Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tweek was seconds away from exploding; he made sure there was no customer waiting at the counter and—with the jittery urgency of someone who might literally combust in public, marched into the back storeroom. First thing he did was yank off his apron with twitchy fingers—fast, practiced, like a routine he hated but couldn’t escape—and threw it onto a pile of coffee boxes. Then both hands went straight into his hair, ruffling it into chaotic disaster territory. Honestly, he couldn’t care less; his hair looking feral was the least of his problems.

He was certain he’d just survived the single dumbest customer he’d ever met. And Tweek hated customer service with his whole chest. Why couldn’t they just stick him in a little box, give him beans, milk, hot water, let him do his thing, and leave the “people-ing” to someone else? That would be humane. Instead, he had to deal with actual humans, which felt borderline cruel. The way he wanted to shove his face into a pillow and scream until his lungs gave out? Yeah. That only confirmed it.

So he inhaled. Deep. Too deep, maybe, because halfway through he thought his lungs were about to blow up. But hey—his therapist said deep breathing would help him not kill anyone, so... worth a try.

“Stupid customers. Stupid café. Stupid minimum wage—”

He was half-mumbling his complaint under his breath when he remembered—bright and ridiculous—that he actually had friends. What were friends for, if not to listen to ten minutes of unfiltered whining?

He fished out his phone. First thought: Wendy. Sure, he had other friends, but Wendy was the ride-or-die type who wouldn’t just listen—she’d throw shade at the customer, curse him out, and then validate Tweek even if Tweek was totally wrong. Best friend behavior.

The problem: a week ago his phone had been stolen—because yes, he was that unlucky—and he’d lost all his contacts. Lucky, indeed. Fortunately his boss had fronted him some cash and after a few days he’d managed to buy a replacement, though at that exact moment it felt like a cosmic prank: how was he supposed to text his best friend when he didn’t have her number?

His neurons fussed over the problem for a beat, then a light bulb flicked on.

“The group chat!” he said aloud to the empty storeroom, as if the room might high-five him for the idea.

His black-painted nails tapped across the screen until he found the sacred chat: “People Who Fuck A Lot🔞🔞🔞.” Yes, that was its actual name. Yes, it was Kenny’s fault. Ridiculous name for a ridiculous reason; it was his friend's birthday party chat, of course. Kenny was an event in human form, but at least everybody in that chat knew the boy well enough to understand his weird, sideways humor.

He scanned the participants for Wendy’s photo, tapped the contact, opened the chat, and—without thinking twice—hit the record-audio button. He started to vent immediately, a stream of hot, breathy words.

“Wendy, I swear I’m about to kill myself by inhaling ground coffee. I just had the worst fucking customer of my life! Jesus, You would’ve screamed—dude was, like, 4’7” with a mustache that looked fake. I mean, I’m not trying to body-shame here but— girl. Anyway. He ordered an Americano. Normal. Chill. I made it perfectly, obviously. Then—two minutes later—he stomps back to the counter, looking like an evil garden gnome, and says, ‘My coffee is too hot.’ TOO HOT. CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS?!”

He left the phone resting on one of the boxes, and sat down on another. Pulling a small mirror from his pocket, he fussed at the aftermath he’d made of his hair—proof that anger left physical fingerprints—and admitted to himself that he needed a haircut. Like, yesterday.

“I just don’t get it. He could’ve waited, what, five minutes? And boom—coffee would’ve cooled. That’s literally how science works. Physics. Heat transfer. Whatever. Like, I’m a gay art student and even I know that. So obviously I told him, in my sweetest, most customer-service voice, and what does he do? Calls me an idiot. Then he’s like, ‘I wanna speak to your manager.’ Sir, do you think I’m about to ruin my boss’s day because your tongue doesn’t understand temperature? No. So I told him David was out of town but hey, he could write in the complaint book.”

He gave up trying to tame his hair and instead pushed a headband into place—something that would at least keep the fringe out of his eyes for the rest of his shift. Then he stood, tugged his apron back on, knotting it with quick, practiced hands.

“So guess what? He actually DID. He wrote a whole essay in the complaint book. Like I’m not even exaggerating when I say he wrote a whole page. It made no sense—just this incoherent rant about how incompetent I am—Wendy, I nearly committed homicide, I swear. And you want to know his name? Craig. Craig! Of all names, Craig. It fits, right? Just hearing it I imagine the most unpleasant person on earth. Ugh.”

He smoothed the apron with a flat palm as if ironing out the tremor in his chest, grabbed the phone, and walked back out to the counter. He hit send on the audio without watching the little blue ticks and shoved the phone back into his pocket as if tucking away a tiny live grenade. Then, as if nothing extraordinary had just happened in the storeroom, he leaned forward to the next customer with the trained, neutral smile of someone who has learned to perform calm while the world hums loudly in their skull.

The day kept rushing forward in a blur, the kind of chaos that only happens when the holidays are just around the corner. For some mysterious reason, people collectively decide that drinking overpriced coffee or hot chocolate in some rustic, “aesthetic for Instagram” little café is a spiritual necessity. Lucky Tweek—his workplace basically checked all the boxes. And today? He was the only one behind the counter. Which meant: no lunch break for him. But whatever—he didn’t usually eat much anyway, so it was fine. Fine-ish.

By the time 8:00 p.m. finally rolled around, he had officially survived the storm. He swapped his apron for his coat and braced himself, because outside the air was brutal, practically stabbing through fabric. He made sure the register numbers added up and that the storeroom was locked up tight before grabbing one of the leftover blueberry muffins. One bite in and he was already out the door, locking up the café behind him and stepping into the frozen streets.

Snow hadn’t fallen yet, but it was clearly plotting to. The chill in the air was sharp enough to make Tweek curse himself for forgetting a scarf and gloves. Rookie mistake. He rubbed his hands together all the way home, trying to trick his body into feeling warmer, but luckily he lived close. A ten-minute power-walk later, he stumbled into his apartment.

The first thing he did was hang up his coat on the rickety hook by the door, then he swapped shoes for his beat-up slippers. And then—finally—he collapsed onto the secondhand couch he’d bought a few weeks earlier. It was moss green, ugly as sin. Wendy and Kenny had both declared it “disgusting” while helping him haul it upstairs, but honestly? Tweek didn’t care. It was comfy, cheap, and, most importantly—it was a couch. Like, it did its one job, he was able to sit —or die— on it. Who cared if it looked like swamp furniture?

For the first time that day, he allowed himself a little downtime. He pulled out his phone, ready to scroll mindlessly on TikTok until he dissolved straight into bedtime. But before he could, one notification made him freeze.

“Oh shit. Right. I talked to Wendy.”

Without thinking, he opened the chat. He hadn’t saved her number yet, but he expected some chaotic voice note waiting for him in return. Instead, what he found was the complete opposite.

Tweek:

(Audio message, 3:54 minutes)

4:21 p.m.

Unknown Number:

I can’t believe I just listened to four straight minutes of someone ranting about coffee.

This isn’t Wendy, by the way.

5:13 p.m.

Tweek bolted upright on the couch, his spine snapping into perfect posture like his body was suddenly made of panic.

Oh no. Oh no no no no.

Had he actually sent an unhinged, way-too-personal voice rant to a complete stranger? Congratulations, Tweek, you just unlocked a new level of pathetic.

