"Hi, welcome to Top Pot. What can I get for you?" Kenny chimed, pulling out his sweet, sing-song customer service voice for the 30th time that morning. He hastily moved around the café, taking orders and making small talk, all while desperately chugging an espresso per minute to stay awake.
The bell over the door rang again, indicating a new customer's arrival. Despite the early hour, the café was absolutely bustling with life—a testament to Tweek's skills in advertisement. He had really managed to turn this place into the hot spot of social activity.
Well, it was likely less about advertisement and more about a change in aesthetic. Despite the common misconception that the Tweaks had left their son with nothing but the coffee shop, he had inherited a very large sum of money, which he had used for this aesthetic makeover.
He had changed almost every inch of the place; some of the building had even been restructured. The entire front of the shop had been replaced with a large glass wall, which proudly stood, promising transparency and honesty. The café's layout had been changed as well; they now had an open kitchen to ensure that the customers could see what was being put in their food and drinks. The old tables and chairs had been replaced with new, dark wooden ones with dark green cushions.
Plants were placed in every corner, giving the place a much more natural look. Pots with ivy had been hung closely to the ceiling, giving the impression that they were snaking their way down the walls, which had been repainted to a dark brown, resembling wood. The walls were adorned with vintage clocks and plates, art of beautiful, solemn people, and printed versions of old classic paintings like Vincent van Gogh's "Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette".
Only one particular wall was exempt from this treatment because it was covered from top to bottom with a large bookshelf, holding onto old and new books alike. The books were all real; some were medical journals from the 18th century, others were fantasy books. In the middle of the bookshelf was a door leading to a small courtyard behind the café with a tree in the middle. The courtyard was entirely encapsulated by the surrounding buildings, giving the impression that it was a quiet, little pocket hidden away in the bustling town.
As Kenny observed these changes, he couldn't help but wonder about the deeper meaning behind them. It seemed like Tweek was on a mission to transform not just the café, but also his own personal connection to it.
Tweek had claimed that these changes were made to rebrand the place, to convince people that Top Pot was not the same as Tweek Bros. Coffeehouse. But Kenny sensed there was more to it. He suspected that Tweek was trying to erase any and every sign of his parents' existence from the coffee shop. Perhaps, in his own way, he was seeking closure for what they had done by erasing them from his coffee shop and removing their money from his bank account. He had even splurged their money on fancy gold-plated teaspoons, dark green and gold luxury coffee sets, and trays to match.
The bell rang again, signaling his need to hurry. As he quickened his pace, he kept a careful eye on the tray he was carrying, filled with an assortment of shortcakes and mugs brimming with coffee, determined not to spill anything. With his tired mind lost in the world of balancing pastries and cups, he failed to notice a figure approaching from the opposite direction.
In an unfortunate twist of fate, Kenny collided head-on with a tall, muscular man. The sheer force of the impact sent him falling backwards, the contents of the tray spilling onto the floor in a cacophony of clattering crockery and splattered pastries. The café went quiet, and all of the surrounding people turned to see what had caused the sudden commotion.
"Ugh, watch where you're going! You fucking idiot—" The man's deep, far too familiar voice hissed. However, he interrupted his own knee-jerk reaction, replacing it with a mocking and almost endeared laughter. "Careful, short stack, us normal-sized people can't be expected to notice you running around our ankles."
Kenny felt his face grow red. How insulting; he was not that short, maybe a few inches below average. People only thought he was tiny because he was always standing next to Eric, who was an absolute behemoth. Besides, he was still taller than most of the girls in his social circle, so calling him short stack was most certainly an exaggeration.
Just as he was about to stand up and apologize, he felt the man grab him by the collar of his uniform with one hand and hoist him up onto his tiptoes. It was in that moment that he realized who he had collided with.
"Trent?" Kenny could feel the blood draining from his face as he nervously stammered, "Sorry, I-I wasn't watching where I was going." He tried to laugh a bit, smile a bit, attempting to charm his way back to just doing his job. But Trent still held an iron grip on his collar, intently looking at his face. With wide, questioning eyes, Kenny tried to gently wriggle his way out of Trent's hand, but to no avail.
"You," Trent spoke again, his voice slurring slightly. Upon closer inspection, Kenny noticed the bloodshot appearance of Trent's eyes. He repeatedly rubbed them with his free hand, revealing a collection of nude Band-Aids, adorning his fingers alongside the shark-themed one Kenny had given him less than 8 hours prior. Even after so long, his arm was still visibly cramping. "You look like a fucking painting; they should hang you on the wall, pretty-boy," Trent mumbled, his words tinged with a bit of admiration.
Kenny's confusion grew. Had Trent even slept at all? What had he been doing all night? Despite his bewilderment, Kenny managed to respond, "Uhm, thank you...?"
