Warninz: Poorly written, graphic sexy scene to follow. Hide the children!

--

foreshadowing

It started when Craig lost the remote.

--

exposition

There were four gay kids in South Park; two sets. God's gift that it should be an even number, and so well matched. The first was the display model, token diversity widely accepted, the pride of South Park's modern sensibility. Little touches were put forward to assure their comfort. It was understandable why they were the favorite; Butters, with his baby face and his sweet naivety, was a perfect stereotype of the girl in a same-sex relationship. Kenny, having come forth from the ocean of sour beer and blood, with his torn jeans, callous apathy, and crooked grin, struck the image of the love interest in a predictable romance movie from the 80's. The sexy bad ass. Perfect man.

Craig and Tweek never protested being grudgingly accepted as a surplus.

It was sort of an inside joke without the joke that girls—and sometimes boys—back in the high school chose and discussed favorites. So far, Craig and Tweek only had Lizzie—and, of course, Token and Clyde, however, they didn't count so much as fan club members as friends.

Kenny and Butters had held the monopoly on PDA. While the sight of the two mashed together in some shadowy hallway between classes, Butters' wrists shackled to the smooth walls with Kenny's possessive, angry bedroom behavior, the flashes of tongue and twisting jaw lines, rarely gained more than a genial smirk, Craig and Tweek barely dared to give brief parting hugs in public. Without saying a word, the majority of the South Park population had drawn the line—just because it's okay for them doesn't mean it's okay for you. You're not cute enough.

It wasn't a rivalry. Craig and Kenny were fairly good friends, Kenny was always exceedingly friendly with Tweek, and Butters extended a cheerful politeness to the two—Craig, of course, didn't quite have the patience to interact extensively with "the poofball", and Tweek didn't so much have a social anxiety disorder as mania, which inhibited his making friends fairly effectively. It didn't matter—the opinions, and slight contempt, never dinged the impenetrable armor of one another. They lived blind for everything but each other.

--

rising action

Craig made a habit of checking the weather report every morning. Not just for the sake of routine—work wasn't all that far away, and considering the gas mileage of the old truck he'd bought off his uncle at seventeen, if the weather wasn't too threatening, he usually just walked.

This particular morning, the remote had gotten itself wedged in some place, or slipped its way under something—the fact of the matter was, finding it would be more effort then plucking it up off the coffee table, jamming the power button, and throwing it onto the couch while brushing his teeth with the other hand. In a fit of early-morning apathy, Craig stood in the living room of the tiny apartment, toothpaste foam spotting the corners of his mouth, until his meditation on the hopelessness of the situation was broken.

"CRAIG, HAVE YOU SEEN MY PILLS? ERGH!"

He removed the brush from his mouth for further ease of speaking. "Did you check under the mattress?" Tweek had a habit of hiding his collection of little orange prescription bottles, and then changing this hiding places—from who he was hiding them, neither knew. A third of the time, they were under the mattress—a clear outlier.

"Yeah! I checked, like, three times!"

Craig forwent watching the weather channel to go help his boyfriend find his medication—something he would've let solve itself, had it not been for the minute effort it would've taken to search through the cushions.

--

By the end of Craig's nine hour shift, the snow was a foot and a half deep, creating a thick, opaque veil that extended from the solid drift that hit the horizon to the white sky. It was already freezing, crusting over—walking home would not only take upwards of an hour, with the shuffling speed he'd have to go, but would be exceedingly wet and cold—in the negative teens, with wind chill—and would most likely end in him being run down by a sliding car.

Tweek never ended up learning to drive—not that he would send him out in this weather. He used the store phone to dial Kenny's number.

After fifteen minutes of sitting on the counter, listening to Lizzie rant on the subject of the lack of tip jars in electronic stores ("Seriously! Like carrying plates is so fucking difficult we must worship our providers with offerings of spare change? How 'bout the people who spend the better part of an afternoon trying to explain to your butt-fucking Grammy the difference between a scanner and a fax!? Don't we deserve a couple quarters for our service?") a soggy Kenny stumbled through the glass door, smacking the bell hard enough to render its melodic chime into a twangy click, and tracking copious amounts of snow to the rough, blue carpet.

