Chapter Text
There are few good days, no matter how much the sun laughs.
Nights are seldom better, there to keep him shrouded in light spirits and heavily cast shadows.
Choked the entry exam. Shook his way through the written. The board must have seen potential that wasn't there during the physical. A Meister who dropped the ball as often as he did his thermos. Smoke and mirrors by the double name that weighed him down. Tweek Tweak was an imposter being urged forward by a stern weapon who never knew when to quit. Often dusted off. Treated with a caliber no useful tool had any right being. Sullied in trigger finger happy hands.
“Kyle please slow down- ngk-.” Tweek is being pulled by a tall redhead who doesn't look back as he trudged them on. He weaves through students, old and new, their bodies just as good as fight dummies.
If he wasn't locked in a tense grip, Tweek still would have no issue finding his counterpart. He had a head of height on him, and his ringlet curls were tucked neatly under an apple green hunters cap. All mismatched with a burnt orange canvas coat that he couldn't quite fill out in the shoulders. Cuffed and collared in the same tones as his hat.
“No way man! I don't want to end up in the back.” They reach the doors in record time, the bell being but two ticks from turning to the hour.
They take their seats, more familiar faces now than ever before. A class to this caliber weeded out the weak years prior. Only hopefuls graced this educators house. Tweek exhales an audible breath of relief when they're planted in the second row of the staggered benches. The first always got picked on. Even in a sea of raised hands luck always looked at him through an upside down horseshoe. Too many questions harbouring too much pressure. The twist of the screw of one of his past instructors had him blurting questions of comfort. A release valve could do wonders for his corked thoughts.
Stein considered it for much longer than he should have before declining.
He'd try again this year, with his own notes this time to back up his plea.
Stan and Kenny take the seats beside Kyle, boots touching as they sit like they had magnets in their socks. The crescent room slowly fills. Four tiers of seating until the focal point, housing a podium and a large blackboard that hung riveted to the wall.
Whispering slips through the desks, into perked ears and passed through encoded notes. Laughter cuts the secrets, giving them cover. General chatter a comfortable white noise that Tweek starts to nod off to. The olive green sleeves of his button up are pulled over his fingers, and he rests his head on the bony pillow. A fastener hits his temple, and he sighs before twisting the cuff by dragging it along the desk.
It took only 72 hours until a forced awake brain starts to send mixed signals. Visual. Audible. Sometimes even his mouth tasted like copper when over 80 hours were seen with slow blinking eyes. It takes nearly two full weeks to send a debilitated soul to punch into an eternal dreamland.
He starts when a mass of paper hits him on the back of the head, the snickering of a useless heap sounding several seats behind him. Eric readies to toss the next one Craig crumples up and jams into his open mitts. Saved from the assaults when the door is thrown open and rolling is heard before the scent of sweet tobacco overtakes the stale classroom air.
“Alright class settle down. From looking around I don't have to introduce myself so let's get right into it.” Clear and even, Stein swivels his chair to the chalkboard and begins to scribble notes. Last year's revisions.
The moment the chair is fully turned Tweek feels another condensed wad hit his neck. His fists clench, and his teeth knock into each other as he tics with the surprise ammo.
“We can't get into it on the first day. Don't let it bother you.” Kyle scratches at the edge of his notebook. Only pausing the inevitable. Flips off the duo and catches Craigs mimicked one in response from a side eyed glare.
“Why do I have to be good? Why can't they just behave?” Low and spat, what was only paper weighed like sandbags against the years spent honing in on how to set him off.
“Tweek. Re-lax.” Annoyed, Kyle focuses on the lesson in front of them.
“Mhmmph!” He wants to shred at his hair, listening shot and scrambling eggs where his brain was supposed to be. He’d ask Kyle for his notes later. Writing easy to read and notations sorted in a way that made sense to both of them. This was hardly Kyles first rodeo either, he’d argue he had enough participation buckles to melt into ammunition big enough to annihilate Cartman completely.
This wouldn't have happened if they had sat further back.
None of this would be his reality if simply every single aspect of his life had been wildly different.
If only, if only, what if.