Trent removed his free hand from his eye and fixed his gaze directly on Kenny. His face twisted into a mean-spirited smile. "So, you agree? You think you're pretty?" He sounded weirdly glad about it. He began shaking his hand slightly, causing Kenny to lose balance and instinctively hold onto Trent for support.
A relatively large crowd had formed around them, yet no one intervened. Kenny's face felt even hotter, his legs trembling. It hopefully wasn't too noticeable. His breaths quickened as well and became shallower. "I guess...?" he stammered, his voice barely audible. Trent had pulled Kenny's face so close that he could smell the scent of cigarette smoke on his breath. There was not a single trace of liquor on his breath; he must have been sober, but sleep deprived.
As the tension continued to escalate between Trent and Kenny, the bustling café seemed to hold its breath, the surrounding customers anxiously observing the confrontation. Just as Kenny started to fear that things might escalate further, a familiar voice suddenly cut through the air, breaking the tension.
"What the hell is going on?" Tweek's voice rang out, filled with anger. He had just exited the breakroom and was swiftly making his way toward the scene, his eyes fixed on Trent's hand clutching Kenny's collar. Tweek's face was flushed as he approached Trent, his normally anxious demeanor replaced by a stern expression. "Let go of him right now."
Trent turned his attention to Tweek, releasing Kenny from his grip. His gaze wavered, his bloodshot eyes struggling to focus. "Oh, look who it is. The meth head I keep hearing so much about," Trent slurred, his voice dripping with exhaustion. He stumbled slightly as he spoke.
Tweek placed a shaking hand on Kenny's shoulder. Kenny couldn't exactly tell whether the shaking was due to being overcaffeinated, anxious, or furious, but it was likely a mixture of all three. Tweek spoke again, his voice filled with barely restrained anger. "Your name is Trent, right? Follow me. We'll talk in private."
Despite his mocking attitude and general knack for disrespect, Trent obediently followed Tweek. Right before they left, Tweek turned to Kenny and said, "Get back to work, Kenny."
He stood still for a moment, watching them walk away. He put his hand on his chest, attempting to calm his racing heartbeat. He took deep breaths, each one less shaky than the last and straightened his uniform, attempting to erase the feeling of being held in place by the collar.
Top Pot did not have a backroom or any designated private area. While they did have a breakroom and a back room, those were strictly off-limits to customers. However, there was a relatively secluded corner next to the open kitchen, which was exactly where Tweek had taken Trent. From his vantage point, Kenny could observe their interaction: Tweek pointing an accusatory finger at Trent, reprimanding him in a manner reminiscent of scolding a child. Despite being quite a bit shorter than Trent, he seemed to tower over him. Perhaps he would kick him out. Thank God.
Kenny turned back around and started cleaning up the mess he had made, picking up shards and wiping cake and coffee off the previously clean wooden floor. He needed to hurry back to taking orders as he, Tweek, and two others were the only ones on duty that day. Unfortunately, Tweek's twitches prevented him from delivering food to the customers, creating a unique dynamic, where everyone else had to do extra work with serving food. However, there were occasional exceptions, such as when Kenny's arm broke because his (now ex) boyfriend felt like breaking it. Nevertheless, in general, Tweek refrained from bringing food to the customers, which meant that Kenny couldn't just waste time.
With swift, efficient movements, Kenny quickly cleaned up the mess, not caring if every last crumb and drop was removed from the floor. He then went back to taking orders and bringing out food as quickly as possible, moving faster every time the bell above the door rang. As he worked, he couldn't help but try to overhear Tweek's conversation with Trent. The tension in the air was palpable, and his curiosity got the better of him.
He could not hear exactly what Tweek was saying, but he could make out a word that really confused him: "Sorry." As he discreetly peered over his shoulder, he could see Tweek giving Trent a cup of water and a white pill. Then he sent him out to sit in the courtyard. Kenny couldn't stop the confused expression that spread across his face. Was he letting him stay?
His mind was filled with questions as he continued his work, taking orders and serving customers while stealing occasional glances at the bookshelf wall; Trent was on the other side of it. The thought of it sent shivers down his back.
It did not take long for the morning rush to die down completely, not much longer than a few minutes. It seemed the scene Trent caused had scared quite a few lingerers away. Kenny decided to take advantage of the lull to discreetly approach Tweek, careful not to draw attention from the remaining customers.
"Hey, Tweek, can I talk to you?" Kenny asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Tweek nodded, setting aside his notepad and gesturing for Kenny to follow him to a quieter area behind the kitchen counter. "Why didn't you kick him out? And what was that pill?"
Tweek sighed, looking just as exhausted as Kenny felt. "I'm not gonna kick out a paying customer just because he caused a scene." He rubbed the stubble on his chin and blinked slowly. "And the pill is a muscle relaxer for his arm; it was obviously cramping." Naturally, Tweek carried muscle relaxers to help with his twitches.
