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Trying not to cry was the hardest part.
His back firmly planted against the stall door—a feeble attempt to shut the world out—Tweek tucked his knees up to his chest in a mock effort to make himself feel better. A wet paper towel hung loosely between his lean fingers, dabbling gingerly at the open wound throbbing pain along his lower lip.
He hadn't even looked at his reflection yet—too scared, too weak to do anything but hide away in an enclosed space. The cotton balls of bliss had been extracted from his brain by the cruel hand of reality, he knew now that he was, and always would be, pathetic.
He had thought—like an idiot—that the bullying had come to an end. All the torment, and jibes, and backhanded insults had ceased to cross his path, had ceased to bother him. He knew better now—he knew that he would never really get away from the lonely freak that he had been known as. He was a fool to think otherwise, he was an idiot to believe that he could be something more than nothing.
Tweek hated it—and it made him hate himself.
He had become accustomed to hiding in the shadow of Craig; being with Craig meant making new and interesting friends—a feat he had been incapable of accomplishing before—it meant letting himself open up to the others around him and relaxing. It wasn't easy at first, but Craig had encouraged him—inspired him—to unwind and carry his own air of calm. He wasn't as paranoid when he was with his boyfriend, because he knew that Craig wouldn't let anything bad happen to him, he knew that he could trust Craig just as Craig trusted him.
What a fool he had been. He didn't deserve trust—he didn't deserve love.
He wanted nothing more than to curl up into an infinitesimal ball and cease to exist. He wasn't completely delusional, he knew that he wasn't fooling anybody. He was weak. He was nobody.
He was—
The door to the bathroom was pushed open, a gust of air rattled the stillness he had been stewing in.
His neck jerked as he lifted his head, listening to the footsteps drawing closer, and closer into the bathroom. They stopped after a moment, silence once again filling the empty space. Tweek ignored them—he ignored it all in favour of aimlessly poking his wound with the damp towel.
"Tweek?"
He stiffened at the intimate voice calling through the passivity of the atmosphere. How had Craig managed to find him? He had been sure to avoid Craig and spare him the nuisance that was Tweek Tweak. He wanted to get away from Craig—he wanted Craig to realise that he just wasn't worth it, not anymore.
"Are you in here?"
He knew that no matter how much he tried to ignore and evade Craig, it was ultimately pointless. The irony was a bitter one; he wanted to curl up into Craig's chest and shy away from the world, but he longed to be alone.
What kind of freak was he? He didn't even know what he wanted—it was almost like he was punishing himself for... for what? Tweek didn't know, all he knew was that he probably deserved it.
Something—someone—always had to come and kick him down even further into the hole of misery and self-pity. This time it was in the form of the new kid getting a bit too friendly with his fists, but he knew that next time it would be someone else, and then someone else after that, and then another person after that—until he could no longer keep track, too many faceless people making him feel that little bit worse.
He was scared of falling, falling down even further than where he was now. What happened at the end? What would be his breaking point? The thought scared him—he didn't like it.
A small, helpless whine left his throat, his tears spilling into his parted mouth. He realised his mistake too late; he swallowed down the rest of his noises and kept his lips taut in a firm line. He was suppose to remain silent, be invisible, but he couldn't even do that right.
The footfalls picked up again, coming to a stop right outside his stall door. "Tweekers?"
Craig's voice was soft, appallingly so. He couldn't... he wouldn't keep up this lie anymore. He was a freak—a certified basket case. He didn't understand why Craig was so patient with him, and he couldn't wrap his head around the fact that Craig was actually willing to go out with him—unashamed and undisturbed by each of Tweeks many flaws.
Craig was either crazy, or blind.
Both options seemed farfetched in his mind; Craig was everything he wasn't: Tall (taller than most of the other students), popular (Tweek couldn't deny the appreciative glances Craig would receive from many wondering eyes), considerably handsome (if you were into that type—which Tweek was, immensely so), cool (Craig had an aura around him that exuded natural confidence and a desirable countenance of nonchalance), and at last, but not least, he wasn't Tweek.
