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Oh My God, They Were Cellmates

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How did he get here? It happened fast. Too damn fast. One minute, he’d been absently chatting up his dealer as the dude counted out the money he’d shoved at him. The guy turned, rifled though his supplies, filled a little baggie with white crystalline powder, weighed it, emptied, filled, emptied, filled, before nodding at the number. Tweek liked him--he actually made sure to give exactly as much as the customer(customer being a casual way of putting it) paid for. Many dealers just toss a little bag your way that doesn’t have enough for what you paid, but you can’t argue with these types, they’ll cut you off, and maybe they’ll tell the other dealers that you’re a problem, and suddenly you’re stranded without your fix and--

Tweek screeches, yanking at his hair and slamming his head against the latticed metal separating the back from the front of the car. An officer with an unmemorable face, he’s nice, at least Tweek thought so, jumped and swore under his breath. What’s his name, again? Is it Clyde? “Relax, kid.” he grunts as his partner behind the wheel mutters something scornfully. Oh God. He made them mad. They’re gonna pull over and beat the shit out of him so he’s more docile, and he’s not even at wherever they’re going, and he really doesn’t like being hit because when people hit him he lashes out without thinking, which gets him in more trouble, which--

Tweek gives a defeated moan, curling in on himself, and yelping when they hit a pothole, feeling his hair brush against the ceiling. Seat belts are dangerous. If you get in a wreck, they’re not even guaranteed to save your life, numbers or not, Tweek doesn’t want a broken collarbone, or worse, he’s heard you can crack your ilia if the impact is hard enough, and the pelvis is a bitch to heal, it’d be much better to just die on impact, but what if the wreck isn’t bad enough, and what if he ends up alive, bleeding out, and the cops already hate him, so they’ll laugh at him while he dies slowly on these shitty stained seats, agonized and afraid--

There’s blood on his fingertips. Okay, fresh blood, is what startles him. He wipes the back of his hand(mostly clean) against his cheek. Yep, that’s blood. Fucking shit. He gingerly touches the partially opened scab on his face, before tearing the dried clot free. If it snags, it could take healthy skin, and maybe muscle will be exposed, and the scar will be even bigger than the others, and it might get infected, which could lead to gangrene--

Tweek starts desperately asking about antibiotic ointment, because he fucked up, and hands are actually really dirty now that he thinks about it, and he’ll definitely lose half of his face to a flesh-rotting infection now. The officer behind the wheel thumps the metal divider, and Tweek screams. His partner, pretty sure it’s Clyde, scolds him, and says something about patching him up once they get to the station. Station? Oh yeah. Police car. Wait. SHIT. He’s going to jail! He can’t go to jail! Jail is for dangerous people, and Tweek can’t handle that kind of stress! They’ll beat him up and shove things up his ass, and he’ll probably die in the first week but no one will care because he’ll be in jail, and people in jail don’t exist to the rest of society anymore, and oh God, his parents--

“Hey, hey, kid, tone it down, we’re almost there.” the nice man, Officer Clyde, says. This only scares Tweek more, he begins thumping the inside the the passenger door to his left, sputtering words mindlessly at such a speed he couldn’t even understand them himself. “God dammit, fucking hate the junkies.” the mean officer mutters. Tweek freezes, and slowly settles back into his seat, gripping the leather with white knuckles. He doesn’t want to die. That guy sounds like he wants to kill him, and he doesn’t want to die. Not here. Not now. Not ever. The world becomes a mess of white noise and colors that are too bright, coming in and out of focus. Tweek can distantly hear his own breathing over the pulse thudding away in his ears--he’s hyperventilating and clenching his jaw so hard it hurts.

Suddenly the car stops, and the door closest to him opens. He jerks his hands up to shield his face, flinching at the dig of metal cuffs on his wrists. Why is he wearing cuffs? Aren’t cuffs for dangerous people? “Easy, kid, we’re just gonna take a little walk and figure this out.” Tweek nods, focusing on the gentle voice addressing him. It’s officer Clyde. He doesn’t sound like he wants to kill him. He can trust him. For now. Hopefully. He’s standing, shaking so hard his muscles ache, and there’s a hand on his shoulder, warm and grounding. Why is it so dark? Tweek looks up. The polluted night sky looks down at him. He could have sworn it was 6:26, four minutes before his scheduled time to meet his dealer and--

Doors swing open, and he freezes. Everyone is staring. And this isn’t just paranoia--everyone is blatantly staring. At him. Jesus Christ. Why?! Why is everyone staring?! And then they’re walking down a hall, away from the staring people, and he’s in a cell, with the door rattling shut behind him. It’s not like a cell in the tv shows. Smaller, with only a toilet and a bed. Tweek remembers this is the station, not jail. There’s something about looking at his files, someone actually says his name, and he’s alone.

He’s alone. In a cage. And he’s still really high. Really fucked up. Tweek begins pacing aggressively, chewing at the skin around a fingernail until he tastes blood, and moves on to the next finger. How did this happen? He’d been at the meeting place with his dealer, giving him a fistful of cash, staring hungrily at the bag being measured out, snatching it up, running to his car… He’d just gotten paid that day, last week’s pay went towards paying for damages on the apartment he’d been kicked out of, so it’d been a week since properly getting his fix, three days since he got high at all. Withdrawals had fucking sucked. He had his speed, and he couldn’t wait. A lit pipe and a few greedy drags in, he has a genius idea, which seems perfect in that haze between sober and properly spracked out. He only has his car now, yeah? So he’s gotta save gas. There’s still a lot of money in his wallet, maybe if he runs back in, he can get some more in case the dealer gets busy, and there’s no risk of running out before his next paycheck. Yes. Genius. At least, that was what Tweek remembers thinking before everything becomes a hellish blur.

He’s jogging after the man, who’s packing up and leaving, calling out for him to wait, wait, please! The man, whose face always seemed covered one way or another, regardless of where they met, turns, but there’s a weird look there. This is where the memory becomes distorted. Was he mad? Surprised? Something was there, and as the high set in, his expression started to look dangerous. But Tweek was desperate. He vaguely remembers babbling something about needing extra in case, and the dude nods, reaching into his bag. Wait! Reaching in before he even set it down?! He always sets the bag down! Which means this is going to be a quick exchange, and quick exchanges can only mean one thing! He’s going to shoot him! Tweek remembers screeching at him to stop, to wait. The man just looks at him. “Look man, I can tell you’re already pretty high, and I have places to be. It’ll be quick, just let me work.” Just let me work. There’s a finality in his words.

Tweek remembers sprinting at him then, and there was something in his hand--cold, heavy, roughly textured. Did he pick it up without realizing it? Or did he have it to begin with? The man’s eyes, barely visible behind his sunglasses, widen, and he starts to back away, searching in his bag more desperately. “What are you-” The last memory he doesn’t have his doubts about is the sound that follows. A strange whack, almost metallic and echoing, overlapping the sound of a meaty crunch.

After that it’s just chaos. An abrupt scream before there’s muscles straining in his arm, and a thump, and there’s silence. Something is reaching for him, it seems close, and he screeches in return, swinging again, and two more times until the arm thuds to the pavement. Suddenly there’s this horrible gurgling, choking noise, and spasming, and shit! He’s dying! But it’s not a fast death, if someone shows up, they could save him, and he could point a finger at Tweek, and every dealer in Colorado would know him as the psycho that beat his dealer half to death, and he’d be fresh out of speed. Fuck. That. He’s gotta die, Tweek doesn’t want to, but he’s gotta. He brings the metal thing in his hands, it was probably a pipe, down on the man’s skull, again and again. There’s red, so much red, and he vaguely realizes that there had been warmth hitting his face. Blood. Which has dried onto his cheeks and forehead, and stains his hands and shirt. The spasming had stopped as some point, but he was still swinging. And screaming. He’d been screaming. As he swung, animalistic noises of terror ripped themselves from his throat. Something thinner than blood drips from his chin, and there’s the revelation that he’d been crying as he carried out this deed, tears leaving rusty trails in their wake.

He drops the pipe, and suddenly feels weak. Backing away, tangling bloodied fingers into his hair, and breathing heavily. There’s a sickness in his gut, so much worse than anything he’s felt while spun out, and the image being burned into his brain isn’t helping. The world is coming in and out of focus, and that unreal sensation of an anxiety attack during one of his highs leaves him frozen in place. His heartbeat roars at a pace where he could hardly keep up and count the beats, the pulsing in his ears deafening. His body decides to start up a mutiny, and he’s trembling so bad it hurts, his irises spasming, pupils contracting and dilating, contracting and dilating. His lungs are burning as he desperately tears oxygen into them, breathing too fast to do anything helpful. The sound of sirens drags him out of his own head.

He can’t hear what they’re saying, even though they’re surrounding him. Tweek whimpers, and drops to his knees, hands on his head as he chokes out sobs. And then he was in the police car, in the back seat which is a cage, with the nice officer, Clyde, the one who told everyone not to touch him, telling him to breathe. It’s all such a blur, and he can’t remember how much of it is real. Now he’s here. He sits heavily on the bunk, a steel frame holding a thin mattress, staring at his cuffed hands.

Blood. Dried blood leaving his fingers a rusty brown and dotting the backs of his hands, reaching up to his wrists. If he’d only been hitting him with the pipe, why are his hands so bloody? Mostly the palms, but it’s still a lot of blood. He jumps as an officer addresses him from the other side of the bars. “Tweek Tweak?” Tweek swallows and nods. “We need to conduct some tests and patch you up, c’mon.” the woman’s voice is strained, as if looking at him upsets her. He stumbles to his feet, head spinning with both stress and the dwindling influence of whatever amount of the pipe he’d managed to smoke in less than five minutes. They’re in the hall, and there are other people around him, with batons, eyeing him warily. He shrinks down, and stares at his shoes as they walk. He’s sitting, and asks the time. 1:33 am. More than seven hours since he met his dealer. He’d start crashing hard in the next hour or so.

Blood tests, urine tests, checking his eyes, his pulse, cleaning up most of the blood and putting bandages on his scab-ridden face, asking him questions, and once they’re done, he’s back in the holding cell, just about completely sober.

Sober is bad. He starts twitching and making noises of discontentment, little yelps and groans. At least when he’s high, twitches usually come as grandiose hand gestures, and he’s not in the state of mind to really care, usually. If people look at him weird, he can wander off and do whatever shenanigans come to mind when he’s high as a kite. But here, he’s trapped, and he’s sobering up quick. Usually being sober is a nuisance, a time of impatience and discomfort while he waits to get his next fix, waiting exactly six hours before so much as coming near his next dose. He doesn’t want to OD and end up in a morgue. Waiting makes it safer.

But now he’s stuck, and it’s starting to dawn on him that he’s probably never going to get his next dose. God, his head is starting to hurt. He starts drumming his feet on the ground, trying to take his mind off of the anxiety rapidly growing in the pit of his stomach. This state of hyper awareness is agony. The people that pass are staring, and he can’t get away. His twitches get worse, and the staring is accompanied by a variety of expressions. Disgust, sadness, wariness. They all hate him for existing. He brings his fingers to his mouth, to chew at the skin around his nails, and realizes they put bandaids on all of his fingertips. Tweek gives a frustrated screech, and the guard outside his cell jumps and swears loudly.

With sobriety comes the emotions that are suppressed during his highs, and given his situation, they are especially horrible now. Confusion, shame, grief, and above all, fear. There is no thin veil of confidence provided by the stimulant he smoked, only raw fear. And the terror isn’t just directed at the world anymore, some of it is pointed at himself. What did he do? What the fuck did he do?! Surely he didn’t actually kill anyone! Tweek grabs at his hair again, hyperventilating through his teeth and spasming. He sits there, mind roiling with foggy memories and paranoias for so long that the guard on shift had switched three times. They bring him food, but he isn’t hungry. They bring him water, and he drinks it like his life depends on it.

Suddenly it’s noon, and he has a court hearing. His lawyer is someone hired by the state, and when they ask him questions, he’s too nervous to answer rationally. The one interaction that doesn’t leave his memory is when they asked him about his motive. “I panicked. I thought he was going to hurt me, and I panicked.”

Legal terms are being tossed around. First degree, second degree, and Tweek panics when he thinks of burns, and checks his arms for charred flesh. The session ends with a phrase that will haunt him for the rest of his life. Sentenced to 14 years in prison. Manslaughter. Possession of a Schedule II stimulant--methamphetamine. The judge, a young man named Token Black, seems uncertain about the extensive period, but he doesn’t have a say beyond the limits of his standing.

He got high. He killed his dealer with a rusty pipe. He killed his dealer with a rusty pipe. Tears start rolling down his cheeks as everyone makes their way out, and officers escort him back to the station. I’m a murderer. Is the repeatedly echoing thought in Tweek’s head. They throw a jumpsuit at him, orange, with INMATE on the back in big letters. And then he’s on a bus, sparsely crowded with other men in orange jumpsuits. They stare at him too, which confuses Tweek. Until he remembers his processing had gone by so fast he never really showered. There was probably the flaking remains of blood in his hair, not enough to warrant a trip to a shower, but enough to be noticed. He’s shaking from withdrawals, it’s been way more than six hours, and his entire body is not responding well. It feels like bugs are all over his skin, under his skin, hiding in his bones. He starts to pick at a scab on his arm, and stops. He doesn’t want gangrene.

He hasn’t slept in about 80 hours by now, but there is no sleepiness to weigh his eyelids down. He just feels nauseated, and painfully seized by excess energy. The bus is taking them to the middle of nowhere, to an intimidating building blocked by tall walls, the only structure for miles in this desert region of Colorado. Tweek walks amidst the crowd of prisoners, only slightly comforted by the fact that he seems to be a little on the taller end of the spectrum. By no means is he a giant, but he isn’t a small man either. 5”9’, but gangly, and his emaciated body isn’t helping. Soon they’re in a bright room that reeks of antibacterial cleaning products. There’s a demand, painfully loud that has Tweek flushing and panicking. “Alright, strip.” A couple of them, probably returning inmates, roll their eyes and proceed to start undressing. The men around him hesitantly follow suit, and it’s starting to look like Tweek is going to be the only prisoner in the room still wearing clothes, which is worse than being naked in this situation. He panics and fumbles with his jumpsuit, managing to remove his clothing without tearing anything.

He’s confused, and humiliated, and scared, and these feelings only intensify when guards walk along the line of men, and there’s the order to bend forward, move this way, move that way, and suddenly Tweek is being told to bend forward, legs apart. He does as he’s told, but he’s shaking his head quickly, biting back a sob as it becomes apparent that this is a cavity search. It feels like it took forever, being poked and prodded, and then they’re on their way to the showers, but Tweek just wants to curl up and die.

Tweek washes himself robotically, listening to the idle chatter of inmates who have settled a little and want to break the silence. Soon he’s drying off, and he’s got a clean jumpsuit, and they give him a number that he repeats over and over in his mind, five digits, he can repeat them out loud, but every time he thinks about the sequence too hard, he gets jumbled up and forgets what order they come in. There are two eights, a three, a four, and zero. A guard says the correct sequence, reading a roster as they prepare to leave the locker room. “80384, Tweek Tweak?” Tweek’s head snaps up. “Cell block B, cell 07. Your cellmate will be Craig Tucker.” He continues down the roster, calling the names of new prisoners, giving them the location of their cells. They’re divided into four groups, Tweek being in the second largest, and he realizes that the others are also going to be in Cell block B.

They walk in a line, based on cell numbers, Tweek being near the back. Two guards accompany them, and he’s the last to be escorted to his cell. He’s relieved that it’s lights-out, less than willing to try to figure out how you’re supposed to introduce yourself in prison. It’s not going to be like high school, where you stand up, say “My name is ______, and I like _____.” and sit back down, hoping to God you didn’t sound too weird. No, it’s not going to be anything like that. His relief is cut short when he sees the expression of the guard looking at him.

It’s pity. “Listen close, you got the short end of the stick when given living arrangements. Tucker, he’s… He’s got some “history” when it comes to cellmates. And inmates. And guards. And-- Well. You get the point. Try not to do anything to piss him off, or you could end up in the infirmary on life support.” Tweek’s eyes widen, and he swallows hard, trembling. The door rattles open and Tweek walks in, nearly paralyzed with fear and dragging his feet. Stan, the guard outside, gives him an apologetic look.

He sits on the unoccupied bed, flinching at the door closing, and being locked. His cellmate is asleep, breathing deep and even, and Tweek studies him warily. He’s facing the wall, curled in on himself slightly, so Tweek can only see that he has messy, short black hair, tanned skin, and he’d shrugged the jumpsuit off of his shoulders in favor of letting his white tank top be exposed. The blanket, thin and scratchy, is a mess by his feet, which are bare and stick off the end of the mattress by almost half a foot. This is a large man. Based on the look of his bared shoulders, and the shape of his back under the shirt, he’s strong too. Lean, muscular. Tweek swallows audibly, trembling worsening. His cellmate could very easily break him in half. And he has a bad reputation. Tweek is fucked. Thoroughly fucked.

It’s all becoming too much. He starts drumming his feet on the floor out of habit, lost in thought, anxiety ramping back up, still not tired enough to sleep. It carries on for about five minutes, and Tweek is seized with the desperate impulse to tear the bandaids away and go back to gnawing on his fingers. He’s about to do just that when a deep voice startles him.

“For fuck’s sake, knock that off before I break your damn legs.” Tweek looks up, and nearly screeches. His cellmate, Craig, was sitting up now, somehow going from laying on his side and facing the wall to being upright with his feet touching the floor as he sits facing Tweek, all without making a sound. Tweek had honestly been expecting cruel, beady eyes and a scarred face, thin lips pulled into a sneer, a big crooked nose, perhaps a freaky looking tattoo. Instead he got a rather ordinary looking dude. Narrowed, tired eyes, a dull blue, saying clearly that his cellmate is very pissed, under dark brows currently furrowed in annoyance. A medium nose, a little crooked in the center of the bridge, average lips that are neither full nor thin, currently pulled into a grimace. There’s a scar running through his left eyebrow, and a pair on the right half of his jaw, these are pale and a little ragged, clearly the healing process was not cleanly done. He has a fair amount of stubble, and there are faint shadows under his eyes, indicating exhaustion.

Tweek immediately pulls his knees to his chest. “S-sorry.” he chokes out, staring at the floor. He’s still trembling. Craig sighs and rolls over, quickly falling back asleep. And Tweek is alone again, now being forced to suppress his nervous tics in an effort to avoid angering his cellmate. He’s exhausted when a monotonous signal sounds over the speakers, scaring the shit out of him(not literally, thank God), and once he’s got himself together, he realizes he’d launched backwards, curling into a ball and hiding in the corner his bed was pushed into, trembling. He carefully unfolds himself, thankful that Craig was too groggy to notice his fantastic display of cowardice. The guards start calling something about morning roll call, and all of the doors to the cells of Block B open at once, clearly the work of programmed wiring.

Tweek realizes he’d never actually seen anyone lock or unlock the cells by hand, and this information gives him dozens of vivid scenarios. A lockdown gone wrong, the inmates abandoned and left locked in their cells until they killed their cellmate or starved. Getting caught in the door as it closed, the powerful mechanisms crushing him easily. Faulty wiring letting everyone out at random times, leading to utter fucking chaos, which could easily lead to Tweek’s death. He stumbles to his feet and follows Craig as he walks out, keeping a safe distance between them. A guard says he needs to stand behind Craig in roll call, and make his presence known when they call his number.

After 24 hours, comedown becomes withdrawal. His headache is so bad, it’s dizzying, and he’s so very nauseous. He stumbles, mind hammering out countless delusions, as his brain desperately attempts to recreate a meth high on its own, and fails miserably. Tweek is clumsy when he gets his tray of food and sits. He just stares at his breakfast, the image of eggs and sausage turning his stomach violently.

He’s twitching, drumming his fingers and giving noises of discomfort and fear. Everyone is too loud. Too close. Too much. He puts his head in his hands, chest aching as he starts to hyperventilate. He shouldn’t be here. It feels like he’s dying, and everyone is waiting for his death to happen, of that he is certain.

There’s a thud across from him, and he shrieks in terror. A pudgy man with cruel eyes regards him with a snide grin. Someone gives an agitated call of “Cartman” and something about telling him to just leave the new guy alone, but the man sits down anyway with a laugh. “Hey, crackhead!” Tweek twitches, left eye spasming. He opens his mouth to respond, but cannot form words. “I see you’re busy shitting your pants, but I thought I’d stop by to let you know--” It’s too much! Suddenly Tweek gets to his feet, slamming his palms on the table. “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?!” Cartman, at least, that’s what they called him, jumps a little, before scowling. “Hey, Twitch, don’t interrupt me when--” Tweek gives a full body jolt, mind whiting out with fear. “SHUT UP! STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!”

He swings his legs out, moving to walk away, and seems to just now realize how full the cafeteria is. Tweek looks around desperately, and gives a wordless scream of frustration. There’s tense silence now. A guard yells at him to sit the hell down. He thuds back onto the bench and drags his fingers down his face, muttering to himself. There’s a collective whisper about the “new psycho junkie.”

Tweek turns to see Cartman glowering at him. The paranoia and anguish in his mind leaves him giving a murderous glare in return. It seems defiance angers Cartman further. As a tone over the speakers signals the start of exercise period, the man utters three spiteful words.

“You’ll regret this.”

Chapter Text

Run. Run. Run . Go faster . His feet pad along the treadmill rhythmically. Tweek’s eyes are unfocused as he centers his entire being on the pain in his legs. Keep going . He’s oblivious to the inmates staring at him with a mixture of horror and fascination. Just keep running . If he keeps going, the anxiety, the fears, the anger… If he pushes hard enough, for long enough… Reality will not catch up with him . Tweek’s feet do not thud, they tap. He runs on the balls of his feet, as if sprinting away from some predator. Maybe there is . Anxiety seizes him. He runs faster.

 

He’d run for the full two hours and thirty minutes of exercise period, but he was too buzzed with adrenaline to acknowledge the sweat pouring from his skin. In the showers, he scours his skin, leaving it an angry red. Every few seconds, he’d glare at the collective room over his shoulder, as if daring any of the men to approach him.

 

For the most part, he was tame as a meth addict. He just spoke loudly to no one and wandered. Never got physical. Never got too aggressive. Withdrawals were dragging something out of him, though. He dressed himself, walked with the rest to the cafeteria, and glared at his food. His mind was spinning away from him, and everything was just a blur of hate.

 

Something about the way Cartman looked at him. He’s pissed. Pissed at life, the inmates, and himself. He focuses on the anger, unwilling to let any other emotions in. Tweek cuts his food into meticulous little pieces, and mashes them individually. There are eyes on him, he can tell, but he doesn't care. In fact, he wants them to fear him. If they’re afraid of him, they’ll stay away.

 

When work starts, he listens carefully to the instructions given to him, and when given a task, puts everything he’s got into it. It’s just laundry, loading machines and sorting clothing, but Tweek is so intent on emptying his mind that when the inmate in the room with him, David, finishes one load, he moves through three. David looks at him with concern, but doesn’t speak. He seems to understand that Tweek should be left alone right now.

 

Free period starts, and Tweek is still intent on blocking out the rest of the world. He paces back and forth briskly, a five-foot line, watching the way his feet move, and muttering to himself. Every now and then, he’d pause and search for wandering eyes in the basketball court and bleachers, hackles raised and eyes narrowed.

 

His mind is such a mess. There are things lurking in there--dark, horrible things. If he keeps going at full speed, they won’t get to him. Tweek vaguely remembers a much tamer version of those thoughts in his brief hours of sobriety. It was horribly unpleasant. He can’t begin to imagine how bad they’d be now. Just keep going . He paces back and forth, back and forth.

 

Something finally catches up with him at dinner, but it’s not any of the heavy things that encroach on the fringes of his mind. It’s existential anxiety, and paranoia, and fear. His fingers are shaking so badly he has to hold his glass of water with two hands. Tweek does not stab anything or glare at anyone. He just sits there, practically vibrating, staring at his untouched food with wide eyes, nearly catatonic. The whispering of other inmates that pay him any mind seem to dig into his skull. His brain is giving millions of warning signals and no direction to run.