He ran a twitchy, shaky hand through his disheveled blond hair; it almost looked like a lion's mane around his face. He placed a tray on the counter, right in front of Kenny. On the tray, he placed a dark green and gold coffee pot, two dark green mugs with golden rims, a matching cream pitcher and sugar bowl, as well as a couple of gold-plated teaspoons. "Go bring him this and apologize for bumping into him," Tweek instructed.
Kenny could barely believe his ears. "Are... are you serious?" he asked, his mouth hanging open a little bit and his eyes wide. "He almost assaulted me, and now you want me to go out and be alone with him?" He was really trying to not sound confrontational. Tweek was still his boss, after all. But just the thought of going out there was enough to make his stomach start doing loops.
Tweek looked at him, his eyebrows furrowed with confusion and frustration. "Well, damn, I didn't realize he scared you that much. I guess I can go kick him out if it's such a big deal," he spoke in an exaggerated, almost mocking manner. "Is he, like, your new Rick?"
Of course, Tweek wasn't afraid of Trent; he had just tamed him with his mere presence. But it still shocked Kenny just how uncaring Tweek's response was. How could such an anxiety-riddled person have such little empathy for other people's fears? He even had the audacity to bring Rick up. "No. No, it's okay. I'll go give him this," Kenny said, grabbing onto the gold-plated handles of the beautiful dark green tray. He took a deep breath, trying to gather his courage and making sure he didn't knock anything over on the tray. "Sorry for bothering you, I guess."
Tweek sighed again, his frustration evident in his body language. "Look, Kenny, I'm not dismissing your feelings," he placed a hand on Kenny's upper arm. "But I can't just kick out every customer who causes a scene. It's not good for business." He paused for a moment, looking into Kenny's eyes. "I understand that he scared you, and I'm sorry for that. But please, just go give him the tray and apologize. I'll keep an eye on things from here. We've already kept him waiting; I think he's even fallen asleep."
Kenny nodded, albeit reluctantly. There were few things he wouldn't rather do than go out to Trent. And he knew Tweek was lying; he couldn't possibly keep an eye on them, not from inside. The courtyard was entirely out of view. Nonetheless, as Tweek's hand slid away from his arm, he walked towards the door that led to the small courtyard with the tray in his hands, his steps slow and cautious. He tried to ignore the clinking noises his trembling hands caused the teaspoons to make.
As he approached the door leading to the courtyard, he hesitated. The prospect of facing Trent again made his heart race. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, and pushed open the door, stepping into the serene outdoor space.
The sun was rising, casting warm rays down upon the courtyard's few occupants. The big tree stood tall and proud in the middle of the courtyard, like Tweek's very own Tower of Babel, filtering through the rays of sunlight, as though it had any power against the sun. The tree had completely taken over the small patio, even its roots were sticking out of the ground from between the cracks in the old cobblestone floor. Some roots didn't stick out of the ground; instead, they reshaped the it, making it uneven.
There were very few people out there, only a couple of young women chatting in one corner, and Trent sitting all alone in the other corner, in the shadow of the tree.
As Kenny approached Trent, his heart was pounding in his chest. Trent was slouched in his chair, his eyes closed, and his breathing slow and steady. The contrast between his earlier aggressive behavior and his current peaceful demeanor was disconcerting, to say the least.
Taking a deep breath, Kenny mustered the courage to speak. "Um, excuse me, Trent?" he said tentatively, hoping to awaken him gently. Then he stopped for a moment, maybe he could get away with simply leaving the tray with him. But as he shifted the tray in his hands, the coffee pot and mugs clinked softly.
The sound woke Trent up with a jolt. His eyes quickly fluttered open and immediately scanned his surroundings. His demeanor was tense and defensive, ready to attack, ready to be attacked. But as his eyes landed on Kenny, he seemingly deflated. "Oh, it's just you," he said, his tone softened.
His eyes met Kenny's, making the warm courtyard seem incredibly cold. "I brought your coffee," Kenny said, his voice small and shaky, barely above a whisper. He stepped forward and placed the tray on the round table next to Trent. "And, uh, I'm sorry for bumping into you earlier." He tried to sound apologetic, but he mostly sounded nervous.
Trent's eyes lingered on him, studying him, looking for the bruise. Kenny had covered it that morning; Tweek had called it an eyesore and said that customers wouldn't want to see it.
But just as he was about to walk away, Trent's voice stopped him. "Why don't you stay for a bit? You can make it up to me. Here, have a seat." He kicked a chair out from the other side of the table. "Sit down."
"I, uh, I really need to get back to work," Kenny said cautiously, trying to give a sort of apologetic smile. "Tweek can't bring food out without me." It was only half true, but it was still a valid concern.
