Chapter Text
Craig hates physics.
Or not physics, maybe just the nasty woman who teaches it. And his classmates, a group of overachieving nerds by the likes of Kyle Broflovski, Tweek Tweak, and Wendy Testaburger, who all make him look like an idiot. Hell, even Eric Cartman seemed to have a better handle on the content than Craig, a fact that he never let anyone forget. Craig knows that he’s not stupid, and he doesn’t appreciate being patronised by his peers for not being able to wrap his head around quantum mechanics. If it weren’t for his lifelong dream of being an engineer at NASA, he would’ve dropped the stupid subject years ago.
It didn’t help that it was the last period on a Friday afternoon, when all Craig wanted to do was go home and watch re-runs of the Clone Wars with Tricia.
He also couldn’t face the thought of having to sit in the lab with Tweek by his side, his anxious study-buddy - at least, according to Mr Mackey, the school’s insufferable guidance counsellor. Apparently Craig’s grades are not quite up to the standard of South Park High, and he’s been assigned a ‘study buddy’ to help him ‘back on track’. It was Mackey’s way of giving him a tutor and making his life hell without actually saying the word. Just Craig’s luck, he’d been assigned to Tweek Tweak, who was likely only doing it for extra credit and not out of the kindness of his heart. Craig’s not sure which is worse, being somebody's homework assignment or the object of their pity.
For these reasons, and seeking a fag break, when the bell rings to send students to class, Craig finds himself slipping through the crowded hallways to the run-down boys block of toilets at the back of school, rather than the science labs where his class is. It’s like a safe haven from Physics when he pushes open the door and slinks inside the dank and dark bathroom. Craig takes in the familiar sight of the dingy bathroom, one of the fluorescent lights flickering, adding to the general aura of abandonment of the heavily graffitied walls. For the first time all day, he can feel his head beginning to clear, his shoulders relaxing.
Then he heard it- a quiet sniffle. Like someone was trying to hide the fact that they’re crying. Annoyed that someone beat him to the sanctuary, Craig calls out in his nasally voice; “Who’s in here?”
No reply. Because of course not. No guy wants to admit to hiding in here to cry. It’s pathetic. Craig would know, he’s done it enough in his six years here to be somewhat of an expert.
Craig grasps his backpack strap and paces in front of the toilet stalls, looking for shoes, or maybe a bag, a sign of other life. His pair of scuffed converse squeaks against the tiled floor, and he winces in irritation. The last stall door in the row is closed, but there are no feet to be seen under the door. Pressing his palm to the door, Craig gives it a small push. It’s unlocked, which he takes as an invitation. It swings inwards to reveal a dark-and-light haired boy sitting on the toilet seat, his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs.
“Seriously Marsh? This is my bathroom.” Craig monotones, taking in his cousin’s red rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks with a disjointed feeling. It’s not that he doesn’t care, he’s not that much of a heartless bastard, it’s just unusual that he sees Stan this upset. Angry? Yes. Arrogant? Yes. Crying alone is a filthy bathroom stall? No.
Stanley Marsh was the same age as Craig, and they had the same dark hair (except Stan’s is bleached on the underside), and the same blue eyes, or so their mothers often fussed over. That was where their similarities ended. Stan was shorter than Craig, but stockier, as one would expect from a quarterback, and they had two entirely different groups of friends and interests. Despite his status as a football player, Stan maintained a very alternative style in a clear polarity, but somehow he made it work. Usually Stan was unshaken, annoyingly confident in himself. He didn’t look very confident right now, wrapped up in himself like a small child.
Stan sniffs and lowers his legs, giving up trying to hide now that he’s been caught. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”
“Shouldn’t you?” Craig shoots back irritably, setting his bag down on the floor. “This is my hiding spot.”
“You don’t wanna share it with your favourite cousin?” Stan attempts to joke, tears clinging to his lashes as he looks up at Craig, who remained standing at the door of the stall.
“I don’t see Shelley around here.” Craig snarks back. As if Shelley Marsh is his favourite cousin, but he’s not going to feed Stan’s ego like that. Unlike the usual reaction Craig can expect from the other boy, Stan doesn’t rise to the bait.
Huh. So he genuinely is upset, then.
Craig stands still for another moment, his hands hanging limply by his sides. He should probably ask. “Are you okay?”
“What do you think?”
This is why he didn’t want to have to ask. He’s not good at feelings. It’s something he’s always envied in other people, especially his friends. Tolkien would probably know what to do right now, like he does when Clyde is being… Clyde.
“Get out of the stall, it’s filthy.” Craig replies curtly, striding into the more open part of the bathroom and perching on the bathroom counter.
Out shuffles Stan, his eyes downcast. He sits down beside Craig, his hands in his lap. Their shoulders touch as they sit in silence. Eventually, Stan speaks, his voice cracking with emotion. “Kyle is going to ask Leslie to prom.”
Craig studies the face that is so familiar to him, having known it his entire life. There’s a twist in his gut at the sight of Stan so upset, but he doesn’t immediately register why Kyle asking Leslie out is so distressing to him.