"Holy fucking shit it's the next Ice Age. It's here, you guys!" He offered this statement with a serious, wily eye, sending Lizzie into a fit of giggles. "Get in the car before a pack of caribou hotwire it. God damn." Kenny was another employee of the small branch of a large chain—the three of them and the manager compromised its entire catalogue of workers.

Out in the car, the windows were fogged, rendering the cabin of the elderly compact into its own private space, cut off from the world. Craig flicked the windshield wipers as Kenny rounded the nose, tripping slightly as his foot hit the cinderblock space marker buried beneath the snow.

The car groaned as Kenny steered it toward the exit—it was practically digging its way through, creating paths where the tires shoved their way past the false ground. The highway was better—the assault nature had cast on them had been liquefied by technology, coating the dark asphalt with a slick, grey slush. The main issue then was the traffic, which was going a top speed of ten miles per hour.

"Probably an accident or something." Craig sighed, eying the long line of cars that preceded them on the strip of road. It might've been faster to walk—faster, but the other effects of the snow made the wait worth it. "Hey, thanks for picking me up, man."

"No prob. Butters is staying with Bebe for the weekend, I'm bored as all shit." There was a brief beat, in which the soft sounds of the radio hit a climax—lots of guitar, lots of drum, lots of emotion. "Hey, y'wanna come chill for a while? I've got tequila—I don't mind sharing, makes me feel less pathetic."

Craig considered it before retorting, "Yeah, but if I stay, it'll be dark by the time I get home—I don't wanna drive in this in the dark."

"Stay the night." Kenny shrugged—a sincere suggestion.

"I dunno if Tweek'd be cool with that."

"Call and ask! C'mon, man, it's way too quiet there. Don't make me get all drunk and quixotic alone. I promise not to lament the weekend loss of my fair love. Loudly."

Craig didn't know what quixotic meant. To be perfectly honest with himself, a night of boozing and TV sounded good. Some sort of unspecific guilt, jealousy from the opposite perspective, kept him from saying yes right off. He had responsibilities. What these responsibilities were, he couldn't say.

"Okay, whatever. If he wants me home, will you drive me?"

"Fuck that. You walk, Mister Whipped."

--

He kicked off his shoes in the doorway, worked his coat off of his arms as he walked toward the phone, and threw it on the kitchen floor as he picked up the receiver. He craved permission. Kenny followed him listlessly as the phone rang, plopped down on the bar stool, and leaned his chin on his palms. Four rings before it picked up.

"Hello!?"

"Tweekers?"

"Craig! Jesus Christ, it's a mess out—where are you? Did you crash? Oh God, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, calm down spazz—look, the road are really awful. Kenny gave me a ride home, is it okay if I just crash here tonight?"

The other line was silent for a moment. "Yeah, yeah, that's alright…"

"You sure? You'll be okay on your own?" They hadn't spent a night apart since the week before graduation, when they'd first tangled on the bare bedroom floor with nothing covering them but a sheet, surrounded by the towering stratums of cardboard boxes. That had been a good night. The sex had felt like freedom, in a cheesy way.

"I'll be okay. Errm—um, what time d'you think you'll be home tomorrow?"

"Uh, I'll call as soon as I wake up, okay? I promise not to get in any cars without your permission." Craig had learned—it was the not knowing that drove Tweek up the wall and into the pill bottle. He hated surprises.

"Okay. Um.…"

"I love you."

"Love you too!"

"Nighty-night."

"Night. Be careful."

Neither one heard the sound of the other disconnecting. A perfectly symbiotic farewell.

Craig turned to his host, washed free of the sin of guilt by the simpering voice of his One True Love. "You mentioned booze?"

--

Kenny took another shot of Jose Quervo, barely blinking as he set the plastic shot glass down on the coffee table and reached casually for the shared bottle of grape soda.

"We're in the same position, you know. We relate."

Craig wasn't quite sure what he was talking about, but had the impression he should. He nodded.

"Yeah, you get me." The TV tittered, forgotten in the heat of the conversation—produced by Kenny, directed by Kenny, starring Kenny. "It's hard. A lot. I mean, it's like, you give it your all, and you know it's what you want, but then there's that—that part of you that says, 'don't settle for this! You can have it all!' And I dunno."

