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

5. 1 4 Perceptivity

Note: "Tarryall Creek" is a real place in South Park National Reserve, Colorado. However, because some of the geological aspects were changed to fit my needs, I've renamed it "Terryall", like it usually appears in any of my fics.

---

1.4 Perceptivity of Silken Webs

per·cep·tive adj.

1. Of or relating to perception. Perceptive facilities
2. a. Having the ability to percieve; keen in discernment
b. Marked by discernment and understanding; sensitive

Betrayal, misconceptions, can all cloud how clearly one thinks. What one may believe is the opposite of another's thought, yet the same issue is at hand. Is it tomato, or tomatoe? Of course this particular problem isn't as simple as the accents people put onto their words. The trails are at hand, and waters are tested for safety, or lurking monsters waiting just out of sight for the foot to be stuck in.

---

Through the lights, blaring sirens, rush of medical personelle, Tweek found himself admitted to Hellpass Hospital with a respiratory infection, caused by the toxic amount of gun powder and arsenic in the thin, mountain air. The first day or so was spent in a medicated stupor, arms fed with IVs and things to increase the white-blood count in his body. His fever decreased to 99 degrees as he was forced Tylenol 3, before surprising them all and climbing to nearly 104. With the high temperature came, once more, the dementia that was packaged with it.

Over the course of three days Dr. Rizzo's medical establishment threatened to take the hospital to court over not allowing their patient to take his prescribed medication for such hallucinations and mind-incantations. They argued it was only the high fever that was causing it, laid out the medical records, scientific studies, any proof they could against Dr. Rizzo, and watched as the psychiatrist office backed off. During which time Tweek was so far gone that he hardly understood he was the reason for the large-scaled legal dispute.

The sixth day the temperature had declined once more, staying at a steady 100 degrees, and his head cleared. Having spent three days prior so deep in himself there was no tangible thought, he felt detached, numb from his body, although he had a feeling that was the work of Curson. Throughout the event the self-proclaimed non-demon stayed quiet, hardly there at all. Which was proven quite true; the Bat-King was not in the cage Tweek had created, and that whole level of his psyche was a ruin. But the lingering presence of Curson was still there, faintly, giving the impression that he was wandering where he shouldn't.

As the aphrodisiacs were minimized pieces from the night of the war began to fall into place. He'd stayed at home, watching as everything unfolded from his window; his mother was out with the other woman of town, being marched around by Sheila Broflovski, and his father was enrolled into the army. He'd hated being alone on the night everything would end, but in a separate sense, he wasn't alone. Curson had taken over, rambled about Satan, the ground splitting, and at 10 15 he'd been slammed harshly back into his body and passed out. Again came the question he couldn't answer, why had that happened? But that didn't matter, it'd happened, and he'd awaken in some far-off mind state and run to Christophe's, only to be taken to the hospital. And now he could hardly keep his baring straight while Curson was no where to be found in his mind; he decided he had to get rid of the bat-thingit.

The seventh day he was allowed visitors besides his parents, and Eavan had announced Christophe would be by later that afternoon. A wave of happiness rushed through his stomach, knowing he'd get to see the Frenchmen, and struggled to clear his mental fog, only to be tugged back down, restrained in the silvery haze. An irritable voice rang through the haze, purring out, "Vollies of arrows, shot; resistance is sinfulness." Hardly in the mindframe to understand the riddle he fought harder against the mental restraints, invisible hands dragging him down further. In consciousness he barely noticed the cursing of doctors rushing about his bed, pricks of needles, cool rush of IV medication, on his own body buckling on the hard hospital-addition bed.

He relapsed, in the matter of a few hours, a medical phenomenon that no one understood, except perhaps Curson. Locked once more in a medicated befuddlement in his mind, the Bat-King snarled, ripping through Tweek's Self to the ruin of his caged level of psyche, where the blonde sat, twiddling his thumbs as if nothing was wrong.

"Uselessness! Fought fabrication, infiltrated but own destruction. Told you for naught! Selfless eradication was but the thought!"

Tweek sighed heavily, his breath whispery, tinged blue in the utter blackness. He stared at the clawed grey toes presented before him and looked up into the flaring scarlet orbs looming. "What'd you do to me?"

Throwing his hands up Curson snorted. "The rose had no thrones when picked."

"You said I would otherwise be dead! Why resist when you're going to die?" Tweek asked meekly, squinting, body shaking steadily. He flinched as the Bat King kneeled down, brushing claws through his tangled hair. "What did you do?"

"Panel is mine to rule, struggling dominance, and decline."

The riddles were harder to understand, preoccupied elsewhere. He shook his head, smacking Curson's hand away from him, and bit his lip. What did he mean? What panel? Whispering the sentence under his breath, and understanding the context used, Tweek moaned, glaring at the thing before him with heat. He edged away, scooting backwards on his butt and stood in a flurry. Before he knew what had happened there was one of the mentally constructed arrows protruding from Curson's left eye, black oozing from his face, but he failed to seem hurt.

"You took my body? My mind? Jesus Christ! Get out, get out, get out!"

Grimly the Bat King stood, a hand trailing to the base of the arrow and yanked, things thicker than blood flying in an arch from his face. "Hell is the key, open the gates and clarity set free. Till decided, two work the shell."

Tweek screamed, fought, shouted, cursed a he was thrown off his equilibrium and thrown harshly upward, spinning. He had to get Curson out, now just how could it be done?

---

A day passed and the white wash of hospital colours and medicated atmosphere was brightened, uplifted; Christophe was coming to visit. Despite the dreary, nervous feeling in his stomach in anticipation of seeing the French boy and assuring this wasn't all a figment of his imagination to keep him from insanity, he was giddy. It had been almost two weeks of sitting in the same hospital bed, being forced the same disgusting food, IVs dripping chemicals he couldn't pronounce into his blood. Just knowing Christophe was coming as enough to let himself do as Curson said for once and not fight against the mental restraints keeping him from being fully in control.

It was just after a lunch of ham-club sandwiches, stale potato chips dipped in ketchup, and orange juice that the nurse came in, smiling brightly at him. After two weeks they'd gotten to know each other, so Tweek was only really comfortable around her, although he'd yet to learn her name. She strutted over in her flats and rested a hand against his forehead, like she did every afternoon after noonmeal.

"How are you feeling, Tweek? Nauseous at all?"

He shook his head and sipped his drink, clearing his throat as he replied, "No, no I'm not nauseous. And I feel fine." His voice was hoarse, dry, vocal cords drawn tight from having been unused in proper conversation for so long.

The nurse ran a hand through his hair, away from his warm forehead and checked the clarity of his eyes. Seeming satisfied she fluffed his pillows and patted his knee. "Well you're a bit warm, and no doubt still have a low fever, but you should be good to go any day now! Isn't that great?"

"Yeah, I miss my friends," he said, fiddling with the edge of the standard white bedsheets. He felt disgusting, like he needed a shower, and he was sure if he touched his hair it would be limp and oily. He shuddered at the thought.

"Well, it so happens to see one of them has come to see how you're doing! Let me go get him, alright?" Without waiting for an answer she disappeared back out of the door of the private room and could be heard speaking to that familiar, accented voice. A moment later Christophe poked his head in and slowly crossed the threshold.

"You look like sheet," he said calmly, giving Tweek a once over as he approached, hands held behind his back. The blonde laughed feebly, the attempt turning into a vicious, tear-producing cough. Wincing, Christophe handed him a glass of water and watched Tweek down it in a gulp.

"Yeah, well, I don't feel much above shit so it works," he said, a faint smile crossing his lips. The French boy dropped whatever he was holding behind his back, kicking it out of view and stepped up to the edge of the bed, a free hand grasping the side rails hand enough to turn knuckles white.

"You scared me zat morning, I 'ad no idea what 'ad 'append, you were just running and zen you fell and weren't responding. I zought you 'ad died or somezing," he said slowly, watching his hand ring the rail.

"Well, I didn't," Tweek croaked. "I just, I heard from Kyle you were dead and had to go."

Christophe looked up at that, raising a brow. "But Kyle would 'ave still been fighting wiz 'is muzza, or singing along wiz ze town zat ze war 'ad ended."

"Yeah, it was a delusion," he said, sighing, before realizing what that statement inclined. "Wait, what? How would you know if Kyle was doing those things, you weren't participating in the war." Christophe glanced down for an instant before looking steadily at Tweek, tattling on himself. The blonde bit his lip, tasting blood as he counted to ten. In his mind tittering laughter rang out and his vision blurred as a soft foreign tongue floated in his ears.

"How could you, after our talk? You could have died!"

"And I did," Christophe snapped, glaring devilishly. "But 'ow could I not, et ez in my blood! I am a mercenary, I live for ze challenges, ze dares, ze risks. And zis was ze perh-fect opportunity; et was a fucking war! Sheet! Et ez not like I just waltz in wizout preparation, I was asked by a dear friend and could not refuse ze offer. You must understand, I 'ad you in my zoughts zroughout ze ordeal, et wasn't as if I was doing zis to spite you, I really wanted et."

He took a breath and counted to ten again before nodding; he did distantly understand the concept Christophe was trying to push. "So what'd your Mom think of it?"

Tweek watched as his friend shuddered, despite the smile that broke across his cracked lips. "Well, when I stepped inside she zrew 'erself at me, kissed, coddled, telling me 'ow worried she was and couldn't believe I 'ad done somezing so stupid and rash, since she'd seen ze performance on television. And zen she 'ad a fit, 'issing and screaming about 'ow I could 'ave been so vairy 'urt, and she scolded, punished, slapped until she finally grounded me." The French boy lifted the sleeve of his sweater, exposing a colourful, green-tinged bruise spreading up his forearm to the biceps. "Muzza shows 'er love in strange ways."

"Oh God, Mole, I'm sorry."

Christophe rolled his eyes and leaned against the bed, overstepping wires and tubes as he did so. "Euh, God, 'e's ze biggest fucking douche of zem all. I mean zey sent me to ze fucking Golden Gates when I kicked ze bucket, what ze 'ell is zat! If God can see evairyzing—and let me stress, evairyzing includes ze middle fingers pointed at ze sky and burned Bibles—zen 'e would know of my 'ate for 'im and 'e would send me to 'ell, right? But no ze bastard—"

"Wait, wait," Tweek said, interrupting a miffed looking Mole. "You died? But you're here, oh Jesus, does that mean I'm in Heaven, that I'm dead too? Fuck! I never told—"

"Shut up you fucking prat," Christophe spat, though the humour shining in his blue orbs said he wasn't angry. "Of course I died, I already said zat, are you deaf? And I'm 'ere because of some beetch named Kenny wished evairysing back to normal, or so I was told. And as I 'ave witnessed, evairyzing ez back to normal, except you."

Taking that information in Tweek sighed, another piece of the puzzle falling into place, though an uncharacteristically nice Curson helped with that. 10 15 Satan had burst through the Earth's crust, and in his appearance Curson was forced back into his host's body, unable to stay in the same realm of existence as the High Lord of Hell. Tweek had been broken down to a remote part of his Self, and dragged back into Reality when Kenny made his wish, because things were wished to their normal state before the war. And in turn the sickening launch between physical planes chiseled at his immune system, allowing him to get sick.

Tweek cocked his head, oily hair falling across his right eye at the movement as he tried to look as dumbfounded as possible. "What to you mean I'm not normal?"

"Don't play dumb," Christophe growled, leaning over the bed to be eye level with the blonde. "You are in ze 'ospital and 'ave been 'ere for weeks. Zat ez not normal."

"Well I'm sick, why be out of the hospital?"

Christophe's eerie eyes settle on Tweek, causing the blonde to shudder under the intensity. It was as if The Mole was boring into the lie, trying to decipher why it was being thrown around. "You are not just sick, I 'ad a lung infection back in France because of a chemical spill in ze area, but I was not admitted into a 'ospital for zis long. Et ezn't normal, so what ez wrong wiz you? You aren't going to die, are you?"

Tweek sighed and looked down at his lap, shaking his head, breaking free of that hard, concerned gaze. "No, I'm not going to die, but…I can't tell you what's wrong, you won't believe me so it's not worth loosing you as a friend."

"I promise I won't leave you," Christophe urged, placing a callused hand over Tweek's soft one. "I 'ave told you evairyzing, about my fazza and so much more zat I only said because I trust you. Do you not trust me?"

"Of course I do! I just…I just can't tell you…I'm afraid Christophe, I just…can't."

"A gamble, shown in the stars as lost; you rolled snakes eyes."

For a split second Christophe looked disheartened before the casual, impassive look he usually wore fell into place and he shrugged, drawing his hand back. "Okay, zat's just fine, if you don't want to tell me zen okay. 'ope you get better, and I 'ad better leave before ze nurse kicks me out." He took a step back before turning on his heel and stalked out, hardly hearing the choked out farewell from his friend.

