The bright morning sunshine seemed to be a cruel contrast to the heart break that echoed through the chilly little town shadowed by the enormous Rocky mountains. Life went on; people laughed and chattered on Main Street, oblivious to the three left frustrated and hurt, shoppe doors jingled as patrons entered and exited, the smells of breakfast and coffee floated loftily on the air. The black truck slid to a halt outside a demur brown house, the blue paint chipping slightly from the front door, hedges trimmed neatly, brass door knocker and handles shined and gleaming, potted flowers perky and neat; he could tell his mother had been on the prowl.

Clamoring of little nails on the hard wood that graced the floors sounded as soon as Christophe opened the door, and came to a sliding halt as he whistled piercing and loud. Clyde's dog, Rex, had tried for years to get on his good side and warm his bitter heart to the idea of canines being man's best friend, but his thought on the fleabagged beast hadn't wavered an inch. And tried Rex had; for months after the DeLorne's had moved in, he found the dog at the foot of his bed every morning when he woke until he installed a working lock, and then had found the mutt leaving toys in a curious line outside of the door he often tripped over on the way to the bathroom in the early morning hours. Christophe had found ways to avoid being hauled on arrival by the dog by pitching a whistle that left the mutt running away in frustration.

"Oh, look who decided to come home," the cocky voice sounded from the kitchen as a brunette poked his head out from the archway. "I made breakfast, princess."

Their relationship was a precarious one, his and Clyde. He had hated the idea of sharing a house with another boy that always poked his nose into things that didn't concern him, always asked questions about his habits, always needed to know "why" when it came to his thrill of tunneling. He had hated sharing a bathroom with Clyde, whom often took hour long showers and pampered himself worse than any girl would – he hated finding comical undies in his laundry embroidered with super heroes or cartoon characters. He wasn't fond of having his space invaded without a warning, or having to drive Clyde around, who had yet to buy a car of his own, or even let his step-brother take the truck, that he had been reprimanded about not knowing how to "share".

He hated most that the idea of a step-brother had become tolerated over the years. Where he had had few friends of his own before, now he was – if not welcome - friendly with the other kids at school, to whatever extend the Mole could muster. Where he had been terrible at American history, Clyde seemed to excel in that one subject and spent countless hours and headaches teaching the French boy. They argued over everything; where to go eat, what to buy from the grocer, what to listen to, what to watch on television, and often these arguments ended with Clyde in tears and Christophe cursing vapidly in his native tongue.

And yet, they had grown on each other. When Bebe broke up with Clyde, the Mole had broke down his bedroom door and listened as he cried for hours in despair. When Christophe had broken his arm in seventh grade and couldn't write, Clyde had helped transcribe his homework. When Clyde thought he was dying due to appendicitis, the Mole sat vigil at his bedside before and after surgery. When Christophe holed himself up in his room for days, intent on a mission or job he had to undertake, Clyde wordlessly brought him food. Sometimes it was hard to tell they weren't blood brothers by their actions.

The idea of eating turned his stomach, but he humored Clyde and walked into their kitchen and stopped, a look of disgust turning his face sour. "What in ze 'ell are you eating?"

Sitting before the boy was a waffle, folded in half with scrambled eggs and cheese slices in the middle, topped high with bacon and drizzled in syrup. With a proud smile he held up his dripping creation. "This, my friend, is a waffle taco, and it was brought down from the heavens by the culinary gods. Want one?"

"Zat ez disgusting. Do you even know what real breakfast ez? Filzy American," he grumbled, eye twitching as Clyde gulped half of the waffle taco in one bite.

"Sorry I don't have a pretentious palate like you, Frenchie, with your baguettes and crepes, but this is totally like an orgasm in my mouth, and you're missing it. Your loss."

Christophe shook his head as his brother wolfed down the rest of his meal. "You're going to 'ave a 'eart attack before you are zirty."

"Is it an attack, or my heart letting me know of its appreciation for my caloric taste over the years? I think we both know the true answer," Clyde replied as he licked his fingers clean of syrup. "Where were you last night anyway? You missed a killer bonfire, dude. Stan totally got that piece of shit Ford of his stuck in the mudpit, it was hilarious! Good times, man, good times."

Christophe busied himself fixing his morning usual, a cup of black espresso and a small croissant with traditional preserves and almond jelly, even though he knew he wouldn't eat it. As he sipped his coffee he shrugged. "'ave you ever seen me at one of zose stupid events? Non? Well zen, do you really zink I care?"

