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There was no clock in his room, and the one in the kitchen hadn't been working for years, but Tweek could hear each passing second as he laid alone in the darkness. Maybe it was that one twig that always insisted on scratching his window when he felt like this, or maybe it was his mind playing tricks again. Most probably the latter.
He felt his heart thumping against his chest. For a moment, maybe, he thought that it could be the source of the sound, but no, his heartbeat is way faster than just one beat per second. What was it then? Steps of his mother walking around? His father going outside? The breath of a monster he can’t see? He turned on the lights and looked everywhere. There were no killers, no spirits wanting to kidnap him, no one; he was alone. God, who can bear being in the dark like this? Most kids can! (but he can’t.)
He was sweaty, but he didn’t feel hot, quite the opposite actually. He looked around his room again for security, then outside the window and it was snowing. Does snow make sound? Somehow, the outside looked warmer than his house.
His phone had almost no battery from being used time and time again during the night. Trapped in a vicious cycle of a little boy who tried to sleep, gave up and scrolled mindlessly through old messages, then tried to sleep again only to repeat the whole process again in a matter of a few minutes.
This is why your cell phones don’t last. You’re not supposed to let them go under 20% because of those lithium batteries, but instead you always have it on the brink of turning off.
You are not getting another one if it breaks.
But he wanted it to break, maybe that way he would go to sleep more easily. He felt his fingers hurt as he pressed the screen with force. Wasteful, it would be wasteful. He locked it and started hearing the seconds again.
He wanted to cry and actually felt his throat closing up in anticipation, but why would he do that? Because of some noise? Nothing was actually wrong, so there is no reason to cry. He didn’t want to cry, did he?, so he didn’t.
He wants coffee.
He needs coffee.
He doesn’t like needing it.
He jumped out of bed and walked out of his room, carefully illuminating the path with his phone in one hand and his plush dinosaur in the other. Why does he still cling to a stuffed animal? He doesn’t know, but unlike his phone, he can’t bring himself to want to hurt him (hurt it*).
He feels like a little kid again as he walks through the hall. He toyed with one of the doors, the only other door apart from the one he walked out of, his parents’ room. To his surprise it was locked, as always.
He sat on the floor, with his back and weight towards the door and grabbed his dinosaur close to his chest as scrolled mindlessly through old messages.
New messages.
Craig’s messages.
He wanted to call him, be with him. But he wasn’t selfish, nor stupid. He knew at some point it becomes annoying hearing the spaz of town ramble about anything and nothing, he had been told before, he is annoying. Some people would be merciful enough to tell him directly instead of giving him pity looks.
He pushed his back harder against the door without realizing it.
But not Craig. Fuck Craig, because he was too good to do so. He doesn’t even scream at him anymore, he doesn’t look at him with hate, annoyment, nothing. He lets him ramble, honey him up with a few words. They were forced to be together, of course Craig had to accommodate to the situation. But everyone has a breaking point.
His back hurt, but he pressed himself harder.
What if next time he says anything, Craig leaves for good? What if then? Craig would be free from this, from him. He wouldn’t have to deal with his outbursts and thoughts and noises and he would be so happy.
But then Tweek would be alone, and because he is in fact fucking selfish , so he is not going to be the one to cut the rope. He can’t, he won’t.
His head hurts from the pressure.
He feels the gaze of his plush onto him and he feels even more vulnerable. There is water in the things’ eyes and he tries to wipe it off, but it doesn’t work. So he kisses his forehead and hugs him tighter. (It it it it**). It smells like lavender.
He feels his body spasm. And he swears he sees the shadow of a gnome moving so small and nonchalantly, ignoring the boy's existence but frightening him anyway. He tries to tell himself again and again that everything is okay, but it doesn’t work, it never does. His mind is racing against his heart on who can make up scenarios, who can beat faster, who can make him go crazy the quickest, and there is so much of everything as he hears how each second passes.
He needs coffee, please.
Please.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.
He didn't know when it all turned into the sound of sheets rustling. Neither he felt the pain intensifying in his head from hitting and slamming his head against the door. Until it opened.
He screamed as his dad aimed a gun at his head.
“Oh. It is just you, son.” He didn’t even give him an excuse, didn’t stop pointing that gun.
But he didn’t care, because the door was open now. He stood up slowly and composed himself.
From inside the room, his mother responded. “Tweek, we need to rest. We have to work tomorrow.”
