Chapter Text
Tweek should be doing his homework. He's only read half of his English novel and a third of the history chapter he's supposed to have outlined by tomorrow, plus middle school pre-algebra is kicking his ass because as it turns out having a normal teacher for fifth grade hasn't even come close to making up for the lost time of two years of Mr. Garrison's math curriculum. He should be doing a lot of stuff, but instead he's slouched down in one of the seats in the back row of the auditorium, watching Craig, Clyde, Butters, and Jimmy practice "Greased Lightning" for what has to be the fifteenth time.
Mostly he's watching Craig. Craig took a bunch of allergy pills before practice so his voice is clearer than usual, which Tweek has no problem picking out from between the other boys' voices. Craig had been stiff the first few weeks of musical practice, but he's relaxed into it now, willing to be a little silly with Clyde and Butters as they work on the over-the-top choreography, and Tweek even sees him smile now and again. Plus they got their T-bird jackets earlier in the week, and it turns out that Tweek is absolute trash for Craig in a leather jacket.
That's how Bebe had said it to him Monday, and Tweek's been thinking about it ever since. Clyde and Craig had Coonstagrammed a bunch of shameless pair selfies in their jackets and sunglasses, posing like bad GAP models with cool faces in the bathroom in the music hallway. Bebe had been at Tweak Bros coffee when they'd started posting, leaning over the counter to show Tweek so that somebody else was forced to share her pain.
"Ugh, Clyde is such a dork," she'd whined, but she was grinning, flicking back and forth through the pictures. "But I'm such trash for it, just kill me."
"Yeah." Tweek had agreed with the sentiment more than any other sentence in his life. His own eyes were glued to Craig's hair without his hat, Craig looking over the rim of his sunglasses like he was too cool for everything, Craig's tiny half-smile when he was looking at Clyde without realizing Clyde was still taking pictures. "They're, nngh, the worst."
It's only gotten worse in the week since then, so now Tweek has a lapful of unfinished homework but Craig is all he can focus on. Craig in his stupid skinny jeans and stupid sunglasses and seriously fuck that leather jacket.
He's not supposed to care about Craig in a leather jacket. He's not supposed to think about his best friend like this at all, he's not even supposed to be gay! Tweek hunches down in the squeaky auditorium seat and wishes that he could be as clueless as the football kids who towel-snap each other's butts and don't think that's gay at all, but unfortunately self-awareness is one mental skill Tweek has a little too much of. He wants to pretend that the messy yarn ball of feelings in his chest isn't unravelling his best friend feelings down to a core of molten hormonal goo.
The thought of his fucked up feelings melting through his friendship with Craig like acid makes Tweek clutch the edges of his math book so tightly his knuckles go white.
"I won't fuck it up," Tweek whispers to himself, like if he says it out loud it'll stick better. "ACK, I WON'T."
After practice finally ends, Tweek loiters around the door that leads to the auditorium's backstage, chewing a ragged thumbnail until Craig appears. Craig is shoving at Clyde as they come through the door, but he drops it to head for Tweek as soon as he sees him.
"You don't have to wait for me, babe," Craig says, already taking Tweek's hand to slide their fingers together. Tweek clutches at Craig's hand like a lifeline, immensely relieved every time Craig treats him normally instead of somehow telepathically picking up on Tweek's internal drama. "Don't you have work in half an hour?"
"S'fine," Tweek says, gaze skittering away from Craig's. "I was doing homework."
Craig squeezes Tweek's hand. "Come on, I'll walk you."
It isn't like he doesn't think Craig likes him at all, Tweek reflects as they stop by Craig's locker before heading outside; he knows that Craig cares about him, and Craig doesn't give half a fuck about most things. So he knows it says a lot that Craig was willing to stay "boyfriends" for even a couple weeks, much less nearly three years. The handholding, the hugging, and the pet names are something they decided on so long ago they all seem normal to the point of being meaningless to Tweek, and he doesn't see any sign in Craig's flat expression that he feels any differently.
Craig slams his locker shut, Tweek so lost in his internal dialogue he doesn't even jump. Craig looks him over critically, their height difference making it easy for Tweek to look at Craig's shoulder and not his face. He startles a little when Craig presses a thumb just over his left eyebrow, Craig's hand cooler than Tweek's skin as usual.
"Migraine?" Craig asks. Tweek's eye twitches, shifting his skin under Craig's touch. "It's supposed to storm again tomorrow."
"I took some stuff earlier," Tweek says, daring a look up at Craig's eyes. A sigh swells in his chest, but Tweek locks his jaw, trapping it until it deflates. Why are his eyes even so blue?
