A/N:

Welcome to another edition of Craig Tucker is a Mess.

"Thirty-seven nineteen," says the grocery store cashier, some redhead with nails so long they should be legally registered as weapons. She stands at the register, watching Craig from underneath six pounds of purple eyeshadow and spider-like fake eyelashes as he reaches back to grab his wallet from his jeans pocket.

He flips it open to find his rarely-used credit card, making a mental note to pay this off first thing the next time he gets paid from the bookstore. The sooner he can forget this absolute disaster of a grocery trip the better; he doesn't want any reminders of it popping up on his credit card statement a month from now.

It's not like Craig's an idiot or something. He knows what he should have done the second he'd figured out that the reason he was so fucking cold was because he'd just gone out into the middle of Colorado winter half-naked. He knows he should have just turned right around and went back to his room and gotten a shirt, or a hoodie, or Clyde's vampire cloak from last Halloween, or any one of the other articles of clothing that would have done the job.

He knows he shouldn't have just decided to go right ahead and make the trip without a shirt, but for some reason over the last two days his brain keeps malfunctioning at the worst possible times.

Craig holds his credit card over the electronic pinpad, feeling a sudden rush of gratitude for whoever invented the concept of tap-to-pay technology. At least he doesn't have to hand this cashier his credit card and risk her knowing his name. It's bad enough this is the only grocery store within walking distance and he's going to be forever known as The Shirtless Weirdo; having any of the employees here knowing his actual identity would somehow be so much worse.

The machine in front of him gives its high-pitched beep of approval, and Craig feels the familiar sense of relief that he always feels when a purchase goes through; no matter how much money he knows he has, there's always that little part of him that gets anxious when it takes just a little too long for a transaction to process.

"Receipt?" The cashier's bored voice rivals Craig's own perpetually disinterested monotone. She rips the piece of paper off of the tiny printer beside her register and holds it out, one frighteningly over-plucked eyebrow raised.

"I'm good," Craig grunts, grabbing the six plastic bags off of the end of the conveyer belt. His arm muscles already aching from the weight of the groceries, he heads for the door, glancing at the clock above the customer service counter on his way past. Shit. It had taken him way longer than he'd intended to get what he needed. Or, to be more accurate, everything he thought he needed. Clyde hadn't answered his text about milk by the time Craig had gotten to the store, so he'd had to improvise; and, as is quickly becoming apparent, Craig's ability to improvise is absolute trash.

Originally he'd just come to the store for chocolate chip cookies and some kind of milk, that was it. But after standing in front of the dairy cooler for an excruciating eight minutes, eventually making the choice to not make a choice at all and grabbing one carton each of one-percent, two-percent, and skim, Craig had started second-guessing everything else too.

What if Tweek doesn't drink milk? There had been a period of time in tenth grade when, after their biology teacher had told them that milk was, "essentially cow sweat and cow fat in a glass," Clyde had absolutely refused to touch the stuff. Craig still has no idea if that is legitimately true or not, but the fact that he'd heard that information at one point meant that Tweek could have heard the same thing. The only logical solution he could think of when faced with that possibility was to blindly grab four or five other beverages that were not milklike in any way, shape or form.

He glances down at the bags he's struggling to carry, still not sure exactly what kinds of things they contain. He'd spaced out a little bit walking up and down the aisle of cookies, not sure if he should get only chocolate chip ones or if maybe there was a variety of cookie that Tweek would prefer more. Poking out of one of the bags is the edge of a package of mint Oreos, and Craig shudders as the electronic sliding doors whoosh open in front of him. In his professional opinion, mint and chocolate go together about as well as Clyde and tequila.

Craig tenses, bracing himself against the freezing cold as he steps outside. Great. While he'd been inside the grocery store, it seems like Mother Nature had remembered that it was December in Colorado and that December meant snow. Gripping the handles of the plastic bags tightly in his hands, Craig squints against the heavy snowfall assaulting his entire body, and begins trudging back towards the dorm. Halfway there, a particularly strong gust of wind blows past, the chilly air hitting his bare skin like icicles, and Craig's teeth start uncontrollably chattering.