-
The schools day sees them through only one other incident, sharing two time slots with the personified rocks in his shoes. Thankfully the walk home is quiet, and Tweek waits for Kyle to enter first before he graces the apartment with his presence. Reprieve before cramming, an extra night course to run him through the ringer one last time before the celestials in the sky swapped spaces.
Awaiting him is his space on a small couch after he leaves the kitchen, taking up residence on the far side of it near a large window. Calm hands work into a fresh orange, focused on revealing the fruit shelled in one piece. Success would count to a mental tally, another day where world peace is most possible.
You're welcome.
“What is Cartman's fucking problem with you? And Craig’s no better. How didn't they flunk out years ago?-” Partnership formed through the sieve of poor performing protectors. Both were handfuls and hard to deal with. Cartman ran through his first weapons, pushing them beyond what would ever be possible for them. Craig didn’t even move when dragged. Blunt, dulled, able to spring to action by spite.
“-Wanted it so bad they figured out how to work with each other. Tar and the pit.” Pacing about their apartment, purposed like a shark. The answer lied in continuous movement, if he stopped his bitter train of thought parked in the station with him. Picking up miscallenious items and setting them back in their proper places, Kyle caught himself tsking through the tasks.
Tweek severs the section he was on, rendering the fruits peel a duo.
Failure.
“It's a good thing he's- oh my FUCKING GOD get a new orange!” The statue stilled in front of him doesn't break when it’s directed, and Kyle pauses his tirade to stand in front of his Meister with his palm up.
“It's not- tch- the point! It doesn't- mmph- matter!” Hands it over to Kyle in an exasperated huff, any hope of consuming it floored to zero.
“So fucking weird.” Splits it in half, offers even though he knows it'll be denied. Their own routine.
“I know.” Grasps a handful of blond at the nape of his neck, teeth clenched and readying to rip at the sides of his nails. Peel.
Bandaids.
Shaken but focused Tweek b-lines to the bathroom and takes the unopened box of bandages with him from under the sink. Leaving several behind that would see him in about a weeks time. His bedroom door closes, the doorknob sliding unturned in his hand until it lined up with the frame.
Perfect silence.
Kyle would leave him be to stew, and continues to enjoy the broken labour of the fruit he was hastily gifted.
Torn paper litters the floor beside his bed, and Tweek applied one last covering over his index finger. This was just a break. He could be half a nightmare now, figure it out enough to go to night class in two hours, then come back from the horrors of that course load. After that he simply had to wait for the sun. Repeat. He added salves to his mentality just as he did to his hands, picking and choosing the best times for a breakdown and if he could urge his spasming muscles to keep him going until then.
Tweek hisses at himself, scratching another mindless hole in his hand and rips open another small bandaid before he continued to pick at it.
Isopropyl first, pulled out of the drawer of his bedside table. A sting he's thankful for when he swabs soaked cotton over it.
“See you on the steps in an hour.” Muffled through the door, Tweek mumbles back an affirmative before looking at his clock. It blares blinking red.
Right. One hour.
It was never two.
Turns his radio on, tuned in to a gameshow and waited for caller number three.
“I fucking hate you.” Bored, Craig throws the closest textbook near him at his Meister. Clips his shoulder, pissed by how bad he missed since Eric was a wide dumb brick of a person.
“Craig, this is why I keep telling you to be better. Run some laps, practice.” Eric smiles bright, vindictive nature spilling through his teeth.
“Practice. I'll show you pr-” Threat falling short as he's silenced.
“Class. Quiet down.” Monotone, their professor walks in, a curious hatted puppet rested over his hand.
Craig'd have another chance at Eric, honestly he wouldn't even have to wait until the end of the school day. His Meister reveled in enraging not just him, but anyone who fell within a ten foot radius of him. What he got out of being a fucking asshole Craig kind of understood. Though he preferred his from the stance of a bored rock. Watching a pot boil over while he turned the heat up with a shrug or well timed middle finger.
The less effort wasted the better.
Thoughts scrapped when his hat is pulled over his eyes, Craig kicks his foot sideways until it connects with a shin. Eric balls his fist and slams it on the desk. Before he can be blamed Craig is looking up from the textbook he had just been so thoroughly engrossed in. Tired stares bore into the louder troublemaker, including one with a little more mischief in it than the rest coming directly from Craig.
