FicWad

Come Hell or Highwater (despite any difficulties that may occur )
California, June 2015, Summer
The withdrawal was worse than before.
Tweek woke at around 3pm the following day, jerked awake from a dream about his mother by a car honking outside. Initially he was more disorientated than when he had returned from South Park with Craig. He lay flat on his back staring at the cracked stained plaster in the ceiling, his head aching, his mind racing, his throat raw, his stomach tied up in knots and his sheets soaked in sweat. Craig wasn’t there. Tweek was grateful for the privacy as a wave of nausea crescended up his chest, and almost automatically, he reached for the mixing bowl Craig had left him. He threw up bile and stomach acid, and even a worrying small quantity of blood. He could feel his head aching with dehydration. There was nothing else for him to throw up as he hadn’t eaten in a couple of days, but he still retched until his chest and stomach and ribs and shoulders and back and even his hips ached from the violence of it. When it had finally stopped, he carefully sipped water from the bottle next to the bed and delicately swallowed some of the paracetamol and ibuprofen tablets next to the bed.
He knew he should shower. He felt disgusting. He knew that how bad he felt when he hadn’t showered wasn’t normal. If he felt too sweaty, or perceived dirt on himself, he often panicked and wanted to cry or tear his skin off. It had been an issue since he was a child with parents who insisted he not get dirty playing outside with the other children, and had gotten worse with his anxiety. He knew it was directly linked with his disordered eating, since food often felt dirty. He had felt even dirtier since Sam had started coercing him into sex.
It’s ok. We’ll deal with all that later. What’s the bare minimum you can do right now to feel a bit better? What do you need?
He simply didn’t have the energy to shower. He felt like he had run hundreds of miles, or swum to shore from a remote island in a storm, or been hit by several trucks. Trying to pull himself from the side of the bed where he lay with his head next to the mixing bowl felt like a Herculean effort.
Mentally he gave himself an encouraging little shake. At least clean your teeth. You can do that. Come on. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and then dragged himself back onto the bed and into a sitting position. He stumbled to the bathroom, almost losing his balance a few times and knocking into the doorframe.
After he had scrubbed his mouth and gargled with copious cups of Listerine and scrubbed his sweaty face with a wash cloth run under the hottest water he could stand, he staggered back into the bedroom with a little more grace. He grabbed a shirt of Craig’s – somehow dimly registering it was the same black one he had worn in the days after his parents’ funeral – and pulled it over his head. He felt outside of his body as he unsteadily lurched into the narrow kitchen and virtually inhaled half a loaf of slightly stale brown bread. He even found himself eating the crusty end pieces. He had always hated those, and Craig had always eaten them. Dimly he registered the tiny spots of mould on the corners which he knew weren’t good to eat.
Babe, you’re in meth withdrawal. A bit of mould really isn’t going to kill you.
The kitchen window was open, letting in a pleasant cool breeze, and he could see Craig sitting on the tiny bit of grass attached to their apartment outside. He smiled at Tweek and raised a hand in greeting. ‘Hey, angel pie. Do you want to join me? It’s really lovely out here.’
Tweek nodded and roughly shoved the slice of bread in his mouth. He tucked the loaf under his arm, grabbed the jars of jelly and peanut butter from the counter, and a plate and a couple of butter knives from the draining board. Wordlessly he sloped outside where he sat next to Craig and started spreading the bread with PB and J, barely chewing as he worked his way through the loaf. Craig watched him for a moment, smiling slightly.
‘Picnic, huh?’
Tweek swallowed hard and nodded. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘The saddest picnic ever.’
‘That sounds like an iconic Key and Peele skit. It’s always The Somethingest Something Ever. Fuck, I love them.’
Tweek began to weakly laugh, but abruptly stopped as his own movement caught his eye in the window reflection and he saw how bedraggled and gaunt he looked. His eyes were so itchy and he knew he had been rubbing them far too much in his sleep. He sighed, squeezing his latest sandwich. Dimly, he began to consciously register how much his muscles ached. It felt like his entire body was deeply, badly bruised. ‘God, I’ve never looked more like a Tim Burton character.’
‘You’re the cutest Tim Burton character I’ve ever seen.’
‘Thanks honey.’ His head spun suddenly, his stomach contracting, and he leaned against Craig. ‘Oh, fuck, I forgot my water. Would you mind –’
‘I got it.’ Carefully Craig got up and hurried inside. Tweek heard him clattering in the bedroom and the kitchen, and heard the tap running. Quickly he was back outside and handing Tweek the bottle.
‘You’re amazing, thank you’ Tweek croaked, his throat suddenly tight, the sunlight suddenly far too bright and hot, the air too sweltering from the blistering concrete that surrounded them beyond their tiny lawn island. He dropped his squeezed, half eaten sandwich on the plate and clumsily chugged what felt like half the bottle. Craig patted his own knee and Tweek gratefully lay on the cooler grass, his head in Craig’s lap. He closed his eyes and waited for his head to stop thumping. Fuck, I wish the painkillers would kick in already.
‘Sorry, I realise I stink.’ Tweek mumbled.
Craig chuckled and gently squeezed his shoulder. ‘Ha, don’t worry about it babe, you’re fine. Oh man, I definitely got worse in the caravan. I think my record was five days without a shower? It’s not like anyone knew since it was so cold but holy hell, occasionally at night in bed I’d smell myself and it was pretty shocking.’
Tweek tried to laugh but found his throat seized with a sudden hacking cough. Craig gently started to rub his back but even the slight movement was intensely nauseating. Tweek groaned and shook his head as he buried his face in Craig’s thigh. It felt like an iron fist was squeezing his insides. Suddenly the thought of shitting his pants wasn’t morbidly funny so much as something that made him want to sob with shame.
Fuck it. There goes the intensive low mood. I wondered how long til I stopped just feeling like physical death and had any attention for how my mind feels.
They sat in the sun and the fresh air for as long as Tweek could take it, before Craig helped him back inside. He struggled not to fall asleep over the Turkish Craig had picked up from the shop at the end of the road, insisting he couldn’t just exist on mouldy bread and he’d go out to the store to get some groceries once Tweek had gone back to sleep. As they sat through a rerun of Red Racer, Tweek tried his absolute best to shake the deep feelings of intense anxiety and nameless dread that had settled in his gut. Eventually he excused himself to go to bed, and Craig said he’d leave for the grocery store with a shopping list on his phone.
Tweek lay in the dark, trying his best to keep his breathing even as his heart thumped with physical nausea and existential dread that married together to become something almost unbearable. He dug his fingernails as deep into his bony thighs as he could stand, screaming with frustration into the pillow.
His phone pinged with a message from Craig. Hey angel pie, here safe. Did you think of anything else? xxx
Tweek knew it was irrational and Craig was being eternally sweet and helpful, as always, but even such a gentle disturbance when he felt so utterly horrendous made him want to throw his phone against the wall.
No thanks honey, you’re the best.