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Chapter Text

The morning wind burned against their faces. Snow hadn’t fallen in days, but the sidewalks were still crusted with gray ice that cracked under their shoes. 

Clyde stood outside the main doors of South Park’s High School, nursing a can of energy drink like it was holy water. “Man, I swear to God, if Tweek jumps one more time when I say hi, I’m gonna start carrying bells or some shit.”

Tolkien looked up from his phone. “Maybe don’t sneak up behind him, Clyde.”

“I didn’t sneak! I literally said ‘morning’ like a normal person.” Clyde slurped obnoxiously. “Dude practically levitated.”

Jimmy, leaning against the brick wall beside them, gave a half-smile. “M-m-maybe lay off the c-c-caffeine talk around him. Plu-plus, you just have a lo-loud face.”

Clyde frowned. “What the hell’s a loud face?”

Tolkien, scrolling on his phone nearby, said without looking up, “He means you’re intense, Clyde.”

“Okay, first of all, thank you, but also, what?”

Craig was leaning against Tolkien’s car, dark blue hoodie zipped up, hat low enough to shade his eyes, a cloud of breath leaving his mouth. He wasn’t really part of the conversation, but the others always included him by default. It was their routine; meet before first period, complain, joke, and once they’re all there, go inside.

“He’s been jittery,” Clyde went on. “Like, more than usual. Yesterday he spilled half his coffee while sitting in his chair. I think he’s, like, vibrating on another frequency or something.”

Craig’s voice cut through, low and even. “He’s fine.”

The group quieted. The tone said drop it.

Tolkien looked over, hesitant. “You sure? He looked… tired.”

“He’s always tired.” Craig pushed off the car, shouldering his bag, glancing toward the school doors, still no sign of Tweek. “He’s not sleeping again. That’s all.”

Jimmy shifted his crutch slightly. “Is-Is he la-late again?”

“Yeah.” Craig checked his phone. 8:04 a.m. No messages. The last text was from last night, something short and unfinished.

“Maybe he’s sick,” Clyde offered. “Or, like, burned out. Finals, caffeine, panic; same Tweek combo pack. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Craig’s jaw tightened. “He’ll be here.”

Clyde raised his brows but didn’t press. He took another loud sip of his drink just as the bell rang.

Inside, the halls smelled like wet coats and floor cleaner. Lockers slammed, someone’s music leaked from earbuds down the hall.

Tweek showed up halfway through second period. His eyes were ringed dark beneath the fluorescent lights, his shirt crooked, his hair pointing in every direction, a half-finished latte still clutched in his hand. He mumbled something to the teacher, took his seat behind Craig, and didn’t look up. His knee started bouncing almost immediately.

Craig didn’t turn around either, but he could feel him there; every fidget, every nervous breath. The pen in his hand shook faintly with every jolt of Tweek’s leg against the table. The tapping started two minutes later.

Tap-tap-tap.
Three beats. A pause.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.

It was the rhythm of Tweek’s thoughts when he was over the edge, and Craig had memorized it years ago. It was almost comforting once. Now it just made his teeth clench.

He squeezed his pen tighter.

After class, when the bell finally released them, Craig turned to say something, but Tweek was already gone, darting through the crowd, books clutched to his chest, head down, jacket half-zipped.

By lunch, the cafeteria was a low roar of voices and trays clattering. The smell of fries and cheap pizza filled the air. Craig sat with Tolkien, Jimmy, and Clyde in their usual corner, but his food stayed untouched.

Tolkien was halfway through a sandwich. “He left again after second period. I asked Mr. Adler, Tweek said he wasn’t feeling well.”

“Not feeling well,” Craig repeated, flatly. “That’s what he said last week.”

Clyde popped a fry into his mouth. “You two fight or something?”

Craig’s fingers drummed once on the table. “Not really. Just… disagreement.”

“About what?”

Craig hesitated, then looked down at his tray. “Nothing that matters.”

Clyde frowned. “You sure? You look like it matters.”

Jimmy leaned forward a little. “Y-y-you know, maybe he’s j-just… stressed? He’s always been like that with tests, right?

Clyde frowned. “You gonna check on him?”

Craig’s response was clipped. “He said he needed space.”

Jimmy hesitated. “Y-you sure that’s what he meant, though?”

Craig looked up, tired and defensive. “What am I supposed to do, follow him home? He doesn’t talk to me when he’s like this. I try, he shuts down. I push, he freaks out.”

Clyde leaned back, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Dude, chill. We’re just saying, maybe back off for a bit. You look about two seconds away from popping a vein.”

Craig stared down at his food, stirring it with his fork. His voice was low when he finally spoke. “He’s taking those pills again.”

Tolkien’s eyes widened slightly. “You sure?”

“I saw them.”

The words dropped like a weight between them.

Jimmy swallowed hard. “D-d-did you t-t-tell anyone?”

Craig shook his head. “No. Not yet. I tried to talk to him, and it turned into a fight.”

Clyde frowned. “About the pills?”

Craig nodded like it was obvious. “Yeah. He yelled. I yelled back. Then I left.” He rubbed his temples, suddenly exhausted. “I thought maybe he’d cool off. I’d go over after school, and we’d figure it out.”

Tolkien leaned forward, voice soft. “Then maybe go now. Before it gets worse.”

Craig’s throat felt dry. “You don’t get it. He doesn’t want me there right now.”

The others looked at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. The silence stretched too long. Finally, Clyde mumbled something about needing napkins and left the table, clearly uncomfortable.

Craig stared at the table, tracing faint scratches in the laminate with his finger. The noise of the cafeteria filled the space around them again, too loud and too far away.

Tolkien sighed quietly. “You’re worried sick.”

Craig didn’t answer, but Tolkien didn’t need him to.

The fight from the night before replayed in Craig’s head as he walked home that afternoon, hands jammed into his coat pockets, boots crunching against the snow-covered pavement.

He’d gone to Tweek’s house after school. The lights were off except for the faint glow of his bedroom window. Craig had knocked twice on his bedroom door before Tweek let him in, wide-eyed and shaking, smelling like burnt coffee and sweat. 

