Work Text:
Craig Tucker had three rules about texting.
One: texting was for communicating information, not having conversations.
Two: if someone sent him more than five messages in a row, he was legally allowed to ignore or block them.
Three: using more than 1 emoji is stupid.
He had maintained these rules for years with the unwavering dedication of a man who had never once considered that he might be wrong about anything.
His friends hated texting him.
Clyde: dude are you coming over
Craig: yeah
Clyde: when
Craig: soon
Clyde: what does SOON MEAN
Craig: later
Clyde had thrown his phone across the room.
Stan had once sent Craig a twelve-minute voice message and received a single thumbs-up in response. Tolkien had a running list of every time Craig had left the group chat on read, which was currently sitting at forty-seven entries.
Even his own mother complained that he texted like he was being held hostage.
Craig didn't care.
His phone was a tool. He used it when necessary, put it down when he wasn't using it, and never understood why people insisted on adding little yellow faces to perfectly normal sentences.
Then Tweek Tweak happened.
And, somehow, Craig's phone became the most interesting object in his possession.
It started with a pigeon.
- 1:43 a.m. -
Tweek: CRAIG
Tweek: CRAIG OH MY GOD
Tweek: DO YOU THINK PIGEONS KNOW THEY'RE PIGEONS?!
Craig, who had been lying in bed staring at his ceiling, picked up his phone.
Craig: probably
Three dots appeared immediately.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Tweek: BUT WHAT IF THEY THINK THEY'RE SOMETHING ELSE
Tweek: LIKE WHAT IF A PIGEON THINKS IT'S A LITTLE BUSINESSMAN
Craig snorted.
Actually snorted.
Alone in his bedroom, at nearly two in the morning, because Tweek had apparently imagined a pigeon wearing a tiny tie and carrying a briefcase.
Craig: that would be cool
Tweek: RIGHT?????
Tweek: I KNEW YOU'D UNDERSTAND
Craig stared at that last message for a second longer than necessary.
Then he typed:
Craig: go to sleep, tweek
Tweek: OKAY
Tweek: GOODNIGHT CRAIG
Tweek: SORRY FOR BOTHERING YOU
Craig frowned.
He hadn't said Tweek was bothering him.
He hadn't even thought it.
Craig: you're not
He set his phone down.
Picked it back up.
Craig: goodnight
A moment later, a heart appeared beneath his message.
A little red heart.
Craig stared at it.
Then he stared at the ceiling.
Then, with the grave seriousness of a man confronting a life-altering moral dilemma, he opened his settings and investigated whether there was a way to make his phone stop showing him that particular heart.
There wasn't.
He decided it could stay.
Just this once...
------
Tweek noticed the pattern three weeks later.
Not that he was keeping track.
He wasn't keeping track.
He was simply a person who happened to remember things, and one of the things he remembered was that Craig Tucker had a reputation for being a terrible texter.
Craig didn't reply to people.
Craig didn't use emojis.
Craig had once responded to an entire paragraph from Cartman with the word okay,
which Tweek thought was honestly kind of impressive in a horrifying way.
But Craig replied to him.
Always.
Tweek sent him a picture of a suspiciously shaped cloud.
Craig replied, looks like a frog.
Tweek sent him a picture of his breakfast because the toast had come out shaped like a heart.
Craig replied, eat it.
Tweek sent him a fourteen-message explanation of why he thought the little duck in the grocery store logo looked deeply untrustworthy.
Craig replied to every single message.
Every. Single. One.
Even the one that just said:
Tweek: I FORGOT WHAT I WAS SAYING
Craig's response?
Craig: happends
It should not have made Tweek feel warm.
It was one word.
One measly word.
But Tweek sat on his bed, staring at the screen, his fingers curling around his phone, and smiled so hard his cheeks hurt.
Because Craig had read all fourteen messages.
Because Craig had stayed.
Because Craig, who could have left him on read like everyone else, had chosen not to.
And because Tweek was beginning to suspect that the little blue notification banner that appeared across his screen was becoming his favorite thing in the entire world.
Which was ridiculous.
Obviously.
Completely, catastrophically ridiculous.
He was not falling in love with Craig Tucker...
He was falling in love with Craig Tucker's texting habits!
There was a difference!
Probably...
------
The first time Tweek realized he was in serious trouble, it was a Thursday.
He was sitting in math class, knee bouncing so fast the desk was practically vibrating, when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He wasn't supposed to check it.
He checked it anyway.
Craig: did you eat breakfast
Tweek stared.
Read it again.
Read it a third time.
Then he looked across the classroom, even though Craig wasn't in the same class, as if the boy might somehow materialize beside him and explain why he was asking questions that made Tweek's heart do cartwheels.
Tweek: YES??? WHY
Craig: you get weird when you're hungry
Tweek's mouth fell open.
He got weird when he was hungry?