He prayed—hard—that maybe it was Kenny, or Butters, or his cousin, or literally anyone who already knew him at least a little. Because if this was some random stranger’s first impression of him? He was done for.

He instantly tapped the profile photo, squinting like his eyes might magically sharpen enough to reveal the mystery. Nope. Useless. The photo was just a high-definition shot of the night sky—stars, galaxies, full-on NASA-core. Great. Not only had he trauma-dumped, he’d trauma-dumped on a nerd. It was Wendy's fault, why on earth did she have some aesthetic night sky as profile photo too? not that nerdy, but similar enough to confuse him.

His anxiety skyrocketed. He stuffed the rest of his muffin into his mouth like chewing carbs would erase his humiliation, and debated his next move: block the number, fake his own death, or—way riskier—respond. After a few seconds of tortured thinking, reality hit him: if this person was in Kenny’s birthday group chat, then technically they shared a social circle. Which meant he’d probably see them again. Which meant the horror wasn’t temporary—it was waiting for him at some future party.

So his options? One: live with eternal anxiety, side-eyeing everyone at every gathering, wondering who secretly knew his darkest rant. He’d spiral into paranoia, lose his grip on reality, and become a social recluse. Or, two: never go out again. Quit his job, vanish from society, go full hermit. Either way: misery.

...Or. Option three: face it head-on. Respond, figure out who it was, and at least know exactly who to avoid making eye contact with at the next party.

Right.

Tweek:

OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY I DIDN’T KNOW

WRONG NUMBER

MY PHONE GOT STOLEN

I’M SO SORRY

8:47 p.m.

Unknown:

Oh.

Are you okay?

8:48 p.m.

Tweek:

yes

i got robbed last week

8:48 p.m.

Unknown:

Oh.

Ok?

8:49 p.m.

Tweek:

i meant that’s why i messed up the number

i lost my contacts

sorry

8:50 p.m.

Unknown:

It’s fine.

8:50 p.m.

Tweek:

who is this btw?

8:50 p.m.

Unknown:

Craig Tucker.

8:50 p.m.

That was the exact moment Tweek seriously considered yeeting himself out the window of his eighth-floor apartment. Because he was about 98% sure that somewhere in his deranged little audio he had gone off about how “Craig” was the stupidest name on earth or something equally damning.

He slapped both hands over his face, wishing desperately to disappear into the couch cushions, and was mid–mental funeral for his social life when his phone buzzed again. He peeked.

Unknown:

Ironic, huh?

Haha

8:56 p.m.

Tweek:

i am really sorry

the name is not that bad i swear

i was just angry

8:56 p.m.

Unknown:

Doesn’t matter, you were right anyway.

I am kind of “the most unpleasant person on earth” (quote).

Close enough.

8:57 p.m.

Tweek actually smiled at the screen, relief washing over him like a warm blanket. This guy didn’t seem mad. Thank god. He appreciated more than words could say that this boy— Craig,  hadn’t turned this into a full-blown humiliation spiral.

Tweek:

im so embarrassed

please just delete it from your brain

srry again

8:58 p.m.

Unknown:

You apologize too much.

Besides, it was fun to listen to.

8:59 p.m.

Tweek:

ohh

glad my miserable life is entertainment for you???

8:59 p.m.

Unknown:

;)

9:00 p.m.

Tweek stared at the screen for a long moment, smiling. Then, deciding that was enough social interaction for one night, he turned off his phone and let out a relieved sigh. He’d survived.

“Out of all the people I could’ve sent that to... I guess this wasn’t the worst one,” he whispered to himself. He leaned back against the moss-green couch and shut his eyes, letting his nerves finally start to unclench.

But then his brain had the audacity to keep thinking. Who exactly is Craig Tucker?

He sifted through his memories of parties, gatherings, and nights that blurred together. Finally—click. A picture formed. A tall guy—taller than most of their circle. Dark hair, no, actually pitch black. Skin with a warm undertone, sharp features, a high-bridged nose, thick brows that made his expression look permanently serious, and a jawline that could probably cut glass. Objectively? Attractive.

And not just tall in a lanky, “human coat rack” way. No—he clearly worked out. Broad shoulders, solid arms, that whole intimidating football-player vibe. Oh right—he was on the football team. With Kenny. That explained a lot about the muscles. And, yeah, maybe Tweek’s imagination lingered too long on that part. Time to stop. Abort mission.

He remembered spotting him once at the club, the room packed with people. Tweek had been too busy dancing with Wendy in the middle of the chaos, but the image stuck. Craig, standing near the bar, a drink in hand, face completely deadpan. He hadn’t danced, hadn’t even looked like he wanted to be there. And yet, somehow, he stood out—tall, handsome, magnetic in a way that felt unintentional. Tweek wouldn’t have noticed, but he was pretty sure a few girls had hovered near him that night, trying to flirt. He was almost certain their eyes met at some point... almost, because he was also too drunk. So yeah, it was probably just his imagination acting up.

“Craig Tucker...” Tweek muttered aloud, like he was officially logging a new character into his weird little game called life.

Unlocking his phone again, he went back to the chat, tapped the unknown number, and hovered over “Save Contact.” For a second, he debated giving him some kind of clever nickname—after all, they’d met through such a comically awkward disaster. But then he realized he was overthinking. He didn’t actually know this Craig, and honestly, this might be the only conversation they’d ever have.

So he kept it simple. He typed:

Craig.

And saved it.

“Tweek, come on, you cannot wear that.” Wendy’s eyes were pure mischief as she sprawled across the bed like she owned the place, nails glinting under the light as she painted them with slow, deliberate precision. The best part? They weren’t even in her room. Kenny’s space had been colonized—glittery nail polish bottles scattered like a confetti warzone.

“What? Why not?” Tweek’s voice cracked defensively as he clutched his coat tighter around himself, like a toddler refusing to surrender their favorite blanket to the laundry monster.

“Tweek, honey...” Kenny’s voice floated in as he reentered from the bathroom, smelling faintly of cheap aftershave and too much cologne. He walked over and set his hands gently on either side of Tweek’s arms, almost as if grounding him, as if sheer physical presence could erase the anxiety brewing in the blond’s system. “It’s a club. You can’t wear a winter coat. People will think you got lost on the way to Grandma’s house.”

“But it’s going to snow!” Tweek snapped back, gesturing wildly toward the frosted window like the sky itself would back him up in his argument.

Kenny rolled his eyes with theatrical exhaustion and then flung open his closet doors. He began digging through the avalanche of thrifted treasures he had accumulated over the years. Kenny wasn’t rich, not even close, but he had this almost supernatural ability to turn secondhand rags into runway material. Tweek both admired and resented it—admired because it truly was impressive, resented because... well, he was also broke. But that was it. Just Broke.

Kenny groaned theatrically. “Yes, and the people at the club are going to be slow-cooking you, not giving you a snowball. Now move.” Kenny’s rummaging came to a dramatic end when he pulled out a brown oversized leather jacket that looked suspiciously like it had been stolen off the back of an early 2000s rockstar. With a victorious flourish, he tossed it onto the bed. “Wear this. Trust me.”

Maybe Kenny didn’t own much, but damn, he had taste. The jacket looked vintage in the way magazines called vintage and not in the way that screamed “moth infestation.”

“Besides,” Wendy purred, twirling a nail-polished finger at him, “maybe tonight you’ll meet a guy... "She dragged out guy like it was some forbidden treasure. “And trust me, things could get... hot.”