"Don't puke on any customers," Craig advises, hand dropping to take Tweek's.
"FUCKYOU," Tweek snaps in aggravation. "That—gah—happened once!"
Sometimes Tweek thinks Craig is just doing all of this for his sake, because it's no secret that Craig is the only person Tweek really trusts, the only solid thing Tweek feels like he's clinging to half the time. Craig's seen him have panic attacks, migraine puke, ugly cry over nothing, and wake up from nightmares that leave both of them marked with red scratch welts. None of it shakes Craig, and Tweek's so thankful for it that he's fine to keep things exactly like this, forever if that's what Craig wants. He'll just keep shoving all of his weird puberty drama down into some hidden part of himself, until it stops, and Craig won't ever know how Tweek could have wrecked them just like he wrecks everything else eventually.
The walk to Tweek Bros. Coffee is peaceful, Craig telling a story about Clyde and Jimmy fucking around in the wings and competing to see who could make Butters lose it during his lines. Tweek is still distracted but snickers in all the right places, used to the way Craig's monotone delivery makes even a funny story flat unless you read between the lines. It's snowing just a little, just enough to speckle Tweek's green thermal shirt and Craig's coat with flakes.
Tweek stops to look, and Craig is two steps past by the time their joined hands pull him up short. "Babe?"
"Look how perfect they are," Tweek says, holding out his arm. A dozen flakes dot the fabric of his shirt, their details easy to see against the dark color. The snowflakes are tiny and sharp like they only get when it's really cold, like they've been punched out of paper.
"Yeah," Craig agrees, only when Tweek looks up, Craig isn't looking at the snowflakes at all. He's looking at Tweek's face, his expression flat and unreadable. Tweek drops his arm, flustered, but he doesn't look away, feeling pinned by the clear blue of Craig's eyes. A loop starts up in his head of why's he staring at me is it because I'm staring at him why can't I stop staring at him are you stupid stop staring oh god why's he staring at me—
"Aaugh!" Tweek blurts, shivering. "Work! I'm gonnabelate, hurry up!"
"You're the one who stopped," Craig points out. He tugs on Tweek's hand to get them moving again. Tweek watches his scuffed sneakers against the sidewalk for the rest of the trip, the only points of warmth on his body the burn of his cheeks and his hand clasped tightly in Craig's.
Get a grip, asshole, he scolds himself. Didn't he just say he wasn't going to fuck it up?
It's getting dark by the time they step into the coffee shop, Mrs. Tweak calling out a hello. "Hurry up and clock in, son, what did your father tell you about punctuality?"
"Eurrrgh," Tweek grumbles, giving Craig's hand a last squeeze before shaking him off and going to throw on his apron. When he comes out of the back room, his mother is waiting for him to take her place at the counter and pulling on her coat.
"Craig, would you like a ride home?" she asks, but Craig shakes his head.
"No thanks. My mom's at my sister's hockey practice still. Is it all right if I do homework here until she picks me up on the way home?" Craig looks at Tweek for just a second, unreadable, before his gaze flicks back to Mrs. Tweak. "I won't be a distraction, I promise."
Fat fucking chance, Tweek thinks sourly to himself, wishing he could just sink to the floor behind the counter and stay there. Instead he spends the first two hours of his shift with half his attention always on the corner table where Craig is doggedly reading their English novel. Once in a while, Craig looks up and catches him staring, making Tweek jerk his gaze away, face warm. It's not busy enough to keep him really occupied, and the few customers he does serve all seem bent on studying the menu for minutes at a stretch.
"What flavors can I add?" the current woman asks, startling Tweek out of his thoughts.
"HA-Azle…nut," Tweek yelps, then draws a shaky breath, focusing himself. "Peppermint, raspberry, caramel, vanilla…" The woman is still staring at him. "We, um, might have pumpkin left over from fall?"
"I think I'll have a medium black coffee," she finally decides, and Tweek has to clamp his jaw shut to keep from screaming in frustration. If she just wanted black coffee, why did she make him name all the flavors?! As he turns to the coffee press, Tweek catches a glimpse of Craig's face, looking like he's about to laugh; at Tweek's glare, Craig drops his eyes to his book again.
Eventually there's a temporary lull, and Tweek is so tired by then that he forgets to be self-conscious as he drops into the chair across from Craig. Craig murmurs a hello, eyes still on the book.
"How far are you?" Tweek asks. His headache is creeping back in through his meds, pulsing gently over his eye. Tweek presses the heel of his hand to it, feeling the grit of coffee grounds against his skin.
