A/N:
:)
Craig has been in the shower for all of two minutes when he remembers that both his shampoo and body wash are still sitting in the bottom shelf of his dresser, where he'd shoved them the night before. This leaves him with the choice of awkwardly getting dressed again, going back to his room, and having to explain himself to Tweek versus using what's left of the old bottle of dollar store citrus-scented shower gel that's been sitting in the dorm bathroom's trash can for who knows how long.
For Craig, right now, the decision is obvious.
He tries not to cringe as he squeezes out a glob of the orangeish-colored gel onto the palm of his hand, immediately chucking the bottle back across the room; it hits the wall right next to the trash can and clatters onto the floor, but there's no way he's touching it again to put it in its proper place. He holds the hand he'd grabbed the bottle with under the stream of nearly-scalding hot water for a few seconds, because super hot water totally kills germs, right? That's what he's always been told, anyway.
Frowning down at the soap in his hand, he does a few quick calculations in his head, and then throws all those calculations out the window and just swipes a finger through the gel. He can wash his hair with shower gel, it's not a big deal, he'll probably have to just come back later and shower again anyway. The way his luck has been recently, he wouldn't be surprised if aliens showed up at the bookstore tonight and dumped a bunch of radioactive alien shit on him.
Craig rubs the shower gel on his finger into his hair with one hand, using what's left in his other hand to scrub halfheartedly at the rest of his body. He doesn't particularly want to smell like old fruit for the rest of the day, but he's only got himself to blame. What the fuck is his problem lately? He's had crushes before. For Christ's sake, he's dated before. Granted, his one and only relationship, if you can call it that, was back in ninth grade and in all honesty was more like a week-long mistake that Craig desperately wanted to forget (and Clyde loved to bring up).
But he's had crushes! And isn't that just what his feelings for Tweek are, a crush? He leans his head forward, letting the water wash over his scalp, cascading down his back, the temperature hot enough to turn his skin red in seconds. He has to admit, a shower after being out in the snow shirtless does feel pretty great; he hadn't quite registered just how freezing cold he was.
Of course, he'd only been outside half-naked in the first place because he'd been distracted by thoughts of Tweek. Craig groans. Like Jesus Christ, he shouldn't be doing stupid shit like forgetting half his clothes and babbling on about fucking milk. What the fuck is it about Tweek that turns him into the world's biggest dumbfuck?
That dream though. Craig pauses in the middle of rinsing out the soap from his hair and leans against the wall of the shower, closing his eyes as the little bits of the dream he can still remember flicker across the backs of his eyelids. He shivers, one hand already working to take care of his slightly bigger than average problem that had been rudely interrupted by his phone ringing this morning.
Maybe it's because of that fucking – "Fuck-" – dream, the dream that he already knows is going to be in his top ten dreams of all time. Maybe it's because seeing Tweek – "Ungh-" – in real life after having that dream about him had just amped up the awkwardness he was already feeling. That makes sense; after all, objectively, Tweek really is insanely attractive. Craig shifts against the shower wall, his heart rate increasing a little as he thinks about that blonde hair, those green eyes, those goddamn fucking hips. He lets out a little whine, the sound swallowed up by the noise of the shower. No wonder he's completely unable to form a coherent sentence around him. It's just not fucking fair to expect him to be able to handle being around someone who looks that fucking good all the time.
And that stupid fucking fantastic dream only made things exponentially worse. It's the dream's fault, not Craig's. Okay. Good. He can work with that. He scrapes a trail of soap off his arm, washing off his hands the best he can as his breathing evens out. Knowing the source of the stupid means he can control the stupid. When he goes back to his room after this shower, he'll be a completely different person.
Maybe even a person that Tweek might like. Not that he knows what kind of person that is. Craig sighs as he turns the water off and stands there dripping in the shower stall for a minute. Clyde would know, but he's still so hesitant about asking Clyde anything about Tweek right now, for a multitude of reasons.
One, because he can already hear the "Ooooooooh," that would be the first thing out of Clyde's mouth, and that sound makes him cringe so hard; for Craig, that particular ooh is about as bad as the sound of nails on a fucking chalkboard.