“Cartman. Tucker-” Garrison didn’t even have to glance up from his attendance list.
“What did I do?” Eyebrows raised, looking nearly perturbed.
“Don’t. Just. Let’s make it through the day without a disruption. Please.” Garrison rubs his eyes, the dark circles under them a permanent reminder of the penance he pays as their instructor.
As expected he’s met with a jeer to gargle gonads and is flipped off.
“Okay. Great. Carrying on.” Despite his worst efforts there are several disruptions, but not enough to call on anyone to care. Theory was often in one ear and out the other, but it was the ones who knew the history they would be facing would help their future battles.
Practice always hailed king in twitchy hands. Cracked lips. Bruised ribs and matching egos. The final class of the day beckoned the rowdy. Violence a commodity Eric and his helping hands were all too willing to gift to the most fortunate.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve rung Stans bell.” Eric taps on the table, looking wistfully at a blue hat with a red pompom.
“Remember when Wendy beat you into the floor. What makes you think you can take Stan?” Kenny was no joke either, sharper than his sense of humor and Stan knew how to slash with that sword.
“Because I’m sending my dog after him.” Slaps Craig on the back with far too much force to be friendly.
“Shut the fuck up.” Useless without Craig as his shield, even if only for parts of himself.
-
Where most Weapons and Meisters perfected and preferred each other's company, Craig and Eric seldom saw each other outside of class and those brief moments before passing out. Assumptions were often right about them. A team of necessity. Last picks for poor behaviour and worse aptitudes as team players.
Eric saw victory as a means to an end. He would get what he wanted because he deserved it and there has never been room for doubt. Hard work could be piggybacked off of, and underhanded tactics were successful if you had the intellect to follow through. Winning had nothing to do with the journey, nor the friends along the way. Just the fullness of coffers and his name sang in the same golden tune as the medals that would adorn his neck.
Craig understands when the ribbon is run through at the end of a race. How to be the passed baton, the knee guards, the certainty that you can move through your enemy and keep barreling to the top. His conviction weighs heavy, and that carries through to his soul and bogs down lesser bodies.
Pair ups happened years ago. Sure duos fell through cracks, oddities lasted and some birthrights were right all along and kings welded tridents and flaming swords.
Those who fell were lost to simpler and kinder lives, and those who survived long enough to dust themselves off again got to put their name in a hat and try again with someone else. Maybe they weren't being guided by destinies hand, but Craig had Erics covered and they were going to get him a fucking Kishin egg to devour.
“See you in an hour, Miss Suzy.” The door closes and locks behind Eric, night classes calling them to join forces. What started off as remedial training now stole their time honing them as perfect instruments.
Craig holds up a middle finger, not looking away from his task when he brings his hand back down to continue chopping carrots. Whatever. He wasn’t a homemaker, he just didn’t want to wither into Dorito dust. Hands on activities tended to feel better for him anyways. Precision in this form was a superior trainer to him than most combat exercises.
He keeps thin penny slices of the bright orange ends, severing them until he punches out stars to flake along the top of carefully piped potatoes.
“Fucking gay as Hell.” An observation and little more, the cottage pie ready for the oven and to be removed as soon as they got back
Their own apartment had an air of an abandoned bunker. Somewhere to hunker down for the night and leave at a moments notice. If it wasn’t for the occasional flannel on the floor, or mussed up beds you wouldn’t even guess it was lived in. Save for the kitchen of course. Craig kept the hearth well stoked in there, his Meister needed it as much as he did at the end of a grueling day. One that inevitably would bleed too far into the night.
He sets the ovens temperature a few degrees lower before pushing the ceramic dish inside.
Dishes are washed, dried, and stacked. Counters cleaned, scrubbed, and cupboards are wiped down. Meticulous work until a timer beeps Craig back into the present.
“Don’t fuck this up.” Points to the contented oven, steady as always and flips it two birds for good measure.
