If there was one thing to be said about Craig, it was his lack of limitations. There was no grey area in Craig's life, there was either inky blackness or bright, blinding white. And on a Friday night in the woods with alcohol and good times flowing, the otherwise quiet boy lost himself four jack-and-cokes in, and spiraled out of control at each drink that found its way into his numb hands. When the world tumbled and blurred, distinguishing features softened and melded together, making everyone he had grown up with look the same. No longer did Clyde's thick jawline exist, or Kyle's crooked nose, or Wendy's flushed cheeks –no, with alcohol mixing to dangerous proportions in his bloodstream, all he saw were perfect faces and the brief glimpse of hair. All brunettes, blondes, all the girlscould have been the same people as far as his confused brain could comprehend.
So when he had grabbed the hand of a blonde, he hadn't noticed the size difference of those long, spindly fingers, or the mud encrusted nails he never would have found on Tweek. He didn't notice the slight stubbling of a boy that had gone days without shaving, or the messy, sandy locks shoved under a trackers hat discolored from motor oil and grease. He barely registered the crystal blue eyes of the boy he grasped roughly and kissed into oblivion, so unlike the mysterious hazel of Tweek's offset orbs, or the feeling of cold metal on his lips from the small balled ring protruding from the left side of his partner's mouth. His mind tricked him into ignoring the grim reaper tattoo poking out from beneath the sleeves of a dirty, orange jacket that had been pushed up to rough elbows in the frenzied moment.
And with the world blurred at the edges and tunneled in on only what was in front of him, he never saw the white, ghostlike face of Tweek at the edge of the treelines, with quiet rivers flowing down shocked cheeks.
His actions twisted and entwined with the hesitation of the taller boy…wait, taller? And yet, his mind clouded his questions with the sweet taste of nicotine and bitter hops on the lips of the boy pushed roughly against a spiny pine, blue eyes glowing with the distant ebb and hum of the campfire by the mudhole. The purring of truck motors, the backfire of bored exhaust systems, the laughter of fellow classmates and friends couldn't dull the fury between Craig and his assumed-Tweek.
"Jesus Christ, Craig, this isn't really what I expected," came the purring laugh when they parted for air. "I mean, shit, aren't you boning Tweek?"
What had been murky waters in his head settled with silt and cleared as the blood drained from his face, leaving the light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks stark and blotchy against his pale complexion. The world focused, the buzzing of the alcohol numbed, and before him was the perfect visage of Kenny, a lopsided smile etched on his pierced lips, his look questioning.
He had ran blindly, ignoring the urgent shouts from behind him. Even under the influence, these woods he knew like the back of his hand, had grown up exploring them, playing in them, hiding out when life had seemed to hard in his younger years, comforted by the still sway of trees and guarded under tall branches and foliage. These woods proved no match to him as he dodged and swayed , skirting fallen limbs and jutted roots. With no destination in mind, he found himself plummeting through the foliage at the edge of Stark's pond where voices rang out with surprise.
And it was the sight of Tweek furiously kissing Christophe, sopping, on the bank of the pond that made everything go black and the night disappear into his head.
But that had been hours ago, an eternity it had felt like, when Craig woke in the cramped cab of his truck, a foot gutting out the window, parked in the woods were it had been left at the mudhole, his head heavy like lead and pounding in the bitter chill of the early morning. He groaned as he sat up and cracked his neck, the headache blossoming behind his eyes as the dim light of morning sifted through the windshield to erupt the hangover he was experiencing.
"Mother fuck," he mumbled to himself, rubbing at his eyes, remembering nothing of the night before. Faces melded together, his lips of Tweek's, the fuzzy way his brain made him feel when cognitive awareness was cut from perceived awareness under the influence of alcohol.
Tweek….such a funny kid, really. He was bizarre, having spouted fantasies of underpants gnomes and paranoid delusions throughout childhood. Having been a spazzy, twitchy freak one moment, only to light a fire in his glorious hazel eyes, recoil, and strike a helluva punch at anyone that dared challenge his ideas of reality. A little blonde freak he had always been protective of, had always preferred at his side and included than by himself in a corner.
A little blonde freak that broke his heart when he found of Tweek had been cutting himself, repressing himself, hurting himself due to unrestrained feelings he couldn't control, or hide, or bleed away.
The funny thing was, Craig's protective habit of the blonde had melded into something more when they were younger. He wasn't sure when he had realized that the strong pulse he felt with Tweek around was romantically inclined, that his need to have his best friend was something "more" in nature. And when he did, he was ashamed, knowing that Tweek couldn't possibly understand how he felt, knowing that Tweek never would accept it. With everything else that the blonde had imagined in his head that was out to get him, his best friend's crazed sexual fantasies shouldn't be one. So instead of ever admitting it, Craig had taken the small things as a way of personal gratification; holding Tweek's hand in between class bells to calm the spazz in the midst of the crowds, sleepovers as children and watching the twitchy boy still for once in his sleep, talking long into the night and early morning when Tweek was too afraid to sleep.
