A/N:
Oh, Craig Tucker...

Despite not getting to sleep until somewhere around 3 AM, Craig wakes up at precisely 8:13 in the morning. He lays there with one leg hanging off the side of his bed, toes nearly touching the floor, and his heart beating much too quickly. His hair and pillowcase are both absolutely drenched with sweat, and his entire body feels like it's on fire; but as he blinks against the dazzling beam of sunlight shining through the blinds on the window, he can't help but shiver. That...had been some fucking dream.

He closes his eyes again, trying to sink further enough into his mattress that he can trick his brain into thinking he's still sleeping. If he can just keep his breathing steady, and not move at all, maybe he can just fall right back into it. Like his whole dreaming system is just on pause and he'll be able to just pick up right where he left off.

Or where he'd left off. Craig lets out a small groan, shifting ever so slightly in the bed as he visualizes Tweek hovering above him, close enough that his tangled blonde hair is just barely brushing across Craig's chest. Unlike the Tweek he'd met yesterday, there's no anxiety in this Tweek's eyes. There's only confidence, desire, and, when Craig imagines a smirk playing on the blonde's lips as his head moves lower down Craig's body, just a hint of mischief.

"Fuck," Craig mumbles, one of his hands slipping underneath the fluffy white comforter laying across his body. His tone is almost whiny, like he's pleading with his mind to just fucking give him this one, to bring dream world Tweek back for - "Mmmf," - God, just for three fucking minutes...

His breathing quickens, hitching in his throat as he pushes some damp hair off of his sweaty forehead. He shifts his body slightly on the bed to get a better grip on the situation at hand, his vision of Tweek so real it's almost as if Craig isn't lost in a dream world at all; but that he's simply wandered into an alternate universe and managed to, somehow, score the most perfect guy in fucking existence. Another low moan forces its way out of his mouth. He can practically feel it as the Tweek in his imagination runs his fingers teasingly along Craig's ribcage before leaning down to–

"Red Red Racer, he races 'round the world! Red Red Racer, with his trusty sidekick Earl!"

Craig jerks his arm back up and out of the blankets so quickly he ends up punching himself right in the face with all of his strength. He groans in pain and frustration, rubbing his now-aching cheek. Jesus fucking Christ on a motherfucking cracker, that's all he needs, is to have half of his face covered in a giant ugly bruise. Like he isn't already hopelessly unattractive as it is. Goddammit, why the fuck hadn't he remembered to put his phone on silent last night?

Realistically, he knows why, and it's a very simple explanation: utter exhaustion. By the time he'd managed to make it to the shower, switched his laundry over – making sure to be fully-clothed in the laundry room this time just in case – and gotten his bedding out of the dryer, it had been almost two in the morning. And then of course, because this was the way Craig's life worked, he hadn't been able to get to sleep right away, because his mind was too busy fantasizing about Tweek to let him relax. So he'd been up for another hour on his laptop, traumatizing his Google search history with various combinations of words including but not limited to, 'blonde hot guy green eyes crazy hair'.

Naturally, by the time he'd sifted through thirty-six pages of all things terrible and cringey, and finally found a halfway decent video to watch, every part of him was suddenly too tired to get anything done. So he'd just lain there, listening to the audio as his eyes drifted closed, wondering if Tweek would sound anything like that; and trying to drown out the little voice in the back of his head that was listing off all of the reasons why he would never get the opportunity to find out the answer.

And then the dream. Fuck, the dream...

His phone starts bellowing the Red Racer theme song at him again and Craig presses the heels of both his hands into his eyes with a heavy sigh. Grabbing the stupid device that he's growing to really despise, he hits the button to silence it with a low growl. That dream had been the best one he can recall in recent history, and not just because making out with Dream Tweek was the most action Craig had seen in years. Everything about it had just been so perfect, enough that if it existed in the waking world as a video he could get his hands on, Craig would actually be willing to shell out cash to pay for it.

Even though he'd been rudely awakened by his own Judas of a body before any of the really good stuff had happened.

He scoots backwards on the mattress until he's gotten himself into a sitting position, his back pressed against his headboard, and glares down at his phone. And whoever it was that had the fucking audacity to interrupt his attempt at continuing things with his dream guy this morning was about to get an earful. Or an eyeful, technically. Whatever.

He swipes down to see two new notifications, one text message and one email, both from Clyde. What the fuck Clyde is doing awake at eight o'clock in the morning on winter break is anyone's guess. Craig narrows his eyes and taps on the text notification first, his thumb ready to double tap his keyboard so he can send a stream of capital letters to Clyde's stupid iPhone. But when he reads the message he pauses, confused and just a little bit offended by Clyde's question.

Hahah dude what the hell is wrong with you?

What the fuck are you talking about? he types back. It's not the first time Craig has received a message from Clyde he doesn't immediately understand, and in fact, it's not the first time he's received this exact message in particular from him. But usually he's at least got some context to go on, usually there had been some prior incident that had been the catalyst for the question needing to be asked. In this case, Craig has to do something he hates doing: actually ask for the context. Every time he has to do this it makes him uneasy, because it means he doesn't know what's going on, and in his experience with Clyde, it's really, really bad to not know what's going on.

He swipes back down on his phone's screen, opening the email Clyde had sent, expecting another dumbass chain letter featuring adorable puppies sleeping in baskets full of daffodils that will be slaughtered to death by the ghost of the One-Eyed Devil Dollface Child if you don't send this to 10 friends by midnight!1!11111!1 Instead, he finds the context to Clyde's text message, and he immediately physically recoils, smacking the back of his head against the wall.

It's a forwarded message all right, but not a chain letter. It's an email from Tweek, sent last night at 11:57 PM. His head throbbing – and not the one that should be – Craig's eyes skim over the typed words and his heart sinks, his stomach churning with embarrassment.