 

He’s in jail. Tweek Tweak is in prison. For murder. He killed a man. His life is over. Possibly literally. He might die here.

 

Evening roll call has Tweek ready to break down into nothing. This was just day one . He still has fourteen years of this shit to go. His legs are shaky as he’s led to his cell. Tweek drums his legs and tugs at his hair, whispering to himself frantically, mind dragging between hostility and breakdown like some demented tug-of-war. Craig thuds onto his own bunk heavily, and rage wells up in Tweek. Blind, pointless anger. He opens his mouth to accuse or berate, maybe both, but stops himself. All of the other inmates had regarded him with wariness, possibly fear today.

 

Craig, however... He just studies Tweek with boredom, which is more unnerving than infuriating. “What?” Tweek grits out. Suddenly, Craig’s eyes narrow, and Tweek wonders if this is what a small rodent feels like before it is killed by a snake. Paralyzing terror. There is no bright hostility, or obvious rage. Just a cold, and calculating stare. Sizing him up. Deciding if he’s worth the punishment he’d receive. “Shut your mouth before I shut it for you.” He doesn’t even say this with any heat to his words. It’s monotonous, blase .

 

Tweek’s mouth snaps shut, and he scoots back on the mattress to sit against the wall, glaring at his cellmate. Craig doesn’t even dignify this with a response--he just rolls his eyes, shrugs off the top of his jumpsuit, takes off his shoes and socks, and lays to face the wall. Within minutes, Craig is out cold, the lights going out not long after. Tweek isn’t sure if he’s impressed and jealous of the ease Craig’s shown in sleeping, or annoyed at being so blatantly ignored.

 

He trembles and gives sounds of discontent, anxiety threatening to consume him in the dark. His cellmate turns in his sleep, and Tweek forces himself to be silent. The twitchy man ends up spending the whole night like that, twitching and wrestling with his composure.

 

When the wake-up call for the dawn of Tweek’s second day sounds, he’s ready to cry. He’s been awake for more than 100 hours, but his body refuses to let him sleep. Before, he couldn’t sleep because of the meth nearly constantly in his bloodstream. The lack of rest hardly affected him. He drifts through the day, a long stretch of excessive effort and mental numbness. His mind is foggy, he can hardly register any of the glances sent his way.

 

Despite being so exhausted his movements are clumsy and sluggish, Tweek still cannot sleep that night. He rocks in place on his mattress, oblivious to the bored looks Craig gives him. Tweek yanks at his hair idly, hardly registering the dull pain in his scalp. He looks at the few strands that come away. Blond, and wispy. He brushes them away with a grunt of displeasure, and starts gnawing at the skin around his fingernails. His cellmate falls asleep, and the lights in Cell Block B collectively gutter out, signalling the time for rest.

 

* * * * *

He’s been awake for more than five days straight when the alarm goes off. His nerves are shot to hell, and he can barely stand, but he manages to follow Craig to roll call. When inmates whisper about him today, he regards them with terrified suspicion. Tweek goes into breakfast with manic paranoia, and when an inmate so much as points in his direction, he shrieks, and yells something about leaving him alone.

 

During the exercise period, he’s alternating between push-ups, crunches, and jumping-jacks. He scratches at his arms, twitches, shifts his weight from foot to foot, and glances in every direction; all of this is done non-stop. Tweek is an absolute mess at this point, incoherent with sleep deprivation and fear.

 

He drinks a lot of water during lunch, and really tries to distract himself with his job. Really makes a valiant attempt. As free period starts, the shadows in his psyche begin to rear their ugly heads, and his pacing becomes frantic, his muttering desperate.

 

Contempt. Shame. Fear. Grief. Anger. Guilt. Hatred. The forgotten image of his meth dealer looms at the back of his mind, threatening to reveal itself at any moment. Tweek suddenly stops in place. His mind is filling with static. He’s drowning.

 

Disgusting. Tweek Tweak is disgusting. A monster. How could he kill someone? What the hell is wrong with him? As if he deserves redemption. Selfish. Tweek Tweak is selfish. His whole life leading up to murder, all of that effort spent on him wasted. Useless. Tweek Tweak is useless. Letting his addiction take control of his mind. Making no contributions to society. Getting himself imprisoned. Dead. Tweek Tweak should be dead. He’s not needed or wanted, maybe he should just take his jumpsuit, make a noose, and--

 

Suddenly, he’s at a wall, palming the brick, deafened by the roaring in his mind. It’s painful. These thoughts are agonizing. He can’t take it. It needs to stop. He feels like he’s dying. It needs to stop .

 

Stop …” he whispers to himself, voice broken. “Stop, stop --” Tweek draws his head back with a quivering inhalation. His mind is trying to eat him alive. It needs to shut up. It needs to stop . Without thinking, the blond slams his head against the wall. The thoughts seem to stutter. That’s better . He does it again, and his mind quiets further. Tweek finds himself unable to stop, smashing his forehead against the weathered brick until his vision gets spotty and the world spins. A guard runs his way as he gives one last smack for good measure, stumbling around and hitting the dusty ground.

 

He vaguely feels someone holding him up and escorting him somewhere . Tweek can’t seem to keep himself upright, and breathes a sigh of relief when he’s lowered onto some kind of couch. His body still won’t let him sleep, but it feels good to sit down. As his vision clears, he notices a man in a white coat on crutches, bustling around the little makeshift infirmary. The man turns, and gives a crooked smile upon seeing Tweek no longer swaying in his upright position.

 

“H-hey. You got p-pu-put in the s-system a few days--days ago, right?” His name tag says Dr. Valmer, and he sets his crutches aside as he takes a seat on the stool. Tweek nods uncertainly.

 

Without another word, Dr. Valmer, who introduces himself as Jimmy, informally, sets to treating the split, bloodied skin on Tweek’s forehead. He regards the blond in silence. “S-s-sorry you have to de-de-detox in a place like this. Y-you can get through th-this, I believe in you.” Tweek seems even more nervous. Why is this man being nice to him? Nice strangers usually have bad intentions. ...Well, why would they have good intentions? Jimmy probably wants him dead. He’s luring him into a false sense of security. Doctors have power, though, so Tweek nods, playing along. He offers a nervous smile, thanks the man, and leaves on shaky legs.

 

When he’s returning, dinner is finishing up, so Tweek just heads for his cell. It’s silent in Cell Block B as he walks to his bunk. His footsteps seem deafening in his ears, and when the door rattles shut behind him, Tweek is seized with a strange, blind terror. He sits on his bed, and stares at the concrete flooring, body wracked with tremors. Instinctively, he stands and tries to walk out, but there is no exit. He’s trapped. With a horrible groan of defeat, Tweek begins to pace, yanking at his hair and breathing shallowly through his teeth.

 

He can’t do this . Only three days have passed, and he’s at his limit. More than 5,000 days left in this shithole. He’s beyond anger, now. Tweek begins whispering hysterically, and is honestly surprised that none of the guards have tried to take him for a psych evaluation. The sound of inmates returning from evening roll call startles him. This is better than a psych ward . Tweek tries to convince himself of this in a repeated mantra.

 

The door rattles open, and Craig walks in, expression as unfazed as ever. Tweek freezes, and slowly crawls onto his bed, staring the man down with wide, fearful eyes. His cellmate raises an eyebrow and sits down. He has a book. How hadn’t Tweek noticed the book before now? The blond realizes he’s started giving incoherent whimpers of fear, and looks up. Craig is glaring at him now. He curls up into a ball and quivers silently.

 

The world becomes a fuzzy mess of isolated sound and dim glow when the lights go out. Tweek’s mind runs in a desperate circle for an eternity. A tone comes on over the speakers, signalling more than six days of consciousness for Tweek. He vaguely desires a different type of rest than sleep, something longer and unfeeling. He’s snapped from his thoughts by the door to his cell opening. Time for his fourth day in prison.

Chapter Text

There’s a point in sleep deprivation where reality seems to slip away, like sand through one’s fingers. Tweek feels like he’s floating above his own body, numbly watching his limbs move. Despite feeling like he’s moving through molasses, the twitchy man pushes himself with almost manic desperation. He powers through exercise period, despite being so lightheaded he could barely keep himself upright. At lunch, he practically drinks a gallon of water, but still can’t manage to get himself to eat.

 

Tweek had honestly thought he’d make it through the day without incident. It was a foolish assumption, given how long he’d been awake, and how little he’d eaten. While he’s at his job, the world is coming in and out of focus. He ignores this, and pivots to set another load of laundry to wash. In the middle of the turn, everything seems to tilt and fade. There’s a stutter in his breathing, and Tweek can vaguely hear David cry out in alarm behind him. His head bounces off of the tile flooring, but it’s the jolting motion he registers more than any pain.

 

Jimmy’s is the first face he sees, brows furrowed and tutting. “R-really Tweek?” The blond blinks a few times, looking around in confusion. This is the infirmary. He’s laying on a bed with crisp white sheets. How did he…? “You b-blacked out during your work sh-sh-shift.” Tweek immediately fixes his gaze on his lap. “I heard y-you haven’t been eating. And I-I’m willing to b-bet you haven’t been s-sl-s… sleeping , either.” Now the twitchy man feels something like guilt. “You n-need to take care of yourself, T-T-Tweek. I don’t w-want to be the one to b-bury you.” Tweek nods sheepishly. “Eat. And i-if you can, sleep.” Again, Tweek nods.

 

Doctor Valmer sends him on his way, after making sure he ate the protein bar he’d given him. The guards escort him to the courtyard--it’s still free period. Tweek defaults to his newly established routine. He paces back and forth, but he doesn’t mutter to himself this time. He just stares at his prison-issued black slip-on shoes, noting the way he scuffs the dusty ground.

 

The image of food nauseates Tweek at dinner. He pokes at it, willing it to be appetizing, but to no avail. Instead, he compensates by chugging water. No matter how much he drank, Tweek felt as if he had perpetual dry-mouth. Every day he learns about a new aspect of withdrawals. It is not a fun experience.

 

His mind has shut down by the time he enters the cell he shares with Craig. He is oblivious to the way his cellmate regards him with idle interest as he traces invisible figure-8’s on the concrete floor with the toe of his right shoe. Tweek is literally unable to think. He can hear his pulse in his ears, and distantly acknowledges his shallow breathing. God, his head hurts . Time passes by in a blur, and before he knows it, the lights in Block B flicker out. The twitchy man is still upright in the dark, and stares at the well-lit office on the first floor, extending from the opposite wall of their cell. Figures move around inside, but he can’t hear anything from so far away.

 

He’s boneless when he collapses, tired eyes slipping shut immediately. When they open, he’s a little startled. The clock reads 2:04 a.m., which means he’d slept for about three hours. Three whole hours . No dreams, no restless and repeated waking. Tweek feels considerably more coherent as he looks at Cell Block B in the dark. His head doesn’t hurt as much now, and his mind is oddly tranquil.

 

The peace is short lived. Anger, not just anxiety, starts ramping up as he sees guards and other inmates. It seems his withdrawals have a few other points to make. He’s breathing heavily through his teeth, calling out anyone who looked at him in a weird way. Inmates avoid instigating him on his fifth day--it’s clear the junkie is losing it. Better to stay out of his way than risk an ugly fight with someone who is not all there mentally. Tweek is too angry to sleep, scowling at the ceiling and having internalized arguments for the entire night.

 

He reaches a psychological plateau on the morning of his sixth day, where his rage has mostly abated. He’s anxious, and paranoid, but he doesn’t scream at anyone today. Tweek actually has something of an appetite during breakfast, and picks at his hash browns. At lunch he eats a little more, but sudden company, announcing itself with the bang of a tray, and the thud onto the bench across from him, startles the blond. Tweek’s gaze snaps up, heart pounding in his ears. His mind screams infinite potential outcomes to this encounter, most of which end in death.

 

The inmate who had unceremoniously taken a seat at his table gives him a big, crooked grin. There’s a chip in one of his front teeth, and his face is dusted with freckles. His shaggy hair is a dusty blond, and he regards Tweek with blue-green eyes, filled with mirth. Jabbing a hand out in greeting, the young man introduces himself. “Kenny McCormick. Nice to meetcha.”

 

Tweek is torn between fleeing the situation, or returning the greeting. He chooses the latter, and shakes Kenny’s hand. “Tweek Tweak.” Kenny raises an eyebrow, and the twitchy man fumbles with his words for a moment. “They’re spelled differently--my first name is T-w-e-e-k, and my last is T-w-e-a-k.” This makes Kenny laugh. “Your parents must have been conceited assholes.” he comments glibly. Tweek gives an awkward shrug.

 

“Anyway! You’re pretty new here, so I figured I’d say hi.” The twitchy man blinks in surprise, and nods. “Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve had a new inmate with such a cute face.” Now Tweek flushes, opening his mouth to ask for clarification, or refute the statement. Probably both. But someone is calling for Kenny, a short young man with white-blond hair and a scar running through his left eye. Now Tweek can’t help but stare at him , with the clouded iris and his strangely innocent face.

 

Kenny excuses himself to walk alongside this other inmate, giving him smiles and gestures in ways that could only be interpreted as flirtatious. Despite that odd little hitch in the flow of his day, Tweek is able to carry out his laundry duties well enough, David asking him if he was okay after blacking out two days ago. It seems even David has noticed Tweek’s progression in coherence and stability.

 

Tweek doesn’t pace during his free period today. He watches the other inmates play basketball, both nervous about and fascinated by the aggressive way they shove each other to get the ball. It’s a nice day. He hasn’t acknowledged the weather since he’s come here. Autumn is slowly coming into full swing, and the air is crisp.

 

Tweek feels a little better as he eats his dinner, still jittery and anxious, but no longer on the verge of catatonia. That night, he falls asleep, unconscious for four full hours, a small miracle in itself.

 

The hardest parts of his withdrawals have passed by that seventh day. Tweek is pleased by this news, but also fully aware of his situation. His horrible, fucked up situation. He honestly isn’t sure how he’s supposed to make it through this--everything is confusing in prison. It’s all so terrifying, and it feels like one wrong move could result in his death. This fear doesn’t seem so unfounded now. Tweek doesn’t understand the system, doesn’t have experience to draw on. As if sensing the blond’s questions, none other than Craig Tucker corners him during lunch.

 

His cellmate’s eyes are as bored as ever as he just sits there, eating for a bit. The twitchy man blinks at him, giving an agitated grunt of apprehension. Craig’s gaze meets his, and he slowly sets his fork down. He rests his chin on the backs of his knuckles, fingers curled together and bracing his weight against his elbows. Suddenly, Tweek feels very naked, as if the noirette can see into his soul now.

 

“So.” That’s all he says for a moment, lapsing back into silence and studying Tweek. It feels like he’s doing this on purpose now, just to scare the blond. Craig gives a dull hum in the back of his throat. “You seem to be coherent enough to understand what’s going on.”  The twitchy young man stares back at him warily, nodding once. “Everyone’s been avoiding you, because you have the spun-out crackhead eyes. They don’t want to deal with you flipping your shit.” The drawn-out pauses have to be on purpose. That, or Craig just doesn’t give a shit about Tweek’s sanity, taking his sweet time with this discussion. “ Now , though, you’re pretty much stable. And it’s definitely showing. Won’t be long before some of these assholes go after you.” The blond’s breath catches in his throat, eyes widening.

 

“Listen, crackhead, and listen close.” Craig’s eyes have darkened, and Tweek can feel his blood run cold. “There’s a system in place here. Fuckers , and those who get fucked . You stick out too much to blend into the crowd, so be ready for people to start shit. When they do, you have two options: fight like hell, or roll over.” The blond is trembling at this point, reality slowly beginning to dawn on him. “I doubt you’re going to want to roll over, but you look like too much of a bitch to fight.” Tweek stutters out a question. “Roll over?” Craig, rolls his eyes, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “There aren’t a lot of guys that have to do it regularly, but you’ll probably be one of them. If you can’t fight, you’re taking dick down the throat, or up the ass, regardless of whether you want to. Word of advise: find someone willing to put up with you, and hope to God no one makes him look bad.”

 

Tweek only stares at him, mouth agape with horror. “If you don’t wanna get raped, find someone who will protect you. If you don’t wanna get willingly fucked, fight like your life depends on it, because it probably will. I doubt anyone’s going to leave you alone--you stick out like a sore thumb--but if you start fighting, more assholes will be on their way to take a shot at beating your ass.” Craig pauses, and continues eating his lunch.

 

The blond is practically vibrating, he’s so terrified. He’s ready to scream at Craig, to end this uncomfortably long halt in the conversation, but the noirette resumes his chilling explanation of the prison’s hierarchy. “Unless you almost kill everyone that comes at you, someone’s always going to be ready to kick the crap out of you. And if you roll over, but you don’t find someone right away, you’re going to get passed around like a back alley hooker. Make a decision now, because someone’s probably going to pick a fight in the next couple of days.” With that, the noirette finishes off his lunch, stands up, and walks away, as if nothing had happened.

 

Tweek watches him leave, mind screaming with terror. He’s going to fight. He has to. There’s no way in hell he’d be made anyone’s bitch. His expressed fear seems to have solidified his vulnerability in the eyes of others, though. They’re still wary, keeping their distance, but it seems like everyone in Cell Block B is waiting for someone to make a move. Everyone is sizing Tweek up as he actively eats food and works out to build his strength.

 

They smile at him mockingly, hungrily , as he hunches in on himself in the showers, trying unsuccessfully to disappear. Every now and then someone would toss an innuendous comment his way at meals, and there would be a collective laugh. Kenny wasn’t wrong: Tweek seems to be the first inmate in a while that has attracted this much attention.

 

He lays awake at night, wondering if he’s going to be beaten down soon. Wonders what’s going to happen to him if and when he loses a fight. He wonders if living is worthwhile anymore, and is terrified by this thought.

Chapter Text

Tweek has been preparing himself for a fight for a week now, and with each passing day, his paranoia only rises higher. He’s constantly anxious, searching for any potential attacker and isolating himself. It’s really starting to wear on him--flinching away and being immediately filled with adrenaline at simple, accidental, contact with other inmates. At night, his thoughts consume him. Guilt over the murder he’d committed manifests itself in gruesome nightmares. Paranoia leads to panic attacks that he has to keep silent. Grief coming from this hellish circumstance haunts him, and whispers its dark, horrible suggestions.

 

He’s eating all of his meals, chugging water, and working out, though he practices the latter in moderation, careful not to exhaust himself and expose vulnerability. 

 

When he passes the mirrors after showering one day, Tweek pauses. Dread fills his stomach at what he sees. He’s gained a bit of healthy weight--he can no longer count each bone in his body. That in itself is only moderately surprising. No, what terrifies him is his face . The scabs from his repeated meth abuse have fully healed, some of the more prominent scars starting to fade. He doesn’t look dried-out, with cracked lips and brittle hair. His eyes are bright, despite the shadows of insomnia under them. By no means is he attractive. But he’s no longer off-putting, either, which seems to be all it takes to be fuckable here. 

 

On that note, most of his fellow inmates regard him from a distance, eyeing him up and giving those suggestive, leering grins. It’s starting to seem like it will be like this forever, though. No one has tried to go after him. Perhaps they’ll lose interest if something doesn’t happen soon. At least, that’s what Tweek hopes.

 

One day, a different interest in Tweek begins to spread. Rumor has it, the crackhead’s been talking shit about Craig. Apparently, the now-coherent spaz is saying the most violent inmate here is a “pussy,” and won’t fight the blond for that reason. This news reaches Tweek later in the spread, before he can refute anything and be acknowledged. 

 

The source of this rumor is Eric Cartman, the pudgy inmate prone to racial slurs and false bravado. He paints quite the picture, and gives an update of the twitchy inmate’s opinion every other day. “Not that tough” becomes “Pushover,” which becomes “Little bitch” and now it seems like Tweek thinks he can take Craig on. Inmates are eating this drama up, calling Tweek out on his sudden big shot behavior, and asking the noirette what he’s gonna do about it. It’s pretty clear Craig knows that his twitchy cellmate isn’t saying any of these things, but he’s also aware of the fact that dismissing it in front of the others won’t do anything, either. Cartman goes directly to Craig, one day, and accuses him of actually being a coward. One of the guards, Stan Marsh, is pretty amused by this, given the fact that Craig has decked him more than once. Now everyone is waiting with baited breath to see if this exchange will spark conflict.

 

Craig gets tired of the drama pretty quick, and decides to appease the crowd, if only to get them to shut the fuck up . At lunch, the noirette corners Tweek, and the inmates automatically gather at the sidelines, excited for a good show.

 

Tweek immediately knows what’s about to happen. His eyes widen, and he starts to tremble violently as his cellmate begins to back him into a corner. “H-hey, Craig.” Craig rolls his eyes, and starts cracking his knuckles. The blond gives a forced, nervous laugh. “Listen, Gah! We really don’t need to--” Inmates now begin to jeer, asking Tweek where that douchebag bravery went. He looks around, desperately trying to explain the truth of the situation. No one listens to him, though. It’s too late for an attempt at escape.

 

Craig’s expression is bored, as it always is. He rolls his shoulders as he approaches his cellmate. “No hard feelings, spaz.” is the deadpan comment he gives. As he closes the distance, Tweek begins uttering terrified whimpers, muttering under his breath, with his gaze flicking around, searching for a way out. But Craig lacks any sympathy for the blond. He draws his fist back, noting the way Tweek’s eyes widen, pupils contracting. If it will stop the schoolyard drama bullshit, he really doesn’t care how his cellmate feels. 

 

Craig swings, and reminds everyone present of how quick he is. A reminder of his strength does not come across. Everyone is astonished, though the noirette is only mildly surprised, when Tweek ducks under the punch aimed for his face. Before their shock can properly set in, the blond makes a break for it, yelling fearful obscenities as he goes. “Shit shit shit SHIT !!” He doesn’t get away, though. Craig reaches, and catches Tweek by the back of his jumpsuit. His twitchy cellmate gives a startled screech as he’s dragged backwards and shoved so hard he trips and slides on his back a few feet towards the wall. He’s trembling as Craig raises an eyebrow, scrambling to his feet, clearly readying himself to try and run again. Tweek’s eyes are searching  in every direction for an escape route. Desperation wins over strategy, and he foolishly sprints to get around Craig, skirting too close.

 

Craig seizes him by the front of his jumpsuit this time, and lifts him clear off the ground. Tweek is shrieking now, clawing at the noirette’s arm with one hand, and shielding his face with the other. His cellmate’s brows furrow, more perturbed than pissed. “Would you knock it off?” Even in this moment, his tone is dull. Tweek is crying something out incoherently, shaking his head wildly. He’s squirming, kicking his legs out to try and get Craig to let go, making a useless attempt to hurt his wrist, or do anything to escape. The noirette sighs.

 

A fist collides with Tweek’s stomach, and the wind is knocked out of him. Tears spill down his cheeks as he moves his mouth, but is unable to make a sound. He hadn’t known people were even capable of hitting that hard. It feels like he’s been broken, and he goes limp, despite the terror in his mind screaming at him to move, do something

 

Before he can come to his senses, Craig’s knuckles connect with his cheekbone. Black spots fill his vision, and the world begins to tilt. His whole body is screaming at him, but pain renders his limbs useless. He’s dropped unceremoniously, and numbly watches the ceiling twist above. Tweek vaguely registers Craig walking away without a word, posture suggesting this was nothing new to him.

 

Stan, the guard on duty, steps in now, telling Tweek to get up and checks if the blond is injured enough to warrant a trip to the infirmary. Apparently the twitchy young man looks fine enough, and everyone heads to their respective jobs for the work period. Tweek is dizzy, David keeping a close eye on him to make sure he doesn’t fall over. He’s nice , the blond notes distantly. It’s nice to see an inmate that doesn’t have it out for him, or flirts derisively with him.

 

In free period, everyone is staring Tweek down. Some mock him for his cowardice during his fight with Craig. Others give less-than-subtle catcalls. He’s terrified, but the agony that sinks into his bones(and a possible concussion) makes it difficult to articulate his fear.