"Hey, moron!"

"Check out the free advertising!"

"Like anybody wants to see that! Kid needs to eat a sandwich!"

Craig doesn't respond to the assholes hollering at him from the car driving past, he just grits his teeth and continues on his way. He's heard worse; of course, that doesn't mean he's entirely unaffected. He'd expected a comment or two (or five) about his current state of undress, because, come on, this whole situation is ridiculous; but these are cracks about what he looks like, not what he isn't currently wearing, and they sting more than he would like to admit.

If he'd had a free hand, he would have flipped them off, but right now all he can think about is getting the hell inside and out of this godforsaken weather. One day when he's rich, the first thing he's going to do is get the fuck out of here and move to a warmer climate where he doesn't have to deal with freezing temperatures and–

"Get some fucking clothes, dumbass!"

"Jesus fuck!" Craig yelps as he's all of a sudden sprayed with a combination of mud and slush from the road, the car full of douchebags speeding away from the curb, tires squealing obnoxiously. He can still hear the laughter echoing in his ears as he yanks open the front door of Hunter Hall and stomps inside, the change in temperature almost immediate. He drops his grocery bags on the floor of the lobby and does his best to clean himself off.

"Fucking assholes," he mutters to himself, Tweek momentarily forgotten. His entire torso and most of his pants are nearly covered in dirt and grime and he shivers in disgust. "Goddammit." He heaves the plastic bags of groceries up again and heads back to his room. Now he's going to have to do laundry again, and go take another shower, and he still has to work today, and if one more thing goes wrong, Craig thinks he just might scream.

"Jesus Christ!"

And cue the screaming.

It's hard for Craig to even be surprised this time, given how the past few days have been, but when he hears Tweek shriek from down the hall, he can't help but glance up at the ceiling with an internal, really?! He sighs, not even having the energy to be nervous, and gets ready for another awkward interaction with the only person he wishes would see him as more than just an awkward, screwed-up, creepy disaster.

"What the hell happened to you?!" Tweek is eyeing Craig warily, but what else is new? Judging by what he'd said to Clyde, he already thinks Craig is a creepy weirdo, so why should he look at him any other way?

Craig sets the grocery bags down in front of the door to his room and crosses his arms over his chest with a sigh. Shrugging, he replies, "Car full of dicks." Some melting snow drips down onto his face and it's only then that he realizes he hadn't put his hat on before he left for the store.

"You almost got run over?!"

Craig uncrosses his arms as he remembers that he should probably get inside to put the milk and anything else he may have bought that requires refrigeration away before. He shoves his hand into his pants pocket for his keys, relieved when he finds them right away; a part of him had been genuinely worried that he'd lost them between locking his door earlier and getting back here now, with his luck.

"No," he says, untangling his various keychains from around the key to his door and stepping forward. Before he can finish his explanation, the laws of Craig Physics choose that moment to come into effect; he brings his right foot down onto his left shoelace, tries to take a step with his left foot, and loses his balance, tripping and falling face-first onto the carpet.

Or, wait. Almost falling face-first onto the carpet. Because for some reason, Tweek throws his arm out, wrapping it around Craig's chest and catching him just in the nick of time. And just like that, Craig's brain is kickstarted back into Nervous Wreck mode.

His heart pounding, he looks down at Tweek's pale arm, even paler against his own skin. Oh, God. What the fuck. How is he supposed to react to this? Tweek is touching him, even though he's covered in disgusting dirt and slush, he's only half-dressed, and Tweek thinks he's a creepy weirdo. Yeah, it had just been to save him from faceplanting on the floor but the fact of the matter is that Tweek is touching him. And judging by how his arm isn't even shaking even though Craig's entire weight is pushing down on it, he's way stronger than he looks.

Craig turns his head as he processes this information that only makes Tweek even more attractive, looking up at him, eyes wide. As soon as they make eye contact, Craig's dream from the night before bursts, unbidden, into his mind again; his cheeks immediately start burning as he remembers the look on Dream Tweek's face, and the feeling of Dream Tweek's hands on his skin–

"Are you all right?" Tweek's voice, less panicky than usual when Craig is involved but still concerned, cuts into his thoughts. Which is probably a good thing because Craig is about ten seconds away from desperately needing a cold shower.

