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(Halloween; 12th grade)
Craig likes being drunk.
He doesn't have to think so hard, and people think he's funny, which is new. Usually, it's just Tweek and the guys. But sitting on the couch in Token's basement wearing one of those lame "this is my costume" shirts, he feels pretty good.
Tweek went somewhere, probably a long time ago by now. He hasn't been keeping track. He tunes out whatever stupid story Scott Malkinson's been struggling to tell for the past five minutes to try to think on it, but there's nothing. He can't remember where Tweek went. But his side feels colder without him, and no Tweek means no headrest, so it's a problem.
"What's wrong?" Jimmy asks him out of nowhere, clumsily nudging him with one crutch. They've all been drinking, but Jimmy got roped into doing shots with Stan Marsh an hour ago and he's clearly still feeling it.
Before he can put enough coherent thoughts together to make a proper sentence, Clyde jumps in, "He's just pouting 'cause his boytoy vanished."
He scowls. It's technically true, but it still pisses him off. He doesn't even like Clyde that much anymore. He talks too loud, half of what he says is neurotypical bullshit, he never wants to play the same videos games anymore because he always wants to play some shit like NBA 2K and he's busy every weekend with what he calls an "active social life" but is really just binge drinking or smoking copious amounts of weed with people he doesn't actually have anything in common with. Craig sometimes included.
Plus, he's been cheating on Bebe on and off for months with different girls from Middle Park. It doesn't help that Bebe seems to know about it and keeps putting up with him anyway. Maybe she's been cheating on him, too.
Either way. Clyde is stupid. It's annoying. So much for his good mood.
Instead of sticking around to hear wherever Clyde's going with what he's saying, he leans and staggers his way into a somewhat standing position—he can't remember not being able to feel the floor before—and partially stumbles and partially allows himself to get knocked around like a pinball towards the foot of the stairs.
Fuck Clyde. He wants Tweek.
When he finally—miraculously—finds his way upstairs unharmed (but not without knocking over at least three Solo cups and a foam tombstone), Kenny McCormick of all people takes one look at his disoriented ass and points him outside without another word. And without laughing at him. Either Stan and the guys are turning over a new leaf or he's drunker than he previously thought.
On his way past, Kenny sneaks a gummy eyeball into his drink, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. He has no idea where he even got those, or what's in them. He doesn't think he wants to know. He abandons it on the kitchen counter once Kenny's moved on to his next victim.
Regardless, he owes Kenny one. Big time. The cold air that smacks him in the face when he opens the sliding door sobers him up a little, to the point that he can walk without looking like Frankenstein's monster.
Token's back porch, like the rest of his house, looks like a Spirit Halloween threw up on it. There are enough weirdly colored string lights to signal air traffic and he's pretty sure the Blacks bought out Colorado's entire stock of creepy cloth for the season.
Most importantly, Tweek is out here. Inches away from him is Wendy Testaburger, blessedly Stan-less but twirling one of Tweek's loose curls around her finger in a way that feels like it could either be bad news or completely normal for her.
"—if you'd just do something with it," she's saying, frowning a little bit like some tragedy is going on that nobody else knows about.
Tweek replies so fast he doesn't even catch what he says, but he doesn't get the chance to ask because Wendy spots him and lights up like a Christmas tree—and that's how he knows she's drunk, too, and that she's not trying anything weird. She grabs tightly onto Tweeks arm and shakes it.
"I found your boyfriend!" she says.
He can't remember when she and Tweek got close, but it was a long time ago, now, and when someone spends enough time around your fake boyfriend, you kind of get shuffled into the fold. At least in Craig's experience.
He waves halfheartedly—actually, he kind of just lifts his hand vaguely in her direction—but she beams and waves back like an excited toddler and then, suddenly, turns to Tweek again and says, "I'm gonna go." She pats his arm, and then his cheek.
She's up and leaving before Tweek can even squeak out, "Okay," and she hugs Craig on her way past to the door, a little stumbly and very happy.
The door slides shut.
He looks at Tweek, and Tweek looks back at him, kind of over his shoulder. He seems as stunned as Craig feels, which the alcohol can't be helping, and Craig makes his way to the bench with much less effort than it took to get out of the house in the first place.
"The fuck was she saying?"
He settles into the space on Tweek's other side, where Wendy wasn't. He hunches forward and plants his face in Tweek's shoulder.
This is what he wanted.
"Something about my hair, I think, I don't know," Tweek rambles. "I think she just wanted to sit outside and didn't wanna be by herself?"
He lets out an acknowledging grunt, but he really, really doesn't give a fuck what's going on with Wendy anymore.
Even though it's been at least twenty minutes, and probably even longer, of sitting outside, Tweek is still so warm. He hugs him closer to steal more of it.
"I don't know what she's talking about," he mutters before long. "I like your hair."
Tweek snickers and leans against him more, all body heat and softness. It's like having a living teddy bear. He feels so happy. "You're kinda drunk, Craig."