Two, he knows Clyde really, really well, and he knows exactly how things would play out if he asked him for help or advice.
It's not that he's worried Clyde would fuck things up for him, especially considering Craig is doing a really good job of fucking things up on his own. Clyde, in a twist that has shocked the shit out of Craig on more than one occasion, is actually astonishingly talented at matchmaking. He doesn't have a one-hundred percent success rate – something Craig can personally attest to – because really, who does? But Craig had watched Clyde use his social connections to hook up at least four couples in the last six months alone; that isn't even counting all the times he'd meddled in relationships in high school. There's a reason he'd managed to snag fucking Kenny McCormick of all people – and as much as Craig hated the guy, even he can't argue that Kenny was a highly-sought-after dating prospect until Clyde had some-fucking-how gotten him to commit.
The problem with going to Clyde is that Craig knows without a shred of doubt that before Clyde will do anything to help him, he's going to relentlessly tease the shit out of him. On some level, Craig gets it, it's a best friend – "best bro," as Clyde would say – kind of thing, going all the way back to elementary school. When Clyde had found out in fourth grade that Craig had innocently offered to do Thomas's laundry in exchange for hanging out with him, Craig hadn't heard the end of it for years, and in fact, Clyde will still drop that tidbit of information into conversation to this day. It's just one of the things that comes with being Clyde's best friend.
And it isn't like Craig can claim that he's always been the nicest person in the world to Clyde. He's definitely done more than his fair share of heckling over the years, and his teasing is always a little less teasing and a little more snarky. So he can't exactly get upset with Clyde for doing it, it's just not something he wants to deal with right now if he doesn't have to.
And third, there's always the chance that Clyde would accidentally let something slip to Tweek. Sure, okay, all Craig knows is that they were project partners, and not necessarily friends, but what if they are? What if he went to Clyde, told Clyde that he thought Tweek was incredible and wanted to get with him, only for Clyde to do something stupid and send Tweek a text meant for Craig talking about the whole thing?
Craig shudders, poking his head out of the shower stall to make sure he's alone before carefully pulling the shower curtain back and grabbing his towel. No, fuck, that would be the fucking worst thing. He doesn't think Clyde would do it on purpose, but he's not going to take that chance.
He dries himself off, only rubbing his hair a few times with the towel, just enough so that it's not dripping, and drops the towel on the floor. He picks up the pile of clothing he'd brought with him and his heart drops down to his fucking toes when he sees what it is. Fuck. Fuck, he should have double-checked what it was, he should have known something like this would fucking happen, but he'd totally forgotten that this was even in his dresser.
Knowing he has no options, Craig gets dressed, his movements slow, like he's getting dressed for his own execution and the second he puts this outfit on he's going to be taken out back and shot. Although, actually, that doesn't sound half bad considering the fact that he has to go back to his dorm room and face Tweek wearing this.
Maybe he just shouldn't go back. He did tell Tweek that he has to work today, didn't he? He's pretty sure he'd mentioned that the day before. And Tweek doesn't seem like the type to actually steal shit; his offer to clean the room had clearly been genuine, after all. So Craig feels like he can trust leaving him in the room alone all day while he runs over to the little strip mall and buys some actual wearable clothes.
He scoops up his dirty clothes and towel from the floor and heads over to the bathroom door, doing everything he can to avoid looking at his reflection in any of the six mirrors over the row of sinks. And nobody else is around, since it's Christmas break, so he can just throw these things into one of the washers and come back to wash them later tonight after work.
Craig's just congratulating himself on his own genius, because, seriously, what a perfect plan this is, when a thought strikes him like a bolt of fucking lightning.
Fuck. Keys.
His fucking keys are sitting on his nightstand, along with his phone and his wallet, he realizes, his stomach sinking as it becomes apparent that he really does have no other choice: he must face the long dark of the hallway back to his room. Shit. Fucking...shit.
