A/N: I don't know what I'm doing. Jesus Christ. Honestly, I have so many fics going on right now and I should be working on my novel, but here you go. A Creek fic I needed to write. It's from Craig's POV, because he has seriously been begging me to write as him for a while. Ironically enough, I wrote this while being hyped up on coffee. By the way, I'm really trying to make this not just another SP high school fic, so have faith in me; it should get better as it goes along…
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't claim to, wouldn't dream of it, got it memorized?
Warnings: Swearing and lots of it, eventual slash. Honestly, if you don't like slash, don't read this, neither one of us benefits.

Pairings: Craig/Tweek, a million and one side pairings that even I'm not sure about yet. Probably some Style, Benny, maybe even some Frenchy Jew goodness, if you know what I mean.

Chapter One: If You Want To Have A Good Time

I lie to myself a lot. I lie to other people a lot. It calms my nerves. If you took all the lies I've ever told and rolled them up in cigarette paper, that would be a damn good smoke. It relaxes me, calms me down, and keeps me in balance. Sort of like flipping people off. That's died down, ever since middle school. I still do it, way more than I should, but most of the time I just lie instead.

I don't know if it's the rush it gives me or what. I love the feeling of sitting there, watching someone's eyes, deciding whether to believe me or not, and then watching them slowly nod, accepting the lie and keeping it in their memory. I don't just lie about big things to get noticed though, oh no. I lie about everything and anything. I tell people I just smoked two cigarettes when I only smoked one. I tell them I slept for eight hours when I only slept for six. The sick part, the really twisted part is, I love it.

Even little things like that, cigarettes and sleeping, lying about them is so fun. I get high off of it, I swear. When someone believes me, it's the best feeling in the world. My favorite thing to lie about, I would have to say, it my other compulsive habit. When I give people the finger and they get angry at me, I pretend like nothing happened. I act innocent, I smile at them, I have it down to an art.

Back in fourth grade I used to just flat-out deny it. Like that was going to convince people of something. No, now I know how to convince people that I didn't do something they just saw me do seconds ago. There are only a few people who don't fall for it. The first one is Clyde Donovan. Or Harris. It depends on if his parents are getting along that week. I have to imagine it's exciting to wake up every morning to find out if your last name has changed or not.

Clyde just doesn't listen to me anymore when I tell him a story about something. It's amusing, or at least it was for the first few months.

"My dad took us camping last weekend," I told him once while we were watching Red Racer. I'm still hopelessly addicted to the reruns, and Clyde watches them with me, though reluctantly. He barely looked away from the screen, just got away with a quiet 'hmm?' without so much as a glance at me. "We saw some bears." There's another noise of questioning, which I took as incentive to continue. "Yeah," I had continued, getting more excited, "yeah, they were like huge fuckin' bears, almost like, like, aliens or something."

"Dude, we spent the night at Token's last weekend," Clyde had replied, eyes still on the television. "Shut up."

When Clyde says 'we' he means all four of us. Me and him, of course, along with Token Black and Tweek Tweak. From time to time we do stuff like that, spend a weekend together. Usually at Token's house because that bastard's house is bigger than the rest of our houses put together. I don't know what his parents do for a living but I've suggested to my dad before that he finds out and gets a degree in it.

Token humors me. He listens to me and sarcastically replies to everything I say, breaks it down and finds all the flaws. It's like what he does for everything else in life. For Token there always has to be an explanation. Even if the explanation is as simple as 'bullshit' it's good for him. He isn't Kyle Broflovski; he doesn't have to make some speech about what's going on, he just has to figure it out so it makes sense to him. He's even figured out my compulsive lying.

"Attention," he had said one day while we were at Blockbuster, looking for movies to rent and never return.

"What?" I replied, looking up from a particularly gory movie I had been wanting to see and never got a chance to, mainly because 'we' as a group don't watch horror movies in order to maintain the sanity of our twitchy, blond member.

"Attention," he repeated, taking the DVD from me and looking at the case. "You lie for attention. I don't know where you aren't getting it. At home or something. God knows you get enough at school from, well, girls and guys alike. Maybe you just like having people around you. Or maybe you want people to listen, but that's why you do it. Attention." He handed the movie back to me. "Oh, and Tweek already picked out the movie for this week." We exchanged exasperated looks.