“Shut up!” Tweek’s protest was immediate, his brows furrowed in mock annoyance, but his laughter betrayed him. He sighed dramatically and finally unbuttoned the coat he had been clinging to, revealing what he had so boldly declared his “club outfit.” Which, if we’re being honest, was a modest attempt at best: black cargo pants—slightly fitted at the top for once instead of swallowing his legs whole—and a sleeveless white turtleneck that felt dangerously close to “actually trying.” For someone like Tweek, though, it was basically slut behaviour.

It wasn’t flashy, not compared to Kenny’s near-theatrical ensembles or Wendy’s naturally lethal glam, but it was.... something. At least different. And for Tweek, that was a lot.

Not that he cared. Honestly, he doubted anyone would notice him anyway. Objectively, yes, he was attractive—he had heard it enough from others to know—but standing next to Kenny, who looked like he had been styled by a drag queen and a rock band simultaneously, and Wendy, who was so pretty that could pull attention just by existing in a room, Tweek often felt like the background character. The plus one. The “guy that tagged along.”

Sure, occasionally someone would try to talk to him—some cute boy with too much gel in his hair and too much confidence in his pick-up lines—but Tweek’s paranoia shut that down real quick. In his day-to-day life he already distrusted strangers, but in a club? In a dark, sweaty, neon-lit box where music was loud enough to drown out your own heartbeat? Every random guy who approached him automatically set off alarms in his brain. Murderer. Kidnapper. Organ trafficker. Maybe dramatic, yes, but hey, he wasn’t going to risk waking up in a bathtub full of ice missing a kidney.

So his strategy was simple: “Not interested.” Boom. Done. Conversation over. Less risky. And, to be fair, also true—hookup culture wasn’t his thing. Never had been. He couldn’t even begin to understand it.

“See! Now I don’t feel embarrassed when the hot girls see me standing next to you.” Kenny’s grin spread wide as soon as Tweek shrugged into the leather jacket.

Tweek reluctantly turned to the mirror, ready to hate it, but... yeah, Kenny was right. The jacket pulled the whole outfit together, made it less “anxious college student on laundry day” and more “maybe this guy belongs here.” The silver chains and rings he had nervously layered on earlier suddenly looked intentional, like he had planned the whole aesthetic instead of throwing it together in a panic.

“God, Tweek. I love it when you dress up for the club. I could just eat you alive,” Wendy said, her voice part teasing, part dangerously sincere. Tweek couldn’t help but notice the way she was pointing at his ass—which was actually visible now, thanks to his pants not being completely oversized—as if she were talking about the eighth wonder of the world.

Kenny nodded and then made an obscene gesture with his hands, not even bothering to hide it. Tweek just rolled his eyes. He was used to it by now; clearly his own fault for choosing friends this bold.

“You guys are the worst.” Tweek groaned, tugging at the hem of the jacket, but his lips curved into a smile he couldn’t suppress. “You know this isn’t my thing. I work all day, I study all night... IEven if I wanted to, I don’t have time for this.” His words carried the weight of truth, but under them was a whisper of longing. He wanted freedom, maybe just a little. He was young after all, and he wanted to know what it felt like just to exist without responsibility gnawing at his heels.

After a small war that ended with Kenny smudging eyeliner across his eyes “for the aesthetic” despite his loud protests, the three finally piled into an Uber. The ride was loud, Wendy’s phone blasting a playlist that could have been called “Songs To Make Bad Decisions To,” while Kenny added commentary on every beat. By the time they arrived, Tweek’s nerves were simmering, but so was something else—curiosity.

The club hit them immediately: heat, bass, flashing lights. Kenny instantly melted into the crowd, excusing himself to greet some friends who had already texted him six times about their arrival. That was typical Kenny—he collected people like Pokémon cards.

So it was just Tweek and Wendy, laughing off the awkwardness and slipping into the rhythm on the dance floor. It wasn’t long before a blonde girl with perfect curls and a body that screamed “main girl” came bouncing over to Wendy, squealing her name like they were in a romcom reunion scene. They hugged, chatted, sparkled.

“Almost everyone from the team is here!” the girl—Bebe, apparently—gushed, eyes twinkling. “Did you see Stan? He’s around!”

“Oh my god, really?!” Wendy’s tone was excited but carried a tiny thread of nerves that Tweek didn’t miss. Stan—her on-again, off-again disaster of a relationship. He didn’t like the guy much, not that his opinion mattered.

“Yeah! He was talking to Clyde but literally ditched him the second he saw me.” Bebe practically glowed, and honestly, she had the right. She was beautiful in the kind of way that didn’t require modesty.

“Bebe, you drive him crazy.”

“I know.” The shrug she gave was infuriatingly casual, as if she wasn’t fully aware of the power she radiated.

Wendy turned to Tweek, her hand brushing his arm. “Will you be okay if I—?”

“It’s fine, go,” Tweek interrupted before she could even finish. His smile was reassuring, his hands clasping hers briefly to show he meant it. “I’ll grab a drink and meet you later, okay?”

“Thank you,” Wendy said softly, pressing an air kiss his way before disappearing with Bebe into the crowd, hand in hand like two girls about to own the night.

Tweek watched until they were swallowed by the sea of neon and bodies, making sure they were safe before exhaling and heading toward the bar.

The prices made him wince—absurd, daylight-robbery expensive—but that was the club life. He waved down the bartender, who abandoned whatever he was mixing to beam at him.

“One Long Island Iced Tea, please,” Tweek ordered politely.

“Coming right up, cutie.” The bartender winked, sliding into flirt mode with professional ease.

Tweek just smiled politely, ignoring the obvious flirting.

With a small sigh, Tweek tugged off the leather jacket, letting it slide lazily over his arm as if shedding an unnecessary layer of armor against the world. He let himself sink back against the bar, elbows lightly braced on the cool surface, trying to look like he belonged even though his entire being screamed otherwise. His eyes, wide and darting, wandered across the pulsating crowd on the dance floor. Bodies moved in chaotic, rhythmic waves, bumping into one another with sweaty, ecstatic abandon, neon lights bouncing off foreheads and shiny shoes in patterns that made the entire room feel like a living, breathing kaleidoscope. Kenny had been right: despite the freezing temperatures outside, the throng of people, the bass that thumped through the floorboards, and the humid mix of perfume, body spray, and panic-induced sweat made it feel as if he had been dropped into a human sauna, and not the relaxing kind either. He tugged the jacket a little closer to himself, partly out of habit and partly as a small act of comfort in the chaos.

“Careful, dude. Drinks in this city come out like... one lawsuit away from third-degree burns.”

The voice was low, rich, and shockingly calm, but it hit Tweek like a lightning bolt. He jumped so violently that his seat threatened to fling itself backward, and his arm nearly knocked over the empty glass sitting precariously on the bar beside him. His head whipped around so fast it might have caused actual whiplash, and there he was.

Taller than anyone should be in a situation like this, dressed almost entirely in black except for a navy jacket that screamed, “Yes. I am the main character. Deal with it.” It was like someone had taken all the brooding, mysterious energy of a cinematic protagonist and condensed it into a human form, standing casually, perfectly poised, yet somehow radiating a sense of danger that was entirely contained within the calm of his posture.

Craig Tucker.

