Chapter Text
It laid limply against Tweek’s palm, his arm outstretched like a lanky scarecrow as his mother read the fine print off the paper in the boy’s hand.
”Tweek, dear, what is the meaning of this?” His mother spoke, her voice silky and smooth in contrast to the bustling atmosphere of the Tweak Bros Cafe. “Haven’t I told you to save things for after we close shop?”
Tweek blinked, blonde lashes batting against his freckled cheeks as he simply stared at his mother with wild eyes. “It’s a permission slip, mom.”
Manuela gently hummed as she carefully eyed the permission slip— her eyebrows raised as she delicately traced the monotonous words on the page. Her magnificent signature embedded into the bottom of the thin sheet. The curls and swishes of each letter painted a glimpse into her nurturing personality.
”That’s great sweetie, why couldn’t this wait until tonight?” She asked carefully, before her blue eyes darted back down to the money she’d been counting before her son had interrupted her. She unremittingly sorted through each individual slip of green, mouthing the numerical values and writing them down on her notepad tactfully.
”Because…” Tweek grunted, the end of his word drawn out as if he’d been stabbed in the gut, “it’s urgent.”
”What’s so urgent about this, dear?” Manuela responded, eyes still steady on the increasingly more complicated values of cash being distributed between her hands. Eventually the huge wads of cash trickled slowly, and she had nothing but pennies to sort through. She sighed, folding her hands in her lap as she looked up at her vibrating son.
”I don’t want to go.” Tweek uttered, lowering his arm in an achey, shaking movement.
”Tweek, I’ve already signed the papers and your father paid for the trip.” Manuela shook her head as she swiped a stray hair away from her nose. “I’m sorry, but you’ve no choice.”
Tweek flinched at the word ‘father.’ He knew he had no way out of this; his father always had the last word, and he was extremely cautious about what he spent his money on. But for his parents to somehow get their hands on the trip forms, and not only that, but spend money on them? How? He worked so hard to keep the trip a secret. Panic swirled in his gut like a typhoon and his skin became slick with perspiration.
”You don’t need extra help here at the cafe?” Tweek bargained, a flicker of hope igniting in his chest, only to be squashed by his mothers reaffirming words.
”No, Tweek,” his mother smiled gently, cheekbones squishing against her eyes as her lips curled. “You and I both know we can manage without you for two weeks.”
Tweek groaned, clenching his fingers angrily around the paper and relishing as it screamed in a series of crinkles in response. He wished he could just set the dastardly document on fire, watching it shrivel up and turn into ash and never have to think about this stupid shit again. But he couldn’t. No matter how many documents he tore, ate, set ablaze, drowned, Tweek was going on that trip.
”Don’t be a child, darling.” Manuela stood up to cup her son’s face in her tender palms. “This trip will be good for you, not only that but it’ll give you an opportunity to boost your grades. Embrace the change.”
And so she left the boy in the back rooms as she went about her day, as if her little pep talk didn’t make him feel anything but worse. Suddenly the humming of the giant commercial fridge and fluorescent lights was all too loud and he just wanted to go home.
Midnight.
The digital clock resting atop his polished wooden nightstand glared bright red numbers against the darkness of the room. The juxtaposition of candescent characters against the unilluminated bedroom burned marks into Tweek’s retinas. It was eerily silent, the only sound being heard was that of his light, hushed breathing. His eyes trailed from the clock and back to the dark ceiling, eyelids wrinkling as they squeezed shut in an attempt to quell himself to the realm of the unconscious.
The school trip to Alaska had been on Tweek’s mind for months. He tried everything, everything to hide it from his parents because in no way, shape, or form did he plan on attending. South Park always had bizarre school trips to foreign realms like endangered rainforests and bustling cities every now and then, and Tweek never attended any of them. Except, apparently, this one.
He knew his parents would want him to go because the trip involved his grades. Which is exactly why he tried to hide it from them. Tweek’s grades were far from terrible, but they believed even in a pure sea of excellence there was always room for improvement.
The trip to Alaska included a journaling assignment where one would document the entire trip. Uses of science, math, and literature elements would only strengthen the grade of the assignment and influence which grades were boosted at the end of the trip.
