Chapter Text
“Hey! Knock it off, Cartman!” The command was sharp, unmistakable. Craig stepped forward, cutting through the rising tension like a razor. Everything about him was calm—deliberate—as if the chaos couldn’t touch him. Craig’s composure was effortless, a part of him. But behind those steady eyes, Tweek couldn’t help but wonder how deep that resolve went.
The firmness in his voice was like a lifeline thrown into rough waters. Craig’s figure stood like a pillar in the crowd, his gaze even as it swept over the gathered faces. He scanned the room, a quick glance; he was looking for something. When their eyes met, his posture relaxed slightly. Something shifted in Tweek’s chest. Quiet. Certain. Grounding. In that moment, maybe for the first time all night, Tweek believed he could get through this. He felt his pulse, still racing, began to slow—just slightly—as he looked on.
And then the crowd erupted.
“Yeah, sh-shut up!” A voice jeered from Craig’s right. Tweek squinted and spotted a smaller guy with crutches leaning defiantly into the fray. Despite his apparent stutter and unassuming stature, he carried the same confidence Craig exuded—like he was right where he belonged.
“Fuck you, Cartman!” Bebe’s voice rang out from across the circle, clear and cutting. Clyde, predictably, stood proudly beside her, as if her declaration was a battle cry.
“Why do you always have to break something?” Another guy near the front muttered, broom in hand. He stood, visibly annoyed but resigned. Tweek realized this was Tolkien, the host. He looked less concerned with Cartman and more concerned with the mess.
Tweek watched with awe. Here he was, as close to the middle of the fray as they could get. His brain was screaming at him. To leave. Flee. Escape. And everyone around him was treating this like it was normal. He stood, frozen, unable to look away.
“Oh, come on, Tolkien,” Cartman sneered, his voice heavy with slurred indignation. “You can’t leave glass out at a party. Everybody knows that.”
“Not with your fat ass around!”
The jab came from Kenny, who grinned wickedly from Tweek’s side, his voice was too casual for the insult he was hurling. Tweek—finally freed from whatever stillness spell he’d fallen under—whipped his head toward him, alarmed. Kenny caught his gaze, smirked, and shrugged like this was nothing new. His dangerous eyes flicked back to Cartman, watching carefully, as though this exchange were part of a strategy.
“Ey!” Cartman’s head snapped toward Kenny, his neck craning like a viper ready to strike. His entire body shifted as if trying to decide to lunge or (more likely) stumble.
Kenny, unfazed, flipped him off with a lazy grin.
“You know what?” Cartman snapped, his words thick with frustration. The room seemed to hold its breath, the lull almost suffocating as the crowd awaited his next move. Tweek’s ears pounded with the tension, the hum of adrenaline still coursing through him, ready to pour.
“Screw you guys!” Cartman’s pout was practically audible as he stomped toward the door. “I’m going home!”
As Cartman stormed out, Tweek’s shoulders sagged with relief. The tension in the room broke like a snapped rubber band, but his chest still felt tight. Craig hadn’t even raised his voice—just one sharp command and the disaster folded. Tweek couldn’t help but feel small in comparison like he’d been clinging to driftwood while Craig steered the ship.
The room exploded into a mix of cheers, laughter, and scattered applause as Cartman disappeared into the night. Voices were quickly drowned out by the rising music as someone cranked the volume back up. The circle around the broken glass began to disperse, bodies shifting back into the ebb and flow of the party like nothing had happened.
Tolkien, sighing heavily, bent to sweep up the shards of glass, muttering something about “always cleaning up after him.”
Kenny stayed close, his grip firm on Tweek’s arm, steering him gently but purposefully through the shifting tide of people. Tweek blinked, disoriented but grateful for the solid touch grounding him. The crowd’s chaotic energy felt less oppressive now, almost distant, with Kenny acting as his anchor.
By the time they made it to the middle of the room—where the glass had fallen—the tension in Tweek’s chest had eased slightly. Craig was already there, helping Tolkien sweep up the remnants of the commotion with an almost calculated efficiency. For a moment, Tweek just stood there, watching the way Craig moved. He wasn’t talking, just working, but somehow that unshakable steadiness radiated in everything he did.