The one. The guy who had been locked deep inside Tweek’s personal mental file labeled “Incidents We Do Not Speak of Again, Ever, Under Any Circumstance.” Yes, the incident had happened a couple of weeks ago, and in theory, Tweek had given himself permission to erase it entirely from his memory. But, naturally, if the entire football team had decided to appear at this very club tonight, then by basic logic, Craig being here was unavoidable. It was literally like solving an algebra problem and forgetting to carry the X. Duh.

Suddenly, all the work the alcohol had done to quiet his nerves had unraveled. Completely wasted. And it was no wonder—sitting right in front of him was a guy who wasn’t just 6’3”, good-looking, and sporting the kind of sharp aquiline nose that kept him up at night, but someone who barely knew him and already held important—embarassing—information about his life. Oh, and on top of that, he also knew he was a loser. Perfect.

“Oh, you’re still not over that?” Tweek fired back, attempting casual banter.

Craig shrugged with the kind of languid, confident grace that made it seem like he had all the time in the world. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, like a model in a perfume commercial who knew the exact moment the camera would catch the perfect reflection in his eyes.

“Only if I get to vent in a complaint book,” he said, monotone but somehow dripping with casual disdain.

Tweek tried to swallow down a laugh, wondering if there was enough trust between them yet to treat that as a joke—or maybe it didn’t matter. Either way, he failed, nearly choking on the sip of his drink he’d taken in search of a little comfort. A grimace of disgust crossed his face at the bitter taste: right, that was not his drink. Once he managed to catch his breath, he finally answered.

“Oh my God, shut up.”

“Don’t take it out on me. I’m not that Craig,” the taller boy said. His monotone delivery had a weird authority to it, like some cosmic law that you couldn’t argue with even if you tried.

Tweek gave him a full-on scan from head to toe, eyebrows raised in unspoken evaluation. “Well, clearly. You’re like... two of that Craig.”

A faint flicker of what looked dangerously close to a smile tugged at Craig’s lips, and the blond couldn’t help staring a little longer than he should. After all, it completely shattered the version of the boy he’d built in his head—a perpetually grumpy guy, incapable of smiling. In his defense, he had his reasons; Craig always wore that same mask of absolute seriousness, the kind that could easily be read as don’t come near me, don’t even look at me. But now, up close—and paying more attention—he could see there were shifts in his expressions after all. Subtle, yes, almost imperceptible... but there.

“Here you go, cutie,” the bartender interrupted, sliding a tall glass of brown liquid toward Tweek. A lime wedge perched precariously on the rim, and a tiny umbrella lolled over the side as if it were a cautionary flag for the chaos that could follow once ingested. The bartender winked before retreating.

Craig raised a brow at the gesture. “Wow. Subtlety left the building, huh?”

“What?” Tweek asked, genuinely confused, turning back to the sea of people for a fraction of a second before realizing the statement was directed at him. He honestly thought their conversation was over at that point. Yeah, he definitely hadn't completely mastered social interactions yet.

“The guy was flirting with you. Not exactly subtle.”

Tweek laughed nervously, waving it off with a hand that was simultaneously dismissive and desperate to seem unbothered. “Nah. That’s just... their thing. Classic bartender strategy. That's how they get more tips.”

Craig’s brows furrowed in that signature combination of skepticism and concern, the kind of expression that made Tweek want to apologize preemptively for existing. “Either you’re too naïve, or you do the same thing at work. So you tell me; do you scam people for tips too, blondie?”

Tweek took another sip through the straw of his drink, as if trying to take shelter in it. His lips curved into a half-smile, suddenly and alarmingly shy. “I don’t even work for tips,” he finally replied, deciding to wrestle his nerves, “and even if I did, I couldn’t do it. Wouldn't work.”

Craig didn’t blink. “You’re underselling yourself.”

...Pause. Did Craig Tucker just call him attractive? Or like, the Craig Tucker monotone version of calling him hot? at least hot enough to get more tips for it. Tweek squinted, scanning every inch of the taller boy’s stone-faced visage for evidence of a joke, a sneer, anything. But with Craig, the entire emotional spectrum was a black box. Flirt? Threat? Order a drink? Impossible to tell.

“By the way,” Craig continued, his voice dropping to a softer, almost conspiratorial tone, “I probably should’ve asked this a while ago, but... what’s your name?”

Tweek froze mid-sip, the liquid suddenly tasting like betrayal, then lowered his drink with a theatrical gasp that might have been audible from across the club. Yeah, maybe he was finally getting confident here. “Excuse me? You don’t know my name? Wow. And here I thought there was, like, a spark. I literally told you about the evil gnome. Did that mean nothing to you?”

Even Craig cracked a small smile, a laugh escaping despite himself. He noticed how the blond’s sudden rise in volume had caught the attention of a few people nearby, but he’d be lying if he said he cared. “First of all, I heard that against my will.”

“That doesn’t matter. You listened. All four minutes. Gossip boy.”

“Second,” he continued, ignoring the blond’s dramatics, “we’ve never actually spoken. How would I know your name?”

Tweek’s brain sputtered, then suddenly, lightning: “Wait. If you don’t know my name, how did you know it was me who messaged you? My profile pic is a cat, so I’m assuming it wasn’t that.”

For the first time, Tweek noticed a flicker of something—nervousness?—in Craig. But then he let out a small “hmm,” realizing there was actually some truth behind his words—so teasing him about it wasn’t as fun anymore. Still, digging a little deeper into what was implied by what he’d just said, he suddenly noticed something. 

“You did have me in your contacts, didn't you? But not under my name!” Tweek left his glass on the bar and leaned in a bit closer, finger poking Craig lightly in the chest, a deliberate, annoying jolt. “How did you save me?”

Craig looked away and even tried the old trick of drinking until the other guy forgot what they were talking about, but he seemed so thrilled with his discovery that he finally sighed, defeated. He took a measured moment to appraise Tweek’s smug grin before giving up. “Fine. I’ll tell you. But only if you tell me your name first.”

“Hmmm... doesn’t sound fair to me. You don’t know my name, and now I’m supposed to spill this giant secret?”

“Life’s not fair, blondie.”

“Ugh. Fine. Only because I hate that you call me blondie.”

Craig smiled, a small, satisfied tilt of his lips. “Fine. Blondie—”

“Tweek.”

A pause. A bizarre, electric silence fell across the bar. Craig blinked once, trying to decode the noise that had emerged from Tweek’s mouth. “What... does that mean?”

“My name. Tweek Tweak,” he answered with complete nonchalance. He knew his name was weird, anormal, surreal—he’d been told a million times—but it was way more fun to play dumb and watch the confusion spread across the guy’s face.

Craig shook his head. “If I’d known we were going to lie, I wouldn’t have proposed this trade.”

“I’m not lying! It’s my name.” The charade of offense continued, but it was utterly undermined by their shared laughter, a contagious mixture of relief, ridiculousness, and emerging comfort. Something about the situation felt light, perfect even, as if the universe had conspired to align everything, from the dim neon lighting to the awkwardness in Tweek’s posture.

And there they were, laughing like idiots, only minutes into officially meeting one another. The scenario was absurd, kind of nice, but definitely utterly uncharacteristic of Tweek, who never let his guard down this easily.

“No way that’s your name. I don't believe you.”

“Too bad. It is. Your turn.”

Craig exhaled with a theatrical defeat, though the corners of his mouth betrayed a smirk. “Kenny’s weird friend,” he finally said.

Tweek’s jaw dropped. Eyes wide, staring directly at Craig as though he’d just insulted seven generations of his family in seven different languages.