Tweek sighed and lowered his eyes, about to call for the nurse before something brown caught his eyes on the floor. It took several minutes before he worked up the courage to peek over the edge of the bed, and spotted perhaps the ugliest thing he'd ever laid eyes on. He snatched it up quickly from the cold tile floor and looked it over, moving it every which way. It was a stuffed toy of some sort, like an ugly dog without ears and a tail, a pointy snout, and flat clawed feet. He actually had to read the tag to figure out what it was; a mole toy. A second later he realized that was what Christophe had dropped, a get-well gift. Sure, it was a little odd, and fugly as Hell, but the thought behind it was what counted.

He hugged it to his chest, feeling his stomach drop into a void, wanting nothing less then Death and sobbed.

It was happening again.

---

He was released four days later with the advice to "drink lots of liquids and avoid dairy products". The very first thing he did was beg his parents to take him to an ice cream parlour for a sundae, and they did it without hesitation. Of course, it didn't settle too well that evening, giving him a stomachache that lasted a few hours, but it was worth it.

Over the course of two weeks Tweek hardly saw Christophe, not out of his own ignorance, but due to catching up on schoolwork. He was so behind in his studies he couldn't take off the freeweek he usually had, instead sat down and crammed his head with knowledge about geometric shapes, a quick overview of the American government, grammar and vocab, and random tidbits of science. By the time his break did come up, he was wiped out.

The break happened to occur the week of Valentine's day. Being out of public school and not forced to write cards to everyone in the class was great, and Tweek didn't even feel a bit of remorse to breaking tradition. It'd always been a bitch to write personalized messages on the cards when he didn't talk to half of the kids in his class, and liked even less then that. So it was a complete surprise when his mom handed him a valentine obviously made out by someone his age by the blocky, large handwriting. Inside of the Terrence and Phillip card was written a note that said:

Tweek, you kill me. When will you come back? Spring break is soon, see you then?

It wasn't signed, but he knew it had to be from someone in his old class, because the only other person he knew was Christophe, and he didn't beat around subjects. Also included was a dogtag on a chain, blank on both sides, though his parents suggested he get his name engraved on it and did as they said. As the temperature warmed up, the ID tags took place of the scarf Christophe had gotten him for Christmas.

The two ignored the hospital argument completely when they hung out, as if it hadn't happened at all. Christophe took the opportunity to show Tweek out away from town, along the shallow banks of the Terryall Creek, north toward Middle Park. In his friend's company, Tweek was oblivious of how far out they went into the forest in the directions of the mountains, any signs of civilization gone completely. Time didn't seem to exist as they trekked in, watching furry little Satanic creatures waddle by, though the sun passing overhead toward the west told otherwise.

Of course, the hike was well worth the snake incidents (one gutsy rattler got its head chopped off and spat on by an irritated Frenchmen) and mosquito bites. As the Terryall was joined by the Michigan and Jefferson rivers it turned hard right and became an underground channel. There, the water turned into a lovely aqua-marine colour, a startling contrast to the normally brown water marked by the region. As the Terryall spurted from the underground reservoir heading downstream into Park County, that enchanting coloured water played among the rocks, creating dazzling waterfalls that reflected in the afternoon sun. To say the least, it was a magical experience.

They sat and talked, voices harmonizing with the rushing of cool water over the stones, wind rustling the trees, birds singing in choirs through the sky. Christophe delved into a theory based solely on the conniving truth of woman and girls. Throughout the heated rant Tweek thought of nothing else except one Bertha-Red, though wasn't sure as to why she appeared in his mind's eye. She was always pretty nice, except maybe to some of the girls. So The Mole went on and on about the girls he hated in South Park, being just about every one of them, except a few of the adults.

It was then his turn to rant and contemplate, and he did so about rabies and the effect on squirrels. Christophe smiled all the way through the frenzied speech of Tweek, accompanied by twitching and spazzing. Somehow rabies launched into a segment of mountain flowers, allergies, cold chills, and possible people that gave them cold chills. Tweek's list included Eric due to his psychotic nature, Dr. Kevorkian aka Dr. Death, Mr. Slave because he was just whacky, and Christophe because being stared down by him was chilling. Christophe found it rather odd that Craig wasn't included in the list and questioned it, being snapped a reply of, "Craig's too much of a pussy." The Mole's list of chilling people included Winona Ryder, his mom, all woman of the world, Elton John, and Tweek.

As Tweek began to sing "Suspension" by Mae under his breath Christophe looked at his watch, amazed to see it was already 5 30. The sun began to decline through the treetops as they headed back along the river, but it's never quite that easy, as they soon realized when the channel forked off. Now lost, The Mole's sense of direction failing him, Tweek bust into hysterics. Dark quickly enveloped around them, and shadows became sharper, golden eyes watching them from every corner of the forest. Christophe silently vowed never to do this again as Tweek clutched at his shirt and yelled to the Fates and Jesus to save them.

However, those beings decided not to pay heed to the schizophrenic boy, and rather they came across two teenagers engaging in tongue wars, the smell of pot heavy in the air. At first the highschoolers just looked onto the two dirty boys with disgust and told them to get lost, until Christophe swung out his bladed shovel and threatened to beat them bloody if they didn't take the boys back into town. They laughed in his face until he swung the shove head, catching the dimebags and threw them back behind him into the river. At that the teens hissed but agreed to take them to the main river and no further.

That was enough for Christophe, who easily found his way to Stark's Pond, and then into town. Of course, several of the parents were sent out searching for the boys, and when they were found strutting into town, yawning and covered in dirt, they were both grounded harshly.

Tweek was forced multitudes of homework during this period, not allowed on the computer unless he was watching lectures or doing work. IM was blocked from his capabilities, allowing no communication with the outside world, so he had no idea how bad Christophe had it. Until spring break rolled around and the French boy grumbled he was going to visit family friends in Quebec, cringing at the prospect of those idiot fake-French bitches. The day after he announced it he was on a plane with his mother, flying to Canada. Tweek himself was visiting family as well, but he had three days to kill, and no friends around to do it.

So it was a pleasant surprise when the doorbell rung and Butters was standing on his stoop, ringing his hands together, watching his shuffling feet. He explained how he came over to check up on him because Tweek hadn't been seen out and around for a while and a lot of people were worried, just didn't want to get attacked by his father's metaphors, though he was perfectly okay with them. So Tweek hung out with Butters and his friend, Conner, a kid he'd seen in class but never really bothered to associate with. It was during a session of hanging out with the two, playing frisbee outside (though it was a tough game when Butters couldn't catch, Tweek threw himself to the ground every time the thing came at him, and Conner was never playing attention) that he realized just how antisocial he had been toward the other kids, staying with his group rather than branching out.

The forth day he was strapped in the car being driven to Wyoming, listening to his dad sing absently in the front seat to some outdated radio station. They were visiting Aunt Cathy on his mom's side, a ritzy-prissy woman with a temper; she was the Scottish to his mom's Irish side, as his father often joked. She was quite a character, flustered all of the time, insisting that he be called by his middle name, Iestyn, while in her company. She poked, prodded, complained about wanting a little girl to play with her daughters, who were worse than she was.

Grizel was the oldest of the three girls, a thirteen-year-old in the midst of her grunge stage of life. She hated anything to do with her mother and her ways, preferring to stay out on the far reaches of the O'Sullivan family farm, rather than being under Catriona's watchful eyes. She was the only sensible one of the bunch, down to earth and good-natured, expressing herself in art. Anything from nature was her medium: mud, clay, silt, berry juices, fresh leaves, anything. But he liked her for more than that; she, like him, didn't have the unnaturally curly red or brown hair that went along with the family, but instead remained unruly and blonde. It marked them as the outcast, and they stuck together each time these family get togethers happened.

Then there were the twins, Effie the devil of the two six-year-olds. Out of the three she gained the hardcore Scottish temper, and threw tantrums when she didn't get what she wanted. She always had an uncanny habit of blaming things on others so she never got in trouble. In short, she was a spoiled little menace that made Craig's sister's friend, Kizzee, seem like a kitten.

In comparison there was Delwyn, the younger, sweeter twin. She was absolutely adorable in every way and knew how to play her charm, despite being the naïve one. Even though she played nice and apologized for everything (which grated on the nerves after a while), her incredible cluelessness was frightening and unattractive.

But no, Eavan and Catriona did not complete the pot of O'Sullivans, for included in the gathering was Harri, the big brother that was the Welsh counterpart, and Aaren, the jolly old Englishman and little brother. Together the four made up a genealogical UK, spreading different traditions throughout the mingling of their kids (Aaren the only one without, being 'too young' in his opinion to knock up his fiancée).

Tweek hated it every bit as much as the majority of the kids, especially Thomas, Harri's only son, going on his sixteenth in a week. He was a grade-A student and picky, knowing what battles he could win and fretted for a day whole, grumbling about idiot little kids and wankers of adults. Except for Tweek, Thomas always stole him away from the devious girls before they could pull out bows and makeup, preferring his company rather than the others. Of course Tweek loved being around this cousin, particularly out in the pastures watching the sheep graze, running through the corn fields, or riding out on a big black stallion together, him too twitchy and nervous to ride alone. Thomas represented family safety to him and everything he wanted to be, minus the frizzy auburn hair and ginger-kid looks, anyway.

Of course, he had to admit he was thrilled when he got back to his own house and neighborhood, even the obnoxious school work that claimed his life until he received a little certificate in the mail stating he had successful passed the fourth grade. To celebrate the momentous occasion Richard brewed up a special batch of hazelnut-banana-mocha coffee, a Tweak specialty that only was made if his son accomplished something absolutely astounding. And his parent's announced they'd be vacationing at Lake Jefferson and he could bring a friend, which was no doubt in his mind going to be Christophe.

The drive was two hours long, and they left at nine in the morning so they could stop for brunch before arriving. Christophe seemed a tad bit nervous being along with them for the first thirty minutes, until Eavan saved them both from her husband's taste in music by popping in Dane Cook's Harmful if Swallowed CD. From then on out he was the calm one, busting into strong laughter, so unlike his coy chuckles or uncharacteristic giggles that it was startling, even to the adults that had never heard him laugh before.

At a stop at a gas station, Richard at the back of the petit car pumping away gas, Eavan inside to grab some snacks for the children, Tweek bust into a fit of twitching as Dane's infamous "Tire in the Face" joke played over the sound system.

"Oh GOD! I can't, I can't be in a CAR after that! How are we going to get to the lake? Oh Jesus!"

Christophe smirked, shaking his head, lips quirking, corners of his eyes twitching in lack of nicotine. "You're name isn't Mary, you will not be 'it in ze face wiz a tire and die."

"Oh, okay. But how do you—"

"Because you'll die of overwhelming love, yes? Now, shush, I am listening to ze comedian."

Tweek didn't question it, assuring himself he'd probably receive the answer, "I know because I am French, euh." Of course he also left it alone, knowing questioning would lead to doubting himself, which would eventually turn into a hyperventilating, breakdown experience before being shipped back to Dr. Rizzo's office for analysis, which he didn't need on vacation. So he sat back and enjoyed the landscapes, head jerking to the side at random intervals, and fell into a slumber, having stayed up the entire night out of anxiety.

Instead of stopping for brunch before hand, like planned, the Tweaks drove straight through to Lake Jefferson and went about unpacking. Seeing that the boys had rooms of their own, they decided to rearrange, Tweek's bedroom used for both of them to sleep, Christophe's used as a playroom. They tested out the bunkbeds, unpacked clothing, and grabbed sandwiches for the road as they explored.

The exploration lasted several days, wandering into places they shouldn't be, circling the gigantic lake looking for things to get into or do, mapping out the situation. The lake was like any other lake, you could swim, watersky, waterjet, boat, or fish to your hearts content. North, jagged trails lead into a thick forest covering the slope of the Rocky's, the ice-aged glacier shimmering more west then the boys hoped to go. Southeast and farther down the mountains was Beaverton, the sister town of the rambunctious Fairplay, known for its party districts and clubs. But it set the balance in play; nice scenery, mellow, calm habitat with booze and strippers a few miles down.

The next journey out was searching for people that could be potential playmates, and others to avoid completely. Much to Tweek's astonishment, Porsche was there, dressed in jeans and a baggy Colorado State hoodie. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail, face devoid of any blue makeup. When confronted she spoke normal English, explaining that every summer for the first month she stayed with her Dad and his girlfriend out at a cabin at Lake Jefferson, with her older sister. She seemed psyched to see people she knew and promised to hang out with them later. Christophe thought she was gutsy after trying to push him off of a dock due to some rude remark, and all the while suicidal; she went into the 'questionable' category of friends.

They split up around noon, Tweek hungry and wanting lunch, Christophe itching to find the little dillhole that dare splash The Mole. Kicking the packed sand of the higher bank of the lake he growled, staring out over the waters as if that irritable boy would appear.

"Hey! Hey! Excuse me, but cun you please stop?"

Christophe looked over his shoulder in annoyance and ground down on his cigarette, watching an older boy trudging over the sand toward him. He rolled his eyes and continued on his way; he didn't know the boy, he shouldn't stop.

"Hey!" This didn't phase The Mole as he kicked the sand harder and strode on a bit faster. That was, until the boy yelling caught up, grabbed his wrist and slid to a halt in front of him. "You complete wally! Did you not hear me?"

