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He should have known better.
Craig rolls his eyes, unconsciously tapping the toe of his left foot against the faded tile floor of South Park Mall. A few feet away, his traitor of a best friend is currently chatting up Kenny fucking McCormick, because Clyde Donovan is the type of person who can’t go five minutes in public without running into someone he knows. Craig has already been forced to stand around and unwillingly eavesdrop on his conversations with no less than three other people on their journey from one end of the mall to the other so far, one of which had lasted an excruciating seventeen minutes.
How the hell Clyde could stand talking to anyone for that long was beyond Craig. As a matter of fact, how anyone else could stand talking to Clyde for that long is even further beyond him. Clyde’s a lot of things, and they’ve been best friends their whole lives, but Craig will freely admit that he can often feel his brain melting after seventeen seconds of conversation with Clyde, let alone minutes. Some of that maybe, possibly, in theory could have something to do with how Craig is pretty averse to conversation in general, but that’s completely beside the point.
The point is, Craig thinks to himself as he lets out an impatient sigh and folds his arms tightly across his chest, is that he should have known better than to think that when Clyde had invited him out for a, “Single Dudes Unite Fuck You Valentine’s Day Extravaganza” at the arcade today that they’d actually make it to the stupid place on time. If they even make it there at all. Judging by the way Clyde is giggling like a moron, how he’s done the classic emo-kid hair flip nine times so far, and the fact that Kenny won’t stop oh-so-casually touching his arm, Craig is beginning to think that he should just save Clyde the trouble of having to spend time with him on this abomination of a holiday and just go home.
The only thing that makes him hesitate, and not just get the hell out of there immediately, is that he knows if he even so much as hints at something like that, Clyde will erupt into a guilt-ridden sobfest about ditching him for a potential date with South Park’s resident superhunk – which, by the way, is just another point of proof supporting Craig’s opinion that the entire town is fucking stupid. He’s never been able to see whatever the fuck everyone else seems to see in Kenny that apparently makes him God’s gift to anything with legs, but as far as he knows he’s the only one that can’t. Clyde’s been going on and on about him non-stop for the last six months at least.
But even though Kenny is his dream guy for some reason, Craig knows Clyde well enough to know that having the choice of hanging out with him or his “best bro for life” wouldn’t be an easy decision, and that he would feel terrible no matter what he chose. That’s the thing about Clyde that is both so annoying and endearing at the same time – he really does genuinely care, all the time, about everyone and everything. Craig cringes and looks away as said superhunk leans in close to Clyde’s ear and whispers something that makes the brunette blush a deep red. Jesus Christ, okay, yeah, he might not be willing to just up and ditch him, but there’s no way he wants to be around this sickening display of flirtation.
Without a word, Craig does a one-eighty and ducks inside the nearest store, not realizing until the unmistakable sweet scent hits his nostrils that it’s one of the two chocolate shops the mall has to offer. Great, now he’s going to be tempted to buy some overpriced fucking chocolates, which probably means he’s going to definitely hit his credit limit today, because there’s no way even the smallest box of chocolate-covered bullshit in here is anything less than twenty-five dollars, and if there’s one thing Craig Tucker is weak to, it’s–
“Can I help you?”
Startled by the sound of the voice from right next to him, Craig stumbles over his own shoes and nearly knocks over a display of teddy bears holding heart-shaped chocolate lollipops. “No,” he starts to say, composing himself and turning to face his questioner. “I'm g- uhhh, what?"
Holy shit. Craig snaps his mouth shut, thanking God he’s at least got the presence of mind to do that much. Standing in front of him is a guy so hot it should be fucking illegal, because there’s no way someone who looks like that should be walking around without a permit. His hair is blonde, but more of a golden color than anything else Craig has ever seen before, and so messy it looks like he’d just crawled out of bed and come straight to work this morning, but Jesus Christ does that look ever work for him. And his face, God, his face is the literal embodiment of perfection – he looks so much like one of those angel paintings Craig had been forced to study in his art history class last semester that he has to resist all urges to reach out and touch it.
He’s dressed in what Craig can only assume is the store’s uniform: a plain white button-up shirt, black khakis, and a blindingly bright pink apron with Kisses & Bonbons spelled out in silver script embroidered across the front; but even something as ordinary as a store apron looks like a fucking masterpiece on him. What the hell is a guy like this doing working in the fucking South Park mall and not modeling in fucking Paris or some shit?
"Can I help you?” the employee repeats, cocking his head, amusement in his eyes, which are such an intense shade of teal that Craig is ninety percent sure they have to be colored contacts. “No offense, but you look a little lost." The name tag pinned to his shirt reads 'Tweek', but since that can't possibly be an actual name that a real person would have, Craig's brain immediately dubs this employee Hottielicious.
Craig's brain has spent far too much time with Clyde's brain over the years.
"Oh, no, I'm right here." What? Craig clears his throat. "Not lost, I mean, cause I live here. Not, uh, here here, cause who the fuck would live in a house made of chocolate? But like, in this city, I live." Oh my God, shut up. Hoping to sink all the way into the floor, but settling for just making an attempt to change the subject instead when that doesn’t seem possible, Craig jabs his finger into the glass display case in front of him, pointing out a chocolate and, he's pretty sure, bruising his fingertip in the process. "What's that?"
