Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"O minute hand, teach me
how to hold a man the way thirst
holds water. Let every river envy
our mouths. Let every kiss hit the body
like a season.”

—Ocean Vuong, A Little Closer to the Edge.

The heat isn’t a common occurrence.

It’s the summer of their junior year, and the heat isn’t a common occurrence, which leaves Craig and Tweek, sticky with sweat and sugar from melting popsicles, lying on the floor of the living room.

“I’m gonna leave you,” Tweek grumbles, like he means it, but he doesn't.

He's been saying it for years now, every time Craig inevitably gets on his nerves. Today, with the humid, hot air smothering them, Tweek's grumpier than usual, his mood aggravated by his boyfriend, who refuses to go and take a dip in the town's pond. Tricia and Laura left hours ago, after Craig had rejected the invitation extended to them, and Tweek hasn't moved past it.

"I'm not holding you hostage," Craig reminds him, lazily blinking at the tired ceiling fan as it spins, circulating heavy air and doing them no favors. "You can go swim in nasty water if you want."

Half of the town’s population is probably in there, dipping inside the already murky depths of the contaminated body of water and making it even filthier. Craig isn’t wary of germs, not like Tweek can be when he sets his paranoid mind to it, but one has to have their limits, and Craig chooses being half-naked in borderline radioactive, pest infested water, the place to draw the line.

The last time they’d gone to Stark Pond in the summer had been way too long ago, back when Tweek couldn’t speak in full sentences without dragging his consonants and Craig couldn’t do long division without crying tears of frustration. Kenny had been there, Clyde and Tolkien as well, and it had been okay, enjoyable even, up until Kenny had spotted the tadpoles and Tweek had screeched so loudly all the nearby birds had flown away in the blink of an eye.

Next to Craig, fabric rustles, Tweek turns his body so he’s lying on his side, facing him like he can’t help but to gravitate towards his body.
It’s not new, they’ve been doing this for years now, close, close and then even closer, pulling each other into their axes. Tweek's washed up t-shirt rides up, the fading color of the print bunching and disfiguring the cast of The Goonies, caught in the friction of the carpet beneath them, showing a stripe of milky skin, a mole and a blooming bruise.

The years have passed, their bodies have lengthened accordingly, and Tweek’s not an exception.
There had been a time, back in middle school, when Craig had unwillingly left him behind, a growth spurt making his head stick up in the crowds of cramped hallways like a sore thumb with uncoordinated, long limbs. By freshman year, though, to Tweek’s great relief, his metabolism had caught up, stopping by only two inches short from standing toe to toe next to Craig.

Mirroring him, Craig turns on his side as well, cushioning his head with the arm trapped under his weight and blinking at his boyfriend's face. Tweek’s hair is out of control again, sweeping over his eyebrows and draping over the carpet; Craig watches, entranced, as the sunlight that slips through the curtains and bathes the room in golden light, makes the blond waves look like a halo.

Getting to witness Tweek's growth has been the best thing that’s happened in Craig’s otherwise uneventful life; discovering the blond’s hidden strength has sentenced him to a constant state of admiration, a hunger that has settled deep into his core, growing roots and blooming with branches, thick and sturdy, wrapped in between his ribs.

Craig's eyes flicker down, zeroing on the skin that's now revealed to him and following the short strip of golden hairs that trail from Tweek's belly button and disappear into the waistline of his forest green swimming trunks. The purplish bruise on his protruding hip bone stands in stark contrast against the rest of his unmarred skin, it makes a smile curl on Craig's lips. New to his bigger body, Tweek's still learning how to navigate control of it, bumping into the coffee shop's counter is a constant misstep that has its physical repercussions.

His thumb presses into the blotch of purple and Tweek hisses in pain, his hand shooting to grab onto his wrist and get him to stop. Obediently, Craig lessens the pressure and then lets his fingers trail up, into the dip of the blond's waist, under his shirt. Tweek's skin is soft, impossibly hot to the touch, if they stay still enough for a couple of seconds more, they'll probably stick together. Craig wants to dig his fingers deep under the flesh there and feel it from the inside.

