Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“And I'm totally reassured
That we'll always be insecure
But you, you and me
Can stop growing up anytime that we want to.”
Smo' – Heart to Gold.

"–aig? Craig! Are you even listening to me right now?!"

Laura Tucker is absolutely fuming as she looks at her seventeen year–old son sitting on the backseat of her beat up car through the rearview mirror. Her fierce, green eyes are sharp as blades as she stares into Craig's dim but matching irises. He wouldn't even be surprised if she started breathing out straight up fire like a dragon, judging by the way her nostrils keep flaring with anger.

Staring back at her, impassive as always, Craig shrugs; he is listening, her loud yells are practically impossible to ignore in an enclosed space.

"It's green," Craig notes, nodding to the stoplight seconds before the truck behind them honks at them.

She snaps her graze forward, her jaw clenching impossibly tight and pink lips pursing. Stepping on the gas, the beat up Ford Orion surges forward abruptly, tearing down the narrow streets of South Park with a rumbling of its old engine. The truck drives past them as Laura steers to the side of the road to give the way and she flips the driver off with the shout of "Fucking asshole!" getting lost in the closed windows.

Craig blinks through the entire ordeal, long used to his mother's temperament.

The left side of his face is still pulsing its own heartbeat, and the sensation puts Craig on edge more than his own mother's enraged speech.
That fucking fat piece of shit had gotten him good this time and Craig isn't going to let it go easily even when he isn't one to hold grudges. Cartman hadn't even punched him, —Craig is a hundred percent sure that the idiot doesn't even know how to pack a punch. No, Cartman had scratched him, the little bitch. His disgusting fingernails had dug into the meat of Craig's face, from his cheekbone to all the way down his jaw like some fucking cat. An obese, stupid and ugly cat.

"It's the fifth time I've been called by your Principal this year, Craig! Fifth! What the hell were you thinking?!" Laura keeps yelling, her french tipped nails digging on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. "Do you want me to get in trouble at work?! I can't just walk out every time you decide to punch a kid senseless! What's your problem?!"

He wouldn't call two hits to the face 'punching someone senseless'. Her eyes find him again and Craig blinks back at her. "I don't know."

Wrong thing to say. The vein in Laura's forehead looks like it's going to burst any second now, the pale skin of her cheeks flushing a deep crimson red as she gapes at him, stuttering with outrage.

"Don't give me that bullshit!" she yells, steering the wheel and turning towards their street. "Seriously, Craig, what am I gonna do with you?! Do you want to go to Military School?! Huh?! Is that what you want?! Because I am the one that's keeping your father from sending you there!"

Craig stares back at her, unblinking. Maybe he would've been scared if this wasn't her usual go–to threat whenever she ran out of scary things to say, and Craig knows that Laura doesn't mean it. She never means it. Maybe if Craig was younger he'd have said something too, refuse, or beg, but he can see through the bullshit now.

She pulls up to the driveway abruptly, the sudden stop making Craig's head bob forward with force. "Go right up to your room and think about what you've done! You better come up with an apology for Eric by the time I get home."

He doesn't say anything, the threat of a headache quickly approaches his temples and Craig knows enraging his mom further will only make it worse. He grabs his blue backpack, snaps the seat belt off from around his body and jumps out of the car before Laura can change her mind and call him back to continue with her yelling. He isn't even inside the house when she's already peeling off, rushing back to work.

Craig stomps up the stairs, the noise echoing through the empty house, and he drags his feet all the way to his bedroom, the door slams shut loudly behind him.

What's your problem? His mother's words bite back in his head as he peels the chullo off his head and drops his backpack on the floor. He shuffles to his bed, kicking his shoes off before throwing himself on the hard mattress.

He doesn't have a fucking problem.

It isn't Craig's fault, it usually never is. All he ever does is go to school, pretend he's paying attention to whatever bullshit his teachers say and then comes home to watch The X–files episodes while eating a poptart and with a glass of orange juice. So no, Craig isn't the one with the fucking problem.

It is Eric Cartman and his big fucking mouth who keeps being a fucking dick. It's Eric Cartman who keeps calling Clyde a pussy crybaby, who keeps pointing out the crook of Craig's teeth and—

Craig doesn't even know why he reacted the way he had upon hearing the poisonous words that came out of Cartman's mouth. All he knows is that his body had moved in the blink of an eye, on instinct, fists curled so tight his knuckles popped when he flexed them afterwards. Cartman had been caught by surprise, his attention had obviously been on the guy he was insulting, and Craig's punch coming from the side had thrown him backwards, his weight suddenly unbalanced knocking him down like an oversized bowling pin.

Time slowed down in that moment, Craig had watched as Cartman stumbled and then fell over, the unfamiliar feeling of the scene playing like a movie in front of him, slow like molasses dripping down a wall. His own heartbeat hammered inside his ears, and he felt the throb of his knuckles faintly, delayed, like an out of body experience.

From the muddy ground, Cartman had looked up at Craig, both of them wearing matching shocked expressions, before the bigger boy had snapped, sneering bloody teeth. "Tch. Defending your little boyfriend, Craig? I didn't take you as a fag."

By that time, a crowd had been gathering around them, at least twenty kids Craig's muffled brain couldn't recognize, all of them silently staring, wide eyed at Cartman's bloody nostrils. Craig had felt his ears burn at the words, embarrassment flowing in his body in waves, his breath suddenly stuck inside his throat.

"Beat his ass, Craig!" someone had yelled, Clyde probably.

And then, like a dam breaking, everyone started egging them on in a flood of excited voices, shouting for a fight.

Craig had let Cartman get up on his own, even when the temptation to kick him while he was down had burned hotly at the mouth of Craig's stomach. The implication of him liking— of him being— his ears burned… it left Craig frozen still for the embarrassingly long seconds it had taken Cartman to get to his feet.

"I'm gonna do you a favor and fix those fucked up teeth for you."

"I wanna see you try, fatass." Craig didn't recognize his own voice, rough, full of something that wasn't his usual monotone drawl.

That's when the scratch had come, Cartman jumping over to him with his fingers curled, barely missing Craig's left eye as Craig stumbled backwards in an attempt to dodge, his right hand going up to punch Cartman again with all his strength, knocking him down once again with a slump. A chorus of 'oh's' erupted from the unwanted audience, like a sound effect for a TV show.

Clutching his then bloody cheek, Craig had walked towards the fallen boy, his gaze burning into Cartman's glassy eyes, his trembling lip. The pussy was about to start crying.
Craig had opened his mouth to say something snarky, spew the venom he had felt gurgling up his throat, and felt his fists shake by his sides. Terrifyingly, Craig was aware that his body was about to move on its own again, he was about to sit on that fat stomach and start punching the daylights out of the other boy, when suddenly Mr. Mackey was there, his hand clutching Craig's shoulder abruptly.

"To the Principal's, now! Mkay?!"

Everyone had gasped, quickly scurrying away from the scene to avoid getting in trouble too.

The borderline painful grip of Mr. Mackey's bony fingers digging into the meat of Craig's shoulder felt like a lifeline, like the electric shock needed to make Craig's mind and body instantly reconnect, in sync. Craig had never felt like this before, the overwhelming unfamiliarity of the situation felt strange in his bones, making him stumble over his own feet as Mr. Mackey had dragged them both back inside the school.

Of course Cartman had cried like a baby the entire time, making up lies to save his own ass, getting away with the whole thing like only he could do, while Craig ended up taking the fall all by himself; a whole week suspension and a written and emphasis on sincere apology to Eric Cartman.

Principal Victoria had called his mother that very second, informing her of the fight and asking her to pick Craig up, all while Mr Mackey had stood behind her, staring at Craig's face the entire time in the search for something Craig knew he would be unable to find; a pinch of regret, maybe guilt, anything other than the blank, expressionless canvas of Craig's soft features.

So, Craig is in deep shit again. He's in deep shit with Eric Cartman and his gang of losers, with his parents who'll probably ground him with no car or cellphones for who knows how long, and with Mr. Mackey, who will without a doubt force Craig back into his stupid mandatory counseling sessions to talk about meditation and anger management techniques that never fucking work because Craig doesn't even have a fucking problem in the first place.

He just needs everyone to leave him the fuck alone, that's all. Cartman needs to stay a hundred feet away from him and Mr. Mackey should be having those stupid sessions with him instead of Craig. How did none of the authorities ever notice that Cartman is such a fucking dick? Not like the fatass even tries to hide it.

Whatever. Craig decisively blinks away the thoughts in his head, straining to hear and distract himself with Stripe's faint squealing coming from his cage at the other side of Craig's room. There's nothing he should be thinking about in regards to the fight anyways; Cartman is an annoying piece of shit and Craig is fed up with his bullshit, that's all there is to it. Nothing to dwell on but the simple facts that were Craig's short temper and Cartman's big ass mouth.

It just happened to be the last straw.

He stares up at the ceiling, weary eyes trained on the glow–in–the–dark plastic stars glued to the white paint. His father had bought Craig two packs of them for his sixth birthday and they had spent an entire day on it, Craig slapping the stars on, sitting on his dad's wide shoulders and pretending he wasn't dizzy from looking up.

Craig breathes in and counts through them in his head, even when he already knows the exact number of them; he does it twice, and then once again, feeling his headache fade away slowly. By the time he's about to start counting for the tenth time, Craig hears the front door slam close, followed by the light footsteps of his younger sister and the heavier stomps of the giant that is Thomas Tucker.

"I heard you got in trouble again," Tricia gloats from the doorway of his bedroom, her bony arms crossed across her chest. "Dad's gonna kill you."

He doesn't even look back at her, just raises his hand from the bed, bruised middle finger in the air. "Fuck off, twerp."

Craig doesn't give a shit about the scolding Thomas is about to give him, he's never been scared of either of his parents.

In retrospect, Craig thinks he's really never been scared of anything at all.

Chapter Text

"Keys and phone, c'mon," the sound of that order would put a sergeant to shame.

Sighing heavily, Craig takes the phone out of his pocket and walks to his discarded backpack next to the bedroom door, his dad stands under the frame of it, leaning against the wooden side with a severe look on his face. It isn't an uncommon expression for him, so Craig is mostly unfazed. He can count with the fingers of his hands the amount of times he's seen his dad smile. Rummaging inside the front pocket of the school bag, Craig takes the car keys out and ruefully shoves both requested items to his father's awaiting hand.

Thomas' eyes are hard as he stares his son down. Craig has passed the six foot mark last year in his last growth spurt, so father and son are now closer in height than before, but somehow Craig can't help but still feel a bit like he's eight years old, waiting for his father's wrath to come, straining his neck to look up at his towering figure. Still, not even back then, had he been afraid —unlike Tricia, who used to immediately start crying just at the sight of their dad's frown.
Needless to say he isn't going to start being scared now.
No, Craig simply stands in front of the man and waits for the terms of the inescapable grounding to come, which usually involves the taking away of some or all of his privileges.

Now that he thinks about it, Craig still hasn't gotten his PlayStation back from the last time his father took it away after he "got caught cheating" during a World History test a month ago. Which, Craig hadn't been, by the way, he'd just turned around to tell Clyde to fuck off when his friend kept annoyingly poking him with his pen in the attempt to make Craig give him the answer to question number five, and just because Craig's luck has always been fucked, Mr. Wyland had looked in his direction in that same damn second and spotted him talking.

"Get your ass to the living room, your mother and I want to talk to you," Thomas barks, before turning around and walking down the hallway.

Well, that certainly isn't the normal procedure of these situations, but Craig refuses to think much of it. His parents probably just want to yell at him together, because they're sadists like that, and enjoy abusing their power together in a sick sense of romanticism or something. His mother might even cry and look disappointed, which doesn't happen often. Craig hopes she doesn't though, because he hates seeing her cry. He'd much rather bear her fury.

Breathing heavily, he affords a look towards the cage where Stripe #5 is happily munching on some kale he slipped between the bars earlier. Obviously, she's completely unaware of the troubles of Craig's life, and he childishly envies her for that. Sometimes, he wishes he could be a guinea pig, blissfully ignorant and at peace. Craig thinks he wouldn't even be bored from staying inside the cage, he'd just be content with digging in the stuffing and filling his cheeks with food.

The ridiculousness of the thought brings him back to Earth, and Craig sighs to himself before venturing down the stairs, slowly, just to make his parents twitch. He won't rush to his own demise, he's not stupid enough to do that.

Upon entering the living room, Craig finds that the sight awaiting him is even more unexpected. Both of his parents sit on the big lumpy couch, with squared shoulders and tense jaws. But more shocking is Tricia's presence in the room, since usually she isn't allowed to hear their parents scold him. Her body's draped across one of the love seats next to them, tapping away on her phone with a speed that'd put any professional stenographer out of their job. When Craig shuffles his feet inside though, his sister quickly locks the device and shoots him a look with wide eyes that can only mean run for your life.

He almost scoffs, because Tricia has always been a brat trying to instigate, but then Craig's eyes slip towards the coffee table and sees it. Or well, sees them.

"What the fuck is that?" the words are out of his mouth before he can think better on them, which is a clear tell of how much the sight unnerves him. Craig never wastes his breath.

"Sit down."

His father nods towards the love seat and Tricia quickly settles upright, freeing the space next to her for Craig, who shoves his hands inside the front pocket of his hoodie and drops his weight down against the cushions roughly. His mom won't look at him when his eyes search for her, her attention trained on her own hands. Her fingers are tightly interwoven on her lap, bunching on the fabric of her lime green skirt. She's nervous. Craig swallows.

"Why don't you take a look at one of them?" Thomas takes one of the offending objects from the table and offers it to Craig.

The words United States Air Force Academy glint on the shiny photography paper of the pamphlet, as if it's winking at Craig, mocking him.

He doesn't take it, his fists tight on themselves, the one he'd used to punch Cartman a few hours earlier aches in protest, but Craig doesn't mind the pain.

His father sighs heavily and puts it back on the table.

"Is this some kind of fucked up game?" Craig drones, tonelessly.

They're surely trying to scare him like always, they're just trying to get in his head like some fucked up horror movie trap. There's no way that the threat is real.

At his words, though, this thought feels less like a fact and more like Craig's stupidly reassuring himself, because his mother's shoulders twitch, her lips purse, but otherwise, she remains quiet, which is obviously rare, since she's always the one who gets to the yelling first.

Tricia is stiff as a board next to him, looking back at her parents with wide eyes, like she can't believe this is happening either.

Thomas blows up.

"Is that what you think? That your life's a fucking game?!" his voice grows progressively louder as the words leave his mouth. Tricia flinches.

"No," he remains stoic, but inside his pocket, Craig's nails dig into the meat of his palms.

Truthfully, Craig thinks his life is stupid and boring, so why would he even consider something as dull and unimportant as a game? Games are supposed to be at least somewhat entertaining to keep the player engaged, Craig's days are so similar to each other that he can't even tell what month he's in anymore.

"It doesn't seem like it then, Craig! Look at yourself! You go to school, you get in trouble with your teachers, you punch a kid stupid, you get suspended, we yell at you and take your stuff away, and you don't even fucking care!" Thomas yells, his face is slowly but surely turning the color of the puff of hair that's left at the top of his head that he won't let go of. "Answer one question for us. What the fuck are you doing?"

Blinking, Craig feels a foreign sensation inside his torso, like his stomach is squeezing into itself tightly. What is he doing? What type of question is that? Can his parents not see him sitting right across from them?

"What?"

"What?" Thomas parrots angrily. "Don't play dumb with us right now! I asked what the fuck do you think you're doing with your life!"

That's a different question, Craig bites his tongue inside his mouth before he can utter the words that'd be considered as insolent by his father, and consequently just make the situation worse.

However, as he mulls it over, Craig can't really come up with any answer that isn't along the lines of "Who the fuck knows?" Because genuinely, who actually has any idea? He's pretty sure none of his friends know what they are doing with their own lives either, so why is Craig supposed to know?

"No answer?" Thomas asks, and Craig shrugs, knowing his father won't like any of the responses he can think of. He breathes in loudly. "Okay then, since you won't take anything serious, I will tell you what you're going to do."

Finally, Laura intervenes. Raising her head, she shoots her husband a look Craig can't see. "Thomas—"

"What? You're gonna send me away? Enlist me?" Craig asks blandly, because it's obvious.

It's obvious that this is where it's going; Craig in stupid cargo pants doing push-ups in front of a yelling old guy who keeps calling him a sissy for his lack of athleticism. Craig sleeping for only four hours in a stupidly hard and narrow bed in fuck-knows-where, far from his friends and Stripe and his DVD collection of The X-Files. Craig learning how to shoot a gun and kill innocent people for a country's pride that's been built for white men with the blood and suffering of others.

The mental images are enough to make him want to punch his dad square on the face and then promptly throw up.

"I want to, if it were up to me, you'd already be there," Thomas spits, looking dead serious. "I think it'd do you good. They'd teach you discipline, purpose, how to lose that insolent mouth of yours…"

"Dad!" Tricia yelps, her face as pale as a sheet.

"Thomas."

On edge for the first time since he can remember, Craig's eyes dart between his father's enraged frown and his mother's pained eyes, his breath getting stuck inside his lungs. He's being fucking serious.

Holy shit, his dad is being fucking serious.

The silence that falls in the room is so tense it takes the shape of an oversized hand and grips Craig tightly by the throat. His father's small eyes search his face for something Craig can't figure out and it makes him feel faint. His mother stares at the bulge his fists make inside his pocket with a worried expression. Tricia just looks at each of them, gaze bouncing quickly like she's watching a terrifying tennis match, but her body frozen in place like she's stopped breathing.

The seconds drag by, and Craig feels increasingly lightheaded under his father's scrutiny for the first time in his entire life. He's being fucking serious, he's being fuckingserious, he'sbeingfuckingserious. Craig is fucked. He is so, so fucked. He's gonna throw up.

Finally, finally, after what feels like an eternity has passed, Thomas blinks away, towards his wife, and takes a deep breath, visibly calming himself.

"I bumped into your Coach yesterday at the bar, he told me that you haven't been to the field in two weeks," he says, his voice sounding slightly hoarse. "I asked him not to kick you out of the team, and he said you can keep playing as long as you don't miss any more days of practice."

The change of topic gives him whiplash. Disconcerted, Craig's eyebrows draw together, but he doesn't respond. He doesn't know how to respond. Craig doesn't know what the hell is happening anymore.

"You have one more chance, son. You're gonna go back to school and behave, then you're gonna go back to practice, and tomorrow morning you're gonna get on your bike and look for a job," Thomas says slowly, as if he's giving instructions to a child instead of threatening his seventeen year-old son. "If you fuck this up, you're either out of this house or you're going to Military School. Understood?"

Craig looks at his mom, feeling strangely disoriented. She nods her head cautiously, like she wants to prompt him to do the same, so he numbly mirrors her. The action is stiff and robotic, it makes Craig feel like he's turned into a puppet. But it seems to be good enough, because after a short pause, Thomas sighs heavily and slumps against the couch, noticeably satisfied.

Eyes zeroing on the array of pamphlets still splayed out on the coffee table, Craig numbly reads their names, all different schools with different locations; New York, Colorado, Texas, Maryland, Connecticut. Slowly, he becomes aware of his own leg bouncing frantically in place, and it takes him way too long to realize that the pressure above his knee comes from the tight grip Tricia has on it.

With no way of communicating with the outside world, Craig has no choice but to ask to borrow Tricia's phone for the couple of minutes he can use the excuse of the toilet. She hands it to him under the table when they're done eating and Craig slips it up his sleeve before he stands and walks up the stairs. He quickly locks himself in the bathroom and pushes the very awkward dinner he's just sat through out of his mind. The fact that Tricia has easily handed the device to him, with not even a dirty look or a middle finger in the air, shows how shaken she still is by the living room scene. Craig figures it's nice to know she has his back, even if she's one of the most annoying people he knows.

Thankfully, she keeps his friends' numbers saved in case of situations like this, a precaution that is necessary given the frequency in which Craig inevitably gets his phone taken away.

suspended for 2 weeks, no phone & no car, don't reply. ttylt. He types, as fast as he can, and sends the text off to Tolkien and Clyde; Craig isn't really sure which one is which, because Tricia thought it hilarious to save his friends' contacts as "Thing 1" and "Thing 2". But he has the suspicion that he's about to find out.

Knowing Clyde's line of thought, Craig decides to quickly mute the phone in order to avoid disaster. A huff escapes his mouth when, as he had predicted, mere seconds later, a new message silently shines on the screen. And then another. And another. And two more after that.

DUDE!
WTF?!!!
A WHOLE WEEK?
Wait this is Craig right?"

Rolling his eyes, Craig suppresses the urge to pinch his nose at his friend's idiocy, but for the first time in this whole shitty day, Craig finds the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in an almost smile.

i said dont reply u dumbass

Pressing send immediately, Craig pauses, his fingers hover over the touchscreen of the phone before he resigns himself to his second thoughts, and with a sigh, continues typing. Just in case.

yes clyde. this is craig.

Straining his ears to listen closely through the closed door, Craig freezes as he hears footsteps. A new message blinks on the screen, but he can only stare at the white paint of the bathroom door, waiting. The shadow of two feet stops just outside and Craig squints stupidly, as if somehow by doing so, he's going to gain the superpower to see through solid objects.

"Craig, are you shitting in there?! I'm gonna piss myself!" Tricia's voice is muffled, but she sounds convincing.

Craig should really be more thankful of her covering for his ass every single time that matters.

"I'm almost done!" he yells impassively, eyes back on the phone's screen.

COPY. WE'RE GONNA MISS YOU BRO. TTYL.

"Hurry up, dipshit! Dad wants to take a shower too!"

Shit. Locking the phone, Craig shoves it inside the front pocket of his hoodie and flushes the empty bowl of the toilet to keep up appearances. Taking advantage of the noise, he turns the lock of the door open quietly, and Tricia slips inside, looking slightly disheveled. He nods to her as thanks, and she nods back, eyes solemn before taking the phone from his hoodie.

"Why is Clyde 'Thing 2'?" he whispers, curiosity getting the best of him.

Tricia snorts and gives him a look that says 'isn't it obvious?'. Clearly, to Craig it isn't, so he just blinks blankly at her.

"He's my least favorite," she explains then, rolling her eyes in a gesture that looks so much like Craig it's almost creepy.

A snort escapes him, startling them both, and Tricia's smile in response is almost too soft, so Craig looks away. "If you say that to him, he'll cry."

"Good, then I will," Tricia gives him the same obvious look as before. "Now get out, I need to pee for real."

A small miracle comes to Craig the next morning in the reminder that his father actually leaves for work before they wake up for school, and apparently, it even is too early for his grounded ass too, because Thomas is gone without a word, and leaves Craig to wake up to the blaring of his own alarm clock. Craig's probably the only person on Earth that actually uses an alarm clock, but well, it's another of the many consequences he faces for getting his phone confiscated often.

The sky is still dark when he peers out of the window, which means that they're getting closer to winter with longer nights and shorter daylight. Soon enough, Craig and the entire population of South Park will be freezing their asses off all day. Not to mention the slipping on icy sidewalks and the plowing of ridiculously tall mountains of snow off the driveways.

Swallowing back a groan, Craig rubs his face with his hands, wincing when he remembers the scratches on his cheek, though the sting helps him wake himself up. He gets up, completely resigned to his fate, because fuck military school, and gets some clothes out of the closet.

His room is tidy. Craig likes to keep it that way because the sight of shit strewn across the floor kind of makes him want to rip his hair out and spiral. Naturally, the organization bleeds into his fashion sense in a way. He likes things simple and clean, so there's not really a wide variety of items on his hangers like he's seen in Clyde's and Tolkien's. Craig sticks with what he knows, which is dark blues and black, and he's okay with it despite what his sister might think every morning when she looks at his outfit with a clear distate on her face. He just can't really bring himself to care about something as trivial as clothes.

Dressing with his usual combo of hoodies and dark loose jeans, Craig ties the laces of his beat up black Converse sneakers tight on his feet and almost grabs his backpack off the floor on his way out of the room, before remembering he isn't actually going to school today. Or any day of this week. Normally, this fact would make him feel good, because of course school sucks, but knowing what he's about to go out to do isn't fun at all. Craig almost convinces himself that he'd actually rather go to class. Almost.

Tricia is sitting at the table already when Craig steps into the kitchen, her face looking extremely displeased while their mom is slicing green apples on the counter behind her. Craig walks to the fridge and pulls out the carton of orange juice, feeling both of their stares on his back, following his movements with their eyes like he's in some creepy horror movie scene.

His mother is the first to break the silence as he pours himself a tall glass of the beverage. "Good morning, Craig."

"Good morning," the tension in his own voice surprises him.

Laura hands him one of the bowls with oatmeal, and Craig takes it to the table. Her eyes look conflicted, maybe even hurt in the split second they meet his own, but Craig doesn't feel bad about it this time. For some reason, the sight of his mother makes him feel like he's been betrayed, even though he knows, rationally, that it hadn't been her fault.
The truth is that, deep down, Craig has always known his parents would eventually reach their limits when it comes to his bullshit, so his resentment isn't really fair on her. But still, when has his anger ever been logical?

"I have to take the bus because of you, asshole."

Looking up from his food, Craig swallows the spoonful of oatmeal and shrugs. "You'll live."

Tricia frowns and sends a nasty glare his way. "You're s—"

"Tricia!" Karen steps in with a warning clear in her tone and sets her daughter's breakfast in front of her. "Eat up, I'll drive you before I go to work."

"You're still a bitch," Tricia mouths silently, and Craig waits until their mom turns around to flip her off.

The normalcy between them feels warm in his chest, and he has to bite back a smile when she sticks her tongue out and returns the hand gesture.

"Do you want me to drive you too, Craig?" Laura asks, clearly as a peace offering.

The question takes him by surprise, because knowing his mom, it usually takes her at least two or three days to loosen up after Craig gets into shit. His best guess is that she probably feels guilty about his father's words, which is stupid because she definitely shouldn't. He doesn't mind his dad's brutal honesty, especially because Craig's probably taken after him in that. In reality, he's mainly just mad at them for the whole we're selling you to the military thing.

"I'd have to wait until you get off work to come back home," Craig says, figuring that it makes no sense for him to ride with her. And he doesn't want to, either. "I'll just take my bike, it's fine."

Laura eyes him carefully for a couple of seconds, and Craig keeps eating his food with unhealthy speed, a little desperate to escape her attention. She sighs then, as he gives his last bite, and looks a little dejected. Craig stands and takes his dirty dishes to the sink, rinsing them quickly and sticking them into the dishwasher.

"Fine, but be careful, okay?" she frowns, watching as he grabs his chullo from his pocket and sticks it onto his head. "And take a jacket, it's getting pretty cold outside."

"Yes, Sargent." he drawls, opening the front door.

Tricia audibly chokes on her food and Craig takes it further as he turns around and salutes them from the entryway.
He hears his mother's heavy sigh as the door closes behind him.

Two hours. Craig has been riding around town for two fucking hours. He's been to at least twenty places, from a dentist's office, to a couple of grocery stores and restaurants, to even the fucking police station. And that's without counting basically all of the fast food restaurants! No one is looking to hire. Not even as a janitor. Nothing.
The old lady at the public library didn't look at him, or even let him finish asking if they're looking for help before she started shushing and motioning Craig to get out.

It fucking sucks. So hard. He's so sweaty from all the pedaling and feels so on edge, Craig thinks he might bite the next person that speaks to him, let alone says no to him.

Frustration is an emotion that he's clearly unfamiliar with, and Craig has no idea of what to do with it. He doesn't think he's ever put this much effort into anything in his entire life, and getting shut down so many times in a row feels like he's being kicked in the gut repeatedly.

Of course nobody wants to hire him, he's a seventeen year-old brat that hasn't worked a day in his life and subsequently, has no previous references nor experience in any fucking field. And it's unfair, because he can't even fake a resume, since everyone knows everyone in this fucking shithole of a town, and any employer would easy figure out he's lying.

Swallowing back a scream, Craig pushes his strength down to his legs and shoots down the muddy street, feeling the cold frigid air bite at his cheeks and make the left side of his face sting. He knows he's growing desperate, he can just tell by the way his movements are turning frantic, gripping the handles of his bike with unnecessary strength and racing down the road no longer even trying to look if there are any signs of help wanted around him, but Craig's heart is going fast, and he needs to get a job. He is not going to Military School. Theres no fucking way in hell.

Eventually, after a solid five whole minutes of rushing around like a madman, Craig's legs run out of steam. He's not impressed by this lack of resistance to cardio, and he's certainly not surprised by it either —it's no lie that he hasn't been to Baseball practice in two weeks, and even before that, he'd always just walk around the laps Coach would order them to run as warm-ups.

Craig comes to a stop on Main Street, his chest is heaving in search of gulps of air, and he can't help but to wince when he feels the burning inside his calves. It takes him a good while to regain control of his breathing, and he swallows before the oatmeal he ate this morning even attempts to shoot back up his throat.

His head is swimming for a couple of more seconds and Craig waits until he can think straight before taking a look around. He'd decided to leave Main Street for last, since it was the furthest from his home, but now that he's here, Craig figures he should get off the bike and walk around instead. He passes some old family owned stores without even trying to ask, knowing they're the type to make their close relatives work in the business rather than hiring an outsider. His nose scrunches as he gets nearer to City Wok, the smell of oil makes Craig's stomach churn, and he knows that they aren't hiring because Kenny works as a server there and he told Craig that they hate paying for more than a few employees. He walks by the bank his mom works at and doesn't even try to steal a look inside.

There goes an entire block of nothing, Craig sighs, looking both ways before crossing the street.
Pushing his bike along, he drags his aching feet and legs noisily on the pavement of the sidewalks, imagining the way Laura would scold him for it if she were here, he shakes his head to get the image off. And that's when he sees it.

Seemingly on its own, Craig's body stutters into a sudden stop, a pretty fucking stupid reaction to have towards a mere, simple sign; especially since there's nothing out of the ordinary about the big, brown block letters that spell Tweek Bros Coffee. But hey, Craig knows it, so that must be why his attention got caught so abruptly.

Of course he knows it, duh, it's Tweek's family's café; everyone at school knows about Tweek's family's café. Craig's even gone in a couple of times, with Tolkien and Clyde, back when Clyde had gotten addicted to their Vanilla Lattes and forced them to go in with him because he was too embarrassed to be alone. Craig had bought hot chocolate every time, because coffee still tastes like ass to him, and Tweek's mom had smiled weirdly at him.

Still, even though Craig is familiar with it, the thought of asking for a job there makes him immediately blanch. Everyone knows that Tweek works there with his parents after school, and everyone knows that Tweek's parents are batshit insane. The last time Craig had talked to Tweek's dad, years ago and the last time he'd been there with his friends, the man had blabbered about coffee in a way that'd made them all eye each other with unease, his voice alone had sounded so empty and robotic it'd given Craig the creeps —and he's one to talk when it comes to weird toneless voices.

Needless to say, Craig's already running low on his own sanity, and he knows for a fact that involving himself with even crazier people will only make matters worse. He's really just dodging a bullet here.

It's almost comical, the way that just as he casually turns around to keep moving forward, Craig comes face to face with a big "HELP WANTED" sign glued right on the glass window of the shop ahead. Wearily for no apparent reason, Craig walks towards it, and realizes that although he's lived in South Park all his life, he's never been to this particular place before, and it looks like it's been in the town for even longer than Craig has.

It's a fairly small building, with a wide window next to a narrow black wooden door cut by a square glass panel at the top. The walls outside are painted a weird greenish blue although it's peeling in several corners, and on the glass of the big window, the name of the store is hand painted in big, golden letters.

"Nebula Records," Craig reads under his breath.

Peering inside, he's fairly impressed by the amount of shelves stocked full of what seems like a big variety of vinyls and CDs. Craig doesn't know much about music, he mostly listens to what his friends listen to, and he's never had a particular interest in any artist or band like Tricia had when she was younger. He hopes that this inexperience doesn't stop him from getting the job, Craig is too tired to keep looking.

The bell above the door chimes as he steps inside, catching the attention of the girl that's currently sitting behind the register. A slow jazzy song is playing softly in the background, and the girl looks up from her book as Craig makes his way towards her. She doesn't look much older than him, probably in her first years of college, judging by the thick advanced Physics book she's holding.

"Hey, how can I help you?"

Craig blinks at her polite smile, taken back by the sight of her braces with hot pink gummies. "I saw the sign outside, about the job."

The girl's eyes are deep blue and they scan Craig over quickly, he notices that she stares at his chullo for a little too long and resists the urge to fiddle with it. It's too late to take it off, and Craig doesn't think he'd have done it even if he'd noticed it's on his head. His hat has become an extension of his body way too long ago.

"Oh yeah, we need someone to work in the afternoon since the guy that used to cover those shifts is quitting, and I take evening classes," she says, nodding her head slightly. Her chocolate curls bounce a little with the movement. "What's your name?"

"Craig Tucker."

She grins amicably and Craig clears his throat. "How old are you, Craig?"

"I'm seventeen."

"Oh, just like the other kid that works here!" she grins. "Okay, Craig. My name is Penny, my parents own this shop, but I'm usually the one in charge since they retired."

Her hand is soft, but her handshake is firm. Craig looks at her sparkly nail polish for what he hopes it's an acceptable amount of time. It reminds him of Tricia. He's grateful that she doesn't mention the fact that someone his age should definitely be in class right now.

"Nice to meet you."

"Likewise!" when she smiles, two dimples flash on her cheeks. "Tell me Craig, since you're interested in working here. Can I ask you a couple of questions?"

Clearing his throat, he braces himself, hoping she isn't going to ask something stupidly specific like the date John Lennon was killed, or what's the name of any of the dudes from U2. "Yes, sure."

Penny hums, but it sounds… playful? She definitely seems to be a very cheery person. Craig thinks it's kind of weird. "Say, Craig, what's your favorite song?"

Taking a deep breath, Craig doesn't let the question intimidate him. Sure, he's not the most well-versed person on the planet when it comes to music, but he does have a couple of songs he enjoys most. He's not an animal. Penny waits for his answer patiently anyway, so he doesn't feel too pressured.

"Uh, probably 'Starlight'," he says before figuring she must know more than one song by that name and adding. "By Muse."

No one has ever asked Craig what's his favorite song, he's never really given it much thought, so he just mentions the first one that comes to his mind. And it's a good answer, thankfully, judging by the way Penny visibly perks up on her seat. Craig didn't think she could look more invested than before, but the way she interestedly looks at him now is borderline uncomfortable. It's really just a song he heard his mom listening to and liked. Nothing special.

"That's a good song! Great choice, Craig!" she gushes excitedly. "Okay, next question. Why do you want to work here?"

Considering lying is not even an option, since Penny seems to be the type of music obsessed person that could easily catch Craig lacking, but he doesn't really know what to say apart from the stupid "Uh, because I really like music" bullshit that she probably hears from every single candidate she meets.

In the end, and as always, Craig sticks with honesty.

"I really need a job right now," Craig says, trying to convey his urgency through his voice. It's a hard task. "Like, I really need it."

Penny's smile falters a bit, but she nods in understanding, probably thinking he's desperate for money because he's poor or something along those lines. Craig feels bad about this assumption, thinking of Kenny and his huge responsibility; Craig doesn't have to work to feed Tricia like Kenny needs to to feed Karen. But even if it feels wrong, Craig doesn't want to disclose the details of his father's ultimatum either, so he figures that Penny is in her right to make any assumptions she wants.

"Okay, Craig. Why don't you go home and come back tomorrow morning and I'll show you the ropes?"

Wait, what?

Penny smiles encouragingly, but Craig is a little stunned by this. Is he getting hired? On the spot? After answering just two of her questions? He blinks blankly at her. Isn't there supposed to be talks about past experiences in other jobs? Or exaggerations about his hardworking nature and punctuality?
There's no way this is it. It's definitely too good to be true. Too easy to be true. Craig's never been one with such good luck.

"Seriously?" he asks her, unsure. "Aren't you supposed to, I don't know, ask me a bunch of questions about things like my biggest strengths and weaknesses or dumb sh— stuff like that?"

Penny laughs, more like a giggle, and shrugs. "Do you want me to ask you that?"

Craig swallows, eyes darting to his feet, what is he supposed to say to that? Yes and fuck it up? No and fuck it up too? He opens his mouth, trying to come up with something, but Penny interrupts him with a snort.

"Relax, Craig! I'm just messing with you!" she lets out a giggle and leans forward slightly, hands on either side of the register. Craig feels his chest deflate. "You're just a kid, I'm not trying to interrogate you! Besides, it's not like this is a super complicated job, we only get a few regular customers and that's mostly it."

"Really?"

Craig could easily imagine the store to be fairly popular, given by the vast amount of options it offers and its location on the most popular area of Main Street. But when he thinks about it further, he realizes that it does make sense; Craig doesn't own any CDs, not even to listen to in his car, and he's fairly sure that his friends are on the same boat. The only person he knows that has them is his mom, and actually, he's fairly sure his grandma has a record player at her house too, although he doesn't remember seeing her use it.

"Yeah, it's a shame that not many people care about music this way anymore, but what can you do?" she sighs, her smile turning sad.

Uncomfortably, he shuffles his feet and nods, again not knowing what to say. It's horrible, the way that when he doesn't want to talk, he usually just doesn't, because what's the point? But right now, Craig needs the job, so he needs to force himself to be talkative and… charismatic? That's a long stretch. Likable maybe. Tolerable at best. Hireable, is that a word? Employee material. Whatever.

"Well, if you're interested, like I said, you can drop by tomorrow at around nine and I can train you on how to do the most challenging tasks, like cashing people out and that sort of thing. The guy you're replacing isn't leaving until Friday, so you have time to learn before you officially start."

Still feeling like it's too good to be true, Craig pushes all of his doubts to the back of his brain and looks at the silver glint of Penny's septum ring under the fluorescent lights. What is that saying, 'don't look in a gift horse's mouth'? Something like that. Craig hates horses.

It's this or the Army, he quickly reminds himself and breathes. Bite the bullet.

"I'll be here."

Chapter Text

Technically speaking, his parents haven't said anything about him not being allowed to watch TV, so when he gets back home from the record store and sees that both of them are still at work, Craig figures he can make the best out of his situation and sneak in a couple of episodes of The X-Files.

For each of his birthdays since Craig outgrew his favorite childhood show Red Racer and fell in love with Special Agent Dana Scully, Tolkien has taken the consideration to buy him DVD collections of each season every year as presents. Craig still doesn't have all of them, given that there are eleven seasons of the show and it's only been six years, but he doesn't mind, he's already watched the whole thing online anyways.

He looks around for something to eat, since he usually sticks with cafeteria food at school and sometimes on more rare occasions, Clyde and Tolkien sneak out with him in his car to the McDonald's drive through for nuggets and fries. His mom's been in her "healthy habits" phase since last year when she got obsessed with one of those stupid TLC lifestyle shows on TV, so Craig doesn't have many other options apart from whole wheat bread and low-fat cheese, because his stupid dad has cholesterol. The idea to take his bike to some fast food place and buy a burger is very tempting, but his legs are still burning and just the thought of getting on his bike again is almost nausea-inducing.

The grilled cheese he ends up making looks like the saddest sandwich he's ever seen, and Craig has seen Kenny's straight mayonnaise on stale bread monstrosities. Thankfully though, he hasn't seen the blond eat those types of foods in a long time now that he makes his own money, so Craig doesn't feel that guilty when the comparison comes to mind.

Sitting down on the couch, he presses play on a random episode from season three and takes a bite of his sad-wich. It tastes like cardboard, and for some reason, it makes Craig feel like absolute shit. He doesn't think this has ever happened to him before, but as he stares at the offending food in his hand, Craig's first thought is about how much everything in his life currently fucking sucks. The sandwich. His parents grounding, playing baseball and finding a pointless job at a place Craig doesn't even give a shit about. Cartman and his hateful stupid fucking mouth. His own idiocy for reacting so violently to an insult that wasn't even directed to him or his friends.

Ridiculous, Craig is fucking ridiculous for defending Tweek Tweak out of all people. The same Tweek Tweak that beat the absolute shit out of Craig like, nine years ago. Well, technically, they'd both beaten the shit out of each other, but Tweek had stood his ground against him, therefore it's very clear that the Tweek Tweak Craig knows doesn't need any help with defending himself.

When has Craig started sighing so often? Since his life has turned into an absolute shit show probably.

Special Agent Dana Scully is onscreen now, and he doesn't even have the mind to pay attention to her, which is very telling of where Craig's head is at. He blinks at the TV and eats his food anyway, because he hates it, but he hates the idea of it going to waste even more, and at least tries to pretend he's watching the episode, but there is really no use.

Usually, Tricia is the one that joins Craig after school to watch the show with him since she accidentally got into it one afternoon when she'd watched a few minutes of one of the episodes over Craig's shoulder. After that day, she started joining him on the couch after school religiously, sprawling out annoyingly with her legs on his lap and offering PopTarts she smuggled in the house without their mom knowing. At first, Craig had been weirded out, because they could barely tolerate each other out of this routine of them, and she'd literally comment on anything, but now that he's alone in the house, the only noise is the TV and it physically pains him to admit this to himself, but he finds that it's not the same without his sister.

It's borderline horrifying, the realization that Craig actually enjoys hanging out with Tricia. The same Tricia that used to put bugs inside her pockets for whatever reason and run around the house pretending to be a superhero, she'd call Craig a loser for liking space and laugh obnoxiously loud at Youtube videos of people getting startled by jumpscares. Tricia, his little sister, who isn't that little anymore because she's turned fifteen, stopped wearing her hair in pigtails and talks about kissing on the phone with her friends.

God, Craig needs to get his head checked, maybe he's caught some deadly disease and it's making his brain cells malfunction.

All the times he's had to stay home from school before, Craig had seen as blessings, but now, as he turns the TV off and cleans after himself, his house is so quiet it's almost suffocating. He feels restless even though he's just gotten back from the longest bike ride of his life, and he wishes he had something to do, somewhere to go. Someone to be with.

Gross.

"Hey, little lady." he greets her quietly as soon as he steps inside his room.

Stripe squeals happily at the attention, and Craig breathes out. Standing on her hind legs, the guinea pig holds onto the bars of her cage and Craig slips a finger in between the metal to pet her head softly.

"Do you wanna come out for a little while?" he mumbles to her, comforted by the knowledge that he's home alone and no one can hear him speak to his pet like it's a human being.

After closing his bedroom and closet doors, Craig squats, wincing slightly at the pain in his legs, and opens the little door to the enclosure. He suspects that out of all of the previous versions of Stripe he has owned throughout the years, Stripe #5 is actually the smartest of the bunch. She's learned to wait until Craig carefully slips his hand inside to climb on his awaiting palm and she doesn't seem to be scared when he lifts her in the air before letting her softly plop on the floor.

"Did you miss me, dummy?" he asks her, sitting on the floor by the foot of his bed.

Stripe scoots closer, squeaking when she finds the loose shoelace of his left sneaker, and grabs onto the end. Snorting softly, Craig rubs her back to distract her from eating the aglet. He thinks she's the smartest out of the others, but that doesn't mean she's actually smart.

She follows his finger when he pulls away, quickly climbing onto his pant leg and scurrying up towards Craig's hoodie. She isn't into many games, unlike Stripe #3 who'd loved playing treasure hunt with carrots and celery, but she seems to be pretty fond of climbing on him and sneaking inside the front pocket of his hoodies. Her warmth on his stomach is comforting in a way Craig hadn't expected it to be, but he finds himself quickly leaning backwards to rest his spine against the end of his mattress.

Craig blinks at the stars on his ceiling, so old now that they just look yellowish and dull, worn down by the years; the sight makes him almost sad.

South Park weather has always been shitty, and Craig had grown up through cloudy days and nights, when he was younger and had no real stars to look up to in the sky, he used to wait excitedly for the darkness to come, so he could bundle up under the blankets and trace the glow of the artificial constellations with his eyes.

Now, the stars have long faded to the faintest of glints, and they don't really serve their purpose anymore. Craig doesn't really wait to see them glow, and he feels stupidly guilty about it.

He's too old now, to be awed by them like he had been back when he was six, and it makes him wonder when was the last time he's felt genuinely excited over something like that.

His father's words echo inside his head, and Craig rubs his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted.

What the fuck is he doing with his life?

"Craig! Dinner's ready!"

Groaning loudly, Craig sits up on his bed. He's been holed up in his room for hours, not wanting to face either of his parents when they got home from work, entertaining himself with one of the old books about astronomy he hasn't read in years. It feels weird, like he's trying to force himself to be as intense with his old childhood interests again. He still likes space, of course, Craig keeps himself on the loop with news about the new discoveries NASA publishes on the Internet, but he remembers the giddiness he had felt as a kid every time he learned something new. It's gone now.

Not wanting his mom to lose patience, Craig braces himself mentally for another night of awkward eating with his perfectly happy and functional nuclear family, and heads down the stairs. There's a disdain inside his body that strongly tries to get Craig to fuck it all up and go back to his room, especially when he remembers that he has to mention that he's successfully gotten a job already to his father, whom Craig would literaly rather choke to death than speak to again. But he forces the impulse down. It's this or the Army, it's this ortheArmy, it'sthisortheArmy

Pretty fucked up mantra.

Too deep inside his head, Craig doesn't notice they have an extra person at the table until he sits down on his usual chair. Across from him, Tricia is talking softly to a shy looking Karen Mccormick, whose blue eyes flicker up to meet his own as she hears him coming. Craig watches her flush red and smile nervously in his direction.

Tricia and Karen's friendship goes way back to their elementary school days, so Craig has seen her around the house enough to know that she's still as quiet and shy as she had been the first time she'd come over to play with Tricia. It's kind of amusing to him that Karen's personality is the complete opposite of her older brother Kenny who's the most outgoing, charismatic, annoying person Craig has ever met.

"Hey, Karen," he greets her, making a superhuman effort to erase the frown off his face.

"Hi, Craig." he has to strain his hearing to catch her soft voice, but at least she doesn't stutter like she used to.

One time, when he was in middle school, Tricia had told Craig that Karen was scared of him because he always looks too serious, like he's angry, and asked him to try and be more friendly when she was around because Karen already has enough angry faces at her house. Craig felt terrible about it, even though he really didn't know that he looked like that to other people, so since then, he's been trying his hardest to make Karen feel welcome. He fails most of the time, but Tricia and Kenny are there to reassure Karen that Craig isn't mad, just terrible at facial expressions. Which is true, so he can't even fight them on it.

Tricia smirks at him. "Don't talk to him, Karen, he's on death row."

Karen looks back at his sister with clear worry on her face, it's such a dramatic expression that Craig feels she almost looks like a cartoon character. In this, he can see her resemblance to Kenny.

"You're hilarious." Craig deadpans.

The front door opens and his father walks in. Craig watches him take his coat off before hanging it, consciously forcing his fists to stay relaxed on his lap. Still, the tension draws his shoulders tight and he tears his eyes away as soon as Thomas turns around.

"Craig, come help me take the food to the table."

The sound of his chair dragging on the floor as he stands up is too loud in his ears, but both girls at the table keep chatting quietly, unbothered, so Craig knows it's just in his head. He hears as his father's deep voice greets Karen softly and feels his shoulders rise almost all the way to his ears as he enters the kitchen.

His mother hands him a platter of what looks like roasted veggies and another one with steamed rice, one of the staple dinners she likes to cook. Craig takes both offered items without a word and feels her worried eyes on him in the split second before he quickly turns around and walks back to the dining room. He can hear as she follows behind him quickly, carrying the chicken, but doesn't look back.

He wants to send me away, he can't look at either of them, just a glimpse of their faces reminds Craig of the pamphlets on the table. New York, Colorado, Texas, Maryland, Connecticut. He doesn't want Craig in the house. He wants to get rid of him, of his insolent mouth and his purposeless life. His ears are ringing and he wants Craig far away, doing push-ups and learning how to shoot people, out of his sight.

"Eat your food, Craig. It's gonna get cold."

The ringing stops. Craig blinks, and from the other side of the table, Karen looks at him with furrowed eyebrows again. There's a plate of food served for him and he becomes aware of the fact that they're all already eating. The fork feels weightless in his hand and he stabs a piece of broccoli with too much force.

"How's school going, Karen? We haven't seen you in a while!" Laura asks, voice uncharacteristically soft.

"It's going good," she gives her a small smile. "I-I joined the volleyball team, and we've been busy with practice."

"Oh! That's great, honey!"

"Yeah, it's uh fun."

"Why don't you join the team too, Tricia?" Thomas cuts in, looking at his daughter with interest.

Tricia frowns, and Craig's jaw tightens. "I don't like volleyball."

"Have you even tried playing it? How can you know you don't like it?" their dad insists.

"Thomas, if she doesn't like it, she doesn't like it." Laura intervenes, her voice and smile are tight like a drawstring.

Tricia's wide blue eyes find Craig's, they stare at each other intently, both sharing a tired, knowing look; when their dad gets onto some topic, he will not drop it until he himself decides it's done being discussed. That's exactly the way he had made Craig join the baseball team, because Craig had never been interested in any sport, and this just wasn't acceptable for a teenage boy. Craig thinks Thomas is just projecting his own frustration of his high school football career being over.

"What? I'm just saying that she should apply herself to something else apart from school!" he shrugs to his wife. "It'll be good for her, being part of a team, setting up some goals for herself."

Craig feels his eyelid twitch, irritation boiling over inside his gut. Tricia is already in the school's track team, she's fast just like Craig, maybe even faster, and she likes it. He's seen her the times his practice days overlapped hers, and the breathless smile on her face was enough to let Craig be a hundred percent sure that she was in her element.

Maybe if his dad actually paid attention to her at all, he'd know that.

If Craig's relationship with his father is strained, Tricia and Thomas' bond is basically non-existing. When they were little, their dad's attention had always been on either work, the bar, or Craig. He would take Craig to watch baseball games, on fishing trips on the weekends and all the other typical father-son cliché activities in his book. And Tricia would always be left behind, in the background.
Craig didn't understand it at first, he didn't actively like to spend time with her, because he thought she was an annoying little sister like all little sisters were, but he still felt weird about her being excluded.

At first, he figured that their father liked spending time with Craig because he's always been a quiet kid, so he'd just follow along to wherever Thomas wanted to go, but when Craig asked his mom about it, she had smiled sadly and said "You're important to him, you're his firstborn son." Craig's first thought in response to that had been how stupid that sounded, because in that same way, Tricia is his dad's first and only daughter, but now that he's older, Craig understands.

Thomas Tucker is just a misogynistic prick.

"I'm already in a team," Tricia says, glaring at her food. "I don't like volleyball, dad. I like running."

The silence that falls in the room is tense, to say the least. Tricia's narrowed eyes are glued to her plate, and he feels Karen's worry practically radiating from her body. Craig feels bad for making her witness this situation, their house is probably her escape from her own family's issues, but Tricia will apologize for it later, he's sure.

Laura is breathing hard on the seat next to Craig, but she smiles awkwardly. "I don't know where you kids got your speed from, when you were little we couldn't catch you for bath time."

Craig cringes at her attempt at saving the conversation, and chews stiffly on a piece of chicken, keeping his mouth occupied to avoid saying something sarcastic and getting himself deeper in shit. He wants to yell at his dad, for being such a fucking dick, and at his mom, for being so fucking passive, but he can't risk it. Like Tricia said, Craig is on death row, and more little fuck up means instant extermination.

"Tricia is really fast, she's like, the fastest girl in the whole track team, including the seniors!" Karen gushes, grinning proudly as if it was her own accomplishment. "When she runs, it looks like she's gonna fly."

Craig watches as the frown on his sister's face softens, and she shoots a small, grateful smile to her best friend. It's kind of relieving to see how someone has her back. He doesn't miss the way they glance at each other with the softest eyes Craig has ever seen on Tricia, and for some reason, it makes Craig feel uneasy and look away, swallowing the mouthful of food.

"Wasn't that your superpower, Storm Raven? Flying?" he says, remembering her childhood superhero persona.

Tricia gapes, equal parts surprised and embarrassed by being reminded of her favorite game, her cheeks turn hot pink and she glares at him from across the table.

"That's right! I remember how much you loved playing superhero!" Laura chuckles fondly.

"I remember too," Karen giggles, and Tricia's face resembles a tomato.

"Shut up," she mutters, embarrassed.

Just as Craig's faith for the meal to go somewhat easier now strengthens, Thomas clears his throat, setting his glass of wine on the table more loudly than necessary. Craig looks at Tricia with mild alarm, the way the blood drains from her face as quickly as it had gone up is equal parts impressive and concerning.

"Why didn't you tell us you're in the track team?" their dad is frowning, and the light atmosphere of the dinner shatters instantly.

Laura's hand freezes mid-air for a split second before she recovers and sets her fork and knife quietly over her plate. The look on her face tells Craig the obvious he easily guesses; of course she knows, she loves Tricia, and Tricia clearly loves her, given that Craig often finds them together, chatting and giggling in her bedroom.

If there's something Laura Tucker can't be accused of is not caring about her children's lives. Craig and her butt heads constantly because of it, in his opinion, she sometimes cares way too much.

Nervously, Tricia shrugs, growing visibly uncomfortable by the question. Craig figures that he owes her one for the phone thing and quickly decides to pay his debt; one way or another, he would have to tell his parents anyway, so he breathes in deeply and braces himself.

"I got a job."

Everyone's attention diverts to him impressively fast, all four pairs of eyes falling on Craig like a singular, unwanted spotlight. Tricia shoots him a grateful look, clearly relieved.

Craig flips her off.

"Great! You came!" Penny grins as soon as she hears the little bell above the door ring and he steps inside.

Her smile's way too bright for nine in the morning in Craig's opinion. He wonders if her cheeks hurt often.

"I'm here," he says awkwardly and walks towards the shelves she's standing by.

As he grows closer, he can't help but notice the way her clothes are as much of an eyesore as her colorful braces, a mismatch of different patterns and bright yellows and oranges. Craig's sure she most likely commutes to work at the store, given that he'd have definitely seen her around town with that sense of fashion. Well, it certainly seems to match her personality. Not like Craig's one to talk when it comes to that, since he's aware that when it comes to looks and character, he's not much more than a stick in the mud, or that's what Tolkien likes to say.

"So, let's talk a bit more about the job," she says, and points to the box at her feet full of CDs. "Help me put these on the shelf, please."

Bending down, Craig grabs one of the cases curiously. It's a copy of one of those artists that are household names but that he hasn't listened to their music before, something that usually makes people gasp whenever Craig admits to it. Penny is lining the CDs in neat rows, displaying only the last one on a higher compartment.

"I like to keep the older music over here in these back shelves and leave the more modern artists at the front of the store," she explains, her voice spurs Craig into action and he mirrors her, setting the CDs one in front of the other. "We mostly sell these oldies, but the people who like this type of music enjoy browsing around, exploring options, so they don't mind walking this way. When one of the more modern artists and bands make new releases, usually the younger fans come with tunnel vision for them, so they have to be in clear view, does that make sense?"

It does, it usually is like that in every store of every type Craig has been to, but he doesn't point this out to her. Penny seems to be the type to over explain herself, and he doesn't want to get fired on his first day of training by being a smart ass. So he nods his head and hums an affirmative sound, picking up the next CDs out of the box. To no one's surprise, Craig has never listened to it either.

"We rotate cleaning the shelves every week, so on Fridays you'd have to clear one off entirely before closing and then on Monday I get to reorganize it in the morning," she continues. "Like I mentioned yesterday, we really don't get that many clients, so it mostly just gets dusty."

"How come you haven't run out of business already?" Craig kicks himself mentally when he hears the way he sounds. He definitely didn't word it right. "I mean, like, if you don't get many sales and stuff, not that it's, you know—"

"Craig, relax," Penny interrupts his scrambling with a giggle, and shakes her head. "You're fine, it's a good question. Basically, my parents are huge music fans, and this store has sentimental value to them since they first met when they both worked here, and then, when the owner wanted to shut it down, they bought it from him and now they refuse to let it go. I work here for free because I like it too. It's pretty easy and I can study when no one comes around, but I can only be here in the mornings, and the sales we get are enough for only one employee."

"Ah," he mutters, not knowing how to respond.

Penny giggles again, bumping her shoulder against his lightly. The gesture takes Craig by surprise, it's playful, way too familiar. "You're a pretty quiet guy, aren't you?"

"Yeah, sorry," he's not sure what he's apologizing for, and he doesn't mean it, but it seems like the right thing to say.

"It's fine, it's fine!" Penny grins. "But, can I ask you a question?"

Well, it's not like he can say no to her. He nods.

"Do you have a cat?" she points to his face, alluding to the fading scratches on his face.

Craig wants to go back in time and bash Cartman's face in all over again.

The good thing about the job situation is that Penny had definitely not lied about it being easy and laid-back. He follows behind her the entire morning, learning the way to organize the merchandise by genre and then how to scan the barcodes and print the receipts. Craig figures that despite being forced to be employed, working at Nebula Records is probably the best possible scenario he could've ever landed for himself. He knows for a fact that other jobs are not as chill as this one, considering the way Kenny looks exhausted after a shift at City Wok and Clyde cries every time he helps his father out at their shoe store and some old lady yells at him for not carrying her size in heels. Literally no one shows up to buy anything in the whole time Craig's in the store.

Penny stays professional for most of the first hour; she tells Craig he needs to work Monday through Friday from four thirty to nine thirty, he's getting a weekly pay of minimum wage and he gets to choose the music to play during his shifts. But, as he imagined, it doesn't take long until she's getting bored of what she refers to business talk and starts rambling his ear off about what seems like every single thought that crosses her mind. If it wasn't as annoying, Craig would've found it impressive.

Against his will, Craig learns more about Penny Ludgate in two hours than he's ever learned anything at any class in school ever. She tells him she's twenty two, lives in North Park with her parents and goes to university for Physics with a minor in Business, her favorite band of all time is Cage the Elephant, which yeah, Craig has never heard about before, and she doesn't like The Beatles because her parents named her after one of their songs, Penny Lane, which of course, Craig has never heard before either, but she thinks it's overused and lame.

The fact that Craig doesn't even respond to most of the things that come out of her mouth with more than a hum of acknowledgement doesn't seem to deter her, on the contrary, it just seems to spur her on, so he resigns himself half mindedly listening while looking at the different albums around, ranking them inside his head on how much he likes each of their covers best.

In the end, he can't really pick between Blink 182's "Enema of the State" and Pink Floyd's "The Endless River", but what Craig certainly knows is that if he was the baby from the Nirvana one, he'd be pissed as hell at his parents for letting the entire world see his dick in a swimming pool.

"Have you listened to it?" Penny asks, and he realizes he's holding a CD in his hand he hadn't realized he had picked up.

"No." it's a copy of "OK Computer" by Radiohead.

The look on her face could convince a bypasser that Craig had just brutally killed her firstborn in front of her instead of just admitting he hasn't listened to a popular album.

"You haven't listened to it? To Radiohead?" she repeats incredulously. "Never? Like, in your life?"

He hasn't, at least not consciously, and her stare makes him feel uneasy. He shrugs instead of saying anything.

"But it's just that album, right? You've listened to other Radiohead songs?" Penny insists, Craig blinks back at her impassively. She gasps, horrified. "It's worse than I imagined!"

"Am I fired?" he asks, already over with the dramatics.

"What? No! Obviously not!" her face breaks to give way to a chuckle, and she shakes her head. Craig relaxes. "Did you really think that I wouldn't notice you're a newbie when it comes to music?"

"No?" he doesn't mean to word it as a question, but it sounds like one.

Penny laughs again. "You look at those like you've never seen a vinyl before, and you're the only person I've ever met that's said your favorite song is a Muse song."

"What's wrong with Muse?" he asks, feeling strangely defensive about it, even though he really doesn't know any other of their other songs.

"Nothing!" she exclaims. "It's just that, you know, there are better bands out there. But don't worry, I'll give you some homework to take home and soon enough, you'll learn what real music is."

Grabbing a sheet of paper and a bright yellow pen with a fuzzy pom poms at the top, she leans over the desk next to the register and starts quickly writing things down. Craig watches her, half amused, half annoyed, which he's come to realize to be the overall reaction his brain has to almost everything she does. The shift is almost over by now, so he just browses around the shelves, waiting for her to finish excitedly listing what he thinks are albums and artists' names down like a kid writing a list of presents to Santa.

"Well, I don't really need more help around here, so I'd say that you should probably come back a little earlier on Monday afternoon to get the keys before I go off to class," she says, putting the pen down and folding the piece of paper in half. "And, since you have almost six days free, you can listen to these! I made sure to only write down the albums I think would match your vibe, and don't worry, I'll give you more later, this is just to get you started."

Feeling a little apprehensive over what Penny considers his vibe to be, Craig takes the offered sheet of paper and shoves it inside his pants pocket without reading it. He knows he will check them out because Penny will definitely ask questions the next time they see each other, and it's not like he has other things to do anyways, but he'd rather wait until he's home, in the privacy of his room, to react to the list.

"Are you trying to brainwash me into liking music you like?"

Penny gives him a look that can only mean this is the wildest thing she's ever heard in her entire life. "No offense, Craig, but look at you, and look at me, I don't think we'd ever be able to go to a concert together, like ever."

"No offense?" he repeats, doubting the phrase by the way she says it. "I feel like you're trying to offend me, though."

She simply laughs again, patting his back amicably and motioning to the door, so Craig has no option but to brush it off. They walk outside together, and out of a politeness he never imagined he would actually have, Craig waits until she locks the front door safely and drives off in her red Corolla with a last friendly wave, before starting to make his own way back.

Just as he's unlocking the chain around the bike to free it from the streetlight pole outside the shop though, Craig's eye catches a sudden movement from across the street and curiously looks up.

Outside the door of Tweek Bros. Coffee stands Tweek Tweak, frozen still and looking as pale as a ghost. Craig watches him, intrigued by the way his yellow Converse sneakers seem to be untied and the long sleeves of his brown sweater engulf his hands, which seem to be clutching the straps of his backpack. Tweek stares back at him, unblinking, and Craig doesn't know what to do with the attention, so he just nods his head lightly in acknowledgment. It had escaped him that it's already time for students to be done with school, so Tweek probably ran from class to start his shift at the coffee shop.

After their stupid fight in elementary school, Tweek has never spoken to Craig again for more than a handful of words to ask for a pen in class or small casual stuff like that. Sure, they hadn't really been friends before that, and Craig hadn't really tried to talk to Tweek afterwards either, but he thinks that these facts aren't really good enough to explain the way Tweek seems completely and utterly horrified at seeing Craig as much as nod at him from across the street.

And yes, Craig is also aware that Tweek is kind of an odd person when it comes to social interactions, but he's never reacted this badly to Craig's short hello's whenever they crossed paths on the school hallways. Naturally, this reaction is kind of unexpected.

Frowning in confusion, Craig looks at the way Tweek's shoulders seem to reach his ears and his big eyes widen almost comically before he stumbles backwards into the glass door of the coffee shop and runs inside with the speed of someone who's being chased by an evil maniac with a chainsaw.

"What's his problem?" Craig hears himself ask under his breath.

But then again, it's really no secret that Tweek is the type of guy that behaves in ways that normal people don't seem to fully understand, and well, Craig is not really more than an ordinary guy, and honestly, he also doesn't really give a shit either.

Ultimately, without sparing more than a quizzed glance towards the door the blond had disappeared through, Craig shrugs, giving up on trying to figure him out before even starting. He gets on his bike, and goes home.

Chapter Text

"Don't say I don't do shit for you," Tricia announces walking into his room and unceremoniously throws a stack of papers on Craig's desk.

Craig looks at his sister from his bed and frowns. "Have you heard of knocking, dumbass?"

She flips him off and invites herself to sit on the floor next to Stripe's cage. Craig sighs, stretching over the bed to press pause on the music coming from the bedside table. Tricia seems to become aware of it at that moment, her eyebrows rising up to her hairline and a sneer curling on her lips.

"Is that a fucking CD player?" she cackles.

It is. Since his parents haven't given Craig his phone back, and he's not allowed to use the computer, to listen through Penny's list, he'd had to look in the attic for their mom's ancient player. Imagine his surprise when he'd curiously looked inside the box where she kept her collection of CDs and found three of the seven albums Craig's overly excited boss had written on her list for him to check out. Like, seriously, who would've thought Laura Tucker listened to Red Hot Chili Peppers? Definitely not Craig.

In order to keep his sanity now that he literally has nothing else to do, Craig surrenders to the options available to him. So far, he's finished with Californication, which he decides it's good, but only a few of the songs really catch and stay with him. He has "Hotel California" by Eagles and "Rumours" by Fleetwood Mac lined up next.

"Shut up," he mutters, standing up to go look over at whatever she brought him.

"Things Number One and Two chased me around school all morning trying to give me that for you," she says between kissy noises for Stripe, who squeaks loudly at her attention.

Picking up the papers off the desk, Craig feels a groan come out of his mouth from deep inside his chest as he realizes what they are. Of course Tolkien would send him the homework he's been missing out on. The nerd. It's too much for four days, in Craig's opinion, but teachers don't usually give a fuck about how students feel in terms of the amount of assignments they give out, so it's a wasted thought.

"You should've burned them instead of giving them to me," he mutters, skimming through the papers with disinterest.

Tricia snorts. "Thing Number Two was about to start crying, talking about how much he misses his best bro. I don't know how someone as hot and cool as Bebe puts up with him."

"Bebe isn't cool," Craig snorts, recalling the time he'd seen her drunkenly and openly sob on his unwilling shoulder because Clyde suggested to her that purple isn't her color.

And although he personally doesn't think she's hot either, Craig knows better than to argue against it, since he's aware she meets all the criteria everyone at school holds for someone to qualify as attractive. He knows this because people at school also seem to think Craig himself is hot, which is a ridiculous notion, since he barely puts the minimal effort on his boring exterior.

"And Clyde is?" she asks, finally looking away from Stripe to shoot him a doubtful look over her shoulder.

"Yeah, okay." he admits defeat easily.

The last day Craig had been at school, Clyde'd been moping around all morning, depressed because of his latest breakup with Bebe over some stupid argument they'd had during the weekend. Craig doesn't even remember what the problem had been, because they're the type of couple that breaks up five times a month minimum and no one can really keep up with them, even when Clyde usually never shuts up about it. If Craig had his phone with him right now, he'd definitely be texting Tolkien to bet on them being back together again by Monday morning.

"Can I give her something?" Tricia asks with a pout, ripping Craig away from his thoughts.

He nods towards the small bag of kale he keeps near her cage and Tricia grins brightly, picking a leaf of the vegetable and offering it to Stripe #5 through the metal bars. With a happy squeak, the guinea pig latches onto the food and Tricia happily watches her munch on it, murmuring soft encouraging words Craig can't really hear from his spot across the room.

When Stripe eventually grows uninterested now that she isn't hungry anymore, Tricia whines but gives up trying to catch her attention. Which means Craig has to put up with her fully now.

"Are you gonna look like Chucky forever?" she asks, motioning to his face.

Flipping her off, Craig drops the homework sheets back on his desk and throws himself on his bed again. Tricia stands up from the carpeted floor, brushing imaginary dirt off her light blue pants and sits at the foot of his mattress. Because he's feeling strangely charitable, he holds back from pushing her off, but he still can't help but to unhappily think about her outside clothes touching his bed.

Craig's face is his face, the same as always, except for the three thin red lines that now run down the left side of her cheek. Some parts, mostly the ones at the top, are littered by small burgundy scabs, right where Cartman's disgusting nails had dug more deeply into the skin; Craig has to hold back from picking at them, —he's always been a notorious scab picker.

Last year, when Tolkien had gotten a skateboard for his birthday, Craig took a nasty fall down a wheelchair ramp at the bank since South Park doesn't have a skate park, and one of his knees had gotten skinned right off. Craig had picked at the big scab for days, scratching off tiny flecks of the edges first, before finally just peeling the entire thing right off; now there's only white scar where it had been, left as a souvenir.

He doesn't want the same thing to happen to his face though, so it takes a lot of willpower to keep his hands away from it.

"Cartman's been talking shit about you all week," Tricia tells him, before shifting to look back at him. The look on her face is weird.

This news doesn't surprise Craig in the slightest, mostly because he's known Eric Cartman since kindergarten and he's grown familiar with his tactics. Tricia isn't on the same boat, since she's been completely oblivious of his existence until now, so she looks conflicted by it. She's still just a freshman and even though she would never admit it, Craig knows she feels intimidated by being in high school and the way people act.

"He's always talking shit. I don't care about what that fat ass says about me," he shrugs, but Tricia doesn't look appeased in the slightest.

"I know, but… he's saying shit that—" she argues, face screwed up tightly.

Craig rolls his eyes. "It's fine, twerp. I don't care about what he says, it's just made-up bullshit he comes up with."

Cartman has spread all types of rumors through the years, from Clyde having a habit of violently crying during sex, and Tolkien hooking up with Wendy while she was still with Stan, to Craig doing fucked up shit with Stripe. So, in all honesty, nothing he could be saying now would surprise or bother him.

"It's still wrong," Tricia insists ruefully and Craig snorts, pulling on her ponytail lightly.

Batting his hand away, she shakes her head and huffs like a child that's been denied candy for dessert.

"Are you gonna defend me? Fight him for me?" Craig asks her, just to ruffle her feathers.

"I could! I bet I could kick his sorry ass so hard!" she says, viciously. Craig doesn't doubt her, Tricia packs a mean punch —she's his sister after all; plus, Cartman is the biggest pussy he's ever met. "But I won't, because you're lame and I don't like you, you aren't worth getting in trouble for."

"Ouch," he says blandly.

It's enough to amuse her, and Craig succeeds at distracting her off whatever Cartman's been making up about him to get under her skin like this. Standing up, she throws him the biggest shit eating grin he's ever seen, and points to the paused CD player next to him.

"Anyways, I'll let you get back to your… technology now, I have a very functional and modern phone waiting for me to use it," Tricia mocks from the door.

Craig grabs a pillow and balks a throw towards her, making her snicker loudly and run out of the room to avoid getting hit with an object that never comes. He rolls his eyes amusedly and falls back against the mattress, smirking lightly. He'd rather have to stand her annoying face than her worry, that's just how siblings should be.

Pressing play again on the CD player, Craig lets the pillow fall over his face, blinding him of the stars on the ceiling, and lets himself sink into the starting melody of Hotel California with a sigh.

By the time Sunday night rolls around, Craig has already gone through his homework out of pure boredom, which seems to be concerning to his mother, who keeps walking past his room and looking inside at him with unmistakable worry on her face. He does his best to ignore her, because being watched only makes Craig grow even more irritated towards her than he was before, which says a lot, given that he's still pretty fucking pissed about this whole threatening situation, no matter how hard he tries to play it cool.

To make matters worse, things with his father are even more shitty. Craig isn't sure he's ever been this mad at anyone ever, and every time he has to be in the same room as his dad, the only thing he can think about is bashing his own head against the nearest wall. Craig has never been to therapy, only to a lot of stupid counseling sessions with Mr. Mackey, but even he knows that this can't be a healthy reaction to his father's mere presence. Still, he doesn't know how to help it, because Thomas either doesn't notice his hostility or he doesn't give a shit, and just makes conversation like nothing ever happened, which means Craig's resentment gets so bad he ends up dreading having to eat dinner downstairs.

Sure, it's not like they were the picture of a perfect family before, but Craig doesn't remember it ever being this bad. It really fucking sucks.

Monday morning has Craig waking up in time with no need for anyone to bang on his door and make him hurry up, he wins the bathroom before Tricia, something that he doesn't remember happening since… ever and scarfs down his breakfast in record time. His mom offers to drive him to school, but he chooses to take the bus instead, preferring to endure that social torture over one more extra second in an enclosed space with his family.
He sees the worried glances Tricia and Laura share at the sound of his words and rolls his eyes.

"I'll take the bus, too," Tricia announces hurriedly as he's stepping out of the house.

They walk the two blocks towards the bus stop together in complete silence, Craig mentally debating over if he cares enough about whatever it is that's making his sister act this way or not before finally deciding that he can't be bothered by it. When they reach their destination, Tricia stands still next to him for approximately two seconds before she starts fidgeting, stepping on her tiptoes only to come back down and do it again, rocking back and forth anxiously. Craig cringes at the way her knobbly knees keep knocking against each other when she starts to walk in place.

"You hate the bus," he points out, but doesn't ask.

Tricia shrugs, playing with the straps of her purple backpack. "You hate the bus, too."

Craig sighs, watching as the yellow vehicle approaches the stop. He gives himself a few seconds to reminisce about the week he'd missed out on doing this, being in the real world before moving to get on it.

They climb in together, Tricia slipping inside from under Craig's arm and hurrying down the narrow hall towards her usual seat next to Kenny's little sister. Craig ignores the obvious stares he gets from Bebe and her group of friends with ease and walks calmly towards the empty spot next to Clyde since Tolkien's parents are too rich for public transport and prefer to drive him to school.

Craig does take the time to look at Cartman's face on the way though, refusing to let his eyes flick down or away. There's a fat bruise darkening the expanse of his cheek in deep purple, right under his left eye. The sight still doesn't really mean anything to Craig. He knows that unlike some other kids like Cartman himself, Craig gets no satisfaction from seeing how much damage he inflicts on whoever he fights, since usually he isn't the one who actually wants to throw hands but gets pushed into doing so instead.

Craig makes sure that he doesn't smirk or make any type of face when Cartman's hateful, furious eyes find his; he just blinks back impassively and continues walking, like he can't tell that Cartman's probably plotting at least three different plans to kill Craig and get away with it. Craig knows that Cartman wants a reaction to latch onto and use against him in some way or another, and he's never going to play into the other boy's manipulative hand.

"I told you Cartman's full of shit!"

Craig drops his backpack on the dirty floor of the bus and scoots next to Clyde, who's kneeling on the seat in order to look at Butters sitting alone on the row behind them. Craig sighs, adjusting his chullo and nods at them in greeting.

"Butters believed Cartman when he said that he clawed your eye out," Clyde tells him, and he looks so offended that Craig thinks his outrage is enough to compensate for his own indifference.

Butters sputters, looking genuinely distressed. "I–I'm sorry, Craig. Eric was real convincing about it! He showed us an eye inside a jar and all! He— he swore it was yours."

Craig doesn't give a shit about anything that Cartman has said during his absence, he doesn't even want to know where he even got an eye to put in a jar from. He wouldn't be surprised if Cartman had stolen it from the morgue or some crazy and stupid shit like that.

Craig cranes his neck back to look at the sputtering blond, and shrugs with one shoulder. "Butters, I don't care."

"Bro!" Clyde punches him on the arm, sitting back down on their shared seat. "I thought you for sure died this time. Was your mom really pissed?"

Being friends with Craig since kindergarten means that Clyde has witnessed Laura Tucker's rage more than once through the years. He's never been a victim of it, of course, because unlike Craig, Clyde's actually a good kid, sensitive and polite towards adults, and Craig's mom seems to adore him; especially since Clyde's own mom's passing two years ago.

Clarifying to him that this time, the problem had actually been his dad, feels like wasted breath.

"Yeah," Craig says, thinking about his mom's tired eyes. "They almost sent me to Military School."

Clyde gapes, his hand clutching Craig by the arm and squeezing tightly, as if Craig's gonna teleport to a plane right this second and never come back.

"I'm not going anywhere, dude. Chill." Craig says before Clyde can start genuinely freaking out and peels his friend's hand off his arm.

Clyde frowns, still looking alarmed, and Craig shrugs. "Craig! I don't know what I'm gonna do if you move away!"

"I'm not moving away, Clyde." Craig says, pointedly ignoring the way Clyde's bottom lip is looking a little wobbly. "I just gotta get my shit together."

"But, bro—"

"I've been gone for a week but I'm back and I'm not going to go anywhere," he repeats, tiredly. "Tell me what I missed."

He doesn't really care if anything other than some major fatality that'd grant them absolution of classes has happened while he was gone, but Craig can't handle Clyde's emotions, especially not when his big baby of a friend starts crying, and he knows that Clyde is actually one of the biggest gossips of South Park High, so if there's anything that can possibly distract the boy from his own tears, it's whoever looked up some girl's skirt or some other uninteresting piece of drama he has caught wind of.

It works, obviously, because Craig knows Clyde too well for his own good. It's almost amusing, the way his friend lights up immediately. "Oh, you're not gonna guess what happened on Wednesday…"

Resigned to the boring trip to school, Craig spends the entire bus ride listening to Clyde's over dramatic retelling of Kenny getting caught smoking in the bathroom and then the fight between Stan and Wendy over whatever new shit Wendy's currently obsessed with that Stan doesn't care enough about.

When Clyde asks him whose side Craig's on, he simply shrugs. Even in his total romantic inexperience, Craig thinks that you have to have at least something in common with the other person for it to work. He doesn't say any of this out loud of course, because it'd sound lame as fuck.

"That's why you're single, dude," Clyde says, clapping him in the back sympathetically. As if he isn't currently single as well. Craig shoves him lightly and rolls his eyes.

Just for that, Craig could bring up Bebe, but he knows that it'd defeat the purpose of distracting Clyde from his emotions and he would probably start bawling or jumping on his seat, depending on if they've made up over the weekend or not.

In the end, it's not like his friend's words bother Craig in the least, he can't bring himself to care about romance either anyways.

Something to add to the long list of things Craig hadn't realized he doesn't miss about school, is the noise. For being such a small town in the middle of nowhere Colorado, their school is jammed packed. Sure, the fact that it's the only high school in South Park doesn't help this problem. Just walking through the cramped hallways to get to his locker takes Craig an unnecessarily long amount of time, especially since he lost Clyde, who usually takes advantage of his football player shoulders to open their way through the masses, at the entrance when he stayed behind to probably go somewhere and make out with Bebe.

If Craig hadn't been grounded, he'd have won a bet with Tolkien over this.

"Hey, man. Good to see you're back."

Craig takes his World History book out of the metal compartment and closes it, lamenting over the fact that it should be considered illegal to have such a boring class first thing in the morning. Tolkien straightens from his spot leaning against the wall next to him and grins; his friend's presence doesn't take Craig by surprise, he'd recognize Tolkien's over a hundred dollar sneakers anywhere, especially since no one in town other than him can afford something like that —not even Clyde, and his dad owns a shoe store.

"Thanks, I'm not glad to be back," Craig deadpans, which earns him a friendly punch on the arm.

"I won't take offense to that because I know how much you love to bitch in the morning," he throws an arm around Craig's shoulders and drags him towards the stairs, unapologetically bumping against at least twenty students on the way. "C'mon, Miss Congeniality. I won't let you get in trouble again by being late to class."

Craig rolls his eyes, not surprised by this either. Tolkien's been pouring himself over academic responsibilities since they hit second year of middle school, stressing how he wants to get into Harvard and every single grade in his record matters. Craig thinks it's ridiculous, because Tolkien's parents are stupid rich, and their influence could get their son literally anywhere he wanted to go. And besides, Tolkien is like, genuinely smart, he doesn't struggle with any of their classes unlike Craig.

They squeeze through the gaps of empty space and climb up the stairs, dodging groups of kids that just stand in the middle of the way, huddling over cellphones like brainwashed assholes and couples that somehow don't give a shit about the fact that it's literally eight in the morning at public school and keep making out passionately against the walls. Craig looks at a particular pair of them with distaste, pointedly at the way the guy's hand trails down to the girl's ass in broad fucking daylight. Gross.

"There's like, ten minutes left until the bell rings," sure, Craig doesn't know if this is actually true, because he hates wearing watches and his phone is confiscated in his mom's secret hiding place Craig hasn't found yet; he just wants to be difficult.

"Don't care, didn't ask, plus I promised your mom I'd make you behave," he gives Craig a shit eating grin and squeezes his shoulder before letting go as they get to the second floor.

"You did not," Craig frowns incredulously, but he doesn't brush it off entirely.

His mom would definitely embarrass him if given the chance, Craig could clearly picture her calling Tolkien's house line and asking him for help to keep her little Craig in line. Just thinking about it makes him nauseous.

"Yeah I did, after making sweet, sweet love to her.."

Tolkien cackles loudly, stumbling forward when Craig's hands playfully shove him away, making him accidentally trip into someone who's walking in the opposite direction. Tolkien rights himself, wheezing, and Craig watches as he grabs the other person by the shoulders, helping them stabilize as well.

"Shit, sorry Tweek," Craig hears Tolkien say apologetically, and startles.

Tweek.

Craig stands still, a weird tension sinking in his shoulders rigidly, like strings pulling on a puppet, and he frowns at his own body's reaction. He finds himself instantly looking over Tolkien's shoulder, straight at the blond boy and his hands ball up into fists inside the front pocket of his blue hoodie.

"Agh!— it's fine, no worries," Tweek is reassuring Tolkien with that wobbly, lopsided smile of his, and Craig feels his frown dig deeper into his features.

Huh.

Eyes glued to the other boy, Craig takes notice of his disheveled blond hair, long enough to fall in messy waves over the top of his ears, and the tic that makes his blue eyes blink shut forcefully. Craig remembers that back in the day, Tweek had worn button up shirts that were never done correctly and everyone used to make fun of him for it; now in high school, it seems that he hasn't really abandoned that particular choice of a top by the way he's wearing a forest green long sleeved one, but this time it's completely unbuttoned, showing a dark, plain t-shirt underneath; for some reason, Craig finds this kind of funny.

Like most teenagers their age, Tweek now seems to care about the way he looks, something that would've been extremely hard to believe back in their elementary and middle school days. His baggy, light wash jeans seem old, but they look okay, and— is that a necklace? Craig takes a quick glimpse at it, and yeah, it's a necklace. It looks handmade, too; dark green round beads in continuous rows, interrupted periodically by some sort of gold charm; it reminds Craig of the bracelets Tricia used to make and sell to her little classmates back in third grade, and it's strange, the way Craig's stomach tips sideways at that thought.

Tweek's eyes fall on Craig, who's now lurking behind Tolkien, and then it's even stranger, because Tweek visibly startles, like a cat at a sudden and loud noise. Their eyes meet for half a second, Tweek's blue ones are wide and round, full of what looks like shock, before they blink away like he's been electrocuted. Craig watches curiously at the way the smile he had been directing at Tolkien seconds ago, falls completely from his lips.

"Jesus! I-I… Agh! I gotta go!" he rushes past them in a distressed looking blur.

Craig frowns, a grunt escaping his lips as Tweek's shoulder accidentally, but roughly, bumps against his own as the blond practically runs away, making Craig almost stumble backwards.

"Damn, Craig. Did you piss in the poor guy's coffee or somethin'?" a voice mocks him from behind.

Both Tolkien and Craig whip around in surprise to find an amused looking Kenny McCormick in one of his signature ratty tie dye sweatshirts and ripped jeans. The scowl that twists on Craig's face only makes the smirk on Kenny's mouth widen, showing the gap of the tooth that got knocked out when he fell face first from Clyde's roof at a party last year.

Like Tweek, Kenny's hair is long and messy, but the dirty blond tone of Kenny's mullet is rougher in appearance than Tweek's, even when Craig's sure that the messiness of it is deliberate on Kenny's part.

"Jesus, Kenny! When did you get here?" Tolkien says, still recovering from the blond's sudden appearance.

Kenny shrugs casually, burying his hands inside the front pockets of his jeans. Craig rolls his eyes.

"Fuck off, McCormick."

"I'm just fucking with you, man! Take that stick out of your ass, would ya?"

Craig feels Tolkien's grip on his arm, his friend pulling him back, away from Kenny. Craig huffs and shakes his head, he's not angry, he doesn't think anyone can get genuinely mad at Kenny and his frustratingly annoying but friendly personality.

"Whatever, dude."

Craig lets Tolkien pull him along, turning away from the blond boy in the direction of their classroom. The bell's probably going to ring soon anyways.

Dejectedly, Craig hears Kenny hurry to follow them, and in the blink of an eye he's back in their field of vision, throwing a heavy arm across Craig's shoulder.
His body's first instinct is to shake him off, but Craig resists the impulse, knowing that it will be in vain, and Kenny will cling to any body part of his he can get a hand on; Craig doesn't feel like finding out which one would be his first attempt.

"C'mon guys, don't leave me hangin'!" he gives them a toothy grin. "I just wanted to say hi to little Craig, since we haven't seen much of him these days."

Craig turns his head to the side just to shoot him a glare. "I wonder whose fault is that."

Kenny snorts. "I'm not the one who decided to pick a fight with Cartman."

"What? Are you trying to defend him?" Tolkien asks incredulously, craning his neck forward to look at Kenny at Craig's other side.

"Fuck no, dude," Kenny cackles, like he hasn't been Cartman's friend since they were four years old. "Any punch to Cartman's face is like a blowjob from an angel to me."

Craig grimaces. "You're disgusting."

"If anything," Kenny continues, deliberately ignoring Craig's dig. "I'm here to endorse this behavior."

Yeah, right. Craig rolls his eyes. "You're full of shit, McCormick."

"Do you want him to get expelled?" Tolkien asks accusingly.

"Please, don't be a fucking drama queen Tolkien!" Kenny laughs it off. "Think about it, if Craig keeps rattling Cartman's brain around, maybe something good will come out of that fat ass mouth for once, like a lobotomy."

Tolkien sputters. "Dude, dark."

Kenny is looking at Craig though, closely searching for a reaction, and as hard as he tries, Craig can't fully hold in the amused snort that falls from his lips. Kenny beams.

"Anyways, I think those scratches look kinda sick, like you got into a fight with a lion or some shit."

"Or a feral and obese racoon," Tolkien adds, wheezing out the last syllable because Craig's elbow is suddenly digging into his stomach.

"Tolkien, my man, you're cockblocking me over here," the blond says seriously, or well, as serious as Craig has ever heard him be.

Rolling his eyes again, Craig just lets his shoulder bump against the blond's. Deep down, he has the developing theory that Kenny has secretly vowed to test his patience at every chance he gets. "Eat shit, McCormick."

Tolkien cackles, so hard he has to physically hold onto his middle, like he has a stomachache.

"I love when you play hard to get!" Kenny pretends to swoon.

Craig opens his mouth to retort, but his words get knocked down by the sudden ring of the bell. Tolkien keeps walking next to him but the sound makes Kenny stop dead on his tracks, letting go of Craig's shoulders as he's left behind once more.

"Shit, I promised Kyle I wouldn't skip English anymore," he whines, looking absolutely devastated. "I'll see you guys around."

Tolkien nods at Kenny and resumes the tugging of Craig's sleeve towards their classroom, Craig looks back at the blond, flashing him the middle finger and simply follows his friend, rolling his eyes at the unnecessary precaution; he doesn't need to be dragged anywhere, he's never been one to skip classes like Kenny. Craig thinks it's stupid, if he didn't want to attend lessons he'd simply stay home.

The classroom is already half full when they get inside, Craig has to watch his feet to avoid stepping on some of his classmates' discarded bags as he gets to his usual desk towards the end of the room. Tolkien stays at the front, next to Wendy and Butters, and waves him goodbye.
A few seconds later, Stan is sitting down on the spot to Craig's right with a huff. They both sigh when their teacher, Mr. Wyland, walks in.

And that's how Craig's officially back to the real world.

Classes go, mostly, without a hitch. Craig sits next to Stan in History and watches with mild disgust and amusement as the guy drools on himself when he falls asleep. Then, he partners up with Clyde for their Chemistry Lab, and lastly finds out, to no one's surprise, that most of his Algebra homework is wrong.
Even though he had a mild week-long vacation from school, by lunch time, Craig feels absolutely fucking done with classes.

Dragging his feet to the cafeteria, he ignores the couple of the stares he gets from some of the students on the hallways, probably gossip hungry and surprised that he's back in school and with both eyes on his face. Only someone as stupid as Cartman would make up something as easily disprovable as that. After getting his tray with conspicuous looking food, Craig makes his way to his usual table, where Tolkien and Clyde are already sitting, looking weirdly deep in serious conversation.

"What's up?" he asks them, eyeing them both closely when they immediately shut up.

"Nothing," Clyde says quickly, receiving a dirty look from Tolkien.

Craig frowns, suspicion tickling inside his stomach. "What?"

"Halloween's coming up," Tolkien says, nodding towards Clyde.

"I'm not dressing up," Craig says immediately, still not fully convinced by the change of subject.

Every year for Halloween, Clyde's dad fucks off to who-knows-where for who-knows-what and leaves the house entirely for his son to throw a huge, stupid, costumes party. Every year, Craig says he won't go, because he doesn't care about either costumes or parties, but of course Clyde eventually finds a way to make him show up, even if it's without a costume. This year though, might be a little different.

Clyde pouts. "Cmon, man! You promised we'd be something together this year, remember? The three of us!"

He doesn't remember ever making such a promise. Maybe he was drunk at the time he said that, which makes all promises invalid."I'm not gonna do a lame costume, Clyde."

Tolkien gives him a tired look. "Just hear him out at least."

The unspoken "Or he won't leave us alone about it" part Tolkien keeps to himself is loud in Craig's ears, and he knows this to be true, so he sighs heavily, turning to face Clyde who sits by his side. Just by the look on his friend's face, he already knows it's a terrible idea.

"I was thinking Alvin and th—!"

"No."

Laughing, Tolkien shakes his head at Clyde's incomprehensible whining. Craig ignores his pleads and inspects the cardboard looking pizza with frozen veggies on his paper plate. Clyde clutches his arm and he shakes him off to pick up the slice and give it a testing bite. It doesn't taste as bad as it looks, which doesn't mean it's good, but it isn't inedible either, like most of the cafeteria food.

"Why don't you do some stupid couple's shit with Bebe anyways?" he asks tiredly when Clyde doesn't shut up.

"Because she's doing some secret costume with Wendy and Nicole," he pouts, glancing towards the table in front of theirs where the girls are sitting together and chatting loudly.

Craig follows Clyde's eyes and watches as Bebe laughs loudly at something Red says, the weight of her cackles making her fall against Nicole's side, who seems to be holding back her own laughter. He's never heard Red say anything remotely funny to make anyone laugh like that, but to be fair, he doesn't talk to Red that often anymore either.

"I think you're just mad she said no to you guys dressing up together," Tolkien says before taking a bite out of his probably way too overpriced sandwich.

"You think?" Craig huffs. Clyde sniffs. "I can't go to the party anyways, I'm still in deep shit with my parents."

"Shit, that's right," Tolkien hisses sympathetically. "How long are you grounded for this time?"

Shrugging, Craig stuffs his mouth with the rest of his pizza and looks away, pretending not to see the worried look Clyde and Tolkien share with each other. He's not sure why, but he doesn't want to tell them about the job, or the ultimatum in general, and it feels weird, he doesn't usually keep shit like this from them, but he figures that it's probably just embarrassing. They only know about the Military School threat because it's been there forever, so much so that they usually make fun of Craig for it thinking his parents would never actually go through with it, like Craig used to think.

"They didn't say, I think they're waiting to see me help an old lady across the street or save a cat from a tree to give me my phone back," he mutters, making both of them snort.

Drifting around the room, his eyes catch ahead, towards the table next to the girls' where Craig sees Cartman sitting with his group. Kenny is snickering at something, and Stan is visibly trying not to laugh as well, looking at Kyle's reddening ears. As if he can feel Craig's attention on them, Cartman's eyes find his own, and if looks could kill…

But they can't.

Craig shrugs it off, even if the temptation to flip his fat ass off burns hotly in his stomach.

"Don't worry, bro," Clyde reassures him, clapping him on the back. "We'll figure something out for you to come."

Arguing with Clyde over it is pointless, so he shares an exasperated look with Tolkien and nods. "Sure, whatever."

Kenny calls out for someone, motioning wildly with his hands and catching not only Craig's attention, but his friends' as well. The three of them watch as Cartman says something unintelligible and earns a set of angry looks from the guys at his table. Then, huffing and puffing, he stands and walks away with his pile of empty plates, a scowl deep on his face. It's amusing to see.

"Yo, get over here already, dude!" Kenny says, more loudly this time.

It's not really surprising to see that Tweek is the one being called, given that Kenny is probably friends with everyone on planet Earth, and Craig also knows that Tweek used to hang out with that group a lot when they were younger, he hasn't seen them all together that often recently though. Still, Tweek looks at ease as he approaches their table, probably because Cartman isn't there anymore, and even though his eye twitches are still there, he looks as calm as Craig has ever seen him before.

Absentmindedly, he hears as Clyde and Tolkien go back to their food, Clyde complaining about having to stay after school for football practice and wanting to ditch to go make out with Bebe since her parents won't be home until late; but his attention is still glued to the pair of blondes sitting together a few feet away.

Thinking about earlier on the week, when Tweek had looked terrified at the sight of Craig across the street and then this morning when he'd bumped into Tolkien, Craig can't help but to start thinking that something might be wrong between them. The idea is ridiculous in his mind, because they're not even friends, so can it really be something wrong? Like, there's literally no reason Craig can think of that could justify why Tweek, even now when he catches Craig staring and his features twist into an uneasy frown, keeps reacting to his face like this.

"Dude," Tolkien waves a hand in front of his eyes, effectively distracting him.

"What?" Craig blinks at his friend.

"Don't kill Tweek, man!" Clyde says hastily.

Confused, Craig's eyebrows furrow weakly. "What?"

Tolkien shoots Clyde a look Craig can't decipher. "You were staring at him like you wanted to stab him or something."

Was he? "That's just my face."

"Are you mad at him?"

"Why would I be mad at him?"

"Because of what Cartman—" a bang under the table has Clyde wincing and snapping his mouth shut.

Ah, the fight thing. So Clyde and Tolkien had, in fact, heard that what provoked Craig into punching Cartman had been an insult to Tweek, and now they all probably think Craig's mad at the blond for getting in trouble in his defense.

"I'm not mad at Tweek," Craig says like it's obvious, because to him it is.

The three of them turn simultaneously to look back towards the table where the blond is being half smothered by Kenny's arm around his neck with a wobbly, shy smile on his lips. Craig catches Tweek's eye again, and yes, there it is, the same twisted expression morphing on his face, like he can't decide whether he wants to run out of the room at top speed or make Craig eat his fist.

Tolkien and Clyde quickly throw confused glances back towards Craig, who gives them a one shoulder shrug. "I think he's the one that's mad at me."

When he directs his gaze back across the room though, Tweek's no longer looking at Craig, but staring at the empty lunch tray in front of him, his face a violent red.
Instead, Craig finds Kenny's big eyes blinking innocently back at him, a wide smirk plastered on his face.

Chapter Text

His first afternoon alone at Nebula Records is as unremarkable as Craig had imagined it would be. He spends most of his shift going through Penny's list, starting with "American Idiot" by Green Day, followed by "All Killer No Filler" by Sum 41 and then the infamous "Nevermind" by Nirvana. Craig is pleasantly surprised by the fact that, as skeptical as he had been to Penny's judgment of what she thought he'd like, she'd been pretty much spot on, given that he enjoys all of the albums more than he had expected to.

No one comes around to buy anything either, which Craig is grateful for, because he doesn't really feel like putting on the customer service voice Penny insisted he should practice. He entertains himself by searching through the categories to find music he thinks he might like based on the album he already listened to, and as he's about to put on "The Bends" by Radiohead, the bell above the door chimes, announcing someone's presence.

"What are you doing here?"

"Is this how you greet the customers?" Stan snorts, walking further inside the store. "Penny's really nice but you don't wanna see her angry."

It's hard to imagine Penny even trying to frown, such an expression on her face would probably mean that the world is gonna end or something as catastrophic as that.

"You're the guy that quit," Craig realizes.

Stan Marsh is… painfully complicated. They've known each other since forever, but they're not close by any means. Although Craig doesn't personally dislike him like he does Cartman, Stan has always put him on edge for some reason that Craig can't put his finger on. Probably because Stan seems to be the most normal person in town, but so much so that it's weird. He gets way too drunk at parties, throws up and then keeps drinking like nothing happened, he barely passes his classes thanks to his nerd best friend and is the star quarterback of the football team. The cherry on top, he also has a high school sweetheart that he will probably end up marrying in some cheesy autumn wedding before even finishing college, which he'll go to for something like mechanical engineering.

And still, with all of these facts about him, with everything about Stan Marsh being so stupidly straightforward, Craig can't help but suspect that there's something more, something big about the guy that doesn't meet the eye, some type of secret that Stan is trying to hide. And it makes Craig uneasy, because he seems to be the only one that notices it, and he doesn't want to know.

"Yup," Stan nods, rocking on his feet. "My sister's been friends with Penny since forever, so I've worked here since freshman year."

Shelly Marsh, Craig remembers from the few times he's to his dismay, been in her proximity, is probably the epitome of the Sister From Hell, which in comparison, makes him appreciate Tricia a little more. He can't even begin to imagine how the friendship would look like between someone as nasty as Shelly and the overly cheery, bubbly Penny.

"Thanks for quitting, I guess," Craig says drily.

"You're welcome," Stan snorts, shrugging, his hands hiding inside the front pockets of his dark blue jeans.

He doesn't ask why Stan quit, and Stan doesn't say. Craig prefers it this way, as with many things in life, he considers this fact about his classmate to be categorized in his personally overfilled section under the label of the less I know the better.

Now that he thinks about it though, Craig has certainly noticed that Stan usually wears band tees everywhere he goes, and right now isn't any different. Thanks to this job, Craig now can recognize the cover art of Unknown Pleasures by Joy Division plastered on Stan's chest, which is, in fact, a part of Penny's list of "Albums Craig Tucker Must Listen To Before He Dies" though he hasn't gotten to it yet.

"Are you here to buy something, then?" he can feel himself growing uncomfortable with the conversation lulling, which is exactly why Craig doesn't like being around Stan.

Usually, when he doesn't feel like saying anything, Craig will easily stay quiet, completely unbothered by long stretches of silence, sometimes even finding it amusing to see other people around him fidget because of the uncomfortable silences. Stan is weirdly strong in presence, impossible to ignore, and Craig's attention isn't immune to him.

If anyone were to answer what they think Craig's biggest flaw is, they'd probably name several traits relating to his indifference and aloofness in terms of personality; but if Craig were to answer this particular question himself, he'd without a doubt know that his biggest flaw is actually his brain's capacity to over analyze everything and everyone, even when he doesn't want to do it, which is most of the time.

"Huh?" Stan blinks, and then shrugs again, remembering where he is. "Oh yeah, no, actually I just came to see who Penny hired."

See, there's the thing. Stan says it, and it's a weightless reply, totally understandable, because yeah, sure, it makes sense that Stan is just curious about who's his replacement at his previous job, but Craig doesn't buy it, he can tell that Stan's lying, or at least not telling the whole truth.

It's bizarre, noticing how everyone has been acting… off nowadays. It's almost as if the whole town except for Craig had fallen victim to an alien invasion in the middle of the night and now every person he knows has been replaced by an extraterrestrial doppelganger trying to pass as human beings. First Tweek, then Tricia and his mom, Clyde and Tolkien. Now Stan. What the fuck is actually going on?

"You're weird."

Stan's surprise seems genuine at least, even if it's followed by a bark of laughter that sounds more like a reaction to getting punched in the gut. Craig half-expects him to shrug it off again, or make some type of dig about his own off-putting apathetic self, but Stan just smiles, a little too tightly on the corners.

"I am?" he stares at Craig right in the eye.

It's not aggressive, but somehow, it does feel confrontational, as if he's trying to get Crag to admit he can see through his act or something along those lines.
Tough luck for him though, because Craig won't do it. He can't be bothered to stick his nose in Stan Marsh's business, nor can he really afford it right now. Craig has enough shit going on himself to care about this asshole's life.

"Yeah, you are."

Stan squints, staring back at Craig's bored eyes, and huffs out a breath that is too self-deprecating to be a laugh. Craig doesn't show his surprise, but he is taken aback by this reaction as well, although he's not really sure why.

"You should be more careful," the words could be a threat in the right context, but Stan's tone is light, more like a warning, and he nods towards Craig's face, or well, his scratched cheek more specifically. "Cartman's a resentful piece of shit."

Everyone and their mom knows this, Eric Cartman makes no effort to hide his nature. "Noted."

It will always be a mystery to Craig how Stan, Kenny and especially Kyle can still be around someone as disgustingly awful like Cartman; but it's none of his business, Craig actually thinks it's pretty fucking stupid.

"That's a good one," Stan points to the Radiohead album Craig's still holding. "You should check this one out."

With practiced ease, Stan navigates between the shelves like a fish in the water, Craig watches him from his place behind the register as he digs in between rows of CD cases and pulls one out with the click of his tongue.

"It's one of my favorites," he says, offering it.

Eyeing both the album and Stan closely, Craig takes it. He's never heard of this band, nor has he seen the art of the cover before. It's kind of funny, the way Stan thinks that because something is his personal favorite, Craig's gonna like it. As if in his own perception of the world, he believes they could have something in common.

"I'll listen to it," Craig ends up saying, because even though he thinks he's not going to enjoy it, he knows he's gonna give it a try out of curiosity.

