He has the hands of someone who fidgets, with long spindly fingers usually intertwined with Craig's. They're empty now, a first, and without anything to fill the spaces between them it's apparent that Tweek was a born craftsman to begin with—those pianist fingers of his left no wonder as to why he picked up playing.
It's in the way Richard Tweak pulls Tweek closer behind the counter, chest filled with pride, every time someone visits their quaint little coffee house. You know, my son isn't just a spaz, the senior Tweak says, like he's been digging for years for a goldmine of something, anything, that made his son's existence worthwhile to him. Any opportunity presented that reflects nicely on the Tweaks is an opportunity gained. Learning the piano had been Tweek's ticket to redemption, as had painting before, and baking before that.
Craig had helped with that, the whole confidence thing, and it was gay but not gay the way things happened on TV, you know, and no one had any qualms about it because that's just how it was. They still did guy things, like rag on others and complain about how 'Stan and those guys are dicks'. They snorted loud when they laughed, and kicked each other out of their sleeping bag at sleepovers when one or the other hogged it.
But sometimes Tweek pulled Craig down by his hat to kiss him hard in the hallways, and sometimes Craig would let himself smile after, absolutely lovestruck and one shade shy. Sometimes Richard Tweak would tell his son that he'd be sold into slavery if he didn't do right by their family, and Craig would join their hands and pull Tweek away and tell him, you're worth so much to me. Sometimes, Craig would sit alone and sigh, and Tweek would go up to him, pull him into his arms, and say, it's okay to feel, man.
He misses the weight of Craig's hands in his. It hurts to think he's gone days without it. It hurts more that Craig doesn't get what he's done wrong.
Not for the first time, nor for the last, they're fighting. But what's new?
They've been fighting for a while, actually, over something that Craig thinks is insignificant and not that big of a deal, jesus, but that very same something is what Tweek's poured the last two week's of heart and effort into, so. It kind of is a big deal, but only to Tweek, and coming to that conclusion stung with more familiarity than it ever should have.
So maybe they're taking a break right now. Maybe Craig's being passive aggressive replying to Tweek's texts, and Tweek's made vague posts on Twitter about someone that may or may not be Craig. Relationships were like that sometimes. They'd bounce back from it eventually. The winding road that their relationship walks down always leads them back to this—Craig not understanding, Tweek understanding too much.
At least, that's what everyone else thinks. Craig feels like an animal dragged out to lick its wounds in the open when they yell at each other like this in the auditorium, too many eyes on them both. Tweek's doing most of the yelling, teeth and fists clenched, and it'd be cute if it wasn't directed at him. Stripe would look cute though, snarling like that, but his guinea pig is too docile for anger so base. It's strangely relatable. Except Craig isn't docile so much as he is averse to drama and messiness and everything in between, and why, oh, why did he let himself get into this, again?
"An understudy?! Oh, no, don't give me those 'It isn't such a big deal, Tweek' eyes. It is totally a big deal, man! We're three weeks in and now we have to deal with picking out an understudy? That is way too much—"
"—too much pressure, we get it, Tweek. Jesus."
"Jesus yourself! We wouldn't be in this mess if it wasn't for you, Craig, you goddamn hypocrite!"
Craig really does not want to be doing this surrounded by all of Tweek's beloved drama kids. He can feel their eyes on him, judging, and it's attention but not the good kind so he couldn't give less of a fuck. Why did they always have to argue in front of other people? It's like no one in South Park is capable of keeping their arguments private. Every juicy inch of drama is wrung out and left to dry, regards rarely given for the people walking around under. Miraculously, or perhaps left with no other choice, said people just take it in stride. It's just how it is in a place where you know someone who knows someone who once knew someone else, and a cycle-and-a-half later the whole town's been accounted for. The best thing to do, to anyone with half an inch of wit about them, is let the trouble fizzle out.
Not wanting to light the fuse, Craig relents under the fire in Tweek's eyes, even if he's a little pissed.
Okay, a lot pissed. Doesn't matter. He can't lose his cool in front of the entire auditorium, and he doesn't want to blow up at Tweek.