He wasn't weird, he had no quirks that made people look twice and give odd glances—unlike Tweek.
Tweek frowned—the open skin pulling agony out of his glistening wound—but didn't reply. Tweek knew that it was only a matter of time before Craig gave up and discerned that Tweek wasn't worth his time—and Tweek... Tweek couldn't bare to watch that. He was far safer in this dimly lit stall, at a distance from the hurt.
"The new kid won't be bothering you again,"
Tweek envisioned Craig standing there before the door, hands with bruised knuckles buried in the pockets of his hoodie, a line of blood dancing across his brow as he stared intently at the bleak material where Tweek should have been. Craig sounded indifferent at the fate of the new kid, but Tweek picked up the subtle hints of venom seeping into Craig's tone.
He was mad, beating-the-shit-out-of-somebody mad. Tweek was surprised; it took a lot to get Craig worked up enough that he would start—and finish—a fight, but it was as clear as day to Tweek that Craig carried ire against the new kid, against the one who had hurt Tweek.
The best way to get to Craig was through Tweek—everybody knew that. So why didn't he?
Tweek didn't know what to think; his lip was pulsating with the sharp ache of hurt, his eyes were still watery and sore and dry all at the same time. He didn't want to feel anymore—he felt overcome by the tingling nag of numbness, the same emptiness that shielded him from the overwhelming array of emotions. He felt like his brain had been wrung out by the brutal palm of life and left out to dry in the scorching heat of summer.
His breathing became ragged, it was getting harder and harder to draw in breath.
"Tweek," Came a gentle, whispered voice.
Craig's voice.
"Could you open the door for me?"
Tweek wanted to, desperately wanted to, but his hand paused over the lock, hesitancy consuming his decision. His chest rattled with upset, his wound set ablaze by the salty warmth dripping down his face.
He knew what he wanted—he wanted Craig.
Craig hesitated for a moment, before adding.
"...Please?"
The door glided open, tufts of messy blonde hair contrasting pointedly with the shadows draped over his face. The darkness did little to conceal his flaws from Craig: His split lip, his tears, his twitches—all were laid bare in front of the other boy.
His fingers were blotched with white, the warmth of blood retreating as his hand tightly clutched the door. His legs were unsteady beneath him, his heart hammering against his ribcage—he was still jittery, on edge. The concern painted in the furrow of his boyfriend's brow didn't help to calm his nerves.
Tweek felt... embarrassed, and ashamed, but he was also confused. Confused as to why Craig was still here, as to why Craig still cared.
Tweek could see Craig pause for a brief moment—perhaps he didn't want to push his luck, Tweek was a proven flight risk after all—and faintly jumped at the cold fingers coiling around his slender wrist. He hadn't realised how cold the bathroom was; it was wintertime, the windows were already kissed with the light touches of frost.
Tweek blinked at Craig steadily, Craig blinked back with his own sound composure. Was he—asking for permission? Tweek wasn't sure; Craig's affections were casual, never unwanted or uncomfortable. Tweek never felt like Craig had to ask for his permission, because he never needed to. Tweek knew that he was clingy and needy and anxious; when he was upset he would always search out Craig and rant about his troubles, his boyfriend reciprocating by tucking him into his chest and resting his chin atop his wild blonde locks.
Did he really look that bad? That shaken? Is this what healthy relationships felt like? To be loved unconditionally?
Tears welled up in his sky-blue eyes once more. He took a shaky step forward, and let himself collapse against his boyfriends chest, burying his head into the soft material of Craig's navy hoodie. It smelt like cigarettes and hay.
Perfect.
In an instant, two arms wrapped around his back and pulled him closer into the broad chest. It was warm here—Tweek melted into the touch, letting the gentle fingers running through his hair soothe him.
"What did that fucker do to you?"
The question came as a mumble from above, barely audible to his ears. A faint moan of content bubbled to his throat—he didn't care, as long as those fingers didn't stop.
Tweek was safe, here, tucked in his boyfriend's chest where the outside world couldn't get to him.