A/N: PLEASE READ!

OKAY SO this update is a long time in coming over here on FFN. Basically I was having some serious problems uploading this chapter for some reason, so in the end I gave up and carried on posting over on my AO3 account, where it's kiiind of exploded. It's likely I won't bother uploading regularly on here after this chapter unless people specifically ask me to, since some of the later chapters are getting pretty explicit now and I'm not sure how much I want to censor them down for FFN's standards/age ratings, but if people do want to read it here, then I'll keep on going. You'll have to let me know, though, if that's the case. ;)

...

Unresolved

9

...

He manages to go until the end of the day before he sees Craig. He's walking ahead of Tweek in the parking lot, clambering onto the coach next to Stan and Kenny. The other boy doesn't look around or see him, and Tweek takes this as his first break of the day.

Even though it's started snowing again, he diverts from route towards the bus and walks home instead.

Because South Park High is some way outside the town proper, it takes him over an hour to trudge back through the snow. He's soaked to his skin from wading up though the snow banks along the edges of the roads and plodding across open fields to get home and he's shivering so hard he thinks it's putting his nervous jitters to shame.

It's worth it though, he stubbornly reminds himself, half dragging himself up the stairs to his bedroom. Even if he's so unfit that it feels like the walk took five years off his life. At least he didn't have to interact with Craig.

As soon as he's shut the door he's shrugging out of his heavy jacket and stumbling out of his pants, which must have absorbed half the damn snow in the entirety of South Park. He's left in his scarf, his green checkered shirt and the same unattractively long type of boxer shorts he's worn every day since he was fifteen. (He doesn't ever take them off outside of the shower if he can help it.)

While rifling through a pile of clothes close to his bed, Tweek finds it: Craig's favourite chullo. Tweek gave it to him on his sixteenth birthday, and the other boy is rarely without it. There's a cold twist of pain in Tweek's gut as he scoops it up off the floor, running fingers that won't stay still over the blotchy, hand-knitted weave. Tweek had spent the better part of a month knitting the damn thing under the guidance and instruction of his mom, and had almost stabbed his eye out with the huge, hooked needles several times a day. But he'd managed to keep the gift a secret. (He thinks, with an aching chest, of how worried Craig had been every time he saw new bandaids on Tweek's fingers, and the way he'd clutched the finished hat to his chest and smiled one of the biggest smiles Tweek had ever seen on his face).

Heavy hearted, Tweek forgoes changing into anything else and clambers straight into bed. He takes the hat with him, pressing the fuzzy bobble on top to his lips and playing with the plaited chord at the end of one earflap.

The blonde recalls seeing it on the carpet on Friday evening, before heading out to the party. He can still feel Craig's fingers ghosting along his ribs, breath on his neck and quiet voice in his ear. It had been a good evening, before everything fell apart.

For a little while, he allows himself to forget his worries.

...

Monday night is almost as bad as the previous, though at around three in the morning, sleep deprived and heavy limbed, he ends up blacking out. His sleep is for once blessedly undisturbed, though he's jolted awake at just past six o'clock the next morning. Hunger pangs are clenching down around his empty stomach, so strong he's doubled over. He presses his flat of his sore palms against his abdomen until the worst subsides.

It takes him all of five seconds to scramble out of bed, throw on the first clean shirt and pair of jeans he can find, and trip his way down the stairs to the kitchen. He feels almost bad when his mom lights up so much at seeing him downstairs, herding him straight over to the table. He knows that she worries about him, even if she doesn't talk his ear off about it the way his dad does, but it's hard to remember that when he's in a bad spot. It's something he's always trying to work on.

The table is set as it is every day, with a freshly brewed pot of coffee in the center of the table, and various fruits, syrups and condiments laid out around it. (Mrs Tweak has always made a point of not serving cold breakfasts if she can help it, claiming that, "You might as well not eat at all if you're not going to eat properly, hon. If you're going to have breakfast in this house, it's going to be something that can keep you fuelled up all day.")

Taking huge gulps from a mug of coffee so black it seems to absorb light, he practically falls on the plate of pancakes and bacon that his mom sets in front of him, a loud groan muffled by his first, bulging mouthful.

"Y-you're the best," he says by way of thanks, between bites. His mom pats his shoulder briefly as he walks back towards the kitchen sink, humming a cheery tune.

As usual, it takes very little to fill him up – he just barely finishes a third pancake, generously soaked in syrup and butter. He allows himself to bask in the heaviness of his first meal since Friday, and is so relieved that he doesn't want to puke it straight up – that his stomach seems to be holding it down – that he's almost stopped frowning.