"I guess I'll see you around, then," Stan nods, raking his fingers through his black messy hair in a gesture that tries too hard to be casual.

As usual, Craig can see through it, but chooses to stay oblivious. With slightly narrowed eyes, he nods in goodbye and watches as Stan hesitates for a split second at the door of the store and glances back over his shoulder, as if he's waiting for Craig to say something that never comes before he finally leaves.

Craig watches him disappear through the glass window and sighs. "Weirdo."

"Just come inside," Craig says, exasperated, after the fifth time his mom walks down the hallway just to throw him a concerned glance.

It's strange, to see her act as… meek as she is right now, like she's a totally different person from the stubborn, loud Laura Tucker that raised him his entire life. The one that used to count to three out loud to get Craig to do whatever she wanted him to do.
She's almost unrecognizable as she hesitates for a split second at the doorway and then closes the door behind herself, she slowly approaches the desk where Craig is trying to read his World History book to answer the questions of the latest assignment, her movements are weirdly unsure.

To be fair, he knows he's been avoiding her, rejecting her offers to drive him to school, to make him lunches, to pick him up from the record store. She's probably worried because Craig has never gone this long without talking to her, even if it's just fighting about something.

Sighing, Craig resigns himself to the conversation they're about to inevitably end up having and closes the book. Laura seems pleased to have his attention, and goes to sit on his bed wordlessly. She pats the spot next to her on the mattress invitingly, and even though he doesn't really want to even talk to her, Craig obeys, knowing that resisting will only make things worse.

"I talked to Tricia," she says, and the way she does makes Craig feel like maybe he's supposed to know this means something.

"Okay." he doesn't know what it is.

His bland acknowledgement doesn't seem to bother or discourage her, though. "I know you're mad at us, and I understand, but you have to know that I tried to talk your father—"

"Mom," he knows, he doesn't want to hear it. "I know."

"You know that I can't help you if you don't talk to me," she says hurriedly, her hand grabbing onto his own. Craig frowns.

"I don't wanna talk," he says, because he doesn't, and even if he did want to, Craig isn't sure of what he's supposed to be saying.

"Craig…" she sighs heavily, and suddenly Craig's aware of the way the bags under her eyes are etched deeply into her skin, her dark roots, the natural color Craig inherited from her, are overgrown, peeking through the artificial blonde she dyes it. "You're a good kid, I know you are, and I will always love you, no matter what, okay?"

Her wounded eyes make Craig feel like he's the worst piece of shit to ever grace the Earth, but even if he could, he doesn't know if would take it all back. A stubborn part of himself wants to cling to his anger towards her, because staying angry is something he knows how to do, and it means he doesn't have to face the emotions that come with apologizing. But deep down, Craig knows it's wrong, she's trying to make things better and he's being an asshole on purpose.

Before he can decide on what to say, Laura saves him.

"I know I'm not… the most affectionate of mothers, but you have to know that I will always have your back, I gave birth to you and there's nothing in this world that matters to me more than you and Tricia. I understand you've always been uncomfortable about expressing your emotions, but sometimes that's the only thing that helps," her fingers rub the back of his hand comfortingly, Craig stares at the gold band of her wedding ring to avoid her vulnerable eyes. "I don't expect you to tell me everything that goes through your mind, okay? I just wanted to let you know that whenever you want to talk, I'll always be here, and you can trust me with anything."

It is a nice sentiment, compared to the zero other moments she's been this soft spoken to him, but Craig can't help but feel slightly lost. It's almost as if his mom and him are having two different conversations at the same time, or better said, speaking two different languages to each other. Not that Craig is doing much of the talking; but in his mind her words, even if nice, seem a little too dramatic for the situation.

But then again, Craig is pretty much the most inept person in the world when it comes to understanding what people say and what they want him to say, and Laura's being way too nice for him to cut her off, or ask for an explanation.

"Even if it's to tell you I snort crack or something?" he says, trying to make the air around them easier to breathe.

Unironically, his mother snorts. Her eyes are a little glassy, which is a terrifying sight to Craig. "You snort coke, you smoke crack."

Craig's eyes narrow. "How do you know that?"

Laura laughs lightly, and she shakes her head at her son. Craig inhales. "Don't ask questions you don't wanna know, kid."

His own lips surprise Craig, as he feels them crack into a small, tentative smile. His shoulders feel relieved from the tension he hadn't been aware he'd been holding inside them. Even when he's confused by the conversation, and even when he still feels reluctant to look back at her in the eyes, it's nice to not have to stand her anger anymore, nor her newest kicked puppy expression.

"But, yeah, even if you smoke weed with Kenny McCormick, or if you get blackout drunk with Clyde—"

"That happened one time," he complains. Craig hasn't done tequila shots ever again since then.

The weed thing also happened once, and Craig got caught because he'd stood in the kitchen staring at the fruit bowl on the dinner table with a stupid amount of concentration. Turns out, a couple sprays of Febreze aren't enough to get rid of the smell of weed from his clothes, that or his mom has the sense of smell that'd put police dogs out of their jobs.

"Point stands, okay? You're smart, I know you always pull through, and I trust you to make the right choices," Laura continues, squeezing his hand. "And furthermore, you can trust me, I won't even tell your dad."

"Really?" he asks, a little incredulously and looks back up to her face to see if she's serious.

She seems to be. "Yeah, really," Laura smiles, and her free hand digs inside the pocket of the work jacket she's still wearing. "Here, you can have this back, but don't let him see it, okay? At least not for now."

A little hesitating, Craig takes his cellphone back, cautious in case this is part of one of her weird lessons and takes it back, thankfully, she lets go as soon as he grabs it.

"You'll have to wait until it gets a little colder to get the car back, I'll tell him to give me the keys before it starts snowing because you need it now that you have to go to work."

Speechless at her rare generosity, Craig nods, still eyeing her closely in case he's actually being tested in some type of reverse psychology way. It doesn't seem like it, judging by the way Laura simply smiles and stands up. She lets go of his hand, and surprises him again by brushing away the strands of hair that fall on his face.

"Just remember, whenever you're ready to talk, I'm here."

She kisses the skin of his forehead and more confused than ever, Craig watches leave the room quietly.

The alien-replacing-humans theory he came up with suddenly doesn't seem that bizarre anymore.

With everything being so confusing, Craig totally forgets about the whole Tweek situation until the next time he sees the blond, which is, naturally, the following morning at school.

Not sure exactly how or why, Craig is still aware that, for some reason, he knows Tweek's schedule doesn't really look like his own. More precisely, he knows that they only share Spanish and lunch. Tweek is in social studies oriented classes, like Philosophy, Ethics, Psychology and Geography, while Craig opted for Biology, Chemistry, Physics and World History, which makes no sense, but Craig signed up for it after Tolkien had begged him to. It's actually curious, when he thinks about it, that Tweek and himself don't seem to share the required classes of Math or English Lit, especially since they have last names that start with the same letter. Though he also knows that the school is accommodating of Tweek's needs, and the blond probably asked to be under specifically chosen teachers.

When Craig walks inside the Spanish classroom alongside Clyde, who keeps whining about Craig not texting him as soon as he got his phone back the day before, and he sees Tweek sitting on the middle row, next to a dozing off Kenny, Craig's steps come to a sudden stop.

"... saying, bro! You could've let me know, I needed help with the Math ho—!" Clyde stumbles against his back and makes a sound of protest. "What are you standing in the middle of the way for, man?"

With his eyes glued on Tweek, Craig doesn't even consider his options, and makes his way directly towards him. Tweek isn't paying attention to anything around him it seems, his eyes appear to be closed, and Craig catches a glimpse of the white wires of his earphones sneaking from under the collar of his knitted forest green sweater and button up shirt.

Absentmindedly, he hears as Clyde scrambles behind him to follow, asking what he's doing. Spanish class isn't different from all the other classes Craig takes, which means he usually prefers to sit on the row nearest to the door, and obviously, towards the back.

Twerk must have his music playing loud enough to be completely unaware of his approaching form, because Craig manages to make it all the way across the room to their table without catching either his or Kenny's attention until he's standing right by them. Clyde shoots him a confused look, and Craig nods towards the luckily empty desks behind the blond boys.

"Yo," Craig taps on Kenny's shoulder a little too harshly.

Visibly startled, Kenny opens his eyes suddenly, and then relaxes when he sees it's only Craig. His jerking awake seems to take Tweek by surprise too, and soon enough, Craig finds his eyes meeting the blue irises of Tweek's own for half a second before the blond seems to catch up with the fact that Craig is there, and he immediately turns away with a nonsensical exclamation sound, adjusting the pods inside his ears.

Yeah, those reactions gotta stop, Craig has decided, even if he himself doesn't know why it bothers him so much. His thing has always been not giving a single fuck about what other people think or say about him, so it's kind of out of character to find within himself the uneasy feeling he gets when Tweek looks so repulsed by his presence.

"Hey, Tucker, what's up?" Kenny mumbles, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

He probably worked until late last night and that's why he looks so tired. Craig knows that Kenny prioritizes extra hours at City Wok during some of the holidays, and he can easily guess the blond's probably saving money to buy Karen a costume for Halloween.

"Switch," Craig nods towards the empty seat next to Clyde, behind them.

"How did you know that about me?" Kenny gasps, pretending to be scandalized.

Well yeah, that one is on Craig. He should've thought it over better, but honestly, he'll probably always be outdone by Kenny's innate ability to turn everything he says into some sort of innuendo or sexual joke.

Needless to say, he's not amused by this reply, and his eyes most likely show it clearly, because Kenny smirks, a little cocky, and grabs his backpack from the floor. "Okay fine," he says, raising his hands in fake defeat. "I'll let the lovebirds sit together, I'm sure you have a lot to discuss."

Tweek tells on himself right then, proving he probably had paused the music from playing to listen into their conversation, because he whips around at neck breaking speed, and clutches Kenny's wrist.

"Ah! Where— ngh what are you doing, Kenny?" he questions nervously with widened eyes.

Kenny, clearly amused by this reaction, slowly peels Tweek's fingers off himself and points to a confused looking Clyde behind them with his thumb. "I'm gonna go sit with my best friend Clyde."

"Huh?" Clyde frowns.

"D—don't ngh go! You said you would sit with me today!" Tweek looks distressed, almost enough to make Craig back out, but then Tweek blinks towards him and the look in his eyes makes Craig stand his ground.

"You can sit with Craig, alright?" Kenny says, stepping back from his chair before Tweek can latch onto him again. He looks back at Craig with a knowing look before blinking innocently towards the blond. "I think he's finally ready to confess his undying love for you."

"Ack! What?!"

"Fuck off, McCormick." Craig mutters, something inside his stomach feels like it's burning.

"Relax, Craig, I'm just joking!" Kenny chuckles, clapping him on the back with a little too much force.

Grunting, Craig sits on the newly empty chair and watches as Kenny walks around the table to sit behind them. Clyde's eyebrows are tightly furrowed, and he stares at Craig with loaded eyes he can't even begin to decipher. Something like worry, perhaps, apprehension, or confusion. Craig just shrugs one shoulder and turns just as the door of the classroom opens and Mr. Hernandez, the Spanish teacher walks in.

"Buenos días," the man says, letting his satchel hit the floor next to the desk at the front of his class. He's carrying a Styrofoam cup with the logo of the Tweak's coffee shop.

A chorus of mumbles greet their teacher back with terrible, stunted accents.

Next to him, Tweek seems to be making his best effort at pretending Craig doesn't exist, ripping the earphones out and shoving them inside his messy looking backpack before slapping his Spanish booklet on the table sharply. Craig follows his movements from the corner of his eye, considering him. He doesn't want to make Tweek have a meltdown, he hasn't heard of that happening in a very long time, and he definitely doesn't want to be the cause of one, but he also needs to know why Tweek is acting like Craig has tried to burn his house down with him inside of it.

Thinking about it more, Craig comes to the conclusion that maybe this isn't the best course of action, he could've simply texted Tweek now that he has his phone back, or even better, he could've just left the matter alone. But he's here now, and it's gonna be at least one of the most uncomfortable experiences of his life, but he has to say something or he'll look like a fucking asshole. A bigger one than he already is, at least.

He just has to do the one thing he can't actually do.

For the first time in his seventeen years of life, Craig needs to figure out how to say the right thing.

Letting Tweek ignore him for a while proves to work unexpectedly well, so Craig tries to focus as best as he can on the lesson on Spanish vocabulary Mr. Hernandez is giving and every now and then, sneaks a peek back at Tweek from the corner of his eye.

Patience is a virtue or whatever that proverb says; Craig chooses to wait until he's sure Tweek's hand isn't shaking around the ballpoint pen he's holding with a deathly grip and Mr Hernández has finished talking after assigning them some practice worksheets to do until the bell rings.

"That's not right," Craig points to the word Tweek is writing, making the blond jump slightly in his seat. "It's vendrán a la fiesta, future, the party hasn't happened yet."

For a handful of seconds, Tweek seems to completely freeze over, and Craig kicks himself mentally for thinking that the best thing to say to someone who seems to want to murder you is to correct them when they're wrong. But then, Tweek crosses the incorrect answer out and without a single word, writes down the right word. He doesn't acknowledge Craig, and still, Craig sees it as a victory. A small, minimal victory, but a victory nonetheless. As long as Tweek doesn't freak out, every reaction is a good reaction.

"Tweek," he mutters, quietly enough to not be heard by the hushed voices of their other classmates. Tweek doesn't turn around this time either, and Craig hesitates again. "Are you, like, mad at me or something?"

Jesus Christ, why does he have to be so painfully awkward? Craig almost literally winces at his own choice of words, hearing himself back and realizing that he sounds like a child after doing something bad, knowing he's about to get in trouble with his parents.

The only response he gets, is the sight of Tweek's jaw tightening and his eyes doing the tick thing they do where they screw shut sporadically.

"Look, if you're angry about—" Craig breathes shortly and clears his throat, the words feel too big for his mouth. "If you're angry about what happened with Cartman the other day—"

"Shut—!" Tweek snaps loudly, seemingly having enough.

His voice makes a couple heads in front of them turn around curiously, and his pale, freckled cheeks turn bright red. Craig bites the inside of his cheek, embarrassment hot inside his veins. Snapping his mouth shut, Tweek breathes loudly through his nose and waits until everyone is back to their business before visibly calming himself down. Craig feels the apprehension build tightly in his stomach, already imagining the many ways Tweek will most likely lose his shit because of him.

"Shut up! Ngh… I don't care, okay? Just leave me— ack! Leave me alone!" the blond spits through gritted teeth, much quieter this time.

It's probably for the best to obey his words and back off, Craig knows that there's really no point to the conversation when his life is not even affected in the slightest by having Tweek be angry at him. So why is his mouth moving on its own? "Calm down, dude, I just wanted—"

"Listen," Tweek cuts him off again, his flaming blue eyes make Craig swallow loudly in his throat. "I don't know what you're doing, and I—I don't care. I just know that I don't need you fighting people for m—me. Jesus! You're weird and— and we're not even friends! S—so just… stay away from me!"

Frowning, Craig does physically flinch this time. Tweek's venomous words feel as sharp as the blade of a knife and dig right between his ribs. For a few seconds, all he can do is gape, speechless.

"What's your problem, man? I'm just trying to apologize!" his own voice sounds weird inside his ears, but Craig can't tell exactly what's off.

"I don't. Have a fucking problem," his wavy blond hair bounces as he shakes his head, his hands frantically pull his backpack to his lap and he starts packing up his things. "I just want to be left alone, and you are ngh— not helping with that."

At a loss for words, Craig feels a strange wave of something nasty rise inside, and he cringes when the sound of the metal legs of Tweek's chair drag across the floor as the blond stands up abruptly.

"I didn't even—" the words spill out of his mouth even when he doesn't really know what he's about to say.

I didn't even talk to you before. I didn't even know what I was doing when I punched Cartman. I didn't even mean anything by it.

Tweek, already noticeably too fed up with his shit, shoots him one of the nastiest glares Craig's ever seen and quickly stomps out of the classroom in a blur of yellow and green. Mr. Hernandez doesn't even look up from the papers he's been grading the whole time, probably used to having the paranoid blond do as he pleases during his classes, or better said, probably grateful that Tweek isn't making a scene right there.

"Gee, what was that about?" Clyde asks loudly enough for Craig to hear.

His eyes still glued to the door, Craig just breathes out air he hadn't realized he had been holding.

Kenny lets out a dramatic but sympathetic hiss and claps him on the back again. "Problems in paradise, my friend."

Craig feels his ears heating up under the blue flaps of his chullo, and he shakes the dirty blond's hand off his shoulder roughly. The angry voice inside his head tells him to get up and look for Tweek, but he pushes it down as quickly as he hears it. What will he even do? Ask for a rematch of their fight back from third grade and land himself in Military School for real this time? It's not worth it. Craig is not about to get into shit again, not for Tweek, or anyone.

If the blond wants Craig out of his sight, he will listen this time, and gladly do so. He should've never even punched Cartman in the first place, furthermore he should've laughed at the insult he'd thrown to the blond, even if the memory of the cruel words, "faggot spaz" still only make Craig want to knock Cartman's teeth out.

Who the fuck does Tweek even think he is? Calling Craig weird? Has he not seen himself?

Whatever. Tweek can go fuck himself for all he cares. In the end, it's easier this way. Craig doesn't give a shit.

Chapter Text

There are many, many points in Craig's extensive list of things he absolutely despises about their small town of South Park, but if he has to pick the one that always takes the cake, it'd without a doubt be how nosy people are. The speed in which gossip seems to travel with, especially around their school, is usually kind of impressive to Craig.

That is, of course, until the rumors are about him.

By the time lunch rolls around, Craig has gotten several obvious stares from people in the hallways, which isn't really something new considering his track record in terms of behavioral issues, but this time, he can actually hear other students whispering about him, gushing over how Craig Tucker made the twitchy kid freak out of class.

Which, yeah, in all fairness, it is technically the truth. But why do people even care?

His hand subconsciously adjusts the chullo over his head, but Craig refuses to shy away from the attention. Just because he fucking hates being under the spotlight doesn't mean that he will cower under the pressure. Craig never cowers under anything.

"Yeah, I heard that they got into a fight—" some freshman girl is saying hushedly to her friend as he walks by.

Blinking back at them, Craig keeps his face straight and breathes when they quickly snap their mouths shut as they notice he caught them. He knows that they're gonna pick the conversation right up once he's out of earshot, but Craig doesn't really care about that; he just doesn't want to hear it.

His locker is thankfully close to the classroom he'd had Algebra in, so it's not a long trip to drop his books off to head back to the cafeteria. Craig gladly distracts himself by dialing the combination of the lock, which is, by pure coincidence, the same digits as the date in which Laika the dog was sent to space. Although he honestly doesn't really like thinking about that particular fact, his brain had instantly made the connection when he'd gotten assigned the locker.

He hears the approaching footsteps before actually hearing their words. "Do you really think that they're, you know…?"

With the metal door opened and covering his face and some of his torso from the passersby, Craig finds himself holding his breath, ears strained to catch the quiet words. Looking down to the tiles of the corridors, he catches a glimpse across the hallway, a pair of high heeled boots he knows too well, along with red Converse sneakers, walking side by side.

"What are you even talking about, babe?" Clyde asks, his voice sounds strained. He's lying, his voice gets stupidly high-pitched when he tries to play dumb.

Bebe sighs heavily, "You know what! Is Tweek—?"

Clyde quickly cuts her off, uncharacteristically serious. "Since when do you listen to Cartman's—?"

"Look who it is, you guys!"

As if summoned, the sound of Cartman's jarring, stupid voice coming from behind where Craig is standing shatters his concentration on trying to eavesdrop. On instinct, his fists draw tightly on themselves and Craig takes a deep breath to try and gather his quickly running out patience. He already is having a shitty day, he definitely doesn't need Eric Fucking Cartman in the picture.

The rational voice in his head tells him to ignore it, pretend he hasn't heard it, and just close his locker and walk away, but apparently, Craig has listened to that particular side today, and he's still pretty fucking pissed at Tweek, so he's turning around to face the approaching boys with a natural scowl on his face.

"It's your dear friend Craig, Stan!" Cartman sneers, elbowing a grim looking Stan Marsh.

What the fuck is he talking about? Is the first thing that comes to Craig's mind. Searching for clarity, though with not much hope given that this is Cartman talking, Craig glances back at Stan, who avoids his eyes like his life is depending on it.

"I'm not friends with anyone that can stand having your fat ass around," Craig drawls, closing the door to his locker.

The bruises on Cartman's face are quickly fading to an ugly yellow tone, and Craig remembers how satisfying it had felt at the moment, to dig his knuckles on that smug fucking face. He watches, feet glued on their spot, as the bigger boy approaches, refusing to back away when Cartman stands too close for comfort. Craig just squares his shoulders and blinks down at the small difference in height between them.

It is a dangerous game, not because of Cartman, but because of himself and the consequences that would await him if Craig loses his temper. But, he also doesn't want anyone running their mouths on how he's doubling down on his stance.

"Ouch, Fucker, that hurt," Cartman smiles sharply, the irritation flares at the pit of his stomach, so Craig buries his hands inside the pockets of his hoodie. "You don't wanna be friends? I thought you liked guys— I mean, being friends with guys."

The implication doesn't go unnoticed, Craig's eyelid twitches, but he holds himself tight in place, ignoring the urge to bite Cartman's face off and spit it out. "You're a piece of shit."

"Hey, I'm just trying to have a nice conversation with you, man! Why are you in such a bad mood?" his gaze visibly sharpens. "Did your freak of a boyfriend break up with you?"

On his bedroom ceiling there are fifty three big plastic stars, and then around them, there are thirty six of the little ones. In total, they're eighty nine. Arranged as the Big and the Little Dipper, Polaris is stuck right above his bed, so that when Craig wakes up disoriented, he can find the path forward. Cartman's breath is sour against his face, but Craig doesn't budge.

His nails dig into the meat of his palms instead, his eyes narrow. "Kill yourself, fatass."

Cartman snickers. "You're being too mean to someone that knows what you're hiding."

I'm not hiding anything, Craig doesn't say, of course, because he won't indulge someone like him.

"Okay." Craig shrugs, more naturally than he feels.

"You're so chill, Craig. You think you're untouchable, don't you?" Cartman's eyes stare deep inside Craig's and he looks way too smug, like he's begging for a fist on the mouth. "But I know everything about you."

"Sure," Craig muses, as monotone as ever.

"That's cool, Craig, you can pretend to keep it together all you want," his voice drops to a whisper, and his eyes are vicious. "But just so that it's clear, I know what you are, and what you want, you fucking fag."

The blood inside his veins runs cold, the air squeezes his lungs in a tight grip. "What the fuck did you just call me?" the words burst from his lips before he can think of it better. Or think at all.

Craig eyes flicker over the shorter guy's shoulder and catches a glimpse of a hovering Stan, who has most likely heard, and is looking like he has just seen a ghost. Or a group of them.

"Say it again," he spits, freeing his hands.

Cartman's loud cackling is suddenly too loud in Craig's ears, his ugly twisted face too close to his own. There's a high pitched ringing as well, almost deafening. It's almost too dramatic to admit, but Craig swears he can hear the last thread of his temper snapping.

"Woah, Craig, don't."

At some point, Clyde must have noticed the unfolding scene, because he's suddenly there, catching Craig's arm in the air, which has aimed for the collar of Cartman's shirt without him even noticing. Stan says something Craig doesn't quite hear over his own breathing, but it manages to catch his friend's attention, because Cartman turns to him.

"What, Stan? You're gonna defend—?"

"C'mon, dude. You're not gonna get sent to the Military for this, you're better than him." Clyde, bless his soul and his football player strength, pulls Craig back a few paces.

He can barely hear the words over the ringing in his ears, but Craig fights it down as hard as he can, though the sneer he sees on Cartman's face doesn't do anything but fuel the fire in his gut. His teeth grind painfully.

"I'm not letting you fuck this up, dude, don't do it." Clyde sounds borderline desperate.

"What the hell is going on?!" Wendy shows up next to Bebe, they both go straight to Cartman and Stan though, so Craig takes the time to breathe.

"Craig, look at me, bro," hands are on his cheeks. "If you punch Cartman, you'll get in trouble again, and your parents are gonna send you away. He's not worth it."

Unable to pay attention to the other conversation, Craig thinks he hears Stan making up some bullshit, and Cartman claiming innocence, but with Clyde's face hovering worriedly and way too close, Craig can only focus on his friend's almond colored gaze and shake his head.

Clyde is right. Craig isn't gonna lose everything over someone as full of shit like Cartman. He shouldn't let bullshit lies like this get under his skin like this, it is exactly what Cartman wants.

"I'm fine, I won't," he reassures Clyde, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to dissipate the tension inside of them.

It's not enough, it seems, because his friend is still eyeing him closely, looking extremely anxious. So Craig takes a deep breath and forces his fists to uncurl and his hands out of his pocket. His face almost aches, like he can't take control over it, so Craig concentrates on relaxing his features even though he hadn't even realized he'd been scowling so hard in the first place.

"Chill, dude. I'm cool," his tone is way less tight than before.

It takes a few more concerned seconds of Clyde scanning his now back to blank face before he nods and then, before he can do anything to stop it, Craig finds himself being suffocated by the other boy's perfume, grip, and letterman jacket. Arms flailing a bit at his sides, Craig huffs in exasperation, pointedly not returning the bear hug. He knows that promoting Clyde's touchiness only leads to disaster and more than a few daily unwanted embraces like this one.

Peeking over his friend's shoulder, Craig notices that Cartman is nowhere to be seen, which is a huge relief, and Stan is murmuring things to Wendy, who looks pissed as hell. But, then again, Wendy usually looks pissed as hell, so this isn't really surprising to Craig.

"Jesus, Clyde. Let go, the guy's turning blue." Bebe snorts, standing right next to them.

How Craig hadn't noticed her is a mystery he has no energy to solve.

Gulping a mouthful of air, Craig sags as he's free from Clyde's grip as quickly as he had been grabbed in the first place, and at least this time, his friend seems to be somewhat ashamed by his emotional assault.

"Sorry, man! You really scared me!" Clyde looks genuinely relieved. "I can't let you get into shit again and you looked like you were ready to beat the living shit out of him."

It is kinda nice, to see that his friend has his back like this, and the thought is equal parts horrifying and comforting, considering how awful this day has been already, so Craig takes it in fully, as strange as it is for him. He knows fully well that, if Clyde hadn't intervened at that very moment, he'd have bashed Cartman's head into the lockers hard enough to give him a face tattoo of the metal indentations, and as awesome as that would've been, Craig would've also ended up at the Principal's office again, this time for sure with a suspension that not even his mom in her merciful state would save him from.

"Clyde, uh…" mumbling like an idiot, Craig shakes his head, fed up with himself and everything in his stupid goddamn life. "Thanks, I guess."

The look on Clyde's face is a mix of surprise, worry and exhilaration, it'd have been funny if Craig hadn't been feeling so fucking awkward. He can't fight the wince that curls his face when Clyde's mouth parts into a huge grin, and— Oh my God, are his eyes teary?!

"No problem, man. You're my best friend, I've got your back," he chuckles wetly, and seems to think too much on what to do next before clapping Craig's back amicably.

"Oh my God, you guys are ridiculous," Bebe steps in, rolling her eyes, but she's smiling. "Let's go eat, please. I'm literally starving."

Hunger is the last thing in his mind right now, but Craig has no other choice but to follow the couple down the hallway to the already full cafeteria. His body moves on instinct, used to the routine, but his mind is still caught on Cartman's words. His lunch tray lands on the table and Craig sits next to a confused Tolkien, who's already almost done with his food, and Craig knows that soon, Clyde and Bebe will be filling him in on the situation, while Craig will make no effort to add anything to it.

The mashed potatoes on his paper plate look terribly pale and lumpy, the plastic fork in his hand swirls into the pile absentmindedly, just for the sake of moving. Craig thinks about the day that he'd blindly jumped in to defend Tweek, he thinks about how he still gets angry as he remembers what Cartman had said about the other boy.

Now that he's the one targeted, Craig is very much aware of how mad he'd felt at the sound of them in the moment; but as the minutes pass and his food cools, his stomach twists with the realization that for some reason, he can't find it in himself to feel that same rage anymore. Nor any at all.

What Craig feels instead, the freezing cold dread that sinks into his chest, is ten times worse.

That afternoon, after he says a curt goodbye to a confused Penny and stays behind in charge of the store, Craig chooses to play something loud and angry, in hopes that maybe, like he's seen in the movies, the music will inspire some type of catharsis inside himself that will keep him from smashing his own head against the counter.

It's kind of embarrassing that he doesn't really know what album to choose, so he goes off by judging the covers in the Nu Metal/Metal section. Craig chooses a random one, wondering what the "Nu" in the category name means, and he hits the shuffle button so that he doesn't have to think too much about song titles. The girl's eyes on the case, stare back at him until he grows uncomfortable, so he turns it face down and presses play.

The loud guitars and drums are misleading in a way, because Craig has immediately prepared himself to hear a rough voice, screaming into the microphone. But to his surprise, the vocalist has an unexpected smooth tone that only goes raspy for effect.

This town don't feel mine,
I'm fast to get away, far
I've dressed you in her clothes
So drive me, far
Away
Away
Away

Letting his forehead rest on the counter, Craig tries to focus entirely on the music, to keep his mind off his fucked up life. It works in a way, because he finds that he likes the song, but it's not as satisfying as the actors in movies make it seem, which is kind of disappointing. He wonders if there's people that actually experience music like that, so deeply and entrancing, like Craig finds space. Probably Penny does, and Stan, but he doesn't want to think about Stan right now. Or ever. But especially not right now.

Deftones, he makes a mental note to himself, is a band he should check out further, if their songs sound as good as this one, then this will be the first band he's discovered all by himself and genuinely enjoyed.

It is definitely loud, but not as extreme as other stuff he's heard Tricia listen to at times through their shared wall, and the only bad thing about it is that Craig doesn't hear the bell chime as the door of the store opens with a newcomer. In fact, he's distracted enough to miss the other person's presence until he feels a finger poking him on the shoulder.

Jumping on the seat, Craig's eyes snap open with a heartbeat inside his throat, only to find none other than Kenny McCormick standing on the other side of the counter with a toothy, smug grin.

"That's payback for this morning," he gloats, loudly in order to be heard over the music. "Now we're even."

Craig rolls his eyes and makes quick work on turning the volume down. "What are you doing here?" he asks, more roughly than he'd planned to.

Even though Kenny has mostly nothing to do with everything that's been going on, Craig finds that his frustration only increases at the sight of the blond. He's already in a terrible mood as it is, and he has no energy to deal with any more of this shit today.

"Wow, hello, my dear friend Kenny, it's so nice to see you! How have you been? Oh, thanks for asking, Craig. I'm doing okay, how are you?" Kenny chirps annoyingly.

"I'm not in the mood right now." he deadpans.

"Dude, you never are," the blond remarks clearly unbothered, and perches his arm on the wooden counter casually. "Stan told me you work here."

"Why do you talk about me with Stan?" the idea of anyone mentioning Craig in conversation is unsettling, and the fact that it's Stan Marsh of all people, only makes it worse.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're grossly full of yourself?" Kenny snorts, tilting his head like a dog.

"You're the first person to do so actually. So, thanks," he's pretty sure his mom has said it more than once over the years, but no one needs to know that. "I'll add it to the list of shit people have been saying about me these days."

Kenny seems amused before his face falls slightly, it's almost unnoticeable, but Craig has a sharp eye for this type of shit. "Since when do you care about the shit people say?" he asks, slightly weary.

Question of the fucking century.

It's no use to avoid it anymore. "Since they've been calling me a fag."

And yeah, there it is, out on the air, and as abruptly as it could've naturally come out of his mouth. It almost surprises him that his voice doesn't choke around the words, but Craig considers it a win. Even if it makes him feel like his internal organs drop to his ass.

In all honesty, Craig would've never imagined he'd ever be talking about this with anyone, let alone Kenny fucking McCormick, but at the same time, he realizes this to be a stupid notion to have. It doesn't even matter who hears him say these things, because at the end of the day, they're not the truth, so who fucking cares? It's easier to talk to Kenny than Clyde and Tolkien, who have been looking at Craig like he's a ticking bomb all this time and were probably terrified of him asking if he'd heard the rumors.

To his credit, Kenny doesn't pretend to be shocked by it, Craig's aware that he obviously knows, since he's friends with Cartman and all, and honestly, he'd have been mad if Kenny had tried to play dumb about it. The blond does seem upset though, as upset as Craig has ever seen him; although he's not really sure if it's because of the crude wording of his reply or for the actual fact that people have been spreading this particular rumor about him around school.

They let the music fill the deafening silence for a short while, Kenny's searching eyes never leaving the expanse of Craig's face. The attention is almost too much, but at this point, Craig is already too tired to fight anything, so he sits back on the chair with a heavy sigh and waits it out.

"Well, are you?" Kenny asks, finally. His eyes are hard. "Are you gay?"

"No." he isn't. It's not even a question he's ever had to ask himself.

"Then why does it matter so much?" Kenny shrugs.

Why does it? Has Kenny hit his head and become suddenly amnesiac? Has he really forgotten that they live in a hick town full of fucked up rednecks who hate literally anyone that doesn't fit with their stupidly white american bullshit?

"Are you serious?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

"Does it look like I'm joking?" the blond retorts, clearly on edge.

"Uh, I don't know, Kenny, maybe because we live in fucktown Colorado with a bunch of hillbillies who think gay people should fucking die?" Craig snaps, and Kenny looks startled by the unexpected outburst. "Maybe because my dad is probably the biggest one of them."

Woah. What?

What?

Where did that even come from?

Craig hadn't even considered his father's response up until now, but somehow it feels like he's always subconsciously known. He's shocked by his own self, and judging by the way Kenny has straightened up and gone slightly green in the face, the blond seems to be having the same reaction.

"Jesus," he groans, rubbing his face with both hands, scratching one of the small scabs off his cheek in the process.

Maybe Tweek is right and Craig is actually fucking weird. It'd take one to know one, right?

The stretch of silence that falls heavily over their heads is even worse than the one before, and this time, Craig is the one studying Kenny's face. The blond is clearly debating on what to say, his expression going from nauseous, to dead serious and then to visibly cringing over something Craig is oblivious to.

"I think my dad is the biggest one in town, actually," Kenny says in the end, smiling bitterly. His self-deprecation is sympathy worthy. "Don't take the title from him, it's literally all he has."

Taking this as Kenny reaching his seriousness quota for the day, Craig indulges him by huffing out air that tries to be a laugh. The blond's shoulders drop and he goes back to leaning on the piece of furniture between them.

"What's so bad about liking dick anyways?" he asks airily, seeming very contemplative of the fluorescent lights above. "People act like it's a big fucking crime."

Craig snorts, peering back at him. "Do you like dick?"

Kenny eyes him, smirking and familiar. "You'll have to buy me dinner first."

"You're not as easy as they say then."

"We literally just agreed that the shit people at school like to spread around is bullshit," the blond chuckles. "But, like I said, it really doesn't matter, Craig. You shouldn't listen to whatever shit Cartman says about you, otherwise you'll be doing exactly what he wants."

"Easier said than done," Craig mutters, feeling strangely resigned.

"Believe me, I know," Kenny sighs and there's something there that's probably none of Craig's business. "But, if there's no truth behind it, then it will die down, people will realize it's all bullshit and they'll move past it, then before you realize, they'll completely forget about it. Like the time everyone believed that I died in elementary school, when I came back to school, things went back to normal instantly."

Feeling slightly skeptical about that specific comparison with his current predicament, Craig hesitates before nodding, because logically, Kenny's words do make sense.

"Don't worry about your dad, man! It's not like he's father of the year, right? He's not gonna hear about what kids are saying at school."

"Yeah, you're right." and he is, which is kind of surprising.

"Yeah, I usually am, people just don't take me seriously."

"I wonder why— Ah! You motherfucker!" Craig rubs his injured arm, scowling at a victorious looking Kenny.

"Don't be mean to me when I'm being good, you bitch," the blond laughs.

"You're full of shit, McCormick." something tells Craig that Kenny wouldn't appreciate his gratefulness like Clyde had.

"It's okay, I know you secretly love me, Craig. I know you dream about us being best friends forever and exchanging bracelets and shit."

"I think you should stop smoking so much weed before it completely fries up your brain," it's really no secret that Kenny's money comes primarily from selling weed his brother Kevin gets from who–knows–where, and that he covers it up by being a server at City Wok. Craig can easily guess that with his personality, the blond gets a lot of good tips.

"And deal with this fucked up town completely sober?" he scoffs as if Craig has just said he should believe the Earth is flat. "I don't think so. Honestly, I don't know how you goody two–shoes can stand to live here just like that."

They both know that Craig has smoked before, a couple of times, since they were together. But it hadn't taken long for him to lose complete interest in weed and its effects. It didn't make Craig as relaxed as everyone else seemed, in fact, it only put him further on edge.

Honestly, he doesn't know how he stands to live in South Park either, even when his motto has always seen to stay out of people's shit that doesn't concern him, somehow Craig keeps finding himself in shitty fucking situations. He shrugs helplessly in response, and watches as Kenny looks around the store curiously. He's probably been here a bunch of times to see Stan, but by the way he hesitantly moves between the shelves, Craig is sure the blond hasn't really bought anything before.

"Did you come to check on me?"

"You really are full of yourself, dude!"

"Are you gonna buy something then?"

His chest puffs up inside his orange, pink and light blue tie dye hoodie with pride. "Actually, yeah, I am."

Amusedly, Craig watches as he scans the rows of Indie Rock vinyls with deep interest. Not a lot of people own record players anymore, so if it's for him, then Craig will be surprised. He doesn't remember seeing one at his house the few times he's been there.

Kenny hands him the sealed case and Craig eyes it curiously. It's a recent album, which takes him by surprise, because for some reason Craig had been convinced that vinyls were only for older music.

"Is it good?" he asks, scanning the barcode behind it.

"Pretty fucking good, you should check it out."

"I'll give it a listen," Craig nods, bagging the item in the larger bags with Nebula Record's logo printed on the front. "Here."

"How much is it?" Kenny asks, digging inside the back pocket of his ripped light washed jeans.

Craig has to pay him back somehow, for the conversation, and he knows how.

"Congratulations, you're our hundredth customer, the purchase is completely free of charge." he drawls, with practiced nonchalance.

Kenny's eyes narrow, and he shakes his head stubbornly. "C'mon man, I have the money, I'll pay for it."

"Sir, please accept your prize, you're holding up the line." Penny's right, his customer service sucks really bad.

"I'm the only person here!"

"Kenny just take the fucking thing." Craig grounds tightly. "Please."

The blond studies him shortly before sighing, defeated, and grabs the bag presented. "You're a fucking dick."

Craig shrugs. "I'm never doing anything nice for you again."

"Yeah, you better not." he smiles, and takes out his phone.

"Don't come back!" Craig tells him as the blond walks towards the door.

Kenny dials something on his phone and brings it to his ear, clearly calling someone.

"I will!" he says to Craig, before opening the door. His next words are for the phone's receiver. "Hey! Are you still on your break?"

Craig watches him stand on the sidewalk for a few seconds, chuckling to something he's hearing through the device. He lets curiosity take the best of him, and follows with his eyes, walking closer to the window to see better, as Kenny hangs up shortly after and hurries across the street, dodging the incoming traffic effortlessly.

His mouth falls slightly open at the sight, although he's not sure if it's just surprise or indignation. Incredulously, Craig watches as a ruffled looking Tweek, in his coffee stained apron, comes out of his family's coffee shop and greets Kenny with a short hug. They seem to exchange a couple of words, before Kenny does the unthinkable, and hands the bag with the vinyl to Tweek, who in exchange, looks as shocked as Craig is currently feeling.

What the fuck?

Chapter Text

“I'm not allowed to have feelings
Feelings would complicate things
I'm a stupid stuttering asshole
And there's no dignity to my anger.”
—I Want You to Know that I'm Awake/i Hope That You're Asleep, Car Seat Headrest.

It’s almost comical, but not in the funny way, that Craig managed to spend the majority of his high school career with his path fully clear of the person that is Tweek Tweak, but now that he actively wants to fulfill his wishes, Craig suddenly can’t keep away from him.

Logically, Craig knows that this isn’t exactly true, because he has bumped and seen Tweek around the school multiple times, and he shares a whole class with him, but before their confrontation, Craig had never paid attention to Tweek’s presence at all, and dismissed the blond as another face in the sea of students that crowd the school spaces.

Now, Tweek’s messy blond curls stick out the crowds like a neon sign that begs for Craig to direct his eyes at.

He spots Tweek walking down the hallway early in the morning, frantically reading a sheet of paper filled with messy writing, like he’s desperately trying to memorize the words, with a worried looking Butters trailing next to him. Craig hadn’t even known that Butters and Tweek are friends. It’s an amusing combination.

“Hey man, you good?” Tolkien’s hand drops on his shoulder, and Craig jumps slightly, startled.
He’s been staring at the now empty space he’d seen Tweek pass through like a dumbass.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Craig blinks, shaking his head slightly to clear it.

Tolkien gives him a funny look, like he knows what he’d been looking at, but thankfully, doesn’t say anything about it. Craig feels himself exhale. The last thing he wants right now is a heart to heart with him.

Instead, his friend nods towards the emptying hallways, urging Craig to walk together towards their classroom. Wordlessly, Craig follows, pushing the image of Tweek’s angry face out of his mind. It’s weird, and he doesn’t understand it, but just as it had happened with Cartman, Craig can’t really delve back on his initial anger towards Tweek. Now, when he catches sight of the blond, Craig only feels a disoriented kind of emptiness inside his chest. It’s a different type of unease he hasn’t felt ever before, and it unsettles him.

It also makes him incredibly curious at the same time. Which, as Craig knows, is never good.

“Where’s Clyde, anyways?” Tolkien asks, though Craig’s sure he already knows the answer.

Unlike many others he knows, Tolkien is actually one of the only other people Craig’s ever met that doesn’t mind staying quiet beside him. Craig likes this about him the most, but apparently, the rumors of him running around the school seem to be the limit to this particular trait his friend possesses.

“Probably making out with Bebe under the bleachers.”

Tolkien hums, making a face. “I was gonna ask if you guys wanna come over to mine after practice? We can play COD or something.”

Groaning loudly, Craig rubs his eyes tiredly at the reminder that he has to not only suffer through the whole day of classes but also baseball practice and then go to work. His sleep schedule has been in decline these days, and he finds himself waking up every couple of hours in the middle of the night, haunted by something he can’t quite place.

Before remembering that he hasn’t told his friends about his new employment situation, Craig almost lets it slip out of his mind, but he catches himself in time. It kind of makes him feel bad that he’s keeping it a secret for literally no reason, but Craig really doesn’t want to talk about it.

“I wish I could. I’m still grounded, though.” he sighs, which technically, isn’t really a lie.

His mom would probably not mind, if Craig said they would do some project or school related shit, and he could be home before his dad got off work, but he can’t really miss work.

“Aw, man!” Tolkien groans, and Craig snorts. “This fucking sucks, dude. But you’re still staying for practice, right?”

It’s comforting, that even if he seems to be afraid to bring it up, Tolkien doesn’t let the rumors come in between their friendship. It’s not like Craig is dying to talk about it either, so even though it does kind of bother him that his friends are being so secretive about it, Craig would rather let it stay this way and pretend nothing is going on.

“Unfortunately.”

They get to Biology together, and instead of going to sit next to Wendy, who nods tightly to Craig in greeting, at the front of the classroom, Tolkien follows him towards the back, like a guard dog or something. Stan will soon come in and see that his usual seat has been taken and huff, but Craig knows that he won’t say anything.

As he has said before, all topics related to Stan Marsh are complicated, and this includes his relationship with Tolkien. Although Craig doesn’t really know all the details, he does know that after the one party Tolkien and Wendy had made out back in sophomore year, Stan has stopped looking at Tolkien completely. And judging by the way Tolkien absolutely refuses to talk about what went down between them, Craig has a feeling that there’s way more to the story than just a jealousy fit.

Tolkien is definitely not the type of guy to hold onto grudges, especially not for this long, so Craig prefers to leave his own knowledge of the situation as that.

“Coach will probably torture you today,” Tolkien grimaces sympathetically. “You haven’t been to practice in like a month.”

Ugh.

Craig's head thunks on the wooden surface of his desk, his chullo coming askew. Next to him, Tolkien snickers, the sound making the knot of tension hanging between them loosen up. Without straightening, Craig blindly raises his arm and flips him off.

When Stan shows up, like Craig had predicted, he takes a single look at his usual desk being occupied and sighs. But, instead of going to Tolkien's spot, next to his girlfriend, he takes Craig by surprise when he detours and completely leaves the room, without looking back.

He really is weird.

"Are you sure you can't make it to Clyde's party?" Tolkien's voice catches his attention again. He doesn't seem to have noticed Stan's sudden appearance and banishment.

"I don't think so. I still don't even have my car back."

Maybe he could, if he really tried. He's been doing good, and if Craig keeps it up, which he will try to do, his mom could probably persuade his dad. But, does he even want to go to a stupid costume party?

"Clyde's gonna be sad, man," Tolkien sighs and Craig shrugs.

Clyde will most likely be sad for approximately ten minutes, then he will get piss drunk and chase Bebe around all night, completely forgetting about Craig's absence. Besides, if Craig had to do everything Clyde ever wanted to avoid him getting sad, he'd lose all autonomy over his life.

"Well, there's like two weeks until Halloween, maybe you can try to wear your parents down and get them to let you come."

The look in Tolkien's eyes is determined, which Craig thinks it's a bit unnecessary considering it's just another one of the twenty or so parties Clyde likes to throw throughout the school year. But at the same time, it's also kind of nice, that after all the shit going down, he's not backing away or keeping a distance from him. Tolkien is probably sure that the rumors are, in fact, lies and is just trying to let Craig know it.

"Yeah, I mean, I guess I can try," he shrugs.

It's the least he can do, even if he's not really going to put much effort into it; what matters is that Tolkien seems content with this answer.

"I'm not wearing a costume though," he adds, because it feels like something he would say. Like he's programmed to.

Tolkien rolls his eyes playfully. "You don't need to dress up, you can just be an asshole."

It's almost a peaceful morning all things considered. Craig goes from one classroom to another like a soldier marching through orders, which is a fucking sick comparison when he thinks about it, but it makes sense. He makes sure to steer away from both Cartman and Tweek, though the second one seems to be, funnily enough, harder to miss. Has Tweek ever been this tall? Craig's sure he's never paid this much attention to him, but he noticed that just in the same way he does, Tweek's wild head of golden hair sticks out and up. He's shorter than Craig, which isn't hard because Craig is the tallest person in his class, but it surely is less of a difference in height than Clyde and Tolkien.

Where Craig is lanky though, long limbs and wiry muscles from baseball, Tweek is broader in shoulders and fuller in the middle. He's not in any of the school teams, Craig's pretty sure he's never even seen the guy in a P.E. class, but Tweek could potentially give Stan's quarterback build a run for his money.

Why is he even thinking about Tweek anyway?

Thankfully, the blond doesn't see him, or if he does, he does an spectacular job at pretending otherwise. All in all, Craig is saved from the embarrassment of having another public confrontation with the blond, even if the annoyingly stubborn part of Craig's brain suddenly gets the urge to go up to him and ask him what the hell is his problem.

He shuts the idea down as soon as it comes, of course.

By the time Tolkien and Clyde walk with him to the locker room after lunch, Craig has already been dreading his return to practice for hours. Which of course means that his peace is over, wit a new record for the longest period of time he's had without torture.

It's bad enough that both the football and the baseball teams have to share the same room to get ready, the smell inside consistently manages to shock Craig, even if he already knows what to expect since he's been inside countless times throughout the years, he still wonders if his nose will finally grant him the mercy of falling out of his face. The worst part of it is that, as he's so focused on trying to breathe in the less amount of teenage boy hormones and sweat odor, Craig totally forgets that Eric Cartman is actually his teammate.

In his unique Cartman way though, the bigger boy is kind enough to remind Craig of his presence by sneering as he walks past to get to his own dusty locker and murmurs a "Keep your eyes to yourself, fag." Craig almost doesn't hear.

Almost.

On first instinct, Craig can almost taste jumping Cartman, fists curled and ready, sight going blood red, but then two bodies are stepping up and ahead, putting distance between them. The realization that both Clyde and Tolkien heard as well only makes Craig feel lightheaded, his stomach dropping to his feet coldly.

"Do you wanna get your teeth knocked out?" Clyde is quick to intervene, again.

If it wasn't this embarrassing, having his best friends step in for him and defend him like he's some helpless little bitch, Craig would've laughed. Because despite the tough act he's putting up, Clyde can't fight, like at all.

"Aw, Craig, you have two boyfriends defending you now?"

Tolkien's shoulders visibly tense. Craig sighs tiredly, already done with all the bullshit. It's all lies, it doesn't even fucking matter. Pushing both of his friends to make them keep walking, Craig doesn't even look at Eric, indifference being his specialty for so long he can make use of it even when he wants nothing but to kick the ever living shit out of him.

He's not gonna get into shit again, but that doesn't mean he's gonna let his friends do it for him, either. Clyde cares too much about football to get kicked out of the team, Tolkien has a bright future ahead of him with squeaky clean school records.

All Cartman wants is a reaction, a reason to get Craig to fuck up again, and he decides in that moment that he won't do it again if he can help it. It's fucking hard, to pretend he doesn't hear, but if Craig's had practice on something, it's on this.

"Don't listen to anything he says." Craig drones blankly to his friends.

"One day, I'm gonna kill that guy, I swear." Clyde's face looks red, flushed with impotence.

Craig snorts. "I'm sure you will."

Tolkien laughs, clapping their friend's back amicably, or maybe it's a comforting gesture. Both, perhaps.

Clyde gapes indignantly. "Hey, man! I totally could!"

He definitely couldn't, but neither him or Tolkien seem to want to deal with Clyde's pouting by hitting him with the truth.

"Dude, you cried when you accidentally stepped on Max's paw."

Crying is a loose term, considering how Craig vividly remembers Clyde going into a frantic haste of violently sobbing and trying to console his dog who had literally just yipped once and then gone back to normal like nothing had happened. Tolkien had to convince their hysterical friend that rushing the noticeably uninjured dog to the vet was unnecessary.

Max is Clyde's big and kind of dumb Golden Retriever. His father got it for him after his mother died to try and make him feel better, which Craig has always thought it's kind of fucked up, but on some level it'd worked, because Clyde is absolutely crazy over that dog.

At the memory being brought up, Craig doesn't miss how Clyde's face starts going green all over again. "Don't remind me, bro." he whines pitifully.

"Well, look who decided to finally show his face!" Coach Miles yells as soon as his eyes land on Craig. "Welcome back, Tucker! Were you expecting an invitation?"

Now, if Craig wasn't trying to be good, he'd have flipped the man off right that second, but c'est la vie. So he just blinks and lets the comment easily slide off his back. He doesn't care about playing in the first place, it's not like they're even good or win any trophies or games against other schools, therefore, Craig doesn't care about anything Coach could possibly say.

The man's eyes are hard on him for a few seconds, as if he's waiting for a reaction that will grant him the excuse to make Craig face extra punishment, which isn't really surprising because once again, he doesn't have the best reputation. But, when Craig simply stares back blankly, Coach seems to lose interest completely and moves on to eyeing the rest of the members critically. He bothers Kenny about getting a haircut.

It's pathetic, Craig thinks, that people like Coach Miles really have nothing going on in their lives that they think the challenge —if there even is one, of a terribly mediocre high school baseball team is enough to put this much passion into. But at the same time, it's complicated too, because Craig has the theory that the people from South Park, the adult ones at least, are to be too content with their boring fucking lives in a small town in the middle of the mountains that they've probably completely forgotten of what they'd wanted to do in the beginning. When Craig thinks about what he wants for his future though, he has to face the fact that he doesn't have that big of an ambition, either, so in the end, he's really not that much better than the people he scrutinizes.

When he was younger and innocent, Craig, to literally no one's surprise, had wanted to be an astronaut. For the longest time, he'd dreamed of living inside rocket-ships and walking on rocky planets with no gravity pulling his weight down. Craig had fantasized every night before bed, about what it would actually feel like, to reach the stars and stand on the Moon, watch the Earth, the planet full of complicated things and people he couldn't understand from above, far away to be reached by it all.

Of course, when high school started, this dream had progressively begun to die, like the light of a dead star slowly fading away. Logic became too loud and big to ignore, and Craig had to come to terms with the obvious. He isn't smart or dedicated enough to be an astronaut, his parents don't have money for expensive schooling, and let's be honest, no one in NASA would be interested in some lazy, detached kid from a hick town in the middle of nowhere.

"Okay, ladies! Let's get started with a warmup!" Coach claps his hands once, making Craig snap out of his thoughts. "Give me five laps around the field."

Everyone groans, but Craig holds back his own displeased sound in the hopes that maybe Coach will miraculously let him slide if he doesn't notice him.

"McCormick and Tucker, you run ten."

Awesome.

"What?! What did I do?!" Kenny protests.

"You'll keep running ten until you get a decent haircut!"

"What's wrong with my hair?!"

"You look like a junkie."

Yikes, Craig winces internally. That jibe is too personal for someone like Kenny, knowing his parents' history with drugs and booze. Craig hopes Coach Miles swallows his whistle and chokes.

"That's bullshit!"

"Do you wanna do twenty instead?"

The noise that comes out of Kenny's mouth is barely human, but he doesn't continue arguing, which is frustrating, but smart. Coach Miles blows his whistle and they all move forward.

"Good luck, man." Tolkien claps his back, and runs off, because for some reason he cares about this shit.

Putting a bounce on his steps to avoid getting yelled at for walking, Craig stays behind the group, refusing to actually run the ten laps around the field like usual. At least the weather is getting cooler, so the wind on his face feels nice, though it does bother him to feel his hair flapping on his forehead, the safety of his chullo vanished, as the woolen hat is laying inside his locker.

"This is fucking bullshit." Kenny repeats, suddenly appearing next to him.

"Yeah." Craig nods, because he might deserve the punishment, but Kenny certainly doesn't.

"I hope his dick falls off." the blond bites out, making Craig snort.

He hopes so too, although he doesn't really want to think about any body part of the man, especially his dick.
Kenny gives him a small grin, rarely genuine, and breathes out the tension in his body. Craig stares at him closely out of the corner of his eye. They continue "running" in silence for a while.

"You gave it to Tweek," the words are out of his mouth before he can think of a coherent sentence.

"Huh?" Kenny seems taken aback by the sudden change of subject.

Mentally kicking himself, Craig takes a look behind his shoulder to see if there's anyone behind them to overhear them, but they're the last of the group.

"You gave the record to Tweek."

"Oh," Kenny's eyes light up with the realization and he shrugs. "Yeah, I gave it to him."

"Why?" Craig asks carefully.

He doesn't say what he wants to say though. I thought it was for you, why didn't you tell me it was for Tweek? Since when do you exchange presents? Craig can't let Kenny, or anyone, know that he cares about anything related to Tweek, because he doesn't but he also… kind of does? He's curious. He's just curious.

"Because he's my friend…?" Kenny gives him a funny look. "Is this about the money? Because I told you I was going to pay for it, but you—"

"It's not," he cuts the blond off quickly. It really isn't. Penny gave him an employee's discount, the money doesn't matter. "It's just, uh… I just didn't know you guys were close like that."

"Close like that?" Kenny parrots, giving him a quizzical look.

"Yeah, I mean, we're friends, but you've never given me a vinyl." it's probably the first time Craig has ever admitted that they're actually friends, and he can't help but think how stupid he sounds.

"Aw, Craig. Are you jealous?" Kenny pouts mockingly, leaning against his side as best as he can while moving. "Do you want your best friend Kenny to buy you a gift?"

Rolling his eyes, Craig shoulders him away. "No. That's not what I mean, asshole."

"I know," he chuckles easily. "But I like pissing you off."

Eyes narrowing, Craig turns his head to study the blond. "You're not gonna tell me, then."

"I don't know what you want me to tell you," Kenny shrugs. "Tweek's my friend and he's been having as much of a hard time as you, I wanted to get him something to cheer him up."

Right. How could it have escaped Craig like this? The rumors weren't only about him, Tweek's name is also dragged in the mud. Sure, Craig had realized that this is why Tweek doesn't wanna talk to him, but still, it takes until right now to fully process the idea.

"Besides, he's like, my best client, I gotta keep him around."

"Tweek smokes weed?!" Craig's too shocked by this revelation for no apparent reason really.

It's just that he would've never imagined it. Tweek high? That sounds like a recipe for disaster.

Kenny seems to find his reaction hilarious. "He's way cooler than your bitch ass."

His response is instinctual. "Fuck you."

Letting out a loud bark of laughter, Kenny shakes his head, their breathing is already getting strained and they've only completed three rounds. Craig already knows he's out of shape, Kenny probably has fucked up lungs from smoking. They're really a pathetic duo.

"You should talk to him," the blond says suddenly.

Craig scoffs at the absurdity of the suggestion. For a second, he really thinks Kenny is joking, poking fun at the scene they'd caused in Spanish class, but when he sneaks a glance to the blond's face, he doesn't look like he's trying to make fun of the situation.

"Are you for real?" he asks, incredulously.

Kenny shrugs. "Yeah, dude. You're both in this shit together, it's fucked up and the only people who can totally understand is the two of you."

"First of all, he's made it very clear that he wants me to stay as far away from him as possible without a restraining order," Kenny rolls his eyes at the dramatics, Craig ignores him in order to continue. "Second, I don't even wanna fucking speak to him either. Do you really think I wanna talk about feelings with anyone?"

"Let alone Tweek Tweak." Craig doesn't say this part, mostly because the display of friendship between Kenny and Tweek he'd witnessed is enough to make him believe that Kenny will probably be pissed if he insults the other blond.
It's not like Craig is angry at Tweek per se either, not anymore at least; it's more like he's angry at himself for being this curious. He knows that logically the best thing to do is to let this shit die down and continue his life like normal, as normal it can be. Tweekless and Military School free.

"You seem to wanna talk to me about it," Kenny points out, and Craig bites his tongue. Fuck. "And I don't know, man. You're being kinda weird."

"What?" he feels like he's been slapped across the face. "What are you even talking about?"

Kenny seems hesitant for a bit, like he's debating whether or not to say whatever the fuck he's trying to say in a way that won't make Craig flip his shit, which is counterproductive, because the silence is only making him want to flip his shit even more for some reason. Craig tries to delve over it, figure out why it feels so unnerving, but he comes up empty. Why does he care about whatever Kenny thinks? Why does he think that Kenny is right? Craig is being weird, maybe, but why?

"Look, man," Kenny starts slowly, and takes a deep breath trying to stop himself from panting loudly. "All I'm saying is that you should talk to Tweek, okay? I don't mean that you should, you know, become friends or whatever. I just mean that it'll be easier for all of us if you both calm your tits about this shit and put it to rest, that's it."

But Craig can't move past the previous comment, his mind zeroed on the fact that Kenny is avoiding to further explain himself on what he meant.

"Why did you say I'm being weird, Kenny?"

With an exhausted groan, Kenny slows to a stop, and Craig just now realizes that the rest of the team is already done with their shortened warmup and they're the only ones left on the field. Mirroring the other boy, Craig also stops his pretend running, for the first time growing aware of how hard his lungs are really fighting for air.

Hands on his knees, Kenny leans forward, catching his breath, and Craig wonders if he's doing it so that he can't see the expression on his face. He waits impatiently for an answer, eyes fixated on the mat of messy blond hair in front of him.

"I don't know, okay?" he's still breathing hard. "It's just weird that you barely ever say more than two words in a sentence, especially to me, but now you're suddenly all… curious about Tweek."

Craig opens his mouth, ready to say something, but the words never come. He should probably excuse himself, because it just makes sense for him to be curious about Tweek considering the circumstances, but also, at the same time, Kenny's words ring true and he can't really argue against them. Craig knows it's weird of him, he knows he's never asked around about anyone, and he knows that he's definitely never stepped into a fight for another person's honor, especially not for someone who he's not even close to.

"I'm serious, man. You should talk to him, you know?" the blond moves on, trying to dissuade the sudden pressure in the air, or maybe Craig's the only one who can feel it. "He's confused and that makes him freak out. The day you tried to in Spanish, he only reacted like that because you basically ambushed him or some shit, and he got scared, I guess."

"Am I the fucking boogeyman or something?" Craig frowns.

Tweek might be a nervous wreck, but that time they got into a fight years ago, he hadn't shown any fear when it came down to using his fists to bruise Craig's face.

Kenny snorts, punching him on the arm. "You know what I mean!"

Does he?

"If he beats the shit out of me again, it's gonna be your fault, McCormick." he's not giving in. Not really.

"He won't if you manage to not be a dick for like five minutes."

"Easier said than done," Craig drawls, feeling kind of subconscious.

Luckily, Kenny doesn't seem to notice.

"Tweek's nice. He's way more fun than you think, and he's like, a really good guy. He deserves some fucking peace of mind, God knows he needs it."

Craig needs it too, desperately so, but just as he's about to say it, Coach Miles' whistle cuts through the air, startling them both.

"Are you ladies done with the gossip? Do you want some tea?"

"He's such a piece of shit." Kenny groans, rubbing his face tiredly.

Silently agreeing, Craig motions him to go back to where the rest of the team seems to be practicing pitches, separated in pairs. Cartman laughs at Coach's emasculating insults, saying something to his partner, Kevin Stoley, who shoots a weird look to Craig.

"I hope his dick falls off." Craig grunts, refusing to meet Cartman's eyes and give him the attention he clearly craves.

Kenny gives him a sympathetic wince. "I've been wishing for that one for years."

Walking down the hallway after practice, Craig feels like it's taking him all the strength left in his body to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and thinking about how now he has to walk all the way over to the store, only makes him want to cry. The rest of the team finished practice earlier than Craig and Kenny, since Coach had been feeling extra vicious and made them both stay behind, hitting the ball shooting from the ancient pitching machine the school owned ten times in a row to be allowed to leave.

Turns out, Craig is more out of practice than he'd realized.

Anyways, now it's late and the last bus has already left, so he really doesn't have any other choice but to get to work on foot.

Rounding the corner to get to the front doors, though, something has Craig stopping dead on his track. Better said, someone.

"It's coming along nicely, Tweek! I don't know why you're so worried!" Mr. Romero? Is that his name? says.

Something must possess Craig at that moment, because his body moves on his own, turning back around the corner he'd just come from and taking a peek. Tweek stands on the doorway of the music room, his fingers twisting into the fabric of his knitted sweater. Craig can't see his face very clearly, but he can imagine the expression the blond is pulling.

"I—I don't know, Mr. Romero, I think I should change—"

"Nonsense, Tweek. You can't just keep switching between pieces every time you get insecure about your performance!" the man cuts him off. "You just gotta keep practicing, polishing it until you get it just right. You have plenty of time!"

"I don't know, I think if maybe choo— choose another one, it'll be better…"

"Tweek, you've done this five times already, you have to stick to one," Mr. Romero tells him sternly, it looks like he wants to say something else, but the watch on his wrist stops him. "Okay, listen, sleep on it, yeah? I think you should go with it, but it's your decision in the end. I have to go now, but we can talk about it next week when you make up your mind, alright?"

This only seems to stress Tweek even further, his hands letting go of his now stretched out sweater and balling at his sides.

"I—… Okay, yeah." he gives up, and Mr. Romero gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder before leaving.

Craig watches as Tweek stands motionless in place for a couple more seconds, breathing in and out carefully, like he's trying to take control of his lungs. When he finally seems comfortable enough, the blond grabs the backpack from the floor and shoulders it on before turning around and following outside.

Okay, so apparently, Tweek smokes weed and is good at music? Things that Craig didn't know before today. The question he asks himself though, is why do these facts matter?

But most importantly, why is it that with the more he sees of Tweek, the more curious Craig feels? Kenny seems to be right after all. Craig is definitely being weird about it.

Chapter Text

It becomes progressively apparent to Craig that, clearly, there's much more about Tweek than what meets the eye. It is kind of obvious, to be honest, that he's never paid this much attention to the blond before and that it isn't like Tweek is a mysterious, secretive person.

But yeah, it turns out that Kenny isn't lying about them being friends, during the next couple of days, Craig's seen them both talking around school more times than he can actually recount. What's even more interesting about this, is the fact that Tweek clearly looks at ease next to Kenny; his shoulders are relaxed like Craig's ever seen them before, and he almost never stops smiling. Unnecessarily and for a reason he can't quite discern, Craig finds himself taking note of the small gap in the middle of Tweek's two front teeth.

Another thing he notices— Craig is not stalking. Definitely not. He's just curious, and observant, and Tweek is hardly someone who goes under the radar. That's it.

Anyways, another thing he notices about Tweek is that even though Craig had always thought of him being somewhat antisocial or lonely, the blond actually seems to be friends or at least on good terms with most of the people in school. Even Clyde, who's the one that shares the most classes with Tweek, seems to get along with him easily, which yeah, isn't really a hard feat because Clyde will get along with virtually anyone that isn't Eric Cartman, but it still takes Craig by surprise. As the days go by, Craig sees Tweek hold what seem friendly and easy conversations with Stan, Wendy, Bebe, Nichole, Red, Annie, Heidi, Kyle and even some sophomores Craig doesn't know.

Still, every time his eyes find Craig's, the change in his demeanor is as clear as day. The very second Tweek sees him, it's like something possesses his body, or a second personality awakens inside of him, because the blond immediately seems to tense up, shoulders rigidly straightening and eyes going from bright blue oceans of emotion to winter lakes, as solid and sharp as deeply frozen ice.

Somewhere along the lines, this commitment to showing how outwardly Tweek seems to absolutely despise his guts completely shifts inside Craig's gut. At first, it had made him confused, and kind of angry, because he really isn't doing anything to merit this kind of response from Tweek, but then it's easier to see, and it kind of becomes… like a game?

Maybe not fun in the same way as drunkenly playing Monopoly with Clyde and watching him cry when he drives himself to bankruptcy is, but definitely amusing in the way that Craig feels when he watches Stripe #5 happily popcorn around when she's free to play in his room.

That might be a fucked up comparison, equating seeing Tweek glare at him from across the hallway or the cafeteria as seeing his pet do a trick, but nothing else comes close to it.

A couple of times, Craig thinks about Kenny's words, he considers going over and talking to him again, but he never gets around to actually doing it. He doesn't want to ambush Tweek again, as Kenny had called it, and there really isn't any other way since any time Craig even gives a step in Tweek's general direction, the blond disappears from sight so quickly he might as well be leaving a trail of smoke behind himself.

Besides, Craig figures that even if he wants to confront Tweek, doing it at school isn't the best way to go about it, considering how fast rumors fly and how everyone will start talking about it if they see them actually interact. Not that Craig gives a shit about whatever people say about him, not at all, that's ridiculous, but Tweek does seem to care, and Craig doesn't need him freaking out again.

In the end, it's only for the best to stay away, it's more entertaining this way.

Friday night finds the Tucker household quieter than usual. Tricia is out, having a sleepover at one of her classmate’s house and Laura Tucker is enjoying her monthly "girls’ night" with Kyle Broflovski's mom and some other old ladies that are too keen on pinching Craig’s cheek even when they can barely reach him anymore. His dad is probably going to go to the bar and get wasted on cheap whiskey soon, so Craig is enjoying the peaceful evening after work, immensely glad that he's officially made it through this week of hell.

Stripe is squeaking happily along, like she can tell tonight is the night to chill out; she's currently burrowed between Craig's neck and the collar of his hoodie, her warmth a comforting feeling on his skin. The music coming from his earphones is loud, but not enough to make him feel overwhelmed. He's found that lying in bed and listening to new songs before going to sleep is enjoyable. Although he's not really sure how he feels about these ones in particular.

After going through the list Penny made for him, Craig figured he should just bite the bullet and check out the album Stan had recommended. It certainly is… interesting.
Not interesting as in bad, to be honest, but it's definitely something Craig hadn't expected to be of Stan's liking, let alone one of his favorites as he had stated.

It's much more… depressing than what Craig had thought.

When you cycled by,
Here began all my dreams,
The saddest thing I've ever seen,
And you never knew,
How much I really liked you,
Cause I never even told you,
Oh, but I meant to,
Are you still there?

Huh.

"Hey," a voice loud enough to hear calls him before Craig can start to overthink Stan Marsh's odd choice of music.

It's for the best, really.

Hitting the pause button on the screen, Craig cranes his neck up to see as Thomas Tucker strangely hovers on the doorway of his bedroom, two cans of Bud Light in his hand. They haven't talked all day, since they are left to their own devices for the night, they'd just ordered a pizza that they'll definitely hide from Laura and Craig had taken his plate up to his room while Thomas had stuck with the living room with the TV on some football game.

As his new routine settles, Craig finds himself growing more…. comfortable. He's still angry at his dad, but after the talk he'd had with Laura, Craig now can breathe easier around him than before, and after Kenny's reassurance that logically Thomas won't even catch wind of anything that's been going on, this only helps with his tolerance around the man.

"What's up?" he asks, cupping his hand around Stripe to sit against the headboard of the bed.

"Want a beer?"

And, as strangely as it seems, Craig suddenly finds himself sitting on the front porch with his father at ten pm, a cold beer in his hand and the noise of the last cicadas around.

When he was younger, Craig had really liked being around his dad. Growing up, many people thought that because he wasn't a talkative child, something must've been wrong with Craig. Everyone except his dad. So naturally, Craig had enjoyed the opportunity to be… reserved, as he's always been with Thomas, because Thomas seemed to be just like him.

The night is cold, as most nights are around this time of year, but it's not too cold to start huddling inside yet. The shine of the moon is muddled by the stray clouds obscuring some of the stars as well, but Craig doesn't struggle to find Polaris above, completely naked for its appreciation. The snap and hiss of the cans as they crack them open fills the silence between them.

"You're not gonna tell your mother about this," Thomas warns unnecessarily.

Obviously Craig knows better than to go off and snitch to his mother. She'd throw a fit if she knew they had the greasiest of pizzas for dinner, if she heard about the beers on top of that… Craig doesn't even want to imagine her reaction.

And still, even if she knew about it all, she wouldn't send him to military school.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he steals a glimpse of Thomas, sitting a few paces away, also with his eyes glued on the night sky.

"Which one was that again?" he asks, pointing with his drink vaguely somewhere upwards.

It's not clear enough to tell exactly, but Craig can make out Draco easily enough to deduce that what his father's pointing at is a constellation that follows close above it.

"Hercules," Craig tells him, mapping it out with his index finger as best as he can.

"And that one?" Thomas nods, vaguely again.

Trying his best to keep his irritation at bay, Craig blinks up to the sky again. His father never cared about the stars, if he did, he'd know them all by now, since he's been asking Craig these same questions at least fifty times throughout his life.

"Draco."

"Like the guy from those movies I took you and your sister to watch?" he asks the same question every single fucking time.

"Like the representation of Ladon, the dragon that guarded Hera's golden apple tree in Greek Mythology," he tells him, feeling like a broken record. Craig remembers how excited he once was, whenever he got the chance to tell these stories. "Heracles, represented with the Hercules constellation, kills Ladon with poisoned arrows and steals some of the golden apples to fulfill a task assigned to him. Hera got so sad by Ladon's death that she put his image in the sky, Heracles' foot there is on the dragon's head."

The silenced stretches, Thomas doesn't even pretend to be interested.

"I remember when you were a kid," his dad says, after too long.

"Jesus Christ." Craig exhales, incredulously that Thomas is actually trying to have a conversation like this.

"Everyone used to tell me, 'you should be careful about Craig, he's not like other kids' and I never knew what they meant," a humorless laugh, a sip of beer. Craig feels his fingers tighten around the cool can. "Your mom was worried too, you were so quiet, like you were in your own world, she said."

"Are you trying to have a father–son moment right now?" Craig asks him sourly. "Have a heart–to–heart?"

Just because he's now more at ease around his dad than before doesn't mean that Craig still doesn't resent him for everything that went down, the only progress made being that now his fantasies of bashing Thomas' head against the wall are mostly gone.

It does surprise him though, that the only response he gets for a good while is a tired sigh.

Craig can see where this is going from a mile away already. His stomach twists tightly. "Dad, I get it okay? I was a weird kid, I didn't talk, now I have an insolent mouth and I'm—"

Again, Thomas ignores him, as if Craig stopping his line of thinking will make it impossible for him to bring it up again. Like this is an act of extreme bravery.

"I didn't get it, because I thought it was normal, I just thought you were too much like me. Serious, quiet, logical," his dad continues, still looking at the cloudy, dark sky. "So I thought I should do the stuff that I liked to do, with you, because maybe you'd enjoy them too."

Craig remembers. The fishing trips, made of long days sitting quietly on the water, waiting for something to catch, the Baseball games, with the stale hot dogs that his father would buy and the music way too loud in Craig's young ears, the year he asked for a telescope for Christmas and Thomas bought him a bat and a mitt.

"You were quiet, that's true. You sat next to me and looked around, you listened to everything I said, I taught you so many things that I know you remember, even when you didn't care about them," he huffs, shaking his head, drinking more beer. Craig blinks up, the light of Polaris engraved on the back of his eyelids. "Your grandma asked you one day, what you wanted to be when you grow up, and you told her—"

He wants this to be over, almost desperately so. "An astronaut."

"Yeah," the word is so quiet it's almost a whisper, it puts Craig on edge immediately. "And I didn't know that."

Leaving the mostly untouched can of beer on the floor, Craig wipes the condensation off his palms on the rough denim of his jeans, an acrid taste coating the back of his mouth. "I had a telescope, the one mom bought me for my birthday after she got hired at the bank, I had astronomy books that grandma gave me for Christmas every year after that, the stars on the ceiling I begged you to buy me because you wanted to get me a baseball instead."

Thomas had known, he just hadn't listened, or he hadn't wanted Craig to be different than him. Or maybe, different at all.

Thomas is quiet again, his jaw looks tight, locked in place. It doesn't seem like his usual anger though, but it still makes Craig feel like he should proceed with caution, just in case. The fact that he's pissed off right now doesn't mean that he's ready to quit, let his father win.

"When I asked you once, when we were out camping one night, why you wanted to be an astronaut," he starts again, his voice dull. "I was shocked."

Frowning, Craig tries to remember what Thomas is talking about. He can't remember when this was, or what he'd said. When you're a kid, everyone asks you what your dreams are, everyone "Oh's" and "Aw's" at your childish fantasies, they ask you why you want the things you want, they usually don't listen to your response, they just tell you to follow your dreams, that anything is possible, the sky is the limit. And yet, Craig doesn't remember getting any of that from his dad.

"You— it was like you were a completely different kid. You started telling me everything you knew, about the stars and the constellations you already knew to point out in the sky, I almost didn't recognize you," his can seems to be empty now, he crushes it with his hand. The sound is muffled in Craig's ears, delayed. "Going from a quiet, stoic kid, to—… Suddenly, I couldn't get you to shut up."

Irked, Craig takes a deep breath, letting his lungs fill with cool air. He doesn't even know what Thomas is trying to say anymore, and he doesn't want to hear any more either.

"Did you ever ask Tricia?" he asks, his throat tight. "Did you ever ask her what she wants to be? Why does she want it?"

The silence is answer enough, even Craig can understand this.

"She wanted to be a superhero, she wanted to be able to fly," he clearly remembers how comically angry she used to get when Craig would tell her one couldn't simply become a superhero in real life. "She wants to be a pilot now, and she'll probably make it, because she's ridiculously smart, and she cares about her future."

Thomas opens his mouth to say something back, but Craig is too tired for this. He wants to go back to bed, cuddle with Stripe a little longer, listen to Stan's album again, more thoroughly this time.

"I know you're not trying to be shitty on purpose," it's true, Craig knows it's true, which somehow only makes it worse. Slowly, he stands up, dusting imaginary dirt off his pants, hoping Thomas won't ask him to stay, sit back down. "I know you want what's best for us, and it's fine, dad. I get it."

For the first time, his father looks at him, dead in the face. His expression is as serious as always, Craig can barely see his features in the dimmed moonlight but he knows what it looks like by heart.

"But maybe instead of trying to make me be less different, instead of trying to make me shut up," the words drag from his mouth slowly, like they're gonna hurt his tongue on the way out, but they don't. "Maybe you should've been the one doing the listening."

“What are you doing up this early?” Laura asks, looking downright miserable.

She’s standing by the kitchen counter, still in her pajamas and her face is covered by last night’s smudged make up, the black residue around her eyes make her resemble a raccoon, and her tangled messy hair looks nothing less than a bird’s nest.

Craig had been waiting all week for Saturday to arrive so that he could stay in bed until noon, maybe even later if his body allowed it, only to face the disappointment of his eyes cracking open at ten in the morning with no intention to be able to fall back asleep again.

“What are you doing up this early?” he asks her, eyeing the way she looks like she had at least five margaritas.

“I have to pick up your sister from her friend’s house,” she looks like she might start crying.

“Just give me the keys, I’ll go,” it’s not like he has anything to do today, and honestly, he really misses driving.

Laura seems hesitant at first, probably thinking about how Thomas will be pretty fucking pissed if he finds out she’s given Craig the car keys again, but then she seems to get a reminder of the massive hangover she appears to be sporting at the moment, because her face crumples and she hisses, the hand that isn’t holding the cup of tea rubs one of her temples.

Besides, his dad works Saturdays and he’s already gone, he doesn’t have to find out about it anyways.

“Okay, yeah, thanks,” she nods rigidly, and blindly points towards the dining table where the keys are laying. “She’s at that blond girl’s house, I can’t remember her name, the big brick house near Main, do you know it?”

He doesn’t. Craig doesn’t really know any of the girls Tricia hangs out apart from Karen, and he mostly only knows Karen because she’s Kenny’s sister. But he has his phone now, so he can just give his sister a call on the way and ask for the address.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, because at least he knows Main Street, and it counts for something. Honestly, Craig doesn’t want her to take back the offer. “I’ll go get her, go back to bed, you look like shit.”

“Don’t push it, kid,” she mutters, but there’s no heat behind her words. Craig snorts. “I feel like shit.”

Taking the keys, Craig watches as his mother digs around in her purse, clumsily fishing out her wallet. She takes out a twenty dollar bill and hands it to him.

“Here, buy some breakfast or something, if I smell any food right now I’ll throw up my own intestines out."

“Sick.”

She slaps the back of his head weakly, Craig waits until she safely climbs back up the stairs before heading out.

Still wearing the dark long sleeved shirt he wears to bed, Craig's kind of glad that he at least decided on putting on some sweatpants before going out of his room this morning instead of staying in his plaid pajama pants. But it’s not until he’s shoving his feet inside the sneakers next to the front door and grabbing one of his sweatshirts hanging above that Craig realizes he’s left his chullo upstairs.

Sometimes, sacrifices must be made. And he’s way too lazy to go all the way over there to get it.

Well, it’s not like Craig particularly cares about what his hair looks like right now, he’s just getting his sister from a sleepover with a bunch of other fifteen year-old girls, hardly the setting that calls for him to upgrade his grooming standards.

Zipping up the navy blue sweatshirt all the way up, Craig faces the morning chill head-on as he steps out of the house and makes his way to his mother’s parked car on the driveway. It’s getting progressively colder as they dive deeper into October, but it’s still not cold enough to warrant the need to run inside the vehicle and crank up the heating as soon as possible, so Craig takes his time getting in, fishing out the phone in his pant’s front pocket and looking for his sister’s contact.

where r u
address

Putting the key in the ignition, Craig waits for her reply as he fiddles with the stereo, looking for a decent radio station. His phone pings with a new text as he lands on some catchy pop song that's probably currently trending.
The good thing about South Park being such a small town is that Craig knows every street and corner by heart, so when he reads the address Tricia sends him, he immediately knows where to go.

It doesn't take long enough to get there either.

"Yo," Tricia greets, climbing in through the passenger seat.

"Hey, Karen," Craig nods to the brunette through the rear view mirror as she gets into the backseat.

"Hi, Craig." she smiles, timidly as always.

"I thought you weren't allowed to use the car," Tricia's narrowed eyes look accusing, as if Craig really is stealing his mom's car right now to do something as boring as coming to pick her up.

"I think mom's still drunk from last night."

"You can take the girl out of Jersey but not the Jersey out of the girl," Tricia snorts, reciting Kyle's mom's drunk saying, and rolls down the window. “We should buy her a coffee.”

“She said to buy breakfast.”

Starting the car back again, that’s when the idea actually hits Craig over the head. He looks at Tricia, who seems too preoccupied with the stereo now, and hums, stepping on the gas and heading straight down to Main Street, destination clear inside his head.

It probably counts as an ambush, but Craig can’t really think of anything better as he parks the car outside of Tweek Bros. Coffee. Neither of the girls seem to think much of it, since they probably frequent the store more than Craig does, and they all quickly climb out, heading straight for the front glass doors. Either way, Craig’s glad that they don’t say anything weird about it.

They walk in together, and Craig is surprised to see that the shop is still the same inside as he remembers it being. It’s nice and big, but homey, like you’re supposed to feel cozy in its dark wooden tables and cushioned old seats, this feeling only intensified by the relaxing music coming from the speakers and the rich smell of freshly brewed coffee.

It’s also surprising to see that, for a Saturday, the place is mostly empty. A couple of patrons are sitting around the back, probably regulars, but it’s not as busy as Craig has seen through the windows of Nebula Records when he’s at work sometimes. The register is empty, but he spots Tweek’s mom cleaning one of the coffee machines.

“What do you guys want? I'll order for us.”

Both Tricia and Karen turn to the menu written in chalk on the big boards above the front counter, his sister purses her lips thoughtfully and hums.

“I want a mocha latte and a slice of banana bread,” Tricia says nodding.

“Hot chocolate for me,” Karen mutters shyly.

“Get her a blueberry muffin,” Tricia elbows her, which makes Karen blush bright red.

“I’m not hungry, it’s—” she protests, but Craig shrugs. He will buy her food, it’s out of the question.

“It’s fine, you guys go sit.”

Making his way to the register, Craig’s movements seem to catch Mrs. Tweak’s attention, because she turns around just as he gets closer, like she could hear his footsteps over the sound of the music and the subdued murmurs of conversations.

“Good morning, what can I get for you, sweetheart?” she asks sweetly.

It’s been a long time since Craig has seen her, and it’s almost as if she hasn’t aged a bit. He’s always thought that Tweek’s mom looks like a movie character from the fifties, with her short and always perfectly done light brown hair, and her delicate looking dresses. Tweek got his eyes from her, big and ocean blue, although there’s something different in hers, something Craig can’t pinpoint exactly, but that he can’t really miss.

He used to think that this was unsettling, but now that he’s seeing her again, Craig can’t really see what he’d thought was so bad before. Right now, as she smiles warmly at him with her pink lipstick covered lips, Craig finds that she actually looks like a nice lady.

A little hesitant, Craig orders Tricia’s drink and two hot chocolates, one for Karen and the other for himself, two slices of banana bread, and a blueberry muffin. Mrs. Tweak nods patiently and then rings him up, Craig hands her the money and can’t really help to curiously eye behind the counter, in search of a familiar blond.

“Tweek’s helping his dad do inventory at the back,” Mrs. Tweak says, like she can read Craig’s mind.

“Huh?” he mutters intelligently.

Mrs. Tweak’s responding giggle sounds almost melodic. “You’re one of Tweek’s friends, right? From school?”

“Uh, yeah, kinda…" Craig feels his ears heating up, and then he’s suddenly too aware of the fact that he isn’t wearing his chullo right now.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. He’ll be done soon, I can have him take your food to your table.”

That sounds like the worst idea in the world. Craig vehemently shakes his head. As much as he thinks Tweek's reaction to seeing him there at the coffee shop would amuse him, Craig quickly decides that he doesn’t need any piping hot beverages getting dumped all over his clothes today, or any other day for that matter.

"No, no, that's not necessary ma'am," Craig tells her, almost desperately. "Just tell him Craig Tucker came by and said hi."

"Oh?! So you're the famous Craig he's been talking about?" Mrs. Tweak beams, her soft smile turning into a full on grin.

Huh?! Craig swears he feels the blood inside his veins run cold from shock. “He talks about me?” he asks, bewildered.

What is Tweek even saying? Did he tell her about how Craig stood up for him against Cartman? Oh my God, did he tell her about the rumors? Craig feels his stomach turn upside down, and nervously swallows his dry mouth.

Mrs. Tweak giggles again, clearly finding his reaction entertaining. “Tweek tells me a lot of things,” she winks, winks. Whatever color remains on Craig’s face, completely drains away right that second.

“I—” his eyes desperately search for something to focus on, away from hers.

“Please, don’t worry, sweetheart," her hair bounces as she shakes her head slightly. “I take everything Tweek says with a grain of salt, he can be quite… dramatic sometimes.”

“Uh…” he’s gonna have an aneurysm. Craig is gonna have an aneurysm and die of embarrassment right here and now.

She takes pity on him. “Why don’t you go sit down? I’ll bring you kids your food shortly.”

But, Craig's been spooked enough, so he shakes his head again and clears his throat. "Actually, we'll take our order to go, thanks."

For a second, it seems like Mrs. Tweak wants to argue, tell Craig to stay, but the customer service in her doesn't take long to win over and she nods, telling him to wait. From where he's standing, Craig watches her move around the work station, she seems so familiar with everything that it almost looks like she's dancing instead of preparing hot drinks, her movements are so fluid, so controlled, it's kind of cool to see, entertaining.

So much so that Craig's almost too distracted to notice that the door near the end of the counter opens, and none other than Tweek emerges from it, with his signature messy blond locks and wearing a short sleeved white, coffee stained t-shirt, carrying a huge, huge heavy looking burlap bag full of what Craig guesses, are coffee grounds, over his shoulder.

Shit. Craig shoves his hands inside the pockets of his sweatpants and immediately glances away, praying for Tweek to not see him. Craig looks behind himself, towards the table Tricia and Karen are sitting close together and seeming way too interested in the blond's sudden appearance. Not good.

He can vaguely overhear as Tweek grunts from effort, letting the bag hit the floor and then Mrs. Tweak's melodic voice quietly says something to her son, which only means—

"Ack! What are you doing here?!" suddenly, Tweek is right in front of him, face red, sweat on his brow.

"Uh… buying breakfast?" does Craig always sound like such a fucking idiot?

Tweek's blue eyes are sharp as he gives Craig a once-over that only makes his stomach twist. What? "Are you ngh stalking me?"

"What? No!" Craig sputters, incredulous. "I'm literally just buying breakfast."

It doesn't seem enough to convince Tweek though. "You never come here."

"How would you know? Maybe I come here all the time when you're not working."

Eyes narrowing, Tweek scoffs like this is ridiculous. It is. It is ridiculous. Craig is painfully aware of it. "I'm always here workinngh, genius."

"Do you insult all of your customers?" he knows he should be annoyed, but Craig finds that he is only amused. Too amused, perhaps.

"W—Why? Do you wanna feel ngh special?"

Surprising both Tweek and himself, Craig hears himself laugh. It's a short, one syllable forceful type of laugh, almost as if punched out of his stomach, but it's a laugh nonetheless. Unfortunately though, Tweek doesn't seem to find it as funny. He just blinks back, face made of stone.

Before he can start to accuse Craig of making fun of him or something, Craig scrambles to get ahead of him. "Look, man. I'm sorry if you uh, think I hate you, or I don't know, I have no idea what you might be thinking of me to be honest, and I'm sorry for giving you problems, that wasn't my intention, either."

It's not what Craig wants to say exactly, but it's what comes out of his mouth, and honestly, he can only consider it a win since Tweek doesn't either punch him or dump coffee over his head.

Mrs. Tweak seems to finish bagging the order at that moment, and she approaches them with a soft smile and a paper bag in her hand. Craig nods to her in thanks, and grabs the package from her hand, Tweek eyes it suspiciously, and then looks at Craig with the same doubtful eyes, as if he had genuinely believed that Craig was actually stalking him like some kind of freak.

"Thank you for choosing Tweek Bros. Coffee," he says, voice toneless and practiced, and then storms out, disappearing through the same door he had come from.

Mrs. Tweak's smile turns a little sad, or maybe condescending, and Craig wishes a huge hole straight to Hell opened right up under his feet and dragged him down for eternity.

"He'll get over it, don't worry," she says, sighing in a way that doesn't really convince Craig she's telling the truth. "Feel free to come back whenever you want, sweetheart."

He nods, face going blank again. If there's one thing he knows for sure now, is that he's never stepping foot inside this shop or in Tweek's general direction ever again. Oh, Kenny can go fuck himself with his stupid, useless advice.

Chapter Text

Sundays are always the worst.

Tolkien's family gets together and does stuff only rich people can do and Clyde sneaks into Bebe's house while her parents leave her to go to church, so even if Craig hadn't been grounded, he'd have ended up holed up inside his house with nothing to do anyways.

He stays in bed for most of the morning, phone in hand, listening to music and scrolling through social media. Craig isn't really much of an Instagram person, the only pictures linked to his empty profile being tagged posts made by Clyde and Tolkien, who Craig secretly believes actually has a problem because damn, you don't really need to share every single day of your life in stupid pictures and videos, Tolkien, Jesus Christ. Honestly, if it wasn't for Clyde begging him to make an account so he could send stupid memes to him, Craig wouldn't have even signed up for it.

It must be the extreme boredom that runs rampantly in his body, that possesses Craig into doing what he does next, because if he has to think of another explanation as to why his finger taps on the magnifying glass icon at the top of the screen and quickly types "Tweek" into the bar, Craig will come up as empty of logic as the search for the blond's profile does.

Mentally kicking himself, he quickly deletes the name and the search history for good measure. If he had stopped to give it even a second of a thought, Craig would've safely guessed that, of course Tweek doesn't have an Instagram account, considering how paranoid he is, Craig's surprised he even has a phone at all. He's overheard Tweek rant about being watched by the government through your phones enough times to be convinced that the blond would do better living in a cave in the middle of the mountains with no technology on sight.

Except, Craig is wrong. Very wrong.

For the first time since he can remember doing this, tapping through the people he follows' stories, Craig gets to live vicariously through them; Kenny, who apparently, was out smoking weed with Stan and Kyle last night, Clyde who took Max and Bebe for ice cream yesterday afternoon, Tolkien who's eating breakfast at a fancy hotel in Denver with his cousins, and Wendy who's–

Wendy Testaburger, who had a cappuccino and a blondie at Tweek Bros Coffee and is now… fighting Tweek Tweak.

Flabbergasted, Craig feels his lips part in surprise at the picture and quickly pulls it back up when the timer for the story ends and makes it disappear from the screen. It's a selfie in front of a big, dirty mirror, a ponytailed Wendy Testaburger standing in the middle of what looks like a gym, wearing leggings, a matching sweatshirt and kickboxing gloves covering her hands. In the background and with his back towards the camera, a very familiar messy head of blond curls peeks out over her shoulder. Craig's eyes are glued to the blurry figure that he's a hundred percent sure it's Tweek Tweak, for so long he almost misses the caption Wendy has written on the picture completely.

brb kicking @t.tweak 's ass <3

Blinking once, twice, three times, Craig hears himself guffaw at his phone's screen, although he's not entirely sure about what's exactly so funny. Maybe it's the fact that Tweek really does know how to fight, which of course makes so much fucking sense now, maybe because he hadn't really expected someone like Tweek to take kickboxing classes, maybe because everything he keeps learning about the blond only seems so shocking Craig doesn't really know what to do with the information.

"No shit," he mutters incredulously to no one, as he's alone in his room.

Pulling the story back up, Craig hopes that users don't actually get notified about the amount of times someone views their stories, or else Wendy will probably never let him live it down, and without thinking better of it —something he has found happens more often than not whenever Tweek is involved, Craig clicks on the username tagged in the picture.

The link leads him straight to the result he'd been looking for exactly twenty minutes before, and he feels oddly and stupidly victorious over it, even though this moment is short lived, as soon as he realizes, with slight disappointment, that Tweek's profile is in fact, private.

Much similar to Craig's own account, Tweek's is very limited on details, considering how Craig can't even see the twenty three posts he's made, he has more followers than Craig does, though, and he follows fewer people than that. His profile picture is what seems to be a picture of himself in the sunlight, but Craig can't really observe it since he can't click on it either. His bio is empty apart from a simple Tweek. 17. Coffee enthusiast.

What Craig does next should be cataloged as probably the stupidest thing he's ever done, and that says a lot. Going to his own profile, Craig looks through his gallery, searching for whatever picture he can find. He ends up choosing a selfie he'd taken a month ago where he's sitting on his bed with Stripe on top of his chullo–free head, her little face peeking through his black hair. Setting it as his profile picture, he then clicks on the option to customize his bio, and types Craig. 17. Space enthusiast.

Giving himself approximately two seconds to think this over, his brain immediately sets on his usual fuck it, who cares? motto, and he looks for Tweek's profile again, holding his breath as he taps on the request to follow blue button.

"Hey kid, what are you doing?" Laura Tucker appears at his doorway, and Craig locks his phone like he's been burned.

"Dying of boredom."

See, the very important life lesson Craig forgets with those words costs him his Sunday in peace. As soon as he utters the words, his mom's eyebrow quirks up in interest and she grins.

"What type of mother would I be if I let my only son die of boredom?" she shakes her head, her arms crossed. "Get your shoes, you're coming with me."

Suspiciously, Craig follows her directions, snatching the chullo off his bedside table before he forgets again; he already knows that arguing against her orders will only make things worse, and it's not like he really should play against her these days considering she's been merciful. So Craig, drags his feet all the way downstairs, trailing behind a smug looking Laura, and when they reach the front door, she hands him a jacket as he shoves his feet inside his sneakers.

"Where are we going?" he asks, crouching to tie the laces of his shoes.

Laura grins happily. "To the grocery store."

A groan from deep inside his chest escapes Craig's lips before he can hold it in, and his mom rolls her eyes. She grabs her own coat and her purse from the hooks next to the door.

"I'll let you drive," she offers, grabbing the keys from her bag and dangling them in front of his nose.

Rolling his eyes, Craig snatches them out of her hand and nods to the door. It's enough to convince him. "Let's go."

"Do you want this? I can't remember if you guys liked it last time I got them."

Staring at the bland box of organic unsweetened cereal, Craig's nose scrunches in repulsion. It's bad enough that he has to eat this stuff at home, he doesn't need to go through the torture of having to actively purchase it. What's so bad about Lucky Charms? Even Cheerios? What happened to Frosted Flakes? Did the cartoon tiger kill Laura's childhood pet or something?

"You're so dramatic, Craig Tucker!" she chuckles, tossing the box of flavorless cardboard inside the cart Craig's pushing.

"Would it kill us to buy edible cereal for once?" he eyes the colorful array of boxes with aching need.

"This is edible, and it's good for you! I don't want my kids to eat sugar for every meal!" she grabs a bag of granola and inspects it closely. "And don't try to argue with me I know you and your sister sneak in sweets into the house when you think I don't know about it!"

Jesus Christ, the woman has eyes on her back or some shit. It's genuinely scary. Tricia is usually the one that comes shopping with her, so she's probably heard this from their mom a bunch of times already, but given that she's currently in Denver visiting grandma with their dad, Craig's the one that'll have to suffer through today —although, honestly, he's grateful he's not the one having to stuck with Thomas Tucker for the entire day.

"I don't know what you're talking about, mom," he tells her, following her movements with his eyes as she drops a carton of oat milk inside the cart. "Maybe you're going senile, hallucinating."

The look she gives him would make any brave man quiver in their shoes, but Craig laughs it off. "I'm gonna kick your ass, kid. You're asking for it." she's laughing too.

They walk down the aisle, towards the produce section. "Speaking of senile, did you talk to grandma?"

"Craig!" she reprimands, but the corners of her lips fight against a smile. Grandma Tucker isn't Laura's biggest fan, as it often happens with mothers-in-law and the women their sons choose to marry. "Your grandma is doing fine. I talked to your dad earlier, he said everything's okay. Apparently your grandma's gonna make lasagna for lunch and then she's taking your sister shopping for clothes later."

"I'm surprised Tricia and dad didn't kill each other on the way there," he can imagine the awkward silence inside the car. It almost makes him cringe.

Laura hums, picking a pack of plump looking strawberries. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"What?"

She gives him a look that tells him she can tell he's full of shit, even though Craig genuinely doesn't know what she means. He blinks back at her, confused, and she sighs loudly, grabbing a bundle of bananas.

"Seriously?" she asks, without looking at him. "Your father suddenly has the genius idea to take Tricia with him all the way to Denver? For the entire day? Alone? Just the two of them?"

Frowning, Craig grabs a bag of yellow grapes and they join the rest of their food. "Do you think I asked dad to- what? Spend time with Tricia?"

It's ridiculous. He'd never do that to Tricia.

"So, you didn't tell him anything about Tricia?" she asks, still looking like she doesn't buy it. "Not a word about how he doesn't spend enough time with her?"

"I—" technically, Craig hadn't. But he also kinda had? Not on purpose, not with those words, but recalling their last conversation, he can see how his dad could've come to such a conclusion.

"Craig. It's fine," she smiles, softly, and God is he ever going to get used to that gesture on her face. "It's good that you worry about your sister—"

"Mom." he protests.

"You're a good kid, Craig, I told you—" she insists, looking too earnest.

"Can we not do this in the frozen section?" he asks, uncomfortably shifting his weight from one foot to the other. There's no one around, but it's still public enough to put him on edge. "Or anywhere."

She gives him a funny look but then laughs. "Okay, okay. No more sentimentalities."

"Thanks."

Inside the pocket of his jeans, Craig's phone buzzes and dings with new notifications. His mom keeps walking down the supermarket aisles, stopping every now and then to look at the showcased products on the shelves with interest. Freezing for half a second, Craig shakes himself and follows behind her, pushing the cart along while taking the device in his hand.

Instagram
@t.tweak accepted your follow request.
@t.tweak is now following you.

"Craig!" Laura yelps, grabbing the end of the cart and putting distance between it and her body. Craig startles, looking away from the screen, his stomach feels weird, loopy. "Are you trying to run me over?"

Oops.

"Sorry, I was…" he trails off, looking back at the phone when it dings again.

@t.tweak: Are you mocking me or something??????
@t.tweak: Whats youer problenm man??

"Who are you talking to that made you almost kill your own mother?" Laura asks dramatically, making him look up from the messages.

Craig blinks, disoriented at his attention having to split. His fingers hover over the keyboard but his mom's eyebrows furrow in a way that tells him he should reply or she'll most likely do something embarrassing like take his phone out of his hand and read the messages herself.

"Sorry, just uh, Clyde." he tries to play it off as if he's annoyed by his friend messaging him and rolls his eyes.

@craig.tucker: im not wdym
@craig.tucker: mocking you
@craig.tucker: ?

"Oh, I haven't seen Clyde in a while, is he still with the Stevens girl?" if there's one thing Laura Tucker will always be, is a huge gossip.

It's probably why she gets along so well with Tricia.

"Yeah," Craig shrugs, staring as three dots signifying Tweek is typing appear on the screen.

"Ah, that's nice!" a bag of spinach joins the rest of their shopping. "She goes to my same salon, her hair is beautiful, of course, she's very pretty. Although her mother… let's just say I don't know where she got her good looks from."

"Mom."

"What? I'm just saying!" she laughs innocently, brushing off his accusing stare. "Anyways, it's good that Clyde's found someone to be with, you know? I worry about him ever since his mother passed…"

"He's fine," Craig reassures her, or himself. Both.

Clyde is definitely doing better. He's the type of guy that can grow stronger out of painful situations, even if it takes oceans of tears out of him to get there. Craig likes that about him, though he'll never say it out loud.

His phone dings again, after a show of the dots appearing and disappearing and then appearing again, like it took Tweek a long time to type his response.

@t.tweak: YOURE MOCKING ME WITH YOUR BIO!!!!
@t.tweak: YOU FOPIED MINE
@t.tweak: COPIED*

Amused that Tweek has noticed, Craig feels the corners of his mouth pull upwards slightly.

@craig.tucker im not mocking u dude
@craig.tucker i really like space

As he presses send, Craig can't help but to stare at his last message, feeling weirdly self-conscious. It does sound kind of lame when he reads it back to himself, but he can't think of another thing to say, so he just leaves it as is.

"What about Tolkien?" Laura steers them towards the canned section.

"What about him?" Craig asks distractedly.

Laura gives him a knowing look. "Does he have a girlfriend?"

"What? Uh no," he doesn't, not that Craig knows of.

But then again, Tolkien is kind of weird when it comes to girls, he keeps things to himself, like the whole Wendy situation. Craig would like to believe that he'd tell him if he was in a relationship, though. That's the type of shit friends talk about, isn't it?

@t.tweak: Tell me somethint about space then
@t.tweak: So I can know if you're lying to me

What? Craig hears himself huff.