“You’re not eating,” Craig had said, trying to keep his voice cool.

“I am!” Tweek’s voice came out too fast, too loud. His hands fluttered as he spoke. “I- just- forgot, okay?! Gah!”

Craig glanced at the counter. Four empty mugs, five paper cups, half a granola bar. His chest tightened. “That’s not food, dude.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“Stop saying that!”

The bottle had been there on the table; small, orange, and familiar. He hadn’t meant to notice it, but it was hard not to.

“Tweek…”

The second Craig said his name, Tweek had gone pale. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t start, please.”

“Are you taking those again?”

“I said don’t!”

The words had exploded between them. For a second, both of them just stood there, breathing hard. Then Craig’s temper broke through the worry.

“I’m trying to help you!”

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

And then silence. The kind that feels heavier than shouting ever could.

Craig had left before he said something worse.

The sound of that fight had stuck in Craig’s head all night, looping until he couldn’t sleep.

When he reached Tweek’s street, he slowed down. The curtains in the Tweak family’s house were drawn; the porch light flickered even though it wasn’t dark out yet. He stood there on the sidewalk for a moment, unsure whether to knock.

He could imagine how it’d go: Tweek answering the door, shaking, saying I’m fine for the hundredth time, and Craig trying not to snap because he didn’t know what else to do with the stress.

He turned away before he could talk himself into it.

Inside that same house, Tweek sat cross-legged on his bed, his hands trembling around a mug of coffee that had gone lukewarm an hour ago. The caffeine only made things worse, but the thought of not drinking it made his chest tighten.

The room buzzed with subtle noises; the hum of the heater, the ticking of the wall clock, the faint creak of the wind against his window. Each sound twisted into something bigger in his head. Each sound outside made him flinch.

“God, calm down,” he whispered to himself, nails digging into his leg. “You’re fine. He’s fine. Everyone’s fine.”

His reflection in the mirror didn’t look fine. It looked like someone falling apart.

He’d tried to go to school. Really, he had. But halfway through class, the lights had been too bright, the sound of pens too sharp, and the world too close. So he’d run.

Now, the silence was worse than any classroom noise. It left too much room for thought.

His phone sat face-down on the table. The screen kept lighting up with notifications he didn’t read, mostly from Craig. He’d seen the preview of the first one before locking it again.

Can we talk?

He wanted to answer. He wanted to say something that made sense. But everything in his head came out tangled, and the idea of texting back made his throat tighten. So he didn’t. The memory of Craig’s face during the argument replayed endlessly in his head; the mix of anger and panic, that helplessness under his voice.

Tweek’s breath hitched. “I ruined it. I ruined everything.”

The pill bottle sat on his nightstand, half-empty. He stared at it until the letters on the label blurred.

He didn’t want to take them. He didn’t want to need them. But the shaking wouldn’t stop, and the thought of another sleepless night felt unbearable.

He took another sip of coffee instead. The bitterness coated his tongue, grounding him for maybe three seconds. Then the shaking came back. And once the shaking came back, he found himself staring at the orange bottle once more. Its name was still printed on the half-torn label. Desoxyn.

“Just one,” he whispered. “Just one to stop the noise… Just one.”

His fingers hovered over the cap. He could almost hear Craig’s voice again, steady, worried, patient. You don’t need them.

He twisted the cap open anyway.

The sun was already dropping by the time Craig got home. His parents weren’t there, as usual. The house was quiet except for Tricia’s music playing faintly from her room. Craig dropped his bag on the floor and sank onto the couch, he did as usual; got comfortable, ate dinner, and watched some TV, but something couldn’t leave his mind. He took out his phone and stared blankly at the unseen messages he had sent a couple of hours earlier for a few seconds before, hesitantly, writing again:

          hey.
          you home?

He deleted it. Tried again.

          i’m sorry for yelling

Deleted again.

          call me. please.

This one he sent. Minutes passed, still, no reply. 

He stared at the screen for so long it dimmed and went black.

Then, the sound of a siren drifted in from outside, but he didn’t think much of it at first. South Park always had noise; sirens, shouting, someone doing something illegal.

But the sound didn’t fade. It grew louder, echoing through the streets.

Craig’s stomach dropped. 

He stood slowly, moving to the window. The flashing lights painted streaks of red and blue across the snow.

They were heading toward Tweek’s street. For one awful second, the world went silent except for the pounding in his ears. His brain tried to find another explanation. Car crash. Fire. Anything else.

But deep down, he already knew.

His phone slipped from his hand as he bolted from his house, nearly tripping over his own feet, heart hammering, boots half-tied. He didn’t grab his jacket. Didn’t tell anyone where he was going. 

The cold cut through his clothes, the snow crunching beneath his feet, but he didn’t stop. His mind replayed every harsh word, every argument, every moment he hadn’t reached for Tweek when he should have.

The ambulance had stopped in front of Tweek’s house. Paramedics were already moving fast, pulling a stretcher toward the waiting vehicle. Craig’s chest became stiff, his throat tight, and for a moment, everything slowed. He could hear the rapid, ragged beeping of Tweek’s monitored vitals, though he knew it was just in his head.

Craig’s chest tightened until it hurt to breathe.

“Tweek,” he said under his breath, voice breaking in the cold air.

But no one heard him over the sirens.

—

He sat on the sidewalk across the street, shivering. All he could do was watch, powerless, as the ambulance doors shut and the sirens vanished into the night.

He didn’t know if Tweek hated him. He didn’t know if Tweek would survive the night. 

The street fell silent again, except for the echo of the sirens still ringing in his ears. He stayed there long after the ambulance disappeared, staring at the darkened windows of Tweek’s house, knowing things would never be the same.

Days later, he learned the rest: Tweek had been admitted into a rehab center, somewhere outside of town, somewhere far. He was safe, they said, not stable right now, receiving care, but Craig wasn’t allowed to visit yet. Not until the staff decided he could handle it. Not until Tweek was ready.