“That’s bold, coming from the guy who spends the entire night in a corner looking like he’s about to commit a hate crime,” Tweek said, leaning back against the bar, body tilting subtly closer in that inexplicable dance of alcohol-fueled confidence.

“Hey, not my fault. That’s my face. Comes with three preset expressions. That’s it.”

“Really? Can’t wait to see the other two.”

Craig squinted. Now he was the one pretending offense, while Tweek sipped, eyes darting innocently elsewhere like he hadn’t just roasted him publicly.

Somehow, in just a matter of minutes, a strange kind of complicity had bloomed between them. To everyone else, they were the odd ones out—the “peculiar” guys in their respective circles of friends; not exactly social, suspicious of false masks and shallow pretenses. And yet, here they were, trading genuine smiles and unspoken cues the other could already read with ease. It was as if they were building a language from scratch in seconds, like trust had always been there, quietly waiting for them to notice.

“Anyway, if you were going to make up a fake name, you could’ve chosen something more believable,” Craig finally said, just as a sharp female voice cut through the tension.

“Tweek! Bebe argued with Clyde, so we’re going to the bar downtown!” Wendy suddenly called, grabbing Tweek’s hand with practiced efficiency. She noticed Craig beside him, flashing a quick smile. “Oh, hey— Craig, right? Sorry, I have to steal Tweek for a sec.”

Craig’s eyes tracked the girl briefly, then returned to Tweek, who cheekily stuck his tongue out and whispered, “Told you so,” just loud enough for Craig to catch, before Wendy tugged him into the swirling crowd.

He simply stayed there, a faint attempt at a smile unnoticed even by himself, as his eyes followed a certain golden head through the crowd until it finally disappeared into the sea of people.

He glanced down at the bar, noticing that beside the tall glass, festively decorated with little umbrellas and slices of lemon, the napkin that had once been perfectly square had somehow been folded into a tiny paper boat. At some point during their conversation, the blond’s hands had transformed the simplicity of the paper into this—into a little boat.

What had he been so focused on all this time that he hadn’t noticed it?

He tried to recall the exact moment it happened, but his mind only returned to a pair of green eyes flecked with blue and hazel, the hundreds—no, thousands—of freckles scattered across a pale face, and golden hair that defied disorder, falling perfectly like dominoes.

Craig picked up the little boat between his fingers, feeling a strange warmth spread through his chest.

“Huh.”

Chapter Text

“Hi, sweetheart.”

The voice of a girl snapped Tweek out of his trance—he’d been far too entertained watching dumb youtube videos during his shift to notice that customers had just walked in.

In his defense, the afternoon had been painfully dull. A few people had shown up for their morning caffeine fix, but since then, not a single soul had crossed that door. Or, at least, not loud enough for Tweek’s overstimulated brain to register it.

Wendy, his best friend, a constant in the sea of monotony. Beside her, two of her friends lingered, laughing softly as though the light around them bent just for their presence. Tweek didn’t spend all-night philosophical conversations with them, dissecting the universe over mugs of tea at three in the morning. But he knew them. And, more importantly, he genuinely liked them. That little detail—that they existed and he knew he liked them—made his chest tighten in the way a well-loved song does when it sneaks up on you.

“Oh—hey, Wendy.” Tweek smiled instantly, slipping his phone into the pocket of his apron and straightening up. Then he gave a polite nod to the other two girls. “Bebe, Nichole. What brings you girls here?”

“We’re here for our dose of caffeine,” said Nichole, her tone soft and sweet. Tweek had always liked her energy; she had this warm, motherly aura—if his own mother had been normal and not, well, a manipulative disaster. Anyway.

“Oh, do you have an exam or something?”

“Worse!” Bebe chimed in dramatically, her voice rising like she was auditioning for a telenovela. “Group project. Due tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Tweek nodded solemnly, honoring their suffering with all the gravity it deserved.

“Alright, enough drama. Can you get us three lattes?” Wendy finally said, already pulling her wallet from her bag. “The sooner we start, the sooner we can get this nightmare over with.”

The blond nodded and punched the order into the register before handing Wendy her change. The girls thanked him in unison and headed for the table closest to the window—which, conveniently, was also the farthest from Tweek.

He rolled up his sleeves and got to work. His movements flowed between the syrup shelf, the espresso machine, and the fridge in a rhythm that had become second nature. He might not love having a job that devoured all his free time outside of college, but at least it involved something he genuinely understood—coffee. Probably one of the few things he actually considered himself good at, though he’d never admit it. Honestly, he thought it was kind of pathetic. Could making coffee even count as a talent? Maybe. But to him, it didn’t feel like something worth being proud of. Fucking impostor syndrome.

He nearly burned his hand steaming the milk, but whatever—what was one more burn on a hand already covered in Band-Aids? His body was already a patchwork of small accidents, a kind of living graffiti of misfortune, and he had learned to move through it without flinching too much.

Minutes later, the lattes lined up neatly on the tray, each crowned with a fragile floral swirl of foam. It wasn’t a requirement. Nobody had asked him to do it. But Tweek had made it a point, a quiet personal war to add beauty where no one demanded it. He grabbed three cinnamon rolls, still warm and sugary, plated them delicately, and carried the whole ensemble like it was some sacred offering.

Once everything was ready, he lifted the tray and, with the speed and precision of someone who’d been doing this for far too long, walked toward the back table.

“Wow, Tweek, this looks beautiful!” Nichole exclaimed the moment her cup hit the table.

Almost in sync, all three girls abandoned their books and pencils to pull out their phones and take photos of their food.

“Yeah, it’s amazing, Tweek! But we didn’t order cinnamon rolls,” Wendy said, satisfied after capturing the perfect angle.

“It’s fine. On the house.”

The girls thanked him in chorus, and Tweek finally retreated back behind the counter.

And as if the universe had decided to punish him for thinking the afternoon was too quiet, people suddenly started pouring in. A lot of people. Thankfully, he had some backup at the register—one of his coworkers handled the orders while Tweek focused on his thing: drinks. The rush was so intense he completely lost sight of his friends for the rest of the afternoon.

“Alright, shift’s over. You’re closing tonight, right?” his coworker, Kevin, asked as Tweek finished what he assumed was the last drink of the day.

Somewhere between all those orders, time had just slipped away. Now darkness hung over the café windows, and the clock on Tweek’s wrist confirmed it was late.

“Yeah, go ahead. See you tomorrow,” he said, flashing a quick smile. Kevin returned it as he unfastened his apron. Maybe Tweek should actually try to get to know the guy better—after all, they spent entire days together and barely exchanged words beyond work talk. And honestly, Kevin seemed decent. Maybe then the days wouldn’t feel so heavy.

But that was a thought for another time. For now, Tweek could finally exhale, finishing the last coffee of the day.

He glanced toward his friends’ table. They were still there, poor things—looking exhausted and completely drained, probably debating whether to fall asleep right there or chuck their English textbooks out the window and bid farewell to grammar forever.

Tweek smiled at the thought and decided not to bother them. The place was practically empty now, save for them, but he didn’t mind staying open a little longer if it helped even a bit.

He grabbed a broom and started sweeping his area. Sure, he loved making coffee, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a total disaster while doing it. In his defense, chaos was basically part of his personality.

He finished taking out the trash, restocking supplies, balancing the register—then started wiping the counter just to kill time. That’s when he heard the familiar jingle of the front door bell.