He gulps, straightening up, a sharp pain in his hand drawing his attention to the fact that he's been death-gripping his keys this entire time. "Don't touch me!" he blurts out, not quite what he's meant to say. Fuck. "I mean, I'm dirty." His face reddens even more. "I mean, I don't want you to be dirty." Jesus fucking Christ, get it the fuck together, Tucker. "I, uh, I need a shower. I'll let you in." He jams his key in the lock and turns it, sure that he's going to actually burst into embarrassed flames, and lets out an awkward bark of nervous laughter. "Not in the shower, I mean, I'll let you in my room and you can, you know, do your thing."

"...Okay."

It's impossible to decipher what Tweek is thinking by his tone, but Craig isn't sure he wants to think hard enough to find out. He swings the door open, leans down to pick up his bags, and brings them over to his bed, throwing them onto the mattress. He scoops up the cartons of milk in his arms and brings them over to the mini-fridge. Before putting them inside, he turns to where Tweek is emptying a reusable grocery bag onto the disaster area that is Clyde's unmade bed.

"Uh, so," he says. Tweek looks up, and Craig is once again nearly dumbstruck by how drop-dead fucking gorgeous he is. It's like every time he looks at him, he finds something else to focus on that enhances his hotness. This time, it's the way he looks like a fucking supermodel even under the terrible fluorescent lighting of the dorm room.

"Yeah?" Tweek's eyebrows come together, confusion written across his face.

"Milk," Craig says, looking down at the cartons he's holding.

Tweek blinks once, twice, then a third time. "Yeah…?"

"I got you milk," Craig tries to explain, wondering if he's ever going to remember how to speak properly ever again. "Um, but also, not just milk, I got, um–" He uses his foot to open the door of the mini-fridge and shoves the cartons inside, returning to the bags on his bed to see what else he's spent thirty-seven dollars and nineteen cents on. "–iced tea, and orange juice, and uh, this shit–" He pulls out a plastic bottle of something purple, the label covered in different fruits.

"Oh," Tweek pulls at the hem of his shirt. "Do you, um, have any coffee?"

"Coffee," Craig echoes. Shit. "Uh, no, no coffee. Sorry. But um, I have–" He reaches into another bag. "–cheese." He holds up a brick of marble cheese, not having any recollection of picking that up in the grocery store at all.

Something that might be the ghost of a smile crosses Tweek's lips for a fraction of a second, but it's gone so quickly Craig is ninety-nine percent sure he's imagining things.

"Um, so, yeah," he says, pulling open his dresser drawer and grabbing a handful of clothes, praying it's an outfit of some kind. "You can, you know, check out my bed– what's on my bed, there's like, cookies and shit." He heads for the door. "I'm gonna go take a shower, I'll see you after, uh, if you're still here."

"Unless it takes you four hours to shower, I think I'll still be here," Tweek says, wrinkling his nose at the mess that lays before him.

Craig does that weird nervous laugh again, hating himself the entire time. "Yeah, no, it'll just be a quickie." Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up. "I mean, I'll be quick. Yeah. Okay. Don't, you know, steal shit, or anything." It's supposed to be a joke, but Tweek doesn't laugh, and Craig immediately wants to kill himself. "Not that I think you'd, uh, you know." He clears his throat. "Right. So. I'll be back."

He's just about to leave when Tweek stops him with a, "Craig?"

Craig turns, his heart racing like crazy. "Uh, yeah?"

Tweek cocks his head, his expression completely unreadable. "Don't forget to bring a towel."

"Oh." Craig looks down at the clothing in his arms. "Yeah. That's important." He crosses back over to his dresser, digs around until he finds a clean towel, and leaves the room without another word, cursing himself all the way to the shower.

Back in the dorm room, Tweek shakes his head, a tiny smile on his face as he picks up a box of garbage bags and tears it open.