"Wow, someone is unusually hostile. Who put a stick in your ass this early in the day? Was it Craig?"

Christophe's distaste for the raven-haired boy with a tangent for flipping people off was a palpable one that everyone acknowledged and tread gently. They tolerated each other, for their friends rather than a sense of need. They had gotten into screaming matches over the years, fist-fights, and during the age they had played warlocks and wizards, the Mole had beat Craig's thief ass into the ground. It was for a curious twitching blonde they had called a truce for, although against their knowledge a betting pot had grown over the years of who would win if they were to get into a physical fight now that they were older.

His response was to level a deadly glare over the rim of his coffee cup. Clyde stilled under that look for a moment before heaving a breath and pushing away from the table. "Okay, okay, jeez, I'll get the stuff and meet you outside in a second, okay? Holy shit."

When their two families had merged, the adults had decided to put both houses on the market and move into something a little larger that could accommodate two rowdy boys and their endeavors. The backyard was large and fenced, with a tall oak tree that shaded half of the yard with a swing benched placed under the large branches that reached towards the sky. In one corner, a garden had been freshly tilled for the new season, and flower bushes lined the porch wooden back porch, with the outdoor barbeque area that Roger Donovan had installed, mostly due to Clyde's incessant whining. And often, Christophe lost himself out here when he had time to himself.

But this morning was different. Despite no interest in the sports Clyde pursued all of his life, Christophe had found the traditions of Americans humorous, and even stress releaving in his own right. So he gloved up and caught a pitch thrown to him by his step-brother easily and returned the baseball with a fluid throw that elicited a yelp.

"Goddamnit, not so hard! That shit stings! What's eating you, Rissy?"

'Rissy' had been the infuriating nickname Clyde had given him when they had first become family and stuck, although even more annoyingly the Donovan boy also used Stovetop, Taffy, and Weasel. The only person that could remotely get away with that irritating shit was Clyde, and he knew it, and abused it whenever he could.

"Sorry," he muttered as he caught the ball and launched it back at his brother. They continued the ritual in silence, varying their throws between pitches, pop ups, and ground balls. Finally he asked, "What did you do when Bebe broke up with you ze last time?"

Christophe never could figure out how the Donovan kid had managed to land Bebe as his girlfriend; she was gorgeous, smart, athletic, and the perfect cheerleader. She took crap from no one, threw a mean punch when needed, had the tongue of a sailor, but loved the latest fashion trends and learning nail art techniques. She always looked immaculate whether in sweat pants and a hoodie, tights and a loose sweater, or a skirt and top, whereas Clyde couldn't manage to keep a shirt stain-free, and often was referred to as dumber than a box of rocks. But what he lacked in intelligence he made up for in confidence and amiable personality.

Clyde ruffled his hair as he considered, catching the ball without even trying for it; although academically he might have been lacking, when it came to sports, he was a genius. "What, at the beginning of the school year? I don't know, moped around for a while, upped my basketball game, went out with the guys, did stuff, picked up extra shifts at Dad's store, y'know, whatever to get her off my mind. I mean, it was hard, but luckily we got back together 'cuz Clyde da man is hard to resist." He tossed the ball back with a grin on his face until the gears seemed to wind and something clicked. A shocked look plastered on his face. "Oh my God, does Rissy like someone?"

Another glare answered.

"Holy shit dude! And someone that lives here in South Park? I know you like your girls out of town with no strings attached…holy cow! Who is she, dude? " At this point Clyde had thrown down his baseball mit and ran at him with huge puppy-dog eyes, nearly taking them both to the ground in his excitement. "Tell me all."

Christophe pushed Clyde away as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his sweater and lit one up, taking a deep inhalation as he wandered stiffly to the bench, knowing well his step-brother wasn't going to let this go, but there was no way he could admit it, least of all to blabber-mouth. "Small and blonde with 'azel eyes," he answered slowly, glancing at him with the cigarette hanging from his lips.