“You good?” Kenny asked, leaning close to Tweek’s ear to be heard over the music. His tone was softer now, less teasing, more sincere.
Tweek nodded, though his breath still felt shallow. “Yeah. Just… ngh!—a lot.”
Kenny patted his shoulder. “You’re doing great, dude. You survived your first Cartman meltdown. It’s like a rite of passage.”
That got a weak chuckle out of Tweek, who glanced nervously back toward Craig. His pulse picked up again—not from panic this time, but something softer, stranger. He couldn’t explain it, but something about the way Craig had taken charge, the way he’d diffused the tension without so much as breaking a sweat—it made Tweek feel… Something.
Still, Tweek hovered awkwardly as Craig and Tolkien cleaned up the glass. At first, he tried to help, crouching to pick up a larger shard, but he realized his hands were shaking. Having cleaned up plenty of glass at work in the same condition, he tried to persevere but Craig stopped him with a quick, “Don’t.”
Tweek flinched, looking up at Craig’s blank expression. For a second, he worried he’d messed up again. Then Craig added, softer, “You’ll cut yourself. Just… stand back for now.”
“Oh.” Tweek straightened, his face burning with embarrassment. He wanted to argue, to prove he wasn’t useless, but the steadiness in Craig’s voice left no room for protest. Instead, he stood back, watching as Craig swept the shards into the dustpan with quiet precision. His chest ached with something he couldn’t quite name—relief, maybe? Gratitude?
He looked on, letting the rest of the room disappear as he watched Craig’s movements, efficient but not unkind. Tweek noticed how careful Craig was with the broom, never rushing, as if even this small act deserved his full attention. As the room buzzed with cheers and laughter, Tweek’s gaze stayed fixed on him.
Even in the chaos, Craig moved with purpose, stable and grounding. Something in his chest loosened, all his tension fading away with something as simple as Craig’s presence. It was like some of that steadiness bled into him. There was something about Craig that Tweek saw himself relying on. It wasn’t just calm—it was care. Craig cared about things, even the small ones. And it was comforting in a way Tweek hadn’t realized he needed. (It was almost embarrassing.)
Kenny reappeared at Tweek’s side, giving him a pointed look. Tweek brushed him off, but Kenny’s expression shifted into something gentler. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”
“I’m fine,” Tweek muttered, even as his hands trembled around his mug. He took another, long sip. His drink was almost gone.
“Liar,” Kenny said easily, “It’s cool if this isn’t your scene, you know? Nobody’s grading you on how much fun you’re having.”
Tweek hesitated, then let out a shaky breath. He eyed the slowly dissipating pile of glass, swallowing his pride. It was time to be honest. “I just—ngh—I don’t want Craig to think I can’t handle it. He’s the one who brought me.”
“Craig didn’t bring you here for the party, you know,” Kenny said, a certain tone in his voice. “He brought you for him.”
“What?” Tweak asked.
“Craig brought you because he likes you, dude,” Kenny said, nudging Tweek’s shoulder. “Come on. You have to see it. It’s not that he expects you to be the life of the party.”
Tweek blinked, his breath catching. “You think so?”
“For what it’s worth, I think he would ditch this whole thing if you asked him to,” Kenny said.
Tweek did his best to shrug off the comment. “I don’t know…"
“Tweek,” Kenny said with a laugh. Tweek waited for him to keep going but he just smiled with his usual, lopsided grin. Something in his eyes said he knew a secret Tweek didn’t. (Maybe he did. Tweek always felt left out of the loop.) And, of course, instead of revealing anything, he continued to be cryptic. “He found a way to make you hot chocolate at a rager. He’s gone for you, man.”
Tweek rolled his eyes, but the thought lingered. Gone for him. Could that be true? The thought sent his brain spiraling, flickering between disbelief and something that felt dangerously close to hope. He kept snagging on all the reasons Craig couldn’t like him. Sure, Craig was… Kind, but people were kind for a lot of reasons. Maybe this was Craig’s default setting—calm, helpful, distant. But then there was the hot chocolate—Craig had clearly worked hard to find a drink that Tweek would like. Something special. Like the way Craig looked at him. He wondered if, to Craig, he was something special. The only thing in the universe. That wasn’t even including all the times he had seemed to step in when Tweek needed it the most!
