Work Text:
Last period study hall is kind of a drag. Usually Craig forces himself through either his Psychology or AP US History homework, since those are the two heaviest textbooks to have to lug home, but it's spring and his senior year. Craig spends the majority of the period staring out the library window at the novelty of mud and grass rather than the snow that South Park is famous for.
He only turns his head when someone all but throws themself down in the seat next to him, grunting an "ACK" that Craig's so familiar with that he could probably pick the person out in a blizzard at midnight.
"Hey, babe." Craig stretches his arm across the back of Tweek's seat, turning away from the window. Tweek grins at him, a bruise on his cheek just under his eye and his hair not at all contained by the hair elastic he's dragged half of it into, as usual. Tweek tilts his head, and Craig obligingly leans in to kiss the bruise. "What happened to English?"
"Said I had to, nnn, bring something to the library." Tweek rummages around in his backpack and pulls out a plastic container with a bunch of iced sugar cookies jammed into it, only slightly squashed. "She probably thought I meant, mph, a book or something." Tweek pulls the lid off and everything smells of fake strawberry for a second.
"Devious," Craig comments. "I like it." He swipes a finger through the frosting that's stuck to the underside of the lid and licks most of it off his fingers. Then he smudges the rest of it onto Tweek's nose.
"CRAIG," Tweek yelps, then glances over his shoulder to see if the librarian heard. When he turns back, Craig is leaning into his space so close he's almost cross-eyed.
"You got something right…" Craig licks the smudge of icing off Tweek's nose. "Got it."
"Jesus fuck you fucking weirdo," Tweek snaps at him, shoving him back. Tweek's face flushes hilariously pink, and Craig has a hard time keeping his bland expression when Tweek's eyes spark green irritation like that. "Just, ugh, eat a fucking cookie."
"As you wish," Craig shrugs, picking one up. They aren't sugar cookies like he thought; under the frosting they're crisp and melt into buttery bliss on Craig's tongue. "Holy shit," he says, cramming the rest of the cookie into his mouth. There's bits of white chocolate, or something, melted in, and Craig is here for it. "Eese ah amaying."
"Strawberry cheesecake shortbread," Tweek says smugly, picking up one to nibble himself. "My group's gonna kick the shit out of Cookie Wars next week." Craig decimates three more cookies before coming up for air; when he looks up, Tweek is watching him, obviously pleased with himself. "So I'm, ehh, coming to your game."
"You are?" Craig eyes the last layer of cookies, but snaps the lid back on regretfully. There's only ten minutes left in the school day and overloading on these fabulous monstrosities runs the risk of Craig puking during team warm-up laps. Again. "Work?"
"I'm off," Tweek says casually, but his eyes are down. Craig eyes him until Tweek admits, "Had a fight with Dad about, grr, closing last night and told him to just fuck off."
"Good for you, honey," Craig tells him. Tweek slumps into his side with a soft eurrrgh. "Sure you wanna come the whole way to Center just to see them crush us? We're home the next two."
"Mm. It's your last year, and I barely made it to any last year. Bebe said I can ride with her and Butters if I don't mind being squished on the way back." Tweek looks up at Craig, expression serious, except for one corner of his mouth twitching. "Sorry, but I'll have to sit on your lap aaaall the way home."
"What? No way, I'm breaking up with you," Craig answers, deadpan. Tweek muffles laughter with the back of his hand. "Worst boyfriend ever."
"Nah, you are." Tweek straightens up regretfully before they get busted for library PDA. "But you do have a cute baseball butt."
"Damn straight," Craig replies, sneaking a pinch of Tweek's waist and making him shriek. The librarian snaps a "Quiet!" at them, but there's only four minutes left in the period. Craig stands up, shoving his unread psychology book back in his bag. "C'mon, we can make out in the stacks for three and a half minutes."
Tweek smells like strawberry but tastes like coffee, and Craig finds himself chasing the bitterness, as always, sharp on his tongue, like the sharp angles of Tweek's ribs and knees against his, like the sting of Tweek biting down on Craig's lower lip and then laughing about it. Craig wonders, as he does more and more often lately, how many more library makeouts they have left in their high school career, how many more batches of Home Ec cookies.
Craig does not love the 90 minutes on the team bus it takes to get from South Park to Center, isn't thrilled with the brown-bagged second lunch his mother packed him, and honestly could take or leave half of his teammates, but baseball.
Craig really does love baseball.