Craig felt hollow, too. Relief mixed with guilt, anger, fear, and a strange, crushing loneliness. He didn’t know when he would see him again, or if Tweek even wanted to ever, more so after their last fight. The space between them wasn’t just miles or rules or rehab, it was years of uncertainty, of absence.

At night, Craig stared at his ceiling for what felt like hours. He imagined Tweek somewhere far away, trembling less now but still haunted, alone. 

Craig stayed in South Park, rooted in snow and memory, feeling the weight of all the things he hadn’t said, all the ways he had failed to hold him close, to keep him safe.

Chapter Text

Craig — Age 19

The town looked smaller once you stopped believing you’d ever leave it. South Park in summer was a mess of cracked asphalt and wild grass, its edges dissolving into the mountains. Craig had gotten used to the silence that came with staying; even the wind sounded the same, as if it had been sighing through the same streets for years.

He woke early these days, not because he wanted to, but because sleep didn’t stay long. His room was half study, half storage; computer on one side, unwashed laundry on the other. The blue light from his monitor bled into everything, giving his life that permanent digital glow of someone who existed mostly online.

He rubbed his eyes, clicked through lines of code for his remote coursework, and tried not to think about how he’d once wanted to leave for college in Denver. His parents said it was fine to study from home; cheaper, his dad had said. 

His phone buzzed. A text from Clyde.

          u coming out or what
          movie night 7

Craig typed back,

          yeah

then stared at the word for a while before hitting send.

He wasn’t sure why he kept going to those get-togethers. He did have fun most of the time, but it must’ve been mostly routine. The guys treated him like nothing had changed, which was nice in a way, even if it was a lie.

Jimmy’s house smelled like microwave popcorn and Axe deodorant. Tolkien sat cross-legged on the couch, balancing a bowl of popcorn on his knee, while Clyde argued with him about which Marvel movie sucked the most.

Craig arrived right on time, as usual. He gave a short nod, dropped into the armchair, and immediately pulled his hat lower over his eyes.

Clyde grinned. “Dude, finally! We were about to start without you.”

“You always start without me,” Craig said, voice flat but not unfriendly.

“I think he just likes saying that.” Tolkien added.

Jimmy chimed in, “He ju-just likes feeling in ch-charge for once.”

“Screw you, Jimmy.” answered Clyde.

“Please don’t.” Craig spat, flat but funny.

Jimmy chuckled. “We keep ho-hoping you’ll walk in mid-credits so we ca-can pre-pretend it was a surprise.”

“Funny.”

They watched half the movie before conversation replaced it. Jimmy asked about classes; Clyde bragged about his new job at a car wash; Tolkien talked about Nichole’s photography program. It was normal. Awfully normal.

Then Clyde, never good with silence, blurred it out: “Hey, uh… random question– you still talk to Tweek, or is that, like, banned now?”

“Clyde.” Tolkien interrupted him

“What? I’m just asking!”

Craig kept his eyes on the TV. “No.”

Tolkien set down his drink. “Didn’t... his parents move him somewhere? Rehab, then Denver?”

“That’s what his dad said.”

Clyde shifted. “You haven’t talked to him? At all?”

Jimmy muttered under his breath, “We’re go-going straight for emotional da-damage tonight, huh?”

Craig’s voice came out steady, but too fast. “He’s got his life. I’ve got mine.”

Jimmy opened his mouth, then closed it again. They all knew that tone; it ment end of discussion. Still, Tolkien couldn’t help himself. “He looked better last time I saw him, man. Last winter. He came by the shop with some rehab counselor. Looked… older. Less twitchy.”

Craig’s thumb flicked at the edge of his hat. A habit he’d picked up the first week after it happened, when he couldn’t find anywhere to put his hands. “Good for him.”

Jimmy muttered, “You co-could text him, you kno-know. It’s not ill-illegal.”

Craig shot him a look that made him shut up fast.

But later, as the night stretched and a different movie played in the background, he caught himself glancing at his phone. Craig scrolled through his contacts. Half were people he never talked to, the other half were people he actively avoided. One name sat at the bottom.

          Tweek Tweak.

His thumb tapped the screen's corner three times, then four times more before he locked it, preventing him from thinking about it for too long.

Tweek — Age 20

Denver smelled different in a way; cleaner air, maybe, but more aggressive, filled with cement, car smoke and roasted beans from the dozens of coffee shops that lined the street. Sometimes the smell made him dizzy.

The irony wasn’t lost on him: after rehab, he ended up working at a café again. The universe had a sick sense of humor. The manager, who knew his history, gave him lighter shifts, no peak hour duty. 

He stood behind the counter now, apron neat, name tag crooked. His hands still trembled when the rush hit, though not as violently as before. A controlled tremor, the doctors called it. He called it normal enough.

“Two oat-milk lattes!” someone shouted from the register.

“Got it!” Tweek answered, voice steadier than he felt.

He liked the rhythm of work; the soft hum of machines, the hiss of milk frothing, the clink of mugs. It was mechanical, predictable, safe. Nothing like the chaos that his head used to be.

When things got too quiet, though, his thoughts wandered. They always ended up in the same place: snow-covered streets, sirens, a boy running with no jacket. The neighbors had told him all about it.

He shook his head, forcing the image away. That was years ago.

“Hey, Tweek,” called Tammy, the new barista, leaning over the counter with a grin. “You gonna text that hottie from yesterday or what?”

Tweek blinked. “Wh– what?”

“The one who left his number on the napkin, remember? Looked like he owned three guitars.”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah, no thanks.” he muttered, wiping the counter harder than necessary.

“You’re impossible. He was cute.”

“So’s food poisoning. Doesn’t mean I want it.”

Tammy laughed. “Come on, live a little. You could use a date that isn’t a coffee grinder.”

Tweek managed a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Maybe next time.”

When the shift ended, he walked home through the evening crowd, hands buried in his pockets. Denver was louder than he liked; sirens in the distance, music from shops, people shouting. But it was better than silence. Silence left too much room for remembering.