It takes him an eternity and half to trudge down the hall, or at least, that's what it feels like. He comes to the closed door of his dorm room and pauses, squeezing his eyes shut and silently counting to ten. Get it the fuck together, Tucker, he tells himself. Taking a deep breath, he lifts his hand, reaching out for the doorknob before dropping his arm back to his side. This is fucking ridiculous. People make mistakes, right? Other people had to have made this exact mistake before, Craig can't be the only one who shoves old comic convention cosplay costumes into his dresser drawers along with his regular clothes...right?
He looks down at himself, which is probably the worst thing he could have done under the circumstances, and cringes so hard it physically hurts. This is the absolute last thing he ever wants Tweek to see him in, so of fucking course it's what he's going to walk into that room wearing. Raising his eyes to the ceiling, he shoots a glare up at whatever entity is probably laughing its ass off at him right now, and after a second of thought he adds a middle finger. Fuck you.
Resigning himself to yet another ten minutes of utter humiliation, Craig pushes the door open, making a beeline for his side of the room, like if he walks fast enough Tweek won't see him. He just needs a minute, fuck, just like, thirty seconds to compose himself and shove that dream out of his mind so he can talk to Tweek like a normal human being for once.
"That was–" From behind him, Tweek stops in the middle of his sentence, and Craig knows that it has to be because he's seen his outfit.
He drops his pile of dirty clothes onto the floor and stares down at the bags of groceries on his bed, ready to just fucking give up and crawl back under the covers and hopefully, by some chance, fall into a coma for a week. He's just reaching out to grab the bags and just throw them on the floor too, to give himself some space to die, when Tweek speaks again.
"Red Racer, huh?"
"What?" Stunned enough that he forgets to feel like an idiot for the first time in four hundred years, Craig turns around. Tweek is looking at him with – wait – interest? No, that can't be right. He has to be fucking with him. Craig knows he looks like a fucking moron dressed like this.
Tweek holds out an arm, gesturing to the clothes Craig is wearing. "You're Red Racer. From season…" He bites his lower lip, his face scrunching up in concentration, and Craig actually has to sit down on the edge of his bed before his knees give out. "...three? No," he hurriedly corrects, shaking his head. "Season four, he didn't have the Starforce logo on his shirt until season four."
Craig cannot process what the fuck is going on. Tweek knows Red Racer? Tweek, this Tweek, in front of him, the Tweek with the hair and the eyes and the hips, and Craig's entire heart in the palm of his hand, knows Red Racer?
"Uh," he says, finally registering that it's his turn to say something. "Yuh-huh."
"You must be a pretty big fan." Tweek turns back to Clyde's bed, Craig's eyes following his every movement as he picks up a roll of paper towels and rips off a few sheets. "Or is that just your work uniform?"
"My– oh," Craig catches the joke at the very last second. "Uh, no, my uniform doesn't have a work."
Tweek rummages through his bag of cleaning supplies, pulling out a spray bottle of lemon Pledge. He sprays the paper towel with it, glancing over his shoulder. "What?"
"What?" Craig blinks, running over his last sentence in his head, trying to figure out what was so confusing about– oh, Goddammit. "I mean, uh, I don't have a work uniform. I just wear shit."
Tweek doesn't say anything for a minute, he just goes to work wiping off Clyde's desk, which Craig just now realizes is completely bare.
"So," he says, into the silence, racking his brain for something intelligent to say. "You haven't puked yet?" He feels his face heat up, and he scoots back up onto his bed, pretending to look through the nearest grocery bag for something. Right, Tucker, all the fucking combinations of words that exist in the English language and you go for fucking vomit?
"...no?" Tweek looks up from Clyde's dresser, but Craig is so busy reading the ingredients on the package of mint Oreos that he misses his little half-smile. "My stomach isn't that weak."
Needing to stop himself before he makes a comment about how Tweek's stomach is so amazing it could probably win the Olympics all on its own, Craig bites his tongue so hard it starts bleeding. He winces, clamping his mouth shut, offering only a noncommittal-sounding, "Mm," in response.
"Are you okay?" Tweek cocks his head curiously, tossing his handful of paper towels into his already half-full garbage bag.
"Oreo?" Craig asks instead of answering, holding the package out. "Sorry, they're mint, I know they're the worst fuckin' flavor."