 

That night, as he’s laying down, Craig across from him and acting as if nothing had happened, it dawns on him. Cartman spread that rumor. Cartman started that fight. The pudgy brunette’s threat on his first day comes to mind: “ You’ll regret this.

 

Tweek's stomach churns as the pieces click in his mind. Cartman instigated the fight to show that Tweek can't fight back, even if he tried. He essentially showed the entire prison Tweek Tweak's weakness, his inability to fight , and mercilessly ditched the blond in the center of that train wreck scenario.

 

A thought that had been stewing in Tweek's head since he arrived makes itself clear. This can't be worth fighting against. Perhaps he should escape this shitty situation. Forever. Tweek stares at the ceiling with dull terror for the entirety of that night.

Chapter Text

The fight with Craig was essentially the “straw that broke the camel’s back.” Inmates shamelessly give those perverse offers, sometimes grabbing at Tweek as he walks by them. Their collective murmurs and plans blur into one cacophony of blind lust.

 

Tweek doesn’t feel safe anymore--every time he leaves his cell, he wonders if he’ll make it back that night in one piece. Cartman’s stupid plan had been disgustingly successful, and all of Block B is ready to eat the blond alive. Craig doesn’t even acknowledge his part in ruining Tweek’s life--not that a direct accusation had been given in the first place. The twitchy young man’s mind has become a dark place, quickly becoming devoid of hope. 

 

For a moment, he feels as if he’s done . Even if inmates were to attack him, he wouldn’t have the energy to fight back, or care. However, a reminder of his ever-present instincts of self-preservation comes five days after the ass-whooping Craig delivered.

 

It’s a nice autumn day. Dried leaves skitter across the ground and the air is crisp. Tweek is letting himself enjoy the weather, a welcome respite from the anxiety that’s been plaguing him, sitting on the end of the bleachers during free period. He suddenly realizes he’s being watched , and looks around in paranoia. Before he can see who it is, an inmate grabs him by the back of his jumpsuit, and drags him into the corner behind the bleachers. Tweek stumbles, but doesn’t fall, and resists the urge to scream.

 

He is faced with Scott Tenorman and his lackeys, Terrence & Davey. The lanky redhead crosses his arms, and fixes the blond with a smug grin. “Hey Blondie. Just wanted to talk.” Tweek regards the three warily, particularly Davey, with his massive hands and stocky build. Taking his silence as an invitation, Scott continues. “All of Block B’s really after you, y’know? It must be scary.” The twitchy young man narrows his eyes. This sounds suspiciously like a sketchy business proposal, where one party is fucked over to benefit the other. “Don’t let yourself freak out too much, though. I’ve got an offer for you.” Yep. Tweek tenses up instinctively, readying to bolt. “Me, and my buddies will look after your sorry ass. On one, teeny, tiny condition, of course.” The blond looks between the three, trying to figure out who he’d be more likely to be able to slip by. “You get our protection, if we get you .”

 

The implication is laid out, and Tweek wants to vomit. He’s not going to be these assholes’ personal fucktoy. Not in their wildest dreams. He shakes his head resolutely, albeit with a heavy dose of anxious twitching. Scott gives a cruel laugh, and whistles low. “Who said you could say no?” And Tweek makes a break for it.

 

He doesn’t even make it beyond the semicircle the three have formed, Terrence catching him by the sleeve and hauling him back in. The mangy inmate yanks Tweek’s zipper all the way down, and shoves him in Scott’s direction. Scott drags the top half of the blond’s jumpsuit off, and shoves him toward Davey before he can properly fight back. The giant, heavy-set inmate hooks his arms under Tweek’s shoulders and lifts him off of the ground, rendering his upper body immobile and his legs essentially useless. He’s kicking and thrashing as Scott approaches, with that nasty grin and disheveled jumpsuit resting on his hips, not his shoulders. The blond’s jumpsuit is yanked to his ankles, and Tweek opens his mouth to scream.

 

A fist thuds into his stomach, and he falters, in too much pain to even cough or retch.  What is it with these fuckers and the gut punches ? Tweek’s head lolls back as Scott comes closer. It really is a nice autumn day. An excellent day for permanent, debilitating trauma . He makes a weak attempt to fight back, squirming and gasping out pleas for mercy with his limited breath. The three just laugh, and Tweek’s blood runs cold. This is it. With a snarky grin, their redheaded leader gives one simple command: “Turn him around.”

 

Tweek starts shaking his head wildly, despite the action making him dizzy. He begins choking out desperate sobs and clumsily struggling against Davey’s arms. 

 

As Scott gets so close Tweek can hear his muted breathing, everyone becomes aware of a fifth presence. They turn collectively, Tweek glancing over shoulders. And the entire exchange screeches to a halt for a moment.

 

It’s Craig Tucker, with his bored expression and hands shoved into his pockets. He regards them cooly, studying each face present. “Hey.” Tweek screeches, though it’s hoarse and quiet. He’s here to join in . Why else was he here?! The redhead bares his teeth, gritting out a spiteful response. “Would you fuck off, Tucker? You can’t have first dibs on all the pretty ones.” Silence passes between them, Craig looking up at the sky idly. Apparently his weird, long pauses are a universal constant, regardless of who he’s talking to.

 

Scott does not have the patience for the noirette’s languid pace in this conversation. “Get lost, asshole.” Craig’s gaze drifts back to the redhead, and suddenly, he’s sizing him up, like someone deciding if a bug was worth the scum on their shoe. “I don’t wanna fuck him, Tenorman.” Terrence gives an incredulous laugh, Davey utters a noise of confusion. Another lapse into an uncomfortable quietude. 

 

He’s looking at the landscape beyond the chain-link fence now, tone still blase. “But… I don’t want you to, either.” Now Scott is grinning, puffing himself up like an agitated cockatoo. “Yeah? Why not?” Craig gives a dull sigh. “Because, Scott . If you fuck him, he’s gonna come back to the cell, and he’s gonna bitch every night about being assraped.” Tweek’s breath falters. Craig is sparing him from sexual assault, but not out of goodwill. If he can even get his cellmate out of this mess. “...Besides, they’re still pissed about Tommy. I can’t afford to get in trouble like that again.” The redhead growls. “Well, that’s too fucking bad. Run along, this doesn’t involve you.” 

 

Craig gives a long, low exhalation, clearly annoyed. “Drop him. Now.” Terrence chortles, Davey gives a halting guffaw, and Scott just smirks, clearly amused. “Or what?”

 

One minute, Craig is six feet away from the obnoxious redhead, the next, his fist is connecting with his jaw, so hard that Scott collapses. He gasps, then gives a roar of frustration. “The hell are you two doing?!” Startled out of their horrified trance, Terrence and Davey leap into action. Terrence runs at him, dodging back and forth. The noirette jabs him in the throat, earning a choking noise, and shoves him back. His breathing is becoming uneven, and there’s a look in his eyes, something primal and terrifying.

 

Davey drops Tweek and lumbers in Craig’s direction, arms outstretched. The noirette doesn’t hesitate in grabbing Davey’s arm and breaking his wrist with a yank and sharp twist. He releases the stocky inmate with a quivering sigh. Scott is hopping back up, Terrence following suit. It seems they don’t understand the gravity of their situation.

 

Terrence staggers at him, breathing still raspy from being punched in the throat, and Craig grabs the front of his jumpsuit, an unnerving smile creeping onto his face. He rams his knee into the man’s ribs, and Tweek can hear the muted crunch of bone from where he sits. Terrence is breathless and silent in his agony, twitching on the ground. Davey is howling in pain. Scott gives a frustrated yell, sprinting at the noirette with arms raised in a boxer’s guard position. 

 

Tweek realizes there are guards running towards them, but they all seem to be yelling exclusively at Craig. He turns back in time to see the noirette grabbing Scott by the throat , and shoves him into the dirt. There’s a manic grin on his lips as he lifts his foot, and stomps on the redhead’s face, hard . Blood runs from the inmate’s nose heavily over his upper lip, spreading over his cheeks and staining his chin. His screaming seems more like background noise to the noirette’s uneven breathing. He draws back again, but his next target is Scott’s neck. Before he can crush the inmate’s trachea, a guard tackles him.

 

Craig gives a strange gasp, and socks the guard, Stan Marsh, in the face. Bradley Biggle takes his place, struggling to pin the noirette to the ground. Tweek watches in horror as they have to sedate his cellmate, hauling his unconscious body away, a task that takes three people.

 

Word of this conflict spreads like wildfire. From what inmates understood, Scott and his cronies were trying to get to Tweek. Craig wanted Tweek to himself. Scott refused, and Craig attacked him, but got lost in the violence, quickly flying into a blackout rage. They talk about the latter detail like it’s commonplace, and Tweek realizes how much danger he’s in, sleeping hardly five feet away from this man. And what all of Cell Block B takes from this event is the fact that Tweek is a very desirable inmate.

 

They act on this assumption, and harassment of the blond is a constant activity now. Tweek has to keep a great distance from the other inmates, and regards them all with constant terror. His twitching is getting progressively worse, and he can’t seem to keep his nervous tics under control anymore. Dinner is barely ending on that same day, and Tweek narrowly avoids being cornered by a different group of inmates.

 

The blond sits heavily in his bunk, back in the cell he shares with Craig. He stares at the floor numbly as reality sets in. Craig’s words come to mind: “fight like hell, or roll over.” Fighting is not an option for him. Especially not now. He’d have to find someone to protect him. Someone with a good reputation and experience in fights. Tweek is trembling as each idea is easily dismissed. Kenny is not known as the fighter. Scott and friends just got the shit beat out of them. Eric Cartman would undoubtedly use him as a bargaining token. Some of the tougher inmates that might put up with him already had their “bottom boys” and seemed satisfied with what they had. Guards are out of the question. 

 

Who the fuck could keep up with the hordes of inmates after the blond’s ass? Tweek’s breathing becomes shallow, fearful, as he realizes how limited his options are.

 

And then he glances up. Craig is bouncing a stress ball off of the wall, expression calm despite the black eye he’s sporting(Stan probably punched him out of petty spite while he was unconscious). There’s an idea . The more he thinks about it, the clearer it becomes: Craig is his only realistic option. Only idiots go after him, and he has yet to lose a fight. Tweek clears his throat, and makes his tremulous request.

 

“Hey, uh, Craig?” The noirette’s gaze drifts toward him lazily. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t really have to. His eyes are a clear indicator that he’s listening. “You… Urk ! You told me that I had the option to- gah -to fight, or...or find someone to protect me.” He swallows hard, regretting this decision more and more with every word he speaks. “It’s pretty obvious I- agh! -can’t fight for myself, so…” Tweek muffles an agitated shriek, his anxiety starting to skyrocket. “Could you… Are you looking for… You know?”

 

It’s terrifying. Especially because of Craig’s maintained neutral expression. He can’t tell what’s going through the noirette’s head. After an eternity of silence, his cellmate closes his eyes and hums thoughtfully. He opens his eyes, and regards the blond with disinterest. Mild agitation shows as a brief quirk in his brow. “Fine.”

 

Relief and horror well up in equal parts. Tweek’s got someone to protect him. Craig-fucking-Tucker, the terrifying asshole that has yet to lose a fight. But he belongs to Craig Tucker now. The inmate with a predisposition to blackout rage episodes and a flippant attitude, even towards guards. It’s hard to tell whether he’s saved or fucked. Probably a bit of both.

 

Craig falls asleep, after the lights in Cell Block B have gone out. The blond stares at the ceiling in the dark, wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

Chapter Text

It’s the next day, and Tweek receives a painful reminder that just because he struck up a deal with Craig, doesn’t mean the rest of the Cell Block B got the memo. Every inmate he passes smirks at him, calls obscenities in his direction. Still, no one has actually tried to put their hands on him yet. The blond is unsure of how he’s supposed to break the news without a concrete reason, so he just waits in moderate discomfort for something to happen.

 

And something does happen. After exercise period, in the showers to be exact. Tweek is scrubbing at his skin in the corner, facing the tiled wall, when an inmate approaches him. It’s Damien Thorn, an inmate with dark hair and an unnerving countenance. He’s not even subtle, eyeing the blond up, and asking if he’s “found anyone” yet.

 

Tweek narrows his eyes and inches away. “Y-yeah. Craig Tucker.” There’s a collective laugh, some whistling, and outright call-outs. No one believes him. Especially not Damien. “Really, Twitch? You wanna try that again? Maybe be honest this time?” The blond’s eyes betray his fear, which the man takes as confirmation of his interpretation. “C’mon, I don’t bite.” He comes closer to Tweek, who gives a shaky gasp, gaze flicking around. Can he escape this time? No one knows Craig is supposed to be protecting him, they don’t think he’s telling the truth.

 

Time for some kind of diversion. The blond hurls the soap in his hand at Damien’s face, but the man dodges it easily and grabs him by the wrist. “Oh sweetheart. You really need to stop embarrassing yourself--besides, I’m one of the nicer ones. You’ll be perfectly safe with me.” 

 

Tweek shakes his head wildly, eyes wide with terror. He tries to give a statement of his connection to Craig again, but the inmates around him are just laughing now. Damien starts to back him into the corner, and the blond turns away a little, curling in on himself. So much for protection . He doesn’t notice the collective quiet that slowly takes place in the background, nor does he notice the figure behind Damien. No, his mind is occupied by fear as Damien begins reaching for him, whispering terrible promises.

 

A heavy hand lands on the man’s shoulder, and he freezes. It’s almost like he knows who it is, very slowly turning to face the inmate that had approached him. Craig regards him with a cool, neutral expression. Damien’s face pales. “Oh.” The noirette quirks a brow. “Is... Is this pretty thing here yours , Tucker?” He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Damien.” The dark-haired inmate nods shakily, and wets his lips with his tongue. “Oh. I didn’t know. Kind of hard to tell, y’know, since he’s not--” Craig cuts him off. “Get lost.” Damien nods hastily and crosses to the other end of the room, not daring to look at the noirette.

 

The silence is unsettling, but Craig very calmly starts washing himself next to Tweek, and the tense atmosphere slowly dissipates. Tweek glances up at him quietly, before fixing his gaze on the floor and resuming scrubbing at his skin with his retrieved soap.

 

When they leave for lunch, the noirette sticks to his side. He sits next to the blond, eating quietly, as if this was completely normal for him. Every time an inmate wanders in their direction, he levels them with a cool glare. Tweek is vaguely reminded of a feral dog, standing over a bone with raised hackles and foaming at the mouth. It seems the other men have a similar view of this situation, and keep a healthy distance away from the two.

 

Craig walks with him on his way to his job, leaving to go to his own. Embarrassment and dull paranoia follow the blond. This is more than likely pissing his cellmate off--there's a fair chance the noirette would find babysitting Tweek to be more trouble than it's worth, and ditch him. He meets up with the twitchy man as they head to their free period, and sits next to him on the bleachers the whole time, an idle scowl displaying his opinion on this circumstance.

 

At dinner, Tweek hazards a glance at Craig's face. It's smoothed out to expressionless boredom again, which is aggravating. The blond can't tell what he's thinking at all now. As evening roll call finishes up, Tweek follows Craig to their cell, rigid with jittery apprehension. When the door shuts behind him, the blond sits heavily on his bunk, trying to figure out what he's supposed to say.

 

Craig has started reading a book from the prison library-Tweek can't see the cover-when his cellmate breaks the silence. “Sorry. I'm really shitty- urk -shitty at taking care of myself.” He gives an anxious twitch before continuing. “I didn't mean to make you follow me around all day.” Craig looks up, and slowly shuts his book.

 

The noirette swings his legs off of his bunk and braces his elbows on his knees, studying Tweek. He's quiet for what feels like a full minute. Craig sits back, and reaches up to scratch at the back of his head as his lips thin and eyebrows furrow. He sighs before speaking.

 

“...No. You didn't do anything wrong.” Tweek's eyes widen. “I assumed my name would be enough to scare everyone off. They're more persistent than I thought.” He lapses back into silence, thoughtful, before dragging a hand down his face, as if resenting what he has to say now, glancing at the rest of Cell Block B beyond their cell’s bars. Craig turns back to the blond across from him, an agitated grimace on his face.

 

“...Guess I’m gonna have to make it obvious.” he mutters before standing up, crossing the cell, and sitting uncomfortably close to Tweek. “Obvious?” his twitchy cellmate echoes in confusion. Craig glances at him, coming back to a neutral expression. “Yep. Unzip the jumpsuit, top half off. Shirt off too.” Tweek balks, leaning away. “What?!” he whispers harshly. “I don’t want to have to follow you around all day, so I gotta make it obvious you’re mine. C’mon, shirt off.” The noirette says this all in that typical deadpan. It’s clear Tweek doesn’t follow--eyes bright with suspicion. “I’m just leaving hickies, quit losing your shit, spaz.”

 

The blond’s eyes immediately boggle, and he shakes his head fervently. “I-I’m straight, man! That’s- Ack ! That’s weird!” Craig rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t matter if you’re straight. Most of the men here are straight, but that stops mattering when you’ve gone half a decade without seeing a woman. Besides, you’re enough of a twink to sort of pass as a flat-chested chick if they ignore the dick and squint.” Now Tweek’s face is bright red, and he opens his mouth to argue, but has no words. “Now shut the fuck up and focus. I just need to leave enough hickeys to show these assholes that you are definitely not free to fuck around with.”

 

Tweek nods slowly. He can’t really argue with Craig, not anymore. The guy’s keeping everyone else off his back, and he hasn’t even hit him or anything--this is the most he’s asked of him. And if anything, Tweek has to just acknowledge the fact that he is no longer his own person. The blond unzips his jumpsuit, shrugs it off of his shoulders, and tugs his shirt off. 

 

“Jesus, you’re still skinny as hell.” Craig murmurs. “Never properly looked at you, but damn.” Tweek utters a bitter laugh. “Meth is funny like that.” The noirette gives a huff, and gently takes Tweek’s jaw in his right hand, tilting the blond’s face up. Tweek’s breathing stutters, and he screws his eyes shut, willing this to be over quickly. Slightly chapped lips press to his jugular, parting a little so Craig can bite the spot lightly, giving a rough suck for a few seconds and runs his tongue over the bruise. There’s the faintest stir of warmth in his gut, which unsettles Tweek. He’s just pent up. He can do what all the other inmates do. Pretend this is a woman.

 

...It’s hard to pretend, though. Hard to act like the person sitting next to him is a woman, when there’s the scratch of stubble on his skin, and the hands on his shoulder and jaw are so large and calloused. He gives a shudder, which he dismisses as disgust, as Craig sucks a hickey to the left of his throat. Tweek hazards a glance down at his cellmate, and his breath catches in his throat. The noirette’s eyes are heavy-lidded, tired, but there's a faint intensity that the blond does not like the implication of. Tweek discreetly squeezes his legs together, trying to ignore the fact that there is a man twice his size currently sucking on his neck. This is just a countermeasure for future inmates harassing Tweek. There’s nothing enjoyable about it. This experience is uncomfortable.

 

Tweek repeats this insistent mantra in his head as Craig works his way onto his shoulders and collar bones, each press of lips making him twitch. When Craig sucks at the skin on his chest, the blond gives a startled gasp. It seems to be enough, though, and his cellmate leans back to study his handiwork. 

 

He nods to himself, and walks back to his bunk. Tweek hastily dresses himself and lays down, incredibly embarrassed. Craig falls asleep not long after the lights turn off, but the twitchy man across from him is staring at the wall with wide eyes. This isn’t that big of a deal. He can handle this. The blond reminds himself of the alternate choices--fighting and becoming bottom bitch to the entire cell block, or trusting his safety to an inmate whose reputation might be meaningless, and whose mannerisms could be much worse than Craig’s. He’s not completely unlucky. Tweek has to tell himself this. Reality would be completely unbearable otherwise.

 

The next day, there are still inmates that ignore the rumor of Tweek being protected by Craig. They approach the blond in the showers, all grins and blatant lust. But then Tweek turns to face them. Their faces all blanch at the same time upon seeing the bruises littering the twitchy inmate’s pale skin, and slink away like kicked mutts.

 

Just like that, no one will so much as look in Tweek’s direction. Those that do, meet his eyes, and automatically act like something in the opposite direction is suddenly fascinating. By the end of the day, Tweek understands the gravity of the situation. With Craig as his “guardian,” he is essentially untouchable. The discomfort of being given hickies seems like a small price to pay for this power. Yes, power . It really makes him feel like he has strength, by proxy at least.

 

Tweek glances in Craig’s direction as the noirette begins to settle in for sleep. He takes off his socks and slip-on shoes, shrugs off the top half of his jumpsuit, and starts to lay down to face the wall. “Er, Craig?” His cellmate pauses, and looks at him expectantly. “Today was really- ngh -easy for me. Thanks.” Tweek offers a twitchy smile, shy and small. Craig regards him silently, before giving a noncommittal shrug. “Whatever.” He lays down, and the lights in Cell Block B turn off.

 

The blond stares at Craig in the dark, more than a little unnerved. His cellmate is an incredibly confusing individual. But, hey, safety is safety. He can’t complain.

Chapter Text

“So Blondie! Something happen between you and Tucker? Those marks look pretty old, in my opinion.” Tweek freezes on his way to a shower head, turning to face the inmate that had addressed him. It’s Douglas, a brunette who rarely spoke up or stood out. The fact that he’s the one to call Tweek out like this is unnerving. It’d been four days since Craig had given him hickies, and the bruises are pretty faded. Everyone else in the showers seems to like this direction of conversation, and look at the blond expectantly.

 

Once again, Craig comes to the rescue. He doesn’t say a thing, just glares at the inmates collectively while he stands next to his twitchy cellmate. The message is pretty clear: he’s still taken. Fuck off . They all turn away, and resume their conversations, the atmosphere is a tad uncomfortable.

 

The noirette follows him around for the day, Tweek actually annoyed this time as well. Their fellow inmates are looking for any excuse to go after the blond, and it’s more than a little obnoxious. When they meet in their cell, the pair seem to be on the same page, though Craig remains blase, and Tweek is as twitchy as ever. “Alright.” the noirette says plainly. His cellmate looks at him from the corner of his eye, and nods with a shaky sigh. “We need to keep the hickies visible. Does every three days sound about right?” Tweek tugs at his hair idly, giving agitated spasms, before nodding begrudgingly.

 

Craig crosses the cell, and sits next to Tweek with a sigh. The blond's reluctance is less obvious, but definitely there. Though for the noirette, it’s more an annoyance than cause for discomfort. He gives a vague gesture, and the blond takes the hint, shrugging out of his jumpsuit and taking his shirt off. As if on cue, the lights in Cell Block B turn off. Somehow that makes it worse--the darkness makes it harder to find a distraction.

 

The sensations seem amplified this time, Tweek jumping at the feeling of Craig’s thumb pressing to the underside of his jaw. His eyes are as wide as they could get, but the world is still dim. The noirette is guiding his head back, and lips are pressing to the spot below Tweek’s earlobe, with teeth digging in lightly. Tweek gives a stuttered gasp, and is horrified by the dull flush of warmth low in his belly. His face feels hot, and his skin tingles. Craig’s hand is suddenly on his hip, as if grounding him, and the blond desperately looks beyond the bars to their cell. It’s only slightly brighter out there.

 

Each nibble and lick has the blond flinching, breath hitching and heartbeat stuttering. His mind is filled with a blind panic. He is not gay. The heat in his abdomen isn’t there--it’s a bizarre hallucination. This is a business transaction; an exchange of services that will benefit both parties. Tweek Tweak is not gay.  

 

This time, Craig’s mouth wanders a little lower, sucking bruises across his chest. The blond arches his back instinctively, and it feels like his face is on fire. He’s pretty sure it was his imagination, but for a moment, it felt like his cellmate was pressing the barest hint of a smirk against his chest. Tweek fixes his gaze on the ceiling, as if looking elsewhere could remove him from the situation. It’s working, at least, that’s what the blond hopes. He’s acting like a child, ignoring what’s happening right now by yelling over the spoken truth.