@craig.tucker: what
@craig.tucker: do i look like wikipedia to u

"That's a shame, he's such a nice boy," she sighs, as if it means anything to her that her son's friend is single. "He's interested in dating, though, right?"

The question is weird, isn't it? Weird enough for Craig to come out of his phone induced trance and look at his mom square in the face. Her expression is overly curious, and it makes Craig uneasy.

"What do you mean?" he frowns, and Laura shrugs, pretending to be way too interested in the label on the back of a can of cream of mushroom soup.

"You know what I mean," she waves her free hand, clicking her tongue. "Has he dated anyone before? Is he interested in being in a relationship?"

The bottom of Craig's stomach tickles in the way that it always does when he can feel someone is saying something he can't quite understand, an indicator that lets him know he should be reading between the lines of the words being said, but he can't exactly decipher their underlying meaning.

"I guess?" he shrugs. "He's dated a couple of girls from school, but nothing serious."

Why is he even telling her all this?

It isn't a lie, though. Tolkien and Nichole were on and off for a while back in middle school. Craig knows more of this relationship, but it's mostly because he'd heard gossip from Bebe about how Nichole felt like Tolkien's heart "wasn't a hundred percent in it" and the day she eventually called it quits, Clyde had demanded they hung out to eat pizza and play video games to cheer Tolkien up. Craig doesn't remember his friend being that upset in the first place, but he hadn't argued. Even to this day, it's best to leave the emotional stuff to Clyde.

@t.tweak: IM GONNA BLOCK YOU THEN!!

Eyes widening, Craig quickly types back the first thing that comes to mind.

@craig.tucker: do u know wht a supernova is

@t.tweak: Yes I passed the fifth grade.

"Not like you, then."

"What?" his eyes snap back up to her.

Laura shrugs casually. "You know, how you were never interested in dating anyone and all that…"

"How do you know I haven't dated anyone?" Craig hasn't, and he doesn't care, but her knowing this makes him feel defensive about it.

He's not particularly privy of the fact that he hasn't been in a romantic relationship before, nor that he hasn't even found a girl attractive enough to the point of wanting to exchange more than a few drunken kisses at one of Clyde's parties. Sure, he's made out with Heidi a couple of times, and his hands had maybe been under her shirt for a few of those occurrences, but Craig barely remembers anything about it. Not so much because of the alcohol that'd been running inside his veins, but more so because of how unremarkably ordinary it'd felt.

Heidi's cool, Craig thinks she's way more tolerable than Wendy and Bebe, and she's pretty in a way that, in his opinion, none of the other girls are, with her short brown hair and her freckled cheeks, she looks nice without makeup and with it too. But she has no interest in him and he has no interest in her, so it's fine. They haven't made out again since the beginning of sophomore year and that's perfectly okay with Craig. She's probably dating someone, maybe, or she's finally let Red brainwash her into thinking all men are stupid and evil so she's completely lost interest in dating completely —Craig can't really blame her for that if it's the case.

"I didn't know that, you just said it," fuck, she's right. "But I'd like to believe that you'd tell me if you got in a relationship."

"It's not gonna happen."

He's not sure if he means that he will not get a girlfriend, or if she just won't hear about it. Thankfully, his mom doesn't ask.

"There's nothing wrong with being single, kid," his mom gives him an easy smile. "You're still young, some people are just late bloomers—"

"Jesus Christ, mom! What the fuck?!" he can feel the blood pooling up his neck, embarrassment flooding his body in waves.

"Relax!" she cackles, and yeah, Craig wishes to disappear into thin air right that second, but it's kind of nice to have the woman he's known all his life back. Embarrassing and mean as she is. "Just promise me that you'll use protection, okay? No matter who you decide to—"

"I am begging you to shut up."

"Should I give you The Talk again? It was so long ago I fear you might have forgotten." her grin is evil, Crag bumps his head against the handle of the cart, face going bright red.

"How could I ever forget?" he groans, it comes out more as a whine.

That traumatic day is very much crystal clear in his memory. Craig hasn't looked at cucumbers the same way ever since, and it's been two years.

"Just making sure!" she shrugs playfully.

"You're the worst."

"Yeah, well, imagine what your sister's feeling right now, hanging out with your dad all on her own," her finger pokes the top of his head, Craig straightens back up. "Now you guys are even."

"You're so righteous all of the sudden," he grunts, as sarcastic as he can be.

Laura smirks. "Democracy, kid. Everyone's equal in my eyes."

"Then let us vote on the cereal we wanna eat."

She cackles. "Nice try, but no."

@t.tweak: ???!!!!
@t.tweak: BYE

Sighing, Craig ignores his mom's words to type the response before Tweek has the chance to actually block him.

@craig.tucker: when the crab nebula supernova exploded, it was visible to the naked eye for almost two whole years
@craig.tucker: 653 nights exactly
@craig.tucker: 23 of those in daylight too
@craig.tucker: good enough for u
@craig.tucker: ?

His mom gives him a suspicious look, but Craig directs his eyes back to his phone when the bubbles signaling Tweek is replying, pop up.

@t.tweak: For now yes
@t.tweak: Kenny was righr
@t.tweak: You're a nerd
@t.tweak: :p

@craig.tucker: i think that makes us even

@t.tweak: It doesn't
@t.tweak: I'll spit in your drink

@craig.tucker: im not going to the coffee shop again
@craig.tucker: u just lost a valuable customer

@t.tweak: You order hot chocolate

@craig.tucker i hate coffee

@t.tweak: You mean nothing to me.

Eyebrows reaching his scalp, Craig snickers, a mix of amusement and curiosity swimming in his gut.

@craig.tucker: u remembered my order
@craig.tucker: whos the stalker now
@craig.tucker: :p

It's kind of obvious that Tweek won't reply anymore after that, Craig knows that he's pushed it too far with it, but he can't help it. Tweek is kind of fun to taunt, he's way more witty than Craig had pictured him to be.

If he keeps his phone in his hand for the rest of the shopping trip, just in case, no one needs to know why. And if he checks his messages every now and then, then that's his own business as well.

Unsurprisingly, Craig spends the test of the day on his phone, mostly out of boredom. Tricia texts shortly after he gets home and whines about everything that crosses her mind; apparently, grandma Tucker doesn't think she's "feminine enough" and insists on buying her a bunch of dresses Tricia will most likely end up giving to Karen, and then according to Tricia, grandma also gave her advice on how to find a boy that will "treat her right", which in her dinosaur era mindset must mean that Tricia has to find a man to marry as soon as she finishes high school, and he has to have enough money to support her so she can be a stay-at-home mom or some shit.

Feeling kind of guilty about the whole situation after his talk with their mom, Craig indulges her, joining in on her mean jokes about old people being fucking annoying and how she's gonna use all the inheritance on something stupid to make her roll on her grave. His heart isn't completely in it, though.

The conversation with his mom creeps back into his mind periodically, like an itch Craig can't fully scratch away. He's well aware that Laura Tucker is a nosy woman, and that she somehow always manages to keep him talking somehow with her mom-witch powers, but it usually takes more than a simple conversation between them to get Craig's tongue running.

Sure, he'd been distracted, his guard down, but still, it's kind of weird that hours later, he still can't shake off the weird, empty sensation inside his chest, nor the questions bouncing around the walls in his head. Why is his mom so interested in his love life? She's never asked any of those things before, or insinuated anything of the sort. And furthermore, why is Craig so hung up on the whole thing still?

He's never fallen in love, or even come close to feeling anything close to that overwhelming attraction that he's heard Clyde describe in too much detail whenever Bebe's name is brought up in conversation. Hell, thinking about it, the last time he kissed Heidi, all Craig had in mind was the thought of getting home and hanging out with Stripe.

Maybe he's an alien. Maybe Craig came from another planet and doesn't know how to… romance. Maybe he's actually a robot instead, created in someone's weird basement and sold off to a family that wanted an useless son. Craig's brain's probably not wired right, the circuits in his hypothalamus are fried.

Jesus, maybe he will die a virgin. How fucking lame is that? Since when does Craig even think that it's lame?

Since when does he care so much?

Huffing and puffing like a child, Craig softly leaves Stripe #5 in her cage and drags his feet down the hallway, into the bathroom. The cold water feels… well, cold, on his heated face, and Craig rubs his wet hands roughly over his cheeks, the last remaining scabs of the scratches flushing down the drain. Towel in hand, he pats his skin dry, and blinks at his own reflection in the mirror.

Granted, Craig looks the same as always, green eyes, thin lips, crooked teeth, even the mole under his left eye, high on his thin cheekbone is there, but it's weird, like when you look at a picture for so long your brain convinces itself the person frozen on the screen isn't really you anymore.

Kenny and Tweek are right. Craig's weird, more weird than Craig thought himself to be. It's like he can't even recognize himself anymore since that stupid fight with Cartman. He can't seem to keep control of anything anymore, his mind has been all over the place, his actions as well. Yesterday he'd been set on never even looking in Tweek's direction again and today he'd found himself wanting to have the blond's attention on himself, even if it was only via social media.

It's like nothing that's ever happened to him. It's like Craig, who used to think the only person in the world he could genuinely understand was himself, can't even do that anymore.

Shutting the faucet off, he wanders back inside his room. Craig doesn't want to keep thinking about any of it, he just wants to crawl out of himself and chill for a second.

On the bed, his phone lights up with a text from Clyde but Craig can't muster a response. He opens the music player app instead, and presses play in an attempt to shut it all up at once, make the thoughts drown.

Somewhere deep inside his head, a quiet voice asks the one question he can't address.

Not yet.

Craig turns the volume all the way up.

You're probably right,
This time, but I don't wanna listen,
You're probably right,
This time, but I don't even care,
And if it was mine to say,
I wouldn't say it,
And if it was mine to say,
I wouldn't speak.

Chapter Text

The first weird thing that happens that particular Monday morning starts with, unsurprisingly, his dad.

Well, more or less.

Stepping into his usual routine, Craig completely misses it at first. He goes about his business like normal, brushing teeth, getting dressed, feeding Stripe, and it isn't until he's picking up the backpack that sits on the floor next to his desk that Craig notices it— or well, them. There, on the table next to a bunch of papers, the keys to the car sit neatly on top of his Algebra book.

At first, Craig thinks it's Laura's doing, and hesitates for a second before grabbing them along with his backpack and making his way downstairs, where both Tucker women are already eating breakfast in the kitchen.

Tricia is hunched over the table, fork in one hand and Craig's beat up copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird" in the other, while Laura scrolls through her phone, her "#1 Mom" mug full of steaming green tea —Craig secretly thinks her obsession with the color green should be studied by scientists or something, it can't be normal behavior for a grown woman, but what does he know about normal behavior anyways?

"Looks like we're not taking the bus anymore," he says in greeting as he walks in and playfully smacks the back of his sister's head on the way to his chair.

"Asshole!" Tricia grumbles, dropping both objects in order to fix her ponytail that's looking the exact same as it was before, because Craig isn't trying to give her a concussion like she tries to make it seem.

Sitting down, he flips her off and then eyes the stack of oatmeal pancakes and apple slices on his plate, green apples. Jesus Christ. Tricia doesn't return the gesture, which basically just adds to the strangeness of the day he doesn't know he's about to live through yet. She seems to be weirdly engrossed in the book to pay attention to him.

"Why? Do you want me to give you guys a ride?" Laura blinks sluggishly away from the screen of her phone.

"Huh? No," Craig frowns. He digs the keys out of the pocket of his jeans. "You didn't give me these back?"

Laura seems confused for half a second before she shakes her head. "I guess your dad thinks you can drive again."

Her eyes drift to Tricia and stay on her for long enough for Craig to catch on and do the same. His little sister raises the book higher, obscuring her face and pretends not to notice both of their gazes on her.

Last night, when Tricia and Thomas got home, it'd already been late enough that Craig had been brushing his teeth, ready for bed, so he'd barely caught a glimpse of his sister as she tiredly dragged her feet down the hallway and into her bedroom. Because he couldn't imagine spending a whole day with Grandma Tucker and Thomas alone being easy, Craig had taken pity on her and decided to leave her alone.

Biting back a smile, Craig shakes his head. "That's weird," he says mildly, shoving a forkful of pancakes inside his mouth and Laura grins.

"Shh, I'm trying to read, dipshit!" Tricia complains, her knuckles tight in her grip around the book's already abused spine.

Craig gasps. "I didn't know you knew how. Congratulations."

"Mom!" Tricia whines loudly.

"Craig, don't bother your sister." Laura hums distractedly, already back on her phone. Craig peeks over to it and gives her an unimpressed stare when he sees that she's, in fact, playing Candy Crush.

"Why are you even reading that?" he asks Tricia around a mouthful of food.

"Because I have a quiz on it," she says, like it's obvious.

"You're a freshman, they don't ask you to read that until you're a sophomore."

Craig remembers this one book more than any other, —not because he'd particularly liked it, but more so because, one time when they were reading it in class and their teacher was taking turns on asking who was to read each chapter out loud, she'd made the idiotic mistake of calling on no one other than Eric Cartman to do so. Eric Cartman, who enjoyed the book's choice of wording, mostly of just its racial slurs, a little too much for literally anyone's comfort. Craig had never felt so worried about Tolkien beating the shit out of someone and getting expelled before that day.

"I'm in AP Lit, genius," Tricia remarks, finally closing the book and flipping him off.

"No shit," he snorts amusedly, he didn't know this. "Mom, did you hear that? Your daughter is a nerd."

"Craig, cut it out," Laura warns, but she's still hypnotized by the game.

Tricia gapes, her whole face turning to match the color of her hair. "I'm never doing anything nice for you again, you dick!" she seethes indignantly.

Aha! So Laura had been right. The keys had been Tricia's doing. Craig doesn't say anything though, even if he does want to rub the fact that she does like him, his silence is more so because if he pokes the bear one more time, Craig has a feeling his mom won't give a third warning and he'll probably get the keys taken away again in new record time.

Maybe his eyes show the victorious feeling he's experiencing though, or maybe it's the smug sip he takes out of the glass of his zero pulp no sugar or additives organic orange juice, because Tricia's cheeks grow even redder than before.

"Shut up!" she protests, even though Craig hasn't said a word. "You're so annoying. I hate taking the bus too, you know?"

"I know." he doubts anyone in school actually likes riding that oversized can with wheels, it literally smells like someone died at the back and completely decomposed under the hot sun.

"Not everything is about you."

"Okay." he concedes.

"I wish you kids hadn't inherited the emotional range of an eggplant from your father," Laura sighs, finally snapping out of her Candy Crush daze.

"Like you're any better," Tricia huffs.

She is better, just… in her own way. It's hypocritical of Tricia to be the one to say it though, since she's basically their mom's best friend or whatever.

"I see you two cuddling after school in your room, Tricia, you're not fooling anyone." Craig points out.

"Should we watch Titanic together as a family night thing then? Get the tears going?" Laura proposes, making Craig choke on his breakfast. "Would that be emotional enough for you, kid?"

"I'd rather shoot myself in the face." Craig deadpans after clearing his throat.

"Same."

"You're both unbelievable!" Laura seems appalled by their response. "I don't wanna hear you say things like that ever again."

"We love you, mommy!" Tricia sings-songs, giving her a toothy grin that reminds Craig too much of Kenny. That's a dangerous combination.

Eating the last of his breakfast, Craig checks the time and realizes with a deep sense of relief that he doesn't have to hurry to catch the bus anymore. Laura hums disapprovingly to Tricia's smugness and pulls on her ponytail, making her pout.

"Call Karen and ask her if she wants a ride to school," he tells her before she can start whining about getting her hair messed up again.

If he has to show his gratitude for getting the car back in some way, Craig figures this is the best one. Even if it means that Kenny will most likely tag along. Tricia seems content with the suggestion though, and immediately pulls her phone out of her jeans' pocket, knowing her, she probably has Karen as an emergency contact in there.

While she speaks to her best friend, Craig helps his mom take the dishes to the sink, ignoring the pointed looks Laura keeps sending him. He doesn't have time or energy for any of her underlying comments today, the supermarket ordeal is still too fresh in his mind. After that, Craig brushes his teeth, finds his chullo and motions to his sister to hurry up.

The car isn't technically his. Before his mom had gotten a job, the only vehicle they had was this one, the family's black 2000 Vectra. But when Craig turned eight and Laura got hired at the bank, she had quickly invested on a car for herself, and last year, for his sixteenth birthday, after his father had yelled at him for hours on end during driving lessons, Craig had received the explicit permission to drive their old car as long as he kept it in shape and paid for the gas. Thomas had bought a truck for himself, saying that he's too tall to fit comfortably in the car anyway, but Craig thinks it's actually because he thinks real men should drive those ugly, unnecessarily big pick-ups.

Once Tricia turns sixteen next year, Craig will have to say goodbye to the freedom it gives him, and share it with her when she gets her permit. He still doesn't know how to feel about that, Craig likes driving around whenever he feels like it, and having someone else using the car feels awfully like an invasion of privacy, even though he logically knows that it isn't.

He still has time until that happens though, so he pushes it out of his mind for now.

They have to take a detour towards the southern part of town to get to the McCormick household, but Craig doesn't mind. He lets Tricia connect her phone to the auxiliary cord and play what, now thanks to his new job, he recognizes as Gorillaz.

"Yo, my bestie Craig!" Kenny greets loudly as he pulls the car over.

"Get in, loser."

To his surprise, Kenny opens the passenger door and ushers Tricia until she climbs out in order to join her best friend in the backseat while the blond claims shotgun. Craig gives him an impressed look, he's never seen his sister give up the passenger seat so easily before.

Kenny claps him on the shoulder amicably. "Thanks for the ride, man! I'm sick of taking that fucking bus! Did you get officially pardoned by your parents?"

"I don't know," he really doesn't.

Things do seem to be falling into place, slowly, very slowly, especially involving his dad, but Craig knows in his bones that he's not out of the danger zone just yet. Maybe if he keeps biting his tongue, it'll eventually cool down, but he doesn't know if his luck will help that happen.

Still, even if the situation with his parents is looking good, Craig still can't help but feel like his feet are on uneven ground around literally everywhere else. Which is the weirdest fucking feeling ever.

"Stan told me he heard Clyde say they threatened you to send you the military, for real?" Clyde and his big fucking mouth. If Stan heard, Cartman certainly did too.

Fuck. Craig doesn't like the idea of that at all.

"Yeah, they took my phone and my car and made me get the job at the record store, I gotta get my shit together or I'm out."

"Shit, man," Kenny hisses. "That's fucked up, I guess I'm glad my parents don't give a shit about me."

Sneaking a glance through the rear-view mirror, Kenny makes sure that the two girls behind aren't listening to their conversation, and Craig feels a sudden sympathy wash over his body. Kenny really does live for Karen, it makes him want to swallow his own tongue. Carol and Stuart really don't deserve them as kids, it's fucking unfair.

"I also heard through the grapevine that you were at Tweek's this weekend," Kenny says, after brushing off Craig's sympathetic look.

Unconsciously, his fingers tighten around the steering wheel. How does Kenny hear about everything that keeps happening to him? Craig hates this fucking town.

"Yeah, I'm banned. Tweek threatened to spit in my drink next time," he shrugs it off easily, but he has to admit he's still amused by the blond's words.

"Karen, you didn't tell me about that!" Kenny gasps, and then cackles.

It's Craig's turn to look at the girl through the rear-view mirror, and at least she has the decency to look embarrassed of being exposed for being a gossip. Karen blushes deeply, and elbows Tricia when the girl pokes her on the stomach teasingly.

"Tweek didn't say that," she mutters, avoiding Craig's eyes like her life depends on it.

"He didn't when we were at the coffee shop."

"Oh, so you decided to listen to my genius advice and talked to him?" Kenny pulls one of his signature toothy grins.

Craig rolls his eyes at the boy's smugness. "Yeah, and he almost blocked me on Instagram."

Kenny hums, his eyes looking over at him with suspicion. "Were you being a dick?"

Not on purpose. Craig sighs.

"Maybe."

"You're so lame," Tricia laughs.

Both Kenny and Karen nod, and Craig has to mentally talk himself out of crashing the car into a tree.

By the time they pull up to the school's parking lot, most spots are already taken, so Kenny has to crane his neck around to find an empty space that's far enough from other cars to be safe. In his short year of driving experience, Craig has learned that some, if not most, teenagers shouldn't be behind the wheel —not until they learn how to park their fucking cars correctly. He's seen dumbasses scratch and bump into other vehicles while trying to pull out after school way too many times, and he's not trying to spend any of his own money fixing idiots' mistakes that end up in dents and messed up paint. He barely just got a job.

They find one empty space near the back, next to Annie Knitts' unmistakable yellow beetle, which is a win, given that Craig thinks it's such an ugly car he won't have trouble remembering where he left his own when it's time to leave.

"Do you have to work this afternoon?" Craig asks Kenny as they climb out of the vehicle. He waits until Karen closes her door to lock the car and then shoulders on his backpack.

"Yeah, why?" Kenny asks, combing his fingers through his hair, messing it up.

Both girls start to walk towards the building, and they follow behind, Craig doesn't miss the way Tricia is quick to link her arm with Karen's as they huddle closely to speak amongst themselves.

"I have to go to the store, so I can give you a ride," he offers, hating the way the words feel like they're squeezing out of his throat. Being nice is inexplicably hard. "Uh, if you want."

Ahead, just by the stairs leading to the entrance doors, Clyde waves them over dramatically, annoyed looking Bebe by his side, Craig flips him off. Kenny suddenly throws his arm around his shoulders, and his body goes rigid immediately, but he forces himself to keep walking. "You're the best, man! Thank you."

"Whatever," Craig shakes him off, and Kenny snorts, muttering something he can't quite catch. "Just text me and we can meet up after class."

"Dude! You didn't tell me you got your car back!" Clyde whines, as soon as they approach. He's genuinely pouting like a child. "No fair! You could've totally saved me from taking the bus."

"Aw babe, it looks like Craig's replacing you with Kenny," Bebe grins, one of her freshly manicured hands coming up to tug on her boyfriend's ear teasingly.

Kenny eyes her like a starving dog would eye a hefty piece of steak being dangled in front of its nose. Craig rolls his eyes. He doesn't get the point of Bebe looking like a supermodel at eight in the morning, to be at school out of all places, and isn't she cold in that skirt?

In all honesty, though, it's just her comment that rubs Craig the wrong way, because Clyde takes it to heart, of course he does, he's Clyde, and now he's pouting even harder.

"Yeah, Clyde. Sorry you had to find out like this, but Craig breaks up, he says he'd rather have a sweet blond piece of ass," Kenny claps the brunet condescendingly on the back and sends Craig a loaded look that he unsurprisingly, doesn't understand. "But you'd understand, right, buddy?" he adds, wiggling his eyebrows and winking at Bebe.

Her eyes narrow at the blond, a wide grin stretching on her cherry colored mouth. "You're a menace, Kenny McCormick."

"Blondes have more fun, ain't that right, Bebe?" he retorts, feigning innocence that no one would ever buy.

"Stop flirting with my girlfriend, you're already stealing my best friend!"

Resisting the urge to rub at his temples, Craig huffs, already done with the conversation he's not even participating in. He starts climbing the front steps, and hears as the group quickly follows behind him.

"Are you replacing me with Kenny?" Clyde whines, comically catching up to Craig's strides with his shorter legs.

"Jesus Christ."

"I'm supposed to be your best bro, Craig!" Clyde whines, tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie.

"Clyde. I'm not doing shit. I gave him a ride because Tricia's best friends with his sister, okay?" it's better to cut it from the root. Or however that saying goes.

Kenny gasps loudly from his other side. "So it was all a lie? What am I gonna do with our matching BFFS necklaces now?"

"Shove them up your—"

And that's when the second but not last or strangest thing happens. Suddenly, a girl he's pretty sure he's never seen before is right there, in front of Craig and blinking shyly up at him. She must be in middle school, from her height and the nervousness she carries in front of them, most likely intimidated by having to talk to high school juniors.

"Craig Tucker?" he almost can't hear her over the loud chatter in the cramped hallways.

"Ah— yeah?" Craig blinks, feeling stupid for some reason.

"Mr. Mackey wants to see you in his office."

Inside, his stomach drops.

"Ohoho," Kenny laughs obnoxiously. "You got into shit again, Craig?"

"What?" Craig ignores Clyde's concerned eyes. "Right now?"

The girl nods fervently, black curls bouncing around her pale face and looking like she'd rather be burning in Hell than here, having to talk to him, which yeah, Craig thinks it's fair.

"Okay," he tells her, blandly, when she lingers, probably waiting for a response before getting swallowed by the sea of bodies. Disappearing as quick and unnoticed as she had appeared.

Out of the corner of his eye, Craig sees Clyde's frown deepening, and then his mouth parting open, so he decides to jump the gun before the interrogation starts.

"I'll see you guys later."

"Good luck!"

Rather aggressively, Craig opens his way through the multitude of other kids, shouldering them away with the help of his stupid height that is only ever helpful for situations like this one. Each step he takes, his stomach seems to sink further down his torso, dread spreading slowly like a disease inside his body.

Logically, Craig calms himself down, because he hasn't done anything bad again, and he knows he's not in trouble, but this isn't exactly what worries him.

No, to him, what he knows it's going to happen, is worse. Naively, he'd thought that maybe this time it'd be different, that maybe Mr. Mackey would miraculously forget about this particular part of Craig's punishment.

Of course he hasn't. Craig has never been so lucky before, why would it start now?

Just as the bell rings, he reaches the counselor's office, and Craig thinks that it's a terrifying experience, realizing he'd actually rather be in World History class right now than here.

The door is wide open, and the lined up chairs outside where students are made to wait are empty, it's pretty uncommon to be called in first thing in the morning, and being aware of this fact only puts Craig more on edge than before.

Mr. Mackey sits at his desk silently, his eyes cast down on what seems to be one of those folders the school keeps student's records in. The sound of Craig's backpack dully hitting the floor is enough to snap his attention. He gestures towards the door, and Craig closes it behind himself.

"Good morning, Craig," he drones, his annoying fucking voice is literally the worst sound Craig's ever heard. "Sit down, please."

Slowly, just to piss him off, Craig makes his way further inside the room, and then lets his bodyweight heavily drop on the old cushioned chair in front of the man's desk. Mr. Mackey is a patient man, more patient than both Thomas and Laura combined, so Craig knows it'll take more than this to piss him off. He has to remind himself that this is not what he's trying to do, though, because military school and what not. Still, he's stupidly curious to test the man's limits.

It seems like the counselor is waiting for him to say something back, a greeting perhaps, and even though Craig desperately wants this to be over already, he finds that his mouth has no intention to cooperate, so he blinks, and offers the best he has, which is a short nod. Thankfully, Mr. Mackey deems it as enough, because he closes the folder and rests his intertwined hands on top.

"I don't want you to think we forgot about you, Craig. Mkay?" he says, slowly, and Craig swallows a groan. Who's we? "You see, I was going to call for a meeting with you last week, but your mother informed me that you got a job after school now, is that right?"

The desk between them is dark wood, old and scratched, but eerily clean. Judging by the sanitary wipes that sit next to the tissue box, it's a safe bet that Mr. Mackey is most likely a neat freak, this fact supported even further when Craig notices that the four red, green, black, blue pens at the man's reach are perfectly lined up and capped, like movie props.

The whole room smells like cleaning products someone's tried to disguise with cheap febreze, and Craig wonders if Mr. Mackey lives with a nagging mother that beats him if he leaves plates in the sink. Kind of a weird thought to have, especially since Mr. Mackey definitely looks way too old to have a living, breathing mother, but he does look like a Norman Bates type of guy, so who knows? Maybe it happened in his childhood and it's probably the reason why he decided to become a counselor. Lame.

"Yeah," Craig says, because Mr. Mackey again, waits for his answer.

"Mkay, so, you got a job, congratulations, and it looks like you have been staying out of trouble too. Is that right?"

Sticking his hands inside the front pocket of his hoodie, Craig stares back at the man. Can he get to the fucking point? "I guess."

If he woke up one day to find that his life is an actual episode of The X Files with some alien species disguised as human beings, Craig would, without a single second of doubt, point to Mr. Mackey as the prime suspect. Forgoing the obvious tells of the man's empty eyes and lethargic way of speaking, he just looks… wrong. He's awfully pale, his cheeks sunken like a cadaver and his balding head is just plain ridiculous. Craig thinks if he was in Mr. Mackey's shoes —God please no, and if he had to brush the few hairs left on his head every morning to aimlessly disguise his very obvious baldness, he'd just straight up just kill himself.

"That's good, good," Mr. Mackey nods, pausing for an uncomfortable couple of silent seconds. "So, I wanted to see it for myself, check up on you. Even if you don't believe it, Craig, this school cares about you students, and we're rooting for your improvement, mkay?"

The framed diploma hanging on the wall behind the man's chair looks authentic, but Craig can't help his skepticism. Has Mr. Mackey ever genuinely helped anyone? Like, successfully?

"Mkay," Craig hums, imitating him honestly out of pettiness.

"Mkay, well, I think that if you keep up with this behavior, it won't be necessary to meet regularly like I intended," thank God, Craig's fingers tighten in silent celebration. "But as I've told you multiple times, my door is always open, mkay? If there's anything you want to talk about, I'll be here during school hours."

"Right. Thanks. Can I go now?" one of the man's spotty eyebrows arches, suspicious by his eagerness to get the fuck out, and Craig desperately attempts to save face. "I'm missing World History and the test is coming soon, so…"

"Ah, yes, mkay," Mr Mackey says, and watches as Craig picks up his backpack from the floor. "I'll check up on you again in a few weeks, mkay? Keep it up, Craig."

Leaving with a speed he usually doesn't bother to use, Craig only finds himself coming to an abrupt stop as he steps out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him. The previously available seats just outside are no longer all empty, and the sight that he finds is certainly out of the ordinary enough to make Craig pause.

"What the fuck happened to you?" the words stumble out of his mouth almost as if on instinct, but Craig can't really blame himself for feeling surprised.

Stan Marsh looks as pitiful as a kicked puppy that's been abandoned in the rain. He's sitting on one of the chairs with his legs spread and his head resting up against the wall. His hair looks a matted mess of black splayed out around and one of his hands is clutching what looks like a bleeding nose that's been stuffed with… tampons? Jesus Christ.

Eyes scanning down the halls, Craig realizes that they're alone, everyone is obviously still in first period, so after whatever did go down, someone deemed it a good idea to leave Stan alone to wait for Mr. Mackey. The boy blinks a couple of times, his eyes had been previously closed, and the frown that twists his face only tells Craig that the daylight is probably burning Stan's corneas. He better hope his dumb ass doesn't have a concussion, that'd really fucking suck for him.

"Got into a fight," Stan finally replies, sounding awfully like a middle school Craig at the peak of his sinusitis. His words are slurred too, which is never a good sign.

"Yeah, no shit, dude," he deadpans, curiously eyeing the red spot branded on Stan's left cheek. That's definitely gonna bruise. "With who? A wall?"

"If you're gonna be a fucking dick then fuck off," Stan spits, shoulders going tense. "I'm not in the mood."

He's right, and Craig should listen. The rational voice in his head, the one he usually has no trouble obeying to, tells him to do as he's told, go to his class and leave whatever shit that's definitely none of his business, to Stan to deal with. They're not friends, and Craig still thinks the guy's weird, but his feet betray him by stepping closer to the injured boy anyways.

"Damn, calm down, dude," he raises his hands, approaching, when it hits him. No fucking way. "Jesus Christ, man you fucking reek."

So obviously, Craig should've known from Stan's slow mannerisms that he actually isn't concussed, but fucking drunk. The sharp and unmistakable smell of cheap vodka coming from the guy's so intense Craig feels his own stomach protest, oatmeal pancakes rumbling inside. It's almost as if instead of drinking it, Stan's dumped it over his head or some shit.

"It's like nine in the morning, why the fuck are you drunk?"

Stan groans, the sound almost pitiful, but Craig doesn't feel bad for him in the slightest. Who the fuck gets shitfaced on a Monday morning and still shows up to school? Has Stan been drinking all night? Is he in like a blender or something? Without Kenny?

"I wasn't thinking," he says, or at least that's what Craig manages to interpret through his slurring.

"No shit," the sarcastic remark only makes the guy sneer with what Craig thinks is self deprecation. "Did Wendy dump your sorry ass again or something?"

Of all the ways Craig had expected him to react, none of them had been like this.

Stan suddenly looks at him, weirdly focused and straight up venomous. Craig has never seen him genuinely angry before, especially with the target of it being him, and the sight takes him by surprise.

"You don't give a shit."

The words are heavy, slurred, but they ring clearly inside Craig's ears. They startle him in a way that makes him unconsciously stumble back half a step. Craig doesn't understand them, really, as he tries to process them; it feels like Stan is accusing him of something.

He sounds like he's mad at Craig for asking when he knows he doesn't care, but that reason doesn't feel like enough, it rings as wrong, off the mark. And still, the only other thing Craig can think of doesn't feel right either, the one that tells him that maybe Stan is mad at him for not being his friend, for not caring about what he's going through.

The confusion only makes irritation inside of him grow hot. Craig doesn't like feeling confused, and he also doesn't like Stan because Stan is a self-absorbed dick, he hangs out with pieces of shit like Cartman, who still hasn't grown past his childish cruelty and probably never will. They're not friends because Stan doesn't seem to be able to look past his own fucking nose for more than five seconds at a time, he is the type of person that needs constant attention, he rejoices in the middle of a crowd when the crowd has its eyes on him. Craig fucking hates crowds.

"You're right, I don't," Craig deadpans, feeling kind of like a hypocrite because yeah, he's the one that asked in the first place, but whatever. Fuck him.

He doesn't care, not really, he was just curious to know who could get on Stan–the–pacifist–Marsh's nerves enough to make him throw a punch, but now that Craig knows he's drunk, then it's just useless information. Everyone turns stupid when they drink.

As Craig walks away, leaving the guy alone to fend for himself, Wendy suddenly comes into view, coming around the corner with her heeled boots echoing down the vacant hallways in hurried footsteps. She looks worried, but angry, which isn't rare. It's almost as if she's always in those two states when Stan's involved.

"Is Stan with Mr. Mackey?" she asks him, making Craig pause.

"Yeah," he shrugs, and frowns when she seems to hesitate for a second, her face crumpling before she quickly catches herself and clenches her jaw. Something is definitely wrong and Craig was probably right. The happy couple is fighting again. He doesn't know what to say. "Tell your idiot boyfriend that for bloody noses you're supposed to tilt your head down, not up."

Wendy's smile is small and bitter, but she nods and then continues on her way, probably ready to chew his boyfriend up for fighting and showing up drunk. Craig makes his way to his class, pushing the whole incident out of his mind. Knowing how things work around this town, he's gonna hear all about it by lunchtime anyways.

Chapter Text

Except, he doesn't. Not entirely at least.

By the time the bell rings, signaling for their lunch break, Clyde is waiting impatiently for Tolkien to join them so he can start spilling the beans as they make their way to the cafeteria. Unsurprisingly, everyone around them seems to be on the same wavelength, tuned into the hottest new piece of gossip going around and for once, Craig is grateful that at least for this occasion, his name gets to stay out of people's mouths.

"Apparently he came to school drunk as fuck, like totally wasted," Clyde's saying as they find their way to their usual table, trays of food in hand. "Bebe says that Wendy yelled at him for so long she's gone mute or some shit."

They sit down as usual, Clyde next to Craig, Tolkien right across. Both Clyde and Craig have paper plates with cardboard tasting chicken tenders and oddly pale french fries, but while Clyde had picked up a vanilla pudding for dessert, Craig has a cherry flavored jello cup. Tolkien, like usual, brings his own food from home.

"Yeah, everyone knows all that, but who was he fighting?" Tolkien asks, frowning, he looks conflicted, like he's trying to decide if he should care or not. "Because Red said that he was bleeding when she found him and gave him a tampon to shove up his nose."

Clyde shrugs. "No one really knows, I mean if he fought anyone from school we'd know, right? Like even if we didn't hear about it, we'd at least see someone look fucked up too. Stan's the quarterback, he's built."

"He's a pussy," Craig shrugs, but he says it with more fervor than he usually would. Okay, maybe he's still irritated by Stan's stupid antics earlier. "He probably tripped and fell on his own face like the imbecile he is."

Clyde looks offended in Stan's honor, which is ridiculous, but Craig guesses it's out of stupid teammate camaraderie or some shit like that. He uses a piece of chicken to point at Craig's face accusingly. "C'mon, man, give the guy some credit! You haven't seen him in the gym, he's strong."

Dipping one of his fries into a nauseating amount of ketchup, Craig pops into his mouth and shrugs. "Does he know how to fight, though? You can lift weights and still not know how to throw a punch," he argues back and doesn't miss the way Tolkien seems suddenly too interested in his home cooked lunch.

"He's a football player, he knows how to hurt someone," Clyde's argument is obviously biased, and Craig feels his mouth curl into a sneer as he tries hard not to laugh and choke on his food. "Tolkien probably knows better than me though, right bro? Tell this asshole that Stan can fight."

Tolkien looks up like a deer caught by headlights. "How would I know that?" he asks, and he looks genuinely bewildered.

Craig frowns, and asks even though his mouth is full. "You fought Stan last year, right?"

"No, I didn't." his friend denies, stabbing at his food with his fork.

"You didn't?" Clyde blinks, looking as lost as Craig is feeling.

"No, man! That was just some stupid rumor Cartman started." Tolkien huffs, shaking his head.

"Dude, I totally thought you fought him, like, after you made out with Wendy at that party."

It's kind of comforting, knowing that Clyde seems to be as much in the dark about that whole situation as Craig is. It means that Tolkien's strictly keeping it to himself for some reason that's probably good enough to justify his best friends not knowing.

"I didn't fight Stan, okay?" Tolkien repeats, growing exasperated, and Craig blinks at his food to give him space. "Drop it."

The air feels heavy for half a second, tight in its silence, and Craig focuses on his food. He doesn't know how to deal with Tolkien's anger because he's rarely ever seen him like that, and each time it's happened has been as unsettling as the last. It feels wrong, unnatural, to see Tolkien get pissed off, he's such a chill dude Craig feels like he shouldn't even know how to frown.

Thankfully, Clyde is good at navigating stuff better than Craig will ever be. "Well, whatever, someone got him good this morning. They called his mom and had him picked up. Bebe says that Wendy told her they're suspending him for a week since he technically didn't fight on school grounds but he still showed up drunk."

"You and Bebe are so nosy it's like, scary, man." Tolkien tells him around a bite of his shrimp Caesar salad. His face is relaxed again, but he's so good at controlling himself Craig can't properly read whether he's just pretending to be calm or not.

"I'm not nosy!" Clyde protests, and Craig gives him a flat look that has him rolling his eyes and relenting in a matter of seconds. "Shit, fine. I just like to know things, is that so bad?!"

"Read a book then, dipshit." if he eats fries and the chicken at the same time and drenches them in sauce, Craig finds that it's much easier to eat.

Tolkien snorts, his mouth full probably keeping him from making a snarky remark of his own that'll most likely make Clyde want to cry.

"Those are boring," Clyde looks disgusted by the suggestion alone. "I don't have time for books, I'm too busy getting laid."

"Bebe will chop off your balls if she hears you say that," Craig sneers, relishing in the way his friend's face immediately goes pale.

Clyde looks around the cafeteria in mild alarm, checking to see if his girlfriend is close enough to eavesdrop into their conversation. She isn't, she's probably somewhere outside with the other girls of her group, doting over Wendy, Craig saw them, Heidi and Nichole leave through the back doors to the football field earlier.

"She loves my balls too much to do that," he brags when he realizes that his girlfriend is, in fact, not in their proximity, but his voice still wavers slightly.

Craig feels his face twist. "You're disgusting."

"You're just mad because no one loves your balls, Craig," Clyde accuses, looking way too eager to point out this fact.

"I don't want someone to love my balls."

"That's bullshit, everyone wants someone to love their balls!"

Sighing loudly, Tolkien swallows a mouthful of food and glares. "Can you guys stop saying the word balls? I'm trying to eat here."

Happy to comply, Craig shrugs, not even sure why the ball talk seems to be so important to his friend all of the sudden, both Clyde and Tolkien had always given him his space on the subject, even back when Craig made out with Heidi. But for some reason, today Clyde is deciding to be a stubborn asshole that doesn't know when to stop.

"For real though, you should definitely find someone that loves your… testicles, bro."

"For fuck's sake Clyde, that doesn't make it better!" Tolkien protests loudly.

His insistence on the subject only makes Craig feel like a cactus being rubbed into his skin, dozens of needles pinching into his flesh, testing his patience. Or maybe he's the cactus, prickly and begging for distance.

"I don't care about that shit." he says firmly and absolutely done with this conversation.

"That's because you're a virgin," Clyde argues, looking stupid and earnest as he is. "Once you know what it feels like when—"

Craig would rather be back at Mr. Mackey's office than hear the rest of that sentence. "If you don't shut the fuck up I'm gonna shove my fist so far down your throat you'll feel it in your intestines."

Clyde pales instantly.

Looking equal parts dejected and disgusted, Tolkien pushes his lunch box away with a grimace. "Why do I even bother with you assholes?"

In a freaky occurrence that's actually not freaky at all the more he thinks about it, Craig's phone buzzes inside his pocket coincidentally at the same time the last bell that announces the end of the day of classes goes off. Gathering his things, Craig hurries out of the classroom before he can get squished between the sea of students that's about to flood the hallways.

From: kenneth
yo
waiting by ur car

To: kenneth
omw

Making his way to the parking lot, Craig just then realizes that he hasn't actually seen Kenny all day. They don't share that many classes together, but the blond hadn't been walking through the hallways or at the cafeteria during lunch either, his usual table only occupied by Cartman and Butters, but if he's still in school grounds it only means he most likely skipped all day.

"Hey, dude," Craig nods as he approaches his car. Kenny is already standing next to the passenger door.

At the sound of his voice, the blond raises his head, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. His expression is uncharacteristically serious. "Yo."

"What's up?" Craig frowns as he digs out the keys out of his pocket and unlocks the car.

Without missing a beat, Kenny flicks the cigarette to the ground and steps on it before quickly clambering inside the vehicle. Hurriedly, Craig throws his backpack on the backseat and climbs inside as well.

"Don't ask me what happened," Kenny says, taking Craig by surprise.

Craig's first instinct is to lie and reassure Kenny that he wasn't really planning to ask, but something tells him that the blond will probably be able to see through his bullshit, so Craig sighs and starts the car. "Okay."

His theory of Kenny skipping classes is confirmed as soon as Craig sniffs and the smell of tobacco hits him square in the face. It's quite unmistakable. Everyone knows that Kenny smokes in the second floor bathroom when he doesn't wanna come into class. But Jesus, judging by how potent the smell is, Craig can safely guess that Kenny's been in there all day.

Cigarettes are not exactly Craig's thing; he smokes sometimes, mostly when he's drunk and someone offers one to him, but he's never enjoyed doing it enough to go out of his way and buy a pack for himself. He wonders if smoking enough of them in one day could kill you, and then he wonders how many Kenny's smoked throughout the day.

Pulling out of the parking spot, Craig takes his time to drive off, careful not to hit any of the other students that are getting into their cars as well. Kenny looks out of the window the entire time, eyes glazed over like his mind is miles and miles away. The sight makes Craig feel exactly like he feels seeing Tolkien angry. Foreign and wrong.

Thankfully, it doesn't take long for Kenny to crack. Craig gets to drive down two whole blocks before Kenny's shaking his head, blinking away from whatever's in his head. He turns to look back at Craig after a few seconds, and he seems pissed, which Craig decides is somewhat better than whatever he'd been feeling before.

"This town fucking sucks." he grumbles. “We have to get the fuck out of South Park.”

That’s always been the general sentiment shared by most of the kids living in South Park, and Craig knows that realistically, not many of them will make it out; but if anyone deserves to kiss their stupid shithole of a hometown, it’s Kenny, probably Butters as well.

Craig shoots him a quick knowing look before focusing back on the road ahead. "Yup."

"I had to hide in the bathroom all day because a bunch of people I don’t even know kept asking me about Stan," he scoffs.

"Yeah, everyone's talking about it."

“Fucking lifeless.”

Tell me about it.

"You saw him, right?" Kenny asks, eyes widening with the realization as it sinks. "He must've gotten sent to see Mr. Mackey while you were there. Did you see him?"

"Uh, yeah, he was waiting outside when I got out."

"What did he look like?"

"Drunk and beat up?" Craig frowns, confused by the question. "Wait, you didn’t see him? You don't know what happened either?"

"No, man!" Kenny says, looking deadly worried. Craig has never seen him like this before. "I didn't see him at all today, I just heard what happened and he was gone by then, and when I asked Wendy about it she flipped, like started yelling at me because she thought I got him fucked up drunk, as if Stan has ever needed anyone to hand him a drink."

Craig winces at the last comment, because it is true. Stan’s dad already has a notorious substance abuse problem, everyone in town knows, and considering the condition in which Stan shows up at parties, it’s not hard to see that if he keeps it up, he’ll probably follow in Randy’s footsteps.

"Yikes." he feels like an insensitive asshole as soon as the word comes out of his mouth, but he can’t find anything else to say, so he sticks to driving.

“I called him like a hundred times but his phone is dead, his mom probably took it from him or something,” the frustration is crystal clear in his voice, and he roughly rakes his fingers through his hair.

“What about Kyle? If anyone knows, it must be him, right?” Craig doesn’t talk to Kyle, because Kyle has an amazing ability of getting on literally everyone’s nerves with an ease that’s almost admirable, so it takes until right that moment for Craig to realize that the redhead hadn’t been at school either.

“I talked to Kyle, he says he doesn’t know anything, he stayed home because Ike’s sick or something and he had to babysit.”

“Well, he’ll be fine, right? He’s home and he’ll come back, maybe his mom will let you see him after work and you guys can talk,” Craig rationalizes, the urge of getting Kenny to stop looking so distressed is surprisingly intense.

“Yeah, I know that!” Kenny blows up, and Craig officially crosses out trying to become a therapist in the future or whatever, even though he’s never even considered it. “It’s just that Stan is—”

“An idiot.”

“Yeah but I mean he’s a fucking loose cannon. He’s been going through shit for a while and he’s emotional like a chick on her period I swear! And he doesn’t fight, ever, he’s never been the type of guy that throws hands even if he’s really fucking pissed.”

The worry on Kenny’s face now is making Craig’s insides feel queasy, and yeah even someone like Craig, who’s absolutely fucking terrible at reading between the lines, can probably understand what the blond is implying. And it only makes the feeling in Craig’s gut a hundred times worse, so much so he almost missed the last turn.

“Kenny, Stan’s not gonna kill himself, alright? He’s gonna be fine, he’s safe at his house with his family. Nothing’s gonna happen to him and you can go check on him tonight.” it’s probably too harsh, but Craig can’t really think of a way to be more tactful, and besides, Kenny doesn’t seem too keen on patronizing words either.

Kenny looks at him, jaw tight and eyes full of hurt. His lips part, like he’s gonna say something, and Craig waits until he finds the words. It looks like he doesn’t, or he doesn’t dare to say them out loud, because after a few seconds of tense silence, Kenny sighs, loudly, and shakes his head in defeat. “Drop me off at your store too, I need to talk to Tweek before my shift starts.”

“To Tweek?” Craig frowns, the selfie Wendy posted flashing in his mind.

Trying to remember if he saw the blond today at school is harder than it’s ever been in the past week, but Craig is almost eighty percent sure that he caught a glimpse of Tweek in the hall earlier in the morning for like a second.

It’s a stupid thought, but it’s in his mind already, as he wonders if maybe it could be that Tweek’s the culprit for Stan’s bruised face. It doesn’t make sense, though. Sure, if Craig had to bet on that particular fight, he’d definitely put his money on the blond, but why would Tweek even hit Stan?

“Yeah, he told me he thought he saw Stan last night when he was closing the coffee shop, and he said that Stan looked weird.”

“Weird?” Craig repeats. In his eyes, Stan is always weird. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I wanna find out.”

By the time nine p.m. rolls around, Craig is already both bored out of his mind and strangely tense at the same time.

His mind’s been on Kenny’s worried expression all afternoon. Craig’s never seen him like that before, and it’s so unsettling he starts to overthink their conversation; the way it had gone, how stupidly bland he’d sounded throughout. Craig's always known that people think he's an insensitive moron, Tricia herself used to call Craig a robot, accusing him of not having feelings, but today's the first time he's ever felt so guilty for his shortcomings. He feels bad for Kenny, because Kenny's a poor bastard that not only has to deal with his own shitty life, but his fucked up friends' problems too, and all Craig had done was upset him even more.

To make matters worse, not a single person comes by the store, not even the errant rando that usually walks in just to ask to use the bathroom, so Craig can't find anything to distract himself with except for rearranging shelves and listening to music. And who thought music would be something bad? Certainly not Craig, but as he hits play, he thinks he might start to lose it.

At first it'd seemed like a good idea to get back to the album Stan had recommended, but keeping in mind everything that went down, if Craig had thought it was depressing before, now it's like his eyes have opened, and maybe Kenny's worries aren't as unfounded as he'd believed them to be.

Loud, loutish lover, treat her kindly
Though she needs you
More than she loves you
And I know it's over still I cling
I don't know where else I can go
Over and over and over and over

Like, seriously, who can actually listen to this shit and not want to slit their wrists? It even makes Craig feel fucking miserable and he can't even relate to the lyrics. No wonder Stan's gone off his fucking rocker if he actually listens to shit like this on the daily.

Just as Craig's turning around to go turn the music off completely, figuring that no one is gonna come by this late anyways and he can probably go home half an hour earlier —what Penny doesn't know won't hurt her, the little bell above the door rings with the announcement of a newcomer, and it's so unexpected that Craig almost drops the box full of CD's he's holding.

Standing in between the aisles, he doesn't get a view of who it is, but it doesn't take him more than a second to realize that the voice he hears is familiar enough to know.

"Jesus, Stan. Are you seriously listening to the Smiths again?" Tweek wonders aloud, although Craig has a feeling he's probably talking to himself.

Hesitating for half a second, Craig tries to think of what to do. Obviously Tweek doesn't know that Stan quit and he's been hired as his replacement, and Craig isn't really sure what ground they're standing on now. After their conversation through Instagram, Craig hasn't heard from Tweek again, and he's not sure if he's in the mood to bear another one of the blond's freakouts. But he can't really hide either, that'd be fucking stupid, and Tweek will probably look for Stan and find him instead and Craig will be back to square one on this debacle.

"No one's ever called me Stan before, but I feel like I should be offended," Craig drawls, stepping away from the shelves and into view.

Tweek's still standing near the door, eyes roaming, probably wondering why is the store empty but open, and he visibly startles when he sees Craig come out of hiding, which he wasn't doing, just to be clear, he'd just happened to be out of view when the blond came in. The blond is clearly coming right from across the street, he's not wearing his apron, but his hair is all ruffled, like he's been tugging at the strands and there's a coffee stain that's almost blending with the brown of the sleeve of his sweater.

It's kind of amusing to see, the amount of emotions that seem to pass through Tweek that show on his face, almost like a movie sequence, but Craig doesn't want to make him upset by laughing, so he gives him his best neutral stare instead, which in Craig language, it's the best type of stare to get.

"Ack W—what are you doing here?!" Tweek accuses, looking agitated, but he doesn't leave, which Craig considers as progress.

"Funny," Craig says, completely monotone. "Usually I'm the one that asks that question."

For a couple of seconds there, Tweek looks like he's contemplating something really hard, because he looks frozen in place and his brows are furrowed, so Craig thinks maybe it's best to let him come to whatever decision he's trying to make and resumes his way towards the store's sound system to change the depressive ass music for something more easy to digest.

"Where'sss Stan?" the blond finally asks, spurring into action and following behind a surprised Craig.

"How should I know?" he shrugs, putting the box he's holding down on the counter next to the register. "After what he pulled this morning though, I'd bet he's at home with a fucked up hangover and a sore black eye."

"What are you—ngh doing here?" Tweek still looks bewildered, his big ocean eyes scan Craig intensely and he turns around, for once feeling overwhelmed by the attention.

"Working," he says, and mentally kicks himself when he hears the word come out sounding more like a question than an answer.

Picking the first song he sees on the screen of the store's computer, Craig presses play and turns to face Tweek, who's looking back at him with narrowed eyes, as if he doesn't actually believe that it's Craig Tucker that's standing in front of him and not some hallucination or disguised government agent, whatever it is that the blond likes to be paranoid over these days.

"You w—work here? Sinngh—ce when?" should Craig be offended by the incredulity in Tweek's face? Does Tweek think Craig's too stupid to have a job or what?

"A week? Two? I don't know. Why the interrogation?"

"What happened to— ack! Stan?" Tweek insists, looking progressively distressed, his eye has started twitching.

Craig's blood starts to run quicker, sensing the disaster that could develop if Tweek loses it. "I don't know, I think that maybe he was dropped on his head as a baby, or his dad gave him whiskey mixed with his cereal growing up, but don't take my word for it, I'm not a shrink."

It works. Kind of? Tweek does look appalled by the answer, but the shock seems to make him forget his nerves for long enough to calm down a bit, the fists of his hands loosening at his sides, the twitch in his eyes slowing in frequency; Craig can't help but feel a little victorious over it.

"Jesus," the blond mutters under his breath, giving him a loaded look that's mostly surprised. "You're a dick."

"Not on purpose, believe it or not," it looks like Tweek leans on the not a little too much for Craig's comfort. "If you meant to ask why Stan doesn't work here anymore, then I don't know either. He quit and I got hired in his place."

"But Stan loved this job," once again Craig thinks that Tweek is talking to himself, so he just shrugs as a response.

"Stan's pretty fucking weird, it's just that a lot of people don't even notice."

"Takes one to know one, huh?" Tweek huffs, and he looks too proud of himself, which is bullshit since he's the one that's been branded as the weird kid since elementary school.

"Are you talking about me or you?"

"You're the one listeninnng to Radiohead right now," Tweek points out, like it's irrefutable evidence that supports his argument.

Startled, Craig realizes that even though the music is playing out of the speakers, he hadn't realized that it's coming out, fully audible until now. And yes, it's indeed, a Radiohead song.

"I know all the things around your head
And what they do to you
What are we coming to?
What are we gonna do?
Blame it on the Black Star
Blame it on the falling sky
Blame it on the satellite
That beams me home."

"What's wrong with Radiohead?" Craig doesn't know if he's supposed to be offended, it sounds like it, but the only thing he's feeling is curiosity. Maybe amusement.

Looking at him like he's grown a second head out of his neck, Tweek just remains staring at Craig for a few long seconds, and Craig realizes that he's never wanted to be able to read someone's mind so bad before until that moment. He blinks back at the blond, fighting the urge to squirm under the scrutiny, and waits until Tweek reaches whatever verdict he's forming in his mind.

"What else do you listenngh to?" Tweek asks instead, tilting his head slightly to the side. Amusedly, Craig follows the movement with his eyes, brain caught up on the way the golden locks of his hair brush against his shoulder.

"Why should I tell you? You wanna call me weird again?" he asks, eyes narrowing. He doesn't care, but it's fun to push Tweek around when he's not on the verge of losing his shit.

"I won't if you don't listen to weird people music."

If Craig was born yesterday, maybe he'd believe that Tweek means this wholeheartedly, but he didn't, and so it's obvious that whatever answer he can possibly give is just gonna prove whatever point Tweek's trying to make.

But, it's also the first time they're talking in person, in a semi-civilized manner, so Craig supposes that he should be one to start picking his battles.

"I don't know what weird people music is," he tells Tweek, and looks at the playlist he's compiled with the songs he's found he likes since working at the store. "What about Deftones?"

"You listen to Deftones," Tweek repeats, looking skeptical. The emphasis in the first word doesn't go unnoticed.

Craig shrugs. "Yeah, so?"

Tweek blinks, his blue eyes roaming over him like it's the first time he's ever seeing Craig in his life.
Unexpectedly, his thin pink lips stretch on a sudden grin that takes Craig by complete surprise, the slight gap between his front teeth catches his attention instantly and Craig feels like punching himself in the face for some reason.

"Did Stan tell you to listen t—to The Smiths?" Tweek asks, but he seems to already know the answer before Craig can actually reply, and then snorts. "The Cure's ngh better."

"Is it weird people music?" Craig asks, slightly disoriented by the way Tweek keeps jumping from one point of their conversation to another.

"Maybe," the blond shrugs, his hand comes into view, and he pulls on a strand of his hair softly, self-conscious but not rough. "W—What's so wronnngh about weird?"

Taken aback, Craig fumbles to find a way to respond, but what is he supposed to say? Tweek doesn't look like he's waiting for an answer either, he just puts his hands inside the pockets of his jeans and shrugs, like he can't respond to his own question and he's not trying to, and before Craig notices, the blond's turning around, walking towards the exit.

As the door closes and Tweek disappears from view, Craig continues to stand paralyzed in place like an idiot, his eyes blinking in confusion at whatever that whole thing was. Does Tweek hate him? Was that supposed to be a friendly exchange? Sure, Craig knows that he's not that good when it comes to social interactions, but he doesn't think he's ever been this conflicted about a simple conversation before.

A part of him feels like it wants to be offended, his ego having taken a hit that he's not even sure it was even supposed to be a hit, but it also feels like being mad is just a reaction that's simply easier to go to than… whatever this is supposed to be.

"What the fuck was that?" he hears himself ask under his breath.

Across the street, the lights inside Tweak Bros. Coffee shut off and a Deftones song starts playing through Nebula Records' speakers.

Chapter Text

In very much Stan Marsh typical nature, the aftermath of what happened on Monday seems to affect everyone for the rest of the week, which of course, pisses Craig off like nothing else in the world, given that even though he usually enjoys being right about things, he doesn't actually want proof on how the world seems to somehow actually revolve around someone like Stan.

Shrugging and distracting himself when people inevitably start talking about whatever the fuck happened to Stan and his mysterious adversary isn't very hard to do, because Craig honestly doesn't give a shit anymore, but he'd be lying if he said that there isn't a thorn in his side that he can't stop thinking about. A thorn the size of a seventeen year-old pothead with a mullet named Kenny McCormick.

The thing is, like Stan who's been suspended and therefore away from the spotlight, Kenny seems to, in solidarity, literally fall off the face of the Earth as well. And for some reason, Craig does care about it.

The next morning, when Craig and Tricia get to the McCormick household to pick the siblings up for school again, they only find Karen patiently waiting in the driveway. After a brief argument with himself over whether or not he actually gives enough of a shit to ask, Karen kindly tells him that Kenny hasn't been home since yesterday because he's apparently staying at Stan's.

Rationally, Craig knows that this should be enough information to put his mind at ease, because Kenny's probably just worried about Stan and he's being a good friend by keeping him company or whatever it is that they're doing. It really isn't none of his business, Craig knows this as well as he knows that two plus two equals four, but oddly enough, he can't shake the memory of the pained stare Kenny had given him the day before out of his mind; just the weight of it sinks into his stomach, and tells Craig not only that Kenny is a loyal and concerned friend, but also that whatever it is that Stan's going through is most likely some really hardcore shit.

And that is concerning, okay? Sure, Craig might be a mean asshole sometimes, or most of the time, whatever, but contrary to popular belief, he does have empathy for people —as long as it is someone other than Eric Cartman. And he doesn't actually want anything horrible to happen to someone he's known since kindergarten like Stan, even if they've never been friends.

It gets to the point that Craig's genuinely considering texting Kenny to ask what the fuck is going on, but if he's already bad at real life conversations, he's even worse at them via text messages, so every time he pulls up his contact on his phone, Craig just ends up blinking at the screen like a moron, not sure of what to say.

As consolation, Craig tells himself that it's probably for the better, Stan is grown and he can sort his shit out like Craig can, and Kenny's probably gonna help him through it, and they're gonna be fine.

It's impossible to miss that he's the one being affected the least by this situation, though. Crazy as it sounds, it's like some type of cosmic disorder is going on at school, most prominent when Kyle shows his face again and decides to sit at Craig's table during lunch.

"What?" the redhead's almost barking, defensive from the very second his food tray hits the surface of the plastic table.

Feeling his eyebrows rising in reaction, Craig just blinks back. He'd been staring at Kyle, sure, but could anyone really blame him for being surprised? It's out of the ordinary to have him here, Craig doesn't even remember the last time they've held a conversation that went past the casual greeting, and the fact that Kyle had strutted up to them like a soul being chased by the devil didn't really help. Just because Clyde and Tolkien are good at masking their reactions doesn't mean they aren't taken aback by his sudden presence too.

It's obvious that Kyle's been having a hard time without Stan and Kenny around, especially since he's been left alone with someone like Cartman, and it clearly shows, not only through his very on edge attitude, but also by the deep and dark circles under his eyes.

Craig doesn't really feel like poking this particular bear for any longer. "Nothing."

It's almost funny, the way that Kyle's shoulders instantly relax at his indifference, and Craig would definitely find it more amusing if it wasn't for the way the redhead's green eyes stare back with the same type of look Kenny had the last time Craig's seen him.

The thing that catches Craig's attention instantly is when Kyle goes to grab his plastic cutlery to start eating what he guesses is the kosher food his mom cooks for him, and his right hand is wrapped on stark white bandages. Curiously, he feels himself blink at the sight, but the warning inside Kyle's eyes is almost palpable, so Craig quickly averts his gaze down to his own cafeteria burger.

Unfortunately, Kyle's probably not aware of Clyde's so-called thirst for knowledge.

"Hey man, what happened to you?" the brunet asks, and Craig slaps him on the back of his head out of reflex. "Ow! What was that for?"

Tolkien rubs his temples with a pained expression.

"Mind your business, Clyde." Craig tells him, and he hates the way he sounds like a parent talking to their child.

Giving Craig a puzzled look, Clyde then simply shrugs, it seems that he can't understand what Craig's telling him and he doesn't care enough to even try to. Kyle shifts on his seat across from them and clears his throat, like he's a teacher that's gonna start to give them a lesson. Jesus, Craig's instantly reminded of how insufferable Kyle can be.

"I burned my hand while cooking," he says, and takes a bite of his food, looking away.

Eyes going wide, Clyde hisses with a pained expression, as if he can feel the pain of Kyle's supposed burn on his own hand. How empathetic of him.

"That sucks, dude. Burns are the worst," has he ever even burned himself? "Did you put toothpaste on it?"

"What?" Kyle frowns, and Craig knows he's probably mirroring him too.

"Yeah, toothpaste on the burn," Clyde shrugs, biting into his burger and then, with his mouth full, he adds. "You put toothpaste and it heals faster or something."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Craig asks, all of his theories about Kyle and Stan suddenly overshadowed by Clyde's stupidity.

"What? It's like a home remedy!" Clyde blinks back at him innocently.

"Where did you get that from?" Kyle seems genuinely concerned, which Craig guesses it's kind of nice of him at least.

"My dad taught me," Clyde shrugs.

"Your dad is insane," Tolkien informs him, and Craig has to agree, because what the fuck? "Not only can the chemicals make the burn worse and more painful, you can get a nasty infection, dude! Please tell me you've never put toothpaste on your burns."

Clyde tsks. "I haven't."

Craig stares, eyes zeroed on his best friend's nose. To his mild amusement, it scrunches. "You're lying."

Clyde slaps a hand over his nose and glares, but he's growing flustered. "Fuck you, Craig!"

"Jesus Christ, man!" Kyle looks faint.

Tolkien pinches his own nose and sighs. "Please…
just don't do it again."

"You guys are pussies, I've been doing it all my life and nothing bad's ever happened," Clyde rolls his eyes. "What? You're gonna tell me that the paprika trick's also bad for you too?"

"I don't even wanna know what that means," Tolkien shakes his head.

Frustrated, Clyde clicks his tongue. "You're bullshitting me at this point, c'mon. When you cut—"

"Have you seen Kenny?" Craig asks Kyle, successfully cutting Clyde off before he can continue to horrify the entire medical industry and every other human being with common sense on Earth.

Just as he had expected, in the blink of an eye, Kyle's demeanor completely changes, he instantly looks suspicious and borderline defensive, like an angry dog that wants nothing more than to take a bite out of Craig's face. "No, why?"

It's noticeable enough that Tolkien eyes Kyle closely too, but stays silent, slowly chewing his own food.

"I need to talk to him," Craig shrugs.

"About what?" Kyle asks, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Weed." Craig lies easily, more easy than he's ever been able to before. Ha, look at that.

"Oh." Kyle blinks, once, twice. His shoulders loosen and he grabs the rest of his food, face unreadable. "I'll tell him you're looking for him if I see him."

"Thanks."

"Yeah, no problem, man," he grabs his backpack now, and then stands up. Craig thinks he looks paler than before, but it might just be the cafeteria's lightning. "I have to go, I forgot I have to talk to Mr. Mackey about something."

"Yikes," Clyde cringes in sympathy. "Good luck, man!"

"I'll see you in Calculus," Tolkien's smile is tight around the edges, but it doesn't matter, because Kyle barely even looks at him before nodding and muttering his own goodbye.

Blankly, Craig drinks the last of his water and watches as Kyle rushes away, feet quick from years of being the track team star, and disappears through the big double doors towards the main hallways.

The pieces of the puzzle he didn't even know he'd been solving fit together, but they still leave more questions than answers inside Craig's mind.

"Wait, since when do you smoke weed?" Clyde frowns and Craig has to use all of his willpower to not bang his head against the table.

"I don't." he tells him, which seems to make Clyde even more confused.

"Then why did you tell Kyle—?"

"Do you think he did it?" unsurprisingly, Tolkien is right there with Craig, and he looks conflicted.

"Did what?" Clyde asks, eyes bouncing between his two friends like a lost puppy searching for its owner. "Wait, who? Who did what?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure he did."

"What are you guys talking about?"

Tolkien looks at Clyde and then his eyes dart back to Craig, his face twisting into a grimace that thankfully, Craig understands the meaning it tries to imply, mostly because he shares the sentiment, too. If they explain it to Clyde, then he's without a doubt, gonna tell Bebe, and as soon as that happens, it'll only be a matter of time before the entire school knows about it too.

Normally, Craig wouldn't even care if everyone knew, because fuck them, but this time it feels different, and the more he thinks about it, the heavier it becomes. If Kyle is in fact, the one that fought Stan, which Craig's gut feels like it's set on, then the information doesn't really clarify anything. On the contrary, it only makes the situation even more confusing.

Why would Kyle, the guy who's been Stan's best friend since literally fucking kindergarten, do something like that? What would be so serious that'd even prompt him to react that way? Sure, Kyle's not the hardest guy to provoke, Craig has seen him punch the shit out of Cartman on multiple occasions throughout the years, —but Stan? Out of all people? It feels almost unthinkable.

Adding the fact that the only physical proof linking him to being the culprit is his bandaged hand, Craig thinks that it only makes things exceptionally worse. Had Stan been too drunk to land a punch back? Or had he just been too much of an idiot to just stand and do nothing to defend himself? Although Craig thinks it's reasonable to believe that Stan probably even refused to fight Kyle, it's also kind of fucked up that Kyle would go ahead and just go after Stan knowing that the guy would straight up just take it.

"Why are you guys looking at each other like that? What's going on?" Clyde asks, growing more and more alarmed by the second.

It feels wrong to let him out of it, Craig has to admit, but it's also for the best. His gut tells him that whatever it is that they just figured out, is big enough of a deal to stay out of it. Besides, after becoming the one topic everyone in school was talking about for a good while, Craig thinks Stan's name has already been dragged around enough, and feeling responsible for fueling the fire and throwing Kyle under the bus as well would probably be very fucking shitty.

Sighing, he looks at Clyde, and shakes his head. "Kyle totally put toothpaste on it."

Clyde seems shocked, but a grin slowly creeps into his face, and then all he does is look victorious. "I knew it!"

In the end, Tolkien's the one that lets his head thunk on the table.

Unfortunately, to say that Kyle sitting at his table at lunch is the worst thing that happens, would be totally wrong. The mighty group of friends that Stan is a part of has yet another thread that without him, Kenny and now Kyle, has been let loose, and of course it's the biggest, most annoying thread of them all.

If there's something that Craig learns this week, is that if a lonely Eric Cartman is bad enough, a lonely and bored Eric Cartman is at least ten times fucking worse.

It should be impossible, right? The thought of Cartman somehow becoming more fucked up than he usually already is, considering that he was probably breastfed by fucking Satan himself and potty trained by none other than Hitler. But no, apparently there's always room for improvement, or well, in this case, the opposite of that.

For the first half of the day, Craig is blissfully unaware of this development. He's unknowingly become an expert on avoiding Cartman like the plague around the halls, where there's no supervision from school faculty, and during the few classes they share, Craig sits as far away as possible, trusting that teachers will keep Cartman's fucking antics on a leash. And they do, for the most part.

During English though, one of the classes Craig doesn't share with him, Tolkien says that Cartman called Heidi a fucking traitor bitch and Red a carpet munching dyke after Heidi kept ignoring the notes he kept trying to pass to her and Red jumped in her defense. Craig also catches wind, from Bebe this time, that Cartman gave Butters a wedgie and made him beg to stop in the halls before lunch, apparently just because, which isn't a surprise, but it still makes Craig cringe. And, to add to the pile, there's also word going around that Cartman made some freshman girl cry after tripping her, making her fall, stepping and then spitting on her books.

Needless to say, from all of this, Craig takes extra precaution given his circumstances, and by the time he gets to Spanish class, he's dreading having to even share an enclosed space with the fat piece of shit. Feeling that gets even worse as he steps inside the classroom and sees that Clyde has completely ditched him to go sit by his girlfriend.

With a sinking feeling inside his gut, Craig sits alone in the middle row, only three spots behind Cartman and asshole Kevin Stoley. He stupidly hopes that life will finally give him a break just this one time.

Given his track record with luck though, Craig knows that he's in for a disappointment, but at least Cartman doesn't seem to notice his presence yet, he looks too focused on something else, his pig nose practically glued to his phone.

Slowly but steadily, the room starts to fill up, and Craig watches as students trickle in, mostly in pairs, and choose their seats together. Nelly and Annie sit in front of him, thankfully helping to fill the gap between himself and Cartman. Craig nods to them in greeting when Annie gives him one of her friendly smiles that always guilts him into saying hi to her. Tolkien used to have a crush on her, they even went to their first dance together back in freshman year, but Craig isn't sure about what happened between them after that. He guesses it's nothing bad, or else she wouldn't smile at him like this. Or maybe she's too nice for her own good, who knows? Craig feels kind of bad for thinking her car is ugly now, but it's true.

Nelly on the other hand… total bitch. Craig has blacklisted her ever since the day she made Clyde cry by calling him a momma's boy just a few months after his mom had passed. Bebe told Craig that Nelly had said it by accident, and that she apologized to Clyde the second the words left her mouth, but for some reason Craig can't let it go, even years after. He knows that Nelly did in fact, apologize to Clyde, but he also knows that Bebe had smacked the shit out of her too, so he can't help but think that Nelly only apologized out of fear of getting her shit rocked further by Bebe Stevens.

The bell rings and a couple of minutes later, Mr. Hernández appears through the door, satchel in hand and greeting in Spanish on his lips, as usual. Craig feels like he's dodged a bullet, shoulders relaxing finally, because the seat next to him is still empty, the class is already starting and Cartman's still on his phone doing whatever it is that he's doing —Craig doesn't want to know.

Except—

Except, of course.

"Ack! I'm sorry for being late, Mr. Hernandez! I–I got a note!"

Tweek Tweak comes barreling through the door, looking like he's been swallowed and then immediately spat back out by a hurricane. His blond hair's messed up like always, and one of the sleeves of the unbuttoned shirt he's wearing over a regular blank t–shirt keeps slipping off his shoulder, dragged down by the weight of his backpack strap and his panting for breath.

Mr. Hernández takes the sheet of paper out of Tweek's shaky grasp and reads it with a neutral expression on his face, although Craig doesn't know what he'd expected to see him react like to be honest.

"Está bien, Tweek. Ve a sentarte." Mr. Hernández tells him, leaving the note on his desk.

In response, Tweek just goes rigid, his hands twitching against his sides. He sends a confused look to the teacher, clearly lost at what he just said, and Craig lowkey feels bad for him. Mr. Hernández doesn't play around speaking Spanish, it's honestly a miracle that he even let Tweek excuse himself in English to begin with; he must've felt pity for him.

Sensing the blond's clear distress, Mr. Hernández turns to look around the classroom, eyes roaming through the lines of desks, and gives Tweek a pacifying smile. The next words that come out of his mouth, though, are the closest thing to the nail on Craig's metaphorical coffin he's ever heard in his life.

"It's okay, Tweek. Go sit next to Craig."

Fucking awesome. Craig thinks, disgruntled, pulling his chullo down until the wool is over his eyes. The squeak that comes out of Tweek's mouth is telling enough for Craig to know that the blond isn't excited about the arrangement either, and he lifts the hat back up to see as Tweek scrambles into action, adjusting his backpack and rushing towards the empty spot next to Craig's chair.

As expected, Cartman's head springs up like a shark that's caught a sniff of fresh blood spilling in the water. Craig can literally see him perk up all the way from his spot behind Annie's curls, it's fucked up.

Saying something that isn't hard to guess, Cartman elbows Kevin playfully with a mocking sneer on his wide mouth and Craig watches as Kevin snorts. Cartman grins the type of grin Craig knows too well, the one that promises nothing but the worst as Tweek grows closer, looking frazzled. With a deep sense of dread at the pit of his stomach, Craig realizes that the blond will have to walk by the pair of boys to get to his seat.

As if it was part of a movie scene, Craig feels like everything that's about to happen unfolds in slow motion. He sees Tweek's cargo pants, and his brown Converse sneakers as he approaches, and then he sees Cartman's denim clad leg, stretching under and between the legs of his desk, out towards the small gap between the rows of desks that Tweek is walking through, Cartman's foot becoming an obstacle in the blond's pat.

Watching feels wrong, but Craig can't keep his eyes away from the disaster that's inevitably about to happen, it's morbid and stupid, but he even cringes in anticipation for the impact. Tweek is gonna trip, he's gonna faceplant on the floor or worse, on someone's desk, he's gonna get hurt because of Cartman, and Craig can only watch it happen.

But there's something neither Cartman or Craig count on, and that's Tweek's hyper-vigilance.

For a split second, Craig thinks it's gonna happen, because Tweek is looking ahead, and he's going fast, and he's right there— but he doesn't. He doesn't.

Instead, shocking them both, Tweek's wide blue eyes blink to the side, down to where Cartman's sitting, and they flash with something Craig can't quite place, but it's definitely nothing good. Next thing he knows, Tweek's stepping— no, he's stomping on Cartman's ugly Adidas, right on the toes, making the boy yelp loudly in pain.

"You motherfucking fag—!" pulling his foot back, Cartman cries out.

"Eric Cartman!" Mr. Hernández snaps sternly, cutting him off. "¡No voy a permitir vulgaridades en esta clase!"

"Mr. Hernández, Tweek just stepped on my foot!" Cartman whines, Criaig can't see his face but his ears and the back of his neck are turning red.

"Ack! It was an accident, I–I didn't see him!" Tweek quips, sitting down.

Turning his head to get a better look of him, Craig is impressed to see that Tweek looks very fucking convincing. His eyes radiate innocence, like a kid begging his mom to huy him a candy bar at the store, and his tone is pained, like he's sorry.

Unexpectedly, Craig feels his mouth curl into a smile.

"¡No me interesa, no voy a permitir ningún tipo de discurso de odio en este salón de clases!" Mr. Hernández tells Cartman.

"What's he ngh saying?" Tweek whispers, leaning towards Craig discreetly.

Startled by the closeness, Craig quickly averts his gaze towards their teacher and pretends he isn't aware of the fact that Tweek smells really good, like soap and something sweet and sharp, maybe cinnamon. Did Craig shower last night? Yes, he's pretty sure he did, what does he smell like? He doesn't really wear cologne, only deodorant. Is Old Spice a good smell? Not better than whatever Tweek has going on, that's for sure.

"Uh… he's telling Cartman off for being vulgar and using hate speech in the classroom," it's probably a nice sentiment, but it'd feel way more satisfying in Craig's opinion, if it wasn't for the fact that it's obvious Cartman can't understand Spanish.

"But, Mr. Hernández—!"

"I don't care, Eric. Go to Mr. Mackey's office."

The warmth of Tweek's body disappears as the blond sits back up in place, and Craig quickly sneaks a glance to his face, not surprised by the small smirk on the blond's lips.

Dragging his chair noisily across the floor, Cartman stands from his seat and grabs his red backpack off the floor. He turns around, facing Tweek with burning fury in his eyes, and does a quick motion of swiping his index finger across his neck while mouthing what Craig thinks it's "You're fucking dead. To Tweek's credit though, he doesn't seem threatened or startled, which is rare, but also incredibly amusing.

"Scary," he mutters under his breath, his eyelids twitching with his usual tic.

They watch as Cartman leaves the classroom, stomping his feet and pouting like a giant child, and Craig kind of wants to hug Tweek for it, which would be weird, because Craig doesn't hug people, and Tweek isn't really his friend, —but seeing Cartman defeated is probably the best thing that's happened to Craig in a while.

Now with no distractions present, Mr. Hernández swiftly starts the class, asking the students to open their books on page twenty-five. Tweek flips the pages, humming under his breath, and Craig looks away when he sees a spasm going through the blond's fingers. He wonders if it hurts, to be so wound up all the time. Although, to be completely honest, it's actually the thought of his body moving without his control that freaks Craig a little too much.

"Can I ack ask you something?"

"What?" Craig asks, looking back at him curiously.

"How are you so ngh good at Spanish?" Tweek asks, suddenly snapping Craig away from pointless thoughts.

"My mom's Peruvian," Tweek seems surprised by it. "I mean, my grandma from my mom's side is Peruvian, she met my grandpa when he was on some type of expedition there, he was an anthropologist."

Craig's not sure why he's telling him all of this, but Tweek seems pleasantly surprised, so he doesn't overthink it. It's not like his ethnicity is a secret, people in town know everything about everyone and Craig's aware of how hard it'd been for his mom to grow up in South Park being one of the only mixed kids around at the time, but no one's given Craig any trouble for it before, probably because it's old news by now or something.

"That's ssssuper cool, man!" Tweek awes, which Craig thinks it's kind of funny for some reason. "Does she live in Peru?"

"Yeah, they moved back after my grandpa retired."

"So, you've been ngh to Peru before?" Tweek asks, eyes wide and excited.

"Uh," Craig stammers, taken aback by the blue of them. "Yeah, a couple of times when I was younger."

They haven't gone back because plane tickets are fucking expensive, and it's more convenient for his grandparents to come to South Park instead, but now that they're getting older, Craig isn't sure how things will go. He doesn't remember much of Peru, just the large expanses of green and the heat that made him feel sticky all the time, oh and the food was really fucking good.

He doesn't tell Tweek that he mostly knows Spanish because his grandma used to babysit him and Tricia after his mom got her job at the bank and she wanted them to learn; for some reason it feels too personal of a detail, and the memory of her, sitting on the front porch braiding Tricia's hair and telling them the story of the fox that wanted to go to the Moon, feels tender, like a bruise.

"Sick, man!" Tweek grins. "I've never been nghh to another country before, Peru must be so nice."

Not many people have, Craig knows that only Tolkien goes on international vacations every summer, basically because no one from South Park can really afford such a luxury. The thought of Tweek freaking out on a plane miles and miles up in the sky is interesting, though.

"Would you even survive on a plane ride?" Craig asks him before he can think better of it.

Mouth slightly gaping, Tweek's cheeks take on a matching pink tint, and before Craig can see it coming to stop it, there's a sharp elbow digging between his ribs.

"Ow," Craig winces, face twisting at the stabbing feeling.

Tweek grins, eyes twitching. "Fuck you, dude."

"I had that coming," Craig admits, rubbing the sore spot on his middle.

"So, does Mr. Hernández know you're cheatinnngh?" Tweek asks, petulantly.

"I'm cheating?" Craig blinks.

"You already know Spanish, you're– Jesus, totally cheating."

No, Mr. Hernández doesn't know, and he simply can't know either. Craig has the suspicion that if the man found out about his fluency, he'd either give Craig harder assignments and tests, or worse, make him take a different language class he has no interest in learning, like fucking french or something. Craig can't learn French, even if Tolkien takes it, French fucking sucks.

Calling it cheating doesn't feel right though, because students cheat to get better grades, they pretend to know more than they do and sneakily copy the answers off Google searches, but technically, Craig does the opposite of that, he plays dumb and pretends like he doesn't know the difference between ano and año, so does it even count?

"Are you gonna tell on me?" he asks Tweek.

Huffing, the blonde rolls his eyes. "I should, but I'm nnnot a rat."

He's joking, Craig can tell by the way his eyes sparkle with mischief, and also because he's somehow certain that Tweek wouldn't. Everyone in their class knows that the only rat is Scott Malkinson, or well, Butters too, but only if he's pressured enough.

"Thanks."

Thinking it'll be the end of it, Craig tunes into what Mr. Hernández is saying, something about paying extra attention to unit three for the test coming up in a couple of weeks. Craig circles it in his notebook, even though he probably doesn't need it.

"It comes with a price ngh, though," Tweek adds, his grin widening.

Blinking back, Craig doesn't like the wild edge in his eyes ."I don't have any money."

"I want a rematch."

Huh?

"What?" Craig blinks in confusion.

"Our fight back in ngh elementary, I want a rematch."

What?

A bubble of laughter rises from his stomach, the absurdity of the idea taking Craig by surprise. "You wanna fight me?" he repeats, in case reality is actually shattering and something's playing with his brain.

"Yeah." grin aside, Tweek looks serious.

He actually means it.

Jesus Christ.

"I don't wanna fight you, though."

Fighting Tweek after learning that he literally does kickboxing as a hobby is like knowingly signing up for his own murder. Sure, Craig can defend himself well enough if the circumstances present themselves, and he does have a couple of inches on Tweek, but Tweek's clearly stronger, and he actually practices it for fun.

Now, Craig might not be the brightest most of the time, but he's not this level of fucking stupid.

"Why nnnot?" Tweek pouts, like he genuinely hadn't expected Craig to have a minimal sense of self-preservation. "Are you ack! scared?"

"Honestly? Yeah, kinda." Craig concedes.

Scared isn't really the word. Craig's certainly not scared of Tweek, but he is weary of the very obvious facts related to the outcome of a possible fight between them. For once, as stated before, his chances of winning don't seem very promising, and even if Craig were to win, it's not like the whole thing wouldn't have repercussions. If his parents hear a word about him fighting again —hell, even if they see a bruise on Craig's body, they will definitely flip, for real this time, and everything he's been working hard for these past weeks will go to waste.

In all honesty, Craig has to admit that he's a little curious about it, though, like, he can't help but wonder how a fight with Tweek would actually go; but curiosity killed the cat, right? And Craig is more of a guinea pig person himself.

With a heavy sigh, Tweek's shoulders droop, like he's genuinely disappointed, and Craig shouldn't find it funny, considering how it shows that the blond wants to beat his ass this badly, but it kind of is.

"Damn, what did I even do to you to make you want to punch me so bad, dude?" Craig asks.

"Other than fight a fight that wasn't ack your fight to begin with ngh with Cartman?" Tweek's tone makes him feel stupid, like it's obvious.

It's not convincing enough, though, because even if they aren't close by any means, Craig has never seen Tweek as the type of prideful asshole that gets his ego bruised like this.

"I said I was sorry about that, I don't even know why I did it."

"You got ngh suspended for a week, man!" Tweek says, sounding distressed all of the sudden. "Jesus— I heard you ack almost got sent to military school, too!"

"It's not—" Craig cuts himself off abruptly as the second part fully processes in his brain. "Wait, who told you about that? About the military thing."

"Huh? Uh, Kenny."

Jesus Christ, seriously?!

"Does Kenny air out all my fucking dirty laundry?"

"I— no? What does ack! That mean?" Tweek looks confused and nervous. Craig sighs heavily.

"Whatever, it doesn't matter," it does matter, Craig hates the thought of people just sharing his own business like this, but upsetting Tweek won't help in any way. He'll just have to talk to Kenny as soon as the son of a bitch decides to show his face again. "So what? You wanna fight me because I got in trouble instead of you?"

"Jesus, man— are you dumb?" Tweek is staring at him like Craig has suddenly put on a costume and started dancing the Macarena on top of his desk.

"Honestly? Yeah, kinda." Craig concedes again, a little self-conscious this time.

Tweek snorts. "You got in ngh trouble because of me, idiot."

Ah. Well, that makes more sense.

"Oh," he says, like a dumbass. "I wasn't thinking when I did it, honest, but if you know about how I'm this close to being sent off to learn how to serve this beautiful country, then you understand why I can't fight you."

Tweek shrugs, still looking disappointed by it. "Yeah, I get it."

"I can help you with Spanish, though, if you want," Craig offers.

Taken by surprise this time, Tweek's eyes twitch, startledly shifting from Craig's face to the board at the front of the classroom, where Mr. Hernández is listing down some verbs they're not paying attention to. Tweek's face twists, as if a language is really causing him physical pain, and Craig knows what he's gonna say before he says it.

"I might ngh take you up on that."

Chapter Text

Just as Craig thinks he’s gotten away with staying mostly unnoticed by Cartman, baseball practice quickly reminds him that life, especially his own, is not that easy.

Without Kenny to keep him company during his punishment laps, Craig dreads the entire ordeal even more than usual, groaning and moaning the entire time as sweat drips down his face. Tolkien claps his back encouragingly every time he passes Craig, and even though it’s supposed to be a good spirited gesture, Craig only feels like punching him in the face for it, his mood progressively more and more on edge every time Cartman breathlessly snickers as Craig runs past him, like he knows a joke Craig isn’t in on.

Gritting his teeth, Craig ignores him to the best of his ability, fantasizing about tripping his fat ass like he’d tried to do with Tweek and watch him fall flat on his face, maybe spit out a tooth, with buckets-worth of blood gushing out of his nose in R rated horror movie fashion, just to cope. Which, in retrospection, is pretty fucked up if Craig’s totally honest, but it helps, so he can’t really delve on the morality of the fact when he’d rather stay sane. Choosing battles and what-not.

By the time he’s done with his warm-up, Coach Miles is already barking orders before Craig can even catch his breath, and he bites his tongue to hold back his “insolent mouth” as his dad so kindly likes to call it.

“Tucker, you’re catching today.”

This is also a part of his punishment, Craig’s always done best as a batter, he hates catching. Coach Miles looks at him with challenging eyes, testing his temper, and Craig can do nothing but sigh, breathing deeply before grabbing the old ass catcher’s mask, the plastic of it already wearing thin around the edges, making them sharp.

“I thought you were more of a pitcher, is Tweek better at it, then?” Cartman murmurs, sneering disgustingly.

“Do you ever shut up?” he’s pushing it, but Craig can’t help himself, the irritation flares all the way up his belly in nauseating and burning waves.

"You shouldn't listen to whatever shit Cartman says about you, otherwise you'll be doing exactly what he wants." Kenny's voice rings clear inside his head, his tone is somehow successful at making the anxiety building up in Craig's body slightly subside.

"You really want to get your ass kicked again, tubby?” Tolkien cocks his head, his body coming to stand in the space between Craig's body and Cartman's smoothly.

“Yeah, right. Are you gonna be the one to do it, Tolkien? Because Tucker here can’t do shit or his daddy’s gonna send him to conversion therapy," Cartman’s ugly smirk literally makes the food start to disagree with Craig’s stomach. "Isn't that right, Craig? Your old man heard you're playing for the other team and wants to send you away, get you fixed?"

Instead of it bothering him like Craig thought it would, the words coming out of Cartman's mouth are mostly just funny. Where does he even get the shit he says from? Are some people's brains just coming up with whatever bullshit they think is mean? At this point, dealing with Cartman's bullshit just feels like a hassle. Craig would love to simly shrug it off and ignore whatever he says, but he knows Cartman way too much to think it's gonna work on him, no, Eric Cartman is many, many, horrible things, one of which includes his persistence when it comes to making everyone's lives fucking miserable.

"You don't know shit."

"I know they'll have you praying it away," Cartman steps closer, and Craig follows, bumping into Tolkien, who continues to stand between them. "I know it's not gonna work, it's not gonna be enough."

"Walk away, Cartman." Tolkien warns tightly, it's amusing to see him be more affected than Craig himself.

Don't get him wrong, it's a nice sentiment, Tolkien feeling like he has to intervene, but Craig only wants to tell him to get out of the way. Flames of embarrassment lick inside his gut, he absentmindedly wonders if this is what Tweek had felt when Craig had jumped into his defense.

"Talking from experience, fatass?" there'd been a time back when they were kids that Craig had been convinced Cartman was obsessed with Kyle, just then, the memory comes back in full force.

"Ha! You wish," Cartman says petulantly, but his face quickly twists into a disgusted grimace. "I'm not sick like you."

"Sure."

"Your dad should just give up," he smirks, shoulders shrugging. "He should just take you out the back and put you down like a dog."

Now, that. That kind of does get under his skin a little, but honestly, can you blame him for it? It's disgusting, the words are blunt, and Craig can't help to feel slighted, maybe because it doesn't seem impossible for it to happen, knowing Thomas. Is it impossible? Would his dad really go to that extreme if it was true?
The plate of the mask digs into Craig’s hand, as his fists close tightly on themselves. The bite of the plastic slices into the meat of his palm sharply.

"I wish he did," Craig drones, and at least a small dose of satisfaction washes over him when Cartman's expression seems to stutter. "I'm getting tired of seeing your fucking face around."

Snarling like an animal, Cartman jumps forward. "I'm gonna—!"

"Tucker!" Coach Miles barks suddenly, startling the three of them. "Is that blood?!"

"Huh?" Craig blinks, disoriented.

"Jesus, dude! You're bleeding!" Tolkien yelps motioning down to Craig's hand.

Looking down confusedly, Craig finds, to his surprise, that it's true, and he's in fact hurt. Just as his eyes see the fat droplets of blood run down, in between his fingers, the pain finally seems to register inside his head; there's a sharp pang, the sting so intense it echoes in waves all the way up his arm. Hissing out, Craig pries his own hand open, the pitcher's mask tumbles down to the grass, blue plastic now stained with red splatters.

"Don't touch it, you'll catch AIDS!" Cartman looks short from delighted at the sight.

"Shut your mouth, Eric!" Coach yells, frowning as he picks up the offending mask. "I told Principal Victoria we need new equipment."

Tolkien cradles Craig's wrist firmly, pulling on his arm to look at the wound closely. Craig feels his face twist into a grimace as the cold air hits it fully, the stinging sensation only growing more, and more intense. Blood oozes out steadily, covering the skin in a slick coat that feels just wrong.

"Craig, go to the nurse's office and get that hand wrapped up."

"C'mon, man. I'll go with you." Tolkien mutters, eyeing the cut worriedly.

The pain's already starting to dull, only some pulsing remnants left behind, and Craig just wants to run the fucking thing under water to get rid of the thickening blood, the slimy feeling of it is genuinely grating on his already pent-up nerves.

"It's fine," Craig shrugs, pulling his injured hand back to his side a little too roughly. "I'll go."

Watching him with conflicted eyes, Tolkien hesitates, looking like he wants to say something but can't find the words; it doesn't matter anyways, because Craig's already turning away, hurriedly heading towards the back entrance of the school —it's not like he's dying or anything, really, it's just a stupid slash. Craig will definitely live to see another day and Tolkien will find something else to worry about.

Rolling his shoulders in a feeble attempt to get the tension out, Craig rushes quickly through the quiet halls, being careful to keep his hand cupped upwards to avoid getting blood everywhere, which shouldn't even matter in the first place, but the last thing he needs right now is people starting to make up shit about him again.

Thankfully, the nurse's office is empty of any students by the time Craig reaches it, and the woman stands quickly as her eyes zero on the pooling crimson in his palm without him having to say anything first. Springing into action, she quickly rounds the desk and guides him towards the small faucet in the corner of the room, her grip is firm as she grabs Craig's elbow and pulls until the cold water hits his skin.

The stinging comes back for the first couple of seconds before going numb, making Craig hiss again, but the woman only strengthens her fingers around his arm to keep him from shying away from the spray.

"What happened?" she asks, eyes darting between the pink water going down the drain and Craig's frown.

Ms. Roberts is, overall, a nice person, though it's true that Craig doesn't really know her that much. Still, he has no reason to believe otherwise either, since she's never been hostile towards him considering his reputation. Truth is, no one seems to know much about her, because she's quiet and only asks questions related to students' health, but he heard from Bebe once that some people think she's a lesbian, because she's never been married to anyone before and apparently, someone's parents once saw her holding hands with some blond butch outside of a movie theater in Denver —Craig isn't sure if he believes it, though, because he can't imagine what would possess a gay person who's not batshit insane to stay in a shitty hellhole like South Park instead of running for the hills at the first opportunity presented. She's pretty enough, long brown hair and green eyes, so it's obvious that it makes people talk; surely someone as young and attractive with a stable job has to have found a mediocre husband by now.

"I cut myself at baseball practice."

It's not even close to an explanation that makes sense, but Ms. Roberts appears to decide that it's good enough for her, because she just silently nods and shuts the water off once it starts to finally run clear. She nods to the old examination table and Craig walks towards it, sitting as she gets latex gloves on her hands and looks into the cabinets under the sink, pulling medical supplies out. Craig watches, almost hypnotized, as she naturally goes through the motion of cleaning his hand, disinfecting the wound and then tightly wrapping it in white bandages. Her touch is soft, but firm, and Craig realizes this is probably the first time someone other than his mom has grabbed his hand with care.

Jesus Christ.

Right behind his eyes, a headache is threatening to start.

"Does it hurt?" Ms. Roberts checks, poking at the middle of the covered cut with her index finger.

"Not really," he tells her blandly, it doesn't, it just feels tender.

"Luckily, it's not that deep of a cut, but this part of the hand tends to bleed a lot," she shrugs, pulling off her latex gloves. "If it starts to bleed again, just apply some pressure and change the bandage, you'll survive."

"Great. Thanks." Craig huffs, making her smile.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" Ms. Roberts eyes his face too close for comfort, and Craig wonders what she's looking for.

"Can I get some Advil or something? My head hurts."

"Mmmh," she hums, suddenly standing up to go to her desk. She types something onto the computer, probably in search of Craig's medical history. "Yeah, I can give you Ibuprofen but you'll have to take it in front of me."

Taking the pill with his left hand, Craig quickly swallows it alongside a mouthful of water Ms. Roberts gets in a disposable cup from the sink. She offers to call his mom to come pick him up, but Craig informs her that he has a car, and since it's already the last period, he'll just head home. She walks him to the door, which is kind of odd, but Craig is already done with the whole thing so he just barely acknowledges her on the way out.

It shouldn't be surprising to find Tolkien standing by outside, but Craig isn't really expecting it either.

"You good?" he asks, peeling off from the wall he'd been leaning on.

"Yeah," Craig shrugs, waving the bandaged hand for him to see. "Did Coach let you leave early?"

"I told him you needed to get your stuff back, but I have to get back out there," Craig hadn't noticed him holding his backpack and clothes until then.

"Thanks." it's a relief, if it was for him, Craig would have completely forgotten.

Using his non-dominant hand to grab onto his backpack, Craig shoulders it on and takes his clothes from Tolkien's grasp, who just continues to stare at him with a concerned glint in his eyes.

"Hey, man, listen, whatever Cartman meant—"

"Dude, it's cool," Craig cuts him off, already knowing what his friend wants to say. "I really don't care. For real."

"Okay, but still! He shouldn't be saying that shit to you, it's fucked up and even if it was true, no one would do that shit to you, I— Clyde, we wouldn't let them," Tolkien insists uneasily.

"It's Cartman, that's literally all he does, say fucked up shit and get away with it," Craig shrugs. "It doesn't matter."

"Are you sure?" Tolkien hesitates, eyes darting towards his bandaged hand. Craig's face must show his annoyance because Tolkien sighs, resignedly. "Okay, okay, whatever. Text me later, yeah? Maybe we can hang out tomorrow or something."

"Sure," Craig shrugs noncommittally, nodding when Tolkien gives him one last troubled smile and pats his back in passing, walking back towards the back of the school.

"Hey, Craig?" Tolkien says, stopping in his tracks.

Turning around, he looks back at his friend, the expression on his face brings a weird feeling, like something slimy that's suddenly crawling inside Craig's chest.

"You can talk to me, you know that, right?" he says, looking too earnest for Craig's comfort. "I know you fucking suck at talking about important shit—"

"Fuck you." he rolls his eyes.

Tolkien snorts, but it doesn't take long for him to sober up again. "I mean it, though. I'm your friend, you can trust me with anything."

"Yeah," Craig nods, throat feeling dry all of the sudden. He thinks about Wendy and Stan and even Nichole. "You can trust me too."

Going to work is literally the last thing he wants to do right now, but Craig has no other choice, and besides, the thought of going back home is, for some reason, even less appealing at the moment. So, like the perfect picture of the responsible young man his parents want to turn him into, Craig pulls the car over towards Main Street and parks it right outside Nebula Records' door, it is probably the only good thing about shitty South Park; unlimited parking spaces.

At this point, Craig could probably go through the motions of opening the store in his sleep; in only a couple of minutes, he manages to turn all the lights on, start up the ancient computer and hit play to whatever song Penny listened to last before she left for class. He also checks for any extra duty she could be asking him to do for the day, comes up empty, and then finds an envelope with "Craig :)" scribbled on the front in glittery purple ink, sitting next to the change inside the register.

Surprisingly, Craig is barely excited to see his paycheck as he finds that he still can't really focus on anything that isn't the antsy energy that seems to be building up inside his veins, it's almost as if hundreds of ants are crawling under his skin. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he realizes that he's still in his gym clothes, so he quickly steps into the employees' only bathroom, backpack in hand and hopes that no one comes into the store while he changes.

Feeling kind of gross for putting on his everyday clothes without cleaning off the sweat he'd broken into while running, Craig has to rely on embarrassingly, and with only one hand, splashing water under his armpits and over his face before throwing on his The X-Files gray t-shirt and his black crew neck sweatshirt. Hopping into his jeans and buttoning them up is, thankfully, easier, even if the pinching of grabbing the zipper between his fingers makes his hand ache a little.
For once, he decides to forgo the chullo that's almost calling Craig's name from inside his backpack, but he figures that the feeling of his sweaty scalp being smothered by the hot wool will only make him want to rip his eyes out of his skull.

Trying to distract himself, Craig arranges and rearranges shelves, checks prices and counts the change left in the register, he flexes his fingers to see how much it aches, checks the bandage for blood, and in the end, he resigns himself to sitting behind the register, watching people walk by through the window and going through Penny's playlists. She's made a new one for him, so Craig plays it, feet bouncing against the leg of the stool he's on.

It's inevitable, really, to start thinking about what happened, but Craig really doesn't want to. He's not upset, which catches him off guard, because it feels like it has to be what he logically should be like right now. Truth is, Craig hadn't really lied to Tolkien when he said he doesn't care about Cartman being a dick anymore, which is exactly why he doesn't want to delve into it further. Something is bugging him though, something that goes beyond the usual annoyance of Cartman not leaving him alone for once, and Craig can't really figure out what it is exactly.

Frustrated, Craig groans, pinching the bridge of his nose; at least the Ibuprofen worked, because his head doesn't hurt anymore.

The hours drag by so slow it almost feels like it's on purpose, like time wants to torture Craig personally by making him sit idly around with his own head, and he really hates South Park because the most interesting thing that happens is when school seems to let out half an hour later and Craig gets to watch as students drive by, which means that eventually, Tweek shows up, almost running down the sidewalk across the street and into the coffee shop looking as frazzled as always.

After that, he has nothing else to do but scroll through Instagram, watching as other people actually enjoy their free Friday afternoon; Clyde and Tolkien are playing Call of Duty together on Tolkien's gigantic TV, Red's at Stark's Pond with Heidi and Nichole, Wendy and Bebe are going to see the newest horror movie at the movie theater. No news of Kenny, Stan or Kyle, which is probably the longest Craig has gone without hearing from them, even against his will.

Well, at least Penny's playlist is good, and in the end, he can pass the time by listening to it while aimlessly scrolling, and eventually, closing time starts to come around.

I like to wait to see how things turn out
If you apply some pressure
What happens when you lose everything
You just start again, you start all over again.

Twenty minutes before the end of his shift, as Craig's about to start emptying the shelf that Penny wants to get cleaned for the week, he's lost hope of any type of distraction coming to save him, when miraculously, the door suddenly opens.

It's not hard to see who the possible customer is, and Craig finds the sight kind of amusing. Black boots, black long skirt, black ripped up sweater, black long hair and black lipstick, Henrietta Biggle stands in all of her gothic glory in front of the vinyls section with what Craig thinks it's her default disgusted expression on her pale face. She doesn't turn around at the sound of his footsteps, she barely even moves her hands to pick up one of the cases and her dark purple nail polish stands starkly under the fluorescent lights of the store.