And it was sixth grade Tweek had taken his first girlfriend, Lola Turner, and Craig had felt unrestrained jealousy. He, too, had taken a girlfriend in Red Allan, but even so, couldn't stop the drowning he felt every time he saw Tweek and Lola cupping hands at a football game and musically laughing together in awkward time. He hated the way the mere visual of them turned his hurt to flames and made him angry. Angry enough to have gone to Cartman in a fit of rage, and two weeks of allowance later, had spread photoshopped images of Tweek and a Middle Park girl across FaceBook.
That had been their worst fight ever. They avoided each other after the week of detention for beating the Hell out of each other. Craig went along his life with Red, and shot questioning looks to Tweek as the avoidance continued for months. And it was until their first year of high school that Craig had found the reasons for Tweek's hasty exits when he stepped in the room, the disconnected phone calls, the bitter looks the blonde shot, when he ripped his jacket off and saw the mottled scars of a painful secret they both shared together.
Craig laughed numbly, ignoring the pain beating at his skull as he put the truck in drive and went to the one place that was like home to him, the one place he could see the boy he loved more than life itself, the one person he knew could quell his pounding head with a good cup of extra strong coffee made by his own personal barista.
On weekends, the Tweak's usually didn't open the shoppe until late, but by the bright morning light, Craig knew they would be well into their busy days of coffee brewing, so when he pulled up to the house he knew like his own, he felt at ease. The khaki house had faded over the years, paint peeling under window treatments, shutters missing a few rungs each, but the Tweak house was somewhere he loved for the inside. Who cared that the annual flower garden had withered over the biting winter cold, and had yet to be replaced for the spring; who cared that the once bright-red mulch that covered flower beds now was a dull rusty color. It was the warm atmosphere, the cozy, well-used furniture, the love he felt inside that made him feel at home away from home.
And it was the blonde peeking out from the frothy, lacy curtains at the front window that really made this his favorite place.
The front door opened slightly as Tweek poked his mussed-up locks outside and made eye contact with the hung-over Craig. "Oh-oh, hi, Craig, I wasn't expecting you to show up….ew, god, dude, you smell like a brewery."
A sheepish smile. "I may have had a few last night. Where'd you end up going?" he asked as he slipped inside, kicking his boots off at the door and wandering toward the smell of espresso wafting from the kitchen.
Tweek crossed his arms as he trained his eyes downward, shoulders hunched. "I left. I saw something I didn't need to see and I didn't want to be there anymore."
Craig busied himself with making his own cup of hangover cure, not seeing the pained look that Tweek sported. He sipped the liquid gold, sighing in pleasure at the sweet taste of hazelnut. He walked by Tweek to the living room and sunk into the soft cushions, tucking his feet underneath him like a cat as he sipped on his coffee. "Yeah? But we had fun last night, didn't we?"
He couldn't determine whether the red color seeping up Tweek's face was from embarrassment, anger, or otherwise, but the hard grey that emerged from his eyes said he was pissed. "You don't even remember what you did, do you, Craig?! You don't remember a damn thing, do you? How could you?!"
Slowly pieces of the puzzle pieced itself together, unlocking the blackened memories of the night before. Kissing his Tweek…and the cold of a lip ring, the twisted figure of a grim reaper on a forearm, those blue, blue eyes…Kenny's face flushed with heat as he questioned Craig's intentions. Craig's heart dropped in his stomach as he looked over the pained face of Tweek, brows knit together in a feigned attempt at anger as his chin trembled with restrained emotion. Despite the warmth of the mug in his hands, he felt like ice as the scene played in his mind of him making out with Kenny in the woods.
"Tweek, Tweek…I didn't know, I was drunk, I—I'm sorry." He sputtered, putting his coffee down and reaching a shaking hand out to grab Tweek's wrist. "You know I wouldn't hurt you on purpose, you know I wouldn't do that, you know-"
"Stop it, Craig. This is your mistake, not mine," Tweek muttered, pulling his arm back roughly, glaring down at his unofficial boyfriend…exboyfriend?
"Let me explain," he urged, feeling anxious, feeling like he was fighting a losing battle, feeling like his heart was going to explode as the world turned inward on himself, his heart pounding in his ears, his eyes stinging as he reached out again, but this time, wrapped Tweek in his arms.
And it was then his mind continued to place pieces…running through the darkened woods, leaving the scene behind him in a hurried daze…exploding out of the woods at the edge of Stark pond….seeing Tweek and Christophe kiss. The frown, the realization Tweek was no longer his.
"Well, zis ez awkward, ezn't et?" came a scathing purr from the top of the stairs. There, Christophe stood at Tweek's bedroom door, hair a mess, shirt forgotten, cargo pants hanging loosely from his tanned hips, among the freckles dusting his toned abdomen and chest, among the white mottled scars etched into tanned skin, purple and blue lovebites resonated the guilt that consumed the room.
A/N: I have no idea what I'm doing with this. Or where it's going. I am completely, utterly, without an inch of a doubt, winging this shit. So...let's see where this takes us :D