After the hassle of the yesterday morning, Tweek forgoes his takeaway cup and moves to reach straight for a metal flask, filling it to the brim with what's left in the cafetière on the table. He pops his plate into the bubble-filled sink and ducks away in horror as his mom leans over to give him a kiss on the cheek. She laughs at his scrunched up face and flicks the hand towel at his back as he darts back up the stairs.

His surprisingly relaxed mood continues up until he re-enters his bedroom.

Only upon stepping inside for his bag and his textbooks, does he spot the chullo poking out from underneath his pillow. He considers, as calmly as possible (which translates into pacing back and forth across the carpet and trying not to swear), what he ought to do with it. More than once, he makes to reach for his cell so he can send Craig a message about having found it, only to freeze halfway. Does he really need to let Craig know he has it right away? It wouldn't hurt to keep it a day or two longer, would it?

Besides, he doubts that the other boy wants to hear anything from him right now. Silence would probably be better. Kinder, even...

He slows to a halt, picking the woollen cap up and bringing it to his face. The smell of Craig's citrus shampoo permeats the fabric, and it soothes his tattered nerves, warm and familiar.

For a long moment he stands, fingers tight and eyes closed. Undecided.

Inevitably his conscience catches up to him, the memory of Craig's smile when he'd unwrapped it for the first time etched into the back of his eyelids, and he shoves it into the front pocket of his satchel.

Tweek snatches up the pile of relevant textbooks from his desk and slips into his trainers, his face drawn. He has no idea how he's gonna give it back, but that's a problem he can think about later.

(He doesn't, though. Even as he leaves the house, he's obsessing. Planning. Worrying.)

Scuffing the rubber sole of his shoe across the tarmac and chewing noisily at a loose bit of skin along the edge of his thumb (it's a sure sign that he's stressed when he reverts back to his kindergarten habit of chewing on his nails, but he can't help himself), he walks to the bus stop just outside of his house. Despite living on the same street as several other kids in his year, most people in his year at South Park High drive themselves to school these days, or at the very least carpool. Only a handful of seniors take the coach on a regular basis. So, like most days, the only other people at the stop are a handful of younger girls, huddled together and gossiping loudly about... Jesus, Tweek doesn't know. Or care.

All he does care about is the bus coming into view around the corner with its distinctively unhealthy rattle a few minutes late. As per usual the bus driver, Mr Clustervok, looks vaguely homicidal (and definitely a little high). Tweek twitches his way on board after the girls, holding his pass up for the driver to see and slinking down the aisle. He keeps his chin ducked and his eyes low, heart hammering against his ribs, until he gets to his usual seat (seventh row back, left side of the bus, window seat) and finds it...

Empty.

His hammering heart does a weird little flip at that, like its torn between unspeakable relief and a sinking disappointment.

Surreptitiously glancing around, the blonde spots Butters and Kenny are a few rows further back, talking animatedly about something in Kenny's bag. The group of girls settle in the very front of the bus, giggling the sort of high-pitched giggles that make him want to bash his head off the windows. Small clusters of students fill out the rest of the bus. Couples, holding hands and leaning heads on shoulders. Best friends teasing, whispering, laughing over inside jokes.

He realises very quickly that Craig isn't here. He doesn't need to be told it's because of their falling out, but the empty seat beside him is like a gaping hole. If he looks hard enough, he can see Craig sitting there, slouching back with his knees spread out and his head tilted in Tweek's direction. He can feel a hand patting his thigh when his knee starts jumping, and fingers pushing his hair back from his eyes when he dips his head too far forwards.

To alleviate the pressure of his overactive imagination, the blonde pulls out his headphones, popping them into his ears and blasting Cigarettes After Sex so loud his eardrums buzz. He pulls his legs up onto the seat in front of him, threads one hand into his hair, and brings his thumb back up to his mouth to chew. Greg Gonzalez' soft vocals and the relaxed beat help lull Tweek back down into some sort of normalcy. The empty space at his side doesn't miraculously fill itself in, but he at least isn't falling apart over it. Over something so dumb and small.

The whole ride to school, he's so busy trying to distract himself from his loneliness that he doesn't even once think to freak out about the structural integrity of the bus or the questionably murderous intent of their driver. (This, in itself, is a small miracle.) He remains quiet in his seat, rocking lightly against the styrofoam backrest, and stares blindly out the window.

When the coach screeches to a halt in the parking lot, he stumbles off in a daze, blood like treacle and music still blaring in his ears. He follows the back of Kenny's hood and Butter's bright blonde head around the maze of badly parked cars and up into the crowded corridors, cringing as several people swarming around him brush against his arms, or knock into his shoulders.

By the time he reaches homeroom, he's remembered Token's warning, thanks to several people turning to him with wide smiles and eager apologies upon hearing him freak out.