"Babe. I'm sorry." He says it with as much emotion he can muster, pitching his voice higher so Tweek knows he cares. The lines in Tweek's face soften, and it looks like he might apologise, too. Then Craig goes and digs his own grave, the epitome of tact that he is, with a, "You're blowing this way out of proportion, though."
"I'm blowing this out of proportion? I'm blowing this out of proportion?! What the fuck! My lead is walking out on me and I'm the one being too emotional?!"
"Look, honey, I didn't want to be here in the first place," Craig goes. Slowly, like he's reciting the alphabet to a toddler with a grand total of three words under its grubby little belt. The amount of patience he punctuates each word with would be endearing, if it wasn't such a…
"Agh! Are you shitting me right now?!"
...bad move.
Tweek's face scrunches up, and the fight-or-flight stance he'd been in eases with the set of his jaw into something purely fight. If Craig looked annoyed before, he's outright indignant now.
"No, I am not shitting you, Tweek. I'm terrible at acting. Why would I possibly want to be here?"
"Not that, asshole! Quit talking to me like that! Like— Like I'm some kind of emotional time bomb! I'm freaking you out again, and you don't want to deal with it, so you're forcing it."
"It is literally not like that, and you are making it personal—"
"Oooh, I'm Craig Tucker, and I have a spaz for a boyfriend so I talk to him like he's still ten! He's freakingouttoohard to even— ngh, notice! Just announce it to the world, why don't you?"
Something flashes on Craig's face.
When Tweek starts pulling out accusations like that, it means business. Nothing irreversible, it doesn't signify the end of the world or Satan's rebirth or whatever, but it's definitely something Craig can't smooth over with just a fistful of dandelions and an apology. When Tweek looks back at Craig's expression, eyes darting, searching for some indication that any of his words had struck true, he finds none.
Of course not. Craig could never think that of him. He glances back down, still fuming but newly ashamed.
"You're putting words into my mouth, and I'm not going to deal with that," Craig slides his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. Whatever he'd felt before, he's smoothed out. If not for the annoyance in his voice, his calm would be buyable. "So I'm going to remove myself from the situation."
"Fine," Tweek grits out. He tilts his chin up; a challenge. "See if I care!"
Craig shifts. Inhales, shoulders rising. Exhales, loud enough that Jimmy and Wendy both hear it from where they sit fifty feet above the ground.
"Go find a new lead," Craig pulls his hat low and flips Tweek off, "dick."
Tweek wrings his hands together, fingers clasping and unclasping this way and that, and screams.
It's been a day since rehearsals were temporarily suspended, an announcement made over the intercom that no one was pleased to hear—least of all Tweek, who promptly busied himself carrying all their props back to class. Upset or not, he had a reputation for being reliable and he'd die upholding it. It came with the whole 'not wanting to disappoint everyone around him' package, so it wasn't like it was hard.
Finding a replacement for one of two male leads, though? That was hard. Even without the time constraints and closed open calls, Tweek had been set on getting to act with his boyfriend, and the way Craig just dropped him had stung.
It's not like he wanted them joined at the hip, doomed to spend eternity together! Performing is manageable work, and Craig's just being stupid.
"What hurts the most is how proud of it I was, man!" Tweek takes an angry sip from his juice box, then slams it down, shaking. "I'd spent hours on that crap, hunched over my desk, writing and writing and writing until Shakespeare had become less about romantic tragedy and more about how Romeo and Julien duke it out after school because their shitty friends goaded them into it."
The fight had been fun to script, the ensuing badass betrayal even more so, but neither had been Tweek's absolute favourite part. He thinks back to the bit between the male leads, right smack in the middle of page 12, which he'd been embarrassed about putting into the script at first. Last he checked, there was an entire page's worth of dialogue centered around it alone. It was so vital to the overarching storyline that he couldn't just do away with the scene.
Keeping it in isn't an option, though. Not without Craig playing Julien.
