Disclaimer: C'mon now. As if I'd own South Park. Me, a penniless student. Hah. I wish.

A/N: Oh wow, guys... It's been ages since my last update – I'm so, so sorry! Also, thank you for all of your support! Those of you that have taken the time to review or contact me even after all of these months are sweethearts – it's for you guys that I bothered to write this chapter!

That said, expect to find a gazillion errors, as I've got a 3,000 word report due in first thing tomorrow morning (and also because I'm too lazy). Whoops!

Breezeblocks and Dandelions

...

3

Triggers and Tears

"So, uhh... What d'you do in—in dandelion season?" Tweek asks, eyes all wide and cheek twitching.

I scratch the slight shadow of stubble on my chin to delay answering, 'cause... how the fuck do I know the answer? I'm just spouting crazy shit. When I've obviously put off trying to answer for too long (I can tell, because his cheek-twitch has escalated to a full out flinch), I speak slowly, hoping my mouth will pull us back out of all the shit it just landed us in. "Well, dandelions are important 'cause... uhh... I collect them. Yeah."

"Oh. L-like my— gah— like my breezeblocks?" Oh yeah, I forgot that this kid is a fucking fruit cake. That'd probably explain why this whole conversation seems perfectly legitimate to him. It doesn't, however, go so far as to explain why the words 'wanna pet his hair' are floating around my head.

"Well, I don't plan to make a forte out of them, but other than that I guess so...?" It comes out as a question, because there aren't actually any similarities between these two things, once you get down to it. Especially as I don't actually collect them at all. I mean, I used to pick some of them occasionally, back when—

I blink myself out of my thoughts, determined not to let that subject raise itself to life in my mind. It's still too recent.

"B-but dandelions are really, really good for medicinal stuff, right? H-h-home remedies?" Shit, is he serious? That's just got to be one of the most goddamn hideously endearing things he's said. And he's all sombre nodding and slurping sips of his coffee while he says it.

I run my tongue over my teeth, trying to gather myself. Between the distraction that is Tweek Tweak and some bloody depressing recent events, I can't focus worth crap. "Yeah...?" Should I go along with it? Should I not? I study his scruffy, all-over-the-place hair, his wrongly buttoned green shirt and his hands around his coffee cup and then I decided, screw it. I've never really been sensitive of other peoples' emotions before, so why should I start now? He might be sort of boner-worthy, but that really doesn't count for much in the grand scheme of things. Especially considering how generally fucked up he is.

Grow some goddamn balls, Craig, I think to myself. Why would you go and try choosing your words carefully for someone else, when you've never bothered to before now?

I know that thought is right, of course, but apparently it has little to no affect on my actions. Instead, I downright ignore the voice and just shrug uselessly at Tweek. I half expect him to start suspecting my bullshitting. He'll call my bluff. Surely.

Again, though, I'm wrong. All he does is jerkily nod and go, "Aaah." It's like he's just accepted some great truth that no one else has really figured out yet. Like he's feeling loads of... What's the word? Conviction? Yeah, that's probably it.

I just let myself slouch further down in my chair as I study him. He's all hunched up around his cup like a permanently startled porcupine, although he's fallen surprisingly quiet. If there was a translation for the kind of deformity unfurling itself on his face through his lip-gnawing and all the erratic eye movements, I guess it would be 'concentration'. It happens rarely with Tweek (at least, to my knowledge), but he actually looks like he might be contemplating something other than imminent death and pain.

Huh. So apparently talking about dandelions does that to him. I try not to contemplate what he might be like after picking some.

For what feels a little like forever (but is probably closer to around ten minutes) we sit in relative silence, the only sound being the now thoughtfully noisy slurps and his occasional tick. I'm all super relaxed, my limbs all over the place and my focus on the way he moves. It's the little things, like the licking of his cracked lips and the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows, that catch my interest.

It's kinda nice to put all the emotional stuff on the side for a bit. And it's sort of easier than I would've thought, with Tweek. Guess it's because he's so fucked up, that everything he does is a surprise..

...

People tend to think I'm always all over the place.

Like, I'm constantly bouncing off of the fucking walls or something. They expect me to go screaming and running and freaking out constantly, and I don't think anyone realises that that's too much pressure for one person to be under all the time. I can't be a one man circus twenty-four-seven, for Christ's sake! That's inhumane!

'Occasionally I have to stop too, y'know!' - That's what I imagine shouting at everyone, sometimes. It's unfair that people always want me wired and foaming at the mouth! And then on the rare goddamn occasion I am acting normal, I get all paranoid that they might think I'm possessed or something, and inevitably end up freaking out again.

So normally, I try to avoid being like everyone else. It's just, it's a heck of a lot less hassle to stay super freaked out all of the time, 'cause at least that way I can be on my guard.

But sometimes – and oh, Jesus, seriously I can't even help it! – I just... zone out.

That's Ritalin-Tweek Take Over Time. The Calm-Coma.

I told you Ritalin-Tweek was a total asshole. The bastard just sneaks back inside my head and flicks some goddamn switches and before I know it—

Calmness.

But it's only temporary. Like when my mom makes me watch T.V with her and she strokes my hair, or when I'm sat in the kitchen with my dad, and he's singing Cat Stevens songs.

Normally though, I'm so damn wired it doesn't happen anywhere but home after a really good day.

I like it that way.

So it's freakin' normal that when I snap out of my goddamn Calm-Coma in the middle of Harbucks, sitting across from Craig Motherfucking Tucker, I naturally panic.

I hate the look he gives me when I bolt up from my chair with a sudden, "HnnnnGAH!"

"Dude, what the fuck? Calm down!" And he's all standing up and reaching for my arm like he fucking knows what it's like! Like I went and did something bad to him!

How the hell would he even understand?!

In the ensuing panic somehow my goddamn coffee. Is. Spilt.

Again.

And this time, it's all over me instead of him.

I wail, and holy crap, it doesn't even sound human to me—

There are all these eyes on me and they're watching and they're gonna get me, they'regonnagetinsidemy—

And a palm smacks so hard against my cheek that I'm snapped out of it.

Craig's holding one of my wrists again, leaning over the table and shaking out his other hand like he's hurt it.

And all I can do is twitch and jerk quietly, chest heaving and eyes bugging out because he hit me!

No one's ever hit me since I was a kid.

Not even my parents!

It's fucking humiliating but my eyes are starting to sting and blur and I realise that I'm gonna cry because he hit me.

"C'mon, Tweek, let's go," he mutters, and he doesn't let my hand go even though we're both sticky and damp from coffee spills now. And when did he even lock his fingers between mine?

I don't really care though, because now I'm sniffling and we're going out the door and he's guiding me through the quiet streets. His hand's warm and his grip's hard, and my cheek's still tingling.

I can't see where I'm going by the time we turn the street corner because the tears have spilt over onto my face like my two lost coffees, and I'm sobbing like a child.

But Craig just carries on; on and on and on, like I'm not crying and like it's not practically the end of my entire goddamn world!

On and on we walk.

On and on and on.

Only when we step off of the tarmac and onto soft, loamy grass does he stop and turn to me.

But he doesn't drop my hand.

All he says is, "Dude— Tweek, we can get those dandelions now."

...

A/N: Once again, not at all how I planned on finishing this chapter. Goddamn thing wrote itself again... Sorry it's so short, guys – please leave me a review to let me know what you think?

((16/03/15))