"Chapter twenty." Craig lets the book fall flat to the table, reaching up to rub his own eye. "I should start math, but I'm kind of enjoying it?"
"Dork," Tweek teases, letting his cheek hit the table. It's sticky, but Tweek's past caring. He tries to keep an eye on the door, but it strains his already twitching eye, so he gives up. "Tell me if someone comes in."
"Sure. Is the math hard?"
"Yeah," Tweek says. It isn't a lie because it will be hard when he starts it. Whenever the fuck that will be. He lets his eyes fall shut and heaves a sigh. It's so unfair how he feels like he could nap here just like this, but he knows when he gets home he won't be sleepy at anything like an appropriate bedtime.
"Help me look at it," Craig says. When Tweek's only answer is an annoyed grumble, Craig pokes him in between the eyes, making his eyes pop open. Craig's expression is part exasperated, part tired, and part…something. "You didn't even start it, did you?"
"I looked at it, Jesus," Tweek snaps, irritable. And then I looked at you and it wasn't much of a contest, you asshole, his brain fills in. "Asshole," he repeats out loud.
"We're gonna start it, come here," Craig informs him, motioning for Tweek to drag his chair around. He's setting his English novel aside and throwing his math book on the table with a thump before he realizes Tweek isn't moving. "Honey?"
"Yyyeahuuuurgh," Tweek drawls in one long, frustrated syllable, but he stands up and drags his chair around to Craig's side of the table with a grating screech, the seat of his chair banging into Craig's. Craig wraps his left arm around Tweek's waist to pull him in close, resting his jaw briefly against the side of Tweek's head like he does sometimes.
"I didn't even write down what we were supposed to do," Craig sighs. "Evens?"
"Odds," Tweek corrects. He only remembers because he asked someone to repeat it and Kevin Stoley had called him "a fucking odd." He'd been glad he and Craig were in different classes because Craig wasn't supposed to get in any more fights or he'd get kicked out of musical. Tweek, under no such restrictions, kicked the base of Kevin's desk hard enough to make it squeal across the linoleum, and when their teacher asked what the problem was, Tweek lied calmly that Kevin had called him a fag and earned him a day of in-school suspension for hate speech.
Craig sucks at Pre-Algebra too, but together they puzzle through most of the homework by the time Mrs. Tucker shows up. The jingle of the door's bell startles Tweek to his feet, only to flop back down with an nngh when he sees it's just her.
"Aren't you two responsible," she praises, coming to look over their shoulders. "Math again? You poor things." She ruffles Craig's hair roughly, and then Tweek's the same way. Craig groans in embarrassment, but Tweek bites his lips and enjoys the show of affection quietly. His own parents aren't very demonstrative, and as a result the casually rough way the Tuckers handle each other sends a little thrill through him every time he's included. Maybe that's the reason he can't stop thinking about Craig's hands on him lately, grabbing his shoulders or squeezing his waist or winding in his hair—
NO, BAD TWEEK, he scolds himself for drifting off, giving a low heeurgh that he hopes Craig and his mother think is about math. He snaps back to reality just as Mrs. Tucker is asking if Tweak has had anything real to eat either.
"No," Craig answers for him, folding his math homework in half before shutting the book on it. "We came right here after musical practice."
"Honestly," Mrs. Tucker says, her mouth set in a thin line. She looks like she'd give either one of Tweek's parents a piece of her mind if they were here, but they aren't, and it wouldn't do any good anyway. It makes Tweek feel nice that she'd try for him, though. "Come over for dinner tomorrow, all right? I'll call your mother."
"Sure," Tweek says, cheeks going warm at being fussed over. "Thanks, nngh, Mrs. Tucker."
"Anytime, sweetie. I'm going to use the ladies' room, and then we have to go." Craig's mother bops the back of his head with her fist, making him hiss a curse at her. "Your sister's waiting in the car, so pack it up, young man."
Craig flips her the middle finger as she heads back to the bathrooms, and Tweek huffs a quiet laugh. The laugh cuts off in a whoosh of air when Craig squeezes him in a one-armed hug.
"Neither one of us is going to finish all this crap," Craig points out, waving his free hand at their homework. He pinches Tweek's waist where his hand is resting, making Tweek twitch with an EEK. "C'mon, split it with me. I'll read the book and tell you what happens if you finish the history outline and let me copy it."