In his mind he'd seen a set bathed in a dim glow; Romeo, stage left, and Julien, stage right. Classes and detention have kept them too far apart, and they're exchanging wistful glances. The bell rings. They run to each other, tripping over their own feet in the desperation, and it's over the top and dramatised but romantic all the same. Romeo would catch Julien, and Julien would press his hands into Romeo's chest, flustered, and they would watch the other's lips part, pressing their foreheads together, and...
It was supposed to be their first public kiss. If Craig hadn't pussied out, it would have been.
Token sets a comforting hand on Tweek's shoulder. "Your disappointment is palpable, dude. It's not like you to be airing your dirty laundry out like this."
"Yeah," says Clyde between mouthfuls of sandwich. "Talk about holding a grudge. I mean, what do you expect? It's Craig. Craig, the guy who would get on his knees and suck the dick of normalcy if it meant not getting into big time bullshit. Maybe being the main lead in a play is, quote, 'too much pressure', unquote."
"Butitisn't!" is the testy reply that comes tumbling out of Tweek's mouth, and he squeezes his drink so hard that juice shoots out the straw, right into his gravy. "It isn't, because Craig's great at taking the stage and if I'm capable of more than I think, then— then so is he!"
He remembers how Craig had watched him write, perched on his bed. Every time he finally looked up, Craig would smile.
Looking back, that was probably the moment that solidified his resolve to see the play through, even if the project was the biggest one Tweek's ever taken on in his life. Craig always looked at him like he was made of something incandescent. Tweek just wanted Craig to be part of that light.
Clyde takes one look at Tweek's ruined lunch, and exchanges a glance with Token. "You know the drama club is kind of intimidating, right?"
Tweek doesn't. He raises his eyebrows, twitching unsurely, and Token sighs.
"It kind of is, yeah. Take it from us. You're a natural under the spotlight, but not everyone takes to the stage like that. Just because you can do it," Token holds Tweek's gaze, "doesn't mean everyone else can."
"Yeah," Clyde punches Tweek in the shoulder fondly, and Tweek would return the favour if he was in a better mood. "What is it that Craig keeps saying? You're skilled at doing more than you believe? You're more competent than you ponder?"
Like clockwork, the words pop into his mind in Craig's familiar monotone: You're capable of more than you think.
Token rolls his eyes but laughs, anyway. "Oh my god, shut up, Clyde."
And just like that, everything falls into place as Token and Clyde go off into another one of their tangents, something about Token's dad being the ringmaster behind every black market in the world because, duh, it's a Black market. Tweek squawks when he's put on the spot to settle their debate, but throws in an answer that's neither here nor there, something equally as contrived as Clyde's interjectory: "But it's your family name!"
He's not all there either, to be honest. Across the cafeteria, Craig's sitting with Stan and his posse, and the way he's deeply invested in whatever discussion they're having would be cute if he wasn't shifting constantly to avoid Tweek's gaze.
Tweek doesn't apologise much, because he's never needed to. With all the guilt clouding his mind, he's starting to think maybe he should.
First period comes and goes, flooding the hallways with students on the cusp of seventh grade. Craig pulls away from the stream of bodies to stand at his locker, and mutters a quick thanks to whichever deity up there is looking out for him when he finds the area blissfully deserted.
Times have been hard in their town after Cartman buried all the government money under the junkyard and the ensuing retrieval process didn't get the funds fully back. The principal, penny pinching prick that he is, had every student pair up and share lockers to save on student funds. Craig and Tweek were subsequently given custody of their very own locker—in the name of gay rights, or something like that.
At first, Craig had been mad. Not that sharing with Tweek was a nightmare.
That is, it was, but that wasn't the part he minded. The school still insisted on separating their classes, meaning there was more stuff to sort out between them. Having Tweek scamper off to art class on the days Craig actually didn't have detention helped little with actually getting to see his boyfriend, but right now Craig's actually grateful for the conflict in their schedules. He doesn't think he has the conscience (or guts, god, Tweek's scary when he's mad) to face his boyfriend so soon. Just the thought of it makes his fingers shake around the lock as he slots in the passcode he knows by heart.
(It's their anniversary date. Craig himself had insisted upon it.
Not that sentiment has done him any favours.)