Craig still didn't know what Kenny was talking about.

"I love Butters. I mean, I love Butters. You know in, um, in 1984, at the end, the thing with the rats?" Craig had never read 1984. He nodded anyway. "Yeah—I would've let them rip my face off. And crap in my brain. I don't care. I love that stupid little bastard. Yeah?" He could pick up on Kenny asking him whether or not he'd let rats eat his face off for Tweek—this time, his nod was honest.

"But…this isn't me. I don't…settle. I mean, I love the idea of getting married, or whatever gay guys do, and having a little pack of sticky butt babies destroy my house and eat up my income, but the entire time I'd be thinking of all the people I could be fucking. The things I could be doing—I miss drugs, Craig, Butters doesn't like them, and so I gave them up, just like that, but if someone were to walk up to me right now and offer me some E, I'd shove it right down my throat and not even ask questions. I miss casual sex. I miss vaginas, and being on bottom—Butters ain't so good at top. I miss feeling dirty. I miss being Kenny. Butters-n-Kenny, it's nice, it's comfy, but I miss being Kenny."

Craig tried to fit this piece into the drunk puzzle of his mind. Did he relate? Did he ever miss the time before, back then, when he'd done what he wanted, whenever, without worrying? When he fucked whatever would stand still long enough?

The more he thought about it, the more he eased into it. He was trapped, wasn't he? Love, that was just bait—and here he was, love-cheese in his jaws, the trap snapped close. Le petite mort, snapped neck, dead rat.

"And it's like, you just need a little, controlled rebellion—just a little one, no one has to know, no emotion—physical, not emotional. Naw, I could never emotionally betray Butters, but damn, my cock is so much louder than my brain."

Craig gesticulated forward, eyes wide. "Exactly! It's not like you want to leave 'im, you just want…you just want it your way every once in a while!"

"Yeah!"

"Hell, it could be good for us—you—I dunno, just let all that shit out in one burst, and then you're all wound down and happy for a long time. Rather than letting it built up and pop."

"This is awesome. You get it! I thought I was wrong, but you get it!"

"I do!"

They thrust forward at the same time, knocking noses.

--

flashback

"BRAKE, TWEEK—BIG PEDDLE, BIG PEDDLE."

Tweek cried out, and in a moment of panic, pulled both feet away from the cavern beneath his seat, abandoning the wheel to clamp his fists over his eyes in his panic. Craig swore loudly, dove forward, 'til his forehead hit the radio, and smacked the brake with his open palm. Whichever one of Newton's laws shoved the radio button into Craig's temple could go fuck itself.

"This isn't working." Craig breathed, pulling himself back into his own seat.

It was early in their Junior year. Craig had refused Tweek's protests that driving was far too much pressure and insisted he tutor him in the invaluable skill. He'd bended to Tweek's demands—back roads, early morning, and should any other car come along, he reserved the right to get the fuck out of the way.

Craig had, so far, retained his patience spectacularly well. This was the key factor in why he'd been so insistent upon being the one who helped him through—it was either him, or Tweek be a lifelong passenger. No one else had the Tweek-managing skills he did. No one else had as much of his trust as he did.

Beneath the solid block of testosterone he tried to flaunt himself as, the fact that he'd earned even a chip of the paranoid little freak's trust lit a warm glow behind his ribs. Nine years—it had taken him nine years to get this far. Tweek didn't give out trust like Halloween candy. It was more like stealing a brick from the wall on Fort Knox.

"Does that mean we can give up?" Tweek whimpered, melting slightly in his seat. It was too big for him; like seeing a younger sibling driving. No matter how old Tweek got, he would be too little. Probably something about the eyes. They were huge—more because he opened them as wide as possible in attempt to gain as much peripheral vision as he could than because of the actual structure of his face, but there was still something gooey and sweet about those yellowy-green eyes, something that made Craig group him in with his little sister (who couldn't have been more different, but evoked partway similar emotions—but with Tweek, there was…something extra.)

"No. Either you learn to drive, or we both die trying." The look of sheer misery he received told him Tweek didn't see either one of the answers as all that better than the other. "I have an idea—tell me if this is weird, I don't know, I don't think it's weird…" Tweek knew Craig was Like That before anyone else. "We both sit in the driver seat, you get on my lap, and that way if you freak out like that again I can take over. No pressure!"