"Ugh, fine," Tweek mutters, like it's a gigantic chore. In reality it's a relief, because Craig's a faster reader while Tweek always gets distracted. The concrete nature of outlining a textbook chapter is a task Tweek has a much better chance of completing. He lets Craig drag him out of the chair as he stands, shoving his math book and English novel into his backpack. Craig drops his book bag on the chair with a small crash that sets Tweek's teeth on edge, then turns to drag him into a hug by the belt loops of his jeans.
"Call me when you're walking home," Craig orders.
"Nnhnn," Tweek agrees vaguely, preoccupied with how good it feels when Craig hugs him so tightly. Tweek closes his eyes and tries to memorize the tactile details of it, the thump of Craig's heartbeat under his cheek and the smell of his clothes and the strength of his arms, locked around Tweek's back. When Craig steps back, Tweek can't help the soft sigh.
Craig looks down at him, examining his expression, and Tweek meets his gaze without embarrassment, aside from the intermittent twitching of his eye. It takes roughly half a second for his brain to start running through the checklist of things that are annoyingly attractive about Craig Tucker: his eyes are the clear blue of a sports drink, his cheekbones are getting sharp, his hair is falling in his eyes because he's overdue a haircut. He's growing again, making Tweek want to push up to his toes to press their foreheads together, then their mouths.
He has it so, so bad for Craig, Tweek thinks in despair. Exhaustion has blunted the sharp edges of his earlier freakout, but can't make it any less true.
"Something up, babe?" Craig asks. "You keep looking like you're about to say something."
Tweek considers it for a long second. Telling Craig the things that gnaw at him always does make him feel better, and he's so tired right now that it's tempting. It'd be embarrassing that he has all these stupid feelings and Craig doesn't, but Craig wouldn't laugh or freak out. But he shakes his head, deciding no for now. He can handle it himself, and even though he already knows Craig's answer, hearing it out loud would suck probably even worse than this does.
"You looked really good at practice," Tweek answers, knowing he'll have to say something. It's true, and just embarrassing enough that Craig might buy it as an answer. "You look—hnngh—good when you're having fun. Plus that leather jacket, JESUS."
"You like my jacket?" Craig repeats, eyes widening. Tweek looks away with a low gaaah because he hadn't meant to let that specific information slip out. The statement leaves both of them flustered, not quite meeting each other's eyes, and that's how Craig's mother finds them when she returns from the bathroom.
"Hope I'm not interrupting," she says archly.
"Christ, Mom, fuck off!" Craig snaps, going pink across his nose. It's so cute that Tweek hates it, and he hates himself for loving it even more, and that's before Craig leans in to quietly order, "Get home safe," and squeeze Tweek's hand one last time.
Once Craig's safely out of sight, Tweek trudges back behind the counter and lets his head fall down on it with a loud wham and then just leaves it there, groaning softly into the laminate. Two customers come in, community college students judging from the waft of pot, and Tweek doesn't even bother to pick up his head to mutter all the flavors into the counter for the two hundredth time that night.
But maybe, Tweek thinks on his walk home, phone gently buzzing with Craig's text conversation that's meant to reassure him Tweek's not getting mugged, maybe he'd feel a little better if he talked to someone. He could trust Token, maybe, or Clyde or Jimmy. Not the whole situation, but just about overwhelming impulses in general. It isn't like every other middle school kid isn't having the same puberty catastrophe.
[Hello??? srsly ur alive right?] Tweek's phone lights up to demand, and Tweek realizes he's missed a whole string of messages from Craig.
[im ok i swear! sorry] Tweek sends back. He isn't ok, not really, but he's fine the way Craig means it, alive and still walking home. [almost there]
[forget history] Craig's next message says followed by a couple explosion emoji. [token says we can copy his go to sleep or youll have a migraine tmrrw too]
A small patch in the center of Tweek's chest burns hot at this evidence of Craig's concern over him. It only makes Tweek more determined to do what he promised, which is why he ends up nursing a mug of coffee at one in the morning as he flips through his text book. He has to read every section two or three times, the words blurring, and in the morning the winter sun makes his brain ache, but when he climbs on the bus, he shoves his crinkled notebook pages into Craig's hands with a proud grin.
"You're a moron," Craig says in exasperation, but he tucks the pages into his binder with the same deliberate care that he tucks Tweek in against his side with, an arm around his waist. He presses his cheek against Tweek's hair. "But thanks. How's your head?"
"M'ok," Tweek slurs, already half-asleep against Craig's shoulder and ready to doze the rest of the bus ride. If he just keeps telling himself that he is ok, that he will be, maybe eventually he can make it true.