The lock clicks, offering him a distraction. It's a necessity if not that, the whole ordeal students go through between classes where they reload their twiggy little prepubescent arms with books, so Craig swings the door open and gets to work.
Between him and his current source of tween angst, there's an established method to finding what they need and it's saved Craig countless times. Craig was the one to come up with it, what he proudly calls a 'system' and what Tweek called 'dumb', but if Tweek insists on filling their shared space with more and more knick-knacks every week then he doesn't get a say in how Craig tames the mess. Personally, he thinks it's smart that the upper shelf is his—he can actually reach it, first of all. Second, it keeps important class material (anything to do with biology and physics) from being engulfed by all the loose papers Tweek keeps cramming in.
Even if Craig still has to rummage through them to find things sometimes. Like he's doing now.
Science is his next class. It's his favourite subject because it makes sense—blessed, blessed sense, something he could use more of in his life between Peru and the time the adults had exiled them and fighting with his boyfriend. They're learning about space now, and Craig likes his teacher well enough, even if she insists Pluto isn't a planet any more.
So what if it really isn't according to multiple studies conducted by multiple scientists? Craig grew up reading about it in encyclopedias. It's something he's carried with him for years, a precious little pearl of knowledge that he gets excited about when anyone asks. It's hard to let go of what he's known for so long. What he's learned to live alongside, to love wholeheartedly. Every little detail has been committed to memory, and commitment is a heavy word.
He flicks a stray cardboard airplane wing away, pretending he's thinking solely about planets.
And he succeeds, until someone passing by goes, "You're a piece of shit boyfriend, Tucker!" and Craig has to whirl around just to flip the guy off.
Does he look like he's running through a flower field right now? Does it look like he's not hurting? Tweek had been the one to humiliate him on a stage, with an audience no less, and he's the bad guy? He just wanted out. After having Tweek scream at him and accuse him of doing things so cruel he can't even think them, he's allowed one break, isn't he? Whatever impression people have of him, he wants to pummel into the ground. Everyone's so invested in his relationship they won't give him a chance to deal with it himself.
He's trying not to think about it. Of anything, really, but if the universe insists on slapping him right in the nuts when he's already down, then fuck him.
"Excuse me," Craig yells at the kid's retreating back. "Could you go be a dickwipe elsewhere please? Some of us are at school to learn!"
Rightly annoyed, he returns to his locker, slotting books onto the top shelf. He almost slams the damn thing shut before realising he hasn't found his shit proper.
Respite comes to him from under a pile of lego bricks: a carefully folded worksheet, detailing the solar system. Therein lies another reason why he thinks his teacher's cool—he'd drawn a rocket landing on Mars, the planet he likes best, and she had marked it with a little smiley face. Craig grabs it, finally free of the shackles keeping him from heading straight to class, but it seems fate has different plans for him because he makes the mistake of unfolding it too.
Poorly inked figures stare back at him, holding hands. Craig had been proud when he doodled them a week ago, but staring at them now with his newfound maturity, they seem kind of shitty. The one with a blue hat has a skewed mouth, only curling at the very ends, because Craig had drawn himself all emotionless and cool until he'd thought about it a bit and realised he couldn't possibly go around not smiling while holding Tweek's hand.
He stares at the other figure, with its lightning hair. The paper starts to crumple.
"Tucker!"
Measured steps resound in the hallway, and when Craig looks up none other than Wendy Testaburger is heading towards him with murder in her eyes. God dammit. God fucking dammit. If everyone in South Park is out to knee him in the nuts today then he might as well hand them all a golf club to make it easier.
He folds the sheet up and sighs. By the time he empties himself of breath Wendy is still making her way over, so he sighs again, louder.
The thing about the drama club is that it's a dying breed, no thanks to Clyde and the aptly dubbed 'incident'. It's why open calls are closed now, why Tweek is struggling to get people to try for roles, and why Craig quitting has royally fucked everyone in the ass. Wendy especially, even if she has no business standing here to harass him.
