Chapter Text
The first blow landed on his cheekbone, and Craig was knocked off balance.
He didn't even see Tweek spring into action. One moment he was standing two meters away, jerking his head and blinking his eyes, and the next he was crashing into Craig with his whole body, pinning him against the lockers.
There was a ringing roar. The metal bent under his shoulder blades, and something inside him clanged pitifully. Craig tried to put his hands up, but Tweek was already pounding away — randomly, viciously, heavily.
“You!” Tweek yelled right in his face. His voice broke into a shriek, his words choked with saliva. “You, bitch!”
A fist slammed into his jaw from below. Craig's head jerked back and hit the metal with a dull thud. His vision darkened, but Tweek was already hitting him again in the cheek, in the eye, in the cheek again.
Somewhere off to the side, Cartman yelled:
“Craig! Knock him out! I bet on you, damn it!”
And immediately — Kyle's voice:
“Tweek, come on! Show him!”
Bets. Craig had time to think about it before another blow landed on his ear. A ringing filled his head, and the world tilted.
Tweek was everywhere. He was just pounding, hitting, punching wherever he could. Craig tried to grab his hands, catch him, pin him down, but Tweek jerked, twisted, slipped away. An elbow slammed into his nose.
Crunch.
Blood gushed instantly, hot, salty, flooding his mouth, running down his chin. Craig coughed, choked, and tried to turn away, but Tweek grabbed him by the hair and turned him back toward him.
“What did you say?!” Tweek yelled. His face was wet, either from tears, sweat, or both. His eyes were wild, his pupils so dilated that his irises were almost invisible. His lips twitched. “What did you say about my parents?!”
A fist to the jaw. His lip burst from the inside, his mouth filling with fresh blood.
“Die!” Tweek yelled and hit him again. “Die, you bastard!”
What did he say? Craig tried to remember through the pain and ringing in his ears. Cartman came up during recess, pointed his finger at Tweek:
“Hey, new guy, go up to this psycho and ask him how his parents put up with him. He's really mad.”
And he went over. He wanted to fit in. He said, looking down at the shaking guy:
“Hey, dude. Are you okay? Aren't your parents sick of you?”
Tweek twitched then. All over. From head to toe. And then he exploded.
“I'll kill you!” Tweek yelled, punching him in the ribs. Once. Twice. Three times. Something cracked inside, and Craig gasped for air, but none came. The pain was so intense that his vision darkened. “I'll kill you, bitch!”
A punch to the jaw. His head jerked to the left. A punch to the eye, and everything on the right went dark. Craig felt the skin on Tweek's knuckles tear his cheekbone.
Craig tried to cover himself with his hands, but Tweek threw them aside and grabbed his face again. His fingers were strong and tenacious.
He hit him again in the damaged cheekbone, blood splattering on Tweek, on his face. Tweek didn't even wipe it off.
“Scum! Bastard!” Each word was accompanied by a blow. Craig stopped counting. He just stood there, his back pressed against the cold lockers, trying to breathe.
The crowd was screaming.
“Wow, he's really going to kill him!” someone shouted.
“Twenty for us!” Stan yelled.
“Craig, you fucking piece of shit! Fight back!” Cartman screamed.
Kenny just watched and chewed his chips.
Tweek swung his fist again. His hand was shaking.
“I'll...” Tweek began, but didn't finish.
Someone's hand grabbed him by the collar and pulled him away from Craig with force.
“Hey, hey!” yelled Mr. Garrison.
He shook Tweek like a rag doll. But Tweek went limp, ceasing to resist. Sobs began to escape from his throat.
“He's bleeding!” someone in the crowd squealed.
Craig tried to get up. He leaned on his elbow and vomited. Bile and blood, right onto the floor. Everything swam before his eyes, and nausea rolled up his throat in waves. He ran his hand over his face, and his fingers sank into something wet, sticky, and warm. Thick blood flowed from his broken lip, his cut cheekbone, his nose.
His ribs burned. With every breath, something crackled inside, wheezed, gurgled. His eye wouldn't open. His cheek burned where the skin was torn.
Tweek didn't even look at him. He stared at the floor, at one spot, and shook. His shoulders shook, his arms hung limply, his head jerked—once, twice, three times, four times.
Garrison looked from one to the other.
“Both of you!” he barked. “Both of you to the principal's office! Now! You,” he jabbed Craig. “Get up and go! You,” he tugged at Tweek. “Move it!”
Tweek tried to take a step and stumbled. He almost fell, but Garrison caught him and dragged him along.