Tweek’s weakness was literature. Math was blunt— but with practice— easy to learn and process. Math was just math. Absolute. Final. The numbers didn’t mean anything else. There were rarely exceptions. Literature was the opposite. Metaphors, similes, alliteration, allusions it was all a complicated, mushy mess. It was his lowest grade, and simply writing in the journal without literature techniques for the trip guaranteed a good grade.
Simply put, there was no way out of this.
Tweek had no idea what to expect. He hadn’t bothered to research the trip or attend the information sessions in the gymnasium because he was certain he’d be missing out on it. Being so far from home, with no control over when to go back stressed Tweek the fuck out. He just wanted to curl up in a ball and become one with the heavy blanket.
Instead, he stayed up until about three in the morning. Twitching and grunting all night as he obsessively thought about every possible scenario that could possibly occur on the short plane ride to Alaska.
Waking up wasn’t gentle and subtle, like the hint of honey in a steaming hot cup of chamomile tea. It was loud and abrupt like sharpened nails on a dark chalkboard. His once comforting bed of warmth and familiarity now felt like a rigid operating table. His muscles tightened as he sat upright in his bed like a wooden plank. His blanket and sheets were drenched in sweat.
With a grunt, Tweek pulled the sheets off his mattress, stuffing the fabric into a plastic laundry hamper. He stared at the alarm clock that had kept him awake for nights. Words repeating in his head like taunting reminders.
Twenty-four hours.
Twenty- four hours.
Twenty-four hours.
Twenty-four hours.
Swallowing the lump that had been festering in his throat, Tweek breathed in the air of his room, feeling it fill his lungs. Febreeze and cheap unisex cologne swirled in his nostrils as he pinched his earlobes in an attempt to calm himself.
It was time to get on with the day.
Carefully pinching together his green button-up and pulling on some dark wash jeans. He wanted so badly to scurry back into his bed and surrender to the realm of his dreams again. But instead he continued dressing, his every movement preparing him for the day ahead.
Twenty-four hours.
Tweek scrubbed his teeth vigorously with the brush, every flinch from his body only jutting the tool into his sensitive gums. As he spat the milky white paste into the sink, a bright crimson red substance stood tall in contrast to his saliva. Recognizing the sight of his own blood, Tweek squealed, slamming his palms against the porcelain desk and flinching at the scene.
”Oh Jesus!” He yelped, his fingers digging into his golden tufts of hair to tug at the roots.
“Tweek, behave!” His father’s voice echoed from downstairs, shocking Tweek’s system.
He shuffled back up, emptying his mouth into the sink and washing it out with mouthwash before he slung his backpack around his body and tumbled down the creaky stairs.
”Tweek, would you like breakfast?” Manuela’s delicate voice curled around Tweek’s eardrums.
Anxiety had already filled his stomach to the brim— it felt as if he swallowed a balloon. There was no space for food, only uneasiness. Pressure curled around Tweek’s rib cage like a knot, pressing inward. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t walk. He couldn’t breathe. Hunger’s fangs didn’t dare to nibble at his stomach, it was something else. Something heavy. As he sat down, the fluffy pancakes his mother had cooked up for him looked repulsive.
The syrup bled into the pancakes, looking like some sort of science experiment. He didn’t take a bite before he was on his way out the door. Every sound around him— his mother’s footsteps, the faucet’s dripping, the shuffling of the newspaper— it felt too loud, too sharp, too blunt. Tweek tugged at the sleeves of his shirt, maybe if he twitched and held himself tight enough he wouldn’t come undone like a poorly made doll.
A hand reached out, grabbing him by the bookbag straps and flicking on his fight or flight— but he chose to freeze.
“Tweek, don’t forget your meds.” His father smiled, two brightly colored pills settled in his warm, scruffy palms. “And your coffee.”
Taking the thermos with a shaking hand, he slid the small pills down his throat with a swallow of some hot coffee and a small grunt.
Waving his son goodbye, his father closed the door, separating the comforting environment from him and sealing it for the next seven hours. Tweek sighed and trudged on, feeling the white snow crunch under his feet.
He tried to tell himself it was just a day. Just one more day of pretending that God-forbidden trip wasn’t barreling towards him like a bullet train. His hands trembled as he clenched the straps on his bookbag, as if the bookbag would somehow begin floating away and off his body. A voice in the back of his mind whispered; You’re not ready. And the worst part about it.. Was that it was probably right.
