits you about Dr. Rizzo's office is the smell, a medicated scent covered with vanilla out-lit plugs, sage incense, and pine. Second you notice the awards, certificates, and diplomas hung on every inch of wall not covered by chock-full bookcases. Thirdly the carpet, a soft mix of blue, pink, aqua, green, and spots of white, giving the illusion the sky had puked all over the room. Forth the beanbag chairs in one corner, littered with stuffed toys of all varieties. Then the soft plush chairs in front of the cherry-wood desk, and finally the man behind it.

Dr. E. Micraine Rizzo was an older man with a gentlemen's air about him. Black hair, flecked with silver at the temples was thinning, and indefinitely balding. Behind black-framed glasses grey eyes sparkled with intelligence, the kind bought at an Ivy League university. Over the black button-down and black slacks he wore a typical white doctor's coat, reminding everyone of his stature.

Upon entrance he glanced up, smiling sincerely. "Ah, Tweek! My favourite blondie, sit down, sit down! And Eavan, you look so very lovely today, how's Richard?" Before an answer could be given his attention was brought back to the child. "So how are you, Tweek?"

The blonde trudged to one of the chairs and sat down, twitching and shaking. The artwork in his hands shuddered violently. "I'm fi—fine."

"Good, good, let's see that drawing of yours, shall we?" Taking it from the boy Dr. Rizzo studied it, hmming to himself as he made scribbled notes about the piece on a yellow pad of paper. Finally he looked up after several minutes of awkward silence and offered a smile. "I suppose this is when you want to know what I wrote?" Tweek gave a curt nod as the drawing was placed in his view.

"Let's begin with something simple then, the lining. See how it's slightly uneven, shaky if you will? And since I know you haven't had any caffeine to rack your nerves, it signifies anxiety, nervousness, and lack of precision. But notice how it's more wobbly where the lines should be straight?" He tapped a side of the flower as indication, and slid his finger over the waxy picture to the lines of the stem. "Because of this, the meaning changes mildly, and it comes to signify that something most everyone else would understand and accept, you have trouble over, or fear. It's something you possibly want to understand as everyone else, but you're unsure of doing so.

"Now the colour on the rose. Red is usually a colour associated with such a flower, but your use signifies more. See how you coloured at an upward diagonal?" As Tweek shook his head, Dr. Rizzo drew a "/" on a blank sheet of paper. Seeing understanding dawn on the boy he continued. "This shows mounting emotion of some kind. Mixed with the colour red, it would be growing affection and—"

"Why not anger?" Tweek squeaked, brows furrowing.

"It's coloured faintly, not with pressure so it's a softer shade of red. Besides that, you coloured over in pink, which is indefinitely recognized as a bashful passion and adoration. And over that you've yellow, which I'm sure you know as the colour of happiness. However, with such a combination as this it's a sure sign of cowardice. Perhaps you're afraid to acknowledge this affection thoroughly, or admit to it; it could be a number of things.

"Now to the background. It's coloured in blue, the colour of calmness, but you coloured over it in black. This signifies unsteadiness, unbalance. You wish to achieve the calm depicted, but so much is clouding it. The colouring is also disheveled, unorganized, which adds more emphasis on the chaos. But here—" he tapped his ball point pen on the beam of light in the image "—this is what is creating all of this mental torture. This is what you want, what can create the calmness. Being above the flower, this surely shows you put this person, thing, above yourself and would do nearly anything for it. Now is the process of elimination on who, or what, the beam of light is. Do you mind if I keep this, for your record?"

Tweek shook his head vigourously, brows furrowing as the muscle around his left eye convulsed. Despite the man's ethical values, Tweek had to admit, Dr. Rizzo was brilliant in every sense of the word. Even he didn't know himself so well, until such things were pointed out to him. Now only to figure out who the beam of light was…

"Mrs. Tweak, would you excuse us?" Dr. Rizzo's voice asked softly, though the threat was there. Eavan prickled at the tone, narrowing her eyes slightly. She knew his capabilities and genius, but still wasn't comfortable leaving her son in his hands; brainwashing the blonde would be so easy, considering his paranoia as it was.

"I really don't believe—"

"Eavan, we've talked about this before, the results will not be the same with you in the room. I won't argue with your belief system, each to his or her own, but you are paying for quality service."

She wasn't worried about the Doctor doing unnecessary things with her son—after all, Ethan was married and had four grown children of his own—she was more worried about his persuasiveness, and Tweek's submission to adults. But the Doctor had a point, she was paying for these little adventures. Sighing she kissed her son's cheek and left the room. As soon as Eavan was gone, Dr. Rizzo beamed at Tweek.

"So Tweek, tell me about your friends, how are they doing?"

The blonde twitched as he rung on his hands painfully. "My friends? Good I—I guess. I dunno, how should I know? I can't read minds, man! Gyah! Yheh!"

"No, I meant how are they to you?"

"They treat me well."

Dr. Rizzo tapped his pen impatiently and sighed. "No, Tweek, what's your opinion on them?"

"Oh!" He rung his hands tighter, not noticing as Dr. Rizzo took down notes of this behaviour. "I have two best friends, not because I don't like the other kids theotherkidsdon'tlikeme," he added quickly, the words slurring together. "Clyde's one of 'em, he's nice n' stuff, though can be a bit whiny." Realizing what he just said his eyes widened. "Oh God, don't tell him I said that! Jesus Christ, don't tell him!"

Dr. Rizzo patted one of Tweek's hands affectionately. "Don't worry, this is confidential."

He seemed little satisfied but continued anyway. "He's really nice though! He protects me n' stuff—"

"From what?"

"The other kids, they pick on me a lot."

"Why?"

"Well I twitch, and am paranoid, and drink coffee, and am gone every Wednesday from school! Why not?" the blonde huffed.

"Go on."

"Anyway, he is protective, but not as much as Craig. He's my other best friend, and kicks the living crap outta anyone that messes with me."

"Wait, wait," Ethan's brows furrowed as he gazed over the frames of hi glasses. "Craig Nommel, the boy that sent you to the hospital last year? He's your friend?"

Not liking the skeptical tone, Tweek narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, he didn't want to fight then, the other kids made us. But he's cool, he's, he's—"

"Your anti-drug, your comfort zone?"

"I guess."

Noticing Tweek's discomfort, he let all issues surrounding such a topic drop; he didn't want to send the boy into a nervous breakdown. So he switched the subject to something the blonde, in theory, wouldn't mind talking about.

"So Tweek, tell me about the gnomes."

As he expected the child bolted upright, eyes narrowing in thoughtfulness. "They stole my underwear last night! Gyah, my last pair! I really liked them too," he pouted, before perking up once more. "In my closet the gremlins live, and they got fur all over everything, I can't hang clothes without them getting fuzzy! Yheh! And I can't put things under my bed without them getting gnawed on! It's killer."

"Is that so?"

"Mm! And there's an epidemic, I swear, in South Park. The bat population is growing, they're everywhere, man! It's freaking me out?"

Dr. Rizzo glanced up at that. "I haven't noticed."

"How could you not? They're everywhere!"

Scribbling a few notes down the Doctor gave a long sigh before folding his neatly manicured hands on the desk. Eavan, in no way, shape, or form would like what he was about to do, but there was really nothing he could do. "Tweek, what would you say if I took you off a few of the medications you're on now and replace them?"

"What?"

He slid his glasses off and rubbed he bridge of his nose. "From what I've heard, it seem the medication isn't doing its job. I want to fix that, you understand?"

"Yes."

"And the way to do that is to prescribe something else."

"But there's nothing wrong with me," Tweek croaked under his breath, face turned to the floor. Why didn't anyone believe him?

Feeling slight pity to this boy Dr. Rizzo sighed, grabbing a form to send to radiology. "Tell you what, I'll order one of these new brain wave test, that'll know for sure if you've got Schizophrenia by testing the auditory stimuli. What do you say about that?"

What could he say? The Doctor would have it done anyway; the results would come back the way the department wanted. He'd be put on more medication, and all feeling would be lost. He nodded, a sigh trickling from his quivering lips.

And he hated himself more then.

---

School was, unfortunately, no better than waiting in a doctor's office to speak with someone that was more in it for the money dished out than your health. The balding teacher with the hat puppet on his hand grumbled irritably as he walked into the classroom, his bondage buddy on a studded leash behind him. Anyone out of South Park might think this behaviour was abnormal and Mr. Garrison should be fired on sight, but the community didn't particularly mind. After all, they'd all watched the Whore-Off, and the particularly gruesome sight of Mr. Slave sodomizing himself with Paris Hilton.

"Well hello children, are any of you bastards missing?" Mr. Garrison asked with fake cheer, taking the attendance sheet from his desk. Why take roll when the kids were willing to rat out their friends?"

"Bertha's sick," Annie called out from the back.

"So little Red got her own 'little red', okay," the teacher said to himself nonchalantly. "Anyone else?"