The goth kids have always been eery to him, but Craig found Henrietta to be the more likable one out of the bunch, there's no base for this belief, because he's never talked to any of them, but for some reason, he finds that she's kind of… alluring. Apart from himself, Henrietta seems to be the only person he knows that genuinely gives zero shit about literally everything that isn't whatever it is that goth kids care about, which Craig finds is cool of her in a totally-not-egotistical way.

Letting her browse freely, Craig fights his own restless itch by looking through the purchases made throughout the week that are logged in the computer. He wonders how can a store have this much sentimental value when it's most likely costing the owners more to keep it open than what they make in a whole month of sales.

"Who are you?" Henrietta seems to have finally found what she was looking for, because she's suddenly standing in front of him, vinyl in hand.

"My name's Craig, Henrietta. We've been going to the same schools all our lives." he deadpans, taking the album from her and reading the name.

Body And Souls. The Sisters Of Mercy. It's probably the most goth name for both an album and a band.

"You look like a background character, Craig." the deliberate way in which she says his name reads as insulting, but it only makes him want to laugh.

Craig snorts. "And you look like you wanna drink my blood."

Her extremely thin eyebrows rise up on her forehead, but the look in her eyes clearly shows unimpressed. "You're not that lucky."

"Ouch," Craig deadpans, making her dark eyes narrow. He scans the barcode and opens the register. "That's gonna be thirteen fifty eight."

Digging into her raggedy black bag, she nods towards his bandaged hand. "What happened to your hand?"

Blinking, Craig feels surprised by the question, he hadn't really expected her to ask. "I needed blood for a spell."

"Ha-ha," she rolls her eyes in the most dramatic gesture Craig's ever seen. "Where's the depressed kid that works here?"

Depressed kid? Stan? He looks at Henrietta in search of literally any type of explanation, but she's already focused on the, shockingly, black wallet in her hands.

"Jail. He got caught selling his Prozac to kindergarteners," he tells her, succeeding at getting her attention.

Looking up from the bills, Henrietta gives him a hard stare. "Do you think you're funny?"

"No."

She eyes him closely for a second, like Ms. Roberts had earlier at her office, and Craig again wonders what the fuck they're looking for.

"Keep the change," she smirks, finally, and hands over a twenty. "And lock your windows."

"I keep garlic in my pocket," he warns, taking the money from her hand.

"Bummer. I thought you were just excited to see me," her disgusted grimace is back on full force and Craig can't help the amusement that probably shows in his face.

The bell above the door chimes again, announcing a second customer coming, surprising Craig, who swears it's actually the first time the store's getting two different clients being inside at the same time. Of course, the theory is quickly disproved as Craig looks over Henrietta's shoulder only to find not a customer but the previously missing in action Kenny McCormick, strolling in like he owns the building.

"Well, look at what the bats dragged in," he drawls, eyeing Henrietta from head to toe.

Clearly unimpressed, she walks by him, stomping on her heeled boots, and her shoulder bumps on Kenny's as she passes by him. "Out of my way, crackhead,"

"You wound me, Henrietta," Kenny gasps, pressing a hand over his heart. "Don't you remember all the good times we spent together?"

Looking at him from over her shoulders, her nose scrunches like she caught a sniff of something nasty. "In your dreams."

"The wettest ones," Kenny winks, making her gag.

"You're repulsive."

"Call me!" Kenny bellows as she steps out the door and receives a middle finger before she disappears. Turning towards Craig, his smirk only widens. "She so wants me."

Unable to move past the very obvious and sudden change in his appearance, Craig blinks back at Kenny's approaching figure, everything seems normal at first, from his beat up vans, to his ripped baggy jeans and his old oversized orange hoodie, but the blond's words completely fly over Craig's head as he looks up and notices it.

"Why are you bald?" the words are out of his mouth as quick as the thought enters his head.

Startled, like he's just now reminded of his lack of hair, Kenny's smile turns sheepish and he scratches his buzz cut with freshly painted nails. "Ah, man! You like it? I thought it'd look cool."

It doesn't look bad, Craig reasons, string at the golden peach fuzz with maybe too much concentration, although it looks kind of uneven, maybe it's just a trick of the light. Nevertheless, if Kenny could rock a fucking mullet before, he can definitely look good in a buzz-cut now. It's mostly that Craig wasn't even expecting to see him at all to begin with, and the change is, naturally, catching him off guard.

"Did you do it yourself?" Craig asks him skeptically. "You know your head's gonna be fucking cold all winter, right?"

His grandma, who knits all of Craig's chullos, used to tell him all the time to never go outside in the cold without something to protect his head with. She said your body loses heat through your head the most, and although Craig isn't sure of how much of that is true, he never thought of questioning his grandma.

"I'll wear a hat," Kenny shrugs, brushing it off and ignoring the first question altogether. Instead, he leans against the counter, bats his eyelashes and pouts. "A little birdy told me you were looking for me."

"I don't think Kyle Broflovski counts as 'little', he's like six one," Craig deadpans, making Kenny roll his eyes.

"Do you have to close the store?" the blond asks, looking around. Craig nods, which seems like the right answer, because Kenny visibly perks up. "Awesome, let's go."

"Go where?" Craig asks, bewildered. He's still fucking grounded.

Clicking his tongue in exasperation, Kenny takes a pack out of his pocket and waves it in front of his face. "Outside, I need a smoke! I'm not gonna fucking kidnap you, Tucker, don't get excited."

Hoping Penny doesn't get too pissed off for not clearing the Pop albums shelf for her, Craig turns off the computer, gets his backpack and shuts the power before joining an impatient Kenny standing by the door, urging him on to hurry up. Rolling his eyes, Craig locks the front door and shoves the keys inside his pocket, suddenly a cigarette is right in front of his nose.

"C'mon man, I promise I won't tell your mommy."

For once, the thought of Laura Tucker finding out he's smoked a cigarette isn't what scares Craig, but he is weary of his father. Usually, he knows that Thomas wouldn't really care, but Craig's still on the fucking tightrope as it is, and he doesn't want to push it and find out what wpuld happen.

Looking back at his bandaged hand though, is enough to prompt him to take the offered item out of Kenny's grasp, after the fucking day he's had, smoking once won't kill him. He has to shower as soon as he gets home anyways.

Kenny produces a lighter from his other pocket, and he flicks it on in the space between their bodies, using his free hand to protect the flame from the October breeze. Cigarette between his lips, Craig leans over the fire, inhaling and puffing to light it, eyes finding Kenny's as he does the same, their faces coming inches apart. For a split second, Craig thinks he sees something there, inside of his friend's gaze, but before he can think about it, Kenny's already killing the light, stepping away.

The sun has already gone down hours ago, Kenny and Craig stand on the empty sidewalk next to the store, the lights from the lampposts cast yellow hues on their skin, and Craig has to blink away when he notices the dark circles underneath Kenny's eyes. There's definitely something off.

"So, you show your face after a week, I thought you finally got lucky and ditched this shithole."

"Ha. I fucking wish," Kenny sneers bitterly, smoke coming out of his mouth in ghostly tendrils. "I was just helping Stan sort through some shit."

If Kenny's mentioning it, does it mean that he wants to talk about it? Craig wants to know, honestly, he can't keep pretending that he doesn't care about it. Whatever shit has been happening with Stan, it's clearly affecting Kenny, and even if the blond tries to pretend to be his usual charismatic, vulgar self, Craig can still see through his act, and that bothers him to a level he hadn't really expected to feel.

What is Craig supposed to say, though?

Before he can come up with an attempt of a question, the buzzing sound of a call interrupts him, and he watches as Kenny mutely curses, patting the back of his jeans before fishing out his phone. Peeking over to the cracked screen, Craig reads the name of the caller displayed on glowing letters, Tweakers, before Kenny accepts the call.

"Hey, man!" he sounds oddly relieved by Tweek calling, which only makes Craig grow more curious.

Unable to hear the other side of the call, he sticks to watching his friend smoke and nod his head. "Yeah, no, I'm right out front with Craig, yeah. Are you still at the shop?"

Glancing across the street, the bright lights of Tweak Bros Coffee stand out starkly in the night. Craig can't really make out who's inside, but it does seem like some people like to get coffee this late, judging by the way a couple walks out just then, matching to-go cups in hand.

"Do you wanna come over? Yeah, man we're just smoking," there's a pause on Kenny's side, Craig feels his breath caught hostage in his throat as he waits for whatever reply Tweek's giving. "What? Nah, dude! Craig isn't like that, I told you!"

Like what? Kenny told him what? Craig's eyebrows furrow. Did Kenny talk to Tweek like he'd talked to Craig?

"Yeah, we'll wait, but hurry up," Kenny says, eyeing Craig, who's still staring, frowning. "Okay, okay, see ya."

"I'm not like what?" Craig asks as soon as Kenny hangs up the phone.

Clearly amused, the blond gives him one of his toothy grins. "Like the asshole you keep acting like in front of him."

"Fuck you." it's true though, Craig can't deny it.

Before either of them realizes it, Tweek comes out the door and rushes to cross the street. Thankfully, no vehicles are around, or he would've definitely gotten run over by oncoming traffic. Craig watches him from his spot, taking another drag of his cigarette, the blond's wavy hair glints of gold under the streetlights, and there's a big coffee stain on the sleeve of his green sweater.

Smiling crookedly, Tweek approaches, carrying a paper bag in one of his hands. "Ack! Hey, guys."

"Hey," Craig nods, flicking the ash off his cigarette and looking at the mystery object the blond's holding curiously.

"Tweakers!" Kenny gasps, clearly interested in the same thing. "You did it?!"

Snickering, but looking a little flustered, Tweek nods his head and offers the bag to Kenny, who suddenly looks as excited as a dog at the offer of its favorite treat. Instead of taking it, though, Kenny pulls Tweek close by firmly grabbing his face between his hands, and Craig is equally alarmed by both the cigarette dangling dangerously close to Tweek's face in between Kenny's fingers and whatever the fuck is actually going on.

Flabbergasted, he watches as Kenny squishes Tweek's freckled cheeks briefly before slapping a loud kiss on each of them like some Italian mobster, and to further Craig's surprise, Tweek seems almost too familiar with the gesture, considering the way he just squeaks and pushes Kenny away with an exasperated but fond expression on his face.

"You're the best friend ever, man!" Kenny gushes, finally taking the bag.

"Jesus— don't say that just because I ngh bake for you."

"You bake for Kenny?" Craig repeats, dumbfounded and almost choking on the smoke he'd just inhaled.

"Of course he bakes for me!" Kenny gloats, throwing the cigarette to the ground and stepping on it. His arm finds purchase around Tweek's shoulders. "Tweek here makes the best edibles I've ever tried."

"Ack! Kenny! Don't nnngh fucking announce it!" Tweek says, panicked, looking around the empty street.

"Chill, man! There's no one around," Kenny pats his shoulder comfortingly before turning to Craig. "We have a deal, I get him the weed, he turns it into magic."

Rolling his eyes, Tweek seems to try to brush it off, but the way he chews on his lower lip as he scans Craig's face for a reaction shows that he's not as casual about it as he's pretending to be.

For a long moment, all Craig can do is stare, mind coming up absolutely blank on a response to give. He definitely hadn't expected Tweek to do something like this, even when Kenny's already mentioned that the blond does smoke weed. He's surprised, obviously, but it's more than just that.

Tweek Tweak really is something else.

"What did you make?" he asks, feeling his lips turn upwards.

Eyes twitching, Tweek seems to be the one surprised now, and it takes him a couple of seconds to react. "Uh, ah! brownies."

Peeking inside the bag, Kenny's smile grows huge. He sniffs inside and hums, absolutely delighted. "Let's have some!"

"Wh— now?!" Tweek's eyes widen.

"Yeah, let's go eat some at Stark's Pond!"

Visibly conflicted, Tweek looks over his shoulder towards the coffee shop and a spasm goes through his fingers. He seems to be discussing the possibility with himself, and Craig watches closely, giving the last drag to his cigarette before stomping it out. The sound of his shoe scraping on the sidewalk seems to startle Tweek out of his conundrum, because he jolts and then nods.

"Ngh Okay, yeah," he gives in, grabbing a strand of his hair and, surprisingly, turning towards Craig. "Are you c—coming, Craig?"

"Yeah."

The word is out of his mouth like a breath that's been waiting to leave his lungs, natural and casual, before he actually realizes what he's agreeing to. Kenny whoops loudly, shaking him by the shoulders and Tweek snickers, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. Inside Craig's torso, his stomach seems to sink to the floor.

He's gonna be in so much shit now.

Chapter Text

Already having dug his own grave, Craig looks at both blonds in front of him and takes the biggest, deepest breath in preparation of what he knows he has to do in order to save his ass from military school. Tweek and Kenny give him matching curious stares, and Craig rakes his fingers through his hair, suddenly self-conscious by the reminder that he's not wearing his hat.

"You guys go wait in the car, I have to do something first."

Digging inside his pocket, Craig grabs the keys and presses the button to unlock the doors, watching as Kenny whoops and throws his arm around Tweek's shoulders again to drag him towards the vehicle. He waits until they get inside, Kenny yelling out for shotgun even though Tweek seems to have no intention of riding on the passenger seat, and then finally, Craig pulls out his phone, quickly dialing the number he knows by heart before he can actually start to dread the situation.

"Hello?" the voice that answers is too high pitched to be who Craig's looking to talk to.

"Tricia, it's me. Is mom there?" he asks, looking down at his feet.

"Yup, hold on," his sister quips, to Craig's massive relief. She turns the receiver away from her face, but he can still hear, although more muted, when she yells. "Mom! Craig's on the phone!"

Through the line, Craig can faintly hear as their mom announces she's coming, and then her approaching footsteps grow progressively louder. Looking over to the car, Craig sees that Kenny has probably connected his phone to the stereo by the way he seems to be viciously singing along to something, making Tweek laugh.

"She's coming. Where are you? She's making that gross chicken—" Tricia speaks again, sounding pained.

"Tricia! Be grateful that I'm feeding you!" Laura interrupts, probably snatching the phone off her daughter's hand. "Hello? Craig?"

"Hey, mom," Craig sighs, fingers tightening around the phone unconsciously.

"Is everything okay, kid? Are you getting home soon?" she doesn't sound particularly worried, more like weirded out, and Craig knows why, he never calls, usually he just sticks to texting because he actually hates talking on the phone.

"That's why I'm calling," Craig chews on the inside of his cheek, feeling weirdly apprehensive. "I uh— Would it be okay if I stay here for a while tonight?"

There's a pause from her side of the line that definitely doesn't help his nerves.

"At the store?" she asks, if she'd been weirded out before, she's clearly more confused now.

"No, uh, Kenny came by a while ago and then Tweek joined, so we're just hanging out now, they wanna get some food and I said we could go somewhere around here." it's technically not a lie if Craig takes them to get food first, which is probably a good idea.

Smoking weed might be something he's not that familiar with, but Craig's pretty sure eating edibles with an empty stomach is a no-go.

"Tweek? Tweek Tweak from the coffee shop?" there's a noise in the background, but Craig can't figure out what it is, a gasp maybe, from Tricia.

"Yeah?" he frowns, confused by the question, and looks over his shoulder to the car only to find Tweek's eyes already on him through the car window.

The blond looks worried again, chewing on his bottom lip, and Craig quickly whips around, eyes drifting to the surprisingly clear night sky as his mom hums, considering.

"Okay, yeah, that's fine." Laura concedes.

"Wha—? Really?" Craig's definitely not trying to be ungrateful, but he hadn't expected for her to agree so easily either.

"Yeah, kid, really," she snorts, and he can almost picture her rolling her eyes. "You've been doing good and we can't keep you trapped here forever."

Her words are reassuring, but Craig can't shake the jittery feeling in his head. "What about dad?"

"I'll tell him you're staying at Tolkien's, it'll be fine, just don't make too much noise when you get home, okay?" with eyebrows almost reaching his scalp, Craig scoffs incredulously. Is this a trap? Is she testing him?

"Is this a test? Are you my mother?" he asks, blinking up at the sky again, this time in search of any traces of UFOS that might confirm his theory of Laura being replaced by an alien right now.

"Don't make me regret saying yes, kid," she says, a smile audible in her voice, huffing out a small laugh, Craig is now convinced that it really is her. "Oh, and Craig?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't drink and drive, please."

"We're not drinking mom," he rolls his eyes, there's a difference between alcohol and weed, omission doesn't count as lying in his book.

"Sure, and I was born yesterday," she says, dripping with sarcasm. "Just be careful, okay? And don't come home too late."

"Yeah, fine."

"Alright, kid. I'll see you later, by—" there's a noise again, and Laura chuckles. "Hold on, your sister wants to talk to you again."

"Tricia?" he asks, confused as to what she could possibly want to say to him right now.

"Listen to me, Craig Tucker," Tricia mutters, her threatening tone making him frown. "If you step foot inside this house without fries and a chocolate milkshake for me, I swear to God I'm gonna make you regret ever being born, entendido?"

Snorting, Craig shakes his head, the knot in his stomach setting loose, at last. "You got money for all that?"

"No, but you do," she says, sounding hysterical. "I know you get paid on Fridays, asshole. Don't try me!"

Chuckling, Craig hangs up the phone on her without another word, which probably makes Tricia even more pissed off, but he can deal with that later. Of course he's gonna get her what she wants, but that doesn't mean that he'll make it easy for her, Craig is her older brother after all, and those are the unspoken rules. Surely some trashy food will help her forgive.

Pocketing his phone, Craig makes his way to the car, feeling as light as a feather for once. For some reason, even when he doesn't have the best record with smoking weed, Craig's kind of excited to try edibles for the first time, maybe they'll agree with his brain better than the blunts have.

Inside, Kenny is giving a full on concert by now, singing and playing an air guitar along with the song that's shouting loudly from the car radio connected to his phone, and also, to Craig's surprise, Tweek's singing with him.

"We can ride all night!" he shouts, eyes closed and grin huge.

"And we're not gonna stop for the pigs or no one!" Kenny follows, headbanging from his spot.

With a grimace at the sheer volume of the music making the car vibrate with its bass, Craig gets on the driver's seat and quickly shuts the door before they get a noise complaint, he immediately turns it down as well, rolling his eyes when both of them whine in protest.

"How are you not going deaf from this?" he asks, adjusting the volume until it's much easier in his ears.

"It's Korn, man!" Tweek says, like it's a bulletproof argument.

Craig shrugs, he knows Korn, of course he does, who doesn't? He just wonders how playing it so loudly doesn't give them a headache.

"Don't worry, Tweakers," Kenny grins. "We'll educate him."

"You weren't ngh at school all week, dude," Tweek reminds him, popping his head in the space between the driver and passenger seat. "You nnneed to get education."

Letting out a startled laugh, Craig starts the car, pulling into the street as Kenny quickly whips around on his seat to look at the other blond, a dramatically hurt expression on his face.

"I thought we were friends, Tweek!" he whines, "You have to be on my side!"

"There's nnnno sides here," through the rear-view mirror, Craig sees as Tweek shrugs and uses his index finger to push Kenny back by his forehead.

"School fucking sucks anyway," Kenny rolls his eyes, sitting back down. "I'll probably just end up working at Shitty Wok all my life."

"No the fuck you won't," Craig jumps in, maybe too quickly, judging by the way Tweek slightly jumps in his seat. "We're getting out of here."

The look Kenny gives him is so loaded that it could potentially put any of Jimbo's shotguns to shame. Craig can't even begin to decipher it if he wants them to avoid getting in a car crash, but he definitely catches a glimpse of hurt in there, sorrow even, maybe. The thing he knows for sure, though, is that it feels like absolute shit.

For a single, long second, the silence in the car is almost too much as the song ends and the next one begins. Craig pretends not to notice, grips the steering wheel firmly, locks eyes with the car ahead of them, blink at its Colorado license plate and scratched red paintwork, wonders if, in the backseat, Tweek's holding his breath too.

"I fucking love this song!" Kenny chirps, too excitedly, as soon as guitars swarm through the speakers.

Looking through the rear-view mirror, Craig's eyes find Tweek's, and somehow he can immediately tell that the blond is thinking the same thing. It's kind of freaky, Craig isn't used to being on the same wavelength with other people, especially this quickly, but Tweek appears as worried as he himself is feeling, and there's a silent agreement there, hanging silently in the air.

Something's wrong.

"Let's get some Wendell's first," Craig announces, turning the car in the direction of the fast food restaurant.

"Jesus— yeah, I'm starving."

After a brief argument between Tweek and Kenny over who's paying for Kenny's double cheeseburger, fries and blue slushie, Tweek wins after pointing out he didn't pay for the weed for the edibles in the first place, so that makes both blonds even. Craig orders his own nuggets and fries for himself without a problem, and waits for Tweek to fight a way too long battle with himself over choosing what he wants to eat, he ends up getting the same thing as Kenny but swaps the beverage for a regular large Mountain Dew.

It's kind of a whole ordeal in of itself, but thankfully they're the last car in the drive thru, so they don't get honked at for taking too long. It still gets on Craig's nerves enough to decide against pointing out he finds it stupidly funny that Tweek's is literally the only person he knows apart from Clyde's dad who willingly drinks Mountain Dew instead of literally any other soda brand out there. He doesn't really have much room to judge, because Tricia says his love for Root Beer is fucking weird, but Craig is smart enough to order a simple Pepsi whenever he's in public to avoid judgement.

With their food secured, Craig focuses on driving towards their final destination and sneaking in bites of suspicious tasting chicken while Kenny chews on his fries and fights Tweek over the songs they get to play in the meantime since they seem to have decided everyone gets one song to choose at a time to queue in the playlist. Craig sticks with what he has become familiar with, mostly Deftones and Radiohead, but Tweek goes from one extreme to the other with loud Korn and then some indie band Craig has never heard of before but sounds like a lullaby next to the heavy guitars from before. Kenny takes the mark though, when he hits play on some fucked up sounding song that goes on and on about killing people with an axe. Since he seems to be going through something, Craig decides to let him get away with it, and apparently, judging by his silence during it, Tweek does too.

Parking the car a few feet from the sign of Stark's Pond, Craig watches the surroundings quickly, it's not really a secret that most high school kids come here to drink or get high on the weekends, so he wants to make sure they're not crashing anyone's party, but as he'd predicted, it's probably still too early for all that, and they're all alone, which is really for the best.

Kenny, who's definitely the most well-versed when it comes to Stark's Pond illicit activities, takes them to a more secluded spot in between the trees that strategically still gets a bit of illumination from both the moon and the very scarce street lamps lined up next to the road but keeps them mostly out of sight from incomers. Craig sits down next to him on the grass, his back against the rough trunk of a tree and watches as Tweek drops across from them, making a face when the dewed grass hits his ass through his jeans.

"How much is in this?" Craig asks, as soon as Kenny hands him a deliciously smelling brownie.

He looks at Tweek for a reply, because he's the one who baked them, but the blond is already eagerly digging into his own treat, the corners of his mouth covered in chocolate crumbs as he chews. Kenny snickers deviously, and turns his head to look at Craig.

"Enough," he shrugs, bumping their shoulders together. "Don't pussy out Craig, it's good stuff."

"Yeah? According to who?" he asks, eyeing the brownie again, it looks totally normal, its inconspicuity is what alarms him. Then again, he doesn't really know what he'd expected them to look like either.

Of course Kenny's gonna say the stuff is good when it's his own stuff, he has to sell his own products with confidence, so who the fuck knows.

"Me, the weed connoisseur," he gloats proudly, making Tweek snicker.

"We have to trust your standards?" Craig asks with fake dubiousness, just to be difficult.

"I don't know what you're trying to say, I have very high standards," Kenny sticks his nose high in the air.

"Yeah, ngh right," Tweek snorts around a mouthful.

"Do you have something to say about that, Tweakers?" Kenny asks, shooting the other blond a very pointed look that, surprisingly, makes Tweek quickly sober up. He turns to look back at Craig with a confident smile. "You have nothin' to worry about, my stuff's been quality tested."

"I'm sure it has," Craig deadpans, making Kenny roll his eyes.

"Just ack! eat the fucking thinngh, man!" Tweek snaps, impatiently.

"Damn, okay, okay," Craig huffs out a breathy half laugh, surprised by Tweek's exasperation and takes a bite. "The PSA was true, peer pressure's real shit."

"How is it?" Kenny asks, grinning eagerly as he stares at Craig's face with too much intensity.

Chewing slowly, Craig makes a considering sound, it's pretty fucking good, very chocolatey and the perfect amount of chewy, there's a distinct earthy taste almost at the back of his tongue that tells him they're not regular brownies, but the sweetness of it all combined almost conceals it completely. Tweek's very clearly experienced in the making these types of treats, and judging by the easy-going expression on his face as Craig swallows, he knows he's good.

"It's alright," Craig shrugs, his naturally bland tone making it easier to seem like he doesn't like it as much as he does.

Kenny gasps, too loud. "Blasphemy!" he accuses loudly and whips his head to look at Tweek.

Unbothered, Tweek takes what seems to be the last sips of his Mountain Dew and shrugs, eyes twitching. He looks from Kenny, who's still gaping as if exaggeratedly scandalized, and back to Craig, who just bites back a telling smile. Then, taking them both by surprise, he puts down the big styrofoam up on the ground and leans closer, extending a spasming hand in front of his body, palm up and awaiting, hovering just over Craig's neck.

"Okay, then ngh spit it out," he grins.

Craig blinks, feeling gut punched. "What?"

Grinning crookedly, Tweek waves his fingers and tilts his head. "If it'ssss-so bad, then spit it ngh out."

Next to him, Kenny lets out a choking sound, then a wheeze, there's a thump as he falls to his side on the grass, and he cackles loudly. Amusedly, Craig's eyes bounce from Tweek's hand to his face, his freckled cheeks, his lopsided, treacherous smile.

"I didn't say it was bad," he argues, taking the second and last bite of the brownie. Tweek huffs, amusedly, and sits back down on his previous spot.

Kenny recovers, his shoulder bumping against Craigs as he straightens up. "You should beat his ass again, Tweek."

"He'll nngh get grounded," Tweek mutters bitterly, apparently still hung up on the fact Craig refuses to fight him, which, again, shouldn't be as hilarious as he finds it to be.

"That's bullshit!" Kenny says, with too much sentiment. "Your parents should be throwing you a fucking party for kicking Cartman's ass."

In a perfect world, maybe, but Craig isn't so lucky. He does agree though. The thought of coming home to confetti, streamers and a huge banner in the living room reading "Cartman's a fucking loser" as ridiculous as it sounds, would most likely make Craig reconsider his stance on parties as a whole.

"What happennned to your hand, anyways?"

As if he's forgotten all about it, Craig looks down to his own bandaged hand, and flexes his fingers, testing the aching pull of the skin there. It's definitely more muted now, he'd felt it back when he was driving, and thankfully, it hasn't bled again either, so Ms. Roberts was right, the cut hadn't been that deep.

"He made a blood pact with Cartman," Kenny quips, before Craig can reply, and even the lie makes him physically squirm. "To leave all their beef in the past, become—"

"I'd rather rip my own face off," Craig interrupts dryly before Kenny can even finish the sentence. Tweek shivers. "And eat it."

"Yummy," the blond next to him rubs his stomach, like he would actually enjoy it.

"Didn't ack! Kyle hurt his hand too?" Tweek asks, looking at Kenny curiously. Craig feels the way Kenny's shoulders go tense in a heartbeat. "Freaky ngh coincidence."

"I didn't punch anyone, though," Craig remarks, watching Kenny out of the corner of his eye.

To his credit, Kenny doesn't even attempt to deny that Craig's theory's true, he just groans, rubbing the buzzed hairs of his head and then his face. "Ugh, change the subject."

"That bad?" Tweek asks, face a window of worry.

"It's fine," Kenny rolls his eyes, it's weird, seeing him be so prickly. "I just wanna get high and not think about the messy shit my friends got going on."

Instinctively, Craig feels his eyes drift towards Tweek, who's already, surprisingly, looking back at him. The blond is very clearly concerned, and Craig feels apprehension, not only for Kenny, but because he doesn't know how to rely to Tweek, without words, that he needs to back off. If there's something Craig has in common with Kenny, it is that they both hate feeling pushed.

"We can do that," Craig says to Kenny instead, and breathes as the blond's shoulders loosen.

It hits Craig like a truck. One minute he's asking Kenny how long is the edible going to take to kick in and the next he's blinking at the sky, eyelids heavy and limbs weightless. Tweek's giggling about something Kenny's saying, his voice is almost melodical inside Craig's ears, like bells chiming. It's a nice sound, very nice. He's never been a fan of bells before. Has anyone?

At some point in the time between being sober and the weed hitting, they must've moved around on the grass, because when Craig's head turns to his right, he finds that Kenny's there, lying on his back, and he is too, the cool blades of greenery tickling the back of his neck. Tweek's on his other side, his mind registers a couple of seconds later, proving that Craig's been effectively sandwiched between the two blonds like a reverse Oreo situation. Fuck, Oreos are so fucking good. Craig would kill for one right now, or a whole pack, actually.

The air feels cold, cold inside his nose as he takes a deep breath, it's fresh cold, like drinking iced water on a hot day, but you can't really drink water or anything for that matter, through your nose, that's actually what drowning is. Craig doesn't like thinking about drowning, it's sad, and it reminds him of Clyde's mom, who drowned herself in the tub and now Clyde only takes showers and Craig pretends he doesn't notice. Depressing shit.

Eyes fluttering open, Craig hadn't even realized he'd closed them. He blinks, lethargically, the sky is clear, so clear it's strange for South Park nights. It reminds Craig of that time, when he was in Peru years ago, at his grandmother's backyard. Her house is on a hill, big, green, so tall it'd felt like he could reach up with his hand, grab onto a star. It's not possible, obviously, but it'd felt like that, and Craig had believed it for a second.

"Astronaut Craig? No, wait! It wasn't Astronaut, was it? Shit… " Kenny hums contemplatively, his voice far away even though his body is only inches apart, next to him. "Spaceman! Spaceman Craig?"

A real space suit costs around twelve million dollars. Craig's Party City one his mom bought for him in the fourth grade was eleven twenty five. It doesn't fit Craig anymore.

"Houston, we have a problem," Tweek says, voice just as drowsy, from Craig's other side. "Spaceman Craig's lost in space."

The Moon looks bigger than it should, so, so bright and yet not full. It will be soon, but not right now, so Craig doesn't worry about it, though he doesn't know if he has to worry about it at all in the first place. There are things he does need to worry about, maybe. Right now none of them come to mind.

"Waxing Gibbous," the words are funny on his tongue which feels entirely too numb and heavy in his mouth.

"Whaaaat?" Kenny asks, and Craig shrugs.

Moon phases. He knows them. Kenny doesn't, apparently, which isn't surprising, even when they learned it in school together. Then again, Craig is the only one out of his friends who's been obsessing over space for how many years now? Too many, probably.

When he was eight, Craig used to have this vivid dream of going to the Moon. He dreamt of it all, the helmet, the ship, the landing on the rocky surface and the sight of Earth from all the way up there. It made him so mad, when his alarm would go off, and Craig had to get up to go to school instead. He thinks, now, with the way his body feels limp, untethered, that maybe this is the closest he'll ever feel to being in the micro-gravity of outer space.

"Do you guys wanna go to the Moon?" the words tumble out of his mouth like a ball bouncing down a set of stairs, might be intentional, or might not; Craig's not sure.

In all his dreams, he had been alone.

"Are you driving?" Tweek snorts, which makes Kenny cackle, too.

Disconnectedly, like a delayed sensation, Craig feels his chest vibrate, and then he knows he's laughing along, chuckling breathlessly into the cold air. The image of his beat up car somehow taking off like a rocket-ship is hilarious by itself, leaving tire marks on the surface of the moon even better.

"I'll go anywhere if it means getting the fuck outta here," Kenny says, almost groaning.

"Not space, though, that shit's scary," Tweek argues.

"Nothing's scarier than cleaning the bathrooms at Shitty Wok," Kenny snorts, though it doesn't seem like he finds it funny at all. Craig doesn't either, because gross.

"Space isn't scary, what are you talking about?" Craig asks, kind of mutely bewildered.

Space is huge, endless, dark and bright at the same time, it's quiet and full of interesting shit, but most importantly, it is also as far away from South Park as you can possibly get, so naturally, Craig can't see any downsides to going up there at all.

"It's Tweeek, man! He thinks everything's scary!" Kenny chuckles.

"Fuck you, Kenny," the blond drawls, no heat behind his words. "I'm not scared of drowning you in this dirty ass pond."

"Ugh, don't say shit like that, I'm gonna start tripping," Craig whines.

He doesn't wanna think about drowning. Too depressing. Clyde cried for so, so long, his face red enough that Craig had feared it would explode. Rubbing his eyes until he sees stars behind the lids, he shakes the image of his best friend's anguish out, away.

Kenny snickers. "We're already tripping, dude."

"Bad tripping."

"Okay, no ngh bad trips here," Tweek declares firmly, though it would be more convincing if his words weren't so slurred. He sits up on the grass, groaning from the effort and Craig turns his head to look at him, but the blond is blinking up to the sky. "Tell us something about space."

"Oooh, yesss. Unleash your alien knowledge on us!" Kenny gushes.

"I don't know shit about aliens, dude," Craig snorts. He knows a lot about The X Files, but not much about real life stuff that goes beyond the rednecks and their stories about crop circles. "I think Mr. Mackey's one, though."

"What?!" Tweek cackles, whipping his head around so fast it must've hurt his neck. Kenny joins him in his laughter.

"I don't know, he could be," Craig huffs, shrugging. "He's fucking weird."

"I heard he's an ex-mormon," Tweek says, nodding like he agrees.

"No shit…" it kind of makes sense in Craig's mind, but more importantly, it's extremely funny.

"No way, dude! Mormons are hot, Mr. Mackey looks like a dehydrated ballsack." Kenny argues, as passionately as someone as high as a kite can be.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Craig frowns, what do Mormons even look like? White?

"Mormons aren't hot, dude!" Tweek laughs, and the comment for some reason makes Craig curious.

"Uh, yeah they are?" Kenny insists, sitting up to look at them fully. His face looks kind of crazy, or it's a trick of the light, or the weed. "Jenny Harrison? Total baddie."

"I don't think you can call Mormons that." Craig says mildly.

"I can't believe you just called Jenny Harrison a baddie." Tweek repeats, hysterical.

"C'mon, she's hot!" Kenny argues. "Craig, back me up! Isn't Jenny Harrison cute?"

"Who the fuck is Jenny Harrison?" the name sounds familiar, but he can't, for the life of him, put a face to it.

"This is why you're bitchless, dude." Kenny snickers. Lethargically, Craig flips him off, unbothered by the truthful accusation.

"I'd rather be bitchless than be after a Mormon, man." Tweek laughs.

"I'm not after her, I've been after her," Kenny gloats, and Craig blinks, processing the sentence.

"You're so full of shit," Tweek rolls his eyes. "Everyone knows Mormons won't even touch you unless you're at least a second cousin."

"What the fuck?!" Craig sputters, choking on his own saliva.

"This isn't Utah, man," Kenny says, insistently.

"Aren't Mormons like, not even allowed to kiss?" Craig's pretty sure he's heard that somewhere.

"We did more than kiss, we soaked," Kenny brags.

"That's bullshit, man!" Tweek shakes his head.

"Soaked?" Craig mouths silently to himself, frowning in confusion. What the fuck does that mean? If Kenny's bragging about it, it has to be at least a little gross.

"Ah, are you jealous, Tweakers?" Kenny coos, batting his eyelashes. "You're not the only blond I'm after."

"You're after Tweek?" Craig parrots curiously, eyes bouncing between the two blonds on each side.

"Got a problem with that, Tucker?" Kenny asks, smugly. Craig's ears burn.

Is Kenny trying to imply Craig's homophobic or something? He isn't, he honestly doesn't give a shit if Kenny wants to put his dick anywhere, no matter the gender, as long as it's away from him, it's just that he finds it kind of weird to think about Tweek in that way. Tweek, who if he has ever dated anyone from around town, no one has ever heard of it. Tweek, who isn't even Craig's friend, therefore it feels… invasive? Inappropriate? To imagine him with someone like that.

"I mean, don't make me be the third wheel, I have enough of that with Clyde and Bebe."

"He's ack! fucking with you," Tweek clicks his tongue, sending Kenny a murderous glare, his eye twitches, and belatedly, Craig thinks it's the first time it's happened since the weed hit.

"Oh, cool," Craig blinks, but it feels like the wrong thing to say. "I mean, like, you're a fucking dick, Kenny."

"Whatcha think, Tweakers?" Kenny snickers, blatantly ignoring the insult. "Should we invite Craig more often?"

Tweek's face is paler under the moonlight, his windswept waves of hair looks like a fair halo crowning his head, Craig can do nothing but squint as he looks back into the blond's eyes. There's a connection there, he thinks dizzily, between the ocean blue of Tweek's irises and the Moon that will soon be full. Although that actually isn't really true, because eyes can't be the sea, even if they're blue and the water in them is salty.

Tears. Tears are salty. He's never seen Tweek cry, that's good, Craig doesn't know what to do when people cry.

Cocking his head, Tweek stares for what feels like an eternity, his crooked grin spreading across his freckled cheeks in slow motion. Craig can't stop wondering what everyone keeps looking for, but somehow, judging by the way the blond considers his face, Craig thinks maybe Tweek has found it.

It's fun. Craig is having fun. There's a cloud in his brain, a buzzing in his fingertips, the lightness in his chest, for once, doesn't feel like it aches for something he doesn't know what it is. He's too high to care about not catching up.

"What do you say, Craig?" Tweek asks, instead.

Scrambling slightly with his uncoordinated limbs, Craig manages to sit up, finally joining the other two on their positions, his hand aches slightly when he leans his weight on his palms, but the pain registers too late, too faint, easy to ignore.

Honestly, he wants to do it again, it's the most fun he's had in how long? Probably months, yeah. But saying it feels weirdly heavy, the words too big for his throat to work around, and Tweek is still looking, and his droopy eyes should be dull, glazed over, but they glint with something, and he's not what Craig expected him to be at all.

"I think I like edibles," he admits, huffing in a defeat that isn't really losing.

"One of us! One of us!" Kenny whoops, loudly, clapping his shoulder, and Tweek lights up with a bark of laughter.

For the first time in a while, Craig feels his face shift as his mouth fully opens into a grin, mind so high he still can't worry about it at all; the crook of his teeth, the shape of the Moon, the dream where he's alone.

Chapter Text

When it's time to go, the buzz has already died down for the most part. For a long stretch of time there, it seems like neither of them wants to actually move, limbs hesitant to break the easy atmosphere crafted by the weed and easy jokes. But then, Kenny stands, and without a word walks over to the edge of the pond, his feet dragging on the rocky ground, the sound of the soles of his sneakers scraping and kicking pebbles on his way filling the air. Tweek, still sitting next to Craig on the grass, follows the blond with his gaze, and the expression on his face twists, visibly conflicted.

“He’s being weird,” he mutters, only for Craig to hear.

Eyes darting to the object of Tweek’s worries, Craig can’t disagree. Kenny’s hands are buried in the front pockets of his jeans, his shoulders slumped forward, like he’s trying to shy away from the night air, and as he reaches the very edge, before the dirt turns into mud, his feet stop completely, and he stands like that, motionless, frozen, for way too long.

“Yeah,” Craig breathes, feeling the apprehension start to build inside his stomach.

To his right, Tweek makes an incomprehensible noise, one of his tics, and Craig notices, out of the corner of his eye, as Tweek’s left hand curls into itself, his middle finger scratching a hangnail sticking out from the corner of his thumb. He has to hold back from reaching over to stop it, guessing that Tweek would most likely not appreciate the gesture at all.

“Let’s go talk to him,” the blond blurts suddenly, his voice louder than before, which embarrassingly, startles Craig.

His first reaction is to stay in his spot and let Tweek go over by himself; he seems to understand Kenny better than Craig does, the two blonds are definitely closer, and as always, Craig doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s supposed to say. But then, with slightly wobbly knees, Tweek’s standing up, brushing dirt off his pants, and offering a hand to help Craig do the same— before he knows it, Craig is blinking up at him, at his genuine eyes, at his freckled cheeks, at his outstretched hand, and he’s taking it, letting Tweek hoist his body up, stretching his legs under his weight, feeling the rough callouses of Tweek’s palms against his own before the blond lets go, clearing his throat, turning around, walking away.

Stumbling, Craig follows, half a pace behind, the heat of the blond’s short-lived touch lingering on the skin of his hand. Mirroring Kenny, he digs his own hands inside the pocket of his hoodie, holding onto the warmth in contrast of the cool night air.

As both approach, Kenny bends down, searching for something in the dark, and Craig can’t say he’s surprised when he sees the blond pick up a small stone before standing back up again, juggling the pebble up and down in the air.

“You okay, Ken?” Tweek asks, coming to stand by the blond’s other side.

The gentle tone of his voice is both shocking and kind of weird to hear for Craig. Not bad weird, though, just strange weird, unexpected weird, unfamiliar? He’s never heard Tweek speak so softly before, not even when they’d been relaxed by the weed. Craig’s never heard Tweek call Kenny ”Ken” before, either. That’s weird too, maybe.

Kenny doesn’t look at either of them. His mouth twists into a small smile though, and he faces the water ahead for a couple of seconds, eyes fixed on the eerily still surface with a concentration that’s borderline concerning, appearing almost as if the pond’s talking to him.

“Fucking peachy, man,” the blond mutters in response, at last, and flicks the stone towards the water.

Watching it skip once, twice, three times, before sinking, Craig takes a breath, trying to will his brain into remembering how to form words with his mouth. Kenny bends down again, skimming the ground for more small stones. Over his body, Tweek shoots Craig an insisting look before Kenny stands up again, surprising them both when he offers each of them a pebble.

Craig takes the stone from the blond’s hand, fingers gliding over its smooth surface “Is it about Stan?” once again, he knows instantly that his choice of words are... off? Not the right ones, considering the way Tweek jolts, and Kenny falters in the throwing of his stone. Outwardly cringing, Craig rolls his eyes at his own straightforwardness.

“Subtle,” Tweek mutters, making Kenny snort. Craig shrugs, self-conscious and flicks the stone out of his hand, counting the five times it skips over the water in quick succession.

“It’s just—” Kenny starts, heatedly, but his words are quick to die, cut off by an aborted sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a whine. Frustrated, he throws the stone into the water with no grace, no skipping. Silently, Craig watches it sink, feeling sympathy for it blossom inside his stomach. “It’s stupid, like, fuck— I don’t wanna… thinking about it, it makes me so fucking angry.”

Uneasily, Craig watches as Tweek reaches out for Kenny’s shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze. Bending down like the blond had done just a few moments before, Craig takes it upon himself to find another set of lightweight stones on the ground which unexpectedly, turns out to be a much harder task than Kenny had made it seen, since Craig can barely see shit and almost grabs a live beetle by accident, but he eventually manages to find one good stone, smaller than his palm, and flat, perfect for skipping.

“You can tell us, man, we wanna know what’s up.” Tweek is saying, eyes twitching, and Craig nods, handing the stone to Kenny.

“It’s not about Stan and Kyle, okay?” Kenny sighs, defeated, his shoulders slumping as the breath leaves his body. “They’re both stupid idiots, but they’re fine, they’ll be fine.”

“Then what is it?” Craig asks, and feels guilty for being so fucking impatient, he reminds himself that getting him to talk about his own shit is worse than pulling fucking teeth, and the least Kenny deserves is equanimity.

“It’s nothing,” Kenny shakes his head, and rubs a hand through the buzzed hair.

Tweek isn’t having it. He punches Kenny’s arm with what seems to be a good amount of force, judging by the way Kenny yelps, stumbling to the side until he’s bumping into Craig, who reflexively catches him by the shoulders, helping him stay upright.

“Ow! Motherfucker, that hurt!”

“Fucking nngh spit it out already!” Tweek snaps, which makes Craig bite back a laugh, now feeling better about his own previous impatience.

“Craig, do you see how he treats me?!” Kenny pouts. “He punched me!”

“I saw,” Craig nods. “And I’m gonna punch you too if you don’t start talking.”

“I didn’t pull the strings to get you guys to make up so that you could gang up on me,” Kenny whines, rubbing his injured bicep. “Fake ass bitches.”

“Why did you, then?” Craig asks, now knowing that just like Kenny had put on a good word about Tweek to him, he’d done the same to Tweek. Looking over at the other blond, Craig sees that he seems to be too focused on the stone in his hand he never skipped.

Kenny just laughs. “I’m cold, and I’m tired, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Craig opens his mouth to argue, insist on getting Kenny to open up about whatever it is that’s eating at him, but something about the blond stops him. In front of him, Kenny seems as closed off and distant as humanly possible, his visibly guarded posture makes the words lodge themselves inside Craig’s throat in an instant, and the quick warning glance he sends him makes Craig physically take a step back.

For a moment, Craig worries about his weight in Kenny’s life. He wonders if maybe he’s overstepping, maybe Kenny doesn’t trust him enough to talk about it with him; it’s true that they aren’t as close as he seems to be with Tweek, let alone Stan or Kyle, but Craig had led himself to believe that, if anything, Kenny had to know that Craig was on his corner, for… whatever. Maybe Craig had misjudged their friendship completely.

But then, Tweek’s eyes find Craig’s and there’s a shared understanding there that, for once, doesn’t fly over his head. It seems like Kenny doesn’t want to talk about it with anyone, not just Craig, and to make matters worse, instead of feeling worry, Craig feels reassured, relieved, because they are friends, and Kenny does trust him, he’s just not in the mood to discuss it.

In complete silence, they watch as Kenny throws the third and last stone into the pond, Craig counting six skips before he sees it sink.

“Are you sure you can—

nnn drive?” Tweek asks, worry clear all over his features.

Craig isn't stupid, and he isn't about to do anything stupid either, he knows he’s no longer high because he’s body has weight, and his head is mostly clear; besides, if there had been any lingering in his system, he’s pretty sure their failed conversation with Kenny has been enough to sober him up the rest of the way.

“C’mon, Tweakers. The guy’s like a giant, he probably needs more than one small brownie to get fucked up for hours,” Kenny chuckles easily, walking towards the car along Craig.

“He’s bigger than me,” Craig points out, and immediately wants to punch both himself and Kenny, who shoots him a knowing smirk and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Fuck you, you know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean, believe me,” his eyes widen just like his smirk. “Tweek’s hot ass muscles are hard to miss.”

“Jesus—! Shut up!” Tweek screeches, flustered, and Craig makes quick work of unlocking the car, ignoring the way both blonds quickly fall into banter.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, Craig puts the key into the ignition and turns on the heating, realizing just now how cold his hands really are. The blondes’ voices are muffled through the rolled-up windows, but he hears Kenny ask Tweek to sit on the front, so he can lie down in the backseat because he really is very tired and apparently has to work the opening shift at City Wok tomorrow.

“Seatbelt!” Tweek snaps at him the seconds he closes the passenger seat’s door behind himself.

“Jesus, okay.” Craig huffs, startled, and obediently buckles up his seatbelt before driving away from the trees and back into the road.

“Tweek, put Craig onto some good music,” Kenny mumbles from the back, Craig looks at him through the rear-view mirror, and he’s not surprised when he finds that the blond is lying down, hood over his head and an arm draped across his eyes.

Visibly lightening up, Tweek nods, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his pants and grabbing the aux cord. “I have the perfect song,” he gushes, grinning, and soon enough the music fills in the air.

It isn’t quite what Craig had been expecting, but it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t like it, in fact, he knows the song from one of the albums his mom already had in her collection; Craig doesn’t mention this fact though, because Tweek is noticeably excited about it.

“This is your song now,” he says, eyes startlingly blue, and Craig has to force himself to turn his attention back to the road.

"I’m an alligator, I’m a mama-papa coming for you,
I’m a space invader, I’ll be a rock ‘n’ rolling bitch for you,
Keep your mouth shut, you’re squawking like a pink monkey bird,
And I’m busting up my brain for the words."

Kenny’s laughing from the backseat as Tweek sings the song word for word, his voice is genuinely good. Once again, Craig has to fight the impulse to stare at the blond and keeps his eyes firmly ahead.

“Keep your ‘lectric eye on me, babe,” Kenny hollers, a smile clear in his voice. “Put your ray gun to my head.”

“Press your space face close to mine, babe,” Tweek picks up, head banging in rhythm. “Freak out in a moonage daydream, oh yeah.”

Their excitement is contagious, because Craig finds himself smiling, hard, his heart speeding up a couple of beats inside his chest. He affords to steal a glance or two towards Tweek, who closes his eyes and sings deep from his lungs, like the lyrics are engraved inside his body and need to get out. Craig thinks that maybe there’s still some weed lingering in his system actually, because that feeling returns, like something alive waking up inside his chest.

He memorizes it for future reference.

Tweek's house, if he remembers correctly, is not that far from Craig’s own, so he decides to drive to Kenny's first, since it’s more convenient, and only three and a half David Bowie songs later, he finds himself pulling up to the curb, the smile on his face faltering at the state of Kenny’s home, with its shattered windows and unkempt, patchy lawn.

"Thanks for the ride, man." Kenny chirps, and Craig nods, watching as the blond stumbles out of the car.

He waits until Kenny forcefully shoulders the front door of his house open and throws them a last tired wave over his shoulder before mechanically putting the car on drive again and pulling away.

"Do you think he's ack! okay?" Tweek asks, weakly, over the now softer music.

Blinking away from the road, Craig looks at the blond out of the corner of his eye. Tweek's still staring out the window, like he's trying to see Kenny again, and there's a furrow on his brow that looks as uneasy as Craig's starting to feel.

"I don't know," he tells him, honestly. Tweek turns back to him quickly, visibly unhappy with the answer, but Craig doesn't really know what to tell him. "I mean, it's Kenny, he gets over shit easily. He'll be fine."

"Yeah, I guess you're ngh right," the blond mutters bitterly. “I just hate that he’s so good at changing the subject.”

“It’s almost impressive,” Craig agrees, nodding.

The time on the stereo marks one fifteen in blue digits, and Craig blinks back up to the road. The streets are so deserted it looks like a ghost town.

There's always been an eerie air about South Park that he's never been able to shake off, even with a small population and many empty spaces, somehow it always feels like there's eyes on him at every moment, especially when in public; or perhaps it's bullshit and there's still a little bit of weed in his system and Craig's freaking himself out for no reason. Either way, he tries to focus on the road as best as he can, Tweek certainly wouldn't appreciate these paranoid thoughts.

"Do you mind if we take a detour?" Craig asks, remembering his sister's words from earlier over the phone. Tweek looks up at him in alarm, so Craig adds an explanation. "I promised Tricia I'd get her a milkshake before getting home and I kinda don't wanna get smothered to death with my own pillow in the middle of the night."

The weight of Tweek's unrelenting gaze on him is kind of intense, even when Craig keeps his eyes strictly on the road ahead, he can feel the blond's attention, hot like a brand, on the side of his face. The anxiety rolling off him is thick in the air, almost tangible.

"I'm not gonna kidnap you, dude. Chill," he huffs, rolling his eyes. The light turns red, and even with no other vehicles around, Craig slows down to a stop.

"As if you could," Tweek snorts but his eyes twitch, making Craig bite back a laugh of his own. "Is Tricia the girl that's always with ngh Kenny's sister?"

"Yup, my sweet little sister." he nods, eyes widening for dramatic effect. "You know her?"

"I see her at the coffee shop with Karen all ngh the time," Tweek nods, grabbing his phone off the dashboard to change songs since the one currently playing is ending. “I didn’t think she was your sister, though. She looks nnn—nothing like you.”

"That’s cause she’s adopted,” Craig isn’t sure why he says it, but he does, the lie falls out of his mouth so fast it’s almost natural.

Comically, he watches as Tweek's blue eyes go wide in surprise, body jolting, and his already pale face goes even paler. He gapes, stumbling to find what he thinks it's probably an apology, and Craig laughs, he can't help it, the snickers burst out his mouth.

"I'm fucking with you," Craig appeases him, changing gears as the light turns green. "She's my biological sister, she just looks more like my dad and I guess I look more like my mom."

Apart from his height, Craig doesn't share any other apparent features with his father, he has his mother's green eyes, her straight nose, her sun kissed skin, her black hair —even if she cheats and dyes it blonde. Tricia on the other hand, is a shorter and feminine version of Thomas all the way from his orange hair, paler complexion, and rounded nose to even the natural set of his eyebrows. At least she didn't inherit his shit personality which is, honestly, all that matters.

When they were little, Craig used to tell Tricia they had found her as a baby, abandoned under a rock, and his mom had felt so bad for her because she was such an ugly baby she decided to take her home with them and raise her as their own. Craig had to stop with that particular joke pretty quickly, because it made Tricia cry really hard, and apparently, his parents didn't seem to find it as funny as he did.

"Jesus—! You're such a fucking ack! asshole, Craig!" Tweek yelps, flustered, Craig sneaks a look at him, amusedly noticing the way that his cheeks turn bright red just as quick as the color had drained from his face before.

“Says the guy who wants to literally fight me," Craig replies, dryly.

Turning around the corner that gets them to Wendell's, Craig takes the opportunity to look at Tweek, who rolls his eyes, squeezing his lips together in a failed attempt to hold back a laugh, his shoulders shaking with it anyways. The drive thru is completely empty this time, so Craig is quick to pull up next to the intercoms.

"Do you want anything?" he asks Tweek. “I think they have coffee here.”

Seemingly caught off guard, the blond blinks back at Craig, fingers spasming on his lap. "I'm ngh good, thanks."

“Woah, I never thought I’d hear Tweek Tweak say no to coffee,” Craig says, amusedly.
Rolling down the car window, he's greeted by the very bored, very tired and definitely very annoyed voice of the employee on shift. He keeps it short and concise to avoid any possible problems, and cringes at the thought of even asking for a milkshake at this time.

"They probably hate you in ngh there," Tweek chuckles, like he can read his mind. "Working night shifts fucking sucks."

"They can take it out with Tricia,” Craig deadpans, because it’s not his fault his sister is so annoying, and he kind of actually does feel guilty now that he works in a service job, even if it doesn’t even compare to the amount of shit the Wendell’s employees probably have to deal with on a daily basis.

The food takes next to no time to be ready, which is obvious since they’re the only customers, so Craig makes quick work on driving to the window and receives the bag from the disgruntled twenty something year-old employee. In an attempt to make his guilt more digestible, Craig leaves a very nice tip before stepping on the gas, hurrying to get out of the employees’ hair.

“I’m not supposed to drinkk coffee,” Tweek says, like a confession, after a few seconds of music-filled silence.

Startled by both the content of the statement and the unexpectedness of it, Craig blinks away from the road to give Tweek a quick curious look. “Huh?”

Tweek grabs a strand of his hair, but doesn’t pull, just keeps it between his fingertips. “Yeah, uh- Jesus- the caffeine makes my tics ngh worse, so my parents only let me have one cup a day.”

“Oh,” Craig winces, not knowing what to say. “And uh, weed helps? I kinda noticed you weren’t ticking when we were at the pond.”

“Yeah, it’s the only reason why my mom doesn’t nngh mind it.”

“Your mom doesn’t mind it? She’s way cooler than mine,” though it sounds kind of unfair, since Laura has been way more understanding lately.

Tweek makes a noncommittal sound from his throat, his bottom lip worried between his teeth. “How did you know Kyle punched Stan?” the question seems to burst out of his mouth, like he’d been holding it in all this time.

“Honestly? I kinda guessed,” Craig shrugs. When he steals a glimpse of Tweek, the inquisitive look in the blond’s expression is unmistakable. “I mean, I saw that Stan was fucked up that morning, but his hands weren’t bruised, so I thought that maybe he fell on his face because, you know, he was wasted, but then Kyle wasn’t at school at all, and when he came back, his hand’s hurt and he tried to say he got burned while cooking, but it was fucking obvious he was lying.”

“Jesus,” Tweek huffs, looking at him with wide eyes. “Are you nngh sure you wanna be an astronaut and not fucking, Sherlock Holmes?”

Craig snorts, rolling his eyes. “Sherlock Holmes’ lame as fuck, dude,” he drawls, because it’s true, not that he’s ever read one of those books. “I don’t know everything though, do you?”

“Do I what?” if Tweek’s trying to play dumb or not, Craig’s not sure, he can’t look at him for more than a split second to find out, the road ahead being a priority.

“Know why Kyle punched Stan.”

“Yes- I mean, nnn—no,” Craig narrows his eyes, and Tweek cracks his knuckles, quickly averting his gaze.

So, he was playing dumb. Craig hears himself huff out a short laugh. “You suck at lying, dude.”

“I’m not ack! lying!” Tweek argues, his neck flushing. “I don’t nngh know. Kenny won’t tell me shit.”

“But you have a guess.” it’s a guess on itself that Tweek has a guess, but if he wasn’t lying, then it’s the only option there is. Craig feels his eyes on his face, but doesn’t look back, too busy trying not to miss the turn he’s seventy percent sure leads to Tweek’s house.

“Don’t you?” the blond asks, airily.

“So, you do have a guess,” Craig avoids the question easily.

He has no idea, because he never cared about Stan or Kyle and whatever fucked up codependent friendship they seemed to have. For all Craig knows, Stan could’ve said something stupid about Kyle’s hair and gotten his ass handed to him just for that. Still, as ridiculous as it feels, Craig’s curious enough about the whole thing that he doesn’t want to show Tweek his empty hand, figuring that maybe if the blond thinks they’re on the same page, they could brainstorm the possibilities.

Tweek, however, is cleverer than that, and Craig should’ve seen it coming. “Are you trying to ack! trick me into telling you?” the blond asks, suspiciously, and Craig almost winces.

He hasn’t been inside of Tweek’s house, like ever, but he’s pretty sure he remembers it being the two-story building with maroon paint coated walls that he can see on the next block they approach and judging by the way the blond grabs his phone and unplugs it from the aux cord, Craig’s right.

“Is it working?”

Slowing down the car to a stop right outside, he gives the house a quick, curious glance, noticing that there’s light coming from the window closest to the front door, and Craig wonders if either of Tweek’s parents are night owls. He gets the feeling that Tweek is one, at least, because he’s had dark circles under his eyes since he’s known him, although they don’t seem to be as prominent nowadays as they had once been.

“Nope,” he snorts, hand reaching for the door handle. “I guess you should nngh stick with astronaut.”

Craig doesn’t have the energy or time to tell Tweek that he hasn’t dreamed of being an astronaut for years now; it’s complicated, because it’s not like he specifically doesn’t want to, but more like he knows it won’t happen, so it’d just be foolish to aspire to it.

“Bye, Tweek.” Craig deadpans, hiding his amusement under his monotone drawl.

Opening the door, the gap between the blond’s front teeth flashes Craig as Tweek gives him a smile that looks almost too much like Kenny’s.

“Thanks for the nngh ride, space-boy.”

“Well, look who’s up,” Laura greets as Craig makes his way downstairs at around ten the next morning.

She sits on the living room couch, a cup of tea in one of her hands and Tricia’s head on her lap. His sister’s long, fiery red hair fans out over the cushions as Laura’s manicured nails rakes through it absentmindedly, an episode of Criminal Minds playing on the TV across the room.

“Good morning,” Craig yawns, his hoarse, unused voice grating the inside of his throat on the way out.

Tricia makes a pitiful sound, like a wounded animal, and Craig frowns questioningly. His mother’s eyes harden with a severity that’s both too familiar and off-putting; it’s been a while since Laura has looked at him like that.

“This,” she points at the fifteen-year-old on her lap. “Is what happens when you eat junk food at two in the morning.”

“I get it, mom,” Tricia whines, and she does look kind of green now that Craig takes a closer look at her face. “I won’t do it again.”

She definitely will, but Craig is not gonna step on that landmine. “Yikes,” he says, and makes a quick escape towards the kitchen.

Stomach grumbling, he makes a beeline straight for the fridge, feeling strangely ravenous. He’s only smoked weed a couple of times before, and on all of those occasions, Craig had been too freaked out to feel the munchies, he doesn’t know what it’s like with edibles, if maybe he’s getting them hours after of sobering up, or he’s being stupid about it and he’s just slightly hungrier than usual.

“Do you want me to make you something?” Laura asks, suddenly standing behind him, which almost has Craig dropping the pair of eggs he’d just snatched from the fridge.

“I’m fine, I’ll just make some scrambled eggs,” Craig tells her, trying his best to keep from showing how much she’s startled him.

“I bought ham and cheese, why don’t you make an omelet?” she suggests, leaning against the counter close to the stove.

An omelet sounds really fucking good, actually. Craig doesn’t even have to think about it, his hands reaching for more ingredients to add.

“You came home earlier than I thought you would last night,” Laura says, mildly, and sips on her tea.

Pulling out a pan, Craig turns to look at her, searching for whatever the fuck she means by that. “One forty something,” he shrugs, confused, because she just stares back without a word. “Why? Did dad hear?"

“Kid, your father could sleep through a fucking hurricane,” Laura snorts. “I’m surprised he hasn’t gone deaf from his own snoring already.”

Yeah, Thomas sounds like a fucking tractor having trouble to start, they have to sleep in the bedroom furthest from the others with the bathroom in-between, so his snoring doesn’t keep them up at night. Craig doesn’t know how his mom can stand it, but she says she’s used to it at this point.

Laura passes him a fork from the cutlery drawer, and Craig cracks the eggs one by one in the pan, not bothering to dirty up a bowl. Cursing under his breath, he fishes out a piece of the shell that accidentally falls inside and starts beating them, all the while feeling his mother’s stare on him.

“So, how was it?” she asks, finally, and Craig rolls the tension out of his shoulders. “Did you guys have fun?”

Turning the stove on, Craig lets the eggs start to cook, sprinkling seasonings his mom keeps passing over to him.

“I guess,” he grumbles, still weirded out by her questions. “It was fine, we just ate some Wendell’s in the car and stuff.”

Laura scrunches her nose in distaste, and Craig rolls his eyes. “Really, I don’t know how you kids can eat that garbage,” she shakes her head disapprovingly. “Ay, Craig, bajale. It’s gonna burn.”

Obediently, he turns the heat down, even when he knows the eggs are clearly not going to burn yet; Craig might only know how to cook a handful of meals, but omelets are not that challenging to him and he’s made more of them than he can count. Above all though, he knows that contradicting Laura, especially when it comes to food, is always a no-no.

“And you didn’t drink,” she cocks her head, eyeing Craig closely.

“You act like I’m an alcoholic,” he mutters, poking the edges of the eggs with a spatula.

“I’ve seen you drunk enough times, kid.”

No, she hasn’t. Every time he’s been drunk has been either at Tolkien’s or Clyde’s, and he’s always stayed the night. Sure, she might have seen him come back hungover, dragging his feet and reeking of booze, but she hasn’t seen him actually drunk. Does it make any difference? Not at all, but Craig likes to keep facts straight.

“We didn’t drink,” Craig tells her, shooting her a look over his shoulder, and lies down the slices of cheese and ham on the already mostly cooked eggs.

“Good,” she grins. “I don’t want you drinking and driving, you could—”

“Kill someone and yourself,” he cuts her off tiredly, knowing that speech by heart at this point, and focuses on folding the omelet in half without it breaking. “I know.”

A hand hits the back of his head, making Craig jolt, almost ruining the food, and Laura huffs. “Don’t get smart with me.”

Rolling his eyes, he takes the empty plate she hands him, and carefully slides the omelet onto it, making a victorious noise from his throat when it remains intact through the transference. Laura steps around him dutifully, and pulls the fridge open, grabbing the carton of orange juice, and a clementine for him while Craig looks around for cutlery and a glass.

He pretends he doesn’t find it strange when he sits down at the table and Laura joins him after what looks like a refill of her tea. Craig starts eating as casual as he can, ignoring the urge to just tell his mother to say whatever she seems to want to say.

“I didn’t know you were friends with the kid from the coffee shop,” she comments lightly, nails tapping the ceramic of her mug. It’s a funny one, in the shape of her favorite animal, a cow; Tricia got it for her for Mother’s Day last year. “Didn’t you kids fight once? When you were kids?”

“Yeah,” Craig shrugs, chewing his food. He doesn’t correct her or denies that he’s friends with Tweek, because he is, isn’t he? They’re friends now. Cool. Still, he feels slightly defensive about it, for some reason. “So?”

“Nothing,” Laura shrugs, taking a sip. “I think it’s nice that you’re friends with the kid who kicked your ass."

“I kicked his ass too.” she laughs, it’s annoying.

“Still, it’s nice.”

It is nice, Craig guesses, thinking of how fun hanging out with Tweek had been. Tweek was funny, and he was… unpredictable, in a good way. Even when he was poking fun at Craig, he could tell that he wasn’t being cruel, it didn’t offend him, which was surprising.

“He seems to be a good kid, he takes my order every time I go to the coffee shop, though I don’t think he knows I’m your mom,” Laura says, smiling slightly. “His mom, Helen, she was in my Home Ed class when we were in school, she always baked us cookies.”

This fact isn’t too surprising to Craig; Tweek’s mom looks like she’s around his own mom’s age, and if she’s a native to South Park, then it’s obvious that their paths must’ve crossed at some point, it’s just that sometimes it’s hard to imagine adults like his parents as teenagers, which is stupid, because obviously, to be an adult, you have to be a kid first.

“She got together with that Tweak guy when we were Sophomores, and the girls used to joke around saying that he put a spell on her,” she chuckles, looking down to her tea. “Suddenly they were all over each other, and they seemed to be attached by the hip. I heard that she turned down a bunch of Universities to stay here and work at his family’s coffee shop after he proposed to her at our graduation.”

Eyebrows rising to his scalp, Craig feels his eyes widen. The thought of choosing to stay in South Park for another person makes absolutely no sense in his head.

“High school sweethearts,” Craig comments around a mouthful of food, and she nods. “What about you and dad?”

He’s heard the story before, Thomas, a year older, the star of their school’s football team, Laura, the captain of the female Volleyball team. Craig knows the story, but he likes the way his mom tells it.

“Your father never made a move,” she snorts, rolling her eyes fondly. “He graduated and disappeared, we saw each other again by chance a year after that, when I got into Boulder and we shared a few classes. Even then, I had to be the one to ask him out and he couldn’t even look me in the eye to say yes.”

“Dad has no game,” Tricia groans, coming into the room to sit on the chair across from Craig. “Just like Craig.”

Craig flips her off, and Laura shakes her head. “Your father was a gentleman, he was just shy at first.”

Tricia gags, but Craig isn’t sure if it’s because she’s already sick or if she’s just joking. He hurries to take the last bite of food as fast as he can, just in case.

“So, you guys got together in college and never broke up?”

“Well, I tried to, once,” Laura admits, and Tricia gasps, quietly. They don’t know this part of the story, Craig is surprised, too. “When your grandpa had that heart attack, I decided to come back to South Park. I only had one year left in school, but I didn’t care, I just wanted to be close to my dad. Thomas— your father, had graduated already, he was doing an internship at this big company all the way down in Boston, when I told him that I was dropping out and to move back home…”

“He got mad?” Tricia asks, but from her angry tone, it sounds more like she’s assuming. Craig can’t blame her, it sounds in character for the father they know.

“No, kid,” Laura snorts, hand waving the idea off like swatting a ridiculous fly. “He wanted to come with me, he was ready to drop everything to be with me, even if it meant quitting his job and a very good future. I asked him to stay, I told him we should just break it off.”

“He followed you back here anyways,” Craig guesses out loud, and Laura nods.

“I was so pissed! Yelling at him in Spanish, English, French, and I don’t speak French,” Laura confesses, and Tricia giggles. “I tried to send him back, maybe if he apologized to his bosses he would get his job back, but there was no use, the man wouldn’t move.”

“That’s… sweet. And gross.” Tricia grimaces. “I didn’t know dad could be romantic.”

“Believe it,” Laura laughs, eyes glazed over with nostalgia. “Your grandma almost killed me when she heard me telling him to go. I remember she sat me down on our old couch, and she said ’Mija, el hombre que verdaderamente te ama, va a seguirte a donde vayas. No lo pierdas.’ And she knew better than I did, my father was the one who went back to Peru to look for her after all.”

“That’s nice and all, but I don’t think I’d stay in South Park for anyone,” Tricia blanches, and Craig can’t help but agree, feeling like she might have been reading his mind.

“Oh please,” their mom rolls her eyes. “Things are different now, back then we didn’t have cellphones and the Internet, distance relationships were much harder.”

“Isn’t it weird that the people of South Park got together in South Park, so they’ve known each other their entire lives?”

“That’s usually how population works, genius.” Craig deadpans.

“What I’m saying is, dipshit,” Tricia narrows her eyes. “Is that we probably already know the person we’re gonna marry—… Well, I probably already know the person I’m gonna marry, I don’t think there’s any hope for you, though.”

Craig flips her off, again. Though, he thinks she might be in the right. He can’t see himself as married, let alone married to someone he already knows in South Park. Not even Heidi, who he’s kissed but never felt nothing about, or Annie, who smiles at him so sweetly but has an ugly car—…

“That’s nonsense,” Laura snaps, shaking her head vehemently. “Yes, you might already know the person you’ll end up with, or you might meet them for the first time in sixty years, it doesn’t matter.”

She looks over to Craig, her soft green eyes in his. Something inside him twists.

“The only thing that matters is that they make you happy.”

Chapter Text

It’s only a matter of time for his mom to ask. Craig has to give it to her, considering her nagging personality, she deserves some credit for being able to pretend she doesn’t notice the bandage around his hand for longer than he expected. It seems like she’d been waiting for Tricia to leave the dining room to go lie down until she feels better, to finally ambush her son.

Ever the so polite young man, Craig is washing his plate in the sink, although awkwardly, using solely his left hand to avoid getting the other one wet —when he got home last night, he’d resorted to wrapping it with a plastic bag in order to get in the shower, which had proven pretty quickly to be strangely humiliating and uncomfortable; it’d already been too late to think about it better, his brain tired enough to completely forget about the first aid box they keep in the cabinet under the sink.

Laura goes up to him and hip checks him away, taking over the task efficiently. “I’m assuming that since I didn’t get a call from your school, that bandage means it was accidental,” she hums, turning her head to give his wounded hand a pointed look.

Honestly, Craig is kind of surprised that she didn’t get a call anyways, accident or not. He would’ve thought that the school’s required to at least notify students’ parents whenever they have to pay a visit to the nurse’s office. Not that he’s complaining though; he knows that if Laura had known, she wouldn’t have let him go with Tweek and Kenny the night before, and besides, it’s not like their school administration is that efficient, and he had told Ms. Roberts that she didn’t have to call his family.

“They need to put some money on new baseball equipment,” Craig tells her, shrugging. It’s a roundabout way of telling half the truth, because he absolutely cannot tell her what Cartman said to make him cut himself like this.

“You should’ve called me,” she clicks her tongue, turning to put the cutlery in the dishwasher.

“For what? It’s not even that bad,” Craig rolls his eyes when she straightens back up again and silently motions him to put his hand on hers. “Ms. Roberts said it’s not even deep.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Laura huffs, as if she, a bank teller with an almost finished accounting degree, is more qualified than a professional nurse. Craig knows better than to fight her on it, obviously, and just does as she asks.

His grandma is a retired nurse, so naturally, Laura believes that she somehow inherited medical knowledge by proxy or something. One time, when they were stupid, stupid kids, Tricia fell down the stairs after being dared by Craig to hop down the steps with her shoelaces tied together, and her shoulder had gotten dislocated. Both Laura and his grandma had rushed into action, mother and daughter coordinated like a machine, sitting a wailing Tricia on the dining room table, Laura holding her still while grandma’s practiced hands set the bone back in place with a swift jerk.

Yes, Craig had felt extremely guilty about it, and they were forbidden to play in the stairs for the rest of their lives, but at the time, his eight-year-old mind didn’t really consider the risks of such a stupid fucking dare, and he’d wanted revenge after Tricia had dared him to eat a peanut butter, mayonnaise, sardines and Swedish Fish sandwich. He did all of her chores for her to make himself feel better about it.

Uncharacteristically gentle, Laura peels the bandage off, and Craig cringes at the feeling of it unsticking from the skin of his hand. The cold air hits the cut and it feels so raw it makes him hiss, but apart from that, it doesn’t really hurt. His mom makes a considering sound, and pulls his arm upwards, bringing his hand closer, eyeing it carefully. Peeking, Craig for once takes full notice of the wound. It’s shallow but long, extending vertically from the base of his thumb to almost the side of his hand, cutting through the meaty section of his palm. The flesh is an angry pink color, and it feels kind of wet from being covered, but it doesn’t bleed.

“Yeah, it’s not that bad,” she declares, which makes Craig sag in relief.

“I told you,” he rolls his eyes, earning a quick glare from her green eyes.

“I’m your mother, I’m supposed to worry, kid,” she mutters, cradling the back of Craig’s hand firmly. “Does it hurt?” she pokes the edge with one of her fingers.

Craig yelps, instinctively trying to pull away from her grip, and making her laugh. “When you fucking poke it, yeah!” he bites, and Laura chuckles again.

Turning the faucet back on, she guides his hand under the running water, which again, pulls a hiss out of him when the cold hits it in full force. “Aw, Craig got a booboo. Do you want me to kiss it better like I used to do when you were kids?” she asks, puckering her lips, and making kissy sounds. “Sana, sana, colita de rana—"

“Mom!” Craig protests loudly, interrupting the childish rhyme she used to sing whenever something hurt him or Tricia.

“Okay, okay,” she laughs, finally letting his hand go and handing him a bundle of paper towels to dry off. “Go sit there, I’ll get a new bandage and some meds for your sister’s stomach.”

Feeling his face cool down, Craig grumbles, walking back to the table and sitting on his previous spot while his mother hurries up the stairs. Experimentally, Craig curls and uncurls his fingers, testing the pull of the lacerated skin with morbid curiosity. It feels tight, the stretch, and he wonders if it will leave a scar; not like it matters if it does, it’ll probably blend with the other lines of his palm, and even if it didn’t Craig’s not really concerned about the aesthetics of hand, or any of his body parts really.

Laura doesn’t take long to come back, white first aid kit in hand. She sits down next to him, and motions for his hand again, so Craig dutifully stretches his arm across the wooden surface of the table, palm up.

“You have to be more careful, okay?” she says, sternly, and pulls out a packet with a new bandage along with some type of antibiotic ointment. “I’ll tell your father to talk with your coach, I bet they still use the equipment that’s been there since I was in high school.”

“Yeah, probably,” he huffs, eyeing the way she tenderly starts rubbing ointment over the cut. “How’s Tricia?”

“She’ll live,” Laura mutters, clearly concentrated on the task at hand. “She’s probably gonna fake it all weekend so we let her miss school on Monday.”

Huffing with amusement, Craig thinks that it does sound like something Tricia would do. “Are you gonna let her?”

Laura lets go of his hand when she’s done and gives him an obvious look. “Don’t you know who I am, kid?” she asks drily, and Craig shakes his head, smiling. Her gaze softens for a second before she grabs and opens the new packet that contains the bandage.

“Clyde says his dad taught him to put paprika on cuts,” he says, to fill the silence, and surprises himself with this need. Laura’s movements pause, and she sighs, exasperated.

“Why am I not surprised?” Laura mutters under her breath, taking hold of his hand once again and starts wrapping it. “It’s a mountain people remedy, paprika stops the bleeding but it’s unsanitary, your grandma always saw it at the hospital, but I thought the myth had died by now. I can’t believe Roger’s teaching Clyde these things. Honestly, I don’t know what Betsy saw in him, he’s always been an idiot.”

His mom and Clyde’s went way back. After her funeral, Laura had shared with Craig and a sad smile, that she met Betsy, Clyde’s mom, shortly before dropping out of college, when Betsy moved to Denver from The Netherlands through an exchange program, and they had quickly bonded over coming from immigrant families. It’d been Laura, who introduced Betsy and Roger, who’d been her classmate in high school, and although she claims she never thought they’d end up together, Craig has some unfounded doubts about it.

“When we were in high school, he used to hang out with Randy Marsh,” Craig didn’t know about this, but hearing Stan’s dad’s name, he immediately understands Laura’s disdain. “They used to get hammered every weekend and the cops arrested them all the time. Roger’s dad had to bail him out every single time, and at some point, he got so fed up he chased Randy off with a shotgun, yelling at him to never hang out with Roger again.”

“That’s fucked up,” Craig snorts, the thought of Randy running away from Clyde’s grandpa’s shotgun is unexpectedly funny.

"Roger didn't show his face for a while, but when he came back he started hanging out with the girls, desperate for a girlfriend," Laura laughs, and Craig isn't surprised, Clyde does take after his father in the end. "He stayed behind here in town, after we graduated, his dad made him inherit their shoe store and I didn't see him until I came back from Denver. That's when I invited Betsy to come with me to South Park, she was homesick and she missed her family, so I wanted her to meet your grandparents."

The memory of Betsy Donovan is kind of hazy in Craig’s mind, which is something that he feels guilty about given he passed away only two years ago, but to him, he’d always seemed so… strange, she used to be so overbearing towards Clyde, pushy in a way not even Laura is, always fixating on details like the way Clyde made his bed or the amount of time he spent on his phone, but at the same time, Betsy had seemed to be extremely laid back towards her husband, like she barely noticed Roger around, his presence as inconsequential as a fly buzzing around, only acknowledged when too close or too loud in her ears.

“I’m so relieved that Clyde’s doing okay,” she admits, as she finishes wrapping his hand. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like to lose your mom so young.”

Craig can’t either, and the thought makes something sharp get stuck inside his throat. Even if Laura is a nosy, controlling, and hardheaded mother, Craig can't deny his affection towards her. Flaws and all, Laura Tucker has never, ever made him feel unloved or uncared for, even when she isn’t the most affectionate person to begin with.

His mother’s love is rough around the edges like she is as a whole, but this doesn’t mean that she doesn’t love her kids; just that she has her own way of doing so. And besides, it’s not like Craig is a fan of physical affection to begin with.

“All done,” she announces, giving his hand a soft pat and snapping Craig out of his musing. “Try to not get it wet for now, I’ll go to the pharmacy later and get some more bandages.”

Swallowing the knot in his throat, Craig feels an unfamiliar sensation wash over him.

He looks at Laura in front of him, considers the faint lines that crease near her mouth and forehead, her strong green eyes and high cheekbones that look just like his, small mole under the right eye included.

This is his mom, the severe and yet playful woman who raised him; the one who taught Craig the ABC’s and how to tie his shoes. She’s the woman who adamantly put the meals on his plate arranged in a way that made it impossible for the main to touch the sides, because she knew that it made Craig upset when it happened, without even questioning it. The one who listened to his ramblings about space and took him to the local library in the afternoons after school when they couldn’t afford expensive books about the stars. His mom, who slaps the back of his head as a show of her affection, because she knows Craig doesn’t like hugs, and calls him “kid” when she means “sweetheart.”

“Thanks, mom,” Craig tells her, his voice rough even inside his own ears.

Her hand is warm in his as she gives it a gentle squeeze, and she smiles, like she knows exactly what he’s trying to say without saying it.

“No problem, kid,” her eyes look glassy, and Craig squeezes her hand back in a weak attempt of comfort, feeling a sting inside his own. “I—I know that you don’t agree most of the time, but I mean it, I’ll always be on your side, okay? No matter what.”

“I know,” he tells her, because he does know now. “And I—I’m sorry, about what happened and— I know I’m hard to talk to—”

“None of that, kid!” she shakes her head, cutting him off firmly. “But, now that we’re talking and you’re not trying to run away from me for once, can I ask you something?”

“I guess,” Craig swallows, unease rising up in his stomach.

He wishes Laura would just ask whatever she wants to know instead of building this mysterious suspense, Craig doesn’t like it, his brain immediately sets on a defensive response, but if he closes off, he knows that he’ll hurt her feelings, and it’d make him feel like absolute fucking shit.

“Why did you hit Eric?”

“What?” he blinks, genuinely taken aback by the question. He hadn’t expected it, but Craig doesn’t know what he had expected in the first place either.

“Why did you punch him? You never told us.”

“You never asked,” she hadn’t, neither of them had, but honestly, he wouldn’t have told them anyways.

“I’m sorry,” Laura says, her eyes look so genuine Craig has to look away, stumbling into the sight of his hand still on hers. “I was mad, and I didn’t want to hear anything, but I do wanna know.”

“Why?” he can't help the curiosity, considering this is the first time she's tried to hear him out.

“Because I keep saying you’re a good kid, I believe you’re a good kid, and if there’s something I know about you is that you don’t do things without a reason,” she breathes, frowning slightly. Craig bites back a sour smile, because lately, this hasn’t been true at all. “And I’m not saying punching people solves anything, I’m still mad at you for fighting, but I’m guessing there has to be a reason why you reacted like that.”

Silence falls between them, as Craig debates whether or not he should just say fuck it and tell her everything. It’s not like it means anything, hell, Craig still doesn’t even know why he did what he did.

“It was stupid,” Craig says, honestly, the words bursting out of his mouth. “Cartman was talking shit and it made me mad for some reason even though he wasn’t even talking about me, and it was so fucking stupid, because it made Tweek angry at me too, and then Cartman started saying that we— that I’m…"

Gay. People think he’s gay because Cartman spread it around, but Craig can’t even repeat it. The word sticks to the roof of his mouth and refuses to move, it burns his tongue like a piece of coal that’s been left in the fire.

Suddenly, his mother’s touch feels unbearable, her soft gaze raking over his face makes Craig want to scratch the skin off.

Her tenderness suffocates him.

“Craig, listen to me,” she prompts, firmly, when she sees that he can’t find the words to continue, it’s almost like she can tell what he’s feeling. “I know that being a teenager is ridiculously hard, believe it or not, I’ve been there,” she huffs, making the discomfort ease up a little. “You will find your place soon. I know you’re probably angry and confused, that’s totally normal, you’re getting older and things are changing, but I know you’ll figure it out, you’ve always been smart, and things eventually fall into place.”

Craig desperately hopes she’s right.

“But if you fight anyone ever again, I’ll have your head on a stake,” her smile turns terrifying. “Entendido?”

“Jesus, mom,” he huffs, rolling his eyes. “I got it.”

Cleaning Stipe’s cage is always a hassle, Craig wouldn’t mind it so much if it wasn’t for the fact that Stripe gets scared every single time, and he has to keep putting her down when she climbs under his hoodie and anxiously chews on the fabric, so the whole ordeal takes him a stupidly long amount of time to complete. It does make him feel kind of guilty that as soon as he places her back in, she’s still so freaked out she hides in one of the tunnels he bought for Stripe #3 and refuses to come out for an entire hour, not even falling for his bribes of hay and pellets, so he eventually just decides to let her be and come out on her own time.

His phone buzzing on the nightstand is a well-received distraction, Craig’s surprised by the notifications that have piled up since the last time he checked it last night at work as he takes it and throws himself on his bed. Kenny’s posted a story and tagged him in it, so Craig quickly taps the screen to open it— it’s a picture, dark from the lack for flash, and slightly blurry, but Craig can tell one of the figures in it is his own, his side profile, specifically, his straight nose and smiling lips. In front of him, Tweek, also his side profile pictured, has a hand stretched towards him, palm up and waiting, and Craig knows immediately that Kenny took this after Craig had eaten the first bite of the edible, Tweek telling him to spit it out if it was as bad as Craig had joked it was, near the bottom of the picture, Kenny has tagged both him and Tweek, adding a sensible “threesome? more likely than u think” next to their usernames with a row of eggplant and water drops emojis. Jesus Christ. Craig snorts, quickly typing out a “keep dreaming mccormick” in response.

It’s not surprising to see that Tweek has reached out as well only just a few minutes ago, which means the blond has just seen it himself as well.

@t.tweak: DID U SEE KENNY’S.S RTORY?

@craig.tucker: just saw
@craig.tucker: hes an asshole

@t.tweak: I didn’t even notice him taking it like WHAT!!!!

Now that Tweek mentions it, Craig realizes that he hadn’t seen Kenny taking the picture either; in retrospect, when he thinks of the moment it happened, all he can remember is the sight of Tweek’s smile, the ache in his stomach from holding back his laughter.

@craig.tucker: me neither

@t.tweak: I told him to deleteit!!!!!!!!1 I’m sorry!!!!!!!!!!!

Frowning, Craig hums, confused as to why on Earth Tweek is the one apologizing, it’s not like Craig cares in the first place, but even if he did, Kenny should be the one saying sorry anyways.

@craig.tucker: why r u apologizing lol
@craig.tucker: ?

The dots that appear on the screen signal Tweek typing a response, but they disappear after a few seconds, Craig waits for a beat, and huffs out a laugh then they come back up again with his reply appearing quickly on screen.

@t.tweak: I DON’T KNOW
@t.tweak: LMAO

@craig.tucker: he wont delete it
@craig.tucker: its funny anyways lol

@t.tweak: It is
@t.tweak: If ypu’re.a child

@craig.tucker: u type like one

@t.tweak: EXCUSE ME
@t.tweak: Not all of. us geg satursays off work -.-

@craig.tucker: using ur phone at work? :o
@craig.tucker: ill have to speak to ur manager

@t.tweak: Yourre gonna get me in troubkle with my mom????
@t.tweak: Weak!!1

Trying to imagine Tweek’s mom being angry turns out to be harder than expected. Mostly because Craig doesn’t really know her, he’s only spoken to her a handful of times and all of them had been at the coffee shop after all, but still, he also gets the feeling that making her mad isn’t as easy as making Laura mad, and he can’t see her be like his mom in full rage mode. Craig might be basing this theory on absolutely no facts, but he believes that Helen Tweak has never raised her voice to her son in her life.

@t.tweak: I’ts slow rightnmow anyways,, thays why I just saw the picrure

This one though, is different. In his mind, Craig can easily picture Tweek, standing behind the counter, scrolling on his phone with a bored pout just like Craig had been doing yesterday at the record store.

@craig.tucker: its slow? u must be bored then
@craig.tucker: want me to drop by and ask for a stupidly complicated drink so u dont get bored

It’s a joke, kind of. He could go to the coffee shop, but he’s not sure that Tweek would want to see him, and besides, after gas and the food from last night, Craig doesn’t have much money to spare on a drink he won’t enjoy. It’s the downside of working in a business that’s steadily dying.

@t.tweak: For your sister???
@t.tweak: Since you’re a bbaby thar doesn’t like coffee????

@craig.tucker: nah lol
@craig.tucker: shes sick because of the wendells i got her last night

@t.tweak: REALLY????? LOL
@t.tweak: OMG SORRY ITSNOT FUNNY I FEEL BAD FOR LAUFHGING

@craig.tucker: its kinda funny lmao
@craig.tucker: the employees got their revenge in the end

@t.tweak: THAT’S FUCKED UP!!

@craig.tucker: she did it to herself
@craig.tucker: she did

@t.tweak: ???????
@t.tweak: Did you just make a radiohead refwrence to me?!!!!

@craig.tucker: maybe
@craig.tucker: it’s a good song

@t.tweak: I can’t evem arguwe with thar
@t.tweak: -.-

Amused, Craig huffs, but his smile widens as he rolls his eyes. Tweek’s probably the only person besides Kenny that can give an attitude like this and make Craig laugh like this.

@craig.tucker: i get the feeling u wanna argue w me too much

@t.tweak: I do

The straightforward answer only makes Craig snort as he rolls on the bed until he lies on his stomach, grabbing a pillow under his arm and resting his chin on top of it, phone still in hand as Tweek continues to type for a couple of seconds.

@t.tweak: You do too you don’t fook me

It’s true, something about Tweek makes Craig want to fuck with him, somehow, he knows that Tweek knows how to keep the ball rolling, and with Craig’s dry sense of humor, that’s not something easy to do.

@crai.tucker: me? never
@craig.tucker: u wound me tweek

@t.tweak: You’re gull of shit Tucker

Smile cementing on his face, Craig's fingers hover hesitatingly over the screen, trying to come up with something to say in reply. He's enjoying this, talking to Tweek, and he doesn't want to stop, but his brain can't for the life of him, think of a good response that'll guarantee the flow of the conversation to keep going.

It's a relief when, as Craig gives up, Tweek starts typing again.

@t.tweak: Clyde came by warlier
@t.twwak: With Bebe
@t.tweak: He askwd abour you

Feeling his eyebrows raising, Craig can't help the surprise that takes over his body. Clyde going to the coffee shop with Bebe isn't really news, they do it all the time because Bebe loves iced caramel macchiatos and Craig knows that Clyde won't admit it, but he hasn't gotten over his obsession with lattes. It's the last message that Craig isn't really expecting. Clyde asking Tweek out of all people about him is strange, even if Clyde had obviously seen Kenny's story, he hadn't asked Craig himself over text, but he had asked Tweek.

@craig.tucker: what did he say?

@t.tweak: Nothing he just wanted to know what we were up to last nifht with Kenny
@t.tweak: I told him we kidnapped cartman and left him tied to a tree naked

Unexpectedly, Craig hears his own guffaw, and he quickly types a response, feeling strangely relieved over the fact that Tweek hadn't told Clyde anything about their hangout.

@craig.tucker: LMAO
@craig.tucker: gross i dont wanna see that

@t.tweak No one doews man

@craig.tucker: clyde believed u didn’t he

@t.tweak: I think he was goinna believe me if it wasnt for Bebe relling him I was fucking with him

Of course. Clyde's probably the most gullible person on Earth.

@craig.tucker: clyde would believe the moon's made of cheese if u said it with a straight face

@t.tweak: are tou telling me the moon ISN'T made of chewse?

@craig.tucker: wait until you hear about santa claus

@t.tweak: HE'S MADE OF CHEEESE????!!!

A sharp knock coming from his room’s doorframe has Craig looking up from his phone, and the smile drops from his face as soon as he sees who’s standing there. Thomas takes his acknowledgement as permission to come in and Craig jerkily locks the screen of the device in his hand, watching with suspicion as his father steps inside his room and looks around like he hasn’t seen it in years or something. He must’ve come home from work just now, but Craig had failed to hear his truck pulling up; usually, when he knows Thomas is coming, Craig closes his door, so they don’t see each other until they absolutely have to at dinner.

“How bad is it?” Thomas asks, nodding to his bandaged hand.

Craig shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

Thomas walks over motioning for him to move, and Craig ruefully obeys, sitting up and scooting closer to the wooden headboard as his father sits near the end of the mattress, making Craig bite his tongue in an attempt to keep from complaining about the man’s outside clothes touching his bedding.

“What happened? Your mother said you got hurt at practice.”

“Old catcher’s mask cut my hand,” Thomas frowns, confused and Craig sighs. “It’s fucking plastic.”

Realization is clear in his dad’s face for half a second before he looks conflicted again. Craig tries to think of a non-rude way to tell him to get the fuck out of his room.

“You’re not a catcher,” he points out, as if Craig doesn’t know what position he plays.

“Coach Miles is a dick,” he shrugs, factually, because it’s the truth. Thomas looks disgruntled by the reply, but for some reason, he doesn’t say anything, which is weird.

“I’ll talk to him,” Thomas states, and Craig resists the urge to roll his eyes.

The last thing he needs is Coach Miles singling him out again, his dad sticking his nose in again is just another excuse for the man to find more reasons to humiliate Craig during practice— he can hear it already, ”No more chatter ladies, one of you little babies’ sent your daddy to talk to me all mad because I hurt your little feelings, isn’t that right Tucker?”
However, Craig really isn’t in the mood for arguing, and he knows that his dad will do whatever the fuck he wants to do, no matter if Craig likes it or not, so it’d just be wasting his breath on nothing.

Giving his father a weak nod, Craig waits for the man to leave, but unfortunately, after a few seconds of waiting, that doesn’t happen. Instead, Thomas stares at him, unnervingly blank in the face and Craig feels his nerves shoot up, wondering with a sour taste in his mouth, what the fuck his father’s looking for.

“Okay,” he says blandly, thinking that maybe Thomas wants a verbal response out of him.

“You got tests coming up?” his dad asks, instead of moving.

“Uh yeah, in a couple of weeks,” it hadn’t been a lie to make Mr. Mackey let him leave early, the World History test is coming up, so are the Spanish, Algebra and English Lit ones.

“Alright, I’ll leave you to study,” thank fucking God. Thomas sighs, standing up, and Craig feels his shoulders sag with relief. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

His dad stands under the doorway for a couple of seconds, hands rubbing the denim of his jeans awkwardly, and Craig watches, bewildered, as the man he’s always known as firm and strict, look as hesitant, borderline lost, as he’s ever seen him. Craig’s surprised by his own sudden anger at this sight; he doesn’t like feeling confused, and the way Thomas is acting is pretty disconcerting.

Is he really trying to play the dad of the year again? After how it went last time?

“Tricia’s the one that’s sick,” Craig tells him, spitefully. “You should check on her, not me."

Thomas’ face twists into something Craig doesn’t quite recognize, and honestly, he doesn’t want to recognize it either.

“I already talked to her, she’s got a stomachache, but she’ll be fine,” he sighs, a frustrated sound, and Craig grimaces when, again, Thomas hesitates to walk out. “I still wanted to check on you, Craig… you’re my kid too.”

Hands balling at his sides, Craig stares blankly at his father for the long second that stretches between them.

He searches for that thing from before with his mom, the fond memory, the warm feeling in his stomach at the reassurance of her support, but comes up empty.

“If it were up to me, you'd already be there.”

Craig is Thomas kid, he’s his firstborn son, with his insolent mouth and his purposeless life, he’s the kid he’d send away if it was up to him. Would Craig ever stop being Thomas' son? Was there a limit to the space he could occupy in his dad’s life? If Thomas heard about what kids are saying about Craig around school, would he have his back like Laura had promised she would?

He doesn’t even have to think about the answer. Craig already knows.

“Close the door, please. I need to study in peace, dad.” he can’t hide the bitterness in his voice, but Craig focuses on forcing a smile, which probably looks like just a tight line across his face.

Visibly unhappy, Thomas gives him one last unreadable look before turning around and walking out, the door quietly clicking shut behind him.

Chapter Text

Monday morning finds both Tucker siblings huddling inside the car, escaping from the now definitely cold weather. The sky is a depressing gray color and Tricia keeps groaning about their parents not allowing her to miss school, which makes Craig already feel like it's gonna be a long day.

To her credit, Tricia had begged consistently throughout the entire weekend for Laura to let her skip, with arguments that grew progressively more and more desperate as their mother’s refusal to budge even a little bit persisted. Craig still doesn’t understand why Tricia even tried, let alone, kept insisting, knowing their mom’s iron will, but he’s not one to judge, being that in the list of people who absolutely detest their school right now, he’s probably the first name there.

“It’s cold as balls already,” Tricia whines, rubbing her hands together. “It's not even November yet.”

“It’s like you’ve forgotten where we’ve been living our entire lives,” Craig mutters, but his hands are also feeling so cold he fears they might freeze in their grip of the steering wheel.

They’d both stubbornly brushed their mom’s attempt to bundle them up in scarves, gloves, and in Tricia’s case, since Craig sports his trusty chullo everywhere he goes, a winter hat their grandma knit last year for her birthday and sent for her all the way from Peru.

At this rate, they won’t make it into November without snow, which hasn’t happened since Craig was a kid, and he thought it wouldn’t happen again because global warming? Craig thinks that’s how it works at least, anyways, Wendy probably is having a fit about it right now.

“We don’t have to pick up Karen today, she’s not coming,” Tricia tells him as Craig pulls off the driveway.

Kenny texted Craig last night, shortly letting him know that he’s getting a ride from Stan, which surprised Craig, because he though that Stan didn’t even have a car, and he had also just gotten suspended, so the fact that he’s even allowed to drive is pretty fucking unfair considering how Craig’s suspension had gone like with his own parents. True, Stan’s mom seems to be really, really nice, Craig has only talked to her a few times, but she’d been soft spoken, and her eyes had looked at him so kindly it had felt like an out of body experience, because Craig thought moms like that only existed in movies and tv shows, and well, Randy Marsh is kind of a fucking asshole that probably thinks his son getting shitfaced and fighting is something to be proud of. Although, to be honest, Craig isn’t really sure if Randy is even around in Stan’s life anymore since Sharon divorced him, which the whole town knows about.

“So that’s why you didn’t want to come?” he asks, the mystery jigsaw piece falling into place. “Because Karen’s skipping?”

“She isn't skipping, she's sick," Tricia huffs, and even with his eyes on the road, Craig can hear the eye roll in her voice. "Jesus, my ears are gonna fall off."

"Maybe they wouldn't be so cold if you didn't tie your hair up," Craig tells her, eyeing her perpetual ponytail sitting neatly at the top of her head.

"I don't like my hair down, it makes my face look weird," Tricia pouts, adjusting the hairdo self-consciously.

"That's fucking ridiculous," Craig blindly reaches his hand out and flicks her ear, it is cold. "Your face is already weird."

"Shut the fuck up," she punches his arm, hard, making Craig wince as the pain shoots up his shoulder. "We're literally related, dipshit."

"So?"

"We have the same genes!"

"Tricia, I told you. We found you as a baby," Craig deadpans. “Under a rock, crying.”

"Shut up! You know I hate that fucking joke." his sister whines, Craig snorts.

“Okay, I’m sorry. We didn’t find you under a rock, ” he laments, slowing down the car at a stop sign. “Someone left you outside the house, like in the movies.”

“At least mom and dad chose to keep me, you were literally an accident."

That's fair. Although Laura firmly denies it, Craig’s always been pretty sure that his conception had been… a surprise. After all, when his mom dropped out of school to take care of her dad, she’d promised to both of her parents that as soon as grandpa got back on his feet, she’d return to Boulder and complete her education. She hadn’t really counted on the fact that Thomas would follow her back to South Park and they’d end up settling down in town for mysterious reasons, i.e. Craig’s existence in her uterus.

He doesn’t remember much of Tricia before she was born, he can vaguely recall their mom’s belly, and the happiness in her face at the hospital while she held a bundle of small little girl and tuft of orange hair. Thomas had cried, Craig remembers this the best, because it is, to this day, the only time he’s ever seen his father’s eyes welling up with tears, and in his mind, the image is still as unsettling as it had been at the time. He wonders if he had cried when Craig was born too. The easy guess is that he had, but given the current circumstances, Craig actually wants to believe he hadn’t, just to have a reason to resent him.

It’d be much easier this way, Craig thinks, if he knew that his dad didn’t want him from the start, it’d be less disappointing to digest, but it’s not true, his dad loves him, or at least he cares about him, even if it is in his own conservative, fucked up way. And it sucks.

"Your face doesn't look weird, Tricia. Don't be dumb, you look fine,” he tells her, honestly, and Tricia’s gaze feels heavy on his side profile. “Besides, if you tie your hair all the time you’ll go bald.”

"Fuck you!" she screeches, and Craig looks at her from the corner of his eye, laughing at the deep flush of her freckled face.

“It’s true, ask Bebe,” or it might be true, he isn’t a hundred percent sure, but Bebe had told Millie Larsen, who, like Tricia, used to put her hair up everyday the same thing, and even though Millie had cried, she had indeed stopped tying it up since Middle School.

“You’re traumatizing me,” Tricia groans, as Craig pulls into the school parking lot and looks for the now familiar spot next to Annie’s car.

It’s empty, so he makes quick work of pulling over into it, careful of not scratching his classmate's ugly vehicle, while Tricia hurries to roughly tear the hair tie off her head, her long, orange hair falling in a mess of tangled waves over her face and shoulders. Craig turns the engine off and watches, with mild amusement as she kneels on the passenger seat and leans over the space between their bodies to stare at her reflection in the rearview mirror.

“Just wear a hat next time, twerp,” he tells her, reaching over to ruffle her already messed up hairstyle, but she sharply slaps his hand away without even looking, which is kinda impressive. She might have some type of spidey sense against his attacks, or Craig might be getting too predictable.

Huffing and puffing, Tricia takes a good five minutes combing her fingers through her long hair, and Craig waits for her, feeling no rush to get inside the school, even if the cold is getting to him as the time drags by. He occupies his mind by watching the other students arrive, distractedly noticing when the bus pulls up and Clyde and Bebe climb off together, holding hands and walking closely, probably to keep warm. Wendy follows closely behind, looking as sharp as always, but taking Craig by surprise when he notices who she's in what seems to be deep conversation with.

Tweek stumbles to keep up with her as she angrily walks towards the school entrance and moves her mouth with words Craig can't hear, but he guesses that they're not good, judging by the way Tweek looks… worried, as he appears to listen to her intently, nodding along whenever she turns to look at him, his frown somehow makes Craig frown, curiosity flaring up in his gut.

"Okay, I'm done, whatever," Tricia announces, snapping Craig away from his thoughts.