He frowned. Who would come in now? They were clearly closed. He lifted his gaze, ready to tell whoever it was that the café was no longer open, when he froze.

Craig Tucker.

He stood there—tall to the point of being annoying, face set in that unnecessarily serious expression, and wearing that stupid hat that somehow kept him from looking too good.

But his eyes weren’t even on Tweek. Not yet at least. Instead, he seemed to be staring, bored and distracted, toward the only occupied table in the café. Tweek followed his gaze—and that’s when he realized Craig wasn’t alone.

He never was, apparently. Tweek’s brain had simply erased the two other guys standing next to him. Luckily, he recognized them: Tolkien and Clyde. He’d even exchanged a few words with Clyde before—nice guy, bubbly, but too much of an idiot for Tweek to willingly hang out with.

Okay. Now it made sense. Tolkien was dating Nichole. Clyde was... whatever weird dynamic existed with Bebe. But Craig? Craig made no sense in this equation. He never fit in neatly. He existed outside of the puzzle, like the sharp piece you couldn’t quite force into place.

So, being the emotionally mature individual he was, Tweek did what any rational adult would do: pretend not to see them and hope to become invisible. He turned his back, scrubbing at a perfectly clean spot on the wall, silently praying not to be noticed. He’d spent so many years feeling invisible, and now, for once, he actually wanted to be.

“Tweek!”

Wendy’s sharp voice cut through the air like glass.

Oh no.

At this point, Tweek had two options: spontaneously combust or face this social interaction like a normal human being. And God, how he wished the atoms in his body would just oxidize and set him on fire from the inside out.

With no other choice, he turned around and found himself facing a group of six people, every pair of eyes fixed on the blond guy in an apron holding a rag like it was some sort of shield.

“We’re heading out now! We’ll let you close in peace,” the blonde—Bebe—said again, this time softer. She probably realized she didn’t need to shout; there was no other sound in the café. No chatter, no music. Just them.

Tweek nodded, forcing his most convincing functional human smile. But his chest sank a little when he realized it wasn’t Bebe or Wendy or even Nichole’s gaze that bothered him the most—it was Craig’s. Those dark, impossibly deep eyes weren’t just looking. They were analyzing, questioning, measuring him in ways Tweek didn’t know how to handle.

He looked away. Desperately. Anything to avoid the gravitational pull of Craig’s stare. He began tidying surfaces that didn’t need cleaning, arranging cups that were already aligned, scrubbing a nonexistent stain into the already spotless counter. Footsteps drew closer, heartbeat accelerating like a horror movie score right before the jump scare. His chest constricted, adrenaline spiking in that familiar cocktail of panic and awe. He wasn’t built for moments like this—he was background character material, at best.

Social interactions were always easier with a bit of alcohol in his system, and right now Tweek was painfully sober. He mentally cursed himself for not following his good friend Kenny’s golden advice: “Go to work drunk as fuck, it's easier.”

“Hey.”

The low, steady voice cut through his spiral of self-destruction like a blade.

Tweek sighed, abandoning the non-existent stain he’d been scrubbing, and finally looked up. “Hey.”

“You’re about to close, right?”

NONONONONONONO.

“Yeah, for a while now. I was just waiting for the girls to finish their work.” ...yeah, fuck.

Craig nodded, his hands deep in his pockets, moving with that effortless kind of calm that Tweek could only envy. He turned briefly to glance at the group, now collecting their things and slipping on coats, before his gaze landed back on Tweek.

“Do you want me to give you a ride home?”

The question sank like a stone in Tweek’s stomach. What was happening right now?

Craig noticed the frozen look on his face and cleared his throat. “I’m giving everyone a ride home. I figured your place must be on the way.”

Tweek let out a nervous laugh, forcing a polite smile even though all he wanted was to disappear into thin air. “Oh, thanks. But I actually live pretty close—fifteen minutes walking, tops...”

“Perfect. Then it’s on the way. Let’s go.”

The dark-haired boy had completely ignored his response. Or maybe Tweek hadn’t been clear enough? Who knew. Either way, his excuse had officially died a tragic, unnoticed death.

The words stuck in his throat; there was no escaping this. Still flustered, he unfastened his apron and slipped it over his head, hung it carefully, threw on his coat, slung his tote bag over one shoulder, and followed the group toward the exit.

He made sure to lock the front door—nervous or not, he took his job seriously—and when he turned around, everyone was already piling into the car.

Apparently, they’d decided to squeeze into the back seats: Wendy had Bebe practically in her lap, Tolkien had Nichole on his, and Clyde sat miserably squished in the middle. For a second, Tweek found the image hilarious—until he realized the only empty seat left was the passenger one. Then it wasn’t so funny anymore.

With no way out (and under Craig’s quiet, expectant stare, which somehow made it worse), Tweek slid into the passenger seat and shut the door. Immediately, the warmth inside hit him, and he had to admit—it was much nicer than walking home alone through the freezing, empty streets. Still, it didn’t matter. This was an isolated event; Tweek was too broke to ever expect a ride home again.

“Man, that shit was brutal!” Wendy groaned, her voice muffled from under Bebe’s hair.

“I just want to go home, throw myself in bed, and never wake up again. I could sleep for, like, four days straight,” Nichole sighed, her head dropping back against her boyfriend’s chest.

Tolkien chuckled softly, rubbing her shoulder. “It’s okay, girls. At least it’s done.”

Tweek listened to them vaguely, but his focus kept drifting to the driver beside him. Craig’s profile was sharp under the dim streetlight—his expression, always serious, but now... focused, determined. His eyebrows knit in that effortlessly cool, unreadable way. It was strangely hypnotic.

“Tweek, babe, you’re so lucky you don’t have to deal with this kind of stuff,” Bebe’s voice suddenly broke his trance. The mention of his name was like a slap—reminding him that yes, he was, in fact, in a car full of people.

He opened his mouth to respond, but Clyde beat him to it. “Yeah, you study music, right? That shit’s easy. You’re so lucky.”

The words bounced off every car window, echoing into an awkward silence so loud it almost had a sound of its own. Definitely not a great take, and everyone knew it.

“What? You guys know I’m right!” Clyde protested. “He’s got it easy compared to us. Look at him—he can even work while studying!”

The tension grew thick enough to cut with a knife. Tweek sank deeper into his seat, wishing the earth—or at least the car seat—would swallow him whole. The comment was stupid, yeah, but he didn’t care. People said stuff like that about his major all the time. He could handle it. What he couldn’t handle was the heavy, suffocating silence that followed.

The girls and Tolkien shot Clyde identical are-you-serious-right-now looks, and Bebe’s furrowed brow made it very clear she was about to say something sharp.

Before the blonde could say anything, Craig’s voice cut through the tense air—calm but heavy, even rougher than usual.

“And yet, you can’t do either of those things separately, so shut the fuck up.”

It wasn’t a loud comment, but it hit with enough force to make everyone go quiet for a second. His tone carried that sharp edge Craig had—dry, unimpressed, borderline condescending—but somehow it worked. The tension cracked open just enough for laughter to spill in. The group erupted into teasing the brown-haired boy, shoving his shoulder and throwing half-serious insults his way. Clyde, of course, swore he hadn’t said anything wrong, mumbling about how everyone was “too woke” these days. It took Tolkien threatening to kick him out of the car at the next stop for him to finally shut up.