"Tw—Tweek ain't here, sir," Butters' wavering voice said, a pitch higher than normal. Piercing green eyes fell on the Stotch boy, fierce enough to make him yip.

Mr. Garrison eyed Craig warily, receiving that say hard-edge glare Butters' had. It was no secret Craig went to extremes to keep the jittery blonde safe, nor the fact he could be a violent child. No, not really violent, more of the coy bully that would punch in the stomach if you looked at him wrong, this on a good day. Luckily he was the adult and didn't have to take shit from the punk.

"Alright Craig, where's Tweek?"

The boy in question went still, considering as he pulled on a puffball swinging from an earflap on his hat. It was always his fault if the blonde went missing, his responsibility. But he knew he'd made the reputation himself, and hid his smile that that.

"I don't know, Mr. Garrison."

"What do you mean, 'I don't know'? He's your best friend."

Craig snorted, air exhaling through his nose to create a detesting sound. Token and Jason giggled silently to themselves in the back of the room, most likely laughing at some joke they'd made. Sometimes the Nommel boy just couldn't stand them.

"I mean, I've got no idea where he is. He never really tells me were he goes on Wednesdays."

"Aw, poor Craigy-Waigy's girlfriend doesn't confide in him. Hah!" a voice so recognizable called. Without looking and aiming the annoyed Nommel threw his math book toward Eric Cartman, smacking the fat child in the head.

"It's about time someone beamed him in the head," Mr. Garrison muttered to himself as he propped himself up on the desk, more interested in the boys than the math lesson.

"Ay! What was that for, you little pansy? AY! Did you just flip me off?" Eric bellowed, trying to sound viscous but only succeeding in whining.

Craig turned in his chair, smiling coyly at the fuming Cartman. He let his eyelids drift half closed, which on anyone else might suggest something sexual, but coupled with the black hair falling from the hat, gave the boy a cocky air. A hand appeared lazily on the desk, and slowly curled to flash his middle finger once more. "Yeah, I did."

"I'll kick your little sissy ass!"

"Eric, watch your language!" Mr. Garrison shouted, tolerence being etched away.

"Nyeeeh! He flipped me off!"

"Craig, you keep your finger to yourself!" Seeming satisfied with Eric's mumbled curses, Mr. Garrison fled to the blackboard and picked up a new piece of chalk. "Alright, turn to page thirty-one in your text books and let's begin."

Realizing he'd thrown his book at Cartman Craig groaned, turning to try and barter, only to have it shoved roughly into his hands. The boisterous Jew shot him a smile before stuffing his nose into his book and scrawled out answers, despite any instructions being given. Craig sighed, flipping passed a few pages until he reached the lesson.

Out of that clique, Kyle was the only one he could really stand. Despite the insults they shared, it was out of good humour than hate. Sure, he'd beat up Kyle for not joining the metrosexual phase, but genuinely felt a pang of guilt afterwards. Stan he wanted to choke; besides being mortal rivals, the Marsh child was a dick (though thinking about it now, it could be because Token was going out with his ex, Wendy, and Token was apart of his clique). Cartman…did anyone have to elaborate their hate for that racist, neo-Nazi? And Kenny, he was the playboy of the century, with a crude sense of humour and nothing to account for. He did have a sincere side, but something about Kenny just irked Craig.

Mr. Garrison's harsh voice broke his thoughts. "Craig Nommel! What's the area of the square in problem four?"

He hurriedly looked at the figure, the sides seven inches in length. What was the equation? Length times width, or all sides added together? Taking a stab he went with the last, and quickly added up the sides. All eyes were on him, waiting for the answer.

"Uh…twenty-eight?"

"That's the answer to perimeter, but I wanted area!"

"Jesus Christ," Mr. Slave commented as he filed his nails.

"Okay, how about someone who isn't a complete retard? Marcy?"

"Forty-nine."

"Good, good!" Mr. Garrison shot him a dirty look. "Pay attention next time and maybe you'll get it right."

Anger. It was something you were familiar with if you were in Mr. Garrison's class. He didn't care who you were, he'd make a garb at you despite. You could be sensitive and prone to crying, but the balding man wouldn't care. Fortunately, Craig was neither, but he still felt abused with such humiliation. Without realizing it both middle fingers were steadily pointing at the teacher. Mr. Garrison's face contorted with rage.

"Did you just flip me off you little bastard!"

Craig looked down at his hands, which disappeared under the desk a second later. "No."

"You better not—THERE! You did it again! You go down to Mr. Mackey's office and stay there until you learn some respect!"

Craig sighed as he gathered his things and threw his bag over a shoulder. This was nothing new to him, it seemed like every other day he was kicked out of the classroom. Eric sniggered under his breath as he passed, which earned a punch in the shoulder from Kyle. The Jew offered a sympathetic smile as he closed the door behind him and let his feet lead him to the counselor's office. There the twig-like man stood, arms crossed over his narrow chest, looking down at the boy with scrutiny.

"M'kay, Craig, I should've known it as you. Come in, come on."

As he was led into the office he knew all too well he sighed. Mr. Mackey took a seat behind his desk, littered with papers of all kinds, and clasped his hands together. Craig noticed a new poster almost at once, which promoted tolerance of sexuality. Mentally he wondered why they'd have such a thing in an elementary school, but considering his flaming homosexual teacher, he understood.

Mr. Mackey cleared his throat to gain the attention of the boy; it worked wonders. "Craig, now why can't you behave yourself?"

"I don't know."

"Well what did you do, m'kay?"

"I don't know."

Shifting through the papers the counselor sighed. "By what Mr. Garrison said over the phone, you double teamed him with the finger, m'kay. That's bad, m'kay, you can't be flippin' off your teachers, Craig."

To humour him Craig asked, "Why not?"

"'cause it's bad, m'kay! It shows disrespect; you don't want your parents lookin' bad, do you? Like they taught you no manners?" Craig shook his head. "M'kay, then you've gotta stop flippin' people the bird, m'kay?"

The delinquent looked uneasy then, as he tugged on the puffballs of his earflaps. "But I can't."

"And why not?"

"I can't stop being angry."

Mr. Mackey cocked his head at that. "So you flip people the bird 'cause you're angry?"

"Duh, no one does it for fun," Craig quipped, rolling his eyes. "But Mr. Garrison…just, I can't explain. And Cartman just pisses me off, damn assrammer."

"Watch your language! So you flipped off Eric too?"

"And threw a book at him, yeah."

"You what? Craig, that isn't acceptable! You can't go 'round throwing things at people, eventually you're gonna mess with the wrong person and get messed up! What in the world would possess you to throw a book at Eric?" Mr. Mackey asked in a wild fit.

"He made fun of Tweek!" Craig snapped as if it answered everything. Obviously, it did not.

"So? That doesn't excuse your actions!"

"So if someone made fun of Ms. Choksondik when she was alive you wouldn't have thrown a book at them?"

"That's different," Mr. Mackey said softly, taking a breath as he straightened his tie. He looked anywhere but the persistent child.

"How so?"

"Well, because…m'kay, well, it just is."

"How so?"

"Well m'kay, you see you and Tweek haven't—that is I would hope so…he's your best friend, not something else." Why were Nommels so stubborn? Could he not drop it, or at least understand not to question the clammy adult before him?

"What do you mean 'something else'?"

Mr. Mackey placed his hands on the desk and stared back at those green eyes above his glasses. "You don't love Tweek, do you?"

He watched as understanding flashed across Craig's face and his mouth fell into an "o", before he licked his lips and recoiled. Nervousness became disgust, and then anger. The boy stood haughtily and flashed Mr. Mackey the finger as he clapped his hands together.

"Gross, I'm out." Luckily at that moment the recess bell rang, and Craig stalked out in a rush, slamming the door behind him, hard enough to rattle bookshelves. The counselor sighed and shook his head.

What a strange boy.

---

Slipping down the concrete stairs, Craig looked toward the sky. Grey clouds built in the distance, closing in on the Rocky's, beams of light breaking through to create a heavenly effect. It didn't take a meteorologist to know the strong scent of wet soil and the brisk, chilling wind promised rain. Flame-coloured leaves rained down on the dying grass, creating a natural plaything for the kids.

The raven-haired boy sighed as his unzipped jacket caught in the wind, billowing like a cape as he walked down the sidewalk, glancing around. Off in one corner the girls huddled together, laughing uproarously about something only a female mind would comprehend, Bebe pointing at a particular Jew-boy's rump behind his back every now and then, the laughing turning into girlish giggles. Damien, Mark Cotswalds, and several other boys ran around playing tag, trapping each other behind the plastic spring-elephants which lead to an all-out dash to "safe base". Token and Wendy sat side-by-side on the swings, hands laced together, sharing affectionate looks that were scorned by the Marsh boy, and made Craig want to vomit. Off on a bench by the "prison wall" Gregory, Pip, and Rebecca Cotswald were sharing a laugh of their own, most likely about some famous literary piece. The Cartman clique hide behind a few autumn bushes and a tree littering leaves onto them, playing some crude game called Bosnians vs. Americans. And there, by the jungle-gym was the man he was looking for.

