Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A blonde sat on his bed against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest, arms loosely wrapped around them. He tilted his head back, hair falling out of his face with the action. He let his eyes stay shut, he let the smoke burn his lungs, hoping it would burn the thoughts from his mind entirely. 

Tweek stayed still for a moment, letting a small cloud drift from his lips, dissolving into the corners of his room. Stillness was a rarity for him. Quiet, not so much. But at the moment, his apartment was too quiet. It wasn’t that he minded the quiet, so much as he minded the way his thoughts wouldn’t cease. He couldn’t stay here. His skin felt wrong and his mind was slipping into something he couldn’t handle. 

He shifted on his bed, sitting up a little taller, palms bracing against his mattress as he looked out the window. The city hummed low and different below, not loud enough to cut through the static in his mind. The sun was on its last legs for the night, leaving streaks of orange across the buildings. He silently reminded himself that the world had not shrunk down to just his apartment. It was not shrinking in on him or the heat of his room or the faint smell of poison. 

Tweek was out of bed in a blink, pacing, sort of hating the fact that his room was carpet that muted the sound. Sometimes he just needed to pace. Or move. But it wasn’t helping. The quiet felt like it was growing teeth and he was a sitting duck. Usually, on days like this, he could just tune it out. Usually, he had at least one of two people to cause enough chaos to rip through the torment circling his mind. Or at the very least, he’d have an idea of when they’d be home and he could drink himself stupid until it was time to be rescued. 

None of these things were the case today. 

He needed out. 

He was out of the door before he could actually really think about exactly what he was doing or where he was going, the hood of his hoodie up, whatever shoes he’d just slipped on quietly thudding on the concrete just over the cover of his headphones. 

The night air was sharp. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, the edge of his phone pressing against his palm as he started down the block. The streetlights flickered in a way that kept time with whatever was pounding through his headphones—strings and brass, all colliding in perfect disorder. 

He turned the volume up. The music didn’t soothe him, but it cut through his thoughts perfectly, each swell pushing him a little faster, steps syncing with the pulse of the percussion. 

The horns came, hard and defiant, the sort of sound that pretended it was victorious, but there was something bitter at the edges. He tapped his fingers against his phone with them. His favorite parts were always the builds trying to climb to somewhere impossible. He could feel it in his jaw. He caught himself half smiling, butterflies in his stomach as the world opened around him. 

The neon signs and passing headlights all had halos. The smell of oil and cheap food and rain that hadn’t quite decided to fall was too much, but it was so incredibly perfect. He was immersed in distractions, not paying attention to where he was going. He was letting the rhythm pull him forward—noble, in a stupid way.

This was his solo march.

His one manned noble war.

By the time the strings started to spiral again, he was close to somewhere he actually knew. The bassline burned steadily into his chest. The bar waited a block away, the windows fogged and glowing faintly gold. The music hit its crescendo as he crossed the street, not bothering to look.  He didn’t pause his music until he was nearly at the door. The noise in his ears was a lifeline. 

And as he stepped inside, the sound had dropped to the low murmur of people and the hum of old lights. The final notes still echoed somewhere deep within him, maybe his blood, maybe his very soul. It didn’t matter in the face of new noise. This was what he needed. He slipped his headphones off as he walked up to the bar. 

He took a seat, letting himself be swallowed into the low light and muted conversation. The air was thick with old citrus and stale booze and the tiniest, faint bite of cleaner. This place was as filthy as it was safe for him. He leaned on his arm, anchoring himself. The bartender glanced his way, shooting him a raised brow. Tweek pretended that he wasn’t looking at his bartender’s version of ‘should I be calling your emergency contact?’ look, holding up two fingers. 

He still tried when he fluttered back over with an overpriced tequila pineapple and a plain shot of tequila. “You good?” 

Tweek shot him a smile. “Fantastic.” 

They had their same song and dance as they always did on the few times they were in this exact position. Scott tilted his head, cocking his brow. Tweek raised up his hands slightly in mock surrender, unable to fight off his smile. Scott let out a tiny sigh of resignation and a quick ‘I’m here for you if you need me.’ 

Tweek would never take him up on it, but he appreciated it. His shot went down easy, barely a pause between the glass to his lips and glass back to wood. It was confirmation, burning relief that weighed in his chest, pressing outwards like it was trying to compress the static inside. 