Tweek's face brightened only slightly, bringing it up from miserable to simply piteous.

"I'm not letting you leave until seven—you promised me, 'til seven, and we can either spend that time on the verge of death or we could at least be safe."

The resolve broke on Tweek's face. In a motion of solid defeat, he sighed, hung his head, unbuckled his seatbelt, and got out of the car.

Craig hopped out cheerfully, took the walk around the front, and climbed in. This was more comfortable—he didn't like seeing through his windshield from the passenger's angle. Too helpless.

Tentatively, Tweek squeezed in. The combined girth of their things pressed slightly against the bottom of the wheel—they both spread their legs, which solved the problem for the most part.

More urgently, Craig could feel every curve of Tweek's ass pressing into his groin.

Tweek's like your little brother.

My little brother sure is soft and warm.

Urgh!

"Okay, put it in R…"

Tweek's hand shook as it hesitantly reached for the knob that had previously separated them. After a almost undetectable beat, his skin hovering centimeters above the smooth surface, he clamped down—all fingers firmly wrapping the rounded surface. He tugged it back, hitting it into the Reverse slot.

Dead puppies dead puppies dead puppies grandma grandma PERU naked Cartman…all jiggly and stuff…

The car inched back away from the guard rail they'd stopped a few feet from a moment before. Tweek's foot rested in the air over the gas peddle, like it was the trigger of a loaded gun.

"Okay, that's far enough—now Drive…"

The car hummed forward. Painfully slowly, Tweek eased the wheel to the left—they easily could've outwalked the speed the car was moving.

"Okay, use a little gas…"

"Urrgh—uh—what?"

"Gas—little peddle—c'mon, it's okay, just a little bit…"

Tweek bit his lip, looking about as stressed as Craig had ever seen him—stressed, not panicked, it would be hard to beat that record. His bare foot made gentle contact with the smaller peddle, his toes flexed, and the engine gave a soft hum as they moved forward.

The street they had curved onto cleaved the cemetery in two. Craig easily read headstones as they crawled. Husbands and wives.

Rotting corpses.

Tweek sighed loudly—surprising Craig out of his counter-meditative efforts. More smoothly than he would've guessed Tweek could, he eased the car over to the side of the road.

"Craig...um…agh, I'm sorry, but you, uh…is…is that me—" his voice broke. He clutched the wheel, white knuckled, his forehead shoved forward, his breath shoving its way in and out of his mouth. "That's not me that's doing that, is it?"

Craig's face caught fire so fast it stung. "Oh—shit—I'm sorry, Tweek, I'm so fucking sorry—it's—it—"

"It's okay!" He almost screamed the two words, breaking the early morning silence. "It's alright! I mean, if it is or it isn't, I just want to—ergh—is it? Not that it really matters—I—"

What the…

Really?

"Uh…yeah." Let's see what happens. "It's you. S-sorry." He gave a breathy chuckle, not smiling.

"Oh…um…" Tweek's hands began to massage the wheel rhythmically. "Sorry, sorry, this is probably really weird…not—not, y'know, really serious, but…uh…I guess…how does it…does it feel good? Doing it like that…" He was really shaking—vibrating, really, which wasn't helping the situation—or hurting?

"Um…I guess I like it…"

"I'm just kinda wondering…"

"You…wanna try?"

Tweek gave a little barking noise, throwing his head forward—it hit the hard wheel with a sticky smack.

"If you want to…I mean, if you're really curious, I don't mind."

The mass of blonde hair before him shook for a while, silent, possibly seizing, before a nearly inaudible squeak came out of him—a yes.

They both sat, awkward, for nearly five seconds—an eternity in the confines of the car.

"We should get in back—there's not a lot of room up here."

Tweek lifted his head, moving at sonic speed without progressing more than an inch in any direction. "Yes! Okay! I'll get out!" He attacked the door handle—throwing his entire body into it—and, obviously, ended up on his side on the road.

Craig stared down, amused.

"I'm okay! Okay! The back—" Tweek scrambled to his feet, to the back door of the car, and inside. His head poked between the two front seats, looking grim and eager, waiting to be joined.