Catching those brilliant blue eyes Craig grinned, and received a wave as he trotted over. Clyde laughed to himself as Craig threw down his bag and climbed up the metal bars, giving him a high-five.

"So how was Mr. Mackey this time?" the brunette asked, positioning himself on the top of the dome, smacking a few third-graders away.

"You know, same old same old—hey! Put the bag down, Tracie!" Craig snapped, looking down at a little copper-haired girl, her hair in pigtails. She glared up, hazel eyes narrowing as she stuck her tongue out and continued sorting through his bookbag. He glanced toward Clyde and held his hand out. "Lemme see your slingshot, dude."

"What? You can't be serious," Clyde gaped, shaking his head. "Nuh-uh, I'm not being apart of that."

Under his breath Craig muttered, "Pussy," before jumping the distance to the ground, startling the girl, but she ceased her searching. He put his hands on his hips. "Tracie, go talk to your friends."

"I'm lookin' for something, hold on, Jesus Christ," she mumbled, flipping him the finger. Craig rolled his eyes—stupid kid sister.

"What are you looking for?"

"Glitter pens."

"I don't have any glitter pens! What, do I look like a girl to you? Go talk about boys or something and get outta my stuff."

Ignoring her elder brother she pulled out a sheet of paper, folded and crumbled, and commenced opening it. Craig watched, unamused over her shoulder, until he realized what it was. He made a dart for it, stuffing it into his back pocket, but it was too late. Tracie beamed up at Craig with a wicked smile.

"What was that?"

"I don't know."

"I think you doooo," she crooned, smiling sadistically. "It was a loooove letter to Red! How cute, Craigy's in loooove!"

"Shut up!"

"Craigy and Red, sittin' in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g! First comes—"

"Shut up!"

"—love, then comes—"

"Shut up!" he hollered, storming off, fist clenched, a slight pink tint colouring his cheeks, the song echoing behind him. It was something written long ago at the beginning of the year, and he'd yet to clean out his bag; he didn't love Red! What an absurd accusation to make! It was hard to ignore the looks and giggles he received as he passed other children, and Tracie's voice only seemed to get louder.

It was then Cartman slid into his path of hate, a hellacious smile curving his lips, a hand to his chin in contemplation.

"Well, well, well, is our little Craigy in love with Red?"

"Leave me alone," he replied in deadly calm, his gaze unaffecting. At that moment, Eric saw only a humiliated bully, and not someone that would rip his testicles off at any second. Kyle seemed to notice the ladder, and stammered his disapproval to Cartman's actions to no avail.

"Won't Tweek be jealous? How's it going to work, you two-timing whore?"

Left with the choice of turning on his heel and throttling Tracie or continuing passed Eric into the school building, he took the last. However, Eric was very persistent in breaking Craig's nerves and grabbed him by the wrist as he went by, a foot out on the path. Craig went down at an angle instead of on his face (thankfully), but as pain lanced through his shoulder he snarled, rolling over onto his backside and glared so hatefully at Eric one would think the fat child would combust at any moment.

"Why don't you answer me, Craigy? We all know you're totally gay for Tweek."

Slowly Craig stood, brushing himself off in the process. It didn't take much to tower over Cartman, and in his increasing anger, it seemed like he could take on the world.

"I choose you."

"What?"

"After school, you and me, here on the playground. I choose you."

Eric smirked, crossing his arms in an I'm-better-than-you fashion. "Yeah, well alright! You and me, after school."

Satisfied Craig stalked off, thoughts whirring in his head. Why would he issue a challenge to Cartman? Why was Tracie such a conniving little bitch? Why wasn't Tweek in school? Where was his backpack?

The rest of the school day needed much concentrating to keep focused on Mr. Garrison's lessons. Throughout the classroom were whispered rumours about the fight that was going to go on after school. Excitement, the room radiated with it; it was like static. Throughout the American history lesson balls of paper kept smacking him in the head, most congratulating him on his choice of kids to beat up, others cheering him on.

One particular note was from Eric, with an image drawn crudely on it. It pictured a stick figure Tweek being sucked-off by a stick figure of himself, with semen staining his face. To the side was written, "I hear you like your coffee with cream," and was titled, "Cocksucker Craig."

He wadded it up as another paper smacked him in the head, this one with the distinctive, pointy writing of Clyde. "So why're you fighting Cartman, again?"

He scrawled, "Because of this," and threw it back, accompanied by the picture. He wrote a few notes about the Boston Tea Party before it was sent back with:

"So you can fuck Tweek?" written on the paper. Craig growled and wrote:

"No you douchetard, he totally ruined my groove, bruised my ego."

Clyde glanced to him a smirked before throwing the note back. "Oh, I get it…so do you love Red?"

"NO!"

"Boys, you'd better stop passing notes or I'll have to punish Mr. Slave!"

"Oh Jesus Christ!"

The notes immediately stopped, knowing what has happened last time with Bebe's note about Kyle's "sweet ass" and the lecture went on with no interruptions. The day ended with a flurry of shouting glee, chairs scraping the tile as the kids ran out into the playground, awaiting the excitement they'd built during Mr. Garrison's class. Craig was the last to leave, and conveniently was stopped.

"So what have you got to say for yourself, Craig?" Mr. Garrison asked as he put a leash on Mr. Slave.

Craig thought about what he was talking about as the whore's eyes pleaded with the raven-haired child to get it right. When it clicked Craig sighed, "I'm sorry for flipping you off."

"Oh good! Now why were you passing notes?"

"I'm going to fight Cartman," he answered after a long stretch of silence. Mr. Garrison smirked at that.

"Well it's about damn time. Good luck."

Amused Craig grabbed his things and left, walking down he empty halls, footsteps echoing in the cramped space. He stopped, looking around—no one was there, he could easily just walk out the front of the school and home without anyone realizing it until the next day. It was the logical choice, if his parents found out he'd been fighting again he'd get grounded for a month, maybe longer. Surveying the hall once more he zipped up his jacket and pulled down his hat before throwing open the front doors and walking into the wind, the voice in his mind shouting:

Go back! Kill him! The bastard deserves nothing better than instant death. GO BACK!

Of course he ignored this annoying little voice as he edged around the wall surrounding the back courtyard and playground so no one would catch sight of him, and darted across the road into the small grove of trees. So he wouldn't be riding the bus, at least it wasn't snowing! Eyeing the sky he noticed the clouds had taken on twisted shapes and darkened to a charcoal-purple, building higher and higher as they collected moisture. Give or take, it'd downpour in a few hours; at least then the pollen would be washed away.

Glancing ahead he saw the turn off to Stark's Pond. Taking the main road would cut off time getting home, but the bus would be coming this way soon, and he'd be found out. Cutting across Stark's Pond, the field beyond, and forest would take longer navigating, but it was definitely the safer route. Grumbling unintelligible curses he trotted down the dirt road to the glittering waters he knew all too well. Taking cover in the trees that led to the pond he listened, and heard the exhaust of the bus pass only seconds later. Smiling smugly he kicked at the dirt, scuffing his dirty brown sneakers in the process and continued trekking up the small hill that opened to the pond. Nearing the top he heard the faint sound of tittering humming, that seemed more electronic than human, but knew otherwise. He hurried his steps, and balked at the sight of a spiky-hared blonde sitting beside Stark's Pond, chin resting on his knees.

"Tweek?" he questioned curiously, drawing near. The boy startled, turning in a motion so quick he stumbled onto his knees, hands held out in a stopping motion.

"Oh my God, don't hurt and rape me! Don't kill me, please, Oh God, Jesus Christ! I…I have mace! Yeah, I'll mace you! Oh God!"

He smiled at the familiar paranoia, all anger that had been there before suddenly dispersing. He quietly walked up to Tweek, not fearing any sort of defense, knowing his friend well enough to know he'd never be exposed to mace.

"Tweekster, it's me."

The blonde looked up, lowering his twitching hands at the sight of Craig. He offered a shy smile, bouncing unsteadily. "Hi."

"What're you doing out here?" Craig asked as he knelt by Tweek, resting on the balls of his feet.

The boy glanced away, fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt. "Oh, I—I didn't want to be home. Dad's getting back from work and, I, just—gyah!"

As Tweek twitched convulsively, Craig placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, the action so subconscious it didn't register; it was like breathing by now. His brows knit together in distaste at the mention of Richard—he wasn't a bad man, he just had a cruel sense of humour that gave his son the impression of being scum and alien. He elaborated on Tweek's difference, made it seem like a horrible thing, when in truth it was what Craig cherished about his friend.

Instead of voicing his thoughts he asked, "So why weren't you in school?"

"Oh, I was at the doctors, think I might be getting sick, a cold, a fever, the flu, the black plague, yeah, that's it, the plague," he mumbled, continuing to look at the ground.

"Maybe it's just allergies."

