Archive of Our Own

Craig was halfway through folding laundry when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen, it was his father. It was strange, almost alarming to get a random call from the man, but he picked it up without letting himself think about it, balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“Hey,” he said plainly. 

“Hi, Craig,” his father’s voice was unusually quiet, each word deliberate, it made the hairs on the back of Craig’s neck stand straight. His father wasn’t a quiet or gentle man. A familiar sense of unease he hadn’t felt in about a year crawled down his spine, “I… I have some bad news.”

Craig stopped folding. He pressed the phone closer to his ear as if doing so would lessen the weight of the silence that followed.

“Your grandmother passed away this morning,” Thomas said after a long pause. His voice cracked on the last word, and it was like a punch to Craig’s chest.

“Oh,” Craig breathed. His mind scrambled to process the words, “what… uh, what happened?”

“She went peacefully in her sleep,” Thomas replied, “we knew it was coming sometime in the next year, but…” his voice trailed off. 

Craig nodded reflexively, forgetting his father couldn’t see him, “yeah. No, of course. Are you… how are you doing?” The question felt clumsy, but he didn’t know what else to say. He’d never had an intimate conversation like this with his father before, he’d never heard his father sound so defeated. Not even a year ago when the man’s own father passed, however, at that time he still had his mother after all. Before she started to deteriorate from illness and loneliness without her husband. 

“I’m managing,” Thomas said, though the unfamiliar strain in his voice suggested otherwise, “your mom’s been a big help.”

There was a pause, long enough that Craig could hear his father chewing on the inside of his cheek over the line. 

“I’ll send you the details about the funeral,” Thomas added, “it’ll probably be next week.”

“Yeah, okay,” Craig’s voice was steadier than he felt, “thanks for letting me know.”

“I love you, son,” Thomas said, the words heavy with emotion.

“Love you too, Dad,” for some reason the words felt strange on his tongue. Craig did love his father and he knew his father loved him back, but this was probably the first time they had ever said as such over the phone. Probably the first time they had said it out loud since Craig was a child.  

The call ended, and Craig stood there for a moment, phone still in hand, staring at the half-folded laundry on the couch. He squinted at the shirt on top of the pile, grabbing it to refold it. Craig took a few breaths and continued his task, thoughts drifting to what he should make for dinner instead of dwelling on what could not be changed. 

That evening after dinner Craig decided to do some cleaning and organizing in the living room. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, pulling it out the screen displayed a text from Tricia, making Craig sigh. 

Dad called me. I can’t believe she’s gone.

Craig sat down, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He typed and deleted several responses before settling on one.

Yeah, me neither.

He set the phone aside, leaning back into the cushions. He thought he’d feel more… something. Sadness, maybe. Pain. But all he felt was an odd numbness, like his brain hadn’t caught up to the news yet.

From across the room, Tweek’s voice broke the silence, “everything okay?”

Craig looked up to see his boyfriend standing in the doorway, concern etched across his freckled face, “my dad called earlier,” Craig said, his voice flat, “my grandma died.”

Tweek’s green eyes softened, “oh my god, Craig, I’m so sorry.”

Craig shrugged, avoiding eye contact, “it’s fine. She’s old, and she’s been sick for a while. It’s not like it was a surprise,” he got up and started shifting the Red Racer figures around on his display, his movements sharp and mechanical.

Tweek crossed the room and rested a hand on Craig’s arm, “you don’t have to act like it doesn’t bother you.”

Craig forced a tight smile, “I’m fine, really. I’m just glad she went peacefully.”

But as Tweek leaned against him, his warmth a quiet comfort, Craig stared at the display and wondered if he’d really be fine at all. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it, life ended eventually and that’s just how the world works. If he couldn’t do anything about it, why would he need to feel anything about it? 

Craig slid under the covers that night, the weight of the day settling over him like a lead blanket. Tweek climbed in beside him and leaned over to turn off the lamp on his side. The soft hum of the room filled the silence, a stark contrast to the whirl of thoughts in Craig’s head.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Tweek asked after a moment, his voice quiet but insistent.

Craig turned onto his side, facing the wall, “there’s not much to talk about,” he said flatly, “she’s gone. It’s sad, but it’s not like we didn’t see it coming.”

Tweek shifted behind him, the mattress dipping under his weight, “it’s okay to be upset,” he said gently, softly rubbing his back. 

Craig closed his eyes, his voice curt, “I’m fine, Tweek. Really.”

The room fell silent again, but Craig knew Tweek wasn’t convinced. He felt his boyfriend’s presence like a warm shadow beside him, waiting for something Craig didn’t know how to give. Eventually, Tweek sighed softly and settled into his own space, unlocking his phone and putting in earbuds, leaving Craig alone with his thoughts.