The music in his headphones resting on his shoulders reached another swell. He thought he’d paused that, but the strings were pushing upward, relentless. He took a sip of his tequila pineapple. Before he knew it, his second was arriving without him having to ask. He didn’t question it. Scott didn’t try again with him. 

By his third, the itch under his ribs was finally sorting itself out, shifting from panic to potential energy. He was alive again. Himself. 

Conversations around him had blurred to a single hum, the air thick with so many possibilities. Not trouble, necessarily. But something could happen. He needed something to happen. He didn’t know what yet, only that he’d know when he finally saw it. 

He leaned back slightly, scanning the room unhurried, cataloging faces like he was watching the weather, looking for where things could shift. Nothing was sparking. Nobody mattered yet. 

He let the last of his drink linger on his tongue as he tapped his foot, once, twice—slow at first and then a little faster, trying to align some inner rhythm he wasn’t paying attention to. Then he slid off the stool, the room tightening just a little bit, the edges a bit too bright, the motion a bit too sharp. The music from his headphones was soft, barely audible, drifting into the lower, darker drive of brass and inevitably, his steps syncing without him trying. 

He let himself orbit, glancing over at the pool tables. The thought wasn’t there yet. He found comfort in the movement of passing behind chairs, the texture of booths as his fingers brushed past them, moving through people that, for the most part, didn’t look at him. Tweek liked that a bit. He felt like he was truly invisible until he chose not to be. 

The pool tables sat near the back, lights hanging low over green felt that glowed in the moment, silently beckoning. He hovered just past the edge of the space, not close enough to signal interest, not yet, but not far enough to not be engaged. The clack of two balls cut through the air cleanly. It was all motion. Collision. Predictable chaos. 

God, he needed exactly that more than he needed anything in his life at the moment. Despite the fact that he usually would never do this alone. 

He watched a game finish. Two guys exchanged money with the resigned annoyance that always came. Tweek’s fingers flexed in his pocket. He could feel his pulse at his wrist like a beast was knocking on its cell door, begging to be let out of the cage. 

But he waited for a spark. 

Not yet. 

He shifted his weight, scanning again—faces, posture, tells. He wasn’t looking for someone gullible. He should have, given his very alone status, but that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted someone alive enough to bite back if things went sideways. Someone who wouldn’t fold too easily. Someone who might even enjoy the fight. 

Then, a tiny star. 

Not dramatic or staged, just a figure at the other end of the tables, cue in hand, posture straight but not stiff, focused. He was precise, calm in the tiny hurricane of noise around them. 

Tweek’s gaze held longer than he meant it to. It was interest at first. Then it melted into assessment. He watched the line of the guy's shoulders as he leaned into the shot. The movement was deliberate control. 

The violins whispering against him were climbing to something that could snap any moment. Tweek didn’t approach. But his lips twitched up, just a tiny bit. He straightened a little bit, not for appearance, but just readying himself. It was just a tiny shift of the shoulders, a slight roll of his neck. He was an athlete before a sprint. 

He stepped into the space around the pool tables, breaking the invisible perimeter that separated spectators from players. He approached like smoke. Slow, controlled, inevitable. 

Tweek eyed him carefully. He had warm tan skin, black hair that was shorter on the sides, a little longer on the top. It was kinda messy, like he’d been awake for a while. He leaned forward. Tweek’s gaze flitted across, a little too stuck on him. He had a strong jaw and a straight nose. His eyebrows were thick. He was wearing a t-shirt, showing off a few sporadic tattoos on his arms. 

Tweek felt like it was rarer and rarer that he actually found someone attractive; he wasn’t even sure if that was what this was, he wasn’t there yet. But he was just a little slower and a little more observant and somehow a little less observant as he approached, stopping just close enough to be noticed, leaning slightly against the edge of the table. 

“Got room for one more?” he asked, tone casual as ever, despite the fact that internally, he was climbing. 

The guy straightened, cue resting lightly in his hand, dark blue eyes flicking towards Tweek. It was a simple pass up and down, like he was taking inventory. Tweek held his gaze, finding just a tiny bit of amusement in the butterflies and tiny internal jitters that came with this. It wasn’t the same alone, but it would do. 

The guy didn’t give him an answer right away. He squinted, just a little, chalking his cue, making Tweek wait. It wasn’t rude, just unhurried, making Tweek felt like he was being tested. 

Tweek stayed relaxed, eyes half-lidded like he could do this all night. 

“You waiting on someone?” 

