Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was 8 P.M., May 5^th on a Friday. In fact, it was the Friday before graduation. Just me, him, and a couple of beers we stole out of the fridge. Craig loved stargazing, and though I couldn’t bring myself to care much about blazing fire balls that lie eons away, I endured it—enjoyed it, even.

But it felt different that night. Sure, we laughed and awkwardly bumped knees on the roof top of his house, but something clogged the air. I was sure it wasn’t just my paranoia or the Adderall talking. And then it hit like a freight train.

“We should talk.” Craig said, monotonous voice strangely filled with grief.

I gulped and adverted my eyes, knowing the inevitable was coming. Still, I deflected.

“We are talking. We’re talking about stars, right? And aliens.” My voice deceived me. Of course it did. I sounded like a wounded puppy.

Yet, he smiled at me. The kind of smile you give someone at a funeral. The kind of smile that says “sorry for your loss” even though those words won’t change anything.

“No, it’s about us.” Craig gulps, eyes trained to stay focused despite the uncomfortable atmosphere. “I think we both know this won’t work, Tweek.”

He was right. Oh, I hated how he was right. Long distance and Craig Tucker don’t belong in the same sentence. He could barely hold a conversation with someone ten feet in front of him, let alone two hours away. Yet, the words stabbed like warm water on frostbit hands. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. It was pathetic, really.

“I care for you but uh--,” Craig trailed, never the conversationalist, “You’re pretty high maintenance and high-strung. I can’t provide for you all the way in Denver.”

High, high, high.

Craig’s choice of words almost made me laugh. I’m high in every literal interpretation of the word. Staging an intervention would eradicate my existence, probably.

“You have better things to worry about than me, Craig.” I said, perhaps a little meeker than I would like to admit.

And then he looked at me with those half-lidded blue eyes—a monsoon of pity and a whirlpool of unspoken emotions. I was truly enthralled at the sight. Had it not been for the poor circumstances, I would’ve kissed him.

I don’t remember much after that. The memory stops right around there, and I’m kind of glad for that. Should I remember how pitifully I begged, I might make myself sick. It’s been a while now. And yet, every time I snort a handful of whatever I can find, he’s all I can think of.

Would he even recognize me anymore? I doubt it. I can barely recognize myself, even when I’m sober. If you struggle with addiction, it’s best to just avoid mirrors because you won’t like what you see. I’m terrified of myself.

To be fair, working 4 A.M. shifts every day at a coffee shop on top of only a few hours of sleep certainly takes a tolls on the body. Add drug addiction into the mix and you’re certain to resemble a child from the Victorian era.

My life is quite simple, really. In comparison to my egregious classmates, my life’s about as interesting as a divorced librarian. I run the coffee shop from 4 AM to 5 PM; I buy the necessities from the grocery store and the alleyway next to it; then I go home and crash until the next morning. With such a tight schedule, you can only imagine my social life and eating habits. I mean, seriously, who has time to mingle when you have a whole pack of coke to snort before midnight?

I’d like to say that I hide my addiction pretty well, but I’d be lying. I think everyone knows. Maybe that’s just the paranoia talking but I can never truly tell, and there’s no one in my life to tell me otherwise.

Sometimes I think about how life could’ve been better if I went to college. I wonder if Craig and I would still be together. I wonder what my major would be and if I would have friends and if my dorm room would have enough storage for all my Legos.

But when I start wondering a little too much, a hand full of pills is usually enough to drown out the possibilities and likelihoods. The devil on my shoulder has beat the angel on my other shoulder to death at this point. I’m not hopeful anymore—not that I ever really was to begin with.

You see, I didn’t want to be addicted to drugs. However, when your parents force you to take a mental health medication cocktail every day since birth, it’s hard not to chase something stronger. My parents have always enabled me. They give me my checks cash because they know it’s easier that way. They smile at me when I’m so high that my senses are numbed. They like that I’m addicted. I’m dependent. I’m forever their eight-year old son on Adderall.

And though I’d like to be spiteful and resent them for enabling me, I can’t seem to live my life without them by my side. It’s at this point now that I should realize the tabletops are clean. I’ve been scrubbing them for ten minutes now. People are probably gawking at me from the windows. My parents are surely watching me on camera. I’m always hyper aware, except when I’m not.

At least the tables are clean. They were probably already spotless before I started scrubbing but who cares? I can’t bring myself to remember.

My phone chimes but I’m not too eager to respond. I already have a pretty good indication of who it is. Richard Tweak’s texts are persistent.

So instead of wasting my time checking in with my father, I wash my hands for five minutes in the bathroom. It’s the beginning of summer now. Colleges are letting out for break. Denver isn’t far from South Park. Surely I’ll be faced with the uncomfortable familiarity of former classmates, who will likely remind me of how terrible I look. But it’ll be guised under nicer terminology. “You look different” and “you’ve changed” or my favorite “time really flies by.” It’s laughable how obvious people are. Colorado’s not exactly known for its hospitality.

Like the time Wendy Testaburger walked in a few months post-graduation. I was riding a three-day long high, eyes barely open and hallucinating. But I remember the interaction all too well.

She walked in, carrying her Tory Burch purse and the newest iPhone and leaned against the counter.

“Is everything okay, Tweek? Are you handling the breakup well?” Her voice carried loud enough to my numbed eardrums. I just remember laughing and running a hand through my unkept hair.

“Are you always gonna be this much of a bitch or what?” I said, voice slurred and light. It was always softer when I was high.

She scoffed and tossed her glossy black hair over her shoulder.

“Get a grip! You’re about as sad as the rest of this goddamn town! And it’s so unfortunate!” She replied, louder than my ears really appreciated.

But I couldn’t help but wonder why she said that. It’s so unfortunate. As if she had any expectations of me. I remember my shoulders suddenly feeling a hundred times heavier, and as I took her order, I held back the urge to vomit. How unfortunate. How despicable. How disgusting.

I wish I could say her words brought me back to reality, but it was short lived. Drugs can fix pretty much anything, and sadness is no exception to that rule. Still, when I’m reminded of the interaction, my heart aches. It would make its way around town—hell, probably all the way to Denver too. Tweek Tweak has lost his goddamn mind and would rather kill himself than admit he has a problem.

But it isn’t all bad. There’s one person that totally understands where I’m coming from: Kenny McCormick. Though Kenny isn’t quite satisfied with being an addict. If anything, he’s deeply ashamed of it. Yet, I enable him to keep going so I’m not in this shit alone. And as shitty as that makes me feel, he obliges. In many ways, we endorse one another to take it further. I wouldn’t exactly call him my friend but at least I can be honest with him. At least he doesn’t have expectations of me like Wendy apparently does. But who cares about Wendy and Craig when you’ve got a needle in your arm?

That’s Kenny’s preferred method but I’d rather smoke or snort. Needles leave behind tracks, and tracks are a constant reminder of how much of a fuck up you are. Still, I don’t complain when Kenny passes me the needle, nor do I bother asking if it’s clean. I just shoot up and we sit there and laugh. We laugh like friends laugh. We laugh like something’s funny. We laugh like we aren’t two pieces of washed up shit that ended up just like our parents.

The difference between Kenny and I is that he’s still an active member of society despite his addiction. Multiple times he’s offered to take me along to Denver.

“C’mon, Tweek. It’ll be fun. Clyde’s throwing a party and I’m sure you’ll have a good time.” He says slyly. It’s not an invitation so much as solicitation. He tries to sway me with the promise of drugs and booze—and Craig Tucker. But I’m quick to decline every time.

“Why drive to Denver when I can snort right here?” I say cockily, a line already carefully constructed on the table.

“That’s not the point though.” He frowns and leans closer. “You should socialize. Get in touch with everyone again. You know they worry about you, right?”

That’s the last thing I want to be reminded of: everyone’s expectations. They expect me to show. They expect me to look better. They expect me to have moved on. How could I possibly meet with them when I’ve accomplished none of those things? But I don’t say this out loud.

“I’m not going so stop asking!” I yell, gritting my teeth. The rolled up dollar bill tempts me, and I fall victim to it every time.

Kenny knows not to bring it up again. He knows I won’t go, too enamored with my own selfish desires to really provide relief for the people who truly care. I’ve stopped being empathetic to other people’s worries.

I go home that night, and Kenny goes to Denver. I’m ashamed to admit how I lurk on social media. I see the pictures. I see the videos. I see Craig Tucker in the background and suddenly I feel sick. He looks good—better than I remember. I scout out all of his changes like an obsessed teenage girl. He’s got an eyebrow piercing now. His hair is shorter. He finally got his bottom braces off.

It’s funny how everyone around me has changed for the better. Yet, I look like a shell of the person I once was. I’m a staggering 118 pounds. My eye bags are a brilliant violet that resemble bruises. My teeth are still stained yellow from my caffeine addiction. I could be the poster child for cocaine addiction. Sort of like Amanda Bynes in a way. It’s just so obvious that I might as well write ‘crackhead’ on my forehead in permanent marker.

I stare at the picture of Craig for god knows how long. And I’m more than ashamed to admit how my body still responds the same way. I quiver, I blush, I get a hard-on. It’s sick. I make myself sick literally. I vomit and I’m not too surprised to see blood. It’s only natural when you consume coke more than food.

I go to bed and ride out my high while Craig Tucker parties with his friends. I reminisce about old times while Kenny brings up how bad off I am. I drift off while Craig texts my phone. I ignore the buzzing and chop it up to Richard Tweak being an asshole at one in the morning. I’m so unbelievably ashamed. And yet, I fall asleep with the intent to do the same thing tomorrow.

Chapter Text

I don’t remember where I am. The lights are low, there’s hoards of people, and plenty of faces I unfortunately recognize. I gulp at the sight of Kyle Broflovski. If he’s here, I know Cartman isn’t far behind. I try to look for an exit, but I fall short of finding it. Instead, amid my struggles, I run chest first into someone.

No. Not just anyone. God I wish it were anyone else.

His glare bores holes into my thin body, and I can feel his scrutiny past the rose-colored glasses. He isn’t happy to see me. He’s disgusted. I swallow hard and try to talk, but Craig bursts into laughter and outs me to the world.

“You look fucking awful! God, I’m glad I got rid of you when I did!” He says as if he’s proud.

My chest burns. Tears sting my cheeks, and I still can’t find the damn exit. From afar, I can hear Wendy’s words echo in my mind:

It’s so unfortunate!

And then I wake up, hyperventilating and covered in sweat. I’m relieved it was only a dream, knowing Craig hasn’t seen me in my horrid condition. My heart rate slows over the course of a few minutes, tears still falling down my cheeks. I could never face him again. Not like this. It was certainly a dream now, but it could definitely become a reality, especially with summer break right around the corner.

I remind myself to breathe, and I hopelessly grab my phone for a distraction. There’s the tens of unread messages from my father, reminding me of my duties for the morning. As if I haven’t done the same thing every day for the past eight years. The clock reads 2 A.M., which isn’t horrible. An additional two hours of sleep makes me feel like sleeping beauty.

Just as I go to power my phone off, my eyes dart to an unread message from a hidden number. My mind races. Is it the FBI? A hit man? My drug dealer? I’m anxious to open it, but my instincts tell me to do it anyways. It could be urgent. As my finger trembles, I press the message and nearly choke on my spit.

It’s one word, but it’s one word too many. I haven’t changed his contact information. His photo is still there. The cute pet name is still there. It’s like everything stayed just as I left it, as if an entire two years hadn’t went by.

I read the message countless times, trying to wrap my mind around it in every way possible. It was a mistake. He’s drunk. He’s doing it as a joke to make fun of me. Though I can’t find rationality in any of those explanations. My mind trails off to Kenny, remembering the earlier conversation. Was he worried? Had Kenny told him everything?

Of course not! Kenny and Craig despise each other! Or at least they did in high school. But then again, it isn’t high school anymore, and it hasn’t been for some time now. I type a thousand responses but delete them every time. My finger hovers over the send button for at least ten minutes, but I never go through with it. How could I respond to such a vague message with no explanation? Does he even know me at all? Doesn’t he realize I freak out over ambiguity?

Hey

That’s all the goddamn thing says. His contact photo taunts me, encouraging me to respond. The photo is so old that is doesn’t even resemble the current Craig. It’s clearly a relic of the past. Past Craig would’ve wanted me to respond, but current Craig will just ridicule whatever I say.

It’s 3 A.M. when I close my phone and try to sleep. Somehow I manage, albeit I don’t know how. Maybe it’s the false sense of security the message provides me. It’s nowhere near the amount of comfort Craig’s embrace once gave me but after a couple of years of silence, a vague message feels like the most wonderful thing in the world. It will be there when I wake up. Maybe by then I can find the words to form a response.

Though comforting sleep only lasts for so long when you have work the following hour. I groan and turn off my alarm, stare at the message again, and then make my way to work. I don’t bother with my appearance. Not that I ever did to begin with. The working class don’t care about the appearance of the barista, so long as the coffee is good.

I guess that’s one thing I pride myself on: I can make damn good coffee. I remember even as a child, Craig insisted he hated coffee. He’d sputter and crinkle his face even at the smell of it.

“I told you, I hate coffee. Let’s get hot cocoa instead.” His awkward prepubescent voice said.

I smiled and stuck my tongue out, pouring a cup of steaming joe into a mug, not before adding a bunch of syrups and creamers.

“That’s because you haven’t had my coffee. You’ll love it, dude! I promise!” I assured him, sliding him the hot cup.

I’ll never forget the look on his face as he took the first hesitant sip, smacking his lips together to savor the taste.

“I guess I do like coffee.” He said with a shrug, downing the whole thing in only a few minutes.