 

Then his cellmate “accidentally” rolls his tongue over Tweek’s nipple, and the blond can’t stop the startled cry he utters. Craig gives a nearly silent chuckle against his chest, which does absolutely nothing to help with Tweek’s existential crisis, the vibration only adding to the building heat in his core. 

 

Finally, after an eternity, Craig pulls away, and studies the blond’s skin, judging whether it was enough. He nods to himself and walks to his bed, settling in and falling asleep quickly.

 

Tweek is laying on his back now, staring at the ceiling with a multitude of emotions swarming in his mind. He never does fall asleep, blinking hazily when the morning alarm sounds over the speakers. The blond drags himself out of his bed, and starts focusing intently on every task he does, regardless of how small it is.

 

At breakfast, he cuts his food into tiny pieces and eats them robotically. He focuses on everyone else's conversations, tuning out the existential crisis roiling in his head. Yes, it's a crisis. Since getting here, every defining part of the blond's personality has been stripped away, leaving him with small, useless features to cling to. All he has is his paranoia, and his weakness. Who is he now? Tweek is afraid of the answer to this question, whatever it may be.

 

He counts his steps as they thud onto the treadmill in exercise period. Focuses on complete, perfect reps with the weights he uses. Centers his mind on his breathing. Distracts himself from his inner turmoil.

 

In the showers, he studies the tile walls, making up reasons for every crack and imperfection he finds. He'd do anything at this point--anything to stay out of his own head.

 

A blessing in the form of a perfect distraction approaches him at lunch. It's Kenny, with his quiet friend in tow. The white-blond haired young man introduces himself as Leopold Stotch, but everyone just calls him Butters. They sit across from Tweek, McCormick with a flirty grin, Stotch with a friendly smile. “Figured we'd check in, since things have calmed down.” Kenny explains as he scoops mashed potatoes onto his plastic spoon. The twitchy inmate watches as his freckled acquaintance eats his lunch with less than civilized manners. Butters is polite when he eats--small bites and a delicate grip on his utensils. “Okay…?” Tweek asks.

 

Mismatched eyes, one clear and the other clouded, gleam with a warm smile. “Do you have any questions? Any situation is less scary when you understand what’s happening a little better.” Tweek blinks at him before nodding, surprised at the empathetic view Butters had of his situation. Kenny gives his friend a sidelong glance, a small grin quirking his lips. There’s a fondness between them that Tweek doesn’t have the time to properly analyze--Butters is steepling is fingers and humming thoughtfully. “What is your biggest question?” he asks quietly.

 

The twitchy inmate thinks on this for a moment. There’s no point in asking about the system in place; he’s got a pretty solid grasp on that. Schedules are unnecessary to inquire on, they’ll be the same for the whole 14 years he’ll be here, and if they change, those changes will last months at least. His legal rights are also a fruitless venture. Why would Butters have in-depth knowledge of the law? And what difference would it make? He’s already here. Tweek gives some careful consideration. He realizes he wants to know where he stands on the criminal spectrum here. Does he really deserve to be in prison? Maybe the other inmates are much worse than he is. The fact that what he did was murder nags at him, but his curiosity doesn’t abate.

 

“How… How did everyone get here? Er -why were they imprisoned? What … What did they…” Tweek gives a spasm and shudder, but they understand where he’s going with his question. Kenny takes up the conversation now, all too happy to indulge in his interest. “Who are you curious about, pretty boy?” Tweek chooses to ignore the casual compliment, and figures out who he wants to know about first. “Scott Tenorman?” 

 

Kenny outright laughs at this one. “He acts like such a big shot--tells everyone about this murder he had to commit because he was in danger. Asshole just hit a pedestrian while driving drunk. He’s here for manslaughter, and a piss-poor case at that.” Tweek bites his lip. He was convicted for manslaughter too, but based on what he can remember, his crime was significantly more gruesome. “What about Terrence? Davey?” The freckled inmate gives a mischievous grin, makes a show of rubbing at his chin in false contemplation. “Terrence is a real scumbag, went after some drunk girl in a bar, and got caught trying to sneak her out the back door. He fought back, and got arrested for attempted assault. Davey… Hm… He was busted for assault as well, but he just beat the shit out of some guy who was yelling at him in a grocery store. The man started getting aggressive and Davey just freaked.”

 

Tweek wants to know how Kenny learned this information, but decides he’s probably better off being left in the dark. “...What about Damien?” Cracking his knuckles, the flirtatious inmate gives a giggling hum. “His was not bad. He was responsible for a chain of robberies with arson, and only got caught because a little kid saw him, but he didn’t bother to keep the child quiet. Has something against hurting or scaring children, which is weird, since he’s… Y’know.” Butters pipes up. “A very creepy fellow. You wouldn’t think something like small children would be his moral limit.” 

 

Kenny nods with a grin. Moving on. “Jason?” The response is immediate. “Domestic violence.” Tweek racks his brain for names. “That short guy with dark brown hair, kinda quiet--” Butters cuts in. “Kevin.” The twitchy inmate gives a nod. “Black market weapon trade.” This makes Tweek’s eyebrows raise a little. “Douglas?” Kenny is scraping the last of his lunch together as he responds. “Possession of marijuana--a lot more than someone who likes to get high on Saturday nights. A dealer, maybe.” That one kind of makes sense. “That Fosse guy?” Kenny rolls his eyes. “Hate speech directed at some bisexual politician.” The blond racks his brain. “Peter?” Butters wrinkles his nose this time. “Something about little kids.” Tweek shudders--that’s why the dude is so creepy just to look at. There’s a moment where the blond wonders how Peter is still alive; sex offenders, especially those that go after children, don’t last long in prison.

 

Tweek can’t think of any other immediate inmates. Those few were the ones that stuck out most to him. Then, the obvious occurs to him. “What did you two do to get in here?” They blink, and glance at each other. “Lots of stuff.” Kenny says cheekily. “I’ll tell you eventually.” Butters murmurs with an awkward smile. The twitchy blond nods slowly. “Then… Craig?” Kenny’s expression actually falls at this, as if he’d been hoping Tweek wouldn’t ask. “I… Don’t know. He doesn’t talk to anyone.” Butter nods, brow furrowed in something like concern.

 

The question is then turned on Tweek. “What about you, cutie?” Kenny leans into his palm, offering a teasing grin. His soft-spoken friend(if friend is a way to put it) fixes the twitchy inmate with an expectant look. Tweek forces a laugh, skittish and faltering. “Isn’t it obvious?”

 

They don’t acknowledge his attempted diversion. “I got picked up while high.” His voice breaks a little with his follow-up statement. “Don’t remember why. I was probably just being obnoxious on the streets.” This time it’s Butters who leans forward, resting his chin on his steepled fingers, and looks the twitchy inmate up and down. “You don’t remember?” Tweek can’t even bring himself to lie and try to dodge the question. There’s something unsettling about those eyes, one blind and the other off-puttingly clear.

 

With a long sigh, Tweek corrects himself. “I don’t remember what the details are. I was convicted for manslaughter--I… I’d killed my dealer while high.” Kenny seems more than a little taken aback, choking on his water, but Butters manages to keep his shock in check, eyes only widening slightly. With a spasm, he makes an attempt to go on. “I don’t know what’s going on anymore--I didn’t think I could ever do that in the first place, but…” He gives a twitch, beginning to tremble violently.

 

Kenny opens his mouth, probably to reassure or comfort Tweek, but nothing comes to mind. An uncomfortable silence falls over them, but then lunch is over and they go their separate ways, heading to their respective jobs.

 

His crime hangs over his head for the rest of the day, and as he watches the other inmates and their interactions, he realizes what he did was on the worst end of the spectrum, by a lot. The closest he’s heard to his own crime was Scott, with his accidental killing of a pedestrian, and Damien, with deaths not necessarily on his hands. Not directly, anyway. Neither of them had any physical contact with their victims. No malicious intent toward that end.

 

In his cell, he’s quiet, and ominously still, only giving a slight twitch now and then. When the lights turn off, he lays down, and eventually drifts off to sleep. A fitful, short-lived sleep, interrupted by what is probably the worst nightmare he’s ever had in his life.

 

Tweek stands before a judge in the courthouse, and in the stands is a mix of his family and friends, as well as fellow inmates. They all glare at him, faces screwed up in grotesque expressions of revulsion and disdain. The judge is a child. He suddenly realizes it’s himself, at no more than six years old, but he’s staring down with the cold expression of someone ten times his age. “What is your defense?” echoes the voice, high and spiteful. Tweek opens his mouth, but chokes as white dust spills from his lips. He can’t breathe, and it just keeps coming, forming a sizeable mound on the floor at his feet. Tweek falls to his knees, eyes watering and chest burning, and the judge, little Tweek, scoffs. “Tweek Tweak, you are sentenced to 14 years in prison, guilty of manslaughter and possession of a Schedule II stimulant.” is the final utterance of the tiny voice, and all the lights, save for a wide spotlight on Tweek, the adult one, blink out. 

 

He coughs up one last mouthful of crystalline powder, staring at the amount he’s sitting on his hands and knees in, the amount covering the backs of his hands. It reeks of chemicals and sweat, and Tweek tastes blood at the back of his throat. He rolls back to sit on his heels, staring wide-eyed at the darkness as the sound of approaching footsteps breaks the silence.

 

First comes Scott, followed by Terrence, with Davey soon joining them, and they form a circle around the blond, closing in slowly. They have nasty grins on their faces, and they’re laughing as they approach him. Tweek can’t move. He can hardly breathe, and tears start sliding down his cheeks. Davey grabs him, yanking him up to his feet, and instead of undressing him the harsh way they had before, the other three begin to tear his clothes away from his body, the sound of ripping fabric deafening in Tweek’s ears. One by one, other inmates approach, and suddenly they’re all grabbing at Tweek, pulling on his arms and legs in some demented tug of war. They’re fighting over him--fighting over who gets to have the blond to themselves. Then there’s silence, and they drop him, backing away to form a circle. Suddenly Scott is backing up, and a new pair of footsteps echo from the darkness. 

 

It’s a man wearing a grey hoodie, he shoulders his way through the crowd, and walks to stand about two feet in front of Tweek, with his head bowed and face obscured by shadow. After a solid minute of silence, he lifts his head and pushes the hood back, and Tweek starts screaming. His face--what’s left of it--is pulled into a disturbing smile, his intact eye glittering with contempt. It’s his dealer, and the image of death Tweek had forgotten is now staring him down. The right half of his forehead, his right eye, the area around those spots, everything , is caved in, chipped bone glistening with blood, the skin around the crushed bone is torn up and bruised so badly it’s black. His dusty brown hair is matted with blood, and he’s missing teeth, some are broken in by the stray blows that had been dealt to his face. His nose is crushed flat, and his breathing is a horrible, wet, rasping noise, like he’s drowning. Tweek fights against the paralysis that had seized him, fights to get up, to run , but it’s no use.

 

He’s screaming now, limbs too shaky and weak to be useful. The dead man pulls out a pipe, rusty and covered in blood, and strikes him over the head. Tweek crumples and screams, fingertips flying to feel at the wound. There’s blood, and he’s wailing in terror. “ I’m sorry! I’m so fucking sorry! I didn’t mean to kill you! I’m sorry! ” His dealer shoves at his shoulders and his face is being pressed into the floor. There’s the sound of a belt coming loose and a zipper being undone, and Tweek starts screeching again. “ NO! DON’T! PLEASE I’M SO SORRY! STOP! STOP! I’M SORRY! ” The guttural voice, choking on blood and loose teeth, gives an ugly laugh, and the blond just starts emitting wordless wails of terror.

 

Tweek! Fuck’s sake, wake up !” Tweek’s blinking now, and someone’s shaking his shoulders harshly. He looks up through the darkness, hyperventilating when the face above him is his dealer’s , cold and menacing, in the shadows, and starts trying to squirm out of his grip. There’s a slap, sharp and jarring, across his face, and the blond freezes.

 

He blinks in confusion, and realizes there are tears on his cheeks. It’s Craig, brows furrowed and lips pursed in annoyance. “Are you done?” The blond nods, and hastily wipes at his tears, humiliated. “Sorry.” he whispers, voice barely audible. “Whatever.” the noirette gripes, going back to his bunk. Craig looks at him from across their cell, studying his hunched, tense frame. His blue eyes are piercing, and he breaks the deafening silence with a simple, yet intrusive question. “Why are you here?” It sounds different coming from Craig. It’s not the tentative, yet lighthearted inquiry posed by Kenny and Butters. The way he phrases it is blunt, but without any apparent expectation for an answer. Tweek is about to dodge it, as he had tried to before, but decides against it. If his cellmate is going to protect him, he’d probably want to know what really happened. He'd want to know who he was protecting, at least.

 

Meth addiction is an obvious charge for him, that bit is pretty apparent. But most junkies aren’t brought in unless they’ve done something to hurt someone, or cause a disturbance. His voice is small, tremulous, when he responds. “Manslaughter. I killed my dealer while I was high, and they charged me for using meth while I was at the station.” Craig’s expression doesn’t change, which is surprising in itself. Tweek hazards a question of his own. “What about you?”

 

His cellmate’s expression hardens, and he turns to lay down. Apparently, the noirette has no intention of sharing his crimes with the blond. Tweek slowly follows suit, and stares at the brick wall in the darkness. He can’t sleep, not anymore.

 

Not with the image of his dealer, broken, bloody, and vengeful bearing down on him. He knew he had done something unforgivable, but he didn’t remember going that far. Tweek could only recall hitting the man three or four times, but that dream suggests he had wailed on his dealer repeatedly for ten minutes or so, and kept going after he was dead. A violent shudder racks his frame, and he feels queasy. Tweek Tweak is not a violent individual. This is something the blond has believed for the longest time, but now… He’s not sure what to think or feel.

 

A voice, dark and vindictive, whispers from the back of his mind. What right did he have to live? Especially after committing such a terrible murder? Why does he, the perpetrator, get to survive when his victim was brought to an untimely and grisly end? His continued existence is unforgivable. He’s a disgusting creature, too terrible to be called human. Perhaps the respectful course of action would be to join his dealer, by any available means.

 

Tweek begins shivering violently, as the nightmare replays itself in his head, over and over. He’s emotionally numb by the time the morning alarm goes off, unable to think with his sleep-deprived, exhausted mind.

Chapter Text

Tweek has always been a pretty empathetic guy, at least, in his own opinion. When people are sad, he gets sad. When people are mad, he gets mad. When they’re happy, he can’t help but smile along. When there’s fear, he gets scared, too. When someone is horny, well…

 

Empathy is Tweek’s excuse. It’s because of this ability to share emotion that the blond is feeling hot in the face, and there’s a stir low in his guts. Craig is bent over him, one hand gently tilting his jaw up, the other resting on his cellmate’s shoulder, pressing his lips to his throat. There’s a wet sucking sound, nearly silent, as he releases the skin he’d been nibbling at, laving his tongue over the bruise he’d left behind. He’s unrushed, languid, as he moves along Tweek’s neck. His relaxed pace here is nothing new. The twitchy young man focuses on his cellmate’s mannerisms, trying to distract himself from the slide of tongue against his pulse point.

 

Craig Tucker is slow, and deliberate, in everything he does. Eating, showering, exercising… He takes his sweet time, because there really is no rush in prison, even when the guards are yelling at him to haul ass. None of the guards try to engage him unless absolutely necessary, which is understandable, seeing as the noirette is a 6”4’ wall of muscle. He’s got reach, hits impossibly hard, and he’s never too keen on following instructions. As long as it’s convenient, he might listen to others, if, and only if , they don’t make him move any faster than his perpetually leisurely pace.

 

This unhurried approach to every situation is his universal constant, which is aggravating in conversation. The only exception being fights, which he ends immediately. Though, not many challenge him. No one has the guts to argue when he’s letting himself walk painfully slowly. They conceal their agitation when he randomly pauses while talking to them. His leisure is prevalent even in masturbation, and Tweek immediately regrets the route his thoughts have taken, but the memory is there and determined to run its course.

 

He learns this when he’s roused from his distracted, paranoid thoughts at a little past 11 pm by a strange noise. He pauses, unsure if he heard it right, and it happens again. A breathy, slightly vocal exhalation, long and deep, breaks the silence. It’s different from the noirette’s breathing when he is asleep. He glances out of the corner of his eye, and isn’t sure what he’s seeing, silhouetted in the dark. It’s a repeating motion, and Tweek’s face flushes bright red when he realizes what Craig is doing. Now he can guess approximately what his cellmate looks like in the moment, the image completely unwelcome in his mind. 

 

The noirette slowly drags his hand up his shaft, exhaling in that weird sigh as he reaches the tip, before lazily pushing his hips up to his fingers as his hand slides back down. He fucks his fist at that unhurried, languid pace for over twenty goddamn minutes before picking up speed little by little. Tweek tries to dismiss the tightening in his boxers as he listens to soft, drawn out groans in that startlingly deep voice, not even a full five feet from his own bed. 

 

Craig’s hand isn’t even moving all that fast when he cums, but it’s pretty clear he was going hard based on the dull, fleshy thumps that echo in those last few minutes. There isn’t a big indicator that he came either, he just seizes up for a moment with a muffled grunt, and relaxes with a long sigh before tossing cum-stained toilet paper into the toilet and flushing, washing his hands and climbing into bed to fall asleep immediately.

 

He’s startled out of his thoughts by a rough suck to his collarbone, breath hitching and eyes widening. Tweek curls his fingers into his bedsheets, resisting the urge to shove Craig away. The noirette’s hand wanders from his jaw to his abdomen, practically caressing his stomach and moving to thumb at his hip. Tweek can’t help the startled gasp and whimper as his cellmate leaves a hickey dangerously close to his left nipple. Craig gives a muffled groan against his skin upon hearing that noise, which sends vibrations into the blond’s chest.

 

Tweek barely manages to stop himself from arching his back and moving his hips, gaze drifting to his cellmates ministrations. He watches him tilt his head, and suck pale skin into his mouth before releasing it, running his tongue over the mark. Nope. Can’t look at that anymore. He can’t look at the way the saliva on his skin glistens, or acknowledge the hickies littering his chest. Tweek’s eyes wander beyond Craig’s mouth, and hates himself for where they go. There’s a prominent tent in the front of the noirette’s jumpsuit, and his hips give a minute twitch now and then, as if begging for something to fuck. 

 

Tweek averts his eyes again, and catches sight of his cellmate’s expression. His eyes are dark and lidded, on that edge before mindless arousal. The blond presses his legs together.

 

Right. Empathy. It’s empathy that’s giving him a steadily growing hard-on, which is getting terrifyingly close to full-mast. It’s empathy that’s making whimpers build in the back of his throat, threatening to slip at any moment. Two interests conflict in his mind--a desire to palm himself, massage his erection into being fully hard, and a desire to scream, to run away. Suddenly Craig has both hands on Tweek’s hips, nibbling at the lower end of his sternum, and running his tongue up much farther than necessary, pulling away nearly halfway to his collarbones. The sensation leaves the blond’s skin breaking into goosebumps, and he tries to keep his panting as quiet as he is able.

 

Craig looks over his cellmate’s skin, studying the bruises that stand out like bullet wounds on his pale flesh. He sits up, expression unreadable, before his low voice breaks the silence. "Alright, that should be good for now." Tweek immediately curls his knees to his chin in an attempt to hide the faint strain of his half-erection against his jumpsuit. The blond nods, scooting back on his mattress and avoiding Craig's piercing gaze. 

 

He can feel him staring--blue eyes fixed on his bare shoulders and the spindly legs he's pulled in as some kind of defense. Yet the noirette says nothing. He prepares for bed the same way he always had. Jumpsuit shrugged off, shoes and socks removed, curled a little as he faces the wall to compensate for the too-small bed. Tweek briefly wonders if he'll have to sit through his cellmate rubbing one out, and shudders as the mere thought of masturbation(not related to Craig doing it, of course) makes his dwindling hard-on twitch in interest. The blond rolls to face the wall himself, existential terror eventually leaving him utterly uninterested, sexually speaking. He is not gay. He's just really pent up, that's all!

 

...Jesus. When was the last time he jacked it? Definitely a couple of weeks before he was arrested, at least . This comforts Tweek, even if it seems insignificant. Any contact would have him on edge by now. It would be weird if he didn't react to being given hickies. ...Right? The memory of both tonight and last time's meeting resurfaces, Tweek hunches in on himself as he just barely experiences the phantom feeling of Craig's lips on his chest… The sensation of his laughter vibrating against his skin… The glide of his tongue over his nipple-

 

Tweek is horrified by the particularly intense flush of warmth that last thought gives him. He presses his pillow over his head, breathing shallowly until heavy numbness settles into his bones. Eventually, he slips into unconsciousness.

 

* * * * *

 

The clock ticks away on the wall, its even rhythm beginning to drive the blond mad. He drums his feet on the ground, staring at the scuffed toes of his greyed sneakers. His shoulders are hunched forward, hands clasped in his lap so tightly his knuckles turn white. Across from him, a middle-aged woman taps her pencil against a worn clipboard. Her brown eyes are fixed on his trembling form, brows furrowed in mild irritation. “Tweek.” With a start, his head snaps upward, eyes impossibly wide. “Nghh… What?” She rubs at her eyes under her rectangular glasses, heaving a sigh. “We’ve talked about this. Last time. And the time before.” He casts his gaze down again, gnawing at his lower lip. Taking his silence as begrudging acknowledgement, she continues. “You need to take your medication.” Tweek nods. “And you need to stop running away from normal human interaction.” Now he looks up again, a look of panicked protest flitting across his features. “I don’t--” She cuts him off. “Yes, Tweek. You do. I tried hard to gently prompt you into developing healthy relationships.”

 

This time, his eyes focus on the door, as if he debates making an escape. “...But you don’t. You’ve told me about people approaching you in class. You’ve told me about people speaking to you familiarly at work. There are people trying to get to know you.” Tweek pales, and begins to argue. “ Agh! No one would speak to- gah! -to me with good intentions! They would--” His therapist cuts him off again, this time her tone is gentle. “Tweek. You can’t keep avoiding all relationships. Friendships are important. Even if it’s just someone you say hi to every other day. Isolating yourself is just making things harder, both emotionally, and practically. This is crippling you, and others are less likely to treat you with kindness if you ignore them, or accuse them of any intent to cause harm.” The blond tucks his knees to his chin, spindly fingers tangling into his hair. “It’s hard.” he whispers.

 

“I know.” she replies quietly. “But it’s in the past. You haven’t lived with your parents in years . You haven’t spoken to them in about as long. It’s time to start the healing process. Tweek, you can do this. I believe in you.” Now the blond looks at her with fearful uncertainty. “There’s something I want you to do. It’s nothing huge, but it’s a start. If someone says hello, smile. Even if it’s a small smile, just try it. Maybe nod. Say hi back, if you can.” With an exasperated sigh, Tweek nods, and stands. “I’ll see you in two weeks.” she murmurs as he leaves.

 

* * * * *

 

He wakes with a start, breathing shallowly and looking around in the dark. Right, he’s in prison. What would she say if she saw him like this? How would his therapist react if she knew he was arrested after murdering someone? It definitely wouldn’t count as social interaction, that’s for sure. Based on the lighting, he’s conscious well before the morning alarm. In the dimness, he studies the brick wall before him. 

 

Other people have stared at this wall. They slept in this bed. Spent every night in this cell. One day they showed up, maybe it was the worst day of their life, maybe not, and another day, in their future, perhaps after several imprisonments, they left, never to sleep in this shitty bed again. Was prison for them hard? What kind of people were they, to be put in prison in the first place? People don’t get sent here for running red lights, or being caught smoking a bit of pot at a party. Well, usually they don’t. Those people get tickets or fines, maybe they sit at a little county jail for a bit. No, the men here are criminals . Dangerous, heinous, a detriment to society . Tweek gnaws at his chapped lower lip. But how many of them were actually dangerous? How many people got sent here because no one cared enough to say it was wrong? Who spent more than a decade sleeping on this sagging mattress, eating crappy food, and doing menial labor for little to no pay, all because nobody spoke up?