Trent's eyes narrowed. "If Tweek wants you back inside, he can come get you. Sit down."
Reluctantly, Kenny sat down, avoiding eye contact at all costs. It wasn't like he had a choice. Trent's back was facing the tree, which separated them from the two women. They had begun chatting again; it was calming, their voices mingled nicely with the sound of the morning birds singing. It created a symphony, a reassurance that they were not alone.
Trent leaned back in his chair and placed his hands on the back of his head. "I'm really sorry." Neither his voice nor his demeanor held a single sign of remorse. "It seems like all our conversations turn into interrogations. Like in Piggy's room." His presence seemed to completely overtake the small courtyard, as though he had mingled with the tree and become one with it, reshaped the cobblestone ground, and filtered through the sunlight. "In fact, I think it's only fair if we switch. So, go ahead. Interrogate me. Take advantage of my sleep-deprived state."
"Why?" Kenny asked, genuinely perplexed. What could Trent possibly gain from being interrogated?
Trent smiled, his teeth on display, and his eyes seemed to be in it this time. He did have pretty teeth—straight and white. He didn't look like a smoker, yet he still wore the scent of cigarettes like cologne. "I just wanna know what you wanna know," he said, his voice sounding happy and inviting. He could probably fool anyone, maybe even Clyde. "I can tell there are a lot of questions in your head, so why don't you try and ask?"
Kenny hesitated. Surely, this was a trap. Surely, Trent was just waiting for him to cross some unknown line in order to justify his own behavior. "Well, uhm, what were you doing all night? Since you clearly didn't sleep," he asked cautiously. He was treading into a minefield, aware that one wrong question could lead to something awful happening. It felt as if he was being held hostage.
Trent frowned a little, a bad sign. "Well, that's a boring question. Oh well, I asked for this," he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee as he spoke. "Let's see, I left Stark's Pond with Bebe and walked her home. Then I went home and tried to sleep, unsuccessfully. Then I got an email from the school with the list of 'assigned freshmen,' you know, for binky-night, so I, of course, checked who mine was." He took a small break from talking, taking a sip from his coffee. He hadn't added any sugar or cream to it.
As he removed the mug from his lips, Trent took a moment to look at its pretty design. The golden rim reflected in his eyes. "I got pretty excited when I recognized her name," he said, looking at Kenny with a knowing smile. Did Kenny know this girl too? "So, I looked at her Instagram a bit and decided to message her. I didn't expect her to be awake, but she pretty much immediately responded. So, we texted back and forth for a bit, then we planned to meet here. We're meeting at 8 am, but for some dumbass reason, I decided to show up early. Too damn sleep-deprived to think straight, I guess." Kenny checked his watch. It was 7:30 am.
His explanation had been pretty straightforward, and not much seemed wrong with it. But Kenny felt like there was something missing, like Trent was leaving out important details. For one, the new array of Band-Aids decorating his fingers raised several questions. "Well, do you know why you couldn't sleep?" Kenny asked, immediately regretting the question as Trent's demeanor changed back to cold and defensive. It was as if Kenny had already crossed a line. "Nevermind! How about another question? Uh, what di-" Kenny tried to ask a new question, but Trent silenced him with a look.
"Don't try to change the question," Trent's voice was low. He leaned down to grab a cigarette pack from a pocket in his jacket and a lighter from another pocket. "I'll answer, just gimme a sec," he said, placing a cigarette between his lips and lighting it before removing and holding it between two fingers. "I couldn't sleep because I kept having nightmares about him." His voice didn't hold the slightest bit of self-pity or shame; he was merely stating a fact.
"I haven't seen him in five years, and I don't know where he is now. I can't even recall his name, yet I still have nightmares about him," Trent's tone held not a single emotion. "I can remember what he looked like down to the smallest birthmark: black hair, tan skin, green eyes, a big tattoo of a black rose snaking its way up his right arm. It's really annoying; I thought I had stopped having nightmares about him, but I guess something happened last night to remind me of his existence."
Kenny had been wrong. He wasn't treading in a minefield; he was just straight-up walking on mines and hoping they wouldn't explode. Now, Trent was looking at him, waiting for another question. "You're afraid of him?" The question sounded unreal. He had never thought anyone could ask Trent that question in real life.
Trent took a slow drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke linger in the air before he finally spoke. His eyes, fixed on Kenny, held not even a single flicker of vulnerability.
"Petrified," he replied, his monotone voice carrying a weight of honesty that resonated with an unexpected rawness. "Even after all these years, the mere thought of him sends shivers down my spine." He exhaled a cloud of smoke, the wisps curling and dancing in the morning sunlight.