Snapping his wrist out of the boy's grip he took a step back, analyzing this person. He seemed to be in his teens, wearing a faded Interpol shirt and khakis that only brightened the intensity of his flaming red curls and green eyes. His pale skin was freckled, giving him the title nothing short of "ginger kid".

"I 'eard you just fine, beetch. Now ef you'd get out of my way—"

The boy slid into his redirected path with a heavy sigh. "My, no wonder you're so unfriendly, you're a bloody frog."

"Can't say I'm so 'appy about Irish sunsvabeetches pretending to be Welsh," Christophe barked.

The ginger kid smirked. "Well, I do live in Wales, so no matter my appearance I would act like the Welsh do. And, as if it's any of your business anyway, my grandmother was Irish and Scottish, my grandfather English and Welsh, so they're children were everything. Of course they all married into different UK regions—father a nice Welsh woman—except Auntie Eavan."

"Auntie Eavan?"

The kid nodded. "Why yes, which brings me to my point! I've seen you hanging around with my cousin, could you tell me which cabin they're staying in, bychance?"

Watching the flouncing figure of Tweek behind the teen, slipping and sliding across the sand , tripping once over air, Christophe didn't have to answer. It was a funny sight, the blonde running, flailing about without a bit of balance whatsoever, but he couldn't laugh, Tweek was Tweek, gravity-hater and all.

"Thomas!" Tweek shouted, grinning like an idiot before launching himself at the redhead, to be pulled into a hug and spun around. He giggled uncharacteristically as his cousin set him on his hip, like a mother would with a three-year-old.

"You haven't lost weight, have you, Tweek? You're light to be nine!"

"Just eleven pounds under weight," Tweek said dejectedly as he slid out of Thomas' grasp and perked up again. "Jesus Christ, what're you doing here? I thought you were going back to Wales!"

"Oh we were, and then Mum said she wanted to stay at the O'Sullivan farm for a while, then went around and visited friends, before deciding she wanted to come out here for a week and visit. We'll be heading back to Wales in four days. Now what are you doing here?"

Jittering Tweek replied, "Well Mom and Dad thought it'd be nice to get away from town! So we vacationed. Here! And I brought my friend—" at this he grabbed Christophe's arm, pulling him toward him. "—Mole."

Cocking his head, Thomas put a hand on his slender hip in thought. "Mole? Bollocks! That's no true name, Tweek. So, what is your name, 'Mole'?"

Placing his hands behind his back, Christophe teetered on the toes of his boots, looking up under long lashes, a boyish smile crossing his lips. "Ura Deeck."

"Mole!" Tweek hissed, seeming appalled by his friend's answer, which confused Christophe; usually Tweek was a bit nervous over his generally bad-boy decisions and humour, but always went along with it, saying how he wished he was more like him. But the French boy could understand; Tweek wanted his cousin's approval and praise, no matter what it took. But it still hurt.

"Yes Twitch?"

"Be nice," Tweek growled, narrowing his honey eyes, sparkling in the afternoon sun, though this was for uncertainty and plee. Christophe could tell how afraid his friend was to voice the command, the way he shook and jittered erratically and coward in on himself. But he held firm, despite that. However, he was talking to Christophe DeLorne, the most stubborn kid in South Park.

"Bite me."

"Christophe!" Tweek shouted, taking a step back as if slapped by that refusal of acceptance.

"Why should I change my be'aviour because your cousin is 'ere? Why should I trot around to please 'im? If zis is 'ow 'e effects you, zen I don't like ze cock-sucker!"

"Then go home!"

He threw his hands up, narrowing his eyes and spat at the ground. "Does et look like I can drive? Get 'ome myself? Because if so I'd be glad to fucking leave!"

"Well it's not like you have a sense of direction anyway!" Tweek growled, balling his fist, hating the deadly look Christophe gave him. As his anger increased, peaked, a mutilated, faded version of Christophe overlapped him, the world in a double vision, one his and one he presumed to be what Curson would otherwise do. Biting his tongue to keep the Bat-King from saying anything nasty, a feral howl erupted in his mind.

"At least I don't cry when I walk by Stark's Pond! At least I don't write sheety poetry! At least I'm not crazy! At least I don't deny loving my best friend!"

Thomas watched in confusion as the two friends fled in opposite directions, Tweek toward the cabin in tears and sobbing, Christophe toward the slopes main trails cursing. Sighing he shook his head numbly.

"Oh bother."

---

Evening rolled around, casting the lake in a twin fire to the sky, water glistening as the breeze made crest. Tweek remained locked in his room, even as Christophe eventually wandered in, mud-caked and filthy, knowing that if he stayed out passed six he'd worry the Tweaks. He cleaned up, ate dinner, and watched the sun fall from the sky, replaced by a low hanging moon, curled on a window seat overlooking the expanse of water.

Richard left at six-thirty to his brother-in-law's cabin to have a "boys-night" with Harri and Thomas, watching a football game on TV and playing beer-pong. During which time Susan, Harri's wife invited herself over, laughing tediously about things her husband did and told funny stories about Thomas. Sipping her coffee, having just finished a bout of inane laughter, the blonde-haired woman looked around, crystal eyes gleaming in concern.

"Where's Iestyn? I haven't seen the poor lad yet."

Eavan crossed her legs, resting the mug on her knee as she smiled sadly in the dim lighting. "Up in his room, has been all afternoon. While I was finishing up cleaning dishes he ran in sobbing; I suspect it has something to do with Christophe, the dear."

"The dear?" Susan asked, a manicured hand flying over her coloured lips. "How cun he be a dear when he's distressed your boy so? And I thought that Iestyn was friends with that black-haired boy, why not invite him along?"

"A lot has happened since you last visited, Susan," she replied simply, sipping her white-mocha coffee. She saw the argument coming from a mile away.

"Perhaps so, but how is the little French boy any better of an influence? He's surly, has absolutely appalling manners, and reeks of tobacco! And considering the colour of his teeth, you know he has to be smoking," Susan said with a wrinkled nose, disgusted by the idea. Eavan hid her bemused smile behind her glass, brows creased in disagreement. If only the bratty woman knew what her son was involved in, she would be dead by now out of stress.

"Christophe is perfectly acceptable for American culture, luv," Eavan said with a fake smile, watching as the comment hit home. Susan huffed indignantly as if she wanted to say, "Damn right the English wouldn't act in such a way!" but restrained herself.

Instead she set her glass down and stood up, flattening her pants with those fake nails, giving Eavan a dirty look. "Well then, I'm going to go and talk to Iestyn, he surely needs some consolation at the moment since you obviously didn't bother with it."

She bit her tongue, hard, reminded entirely of the match with the arrogant nurse back in the fall. But this was her brother's wife and she had to smile and nod, despite the fact she wanted to claw out those fake-blue eyes and shoot the disgusting wretch in the face.

So she said as sweetly as possible, "Tweek just needs to sit and think about it, Susan."

"Iestyn has had all day, and now it's time to talk," the woman said, emphasizing Tweek's middle name as if it was the proper name. "You can dolly in the matters of that French cobbler if you want."

As Susan turned and strutted, heel to toe in her stiletto pumps to the stairs Eavan growled a, "Bitch," at the insult aimed toward Christophe. Susan stopped and turned around with her brows raised, hands defiantly on her shapely hips.

"What was that, dear?"

"I said, 'best wishes'."

Rolling her eyes Susan waltzed upstairs, cooing as she went. Grimacing Eavan put her cup down and looked over to the huge bay-front window that overlooked the lake, smiling sadly as she spotted Christophe there, knees to his chin, jaw clenched shut, eyes hidden under messy bangs. That was Susan's way, she wasn't concerned if you were in the room, she'd still speak devilish things about you without a care. Despite his stony nature, with an adult insulting him left and right, Christophe couldn't help but be effected.

She sat down by his side and ran a hand through his soft, spiky hair. When first asked if her son could be borrowed for a month of the summer, Yvette had seemed delighted, expressing how much easier this would make planning. But as the boys left the room, she made Eavan promise not to let anything happen to her son, hating the thought of losing her son after the war scare. Of course Eavan had, and now felt a motherly tie to the boy, something she never had with Craig and the other boys.

"Christophe, I've got to apologize for Susan's behaviour, she just has this way of believing she's better than everyone else and it's her divine duty to tell everyone that."

He gave a slight nod, hands clasping each other harder than before, short fingernails biting into skin. "But she ez right. I'm a dirty little boy wiz no fazza or friends. My muzza 'ates my 'obbies and Gregory. I do nozing right or anyzing grand; I am a no good influence."

Eavan put an arm around the boy, pulling him to her side. This was uncharacteristic for Christophe, to be so pent-up and brooding, self-analyzing. It hit her that he never got a chance to do it before, Tweek was the one that always went to him for help, and The Mole felt that he shouldn't push his own problems onto the already stressed out blonde. She sighed and hugged him hard, sympathizing with him.

"Christophe, you're a brilliant boy with so much to give to the world, and the bravest person I've yet to meet. You're plenty talented and the sweetest thing ever, and damnit, you're not a bad influence."

He glanced upward at her harsh tone as she cursed before dropping his gaze, startled only. "Twitch doesn't zink so. 'e zinks I 'ave no sense of direction. 'e zinks I should go 'ome."

"Honey, know that if you want to go home, I won't hesitate to drive you back."

He shook his head and glared at his lap. "Non, non, non. I don't want to go 'ome, zen I will not see Twitch for a long time. But I cannot stay 'ere wiz 'im mad at me for a month, zat ez suicide. Et's all zat red'eaded boys fault."

The first name that came to mind was Kyle Broflovski, but that made no sense considering he was two hours south. Cocking her head she questioned, "Thomas? Is that who you mean?" Receiving a nod against her shoulder Eavan sighed. "Oh dear, what did Thomas do?"

"Twitch wanted me to change for 'im. 'e usually likes who I am, but 'e 'ated me zen. And et was 'is fault. All 'is fault," Christophe emphasized with a growl, crossing his arms across his knees.

Eavan sighed again, shaking out her frizzy hair. She could understand all three boys' positions, this wasn't the first time something like this had happened, after all. Except when Craig was in Christophe's shoes, he didn't get upset when yelled at, he went along with his business ignoring Tweek's embarrassment.

"Christophe, let me explain to you Tweek's relationship with his cousin. Tweek is, and will always be, drawn to socially independent people that take risks and are ruthless in front of crowds because he'll never be that way. Craig, Clyde, Token, Kyle, Thomas, you, you're all very open and comfortable with your surroundings, and Tweek likes to be around people like that to just have a taste of recklessness.

"In his eyes, though, Thomas is the epitome of reckless. He excels with his grades and hardly needs to strive or do his work to maintain, he's in musical theatre and even has his own band. If he sees something wrong with anything, he'll point it out without thinking, and Thomas hardly hesitates to argue with his teachers. If he doesn't like you, or thinks you're attractive, he'll let it be known without considering your feelings. That's just how he is. Even faced with a difficult decision of letting his parents know his sexual orientation, he didn't stutter or back down, instead he brought his partner home into the living room where his parents where and…well, let's just say the sofa was put to good use.

"Because of who Thomas is, Tweek thinks of him as the family role model. In third grade the children had to draw a picture of their hero and get in front of class to tell why this person was so special, and Tweek did Thomas when the others did their mothers, celebrities, or fictional characters. He's just that proud of his cousin that he would face ridicule of others.

"That's why Tweek changes around Thomas. He wants to seem important and well mannered, he wants his cousin's attention, and would do anything for it, even risking one of his best friends' trust and friendship."

Christophe looked up at her, cocking his head so his right eye was covered in his rich brown hair, the other twinkling curiously. She could see he got the gist of the idea, yet found some small detail to speculate.

"So Twitch aspires to be gay?"

Brows arching Eavan forced herself to smile rather than laugh at what he chose to question. "Well, I wouldn't say that, rather, I think you missed the main point, luv."

Christophe shook his head as he stood up, turning to face Eavan, eyecontact manageable with her sitting. "Non, I got ze point, and I don't see 'ow et 'elps vairy much. But did you get mine?"

Placing her hands on his cheeks she smiled. "You don't want to change for a false likeness of Tweek when the motive behind it is an egotistical redheaded Englishboy that you'd rather slap, correct?"

Christophe grinned, flashing those yellowed teeth. "Are you giving me permission, Ms. Tweak?"

"If you can get a hit in, go for it."

The Mole giggled to himself and awkwardly hugged the adult as the clicking of stiletto heels echoed behind them. Looking over his shoulder he saw Susan standing at the bottom of the staircase with pursed lips, glaring and looking every bit disgusted.

"Well I never! What a stubborn, irritable, cheeky, plonker that boy is! I swear, if Thomas ever talked to me that way—"

"Susan, I think it's time for you to go," Eavan interrupted with a lowered, menacing voice. Christophe shirked at her side, knowing that the other woman was bad, but understanding when riled Eavan was just as violent. He looked upward as her fingers entwined into his hair, shuddering at that smoldering look. "Christophe, why don't you go upstairs while I escort Susan back to her cabin?"