"I should leave you," Tweek accuses, his dark blue eyes glaring into Craig’s.

"Yeah," he tells him, blandly, and stares at the lopsided edge of the boy's grin.

Tweek's fingers pull on the thread bracelet he made for Craig three summers ago, when Tricia had convinced him he should learn how to as an excuse to get to spend time with her instead of Craig. It'd taken him two weeks to complete it, and some of the stitches were a little rough, but Craig loves it so much he hasn't stopped wearing it since the day Tweek had shoved it into his face with a proud, accomplished grin.

"You should stop me before I leave," his face inches closer, warm breath brushing Craig's mouth.

"The door's unlocked," his fingers dig, roughly, into the meat of Tweek's waist, the sweat condensing their touch makes their skin slippery.

"I'm leaving," Tweek mutters, and his lips fall into Craig's.

They kiss, like they've kissed a hundred times already, like they will kiss a hundred times more. Tweek's ruthless, like he usually is with everything that isn't nerve-wracking, and Craig lets him, sinks into it, drinks it in, until his blood is buzzing and the flames inside his navel lick his insides.

There's exasperation in there, built in sharp teeth that gnaw on Craig's bottom lip, and he sighs, reveling in the ache. Tweek's mouth tastes sweet from the artificial strawberry flavoring of the popsicle they bought at the gas station earlier, and his fingers press on the inside of Craig's wrist, slipping under the bracelet, right where his blood is pulsing in frantic hammering.

"Ask me," Tweek says, in a whisper, smiling against Craig's mouth.

The sweat drips, it runs down the small of Tweek's back, Craig follows it with the palm of his hand. He kisses him again, lungs feeling faint and head swimming. Tweek curls into him, his heavy leg draping over Craig's, pulling him in, his tongue dips into his mouth, impossibly hotter.

"Stay."

Chapter Text

“I rise to open a window
only to realize
he's opened one for me already.
the autumn air has always been here
lacing our every breath
and I love the man who knows I love
the sweet–smoke smell of approaching death.”

—Saeed Jones, Everything Is Dying, Nothing Is Dead.

If pressed to answer the question of why, Craig would have to admit, although ruefully, that he likes autumn because it's when the quiet is best. Sure, winter is the silent one, invincible champion of emptied streets and solaced buildings, but winter comes with cold, and cold comes with a sadness Craig's not willing to admit to. So, the second best option doesn't mean the wrong option.

Senior year arrives with it, and in likeness to most events in Craig's life, the beginning of this particular end, comes in dull and uneventful fragments. The days stretch over each other and Craig breathes through them with ease, his body going through the motions of an already settled life; there's car rides, Tricia and Tweek fighting for shotgun, and then for whose music is best, hours of slow classes with the droning tone of underpaid teachers, and endless drills of football practice with Clyde and Tolkien.

He enjoys it because he can. The quiet patter of rain against the window, the crunchy leaves under the sole of his shoes, the chopping sounds, an unexpected rhythm, of his mother cutting through bundles of endless vegetables downstairs. Most nights, Tweek lies in his bed, sprawled out in tired, overworked limbs, smelling of brewed coffee and sleep, his body soft and malleable under Craig's lazy fingertips. He's trying to read again, because Legos are too expensive now, and he can steal books out of Craig's dad's bookshelf. Secretly, Craig's convinced Tweek actually just wants to find lullabies between the pages.

"It's your final year," Mrs. Something says, standing in front of an empty blackboard. Craig likes her, she's relaxed enough to let homework become an afterthought, but her useless reminder is enough to make him not remember her name, just out of spite. "I guess most of you already have an idea of what you want to do next. Raise your hand if you have a career in mind."