The weather seemed to think likewise, the radiant sun that blessed the earth with her warm rays hidden behind giant blocks of fluff, covering the sky in a miserable overcast. The humid, damp smell of rain tingling the nostrils of anyone who stepped outside. Snow was half-melted into a pale-brown sludge; clinging onto curbs as it slowly oozed off solid surfaces and soaked into the ground, leaving the asphalt wet and sparkly.
Tweek reached the bus stop in a matter of matters, his twitches and small grunts earning side eyes and giggles from the teens that stood around him waiting for the yellow automobile to come rumbling in. It was torturous waiting for his meds to kick in, he hated being outside and unmedicated— he felt vulnerable and stripped bare like a circus animal.
However, being medicated was no better.
The school hallways were loud, echoey, denuded. It was a blur of bodies and noise— laughter and conversations ricocheting off metal lockers, cheap shoes squeaked against the linoleum, voices overlapped like a broken TV’s static. Tweek moved through it all like a ghost. His heart didn’t race like it usually did, and his limbs didn’t shake like a leaf. But he wasn’t calm. Not really. It was like his meds stuffed cotton into his head— he could consume the chaos; see it, feel it, hear it, experience it. But there was a glass between him and the panic outside, and he hated it so much.
The hallway was a living organism— loud, pulsing, and breathing down his nape. It normally crushes him under its insurmountable weight, but today he felt like paper— light, unbothered, flat, and emotionless. His fingers twitched against the orange bottle of pills in his hands, not out of fear, but because he had no idea what else to do with his digits. He wasn’t spiraling, but he wasn’t here either.
Tweek eased into the institutionally gray chair, his posture stiff and upright as if the plastic were about to snap beneath the pressure of his body. No, he felt like he was about to snap beneath the pressure of being perceived. As an individual, an individual sitting in this seat. In this seat. Not at home. He wanted to go home. Why was he even here? He wanted so badly to just-
“Tweek?”
”Disappear!” Tweek shrieked, his nails digging his nails into the polished wooden desk. He whimpered as the classroom rippled into silent giggles as the teacher eyed him nervously. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, like a door caught in a wind it wasn’t able to fight.
Tweek shuddered as he made himself smaller, looking up at the teacher and muttering a shaky apology.
“What- What was your question Mr. Garrison?” Tweek whispered, barely audible enough for the man to pick up the vibrating boy’s voice.
”What is produced from cellular respiration in the absence of oxygen?” Garrison repeated, his eyes narrowing as he watched Tweek fidget under the pressure.
Tweek knew the answer, he’d done the homework, he’d studied, he’d done everything. But it just wouldn’t leave his lips. It quelled in the base of his throat, but he couldn’t push it out. He simply nodded, closing his eyes and swallowing thickly until he finally had the courage to talk.
”Lactic acid.” He mumbled to himself, staring at the brown bandages that decorated his fingers lying limply on the desk.
”What was that? You’ve got to speak up now.” His teacher stepped forward, craning his neck to point his earlobe in the direction of Tweek.
He could feel every single pair of eyes on him. The question hung in the air like a blade, suspending over Tweek’s skull. Eyes swiveled toward him like security cameras, cold and automatic, dissecting him under the buzzing fluorescent light of the classroom. Heat clawed up Tweek’s neck blooming up his face like a crazy wildfire. He felt like a specimen under a magnifying glass, pinned and paralyzed.
He slammed his head into the desk, clenching at the wiry, wild tufts of hair that sprouted from his scalp like plants.
“Lactic acid, fucking Christ!” Tweek yelled, head pressed into the desk he immediately regretted the profanity that jumped from his mouth. Laughter emerged from his classmates, but it didn’t feel reaffirming. He didn’t feel funny. He felt like he was a puppet performing for a higher power.
”Tweek Tweak, what’s the matter with you? You’re not usually like this.” Mr. Garrison reeled back in shock, he slammed a ruler against his desk, crossing his arms. “I will not tolerate this misbehavior in my class. If it happens again I will have to send you to the principal’s office.”
Tweek twitched, tensing as he felt for the slick plastic bottle that held his meds. It rattled silently under his touch, and as soon as the class turned their attention back to the board, he popped them open with an effervescent hand. Silently chucking the peach-colored slabs into his mouth, he swallowed them down with the scalding coffee contained within he thermos and returned his gaze to the board. Time slowed. His shaking decreased significantly as the substance spread throughout his veins.