"No, it's the plague, man! See, I'm beginning to get pocks of black puss, see?" He rolled up his sleeve, jabbing at a spot on his arm. Craig sorted.

"That's just a freckle."

"Maybe, or maybe I'm dying! Oh God!"

Craig grinned to himself, amused at how worked up Tweek could make himself. He stood, stretching down to touch his toes and yawned lazily. "You aren't dying, now come on, let's go home."

"I don't wanna go home!"

"I meant my home, retard," Craig said, rolling his eyes and offered a hand to Tweek. The blonde eyed it warily before letting his friend pull him to a stand.

"But what will your parents say?"

"They think I'm not social enough, and they love you anyway, so don't worry or I'll leave you for the wild animals."

He grasped Craig's hand tightly, a tremour shaking his lithe form as he squeaked, "Bats!" Fear coursed through the blonde's body as he darted glances around the trees and sky, looking for these supposed bats as Craig tugged him along the path to his house. Occasionally he'd let out a high-pierced scream or nervous sound, but Craig never disparaged him for it, instead would squeeze Tweek's hand and continue onward.

It was no surprise that Tweek hadn't noticed as they walked up the driveway of the Nommel's jade house until Craig threw open the door and called a customary, "Mom, I'm home! And Tweek's with me!"

A woman skipped out of the kitchen, blonde hair swaying around her shoulders as she wiped wet hands on a towel and greeted them with a smile, bending down to kiss her son's forehead and hug Tweek. Lydia was very sincere and quirky all around, but when angered, she could go off and throw one hellavu punch. Usually this only happened when Thomas, her husband, gave short quipped answers to something otherwise very important.

"Well hello Tweek! Will you be staying the night?" she asked, leading him into the kitchen for afternoon snacks, Craig smirking to himself behind.

"I—I don't know, I haven't asked."

"Oh, well then why don't you call your mom up and see?" Lydia asked cheerfully as she finished making sandwiches. "Craig, go get your sister and clean up some, honey."

"I'm not on speaking terms with her," he mumbled as he left the room. Tweek looked to the wood floor, counting panels as Lydia dawdled around, humming to herself as she placed the sandwiches on a plate and poured two glasses of chocolate milk. She was helplessly oblivious of things, but from what he'd seen being over, she was a very loving mother. Craig never really talked about his family much; he hadn't known the boy had a sister until he was over the first time when they were in second grade.

Seeing fuzzy green slippers slide into his vision he looked up at Lydia's smiling face. She held out the cordless phone to him. "Are you going to call, or would you like me to talk to your mom?"

He cringed away from the phone, shaking and stammered, "Y—you can."

She seemed little put off by his shaking as she patted his shoulder gently. "Alright, honey, why don't you go find Craig? I taped Red Racer if you'd like to watch it."

Tweek nodded hurriedly, shuffling out of the kitchen into the living room, where Craig was bounding down the stairs, his hat lopsided from the speed and gravity. Jumping the last few steps he jammed his hat back down over his messy black hair. He smirked at Tweek's incredible stillness, accompanied by a various twitches, as his mother placed the snacks on the coffee table and went back to her duties.

"Your mom taped Red Racer," Tweek said slowly, carefully inching toward the couch, the sandwiches very inviting.

"Kick ass," Craig replied as he plopped down, grabbing a PB and J sandwich from the plate and hit the play button. Tweek sat beside him, taking a sandwich with the crust cut off that he knew was his and hid his smile behind the food. It was amusing how Craig religiously worshipped the show, as if the apocalypse would rain down if he didn't watch Red Racer every day of the week. It might have been pathetic if it wasn't a quirk in Craig's character that set him apart from everyone else.

As the theme song played enthusiastically, Craig watching the screen without blinking, Tracie crept down the stairs and squealed at the sigh of the spiky-haired blonde. She bounced over with no time to sidestep as Craig's foot shot out, sending the little girl flipping through the air onto her rear. She glared daggers and flipped her brother off, who casually lifted a one-finger salute as well around his sandwich. Composing herself she beamed at Tweek, though the irritation flashed through her eyes.

"Hiya Tweek! Wanna come up to my room? I can put bows in your hair!" she said with a grin, climbing up onto the couch between the boys.

Twitching the blonde edged slowly away from the girl, clamping his eyes shut in the process. Tracie could play the innocent little angel, but under that disguise was a girl that would most likely be one hellavu dominatrix. Secretly Tweek liked to think she was a Hell spawn succubus.

"N—no thanks! Gyah!"

She pouted, blinking large, watery eyes. "Aw, come on! I can make you pretty like Barbie! Pleeeaaasee?"

With a grunt her brother smacked her in the head, hard enough to admit a tiny yelp. "Shut up and go away! We're watching TV."

"But Tweek wants to be pretty!" Tracie persisted, reminding the boy in question of a hissing cat.

"Does he look like a girl? No! Boys don't put bows in their hair, so go away. Jesus Christ, get your own friends, or go mutilate another Barbie for fuck's sake." As she turned to get Tweek's opinion on the matter he growled and yelled, "Mom! Tracie's trying to turn Tweek into a girl!"

Lydia appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips sternly. "Tracie, you leave him alone! You haven't done your homework, so go do that, but don't bother the boys!"

As the girl slunk away grumbling obscenities under her breath Tweek let out a relieved sigh. Seeing his calming state Craig threw him a smug smile and shook his head. "You need to lean how to say no dude."

"I did!"

"I mean firmly."

Before Tweek could shout an answer Lydia interrupted. "Your mom's going to be here in a few minutes, honey, she said it was perfectly fine if you stayed the night."

"Really?"

"Mm hmm."

"Sweet, I can show you my new guinea pig, Streak now," Craig said with a laugh as Tweek did a quick finger-dance. The blonde yipped joyously; it'd been months since he'd stayed over at anyone's house. The raven-haired boy flipped the TV off with a grin. "Come on, let's go upstairs."

"But your show!" Tweek gasped in shock. Since the first season of Red Racer began, Craig had yet to miss an episode, be it by watching on tape as soon as he got home from being out late, or rushing back in time to watch it on air. Craig shrugged as he downed his chocolate milk.

"We can watch it later, I think this is cause for celebration; let's play space men."

Tweek followed his friend up the stairs and into the room he knew very well, amazingly clean. It was no different than any other time of visiting, the deep blue covered bed shoved up against a royal blue wall. Against another wall his white desk was covered in an assortment of papers, books, doodles, and one corner was dedicated to a cage sporting two guinea pigs. Propped on a mantle were a few model cars and a F14 jet, along with a few pictures. One such picture was framed, featuring Clyde, Tweek, and Craig huddle in the snow, beaming at the camera. Tweek remembered the day well, their families had gone up to ski lodge and stayed four days for Christmas. The other photo featured them during the same trip, falling at an angle. Tweek smiled—he'd tripped in the snow and fallen, grabbing the nearest thing, which happened to be Craig. The picture was captured as the blonde grabbed Craig's coat, pulling him downward to the snow, while he windmilled his arms, for all good that did. It was indeed a Kodak moment.

"Catch," Craig said, pulling Tweek out of his thoughts as a fishbowl with a straw ducktaped to the side was thrown in his direction. The fidgeting boy caught it in jittering hands before it had a chance to smash on the floor, and mounted it on his shoulders, like the other boy had done with his. As they pulled on their "space suits" and changed shoes to rain boots the door opened as the cheerful Eavan walked in, carrying a bright green satchel in her hands.

"Well hello boys, going on a shuttle launch?" she asked, amused by the costumes, but was very familiar with them to know they weren't going to scuba dive.

"Yes Ms. Tweak," Craig answered, his voice echoing in the globe. "Wanna join us?"

"No thanks, Craig sweety, I've got to get home and finish making dinner or Richard won't be happy, but thanks for the offer," she replied kindly, smiling as Tweek took his bag, and set it on the floor.

"What'd Dad say?" he asked nervously, looking up at his mother.

"He thinks it does you good to visit your friends," Eavan said, hugging Tweek awkwardly, smacking her chin on the fish bowl. She stood and waved at Craig, throwing him another smile. "Well, have fun you two, try not to venture too far into outer space, alright?"

"'kay," they replied in unison as she left, and finished getting ready, grabbing a few essentials; a watergun, some rope, and paper in case they ran into any kindergarteners. They walked down the stairs, finally done changing, making gravity-defying noises with each step. Tracie glanced up from her homework assignment on the couch, giving them both skeptical stares as Lydia walked out from the kitchen with a walkie talkie in her hand.

"I'll call you boys when dinner is ready. Don't go too far, alright? And try not to get caught in the rain, okay?"

"Right, Mom, bye," Craig said hurriedly, grabbing the piece of technology and tossed it at Tweek. The blonde snatched it from the air, stalking after his friend out into the wind. The sky had grown increasingly darker, the breeze ever more brisk, giving everything a stagnant feel. Tweek twitched nervously at the thought of being struck by lightning, despite hearing no thunder. And of course, he voiced his concern as Craig went around the side of the house and grabbed his bike.