Craig stared at the faint outline of the wall in the dark. He thought about his grandfather, who had died just shy of a year ago. He’d felt the same way then, detached, like the loss was something happening to someone else. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; he loved them both, but the grief didn’t seem to hit him the way it did for everyone else.

His extended family had cried through the entire funeral for his grandfather, and Tricia had barely been able to make it through the eulogy without breaking down as well. But Craig had stayed dry-eyed through the funeral, the wake, even the burial. He’d thought it was because he was stronger than the rest of them, better at keeping it together.

But now, as he lay there, he wasn’t so sure. If he was so strong, why did he feel so hollow? It wasn’t that he felt unaffected exactly, he just suddenly felt empty. It wasn’t sadness, it was just nothing. That was somehow better and worse at the same time, and Craig had no clue what any of it meant or what he should do. So he decided to just keep it in, let time move forward and everything would be normal again. 

He shifted under the covers, the fabric scratching against his skin in an oddly irritating way. The numbness that spread through him wasn’t comforting, it was uncomfortable, like wearing clothes that didn’t fit. He tried to convince himself it would pass, that he just needed time. Life would go back to normal, he would feel things normally again, this was just how it felt for him when someone died apparently. 

Eventually, sleep overtook him, but it wasn’t restful. He drifted in and out, the uncomfortable weight of his thoughts following him into dreams that blurred with reality. All the while, the numbness lingered, heavy and unshakable.

The day of the funeral arrived gray and cold, with clouds hanging low in the sky. Craig stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the tie around his neck. It felt too tight, but he couldn’t bring himself to loosen it. The suit he wore was the same one from his grandfather’s funeral, pulled from the back of the closet with little thought.

Tweek leaned against the bedroom door frame, already dressed, his green tie slightly askew, “you look nice,” he offered softly, his voice tentative.

Craig gave a small nod, not trusting himself to say much. The truth was, he didn’t feel like he looked nice. He felt stiff, uncomfortable, like a child playing dress-up. Instead of responding, Craig simply fixed Tweek’s tie and rebuttoned his shirt. 

The drive to the funeral home was quiet. Tweek sat beside him, his hand resting lightly on Craig’s knee, a quiet offer of comfort. Craig kept his eyes on the road, his mind blank except for the occasional thought of how strange it was to be doing this again so soon after his grandfather’s passing.

When they arrived, Craig spotted his parents standing by the entrance, greeting mourners. His dad looked older than he had a year ago, the weight of back-to-back losses etched into the lines of his face. Laura stood beside him, composed but pale, her hand resting on Thomas’s arm like she was the only thing holding him up.

“Craig,” Thomas said when he spotted his son. His voice was rough, but he managed a small smile.

Craig nodded, awkwardly hugging his father briefly before stepping back, “hey, Dad. Mom.”

Laura pulled him into a tight hug, her hands cold against his back, “you holding up okay?” She asked, her voice quiet but steady.

“Yeah,” Craig said, though he wasn’t sure if it was true.

Inside the chapel, the air was heavy with the scent of flowers and the quiet murmur of people talking in hushed tones. Craig sat beside Tweek in the third row, his parents and Tricia in the front. His sister was already dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, her shoulders shaking slightly.

The service began, a somber eulogy from the priest followed by shared memories from family members and friends. Tricia went up to speak, her voice trembling as she recounted childhood memories of their grandmother baking cookies and telling bedtime stories. Craig watched her, feeling a strange mixture of pride and guilt. He didn’t have the strength, or the words, to stand up there himself. What would he even say? What memories were important enough to share? He didn’t know. 

The wake afterward was a blur of handshakes, condolences, and plates of food Craig barely touched. He moved through the crowd like a ghost, nodding politely at familiar faces and murmuring thanks when someone said something kind about his grandmother.

He found a moment alone near the back of the room, leaning against the wall and nursing a cup of coffee he didn’t want. His eyes wandered to Tricia, who was seated at a table with their parents. She was openly crying now, her head resting on Laura’s shoulder while Thomas rubbed her back.

Craig felt a pang in his chest, but it wasn’t grief, not exactly. It was something harder to define, a mix of guilt and detachment. Why couldn’t he cry like Tricia? Why did he feel so removed from everything? Should he be crying? What is he supposed to feel? Because he was pretty sure he wasn't feeling correctly. 

Tweek appeared beside him, holding a plate of cookies, “you okay?” He asked gently, handing one to Craig.

