#verse; ♥♣ casino royale ♠♦

[howdyneighborr]

Tweek: ’ How many next times are there gonna be? ’ (for kenny and/or clyde >:) )

@troublcmakcrs

The two men—the intended targets of the singular question—stood and sat, respectively; juxtaposed in their expression of guilt. Or, lack thereof.

Clyde posed coolly against the framed entrance of their tiny kitchen. He put all his effort into concentrating on the small bubbles under the white paint haphazardly slathered over the cheap wood across from him. Directly in his eye-line, the tiny imperfections diverted and distracted his attention. If his arms hadn't been folded across his chest, shielding himself as Tweek began to tear into Kenny's hide, he might have absently picked and peeled the decrepit Landlord's Special paint job. After all, he didn't really have to be here. Kenny needed the intervention. Clyde only contributed to his share of rent. And was banging them both. But other than that, he felt no responsibility for the opening of Pandora's box. He avoided eye contact with his seated partner, and he could feel Kenny doing the same. Clyde half-expected, if he were to steal a glance at Kenny, to see cartoonish lines of tension drawn over his hanging head. The standing brunette refused to believe he had any part in this other than being an observer. He would deny all allegations as an enabler—as he always had, anyway. He kept his mouth shut and stayed a safe distance as the squabble roiled to a head.

Kenny leaned forward over his knees, feeling small and sick. He sat curled around himself until he could bear to raise his chin. When the wave of guilt-induced nausea ebbed, the skinny blonde rested the point of his jaw in his hands and stared up from the couch at Tweek. He wanted to chuck a pillow, stuffed with blame and accusation, across the room at the good-for-nothing bartender. Even still, when the thought formed in his head, he regretted feeling that way towards the other man. Ken knew the responsibility lay mostly on his own shoulders. Not throwing Clyde under the bus or even turning to face him for backup took every bit of Kenny's resolve. He knew the other man would male a slick remark and weasel his way out of the room  Kenny was surprised he hadn't made an escape already. He knew Clyde would slough off the accountability regardless. He also knew the time for making excuses had passed and he should start fixing his mistakes. Clyde could do whatever the fuck he wanted. Treat Tweek, treat him, the way he wanted. He would only have himself to blame when he had to sleep on the couch. Or with whoever would take him in. Clyde could make his own bed, but Kenny– He was tired of coming home, or waking up, or getting a text from a disappointed Tweek. 

That amalgam of factors ultimately stopped him from casting his sad, blue plea for help in Clyde's direction; Kenny knew he would find no comfort. And that was okay. He was an adult, not a giant man-child like Clyde. Okay, now that thought felt good. Albeit a bit internally vindicated, Kenny couldn’t shake feeling like a piece of shit, but weren't they both? Wasn't that what else had caused this? No one owning up to their own bullshit, history dooming itself to be repeated? With a whump and a sigh, his back hit the sofa cushions and his legs extended in Tweek's direction; an invitation and the very picture of man-spread. Wallowing wouldn’t un-fuck or un-drink anything. With a puckish grin, the lounging blonde was the first to respond.

“Can you be a little more clear about which specific fuck-up you're pissed about right now? I’ve kind of done a lot of shit lately…”

[howdyneighborr]

Craig: ’ You feel you now have control, don’t you? ’ (for kyle >:))

@troublcmakcrs

Kyle heard his partner enter the room, but kept his attention trained on the graphite scratched all across the sheets of paper under his wrist. He wouldn’t give him the time of day– not yet. Not that Craig had crossed him recently, but he had  just wandered-in in the middle of Kyle obviously, furiously working on something. Craig should know what that something was, actually. Actually— Craig should have been helping Kyle. For his un-cooperation, the other man was met with a wall of silence. Kyle couldn't be concerned about Craig's reception at the moment; if he chose to get pissy over the apathy, that was his own problem. 

Clearly, Kyle was busy. He quietly held his ground, even as a twinge of guilt over his “casual” disregard caused him to second-guess the coldness of his demeanor. He invested himself so heavily that he had needed to cuff the sleeves of his pressed and stark white button-down shirt up to his elbows. Couldn't Craig see that? Did he really have room to be The Asshole right now? The redhead continued to withhold his attention while he focused on the task at hand. He dissected the specific set of details given to him (and Craig), attempting to arrange and assemble them back together in… some kind of plan. Typically, Craig helped him. Unfortunately for Kyle, this heist had been more convoluted than normal, and Craig seemed to invest himself in the more physical aspects of the job. 

Kyle, bent at the waist, poured over a small spread of documents fanned across the top of Eric Cartman's huge desk. The fatass had been kind of enough to lend them his office while they helped him cook a scheme of his own. The one that would inevitably play right into Kyle's—and Craig's, he supposed—hand. His grip lessened on the pen between his fingers. However, when the needle of Craig's comment pierced his skin, Kyle’s ebbing irritation ignited anew. Cool and sharply green eyes settled on the tall, similarly-shaped man that stood across the carpet from him, peering up from the blueprints. He still hadn’t said a word, barely breathed in his lover’s direction, but he hoped the tension between them was palpable. Craig should have been helping him. Instead, he had probably fucked off somewhere with the degenerates at the bar downstairs. Playing down might have been Craig's role, but Kyle didn't have to like how… immersed in the role he decided to be. Deliberately and without breaking their eye contact, Kyle straightened to his full height, arms folding defensively across his chest.

He spoke flatly, “I don't like that implication.”