I don't have a problem with Tweek, I really don't. In fact, I consider us best friends. I'm the only one that's able to calm him down, really, and he's a great guy. But he has horrible taste in movies. He always picks something generic and sappy. A chick flick every goddamn time. Always something with a storyline that goes something like: they meet, they fall in love, they lose each other, they find each other, and then they're happy.

Tweek likes those movies because they give him nothing to be paranoid about. In movies like that the world is perfect and the nice guy gets the pretty girl, they always both love each other and, through everything, they end up together. Tweek likes lies like that, little lies that everything is going to be okay. Tweek believes me when I lie about things like that. The funny thing about Tweek is, I think he believes lies more than he believes the truth. I mean, I tell him that we're best friends a lot, which is true to a point.

He doesn't believe me.

I tell him Godzilla has been spotted in Denver.

He believes me.

I don't know why I'm thinking about this as I trudge through the snow to school. I should be thinking about what I'm going to tell people. My power went out and as a result my alarm didn't go off and I missed the bus. Simple enough, right? No. No, something much more interesting needs to have happened to me. I could just tell Tweek that some gnomes stole all my underwear and I had to search everywhere for a new pair.

But only Tweek would believe that. I don't just lie to Tweek. I lie to everyone. In fact, I think I lie to Tweek the least. Just because, Jesus, he'll believe anything. I hardly even have to try. I can calm him down, I always can, but it's just not worth the effort sometimes. In a way I kind of like that, I think to myself, biting my lip, as I find myself nearing the high school, no story in mind. I kind of like being the only one who can have that power over him…

The hallways are empty except for a few stray people. I see Stan Marsh shoving his backpack into his locker. My locker is on the other side of the hallway from his, and I suppress laughter as I hear him muttering expletives under his breath, as I spin the combination lock between my fingers. Honestly, I'm surprised at how much hasn't changed since elementary school.

Ninth grade was a shock, I think. In middle school we all started to drift apart. I think there was a period of time where Stan and Kyle didn't hang out. I know I changed a lot, started smoking with the foreign kids, and started lying profusely. Then high school happened. Our school, Park High, is a mixture of kids from South and North Park. The North Park kids are substantially different from us all. They're all rich, like, Token rich, only with snobby attitudes.

I remember some British shit with blond hair said something about Butters Stotch being gay, and that was it, I think. Everyone, all the guys from Mr. Garrison's old class, just sort of stood up for him. Hell, I think Eric Cartman even threw in an 'Ay!' at some point. It's funny how Butters of all people was the one to bring up back together. I mean, in fourth grade I didn't give a fuck about Butters Stotch, but in ninth grade, Global History, on the first day of school?

I was flipping off some kid named Gregory Thorne and finding myself, along with seven others sitting in front of the principal's office. We all were just pissed off. No one was talking. And then Clyde started crying, and Token made some joke about it, and we were all laughing nervously. Cartman joked about it in a mean way, I flipped him off, Kyle yelled at him, Stan calmed him down, Kenny said something perverted, Tweek freaked out and dropped his thermos of coffee.

Everything was back to normal.

Now we're in eleventh grade, the weirdest group of friends possible. It's sort of like elementary school again. There's me, Tweek, Clyde and Token and then there's Kyle, Stan, Cartman and Kenny. We're one big group of assholes, insulting each other all the time, fighting all the time and laughing all the time. I won't lie about one thing, I like it. All of us, our group. It's really nice, in a weird, twisted, South Park sort of way.

I snort to myself as I grab my Psychology book out of my locker and turn around to find Stan. We have the class together. He grins, I grin, and we inaudibly agree to walk there together.

"Why are you late?" I ask, pulling on the side of my hat so it just barely covers my long, black hair. Stan and I, our hair kind of matches. We don't talk about it, it's like a contest. Who can go the longest without cutting their hair? Stan will probably lose, his mom will yell at him to cut it in a month or two when it starts reaching his shoulders, but for now we're content with the contest we have going on.

"My power went out," Stan says. Shit, I remember, Stan lives a block away from me. "I had to walk here, since my parents are at work and all."

"Oh, me too," I say, frantically searching my mind for a story until…Ah! "Yeah, my power went out too, but I think I know why."