Craig took it but didn’t eat, turning the small dessert over in his hands, “yeah,” he lied, his voice low, “I’m fine.”

But as the day dragged on and the numbness clung to him like a second skin, Craig began to wonder if he’d ever feel fine again.

A few weeks after the funeral, Craig’s phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. He glanced at the screen, seeing his dad’s name. Swallowing a strange, inexplicable tightness in his throat, he answered.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, bud,” Thomas said, his voice softer than usual, “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

“No, it’s fine. What’s up?”

There was a pause, the kind that made Craig’s stomach churn, “your mom and I were talking,” Thomas finally said, “we’re planning on selling your grandparents’ house.”

Craig felt his grip on the phone tighten, “oh,” he said, unsure of what else to offer.

“Yeah,” Thomas continued, his tone careful, like he was waiting for Craig to push back, “we’re not rushing it or anything, but...well, we figured it’s time. It’s too much for us to keep up, too expensive, and it doesn’t make sense to hold on to it.”

Craig didn’t respond immediately. The idea of strangers living in his grandparents’ home felt wrong, like it would erase the life and memories that still seemed so vivid to him. He could picture the kitchen where his grandmother baked cookies, the living room where his grandfather napped during baseball games. It wasn’t just a house, it was their house.

His father cleared his throat, “anyway,” Thomas said, filling the silence, “we’re going over there on Saturday to start cleaning up. Figured we’d go through things and see if there’s anything you or Tricia want to keep. Thought you might want to come.”

“Yeah,” Craig said, though the thought of walking through the house without them made his chest feel heavy, “I’ll be there.”

“Thanks, kid,” Thomas said, relief evident in his voice, “it’ll help having you around.”

When Craig hung up, he stared at the blank screen for a long moment. The idea of selling the house gnawed at him, but he didn’t know how to explain why. It wasn’t like he’d lived there or had any claim to it. Still, the thought of it belonging to strangers, of someone else walking through those rooms and rearranging their lives in a space that held his own childhood memories, made him feel...off.

He set the phone down and leaned against the counter, trying to shake the unease creeping over him. Tweek walked in a moment later, setting a cup of coffee on the table, “everything okay?” He asked.

“Yeah,” Craig said automatically, “just my dad.”

Tweek didn’t press further, and Craig was grateful. But as the week dragged on, he found himself dreading Saturday, dreading the way his grandparents’ house was about to change forever.

The house smelled the same. That was the first thing Craig noticed when he stepped through the door. It hit him all at once, the faint scent of lavender from his grandmother’s favorite cleaning spray and the subtle hint of wood polish his grandfather always insisted on using for the furniture. He hadn’t been here since his grandfather’s funeral, and now, walking into the familiar space without either of them, it felt like stepping into a time capsule, preserved but hollow.

A pang stabbed into his chest, realizing he could have come and visited his grandmother more before she was hospitalized. The visits probably wouldn’t have been very fun or happy, which was why he had decided not to do them, now with hindsight he could only feel guilty for missing out on time with her. 

Tweek trailed behind him, quiet but observant, his hand brushing against Craig’s back in a small, grounding gesture. Craig’s parents and Tricia had already started sorting through the living room, pulling items from shelves and sorting them into piles. Thomas held up an old lamp and asked Laura if they should donate it. However, Tricia had already found her way to a box of photo albums, ignoring the real task at hand, her voice hitching slightly when she called out, “oh my God, look at this one!”

Craig wandered into the hallway, Tweek at his side. He gestured toward a decent sized dent in the wall near the baseboard, “that’s from when Tricia tried to rollerblade inside the house,” he said, his voice soft and edged with a faint smile, “Grandma caught her and helped us come up with a lie for my grandfather so no one got in trouble,” Craig traced his finger over the dent Tricia’s elbow pad had created. For the last nine years a beat up console table used to cover it, now the table was gone. Probably scooped up by another family member, an uncle or a cousin or something. 

Tweek chuckled, “she allowed her to rollerblade inside?”

“She was cool,” Craig shrugged, smiling softly, “she always said the only rules at a grandparent house were to have fun and eat, leave the crying and discipline for the parents.” 

They moved into the dining room, and Craig pointed out the corner where his grandfather had always sat during family dinners, “that’s where he’d tell his stories,” Craig said, his tone growing quieter, “most of them were probably made up, but he’d make you believe every word.”

Tweek smiled, glancing at the chair, but Craig quickly moved on before the weight of the memory could settle. It hit him like a brick that he actually didn’t want to think about his grandfather, Craig had not thought about him for nearly a year and he wasn’t ready to start doing it now. 