On paper, she's technically not a member of the club. Because Tweek had been thrust into the role of drama club leader, though, she ended up dedicating half her school life to helping him out. She's good at leading, and the girls at school have some weird idea of what Tweek actually is so they fawn over him like he's an adorable little baby and not, y'know, someone who could knock the wind out of Craig if he willed it.
"Wendy," he says, wanting this entire ordeal over and done with.
"Craig." The tightness in her voice leaves no doubt as to why Wendy is here. To tear him a new one. Maybe after school is over he'll get his dad to dig him a hole so he can lie in it. Maybe roll around a little. Possibly even die, if he feels like it. The way this conversation's starting out, he's sure he'll have no problems there.
"Yep, that's me," says Craig, momentarily distracted as Jimmy pops up from behind Wendy. "What, you're in on this too?"
Jimmy, at least, has the decency to look sheepish. "The situation could use some tuh-tuh-tweaking."
And Craig laughs a little, because it's funny, until he realises that was a jab at his situation and that Tweek's still mad at him, and then he cuts himself off with a, "Wait, fuck you guys. Can this wait? It's Science class right now."
Wendy steps forward, Craig steps back, and she slams his locker shut. "You have to apologise right now, you heartless fiend! Don't you care about your boyfriend?"
He holds his hands up in surrender, wondering how big the hole should be. He could die in Wendy's backyard just to spite her. "Okay, first of all, it's not your business."
She looks at him, folding her arms. Gestures to Jimmy, and then herself.
Right. Drama club. It is her business.
"Second, can't I care about him at a respectable hour? Like, during recess or something? Do we really have to do this right now?"
"Yes, we do! Doesn't your relationship matter to you at all?"
"I'm pretty sure answering my questions with more questions violates some social code somewhere," says Craig, shooting Jimmy a look. Jimmy shrugs. He's just as much of a kind-of-not-really-part-time drama club member as Wendy, so long-standing friendship or not he's probably here to get on Craig's case, too.
"Tweek's hurting," Wendy insists, hand held over her heart. "He's probably crying in the boy's bathroom right now!"
Like Craig isn't the bigger crybaby between them. Bambi always gets him, but Wendy doesn't need to know that.
What she should know is that Tweek's probably in class, perfectly fine. Trembling in residual anger, but fine. What irks Craig the most, in the midst of all these reminders that he's apparently irredeemable and a garbage excuse for a boyfriend, is that they're still treating Tweek like he's incapable of anything. Like he needs a proxy to get his point across when he has a working mouth and at least two shared classes with Craig this year.
"Look. It's my relationship, and Tweek can take care of himself for two hours. Seriously. We're learning about the solar system right now, can you come back and bother me literally any other period?"
Wendy folds her arms, unimpressed, but Craig just stares at her until she pinches the bridge of her nose and gives in.
"I guess you just don't care," is what she settles on. "First Michael, now this… I hope Tweek finds someone better. For his sake."
Craig does care, though. He cares so much, even if he's doing it so wrong no one else can see that.
She looks at him with disappointment so raw it hurts, Jimmy at her side, and Craig with his worksheet full of solar systems and past joys has never felt more alone. He doesn't want to deal with it. He doesn't have to. The idea of going to class sours something within him, so he does what everyone else seems to think is his only talent.
He turns his back on his friends and leaves. Past the school's back doors, past the schoolyard, he walks himself all the way to the bleachers and doesn't look back.
Of all the conclusions Craig has ever come to, culminations of his life experiences that they are, this was the most resonant of them all:
Being gay sucks.
Finding Craig isn't too hard. Broody as he can be while moping, he never ventures too far from school. No one can tell at first glance because he keeps flipping the teachers off, but he's got a strange way of being a good student—his 'excuse me's and 'please's and actually attending class make up a good portion of that.
So of course when Tweek finds Craig by the field, he's not surprised. They come here a lot to watch Token and Clyde's football games. It's familiar, and Craig has a fondness for the things he knows.
"Hey. Jimmy told me you'd be around." Tweek pauses, bending down to swipe some dandelions from the grass. He hands them to Craig, who takes them readily, even if he doesn't send a greeting back. "Have you been sitting out here all day?"