A wave of hands rise, like an omen that usually needs a red flag to start waving by the door, announcing the high tides. On his right, Tweek sits in his usual seat, a panicked edge to his blue eyes, holding his breath like he's trying not to drown. Craig arms become heavy, two anchors by each of his sides, and he thinks, in mild trepidation, that he could have enjoyed the slowness of autumn a little more.

He breathes through it, tuning the voices of his excited classmates out, ignoring their dreams of bright future. Tweek's hand reaches for his, under their desks, away from prying eyes. The pressure lessens, slightly, but it lessens nonetheless. Tweek's fingers squeeze his own, hard and rough, illed with anxiety, and Craig smiles, his thumb runs over the blond's knuckles, each a mountain of options he'd easily climb ahead.

That night, Craig feeds Stripe and watches him eat, the sound of the shower running reaching in muffled echoes to his room. Uncertainty is a bitter pebble skipping in his stomach, and there's no way to reach it, stuck in an endless loop. There's a future for everyone, stretched out and waiting for the clock to tick, but Craig doesn't like the way it hovers, how it breathes down the back of his neck and refuses to show its face. He wants to pry it open, smash a clock, steal the minute and hour hands, forget them in his pockets.

Eventually, Tweek walks into the room, flushed from the steam and cozy in the Invader Zim socks Laura bought for him last month at the mall. He shuffles silently inside, like he doesn't want to scare away the hushed night. The book he's been reading waits for him on the nightstand he's claimed as his years ago, but he doesn't reach for it.

"We should think of something, right?" he asks, quietly, and prompts Craig to get closer.

The mattress dips under his weight, and Craig nods into his pillow, Tweek smells like his shampoo, and his damp hair will leave an imprint on the sheets that he will complain about later, but right now, with his fingers curling and uncurling mechanically into his own palms, it's impossible for him to think of anything that isn't the question. The lamp next to his side of the bed casts the shadows into half of his face, the yellowish light bleeding into their skin.

"I guess," Craig says, more sigh than word.

"I always thought we'd go together, right? Move to somewhere that isn't here," Tweek trails off, his eyes tracing the stars in the ancient poster of the Milky Way Craig's glued to the ceiling a lifetime ago.

"I thought you'd stay, because of the coffee shop," there's shame in the admission, but Craig's learned with years of them butting heads, that he's not supposed to keep these things to himself.

Scoffing, Tweek turns to give him a look that's equal parts amused and unbelieving. His long, thick eyelashes fan over his cheekbones as he blinks back at Craig, considering his face with caution, reading the words like they're etched in the text over Craig's features.

"Would you stay in South Park?" his eyebrows raise, a quirk on his bitten lips.

The answer could be quick, all this time, Craig has had it ready, at the tip of his tongue. South Park is the place he's promised himself to escape, ever since he was a kid. He's never really considered where he'd actually go, because that had always been a faraway scenario, reachable only in dreams of quieter lives in noisier places.

"If you asked."

A myriad of emotions seem to flash across Tweek's face, his smooth skin flushes in pink, more orange where closest to the lamp. He exhales, heavy and quick, a breath more than a laugh, incredulous in nature. His head lifts from his pillow, and yes, there is a mark, and he turns his neck to get a better look.

Finally, two and a half breaths of scrutiny, Tweek's rapid fire mind seems to settle, a smile that's wide, bright, exhilarating. "I wouldn't," he says, firmly, assenting his message with a nod.

"Thank God," Craig sighs, embellishing his relief.

Tweek huffs, his smile never faltering, and he drops, now into Craig's own pillow, his nose nudging into his neck. He breathes there, warm and quiet, and Craig tries not to squirm, the alive animal behind the cage of his ribs flutters its wings. Tweek's arm drapes over his stomach, the warmth of his touch waves through the fabric of his sleep shirt.

They listen, together, to the buzz of the television downstairs, someone failing to convince the investors of Shark Tank to put money into their revolutionary product. In the next room over, Tricia's humming to an old song Craig doesn't recognize, doing her homework.