In the living room, Tricia had pulled a photo album onto her lap, and Laura sat beside her, leaning in to look. Tricia’s laugh bubbled up through her tears as she turned the pages, “look at this one of Craig!” She said, pointing at a picture of him as a toddler, covered head to toe in mud.

Craig hovered nearby, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, watching silently as Tweek sat down to join them. His boyfriend’s soft, scratchy voice blended with Tricia’s giggles and Laura’s gentle laughter as they flipped through the album. Craig didn’t sit down. Instead, he stood over them, his chest tightening as he watched their faces brighten and fall with each turn of the page.

Craig half looked at each photo, only for a moment each. He couldn’t find it in himself to really analyze any of them, to pay close enough attention for the memories to register in his mind. There were old photos of a Christmas party before Tricia was even born, a toddler Craig clutching his grandmother's pearls as she held him up for a photo in front of her overly tinsel covered tree. Tricia flipped to a different page and Craig blinked the photo out of his head. 

Thomas lingered behind them for a moment, his eyes catching on a photo of his parents in their younger years, smiling wide and holding hands. He cleared his throat, “I, uh... I think I'll sort through the kitchen,” he said abruptly. His voice was strained, and he avoided looking at anyone as he left the room.

Craig knew what that meant. His father wasn’t going to the kitchen to clean. He was escaping, unwilling, or unable, to let anyone see the crack in his stoic demeanor. Thomas was not an emotional man, he had always been strong and stubborn. The only time Craig had seen him look remotely sad had been when his father passed, but it was clearly hitting him a lot harder now that his mother was gone too. 

The air in the room suddenly felt too heavy, “I’m gonna use the bathroom,” Craig muttered, his voice barely audible.

He slipped down the hallway and closed the bathroom door behind himself, locking it with trembling hands. Leaning against the sink, he stared at his reflection. His face was pale, his eyes distant.

It started with a sharp breath, then another, until the dam finally broke. Tears streamed down his cheeks, hot and relentless, as his chest heaved with sobs he couldn’t contain. His hand shot to his mouth, trying to stifle the sound, but it only made the ache in his chest worse.

He slid down to the floor, his back against the cold bathroom wall, his knees pulled to his chest. The grief he had pushed away for weeks surged forward all at once, overwhelming and terrifying. He didn’t know how to process it, didn’t know how to carry the weight of it.

It wasn’t just losing his grandmother or grandfather. It was the realization that this chapter of his life, the warmth of their home, the comfort of their presence, was over. He would never sit at the dining table with them again, never hear their voices or see their smiles. They were gone and there was nothing he could do about it. Not being able to do anything should bring comfort, the realization that it was out of his hands. Instead it made him feel defeated and useless, broken and empty in a way he’d never experienced before. 

Craig clenched his fists, hating how vulnerable he felt, how completely undone he was by the sadness. He couldn’t let anyone see him like this. Not his father, not his mother, not Tricia, not Tweek. This was his grief to bear, and he would bury it again as soon as he left the room. He didn’t know how to talk about it, how to explain the feelings swirling around in his gut. He didn’t want to talk about it, he didn’t want to understand what this feeling was. Craig just wanted it to go away, to feel normal again. 

But for now, he let himself cry, shaking and silent, in the only space where he felt safe to fall apart. He cried as silently as he could, staring at the different ocean themed items around the bathroom. The glass vase full of shells from every beach his grandparents had visited. The shitty homemade stained glass painting of a sunset over the ocean Tricia made in elementary school for their grandmother’s birthday hanging in the small window over the toilet. The shower curtain with bright colored fish that Craig had ripped off the bar three times one summer, it was still zip tied to the shower bar. Eventually the tears subsided. 

The sun was beginning to set as they loaded the last few boxes into the car. The day had dragged on, heavy with memories and quiet, unsaid emotions. Craig stood in the driveway, glancing back at the house one last time. The windows caught the fading light, and for a moment, he could almost imagine his grandparents inside, his grandmother humming softly as she cross-stitched in her favorite chair, his grandfather dozing on the couch after a long day of yard work.

But the house was quiet now, and it wasn’t theirs anymore.

Craig opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat. Tweek glanced at him from the driver’s side, his expression concerned but cautious. Craig had packed a small box of his grandparent’s things: a few cross-stitched pieces featuring constellations, an old astronomy book his grandmother had let him borrow when he was little, a delicate glass star ornament that used to hang in her kitchen window, a golfing Santa ornament for Christmas, and a framed photo of his grandparents on their honeymoon. 

He clutched the box tightly as they drove away, staring out the window and trying not to think about the fact that he would never step into that house again. He never wanted to go into the house again. 