He just nodded before walking quickly around the blonde woman in a two-meter radius and tramped up the stairs. The few times he was permitted to stay at Gregory's, he would be sent upstairs by Ms. Freemont when the parents were fighting, and he knew Eavan was in that mood. On the second floor he walked into his room, forgetting it was shared with Tweek and stopped dead as he saw the blonde sitting on his bed, looking out the window.

"Twitch—"

"I don't want to talk to you."

Biting his lip Christophe nodded and climbed into his bed, ducking under the covers. "Okay," he said softly to himself as he buried farther under, as if the blankets would save him from Tweek's ignorance. He quickly learned it didn't when hours went by without sleep, and Tweek didn't move from his perched on the edge of his own bed.

Damn Thomas.

---

Despite the morning birds chirping, bright early morning sun on the lake, or happy children's laughter from outside, it was a dismal day. Tweek got up before Christophe, though it was no surprise knowing that the French boy had only gotten to sleep at six. He ate his breakfast in quiet and bathed before Christophe even stirred. When eleven rolled around the blonde was fed up with waiting and was on his way out the door when The Mole appeared at the bottom of the stairs like a phantom, rubbing at his eyes and yawning.

The first word that came to mind at the sight of Christophe in his jammies still half-asleep was cute. It was an odd contrast to the thoughts he'd had all night about strangling the boy in his sleep and cutting his throat (thanks to Curson). He'd hardly slept himself, but that was the normal routine for Tweek, instead he just lay in bed and fell into his subconscious, hunting down the Bat-King to demand analysis, stat. It wasn't a pretty argument they got into, rather it turned into a battle of wills, throwing around subconscious mass and weapons. At one point the annoyed not-demon pinned Tweek against the edge of Breakdown, irritated beyond reason at the new behaviour the blonde took on of "defending honour and talking back". To say the least, it was unpleasant.

"What time ez et?" Christophe finally asked, breaking the Tweak from his thoughts. Blinking, Tweek pointed to a clock on the wall with a jittering hand. "Sheet, et'z eleven-ten already? I slept too late, you should 'ave gotten me up."

"Maybe," he replied, glancing out the bay-front window. Was Christophe just too tired to remember they were fighting, ignoring it, or had he come to terms with himself? "Wanna come out with me?" he finally asked, drawing his gaze back to the brunette. The Mole cocked his head with an arched brow, giving him a look. Tweek flushed when he realized the double-meaning. "Jesus Christ! Not like that! Oh God, pervert! I meant…like outside. To do something unsexual and fun. Wanna?"

Christophe looked down at himself with a smirk. "I 'ave some zings to do first. 'ow about we meet at ze docks at, say, noon?"

"Sounds good." He watched as Christophe took off his watch and threw it at him. Squealing, Tweek caught it and looked up in question.

"Zis way you cannot be late, okay?"

"'kay, see you then." Plans set he kissed him mom on the cheek and left, bouncing across the uneven ground with no real destination set. He couldn't swim without an adult around, go off into the woods without someone, or go into town alone. With a sigh he went to the only place that he could—Porsche's.

The cabin wasn't that far away, maybe a quarter mile from his own, though wasn't standard addition. As she said, her father was loaded like the Wiliams', so this mansion of a cabin was hardly a dent in his checking account. Though, wandering up the hill to the side where the black-haired girl was reading, the cabin still seemed impressive.

"Hi Porsche," he said shyly, sitting down in the grass beside her. She looked up with a wicked grin and dog-eared the place in her Valley Girls book.

"Hiya sweety, what're you up to?"

"Nothing, waiting till twelve for Mole, wanna do something?"

Porsche stuck her tongue between her teeth in thought, fluffing her hair. "Yeah, sure! How 'bout we go to the lodge for ice cream? My treat." Without waiting for a reply she got up and trotted to the back, highpitched voice asking for twenty dollars to go get ice cream. She came back in under a minute, flashing off the pressed bill, and grabbed his wrist. "Come on, come on!"

Sighing he let her drag him down the hill, giggling in the direction of the lodge, sitting three hills over. She rambled on aimlessly about random subjects like butterflies and cloud-shapes, taking on the ditzy personality she usually had at Raisins. Not once did she let go of his wrist, he noticed as he tripped over a rock and went facefirst into the ground, rather she nearly pulled his arm out of the socket yanking him back into a stand before continuing her chatter. It only stopped once hey got to the counter in the lodge and ordered, a chocolate sundae for her, and a strawberry malt for him.

Sitting at a table in the back, looking over a flower garden that slopped down the hill, Porsche gave a slight giggle as she flushed pink and took a bite from her sundae. Tweek cocked his head, shirking in on himself at her behaviour, remembering why he didn't really like girls at that moment.

"It's good, how's your malt?" she asked, licking chocolate from her lips and tucked her hair behind her ears.

"Really good."

She gave a nod and took another bite, licking the spoon this time. It was strange, watching the habits of people. After every bite she'd look down at the ice cream, lick her lips, look out the window, and lick the spoon. He sipped on his malt, hiding his smile as the routine started again. "So whad'ya and Mole have planned later?"

He shrugged, propping an elbow on the tabletop and looked out the window as well at a young child running around with a ducky intertube around her waist. "I dunno, we're kinda fighting so maybe we'll talk."

"Yeah, like yesterday I saw him stomp off toward the woods behind my cabin and I was going to say something except he looked really really pissed off and was talking Greek or something."

"French," Tweek corrected and let his head hit the table with a loud thud. "Yuouffh."

"Well why were you fighting?"

"Just stupid things and," he looked up, eyes widening before clamping shut as he squealed, "Oh Jesus! Thomas, when did you get here?"

The redheaded Brit grinned lazily from across the table next to a swooning Porsche. "About the time you made that disgustingly rude noise of yours. You never told me you had a girlfriend, who's the bird?"

Tweek bit his lip, at first expecting Porsche to make an appalled sound and slap Thomas at the casual insult, but then again she was a full-blooded American and wouldn't know anything remotely British except the accent she seemed to be salivating over.

"We're not a couple," the two nine-year-olds said in unison as they glared at the older boy for completely different reasons.

"Well my, when the lass denies it you must be horrible, Tweek!" Thomas laughed to himself as the blonde buried his face in his arms, embarrassed for no reason. "Well then, maybe I should give you lessons. Step one, talk with an accent."

"I don't want an accent," Tweek moaned. "It's bad enough Mom and Mole have one, I don't want one."

"Oh come now, Tweek, why not say 'Mum' like you did when you were a wee 'un?"

He ground his teeth as he sat up and shook his head rapidly. "No, no, no!"

Thomas smiled affectionately and reached across the table to tousle his hair. "That's alright then, I did come here for a reason anyway. Mum and Dad are taking me out on the town, want to come along?"

Flushing pink the first answer that fought to roll off his tongue was, "Hell yes!". However he bit his lip and looked down at his lap. "Well I, I'm waiting for Mole, we're gonna do stuff later."

"He cun come along, and so can your delightful little girlfriend," Thomas said glancing at Porsche, who was literally beginning to melt at the invitation before shaking her head.

"Nah, I'd love to but Daddy is taking my sister and me out later so I can't."

"And I promised Mole."

Thomas gave a nod, red curls bouncing as he stood up and stretched like a cat. "Alright then, we'll have to do it another time. It was a pleasure meeting you," he said to Porsche, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. "And I'll see you later, Tweek. Cheerio."

As his cousin began walking off, humming something under his breath, nimble fingers turning a straw between them, Tweek bit is lip hard. Christophe seemed a tad bit excited to do something, but Thomas seemed thrilled. Looking down at his watch he noted it was 11 36. Christophe wouldn't mind if he didn't show up, right? They did have a whole month together, and Thomas would only be around for three more days.

"Hey Thomas, I…I change my mind. I'll go," he said, standing and giving Porsche a smile. "Thanks for the ice cream, we should hang out later."

"Yeah, have fun you two."

Tweek nodded exuberantly, running to his cousin's side and grinned upward at that smiling face as pink-painted fingers laced into his unruly hair.

Yeah, Christophe wouldn't mind. Right.

---

On the docks, feet kicking over the water, Christophe sighed over the joyous screams of kids swimming and motorboat engines revving. He thought giving Tweek his watch would insure the boy's timely arrival. Then again, after he thought about it, Tweek probably had no idea how to read clocks, except that had to be false having known the time that morning. He shook his head as he tried to analyze other istuations in which would make Tweek almost thirty minutes late.

Maybe he understood "the docks" as another set and was waiting somewhere else. Maybe he freaked out going near the water without someone with him and just went to the cabin instead. Maybe he thought noon was a different time then 12 00. Maybe he was having a blast with someone else and forgot him.

He shook his head as the breeze ruffled his hair back from his face—that was preposterous, Tweek wouldn't ditch him. Unless he was still mad and was humouring him this morning; maybe Tweek wanted to shoot him and bury him out in the woods for the scavengers.

Maybe he should just go back and have a second lunch.

With a heaved breath Christophe got up, scuffing his boot toe on the planks of the dock and turned back toward the beach, stopping as he saw the pale-skinned black-haired annoying Porsche run over the sloped ground toward him, short skirt flying around her thighs, giving anyone behind her a nice panty shot.

"Hey Mole!" she shouted, like he was going to turn back to the water and jump to his death, rather than talk to her. Grinding his teeth he pulled out a cigarette from his back pocket and lit it, ready to blow a good amount of smoke in her face.

She stopped a few feet short of him and bent over, catching her breath, which didn't take too long, much to the French boy's disappointment. "Hey, waiting for someone?"

"Twitch," he said casually, heaving every bit of smoke into her flushed face as his lungs would allow. She coughed, waving her arms to clear the air and frowned in distaste.

"Not as nice as blondie boy, are you? Heh. Well, hate to tell you but the sweety-pie left with that really hot redhead about an hour ago, out on the town you know." Christophe narrowed his eyes as Porsche flipped her hair back from her face and started again. "So since those guys are gone, I wanted to know if you'd be willing to join me going out as well with Daddy and Sissy. You know, since you're the hottest guy left."

He gave her an absolutely disgusted look before shoving her off of the docks into the water, screaming. With a rough curse he stalked off, footsteps echoing harshly.

"I'm going to tell Daddy on you!" Porsche shrieked from the water, splashing about.

"Fuck you!"

Ignoring her threats he fell into an all-out run, blindly dashing toward the forest where he'd discovered a creek that had eroded into the limestone and soil, hollowing out a den too broad for any animals but too small for adults. It was his and Tweek's hang-out zone, as they called it upon the discovery, but he imagined that a waste now. He fell to his knees, panting, moist soil sinking under his weight as he punched the ground, mud spraying upward, splattering his face and screamed.

Tweek wasn't his friend, he understood that now. Tweek was dependant on people to kep him sane, dependant for attention and praise, not noticing where his true loyalties lay. No wonder Craig had given up so easily. Sniffing back a bout of curses Christophe glanced behind him and spit on the forest floor.

Fuck it.

---

As the sun set red over the mountains, the adults went into a frenzied panic over the missing child. How was it possible to lose a cocky little French boy? Of course he wasn't lost, he just wasn't willing to be found, much to Tweek's utter depression. He once more locked himself in his room, ignoring anyone except the voice in his head, knowing this was his fault.

Thomas knew it wasn't, it was really his fault. These were children he was playing his little game on, gullible children without a true understanding of common sense, still needing people to hold their hands crossing the street. There was no way they could even considering putting the pieces together of his trivial actions

The time he walked across the bank, stepping onto the cedar planks, the sun was long gone, cabin windows flaring alight, reflecting in the lake along with the stars and waxing moon, giving just enough light to see by. Each step he took his weight thumped along the dock, creaking the wood over the sounds of the waving water. He took up position with his hands in his pockets leaning against a support post, a yard away from the nine-year-old. He seemed peaceful enough, a foot swinging over the water, the other knee drawn to his chest, blue eyes flashing and dancing in water little light there was. But the way he strummed his short fingernails violently across the wood, playing a rapid version of Devil's Thrill really showed his mood.

"The adults are in a complete frenzy over your disappearance," Thomas said, breaking the silence as he stared down at Christophe. The French boy hardly skipped a beat in his strumming. "You should go back, y'know."

"Should, maybe so, but 'aving just Monsieur and Madame Tweak worry ez not enough to provoke me."

He raised a brow, knowing this boy would be harder to get through than he thought. "Tweek is mental that you're gone. Bloody Hell, he's refused to talk to anyone and nearly fell out of a window because he thinks this is all his blame."

"I saw, and et ez 'is fault."

Thomas sighed, sliding down into a sitting position, imitating Christophe's pose, except his left foot stretched out behind The Mole, laying limping against the hollow of his back, right knee bent to his chest. "I suppose you could argue he had the decision to say 'no' to me and stay behind, but factoring in the fact he looks up to me, it was my fault. Poor boy did decide not to come along, but I know how to work my words and attitude, I know how to ensnare, so he changed his mind. Look, I'm not trying to write off the blatant fact he pissed-off, I just don't want you to blame the lad."