"You could be a farmer," Tweek says, after a while.

"A farmer," Craig repeats, inevitably dubious.

Tweek hums, the vibration reverberating into Craig's ribs. His hand pushes down onto Craig's belly button, as he takes the impulse to hold his weight up. Craig's too busy wheezing at the unexpected pressure, opened to Tweek as the blond climbs on top of him, arm replaced with hips.

"I think you'd look good in overalls," he grins, eyes glinting with mirth. "Covered in mud? Kinda hot."

"Mud? I think you mean cow shit," Craig deadpans, used to Tweek's flattery when he means mockery.

On their accord, his hands brush the soft fabric of Tweek's sweatpants, up his hardened thighs, and then under his shirt. His skin is warm, radiating like the sun, and Craig smiles, face breaking, at the shiver that runs down Tweek's back.

"I think it's called fertilizer," Tweek tells him, lips pursed as he holds back a laugh, his hands press into his chest, hard and bone to bone.

"Gross," Craig rolls his eyes, hands traveling up and down, relishing the feeling of the muscles of Tweek's back shifting under his touch.

"C'mon, it could be fun!" Tweek clicks his tongue, and he leans, down and close, close until his breath falls against his mouth, and Craig goes crossed eyed to see him. "You know the thing, save a horse…"

"You're insufferable," Craig says, biting back a smile, but his chin tilts up, the words brush against the plump of Tweek's lips.

"We'll figure it out together, yeah?" Tweek says, sober and breathy. His hair falls, waves of golden curtain around Craig's face.

Soon, it'll get long enough to tie back, and maybe this time Tweek will let it. Tricia will be ecstatic, she will hammer Tweek with questions, eager to try to braid it like she has all the times Tweek's taken too long to get a haircut. Craig wants to see it, he wants to run his fingers through it and pull from the scalp, so he does. Because he can, because Tweek likes it, because they know.

They will figure it out. They will do it together, too. Right now though, in the present of them, in this quiet room, with his quiet life, Craig feels the press of Tweek's hips, heavy and real, insistent on their weight on his stomach, and he knows.

They have time, the space between the minutes and the hours widening on the clock, divorcing from reality. Craig nods, wordless and lethargic, and Tweek smiles again, half a second or maybe an eternity, before he crashes his awaiting mouth against his lips.

Chapter Text

“I want to, baby, want to believe it’s always possible
to love bigger & madder, even after two, three, four years,
four decades. I want a love as dirty as a snowball fight
in the sludge, under grimy yellow lights.
I want this winter
inside my lungs.”

—Chen Chen, Song of the Anti–Sisyphus.

Tweek's house is always cold.

It's not owned by the winter, this condition, Craig's sure that he's never felt the comfort of a heater, a fuzzy blanket, a hearty meal between its tall, pristine walls. There's a fireplace in the living room, greystone and rustic, straight out of a catalog of a white woman's dreams. Tweek says they've used it before, but Craig has known him for too long now, and he doesn't remember ever seeing it burn.

Now it’s winter, two days before Christmas, and Tweek’s house is impossibly cold, colder than the snow that falls outside.

There are things that are better left unsaid, packed into cardboard boxes, shoved inside the dusty attic to avoid looking at; not out of shyness, but necessity, or well, lack thereof. Which is to say, Tweek doesn’t comment on his parents’ absence, and Craig doesn’t ask about the pristine fireplace.

Tonight, like most of the nights he comes into the house, Craig pretends he doesn't notice. He turns a reluctant blind eye to the unnerving quietness inside, looks away when he catches himself staring at an empty, faraway wall, stupidly hopeful in the futile search for a sign of life. It's painful, in the way that constricts his chest like a cinder block over his ribs, Craig doesn't want to think about the years Tweek has spent holed up in here, suffocating under the weight of this loneliness.