Before he leaves he grabs his navy coat, the sweet decay of leaves and crisp autumn air threatening to settle into his bones without the cover. Black boots follow, thick soled and add height he doesn't need. The walk to class is aimless, the streets of Death City a path he could take with his eyes closed. Bumps into Tolkien on the way over, dumb laughter an easy thing to follow when he sees his weapon all but on his hip. Clyde is doubled over, clutching onto Tolkiens shoulder and wiping a tear from his eye with his free hand.
“Craig! We were just talking about you.” Clyde hoists himself back upright, putting himself somewhat back together.
“I sure hope not.” Pulls at the cord of his chullo, rubs the plush star at the end between his fingers.
“Evilist shit you could imagine.” Tolkien plays off Clydes pushing of buttons, tapping at ones labeled ‘Caution’.
“Anything to get what I want.” A side eye is offered, and Craig walks in time with his two classmates.
“What Cartman wants.” Wicked and playful, Clydes jovial nature abundant.
“No. Don’t do that. I've got goals to reach. Shit to do.” He was going to take what he learned here and apply it elsewhere. There was no way his current circumstances were going to be the one that buried him.
“Sure, sure. And we’ll see what end he means when he’s using you for a handjob.” Again Clyde sends himself into an uproarious guffaw.
The joke is met with only a light snicker from one other.
“Fuck dude!” Clyde screeches from the cobblestone, shielding his face when Craig reers his fist back.
“We’re fucking weapons not toys act like it.” Socks him once just below his temple, cheekbone hitting weird against his knuckles.
Tears he didn’t want to see spill from Clydes eyes, able to dish out biting words and clean jabs but never able to take it himself. Flicks his forehead, shuffles his sleeve down to wipe his face and rosing cheeks.
“You’re real pathetic man, you know that?” Craig shakes his head as he stands, offering a hand out to help his friend back up from the floor.
“And you’re a cactus!” Clasps their hands together, not shying away from laying his full weight in and making Craig strain to stand him.
“Well- more like a wasp.” Clyde finishes dusting himself off, plucks a pebble from his shoulder and flicks it in his friends direction.
“Yeah you’re not all that stationary.” Thoughtful, Tolkien starts walking again in the direction they started with.
“He is when Cartmans got hi- OKAY okay! I’ll sto-op.” Less volatile than before, the three of them begin cackling when Craig grabs Clyde to headlock him and muss up his hair.
“And people think I’m an asshole.
“You are. We’re just more… Charismatic.” Tolkien chimes in right when it's right.
“Thanks.” Deadpanned, a soft roll of his eyes and they all stop as he kicks the first step of the seemingly endless stairs in front of them.
Symmetrical as it was bewildering to look at, their school rested atop a heavenly staircase that stretched up into the clouds. A trio of gargantuan skulls lined the front, spikes protruding out the sockets and nose cavity of the center cranium. Behind them a brilliant black castle with stretched cone roofs, a wily spirit unable to land on one ounce of the architecture if it miraculously made its way beyond Lord Deaths barrier. The final foe of hostile construction were the columns that protruded from the perimeter of the schools circular grounds. Dripping wax and ablaze with brilliantly tempered magics they laid on their sides, a fiery beacon to the center of Death City.
First years were left on the center steps without a second thought, second years kept a stable pace with upperclassmen but never spoke a word until they took a steadying breath at the top. In their final year their chatter never ceased, endurance the first thing to be pushed well beyond human boundaries.
The trio make it to the top with ease, and there is a threat bounced off of an offending party to send them right back to step one if they don't pipe down. Clyde mimes zipping his lips and tossing the key. Tolkien has a soft smile as he shakes his head while catching what was thrown. Tolkiens weapon was a handful, but he was his handful and there was little more they enjoyed than goading him on while he made Craig break his usually flat persona. Put ‘too much’ to good use.
“Do you think we'll actually be sent out this year?” Clyde hasn't thought past the initial shock of having to face genuine danger.
“Yeah. I do.” Well accepted by Tolkien, skin prickling from a storm a long time coming.
“Good. I don't want to do all of this shit for nothing.” Stretches at the castles entrance, knuckles popping as Craig laces his fingers over his head.
“Why? What else would you be doing that's so important? Baking cookies?” Tolkien questions neg with a hopeful tone.
Craig squints.
“So your place after.” Clyde confirms, his mental map already pinning Craigs apartment before his own.