He loves the leisurely pace of it, the way there's time to think between plays. He loves the slow tension that stretches out between the first pitch to a new batter and the third strike. He loves standing on the mound as starting pitcher, finally, the way the sun behind him is warm on his shoulders and neck, and how everything waits for him to start. He loves the way that Kenny's face behind his catcher's mask says more than his hand signs, the slight tilt of his head towards Center's batter that says fuck this guy as he gives the fastball sign with his middle finger.
Craig's shoulder aches, like it always does in the fifth inning this year, but he ignores it in favor of the satisfaction of the ball slapping the leather of Kenny's mitt, the clench of the batter's teeth as the umpire calls, "Strike two!"
"Hey batter batter!" some of the South Park kids yell from the bleachers. Craig can pick out Tweek's voice without looking, but he does look, after Kenny's thrown him the ball back. Tweek looks a bit awkward about how Butters is squishing into his side, but he wrinkles his nose in a grin when he sees Craig looking. "Swing batter batter swing batter!"
"Fuck him up, Ken!" Butters hollers.
Curve, Kenny signs when Craig looks back. Craig shakes his head. Kenny mouths, "Show off" as he flips Craig the bird again, and this time Craig nods.
The throw feels good. All of it's good, the ache of his arm and the salt he licks from above his lip and the crack of the bat and arc of the high, high pop fly and the perfect blue of the sky as Craig reaches his glove up for it without even having to step off his mound and the sweet thwack of the ball stinging his palm.
"YERRR OUT!" the umpire calls, and Craig pulls the brim of his hat down low so no one can see how big he's smiling. He really loves baseball.
It's actually Butters who sits in Kenny's lap on the way home, in the front seat, and Clyde's in the back with Craig and Tweek complaining about being banished back there. Bebe tells him he's lucky he's even allowed in the car since he couldn't keep his hands to himself last time, and then turns up the radio so she can't hear him. They've all got the windows down, even though it's just this side of too cold for that, that's pretty good for Colorado, and it keeps Kenny's cigarette smoke outside. The wind is cold on Craig's face, but Tweek is a warm weight with his arms wrapped around Craig's waist. Tweek doesn't complain about the sweat and dirt of Craig's uniform, and Craig doesn't complain that Tweek is lying against his hurt shoulder.
Craig tips his head back against the seat, listening to Bebe and Butters hollering at the top of their lungs to a song on the radio. It's some pop thing that Craig hears everywhere lately; as soon as the song ends, Butters scans the stations until he finds it again on another one. Craig laughs when he starts to hear Tweek muttering the words too, aggravated, as if he's doing it against his will.
How many more rides home like this will there be? Even if Tweek comes to every game, Craig already knows the highest the number can go.
"Lemme stay over," Tweek asks after a while. Craig doesn't bother answering, but he does slide his hand up under Tweek's sweatshirt, stroking his thumb back and forth across the warm skin just under Tweek's ribs.
Craig drops Tweek off in the kitchen with his mother, who gives Craig a silent beady eye but doesn't argue, before he goes upstairs to shower.
"There's mail for you!" his mother hollers after him. "I put it on your desk!"
By the time he's scrubbed himself off and tugged clothes back on, his shoulder is like a second heartbeat, throbbing gently. He eats dinner with his left hand, a bag of frozen peas cling-wrapped to his shoulder.
"How many more games?" his mother asks as Tweek is handing her both their plates for seconds.
"Ten," Craig says without having to look. His mother grimaces. "It's fine, Mom. Oh, you gotta try these cookies Tweek made today. You have some left, right?"
"Mmhmm," Tweek answers, going to dig them out of his bag where they dropped it in the hallway along with Craig's gear.
"You can't distract me from this conversation with cookies, young man," his mother says, eyes narrowing. She changes her tune once she's got a mouthful of strawberry cheesecake shortbread. "Shit, maybe you can."
"Quick, make a run for it," Craig tells Tweek, tugging him away from his mother's clutches. He steals one more cookie for the road, leaving a trail of crumbs up the stairs behind him.
"Oof," Tweek grunts, throwing himself facedown on Craig's bed. He's a mess of birdsnest hair and jeans slipping down his hips, swimming in his oversized sweatshirt with its cuffs chewed to a fray. Craig feels like, by contrast, his heart is jammed in a sweatshirt two sizes too small. Tweek rolls over, yawning. "Homework?"
"Yeah," Craig says regretfully. He drops his backpack on the floor and they both wince at the weight of the crash. "Help me get this off my shoulder, first."