He laughed lightly, a small, angry, self-deprecating laugh. "I always told myself that if I ever saw him again, he'd die. By my hands and no one else's. I'd tell myself that there was nothing he could do to me that I couldn't do to him tenfold." He paused, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "But something happened last Thursday. I saw him, and he saw me, and he called out to me by name. He had the same black hair, the same green eyes, the same tan skin," he was whispering now, leaning forward in his chair, as if telling the most riveting story to ever grace Kenny's ears. "And I stood entirely still, like a deer in headlights. I could not move a muscle."
Trent leaned back again, as if he had never spoken. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the women chatting on the other side of the tree. Kenny could barely believe his ears. His heart was still racing, and he was absolutely sure he'd regret his next question. "Well? What happened then?"
Trent laughed lightly and took another drag from his cigarette. "You actually already know; you just heard the story from someone else." He leaned forward and fetched the ashtray from the middle of the table, placing the bud inside. "He had some bandages around his arm that he removed, and he didn't have the black rose tattoo. So, I realized that it wasn't him." He laughed again, cringing at himself. "It was Craig. And I was so damn embarrassed; my whole face went red, and I got all shy."
There was something so very cold about Trent's demeanor that caused Kenny to internally question the validity of his story. But it completely matched Eric's story. They differed only in the interpretation of the situation.
He could feel his stomach drop, his mouth becoming drier, his knee beginning to bounce. "So, you don't love Craig? Not even a little bit?" He had already figured out the answer, but a man can hope.
Trent had lit another cigarette and slumped back into his chair. "He's hot as fuck. But no, I don't love him at all." He leaned his head against the tree and closed his eyes as he spoke. "In a way, Craig represents him; everything I do to Craig, I do to him. He took something from me all those years ago, and now I will take it back, through Craig." He seemed so very nonchalant, so very casual, so very innocent.
As Kenny looked at Trent, desperately searching for any hint of dishonesty, he realized something: this was not the same Trent who had interrogated him against the windowsill in Eric's room.
He didn't want to admit it, but Trent had been right. Kenny's head was filled to the brim with questions. The questions swarmed around his ears like bugs, making it hard to breathe and think. It was as if he could taste the questions on his tongue, ready to spill out like word vomit: Why did you agree to the plan? Why didn't you correct me in the gym? Were you just playing along to make fun of us?
However, one disturbing thought stood much too clear amidst the storm of questions. It was the realization that when faced with a proxy of a past abuser, he and Trent had reacted in the exact same way.
However, one question stood proud and tall in his mind, needing to be asked, needing to be answered. It soared above the rest like a bird, eager to have its existence acknowledged.
What did he do to you?
He couldn't ask that. If Trent did have some line Kenny couldn't cross, that question certainly would. Nevertheless, he could rephrase it. "What're you gonna do to him?" he asked, trying to sound composed. He looked directly at Trent, awaiting his response.
Trent immediately broke eye contact with Kenny, looking off to the side. "You already know that." He swallowed some spit and moved his Band-Aid covered hand up to his face, taking a drag from his cigarette, inadvertently covering his mouth. "And as long as I come out on top, it'll be fine."
He was right, Kenny did know. He knew all too well. But it only served to make his hands clammy and his face feel cold and pale. "But, if Craig... consents, doesn't that defeat the purpose?"
"No," Trent's answer was swift and decisive. He maintained eye contact with Kenny, his expression stern, as if lecturing a child. "It's not about lacking consent, it's about control. Besides, I already promised I wouldn't do anything if Craig didn't want me to. Didn't I, Ken doll?" His voice dripped with syrup and mockery as he smiled at Kenny.
He felt a striking urge to vomit. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. His hands started trembling again. His eyes darted around, looking for something, fuck, anything that wasn't Trent's awful, cold presence. Trent hadn't promised shit; he had threatened them, changed the game and raised the stakes. Trent had ensured his own victory, no matter the outcome. His retribution was all that mattered to him, consequences be damned.
Through a bitter stroke of ironic luck, his eyes landed on something approaching the big tree: a bird gracefully landing in its nest. From the nest, the heads of several baby birds stuck out, eagerly bobbing up and down, their tiny beaks open, hungry for food from their mother. Why? Why must they mock him like this?
The bird began singing, and the surrounding birds joined in. Something was missing from their song. He couldn't quite place it, but there was a sound before that wasn't here now. There was something, which was supposed to mingle with the sounds of the birds singing. It was merely a melody, not a symphony nor a reassurance.
Then it struck him: the missing sound was the sound of the women beyond the tree. They were no longer chatting; they were gone. Kenny realized he was all alone with Trent once again.
He couldn't open his mouth and his throat was closed so tight; he could barely breathe.