He looked up, brows narrowing, giving Christophe a devilish look. "Why are you taking responsibility?"

"You already seem to loathe me as it is, when I go back to Wales, it really isn't going to bother me that a nine-year-old French boy stuck in the desolate waste of South Park hates me. If anything, me mates and I will get an utter kick out of it. But Tweek would be devastated to be hated, and honestly, it's my responsibility to be held accountable for anyway." He flashed a smile, main point across, now able to drive it home with humour. "And if I remember correctly, you said something about loving your best friend, so this—"

"We aren't best friends," he snapped, running hands through his messy hair. "Friends, maybe I'll give you zat, but we are not best friends, I was referring to a different matter." Christophe stood, stretching, cracking his knuckles as he leaned his weight on his left foot. "Maybe some of your gayness rubbed off on 'im, 'mm?"

Thomas laughed, sending visible shudders through the brunette as he got to his feet as well, that cat-like grin implanted on his face. "Ooooh, low shot to me, and you're implying your mate is a camp. He isn't, is he?"

Christophe cocked his head, looking up at Thomas dumbly, with a smoker's smile curling his lips back. He looked so devious like that, the perfect image of a French Cheshire cat. He folded his hand in front of him, enhancing the innocent, devil's look.

"What do you zink?"

---

Brought back safely, but muddier than before, the adults were absolutely happy. Tweek, having watched the two approach from the window, was the first to meet them, by throwing himself uncharacteristically onto Christophe before he could even get inside. After many'a sputtered curses and apologies, they were ushered to take two separate baths, and then sent off to bed, no questions asked.

The next two days were spent close together, goofing off all around the lake. Thomas held back, preferring the two friends in the company of each other than fighting for petty reasons. When he left Tweek was put downhearted for twenty minutes at most, before being smacked in the head with a shovel and provoked to chase his cheeky friend up the slopes.

It turned out, they found out the next day, Porsche did tell her father that Christophe shoved her into the lake, and was demanded an apology. He did so graciously in the presence of the adult, being commended by the Tweaks for his actions, until the point he raised both middle fingers, cocked his head, and said between a shit-eating grin, "Assieds-toi dessus et tourne." The confused, appalled, stunned look Porsche gave was enough to make it worthwhile, despite the chewing-out he was given.

For four days the Tweaks traversed up the slopes to one of Colorado's many glaciers for skiing lessons. Both of the boys were naturals, Tweek catching on a lot quicker than the sputtering brunette, who couldn't seem to ski without falling flat on his face into the snow. But that didn't stop him, instead, gave him more vigour to conquer the sport, and he did by taking up snow boarding and beating Tweek every time to the bottom of the bunny-hill.

Back at the lake, boating was taken up, after his parents had convinced Tweek that he wouldn't drown or explode into a burning ball of fire. However once he was assured instant doom didn't await, they all spent hours upon hours on the water, Richard fishing up a storm, Eavan reading and sunbathing, the boys playing around, diving from the bow into the summer water. Of course, one could imagine that Richard hardly caught a thing with the boys splashing around, playing Marines and swimming the depths of the crystal lake.

The later into June it got, the warmer the climate became, and the more the two children sat around by the lake's shore, watching the sunlight dance across the surface. One such day, a week before having to leave, Tweek sighed as he stretched on the hot dock, a hand reaching over the edge to grab for the water, back exposed to the warm, comforting sun.

"Mole?" he asked, turning to look at the brunette in question, sitting to his left, feet kicking over the edge of the dock. Between his lips a cigarette was poised, damp from where they'd just swam. His pale French skin was now a healthy golden shade from the sun, drops of water sliding across it, shimmering. Throughout the trip Christophe had come to relax around him more, so much so he kept his shovel, his safeguard and security blanket, back in the room nearly untouched.

"Hmm?"

"I've had fun this month…with you and everything. I mean, Jesus Christ, sure the first few days were stressful and everything and I almost died a couple of times, but it was fun. A lot fun."

Blue eyes flashed as they met his and Christophe flashed a rare, close-lipped smile. "Et was fun, yes, I'm vairy glad you invited me along, I know zis ez more entertaining zen what Muzza 'ad planned."

He hid his smile in his arm, returning to look at the dazzling water sloshing against the support beams. The water matched Christophe's eyes amazingly, calm, collected, adventure loving and fun. One look at the French boy, wind ruffling his hair, pleased smile, posture, and you could tell he had been relaxed over the course of the vacation.

"Why do you know me so well, when I hardly know anything about you?"

Christophe gave a sigh, white smoke flowing from his mouth in the process. "We are friends, as you say, and friends know each ozer, yes? And you are vairy transparent, Twitch, at least to me you are. As for knowing me, zat ez 'ow I like et."

"You confuse me," he said, sitting up and running a hand through his hair as he tugged on the wet blonde locks. "That one thing you said has had me spazzing out. I mean, I hate my ex-bestfriend, it's impossible to love him, and in general it is! I mean, Christ! I don't want cooties or any other weird STD, nor to I want to have babies! I don't want to be different from everyone else, and after what he did, it's fucking crazy."

Looking bemused Christophe took a drag from his cancer-stick and blew smoke in his face. As Tweek coughed, choking, he merely chuckled. "Like me doing zat, 'e can't save you from yourself, so 'e ran. 'e doesn't like not being able to protect you, and 'e can't from ze doctors and medication. So 'e gave up. Why not talk to 'im, hmm?"

Tweek gave him a stupid look and slapped his hands on the dock for emphasis. "Because I hate him!"

"Deh-neye-all," Christophe said with a quirky grin before shoving him roughly in the chest, off balancing the blonde, sending him flipping into the water yelling. He surfaced, spitting and squabbling, flailing, before glaring up between plastered bangs at the smirking mug of The Mole.

"How would you know?"

"Et'z easy to see zings in ozers zat you 'old yourself."

Shaking his head he reached up, grabbing Christophe's hand for assistance in climbing back on the dock. Maybe he was right, or maybe he was crazy.

---

The week passed quickly in bouts of heavy play and soft chatter at night as they fought off sleep, learning new, interesting facts about each other. Tweek told of his affection toward cats, and how he desperately wanted one, but knew that if he owned one he'd be a bad owner, though not on purpose. He went on to explain how he'd name it Caramel, his favourite flavour of coffee, and how it'd have a bright pink collar that glowed in the dark with a tinker-bell so he'd never lose it. Caramel would be his baby and bestfriend, would sleep next to him at night and not get huffy over his differences. Caramel wouldn't care if he was strange, liked coffee, had some complex about the government out to kill him, flipped out over innocent things, or wasn't accepted into society, Caramel would love him for who he was. Christophe found it bittersweet, that all Tweek wanted had to be portrayed as a kitten.

The one thing that shocked Tweek about Christophe was that he had a sister. She was in France, he explained, for a better education, living with Yvette's sister. Marielle hadn't wanted to move, and being old enough to make her own decisions, decided she wanted to stay. She was more like a mother to him than a sister, he said almost sadly, because she was so much older. They got along, though, despite the age gap, when they talked on the phone or the rare times they saw each other. When he took out a photo Tweek had to hide his grin so he didn't get smacked; they looked almost identical. A younger Christophe scowled back from the photo, wrapped up in a late teen-aged girl's arms, hair a shade or two lighter, long and pulled up into a messy ponytail. Her eyes were that bright blue colour, seeming to pop with the makeup, a bit squinted under the furrowed brows, making her smiling expression mocking. Her outfit was what Christophe would typically be found in, a black sweater and faded jeans, though she wore jewelry all up her ears and a simple necklace. When Tweek finally did comment on their likeness, he received a glare and fist to the shoulder.

The day they left they were awoken bright and early, things straightened around the cabin the night before, along with getting packed. They left at eight, to stop for breakfast and fell into a silent drive home. Full and content the boys drifted off to sleep on each other, sharing a blanket despite the warm temperatures outside. Tweek didn't dream, didn't even realize he was asleep until a grumbling French boy shoved him into the window roughly. Startled, he was up instantly, only to be subjugated to The Mole's grinning face. The first thing he noticed was Christophe's lack of a seat belt, and then that the car wasn't in movement.

"Where are we?" he asked, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Looking out the window all he could see was blue sky dotted with wispy clouds.

"'ome, or at least mine," he replied, clicking the button on Tweek's seatbelt. "Your parents are talking to my muzza."

As Christophe slid out of the seat to the driveway, Tweek followed suit, slamming the car door behind him. At the noise the three adults turned, and Yvette smiled warmly, kneeling and extended her arms out to her son, looking tired. She was a good mother, in her own way, even if it took a month of him being absent for her to realize as much.

Awkwardly The Mole stepped into his mother's embrace, like he wasn't used to it, or perhaps embarrassed when other people were around. She ruffled his messy brown hair and kissed his cheeks, pushing him a step back with hands on his shoulders. "Did you 'ave fun, Christophe?"

"Yes Maman, I loved et."

"I 'ave missed you so, mon fil," Yvette said sweetly, kissing his forehead wetly, pulling him to her shoulder. She looked around him at Tweek and smiled, extending a manicured hand. "Come 'ere, Tweek, I 'ave not seen you in such a long time! Did you 'ave fun as well?"

He gave a brief nod, hands over his mouth as she hugged him, body trembling in time to his heart. "It was lots of fun, Madame DeLorne."

Smiling she stood, a hand entwined in her son's hair, ignoring Tweek as he backed up a step into his mother's legs. "I cannot zank you two enough for giving my son zis experience, Richard, Eavan. 'ow can I zank you?"

"You don't have to, we're just sorry you couldn't have joined us," Eavan said, squeezing Tweek's hand as it found hers. "We hope you did everything you needed to during the month."

"Oh yes, I did, zanks," Yvette said with a nod, looking down at Tweek lovingly as he stifled a yawn, vision blurring. "Well I don't want to keep you from ze comfort of your 'ome, et 'as been so long. Keep in touch.'

"We will," Eavan replied, kissing her cheeks and pulled Tweek toward the car. Buckled in and driving out, he cocked his head and yawned.

"Why did she sound so final?"

"What do you mean, tiger?" his dad asked, looking back at him through the rearview mirror.

"Her goodbye."

His parents exchanged glances, but didn't say a word.

---

A week and a half went by without word from Christophe, but Tweek didn't worry, Curson wouldn't allow it. Nor could he understand the Bat-King's "awakening", after having been quiet and nearly nonexistent during the vacation. But as soon as he got home and slept, he was dragged into his subconscious to the coy, grinning face of Curson, instigating, joking, accusing. To say the least he pulled a mental bow and shot the smirking demon in the eye, and was returned in kind with a claw in the arm. When he woke up, the skin was split and bleeding.

The Wednesday of that week, he went to see Dr. Rizzo with his mother. The appointment was the usual, questions about his vacation, friends, family, how he was feeling, his hallucinations, paranoia, anything that seemed to fit. He explained in detail about his suspicions of the growing bat population, and dying small rodents found around town. He then asked tentatively why the medicine worked at Lake Jefferson but not in town, to which Ethan explained it was all a location issue. At the lake he'd been relaxed, happy, enjoying himself without much worry so there was no need for the complex to really kick in. In South Park was the cause of stress, why he failed to get better, so the medicine actually had to struggle to work, especially after so long of being "off duty". Tweek didn't argue, it did make sense if you didn't factor in the Bat thingit living in his mind.

During the last ten minutes of the session, Dr. Rizzo analyzed Tweek's newest drawing, a picture of himself and Christophe holding hands with Thomas, out by the docks of Lake Jefferson, Craig, Token, and Clyde in the background playing around. He'd looked it over, placed his hands on the desk in a non-threatening manner, and said simply, "This s what you wanted it to be like." And he was right, Tweek really did want Christophe to get along with Thomas, he wanted his ex-friends there, he just wanted everyone to be happy together, without unresolved grudges and yelling matches. But he also knew that was never going to happen, which explained the background being night, the sky dark and untouched by stars or a moon. The two things Ethan didn't explain were the poppies growing out toward the scribbled forest, or the faint reflection of Curson in the lake's waters.

Now it was a Saturday, and Tweek was walking to Christophe's, enjoying the warm sun and the ability to wear shorts without the threat of frostbite. His parents were at the shoppe working, and had told him he could leave the house if he locked up and stayed out of the road, which was no problem for the paranoid blonde. At first he just planned to stay home and watch TV, until the air conditioner kicked on, the loud whir much like a lowkey growl of some demonic creature there to rip out his intestines.

He sighed, watching the clouds drift across the sky, wispy and watercolour looking. It was a beautiful day, a beach day, if there had been a coast anywhere around. Skipping passed the neighborhood sign, Tweek executed a little spin, just out of high spirits.

"Better battles played, wrought with a weasel," Curson whispered in his mind, seeming agitated at his intentions, and Tweek knew if he dived to the level the Bat-King occupied of his subconscious, he'd be sitting there, arms crossed, pouting slightly and looking as dissatisfied as ever.

"Hush," Tweek said, heaving a heavy breath and turned left onto Christophe's street. "Be nice."