His stomach flipped. He pushed the thought away—this wasn’t the time to lose his mind.
Turning to watch Craig clean again, he realized that he’d disappeared. Luckily, Kenny lingered, scanning Tweek’s face for signs of distress. In the pseudo calm they’d fallen into, Tweek let his guard down. Sure, the party was still raging around them, but it was like they’d fallen into the eye of the storm.
“There you are!” A familiar redhead worked his way through the crowd. He held two red solo cups, like Butters had before. When he joined them, he handed Kenny one. His drink from earlier, Tweek guessed.
“Hey, Ky,” Kenny greeted. “How’s it going?”
“Well, Cartman’s finally gone,” Kyle said.
Kenny laughed. “I was wondering when he’d cause a scene.” He gestured towards Kyle’s cup with his own. “Where did Butters go?”
“Where do you think?” Kyle asked. “He was Cartman’s ride, dude. There’s no way that fatass is walking home right now.”
“He’s gotta stop letting Cartman walk all over him,” Kenny’s mouth fell into a straight line, pursing his lips. “That sucks.”
“You did good, though,” Kyle said, “Delivering the final blow, and all.”
“Oh, please,” Kenny brushed him off. Though his smile returned quicker than it’d gone away. “He left because he didn’t want to clean up his mess. He already texted me thanks for giving him an easy out.”
With his full focus on Kyle, his grin lit up the whole room, brighter than anything Tweek had ever seen from him. There was a flush to his cheeks that hadn’t been there before, but he continued like he didn’t notice. Tweek didn’t blame him. There was something natural about the teasing between him and Kyle. Their words flowed like they were reading from the same script. Tweek envied how easy it seemed for them—like they just fit. He wondered if anyone had ever felt that way about him.
“God,” Kyle groaned, turning to Tweek with an exhausted look. His tone was more biting than Kenny’s but not necessarily unkind. “Did someone warn you about Cartman or is this all new to you?”
Tweek shrugged. “Um, well, we met before. Briefly.”
“Oh, yeah, he trapped you in a conversation earlier,” Kyle said, “It’s been such a long night I almost forgot.”
“Oh shit,” Kenny turned to Tweek. His grin faded slightly. “You didn’t tell me that. What did he do?”
Tweek hesitated. “Just… Made things—ngh!—weird.”
“Classic Cartman,” Kyle muttered.
But Kenny was still watching Tweek, not letting them drop it. “Weird how?” he pressed, his voice was low like he already knew the answer.
Tweek shrugged, his chest tightening under Kenny’s gaze. He glanced toward the window, almost looking for an escape. The snow outside was coming down harder now, fat flakes swirling under the streetlights. The thought of stepping out into the cold made him shiver, but he couldn’t deny the appeal of leaving this whole mess behind. “I-I don’t know. Just… Weird I guess. Kyle stopped him before things got worse.”
Kenny’s smirk returned, but softer this time. “Yeah, that checks out.”
“He—guh!—said something about, uh, being the reason Craig… Wants to hang out with me,” Tweek admitted, a slightly abridged version of the truth. (Cartman’s real words echoed like a drumbeat. Craig is so in love with you. That couldn’t be true. Right? He shuddered at the thought.)
Cartman’s words echoed like a drumbeat. Craig is so in love with you. Tweek’s stomach flipped, his chest tightening. That couldn’t be true. Could it?
“Oh really?” Kenny gave him a look.
Kyle’s brow furrowed slightly. “You two know each other pretty well, huh?” he said, his tone casual but laced with curiosity.
“Huh?” Tweek asked.
“You and Craig,” Kyle said.
Tweek froze. “Uh, not really. I mean—”
“They’re getting there,” Kenny interrupted smoothly, shooting Kyle a look that made him nod slowly.
Tweek’s face burned as he took another sip from his now-empty mug.
Kenny followed suit, emptying the cup that Kyle had brought him like it was nothing. “I wouldn’t overthink it, dude,” he kept his tone light but there was meaning behind it. Trust me. “Craig wouldn’t be sticking around if he didn’t want to.”