His apartment was small but clean. A few plants sat by the window, stubbornly alive despite his inconsistent watering. He made tea, not coffee, and sat on the couch, one leg tucked under him, with the lights low.

His phone buzzed, a message from his rehab counselor checking in. He answered quickly, politely, doing fine, work’s steady, having tea now, thanks for asking. 

Sometimes he’d scroll through old photos before bed. He’d deleted most of the ones from high school, but a few always slipped through, the ones where Craig’s hand was half in frame, holding the camera.

He stared at one now: both of them outside the coffee shop, laughing at something stupid Clyde had said. The image was grainy, half-blurred, but the feeling in it was sharp as glass.

He turned the phone face-down. The screen light made the room feel too bright, like guilt had a color.

Craig — Age 20

Winter again. South Park looked exactly the same, which somehow made everything worse.

Craig sat on his dinner table with Tolkien and Clyde. The table was cluttered with empty mugs and notebooks; Clyde pretending to study for some community-college exam, Tolkien reading an article about startups.

Clyde nudged him. “Earth to Craig. You ever gonna tell us if you’re seeing anyone, or are we just assuming you’ve become a celibate computer Redditor?”

“Redditor’s accurate.” Craig answered

Tolkien chimed in, “That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes, either.”

“Wow. Riveting.” added Clyde.

Craig looked up from his laptop finally. “What makes you think I’d tell you anything, anyway?”

“Because I’m your best friend, duh.” Clyde said proudly.

Tolkien snorted. “You’re everyone’s loud neighbor, not his therapist.”

“Same thing!” Clyde grinned. “Seriously though, man, you’re what, twenty now? You can’t spend your whole life coding and ignoring your phone.”

Craig shut the laptop. “I don’t ignore my phone.”

Tolkien raised an eyebrow. “You definitely ignore your phone.”

“Fine,” Craig muttered. “Maybe I just don’t have anything to say.”

Clyde leaned back and spat after a silence. ““So, what, you’re like… zen about it now? No relapse, no tears, no breakup mixtape?”

Craig’s annoyed silence was answer enough. Tolkien nudged Clyde with his elbow, then looked back at Craig. He sighed softly. “He’s doing okay, Craig. Nichole said she saw him once at a café when she was in Denver. Looked healthy.”

Craig’s fingers toyed with the brim of his hat, but he didn’t look up. 

“She said he smiled more. Still jumpy, but calmer.”

Craig exhaled through his nose, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across his face. “That’s good.”

Clyde tilted his head, slightly annoyed. “You ever gonna call him or what?”

Craig didn’t answer. The idea of hearing Tweek’s voice again scared him more than silence ever had. What if he’d moved on? What if he sounded too happy?

Tweek — Age 21

By twenty-one, Tweek had built a careful kind of peace. He still lived in Denver, same apartment, different job; assistant manager now. He didn’t make coffee anymore; he supervised. People trusted him to keep things organized, to stay calm. That part always felt like a dumb joke.

He started his day early, brewed tea, had breakfast, kept his schedule tight. Routine was control, and control kept the panic small enough to handle.

Every now and then, he’d dream of South Park; the snow, the muffled quiet, the way Craig’s laugh used to sound when no one else was around. He’d wake up with his hands trembling and press them flat against the sheets until they stopped.

At work, Tammy still teased him about dating. “You’re like an old man, Tweek. You ever gonna give someone a chance?”

He smiled faintly. “I give people chances. Just not the, uh, romantic kind.”

“Tragic,” she said dramatically, then lowered her voice. “So, if not dating, what do you do for fun?”

He thought about it. “I… listen to music.”

She groaned. “You’re doomed.”

Maybe he was.

That night, after closing, he lingered at the counter, watching steam curl from a kettle. The smell of roasted beans still filled the shop. It was safe now, at least a bit, nostalgic instead of dangerous, but it still tugged at something deep inside him.

He wondered if Craig still wore that same stupid hat.

Craig — Age 21

South Park hadn’t changed. Same flickering streetlights. Same grocery store clock stuck at 8:04, but Craig had. He graduated from his online program, picked up freelance tech jobs, saved money he never spent. He even had gotten himself some piercings; snakebites, earrings in both ears and a helix. Most nights he worked late, coding with the blinds half-open, dimmed streetlights leaking through the window.

The gang still met up once a week at least. Clyde had just broken up with Bebe; Tolkien talked about his plans for the future; Jimmy was planning stand-up gigs. Life moved forward without asking permission.

The diner looked exactly the same as it always had; sticky tables, flickering lights, that smell of burnt bacon that never seemed to go away. Craig sat in the booth across from Clyde and Tolkien, sitting next to Jimmy, the snow dripping from their boots forming small puddles under the table. A bag of chips in the middle of the table.

Clyde was halfway through a stack of pancakes. “I’m telling you, my boss is insane. Yesterday he told me to ‘look more engaged with customers,’ so I smiled at everyone. Some old lady threw a napkin at me.”

Tolkien raised a brow. “Maybe don’t smile like you’re about to rob her.”

Clyde pointed at him with his fork. “I was being friendly, dude.”

Jimmy grinned. “The la-lady doesn't seem to thi-think so. You’re sc-scaring the elderly, du-dude.”

Craig smirked slightly, stirring his coffee, which he didn't even like. “You’re just mad because she didn’t tip you.”

Clyde squinted. “You sound like you work there too.”

“I’d rather die.”

The group laughed. It was the kind of dumb banter they always fell into. For a while, it almost felt like they were seventeen again; same booth, same sarcasm, same attempts to avoid talking about real things.

When the laughter finally died down, Tolkien stretched, yawning. “How’s work, Craig? Still freelancing?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. You like it?”

“It’s fine, I guess.”

Clyde leaned forward. “Translation: he hasn’t spoken to another human in a week.”

Craig sighed. “I’m literally talking to you right now.”

“Barely,” Clyde shot back. “You text like you’re filing taxes, dude.”