The memory makes me smile as I wait for my parents’ car to pull up in front of the shitty apartment I live in. I don’t have the luxury of owning a vehicle, but my parents obviously don’t mind picking me up at the crack of dawn. Again, they parade me around like I’m a circus freak who can’t do anything for himself, so it’s totally expected.

The sleek Honda rolls up and I don’t hesitate to climb in. I’m all too aware of the small bag of crushed meth in my pocket as my mom greets me with a smile. It’s all I can focus on as they drive me a mile or so to the shop.

“Did you sleep well, Tweek? Are your new meds helping with your insomnia?” My mother says in that doting voice.

“We can ask the doctor to write you a stronger prescription. After all, your sleep is so valuable to us, Tweek.” My father adds, though I didn’t even respond to my mom’s questions.

I just nod, knowing whatever answer I give them will still result in more prescribed medication. I have a whole drawer full at this point, but it’s apparently not enough. The car ride is filled with conversations that involve me, but I can never get a word in. Everything is already decided for me. I just nod and they do the rest. It’s always been this way.

I remember vocalizing my concerns when I was a kid. I would freak out on my parents and try to put my opinions out there, but they were shot down every time. I’ve learned to be compliant, to be seen but not heard.

I’m thankful that Saturday mornings are slow. Besides the occasional mom of two, there’s not many customers that stop by. I perk up at the sight of any person walking near the entrance, shoulders hunched and eyes bloodshot. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say business has been slower due to my off-putting appearance. I grimace at my reflection in the stainless-steel kettle and advert my gaze before I can scrutinize myself further.

My ears tune in to a familiar chime that isn’t the doorbell. Normally, I wouldn’t be concerned with notifications on my phone. However, knowing now that it could be Craig terrifies me. I resist the gnawing urge to turn the screen on and prepare another pot of decaf. The smell of coffee without caffeine makes me slightly nauseous. I don’t know how people can stand to drink the shit. Then again, I shoot up heroine with Kenny McCormick so I shouldn’t be one to judge.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts when I hear the shop door open, the annoying bell clanking awkwardly as the customer waddles in. It doesn’t take me long to recognize the boisterous personality of Butters Stotch. What a name on that guy; his parents must’ve had a bet with my own on who could come up with a shittier name.

He smiles cheerfully and leans against the counter, eyeing the menu like there isn’t only ten options to choose from. He hadn’t changed much since high school, blue doe eyes filled with naivety and brilliant blonde hair that strains the eyes. I’m certain he goes about life as if high school never ended. Though I can’t necessarily blame him, being that his parents refused to let him go to college.

“Well, hey there, fella. Do you mind makin’ me one of those pumpkin swirly drinks?” He asks, head slightly tilted.

He knows that isn’t on the menu, yet he asks anyway. I do little to actually decline the request though. Confrontation is the last thing I want from anyone, even Butters.

“A pumpkin spice latte?” I respond, brows slightly raised. “Yeah, it’s um, $5.37.”

He fiddles with his wallet and pulls out a ten-dollar bill, sliding it across the counter like he’s negotiating with a mafia boss.

“Keep the change! You make the best coffee, so it’s really the least I can do.” He smiles sheepishly, twiddling his thumbs.

I just smile and slip the ten into the cash drawer. Butters is a nice guy, albeit a little on the weird side. Kenny seemed to like him enough, despite the stark difference between the two. I focus my attention on the latte, expelling a bit of air through my nose in amusement. Who the hell orders a pumpkin spice latte in May? Butters Stotch, apparently.

He hums an upbeat tune and taps his fingers rhythmically against the granite countertop. I say nothing as I slide the latte to him, my eyes too tired to really fabricate interest in whatever he has going on.

“Did you know summer break started today? Seems like everybody’s back in down, like old times! Ain’t that exciting?” Butters gleams, stealing a sip from the hot beverage.

And suddenly the world shifts. I feel imbalanced on my feet and my palms feel sweaty. Perhaps it’s the excess caffeine or the meth causing such a visceral reaction to a simple statement. I lean forward, eye fixated and tinted with interest.

“Who’s here? Who came back? I need to know—you know, for business purposes… obviously.” I almost groan at how eager I sound. But Butters doesn’t seem to mind.

“Well, there’s Bebe, Wendy, Clyde, Stan….” He trails, making me lose interest. But then he hesitates and looks down at his drink. “And uh, Craig too.”

I hold my breath as he verbalizes the name. I suddenly remember the message I ignored the previous day and the possible new message sent just half an hour prior. I no longer want to talk to Butters. All of a sudden, I just want to check my phone and hyper fixate on the hypotheticals.

I nod and give him the best smile I can muster, hands gripping the edge of the counter.

“Thanks for letting me know. Have a good day.” I articulate, taking my tone into account.

He pats my shoulder and grins, “Good to see ya, buddy!”

I’m glad to see him go, despite his kindness. I grab my phone like my life depends on it and flick the screen on. I feel let down as I spot a message from my father and nothing from Craig. My hand urges me to throw my phone against the wall, but I’m much too worrisome to do something so careless.

Instead, I unload a few boxes of new inventory, just as Richard Tweak instructed. I’m thankful for the distraction but equally disappointed that I follow orders so willingly. I feel mortally wounded at the prospect, but it’s nothing a little meth can’t help. I snort a bit and suddenly everything is wonderful again. Life isn’t so bitter. Nothing matters except me and the boxes I need to unload.

Kenny is quick to contact me after my shift. He knows my schedule like the back of his hand; whether or not that’s a good thing, I’m unsure.

“Party at mine on Saturday,” said one message, followed by, “Don’t decline.”

I can almost feel the dread sinking into me: a slow, inky, unavoidable conundrum. As I walk home, I ponder over the possibilities. Who would be there? Would anyone recognize me? Is Kenny out of his goddamn mind? Did he send Butters to the shop to purposely make me hopeful?

Whatever the case, I know I won’t go. He tells me not to decline, but I am my own person. I can make my own decision, despite what my track record indicates. Sure, I let my parents convince the doctors that I’m a lunatic but going to a party at Kenny’s place is where I draw the line. That’s pathetic.

When I wander into my house, only meth in my blood stream, I feel like I’m on the verge of death. Perhaps I wouldn’t be in such a situation, had I been blissfully unaware of the unfortunate return of my entire graduating class. I force myself to eat saltines and some water, despite the urge to vomit with every chew. It’s like my brain has to give my body a pep talk in order to eat.

I munch on the salty cracker and respond to Kenny’s message after pondering over it for entirely too long.

“Can’t. I have work that day.” I respond, rather cut-throat but I’ve never been one to appease my friends.

“Don’t give me that crap, Tweek. I know you get off at five.” He shoots back immediately.

“I’m not coming, so just drop it.”

“Craig thinks you’re dead.”

I choke on my cracker and throw my phone into the sink. I don’t have time to process the message before my body responds. I expel every cracker I consumed and then some into the kitchen trash can. I feel like passing out—or passing away, whichever comes first. Craig thinks I’m what?

I frantically grasp at my phone and open the message Craig sent me the day prior. If he really thought I was dead, would he just say ‘hey’? Craig was always terrible at communicating but surely he’d express a little more concern than that. I obviously don’t want him to think I’m dead. That’s not true, and it isn’t fair for him not to know. Kenny is too much of an asshole to ease his worries, it seems. So, my fingers tremble over the keyboard. What do you say to your ex that thinks you’re dead?

Hi

I can’t believe I sent that. I feel sick again, except this time there’s nothing I can vomit, so I’m stuck with the perpetual feeling of nausea. I don’t expect him to reply any time soon, let alone open the message. He’s clearly got better things to do than waiting for me to respond.

But I’m wrong. I’m so very wrong.

“You’re not dead.” It’s phrased like a question but written like a statement. Why the fuck am I analyzing a three word sentence?

“Might as well be.” I respond.

It’s cold, curt, and to the point. I pray to an imaginary god that he takes the hint and doesn’t reply. But I’m wrong yet again. It’s probably for the best that I don’t buy a lottery ticket, given my shit luck as of late.

“Okay.” He says, perhaps as cold as my response.

I didn’t want to play this back-and-forth nonsense with him. If it was a competition of who could be the most apathetic, Craig would win every time, so it’s pointless for me to even try. I don’t respond. My finger hovers over the block button, but I can’t bring myself to press it. Instead, I stare at his contact photo and then grow a decent size pair of balls and text Kenny back.

“Saturday. What time?”

Chapter Text

I can’t sleep. Not when Craig’s messages keep playing repeatedly in my mind. Not when I actually agreed to go to Kenny’s party, which I know Craig will be at. I hate myself even more than before, knowing I’ve dug myself a hole that I can’t get out of. I’m aware I have work in a measly four hours, and though I have the urge to snort something, my legs are too tired to allow me to.

Instead, I reach over to the nightstand and retrieve my half-empty pack of Marlboro Reds. Craig started me on this habit. Not intentionally, of course, but he always smelled like cigarettes. It was only natural that I started smoking to feel like he was close by. The smell sticks, even when the person doesn’t.

I feel at ease once I take a long drag. I’m reminded of the first time I caught him smoking, behind the bleachers in tenth grade. I was a lot more on edge back then if you can believe that.

“Craig? W-What the fuck man!” I stuttered. “You shouldn’t smoke! You’ll… get cancer and die!”

He huffed and didn’t bother to hide the stick of tobacco, rolling it between his index and middle finger, “I won’t get cancer and die, Tweek.”

“Put it out before you get caught, dude!” I stressed, looking over my shoulder.

He grabbed my shirt and pulled me completely behind the bleachers, eyeing me down like I was a piece of raw meat. The cigarette was forgotten in that moment, even though the smell was overwhelming. His face inched closer, and he let out some pent-up smoke out through his nose. 

“This is like my coffee. I don’t take your coffee; you don’t take my cigarettes.” He said calmly.

Though I felt the urge to snatch the cigarette from his hand and stomp it into the dirt, I didn’t. We both had our own addiction—coffee and cigarettes. It was cute, almost. We were different from everyone else, strange to outsiders. But we really got each other, and that’s all that mattered. Craig had his cigarettes. I had my coffee.

I almost fall asleep at the memory, but I’m brought back to reality when the long ash falls onto my arm and burns me. I’m now reminded that I have more than just a coffee addiction. I’ve picked up more addictions than I can list on one hand. Craig might still have his cigarettes, but now I’ve got a laundry list of bad habits. It wasn’t the same as it was. I put the cigarette out and manage to fall asleep, disappointed at the bittersweet revelation but satisfied at the smell of smoke and ash.

Work is uneventful, despite my father’s weekly appearance. Friday was payroll day, which meant I got my cash check in a white envelope. It’s smacked full of twenty dollar bills, only furthering my point that my parents are very aware of my addiction. A normal boss would pay in hundreds if cash at all. But I don’t complain. I take the envelope and shove it into my apron without bothering to count it. I know how much is in it.

“Tweek, you make your mother and I proud. You run our business so well.” Richard says with a helping hand on my shoulder. I don’t appreciate the light squeeze that follows.

“Can mom close on Saturday?” I say hurriedly, like I don’t want him to process the words.

He lets out a surprised laugh, “Now son, why would you need your mother to do that?”

I inhale sharply, almost painfully, “My friends are going to be in town, and they wanted to hang out Saturday night.”

I feel my father’s gaze set upon me. It’s not one of anger, nor happiness. It’s more along the lines of surprise and disappointment.

“Son,” He starts, “You should learn that business is more important than friends.”

“My depression has been really bad lately. I thought maybe—just maybe—going out would help? Just a little?” I say weakly, lying through my teeth. I know it’s my only way out.

He sighs deeply and knocks against the counter a few times before nodding. I know his hands are tied at this point. He has to play into the act of a doting father or else I could completely decimate his reputation.

“Just this one time. Whatever makes my boy happier.” He smiles tightly, giving my hair a ruffle before making his way to the back of the shop to check the inventory.

I feel a sudden weight lift from my shoulders. For once, I feel relief. I don’t think any amount of medication, nor drug, could give me this level of satisfaction. The rest of the shift feels easy. I feel free.

Saturday evening, I leave the shop in my mother’s hands. Unlike Richard, my mom actually seems grateful that I have plans. Her smile feels genuine, and though I don’t care for my parents, I have some semblance of love for my mother. She kisses my cheek and slips a fifty-dollar bill into my pocket.

“Just in case.” She whispers into my ear. And then I leave.

No one really provides a dress code for a house party. I sift through my closet and try on about thirty things. Pants were always easy: black straight leg. However, shirts are the bane of my existence. I usually opt for button downs, but that seems too formal. I decide on a green oversized sweater to hide my emaciated figure. It does little to hide anything, but it’s better than nothing. I layer it with a white collared shirt underneath. I look like an English school boy, but at least I don’t look homeless.

Next, I work on my hair. It’s grown past its typical length, almost into a mullet. I comb through the unruly strands until it’s somewhat presentable. Even though I’m not entirely satisfied with it, I chop it up to being too critical.

The cherry on top of my garbage appearance was minor makeup. Sure, applying concealer to my dark circles is like putting a bandaid over a bullet wound but it helps. I smudge some eyeshadow onto my greasy eyelids and put on a bit of mascara, the waterproof kind that won’t budge if I have a panic attack.

Maybe it’s the handful of Adderall talking but for once, I feel decent—I feel good. I check everything a million times before I lace up my sneakers and make my way out of the apartment.

