Hi, hello, welcome to my creek story (:

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters.

Tweek's point of view:

I thought it was strange how Thomas always asked about Craig Tucker.

It started three months ago, just before the summer of our junior year. He had been very subtle with his questions back then, and for a while I hadn't thought it odd. Curiosity had been my reasoning behind his sudden interest. The tall, brooding, dark haired teen wasn't anything less than a mystery so it was a plausible explanation. "Curious" just didn't seem to fit, though, when his wonderment began turning into the want of certain details and characteristics that he didn't necessarily need to know.

I felt horrible that I was the one who'd fed him the information he now valued very deeply as I watched his slight infatuation quickly turn into an obsession. It was unhealthy. That was why, for the safety of my best friend and because Craig definitely wasn't the type of person to be messed with, I decided to figure out just what exactly Thomas was trying to get at.

"Why are you doing this?" I finally asked.

We were in our fourth period, Stained Glass. Thankfully we didn't have to do anything but talk the entire hour. The class was constantly noisy as students threw q-tips with glue on their butts onto the ceiling, and our work couldn't even be considered half-assed as every project we turned in was basically just random panels of glass soldered together in five minutes or less, all of which we got full credit for.

Thomas gave me a confused look, dropping his eyes momentarily to the sheets of blue glass he was holding before setting them down. They clanked together on the table top. "I was just trying to see which shades go best together, dude." I noticed that one of the colors was nearly translucent with minuscule speckles of pastel blue.

Please, please don't be trying to go for Craig's eye color. "I'm not talking about that, man. Tell me why you're so into Craig. I mean, if he's going to die and you've been prophesied with saving his life then by all means go for it, dude. But—Sweet Jesus. Holy shit, man. You're—" Thomas's cheeks flamed. He knew exactly of the conclusion that I had just discovered and I knew that I was completely correct.

"Don't say it out loud!" He whispered harshly, dull tawny eyes darting back and fourth between the other tables in a very Tweekesque fashion.

My initial reaction was excitement. The last time Thomas had expressed feelings for someone had been two years ago. It'd been this huge mishap with Butters that humiliated him every time I brought it up. He liked to call it his "moment of desperation". I liked to tell him that something could've happened if Kenny hadn't gotten in the way. Thomas would always beat me up afterwards.

That's when I remembered who it was that the golden blonde had a crush on.

"Do you really have to—fuck—make that face? You look like someone just took a shit in front of you."

That's because you liking Craig is equivalent to someone taking a shit in front of me.

"A-Are you crazy?" I whispered just as angrily as he had. The sudden jar of my emotions sent panic signals to my brain, causing my stutter to act up. Soon I'd be twitching and then I'd have to take another pill to calm myself back down. "C-Craig is the worst person anybody could ever like Thomas."

"You don't have to put it like that."

"That's the only way you're going to get it because right now I know he looks like some mysterious guy a-and he definitely is because I barely know anything about him but he's an animal, dude. This is Craig we're talking about. I can't believe I told you all that shit about him. I'm so f-fucking stupid."

"Dude, calm down."

But Thomas didn't understand.

Craig wasn't just a scary guy with a beanstalk figure, pale complexion, and somber aura. Thomas didn't know the version of this guy that I did. He didn't know how much larger his hands were than ours, that he could crush us and would without hesitating. He'd do it to anybody. All Thomas was basing his infatuation on was by the eye. He saw Craig as a guy with skinny legs that wore straight legged jeans. He liked how dark Craig's hair was, how it framed his face and touched the nape of his neck, slithered just barely down his spine.

Everyone liked these aspects about him because he made them look good. That was why nobody questioned him being best friends with Clyde Donovan, a fucking football player, and Token Black, the world's next Barack Obama. It wasn't solely based on the reason that they've been close as shit since elementary school. People were too heartless to think that it was that simple. People liked seeing Craig constantly hang out with two attractive, charismatic people because it made him look more appealing because he was also attractive. Thomas was getting suckered into the whims that everybody else saw!