Jimmy nodded. “I c-c-can confirm.”

Craig smirked but didn’t argue. He took a chip and watched the snow through the window.

After a moment, Tolkien asked while leaning back, “You ever think about leaving South Park? Maybe meet, I dunno, a human being? They exist outside your monitor.”

Craig didn’t look away from the window. “Yeah. Too many of ’em.”

“You’d get more work.” Tolkien added.

“I have work.”

Clyde chimed in, “You have a computer and depression.”

“Multitasking.”

Clyde groaned in response. “Dude, you sound like a raccoon that learned to code.”

Craig didn’t even look at him. “And yet you keep feeding me trash talk.”

Clyde pointed his straw at him. “’Cause we feel bad for you, man. You’re like… a charity case with Wi-Fi.”

Craig took a slow sip of his coffee, making a weird face at the taste. “Heartwarming.”

Tolkien snorted. “You ever gonna admit you’re bored out of your mind?”

Craig leaned back, arms crossed. “I like boring.”

That shut them up for a bit. Only the sound of Clyde slurping his drink filled the silence, which somehow made it worse.

When they split up an hour later, Craig said a quick goodbye and walked home alone. The streets were empty, the snow crunching under his shoes. South Park was the kind of town that always looked half-asleep.

He passed Stark’s Pond on his way back. The water was frozen, just like it always was around this time of year. He stopped for a second, hands in his pockets, staring at the ice. The reflection of the streetlight shimmered across the surface.

He pulled out his phone, scrolled all the way down to the old contact. The name was still there, the same number, but a different picture; still, his face wasn’t in it. He typed one word.

          hey

He didn’t send it. He just stared until the screen dimmed, then locked it again.

Snow began to fall. Slow, steady, endless; just like before.

Chapter Text

The kettle had just begun to hum when the phone rang. It wasn’t loud, just an infrequent sound that cut straight through the calm of a Tuesday morning.

Tweek stood barefoot in the kitchen, half-buttoned shirt, the Denver skyline a faint smear of gray beyond the window. He thought about letting it ring out. Unknown numbers around this time only meant spam calls or wrong numbers. But the phone kept vibrating across the counter like it refused to be ignored. Finally, he decided to grab it, a weird gut feeling spreading across his entire body. 

“Hello?”

Static, then a man’s voice. He sounded flat, official.  “Mr. Tweak? This is Officer Harris with the South Park Police Department.”

Tweek went still. He hadn’t heard that name out loud in years.

 “… Uh, Yeah?”

“I’m afraid I have bad news. Your parents, Richard and Lauren Tweak, were found deceased at their work place late last night.” A pause. “We believe foul play was involved.”

For a second, the sound drained out of the world. The kettle hissed louder. His breath stopped.

“Foul play,” he repeated, because it sounded like something people only said in movies, not in real life, not to him.

“Yes, sir. The investigation’s ongoing. We’ll need you to come in to identify the remains and discuss arrangements.”

He blinked at the counter. He nodded, more to himself, since the police officer couldn’t see him anyway.

 “... Okay.”

“Are you able to arrive this evening?”

 “… I– Yes, yes.”

“Thank you for your cooperation.” The voice softened half a tone, though not sincere. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Then he hung up.

Tweek turned the burner off and set the kettle aside, almost burning himself in the process due to how much he had started shaking. Trying to control himself, he set both hands against the counter, putting pressure on them. The tile felt cold under his palms.

He stared at the wall clock. It was only 7:12 a.m. He began to kneel down gradually, his hands remaining firmly attached to the counter. He started to tear up, but no sound could come out of him for a while.

“Okay,” he whispered to no one. “Okay. Okay.”

He said it again and again, until it sounded like it could be true.

The bus station in the early afternoon was usually crowded: students clutching their bags, an old man reading a racing paper, the air heavy with diesel and rushed sweat. Tweek bought a one-way ticket and found a seat near the window. 

When the bus finally lurched forward, Denver began to unravel behind him; buildings dissolving into gray, streets fading to nothing. He tried to calm down and not think too much, but in the end, that was impossible.

He slept for maybe thirty minutes, waking with his neck stiff and the taste of iron in his mouth. The driver announced South Park maybe ten minutes later, but he wasn’t ready yet. 

Outside, the town looked smaller than he remembered, as if the years had made it curl in on itself. Snow rimmed the edges of the road, the mountains standing quiet behind it all. He stepped off the bus and immediately smelled the difference; pine, cold metal, the faint trace of wood smoke. It was a scent that lived somewhere between nostalgia and nausea.

A figure stood near the station sign, gloved hands shoved into his coat pockets. Tolkien. He’d called him hours prior, somewhere between processing what the police had told him and folding the clothes for his bag. He didn’t even know why he called him, maybe because Tolkien had always been the calm one, the more mature one. He had thought about calling someone else… But in the mid of the darkness, he preferred to wait.

Tolkien looked older, but only in the way people get older when they stop fighting time and instead enjoy its passage; jaw sharper, posture straighter, the same eyes, a different hairstyle.

“Tweek,” he called, raising a hand.

Tweek tried to smile, but his face didn’t cooperate. “Hey.”

Tolkien crossed the lot, snow crunching under his boots. “You look–” He stopped, maybe realizing there was no good way to finish that sentence. “You made it.”

“… Yeah.”

They looked at each other for a beat too long before Tolkien gestured to the car. “Let’s get out of the cold.”

The inside of his car smelled faintly of pine cleaner and takeout. Heat poured from the vents as Tolkien started the engine, and for a while, the only sound was the hum of it filling the silence.

“You holding up?” he asked eventually, glancing sideways.

“… Not really.” He spoke with a slight ironic tone.

Tolkien nodded. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

“I– I don’t even know what ‘holding up’ means right now.”

“Existing?”

“Barely.”

The car merged onto the road leading to the northern part of town. 

“Did they give you any details?” Tolkien asked.

“About the–” Tweek stopped. Saying the murder felt too dramatic. “The call? Not really. Just that it’s under investigation. Foul play.”