Looking over at her, he can't even notice any difference in her face than before, just that now her ears are no longer visible; — but Craig isn't that stupid, he knows that generally, girls are more attentive of their appearances than him, he knows that Bebe complains about the bump on the bridge of her nose all the time, and Heidi confessed to him once, at one of Clyde's parties, that she's insecure about her weight, but Craig had never really thought Tricia would feel self-conscious. The realization leaves him feeling uneasy.

"Let’s go,” he tells her, and grabs her lilac backpack from the backseat along with his own before climbing out of the car.

Tricia wordlessly takes it when he offers it to her, and they walk together after Craig locks the car, cold air biting their cheeks until they flush pink. Craig loses her in the crowd of students gathering in the hallways not long after they step inside the school though, when some girl from the track team calls out her name, so Craig makes his way to his locker on his own, where, unsurprisingly, Clyde and Tolkien are standing together, chatting.

“Hey,” he nods to them, approaching.

Both of his friends shut up immediately, stepping away to give Craig room to open his locker.

“Hey, man,” Tolkien greets him, easily as always, but Clyde remains quiet, which is definitely unlike him.

Taking his World History book out, Craig looks over to his friend questioningly, but as soon as his eyes fall on Clyde’s face, the brunet is already looking away, an uneasy expression flashing across his face for half a second before he forces a smile that could probably fool anyone else, but Craig is too well-versed on Clyde–language to miss it.

“How’s your hand?” Tolkien asks, nodding to the grip on his book, before Craig can ask what’s going on.

Slightly and unnecessarily surprised, Craig remembers about the wound, and he shrugs, grabbing his book with his left hand and looking down at the pink line that cuts through his palm before wordlessly showing it to Tolkien, who eyes it curiously. Laura deemed it okay to ditch the bandage this morning after examination, because it won’t bleed again, and it had become inconvenient to do literally anything with it.

“It’s fine,” Craig shrugs, curling and uncurling his fingers to feel the dull pull of the skin. Turning towards Clyde, he asks. “What were you guys talking about?”

As Craig expected, his friend immediately lights up, despite his obvious standoffishness from seconds ago, the prospect of gossip overrules whatever it is that’s currently bothering him, which is kind of relieving to Craig; Clyde has only ever been mad at him to the point of no distraction once in their lives, and that had been years and years ago, when the girls had made that stupid fucking list that put Craig first in order of attractiveness and Clyde near the very bottom.

“Did you see Stan?” the brunet asks, gushing with excitement. Tolkien rolls his eyes, a reaction that is mostly reserved at the sound of Stan Marsh’s name.

“No?” Craig frowns, confused.

“Let’s take this on the road, I don’t wanna be late for class,” Tolkien suggests, his voice sounding like he’s already done with the conversation.

Nodding, Craig clutches the book by his hip and shoulders his backpack on before following Tolkien down the hall, towards the stairs. Clyde is practically buzzing beside him like a child on Christmas Eve, counting the hours before getting to open the presents under the tree.

“So, Bebe told me that Wendy told her she broke up with Stan—”

“That happens like, every week, dude,” Craig rolls his eyes, unimpressed.

One time, in freshman year, Wendy broke up with Stan because he failed to notice she had gotten a haircut, which yeah, sounds kind of stupid, but even Craig had noticed when she showed up to school with her usual long ass waist-length black hair cut straight to her chin.

“No, no, get this. Wendy said that she dumped him for real this time, because she’s sure Stan is in love with somebody else!”

“What?” Craig blinks, eyes darting between his two friends on each of his sides.

Tolkien gives a helpless shrug that only means he’s as lost as Craig feels, and Clyde nods his head fervently, showing his own shock. If it wasn't for his promising career as a football player, Craig's sure Clyde would be an amazing host for a gossip–centered TV show.

Eyebrows reaching his scalp, Craig tries to think about it, but it turns out to be harder than he expects. Stan and Wendy have been a thing even before they weren’t, their on and off relationship almost as old as their school careers, which is fucking insane to even imagine. They'd gone from childhood crushes, awkward preeteens and high school sweethearts in one single lifetime, Craig can't even imagine them being with other people.

Well, actually, thinking about it more, he can see Wendy with someone else, someone like Tolkien, because in Craig's opinion, they're kind of a good match, Wendy being the smart, intense person with calm but empathetic Tolkien to complement her fighting; of course Craig's never said these things out loud in fear of making Tolkien feel bad or embarrass him or something, he prefers not to involve himself in his friends' romantic lives, even if he would like to know what the whole deal between them was about.

The point is, Craig corrects himself, he can't imagine Stan with anyone else.

A lot of girls like Stan, sure, even if they pretend they don't in order to keep a friendly face with Wendy, Craig has heard them, fanning over the star quarterback, with his blue eyes and black hair that is definitely greasy but no one else seems to mind except for Craig himself, all of those times he's been dragged to watch one of Clyde's football games.

“In love? With who though?”

It’s not like Stan even gets around that much, Craig only ever sees him hanging out with his group, and even then, it’s mostly just Kyle he seems to pay attention to. Kyle who, apparently, punched him in the face for some reason.

“No one knows, dude.”

Weird.

“Wendy does, I’m sure,” Tolkien says, adding to the conversation and taking Craig by surprise.

It’s logical that Wendy would know, but the fact that there hasn't been a leak about the identity of this person is definitely strange considering the speed in which rumors spread in town. It’s not like Stan takes after Kenny, who will literally hit on anything that moves; Craig hasn’t seen Stan flirt with anyone that isn’t Wendy like, ever. Not even while drunk out of his mind.

“She’d tell Bebe, though, she tells Bebe everything. And Bebe would tell me!”

“Maybe it’s not true,” Craig shrugs.

But what’s even the point of lying about that? He doesn’t need to be close friends with Wendy to be able to tell that she isn’t the type to just make up shit that isn’t true, especially not about her own relationship. Craig thinks back to Tweek, who’d seemed to be listening to Wendy’s ranting just minutes ago. Does Tweek know? Probably, the pair appear to be pretty good friends. Would he tell Craig? Doubtful, judging by the way he kept avoiding his questions about Stan and Kyle. Does Craig even care?

“Wendy wouldn’t lie about something like this,” Tolkien shakes his head, looking solemn.

“Bebe wouldn’t either, or Wendy would kick her ass,” Clyde adds.

It’s true, Wendy has done it before, years ago, and she came out victorious too, scratches and all.

The bell rings before either of them can get another word in, and Clyde goes pale at the realization that he’s going to be late for Mr. Harri’s class, who’s known to be creepy in the worst way possible, and will surely give him after class detention if he catches him. Rushing out a goodbye, the brunet turns away before Craig can even form a reply, and dashes towards the opposite direction, shouldering innocent students away from his path.

Tolkien claps him on the back, and Craig dutifully follows him to their classroom that’s only a few doors down the hallway with no rush, knowing that Mr. Wyland is usually not as punctual as other teachers. Craig thinks about asking Tolkien about Clyde’s attitude from before, surely if something is up with him that Craig doesn’t know, then Tolkien is in on it; Clyde is clearly not the type to keep things to himself.

“Hey, man,” a voice calls from the doorway, catching their attention.

Snapping his mouth shut and swallowing the question back down, Craig looks away from Tolkien to find none other than the man of the hour, Stan Marsh, leaning against the wall next to the doorway.

His appearance gives Craig whiplash, given that they were just talking about him, and also, because he hasn’t been seen in more than a week, and he does, in fact, look different. There’s a faint outline of what seems to have been a nasty bruise around his right eye, mostly healed by now, and he’s not wearing his team letterman jacket, just a regular blue puffer coat and loose jeans, but what shocks Craig the most is his hair.

He feels himself blink at the strands that fall against Stan’s forehead, almost reaching his dark eyebrows and peeking from under the knitted black winter hat he’s wearing, the brassiness of the very noticeably cheap bleach job he’s gotten is certainly… a sight to behold.

To his right, Tolkien goes so rigid Craig can almost swear he feels the tension in his own body, but Stan doesn’t even seem to notice his friend’s presence at all, blue eyes fixed on Craig, which is also a surprise on its own.

“Hey,” Craig greets back, almost hesitantly.

Clearing his throat, Tolkien nods awkwardly. “I’m gonna go inside, see you later, man.”

Watching him go, Craig frowns, and then directs his stare back at Stan, who buries his hands inside the pockets of his jeans, and shrugs, shoulder glued to the wall behind him.

“Can I talk to you real quick?”

Taken aback, Craig stares at his face for probably too long, but Stan doesn’t seem to struggle against it, his expression remaining eerily calm, like his posture. If his eyes or speech weren’t as clear, Craig would’ve bet a good amount of money he doesn’t have, on Stan being high as a kite right now.

“Sure,” Craig shrugs, confused, and moves over to stand closer and out of the way, in case anyone needs to go inside the classroom. “What’s up?”

“Listen,” Stan breathes, eyes trained on the tiled floor. “About last week, on Monday I mean, I— I don’t really remember what happened.”

“You looked pretty fucking drunk,” Craig snorts, recalling the borderline nauseating smell of alcohol oozing out of Stan’s body.

“I was, man, I don’t even know how I ended up coming to school,” Stan smiles bitterly, and out of the corner of his eye, Craig watches as his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he swallows. From this close, Craig realizes that he might be wrong, because Stan doesn’t actually look calm right now, he kind of looks… defeated. “You talked to me, right? I think I remember seeing you.”

“Yeah,” Craig nods, shortly, and it could be the lighting, but he thinks Stan goes pale for a second right then.

“Fuck, man,” he groans, taking his hands out of his pockets to rub at his face, only to hiss out in pain when one of his palms presses on the bruise around his eye. “I’m sorry about that. Whatever I said, I wasn’t thinking.”

Recalling the hurt in Stan’s eyes as he’d accused him of not caring, Craig can’t think of doing anything but shrug helplessly in response. He isn’t offended by the words, so it’s not like he’s actually expecting an apology out of the guy. “Okay.”

For some reason unbeknown to him, Stan looks surprised by his reply. His head whips around, and his wide eyes immediately fall on Craig’s own. “Did I uh, say anything… like, weird? I mean, did I say anything about Kyle—?”

“Punching you in the face?” Craig finishes for him when Stan seems to choke on his own words. “Nah. You just told me to fuck off.”

“Really?” Stan eyes his face closely, like he doesn’t believe it.

“Why would I lie?” Craig asks back.

“Right,” Stan mutters, mostly to himself, but Craig can hear it clearly. "You wouldn’t."

“You really are weird, Stan.”

A heavy sigh falls from his mouth, and his body completely deflates along with it, Craig thinks he looks like a puppet whose strings have just gotten cut off. He waits, impatiently, to see if he wants to say anything else, maybe suddenly believe in the delusion that Craig is his best friend now that Wendy and Kyle seem to be out of the picture, mostly just because Craig can't pretend he isn't interested in knowing who the fuck it is that Stan wants to be with instead of his girlfriend of like ten years.

He snorts, a self–deprecating sound. "Yeah."

From the end of the hallway, Craig spots Mr. Wyland approaching, Tweek Bros to–go cup in hand, and it's game over.

"Not like I don't enjoy cryptic ass conversations with you," Craig nods towards their teacher. "But I'm also not trying to get suspended again, and if you're smarter than I think, you'll want the same."

Stan looks at Mr. Wyland and then at the classroom door, his face so full of emotion Craig doesn't even have the time to start to unpack. "I— no, I can't see Wendy right now."

Why do people start acting like complete morons when it comes to romantic relationships? Craig doesn't understand it. He almost fights Stan on it, the question "Why are you even scared of her?" Is almost at the tip of his tongue before Craig reminds himself that it's simply not his business, Stan isn't his friend, Craig shouldn't have any interest in trying to keep his academic life afloat, he has enough with his own.

"Suit yourself," he shrugs, instead.

When the bell to lunch rings, Craig is both extremely hungry and done with the day. Tolkien chooses to stay at the front of the classroom, so Craig is left alone in the back, but it isn’t until Chemistry, when Clyde sticks with Bebe in the lab and leaves Craig to deal with fucking Butters out of all people, that he knows that something might be up with him for real.

It’s weird, because Craig isn’t even sure if Clyde is actively avoiding him or not. He apologizes for leaving him to go sit with his girlfriend, and he does legitimately look sorry about it, but he also won’t look at Craig in the face, his eyes flickering all around the room, like a child caught with its hand in the cookie jar, the entire time. It’s almost like he’s embarrassed of something, but Craig can’t even begin to imagine what that would be.

Dropping his Algebra book inside his locker, Craig becomes a man on a mission, he gets tunnel vision with the purpose of finding Clyde in the cafeteria to straight up ask him, and books it, almost blindly, in that direction. That is, until he spots a familiar mop of blond hair at one of the lockers in the hall.

Feet coming to a stop, Craig does a quick U–turn and deviates from his original path, almost knocking into a pair of irritated senior girls who definitely will talk shit about him for at least the next five minutes, in the process.

“Hey, Tweek.”

Jolting, a strained sound comes out of the blond’s throat, and his head snaps to his left, where Craig now stands, leaning his shoulder against the metal of someone’s locker. Wide-eyed, Tweek seems nothing short of shocked to see him, and it takes him a full five seconds to recover.

Exhaling, one of his hands presses against his own chest, freckled cheeks flushing a faint pink. “Jesus, Craig! You’re gonna give me a fucking ngh heart attack!”

“Sorry,” Craig huffs, lips stretching into a smile.

“Asshole,” Tweek mutters, rolling his eyes, but his mouth twitches as he turns back to look at his locker and shove one of his books inside.

Taking a peek inside, Craig isn't surprised at the state in which the small compartment is in. Loose papers shoved messily, pens and bitten pencils as well, he recognizes some of the books there, but he doesn't know how Tweek can manage to keep track of the things he has shoved in there. Much like Craig though, the blond doesn't seem to have any personal objects there, except for a small plastic cube that looks like a fidget toy.

“Are you gonna get lunch?” he doesn’t realize how stupid the question is until it comes out of his mouth.

“Yeah,” Tweek closes his locker door and rolls his shoulders. “It’s too cold to eat outside, so I’ll have to ngh sit in the cafeteria.”

It is cold outside, Craig is reminded, and looking at Tweek’s clothing, he notices that the blond is definitely not dressed for the weather. A button-up under a knitted light brown sweater doesn’t seem like enough to keep warm.

"I didn't know you ate outside," Craig tells him, surprised.

"I usually don't—t like being in the ngh cafeteria too long, it gets loud."

It does get loud, it irritates Craig sometimes too, but he hadn't thought of eating anywhere else given that he didn't think Clyde or Tolkien would want to go to a different space.

"You should sit with us, it's not so loud near the back," he doesn't take the time to consider that maybe Tweek doesn't want to sit with him and his friends before the words are out of his mouth.

It's made obvious that the blond isn't expecting the invitation, because his mouth is slightly open when he looks, wide-eyed, in his direction.

"Ack! S—sure, I mean nngh if the others don't mind," he stammers nervously, and Craig gets the urge to appease him, but he doesn't really know how.

"They won't, dude. Clyde and Tolkien like you."

"They— I mean, yeah, okay," he nods, still looking surprised until a shiver seems to go down his spine, and he rubs his hands together with a quiet hiss.

“You didn’t bring a jacket?” again, the stupid question. Jesus.

Following next to him, they make their way through the throng of students and Tweek shakes his head, his shoulder bumping against Craig’s when one particular guy from the football team shoves his way forward. “I runnn hot, but I underestimated South Park’s shitty weather.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s gonna start snowing soon.” the statement makes Tweek groan pitifully. Which yeah, it’s a natural reaction.

“I can’t wait to graduate and ack! get the fuck out of here,” he sighs, rubbing his cheeks with his hands. “I’m done freezinnngh my ass in this shithole town.”

Interested, Craig hums. The subject of their future is kind of nauseating to think about for him personally; everyone seems to already have detailed plans for their next steps while Craig vaguely just knows he wants to leave. “Do you plan on moving far?”

“Uh, I don't know," Tweek says, considering, and pushes the doors to the cafeteria open. "Maybe California. I wanna ngh live near the beach.”

It’s not a bad idea, and picturing Tweek near the sea feels like a fitting image. Tricia’s freckles multiply when she spends a long time under the sun, they had discovered this when they were in Peru years ago, and Craig wonders if Tweek’s would do the same. That’d be… nice. Right?

The line to get food is still quite long, so Craig steps ahead and grabs a pair of plastic trays while Tweek stays in the queue. He hands one of them to the blond, who gives him a small, twitchy smile as thanks.

“California? Like, L.A? Do you wanna be an influencer?” Craig insinuates, nudging his shoulder playfully against Tweek’s own.

“Ha! Right!” the blond laughs, rolling his eyes. “I’ll probably end up in Denver like ngh everyone here anyways. What about you? Are you gonnnna go work at NASA?”

The line moves, and they both follow forward. At the question, Craig huffs out a breath of irony and looks over to Tweek, only to find that the blond's already staring back, blue eyes twitching.

The air inside Craig’s lungs stutters. “Nah, man,” he shakes his head lightly. “I think I wanna stay on Earth."

"Ack! Really?" Tweek asks, incredulously and Craig shrugs.

"Not in South Park, tho."

"Yeah, dude, I imagined," Tweek replies drily.

"Maybe I could be an influencer with you," Craig says, for absolutely no fucking reason, Jesus Christ. Is it weird? As weird as he thinks it is? It definitely sounded weird. Not like Craig meant it like that. He didn't even mean it at all.

"I think you're ack! better off in space, man," Tweek laughs, stepping forward to pick up a serving of vegetables that most likely came out of a can and the blandest looking piece of chicken he's ever seen.

"Weak," Craig mutters, hiding his embarrassment as he grabs his own food. "I could be an influencer."

"Do you even nngh know what an influencer is?" Tweek asks skeptically, side eyeing him as Craig guides him to the table Tolkien and Clyde are already sitting at.

Some people turn around to stare at them as they wave through the tables to make their way to the back of the room, Craig can undeniably feel the weight of their gazes, but he pushes forward anyways, ignoring the unwanted attention to the best of his ability. It won’t be long until the rumors start making their rounds around the students, but to his pleasant surprise, when he searches for a guttural reaction within himself, Craig can’t find anything stronger than just mild annoyance.

"Do you?" he retorts, because he doesn't really know. Assholes with smartphones? He steals a glance towards the blond next to him, to check if he’s noticed that they’re being watched, and finds that Tweek is looking back at him in the same exact way, testing Craig’s own reaction.

"I do, and I donnn't think either of us can do it, man," the blond says with trepidation, still eyeing him closely, and Craig subtly shrugs one shoulder to show his indifference. "I'm—Jesus! Paranoid enough alr—already, I don't need millions of people watching what I do."

"Millions? Woah, Tweek,” Craig tells him, mockingly. Both Clyde and Tolkien stop their conversation in surprise as they approach. “Nice ego you got there.",

“How do you guys nngh stand him?” Tweek asks, setting his tray on the table and sitting next to Tolkien, while Craig goes to his usual spot next to Clyde, across from him.

“You get used to it,” Tolkien tells Tweek, giving the blond an easy smile.

“Hey, man! So cool of you to sit with us!” Clyde gushes excitedly, a blinding grin breaking across his face.

Looking over at him, Craig doesn't miss the pink that spreads across Tweek's cheeks, and he gives Clyde a twitchy smile. “Craig said you guys wouldnnn’t mind,” he rushes to say, looking embarrassed.

“Of course we don’t, dude,” Tolkien reassures him, honestly, and Clyde nods his head fervently.

“Yeah, Tweek! You’re cool!” the brunet next to Craig insists, making Tweek look even more flustered than before. “You should hang out with us more often, for real.”

Giving Tweek a look that can only clearly mean ”I told you so” Craig chews on his food, content to see his friends being so welcoming —not like he had expected anything else from them; both Tolkien and Clyde were chill with literally everyone except for Cartman, and well, in Tolkien’s case, Stan too.
With this thought in mind, almost on their own, Craig’s eyes deviate towards the table that is usually occupied by that particular group, only to find it completely empty except for Butters and Kyle, no Kenny, Stan or Cartman in sight. It makes sense to him then, why he’d thought that the cafeteria had been oddly quiet before.

“You should tell Tweek about next Friday,” Tolkien says to Clyde, the words causing Craig’s attention to redirect back into their conversation.

Friday? Right. October thirty-one. He had completely forgotten about it by now with everything going on. Clyde's face lights up at the mention of the date, and Tweek makes a questioning sound from his throat, face still flushed by the duo's enthusiasm over his presence at the table.

“Oh, right! I’m throwing a Halloween party this Friday, Tweek! You have to come."

Eyes twitching, Tweek makes an aborted sound at the wording Clyde has chosen, and Craig remembers all the times he's heard the blond whining and stressing about things being too pressuring. Surely Clyde hadn't meant to be so… insistent, he's just trying to show how much he wants Tweek to come, but even if he hasn't seen Tweek react so loudly over these types of situations in a while, maybe the blond doesn't have it completely down yet.

"If you want," Craig adds, slowly, in an attempt to help Tweek out.

Wide blue eyes find his, and the surprise in them must short-circuit the nerves inside Tweek's head, because he nods, although a bit jerkily, in response.

"Yeah, if you want, of course," Tolkien seems to catch on. "Clyde just gets too excited."

"I—I… Jesus!" Tweek croaks, jaw tight, and breathes slowly. "Thanks, nngh Clyde. I have to, uhm, work Fridays, but I'llack! try to come."

"Awesome, man!" Clyde must take pity on him, Craig knows how insistent he can be. "It's a costume party, but if you don't feel like dressing up, that's totally coo—"

"Wait, what?" Craig interrupts, turning to look at his best friend beside him. "Why can he not dress up but I have to?"

Just like earlier, and to his disappointment, Clyde doesn't seem to be able to look him in the face, and the smile he directs him is kind of tight around the edges. "Are you even coming, Craig?"

The question is unexpected, and it has Craig blinking, once, twice, until he can orient himself. Clyde stuffs his face with the food from his tray and avoids his eyes like his life depends on it. It's so fucking weird Craig is left completely speechless.

"I— I said I'd try," he replies, confused and Clyde shrugs, too casual to actually be casual.

"Awesome."

From across the table, Tolkien gives him a troubled look that makes something sink heavily inside Craig's stomach. So there is something going on with Clyde, something that involves him, and it's big enough to make his friend pretend otherwise. Usually, when Clyde is hurt or mad about something, he just straight up says it, he doesn't act like nothing's happened.

Probably sensing the sudden tension in the table, Tweek makes a distressed sound from his throat and shivers hard enough for the movement to be visible.

"Ack! I'll see if I can, uh, find something," the blond states, slightly too loud, and the three of them, simultaneously turn to look at him.

Tweek's mouth trembles with the tiniest of smiles, and next to him, Clyde's face relaxes. "Sick, dude!"

Putting his plastic fork down, Craig sighs heavily and swallows back a groan, knowing that now, he definitely has to find a way to go to that damn party, if not to appease Clyde's hurt feelings then to merely see what costume Tweek will choose to wear.

Chapter Text

The thing with Clyde gets to Craig more than he’d like to admit.

When they were kids, before Tolkien moved into town, Clyde had been the only friend Craig had. They were inseparable, brought together by their mothers’ own friendship and sticking with each other for the fun they had.

Back then, Craig had an even harder time befriending other kids; his monotone voice, his lack of enthusiasm over what they cared about, while his overenthusiasm over stuff they didn't like in return, were factors that didn't really help his case, and even though Craig had always been aware of it, he couldn't really help it, even if he had, for a short while, tried to.

Craig had tried to do it all, from playing in the dirty, muddy snow, to looking at the porn magazines, and even participating in the disgusting spitting competitions, and yes, he had hated every single second of it. It wasn't fun, and Craig felt like he was lying, to himself and to the other kids. He had felt stupid, because he couldn't even begin to understand what he was supposed to find enjoyable about any of the things they did, so he eventually gave up.

This was, in some ways inevitable, for Craig to grow angry, rude, defensive, because something was off, in himself, and it kept him out, it forced to the sidelines, made him too small or maybe too big, to fit inside the mold.
But with Clyde, it's always been different.

To some extent, Craig thinks that Clyde is a little bit like him, even when they seem to be nothing short of polar opposites.

Back in the day, Craig had been quick to it, he'd realized he wasn't meant to be in the circle before it closed around its circumference, and he'd grown teeth before the others smelled his inadequacy and bit into him first, his indifferent front had solidified before anyone could've pointed out his soft underbelly, and it worked out for him. But Clyde, on the other hand, hadn't gotten away as easily.

Persistence has always been Clyde's biggest trait, so, naturally, he'd tried to force himself inside the groups, not deterred by the mean comments nor his own sensitive tears in response, and Craig had been there for him, every single time he came back, rejected and dejected.

It hadn’t been until he finally got with Bebe, the very popular, very strong headed girl who would bully whoever even tried to hurt Clyde’s feelings to the point of social suicide, that Clyde finally got the sympathy he deserved, this only cemented once he made the football team and showed he is actually good at the sport.

Craig had expected to be left behind by him, he even thought that Clyde would start hanging out with Stan and his group at some point, because Craig had remained as the odd one out. But Clyde never strayed away, which wasn’t even surprising, because even through his own stupid insecurity, Craig knew the facts; Clyde is loyal, and his heart is huge, and they’ve been friends since they were kids with knocked-out teeth and scraped knees.

Needless to say, Craig knows Clyde, they’ve been constant presences in each other’s lives, from birthday parties, to sleepovers, camping trips and even funerals, and yet, Craig has never seen him act like this towards him or anyone else, really.

The thing about Clyde is that he’s always been the rare type of guy that wears his heart on his sleeve, rarely afraid of showing what he’s feeling even while knowing that it’d make him get ridiculed by other people. One time, when Craig told him that maybe breaking up and then making up with Bebe three times a month didn’t sound like the healthiest of relationships, Clyde got upset, as he usually does when all topics related to his girlfriend and straight up looked at Craig in the eye and said “That hurt my feelings, bro.” Maybe foolishly, Craig had expected this situation to go down the same way.

It doesn’t take long to realize as much as he had hoped for it, it’s not going to happen.

On Tuesday morning, Clyde greets him as always, but makes a quick escape to Bebe shortly after, and then, during lunch, he arrives late to the cafeteria, and sits next to Tolkien, forcing Tweek to settle next to Craig, and keeps rambling about how stressed he is about the upcoming tests, not allowing anyone to get a word in through his relentless chatter as he avoids looking at Craig completely.

After class, Craig tries to find him again, determined to cut whatever his issue is from the root, but by the time he makes it to the parking lot, Clyde is already long gone, aboard on the first bus home that rounds the corner as Craig pushes through the sea of students on their way out.

To his increasing frustration, he finds that texting doesn’t help either, because when Craig shoots him a very straightforward ”are u mad at me?” Clyde takes only se1conds to type out a reply that only leaves Craig reeling even worse than before. OFC NOT BRO!!! But then, on Wednesday, when Craig attempts to ask again, in person this time, Clyde brushes him off immediately and takes the first opportunity he sees to walk away.

“Do you know what’s up with him?” Craig ends up asking the next best person.

Tolkien shrugs, looking as confused as he has ever seen him, which only makes Craig even more frustrated than before. “No idea, man.”

“Has he been weird with you too?” Craig asks, eyeing Tolkien’s face closely.

“I don’t know,” his friend frowns, and it looks like he genuinely gives it a thought. “No, I don’t think so.”

It leaves Craig stumped to the point of considering to go to Bebe, because Bebe absolutely fucking knows, but finding her without Clyde being glued to her hip almost impossible, and he also seriously doubts that he’ll even get anything out of her.

The mere fact that Craig tries anyway is a clear tell of how much the situation is actually getting to him.

There’s only one class they both share that Clyde isn’t in, Physics, so Craig knows this is probably the only chance he’ll get with her alone. In a definitely not stalkerish fashion, Craig waits for her in the hallway, much like Stan had done two days before, and jumps into action as soon as she walks inside the classroom alongside Heidi, both girls chatting animatedly and walking to their seats next to each other.

“Hey, Heidi?” he prompts, approaching as soon as they sit down.

Both girls look up, seemingly surprised, before Heidi’s glossy lips break into a small smile, and Bebe’s face tenses slightly, her red colored mouth drawing into a tight line and her dark brown eyes narrowing slightly. Craig knows pissed-off Bebe, he also knows sad, happy, jealous, disgusted, worried and even I-did-too-many-tequila-shots-I'm-about-to-projectile-vomit-all-over-your-shoes Bebe, so he knows for a fact that her expression, even though appearing to be hostile, is actually unreadable.

“Hey, Craig. What’s up?” Heidi greets him, her voice as soft as always.

Now, Heidi's expressions he doesn't know as much about. She only ever seems friendly, or furious (only shown at Cartman) so, Craig believes she's not bothered by his presence right now.

To be fair, he does know other things about her, facts shared with him, made of drunken words inside the privacy of Clyde's bathroom; her favorite color is purple, she chases vodka with orange juice and she can touch the tip of her nose with her tongue, she's scared of drinking energy drinks, Red is her oldest best friend, and she loves foreign movies; Heidi's kisses are as soft as her mouth is, and her perfume smells sweet of vanilla and something else.

They haven't really talked about their makeout sessions, they just stopped searching for each other at parties, and things remained normal between them. Craig likes that about her, she hadn't expected anything out of him, she didn't hold it against him. She told him once that she doesn’t want to be disillusioned again, because she thought she could help Cartman become better before and he ruined her life, and Craig believes that maybe she could tell that he didn’t want to be in anything more than what they had been.

“Can you switch seats with me for a sec?” the words feel weird, because he’s definitely not the type of guy to use expressions like for a sec, but he’s trying to be nice. “I just need to ask Bebe a quick question.”

Confused, and a little uneased, Heidi turns her head to shoot Bebe a questioning look, probably trying to assess if the blonde is okay with being left alone with him, and Craig shifts his weight from one foot to the other, pretending to be patient about it. Bebe nods, giving her a reassuring smile, and the brunette is quick to stand, hands fidgeting with her sweater as Craig steps back to open the way for her. She gives him a questioning look, but walks away, sitting in his chair at the back of the classroom.

"My lips are sealed, Tucker," Bebe says petulantly as Craig drops down next to her.

"I don't believe that," Craig deadpans. Her lips have always been as loose as Kenny's meth-cooking parents, obvious and kind of immoral.

The blonde rolls her eyes and flicks her long curls off her shoulder. "Well, I mean it."

"You don't even know what I wanna know," he points out.

Bebe clicks her tongue, but her glare holds no heat. "I'm blonde, Craig, not stupid. You want me to tell you about Clyde."

"So, you know."

"Of course I know," she scoffs, like it's the most absurd thing she's ever heard him say. "Clyde tells me everything."

It had been obvious that this would happen, because Bebe might talk about everyone's business, but she won't talk about her own nor Clyde's, probably because she knows he'd cry about it for an unnecessarily long amount of time and at some point the tears are just downright annoying. Besides, she's stubborn as hell, and she loves holding things above other people's heads, so she's probably enjoying his prodding too much. Craig knows what to do though, years of his best friend's stories (good and bad) about his relationship have prepared him to be a good judge of the particular character that is Bebe Stevens, even when he hadn't even intended to be prepared.

"Okay, don't tell me what it is about," with girls like Bebe, compromising is the only way out. "Just answer a question—"

"I won't—" she's quick to protest.

"Yes or no question, and I'll never bother you again."

It's not really that much of a promising offer, because Craig has never bothered her for anything before, and he most likely won't ever again, and besides, she likes to be bothered because that means she has leverage, and therefore can look down on him.

Giving him a dramatized, considering look, Bebe tilts her head to the side and hums, one of her fuchsia acrylic fingernails tapping on her chin. Craig has to use every last effort in his body to stop himself from rolling his eyes at her teatrics.

"Okay, I'll be nice," she decides, finally.

"Is he mad at me?" the question rolls out of his tongue easily, given that it's been in his mouth so many times by now its grown familiar.

“What do you think?” she retorts, defensively.

Craig huffs. “I don’t know what to think, that’s why I’m asking you.”

Her eyes flicker, long and curled eyelashes fanning as she studies Craig's face carefully. She knows, she knows everything and she knows Clyde says he’s not mad but she also understands why Craig can’t believe it, she has to, right? There must be something there that she can see, because after a couple of too long seconds, her demeanor shifts. Bebe's face sobers, her evasive front crumbles before Craig's eyes, and her shoulders slump.

"No, I don't think so," she says, genuinely, but the answer only adds to his piling frustration.

"What's his problem, then?" Craig groans, his hands rubbing his face, fingers pulling at his eyes.

"Stop that, you'll get wrinkles," Bebe chides him, swatting his wrist weakly.

"Give me something, Bebe," he asks, swallowing his fucking stupid oversized pride, hands glued to his face but stopping the pulling. Her eyes widen a little. "He won't fucking talk to me."

"Look," the blonde sighs, grabbing his wrists and lowering them to his sides. "I can't tell you, okay? He made me swear on his mom."

Looking at the classroom's ugly water stained ceiling, Craig wants to bang his head against the wall until he's out like a fucking light. If Clyde brought his mom into it then there's no way around it, and Craig doesn't even want to think what it could be that it's so upsetting to him. "Fuuuck."

"Listen to me," she demands firmly. "I can only say this, okay? Clyde's not mad at you, so don't worry abou—"

"He's not mad? He literally won't look at me!" he snaps, and his voice is tight.

"I know, Craig, I have to listen to him whine about it twenty four fucking seven!" she snaps right back. "It's something that he's dealing with and he needs some space, but he'll talk to you when he's ready."

It makes no fucking sense. "What? What can possibl—?"

"I can't tell you anything else," she cuts him off, her tone definite. "Now get back to your place and send my girl back to me."

Staring, it's Craig's turn to study her, but Bebe's face is set in stone, and he already knows he won't get anything else out of her. He hates this, he hates Clyde's evasiveness, he hates not knowing what is going on, he hates the way the little information he has now leaves him even more confused than before.

"Okay, whatever," he tries to shrug it off, but the tension in his back won't dissipate.

The metallic sound of the chair's legs dragging across the floor as he stands seems to startle Bebe, and she huffs out a breath that speaks of her own apprehension, but Craig's too frustrated to feel guilty, even when he knows nothing that's been troubling him has anything to do with her.

"I won't tell him you talked to me," she says, like an olive branch extending between them, but it doesn't really matter, does it?

In the end, Craig knows that, at least for now, he has to let sleeping dogs lie, even if it bothers him to no end, and honestly, it feels really fucking shitty to see how his oldest friend looks like he’s seen a ghost anytime they walk by each other; but Craig can't think of anything else to do or say, so he decides that if Clyde has a problem with him, then he’ll have to either get over it or grow some balls and just say it, because Craig’s patience is going to start running thin sooner rather than later, and he doesn’t want to resent Clyde for something that he literally has no idea of what it is about.

In Spanish class, Craig doesn’t even try to go to his usual spot next to him and instead beelines to Tweek, who’s sitting in the middle row with Kenny and Stan in front of him, the pair twisting around on their chairs as they chat quietly with the blond. It is a surprise, because Craig has barely seen either of them all week, and he didn’t know that Stan even took Spanish in the first place. But if Stan is avoiding to see either Wendy or Kyle, or both, Spanish is a safe place given that both of them take French instead.

“Look who it is!” Kenny announces a little too cheerfully as soon as Craig walks over, both Stan and Tweek look at him. “Craig the boyfriend stealer!”

Confused, Craig’s eyes flicker towards Tweek, who whines in protest and drops his head on his desk with a muted thud, while Stan huffs out a quiet laugh. “I’m nnnot your boyfriend, man,” he groans tightly and Craig snorts.

“You’re a boy and you’re my friend,” Kenny retorts, like it’s obvious and makes perfect sense. “And Craig stole you from me.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Craig tells him, which is pretty fucking ironic, considering.

But it is kind of true, isn't it? In a very loose way. Tweek has fit in Craig's social life almost seamlessly now, even when they don't even share that many classes together, they somehow make it work by talking in the hallways and sitting together at lunch. Craig didn't really expect it, honestly, he never thought he could become friends with Tweek Tweak, the twitchy, short fused guy who almost gave his eight-year-old self a concussion. But it's happened, and the wildest part is that it doesn't feel weird or anything, just… unexpected.

Tweek's a funny guy, he has a quick wit and doesn't misunderstand Craig's cut dry humor, he matches it, challenging Craig in a way no one has done ever before.

It would only be ideal if people stopped fucking staring at them everytime they interacted.

"Tweek's my favorite blond and you took him from me," Kenny accuses, eyes narrowing, next to Craig, Tweek makes another pitiful sound, forehead still glued to the wooden surface of the desk.

“I see you got a replacement, though.” Craig comments, nodding to the atrocious bleach job on Stan’s head that peeks under his hat, the smile on the quarterback’s face drops at being called out.

“Ah, ya like it? I did it for him myself,” Kenny gloats, pretending to be oblivious of Craig's distaste and throwing an arm around Stan’s shoulders, who rolls his eyes but lets himself be dragged against his friend’s side.

“I can tell,” Craig deadpans, which earns him a heatless glare from Stan.

"Fuck you, Tucker," but his insult gets quickly drowned by Tweek.

“Ack! You let Kennnny fuck up your hair?!” Tweek asks, bewildered, as he shoots up to sit back in his chair.

"It's not fucked up," Stan complains weakly, the tips of his ears going red.

"It is." Craig argues, sneering, until a thought snaps his brain like an electric shock, the pieces falling together. "Wait, is that what you guys were doing while Stan was suspended? Playing hairdresser and painting each other's nails?"

The mental image of a typical girls' sleepover is too good to pass in Craig's mind —he can easily picture them both in Stan's bedroom, laying on their stomachs and kicking their feet in the air while gossiping. Kenny must've been the one with the idea of buzzing his hair off, and he wonders if he helped Stan wash the bleach out of his head in the sink like he's seen in the movies. Did they cry, sharing deep trauma at three in the morning? Did they watch some overhyped blockbuster, passing a tub of ice cream between them? What else did girls do on sleepovers? Craig remembers the one Tricia's held at their house, the muffled giggles overheard from their shared wall like a faraway nightmare. One time, a couple of years ago, one of Tricia's middle school friends got dared to talk to Craig, who'd been at the time, playing Resident Evil with Clyde in the living room. He's never seen a girl look so scared of the sight of two idiotic high school freshmen again.

With a strange sounding squeak, Tweek breaks into an alarming coughing fit, probably after choking on his own spit, and Stan's face turns bright red with a mix of embarrassment and irritation, the sight a glorious one, in Craig's humble opinion. Disliking aside, there's something about Stan that just makes it irresistible for Craig not to push. The dude is funny when he's annoyed.

Kenny on the other hand, puffs out his chest proudly and nods. "We were having a moment," he says, like it's a brag, and Craig snorts, absentmindedly reaching an arm out to pat Tweek's back like his mom does when they choke on her dry ass food.

"A moment of insanity," Craig adds drily, because who the fuck on their right mind decides to be bald or fry their hair with cheap bleack on a whim?

"It's called female hysteria," Kenny corrects, his smirk turning into one of his trademarked shit eating grins.

To Craig's faint disappointment, Tweek snorts at the stupid joke while Stan decidedly looks to the side, avoiding his curious gaze and pretending to be deeply interested in the corny "¡Hazlo Con Pasión!" poster on the far wall to their right.

"See! Tweek gets it!" Kenny points out excitedly. "Come back to me, Tweekers. The kids miss you."

“I didn’t go nngh anywhere, man! You guys dissss-appeared.”

At this, Kenny looks slightly guilty, his smirk on his face faltering for a second. Stan now plays a very boring game of pretending to be deaf by turning around to face his own desk ahead of them, crossing his arms on its surface and resting his head on top of them, effectively removing himself from the conversation as much as physically possible in his circumstance.

"No more of that!" Kenny promises solemnly, and then something must go through his mind, because he jolts in his seat. "We should go to Clyde's party together!"

At this, Tweek looks over to Craig, an uneasy expression twisting in his face. They haven't really talked about it, Craig has a feeling that Tweek knows better than to ask him what's going on, but it's obvious that the blond's able to tell that things between him and Clyde aren't good right now just by the tension that settles at the lunch table every time Clyde ignores what Craig says or changes the subject, Tolkien's worried glances only proving it further.

"Stan should drive you guys. I don't think I'll go." he was going to go at first, that's true, but after his conversation with Bebe, Craig doesn't think he's in the mood for it.

Stan's mysterious vehicle, had turned out to be a very old, very red and very loud pick-up truck, Craig had been surprised when he'd seen him and Kenny climbing into it yesterday after school, because he'd mistakenly imagined him driving a car for some reason. He doesn't know where Stan even got it, or how, but the guy seems to be proud of it, like he doesn't notice that it's probably a road hazard. He also kind of expected Stan to show some sign upon hearing his name right there, but the guy doesn't move an inch, his posture so relaxed Craig starts to believe he's actually fallen asleep.

"Whaaaat?" Kenny pouts, giving Craig what's probably his version of his puppy eyes.

Tweek chews on his bottom lip, his eyebrows knitting together and his eyelids twitching. Craig feels guilty, because he doesn't want the blond to feel upset for something that is totally unrelated to him, but he doesn't know what to say to ease his concern.

"I'm not in the mood for a party, and I have to work," Craig shrugs, trying to brush it off as best as possible. Tweek doesn't seem to buy it.

"Sucks, man! I got weed for Tweek to do his magic on and everythin'," Kenny whines.

"You always have weed," Craig deadpans.

"But it's not always the good shit!" he protests, but Craig doesn't budge, because he'd probably need at least a batch of Tweek's brownies to have a mediocre time and that's a long stretch. Kenny seems to sense this, because eventually, he directs his attention to Tweek. "You're coming, tho, right Tweakers? Don't tell me you've been brainwashed by Craig."

"Ack! Don't say that shit, man! No one's nngh brainwashing me!" Tweek's eyes go wide before they start twitching again. "I—I have to work too, so I'll ngh be there late."

Kenny looks like he wants to protest again, but just as his mouth falls open to let the words out, Mr. Hernández is walking inside the classroom, giving his usual greeting in Spanish and asking to open the books on page twenty-nine. Tweek jolts in his seat again and scrambles to find his booklet inside what Craig guesses is a very disorganized backpack. At the loss of the blond's attention, Kenny releases a heavy sigh and turns around on his seat to face the front of the classroom and their arriving teacher. He also slaps the back of Stan's head, making the newly blond startle awake, a line of drool running from the corner of his mouth to his chin. Craig snorts.

"Okay, hoy vamos a repasar todo lo que estuvimos viendo hasta ahora!" Mr. Hernández claps his hands once and goes to stand in front of his desk, resting his back on the edge of it. His eyes scan the classroom of students. "The idea is to review everything throughout these next two weeks so that we're ready for the upcoming test, understood?"

A wave of miserable sounding groans erupts, and Mr. Hernández grins, like he'd expected the reaction. Next to Craig, Tweek pops his knuckles one by one, a terrified expression twisting his face.

"Hey," Craig whispers, softly elbowing the blond's side to gain his attention. Tweek whips his head around to look at him, but the worry doesn't seem to want to leave his face. "You'll be fine, I'll help you out."

Blinking like he's been blindsided, Tweek stares for a couple of seconds, the words seemingly taking their time to process in his whirring brain. "D—do you wanna nngh take the test for me?" the small smile that pulls at the corner of his pink lips is too self-deprecating for Craig to appreciate.

"Sure," he whispers back easily, with a shrug of his shoulder. Clyde had asked the same thing of him a million fucking times, and Craig had always refused because he doesn't see the point of cheating, but Tweek isn't Clyde; Craig doesn't know what this distinction means but it's there.

Clearly surprised, Tweek gapes, blue eyes wide as saucers. "I was joking!" he mutters a little too loud and scandalized, his face coloring faintly red.

"Tweek!" Mr. Hernández calls, probably having heard the blond's voice over their classmates. Both boys go tensely still next to each other. "Un ejemplo de un adjetivo indefinido?"

"Ack!" Tweek startles, eyes darting forward t where Mr. Hernández stands, awaiting an answer. "Uh…"

As quickly as humanly possible, Craig snatches the pencil out of the blond's death grip and scribbles an answer on the corner of his booklet that's barely legible thanks to the rush. He pokes Tweek's palm with the end of the pencil and taps at the word he's written down, urging the stuttering blond to read it out loud.

"Uh,innndefinite adjective?" Tweek blabbers, eyebrows knitting together as he looks down and reads the small word Craig has written down for him. "T—todos?"

His pronunciation makes Craig chuckle quietly into his hand, something warm spreading inside his chest and sticking to his ribs. Tweek's wide, doe-eyed stare is strangely cute, like that one picture of baby Stripe wearing the Barbie cowboy hat Tricia had put on her head once. His d rolls out of his mouth like an r and the sound is unexpectedly endearing. in Craig's ears. Usually, he cringes at his classmates' attempts at Spanish.

"Excelente!" Mr. Hernández praises, and Tweek blinks, dark blond eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings. "Como les expliqué, los adjetivos indefinidos son aquellos que no describen al sustantivo…"

Craig drones their teacher's voice out as he launches on another explanation he doesn't need and takes a peek at Tweek, who snatches his pencil back from his hand and chews on the unsharpened end anxiously. "Thanks," he whispers, quietly, and the blush on his freckled cheeks makes something feel giddy in Craig's brain.

"No problem," he responds, voice tightly squeezing out of his throat.

Somewhere deep inside, a part of Craig hopes for Tweek to need him again.

Chapter Text

It's prophetic in some way, that on Friday morning, the lovely town of South Park wakes up under thick blankets of snow.

School gets canceled, like it usually does at the first big snow, and although this is very good news, it doesn't mean that Craig gets off easily, why would it? Laura has him and Tricia, covered in wool from head to toe, shoveling the piles and piles of frozen shit off the driveway until they stop feeling their fingers even inside their thick winter gloves.

"Ten dollars if you lick that icicle," Tricia points to the drooping pieces of ice that hang from the ledge over the garage door. Her breath comes out in smoke tendrils into the freezing air, and Craig doesn't even have to look to know that it's a disgusting bet.

"That's gross, it's all dirty water from the roof," he mutters, eyeing the clear, unsuspecting pieces of frozen bacteria.

"Oh my God," Tricia rolls her eyes. "You're a pussy," she accuses, and Craig notices the way her nose seems to be getting progressively redder as the seconds tick by.

Craig snorts, rolling his eyes. "You don't even have ten dollars."

"I do!" she argues, childishly in a way he hasn't seen her like in a long time. "Dad gave me fifty dollars last week."

"Dad gave you fifty dollars?" Craig blinks, taken aback.

Tricia occupies herself by scooping the last remnants of snow piling next to the edge of the lawn, avoiding his curious eyes. "Yup," she admits, letting out a puff of warm air with the effort of lifting the plow. "Ever since you talked to him he's been trying to be nice to me, he just keeps giving me money. Fucking weird."

Bending down, Craig scoops a handful of snow, the cold seeping through his gloves as he presses it between his palms, forming a ball that could probably use more rounding around the edges, but he has no time or patience for that, because he has to launch it before his victim realizes she's being targeted in the first place.

It flies off his hand as Craig throws it, and even if he's a batter usually, he's always had a good pitching arm, given that the snowball crashes and explodes against the back of Tricia's coat, just between her shoulder blades, like he had intended.

"You fu— moron!" she gasps, whipping around at neck breaking speed. Craig snickers at the flabbergasted expression on her face. "Are you five years old, dipshit?!"

"Dad just gives you money to be nice?" he asks, ignoring her insults and staring at her flushed cheeks, calculating the amount of seconds he has between getting a reply to his question and a physical response to his assault.

"Are you jealous?" she smiles, tauntingly, and before he can blink, she's running.

Fuck. She's in the track team.

Taking off half a second later, Craig's feet slip on the icy concrete of the driveway before launching towards the snowy lawn, his boot skidding over the muddy ground as he tries to book it towards the house.
He doesn't expect to feel her weight throwing itself against his back as quickly as it happens; they don't make it even halfway to the front door before they're tumbling down onto the wet ground, one of her knobbly knees digging into his spine, ripping a groan from deep out of his chest.

"Eat shit, asshole!" she laughs maniacally out of breath, and Craig cranes his neck to avoid getting his face smashed into the dirty snow.

With his strength, and in a flurry of movements not even his brain can catch up to, Craig shakes Tricia off enough to turn around and lie on his back as she pounces on him once again, throwing her middle on top of his chest and pining his body down on the cold by the shoulders.

"You're… so fucking… annoying," Craig bites, lungs heaving for air and she laughs even harder.

"Are you jealous dad's nice to me now?" she asks with a shit eating grin.

Craig snorts. It's probably the stupidest question he's ever heard. "He's all yours, dude."

"And I don't want him!" she argues, shoving his shoulders back into the snow. "You're such a bitch for making him feel guilty about it! Take him back!"

"I feel soooo bad for you, dad likes you, your life's so hard and miserable," Craig deadpans, huffing as she finally lets go and he can sit up, his ass immediately freezing as the cold seeps through his pants in less than a second.

"You know what I mean, asshole," her hand stretches between them as she stands up, and Craig takes it. With surprising strength she pulls him up.

He does know. Thomas' attention, when fixated, is insufferable. But she's his daughter, so it's unfair that up until now, Craig's been the only one suffering from it, it's not like he can do anything about it either. Besides, fifty dollars are fifty dollars, at least she's getting something out of it. All Craig ever got is being forced to play the most boring sport on Earth and thousands of screaming matches.

"I'm sorry for making dad remember you exist," he tells her, only half jokingly.

With a scowl, Tricia’s arm flies, aiming straight for his bicep, but Craig is quick in catching it, hand easily enveloping around her gloved fist. In response, she tries to kick his shin, but Craig drags her forward with his hold on her hand, making her lose balance slightly. Her frustrated whine as she wobbles makes him laugh.

“What are you two doing?!” the front door is suddenly open, a pissed off Laura appearing.

In the blink of an eye, Craig is letting go of Tricia’s fist and almost simultaneously, she is wrapping her arm around his middle, tightly dragging herself against his side.

“Nothing!” Tricia says, smiling, and both Craig and Laura roll their eyes.

“Get inside,” their mom sighs, shaking her head reprovingly. “When you get sick I’ll be the one nursing your sorry asses back to health, and I know none of us wants that.”

Shivering from the cold and just the memory of their mother’s ruthlessness over disgusting tasting medicine and painful shots, both Tucker siblings rush to let go of each other and get inside the house, Craig pettily pushing Tricia back when she tries to sneak in before him.

Ever the so nagging mother, Laura sends Craig straight to the shower before he can actually feel the cold seeping through his clothes from being pushed and rolled on the icy dirt, and by the time he’s out, after spending a good twenty minutes under the beautiful, amazing spray of borderline boiling hot fucking water that leaves his back red like the devil’s asshole, Craig finds himself hopping down the stairs, warm and in clean clothes straight from the dryer, with Laura already halfway out the front door, barking directions on how to reheat last night leftovers for lunch since she has to go to work, which, in response, reminds Craig of his own job.

He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to show up at the store or not, the truck snow plows have already passed down the streets early in the morning, which explains how his father even managed to drive to work, but Craig’s kinda divided on the subject. On one hand, a day off school and work sounds almost too good to be true; getting to stay in his cozy bedroom, playing with Stripe or convincing Tricia into tuning into some The X–Files episodes is, on paper, probably an ideal way to spend some free time. But, at the same time, it’s Friday, which means it’s Craig’s payday, and also, he kind of doesn’t feel like staying inside all day, which is pretty fucking weird the longer he thinks about it, because two months ago, Craig would’ve loved to do fuck-all inside for the entire weekend.

In the end, it turns out that he isn’t even supposed to be stressing over it at all. Around noon, just as Tricia is reheating the food from last night in the microwave —Craig hates using the microwave, just the thought of radiation makes him want to put his head through a wall; his phone chimes from inside his pocket with an incoming text message from none other than his boss, Penny. Dropping generous amounts of Timothy Hay inside Stripe’s cage, Craig pets her head before reading what the message says. ”I left your pay in the register! ;) Feel free to close early if you want, it's too cold to function grrrrr!!! (Professional) xoxo." Huffing out an amused breath, Craig replies with a quick thumbs up emoji, because he knows she will pout and reprimand him for being such a dry texter next time they see each other.

Since Laura isn't at home to get mad at them, they decide to take the food to the couch, and upon Tricia's demand, Craig puts on the season three DVD of The X–Files to watch while they eat. It’s her favorite season, according to her, ninety ninety five Gillian Anderson’s hair is ”extremely underrated. In Craig’s opinion, her hair looks the same up until the last three seasons, but also, everything looks good on her because she is Gillian Anderson. Duh. So it’s not really something worth debating over, even if he does think season eleven is probably the best hairstyle she gets on the show.

“She’s so gorgeous,” Tricia whines around a mouthful of rice and shrimp.

It’s probably one of his favorite episodes, because it’s, one, really fucking stupid, two, originated from an archeology digging in Ecuador —Craig has a lot of fun every time he sees American TV portraying Latin American and Native culture because he never knows how it’s gonna go; and three, he read online that Gillian hates this episode in particular, and the general audience shits on it every time it comes up, which only makes it even more enjoyable for Craig to watch.
The best part of it all though, is that Tricia, just like him, finds it absolutely delightful.

“You don’t get it like I do!” she argues, like every single time. “It’s clearly meant to be this silly. The close-ups, the music, the references to Val Lewton… Do you even know who Val Lewton is?”

Of course that, by now, Craig knows who Val Lewton is, because he’s heard his lifestory from her approximately a million fucking times, but when it comes to Tricia’s passionate rants, Craig knows from experience that it’s better to let her go off for as long as she feels like it. The last time he interrupted her in the middle of a "Sam Raimi's The Evil Dead trilogy changed the history of horror and the sequel-slash-remake is not ‘too much’ people who think it's ‘too much’ are fucking stupid", he genuinely feared for his life.

“Horror movie screenwriter and producer from the forties!” she continues, her fork waving in the air as she makes emphasis with her hands. “Cat People, The Curse of the Cat People, which are two different movies by the way, The Leopard Man, dude! It’s all right there in the script for the episode!”

“Not everyone is an expert on obscure horror movies from a hundred years ago, though,” he reminds her, before shoving a forkful of green beans and rice. Are leftovers always better than freshly made food or is it just a phenomena that happens with his mom’s cooking in particular?

The look Tricia gives him could probably kill a man, but Craig is too familiar to fear it. “They should be,” she mutters, pettishly, and takes a long gulp of her water. “Besides, cats are like, the best animals—”

“After guinea pigs,” he interrupts, and she rolls her eyes.

“After guinea pigs,” she agrees. “A cat shaman is hilarious.”

“I don’t know why you’re trying to convince me, it’s one of my favorite episodes too,” he points out, but she hushes him, pointing to the TV screen in front of them where Detectives Dana Scully and Mulder are interacting.

It’s the scene.

“"Please explain to me the scientific nature of the whammy," they both say in unison, mimicking Gillian Anderson's sultry accent to the best of their abilities (poorly).

They both have the working theory that the man who wrote the episode was on the same hallucinogenic trip the characters are acting out to be at the beginning of the episode.

On the couch, Craig's phone lights up and buzzes, startling them out of their X–Files daze. Ever since the thing with Clyde, the device has been way too quiet, but a part of Craig kind of hopes for a stupid meme or call from his best friend even whilst knowing that it won't happen.
Tricia's attention returns to the TV as Craig unlocks it and opens the newest text message, a frown pulling on his face when he reads the unknown number at the top of the screen.

+1 7202472829
Hey
Kenny gaveme your number
Twll me I'm nor the only one beinf forced to work today????

Huffing, Craig's confusion fades along with his frown; he'd recognize those typos anywhere. With a smile pulling on his lips unconsciously, he quickly saves his number to the contact list before typing a response.

nope
gotta clock in in an hour

"Who are you texting?" Tricia asks, peering over his shoulder to read.

"None of your business," Craig snaps, shaking her off, defensive in a way that surprises him.

Pouting, she falls back on her seat, crossing her arms across her chest, but then, a smirk appears across her face. "Craig has a girlfriend?" she gasps, pretending to be scandalized.

Rolling his eyes, he doesn't even waste energy on denying anything, instead directing his attention to the phone in his hand, which buzzes again.

Tweek
SHOULS be illegal
CHIKD LABOYR

With a snort, Craig's fingers move quickly through the screen, typing out a reply that hopefully will make Tweek feel exasperated like he usually does when holding a conversation with him. The fact that he still wants to talk to Craig is kind of flabbergasting to him considering how much of an asshole he can be.

i dont think either of us qualifies as a child anymore

Tweek
Well at least noe I know I'm not tge obly one workinf it makrs me feel better

It doesn't really make that much sense, especially considering how the coffee shop gets triple the customers and therefore Tweek works way more in a day than Craig will ever do. But who is he to burst the blond's bubble?

we'll be miserable together

"That's gotta be an emo song lyric," Tricia comments, over his shoulder, effectively making him both jolt and lock his phone at the same time. "My Chemical Romance?"

“Jesus Christ, Tricia! What’s wrong with you?” heat rises up to his neck as he looks at his sister.

“What?” she giggles, throwing her weight back onto the couch. “I wanted to see who you’re flirting with.”

“I’m not fucking flirting!” Craig's face feels like it's going to melt in a gory picture she'd love to see in a horror movie scene.

“Ohhh, we’ll be miserable together,” she mocks, making her voice sound deep and stupid. "Let's kill ourselves together in a lover's suicide pact."

"You're deranged," he deadpans, as she cackles. "I was just talking to Tweek."

"So?" she shrugs, after recovering, and wipes a tear from under her eye. "Tweek's cute."

Her words drop, like a heavy stone, to the bottom of his stomach. "What are you talking about?"

The implication is— she's joking. She has to be. Tricia just heard the rumors and is making fun of the situation; and yet just this is enough to put Craig on edge. If their dad heard, in their house, it'd be over for him. Bags packed and off to the Military in the blink of an eye would be the best scenario.

Tricia’s smile falters, probably sensing his line of thought. “I was just saying that Tweek’s cute, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“You think Tweek’s cute?” Craig’s never heard her talk like that about any particular boy that isn’t a famous actor or singer, but it's not like they even have conversations like this on the regular.

“Duh, I have working eyes,” she says, like it’s obvious. “His hair looks good and he’s like, really cool. He always gives us free stuff at the coffee shop.”

That sounds more like her, Craig snorts. Of course Tricia likes Tweek when he gives her free food, and it doesn't surprise Craig that he does, it actually explains why Tricia is so adamant to going to the Tweak's coffee shop with Karen all the time.

Still, Craig has working eyes too, and technically, yeah, Tweek’s hair actually does look good, like soft and shiny and shit ever since he stopped pulling it out with his hands, oh and his eyes are also pretty nice, dark blue like the sky right after the sun has gone down, just before the night settles. It's the first time Craig's heard someone say anything about Tweek's physical appearance though, except for Kenny, which doesn't really count because Kenny's Kenny, and it makes Craig realize that he hasn't heard about Tweek dating, or even being interested in anyone like that before. Craig has never thought of Tweek being with a girl, holding hands or kissing, and for some reason, when he tries to right there, the idea alone feels disconcertingly forced, like shoving a puzzle piece in the spot it doesn't belong into.

"He's too old for you," Craig deadpans, swallowing, and Tricia cackles again, like she knows something he doesn't.

It's not even that. Tricia is fifteen and Tweek seventeen, a two year age gap is definitely not the worst Craig's ever heard of. But Tweek is his friend, and Tricia is his little sister, the thought of them even standing next to each other is enough to make Craig want to throw up the food he has just eaten. He doesn't consider this reaction to be wrong either, Tricia dating anyone is kind of strange to imagine in the first place, but that person being one of Craig's friends is way too much to handle, not even because it's particularly Tweek, picturing Tolkien, or God forbid, Clyde, asking his little sister out, makes Craig immediately want to put his head through a wall.

“Yeah, he is." Tricia agrees easily, and yawns. "Ten dollars if you do the dishes?” she asks, innocently, after a few seconds where Craig just wants to rip the nails off his fingers.

“I don’t need your dirty bribery,” Craig rolls his eyes, silently thankful for the subject being dropped. “I’m a hardworking American.”

"I don't see you working right now," Tricia sticks her nose up and hands him her empty plate like a stereotypical mean aristocrat would to their servants.

"That's because my shift doesn't start until three, genius," he tells her, but still grabs her plate.

"What? You actually have to go to work?" she blinks, like she can't actually believe that his already established work schedule is what it's always been like for the past month.

"I work Mondays through Fridays, Tricia," he reminds her, and she pouts. "Are you gonna stay here alone until mom and dad come back?"

The thing about Tricia is that as much as she likes watching horror movies and obsessing over scary shit all the time, she's actually afraid of being left alone in their house. "I'm not scared of movie monsters, I'm scared of human beings breaking in and killing me!" Is what she says every time Craig points out how stupid her logic is. And well, she does have a point. But also, it's South Park, and as fucked up and depressing their small town is, one good thing about it is the low crime rate.

"I'll wash everything up," she proposes with a conspiratorial grin, and takes the used plates out of his hands. "And you go pick Karen up from her house and bring her here before you go so she can stay with me."

"Tricia, I'm not your personal taxi," he rolls his eyes, following behind her as she scurries towards the kitchen. "My boss said I can close early so I'll probably be back here at seven."

"You're not going to Clyde's party?" she asks, surprised, and leaves the plates in the sink in order to look at him.

Craig almost asks how she knows about the party, but that'd be stupid, everyone in school knows about it. "No." his tone is too on edge to play it off as indifference.

"You're gonna make him cry," she jabs, totally on purpose judging by the sly expression on her face. "Did you guys break up or something?"

Craig rolls his eyes, knowing better than to play along to a game he is in no mood of playing. He's actively trying to not think about anything related to Clyde. "Call Karen and tell her I'm on my way."

"You're the best brother ever," Tricia praises, too cheerfully to be genuine and then, to make it even worse, starts to make kissy faces.

Shoving her off as she stands on her tiptoes, trying to land one on his cheek, Craig huffs. "I want twenty dollars."

"Fifteen."

"Deal."

He would’ve done it for free anyway. With the way he can't shake off the heavy feeling in his gut from before, Craig thinks he could really use a drive to clear his head.

After wrapping himself in a hoodie, winter coat, boots and his chullo, Craig leaves to go get Karen, who's already standing outside and shivers in the passenger seat the entire ride, despite appearing to be wearing even more layers than himself and Craig tweaking all of the car vents to point towards her, blasting warm air straight to her face.

He drops her off to an excited, awaiting Tricia, who pulls her inside by the shoulders, after hugging her like they haven't seen each other in a decade, and Craig waits until they disappear, front door slamming shut behind them, before he finally drives to work.

The streets look deserted, which isn't unusual per se, but Craig gets the feeling that the town feels emptier than usual for the middle of the day on a Friday; sure, it could be attributed to the snow, but it is South Park, the town known for literally being up to its nose in snow most of the year —that could be a coke joke, but funnily enough, it isn't. So, in reality, it is probably just that usually, at this time, kids are getting let out of school.

Parking the car, Craig waits a couple of extra seconds inside, putting his face in front of the warm air coming out of the vents to gather the strength and energy to face the freezing air outside. Like most of the South Park citizens, Craig's gotten used to the cold by now, but the first couple of days of snow have always been a hard transition period for him. His grandma used to have the same problem, though she did have an excuse for it, having lived in a much warmer country for most of her life. So Craig is mostly just being a baby.

When he finally does make it out of the vehicle and into the store, heavy winter boots crunching on the little snow piling on the sidewalk's pavement, Craig loses no time in opening the front door and closing it behind himself, flipping the old-school sign from closed to open before walking further inside, feeling very glad over the fact that Penny probably had the heater on, because the air inside is warm enough for him to take his blue winter jacket off.

Going through the motions of booting the computer and sound system, plus checking the register and saving his weekly pay, Craig's ready to face another boring, and lonely day of work, only to be proven otherwise merely seconds later when the doorbell rings, announcing someone's arrival.

Considering his body’s reaction from before, when Tricia had brought him up, Craig is surprised to feel nothing but contentment when he looks up from the list of songs he’s considering to play, and sees Tweek walking in. Tricia's words are alive in his mind, loud as the blond's lips curve into a greeting smile, his hair glinting gold under the fluorescent lights. He shakes his brown winter boots on the small rug next to the door to get rid of small chunks of snow, and Craig finds himself staring at him with amusement as Tweek seems to try his best to not fall over as he switches from one foot to the other and holds two styrofoam cups upright.

For once, Craig’s relieved to see the blond actually looks dressed for the weather, with a pair of blue jeans, knitted maroon sweater and a brown corduroy jacket, around his neck, a thick scarf wraps all the way up his bottom lip, making it look like he’s engulfed in it. Tweek has a good style, all of his clothes look nice and clean, and he matches the colors like in the magazines his mom buys, Craig wonders if girls notice this as well.

"Hey man," his cheeks and the tip of his nose are pink from the cold.

“Tweek,” the name falls out of his mouth on accident, and in his own ears, Craig sounds like a fucking idiot. He coughs, ears heating up under the flaps of his chullo. “What’s up?”

“Are you sick?” the blond frowns with unease, blue eyes twitching as he comes to stand in front of the counter. “I can’t get sick, man, please tell me you’re not sick.”

“I—I’m not sick,” Craig shakes his head, hand fussing his chullo. Tweek doesn’t look convinced by it. “Just, uh, had something in my throat. I'm fine, I never get sick.”

“If you get me sick I'll ngh kill you," he means it, but it makes Craig laugh anyway. "I'm fucking serious."

"I believe you," he tells him, it's been made very clear how bad Tweek is itching to kick his ass. Eyeing the cups still in the blond's grasp, Craig takes the opportunity to change the subject before Tweek starts to spiral. "What's that?"

As if he's forgotten all about it, Tweek confusedly glances down to his own hands and jolts at the sight of them. "Wha—? Oh, yeah. It's ack for you," suddenly seeming flustered, or nervous, the blond jerkily sets one of the styrofoam cups on the counter, right in front of Craig, and avoids his eyes almost frantically. "I mean, uh, one of them is for you."

He probably would've laughed at Tweek's dramatics if it weren't for his brain suddenly having problems processing literally everything, leaving Craig to blink down to the drink and then up again to the blond. "For me?" he asks, stupidly.

"It's hot chocolate," Tweek nods and announces, slightly too loud. "Since you ngh don't like coffee."

"I— I didn't ask for it," Craig says, and immediately regrets it when he both hears himself and sees how Tweek's face literally falls.

"If you don't want it, I can take it ba—"

"No," he says, grabbing the cup, and his face heats up. "No, I want it, really, I like hot chocolate. I mean, thank you. I uh, I just got surprised."

"Why are you nngh being weird?" Tweek asks, cocking his head slightly, his blue eyes narrow as he stares at his face. "Are you ack! sure you're not sick, man?"

It's not like Craig doesn't know he's being weird, which, to be fair, is a common occurrence, especially when it comes to his interactions with Tweek, but this time, Craig's hyper aware of his own behavior, watching the scene unfold in front of him like the conductor of a train that's about to crash because it's too late to stop.

His brain has been jumbled by Tricia, no doubt, because Craig now can't stop staring at Tweek, finding the little aspects of him that are appealing to the eye. The slope of his button nose, the light splatter of freckles over the bridge of it and the apples of his cheeks, the thick, dark blond, eyelashes that fan roughly every time his tics force his blue eyes closed. Craig can't stop wondering if the girls at school are aware of this, do they know that Tweek is attractive? They have to be, right? If Tricia notices it, surely the rest have as well. So, why are they not after the blond? Is it because of the meltdowns? The tics? He's seen Tweek hang around Wendy, Nichole and even Leslie, and they all seemed to get along better than well, so Craig can't really believe that that'd be a reason for them to hold back on their pursuit.

Would it be rude to ask? Craig guesses that it probably would.

"I was trying to be nice."

"Don't do it again, it ack! feels wrong."

"You're the one always telling me I'm an asshole," Craig points out.

Tweek rolls his eyes. "Jesus— I like it better when you're an asshole."

"You can't take that back now that you've said it."

"I hope you choke on your drink."

"Now you're making me think you did something to it," Craig lowers the cup, eyes narrowing dramatically. "Did you poison my hot chocolate?"

"Wha—?! Of course not!"

"Why should I trust you? You already wanna kick my ass,"

"You're ridiculous."

"Let's swap."

"Huh? No!"

"So you did something to it."

"Ack! I didn't!"

"Did you put a bug in it?"

"Ew! nnngh Of course not!"

"Then swap cups with me,"

"But I ack! already drank from mine."

"So?"

"Jesus! So the cup nngh has my spit on it! That's so annnnti hygienic, man!"

"So what? Have you never, like kissed anyone or something?" the words tumble out of his mouth and oh my god it's fucking bad.

The way Tweek's face goes from shocked to confused and then completely embarrassed is almost incredible, his expressions so alive it could be a scene from a movie, but Craig can't really appreciate it, too overwhelmed by his own mortification.

Real subtle, Craig. Way to go. His curiosity's definitely gonna kill him someday, but is it really his fault this time? None of this would be happening if it wasn't for Tricia with her stupid comment, piking his interest on things that are definitely none of his business —and Tweek's attractive fucking face.

"What!? Of course I ack! have, man!" Tweek sputters, eyes twitching and cheeks so red they match his sweater.

Craig's body perks up like a dog hearing its name. "Really? Who?"

Gaping, Tweek blinks in too fast succession as his fingers twitch, and he looks like he wants to say something, lips moving with invisible words that never come out, before Craig breaks without meaning to, the blond's flustered eyes enough to make a laugh erupt from the bottom of his stomach, deep in his abdomen. It's not his intention to make fun of Tweek, it's not like he actually finds it as funny as his body's reacting like, in reality, Craig isn't sure why he's laughing at all. It's just that, blushing and stuttering Tweek is… he doesn't really know. Nice. Cute?

"Jesus! Here," Tweek says instead, ripping the cup out of Craig's hand and shoving his own in replacement. "Happy?"

Not really, because Tweek avoids the question and leaves Craig at square one again, empty-handed, and it's kind of unfair, because Craig can't ask again without explaining, and sounding like a total creep, why he's so intrigued about his friend's past makeout partners. To make matters even worse, Tweek's reaction only leaves Craig with more questions, because is it really that bad? Like, did Tweek kiss someone that's super embarrassing to admit to? Like the weird transfer student back in Middle School, what's her name again? Rebecca Cootswolds? Craig doesn't really think Tweek would be embarrassed for that, but he doesn't really think that Tweek would lie about having kissed people before, so nothing makes sense and Craig is weirdly invested.

"Very," he lies, still a little breathless, and takes a sip under the blond's close stare. It's good, thick and smooth and not overly sweet.

"You're innnsufferable," Tweek mutters, and mirrors him, drinking from his cup, but Craig catches the small quirk of his pink mouth before he hides it behind the styrofoam.

"You can't take it back, remember?"

"Is this how you treat customers?"

Why does everyone keep asking that?

"Are you a customer?"

"I was," Tweek tells him, matter–of–factly. "Until your customer service drove me away. I'm gonna leave a bad Yelp review now."

"Yeah, because we're a decade ago and people care so much about those," Craig deadpans.

"Nice nggh store, such a shame the employee fucking sucks," Tweek grins, crooked and mischievous. "He's not even ack! playing music at the music store."

Amusedly rolling his eyes, Craig looks over to the computer, the store's playlist displayed on the screen right where he'd been interrupted by Tweek's appearance. Knowing fully well that whatever musical choice he makes will be without a doubt judged by the blond, Craig waves towards it with his free hand ceremoniously. "You wanna DJ?"

Visibly taken by surprise, Tweek blinks a couple of times, eyes darting between him and the computer, before his lips part into the biggest smile Craig’s seen on him, full and bright like the fucking sun. A wave of warmth spreads through his veins at the sight of it, and the air leaves his lungs like a punch to the gut, while Tweek puts his cup down and rounds the counter to come stand next to him, unaware of Craig’s shock.

The blond hip checks him away, and Craig can’t do anything more than stumble two steps backwards, giving the blond the space to get in front of the keyboard. His fingers fly over the keys as he searches for whatever song or band he seems to have in mind, and Craig stares at the back of his head the entire time, willing his brain to reset and form a coherent thought.

“You really like music, huh?” Craig hears himself mumble, like the idiot he is because duh, that’s been made very clear.

The look Tweek throws him over his shoulder is a very familiar one, the excitement in his eyes is contagious, immediately reminding Craig of his own giddiness whenever space was brought up when he was younger. “Music is the best thing that’s ever happened to humanity.”

Craig wouldn’t even dream of arguing that, not with the way Tweek’s still grinning as he says it. A song he doesn’t recognize starts playing through the speakers, the melody of it making Tweek starts bobbing his head along with it.

“Do you nngh wanna swap jobs too?” he asks, looking wistful.

“Your parents would fire me five minutes in, dude. I don’t even know what half of those drinks are.”

Snickering, Tweek shakes his head. “I’d teach you, but I don’t think you wanna ack! deal with some of the customers we get.”

“Yeah, I don’t even wanna imagine,” he’s heard horror stories from Clyde when he worked at his father’s store. “Aren’t you gonna get in trouble for being here?”

“Nnnah, the shop’s been slow today,” Tweek shrugs, taking a sip and reminding Craig of his own. “I was getting bored, and I nngh saw you opening, so I came to bother you.”

“Your idea of bothering people is by giving them hot chocolate?” Craig asks, incredulously.

Tweek huffs, a nervous smile trembling on his lips. “Actually, the hot chocolate was to ack! bribe you.”

From Tricia, Craig could see it coming, but Tweek? He can’t help but be surprised. Feeling his eyebrows rise on his forehead, Craig looks at the blond curiously. “Bribe me?”

“Ack! Don’t get mad! I kinda, uh, told Kenny I’d convince you to come to Clyde’s party.”

Taken aback, Craig blinks, mutedly, at Tweek, who chews on his bottom lip anxiously, the tips of his ears, peeking from under the golden waves of his hair, turn pink.

Of course Craig isn’t really expecting this, he doesn’t even know why Kenny wants him to go to the stupid party so badly, or why Tweek even thinks he could be able to convince him to go, let alone with hot chocolate. The Clyde subject is raw, and annoying, and Craig doesn’t even want to think about it anymore because he knows he’s growing angry, and he doesn’t want to do that, not when it’s Clyde.

But Tweek, standing right there, with his anxious eyes and his freckled cheeks turning pink with embarrassment, makes a compelling argument that hasn’t even been formed into words. Craig wonders if Tweek will be upset if he turns the idea down, because if he’s gone through this trouble, it must mean that he wants Craig to come, right? And Craig doesn’t really want to, but also he doesn’t want to disappoint him now that they’re friends.

The song plays in the background, and now that they’re both not saying anything, the lyrics finally reach inside Craig’s ears.

And I know that I don't talk a lot
But I know that you don't care a lot
As long as we move our bodies around a lot
We'll forget that we forgot how to talk
When we dance, when we….

“You don’t nggh have to if you don’t want to, obviously! I—I know that you and Clyde are ack! being weird right now, and if you don’t feel like seeing him then it’s fine, I'll tell Kenny to fuck off, or that you’re sick! I don’t know if he’ll believe it but fuck Kenny, right? It’s none of his business—”

“Did you get a costume?” Craig asks, cutting Tweek’s panicked rambling off.

Mouth snapping shut, Tweek looks slightly disoriented for a couple of seconds, the question taking its time to register in his brain. “I— kind of? Oh man, I just bought this like, headband thingy because there were so many options and it’s like, too much pressure to choose, and Clyde said it’s fine if I don’t dress up either way, so I thought it’s fine if I just wear this because I don’t have time to go back home and change—”

Craig watches him sputter again, the warm sensation rocking his body in steady waves with a mix of amusement and something he can’t really put a name to. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” Tweek asks, wide-eyed.

Shrugging, Craig smiles, focusing on how nice it all feels, especially when Tweek fucking beams in response.

“Your hot chocolate worked.” and Craig, apparently, is very easy to bribe.

Chapter Text

"I'm holding my breath with a baseball bat,
Though I don't know what I'm waiting for,
I am not gonna be what my daddy wants me to be."
—Townie, Mitski.

Convincing Laura to let him go to the party turns out to be harder than Craig thought it would, but it's reasonable, considering that it's an actual party this time and not a hangout between three friends; but after a good twenty minutes filled with threats and yelling of detailed ways on how she'll chop up a determined set of Craig's s body parts off if he dares to get home a minute after two and–slash–or smells the smallest hints of alcohol on his breath, she relents, telling him one more time, for extra measure, to be careful, avoid drinking and driving, and finally, as an afterthought, to have fun.

Tweek, who stands behind the counter the entire time, seems to be deeply amused by Laura's booming voice through the line, escalating to the point that her words are definitely audible even when Craig doesn't even dream of putting the phone on speaker.
Thankfully though, the blond doesn't really get the opportunity to tease him too much about it, because his dad ends up texting him a couple of minutes later, asking for help with the customers that seem to have materialized in the coffee shop for the afternoon rush. So, with no other choice, Tweek ends up hastily saying goodbye, almost running out the door and across the street, but not without letting Craig know he'll be returning after his shift so they can get to Clyde's house together first.

Left in the quiet that isn't even quiet since the music is still playing, with no customers on sight, Craig ruefully watches Tweek disappear and then has no other choice but to actually do his job. Killing time is easier when he has tasks to complete, so he finds himself clearing out the shelf Penny wants emptied, sweeping the floors and wiping the big window at the front, even when those last two aren't even on the to-do list his boss has so kindly left for him in pink glitter inked glory.

As the sky dims and the street lights blink on, Craig watches as more people start to roam the streets, parents and older siblings walking kids in costumes, carrying pumpkin shaped buckets in search of candy. Craig's grateful when none of them try the store, because he doesn't have any, and Penny seems to have completely forgotten about it. To her credit, though, she did decorate with some fake spiderwebs and spiders around, but nothing serious, which probably helps the store to blend in. Penny doesn't seem to be the type to take festivities and decorations lightly, but Craig supposes that counting solely with the store's revenue as a budget, anything more than a couple of cheap, plastic tarantulas is dreaming too big.

Seeing the groups of minions, superheroes, Princess Peacheses and one very amusing dinosaur, Craig can't help but feel fucking ancient, recalling how the last time he went trick-or-treating, the hottest costume had been Power Rangers and fucking Toy Story. Later on, he kept walking Tricia and Karen around the neighborhood, but Tricia used to get bored of it quickly, more excited over the horror movie marathons being shown on TV than getting tooth rotting sweets, much to Karen’s displeasure.

Eventually, nine arrives, and Craig dutifully goes through the motions of turning everything off and locking the door, a wave of anxiety thrumming under his skin and leaving him disconcerted.

In all honesty, Craig's never felt excited over one of Clyde's or anyone's party before, much less a costumes themed one, but as he impatiently shuffles his feet on the melting snow on the sidewalk and breathes out a cloud of restless breath, waiting for Tweek to show up, Craig can't even deny that he actually wants to go, even if it means seeing Clyde.

"Where's your costume, dude?" the question is out of his mouth as soon as he spots Tweek crossing the street, heading straight to him, still in his dark red sweater, jacket and jeans but with the addition of his dark green backpack.

"It's not even a costume," Tweek rolls his eyes. "Can we get in the car? It's really fuckinngh cold!"

Craig doesn't need to be told twice. "Aye, aye, captain."

They hurry inside the vehicle, the freezing night air biting at their exposed faces and tinting their cheeks pink. The sky is covered in clouds, dense and heavy looking, covering the stars and a part of the moon, it's probably going to start snowing soon, and Craig hopes that none of the people planning to go to the party decides to drink and drive, because icy roads and alcohol are a definite recipe for disaster.

Tweek has his face in front of the warm air coming from the vents as soon as Craig starts the car. "I'm not gonna wear a costume if you don't wear one," he says, and is he pouting?

Craig blinks. "Why?"

"Nngh Because it's embarrassing, man!" he exclaims, like it's an obvious reason. His twitching hands dig into the backpack on his lap as Tweek searches for something. "I brought you something to wear, so we're either both in costume or ack! nothing."

Surprised, Craig turns on the small light on the car's ceiling and looks with biting curiosity at the piece of dark blue fabric clutched in Tweek's hands. It looks exactly like the blond's barista apron, a stain of what probably was a latte still splayed in the middle of it.

"You want me to dress up as you?" Craig asks, incredulously, his eyes bouncing from the offered item and Tweek's flushed face.

"Ack! Not me, idiot!" he says, hurriedly. "A barista."

Well that makes more sense, and it's probably less offensive. Besides, they look nothing alike, and no one would ever buy it.

"Alright," Craig shrugs, taking the apron off Tweek's hands and laying it on his lap. "What's your costume?"

"It's nnnot really a costume," Tweek jolts and digs inside his backpack again, rummaging inside. Craig doesn't even want to imagine everything that's probably inside there. "I went to buy something last night after my shift and they were already closing so I had no time to choose and there were no options left anyways, so I just bought this."

Craig blinks at the plastic headband, black and with red plastic triangles in the shape of devil horns. It's not what he had expected, but he hadn't even expected anything to begin with, and he realizes then, that Tweek is still talking, his hands waving in the air as he blabbers.

"I was going to buy the, uh, pitchfork? Is that what it's called? I don't know, whatever! I was gonna buy the fork thingy too, but then I got ack nervous because what if I stab my eye out with it? Or if I stab someone's eye out on accc–cident? I can't go to jail! And I like having both of my eyes, man!"

Listening half mindedly to the blond's spiraling, Craig finds himself taking the headband out of his hand and looking at it more closely; it's a miracle the thing is one piece after being in the jungle that must be Tweek's backpack. Before he can actually realize what he's doing, Craig's arms are moving on their own accord, grabbing the horns between both hands and reaching across the space between their seats, placing the headband around the top of Tweek's head.

"Wha–?" wide–eyed, the blond breathes out a question that never finishes, swallowed back in confusion as he stares at Craig's face, who's relieved, because he doesn't have an answer.

Funnily enough, the black part of the headband isn't visible, buried between the waves of his hair, only the horns stick out, red and pointy. The sight makes Craig smile.

"Ack! Don't laugh, you asshole!" Tweek snaps, flustered.

"I'm not laughing," Craig tells him, blandly but honestly. "It's cute."

"Gah–! Shut up! No, it isn't!" under the yellowish light, Tweek's face turns bright red, matching his costume almost perfectly.

This time, Craig does laugh, which, of course, earns him a solid and painful punch to the arm. "Ouch, fucker!" he yelps, rubbing the now throbbing spot on his bicep. "What's the problem? You look cute."

“I was just saying that Tweek’s cute, I wouldn’t blame you.” Tricia's words ring clear inside his head, because she's right. Tweek is cute. Something sharp slices across his chest, and Craig swallows, his stomach suddenly feeling queasy. Has he ever looked at someone and thought about how attractive they are? Someone other than Gillian Anderson? Someone other than a woman?

"I'm the devil! It's nnnnot supposed to be cute!" Tweek, unaware of his inner struggle, argues.

"A three dollar headband isn't very convincing," Craig deadpans, looking away, as his heart stumbles out of rhythm.

"How did you know it was three dollars?" the blond asks, slyly, head cocking to the side.

Giving a humorless laugh, Craig tries to calm down, the racing thoughts are overwhelming his brain and he has no words to offer anymore, focused on setting his anxiety aside. It is cool. Tweek is cute and Craig just notices and that's fine, they're friends and they're cool and that's also totally fine! Tricia was just pointing at the obvious, she even said it herself, she couldn't even blame him! Besides, thinking that someone's pleasant to look at doesn't necessarily have to mean anything, right? Gillian Anderson is beautiful and Craig doesn't even know her, it's just common sense.

"Craig?" Tweek prompts, hesitatingly.

"Huh?" his eyes snap back to the blond, and the worried frown on his face only makes the knot in Craig's stomach tighten.

"You ack! okay, man?"

"Yeah," Craig says, weakly, and clears his throat, reining in the unsettled feeling as best as he can. "Yeah. I'm good. Did you, uh, talk to Kenny? Do we have to pick him up or something?"

Knowing Tweek has certainly changed things for Craig and his life, there's no point in denying it, because why is he actually hoping to have Kenny in the car right now? Tweek's presence is too much right now, and Craig needs the buffer that Kenny could present with, like the night at the Pond.

"He's already at the party with Stan," Tweek says, still looking worried. "Are you sure you're okay, man? Is it ngh about Clyde?"

"I'm good, don't worry about it, I'm just kinda distracted." it's obviously the wrong thing to say, because Tweek looks even more on edge now, but Craig's totally between a rock and a hard place because he can't really tell Tweek that he's kind of having a nervous breakdown because he's thinking so much about his cute smile, and his pretty eyes, and his soft–looking hair. Jesus.

"Maybe we should ack! walk!"

"We're not gonna crash, Tweek," Craig rolls his eyes and turns the key in the ignition before Tweek has the brilliant idea of jumping out of the car and forcing him to walk in the cold all the way over to Clyde's house.

“Jesus— I hope not, or I’ll ack! fucking kill you!”

Yeah, you're gonna kill me alright, Craig thinks, with dry irony, as he peels away from the curb.

The air inside the vehicle builds progressively tighter as time passes by, and Tweek sits completely silent in the passenger seat, almost as if he can sense Craig's nervousness, and it only makes him feel guilty, because he hadn't really meant to make Tweek uncomfortable, but everytime he tries to come up with something to say and break the ice, the words scramble away from his grasp, unease flooding his veins, so he offers the blond the aux cord and lets him pick out the songs for the trip, desperate to save them both from the silence.

It's not the best solution though, because Tweek eventually seems to relax enough into the seat and it's only a matter of time before his humming along with the music turns into singing along.

"Am I, am I, am I on your mind? Is it, is it, is it what you like?" his voice isn't louder than the stereo, but Craig can't ignore its soft undertones, nor the fluttering feeling it provokes inside his stomach. "Oh temptation, I could take a piece from you."

It's cruel, and too on the nose, and Craig wants to smash his head against the wheel, maybe that way his brain will get a grip and start working properly again, but Tweek seems to be worried enough as it is, and his singing does manage to calm his nerves a bit, even if he just thinks that it's fucking unfair for him not only to be cute but talented as well. How on Earth is he still single? All the girls at school should be fawning over him.

They do eventually make it, which is a blessing and a curse at the same time, because it means they get to get out of the tense atmosphere of the car but it also means that Craig will see Clyde again. Parking is somewhat of a challenge, by the time they get to Clyde's street, cars have already lined up all over the block, and it takes their joint effort plus a good five minutes to find an empty spot big enough for Craig's car.

"Can I leave my stuff here?" Tweek signals to the backpack on the car floor and Craig shrugs, zeroing on not bumping into Stan's ugly fucking truck as he parallel parks.

"Sure, but I'm leaving before two or my mom will fucking kill me," he mutters, trowing his arm around the back of Tweek's headrest and looking behind his shoulder to the vehicle parked there. "I can give you a ride home, but if you wanna stay til later than that you'll have to ask Stan to squeeze in with Kenny in his truck or something."

Tweek turns his head to look at him just as Craig is done with parking and moves to stare ahead again, for a beat there, their faces are only centimeters apart, and Craig catches the smell of coffee and pastries coming from the blond, his eyes stuttering between Tweek's own and pink bite of his lips, before he catches himself and looks away, fumbling with the headlights and the keys. He definitely does not wonder if Tweek's mouth tastes as warm and sweet as the hot chocolate from earlier. He doesn't entertain the idea. That'd be absolutely ridiculous. Because, first of all, Tweek's his friend, and he's also a guy, and Craig has never actually felt the need to kiss anyone, not even Heidi, she'd always been the one to initiate everything. And it's ridiculous. It really is.

"Nnno way, man. Stan's a drunk, I don't trust him," Tweek tells him, once again —and thankfully, seeming unaware of Craig's inner struggle.

"And you trust me?" he asks, out of instinct, and looks at the blond from the corner of his eye.

"Duh? You're my friennnnd, man!" Tweek says, and the speed in which he says it, with zero hesitation, surprises Craig. "Besides, I have to work tomorrow, so I ack! don't mind getting home early."

Not knowing what to say to this, and with his ears growing hotter, Craig helplessly shrugs in response and rushes to get out of the car, almost letting the forgotten apron on his lap hit the floor as he stands. He catches it just in time, and holds it against his hip as Tweek zips his backpack closed and leaves it under the seat before following him out of the car. Locking it, Craig pockets the key in his jeans and waits for Tweek to make his way around the front of the vehicle so they can walk down towards Clyde's house.

The music is audible all the way from where they stand, and it only grows impossibly louder as they walk towards it, the bass reverberating in steady hums against Craig's bones. There are a couple of people standing in the front yard, clutching red solo cups, talking and laughing amongst themselves, clad in various costumes. He spots who he thinks is Red and Heidi, taking selfies together, dressed as Jessie and Woody from Toy Story respectively while a disgruntled looking Kevin Stoley clad in a Kylo Ren costume sans the helmet, staring at them from the fake cobweb covered the door.

Next to Craig, Tweek nervously fiddles with the headband that's still sitting in between his blond hair and then looks back at Craig, catching him staring like
a shark at the smell of blood in the ocean.

"Ack! Let me help you tie it!" he exclaims, eyes darting to the folded apron in Craig's hand.

Before Craig can even begin to agree or disagree, the blond is yanking the fabric away and letting it unfold, and throwing it down around his head, while Craig can do nothing else but to stand there, like a useless and lifeless mannequin, watching Tweek fuss around him with twitching hands. His touch is rough as he pats the single crease on the fabric in a feeble attempt to smooth it out, and it's embarrassing, humiliating even, when even through multiple layers of clothing, Craig can feel a spark of something ignite through his veins.

Somehow, Tweek must sense that something is up, probably noticing the way Craig's body draws tightly into itself, tension rendering him motionless, because he gives Craig a troubled look before his eyes twitch.

"What ack are you thinking so hard about, man?" the blond tells him, walking behind Craig so he can wrap the strings around his middle.

Relieved over the fact that he doesn't have to look at Tweek's face anymore, Craig breathes out. Blinking up at the sky above, his eyes search for the stars anxiously, and he's amazed when right there, peeking between the heavy clouds, Craig spots the unmistakable light that is Polaris. He can feel Tweek tying the strings of the apron by his lower back until the front of it is flushed against Craig's front.

His heart is rushing, and he can feel his mouth fall open, the words stumbling out. "Have you ever liked—?"

"Yo! You guys finally made it!"

They both jolt in unison, startled by Kenny's loud voice. Tweek rushes to come around from behind him with a loud, unintelligible squawk. Craig's so glad for the interruption he swears he could cry, because he knows that if he had finished asking the stupid question, things would've gotten weird between him and Tweek, and that's the last thing he needs right now.
It really says a lot about his desperation when he sees Kenny and Stan approaching them and feels nothing but relief and not a single pinch of dread.

At first, Craig stares, confused at the matching outfits they're wearing, white plain shirts under yellow hazmat suits, rubber gloves and gas masks perched on top of their heads. Kenny's head looks freshly buzzed, and he has a fake goatee drawn around his mouth with what looks like brown eyeliner. Tweek laughs, sounding delighted, his eyes racking up and down on their approaching silhouettes.

"Tweek! Tweek!" Kenny urges, trotting up to them, grabbing the blond by the shoulders and shaking him. "We need to cook, Tweek!"

Snickering, Tweek shakes him off, and grins a huge smile. "Jesus! You guys ack! look sick!"

They do look great, Craig can't disagree even when hasn't even watched Breaking Bad. He still can tell that their costumes are spot on.

"Do your Jesse impression!" Kenny gushes, enthusiastically elbowing Stan.

Clearly tipsy already, Stan stumbles backwards and then gives them a wobbly smirk. "What up, biatch?"

"Holy shit!" Tweek cackles, and Craig has to look away when he notices the sparkle in his blue eyes. "That's so good!"

Under the praise, Stan beams, his glassy eyes sparkling with something more than the effects of alcohol. Craig wonders if that's just the effect Tweek has on other people.

"I see you're the devil, very fitting, Tweakers," Kenny smirks and then looks at Craig. "What are you supposed to be?"

Opening his mouth to reply, Craig's cut off abruptly. "Oh!" Tweek jolts, like he remembers something, and digs his hand inside the pocket of his jeans.

He stumbles in front of Craig, clutching something in his hand, and before he can realize what he's doing, Tweek is touching his chest, right over where Craig's heart is skipping a beat.

Taken aback, Craig's body goes completely still, frozen. Tweek does something he can't even begin to understand, too focused on willing his pulse to stay as normal as possible and silently begging for Tweek to not notice it, that'd be so embarrassing. It's only a couple of seconds of him fiddling with whatever it is, but to him, it feels like half of a fucking eternity, and the playful look Kenny throws him behind Tweek's shoulder tells him that he's not doing a good job at pretending everything's cool.

"There!" Tweek announces, giving his chest a good pat before stepping away, mirth glinting inside his eyes. "He's a barista."

Kenny steps closer, leaning forward to look at the name tag Tweek's just attached on the apron, and snickers, which can't be good. Curious, Craig looks down, and groans, the big block letters spelling "asshole" staring back. Looking back at Tweek, the blond shrugs, the tip of his tongue peaking between his teeth as he grins.

"It was Tolkiennn's idea." he says, innocently.

"It fits you," Kenny nods contemplatively and throws a hand around Tweek's shoulder. Craig can feel his eyes follow the movement.

"Please tell me you didn't bring actual meth as a part of the costume," Craig says instead, because Kenny is right after all, and there's no point in fighting it.

It's a valid assumption, because Kenny has access to it, and he a hundred percent would do it if he thinks it's funny, but Craig hopes for the sake of his sanity that he didn't.

"I didn't bring actual meth as part of the costume," Kenny repeats, his bored tone not convincing at all. Tweek shoves him off. "What? I didn't!"

The way Craig and Tweek simultaneously turn to look at Stan for reassurance is almost freaky.

"He didn't," Stan says, and hiccups. "I wouldn't let him."

"At least you're not as stupid as I thought, then," Craig pushes, and he doesn't even know why, because at that exact moment, with the frown that twists the guy's face, he comes to realize that he doesn't really mind Stan's presence as much as he once did. Old habits die hard, maybe.

"Yo, no fighting! It's Halloween," Kenny intervenes, before Stan can actually retaliate. "You guys need to see Cartman’s costume.”

Again, Tweek and Craig find themselves scowling at the same time.

“I nnneed to get drunk for that first,” the blond mutters wearily, and Craig snorts.

Stan nods, wisely and lifts up his arm, flashing the six pack of beer he’d been carrying all this time and Craig hadn’t even noticed. “I got you, dude.”

Kenny’s smile turns devious as he grabs the can of Bud Light Stan offers him. “Shotgun?”

Tweek thanks Stan and takes the beer, eyes twitching at the sound of Kenny’s proposal. For some reason, he turns to Craig, looking for something, but Craig doesn’t really know what he wants from him. Permission? That’s ridiculous.

Stan silently offers him a can, looking slightly rueful about it, and Craig looks at the object with apprehension. “I have to drive.”

Kenny whines. “C’mon, man! One beer won’t do anything!”

It’s bad that he considers it, because he shouldn’t, and he knows that Kenny’s the number one enabler in the world, but he does have a point, a single beer isn’t enough to get Craig tipsy, let alone drunk, and even if it did, if he just continues to drink water throughout the night, he’s gonna be dead sober by the time he has to go home.

Besides, taking the beer would piss Stan off, and that’s too tempting of an offer.

The cold aluminum of the can bites the palm of his hand as he wraps his fingers around it, and Kenny whoops, too excitedly to be completely sober. “Shotgun!”

Almost in sync, they tilt the beers, Craig uses his free hand to get the car keys out of his pocket and uses the metal end of it to pierce the can and then digs his finger inside to make it bigger, pushing around careful not to get nicked by the aluminum.

“Go!”

Together, they bend their heads towards the beers and then, in quick succession, shoot back up, pop the tab open at the top and chug. The cold, fizzy liquid fills his mouth and glides down his throat, Craig rushes to let it go down and swallows continuously, trying his best to ignore the bitter taste and holding the breath inside his lungs to avoid choking. He's been shotgunning beer since the end of his freshman year, so it's not much of a struggle.

Kenny crushes his empty can on his head and drives a fist against his own chest, a good, long burp bursting out of his mouth, loud as thunder. Stan laughs, hiccuping, and claps him on the back. Next to Craig, Tweek tips the can a little too much and beer runs down his hand, which ends with him sputtering and cursing and licking it off.

Craig's head reels.

"Let's go party, bitches!"

Even when he's upset at Clyde, Craig can't deny that the party is a success. They make their way inside after Kenny insists on doing a photoshoot with the skeleton propped against one of the pillars at the entrance, and for being so early in the night, the living room area, where most of the furniture has been cleared away, is already packed, teenage bodies singing and dancing along to what he knows to be Clyde's Spotify playlist named "Party Bangers💯🔥" their different costumes losing their originality under the color lights Tolkien bought three years ago when the parties become a tradition.

Chugging that entire beer at once ends up being a bad idea, as he almost shyly trails inside behind Tweek, the warm buzz of alcohol rampages through his body and his vision blurs slightly. That is, of course, when he remembers that the last edible thing he's consumed had been the hot chocolate Tweek brought him to the store.

Pushing their way inside between the couples making out against the wall of the hallway, Tweek looks back at him from over his shoulder, his expression worried. Craig shrugs, shaking it off, because he's fine, and he doesn't like Tweek feeling the need of being concerned for him. Over the music, Kenny yells something along the lines of going to the kitchen and stealing more booze, and Craig almost stumbles into a very cheap version of Ghostface.

The air becomes borderline unbreathable, hot and stifling from the condensation of people, and it doesn't let on until they reach the much emptier kitchen.

Stan's face drains of all color when he sees that behind the counter, Tolkien, in a Miles Morales' Spider-Man costume seems to be in deep conversation with Wendy, who's wearing a Sailor Scout costume. Craig doesn't know which one it is, because he hasn't seen Sailor Moon, but he knows they're named after planets, and if they go by colors, considering her red uniform, his best guess is probably Sailor Mars. He's pretty sure that this is the group costume Clyde talked about a while ago, and Craig thinks he spotted Bebe in the classic Sailor Moon outfit somewhere in the improvised dance floor.

Before they can even notice them, thanks to the sound of the loud music and conversations, Kenny manages to save the day by, with almost incredible speed, grabbing Stan by the hood of his hazmat suit and dragging him backwards and out of the door. Tweek's shoulders drop, like he'd been cringing in anticipation for the disaster to unfold in front of him, and Craig's too familiar with the feeling by now that he kind of wants to pat him on the back as reassurance.

He must be tipsier than he thinks, because he realizes then that he's actually been having these urges for a while now, his hands itching to reach for Tweek's body, and instead of feeling weird about it, Craig is just… okay with the idea. He feels inclined to it. He kind of likes it. Tweek is warm, he hadn't been lying when he told Craig that he runs hot, and Craig's hands are always cold.

"If you keep drinnnking you'll have to walk me home, man," Tweek warns, like it's such a horrifying concept.

In all honesty, Craig wouldn't even mind walking him home, even if it's midnight and freezing balls outside, and oh, Tweek's house is on the opposite side of the town.

"Perfect weather for a nightly stroll," Craig smirks. Tweek is not amused by the joke. He rolls his eyes. "I won't drink anymore, mom. I'll look for water."

The punch lands on his shoulder, and Craig doesn't even pretend it hurts, just lets his chest buzz with laughter.

"Craig?" Tolkien seems to finally catch on them standing in the entryway for the kitchen. Wendy, who had her back towards them the entire time, turns around and grins when she sees Tweek. "Hey, man! You made it!"

His arms wrap around Craig's shoulders when they finally approach, and Craig even returns the hug, patting his best friend on the back for good measure because he definitely does not feel guilty for forgetting that Tolkien actually begged him to come multiple times already and all it had taken to convince Craig had been a single invitation from Tweek.

"Yeah," he nods, swallowing and squeezes Tolkien's shoulder before letting go. "Hey, Wendy."

The girl, still clinging to Tweek's side, both of her arms wrapped around the blond's middle, smiles a small but sincere gesture. "Hi," she says, and her voice is so small that Craig almost doesn't recognize her.

Definitely not taking the break up better than Stan, Craig muses, looking at the way her usually lively eyes drooped and dull, and leans back, resting his lower back against the marble countertops. Tweek, with his arm around her shoulders, shakes her slightly, making her bite back a smile.

"Let me get you guys something to drink!" Tolkien says, cheerfully.

"I'm driving, so I'll get some water."

"Bummer, man," Tolkien laments, clicking his tongue, and Craig shrugs, already opening the fridge that's been preemptively emptied out of any food and filled with water and sport drinks.

Clyde had so many incidents of people stealing groceries during parties that he learned the hard way that the only thing drunk people aren't interested in is stuff that'd get them sober.