Kenny’s place is only a few blocks away from my apartment. He still lives in the same shitty house from our childhood, minus the parents and siblings. Welfare bought the McCormick’s a new place on the north side of South Park. Kenny didn’t jump at the opportunity, insisting on living in the heap of garbage his parents left behind. I assumed it was to do drugs freely, but I don’t think his parents care—just like mine.

The cool air makes me sniffle and suddenly I hate the fact that I snort my drugs. It seems like any draft of air makes my nose run. But at least I don’t have an arm full of holes—not like Kenny. But even with all of his pock marks and imperfections, I find him strangely attractive. Not attractive in the Craig way, but attractive in the “you could be a model if you weren’t born into a life of poverty” way. I admire him while he shoots up, his pupils dilating and crooked grin spreading wider. It’s beautiful in the most fucked up way possible.

I stop in front of the janky house and let out an audible sigh. I can hear the music plainly even from the sidewalk. There’s cars littered along the yard, shadows of people behind the curtains, and empty beer cans thrown out the window. I regret coming here, knowing that anything can happen. But my fears don’t stop me from opening the door and sliding in discreetly. The quaint house is packed full of people like a can of sardines. I recognize just about everyone, save for the few plus ones.

Bebe Stevens still has the same bouncy blonde ringlets; Clyde Donovan still clings to her like a leech; Jimmy Valmer still has braces; Eric Cartman is still fat. Nothing is new. Nothing’s changed. I make my way through the crowd with my head down, stopping to grab a beer from a cooler that didn’t have ice. I focus all my attention on the details of the room, going through the protocols of my anxiety mantra.

Five things I can see, four things I can hear, three things I can touch—

“Tweek Tweak?” A voice calls to me. Familiar. Female.

I turn around and face Bebe, who no longer has Clyde attached to her side like a conjoined twin. Bebe was one of the few people I used to call a friend. Despite her popularity, she stuck by me. I think she really just wanted to tell people she had a gay friend, but that never bothered me much.

I smile the best I can, gripping the beer a little tighter, “Bebe. You look—ah, you look good.”

She snakes an arm around my waist and drags me into a side hug, “So do you! God, it’s been forever!”

I’m sure my face is very telling. How could she say that I look good? She wouldn’t lie to me. She never has. Bebe Stevens would tell a kid with cancer to invest in a better skincare routine. She’s not one to sugar coat things.

“Come hang with me and Clyde!” She gleams, motioning to the mostly empty couch.

I’m not opposed, but I’m all too aware that Clyde is still Craig’s best friend. I see his snapchat stories often. After the all but subtle glance towards the sofa, I oblige. There’s no sign of Craig, so it shouldn’t be a big deal. She grins and drags me over, excitedly holding my arm like I’d run away otherwise. I like Bebe.

Clyde seems equally surprised to see me, shooting up from the couch like a daisy in spring. He loops his muscular arms around me and engulfs me in his typical bro hug. I’m far too used to the feeling, even two years later.

“Hey! You actually came! Kenny was worried you wouldn’t.” He says drunkenly, pulling away to spare a glance at me.

I feel vulnerable under his gaze, like he’d run and tell Craig how awful I look. My hands can’t help but tremble, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary for me.

“What? You know I wouldn’t uh, miss this for the world?” I manage, mentally scolding myself for sounding so moronic.

The couple laughs, as if I said something funny. In school, I was called a troublemaker and a class clown, but I never understood why. Craig told me that I was unintentionally funny, but I think people laugh at me the way they laugh at a circus monkey.

I sit down on the sofa and finally take a swig of the grossly warm beer. I have no trouble easing my way into the group. Jimmy is in front of me, Tolkien next to him, Bebe to my right, and Clyde to her left. I’m reminded of our lunch group in the cafeteria. Of course, the only person missing is—

“Craig!” Clyde exclaims, shooting up just as he had done moments prior with me.

I feel my heart stop, though I really should’ve expected this. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want him to look at me either. But as he sits down next to me on the couch, I’m forced to. It all feels like a ploy to me—like this entire interaction was planned. I stare down at my beer bottle tucked between my thighs and swallow hard. I feel his presence, his knee brushed against mine. It’s surreal.

“Isn’t that right, Tweek?” Bebe says, and I’m suddenly aware that I have no idea what she was talking about.

I perk my head up and blink at her a few times, "What?"

There’s the laughing again. Everyone laughs except him. It’s typical. He never laughed at my expense. I find that strangely comforting.

“I said,” She repeats, “You totally think my new hair cut suits me.”

I take a second to look at her, a bit longer than before. She looked good, but I couldn’t really tell the difference in her hair, despite a few shorter pieces around her face.

“Yeah. I like the money pieces. Brings out your eyes.” I respond, like I actually know what the hell I’m talking about.

This time, no one laughs except craig. He lets out an audible laugh through his nose, shaking his head. Everyone looks at him like he’s got a target on his forehead, myself included.

“What’s funny about that, Craig? You saying you don’t like my hair?” Bebe inquires, a hint of annoyance laced in her high voice.

“No.” Craig deadpans, “It’s just funny to hear you beg for compliments.”

I don’t even pay attention to what he says. Just the sound of his voice makes me shudder. I haven’t heard him in so long. To many, Craig’s nasally, low pitched tone wouldn’t seem appealing but to me, it’s the best sound in the world. I’m glad that Bebe chooses to bicker with him, because I get to hear him talk more.

“I’m not begging for anything! I don’t need to! I know I look good!” She retorts.

“Then why ask about your hair to Tweek of all people? You think he cares?” He says naturally, as if we’d been on speaking terms for the past two years.

“I do care.” My mouth speaks before my brain has the time to process everything. “Bebe’s my friend.”

“You’re bad at lying.” He responds slickly, eyes finally meeting mine. He’s so goddamn beautiful that is hurts.

“You’re bad at socializing.” I respond. It’s like breathing. I don’t have to think when I talk—it just happens.

And he actually smiles at that. I’m all too aware that everyone else is watching us, watching like we’re two dogs meeting for the first time. I kind of hate it, but nothing matters when I’m looking at him this closely. He breaks the eye contact, and Tolkien breaks the silence.

“We should play a game.” He says, always the savior of the situation. I’m glad he’s here.

While everyone else is engrossed in a conversation about which game to play, Craig and I are silent. It’s not a painful silence, though. It’s the kind you really don’t want to disrupt. Everything is fine if we’re silent. But I should know that doesn’t last long.

“You haven’t been eating.” He says lowly, just loud enough for me to hear.

I laugh bitterly and look unimpressed, “Yeah, thanks for noticing. I’m totally not insecure about that or anything.”

“Why?” He ignores my snarky remark, looking me up and down a few times.

“I don’t owe you an explanation.” I look over my shoulder to make sure no one’s paying attention. Relief washes over me when I realize they’re not.

“You don’t.” He agrees. “But I’m allowed to be concerned.”

I hated that he was concerned. I hated that he was always aware with me. I hated how easily he could read me. I grip the beer bottle and throw it back, taking a big swig and wiping my mouth on my sleeve. It tastes awful, but I’d do anything to get drunk right now.

“So, you’re just not gonna tell me? Play the immature game?” He continues, blue eyes piercing into me.

I let out an annoyed huff, perhaps loudly on purpose to get the attention of the others. However, my attempt at weaseling out of the conversation is unsuccessful; no one pays the two of us any mind. It’s like I’m living in a soundproof bubble, devoid of human contact, and only Craig can break the sound barrier.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I quip. “Not now.”

Craig’s eyes divert from my scrawny frame to the floor as he ponders over what to say next. The anticipation is eating me alive, seconds feel like months, and my palms are getting really sweaty. I subconsciously wipe them on my pants.

“Then what do you want to talk about?” He gazes at me, his eyes softer than before.

I swallow dryly and look away, “You still have Stripe?”

Maybe it’s a bad idea to bring up the guinea pig I bought for him, but it’s the only conversation starter I can muster without feeling a sharp pain in the chest. I’m sure I already know the answer, given the short life span of guinea pigs.

“Still got her. She’s old and fat.” He replies, pulling out his phone to flash his wallpaper.

I can’t help but laugh. She’s different than I remember and exactly as Craig described her. The poor thing looks like it was tossed into the drier for ten minutes. Just as I’m about to speak, Clyde’s loud voice interrupts my thoughts.

“Charades! Let’s play charades!” He exclaims, far too loudly.

And so, we play charades—rather, they play charades and I keep downing beers like my life depends on it. My nerves feel somewhat at ease, and I find myself laughing occasionally. Craig doesn’t play either, but it’s not like anyone’s surprised. We never played games.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him stand and pull a cart of cigarettes from his pocket. I don’t have to look to know that he’s making his way to the door, and I don’t have to think to know I’ll follow. I justify it by bringing my own cart, leaving a reasonable distance between the two of us.

He offers me his lighter. I take it.

“Didn’t know you smoked.” He says monotonously, with no inflection in his tone to indicate he’s interested. But I know him well enough to know that he’s curious.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know. A lot can happen in two years.” I say, rather bitterly.

His eyes roll and he takes a drag from his Newport. “It was your idea not to keep in contact, not mine.”

He was right. After we broke up, I didn’t want to keep in touch. I was obsessed with the idea of forgetting him—moving on. Obviously, that never happened, but I guess I kind of expected that. It’s hard to get over the only person in the world who’s ever understood me. I gnaw at my lower lip and fidget with the filter on the end of the cig. Clearly, I wasn’t drunk enough to deal with this.

Craig throws his cigarette to the ground and stomps the flame out, but he doesn’t go back inside. He lingers, the words just along the tip of his tongue. I hate not knowing what he’s going to say. I wish I could read his thoughts, like Edward Cullen.

“I hate seeing you like this, Tweek.” Craig mumbles, his brows furrowed, and eyes fixated on the ground.

“You think I wanted you to see me like this?” I respond, my voice quivering. “I never wanted to see you again!”

My chest feels heavy, like an elephant is sitting on it, cracking my ribs individually. Tears sting my eyes, and I gasp for air. An anxiety attack was unavoidable in this situation. I expect to run into the nearest closet and plug my ears until I calm down. I expect to suffer alone and deal with the consequences of my mental illness.

But Craig is quick to grab my shoulders and squeeze gently, blowing air into my face like he always had before. I feel like reverting back to when we were ten years old, when nothing else mattered. I hate the way I fall into his embrace and cry like a widow. I hate the way he welcomes me like always. I hate the way it feels like nothing’s changed at all—not the smell of smoke, nor the way he sways me back in forth in his arms. I calm down, despite the urge to push him away and run home.

But regretfully, I know that home is wherever Craig is.

Chapter Text

There’s one thing people fail to mention about addiction: the brain fog. I can’t seem to remember anything when I’m sober. It’s like I’m a different person when I’m high. Maybe it’s disassociation, maybe it’s irreputable brain damage. Either way, it’s super annoying.

I wake up covered in sweat in a bed I’m unfortunately quite familiar with. I’ve crashed at Kenny’s place an embarrassing about of times—rarely intentionally. I sit up and look around the disheveled room, my nose crinkling at the smell of vomit. Of course I vomited on the floor. That just makes sense.

I hold back the urge to groan and step onto the floor—careful to avoid the sludge of alcohol I expelled from my guts. The last thing I remember is having a panic attack in Craig’s arms. I wish I didn’t remember that part either. It would save me the second-hand embarrassment that’s for sure.

Stepping into the living room, I spot Kenny slumped over on the couch. I assume he’s hung over or strung out, given his lack of enthusiasm for my entrance. Regardless, I sit beside him and stare mindlessly at the powered off television.

“Wanna shoot up?” He asks without hesitation.

“Yeah.” I respond embarrassingly fast.

While Kenny heats up a spoonful cocaine with a lighter, I decide it’s a good time to bring up what happened the night before. That is, if Kenny can even recall anything.

“I blacked out.” I blurt out, interrupting the silence. “Do you remember anything?”

I don’t miss the way Kenny hesitates, his chest expanding as he inhales deeply. Clearly, it was something pretty bad. It makes me regret asking.

“You had a panic attack, and Craig put you to bed. Stayed with you for a while until Clyde was ready to go.” His voice is soft, as if his words would impale me if he spoke differently.

I swallow hard and gnaw at my lower lip. “Shit, that’s really all you can remember? Did I say anything embarrassing?”

Kenny shrugs and pulls out a needle from the side table drawer. “Don’t know. He wouldn’t let anyone come check on you.”

My breath hitches, and I feel the urge to snatch the needle and inject as much coke as possible. But I shouldn’t act irrationally. Not when it comes to hard drugs. Popping a handful of pills is a no brainer, but shooting up cocaine is like rocket science. There’s a balance to it: too much could kill you and not enough can make you feel sick. I lick my lips as he fills the needle and smirks a bit. This is always the best part, watching him shoot up. I get this weird giddy feeling in my gut—similar to what I get when I’m with Craig. I’ve never had the desire to hook up with Kenny, but I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t the hottest person alive when he had cocaine flowing through his veins.

I’m surprised to see him grab my arm instead of his own. He holds the plastic part of the syringe between his teeth and grabs a light blue tourniquet, tying it tightly against my bicep. I let out a gasp and inch a little closer in anticipation. He’d never done this before, but I’m too enamored to question why he’s decided to now.

“You need it more than I do.” He says cheekily, as if he could read my mind.

I don’t shy away when he presses my central vein a few times, watching the greenish-blue vessel pop out desperately. It’s funny that my own body craves it, not just my brain. He glances at me briefly before sticking my vein with the needle. I let out a slight grunt of discomfort as it’s pushed in about halfway. I feel every drop leave the syringe and enter my blood stream, a sick sensation that most people find repulsive.