“Do you want to grab something to eat before we go home?” Tweek asked after a while, his voice breaking the silence.

Craig hesitated, then nodded, “yeah. I could eat.”

They ended up at a small diner a few blocks from their apartment, the kind of place they went to when they didn’t feel like cooking but didn’t want anything fancy. The waitress led them to a booth by the window, and they ordered pancakes for Craig and grilled cheese for Tweek.

The silence between them stretched until the food arrived, but Tweek finally broke it, “so,” he said carefully, “how are you holding up?”

Craig didn’t look up from his plate, “I’m fine,” he said, his voice clipped, “it’s just...a lot of work, you know? Going through everything.”

Tweek frowned slightly but didn’t push, “yeah, I get that,” he said, though it was clear he didn’t believe Craig was as fine as he claimed.

Craig stabbed at his pancakes, desperate to change the subject, “how’s work? The kids giving you a hard time?”

Tweek blinked, thrown by the abrupt shift, “uh, not really,” he said, “most of them are good. We started working on a big mural project last week. I’m letting the students design it together, and then we’re going to paint it on one of the school walls. It’s...chaotic, but it’s been fun.”

Craig nodded, chewing slowly, “that’s cool. What about your own stuff? You working on anything?”

Tweek tilted his head, studying Craig for a moment before answering, “a little. I’ve been playing around with some new techniques, trying to get better at landscapes. I was thinking about doing a series based on the view of the mountains at sunrise.”

Craig gave a small smile, “that sounds nice. You’re good at that kind of thing.”

“Thanks,” Tweek said softly. He sipped his coffee, clearly debating whether to circle back to the topic of Craig’s grandparents.

But Craig wasn’t ready to go there. He kept the conversation firmly focused on Tweek’s work, asking questions about his students and his paintings, keeping the spotlight off himself.

By the time they left the diner, Craig felt a little more in control, the heaviness of the day pushed down again, locked away where he didn’t have to deal with it. But as they walked to the car, Tweek’s hand brushed against his, and for a brief moment, Craig wondered if maybe he should have let him in.

The days passed, blending into weeks, until a month had gone by since they’d cleaned out his grandparents house. Craig moved through life as if on autopilot, clinging to his routines like a lifeline. He woke up each morning to the sound of Tweek bustling in the kitchen, made his coffee, and headed to work. At the lab, he poured himself into his research, running simulations, analyzing data, and presenting findings at team meetings. To his coworkers, he seemed as focused and stoic as ever. But inside, Craig felt off-kilter, like he was a step behind the world around him.

Sometimes, grief hit him in quick, sharp moments. Walking through the grocery store, he caught sight of a box of oatmeal cookies, his grandmother’s favorite, and felt his chest tighten. He passed a craft store window on his way to lunch and saw an embroidery hoop with stars stitched on the fabric. His stomach twisted as he remembered the evenings he’d spent as a kid watching her sew constellations while she told him stories about the stars. The sting was sharp but fleeting, and Craig would force himself to move on, to push the memories aside before they could overwhelm him.

On his days off, he kept himself busy. He spent Saturday afternoons with Clyde, Jimmy, and Tolkien, grabbing lunch or playing video games. They joked and laughed, but Craig felt like an outsider in his own skin, his mind wandering to the empty space his grandparents had left. His friends noticed his quieter demeanor but didn’t press him about it. Craig could tell, and he was grateful. 

Evenings with Tweek were harder. Craig would join him for dates at their favorite restaurants or accompany him to art galleries where Tweek gushed about brush strokes and lighting techniques. Other nights, they stayed in, watching shows Tweek loved. Craig tried to stay engaged, nodding and giving small smiles when Tweek turned to him with excitement. But Tweek could see through it.

One night, as they sat side by side on the couch, Tweek paused the show mid-episode and turned to Craig, “you’ve been...different lately,” he said carefully, “do you want to talk about it?”

Craig didn’t look at him. He kept his gaze on the TV, even though the screen was frozen, “I’m fine,” he said, his voice steady but distant, “I’m just tired. Work’s been busy.”

Tweek frowned, not buying it, but not wanting to push too hard, “okay,” he said softly, “if you ever do want to talk, I’m here.”

“Thanks,” Craig muttered, reaching for the remote to unpause the show. He didn’t miss the way Tweek’s shoulders slumped slightly as he turned back to the screen.