Craig had noticed that?
Craig had noticed that sometimes Tweek forgot to eat when he was anxious, and then got even more anxious because he was hungry, and then got so worked up that he couldn't remember how forks worked?
Craig had noticed?
Tweek: I DO NOT GET WEIRD
Craig: okay
Tweek: I DO NOT
Craig: sure
Tweek: YOU'RE MAKING FUN OF ME
Craig: a little
Tweek pressed his phone to his chest.
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no.
He was doomed.
He was going to die of this.
He was going to be found in a classroom, seventeen years old and completely deceased, killed by a boy who had just used the word sure.
His phone buzzed again.
Craig: bring a snack tomorrow. ill bring one too.
Tweek stopped breathing.
Then started again.
Then stopped.
Then started.
He opened his notes app and typed, with trembling fingers:
REASONS CRAIG TUCKER IS NOT IN LOVE WITH ME
1. He is Craig.
2. He is nice to everyone. (mostly...) (he tries...) (I think)
3. He is probably just being a friend.
4. He has literally never called me anything nice... (also never really anything mean..)
5. He probably texts everyone this much.
Tweek stared at number five.
He deleted it.
He knew for a fact that Craig had left the group chat on read for three consecutive days last week.
He knew because Stan had sent a screenshot.
Tweek added a new number.
5. He texts me more than he texts anyone else.
He looked at the list.
Then he put his phone face down on his desk.
Then he picked it back up to reread Craig's message.
bring a snack tomorrow. i'll bring one too.
Tweek was so, so screwed.
-----
For the next month, Craig became part of Tweek's daily routine.
Good morning texts.
Goodnight texts.
Pictures of things that reminded them of each other.
A running argument about whether frogs looked happier than toads.
Craig sending a photograph of his cat sleeping in a position that appeared to defy the laws of physics.
Tweek sending seventeen messages about it.
Craig replying: that's my cat
As if Tweek didn't know that.
As if Tweek hadn't already saved the picture.
As if he didn't look at it sometimes and imagine what it would be like to sit beside Craig on his bed, their shoulders pressed together, watching the cat sleep while Craig pretended not to notice Tweek leaning against him.
Sometimes, when Tweek couldn't sleep, he'd open their conversation and scroll.
He'd read the stupid jokes. The meaningless little exchanges. The reminders to eat breakfast, the complaints about homework, the pictures of sunsets Craig apparently took without ever telling anyone why.
And he would think:
He could be doing anything right now.
He could be talking to someone else.
He could be sleeping.
But he answered me.
It became a dangerous thing, that feeling.
Because Tweek started to expect it.
Started to look forward to it.
Started waking up and checking his phone before he even sat up in bed, searching for the little blue banner with Craig's name on it.
And on the days when Craig texted first, Tweek would spend the next twenty minutes grinning at absolutely nothing.
Craig: morning
That was it.
Just morning.
Tweek had taken a screenshot.
He had saved it.
He had stared at it for a frankly embarrassing amount of time.
He had almost sent it to Bebe, asking if this was what having a crush felt like, but then he'd imagined her response and decided he'd rather fling himself into traffic.
So he kept it to himself.
He kept all of it to himself.
Because there was one thing Tweek knew about Craig Tucker.
Craig was a good friend.
A really good friend.
And Tweek would rather swallow his own tongue than ruin that by wanting
something Craig had never offered him.
Something like a hand to hold.
Something like a kiss.
Something like the right to say I missed you and mean it in a way that made his whole chest ache.
Something like being the reason Craig checked his phone, too....
-----
The day Craig didn't reply started with a picture of a pigeon.
Of course it did.
Tweek was walking home from school when he spotted one sitting on a low brick wall outside a bakery. It was round and fluffy, with a little iridescent patch on its neck and one foot tucked beneath its body.
It looked deeply comfortable.
It looked deeply stupid.
It looked, Tweek decided, like Craig.
Not because Craig was stupid.
Because Craig was round in the face sometimes when he was sleepy.
And because Tweek had apparently lost his mind.
He took a picture.
Tweek: CRAIG
He sent the photo.
Tweek: LOOK AT THIS GUY
Tweek: HE LOOKS LIKE HE HAS A MORTGAGE
He waited for the typing bubble.
Nothing.
That was fine.
Craig was probably busy.
Tweek put his phone in his pocket and kept walking.
At 4:10, he checked again.
Nothing.
At 4:37, he sent another message.
Tweek: HE'S STILL THERE BTW
He attached another picture of the pigeon, now standing on one leg.
Tweek: HE'S EVOLVING
Nothing.
At 5:15, Tweek began to feel strange.
At 5:46, he decided Craig must have fallen asleep.
At 6:12, he decided Craig had probably lost his phone.
At 6:30, he decided the pigeon had somehow offended Craig through the screen.
