Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/14101950.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, M/M
  Fandom:
      South_Park
  Relationship:
      Craig_Tucker/Tweek_Tweak, Karen_McCormick/Tricia_Tucker
  Character:
      Craig_Tucker, Tweek_Tweak, Bebe_Stevens, Kenny_McCormick, Tricia_Tucker,
      Karen_McCormick, Token_Black, Jimmy_Valmer, Clyde_Donovan, Richard_Tweak,
      Mrs._Tweak_(South_Park), Thomas_Tucker, Laura_Tucker
  Additional Tags:
      Other_Ships_Not_Mentioned_in_Tags, But_are_less_plot_important, Underage
      Drug_Use, Methamphetamine_Addiction, Non-Consensual_Drug_Use, Implied/
      Referenced_Rape/Non-con, mentions_and_descriptions_of_childhood_sexual
      abuse, inherently_dubiously_consensual_sex_scenes, Underage_Prostitution,
      descriptions_of_self_harm, Child_Abuse, Child_Neglect, Slow_Burn, Angst
      with_a_Happy_Ending, Love_at_First_Sight, Angst_and_Hurt/Comfort,
      Character_Death, (None_of_the_kids_die), Childhood_Trauma, Childhood
      Romance
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-03-26 Chapters: 1/? Words: 1716
****** Joy Division ******
by CruelKittenThesis
Summary
     After a close encounter with death, Tweek gets extremely desperate to
     escape from the horrible fate of drug addiction and death. This
     desperation leads to doing some incredibly questionable things for
     money, so that he can finally be free. He did not expect to reunite
     with his childhood crush, Craig, who, though his own presence, is
     throwing a wrench in all of Tweek's plans.
Notes
     I have never done any drugs, and while I did a lot of research before
     writing this, I naturally will get some things wrong. The same goes
     for prostitution. Please take everything with a grain of salt. Also,
     this fic contains a lot of possibly triggering, or upsetting content,
     so please use caution when reading. Special thanks go to Ruby and
     Lila, who let me blab my silly ideas to them, and Graham who said I
     should go through with writing this.
See the end of the work for more notes
Tweek groaned, rubbing his arm, knowing a bruise was already forming, blooming
into a hateful flower of purple and blue, as he walked back home from school.
One of the upperclassmen, some ugly, beady eyed blond, who Tweek had never
bothered to learn the name of, had yelled at him, claiming his twitching and
shaking were irritating and he needed to stop. When Tweek had protested that he
couldn't help it, the boy punched him in the arm, and probably would have done
more, if a passing teacher had come to break up the supposed, “fight.”
 
He slowly increased his walk to a run, fearful that he'd get jumped on the way
home, now that this guy was angry from being interrupted. Hell, he'd probably
bring friends, and they would get carried away, hit too hard, his head would
hit the ground at the wrong angle, snapping his neck, and he'd end up another
accidental homicide. Tweek shivered, picturing his broken corpse flowing down
the river. Knowing his parents, it'd be at least a week before they'd even
notice he was gone, and then his body could be taken by alien for
experimentation, or something else horrible.
 
His body began to shake again, and he wished he could blame it on the
frightening thoughts or the cold, as he reached the front door. He felt like a
vampire, how stories always talked about the cravings for blood left the
vampires shaking and desperate, willing to do anything for another taste. Only
vampires craved blood, not crystal meth. As he put his hand doorknob, he
wondered which one would be worse, and then, if a vampire could be addicted to
meth, and if they had to prey on addicts.
 
Tweek let out a little squeak, because if meth-addicted vampires were real, he
was sure he'd be on the top of the list as an easy target. His parents wouldn't
miss him, he had no close friends, and he was an addict.
 
He tugged at his blond hair as he stepped into the house, then cursed himself,
because he didn't need more bald spots. The one behind his right ear, and the
one above his left brow, were more than enough.
 
He kicked off his shoes, tossing them haphazardly by the door, where they fell
with a clatter. He didn't bother to straighten them. He wanted to quit, he
really did. He hated himself for being unable to curb an addiction, but at the
same time, he had sort of given up, resigned himself to the miserable fate of a
pathetic death of overdose one day.
 
“Ack!” He groaned, snapping out of another vision of death to notice that, in
an attempt to not pull out his own hair, he'd scratched his arm hard enough to
draw blood. He frowned, and scrabbled up the stairs to his room.
 
The entire room was littered, haphazardly, with all of his possessions: anime
and robot figurines waged a miniature war with each other on most of the
available desk, there were stacks of books by the bed, clothes lay tossed into
various piles, old childhood toys made a home for themselves on his unmade bed,
various trash was scattered around the room, empty mugs that once held tea took
up the little space left on the desk, and pile of coffee cups made a tower for
themselves on the window.
 
He shut the door, carefully. Tweek knew is parents weren't home, and knew the
used just as badly, if not worse, than he did. After all, they'd kept him
addicted since before birth. Why even have a child, if you were just going to
doom them? He never knew the reason, or, just didn't want to admit it.
 