Without realizing it, I had placed myself in a horrible situation by foolishly allowing this crush to fester. I had fallen ill to my best friend's seemingly innocent curiosity by picking up Craig's little traits and quirks, not because I was looking but because I was noticing thanks to Thomas's interest. I now understood that he didn't just think Craig always dozing off in class was "funny", or that he never did his homework but always had it done by the next day was "funny". He thought it was cute. He didn't think it was "cool" how Craig wrote like an old typewriter—and that one was regrettably, definitely my fault because I had purposefully asked to hand the tests back that day even though I tripped over backpacks and gave people the wrong papers—he admired Craig for being a bit old-fashioned.

This was all my fault for encouraging him to think he could have what he couldn't.

And there it was: People liked what they couldn't have.

Craig has never been with a girl. He's never held a girl's hand, never been caught kissing one, hasn't even been heard talking about one. There haven't been any In a Relationship statuses on Facebook, he's never posted a status at all, and it was exactly the same with boys if anyone thought he rolled that way. The entire school as well as the entire town of South Park I'm sure has always known that he was asexual. Talk about his sexuality was fairly popular seeing as I caught snippets about him all the time and, unfortunately, relayed them to Thomas. I guessed that was what made him so alluring to others.

How did Thomas even think Craig would like him even if he did like guys? Thomas was too adorable. He was an indie boy with round facial features and a button nose. He wore jeans with the cuffs rolled up and liked to walk around barefoot more than anything. He was a vegetarian and wore shirts like Vegheads Are Hot with V's cut from the necks for emphasis. The music he listened to was acoustic, folk type tunes that made him happy. His hair was shaggy, a natural golden blonde for a natural kind of guy. When we went out he liked to shop and always wore this pair of bug-eye sunglasses that made me look like a meth addict, but accentuated his friendly aura on him.

Where the hell had my best friend gotten the idea that they'd go good together? Craig wasn't a shoppy kind of guy. He wore worn out jeans, faded blue jeans, and basketball shorts with wife beaters when it was surprisingly hot out. Sometimes he threw on the whole Dickies-with-the-high-socks look, and hoodies that were boring and dull as fuck. Thomas didn't want a guy like that. He didn't want someone who stole all of the pepperonis off the pizzas from last week's pizza party. He didn't want a guy who tried to run his best friend over with his car when the student parking lot was full of oncoming traffic.

Maybe his features were defined but smooth. Perhaps he had a wolfish face and pale, full lips. And maybe his eyes were striking. But not in the way that Thomas wanted them to be. They were dangerous, albeit in a beautiful way. They weren't caring or warm. They were frozen, just like the rest of him. He didn't make words lodge, forever stuck, in your throat on account of being dashingly handsome. The words choked and robbed you of breath because Craig was venomous when you looked him straight in the eye. Sure, there had been that time at Token's end-of-the-year party where—

"It was Token's fucking party!" My tone was accusative and I was half tempted to take a piece of glass and threaten him with it. Thomas's eyes rounded into orbs although I wasn't sure whether it was toward my assumption or my thoughtful glances toward the glass on our table. His blush spread like wildfire, speckling his nose with blotches of pink. "I cannot believe you!"

About three months ago Token had invited us to one of his parties. For the sake of the occasion—whoop, whoop, finally seniors—Thomas and I had agreed to go. We hadn't stayed too long for there had been bottles of alcohol littering the floor and drugs flying through the air, into peoples pockets, into peoples mouths, into one nasty looking vagina. We had stayed long enough to witness one remarkable thing, though. One unforgettable, uncharacteristic scene with Craig in it to which we had deemed the Black's house unsafe because when Craig started doing weird stuff that's when you knew things had gone too far. We'd promptly mad-dashed it out of their residence after that.

What we'd seen had been a glimpse of Craig, Clyde, and Token. Or more specifically, they're clothing.

Thomas and I had peeked through a mob of partying bodies into one room in particular that had seemed the most interesting. There had been people everywhere, most of them half naked, and decorations were falling all over the place like confetti. Music was blaring and still, somehow, the people were louder. I'm still unsure as to what my best friend saw, but I know that what I saw was Token with a video camera recording his two best friends. Clips of his parties were always the best to watch once you were sober.

All three of them had been wearing shorts. Not guy shorts, but denim shorts that looked as though they had been jeans at one point. It was as if someone had cut their legs off and washed them so that they frayed where they'd been chopped.

Estimatedly near the upper thigh.

That's all they'd been wearing. I knew it as the joke of our school. Guys wore close cropped shorts and it was funny because they looked incredibly stupid, but I'd never seen Craig wear them. The video, slurred and drunken footage, had ended up all over Token's Facebook.