“That’s what the news said, too.”

“You’ve heard about it?”

Tolkien nodded. “Flashed on my phone this morning. I didn’t believe it at first.”

Tweek pressed his thumb against the edge of the seatbelt. “...I didn’t either.”

Tweek had told himself he’d never go back. But there he was, watching South Park unfold through the windshield. Its same old buildings, same old people. The town’s edges still looked like a painting half-finished, more so now.

They passed a gas station, same peeling sign, same broken light flickering above the pumps. Tweek recognized it instantly. “It’s still standing?.”

“Yeah. Some things are immortal.”

He smiled faintly. “… Most things in this godforsaken town.”

Tolkien laughed once, quietly, then glanced at him again. He thought about it for a moment before talking again. “You… Really didn’t know what they were into? The meth thing?”

Tweek’s throat tightened. “Not– Not exactly. Not when I was little, at least. I mean– I knew they weren’t just selling coffee… It didn’t taste like normal coffee anyway. Once I grew up understood what they were doing. The place stayed open at night, and they spent most of their time there– but I never asked questions.”

“You were a kid.”

“Not the whole time.”

The heater clicked louder; the silence between them stretched thin.

Tolkien changed lanes. “You already got a place to stay?”

Tweek shook his head. “Wasn’t planning on staying long. Just need to sign whatever papers they shove down my throat and leave again.”

“Well, you’re not getting a hotel, they suck.” Tolkien said. “My folks are gone for the month. You can take the guest room.”

“I don’t want to be a problem.”

“Relax. The only problem in that house right now is the broken air conditioner. But it’s winter, so it’s not like we’re going to need it anyway.”

That earned a small breath of laughter from Tweek. “… Alright then.”

Tolkien smiled. They fell into another silence, but it wasn’t sharp this time, just tired. The kind that settles between two people who both understand what not to say.

After a while, Tolkien asked, “So, rehab. You ever talk about it?”

“Not usually.”

“Do you want to?”

“I mean, it’s kind of weird…”

“Alright.”

The car filled with silence before Tolkien decided to turn on the radio, even if it was at a low volume. Tweek stared out the window, watching the snow blur into streaks of white. After taking a breath, he opened his mouth again.

“It– It wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be… Or maybe it was, but I got used to it. A lot of people liked me there. Not like–” he gestured vaguely, “coffee-jitter me. Just people who needed someone to talk to. I ended up staying almost a year.”

“Then Denver?”

“Yeah. Cheaper rent, more noise to hide in.”

“… So, clean?”

Tweek nodded. “About four years.”

Tolkien smiled. “That’s good, man. I mean it. I’m proud.”

“Thanks.”

Both of them went quiet once more. They didn’t talk again until they reached the town center.

South Park looked the same in the way recurring nightmares do; familiar, just enough to hurt. The coffee shop stood ahead like a scar. Police tape glinted under the streetlights, flapping in the wind. Reporters stood in front of the window, cameras aimed at the boarded-up door.

Tweek went still.

Tolkien followed his gaze. As if he could sense his intrigue, he slowed down while they passed the building.

A local news feed was streaming from a parked van nearby: ‘Authorities investigating possible meth operation at South Park café. The owners were found dead this night in the backrooms of the edifice.’

Tweek’s hand tightened on the seatbelt until his knuckles turned white.

“They’re making it sound like some TV special,” he muttered, annoyed.

“That’s what they do.” Tolkien responded, more like a heavy sigh.

“They’ll dig up everything,” Tweek continued, his voice tense. “Pictures, receipts, maybe even my face if they find my name on old paperwork.”

“They won’t drag you into it.”

“They don’t have to. I was born into it.”

Tolkien’s grip on the steering wheel shifted, fingers flexing up against the leather. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Tell that to everyone who still remembers the name on the sign.”

The car rolled forward as the light turned green. Neither spoke again until the shop was just a smear in the mirrors.

The farther they drove, the quieter the air felt. Houses thinned into pines, the streets bending toward Tolkien’s neighborhood. Snow powdered the roofs in an even, clean layer.

Tweek rubbed his hands against his lap, uneasy. “You sure your parents are okay with this? Me being here?”

“They won’t know. They’re in Chicago for a month.”

“Guess that works.”

“Yeah.” Tolkien smiled, trying to calm him down. 

The heater rattled again; Tweek reached out and turned it down.

After a pause, Tolkien spoke again, “I’m glad you called me, you know. You could’ve called anyone.”

Tweek laughed quietly. “Who else was I gonna call? My therapist?”

“Could have.”

“Didn’t want to make it sound clinical. I just– I'm sorry, I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Well,” Tolkien said, glancing over, “you did the right thing. You’re not alone in this, now.”

Tweek nodded, eyes on the road ahead. “Yeah… Thank you, Tolkien.”

Tolkien nodded back.

They turned onto a long residential street lined with big houses and fancy fences. The tires crunched through a thin crust of snow until Tolkien pulled into his driveway.

The house was big, quiet, glowing softly over the porch light. “Here we are,” he said.

Tweek hesitated before getting out. “Thanks, again. For picking me up… And for letting me stay here.”

“Anytime.”

He grabbed his bag from the trunk, the cold biting his fingers through the fabric. Tolkien waited by the door, keys in hand.

“Come on,” he said. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Probably am.”

Inside, the air smelled like cinnamon and detergent. Tweek stopped just past the doorway, boots dripping meltwater onto the rug.

“Guest room’s upstairs, second on the left,” Tolkien said, setting his keys down. “Bathroom’s across from it. Towels are clean. You need anything else?”

“No… Just calm.” He smiled softly, as if he wasn't trying to cause any trouble.

“Got plenty of that.”

They climbed the stairs slowly. At the top, Tweek turned before entering the room. “Hey, Tolkien?”

“Yeah?”

“... Please, don’t tell him I’m back yet.”

Tolkien studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Your secret’s safe.”

“Thanks.” He said with a sincere smile.