He and Craig are the most popular couple in school – have been since fourth grade – and he has no doubts that people will start noticing the fact they aren't hanging out together. It'll only be a matter of time before the entire school's abuzz with the news of their break up. Tweek doesn't know how he's going to deal with that. Being with Craig has been his safety blanket for so many years that having that comfort torn away makes him feel exposed. Naked.

(Even if it was his idea to end things.)

Loitering outside of the classroom door, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to work the courage up to peer around the doorframe. He doesn't notice anyone's waiting behind him to get into the room until, apparently fed up with waiting, they shove their way past. Having had no warning thanks to his music, the blonde presses himself up against the wall, screeching at being pushed.

Bill and Fosse continued past him, snarling something he can't hear, and Tweek's pulling himself together, face settling into a thunderous scowl—

when Craig passes by him.

For the first time since Saturday morning, Tweek meets blue-grey eyes.

His stomach does a funny little lurch. The other boy's steps falter – he thinks for a moment that he might stop, might acknowledge him in some way – but then Craig tears his eyes away, and the moment is over. He leaves Tweek pressed against the wall and walks inside. Not a single word. No expression on his face.

A short moment later, the blonde breathes out, long and slow, and forces his body to relax.

He follows Craig inside a few moments later, and wonders if he's just imagining eyes on his back, the way he pictured Craig beside him on the bus.

...

Surviving homeroom together settles Tweek's nerves enough that math and world history – both classes the boys share – aren't so daunting. They sit at opposite ends of the classroom anyway, thanks to their teachers separating them on seating plans for being a distraction to their classmates. This allows Tweek to keep his head bent low over his work and avoid anymore awkward eye contact.

At lunch break, he wanders the halls, picking listlessly at his sandwich (homemade, peanut butter and jelly, and infinitely better than yesterdays) and contemplating his existence.

(This is something that Tweek does a lot when he's left to his own devices, in between feeling anxious about the inevitability of his death and obsessing over the fate of humanity.)

It's while he's licking a smudge of jelly off the back of a knuckle that he remembers the chullo cap in his bag. He pauses, finger sucked into his mouth. The corridors around him are empty. This would be the perfect opportunity to sneak it back into the other boy's locker, returning it without Craig ever knowing any different.

Mind made up, he ignores the desperate part of him that wants to keep it for himself and picks up his pace, changing direction and slipping into one of the side halls. With every step that brings him closer to Craig's locker, his chest constricts a little tighter. His footsteps echo off the walls, seeming so much louder than moments ago, and he's vastly aware of every classroom doorway that he passes. The corridor the other boy's locker is in is one of the stretches with the least amount of footfall – towards the back of the school, near the boys locker room and the gym – so there's close to no chance of anyone seeing him here.

Unceremoniously stuffing his sandwich back into his satchel, he approaches the locker with more of a spring in his step than he's had for days. He can't believe he hadn't thought of doing it this way sooner. Sometimes he's such an idiot.

Tweek doesn't even have to pause to think, before scrolling through to the correct combination on the lock (it's Craig's old guinea pig, Stripe's, birthday – hardly difficult to guess, considering how he's used it for almost everything since they were kids). The locker swings open with a click and a high-pitched squeak that has the blonde wincing. He's so busy tugging the woollen hat out of his bag that, the door swinging wide, he doesn't notice at first. Only when he raises his head, cap in hand, does he see it.

Taped to the inside of Craig's locker is a picture. Just one, about the size of his palm.

In it are Craig and Tweek, aged around thirteen and holding a patchy, frail-looking Stripe up for the camera as he chews on a carrot stick. Both boys are smiling, Craig's braces poking out from behind his lips and Tweek's cheeks sunburnt. There's a window behind them and the summer sun shines down into the shot, lighting their hair – short, straight and black next to wild, frizzy blonde – up like halos.

There's a pang in Tweek's gut as he peers at the scruffy-edged photograph, thinking back to days spent building pillow fortes and reading comics under the covers after lights out. To toasting marshmallows over the hob and sneaking beers out of the fridge. To talking about their celebrity crushes, and slipping in through the back of the movie theatre to watch R-rated movies. Riding their bikes out into the woods on the edge of town in the evenings, just to watch the sun setting across the skyline. Making a 'time capsule' to bury in Tweek's backyard. Drinking so much coffee that they couldn't sleep for two nights straight, Craig ending up violently sick. Playing piano and guitar together and singing made up songs at the top of their lungs. Tweek snapping a ballpoint pen in a fit of pique and splatting blue ink everywhere. (They'd both laughed so hard they couldn't breathe; Craig had rolled off the edge of the bed, limbs flailing and face bright pink.)

