Chapter Text
When the letter came in the mail, Tweek should have had the decency to throw the whole thing away before he even made it inside his apartment. A quick stop by the dumpster, literally on the way to his door, would have stopped the incessant itching he felt at the back of his head. Anxiousness.
He wiped his feet on the doormat, staring down at the gold calligraphy letters spaced apart so perfectly he might have believed it was printed rather than handwritten. Each letter curved so perfectly, looped with delicate, symmetrical intention.
Class Of ‘07
Pushing his door open, he made his way inside, tossing the envelope onto the table by his door along with his other collected mail; some coupons for the takeout restaurant two blocks over, a credit card application paper, and his phone bill. He sunk into the plush couch of his living room, holding a pillow to his lap and staring into the screen of the TV, its volume much too high. His neighbors had complained before. Despite knowing that he might receive another noise complaint from the apartment office, Tweek turned the volume up a few clicks to drown out the ringing in his ears. That itching feeling never left him, even after the paper was out of sight, out of his hands. He could still feel its presence, its watchful eyes staring into him despite the envelope being out of sight. And not actually having eyes.
“UGH!” He groaned to himself, tossing the pillow to the floor and stomping into his kitchen.
He dug through the cupboards, fishing out a box of vanilla cake mix. Baking was one of the only things that could take his mind off of whatever was going wrong in his life, the perfect cure to silence that incredibly frustrating ringing and itching feeling inside his head. He reached for a bowl, ripping open the clear plastic bag and dumping the contents of cake mix inside, adding in his milk, oil, and eggs, each new ingredient adding a layer of messiness to his counter. He would tidy up later. Tweek mixed in hasty succession, the whisk scraping against metal, small bits of batter landing on his shirt from the speed at which he moved his arm. With each stir, the noise in his ears lessened. With each scrape of the whisk, the itch at the back of his head ceased.
By the time the cake made its way into the oven, Tweek was calm. He sighed, wiping down the counter with a dish cloth, the lemon scented counter spray filling the kitchen along with the smell of sweet baked cake. The timer, set for twenty three minutes, was faintly ticking on the spice shelf. He began to whip up a batch of frosting, this process proving to be even messier than mixing the batter, powdered sugar forming small dust clouds around him, landing in his blonde tuft of a ponytail.
Tweek hummed along to the stirring of the stand mixer, watching as each individual ingredient merged into one thick white paste, sweet and fluffy. He swiped his finger along the edge of the bowl, making sure the frosting was just right before turning off the mixer.
When the timer rang off, he quickly silenced the blaring RINGGG and pulled out the cake with a grin, letting it cool on the counter tops, a nice golden yellow. The cake is perfect. Not just fully baked to perfection, but beautiful, its surface smooth and rounded, the color deep and warm. An old yellow, almost brown. Gold, he thinks, and the word settles pleasantly at first.
Then it lingers.
His eyes stay on it too long. The color feels familiar in a way he doesn’t like, in a way that presses in his brain instead of soothes. Not just gold, but an intentional, symmetrical, perfect gold.
Something tightens behind his eyes.
Tweek tries to tell himself it’s nothing, to shake that familiar tension away. Just cake. But his ears begin to ring, thin and distant, like a sound he’s already too late to stop. The itch creeps back at the base of his skull. The letters come to mind before the envelope and its contents do. Looping. Careful. That same old gold, laid down with confidence.
His chest draws inward. He hasn’t moved, but it feels like he’s already being pulled somewhere else, somewhere crowded with faces that know his name and expect him to answer to it.
He doesn’t want to go.
He leaves the kitchen, crashes his body into the couch and screams into a pillow, his fingers gripping the cushion so hard that his knuckles turn a pale white. He stands, pacing, trying to breathe and control his shaking hands, the previously gripped cushion discarded on the floor. His neighbors surely hear him, probably preparing themselves to make yet another noise complaint to the office. He stalls, holds his breath. Eventually, he goes quiet, eyes twitching every few seconds, teeth gritting to keep him from letting out anxious grunts.
He has to open that damn envelope or he won’t be able to sleep tonight. He can hardly exist in the same room as the paper, getting it opened, read, and discarded will calm him. Just get it over with. A quick scan across the paper and he can toss it in the garbage.
Tweek grabs the envelope, pacing the room while his feet shuffle along the shaggy beige carpet. He rips it open, calligraphy letters gleaming from the lamp light of his living room. Inside lies a single postcard invitation in glossy white paper, green confetti accents with gold lettering adorning the edges. Scanning the paper, he read each word in his head.
You’re Invited!
South Park High Class of 2007!
We hope this letter finds you well.
Please join us for our ten year high school reunion this Saturday at 7:00 p.m in the South Park Elementary Gymnasium.
An evening to reconnect, reminisce, and celebrate where time has taken us all.
Guests are welcome. Formal invitation enclosed.
We would love to see you there.
-Wendy Testaburger, Class President of ‘07
Tweek wanted to vomit. Despite knowing that he was expecting an invite in the mail, he couldn’t help but feel an indescribable feeling of doom. A room full of people he had not seen in over ten years, each with their own expectations of him and his goals. What did he really have to show off anyways? Most of his classmates had graduated college, been married, even had small children of their own, and what did Tweek have? A killer frosting recipe and a slightly better grip on his anxiety since grade school? That was hardly anything worth talking about.
Why even go to one of these things? He kept up with the people in his class perfectly fine through FaceBook and he knew exactly how each of them were doing, from a distance and without any expectation for long conversation. A simple like or two worded comment was enough for him, his choice for who he spoke to and interacted with. In person, it would be much different.
In person, he had no choice but to speak to whoever walked up to him, who sat at a table or made awkward conversation about the things going on. Tweek wasn’t sure if he was prepared for the pressure of that. It was all too much.
Tweek set the invitation back on the table, smoothing it flat with two fingers, smoothing out the crinkle left by his tight grip. The gold caught the light again, soft and patient. He told himself he didn’t have to decide tonight.
Or tomorrow.
Or ever.
But the thought didn’t settle the way he hoped it would. The letter had already done its work, had already pulled something loose inside him, something old and unfinished. He stood there longer than necessary, listening to his own breathing even out, knowing with a quiet, sinking certainty that this wasn’t the kind of thing that could be thrown away.