"Oh my god, okay, I got this, let me think," Clyde pondered as he paced, rubbing his chin devious. "Mercedes? Can't be, she's pretty tall for a Raisin's girl. Annie Nelson? No, no, she's got brown eyes. Emily? No, she's gotten kind of chunky lately. Jessie? She's kind of a stupid whore, I don't think that's your type. Milly? She's got hazel eyes, but I guess her hair is more of a strawberry blonde. Sally Darson? No, she's kind of a whore too. Ummm….Kal has that ombre thing going on with her hair these days, if you count that. Who else is blonde…" He stopped dead in his tracks as he whirled around and landed his large blue eyes on the Mole. "Oh my god, you like my girlfriend."

Christophe's brows shot upward at the accusation and the wavering way Clyde's lip trembled. "What?"

"You. Like. Bebe! It all makes sense now! Oh my god, she's small, she's blonde, she's got hazel eyes, and you were so reluctant to tell me 'cuz she's my girlfriend!" He hit himself in the forehead at the realization, and instantly turned sour, sulking. "But that's not fair! I've got nothing on you, dude. You're this exotic French bastard with the silky accent that makes all the girls swoon and I'm just a big fat dumby dumb."

Christophe rolled his eyes as he stamped on his cigarette and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, a headache slowly blossoming. "I do not like Bebe, Clyde. What ze fuck ez wrong wiz you?"

"There is no one else that matches that description in South Park, man! It's okay, I can live with this, we'll just roshambo it out in a bid for Bebe's beautiful heart…and…and…" By this point Clyde had dropped to the ground with big toddler tears streaming down his face as he boo-hooed, face turning red at the exertion it took to bawl.

"Mon dieu," Christophe muttered as the headache started to throb and he toed at his step-brother awkwardly, ignoring the slaps sent his way. "I do not like Bebe, you fucking retard. You two can live in excruciatingly 'appy bliss for ze rest of your lives. You are my bruzzer, I may be an ass'ole but I wouldn't do zat to you."

"You're just being nice," he bubbled between sobs. "I know better! You're gonna swoop in and take my girl with your sexy voice and rugged charm and…and…I'm gonna fight you for her!"

Christophe had no time to react as Clyde launched himself off the ground, knocking him backwards off the bench and onto the hard ground, riding his weight down with his knees, knocking the wind out of the Mole in the act. He cracked his head back into the ground and saw a flash of stars, but not before he saw his brother's fist coming at his jaw. He caught Clyde's fist in his hand and twisted, feeling a sense of guilt at the yowl that escaped from the boy sitting on his chest, but it was short lived as he reared back ready to strike with his other fist.

"Tweek!" he said, stilling as the name escaped his lips. Clyde looked down at him in confusion as he let his fist fall to his side, tension still hardening his body.

"Tweek, what?"

Closing his eyes against the world, grinding his teeth painfully against what he had just done, he let a breath he didn't know he was holding out. "Tweek. I. Like. Tweek."

…

Craig, instead, had paced when he finally slammed his way inside his house, startling his younger sister and her friends. Paced his room while Stripe watched, nervously chitting at him, paced up and down the stairs until his thighs burned with the effort, paced the yard all while thirteen year old girls watched him curiously. But the Tucker boy didn't care if Tracie and her friends thought he was crazy and he made laps in the yard and pulled at his hair, because each step he took, took him further away from the damage that had been done in that house he had called a second home for years.

Tweek had been his best friend since third grade, had been there through black eyes and broken wrists, been there through groundings and the excitement of his first job, had been the first kiss to bring him to his knees by the feeling it provided, the first person he knew without a doubt he was in love with…and now, the first person that had ripped out his bitter heart and stomped it in the mud without a thought.

He didn't know exactly what he felt except an empty hollowness in the pit of his stomach that clawed its way up his throat and into his brain. He felt weak when he tried to consider what he saw, felt anger flare and stifle within seconds, felt like nothing could ever soothe the icy pain that shot through his winding emotions.

And he had to remember, part of it was his fault, part of it was his blinded drunken stupidity that had catalyst the rest of the events that had taken place. So was it revenge that Tweek had done with that damn Weasel, or were Tweek's actions a mirror of what he felt?

Either way, his head throbbed with the thoughts that pounded at his skull unrelentingly, throbbed with the thought that he had lost the one thing in life he didn't know how he could live without.

Which had elicited the calls that put him smack in the middle of a blacked-out basement with strings of red and purple Christmas lights tacked into the ceiling, incense burning from atop the washing machine, various candles lit on utility shelving units that had been jutted of their original purpose and now held knick knacks from skulls, silver dragons, faeries, and other gothic images, with three other boys staring at him cluelessly.