Craig stood up. Every step sent pain through his ribs, his head, his broken face. Blood dripped from his chin onto his T-shirt — drip, drip, drip. He could taste it in his mouth, iron and salt. He saw it staining the floor — dark spots on the gray linoleum.
Cartman was yelling something about canceling the bets. Kyle and Stan exchanged glances. Kenny finished eating his chips.
Craig don't give a fuck about them.
He watched Tweek. Watched his back twitching — twitch, twitch, twitch. Watched him sob as he walked and his fingers clench into fists and unclench again, over and over.
Tweek didn't turn around or look. He just walked, stumbled, and cried.
And Craig watched it and felt something sticky and inappropriate ignite inside him, beneath the layer of pain and nausea. Interest.
Who was this lunatic who had just nearly killed him? Who was punching him, yelling “die” and shaking as if his motor had broken down inside?
Craig wiped the blood from his lip and followed him.
The principal's office was bright and stuffy. Tweek sat on a chair, his back pressed against it, shaking. His eyes were red, his nose swollen from crying, his cheeks smeared with tears and blood — not his, Craig's.
Craig sat down on a chair nearby. His ribs ached, and he hissed through his teeth. His mouth tasted disgusting — blood, bile, metal. He spat into the trash can.
The principal hadn't come yet. Garrison had gone somewhere to deal with paperwork. The office was quiet, except for Tweek sobbing and twitching.
Craig looked at him.
“Hey,” Craig said. His voice was hoarse, his lip was swollen, and it hurt to talk.
Tweek flinched but didn't respond. He didn't look up.
“Hey,” Craig said again.
Tweek closed his eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks and mixed with Craig's blood.
“Fuck off,” Tweek whispered. His voice broke, turning into a rasp. “Fuck off and die.”
Craig said nothing.
He watched. At Tweek's shaking hands, at his twitching head. And he thought that he didn't like him very much.
...
Craig sat on a hard wooden chair and tried not to breathe deeply. Each breath made his ribs ache with a wet crunch that made him feel nauseous. He stared straight ahead — at the principal's desk, at the stacks of papers, at the computer monitor, at a framed photo of some children — and tried not to think about how much his face hurt.
It hurt. All at once.
His right eye was completely swollen shut. Craig could feel the swelling pressing on his eyelid from the inside, a hot, dull pain pulsing under his skin. He couldn't open it, even when he tried — just a cloudy slit through which he couldn't see anything. His left eye was watering, but he could see and that was enough to make out Tweek.
Tweek was sitting on the same chair two meters away from him. Every three or four seconds, a slight, unstoppable tremor ran through him, causing the chair beneath him to creak quietly. His head jerked from side to side — once, twice, three times, four times. Once, twice, three times, four times. Like a broken metronome.
He didn't look at Craig. He looked at the linoleum, at his sneakers. His lips moved silently — he was muttering something. Craig couldn't hear what, but he could see the corners of his mouth twitching in time with his tics.
Craig's blood had dried on his face, forming a crust mixed with tears and sweat. It was smeared from his cheekbone to his chin, where Tweek had wiped his face with his sleeve.
Craig's mouth was red too. He spat the bloody saliva, thick and disgusting, into the trash can again. His lip was so swollen that he could feel it with his tongue —huge, hot, with a crusted scab in the middle. When he moved his mouth, the scab cracked and blood oozed out again, slowly and salty.
His nose was swollen. Craig touched it with his fingers — carefully, with his fingertips — and felt it crunch inside. It was definitely broken. He had to breathe through his mouth, but his mouth was broken, and every breath sent pain through his jaw.
His cheekbone burned. Where Tweek's knuckles had torn the skin, a dark scab had formed, but everything around it was swollen. Craig could feel his cheek getting thicker, the skin tightening, the blood pulsing beneath it.
His ribs. He tried not to think about his ribs. Because when he did, it only got worse. Somewhere on his left side, under his armpit, something crunched and cracked with every breath. Craig breathed shallowly, like a dog, just so he wouldn't shift whatever was broken inside.
His jacket was wet. He could feel the fabric sticking to his stomach, making his skin feel disgustingly cold.
His fingers were trembling. Craig clenched them into fists and unclenched them, checking to see if they were obeying him. They were, but not very well. His right elbow ached — when he fell, he had stuck his elbow out, and now there was a bruise forming under the skin. Craig could feel it.
Tweek continued to creak his chair until the door opened.