Now that I was enlightened as to who was on Thomas's love roster, I wondered how many times he'd played the video back to ogle at Craig's thin legs and lean torso.

"So you s-saw Craig's legs and thought: Hey, I'd like a piece of that?" Although my voice was still vehemently quiet, my words came out ruthless.

"They were nice legs, dude!"

"I know! But that doesn't—"

"See! You even agree!"

"Don't try and flip this around on me!" I jabbed my finger at him, hoping he got the gist of my seriousness. "You can't like him like this, dude!"

"Why? Because you like him?" Thomas's retort had been uncalled for.

I guffawed at his guess. "No! We beat each other up in third grade. There's no hope for us."

"So you do like him?"

"No," I groaned, covering my face with my hands. When I rubbed my eyes it felt good, soothing, but my fingers were twitching, followed by some of the muscles in my face. "You're going to get hurt. What you need to do is stop before you end up really liking him."

"I already really like him." God, don't say that.

"You don't even k-know him." The golden blonde had sounded so sincere with his confession, though. I felt bad for telling him otherwise. "This isn't going to work—"

"Yes it is. I already have a—bitch—plan." My insides turned into crystal slabs of ice, much like Craig's eyes. A foreboding feeling curled like wisps of smoke throughout the frozen cavity of my stomach. I wanted so badly for it to seep out of me, for Thomas to see it, but it stayed put, forcing me to harbor its depressing force by myself.


"Yep!" Thomas's eyes got all shiny as though he held the most glorious piece of information in the folds of his brain while he spoke to me of this "genius, foolproof" idea.

He had complete faith in its capability, except it didn't have any at all. It was just a series of steps with major plot holes that could be "easily fixed with improv," and after each step the feeling in my gut churned stronger and more potent. By the end of his ridiculous spiel that I honestly just wanted to laugh at, the creeping emotion had grown like a fungus and was beating me over the head with its gnarled, beastly claws.

"Don't forget to put in a good word for me. Really drill it into him and tell him that my cussing is hot—no, tell him that my cussing is a huge turn on. Be sure to tell him exactly that."

"You want me to tell him that your Tourette's turns me on?"



"Do you have a boner?"

"Ack! N-No!"

"Well then pretend like you do!" Thomas ended his compiled summary of something that was never going to work by titling his "masterpiece" The Asexual Man Magnet 5000.

He fucking gave this little shit a name!

"Alright, Tweek. What do you say? Lunch with Craig today sounds awesome, right?"

"I-I don't know, man." But that was a lie because I did know. I knew that this was utter bullshit and I wasn't going to do it.

"Tweek," he murmured. It sounded like he was desperate. "Please help me with this."

Damn it.

He'd put so much consideration and technicality into his plan. I mean, it was obvious he wanted this. He wanted it bad. If I declined, I'd feel like a dick for making him waste his time. And he was always doing things for me, checking up on me to make sure I'd taken my medication or made my psychiatry appointments.

If I didn't agree, then what? What if he went up to Craig himself? What if Thomas got hurt rushing too forcefully into this guy's life? He wouldn't make it past Clyde who was like Craig's jealous girlfriend. I wouldn't even put it past him to kill Thomas on arrival.

What would I do without him? Without anyone I could relate to?

"...Thomas, I really—fuck. Okay, fine, I'll do it."

Thomas is my best friend. Thomas is my best friend. Thomas is my best friend.

I only had one reasonable excuse as to why I was currently on my way to the one lunch table that nobody but three designated bodies ever sat at, and that was because of Thomas. Who is my best friend.

He was my best friend, unfortunately one that had no balls, but neither did I. For him, though, I would imagine that I had some. I just hoped they'd get me to Craig Tucker's table and back because I hadn't had the chance to test them out yet and if they were faulty then I'd surely end up buried beneath their feet where I was positive plenty of other stupid, stupid forgotten corpses lay.

Maybe if I just turn around—but they knew I was coming. They'd chase me down as I attempted to scamper back to Thomas, drag me to their lunch-table-that-was-actually-a-cover-up-for-their-homemade-graveyard and bury me alive. Sweet Jesus, no wonder why there were so many missing teenagers in South Park.

Oh fuck... I knew where they were all located.