Kenny’s quick to prepare a syringe full himself, essentially feigning for the high in a way I’ve never really seen before. It makes me a little flustered to see how desperate he is. Coke is one of those drugs that takes a little while to kick in. There’s no immediate satisfaction, but the wait is well worth it. Similar to meth, cocaine makes you feel incredibly energetic. Unlike meth, it makes you feel extremely happy. Meth makes me paranoid, and I usually can’t sleep for a couple of days. Coke is like a sloppy quickie in a gas station bathroom: fast, fun, and easy. The high only lasts a few hours at most, which makes it a more desirable drug for short term use.

I watch as Kenny ties the tourniquet expertly onto his own arm, using his teeth to make it impossibly tight. Unlike my vein, which was essentially begging to be poked, Kenny struggles to find anything. I’d imagine that’s the aftermath of shooting up so often. He hums in content when he finally finds the slightest groove of a vein to pry with the needle, and he doesn’t hesitate to stab it in.

I bite my lower lip and watch the smile tug across his lips, his eyes dazed as the liquid is expelled into his fading vein. I wish I could capture this moment with my own two eyes and replay it over and over again. It’s so painfully beautiful. Kenny’s greasy blonde hair sticks to his forehead, his pupils dilated and his chest rising and falling quickly with each breath. His thighs are spread, and he leans against the couch so invitingly.

His eyes shift over to mine, half-lidded and sly. “S’ the matter, Tweety? Why you lookin’ at me like that?”

“Nothing just...” I stammer. “I’m glad I’m the only one that gets to see you like this.”

“Why? It’s embarrassing, don’t you think? Thought you hated this.” His voice is sultry, not quite deep but not high either. It’s what I’d imagine a succubus would sound like. Kenny knows how to lure people in, and at times, I question how he hasn’t gotten into my pants yet.

“It’s not embarrassing it’s… beautiful.” My voice, on the other hand, sounds like a strangled squirrel.

He laughs and slides a hand onto my thigh, giving it a squeeze that I surprisingly don’t mind. “What part of this is beautiful, huh?”

My body moves without permission from my brain, slithering into his lap like a desperate hooker. My knees rest on either side of his thighs, hands placed onto his shoulders. He was different from Craig, being much shorter. But Kenny had definition and muscle that Craig lacked. Craig was marriage material, while Kenny was a wet dream. I’m aware of his erection and I partly swell with pride.

“The part that involves you, I guess…” I say softly. I can feel the coke reaching my brain now. It’s spreading throughout my bloodstream, pumping through my veins, and I feel like I’m not top of the world.

Kenny’s expression isn’t one of surprise, but he’s pleased with me. His hands find my hips and I’m suddenly pulled into a spontaneous make out session with the guy I shoot up with every weekend. My mind wonders if I would ever do this sober. Realistically, I know that Craig is the only thing on my mind while I’m grinding against Kenny’s aching boner. But unfortunately, I don’t feel bad about it.

I feel him size me up with boney fingers—fingers that my body is not accustomed to. But if I close my eyes and lose focus, they sort of felt like Craig’s. Kenny kneads the flesh of my ass like a homemade dough. I can’t say I mind. He’s feverish and hasty, like I’m going to slip away at any second. He’s right to be a little weary at the moment. My mind is telling me to push him away, but my body neglects to respond.

I position my body in such a way that rubs hungrily against the dirty blonde’s erection. I know exactly what he wants, and I hate that I’m more than willing to give it to him. The curt movement of my hips is enough to leave him sputtering against my lips, and as he parts briefly from my mouth, I feel as though my ears have deceived me.

“Leo…” He moans lowly, his head thrown back against the worn cushion of the sofa.

My body comes to a screeching halt as the name rings through my ears. I ponder over it for a moment, knowing the name but unable to assign a face to it. It’s familiar in such a bothersome way, and judging from Kenny’s reddened expression, I must know this person quite well.

And then it hits me. The blonde hair. The small stature. The pasty skin. All of the features I share with Leopold “Butters” Stotch.

“Butters?” I tilt my head to the side and raise a brow. “You’re kidding.”

He grimaces and lets out a hefty sight. “Shit, this is embarrassing.”

“I don’t think so.” I respond, barely above a whisper. I’m surprised he heard me at all.

His head lolls to the side and he rocks this expression of feigned innocence. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“I don’t think it’s outright embarrassing. Objectively wrong? Sure. But I can’t say I’m uh, much better.” I lick my chapped lips in some desperate attempt to shut up, afraid to say more.

Not that I need to say anything else. I can tell by the sick grin on Kenny’s face that he knows exactly what I’m thinking. I feel like a mouse stuck in a lion’s den, forced to face the reality of the situation with nowhere to run. I’m not even sure if I truly understand my own emotions, at least not well enough to have a conversation about it.

“Craig Tucker is the worst human alive, y’know. Can’t believe you’re still hung up on him.” Kenny says slyly, a smirk tugging across his thin lips.

“Can you maybe not remind me of that?” I reply defensively, awkwardly crawling out of his lap and back onto the couch. “At least I’m not into Butters. Jesus.”

“Hm, good thing you aren’t because I don’t plan to share.” He taunts.

I’m glad that Kenny isn’t the type to pry. He doesn’t need to know every detail of the story. He’s perfectly content with knowing the plot, and that’s an attribute that many don’t have. I smile and close my eyes, letting the high sink over me with the remnants of Kenny’s slobber on my lips and Craig on my mind.

That evening, I go into work with the traces of cocaine in my veins. I wish I could say that was unusual but that would be a lie, and I’m a notoriously bad liar. I’m also not surprised to find the shop in horrible condition: dishes thrown haphazardly into the sink, stains littered across the tables, and sticky spots on the floor that give me goosebumps every time I step on them.

Of course, my parents wouldn’t let me have it easy. This is some sick form of punishment—weaponized incompetence, even. How could the place get this bad in a matter of hours? Never mind that. I’m more than aware that I only have an hour to clean before we open for the evening shift. Granted, hardly anyone wants coffee past 12 pm, but paranoia always gets the best of me, no matter how under the influence I am.

Stereotypically, I am the kind of drug addict that hyper fixates on cleaning. I scrub every stain ten fold until I can’t stand the squeaking sound of the countertop. The floors are mopped at least three times, and by the time I’m finished, the whole place smells so strongly of Clorox that it makes my eyes sting. I open a few windows to help with the smell, though I’m not sure it will truly make a difference.

I flip the signs over exactly on time and march back behind the counter. I feel as though there are millions of things to do when in reality, I have no customers. The doorbell seems like it’s growing dusty by the minute due to the lack of business.

Most people would be happy about that, but I’m not most people. A lack of customers means no money; no money means no business; and no business means that I’m jobless. Not only that, but my parents would also probably blame me for everything and force me out of the house. Homeless, jobless, loveless. God, that’s a terrifying revelation.

I feel strangely hopeful when I hear the bell chime, spinning around the counter with an eager expression and my notebook in hand. But that hopefulness doesn’t last long. Suddenly, I wish the shop was empty again. I wish the shop didn’t exist at all. I wish I didn’t exist at all.

His lanky legs reach the counter in a few long strides, and my nose is filled with the familiar scent of sandalwood and tobacco. I have the overwhelming urge to hurl myself out of the open window and into oncoming traffic.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Craig’s nasally voice asks.

I sputter like a cat has my tongue, my eyes wide and throat dry and scratchy. “W-Wha—huh? I didn’t—I never—”

“You’re not eating, you’re hanging out with Kenny, you’re vomiting, and you’re not sleeping.” He lists off, those steel colored eyes burning my retinas. I feel his scrutiny and it makes me want to shrivel up and die. “You’re using again, aren’t you?”

My heart is beating so fast that you’d think I just snorted an ounce of coke. I stumble back until my back hits the wall, a few glass coffee cups clanking in the process. I don’t even know how to begin to respond. Denying it would be for the best, but Craig would know I’m lying. Admitting it almost seems worse. How fucking ridiculous would that be? ‘Oh yeah! I’m a raging drug addict! Wanna watch me shoot up and run a goddamn marathon?’

“It doesn’t matter! It—it shouldn’t matter, anyway.” I manage, my hands trembling. “I’m my own person and rgh—I’m capable of living my life.”

He deadpans and leans over the counter, his eyes following my every move. “That’s not what I asked you.”

If there was ever a moment to run, it would be now. This is worse than intervention, probably worse than rehab. I’d rather be strapped to a stretcher in a plain, white room than have this conversation with my ex-boyfriend.

He sighs and grips the counter so hard that his knuckles turn white. “Whatever. Don’t respond. I already know everything. Kenny told me at the party.”

I feel my stomach sink in betrayal, knowing the one person I could rely on to escape from this fucked up world sold me out to Craig fucking Tucker of all people. “Told you everything? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“He told me all the things I know you’re too selfish to admit. I’ll piece together the whole story when you can grow a pair and tell me the minor details.” His glare stings my pale skin, surely scrutinizing every blemish and scratch.

I swallow hard and advert my eyes, the dryness of my throat causing my voice to sound strained and somewhat unfamiliar. “I don’t have to explain myself. Not to you. Not to my parents. Not to anyone.”

He scoffs and treads closer. “But you so obviously want someone to ask.”

I pause and grit my teeth. The words echo throughout the ear canal and into the cavity of my skull. It sinks heavily into my brain, blurring my vision and numbing my tongue. I can’t imagine the expression I’m making; only that it’s enough to warrant Craig to continue.

“You act like you hate attention. Like you want to be devoid of human interactions for the rest of your life. But that’s so far from the truth. You wouldn’t parade yourself around like a goddamn travesty if you actually wanted people to not care. You’d put in some amount of effort to ease people’s worries.” He says, coldly and meticulously. I can’t help but wonder how long he’s been waiting to say those very words.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I want to sound defensive, like I’m offended that he would ever accuse me of such a ridiculous thing. But my words come out defeated, sorrowful and tragic.

His gaze softens and suddenly I feel like collapsing to my knees and disappearing into oblivion. I hate that I feel sorry for myself. I’m so obviously undeserving of other people’s pity. I shouldn’t even pity myself, but I do. And I think Craig knows that—he must. I don’t miss the way his hand reaches for my shoulder, fitting into it like a missing puzzle piece. That’s so far from the truth though. In all honesty, I’m a puzzle that has no matching pieces except for this one part. Craig was the only thing right with my life, the only thing keeping me from dissolving into a sad sap of addiction and self-pity.

“Don’t be hard on yourself.” His voice is so sweet that it’s unfamiliar. “You couldn’t help it.”

Craig, the only person with no expectations of me—the only one who could accept me for what I am and what I always have been. He wasn’t like Wendy, or Bebe, or even Kenny. He knew me better than I knew myself. My limitations were always obvious to him, and for a long time I hated that.

But at this moment, it’s the sweetest feeling of relief to me. It’s the clarity I’d been missing for so long. It’s like breathing when you’ve been drowning for the past few minutes. He smiles at me like he’s proud, despite the fact that I’ve done nothing at all to deserve it. I bask in knowing he’d never reprimand me for my wrong doings, nor enable me to continue them.

“T…Thanks. I needed that…” I exhale, biting my lower lip to stop it from quivering.

“I know. I needed it too.” He lets out a slight laugh when he speaks, ducking his head down sheepishly.

That’s when it hits me that this interaction was just as cathartic for Craig as it was for me. Had I not been blinded by my own pity, I would’ve realized that sooner. He’d probably been dying to tell me this, to wake me up from an endless spell of misery that no one else could break. I’m now all too aware that this was hard on him too, even if he doesn’t show it.

“I’m… sorry for worrying you. We should’ve kept in touch y’know…” I sound sincere, something that I can’t say I’ve heard in a long time.

“Well, hate to say I told you but—” he grins and cocks his head to the side. “I told you.”

The bell chimes and I’m forced back into reality. Craig’s gaze lingers as he steps to the side, allowing what I assume to be a customer to approach the counter. However, my eyes are quick to analyze the features of my father, and I’m terrified. He flaunts this expression of surprise and gratitude, but I know it’s all an act. Richard despises Craig.

“Oh! Hello, Craig! So wonderful to see you again after all this time.” Richard smiles tightly, extending his hand out.

Craig begrudgingly takes it and shakes it firmly, not bothering to return the smile my father gave him. He’s not stupid; He’s all too aware of my dad’s disdain. “Yeah.”

There’s this awkward silence that hangs in the air, like I’ve been caught doing something illegal. I’m expecting a laundry list of passive aggressive comments once Craig leaves. Things like “oh are you getting back together? I wouldn’t suggest that, my boy.” Or “Has he finally gotten himself together? Well, some people are late bloomers, son.” I’m disgusted just imagining the possibilities.

“What brings you here? It doesn’t seem like you’re ordering coffee. You definitely should though. Afterall, we make the best in Colorado, and I’m sure you’ve missed it.” Richard pitches, walking behind the counter and clapping a hand down onto my shoulder.

Craig’s hand fits against my shoulder like a puzzle piece, but my father’s feels like two pieces of a puzzle hot glued together. It makes me shiver and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

“He’s just here to uh—to ask about the new part of town! Ngh— you know, Sodosopop.” I sputter out, the twitch in my eye returning.

That answer seems to please Richard, as he choose not to indulge further into the conversation. He nods politely in Craig’s direction and excuses himself as he walks into the kitchen. Craig shoots me an apologetic glance and backs away from the counter, his brows raised empathetically. I desperately want to reach out and pull him back; to beg him not to leave me alone with the brunt of my father’s insults. But I do nothing of the sort. I retreat back into the kitchen and make a beeline for the man I despire the most, ducking my head lowly and gnawing at my battered lower lip.