"Thirty-one days, silent, control not what owns you."

Tweek rolled his eyes and yanked at his hair, as if that could somehow torment Curson, although it only caused his scalp to ache. Sticking his tongue out at nothing in particular he walked up the drive, knocking on the hard wood, rocking on his heels as he did. It only took a few moments for the door to slid open, a rush of cool air spilling over him as it did.

"Hey! Wait…you're not Mole."

Hazel eyes looked him over under blonde curls, returning to his face. Hands on his hips Gregory sighed. "Aren't you brilliant?"

Tweek looked passed him into the house, the pink walls and angel statues assuring him he was at the right house. Fluffing his hair in confusing he tilted his head to the side, biting his lip. "Where is he?"

The English boy leaned his hip against the doorframe, crossing his ankles as he did and gave a frustrated sigh as if not too pleased about talking to him. "Visiting family friends somewhere or another, but what concern does that have for you? Personally, I thought you were dead."

Tweek frowned at the harsh tone and rubbed his forearm, licking the sore spot he'd bit on his lip. Of course he'd been gone from school since he was home schooled, but he assumed Mr. Garrison told the class, or at least Butters. Or perhaps Gregory was humouring him.

"We're friends."

"Quite aware, you were the one that stole him away for a month after all," Gregory said nonchalantly, pursing his lips. "I'm sure you have some sort of ruffian thing to be accomplishing, why don't you run along now?"

"Gregory darling, close the door! Don't waste the DeLorne's air conditioning unless you want to pay their bills," Ms. Freemont yelled from inside somewhere, sounding exasperated by her son.

"Of course, Mother," he shouted back, giving Tweek one last look before closing the door in his face. Tweek grit his teeth, ignoring the threats Curson whispered to him, telling him a million ways to make a boy disappear.

With no other reason to be there, Tweek stomped off, curling and unfurling his fist, put-off by how easily Gregory grated his nerves, knowing it wasn't really Curson, having not wanting to be there anyway. He sighed, fluffing his hair in thought. Perhaps he was so used to the Bat thingit he was taking on parts of his personality, slowly altering into what he hated. But that couldn't possibly be true, since Curson wasn't a being, just a figment of his imagination…right?

"Figmentation made flesh; to hope flusters denial."

Tweek let out a sigh, centred himself, and took the descent down into his mind where consciousness met subconscious. He stood on a chasm, the acute feeling of falling by either stepping forward or back making him still, waiting as the coloured ribbons of substantial thought wrapped around the inky darkness, alerting him to Curson's own descent. It was hardly a moment before he stood at his side, arms crossed, giving him a sideways look as if he didn't anticipate the meeting. Tweek glanced to him, about to comment and balked, raising brows at the membranous wings folded neatly behind his shoulders.

"You don't have wings."

Curson gave him an amused look, solid crimson eyes squinting slightly under the accusation. "So seems imagination takes flight."

Tweek crossed his own arms, turning to face the Bat-King and looked upward, craning his neck to hold eye contact, and had to curse the height difference of a full grown adult to a child. "You said you weren't a demon so you can't have wings like that. Unless you were lying."

"Testimony, not mine doing. Common belief may hold, but still the winds shall ride," he replied, the hard-edged purr of his voiced dimmed by amusement, silky-coated and velvet. Tweek rolled his eyes, feeling like he was arguing with another kid, though in reality he turned onto the main road of his neighborhood, wandering back to his own house.

"So for some reason my mind gave you those wings, but you've got others? What are you, like a bird? Flamingo?"

Curson stepped back, fluttering the membranous wings, ribbons of thought flowing around his body, the neon colour ebbing with a radiant light. The blonde took a step back, a foot slipping on the cliff's edge, pitching his balance off as he stumbled back, arms cartwheeling for support. A clawed hand grabbed the front of his shirt, holding him upright but still teetering on the edge, the pointed smirk making him still.

"Insulting, flamingo! Soon shall you be witness, and flamingo will hardly be your worry. Down is but a violent toss, consciousness waits for confrontation."

"Tweek?"

At the question he was thrown out of the descent, back so he ruled his body and not his mind. He blinked a bit at the dizzying sickness he felt at such a torrent, moaning a curse under his breath, a fist pushed into his stomach as if it'd fix the ache. That was perhaps one of the worst parts of having control over the Self and subconscious, having another with the same amount of ground, if not more, that could chose where you're Awareness was at any given time. And of course, being snapped out of the mind like that by something on the physical plain wasn't any better.

He rubbed his eyes, letting them focus and stopped dead. In front of him a yard or two away with wide eyes were Token, Clyde, and Craig on their bikes, dressed for the warm weather, though Craig still had his hair crammed under his winter hat. They stared in shock at each other before Clyde threw his bike down onto the grass of someone's yard and crossed the distance, throwing his arms around Tweek like they hadn't seen each other in years.

"Tweeky! Dude, where have you been? I mean we were told some things but—"

"Shut up, Clyde, let him breath!" Token interrupted, though his words did no good as he threw himself at Tweek as well, the three tumbling to the concrete in a heap. He sat up, rubbing his head with a moan, Clyde in his lap, laughing hysterically, Token laying out on the sidewalk grinning. He looked up at the unmoving Craig, his arms crossed, looking impassive and cold, expecting him to be pissed they were talking to him, rolling all over him. But he said nothing, did nothing, and Tweek knew that Craig hadn't told them.

Clyde smiled crookedly up at him from his lap, not bothering to move his hand from his crotch, where it'd fallen when they landed. "So dude, what happened? How have you been?"

He didn't answer, instead Tweek just continued to look up at Craig, shaking now. It'd been months since they'd seen or talked to each other, and this sudden appearance wasn't something he wanted. He still wasn't over what Craig had done, still wanted to just smash his fist into his friend's pretty little face and run screaming.

Token seemed to sense the tension as he looked between the two, brows furrowing. "Craig, aren't you going to say 'hi'? You haven't seen Tweek in forever, and he's your best friend."

Craig's hard look shifted to Token. "No, I don't talk to fucking lunatics," he said simply, voice as sweet and deadly as poisoned candies.

"I'm not crazy," Tweek said softly, tearing his gaze from Craig and looked at the ground, biting his lip. He wasn't ready for his, he never would be. He still wanted to strangle Craig, beg, plead forgiveness while slashing his throat a million times over. He still didn't understand why the Nommel boy made him this weak, made him want to bow his head and cry.

"That's why you're on the pills, that's why you're homeschooled, that's why you hang out with that crazy fucking French kid, right? Stop lying to yourself, you're as crazy as Charles Manson."

Tweek chewed on his lip, tasting the sweet copper of blood. "Why do you do this?" he asked weakly, looking up at Craig, vision blurring with tears, either from absolute rage or being miserable, he couldn't distinguish. "Why do you hate me?"

"Because you aren't Tweek."

Token stood up, shielding his view of Tweek with his small, lithe body. He eyes narrowed, hands on his hips as he stared down Craig. "What the Hell are you talking about, Craig? Do you not know your own best friend?"

The raven-haired boy flashed a glare at Token, still unmoving. "Don't be condescending."

"Don't be such a dickwad! What did you do?"

By then, Clyde was now standing alongside Token, looking confused and angry. They both knew they were missing something of the situation, they just couldn't figure out what went so deep with the two friends. "You were the last one to talk to Tweek before he left that day, what did you say?" Clyde asked harshly.

"Nothing."

Token's fist curled at his side, straining to be embedded in Craig's face. "Like Hell! You did something, you knew about it, you pushed Tweek away when you knew he needed us the most. What'd it feel like, Craig, losing your best friend? What did you say that would create such tension?"

Craig grit his teeth at the accusations, hard stare never leaving Token. "I said nothing, I did nothing, nothing more than I had to."

"You ran," Clyde said before the Williams' boy could go off. "You ran because of what Cartman did, because you guys accidentally kissed. You couldn't handle it so you flipped out, I know you did. I saw the way you kept darting glances at Tweek that day like you couldn't understand the raging feelings toward it. You're low."

"Why are you questioning me? Why, how can you let him stay at your back like that? He's fucking crazy and will kill you both," Craig said evenly, narrowing his eyes further, the green blazing in hate. "I didn't do anything."

Token snapped at that. He grabbed Craig's collar, pulling him close to his face, startling both Tweek and Clyde at the outburst. Usually Token was the calm one of them, but this went against his usual behaviour, and it was frightening to see his knuckles go white with the strain of keeping Craig an inch off the ground. "Don't fuck with me, Craig. You've contradicted yourself more times than the President, and you've been deliberately lying to us since November about Tweek. You're the pussy that called it off, not him, yet you've been accusing him of abandoning us! You're the lowliest kind of person out there and deserve to fucking die alone and miserable with no one loving you or being your friend."

"Don't say that," Tweek said delicately, voice cracking as he got to his feet, studying the ground, though he knew all three of their shocked gazes were on him. "You're no better than him if you say that and mean it. Let him go, Toke, it's not worth it."

A disgruntled, huffing Token dropped Craig roughly, shoving him back a step and grabbed Tweek's wrist. He pursed his lips, not liking the fact he couldn't do more. Clyde let out a heaved breath, throwing an arm across Tweek's shoulders, the two sandwiching him as they glared coolly at Craig. The Nommel boy had the grace to shrug as he swung his bike around, peddling off in the opposite direction, muttering a string of profanities. Tweek watched, biting his lip hard enough to bleed, wishing that his friend had said something directly to him instead of skirting around the issue.

"Hey Tweek, I think we need to talk. Come to Clyde's with us?"

The blonde just nodded, letting Token escort him to his bike and got on the pegs, having a moment to doubt and think that's not Craig before the world spun with movement and he was dragged rather unceremoniously back into his subconscious.

---

Stupid piece of shit, dirty rotten harlot. Who did Token think he was, getting into his business? And to threaten him! The buttpipe didn't know a damn thing, sure he might have spun a few fables, but it was for their own good! Where was the appreciation?

And Tweek, he knew that even after all of those months, he still remembered those simple but harsh words, I'm sorry, really, but fuck you, Tweek. They still cut him deep, infuriated him, and Craig knew it. The fact of conversation, directness, how he stared at the ground, not willing to accept. He knew that Tweek didn't forgive…or forget, the broken look he'd had when those words had been uttered was just a dim replica of what he showed today. And that ensnarled Craig, made him angry, that what he said would do such things to his friend.

He hated himself for it, wanted to apologize, plead himself forgave, which grated on his temper even more. He didn't want to talk to a Tweek that couldn't distinguish reality from fantasy, didn't want a friend that was so far in himself he couldn't get out. And yet the blonde he still considered a friend that could get better and be cured, because he needed it to happen.

Snarling Craig slammed the front door open to his house, just glad his Dad was at work and his Mom in the back yard tending to her garden. He kicked it closed, cringing at the scuff mark on the new paint but didn't really stop to think about it was he made his way to the stairs. The tittering giggles of his sister and her playmates stopped as soon as he entered, and now Tracie poked her head around the wall to the living room, grimacing at his coiled look.

"What the Hell is your problem?" she asked, flicking her orange hair out of her face, a hand on her hip. Kizzee appeared at her right, green eyes narrowed under her frizzy hair, giving him a look that only said he was going to be castrated if he didn't choose his words wisely. Judith slid into view, head cocked, eyes widening as she saw him.

"Go back and play, Tracie, it doesn't concern you," he hissed, taking a step slowly, not taking his eyes off the three girls.

"When you fucking try to break the front door in, it does concern me," she spat, clearing that wall and walked over to the stairs carefully, unnerved as his eyes followed her every movement. "Now what's your deal?"

"Leave. Me. Alone."

"Don't be such a bag of douche!"

It was done before he realized he'd moved, only until he stared at his sisters wide eyes filling with hate and brimming with tears, did the fact that she was sprawled on the floor, wrist at an awkward angle from landing tell him he'd pushed her, and some how lead to the unmoving hand. At that point breathing ceased and Judith had disappeared to find his mother, while Kizzee remained a boiling, cold rage.

"I fucking hate you," Tracie said between sobs, cradling her broken wrist. "You should die and go to Hell. How could you?"

"Bite me," he said between grit teeth, turning and running up the stairs before anyone could argue, or before he could hurt anyone more. He turned hard and kicked open his door, taking a choking breath as soon as one foot crossed the doorway, and fell face first, unconscious onto the carpet.

---

The three watched Terrence and Phillip reruns, eating snacks and laughing, making jokes to relieve the tension, though it remained hanging in the air every time Ms. Donovan walked in, asking if they needed any more refreshments. Into the second hour of staring unmercifully at the television, Clyde's mother chirped she was going to the story to pick up dinner and would be back in about half an hour. As soon as they heard the car pull out, the brunette licked his cheesy fingers and eyed Tweek, getting to the point immediately.

"The last day you were in school, what happened?"