"What if it starts storming, and it rains so heavily we can't see where we're going, and we go off of the bridge or get hit by lightning? What if God is pissed at us? Oh, Jesus!"

Craig snorted. "Shut up, Tweek, and get on. Nothing's gonna happen, promise."

Not feeling the need to argue further, he stepped onto the spokes and wrapped his arms around Craig's middle. They'd learned several years ago that Tweek didn't have enough balance, or confidence, on his own to ride a bike, and his increasing nervousness failed him. So they always doubled, despite the safety risks. But the blonde had his own part to play, by making the space craft noises, with several of his customary "gyahs" and "yehs" included. It made their game of space men unique.

"What's our mission, Craig?" Tweek asked as they peddled down the street, passed empty driveways and yards; the road was deserted.

"There's some alien plant growing on the other side of base, we've got to exterminate it."

"What?"

Craig sighed. "I found a bag of these round seeds and planted a few at the edge of the grove near Stark's Pond, I wanna see if they're growing."

"Oh, what kind of plant?"

He shrugged, turning off right. "No idea."

"Why didn't we check it coming back?"

"It's not as fun without a helmet, duh," he replied as if it was obvious. Tweek bit his lip to keep from saying anything else. Craig turned again and baked, allowing the blonde to hop off before letting the bike fall unceremoniously to the ground. No one in South Park stole bikes, as everyone knew whose was whose; his happened to be modeled off of one of the cars on Red Racer, and they all knew he to be the only kid that watched the show willingly.

Tweek followed his aqua-dressed friend into the grove, again taking up the job of making space sounds. Every now and then Craig would spot a bird, and commenced whipping out his yellow water gun to shoot a seven-inch squirt of water at it. Usually the bird hardly noticed it was being shot at, but would fly away at the sight of the human boys; it was then Craig would whoop with joy over another victory. Tweek thought it rather ridiculous, but each to their own.

On top of a hill where the pond and road they'd traveled on the bike were visible, the gun-happy boy stopped and bent over on his knees, inspecting the leaf-covered soil, brushing away some of the decomposing foliage with his mother's rubber kitchen gloves. He cursed under his breath.

"What?" Tweek said quickly, jumping away from his friend as if shocked by the swears.

"They aren't growing."

"Do you water them?"

Craig looked up at the blonde as if he was stupid. "No, but they should still grow! I mean, plenty of animals have had to piss here."

"You don't know that," Tweek said, gaze darting around for these mentioned animals.

"Do you volunteer?"

"What! No!"

"Okay then, shut up." Craig stood, brushing dirt from his knees and kicked at the area before something caught his eyes. Interested, he slid farther into the trees and shuffled more leaves from the ground, to expose a small, dead animal. As he went to touch it his hand was smacked, painfully hard.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Tweek shrieked, this sudden outburst enough to startle Craig. "You don't touch dead animals ever! Especially bats!" He pointed an accusing finger at the tiny creature's mouth, white foam dried in a sticky residue on the fur. Ants and several other insects that would progress the decaying process flew around the body, making it seem alive with the movement. "See that? It had rabies! You could get rabies from it! Or AIDs! Jesus Christ! Gyah, I can't take it! It's too much!"

Craig rolled his eyes. "It's not like I fucked it, Tweek."

"Didn't you pay attention when Mr. Mackey went over this? Any bodily fluids could transmit AIDs! Including rotting juices! Jesus!"

"Tweeky, calm down—"

"No! This proves it!" he shouted, throwing his hands into the air. "The bats are going to kill us! They'll keep dying, and then the woodland critters will get infected by them, and they'll mingle with pets, and then the pets will love on their humans, and us humans will die! It's like the black fucking plague! All over again! Oh God, we have to get home! We have to bathe!"

Craig grabbed his friend's hands and shook them, squeezing hard enough to cause pain. Tweek shook, his body twitching in unreleased theory. "No, the bat won't kill us, and it's not the black plague all over again. That was in the fourteen hundreds, they didn't have the medicine to cure it. There won't be an outbreak, okay? Just calm down, breath easily, hyperventilating won't do you any good. Okay, better?"

Tweek gave a short nod as Craig tugged him back down the hill to their mode of transportation. On the way back he remained utterly silent, wondering what would happen if the Bubonic plague ever did strike again, if one of the medical centres carrying it was careless, or if one of the countries with it in possession decided to create the spread of it. It wasn't like it was impossible to do, as the Antrax scare a year ago had inclined. True, as far as he knew there was no such thing as "Bubonic/Pneumonic Plague Island", but still. And of course, he worried about the bats.

It was in these thoughts they entered their neighborhood, now two children out. Bebe and Wendy sat on the formers front porch, watching the swirling clouds as they road home. Wendy's piercing voice drifted to them.

"Hey Craig! Where were you after school?"

"Yeah, Cartman was all boasting about how much of a chicken shit you were to bail on the fight!" Bebe called, accompanied by a laugh.

What fight? Tweek thought, brows furrowing as Craig flipped the girls off.

"Too much of a pussy to talk about it?" the Stevens' girl yelled, challenging the boy's ego. Tweek could make out a faint growl from his friend, and felt Craig tense but he refused to stop.

"Oh well, you'll just have it in with fatass tomorrow then, Colour Lover!" Wendy crooned before breaking out into girlish giggling at the nickname. Tweek had to give him credit at the patience Craig had to not yell back at them, but then again, he had no idea what that was about. He'd have to question it when they got back.

The walkie talkie crackled before, "Boys, dinner is ready, over."

"We're on our way, over and out," Tweek squeaked into the thing, holding down the button. Craig peddled faster, and they slid into the driveway a mere thirty seconds later. Tweek jumped off, waiting for Craig as he put the bike back where it was before going inside. The smell of chicken, mashed potatoes, and broccoli was mouth-watering.

Upon entrance Craig's father crossed the threshold in a timely manner, stopping to stare at the two boys with brows raised. He opened his mouth to say something, shut it, and tried for something that wouldn't insult their imaginations. "Uh, no fishbowls—I mean helmets—at the table."

"Don't criticize them like that, Thomas," Lydia said sternly on her husband's heels.

"Lydia, how are they supposed to eat with those on? It's not like the fork will go through the freakin' glass!"

"I'm sure they would've figured that out on their own," the woman snapped as Thomas flipped her off. She rolled her eyes and helped the boys remove their helmets, boots, and gloves before leading them into the dining room. They took their seats, Thomas at the head of the table, the girls on one side, and the boys on the other before saying a quick grace and helping themselves.

"So how was your adventure in space?" Thomas asked, fork poised full of fluffy potatoes. Craig held up his index finger, signaling 'hold on' as he chewed a piece of chicken and swallowed.

"Oh, it was good. We fought Navy men, on the Atlantic."

"But you're space men."

"Oh. Well, Navy men on Uranus then."

Tracie snorted back laughter in the process of drinking, the beverage ending up spewing onto her plate.

"Smartass," Thomas mumbled, but the grin showed it wasn't an insult. Lydia, however, prickled anyway.

"Don't 'smartass' him, Thomas!"

"Yeah, don't 'smartass' me."

Tweek watched as they all began to raised their middle fingers, waving them around like banners. Knowing this was normal behaviour in the Nommel household, he ignored it and shoveled broccoli into his mouth, before a disgusted sound by his friend stopped him.

"Dude! Why are you eating broccoli?"

"Because I like it!" Tweek argued. "What, did Tracie spew in it?"

"Not funny," the girl said rolling her eyes. Craig just shook his head, a coy smiling curving his lips as he continued eating without another comment. The whole table finished dinner like that, in comfortable silence, and the blonde knew this was another of the Nommel's customs; talk about something for a few minutes, flip each other off, and eat. It was how mealtimes worked in the household.

Tracie excused herself first, and then Thomas. Once the boys were done Lydia stood up and gathered their plates for washing. Before they could scamper off her stopped them. "I know how much you two hate it, but after being outside in those costumes you boys have to bathe. Go get out of your outfit and meet me in the bathroom."

"Mom," Craig said, astounded by such a thought. It wasn't like he'd never bathed with one of his friends before, it seemed a concept all of their mother's loved, bathtime. But still, knowing his mother actually considered it was embarrassing!

"You're a dirty little boy and need a bath, so don't argue and just go upstairs and do as I say," Lydia replied impatiently. "You never have a problem when it's Clyde!"

Craig's face flushed a godawful crimson; had he still had his helmet on, it would've fogged up. It wasn't that he had a 'problem' bathing with anyone (except maybe girls), he knew Clyde was completely willing, but he didn't know so with Tweek. After all, the blonde's moral values changed daily.

Knowing resistance was futile he sighed and pulled his friend up the stairs. Once safely in his room Tweek cocked his head, watching Craig struggle out of his space outfit.

"So we're bathing together?"

"Yeah."

"Alright."

Craig stopped tugging on his socks. "You aren't against it?"