"Really?" Stan asks, his eyebrows disappearing into his bangs. He nearly trips as we make our way upstairs. No point in hurrying when we're already late. "Dude, like, the entire block's power was out, or at least it seemed like it. No one's lights were on while I was walking. Not even at Cartman's place, although I'm sure the fat fuck got a ride from his mom." We both roll our eyes.

"I bet it was out on the whole block," I say darkly. Stan is so easy to lie to. He's so gullible if you manage to sound confident in what you say, like I do; he looks at me, almost worried. "The power lines by my house, it looked like something ripped them down. I could tell it wasn't the wind, you know. It was like something did it deliberately." I finish my little lie with a small nod, and then bite my lip, looking at Stan's face.

For a minute he looks disbelieving and we've made it to Psychology class. "Dude," he says, right before he opens the door, "that's so sick. Wait 'til I tell Kyle." We enter the classroom. It's the middle of a lecture. Our teacher berates us for being late, but we tell her the power was out and she softens her look. I sit down in my usual seat next to Token and watch as Stan whispers to Kyle and the Jew's eyes widen.

Smiling to myself dreamily I lean forward and don't listen to the lecture, just soak up the euphoric feeling of someone believing me.

During lunch I figure it's as good a time as ever to get a few free cigarettes. Out back there are a few groups of people who smoke, every day, at the same time. The Goth Kids are muttering to themselves about pain and non-conformity and I don't want to get dragged into that shit, so I settle for the Foreign Kids. One of them is Gregory and, though he never smokes, he's always with the group.

So is Pip, that other stupid British kid from elementary school. He kind of disappeared after a while in elementary school. I think people just got sick of him. He wasn't exactly a crowd pleaser. He's currently being pinned against the wall by the Son of Satan, Damien, who has a fistful of the kid's hair in one hand as he kisses him and a cigarette in the other.

Christophe DeLorne rounds out their little foreign group. Hell is a foreign place, isn't it? I suppose if there was Hell on Earth it would be in France. I mean, if it produces kids like Christophe, something is definitely off. He's talking about how God is a faggot or something right now while Gregory just stares off into space, barely listening. He takes notice as I approach them though. Damien even stops playing with his boytoy when he hears my voice.

"'Tophe," I say, my voice sickeningly sweet, dragging out the nickname I know the French boy detests.

I like the look he gets in his eyes, when he turns around growling, ready to beat the shit out of whoever cut his heritage in half and realizes it's me. It's this accepting look, one he rarely gives out to anyone. "What iz et now, Nommel?" he asks, his accent heavy, calling me by my last name as usual. I smile at him. We both know what I want. "Three will be enough, oui? Zat iz enough to keep you away from me for ze rest of the day, is it not?"

"More than enough, darling," I say with a gratuitous wink, grabbing the cigarettes he holds out to me, our fingers brushing, causing him to fluster slightly.

I walk away, content with myself, hearing Gregory ask, as he always does: "Why do you put up with that little wanker?" The truth is, I don't know why he does either. I take three cigarettes from him almost every day, I never pay him back. I think I know why, I think it has to do with him blushing when I touch him, but I don't want to admit it to myself, so I don't. I'm just happy to pocket the cigarettes as I enter the school again and make my way into the lunchroom.

There's a seat open for me, as always, in-between Tweek and Clyde and across from Stan. Seating arrangements are the same every single day. Token, Clyde, me and Tweek, across from Cartman, Kenny, Stan and Kyle. It works out well. It never changes. Sometimes someone stops by to talk, disrupts things, Wendy when she and Stan aren't having bitch fits at one another, Butters when he has some interesting news, Christophe if he wants to blush a little more. Every day, in and out, same thing.

"Hey, dude, haven't seen you all day," I say to Tweek, who's twitching next to me. Tweek doesn't sit, he twitches. He never stops moving. He looks up at me with golden eyes. His hair is so messy; I have to bite my tongue to prevent myself from running a hand through it and fixing it. He has these dark circles around his eyes, because he rarely, if ever, gets sleep. It's why he has that thermos of coffee clutched in his shaking hands.

"Ngh," he answers, his head cocking to the side, "well we don't have any classes together before lunch, so – so, of course you don't see me. Was I supposed to meet you?" Suddenly his eyes widen, even wider than before, at least, and grow brighter if that's even possible. "Oh, God, I was…I was supposed to meet you, wasn't I? Jesus Christ, how did I forget?!" Stan and Kyle, across from us, are both looking at me, faces amused.