The days continued to crawl by, the heaviness of grief settling into the corners of Craig’s life. He carried it with him everywhere, at work, with his friends, at home with Tweek. He was trying so hard to keep it all together, to maintain the facade of strength and normalcy. But every once in a while, he caught himself staring at the stars through the telescope at the lab, thinking of his grandmother. And in those moments, no matter how hard he tried, the weight of her absence pressed down on him, suffocating and unrelenting.

The days grew shorter, and December crept in with its cold winds and festive lights. Craig went through the motions of the holiday season, pretending the cheer around him wasn’t weighed down by the empty space left behind by his grandparents. He kept busy, buying gifts for his family and friends, attending holiday gatherings, and decorating the small tree in their apartment with Tweek. He put golfing Santa in the back, unable to look at him every time he entered the living room. The joy of the season felt muted, distant, like it was meant for someone else.

On the evening before Christmas Eve, Craig and Tweek sat cross-legged on the living room floor, wrapping the last of their presents. The sound of Christmas music drifted from the speakers, a soft backdrop to their conversation about which ribbon matched each gift. The coffee table was cluttered with rolls of wrapping paper, tape dispensers, and scissors, and Craig absentmindedly picked up a small box from the pile.

It wasn’t until he’d turned it over in his hands that he realized what it was, a set of star-shaped cookie cutters he’d bought weeks ago. He’d thought they were perfect for his grandmother, remembering how she used to bake sugar cookies with him as a kid. He hadn’t even registered, in his haze of grief and habit, that he’d bought them for her.

Craig froze, staring at the box in his hands. A gift he bought for a dead woman. His chest tightened, and his throat burned as he swallowed hard against the rising lump. This was supposed to be her gift. But she wasn’t here to open it. She wouldn’t be here for Christmas, or any Christmas after this.

“Craig?” Tweek’s voice was soft and careful, pulling Craig out of his spiral, “are you okay?”

Craig shook his head slightly, trying to brush it off, but the floodgates had opened. He felt the tears before he could stop them, hot and unrelenting as they spilled down his cheeks. He dropped the box onto the floor and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs.

Tweek immediately moved closer, wrapping his arms around Craig without hesitation, “hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, his voice soothing, “I’m here. You are always there for me for every little thing, please just let me be here for you.”

Craig leaned into Tweek’s embrace, clutching the fabric of his sweater like a lifeline, “I don’t, I don’t know how to do this,” Craig choked out between sobs, “I miss her so much, and him too. It hurts so much, and I just keep trying to push it away, but it’s always there. It’s always there.”

Tweek held him tighter, rubbing gentle circles on Craig’s back, “you don’t have to push it away,” he said softly, “it’s okay to feel this, Craig. It’s okay to hurt. You don’t have to do it alone.”

“I just, I keep thinking about all the things they’ll miss,” Craig said, his voice trembling, “they won’t be here for Christmas, or for my wedding, or anything. They’re just gone. And it’s not fair.”

Tweek didn’t say anything for a moment, letting Craig cry into his shoulder. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady and full of quiet strength, “it’s not fair. And it’s going to hurt for a while, maybe for a long time. But that doesn’t mean you have to carry it by yourself. I’ll be here, no matter how long it takes.”

Craig pulled back slightly, his face wet and flushed, and looked at Tweek with raw vulnerability, “I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve never,” his voice broke, and he looked away, ashamed of how shattered he felt.

Tweek gently cupped Craig’s face, guiding him to meet his eyes, “you don’t have to be strong all the time,” he said, “it’s okay to rely on me sometimes. I’ve got you. You’ve got me. We’re a team.”

For the first time, Craig let himself believe it. He nodded, leaning back into Tweek’s embrace, and for the first time in weeks, months, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

Christmas morning dawned quietly, the muted light of winter spilling through the windows of Thomas and Laura’s home. Craig arrived with Tweek mid-morning, a box of gifts tucked under his arm. The house felt strangely subdued, as though it had absorbed the collective weight of the family’s grief.

In the living room, the tree sparkled with white lights and an assortment of ornaments, many of which had been handmade over the years. Craig recognized a few that his grandmother had cross-stitched, tiny stars and constellations that glimmered faintly in the soft light.

Tricia was already curled up on the couch in flannel pajamas, a blanket draped over her lap. She looked up and gave Craig a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “Merry Christmas,” she said softly.

“Merry Christmas,” Craig replied, setting the box of gifts beside the tree. He and Tweek joined Tricia on the couch while Laura bustled around in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. The smell of cinnamon and coffee filled the air, but it couldn’t mask the absence that hung over the room.

Thomas emerged from the hallway a few moments later, carrying a tray of coffee mugs. He handed one to each of them, his movements slower than usual, as though the effort of putting on a cheerful face was wearing him down, “Merry Christmas,” he said gruffly, his voice tinged with something Craig couldn’t quite place.