It wasn’t a yes. It wasn’t a no. He was testing Tweek. Tweek tilted his head a bit. “Someone worth playing, I guess.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched, the tiniest hint of a smile poking through. “You any good?” 

Tweek let the question hang for a tiny moment too long. “I’m decent,” he offered with a little half shrug. A lie. Or not. Decent was a flexible concept and everything was sort of starting to feel that way. Lies and truth were slowly just becoming semantics and Tweek was no longer concerned with concepts. 

The guy considered him again, eyes sharp. Tweek’s stomach lilted a little more. “You play for fun or somethin’ else?” 

Usually, Leo was the one to ask that. Tweek’s answer rolled out smooth, almost lazy. “Fun’s a bonus.” 

That got him a real reaction. The guy set his cue down across the table, just long enough to reach into his pocket and place a folded bill on the rail. 

Tweek’s pulse jumped, satisfaction bleeding in. He matched the amount without breaking eye contact. “Your break?” Tweek asked. 

The guy nodded once. “Hope you’re more than decent.” 

Tweek’s smile was tiny, a little sharp. “Hope so.” 

The guy racked the balls with deliberate precision, each click of contact neat. Tweek watched the triangle tighten, bright colors aligning under the low light like a ritual being prepared. He kept his expression vaguely neutral, but inside, he was just climbing higher, sharpening. This felt important. 

But he was also decently beyond reason at this point. 

The guy broke the rack, perfectly clean, the sound cutting through the air. One ball dropped into the corner pocket. Good omen. Tweek liked stripes and just like that, they were his. 

He stepped forward when the guy motioned him in, cue sliding into his palms. He didn’t take his shot right away. He lined it up, brows furrowed like he needed more focus than he did—just enough to look unsure. He missed by an inch. Believable. 

He was watched with the same level gaze he’d been receiving since he’d approached. It wasn’t amused or dismissive. He was being catalogued in return. Usually he hated being observed like that, but the fact that he also loved the attention was returning to him. 

Tweek stepped away from the table, letting the guy take over. He leaned near the rail, head slightly tilted, pretending to watch the table instead of the guy's stance, his grip, the subtle flex of his forearm as he lined up his next shot. He took two more points cleanly. 

Tweek smirked, just enough for the guy to catch it. “Not bad.” 

He didn’t break eye contact as he sank the next ball. “You’re not either. Just slow.” 

“Pacing’s part of the game.” 

The guy met him with a quiet, noncommittal hum. 

Tweek made sure to land his next shot. Then his next almost went a little too wide before dropping. He showed enough skill to keep him interested, exhaling slowly like that had taken effort. Eyes narrowed on him the slightest bit, watching Tweek closer now. 

His music was still faint under it all, strings driving, percussion low and pulsing. 

The guy took his turn again, posture straight, lines deliberate. Tweek noted the precision in it all. He could read it now. He was looking at a person who didn’t like to lose, but either hated looking like he cared about winning or really didn’t. The ball dropped. 

He straightened. “You hesitated on that second shot.” 

Tweek’s hands stayed loose on his cue. “Maybe I was being generous.” 

The guy’s expression didn’t shift. “Sure.” 

Tweek grinned a little wider, a little giddier. This guy was very monotone, but that came out just a little more annoyed sounding, landing exactly where tension came to life. He stepped up to the table, sinking two balls in quick succession without much effort. 

He leaned on the cue, lazy posture that didn’t line up with much of anything. “Still think I hesitated?” 

The guy looked at him again, reassessing. “So you were sandbagging.” 

Tweek had been called out before. But never so… flatly? Things usually exploded within sixty seconds, but this guy was so perfectly unbothered. Tweek offered him a little half shrug. “Was curious if you’d bite.” 

His jaw moved a little, like he was trying to hold back a laugh. “You always pick your opponents like that?” 

Absolutely never did Tweek pick his opponents until this point. “I guess when I actually want to play, yeah,” he offered, a little cocky. 

That actually seemed to crack his composure, eyebrows raising with a flicker of sharp interest. Tweek wanted to slice open the moment and find a way to live inside it. His concerns were so far away. He never wanted to go back.

He reveled in the way the air around them felt like it was tightening. There was so much going on outside of them, but Tweek wasn't there. He was looking at a man whose name he didn’t even know, on the verge of collision, heat rising in his blood as something new seemed to wake up in him. 

He liked this. 

He liked this a lot. 

