Chapter Track: Walking on a Dream – Empire of the Sun
"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey – the chickens and ducks are up, so why aren't you?"
I blink the sleep out of my eyes a couple of times, rubbing the dryness away and rousing myself back to reality. My neck is kind of sore, I must have slept funny.
Wait, sleep?
I shoot up into a sitting position, which is unfortunate for Craig, because his head had been resting on near my collarbone, pushing my head into the funny position that put a kink in my neck. Now, he's laying haphazardly on the carpet. His eyes crack open and he groans, clutching his temples. A strip of light streams into Token's closet – it's poorly placed, right across Craig's face. He groans again and rolls to his other side, so he faces me and not the door.
The perpetrator is backlit against the sunlight. I shield my eyes, trying to put this asshole into focus, when they close the closet door behind them and chuckle heartily, like they've made a really funny joke.
Kenny.
What the fuck.
Craig beats me to the punch, "McCormick, what the everloving fuck? Fuck off." Craig apparently is in to much post-party head pain to sound as casual as he usually does. His voice is rough and deeper than it typically sounds, and his question actually sounds questioning. He lifts an exhausted middle finger, and uses his other arm to cover his eyes. Even the small light overhead is too much. I'm inclined to agree.
"Don't be like that," sighs Kenny I'm-impervious-to-hangovers McCormick. He coughs and says, "You uh, might want to pull up your pants, Craig."
Craig growls angrily. He picks up the object nearest to him – my discarded t-shirt, and throws it with a surprising amount of strength. It doesn't do much but hit Kenny in the legs, but Craig appears to have made his point.
Kenny holds up his palms in defense and says, "Alright, alright. Token has coffee downstairs and uh, like aspirin or some shit. But take your time, lovebirds. I'm sure nobody minds."
Craig's hands are clenched into fists so tight that his knuckles go white. He says lowly, "If you do not leave, I am going to fucking end you, Kenny. You are going to die. I seriously fucking hate you." The scary part about this exchange is that Craig sounds dead fucking serious. He's looking up at Kenny with a glare so dangerous that it would make me fucking run for my life if I was ever on the receiving end. I give Kenny a pleading look, hoping that this will have more of an effect. I'm sensing a huge case of morning-after regret in Craig. The intimate details are a bit fuzzy, but there was definitely Craig's penis involved someplace in the mix.
Kenny catches my eye and seems to understand. He's not a total dick, he's just a dick to Craig. Apparently they were cool until some incident in elementary school, involving being shipped off to Peru. I get how that could piss a guy off. When I hung out with Kenny and his usual friends, they always had some stupid scheme in their heads, particularly Cartman. But anyway – after that falling out, Craig and Kenny were probably the most at odds out of the four.
Kenny says, "Whatever. I'm gonna walk home, Tweek, so don't worry about me, okay dude?"
"Kay," I say shortly, my own hangover pumping blood furiously in my brain and ears.
Jesus Christ, fuck parties.
At least I have a bottle of Bailey's waiting for me back at home.
And I did give Craig a blow job.
…I think.
Whatever the case, I didn't walk away empty-handed. And I can go home and coffee this off. I can't believe I fucking fell asleep. That never happens, ever. I guess it really only was for a few hours. I can't be sure how or when I ended up in Token's closet with Craig, but I think that it was pretty late into the night, or early into the morning, depending on how you look at it.
Heh. Closet.
I laugh quietly to myself and drag my body over to my t-shirt, slipping it back over my head. It smells like weed and cigarette smoke and judging by the stain on the front, I must have sloshed alcohol onto myself at some point.
"What are you laughing at," Craig says, apparently having gained enough of his senses back to speak in monotone.
Despite my aching head, I grin, and remark, "When we leave, we're gonna be coming out of the closet." Hahaha.
"You made that joke last night," Craig says pointedly, "and it still isn't funny."
"You just don't have a –ngh – sense of humor," I say back.
"That shirt makes you look like a douchebag," says Craig. He stands and yanks his pants back up onto his hips, buttoning the fly with stiff fingers. He coughs into the crook of his elbow and remarks, "My mouth tastes like fucking shit."
"Ngh – I know. About the shirt part, I mean," I say. I mean, it's a v-neck. If anything would prove Craig's accusations of me being a "hipster shithead" right, it would be wearing a v-neck. With a groan, I pull myself to my feet, by grabbing onto one of the low railings, where Token's shirts are hanging. Craig is sifting through the same rack. I duck down and pick up his gray long-sleeved shirt from the ground. It has a retro Coca-Cola logo on it – and he calls me the hipster shithead.