"So, what the Hell did you want, Craig? Practice can't be this goddamn important," asked Kyle from the black leather sofa, a guitar case at his feet. The boy had never outgrown his auburn fro, but his curls had loosened over the years and tangled down his face, a lost battle with gravity. Over the years he'd also lost his battle with perfect vision and now wore thick black framed glasses in an attempt to stay "hip" with the band. His temper had also only managed to match his mother's as he got older, leading to more vicious encounters with Cartman than ever before and leaving him a commodity to be had.

"Yeah, I mean it's cool that you wanted to come over and all but some freakin' warning would be cool instead of just inviting yourself in," said Peter as he flipped his trademark black and red fringe out of his face, a pierced brow raised as he stared.

The only person he refused to meet eyes with was the clear-blue orbs of Kenny's that watched his every move under blonde bangs. He knew he'd have to talk to him eventually, but hope it could wait until after, because inside him burned a new song and chords he had to hear with his team of music-makers before it drove him mad.

"I have something new I wanted to try for tomorrow's gig," he said, pacing even still. Usually, the Tweak's let the guys play on Friday nights, but since they had been out at the woods having a good time, this week's show was on Sunday evening.

"Craig, we can't learn a new song in less than twenty four fucking hours," Kyle said as he rolled his eyes in the surreal glow of the lights. "Are you crazy?"

"It's nothing crazy, we've practiced the chords before, it's just a little different, come on."

Before Kyle - king of pessimism - could protest, Kenny interrupted. "Let's try it Tucker's way. He's never steered us wrong with our music before. Give him a chance."

"You have until six to prove yourself," Kyle said as he started unzipping his case, glaring over the frames of his glasses. And like promised, they fell easily into the changed rhythm of previous chords, easily melded the lyrics – sung by the vocal god, Kenny – easily fell into the new song of pain and longing and uncontrolled chaos. Even Kyle was impressed by the fluid transitioning between them all.

Halfway through their expected practice end, Kenny stood up with a stretch, eyes trained on Craig. "Smoke break, bros."

Peter just shook his head, his own cigarette hanging limply from his lips. "You know it's cool to smoke in here."

Kenny shrugged as he hooked his arm in Craig's and headed up the stairs, dragging the boy behind him. Although Kenny had grown up around smoke, with parents that smoked inside, he took great lengths to keep the nicotine out of his room at home, and likewise at other people's houses; it was just a respectful habit to break the cycle of his own situation. So Craig let himself be lead outside to the back patio and offered a cigarette to the blonde as he lit his own up.

After taking a long drag of smoke the blonde's clear blue eyes landed unsettlingly on him. "So, about last night."

"Do we need to even talk about that? I don't think we do. So let's not, okay?" he said, a hint of anxiety slipping through as he ran his free hand through his locks nervously.

"Fine then, although I'd think you should know, I wasn't going to tell anyone, and it doesn't bother me all that much. So, what's eating you, then, Craig?"

He tried to keep his face emotionless, bland, boring, but his eyes widened a tad and the intake of breath was enough to give him away. "How'd you know?"

Kenny shrugged away as he rolled his lip ring into his mouth, a perpetual habit he'd garnered ever since getting it pierced. "Those lyrics pretty much gave it away, buddy. You never write shit that deep. Or ever want to practice a day after rough drinking. So let's be for real; what's up?"

Craig sighed, eyes downcast, but he knew out of anyone Kenny might be the only one that wouldn't judge. "Tweek saw me mistake you for him last night. But that's not even the worse part, he then went home with that French piece of shit. What the Hell kind of shit is that? Was it a revenge fuck for my actions, or something else? And if it was something else, how long has that shit been going on? God, this is so fucked up."

Kenny showed nothing but indifference as he sucked down smoke into his lungs and looked up to the afternoon sky, tracing the path of a song bird through the trees. "Well, that is kind of fucked up. So looking beyond that; what do you want out of it, Craig?"

The Tucker boy stamped out his cigarette into the ash tray on the window sill and sighed, for the first time giving thought to that question. What did he want, besides the numbness to go away? "I just don't want to lose him," he said finally, shoving his hands in his pockets. "He's my best friend and I don't want that ruined. If he doesn't want me, well, that hurts like Hell, but not having him at all would hurt a Hell of a lot worse."