“Son.” He speaks, with a tinge of aggression to his voice that makes the vein in my forehead pulse. “You know how I feel about Mr. Tucker.”

My mouth gapes and I start sputtering like a moron. “It’s not like that anymore! I… I promise it’s not.”

He frowns and swirls a spoon in the coffee cup that seemingly spawned into his hand. I can tell he’s disappointed, and for some reason that terrifies me. I know he’s going to inflict some sort of psychology punishment.

“Do you remember how your mother and I had to console you like an infant when he ended things? You are not emotionally stable enough to be around him, even if the interaction is platonic.” His voice stings, despite the cheerful and caring tone he speaks with. I hate how convincing he can be. He’s psychotic.

“Of course I was upset! But… but that was years ago! I’m fine now! I’m grown and I can handle myself!” I hate the way my voice shakes as I retaliate.

He frowns and his brows furrow. “You’re mentally disabled and can’t make decisions for yourself son! Why don’t you let me handle this? Just take your medicine and—”

“No! Don’t you dare fucking say that!” I can’t stop the tears from streaming down my face.

“See? Look at you! You can’t even have a conversation without having a panic attack! Come now, let’s get your medicine.” Richard grabs my medication from the front counter and dumps a few of the pills into the palm of his hand.

My vision is blurred by the constant streams of tears falling from my eyes, but I don’t need to see to know what comes next. He grabs my wrist and pulls me closer, using his other hand to pry my mouth open. He shoves the pills in and holds my jaw shut until I swallow the pills dryly. He has the gall to fucking smile at me as I struggle to get them down, his hand lightly stroking the back of my head.

“There we are. Deep breaths, Tweek. I’ll work the rest of your shift, since that boy made you so anxious.” He coos, patting my cheek a little too hard to be considered an act of kindness.

There’s so many things I want to say to him. I want to take a knife from the kitchen and cut that stupid smile off of his face. I want to punch him in the gut and call him a goddamn loser. But instead, I accept defeat and let my feet carry me out the door. I suck in a few desperate breaths and let the frigid air nip my extremities, so ashamed that this is a reality for me.

My fight or flight response is triggered before I can even assess the situation. I try to let out a scream, but I’m too numbed to let out anything but a choked out sob. Everything is black as I’m pulled from the sidewalk and into the shadows of the side of the building. I try to scamper back into the safety of the sunlit pavement, too afraid to look at whoever’s pulling me back.

“Tweek! It’s me, goddamn it! Stop!” And suddenly the shadowy stranger has the voice of an angel.

I spin my head around to look at Craig, my chest heaving and eyes tearful. He lets out a breathless laugh and pulls me in closer. This time, I don’t resist.

“I’m sorry. I’m sure there was a better way to do that, but I didn’t want your dad to see me.” He explains, his eyes scanning my saddened features.

“W-Why are… why did you—I thought you…left?” I manage, nearly coughing on the mucus that’s built up in my throat from crying.

Craig holds me as if I’m fine China, his fingers caressing my frail, glass skin like they always had before. “I wanted to make sure he didn’t hurt you. He did, didn’t he?”

I nod slowly, unsure that I should even be talking to him. My father could come out at any moment and see us—not that he would ever reprimand me in a public space, but the idea of it happening at all makes my skin crawl. I part my lips like I’m going to say something, but no words come out. I feel like a ventriloquist dummy, my mouth moving but no one to say the words for me. Despite this, Craig understands and pulls me further between the buildings.

As kids, we would always sneak off between the buildings after my shift to go to the park. And judging by the way his hand squeezes my own reassuringly, I already know that’s where he’s heading. Silence bothers me just as much as small talk, so I find my voice to ask him a question that’s been heavy on my mind.

“Why did you think I was dead?” I ask quietly, praying that it was loud enough to actually reach his ears over the noise pollution of the town.

“Because when Kenny was telling me about the things you were doing, I didn’t sound like you. I was in denial, I guess.” He responds monotonously, despite the sharpness of his words.

I let out a humorless laugh and feel dizzy as I walk, my eyes taking in the familiar sight of the rusty swing set just a few hundred feet away. “What the hell did he tell you?”

Craig purses his lips together and lets out a sigh deep enough to let me know he really doesn’t want to have this conversation. “If you’re being this defensive, then you already know what he told me.”

I sink down into the swing and wince at the sound of the screeching rusty metal. He looks at me with this pained expression—like he regrets what I’ve become. It makes me feel disgusting, like I need to scrub my skin raw with scolding water.

My face twists and I scoff. “What? That I’m addicted to coke? That I shoot up with him on Saturdays? That I use so often that I can’t stomach half a meal?”

“Uh, I guess he did tell me some of that.” He stops briefly between sentences, sitting on the empty swing next to me. “But that’s not why I thought you were dead.”

I blink a few times and abruptly stop the swing from moving, turning my head to look at him in awe. “What? Seriously?”

He inhales deeply and shoves his hands into his pockets, swaying back and forth slowly on the swing. “He told me you stopped caring about everything. Said you stopped painting and playing piano and that your eyes look soulless. He said that… you didn’t even get anxious anymore. And I thought how could that possibly be the same person? I thought you died, and he was lying to me or something. I just didn’t want to accept that you were so alone and empty.”

My eyes widen and I tear my gaze away from him, gently starting to sway on the swing. I want to make up some bullshit lie—to tell him I’m still playing piano and painting. But I opt not to make the situation worse. I want to let my guard down for once and show him the harsh reality that I’ve hidden for so long. Even if it’s hard for me to open myself up and allow him into my fragile mind, I put on a strong face and power through.

“He wasn’t lying. You should know Kenny never lies.” I gulp and continue. “Don’t think this is your fault. I was destined to turn out this way. Breaking up with me just gave me a head start into making inevitable poor life decisions.”

Though I try to say this humorously, Craig doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. No matter how much I try to hide the severity of the situation, he see through it all. “You had no one to help you though, so you can’t say that you were supposed to turn out this way. You don’t know that.”

“Kenny was there for me! A-And my parents…” I hate how uncertain I sound, tugging at the sleeves of my worn sweater.

“They didn’t help you. They enabled you.” He reaches over and grabs my hand with tenderness I haven’t felt in so long. “You’re destined for so much more than… this.”

I feel the tears well in my eyes and I immediately yank my hand from his grasp. “You can’t say that! You… you haven’t been here. You don’t know anything, so stop pretending!”

“I don’t have to be here to know that you deserve better than this! I’m not going to sit here and act like nothing is wrong, Tweek! Goddamn it, I care about you!” His expression is unrecognizable to me, like he’s actually expressing his emotions for once.

I stand from the swing and ball my fists. “If you cared, you wouldn’t have left!”

My words echo and hang in the air as we stare at one another. Time seems to freeze as he looks at me with this pitiful expression. His lips part but I cut him off before he could even start.

“Don’t come looking for me anymore. This—,” I motion between the two of us, “is not going to happen.” I laugh bitterly and shake my head, turning swiftly to walk away from him. He knows following me won’t help anything.

In the back of my mind, I recall the words my father told me just a mere half an hour ago: you’re not mentally stable enough to be around him. He’s right, I’m not. But my father says this out of concern for my well-being. I say it for the concern of Craig’s. He shouldn’t have to bear the brunt of my mental conundrum. Not him, not anyone. I feel myself grow calloused as I walk shamefully back to my apartment, knowing I’ve hurt the person I love more than life itself. He’ll learn to move forward and forget about me, just as he has for the past two years.

Chapter Text

The only thing worse than addiction is coming to terms with it. If denial was a person, it would be me. I’d rather eat shit than sit down and actually admit I have a problem, let alone with Craig of all people. My mind is swarming with the words of our last interaction, and I can’t help wondering what he thought the outcome would’ve been. Did he seriously think having one in depth conversation would absolve my substance abuse? Surely he wasn’t that stupid, not if he was majoring in astrophysics of all things.

Then again, curbing someone’s bad habits might as well be rocket science. I’ve tried counselors, anonymous online forums, and group therapy. None of it works. It just instills shame in my head about things that I already knew.

 My paranoia has been worse since the few interactions I’ve had with Craig. At every corner I turn, I’m terrified that he’ll be there, waiting to talk to me. I definitely wouldn’t mind if I wasn’t a raging drug addict. And now, ever since Kenny ratted me out, I’ve never felt so isolated in my addiction. The only social outings I had were with Kenny. Now, that’s all gone.

It’s been two weeks since I last encountered Craig at the coffee shop. Two weeks of snorting and smoking alone in my apartment, jumping at every sound, scared to turn on the lights in fear that they would burn my skin. My father thinks he’s being generous by giving me more time off, but he’s actually making things much worse. His only goal is to limit my interactions with Craig, to keep me cooped up in this shitty apartment.

Now that I’ve been in here more than ever before—and extremely high at that—I’ve noticed all of the flaws, minor and major. For one, the paint is off white with textured patterns. There’s so much art littered on them that I forgot the walls ever looked like that. And the floors appear wooden but they’re actually linoleum. One of the ceiling fans had three blades instead of four, the bathtub drains faster than the sink, the cabinets creak in a minor key—and I’ve lost my goddamn mind.

Even I know this is too much. I need to get some fresh air. It’s either that or I die of carbon monoxide poisoning. So, I make the decision to walk to Stark’s pond. It’s usually quiet—polluted and kind of gross-looking but quiet. The walk there is the worst part. There’s kids playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, aggravating music blasting from the Sodosopop district, and everyone I pass by knows exactly who I am. I’ve convinced myself that everyone stares at me like I’m a freak of nature, even if it’s not true. It’s better to think that way than hold myself to a higher standard.

When I reach the familiar recreation area of the pond, I’m reminded of all the late nights I’d snuck off with Craig. We’d make out on the dock, bold enough to sneak out but not enough to do it in our own houses. But in comparison to my family, the Tuckers were a breath of fresh air. It was like they were clothes made of the same fabric—apples from the same tree. All of them were blunt, sarcastic, and maybe just a tad pessimistic. I didn’t have to try very hard to mask myself when I was in their presence, because they honestly didn’t care enough to judge me. I wonder if they still feel that way, if I could just ease my way back into their lives without them caring at all.

But of course, that was wishful thinking. Not after I told Craig he didn’t have a chance of rekindling our relationship. But that’s the thing about addicts—we say the opposite of what we feel. We push our loved ones away, so they don’t have to waste their time worrying about us. I feel undeserving of any of his attention, despite the fact that he left me. I should be the one who’s resentful, but I’m not. I gladly blame myself for the decline of our relationship.

While consumed in my thoughts, I settle down on top of a stump, crossing my gangly legs together as I stare at the shitty pond. The rednecks had undoubtedly fished every animal out of the damn thing, leaving nothing but snails and rocks.

The sight leaves me bored enough to check my phone, which had a million notifications. For as antisocial as I am, I can’t ever seem to rid my phone of the relentless notifications. There’s a lot of messages in my family group chat, which I swiftly ignore. Then a dozen or so snapchat messages from revived high school group chats. Nothing catches my eye except for a message from Bebe. I click it almost instantly, grunting as I realize it was sent a couple of days ago.

I never know what to expect when she texts me. It could be anything from gossip to skincare recommendations. But this time, I had the aching suspicion it was about Craig. I reluctantly slide my thumb over the contact to read it, my heart thumping hard against my bony clavicle.

Bebe: The party a couple of weeks ago was so much fun! You should come shopping with me and Wendy on Friday!!!

I could almost hear her cheery tone when I read the message, swallowing down the thick lump of saliva in my throat. Seeing as the last time I interacted with Wendy was when I called her a bitch, I’m not exactly sure that hanging out with her is a good idea. Still, I haven’t had an outing in weeks, and thrifting clothes was something I could never turn down. Quickly, I shoot her back a message of confirmation, convincing myself that I need the company… and to probably pick up another rock or two to snort.

The rest of the week seems to fly by in a blur. I go to work a few times, I get lunch from a local deli, and I paint my fingernails. That’s pretty eventful by my standards. By Thursday night, I’m feeling sociable enough to scour through Instagram—well, it’s more like stalking. The first account I check is Wendy’s. From the look of things, she’s in school to be an accountant while participating in an onslaught of extracurricular activities. Speech and Debate was a given, but an LGBT club was quite surprising. Though knowing her, it was just to make her look more politically correct.

I clicked on Stan’s account afterwards, and suddenly I don’t feel so bad about myself because Jesus, has he left himself go: premature balding, bags as big as mine, scruffy chin hair, and a little beer belly. Maybe I should start hanging around him, since Kenny proved to be too much of an outstanding citizen for me. I snort at my little jab before quickly moving to the next page.

I’m not even surprised when I end up on Craig’s account. His username is “CraigTucker123”, because of course it is, and his bio is completely blank. Despite the lack of care or creativity with his account introduction, Craig has a lot of pictures. Most are of space, shots that he had taken with his fancy telescope camera. But the further down I scroll, there’s nothing but pictures of me and Stripe. It makes me sick to my stomach. How could he have loved someone like me? All of his other pictures had short, vague captions except for the posts made on my birthday or our anniversary. It’s enough to make me start bawling my eyes out. Without even having to register my next move, I reach for my stash drawer, determined to make myself numb again.

Friday morning comes before I even realize it. I’m even more of a mess than usual, scraping together a decent outfit to meet up with Bebe and Wendy. After all, they were stylish, and I didn’t want to be mistaken for a creep following behind two pretty girls. I settle on baggy jeans and a tucked in graphic tee. My usual converse shoes were too dirty, so I compromised by wearing my chunky Airforces that I got three Christmases ago. I wouldn’t say I’m the pinnacle of fashion, but the outfit is decent enough to let me scathe by.