 

….But. Tweek is dangerous. He’d never thought he was, never in his life! Based on that nightmare, however… There was something in him capable of monstrous behavior. His dealer(Was his name Brandon? Bryan? God, it’s so shitty of him to forget his victim’s name.) would have been out cold after two or three hits, dead after five or six, based on how hard he was swinging. The bleeding in his brain would have killed him long before that image could come into being. But Tweek didn’t stop after five or six swings. Or nine, ten, eleven, etc, for that matter. The way his skull was caved in, his teeth shattered, his breathing raspy… Tweek had hit him over and over, for ten minutes, at least. He’d dealt stray blows to varying parts of his face, and his throat as well. His palms had been coated in blood, too, fingers dyed red up to the knuckles and then some. Why were they bloody? All he’d done was hit him, right? How would his palms, covered by the pipe he was holding, get messy at all? He grabs at his hair, tugging on the strands as his mind spins out of control. 

 

Who is he supposed to apologize to? Because he was high, because it was done on impulse, and because of his psychological history(he’d learned about the legal influence of this bit on his way to the bus), his crime was deemed manslaughter. No life sentences. Less than two decades in a standard prison. Was it because they thought of him as pitiful? Was that why he wasn’t on death row? Or did they hate him that much? They must have known how much this would tear at his insides. But he didn’t want a lifetime of guilt. Tweek wanted justice. He wanted closure for the family that was surely mourning. He wanted to die .

 

The morning alarm blares, startling him out of his thoughts. He sits bolt upright, breathing shallowly and staring beyond the bars at passing guards. These thoughts… They've come and gone, but never have they been so intense. Shoving his fear aside, he gets up, and follows Craig out of the cell. 

 

Tweek stares at nothing as he eats his breakfast. His movements are sluggish, and he hardly acknowledges anyone or anything during the walk to the exercise room. By the time he’s reentering the cafeteria for lunch, the blond can only vaguely recall the events that have passed since waking up. Thankfully, however, a familiar voice catches his attention. He stops in his tracks while passing Kenny and Butters’ table, looking between them in curiosity.

 

“As of now, I’ve got damn near all of the inmates, half of the guards, and I’m on my way to getting to the warden.” The freckled inmate murmurs, a smug grin on his face as he brags to the polite blond sitting next to him. Butters hums, nodding as he pokes at his soggy fried chicken and peas, smiling fondly at Kenny’s animated gestures. They both notice Tweek at the same time, waving him over with welcoming smiles. The twitchy young man takes a seat across from them, glancing between the pair in confusion. “What were you- ngh -talking about?” Butters winces a little, though the look he sends Kenny’s way is good-natured. He’s heard this rant before. Clearly enjoying the opening he’d been offered, the flirty inmate introduces a topic he’s apparently quite passionate about.

 

“I’ve got a mission, and it’s running quite smoothly.” he explains, taking a massive mouthful of peas, and chewing obnoxiously. “Mission?” Tweek echoes, turning his chicken over and debating whether this questionable meat is worth potential death. Butters nods, leaning his cheek against the palm of his hand and smiling softly as Kenny’s eyes light up. The twitchy blond has taken the bait; he can now hold him captive for an exhaustive evaluation of his plans for his prison experience. “I’m climbing to the top, cutie. From every damn direction, I’m getting out of here, my way. And I’m making a new life to wait for me outside.” Now he steeples his fingers--his freckled face breaks into a broad grin as his voice drops low. “Every direction…? Top-- Wait. Ngh… Hang on. What .” Kenny chuckles a little, enjoying Tweek’s confused anticipation. “I’ve got influence everywhere. If it’s happening, I know about it. If it’s important, I’m probably involved. Looking for a bottom boy? I’m your networking expert and potential fuckbuddy. Need dirt on an inmate? I’ll dig up whatever you want. You name it, I’ve got it.”

 

Tweek blinks, furrowing his brow. “Bottom-- Wait, but aren’t you-” The look he gets is mischievous. “Well, I mean, yeah. I’ve done my share of sexual favors, and then some. And because of this, I’ve got some valuable allies, and some even more important information.” There’s silence, as the blond struggles to process this. “...Is everyone in- ngh -this prison gay, or…?” Now Butters giggles, waving off Tweek’s naive assumption. “No, no. Actually, very few inmates are any sort of queer.” Kenny jumps in. “Prison is, like, the biggest blue-balling of a lifetime for these guys. Most of them reach a point where they’d fuck anything with a pulse. So if I waltz up to them and offer a little “help,” they’re damn near willing to give me half of their soul. Even the bottom boys are mostly just twiggy straight guys with limited options.” He pauses. “That’s probably why everyone is so focused on you, Tweek. You are an absolute twink, no matter how straight you claim to be. Got that blond hair, and those Barbie doll legs, y’know?” Tweek flushes. “ Ghh . Good to know these assholes are- ngh -after me because I look like a girl. Urgh! That’s so much more reassuring than them being gay.”

 

Butters perks up. “Oh! There’s one inmate I know is gay.” The twitchy young man looks at him expectantly. “He’s the only one that’s open about it, probably because no one would mock him.” It seems his freckled acquaintance has caught on. “Ohhh! Yeah. I forget about that sometimes.” Tweek becomes agitated. “What! Who is it?!” They look at him, Kenny’s expression filled with mirth, Butters’ slightly apologetic. When they answer, it’s ominous how perfectly their voices sync. “Craig Tucker.”

 

The twitchy blond sputters, dropping his spoon and thumping his chest as a pea goes down the wrong pipe. “Wh-what!” He coughs violently. They look at him, a little surprised, though the quieter blond has more concern shown in his features, as Tweek pales, chugging water before his cheeks slowly heat up. It makes sense. Most men don’t pop a boner while just giving hickies. At least, it wouldn’t be nearly so prominent with no contact whatsoever. But… If that was the case… Why didn’t Craig have some other tiny man to drag around? Pretty much at all times? It’s not like he wasn’t strong enough. He didn’t even have to accomodate a shift in his sex life. Tweek learned one thing about his cellmate, but now he has even more questions. The three collectively jump as a loud bang sounds across the cafeteria. Kenny then laughs. "Oh, it's just those two."

 

Tweek follows where he’s looking, and relaxes a little. Yeah, this an interaction even he has seen a few times. Eric Cartman is arguing very loudly with a guard after having his tray knocked aside. The guard in question is Kyle Broflovski, a strict rule-follower, dedicated law-enforcer, and just an angry guy in general. At the moment, his face is damn near as red as his stubby ponytail, his cap apparently knocked off by the pudgy inmate. Out of anger, he'd immaturely shoved the tray out of Cartman's hands. "Really, Kahl?! You wanna go?! Bring it, ya fuckin Jew!" Mostly, the redheaded guard is level-headed, albeit snappish. But there's something about the brunette that drags blatant hostility out of him by the ankles. He seizes the front of Eric's jumpsuit, snarling through his teeth. "Shut your fucking mouth, Cartman." Now the heavy-set inmate cackles. "Whatsamatter, huh? Got your panties in a twist, pussy-ass Jew?" The sound of Kyle's pale fist connecting with Cartman's nose is loud , and blood runs heavily down his chin. "AHH! Help! Police brutality! I'm being assaulted!" 

 

Stan, the only other guard in the immediate vicinity just snickers. His eyes are slightly glazed over as he leans against the wall. Realizing no one was going to humor his whining, the brunette scowls at the redhead. "Fuck you, Kahl." All he gets is a roll of the eyes as Kyle shoves him back, dusts his cap off, and returns to his post. Kenny chuckles, looking over at Tweek with a conspiratorial expression. "Wonder when they're gonna hate fuck?" Butter snorts, smacking his shoulder. "Ken! Keep your thoughts to yourself!" The twitchy blond shrugs, now studying Stan.

 

Prison guards seem to exist on a spectrum. Stan Marsh is a tad easy to rile up, but mostly, he's calm. For fees and/or favors, he'd let just about anything slide. He rarely breaks up fights right away, curious to see how they'd play out. Francis Smith is kind of a boring dude. He follows the rules, rarely stands out, doesn't rise to any instigation he might receive, but also won't step in over mild rule breaking. Lots of inmates like him well enough. Gary Harrison is as obnoxious as he is religious, a devoted believer of the LDS faith. Try to talk to him casually, and he can and will work in a reference to Jesus Christ and/or the Book of Mormon, come "heck" or high water. If inmates so much as swear in front of him, he gets pretty "miffed" and gives them a "verbal warning." Inmates tend to loudly talk about anal sex when he's around, enjoying how flustered and angry he gets. Bill Sanders is a different story. Dude's about as sharp as a teaspoon, and half as civilized. If a fight breaks out, he eggs them on until other guards show up, and breaks them up violently. He actively gives in to inmate offers for favors, letting chaos break out constantly, and laughs along at their crude jokes. Unfortunately, he just can't seem to pick up on mockery directed at himself, laughing unintentionally at his own stupidity. The prison populace enjoys taking advantage of his lack of intellect. Pip Pirrup, recent immigrant from the UK, is quiet, reserved. It seems the ever-present aggression is alarming to him. There are days where it seems like he's too intimidated to do his own job, afraid of being "uncivil." Because of this, discreet violations of conduct take place when he's around. If they're blatant about their misbehavior, that gives Pip grounds to "call for backup." Meaning, he can ask another guard to be the "bad guy." Of the guards assigned to Cell Block B, Bradley Biggle is the newest addition. Hardly 22 years old and cheerfully sociable, he is downright adorable . His warnings are lighthearted, but authentic. He does his job well, but he's not an asshole about it. Everyone likes Bradley. How he'll respond to this harsh environment over time remains unclear. None of the other guards are familiar faces--they work in the other blocks, which have different demographics. On occasion, they've been called over to provide their assistance in restraining inmates. Typically, this occurs because of Craig Tucker. Speaking of Craig… 

 

Kenny suddenly turns to Tweek, smirking. "I almost forgot! Kudos on beelining for Tucker! What a fucking power move!" The twitchy blond blinks, confused. " Nghh . What??" Butter cuts in, tone gentler than his friend's crude congratulations. "What he means is, it was clever of you to pick Craig as a guardian right away. Not to mention brave. He's a pretty scary fellow, so not many inmates ask for his protection. ...How do you feel about it, Tweek?" 

 

Tweek pauses, thoughtful. "I dunno. It's weird, because I'm straight…" He delicately prods at the hickies on his neck. "Especially now that I know he's- agh -actually gay. But, I mean, protection is protection, right? And he still hasn't been violent towards me, at all. ...I guess I don't mind." The pair across from him nod, but before they can respond, the alarm signalling the start of their work shifts sounds.

 

* * * * *

 

Tweek is lost in thought as he finishes his day. Though, rather than experiencing blind panic, he feels anxious trepidation. Not long after he sits on his bunk, cross legged with his back against the wall, Craig shuffles in, sitting across from him and hunching over a book. This time, the blond can see the cover. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky, a novel with worn pages and a beat-up cover. The noirette seems to be hardly a third of the way in, his expression neutral. His eyes are a dull blue-grey, with faint shadows under them. Why would he have bags under his eyes? He always falls asleep right away. Tweek glances over his features, taking note of his unkempt hair(probably not trimmed in a while), his slightly crooked nose(likely broken at some point), and the stubble along his jaw(he rarely shaves). His gaze drifts to his hands, which look calloused and have scar tissue along the knuckles. He's not quite broad-shouldered, though his musculature makes it seem that way. 

 

"What the hell are you staring at." Tweek shrieks, knees lurching up to block his torso; he hides his face behind his folded, spindly legs, pale cheeks flushed so red it reaches his ears. "N-nothing! Gah! Sorry!" Craig pauses, an unreadable look on his face. "If it was nothing, why are you apologizing?" The blond spasms a few times before shrugging awkwardly. "Knock it off." Now his cellmate nods, still hiding.

 

That's another strange part about Craig Tucker. His personality is just one massive, unpredictable, and aggravating enigma. He converses slowly. Takes his time in daily activities. Never speeds up when scolded for walking slowly. But he's impatient. If someone is doing something that hinders him, he immediately breaks them, without a second thought. His violent tendencies come all too easily. Sometimes, he'll just sucker punch some poor asshole for no reason at all. He prefers to isolate himself, and hates interacting with others more than what is absolutely necessary. Rumor has it, he'd beaten his last cellmate into a coma for the guy's repeated attempts to be his best friend. Poor Tommy. He's open about his homosexuality(to a limited degree), yet shows no blatant interest in any other inmates. Even those he protected weren't kept around long. It was mostly one-time favors, and begrudging agreements just to get them to stop whining. He's impossible to figure out. It doesn't stop Tweek from trying, in his compulsion to understand, and subsequently prepare himself, for any oncoming threats.Yet… Despite the hostility, the violence, and overall terrifying attitude, Craig has done nothing to Tweek since their exceptionally short fight(if you could call it that). Their first interaction was a threat from the noirette. Tweek seems more like a burden to him, if anything else. So, why? He's pretty much had to babysit the blond. He's had to go through the trouble of keeping Tweek marked up as his plaything. And by no means is his cellmate a charmer. Anxious to the point of catatonia, a paranoid insomniac, and generally speaking, Tweek is a mess. Why would he put up with all of this?

 

The blond puzzles over this long after the lights go out. There's something going on. Craig's got some ulterior motive. He has to, right? He's planning to kill his cellmate. Or… Maybe someone's paying him to fuck with his head. The associates of the man he killed, probably. Perhaps someone is lacing his meals with a different kind of drug than meth. Some awful hallucinogen that would definitely cause brain damage.

 

Tweek groans tiredly. Even he is tired of the hamster wheel his brain seems to be running on at a dead sprint. Tugging the scratchy blanket up, over his head, he curls into a fetal position, and desperately hopes that sleep will find him.

Chapter Text

He's shaking, clutching at his bony knees as though they could serve as life lines. His body is rigid, shoulders painfully tense as he hunches forward. "I… I can't." The familiar sound of a pencil tapping on a clipboard is nearly driving him insane. God, why does he do this to himself twice a month?!

 

She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, glancing over her notes, before looking at her client with a mildly concerned expression. "Tweek." He shakes his head, whispering to himself desperately. Maybe this woman also has it out for him--and he's paying her for this shit! "Tweek… Look at me." The blond flinches, face paling. Her tone is gentle--it sends an unwanted shiver of long-forgotten emotions down his spine. "Don't." he whispers. "Please don't talk to me like that." His therapist clears her throat, picking up a neutral speaking pattern, despite being hesitant to do so. "Okay. Okay . Tweek, we need to talk about this." For a moment, he tries to humor her, murky green eyes snapping up to meet hers. Nope. Too scary. He resumes staring at the carpet. Taking that little attempt at eye contact as an indicator of his attention, the middle aged woman speaks again. "The girl who asked you out on a date is not going to slip rat poison into your coffee, Tweek." The twitchy young man tenses up, chewing at his lower lip. He sits up a little, rubbing roughly at his eyebrow with the back of his right hand. It was a substitution for a previous tic he'd had--biting his fingernails. At least now, all it did was leave his skin a little red, rather than leading to bloody cuticles. "Nghhh… How do you know?! She-- Gah! She's probably just pretending to like me! So-so she can-!" The woman across from him taps the back of his hand lightly with a pencil. He'd started yanking on his hair out of anxious frustration. "Tweek. I understand why you're paranoid, I really do. And it's absolutely justified. But… There's no need to be so afraid anymore." His body is wracked with tremors.

 

"Tweek, you don't need to be scared of me. Sweetheart, your father and I love you so much! So, please. Please, please stop saying this nonsense. We'd never hurt you! ...Don't you love us? Tweek, please…"

 

The blond covers his face, tears threatening to spill at any moment. "Liar." he whispers, voice shaky and small. For a moment, he tastes raspberry lemonade, with the hint of something acrid lingering on the back of his tongue. He's… Not there, though. He's in an office with someone he only has to see for an hour twice a month. Someone who has respected his boundaries without question. Slowly, he uncurls himself. Carefully, he considers his therapist's statement. "Okay. She's not trying to kill me." Writing something else down, the woman nods. Tweek's face blanches, his breath catching. "What… What if it's something else? She… Might want to-to kidnap me, or-!" His therapist suppresses a sigh, expression falling a little.

 

* * * * *

 

Tweek shuffles along the line to grab breakfast, glancing around the cafeteria nervously. Ah, there's Craig. Sitting at the corner of a crowded table, at least two vacant seats away from the nearest inmate. He's mostly looking at his tray of bland French toast, eating slowly, occasionally glancing up. He meets Tweek's gaze, and the blond's blood runs cold. Now the twitchy inmate stares at his shoes, heart hammering away in his chest. Pissing the noirette off would be a really shitty way to die.

 

He sits across from Kenny and Butters; this was part of his routine now. The pair balanced each other well--chaotic mischief and gentle politeness. Tweek looks between them, left eye spasming a little. They still kind of scared him. Kenny was sort of loud and risque, and flirted with the anxious inmate in a way that was much too earnest for his comfort. Butters was quiet, which was nice, but there was a mystery about him that set Tweek on edge. Why would such a soft-spoken man be arrested, exactly?

 

Tweek begins scanning the cafeteria. He could pick out a handful of inmates that actively provided their "services" for protection and favors. Most of them were pretty attractive, at least, compared to the general population, they were. One man in particular, Evan, had curly brown hair and vivid hazel eyes, a lithe frame, and a flirty personality; he was incredibly popular. He was straight, though--his smile always faltered for a split second when other men touched him; disgust would flicker across his features, but he'd choke it down. The alarm sounds, and all of Cell Block B begins walking to the exercise room. But Tweek remains trapped in his thoughts. Why didn't Craig go after him , with his welcoming facade? Or any of the other inmates with the same mindset? Hell, Kenny would be a better fit for the surly noirette. Tweek is… He's too…

 

Tweek Tweak is scrawny. His joints are knobby, his ribs, collarbone, and hips protrude to an off-putting degree. He's got pockmarked skin from meth abuse, dark circles under his eyes, and wispy hair that has an uncontrollable growth pattern. All he does is twitch, talk to himself, and shriek. He's weak, and cowardly. Tweek scratches at his scalp, running through these same paranoid thoughts for what must be the millionth time.

 

As he jogs on the treadmill, the blond ignores the staring he receives every day, and will likely continue to get for the next 14 years. He switches to strength training after 40 minutes. The exact same routine as yesterday, and the day before. Tweek finds comfort in repetition. After showering, he drags a comb through his hair, well aware of the fact that it would just be a mess the minute it dried. And while passing a mirror on the way to his locker, he freezes. He's been avoiding mirrors for a while--the blond's always disliked his appearance. But right now, he can't help but pause. Last time, the only significant change had been his complexion. His blood runs cold as he studies himself. The scars have faded further, and he no longer looks like a recovering anorexic. Yes, he's still narrow, but it's more wiry than scrawny at this point. He still has yet to grow facial hair, and his skin is still exceptionally pale. The hickies on his neck and chest contrast remarkably against his pasty flesh.

 

Self-deprecation and fearful acknowledgement of reality war within his mind. For a moment, he looks at himself from the perspective of other inmates--slender legs, wide eyes, narrow waist… They're not wrong: if you squint, he could pass as an incredibly androgynous young woman. Sure, he's a tad angular, with features too sharp, to properly be called "effeminate," but it's not like his cellmates are picky. But Craig… He can be as picky as he damn well pleases. So… It really doesn't make sense.

 

Tweek remains fixated on this subject well into the next day. When Kenny and Butters question him about this strange new display of anxiety, he brushes them off. After all, how would he explain being self-conscious in regards to an inmate that has already agreed to protect him? How would he explain any of this? Lists of medications and agreed-upon diagnoses come to mind. These things no longer matter--at least, not in prison. It’s around the time free period starts that Tweek remembers the hickies he’s supposed to receive tonight. His attempt to calm himself by sketching on lined paper proves to be useless. The blond crumples the page up, ruining a half-finished drawing of the birds he’d see every day. At dinner, he drums his feet against the tiled floor, shakily raising forkfuls of spaghetti to his lips. Today feels different. Why does today feel different?! They’ve done this at least seven times now. Yet the atmosphere seems heavier for some reason. Is it because of his new consideration for this situation? Or… Is it because this is the first time Tweek’s being given hickies while aware of his cellmate's sexuality?

 

The walk to their shared cell feels like a death march now--the blond spasms a little as he drops onto his bunk. Craig opts to read until they get closer to lights-out. He seems to prefer doing this in the dark, but has yet to explain why. Tweek fidgets with his sleeves, watching as the guards pass every fifteen minutes or so. Their rounds would become less frequent at around 10:30, not that they’ve bothered to interfere in the past. Suddenly, the noirette marks a page, and shuts his novel, crossing the cell to sit next to Tweek. His grasp on time is better than the blond’s; the lights collectively gutter out, with the only illumination coming from Block B’s office windows on the opposite end of the lower floor. The guards hold dim flashlights, mostly pointed at the ground. For the most part, it’s too dark to see more than silhouettes of the surrounding area. 

 

Tweek automatically sets to unzipping his jumpsuit, slipping his arms out of it, and removes his white t-shirt, eventually resting his hands in his lap and looking in the opposite direction. The feeling of Craig’s hands makes him jump. It shouldn’t; he only tilts his head back, and grabs his shoulder, which is usually how this starts off. Lips press to the tendons in his neck, and when the blond shifts, his face heats up. Somehow, in the process of Tweek’s undressing, the noirette had curled a folded leg around his lower half. He can feel Craig’s left shin brush the back of his hips, and each time his cellmate moves, he’s uncomfortably aware of how close he is, as the mattress shifts under them. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times they’ve done this--the blond still feels the stirring of unwanted warmth low in his belly. He hasn’t been desensitized at all. If anything, it’s the opposite. 

 

Anticipation makes him twitch, and he reflexively curls his slender fingers into the bedsheets, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling. He needs a distraction, quick! “ Ngh … Hey, Craig?” His cellmate releases the skin he’d been sucking at, running his tongue over the fresh bruise idly. “What.” As Tweek fumbles for words, he leans across his torso, to tuck his head into the opposite crook of the blond’s neck. The twitchy inmate’s breath catches at the feeling of his cellmate’s erection pressing against his fucking thigh . He resists the urge to pull away, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Why, uh , why did you pick me?” Craig watches with dull interest as the string of saliva connecting his tongue to Tweek’s shoulder breaks in the limited lighting. “Pick you?” The blond nearly whimpers as his cellmate leans over again, just barely rolling his hips against his leg while sucking at a pale collarbone. Panic flares up in his mind at the feeling of his dick twitching in response. Pent up . He’s just pent up.

 

“I mean- hah -why did you agree to protect me? I- agh -I have no redeeming qualities.” Craig hums against his skin, earning a muffled grunt. He leans back a little, pausing. “Hmm. I guess, at first, I just pitied you.” His cellmate takes a moment to duck down and nibble at the skin on his chest. “But… Now, I guess it’s kind of interesting.” Tweek flinches as one hand lands on his hip, the other splaying against the opposite side of his ribs, pulling him closer to his cellmate. “Interesting?” he echoes, struggling to keep his panting in check. “There hasn’t been this much interest in one inmate in, well… Ever. So, I guess having you around will shake things up a little.” Tweek sighs in the darkness, cursing the traitorous cock currently trying to swell in his boxer briefs. He is not going to pop a boner while his cellmate is sucking on his chest and rutting against his thigh.

 

Though… It’s less of an aggressive grinding motion meant to get off, than it is a light roll of hips to pull a reaction out of the blond. And it’s working, much to Tweek’s dismay. “Oh.” Is all he manages without making an incredibly embarrassing noise. “And the other guys were fucking annoying, so I guess that’s a plus in your case.” The blond makes a noise to indicate confusion, not trusting himself with words. He’s too busy willing his own dick into going flaccid. “They all got super uppity, and demanded special treatment. I don’t have time for that shit.” he murmurs, licking along his cellmate’s sternum. Tweek hums, looking idly beyond the bars to their cell. “I guess- ngh -they didn’t pick up on where they- agh -they sit in this arrangement. You’re protecting them , right?” This isn’t said to appeal to Craig(not that he’d assumed it would work at all), though the blond misses the way his cellmate pauses to glance at his face. He gives an odd little huff--it takes a moment for Tweek to recognize it as a laugh. “You’ve hardly been here for a month, and you’ve already got it.” The twitchy inmate shrugs a little, eyes slipping shut for a moment. “It seems pretty straightforward-- Ah!