The room was small but warm. The heater clicked faintly, the sound blending with the wind outside. Tweek dropped his bag, shrugged off his coat and sat on the edge of the bed, his chest still tight from the drive. He looked out the window; snow fell in slow motion against the glow of the streetlights.

For the first time in years, he was back in South Park. But now the quiet didn’t feel safe anymore.

Tweek woke to the sound of snow sliding off the roof, a low, muffled whump that felt louder than it should’ve. For a second, he didn’t know where he was. The ceiling above him was too smooth, the sheets too clean, and the room too warm. Then it clicked: Tolkien’s house. South Park. Dead parents.

His hands were still trembling when he sat up. Not badly, just enough to bother him. He stared at them for a while, half waiting for the shaking to stop, half not caring if it didn’t.

The clock read 13:17. He had slept too much, and still, he felt inexplicably tired. His stomach felt hollow, not exactly hungry, but restless. His hands trembled when he reached for his hoodie, but that wasn’t new. He put it on and headed downstairs.

The house was quiet except for the faint hum of the heater and the occasional clink of dishes downstairs.

He pulled down his hoodie’s strings and made his way down.

Tolkien was sitting at the kitchen counter, dressed in a deep purple T-shirt and sweatpants, stirring sugar into his coffee while eating lunch. When Tweek entered, he looked up briefly and nodded, “Morning, sleeping beauty.”

“Hey,” Tweek mumbled, still half-sleep.

He wasn’t sure whether to sit or just hover, so he went for something in between, leaning on the edge of the table, his hands restless as he fidgeted with one of his hoodie’s string.

Tolkien gestured to a mug beside him. “Made you tea– It’s decaf, don’t worry. We didn't have dinner yesterday, so you should eat something as well. I made us lunch.”

“Thanks,” Tweek said, half under his breath but with the hint of a smile in his face. He took it, fingers wrapping around the ceramic like it might keep him from shaking.

The table was set with chicken and egg salad. Simple, but nice and efficient, like the rest of Tolkien’s life. He always had that quality; everything in order, nothing out of place, even back in high school when everyone else was just noise and hormones.

Tweek put some of it on his plate and began nibbling.

“You sleep okay?” Tolkien asked.

Tweek shrugged. “Couldn’t really sleep.”

“… Makes sense.”

“Mhm.”

Silence fell again, not quite awkward, just… expected. 

After a while, Tolkien spoke again. “You, uh… figure out what you’re gonna do yet?”

Tweek blinked. “What do you mean?”

“With the house. You know, your parents’ stuff.”

He stared down at his tea. “… I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. I don’t think I want to go back there yet.”

“Can’t blame you.”

Tweek ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “The uh, the cops reached out earlier today. They want me to come in this afternoon.”

“You want me to drive you there?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t have to, but I can, and I will.”

Tweek didn’t argue, he was too tired to do so anyway. Plus, he did have to get there some way or another, and parading through town didn’t seem like such a good idea. “Fine. Thanks.”

“Cool.” Tolkien leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. He then added, as if he could read his mind: “You, uh, probably don’t wanna walk there anyway. People are talking.”

“About me?”

“About your parents. You know how it is here. Everyone’s suddenly an expert.”

“Great.” He let out a sigh.

“Don’t worry too much. They’ll get bored, they always do.”

“Yeah,” Tweek muttered. “Until someone else screws up.”

“That’s the cycle.”

He smirked faintly. “South Park never disappoints.” He rested his head on his hand.

The sound of the kettle filled the room for a while, the small whistle somehow louder than it needed to be. Tweek watched the steam twist in the air until Tolkien broke the silence again.

“You heard what everyone’s been up to?”

Tweek looked up. “Not really. I didn’t exactly keep tabs… You’re basically the only one I, uh, kept some type of contact with…”

“Well,” Tolkien said, with the tone of someone trying to fill space, “Clyde’s been working at a car wash for a while now. Says he’s ‘management material’ now.”

Tweek raised an eyebrow. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning he wears a name tag that says ‘assistant manager’ and still shows up late three times a week.”

Tweek almost smiled. “Sounds about right.”

“Jimmy’s doing stand-up. Mostly local stuff, but he’s good. He’s gotten smoother, timing’s better. You should come see him sometime.”

“He’s still at it?”

“Yeah. He says he’ll quit when people stop laughing. So, never.”

Tweek gave a small laugh, his first real one that morning. “He deserves that.”

Tolkien nodded. “Cartman’s running some kind of restaurant thing… Chicken sandwiches, crypto payments, the usual scam. Nobody’s sure if it’s legal.”

“Still alive, then.”

“Somehow, yeah. Pretty sure Butter’s helping him. Scott Malkinson too, I believe.”

“And Craig?” The question slipped out before he could stop it. His hands clenched his mug, regretting speaking right away.

Tolkien didn’t look surprised. “Still around. Graduated from digital engineering and now does freelance tech work from home, a bunch of it surrounding space stuff. Keeps to himself most of it, though, but we all still hang out together often.”

Tweek nodded slowly, eyes on his mug. “… He, uh, still got that hat?”

“Obviously. Doesn’t wear it as often now, though.”

“Figures.”

“He’s pretty much the same, Tweek. Maybe quieter.”

“Yeah.” Tweek’s voice thinned out. “That sounds right.”

Tolkien hesitated for a second, then added, “You could come, you know. Clyde and Jimmy wanna do dinner tonight. Just us, no big deal. They don't know you’re here yet, but I’m sure they’d be happy to see you.”

““I don’t—uh, I don’t know, man…” Tweek started, then stopped.

“You don’t have to. But it might help.”

He sighed, fingers tightening around his mug. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good enough.”

They left an hour later. The air outside was cold enough to sting, the driveway buried under a thin sheet of ice. Tolkien brushed snow off the windshield while Tweek stood by the car, staring at the mountain line in the distance.

It looked the same as it always had; sharp, blue-gray, endless. He’d dreamed about those mountains for years and never once missed them.

The car heater clicked on with a faint hum.