“You can't rag on me, and then fucking try and come to my place just to raid my fridge.” Disbelief washes over him, hands out of his pockets to gesture with the same incredulity.
“Yeah and we'll dog on you there too.” The next swing is dodged, and Clyde strikes Craig hard in the ribs. He wasn’t in his third year here by scrapping with marshmallow peeps.
“You should make that lemon bread thing again.” Ruffles Craigs hair when he’s doubled over, and he goes to shoulder into the mouthy brunet.
“Where is this request coming from? What is wrong with you?” Tries to toss him over his shoulder but Clyde is quick to wrench himself free.
“No more than you.” Under his breath, Tolkien speaks for the both of them.
“No shot that's true. Nothing sweet. Dinner.” One last cuff to the back of Clydes head, and Craig feels satisfied enough to call that triumph.
“That works. I'll bring a box.” For leftovers. Craig was incapable of making anything less than a serving for a sizable army.
Great.
His friends open the door for him, and Craig walks over an obviously placed ankle he'd hadn't tripped over in years. Traditions.
A sharp whistle breaks what little chitchat there is. Craig slides a look up with only his eyes, sucks his teeth. Already a little punchy he exhales slowly through his nose.
“Oh hey dude I think that was for you.” Jeered, Clydes bite quiet enough to only snap at Craigs synapses.
Tolkien just shares clenched teeth and wide eyes.
Traditions.
Licks over his canine before heading towards the humiliating call. He takes his place at the top of the classes hierarchy of seating. Centered and surveyed so long as they stayed in the room. Evening courses like this weren't textbook, they were survival guides.
Many techniques he jammed into his daily life.
“Do you ever pay attention?” Prodding Craig for the sake of it, to test submission when stakes were low.
“When it matters.” Isn't willing to break eye contact first, hackles poised to raise.
“Craig. Don't piss me off.” Sighed, unamused by the display. His jesters bells were ringing wrong this morning.
“Fail. Release me.” Narrows his eyes, hoping to hear a buckle break loose and his choke chain drop.
“Then who's supposed to pick you up? Do we bring Leo back? Red? Tolkien's busy, but you know that.” Eric knows what needs to be heard.
All awful answers, Craig tended to float like a lead balloon and sting like a brick in the wrong hands.
Drags his over his desk, grips the edge of it as he hunkers down. He sees the duo he walked in with, and beside them just moments before the bell rang was that twitchy freak and his weapon. Switches between them and the classes opening statements. Their instructor was another familiar face, pulled from the grave and set back to work just as the man he once was would have done.
Sid focuses on combat safety, his line of questioning strange and abstract. They had spent the last few years honing skills with hopefully one pair up, two if differences couldn't be ironed out.
Tomorrow would quell the ache in his fingers, the shake in his bones he adopted from another classmate. He needed to drop something. It was easier when it was warranted and evaluated. Taps the smooth wood that could know his outline by now, and damn near launches himself out of the room when the official signal commences the evenings studies.
With a timer set against him Craig's usual lax nature wasn't going to cut it. Darts out of the left skull, striking seconds of his routes ETA. A palm hits the pavement, crouched and he tips to the balls of his feet before springing into a flighted sprint. Only the castle of Death City had miscreant denying coned roofs. The rest were shaled tiles or clay shingles.
The fastest way from point A to point B was a straight line.
Thudding sounds overhead, the residents of the homes Craig scaled thinking Christmas came early. Scans for loose footing, the same training kicking in as if he was looking for a serpents scale to shake loose.
Monsters, Kishins he could be driven towards, bestowed flesh he could tear into.
Doomed souls he was encouraged to consume.
Weird life, chosen when he learned he could change.
Shakes himself back into focus as he runs, a threat of throwing him off course shifting under usually sure footing. Catches himself on the edge of a gutter, following momentum down and rolling over his shoulder when he's back on ground level. One Street over, and Craig slaps the road sign that signifies home as he sprints past it. His worn boots groan as he comes to a skidded stop, treads on them begging for a cobbler.
Reaches the front door as beeping starts from inside, and he shoulders his way in before flinging the oven door open. Plates his hands, heat hardly a foe but a familiar fact of being. The top steams perfectly, moments from being turned from delicious to dry. Dishes enough for three, washes his hands and curses when he hears the door open without a knock.