"No, I've been sitting out here since second period," Craig replies, as though the reality of the situation is any better. To anyone else it would sound like he's being sarcastic, but it's an earnest answer.
Tweek knows Craig has the habit of taking words at face value, never really looking for a deeper meaning. It's made their shared literature classes together hell, and their past fights never lasted ("Agh! Aren't you just boyfriend of the year!" "I am? Weren't we fighting?"), so he doesn't push it. Instead he takes a seat beside Craig, ignoring the questioning glance he gets. There's a respectable foot or two between them to acknowledge that yes, they're at that awkward stage of rekindling their relationship.
But Tweek's never been good at just sitting around looking pretty, waiting for something to happen.
"Why is it so hard for you to put up with me?"
There. Bullet bitten.
Craig looks up, eyebrows pulling together. The dandelions are set down beside him. "Put up with— It's not putting up with you if I want to do it, Tweek."
The reaffirmation does little to console. Tweek curls his fingers tighter over the rim of the bench, hoping he'll shrink so hard there isn't space in his body for breath, nevermind emotion. Might as well have his physical body match how small he feels inside, having a conversation like this with someone he could lose to one wrong word.
Why can't he ever calm down and sort himself out like Craig does? Why is it so easy for everyone else but him? It's unfair, and it sucks, and when he looks over at Craig he sees that the other can't even look at him and it feels like he can't breathe with how overwhelmingly angry he grows.
He thinks of the dandelions, the apology he'd come here to offer.
"You want to do it," repeats Tweek, incredulous. He knows it's stupid to be so mad, he knows what the conversation is leading up to, but he has to hear it. He has to know. "Why?"
"Because I love you." Every word that Craig speaks is weighted with exhaustion. He's not intoning when he explains himself like he usually does to calm Tweek down—he can barely get the words out. When he continues, his voice cracks, "So why don't you put up with me?"
Tweek's head whips up at that, just in time to see Craig burying his face in his hands.
"God dammit, Tweek. This hasn't been easy for me. And I'm not talking about handling you, because it's not always about you. It's about me. I can't read every emotional cue, I can't pick up on every faux pas I make, it's not that easy."
"Craig…"
"Do you love me, Craig? Yes, Tweek. I love you," continues Craig, like he's reciting words that have haunted him every day. He lifts his head, but he's looking over the bleachers. Away from scrutinisation. Away from Tweek. "But it's not enough, is it. If I don't sound like I'm about to keel over from how much I love you, then I don't mean it. If I do, then fuck, I'm babying you. It's always you— it's— God, I'm trying."
Tweek wants nothing more than to scream again, to get wrapped up in his own flurry of emotions because it's what he knows best. He wants to justify it all, so Craig might understand why he's like this, why unstable ground terrifies him so.
He slides close to Craig and pulls him close instead. If the ground is unstable, he has to root himself to it. Craig is his anchor, and he'll learn to be Craig's.
"Hey..." Tweek sits up straighter, steeling his stomach. "I get it. You're trying."
The thrill of having reached out first, even indirectly, has Tweek's heartbeat thrumming through his head, but this is important. It's not about getting his boyfriend back, because that isn't all Craig is to him.
They're friends, too. Ever since they ended up in that hospital room together, beds side by side, they've been friends. It started as Tweek curled up in the dark, hoping the steady beep of the heart rate monitor would lull him to sleep. Craig had reached across the bed to poke him, right eye swollen shut, just to say, That was pretty cool, Tweek. Your right hook is awesome. Under the moonlight, Craig looked pretty ugly, with the windows tinting his skin and bruises blue. Tweek had been happy anyway, heart thudding with the promise of something new.
"And, jesus, I really wanted to do that play with you and you just— you bailed, Craig. I took it out on you, because you were there, and itwassoeasy—" Tweek grunts, and Craig presses his head into Tweek's chest. "It was so easy. You're always doing shit for me and I took it for granted and thought, assumed, you'd just do this for me without me asking!"
"I was gonna." Craig's voice comes out muffled. "I pussied out, though."