“W-What does that mean?” Tweek’s voice wavered, his mind spinning in a dozen directions. His pulse thudded in his ears as he glanced nervously toward the glass-free zone where Craig and Tolkien had been cleaning.
Kenny smirked—the kind that held too many secrets. “Weren’t you guys supposed to ‘break up’ like a week ago?” His tone was casual, but the look in his eyes was anything but.
Before Tweek could reply, Kyle glanced at his phone and groaned. “Um, Stan’s waiting for me to help him with the beer pong table,” he muttered. He gave Kenny a pointed look. “Don’t break him, alright?”
Tweek blinked at the jab, but Kenny just smirked, lifting his empty cup in a mock salute. “Scout’s honor.”
Kyle rolled his eyes, turning to Tweek one final time. “Good luck.”
As Kyle disappeared into the crowd, the gap he left behind felt oddly heavy. Kenny, now free from Kyle’s scrutiny, shifted his focus fully to Tweek, his gaze somehow sharper and quieter than before. Tweek’s nerves only tightened, a wire pulled too taut. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Kenny’s gaze lingered a second longer before something shifted in the air.
A presence—subdued but grounding—slipped into the space between them. Tweek glanced up and froze. Craig was suddenly there, his gaze flicking briefly to Kenny before settling on him. It was like the air shifted around him, muted somehow, and Tweek’s pulse hitched without warning.
“Tolkien’s cleaning up the rest,” Craig said, his tone casual, but his eyes—steady, caring—felt like they were speaking to something deeper. “You good?”
“Perfect timing,” Kenny said, straightening up. The mischievous look in his eyes remained, but it seemed like he was giving Tweek a break for once. He turned to Tweek, leaning in to give his shoulder a supportive squeeze. “You should go if you need to, dude. You’ve survived more of this chaos than I expected. I’m just glad you came. No shame in calling it.”
“What?” Tweek asked, genuinely confused.
Stepping back, Kenny’s gaze shifted from Tweek to Craig. “I’ll leave you two to it.”
Tweek’s stomach flipped. “Ken—” But Kenny was already gone, disappearing into the crowd with his usual effortless grace. Tweek had no time to process the betrayal before Craig started talking again.
“What was that about?” Craig asked, his tone neutral but with an edge of concern.
Tweek shrugged, trying to get himself together. “Y-You know Kenny.”
Craig seemed to take his word for it, his glance shifting to Tweek’s mug. “Want a refill?”
“Huh? Oh! No, I’m—ngh!—fine. Thank you,” Tweek stammered, his face heating under Craig’s steady gaze. “I just, um, didn’t know where you went.”
Craig raised an eyebrow. “Cleaning up. Thought you saw.”
“I-I did,” Tweek said quickly. “I mean, yeah, I just…” He trailed off, realizing he was rambling. “Thanks. For… earlier. With Cartman.”
Craig shrugged like it was nothing. “He’s easy to deal with if you don’t take the bait.”
Tweek blinked at him. “You make it sound so—gah!—simple.”
“It is,” Craig said matter-of-factly. Then, his expression softened just slightly. “You did fine.”
“Fine?” Tweek repeated, the word strange in his mouth. “I-I didn’t do anything.”
“You didn’t leave,” Craig said, his voice even. “That’s something to me.”
Tweek didn’t know how to respond to that, so he looked down at his mug instead, his fingers fidgeting with the handle. The silence between them wasn’t heavy, but it was charged with something unspoken. The music shifted, a slower song drifting through the room. The crowd had thinned, the party losing some of its earlier energy as people either left or settled into hushed conversations. Tweek glanced toward the door, then back at Craig.
“I think I’m—ngh!—ready to go,” Tweek said, his voice quieter now.
Craig nodded. “I’ll walk you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Craig interrupted, his voice was as even as his stride. No hesitation, no second-guessing—just simple certainty.
Tweek fumbled for a response, his fingers twitching at the hem of his sweater. “I—I mean, I don’t want to ruin your night…”
Craig’s expression softened, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Trust me, leaving now sounds good to me.”