Clyde what the fuck!? Why didn't you tell me your roommate's such a weirdo! Who the hell walks around the dorm naked1! And your desk is so gross man what the hell, how do you live like that?! I handed our project in though, you're so lucky I got it in time, don't be such a dick and ditch before we hand in our shit next time!

Above that is Clyde's contribution to the message string, six crying-laughing emojis. Craig drops his phone beside him onto his bed and pulls his knees up to his chest. Well, shit. That was exactly what he wanted Tweek to think of him, that he was just some kind of dumbfuck freak loser who hangs out naked in the fucking public dorm laundry room. That was just the kind of reputation he needed.

For the first time Craig can remember, and very likely for the first time ever, Clyde responds to his message within forty-five seconds. The quick answer only makes Craig feel worse, because clearly Clyde had been sitting there staring at his phone waiting for Craig to continue the conversation – something Craig can guarantee, even without reading the message, he doesn't want to do.

Come on dude, I'm gone for a day and you're already getting naked in the dorm? Who is he? ;)

Yep, Craig has zero interest in talking to Clyde anymore today. Or, more accurately, he tells himself he has zero interest in talking to Clyde. Because the infuriating twist of this entire situation is that out of the two of them, Clyde is the one who has a halfway decent relationship with Tweek, them being final project partners and apparently comfortable enough with each other to email back and forth.

Craig stares down at his phone, having a serious debate with himself about his next course of action. He could ignore Clyde entirely, set his phone on silent, and go the fuck back to sleep. He could respond to Clyde with a single middle finger emoji, set his phone on silent, and go the fuck back to sleep. He could stick to his original plan and bitch Clyde the fuck out for waking him up after only five hours of sleep – a lie, technically, but it's not like Craig is going to tell Clyde about the dream – and then set his phone on silent and go the fuck back to sleep. Craig opens his mouth wide, his jaw practically unhinging like a snake's as he yawns loudly. All of the best plans end with him going the fuck back to sleep, and he's not inclined to settle for anything less than the best; but there's some nagging thought in his brain that's telling him he's forgotten about something.

He scrunches up his face, searching his memories for what the hell he could possibly have forgotten. He'd definitely remembered to lock the bookstore last night, he knows, because he'd dropped his keys twice in the process and Craig has a remarkable knack for retaining embarrassing memories like nobody's business. He doesn't work again until later, at somewhere around two o'clock, give or take fifteen minutes, so that's not it. He'd cleaned up after the Fettuccine Apocalypse last night, so it's also not that he's got some giant mess lurking around the room that he needs to–

Oh. Shit.

A split-second before Craig's phone vibrates in his hand, the cheery theme song of the greatest show of all time filling the room yet again, he remembers.

"Can I clean it?"

Slowly, he swivels his head to the right, to Clyde's side of the room. Tweek's face appears in his mind, the Tweek from last night, staring at the disaster zone that Clyde lived in like all of the trash was going to combine together to form a Frankenstein-like monster intent on devouring him.

Craig sighs softly. He'd love to devour–

His phone buzzes again and Craig wishes he still owned a flip phone so he could just snap the goddamn thing in half. He really doesn't want to talk to Clyde right now, but if Tweek is coming over to clean later, he feels like maybe he should ask Clyde about him a little. Not in a weird way, just so he can have a little background information on him so maybe he doesn't make a complete fucking ass out of himself for a third time. Like maybe Clyde will know what kind of milk Tweek prefers to drink, so Craig won't look like a moron offering him two-percent for his chocolate chip cookies when Tweek only drinks one-percent.

Fuck. He should go get some cookies. And probably some milk, since he's pretty sure the milk in their mini fridge expired three days ago. Cookies are an appropriate things to offer a guest, right? Craig grinds his teeth together and runs a hand through his hair, groaning. This is exactly why he doesn't socialize. He has no idea what the fuck you do when you have someone coming over.

He, Clyde, Token, and Jimmy have been friends forever so whenever they went to each other's houses it was always different, it was never stressful like this. Tweek is new; the only things Craig knows about him are that he hates messy things and he and Clyde were partners on a project in some class.

...And that he thinks Craig is a creepy weirdo.

"Goddammit," Craig mutters. While he was having his mini emotional crisis, his phone had auto-locked; he swipes on the screen and types in his password, mentally running through a list of things he needs to ask Clyde about Tweek and trying to figure out the least creepy, weird way to ask them, while also sounding like he couldn't care less about the answers. If Clyde catches on to the fact that Craig thinks Tweek is attractive, he'll never hear the end of it. They'll be ninety-five, playing Canasta at Shady Acres, and Clyde will still be hounding him about, "Remember when you had a crush on my Whatever-the-fuck-class final project partner?" Craig shudders at the thought.

And then immediately feels like he's going to throw up when he sees that it's not Clyde who's sent him those two messages at all.

I'm on my way to the store for cleaning stuff now, is it okay if I come

In about a half hour?

The way the messages have gotten split up in their journey from Tweek's phone to his send Craig's mind to very, very bad places. For about three point six seconds, he remains entirely still, and then it's as if someone flips a switch. He scrambles to get himself up and off the bed, dropping his phone on the floor in the process. He then immediately trips on his comforter in his attempt to lean down to retrieve it, loses his balance, and faceplants onto the carpet. His brain automatically logging this moment into the Embarrassing Shit About Craig Tucker file, he picks himself up off the floor and grabs his jeans from yesterday, taking a second to double-check that his wallet and keys are still in the back pockets. All he can think about is Tweek, the fact that Tweek is going to be in his dorm room in half an hour, and how he needs to get his ass down to the grocery store across the street and get some fucking milk and cookies.

He's already out the door and walking down the sidewalk before he realizes he's completely spaced on putting on a shirt.