Craig sits on the edge of his bed and Tweek sits up to start picking at the cling wrap, looking for the edge. "Hey, Craig? Is this ok? You know, for, eurgh, next year?"
"Hm? It's fine," Craig answers, eyes straying to the torn-open envelope on his desk. He winces when Tweek yanks the peas free.
Tweek narrows his eyes. "Don't blow me off." He digs his fingers into Craig's shoulder, and Craig yelps. "Ugh, Craig. If you fuck it up more, what'll happen to your scholarship?"
"Hey." Craig catches Tweek's wrist before he can poke him any harder. He turns to meet Tweek's eyes. "There's something I have to tell you."
"Shit, what?" Tweek goes right into anxiety mode, pupils narrowing, chewing on his already ragged lower lip. "What?"
"Babe, relax. It's good news." Craig gets up to pick up the envelope off his desk, but then just stands there a minute, listening to the way his heart rate is picking up suddenly. "At least, I hope it is. Here."
Tweek frowns harder as Craig hands him the envelope. Craig sits back down next to him, trying not to fidget, as Tweek yanks out the folded pages inside it and opens them up to see what it is. Tweek stares at the first page for at least twice as long as it must take him to read it, and Craig feels ready to explode by the time Tweek hisses, "Craig, what the fuck?"
The letter is Craig's acceptance to University of Colorado, Colorado Springs campus. It would be less surprising if Craig hadn't been accepted to University of Colorado's main campus months ago, on an athletic scholarship for baseball. He'd had his weeks before Tweek's hard-earned acceptance to Colorado Technical University, located not coincidentally in Colorado Springs.
"I asked them to switch my acceptance to the Colorado Springs campus," Craig explains quietly, watching Tweek's face anxiously. "I wasn't sure I could get in because it's smaller, but that finally came today."
"WHAT the FUCK?" Tweek demands again, two spots of pink appearing on his cheeks. "Jesus, Craig, what are you—AAGH—why would you?! Fuck off, what IS this?!"
"I don't want to be three hours away from you," Craig says. He reaches for Tweek's hand, still clutched around the letter, but Tweek shoulders him back, hard. "Not for four years."
"We already talked about this!" Tweek shouts. He's good and angry now, jaw clenched. "I said I could handle it! ACK! I don't need you fucking, shit, holding my hand for every fucking—"
"I can't," Craig interrupts quickly. He can be stubborn too, and he looks Tweek dead in the eyes while he repeats, "I can't do it. Or I don't want to, not for four years. Please don't make me try."
"I…" Tweek tries to hold on to his anger, Craig can see, but it drains off his face quick enough, leaving Tweek just looking tired, the circles under his eyes familiar. "It's not like I want to, it's just…your scholarship?"
Craig has to look away on that one; it had hurt to give that up, but not as much as he'd expected it to, really. "I can do work study. Or loans. I'm in-state so tuition's not so bad. Yours is worse. Say it's ok." Craig looks back when Tweek is stubbornly silent. "Please, honey? I won't go if you say it's not."
He reaches for Tweek's hand again, and this time Tweek lets him pull the crumpled letter out of his grip and lace their fingers together. Tweek still looks lost, is still chewing hard on his lower lip, one side already split. "But you love baseball."
"Yeah," Craig sighs. "But it's not like I'll go pro or something. Baseball's only for a few years." He pulls their joined hands up to his hurt shoulder, which is already fever-warm again after only a few minutes un-iced. "Maybe not even that. You're forever."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Tweek mutters, despairing, and then he crawls over into Craig's lap and wraps arms around his neck, clinging. Craig hugs him back just as tightly, burying his face in the sharp angle of Tweek's neck. He's shaking, or Tweek is, or they both are. "Ok." Craig clenches his jaw to keep a wounded noise in, squeezing tighter, as tight as his aching shoulder will allow. "OK! Fuck, nngh, I can't breath!"
"Sorry," Craig chuckles wetly, loosening his grip. He tips them over onto their sides, a mess of knees and elbows, and presses teeth against Tweek's collarbone just hard enough for him to feel it.
"You're not," Tweek accuses. His fingers are dragging through Craig's hair. Craig needs to get up, to do his psychology homework, to get more ice for his shoulder, to strip Tweek out of his sweatshirt and take him to pieces with his hands and mouth. But he doesn't need to do any of that right this second.
"Nope," Craig says, shutting his eyes just for a minute. He's got time. They've got time. "I'm not."