At 7:00, he sat on his bed with his knees pulled to his chest and read their last conversation.
Craig: morning.
Tweek: morning, craig!!
Craig: you have math today?
Tweek: YEAH :(
Craig: good luck
Tweek: THANK YOU!!!
Craig: you'll do fine
He had sent Craig a picture of his test afterward.
Craig had responded with a thumbs-up.
Tweek had been happy for the rest of the day.
Now he stared at the conversation until the words blurred.
Maybe Craig was tired of him.
Maybe all those messages had finally become too much.
Maybe Craig had only been replying because he was too nice to tell Tweek to stop.
Maybe every single okay and sure and that's cool had been Craig patiently waiting for Tweek to run out of things to say.
Maybe—
His phone buzzed.
Tweek nearly dropped it.
It was a notification from the group chat.
Stan: anyone know where craig is
Kyle: probably at home
Stan: he hasn't replied to me all day
Kenny: dude he never replies to you
Stan: FUCK OFF
Tweek stared at the messages.
Craig hadn't replied to Stan, either.
That should have made him feel better.
It didn't.
Because what if Craig had finally decided to stop replying to everyone?
What if he was tired of his phone?
What if he was tired of people?
What if Tweek was just another person making demands on Craig's time?
He opened their conversation.
Typed:
Tweek: hey are you okay?
Deleted it.
Tweek: sorry if i've been annoying lately
Deleted that, too.
Tweek: i know i send a lot of messages. you don't have to reply to all of them, you know. i don't want you to feel like you have to.
He stared at the paragraph.
His throat felt tight.
He pressed send.
The message turned blue.
Delivered.
Tweek waited.
One minute.
Five.
Ten.
Nothing.
He placed his phone on his pillow and covered his face with both hands.
"Oh my God," he whispered to his bedroom wall. "Oh my God, I'm so stupid."
Because he'd done it.
He'd made it weird.
He'd taken something as small as a boy replying to his texts and made it into something enormous and precious and terrifying.
He'd fallen in love with a notification.
And now it was gone.
-----
At 9:18 p.m., Craig Tucker came home from helping his dad fix something in the garage, washed his hands, and picked up his phone.
It was dead.
Completely, spectacularly dead.
He plugged it in.
Waited thirty seconds.
Turned it on.
His phone immediately vibrated so hard it nearly slid off the table.
Stan.
Kyle.
The group chat.
A reminder about homework.
And Tweek.
Lots and lots of Tweek.
Craig smiled at the pigeon photos first.
Then he read the message underneath them.
Then the next one.
Then the paragraph.
His smile disappeared.
He read it again.
you don't have to reply to all of them, you know. i don't want you to feel like you have to.
Craig frowned so hard his eyebrows nearly touched.
What?
He scrolled up, looking for context, as though Tweek might have suddenly become a completely different person in the space of eight hours.
Then he typed.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Craig: tweek?
No reply.
Craig sat up straighter.
Craig: hey
Nothing
Craig: i'm sorry. my phone died
He stared at the screen.
That wasn't enough.
It wasn't even close to enough.
He thought about Tweek sitting in his room, worrying over something that had never even occurred to Craig as a problem.
He thought about how Tweek always apologized for taking up space.
How he'd say sorry before telling a joke.
How he'd ask whether Craig was busy before sending a picture.
How sometimes he'd send a message, then another one immediately after, as if he
were trying to get everything out before Craig had a chance to decide he didn't want to hear it.
Craig had never minded.
Not once.
In fact, he had a folder in his camera roll labeled tweek, full of the pictures Tweek sent him.
The pigeon.
The frog-shaped cloud.
A terrible drawing of Craig that Tweek had insisted was "VERY ACCURATE."
A blurry picture of Tweek's own shoes with the caption LOOK CRAIG THEY MATCH YOUR EYES.
Craig had saved that one as his favorite.
He didn't know why.
He just liked having it.
He typed another message.
Craig: you dont annoy me
Then, after a moment:
Craig: i like your messeges
Craig: all of them
Craig looked at the screen.
His face felt hot.
He put the phone down.
Picked it back up.
Added one final message.
Craig: especially yours
And than waited.
-----
Tweek had been lying face-down on his pillow, trying to convince himself that the floor looked like a perfectly reasonable place to disappear into, when his phone began vibrating.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
He didn't move.
It stopped.
Then started again.
Tweek lifted his head.
The screen lit up.
Craig.
Craig.
Craig.
His heart did something so violent that Tweek briefly wondered if this was how people had heart attacks.
He grabbed the phone.
Read the first message.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Then the fourth.
His eyes filled with tears.
"Oh," he whispered.
He read them again.
you don't annoy me.
i like your messages.
all of them.
especially yours.
Tweek pressed the phone to his mouth.
A tiny, ridiculous laugh escaped him.