"As long as you don't, like, rape me, I'm good," the blonde said with an unusual laugh, throwing his suit off easily and undressed to his underwear. Craig followed example, his hat staying firmly placed as he yanked off his shirt and lead him into the bathroom, where Lydia as playing with the water taps and adding hazardous amounts of bubble to the water.

"So you decided to be ungrumpy about it and bath like a good boy?" she asked with a quirked smile, wet hands going to her hips.

"Yeah, yeah."

"Hat off."

"No."

"Do you want it to mildew?"

"Doesn't matter, it doesn't go off in public."

"And you're home," Lydia sighed, glancing at Tweek. He noticed her devilish look and gave a curt nod before yanking his friend's hat off with tittering laughter, throwing it at the woman, who stood with it out of reach. Craig snarled as he attempted to cover his messy black hair, but failed miserably. Lydia turned the taps off and left the two, wagging the hat at her son in a playful manner as she shut the door.

"Not. Nice," he muttered darkly, stripping completely and slipped into the hot water, hunched down so far only his eyes and upward were left out of water. Tweek giggled to himself as he did the same, dunking under and coming up to wipe soup out of his face, hair slicked down. Green eyes glanced to him and widened slightly in amusement.

"Oh don't pout," Tweek said, splashing at the other boy. "I like your hair, it's nothing to hide. I mean if you had a Jew fro, go ahead and wear your hat, but you don't."

Craig pulled up and wiped foam away from his face. "You like my hair?"

"Yeah."

"I'll remember that," he said coyly, reaching over the side to grab his sister's Rubber Ducky and set it in the water as he shifted position, now facing Tweek, legs outstretched so his ankles brushed against the blonde's thighs. He directed the floating duck toward his friend in means of slashing, as Tweek built a foam-castle.

"Can I ask you something, Craig?" the blonde asked, unsure as his castle dispersed rapidly. Craig considered, looking up at the nervous boy, laughing to himself as he spotted the foam on Tweek's nose. Washing his hand off he reached over and brushed the soap away with a smile.

"Yeah, only if I can ask you two questions."

"What? I want two!"

"Then I get three," he bargained.

"Fine," Tweek pouted, throwing his hands up, bubbles flying everywhere. "Oh, shit," he mumbled as Craig laughed, head tilted to one side, hoping maybe the change in physical perspective would somehow get him on the blonde's level of thinking. "The girls mentioned a fight, what was it about?"

"Nothing."

Tweek glanced up, narrowing his eyes under sopping bangs. "Nuh-uh, you said I could have two questions and that's one of them! No foolsies!"

Craig sighed. "No foolsies. Alright, well Tracie was a little bitch and read some letter I wrote like a bazillion years ago and it started this thing that I like Red, but I really don't, and Cartman was a buttpipe about it and I got angry and told him to fight, but I bailed because of the consequence and here I am." Of course he left out the part about Eric's insults, but he could find out about that on his own time. "What's your other question?"

"Would you still like me if I was a girl?"

Craig balked; what the Hell find of question was that? Why would he even ask such a thing? His mind vaguely brought up the argument with his sister earlier about bows, but why did Tweek care? He settled for shrugging. "I don't know, if you were a girl it'd be different."

"How?"

"Well, for one you wouldn't be in my bathtub with me," Craig said sarcastically, brushing his bangs from his face. "Two, you'd be hanging out with the other girls, and you'd be talking about boys in a way I don't want to think about, and you'd have girl cooties."

"What if I changed into a girl right now, so there was no time for all of that? What would you do?"

"Uh, I guess I'd cover myself with lots of foam and yell for Mom," he said scratching at his head.

"I'm being serious!"

"So am I, I don't know what I'd do, okay?" he snapped, regretting it with a sigh. "Dude, why does it matter?"

"You just made it seem like you wouldn't like me as a friend if I was a girl," he replied, looking down at the water.

"So what? You aren't a girl, right? So why does it matter?"

"Is that one of your questions?"

Craig mumbled a curse under his breath and let it drop, if Tweek was so persistent in covering himself then he wouldn't continue to push it. "No, it's not. So, why weren't you in school today?"

The blonde glanced up queerly. "I told you, Jesus Christ! I was at the doctors!"

"Every Wednesday for a year?"

Tweek fell silent; how was he expected to come up with a cover story in such a short amount of time, with Craig impatiently tapping on the ceramic side of the bathtub? And he realized it was impossible. He was living a sad existence if he couldn't trust his best friend, if he thought Craig would shove him away because of it. He looked up, chocolate eyes meeting green.

"Yes…I do go to the doctors, but not the sick-doctor. Oh God!" He buried his face in his hands, his eyes stinging.

"Tweek, don't cry—"

"I'm not crying!" he squealed, rubbing at his eyes furiously, only to cause more of a burning pain. "I got fucking soap in them! Oh Jesus, Jesus Christ! It burns, gyah!"

Craig sighed as he filled a cup next to the tap with cold water and wretched Tweek's head back before pouring the water across his face. Leave it to the blonde to find a way to get soap in his eyes; he truly was unlucky. Once the whimpering stopped, and the burn was just a mild sting (now from ice water being viscously dashed in his face) Tweek let out a shuddering sigh.

"I—I go to this doctor in Denver, Dr. Rizzo. He specializes in mental kids, like me. My check ups are on Wednesday, to make sure I haven't turned into some homicidal killer or something. It's a real bitch, y'know? Everyone thinking you're a nutcase."

Craig couldn't argue, he thought the coffee addict was very different as well, but homicidal? That was extreme. Before Tweek could degrade himself further Craig asked his second question: "Why didn't you want to go home?"

"It goes along with the doctor, see he gives me these pills, like every fucking pill in the world and tell me to take them three times a day, sometimes more. He's always switching prescriptions, knocking a few of the medications off, replacing them with others, and today was no different. I didn't want to be in the house when Dad found out the crap I got put on this time," he replied downheartedly. "I mean, I can't take it! It's too much pressure! Living up to his expectations, and being this kid on like, thirty different variants of Ridilin! And the drugs, oh God! They fuck with you, big time! I can't take one without the fear of falling unconscious mixed with this other one, or dying, and the health risks! Gyah! It's like if I take the green spotted one with the purple capsule, it causes heart failure!

"And the lack of feeling, it's so difficult! Going day-to-day being a paranoid little apathetic freak like the Goth kids! I hate being numb to social issues, and new prescriptions always make me that way. It's why I drink so much coffee, to keep me hyped and at least feeling the need to move and be active! It's like, I had this puppy before I got put on all the drugs, and I really loved it. And then three months later I was on the drugs and it died, and I didn't care! I shouldn't felt something, but I didn't and I just asked myself, 'what's wrong with me? Why can't I feel some sort of emotional sadness when my fucking dog just died?' I don't want to be like that!"

By the time he took a deep breath, Tweek was in tears. In the back of his mind Craig wondered how, after a speech about no-emotions, he could still cry, until it hit him: the unusual behavior was because he hadn't been taking the medication. And his mother knew it, hid it.

Craig pulled the blonde into a loose, awkward hug, trying desperately to keep his lower half from touching the boy. How long had he been keeping his little secret to himself, wandering through the days feeling so hallow? How long had he been struggling to find the right person to find consolation in?

When Lydia came in to check and assure them their pruned bodies were because they'd been in the water too long, they were drying off, moist hair toweled dry and fluffing outward. She hurried out as Craig protested her presence, only to watch the two boys dart around the hall and into her son's room a few seconds later.

After dressing in pajamas and running a brush trough their hair for a minimal of three seconds—Tweek's had begun to unmercifully spike out in all directions, despite his attempts to flatten it—they lay on Craig's bed, watching the ceiling fan twirl. Rain plattered against the window, dark having come an hour earlier due tot he cloud coverage. Thunder rolled softly over the sound of the fan's mechanical whirl.

"Dude, I wonder what the other guys do when they're together," Craig voiced, stifling a yawn with his hand.

"Probably just watch Terrence and Phillip," Tweek muttered, eyes following a particular fan blade.

"Bet it's more entertaining than this."

"I think this is pretty fun, don't insult the fan! Just because it's attached to the ceiling doesn't give you any right to criticize its habits."

Craig chuckled tiredly, closing his eyes as he sat up, obscuring the blonde's view. "You tired?"

"I don't sleep."

"What?"

"That's why I drink coffee, if I don't then the monsters will get me," he said, voice tremouring slightly. Craig raised a brow out this new excuse as to why he consumed so much caffeine.

"Dude, you've got to sleep."

"No I don't."

"Well you're sleeping when you're here," he said with finality. "I don't care if you sleep against the wall, I'll take the floor."

"You'll get attacked down there!"

"No I won't, but I'm going to bed, so where do you want to sleep?"

Tweek twitched as he slid off the bed and cross to the desk where he plopped down in the chair and stuck his tongue out at Craig. There he switched the desk lamp on the lowest setting and flipped off the main light, so only a dull light pulsed through the room, accompanied by the occasional lightning strike. The Nommel boy sighed, ending with a yawn as he crawled into bed; he wasn't worried about Tweek, if he wanted to sleep he would.