He needed to make sure he didn’t forget this. The thought landed sour. He swallowed it down. Tweek lined up his shot even though it wasn’t his turn. The rhythm leaking from his headphones was tighter. The music had become more pulse than sound, more heartbeat than melody. 

He could feel the guy watching him now. It wasn’t hostile or wary. It was just very present in a way that made Tweek feel kinda itchy. It was like at some point this guy had gone from evaluating him to seeing him and he was just being paranoid but now it was there. 

He lifted his gaze slowly, trying to stay neutral. The guy hadn’t moved much but his focus had narrowed a tiny bit, like he was reading him. It was like someone had put their hand on the back of his neck without actually touching him. Butterflies turned to nausea too quickly. 

The guy said something. 

Tweek didn’t catch the words, just the tone. It was low and even, maybe a suggestion or an observation. It wasn’t cruel. It was calm. Too calm. Too steady for someone who should be at least a little rattled because there was no way his panic wasn’t radiating out of him way too suddenly. 

The steadiness hit something inside him like a wrong note cutting through the music way too sharply. The cue in his hand was unfamiliar. His skin was too tight. There was a flicker of heat behind his eyes. 

He opened his mouth. 

—

Tweek registered the blue first. Then the red. Then blue again. Then the cold air. 

There was a hand on his arm, too firm. Someone was speaking way too close to him, but the words didn’t land. The world had new edges, way too sharp and way too bright. His pulse was in his teeth.

Tweek blinked. 

There was blood on his knuckles. 

Tweek blinked again, trying to piece it backwards. Sound, movement, words. There were words, right? Maybe. His mind was trying and sputtering around a hole punched in the timeline. 

He was far away. He was far away enough where the only things he could register were whispers that had long died and the phantom of breath on the back of his neck. Far away enough that he couldn’t even do anything about it. 

Someone was saying something about disturbing the peace. Charges. Standing still. Tweek barely heard it. The buzzing neon lights were making halos around everything. 

He didn’t remember throwing the first hit, even though he probably did. 

He didn’t remember anything at all. 

Chapter Text

The light above him buzzed in this thin, incessant whine—not loud enough to justify the irritation clawing at the inside of his skull, but persistent in a way that made his jaw ache. This place was too bright. Too sterile. He was stuck in the kind of light that flattened everything into one bland, ugly color. 

Craig sat on the cold bench, elbows on his knees, back straight in the rigid, automatic posture his body defaulted to when everything felt wrong. It smelled like disinfectant and a number of things he was trying not to name. He was trying to focus on the tiny weight of his tongue ring gliding across his bottom lip and the way he tapped his thumb against his index knuckle. 

He drew in a breath through his nose, counted four beats before releasing it slowly. Again. Again. Again. His leg was bouncing again. The air was processed and too dry. 

He wasn’t anxious. He was angry. 

It was low and simmering, sitting quietly under his ribs. Rage didn’t often come to Craig bright or hot. More often it was quiet, seething disbelief, just like it was now. 

What the fuck am I doing here? 

His knuckles ached. Probably from impact, or maybe how hard he’d gripped the pool cue. He rolled his shoulders back, the motion making the small silver chain at his neck shift, brushing cold metal against his collarbone. 

A door clanked from somewhere down the hall, the metal on metal making him flinch slightly. Craig didn’t get into fights. Not now. He didn’t escalate. He didn’t break. And he definitely didn’t lose fights. 

He was stuck in a loop in a place where time felt wet and stretchy and wrong, trying to figure out what the hell had happened. 

He could feel the ghost of the moment. He wasn’t there yet. He needed to go back again. 

He leaned back, head tilting up. The hum from the light was steady enough to count—one-two-three-four—he tapped his ring finger against the bench in tandem with his silent count. This was fucking stupid. 

The ball of his tongue ring slowly dragged across his lip again. 

He wasn’t even supposed to be there. He wasn’t out looking to drink. He didn’t even really like drinking unless it was to celebrate or post-project relief. Those things were cyclical and predictable. He preferred things that way. He understood them. Consistency held him upright in the face of the unending torment that was his mechanical engineering degree. 

But last night, the shop was empty. Stan was out doing something with Kenny. Cartman was off doing whatever it was that he was doing with Bebe and Craig genuinely didn’t know how to intrude into that. His whole day was empty. His winter break had felt particularly bleak. By the time he got back to his apartment, the silence made him feel like he was going to jump out of his own skin. There were days like that—days where upcoming semesters loomed and suddenly he felt like he was doing nothing with his life but waiting for school to start and ruin his mind. 

