A/N:
Did someone say backstory?
Six hours, one extra long shower, and a much less embarrassing clothing choice later, Craig is lying on his back on the floor of the college bookstore, his inventory clipboard balanced precariously on his forehead. Right now he's supposed to be counting the contents of all the plastic containers of single pens and pencils, but he just can't focus on anything but the fact that his life has, in the course of two days, turned into complete fucking shit.
"Not happy to see your ex?"
"Fuck you," Craig mutters to the empty bookstore, throwing up a middle finger for good measure. He hopes that wherever Stan fucking Marsh is now, he can sense the rage vibes directed his way. Actually, what he really hopes is that Stan gets lit the fuck on fire by a thirteen foot tall dragon with an appetite for barbecued douchebag, but some dreams are a little too big, even for a place like South Park.
Tweek's face flashes in Craig's mind and he cringes, the movement causing the clipboard on his head to slide off, hitting the tile floor with a clatter. God, Tweek had looked fucking horrified, and honestly, he couldn't blame him. Now, in addition to thinking Craig is a creepy weirdo, Tweek knows for certain that he is also an absolute idiot who makes the worst fucking decisions. True, he's already accepted the fact that he has no shot with Tweek; but just in case he'd been holding some tiny piece of hope alive, which he hadn't been, this piece of information getting out just confirms it. Stan is the biggest asshole on the goddamn planet; having him on your dating resume is a huge red fucking flag.
The most frustrating thing about it all is that Craig had always known that, ever since they were kids, when the most important thing in life was being the first one to the tetherball court, and the idea of 'dating' just meant holding hands and sitting at the same lunch table. Stan and Wendy Testaburger had been the couple back then, and try as he might, Craig had never been able to figure out why, because Stan treated her terribly. It was like every five minutes, they were broken up and Wendy was all of sudden sitting with him, Token, and Clyde at lunch, crying into Token's shoulder like the world was ending because Stan had dumped her for some reason or another that Craig couldn't care less about. Then three days would go by and there they were out on the playground, happily holding hands again until the cycle would inevitably repeat itself.
Craig didn't know shit about relationships when he was ten years old, and still doesn't at eighteen, if his recent past is any indication. But it doesn't take a relationship genius to be able to figure out that whatever the fuck was going on with Stan and Wendy was the literal definition of the word unhealthy. Craig wouldn't be the least bit surprised if he cracked open a dictionary one day to see a photo of the two of them next to the word.
It wasn't just all the Wendy stuff either, that had made Craig dislike Stan so much. It was just his whole self-righteous attitude in general. He was always walking around like he was the king of the fucking school, getting on his little soapbox of the week with Kyle, telling everyone what to think and how to feel and Craig just couldn't stand it. Stan and the rest of his dumbass friends were always getting caught up in stupid shit and dragging the rest of the town along for the ride through whatever hell they'd unleashed, and he had the goddamn audacity to try to tell Craig how to live his life?
The worst part of everything is that, objectively, Stan Marsh is actually attractive as fuck. There is exactly one person alive who knows that Craig thinks that, and if Clyde were ever to even so much as whisper it to a stranger in line at Taco Bell, well, Kenny would be out a boyfriend and Craig would probably be in jail for murder. That's one secret that he'll take to the grave. Among others.
Not even Stan knows Craig's true feelings on his appearance. Sure, he's probably guessed that Craig doesn't find him entirely repulsive, all things considered. But he doesn't know that Craig has always thought that his hair was better, even after being underneath that ratty old red poofball hat all day. He has no idea that Craig's always been jealous of his eyes, and that Craig would have killed to have blue eyes like that instead of his boring as fuck gray ones. Stan has absolutely no clue that during the summer before high school Craig used to spend hours at home in his room, scrolling through Facebook and Instagram, wishing with everything he had that he could have the kind of body Stan had.
Craig scowls up at the bookstore's fluorescent-light-covered ceiling, swiping a hand through his hair and seriously regretting not having the presence of mind to reclaim his hat from fucking Redbecca or whatever her name was. It's not like he thinks he's the ugliest person alive or anything, but if Craig Tucker is anything, he's a realist; and the reality of it, as much as it rips his self-esteem to shreds, is that he's never going to be winning any awards for his looks.