"Thanks," he mutters when I hand it to him. I'm a little sad to have bare-chested Craig disappear from my life. He's a little hairy, but damn. He could like, pose on the covers of romance novels. Like the kind that my mom reads, where the hero is wearing nothing but like, a kilt and some boots.
Nice. Craig in a kilt…
A sharp pain impales me right through the fucking head. I grunt in pain and hold my face in my hands. Fuck parties, fuck parties, fuck parties…I am never going to do this again. Ever. No matter what I am offered. Fuck.
I'm suddenly aware of a chest in front of my face. Craig smells a bit like stale beer, but he also smells kind of like cologne. Did he actually make an effort last night that I just didn't notice? I would have been way too drunk to notice cologne. Plus, my own smell is pretty fucking rank. I wonder if I could sneak some of Token's deodorant or something. He always smells classy.
"Tweek," says Craig, wrenching me out of my thoughts.
I pull my hands off of my face. Somehow, the manicure that Bebe gave me has managed to remain completely intact. I am thoroughly impressed with myself, though it could just be that she used two top coats this time.
There are shadows under Craig's eyes, but he doesn't look nearly as upset as I thought he might be when we initially woke up half-naked on Token's closet floor. Maybe I mistook his hangover pain for being pissed off at me. He leans his face up, placing his cheek against mine. His stubble is even longer than it usually is. I guess he wasn't kidding when he said he'd look like a lumberjack if he didn't pay attention to his facial hair. His breath is hot and damp against my ear when he speaks, in a quiet voice, "I'm gonna take care of this, okay."
Er – what –
Oh. Oh.
His hand is on the front of my jeans.
I'm not actually accustomed to morning wood – I'm under the impression that typically one has to actually fall asleep to wake up with a morning erection, and I don't do a lot of sleeping.
And when the fuck did Craig get so forward?
These emotions, with the combination of my hangover and Craig's hand unzipping my pants, are enough to cause a total sensory overload. I don't even know if I can form words. I at least attempt to speak, but all that comes out is a weird, needy noise.
"And you made fun of my boxers," He mutters. I glance down – right. My Chinpokomon ball patterned boxers. I can't even remember what Craig's boxers had on them, let alone if I actually made fun of them or not. Making fun of Craig doesn't sound like me, but fuck if I know what I do when I'm drunk.
"Mmm," I manage. No more thinking, Tweek. No more.
Craig is next to my ear again with his beer-tainted morning breath. I discover that I don't so much mind the smell of his morning breath when his hand is around my dick. I moan, kind of loudly, and grip his hair, which is sticking up funny from sleeping on the floor. He says to me, "Tell me what to do, okay."
I mumble, "Don't tell me you don't jerk off. It's like that, except that the dick isn't yours."
"You're an asshole," he says, but he doesn't really sound like he means it. Probably because he's way to focused on the task at hand. And I still can't believe that this is actually fucking happening. How is this happening? Craig Tucker's hand is down my pants, and Christ if it isn't the best thing to happen to me during a morning, like, ever.
Craig moves the waistband of my underwear down, breathing heavily in his concentration. I feel oddly exposed, now. My own nakedness has never bothered me before, but I feel like I should be perfect for Craig. He isn't the nicest person I've ever met, not even remotely, but he's fucking attractive. My body is much less filled out than his. I'm awkward and angular and just short of looking unhealthy.
"Shit, Tweek," he says quietly.
"What?" I nervously swallow when he runs just the tips of his fingers from base to tip of my penis. He's making me melt, like cotton candy in the fucking rain.
He sounds embarrassed when he replies, "It's just that…um, it's kind of…big."
Did I hear that right? I don't think I've ever gotten that feedback from anybody that I've slept with, but then, it's typically not polite conversation to have during sex or fooling around. At least in my experience, the size of a guy's penis is something that you don't remark upon, no matter what. I guess Craig doesn't know that, that there are thoughts that you're supposed to just keep to yourself. But I'm flattered. I'm glad he doesn't know the general rules surrounding sex, I decide.
His touch is hesitant at first. I'm sure he knows that that is a delicate thing that he has his hand wrapped around. But he has me liquefied in his arms in a mere handful of seconds – my head flops forward against his shoulder. I should have warned him about how noisy I am. Even the slightest sensation makes me gasp and moan and cry out.
I think my noisiness is encouraging him. His grip gets tighter as he runs his hand up and down, massaging slightly when he gets the head.
I wrap my arms around him and bury my nose into his neck. I kiss there while his hand pumps up and down, more confidently with each stroke. I nip at his neck. I'm going to give him another hickey. Who gives a shit if it's right next to one that I evidently gave him last night?
I moan his name, "Craig."