Hottielicious smiles, and Craig could swear that for a moment, the dull fluorescent lighting of the shop is replaced by a brightness that would rival the fucking sun in its intensity. He blinks a few times, so distracted by the smile that he nearly misses the answer to his question.
"You've got good taste," the employee is saying, as he begins to walk back around the counter. "That's my favorite."
Almost as if they've got a mind of their own, Craig's eyes fall to a certain part of the blonde's anatomy as he moves, and without quite meaning to, he licks his lips. It's not something he brags about, unless Stan Marsh is in earshot of course, but while some people have flawless gaydar, or an ability to detect the presence of delicious snacks within a ten-mile radius, Craig has a sixth sense for perfect asses. And he can tell, even through the baggy black khakis covering this Hottielicious person's particular posterior, that he's got something legendary under there. In fact, he would go so far as to call it fant- ass- tic.
Seriously? Even his inner Clyde had groaned at that one. He really needs to find some other people to hang out with once in a while.
“Are you all right?”
Fuck. Far too late, Craig realizes that the greatest ass he’ll probably never get to see has moved out of his field of vision, along with the rest of Hottielicious, who is now fully behind the counter. He tears his eyes away from the cardboard cutout of a pair of ridiculously adorable cartoon deer touching noses he’s now staring at. Lifting his head, he sees the blonde giving him that same amused look from before, as he reaches inside the display case with a pair of small silver tongs for one of the chocolates Craig had almost destroyed his finger pointing to. “Oh, uh…”
“Did you need something else?” Before Craig can answer, Hottielicious carefully holds the tongs out across the counter, a tiny round chocolate trapped within the arms. “Here, hold out your hand.”
Craig stares past the tongs at the pale hand holding them. God, his skin looks so soft, unlike his dry cracked skin from hell – thanks a lot, fucking Colorado winters. He can only imagine what it would feel like to be touched by hands that soft. “My what?”
“Your hand?” Hottielicious’s eyes twinkle as his amused smile grows bigger, and they suddenly look so much like stars sparkling in the void of space that Craig can practically feel the sensation of zero gravity descend over the store as his stomach begins a complicated backflip routine inside him. He actually has to look down at his shoes to verify that his feet are still on the ground, almost missing the blonde’s next words. “I’m giving you a freebie.”
“A Frisbee?” Craig blinks, reaching up to scratch the back of his head through his trademark blue chullo. “Is that like a, um, promotive– promotion or something?” That’s a weird promotion for a chocolate shop to run, handing out free Frisbees in February. They must be left over from the summer or something.
“No, a freebie. You know, like a handout?” Hottielicious clarifies, staring at Craig with those big teal eyes - the kind of eyes that make Craig’s heart skip a beat and his palms sweat like they’re in the middle of the goddamn desert.
Craig frowns, looking down at his own clothes. Does he really look bad enough to be thought of as the kind of person who needs to rely on chocolate charity? “I’m not a hobo or anything,” he mumbles, tugging self-consciously on the bottom of his Red Racer t-shirt. “I mean, I can afford to buy you– your chocolate.”
“Are you sure about that?” Hottielicious takes the small piece of chocolate from the tongs, setting the kitchen tool on top of the display case, and turns to walk back out from behind the counter. He stops directly in front of Craig, who is suddenly having a very difficult time breathing, and holds the chocolate up in the air, inches away from Craig’s mouth. “Cause I wouldn’t call myself cheap.”
“What?” Craig squeaks. He tries to take a step back, but it seems like his feet are either glued to the floor or suddenly made of cement, he’s not sure which.
“You said you could afford to buy me.” The blonde’s tone is teasing, the sparkle in his eyes growing brighter with each passing second. “And I’m just saying, I’m not sure that’s true.”
Craig swallows hard, hardly even registering the sound of his own voice when he asks, “Uh, well, how much do you–” His eyes widen when the blonde places one finger over his lips and he instantly stops talking. Wait. What the hell is happening? Is this some kind of weird kinky chocolate shop? With a name like Kisses & Bonbons it’s starting to seem like a real possibility. Or maybe this guy is a secretly some kind of chocolate hooker and the whole store is just a front for a big prostitution ring. It figures that of all the stores Craig could have chosen to walk into, he’d walk into something like this.
“Here,” Hottielicious says, tapping Craig’s mouth with the chocolate in his hand. “Try this, and then we’ll talk about pricing.”
“Are you a hooker?!” Craig blurts out suddenly, the volume of his voice startling them both.
The chocolate falls from the blonde’s hand and rolls across the floor, underneath the counter. Hottielicious steps back, the amusement disappearing from his face, replaced by bewilderment. “Am I a what? ”
Craig feels his face flame with the fire of ten thousand suns. Shit. What the fuck is wrong with him? You can’t just go around accusing someone of being a hooker! He goes to apologize, but there’s something horribly wrong with the connection between his brain and his vocal cords today because what ends up coming out is, “Not a cheap hooker! Like, you know, one of the hot ones!” What the fuck, no, abort, abort, abort! “I just mean, um, you said that thing about you not being cheap, so I just–”
“Relax,” the blonde interrupts, stretching out an arm to gently place his hand on Craig’s shoulder. “I was joking.”