Tweek hesitated, glancing around the room. Bebe’s laughter cut through the music from somewhere in the crowd. He saw Kenny, Stan, and Kyle playing beer pong against some of the drunkest people he had ever seen. The rhythm of the bass thumped through his chest, like a second heartbeat, holding him hostage. He felt like a mismatched puzzle piece, edges fraying against the noise and motion.
When he looked back at Craig, though, everything was muffled. Craig wasn’t rushing him, wasn’t expecting anything—he was just there, patiently waiting. A soft breath hitched in Tweek’s chest. “O-Okay. Can we go?”
Craig nodded, the faintest hint of something in his expression—relief, maybe? Affection? Tweek couldn’t tell, but it made his chest ache in a way he didn’t understand.
“Let’s get out of here,” Craig said, his voice low but sure like it was the easiest decision in the world.
Leaving a party was a lot simpler than going to one, Tweek realized. Or, maybe it was the fact that they didn’t say any goodbyes. Sure, Kenny had given them a sort-of send-off, but Craig didn’t go out of his way to let anyone know they were leaving. It was like the party didn’t cling to him the way it did to everyone else—like he could walk away without it leaving a mark.
The music swelled again as they wove through the crowd, every beat vibrating through Tweek’s chest like a physical weight. The alcohol was hitting him harder and harder by the second, the buzz in his head matched by the swirl of heat in the room. He focused on Craig’s back, the confident rhythm of his steps cutting a path through the noise.
The crowd seemed to part for him like he was the victor of some great battle tonight. The Cartman incident, Tweek thought, though it might’ve just been his own opinion. He doubted anyone else saw it that way—Craig didn’t seem like the kind of person to draw attention to himself. But there was something in the way people moved aside for him like they respected him without needing to say it out loud.
Tweek stayed close, his shoulder brushing Craig’s arm more often than not. Each touch was fleeting but grounding, like a tether keeping him from floating away in the chaos. Craig didn’t pull away or comment, and his steps were as measured as ever. The party’s pulse dulled as the door shut behind them, the bass line fading into a distant hum. The cold night air swept in, brisk and clean, chasing away the sticky heat that clung to Tweek’s skin. He shivered, but it felt… lighter, like stepping out of a too-warm room into the snow.
They didn’t talk much at first. The silence between them was comfortable but charged. Tweek glanced at Craig, who looked more at ease now, his face less guarded under the dim streetlights. The snow continued to flurry around them; another layer to last year’s fall. The heat of alcohol kept Tweek going despite the cold, even as his breath clouded up around them.
He glanced at Craig again, his heart doing something weird in his chest. He was still walking at the same measured pace, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, his breath coming out in even puffs of fog. How did Craig do that—just exist like nothing could throw him off? Tweek felt like he was made of jangling wires most of the time, but Craig was all… straight lines and smooth corners. It didn’t make sense.
Or maybe it did.
Tweek’s foot slipped on a patch of ice, his heart leaping in his chest before Craig’s hand caught his arm, pulling him upright with a steadiness that made Tweek’s breath catch.
“Watch your step,” Craig murmured, his tone so calm it almost made Tweek’s embarrassment worse.
Tweek blinked, the warmth of Craig’s hand lingering even after he let go. “Y-Yeah. Thanks,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. Craig’s gaze flickered to him for a moment, before returning to the path ahead. The silence between them felt heavier now—charged with something Tweek didn’t know how to name.
“Do you—uh—always go to parties like that?” Tweek asked. His voice came out more slurred than he expected. Part of him regretted downing most of his drink at the end, another part of him didn’t care anymore, under the warmth of alcohol.
“No,” Craig said simply. “But you saw how Clyde is. He really wanted me there tonight. Said I needed to ‘get out more.’” He rolled his eyes slightly, the smallest hint of exasperation slipping into his tone. “Not my thing, though.”
Tweek nodded, feeling a strange sense of camaraderie. “Yeah. Same.”
They walked a little further, the lull between them no longer holding that weight. Tweek found himself relaxing slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing with each step. The houses lining the street were dark and dulcet, a stark contrast to the hell they’d just left behind.
Craig spoke first this time, his voice low. “You did good in there.”
Tweek blinked, startled. “Huh?”