"You can get Tweek drunk. Drunk Tweek's fun," Wendy says, her tone perking up and insinuating something Craig doesn't catch.

"Ack! No— not drunk!"

Tolkien grins. "Let me fix you a drink, man. Trust me, I got an eye for this shit."

He isn't lying. Craig has been getting shitfaced off of Tolkien's bartender hobby for too long now, and he can testify to his friend's ability. Tolkien can make the best tasting mix of drinks, and the best part of it all is that you can barely feel the burning sensation alcohol brings, so you end up downing four drinks in the bat of an eye before you realize you're fucking wasted already. It's almost magic.

"He's really good," Craig tells Tweek, when the blond looks at him for confirmation.

His opinion doesn't really matter, because Tolkien's already in his generous tipsy self, snatching a red solo cup from the cabinet under the sink and pouring different types of liquor inside of it like a mad man. Tweek follows his movements with horror, his eyes twitching, but he looks interested enough, so it evens out. Craig takes the time to open the water bottle and take a steady sip, eyes darting to stare at the way Wendy's hands are intertwined around Tweek's waist with a familiarity that has escaped Craig all this time since the blond seems completely fine by it, even when he isn't hugging her back.

"Here," Tolkien announces, scooping ice into the cup and handing it to Tweek. "Taste it."

Eyeing the cup with distrust, Tweek brings it up to his nose and takes a sniff, making Tolkien laugh. It must smell inconspicuous enough, because not two seconds later, the blonde is taking it to his lips to taste it. Amused by the theatrics, Craig follows the movements with deadly and unnecessary precision, from the second he takes the sip, the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and how his pink tongue peeks out as Tweek licks his lips.

"Ngh it's good!" his blue eyes widened in surprise, like he had expected something nasty. "What is it?"

"It's my secret recipe," Tolkien winks, taking the half full cup on the counter Craig assumes it's his own drink. "Take it slow tho, it's pretty strong."

"Tolkien makes the best drinks," Wendy says, matter of factly, and Tolkien gives a bashful smile to the edge of his drink. Unexpectedly, she then turns to Craig, who's trying very hard not to look at Tweek's rosy cheeks and drinking his water instead. "Mind if I steal him from you?"

Slightly confused, Craig frowns. "Tolkien? He's all yours."

Tolkien's eyes go wide half a second before he's sputtering and coughing, choking on his drink, while Wendy's not doing any better, her pale face flushing in color. Tweek gives him a startled look, like he doesn't know what's going on, and Craig shrugs helplessly.

"I meant Tweek, Craig," she grounds tightly, her eyes turning in her usual ferocious edge for the first time in the night.

Oh.

Tweek blinks back at him, surprised, and his ears turn as red as Craig feels his own are under the flaps of his chullo. Wendy smirks, looking up at the blond in her arms and snickers when Tweek just takes the cup up to his mouth again and starts downing its contents abruptly.

"Tweek?" Craig hears himself repeat clumsily, the buzzing in his head turning louder. "Uh, yeah, sure, whatever."

"Great," Wendy smiles, genuinely this time, and finally lets go of Tweek's waist in order to grab him by the wrist. "I need to talk to him."

"Ack! I'll see you later," the blond mutters as Wendy starts to pull him towards the door. It sounds like a question. Craig nods.

As soon as Tweek is out of the equation, Craig can breathe way better, the tension in his shoulders dissipating noticeably. He rubs his hands on his face, his fingers feel kind of numb from the alcohol, but the water is definitely helping to fight against it, which is great. He'd been two minutes away from doing something stupid, like ripping Tweek out of Wendy's grasp and hugging him himself, or touching his soft hair, or telling him how pretty his eyes are, or— or— doing something even worse.

"Nice name tag," Tolkien says, grinning.

"Thanks for that," Craig tells him dryly, still from behind his hands.

“You kinda have it coming,” Tolkien says, grimly, and hops to sit on the counter behind him, facing Craig.

“Yeah," Craig sighs, and Tolkien snorts good-naturedly.

A silence settles between them, and it feels weirdly charged. For his own part, Craig knows he wants to know something specific and he's trying to come up with a way of formulating his curiosity in words, but Tolkien looks like he's physically holding back from saying something as well.

Fuck it.

"Hey, Tolkien," Craig goes first. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything, dude."

This time, Craig's considerate enough to wait until his friend drinks before letting the words out of his mouth. "You know why Clyde's… upset with me, don't you?"

Tolkien freezes, his hand stopping halfway down in the process of putting his cup on the marble countertop and his eyes widening. Craig isn't sure about what his friend thought he was gonna ask, but he can tell by the reaction that Tolkien had definitely not expecting the question.

"I— uh," he stutters, which is something so rare to hear from him that Craig can't help but feel extra curious, even when he's ninety nine percent sure that he knows the answer anyway. "Yeah. He kinda told me last night."

"Is it about Tweek?" Craig kind of put two and two together a couple of days ago, when he remembered that Clyde had seen the pictures Kenny had posted the night at the Pond.

"Not really," Tolkien winces, and Craig frowns. "I thought it was about him at first, like, I thought he was jealous because you guys started hanging out all the time and everything..."

"But?" he prompts, impatiently.

Tolkien clicks his tongue. "But it's more than that, I think. He believes that you're hiding something from him— I don't know. You should talk to him about it."

Scoffing, Craig rolls his eyes. "I tried to! A million fucking times! He won't tell me shit."

"Well, he's probably pretty wasted by now, so it might be your chance."

If sober Clyde can't keep any secrets and is a major gossip, drunk Clyde is a fucking menace of spreading sensitive information around like a forest fire. It's like the more alcohol he consumes the more his tongue loosens.

"I don't know if I have the patience to deal with drunk Clyde, though," Craig says, tiredly.

Tolkien snorts again, giving him a look that can only mean I feel your pain. But his tone is demanding when he looks at Craig in the eyes and his expression turns serious. "I think you can put in the effort."

Craig knows he has to.

Finding Clyde turns out to be as difficult as Craig imagined it would be. Ever since they started drinking and partying, they'd discovered that each of their drunken versions were different from the other; like Tolkien, who turns generous and starts to flirt with girls left and right, or Craig, who becomes more loose and talkative, and finally Clyde, who they branded as a runaway drunk.

It's as serious as it sounds, four shots in and the guy is as slippery as a stick of butter, bouncing around, looking for whatever crosses his mind at the moment, —usually Bebe, sometimes also food; which means Craig has to squeeze into every open room in the house to try and find him, and it only turns out to be even harder thanks to everyone being in fucking costumes and not looking like themselves.

Instead of Clyde though, Craig spots Kenny and Stan playing beer pong against Cartman and Butters in the backyard, and okay, he gets why Kenny said they should see Cartman's costume, because he's literally dressed as Guy Fieri and Craig hates that it's kinda funny. Fuck him. Butters' in a very… gay Link from Legend of Zelda outfit, and the worst part is that it suits him. Craig also sees Wendy, Nichole and Tweek talking in the hallway next to the bathroom, he considers coming over for a second, but Wendy looks like she's upset, so Craig focuses back on his main task.

Eventually, he makes it upstairs, squeezing past the couples making out on the steps. The only rule about the parties, apart from the obvious don't break shit, is that the second floor is absolutely banned. Clyde locks all the doors to the bedrooms beforehand, because he doesn't want horny teenagers fucking in his bed, or god forbid, his dad's bed, but Craig knows that he checks up on his bedroom every now and then since he leaves Max inside, and he's scared of the dog going crazy from the loud music and eating his shoes.

As he walks up to his best friend's room, Craig tries his best to push down the dread bubbling in his stomach. He doesn't want to do this again, he doesn't want to deal with it all, he's not having fun and he knows he shouldn't have even come. When Craig said yes to Tweek, he hadn't been thinking at all, but if he had stopped for at least half a second to consider the idea, Craig would've known that he was not going to have fun.

He's definitely not having fun.

"Clyde?" Craig knocks on the bedroom door, just in case his friend's inside doing… things with Bebe. He almost hopes that he is, so he can have an excuse to walk away.

The door opens before Craig can even reach for the knob. Clyde, clad in a pilot suit and aviator sunglasses. The costume doesn’t surprise him, because Clyde had forced him and Tolkien to watch the new Top Gun movie earlier this year, and he had gushed about it for fucking weeks.

“Craig! Man! You’re here!” he pushes his sunglasses until they’re perched on the top of his head, like he can’t believe that Craig’s standing there. His eyes are glossy from the alcohol, but he’s not really slurring his words yet. “Come in, man! I don’t want Max to get out.”

Squeezing inside, Craig’s greeted by the giant retriever jumping on him and almost knocking him off his feet. Awkwardly, he pats the dog’s big head a couple of times, avoiding its tongue as he tries to violently lick his hand, and Clyde closes the door. The music dies, and suddenly, the quiet is an unbearable itch on his skin, and he looks at the disarrayed state the bedroom is in to distract himself. Craig doesn’t understand how Clyde can sleep in a bed covered in clothes and dog hair, but honestly, he doesn’t really want to understand it either.

Obediently, Max goes back to his gigantic elevated dog bed Craig knows Clyde had spent an embarrassing amount of money on, and his friend grins proudly at his pet’s behavior.

“I didn’t think you’d come, bro! I’m so happy you’re here!” Clyde gushes, excitedly.

“You are?” Craig questions, brows furrowing.

Clyde looks anguished. “Look, man. I know I’ve been an asshole to you, okay?” he sighs, looking genuinely remorseful. “And I’m so sorry, bro. I never meant to hurt your feelings or anything, I was just… you know, in my head or whatever, and I kinda started thinking about stupid shit and— I don’t know.”

Craig hates the vagueness. He wants to bite something, but Clyde’s bottom lip is already wobbling, and there’s no universe in which Craig wants to deal with his tears. “I need you to just tell me what happened, dude.”

“You’ll get mad.” Clyde winces, walking around him to sit at the edge of his mattress, on top of the discarded clothes there.

Craig sighs, more tired than exasperated, and turns to look at his friend's hanging head, his own reflection on the lenses of his sunglasses. “I’m already kinda mad.”

Clyde whines, sounding pitiful, and his eyes get even more glassy. Jesus Christ. “You’ll hate me, then!”

“Clyde. You’re my best friend. You’d have to do some horrible, insane shit for me to hate you,” Craig deadpans, because it’s true, and it’s probably the nicest thing he’s ever said to him.

“Like what?” he sniffs, finally looking up at him with hope.

Fuck it. Craig exhales and decidedly sits down next to him. “I don’t know, like kill Stripe, or kiss my mom.”

“Weak, bro! Your mom is like my mom! I’d never do any of those things.” Clyde cringes, and it does make Craig almost laugh.

“So, I’d never hate you,” Craig admits, because it is that simple to him.

“Bro!” Clyde wails, completely losing it, and throws himself, no different than Max had done literally minutes before, over Craig, his arms squeezing his middle in a deadly hug.

Craig pats his shoulder comfortingly, letting him cry against his chest for a couple of seconds because at this point, it’s just better to ride it out. He does feel his own annoyance start to fade, because in the end, Clyde is his oldest friend, and being ignored by him had hurt Craig’s feelings, and even through the awkward emotions, he’s glad they’re talking again.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” the brunet keeps repeating, still clinging to him. “I just saw how you would say no to hanging out with us but then you’d do shit with Kenny and Tweek, and I guess I kind of got jealous at first because of that, and then Stan told me you got a job and you never told us about it and it made me believe you were leaving us for them! But then Tweek started joining us at lunch and I saw the way you look at him and I understood that maybe it’s just that you’re in love with him and you were scared to tell us or something, but then I realized that that’s stupid, Craig! Because you’re our best friend and we don’t care if you like guys! I think Tweek’s great for you actually! And you’d make a sick ass cou—!”

The world stops spinning and Craig feels his blood run cold. His entire body locks up, going hard and still like a fucking boulder, so heavy he fears he’s gonna sink through the mattress.

“What?” he can’t hear the word come out of his mouth over the ringing in his ears.

Probably feeling that something is wrong, Clyde freezes as well, his breathing stopping short against Craig’s shoulder.

A second passes between them, slow like an eternity, his pulse is galloping inside his chest, reverberating in his throat. Clyde’s words sticking to his brain like a fucking leech. Craig. In love with Tweek. Clyde believes Craig is in love with Tweek. Tweek. Tweek Tweak. Tweek, who Craig has been thinking about non-stop ever since the incident with Cartman so long ago. Tweek who has soft hair, and brings him hot chocolate, and punches him while calling him annoying, and insufferable, and asshole.

Slowly, Clyde detangles himself from Craig. His face reflects the same panic that’s running in Craig’s veins. “D-do you not like Tweek?”

His tongue feels too big for his mouth. “I—”

The door bursts open. They both jump, startled by the abrupt interruption, and their heads, along with Max’s, whip towards the noise with borderline violent speed. Bebe, in a pretty skimpy Sailor Moon costume and windswept blond curls, pants at them for a second, trying to regain her breath to form words. The frazzled look on her face cannot mean anything good, which definitely doesn’t help with Craig’s previous panic.

“Tweek…” she gasps, Craig jumps to his feet, his heart lodging inside his throat instantly. “Tweek and Cartman… fighting… outside…”

Shit.

Chapter Text

Craig doesn't really remember making it downstairs, he knows he probably shoved people out of the way, and definitely ignored Clyde's calling behind him; everything is a blur of colored lights and muffled sound, the only thing he actually recalls is the heartbeat inside his ears, and the red at the edges of his vision. The rational voice in his head tells Craig that he shouldn't even worry, because Tweek can definitely defend himself, but the buzzing in his head is too loud to pay attention to it.

Downstairs the party's still going and the music only makes his heart rush even more, Craig almost hits himself on the face with the door that leads to the backyard.

It's snowing again, not enough to really coat the ground, but the flakes fall on his face and the cold brings Craig back to himself. He almost slips on the muddy dirt as he jumps down to the grass and runs up to the circle of people surrounding what surely is the fight. Kenny's there, yelling encouragement to Tweek, while Butters anxiously watches, trying to support Cartman with wobbly words. Heidi is there too, watching next to Red, who has her phone out, probably recording it. A couple of other kids Craig doesn't recognize stare like it's a fucking movie.

The sight of Kenny standing by, grinning amusedly and cheering makes Craig's blood boil for some reason, and he pushes him away, inserting himself in the commotion and ignoring his offended yelp. In the middle of the circle, Cartman is on the ground, blood trailing down a cut on his eyebrow, as Tweek pounces on him like a wild animal and drives his fist to Cartman's face.

"Gah! I'm gonna fucking kill you!"

"Pull him out," Clyde's right there, next to him, Craig hadn't even noticed him following. "I'll help you."

In the time it takes for them to close the very small distance between the two guys on the ground, Tweek has managed to get one more punch to Cartman’s, in the nose this time, but he also caught a smack from the bigger boy on the mouth, the sound that comes out of his throat is almost like a growl, it makes Craig’s stomach churn.

Wrapping his arms around Tweek’s middle from behind, Craig takes impulse and pulls the blond up, the effort of trying to get a hold of him while he writhes like snake trying to shake from his hold and his built form is almost too much, but Craig doesn’t give up, the veins in his neck bulge, and he groans, but he manages it.

“Let me go!” Tweek roars, trying to shake him off and successfully lodging his elbow on Craig’s stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs, making him wheeze but not relent. “I’m gonna kill him!”

“You don’t wanna go to jail, remember?” Craig manages to croak out, and even with the breathlessness of his voice, he can hear the hysteria peeking through.

Tweek seems to recognize his voice, since Craig is behind him and can’t be seen by him, and even if he doesn’t relax, heaving to breathe and his heart hammering so hard in his chest that Craig can feel it from his back, the blond does stop trying to break free from his grasp. Cartman springs up to his feet and wipes the blood that runs from his nose off his mouth, his lips twisting into that mean sardonic grin of his. Clyde’s there, putting his arm across his big chest before he can attack Tweek, but it doesn’t look like he has any intention to do so, at least not physically.

“You can beat me up all you want, but nothing will change the fact that you're a fucking weirdo,” he spits, like the words are acid in his throat. His eyes drift to Craig and he scoffs. ”Why don’t you do us all a favor and dick him down so he stops acting like a goddamn animal?”

Something twists inside Craig’s guts, but he can’t even feel it as he prioritizes holding Tweek back as he lets out another feral noise and tries to jump Cartman again. It takes every last drop of his self-restraint to not let go of the blond and let him turn Cartman into a blob of bruises and blood. Craig swears he hears his own teeth creak as he clenches his jaw.

“Shut the fuck up.” Clyde bites, but it sounds more like a warning than anything else.

“What?” Cartman laughs, like it’s genuinely funny to him. “I’m just giving some advice to Craig, since he’s too fucking retarded to notice how Tweek’s practically begging for his dick.”

For a second there, Craig’s convinced it’s over. The words make his brain short circuit, consequently making his hold of Tweek to falter, he can almost picture the blond running back towards Cartman, tackling him down, knocking his teeth out, but it doesn't come. Tweek goes rigid in his arms, turning almost into a statue, his head bounces into his own shoulder in a violent and painful looking tic. Craig feels white hot rage spread through his body.

He doesn't give a shit about what Cartman says, and he doesn't give a shit about what Clyde believes, right now, Craig doesn't give a shit about anything that isn't the way Tweek's reacting, twitching and shaking. And he's mad. Craig's fucking pissed, just like he was the day he punched Cartman himself, no, even more than that day. He wants to do it all over again, but this time he wants to keep going until he makes his fat fucking mouth choke on his own blood and teeth, and if his parents wanna send him to Military School then so be it.

But that'd mean letting go of Tweek. And maybe he's just telling himself this, maybe it's just in his head, but Craig doesn't want to let him loose, he doesn't want Tweek to need him and neglect that.

"You're too concerned with my dick, fatty," the words come out of his mouth almost on their own and his neutral tone is a scary contrast compared to the way his hands are itching for violence. Tweek flinches like he's been electrocuted. "I know thinking about yours leaves a lot of empty room in your big ass head, but you should stick with what you have."

Someone laughs, and they both turn to see Red and Heidi, cackling and zooming on Cartman's reddening face with their phones. Craig takes the distraction as an opportunity and drops his arms from around Tweek, grabbing the blond's forearm instead to start leading him away, the sound of his agitated breathing is starting to scare Craig, and he knows that he needs to remove the blond from the situation.

"Let's go, Tweek," he says, as soothingly as he can and ignores the pang in his chest when the blond makes a strangled wail that doesn't sound voluntary.

Turning around, Craig shoulders Kenny away to open the way for him and Tweek and ignores the blond as he stumbles and tries to follow them.

"You're dead, Tucker! You and your rabid bitch are fucking dead!"

Smartly, Craig throws his arm around Tweek's shoulders and continues walking without looking back, and tries his best to endure the blond’s thrashing as he attempts to run back. Tweek is significantly stronger than him, but the tics interrupting his movements unfortunately work in Craig’s favor as he just continues pulling him away, towards the gate that leads through the side of the house and opens to the street.

"Ack! Let me… go back!"

“He’s not worth it.”

They reach the gate and Craig stands behind him to block any new attempts of escape though it doesn’t seem like Tweek has intention of that, his hands are now trembling too hard and he can’t undo the latch, so Craig has to take over, leaning over the blond’s back and taking over. It does get the job done, and he gets to feel Tweek’s body heat in contrast to the cold night air. But then, the blond’s head jerks as he jolts, and clips Craig straight on the chin, making his teeth clack together and dig on the inside of the meat of his cheek, his eye not getting punctured by the plastic horns of his costume by sheer luck.

“Ack! I’m. So sorry!”

The metallic taste of blood floods his mouth, and Craig struggles, cringing, to swallow it back as he stumbles a step away, clearing the blond’s personal space. Tweek turns to look at him, his face showing his mortification, and Craig shrugs, trying his best at staying as neutral as possible. “Don’t worry about it, man. C’mon.”

Stumbling over his own feet, Tweek starts walking again, and Craig follows closely behind, more worried about the blond falling or hurting himself than headbutting him again. In all honesty, Craig doesn’t even know what the fuck to do, he’s pretty sure he’s never felt this inadequate in his life; it’s not hard to assume that Tweek’s having a tic attack, probably caused by the nerves he endured during the fight, but that’s virtually all Craig knows. He feels like an idiot, because he desperately wants to help the blond to calm down, but he has no fucking clue as to how.

Craig is terrified. The way the tics are shaking Tweek’s body looks like it fucking hurts, and the sound of his ragged breathing only makes Craig’s inside twist. His hands feel like they weigh a ton at his sides, useless and incompetent.

The walk back to the car feels endless, the sound of the music, even muffled as the distance grows, grates on Craig’s frayed nerves even more and makes his chest feel impossibly tighter.

“Yo! Hold up!” the faint calling barely reaches Craig’s ears, and he turns around without stopping his steps. “Guys, hold on!”

Down the street, Kenny’s trotting up to them, and Tweek thankfully, doesn’t seem to hear him, probably stuck in his head. The irritation spreads through Craig’s body again at the sight of him, so he just keeps walking, blatantly ignoring the approaching boy. He takes the keys out of the front pocket of his jeans and unlocks the car doors, Tweek hesitates for a second as they reach the vehicle, but Craig gives him no time for doubt, stepping ahead of him and opening the passenger door for him to get inside.

“Try to breathe, man,” he tells him as Tweek sits down on the seat. His monotone voice makes him sound like a fucking moron.

“What the fuck, Craig?!” Kenny yells out, the distance between them shortening.

Startled, another strained noise squeezes through Tweek’s throat, and Craig almost bumps his head against the car door in his rush to close it. “Fuck off, Kenny!”

Hearing both of them yelling at each other’s probably the worst thing for Tweek’s nerves right now, so, although ruefully, Craig walks up to Kenny instead of waiting for him to reach them.

“What’s up your ass, dude? Why did you push me like that?"

It almost hurts to not yell at him, the urge really burns in his chest, but Craig tries his best at keeping his voice low enough to not reach Tweek. “You’re a piece of shit, Kenny.”

“What is wrong with you, man? What did I do?” at least he has the decency to look hurt, but it only annoys the shit out of Craig.

“Are you seriously this fucking stupid or is it just a bit for you?” Craig spits, eyes narrowing. “You fucking cheered Tweek on instead of stopping him. You were fucking laughing.”

“So what? He won, man!” Kenny says, throwing his hands up like it’s absurd. “I know he can take care of himself!”

“He can barely breathe, Kenny! It's fucking scary!"

"How would I know that?! You dragged him away and wouldn't slow down!"

"Everyone in this fucking town knows how Tweek gets when he's in these situations! Stop pretending to be fucking dumb."

"I'm not pretending to do anything, man! I just thought—"

"Not everything's a fucking joke for your entertainment,” the words spill out of his mouth, like a dam breaking.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Kenny frowns, crossing his arms across his chest.

“It means that you're an asshole," Craig tells him, plainly.

"Seriously? I'm the asshole? You're just fucking insulting me, but sure I'm the asshole."

"Yes, you are!" the last bit of his temper snaps, and Craig feels his hands curl into fists at his sides, his short nails digging into the meat of his palms. "You think being friends with that fat piece of shit is funny, you laugh everything off, but you know what? You know what that makes you? A piece of shit just like him, and a fake ass fucking friend.”

“You have no clue of what you’re talking about, Craig,” Kenny says tightly.

“Actually, I do. Because I can be an asshole too, I know that I am, but at least I don’t pretend to get along with people who talk shit about my friends.”

“He can stand up for himself!” Kenny snaps, his eyes wide and exasperated. “And Cartman wasn’t even talking about him! Tweek went fucking crazy because Cartman said some stupid bullshit about you!”

Craig's heart stutters, but he has no patience for it. It shouldn’t be surprising, after all, that Tweek would do something like this, and yet, Craig doesn’t even know how to feel about it in the first place. Sure, he can always find it the tiniest bit enjoyable to see Cartman in pain and humiliation, but when he searches in himself, Craig can’t find anything under the overall guilt and uneasiness that has settled deep into his bones at the sight of Tweek being so nervous.

A part of him knows that this is what Tweek must have felt back then, when he found out that Craig had gotten in trouble for defending him, and sure, now he can understand the way Tweek had chosen to act towards him afterwards, but at the end of the day, they’re two different people, with very different personalities, and Craig can’t afford any distance between them, even if he wanted to, not anymore anyways. This particular realization is too big to focus on right now, with Kenny in front of him and Tweek waiting for his return, so Craig has no choice but to save it for later.

“So you’re not my friend then, because I would stand up for you if I heard someone talk shit about you, but you just admitted you wouldn't do the same for me.”

“I thought you didn’t give a shit about what Cartman says about you!” Kenny retorts.

“I don’t,” Craig shrugs, his back pulling tightly. “But my friends do, because they care about me, and they have the balls to defend me when I’m not there to defend myself, like I did for Tweek when we weren’t even friends, but you know who was his friend? You, apparently, and you were also there when Cartman called him a fag, and yet you didn’t do shit then either.”

“Since when are you so fucking righteous?!”

“I'm not righteous, I just fucking care about him!"

"Well, congratulations! You're the friend of the year! You want a fucking award?"

"No. I just want you to go fuck yourself."

"Fuck you, Craig," Kenny scoffs, shaking his head. "You're a fucking loser and you think you're so much better than me, but you're just a pussy who can't even figure out your own shit."

"What are you even talking about? If you wanna say something to me, then fucking say it," Craig knows. He knows what Kenny's talking about, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't hate the way he words it, like he's holding it over Craig's head.

"Nah, I'll fuck off like you want me to," he shrugs, bitterly, and takes backwards steps to get away. "But don't forget who was there for you when you almost got sent away to Military School. Or when you were freaking out because people said you're gay."

It's almost surreal, the way he actually wants to punch the smirk off Kenny's face. Craig knows how he is, he knows Kenny's a big–mouthed fucking idiot, but he's never felt genuinely angry like this before. Kenny's words strike a match inside of him, furious and scorching hot.

“It wasn’t people saying shit, it was your friend Cartman," Craig spits, his voice unrecognizable to even himself. "Why don’t you go back to kissing his ass? He might forget you’re his bitch and start making you feel like shit because you’re poor again.”

Kenny laughs humorlessly, like he can’t believe the words he hears, and Craig can’t blame him for that, he can’t even believe he said it himself. “Fuck you, Craig, seriously."

Ignoring the way Kenny's pained eyes make something in his stomach twists, Craig focuses on the simmering rage that spreads through his veins instead. He watches as Kenny walks away, flipping him off, and his mouth bleeds again as he bites the same cut opened minutes ago by Tweek's head. The sting feels weirdly cathartic.

The freezing cold air helps to calm him down a tiny bit, the bite of it on his skin feels like sinking into fresh water after being out in the heat all day, so Craig stays, standing there motionless, for longer than he'd like to admit. His heart's still beating hard, hammering against his ribs, and he's so fucking overwhelmed he might lose his mind in the next couple of seconds.

Inside the car, a few feet away, Tweek's probably in a very similar state, most likely even worse, waiting for him, and the blond's anxiety will definitely get worse if Craig doesn't rein it in; he knows he has to get a grip, and fast.

The sky above is completely darkened by the heavy clouds now, snow falling down steadily, dampening his hat and shoulders. Craig tries to picture the stars on his ceiling, tries to count them, and for the first time in his life, he can’t recall the number. Was it in the seventies or the eighties? He needs to count them again.

The car waits for him as Craig turns around and spots it. He can’t see Tweek inside, the light from the streetlamps reflecting on the windshield, blocking the sight of the inside of the car. But Craig knows that Tweek’s in there, and he’s waiting for him, and there’s no way in fucking hell that he’s gonna let the blond down.

Taking a deep breath, Craig lets the air inside his lungs and holds it until it starts to burn before he lets it out. Tweek needs a ride, he needs to calm down and he needs to get home.

Craig walks back to the car.

“You ack! okay, Craig?” Tweek asks, as soon as the door opens and Craig barely makes it inside.

“Yeah, Kenny was just being a dick,” he sighs, pretending he’s not internally freaking out about the way Tweek’s head is bobbing to the side with what seems to be enough force to break his neck. "Let's just— what do you usually do to calm down?"

“Nngh Talk about something,” Tweek’s voice is strained, his fists curled tightly on his lap. “I like to ack! meditate, but I don’t like the q—quiet.”

“I— About what? I don’t know,” Craig mumbled, feeling like a fucking idiot. “I don’t really talk much.”

“Just! Jesus! whatever comes to ack! mind!” Tweek’s eyes are urgent, his breathing even more so. “Space facts, whatever you want.”

“Okay, uh…” rubbing his face, Craig racked his brain in search of anything to say. Tweek closes his eyes, but he doesn’t look relaxed at all. He could talk about space for hours, sure, but he couldn’t mention the things that Tweek could find scary, which was almost everything. “So, uh. When I was little, like six or seven, my grandma invited us to her house in Peru for the holidays…”

“Keep going,” Tweek orders him, his eyes still tightly shut, as Craig’s words die off.

He doesn’t know where he’s going with this story, Craig’s not even sure of why he decided to start talking about it, but it had been the first thing that had come to mind. He breathes, blinking at the windshield and rolls his shoulders against the cushioned seat. The memory’s fuzzy in his brain, old and blurred out at the edges, but Craig tries his best to focus on it.

“Tricia was four, I think, she kept stumbling around the small hill that led to the house and falling down, but it was funny, because she’d stand back up alone, and laugh like nothing happened,” Craig can feel his mouth curving into a smile as the image of his sister’s giggling rang inside his ears. “My grandma had a big rooster, and I swear it hated me, it would chase me around and try to peck me but it’d let Tricia touch it and stuff, I really think it was personal.”

"I hated it, because it'd start singing in the middle of the night, right outside our window, and Tricia's always been a heavy sleeper, so I'd be the only one waking up at four in the morning because of it," it'd gotten so bad that one morning, Craig'd asked his grandma if they were going to eat it. She'd laughed in his face. "One of those nights, I couldn't go back to sleep after hearing it, so I snuck outside to sit on the hammock my grandpa had set for us between the trees."

Out of the corner of his eye, he checks to see if Tweek's still in the same position, and maybe it's a trick of the poor lighting, but Craig can swear his jaw doesn't look like it's clenching as hard as it had been before, so he keeps going.

"I think I was too young to realize at the beginning that the reason why I could see so perfectly in the dark was because even though it was at night, the stars and the moon were so bright there was no need for a flashlight," six–year–old Craig hadn't thought about looking up at the time, too focused on making it without stepping on anything sharp with his bare feet on the grass. "I almost shit myself when I got there and my grandma was already on it, reading a book."

She'd been surprised to see him, but it hadn't taken more than five seconds before she was scooting over and inviting Craig to join her. Of course, he hadn't hesitated, although at first he thought he was going to get in trouble for it.

"Grandma told me that she woke up every day with the rooster because she liked being outside at that time. I thought she was crazy at first, because who even does that? But she just laughed at me and said that it was at four in the morning when life finally got quiet," Craig swallows, and he swears he can hear her voice again, saying the words softly, like it'd been a secret only meant for him. "That's when she told me to look up at the sky."

Turning his head, Craig fully looks at Tweek's face now. To Craig's relief, he finds that the blond's eyes are softly shut now, and his features have gone completely lax. For a moment, Craig even thinks Tweek might even be asleep, just from the way his lips are parted softly, unlike he's ever seen them before, but under more careful inspection, the blond's chest seems to still be rising a little irregularly, too shallow or too erratic, for him to be actually sleeping.

"I think I'd never seen anything more beautiful before," Craig swallows, and blinks back ahead, watching the small snowflakes fall steadily to the ground. "The sky was so…. full that I felt like I couldn't breathe just from looking at it, and for years after, I thought it was something that only happened in Peru, because the nights never looked like that here, even when there were no clouds in the sky."

"My grandma was a nurse, but she's always loved astrology and stuff," Craig doesn't believe in zodiac signs and all that, but he'd never dared to say it in front of her. "So she started teaching me all the constellations she knew, pointing at them and telling me everything she knew about their stories. I guess that's when I started liking space so much."

Tweek's hands are no longer in fists, but stretched out over his knees, and his breathing has gotten steady and deep. Craig feels himself relax, his muscles releasing their tension and ache like an ice cube melting under the sun.

"I was sad, when we had to come back to South Park after spending almost every night out there, but obviously, I couldn't stay," even then, Craig hadn't cried, but he remembers his mom having to drag him to the car in order to get to the airport. "When we got back, I kept having the same dream for like a week or two. I would be alone somewhere, deep into the woods, trying to get home.

"My grandma'd taught me that before maps and technology, people used to travel by looking at the sky, so if I ever felt lost, I just needed to find the North Star, but in the dream, everytime I looked up, all I could see were clouds."

"So what did you do?" Tweek's voice startles him, not only because he hadn't expected him to talk so soon, but also because he has never heard the blond speak so softly before.

Self-conscious all of the sudden, Craig adjusts his chullo and huffs, avoiding the blond's eyes that are now open and trained on him. "I made my parents buy me those glow–in–the–dark stars and glued them on the ceiling of my room."

For some reason, Craig expects Tweek to laugh, because it's cheesy and kinda stupid, and yeah, okay, Tweek does laugh a little, Craig hears it, but it doesn't sound mean or mocking. Just… just. Soft. Warm. Contagious.

“Your mouth is bleeding.”

Fresh blood, shiny and red, coats Tweek’s bottom lip, some of it dripping down his chin. He’s probably opened the cut again with his laughter, and Craig feels guilty about it, though it is nice to see Tweek grinning again.

He seems surprised by it, most likely not having noticed, and goes to wipe the blood off with the sleeve of his jacket. Craig stops him short almost automatically, grasping his wrist softly so as to not freak him out.

“You’re gonna stain it,” Craig murmurs, blood is a bitch to get out of fabric, Laura has yelled at him too many times to let it happen, even if it’s someone else’s clothes. “Here.”

Years of chronic sinus infections have taught Craig to always be prepared in case of a flare up, so he has been keeping tissues in the glovebox ever since he’s been allowed to drive. He quickly lets go of Tweek and takes the packet out of the compartment. Judging by the way Tweek’s hands are still a little twitchy, Craig knows it’s best if he helps him out.

Motioning the blond to scoot a bit forward so the yellow light from the streetlamps can fall on the lower half of his face, Craig wraps his index finger with the soft paper of the tissue, and wipes the blood under Tweek’s bottom lip off in one swift move.

“You donnnn’t have to ack! baby me!” he protests, his cheeks flushing deep pink and trying to pull away, his head jerking to the side in one of his tics.

“I’m not,” Craig tells him easily and lets the hand with the tissue fall. He wants to grab Tweek’s face by the jaw and keep him still until he’s clean, but something tells Craig it’s not a good idea. “I’m just helping you out."

“I don’t nnneed help, man!” he whines, almost childishly.

“And I don’t need you to defend me from Cartman,” Craig retorts, rolling his eyes.

“You did it first,” Tweek accuses in exasperation.

He does have a point. But it’s not about that, it’s never been about that. Craig motions him forward again, but Tweek’s stubborn, he stands his ground, laying his back on his seat and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“You don’t have to return the favor or whatever, Tweek,” Craig sighs, leaning away in defeat. “I just… uh, you’re my friend, and I just— I don't want you to feel like you owe me anything, because you don't."

“I’m sorry,” his hand flies to a strand of his hair and this time, he does pull on it. "I don't know what even happened, I didn't really mean to ruin everything like that."

“Dude, c’mon,” Craig wraps his fingers around the blond’s wrist in an attempt to get him to stop. “You don’t have to apologize to me, I just, you know, got worried or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Tweek repeats.

Craig frowns. "What?"

"You say that nngh a lot," he smiles, crookedly, there's blood on the bottom row of his teeth.

"I don't notice," Craig says, because he doesn't, but now that it's gotten pointed out to him, he's gonna be self-conscious about it.

The smile doesn't waver on Tweek's face, even when his eyelids shut in one of his tics; it seems like the meditation did work, since they're sparser than before, and it doesn't sound like he's hyperventilating, but that doesn't mean that his tics will disappear completely, so Craig takes it as it is.

The sight of Tweek's smile makes Craig feel way better too, the relief melting the weight of concern off his back. Tweek's fingers untangle out of his own hair, and Craig realizes he's still holding onto the soft skin of his wrist, and when he tries to let go, embarrassment bubbling hotly in his stomach, Tweek grabs his wrist in return, his rough fingers wrapping around it firmly.

"You don't nnnnotice a lot of things or do you pretend you don't?" he asks, plucking the tissue out of Craig's hand and wiping the rest of the blood off his mouth with his free hand.

Craig swallows, his heart sinking. "I think I'm just slow," he admits, around the knot in his throat.

Tweek lets go of him, laughter shaking his shoulders. Yeah, it is kind of rude, sure, but Craig realizes then that he would rather have the blond laughing at him, than struggling to breathe like before. Craig has to take the mockery as a win, and even with that victory, he can't help but feel the loss of his warm touch.

He's in so much trouble.

"Thanks," Tweek says. "For talkinngh me down and stuff. It really helped."

A little too flustered, Craig waves it off. It's not as if he did it expecting gratitude or anything like that. "I think that's the most words I've said in my entire life."

“You must be exhausted,” Tweek jokes.

It's a cue for him to start the car. Craig's not really tired, a quick look into the time on the stereo confirms to him that it's only one, but soon, the snow is gonna be a problem they definitely don't wanna deal with on the road, and the fact that they have to leave is kind of bittersweet for Craig, since he's finally just now having a good time.

Thinking about how he'd felt that he needed to get away from Tweek earlier almost gives him whiplash, because right now, even after telling telling the blond such an embarrassing story and being scared half to death before that, Craig can't help but feel completely at ease right now, comfortable in a way he hasn't felt with anyone apart from Clyde and Tolkien since forever. There’s no other place or person he’d rather be with right now.

"I'm gonna have a sore throat for sure," Craig snorts warily and carefully peels away from Stan's ugly truck.

"How will I forgive myself?" Tweek fake wails, snickering.

"I'm sure you'll manage," Craig says, drily.

Being used to Tweek as a copilot, Craig kind of expects him to waste no time in grabbing the aux cord and hooking it into his phone to play some good music, but as Craig drives away from Clyde's house, he's surprised to see that Tweek makes no move to do so, leaving them both in the easy silence between them. It's a nice contrast to the tense environment they had to push through only a couple of hours before, so Craig doesn't really dwell on it too much.

For most of the ride, Tweek seems entertained by something either in his head or on the Halloween themed ornaments decorating random houses' lawns, so Craig focuses on driving to the blond's house slowly and carefully, enjoying the crunching of the icy snow getting crushed under the wheels of the car.

"Do you miss your grandma?" Tweek asks, suddenly. "It sounds like she's important to you."

The unexpected question takes Craig by surprise, but he's quick to recover before the blond can order him to keep his eyes on the road. "I— uh, I mean, yeah. Of course."

The thought is strangely complicated. Obviously, his grandma is important to him, and sure, Craig does miss her quite a lot, but it feels unfair when he admits it out loud. Grandma calls, she calls almost every week, she talks to his mom and to Tricia for what seems to be hours on end, but Craig never talks to her. He doesn't know why, because he loves her, he really does, but every time he thinks about having to speak to her over the phone, something inside him curls into itself and he feels like he would rather jump out of the nearest window. It's one of those weird things he does that always has his mom saying things like "Oh, it's just Craig, you know how he is" and everyone somehow understands. Everyone but him.

“That’s cute,” Tweek grins.

“Missing my grandma is cute?” he repeats, trying to cover up the fact his face feels so hot it might melt off his head.

It's not hard to connect the dots and realize that this is payback, Tweek reversing their roles from earlier as a way to make Craig feel like he had felt, so he can't even be mad about it.

“Yeah, man. My grannndma’s a bitch.”

"What?" Craig laughs, taken aback.

"She's old and mean," Tweek says, nose scrunching. "You should let me borrow your grandma, she could teach me Spanish and save me from failing."

"I told you I could help you with Spanish," Craig says, turning to look at him so Tweek knows he meant it.

"Yeah, but your nngh grandma sounds cooler," Tweek retorts, and laughs.

"Have fun failing, then," Craig rolls his eyes and looks back to the road, biting back a smile.

It's perfectly timed that just as he says it, he's slowing down the car and eventually pulling over outside of Tweek's house.

"I'm joking! I'm joking!" Tweek squeaks, still chuckling. "I was gonna ask you anyway!"

"Ask what?" Craig looks back at him now that he's no longer driving.

"I don't have to work on Sunday, so nngh we could study together?"

Something jumps inside Craig's chest and he nods without even thinking. "Sure."

"Sick," Tweek smiles, looking relieved and opens the door. "I'll text you so we can meet up, okay?"

"Sure," Craig hears himself repeat like an idiot.

He watches as Tweek climbs out of the car and rushes towards his house, keeping his head down and closing himself off from the cold. Craig stays there until the blond unlocks the door and steps inside, waving one last time before disappearing inside his house. He stays there even after that, a mix of feelings twisting inside his gut and making him feel dizzy.

Now that he's finally alone, Craig realizes that he has no escape, and he knows that he can't hide from himself. He had said it to Kenny without hesitation, because it is the truth even if he he hadn't been planning on even admitting it to himself.

Craig cares about Tweek, yes, but that's not what's making his heart race, because he cares about other people as well, it's no big deal, he's human and he can't help but to form connections.

The problem, because of course there's a problem, lies underneath, where he's been trying very hard to put a rug over the very clear, very troubling fact that Craig's almost completely sure that the care he has for Tweek goes beyond anything he's experienced before.

And what exactly does that mean? Well, Craig's fucking terrified to find out.

Chapter Text

The blood trailing down his face is too hot in contrast to the icy wind that shakes the leafless trees, the small cut on his eyebrow is making the crimson trickle fall in his eye, which is fucking annoying. Even more so because Craig can't even catch a break to wipe it away. It's a small inconvenience in the grand scheme of things, a buzz at the back of his head easily overshadowed by the wild hammering of his heart thumping inside his ears, and the adrenaline rushing hastily through his veins.

The sole of Tweek's boot digs into his middle, and the pain that erupts is almost blinding. His feet skid back on the icy ground and Craig barely has time to find his balance before Tweek is upon him again with a punch to the face he barely dodges. The frantic sound of his own breathing is the only sound he can hear, and it's so loud Craig believes it's the only thing that's keeping him in motion.

"Stop…" he gasps, but his voice doesn't reach his own ears, so Craig's not even sure if he's actually talking or not. "Stop, Tweek."

"Didn't you want this?" the blond accuses, shoving him harshly. "Come on, fight me."

Growling, Craig dives forward and Tweek jumps out of the way just in time to avoid getting caught by his fist, Craig doesn't miss the way the blond spits a mouthful of blood to the previously pristine white snow on the ground. He probably bit his own cheek or something, because Craig doesn't remember reaching his mouth.

Panting heavily, and suddenly feeling frozen in place, Craig's disobedient eyes zero on the blond's red stained lips with a strange amount of concentration.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" Tweek's mouth moves, but it doesn't sound like him.

Blinking, Craig stumbles backwards on his own feet, the voice that speaks is familiar, but he can't quite place it. "What?"

"Don't tell me it's true, Craig?" the blond taunts, following as he backs away. The sneer on his lips is something Craig has never seen Tweek do either. "Is it?"

Lungs heaving for air, Craig feels trapped within his own body, the beat of his heart stutters and then kicks back so fast it feels like a buzz inside his chest. Fists at his sides, his arms are trembling with a sudden rage that rocks his body like a tsunami. He sees red as he jumps over Tweek, pushing his body down to the ground in a mess of flailing limbs.

"What the fuck are you talking about?!" he hears himself say through gritted teeth.

His forearm presses tightly against Tweek's throat, and blue eyes lock with his own, Craig further drowns in his own anger at the sight of the light in them, the glint of unfamiliar mockery. The blond's thin lips, still red with crusted blood, stretch across his face in a terrifying smirk that carries pure viciousness. He doesn't seem to be bothered by their position, in fact, Craig would say Tweek looks almost too comfortable with having his weight on top of him, his windpipe under pressure.

"What are you gonna do now? Huh?" the blond tilts his head, a challenging tone in his strangled voice. "I know you want to, Craig. Everybody knows."

"Shut the fuck up," Craig spits, slamming Tweek's shoulders roughly down onto the snow.

"You're... a fucking pussy," Tweek's teeth gleam red.

Craig growls like an animal, deeply from his chest and almost scares himself. Pulling his arm high, he aims for the blond's cheekbone and his fist connects with the freckled skin with a sickening sound and he feels like throwing up immediately after. Tweek's head snaps to the side with the blood, but he looks back up at him with the same sneer he'd been wearing before the punch, seemingly completely nonchalant to the pain.

"Do it."

His throbbing knuckles connect with the blond's jaw this time, and once again, Tweek just blinks back at him, his eyes as taunting and cold as if he can't feel the punches.

"Do it!"

Fist bunching fiercely on the collar of Tweek's shirt, Craig snarls, almost vibrating with contained anger. He pulls it up, dragging the boy underneath him to his level, until he feels warm, racing breath puffing on his cheek. His eyes drift, from Tweek's blackening eye to the cut on the bridge of his freckled nose, and then lastly to the swell of his mouth.

He feels himself swallow tightly in his throat, and the blood inside his veins boils, condenses, startles his heart.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the voice comes from over their heads.

There's a second of complete silence, or maybe time really stops ticking by, but Craig is freezing again, going rock solid and cold everywhere. He'd recognize the sound of his father's severe tone anywhere. Under his grasp, Tweek sneers, as if he's actually enjoying the sudden panic that assaults him.

"I said. What are you doing, Craig?" his father's tall shadow looms over them.

Craig won't look up, he can't look up. Craig knows what he will find. He knows his father knows. He knows this isn't right. His stomach twists upside down and Craig almost gags at the dizzying sensation. He blinks down at his own hand, the choking hold of his fingers, Tweek's warm and bloodstained mouth.

"C'mon, Craig, do it in front of him," Tweek whispers, his words brushing his own mouth in hot air. "Show your dad what you actually want."

"He'll kill me". The words don't leave his mouth, his voice is lodged somewhere inside his throat. Somehow Tweek appears to know what he doesn't say and chuckles loudly, grating on Craig's already frayed nerves.

The laugh is too familiar, and he finally realizes. He's been hearing that fucking laugh for years, he's despised it since the first time. Mean and mocking, dramatically cruel like a villain from a bad movie.

A new wave of rage violently shakes his insides, and he's almost blind by it as he drops his hand and Tweek's head bounces back onto the snow, except—

Except that, when Craig's fist lands square on the boy's mouth and cuts his knuckles on his teeth, he blinks and Tweek is no longer the one being pinned under his weight, receiving the blows.

Eric Cartman’s bloody spit hits him on the cheek.

Craig wakes up.

Chapter Text

“Craig?”

The clock on the living room wall ticks to six twenty-three, and Craig feels like he weighs a ton of bricks under his skin.

He’s been up since four, when he'd startled awake from the nightmare with his heart hammering inside his ears and nausea twisting in his guts. Craig had tried to fall back asleep again, tossing and turning on his bed restlessly, but every time his eyes fell shut, heavy from exhaustion, the image of Tweek, bleeding and sneering flashed back into his mind, effectively keeping him up.

By five, he had completely given up on trying to rest, growing progressively exasperated by his own mind torturing him and resigning himself to blinking impassively at the ceiling. He gets to count the stars again, even through the burn of his eyes, there’s eighty nine of them, fifty three of the big ones and thirty six that are smaller. The act of raking through them though, gives no peace to Craig like it once used to.

He can’t even turn to Stripe, who always manages to bring comfort to him, because Tricia has taken her into her room for the night with the excuse of ”keeping her from feeling lonely” while Craig was out. He could venture into Tricia’s bedroom, knowing that she’s most likely awake, watching horror movies in her beat-up laptop like every Halloween, but the more he considers it, the less he actually wants to do it. Craig’s not sure what he’d say to her, and she might be in one of her moods that always ends with hysteric yelling and Craig getting kicked out.

That’s how, without any more options to turn to and with his bedroom walls feeling like they’re progressively closing in on him, Craig ends up on the living room couch, idly zapping through cheap production horror movies and brainwashing infomercials of useless products that are most-likely scams.

His father’s voice startles him out of his daze, Craig blinks the sting in his eyes away and turns.

Thomas stands behind the couch, already dressed for work, and gives his son a puzzled look. “What are you doing up?”

The memory of the nightmare flashes vividly in Craig’s mind, the twisted parallel of being stared down by his dad, now in real life, is nothing short of vile. He physically has to shake his head to rid himself off the image, and stares at his dad, searching for any anger or disappointment in his expression. Thankfully, Craig can only see confusion on Thomas' face.

"I was—" he croaks out, his unused voice cutting off and forcing him to clear his throat. "I couldn't sleep."

For a moment, Thomas looks like he wants to say something, his mouth opening to let words out, but they never come. Craig looks back to the TV screen, some washed up celebrity is desperately trying to sell a very expensive set of knives that allegedly can cut through "the toughest of meats. He hears his dad's steps as he walks away and into the kitchen and his stomach churns.

He'd kill me, wouldn't he?

The infomercial ends, the broadcast tuning into the normal programming as the morning news theme starts to play. Craig feels tears sting at the corner of his eyes, a knot twisting inside his throat.

It's almost surreal, but honest to God, Craig can't remember the last time he's cried. He knows, logically, that it'd probably happened when he was a kid, probably after a fall or something painful like that, but right now, as the tears blur his vision and turns the news presenters into blobs of color and light on a screen, he realizes that feeling is so foreign he doesn't even understand it at first.

The tears don't fall, though, Craig rubs his eyes with his fingers and he blinks, taken aback, when he feels the moisture coat his fingertips. It makes him feel stupid, who the fuck gets surprised by their own tears? A perfectly normal human response? Obviously an insensitive asshole like him.

The knot tightens, closes his throat off at the top, and Craig tries to swallow it back.

He'd kill me, wouldn't he?

In the background, his father's going through the motions of making his morning cup of coffee. Craig can hear him, in a detached manner, shuffling around the kitchen, opening cabinets and turning on their ancient coffee machine. The news people are talking about a fire in Denver, and Craig watches the footage of an apartment building he's never seen go down in flames.

"Here," Thomas is suddenly there again, standing now next to the couch and offering something.

Lethargic eyes bounce between his father's stoic face and the steaming mug extended towards him. Hesitatingly, Craig takes it from him, the warmth of the ceramic spreading on the palm of his hand in a weirdly comforting act. Thomas rounds the coffee table and sits next to him as Craig stares into the dark contents in the mug.

"You still hate coffee, right?" his father asks, taking a sip of his own cup.

Craig's eyes start to sting again. "Yeah," he mutters, quietly, and inhales the scent of the artificial hot chocolate packets his mom restocks periodically in the shelves.

Everything is numb, his taste buds are probably asleep, which makes the drink taste like liquid cardboard in his mouth. Still, the warmth of it goes down his throat easier than Craig's own spit, and he manages to blink away the new wave of tears before they get the opportunity to drop.

His dad drinks his coffee silently, watching the TV where now a distressed victim of a burglary is being interviewed on the scene, and Craig pretends like he can't feel the urge to scream until his lungs explode like balloons, the grip on his mug tightening until his knuckles hurt.

"I saw your coach the other day," Thomas says, breaking the silence. "He says you're doing better."

"Mmh," Craig hums, a frown pulling in the space between his eyebrows.

“We can all tell you’re doing better,” Thomas adds, nodding into the lip of his drink. Craig ventures a look at him, apprehension tilting in his stomach, but his father’s eyes are glued to the screen ahead. “I’m glad. You’re a smart kid, and you have so much potential—”

“What if I didn’t?” Craig cuts him off, irritation flaring up.

He can almost hear his father’s thinking, willing himself to get the patience and not snap back at him. “What do you mean?”

“I’m a smart kid, I have potential, I’m doing better,” he repeats, setting down the mug on the coffee table a little too roughly. The hot chocolate slushies out, probably leaving a ring that his mom will yell at him for later. “What if none of that was true and I was… something you hate.”

It was meant to be a question, Craig supposes, but it comes out like an affirmation, because he knows —he knows the answer to it, he knows what his father would say, what he’d look like while saying it. Craig knows the answer, and he feels like a child for even trying to ask, a stupid shred of hope clinging to him like a leech, hungry for a chance.

And he hates himself for all of it, because he doesn't care what anyone thinks, he genuinely doesn't give a shit if people at school think he's gay, or if they call him a fag— so why's his dad any different? Why is Craig waiting, with bated breath, for a bone to be thrown his way?

"Why do you have to argue with everything I say?" Thomas asks, and it's a surprise that he doesn't sound angry, he actually wants an answer.

"I'm not arguing," Craig tells him, because he isn't, even when it sounds like he is.

"I'm trying, Craig," Thomas grounds, before drinking the last of his coffee. "I'm trying, too. And you keep fighting me."

"I'm not fighting you," Craig argues, his voice straining.

"You are, because I know you, and I know you're doing good, but you still—"

"What's going on?" Laura stands in the doorway, frowning at them. Craig’s probably never been happier to see her.

Sighing heavily, Thomas shakes his head at her and stands, his knees popping quietly. Craig stares at his hands, that somehow have found their way into pressing into his knees, the fabric of his pajama pants bunching under his grip.

His mom isn’t above eavesdropping, so Craig doesn’t doubt for a second that she’s probably heard the entirety of their conversation and decided to put him out of his misery before things could get uglier.

In the end, though, it doesn’t matter, because her interruption gives Craig no relief. The knot in his throat doesn’t loosen in the slightest.

“Did you eat?” Laura asks, looking at her husband as he picks up his mug from the coffee table.

“I’ll grab something on the way.” Thomas mutters, making his way to the kitchen.

The air shifts as he walks away, it significantly turns thinner, easier to breathe, and Craig does exactly that. Inhaling, he closes his eyes, and it feels like there’s a million little needles pricking his eyelids, but thankfully, no more tears well up.

“Yeah, that greasy egg thing you like,” Laura shakes her head, raising her voice in order to be heard by her husband in the next room. “You do this every Saturday, Thomas. It’s like you don’t care about your health.”

Is it weird that her bickers are comforting to Craig? As he tunes her out, sinking into the couch and keeping his eyes closed, he exhales; the pressure lessens, and the black in his vision stays that way, anonymous and faceless. Tweek-less. Clean of blood.

There’s shuffling, muted footsteps on the carpet, Thomas complains all the way to the entrance and Laura doesn’t stay behind. She has the last word, because of course she does, and then the door opens and shuts, a car rumbles and Craig breathes again, deep and loud in the suddenly quieted room.

A cushion sinks next to him, much closer than his dad had been. Craig doesn’t open his eyes, just falls into the darkness, moves an inch and then two more, blindly searching for his mom’s warmth, the citrusy scent of her shampoo. He should feel like a child, for this, and he does. But he's too tired.

“We would never hate you, kid,” Laura mumbles, only for the two of them to hear, even when they’re alone.

It’s good, that she doesn’t pretend she hasn’t been listening in. Craig hums, noncommittally, because it’s not true. He knows she means it, there’s not a doubt in his mind about it, but Thomas is a different story.

Something brushes his forehead, pulls his bangs back tenderly, and Craig sinks further into the touch, his side leaning now into hers.

“Piojito?” she asks quietly, and doesn’t wait for his answer. Her nails part into his hair, and then begin to scratch his scalp softly. “I remember when you used to let me do this all the time, your hair is too nice to be under that hat every day.”

When he was little, when he had bad dreams and his mom would come into his room in the middle of the night, she’d lie next to him, squeezing in his twin sized bed, and scratch his scalp until he fell asleep again. Craig used to feel embarrassed, because he didn’t want to be a kid, he didn’t want to need his mother’s comfort.

The thing in Craig’s throat grows, impossibly big and painfully stuck. “I had a nightmare,”

The scratching pauses, and he knows she’s most likely surprised by the admission. Craig’s not really known for… sharing. To her credit, though, Laura recovers quickly, the motions resuming half a heartbeat later. “Did your sister make you watch one of her movies?”

“I was fighting someone,” the words are out of his mouth before Craig can think about it. “In the dream.”

Saying it out loud is a bad move, the image of his nightmare flashes back freshly into his mind. Craig has no choice but to open his eyes to escape the memory. The weatherman in the TV says Colorado citizens shouldn’t expect snow for the next four days, a global warming related heat wave will settle until Wednesday. Wendy’s probably going to cry herself to sleep.

“That doesn’t sound very scary, considering how many fights you’ve gotten into,” her voice is a quiet hum in his ear, it buzzes all the way into his chest.

“I guess not.”

“Must’ve been someone you care about, then.”

Craig sighs, her ministrations lulling him into a relaxed state he desperately needs. “Yeah.”

“That’s good,” she mutters, her lips pressing into his scalp before he can protest. “Caring’s good.”

Craig’s not so sure about that. His life had been easier back when he didn’t. But he doesn’t say it out loud, because maybe it’s not that simple.

On the screen, someone famous wears an ugly dress to an award ceremony, the panelists tear her to shreds.

“Wanna watch Criminal Minds with me?” his mom asks, the smile is audible in her voice. “Detective Aaron Hotchner always helps me distract myself.”

A groan punches out of Craig’s lungs, and Laura cackles, her scratching pausing as she looks for the remote that’s on the coffee table before he can agree. If Craig’s obsessed with The X-Files, his mom’s ten times crazier about Criminal Minds, which is saying a lot.

“Okay,” he says, even when it doesn’t matter. It speaks of his need for her comfort. Usually, he refuses, Laura’s… thirsty comments about the characters get progressively out of hand. “None of the ones with Emily, though.”

“Pfft. No way. Her Spanish is atrocious.”

Waking up for Craig usually comes in stages, his awareness and main senses slowly catching up to him like the slow spill of molasses. Right now though, he's starting to believe his luck is running out.

First, he had shot up from the nightmare like a cannon, and now, when he didn't even realize he had fallen asleep on the couch two and a half episodes into season two, the doorbell rings loudly, startling him awake.

His mom, who probably got up at some point to start cooking lunch, curses from the kitchen, there's the sound of something dropping and then she appears, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel and rushing to the door. Craig sits up, rubbing the sandiness of sleep that clings to his eyes, already missing the dreamless darkness he'd been deeply into and lazily looks at the time on the clock hanging on the wall. It's pleasing, even when he feels like he could've easily kept sleeping, to see that he's gotten a good five hours.

Stretching his arms over his head, Craig feels as the muscles in his back pull and ache from the uncomfortable couch, and he hisses, low in his breath, as Laura shoots him an apologetic look before opening the door.

"Oh!" she exclaims, sounding genuinely surprised, and that immediately catches Craig's attention. "Hello, are you looking for Craig?"

Frowning at the mention of his name, Craig pushes the quilt his mom had draped over him while he slept off his lap and stands. He doesn't have a clear eyeshot to the entrance, his mom obscuring the way as she stands on the doorway, which leaves him no option but to stand, curiosity biting at his feet.

"Hi, Mrs. Tucker," Craig's heart stutters, head perking up like a dog. "I'm ack! s–so sorry for just showing up like this, I just forgot— yes! Sorry, is Craig home?"

Peeking over his mom's shoulder, Craig rubs his eyes again, incredulously this time, in case this is actually another fucked up dream his mind has planned for him to resume its torturing. But after he blinks three times for good measure, Tweek's still standing there, looking as nervous as ever.

"Tweek?"

Laura jolts, probably not having heard Craig creeping behind her, and then steps aside slightly, leaving room so he can get a better look at the blond, not without a few seconds of squinting against the harsh midday light first. Tweek gives him a shaky grin, the cut on his lip standing out flushed against the pink of his mouth, his bruised hands fumbling with the end of his sweater.

"Who raised you, kid? Invite your friend in!" his mom's suddenly elbowing Craig's side and sending him a glare.

Swallowing, Craig ignores the flutter inside his chest and stumbles, dumbly, backwards as Tweek shakes his head. "I— thank you, but that's not necessary, I just nnngh came by to—"

"Nonsense, you're letting the cold in, c'mon," Laura uses her stern voice, and Tweek squeaks, going rigid, before hesitatingly climbing the step at the front door.

Feeling like a fish out of water in his own house is kind of a ridiculous experience, but Craig can't really put it in any other words. It is a ridiculous experience, he thinks, as Tweek steps on the entryway and Laura shuts the door. Craig is there, standing in his pajamas and sporting a record breaking bedhead, while the subject of his literal nightmares blushes in embarrassment as Laura fusses around him.

"Did you walk here? Do you want something to drink and warm up?" she ushers Tweek until the blond is cornered into sitting on the couch.

It's not snowing anymore, but that doesn't mean that the weather has improved that much. In the couple of seconds he'd been exposed to the fresh air, Craig had definitely felt the chill, his nose feeling cold as he rubs his face once again being more than enough proof. Tweek looks panicked, overwhelmed by Laura's nagging, and Craig doesn't even have the energy to be embarrassed on her behalf.

"I— No, thanks, I'm fine, really," the blond squeaks, shooting a shaky look to Craig, who's still standing there like an asshole.

"Are you sure? Don't be shy, kid. I'm not gonna bite you."

Jesus Christ.

Opening his mouth to tell Laura to go away, Craig's attempt is abruptly interrupted as fast footsteps clamber down the stairs with worrying speed, and just as he thought it couldn't get any worse, Tricia's suddenly stumbling into the room, looking frazzled like she's just gotten out of bed.

"Is it Karen?" she asks, almost hysterical, and Craig rolls his eyes. Her eyes fall on Tweek, whose face shows how he's probably thinking he'd rather be anywhere else in the world but here. Her shoulders sag in disappointment. "Oh, hi Tweek."

"Hi?" Tweek's smile wavers.

Craig's done. "Get out," he sighs, motioning the two women away.

"Excuse me?" Laura looks at him wide eyed and Tricia gapes, scandalized.

"He's my friend and he needs to talk to me, you're being weird."

"No, we're not!" Tricia argues, pouting slightly.

So, maybe he's still on edge from the nightmare, Craig had certainly not expected to see Tweek so soon afterwards, and the sight of his face makes the memory come back into his mind. There's gotta be some higher power plotting against him, because in the span of less than eight hours not only did his dad want to talk to him but Tweek coming to see him unannounced as well kind of feels like a sick joke at his expense.

"Mom," Craig tells her, seriously.

Rolling her eyes, Laura sighs, defeated, and grabs onto Tricia's forearm, pulling her towards the kitchen. She shoots a firm look at the blond on the way out. "If you change your mind, I'm in the kitchen."

Watching them go, Craig takes a deep breath, waiting until they disappear before looking back at Tweek, who still seems mortified. Apprehension squeezes his insides, and Craig hesitates, his limbs suddenly feeling too long for his body.

"Uh, what are you doing here?" the question comes out rougher than he intends to, and Craig wants to feel bad about it, but he can't.

The truth is, he's uncomfortable, watching Tweek sitting in his house, unannounced, just after having lost sleep over him and everything. Craig knows that he should be shaking it off, because Tweek has done literally nothing wrong to cause this reaction from him, but he can't help it.

Tweek notices, of course he does, and a hurt expression crosses his face before he shakes his head. "I called your phone ack! thousand times, man! I thought you, like, died or something!"

"I was sleeping," Craig shrugs.

"Are you mad at me?" Tweek frowns, his hands bunching on the wool of his sweater and stretching it.

"No."

It's bad. It's pretty fucking bad. He hears the tense edge in his own voice, feels the irritation itching at the back of his mind and feels fucking helpless. The way he's reacting isn't what he wants to show, but it just comes out, and he can't do anything to stop it, just watch it happen, spinning out of his control like a car that's about to crash and he can't step on the brakes.

"It sounnnds like you are," Tweek argues, eyeing him up uneasily.

"Well, I'm not."

Visibly taken aback, Tweek looks at him for a couple of long and tense seconds. Craig tries to stand his ground, pretending to be as casual as possible by shoving his shaking hands inside the pockets of his pajama pants, as he waits the blond's scrutiny out.

"Look, man. If this is about last nnnnight, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"I'm not mad, Tweek," Craig repeats, feeling the taught pull of his temper.

Tweek's frown deepens, his face shifting like he can't decide if he's mad or incredulous. His eyes drift then, to the clock on the wall, and he jolts. "I— Jesus! Okay, whatever, I just came to get my backpack, I forgot it in your car last night."

Frowning, Craig tries to recall how he hadn't even seen the backpack when he got home, but his head had probably been too preoccupied by the literal disaster of what the party had been. Then, he remembers he's also forgotten to give Tweek his apron back.

"Alright. Hold on, I'll get the apron you lent me too."

For a second there, Tweek looks like he wants to object, but Craig doesn't linger for long enough to let him. His legs take him away, eager to put some distance between them before he can further fuck it up, and before he realizes, he's climbing up the stairs and walking into his room. The apron is hanging from his desk chair, where he left it last night, and his phone is on the nightstand. It's useless to check it by now, given how Tweek's already here, but Craig does so anyway.

Tweek
hey
imn an idiot forgot my backpaxk in ur car last night
can i fome over on my break and get it

Scrolling past those messages, Craig then sees the missed calls, not surprised to see there are five from Tweek's number, and sighs. His phone wasn't on silent, he had just left it upstairs when he had woken up, it's his fault, and yet, for some stupid reason, he's annoyed at Tweek.

It's surprising to see that the blond isn't the only one who's texted him. Craig sees that he has two texts from Tolkien, five from Clyde, and one from none other than Kenny. He doesn't open any of them.

Grabbing the keys to the car from his desk and one of his hoodies, Craig goes to the bathroom and washes up as quickly as he can, not wanting Tweek to be alone for too long downstairs and at the same time, stalling for time. The cold water feels good on his face at least, helps him wake up and cool down, he doesn't look at himself in the mirror.

By the time he makes it downstairs, apron, keys and phone in hand, Craig's ready to face Tweek again, more patiently this time, only to stop himself short before walking into the living room.

"... an asshole," Tricia's telling Tweek, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Craig peeks at them from behind the doorway. "He's not angry, he's just cranky because he just woke up."

Unsure, Tweek opens his mouth to argue, his face looking pink, but Craig decides to step inside before Tricia can further embarrass him. She has the decency to look embarrassed at being caught, but Craig just rolls her eyes, nodding to the front door as Tweek shoots straight up from the sofa.

"B–bye," Tweek stammers, following behind Craig like a lost puppy.

"See ya, Tweek. Bring me a latte next time!"

Over his shoulder, Craig flips her off, using his other hand to open the door. Tweek squeezes past him, his shoulder bumping into Craig's chest and leaving him with his lingering scent of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods. Something deep inside him, aches.

The cold air sneaks under Craig's hoodie and through the thin layer of his sleep pants, he looks kind of ridiculous in his boots too, and Tweek looks so good in his sweater and loose jeans it kind of feels like an humiliation after the other. The silence between them feels as frigid as the weather and Craig wants to swallow his own fist.

Wordlessly, Tweek grabs his backpack from under the seat not a second later Craig has unlocked the doors and shoulders it on. Awkwardly, Craig shifts his weight from one foot to the other and clears his throat.

"I'll give you a ride back to work," he offers, hesitatingly.

"No, thanks. I canngh walk," Tweek says firmly and closes the car door.

"C'mon Tweek, I'll take you," Craig insists, with a sigh.

The guilt is starting to sink in, heavy in his stomach. He's being stupid, Craig's always being stupid, especially around Tweek, but this is probably his worst moment. Nothing like this has ever happened to him, being so conflicted between his logic and his feelings, and he doesn't really know what to do.

"I don't ack! want you to."

Apologize. Craig should apologize. He knows he has to. "Look, Tweek—"

"No, you look," Tweek snaps, stepping close, frowning deep. "I'm sorry I woke you up at one pm, I'm sorry I showed up ack! unannounced, but I did c–call you, and I did apologize. I have to deal with enough customers treating me like nnngh shit all day, six days a week, so I really don't need it from you. Get your head out of your ass and talk to me when you learn how to be fucking considerate."

Speechless, Craig freezes on his spot, chest constricting with surprise. Tweek stares, his blue eyes hard like stones and jaw clenched. Gaping, Craig tries to come up with something, anything to say, an apology preferably, but his brain comes up empty-handed, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water again.

Tweek pushes past him, his shoulder bumping into his with force this time, and Craig's still too shocked not to stammer backwards as the blond stomps away.

"Holy shit," Craig finds himself saying to the freezing wind as he turns to see Tweek disappear around the corner, in the direction of the coffee shop.

Inside his chest, after the words sink in, Craig's heart stutters, irrational and— and? He touches his mouth, incredulously, as he feels a smile curl into his lips.

He's so beyond fucked

Chapter Text

Chasing after Tweek is the first idea that crosses through Craig's mind as his brain reboots, and he doesn't give it a second thought, rounding the front of his car again to climb into the driver's seat. Craig knows that he can catch up to him easily before Tweek even gets to the coffee shop, and he also knows that he has to apologize for being such a fucking dick.

The key fits in the ignition and Craig wastes no time before turning it, the engine of the car roaring to life under him, he puts it on drive, gripping the steering wheel and peels off from the curb.

He doesn't make it down the block before his motivation dies.

Should he even do it? Tweek looked pretty pissed off, and Craig doesn't even know what he'd say. Sure, he'd obviously start with "I'm sorry" but then what? "I was in a bad mood because I had a dream you wanted me to kiss you in front of my dad?" That'd definitely freak Tweek out and ruin their friendship beyond repair, if Craig even dared to confess it in the first place. "I'm sorry I treated you like shit, I'm just being weird because I'm scared of how I feel every time we spend time together?" Would Tweek even want to hear it? Does Craig even want to say it?

Naturally, in his introspective and probably–not–safe–for–driving state, Craig misses the turn that'd take him towards the center of town, going straight down in an aimless trajectory instead, not unlike the way his mind continues to drift astray.

The more Craig thinks about the whole thing, the more he second-guesses himself. What would he do? Go into the coffee shop, face not only Tweek but his parents and the customers there? Dressed in pajamas and boots and without his hat, looking ridiculous and stupid and saying what? Something that Tweek probably doesn't even want to hear at all. What would happen then? Best case scenario, Craig would probably get a drink thrown to his face, an iced coffee if he's really lucky, which, considering his outstanding track record, Craig clearly isn't. And worst— he doesn't even want to imagine what the worst outcome would be like.

Needless to say, risk taking has never been a trait Craig's been known for; he likes things that are sure, steady, easy to grasp on. Every aspect of his borderline monotone life has been a building block set on the rehearsed position he's spent too many careful hours in placing, repetition and familiarity the biggest comfort to his mind. But then, Tweek came around, and Craig, still to this day, doesn't know where to put him. The mere presence of him has been enough to make the rest of Craig's structures come crashing down, like a flimsy house of cards.

What is he supposed to do now? How can he even try to fix it?

Adjusting his grip on the steering wheel, Craig takes a breath, slow and deep, in an attempt to get his mind to slow down.

So. Tweek is a loose link in his life, what would be the suitable solution for this? Well, if Craig's honest with himself, he knows that he'd choose the simplest option he can think of and simply get rid of Tweek completely, cut the problem from the root, destroy the bridge that connects them together, forget all about their friendship. Unfortunately, that's exactly where things get complicated.

Because, the blatant, undeniable truth, is that Craig doesn't want Tweek to go.

The only alternative option he can come up with is what he'd been trying to do before. Deep down, Craig knows that if he really wanted to, if he really put his mind to it, he could find an adequate place for Tweek as one more of his friends. In the last week, Tweek had sat with Craig, Clyde and Tolkien every day for lunch, and he'd done very well for himself, fitting almost seamlessly into their group with an impressive amount of ease, so there's even clear evidence to support that this plan will most likely work with no problems. But—

But Tweek has outgrown Craig's friend title a while ago.

Slowly, the car comes to a stop, having arrived at a destination Craig's subconscious had guided him towards. On purpose, he forces himself to not think about how dangerous the entire drive had been, not only for himself but for any potential pedestrian that he could've definitely hit by the way he barely paid attention to the road ahead the entire time, the ride only a blur in his memory, definitely not a good sign.

Clyde's house stands on the very clear aftermath of a party, plastic cups strewn around the yard and a few beer bottles and cans like an adult version of loose confetti, the plastic skeleton used as decoration is missing an arm and wearing a cowboy hat, sitting on the bushes like it's keeping guard. Craig locks the car behind himself as he steps out of it and kicks a dead Elf Bar out of the way, walking towards the front door.

Rolling his shoulders, Craig uses the ache in his muscles to tether his feet as firmly as he can to the ground, and opens the door. As he steps inside the house, his stomach tilts, and he absentmindedly realizes his hands are getting clammy, almost slipping off the doorknob. He's being dramatic, Craig's being really fucking dramatic right now.

There are almost eight billion people in the world, living their individual lives unrelated to him, completely ignorant of his irrelevant struggles, on a planet that never stops spinning in a galaxy that's almost endless. None of this matters, this panic in his chest or the anxiety blaring in his head, some catastrophe could happen tomorrow, wipe the entire human race off the earth. Who would worry about Craig Tucker from middle of nowhere Colorado?

"Craig!" Tolkien's voice snaps him back, his smile reminds him to breathe. "You made it, man!"

Blinking, Craig realizes he's still standing at the entrance, the door opened behind him. He closes it with a quiet click and kicks his boots off, lining them next to Tolkien's expensive leather ones.

The living room is back to normal, the furniture in the right places, the floor free of littering, and Craig feels guilty about it, usually he stays the night after the parties and helps with the cleaning in the morning. Tolkien's sitting on the living room couch, phone in hand and an episode of whatever anime he's into now, playing on Clyde's huge flatscreen. He seems very happy to see Craig.

"I thought you wouldn't come, since you didn't answer our texts," Tolkien says, as Craig rounds the couch and sits next to him. "Clyde went to pick up the— are you okay? You look… uh, not good."

"I'm good, I just didn't sleep well," Craig says, shrugging, it's not really a lie.

"Because of Tweek?"

As if electrocuted, Craig jolts. "How did you know?"

Tolkien frowns, confused. "What? Everyone knows he fought Cartman last night and you pulled him out."

Right.

"I— yeah, I don't know," it doesn't make sense, but it's the best he can think of.

Tolkien gives him a considering look, his hand reaching for the remote and pausing whatever it is he was watching. He shifts then, one of his legs climbing onto the couch as he turns and gives Craig his undivided attention. "What do you mean?"

What is he supposed to say? Should he just, well, come out and say it, as it is? Craig's never been fond of formalities, or beating around the bush, but he's never had to talk about this particular aspect of his life with anyone before either, and he doesn't even know where to start. Tolkien's staring, patient and kind as he often is, and Craig knows that he knows, because if Clyde knows, like he's told Craig last night in his bedroom, then Tolkien knows.

"Can I ask you something?"

"I'm having deja vu right now," Tolkien jokes, snorting lightheartedly. "Yeah, man, of course."

"Are you in love with Wendy?"

It's almost like a movie, the way Tolkien's face seems to go through all of the emotions he knows in the span of only a couple of seconds. And okay, maybe Craig should've thought it better, he definitely should have worded it in some other way to make it less shocking and out–of–the–blue, but he is remarkably bad at all of this. Maybe he should even start wearing a sign around, some sort of visual and physical warning saying My name is Craig Tucker, this is my first time at feelings.

"What the fuck, dude?" Tolkien says, laughing a little it sounds more like he's incredulous than amused. Craig can't blame him. "What type of question is that?"

"I don't know," Craig tells him, truthfully. "I kind of noticed the way you look at her, and I thought maybe you had feelings for her. Do you?"

It's not something Craig ever thought he'd ever bring up, considering the way he tends to stick to his own business and Tolkien seems to value his privacy in this particular matter. But that doesn't mean that he's blind, or stupid, he's seen the way Tolkien looks at Wendy, how his eyes light up when they talk, how he perks up when her name is mentioned. It's a tricky thing, because of Stan and whatever the fuck happened, but things are different now, and maybe Tolkien will get his chance with her in the end.

And yes, maybe a part of Craig decides to bring it up because he selfishly needs to avert the attention off himself, at least a little. It's only fair, after all, that if he's going to talk about something that makes him uncomfortable, then he needs to bring a bit of discomfort too in return.

"Shit, I mean, yeah, I guess," Tolkien says, bewildered. "Is it that obvious?"

"To me, yeah, because I know you," Craig says, shrugging. He's not sure if it's obvious to other people. "Is that why you hate Stan?"

"C'mon, man. I don't hate Stan!" Tolkien says, shaking his head. "I don't know why you guys keep saying that."

"Tolkien, you literally won't even look at him," Craig deadpans.

"That doesn't mean I hate him, though!" Tolkien insists, a little too fired up. "In any case, I think he hates me."

There's not a person in this world that could ever hate someone like Tolkien, not genuinely at least. But if it had to be someone, then Craig guesses a stupid douchebag like Stan Marsh would be the guy for that.

"Why? Because you like Wendy?"

So, sue him, Craig is kind of derailing the conversation, but it's not on purpose, not really. It's just that he's been curious about this for too long to miss the opportunity to dig deeper into it, and Tolkien seems to finally be ready to open up about it.

Unsure, Tolkien looks around the room, looking for something that Craig has no clue of what it is. "Do you really wanna know?"

Craig blinks, surprised. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't."

"You have to swear you won't tell anyone," Tolkien says, seriously, and Craig nods. Who would he even tell? He knows better than to confide gossip to Clyde. "I mean it, Craig. Swear on Stripe you won't say a word about this."

"I swear, Tolkien," he tells him, earnestly.

Eyeing Craig's face closely, Tolkien seems to hesitate for long seconds, the silence in the room lingering. Craig maintains his serious expression with no difficulty, not only because it comes as natural as breathing, but also because he actually means it. He'd never, ever, betray any of his friends' trust, no matter how big or small the information.

"Okay," Tolkien sighs. "So, you know when people thought I fought Stan and I told you guys I didn't?"

"You fought him?"

"No, I didn't. We were here, during a party, and it was the time Wendy had dumped him for something I don't remember," Tolkien inhales, looking down at his hands before wincing. "I went outside for air at some point, and Stan was there, talking to Kenny, and I kind of overheard him say something that— wasn't for me to hear."

"What? What did you hear?"

"He was drunk, and I think he might have been crying too," Tolkien looks pained to even say it, and Craig should feel guilty about asking, but damn, he's too curious to care. "I got closer because I wanted to check if he was okay. I thought he was upset because of Wendy, and I guess he was a little, but then I heard him say how he was… in love with someone else."

Craig's confused. This was years ago, back in what? Freshman year? "Isn't that why they broke up now?"

"Yeah, I guess Stan finally told her," Tolkien sighs, looking morose. "Anyways, he saw me, and he realized I had heard, and he kind of lost his shit, he tried to punch me, but he was too drunk to stand and he ended up just crying even worse, begging me not to tell Wendy."

"Holy shit, and you didn't tell her?"

Stan isn't Tolkien's friend, they have never really been friends, so Craig doesn't really understand why Tolkien would want to keep the secret, especially when it would've definitely given him a chance with Wendy, the girl he's clearly in love with.

"Honestly? I tried to," he admits, guiltily. "But I couldn't, I just felt too bad for her, and then people started saying we kissed and that's why Stan tried to fight me, and I just wanted to stay away from all of that."

"So, not only have you not fought Stan, but you also haven't kissed Wendy either?"

"Pretty fucked up, huh?" Tolkien laughs, bitterly.

"Yeah, dude," Craig winces in sympathy. "But, okay, wait. You know who Stan's in love with?"

"I— yes. I do," Tolkien sighs, as if this particular piece of information takes a toll on him. "But don't ask me, because I really can't tell you."

What could possibly be so bad about it that'd make Tolkien refuse to even say it out loud? Craig can't even begin to imagine. Is Stan in love with Bebe? It would be pretty fucked up of him to want his girlfriend's best friend, right? But Craig doesn't really see it, even if it's the only reasonable explanation he can come up with. If Bebe was somehow involved, then there'd be no doubt in Craig's mind that Tolkien would tell him about it because of Clyde, so the puzzle piece doesn't fit.

The front door suddenly opens, startling them both, and they whip around towards the noise. Clyde walks inside, holding two boxes of pizza, one on top of the other, in one hand and the end of Max's leash in the other, his face shows the intense focus of trying to not drop anything, but it instantly lightens up like a Christmas tree when he sees Craig on the couch.

"Bro! You're here!" he exclaims enthusiastically as he kicks the door closed behind him. Max whines as he tries to run further than what the pull of the leash allows.

"Hey, Clyde," Craig tries to smile, and that's probably his mistake, Clyde lets go of Max, and the dog barks loudly as it runs towards them like a soldier coming home.

"I thought you weren't coming, we texted you a thousand times!"

So that's what the messages were about; pizza at Clyde's, the usual tradition after a party. Max jumps at him, front paws on Craig's knees and tries to land wet kisses on his face, but Craig leans back, avoiding the dog's tongue and compensating with scratches behind his ears. Next to him, Tolkien stands, wordlessly proclaiming the end to their previous conversation, and walks away in direction to the kitchen. Clyde rounds the couch and lays the pizza boxes on the wooden coffee table, a smile still curving at his lips.

"I didn't see the texts, I just thought to stop by," Craig admits, the smell of the pizza makes his stomach churn.

Confused, Clyde frowns, his expression falling slightly as he takes a closer look at Craig's face. "Are you okay, bro? You look like shit, lowkey."

Craig smiles, self-deprecatingly, and rolls his eyes. "Thanks, Clyde."

Tolkien walks back into the living room, clutching paper plates and cans of Pepsi, shooting Clyde a disapproving look for his shitty comment. It's fine, Craig hadn't looked at himself in the mirror, but he can take a good guess of what he might look like right now, dark circles and all.

"Sorry, man," Clyde winces, apologetically, and motions Max to go lie down on his crate next to the TV. "I'm just surprised, are you okay?"

Ever the considerate person, Tolkien opens the first box of pizza, meat lovers, Clyde's favorite, and puts a slice on each paper plate before offering them to take one for themselves. Hesitatingly, Craig grabs it, his stomach disagreeing with even the sight of it, but at the same time his mouth kind of waters, he hasn't eaten anything all morning, too distracted to remember, and he really should eat.

"Just had a shitty night, that's all," Craig tells him, before venturing a small bite of the food. It's good, warm and salty in his mouth, even if his stomach seems to try and reject it for a second there, he forces through it.

Tolkien, who now sits on the recliner sofa next to them, throws Clyde a concerned look when he thinks Craig isn't watching, and he fucking hates it. He hates every single second of it. What is he even doing? Playing all mysterious and stupid for? Why is he making his friends worry like this over something that doesn't even matter in the first place? Craig doesn't want them to look at him like he's some sort of kicked puppy, he doesn't want them to feel like they need to walk on eggshells around him, poking him with sticks like he's some sort of ticking bomb that could explode at any minute.

"Cartman's a fucking dick, man, I'm sorry you had to leave early because of him," Clyde says, taking a huge bite of his pizza.

"I don't give a shit about Cartman," Craig says, inhaling, and drops the slice in his hand on the plate that sits on his lap. Here goes nothing. "You know, I— uh, I think you were right, Clyde."

Tolkien frowns, curiously, as he cracks open his can of soda and takes a sip, Craig turns to look at Clyde then, who wears a similar expression on his face as he shoves the last of his pizza into his mouth.

"About what?" he asks, barely intelligible as he chews around the big mouthful.

Does Clyde even remember what he said to Craig last night? He had seemed drunk enough to forget about inhibitions and just get it out, but Craig's not really sure if he had been wasted to the point of just forgetting about the conversation altogether. Either way, there's no going back now, and even if there was, Craig doesn't think he'd take the out. He needs to get it out and be done with it.

"I like Tweek."

Two things happen at the same time in the same split second; Tolkien burps an impressive sound and on Craig's other side, Clyde chokes on his pizza, coughing violently. Craig would care, he'd probably pat his friend on the back to help him out, but he's too busy by the feeling of utter fucking relief now that the words are out of his body.

"Wow," Tolkien says, eyes wide in shock.

"What?" Clyde asks, still coughing.

"I think I'm fucking gay," Craig admits, and it's kind of surreal, how easy it is to just say it in the end. Liberating. "For Tweek."

Is it weird that he finds it funny? For some reason, Craig feels like laughing about it, and so he does, because it's fucking absurd. It's all very fucking absurd —the way Clyde suddenly looks like he's two seconds away from bursting into tears, and how Tolkien appears to be debating himself over how he should be reacting.

Craig chuckles, and maybe it has an hysterical edge to it, but he lets it out anyways, because what the fuck does it matter? These are the two people he trusts the most in the entire world, and it's really not that big of a deal. Somewhere in the world, someone's probably dying a slow and agonizing death right now, and Craig's been freaking out because he likes a guy.

"Holy shit," Clyde breathes, his lower lip wobbling as he gives Craig a look that reminds him of a cartoon character.

"Dude! That's fucking awesome!" Tolkien snaps, blinking a lot to be normal. "Tweek's cool."

"Yeah, man!" Clyde agrees, wetly. "I'm so happy for you."

"Clyde, please don't cry or I'll lose my shit," Craig tells him, watching the way his friend's eyes turn glassy.

"I'm not crying," he definitely is.

"You can't tell anyone, though. Like, not a single word about it," Craig warns them, seriously. "You're the only ones that know."

If it somehow reaches his dad, then Craig's not even sure of what would happen, and he doesn't want to even try to imagine it. They can keep it between themselves, Craig can get the relief of getting it out of his chest, and that's it. Just because he's not going to deny himself from the truth doesn't mean that things have to change, especially since he doesn't plan to do anything about it.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" Clyde whines, pointing at Tolkien's accusatory look. "I'm not gonna tell!"

"Clyde, I'm being serious right now. If my dad finds out I'm fucking dead."

Clyde's eyes widen, and he shakes his head. "I won't say anything, I swear."

"So, does that mean you're not gonna tell Tweek?" Tolkien asks, sounding almost shy.

The question does manage to take Craig by surprise, because he hadn't even stopped to consider it. Realizing he likes Tweek isn't really that hard to do, Craig can't pretend to be stupid and tell himself that thinking about how kissing Tweek would be like is probably something normal every straight guy wonders about another one of his friends forever, but that's all he's really gotten to so far.

He likes Tweek. He actually likes Tweek a lot, definitely more than he's ever liked anyone before, but that doesn't immediately make it so that Craig's gonna just confess that to him.

What would be the point in that? Would it even make things better between them? Highly unlikely. Craig doesn't know if Tweek even likes guys, and in the weirdly coincidental case that he did, it doesn't mean he likes Craig specifically.

"No, he doesn't need to know."

Both of his friends seem to be troubled by his answer, but Craig doesn't expect otherwise. They mean well, he knows, they probably think things are easier than they actually are, that Craig can simply just declare his undying love to Tweek, like in the movies, and everything would go perfectly right. But, this is real life, and things work differently than in fiction.

"Why not? He might like you back," Clyde argues, going for a second slice. Tolkien nods.

Craig looks at his half eaten pizza, and his stomach rumbles, full of emptiness. "He doesn't."

"I wouldn't be so sure, man," Tolkien tells him, putting his drink down on the table. "I mean, I have never seen Tweek be so at ease with someone else ever before, and the way he jokes with you it's kind of like when Clyde used to make fun of Bebe's make-up."

Clyde's ears go red, but he doesn't argue, he just shrugs, guiltily. Craig, on the other hand, doesn't buy it —he's seen Tweek be at ease with other people, Kenny, for example, and Wendy too, so it doesn't actually mean anything in comparison.

Nevertheless, Tweek and the places where his affections might lie isn't on Craig's top priorities at the moment, so his brain knows better than to waste its energy by entertaining hypotheticals.

"Even if he did like me," Craig says, staring at the plastic look of the cheese on the pizza. "Nothing's gonna happen, I mean, my dad would—"

"Man, fuck your dad!" Clyde snaps, suddenly. "You're talking like he's the boogeyman or something! He's just an old asshole and nothing he can tell you fucking matters."

"Clyde," Tolkien says, wide-eyed. "Shut up."

Bewildered, Craig stares silently at the red flush that spreads up Clyde's neck, trying to figure out whether it's anger or embarrassment. Should Craig feel touched by it? He kind of does, but there's only so much sentimentality can do for him in the reality of things.

"I'm not gonna shut up! Craig, everyone who loves you, loves you for who you are, okay bro? That includes your dad, even if he acts like an asshole," Clyde tells him, earnestly, but the way he uses his pizza slice to point at him in emphasis is unexpectedly comical.

"Well, it's easy for you to say that, but the guy almost sent me to the Military for getting suspended. Imagine what he'd do if he saw me kiss a dude."

"You think your mom would let him? Your sister? Us? C'mon man, you're smarter than that. Sure, when you got suspended your parents got pissed because you got into a fight, big fucking deal," Clyde insists, putting his food on the table, meaning business. "But right now, this isn't you getting in trouble at school, this is you being who you are. You can't be punished for that!"

The silence that settles in the room as soon as Clyde finishes his speech is almost deafening. Craig stares, dumbfounded, as the words take probably longer than normally to process in his head, and his line of thinking just short-circuits with the effort and surprise. When he blinks back at Tolkien, mostly to check if his friend had also heard and it was not a product of Craig's imagination, Tolkien sports the same bewildered look on his face.

"Holy shit," Tolkien breathes, leaning back on his seat. "Clyde, what the fuck? That was some movie shit."

"Yeah, man, where did that come from?" Craig looks back at him, speechless.

"I don't know," Clyde says, shrugging, his expression suddenly shy. "Don't make fun of me."

"He's right, though, we wouldn't let him, man," Tolkien pipes up, seemingly recovering. "And besides, you're jumping the gun too soon, don't you think? Like, saying that Tweek doesn't like you, or that your dad will kill you, you're just assuming things you don't know are gonna happen. Maybe you should give people the benefit of the doubt."

It's useless to argue, because they don't know Thomas like Craig does, and yet he can't blame them for being positive about it, obviously trying to cheer Craig up. He can appreciate that, so he shrugs and doesn't tell them how his dad makes disdainful comments any type a gay person is on TV, nor that Tweek is pretty fucking pissed at him right now and probably doesn't want to speak to him.

Instead, Craig chooses to smile, a small, genuine gesture, and focuses on the warmth that fills up the room, comfort rounding the corners.

"Thanks, guys. I'll think about it."

"It's your choice, Craig," Tolkien says, grinning as he goes for another slice for himself. "You can do whatever you want, we'll have your back."

"Exactly, bro! We'll always have your back!"

"Right now, I just want a distraction," Craig admits, picking his half eaten and cold pizza and trying for another bite. It's rubbery in his mouth, but he powers through it.

"We can watch this anime Clyde and I were checking out before you got here," Tolkien says excitedly.

"Fuck yes, it's actually sick!"

They launch into a lively summary of the plot, something about kids in high school who wanna play volleyball and bring grace to their disgraced team. Craig listens, leaning back on the couch and slowly working on his food, snorting every time Clyde gets too dramatic about it. Eventually, they decide to let Craig be the judge of it and Tolkien starts the show from the beginning.

Unexpectedly, Craig finds himself interested in the characters, their unique personalities and ambitions, he even laughs at Clyde's stupid jokes about some of the dialogue, feeling how his chest starts to feel progressively lighter.

By the time they make it to the fourth episode, pizza boxes empty on the coffee table, Craig's already weirdly invested in the plot, rooting for the small team in silence and forgetting all about the overwhelming situation he's currently going through.

"I can't believe they made Volleyball look cool," Clyde whines, eyes glued to the screen. "We should've joined the school team."

"Isn't it— well, it's kind of gay, right?" Craig says, as the main guy starts to wax poetic about hitting a volleyball from the air and staring at his rival–turned–teammate with cartoonish heart–eyes.

Clyde gasps loudly. "Don't be homophobic, bro!"

Tolkien chokes with his own laughter.

It'd be a lie if Craig said he doesn't consider going over to the coffee shop after spending most of the afternoon at Clyde's house; the stubborn part of him, the part that wants to see Tweek again no matter what, puts the idea in his brain. He considers it, after he drops Tolkien off at his house and starts to drive away, but in the end, he decides against it.

The last time Tweek got mad at him and Craig tried to push him into talking had ended in an almost disaster. Even Kenny had told him off for it, pointing out the obvious fact that someone like Tweek doesn't appreciate being "ambushed", especially not in public.

But, Craig really does want to talk to him. Every time he thinks about Tweek being mad at him and how Craig had probably hurt his feelings over something so stupid makes him jittery in a way he thinks he's never felt before. To make things worse, he knows that the ball is currently on his court, Tweek himself had made it very clear when he told him "talk to me when you learn how to be fucking considerate" which obviously means Craig's the one that has go reach out first and apologize.

Just because Craig doesn't plan on telling Tweek about his feelings doesn't mean that he wants the blond out of his life. If friendship is the only thing they can have between them for whichever of the many reasons Craig can think of, then he is gonna have to live with that. Because, yeah, Tweek's attractive, and Craig can't stop thinking about kissing him, bloody mouth and all, but he's also funny, and caring, and a good friend overall, and Craig's not stupid enough to lose that.

The decision to text Tweek as soon as he gets home is an easy one to make, this way Tweek can actually choose to read it and reply, instead of having Craig's presence pressuring into talking to him if Tweek doesn't want to. Sounds pretty considerate, right? He is trying for that, after all.

The drive home is short. This time Craig pays attention to his surroundings, and drives as carefully as always, even when his mind is still kind of stuck on the fact that he's not only did admit his feelings to himself but also to other people, (and nothing bad happened.) Not like he'd expected Tolkien and Clyde to react in any other way. Craig hadn't lied to Kenny when he'd said he would never be friends with pieces of shit like Cartman —guys that are intolerant and basically the scum of the Earth; but Craig has to acknowledge the fact that, a small part of him, had been on edge with the fear of his childhood best friends seeing him, or God forbid, treating him differently after learning the truth.

You're just assuming things you don't know are gonna happen. Craig hates that Tolkien's right about that. It's true, Craig's always been the type of person that waits for the worst outcome to happen, but can he be blamed for it when that's the only thing he knows? He's learned to do it through experience after all, figuring that if he prepares for something that's most likely gonna happen, then maybe he can do a better job pretending he doesn't care, and hopefully, soften the blow.

Still, even when he tries his hardest to be positive, he can't imagine Tweek not freaking out after finding out Craig's totally, stupidly gay for him.

Parking outside his house, Craig can't help but to feel like he's arriving from another dimension, three years older than when he left just a few hours ago. It's a relief, for sure, to know and accept what has been happening all this time —Craig has always despised uncertainty; but it's also strange, the way now he's also aware of a big detail about himself that his family is completely unaware of.

Walking inside and seeing Tricia sitting on the couch with Karen, he feels like he's hiding a secret from her, and it somehow makes him feel guilty, which makes no sense, because it's not like they're big on telling each other things like this in the first place.

"Hi, Craig," Karen waves at him with a shy smile.

"Hey, Karen."

"Pay up, asshole," Tricia mutters, around a pink hair tie clutched between her teeth. Both of her hands are busy as she braids Karen's long, light brown hair. She doesn't even look up at him. "I want my fifteen dollars back."

"For what?" Craig frowns.

"You totally ditched today without saying anything, so I saved your ass!" she exclaims, quickly finishing her work and tying it up. Her eyes are hard when she finally glances at him. "I told mom you were driving Tweek home and then he invited you to stay for lunch. You're welcome, by the way."

Right. Craig had totally forgotten to let his mom know where he'd be going when he just got in the car and took off. His phone had been silent the entire time he'd been at Clyde though, so it means that Tricia's lies had worked perfectly well, or Laura would've blown up his phone with calls and texts.

"Do you take debit?" Craig jokes, fishing his wallet out of his jeans pocket.

"Ha–ha, very funny," Tricia rolls her eyes, but Karen does giggle quietly, so Craig thinks it's a half win. "I wanna take Karen to see the new Scream movie at the theater so I need cash."

Taking the money out, Craig extends it towards her, but before Tricia can take it, he pulls it back a little. "Does Karen want to see the new Scream movie?" he asks, eyeing both girls curiously.

Karen blushes bright pink and, of course, Tricia just glares. "She does, mind your business."

"Blink twice if you need help," Craig tells Karen as Tricia snatches the bills out of his hand.

"Ugh, why are you being funny? It's weird. Get out."

Snorting, Craig doesn't need to be told twice. He climbs the stairs, and beelines for his room, noticing the way his mom made his bed for him while he was out, which is nice for the four seconds it takes him to walk in and throw himself on it, ruining it.

Before he realizes, his phone is in his hand, Tweek's contact pulled up, and that's when Craig hesitates, heart stuttering. Should he text or should he call? He's notoriously bad at texting, but he thinks he might be even worse at talking on the phone. Craig considers it with a hum, trying to stay logical and avoiding crossing the line to overthinking. If he texts, he has the advantage of extra time to think his words thoroughly and craft a good apology for Tweek to read whenever he wants, but if he calls, then he gets to hear Tweek's voice. The time on the phone screen says it's five twenty three, which means that Tweek's shift is most likely over by now, so he's probably available to answer.

Craig's thumb presses the green telephone icon on the screen and holds his phone up to his ear.

With bated breath, he listens to the rings, anxiety already starting to churn in his stomach. If Tweek doesn't pick up, then Craig's gonna text, no big deal, maybe the blond's busy doing something, it's Saturday afternoon after all, he probably has plans to get to or something. Borderline obsessively, Craig counts the seconds, growing exponentially restless as it starts to seem like he's only going to get an automatic message. He throws his free arm over his face, covering his eyes, already embarrassed for being this impatient and also for the potential rejection.

On the last second, just as he's about to give up and hang up, the click of the call going through makes him jolt.

"Ack! Craig?" Tweek's voice is hesitant, maybe incredulous, and Craig bites his lip as he holds back a smile.

Fucking goofy, smiling just because Tweek says his name. Jesus Christ. "Hey, Tweek. Are you busy?"

There's shuffling in the background, and Craig thinks he can hear music as well, playing softly enough he can't really tell the song. "Depennnds, are you gonna be an asshole?"

Craig shuts his eyes, even when he can't already see behind his arm. He deserves that. "I just— I wanted to apologize."

"I'm free," his voice sounds smoother over the phone, and Craig knows this was a mistake just by the way something squeezes tightly in his chest.

"Look, Tweek. I'm sorry about this morning, I was being an idiot and you didn't deserve any of it, I— I'm really sorry," the words are out of his mouth easier than Craig thought it'd be. Maybe the fact that they're not actually face to face helps with that.

He also doesn't expect the silence that meets him. Craig waits, three whole seconds, for Tweek to even acknowledge he's been listening.

"You know," he says, when Craig's about to give up and check if his phone died or something. "You usually offer an explannnation when you apologize."

Craig wants to cry. He also wants to laugh. It's surreal how infuriatingly amusing Tweek can be. "It's not about last night, okay? I know you think so, but I swear it's not."

"So you were just grumpy because I woke you up? What a nnngh baby," Craig can hear the smile on Tweek's voice, and that's enough to make him relax.

"I— the truth is even more embarrassing, believe it or not," he admits, feeling heat spread across his face.

"You ack! gotta tell me now."

"You're gonna laugh at me," Craig protests.

Tweek snorts. "I'm gonnna hang up now then, apology not accepted."

"Okay, okay. I'll tell you," Craig sighs, his free hand closing into a fist. He presses it against his forehead. "I… had a nightmare last night after I got back, I woke up at like four and couldn't go back to sleep."

Another stretch of silence, Craig pictures himself diving out of the window.

"That's it?" Tweek asks, disappointedly. "Woah, you had a nnnormal human experience, that's humiliating!"

"I warned you," Craig can't help but laugh, because in the end, Tweek's right. He kind of acted like he's the first person on Earth to have a bad dream. Over the line, Tweek snickers along. "So… apology accepted?"

"Yeah, man. We're cool," Tweek sighs, and Craig wishes he could see his face right now. "I'm sorry too."

"No, man, you don't gotta—"

"Yeah, I nnngh do!" Tweek cuts him off. "I had such a shitty morning at work and I kind of took it off on you too. It's just that—!"

There's an aborted noise, a weird mix between a groan and a yelp. Craig frowns, confused, when Tweek doesn't continue speaking, his breathing loud through the line.

"Tweek?"

The blond sighs, another one of his vocal tics coming out. "I just, you know, nnngh you're a good friend, Craig! You never judge me, or make me feel like ack! like a freak! And I just got sca— worried, when you were cold this morning. I—I thought you were, uhm, upset because of the fight and seeing me be so… spazzy."

Guilt sinks deep in his gut. Craig wants to kick himself for being such a dick. "Tweek, I'd never… I'm sorry for making you feel like that, that's not me, I'd never judge you or think anything bad about you. You're my… friend. You don't have to apologize or whatever."