This really encourages him. Holy shit. This is the best hand job I've ever gotten. Maybe I'm just all worked up because it's Craig, and his hands are the best hands that I've ever allowed to touch my body. They're slightly calloused, but you can tell that he takes much better care of his hands than I do. I think that the Lubriderm that he keeps in his mom's Nissan might have been his idea. His hands are soft and not at all bony, like mine.
I come all over his hand, and unfortunately, his shirt, too.
We stand there together, panting, with our sweaty foreheads pressed together. We kiss – a short, hard kiss, before he lets go and backs off so can pull my pants back up. As I'm zipping, he asks, "Was that alright." His voice is gruff.
"Ngh – are you kidding? That was awesome!" I made my delight known. Best morning ever. Ever.
He sends me a pleased look. For Craig, I mean. I can mostly tell that he's pleased because of how his eyes look. They're somehow lighter than they usually appear. What he doesn't seem as pleased about his is the mess I made all over him.
I fumble for words and finally squeak out, "Uh, Token has a bathroom, right? Ngh – I can clean that up for you, um. If you want."
"Of course Token has a bathroom, you moron," he says. I flush.
Token, in fact, has his very own bathroom. I suppose that this isn't surprising – he is an only child. And I have my own bathroom at home, too. It's just that I've never seen a bathroom quite as large as the one that I'm standing in now. It's decorated in a heavily masculine style, despite the dark purple walls. His shower and bath tub are separated, and his tub looks more like a full-blown hot tub than a place to bathe. I peer into it, and sure enough, there are little jets lining the walls. Jesus Christ, I wish I had a bath tub this nice. And the shower has a little bench area inside it. Just when I think there's a limit to the luxury in this house, I'm proven wrong.
Behind me, Craig has removed a crimson-colored washcloth from a basket placed between the double sinks at the granite counter. He gets it wet and wipes off his hand, before folding it and using an unsoiled part to take care of the bottom of his shirt.
I draw my attention away from the fancy bath and search for something that will mask my party-scented person. When I open up a mirrored cabinet, I find what I'm looking for – an impressive spread of cologne options. I think that they're all designer. I'm not overly familiar with designer things, but I recognize some of the names – Dolce & Gabbana, Burberry, Gucci. I choose one in a black spray container. Gucci Guilty Intense, or something, and spritz it onto the alcohol stain down the front of my Craig-proclaimed douchebag shirt.
Now I smell like party and classy bastard.
"We should hang out today," Craig suggests.
"Aren't we too hungover?"
"Are you?" he asks.
No, I guess not. I don't think I could ever be too hungover to spend time with Craig. Especially if what we're doing is as fun as what happened in Token's closet. I clear my throat and answer, "Ngh, um, no. But coffee first."
"Like I'd fucking leave here without coffee," he says.
Before we go downstairs, Craig reminds me that I'm not to speak of the events that have transpired. I remind him that I'm not fucking stupid, but also that anybody that's still here probably already knows about us anyway. He says that he doesn't give a shit. Anybody that's knows now has already proven that they won't open their traps, as well they shouldn't.
I think most people will have cleared out of Token's house by now, to nurse their hangovers in solitude. Normally this is what I would have done, too. Craig makes things different. He makes me feel like doing something other than locking myself in my room with my laptop. What makes me happier is that I know I'm doing it, too. Making things different for Craig, I mean. Instead of sitting in his basement and watching indie movies or jogging around in the dark, he's with me.
The few party stragglers that remain are Token, Clyde and Red. She and Token are giving each other the eyes. You know, goo-goo eyes, or something like that. And they're holding hands. I wish I could do that in public with Craig. I understand why we can't, but that doesn't stop me from wishing that we could. The fact the he can even tolerate my gross hands is miracle. I mean, if somebody had hands as disgusting as mine, I sure as fuck wouldn't want to hold hands with them. I guess that's why I get all giddy when he decides that it's okay to slip his fingers into mine.
"Morning," Clyde says to us, raising his mug to eye level, like a toast. His tone of voice holds a hint of suggestion that causes Craig to flip him off.
Red glances between Craig and me with her perfectly arched brows furrowed. When the expected look of realization dawns on her face, and she turns to Token to ask about it, he says softly, glancing at Craig (who is filling two mugs at the most beautiful espresso machine known to man), "Don't ask." She nods.
"I'm glad you decided to come, Tweek," Token says amicably.
I grumble, "I'm not. Not right now."
Token is good-humored though. He chuckles as Craig hands me my coffee. It's kind of nice that he got me my coffee.
