A/N: It continues...
Clyde doesn't text back until Craig's already gotten back to the dorm, showered, and reheated his pasta in their tiny microwave. He's just settled onto his bed with his bowl of fettuccine beside him and his laptop resting on his legs when the Red Racer theme song blasts from his phone, vibrating like crazy on the nightstand.
Caught off guard, Craig's left arm jerks to the side, knocking his fork out of the bowl and sending a few noodles flying all over his bedspread and his own clothes. "Fuck," he mutters, carefully moving his laptop to a noodle-free space and swinging his legs off the bed. He glares at his phone for a second before deciding whoever the hell is texting him at almost ten thirty at night can fucking wait.
He crosses the small dorm room space to grab some paper towels from underneath his desk. Returning to his bed, he uses one piece of paper towel to meticulously pick up the pieces of pasta, dropping them onto the other sheet he's holding in his other hand. Leaning over his laptop and bowl of food, he stretches his arm out to reach a noodle that had somehow hit the wall hard enough to stick like a magnet.
Over on the nightstand, his phone goes off again, startling him for something like the sixth time that evening alone. Craig jumps, managing to simultaneously throw his noodle-covered paper towel into the air and knock the rest of his fettuccine alfredo all over his bed.
"Goddammit!" His shout echoes through the room. He crumples up both of the paper towels in his hands and pushes his laptop further out of the disaster zone, pausing for a second just to flip off the entire fucking situation. Now he has to go and fucking do his laundry in practically the middle of the fucking night, which is exactly what he wanted to do after a day like the one he'd had.
Snatching up his phone, he barely takes the time to read the screen telling him he has two new unread messages before navigating to his open conversation with Clyde.
Oh shit, Clyde's message reads. I totally spaced, can you give him my half?
For fuck's sake. Craig rolls his eyes so hard he's pretty sure he can see the inside of his skull, and types back, It's your fuckin project, why should I?
He stares down at the screen as the message status changes from 'sending' to 'delivered', willing Clyde to answer right away for once. He really doesn't want to have to dig through Clyde's black hole of a desk to try to figure out what the hell his half of the project is. He doesn't even know what class it's for, and absolutely nothing in him has any desire to find out; with a glance over at the desk in question, covered in papers, empty Rockstar cans, and what looks like a few half-eaten pieces of Twizzler, Craig shudders.
Returning his attention to his phone, he notices the little message icon in the top corner of his screen and frowns. Who else would be texting him this late? He backs out of the conversation with Clyde and immediately feels his face heat up when he sees the answer to his question.
Did you hear from Clyde yet?
Craig can practically hear Tweek's voice demanding a response, and if he closes his eyes, he can perfectly picture him standing there in the dorm room. Glaring at him with those unbelievable green eyes, one hand on those droolworthy hips, the other coming dangerously close to ripping out some of that gorgeous hair. How this guy had been on campus all semester without Craig knowing about it he had no idea.
He types out, Yeah, he said, before deleting the message and instinctively looking around his room, like suddenly there's going to be a whole crowd of people watching over his shoulder, waiting for him to make an idiot out of himself. Like blushing over a fucking text message that wasn't even about anything to be blushing about didn't already make him an idiot.
"Fucking Goddammit," he hisses under his breath, barely audible over the sound of his heart pounding in his chest, much faster than it should under the circumstances. What the fuck is his problem? He doesn't do this, he doesn't get this flustered over other people, it's just not the type of person he is. Clyde's the one who can't handle his emotions, not Craig.
He grips his phone tighter in his left hand. "Get a fuckin' grip, Tucker," he tells himself harshly. "Jesus- Christ!" he yelps, dropping the phone as it goes off again, accidentally kicking it underneath his bed when he tries to catch it with his foot.
With a frustrated sigh, he drops to his knees and (absolutely not thinking about what it would be like to be on his knees in front of Tweek) swipes his arm under the bed frame; groaning when it becomes apparent that he's going to actually have to move his mattress to retrieve his phone, Craig straightens up and kicks at the edge of the bed with his heel. Fucking Christ. Literally all he'd wanted to do today was write his last final, do his shift at the bookstore, and come home to leftover fettuccine and the first episode of the Red Racer reboot.
