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Stan slammed his phone on the counter, hissing a sigh through his teeth. He slumped forward, bracing himself on straightened arms, and glared at the space between his hands. His palms threatened to slip along the plastic tile, sweaty and nervous.
Blurred through his hair falling forward was Kyle turning to frown at him from his perch against the kitchen table. Their kitchen and dining room were fused together because they couldn’t afford a bigger apartment. His lips shook with the gradually welling tears. He crossed his arms, one arm coming up to cover his mouth instead of wrapping around himself.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” He murmured through his fingers.
Stan’s grimace deepened and he raised his eyes to meet Kyle’s. He looked crushed in the same way he did when he first told Stan about Heidi. The crease between his eyebrows deepened with anxiety the way it had while he recalled her overdose, how he found her choking on her own vomit. He looked wary and sympathetic and it made Stan’s throat burn with rising bile.
“Don’t be sorry yet,” Stan snapped. He pushed off the counter and snatched his phone, Kyle’s footsteps quickly following him through the front door.
“Stan, this isn’t your responsibility,” Kyle repeated, likely setting a record for how many times he’d said that in a single day. He was projecting because he couldn’t convince Heidi to leave Cartman. “Just come back inside and call the police. Or-or you could call them and-and-and meet them there.”
Stan just shook his head and stormed out of the apartment building.
Tweek was his responsibility, and he was Tweek’s. They decided to get sober together.
“Jesus, okay, just- at least let me drive,” Kyle sighed.
On the way there, Stan called Tweek and Craig repeatedly and it rang out each time. Kyle pleaded with him to try and have 911 meet them there. Stan ignored him and chewed on the inside of his cheek.
When they pulled up in front of Tweek’s place, Stan took rigid, robotic steps inside. He counted each step and centered each foot in a tile so that he didn’t step on any cracks. It gave him a sense of control.
He came to a standstill outside of Tweek’s door and stared at the doorknob. His hands were leaden at his sides and the blood rushing through his ears was deafening. He hadn’t fully processed till this point what he could find on the other side.
“Kyle,” He said quietly. His voice sounded foreign, too light and meek to belong to him. “You should stay out here.”
“No, I’m not okay with that.” Kyle hooked his pinky around Stan’s. “I don’t want you doing this alone.”
Stan nodded slowly and tears welled in his eyes. He chewed on the thought for a moment. He thought of the day he and Tweek checked themselves into rehab.
“I don’t want to do this alone,” Stan whispered, clenching his jaw.
Kyle didn’t say anything, but he squeezed Stan’s finger. That said more than words.
Stan took the keys from Kyle and used the spare key Tweek had given him. Kyle kept their pinkies locked together the whole time, neither straying from the other. He followed Stan dutifully while he took in the state of the place.
The apartment was quiet. The television was off and there was no music playing. If it weren’t for the rhythmic swishing from the running dishwasher, he would’ve thought there was no one home.
He knew Tweek, though. He knew he was home because he did the dishes after he got off work. He knew something was wrong because the office door was closed. Tweek always opened the office door when he got home to let Stripe roam freely. His shoes weren’t discarded by the front door like they usually were. One was on the floor by the kitchen and one was lying by the couch. His work shirt was strewn near their bedroom door.
The silverware drawer was open.
Stan stared at his warped reflection on the back of a spoon and said, “I think you should go call the police.”
“Is he here?” Kyle asked, staring at the same spoon.
“Yeah, he’s here.”
Stan stepped away from the drawer and headed toward the bathroom door, wrenching his hand away from Kyle’s. He paused with his hand on the doorknob.
“Stay over there for a minute,” Stan said, and Kyle obeyed with wide, teary eyes.
There was no resistance behind the door.
Tweek was lying in the tub, his supplies laid across the edge of it. His eyes were open and gazing vacantly at the wall in front of him. Vomit had caked itself down his chin and looked crusty on his bare chest. Scars and tender flesh on his shoulders and chest were mended shut by coagulated blood like he had been scratching at them.
His left arm was mostly hidden by his frame, but Stan could see a sliver of taut purple skin, pulled by a rubber cord just above the needle-
Stan made a noise that he could never recreate–some strained, raspy cry–and slammed the door shut. He stumbled back from the doorway on legs that felt like fire. Kyle rushed forward to catch him when he began to collapse. His brain felt compressed and sickly and the tongue in his mouth did not feel like his own.
He felt Kyle trying to maneuver him away from the bathroom, but couldn’t tell where they were going. His breathing was labored but he held his hands over his mouth anyways. He felt that if he lowered his arms, uncovering his mouth, then his numb limbs would fall off and he would coat his front in vomit like Tweek had.
He couldn’t process what he was seeing as Kyle guided him to the couch. Every fiber in the carpet stared back at him like the thinning, brittle hair on Tweek’s head. The remote sitting on the coffee table was a syringe. The coasters were balls of foil.
Kyle’s voice sounded like Tweek’s in his head. He couldn’t listen to whatever Kyle was saying because Tweek’s voice was just too fucking loud.
His fingers and toes felt cold and a shiver wracked his body mercilessly. He couldn’t tell if he was twitching or if he was being shaken, or maybe he was completely still and just crazy. His hands felt stiff with pins and needles and needles and the needle needle needle-
And he smiled.
The corners of his mouth ticked upwards and Kyle got quiet. They climbed his cheeks quickly after that, and then his laugh replaced the sound of Kyle’s concern.
He cackled high in the back of his throat, the sound popping through the mucus in his throat brought on by adrenaline. His tongue stung and he tasted blood, but couldn’t remember biting himself.
“God,” He screamed, tears spilling into his open, smiling mouth. “Fuck, fuck!”
There were more voices around him. There were footsteps and yelling and hands, hands all over him. He was pulled from Kyle and he screamed.
“No! No, don’ fucking touch me! Don’ fucking touch me!” He wailed, and Kyle was in front of him again, but Stan couldn’t even see his face. His eyes were open and darting around, threatening to fall out of their sockets.
Spit foamed at the sides of his mouth and flew out with his voice. His muscles ached horribly but he continued to writhe, bruises forming where someone was trying to restrain him.
He felt feral.
He felt like Tweek.
The thought made him laugh again. It was a shrill, sorry excuse for a laugh that more closely resembled a shriek. It made his own ears ring.
He couldn’t stop.
He needed to do more.
He needed to run, to escape. He was a caged animal being held back from attacking an intruder. He thought he was safe.
He thought they were safe.
There’s a sharp pinch in the side of his neck and he yelps, whipping his head around and gnashing his teeth like a rabid dog. His teeth sink into something and the taste of iron gets stronger.
His head is jerked to the side when whatever it is, maybe someone’s hand, is yanked from his jaws. His face starts to feel numb and he registers that the bruising grips on the rest of his body feel gentle and light.
Delirious, his laughter morphs. It’s a slow transition from grinning, bared teeth to a clenched jaw and gravelly screams.
“Bring ‘im back!” He begs, and he feels like he’s falling backwards. He stares up at the ceiling and cries out, “Give ‘im back!”
He doesn’t remember when the pain goes away. He doesn’t know anything, but his screams start to dwindle and the burning in his throat starts to subside. The things he can see but not process start to swim together and blend, colors changing and blending, and he just feels tired.
He doesn’t know when the pain goes away. He doesn’t remember when Tweek’s pain returned.
He doesn’t know that the pain ever left them.
He doesn’t think it ever will.