Before Bebe picks me up in her swanky Volkswagen Beetle, I do a couple lines of coke followed by a double shot cold brew. It’s like an energy drink on steroids. So, when I spot the familiar car pulling up outside of the apartment complex, I’m ecstatic to shoot out of the door. Hell, I even find myself smiling. I swing open the backseat door and climb in, greeted with the bubbly voice of my blonde friend. Wendy shoots me a polite smile, seeming relieved that I look better than the last time she’d seen me.

“Tweek, have you been to that new thrift store near Sodosopop? It’s so retro and cool, you’re going to love it.” Bebe says, her valley girl accent as strong as ever.

“Ah—no, I don’t think so…” I reply, my voice sounding unfamiliar to my own ears from the days of isolation. “It’s called ‘Vixen’ or something, right?”

“Yeah, the one by the bar.” Wendy interjects, making eye contact with me in the mirror. She seems…. Suspicious.

Nonetheless, the car ride doesn’t seem too intrusive. The girls fill me on their boyfriend drama while I just give them half assed responses. I’m sure they just want another person to vent to, regardless of who it is.

“I told Stan not to talk to me anymore, but he always begs me to text or call him. Did Craig ever do that with you?” Wendy speaks again, this time making me go on high alert.

I clear my throat and shift to the edge of my seat, thankful that Sodosopop had come into view. “Um—hah—not really? We… haven’t talked at all…” I mutter, gnawing at my chapped lower lip.

Bebe slams onto the break as she enters the parking lot, swiveling her head around like someone just called her mom a whore. Wendy’s face is equally shocked, both of their wide eyes settling on my face.

“um, WHAT? You’re kidding, right?” Bebe lets out a groan of aggravation, undoubtedly aimed at Craig. “Ugh! What is wrong with him? How could he?!”

Wendy, as if sensing my discomfort, reaches out to touch Bebe’s arm. “Hey, let’s not mention that. There’s more to Tweek than Craig.”

And suddenly, the last conversation I had with Wendy clogs my mind—the very conversation that left me in cold sweats at night. It’s so unfortunate!

Maybe she never meant that as an insult to my character. Maybe she was just genuinely concerned. Maybe she was correlating me to herself and her situation with Stan. My parted lips let out a shaky sigh, my hand running through my messy blond hair. It’s like a big burden had been lifted off of my chest. Sure, Wendy had expectations of me, but those expectations were just to simply live a life outside of my failed relationship. And suddenly, the air doesn’t feel as thick. I give Wendy a small smile, gesturing to the thrift store just outside of the car.

“Let’s go inside. We can talk more in there.” I say, sounding unnaturally relaxed.

The rest of the day goes by without any hiccups. We shop while we talk about things, the good and the bad. Of course, I fail to mention anything about my addiction. That’s something I’m too prideful to own up to, and I certainly wasn’t cool enough to flaunt it the way Kenny does. When Craig is mentioned, I do my best not to focus on the negatives, instead laughing about things we’d done in the past. I can’t help wondering if that’s the way he’s talked about me all this time. It’s refreshing to say the least, to speak my mind instead of numbing everything with drugs. Bebe and Wendy don’t shame me, nor do they interrupt my stuttered thoughts. They’re insightful individuals, even if they’re a little hellbent on knowing everything about my personal life.

“Well, have you tried Tinder? Or what about Grindr? Is that your kind of thing?” Bebe asked, leaning incredibly close to me.

I let out a shaky laugh and take a sip of the Boba drink that Wendy insisted on getting. “N-No! That’s… way too scary. And Grindr? Really?”

Wendy rolls her eyes and touches my forearm, trying to show she was a bit more considerate than her bimbo of a friend. “Just let it come naturally to you. You’ll move on eventually.”

Though I’d been happy the entire evening, that sent an uneasy feeling to my stomach. I knew I didn’t want to move on, but Craig probably did. I distracted myself by slurping down more of the boba tea, nearly choking on one of the stupid Tapioca pearls. I was glad they didn’t press the conversation any further, instead filling the silence with complaints about their schoolwork or the latest Taylor Swift album, both of which I could not relate to.

When Bebe dropped me off back home, I felt more relaxed than I had in a long time. I wasn’t feigning for drugs the moment I walked in the door nor was I planning to sulk for the rest of the night. I pulled the few ingredients I had in my fridge and made myself an actual meal… if you can call grilled cheese and microwave noodles a meal. Still, it was definitely an improvement from Saltines and coffee.

After eating, I sorted through the few clothing items that I’d picked up. Most of the items were just closet staples—plain long sleeve shirts, a bomber jacket, and a vintage graphic tee. But one of the items—one that Bebe had convinced me to buy—was a long sleeved mesh shirt with a tank top silhouette.

“It’s sexy!” She insisted, shoving the shirt into my arms before I could interject. But she certainly wasn’t lying. After slipping it over my head and pairing it with a pair of my black jeans, I was surprised to see how good I looked. Taking it a step further, I smudged some black liner on my lash line and popped on a bit of lip gloss. I didn’t even know I had it in me to look good anymore.

I snapped a few pictures of myself in my full length mirror, a few close ups and a few full body shots. The shirt must possess magical powers because damn, not only do I look hot, but I look confident as well. There’s no awkward smiling or weird posture. It’s just me, looking like I actually cared about myself. Without even thinking it over, I went to my Instagram account. The last post I had made was over two years ago, a graduation post. I cringed at the shaky camera work, thankful that my jitters had settled down once I stopped the majority of my prescription medications.

After sifting through the pictures, I settled on a couple of them and started my Instagram post. Usually, my captions were long, neurotic paragraphs that only mildly related to the post. But this time, I took a page from Craig’s book and posted without a caption. Maybe he’d take it as a sign or something—but probably not since he isn’t as delusional as I am.

When I wake up, my phone is practically vibrating with notifications. I let out a groggy groan and unlock the screen, my eyes undoubtedly growing as wide as saucers. There were more likes than I could keep up with, followed by a few comments from my old classmates. Hell, even Jason White commented, and I haven’t talked to him in months!

I let out a happy laugh, scrolling through my feed activity. Deep down, I know exactly what my eyes are scanning for, and I’m giddy when I find it. Craig had actually liked my post. And as small of an achievement as that was, it makes me feel like the happiest person on the planet. I get out of bed and get ready for my uneventful workday, and for once, I put effort into my appearance.

My parents are pleasantly surprised that I don’t look like a hungover pile of garbage, their heads swiveled back to look at me over the seats of the car.

“Wow! That Lexipro is doing wonders for you, Tweek!” My mom exclaims which doesn’t really surprise me. God forbid my brain produces serotonin on its own.

My dad, however, gives me a very critical look. He hums and readjusts the rearview mirror, his sharp eyes staring back into my own. “Well, I’m not sure if it’s the Lexipro this time, honey.”

My mom blinks at him in confusion. “Richard is there something you’re not telling me?”
When her gaze shifts back and forth between me and my father, I already know the asshole is waiting for me to fess up. But instead, I say nothing at all, tearing my eyes away from my father. It was silent defiance, but it felt good.

“Craig Tucker is back in town, isn’t that right, son? Tell your mother all about your little encounter at the coffee shop.” He practically taunts, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel while he drives.

My mom gasps and puts a hand over her mouth. Mom had never disliked Craig. In fact, I’d say she liked him more than me at times. “Oh, is he? I just spoke with Laura the other day, actually. He’s grown into quite the handsome boy!”

As usual, I don’t say anything. My parents have an in depth conversation about the Tucker family, and I can’t bring myself to listen. I tune everything out and instead focus on how much money I have left from my check. Probably not enough to get my usual fix but enough to get me through the week.

Then, my ears suddenly hone in on the change of conversation. It’s funny how just hearing his name has had that effect on me even after all these years. I lean towards the back of my mom’s seat as she goes on.

“And would you believe it, he actually has a girlfriend!” She says in an excited tone, her eyes catching mine in the rearview mirror. “Maybe you’ll grow out of your phase too, Tweek.”

My heart feels like it stops. It’s like the car is going 1,000 miles an hour even though the speedometer is only reading 35. I swallow hard and try to fight back the vomit in my throat. Surely, this had to be some kind of sick prank. Richard is just trying to keep me away from Craig and has orchestrated an elaborate scheme to make me paranoid. And I hate that it’s working.

As soon as the car pulls onto the curb, I dart out of the door and into the familiar setting of the coffee shop. Usually, the smell of sweet espresso is welcomed but smelling it now does nothing but make me nauseous. My parents follow me in, but I’m quick to dart into the bathroom and empty the contents of my stomach into the shiny porcelain toilet. The tears blur my vision, enough to block out the view of my father crouching down next to me. I flinch when he clasps his warm hand onto my back, which makes the sick bastard laugh.

“It’s been two years, Tweek. I told you, meeting up with that boy would only trigger your anxiety.” He combs some hair out of my face, trying to avoid the messy strands from getting soaked in my vomit. “It’s for the best, son.”

After expelling the only meal from my stomach, I do my best to get through my shift. It’s busy, which I’m thankful for. Enduring a slow shift with these thoughts swarming my mind would be torturous. Instead, I’m distracted by summer refreshments, poppy seed cupcakes, and twenty dollar bills. It’s enough to get me through the day, despite the aching I feel in the pit of my stomach.

I’m not even surprised to find myself in the alleyway behind Skeeter’s Bar after my shift. I get more than my usual fix, even though it took all of my money. Who needs food when you’ve got two pounds of cocaine, right? I smuggle it into my apartment with relative ease. No one cares to stop my addiction anyways. I could parade the shit around like a newborn baby and still, no one would bat an eye.

Inside my apartment, I invent new ways to reach my high. From snorting to smoking to drinking it to injecting it. I find myself bouncing from wall to wall in a matter of minutes. I’m usually ashamed of my addiction, scared of what everyone else would think. But now, I’ve never been happier to be an addict. After all, there’s no one in the world that can lift me up the way that drugs can.

I don’t wake up in time for my shift. In fact, I don’t even remember going to sleep. Like I’ve mentioned, coke gives you a quick fix and a terrible withdrawals. Kenny always called it “dope sick”, which I think is pretty fitting. It’s an indescribable feeling, really. Your head feels like it’s a hundred pounds, your vision is foggy, you can’t remember anything, and you can’t focus on anything but craving your next fix. I look around my apartment and laugh. It looks like someone had a party with a bag of flour.

My phone has about a dozen missed calls, half of which are from my parents. The others are a mix of Bebe, Jason White, and Kenny. Without even thinking it over, I call Kenny back. The phone rings more than a few times, the tone almost enough to lull me back to sleep until I hear his voice.

“Tweek? You there?” Kenny asks, reminiscent of the way he’d wave his hand in front of my eyes when we’d get high together.

I hum in response, pressing the phone further against my ear. He sounds disappointed already.

“Well….,” he trails off, like he doesn’t want to say the next words, “I’m just trying to see how you’re taking the news.”

“What news? The hell are you talking about?” I snap back, obviously irritable from crashing so hard.

It takes Kenny every bit of thirty seconds to respond. He can tell I’ve been on a drug bender, because how could he not? No one knew more about addiction than Kenny McCormick.

“That Craig got a girlfriend? You know… the thing everyone is talking about?” He responds, treading lightly.

All I can do is laugh in response. I don’t even give him another second of my time, ending the call before he can press me for more. It seems everyone is in on this elaborate scheme that my parents and the Tucker family have cooked up. Is this their way of having an intervention? Couldn’t they just put me in a rehab center or something?

But it would explain all the missed calls. Everyone wants the inside scoop. Living in South Park is like being a celebrity on TMZ. It’s a never-ending cesspool of rumors and opinions. As if anyone could believe such a farfetched lie. Craig Tucker, the guy who had a boyfriend for eight years of his life, is straight. Craig Tucker, the guy who bought a pride sweater for his damn guinea pig. Craig Tucker, the guy who promised to marry me when he got back from college—

Did that happen?

The night he broke up with me, on the roof top of his house, felt like a blur. I tried to block everything out to make myself feel better, to make getting over him easier. But now, I feel it all coming back to me.

“We should talk.”

“We are talking. We’re talking about stars, right? And aliens.”

“No, it’s about us. I think we both know this won’t work, Tweek. I care for you but you’re pretty high maintenance and high-strung. I can’t provide for you all the way in Denver.”

…

“But I promise, once I’m out of college, I’m going to marry the hell out of you.” He pressed a kiss to the side of my head. “Can you wait for me?”

“W-what? Dude, this—” I stammered, my breath picking up. “Why would you even say something like that? You’re not leaving me. You’re just joking.”

Craig’s expression seemed genuinely uncomfortable. He let out a sigh and removed his arm from my shoulders, letting it settle back onto his knee. He swallowed hard as he looked straight ahead, and I could tell he was trying to hold back his emotions. That, to me, was just as shocking as him trying to break things off.

“If you move on, I won’t be upset. But I’m not strong enough to watch our relationship fall apart while I’m away.” He replied, his voice slightly shaking.

It was all I could do not to break down then and there. Here was Craig, hurting himself to spare the sanctity of our relationship. It was obvious he didn’t want to leave me. Not with the way his hands were desperate to touch me. Not with his lower lip quivering and tears threatening to spill from his eyes. It was at that moment I realized I had to be strong, not for my own sake but for Craig’s.

“You have better things to worry about than me, Craig.” I muster up a smile and reach out to give his knee a squeeze. “But it’s probably for the best to um… avoid each other. Talking throughout would make things worse.”

