One
There are times when he is alone where Craig feels as though he is lost at sea, facing up against giant rogue waves, shipless, trapped in enemy territory. And maybe he's been playing far too much Assassin's Creed lately, but that's the best he can come up with for now. Or maybe to put it more simply - he gets overwhelmed.
In these moments, he latches on to Tweek like he's the only thing that matters and most of the time that's how he feels.
Tweek's hands are always cold. It doesn't make much sense. The long, slender, bandaged fingers seem to always be wrapped around a cup of coffee, so they should be warm, but they always maintain the same coolness as if he'd just shoved his hands in the fridge for a while. Craig doesn't mind.
Craig likes to watch Tweek play video games, all that nervous energy poured into this one thing and he's so focused on the screen, on the mission. Tweek doesn't move when Craig leans over to press a soft kiss to his messy hair, reaching to comb his fingers through it, gently, reverently. Sometimes Craig will braid a lock of Tweek's hair because he knows he likes the texture of it. The pattern and routine of the act is one that Craig gets comfort from.
Craig falls asleep on the floor to the quiet sound of metal on metal coming through the television speakers and Tweek muttering little rants every so often.
He dreams of falling upwards, flying, floating. He dreams of space and far away cold stars, beautiful and unattainable. He reaches for them but pulls back, somewhat reluctantly. He doesn't want to mar their perfection, to ruin them.
He awakes hours later and he feels strange in his own skin. It takes him a while to remember where he is, who he is. He lies on the carpeted floor, blinking like his eyelids weigh a ton, waiting for everything to come back into focus. When it finally does, he notices that nothing's seemed to change. Tweek is still in the same position on the floor, illuminated in the dark room by the soft glow of the tv's light, unmoving except for his fingers and Craig marvels at how they seem elegant even now, though he is only pushing buttons.
He yawns widely, and mumbles a sorry when his jaw makes a cracking noise, he knows Tweek doesn't like the sound.
Tweek's voice is raspy (and deeper than usual - Craig loves it this way, it reminds him of the coffee Tweek is so fond of) as he says a quick "It's okay."
Craig sits up and scoots closer to Tweek, wrapping the blanket, green and soft, around himself so just his face shows. The blanket smells faintly of laundry detergent with a lingering undercurrent of coffee. He finds the scent soothing.
"Thanks." He says quietly, it's not exactly what he wanted to say just now, but he can't bring himself to say the other thing. He's said it before of course, but sometimes it's harder to say. "For the blanket." He adds after a moment.
Tweek pauses the game and looks his way.
Craig holds his breath, waiting.
"You're welcome." Tweek finally says, eyes soft and warm. He doesn't look away, just keeps his eyes trained on Craig, unwavering.
Craig breathes. He pokes a hand out from the warmth of the blanket cocoon, reaching for Tweek's wrist. For a moment he starts to pull his hand back, thoughts of cold stars flashing through his mind. (reaching out to touch, they become marred and stained with sin, he knows he is only fit to ruin.) He stops and shakes his head, minutely. Bad thoughts, bad thoughts. He runs a finger along the coffee bean bracelet he'd bought for Tweek's birthday.
He traces words onto the pale (and unmarked, unlike Craig's own) skin of Tweek's wrist.
'I love you.'
Two
"Craig..."
"Yeah, Tweek?" Craig says, distantly.
"...Why do you keep killing that jaguar over and over?"
Craig shrugs, kills the jaguar again. "I like the routine."
Notes: I was on an Assassin's Creed playing binge so this is what happened. Review, if you want.