“Smells good in here.” Boxed doughnuts are placed on the table, a feeble mercy for their sudden entrance. Just as they did the last night, and the one before that.
“That's on purpose.” Craig drolls, an obvious answer for a lame statement.
“I brought my container.” Clyde twists the clear box in the air, and sets it beside the scalding casserole dish with the top popped off.
“Fucking- one on the left is yours.” Scrubs his hands over his face, huffs and puffs enough for a straw house as he collects cups and Tolkien is in the fridge pulling out something fermented.
Cylde was already picking up the novelty plate while scoping out the largest portion to take home with him.
“You've got weird hobbies.” Tolkien pops the cork off, filling the tall glasses as they're set.
“You all benefit.” Busy hands, happy head. Craig figured he was fine tuning himself with how he chose to fill his fleeting free time.
They sit down to feast, and Craig waits for viewed first bites before digging in himself once they look satisfied.
Cold in opposite places, Kyle was often out with Stan and Kenny. Better company and they suited him fine.
Tweek stayed within the current comfort of his room, the radio turned on and mostly clear voices fill the dead space. Exhaustion long since snaked into his bones, coiled and curled around him, helixed into the marrow.
Today was already so hard.
Tomorrow was supposed to be harder.
He had only one year left of this.
One year left and then what?
Scrambles out of his bed, a harrowing nest of blankets, pillows, and other creature comforts. The kitchen houses quick fixes, grabs ice from the freezer, turns the sink on full freezing and dunks his head under.
“Stop it.” The water shuts off, his hands drip freezing as the ice melts clutched in them.
Stares at sparkling silver, the sink empty of everything but droplets and his head. Drenched blond hair sticks wildly to his forehead, plastered and dripping excess water.
But then what?
It could be a reasonable question. In a different brain. Kyle wouldn't stay and he would be all alone again with new abilities he's harnessed with nothing to fight for, work towards.
His fears crushing weight drowns under the next onslaught of water. Screams muffled in his hands, white noise eating the rest.
Nothing he had to figure out right this second. Tomorrow had plenty that would floss its teeth with his worries.
The refrigerators hum is the only sound Tweek hears when he shuts the water off, certain this time and grabs a couple ice packs from the freezer. Hands, head, heart. Sharp sensations that didn't hurt. Careful he crawls back into his bed, gingerly settling himself inside of a strange amalgamation of ice and pillows. Fixing himself kept his head busy enough that panic was only on the rings of his efforts. The gravity of his life and its circumstances always kept it close though.
“There's water ALL OVER THE FUCKING FLOOR!” Bottled frustrations finally burst, and Kyle is faced with the blinding reality of another year of careless behaviour.
Tweeks heart drops, he had been too focused on himself. Forgot to fix hazards. Forgot aftermath. That he existed beyond his own being. Forgot to maintain some degree of being put together around others.
“Sorry!” Sorry.” How was the dead supposed to move.
Sid did it.
“Don't bother. I got it. It's fine. My socks are wet.” Flat. The sounds of a mop being pushed around follow shortly after.
“Kay.” Broken. Feet on the floor still by an executed order.
“Don't- Sleep with wet hair.” The latch of his bedroom door jiggles, once more before it's cracked open.
“Right.” Slides his socks along the muted tan carpet, parchment crinkling.
“Tweek.” Kyle leans on the top of the mop, arms folded over it with his chin rested in the middle.
It wasn't that he didn't care, it's that he wasn't equipped to handle all of Tweeks idiosyncrasies.
Dragged shuffling staggers him to the bathroom, a blow dryer whirring to life in his hands.
“See you tomorrow.” Tired in a different way, in upkeep he couldn't keep up with Kyle hunkers down in his room for the remainder of the evening until he falls asleep
Tweeks night isn't as fast, a new spiral of guilt a layer he wasn't prepared to add to his current panic. Sleep took him at gunpoint. Heels of his hands pressed firm against his sockets until he saw stars. Until he saw nothing but the relentless sun maybe minutes later. An hour if he counted the time spent staring into space.