Craig managed to pull himself together, his long arms enveloping me close to his chest. He must’ve kissed me a million times before he dared to speak again.

“Please, wait for me.”

The memory makes me vomit again, the tears clogging my eyes so much that I can’t even tell if I made it to the toilet. Why couldn’t I remember this all before? Did I think he was lying at the time? Well, if he’s with someone else, then clearly he was. But I don’t buy it even for a second. How could he possibly have a girlfriend when he promised me the world?

I consider going on another bender to numb myself, but I opt against it. My body is still pumped full of coke from the night before. Instead, I get myself together and make my way to Kenny’s house. I don’t even bother asking if he’s home. I already know he is. When I get there, I simply open the door and plant myself onto the couch.

Kenny comes running at the sound of the door opening, no doubt fearful that the cops are raiding his drug infested home. When his blue eyes land on me, he lets out a deep exhale. He’s not happy to see me, but it’s clear he’s been worried. He sinks down onto his knees in front of me, tilting his head. I already know I look rough, and he’s smart enough not to comment on it.

“I don’t buy it.” I speak up before he even has a chance to.

Kenny, despite the gravity of the situation, laughs at my immediate response. He puts a hand against my thigh and squeezes it, trying to be comforting even though it’s not going to work.

“Me neither. Hell, he hasn’t even confirmed anything. I think it’s all just a bunch of bullshit.” He smiles, revealing a missing canine.

“Why’s everyone freaking out then? How—what the fuck happened?” I ask, even though I definitely don’t want an answer.

Kenny just shrugs, never one for gossip. If anything, Butters probably filled him in on the situation, something that makes my skin crawl. How does everyone know about this but me?

Instead, I pull out my phone to skim over a long-winded text from Bebe. I knew my answer would lie there, even if it sickened me to find out.

Bebe: OMG!!! Are you okay, sugar?? I swear I’ll kill him for this! There’s **NO WAY** he’s going out with that girl of all people! I mean, she’s just some ugly church girl! How could he go from being with YOU (and being GAY) to being with some little miss catholic?! Did you see the facebook post??? Her shoes look like—

The text goes on to criticize the girl in every way possible, and I honestly don’t care to read it. What does get my attention is the screenshot from the mentioned Facebook post. I zoom up on the picture while Kenny peers over my shoulder. It’s the Tucker family at church, Craig linking arms with a girl I don’t recognize. It makes me shiver. The insults are swirling in my head, and I itch to talk shit with Bebe. But that would get me nowhere. No answers, no comfort, and definitely no Craig. Defeated, I throw my phone to the other side of the couch, letting out a sigh.

“Let’s shoot.” I say without thinking.

Usually, Kenny has no problem grabbing his stash. Yet, he makes no attempt to get it. Instead, he wraps me in his arms and forces my head to rest against his chest. I tense immediately, never one for affection. But something about the way he smells like cheap cigarettes and bad cologne reminds me of Craig. So, I simmer into his arms, unsure of how to feel or what to do. I’m just left with the aching thought in my head…

How could he do this?

Chapter Text

I hadn’t been to church since I was fifteen years old. Craig convinced me to go, because in spite of his raging homosexuality, he was a devote Catholic. I never understood it. How could he stand to listen to that slanderous bullshit, let alone believe any of it?

From what I remember, the church had been newly renovated, with shiny paint and unstained carpet. It was certainly an improvement from the times I’d seen it as a child. I scoffed at the prospect of people’s donations being used for renovations, but Craig just gave me a sideways glance and I knew not to say anything.

I put on my Sunday best and hitch a ride with my parents, who seem overly excited about my attendance. I’d never considered myself religious—or at least not catholic. The very idea of hell makes me shiver, but heaven doesn’t seem much better. If heaven is full of people just like my parents, then I’ll choose the pit of fire every time. On the other hand, if it’s full of people like Craig, then Hallelujah.

When we walked into the double doors of the church, I’m met with wide eyes and slight smiles. It’s obvious I’m not welcomed, but everyone is too polite—or too much of a pussy—to say anything. I sit between my parents and keep my head low when Father Maxi walks down the altar. The annoying hymns start soon after, and everyone joins in like they’ve been practicing all week. Instead of trying to follow the lyrics in the shitty pamphlet I’m holding, my eyes dart over every pew. No Craig in sight. I’m relieved but also a tad disappointed. Church might’ve become my favorite past time if it meant I got to stare at a 6’2 half-Peruvian hunk the whole time. I almost let out a snicker through my nose, amused that I’m having such sinful thoughts in the holiest place in all of South Park.

Just as I remember, church is a waste of time. If anything, it’s more about social hierarchy than Jesus. Randy Marsh goes to the podium to ask for forgiveness about watching porn, something that makes his wife notably embarrassed. I thought confessions were a private matter. Is this some kind of humiliation ritual?

Nonetheless, I find it amusing to watch people from the town make fools of themselves in front of the congregation. Hell, even Eric Cartman waddles onto the makeshift stage to beg for forgiveness. But my amusement comes to an end once the sermons start. I find myself angry and ashamed at the gall of that priest. Though it was hard to put the blame onto him alone. He was just sputtering the same regurgitated nonsense that had been told for centuries. I listen to him speak of hell fire, but it only makes me crave a cigarette.

When the donation basket is passed around, I’m tempted to steal a few twenties. After all, I’d spent all of my check on coke, and I doubt my parents would allow me to dip into my disability money. Yep, I get a disability check every month, but I’ve never seen a dime of it. Richard calls it an investment; he says it’s stashed away into a private bank account, just in case I need it urgently. But it’s not a promise of financial security—it’s a threat. He could wave the money over my head however he pleased, since I’m under a conservatorship and unable to access it myself.

The service comes to an end an hour later, the out-of-tune Organ beginning its final song. I’m quick to rise from the pew, and I’m pleasantly surprised that my parents allow me to. It would seem they’re too busy rubbing elbows with Tolkien’s parents to really notice my absence. I take a seat on the stairs on the side of the building, reaching for the pack of smokes in my pocket. I can hear the insistent chattering of the locals behind the stained-glass doors. While I can’t make out what’s being said, I do enjoy the muffled conversations. It’s better than sitting alone, in silence.

I take a few drags from the Marlboro Red, allowing the plume of smoke to contaminate my lungs. Smoking does nothing for me besides reminding me of Craig. In fact, it reminds me so much of Craig that I swear I get a hint of his cologne. I laugh it off and shake my head, amused by my own delusions.

“You come to the morning service?” A voice asks behind me.

I jump at the familiar nasal inflection and whip my head around, the cigarette slipping from the boney fingers and falling onto the pavement. I scamper to my feet and clear my throat, stomping out the flame from the cigarette.

“Um—sometimes.” I lie, though I’m sure he knew the truth. “I mean… I’ve got nothing better to do right now…”

Craig lets out a huff of laughter through his nose, clearly amused. He’s not in church clothes, instead rocking a beat-up pair of jeans and an oversized hoodie. It’s enough to make me curious, despite the aching in my chest.

“You weren’t though… so, why are you here?” I ask, sounding more bitter than I had intended.

“Setting up for the evening service. Tricia doesn’t wake up early enough to do the mornings.” He shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets.

I scoff and cross my arms over my chest, my eye twitching in aggravation. How the hell could he be so casual? How could he stand to look me in the eyes when he’s already moved on, with a girl no less? It makes me feel sick to my stomach, but I swallow back the creeping vomit and press forward.

“Hah, yeah. I’m sure your girlfriend prefers the evening service too, right?” I accuse, not sparing the venom in my tone.

To my surprise, Craig lets out a burst of laughter, nearly keeling over. However, once he realizes that I’m serious, his expression twists into confusion.

“Dude, the fuck are you talking about?” He retorts, leaning a tad closer.

“Don’t play dumb with me, asshole!” My voice is loud enough to draw the attention of a few people passing by. “I saw your mom’s Facebook post! You—You’re such a douchebag! How could you?”

Craig doesn’t seem too pleased with my outburst, as he grabs me by the arm and steers me towards the side of the building, away from prying eyes and ringing ears. His lips are pulled into a thin line, his eyes cold as steel. It’s the same stoic expression he usually daunts, but it never fails to captive me.

“First of all, that’s my cousin, Rebecca.”  He starts, his tone dry enough to make a desert look refreshing. “And second of all, you know I’m super gay, so why would I have a girlfriend, Tweek?”

I blink and absorb the information, taking a moment to process everything. I try to envision the girl from the Facebook post— straight red hair, sharp features, and steel gray eyes. She was so clearly related to Craig, and I want to punch myself for not recognizing it sooner. I inhale sharply and look away out of embarrassment, wishing that my parents would whisk me away for once.

“B-But everyone said—” I started, recalling all of the gossip that was being spread around like wildfire.

“Yeah, and everyone is fucking stupid, dude.” He cuts me off, his sharp gaze softening just a tad. “She’s just visiting her dad for the summer— my uncle Skeeter.”

I let a shaky breath of relief expel from my lungs, even though I have no right to do so. Even if Craig had moved on, it wouldn’t have been an issue. I constantly have to remind myself that we’re no longer together despite the ache in my heart and the endless thought that cloud my mind. My eyes remain fixed on him, as if it would be the last time I ever saw him so closely, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

I’m all too aware of our awkward exchange of glances, the waves of silence beginning to grow unbearable. Was it always this hard to talk to him? Maybe it’s the remaining cigarette smoke in my lungs, but my chest feels heavy. Hoards of people pour out of the double doors of the church, but I couldn’t care less. The side of the building provided just enough privacy to fade into the background, leaving a world where only Craig and I exist.

“Help me set up.” His voice cuts through like a knife, his words leaving no room for arguing.

We enter through the back doors of the church; the once full pews now empty with the exception to lingering trash and the scent of White Diamond by Elizabeth Taylor. The air feels colder than it did when I was sitting front row, as if Craig’s very presence created an icy blizzard in the middle of June. Begrudgingly, I look to my left and take note of the singular closet behind the stage where Craig was pulling out a broom. I never understood his commitment to this god-forsaken place.

I’m reminded of the first time I ever attended church with the Tucker family, free from my parent’s prying eyes. I was so happy to be included-- so happy to feel welcomed.

Until the service began.

~

“You don’t wear that kind of stuff to church, Tweek.” Craig laughed, shaking his head as his eyes scoured at my clothes. Jeans and a sweatshirt.

“But—why? What’s wrong with it?” I looked down at my clothes insecurely, frantically looking for any stains or tears that would make them unfit. “My mom said it was fine…”

We were thirteen then, fresh faced and hardly boyfriends. Hell, we didn’t have a label back then, but I’m sure everyone knew. They had to have known. Normal thirteen-year-old boys didn’t hold hands everywhere they went.

“Hey,” He smiled and took a step closer, grabbing ahold of my sleeve, “I have some clothes you can wear. C’mon.”

I didn’t realize church required such fancy clothes. That’s the one good thing I can say about my parents—they never forced me to go to church with them. So, I didn’t understand the importance of “Sunday best” attire.

“There. That’s better.” Craig muttered, combing my hair over to one side.

Looking in the mirror, I could hardly recognize myself, wearing black slacks, a blue button-down, and a vest. Craig was wearing something nearly identical with the inclusion of a tie. Besides our eighth grade winter formal, I’d never worn clothes like that.

Back then, we were roughly the same size. It wasn’t until high school that Craig’s height took off like a rocket, leaving me several inches behind.

I turned away from the mirror and gave him a look that I’m sure was laced with worry and uncertainty. I stressed myself out like it was my favorite past time, and he was more than aware. He adjust the collar of my—his—shirt and gave me a reassuring glance.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get stared at way less if you wear this. Trust me.” He said in that cute nasally voice.

When we finally arrived at the one and only church in South Park, everyone welcomed me with kind eyes and opened arms. It was the first time in my life that I had ever truly felt that way, to be seen without judgment, to be acknowledged without scrutiny. I thought I would like church. In my mind, I’d planned to go with Craig every Sunday.

Out of habit, I grabbed his hand and followed his parents to our seats. However, before we had the chance to sit down, our joined hands were grabbed tightly from behind. Craig and I turned to look in confusion, only to be met with the smiling face of Father Maxi, our priest.

“Craig, you didn’t tell me you were bringing in someone new! You know how important it is to introduce our new member the proper way.” His voice was laced with a passive-aggressive sweetness, something I was too young to catch onto at the time.

“Here, come on stage and help me begin the morning service. You two will make a fine example of the scripture that I’m covering.” Father Maxi continued, pulling us along onto the stage without saying anything further.

I was nervous to stand in front of so many people, and when I glanced around the crowd, I recognized nearly everyone. It was enough to make my stomach squeezy and my eyes twitchy. But Craig gave my hand a squeeze and smiled at me, and then nothing else mattered.

“Leviticus 18:22,” Father Maxi spoke into the microphone, circling us like a predator animal.

 “Do not lie with a person of the same sex in the same way you would lie with a person of the opposite sex; it is detestable.”

Everything felt cold after that. The warm gazes that welcomed me quickly turned sour in disgust. It felt like the entire world had shifted in only a moment. Not even my parents looked at me fondly. Had they been sitting on the fourth row the entire time? I hadn’t noticed.

“Never in all of my years have I seen such a blatant display of sin within the church, in the front row. And to be so young…” Father Maxi paused, “What has happened to our youth? The sanctity of our children? The devil is among us now and takes many forms. He may appear as a snake, a goat… a blonde-haired child.”