Instead, he'd woken up late for his English final and had to race through three different buildings at eight thirty in the morning to make it on time, barely having two minutes to shove a cheap campus cafe muffin into his mouth for breakfast. It had been the driest fucking muffin ever, too, because of course it was, and of course he'd left his water bottle on his desk before flying out the door, so he'd had nothing to wash it down with.
Craig glares at said water bottle now, sitting innocently on the corner of his desk. He'd been so distracted by thirst that he's pretty sure he'd completely fucking bombed the final – but seriously, who schedules a fucking essay-based final for that early on the fucking Friday before Christmas break?
He'd been late for his shift too, but that hadn't been his fault, Craig will argue that until the end of eternity if he has to. It's not like he'd wanted to get dragged into that goddamn flash mob in the main building. In fact, as soon as he'd figured out what was happening, he'd immediately tried to backtrack and get the hell out of there and find a different route to get to work, because no fucking thank you, but those fucking theater kids…
Craig cringes and shakes both of his hands in front of him, as if trying to physically shake off the memories. He would have loved to punch each and every one of those dumbfucks in the face, but he had made a vow at the start of the year that he was going to make a real effort to be less violent in college than he had been in high school. Some days – like today – were harder than others, but he'd managed to get through a whole semester without getting into a fight.
He grabs his laptop and now-empty bowl off of the bed and moves them over to his desk, where he tears another few sheets of paper towel from the roll. Muttering curses under his breath, he scoops up the biggest pile of fettuccine and drops it into the trash can beside the bed. It takes him a good ten minutes to clean up his blankets enough that he's not worried about breaking the dorm's washer and dryer – a valid concern ever since they'd discovered how shitty the appliances were after Clyde had gotten every pair of jeans he owned stuck inside the washer in September.
By the time he's ripped the bedspread (and sheets, because he might as well wash everything) off the mattress and grabbed his Ziploc bag of quarters and laundry detergent, his phone has gone off three more times. All of them had been text notifications, thankfully, so Craig's less concerned about the urgency of the messages than he would be had there been an actual phone call; still, it's more messages in such a short space of time than he's used to, and he's anxious to get his phone back to see what is going on.
(And, maybe, he's just a little bit excited at the idea of Tweek sending him more messages.)
Before he can go digging around under his mattress, though, he knows he has to get his blankets and shit into the washer or else he'll never do it tonight and he is not going to sleep on pasta-covered sheets again. Once in his life had definitely been more than enough.
Balancing his mountain of blankets in one arm as best he can, Craig fumbles around for the doorknob, nearly dropping his bag of quarters and Tide pods as he pulls the dorm room's door open. "Ugh," he grunts, letting it fall shut behind him with a loud bang. He pauses there in the hallway as he tries to figure out the best way to adjust what he's carrying so there's minimal risk of it all falling to the ground the second he starts walking. For a second he wishes Clyde was still around to help him, but then he remembers that none of this would have happened in the first place if Clyde hadn't fucked off back home a day early.
Deciding the safest course of action is just to get to the laundry room as slowly as possible, Craig starts shuffling down the hallway, grateful for both the fact that the laundry room is on the same floor as his and Clyde's room and that he isn't wearing his shoes, because if he had to navigate his way there with those things on, he's sure he would have fallen on his face at least twice already. (Craig has a terrible habit of only tying his shoes the first couple of times he wears them; after that, if the laces come undone, it's up to fate to determine if he makes it through the day unscathed.)
Once he turns the corner at the end of the hall and reaches the dorm's laundry room, he drops the blankets and Ziploc bag in a heap onto the floor. Sighing, he rakes both hands through his hair, cringing as he pulls out a fettuccine noodle. Fuck. Perfect. Now he's going to have to go take another shower once he's done here. God, is this day ever going to fucking end?