The morning unfolded with a quiet kind of warmth. They exchanged gifts, their laughter and smiles genuine, though tinged with sadness. Tricia teared up when she opened a framed photo of herself with her grandparents, a gift from Laura. She hugged the frame tightly, her face crumpling for a moment before she composed herself.

Craig’s gift to his parents was a set of star-shaped ornaments he’d found, a nod to his grandmother’s love of the stars. Laura smiled warmly as she hung one on the tree, and Thomas gave Craig a firm pat on the shoulder, his grip lingering just long enough to convey what words couldn’t. Less dramatic gifts were exchanged, but they all kind of blurred together as meaningless to Craig.

There was no extended family at the gathering, everyone was just celebrating at their own homes this year. Craig wasn’t sure how or where everyone would meet up again, it had always been at his grandparents house. Who could possibly take over the responsibility of hosting Christmas after them? Maybe he would never celebrate Christmas like that ever again, maybe it would always just be his parents and his sister. He didn’t know, he tried not to care. 

Brunch was simple but comforting, pancakes, eggs, and bacon. They sat around the dining table, talking quietly about nothing in particular, the way families do when they’re trying to keep things light. Tweek chimed in with a few stories about his students, earning chuckles from everyone, but the absence of Craig’s grandparents was palpable.

Thomas, in particular, seemed weighed down by it. He kept glancing at the empty chairs where his parents might have sat, his jaw tightening each time. Craig noticed but didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to bridge the gap between them, how to comfort a man who had always been a rock but now seemed so unsteady.

After breakfast, they settled back in the living room, sipping warm drinks while the snow outside fell softly. Christmas movies played on the TV while Tricia stretched out on the floor, her head resting on a couch pillow as she fiddled with one of her new gifts. Laura and Tweek were engrossed in a conversation about art, their voices low and soothing.

Craig sat in the armchair, watching it all unfold. It was nice, in its own way, a quiet, intimate Christmas with the people who mattered most. But it wasn’t the same. It would never be the same.

Usually at holiday events Craig found himself trying to leave as soon as possible, but this year he wanted to stay. He didn’t want the day to end, he didn’t want to go home where it was impossible to escape his thoughts. So he just sat in his chair, sipping a hot chocolate and snacking on marshmallow snowmen his mother had made. 

As the day wore on, Craig found himself retreating into his thoughts against his will, the weight of everything settling over him like a heavy blanket. He glanced over at Thomas, who was staring out the window, lost in his own memories. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and Craig saw the shared grief there, raw and unspoken.

Craig looked away, his heart aching. It wasn’t the Christmas they’d hoped for, but it was what they had. And maybe, for now, that was enough. Maybe it had to be enough. 

After the last of the wrapping paper had been stuffed into trash bags and the remains of their modest Christmas dinner feast cleared away, Craig noticed his father slipping on his coat. Thomas grabbed a small box from the counter, hesitating for a moment before heading out onto the porch. The sight made Craig pause, his father hadn’t smoked since Tricia was a toddler. Though he wanted to doubt what he’d seen, Craig was pretty sure his father had a cigarette pack in his hand. 

Curious and concerned, Craig grabbed his own coat and followed. Outside, the snow fell in soft, lazy flakes, blanketing the world in a quiet stillness. Thomas stood at the edge of the porch, leaning on the railing with a cigarette between his fingers. The orange glow of the tip flared briefly as he took a drag, his breath mingling with the smoke in the cold air.

“You haven’t smoked in years,” Craig said, stepping up beside him.

Thomas glanced at him, a little startled, then exhaled slowly, “yeah,” he said, his voice heavy, “didn’t mean to start again. Just... happened.”

Craig stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, the frosty air biting at his face, “why now?”

Thomas stared at the cigarette, turning it slowly between his fingers, “losing my mom... it’s been harder than I thought it would be,” his voice wavered, just slightly, and he cleared his throat as if to steady it, “thought I was prepared, you know? After my father passed… she’d been sick for a while. But when it actually happened...” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Craig didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t seen his father like this before, so vulnerable, so human. He looked out at the snow-covered yard, the words tumbling in his head but refusing to form.

“I keep thinking about all the things I didn’t say to her,” Thomas continued, his gaze fixed on the snow, “all the times I could’ve called and didn’t. I know she knew I loved her, but... I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like enough.”

Craig swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak, “I think she knew, Dad. She always talked about you and how proud she was of you.”