In a heartbeat, he was sitting in Literature. Time folded in on itself without asking for permission, because in one moment Tweek was clutching onto the frayed straps of his backpack; the other he was seated in a different chair, a different room, and the lesson was already halfway over. Haze curled around his brain like smoke, he couldn’t remember moving his legs, couldn't remember climbing the stairs or opening the classroom door, or hearing its creak as it opened. There was a strange calm to it— a weightless kind of numbness that settled atop his shoulders— like waking up in a place you don’t remember falling asleep in.
”Alright class, raise your hands if you’re attending the school trip to Alaska.” His teacher chimed, a stack of papers and journals in her arms.
Unwillingly, Tweek raised an arm, it shook as his arm stood tall like a flagpole in an empty field. Ignoring the eyes that were glued to his shaking body.
”Alright, now here are the journals you’re instructed to write in throughout the trip.” Mrs. Ellen grinned, laying the black-and-white journal on Tweek’s desk.
“If you haven’t been paying attention, you’re required to document the trip from your point of view. At least three entries a day, just to get an A. If you use the literary techniques I’ve taught you all in class you get extra points.” Ellen stepped over to the front of the classroom. “There will be a pairing system for journal reviews. Each student’s journal will be passed to a random partner at the end of the trip.”
Tweek sunk in his chair, closing his eyes and throwing his head back to face the ceiling.
”Remember, this isn’t just science and writing. It’s self-reflection. Record what you feel, what you see, what the lights make you think about.”
There was a pause and the entire energy of the classroom shifted. Tweek opened his eyes and looked down to see his teacher standing in front of him, a smug smile on her red lips.
”That means you too, Mr. Tweak.”
”Didn’t know this was a charity trip.” A nasally voice whispered, but he couldn’t pin-point the source.
Ouch.
Everyone is buzzing, excited, even enthusiastic about the field trip. Tweek can’t stand it.
”Roommate pairings will be randomly drawn and posted the morning of the trip, whether you get stuck with a stranger or someone you hate— part of the challenge is learning how to see differently.” Ms. Ellen twirled back to the front of the classroom. Tweek swallows hard. His journal stared at him mockingly. He still hadn’t written in it.
Lunch is even worse. Tweek is alone at a lunch table, his knee bouncing rapidly as voices bounced off the walls and slammed into Tweek’s ears. He was overwhelmed and overstimulating, trying to focus on the shitty cafeteria macaroni and cheese that only looked more and more unappetizing. He tried to open the journal, maybe write something down, a name, something, anything. His hands are shaking. It's too hard to write anything.
He grunts picking at the pale skin on his hands as a tall figure moves past him. Gripping a lunch tray, he briefly locked eyes with the boy. Tawny, narrowed, judging eyes on storm-lit seawater— wide and restless, trembling with the threat of motion. He heard a scoff as the boy walked past Tweek, disappearing into the sea of teenage boys.
He knew who that man was. He knew that look of hatred and tension blazing from behind the boy’s pupils. He knew the shape of that walk, that silhouette, that hat. He could recognize Craig Tucker from a fucking mile away.
The snow came down in thin, silvery threads, not enough to completely blanket the ground but just enough to make the air feel light and sacred. It drifted throughout the sky lazily, catching in the static mess of Tweek’s golden tufts and clinging desperately to the folds of his button-up like soft little ghosts. Each snowflake melted upon contact— fleeting, like thoughts he could not hold onto for too long. The streets were louder than usual, chatter of the trip filling the atmosphere; plans for parties, experiences, insight. Tweek’s boots crunched against the sidewalk, the sound quiet, rhythmic, and grounding.
By the time Tweek reached the front steps of his house, his fingers were pink and raw. They were stiff with cold, and his nose was dusted a rosey pink. The journal felt heavier than it should have in his arms as he stared at it. He turned around to sit on the porch, feeling the snow melt and wetten the his jeans. He pulled the notebook into his lap like it was some fragile thing that was going to break under light pressure.
The snow continued falling— soft and consistent— as if the world had hit pause. With trembling hands, Tweek cracked the cover open, the spine creaking as if it hadn’t been handled in decades. Tweek whipped out a stray pencil from his bookbag and pressed it against the journal. Feeling the light vibrations of the bitten-up pencil against fresh paper, Tweek dragged the pen across the paper hastily. And then, for the first time in a long time, he wrote something just for himself.
I don’t want to go.