The light of the kitchen is on, empty coffee mugs littered all over the counter and inside the sink, like ghosts of past actions lingering in the vacant, lifeless space. Craig turns on his heels, and heads for the staircase now that he's sure Tweek isn't on the ground floor.

"Honey?" Craig calls out, as soon as he reaches the corridor. The way his voice echoes, bouncing against the picture–less walls, makes his teeth chatter.

The door to the bathroom is ajar, letting a single, thin strip of golden, artificial light spill over the carpet like honey out of a knocked down bear–shaped plastic bottle. Craig follows it, unblinking like a moth to a flame, enchanted by its promise, curious about its warmth.

"I hate this," Tweek grumbles, when Craig slips inside.

The words bubble on the water as Tweek slips further down into the bathtub, arms crossed in front of his chest like a pouting child. The steam rises over him, clouding in contrast with the cold air that drifts around the room. Wet and flushed from the hot water, Tweek looks like the fatal version of the ending of Hansel and Gretel, cooking against his will in the witch's soup. It makes Craig crack a smile for the first time since he's gotten here, and walks closer, sitting on the small mat next to the bathtub.

"Why are you doing it, then?" he asks, perching his chin on the edge of the tub, gaze following the small droplet of water that clings to the bow of Tweek's pink upper lip.

"You said this would be relaxing," Tweek accuses, glassy blue eyes narrowing. "What if I fall asleep and drown?"

"Didn't you bring a book?" Craig asks, looking around the room for the object until he spots it next to the sink.

"I'm scared of falling asleep, dropping it in the water and drowning," because Craig knows Tweek, really knows him, he knows that this is the closest he'll get to a confession of the truth behind Tweek's newest reading habit.

"Want me to join you? I can kick you if you start nodding off," it's a joke, of course, mostly because there's no way they would both fit inside at the same time; still Craig loves to push Tweek's buttons sometimes, when it's safe.

"Gross. This is like my soup of germs," Tweek blanches, like Craig knew he would.

"And you're the one who wanted to go to the pond last summer," Craig points out.

"That's different," Tweek argues petulantly, and sniffles. "It was life or death. We were gonna die of heatstroke."

"If you think South Park is too hot, how are you gonna survive when we go to California?" even in the hypothetical future, even when Craig's trying to distract Tweek from his sour mood, the picture of it makes the blood inside his veins start to buzz.

Craig can't wait, anticipation for it grows in his stomach with each passing day like building blocks. By the end of next summer, they will be gone, out of high school and this freezing air, away from the unsaid things in the attic and the absence of warmth. They're going to be together, in a cramped, overpriced apartment somewhere in Los Angeles, and Craig's going to hate every single person he encounters, but he's going to be the happiest man in the world, because Tweek will go to school for music, and Craig’s just sent his application for early admission at an university that’ll bury him in debt but will walk him down towards astrophysics.

"You're stressing me out even more," this time, Tweek does pout.

"Sorry, sorry," Craig appeases him. "Tell me about the book, then. Keep yourself talking so you don't get sleepy."

Tweek hums a melodic sound, his voice echoes in the bathroom, much warmer than Craig's. His wet, darkened eyelashes flutter as he blinks at the ceiling, looking for whatever it is that's in the book that he can translate in his words. Patiently, Craig waits for him, tilting his head so his cheek presses against the cool ceramic of the bathtub's edge, and strictly forbidding his eyes to linger anywhere lower than Tweek's freckled shoulders under the water.

"Do you think we'll be together 'til we die?" Tweek asks, so suddenly it makes Craig's heart stop.

Tweek doesn't turn to look at him, keeps staring up at the white paint covering the ceiling, like he's just asked something inconsequential, the weather outside, the sandwich he ate at lunch, the regular customer at the coffee shop's ridiculous outfit this morning; and Craig blinks with surprise, staring curiously at Tweek's impassive expression, his soft features, the flush that crawls from his neck like a field of roses, blossoming, blossoming, blossoming.