I could lie to him. Tell him, yeah, he was supposed to meet me after French class, he owes me, let's say, five dollars. He would believe me. He would freak out. I know he would, which is why I don't lie. "Nah, Tweek," I say, smiling, "I just wish I saw you more, y'know?" I give into the urge, slightly, and let my hand run through his golden hair, fixing it as much as I can without anyone looking at me funny.

"Did you finish the French conjugation?" Kyle asks, a small smile on his face.

"Yeah," I tell him, even though I have two words done, "but you're not getting it."

"I bet that stupid French fag helped you with it anyway," Cartman barks from the other side of the table. I glare at him and open my mouth, ready to shoot something back, but I have nothing. Christophe did help me, actually, with the two words, and I really have no way to defend the truth and I just give him the middle finger, because I have nothing better to retaliate with. "I bet he keeps you up all night, doesn't he Craigy boy? I bet he screams your name."

"Uh, Cartman," Token says, raising an eyebrow, "no offence, but if you're thinking about what Christophe screams, that kind of makes you the fag, doesn't it?" And there goes the fatass, yelling about how he's not gay in the least. Stan shoots back that even if he was, none of us would give him so much as a pity fuck, except maybe Kenny. The blond boy with the orange parka makes retching noises at the thought. All is right again.

"You want to come over today?" I ask Tweek. My hand is in my pocket, twirling one of the cigarettes between my fingers. My hands will smell like nicotine after, but I don't really care. I like the smell. Everything I own smells like cigarettes. It's just another addiction, something I like to have around me all the time. I create my lies, I flip people off without thinking, and I get cigarettes from the French boy. My day is almost perfect.

"Y-yeah, sure, as long as your parents don't mind," the coffee-addict replies, his slender fingers wrapping around the thermos tightly as his eyes widen again and he shudders violently. "They like me right? I mean oh God, if they didn't, what if they just lock me out of the house? And then…Jesus, the mountain lions will find me and rip me to shreads! Ack!" His voice has risen a few octaves and a few people are staring.

I lightly pry his fingers from the thermos and take his hands into my own. He's still shaking, but it's less violent now. He looks at me and I smile. "Tweeky," I say, softly, "my parents think you're fucked up, but they think I am too. So you're practically part of the family, got it?" He nods and I grin, letting go of his hands and ruffling his hair a bit. God, I love his hair. Everyone at the table is returning to their conversations. Stan gives a look, a small smile, looking at me like he knows something no one else does. Like he knew a secret.

I flip him off.

I find it funny how even though Stan is the one who obviously thinks he knows something, Kyle is the one to talk to me. How very like them. They're like one person. Kyle has a temper, he says what's on his mind, and he's self-effacing all at the same time. He knows he's smarter than you, but he's modest about it. Stan has a temper too, but he just keeps quiet about it. If he thinks he's better than you, he tells you. Stan is very typical, Kyle is very atypical. That must be why they're best friends.

Kyle is playing with his glasses while he talks. We're in Shakespeare together. Why I'm in the class, I don't know. Everyone else took Creative Writing or Media Literacy, some blow off class that requires almost no effort, and instead Kyle and I decide to exhaust ourselves with this shit? It makes no sense, but nothing really does. Kyle doesn't wear glasses all the time, he just needs them to help with reading, and we're not exactly getting anywhere on Othello, even though we're supposed to be halfway through the first act by now.

"Dude, just fucking spit it out," I say, chewing on the eraser of my pencil. It's old and disgusting, because I do this all the time, but I love it. "Seriously, it's kind of freaky that you're thinking this much. Usually you just, like, say shit. So, you know, say what you have to Broflovski, and we can get on with this thing." I'm absentmindedly turning the pages of the work we're supposed to be reading.

"What's up with you and Tweek?" he asks, innocently. I look up and glare at him. Kyle Broflovski is so far from innocent it's not even funny. I don't even know how long I've known him. But he isn't innocent in the least. I don't believe that tone of voice for a second. "What I mean, Craig," he says, leaning in a bit closer, so no one can hear what he says next, "is that I see how you look at him. Stan and I both do, so don't pretend like there's nothing going on."