"But dude!" exclaims Clyde, "Who knew that you could dance? That thing you did with Kenny man – I mean, I only remember, like, part of it, but it looked really cool! I tried to get Craig to dance once, you know. He dances like an old white dude."
"I am a white dude," Craig says, giving Clyde the finger.
I think Craig has an old soul. I never quite understood what people meant when they would say that so-and-so has an old soul, until I thought about Craig.
Sometimes I think that Craig is a crotchety old man trapped inside a teenage boy's body.
"So am I, but I can dance," argues Clyde.
Token interjects, "Uh, no you can't. Sorry bro."
Craig snorts.
o.o.o.o
Craig and I decide to split for a couple hours and regroup at his house after we've showered and made ourselves decent. When we left Token's, we realized that the spot on his shirt dried kind of awkwardly. That wasn't the only immediate problem. I still reeked like I'd been swimming in a pit of disgusting teenagers and a sea of alcohol, which essentially, is exactly what happened. Thus, we take the time to pretty ourselves up. Okay, more accurately, we were getting ourselves back to normal.
This is why, at almost two in the afternoon, I am standing on Craig's doorstep. My hair is still damp, which, with the biting January breeze, makes me cold. At least I had the presence of mind past my hangover to slip on my winter coat. Kenny makes fun of it sometimes. It's a pea coat that my mom bought me, and it's all wooly and soft and expensive looking.
Ruby gets to the door before Craig. Karen McCormick is with her. Both girls are wearing pajamas still, and they don't look hungover at all. I didn't realize that it was possible that there were fourteen-year-olds in South Park that didn't want to get plastered on New Year's Eve. Even though I tend to spend my New Year's alone, I did snag a little something for myself out of my parents' liquor cabinet.
"What are you doing here?" Ruby asks smugly. I wonder if she got the chance to see the state that Craig was in before he cleaned himself up.
Even if she missed the stain on his shirt, you couldn't wipe the smugness off of his face. After he'd made me come, that smugness was firmly planted on his face, and didn't show signs of leaving. And as full of himself as Craig projects himself to be, I don't think he's terribly arrogant in reality. "Smug bastard" is a term I would typically apply to Kenny, but it certainly applied to Craig this morning.
"Leave him alone, Ruby," Craig appears. He looks good. But I always think he looks good, so maybe my opinion shouldn't count. His hair is damp like mine (which I suppose is the reason that he has forgone his hat), and instead of dressing in actual clothing, he's opted for a ratty-looking t-shirt that says "Take One Film Camp, Summer '03" (in comic sans. How can he wear that with dignity?) and a pair of pajama pants printed with the Red Racer logo.
Ruby backs off with Karen, but glances over her shoulder at me, knowingly, in an extremely creepy way.
"She scares me," I say to Craig, as soon as she and Karen are out of sight.
He mutters, "Me too."
I rock back and forth on my feet and ask, "So, what do you wanna do?" Please don't say movies. I'm too hungover for movies.
Craig looks down and bites his bottom lip. He shuffles his feet for a second and then says, "I want to film you."
My thoughts go instantly to sex.
"What?" I manage to squeak out. I mean, not that I would actually mind. But he's definitely a virgin and it seems more than forward to ask to film us doing the nasty. It's downright audacious. What the fuck is he –
"Not like that, you perverted asshole," he snaps. I grin at this. Not because of his words, but because he's blushing again, and I love making him flustered. He grinds out, "I wanted to like…film you making coffee, or something. Something that you like to do."
"Ngh – why?" I ask, because that sounds kind of boring to me. But coffee and Craig are involved, so I guess it can't be entirely awful.
Craig shrugs.
"Okay, I guess," I say.
He leads me to his kitchen. It's a pretty nice kitchen, though it does scream all-American nuclear family to me. The Tuckers seem like the kind of family that I think my mom wishes we were sometimes. You know, normal. Craig shows me were all his coffee paraphernalia is and disappears.
When he returns, I'm holding a red plastic canister in my hand. I cast him a really look and say, "Fucking Folgers? I thought you had taste."
I look up. I recognize his video camera from where it sat in the center of his room. Craig already has it opened up and the light on the side is blinking green. He's already filming. I turn red.
"Just make it, dickhead," he says.
I don't even bother saying anything to this, I just listen. His coffee machine is at least seven years old, and kind of sketchy looking. I don't know how I would function if my family worked the way his does – spend money on expensive leather furniture, sacrifice coffee maker. I cannot, I legitimately cannot follow that logic. It baffles me.
"What's your favorite movie?" I find myself asking him, as I put the pre-ground (What even is this shit, seriously?) coffee into a filter, and then into his coffee maker.