So he went out. He needed a little bit of noise. Controlled noise. The low thud of pool balls clacking together, the clinks of glasses, the dull ramble of conversations that weren’t loud enough to be more than white noise. 

He’d come to this spot exactly once before. He showed up, snagged a table and then killed two hours teaching himself trick shots at one of the pool tables. Some guy had wandered over, noticed his formula one t-shirt, and the two winded up spiraling into a very long, but not actually taxing exchange about cars to rocket fuel in gas tanks to space. It had been good, surprisingly. Usually human interaction outside of his people was something Craig didn’t really do. But this was a nice change of pace. 

So he thought maybe he’d get lucky enough for something like that to happen a second time. 

But instead he was there. 

Craig didn’t notice him at first. He was peripheral motion—loose and fluid. But then Craig actually looked at him. There was something about him. He was noise, static in color form. Something about him had glittered under the bar lights. He had pale blonde hair that was layered, a little messy, maybe on purpose, maybe not. He wasn’t dressed for going out, it was haphazard. 

Craig looked at him for too long, unable to help himself. His skin was pale with freckles that danced across his cheeks just barely making him look softer. His eyes were a muted green that were expressive enough to look brighter, even though he had dark circles underneath like he hadn’t had a good night’s rest his entire life. He had little colorful bandaids wrapped around a few of his nails. One on the back of his hand. When his sleeves slipped upwards as he adjusted, Craig noticed his wrists were taped and the bandaids went a little higher. He had to be something. Craig hadn’t gotten the chance to figure out what. 

Ethereal. 

That was the word that had finally hit him as he sat under the fluorescent lighting. The blonde had looked untouchable in that sort of way that small, dangerous things did. He was bright. But he was small, fragile looking. 

And the blonde’s attention was on him. Directly. Like he’d spotted something interesting and wanted to press on it to see what noises it would make. 

Craig realized a little bit into it that the blonde was trying to hustle him. He could see it in the too casual grin when he sank a shot he had no business making. The way he leaned in a bit too close. The way small touches lingered as they shifted past each other, sending sparks down his spine. 

He let it happen. 

The money didn’t matter. The spark of it all did. The way he could feel the tiny tug in his chest when the blonde laughed. The way his smirks were just a little impish. He looked so soft, and yet he moved like a creature that knew just how sharp it was. 

It was almost benign, and yet it was exhilarating. 

He was being played. He was walking straight into it. But it felt good. 

The blonde was quietly chaotic and a little flirtatious and Craig found himself reaching for the open flame instead of retreating into himself. 

Then there was the break. He didn’t even know exactly what he’d said. He was winging it, a little too nervous to be thinking straight. This guy made him so incredibly nervous and he couldn’t put his finger on why. Sure, he was incredibly beautiful and had this way about him, but there was something else. So he was just trying to not sound disinterested because he really wasn’t. 

He remembered the blonde’s laugh then specifically, bright and sharp like broken glass. The way that for just a moment, the light in his eyes died. The weight of how lit ablaze they'd become when the first shove landed. It escalated so quickly and too suddenly, he was met with the nastiest headbutt he’d ever had the displeasure of receiving, the collision making him see stars. 

His jaw tightened before he exhaled slowly. The ball of his tongue ring caught between his teeth. He tapped a few times, gently, trying to work out the ache in his jaw. He tried to make a habit of not doing that, but he needed something to try and break up the clenching. 

His anger was this living, breathing thing that could be caged if he just stayed still enough. Outside the cell, someone coughed. A shoe squeaked against linoleum. Paperwork shuffled. It was all so mundane. 

There were no screams or indications of anything amiss. 

The blonde was loud until he wasn’t. He had been quiet since they pulled apart. 

The memory fractured like glass and now he was too present in the stale air and the bench that was cold enough to bleed through denim. His tongue ring dragged against his lip. The bench was hard against his taps.

He was mortified. 

The feeling was too heavy, too thick. Rage was at the surface, but underneath it was pure humiliation, this nasty heat crawling up the back of his neck even in the quiet when no one was watching.

He lost. He lost a fight. 

That he did not start.

With someone a head shorter than him. 

Craig let him get in his space, let him get under his skin, let him—

His jaw was clenching so tight his molars were aching. He shifted again, elbows back on his knees, hands lacing together. The shame was physical. He had to call someone. 