The smell of Tweek's coconut and vanilla soap starts to drift into the air, turning the overly sanitized room into an attempt of something warmer, softer; but it feels displaced, maybe even desperate. Craig doesn't mention it.

"What type of question is that?" he asks back, startled.

It's not unusual for Tweek to ponder on hypotheticals, he's still so unlike Craig that this trait alone could drive him crazy if he let it. Although it is true that, through the years, his imagination has turned duller, less apocalyptic, there's still an undeniable fear in Tweek that Craig knows it's going to cling onto him forever, so ingrained in his bones it has probably fused all the way into the marrow, like a parasite that's impossible to remove without amputating a limb.

The water swishes around the bathtub, almost kissing the side of Craig's as he's still resting on the edge, as Tweek shrugs.

"The book is about human facts," he says, still avoiding Craig's eyes as he looks down, cupping both hands above the water before letting it trickle back into the tub from between his fingers. "Psychologists say that, on average, romantic love only lasts between six months to three years max."

"Psychologists fucking suck," Craig says, easily, but he's frowning.

"They're just doing what they studied for years to do," Tweek shrugs again, a wry smile pulling the corner of his lips.

It's half–hearted, how he pretends to take it easy, and that, alone, stings.

Craig sighs.

Some things go unsaid, not out of shyness, but lack of necessity, and yet sometimes, those same things are the things Tweek wants to hear.

"Doesn't mean that they're always right," Craig says, sitting back upright in a wordless attempt to get Tweek to finally look at him. It works. "Are you worried?"

It's a force of nature of its own, Craig knows, Tweek's worry is a promised storm that, if fed enough doubts, can grow into a hurricane, sucking them into a loop of spiraling panic, it can crash on them like a tsunami, determined to drown them next to the unused fireplace, or fall on them like the wolf is outside, blowing with all lungs and hunger.

Tweek is probably aware that Craig already can tell he's worried, there's no point to the secrecy, there's things that are just how they always have been, the sky is blue, the Sun rises in the East, Tweek worries. And yet, Craig wants to give him this space to breathe, a doubt he can hold onto, even if for a single second.

"I'm not," Tweek lies, wincing at his self-recognized tell.

"Good. You shouldn't be," Craig tells him, so firmly Tweek blinks back at him in surprise. His blue eyes wide with startle. "I love you even more than three years ago, psychologists can fucking suck it."

Silence.

The quiet dripping from the leaking faucet is the only sound between them. Tweek stares back at Craig, his lips parting with a soft click, a single droplet of water running down his top lip, falling into his mouth. This time, Craig isn't patient, the bluntness of his words don't take away any of their meaning, only heightens the awareness of its truth. Craig's heart, a beast of its own, thrashes in his chest, as he thinks that yes, he is going to love Tweek for as long as he lives, he's as sure of it as he is of the fact that the Earth is round, the biggest planet in the Solar System is Jupiter, and he's dying to live with Tweek, on their own, together.

This time Craig isn't patient, he kneels on the cold tiled floor, desperate in his hands as he leans over the edge of the bathtub, fully this time, and pulls Tweek's face into his own, mouths crushing under each other's.

Beneath Craig, wet and flushed and so incredibly warm, Tweek comes alive with the kiss, surging forward, pulling Craig close by the flaps of the chullo he hadn't realized he's still wearing, down, down, down, until Craig's slipping, balance off, torso falling into the water with a splash and a curse.

"Jesus!" Tweek says, and then he's laughing, watching Craig scramble away like a startled, wet cat. "That was so gay!"

Sitting back down, sweater soaked and cooling in the cold house's air, Craig smiles, letting the warmth spread through his chest with Tweek's laughter, sound and melody, in his ears.

There are things that are left unsaid, true, and sometimes, those things are the things Craig wants to hear.