Within minutes Craig's loud snores echoed in the room, making Tweek grin to himself. If this habit was mentioned to the raven-haired boy, he'd flush dangerously and deny any accusations about this snoring, even if you recorded it. It was another of his flaws the blonde loved instead of found annoying, like he knew Clyde and the other guys did. It gave Craig a sense of reality instead of this "perfect beauty" ideal America was so fond of, even if it was just irregular nasal congestion.

Pulling open the top desk drawer he took out a sheet of paper and a box of crayons, Crayola variety. At home he'd stay up at night, drawing for his collection, or reading. Not interested in the assortment of car books and manuals stacked in neat piles, he went with the former idea, and found himself drawing Craig.

The flipper took up nearly the whole paper, coloured neatly, hardly going out of the lines. He was drawn on a curving line with quick little puffball-like trees drawn in the back with pointy snow-topped mountains. After two minutes of scribbling he went back to the hat, and carefully added detail, the finished product coming out very realistic. It as something he did in all of his "real drawings", added amazing amounts of detail to the object he thought most important, with Craig it was his hat. When doodling Clyde he'd make his scarf the centre object of affection, as it had been a gift from Butters for his ninth birthday, and hardly went a day without it. For Token, the characterized "T" on his shirt as done carefully, the embroidery matched nearly perfectly. And on the occasional time he drew Kyle, emphasis was put on the Star of David stitched onto his hat's earflaps.

It was about that time a bright flash of lightning lit the room, and thunder clapped only seconds afterward, loud enough to shake the windows and crayons left on the desk. Tweek squeaked, kicking the back of the desk, which caused the blonde to lose balance and tip the chair backwards. Letting out an, "ouhf," his breath hitched, realizing he was staring directly under the bed. He shut his eyes tightly, waiting for the inevitable.

"Yuouffh, Tweek?" Craig's sleepy voice asked as he yawned, rubbing at his eyes. "What are you doing on the floor?" Receiving no response from his stilled friend he left the comfort and warmth of the blankets and slid to the floor, waving a hand in front of Tweek's face. He glanced between the dark depths of under the bed to the blonde and sighed. "Tweek, get up."

The coffee addict twitched, breathing shallow, and slowly opened his eyes, not feeling immense amounts of pain. So a monster hadn't consumed him after all. However, in his vision was Craig's face, so close it blurred. He jumped away, yipping in surprise.

Seeming to sense his thoughts Craig just yawned in his explanation. "Dude, under there is so messy, no monster could even find space to live. A cockroach maybe, which is creepy and disgusting, but no monsters. Lay off watching Nightmare on Elm Street, okay? He returned to bed, stretching out a hand to help Tweek up. "Now come here and sleep."

"But—but it's thundering and really loud! It's scary," he mumbled, cringing against the sound barrier being broken continuously.

"Yeah? Well we've got a dog house, and if you don't come here you can go sleep out in the rain and thunder, how 'bout that?"

Knowing Craig was cruel enough to do it, Tweek hurried to the bed and crawled up, placing his back firmly to the wall as he pulled the blankets so far up over his face on his eyes showed. The sleepy one grunted his acknowledge, rolled over with his back to Tweek, and was instantly asleep.

With Craig's snores amazingly drowning out the sound of the thunder, the blonde suddenly found himself increasingly tired. His last thought before sleep claimed him was how amusing it was that Craig's snores were louder than the storm raging outside, and yet, it didn't bother him for a moment.

---

On his way to work, Thomas drove the three kids to school, after a harsh argument with his wife about leaving them out in the drizzling rain to catch colds waiting for the bus. His son couldn't complain, he wasn't up for riding the bus with the other kids after bailing on his fight; finally the consequence of choosing Cartman were revealing themselves.

After much pleading with the ginger-haired man, Tweek convinced him to stop at Harbucks on their way to school. It'd been two days without coffee, and his body was going through withdrawls. Despite not wanting to see his father, Tweek would do just about anything for caffeine.

Upon entrance Richard looked up from his duty, a large red mug of coffee in his hands. He offered a smile to his son and nodded at Thomas. "Well hello there, son. Have you stopped by for a fresh cup of coffee? Fresh, like a crisp salade served with the finest greens from the Mayan fields. Fresh like—"

"Dad!"

"Oh, sorry." Pouring his son's usual he hands over the cup with a smile. "Now don't spill it, son, it's hot like the firey surface of the sun, the torrents of lava—"

Tweek hurried passed Thomas, shaking his head in irritation shouting, "The metaphors, man! Unnnh!" Back in the car he sipped his coffee, his right eye occasionally spazzing as he muttered obscenities about literary devices. It was a straight shot to school then, done in silence. Tracie bound off to meet up with her girlfriends as the boys waved adieu.

Within moments of entering the school house, the boys ran into their gang. Token just laughed as he saw Craig smiling smugly and smacked him on the back as Clyde said hello to Tweek.

"Oh boy, I can't believe you bailed on Cartman! You're in for Hell today, Craig," the Williams boy said, flashing pearly whites.

"Yeah, what the fuck were you thinking?" Clyde asked as they traversed the halls and mingling kids. Tweek fell into step behind, something that he always did.

"I don't believe I was," Craig said with a slight chuckle, rubbing at his neck as they stopped at his locker. Opening it several notes fell out onto the floor—growling at his companion's laughter he shoved them into the nearest garbage can and threw his things into the locker.

"Obviously not, lettin' your sister find that note!" Token said, wrapping an arm around Craig's shoulders. "So is it true, Colour Lover, you got the hots for Bertha Red Allan?"

Craig shoved him away, scoffing. Token laughed as he fell into a locker, raising his brows suggestively. "No way, dude, I ain't tappin' that ass."

"Aw, come on, Craig. If it were true then we'd all be cool dudes; Token's got Wendy, I've got Bebe, you'd have Red, and then we'd just have to find a chick for Tweek here," Clyde said with a chuckle, draping an arm around the said-boy's waist. Tweek yipped, shoving the brunette away.

"Gyah!"

Craig shook his head as they walked passed the cafeteria. "Is there a girl in this school that would date Tweek?"

"Rebecca Cotswald, duh! She's pretty skanky, and she spazzes too! Perfect pair, if you ask me," the dark-skinned boy said, walking backwards as he looked Tweek up and down, considering. The blonde yelped nervously, feeling like he was a puppy on display, merchandise being sized up. "Yeah, I think it'd work real well."

"I don't want to date a girl!" Tweek shouted, twitching uncontrollably. By now the plastic cup his coffee had been in was thrown away, long gone.

"You wanna date a dude, then?" Clyde asked, flashing his teeth in a snarl.

"What? No, no, no no, no—"

"Chill out dude," Craig said, rolling his eyes. This as how he acted in public, a complete asshole, a jerk, an overall dick. The niceties, the cheer, it was all on a personal level, and always would be. "We all know you can't get any from anyone."

The boys laughed as Tweek shirked away, twitching. Sure, Craig could joke and insult him, but no one else was allowed.

What a hypocrite! Tweek thought to himself as he stormed off, trying to remember why he hung out with that group of guys. Staring at the linoleum floor in hate he startled, finding a fat foot in his vision. Looking up was none other than Eric, a shit eating grin plastered to his face.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Craig's bitch-boy," he crooned, behind Stan pinching the ridge of his nose. "So where's Nommel, hiding in the bathroom?"

"I don't know! Unnnh!" Tweek shrilled, looking around desperately for an escape. He could go back, but would have to face his clique, or he could try slipping passed the lumbering hulk of Eric; neither seemed too pleasing.

"Oh, but I think you do, after all you just got dropped off with him, right Tweekeroo?"

Shit, he'd forgotten about that. "Don't call me that!"

"What, Tweekeroo?" Receiving a nod Eric just laughed. "What's better? Tweeky, Tweekster, Twitch, Twitchy—"

"None of them!" the blonde shouted firmly, pushing Cartman in a bold attempt to get his point across. The fat-boy's face turned from amusement to anger.

"Ay! Respect my fuckin' authority!" Before Eric could throw a punch Tweek slipped under his arm and scurried off to class, figuring his books were less important then his teeth. As soon as he madly dashed into his chair (tipping it with the force and sending him nose-first into the tile) the bell rang, signaling you had five minutes to get to class. Within moments the room filled with bustling children, the last body to walk in being Mr. Garrison.

"Okay children, I've got some news for you," he said, glancing around the classroom. "Oh Tweek, good to see you back. Anyway, during lunch there's going to be a 'save the trees' and 'animal rights' meeting held in the library in case you want to go, this being held by our own little Wendy." A few people glanced to the girl, rolling their eyes; Eric muttered something about a fucking hippy bitch under his breath.

"Now today we're going to do some vocabulary work in groups of four which I will be assigning. Each group will get four words, in which they'll have to elaborate on in three or more sentences. You know, give examples. Here's one for aspire: Mr. Slave aspires to be the best hooker in the red light district. Any questions?"