That... that was undoubtedly the best summer of Tweek's life so far. Nothing was complicated, back then.

Chest aching, he reaches a trembling finger out to trace the edge of the picture—

"What are you doing?"

He screams. Drops the hat like it's burned his fingers and lurches away. (Jesus Christ, what is it with people scaring him all the damn time?)

Craig's several feet away, watching Tweek with a blank face.

Gulping, Tweek tugs at his bangs and then the loop in his scarf, eyes darting over everything but Craig. "Aurgh, just— just putting your – NNG – hat back, dude. F-found it.. in my room..." His voice trails off, lost in the cavernous stretch of the corridor. His back is to the lockers, and his shoulders are up around his ears.

The other boy steps forwards, slow and steady, and leans down at Tweek's feet. Unable to help himself, his gaze finally settles on Craig, watching the way long fingers pluck the hat off the ground.

Straightening up brings them only a foot or so away, and Tweek is frozen. The taller boy brushes a bit of dust off of one of the flaps and turns to put it up on the top shelf of his locker, retrieving a book while he's in there. His eyes are dull, the stubble on his jaw stark against his too-pale skin.

Token was right. It's only been a few days, but... Craig doesn't look well.

"Are you eating?" Tweek blurts out the words before he can stop himself, and slaps a hand over his mouth. Goddamn it, now he sounds like a fucking creep.

Craig must think so too, because he turns slowly, brow furrowed. "What?"

"N-nothing." He tugs again at his scarf, loosening it so that he can breathe. Craig's eyes dip to follow the movements, and the momentary break in eye contact gives Tweek's dumb mouth the perfect opportunity to keep on blabbing. "It's just, you look – uurk – kinda shitty. Not like shitty's bad but mmn." He makes a sound of distress. Hides his burning face behind his hands as prays that he'll stop. (He doesn't. His brain seems to be short-circuiting.) "Actually, the zombie look – oh Jesus – kinda re-really suits you, dude, even though vampire would be better. Not Twilight vampire. I mean like, Interview with the Vampire or— or Bram Stoker-esque and hhrn I can't shut up, I'm so fucking s-sorry. Urgh please man, stop me, just put me out of my misery-"

"Tweek."

The blonde's mouth closes with an audible click. He remains behind his hands, breathing hard and pressing the bandaged heels of his palms to his eyes to relieve the sting there.

"Look at me."

Against his will, his hands drop – clenching and unclenching – to his sides.

When he still fails to meet Craig's gaze, he repeats himself. "Look at me, dude."

Finally, through blurring eyes, he does. He hears Craig sigh, watches as the boy runs a hand through his hair. All the words that were pouring out of his mouth like verbal diarrhea only a second ago are lodged into a solid lump in the back of his throat.

"You were right. This isn't going to work if you don't give me some time to adjust."

"Hunh?" The sound is choked up.

"You want me to be fine with all of this, with everything that happened, and you don't want to talk or give me any kind of proper explanation—" he holds one hand up to stop Tweek from interrupting. "And it's cool, dude, I get it... or I'm trying to. I just need some time too, okay? Like you do. But that doesn't mean you have to tiptoe round and avoid everyone, yeah?"

Craig's voice isn't angry or sharp; it's just tired. (It hurts worse than Craig being angry would have. This Craig seems distant, shut off in a way that Tweek isn't used to. He's all walls where before he was open doors.)

The blonde clears his throat – ignores the burn in his eyes. "Eurnngh. Yeah, dude, sure. O-okay." He pushes himself away from the locker, standing straight.

"We cool?" Craig asks.

No, thinks Tweek. No, we're not.

"Yeah," he says instead. Forces a smile that hurts. "Why wouldn't we be?"

"Hn." He's getting so sick of hearing Craig sigh, but he stands there and listens anyway because at least this way they're next to each other, even just briefly.

"Well, look... I'm— I'm just gonna go. Over there." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "This is great- this's been real – erk – good. Good catch up. Hnng."

He's turning to go, but Craig calls out to him one more time. "You might wanna pull your scarf back up, dude. Or people'll see."

Tweek pauses. Looks over, face scrunched up in confusion until Craig taps his fingers against the side of his throat, one corner of his mouth kicking up in a stilted smile.

The flood of heat to his head makes him dizzy, and he's not sure if it's from the small grin or the fact that the other boy acknowledged the marks. "Oh, God, oh jeez," he mutters, tugging at the offending item of clothing until it's tight enough around his neck to strangle him.

The last thing Craig says before he can flee is, "And don't worry, dude, I won't say anything. I'll keep the break up quiet on my end."

...

It's only when he's lying in his bed that night that he realises he hadn't had to say a word to Craig about his worries at all. The other boy had just known.

...