"I love you too," Tweek says, after a moment, when the water has settled and his laughter ceased. His face turns red, redder than before, and his smile fights against his mouth.

"Fuck the psychologists," Craig says, solemnly through a grin.

Tweek rolls his eyes. "Fuck the psychologists."

Chapter Text

“Love is unpredictable.
Spring arrives regardless.”

—Alex Dimitrov, March.

In the midst of a freshly warmed spring evening, Craig comes home.

Tweek hears him before he sees him, awakened from his nap by the click of the front door; his ears tune into him, something there will never be any help to, and so, he listens, from the quiet of their bed. The thump of a shoe hitting the floor, closely followed by another. The jingling of keys comes next, half–dog half–chainsaw keychain precisely coming to hang on the third hook drilled into the nearest wall. Tweek counts the quiet steps it takes Craig to get to the bedroom with heartbeats, losing and then starting over, in the haze of anticipation that cracks his sore eyes open and makes it skip a beat or two.

"Did I wake you?" it's a murmur, low in Craig's throat, a hum inside Tweek's bones.

It doesn't matter, whether Craig has woken him or not, it will never matter, because Tweek is always going to, even if Craig wants to save him from it.

To do his best, Tweek has promised, in a hushed whisper last New Years, into Craig's flushed ear. And a part of his best, as small as it might be, is this —wake when he comes home, stop himself from holding back this tender place behind his breastbone, stretch his limbs out from under the blankets until Craig's there, pulled in, pulled down, crashing into his chest, bone-to-bone, buzzing with laughter.

Craig's weight on top of Tweek's crushed ribs feels like an entirely new paradise, heavy and rough, pressing down on every perfect place that makes his blood sing. His black hair is long, longer than it's ever been, and falls on Tweek's face, tickling his forehead. Craig grins, mouth curving, stubbornly crooked teeth baring, digging into the pliable flesh between Tweek's neck and shoulder. It might be a punishment, for his greedy touch, his heavy arms an impediment for him to pull off, walk away. Tweek hisses into it anyways, toes curling inside his faded Adventure Time socks.

"You smell good," he croaks, breathing in Craig's scent of soap, strong and woodsy, he showered after practice.

"I have to go make dinner," another bite, sharper this time, and Tweek's fingers dig into Craig's back in response, between the bumps of his spine, down the plain and to his hips. “Baby, c'mon.”

"If you move, I'll actually die,” Tweek warns, taking another inhale of Craig's scent.

“Clyde's gonna be here in twenty.” Craig doesn't need to see the roll of Tweek's eyes to know it happens.

“So?” the blond groans, and just to be annoying, Craig squeezes him harder, rutting against the sharp valleys of Tweek’s hip bones. “He's here all the time.”

“It's my turn to cook,” Craig argues, but one of his hands still moves, dipping under Tweek's shirt, teasing at the waistband of his pajama pants.

His touch is electric and yet soothing, the skin of his fingers chill over Tweek's warmest places, straight where he wants him. “Are you… ah, trying to bribe me into cooking for you?”

“Is it enough? Like this?” Craig asks, roughly, but the curve of his mean smile presses against Tweek's ear just as his grasp turns firm.

His gaze is too focused, raking over Tweek's twitching face, but there's no voice of protest, no pulling away. Craig loves to watch him, he asks for it all the time, it's been too long for Tweek to get shy about it now.

“I can use my mouth if it's your price.”

Lightheaded, Tweek feels the familiar flutter in his stomach, blooming warm and heavy, flowers under the Spring sun. He gasps a whisper of a name, before his mouth meets the flushed skin of Craig's shoulder when he ruts forward again. He feels the shiver that runs down the body on top of his own, it rocks into him like a wavelength he can't tune out of; his back arches, bowed into Craig's magnetic pull, begs for his feverish touch, comfort and arousal so tightly knit together the seams disappear into each other.

“Anything,” Tweek mutters, jaw clenched and body already taught, always so easy to string along.