I'm kind of shocked. I thought he was going to say something about how I ran my fingers through the twitchy boy's hair or how I'm the only one who can calm him down. Instead it's how I look at him. I just laugh and Kyle backs away, narrowing his eyes. "What the fuck?" I say, although it's really not a question, it's just a statement. "Look, I see how you and Stan look at each other too." I don't, but his eyes widen, and I know I've hit a nerve. "Tweek and I, we aren't like you two." His face turns red. Gold mine. "Maybe you want another couple of queers around, but sorry, it's not happening."

"Stan and I aren't – " he begins to say, defiantly, his face bright red from, what? Anger? Embarrassment? I don't know which it is, but I'm happy my lie caused it. I haven't seen anything between the two of them. Now I do, now I'm figuring there's something more between them than I want to know about. Oh, the things I can make up about them. "I, dude," Kyle says, quietly. I look at him, surprised, his green eyes are pleading with mine. "Can you not tell…" He's struggling with this, looking away now, he drops his pencil.

"Not tell who?" I hiss excitedly. I'm gripping the edge of my desk tightly. I love this feeling. It's a rush of adrenaline. Who am I not supposed to tell? Stan? Oh God, maybe Stan doesn't know. That would be the best thing ever. My mind is racing with thoughts about how to get this out. Maybe I can say someone found a love note the Jew wrote for his best friend. No, shit man, that's weak, I can come up with something better than that.

"Christophe," he finally manages. My thoughts stop. Christophe? What in the hell does that French fag have to do with anything? Kyle puts his glasses on, shakily picks up the book and turns pages, even though I can tell he's not really paying attention to what he's doing. He's somewhere else right now. Worrying about Christophe, of all people, finding out that he's, what, got something for his best friend? "What page are we on?"

"I don't know, one-fucking-million," I sputter out, my voice a bit too loud. Wendy Testaburger glares at us from across the room where she and Gregory are reading. I wave at her sveltely, with a coy smile. She snorts in disgust and returns back to listening to the Brit. I turn back to Kyle who is glaring at me. "Dude, I don't give a fuck if you like Stan or whatever, but you are not getting away with not telling me about how 'Tophe plays into this."

"I'm not talking about this," he growls, "tell me what page we're on and keep your mouth shut about it. I swear to God, Craig, if anyone finds out about this I'll rip off whatever balls you have left. You'll be even less of a man than you are right now." I whistle and pat him on the back, commending him on a nice threat. We return to reading, to normal, and my head swarms with information.

Tweek pops up in the back of my mind. What was Kyle saying about him? I don't really remember; something about his eyes or something. Mm, yeah, Tweek has nice eyes. "Dude?" I look up and see that the redhead is giving me a pay-attention-now look, and all thoughts of the golden-haired boy leave my head as I speak words of a tragedy that never even happened.

The last hour of the day is the best. Physical Education. Yeah, education, my ass. Our teacher or, 'life coach,' as he likes to call himself, tells us a gay little life story at the beginning of the hour and then has us run laps while we think. At least, that's what he thinks we do. Instead, half of us sleep while he talks, and all of us talk amongst one another while we pretend to run around the track. Some of us, like Cartman, don't even bother to run.

Normally, I sleep while he talks, but today is kind of interesting. He's telling a story about lying. How it catches up with you and how you can never escape the lies you tell. I'm chewing on my lip, hanging on every word. What if he's right? What if every single lie I've ever told just ends up coming back to haunt me? I kind of laugh to myself as I realize how stupid that sounds and then I lean back onto the hardwood floor of the gym. No one else is listening, so why should I?

Tweek is lying next to me. He looks like he's sleeping, but I know he's not. It's just one of those rare moments. See, with Tweek, like I said, he's always moving. He has the heart of a hummingbird, I swear, because he never fucking stops. But right now he's hardly even twitching. Just his right hand, ever so slightly, his left hand is held tight around his thermos. I really like him in moments like this. Not any more than I usually do, I just imagine he must really be happy like that.

Peaceful, I s'pose.

Then 'life coach' is yelling at us to run laps and Tweek jumps up with a 'Gah!' and I don't even care enough to hide my laughter. Everyone laughs, well, almost everyone. Kyle and Stan both give me disapproving looks. Oh, Mr. and Mrs. High and Mighty. I roll my eyes and stand up, helping Tweek up with me. Like they know a thing about how Tweek and I function as a couple…of best friends. I really need to stop thinking about him so much.