"Craig…" Tweek pulls back from the embrace, and Craig immediately looks up to make sense of what's going on. His eyes are red-rimmed and misty, and there's patchy concealer under his eyes. It hits Tweek then, that this is the boy he loves, because to him Craig looks beautiful all the same. "Did you want to act in the first place?"
A beat passes before Craig admits, "Not really."
"Then why did you agree?! Agh, man, don't go around doing shit you don't wanna be doing!" His gaze grows frantic then, sweeping once over the bleachers below as though something's going to leap out. His subconscious, probably. Maybe the physical manifestation of all the crap he's put Craig through. It's a lot to envision—his old hair tugging habit starts to resurface as he thinks. "Did I pressure you into it? Were you scared of the repercussions if you didn't comply? Oh god, am I abusive?!"
Used to it, Craig grips Tweek's shoulders. His hands are firm, steadfast, something Tweek's always liked about holding them. It's all he needs to come back down, to look at Craig and focus.
It's about Craig right now. It's about Craig.
"No, Tweek, you aren't abusive." Craig's eyes waver. "I just... couldn't handle it. Even if everyone expects me to."
The admittance looks like it hurts. It's not something he's ever considered; Craig, unable to handle something.
But Tweek thinks back to all the abandoned projects in his room. The papers in their locker, full of poetry and doodles and whatever else. Scattered notes. Half-assed compositions. Cheap paint tubes from the dollar store. He thinks of his parents, their perpetual smiles, their unending hopes pinned on him.
And he says, "Expectations suck. You're your own person, and you— you're worth so much to me."
Craig finally cracks a smile at those words. Tweek's pleased to see part of him fluttering at their familiarity, because it's recognition that Tweek carries with him the moments that make up the in-betweens of their lives. "You're not mad?"
"I was." Tweek shrugs. "I poured a lotta soul into that script, man, and I can't lie and say I'm fine with not having you there with me. But knowing you're okay, nngh, means more. To me."
Of all things, the clumsy patchwork of words is what really gets Craig. Red spreads on his cheeks the way ink underwater would, splotchy and bright and perfect. Tweek stares openly, entranced. When he lifts his eyes to meet Craig's, he finds he's being looked at again like he's the world and all its stars beyond.
Craig looks away first, tracing circles around the dandelions. "When you were writing that play, you looked so happy."
"Wh— Me? Happy?"
"Yeah, the happiest. It's like you were made to create or something, and when you do just that you discover the balance of the world and sit completely and peace. It's kind of gay." Tweek narrows his eyes, tugging his collar unsurely. Craig backtracks. "But not in a bad way. It makes me feel gay. Inside. Like I'm going to throw up because I love you so much."
He's starting to ramble again, which Tweek would gladly let him do under normal circumstances because it's nice hearing Craig so heated about anything. Usually, he's very as-a-matter-of-fact about the way he approaches life itself. He's got no filter, and sarcasm is his least fluent language, and it's all part and parcel of the whirlwind of middle fingers that is Craig Tucker.
Too bad they haven't resolved the underlying issue: Tweek relies too much on Craig, and Craig relies on Tweek too little. Between them, Tweek's older—he has a full twelve years to hold over Craig's measly eleven-and-a-half. Responsibility should come easier to him. He wants to take care of Craig. To soothe all his aches so they can laze around together in their beds again, Craig talking on and on about how radical the universe is, Tweek smiling to himself over Craig using the word radical. He loves that easy comfort more than anything.
Tweek knows full well that twelve is too young to be perfect. He'll continue to be imperfect for as long as his parents brush him off, really, and forever is a long time to come to terms with one's flaws.
(There's something irreversibly damaging in seeing everyone else have what he doesn't; the envy he feels when he sees Sharon Marsh fussing over Stan is poison, as is the longing glance he throws Cartman's way when Liane holds his hand like mothers do.)
But even if he can't be perfect, he can at least be better. Craig trusts him with his feelings, and living up to the mantle never feels like too much pressure. It's not an 'you owe me for loving you', it's more of a 'I need you right now, please help me'. Tweek wants it from the bottom of his heart, to save Craig from all that plagues him.