Tweek ran a hand through his messy blond hair, and walked to his dresser.
Shaking, he pulled out the bottom drawer. In the right corner, there was a
sock, tightly wrapping everything he needed. A small glass pipe, a pink
lighter, and a zip lock bag full of deadly crystals. He'd stolen all of them,
minus the lighter, from his parents. He claimed he'd broken the pipe, and his
parents never weighed the bags they made him retrieve, allowing him to steal
tiny quantities of it for his own use. A part of him was always fearful that
one day they would catch him, throw him out on the street, because, after all,
being a tweeked up mess was bad for the coffee business. There was a deeper
fear, though, that coiled inside his stomach. The ultimate fear that they knew,
and just did not care. That all he'd ever been to them was a corpse.
 
With trembling hands, he packed the pipe with a small quantity of the crystals,
and lit the lighter, watching it all melt, like a toxic magic potion witches
brew in fairy tales. He took a breath, and let the smoke flow out of him,
looking almost descriptively pretty, like clouds.
 
He didn't always smoke, preferring the more muted effect of putting it in his
coffee. Smoking was always so much stronger, more intense, and hit much harder
and faster, like pressing your hand directly on the stove-top, as opposed to
letting bath water slowly heat around your body. It had been too long since his
last usage, since he'd tried, and failed, to quit again, and now everything was
itching, burning, for a taste. It was the same feeling as when your arms will
not stop itching, like bugs, crawling under your skin, eating you from the
inside, and the only thing that scratches them is the blade of a box cutter.
 
The high hit him like a hammer, everything felt as though the sound and color,
had been turned up, like the world had suddenly been thrust into high
definition. For a moment, it felt almost good, his body getting the thing it
felt it needed, that it had been trained into wanting from it's existence.
 
He felt awake, alive, but the slight high turned into a crash. Tweek twitched,
feeling over-wound, like a toy who's key has been turned too far. He was awake,
but physically exhausted, and he groaned, staring at the wall. He wondered if
he should try and watch something. He'd fallen behind on every show that seemed
interesting.
 
He picked up his laptop, but no show seemed interesting, so he scrolled
aimlessly on random websites. He wondered if the NSA spies, who he was certain
existed, had seen him smoking, and was grateful he remembered he'd covered his
webcam with duct tape. Paranoia began to creep into his skull, like the bugs
under his skin.
 
Murders typically happened in your own home most of all, don't they? Usually
from robbery attempts gone wrong. Tweek rolled over, and patted his hand
against the dirty glass of his window, which was next to his bed. It was
locked, and the layer of dust indicated it hadn't been opened in years. It made
him feel a little better, but not so good that it made him do anything other
than bite his hands and fingers, chewing up the cuticles until they were
stinging and bloody.
 
He looked out the window, and saw nothing but angry, black clouds. Tweek
frowned, he wanted to see the stars. What was the point in staying up if you
couldn't see the stars? Even the weather seemed to be conspiring against him.
 
He groaned, wondering if he should go to the bathroom, and cover his hands in
band-aids, and possibly sleep some of his mother's sleeping to forced his
drugged up, fucked up body to get the sleep it needed. He hated sleeping pills,
they made him feel dead, like his body was made of concrete, whenever he did
get desperate enough to use them. There was also the issue of how abusing
skeeping pills leads to many other health issues. (Even if he was a meth
addict, he really didn't want more health problems.)
 
Twitching, he forced himself out of bed, realizing that, right now, he did feel
bad enough to force himself out of consciousness. It wasn't far from his room
to the bathroom. It stood halfway between his room and his parents' room, as a
strange sort of sanctuary where they both occupied the space of. In most
instances, they never spoke to each other in their own home. Or more
accurately, Tweek avoided his parents like the plague, and they never bothered
to interact with him.
 
The bathroom light was on, the artificial yellow crawled through the crack in
the door, like a carnivorous animal on the hunt, ready to strike. It was
unusual for the light to on and the door open, and it made Tweek feel nervous.
What if there really was an ax murderer hiding inside? Still, the threat of
being cut into pieces by sharp blades was not stronger than the need to sleep.
 
Cautiously, Tweek slowly pushed open the door. It opened with a creek. To his
surprise, the bottle of sleeping pills was already on the counter, turned over,
and pills littered the beige surface, looking like the spilled candies left by
a lazy child.
 
Tweek stepped forward, to examine the bottle, that's when he saw red streaked
along edge of the marble counter. Sticky, it dripped, like syrup, down the edge
of the counter. It was then that Tweek saw the body of his mother laying on the
ground, a thin stream of blood flowing down her soft face. She looked almost
peaceful, like she'd finally gotten a moment to sleep.
 
Was she dead? Did someone kill her? Is this an overdose? Is she going to
die?All the strength left Tweek's body, and he fell to his knees. Die. She's
going to die. She's going to die.
 
It wasn't until the door slammed open, hitting the wall hard enough to dent,
and his father stormed in, that Tweek realized, he had been screaming. Greasy,
yellow strands of hair stuck to his hands. He hadn't even noticed that he'd
been tearing them out. Almost absently, from a faint place away from the shock
and horror, a revelation, a thought, began to seed and sprout. The simple
thought of, “I don't want to die.”
 
Outside, it began to rain.
 
End Notes
     As always, if you need to, or want to, contact me, I am lilithkitty
     on Twitter, and Sakurazuka-Subaru on Tumblr. I must warn you that
     this fic may update slowly, and irregularly, as I am in an extremely
     stressful life situation, and currently facing homelessness. I hope I
     have a happier update when the next chapter comes out.
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