This is probably a dream, Craig's mind insisted. A wet dream. It's way too easy.

Shut up, mind.

--

climax

Kenny's tongue feels way too big to be human—too many muscles, too smooth, too thorough. The feeling of it trailing across his naval, his nose briefly probing into the dip of his belly button as he nuzzled into the pubes marking the slope of his groin into his cock, made him uncomfortably horny.

Just fucking do it—whatever you're going to do, I can't fucking stand this…

And then he did—in one solid motion, his chin bucking up then back down, he took Craig's member as far as he could into his mouth, his soft tonsils pressing, wet and warm, against the head, a drizzle of pre-cum sliding down the back of his throat.

It was so much better than Tweek, so, so, so much better—

Craig's fingers never felt so individual—ten, ten tiny pads, ten points of contact with Kenny's hot, tight skin, his firm back, a knotted scar, the cleft of his ass—

"S—slow down, I'm gonna—" He could barely breathe.

Kenny's hands squeezed into Craig's thighs, giving him permission.

His head—god, every joint in his body had some special talent—turned slightly to the side as Craig let his load into his mouth. Would Tweek let him do this? Could Tweek ever learn to make him cum so hard and fast?

He was cheating—physically and emotionally.

How did Butters ever leave the house?

Kenny licked a smudge of white from the corner of his mouth, way too cute, and started working his way back onto the couch, while pulling down his pants—how can he even do that without looking?

Their mouths met, wide open, fish mouths, transferring the salty taste between them, and suddenly Craig's pants were down around his knees, and Kenny was concentrating hard, staring down between their tangled legs to his goal.

He grabbed the clear bottle from the coffee table, titled it back into his mouth, and shoved the narrow neck between Craig's lips—a stinging slosh flooded his mouth, down his throat, making him cough. Kenny laughed at his reaction and set the bottle back down haphazardly.

Three fingers probed shallowly into his entrance—then the head. He only managed to touch before Craig grabbed a hold of his shoulder, grabbing his attention.

"Dude, dude, dude—lube."

"Huh?"

"Lube! You can't just ram that thing—"

"Oh…heh, uh, I guess Butters is a bit more…worn in than you…." The momentum was broken as he lifted away slightly, pulling his fingers free. "Wait, wait—" He came almost all the way apart from Craig, his torso twisting uncomfortably as he reached around to the drawer behind them, beside the arm of the couch.

He pulled completely free to turn toward it, digging through debris in the top drawer with both hands.

"Here." He held a palm-sized squeeze tube of lotion. "This okay?"

"Yeah." Whatever—get back over here, you can't get me all hot and leave me cold so suddenly.

"Okay, now shut up."

---

falling action

Craig can smell the inside of their house—it smells like coffee and dirty laundry and Lysol. He hadn't been gone all that long—less than a day—why is it so unfamiliar?

He barely has his shoes off (puts them on the doormat; they're wet,) before Tweek shuffles down the short hall from the bedroom, wearing a baggy white T-shirt, boxers, and socks, looking sickly.

"Hey sleepyhead. Did I wake you up?" Craig asks as he pulls off his jacket.

"You said you would call before you came home."

"I thought you'd be asleep, I didn't wanna wake you up. Were you asleep?"

He yawned as he shook his head; "I was trying to. Will you come lay with me?" His bottom lip slips out from beneath his top, showing the red wetness of the inside of his mouth.

"Sure." He was actually pretty tired himself; it was only around six, and he hadn't slept a lot the night before. Plus his ass was a little sore.

"Um--rgh…can we make pancakes really quick? I think it'll help me sleep." "Make pancakes" was the code word, referring to the third time they'd done so, after a night of doing so. That was a good night too—Tweek had tried to make pancakes, wearing some dumb apron. They nearly burned down the house.

Craig sighed. They walked, hip to hip, down the narrow hall, back to the tussled bed. "I'm kinda tired. If I meet you half-way, will that be enough?"

Tweek smiles, showing a tiny rind of teeth, as he climbs over the comforter, trying to straighten it out. "Thank you."

"No prob." Craig climbed in over him, on his knees, and lowered his head to do his duty as significant other.

end of part one.