"Oh, um, thanks." Tweek tucks a piece of hair behind his ear as he comes over to take the cookies. "They're actually my favorite, so–"
"Fuck," Craig says, accidentally speaking out loud when he'd meant to only internally berate himself. "I mean, fuck. I mean, Goddammit, I'm, uh, sorry, I just don't like, you know, fuckin' mint mouth."
This time he's looking right at Tweek when he smiles and Jesus fucking Christ, it's like the entire world becomes a million times brighter when it happens. Craig's heart flutters in his chest like a captive butterfly; and an overwhelming feeling of just fucking everything at once washes over him and he suddenly, inexplicably, just wants to cry.
"Mint mouth," Tweek repeats, tearing open the package and taking out an Oreo. "I don't think I've ever heard it called that before."
"Yeah," Craig manages to say, watching Tweek bite into the cookie out of the corner of his eye. "Uh, I heard it somewhere, I guess." Or he's just an idiot, but who's keeping track?
"So how long have you liked Red Racer?" Tweek asks, again looking Craig's outfit up and down.
A shiver runs up Craig's spine as Tweek scans him over, and he's both flattered and terrified at the same time at having garnered Tweek's full attention like this. "Um, ever," he says. "I mean, um, since I was a kid, it's been my favorite show always, forever."
"Oh, yeah," Tweek nods. "Me too. I would always watch it every day after school. Well, when I wasn't working."
"Working? Weren't we like, nine?" Craig pauses, a thought occurring to him for the first time. "Wait, how old are you?"
Tweek swallows his last bite of Oreo. "As old as you, if you're the same age as Clyde," he says. "My parents…" He trails off, his gaze lowering to the carpet for just a second before coming back up to meet Craig's. "I helped out at my parents' coffee shop when I was younger." He takes another cookie out of the package and twists the two halves between his fingers.
"Oh." Craig has no idea what to say to that, but that doesn't matter, because Tweek's speaking again.
"Yeah. So I guess you know about the thing today, then, since you're such a fan?"
"Thing?" Craig blinks. "What thing?"
"The thing the theater kids are doing?" Tweek laughs when Craig shakes his head. His laugh has a musical quality to it that Craig has never heard before and he vows to work extra fucking hard to make Tweek laugh again whenever he fucking can. "There've been posters up about it everywhere. They're doing the first Red Racer movie today."
"Huh? But it's Christmas break."
"I know," Tweek shrugs. "But I guess they do this every year, the first Saturday of the break, as just like, a fun dumb thing? I was thinking about going but–" There's a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, gone so quickly that you'd only notice it if you were really looking, which of course Craig is. "–I'm not really too big on crowds, and I didn't have anyone to go with, so–"
"I'll go," Craig blurts out, immediately blushing, but pushing forward, pointing down at himself. "I mean, uh, I'm already fuckin' dressed for it, I guess."
Tweek looks over at Clyde's half of the room, only about a third of the way cleaned, and then back to Craig. The little half-smile reappears on his face and he nods twice. "Sure. I can always come back and finish cleaning later."
"Yeah, I'll give you my key." Craig cringes. "I mean, so you can lock the door when you're done, not to keep it. You have to give it back. To me. At work. When I'm there."
Another laugh. God, Craig is just so fucking blessed today. When it comes to Tweek laughter that is, not anything else in his life. Everything else in his life is just a fucking mess but he's made Tweek laugh twice, and not at him, so, yeah, blessed. "I promise, I won't keep your key. You might be stuck outside half-dressed for days if I did."
Craig wants to defend himself against that accusation, but realistically, Tweek's probably right.
Tweek sets the package of Oreos down on Craig's bed. "I think it starts in fifteen minutes, we should have just enough time to get there if we leave now."
Craig follows Tweek out into the hallway, having to go back once for his keys, a second time for his phone, and a third for his wallet, because of course he can't remember everything all at once. Finally, they head off to the auditorium, walking in silence, Craig silently praying to all that is good and holy in this world that he doesn't trip and fall on his face on the way there.