Tolkien adjusted the mirrors, hands steady on the wheel. “Seatbelt, Tweek.”

Tweek rolled his eyes in response but buckled it anyway.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, passing the edge of town, where everything looked familiar. The same signs, the same houses, the same cracked sidewalks.

The streets were half-empty, just a few locals scraping ice off their cars or walking dogs in oversized coats and hats. It was the kind of scene you could blink through and not miss a thing.

“You ever think about how depressing this place looks?” It slipped out of him, but he didn't digress.

Tolkien smirked. “It’s got character.”

They passed Stark’s Pond, the water frozen solid, snow clinging to the trees. Tweek stared too long, the reflection of sunlight on ice slightly hurting his eyes.

“You okay?” Tolkien asked.

“Yeah. I was just remembering something.”

“Same old pond.”

“Same old everything, really.”

“But you.”

Tweek didn’t answer.

The police station looked exactly as it had when he was seventeen; greenish walls, peeling paint, that faint burnt smell of cheap coffee and old doughnuts that seeped into everything.

Inside, the heater was too loud, buzzing like a dying bee.

The officer at the front desk glanced up. “Mr. Tweak?”

“Yeah.”

“Detective Harris will be right out.”

He nodded stiffly. 

When the detective appeared, he looked exactly how Tweek remembered him; mean and old, but somehow just as old as the last time he’d seen him.

“Tweek Tweak?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for coming in. This shouldn’t take long.”

Harris led him into a small office that smelled like dust and old carpet cleaner. A half-empty coffee cup sat on the desk beside a stack of files.

“First, I just need you to confirm a few personal items recovered from your family’s business.”

Tweek stared at the labeled bags on the desk; an expensive watch, a worn out wallet, a set of keys, a coffee mug with the shop logo half-faded and the trace of blood on it.

He nodded, unwilling to look at them for too long. “Yeah, that’s theirs.”

Harris made a note. “The scene suggests… unusual circumstances. There was evidence of methamphetamine manufacture–”

“I know,” Tweek cut in. His voice sounded sharper than he meant it to. “I heard. The, uh– the news.”

Harris paused, studying him. “You had no involvement, correct?”

Tweek laughed once, without humor, but in an attempt to relieve the tension. “You think I’d come back if I did?”

The detective did not respond. Just made another note. His expression made Tweek gulp. “You’ll need to sign these. It authorizes release of personal effects.”

Tweek signed without reading. The pen trembled in his hand, leaving small scratches where ink dug too deep.

When it was over, Harris gave a polite nod. “If we have further questions, we’ll contact you.”

Tweek stood. “Yeah. Okay.”

Outside, the cold hit like a slap. The sky had brightened, but the air still bit at his lungs.

Tolkien was leaning against the car, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. “That was fast.”

“They didn’t have much to say.”

“Lucky you.”

Tweek climbed in, shutting the door more forcefully than he intended. “Let’s get out of here, please.”

“Yeah.”

They pulled away from the curb, neither speaking for a while. South Park stretched out again; gray roads, tired houses, snowy trees, that same eerie calm that never seemed to go away.

At a red light, Tolkien finally spoke, “So… About dinner tonight. Clyde’s bringing coupons, so… Don’t worry about the money.”

Tweek blinked. “Coupons?”

“Yeah. He texted me last night, ‘bro, I got deals.’”

“That’s… tragic. But… Okay. I’ll come.”

“Great, it’ll be fun.” Tolkien smiled, trying to hide his enthusiasm.

“Is he still dating Bebe?”

“Nah. Broke up last year. He insists that it wasn’t one-sided, but Bebe called it a ‘mercy killing’. That’s what Nichole told me.”

Tweek snorted. “Sounds mutual to me.”

“Jimmy says he’s back on the apps, though.”

“Why am I not surprised.”

“Yeah. Told me Clyde’s using pictures from three years ago.”

“Oh god.”

They both laughed, short and sharp. It almost felt like when they were younger.

The drive back felt longer. Maybe because now the weight of what he’d seen and heard had settled in, thick and immovable.

He watched the town blur by; the corner store, the high school, the park. Kids ran past in puffy coats, their laughter muffled by the cold. Life didn’t stop just because his had.

At one point, Tolkien spoke again, voice low but casual. “By the way, you did really well in there, man.”

Tweek glanced over. “Huh?”

“You didn’t punch anyone.”

“… I thought about it.”

“Still progress.”

“I guess.”

They stopped for gas, Tolkien stepping out to pay while Tweek stayed in the car, fingers tapping restlessly on his knee. He could see his reflection faintly in the window; older, sharper, tired.

He didn’t look like the kid who used to panic at every sound. But he didn’t look like someone different, either.

When Tolkien came back, he handed Tweek a bottle of water. “Hydrate, man. You look like a ghost.”

“Wow. Thanks.” But, he still let out a slight chuckle.

“No problem.”

Tolkien started the car again, the heater roaring back to life.

By the time they pulled into the town’s center again, the day had started to dim. The snow had gone slushy at the edges of the sidewalks.

“You sure you’re okay with coming?” Tolkien asked, eyes on the road.

Tweek shrugged. “Yeah. Might as well.”

“They’ll be happy to see you, man.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

When they finally reached the diner, the sky was that strange blue-gray of early evening, the kind that made everything look flat and distant. The sign still flickered, the “OPEN” barely visible through frost.

Tolkien parked and shut off the engine, not getting out of the car just yet. “You okay?”

Tweek stared at the glowing windows, silhouettes moving inside. “Define okay.”

“Not going to vomit.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Then you’re okay.”

He laughed, short and weak. “Yeah, you’re right.”

They sat for another moment, neither moving. Finally, Tweek sighed, pushing open the door. The cold rushed in again, biting at his fingers. They crossed the icy parking lot together, boots crunching on the snow. The smell of frying oil and stale coffee drifted from the diner’s vent.

For a brief moment, as Tweek’s hand touched the door, the world felt almost the same as it had years ago; familiar, unchanging, slightly absurd.