“At the party,” Craig clarified. “I know you didn’t want to be there, but you handled it. Better than most people would.”
Tweek’s face burned. “I-I don’t know about that…”
“I do,” Craig’s voice was even, low enough that Tweek almost missed it over the crunch of snow beneath their feet. “You’re tougher than you think.”
He said it like a fact, not a compliment—and something about the certainty in his tone made it stick. The words settled over Tweek like a blanket, warm and grounding.
They kept walking, and maybe it was his lack of focus on their way to the party, but Tweek was struggling to recognize any buildings nearby. Something in his heart sank.
“Are we—ngh—lost?”
Craig gave him a sidelong glance. “We’ve been walking in a straight line for two blocks.”
“Oh…” Tweek looked around as if to confirm. “Cool. Cool, cool.”
Craig snorted softly, a sound so unexpected that Tweek whipped his head around to look at him. “You okay?” he asked, wide-eyed.
“Fine,” Craig said, deadpan, though his lips twitched. “You’re entertaining.”
“I—guh—what?” Tweek’s steps faltered, and he nearly tripped over the curb. Craig caught his elbow, steadying him with an ease that made Tweek’s face heat.
“You ramble when you’re nervous,” Craig explained, his tone lighter than usual. “It’s kind of… funny.”
“Oh, great,” Tweek muttered, looking down at the snow-covered sidewalk. “Glad I’m entertaining.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” Craig added, and Tweek could have sworn there was the smallest, almost imperceptible curve to his lips. It wasn’t a smile exactly—Craig didn’t seem like the kind of guy who smiled often—but it was close enough to send Tweek’s stomach into freefall.
Soon, their surroundings did seem familiar. And, even sooner, they were approaching Tweek Bros.
They stopped in front of Tweek’s door out back, the old neon sign out front flickering faintly in the distance. It took Tweek a minute to fumble through his pockets to find his keys. The gentle sprinkling of snow started coming down harder. It was pretty common this time of year, but Tweek was starting to get worried. He looked up to see the sky painted with clouds, thickening by the second. Turning to look at Craig, he hesitated. There was something in his eyes that threw Tweek off. Gentle. Kind.
Tweek fumbled with his keys, nearly dropping them. “Uh—thanks for, you know, walking me back.”
Craig nodded. He was standing just a little too close with his hands still buried in his jacket pockets. It was starting to get colder by the minute. “No problem. I’m glad I did. That drink hit you all at once, huh?”
“Kenny did say you made it pretty strong,” Tweek said, almost teasing.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of the streetlights and the faint car in the distance. Tweek shifted on his feet, unsure what to say or do next. His head was still fuzzy, his stomach warm from the alcohol—or maybe from something else.
“So…” Craig’s voice cut through the stillness. He glanced toward the door. “You good?”
“Y-Yeah. I think so,” Tweek stammered, though his fingers fumbled again with the keys. He caught Craig watching, his expression unreadable.
“You’re sure?” Craig pressed, his tone softer now.
Tweek nodded, despite himself, finally moving to unlock the door. He struggled to work his key into the lock, the cold biting at his fingertips. The neon sign out front flickered like his thoughts—unstable, relentless, buzzing at the edges. When he glanced at Craig, the lack of tension in his posture only made the storm inside him feel louder.
It took him a minute, with his nerves and the chill, to open the door, but after what felt like hours of struggling, he started towards the stairs inside. His stomach sank, as he realized the challenge he was about to face. He’d never drank alcohol, so he wasn’t aware of the consequences. Now, it seemed like they were all catching up to him.
“Do you want some help?” Craig asked from behind him, and Tweek did his best not to jump at the sound.
Tweek hesitated, glancing at the stairs like they were a mountain. He felt Craig step closer. “This is always the hardest part,” Craig added, slipping an arm around Tweek’s waist before he could respond. The contact sent a jolt through him, but Craig’s grip was so steady it felt like the most natural thing in the world.“At least we don’t have to worry about being quiet.”
Tweek let out a shaky laugh, the sound barely above a whisper. “Y-Yeah. Stairs are the worst.” His hand clutched the banister tightly, and he tried not to focus too much on the warmth of Craig’s arm around him, strong and sure.