Or for his personality, for that matter, and what was that bullshit Clyde had said to him that one time? Something about true attractiveness being a combination of personality and looks. Craig hadn't given it much thought at the time, considering it had been somewhere around four in the morning and they'd both been absolutely wasted on Token's couch, but now those words were hitting him hard.
Like, well, fuck, looking at it that way, it's no wonder Tweek thinks Craig is a loser. Next to him, Craig looks like something that just crawled out of a garbage can left in the sun for three days. Not to mention the fact that he can't string together a whole coherent sentence in front of Tweek to save his fucking life. Put that together with his past with Stan and Craig just becomes the most undateable eighteen-year-old in the world.
Although, part of his brain argues, the part of his brain that he's been refusing to acknowledge for hours now, if Tweek wants nothing to do with you, why was he carrying you in the auditorium? Shaking his head, Craig shoves that thought back down into the depths of his subconscious. He can't think like that. Thinking like that gives you hope, and hope just leaves you open to getting crushed like a fucking empty soda can.
"Red Red Racer–"
Craig slams his fist down onto his cell phone, lying on the floor next to him, effectively punching the notification ringtone into silence. It's something like the sixteenth text he's gotten since this morning – not that he's counting – and he's ignored every one. Just hearing the Red Racer theme song makes him feel sick to his stomach now.
He squeezes his eyes shut, but that doesn't kick the image of Tweek dressed in leather out of his brain. God, why did he have to be so attractive? Why couldn't he be a three foot tall hunchback with an eye patch? Why did Clyde's final project partner have to be the literal embodiment of fucking scalding hot perfection? Imaginary Tweek takes a step forward, something shifts in Craig's mind, and then suddenly Speed Demon Tweek and the Tweek from his dream the night before are both standing there, and oh, fuck, now that's the kind of sandwich he's hungry for...
It's all Clyde's fault, Craig decides, using every bit of mental energy he can muster to force himself to open his eyes and not fantasize about a pair of Tweeks doing things to him that would make Kenny blush, while lying in the middle of the floor of the community college bookstore. He moves one of his legs a little bit, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek when the soft denim fabric of his jeans brushes against something decidedly not as soft. There's a time and a place, Tucker, Jesus Christ.
Everything that is currently making Craig's life miserable can be traced back to Clyde. If he'd just waited one fucking day before taking off with Kenny back home for the holidays, if he'd given Tweek his half of their fucking project on time, if he'd used his brain for two seconds and double checked the phone number he'd given Tweek, if he hadn't fucking insisted that the reason Craig and Stan fought all the time was because of a "buttload of sexual tension" and hooked them up in ninth grade, Craig wouldn't be living in a fucking dumpster fire.
Truth or Dare is a stupid game anyway, but nothing will ever top the game of Truth or Dare that gave fourteen-year-old Craig his first kiss, first boyfriend, and allowed him to take the first step down the fiery path to his own personal Hell.
"Just trust me," Clyde had hissed, right before initiating the apocalypse, "You guys are perfect for each other, this'll be great!" Clearing his throat as his turn came around again, he'd loudly asked, "Craig! Truth or Dare?"
"Dare." Craig still doesn't know why he'd agreed to play the game in the first place, much less why he'd actually listened to Clyde and gone ahead with the stupid plan. No, that's not true, he can't lie to himself; he knows exactly why. It's because even though every time Stan opened his mouth Craig wanted to punch him, there was also a huge part of his that just wanted to–
"I dare you to kiss Stan!"
–do that.
There aren't very many things in his life that Craig can remember quite as clearly as he remembers that night. The whole circle of thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds had immediately stopped talking after Clyde had announced the dare. Craig remembers the feeling of all their eyes on him, the way the hairs on the back of his neck had prickled under their stares. He remembers how dry his throat had been when he swallowed, and how his tongue felt like it was suddenly made of cotton. He remembers looking at Clyde and summoning all of his inner strength to roll his eyes and scoff something about how lame of a dare that was and how he had no problems doing it but Stan probably had to ask permission from Kyle and Wendy before he could so much as look at someone else.