Meanwhile, Tweek sat frozen in the passenger seat, fingers gripping his tote bag like it was a flotation device. He wasn’t sure how to feel. I mean—sure, any decent person would’ve defended him in that situation, but him?

And the weirdest part wasn’t even that Craig had done it—it was how he’d done it. The tone of his voice, firm but not cruel, low and deliberate—it carried weight. There was something magnetic about it, something that tugged subtly at Tweek’s chest and made him wonder what Craig’s voice might sound like in other emotions, softer ones, lighter ones. Maybe even when he laughed (assuming, of course, that Craig Tucker was physically capable of laughter).

The rest of the drive passed mostly in silence. Tweek only spoke when he needed to, murmuring short directions to guide Craig toward his apartment. Craig would hum in response—barely audible, a noncommittal sound that somehow said I got it. Tweek tried not to read too much into the tone, but his brain being what it was, every “hmm” sounded slightly different. Was that one confused? Tired? Amused? God, he was overthinking everything. 

Still, despite the awkward quiet and his spiraling thoughts, Craig drove with calm precision, his hands steady on the wheel, his gaze locked on the road. There was something strangely grounding about it. By the time they pulled up in front of Tweek’s building—barely eight minutes later—he almost wished the ride had been longer. Almost.

Tweek turned in his seat, waving quickly at the group in the back as they offered friendly goodbyes, already distracted by their own conversations. Then he grabbed his tote bag, hesitating with his hand on the door handle. Something in his chest told him he couldn’t just leave—not without saying something.

“Thanks.”

It came out quiet, almost shy. A single word, but heavy with meaning. Maybe it was the slight quiver in his voice, or the way he looked at him—soft, almost apologetic—but it was clear he wasn’t just thanking Craig for the ride.

For a moment, Craig said nothing. Then, slowly, his lips twitched upward in what could generously be classified as a smile. Barely there, uneven, but there. It was the kind of smile that probably took effort, as if Craig’s face wasn’t used to the motion. And to Tweek, it was... weirdly endearing. Like discovering a rare species in the wild.

“No problem,” Craig said simply, voice low and even.

And that was that. Tweek nodded, climbed out of the car, and shut the door gently behind him. He made a conscious effort not to look back as he walked toward the entrance, clutching his tote strap to keep his trembling hands busy. But as he reached the door and stepped inside, he noticed something—Craig’s engine didn’t start right away. The car stayed parked, headlights dimmed, waiting. It wasn’t until Tweek had fully disappeared inside the building that he heard the low rumble of the motor pulling away.

The realization tugged a tiny, involuntary smile out of him. A small, mischievous curve of the lips that almost felt foreign on his face.

Of course, it vanished the second he looked up and saw the paper taped to the wall beside the elevator: Out of Order.

Tweek sighed, long and heavy, the sound of a man defeated by the universe. His shoulders slumped as he trudged up the narrow staircase, every step heavier than the last. Five floors. Five long, miserable flights after working on his feet all day. Sometimes he was convinced the universe had a personal vendetta against him—some celestial intern assigned specifically to mess up his week.

Still, tonight, he didn’t mind as much. Normally, something like this would’ve ruined his mood entirely, but somehow, it barely grazed him. Maybe he was getting used to bad luck. Or maybe— no, that was definitely it.

When he finally unlocked his door and stepped into the dim quiet of his apartment, the weight of the world seemed to drop all at once. The silence was thick, familiar, the kind that filled every corner and crept under his skin. He’d always told himself he liked it—quiet meant safe, quiet meant control—but tonight it felt different. He could almost hear the emptiness pressing in. The faint hum of the streetlights filtered through the blinds, slicing the darkness into thin, golden stripes.

For the first time in a long time, Tweek felt lonely. 

He didn’t even bother turning on the TV like he usually did for background noise. Instead, he hung his tote on the closet handle, grabbed some clean clothes, and went straight to the shower. The water ran hot, too hot, until the mirror fogged and the air turned thick and heavy. He stayed there far longer than necessary, letting his thoughts drift aimlessly while the sound of the water drowned them out.

By the time he collapsed onto his hideous moss-green couch—hair damp, pajamas soft against his skin—it was already past ten. He sat there for a while, towel draped over his shoulders, scrolling absently through his phone in search of some meaningless distraction. That’s when he saw it: a new message.

Craig:

Hey.

Sorry about Clyde. I swear he’s not always that stupid.

He's an ashole when he's jealous.

09:55pm.

Tweek stared at the screen for a full minute, brows furrowed, trying to process what he was reading. The fact that Craig had texted him at all was strange enough. But apologizing? Explaining? Why did he care? Why did he need to care? They barely even knew each other. Sure, they’d exchanged a couple of texts before—but that was because Tweek had accidentally messaged the wrong number. And that one conversation at the club? That was weeks ago, and fueled almost entirely by alcohol.

Still, here Craig was—reaching out, unprompted.

Tweek ran a hand through his damp hair, making sure it wasn’t dripping onto his phone before typing back.

Tweek:

it’s fine, no problem

nothing i haven’t heard before haha

10:25pm.

He hit send, staring at the message bubble as it hovered for a moment before delivering. Almost instantly, the reply came.

Craig:

You shouldn’t have to hear it.

Ever.

10:25pm.

Tweek froze. The message sat on the screen, simple, firm, and—somehow—too much. It was too sincere. He could feel his pulse pick up, his chest tightening in that awkward way it did whenever something emotional tried to sneak past his defenses. Why did Craig care whether or not people dismissed his major? That was just... life. People were assholes. You simply learn to deal with it.

But what really threw him off was how fast Craig had replied. Like he’d been waiting. Watching the screen. Waiting for him.

That realization made his palms sweat. Pressure. Too much pressure.

He decided to steer the conversation somewhere safer, anywhere else.

Tweek:

probably

btw

what do you mean jealous?

10:26pm

Craig:

Jealous of you.

He acts like an idiot because he thinks any guy who gets near Bebe wants to steal her.

Apparently that includes you.

10:26pm

Tweek:

oh

so he’s dumb-dumb

haha

10:27pm

Craig:

Yeah. I’m really sorry about that.

In his defense, the girls adore you. Like, a lot.

And he’s an insecure crybaby.

10:27pm

Tweek:

well

definitely not my intention

i figured it was obvious she is not my type

like, AT ALL

10:28pm

Craig:

Oh really?

Now you sound picky.

What’s your type, then?

10:28pm

Tweek:

not into blondes, feels like incest

i like dark hair

tall

and, you know, guys

10:29pm

...

Tweek:

cause i'm gay

you knew that

right?

10:32pm

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then reappeared again. Finally:

Craig:

Totally.

10:34pm.

Tweek stared at the message in the dark, the glow of the screen illuminating his tired face.

“Huh.”

Maybe he’d said it too abruptly. In his defense, he was so used to being around people who already knew about his sexuality that he sometimes forgot it wasn’t public knowledge. Also, he’d honestly NEVER realized he was straight-passing (which was kind of offensive, now that he thought about it).

Still, the delay in Craig’s response said it all—he’d caught him off guard.

Tweek sighed, locking his phone and letting himself fall back against the ugly moss-colored couch. Whatever. It was fine. The sudden attention from Craig had been weird enough already; at least now, things would go back to normal. This has happened before, this was the part where he made a friend who happens to be a straight guy. Then they found out he's gay and got awkward, overthought everything, and quietly vanished from his life.