Trent spoke up, taking advantage of Kenny's inability to respond. "You know, Tweek apologized to me. He said Clyde had texted him, saying that Craig and I were flirting last night." Perhaps this was Trent's way of calming him down. "He said that Craig's autistic and, therefore, doesn't realize that he's flirting with people. He said he often leads people on unintentionally."
Kenny took deep breaths, desperately attempting to calm himself down. Trent continued speaking, his words cutting through the air. "I thought that was funny because if someone was flirting with my boyfriend, I'd beat that motherfucker to a bloody pulp. But, no, Tweek apologized to me instead because he thought Craig was leading me on. What kind of shitty boyfriend does that?"
Kenny felt a knot forming in his stomach. He desperately wanted to distance himself from Trent, to escape the suffocating presence that he surrounded himself with. Trent continued talking. "Craig must have seriously low standards. Tweek's not even that good-looking. I mean, if he was hot, I'd be able to understand why Craig would be with him. But he's just some guy. Very average at best."
Unable to bear the weight of the conversation any longer, Kenny forced himself to speak up, staring at the ground and taking sneak peeks at Trent. His voice trembled slightly as he asked, "Trent, have you thought about getting professional help?" To his astonishment—or horror, he couldn't quite tell—Trent froze up. For a brief moment, he appeared incredibly small.
"What?" came a single-word response from the other side of the table. It sounded surreal. Not like Trent; there was no way Trent could sound so unsure, so shaky.
"I think," God, how was he supposed to say this? "I think getting revenge is the worst possible way to deal with your trauma." Kenny swallowed some spit. "Maybe, if you got help, you could work through your feelings and not need to hurt anyone, you know?" He really needed to be careful.
"Why?" This was most certainly Trent's voice, angry and hissing, filled with bitterness. "Why should I get help? Why should I waste my life working on healing from other people's actions?!" Trent stood up, approaching Kenny. "It was never my fault! Why should I fix it?!"
He was towering over him, who was subsequently shrinking in on himself. How stupid of him. He should have known he couldn't change Trent's mind. Trent grabbed his collar and yanked him off the chair, his feet almost off the ground. "Why do you always expect me to pay for the mistakes of other people?!" He was yelling, roaring now. His voice carried so much raw emotion that it was hard to recognize. He seemed so vulnerable yet terrifying, like a wild, angry dog.
Kenny was struggling to breathe again. Shit. He couldn't possibly wrap his mind around what had just happened. They had been so calm before. "I-I-" Kenny stammered, struggling to find a fitting response. There was nothing he could say, nothing that was safe. Never before had he wished so deeply that he had never opened his mouth.
Kenny held his breath, praying for some sort of mercy. Then, unexpectedly, Trent's anger seemed to dissipate as quickly as it had erupted. His grip loosened, and he took a step back, releasing Kenny from his grasp. Kenny stumbled backward, catching his balance as he fell back into the chair.
For a brief moment, Trent appeared shocked, as if he couldn't believe what had just happened. Then, just as quickly, his composure returned. He straightened his shirt and ran a hand through his hair, as if trying to regain his cool. Kenny watched in astonished terror as Trent's face reverted to its usual monotone, expressionless state, devoid of any emotion. "I'm sorry. I dunno what came over me. I guess I'm not really myself when I haven't slept," he said, his voice matching his impassive expression. The events that had transpired moments ago seemed to have been completely erased from his being. Only one indication remained: his trembling hands.
Trent returned to his chair, pulled out a cigarette, and started smoking it. They both sat in silence, each trying to calm themselves down. Kenny placed his hand over his chest, attempting to slow down his rapid heartbeat. He needed to regain his composure and think clearly. The situation felt overwhelming, and his mind was foggy, making it difficult to see things clearly. He took deep breaths, trying to steady himself and regain control.
Trent finished his cigarette and placed it in the ashtray, his hand trembling. He seemed determined to regain some sense of control by resuming the conversation. "Bebe's moved out of her parents' house; she's my neighbor now," he said, his voice still monotone. "I walked her home last night, and we had a long talk. But I realized something." He reached for another cigarette, his shaking fingers fumbling with the Band-Aids that covered them. "Every conversation I have always ends up being about you," Trent continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "It always comes back to you. They're all so fucking worried."
Trent took another drag from his cigarette, the inhale deep and seemingly calming, as though he was trying to mask something. His hands were no longer shaking as his monotone voice carried on. "Anyway, back to Bebe," he said. "I joked that she had shitty taste in men because she's dating that chubby guy, Clyde. And you know what she said? She said that at least she has better taste than you."
Kenny's breath hitched; he knew what was coming next. Why? Why would she tell him about that? Trent proceeded. "Of course, I asked her what she meant, because as far as I knew, you were just some slut." Trent was not looking at him; he was looking anywhere else as he spoke. "She said that you had a boyfriend in sophomore year, who was and is just the fucking worst. I think his name was Rick or something, and he was a senior." How much did Trent know?