Still, he knows Craig doesn't bribe, it's all just a ruse to hide his desire to please, to give without the recognition back.

“You're ngh... always good.”

It's the truth, which is the right thing to say, Craig visibly reacts, his face opens into tenderness, his ears bloom bright red. Tweek knows he knows, it's something guarded, reserved to their moments alone, Craig holds it close to his chest like most things he tries to shrug off but can't.

“Yeah?” Craig tries, peels off his own shirt, gives room to breathe. There's a bruise under his last rib, purple and yellow, tender under Tweek's prodding fingertips. “Good?”

Tweek knows him, he's had him, he'll have him again.

“Always good. To me,” he nods, letting him see it, the nakedness of this vulnerability, no longer his alone.

He presses into the wound, hard and wanting, and Craig wilters back into him, hot and heavy, hissing, but moving closer, open to Tweek's touch.

The blessed hand is still inside his pants, no longer cold, but paused into an afterthought, so Tweek helps him remember, cants his own body into the grip of those reviving fingers, wraps bindweed thighs around Craig's narrow, steady hips.

It pretty much turns into a blur from then on.

The last tendrils of golden sunlight dip into the kitchen, the day slipping through their fingers in unhurried glory.

Tweek keeps finding these moments, when his body is in tune with the world, lethargic in soothed lines of quiet peace, —he's still trying to learn this new meaning of silence, when it's not linked to long corridors and unused fireplaces.

“You're a spoiled brat,” he tells Craig, when he finally staunters inside the room, looking soft and warm to the touch. Well loved.

The pan is already sizzling with colorful vegetables, next to it, another pot carries the weight of the rice. Tweek hands the cutting board over without preamble, the pink flesh of chicken something he can't compromise on handling just yet, and Craig just grins, proud like a moonflower in the darkening sky, grabs the knife from the counter, looks lethal in his contentment.

“Twenty–three years old and still can't cook for shit,” Tweek presses, dropping dishes into the cramped sink. “Momma's boy.”

“What’s the point? You do it better,” Craig shrugs, slicing cleanly through the meat.

“Of course I do,” Tweek scoffs, half-heartedly. He had to learn these things by himself, before Laura Tucker realized to spoil him too. It's done and over with.

The chicken hits the pan, Craig eyes Tweek closely as he squeezes past, dutifully washes his hands in the sink. They don't need to talk about it, not anymore, but he's always curious, careful in his weaving through the erratic tides of Tweek's family life before.

He must see something, maybe, in the way that Tweek just leans his weight against the counter, his heel accidentally knocking into the lower cabinets, punching a hiss from his lungs.

Deftly, without having to be told to, he turns the knob of the stove, lowering the heat, and Tweek hums approvingly, slow and steadily cooked is better; he doesn't realize his arms are crossed in front of his chest until Craig steps over, pries them open, unfurls him all over again.

His lips press into his forehead, fingers carefully carding through his ruffled hair. Tweek leans into the touch, sunflower following the rays of nourishing Sun. Craig hovers close, lingers with a thumb brushing against Tweek's blushing cheek, his mouth, still bruised with kisses, curls into a smile the blond feels more than sees.

“You're always good to me,” he murmurs, craning his neck into Tweek's ear, the son of a bitch.

Tweek pinches him, hard, pretends his heart isn't in his throat just like that. It earns him a yelp, and then a laugh, interrupted only by the sound of the buzzer announcing Clyde's arrival.

“Asshole,” Tweek bites, pushing Craig away, who's still chuckling meanly but not cruel, never cruel.

He hides his own grin behind the back of his hand, and goes back to the food. If the rice is a little too overdone after all is done, no one dares to comment.

“This is how we build our new home.
How we make ourselves light enough for spaceflight.”

—Paige Lewis, WHERE I’M FROM, EVERY HOUSE IS A HOUSE WITH AN OBSTRUCTED VIEW.