He frowns. He is kinda drunk, but he thought he was at least hiding it better. The music inside seems like it's only getting louder, and the longer he stays, the higher the chances of Clyde trying to talk to him again, which would just piss him off. Plus, he could do this anywhere. He pulls back to look at Tweek. The light spilling from the windows dances prettily on his eyes, and his hair looks like an alien halo in the eerie green-and-purple string lights. "I wanna go home."
Tweek blinks at him. "Right now?"
He nods. He wishes he was in bed. He wishes he could feel exactly like this, warm and comfortable, but also be in bed. With Tweek. And maybe his guinea pigs. And a horror movie on the TV his dad helped him mount on the wall last week. "This party's stupid. They've played Monster Mash like six times in there since you left."
"We can go," Tweek agrees, immediately.
Getting through the house, like most things, turns out to be much easier than getting up the stairs. One of many good things about Token always hosting—his living room is a huge, open room with few obstacles. It's hard to trip in there, drunk or not.
The house spits them out in the front lawn, and Craig makes it about twenty feet from the door before he realizes they have no plan. Usually they've picked a designated driver, but it's Halloween. Nobody wanted to make anybody DD. He frowns at the stones of Token's driveway, watching them blur past as they walk, and Tweek says, "We should call someone."
"All of our friends are drunker than they've ever been in their fucking lives in there."
"But so am I! And so are you!"
He groans. "Okay, then why don't we just walk? It's not that far."
"It's across town! One of us could trip and fall and die and then the other one would have to live with it forever! And what about cops?" After a second, he adds, "Also it's cold. And also I don't feel like it."
"Lazy."
He can hear Tweek pouting. "I'm not."
"I know. But it's not like we can just call my mom."
His mom tells Tweek's mom everything, which would be sweet if everything didn't mean everything. She tells her funny things Tweek says when he's around and stories from school she might have missed, and gossip from around town, and things the other moms say. Thanks to his mom, Mrs. Tweak is kept completely and utterly in the loop.
Which means his mom would tell her about this. And Tweek's parents have no idea he's been drinking. Ever. At all. They've been working pretty hard to keep it that way, too. But this is starting to seem unavoidable.
They slip out the side gate, and he sits down on the curb, Tweek settling next to him. He falls back until he hits the sidewalk and props himself up on his elbows. Tweek's gonna be eighteen in March anyway, and their parents were teenagers once upon a time. "We could come clean and just call your mom."
"She's gonna kill us, man! No way. Call your dad."
"My dad?" he parrots. He imagines Robin Tweak in his mind. She's made of sterner stuff than her husband, but neither of them are anything compared to Thomas Tucker. "My dad would run us over instead of picking us up. It's fucking late. As fuck."
"Well I'm not letting you drive!"
He groans, lolling his head until he can stare at the stars in the sky. "I know. I'm not stupid. Let me think."
Richard Tweak is out. Obvious reasons—might be half asleep on the drive, probably won't remember in the morning but might get them all killed. And if he is awake and lucid, he'll bore them to death on the way to Craig's house and make it into some kind of lesson that's not really a lesson. And Craig's drunk enough that he might actually think he's onto something for once instead of getting to trade looks with Tweek when he's not paying attention.
Thomas Tucker is out, too. Also obvious reasons. Craig has basic self-preservation instincts. Plus, he's doing a service to all local inmates this way—keeping his dad far away from them. They won't be in danger if he's not in jail with them.
The dads are out.
It's gonna come down to luck.
He has no idea how long he spends watching the stars move and trying to put his thoughts together, but it's long enough for Tweek to have started rubbing at his wrists, pressing against the bones with his thumbs and then switching hands. For a second, he just watches, transfixed. He likes how Tweek's hands move. He can't go to the coffee shop when Tweek's working anymore because the staring makes him nervous, and that's not compatible with extremely hot liquids.
When he snaps out of it, half-baked plan still in the oven, he swats Tweek with the side of his arm. These are desperate times. "Okay. Yeah. We can call my mom."
Tweek blinks down at him, his hands going still. "I thought we said we weren't gonna do that. Won't she ground you for like a million years and tell my mom and get me sent to boarding school?"
"We have to. She's least likely to kill us."
Plus, there's a part he can't tell Tweek—for whatever reason, Laura Tucker has always had a documentable soft spot for him. He's pretty sure she thinks he's cute, in the way people think puppies and baby bunnies are cute. He's also pretty sure most of the moms in South Park feel that way. Mrs. Broflovski fusses over Tweek every time she sees him and he knows damn well she's not the only one.
"You should fake cry," he adds. As insurance.
Tweek shoots him a look, but fifteen minutes later, his mom's silver-blue sedan pulls up to the curb. Hook, line, and sinker—she gets out and makes a beeline for Tweek, checking him over like he's been getting beat up instead of harmlessly consuming alcohol, cupping the softness of his face in her hands. Tweek always plays this part too well; he makes his eyes all big and stutters more and ducks his head, and he begs her not to tell his parents at all the right times with sad puppy eyes.
It's sick. Like, twisted. He's too good. Craig thinks he loves him. He wants to pick him up and squeeze him until they're stuck together.