On the track the air is abuzz with talking. Usually Tweek and I run with Token. Clyde always stops running after some amount of time and talks to Cartman and Kenny. I swear, those three have this really weird sense of humor, and they all just kind of click. Not like our little groups of best friends, but some sort of sub-group, I guess. Token is busy talking to Kyle and Stan about something, and all three of them are keeping up a good pace. Tweek and I fall somewhere in the middle, sort of half-assing the run, jogging, almost.

"I almost – agh, I almost feel asleep in the gym," Tweek says, his cheeks are red from the cold air hitting them. The air is stinging already, even though fall has barely started. It's only mid-September and it's already snowing. We're all used to it though. South Park has two seasons: winter and July. And since it's not the latter, it's the former, and none of us really think anything of it.

"I noticed," I say, feeling that stupid smirk find its way on my face. I watch as Tweek nearly trips and drops his thermos. We both stop, I pick up the thermos, and we continue on, saying nothing for a while. After a few moments of silence, which I can't stand, I decide to say something. "My power was out this morning. I sure as hell hope it's on later."

Bad choice, very bad choice. "What?!" Tweek cries, stumbling over nothing. I grab his arm, prevent him from falling and decide today is not a running day. We slow down as we reach the top of the curve of the track and move onto a walking pace, as Bebe, Rebecca and Heidi pass us, giggling. I flip them off, they stop giggling. Everything is back to normal. Tweek is staring at me in horror. "Jesus Christ, Craig! If the power is still out when I come over, oh God, we'll be in the dark the entire time! I won't be able to see and I'll trip over your sister and kill her and then your parents will sue me and I'll go to jail and – and I'll never see you again!"

The fact that he adds that to the end makes me flush in shock. Tweek does this, he freaks out, starts naming things that will happen until it escalates to the worst possible thing that can happen. My stomach feels funny, I must be sick. How is not seeing me the worst possible thing here? I just sigh, close my eyes and rationalize things. Tweek isn't thinking straight, he must not even know what he's saying. That didn't mean anything.

I grab Tweek's hand and stop him. "First off, the power will probably be on once we get to my house." A lie, but he looks comforted by it, so it's alright. "Secondly, even if it isn't back on – " he shudders " – it won't be pitch black. My mom has candles and shit, and no Tweek; nothing is going to catch on fire." He smiles weakly at me and his hand shakes in my own. "Third, if you killed my sister, my parents wouldn't sue you; in fact, I think we'd throw you a fucking party. So don't worry about it."

Tweek laughs. It's a weird sound, kind of garbled, like he doesn't really know how to laugh. I let go of his hand. He plays with the messed-up buttons on his shirt while he stares down at the track. Someone slaps my arm and I turn around in a fury only to see that Kyle and Stan are running past. Stan gives me a grin and a wink. I give him my middle finger. Token joins Tweek and I again. Things are off-balance.

The cigarettes are still in my pocket. I lightly touch one and shiver. Not from the cold, but from the overwhelming need for something that keeps me alive. It's not the usual feeling though. It's not a calling for nicotine or lying, not even the need to flip someone off. It's something else that I need, but I don't know what it is. For some reason I'm angry at Token. I convince myself it's because the black asshole makes us run again, but in the back of my mind I know it's something else.

I need to tell someone. I've been holding it back all day. Well, okay, only since Kyle told me in fourth hour, but it's still killing me. Part of me just wants to tell everyone on the bus. Just yell out that Kyle is a fag and has the hots for Stan. I spot Christophe in the back and get the insatiable urge to run and tell him what Kyle doesn't, for some reason I don't understand, want him to know. But I resist. Somehow. I resist. I convince myself it's because in a few minutes I can smoke.

I don't smoke at school. I know what happens when you get caught and I'm really not willing to risk that. Sure I tell people I smoke at school, and people believe me, which is beyond exciting. But I'm not stupid enough to really do that. No, I wait for after school to do what I need to do. At least where smoking is concerned. Clyde is talking about how stupid my obsession with Red Racer is.

"Shut up, you stupid fuck," I say, flipping him off angrily, "you never complain about it."

"Yeah, just like I bet you never complain when the French fag makes a move on you," Cartman calls from across the aisle.

"Jesus," Kenny says with a snicker, "are we still on that joke? I though that died at, like, lunch."