 

He unintentionally gives a rather loud whine as Craig simultaneously thumbs at one nipple, takes the other into his mouth, and presses his cock just a little harder against the blond’s thigh. It feels like his face had burst into flames, and Tweek bites at his lower lip, struggling to ignore the way his dick just throbbed, damn near going fully erect in an instant. The noirette utters a silent chuckle against his skin, both hands dropping to his hips as he leaves a last hickey on his cellmate’s pulse point.

 

Craig slowly pulls back, using the side of his palm to wipe at the remaining saliva on his chest and neck. "And, at the very least, you wear hickies well." His voice had dropped low, and Tweek immediately retrieves his shirt, making a shitty attempt at masking his shudder as a cough. "O-okay." he whispers, unsure of how he's supposed to respond to this entire spiel. With that, the noirette stands, stretching, before settling into his own bunk for the night. The blond rolls over to face the wall, curling in on himself and staring at nothing with wide eyes. He wasn’t even sure where to go first, mentally. His mind just sort of… Fragmented. The pieces seemed to stretch in every direction, his brain grabbing onto and needling every thought worthy of paranoid consideration. Was he just… Built for prison? Was that why he adapted so quickly? Immediately distancing himself from others, going for Craig the minute his weakness was revealed, and remembering his place in this hierarchy, regardless of how safe he might seem… He was clumsy, and awkward, and scared out of his mind, but… 

 

Tweek knew, in his gut, where to go, how to walk, what to do. He knew how to behave, and what to anticipate. It was the primal desire for survival that guided him, but it just couldn’t quite muffle this existential dread. He hadn’t known these parts of himself even existed. Only a little more than a month ago, he went on a date with a girl and skipped early when she tried to kiss him! Now, here he is, letting a man (one that terrified him, no less) he’s hardly spoken to give him hickies and label him as personal property. He’d always been nervous, and paranoid, but he’d never been aggressive; not from what he remembered, at least. But… Now Tweek Tweak is a murderer. A young man who’d killed someone at the age of 22, who spent the first two weeks of prison foaming at the mouth and daring others to approach him. The instinct for self-preservation quarrels with an intense temptation to silence the world, and himself, forever. 

 

This contrast digs at something deep in his mind--like a silver spoon dragging the dregs of loose tea to the surface of a cup, something long-forgotten and avoided begins to surface. His stomach tightens, and the blond hides his face in his hands. An ache, old and familiar, tugs at his insides. The constant feeling of teetering on the edge of sanity, and an unpredictable environment…  Never knowing what those around him were about to do, or whether he was safe… Two faces swim in his memory. Reassuring crooning, listless confusion, and the jarring sound of police sirens. Panic attacks, a sharp pain in his left arm, and sedatives administered by needles. Hundreds of pill bottles, caffeine withdrawals, and the acrid taste of raspberry lemonade. Tweek tangles his fingers into his hair, gripping at his scalp as his body shakes, and muffles the whimpers building in his throat. He buries his face in his pillow to hide the tears that have begun to fall, and regrets ever having been born.

 

* * * * *

 

Tweek jumps a little when he wakes up, sitting upright and looking around. It’s still pretty dark, though the office on the other end of Cell Block B is a little busier than it would be in the wee hours of the morning. It must only be an hour or so before the wake-up signal goes off. He crosses his legs, and wipes at his eyes, wrinkling his nose at the feeling of dried tears on his cheeks. In a couple of days, he will have been here for a month. It already feels like a decade has passed, but, no. Thirteen years and eleven months to go. That’s what he’d have to show for the experience he’s had thus far. God, who was he kidding? 

 

He can’t do this. He’s not going to make it to the end of his sentence. Honestly, it’d be surprising if he made it through one fucking year , much less nearly a decade and a half. If he does leave this place, 36 years old and changed beyond recognition, what will he have to return to? This shit is going to stain his personal record for the rest of his life! There will be no dream career. There will be no comfortable settlement into a livable job. The minute he re-enters society, it’ll be nothing but minimum wage jobs and whispering behind his back. He’s really ruined everything for himself. Absolutely fucked himself over. Things just keep getting worse, and worse for him. Life is cruel. Life is too fucking cruel. Why couldn’t anyone, or anything cut him some slack?! It will have been hell from start to finish. ...And he just let this shitty circumstance mow him over. No fighting back. No making the best of his situation. Tweek has had twenty two years of meaningless suffering. 

 

Why let it go on? If he knows it’ll all be pointless, why does he keep moving forward? This has to be pretty awful to watch, too. Why should he make other people witness this travesty? Tweek begins to find solid reasoning in this internalized debate. His hands ache as his mind catalogues his options. Medications are not freely available to the inmates. He’d have to break into the infirmary to make that attempt worthwhile. The inmates around him either didn’t have the means or the hatred necessary to do it for him. He’d have to poke around, get a better grasp on--

 

The alarm goes off, and he jumps, nearly falling off of his bunk with a shriek. Tweek’s mouth snaps shut the minute Craig sits up across from him, not daring to make a noise that might upset his cellmate. They walk to morning roll call, the blond trapped with his own thoughts. When breakfast starts, the twitchy inmate grabs his tray immediately and sits down, with Butters and Kenny joining him shortly after. The three had grown close enough for casual conversation to become the norm for them, and for a feeling of comradery to take shape. Kenny, oblivious to his friend’s vacant stare, starts prattling on about a couple of inmates that had arrived a few days ago. But Butters studies his pale face, and the way he sluggishly eats the abomination that could only loosely be described as an omelet. He’s about to ask Tweek what’s wrong when a thud accompanied by the bang of a tray makes the group jump. They all look over at the same time, but their responses are varied.

 

It’s Craig, sitting closer to the three inmates than would be considered normal for him(only one vacant seat between himself and Tweek), and hardly acknowledging their presence. Butters regards him with confusion, though there’s no negative anticipation in his expression. Tweek immediately begins trembling, staring at his breakfast while his brain moves through an infinite number of reasons for his cellmate’s change in routine. And Kenny immediately begins to grin smugly at the stoic inmate currently sitting across from him. “Oh? Tucker, I see you’ve changed your mind about my offer.” Craig rolls his eyes, biting into sad, floppy bacon. “Not in your wildest dreams, McCormick.” Now Butters can’t help but laugh a little as his freckled companion makes a valiant attempt at seducing the unresponsive noirette. 

 

“C’mon pretty boy! How do you know you don’t like it if you’ve never tried it?” Craig looks up from his breakfast, responding in his usual deadpan. “Well, I’ve never fucked a blender, but I’m pretty sure I still wouldn’t appreciate the experience.” Tweek, too caught up in this bizarre interaction to stop himself, chokes on his milk mid-sip, laughing quietly. Butters immediately stares at the twitchy blond.

 

He’d never seen Tweek smile in a way that wasn’t inauthentic and nervous, much less heard him laugh, even if that laugh was muffled by shitty skim milk from a carton. Craig glances at him from the corner of his eye, and the reserved blond notes the faintest spark of an undefined emotion flickering in his expression. This has the potential to be interesting. Kenny, stubborn as ever, gives it another go. “Ouch, Tucker. You’ve really wounded my pride. I’ll have you know I’ve never been compared to a blender. I’m capable of magic you’ll only see once in a- fucking ouch-! ” He lurches forward, rubbing at the shin Craig had just kicked before laughing lightheartedly. “I’ll win you over one day, asswipe.” The noirette rolls his eyes. “Uh-huh.” Butters chuckles, glancing at Tweek again. There’s a smile on his face, small and timid, and fear is still present in his eyes, but the fidgety blond doesn’t look ready to bolt just yet.

 

Exercise period begins, and Tweek becomes aware of a different presence near him. He doesn’t dare glance over--if it’s who he thinks it is, he’d be better off staring at the wall. Even without seeing him, the blond’s pretty sure it’s Craig. The number of inmates staring at him seems to have lessened today; they seem to be giving him a pretty wide berth, so it seems like only one person is actually close to Tweek. 

 

He’s not sure if this is better or worse. Sure, he likes being near less people, and now the other inmates are even less likely to try to mess with him now, but Craig…

 

Craig is intimidating. And unpredictable. And actually allowed to touch him . Last night’s events come to mind, and the blond shudders. His cellmate is gay. Not a desperate straight dude begrudgingly fucking another man with a woman’s face in mind. He’s 100% okay with sticking his dick in another guy’s ass, and seems to have had his fair share of sexual adventures, if the shit he’s been doing to his cellmate’s chest is any indicator. And Tweek’s been “responding in kind,” so to speak. He has yet to see an outright erection, but there’s no longer room to deny his ready responsiveness to the touch of another fucking man . But he’s straight! Tweek Tweak is straight! He rarely masturbates, and he can count the number of times he’s had sex on one hand, so logically, this just means he’s incredibly pent up.

 

...How many times has he had sex, exactly? He knows it hasn’t been many, but the memories themselves are foggy. He’d been high. For the longest time, his mindset has been “Tweek Tweak stops existing when he’s high, so all events that take place during this time never happened.” Obviously, this stops working when you kill a man while spun out, but he’d never bothered to consider any other behavior beyond immediate memory. ...The implications of what he is able to drag up aren’t pleasant. Tweek drops the subject with disdain as he walks to the showers. Best not to think on these things now. They’re not helping with his crisis, anyway.

 

He sits with Kenny and Butters again at lunch, and the group is only moderately surprised when Craig takes the same seat he had during breakfast. “I see you just can’t get enough.” the freckled inmate says with an innuendous grin. “Uh huh. Or, there’s a new inmate at my table that I can’t fucking stand.” Butters laughs, patting his friend’s shoulder in a consoling manner as Kenny pretends to sulk. “Who is it?” Craig glances over his shoulder. “Some diabetic guy with a side lisp. He never fucking shuts up.” Tweek follows his cellmate’s gaze in mild interest. Sure enough, there’s a new face at his old table. The man is slightly pudgy, freckled, and speaks a tad too loud for the setting. He seems nice enough, but the blond can tell his presence alone is pretty exhausting. “Well then, welcome to our lovely table, Tucker-babe.” Kenny says with a wink. The noirette just stares at him for a moment. “Don’t fucking call me that, McCormick.” This receives a giggle, but no further taunting.

 

And so begins the new routine of Craig Tucker sitting with Tweek, Butters, and Kenny for their meals.

Chapter Text

This is entirely too nerve wracking. At first, Tweek had just patiently waited for his cellmate to lose interest, for things to stray back to the original routine. But… It's been a goddamn week, and Craig is still essentially following him around, staring over his shoulder, and just settling into the blond's personal bubble. Tweek wants nothing more than to ask the noirette what the fuck he wants. But he doesn't dare phrase it that way. Craig would undoubtedly cut his tongue out, or break his jaw, or something equally horrific. So Tweek says nothing. 

 

Kenny is chattering about the latest guard-inmate interaction drama, Butters nodding along and occasionally correcting him. The twitchy blond across from them can't seem to focus on this exceptionally engaging topic of conversation, though. He's entirely too occupied by the presence of a man twice his size, sitting right fucking next to him . Have you ever had performance anxiety while eating ? Tweek had never registered it as a possibility, much less have it happen to him. But here he is, self conscious about the way he eats scrambled eggs. He can feel Craig's eyes lazily glancing up from his own breakfast to study his cellmate's trembling hands, his pale face, his hunched posture… And this scrutiny continues, as it had yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that , and so on. One week of being stared down by the scariest human being the blond had ever encountered.

 

His arms quiver as he does push-ups, struggling to withhold a paranoid screech of aggravation. Why now?! Why is Craig suddenly fixated on him now?! And he doesn't say anything, either! No questions, or comments--he just stares . It's not the perverted leer every other inmate gives him, not even in the showers, no. It's just idle analysis, like his cellmate is a fascinating little animal to examine and ponder over. And somehow that's even worse! Tweek can't figure out where this new fascination is coming from, whether it's a good or bad sign, or, or… He's got nothing to go off of! Nothing at all! An entire fucking week of being stalked by the guy who gives him hickies and beats the shit out of people for no fucking reason. Breakfast, exercise, showers, lunch, meeting up after work for free period, then dinner, and before lights out. All day with this psychopath! He's not super obvious about it with other people present, either. No one else can see Tweek's predicament, so his worsening anxiety seems utterly random.

 

Finally, the blond cracks during their free period one day. He'd opted to sit in the library and sketch, and of course, his cellmate sits across from him, picking up his novel. Tweek begins drawing the outline of a mouse, not concerning himself with photo realistic accuracy. As he begins cross-hatching its body, darkening the lines, and texturing the fur, the blond pauses. He looks up, and… Yep. Craig is studying the way his hand moves, not the printed text in his book. "Is there something wrong?" he asks the noirette without thinking. His cellmate quirks a brow, not following. Tweek clears his throat awkwardly. " Ack -- I mean… You've been staring at me for more than- ngh -more than a week. I just… Why?" Craig hums, marking his page, and sets his book down. Now he makes eye contact with Tweek, considering his response.

 

"You're interesting." The blond blinks, clearly confused. "It's boring as shit here--I've been here for four fucking years, and nothing changes. Inmates come and go, and they all act exactly the same." There is no warmth in his cellmate's tone; this is an objective analysis, not a fond appraisal. "You came in, screaming at everyone, and it took you all of two weeks to get the gist of how things work. And even if you're in the best position possible in terms of safety, you still flip your shit regularly. You're always ready to explode, which is weird, since you get too little sleep to make hyperactivity easy. You're interesting to watch." Tweek blinks, thinking his cellmate's reasoning over carefully. 

 

It does make sense. It's obnoxious, but it makes sense. Eventually, the blond nods, strangely relieved by this revelation. There was no malignant intent behind his cellmate's new behavior; the man was just bored out of his fucking mind, and Tweek was just a reprieve from the monotonous cycle they'd all have to endure. "Okay." He awkwardly resumes sketching, slowly becoming absorbed in the task. Without the evident presence of danger, he's able to settle comfortably into his seat rather quickly. And with no one else in the library to startle him, Tweek is eventually oblivious to his surroundings, body settling into a position that could only be described as nightmarishly uncomfortable to the passing onlooker. He hunches forward, leaning his forehead against the knuckles of his right hand; slowly, his right leg comes up onto the wooden chair, laid open and curled loosely to the side, followed by his left leg, which he bends at the knee and tucks to his chest, heel resting on the edge of his seat. As if tiring of reaching around the limb pulled close to his body, the blond gradually, unconsciously, splays his left leg, slouching until his left shoulder is in front of his knee, torso slouching further between his legs than should be fucking possible . His left hand scribbles loosely, in a halting, jittery fashion, and the twitchy inmate's eyes droop, almost sleepy in appearance. Craig watches as a cat joins the mouse, then a few bottles, a jar of paintbrushes, and some impressive sketches of the faces of guards and inmates. As Tweek begins sketching a thin snake coiled around the wrist and fingers of a calloused hand, his cellmate speaks up. "How long have you been sketching?" 

 

The blond jumps, as if he'd actually forgotten Craig was there, eyes immediately going wide, body seizing up. He gives a shaky exhalation, tapping his pencil against the beaten up table. " Ngh -- I dunno? I've been drawing for most of my life. I started actually practicing when I was… Agh -eight? Maybe nine?" His cellmate looks at the cruel, beady eyes of Eric Cartman, which seem to sink into his fat, grinning face. The shading is a chicken scratch mess of cross-hatched lines, which contrasts oddly against the smooth, almost looped, markings that give the antagonistic inmate his facial shape. It's realistic, but distorted, and unnerving to look at. "How old are you now?" Tweek flinches again, accidentally leaving a dark mark on the pinky ring of the snake-bearing hand he's still outlining. He swears under his breath before glancing up at the noirette. "Twenty-two." There's a pause. "How… How old are you?" For a moment, it looks like his cellmate might just ignore him, but then…

 

"Twenty-three." Tweek freezes, looking up at Craig incredulously. One, he's younger than he looks. Honestly, the blond had assumed he was nearly 30, mostly because of his attitude, and the facial hair. And two, this would mean… Craig Tucker was arrested at the age of 19. Not a teeny offense that would land him in county jail for a month, either. No, he's already been here for four years, and based on his behavior, he'd be here a while longer. "Oh." The noirette just studies him idly, blue-grey eyes drifting over his features. Overhead, the alarm signalling the end of free period sounds, startling a shriek out of the trembling inmate. They walk to dinner, Tweek with his short, swift footsteps, Craig strolling languidly a couple of feet behind with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

 

Kenny starts up with his chatter as usual, though Butter glances between the pair across from them curiously. At lunch, Tweek had been pale in the face, and shaking like a leaf, but now he only twitches every now and then. In only a few hours, he'd calmed significantly--though there was no clear reason for this. "You seem to be feeling better, Tweek." The shaky blond chokes on his Salisbury steak(or whatever its equivalent would be in dog food, maybe), looking at those icy eyes with shock. How can a blind eye still feel so… Observant ? He is blind in that eye, isn't he? Butters clarifies. "Your nerves have calmed down a bit. I was starting to worry." It's never direct with this asshole; the enigmatic inmate always prods issues from an innocuous angle, which somehow is more intrusive than an outright interrogative question. He can't get defensive with this approach. Tweek shrugs. Suddenly, Craig of all people speaks up. "He was scared that I was gonna kick the shit out of him." Kenny perks up, before grinning cheekily. "And you're not ? I'm shocked." The noirette scowls at him idly. "Watch yourself, dickstain. I'm not afraid to snap you in half." The flirty inmate doesn't miss a beat, fluttering his eyelashes. "Can we establish a safe word first, darling ?" Craig doesn't bother to humor him, only giving a huff of contempt.

 

Butters just chuckles, glancing between the pair as Kenny continues his valiant attempt at seducing the noirette. Tweek sits there, shocked into silence. Craig knew the whole time?! And he did nothing to ease his cellmate's mind?! He can't even bring himself to be angry--the noirette's poker face honestly had him convinced Craig had no clue what was going on. But… If that's the case, what else does he know, but hasn't yet mentioned? Does he know something that could potentially kill Tweek?! Dammit! Why does his cellmate just so happen to be the biggest stone-faced bastard in this shithole?! Yet… Despite these paranoias, the blond finds his anxieties steadily starting to abate.

 

Within a few days, Tweek has learned to just live with his cellmate's strange behavior. There are moments where he actually becomes oblivious to the noirette's presence, unaware of his analytical gaze, much less the thoughts that might accompany it. Oddly enough, Tweek is comforted by the questions they might occasionally exchange, the other giving a short answer. Sometimes one would make a brief comment, the other offering a silent acknowledgement. For the most part, though, they didn't speak. And this… This was something the blond was okay with. He preferred the quiet, the lack of inclination to converse. It eased some of the anxiety from his mind, and the fact that Craig's presence essentially halted all harassment from other inmates made it all the better. Tweek began to feel… Comfortable, impossible as it may seem.

 

And just as quickly as the blond adapted, a new problem arose. This problem just so happened to be centered around his stoic cellmate. Gradually, Craig began to become irritable, for no apparent reason, and even directed some of this agitation at Tweek. He began to stomp around, always displaying that subtle scowl, maintaining a cold tone, and generally speaking, being an absolute asshole. This carried on for three days before there was a breaking point. 

 

Other inmates were confused by the noirette's growing hostility, but knew better than to ask. Well, almost all of them knew. During lunch, Craig had been shouldering his way through a crowd of inmates to take his usual seat, when Eric Cartman just had to open his fat fucking mouth. "Ay! Tucker! Noticed you've been pretty pissy lately! What, are you on your period or--" His comment is cut short by a swift jab to the throat, Craig's knuckles rendering his taunt a garbled mess of sputtering and choking. Gary, the guard on duty for lunch, is having none of this "tomfoolery, by gosh!" He struts out, baton in-hand. The noirette scowls, but doesn't try to pick a fight with the pious guard. He's escorted to sit in the isolation cell for his work shift and free period. As to be expected, Tweek finds that his cellmate is even angrier after his glorified "time-out" session. So when they sit in their shared cell, the blond has a sneaking suspicion tonight is going to be fairly awful. Craig tries to read, but after forty minutes or so, he tosses the novel down with a growl of irritation. He tries just throwing the stress ball the prison offers inmates once a month against the wall--a game of catch with himself. This hardly lasts more than ten minutes before the noirette hurls it at the brick like a baseball, watching with annoyance as it sails between the bars to their cell. Craig then hovers at those cell bars, staring at the guards who pass, glaring at them, silently daring them to pick a fight. This lasts twenty minutes. He returns to his bunk with a mutter of contempt. The blond inmate watches his attempt to manage his rage with horrified fascination, frequently glancing at the clock. Finally, he simply sits upright, facing Tweek, and just glowers at him.

 

It's pretty impressive, how long it takes for Tweek's composure to crack: five minutes instead of two, though the way his voice breaks is still rather pitiful. "What?!" Craig's expression darkens further. "I've been pretty fucking patient with you, but I'm about done." The blond tenses up, terrified and confused. "What?! What- gah! What did I do?!" The noirette grits his teeth. "I'm pent-up as all hell, and I don't fuck something other than my own hand right now , I'm gonna lose my shit." Tweek's eyes boggle, and his face turns scarlet. "I-I don't--" Craig cuts him off. "I know you're not stupid, Twitch. You knew this shit was your responsibility from the start." His twitchy cellmate flinches, looking around desperately, before nodding shakily. "I mean yeah, I guess…" 

 

The moody inmate is quiet for a moment, judging the blond's expression. Once he's certain it's compliance he's seeing, Craig relaxes a little, like a petulant child being pacified with candy. "You've got two choices: my dick's going down your throat or up your ass. What's it gonna be?" A fresh wave of panic washes over Tweek. Which would be more gay? And which would be more painful? And there's the unspoken third option of saying no, and deciding to fend for himself from here on out. But… Tweek is a realistic individual in these situations. Being allowed to choose between oral and anal is better than being forced to do both. Probably at the same time, knowing the fuckers around here. Back to the sexuality crisis. 

 

If he takes it up the ass, it's gonna fucking hurt, and that's about as gay as it gets. But! If he gives head, he's actively doing the gay thing, and, plus, he's not sure he can trust himself to do well enough to satisfy his horny cellmate. At least if he just lets Craig stick it in his ass, he can go limp, and try really hard to pretend nothing's happening. No participation necessary. ...God, this is the fucking worst . "Up the ass…?" he supplies meekly. Craig relaxes further, reaching behind his bed and talks over his shoulder. "Alright, strip." Tweek's face heats up, and he painfully slowly, hesitantly, unzips his jumpsuit and slips out of it, still in his tank top and boxers. "C'mon, spaz. I can see you having your dudebro sexuality crisis. Take all of it off." With an unintentional whine of displeasure, the blond strips the rest of his clothing off, curling up on his bunk and shivering from the cool air. When Craig gets up from his bunk, the lights collectively gutter out, and Tweek's breath catches in his throat. "On your hands and knees, Tweek." The twitchy inmate looks at him incredulously, eyes wide with horror. "What?!" That's like the worst position possible! Now he'd really be a bitch! He can faintly see his cellmate roll his eyes in the dim lighting. "It's less painful, and I'd assumed you wouldn't want to have to look at my face." Tweek's mouth snaps shut, and he yanks at his hair for a moment, giving a discontented whimper, before nodding and getting onto his hands and knees.

 

His head hangs between his arms for a moment, and he jumps as Craig's weight makes the mattress behind him dip. The noirette kneels between his calves, nudging his thighs further apart, and Tweek can hear him unzipping his jumpsuit. However, the strange sound of a cap popping open makes the blond tense up, and he begins to hyperventilate. Craig grabs at his left hip, kneading the pale skin almost lovingly, which is sickeningly ironic in itself. "It's just olive oil, calm your tits." His dull tone contrasts strangely with the way his fingers massage Tweek's side, and the blond nods with a sound of anxious apprehension. The jittery inmate gives a rough swallow, breath hitching and eyes filling with fearful tears, when that hand moves to press his legs further apart, putting his ass on display. "Breathe." is Craig's deadpanned advice. He braces himself for a cock being shoved in all the way, for tearing muscle and cries of pain, for a rough fuck that would destroy him emotionally. But that's not what he gets.