When Tweek has thoroughly manipulated his mother into agreeing not to tell the Tweaks any of this ever happened, she looks at him—her own son—and says, neutrally, "Get in the car."
He knows he's pretty much fucked come morning, since she obviously thinks he's a bad influence, now. He might be grounded until Christmas. But when he ducks into the seat behind hers, Tweek scoots over to the middle seat to curl up against his side, and he sees her eyes go soft through the rearview.
Maybe just until Thanksgiving, then.
Tweek has been playing with his fingers for probably the past twenty minutes.
His hands are starting to feel restless. It's actually really hard to relax your hands when you have to make a conscious effort to do it. It's harder when your long-term fake boyfriend is using you like a fidget toy. He almost wants to bounce his leg or something, but it's propped up on the bed.
He doesn't even know if Tweek realizes he's doing it—the fidgeting.
Probably not. His head has been settled into the crook of his shoulder for longer than Craig's been his human Tangle, and he's been zoned in on the movie the whole time, twitching every so often. It tickles when his hair brushes against his neck and the sensitive underside of his jaw. It's nice.
Craig tips his head to the side until it rests on Tweek’s. He does like his hair. It’s soft, and it usually smells like coconut but right now it smells like Halloween-party, and outside, and the air freshener in his mom’s car. And it suits him. Tweek makes a sound of contentment and molds against his side more.
He could admit to anything right now and Tweek wouldn’t care at all. “Are we still lying to everyone?”
Tweek goes tense against his shoulder. He’s not playing with his fingers anymore. “What?”
“About—”
Well, maybe not anything.
“Y’know,” he finishes lamely. Heat creeps up the sides of his neck. For the first time, he notices a piece of sticky tack still adhered to his ceiling from when he used to have glow in the dark stars. When this all started, they were still up there, arranged into constellations. They used to go trick or treating together. In fifth grade they went as peanut butter and jelly.
It hits him. He’s almost spent more of his life pretending to be with Tweek than he hasn’t. They sat together on the bus every morning and every afternoon from fourth grade until Craig was old enough to drive. He’s been to more piano recitals and competitions than he can count on one hand and Tweek goes to every single hockey game even though the Cows haven’t won a game in the past two years. They went to prom together last year and agreed to skip this one. They go to each other’s family shit; their parents are already planning a joint Thanksgiving.
Two Independence Days ago, he sat on the edge of a dock and kissed Tweek underneath the fireworks with Tweek’s entire extended family sitting fifty feet away. It kind of sucked. It was barely anything—it just felt like the thing to do at the time. And the lake smelled like shit, even though Tweek smelled like sunscreen and salt. It wasn’t pretend, then.
It happened, and he wants it to happen again. Lots of times. Maybe forever. He thinks about it all the time.
“I really like you,” Tweek says.
Which is exactly what he’d been thinking—that he really likes Tweek. Clyde always says it’s gross how it’s like they can read each other’s minds. But it helps a lot. Especially now, when he doesn’t have to say the words out loud anymore. All he has to say is, “Me too,” and Tweek sits up a little, enough to look at him.
He turns his head. Just to talk.
Tweek grabs his face and kisses him, quick.
Craig can count on one hand the number of times he’s ended up kissing someone. Bebe, on the cheek, on the playground when they were 7. Tweek, two summers ago. This. Right now.
Tweek pulls back before he can react, his skin darkening in the dim light from the movie.
He’s blushing, Craig realizes.
His brain settles things very quickly.
He loves Tweek.
He wants him.
Badly.
He pulls him back in.
For someone who worries his lips so much, Tweek’s sure are soft.
He still has no idea what he’s doing. He doesn’t care much. He holds Tweek’s arms and then his elbows, and then, when they run out of arm to touch, his hands drop to his waist.
He likes that. He’s pretty sure Tweek likes it too, because his own hands slide off his face and find new spots on his neck and shoulder, a little shaky, just like always.
He pulls Tweek closer, and closer, until Tweek is climbing into his lap, and Tweek’s hands slide up to hold his jaw next, cradling the bone like it’s fragile.
He might explode. Tweek’s lips are soft, and so is his waist where he’s holding it, and so are his hands on Craig’s jaw. He starts pushing the bottom of Tweek’s shirt up to get his hands under it and he’s soft there—his skin. Warm, too.
He stretches his leg out and hears a heavy thump.
Tweek startles like a cat. He sits up and looks over his shoulder, which has the unfortunate side effect of Craig not being able to kiss him anymore. “What the fuck was that?!”
He sighs and tips his head back. It knocks against the wall. God damn it. “My phone. Or yours.”
“Oh,” Tweek says, breathing easier. He relaxes, and Craig can feel the muscles moving under his skin with his hands under his shirt.
Halloween is fucking awesome. He already liked touching Tweek, but now he gets to touch Tweek in new and interesting ways? This is the best day ever. He’s pretty sure he’s in Heaven.
Or he’s dreaming and he doesn’t wanna wake up.
He doesn’t even regret anything the next day when his mom tells him he is grounded and that she's taking away his laptop while he's at home.
It’ll only be two weeks.