“...Wait, so you are cheap?” Craig knows that’s the wrong thing to say but for some reason he’s completely forgotten how to behave like a normal person. Just being in the presence of someone who looks the way this guy looks is fucking with his brain, but now he’s touching him too, and Craig’s not even sure he’s going to have a single braincell left at the end of this encounter.
Hottielicious shakes his head with a laugh. “You don’t talk to people much, do you?”
“How could you tell?” Craig mutters, finally managing to regain control over the words that come out of his stupid mouth, courtesy of his angry butterfly garden of a brain. For about two seconds, anyway. “So, um, about those chocolates…do you have any that are shaped like…stuff?”
“Oh.” Switching back to customer service mode, Hottielicious turns to scan the multitude of chocolates inside the display case, and Craig can’t stop himself from immediately checking out his bonbons again. “Um… Well, we have these ones,” he points to some heart-shaped truffles and then to some small chocolates shaped like hedgehogs, “but if you’re looking for something more… adult, you might want to check the place next to the shoe store, the one by the fountain? I know they carry certain types of things for, um, bachelorette parties, so–”
“Oh!” Craig shakes his head, wanting to clear up this misunderstanding as quickly as possible before this guy thinks he’s even more of a freak, “No, I don’t want dick chocolates!” Goddammit. “I mean, I’m gay, but I’m not that gay.” For the love of fucking Christ, Tucker. He facepalms, his next words muffled as he speaks into his hand, blushing like crazy. “Fuckin’... Can we start over? I swear I’m not usually like this.”
“...Sure.” A small smile tugs on the corner of Hottielicious’s lips as he holds out his hand, “Hi, I’m Tweek.”
Peeking through his fingers, Craig stares down at the hand being offered to him, and then up at Hottie– Tweek’s face in disbelief. “...No, you’re not.”
Tweek points to his name tag. “Yeah, I am.”
Just as Craig is about to ask who in the fuck had decided on that name, Clyde’s voice rings out from behind him, the brunette continuing his long-standing tradition of having the worst fucking timing ever. “Hey, Craig! Hey, Tweek!”
What the shit? Craig whips his head around to see Clyde smiling brightly. “What the fuck– You know each other?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m Tweek’s best customer!” Clyde chirps happily, completely oblivious to the moment he’s just stomped all over. “He’s the one who gave me those chocolate-covered jelly beans for my birthday last year!” He grins at Tweek, tilting his head and opening his big brown eyes a little wider, “They were the best I’ve ever had.”
Tweek turns to straighten the shelf of lollipop-holding teddy bears. “And you can wait until your next birthday for more.”
“Aw, come on,” Clyde whines. “Two months is so far away!” He looks at Craig, like he’s just suddenly realized how weird it is for him to be standing in the middle of a fancy chocolate shop. “What are you even doing in here anyway? I thought you only liked the cheap stuff?”
“Uh…” Craig glances around, trying his hardest not to notice the fact that Tweek has stopped what he’s doing and is clearly watching him out of the corner of his eye. He flings an arm out, grabbing the nearest item off of the closest display shelf and blurts out, “I was just, uh, buying this for my mom!”
Clyde leans closer to read the words on the box in Craig’s hand. “The Aphrodisiac Collection?” He wrinkles his nose. “I didn’t know your mom liked Greek mythology.”
Clutching the box so tightly his knuckles are beginning to turn white, Craig thanks every god in existence, especially Aphrodite herself, that Clyde’s genetic makeup is seventy-five percent idiot. “Uh. Yeah, those uh, those Greeks, you know. She, um, she’s really into them.”
Tweek laughs, pulling a pen out of the front pocket of his apron and moving closer to Craig. “Well,” he says, grabbing Craig’s wrist and sending a tingle all the way up the noirette’s arm and back down to his toes, “when your mom is done with that, give me a call.” Winking, he scrawls ten digits across the back of Craig’s hand, each one feeling to Craig like it’s burning into his skin like a tattoo.
Craig gulps. “Oh, um, o-okay,” he stutters, shoving his other hand into his pocket to pull out his wallet. Just as he flips it open, Tweek shakes his head, lightly pushing his hand back down.
“You know what,” he says. “I’m in a generous mood today. It’s on me, Craig.” Leaning forward, he takes Craig by the shoulders. Before the noirette even knows what’s happening, Tweek is placing a delicate kiss on each side of his face, and when he pulls away, the look in his eyes says this was anything but platonic.
“Um.” Slightly dazed, Craig lifts his hand up to touch his cheek, forgetting that he’s holding his wallet and jabbing himself in the face with the corner of it. “Ow, shit. I mean, uh, thank you?”
“Hey, no fair!” Clyde complains loudly. “How come you’re giving Craig free stuff but you’re making me wait?”
“Because.” Tweek’s words are directed at Clyde, but he’s looking straight into Craig’s eyes, his own teal ones glittering with a million unspoken promises. “Some things are worth waiting for.”