No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't just sit quietly the entire time. "What did she tell you?" He sounded so very passive.
Trent finally turned his gaze toward Kenny, his expression unreadable. "She told me that this Rick guy treated you like shit. That he was possessive and controlling and yelled at you constantly, even in public. That he even broke your arm once. Is that true?"
This sucked, so badly. He had never expected Bebe to share such intimate details with Trent, and now he was forced to confront his past in the most uncomfortable way.
Kenny's voice was barely a whisper as he responded, "Fuck that guy." As he spoke, the fact stood undeniably clear to him: Trent reminded him of Rick, in every way. There was only one major difference between them - at least Trent had a cool backstory, while Rick was just born that way unless you counted all the times when Rick got beaten up by his older brother. But that was normal sibling behavior. A rite of passage. Maybe Tweek was right. Maybe Trent was his new Rick.
Trent's expression remained unchanged; his eyes fixed on Kenny as if studying his reaction. The tension between them was palpable. Kenny could feel his own heart pounding in his chest, his palms sweating as he tried to steady himself.
Trent's voice broke the silence. He sounded strained. "Bebe said Rick's still around. She mentioned that he still shows up to harass you when you're walking alone. She noticed your constant need to be surrounded by other people. Like how you have Cartman drive you to school every morning and Kyle drive you home afterward. It's likely the same reason he had to pick you up to go swimming last night. And Tweek walks you home from work. I'll bet he drove you home last night too."
Kenny's breath hitched again. How did Trent find out about all of this? How did he convince Bebe to tell him? He felt so exposed as if his carefully constructed defenses had been shattered in an instant. Trent was carelessly ripping open old wounds and acting like it didn't even matter. His mind raced, trying to comprehend the implications of Trent's words.
"I think it's pretty interesting," Trent continued. If this was some attempt at provocation, it was most certainly working. "You seem so strong when others are around, and yet you're so terrified that you can't even walk home alone. Oh well, at least everyone is on your side." He took a long pause, putting the remains of his cigarette in the ashtray. "In fact, according to Bebe, she and Craig once tried to convince Tweek to go kick Rick's ass. But nothing came of it because Tweek is an asshole with no sense of loyalty."
Kenny's mind raced, desperately searching for a way to regain control of himself. He needed to confront Trent, to let him know that his past was absolutely none of his business. But the fear of provoking another outburst from Trent, one that mirrored Rick's behavior, kept him on edge. Instead, he opted to ask a seemingly non-confrontational question. "Why are you bringing this up?"
Trent leaned back in his chair. "I just have a question to ask about him," he said, his façade of monotony gone, replaced by a twisted mix of anger and malice. "Do you not want revenge? Do you not want him to pay?" His tone shifted once again, his voice becoming innocent and juvenile. "I'll beat him up if you want. You just say the word and I'll fucking mangle him for you." It became clear that Trent had only brought up Kenny's past to prove a point about revenge.
Of course, he wanted revenge. Of course, he wanted that prick to pay for his own actions. Who wouldn't? "No," he answered quickly. There was absolutely no way he would consider getting Trent to help him out. He would sound like a hypocrite if he said yes. "No, thank you. Like I said, it's not a good idea." He could feel little pearls of sweat starting to form on his forehead. He had not been particularly careful with this response. Hopefully, Trent wouldn't have another outburst. Maybe he could explain his train of thought. "It... it just continues the cycle, you know, that whole cycle of abuse thing that people always talk about."
"Why should that be your responsibility?" came a tired, almost sad response from Trent. He was looking at the ground, his face held a strange pondering look, his hands folded together. He appeared unreasonably soft. "He was the one who hurt you in the first place. And I don't care how you spin it. It was not your fault; it was his, and he should be the one to pay. Instead, you're just inconveniencing yourself and those who care about you."
Well, at least he wasn't angry.
"It's pretty convenient, actually," Kenny said, looking at the ground. "I get a ride to and from school every day; it's great." He sounded so stupidly sheepish.
He could practically hear Trent roll his eyes. "Yeah, for you," he spoke. "But do you think it's convenient for Cartman to wake up early just to pick you up? Is it convenient that Kyle gets home late because he had to drive you home? I can answer that: no. Not to mention it's pretty damn unsustainable. All it takes is for one of them to break an arm, and then suddenly your little coping mechanism is out the window." He looked up, making eye contact with Kenny. "Bebe said that Rick even broke Cartman's nose last year."
A wave of shame washed over Kenny; Trent's words had struck a chord. He had never quite considered how this impacted others. He had even ignored that he was putting them in harm's way.
"You don't know anything about Rick," his voice was thick as he spoke. "You don't know what he's willing to do. Please don't confront him; you'll just regret it."