Craig picked people up from jail. Not the other way around. He was the retrieval team. He was the person you dialed at three in the morning when things went sideways. He’d bitch about it the whole time like it was actually a problem, but that was the hierarchy. He was the stable one through it all. Not the one that ended up here. 

But the dried blood under his nose and the taste of copper that wouldn’t quite leave painted a different picture. This was bad. He was trying not to think about the prospect of charges that could ruin his life. 

Oh my god. 

All his work towards his degree would mean nothing. The countless nights agonizing and the missed occasions and his first semester that he could’ve spent less time worried about school and more focused on—

Stop, stop, stop. Actually fucking stop it. 

Craig’s hands met the back of his neck. He was turning into a frayed nerve. Everything felt too raw and too close. The denim touching his legs might as well have been razor blades. He needed to not be here. It had been hours and he just needed out. 

His mind was worse than all of it. Worse than the hit to the ribs or the way the blonde’s eyes lit up at the cheap shot. Worse than the headbutt. Worse than the fact that some part of him deep inside felt like it woke up. 

His knee was bouncing again before he shifted, destroying the motion. His breath was still slow, still measured. He was trying to keep a lid on it all, but the pressure behind his eyes was reaching a point of unbearability. 

This wasn’t him. 

This was never supposed to be him. 

He needed to disappear. He needed to stop being perceived. He needed to be out of his skin and out of the pants he was currently wearing and—Why is jail so fucking cold. 

He needed a hoodie and a big blanket and a movie binge. He needed to be inside. Or stop existing. Or just anything that wasn't this.

Somewhere down the hall, a door buzzed, harsh enough to cut off his internal spiral. Then came footsteps, uneven and dragging, paired with the solid weight of an officer’s treat. There was talking, low, blurred by distance and the terrible acoustics. 

Beration. Beration that sounded more inconvenienced and disappointed that actually angry. It was met with pure silence. 

Craig didn’t look up, but every muscle in his shoulders felt rigid. 

He was pretty sure he and the blonde were the only people in here at the moment. 

There was a scrape of something, maybe a shoe catching the door frame or a body trying to stay upright on nothing but liquor and force of will. It died out as the door slammed. The noise echoed down the corridor. 

It left a ripple in its wake. 

Craig never even got his name. 

The thought came without permission. He didn’t know why he cared, just that he was back at the heat and motion and laughter. He was back to brushing past the edges of something wild he hadn’t known previously. Not like this, at least. 

The silence reset until the next shift.

There were more footsteps, confident, light in the heel but deliberate, coming from someone used to being let in without questions. Craig didn’t lift his head. He shifted his jaw, trying to work out the tension. 

A voice carried down from the desk, low and professional, annoyingly calm. 

Then, way too suddenly—

“Christ.” Cartman’s voice was just beyond the bars, sharp with contained amusement. “You look like shit.” 

Craig looked up to find Cartman standing there like this was a formality. He wasn’t smug about it, not yet, but his mismatched eyes twinkled in the way that Craig knew he would never hear the end of this. His hair was tousled. He was in a hoodie, the tiny flickers of vanity he held to the wind. He’d rolled out of bed and came here. 

An officer unlocked the door, swinging it open.

Craig’s body felt like it was on a lag, not moving for a beat too long. 

Cartman threw an arm around him, giving his left arm a lazy squeeze before he let go, a grin breaking out on his face.

“Don’t say it.” 

He raised his hands slightly in mock surrender, smile not faltering. “I’m not, I’m not.”

Cartman was always there for Craig since he’d moved here. He was probably the most judgemental yet nonjudgemental person Craig had ever met. Always too observant. It was what made them closer. But this was still humiliating. “I’m sorry you had to come here.”

“I personally think this is fucking hilarious.” 

Craig rolled his eyes. 

Cartman let them fall into silence as they passed through, Craig’s boots tapping lightly against the linoleum. Craig was throwing sideways glances his direction, not wanting to talk in here because their voices just sounded too loud in the quiet and it was stressing him out. 

Cartman pushed the front door open, spilling them out into the parking lot washed in the dull, gray-blue that existed only before the sun came up. “Don’t worry about charges or anything,” he reassured quietly. “You’re good.” 

The air bit at Craig’s collar, making him tense slightly for a second. “What?” 

“I know if you’re not there you’re gonna freak yourself the fuck out when you get there. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.” 

“What’d you—” 

“Nope. Don’t worry about it. Put it outta your mind. You were never here.”