"Yeah well, I thought you died in fourth grade," Cartman shoots back. Kenny gets quiet and fumes silently. That's one thing about Kenny. We all know he dies from time to time, it's just normal for him. But mentioning it is taboo, Cartman is the only one stupid enough to do it anymore. The rest of us know that it bothers the blond, especially when he puts the hood of his parka up, like he always used to in elementary school. I don't like when he does that. Kenny is attractive. I don't care what gender, orientation, hell, what species you are. That boy is good looking.

"Oh, nice going fatass," Kyle says from the seat behind them. "You know he hates when we mention that. Can't you ever keep your mouth shut?"

Cartman rolls his eyes. I hear Token sigh and we look at one another. We all know how these two get. "Oho, does Jewboy have sand in his vagina?" Cartman simpers, batting his eyelashes. I feel the urge to gag, but instead just flip off no one in particular. Then I think of something brilliant and grin to myself.

"I know Kyle wants something in his vagina," I say with a malicious smile.

"Shut the fuck up, Craig," Kyle warns, his eyes smoldering, but his face growing red as everyone looks between us in shock. I just keep my smile, and the Jew cries out in frustration and sits back in his seat, crossing his arms and muttering something to himself. I've got Clyde and Token pestering me about what I meant, Stan is trying to get Kyle to talk, Kenny has his hood down again and looks very interested in what's going on, Cartman is pissed, there's no attention on him anymore.

"No, I won't tell you guys," I say, louder than I need to, to Clyde and Token, smile still directed towards the redhead. "This is all between me and Kyle, isn't that right, Kyle?"

"Fuck you, Craig," he says his face still angry.

"Same to you," I say with a wink and a flash of my middle finger, "same to you."

"So, uh, so…are you going to tell m-me?" I look up, surprised, at Tweek's pink face. We're at Stark's Pond, I'm smoking, leaning against a tree; he's standing next to me, drinking coffee and moving around like always. I wonder if his face is pink from the cold or from embarrassment or both or something else or…I'm wondering too much. Thinking too much about him again. My own face is probably pink now, but I don't care, I just smile because of course I'm going to tell him. I mean, this is Tweek, if I don't tell him, who am I going to tell?

"Fuck yeah!" I say, dropping the cigarette in the snow and them stepping over it, motioning for the blond to follow me. "Let's walk and talk." He laughs at that softly. "Okay, so," I begin as we reach the side of the road, "I'm talking to Kyle right and he – ah, says something about Stan, you know?" That's a total lie. Tweek nods, he accepts it. I feel a rush of power, and smile even more. "So I was kind of bluffing, because I knew something was going on, right? And the stupid Jew practically confesses to me that he's, like, totally fucking head over heels for poor Stan."

"Dude!" Tweek says in awe, his eyes getting wide. "Ack, that's like, fuck! He – gah – he told you that?" I hesitate, then narrow my eyes and wobble my gloved hand from side to side. "Oh God, don't tell anyone Craig!" I stop walking. We're halfway to my house. I wasn't expecting to hear him to say something like that. He stops too, he's shaking more than he usually does, and his face is red now. "It's just…Jesus…it's just, how would you feel if you had that kind of, ack, feelings and then someone told the person?"

He seems so serious about this. Like he can imagine what it would feel like. I falter and then smile warily at him. "Dude, don't worry about it, you're the only one I'm telling," I say softly, ruffling his hair. He shudders. "Just, don't you go telling anyone. Especially not Christophe, for some reason Kyle doesn't want him to know, especially. Just don't tell anyone and we'll be fine, alright?"

There's a silent moment, then his eyes grow wide and he's clutching at his silver thermos. "Gah, too much pressure!" he cries, raising his hands to the side of his face. The thermos falls to the ground in the process, clattering against the pavement with a metallic clang that lets me know it's empty. Tweek always finishes his coffee by the end of the day; it's a ritual for him. I grab it from the ground and then, against my better judgment, take his hand on my own.

We stay that way until we reach my house.

A/N: Longest chapter I've ever written. For any story. Period. If you read this and liked it, leave me a review. I don't care how many people put this on alerts, if I don't get reviews I won't end up continuing it. If people don't review, I don't feel like it's worth and end up deleting stories. So leave me a review and make me happy, please? :D
Until next time (hopefully), tweekers