"Thanks, Craig. Or whatever," Tweek laughs, and it sounds kind of watery, but Craig can't be sure.

"So, we're good?" he asks, tentatively.

"We're good," Tweek confirms definitely. "I gotta nnngh go finish baking some stuff for then shop, but we can talk more later. If you ack! want."

"Sure," Craig says, casually, like he's not smiling like an idiot. "Don't burn anything or whatever."

"Or whatever," Tweek laughs, before the call ends.

Grinning, Craig lays his phone on his chest and opens his eyes, blinking against the sudden light. His cheeks are gonna start hurting soon, if he keeps it up, and he huffs, rolling his eyes at himself. It's ridiculous, how light he feels in comparison to this morning, but Craig's not going to complain.

Chapter Text

The hours pass and Craig lies in bed, heart racing inside his chest as Tweek's voice from the phone call swims around in his mind. It's so bad. Craig's got it so incredibly bad. He considers suffocating himself with his own pillow, but he's not even brave enough to do that; so he has to make do with watching the sun go down through the lightning that comes and goes from the window, splayed on his bedroom's blue walls.

Unexpectedly, at around Seven, his phone buzzes right next to his hand on the mattress.

tweek
I forgor tp ask
if yourestill up for tomorroe!?!!
studying!!

Looking at the texts, Craig smiles, restlessly rolling on his bed before typing an affirmative. Tweek says they can study at his house, since his parents will be working at the shop and no one will bother them; the thought of being alone with him makes anxiety bubble inside Craig's veins. It's not bad, though, nervousness isn't always bad. Craig enjoys hanging out with Tweek when it's just the two of them the most. But he can't help but to be kind of worried, considering his track record and how every time he's in Tweek's proximity, Craig tends to act like an asshole.

What if he forgets how to filter his words? What if he just lets it slip out? That'd be mortifying. Craig would probably die on the spot, jumping out of the nearest window just to save Tweek from the awkwardness of it all.

There has to be some way for Craig test himself, his resolve.

A knock on his door startles him. The doorknob turns and then Tricia's there, peeking her head in. Craig locks his phone, dropping it on the mattress and blinks back at her.

"Hey," she says, uncharacteristically sweet. Her saccharin smile is too sharp to charm anyone. "Can you take us to the movies?"

"When are you gonna learn how to drive?" Craig sighs, pretending it bothers him more than it actually does. It's not like he has any plans. He kind of wants to have an excuse to not rot in bed thinking about Tweek and his blue eyes and crooked smile all night. That'd definitely be a new low.

“When are you gonna teach me?” she cocks her head slyly.

Craig scoffs. "When you ask me to."

Tricia huffs, too proud for her own good, impatience twisting her freckled face. "Can you take us or not?"

"If I can watch it with you guys," he shrugs.

A horror movie doesn't sound half bad right now, considering his current life situation is fucking terrifying. Craig isn't particularly fond of the genre, mostly because he isn't one to be easily scared, an extra distraction could certainly help, especially since Clyde and Tolkien have made Craig swear on Stripe that he wouldn't watch a single episode of the anime they started without them.

"Duh, we'll need a ride back when it ends anyways."

For the attitude, Craig flips her off, but he does so as he's already getting out of his bed and grabbing his wallet from his nightstand.

"Are you even gonna like it? You haven't seen any of them before," Tricia follows behind him as they make their way downstairs.

"I've seen the one where Drew Barrymore dies at the beginning."

Karen's already standing at the front door, wrapped in the woolen lavender jacket grandma knitted Tricia for Christmas last year, waiting patiently for their arrival. Her caramel hair falls over each of her shoulders in two neat braids, Tricia seems incredibly proud of them as she adjusts the hair tie at the end of one. Craig pretends he doesn't see the flustered look in Karen's face as he bends to put on his boots.

"That's the first one and it came out a hundred years ago!" Tricia reprimands Craig, clapping Karen's shoulder amicably. "You're not gonna understand anything."

Shouldering on his jacket, Craig pockets his phone and opens the door. "I don't care, isn't it just people getting stabbed by a freak in a mask?"

"There's a whole story behind it! They're all connected!" Tricia argues, outraged. She grabs Karen's arm and guides her out to the front porch while Craig locks the door. "They're characters that have been part of the franchise since the very beginning!"

"Isn't it just ‘killer starts stabbing the main characters, everyone's a suspect, then they unmask them to find out it's someone who's gotten close to the group’? Like an R–rated Scooby Doo episode."

Karen giggles. "Yeah, it kind of is."

"Traitor!" Tricia gasps, eyes narrowing towards her best friend.

Herding them towards the parked car on the driveway, Craig tunes out their bickering as he takes a look up at the sky and absentmindedly unlocks the doors. The stars wink, pushing away some errant clouds, and almost as a sign, if Craig were ever to believe in those for some reason, his phone starts ringing from inside his pocket. Both girls get in the back seat, still arguing and ignoring the way Craig stays still on his spot as he fishes out the buzzing device.

Tweek's name shines on the screen, bringing a curse and a smile out of Craig’s mouth. His heart definitely does not jump inside his chest, and of course his thumb is steady when he slides it across the screen to take the call.

"Hello?” Craig can’t really help the dubious edge on his tone, a mix of surprise and concern.

“Craig!” Tweek voice is almost too cheery. “Are you busy?”

Looking back at the girls inside of the car, so entertained by each other that they pay no mind to Craig’s absence in the vehicle, he shrugs. “Not really, I’m driving Tricia and Karen to the movies. What’s up?”

“Okay, so, I was with Kenny for a while but then he suddenly had to leave because Stan’s being a little bitch about something again, I don’t know, and now I’m bored so I thought you could come by and we could hang out, you know? Before we have to get all serious and study tomorrow.”

Craig blinks, taken aback by the fluency of Tweek’s speech and the speed in which the words come out. “Are you high?”

The giggle he gets in response, breathy and way too charming, is answer enough. “Maybe a little.”

Would it be a good idea? Hanging out with Tweek alone while he’s high? The more Craig thinks about it, the less sure he becomes, but there’s this thing, a hunger in his gut, that forbids him from letting this opportunity go to waste, even while knowing they’re gonna be seeing each other tomorrow.

“Alright,” Craig says, against his better judgment, and snorts when Tweek makes a sound of victory. “I’ll be there in like, ten."

Inside the car, Tricia finally seems to take notice of Craig's lingering figure outside, because she climbs through the space between the two front seats and presses on the horn, startling Craig into action. Absent-mindedly he says goodbye back to Tweek before shoving his phone back in his pocket and rushing over to the car, heart racing in his chest.

"We're gonna be late, come on!" Tricia rushes him as Craig shoves the key into the ignition. His hands definitely aren’t shaking.

"Then you should learn how to drive and do it yourself," he tells her, sending her a pointed look through the rearview mirror.

Tricia kicks the back of his seat in response, which surprisingly, works to shake the nervousness out of him to give place to irritation. Just for that, he reverses the car out of the driveway and steps on the brakes as they land on the street, roughly making their heads bob roughly.

"You're uninvited to stay with us," Tricia announces, pettily.

"I'm heartbroken," Craig deadpans, changing gears and setting off towards the center of town.

Into the sleeve of her jacket, Karen giggles quietly, and Craig pretends he doesn't see the adoring smile that crosses Tricia's face through the rearview mirror.

Dropping the pair of girls off doesn’t take long, but Craig lingers along for a short while. He walks with them to buy the tickets, convinces the unsure-looking employee at the booth that they both are, in fact, seventeen and a half and therefore allowed to watch the movie. Then, he buys a discounted combo of a family-size bucket of popcorn and two large cups of Pepsi for them but refuses when Tricia tries to sneak in a bag of M&M’s into the mix. He’s being nice, but he’s not Mother Theresa.

“How long is it?” Craig asks them, as they step into the scarce queue to Room Number Four.

“Two hours and two minutes,” Karen says with a nod, and Tricia grins.

“We might go to Wendell’s after so I’ll call you to pick us up.”

“I’m not your Uber, Tricia,” Craig rolls his eyes, knowing damn well that the only thing that differentiates him and an Uber driver right now, is that he isn’t getting paid for it. “And don’t forget what happened the last time you ate something from Wendell’s.”

“Yes, dad,” she retorts, scoffing, and whips around, which Craig has learned that, in teenage girl language, it means the conversation is over and he’s being dismissed by her.

“Text me when you’re done, I’ll come get you guys,” he tells Karen instead, who smiles shyly and nods.

The whole interaction had worked well enough to distract Craig from the fact that he’s about to spend two uninterrupted hours and two minutes with Tweek Tweak; high and attractive Tweek Tweak, who Craig admittedly likes too much for his own good. Tweek, who’s blond and funny, and knows so much about music and can see right through Craig’s stupid indifferent front. Tweek, who Craig is definitely and undoubtedly gay for.

It feels like betrayal, almost, that when Craig gets back in the car, time actually seems like it blurs by with the wind from the cracked opened windows, even when he takes all precautions possible, stilling for too long at stop signs letting random pedestrians cross the street when the light is green, going at the exact minimum legal speed. And yet, when he parks outside of Tweek’s house, it feels like it’s only been two and a half seconds since Craig left the cinema.

The nervousness churning in his stomach is quickly making him regret the pizza he had at Clyde’s house earlier, and as Craig thinks he can get this second to will his heart into maintaining at least a semi-consistent rhythm, Tweek surprises him by already being outside, sitting on his doorstep, presumably waiting for Craig’s arrival.

Trapped between a rock and a hard place, Craig really has no other choice than to fucking man up and climb out of the car as Tweek waves him over excitedly, like he's never been happier to see him, which is an insane concept in Craig's head. To his credit, the sight of the blond's grin does kind of help to settle Craig's nerves slightly, the feeling sizzling with warmth instead of cold dread.

With perfect, firmly planted feet, Craig gives himself extra time by carefully stepping away from the car and closing the door softly, pressing both of his hands on the cool metal of it to steady himself. Tweek bounces up, standing like he has springs instead of knees, and he doesn't seem to notice the way Craig kind of wobbles towards him, his skin itching all over his body.

"You're here!" Tweek exclaims, grinning, and it leaves Craig completely breathless.

Next thing he knows, there's the feeling of corduroy against his jaw, his strong arms wrap themselves around Craig's shoulders with such a speed that it has his head reeling. Craig knows he shouldn't, such a devastating fact that blares like a flashing warning behind his closed eyelids, but he does —breathes, Tweek's sweet smell of chocolate and warm baking, the slight undertone of earthy weed, a sprinkle of citrusy cologne.

Knee jerk, stumbling and clumsy, Craig returns the hug, too much strength inside the forearm that presses around Tweek's back, fingers digging into the blond's ribs. There's hope there, the second Craig thinks he feels Tweek's heartbeat hammer into his own breastbone, but perhaps it might just be his own in an echo.

Maybe it's just himself and his want, overpowering in its greed, whispering— no, plotting inside his ear like the devil perched on his side, pushing him, tauntingly, with the idea of dipping his head just enough to nudge his cold nose into the tender spot where Tweek's neck meets his shoulder, to breathe him there and let his presence linger, until the blond’s flesh does something in return, flush, warm, press back, wish for more.

This is their first ever hug, Craig thinks, obvious and stupid and delighted. He can't remember the last time anyone has hugged him like this, rib to rib, bone to bone, and his reaction hadn't been to pull into himself, tuck into his own body, get out of reach. He could ask why, he almost does, but the question doesn't string along with the words that come into his brain. Why is Tweek hugging him? Why is Craig not pulling away? Why is he enjoying this? Why is he reluctant to let go? Why does he get this urge to stay, like this, in this moment, until they're both motionless, until time has forgotten and left them behind, until there's nothing else for them to do than embrace?

There's no time to ask, there's no time to choose what to ask, before Tweek is already pulling away, stumbling backwards into his own heels, flushing red and warm into the chill night, a mutter that might be an apology half out of his mouth before it ends, abruptly, and he's smiling again, blue eyes glazed over, squinting like the picture of a misty evening of rising tides.

"Hi."

"Hi," Craig parrots, lungs heaving, or deflating, with a breath that’s not sure of what it wants to be.

"I like your hat,” Tweek grins again, he hasn't really stopped, but it's bigger, cracking his flushed skin, and then he's chuckling, low in his throat at first, melodic as it goes on. His head tilts. “Have I said that before?"

Even though he can't see it, Craig looks up, suddenly aware of the woolen chullo falling on his forehead. "I don't think so."

“I think this one’s the coolest,” Tweek says, his eyes almost closing with the size of his smile. With all familiarity, he rips the hat off Craig’s hair, cradles it like it’s a baby bird, fragile, broken-winged. “I know they’re all blue, but I like the white thingies on this one.”

“Alpacas?” Craig snorts, staring too hard at the tender grasp of Tweek’s hands, burying the childish resentment that tries to flare at being ambushed like this.

“I know what alpacas are, genius. I was gonna say llamas but I didn't wanna—” Tweek cuts himself off, blushing, but he’s still smiling. “Can I try it on?”

The question takes Craig by surprise, not because of what it implies, but by the way Tweek mutters it, softly, almost shyly, like he knows how much it means to Craig, like he knows it’s all about the gentleness over something as ordinary as headwear.

For a quick second, Tweek seems genuinely disappointed as Craig comes up with no other response but to take back the hat into his own hands, the movement so much as intentioned as a reflex from the amount of times people have ripped it off his head without permission, in mockery or just as a stupid joke. But this is different, of course, because Tweek could literally ask him for anything right now and he'd not hesitate to give it to him.

A kidney? Pff, sure, Craig has two of those for a reason, it would be so selfish of him to not share. He'd rip it out himself right there, if needed, which is an insane line of thought he should worry about having but there's no time for that right now, or ever.

"Here," Craig mutters, finally when his voice decides to make a much needed comeback.

Moving his hands quickly so Tweek doesn't notice the slight trembling of them, Craig grabs the hat by the opening with a firm grip and shoves it down around the blond's head, almost too roughly, judging by the way Tweek stumbles slightly, his face an open sea; first surprised, and then the waves swiftly washing the expression away for a laugh instead, the sound like the water breaking into the rocks, powerful, terrifying for Craig's weakened heart.

"Who wears it better?" Tweek jokes, adjusting the edges and sweeping the strands of hair that peek from underneath off his eyes.

Of fucking course Tweek does, the question is so ridiculous in Craig's head he has to hold back the urge to roll his eyes. He stares, a little too intensely, sue him, —and yes, there's definitely something new awakening from within his body, because seeing Tweek wear something of his, has sent Craig's heart into a race against no opponent, and some warm, living thing is coiling tightly in his stomach right as he realizes the blue of the hat matches exactly the shade of Tweek's eyes.

"Definitely you," Craig doesn't really mean to say it, he means the words, sure, but he bites his tongue just as he says them because— shit, his voice sounded kind of wobbly right there, too telling, too obvious.

Tweek's smile falters, his squinting eyes from the weed widening slightly, and Craig feels his fucking toes go cold. This is exactly what he had been fearing. Now that he can put a name to what he's feeling, Craig's too inept at lying and deflecting that he will not manage to keep it to himself, not with the temptation that is Tweek's unfairly attractive face right in front of him, wearing his hat.

"No way, mannn. Here, I–I'll be you, maybe that's gonna make it more realistic," Tweek says, this time his chuckling sounds like it hurts. Craig watches, too freaked out by his previous admission to actually be amused, as Tweek's face sobers, his pink mouth falling into a straight line that looks unnatural on him. When he speaks, his voice sounds eerily monotonous. "Or whatever, Tweek, Kenny's a dick."

"Do I sound that much like an asshole?" Craig asks, genuinely curious. He knows, of course, to some degree, but he's not sure if impressions are supposed to be exaggerated.

"Kinda," Tweek admits, wincing sympathetically.

Craig appreciates the honesty to a point he isn't actually expecting to, the warm feeling returning in full force like a tsunami. "Thanks."

"You asked!" Tweek says, defensively, overseeing the fact that Craig is actually grateful, and it makes a chuckle escape the confinement of his lungs.

"I know," he shrugs, playfully pulling on the other woolen braid, possessed by the urge. "So are we gonna hang out on your sidewalk all night, or…?"

"Right!" Tweek jolts, like he's been electrocuted. He turns towards the door and opens it quickly, his other hand drops from the end of the chullo and reflexively wraps around Craig's wrist. "C'mon, I actually wanted to show you something."

Like a starved dog following the scent of a juicy barbeque, Craig lets Tweek pull him along into his house, his calloused hand a branding heat around the circumference of Craig's wrist. Eternally grateful over the fact that Tweek doesn’t turn around to look back at him, because Craig’s ninety percent sure he’s sporting the stupidest, most dumbfounded, doofus expression.

With the beat of his heart inside his ears, Craig sends a prayer to whatever higher power there might be out there, watching him suffer this torture, and asks for mercy.

It feels like seconds, like the blink and a half of an eye, to make it to the destination Tweek has planned to show Craig. The blond rushes through the entire first floor of the house while dragging Craig along with such a speed that if you asked Craig what the living room walls colors are, he’d genuinely have no fucking clue, every sight a blur brushing him past as Tweek pulls and pulls and pulls ahead, his mouth blabbering with the same impressive velocity.

“Remember when you told me about the story of the time you went to Peru to your grandma’s house and the sky was clear and you learned all about the stars with her? Right, it’s your story, of course you remember, well, Kenny and I were hanging out outside a little while ago and at first I thought that I was high and like, making it up in my head, right? But then Kenny pointed it out too! Tonight the sky is clear! And I know it’s probably way better in Peru, but it still made me think of you, you know?” Craig has heard Tweek ramble before, but definitely not this much, and he’s so taken aback by the entire situation his brain barely catches the words that seem to be tumbling out of the blond’s mouth. “That’s when I called you, because now we can hang out and you can look at the stars and I wanted to give you some of the brownies but Kenny says he’s still pissed at you for going berserk on his ass for no reason, his words not mine, and he took the weed with him and I kinda ate the last one, I’m sorry.”

The apology comes at the same time as they reach the last door past the coffee–scented kitchen and what Craig can only assume to be a laundry room, which is, at the same time in which Tweek also seems to catch up with the moment, at last. His hand lets go of Craig's wrist with a self–conscious wince, and he turns his chullo–wearing head over his shoulder with an apologetic frown.

The words are still kind of taking their time into making sense in Craig's head, his unsure heart seemingly stuck on the "It made me think of you, you know?" like a stubborn child standing in front of the candy store, crossed armed, until its parents give into buying concerning amounts of skittles. So, Craig goes for his best and also honestly, only option he can think of; he shrugs it off.

"Okay, uh, oh–okay, so," Tweek breathes, loud in the small kind of cramped hallway, and his hand reaches for the doorknob. He seems nervous all of the sudden, which Craig didn't even think possible given to the soothing effects of the weed. "I don't have a hammock, I'm not— uhm, as cool as your grandma, so I kind of improvised."

The door opens before Craig can ask him what the hell is going on, what is he talking about, what did he even do, why would he do all of this.

And okay, to be fair, Craig’s not sure of what he had been expecting, because he’s not sure about anything other than the own feeling of just utter fucking dispair in the pit of his stomach because Tweek’s so fucking cool, for this and for everything else, and Craig actually, genuinely, wants him so bad he doesn’t know what to do about it.

The Tweak’s backyard is bigger than Craig’s, which isn’t really surprising to him, since he knows that they’re fairly better off than his family, it extends in green, neatly trimmed grass that seems to be fighting with all its might against the weather now dropping several degrees, and it closes all the way around with tall a tall, dark wooden fence. Further away, an ancient looking, yet naked tree stands like a deity, sturdy and thick branched in a way that Craig knows Tricia would’ve killed to climb it growing up, and he can’t help but to wonder if younger Tweek ever had.

That’s when Craig sees it, what Tweek must have been talking about all along. Craig finally truly takes it in, and it says a lot about the rate in which his brain is receiving information, because it’s right there, in the middle of the fucking space, impossible to miss, but his head is all over the place and his eyes had just skimmed right past it the first time.

“You have a fucking trampoline?!” Craig asks, like it isn't obvious that there is a real trampoline in the middle of Tweek's backyard.

His reaction must be entirely hilarious, because Tweek doubles over with laughter. "Yeah, man! My parents bought it for me to burn off my energy when I was like, five."

The light of the back porch is the only illumination they get, so Craig can only squint at the round and tall metal monstrosity. It's clearly not as big as the ones he's seen at Tolkien's birthday parties back in elementary school, obviously meant for only three kids max to jump in simultaneously, but it's still kind of unsettling to see. Back when he was a kid, Craig had never enjoyed jumping on trampolines, not like Tricia anyways, or the rest of the kids he knew.

"You're so an only child," he says, looking at Tweek, from the corner of his eye.

"Is that an insult?" Tweek asks, turning towards him fully, his eyes glinting with something other than high under the yellowish light.

"I actually don't know," Craig admits, shrugging. "Do you still use it?"

"No fucking way, man," Tweek blanches, shaking his head firmly. "I think I only jumped on it twice before I started to imagine myself falling and breaking my neck."

Craig huffs. "Sweet."

Tweek snorts, shaking his head, and ironically, jumps down the step that separates the porch from the grass. "That doesn't mean I don't lie on it sometimes, when I wanna be outside but without feeling fucking bugs crawling all over me."

Wordlessly, Craig nods, because he understands, he understands so well that he wants to squeeze Tweek like a squeaky toy, which is a healthy and totally normal reaction to have, in his inexperienced opinion.

He follows behind as the blond walks towards it, this time feeling more curious than like a loyal dog after its owner.

"Were you and Kenny here before?" he's not sure as to where the question comes from, but it leaves a sour aftertaste in his mouth. He's still kind of pissed at Kenny, but it feels like more than that. Like a resentment of him being here after him, like losing at something Craig didn't know he was competing for.

Bracing himself on the metal edge, Tweek uncoordinatedly hops onto the mesh surface, it's so tense it barely sinks under his weight. Craig waits for him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but for a couple of seconds, Tweek sits motionless, staring at Craig's face closely, looking for something he seems to eventually find, because he smiles, small, shy, and shakes his head. The chullo is still firmly wrapped over his blond hair.

"Nah, this is my thing," he says, so honest that Craig can feel it, heavy, weighing on his own tongue. "Come on, you have to teach me some nerdy space facts now."

Using his hands, Tweek drags himself backwards, scooting into the trampoline until his legs no longer hang from the edge, one of his pants' legs gets caught on one of the exposed springs that pulls the fabric to the metal and shows a bony, pale ankle. Craig breathes as Tweek lets himself fall, bouncing less than an inch before settling still like the night around them.

"What's with you and wanting me to tell you space stuff?" Craig asks, moving around Tweek's boots and hopping on next to him.

Tentatively, he lets himself lie down, leaving a good, respectable amount of space between their bodies, and still, his fingers curl into themselves tightly as he turns his head to look at Tweek.

"Dunno," Tweek pouts, shrugging as his half lidded eyes stare back. "You don't talk much, usually. I like hearing you talk."

Electricity shoots right through his body instantly, and Craig blinks, his breath stopping short midway through his throat. Tweek smiles, and it looks almost innocent, the act of being honest, and Craig doesn't know what to do, what to say to that.

"Or whatever," the blond mocks, with a peak of the gap between his teeth as he grins more widely this time.

Craig almost cries, the relief of familiarity melts his strings down, —he rolls his eyes, because he knows how to do it, he listens to Tweek's laugh close to his ear and enjoys the beat of his own heart stuttering, because he has learned how to do this by now, since knowing him.

"Kenny told me to ask you," Tweek says, after a few more seconds. "He says it's something you like to talk about."

"Yeah?" Craig asks, there's an edge to his voice that is new. "Why does Kenny keep talking about me if he's so mad at me?"

"Because I ask."

It almost feels like it's a game Tweek's playing, dropping bombs on Craig's unsuspecting head to gauge for a reaction but Craig can't understand the rules. The chilled air around them is heavy, and it settles over his chest like a weighted blanket of ice, and Craig doesn't— he can't figure out what is happening, what he should be saying in response, what Tweek wants to hear.

He ponders, if deflecting by starting to spew all the space facts he knows will work. A "did you know about the existence of WASP-12b, the planet that looks like it's on fire?" or even worse, a "hey, did you also know that if your body were to be exposed to the vacuum of space without an astronaut suit your insides technically boil you to death like a fucking soup?" would most likely ruin the mood and definitely freak Tweek out.

In that, the silence stretches between them, South Park is a hushed humming below them, only the faraway rustling of some racoon digging into someone's trash container filling the quiet, and yet still somehow contributing to it.

"If you saw a shooting star right now, what would you wish for?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Craig takes a hesitant peek at Tweek, curiously wondering where the question came from. The blond doesn't look back, probably too high to notice the attention. His eyes are smaller than usual and a little red, lids drooping comically from the weed and blinking leisurely at the dark sky over their heads.

It is, in fact, a surprisingly clear night, only a few gray clouds scattered around, but Craig can see the Big and Little Dipper, so he considers it a win. The image of Tweek thinking about him the minute he'd noticed the stars are showing makes Craig bite the inside of his cheek.

"What would you wish for?" he asks instead, and startles himself with the sound of his voice, inexplicably hoarse.

Tweek's head bobs sideways to look at him now, and Craig isn't used to seeing him so calm and relaxed. The surprise of his soft features, devoid of any anxieties, makes something oversized and weird settle inside his throat. He tries to swallow it down, but then Tweek's mouth stretches crookedly, in what looks like his high version of a smirk, and Craig has to look away.

Blinking back at the sky, he clears his throat, eyes zeroing on Polaris with such intent he sees its glow engraved behind his eyelids. Next to him, Tweek snorts.

"No way! I asked you, man!" the blond accuses.

Growing up, when his mom got him his first astronomy book for Christmas, Craig learned all about shooting stars. He's never seen one in real life, only in movies or TV shows, so he's never gotten the chance to ask anything from them, sticking solely to birthday candle wishes.

After he learned more about their nature though, Craig had come to the conclusion, rather quickly, that the tradition seemed kind of pointless, so he'd never tried to, or even given it a thought.

Admitting this to Tweek, though, feels kind of depressing, so he doesn't.

"You know, shooting stars aren't real stars, right?"

Tweek makes a questioning sound, and looks at Craig again, or maybe he never stopped looking. Their eyes meet, and Tweek still wears that crooked smirk that makes Craig's breath hitch slightly. Shifting to lay on his side, the blond pillows his head on his arm, facing Craig fully. The chullo is lying askew now, more blond strands peeking from underneath.

His undivided attention feels borderline overwhelming, but, this time, Craig fights to hold his ground, so he doesn't look away, chest puffed with bravery.

"What are they, then?" Tweek asks dazedly. He blinks slowly, torment blue eyes focused intently on something on the left side of Craig's face.

For a second, Craig fears there's something there, high on his cheek, maybe a smear of dirt or a lost eyelash, but then he remembers the small dot that lives a few inches down from his eye, his face is always an afterthought Craig can't help but forget. Tweek stares at the mole with the concentration one would use to solve some extremely complex equation, he scoots forward to take a closer look, and Craig feels heat spread up his neck.

"Pieces of rock or dust," Craig barely gets the words out, and clears his throat. "We can see them when they hit the atmosphere because they do it so fast they heat up and glow bright like the other stars in the sky. And because they move, people call them shooting stars. They're actually uh, just meteors."

Tweek's eyebrows furrow together, and his expression turns slightly worried. Not panicked, though, or even alarmed, which would be his standard reaction, but Craig still wants to kick himself for breaking the blond's peace. "A-aren't meteors, you know, bad?"

Meteors are meteors, Craig wants to say, because he doesn't think that the concept of such a small astronomical happening really has to come with a qualitative adjective, or be attached to morality in general. But Craig's sure that Tweek just means that he thinks humans should be scared of meteors for the potential damage they can inflict, and furthermore, won't appreciate Craig's detached logic towards the subject.

"Meteors burn completely before they can get to us, meteorites are the ones that survive the fall and reach the Earth," he explains, his voice sounds oddly soft, appeasing, but Tweek doesn't seem totally sold.

Still looking a little uneased, the blond stares at Craig's face for a few more seconds, like he's considering something that completely escapes him, almost imperceptibly, he inches even closer. Craig has to bite his tongue to hold himself back and start spewing the other several facts he knows about meteors and meteorites, in fear that he'll end up freaking Tweek out further.

Tweek hums, looks back at the sky as if he's searching for a meteor to pierce the atmosphere at that very second. Craig takes the opportunity to breathe now that he's no longer under his friend's close scrutiny and becomes aware of how close they're lying next to each other now. He can feel the heat radiating off Tweek, and their legs are angled towards each other.

Alarms start blaring inside his head, the palm of his hands itch to reach out, his fingertips ache with the desire to graze. Craig has to pull away, he needs the comfort of familiarity again, the safe distance where it's cold and easy to breathe.

But, he doesn't.

"Do you think…" Tweek says, breaking the silence with his low voice. His words are slightly slurred, but not nearly enough to become unclear. "We— I mean, people, make wishes to shooting stars because we want to ask them not to kill us like it happened with the dinosaurs?"

A laugh breaks free from Craig's mouth, loud and unexpected, like a bird breaking free from the cage that is his belly. Amusement lights him up, and he looks at Tweek with bright eyes. Tweek looks back, a little puzzled by this reaction, but soon, he starts snickering along, probably because he's still high, and that only makes Craig laugh harder.

"What?" Tweek asks, still grinning. "It's a genua—… genuinine question!"

Craig cackles even more at the misspoken word, and feels a thousand pounds lighter.

His ribs hurt but it's a good kind of hurt, and he doesn't really want to stop. For the first time, Craig forgets about everything that's been constantly gnawing at his brain for months and just lets himself laugh loudly, unbound.

Tweek looks entirely amused next to him, but Craig doesn't miss the way his eyes sparkle with the same thing he'd seen before. Unidentified, but gentle, maybe tender.

"I— I don't know!" gasping for air, Craig lets his laughter die down slowly, his lungs squeezing sporadically with missed giggles. "I mean, I've never really, ah, thought about it that way… Still, what killed the dinosaurs was technically not a meteorite but an asteroid."

Tweek's face falls, seeming a little more than disappointed by this fact, and Craig has the strange urge to go back in time and take it back, not mention it at all.

There's a special thing under there, a type of sentimentality in Tweek's line of thinking that shows a clear glimpse on the completely different ways their brains consider things, and Craig feels almost guilty for bursting his bubble.

Thankfully though, Tweek recovers quickly, rolling his bloodshot eyes and giving Craig's shoulder a very weak shove with his free hand. "Aw dude, y—you totally ruined my philosophy!"

"I'm sorry," Craig says and he stupidly really is, means it like he means every truth in his life, as if it's his own fault that the dinosaurs died from an asteroid.

Sighing loudly, Tweek smiles tightly, like he's trying not to. "I think that's the first time I've seen you laugh like that."

And Craig doesn't want to tell him that he doesn't remember the last time he's laughed like this either, but he has a feeling that the blond might already know it.

He doesn't know what to say to the comment either, so he stays silent.

"You have a funny laugh," Tweek mumbles, like an afterthought.

"Gee, thanks." Craig mutters sarcastically.

The blond huffs and playfully shoves him again. "It's nice."

Craig snorts, feeling something too alive move restlessly inside of him. The sensation is so foreign he wants to claw it out, but it's not really unpleasant, just unfamiliar, new. It unsettles him.

"You're high," he's not sure why he points this obvious fact out, and feels like an idiot as soon as the words leave his mouth.

"I am," Tweek concedes with an unnecessarily serious expression on his face, and pokes Craig's chest with his pointer finger a little too sharply. "What are you?"

"An idiot," he says, because it's the only thing he can think of, and the blond is so close to him now, leaning over his body, his warm breath falling on Craig's nose.

Tweek kisses him.

Even though Craig had noticed it, the way Tweek's eyes had looked down to his mouth with a strangely level of concentration, the way he had licked his own lips as Craig said the words and swallowed hard, Craig can't say he'd seen it coming, which is both embarrassing and stupidly in character for him.

But they're here now, unexpectedly or not. And Tweek's mouth is hot, and sweet from the brownie, his rough lips rock against Craig's, pull back, and then forward again, catching on his shocked bottom one and sucking.

Craig is set alight.

The rug is pulled from under his feet and he's falling into space, with Tweek's hand on his chest, on top of his hammering heart, and his hot mouth over his own.

His stomach tilts, devastatingly ecstatic, and his body surges forward, fingers tangling in the tousled tresses of Tweek's curls, knocking the chullo cleanly out of his head. His lips move, kissing back a little hesitantly, because Craig hasn't done this in a while and he feels like if he fucks this up he's going to have to kill himself from the humiliation.

And also, God, he really doesn't want to stop.

There's a hitch of a breath, audible between their bodies, but he's not sure who it comes from. Tweek's fist curls on the fabric of his hoodie, and Craig feels his tongue against his lower lip, making his entire body shudder, toes curling inside his boots and a hum reverberating from deep inside his chest.

"Jesus," Tweek gasps against his mouth, but Craig chases him up, kissing him again.

A surprised noise escapes the blond and Craig feels himself smile, a pool of honey warm inside his chest. He bites on the blond's bottom lip, because Heidi told him once that girls like when he does it, and even though Tweek isn't a girl, Craig can't imagine how it could be the wrong thing to do if he's tender enough.

And he is, Craig is so fucking tender he surprises himself with it. He doesn't remember when was the last time he held something with such careful hands like he's cradling the back of Tweek's head right now. A startling contrast against the hunger in which his mouth moves.

"Jesus… Fuck… Hold— Nghh…" Tweek pants in between kisses. "Wait, hold on."

Dropping his weight back against the bed of the trampoline, Craig breathlessly tries to calm his racing heart.

The blood inside his veins is hot, it feels thick and fast and it's thrumming under his skin. The thoughts escape his mind as soon as they form, and there's only Tweek. Tweek laughing, Tweek wearing his hat, Tweek touching him, shoving him, pulling him in.

"You, agh, y—you kissed me!" the blond accuses, pointing his finger and everything.

Craig frowns, half confused, half starting to freak out. "You kissed me first."

"Yeah, and you kissed me back!"

Is it bad? It's probably bad. It's definitely bad if Tweek's reacting this way to it. Was it part of the game from before? Craig doesn't know how to play. Maybe he was supposed to pull away? Tell Tweek to fuck off? He could never do that, just the thought of it makes his throat tighten, but if Tweek wanted him to then what was Craig supposed to do?

"Holy shit. Holy shit. Jesus. Fuck!"

Hands shaking, Craig wills a breath into his lungs. "Did you not want to…?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Tweek asks, wide–eyed and aggressive. "I've been thinking about kissing you since you punched Cartman for me."

"Then what—?" Craig blinks, trying to pull himself together despite literally everything that's happening. "Why are you—?"

"Because I didn't actually think you would want to, obviously!" Tweek says, like it's the most sensible thing in the world. "I mean, I kind of hoped, at the party, when you started calling me cute for some reason, but then you got all weird with me and Kenny said that you're a pussy and that you would never do it, and I believed him because Kenny's fucking crazy but he's usually right, but then he told me that if I really wanted to, I should try, but I just couldn't you know, do it, so I had to get fucking high as a kite for—"

Craig's phone starts ringing, swiftly putting an end to Tweek's panicked rambling.

It's possibly the worst fucking time to get a phone call, the sound of his ringtone almost doesn't even reach his ears since Craig's still kind of disassociating from the kiss and then from the thought of Tweek regretting it and finally actually not regretting it.

"So, you wanted to?" he asks, idiotic and stupid and goddamn ridiculous.

Tweek looks like he's two seconds away from socking him on the head. "Answer the fucking phone!"

Startled, Craig can't even conceive the idea of disobeying. His hand trembles embarrassingly as he digs it inside the pocket of his jeans to pull the buzzing device out. It's Tricia.

"Hey," Craig tries, swallowing, clearing his throat, swallowing agan. His mouth is still burning, the ghost of the kiss branded on his lips.

"Loser, Kenny called Karen and picked us up with Stan Marsh's on his ugly truck," there's a faint noise of protest in the background. Craig frowns. "So you don't have to get us anymore, Karen's sleeping over, so we're just going home now."

"I— right," he had definitely forgotten about his sister. "Okay, yeah, that's cool. I'll see you guys at home, then."

"Yeah, we're almost— oh my God, Kenny you're fucking annoying!" Tricia cuts herself off, and then sighs, exasperated. "Kenny wants me to tell you that you're a dick."

Through the receiver, Craig can hear what is unmistakably Kenny's laughter, and the sound makes something in his gut twist unpleasantly.

"Tell him to go fuck himself," Craig rolls his eyes, Tweek startles.

"He says that you're welcome," Tricia adds, sounding confused this time. "Did you buy weed from him or something?"

Craig hangs up on her, heart in his throat. The phone falls from his hand, bounces once on the trampoline. Tweek looks like he's about to say something, his face a myriad of emotions Craig doesn't know how to read.

Logic. Craig slaps himself mentally, wills the gears in his brain to start whirring or whatever the fuck they do. "Did you want to kiss me?"

Tweek nods, once, decisively. "Yes."

"It's not just because you're just high?" Craig insists, for good measure, pretending like he's not five seconds away from being the first documented case of spontaneous combustion.

"No, man!"

"Okay," Craig inhales, holy shit. He breathes out. "Can– can we do it again?"

Tweek grins, looking absolutely elated, before he's jumping him again, his fingers digging into the bone of Craig's jaw to pull his face close.

When their mouths meet again, Craig grabs onto Tweek's waist for dear life, fingers bunching on the rough fabric of his jacket like a lifeline. Inside his ribs, his heart soars, hot and heavy and loud, and his lips follow along until the only thing Craig can think of is this and the blink of the stars.

And yeah, okay, fuck the rest. Fuck the fear, fuck Kenny, fuck this town, and fuck his stupid fucking dad. The only thing that could make Craig pull away from Tweek right now would be a fucking asteroid falling right there, in the middle of the Tweak's backyard.

At least now he knows Tweek's "philosophy" was sorta kinda right all along, and for the first time in his life, he has his wish ready for the shooting star.

Craig smiles into the kiss and lets himself fall, until his back is flushed against the rough trampoline bed and Tweek's chasing him down, tongue in his mouth and galloping heart pulsing above his own. Tweek's weight is heavy and warm on top of his limbs, and still, Craig pulls harder, closer, until there's no room for anything else. Just them.

"Wanna know my philosophy?" Craig prompts quietly, after their lips go numb, Tweek pulls too hard on his hair and Craig makes an embarrassing noise without meaning to.

Tweek's wearing the chullo again, the wool tickles the side of Craig's face when the blond nods, wordlessly, like he's scared of breaking the night if he speaks.

"Sometimes things we see as magical, like shooting stars," Craig says, Polaris big and bright above his head, inside his eyes. "Are actually not as good as we think they are. Sometimes they're just pieces of rock or clumps of dust. Sometimes they die before they
do any damage, and sometimes they kill the dinosaurs."

Flushed against him, Tweek rubs his nose into the small space between Craig's ear and his hair, then he pulls away, slow, like the goosebumps that start to rise on Craig's skin. His blue eyes are clearer now, his high wearing down, and he blinks three times, eyelashes fanning, brushing against Craig's cheekbone.

"What the fuck does that even mean?" he whispers, sounding puzzled and borderline afraid.

Craig shrugs.

"I have no fucking clue."

With no other apparent thing to do about it, Tweek kisses him again.

Craig doesn't complain.

Chapter Text

If it had been up to Craig, he would’ve definitely stayed out, at the Tweak’s backyard, the entire night.

Tweek’s warm body pressed to his side, the roughened pad of his pointer finger tapping a rhythm Craig doesn't quite catch against the small bone that sticks out of his wrist such a surreal fucking experience he can't actually begin to comprehend.

Craig tries to, his logical mind stacking blocks, doing the math, but it all ends in error, a short-circuit zapping his working brain cells as soon as Tweek presses into the pulse point inside his wrist, his pink lips brushing the apple of Craig's cheek so softly it feels lighter than a feather and at the same time, makes something heavy sink into his stomach, dragging it down, down, down.

"Kenny said you didn't let him pay for the record he got me," Tweek says suddenly, cutting through the sound of the crickets. "I thought he was lying."

It takes more than a minute for Craig to even remember, the interaction having happened so long ago it had completely escaped his mind, the record part more than the actual conversation they had shared before the transaction.

"Well, are you?" Kenny asks, finally. His eyes are hard. "Are you gay?"

"No." he isn't. It's not even a question he's ever had to ask himself.

"Then why does it matter so much?" Kenny shrugs.

Well, Craig thinks dejectedly, pushing aside any feelings about Kenny and their current situation, and sighs. Craig is fucking gay, it turns out, and he wonders if maybe Kenny had known even back then, before Craig himself even questioned it. It wouldn't surprise him, not because Kenny is this know-it-all entity, but because he's such a weird fucking dude nothing he ever says, does or thinks, can take Craig aback anymore.

"It's true," he admits, turning his head to look at Tweek directly.

"Ugh," the blond groans, from deep in his chest. His tone is accusing. "I was so nnngh mad about it!"

“Why?” Craig asks, puzzled. “You wanna pay me back? I have an employee's discount and I didn't even know it was for—”

Tweek makes a sound, strangled and loud, before he's collapsing on top of Craig again, heavy, warm, real. Blond curls push onto his pale forehead, plastered by the chullo that Craig has already said goodbye to, and Tweek shakes his head, the irritated pout on his pink mouth has something gnawing at the meat of Craig's pumping heart.

“You ruined it for me. It's one of my favorite albums, you know? And now everytime I listen to it, I think of you!” an accusing finger pokes right there, over the beating in his chest, and Craig doesn't know what to say.

“I'm sorry?” Craig hesitates, he is kind of sorry, or so he thinks he tries to be, but making something so special to Tweek remind him of him feels kind of nice, protective in a sense, especially since Craig hadn't even meant to do it.

“I'll forgive you if you listen to it,” Tweek says, the hand on Craig's chest moving up, up, up, until his fingers grip his shoulder. His blue gaze is solemnly firm like a wall of steel, like he's asking for more than he is. “Will you?”

“I'd literally jump off a bridge if you asked me to right now,” Craig tells him, only half jokingly, and sure, that should be concerning, but Craig can't really tell at the moment.

Turns out that having the person you're stupidly infatuated with lying on top of you and looking straight into your eyes like there's nothing else in the world that matters other than you, can really cloud one's judgment. Who would have thought, huh?

“Don't jump off a bridge!” Tweek shakes him, eyes blowing wide.

“Is that you asking me not to?” Craig is joking now, fully.

“Please don't jump off a bridge!” Tweek insists, shaking his shoulders again.

Leaning upwards, Craig's neck complains, but when his mouth finds Tweek's none of the ache matters. Tweek's lips are soft and warm, slick and pliant, and Craig wonders if he's ever going to get used to the feeling of his stomach twisting in made-up vertigo that comes with kissing him. It's new, along with the hot squeeze of his heart, Craig knows with full certainty that he has never felt this way with Heidi, and he's pretty sure that no other person could warrant this reaction from him like Tweeks does.

“I wanna do this forever,” the blond mutters, still so close their lips brush together with the words. It's like he's reading Craig's mind. “Can we do this forever?”

It’s an unnecessary question and yet it doesn't fail to send his heart off to a race against his own ribs. Of course, if it were up to him, if he had the type of power to make life just this moment, stretch the hours into days, make the hands of the clock stop on their tracks, without a doubt in his mind, Craig would do it.

He would turn this night into forever, he'd stay on this hard trampoline, with the bite of the cold air on his cheeks and the uncomfortable mesh on his back, and keep Tweek against his body until the world exploded to pieces or went out with the gentle breath of a sigh.

Not that he'd admit it.

Craig wants to stay forever, but he also doesn't want to scare Tweek with this sudden intensity, which, to be fair, it's still surreal to even himself.

“I'm still kind of grounded so I don't know how long forever can be,” he jokes instead, keeping the air light.

“Shit!” Tweek jolts, eyes wide in alarm, the tip of his nose smashing into Craig’s, their lips brushing for a mere second before the blond’s putting distance between them again, hands on Craig’s shoulders, shaking him like a lovesick, pathetic maraca. “You’re grounded! What are you doing here?! You’re gonna get in trouble because of ack! me again! Jesus!”

Yes, Craig had brought it up himself, sure, he is aware of his uh, situation, but it somehow takes Tweek freaking out for it to actually dawn on him. It’s been a while since Tricia called to let him know she was going home with Kenny, therefore, Craig has no excuse to be out without letting his mom know where he is.

Cool. Cool.

“Maybe I should head out, actually,” Craig admits, mildly, and above him, Tweek pales even more. Before he can start shaking him again though, Craig tries to appease him with a weak curl on his bitten lips. “It’s fine, don’t worry, Tricia probably covered for me.”

If Tricia had actually covered for him, then Craig is looking at a big dent in his wallet, considering she had already done so earlier and there is only so much, or well, little, kindness in his younger sister’s heart. Tweek doesn’t need to know that, though, so Craig does his best to shrug off the blond’s worried expression.

“If you get sent off to the Military, I’m gonna fuckinnngh kill you,” Tweek says, face serious. He sits up, his warm weight leaving Craig exposed to the chill night air.

“If I don’t kill myself fir—” a sharp pinch on his forearm cuts him off. “Ow, motherfucker!”

“Nnnot funny, shithead.”

“My bad, my bad,” Craig laments rubbing on the new sore spot on his arm. “Don't worry, seriously, it's gonna be fine.”

The words echo in his head, and trepidation crawls up to his chest as he wonders whether he's trying to appease Tweek or himself.

On one hand, Craig's sure it will be fine, grounding–wise, if he was actually in trouble right now then his phone should have missed calls or at least a text from his mom or sister.
It's the stepping outside of this moment and going back to the real world that suddenly has Craig feeling unsteady on his own feet.

Anxiety bubbles in his stomach as he drags his feet behind Tweek, who, for the first time since they've started hanging out, seems to be more relaxed than him, guiding him back through the house, his hand firmly clasped around Craig's own.

“We're still nnngh on for tomorrow, right?”

Blinking, Craig nods his head, and it must be a little wobbly, because Tweek's smile falters slightly in response, clearly catching up to whatever he's able to read through Craig's face.

“Ack! Are you sure it's gonna be okay?”

Something in his stomach twists at the sight of Tweek's face, his eyes wide with anxiety, his teeth ruthlessly chewing on his bottom lip. Craig doesn't want to cause this reaction on him, it actually distresses him to be the reason why Tweek goes from relaxed and high to a bundle of nerves again, he doesn't deserve it.

The memory of their “argument” flashes back into his mind, the hurt expression on Tweek's face after Craig had been so unfair to him because of that stupid nightmare, is engraved in his mind for what feels like will be forever.

Craig knows it's his shit that he has to deal with, he is the one that has to get his head out of his ass and keep Tweek out of it.

“I'm sure,” he nods solemnly, even if he's lying through his teeth. “Don't worry, okay? I'll text you when I get home.”

Slightly more convinced than before, Tweek sighs, shoulders dropping a little. Craig still feels like it's not enough —he wants Tweek to forget about it, he might need the reassurance of it. If Tweek is calm, then Craig may pull it off too.

Unthinking, his free hand is suddenly in the air between them, his thumb pressing softly on the skin that bulges in between Tweek's dark blond eyebrows in a clumsy attempt to soothe the furrow of it, smoothing it out.

It works, somehow. Tweek melts into his touch, body swaying forward a little, a planet gravitating to Craig's body of stars. His proximity is electric, magnetic, and Craig feels his heart skipping again, sharp and hot inside his ribs, he's gonna have a heart attack if this keeps up. Tweek's azure eyes go half lidded as he stares up at him, and something sparks back into life in the air around them.

“It'll be okay,” Craig hears himself repeat, his voice a hushed murmur. Tweek sways harder, almost stepping on his shoes, Craig can feel his chest through his shirt, and the uneasiness in his stomach extinguishes. “I promise.”

Breath warm against his mouth, Craig's hand now reaches out for him, a stabilizing touch on his waist as they stand toe to toe, Tweek is still staring, his eyes entranced as they flutter in search for something in Craig's face.

Craig really hopes he finds it.

“Alright,” Tweek whispers, a lopsided smile stretching his swollen lips.

There's a palm on Craig's cheek, a little dry, more so cold, but he leans into it anyways, heart rising up to his throat, desperate to escape.

“One for the road,” never in his life, did Craig ever imagine himself saying something as corny as this, but the words tumble out of his mouth like they'd been waiting at the tip of his tongue all this time.

With a clear, amused glint in his eyes, Tweek huffs out a laugh, nose scrunching, head shaking, but he complies anyway —Craig can't help but to count it as a win. Tweek's lips press softly, like he just wants to steal the breath out of Craig's lungs, like he wants him to actually work for it; lean into it, brush his lips apart, dig his fingers into the meat of his waist. Craig does it all.

“I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?” his voice wavers, the muted words spilling over Craig's lips like warm and thick honey.

Tomorrow, he thinks ruefully.

Right now, tomorrow feels a year away; Craig wants tomorrow tonight, in a little while, five minutes ago.

Standing at the edge of the bubble, his back to the exit, Craig licks his lips and tightens his fingers, squeezing their joined hands. He wants tomorrow now, and he wants Tweek all over it. This intensity will asphyxiate them both.

“Yeah,” he surrenders in a whisper, before letting go, stepping back, ignoring the sudden chill in the air.

They will have this again. Craig will make sure.

It takes three minutes, two stop signs down the road, and several rushed heartbeats, for all of it to dawn on him.

I kissed a guy, Craig's mind pipes up intelligently. I kissed a guy. I kissed Tweek. I kissed Tweek and I liked it. A lot. Way too much. Holy shit so much.

And suddenly, he's laughing —he's snorting, and then he's laughing, nervously, borderline hysterical. Craigh laughs to himself, at the ridicule of it; of his thoughts, of the fear gripping at his chest, of the simplicity of it all.

It had been easy.

Craig had yielded so easily, so fucking quick, his mind filled with so much of Tweek that nothing else had mattered.

Does anything else even matter? The town's prejudice? His father's opinion? Craig had never even cared about either of those things before, until he'd been threatened into it.

Would his father send him away now?

A car honks somewhere behind, making Craig jump and consequently disrupting what probably was going to be the start of a spiral of not so pleasant thoughts about a fatalistic future that isn't even worth imagining.
Startedly, he blinks at the green flash of the stop light and steps on the gas, lurching the car forward and swerving out of the way to let the impatient asshole behind pass him through.

It's dangerous to be driving this distracted, Craig acknowledges, he's not been paying attention to where he's going, mostly just moving out of muscle memory, but at least he hasn't deviated from his way home, and as he blinks at his surroundings, he realizes that he's only three blocks away.

Willing his mind into focusing on the asphalt ahead, Craig tightens his fingers around the steering wheel and breathes through his nose. Derailing his thoughts has never been difficult for him, so he tries to shove the pile under the rug at least until he makes it home. If he crashes the car his mom will definitely kill him.

It's definitely telling how out he had been that now as he keeps himself grounded, the sound of the radio finally registers in his ears, the soft swaying of a song he hasn't heard before breaking the silence.

“Andromeda's a big, wide open galaxy
Nothing in it for me except a heart that's lazy
Running from my own life now
I'm really turning some time.”

He could laugh again, it's too on the nose in his opinion, but the singer's voice is soothing in a way no other artist has been in Craig's experience, so he just lets it lull him into a relaxed stance, even after her words start getting a little too close to comfort.

”Love is calling
It's time to let it thro—”

Craig kills the engine outside his house, cutting the music off and sighing in relief, or maybe exhaustion.

It's so strange, this… feeling. He is surprised at first, because he'd expected to feel more nerves, the anxiety from before at least doubled in its intensity, but the more he tries to think about it, he finds only the tingling of his mouth, the heat in his blood, the feeling of warm lips on his own, alive and imprinted into his brain like a brand.

The thought of Tweek —Tweek wearing his hat, Tweek leaning into his touch, tilting his head, kissing, and kissing again some more, is like air determined to fill the insides of Craig's limbs, to overpower the heaviness of his fear. And somehow, maybe miraculously, it works.

Sitting in the car won't do any good, Craig knows that poking around for the bear of his fears will only awaken it, and he's getting tired of questioning the bright side of things every time, he probably shouldn't test his luck like this.

The cold air ruffles his hair, feeding on the absence of his chullo, and Craig cuts through the driveway wondering if Tweek's still wearing it right now. The smile loops on his lips as he pushes the front door quietly.

“Craig?” A voice calls out from the living room as soon as he steps inside. Tricia.

Bending down to untie his shoes, Craig balances on each foot to get each of his boots off before lining them up on the corner under the coat rack on the wall. The sounds of the TV can be heard from where he stands, and he immediately recognizes the voices of his mom's favorite fictional detectives. The fact that he's in a good mood makes itself evident when he smiles instead of groaning in annoyance at his family once again binging on Criminal Minds.

“Hey, kid,” Laura greets him from her spot on the couch, both Tricia's and Karen's heads resting on each of her legs as she runs her fingers through their hair. “Where have you been?”

“I was at Tweek's,” the words are out of his mouth before Craig can think them through.

The mere sound of his name, coming from Craig's own mouth, is enough to make his stomach churn and the blood rush to his face. Thankfully, the lights are off, the only illumination in the room coming from the TV, which casts blueish shadows onto everything and makes Craig able to get away with it. He really hopes this doesn't become a regular thing, otherwise, he's gonna be fucked.

“Oh,” Laura blinks, looking slightly taken aback, but thankfully, it doesn't go any further than mild surprise. Craig's too busy inspecting her face to pay attention to the two girls on her lap. “Did you eat? I left you a plate of dinner in the fridge if you're hungry.”

“I—” he trails off, his stomach too unsteady to feel any hunger. His ears overheat like they're gonna melt from his head. “I'm full.”

“You wanna watch?” Tricia nods to the TV, where Penelope is making sexual innuendos to Derek through the phone.

Craig cringes. “Nah, I'm just gonna go to bed.”

Laura huffs out a short laugh, shaking her head at his clear distaste. “Alright, kid. Goodnight.”

Relief washes over his body, the tension he had been holding, even when overshadowed by the daze of Tweek's effects on him, seeps out of Craig's body with his next exhale. Laura is still looking at him, a curious edge in his eyes, and he realizes that he's still standing dumbly in the middle of the hallway without saying anything.

“Right. Goodnight.” he nods mechanically, and whips around, his limbs suddenly feeling overgrown and uncomfortable.

“Actually, hold on, I almost forgot,” Laura calls him back, effectively lodging his heart in his throat. “Your father wants you and Tricia to go see your grandma tomorrow, set up your alarm for nine so you guys can leave early.”

Alarmed, Craig turns back around to face them, finding Tricia peering up at him curiously since Laura has already focused back to the TV, not expecting a protest from him. But Craig, can't under any circumstances, go to Denver tomorrow. He'd rather gouge his eyes out than miss tomorrow with Tweek.

“I can't go!” he blurts, catching his mom's attention again. “I promised Tweek I'd help him with Spanish, and the test is on Monday.”

Laura considers him, brow furrowed confusedly as she stares at him in that way that makes Craig feel like she's reading inside the lines of his brain like a psychic. He hates when she does that.

“You're helping someone study,” she repeats flatly, eyes suspicious. Craig plants himself, swallowing the knot in his throat and nodding, willing his features to keep their usual impassive set.

“I don't wanna go alone again!” Tricia whines, sitting up and glaring back at Craig.

“Take Karen with you,” he shrugs, nodding over at the girl who blushes and looks away timidly.

“Alright,” Laura says, sighing. “You get to stay with me, but I expect an A on that test, you hear me?”

“Aye aye, captain.” Craig salutes her, and she rolls her eyes, shooing him away with a careless flick of her wrists. Craig doesn't dare to let the dismissal go to waste and this time doesn't wait to walk away.

Once he makes it to the bottom of the stairs, out of sight from the three pairs of eyes, Craig absolutely books it, climbing the steps two at a time in the rush to get to the safety of his bedroom. There are no signs of his dad in the house, which feels like the biggest blessing ever bestowed upon him. Facing his father right now is the last thing Craig wants to do, even if he doesn't regret any of his previous actions.

His room waits for him exactly the way he left it, and that's such a weird thing to fixate on, but for some reason Craig can't stop himself from noticing. In some stupid logic, he'd thought that just because something changed inside of him —changed, or maybe always been there just in disguise, his bedroom would somehow magically look different too.

“M’lady,” he murmurs, walking towards Stripe's cage. “Did you miss me?”

The guinea pig blinks her big eyes up at him, and Craig is done for. He opens the latch and scoops her out, cradling her warmth in his hand and kissing the top of her furry head. Her squeak in response sounds affirmative to his question.

Lying on his bed, Craig lets her do her usual inspection of sniffing his clothes and scurrying around his hoodie, ultimately lying right on top of his chest and purring to her heart's content.

“Should I be freaking out?” he asks quietly, craning his neck to look at her. “I feel like I should be freaking out. Why am I not freaking out right now?”

Sagely, Stripe blinks at him and continues with her deep purring, the warm vibration intensifying when he brushes his fingers carefully through her fur. Her lack of response feels like an actual answer.

Still, he's not freaking out. Sure, his heart is beating hard, but it's only at the memory of Tweek's fingertips grazing at his cheek, at his half lidded eyes staring right into Craig's.

He's so fucked.

Inside one of his jeans’ pockets, his phone buzzes, reminding him of its existence with the incoming notification. Carefully, trying not to disturb Stripe, he lifts his hips off the mattress and takes it out.

”Please tell ne yourr not dead”

Huffing, Craig's mouth curls into a smile, body going warm all over at Tweek's contact name and text. It's ridiculous and he can't stop it.

”im alive. just got home. sorry.”

Amused and stupidly giddy, he watches as the bubbles that signal Tweek's typing appear on the screen as soon as his text delivers. Someone's eager.

”Asshole. I thought yougot in troublr.”

Teeth gnawing at his abused bottom lip, Craig's fingers slide through the screen in record breaking speed. Yes, someone is eager. Himself.

”aww u worried abt me?”

The bubbles appear once again, and Craig watches them as they bounce on the screen, thumbs hovering over the glass as he waits for the reply to arrive.

”Yes”

Craig's heart stumbles, and he wonders how it is possible for it to be so affected by just one word on a screen. Before he can even begin to stress about coming up with a response, the bubbles flash again.

”I wanna see you again and I can't if you get sent away”

Oh.

Lit up, Craig can feel his blood rushing inside his veins, pooling on his face and all the way down to his chest. This time he doesn't even have to think about his response.

”i wanna see you too”

Biting his lip so hard he almost draws blood, Craig hesitates for a total of two seconds before he starts typing again, his heart beats so heart he can hear it in his ears.

“wish you were here rn”

With bated breath, he waits for Tweek's reply, and for a fleeting moment he worries that maybe his message is too much, too forward? Craig doesn't really have any experience in flirting via text —or in general, so when Tweek takes longer to type, Craig can't help but to feel apprehension about it. He can't take it back though, because the text has already been seen, and he doesn't even want to do it, because he genuinely meant it.

It's been only an hour since they were together, and Craig already misses the feeling of Tweek's hand, warm and rough, his grip squeezing sporadically between random stretches of time. He wishes Tweek was here, next to him, lying with his head on Craig's pillow, counting at the stars glued on the ceiling, asking for more space facts.

”I wish I was there”
“Tomorrow :)”

Relieved, Craig sighs and grins, impatient all over again.

”we have to study, remember?”
“i wont let u fail spanish”

Clairvoyance isn't real, or at least that's what Craig thinks, right now though, he might consider having the gift, because he can't envision any books between them tomorrow. Or maybe it's just him manifesting it —Heidi explained that to him once and now he understands.

”I trust my tutor to teach me fast so we can hve some time to hang out”

Sly. Craig's stomach twists, something hot setting heavily at the bottom of it.

His fantasies are generous, they exclude details like the presence of his mother in the house, but they don't skimp on the feeling of Tweek's body on top of his again, or the warmth of his mouth, the sharp edge of his teeth.

It's worth considering, the idea of changing locations and meeting at Tweek's house again, but Mr. and Mrs. Tweak will probably work all day at the coffee shop, and without any type of supervision, Craig knows for a fact that absolutely no studying will get done, and he does actually want to help out Tweek, even if it means sacrificing most if not all their free time to fool around.

It is a dangerous gamble, he knows, he probably won't be able to stop acting like an idiot around Tweek, and if anyone is around they'll surely notice something's off with Craig, but if they take their stuff upstairs and close the door, they'll be safely tucked away from Laura's prying eyes.

”i wont let u down”

His phone buzzes again, but it's not Tweek this time. Craig stares at the screen with disappointment that quickly turns into irritation once he reads who the text is from.

kenneth
i talked to tweek.
fuck it up and ill kill you.

Almost as if she could feel Craig's mood souring, Stripe scurries inside the pocket of his hoodie with a squeak. He rolls his eyes and huffs an indignant puff of air. It'd be easy to point out what a hypocrite Kenny can be, since now he wants to act all protective of Tweek instead of actually caring when the blond had been a nervous wreck on the edge of a breakdown thanks to his dear friend Cartman; but Craig can't find the energy to entertain Kenny with any type of response, his mind focused on the fact that Tweek had already told someone about them.

It doesn't bother Craig per say, he knows that he'll end up telling his own friends too, he owes it to them after everything he'd put them through thanks to his stubbornness. But the notion of their… thing already having breached out of its containment is kind of nerve wracking. What if Kenny opened his mouth and said something to the wrong ears? What if Craig's dad caught word of it?

Logically, Craig knows that his father will find out, but he's kind of wishing that it doesn't happen until he's out of the house and as far away as he can go. He wants to be with Tweek, Craig likes Tweek too much to let it go —there's really no way to take it back and even if he could, Craig doesn't want to.

They just have to keep it under wraps as best as they can. It's too new for him, every aspect of it, and Craig wants a second for himself, to be selfish and have it all in his hands. They haven't even put a name to it, too caught up in the heat of the moment to go further into details past the obvious I–like–yous. Are they dating now? Does Tweek want to be with him as much as Craig wants to? Maybe he should've asked. He definitely should've asked.

He'll just have to find the right words and talk to Tweek about it tomorrow. He can't just simply send a text now, cowardly asking what are we? like some sort of dumbass. That's too much, even for him.

But what if Tweek doesn't stand on the same ground? What if Tweek wants to be out and about? Craig's never heard of the blond being with anyone, male or female, so he'd kind of assumed that it was thanks to some reserved attitude on his part, but what if it'd been just because Tweek hadn't dated anyone before? What if Craig hurt him by asking to keep things quiet?

Obviously he doesn't want to hurt Tweek, that's actually the last thing he wants to do, but he can't go downstairs and blurt out how gay he is for the blond either, Craig can proudly admit that he has at least some level of self-preservation in him that keeps him from doing so rash.

Okay, now he's genuinely freaking out.

Anxiety starts to properly gnaw at him, and Craig doesn't know if he should be relieved to finally be experiencing it as he thought he should've been since he stepped foot out of Tweek's house or if he should keep a bucket next to his bed in case the nausea gets the better of him.

tweek
I'm defdnifdky not sleeping tonifht

Self deprecatingly, Craig reads the text with a nervous curl of his lips and breathes a little too shakily.

At least he's not alone in the feeling.

Chapter Text

Just like he had predicted, Craig struggles to get more than four hours of sleep throughout the night.

Useless in his unease, he finds himself lying on his back and staring at the ceiling for hours on end, his stomach twisting like a fucking balloon animal inside of himself, anxiety clouding his entire existence like a weighted blaket that doesn't untangle from his limbs no matter how hard he tries to shake it off, —counting the stars glued to the ceiling, calculating how much time would it take to fill his entire room with water if he sealed all the doorways and windows, how many prepositions in Spanish he can recite in his head. A, ante, bajo, con, contra, de, desde, durante, en, entre, hacia, hasta, mediante, para, por, según, sobre, tras and he's missing one every time, and Craig can't figure out which.

The house around him seems to be shrinking, the walls closing in on him like he's seen in countless adventure movies where the protagonists trigger some sort of booby trap, but in this real life, no one helps him to get out or presses a button to make it stop.

Craig listens, vertigo tight in the space between his ribs, as Tricia and Karen call it a night and climb the stairs before the door to his sister's room clicks shut and then to his mother's rummaging around the kitchen, making herself a cup of tea, the whistling of the kettle aggravating his nerves so bad Craig's teeth start to grind.

Suddenly, he can't remember how nice it all had felt, his memories turn foggy, fleeting, intangible. Craig tries to think back on Tweek's lips, his eyes, the warmth of the palms of his hands, but none of it sticks, the images running past his mind before he can fully grasp and clutch them close, take refuge in them. Downstairs, his mom stirs her tea, the sound of the spoon hitting the porcelain of her mug making his ears ring.

The roar of his father's truck engine is like an atomic bomb to his fucking gut. Craig's body seized up, rock solid and frozen as his breath catches right in his throat, ears hyper focused on the sounds of the front door opening and then closing, Laura's voice cuts sharp as a knife through the air, words muffled by the walls and floor between them, but her tone leaves no space for doubt, and Craig isn't surprised. It's always like this. Thomas spends too much time at the bar, drinking and talking shit with his hillbilly friends, Laura waits up until he comes back to chew him up about it. One of them always relents. Craig doesn't worry about it anymore.

This time is no exception, although Craig wishes it was. He wishes his father would turn and walk right out the door, take off to Denver to sleep in his mother's spare room. Craig doesn't want to see him, the irrational fear of Thomas somehow reading what's going on right off his face. What would happen, then? His father won't like it, that's for sure. Would his mom side with him? Would she stick to her word and help Craig out this time? What would his dad do if she did?

It's so strange, like an out of body experience, but Craig can't afford the time to question it. He feels like he's about to explode, like the tension inside his chest will start to bubble and bubble until his ribs won't be able to restrain it anymore, the walls of his bedroom ending splattered with blood and his own guts —or maybe it's the pebble, heavy and sharp, that sits right there in the middle of his throat and refuses to get swallowed down.

The point is, he is not the type to talk, that has been made abundantly clear, but right now, there's nothing else he'd rather do. The silence is too loud, too suffocating, Craig can't take the air's serenity when his brain feels like it’s running at full speed, targeting a brick wall.

Thomas’ heavy footsteps are muffled by the carpet that runs through the hallway, they grow loud before quieting, Craig's heart hammers until his ears pick on the sound of his parents’ bedroom door closing, the furthest from his own room.

"You can talk to me, you know that, right?" he says, looking too earnest for Craig's comfort. "I know you fucking suck at talking about important shit—"

"Fuck you." he rolls his eyes.

Tolkien snorts, but it doesn't take long for him to sober up again. "I mean it, though. I'm your friend, you can trust me with anything."

The phone is too bright when Craig picks it up, the sight of so many apps on the screen doing a quick job to overwhelm him almost immediately, but he needs the escape, desperately so, and beggars can't be choosers. He hopes that Clyde won't be offended by this, but he needs a head that is leveled, and if he hears his best friend's overly emotional voice right now, Craig might actually completely lose his mind.

“Craig?” the voice from the other line sounds clear, clearer than any other Craig knows, an obvious indication on the quality of Tolkien's overpriced, latest model, phone. It's raspy, slurred, because it's two in the morning. “What's up?”

“I'm freaking out,” the words blurt straight out of his mouth with a speed that, if they'd actually held the weight they did to Craig, they would've shattered his teeth on the way out.

“Okay?” sounding less sleepy but still confused, Tolkien clears his throat, and Craig picks up on the shuffling sound of what are probably his bedsheets. “About what?”

Maybe their relationship is still kind of strained, Craig realizes at that moment, a pang of guilt punching him right in the gut and helping absolutely nothing. If this was before, prior to everything that's important, Tolkien would be making a joke at his expense, probably doubting that the stone faced, emotionally constipated six-foot asshole that is Craig Tucker, could ever be freaking out about anything, and even worse, opening up about it.

But things aren't like they were. Craig can feel in his bones, he feels wary, at the edge of his own skin, like this past month has aged him with supernatural speed.

Things are not going to be like they were ever again.

“Craig? You good, man?” Tolkien's voice cuts through the line again, jolting him out of the beginning of yet another panicked spiral.

“I— Fuck, no. I'm so fucked, Tolkien. Like, really, really fucked, dude.”

“Did your dad do something?”

The fact that this is his first guess shouldn't really shock Craig, considering everything, but Tolkien's hesitant words pack a punch he somehow doesn't see coming until it lands squarely on his chest.

“Not yet,” Craig finds himself huffing bitterly.

“What do you mean? What happened?” Tolkien sounds more alert now, woken up, but he doesn't sound scared, just serious. It helps, minutely, to calm his nerves.

“I kissed Tweek,” Craig blurts, probably too loud, and immediately thanks the higher power that made his parents assign him the room farther from theirs. “I went over to his house to talk to him and we– uh, we kissed.”

“Dude,” Tolkien breathes, and Craig can almost imagine his face, eyes blown wide and mouth parted in surprise. “You literally just told us nothing would happen between you guys.”

“I know!” Craig groans, thumping his head against the pillow under it. “I just– it was, I don't know. I couldn't stop, I– I wanted to, you know? Like… I have never wanted to do something like that before, not that bad. With anyone.”

A silence fills the line and sinks deep in his gut. Tolkien is probably gaping in his room, incredulous of having this much of a confession in one go, even if it had felt like the words were pulling Craig's teeth one by one. Stuttering and all.

“You're down bad,” Tolkien says, finally, and fucking snickers at him. “Jesus, man. I thought someone had died or something! Don't fucking scare me like that.”

“Tolkien I'm gonna die, stop fucking laughing at me.”

“Jesus, Craig. I know you're like, emotionally stunted or whatever, but you're being kind of stupid right now,” Tolkien says, catching his breath. “So, you guys kissed, what are you scared of? If Tweek didn't kill you when you smooched him then I think the worst part is over. Your parents don't have to find out.”

“But what if they do?” Craig snaps, finally, but his voice sounds strained even to his own ears.

“Then they do, and we figure it out,” Tolkien says simply, and the amount of security in his voice does settle something inside Craig's head. At least a little. “I know your dad's an asshole, man, but he's not going to kill you, we all have your back on this. Relax!”

Silence settles through the line, Craig's eyes scrunched shut as the words ring clear. He's not doing anything bad, he's not fighting, or skipping class, he's not sneaking out and shooting heroin behind the Wendell's bathroom. He can't be punished for something as stupid as liking another person.

The only thing that matters is that they make you happy. His mom had said it, not long ago, she had been looking at him when the words had come out of her mouth, her eyes soft with care.

“I—” Clyde's words resurface, his movie speech, his honest support clear in his almond colored eyes. Craig feels himself breathe, even if it's only a short inhale. “Yeah, alright. Sorry.”

“It’s cool, you're cool,” Tolkien sighs, like he had been freaking out too. Two heartbeats hammer by, his voice turns sly when he adds. “So, how was it?”

Craig scoffs, rolling his eyes at the tone. Everything he tries to come up with falls incredibly short, his limited vocabulary making itself apparent right then. The feeling of Tweek's lips slotted into his, warm and soft, moving like a match about to strike, heat flaring inside his veins —there's no language that could even come close to summarizing the feeling, even if he wanted to.

“It was…” he sighs, his hand coming to rub at his forehead, like he can massage what to say out of his brain. “Insane.”

“Insane in a good way, right?” Tolkien asks, pushing.

“Yeah, if it was bad I don't think I'd be freaking out like this,” Craig sighs, digging his finger on the skin over his temple.

If it had been bad, he would have let it go, none of this would even be happening, but at the same time, he can't even imagine how that could ever be possible. There's no way that anything Tweek could ever do would end up in Craig disliking him, not even in the worst, humiliating scenario he can think of.

“Really good.”

“Alright, lover-boy!” Tolkien chuckles, he sounds genuinely delighted, and to Craig's surprise, it’s contagious, his own lips curving into a smile. “When are you gonna see him again?”

“He's coming over tomorrow,” Tolkien whoops loudly, like he's forgotten it's literally the middle of the night. “We're supposed to study for the Spanish test together.”

“You offered to help him?” Craig hums in confirmation, already knowing what Tolkien will say. “Damn, Craig, respect! I wasn't familiar with your game.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he groans, rolling his eyes, but still doesn't tell Tolkien that he'd offered himself to help Tweek before any of this happened, even before he actually realized he likes him.

Tolkien laughs. “I never got the chance to make fun of you for something like this, so you have to let me have my moment, man!”

“I should've called Clyde instead.”

“You have to tell him, he's gonna freak,” Tolkien gasps, like he's just now reminded of their friend's existence.

“Yeah that's why I didn't call him while I was freaking out.”

Tolkien hums, agreeing. “You cannot tell him that you called me first though, it's gonna hurt his feelings.”

That's a given. Craig can even picture it clearly, Clyde's bottom lip quivering, trying to hold back the tears, going ”It's cool, I understand, I get it. I just feel a little left out, man! Don't you trust me? and then making snide comments about the situation for the next month minimum.

Craig loves him, for sure, Clyde's the brother that he never had, but he knows he needs to put some thought into how he's gonna navigate the situation; mainly to avoid a scene, but also to do some crowd control, because if Bebe even catches a whiff of anything remotely going on in a ten mile radius, it's game over. Shit like this in South Park spreads like fucking wildfires.

“I’ll tell him soon, I just wanna see how things go, you know? Maybe Tweek will realize he hates me tomorrow and he'll try to fight me again.”

“I love how clueless you are, Craig,” Tolkien sighs. “If you actually saw the way he looks at you, you wouldn't even be making that joke.”

“I'm getting tired of everybody knowing things before me,” Craig groans.

Of course he never noticed anything in Tweek's eyes other than annoyance, Craig can't even begin to wrap his head around the fact that Tolkien, Clyde and Kenny could tell something was up before he could even suspect of actually having feelings for Tweek.

“No offense, but it will always be funny to me,” Tolkien chuckles, because he's an asshole. “Never change, man.”

“Dick.” Craig hangs up on him, the last sound an annoying laugh coming from the speaker.

Through the surface level irritation though, he feels grateful. His chest no longer feels constricted, and fifteen minutes later he's turning off the lights and finally falling asleep, a ghost of a smile and the taste of Tweek's lips on his mouth.

By Ten AM the next morning, Craig is standing in the driveway next to his mom, watching as Tricia and Karen climb into Thomas’ stupidly huge truck.

The weather is warmer, which isn't that monumental, it mostly just means that it's not snowing, but it's still cold enough that they're wearing big, puffy jackets and scarves, to Craig's surprise, Tricia has actually let her hair down, very orange and long around her pale face.

“She says it makes her look weird,” he tells Laura, when she makes an inquiring noise about it.

Their mom frowns over the lip of her mug, the tendrils of steam climbing up her face as she holds it between both hands, clinging to the heat of her morning tea, no sugar, no milk. “Did you tell her that that's ridiculous and not true?”

Craig did, but he knows he didn't do it in the way Laura actually wants him to, which probably entails a whole speech on beauty standards and feminist movements from him, and Craig doesn't really think he's qualified to even try and say more than three words in a row without sounding like one of those white guys on YouTube, constantly trying to show how “progressive” they are, when they're most likely sending nudes to underaged girls through snapchat or some creepy shit like that.

“I told her she's gonna go bald if she keeps tying it up every day.”

The glare it earns him would probably be enough to kill a weaker person, but Craig has enough practice withstanding his mom's temper that it doesn't really affect him anymore.

“What? It worked!” he shrugs, nodding at the pair of girls that are now staring deeply into Tricia's phone in the backseat. “And it's true, isn't it?”

For a second, Laura looks like she's gonna hound his ass about it further, but she seems to change her mind at the last moment, and cranes her neck back towards the house. “Thomas! Hurry up!” she yells, loud enough to wake up the entire neighborhood.

If they find dog shit in the lawn every day for the next week, Craig will not be surprised, and the fact that his dad yells something unintelligible in response, all the way from the inside of the house, doesn't help the situation at all.

“I'm coming, I'm coming,” he appears from the front door, shouldering on his own blue jacket.

“The girls are gonna freeze to death because you're taking your sweet time,” Laura nags, after taking a sip of her tea. The bitterness goes perfectly with her attitude.

“I was in the bathroom,” Thomas announces, like everyone around wants to know he probably dumped a nuclear level shit in there.

“TMI,” Craig mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Unfortunately for him, his dad seems to hear him, which further proves his theory on him having selective hearing. There's no way he needs the TV playing at forty percent volume but can hear Craig's almost whisper just fine.

“Your grandma is going to be mad when she sees you're not coming,” he comes to stop next to his wife, pulling her to his side with a hand around her waist. “You better pick up the phone when she calls you.”

“I thought you guys wanted me to ’keep doing better’ and I can't do that if I fail my Spanish class.”

“Craig,” Laura gives him a pointed look, a warning in her eyes.

Thomas doesn't seem to be affected by the jibe, and simply clicks his tongue. “Like you could fail Spanish.”

Craig grins, pushing it more than he should, but he can't help himself. “I could if I really tried to.”

“Cut it out,” Laura snaps, glaring, and then turns to look at the man hugging her. “And you, get out of here or Tricia is gonna get in a mood.”

“She's always in a mood,” Thomas sighs, looking at the truck with so much concern it's almost funny, Laura elbows him away from him with a huff. “I'll call you when we get there.”

“Be safe,” she lets him kiss her on her forehead.

It's so weird to see them actually act like a couple, not because he's still a kid and thinks that seeing adults kiss is gross, but because Craig doesn't even remember the last time he's seen them be lovey-dovey or anything remotely close to that. Laura isn't the softest woman on Earth, not like Tweek’s mom seems to be, not like Stan's mom speaks, and Thomas has the emotional range of a rock. If it weren't for the pictures and both his and Tricia's existence, he'd actually believe that his parents are actually just long-time friends instead of actually married.

Craig looks away from the display, and he's not surprised to see Tricia has lost interest in the phone in her hand and is now flipping him off through the rolled up window.

“Looks like she's in a mood already,” he sneers, returning her gesture from his spot.

Sighing heavily, Thomas shakes his head all the way up to the vehicle, and Craig doesn't miss the small smile that his mom is trying to hide behind her mug as she watches father and daughter start to argue as soon as Thomas makes it into the driver seat.

“She's gonna torture him.”

They watch them pull out of the driveway in silence, Laura waving at the girls until they can no longer see them through the morning light reflecting on the glass windows.

“Well, I hope Karen survives,” Craig jokes, turning around to make his way back inside, finally glad that he can escape the cold.

“Bless her soul,” Laura joins him, coming to walk along and climb the stairs up the porch. “Want me to make you some pancakes?”

Leaning down to take off his boots at the entrance, Craig looks up at his mom in fake awe. “You're spoiling your favorite son today?”

“You're my only son,” she remarks, walking inside before him, letting the door start to close in his face in the process. “Unfortunately, I have no choice but to love you no matter what.”

Pushing the door open, Craig follows her, immediately relieved by the existence of thermostats and the warm air that greets him head on. His mom beelines for the kitchen, and for some reason, Craig feels like joining along, an itch of curiosity flaring in his gut.

“What about dad?”

Pausing in the middle of opening the fridge, Laura turns her head in his direction, visibly startled. “What about him?”

“Do you think he'd do the same?” Craig asks her, carefully. Laura frowns, looking lost as she takes out the half empty carton of eggs. “Love me no matter what?”

Would he hate me if he knew?

Would he send me away for good because he can't stomach the sight of Craig, his only son, in love with another boy?

“Is something going on?” she asks, suddenly concerned. “Did you get in trouble again?”

“No, no,” Craig rushes, shaking his head. “I'm just, uh, wondering, I guess.”

“Kid,” Laura sighs, setting the eggs down on the counter. “Can you just tell me what it is?”

Can he?

Craig trusts her, he knows that she means it when she says she'll support him unconditionally; she's made it so clear since the Cartman incident that Craig can no longer doubt her without feeling like a fucking asshole.

But that doesn't mean he can actually just let it out, just say the words that are stuck in his throat.

It also doesn't mean that he should either, —it is so new, the feeling of Tweek's hands on his cheek, his calloused palm cupping the side of his face, so tenderly Craig feels like he'll ruin everything, pop the bubble of last night's ordeal and have it all come crumbling down, if he merely hints at what happened between them two.

“I just think dad's not like you,” he says instead, avoiding her searching eyes, pretending he's just getting the orange juice carton out of the fridge. “He expects us to do only what he says and all that.”

“Like what?” his mom is right there, coming up behind him with a glass in hand.

Craig takes it from her, avoids her eyes again as he pours juice in it. “Did you know I actually don't even like being on the baseball team?”

“I didn't know you hated it that bad,” Laura frowns, restarting the pancake making. “Do you want to quit?”

Thinking about it, Craig realizes he actually doesn't really hate playing per se. When they're actually doing practice games, baseball is kind of fun; when he's pitching and he gets to decide which ball to send, when he gets to fuck with the hitter, it actually is enjoyable. Even better when he's hitting, and he manages to get the ball through.

The problem is that Craig never had a choice, the bat had been shoved into his hands and that had been it, end of story. No one had even asked if he actually wanted to go try for something else, and by the time Coach Miles had become a fucking nightmare to deal with, Craig had already been knee-deep at the bases, nowhere to run.

“The season will be over soon, if we keep getting snow,” he shrugs, compromising without actually saying everything he means to say.

This is not about baseball after all.

Humming, Laura shoots him an unreadable look, and Craig can't do anything but lean against the counter, orange juice bitter in his throat. He watches as she measures ingredients and dumps them in a bowl, cracking eggs, the shells loud in their silence, and mixing it all together. Craig passes her a pan from the cabinets without her asking.

“You know,” she starts, staring at the batter, pale ribbons slowly falling from the whisk. “I think your father wants what's best for you, just like I do. But he doesn't know how to go about it.”

The pan sizzles as soon as she scoops the batter on it, and Craig stares at the bubbling edges, round and smooth. He's never managed to get pancakes as perfect as his mom does, because she always makes them for him.

“I know that, I just mean that I think there's like, a limit,” Craig admits, swallowing around the sudden lump of twisted words in his throat. “Like there's a line I could cross that'd make him hate me.”

The pancake starts to bubble in the middle, and Laura flips it around with a spatula in a smooth flick of her wrist, the undercooked side splattering a little over the circumference. She turns to him, fully, and her face is scrunched, golden skin twisted in a pained grimace.

“Your father could never, ever hate you, Craig,” she says, her green eyes, so similar to his, open like a wound. “No matter what happens, whatever you do, he will never turn his back on you.”

She says it so earnestly, so sure, Craig can't help but to want to believe her.

“I hope you're right,” he mutters, watching her scoop the cooked pancake on a plate.

“Don't you know me?” over her shoulder, she smiles wickedly at him, blindly scooping another cup of batter on the pan, a perfect circle again. “I'm always right, kid.”

By the time the clock in his phone screen signals it's Two PM, Craig has already eaten breakfast, lunch, and then showered. His stomach is twisting into knots the entire time, and he tries his hardest to undo it by playing with Stripe, who should never be underestimated by her size, because she does, in fact, help him a little.

He texts Tweek to ask if he wants Craig to pick him up, but he says he's getting a ride from his mom, which is fine, definitely, not like Craig had been hoping for a couple minutes alone with him before they have to pretend normalcy in front of his mom.

They don't say anything further than that, which in all honesty, it's kind of nerve-wracking, but Craig brushes it off as best as he can. They're gonna see each other, and he sucks at texting anyways, so he resigns to just waiting for the blond to arrive while Stripe plays hide and forces him to seek.

Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rings and effectively sends Craig's heart jumping right up to his throat.

Still, he carefully puts Stripe inside her cage again, apologizing to her under his breath, and hoping his mom doesn't say anything that'll embarrass Tweek as Craig hears the front door being opened and her voice greeting him.

Almost tripping on his own feet, he flies down the stairs, startling Tweek when he appears from the hallway looking more frazzled than he should for the situation. Cheeks overheating, Craig watches as the blond grins albeit a bit shakely at Laura, who takes the container from his hands with a delighted smile, like she's just won the lottery.

“Look, Craig,” she beams in a way he hasn't seen her beam since Tricia made her a macaroni necklace in kindergarten. “Tweek baked something for us!”

Visibly red in the face, Tweek sputters. “It's nnngh–nothing! I was doing it for the shop and thought of bringing something. A–as a thanks. For helping me!”

Pulse fluttering, Craig tries to school his smile into something friendly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep the goofy expression that desperately tries to take over his features.

“What are they?” he asks, staring at his mom's hands so he won't combust right then and there.

“Just, uh, c–carrot cake cupcakes,” Tweek waves his hand like he's trying to dismiss the gesture, his eyelids twitching. “I thought since Mrs. Tucker likes hhh–healthy food. It'd be a good idea, so.”

“Oh my God!” Laura outright swoons like Craig has never seen her before. “Tweek you're such a sweetheart! Thank you, you shouldn't have gone through the trouble.”

Tweek shakes his head profusely. “It's nngh nothing, really.”

“Okay, I'll put these in the kitchen for when you get hungry,” she says, still grinning. “You guys can study at the table if you want, I cleared it away.”

The plans of getting Tweek alone in his bedroom tank just like that, Craig swallows back a groan and does not glare at the back of his mom's head when she turns to walk towards the kitchen. For a second, he even thinks she did it on purpose, like she knows, somehow, but there's no way. No way.

Oblivious, Tweek unzips his dark red winter jacket, his pale cheeks still clinging to the rosey color of his fading blush; Craig wants to kiss him so badly it physically hurts.

“Hey,” he says instead, like an idiot, and the winded tone of his voice immediately gives him away.

Tweek nervously fixes his sweater, thick and woolen, and stares back at him, pink bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Dark blonde eyelashes fan over his cheekbones as his blue eyes flutter for half a second, down at Craig's mouth.

This is going to be torture.

“Hi,” he says, looking away bashfully.

Somehow emboldened by the fact that he's not the only one affected, Craig cuts the distance between them with almost wobbling knees, and really hopes Tweek doesn't notice.

The blond doesn't shy away at the sudden proximity, just stands his ground, leaning into it slightly, almost unnoticeably, like he's unaware of his body pulling him, he seems to be hyper focused on the neckline of Craig's black sweatshirt.

“Want me to hang that for you?” he points to the jacket in the blond's hand, pretending that standing almost toe-to-toe is justified for an offer such as this.

“I didn't nngh know you had good manners,” Tweek grins, up close like this, his eyes seem to glimmer under the warm lamplight.

“I can go back to being an asshole if you want,” I'll be whatever you like Craig means but doesn't say, taking the jacket when Tweek laughs and hands it to him.

Walking away from him feels genuinely colder, and Craig knows that's just further proof that he's actually losing his mind, because there's just no way he's being this corny even in his own head. He almost wants to take back all the times he's made fun of Clyde for chasing behind Bebe like a lost puppy. Almost.

“I want you to keep me from ack! failing,” Tweek says, turning his head to track Craig's body back to the hooks near the front door where the coats are lined up, Tricia's and Thomas’ missing. “Por favor.”

His accent is so funny it's cute, Craig's ears burn. “I'll do my best.”

When he looks back at Tweek again, sees the mirth in those blue eyes, the gap-toothed smile on his lips, Craig's pulse jumps, and suddenly, he can't even remember what he was freaking out about last night.

“I can help you too, kids,” Laura appears on the other end of the hallway, half eaten cupcake in her hand. Craig almost breaks his neck with the speed in which he turns to look at her. “Craig I don't know how good your Spanish is anymore, since you never use it.”

There's no way she's doing it on purpose. No way.

“Que no lo use con ustedes no signifique que lo olvidé,” he snaps, boiling hot blush spreading over his cheeks.

“See? You just proved me right,” she grins, victorious. “Significa, no signifique.”

Dumbstruck, Tweek blinks too fast, too many times, and Craig wants to bang his head against the wall in frustration; both at the sight of his mom actually sitting down at the head of the dining room table, happily popping the last of her cupcake in her mouth, waiting for them, and at the fact that he can't refuse without giving something, even a tiny little hint, away.

Needless to say, both him and Tweek had definitely imagined today going way differently than this.

It's the longest, most excruciating afternoon of Craig's life.

As soon as they sit across from each other on the table, for convenience purposes of course, Laura turns into her all business Peruvian mom mode, cheap pharmacy reading glasses and all.

It's insane.

She goes through every single lesson they've had this year, meticulously reading Tweek's already completed assignments and then going over each of the mistakes she finds, as many times as it takes for the blond to get the answers right. Craig wants to actually fucking die— he's never been more embarrassed before, which genuinely says a lot.

And Tweek, sweet, poor soul, clueless Tweek, to Craig's dismay, takes it all in stride, through the tics and under Laura's scrutinizing and insistent gaze. He tries and tries again, repeating the words slowly under his breath, with his exaggerated r’s and stuttering accent, and asking how to spell so many of them that the vocabulary section alone takes them three hours to finish going over.

It's almost comical, actually, even if a little humiliating, how the blond is so focused on Laura's tutoring that he seems to completely forget about Craig's existence for a good, good while.

It takes a soft nudge to his shin from under the table for him to finally look at Craig, and the worst part of it all, is that he looks startled, like he’s confused as to why Craig would actually want his attention.

“How do you say my brain is going to explode?” he asks, blinking down at the flashcards Laura has made for him.

To their combined relief, Craig's mom finally relents at that, openly laughing at the misery written all over their faces.

“I'll make some tea and we can have a break.”

After she walks out of the room, it only takes half a second for Tweek to shove his face between his own hands, golden hair disheveled after the alarming amount of times he's run his fingers over it in the last hour alone.

Craig grimaces in sympathy; there's a reason why he hasn't asked for his mom's help with school since he was ten.

They really should've met at Tweek's house instead.

“I'm sorry,” Craig tells him, and he sincerely means it from the bottom of his heart.

The smile he gets in return doesn't take long to turn into a pained curl of Tweek's mouth.

“I better ace this fucki–nnngh test.”

Helplessly and stupidly smitten, Craig nudges his leg under the table again, and the embarrassment inside his chest eases a little, when Tweek's foot nudges him right back.

By the time Laura takes pity on them and finally lets them go, the sun has already set a couple of hours ago, and Tweek can barely keep his head up.

So kind of her, though, when after all the hours of straight up torture, she offers the blond an invitation to stay for dinner, and better than that, doesn't push further when all the blood visibly drains from Tweek's face and he hastily refuses, tripping over his own words as he excuses himself, because his parents take family dinners extremely serious, and they're expecting Tweek to be home by Eight, no ands, ifs or buts.

It'd be almost believable, if it weren't for the fact that the Tweaks are known to be extreme workaholics, and are most likely still at the coffee shop, preparing orders for people who have no common sense or decency.

Thankfully, Tweek does end up accepting Craig's quiet offer for a ride home, and clinging to the hope of a couple of minutes alone in an enclosed space, they both rush to put away all the books, papers and pens, grab their coats off their hooks and rush out of the front door, —Laura left standing in the middle of the kitchen, half of a goodbye still in her throat.

The evening air is colder than this morning, but it gives them half an excuse to huddle close to each other as they make it down the driveway, elbows knocking through layers, and layers of clothes.

“You know, next time I need help studying, I think I'll ack! just ask Wendy,” Tweek jokes, pushing his shoulder into Craig's playfully as they walk together to the parked car.

“I wouldn't blame you, dude,” Craig scoffs, unlocking the doors. Tweek rounds the front of the vehicle and quickly climbs inside, escaping from the biting air. Craig follows immediately, getting into the driver's seat. “I really am sorry, though. I didn't think she'd actually crash the party like that.”

“It wasn't supposed to be a party to begin with,” Tweek shoots him a pointed look, hands busy with wrapping himself with the seatbelt. “And it's ack! all good. I actually feel like I learned a lot.”.

The streetlights outside bleed through the windshield, painting the dashboard with soft yellow strokes, but both his and Tweek's faces are left in the dark, together and alone.

And maybe it's the continuous hours of tedious Spanish lessons, or the exhaustion in his bones from holding back all day, but Craig finds himself sitting there, just him and Tweek at last, and he can't bring himself to care, nor to feel embarrassed anymore, at least not right now.

“I wanted it to be just me and you, though,” he sighs, defeated at the lost opportunity, the back of his head meeting the seat’s headrest. “Though I guess we wouldn't have gotten a lot of studying done.”

Startled, Tweek pushes against the seatbelt he's just fastened to turn towards him on his spot, his face going from surprised to teasing in a matter of seconds under the dim light.

“Jesus— you're awfully confident in yourself,” he snorts, eyes wide and beautiful.

“I think I'm just hopeful,” Craig tells him, so honest. Fuck it. “That you like me as much as I like you.”

The look on Tweek's face is equal parts priceless and endearing; the way his smug smile slowly melts, his eyebrows falling, jaw slightly slacking. He stares closely at Craig's face, eyelids twitching, like he's trying to decipher a puzzle that's already done— because Craig just lays it out for him, no missing pieces, no empty spaces left.

“I— what the fuck?” he whispers, a frown coming alive. The seatbelt clicks loose. “That was fucking smooth, man!”

Tolkien will never hear about this.

Tweek is on him like lightning, shooting across the space between the seats, both of his hands suddenly on Craig's cheeks, pulling him in with almost too much strength, trembling fingers digging into his skin.

The kiss is everything Craig had been waiting for all day and more.

No memory, no matter how hard he had tried to recall the feeling of Tweeks mouth on his, will ever compare to the actual thing; the warmth of it, the delicious pressure, the almost too sharp edge of teeth. The way Tweek pushes into him, hard and wanting, drinking him in like he's starving, like he'll never feel full. The feeling of his blond hair, silky and long between Craig's desperate fingers, the taste of tea, the sweet hint of cupcakes on his tongue.

“I think you should nnngh drive me home,” Tweek half–whispers half–pants, still so close their lips brush. “Before I do something really embarrassing.”

God, Craig wants him to. Craig wants Tweek to do whatever the fuck he wants, —he's been embarrassing himself non-stop since they've become friends, and there's nothing that he could ever do that it'd turn Craig away; not with the way his heart is beating, so fucking fast it feels like it's buzzing, hummingbird wings thrashing against his ribs.

“One more and we'll go,” he whispers, trying to stay sane in front of Tweek's half lidded stare. “Yeah?”

Eyes squeezing closed, Tweek purses his lips, fighting against a smile, and Craig tries to commit the image to heart, the red tips of his ears, the freckles on his nose.

His skin is so soft under his hand, Craig marvels at the feeling as he cups his jaw, easing their mouths together again.

It's slower this time, but no less intense. Tweek's fingers grip the front of his jacket now, but he doesn't pull, just stays there, over his breastbone like he wants to break inside instead. Craig tilts his head to the side, slotting their lips more comfortably with a sigh, blood feverish inside his veins when Tweek's tongue brushes his, igniting.

He understands right then, what Tweek meant. The urge to pull him into his lap, to press their bodies together until something great happens— it washes over his entire body, down to his toes, curling inside his boots. Although Craig wouldn't call it embarrassing per se, he wouldn't know what to name it either.

It's stronger than him, actually. His breath hitches, Craig feels it like an electrified zap, and for a moment, he loses his grip; Tweek's hands brush upwards, all the way to his shoulders, fingertips blindly finding the exposed, sensitive skin of his neck, over his pulse, twitching and putting pressure in the right spot. Almost against his will, with his head swimming, Craig's mouth turns urgent, his teeth hungry when he sinks them on the meat of Tweek's bottom lip, who in return, makes a sound that goes, all warm and heavy, straight to his navel.

“Yeah, alright,” his voice a rasp, and Tweek nods with his eyes still closed, going back into his seat. “We can go now.”

It takes a couple of tries, but he eventually manages to put the key into the ignition while Tweek fastens his seatbelt again, pink tongue peeking out to lick his swollen lips; Craig fixes his eyes on the road with the lasts of his remaining concentration after seeing that.

The streets are empty, like most Sundays, especially at this hour, but Craig still takes his time, letting Tweek fuzz with the aux cord until he finds whatever song he wants to play from his phone.

His lips are still tingling. “Do you need a ride to school tomorrow?”

Tweek hums, finally pressing play on the screen; a soft guitar fills the air. “Are you offering?”

The next turn is to the left, Craig slows at the stop sign before turning, even when no one is coming. His breathing is still too ragged to sound casual, but he can't bring himself to care about that either.

“Yeah.”

“Did you— ack! I mean, does anybody know? About this?”

“Apart from Kenny who keeps texting me death threats?” he sneaks a glance, just in time to see Tweek cringe. “I told Tolkien.”

There's a pause, and Craig doesn't dare to look at him. The fear that maybe he's fucked up by telling, suddenly very real in his gut. Kenny is a given, he would've figured it out eventually, he's been pulling strings since the start, but what if Tweek didn't want Tolkien to know? Or nobody else for that matter? Maybe Craig got it all wrong. Maybe he had been worried about the wrong thing.

“I don't like people talking about me,” Tweek blurts, the words so jumbled it takes a solid three seconds for Craig to process them. “I– Fuck. I don't want to be a nngh dick, I'm so sorry. We should've talked about this before. I–I’m not the type of person who… you know.”

Breathe. Craig adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, lets the words sink in, tries to hear what Tweek actually means. His stomach still sinks.

“If you're worried about Tolkien snitching, trust me, he won't.”

“Ack! I don't— I don't mind telling him, or Clyde, that's not…” a frustrated noise squeezes through his throat. “I told Kenny, and my parents know I'm– whatever. I mean that, if we can keep it in the circle, it would be great.”

“It would,” Craig nods, carefully. “My parents don't know, I mean, my dad's not the guy you'd tell something like this, you know? I don't want him to find out yet.”

He wishes he would've taken a longer route, because he can already see Tweek's house standing a block away, and it doesn't feel right to stop, neither the car nor the conversation.

“Okay, so, we just keep it between us and our friends,” Tweek says, but it sounds like a question.

Quietly, Craig nods, pulling over when they make it there. He looks at Tweek now, fully, sees the way his hands are twisting into the band of the seatbelt across his chest, where it cuts in half. He wants to pry them away, will away the anxiety for him himself, but Craig isn't doing much better, it's just that his struggle remains internal.

What are they supposed to do now? How would they tell Clyde, Wendy? We're friends who kiss and like each other? We're… dating? Craig hates not knowing how to address it, he feels like a fucking emotionless idiot.

“You should ack! talk to Kenny,” Tweek says, instead, as he disconnects his phone from the stereo. “He's pretty upset about what happened.”

With everything in his head, Craig realizes he can't revisit that situation, not right now, the mess of his feelings so confusing he can't even find any of that lingering anger within himself. Tweek is looking at him expectantly though, and Craig knows he won't get away without a response.

“Okay, I'll try.”

“I– Okay,” Tweek sighs, grabbing his backpack off the floor and opening the door.

It feels so wrong, something in Craig's gut warns him they shouldn't leave it here, unease twisting in his stomach when Tweek turns to climb out of the car. Something heavy is being left unsaid and it has just tilted the situation to uneven ground and Craig's brain scrambles to find the right words.

“Tweek,” his hand wraps around the blond’s nearest wrist. “We should— I should just say it like it is.”

Freezing on the spot, Tweek turns his head towards him, slowly, cautiously, like he's scared of Craig's face, of the expression there, his eyes widening with surprise when everything Craig does is try for a smile.

“I like you,” honesty is the only thing he will always have, even when it comes with a wobbly voice to carry it out. “I like you a lot, and I only like you.”

I want this to be us, just us, he's trying to say, but the words don't come out like he wants them to. He wants Tweek for himself. Just him.

Thankfully, it seems that the message kind of comes across. Craig watches the blond’s face carefully, waiting for a reaction that doesn't take long to become alive. Tweek's cheeks are red, bright and lively, his big blue eyes blink fast, glinting with something, his eyebrows rise almost all the way to his scalp.

“Jesus!” he sounds breathless, his mouth widening into an incredulous smile. “When did you ack! get so smooth‽”

And okay, maybe Tolkien should hear about this.

“I'm just being honest.”

“I'm gonna die, stop it!”

And then they're at it again, quick, hot and tender, the passenger door forgotten, letting the cold night air in, and still Craig hasn't felt this warm in a long fucking time, Tweek so real and soft between his hands, all over his mouth.

“Only you,” Tweek repeats, like a mantra, again and again, between kisses.

Craig can't believe his luck.

Chapter Text

“We have to leave early,” Craig tells Tricia as soon as he steps inside the dining room on Monday morning.

Her hair is down again, curled in smooth waves of orange, spilling over the back of her pale lilac sweatshirt, Craig tries his best to resist the urge to ruffle it when he walks past her and around the table, to his usual seat. Yesterday, Tweek had been sitting where she is, his blond hair glinting gold under the overhead light.

Tricia rolls her eyes. “Good morning, Craig! How did you sleep? I slept just fine, thanks for asking.”

“Good. We have to leave earlier.”