He slams the lid of the nearest washing machine open and roughly shoves all of his blankets inside it. The only decent thing about these machines is the fact that they are actually big enough to fit most twin-sized sheets and bedspreads. Craig's been to enough laundromats in his lifetime to know that that's not always the case.
He looks down at his clothing, at the alfredo stains all over his black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, and then glances up at the door to the laundry room, chewing on his lower lip as he debates with himself. He's the only one left in the dorm at this point, he knows that; Clyde is somehow friends with every single person in this building and he'd taken inventory of everyone's holiday plans last week. And it's basically eleven o'clock at night, so even the maintenance staff would have all gone home by now.
"Fuck it," he mumbles before pulling his t-shirt over his head and yanking off his pants. He tosses both articles of clothing into the washing machine, then hops on first one foot and then the other to take his socks off and throw them in as well. He adds a couple of Tide pods, sets the wash cycle, and inserts the quarters, grumbling about how fucking ridiculous it is that one load of laundry costs him $1.75.
"Fascists," Craig mutters, not even sure that's the right word but not really giving a fuck if it is or not. He zips his little bag of quarters closed and shivers a little, registering for the first time how cold it is in the dorm now that he's only wearing a pair of Red Racer boxers. A little self-conscious, he sticks his head out into the hallway, doing a quick sweep with his eyes and listening hard for any sign that he's not actually alone.
Hearing nothing, he steps into the hallway, which is somehow at least three degrees colder than the inside of the laundry room had been. He wraps both arms around himself for warmth as he begins the walk back to his room, his eyes on the ratty blue carpeted floor. His mind drifts back to his English final from earlier and he frowns as he starts going over everything he knows he did wrong, trying to calculate out how fucked he is.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
And then his fucking heart stops when he hears that voice, a voice he's positive he's never going to forget. He freezes in place, just a few feet from his dorm room door, and slowly raises his head; his wide gray eyes meet Tweek's equally as wide green ones, both of them holding eye contact for a few seconds too long. He can't make a sound, but a million thoughts are running through Craig's mind, first and foremost being, Shit I'm fucking naked in the fucking hallway what the fuck is he doing here Jesus fucking Christ what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck!?
And then Tweek twitches violently to the right and Craig can finally move again. He closes the distance between himself and his door in point zero two seconds, wrenching it open and making a beeline for his dresser; he throws open a couple of drawers, pulling on the nearest available clothes without giving them so much as a glance beyond making sure that he's putting a shirt over his head and pants on his legs and not the other way around.
He can feel Tweek hovering in the doorway, but he has no idea if he's watching Craig frantically get dressed; there's a part of Craig that really hopes he is, but the rest of him is just praying he's not. How is it possible that after not even knowing this guy, this incredibly hot guy, had even existed for months, he has not one but two awkward encounters with him in one day? What gods did he piss off recently?
Once he's got himself halfway decent, Craig runs a hand through his hair casually – he hopes – and clears his throat, like what had just happened hadn't just happened at all. "Hey," he says, his natural monotone saving the day once again. He gestures to the other side of the room. "Clyde's not here."
"I know." Tweek gingerly steps into the room, and Craig isn't sure if his hesitation is because Clyde's half of the room looks like a dumpster threw up, or because he's just seen Craig mostly naked. "He emailed me and told me I could come get his half of our project from you."
Goddammit Clyde. "Hold on," Craig says, turning around before realizing that bending down to move his mattress and fish his phone out from underneath is going to put him in an incredibly awkward position. His face flushes a deep red, but before he can think too much about it (and wonder if Tweek is looking) he's heaving the mattress up and leaning over, stretching his arm down to grab his stupid goddamn phone.
Letting the mattress fall, he straightens up and casually turns back around, noticing with just a slight twinge of disappointment that Tweek has his eyes on his own phone. Craig knows he shouldn't really be surprised though; after all, just because he's gay doesn't mean every guy he sees is, even one as unbelievably attractive as Tweek. Honestly, it would be far more likely for Tweek not to be gay, as Craig has ninety-five percent of the time been drawn to straight guys; Clyde's even joked that straight is Craig's type, and as much as it hurts, Craig can't exactly argue. It's happened too many times to be coincidental.