“And…?”
A sob wecks through Stan, his face pinching as he tries not to let his tears fall again. “I don’t want him to ask her. I want him to ask me.”
Oh.
The words are like a handful of cold water splashed onto Craig, realisation crawling up his spine with its icy fingers. Stan was like him.
It has never been a secret that Craig was far more interested in boys than girls, he had even dated one once. Although admittedly it was Tweek and they were 10, it was a well established fact in South Park that Craig is a flaming homosexual. At first no one cared. And then they got to High School, and the other boys had ideas of bigotry shoved into them in their adolescence. It hadn’t been easy for Craig, who was a background character in South Park High, but he couldn’t imagine how the guys on the football team would react if they knew that their beloved Stan Marsh took after his faggot of a cousin.
Wordlessly Craig gently wraps his arm around Stan’s shoulders to pull him against his side in a half hug. Craig rests his head on top of Stan’s, the red bobble on his beanie tickling Craig’s face. He’s not very good with words, so he hopes that the slightly awkward embrace is sufficient comfort. Neither of them can remember the last time they hugged, as they’ve grown apart over the years to the dismay of their mothers. They have separate interests, separate friends, separate lives, despite people insisting they are so similar. Maybe people are more correct about their similarities than either boy would care to admit.
They sit together for a while, until Stan’s sobs have subsided. Craig finds that he doesn’t mind it too much, not that he’ll ever admit it. He finds that enjoys the company for once instead of being holed up in here for an hour by himself.
“Thanks dude” Stan mumbles, his voice thick with tears as he pulls away. “You won’t ahh- tell anyone, will you?”
Craig’s heart clenches at the thought of sharing Stan’s secret with anyone else. “Of course not, dude.”
Blue eyes meet blue as Stan holds his gaze, seeking something. Whatever he’s looking for, he seems to find it as he nods slightly. “Right. So why are you in here?”
Right.
“Physics.” Craig attempts a smile that feels more like a grimace. “I can’t go in there. Not in the mood.”
Stan continues watching Craig silently, expectantly waiting for him to continue speaking. Against his comfort, Craig finds that he wants to tell him about the tutoring.
“Don’t laugh.”
“Course not, cousin dearest.” Stan says solemnly, in a way that makes Craig find it hard to believe him.
“Mackey said my grades are too shit, I’m not gonna graduate if I don’t get them up. Tweek’s tutoring me, I’m avoiding sitting with him in class.”
Craig does appreciate the visible effort that Stan puts into trying to stifle his laughter. “Tweek Tweak? That Tweek?”
“Aren’t you chipper now? And yes, do we know another Tweek?”
Stan shoots him an easy smile, seemingly in a much better mood now that someone else has issues to deal with. “Tough luck, mate.”
Craig flips him the bird.
There’s a mutual understanding between the boys as they exit the bathroom at the dismissal bell. Their earlier conversation stays between them, strictly no one else’s business. They navigate through the crowded hallways full of students eager for the weekend. The overlapping chatter and sounds of lockers slamming makes Craig’s skin crawl with discomfort. He lets Stan lead the way, watching with resigned amusement as people scurry to move out of Stan’s way.
Stan’s usual aloofness and confidence has returned, his shoulders squared and his chin up. Untouchable to his many wide eyed fans. It’s like he wears his green letterman, Number Twenty-Six, as a protective layer of armour over his graphic t-shirt that depicts harsh red lettering over the image of a skull. It’s an aspect of Stan’s personality that Craig has always been jealous of, he’s so unapologetically himself, and people adore him for it.
“I’m driving Kyle home if you want a lift.” Stan offers, swinging his car key around his finger. The assortment of keychains is a blur of colours.
Craig’s eyebrows raise in an expression of muted surprise. The cousins don’t usually interact in front of their friends, due to conflict between their groups. Their interaction in the bathroom half an hour ago also springs to mind as he wonders in amazement how Stan can stand to be around Kyle at the moment.
“Uhh-“ On one hand, it will be awkward as fuck. On the other hand, he doesn’t feel like catching South Park public transport today. “Sure. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re a buffer.”
“Of course” Craig rolls his eyes. Oh well, anything to avoid trudging home from the bus stop through the snow. If it was warmer, he could’ve easily skateboarded home, but he won’t risk it on the icy pavement.
As they approach Stan’s beat up grey Honda Civic that Craig believes used to be his Uncle Randy’s, they catch sight of a tall red head leaning against the passenger door, his head ducked as he studies his phone. He’s dressed in usual matching green coat and ushanka, loose slacks, and a pair of wire rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He’s not the most attractive person Craig’s ever seen, but then, terrible taste in men must run in the family. Look at his Uncle Randy.
“Afternoon, Kyle” Stan greets, a grin on his face. His easy-going, confident persona slipped effortlessly into place.
Kyle looks up, a gentle smile on his lips at the sound of Stan’s voice. The smile fades slightly when he spots Craig lingering. “Hey Stan. Tucker.”