Craig’s face softened a little as he looked back at Cartman. “Thank you.” 

“Yeah, shut up,” he responded, pulling out his keys, a quiet chirp ringing out. 

Craig paused for half a second, eyes landing on Bebe’s minivan. It was obviously hers, the only minivan he’d ever seen that was a sparkly maroon, the thing dubbed Cuntwagon 2, though Craig never actually got the whole story, just that it had to do with someone they used to be friends with. They didn’t talk about him much in the time Craig had known them. “Why are you…” 

Cartman unlocked the car with a chirp. “Bebe had me blocked in. I was not waking her demonic ass up this early to move it.” 

A tiny laugh tumbled out. “Okay, fair.” 

They got in. Her interior was always clean, save for the perpetual rotation of diet coke cans that always took up her front cupholder, the car smelling faintly like lavender. A plastic charm hung from her rear view mirror—a vinyl golden ticket that Cartman flicked every time they got in but only when Bebe wasn’t present. Cartman turned the car on, not moving just yet. “So…” He pulled a foot up onto his seat, wrapping an arm around his knee, getting comfortable. “Tell me what happened.” 

Craig dragged a hand across his face. His knuckles stung, a few of them split. “I—” He shoved down the tiny flash of a hit he’d landed. The way the blonde’s eyes were so bright. The way he spit a mouthful of blood to the side with practiced ease, barely giving Craig a breath to react before he was back on him. Jesus Christ. There had to be something wrong with him. “Um,” he said, a little slower. “I was playing pool. ‘Cause you guys were all busy. And then someone tried to hustle me… And I sort of let it happen?” 

Cartman’s brows furrowed. “You let it happen.” 

“It was—” Craig was internally scrambling for a word that didn’t sound insane. “—loud. I don’t know. I wasn’t really thinking.” 

Cartman didn’t comment, but he shifted with a tiny frown, casually throwing the car in drive. Cartman always had a comment. Especially when there was that tiny flicker that screamed he just put something together in his head.

Craig shifted a little. “You good?” 

Cartman drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Yup.” 

Craig’s brows furrowed. “Dude, I’m sorry you hadt’—”

Cartman waved a hand in dismissal. “It's not you.” 

“So what?” 

“I just…” His nose scrunched in that way it did when he was genuinely bothered by something. It was quick, just a tiny twitch that always gave him away. “I don’t know. You ever see something and it just leaves you like…” He cut himself off again. “I just saw something that didn’t sit right with me earlier. I dunno.” 

“...What’d you see?” he asked slowly. 

“I saw someone sort of taking my place. In a way. I guess.”

Craig squinted at him. “What?” 

Cartman waved him off again, though he looked like he was trying to starve off some far away dread he didn’t want to deal with. “I dunno. I don’t think I wanna get into it.” 

“Are you okay?” 

He brightened a little, sputtering quietly. “Dude, you were just in jail. Because you got into a fight with twitchy. And lost.” 

Craig dropped his face into his hands, his question over the word twitchy slipping away in the wake of a new wave of embarrassment. “Don’t fucking remind me.” 

The rest of the ride was quiet. Cartman pulled up in front of Craig’s apartment building. The light was bleeding in pale over the rooftops finally. Neither said anything for a moment. Neither moved. “You good?” Cartman finally asked. 

Craig gave him a nod, hand on the door handle. “Can you not tell them about this?” 

“You not gonna tell them?” 

“I will… Probably. Just. Y’know.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“Thank you.” 

Cartman groaned. “Thank me again and I’m punchin’ you.” 

Craig’s lips twitched upwards. “Night.” 

“Did you sleep?” 

Craig shook his head.

“Get the fuck outta my car and go to bed!” Cartman scolded.

Craig laughed, waving him off as he got out, quickly making his way up the sidewalk, letting himself inside, rushing towards his apartment. He needed to shower, but his body felt like it was shutting down. The second his front door was shut, he was kicking off his shoes and pulling off his jeans. He didn’t care anymore. He needed to sleep. 

He flopped against his bed, feet hanging off, body relaxing into the mattress. It was a bad night. That was all it was. 

His buzzing nerves were finally starting to actually slow, the embarrassment clinging to him feeling just a little more bearable in the safety of his room as he finally started to calm down. 

He let out a slow breath, waiting for sleep to take him, but a thought had wedged into his brain like a splinter. 

He still didn’t know the blonde’s name.