Totally fine.

Besides, it wasn’t like Craig was his friend or anything. They’d exchanged a few words, nothing more. It would’ve been insane to act like he was losing something here. You can’t lose what you never had.

Saturday at last. A real day off — exactly what Tweek had been desperately needing. And sure, maybe he should have spent it studying his sheet music or picking up an extra shift at the café to scrape together some more money. That would’ve been the responsible thing to do for someone in his situation.

But Tweek was tired of being responsible. Responsibility was exhausting, practically a chronic condition at this point.

During the week, he only ever saw his apartment at sunrise or in the dead dark of night, right after dragging himself home from work. But that morning — ten a.m., sunlight actually filling the place — it was nice. Strange, soft, almost suspiciously comforting. It made him feel a little less sick of life.

He grabbed the freshly brewed coffee from the machine and sat on one of the only two chairs he owned, facing the table. Then he pulled both feet up onto it, sitting cross-legged like some caffeine-addled buddhist in a desperate attempt to warm them up. He should probably put on shoes or something — it was freezing even indoors — but that would go against his nature. His brand was self-destructive cold toes.

He took a sip of his drink and unlocked his phone, fully intending to dive into some app where he could procrastinate for a couple hours. But what he absolutely did not expect was a message. Much less a message from him.

Craig:

[FILE]

Do you know how to play this song?

10:02am

Tweek:

ok first of all: “hello, tweek”

second

what?

10:03am

Craig:

My younger sister came to visit me.

I can’t stand her.

But she’s newly obsessed with piano, so I told her I knew someone who played.

She promised to leave me alone if you played her favorite song.

10:03am

Tweek frowned. Even though, after their last interaction, he had pretty much concluded they’d never speak again, somehow this sudden, abrupt message didn’t entirely surprise him either. It was very... Craig.

He stared at the message for a couple seconds, then locked his screen and placed the phone face-down.

What a weird guy. What made him think he could just request a piano video from him? They weren’t friends — hell, they weren’t even remotely close to that in the first place. He was genuinely bold, maybe even unreasonably confident, and Tweek didn’t know if that annoyed him or just made him jealous, but he definitely wasn’t about to fulfill such a stupid request. It wasn’t his responsibility. Not his problem at all.

Well.

He picked up his phone again anyway and opened the file, “just to see what song it was.” He was a little surprised to see it wasn’t an audio file — no, they were sheet music. That alone was enough to hook him. He instantly got lost analyzing the notes, humming softly as he tried to piece together the melody the score sketched out for him so clearly.

Almost without thinking, eyes still lingering on the staff lines, he drifted across the room and sat in front of the big brown piano at the back of his living room. Probably his most valuable possession. It had been the only gift his parents gave him when he moved out — “your graduation-christmas-birthday present for the next fifteen years,” they had said. Tweek knew they hadn’t bought it; his dad had won it gambling and had no idea what else to do with it. But still, he couldn’t complain about the one remotely decent thing they’d ever passed down to him.

He lifted the wooden lid, set his foot on the pedal, and propped his phone on top of a chaotic stack of loose sheet music. His fingers began to dance over the keys with a grace he only had access to in those moments — his moments — the only time his mind ever came close to something like peace.

It took him just a few tries to learn the main melody; he already knew the song, after all: “Mystery of Love” by Sufjan Stevens. That made everything ten times easier. Honestly, he didn’t even need sheet music half the time if he really liked a piece — all he needed was a few minutes of experimenting and the whole thing clicked into place.

Once he had the melody and the chords locked into his mind, he set his phone in a spot where the camera could at least somewhat see what he was doing. The idea was to film only his hands, but that was pretty much impossible without a tripod, so he resigned himself to a shot that captured everything from his fingers up to his face.

He only needed to record one video — it didn’t last more than a minute, so it was a quick job for Tweek. Or at least that’s what he told himself to pretend he hadn’t put way too much effort into something he could’ve easily said no to.

Tweek:

[VIDEO]

10:11am

Craig:

That was fast.

Let me show it to Tricia.

10:11am

Craig:

Wow.

You’re the best person I’ve ever seen play that thing in my life.

She said.

Thanks, I owe you one.

10:15am

Tweek:

yeah you owe me one

and it was fast because I already knew the song lol

btw, how’d you know I play piano specifically?

10:15am

Craig:

Really?

You like that kind of music?

10:15am

Tweek:

don’t ask questions just so you can dodge mine!!

10:16am

Craig:

I genuinely want to know what kind of music you listen to.

And I asked Wendy that day.

10:16am

Tweek:

alright

yes, I like that kind of music

10:16am

Craig:

Yeah, you look like the type of guy who listens to that kind of stuff.

10:16am

Tweek:

what is that supposed to mean?

am I being insulted rn???

10:17am

Craig:

Not intentionally.

10:17am

Tweek:

huh

10:17am

Craig:

Do you have Instagram?

I want to send you the profile of some artists you might like.

10:17am

Tweek:

fr??

you seemed like the kind of guy who listens to rock or metal

or some emo shit

idk

10:17am

Craig:

Emo? Really?

You’re wrong.

I don’t really like anything in particular.

Music’s not my thing.

10:18am

Tweek:

 that’s emo

and actually kinda depressing??

do u seriously not listen to music?

like, AT ALL?

now that’s borderline psychopathic behavior if u ask me

10:18am

Craig:

I just don’t get the hype.

It’s just a bunch of sounds thrown together well enough to sell.

10:18am

Tweek:

craig

why do you hate happiness?

fineee

this is my user

@ttweakin

i will use this opportunity to educate u

10:19am

Craig:

Sounds like a nightmare.

I followed you already, by the way.

10:19am

Tweek immediately tapped the follow notification, leaving the chat to open Instagram instead. At the top of his notifications sat the message: “@neptucker has started following you.”

The blonde couldn’t help but smile at the screen. What kind of user was that? Well... he wasn’t exactly one to judge.

Without wasting time, he opened the boy’s profile, half-expecting it to be private for some reason — but no. There it was, completely public. And honestly, it made sense that it wasn’t private; what was he going to hide? He barely had anything posted. His profile picture was some blue planet Tweek didn’t recognize. Tweek probably should’ve failed science class when they learned about the solar system, because he had absolutely zero idea what he was looking at.

Scrolling down, it was more of the same: pictures of planets, telescopes, astronomy books...
Tweek kept scrolling until he stopped at the only burst of life and happiness on that entire feed: a photo of a guinea pig eating a carrot. It felt wildly out of character for what little Tweek knew of Craig, but it was adorable.

“That’s new,” he murmured to himself as he walked back to his previous seat, picking up his abandoned coffee. He frowned when he took a sip — it was cold. Great. Wonderful. Exactly what he deserved.

He clicked on another photo, this one showing the cover of a book: “Major in Astrophysics.” Okay, now things made a bit more sense. The guy wasn’t obsessed with space... he was just studying it.

He paused, analyzing his own theory — and then shook his head. No. He was studying space and obsessed with it. Yeah. That made way more sense.

Finally, he let out a long sigh and stretched in his seat, mentally preparing himself for the tedious part of the day: cleaning up the disaster he had created during the week. Sometimes he wondered how he could be so messy when it was literally just him in a tiny apartment.

He stood up and grabbed the cup of cold coffee, ready to dump it in the sink and wash it.

But before doing that, he made sure to tap one last button before turning off his phone screen:

“Follow back.”