Craig tilts his head in greeting. “Broflovski.”
The car unlocks with an audible click and Craig climbs into the backseat, knowing well enough to not try to fight Kyle for shotgun. He suspects that Kyle’s had that position for quite some time, and despite their moment of understanding earlier, it’s not enough for Craig to attempt to ignore the status quo. Stan turns the key to start the engine as Kyle and Craig put their seatbelts on.
“I hope you don’t mind if we take a detour, Kyle. Gotta drop the cousin home.”
Kyle glances over his shoulder at Craig tucked into the corner of the backseat, scrutinising his appearance. He turns back to face the front, turning his nose up. “It’s alright.”
Part of Craig muses at what Stan would have done if Kyle declared it wasn’t alright. Probably make him walk home. Stan’s wrapped around Kyle’s pinkie finger, something Craig has always noticed but now views in a different light. People joke about it all the time, Craig’s even witnessed McCormick and Cartman ripping on Stan for it. He wonders with amusement if Kyle realises the effect he has on the other boy.
“Oh, well, if Broflovski says it’s okay.” Craig mutters, unable to help himself, pulling his wired headphones from his pocket and plugging them into his phone.
Stan glares at him in the review mirror. “Shut it.”
“You weren’t in Physics” Kyle says suddenly, not turning to look at Craig. “Can you really afford to miss so many lessons?”
Stan’s fingers twitch on the gear stick, but he doesn’t stick up for his cousin. Whatever happened to blood being thicker than water? Craig’s now back to thinking that Stan’s a bit of a pathetic loser.
“Piss off, Broflovski.” Craig hisses, sliding his earbuds in as to ignore the ginger’s further comments. When he opens his phone, he finds a bombardment of messages from an unknown number. Craig frowns and opens the thread, thumb hovering over the screen as he reads slowly.
Friday 3:23 pm
Unknown
Hey, I’ll wait at your locker to give you the physics notes
Unknown
It’s Tweek btw
Unknown
I got your number from Tolkien
Unknown
I hope that’s okay
Unknown
Craig?
Unknown
Where are you?
Craig chews on his lip as he types a response, annoyed at Tweek for being so eager to pity him, and annoyed at Tolkien for handing in his number to anyone who asks. Especially Tweek. How would he feel if Craig started giving out his number to anyone who asked?
Friday 3:46 pm
Craig
Sorry. Already left.
Tweek
Ah. I can drop them off to you?
Craig
Fine.
Craig
1010 Eastern Street
Craig closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the cold glass of the window, grateful for the loud music playing in his ears to drown out Stan and Kyle’s conversation. His stomach lurches at the thought of having to face Tweek after wagging class this afternoon, and his annoying feigned compassion. Tweek would probably ask if he’s alright, if there’s anything he can do to help… he’s sick of being treated as if he’s an idiot by his peers and his father.
God, if his father knew…
The car slows to a stop outside of Craig’s house, and he wordlessly climbs out, his bag slung over his shoulder. Tweek’s sitting on his front stoop, a plastic folder in his hands. Craig pulls his earphones out, letting them dangle from his jeans pocket. Craig begins marching up the front yard, flipping Stan off over his shoulder when he beeps his horn before driving away. Tweek looks up at the disturbance of peace, meeting Craig’s eyes briefly before twitching violently and averting his gaze.
“I thought you were home.” Tweek accuses him, eyebrows furrowed in irritation.
“I was on my way.” Craig says emotionlessly. He slips past Tweek to unlock the front door. He kicks his feet against the side of the doorframe, ridding his shoes of the snow.
“I- ah! I bought you notes.” Tweek holds out the folder for Craig to take.
Craig takes it and moves to shut the door on Tweek. He’s stopped by a boot in the door, blocking the door from closing properly.
“What’s your problem, Tucker? Why are you being so difficult?”
“I don’t need you around to pity me, or whatever it is that you’re doing.” Craig replies, annoyance bubbling to the surface.
“Ngh! Are you that egocentric? I don’t pity you!” Tweek snaps. His hazel eyes flash with anger, and he’s practically vibrating.
Craig is very rudely reminded of the feisty boy that Tweek used to be. He hadn’t seen this side of him since they were in fourth grade, when Tweek broke up with him in front of the entire grade.
“Right.” Craig clears his throat awkwardly, unsure of his next move.
“I’ll go over the notes with you.” Tweek says with such conviction that Craig finds himself unable to argue.
Craig moves aside so that Tweek can kick off his snowy boots and step into the house. He watches the blonde’s head swivel, taking in his surroundings. It’s uncomfortable, Craig can’t remember the last time someone other than Clyde entered his home. It’s strange, like he’s bearing part of his soul to Tweek to inspect. Inspect the way he lives, and his complicated family dynamic.
“It hasn’t changed much.” Tweek breaks the tense silence. He’s calmer now, less pissed off at least. He still has the occasional anxious tic that makes him Tweek.
“My room’s upstairs.”