"The words of a wise man, Craig, once said 'when it's gone you know what gift love was, and you'll suffer for it, so go back and fight to keep it'. Talk to him after the show, explain yourself, get the answers you deserve." He patted the Tucker boy on the shoulder and cracked a warm-hearted grin. "And I'll do my best to portray your song the way it should be.

"Now let's get back to practice before those nerds start worrying about us."

…

Whereas Craig had his band mates and creativity, Christophe had his brother and baseball, Tweek instead spent the rest of the morning with flour frosting his hair and kitchen a few degrees higher than the rest of the house. The blonde busied himself with baked treats from filled pastries, cakes, to flaky pasties and coffee biscuits, and upon each new recipe he tried he spent time washing and drying each dish and mixing bowl painstakingly. He had only finished his baking tasks in the afternoon when the house ran out of eggs and flour, and there was no counter or table space left to present his goods.

And then, he had cried.

Tweek didn't know how to feel except spent and empty, having let all of his emotions flood out of him in heart-wrenching sobs muffled by an apron covered in flour and spices. He had lost two of the most important people in his life in less than twenty-four hours; his stubborn, gruff best friend, and his brooding, introverted best friend-turned-boyfriend. Both of which could be attributed to his own misgivings and actions. Why had Craig been in a violent tongue-war with Kenny McCormick? Why did he seem to torn, so shocked when Tweek had quietly simmered over?

Why, why, why, it was still always "why" with Craig Tucker.

And Christophe, oh Christophe, where could he even begin with that? The first tremulously kiss they shared, soaking wet on the bank of Stark's pond, felt incredible, sent bubbling flutters through his very core at the gentle touch of lips. That feeling Tweek had got high on with every touch, every kiss, every salty, silt taste from the French boy's scruffy jawline. It was a rapturous, burning feeling that enveloped him, melted him, turned his skin scalding with every husky look those stormy eyes sent him, every whispered incantation in the language of romance, every soft purring moan that fell from those jaded lips of his best friend.

And being the asshole he was, he had used the only defense he had when caught between the two boys he loved in very different ways; he had lashed out in anger, let his own aggression problem come to head and push Christophe out.

He felt terrible, hated himself as the guarded, lost look in those stormy eyes turned dark and the scene replayed in his head as the Mole left, visibly shaken, visibly pissed, having been so callously thrown to the side with his confession of love. 'ow about because I love you? God, how could Tweek have been so cruel to accuse him of not caring, of doing what they had done in spite? How could he have been so blind through all their years of friendship to not see the reserved way Christophe sometimes acted, or known that his utter hate of Craig could be for personal reasons? Tweek ripped at his hair painfully, feeling a sick sense of accomplishment at the pulsating ache in his scalp that brought the sting of tears to his eyes. Shit, was he confused as ever now.

Which is why he had called the one person he knew would have a stable amount of insight into the situation, one of two, besides Christophe, that had intuition backed by constant people watching to know precisely what was going on.

When she arrived she didn't knock, instead, Bebe let herself in and frowned at finding Tweek curled on himself in the worn couch she loved more than her own at home. Tweek still wasn't sure when they had gotten close, whether it was from Clyde's incessant relationship with her or their own free will, but Bebe was a remarkable person, if not a little strange. She knew everything about everyone it seemed, and had gained a job at the Hollister in the mall just to eavesdrop on conversations from kids at school and watch people for six hours a day when she worked. But she never shared the secrets she learned, or her amazing intelligence lingering under the dumb blonde fecade she kept up, so it had been a surprise when she had approached him one day about his feelings about Craig having a girlfriend. But since then, they had shared all secrets with one another, from intimate details of their relationships, to Bebe's monthly cycle, and everything in between.

"Well, you just look worse for wear, darling," she said with her motherly tone as she flipped her long blonde curls over his shoulder, a staple that hadn't changed in all the years, despite the mediocre modifications she did; today, the ends were dip dyed blue, pink, and purple, and brought out the wicked green in her hazel eyes.

"Thanks for the reminder," he said sullenly as she licked her thumb and scrubbed the raw ingredients off his face.

"It smells orgasmic in here though; you really must feel shitty if you baked this much, Spazz."

"You don't even know," he said as she loosened his grip on his hair and pulled his fingers free with a tsk. "Fill free to take some with you."