Craig hummed in agreement, his grip secure but not overbearing. They climbed the stairs slowly, Tweek’s footsteps heavier than he intended. The alcohol, the lingering buzz, and the weight of the night had all settled in his limbs. By the time they reached the top, he felt like he’d run a marathon.
When they reached the landing, Craig’s hand lingered for a second longer than necessary, solid against Tweek’s back, before he pulled away. It was barely noticeable, but Tweek felt the warmth of it long after.
Tweek turned toward his door, fumbling again with his keys, his hands trembling for reasons he wasn’t sure he wanted to examine too closely.
“You made it,” Craig said, his tone almost teasing but still soft enough that Tweek glanced back at him, startled.
“Y-Yeah,” Tweek mumbled, turning back to the door as he pushed it open. Inside, the dim light from the window barely illuminated his apartment—small, cluttered, but unmistakably his. He hesitated in the doorway, gripping the edge of the frame as he looked over his shoulder at Craig.
The words slipped out before Tweek could stop them, clumsy and uneven: “You want to come in?” His pulse spiked as soon as they were out, a sharp rhythm against the muffled silence of the hallway. What was he doing? It was just a polite offer—normal. Right? But as Craig’s gaze flickered between the stairs and the open door, Tweek couldn’t stop the rush of what-ifs crowding his head.
(What if Craig said no? What if he said yes?)
“I mean—just for a second. Or—ngh!—whatever.”
Craig stayed still, his expression unreadable under the dim light. For a breathless moment, Tweek thought he might say no, and the thought twisted his stomach into knots.
“Sure,” Craig said finally, stepping inside with the kind of ease that made Tweek’s chest ache.
Tweek hovered by the entrance, his heart racing for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down. “Uh, I’ve got water. Coffee. I mean—I guess not coffee, it’s late, but—”
“Tweek,” Craig interrupted, his voice calm but firm. Tweek stopped rambling, his mouth snapping shut as Craig tilted his head toward the couch. “You should sit down.”
“Oh. Uh—yeah. Okay.” Tweek shuffled over, collapsing onto the couch with a sigh. The couch groaned softly as Tweek sat, its familiar squeak oddly loud in the quiet. He rubbed at his temples, the fuzziness in his head starting to subside but leaving behind an overwhelming exhaustion.
Across the room, Craig eyed the old armchair the last tenant had left before Tweek moved in. The apartment was still, save for the faint hum of the heater kicking on. The clutter around him—piles of unopened mail, stray coffee mugs—felt overwhelming in a way it usually didn’t, but Craig’s calm presence dulled the edges.
Craig moved with a collected ease, dropping into the armchair across from him. He leaned back, his usual stoicism intact, but there was something softer about him now. Tweek couldn’t place it—maybe it was the way he seemed to settle into the space like he belonged there. For a moment, they sat in silence, the ambient sounds of Tweek’s apartment filling the gaps where words might have been.
As Tweek sank into the couch, he couldn’t help but glance at Craig, now fully settled in the armchair like he had always been there. There was something about the way Craig moved that made Tweek’s usual nervous energy feel almost… Silent. It wasn’t that the noise in his head had disappeared entirely, but for once, it wasn’t the loudest thing in the room. The tension in Tweek’s shoulders eased despite himself, the calming sound of Craig’s breathing anchoring him in the quiet.
Tweek’s eyes felt heavy, his body sinking deeper into the cushions. He wanted to say something—to thank Craig, maybe, or to apologize for dragging him here—but the words never came.
Instead, he let his eyes drift closed, the room’s warmth and Craig’s relaxed presence lulling him into a peace he hadn’t felt in years.
Somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, Tweek heard Craig shift, his chair creaking in the softness. A murmur followed—low, deliberate, just loud enough to make Tweek wonder if it was meant for him. His chest tightened, the words slipping into the haze of his thoughts before he could make sense of them. When he cracked an eye open, Craig’s gaze was on the window, distant and thoughtful, his expression unreadable.
Tweek let his eyes close again, the room fading into a gentle blur. In the dull hum of the room, Tweek felt something he hadn’t expected—safe. It was unfamiliar, fragile, and fleeting. But for now, it was enough.