The hatred in his words stabbed through me like the world’s sharpest Katana. I couldn’t bear to look at anything other than the floor, feeling Craig’s hand slip away from my own in embarrassment. I couldn’t even hold in my piss, staining the front of my pants and down both legs. A mixture of laughter and cries of disgust filled my ears, but that didn’t deter Father Maxi.

“Don’t laugh at this child! His body his expelling the evil demon in every way possible. He did the right thing to come here.” He smiled, clamping a hand onto my shoulder.

He guided me down the stairs back to my seat, nothing but the puddle of piss remaining on the carpeted stage.

After that, I was sure God didn’t exist at all.

~

I can’t stop myself from looking at the very spot I’d stood at on the stage, inspecting it closer now than when I was sitting through service. Despite the remodeling, the stain is still there. The slight discoloration is a reminder that things don’t change.

I feel sick to my stomach and collapse down onto one of the pews, my breaths coming out in short pants and my hands trembling. The coffee from earlier creeps up my throat, threatening to be dispelled from my body. But I wouldn’t allow it. I couldn’t leave another stain here.

Craig is quick to notice and rushes over me, so quickly that he’s grabbing onto my shoulders before the broom even has time to fall onto the ground. His grey eyes find mine with concerned laced in his irises. Without even thinking, I just lean into him and cry. Anyone else would ask for an explanation, but Craig has never needed one. He just holds me tightly and brushes my hair back with endearment, sweet nothings whispered into my ear with practiced ease.

The bible speaks of hell fires and sin. It says that I’m a deplorable human being that will never see the pearly gates of heaven. But here, in Craig’s arms, the fires of hell keep me warm and alive in a frostbitten reality that seems to consume me.

Chapter Text

Heaven could never feel as good as being in Craig’s arms. It’s my safe haven, the thing I crave the most. His scent is not remarkable by any means, yet, I find myself chasing it when he momentarily pulls away from the embrace. Crystal blue eyes clash against my amber irises, his pupils dilated from the low light of the church. The world seems to stop spinning when he looks into my eyes, and I don’t miss the way his gaze flickers down to my quivering lips.

“You okay, honey?” He says lowly, the pet name rolling off of his tongue with practiced ease.

“Hah—um, yeah…” I stammer out, wondering if I should pull away from his embrace. As if he could read my mind, Craig tightens his arm around my torso, his breath fanning over my face.

“Look,” He starts, a heavy sigh leaving his lips when he looks at the altar. “There’s no stain there, okay? The carpet got replaced last year.”

I say nothing at all, the sound of his voice sending me into some kind of trance. How could I focus when he’s holding me like this? When he looks this good?  When I feel so… hard.

Oh god.

This isn’t happening right now. Out of instinct, I check myself, my eyes flickering down to my groin. Sure enough, I was rock hard, harder than I had been in months. I cross my legs and shove him away, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks and ears. I can only hope that Craig won’t notice or if he does that he won’t comment on it.

But he does. I see the flicker of interest on his face, the way his lips tilt into a smirk and his brow arch. I have half a mind to slap him across the face for being such an asshole. Then again, it’s not his fault that I got a boner just from a stupid hug.

“It’s still that easy, huh?” He chuckles, brushing a knuckle against the strain in my pants.

The way my body twitches is embarrassing enough to keep me up at night. I let out a huff and grab his wrist, my body trembling in a mixture of excitement and anxiety. Why was he doing this in the church of all places? And why was I considering it?

“Craig, what the hell is wrong with you?” I try to sound stern but my words come out shrill and squeaky instead, an embarrassed exclamation rather than a firm confrontation. He knows I like it.

“Hey, you’re the one who started it.” He leans forwards, both hands trailing up my thighs with the destination undoubtedly being the waistband of my pants. I’ve slept with him enough times to know his routine. At this point, it’s engraved in my bones, from the look in his eyes to the graze of his finger tips.

He smiles and looks me up and down before backing me against a pew until my the back of my knees collide with the polished wood. It’s just forceful enough to make me sit, his towering form staggering above me. I feel like a caged animal under his intense gaze, and now that I’m eye-level with his groin, it’s hard to miss the strain of his erection.

Despite my memory being hazy, I could never forget the way his cock looked. It was wonderfully large, thick enough for my fingertips to barely touch when my hand was wrapped around it. The pink tip matched the color of his lips, a thick vein running down entirety of the shaft. Just thinking about it is enough to make me shiver. Craig’s snark is enough to snap me out of my thoughts, one of his hands reaching out to pet my hair.

“Craig I think this is… a really bad idea,” My hands clench at my sides, shallow breaths escaping my parted lips. “We’re not even together anymore. It’s just not—”

“Don’t push me away.” He sinks down onto his knees in front of me and grabs both of my hands, pressing lingering kisses to my knuckles. The gesture is so desperate that it almost makes me question if this is the same Craig Tucker that took four years of dating to say ‘I love you.’

I can feel my ears burning and my cock twitching in my pants. Here he was, yearning for me, begging me to stay, pleading with me to allow him to go further. To a degree, it was empowering. I’d never been the kind of person who demanded the attention when I stepped into a room. Hell, I was little more than a background character in most people’s lives. Yet, to Craig, I was everything. He yearned for me in ways no one else ever had or ever would, and that affected me deeply.

He continued to pepper kisses along my fingers and wrists until he was certain I wouldn’t pull away, his eyes flooded with desire and adoration when he looked up at me. I feel like a sacred figure of the church or something with the way he’s praising me, and I can’t help wondering what the hell I ever did to deserve such a thing.

“Let me do this… just for a little while.” Craig whispers, wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his head into my lap.

“B-But what if someone comes in?! What about—“ I start, my tone slightly frantic.

“That never stopped us before,” He lifts his head from my lap, practically crawling on top of me. “Remember all those times at Stark’s pond? You didn’t care back then.”

I can’t stop the gasp from escaping my mouth, my heart stuttering at how shameless he was being. I try to sputter out a response, but he’s quick to ease a couple of fingers into my mouth. The digits brush against my tongue as he gently thrusts them into my throat. I feel warm inside, like all the time apart didn’t matter. Craig still loved me the same, even if I was a washed up druggy with knotted hair and boney legs. The revelation is almost enough to make me as shameless as he was, but I still had enough sense to pull away.

“Gah— that’s because we didn’t have another option back then! I… have my own place now..” I say between strangled breaths, sitting up on my elbows. The wooden pew creaks beneath us, almost like it’s calling us sinners.

“Is that an invitation?” Craig raises a brow, shifting to stand next to the pew rather than caging me against it. The boner in his pants almost looks painful.

“I guess so? Fuck dude, I don’t know!” I cover my flushed face with my hands, but it does little to actually calm me down. I know I look ridiculous, getting embarrassed over something I’d done with Craig a million times. But it was different now. We were different.

Between the cracks of my fingers, I can see Craig analyzing me like I’m the most interesting thing in the world. His brows were pinched together, his jaw slightly clenching when he swallowed. It was a sign of restraint. A deep exhale left his broad chest, one of his hands extending to help me to my feet. He straightens out my sweater and lets his hands linger on my body for a considerably long time.

“Okay. Let’s go to your place then.” He shrugs, always so casual and unbothered.

 I envy him for being such a straightforward and collected person. We were opposing forces. But Craig had always said our love was like physics, something I took as an insult all those years ago but I now seem to understand.

Circa junior year, physics 101—

“I can’t figure this shit out! Ngh! It makes no sense!” I yelled out in frustration, clenching my pencil in my fist. School had never been my area of expertise. Being dyslexic was a disadvantage I was unfortunately cursed with.

“Calm down, babe. Let me explain it to you in a way you’ll understand.” Craig grabbed my fist and eased it open, taking the pencil from my hand to point at the question.

“You can think of this in a real life context. Use our relationship, for example.” He continued, not before I could cut him off.

“Eugh— don’t compare our relationship to… this! This is the worst thing on the planet, why would you compare it to us, huh?” I huff, pulling at my hair in frustration.

He laughed softly and looped an arm around my waist, peppering a few kisses against my jaw despite my aggravation. He’d always had patience for me.

“Listen, okay?” He pointed to the problem again with the eraser of the pencil. “When you have an electromagnetic field, you have electrical charges. You’d think the more alike a charge is, the more they’d attract to one another, right?”

He stopped to make sure I was following along before continuing.

“That’s wrong though. When charges are too similar, they repel each other.” My nose crinkles in confusion but he doesn’t let me object. “But when charges are different, they’re attracted to each other. Just like me and you.”

My eyes widened with realization, and suddenly, physics made a whole lot more sense. I was the charged particle while Craig was the neutral particle.

~

I should be embarrassed of the condition my apartment is in. It’s not a great first impression. But Craig has known me my entire life. I doubt he cares about empty boxes of cigarettes and mountains of dirty laundry. It’s all the same as it always had been.

He doesn’t care when he’s got my back pressed against the first wall he can find, tongue shoved down my throat like he’s trying to suffocate me. Long, slender fingers grasp at my waist so naturally, and I hate the way I melt into him. I’m desperate for it. But who could blame me? I’d been longing for this, craving it, feigning for it.

When he pulls away for air, I gasp and heave an embarrassing amount. He laughs and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Still have asthma, I see.” Craig snarks.

“Shut up, asshole!” I yell back, without much bite.

We stumbled towards the couch, ungracefully so, knocking over towers of paper coffee cups and dusty books. Either way, I end up sprawled out on top of the worn leather couch. It creaks under our weight, moaning and wheezing almost like it’s mocking me. But I hardly notice. It’s hard to pay attention to anything at all when Craig’s hips are pinning mine down, a delicious friction making my pants hot.

He fights with the buckles of our belts, swearing under his breath. His hands, usually so stable and calm, shake with anticipation. He’s awarded with my underwear on display, plaid boxers doing little to hide my aching erection. I whine at the slightest of touch, my eyes focusing on the way he slips his own pants down mile-long legs.

“You okay?” He says, breathless and hot.

I simply nod.

That’s enough of a response for him to keep going, and I’m glad. The cold air hits my body all at once, clothes piled onto the ground, warm hands touching and tweaking wherever they could reach. I can feel everything all at once. It’s better than any high I’d ever experienced. But Craig had always been my worst addiction. I could never quit him.

My own hands settle onto his broad shoulders while he sucks hickeys onto my neck. I should be worried about the marks, but I’m not. I’m too preoccupied with grinding my ass against his dick, free from the Calvin Klein boxers he was previously wearing.

It’s not long before his wandering hands reach towards a nearby end table, fumbling through the drawer for the trusty bottle of lube he knew would reside there. He knew me so well. I see him frown when he fumbles through half empty bottles of prescription pills and mysterious bags of substances. But eventually, he sits back with a bottle of lube in the palm of his hand. He doesn’t say anything as he squirts a copious amount onto his fingers and leans closer.

“You been with anyone since… y’know… me?” He mumbles, a little awkward and disgruntled but it’s cute.

I scoff and scrunch my face, clearly offended. A part of me wants to say yes. A part of me doesn’t want to seem like a loser who hasn’t had sex in the past two years. But I couldn’t possibly lie to him.

“You think I’d sleep with anyone else? Ugh…” My voice is laced with agitation but he doesn’t mind. He loves when I’m frustrated.

“Alright, alright. Just making sure, ya whiny baby.” He teases, his hand lingering down to my spread legs.

He dips his head down and presses the sweetest of kisses to my chapped lips. It’s enough of a distraction as one finger slides inside of me. I shiver at the intrusion, a foreign feeling that I could never get used to. But he takes his time.

“You’re fine, doing so good for me.” Craig praises. “Deep breaths. Just like that.”

Between the soft praises and gentle croons of his fingertips, it doesn’t take long to loosen me up. Still, he’s not one to rush anything. I’m practically drunk on his romanticism, vision fuzzy and mind hazy. I’m hardly coherent. Until he slips his digits out and wields the biggest dick my eyes have ever settled on. He was unnervingly large. Thick veins ran down the shaft, a perfectly bulbous head stained the perfect shade of maroon, a clean patch of hair reserved at the base.

He scoots closer and hovers above me, presses it against my quivering backside and rubs my thighs as it eases in. I gasp and my fingers dig into his shoulders, my eyes fluttering with each practiced movement. He knows my body well enough that I don’t have to give verbal reassurance.  

“Agh… shit, dude…” He grunts, his pierced brow furrowed and his lip tucked between his teeth.

I moan pathetically as he bottoms out, tears filling my eyes and threatening to spill onto my cheeks. He kisses them away and shushes me gently, holding me close. And he talks to me while it gets easier. Kisses me. Runs his fingers through my hair. It’s blissful.

Each move he makes is a testament to how well he knows my body. The way he pistons his hips to hit against my prostate repeatedly… it makes me cry out in pure ecstasy. I claw at his back, I bite at his shoulder, I whine like a wimp.

And he switches positions like we’re dancing, bodies still connected at the hip, lips still sticking to my lips. He reminds me every second that I’m loved and cherished.

“My perfect boy.. my sweet baby… my honey.. my everything..” He says between grunts and shaky breaths.

He says all that and more, while I can only gasp and sputter. I can’t count how many times I cum. It’s an embarrassing amount.

I wake up sticky and cold, practically squished to my ex boyfriend like a mouse on a glue trap. I don’t even remember falling asleep, but I guess I did at some point. But I don’t move from being nestled against Craig’s side just in case it’s all a dream. Instead, I gaze at him longingly. I’ve missed him so much. I should be freaking out right now. I should be pacing around the room, rummaging through my stash drawer, pulling at my hair. But I don’t do any of that. I rest my head onto his chest and let myself sleep some more.

Right now, I’m fine with this.