He wanted to cry.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to run all the way to Craig's house and knock on his bedroom window and ask him what on earth he meant by especially yours, because surely that wasn't—
Surely—
His phone buzzed again.
Craig: are you there
Tweek: YES
Tweek: I'M SORRY I THOUGHT YOU WERE MAD AT ME
Craig: why would i be mad at you
Tweek stared at that question.
Because the answer was everything.
Because he was loud and anxious and sent too many messages and cared too much and couldn't stop himself from wanting things that he was terrified to ask for.
Because Craig was Craig.
Because Tweek had fallen in love with him, and sometimes love felt so much like fear that Tweek couldn't tell them apart.
Instead, he typed:
Tweek: I DONT KNOW
Craig replied almost immediately.
Craig: okay
Tweek let out a watery laugh.
Then another message appeared.
Craig: i missed you today
Tweek stopped breathing.
There were words.
And then there were words that made the whole world go quiet.
I missed you today.
Craig Tucker had just told him he missed him.
Craig Tucker, who thought emojis were a waste of time.
Craig Tucker, who considered three consecutive texts a personal attack.
Craig Tucker, who had somehow become the person Tweek wanted to tell everything to.
He typed:
Tweek: YOU DID????
Craig: yeah
Tweek: EVEN THOUGH I WAS JUST SENDING YOU PIGEONS
Craig: especially then
Tweek made a noise that could only be described as a kettle reaching boiling point.
He buried his face in his pillow.
Kicked his feet.
Nearly threw his phone across the room.
Then he pulled it back to his chest and smiled so hard it hurt.
Because maybe.
Maybe he hadn't imagined it.
Maybe he wasn't too much.
Maybe Craig Tucker, who could go an entire day without texting his closest friends, really did want to hear from him.
Maybe Tweek wasn't the only one waiting for a little blue notification.
-----
The next morning, Craig was waiting outside Tweek's house.
This was unusual for several reasons.
One, Craig did not generally wake up before he absolutely had to.
Two, Craig did not generally go out of his way to see people before school.
Three, Craig had texted Tweek outside and then immediately followed it with come out, which was the sort of thing that should have been illegal.
Tweek stumbled down the front steps in a hoodie, his hair sticking up in at least four directions.
"Craig?"
"Hey."
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?"
"Walking you to school."
Tweek blinked.
Then blinked again.
"YOU ARE?"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
Craig shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.
"You said you thought I was mad at you."
Tweek's stomach twisted. "I—yeah. I mean. I know it was stupid, I just—"
"It wasn't stupid."
Tweek went quiet.
Craig looked at him.
Really looked at him, with those calm blue eyes that always made Tweek feel as if the rest of the world had turned its volume down.
"I should've told you my phone died," Craig said. "I didn't know you'd worry."
"Oh." Tweek picked at his sleeve. "You don't have to tell me everything, you know. I mean, you can do whatever you want. I don't want to be, like, demanding, or—"
"Tweek."
He stopped.
Craig held out his hand.
Tweek stared at it.
Then at Craig.
Then back at the hand.
"What's that for?"
Craig's ears had gone pink.
"Take it."
"WHY?"
"Because I want to hold your hand."
Silence.
A car passed them.
Somewhere, a dog barked.
Tweek's brain packed its bags and left the country.
"YOU—"
"Yeah."
"YOU WANT TO—"
"Hold your hand. Yes."
Tweek took it.
Very carefully.
Like Craig had handed him something made of glass.
Craig's fingers slid between his.
Their palms fit together.
And just like that, Tweek's whole body went warm.
"Oh," he whispered.
Craig squeezed his hand once.
"You're okay?"
Tweek looked at their joined hands.
Then up at Craig.
Then down again.
"No," he said, his voice trembling with a smile. "I think I'm having a medical emergency."
Craig snorted.
And, because he was Craig, because he was apparently determined to destroy
Tweek's entire life in the most tender way possible, he leaned over and kissed Tweek on the cheek.
Just once.
Softly.
Like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Tweek stopped walking.
Craig took two more steps before realizing he'd lost his companion.
He turned around.
Tweek stood frozen on the pavement, one hand pressed to his cheek, his eyes enormous.
Craig blinked.
"What?"
Tweek opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"You—"
"Yeah."
"You KISSED ME."
"Yeah."
"ON MY FACE."
Craig looked at him.
"That's generally where cheeks are."
Tweek made a strangled noise.
Craig smiled.
A real smile.
Small and crooked and entirely, devastatingly his.
Then he tugged gently on Tweek's hand.
"Come on. We're gonna be late."
Tweek followed him.
He didn't remember the walk to school.
He barely remembered how to breathe.
But he did remember one thing with perfect, crystalline clarity.
Craig Tucker had held his hand and kissed his cheek.
And if Tweek had to spend the rest of his life recovering from that, well.
He supposed he could live with that.