Craig goes silent for a minute, the thinking kind of silent. Eventually, he answers petulantly "I have a lot of favorite movies," in the same kind of voice one would use if you asked them to apologize for something that they didn't feel sorry about.
"Then choose one," I say. I pull out one of the chairs at his kitchen table and lounge, slouching into the comfy cushion that the Tuckers sacrificed good coffee for.
Craig looks really irritated that I've told him to choose a single movie that he likes. But after more silent consideration, he tells me, "I guess. I dunno. I really liked Moulin Rouge."
I stare.
"Moulin Rouge?" I repeat.
"Did I stutter," he says dully.
"Ngh – it's just an interesting choice, is all," I respond, "I was like, expecting Saving Private Ryan or I dunno, something that I've never even heard of."
"Saving Private Ryan is good too," he agrees. He pauses, and adds, "And I liked Princess Mononoke."
Craig sits down in the chair opposite mine, still holding his camcorder so that it captures my face. He moves it, though, when the shitty coffee maker beeps shrilly and I rise to pour us god-awful Folgers. The Tuckers' taste in mugs is not nearly as refined as their taste in furniture. It looks to me that all of the mugs are souvenir mugs from roadside gift shops, or presents that your grandmother gets you. Like, the Tuckers own an inordinate amount of extremely unattractive Christmas mugs. But, for some reason, I find this endearing, and so I choose the two ugliest Christmas mugs of the bunch. The first is bordered with Christmas lights and has reindeer on it, hitched together by the same Christmas lights. The second has dancing teddy bears in elf costumes, all of which have the eyes of murderers.
Which is why I give the murderer-elf-bear mug to Craig instead of drinking out of it myself.
"I watched all of those movies," Craig tells me, when I take my seat again, "the Miyazaki ones. I liked them."
I smile toothily at him. He doesn't have the camera focused on my face any more, I realize. He has it focused on my hands. My smile drops down into a frown and I demand, "What are you doing? My hands are gross!" I slap the camera away.
He scowls and says, "Hey, watch the fucking camera, dickbag." He messes with it for a moment and then turns it toward my hands again. He's still irritated about me hitting his camcorder, I can tell, but when he speaks, he doesn't sound annoyed at all. He says, "Your hands aren't gross. They're beautiful."
"I – um, what?" I look down at the offending appendages. My hands are most decidedly not beautiful. Even with Bebe's teal nail polish coating my short, square, nails, my hands are this disgusting purple-red color, and covered in scabs and Band-Aids. Most of one of the scabs on the back of my hand is missing because I was picking at it during the walk over here, and it's trickling a little bit of blood. My hands are shaking, now, too. It's like my hands know that there's a camera turned on them, and they're scared.
Craig doesn't answer me. He asks instead, "Why do you like me."
Why don't I like Craig is the better question.
"I'm boring," he says.
"Ngh – no, you're not," I respond.
He stares at me with his unsettlingly dark eyes, like he's waiting for me to justify what I've just said.
So, naturally, I do. I tick off the things I think are great about Craig, "You're totally weird. You like good movies, and you watch them with me even if I can't sit still. You act like a total douchebag, but I know you're not a douchebag because you love your guinea pigs. You like weird music, but even if it's weird, it's good. You have soft hair. You know when coffee is total shit. You're just as much of a creeper as I am, I know so, because you jog past my work and my house at night. And –"
"I get it, I get it," he says. I think maybe he's irritated that I called him weird and a douchebag and creeper, but I like those things about him. I feel like nice people always want something from you.
"You didn't let me finish!" I exclaim, "I was gonna say that – that you look really good when you're naked."
Okay, that wasn't what I meant to say. I meant to say something more like, I find you extremely attractive. I like your creepy eyes even though they scare me when you're mad. I like your chest and your hair and your perfect hands.
But it still holds true.
Craig rubs his forehead and mutters, "Fuck."
"S-sorry," I stammer.
But then Craig says, "You look good naked, too."
o.o.o.o
OKAY. SO. I wrote this chapter pretty quickly, because I decided to type it on my computer instead of handwriting and then typing it up, so if you guys have any suggestions for what would make this chapter better, I am all ears.
Anyway, thank you to those beautiful human beings that I call my lovers -er, I mean - reviewers: NightmareMyLove, ObanesHarvest, Reverse Psychology, zimgr2, Mallory, animegafan123, MariePierre, PWN3D, blobblab, KirstenTheDestroyer, and TheAwesome15.
And guys. I am going to shamelessly advertise some beautiful Creek here, okay? Okay. My dear friend glow vomit has this super amazing Creek fic called The Hedgehog's Dilemma. And it's awesome. Okay. It's awesome. So everybody go read it right now. Now. NOW.