 

Tweek gives a little gasp at the feeling of a single calloused finger, slicked by olive oil, circling his rim. "Hey. You gotta breathe. It'll make it hurt less." Craig reminds him, gently pushing his middle finger into the blond. Tweek forces himself to give a long exhalation, emptying his lungs completely, before taking even, slow breaths. He can feel the noirette's finger prodding at his insides, pushing it in and out, and occasionally curling the digit. 

 

This… Isn't so bad. Mostly, it feels weird. Why do gay guys like this, exactly? He feels his cellmate's weight settle over his back, his clothed chest pressing against his shoulder blades. Craig adds a second finger, thrusting them in and out slowly and occasionally scissoring them. Sure, every now and then, it feels like his fingers glide by something that feels really good , but those brushes happen in time with the wet presses of lips and tongue Craig keeps peppering against the back of his neck and shoulders. It must be the association that's giving him minute sparks. And mouth contact of this type would to that to anyone, really. 

 

Huh. Tweek… Really isn't gay . Tweek Tweak is straight. He gives a breathless laugh as Craig mouths at the nape of his neck, free hand landing near Tweek's head to prop himself up. Honestly, the tenderness his cellmate is showing is unexpected, though Tweek isn't about to question it. He's not being hit or shoved around, and it seems like the noirette has no intent to hurt him. This really is the best he's gonna get in terms of agreements for protection. "Are… Are you some kind of hopeless romantic, or…?" he teases, becoming more and more relieved by this revelation. Yeah… Even with Craig's gentleness, Tweek's not feeling any more arousal than he would when his cellmate marks up his skin. The noirette huffs against the swath of flesh between his shoulder blades. "Sure. Whatever." Two fingers becomes three, and the blond decides he might as well get comfortable. He drops from an upright position on his palms to his elbows, face hovering near the mattress as he shifts. Craig follows him down, holding himself up with a forearm close to his cellmate's clasped hands. Those fingers curl and flutter, and Tweek studies his own dick, barely reaching half-mast, reassured by the fact that it's caused by the hickies being added to his back, not some newfound interest in being penetrated.

 

Suddenly, Craig sits up on his heels, and the blond can hear the bottle opening behind him, followed by the slick sound of his cellmate lubing his dick up. The noirette gives a groan, low and guttural, and Tweek can only assume he's taking a minute to jack it, oblivious to the way he studies the twitchy inmate's lithe form in apprehension. "Alright, breathe. This might sting at first." He can't help but jump a little as Craig gropes at his ass with one hand, pressing the cheek aside. There's a moment where the head of his cock presses at his entrance, the noirette guiding it in, slowly, steadily. Tweek reminds himself to breathe, trying to ignore his cellmate's muted panting. And it really doesn't hurt much, which is a surprise of its own. Finally, the noirette bottoms out, and resumes his original position, laying over the blond's quivering form. One arm returns to its spot near Tweek's head, the other bands around his waist, pulling him just a little harder onto his pulsing length. And boy is it pulsing. 

 

The blond can feel those little veins twitching inside of him, Craig's chest heaving through his white tank top. His breath ghosts over Tweek's ear, and those fingers press lightly into his side. "Fuck, you're so tight ." he groans breathily into his cellmate's ear. Tweek tries to suppress a shiver and fails. The noirette tilts his head, burying his face into the blond's shoulder and sucks at the arch where his neck joins with his shoulder. Then, he slowly, almost delicately, pulls his hips back, easing himself halfway out, before pushing back in at the same languid pace. He repeats this a few times, waiting for his cellmate to adjust and loosen up a little more. After a few minutes of tentative thrusting, the noirette leans his chin against Tweek's shoulder, suddenly rolling his hips with an unexpected amount of force. The blond manages to suppress a gasp, eyes going wide. He'd brushed by that stupid spot again, but it was more intense this time, offering more promise than the glancing contact(that could have been a hallucination for all he knew) from a few minutes ago. Craig moans again, experimentally changing the angle as he pushes in. He rolls his hips again, pushing his cock a little deeper, and this time, he hits that spot head-on. Tweek's back arches, face flushing. " Angh--! " Stars explode in his vision, and his abdomen floods with hot arousal. Craig pauses before running his tongue against the blond's neck with a low chuckle. He positions himself once more, purposefully aiming for his cellmate's prostate and fucking him with enough force to make the old bunk's steel frame squeak and rattle. Wet squelching and the dull sound of thumping flesh fills their cell. Tweek's mind is a mess of blind panic, and he's unable to contain the whines the noirette is dragging out of him. It feels good. It feels really fucking good , and it shouldn't. The blond struggles to tell himself it's actually the opposite, that this actually fucking sucks , biting his lower lip so hard it bleeds. His mouth fills with the taste of copper as his world falls apart at the seams. Craig is pounding that little knot incessantly, slowly, but roughly, enjoying the way Tweek spasms and clenches around his cock.

 

This isn't happening. It just can't be. Tweek's had a stroke, that's all! He's straight , remember?! The throbbing between his legs isn't real! If he looks between his own quivering thighs, he'll just see his soft, uninterested dick hanging there, limp as a wet noodle. He's had an aneurysm and this is some kind of fever dream, where his brain is giving him phantom tingling where nothing is happening. He'd just have to look down , which he doesn't have to, because he's so very aware of his obviously flaccid penis! No need to check, 'cause he's straight! This is fine! Yet… Foolishly, he does just that, hazarding a glance. Yes, his cock is hanging there, but it's not flaccid. It's not merely erect either--no, his dick's so engorged with blood it's nearly purple and swaying heavily between his legs; Tweek watches with growing horror as it practically weeps onto his sheets, that pearly substance leaking heavily from the tip. He's so hard it hurts , unintentionally moaning loudly as Craig pounds into him twice without warning, the thrust is hard enough to make the blond's cock slap against his stomach and smear precum just below his navel. 

 

Ohgodohgodohgodshitfuckohmyfuckinggod!!! Tweek's vision blurs as tears of frustration fill his eyes. Craig's rumbling vocalizations of pleasure, the hand now groping at his chest, the way the cock in his ass throbs as it rams into his prostate…. The blond's hands ache with the urge to tug his own dick, to alleviate the pressure low in his guts. But he can't . He can't cum. Not now. Not with a dick in his ass. No, that's not allowed. However, his body seems to have different plans. He hasn't cum once in at least two months, after all. Despite the screaming in his mind, he finds himself pushing back onto Craig, desperation winning over his crisis. His dick hurts, and every place where the noirette's hands brush feels electrified. Tweek begins to unravel, rocking back mindlessly, uttering a stream of whimpers and quiet moans, and his cellmate slows for a second, unsure if his responsiveness was his imagination, before giving a nearly silent laugh. He nips at the nape of his cellmate's neck before grabbing at his hips and pulling him back roughly a few times until Tweek took the hint, slamming himself against Craig's hips without being guided. Now the noirette props himself up, hunching over the blond with his splayed palms on either side of those bony shoulders. With this position, he's hammering his cellmate's prostate so roughly, Tweek feels like his ass is being bruised. But his crisis has become a dull roar at the back of his mind, a Freudian "id" mentality taking its place. The desperate need for release blinds him to his situation, and high-pitched keening rips itself from his throat. He's lost in the moment, uncaring of who might hear. Craig growls as he voices his approval, breathing ragged. " Fuck -- Mm , yeah. Just like that-- God, fuck --" 

 

With one particularly rough thrust, Tweek's orgasm hits him; like a rubber band stretched taut and suddenly snapping, it comes without warning and nearly stings in its intensity. The initial bizarre ache is followed by a soothing euphoria that has Tweek's mind going blank in this moment. His limbs tremble as his cellmate fucks him through it. Suddenly, Craig pulls out. "Shit, ah , shit--" Tweek can hear the slick fapping sound of the noirette finishing himself with his hand. His cum paints the blond's back in ropes--it's warm, and runs along the contours of his ribs and spine. 

 

Dear god, there's a lot of it. Craig wasn't kidding about being pent up, but… The twitchy inmate looks beneath himself, and is horrified to see a sizeable puddle of his own making, currently soaking into his sheets. His post-orgasm glow is cut short by a blood-curdling realization. He just… He just came from a rough ass-fucking. Craig hadn't touched his dick once, and Tweek let himself fall apart. And he came hard . His relief had been mind-numbing. He scrambles for any excuses he could use to defend his heterosexuality, and finds none. Best to pretend this never happened. Best to pretend it was a hallucination. He's pulled out of his thoughts by the feeling of his blanket being used to wipe the cum from his skin. Tweek is about to screech at Craig, to tell him to stop ruining his blanket, but the noirette tugs him to the foot of his bed, offering the blond's clothes while he sponges the stains from his sheets. Too tired to argue, Tweek dresses himself shakily. He furrows his eyebrows in confusion when his cellmate tosses the soiled blanket into a corner. To the blond's further surprise, Craig pulls the blanket from his own bed, laying it on Tweek's bunk before silently settling down on his own sagging mattress and falling asleep. His body relaxes completely, and it seems his rest is deeper than it's been for a couple of weeks. 

 

His cellmate, however, is wide awake. The existential anxiety he'd had a respite from until tonight is back with a vengeance. An old memory bubbles to the surface.

 

* * * * *

 

"Okay. We need to backtrack. Your perception of reality is too off-track." Tweek flinches, blood running cold at his therapist's honesty. This is only their third appointment. "Let's start over--pretend this is the first time we've met. Introduce yourself." The blond curls in on himself. " Ugh . Okay. Um --My name is Tweek Tweak. I'm twenty years old, and going to the community college in Denver, Colorado." His therapist nods, gesturing for him to keep going. " Uhh … I'm not a very exciting guy. I prefer to keep to myself because- ngh -because people just make me nervous." He gives an awkward laugh. "I guess I'm just kind of an introvert." The woman's expression is unreadable when she speaks up. "What are your hobbies? Interests? Do you date often?" Tweek goes rigid. " Er , I like… I like sketching, and hiking, and, uh , um … I like to play videogames, and write sometimes. Ngh … I've always liked nature, and taking walks… I just like- gah! -I just like being quiet, so… That's why I don't date often, I guess. Most girls would find me boring. And, ngh , let's be honest. I'm not very attractive. I like to keep to myself--I'm not a very sexual guy, which turns a lot of them away." His therapist taps her pencil against her clipboard. "Friends? Family?" Tweek shudders, refusing to make eye contact. " Ack! What is there to say? I'm not very- nghh -sociable, so I don't have many friends. Urk ... A-And… My mom and dad are pretty busy, but they- gah -did well in juggling business, and raising me. Sure, there were, uh , rough spots, but… But they would never hurt me intentionally! Agh! I had a lot of genetic issues, so… So… They tried their best. Um . Yeah. There's really not much to me, I guess." Tweek looks up to meet his therapist's gaze. Her expression is one of sorrowful disbelief.

 

* * * * *

 

What's left of that Tweek? What happened to the man with no predisposition to violence, the man with limited sexual and romantic experience, the boring guy that mostly got left to himself? The blond grabs at his hair, curling into the fetal position and stifling a sob. There's nothing left. No traces of that person left in him. He's a stranger to himself now. Tweek died when he murdered his dealer. Now… There's just a shell. A shell with his face, and his voice, full to bursting with vile secrets. The shell shouldn't still be here. It shouldn't exist. No good can come from his continued existence. He should just… Disappear. It's what he deserves, after all. At the very least, he wouldn't have to suffer anymore.

Chapter Text

Don’t get him wrong--Tweek knows he’s being childish. He's pissy, anxious, and paranoid. At nearly all times, he practically vibrates from sheer nervous energy, threatening to snap at any moment. Even around Kenny and Butters, he's snippy, borderline hostile towards Craig, and aggressively accusatory toward the general population of Cell Block B. But, goddammit, he's had enough ! He can't take anymore destruction of the personality he'd clung to until now--he's done being walked on, done letting others stomp him to pieces. Yet… Under his anger is debilitating fear. If they keep ripping chunks of who he is away, what'll be left? Will there be nothingness, or something dark and repressed, parts of himself he's avoided for the longest time? He doesn't want to find out.

 

It's pretty obvious Craig has noticed, eyebrows furrowing minutely each and every time Tweek lashes out. And he does nothing about it. This is all his fucking fault, and he offers no sympathy whatsoever. No apologies, no letting up on his cold mannerisms. He's just a giant dick, and Tweek is very quickly developing a deep hatred for him. The blond snaps at him, glares at him when he's not looking directly at him, and just fully commits himself to being a massive asshole. Yes, the dick and the asshole--how sweetly coincidental their personalities are.

 

Craig raises an eyebrow as Tweek scowls at his feet, aggressively undressing for another hickey-laying session, before crossing his arms and sitting on his bunk. His body is rigid with pent-up fury, and he's incredibly uncooperative when Craig bends over him. He stiffly keeps his jaw level, tossing his cellmate some downright murderous glares. The noirette ignores his silent temper tantrum in favor of pulling the twitchy inmate further beneath himself(his back was straining with the way he had to twist and lean). He doesn't start with hickies for once, skimming his palms over the blond's sides and only mouthing against his throat. Tweek's breathing stutters, but he resolutely holds still. Craig begins nibbling at the sides of his neck, purposely sucking lightly but for longer periods. He's trying to get me to react. The blond realizes this, frustration flaring up in his chest; he growls, mostly to himself, when his cellmate moves onto his shoulders and collarbones at an agonizingly slow pace. Tweek breathes heavily through his nose, nostrils flaring, getting progressively angrier at the heat blooming low in his belly. 

 

Without warning, Craig takes a nipple into his mouth, and pinches the other, barely teasing the nub with his teeth. His twitchy cellmate gasps loudly, back arching, before swearing harshly. " Motherfucking -- Dude. What is it- gah! -with you and the fucking nipples?! Nghh… I'm not a girl!" The noirette looks up at him while switching nipples, maintaining deliberate eye contact as he rolls his tongue over the perky bud on his cellmate's pale chest. "I know. But you're still responsive. Stop bitching." Tweek fumes as he spasms and suppresses a groan. "I'm not bitching . I'm angry because this fucking sucks ." Craig sets to littering the area around his sternum with hickies. "Okay." is his dismissive response. The blond scoffs, narrowing his eyes at the ceiling. "'Cause I'm straight. This is the worst, Craig. The fucking worst ." His cellmate licks a long stripe along his shoulder, up to his neck, and blows cool air over the wet spot, earning a shiver. "Uh huh." 

 

Tweek, pissed by his cellmate's lack of a response and the warmth that just keeps growing in his guts, grits his teeth and clenches his fists, resisting the urge to thrash, or strike him, or do something . He glances down at Craig as he mouths absently against his chest, thumbing at his hip bones. Beyond his torso, the blond can see the outline of his goddamn erection. Tweek’s gaze drifts back to his face, and for a moment, his stomach lurches--he’s strangely transfixed.

 

Craig’s eyes are lidded as he examines the pale skin below him, expression neutral, almost sleepy in appearance. In the dark, shadows seem to accentuate the angles of his face. He’s got sharp cheekbones, a broad nose, and a strong jaw, which has stubble that faintly scratches the blond’s skin. His dark hair falls to obscure his eyes and tickles the blond's chest as he bends down to take his cellmate’s nipple into his mouth once more. Tweek’s body spasms again, and he slaps a hand over his mouth to prevent an embarrassingly loud moan from escaping. When Craig pulls back, a thin string of saliva connects his lips to the stiffened pink nub on his cellmate’s chest. He glances up, wiping at his mouth, expression still blase. Tweek scowls immediately. “Are you done?”

 

“Mhm.” With that, Craig crosses the cell to his own bed, shrugging off the top half of his jumpsuit, taking off his shoes and socks, and settles in. And within minutes, he’s out cold. The blond glares daggers at his back, pointedly ignoring the fact that he’s still half-hard. Tweek Tweak is not gay.

 

* * * * *

 

“So, uh, Tweek?” Butters gently grabs his attention. “What.” The twitchy inmate glares between the pair across from him. Kenny butts in. “You’ve been a massive bitch for the last week. What’s up?” Tweek narrows his eyes at his freckled friend. “Everything.” he snaps, clarifying nothing. Craig ignores the group--he has no input, apparently. Now the soft-spoken blond across from him takes a shot at this conundrum. He steeples his fingers, and looks not at, but into the paranoid young man. In his mind, he’s cataloguing potential changes that could lead to this behavior. What indicators would help in explaining this shift? Tweek fidgets, not liking the way those silvery blue eyes pierce right past his shell, especially since the one with a damaged, cloudy iris somehow comes off as analytical. An injury in that spot would destroy the lens behind his pupil, permanently ruin his cornea, and potentially leave an ugly patch of scar tissue on his retina. That eye is no longer functional, goddammit. It shouldn’t feel like Butters can use it to peer into his mind.

 

After a minute of silence, Stotch blinks before casting a sidelong glance at the noirette sitting at their table. “Everything… Hm. Are you sure it wasn’t just one change that’s made you see things differently?” Even Craig looks over at that comment--Butters has caught the attention of the three inmates in his company. A look of panic flits over Tweek’s features. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Kenny studies the way he curls forward, refusing to make eye contact with anyone, before looking at his perceptive friend once more. “You’re especially hostile around Craig. You yell at other inmates for looking at you. When Kenny talks about his “endeavors,” you immediately freeze up. There are now hickeys on your back as well.”

 

Butters pauses. “Going off of that… You’ve had sex with Craig, haven’t you?” The freckled inmate next to him gives a wide grin, oblivious to the horrified look on Tweek’s face. “Yep.” Craig’s one comment makes his cellmate flush bright red. He sips at his water as if they were merely talking about the weather. The jittery blond’s head whips around to fix him with an infuriated expression. “Yeah, and it fucking sucked . Because I’m straight! I’m straight, man! This is all such bullshit !” All he gets is a bored glance, and a shrug of the shoulders from the noirette. Tweek looks at the pair of blonds across from him desperately. Kenny offers a crooked smile. “I dunno, dude. It’s really not that bad.” Butters is silent, a look of contemplation in those piercing eyes. No one agrees with or reassures him. Tweek is at a loss for words.

 

The twitchy inmate’s aggressive rampage continues on, though it lessens around Kenny and Butters, and focuses on his asshole of a cellmate. He responds to questions and comments stiffly, waspishly. Almost constantly, he scowls at the noirette, and mutters to himself. He’s uncooperative when being given hickies, limbs rigid and tone snappish. Craig decides to give him some space, only sitting with him at meals. He doesn’t rise up to his cellmate’s challenging behavior--he dismisses it, which is obnoxious for the blond. Regardless of how awful Tweek is, Craig remains unperturbed. So now, the blond has to fucking search for more reasons to hate him. He studies his stoic cellmate from a distance, mind overflowing with spite. It should be easy, right? Craig Tucker is an awful human being. It’ll be easy to find an extensive list of despicable traits.

 

...It’s not easy to find inherently bad aspects of his cellmate. He’s violent, but most of the inmates here are aggressive, too. Even with the random punching or fights, it seems like Craig doesn’t hold grudges. It’s like he’s briefly opening a valve to let off steam, and shuts it swiftly. Mostly, he keeps to himself. He’s quiet. Sure, he’s obnoxious in conversation with those drawn-out pauses, and his tone usually comes off as cold, but… There’s nothing serious enough to be worthy of legitimate hatred. Even with the hickies, and sex, he’s strangely gentle with the blond; he seems to go extra lengths to avoid hurting him. He’s cold-hearted, and kind of a dick, but there hasn’t been a single case of psychological manipulation, or physical assault since he’d agreed to protect his cellmate. It’s fucking confusing. He’s less of a monster, more of a scary and eccentric loner. Tweek fumes over this. He needs a reason to be mad, and he’s got nothing, aside from the dead end in his search, to be angry over. What’s he supposed to say? “I’m pissed because you’re not giving me reasons to hate you”? Yeah, right. The blond clings to his spite like a lifeline, and keeps looking. This is his distraction from reality.

 

* * * * *

 

“...Alright.” An exasperated sigh echoes into their silent cell. “Look, Tweek. I like a tight partner as much as the next guy, but you’re making my dick go numb. Let up a little.” His cellmate refuses to relax, growling almost animalistically. Craig makes another cautious attempt to thrust, less than appreciative of the vice grip around his length. It’s too slow. He’s still hard, but Tweek is making this more of a chore than it’s worth. “Hey. Dickwad, relax. You’re gonna hurt yourself more than you’re gonna hurt me.” At this, the blond looks over his shoulder and bites out a vicious response. “Relax? Relax ?! Fucking-- No ! I never wanted this! Gah! I’m straight, and you’re fucking me in the ass, and- ngh -you want me to relax?! So it’s easier for you! Nghh-! Fucking fuck you!” Craig has the nerve to roll his eyes, canting his hips a little with a purposefully angled thrust.

 

Tweek gasps loudly, before flushing bright red and snarling under his breath. He doesn’t dare look between his own legs. There’s heat there--heavy, and wanting. If he looks at it, it becomes real , and the blond just can’t take that blow to his perspective on reality. His cellmate repeats this a few times, the pacing halting and awkward, before giving up and pulling out. The twitchy inmate feels his face heat up at the sound of Craig jerking his dick, his own cock twitching empathetically . Cum splatters his pale skin, warm and sticky, and the blond shudders, letting himself fall onto his side. He regards his cellmate with malice. “Do you… Need help with that, or…?” The noirette gestures to the erection bobbing against his stomach. “No! Keep your hands off my dick! Agh! You’ve already fucked me, isn’t that- nghh -isn’t that enough?! Gah! I’m not gay! Fuck- agh! -fuck off!” Tweek snarls, cleaning himself off, dressing hastily and rolling to face the wall. He can feel Craig’s gaze on his back, but decides against calling him out.

 

And Craig neither agrees with nor argues against his cellmate’s statement. He lays on his own bunk, falling asleep quickly.

 

This continues. For more than a week, the blond verbally attacks his cellmate, daring him to retaliate, daring him to return his hostility. He’s being belligerent, and childish, and refuses to acknowledge the underlying cause of his fury. Even Kenny and Butters regard this shift in his mannerisms with confusion. They seem surprised by the fact that Craig has yet to silence him with violence, and by the fact that Tweek Tweak is actually angling for a fight. From an outside perspective, one might compare it to a small dog--a chihuahua, probably--trying to attack a doberman. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t shake his cellmate. And for his cellmate… It wouldn’t take much to decimate Tweek. This frustrates him further.

 

...Tweek is afraid. His life has changed drastically, and he is terrified . This fear gnaws at his mind as he struggles to fall asleep. It’s there to greet him when he wakes. Always present, always making him aware of things he’s tried to ignore for so long. He shoves the terror down. He sets anger in its place. 

 

* * * * *

 

“When are you going to stop being a bitch, Tweek?” The blond freezes, and looks at his cellmate. He’d been brooding, tugging at his wild hair angrily--it’s almost lights-out, therefore, almost time for another thirty minutes of having his skin marked up. He scowls at the noirette. “I dunno. When are you going to stop being a dick ?” Craig rolls his eyes and sets his book down, standing and easing his jumpsuit off of his shoulders. “I’m not being a dick. You’re just trying to pick a fight.” The lights flicker out, and the noirette ushers Tweek to lay in the center of his mattress. He suddenly settles himself between the blond’s thighs, leaning over his torso and cages him against the sagging bunk. “What are you-?!" Craig tugs him partially upright, unzipping his jumpsuit, slipping it down his shoulders, and pauses, as if waiting to see if his cellmate would shove his hands away. Tweek only glowers at him. “Seriously, Craig, what the fu--” The abrasive inmate tugs his shirt off and pushes his shoulders down to the bed. “Shut up.” Tweek narrows his eyes up at him, murky green irises glittering with defiance. Before he can argue, the noirette continues. “You’ve been bitching at me for two weeks. Hell, you’ve been bitching at everyone for two weeks. It’s fucking annoying, so knock it off.” 