Tweek shifted positions, drawing his knees to his chest, leaning his chin there. So Craig really hadn't told them. "Well you know about the…thing…that happened in class, and how we didn't talk to each other for the rest of the day. So I found a note in my locker, it was one of those postit notes, bright green and it told me to meet me at Stark's Pond. I didn't think it was like, a rapist and stalker or anything because of the blocky Craig-like handwriting so I just went and waited. Then he showed up, and told me to tell him what I wanted to say early that morning, but I told him to go first so—"

"Wait, wait, wait," Token breathed, hands up for emphasis. "What did you want to tell him?"

"I don't remember," Tweek lied, glancing to the floor before looking back to his friends, flinching.

"Go on."

"So he started saying how he was my friend and I was a cool person and everything and then he just said 'I can't be your friend anymore' and persisted I was on too many drugs and it was effecting him too and—arg!" He shook his head, burying his face into his legs. "So I left, and he left, and Mom put me in homeschool and that's what I've been doing."

"Why did your Mom put you in homeschool?"

"It wasn't really her decision, I mean it was, but the doctor supported it, didn't want any of the kids making fun of me or anything."

He heard Clyde sigh and lifted his head to look at the brunette, sitting in thought as he let that settle in his mind. "You know we tried to visit you, a ton of times, after Mr. Garrison told us you were being homeschooled. Every day before going to the bus stop for a week I went over, but no one was home, so I gave up. I didn't want to give up, but I just couldn't get through."

The blonde nodded slowly, clasping his hands around his knees. "Mom goes with Dad to the coffee shop to open and set up and is there for a half an hour or so before coming home. Usually I'd be at the bus stop so I wouldn't be alone, but I wasn't in school any more."

Token put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, giving him an encouraging look. "We went after school too a couple times, but no one was ever there."

"Dad was probably at the shoppe and me and Mum were at," he hesitated a second, cringing, knowing what their responses would be. "The Mole's."

Clyde raised a brow and shook his head with a silly grin as if saying 'only you would do that'. "Craig bitched for a while about being threatened by The Mole back during the war, it was actually pretty funny how flustered he seemed by it. So I guess the French guy isn't too bad if you're still in one piece, eh?"

Tweek smiled with a little laugh, mentally thanking Clyde for knowing how to cheer him up. "No, he's bad, he's really scary and punched me in the face a couple of times, but we get along well."

"You're really something Tweek," Token said, shaking his head in disbelief as well. "Especially to be sitting here with us after all these months, letting us explain ourselves. Christmas, we both went out of town like usual and told Craig to give you your gifts, but we assume he never did."

"And after the war we went to check up on you but we were told you were in the hospital. So we went when guest were allowed but you relapsed," Clyde said, exasperated as he ticked off the times they'd tried to get in touch on his fingers.

"Spring break came, we thought we'd talk to you then but you were out of town this time. So we decided summer would be perfect, even home schooled you had to have a summer break, but you were at Lake Jefferson," Token picked up with a little growl.

"We knew how much you hated phones so we didn't try to call you, and you were never online. So we gave up, knowing we'd eventually see you one way or another."

"It's okay," Tweek replied, choking on his breath. So they really did care, they really did try to talk to him, just at inconvenient times. "I understand, but…what did Craig tell you?"

Token's look darkened as he crossed his arms, brooding at the mention of his name. "He said you didn't want to be our friends anymore and deliberately kept yourself busy so we couldn't get in touch. He said you were different and just snapped on us, but he was lying the entire time."

Tweek bit his lip, tucking his feet under his butt, hands to his mouth as if that could save him from what he knew he had to get out there. "He didn't tell you that…that I'm crazy? That I was diagnosed with Schizophrenia and a bunch of other mental illnesses? He didn't tell you about the drugs?"

Clyde shook his head, amber eyes dancing with understanding. "No, but we thought maybe as much, that the 'doctor' you went to on Wednesday's was something special."

"But it didn't matter to us," Token assured, lifting his chin with a hand so they held eye contact. "We had a feeling Craig wasn't telling us something, but we didn't know so we didn't push. But it wouldn't have mattered, you're still are friend, no matter if you go to therapist or not. Because you're still our spazzing, crazy haired paranoid buddy, Tweek."

Tweek grinned as he looked between them, the friends that didn't give up even after so much time had passed, that were willing to accept him no matter what. This was what he had been wanting, wishing he could have, and it was ironic he found it in the people he thought absolutely despised him.

"You guys are like, the best, but…you won't ditch Craig, will you?"

Token made a face as he asked, while Clyde frowned slightly. "Why are you so forgiving, Tweekers? After all he's done to you, to us, why should we be nice to him?"

Shaking his head Tweek just smiled, though it wasn't happy. He wasn't particularly in the mood to forgive after what he'd heard, but that was just who he was. "Don't be stupid, you two, you guys were going to hang out with him before you saw me. Don't let the fact that he's an incompetent buttpipe with issues ruin that."

"You're fucking amazing, Tweek."

"We read we ought to forgive our enemies, but we ignore we should forgive our friends," he said with a little nod, pressing the point. The two sighed in unison before grinning devilishly at each other and yelled:

"DOGPILE!"

---

When Craig came to, he ground his teeth, stifling a moan of pain as a dull throbbing pulsed in the back of his head. Was he knocked out? That wouldn't have surprised him, Kizzee could be the Devil when her friends were in trouble and needed help. But that couldn't possibly be the case as he opened his eyes and found himself surrounded in inky blackness. Was he in a closet, grave? Suddenly filled with panic he waved his arms around, finding nothing in his reach. Licking his lips he felt downward, to figure out what he was sitting on, to find that his hand kept going.

He bit back a scream. What the Hell was going on?

Or was this Hell? Judith may have been Priest Maxi's daughter, but she was still extremely skills in occult magick for her age, and could do things that even adult wit'ches couldn't hope to accomplish. If that was the case, he'd have to wring her pretty little neck if he ever found his way out.

Soft footsteps, the gentle caress of moving wind on his face, blowing strands of black hair across his forehead set his senses blazing, alertness in tiptop shape. He strained to see anything through the incredible darkness but failed, only making his headache worse.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Perh-erah-uhps," a whispered purr answered, the dialect strange, echoing like a choir. It wasn't an accent, that much Craig could distinguish, it sounded more like a hundred people had split up a single word into something syllabus, with more breaks then the word should've had, yet it flowed incredibly well, causing him to shiver. "Forsitan."

Craig scooted forward a little on his butt, wondering exactly how he did considering the fact there was nothing solid under him. "I don't understand Greek."

"Pro eu tu es plumbeus," the voice whispered, mocking, twirling around him from all directions. "I must apologize for you ignorance, but that was Latin, not Greek."

Craig glanced around, trying to find the body that belonged to the voice. "Where am I?" he asked, ignoring his incapability of languages.

"You must not listen to yourself very much if you cannot recognize your own mind."

The voice still swirled, tickled, teased around him, spiraling to confuse his senses. This was his mind? So why was it so black, and void?

"Those that do not dive into themselves, embrace the subconscious plane, never get the chance to customize and fiddle around with looks. Most that do embrace it aren't willing to change such an intimate part of themselves, and usually thick, breath taking darkness is included. For you, you were stripped form reality and drug in, but having not known what was happening you fell too far."

The Nommel boy licked his lips, not liking the edge that voice had. "What does that mean, I fell too far?"

The voice cooed, "Usually the subconscious and conscious meet at a chasm, and if you fall into that chasm that is unconsciousness, or 'falling from Awareness', you are rightfully fucked. The subconscious is comprised of different levels of that Awareness, the middle-most titled rightly as the Breakdown. The further you fall into your Self, the less likely it is that you'll find your way back, especially if you find yourself descending passed the Breakdown line. But there is a stopping point eventually."

"What is that?" Craig asked, closing his eyes and letting his head fall onto his knees. It didn't make any sense to him, it was just about as clear as the Latin the voice had been speaking earlier.

"The absolute core, your true Self. Going below the Breakdown point usually assures your madness from the start, but if you end up hurtling through the substance that is your Self, there is no coming back."

"Where am I?" he asked shakily, afraid to know the answer.

A silky coated laugh filled the air, wrapping around Craig's shivering body, but it wasn't very comforting. "As previously mentioned, you fought and struggled the calm descent and broke free. It was quite unpleasant having to dive after you, I might mention, but we stopped a level below the Breakdown. Find up and you may notice that."

Craig immediately craned his neck upward, seeing about twenty feet up a ring of vibrant light ebbing, but it did nothing to penetrate the darkness. "Why don't we go up?"

"Oh, I've tried, but you refuse me," the voice said harshly, the velvet he'd felt around his body becoming pinpricks. "So I'll watch as you piece the puzzle and get out yourself."

"But I don't know how!"

"Then accept that I'm here to help for my own reasoning and let me in, trust me."

Craig bit his lip, looking around. He could, and he felt like the mysterious voice could only tell the truth, or he could try to get out on his own. It was simple. "But I don't even know what you look like."

A sigh trickling across his skin. "I've told you the greatest secrets a mind could hold, and yet you cannot figure out how to give substance to something. Pick a form, you ignorant dolt."

Even though he knew he probably shouldn't spite the thing that was willing to help, he stuck his tongue out and flashed his middle finger at the darkness. Silky laughter to his left and he turned, his mouth gaping open, eyes widening to impossible lengths. Standing as calmly as anything he'd seen was a six-foot something, he couldn't distinguish what, only that it wasn't human. Its face resembled a bat, with a longer, lion-like snout, high sunken check bones, yellowed pointed teeth protruding from its lips, while long bat ears swiveled on its head. The thick neck connected to broad shoulders that could have belonged to a human, the upper body very much the same as a human male, just coated in slick fur and a somehow different at the rib cage and hips. The thighs were shorter, bulkier, and below the knees the strong legs turned into massive clawed feet. Resting on its thighs were four fingered hands, claws replacing the first jointed knuckle, the thumb at the base of the wrist instead of being opposable. Such placement and pose brought the eyes away from the membranous wings folded neatly behind it, or the thin tail snapping at the air, but instead to the well endowed set of genitalia between its legs.

Craig snapped his eyes away, meeting the impassive hollow crimson stare, balking at the pupiless eyes. "What…what are you?"

The thing looked down at itself, lips drawing back from ravenous looking teeth in a grimace. "Could not have chosen a more attractive form, hm? No matter, this shall do quite fine." The eyes settled back on him, stare intense. "You have recreated me at one of my worst, the original form of one King of Hell."

"Who..?"

Tittering laughter, much different then the silky smooth purr that had swirled around him before. "I have many names, I am the Bat-King, the Twentieth Lord of Hell, one of the most trusted, and perhaps most dangerous, Aristocrats in all of the realm. I am several other things, unbelievable by this form. Importantly, however, I am hailed as Curson."

He shivered at the name, wrapping arms around his body in an attempt to keep that chilling cold from seeping any further into his core. It was a known fact in South Park Hell and Heaven did exist, they'd seen the sovereigns several times, but weren't exactly familiar with the realms. Only Kenny actually knew what they looked like, but he didn't get a look into the government system holding the two realms in place.

"What do you want from me?" Craig finally asked, getting up, though nearly pitched forward at the unfamiliar sensation of standing on nothing.

"It was your sibling that suggest you go to Hell, however that cannot possibly be accomplished so instead I found it fitting to bring a piece of Hell to you."

Craig looked at Curson, shivering now. "So it was Tracie's fault."

"No, it was not. This is purely my doing. You should be happy to have her for a sister, she didn't tell on you, and she won't. Her excuse was, and I quote, 'I just slipped on the first stair, Mom, it's not a big deal.' So you're quite free of punishment, if I do say so myself, from your parents at least."

The boy stilled at the crooned threat and took a step backwards, but that just triggered Curson. He slapped Craig, digging claws into the flesh, only satisfied when the grating of claws on bone could be heard. The boy fell hard with a silent scream, hands going up to touch the wounds but yanked away realizing it was indeed true. The Bat-King smirked at the tattered skin, torn muscle, broken blood vessels and flecked bone. But what caught his attention most was Craig's left eye, the socket empty and severed, the actual orb laying across his ripped cheek, fluids thicker then blood seeping from it.

"Don't fuck with my boy," he hissed pleasantly, ignoring the screams and pleads of agony as he took a step forward and leaned over the curled body of Craig, kicking him in the hollow of the back with claws added to the force, so he arched his body, knees away from his face now. With a foot running red he rolled the boy's body over, stepping gingerly on his groin so he couldn't recoil and kneeled down, running his claws featherlight under his chin. "I might be interested in you, but it doesn't mean I won't break your very existence and shatter your mind. There are plenty of ways to get rid of a person without pulling a weapon."

"Pl—ple—please do—don't. I—I…please."

He smiled cruelly, letting his claws run delicately down Craig's bare chest to the sternum and slid his index-claw over to the right, passing across the indentation between the bottom-most rib and second. "Don't what? If you remember what I said, I won't have to eliminate you. You will remember, won't you?"

Craig nodded, snot running from his nose down his face. Curson's smile widened, seeming like the face of the Devil as he leaned over the boy mumbling, "Mm, good," against his lips as he kissed him and dug his claw through that soft spot of the ribs. He drew the claw under the rib and yanked his hand upward, the bone snapping with a sickening crack. He stood up, frowning slightly at Craig's unresponsive body. Hell, he'd gone too far.