The plea held a sense of desperation. He didn't want Trent to face Rick, not just for his own safety, but also because he feared the consequences it could have for Trent himself. Kenny had seen firsthand the depths of Rick's cruelty, and he didn't want anyone else to suffer the same thing, not even Trent. No matter what Trent did or threatened to do, there was no way Kenny would want to see him floating in Stark's Pond, being watched by his lifeless eyes.
There was a brief moment of silence. The weight of the situation hung heavily in the air, and Kenny uncomfortably awaited Trent's response, unsure of how he would react. Even the birds, in the protective embrace of the big tree, held their breath. Finally, Trent broke the silence with a simple word, "Okay." His entire presence had completely deflated. Gone was his previous bravado, replaced with an unreadable, yet kind of upset expression. At least he wasn't angry. "I'll lay off. But the offer still stands."
Trent was probably judging him. Surely, he was wondering how he had become so weak that he could not even face some guy. Surely, he was wondering what Rick could have possibly done to keep everyone on edge. Surely, he was wondering why he was even wasting his time conversing with some slut who couldn't even walk home alone.
It took several long seconds of silence before anyone spoke. "I'm sure Cartman wore that broken nose like a badge of honor," Trent's voice was so quiet that Kenny barely heard it. "He probably thought he was so cool because he got it for your sake. I can get behind that; it is pretty cool. That Rick guy must be damn scary if he's able to make even you afraid. So, I'm impressed that Cartman was willing to come into punching distance of him."
Well, that response was certainly… unexpected. Unpredictable as always. Good job, Trent.
"Heh, yeah. Cartman is pretty dumb," Kenny replied, scratching the back of his neck. "He really has no sense of self-preservation."
Trent chuckled a little, a small, pleasant smile on his face. "It takes a special kind of stupid to face someone like Rick," he said, completely ignoring his previous offer to beat Rick up. Then his face twisted, the smile disappearing. Any sense of joy vanished, replaced by a small hint of something pondering, almost shameful in nature. "...or me."
Shit. Shit. "No, no. You're not like Rick. You're not like him at all," Kenny blurted out, his words rushed and desperate. It was such an obvious lie, such a feeble attempt to prevent Trent from getting angry again.
"When I threatened you in Cartman's room, did that remind you of him?" Trent seemed to shrink as if disappearing into his chair. The transformation was unsettling, as if he had been replaced by a different person. "Did my angry outburst earlier remind you of him too?"
"No! No, not at all." The words came out in a rush, his voice tinged with nervousness. He attempted to reassure Trent, fearing the repercussions of speaking the truth. He didn't want to provoke another outburst. Searching for the right words, he continued, "And it's not like you've even done anything. Like, yeah, you punch-ished me in the face, but that's not anything compared to what Rick's done."
The words hung in the air like a suffocating fog. Bringing up the punch was evidently a bad idea, as it seemed to have the opposite effect. Trent turned to look away, his demeanor closing off. "My freshman's coming soon; You should leave. I'm done talking."
He didn't need to be told twice; as soon as those words left Trent's mouth, Kenny stood up, grabbed the empty tray, and made his way towards the courtyard's exit. He had the decency to not run, but even that was a struggle. Just before he opened the door, he noticed the loud chorus of birdsong filling the air. This time, it felt like the birds were congratulating him. However, Kenny couldn't find much to celebrate. The conversation had revolved around everything and nothing simultaneously; they had achieved nothing and reached no agreement.
As he opened the door and was about to leave, he turned around, shooting one last glance at Trent, who was still sitting at the table. A large crow had landed right next to him and was giving him a gift: a necklace with a butterfly pendant. Trent really had a way of doing the exact opposite of what one would expect; there was truly no end to this man's sense of unpredictability. What kind of person receives gifts from crows? Not only was the sight unexpected, but it also carried a sense of gentleness that didn't seem the slightest bit characteristic of Trent.
He quickly walked through the door, making his way through the café and entering the breakroom. He needed to properly calm down before starting up again. He found his phone, which he usually kept in the breakroom when working, hoping for a distraction. He had 2 missed calls from Stan, 6 from Kyle, and 10+ from Eric. Every single one was from the middle of the night.
As he dialed Eric's number, he couldn't help but wonder: what the hell happened last night?
The phone rang once, twice, thrice, and then it was picked up. Eric's voice was on the other end, thick with sleep and slight confusion. "Hello? Who's this?"
"Hello yourself. Why'd you call so many times?" Kenny didn't mean to sound so irritated. When would that idiot learn about texting?
"Kenny!" Eric's voice perked up with recognition. "Dude, I've got awful news!"
"What? What happened? "
"The party and also the deadline," Eric paused for a moment, almost contemplating whether to tell him or not. "The party has been moved to this Friday because of binky-night. We only have one week left."