Principal Victoria entered and closed the door behind her insanely loud. She sat down at the desk without looking at them and opened a folder, leafed through some papers, put her elbows on the desk, and clasped her fingers together.
“Well,” she said in a dry voice. “What was that?”
Tweek flinched. He sniffed briefly, covered his mouth with his hand.
Craig was silent and looked at her. She looked good and neat. But she didn't even look at his face.
“I'm asking,” the principal repeated, “what happened?”
“We...” Tweek began. “I... he...”
“You'll speak when you're asked,” Victoria cut him off. “Okay. You,” she pointed her finger at Craig. “The new kid, Tucker. Speak.”
Craig swallowed. His mouth was salty from blood.
“I told him... about his parents,” he croaked. His voice broke, and he coughed. “I asked how they put up with him.”
The principal nodded.
“And you,” she turned to Tweek, “got into a fight.”
Tweek shook his head. Twitch, twitch, twitch. Tears flew in all directions.
“He... he had no right!” Tweek shouted. His voice broke into a shriek. “He doesn't know! He doesn't know my parents! They... they...”
“Quiet,” said the principal wearily. “Don't yell.”
Tweek shut up and pressed himself harder against the wall, wrapping his arms around his head.
Craig looked at him. His fingers clenched in his hair, shaking, his back twitching. Tears dripping from under his bent forearms.
“A fight at school,” the principal continued, looking through them. “With spectators and bets.”
Craig spat into the trash can. Red.
“I need a doctor,” he said, tried to speak evenly. “My nose is broken. My ribs too, I think.”
The principal looked up. She looked at him for the first time — still indifferent, tired.
“I'll call one if necessary,” she said. “Let's figure this out first.”
“It hurts to breathe,” Craig added. “I'm coughing up blood.”
“Sit up straight,” the principal replied. “And don't interrupt.”
The scab on his lip burst, blood running down his chin. He wiped it away with his hand, smearing it.
The office stank. Of his own sweat, dried blood, the filth he had vomited in the hallway — a sour, nauseating smell. Tweek smelled of sweat and fear, and it was sharp, chemical. The principal smelled of perfume and coffee.
“You,” said the principal, looking at Tweek. “Lift your head.”
Tweek sank deeper into his chair.
“Lift, please.”
Tweek lifted it. His eyes were swollen. He looked at the principal and shook violently.
“Do you understand what you've done?” asked the principal.
Tweek nodded. He jerked once, twice, three times.
“You beat up a classmate,” said the principal. “In front of witnesses. It was caught on camera. Do you understand that?”
“He... he started it...” whispered Tweek.
“He said words,” interrupted the principal. “And you started fighting. Who hit first?”
Tweek was silent. He shook, looked at the floor, but remained silent.
“I'm asking you,” the principal's voice became harsher. “Who hit first?”
“I did,” Tweek whispered. Barely audible. “But he...”
“Enough,” the principal interrupted again. “You hit him first. That makes you the instigator.”
Tweek sobbed, loudly and desperately. He grabbed his head, covered his ears with his hands, and shook even harder.
Craig watched and felt nausea rising again. Not from pity. From everything at once. From the smell, from the pain, from this office, from this woman sitting at her desk and looking at them as if they were trash.
“You,” the principal turned to Craig, "should think before you open your mouth".
Craig was silent. He looked at her.
“I'll call your parents,” she said. "Your adoptive parents, right?
“Yes,” Craig said. His voice was completely gone.
“And yours,” she nodded at Tweek. “Have them come and pick you both up. We'll talk about punishment tomorrow.”
Tweek shook his head. Harder, harder.
“No,” he exhaled. “They... they shouldn't...”
“They need to know that their son is beating people up at school,” the principal snapped.
Tweek whimpered quietly and plaintively.
Craig looked at him. At his shaking shoulders, at his fingers clutching his hair, at his wet, red face.
And he thought.
About how much you can hate yourself. About how much you can love your parents. Or not love them.
The principal spoke into the phone. Her voice was dry and official.
“Yes, a fight. Your son beat up a classmate. Yes, come. As soon as possible.”
Tweek closed his eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks and dripped onto his jeans.
Craig turned away. He couldn't watch anymore.
He looked out the window at the gray sky, the bare tree branches, the wet asphalt of the schoolyard.
The principal hung up the phone. It seems she called his parents too, but he missed it.
“We'll wait,” she said and buried herself in her papers.
The office was filled with the sounds of Tweek's hysterical sobs and Craig's hoarse breathing. Looks like they'll have to wait a bit longer for the ambulance.