With a heaved sigh he grabbed the boy's body around the waist and flung them upwards toward true Awareness.

---

A week passed, and Tweek happily hung out with his two friends, much to Eavan's delight. He'd first thought it'd be awkward as they filled each other in on their lives with humourous stories, but they never lost a beat. They did everything they did before being split up by schooling decisions, laughing at the same inside jokes, poking fun at the same people. He learned that Wendy had had a fling with Gregory before getting back together with Stan, Cartman gained roughly around seventeen pounds, Damien blew up a first grader and then several police cars when he'd been arrested, and a few more amusing bits of gossip.

During that week, no one heard from Craig. Tracie had called Clyde to let him know she had a broken wrist and Craig was refusing to come out of his room, but they didn't personally talk to him. It made Tweek wonder, especially considering the almost gleeful sensation that ranup his spine when he thought about it that could only be produced by Curson.

Now it was Sunday, and he had no plans with his friends, deciding a day off would be good for himself. He hummed happily as he bounded down the stairs, seeing more like his old self from back in November. His mother appeared around the corner, startling him.

"Oh my God, Mom, Jesus Christ, you're gonna give me a heart attack!"

She wagged a finger at him with a faint smile, showing that she had the cordless phone in her other hand. "Honey, you've got a call, and I really think you should take it."

He tilted his head as he jumped the last few stairs, hands nervously wringing each other. Who would call him that would make his mother look so distraught. He reached for the receiver and held it to his ear, watching his mother. "Hello?" No sound, no reply, it seemed that the other end was dead. Until a choked hiccup rang across the receiver, surprising him enough that he almost dropped the pone. But it wasn't the sudden noise that made him widen his eyes in worry, concern, and shock, it was the voice it belonged to.

"Twitch…I'm moving."

---

The airport in Denver was loud, boisterous, packed with people, but despite the body heat and warmth radiating down from the summer sun, it didn't eliminate the chilling cold that took wrap of Tweek, knotting his stomach. He stood by his parents in the waiting terminal, staring at his friend's feet, who was clasping his own mother's hand. This was the weakest he'd ever seen Christophe, hollow and lost looking, like he was a puppy that couldn't find his way home. It was a pretty correct analogy, considering.

Christophe was moving, it was as simple as that. Back to France, to live somewhere safer, where wars wouldn't start in their backyard. He was going to be with his aunt, his sister and her fiancé, his mother, he was going to be among his family where he deserved.

But Tweek hated it. When he got the call he'd forced his mother to take him over, and they stayed together for three full days. They talked, joked around, got into petty little fights and made up by punching each other in the arm as hard as they could, but they never mentioned the prospect of Christophe having to leave. Not until the day that they got into the car and drove to the airport, silent, distancing each other as far apart as the seat belts would allow, and emotionally. Even now they stood, not looking at each other.

"I'm..gonna miss you," Tweek finally choked, feeling like his throat had been squeezed shut by a phantom hand. "I'm really gonna miss you."

"Twitch," Christophe said, sighing as he drew his eyes from the ground. They weren't as dazzling, daring as they usually were, they didn't told that fighters look, instead the blue, the violet, seemed to dull to a grey. "I shall miss you as well."

"All of your smartass remarks and weirdly intelligent sayings, I'm really gonna—"

"Miss et, I know," Christophe finished for him with a faint smile. "And you're idiotic spazzing, ramblings about government conspiracies, I shall—"

"Miss it," Tweek said with a nod, smiling. They shared a look of complete understanding before Tweek threw himself at the French boy, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug. "God, Mole, why do you have to go?"

"I just do."

"I don't want you to," he protested, looking upward with brimming eyes. Christophe flashed a rare close-lipped smile that said everything and nothing as he ruffling his hair.

"I know you don't, I don't want to go myself, but I 'ave to. Zere are many zings in life we don't want to do, but must."

"I know."

With a nod Christophe kissed each of his cheeks and placed is hands on his shoulders. "Good zen, you shall send me letters and one day I shall return to sweep you off your feet, yes?"

Tweek bit his lip as The Mole wiped his eyes gingerly with his thumbs. "Okay." At the assurance Christophe took a step back, looking up at Yvette expectedly, stilling as a harsh voice rang out over the people.

"Don't you dare get on that plane without explaining yourself, Christophe! Did you really think you could leave the country without me knowing?"

Gregory ran up beside Tweek, brows furrowed, eyes looking haunted and positively enraged. He curled his fist as if expecting a fight as Christophe turned toward him with a sidelong look.

"'ow…'ow did you know?"

"Why wouldn't I? Why wouldn't you tell me?"

The brunette looked at the floor, averting his gaze as long as possible as he bit his already chapped lips. "What do you expect me to say, Gregory?"

"Maybe why you didn't tell me?" the British voice said, strained like he was using all of his control not to go all out on Christophe. Looking to Gregory Tweek found that was all wrong; his voice wasn't choked from restraint, but rather from tears.

"Zis ez why," The Mole said finally, looking up with a hard, broken gaze. "Because I knew you would be so condescending. You would not just except zat I was leaving, you would make et bigger, and you would make et 'urt so vairy much."

"If you had just had the decency to tell me, I wouldn't be upset."

By then the adults had stopped chattering among themselves and were watching, Eavan's hand entwined in her son's hair. Yvette clenched her teeth at the interaction but said nothing.

"Silky trained liar," Christophe crooned, shaking his head as if it was amusing, and to him it was. "You know as well as I 'ow much truz zere ez to zat statement."

"Absolutely none?" Gregory asked meekly, sniffing. It was awkward seeing the diplomatic figure of South Park Elementary reduced to mild joking and tears, but he could understand on a completely personal level about having your best friend stripped away from you. He sighed, at least they were doing it gracefully.

"Zat ez true," Christophe said with a nod, stepping forward to sweep Gregory into his arms. Tweek looked away, up at the furious looking Yvette, but still, she said nothing, just stood there grinding her teeth, fist curling and unfurling with the effort not to drag her son away.

Gregory pulled away first, a slight flush creeping up his pale skin when he realized the adults were watching. "You'll be back, then?"

"Of course, I cannot 'ave an incompetent British sonuvabeetch ruining my business in America," Christophe replied with a grin. He took a step backwards, thought better of it and leaned forward, brushing his lips against Gregory's in an innocent kiss. The blonde's face flamed with colour as the French boy pulled back with a stern look, to have his wrist grabbed by his mother, dragging him out of arms length from Gregory.

"Don't forget, you eizer, Twitch. Monsieur, Madame Tweak, zank you boz so much for hat you 'ave done for me."

"It was nothing," the two said in unison, smiling down at the boy.

"Come on, Christophe darling, we do not wish to miss our flight," Yvette said, dragging him off before he could argue. The two boys looked at each other, then to where their friend had been standing, knowing well that a chapter of their life just disappeared in flames.

---

Two months passed, setting September in a flare of orange and red, the warm weather dimmed, hinted with that cold of expecting winter. He was back into the homeschool program for fifth grade, and did his work like the obedient child would, but it was wrong without the prospect of being able to go to Christophe for playtime. Instead, when their schedules matched he'd hang out with Clyde and Token, doing everything they always had, but that couldn't replace the gap of not having his arrogant French friend around. And of course Craig continued to ignore his existence, but that didn't bother him, didn't break him.

It was a Wednesday evening, he'd been to Dr. Rizzo's like he always did, finished up his homework, ate a silent dinner, and locked himself in his room. He watched the scenery outside the window, despair taking hold. There was one thing left he'd yet to accomplish, that had been bothering him for the two months of silence in his head.

"You've hinted where I've gotta look, so let's hope this works," he muttered to himself, praying that the Beatlejuice influence somehow was connected to Hell. "Damien, Damien, Damien." He looked around and sighed, burying his face in his hands, having no other plan to get he Prince of Darkness to appear.

"Don't look so glum, I was pulled out of important business to dawdle in your affairs. Though, you having been the first to try that tactic, I'll stay for whatever it was you called me here for."

Tweek looked up, toward the doorway to see Damien leaning there, arms crossed, solid black eyes giving no misconceptions, looking like a miniature figure of Thanatos. He felt his spirits rise a little seeing him there, as ironic as that was. "I've gotta ask you something abut someone."

"Shoot."

"What do you know about someone named Curson, everything you know."

Damien looked upward thoughtfully, grimacing slightly at the cobwebs in the corners of the room. "The name doesn't ring a bell, and if it's connected to Hell in any way it would, be it from the depository of soul listings or staff. You've got me on who it is."

Tweek felt his spirits fall again, shattering as he looked down at his lap. Curson had told, had hinted he needed to get to Hell's roots and here was Satan's son, and his name wasn't listed in any of Hell's files. He bit back a curse as he shook his head in complete disbelief that the Bat-King would lie.

"Webs of fabrication, spun not, said to the Prince, dialect intangible."

Letting out a moan Tweek pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing two months of silence was too good to be true. He felt himself look up, his mouth move and his voice flow out, but he didn't control the actions.

"I meant Cuh-ei-aih-ei-sauhn," his voice said, butchering the language completely, but by the widened look Damien gave he knew it was successful, and had to thank Curson for once for aiding him in the unraveling of his puzzle.

"I'm amazed you'd know the Old Tongue, it's a long dead dialect, but it's a good thing you do," he said with a grim smile, pushing away from the wall and tucked his feet under his butt, sitting on the air as if it were solid. "As I suppose the English version is, Curson was in the first battle lines in the revolt against God. All of the first to attack were immediately banished from the Gates of Heaven, and didn't participate further in the Hundred Year Blood Wars.

"But that didn't stop them. Lucifer stood up and led the Fallen Ones, the Grigori, into his own dominion and set up the base of Hell. All of the Grigori's wings were cut off, and where the scars were Lucifer carved in designs of an angel's wings, differentiated depending on the particular angel's ranks. Curson was of the Order of Virtues and partly the Thrones before his fall, which was quite impressive, so it's no wonder that he became so feared and powerful in Hell."

Tweek took it in with stride, letting his mind comprehend what he'd been told. So that's what the wing comment meant when he called him a flamingo. "So what does he have to do with Hell?"

Damien shifted positions, cheek resting in his palm. "The first bout of angels that fell became the High Kings of Hell, and as you can imagine Curson was involved in this. Each were given choices of their legions, and Curson was given twenty-two to control. Combined with what powers he had as an angel, he was a formidable force and worked his way up easily in the government when it was developed, becoming one of the most trusted generals of Hell.

"To say it simply, he ruined it. During the beginning creations, Hell and Heaven were very gender friendly, and the creatures living there couldn't really be given a gender. So to make it easy Heaven were She's, Hell were He's, although that's changed drastically over the years when gender was chosen. Anywho, because of this inconvenience, homosexuality wasn't that big a deal in either of the Divine Realms. So Curson got gutsy one day and hit it off with my father, toying, wanting nothing more then a quick lay. Father became angry by such and banished him from Hell, to Earth where he has been since then, because Father knows how to hold a grudge.

"Curson got a bit arrogant and thought that if he was on Earth he might as well send all the souls to Hell as possible. So he struck with the Bubonic plague and wiped out a third of the known world, and has been tinkering around with diseased, plagues, 'natural disasters' since, although the Black plague was his most well known work among the Hellians."

Tweek bit his lip. The bats, the Plague, anthrax, his paranoia of the government—it all circled back to Curson.

"Know you now the hands that snaps the whip," his voice purred in his mind, content, satisfied at his findings.

"What ever happened to him?"

Damien shrugged as he stretched and slid off the air. "We don't know, at the beginning of the nineteenth century we lost him and haven't been able to track him down. No one really worried, we haven't seen any signs of him being around or fucking up important global affairs, so he can remain in hiding if he wants. Why?"

Tweek looked up, licking his lips. "He's in me."

End Book One

---

A/N: First I'd like to stress a few things about lovely Cur-Cur. He has two main forms, his Hellian one which is how he appears for Craig, and his true one which is how he appears for Tweek. It's like how Satan is actually Lucifer, but Lucifer is portrayed as this damn sexy angel, but in Hell he's a flaming queer red demon thingy. Another thing is how he (Curson) speaks to the two. Craig understands proper English better, while Tweek can solve riddles without even thinking about what they really mean. Oh, the syllabus dialect added is fucked over in writing, but it sounds a lot cooler in person. You really have to get like twenty people to harmonize but Hogod, it's the shit.

And if you think the beginning wasn't necessary, well, it was. Later it'll all get linked together (:

Oh, yeah…sorry about being late with this. School, a wayward computer, life (shut up, I have my illusions) got in the way. I'll try to be a bit more timely next time x3;

Speaking off which, I've gotten questions on the number system. It's suppose to play out like the Bible would or something, with different books comprised in one, split into smaller chapters. Because, if you hadn't figured out by now, Curson's background story is modeled after Pursan in the Lesser Keys of Solomon and the Ars Goetia, except he happens to be a lot niftier :3