 

The blond growls at his faintly annoyed expression. Craig makes it look like this is a mild inconvenience, which has the twitchy inmate giving a spasm, with hatred in his green eyes. “I don’t want to be here. It’s been hell on earth ever since I got here. Everyone’s after my ass, to beat the shit out of me, or fuck me, or both, and I’m fucking tired , dude! And you’re not helping ! I’m straight, and surrounded by men that just want to stare at my legs, and call me fucking awful names, and stick their dicks up my ass!” As he goes silent for a moment, he realizes his eyes had started watering, and aggressively scrubs the unshed tears away with the back of his hand, horribly embarrassed. “So I’m fucking sorry if I’m not all rainbows and sunshine , Tucker. I don’t see why I should be, anyway. This whole scenario is a fucking train wreck ." He makes eye contact with his cellmate, and his heart drops into his stomach.

 

Craig's expression is thunderous, eyes cold, lips pursed into a hard line. His hands find Tweek's wrists, and without warning, pins his arms above his head. The blond's eyes widen in the dim lighting as the noirette attacks his neck, sucking at the skin roughly enough to make the hickies left behind tingle. He pulls up before traveling beyond his throat, voice coming out as a growl. "None of us want to be here, asshole. Life here is hell, I'll give you that, but throwing a tantrum won't change a fucking thing, got it?" Tweek gives a muffled cry of alarm as his cellmate nips his collarbone roughly before covering his shoulders with marks, though these are delivered less aggressively. "They drag you in." A harsh suck just above his left nipple. "They break you down." His earlobe is taken between those straight, white teeth, and tugged at lightly. "And they give you shitty, useless pieces to rebuild yourself." Craig comes up to look at the blond, their faces level. The grip on his wrists is nearly painful, and noirette's voice is low. "You lose yourself, and it's your job to find who you are in the middle of this shit show." He takes Tweek's right nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking over the bud. 

 

This is all too much. It's too fast, too intense, too much to process. His anxiety can't seem to catch up, and it's shock, not paranoia, that floods his brain. He twitches and cries out, too frazzled to try and maintain his composure. It's hard to collect his thoughts or argue when Craig is juggling physical stimulation with a hostile, jarring lecture. "And believe me, I know I'm only making this worse," he adds. "But no one is here to reassure you. Nobody's gonna hold your hand. I'm not gonna coddle you, because it'll fuck you over in the long run." Tweek distantly notices the heat in his abdomen, the throbbing between his thighs. For a moment, Craig wedges his knee between his cellmate's legs, pressing against his leaking erection. The blond tosses his head back with a whine, straining against the noirette's hands. Craig leans forward, almost whispering into his ear. "If you only focus on your crisis, and the "what-ifs," and the danger, you won't last. You'll fall apart and lose your mind. Don't dwell on it ." He pulls his leg back and resumes his initial position, hands never leaving those scrawny wrists. "Yeah, inmates are after you. You can't do shit about it. And regardless of your sexuality, you're going to be put through situations that you'll hate. Shit's gonna happen, and it's gonna suck balls . So stop snapping at me because you're freaked out about your goddamn sexuality crisis." 

 

Craig ducks down to his chest once more, teasing Tweek's pale skin with teeth and tongue. The blond is almost reaching some degree of clarity by now, stumbling over his words in an attempt to counter his cellmate's tirade. But he can't focus, there's too much going on. He's practically being overstimulated. "Besides," Craig begins to growl, taking both wrists into one hand and trailing his free hand over his cellmate's quivering body, to which Tweek responds with an instinctive arch of the spine and a gasp. "I don't buy your “super straight guy" arguments. You're full of shit, even if you don't know it." Tweek tries to glare at him, really makes a valiant attempt, but his mind is half-gone by now. "I don't-- Ugh , I am straight, you dickwad--" The noirette rolls his eyes, hooking his fingers into the bottom of Tweek's zipper, tugging his jumpsuit down a little. "Really? 'Cause this thing here begs to differ." Red-faced and panting, the blond doesn't dare look at the tent in his boxer-briefs being exposed by his cellmate. "Straight guys don't lose their shit and pop boners over hickies alone, Tweek." He runs a thumb along the crease where Tweek's hip meets his thigh. "You need to stop lying to yourself. Come on, you're practically dripping right now and I haven't even touched your dick." The blond shakes his head, though his expression lacks conviction. Mostly, his eyes are glazed-over, brows furrowed in an attempted show of resistance. "I could make you cum right now , and you'd still insist you're straight, huh?" Tweek purses his lips, neither accepting nor denying his cellmate's statement. There's something faintly swimming in those jade green eyes. Something the blond is desperately trying to contain.

 

Craig suddenly shoves the front of his own jumpsuit down, revealing his own clothed erection. Tweek just stares. There is no revulsion on his face, though, just shock. He hadn't really registered it before, but his cellmate's got an intimidatingly large dick. It strains against his cotton underwear, a wet spot near the tip. And without warning, he grinds it into the inside of his cellmate's hip. The blond gasps lightly, hips stuttering in his instinctive attempt to return the favor. "Right. Straight, my ass." Craig grumbles before biting Tweek's shoulder, hard . The jittery inmate outright moans at this, a darker blush spreading to his ears and down his neck. He feels hot now. Too hot; his skin is crawling. He fidgets and tries to grab at anything , straining fingers brushing along Craig’s hand. His hips twitch, and he automatically tilts his head back when the taller male brings his lips close to the blond's neck.  This makes his cellmate grunt, apparently pleased by this reaction. He presses his cock against Tweek again, though it's not close enough to the spot where he actually needs friction, pulling a longing whine from the blond's throat. 

 

He doesn't touch his cellmate's erection with his free hand. Rather, he shifts and aligns their cocks, rutting against the man below him, satisfied by the way Tweek jerks his hips up desperately. The blond is acting of his own volition, though this choice seems to be made blindly. Craig sets to biting harshly all over his torso, sliding their dicks together roughly. Tweek is just whimpering now, the noise punctuated by gasps and moans every now and then. He’s officially given up on defiance for the time being, eyes unfocused and cock throbbing.

 

The blond can't help but stare down between them, watching with dizzy fascination as his cellmate rolls his hips, his dick longer than his own(six inches, not that Tweek's bragging) by a few inches. There's coiling low in his gut, and precum seeps so heavily that it begins to form beads of glossy moisture outside of his underwear. He can feel his cellmate’s length twitching and leaking, soaking both of their briefs. Suddenly, Craig's taking a nipple into his mouth, nibbling, sucking, and finally, pulling on it with his fucking teeth . Tweek arches his back, toes curling and body spasming as cum spurts through his boxer briefs, splattering against his stomach. The noirette groans, pulling himself up to kneel over his cellmate's body. He outright tugs his cock free , smears his fingers with precum, palms the wall with his other hand, and begins to fuck his fist, hard and fast.

 

Tweek watches with wide eyes as those tanned fingers squeeze and just slightly twist, precum dripping from the tip of his cock, which is cut and flushed. He’s never done it like this--it’s both intriguing and horrifying to witness. Craig's huffing quietly right now, staring down at his cellmate with blown-out pupils. " Fuck --" And just like that, he spills himself onto his cellmate. The blond just lays there, torso painted with both of their seed. He blinks, mind filling with white noise as cum drips over his ribs and pools in his navel. His body trembles with the aftershocks of his orgasm and he slumps bonelessly into his mattress. He narrows his eyes at his cellmate.

 

"You fucking suck." His tone lacks heat--he just sounds tired, maybe a little broken. Craig doesn't scowl, or roll his eyes; his expression relaxes until it's neutral. "Uh huh. Get up." Tweek slowly climbs off of his bed, the noirette following his sluggish movement while wiping at his skin with the blond's blanket. His cellmate gets dressed before falling back onto his bunk, wild hair forming a chaotic halo on the pillow. The noirette tosses a clean blanket over him before settling into his own bed. As usual, he faces away, falling asleep in mere minutes. Tweek doesn’t have the capacity to feel jealous. Or, much of anything, really. Not for lack of effort.

 

Tweek's mind is trying to kick up a fuss over what just happened, but… He's tired. Too tired to put up with the roller coaster his brain is trying to drag him onto. He rolls to face the wall, eyes dull, and eventually drifts into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Tweek Tweak is no longer hysterical, or enraged. He's stepped off of his warpath, but he doesn't quite return to being himself, either. At this point, he is numb, demoralized, and broken. His eyes are vacant as he runs through his daily routines. Occasionally, the whispering in his mind becomes loud enough to push needles of paranoia into his conscious thoughts. He feels as if he’s been set adrift, stripped of everything he once knew, and left to die.

 

His name is Tweek Tweak. He is 22 years old, was born in South Park, Colorado and lived there until the age of 19. For the majority of his life, he’s enjoyed art--sketching, painting, and a few other mediums of interest. He likes to walk in landscapes that people rarely visit. Sometimes he writes. Other times, he tries cooking. Baking has always been something that calmed him down. Every once in a while, he’d play video games. He’s genetically predisposed to… To anxiety disorders. And… And paranoid schizophrenia, along with depressive episodes. His parents…

 

They tried. They loved him, they really, really did… But… It was hard. They had a business to maintain… And, and…! He didn’t make it easier. There were so many… Incidents . But they stuck with him! Because they loved him! Even with… Even with his paranoia, and… His self-destructive behavior… They loved him so damn much. It must have helped. Right…? 

 

Because Tweek Tweak is a mild-mannered young man. He never got into fights at school, never argued with his teachers. Conflict intimidated him--he’d avoid it at all costs. He’d never been predisposed to spite or hate. He never held any ill will toward his fellow man. Nothing could make him wish tragedy upon another individual, no matter what they did. The most negative emotions he could feel when it came to others were “upset” and “annoyed.” And he was modest. Tweek was intimidated by girls, even those he was interested in. He’d had a very specific type for most of his life, even the innocent crushes of primary school. Quiet girls weren’t so scary. Especially if they weren’t overly sympathetic or openly tender. He’d always hated that. When adolescence hit him, he found curvaceous figures also turned him away. Too nerve-wracking for him, with the excess of traits to catalogue. He had issues adjusting to a new face in his classes, much less keeping track of the nuances of impressing girls, sexually and romantically. Not that he didn’t enjoy the times he tried! Kissing them had been nice, and the few times he’d had sex… Felt good, mostly. He came, at least. Yes, he was straight.

 

Straight, and mild, and…. And… Pretty boring. He was boring… Never partied much, and… Tweek Tweak is not adventurous. Not aggressive. Not socially competent. He’s…

 

The holes in his memories from damn near a year and a half of increasingly frequent meth benders seem to swallow his reassurances whole. In their absence are the shadows of heinous, terrifying activities. His reality, so carefully built up and anxiously guarded, begins to crumble. As he becomes aware of how incredibly false these beliefs are, a memory is dragged from the recesses of his mind.

 

* * * * *

 

“And your name is?” The blond fidgets, tugs at the sleeves of his shirt, gaze flicking around erratically. “Tweek Tweak.” Across from him, a slightly portly woman, likely in her forties, adjusts her glasses. “Uh huh… So. Tweek, why are you here?” Tweek’s left eye spasms, and he gives a twitchy shrug. “I really don’t know. My psychiatrist sent me here.” She writes something down, and taps the clipboard with her pencil. “Are you sure you don’t know?” He stares at the floor now, nodding hesitantly. “Okay. I’m going to tell you why I think you’re here. Correct me if I’m wrong.” His eyes snap up to meet hers for a split second before fixing on the door. “You’ve been having increasingly frequent panic attacks and paranoid thoughts despite taking your medication.” She pauses, waits for a response that doesn’t come, and continues. “Your nightmares have been getting worse, based on your psychiatrist’s report, and your anxious tics are becoming self-destructive.” Tweek gives a shivery sigh, but doesn’t object, hunching in on himself. “And you’ve been having flashbacks of the prolonged abuse you endured through your childhood.”

 

At this, the blond’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head fervently. An expression of raw terror crosses his features, and the blood drains from his face. “No?” Tweek grabs at his knees, trembling. “No, no. Ngh -- No abuse. That was just a- gah! -a misunderstanding.” His new therapist raises her eyebrows. “Really? Even though this information came from police records, witness interviews, psych ward evaluations-” The blond grabs at his hair, tucks his knees to his chest, and quivers. “No! I just- gah! It’s all just a giant- ngh -misunderstanding, okay?! My parents would never--” She cuts him off abruptly. “I never said it was your parents, Tweek. Are you sure nothing happened back then?” He twitches, eyes watering. “Nothing happened.” Now she leans forward a little. “You’re really sure? What about the blackout episodes of self-mutilation you had from ages 6 to 16? You used to throw yourself against walls and furniture until your whole body was black and blue.” Tweek just shakes his head, unable to respond. “And the time you broke your arm after jumping over the banister of a staircase in your home?” He shakes his head faster, tears beginning to run down his cheeks. “You experienced anxiety at a very young age, and avoided all strangers, even police officers.” The young man covers his face with his hands. “Stop.” he whimpers.

 

“There was more than one instance of you running away from home. Your immediate response to all inquiries about your health was paranoia. You fell incredibly ill many, many times. You had a bad habit of taking too much of your medication. At the age of 18, you attempted to take your own life by overdosing on horse tranquilizers. When asked where you got the substance, you confessed--” Tweek lurches forward in his chair, looking at the woman with desperation in his watery green eyes. “Stop! Stop it! Stop talking! My parents loved me! What the hell do you know?!” She studies his shaky form, chewed nails, sleep-deprived eyes… 

 

“I know that after nearly dying, you finally told the police about the lifetime of deception and cruelty you’d received. I know that after leaving the hospital, you then pretended to not remember anything about that incident. I know that your parents only spent a month in jail. I know that the community in your hometown believes you were lying. I know what denial looks like, Tweek.”

 

A hiccuping sob escapes his throat. “We need to start somewhere. And you need to be honest. You can get through this. I believe in you.” Her gentle tone makes him flinch. He curls in on himself, trying to regulate his breathing. “Okay.” he whispers.

 

* * * * *

 

His body is heavy when the morning alarm goes off. He debates refusing to get up, but decides against it when the guard near their cell is revealed to be Kyle Broflovski. The redhead’s not violent, just loud and kind of scary. As they walk to morning roll call, he drags his feet, expression vacant, and he’s sluggish during breakfast, not finishing his food. It feels like the day has gone on for decades by the time Tweek makes it to free period. Apparently, an incident involving a coworker in the kitchens has lead to Craig being stuck in isolation until dinner. He stares at nothing while sitting on the bleachers, mind filling with white noise and grief. The metal next to him creaks, and he jumps a little.

 

It’s just Butters, the quiet blond looking him over with concern. “Hi, Tweek.” All he gets is a little nod--an acknowledgement of his greeting. “...What’s going on?” Tweek shrugs, refusing to make eye contact. “You know, I’m worried about you. I think you should talk about it.” His tone is gentle, and he picks up on the way the twitchy blond shudders at the sound, but doesn’t comment on it. Tweek finally glances at him, green eyes dull, almost lifeless in appearance. “I’m afraid, Butters.” To have an answer, not a diversion or a panic attack, startles Butters. “Afraid of what?” Instinctively, the nervous inmate crosses his arms, and curls in on himself a little. “...Myself.” He only gets raised eyebrows and a cocked head, a silent indicator for him to continue. “For the longest time, I had a very clear idea of who I was. I was… Quiet, pretty antisocial, timid, reserved…” Tweek releases a shaky sigh.

 

“I never picked fights. I rarely got angry. Mostly, I kept to myself. I rarely had sex, and I was picky about the girls I slept with. But…” he pauses, chokes out a bitter laugh. “This was just… Who I was. I legitimately believed this. But then I got here, and it feels like that picture is being ripped apart. I’m starting to remember things I might have done before prison, and I’m noticing things I’d always denied, and-and…” For a moment, Tweek is silent, quivering as he struggles to stave off tears. “It feels like I’m finding things that were never meant to see the light of day.” he whispers. Butters lightly taps his shoulder, expression sympathetic. “Tweek… Change isn’t necessarily bad. Usually, it has to happen before things can get better, y’know?” The fidgety blond freezes, and looks at his friend with an unreadable look in his eyes. “You just have to hang in there, okay? It’ll all be okay.” 

 

He really missed the entire issue. Tweek’s problem isn’t change. It’s reality. But dear God, he wasn’t about to let this opportunity to change the subject pass. “Yeah, yeah. I’m just… Tired.” Butters smiles a little. “You can do this, Tweek.” To this, the anxious inmate nods, offers a plastic smile, and maintains his “newfound energy” for the rest of the day.

 

To avoid the growing chasm at the back of his mind, he resumes the practice of hating his cellmate to keep his mind busy. He’s less blatant this time, at least, just glancing at him when they’re in the same area, needling each and every one of his perceived flaws. He tries to hate the way he walks, or eats, or exercises, even tries to despise him while he reads that stupid novel(now almost finished). Craig walks quietly, despite his heavy-looking gait. Actually, most of his movements are damn near silent, which is terrifying, now that Tweek thinks about it. How can such a giant person move without making a sound? He eats his food quietly, too. Slowly, almost robotically, usually finishing everything that was given to him. When he exercises, there’s an intense look in his eyes, similar to the one he gets while reading. Also similar to the one he gives Tweek during their “exchanges.” It’s his focused expression. And it’s fucking scary for his blond cellmate. Sometimes, he’s reminded of a predatory creature while in the noirette’s presence. Other times…

 

Other times, Tweek would laugh at some of the things Craig does, if he wasn’t busy trying to hate him. His deadpan comments and dry wit. Purposely going even slower when a guard is yelling at him to speed up. He’s unpredictable, and impossible to read. And his so-called “fights” with other inmates. These were less altercations, more the noirette knocking other inmates on their ass before they could even start talking shit. He catches himself, reminding himself that this is an attempt to catalogue Craig’s bad quirks. The reasons why he’s an awful person.

 

At that exact moment, Douglas decides to rear up for his moment of glory. It’s free period, and the unremarkable brunette approaches Cell Block B’s strongest inmate with long, confident strides. “Alright Tucker. I’m sick of your shit. You don’t get to--” The sound of Craig’s knuckles connecting with his jaw ends Douglas’ declaration abruptly. And then the poor asshole hits the ground bonelessly, out cold. Everyone’s pause to watch the exchange ends, and the inmates resume their activities as if nothing had happened. Craig returns to his seat on the bleachers, looking back at his novel. He hadn’t even set it down. A couple of days ago, at breakfast, an inmate by the name of Pete had taken his shot, and ended up in a similar state. The day before that, it was Michael. And three days earlier, Kevin made an attempt. It seemed to happen in cycles--inmates trying to kick the shit out of Craig and being incapacitated with one hit. There was always about a week of peace, and then it started up again, like everyone had somehow forgotten how every single fight ends.

 

His cellmate’s “fights” lasted less than five seconds, and he never argued when guards came to scold him, or escort him to isolation. He did smack people for no reason every once in a while, but it was never personal. Just bad luck for the poor fucker he’d deck--wrong place, wrong time and all that. Though apparently, there were incidents where fights would last longer. Not because the noirette struggled. No, it was because something in him snapped , and suddenly, it wasn’t Craig anymore. It was a psychopath with his face, going on a rampage and attacking anyone and everyone. Tweek had only seen it once, is the cold realization.

 

When he was saving Tweek from Scott and his douchebag cronies. There hasn’t been another incident since, which seems strange to the rest of the cell block. According to their occasional whispers, he used to fly off the rails every other week, almost killing people, grinning like a maniac, laughing, splitting his own goddamned knuckles when punching unlucky inmates, purposely trying to break bones and maul flesh… Every time this happened, they’d have to sedate him, and he couldn’t seem to remember any of the episodes. Tommy, his last cellmate, was beaten beyond recognition, and is currently on life support. To learn this information after sharing a cell with Craig for a month and a half was definitely a horrific surprise for Tweek. Though… He could hate his cellmate for this. Dwell on the monster he’d only seen once, and attach the rest of his personality to his blackout rage episodes. Tweek focuses on the image of Craig about to crush Scott Tenorman’s throat, ignoring the fact that the redhead was about to rape him, and clings to his cellmate’s threats from his first few days in prison.

 

At least Tweek’s violent outburst seems to have been an isolated case. He was harmless outside of that event. He’s not a monster like Craig, or any of the other inmates. ...The foggy memories of his meth highs fill him with doubt. Evidence against this belief lurks there. He shoves this topic away before having any revelations.

 

And speaking of monsters… Craig has started letting up on Tweek--not asking for a thing beyond the hickies they have to maintain. The blond knows he's horny; the bastard jacked it every other night last week, for fuck's sake! Something about this odd little act of kindness(if you could label it that) is infuriating for Tweek. He's trying to dehumanize the noirette, goddammit ! This conundrum occupies the anxious inmate's thoughts during free period. The blond is outside, on the bleachers, occasionally looking up from his sketch to stare at Craig. His asshole of a cellmate, just sitting there like he's not a massive douchebag, reading a new book. With his fucking wandering hands and cruel disregard for Tweek's sanity. The sex, and his stupid boners during something as small as hickies. Leaving his cellmate alone when…

 

When he's struggling. Giving him space. Putting up with his shitty attitude. The reality checks, stepping in before anyone hurt him. Calling him "interesting" and somehow coming off as a reassuring continuity despite his odd behavior. Olive oil as lube, stretching, cleaning him off and giving him his own blanket. All of the reading, wandering, and indifference to the opinions of others. His steady hands. The fact that he's gentle despite being massive and terrifying. He doesn't give Tweek pervy leers unless he's actually doing something sexual, and those moments seem more like focus than objectification. And through it all, he doesn't seem…

 

Happy. He never actually smiles, or laughs. His eyes are dull, tired. Outside of Tweek, Butters, and Kenny, he talks to no one--even during meals he's mostly quiet. Sometimes he lashes out for no reason. Before his blond cellmate arrived, he'd black out regularly and attack everyone and everything. He was usually listless. There's a heaviness about him--something dark and unknown. No one knows why he's in prison. Was he different before being arrested? Did he have more energy, more of a personality? Were there people he spoke to? Did he ever smile? …What would his smile even look like?

 

Tweek freezes, pencil falling from his fingers. He's supposed to hate Craig Tucker. He's supposed to regard him with malice. Focus on his despicable traits. After all…

 

Craig embodies everything Tweek is not . Violent, prone to aggression, yet unflinching under the scrutiny of his peers. Unafraid, unashamed, brutally honest. Dignified, strong, stoic. Sexually experienced and immune to the jabs at his sexuality(as rare as the latter were). In those eyes is a man that exists without apparent guilt. Self-aware and always moving forward. And Tweek resents him for this.

 

An odd coldness settles into the blond's chest. It seems to clutch at his heart and lungs, numb his fingers, whisper into his mind… He thrashes internally, pushing at the memories that attempt to claw their way into his consciousness. 

 

Tweek? Oh, he's a darling boy. A little difficult at times--he has anxiety, ADHD, all that, but I wouldn't trade my son for any other. Richard and I love him dearly. He's a little quirky, but does his job well and is harmless. Lovely young man, pardon his shyness. Oh! I'm rambling, haha! Your total is $6.33.


He covers his face and quivers, hating how easily his self-assuring mantra lines up with a phrase he grew up with. For a moment, his mind goes blank. To be a different person than the label he'd been assigned… Would it be so bad? To be angry instead of allowing himself to be stepped on, social instead of paranoid, adventurous and not terrified, confident, to not hate himself for one goddamn second …! Would that really be so terrible? He could be happy. Functional. Stable. Have a relationship. And would being gay be so bad? He's not homophobic, he just… Couldn't lose another part of himself. Tweek's mind locks up. His brain fills with static, screaming, darkness… No answer is supplied to these questions. He decides that to stray from what he knows is a mistake. He can't lose himself. Not now. Not ever.