Gregory's hand shot up, making the balding teacher sigh. "Yes Gregory?"

"This can be done in any tense, correct? Like your use of aspire—"

"Yes, as long as the word is used correctly it's fine. Anyone else?" Seeing no hands raised he gave a short nod. "Alright, groups, groups…"

Tweek's mind wandered, not particularly caring, though names still registered: Wendy, Gregory, Butters, Dogpoo. Kevin, Clyde, Annie, Bebe. Token, Pip, Damien, Sally. Stan, Jason, Terrence, Sally. Craig, Jimmy, Bill, Timmy, Melanie. Kenny, Conner, Luigi, Lizzy. Kyle, Eric, Tweek, Marcy.

"Mr. Garrison, I don't think that's such a good idea," Kyle said at the mention of their group.

"Is your mother going to start some silly war?" the teacher asked, waving Mr. hat around.

"No—"

"Then it's a perfect idea. Now get into your groups, you've got half an hour to impress me."

As they scattered to regroup, Tweek took a seat by Kyle, across from Marcy so he was as far from Cartman as possible. The neo-Nazi grinned devilishly at the blonde, a queer glint in his eyes as Marcy too the paper with their words and read them aloud:

"Console, horde, jeer, and trite."

Eric ripped the paper from her hands. "Oh, ho, ho, you guys, not to worry! I've got this under control."

"What're you planning, fatass?" Kyle asked calmly, shooting Cartman a look.

"Ay! I'm doing your goddamned work for you, Jew-boy, so shut your mouth! Jesus Christ, no appreciation around here."

As he wet to work the Jew sniffed indignantly and rolled his eyes. Tweek hid a smile behind his hand, watching the fat-boy scrawl and scribble on a sheet of paper the sentences, Marcy pulling out a book to read through. Turning to glance across the room he saw Craig faired no better, most likely being hassled for yesterday by his group.

He deserves it Tweek thought to himself, twitching. Who really ran from a fight? Even when Craig and himself had gotten into a fight, they went at it! Half an hour quickly passed with memories of the lancing pain from each blow playing in his head.

"Okay you little shitheads, we've got time for one person to go. Since their group was picked last, why doesn't someone from Kyle's group go?"

Cartman jumped up, knocking his chair backward in hi haste. Hurrying to the board, he turned to the class, clearing his throat as he did so and unwrinkled the paper.

"I have for you three of the finest examples of the word 'console' you'll ever hear. To broaden your learning experience, I've used three different tenses; observe!" The class snorted at his antics, but otherwise kept silent. "Craig ran for consolation after bailing on our fight, 'cause he's a total douchewad. He consoled in Tweek. To console him, Craig gave him a blow-job." He stopped, waiting for some sort of comment from the Nommel child. Craig remained staring at his paper darkly, a tick in his jaw from where he ground his teeth.

"Well that was interesting," Mr. Garrison said, feigning impressiveness before a yawn. Waving a hand he dismissed them to recess early. Like always Tweek was the last to leave, sneaking away. One last comment from the teacher sent him running, dry heaving: "Like soggy hot dogs, isn't it?"

The first thing he heard upon busting through the playground doors was Craig's raised voice shouting, "What the fuck are you trying to pull, buttpipe?" Taking in the sight he found everyone clustered in the centre of the courtyard, supposedly surrounding the two. Hating crowds he went to the slide and climbed to the top, everything viewable from there.

"Worked up, huh? Enough to fight this time?"

"What the Hell do you think, I'm here, right?" Craig asked, raising a two finger salute. Cartman only laughed.

"Oh, ho, ho, you're going to have to do a lot better than that, Craigy-poo."

Before another snide remark could be made, a streak of blue rushed forward, and before anyone knew it Cartman was on the ground, kicking at the air, screaming bloody murder. Composing himself he sat up, wiping blood away from the corner of his mouth, grinning a red-tinted grin at the crouched Nommel boy.

"Ay, that was a sucker punch, bitch. We've got to count to three before you do that shit," he said, pushing himself into a standing position. "Anyway, I'm using a stand-in."

"What? Craig growled, rising a few inches.

"Yeah, a stand-in, 'cause I don't know if you're good enough to fight me or not. So I want to see before I kick your ass."

"Cartman, that's low!" Kyle shouted, being smacked by the fatboy in the face.

"Shut up, you fuckin' Jew. Now, my stand-in will be…Kenny."

"What!" a voice squeaked through the material of the heavy hood. He waved gloved hands in defense. "Nuh-uh, I ain't doing it."

"Come on, Kenny! I'll give you a dollar," Eric said, fishing a dollar from his pocket and waved it in front of the blonde's face. "Come on, Kenny, mmmmeh, Kenny!"

"Fuck you," Kenny muttered, taking the dollar from the grinning Cartman and shoved it in his pocket.

"Alright! Okay, contestants get ready," Eric said with a laugh, waving the crowd to take a few steps back, in which they did without protest. "Getting ready" consisted of Kenny lowering his hood and rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie, while Craig unzipped his jacket and tossed it at Clyde. "Okay, the count of three: three, two, one—GO!"

The whole fight was blurred, seeming in fast motion; luckily the contrasting colorus of their outfits made it slightly more visible. It slowed a few seconds in as Kenny tripped, smacking his head on the ground hard enough to cause a yelp of pain, but Craig was right there, jamming his fist into the boy's mouth. Repeatedly. The crowd cheered despite the obvious pain Kenny was in as bits of teeth were spit out with blood. Disgusted he McCormick would spit such material at him, Craig stood and swiftly kicked him in the groin with all of his force. After a second time Kenny rolled onto his side, vomiting blood, snot flowing from his nose, face mottled purple. Uninterested in continuing, Craig drug him to his feet, only to shove him backwards. The crowd parted as Kenny stumbled, retching vivid amounts of bright red onto the ground as the raven-haired boy continued. The kids jeered, laughing at the sport as if nothing as wrong as the blonde fell over the hem of his pants, smacking his head on a tether ball being hit by a few first graders. The impact sent it twirling the pole, back around to wrap the clammy flesh of Kenny's neck. Sliding down the pole the cord pulled taut, his weight suffocating him. Within a few seconds (and a couple of more punches) he was thoroughly dead.

"You killed Kenny!" Stan yelled, seeming shocked, though everyone had been given plenty of chances to pull Craig back.

"You bastard!"

Craig turned, his hands slick and sticky with the crimson residue, face spotted with it, along with his clothing. He grinned, flashing his teeth sadistically, sending a chill down Tweek's spine. Everyone parted for him as he stalked back to the vomit encrusted ground, glancing around casually, though it seemed like a panther looking for prey.

"So where's Cartman, did he bail?" he asked in a deadly calm voice, though the pitch was off, higher.

"Y—you bet," Butters stammered, clucking his knuckles together. Craig shook his head, wiping his hands on Butters' arm as he passed and grabbed his jacket from Clyde, muttering:

"Pussy."

---

After school, Craig was once again the snide asshole, laughing it up about some joke made at lunch with the guys. Tweek couldn't stand it as he followed them out to Terryall creek, twitching nervously. How could anyone go from killing someone—granted that someone had a tendency to die every few days—to being completely normal? He still had blood on his clothes, for Christ's sake!

"Tweek, hurry up, dude!" Clyde's voice called from far away, and he realized he was still on the road leading to the residential community, while they had cut off toward the creek and were now over thirty yards away.

Fuck them, go home and draw, let them be murderous savages!"

"But they're my friends," Tweek whined to himself, hurrying to catch up. Once he was side-by-side with them they continued forth to the small walk-bridge connecting the two banks, painted a hideous puke-green colour. There they plopped down, chattering about Wendy's butt as Token handed a deck of cards.

Tweek ignored them the best they could as they argued which version of bridge to play, more content watching his reflection in the swirling water. Even to himself his eyes seemed sunken in, dark circles bringing out the golden flecks in his eyes. Seeing himself the first thought that came to mind was a lyric in the song "Mad World" by Gary Jules.

"I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad," he sung softly to himself, startling as Craig appeared in the reflection, the same smiling-Craig he'd been the night before.

"You playing with us, Tweekster?"

He turned to face his friends, friends that were anxious for his answer, even as Token continued shuffling the deck. These were the boys he could trust his life with, and yet could take one so easily. He'd grown up with them, around them, and despite the pranks and practical jokes, they still had each other at the end of the day. He gave a nod, sitting himself by Clyde as the cards were dealt, finishing the lyrics mentally with a sad laugh.

The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had.

---

A/N: Hah, guess I should've mentioned it's a Tweek/Craig fic, huh? Whoops, my bad. So not much psychoanalysis yet, that gets big when they're older. Gotta set the playing field, y'know? Thanks to my reviewers, love you all. And look, I kept my promise; it's long! Oh yeah, unf unf.

For the record, don't ask about my numbering system xD; I've got no bloody idea.