Craig clears his throat, scrolling through all the messages he'd missed earlier.
Clyde: Come on, you don't want me to fail, do you? :))
Clyde: I'll just shoot him an email and tell him to come pick it up, k?
Clyde: It's on top of my desk, thanks bro! Kenny says hi and not to get caught jerking off when Tweek shows up lmao
Tweek: Okay Clyde just emailed me to come to your room, you're in 117 Hunter right?
Tweek: Hello?
Tweek: HELLO?
Tweek: Okay whatever I'm coming I can't fucking fail this class you'd better fucking be there
"Oh," he says, holding up his phone and pointing behind him, forcing his hands not to shake with nervousness through sheer will and determination. "I didn't get your messages until now."
Tweek snorts, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Craig has to fight hard to stop himself from staring. "Obviously."
"Okay, well, Clyde says his shit's on top of his desk so, you know, knock yourself out." Craig waves an arm vaguely in the direction of Clyde's desk. Tweek turns to look, wrinkles his nose in disgust at what he sees, and Craig almost dies.
"How the fuck can you live like this?" Tweek demands, taking a reluctant step closer to the desk. "Doesn't your RA check your rooms?!"
"Sure." Craig shrugs. "Every few weeks. But that's only a week's worth of shit."
"Are you serious?!" Tweek's got his hands in his hair again and Craig actually reaches out slightly to stop him before realizing what he's doing. Thankfully, Tweek doesn't notice, because he's too distraught by Clyde's lack of cleanliness. "And he just left you with this to deal with over Christmas break?!"
"That's Clyde for you," Craig says. "You're his partn– project partner, aren't you? Haven't you noticed by now that he's the most unorganized person ever?"
"Well, yeah, but I didn't think it was this bad!" Tweek stands there for a moment, looking conflicted; Craig counts at least fifteen different instances of twitching – not that he's staring at him – before Tweek speaks again. "Can I clean it?"
"What?" Craig blinks, not sure he's heard Tweek properly.
Tweek takes a deep breath, presumably to calm himself down a bit, before repeating, "Can I clean it? I, um, I really can't stand messy places."
"Oh," Craig says, knowing perfectly well that he would let Tweek duct tape him to the wall if he asked. "Uh, sure, I guess? Right now?"
Tweek shakes his head, blonde hair flying. "No, I need to hand in our project and I don't have any extra cleaning supplies." He peers over the papers and garbage strewn across Clyde's desk and cautiously picks up a stapled pile of pages, shaking off a pile of cookie crumbs before flipping through it. He nods to himself and Craig, deductive reasoning skills at an all-time high, assumes that he's found what he needs. "But I can go pick some up tomorrow morning and come back?"
"I work tomorrow," Craig says, inwardly cringing at the abruptness of his tone. "But," he backtracks. "I mean, not until later in the day, and it's just inventory shit anyway so it's not like it matters if I'm a little late."
"Okay." Tweek starts inching towards the door, brushing invisible crumbs off his clothes with his free hand. "I'll, um, I'll text you?"
"I'll get texted!" Craig wants to take back the words as soon as they're out of his mouth.
"All right, well." Tweek gives Craig a little wave from the hallway. "I'll see you tomorrow then, I guess. Do you want me to…?" he mimes closing the door.
"Oh, no," Craig says without thinking. "I'm taking a shower." He blushes. "I mean, not right now, but I'm going to go get in the shower. And you know, I can't walk through doors or anything. So you can just leave it open."
"...Right." Tweek nods slowly, like what Craig just said hadn't been a whole string of nonsense. "Okay. Tell Clyde thanks."
"Sure." Craig nods. "Absolutely."
After Tweek leaves, Craig waits a few minutes before poking his head out into the hallway to make absolutely sure he's alone again, and then he flops face-first onto his bed. He lets out a muffled yell of, "God-fucking-dammit!" into the mattress, because, seriously, what the fuck is happening to him?