“Fine by me,” she grumbles, around a mouthful of her bowl of fruit–piled cereal and milk. “It's not like I'm the one who takes fucking forever to come downstairs.”

Their mom comes from the kitchen, bearing a bowl identical to his sister's and placing it in front of Craig. The pieces of strawberry, banana and apple float on top of the white milk, refusing to combine with the flavorless cereal. Craig disguises the wince from his face with a cough.

“Eat up, we have to get rid of the stuff that's going bad in the fridge,” she says, and sits down at the head of the table. Craig tries the concoction with too–much caution.

It doesn't taste bad, but the crunch of the apple and cereal versus the mush of the bananas and strawberries feels like a wrong combination on his tongue. He swallows it easily enough, preferring to focus on the eating over the flashbacks of his mom's third wheeling yesterday, and ruining the afternoon he'd been anticipating with Tweek.

“Why are we going earlier though?” Tricia asks, unbothered by the food.

Casual does it. Craig has been rehearsing this scenario all night, which is kind of insane, but it's the truth. He's supposed to be good at staying cool, never showing his cards, it's always been natural; but now it's different, completely new.

It's probably gonna take time and–slash–or practice, to keep neutral about anything related to Tweek, mostly because it's the first time in Craig's entire life that he actually cares. Stakes have never been high for anything in his seventeen years on this planet. It's terrifying.

“Tweek needs a ride.” he mutters, monotonously as always, and braves another spoonful of the fruit soup.

It seems to work; Tricia shrugs her shoulders, disinterested, while she digs one of her hands into the right front pocket of her cargo pants, fishing out her cellphone. She’s bought a new case, from what Craig can see, bright turquoise with the drawing of a manta ray in dark blue and white. Very beachy, like she lives in California and not in fuckass Colorado.

“What a sweet boy, Tweek,” Laura sighs, manicured fingernails tapping on the ceramic of her mug. Craig feels his eyebrows go up his forehead, looking at the charmed smile on her face. She snorts then, and shakes her head lightly. “Hopeless with Spanish, though.”

“He’s not that bad,” Craig mutters, before shoveling more food in his mouth.

Not biased. At all. Tweek had picked up most of it in like two tries, maybe three, he just seemed to get confused by some conjugations and whatnot. After all, Spanish isn’t the easiest to learn when your mother tongue isn’t a romance language, and it’s fairly different to English, so one can’t really guess what a word could mean based on previous knowledge.

Blinking at Craig, Laura tilts her head to the side slightly, the tapping of her nails pausing.

For a very long, very terrifying second, Craig feels frozen in place, his heart lodged in his throat like a frog, kicking to get out through his mouth. Her green eyes flicker, watching his face with too much attention in them, like she’s somehow reading his memories off his features. But that cannot be possible, no way. As much as Craig loves The X–Files, people can’t just read other people’s minds like that.

But then, to make it worse, Laura seems to get something, some type of tell, or whatever it might be, that makes her mouth curl upwards into a smirk that only freaks Craig out even more, his blood suddenly running cold in his veins.

Craig can feel his shoulder locking up, rigid like two boulders on each side of his neck, but he forces himself to keep his face blank, pretending to be busy chewing his food and letting go of the spoon in his hand, because without noticing, his knuckles have gone white with the tension in his fingers.

“Craig…” Laura starts, putting her mug on the table with a soft clinking sound. The playful edge of her tone immediately makes Craig’s stomach drop. “If you were to, let's say, help your friend out during your Spanish test—”

“What?” he hears himself ask, blinking, so completely dumbfounded he can’t even hear the rest of her sentence.

Laura’s smirk somehow grows more wryly, and Craig’s heart jumpstarts with an almost painful kick, when the realization finally dawns on him.

She doesn’t know. She just thinks Craig is gonna do something against the rules.

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know.

Like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut off, Craig’s shoulders sag, falling back into their usual slumped posture, but his heart, on the other hand, still races in his chest, like it’s having trouble catching up to what’s actually going on.

“Don’t play dumb, kid. At your age, I was doing people’s Spanish homework for money like it was a serious business,” she snorts, shaking her head again. “I’m not saying you should do it, of course. I just mean that, if you were to do such a thing, then you better not get caught. That’s all.”

Gaping slightly, Craig huffs out a breath, and inwardly struggles to find a response that won’t sound like he’s trying to hide a life changing secret from her. “I— don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her mouth drops into a straight line, her gaze suddenly hard and sharp. It happens so fast, his brain doesn’t even have the time to send alerts again, just whiplash after whiplash.

“Craig Tucker, I’m serious about this. If I get called in to see Mackey’s wrinkled, asshole face one more time because you are trying to be the hero again, I will kick your ass so hard I’ll make your dream of being an astronaut come true and you’ll land on the fucking Moon. Understood?”

“Jeez,” Tricia snorts, not even looking up from the screen of her cellphone.

Craig breathes. “Jesus, mom.”

She’s not satisfied, though. Her eyebrows rise, expectantly, and Craig inhales a deep breath, feeling so overwhelmed by the entire exchange and his own paranoia that he can’t even muster up a half–funny, sarcastic comeback.

“Okay, I got it.” he insists, looking straight into her eyes to make his point.

At last, she seems to ease up, dropping against the back of her chair and grabbing her mug again. “And eat your food, both of you. We’re not wasting good milk with these fucking prices.”

They successfully make it out of the house with twenty minutes to spare, which according to Craig’s over–thought calculations, should be enough to go to Karen’s first and then get back towards the North, pick up Tweek and then make it to school.

Craig ignores the inquiring look Tricia aims at him while they walk down the driveway, pretending he’s too focused on getting the car keys out of his pocket and then pressing the buttons to unlock the doors.

It’s cold enough that he can blame the slight tremble of his fingers on the temperature, but inside his body, his stomach is turning and tangling into itself with the thought of Tweek in his car again, after last night; if Craig focuses on the memory hard enough, he’s sure his lips will start tingling with the feeling of the blond’s mouth over them, like some sort of phantom limb syndrome, for a limb that’s not actually missing.

There’s a light layer of frost coating the exterior of the vehicle, so Craig uses the sleeve of his jacket to pull on the handle of the door on the driver’s side, and then does the same to the backseat door for Tricia; hoping, secretly, that by doing something nice for her, she’ll stop trying to be on his ass like it looks she’s trying to be, judging by the way she keeps staring at him through the rearview mirror.

Turning the key in the ignition, the hum of the engine and the muted whirring of the heating are the only sounds between them for the first two blissful minutes it takes for the car to warm up, and that’s when Craig knows, feels in his bones really, that this is definitely a the–calm–before–the–storm situation.

The sun is barely peeking over the East, languid as every winter, slowly bathing the streets in deep and bright orange tones, making his eyes painfully squint through the windshield; if Craig was a smarter person, he’d own a pair of sunglasses and keep them in the glovebox compartment, but he isn’t, so he makes do by pulling down the sun visor from above his head.

“So…” Tricia drawls, dragging the vowel just to be annoying. “Can you drive with whatever it is that’s crawled up your ass this morning? Because I don’t wanna die yet, I still haven’t seen all the Hellraiser movies.”

In a very obvious escape tactic, Craig avoids her gaze on the rearview mirror again, and more clumsily than he’d like to admit, turns on the radio, letting the voice of some random radio host with a midwestern accent respond by announcing the dates some band he’s never heard of before that will be playing in Denver next month. What type of name is “Worst Party Ever” for a band anyways?

“You know you only make it worse by pretending nothing’s going on,” she insists, crossing her arms across her chest pettily. “You think you’re a good liar, but you suck. It’s like watching Stripe when you take her out to clean her cage.”

Focusing on the road, Craig chews on the meat of the inside of his cheek and forces his face to stay as neutral as always. The problem is, Tricia knows him too well, or maybe she just knows him in ways most people don’t— with his guard down. They’ve lived through enough together, she probably can read the twitch of his eyebrows in less than a second, just like he can hers, even when he doesn’t try to.

“If you’re not gonna say anything, then I’ll just have to assume what I think is going on is actually going on,” she adds, smugly. Way too smuggly.

Irritation flares in his stomach like a match being striked. “You don’t know—”

“I know the hoodie you’re wearing is new, and that you spent like ten more minutes in the bathroom this morning. I know you were acting like you were being held at gunpoint when mom was talking to you, and I know you’re hiding something.”

Craig takes another deep breath, unconsciously tightening and loosening his grip on the steering wheel as he takes a right turn on Seventh Street. The annoyance persists, settles on the clench of his jaw, but he wills himself away from snapping at her. If he did, then he’d be giving himself away and confirm her suspicions.

“I’m not hiding anything.”

Tricia scoffs, if she rolled her eyes any harder, they’d probably get stuck on the back of her head. “Yeah, right.”

She opens her mouth to say something else, and Craig braces himself for it, even though all he wants to do is bash his head on the dashboard. He’s not gonna let her win, he’s not even going to hint that something is remotely going on— Tricia might feel like he has a secret, but she doesn’t know what it is, and she would probably never guess.

Craig might not care about what most people think or say about him, but he is aware of the preconceptions they have of him. He’s never been in a relationship before, and nobody ever asks him about it because they can tell he’s never had interest in that. Yes, his mom might have teased him about it once or twice, but she had let the matter go as easily as she had brought it up. Tricia most likely thinks he’s done something bad again, and he’s trying to get away with it.

“It’s snowing,” he mutters, before she can utter another word.

With a hmmp sound, Tricia turns her attention to the window next to her, and snaps her mouth shut. Craig has no idea how it’s enough to distract her, since South Park has more snow days than regular weather ones, and they’ve lived here for their entire lives, but he’s not about to look at a gifted horse’s mouth. She probably knows better than to push it again.

By the time they pull over to the McCormick’s, Karen is already outside, wrapped from head to toe in worn winter clothes; judging by the snow perched all over the shoulders and the hood of her jacket, she’s been there for a while.

To no one’s surprise, Tricia doesn’t fail to notice this, gasping and yanking the backseat door open almost violently.

“Get in!” she rushes, yanking the poor, unsuspecting girl inside. If someone were to watch the scene from outside, they’d probably think they’re kidnapping her off the street.

“Hi,” Karen says, smiling shyly, as Tricia hovers close, brushing the snow off her clothes like an overprotective mother.

“Why were you outside? You’re gonna get sick!”

“Morning, Karen,” Craig grins, watching the scene through the rearview mirror.

“I’m not gonna get sick, Ms. Roberts says that’s not how it works,” he hears her mutter to Tricia. “And I’m okay.”

“You should stay inside next time,” Tricia insists, patting her arms one last time. “It’s not like we won’t wait for you to come out.”

“My dad lost his job again, so…” Karen trails off, as an explanation.

It must mean something Craig isn’t in on, because Tricia’s expression turns pained, and she nods, dropping the subject instantly. Craig doesn’t need any further prompting to start driving again, he doesn’t wanna risk bumping into Kenny anyways, it’s actually the last thing he needs after the fucking morning he’s had and it’s not even eight.

Karen’s presence is very much welcome though, because it means Tricia is distracted enough that Craig doesn’t need to overthink the situation any longer, and he finally feels himself let go of some of the tension in his spine. He hopes that it’s not going to be like this forever, that this is just because everything is new and uncharted territory, and therefore, nerve wracking. He needs to get used to it, otherwise he’s bound to get an ulcer or some fucked up shit from the stress of pretending all the time.

On the streets, snow is starting to settle down instead of melting into the asphalt, which means that they need to get to school soon or driving will become a torturous ordeal. Craig thinks he’ll actually never feel confident about maneuvering around on icy roads, and he’s not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. Thomas always says that one should never get overconfident about things like this, because that’s when you grow careless and fuck shit up, but Craig is pretty sure there’s a line between respect and fear he’s toeing without meaning to, and that’s confusing enough as it is.

As both a blessing and a curse, the way to Tweek’s is easy and shorter than what he had previously dimensioned in his head, which means that, by the time he’s pulling up outside of the house, Craig’s palms are fucking sweating and there’s an electrical current snapping in his veins in random bursts. He catches Karen’s eyes on the rear view mirror on accident, for like half a second, and that’s enough of a reminder to keep it cool.

He needs to play it off or Tricia will smell the truth like a bloodhound desperate for a whiff of anything remotely plausible.

Craig considers honking, or maybe texting, to let Tweek know that he’s outside, waiting, but before he can even pull his phone out of his jeans’ pocket, the house’s front door swings open, and Tweek emerges, looking as frazzled as always, as he scurries down the driveway with mused blond locks, a half–opened backpack and some coffee cups.

Watching him through the window, Craig feels his heart swell, warm and impossibly big in his chest. It's quite genuinely surreal. Tweek looks so good, it makes something in Craig’s brain halt with a jolt, and he’s suddenly left scrambling for a reaction as small and basic as blinking, and breathing.

He’s wearing the same jacket from the night they kissed, the one with the corduroy outside and the chunky wool lining— Craig remembers the feel of it on his fingertips, when he’d grabbed onto it to yank Tweek down to his mouth, and the memory alone makes his ears burn.

“Ack! Morning!” he says, when Craig leans over and opens the car door from the inside. Tweek carelessly drops his worn backpack on the floor of the passenger side and sits down. “It’s fuckinnnnng cold as hell.”

“Hey,” Craig mutters, looking at him before forcing himself to blink away. Only a second in close proximity and he’s already holding back the urge to lean closer.

Craig wonders if this will also subside with time, and then secretly thinks it wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t.

“Hey Tweek,” Tricia grins, looking a little too excited.

“I nngh know you said to bring you a latte next time, but I thought hot chocolate would be nicer, with the weather and all,” Tweek tells her, twisting in the passenger seat to offer both girls the cups he’s been holding in each hand.

“Thanks, Tweek!” Karen grins a huge smile, and it’s the loudest Craig’s ever heard her speak.

“You’re the best,” Tricia gushes, taking both beverages and passing one to her friend.

Peeking through the rearview mirror, Craig bites back a smile at the sight of their delighted faces, and certainly doesn’t miss the way Karen’s cheeks look too pink to be flushed by the cold— it makes him both stupidly jealous and glad, which is a combination of emotions he’s never thought he’d feel.

Craig braces himself and then braves a sideways look at Tweek, who arches his eyebrows and stares back, an amused smirk on the pink curve of his beautiful mouth.

Heat, encompassing and embarrassing, crawls up his nape, and burns into his scalp, it’s overwhelming enough that Craig has to look back at the road, clearing his throat that suddenly feels like it’s been filled with sand. Focusing on the streets ahead instead, he lets Tweek fiddle with the radio, until the guy from before is gone and there’s a slow rock song playing. Out of the corner of his eye, Craig sees Tweek’s fingers drumming on his denim clad knees, and he has to bite back a smile.

Slowing down the car as they make it to the entrance of the school’s parking lot, Craig waits for a girl that doesn’t even look old enough to be driving pass first on an ugly but new looking Nissan and sighs at her speed, but doesn’t comment.

The fact that they’ve made it this far helps relieve some of his nerves, Tricia and Karen are too preoccupied with their drinks to pay attention, whispering stuff he can’t overhear to each other between sips, and Tweek looks so good in the warm, early morning light Craig wants to stay with him inside the car forever,

Craig steps on the gas once the young girl is at a safe distance, not wanting to risk her braking suddenly and accidentally rear ending her, and in a rare show of good luck, he finds a spot only a few feet away, not that far from the school’s entrance. Looking back through the mirror, he checks for vehicles behind, finds none, and turns the steering wheel to make it into the spot, keeping an eye on the sides of the Toyota already parked to his left.

“So, no hot chocolate for me?” he jokes, playing it off to the best of his ability, which, judging by the sound of Tweeks snickering, isn’t remotely good enough.

“Maybe next time.”

“What?” Craig asks, pulling the stick shift into neutral and twisting the key out of the ignition. “You think giving you a ride to school is free?”

“Here I thought nngh you were just being a good friend,” Tweek says, pursing his lips in a failed attempt to hold back a smile and opening the car door to step out.

Twisting on his seat, Craig hides the stupid grin on his face by leaning on the space between the driver and passenger’s seat and stretches his arm to grab his backpack off the floor, between Karen and Tricia’s feet. When he straightens, backpack straps clutched in his hand, his eyes accidentally meet his sister’s, and something heavy drops on his chest.

Tricia is completely silent now, and the look on her face, the intensity of her gaze, the knowing glint on her sharp pupils, has Craig’s face falling instantly.

Fuck, he thinks, sitting back and clumsily pulling on the handle, throwing his door open. Shit. Craig hears them get out, has half a mind to lock the car. Tweek is waiting for him across the road. Fuck!

Tricia shoulders on her backpack, muttering words to Karen, and then they breeze past him, giggling about something he doesn’t hear. Craig is still standing, nailed to the asphalt, his legs suddenly stuffed with cotton.

“Ack! Come on!” Tweek yells, still waiting for him, and his smile starts to wane, threatening on a frown.

The girls stop, startled, and they both turn back to look at him, matching quizzical looks in their faces. Craig stares back at his sister, searching almost frantically for a tell— maybe he’s imagined it, because he’s paranoid, and an idiot, maybe he’s just confused.

Tricia blinks, frowns slightly, and then rolls her eyes, like this is all a waste of her precious time.

“You’re such an idiot,” she tells him, shaking her head. “Go, dumbass.”

Craig gapes, so confused and somehow, for some reason, relieved.

Is it good enough?

Tweek is staring, confused, his face twisted with worry, and Craig is too overwhelmed to feel guilty. Tricia, when he turns back to her, is already walking away, arm intertwined with Karen’s.

So, for once, Craig listens to her, and goes.

“What’s your nngh first class?” Tweek is asking, leaning on the locker next to Craig’s opened one as he looks for his book.

The hallways are crowded as always, warm with the overpopulation of teenage bodies full of hormones, Craig’s trying very hard not to think of the parking lot and sweating in his jacket, so he almost misses the question completely. Tweek has given up on asking him what the problem is, and now seems to be trying to appear unconcerned, but his eyes show an edge of worry Craig can’t bring himself to appease— nothing happened, it’s all fine, he’s just paranoid.

“World History,” Craig tells him, pulling out the heavy book that he keeps on the bottom of the stack. “You?”

“Ugh, Calculus.” he groans.

“You got Calculus first thing on a Monday?” Craig snorts, closing his locker with a push of his elbow. “Your life sucks dude.”

Mr. Lewis is so boring to listen to, Craig thinks if he had to be in his classroom at eight in the morning he’d either jump out of the window or just straight up pass out on his desk, and he doesn’t even dislike Math.

“I fucking know!” Tweek pouts, he looks so cute Craig clutches the book in his hands tightly, in order to stop himself from doing something stupid for everyone to see. “And I can’t ack! skip anymore or I’ll flunk out.”

“Morning, dudes!”

Whatever Craig’s brain was coming up with as a response disappears as he clicks his mouth shut and turns, freakishly at the same time as Tweek, to look at Tolkien’s and Clyde’s approaching figures squeezing through the students to get closer.

Tolkien claps him on the back, and then squeezes his shoulder, a smirk wide on his lips as his eyes go from Craig to Tweek and then back again suggestively, all while Clyde just grins, unaware.

Fuck, Craig has to tell him.

Tweek blushes a bright red and Craig feels a twist in his gut that by now he’s come to learn is his body expression of feeling flustered.

“What’s up?” Tolkien asks, still smirking.

Craig rolls his eyes. “Tweek’s gonna fail Calculus.”

“Ack! I am not!” he snaps, and glares.

Craig only wants to kiss him even more now. He’s so fucked.

“Maybe Craig can help you with that too, he’s actually good with numbers!” Clyde interjects, innocently, and Tolkien coughs out a poorly disguised snicker.

Seeming surprised, Tweek blinks and turns back to him, a slow smile blooming across his lips. Under the flaps of his chullo, Craig’s ears rise in temperature and he shrugs— he could argue that someone else could do a better job, someone like Wendy or Tolkien; they both get better grades and actually pay attention during class, unlike Craig, who barely keeps his eyes open and then cram studies the books in his room a day before the tests. But why would he do that? He wants to have every excuse in the world to spend time with Tweek.

“M–maybe he can,” Tweek agrees, laughter clear in his eyes.

“Let's focus on getting you to pass the Spanish test for now,” Craig tells him pointedly.

Tweek blanches. “Ack! I need to go over my notes again!”

“You’ll do fine!” Tolkien reassures him confidently, but Tweek’s already booking it, pushing some freshman kid standing on the way to rush down the hallways, a “See you guys later” thrown over his shoulder.

They watch him go, Craig biting back an amused and charmed smile as he sees the blond curls disappear in the sea of students, and maybe he should feel a little guilty for making Tweek freak out, but he knows that he will, indeed, do a good job on the test anyways.

When the blond is completely out of view, Clyde turns to him, the look in his eyes is the closest representation of the stars-over-eyes emoji Craig has seen in real life.

“Dude! Did you see how he looked at you when I said that?” he gushes, excitedly like a puppy at the sound of the word treat. “He’s totally into you.”

Tolkien snorts, and Craig sighs, defeated. He’s gonna have to find the opportunity to tell Clyde, but if this is how he’s gonna react to a mere look from Tweek, then Craig figures he has to find a more secluded place to share the news. And he has to do that soon.

“You guys wanna swing by my job after school?”

With everything that had gone down, Craig has had enough in his mind that he completely forgets about the existence of other people outside of his life. He had been so focused on the last couple of days that he had completely forgotten about everything else, which is why it’s almost a shock when Stan comes to sit down next to him in World History, with a concerned look on his face.

“Hey,” he says, his bleached blonde hair still looks so awful Craig almost snorts all over again at the sight. “You good, man?”

“Uh, yeah,” Craig answers, and it sounds almost like a question. He just doesn’t understand why Stan Marsh is asking about his well-being like you’d ask a cancer patient.

The classroom is slowly starting to fill up, Craig looks around awkwardly, but there’s no sight of Mr. Wyland. Tolkien’s sitting on the front like usual, chatting with Wendy, the smile on his face is so soft Craig has to blink away from them. He wonders if Stan also notices it, if it bothers him.

“Good to hear, man,” Stan is saying quietly, which is out of character for him, enough so that Craig turns to him in confusion. “Just… what happened on Friday, I don’t remember a lot, but I saw the video, and–”

“Wait, hold on. The video?” Craig cuts him off, his heartbeat stumbling.

Now that Stan mentions it, when Craig thinks back on the party, he can recall, faintly, seeing Red standing there, in the midst of the crowd, with her phone out, clearly recording the fight between Tweek and Cartman. Craig had completely forgotten about that, too focused and worried on getting Tweek out of there as soon as possible that if Stan wouldn’t have brought it up, it would’ve gotten over his head completely.

Something must show on his expression, Craig can feel the blood leaving his face, his cheeks suddenly as cold as the weather outside, which makes Stan frown, worry coating his irises and he shakes his head in a rush to amend.

“It’s not like, out there,” he says quickly, like he can read Craig’s mind, like his fear is so palpable it's speaking its own language out loud. “I mean, Red didn’t post it or anything. She just showed it to me.”

It’s slightly consoling, his reassurance and Craig sighs, suddenly tired, suddenly exhausted.

Keeping stuff to himself has never been this stressful before, and okay, he knows— Craig knows this is solely because nothing of this magnitude has ever happened to him before. His life has always been unremarkable, one boring event after the other with days blending into each other as time passed him by silently and that had been his intention. Craig had always strived for staying on his lane, uninvolved in other people’s business simply because he couldn’t really bring himself to care.

But it’s different now.

He cares about Tweek, too much maybe; and he’s now front and center in the mess, because he’s poked a bear he maybe shouldn’t have, and it’s led him here— with stakes at play and shit to lose, and he is trying. Craig’s trying to convince himself he can put up with all of it, he can brush these moments of anxiety off like they never happened in the first place.

He’s not so sure if trying will be enough.

“Do you have it?” Craig asks.

Red is in this class, he’s almost sure that he’s seen her before, sitting with Heidi near the windows. But she’s not in the room when he looks around again, this time searching. There’s still a couple of minutes before the bell rings, but if Mr. Wyland shows up soon, Craig will be stuck, waiting until the entire class lets out to talk to her.

“No, she showed it to me on her phone.”

Well, at least she isn’t sending it around either, otherwise Craig’s sure it would’ve ended up posted on somebody’s Instagram story and consequently getting forwarded to every student in this goddamn school like two hours later.

Eyes glued to the door, Craig nods, and he can feel his leg starting to bounce under his desk, impatiently.

“Listen, uh…” Stan starts, and then coughs, like the words have physically gotten stuck to his throat. “What Cartman said, everything that happened, it’s all bullshit. Cartman isn’t even homophobic, he doesn’t actually believe any of the shit that comes out of his mouth, trust me, but he is an asshole and–”

“Why are you his friend then?” Craig hears himself snap, before he can think, almost giving himself whiplash with the speed in which he turns his head back towards Stan. “You know, you and Kenny… I don’t fucking get it. If you know Cartman is a fucking piece of shit, then why are you all up on his dick? The way you talk about him sounds like you hate him, and still you hang out with him like it’s nothing. You put up with all the shit that he says and does, watch as he tortures literally anyone that crosses his path, and do nothing about it. Why? Are you actually that fucking stupid?”

Stan, clearly caught off guard, blinks at him, wide–eyed and gaping.

It has to be some sort of twist from fate that, just at that moment, Craig sees a head of bright crimson hair walk through the door, and he’s on his feet before Stan can knock his remaining brain cells together and form a proper sentence in response.

Heidi, who has lately shown to be attached by the hip to Red, is the first to notice his approach, trailing off whatever it is she’d been saying to her friend to give him a quizzical look. It takes half a second though, for Red to follow her line of sight and notice him as well. Craig feels his stomach turn but figures it’s best to let them find their seats before he ambushes them, even when that means he has to awkwardly stand next to their desks as the girls make their way to him, sporting identical confused expressions.

There had been a time, back in middle school, when Craig had actually been pretty close to Red, right before she had started dating Kevin Stoley and the guy had thrown a hissy fit over their friendship, because Craig had been voted most attractive in the class, and obviously that meant that girls could no longer be friends with him.

They used to get along pretty well, Red had even watched The X–Files after he had pestered her for months, and in return, Craig had watched some of the weird movies she loved, with the blood and guts that he’s sure only her and Tricia can appreciate without him immediately fearing for his life.

“Hey,” he says, digging his hands inside the pockets of his jacket. “Can I talk to you for a second, Red?”

Heidi looks at her friend and then back at him, her eyebrows slightly furrowed. “What’s with you and making me move seats, Craig Tucker?”

That’s right, he’s done this before, but with Bebe instead. Craig shakes his head, starting to apologize, but Heidi grins, rolling her eyes at him like she can’t believe he’d think she’s genuinely upset over it.

“It’s okay, though,” Craig tells her, because he doesn’t care if she hears. He’s had enough of this shit already to bother. “You can stay, Heidi.”

The desks in front of them are still empty, Craig’s pretty sure it’s where Nichole normally sits with Millie Larsen. So, hoping that they’re running a little extra late, Craig takes one of the chairs and turns it around so that it’s facing the pair of girls.

“What’s up?” Red asks, as he sits down.

“Stan told me you have a video from Friday… of the fight,” he starts, his brain struggling to word what he wants to say without knowing exactly what it is that he wants out of her.

Red, as he imagined she would, gives him an expectant look back, waiting for him to continue; but Craig hesitates.

Does he want to watch the footage? No, not really. Does he want her to delete it? Sure, but he knows she won’t if he asks. Red isn’t the type to do what guys tell her to do, not after the whole mess with Kevin.

“I do,” she says, when he doesn’t continue. “But I’m not gonna post it or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. I only let Stan see it because he started to whine about missing out and how he wanted to see Cartman get his ass handed to him.”

From her seat, Heidi stares at him with a look he’s never seen on her face before; her eyes wide and shiny, almost like she’s gonna cry, her mouth glittery and pink with makeup, stretched into a barely–there smile, soft and sweet; Craig’s so shocked by the sight he does a double take.

“She’s gonna delete it!”

“Huh?” Red turns to her friend, looking as confused as Craig feels.

“It’s only right, don’t you think?” Heidi tells her, nodding her head enticingly. “Why keep it if you’re not gonna do anything with it? It’s fucked up we were even entertaining the fight in the first place, and the things Eric said about… well, it’s better to delete it, right?”

“Said about.” Right. Cartman had been talking shit in the first place, Craig remembers Kenny’s words telling him Tweek had jumped to fight to defend Craig, just like Craig had done so long ago now, but with everything that had happened over the weekend, Craig had completely forgotten about this as well.

“Wait, how much did you record?”

It’s not a good idea, Craig knows it, the rational part of his brain and his gut are immediately telling him to leave it alone; nothing Cartman can come up with about him matters, Craig couldn’t care less what the fat piece of shit says; but curiosity is stubbornly gnawing at him, itching at the palms of his hands even as he squeezes them into fists inside his pockets.

“Craig, I don’t think—” Heidi says, softly.

“The whole thing,” Red tells him, honestly. “I was recording Nichole doing shots for the first time and heard Cartman, so I kept filming.”

Heidi looks horrified. “Red.”

“Show it to me,” Craig ignores her, staring right at the frowning redhead instead. “Please.”

Red stares back; her brown eyes are insistent, her jaw is set, she looks at him like she’s trying to solve the worlds’ most complicated mathematical problem, focused intently on the expanse of his face, and Craig doesn’t even try to pretend to be cool about it. He’s not aware of what expression he might be wearing, and for once, he doesn’t care.

He’s so tired.

“Fine,” she huffs.

Heidi protests. “Red, you said—“

“If it was me in his place, I’d wanna know too,” the redhead does a ‘stop’ gesture with her hand at her friend, who immediately opens her mouth to protest again.

“This isn’t the way to deal with Eric,” Heidi says, now appealing to him. “You can’t give into his twisted games, this is what he wants. He wants to make you trip and lose your temper.”

She’s been there before, Craig remembers; she cares about this because she got hurt and doesn’t want him to go through the same. The sentiment is nice, and it makes Craig feel guilty for not being a better friend to her, if they even are friends.

What Heidi doesn’t take into account though, is that Craig is already in the mess, and he doesn’t want to play. He’s not going to lose his shit and beat up Cartman again, he’s not even sure if he’s even going to do anything about it. He just needs to hear it— whatever it is that had pushed Tweek into reacting like that, and he’s not even sure why either.

“I’m not gonna fight him again,” Craig reassures her, even promises. “I just want to know.”

Still seeming doubtful, Heidi shoots him a troubled look, her eyes have never looked more like those of a doe, but she doesn’t protest, just sighs defeatedly and nods.

Red relents, her shoulders deflating. “Tell you what, Craig. I’ll send it to you and then I’ll delete it from my phone. Okay?”

“Thanks,” he tells her, finally able to breathe an airfull into his lungs.

Red, satisfied by the agreement, takes her phone from the pocket of her purple jacket and starts tapping on the screen.

“You still got my number, right?” he asks, just as he spots Nichole coming through the door.

“Yeah, let me…” she trails off, tapping a couple more times and then scrolling. Craig’s own phone buzzes in his pants’ pocket. “There.”

Heidi looks over her friend’s shoulder attentively, as Red taps the device a few more times, and then turns it around in his direction. Craig looks at the screen and reads the red sign showing on it along the trash can symbol and the options to delete and cancel.

“You do it, so you’re sure it’s gone.”

Craig presses the red button, Red nods, taking her phone back and shoving it in her pocket again.

“Thank you.” he tells her, honestly, as he stands from the borrowed chair before Nichole can ask them about it.

“Sure. Fine. Whatever.” Red says, in a perfect quote of Scully, and Craig pauses, feeling his mouth shift into a smile.

Heidi looks between them, out of the inside joke of afternoons together on the Tucker’s living room couch, with Tricia and endless The X–Files dvd’s to keep them away from homework assignments and the cold of winter outside.

“Craig,” he hears Heidi call, as he starts to make his way back to his seat. “Be careful.”

Next to her, Red looks serious— no, she looks earnest. “And don’t do anything stupid.”

The morning drags by tortuously slow after that; Craig’s so distracted that he makes it to lunch time with no recollection of a single thing any of the teachers spent hours explaining at the front of the classrooms, the unease in his body spreading, turning dark and unavoidable, like a bruise. His cellphone is like a cinder block in his pocket, a constant, infuriating reminder he has to carry with him all morning, since he doesn’t get the opportunity to give in and look at the footage.

He sneaks out of his last class, only during the last couple of minutes, taking advantage of the amount of times Mrs. Streibel, who’s been dubbing as an English Teacher for months now, turns around to write things on the board. She doesn’t notice, and if she did, Craig’s not above lying about shitting his own pants and having to run out to the nurse’s office.

The only person who turns as he leaves is Kyle Broflovsky, who’s uncharacteristically sitting on the back as well, just close to the windows instead of the door, and for a second, Craig thinks he’s gonna get ratted out; he’s pretty sure Kyle hates his fucking guts, and if this had been a normal day, Craig’s a hundred percent sure Kyle would say something to get him caught, just because.

Apparently is not a normal day, because Kyle looks at him with a look in his eyes Craig can’t afford to figure out, and simply sighs, before turning around again to face their teacher, who keeps adding events to a long timeline she’s drawn, covering their latest reading assignment, A Hundred Years Of Solitude.

Once again, Craig is not going to look into a gifted horse’s mouth, no matter how much it irks him— he has other things to worry about.

Like the man on a mission that he is, Craig slips out of the room and dives into the hallways, bee-lining for his locker, where his backpack has been stashed earlier. He’s pretty sure he has a pair of wired headphones in there, thrown in the front pocket a million years ago, and never actually used before. He grabs them quickly, just in case some teacher decides to come into the hallway for some reason and catch him red–handed.

His first thought is to go to the library, because nobody ever goes there, especially when classes are still going on, but then he remembers Mrs. Conduct, the librarian who seems to hate every single student in the school, is there, and will definitely turn him in to the Principal for skipping.

There’s only one other place Craig can think to go.

He just hopes the room’s regular inhabitant isn’t there.

The second floor men’s bathroom is, thankfully, empty when Craig silently slips inside.

The room is disgusting, exactly as he remembers it from the last time he’s been in it, months ago. There’s a puddle of what smells and looks like piss on the floor leading to the dirty, browning urinals, and he almost gags when he pushes the first stall’s door open and finds what has to be a month old pile of shit in the toilet, the smell so potent tears spring immediately into his eyes.

Quickly stepping back and closing the chipped wooden door, he books it to the last cubicle, where the smell of tobacco is overpowering, and in comparison to the rest, feels like a breath of fresh air in his lungs. Kenny isn’t there, but there are obvious signs of his usual presence. The toilet is clean–ish except for the trails of ash inside the bowl, and there’s empty Marlboro boxes overflowing the plastic trash bin next to it, along with several cigarette butts and candy wrappers.

Craig steps inside, feeling like he’s intruding in a house he hasn’t been invited into, and he closes the stall door with the rusted metal latch. With the tip of his fingers, he carefully lowers the lid of the toilet seat so he can sit down on it, and blinks at the chipped paint springing off the inside of the door, his eyes trailing the different drawings Kenny has artistically left behind in marker— there’s several caricatures of different things, from a cannabis leaf with legs and a smiley face, to a pair of boobs, a dick with a pair of hairy balls, and finally, what appears to be a self–portrait of the blond, two X’s punched instead of his eyes.

It’s all weirdly detailed, including the vulgar ones, showcasing actual talent, and Craig finds himself distracted by it, going over the different song lyrics and stupid phrases Kenny’s plastered around the drawings with surprisingly legible handwriting, his eyes, for some reason, linger on the one with the drawing of what Craig can easily guess is Jesus Christ, a speech bubble next to his bearded face, Who are you? The scum of the earth; around it, like a bubble, a repetition of Friends are better with drugs and Drugs are better with friends.

Something stabs in his chest, and snaps Craig out of it. With a huff, he ignores the feeling altogether, pulling his phone out of his pocket to finally, at last, plug the earphones in the small hole at the bottom of the device, and with slightly trembling fingers, open Red’s message.

The preview for the video is innocent enough, a grinning Nichole in a Sailor Neptune costume, with two shot glasses in her hands. Craig takes a deep breath, and braces himself as his finger taps the screen over the grey play button.

The sound explodes through the headphones, making him wince and press the volume button to turn it down, a loud Tyler the Creator song starts playing in the background. Someone out of frame eggs Nichole on, and Red’s whooping cuts louder, from behind the camera, shaking the image slightly as the girl being filmed swings one of the drinks into her mouth, the translucent beverage almost invisible inside the glass.

“C’mon, chase it!” Bebe, Craig guesses, encourages the girl as she visibly cringes and coughs after swallowing.

On the edge of the frame, Craig spots Kenny, in his stupid Walter White costume, talking with a troubled looking Tweek, who fusses with the headband on his head and says something that makes Kenny shake his head, laughing. With the sounds of both the music and the girls’ goading, Craig can’t hear what the pair is saying.

Just then, when Kenny says something else, and pats Tweek on the shoulder, Craig spots Cartman’s approaching figure, and a sense of trepidation tilts his stomach sideways.

Stupidly, Craig has to hold back the urge to warn them about the guy’s presence, since neither of them takes notice of the clearly eavesdropping intruder as they continue to talk between themselves, Tweek’s face suddenly turning a deep red as Kenny slyly says something and cackles. A couple meters away, Cartman looks like he’s won the lottery.

On the center of the screen, the girls are done with cheering a victorious looking Nichole, who shows, proudly, the two empty glasses to the camera, and Red seems to notice the scene behind them, as she mutters something unintelligible to her friends and Nichole turns, alarmed, at the same time Red shakily zooms into the three guys.

“This can’t be good,” Craig hears Heidi mutter, and Red boldly breaks from the group to get closer to the ensuing scene.

With his heart galloping in his chest, Craig watches Cartman turn a sneer to the two boys, finally making his presence known.

“Aw! Did I hear that right, Tweek?” he sing–songs, so irritatingly Craig feels his own jaw clench. “You’re in love with Craig Tucker?”

Jumping a foot in the air, Tweek splutters a sound that must have hurt his throat, and Kenny’s smirk drops like the wax of a candle melting under a flame. Craig squeezes his free hand and rubs the clammy feeling of it against the denim of his pants, inside his chest, his heart has picked up its beating, like he’s running in the tracks instead of just sitting in a dirty bathroom stall.

“Shit,” behind the camera, Red curses under her breath and the rest of the girls gasp in surprise.

“Fuck off, Eric.” Kenny says, still looking spooked.

Tweek has visibly frozen on the spot, the skin of his face growing progressively greener as he stares at Cartman like one would look at a blood–covered ghost.

“C’mon, we’re all friends here, right?” Cartman brushes him off, his eyes not leaving the blond boy in front of him. “You know Tweek, I knew you had bad taste in guys, but Craig Tucker? Seriously?”

The despective tone in his voice as he says Craig’s name is almost palpable, and Craig should be irritated by it, but as he searches within himself, he finds that, just like that night, he doesn’t care. His attention is, once again, solely focused on the crumbling expression on Tweek’s face, his eye twitching visibly.

“Eric, back off!” Heidi’s voice cuts through the air, bravely. Craig feels a wave of gratitude course through his body, even if the bigger guy on the screen dismisses her with a simple, yet disdainful swat of his hand.

“Actually, I think I get it now,” Cartman exclaims, his joy sharp like a knife that slices through the tense air. “Your type, I mean. At first, I thought you were into Kenny here out of pity, but now, with Craig in the picture, I can see the pattern. You’re actually into pathetic retards!”

A silence falls, almost deafening despite the fact that the music coming from inside the house is still audible, and Craig watches, with nervous intensity, how Tweek’s eyes twitch, once, twice, three times in quick succession, and something in the tense line of his shoulders seems to snap, as he suddenly, with his mouth curled into a vicious snarl, throws his entire body weight on top of the bigger guy.

“Someone get Craig!” Heidi orders in a panicked shout, and immediately, at the edge of the screen, Craig spots Bebe rushing towards the back door of the house.

Cartman’s body hits the floor with a loud thump, and Tweek follows him down, straddling his big stomach as he throws his tightly curled fists directly onto Cartman’s nose and eyes. There’s a sickening crunch, right after Tweek lets out an animalistic growl rip through what seems the deepest part of his chest.

As if he’s the one being punched, Craig hisses and frantically locks the screen, vanishing the footage completely, and clumsily shoves the phone in his pocket. He’s seen enough, he thinks resolutely, as a wave of nausea wrecks sickeningly through his body. He can remember the rest.

Suddenly feeling claustrophobic, he rips both the hat off his head and the earphones out of his ears, before shoving himself out of the door, stumbling into the open space of the room.

A lump of something hard lodges itself in his throat, and refuses to go down as Craig tries to swallow. Gracelessly, his hips bump painfully into the wet edge of the counter ahead of the stalls, where a faucet creaks before sputtering out an embarrassingly small trail of water when Craig pushes the handle open.

Carelessly, he dips both hands into the weak spray, cupping as much of the liquid in his palms before splashing it onto the feverish skin of his face. The ice cold temperature of the water helps minutely, but it’s enough to make him repeat the action, over and over, until his cheeks cool down and his breathing slows into a less ragged shake of his lungs.

Leaning into the counter, Craig closes his eyes, or more like squeezes them shut, the skin of his lids aching with the force, but he ignores it; his mind snapping back into an image of his room, the stars on his ceiling, the number of them increasing as he goes over them. Twice. Three times.

“This is so fucked,” he mutters to himself, once he can catch his breath.

Outside the door, the bell that indicates the end of the period rings loudly through the hallways.

Craig stares at his reflection through the dirty mirror above the counter, at the flushed color of his cheeks and ears, the disheveled strands of his black hair, the wide circumference of his usually unimpressed eyes and knows— he knows this is his face, those are his dark eyebrows, that is the mole on his cheekbone, the line of his mouth and the crook of his teeth.

Craig knows he’s still himself, and he knows, as well, that he will never be the same.

Too focused on the sight in front of him has Craig jolting, slightly, at the sudden sound of the bathroom door getting pushed open.

“Craig?”

His neck aches as Craig turns to the side, in the direction of the voice. Kenny stands there, in his usual orange coat and ripped baggy jeans, staring at him like Craig’s grown a second head.

“At first, I thought you were into Kenny here out of pity” Cartman’s voice re-surges in Craig’s head, as he stares into Kenny’s confused eyes, and for a short, yet still terrifying moment, Craig can see himself snapping. He can see his own body jumping into action, he can feel the hard line of Kenny’s jaw clicking under the force of his fist, he can hear the crack of the bones in his knuckles colliding into Kenny’s face.

He needs to get out of there.

“Are you—?” Kenny starts, the confusion on his face quickly turning into unfamiliar concern.

Craig rushes out of the room, shouldering his way past the stumbling guy and letting the door slam closed behind himself.

Chapter Text

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

A freshman kid bumps into him in the hallway, making Craig stagger, and he quickly swerves out of the way.

It’s lunch time, he thinks, detachedly and aims for the stairs. Food is the last thing on his mind, but he can’t keep stumbling around like an idiot; Craig needs something to do that will make him feel like he’s not as lost as he currently feels.

He needs to see Tweek.

Someone’s elbow hits him on the ribs as Craig tries to open his way through the crowd of teenagers conglomerating in the halls, their chattering and loud laughter fraying on his nerves like a peeled wire. Scowling, Craig no longer cares if he steps on some toes as he maneuvers his awkwardly tall body around. Deliberately, he ignores a couple of sophomores who are making out against the right railing of the stairs, and books it. Ugh.

The line for the food is as long as usual, and the smell of hot grease and something extremely sweet combined makes his stomach churn, but Craig stands his ground, grabbing a plastic tray and craning his neck instead, in search of his friends— his phone buzzes just as he spots Tolkien and Clyde at their usual table, right before he can start to wonder about Tweek’s whereabouts.

tweek
I’m at thr librart
If yuo wanan join
:p

Heaving a sigh, Craig slips through the line, moving ahead some sophomore–looking kids standing in front of the sandwich bar. Usually he’s not in a rush to get the less–than–appetizing food from the cafeteria, so he’s never bothered to actually cut the line, but it doesn’t mean that he’s above doing it if he wants to. There’s a feeling under his skin, like a million ants are crawling all around his body, and if he has to stand there for any longer Craig might actually lose his mind, for real this time.

One of the boys, the tallest one of the group, exclaims something Craig doesn’t pay attention to, his voice indignantly rising above his friends’, and Craig turns to him, his temper rising into a simmer as he narrows his eyes and stares the kid down.

Maybe he actually looks intimidating, though Craig’s never even thought of himself in that way, or maybe his reputation of the one fight with Cartman precedes him— whatever it might be the case, it means that the kid’s face drains of any color, and his mouth, that had been curled into an annoyed sneer, snaps closed.

With barely any care, Craig grabs two slices of bread, slaps a slice of american plastic cheese on each one, then a single leaf of lettuce and lastly two slices of tomato before slapping the second piece of bread on top and squeezing it all together. When he turns to leave the line, he snatches an apple from the fruit pile that isn’t surrounded by flies and a bottle of water.

No one calls his name, nor tries to stop him, so Craig guesses his friend’s didn’t see him come in at all, and nobody really cares about the fact that he didn’t bother to pay for the food, though some of the kids still on the queue do throw him put–off glances, they’re easily enough to ignore as he rolls his eyes and walks out of the crowded room.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

The walk to the library feels both eternal and too–quick at the same time, and Craig only recalls the feeling of trepidation steadily building in his chest as he makes it closer to the room; his palms sweating around the lunch plastic tray, almost slipping from his grip, his stomach lurching as he unsteadily walks through the double doors and deliberately avoids Mrs. Conduct’s borderline hostile stare.

Naturally, because of the time, most of the tables are empty, students currently either in class or eating, so it doesn’t take Craig long to spot the only occupied spot, towards the back of the room, where Tweek’s golden hair shines from the window behind him, the snow outside brightening the room like a lighthouse lamp that remains fixed; Tweek the rock between the waves Craig’s going to knowingly crash into.

“Ack! Hey, you came,” the blond grins, his mouth wobbly with poorly concealed nerves. It really shouldn’t be this endearing.

“I—” Craig swallows, clears his throat, feels unsteady. “I brought you food.”

Tweek’s eyes widen, round and beautiful and so blue, Craig’s ears start ringing.

“You– jesus! You brought me food,” Tweek repeats, gaze bouncing between the poor excuse of a sandwich on the tray and Craig’s face.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

“Yeah, I did. I figured you’d skip lunch to study, so…” the tray hits the table as Craig almost loses his grip on it as he’s putting it down, right in front of Tweek’s loose papers, full of scribbles in both his and Craig’s mom’s handwriting. Do not think about it.

“Ack! That’s—” Tweek starts, then falters, his brows furrowing in concern. “Are you nngh okay?”

Belatedly, idiotically, Craig realizes he’s still hovering, his hands having migrated to the insides of his pockets without him even realizing it. His shoulders are hunched, hard enough for the muscles to ache when he finally catches himself and forces them loose. He can’t tell what his face is doing.

“No.” He wants to say. “Are you in love with Kenny?” He wants to ask.

Instead, carefully, Craig pulls the chair in front of him and sits down, looking down to Tweek’s notes again. He can’t do this now, even if he really wants to.

Some part of him, an unfamiliar, childish, deeply hidden corner of his, demands to make a scene; it wants the attention, for the first time in his life, Craig craves the drama, the reassurance that would come with it. He wants Tweek to deny it, he wants Tweek to stress and tell him are you crazy?! Of course not! I only want—

It disgusts him.

“What? I can’t do something nice for you?” Craig forces out, but it’s wrong.

As if the rug has been pulled from under his feet, he feels like he’s stumbling, the usual easiness in the control of himself— the tone of his voice, the expression on his face; it slips from his grip, Craig’s suddenly fumbling at the things he’s never struggled with before.

Something in his gut flips, Tweek’s wide, scared eyes dig holes into the skin of his face. Craig can’t even look back.

“Craig,” Tweek calls out, in a tone Craig has never heard before. “Are you ack! okay, man?”

The laces of his left boot are tied tighter than the right, Craig notes, his fingers curling into his palms at the impulse of redoing them. Tweek’s voice sounds melodical, like he’s talking to a frightened animal, like he can tell Craig is about to bite.

Are you in love with fucking Kenny McCormick?

“I’m okay,” Craig tells him, his jaw so tight he can hear his teeth click. His mom’s cursive is big and twirly on Tweek’s notes. “I’m okay.”

“Jesus! Craig.” Tweek deadpans, Craig sees the way his hands tense and release in sporadic twitching. It makes him bite his tongue.

It’s not the time, Craig knows, reminds himself with something big and heavy in his gut. If Tweek flunks the test because Craig’s being a selfish dickhead, he might actually never forgive himself for it, and the last thing he wants is to be the reason for Tweek to feel stressed out again.

Tweek had told him, the night they kissed for the first time, the time Tweek had kissed him, that he’d wanted to kiss Craig since he’d punched Cartman for him, months ago.

If Tweek had been in love with Kenny all this time, he’d never be doing this with Craig in the first place.

But then, the images of them, from before, show up in flashes in his brain. The way they were together, complicit and close and familiar, and it makes sense, in a sickening way in his gut. Craig can see them together, touching and kissing. God, he can fucking imagine Kenny’s smirk, smug and borderline mean.

“Leave.”

“Huh?!”

Craig’s eyes snap up to him, his entire body jolting like Tweek’s voice carries electricity. His heart stops, and he swears he hears a fucking record scratch when he sees Tweek’s expression, hard and serious.

“Jesus! Just— go away.”

“Wha–? Are you serious?” Craig hears himself stutter, like the pulse in his veins.

“Ack! Yeah I’m fuckinnnnngh serious!” he snaps, way too loud in the too silent room. Mrs. Conduct shushes them. “Get the fuck out!”

Blinking, Craig gapes stupidly at the blond in front of him, feeling disoriented, and confused, the rug pulled from under his feet, leaving his tripping on his own feet.

For a second, he thinks– hopes, that Tweek is somehow fucking with him, like some mistimed, bad joke, like he’s just trying to get under Craig’s skin, or test his reaction. But Tweek’s dead serious. His mouth set on a hard line, emphasized with the sharp edge of his set jaw, his eyes, despite the increasing twitching, are for the first time Craig’s ever seen them, unreadable.

He looks genuinely fucking pissed.

Craig forgets then, right in that same second, about everything that had been in his head. Tricia’s eyes, the stupid video, Cartman’s words, Kenny’s face. Tweek’s spasming hands make something dirty and wrong weight down in his chest, and Craig wants to throw up, he wants to take it all back, start the day all over again.

He’d been trying to avoid making Tweek upset, and he had failed miserably.

The urge to argue fills his mouth, or maybe it’s just all apologies, buzzing like a nest of bees buzzing in his cheeks and stinging to get out. Craig wants to stay, he wants to smile and joke and kiss Tweek, quiz him on vocabulary, offer to take the test in his place to make it up. But it’s obvious, and it’d be cruel, more cruel, to insist. His presence is making things worse. Craig’s triggering Tweek’s stressed reactions, he’s ruining the good thing they had kept going.

He has to go, even if he’d rather die than walk away.

It’s the least he can do, Craig thinks, as he numbly stands from his seat, the legs of the chair dragging with a jarring screech against the linoleum flooring. He should respect Tweek’s wish and give him space, no matter how gut-wrenching it feels to do so— he’s brought this to himself.

A hand, cold and sharp-nailed, squeezes painfully at his chest, and Craig stands there in place, stupidly hesitating for a moment, as he scrambles for something, anything, that could make things even slightly better. His eyes search for it, desperately bouncing over Tweek’s body, though he doesn’t know what he expects to find. Maybe a soft spot, or a tiny sign of mercy, but the blond only glares back, solid, gapless.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, barely managing to, around the lump in his throat.

Tweek looks down at the papers on the table, a dismissal as clear as fucking day.

With his heart in his throat, Craig has no other choice but to walk off.

“Hey, bro! Hold up!”

There’s a hand on his shoulder, making Craig almost jump out of his skin. He hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings, making his way down the once again full hallways, his mind running laps around the events of this particularly horrible day. He kept going back to the library though, lingering there, on the memory of Tweek’s stoic face, the hurt in his big, blue eyes. It was self–flagellation, the way Craig purposefully brought it back up, the image bringing constant waves of nausea in his gut, increasing in size like a tide rising bigger, and bigger. He deserves to drown in it, after all.

It had taken everything in him to stop his feet from turning back, lead his body on autopilot back into the room, beg Tweek to talk to him, or even just let him stay.

Clyde’s squeezing his shoulder now, waving his other hand in front of Craig’s face, a worried frown twisting his features. Craig snaps back into reality abruptly with a series of blinks and a shake of his head.

“You good, man?” Clyde asks, concern dripping in his tone. “Where were you?”

“I—” Craig hears himself mutter, his voice raw like his throat’s been filled with sand. “I’m fine.”

Something must show on his face, or maybe nothing shows and that’s telling enough, because Clyde lets him go then, and Craig takes the opportunity to look away, eyes locking ahead, as he starts walking again.

His best friend follows close by, their shoulders brushing, or more like Clyde’s shoulder brushing Craig’s bicep, thanks to their height difference, but the contact is enough to keep him from going back into his head.

“Did something happen?” Clyde asks, tentatively. Craig almost doesn’t hear the question over the murmur of the crowded building. “You didn’t show up at the cafeteria.”

The last thing he wants right now is to talk about it. Not at school, not around all of these people, not when the mere thought of even saying Tweek’s name feels like thorns lodging in his throat. Craig opens his mouth, a dismissal ready at the tip of his tongue, pushing against his teeth, but then he catches sight of Clyde’s face, and the kindness of his round, brown eyes.

All impulse to brush it off dies right there and there, even when they’re still moving forward, shouldering their way open in constant motion. Craig can’t lie to him. He can’t make the same mistakes over and over again.

But he can’t bring himself to let it out either.

“Did you even eat something, man?”

Food is the last thing in his mind. His stomach is in enough knots already to even think about it. But the question still manages to make him exhale, the beginning of a laugh, because of course that’s what Clyde would want to know. Craig’s mouth twitches, a failed attempt at a smile, and he shakes his head, this time somehow feeling lighter.

“I’m good. Don’t worry.”

They climb the stairs to the second floor, Clyde trailing patiently half a step behind, like he knows this is one of the times he can’t shove himself into the conversation, like he can tell. It shouldn’t surprise him.

“I have to take the Spanish test,” Craig tells him, clearing his throat. “I’ll talk to you later.”

For a moment, Clyde’s gaze turns conflicted, like he wants to insist, but then he sighs, at last, and nods. “You still want us to swing by the store after class?”

“Yeah, I’ll tell you there.”

“Okay, man,” Clyde trails off, as they come to a stop outside Mr. Hernandez’ classroom.

Peering inside, it doesn’t take long for Craig to spot him.

Tweek’s already sitting at a desk, not his usual one, next to Craig, towards the middle of the room. The blond’s settled at the back, looking frazzled as he shuffles through more papers, a concentrated furrow on his brow. Craig’s heart trips at the sight of him. And then his eyes shift to the right, where Kenny carelessly lounges on the seat next to him.

Clyde says something, but the words fail to register in Craig’s brain. His eyes are suddenly glued on the pair of blondes, zeroing on the details he can suddenly spot— Kenny’s knee nudging into Tweek’s thigh, the arm that drapes, carelessly, thoughtlessly across the back of Tweek’s chair, the fucking fingers, that deftly, playfully, pull on Tweek’s hair to make him startle, punch a fist into a cackling chest.

Someone shoves him forward, probably cursing him for standing like an idiot under the door, blocking the way for everyone else. Craig’s neck snaps to the side, and he finds Kevin Stoley’s stupid face, of course. His glare is enough to make the sneer drop from the boy’s face.

It makes him move though, despite the ringing in his ears and the sour taste in his mouth. Craig robotically makes his way inside, and drops in his usual seat. He stares at the wall ahead and replays everything all over again, from the start, until Mr Hernandez is suddenly there, slapping a sheet of paper on his desk, talking to the class about rules and warnings and threats of detention.

Who would have thought that he, out of all people, would be able to flunk Spanish?

“Mr. Tucker.”

The man hovering over his desk shakes his head, his hands set at his hips like a disappointed father catching his kid doing something bad. Craig blinks up, Mr. Hernandez stares down at him with a mix of confusion and what seems like concern.

“Se acabó el tiempo, Craig.”

Feeling like he’s underwater, Craig turns on his seat slowly, almost fearfully, and looks around the room, one side and then the other. The last few of his classmates are already trailing out the door, backpacks on their shoulders, quiet muttering to each other. He notices, first and foremost of course, that Tweek is long gone. It’s not a surprise, yet it still makes his stomach drop.

Mr. Hernandez clears his throat, impatiently, and holds out a hand. Craig looks at the test on his desk, eyes trailing the sheet of paper that’s less than halfway done— he barely remembers scribbling down a quarter of those answers. Under the flaps of his chullo, Craig’s ears burn.

“Perdón,” he mutters, handing the test over.

The man plucks it out of his hand in a swift movement, and as soon as Craig registers the fact that he’s actively reading through it right there in front of him, he springs into action.

Craig grabs his backpack off the floor, throws in the ballpoint pen he’s been holding this entire time like a lifeline, and clumsily works the zip up. He almost makes it out of his seat, eyes set on the door, but the teacher is faster, easily sidestepping into Craig’s way, stopping him right on his tracks.

“And what am I supposed to do with this, Mr Tucker?”

I don’t care, Craig thinks, staring impassively back at the man. He digs his hands roughly inside the pockets of his jacket, his fingers immediately curling into fists. It’s not anger that swarms, buzzing and eager, inside his veins, but something similar— a mix, maybe, of impatience and frustration. Craig’s gaze flickers, from the man’s serious face, to the sight over his shoulder, where the exit is there, open and waiting. He feels like a caged animal. He wants to run.

“I don’t know,” he croaks, when Mr. Hernandez doesn’t budge.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” the man asks, eyebrows arching. “I don’t know?”

Craig feels something tick, tension drawing tight inside his shoulder. “I’m gonna be late for work.”

“School is more important.”

“Mr. Hernandez, you have my test, so I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

He must sense something, or notice the tight edge of his voice, because suddenly, Mr. Hernandez goes from wary and strict, to the planes of his face turning into something new, something softer, tired. “Are you okay, Craig?”

His nails dig in his palms. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You can talk to me, if you don’t want to see Mr. Mackey.”

“I do bad on some test and it means I have something fucked up going on?”

“It’s not some test,” Mr. Hernandez doubles down. “You should’ve aced this in, what, ten minutes? So you either failed on purpose for some stupid reason, or something is troubling you. And judging by the way you just sat there for thirty minutes staring off into space, I’d say it’s the second option.”

Craig frowns, his resolve faltering, defeat washing over him in waves, for being called out, for being read so easily by a person who barely even knows his name. To make matters worse, Mr Hernandez notices this too, the change of his posture, the loosening of his jaw.

“How do you know I could’ve aced it?”

It’s a whole lot of confidence, based on very scarce proof. Craig has never gotten anything higher than a B minus in this class, he remembers clearly, because he’s intended it to be this way. He never wanted Mr. Hernandez to know that he’s fluent at the language, Craig would have hated the attention, he would have feared the special treatment. He’s been trying, and succeeding, all his life, to stay under the radar.

The teacher frowns, this time a bigger, more worried gesture. “Craig, we’ve been speaking Spanish this whole time.”

Ah.

Going through the motions, Craig pushes forward. He makes it out of school after ten more minutes of deflecting Mr. Hernandez’ attempts to dig for information about his wellbeing, not surprised in the least to see the parking lot mostly empty and covered with steady–falling snow. Craig gets in his car after cleaning off the white blanket on top of the front of the vehicle, defrosting the windows and mirrors, and slowly makes his way to work. He’s in such a bad mood he grumbles at the sound of the radio turning on alongside the engine, and immediately turns it off, preferring to sit in his own suffocating silence than listen to anything that could potentially hit too close to home. He’s made that mistake before.

When he finally makes it, and parks outside the store, it takes everything in him to stay on his lane, when his entire body is aching to say fuck it and cross the street in search of Tweek. He sits on the driver’s seat for a couple of seconds, not daring to look outside the window, because he knows he’s gonna zero right towards the coffee shop. He’s scared of spotting Tweek, he’s scared of running over there and getting shot down again. He’s scared of feeling the anger again, of resenting Tweek.

Banging, sudden and loud, on the passenger’s side window startles Craig out of his thoughts, catching him by surprise and making him jolt. He whips around, alarmed, and relaxes immediately, when he sees none other than Clyde and Tolkien there, motioning him to hurry up and get out.

“Dude, we were freezing our balls off out here!” Clyde whines, as Craig climbs out of the car and hurries towards the sidewalk, where his friends stand.

“My bad, sorry.” he mutters, fishing the keys out of the pockets of his jeans and shouldering the store’s door open as fast as he can.

“Where were you?” Tolkien asks curiously.

“School,” he shrugs, shaking the snow off his feet on the small rug in front of the entrance. “Got held up by Mr. Hernandez.”

I forgot you guys were coming, he doesn’t admit. I can’t keep a single train of thought for more than five minutes.

Craig can practically hear the concerned glances his friends throw at each other behind his back, but at this point, he can’t bring himself to give a shit. Instead, he focuses on performing the usual routine that comes with opening; turning on the lights, booting up the system, checking on the heating, all while his friends linger around, watching him silently.

When he’s done, and everything’s running correctly, Craig finally allows himself to breathe, his still cold hands rubbing the skin of his face before facing both boys directly. Clyde looks up, the Black Eyed Peas CD in his hand suddenly forgotten at the sound of his groan. Tolkien just leans on the counter, patiently.

“I fucked things up,” the words spill from Craig’s mouth, like a dam suddenly fracturing. He’s too tired to beat around the bush. “Again.”

“Okay,” Tolkien breathes, and then eyes at Clyde. “Maybe start at the beginning.”

Right.

Craig takes a deep breath, bracing himself, before facing his other friend directly. “Clyde, I love you man, but I need you to be chill about this, okay?”

The brunet looks confused but intrigued as he walks closer, joining Tolkien to lean on the counter as well, right across from Craig. “What’s going on?” he asks nervously.

“Tweek and I kissed, and I think we’re dating,” it feels good, to let it out just like that. Until, of course, he has to add. “Or we were dating, before I fucked things up. Again.”

If it wasn’t for the horrible, tired feeling in his bones, Craig would’ve found the situation a hundred times more humorous than this.

The emotions that pass through Clyde’s open face are too many and too fast to count. Craig’s pretty sure his best friend goes through the five stages of grief, twice, in such a quick succession he must be giving himself whiplash. His mouth stretches on a grin that quickly falters and shifts into a pout, and then opens into a gape, like a fish ripped out of water.

“I– whe—? Wha—? How—?” he stammers, looking pale and wide–eyed. “Okay. Pause.”

Craig gives it a second, because he’s pretty sure that he’s gonna get a response, despite his request for him to stay cool. He knows asking Clyde to not overreact is like putting a bull in a china shop, asking pretty please for it to stay put.

It is amusing, Craig has to admit, when Clyde starts doing breathing exercises, telling himself inhale exhale in whispered commands, the intakes of air loud in the room. Tolkien hides a grin behind his hand.

“Okay, okay. Okay. Uh—”

“What did you do?” Tolkien cuts in with a humorous roll of his eyes.

“I was freaking out because I think Tricia knows, about… us. And then I saw the video of the party, and what Cartman said, and I think Tweek likes Kenny, like, likes him for real. And— I got jealous,” that part, the stupidest of all, it feels mortifying to say out loud, but Craig can’t keep it in. “Then Tweek kept asking me what my problem was, and I lied and he got pissed at me and kicked me out of the library and wouldn’t even look at me in Spanish class.”

When he says it out loud, it sounds stupid, like he’s being overdramatic, and to be fair, maybe he is. But Craig feels bad, and he’s never felt bad to this level— he’s never felt this heartache before, the guilt of upsetting Tweek right before the test he cared so much about, the stupid, petty jealousy of seeing him with Kenny, the fear of being found out by Tricia, of what would happen if she told. It’s just one thing over the other, conflating and blistering and pulsing like suffocating pressure about to burst.

Silence befalls in the room, not heavy or tense, but contemplative, and a little impatient but that might be just from his part. Craig looks at both his friends, both his friends look at each other. Tolkien,as always, is the first one to sigh.

“Alright,” he starts, patiently. Craig feels like he’s about to be scolded by a parent. “Let’s go over each point. One at a time.”

Clyde nods sagely, like he had the idea as well. “Right. Right. That’s smart, dude! Does Tricia actually know?”

Craig wants to lie to them, in order to lie to himself. There wasn’t a confirmation, nothing close to one, but he can’t keep turning a blind eye to it anymore. He knows Tricia, he knows the look she had on her face, it isn’t just plain paranoia. She definitely figured it out, Craig can feel it in his gut. “I’m like, ninety percent sure she does.”

“Okay, so she knows. What’s your problem with that?” Tolkien asks, he’s progressively sounding more and more like a therapist. “Do you think she’ll tell?”

It is Craig’s fear. The mere thought of it makes nauseating apprehension twist deep inside his gut, and that’s part of the problem because he doesn’t think Tricia would. He actually knows she won’t tell— sure, she might be mean, and annoying, and a little bit of a bitch, but she’s his sister, and despite the pettiness, and the arguments, she would never do anything to get him in that type of trouble.

The panic he feels at the thought of her knowing, though… it takes over, it overrides any logic, makes Craig feel like he’s a prey animal getting actively hunted for sport. His heart, just now, spikes slightly just by considering it.

“I don’t think she would, man.” Clyde says, when Craig just blinks. “I mean, she’s your sister, she loves you!”

“I– No, she wouldn’t tell,” Craig concedes, dragging in a breath, letting it linger in his lungs.

“I think,” Tolkien starts, soft and kind like Craig’s gonna flee out the window. “That you’re just overwhelmed and everything feels a hundred times worse than it really is.”

Clyde nods. “Totally.”

“If you’re really scared that Tricia will say something, just talk to her, hearing it from her mouth will make you feel better.”

“Exactly!”

It’s true, Craig guesses, with a defeated sigh.

As much as he doesn’t want to have the conversation, the rational part of his brain knows that actually getting a confirmation, a promise, that nothing bad is going to happen would help his panic. It has come to the point that Craig would rather have a fucking heart-to-heart than feel like he’s gonna fall off a cliff just walking around his own house.

“Yeah, I guess… it’s just that, you know, it’s hard for me to talk about this shit.”

“Craig,” Clyde, taking them by surprise, is the one to take the reins. Looking at him dead serious. “Do you wanna be with Tweek? Like, seriously be with him?”

It’s scary, scarier than the whole Tricia thing, the fact that the answer springs, loud and clear, to the tip of Craig’s tongue. But even if it was different, even if Craig was still in denial about it, his actions, the way he’s felt throughout the day today, it’s all irrefutable proof that he cares. He cares so much about Tweek he can’t even pretend he doesn’t.

The thought of things staying like they are right now, with Tweek avoiding him, laughing with Kenny and glaring at Craig, keeping him away—

“Yes.”

For a second, he thinks Clyde’s gonna get sidetracked. At the sound of his reply, the brunet’s eyes lit up like a sky full of stars, but then he composes himself, against all odds. “Then you have to be willing to be vulnerable.”

“Damn, Clyde,” Tolkien huffs, looking as impressed as Craig feels. “It’s still kind of scary when you do that.”

Clyde’s face turns bright red, a perfect match to his letterman jacket. “I’ve been going to therapy since I was ten, it just comes out!”

For the first time in long long hours, Craig feels himself smile. A warm wave of appreciation spreading through his limbs. “You’re right, though.”

“Now that that’s out of the way,” Clyde swats his hand in the air, hurriedly brushing it off. Tolkien sends him an amused look. “You need to apologize to Tweek.”

“Yeah, man.”

“Look, I know feeling jealous sucks, especially because of Kenny, that asshole is always flirting with Bebe, so I get it. But trust me, bro. You have nothing to worry about.”

When Clyde puts it like that, it makes sense, because Craig’s sure he’s seen Kenny flirt with literally every person in their class, himself included. And Cartman could’ve been lying out of his ass when he’d said that to Tweek. It’s just that Craig has never liked anyone this much before, and combined to the whirlwind of emotions he’d been dragged through, he’d definitely overreacted.

But there’s also something there, a tiny voice in the back of Craig’s head that’s clinging to the idea of it. Call it paranoia, or call it intuition. He doesn’t like it one bit. Kenny’s flirty, he’s invasive and funny and charismatic, but with Tweek, he’s all of those things, amped to a ten.

“You don’t see him like we do,” Tolkien butts in. “The way Tweek looks at you… he’s not thinking of anybody else but you, dude.”

Stupid or hopeful, Craig figures he has to take a gamble. And he chooses to believe.

Chapter Text

“we’re small and
flawed, but I want to be
who I am, going where
I’m going, all over again.”
—Ada Limon, The Problem With Travel.

“Are you going now?” Tolkien asks, as Craig locks the door to the store.

It’d been nice of them to stay with him throughout the length of his shift, their company keeping him entertained and making the afternoon pass faster, especially since, thanks to the weather and the general consensus of the world moving past the urge to own physical media; no customers had ventured into the store. They talked more about things, which made Craig feel a lot lighter, and then quickly moved on to complaining about school and then naturally, arguing about musical choices— Clyde whining until Craig conceded and accepted his requests, much to Tolkien’s dismay. Thanks to him, the three of them are gonna have “My Humps” by the Black Eyed Peas stuck in their heads for the next coming week.

Across the street, Tweek Bros. stands as usual, lights on and doors closed to shield away the freezing evening air. Craig blinks at it, nerves swarming his chest, and sighs. He had tried before, thinking it’d be a good idea, to text Tweek, test the waters a bit, but Clyde, with Tolkien’s support, had quickly shot that idea down.

Yes, Craig knows it’s always better to apologize in person, it shows you care, and that you’re committed to making things right, it’s just that he’s been growing restless, impatient to fix things. He’s been dying to hear from Tweek again.

“Yeah, I’m going.”

“Attaboy!” Clyde cheers him on, giving him a good-natured clap on the back. “Go get your boyfriend.”

Tolkien chuckles, and Craig rolls his eyes, but inwardly, a part of him feels excited hearing the words. They haven’t used any terms that have nowhere near the big meaning that particular one does, but Craig wouldn’t mind getting there someday, sooner rather than later if it was up to him. Before that, though, he needs to make sure Tweek’s on the same page.

“Okay, we’ll leave you to it,” Tolkien throws his arm over Clyde’s shoulder, dragging him towards him. “Good luck, Craig.”

“And let us know how it goes!”

A sudden wave of gratitude shakes him, as he watches his best friends walk away, trudging through the snow–covered sidewalk laughing and holding onto each other, Tolkien joking about something along the lines of Clyde being the romance expert and Cupid’s next apprentice.

If it weren’t for them, Craig can’t imagine what the rest of the day would’ve looked like for him. He feels guilty for taking them for granted again, shutting himself off when they’re so willing to extend a helping hand whenever he needs it.

Craig has to do better. On everything.

“Guys,” he calls out, before they make it too far, and almost trips on the icy asphalt in the rush to get closer. The pair of boys stop on their tracks, turning around with matching confused smiles. “Thank you, for everything. I know I can be…”

“Emotionally constipated?” Clyde supplies, grinning like the cat that got the cream.

“Yeah,” Craig smiles, because it’s just the truth. “And you’re there for me every time, I really appreciate it. So, thanks. I– I love you.”

Tolkien coos, mocking, but not meanly. “Aw! He’s going soft!”

Clyde stays quiet for a second, and Craig can see how the words register in his brain, his face going bright and cheerful before his bottom lip starts wobbling. Craig knows that look, even when it’s been a while since he’s seen it. He braces himself, taking a breath and stepping firmly on the ground before, as he guessed correctly, Clyde springs into action, throwing his weight on him, wrapping his arms around Craig’s biceps, crushing him into a hug.

“We love you too, bro!” he wails, and funnily enough, uses one of his hands to pull Tolkien in as well, until it’s the three of them, squeezed together in the middle of the sidewalk in a very tight, kind of teary hug.

Craig’s pretty sure the loud popping sound he hears come from his spine, but he doesn’t complain. The warmth is nice.

“I’m so sorry for the inconvenience,” Tweek’s mom says, as soon as Craig wobbly makes it inside the coffee shop. “But we can’t serve you, we close in five minutes.”

“Hi,” he mutters awkwardly as he makes it to the register she stands behind, ripping the chullo off his head. The woman hasn’t even looked at him yet, her eyes focused on counting cash from the machine. “I’m not- Actually I came to see Tweek. Is he… uh, still here?”

The words seem to be enough to stop her working, though, as she immediately looks up with a puzzled look on her face, right before recognition strikes and her eyes soften. Her smile is as kind as the last time he’s seen it.

“Oh, Craig!” she exclaims in surprise. “I didn’t see you, sorry, sweetheart!”

Opening his mouth to give a polite reply, Craig’s voice dies in his throat when the door on the furthest wall behind the counter slams open, a worn out looking Tweek emerging, his left hand rubbing his right shoulder with a pained expression on his face.

“Mom, can we please just nnngh start dividing the beans into smaller bags before asking me to move them, they’re too-” he makes a choked sound, eyes widening when his gaze finally lands on Craig. “Ack! You’re- here.”

The first thing Craig notices, as Tweek comes closer and he gets to have a better look, is that Tweek seems tired; the blue of his irises dull under the lights of the store, the shadows under his eyes. The next thing that he sees, is that Tweek’s still fucking pissed.

As soon as their eyes meet, the blond is closed off, crossing his arms across his chest, setting his jaw, his mouth a heartbreaking set line.

Feeling his resolve waver, Craig clears his throat. “Can we talk?”

“Now you wanna nnngh talk?” Tweek shoots back, cocking his head.

“Sweetheart,” Mrs. Tweak butts in, and both of them jolt, suddenly realizing she’s still there. “We didn’t raise you to speak to your friends like that, now did we?”

“Jesus! Mom, please-” Tweek whines, embarrassed, his cheeks blooming red.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Tweak. I deserve it.” Craig tells her.

“Ack! He does.”

“Nonsense,” she shakes her head, a manicured hand reaching for her son’s shoulder. “Tweek, your friend wants to talk to you, and you will hear him out. He’s come all the way out here in the snow to see you..."

"He works across the nnngh street!" Tweek protests.

"The least you can do is give him your time.” the woman continues, without missing a beat.

“But ack! I haven’t finished-”

“You can do it tomorrow, sweetie.”

At this, Craig realizes he’s missing out on something there, a family dynamic he’s not familiar with, because Tweek’s entire demeanor changes, just like that. He blinks, his eyes big and suddenly alive, looking back at his mom like she’s just told him he’s won the lottery, his hands fly from being crossed to untying the straps of his apron around his waist.

“Dad’s not gonna ack! get mad for this, right?”

“Honey, you have a cute boy coming here to talk to you, your father will understand.”

“Jesus Christ! Mom!” Tweek’s face turns impossibly redder, and Craig has to dig his teeth on the inside of his mouth to keep himself from laughing. If he did, he’s pretty sure Tweek would bite his head off.

“You go now,” Mrs. Tweak shoos him. “And be nice, alright?

Not needing any further encouragement, Tweek stomps off, grumbling something under his breath, eye twitching. Craig stares as he steps through the door he’d originally appeared from.

Awkwardly, Craig gives the woman a tight lipped smile, shifting on his feet. The weight of her gaze is intense, like she’s trying to memorize the planes of his face, or read his mind, which is divided, battling over whether he should thank her for helping him out or just shutting the fuck up in case Tweek can hear them.

“Have some patience with him,” she says, at last. “He’s a sweet boy, he just gets a little stubborn sometimes and he likes you a lot. You do know he likes you a lot, right?”

From the opposite side of the room, Tweek comes loudly through a different door, clumsily shoving his arm through the sleeve of his jacket and holding his backpack with his other hand, clearly desperate to get out and leaving no time for Craig to process the woman’s words.

How does she-?

“Okay, Craig’s gonna nnngh give me a ride, I’ll see you at home.”

I am? Craig thinks, feeling stupidly giddy and hopeful. Tweek, once again, leaves no time to confirm, just walks past him and out the main entrance, not even sparing him a second glance.

Of course, Craig will follow.

“It was nice to see you again, sweetie! Come by again when we’re open and give our drinks a try.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Tweak,” he tells her over his shoulder, already trailing behind her son.

By the time he’s outside, Tweek is already crossing the street, feet stomping the ground as he rushes over to the car while trying not to slip and fall on the icy road. Craig follows behind him, clumsily fishing the car keys out of his pocket to unlock the doors before Tweek has to stand there in the cold waiting for it to be open.

The air inside the car is warmer, and still, Craig waits no time to turn on the engine and adjust the heated breeze coming from the vents, but despite the temperature, he can still feel the tension, the silence is almost deafening, it hangs over their heads like a threat.

Hesitantly, Craig looks over to the passenger seat, letting his eyes roam over Tweek’s strained body language, his shoulder squared, his spine pin straight against the back rest. He can only see the side of his face, since the blond has his gaze fixed ahead, not even faltering even though Craig is pretty sure he has to feel his stare on him.

The yellowish light of the street lamps bathes the blond warmly, strands of his hair glinting golden when it catches, but his expression is firm, hard–set like stone.

He’s so pretty still, pale and freckled and smooth. Craig’s heart is caught in his throat.

He wants to speak, the amount of words that wanna spill out of his mouth pile up and up and up, they fill his mouth and push his teeth, but there’s no air in his lungs, there’s no sound coming out.

Craig’s frozen, unsure like a timid child, suddenly feeling small and looking up, Tweek a sky giant that won’t even spare him a side glance.

“Just nngh drive.”

So, Craig does just that.

The journey to Tweek’s house is long and quiet. Craig gives up on trying to come up with the words two streets in, and Tweek doesn’t speak again after his command. Neither of them make any attempt to put music on, so it’s just the sound of the engine and the crunch of the snow under the wheels.

It’s hard to be optimistic when Tweek stares ahead the entire time, like Craig doesn’t exist, but he tries to anyway. Maybe it’s too soon, Craig thinks to himself. Maybe Tweek needs more time to himself to cool off, and he has to organize his thoughts so he can figure out the best way to apologize and try to make things better.

But as time progresses, and the distance between them and Tweek’s house grows smaller and smaller, Craig starts to feel restless again.

He’s mad, he finds; angry, and that doesn’t help him keep calm at all. Craig is pissed, because this is all his fault, everything always seems to be his fault.

Every time he thinks he can make it work out, there he goes again and fucking it up, making Tweek upset, feeling like an asshole.

Maybe he shouldn’t try anymore. Maybe Craig should just leave things off where they are, let Tweek go so he can be happy with someone else. Someone more experienced, someone less emotionally constipated, like Clyde had rightly said. He’s never seen Tweek get mad at Kenny, not really anyways. Maybe they should be together instead.

The mere thought is enough to make him fucking sick.

Craig is so caught up in his own spiraling that he almost drives past their destination, snapping back to attention just as he sees Tweek’s house standing out on the row of light colored buildings next to it. He has enough time to slowly drop the speed, and come to a smooth stop outside, a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding punching out of his lungs, the death grip of his fingers on the steering wheel releasing, only a numb ache left behind.

“C’mon,” Tweek grunts, grabbing his backpack and pulling on the door handle to open it.

The sudden sound of his voice startles him; Craig had expected the blond to just walk out, without looking back.

“Huh?” he hears himself question, stupidly.

For the first time since they’ve been alone, Tweek’s eyes fall on him, an exasperated edge sharp on his irises. He huffs impatiently, and climbs out of the vehicle, but then he turns, leaning down to look at Craig, who’s still frozen in place.

“You wanted to nngh talk, so… let’s go.”

Gaping, confused and incredulous, Craig’s brow furrows, and he mentally slaps himself when he feels the first impulse to argue against it, the defeated voice in his head trying to take over and let the opening go to waste.

“Hurry up. I’m ack! freezing.” Tweek says, and then closes the door.

Like a dog being offered a bone, Craig scrambles with his seat-belt, before following behind, the resolve he’d felt before long gone and abandoned, as his heart resumes its beat of hope.

By the time he makes it to the front door, Tweek’s already inside, waiting for him, before closing it behind his back. His face is less strained now, and he motions to the stairs down the small hallway that leads to the living room. Craig follows him, hands squeezed into fists by his sides. The last time he was here, everything had felt like a dream.

Tweek’s bedroom is… an interesting sight.

It’s big, probably double in size than Craig’s, he has a Queen’s size bed, loosely made with a green, plush comforter and an array of pillows— that’s mostly where the order ends. Clothes are strewn over the surface and over the chair of his desk, papers full of scribbles and twisting handwriting on the floor. There’s a keyboard on the corner, books piled next to it, a shelf over it exhibits a couple completed Lego builds, one of a very impressive tree-house standing out in its towering size. Craig almost trips on what he guesses is Tweek’s gym bag, boxing gloves hanging from the straps, discarded carelessly next to the door.

“It’s a nnghh mess, don’t look too much,” to his surprise, Tweek seems embarrassed, as he starts frantically gathering the clothes from the bed in piles.

“I don’t care,” Craig tells him, still hovering in front of the closed door.

“Well, ack! not all of us are as cool and nnngh disinterested as you,” Tweek mutters, throwing the laundry into a hamper next to the closet door.

The whole thing tips over with the weight and force Tweek uses.

Craig frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Tweek stares at the collapsed tower of clothing, and for a second, Craig’s convinced he’s gonna kick it, or scream, or both. He watches, with bated breath, as the blond, with his shoulders almost up to his ears, twitches, hands spasming at his sides, one of them rising to his head, his long fingers catching a strand of his hair.

Self control, thankfully, wins over, but guilt still swells in Craig’s chest, leaving him nauseous. Tweek takes a loud intake of air, torso expanding with the big mouthful of oxygen, and then slowly lets it out. He does it two more times, shoulders slumping after the first, and finally, turns around. His blue eyes pin Craig to the spot, still at the door.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last, before Tweek can argue again. “Tweek, I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I keep doing this.”

His voice, even to his own ears, sounds strange, like a wound given a sound.

It’s like something breaks— a crack and then it’s over. The fracture bursts, and Craig’s swept under, dragged by the fucking feet. He can hear himself, belatedly, as his words grow legs and run out of his mouth, shooting into the air and visibly stunning Tweek, whose face falls immediately upon impact, a mix of shocked horror and something smaller, open and gaping, behind it.

“I keep upsetting you, even when it’s the last thing I want to do… I- didn’t mean to make you mad at the library. I wanted to see you so bad, and then I just- I was freaking out about Tricia, because I’m pretty sure she figured it out, and then everything started feeling huge, and horrible, and nervewracking, and you asked if I was okay and I just didn’t have the heart to tell you, because I knew how much work you put into studying and I didn’t wanna stress you out, but of course you could tell that something was going on, and you’re totally right for being mad at me, because it’s not the first time I’ve taken things out on you, but Tweek it wasn’t my intention, not then and not now either. I just-”

Panic sets deeper, spreading through his veins like ice water, because Tweek starts shaking his head, and for a second Craig thinks he’s getting dismissed again, and it’s gonna be over for him right then and there, and he’s scared— he can’t talk fast enough, can’t get it all out before Tweek-

“Jesus Dude. Slow down.” Tweek says, alarmed. “Let’s just- it’s hot in here.”

Ripping his jacket off, Tweek then unties his boots and shakes them off his feet. Craig, not knowing what to do, mirrors him, despite not even feeling the temperature of the room. He takes the opportunity to think, to try to gather the thoughts so he can be more coherent, and minimize the word vomit even by a fraction.

Breathing deep, Craig steadies himself— it barely helps. He’s out of his depth, he always is when it comes to Tweek, but this is important, he needs to do it right.

Tweek’s face is undecipherable, too many emotions displaying over his features. He sits, on the end of his newly cleared out bed, and waves his hand, motioning Craig to move closer.

“Okay, let’s just- nnngh start over,” he says, when Craig sits next to him gingerly, his jacket clutched in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Craig repeats, because this is the thing he’s sure he needs to begin with. Tweek stares at his feet, like needs to hear the words more than seeing his face. Craig stares at his side profile anyways. “I keep messing things up without meaning to, none of it is your fault, but you’re always getting the worst of it.”

Tweek breathes out, his voice a punched out sound. “Why?”

“I never thought this would happen to me… and I guess I just wasn’t ready to fully own it. I- thought I could keep it quiet, I-I know we agreed to that. And it’s not like it’s just easy to change that, it’s actually fucking terrifying,” his neck is gonna ache from being twisted, but Craig can’t look away, his eyes glued to Tweek’s face —the freckles on his reddening cheeks, the small fold of skin where his eyebrows furrow. “Tweek I get so fucking scared. I’ve never in my life thought I could even feel this scared before. But this thing is like… killing me. The paranoia, and the nerves, I just- I can’t live with it.”

This is probably the most words he’s said in a row, ever. But Craig isn’t going to stop, even when the urge to shut up physically burns in his ears. The more he says, the more he wants to shove his own fist into his mouth.

He’s always known he’s bad at communicating, but Craig had never actually let himself be open like this before. And he wishes it was better, he wishes he could feel some kind of comfort in it, maybe like a weight off his shoulders, any kind of silver lining.

The truth is, it feels humiliating. He feels weak —his stomach twisting, knotting on itself; shame like a gun to the back of his fucking head.

If he backs out now though, if he closes the door and hides his head again, nothing is going to change. Things aren’t going to get better, there’s not gonna be an escape. It’s too late for that.

Craig can’t go back, and the only thing pushing him forward is the certainty, the small, flickering, sureness in the back of his head, that’s telling him, shouting over the noise, that he doesn’t want to go back.

The room feels raw, like a bruise. Tweek looks like he can’t breathe, squeezing his eyes closed until the skin creases, his fingers digging into the rough denim of his pants. “What are you-?”

“I need to be honest, with you, and with my family. I’m not good at pretending, and I don’t want to pretend,” Craig swallows, his throat’s still dry. Around the puffy fabric of his jacket, his hands tremble. “I like you so much, Tweek. I- I don’t want to lose what we have. And I don’t want to feel bad about it either.”

Like he’s been shocked, Tweek’s eyes snap open, wide and pleading. He turns, his pretty mouth gaping, and looks at Craig like he wants to kill him, or kiss him, most likely both. Their eyes meet, and Craig feels his jaw clench, breath hitched in his throat.

“I- Craig. I would ack! never, never ask that from you. I’d rather you piss me off everyday than-”

“Even if you kicked me out right now, if you told me you never wanna see me again, it’s too late for me to act like nothing happened,” this time, his words are more calculated, they describe the thought he’s been familiar with for a while now, even though he’d tried to shove it down, out of view. It doesn’t make it easier, but at least he can get the message across. “You helped me realize things about myself that might've taken me years to do on my own. And I wouldn’t take anything back, only how much I’ve upset you.”

Silence, this time, is somehow lighter, but still palpable. Craig thinks maybe he should be saying more, there has to be more to say; but his brain short–circuits.

The way Tweek is looking at him, it engraves in Craig’s mind. His blue eyes, deep and dark, shine with moisture. His small nose scrunches like he’s smelled something awful, or he’s trying to hold back tears. His bottom lip disappears underneath his teeth, as he chews on it in a way that has to hurt.

“You-” he starts, but a pained sound cuts him off. “I can’t fucking believe you.”

There’s no time to process the words, they ring in Craig’s ears, and for half a second, terror paralyzes him. He panics, thinking he’s done it again, there’s no way he can come back from it. What—?

Tweek is on him in the blink of an eye. He throws his entire weight on top of his body, arms circling, tight around his shoulders, and Craig’s not ready for it, he hadn’t seen it coming, too caught up in his head.

They fall backwards on the bed, in a heap of limbs; Tweek’s heart hammering against his sternum like a hummingbird’s wings.

“I can’t nngh fucking believe you,” the blond repeats, over and over, his voice a warm whisper against Craig’s skin as he squeezes him harder, rubbing his face against the expanse of his neck, like a cat.

At last, when Craig’s brain finally manages to catch up, he feels his body kick in in response. Craig wraps his arms around him, his pulse spiking until they’re both in synch, wild beating echoing through their ribs.

No offense to Tolkien and Clyde, but Craig can’t deny, this is the best hug he’s ever gotten.

Time melts, away from their reach, and Craig doesn’t care, doesn’t even try.

They hold each other close, tight like a vice, until breathing evens to a more steady rhythm, until Craig’s arms stop shaking with fear and all that he wants to do is be there, for however long Tweek will have him.

Not soon, it seems, because the blond rests his head on his chest, and his legs make a home between his own, their bodies warm and aligned. It’s not the most comfortable of positions, the bones of their hips are sharp and dig into each other, and Tweek’s weight becomes realer, and realer as the minutes drag by, but if the blond tried to stand up right now, if he slipped out of his grasp, Craig thinks he’d actually cry.

It’s funny, in a strange way, Craig realizes, smiling like an idiot at the ceiling of Tweek’s room. All the discomfort he’d felt, the embarrassment of taking the steps, none of it has disappeared still. Craig can feel it still, lingering, like it needs to be scraped off his bones to fully be gone. And still, despite its presence, Craig has never felt more at peace before; because Tweek's proximity, the warmth of his body, the care in his heart, it’s all more than enough. This is his reward.

“That was,” Tweek mutters, sounding so pleased he might melt into a puddle. “nnngh like the scene of a movie, man.”

“Cheap and corny?”

Offended, Tweek lifts his head, though the glare he gives him it’s half–hearted at best. He scrambles, for a minute, struggling with Craig’s tightening grip around his waist, but in the end he manages to sit up, his weight suddenly over Craig’s navel, punching the air out of his chest. Tweek looks down at him, expression serious.

“Are you- ack serious? About telling your family?”

“I don’t have to tell them about you, if that’s something that’d, uh– bother you,” Craig amends, kicking himself internally for not thinking about clarifying it before. His hands hold onto Tweek’s hips, like he’s trying to prevent him from leaving. “I don’t want you to feel pressured, or whatever.”

Tweek blinks, his mouth purses for a second, before the smile wins over and stretches over his lips. “Or nnngh whatever.”

“Dude.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he snickers, not sounding sorry at all. “I mean nngh it’d only be fair. My mom knows about you, well– kind of.”

“Yeah? How does she know?” Craig asks, cocking his head, a sly curve on his mouth. “Do you talk about me so much?”

Tweek huffs, pulling the chullo down over Craig’s eyes. “Ack! Shut up. She nngh just overheard me once.”

Letting go in order to rip the hat off his head, Craig puts it on Tweek’s head instead. The blond breathes out a laugh, and adjusts it, so that it covers his ears properly, and Craig follows every movement like a hawk, a flutter in his stomach at the sight of Tweek’s beautiful face framed by something that’s his. It’s crazy, and admittedly cheesy, when he thinks about it, Craig never thought he could feel possessive over anyone before.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, hands rubbing their way down the blond’s spine, until they settle again on each side of his hips. “Saying good things, I imagine.”

“Eh, I was ack! actually talking shit about you with Kenny.”

Right. Kenny.

Something must show, either on his face, or maybe Tweek feels the twitch, miniscule but real, of his fingers, a reflex Craig can’t hold back even if he wanted to. His stomach sinks when Tweek’s smile falters.

“What was that?”

“Huh?”

“You did a face, just ack! just now,” Tweek points out, eyeing him suspiciously. “Are you still pissed at Kenny for nnngh what happened?”

It could be so easy, Craig thinks almost wistfully, to cling to what Tweek’s offering. To say, yes, I’m still fucking pissed at Kenny for being a shitty friend to you, and leave it at that. But that would be the opposite of what he’s just promised to both Tweek and himself.

“Not exactly,” he admits, cringing in advance.

“What–?”

“So. Uh… Red showed me a video of the fight between you and Cartman and I heard what he said about you having a type, and liking Kenny,” his ears are burning so hot, Craig wouldn’t be surprised if they melted completely off. “So, uh, I got jealous.”

Tweek freezes, his face stuttering between pure shock and a confused frown. “Ack! Jealous?!”

“Well, if you think about it, when we first started hanging out, Kenny was always around, and he’s all touchy and stuff, but he’s like, worse with you. Like, he’s probably in love with you.”

“Kenny?!” Tweek screeches, like Craig’s just murdered the guy in front of him or something. “Jesus Christ! Craig. Oh my God. Ack! Kenny is not in love with me.”

“And you’re not in love with him?”

“Jesus! Dude. I’m gonna nnnngh throttle you,” Tweek mutters, under his breath, hands squeezing into fists where they clutch at Craig's hoodie. “Of course not!”

It does feel good to hear it. The fact that Tweek looks at him like he’s grown a second head for asking somehow helps.

“How do you know he’s not in love with you, though?”

“Ack! Because Kenny’s been nnngh in love with his lifelong best friend since he was like, ten years old!” Tweek tells him, like it’s an obvious fact Craig should’ve caught up by now. “And if you Ack! say a word about it I’m actually going to fucking nnngh kill you.”

It really shouldn’t matter to him, because as long as Tweek actually knows that there are no romantic feelings between himself and Kenny, then Craig should move on, happily so. But maybe the fact that he’s started to admit things to himself is making him feel like he should indulge, and Craig should also own up to the way he, sometimes, on occasion, cares about gossip. And he also cares about Kenny, much to his own dismay.

“Wait,” Craig says, the question ready at the tip of his tongue. “Who-?”

The look Tweek gives him is loud enough to make the words die in Craig’s throat. Right.

“I’m not in nnngh love with Kenny, Craig. And ack! he’s not in love with me,” he says instead, his eyes big and honest. Craig tries to breathe normally through it, despite the rush of blood loud in his ears, he swears he can feel his hands shake a little. “I wouldn’t be doing this with you if- jesus! I was.”

“Okay,” Craig says, feels himself smile, cheekbones aching. He believes Tweek, and he doesn’t want to doubt him either anyways. “I was- you know, I can’t help it... I don't- I want you to like me. Just me."

Slowly- no. Deliberately, Tweek leans down, until his face is so close Craig goes crosseyed to keep looking, because he doesn’t want to stop looking; Tweek’s cheeks are blushing impossibly red now, his eyes glossy and open, a shaky smile curving his mouth. His breath is warm and heavy against Craig’s parted, expecting lips.

“I only want you, Craig.”

It’s like a switch flicks, or a magic button is pushed— something that Craig hadn’t been aware could be a possible reaction for him, suddenly gets triggered, he can’t think of any other explanation for the way he feels his weight melt into the mattress, his body going limp and boneless, as the words strike, hot like lightning, right into his navel, and tripping his heart on the way down.

It’s kind of insane, like an out of body experience, but Craig can’t even begin to brush it off; something loud and urgent suddenly awakens in his insides, almost leaving him gasping for air.

Desire is a foreign entity for him, but it’s not completely unrecognizable. He had felt the lingering beginnings of it before, back on the day they had first kissed, then later on, in the car after their failed study date. Those times had been different, though— they had been brief, the feeling startling Craig enough to stop himself short and cowering from it, like a lighter sparkling after being flickered, but never catching on to an actual flame.

It’s almost overwhelming now, the fire that steadily licks inside his chest, the flame growing warmer and warmer until he feels almost feverish. Tweek’s weight is now on the forefront of his mind. Craig’s suddenly very aware of the boy’s body on top of him, the hard press of his bones against his hips, the heavy and firm expanse of Tweek’s thighs against his own. His jeans feel tighter, and he has half a mind to be mortified by the realization.

If Tweek feels it, and he must feel it, he doesn’t say anything about it. He just stares, lids half-closed and irises dark blue, bouncing between Craig’s own eyes and his mouth.

They kiss, and it really doesn’t help. But, fuck, it feels so good.

It’s wet and hot, almost scorching, and Craig feels his brain zap; his consciousness, or self-consciousness more like, slips from his grasp bit by bit, with every brush of Tweek’s tongue against his own. His veins fill with lava, and his fingers tense, bunching on the seams of the blond’s shirt. His heartbeat pounds so loud he almost misses the sound Tweek makes, a sight that’s also a tiny moan when Craig scrapes his teeth against his swollen bottom lip.

It’s like burning alive. It’s like what an addict must feel like after that first hit. The sound echoes in his head and sinks all the way into his bones, makes his blood sing, and Craig needs to hear it again, he needs to hear it louder, clearer, calling.

For the first time ever, he stops trying to make sense of things, he doesn’t even begin to think about doubts and fears and holding back.

Tweek’s hands are calloused and his touch is warm; they trail from both sides of his face, up, behind, into his hair, fingers tangling in it. Craig tilts his head a little, kisses back in a way that feels deeper somehow, and Tweek’s blunt nails scrape his scalp.

It’s over right then and there.

Heat shoots down his spine, and suddenly the world tips over. Craig doesn’t realize what he’s done until Tweek gasps in surprise against his mouth.

Their positions are flipped now, Tweek craning his neck slightly to kiss him again, fingers tightening on the strands of his hair to bring him down into his mouth now that Craig’s the one on top. The blond’s thighs are in fact strong, proven more evidently by the way they lock around Craig’s narrow hips, and– it can’t be real, how good it feels, not for the sake of his sanity.

Tweek’s skin is smooth, it tastes real, slightly salty but mild. Craig mouth drifts, sudden hunger burning deep and primal all the way to his bones. He kisses his soft cheek, the edge of his tense jaw, licks the warm expanse of his neck, where he smells so delicious, stronger, more like him.

It makes Craig feel drunk, everything outside of them an afterthought that never fully registers. Tweek makes the sound again, louder, more breathless, and Craig still can’t get enough of it, how it reverberates against his bones like velvet-smooth purring, and sends his blood pooling south his body, with a feeling so electrifying he can’t begin to feel embarrassed about it.

“Jesus, Craig,” Tweek stutters out, sounding like he’s just ran a marathon and can’t quite catch his breath. It’s the hottest thing Craig’s ever heard. “Yeah, nnnngh mark me.”

Well, if Craig wasn’t hard before, he definitely is now.

Obediently, and feeling like he’s two seconds away from exploding into the air, Craig noses further down, leaving small, open-mouthed kisses on the pale expanse of Tweek’s neck, until he hits the mark out of pure instinct. He sinks his teeth into the flesh, right where the blond’s neck meets his strong shoulder and then kisses it better, hands gripping tightly at Tweek’s hips, pulling him flush against his hips, when the blond keens, body bowing into his own like the pull of a magnet.

"Nnngh Fuck, again, again."

Delirious, Craig does just that, switching sides, wrapping his lips on the soft skin under the blond's ear, sucking a bruise on that sweet spot there. Tweek mewls, his hands dragging into claws down Craig's still clothed back, their hips grind together, and Craig swears he can see fucking stars behind his closed eyelids.

“-eek?! Tweek, sweety?!”

Like a bucket of ice cold water is dumped over their heads, they freeze at the same time.

Tweek’s hips bounce on the bed when Craig, startled, lets go of them, and for a second, they can only stare at each other stupidly, wide-eyed and pale.

Footsteps approach, close enough that they’re audible through the closed door, and finally, Tweek springs into action, pushing Craig away by the shoulders and sitting upright, hands frantically righting his clothes while Craig lands on his ass next to him with a muted oof.

Heart racing for a completely different reason, Craig puts his jacket over his lap and combs his fingers through his hair nervously, just as Tweek’s bedroom door opens, revealing Helen Tweak’s curious face as she peaks inside. Out of the corner of his eye, Craig sees Tweek swallow, and he knows immediately, there’s no way she won’t be able to tell what they had been doing just now.

Tweek’s face is so pale it’s like he’s seen a ghost, his eyes are wide open in almost a panic frenzy, and his lips are noticeably swollen and cherry red. Craig would bet money he doesn’t have, that he himself doesn’t look much better.

“Oh! Sorry, boys! I didn’t know you were still here, Craig!” Helen says, but she’s smiling like usual, seemingly oblivious. “Will you join us for dinner? I’m making my famous casserole.”

There’s nothing he would rather do less than that.

“I-” Craig stutters, and clears his throat. “Not tonight, but thank you, Mrs. Tweak.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” she pouts, but it doesn’t stick for long. “Well, you’re welcome to stay whenever you want, sweetheart. Isn’t that right, Tweek?”

Tweek cringes, his eye twitching before he gives a solid, stiff nod. His face, if Craig’s gotten to know him enough by now to decipher it, says ”save yourself while you can and get out.” He can't stand up fast enough.

“Actually, I should get going. My family’s waiting for me," his face is burning, the throbbing between his legs is almost painful against the zipper of his jeans. Craig makes sure to keep the jacket in his hands in front of himself almost strategically.

Helen’s grin grows. “Please do tell your mother I said hi. We used to go to school together, you know?”

Craig flees the room so fast he’s pretty sure he leaves a trail of dust behind.