Thomas gave a small, bittersweet smile, “yeah, she did, didn’t she?” He took another drag, then dropped the cigarette into the snow, grinding it out with his boot, “this is the last one,” he said firmly, more to himself than to Craig, “not going to let this become a thing again.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the snowflakes swirling around them. Craig looked up at the sky, where the stars peeked through breaks in the clouds. The sight reminded him of his grandmother, how she’d taught him to find constellations, her voice always full of wonder as she pointed them out.

“She’d take me outside on nights like this,” Craig said quietly, his breath visible in the cold air, “taught me how to find Orion, the Big Dipper... all of it. She’s the reason I fell in love with astronomy. The reason I went to school for it.”

Thomas turned to him, his expression softening, “she was so proud of you, Craig. She told everyone her grandson was a scientist studying the stars. It made her so happy.”

Craig felt his chest tighten, the weight of his grief pressing against him, “I wish I could show her what I’m working on now,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, “she would’ve loved it.”

Thomas reached out, placing a hand on Craig’s shoulder. It wasn’t much, but the gesture carried a warmth that Craig hadn’t felt from his father in a long time, “she knew how much she meant to you,” Thomas said gently, “and I know she’s proud of the man you’ve become.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Craig felt a sense of peace settle over him, even if just for a moment. They stood there together, watching the snow fall and the stars shimmer faintly above them. It was a quiet, heartfelt moment unlike anything Craig had ever experienced with his father, and it was enough to make him feel just a little less alone.

The cemetery was quiet, the faint rustle of leaves in the summer breeze the only sound as Craig walked among the tombstones. The evening air was warm, and the sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving behind streaks of purple and gold that slowly gave way to the deep blue of night. Craig carried a small bouquet of daisies, his grandmother’s favorite flowers, as he made his way to the familiar plot where his grandparents rested.

He paused in front of their headstones, setting the flowers down gently at the base of his grandmother’s marker. For a moment, he just stood there, hands in his pockets, staring at their names etched into the cool stone.

“I know this is kind of ridiculous,” he began, his voice soft, barely above a whisper, “I’m not even sure I believe you can hear me. But it feels... nice. Just to talk.”

Craig lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged between his grandparent’s tombstones. The grass was soft, slightly damp with evening dew, but he didn’t mind. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts.

“I’m, uh... I’m going to propose to Tweek,” he said, his voice shaky with a mix of nerves and excitement, “it’s been a long time coming, right? We’ve been together since high school. Feels like I’ve known him my entire life,” he let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

His eyes drifted to the stars just beginning to appear in the darkening sky, “I’m nervous, though. Like, really nervous. I don’t know why, I know he’ll say yes. He’s hinted about it a million times. But it’s still... scary, you know? This is a big deal. It’s the rest of our lives. And I mean, I was scared shitless just to ask him to prom. Do you remember that?” He asked with a chuckle, “we had been dating for a year and I was too scared to ask him to go to prom with me in person. Clyde made fun of me for months after I asked over text.”  

Craig glanced back at the tombstones, his gaze lingering on his grandmother’s name, “I wish you could be there,” he murmured, “both of you. I know you’d approve, though. Tweek’s... he’s everything. He’s patient with me, even when I don’t deserve it. He understands me better than I understand myself sometimes. And he still makes me laugh, even after all these years. He completes me I think, like a missing piece to my soul or some gay shit like that. Sorry.”

A gentle smile tugged at his lips as he looked back at the sky, the stars twinkling brighter now, “anyway, I wouldn’t even be doing this, studying the stars, following my dreams, if it weren’t for you, Grandma. You made me fall in love with all of this,” he gestured toward the vast expanse above him, “and Grandpa... you always told me to take care of the people I love. I’m going to do that. I promise.”

Craig sat there for a while, letting the quiet settle around him. Finally, he stood, brushing off his jeans. He reached out, patting each tombstone softly, the closest he could get to a goodbye hug.

“I’ll come back after the wedding,” he said, his voice steady, “I’ll let you know how it went.”

With one last glance at the stars, Craig turned and walked back toward the cemetery gate, feeling a little lighter, a little more at peace. The night wrapped around him like a familiar blanket, and for the first time in a long time. His grandparents were gone and there was nothing he could do about that, but he was allowed to feel sad. He was allowed to miss them despite knowing there was no point in doing so. Maybe it was more rational to just accept death and move on, but he was allowed to process it slowly. He was allowed to grieve at his own pace without speeding himself up or dwelling on it too long. 

Maybe he would never truly be able to get over their death, maybe he would always find himself feeling a little sad in passing. Maybe that was okay. He wasn’t sure what the correct way to feel about it was, but he was starting to think there might not be a standard.