So he will.
"Thanks for being honest. And, uh." He joins their hands together with all the confidence he does not have. "For being here. Just in general. You're really, really, really great and I love you too."
Craig snorts. "I got that, given the whole you're worth so much to me thing. Really. I'm your boyfriend and I'm just worth sooo much to you. I'm worth, like, at least thirty dollars."
"Thirty-five on a good day," retorts Tweek. "I'm pouring my heart out here. Don't beadick, Craig."
"You're the dick, dick," Craig responds in turn, beaming.
Tweek blinks in stunned silence, and for a moment Craig considers the situation severely misjudged. Then laughter bubbles from Tweek, breaking the tension, and it's pinched and a little scratchy but endearing still. It's like they're kids again, playing superheroes and fighting over the dumbest things in the world, but—
No, they're still kids. Aren't they? Having an entire lifetime to lead is a sobering thought, but being ten feels like forever ago, and a few years down the road the fight they're having now will regress into nothing more than a fond memory. Something to bring up when they're reminiscing the way people do. It fills Tweek with courage. Makes it easier to face the future head on.
"Hey, Craig? Not to make it gay, but… agh, we'll find a solution somehow. I promise."
"Together," Craig agrees, lacing Tweek's fingers between his. "Just like we always have."
"I can't do this." It's cold when Tweek pulls away from the embrace, eyes wet. He's curling in on himself, trying to keep it together, but the look in the other's eyes shatters him. The tears finally spill. "I'm sorry. I haven't been honest with you, and nothing I say can ever fix that. You've loved me all this time, and I..."
"Don't go. I need you, please, we won't ever bring this moment up again!" Hands reach out, seeking warmth, but Tweek shoves them off, breathing hard. He can't. Not like this. "Just one more chance, I just need one—"
"Don't you get it? It's over!" Tweek whirls around, fists clenched. "It never even begun! We aren't real, and we never will be, because the heart wants what it wants and I've found something else worth living for! Don't let them tell us how to act, man, this isn't who you are!"
Clyde flinches like he's been hit, shrinking in on himself. Resignation fills his face. "Romeo…"
"Julien," says Tweek, gentler this time. "I'm sorry. I'm in love with the moon."
The lights swivel, centering onto a spot above the stage where Craig in a moon costume descends. Laughter erupts from the audience and he flips them off, but he's glowing at the attention anyway now that he has no speaking lines to remember and his only role is to hang from the sky. Even Tweek has to smother a grin at the sight of him, but it's cute when Tweek actually breaks character so Craig saves flipping him off for after the show.
Their compromise was simple. Craig couldn't handle the pressure of a main role, but wanted to support Tweek. Tweek wanted Craig with him, wanted to put his love on display, but didn't want Craig to face hell for it. Rearranging the script to make Tweek a cheating little prick seemed like a fair trade-off, so that was that, and here they are.
"Maybe I was never truly in love with you," says Clyde, channeling his stupid too-deep Julien voice. He turns to the crowd. "So ladies, if you're out there, I'm single—"
"Dude!"
"I mean, yeah, love is complicated and all… But no one else knows your feelings better than you do. It's up to you, against all odds, to know what's right. Everyone else doesn't have a say in it," goes Clyde, hoping Tweek doesn't kill him. "So live your life the way you want to. I'm glad I met you, Romeo."
Darkness engulfs the stage, the music fades, and with only the spotlight to guide them the cast piles onto the stage for their collective curtain call. Resounding applause greets them, and even if most if it is obligatory, Tweek feels strangely accomplished. Jimmy and Wendy are up in the lightbox, clapping their hands red, and Tweek sends them a crooked little grin just to make sure they understand.
What Craig and him have is theirs and no one else's. If they fight, then they'll learn to find each other in the middle again on their own terms. It's the little moments that keep them going and whole, and when Tweek feels Craig reach for him he opens his hand without hesitation.
A worksheet full of stars and planets and love sits in his pocket, folded neatly into a square. Tweek keeps it like a lucky charm, holds Craig like he's a lifeline, and hopes Craig knows he'll always be there to be both.