And he heard in the tone of her voice, saw it in the details of his father's eyes. Understood as his father grabbed his arm with force. He dragged him through the hall faster than he could walk and pushed him inside his room. Once he let go of his arm he fell down, so he immediately manhandled him again by grabbing his sides to force him to stand up.
Tweek’s eyes burned as he saw for a second the blood returning to his father's knuckles, then he looked down in embarrassment.
“Now, don’t be dramatic.”
His plush was on the floor, perfectly fine. But for some reason, he couldn’t stop himself anymore.
“No, come on. Don’t cry. Stop crying.
Your mother is trying to rest. Stop.
You want to make a scene?
Stop.”
He feels so little as he chokes on his own spit and boogers as he tries to obey his father's orders. But he can’t. He can’t stop crying or looking at the plush.
“STOP OR I WILL GIVE YOU A REAL REASON TO CRY FOR!”
He immediately grabbed his own hand and bit it. The crying didn’t stop for a while, but it was muffled now at least. His father kept looking at him, waiting.
“Sorry,” Tweek murmured.
His father, satisfied, smiled at his son and ruffled his hair, ignoring the way he flinched and yelped when one of his fingers got stuck in it. “Just keep it down,” he said, before turning off the lights and closing the door.
Who can bear being in the dark like this?
Once the steps of his father subsided, he heard it again. Seconds passing, like a ticking sound.
He steps on his plush as he leaves, his phone out of battery forgotten somewhere in the hall. He runs to the kitchen in the darkness; his arm and hand hurt.
He runs and the clock doesn’t work.
He can hear the seconds pass and the clock doesn’t work.
Why doesn't it work? How long has it been like this?
Why do they even keep it around if it’s so, so broken?
He doesn’t understand.
He brews himself a whole jar of dark black coffee. Finally.
And he feels content for a second, because the blue cup he chose fits nicely in his hand and it is warm. So warm it burns and hurts his throat as he chugs the liquid down, but he doesn’t let go of it even for a second. Because this is what is supposed to fix him.
Subtle and mild. Mild like that first splash of sun on an April Morning. This coffee is coffee the way it should be…
He drinks another cup.
And another.
And another.
The seconds keep getting louder and louder.
Faster and faster.
He didn't know when it all turned into a buzzing in his ear, or when he stepped outside.
"...Tweek?"
Or how he ended up at Craig's house.
The boy's voice was raspy and lower than usual. He didn't need to look at him to know he was probably exhausted , in general and because of this stupid ritual they kept going on. Nonetheless he heard him muffling some stuff and the bedside lamp illuminated the room. Tired eyes met crazy, fully awake ones.
"Sorry."
"You okay?"
It was part of the routine whenever he did this, except he didn’t feel like screaming and shouting about things that don’t make sense , he just couldn't sleep. Nothing really happened to justify being here, nothing. He didn’t even know why or how or he got here but he wanted out, to leave. But before he could take the first step to do so, Craig touched him so gently in the arm, above his shirt. And It hurt, but he held still.
"Your clothes are soaked, honey."
Craig let go of his arm and stepped out of bed. The headache he felt, the way his body felt like it was on fire even though he was shaking intensified out of pure guilt, because he knew what was coming next. Lavender.
He didn't know exactly when this started being part of their sleepover routine, he would just forget his pajamas a lot when he was younger and one day it became the solution. Craig would ask to take Tweek's day clothes to the basement with the promise to wash them in the morning, and lend him some of his own garments to use. So as Craig disappeared with Tweek’s clothes in tow, Tweek fidgeted in the quiet room, tracing patterns on the edge of the bed.
Everything Craig washed, he did with lavender soap.
Once back, Craig was looking at him with a look he couldn’t decipher. Like, if he was looking at a puzzle instead of a person. He stayed in the middle of the room for a few seconds, like processing something. He got close as he got in bed beside him.
“You could’ve called me.”
“I know.”
“You feel warm.”
He just hummed in agreement as a response. Because, what else was he supposed to answer anyway? He didn’t know.
Craig gave him that look again. “But you are shaking.”
And this time he chose to not answer at all. After a while the lamp was turned off. And it wasn’t scary for Tweek to see Craig’s outline start to get even closer; their shadows merged into only one shape as they held each other.
“Just… make sure it’s not snowing next time you do this. I don’t want you to get sick.”
“Okay.”
As if they didn’t knew he already was.
There was no clock in Craig's room, but Tweek could hear each passing second...