"Oh I will," she said as she flopped down next to him, keeping one of his jittering hands in hers. "And I'll pack a to-go box to take to Clyde, you know how he loves Tweek specials. But that's not why you called me, now is it?"

He sighed as his bangs fell in front of his eyes as he shook his head. "I don't know what to do anymore, Bebe. I'm so lost."

"Well, let's see if we can sort it out some. Start from the beginning," she said with an encouraging smile, and he did. He told her how he had felt catching Craig with Kenny, how he had felt trying to rationalize it to Christophe, how everything had changed in an instant with one kiss, and how the morning burned to the ground just as quick. By the end she sat silent with a considering look on her face, nose wrinkled as she thought. Finally she said, "You know how Craig is when he gets belligerently drunk out in the woods, you've seen it more than once. He's always confusing me with Annie and Mercedes out there, and on more than one occasion he's gotten touchy with Eric, thinking he was Clyde. Yeah, Ken is a little more edgy than you are, what with the tattoos and piercings, but you're both rail-thin blondes. In all honesty, I'm surprised this is the first time this has happened, he's so goddamn loose and friendly out there and never seems to know people's faces when he drinks. I'm sure it was just a miscommunication with his brain and he honestly thought it was you, Spazz."

His heart dropped at that, and he swallowed back the guilty feeling that welled up inside. "Do you really think so?"

She gave a nod, multicolored curls bouncing as she did, and her eyes softened. "Tweek, you weren't there when he was torturing himself during your epic fight in junior high. You didn't see the side of him that worried endlessly, and still does. He's always losing sleep over you, thinking he's hurting your feelings, or putting you down, making you think you're second best to him. Craig has a terrible way of showing it because he wants to be a hard ass, but he loves you more than…more than all his collectable Red Racer replicas, Stripe, and his space man gear. He would never mean to hurt you intentionally."

He was tired of crying, but the tears fell as he buried his face in his one free hand, feeling even more torn than before. "Fuck, Bebe, what do I do about Christophe?"

She squeezed his hand and rubbed comforting circles across his palm. "Chris has always been protective of you because he's been there at your worse, has pulled you from the edge of suicide into better grounds, and wants to keep you at your best, away from any sort of emotional wreck you may experience. I'd be lying if I were to say I expected this; I knew he loved you, but I never expected him to ever act on it."

He glanced up, sniffling back the tears. "You knew? How—how long?"

Again, a nod as her look turned sad. "Mmhmm. I've talked to him about it before, I mean, he is brother's with my boyfriend, I'm over there a lot. I can't give you an exact, that's not my place, but it's been a while, Tweek. He never wanted to put you in a bind, he respected your choice of Craig, albeit slightly unwillingly. It was good enough to be your friend to him."

"Then why did he have to act on it now," he moaned, burying his face once more. "This sucks for me."

"It probably sucks for him, too, Tweek. And you kissed him first, right? How would you have felt, at that moment, if he had turned you away?"

"Not good probably," he admitted. "He didn't have to spare my feelings, I wouldn't have died or anything," he mumbled miserably.

"He didn't just spare your feelings, he gave you a part of his feelings he never has before," she pointed out, watching as his face changed at that realization. "He can recover from this, if you choose to remain with Craig, because he never expected anything out of you two. I think the question is, can you?"

"I don't know," he whispered, feeling as if his whole being was tearing into two again. She pulled him into an embrace and petted his hair soothingly.

"And that's okay, you all need time to decide what you want, Christophe, probably the longest. So maybe you should talk to Craig, you'll be working the show tomorrow, won't you? Stay and talk to him, get his side without having the anxiety of Chris in the same room, talk, explain, figure things out, okay?"

He nodded into her shoulder as he rubbed as his wet, puffy eyes, feeling like a loser for losing it in front of this actual goddess of kindness and hope that presented herself as his friend and companion. "I think I can do that. Thanks, Bebe."

She nodded with a smile and picked a pastry off a tiny plate on the end table by the couch and took a bite, a thoughtful look echoing in her eyes. "And don't forget, sometimes following your heart means losing your mind."

A/N: I just realized the inconsistancies I have between chapters, which I will one day edit and reupload, but for now: CSC is in autumn, not spring - Craig is Tucker, not Nommel. Why am I uploading this before e86? Because I couldn't shake that damn scene with Clyde, that's why. Next up - who will Tweek choooooose? xoxox Corrie