He remembers Stan jumping up, his eyes blazing, firing some other insult right back at Craig, and he remembers getting to his feet too, crossing his arms and saying something like, "Whatever Marsh, just try not to fall in love with me or anything."
Craig covers his face with both hands. Fucking Clyde.
"I am the Taco King, check out all my tacos! I am the Taco King, check–"
"Goddammit," Craig groans, not even surprised when his phone immediately rings again. Speak of the devil. He should have known he could only ignore his best friend for so long. Sighing, and completely going against his better judgement, he picks it up and reluctantly taps the button to answer, holding the device up to his ear. "Hey."
"Craig, Jesus Christ!" Clyde is practically shouting and Craig winces, pulling his phone away from his ear a couple of inches. "What the hell is going on?! Tweek said you were dying!"
"I'm not dying," Craig mumbles, paying no attention at all to the way his heart speeds up at Clyde's words, and the way a million butterflies materialize in his stomach at the thought that Tweek might have been worried about him. "I'm at work."
"Why the hell are you at work? Didn't you faint and faceplant on the stage and knock out three teeth?!"
"No." Craig sighs, his head already hurting after only being on the phone with Clyde for thirty seconds. "I didn't knock out any teeth, Clyde. I have inventory and shit to do."
"Dude, if you fainted you really shouldn't be at work. Have you even eaten today?" That's one of the most infuriating things about Clyde – he just cares so fucking much. And he never lets shit go.
Although, come to think of it, no, Craig hasn't eaten today. He hadn't really eaten yesterday either. That muffin from the cafe hardly counted as food, and he'd only had a bite and a half of it anyway. And the fettuccine leftovers had been more of a dinner for the dorm's washing machine than for him last night. "I'm fine," he mutters, knowing full well that's not an answer that Clyde is going to accept.
"Uh-huh, so that means no, which means you're probably starving."
Craig flips off the nearest container of pencils. Clyde thinks going without food for two hours makes someone anorexic. He's not starving, he's just– As if on cue, Craig's stomach growls loudly like it's a wild animal on the verge of attacking and he's forced to admit that, fine, Clyde might have a point.
"I'll get some pizza or something delivered to the store in a little while, would that make you happy?" Craig picks up his clipboard and winces when he looks over his mostly blank inventory list. If he doesn't get his shit together he's never going to finish this, even with all his extra shifts.
"Aw, Craig, you know me so well!" There's talking in the background and then a shuffling sound as Clyde presumably covers his phone with his hand to respond. "Sorry, I'm back. Anyway! I was actually thinking you should come out for dinner with us tonight!"
"Clyde–" Craig starts to protest, really not in a mood to hang out with the two of them after everything else that's been going on. He can barely handle being around Kenny on a good day. But in typical Donovan fashion, Clyde rushes to keep talking before he can say no.
"Come on, it'll be fun! We got invited to this steakhouse by one of Kenny's coworkers, the food is supposed to be incredible! I'm sure they won't mind if you come along!" More shuffling, and then Kenny's voice shouts a muffled cheer of agreement from the background. "Yeah, see! You totally have to come!"
"I have inventory," Craig repeats as his stomach rumbles again, bringing with it a twinge of pain like the ones from earlier that he now recognizes as hunger pains. He sighs again, raking his free hand through his hair and actually seriously debating Clyde's offer. He's still not really in the mood to socialize, but steak is his favorite food and – Goddammit – Clyde knows that.
"Dude, the store's closed till after break, unless a bunch of office supply ninjas break in, everything will still be there for you to count tomorrow," Clyde points out. "This steakhouse only comes around once in a lifetime!"
Jesus Christ. "Fine," Craig says, wondering just how long it's going to take before he regrets agreeing to do what Clyde wants this time. "When?"
"Really?! Yes!" Clyde cheers, and Craig's eardrums just about shatter. "Kenny and I will swing by the store to pick you up in about an hour! See you soon – no backing out!" The line goes dead before Craig can say another word.
"Ugh," he mumbles, clicking on his text message icon to clear out all the notifications he's gotten in the last six hours. He has no idea how Clyde manages to always have so much energy all the time. One conversation with him could probably power a whole city. Craig starts scrolling through his messages, rolling his eyes at how many of them are just strings of exclamation points and emojis from his best friend.
And then he freezes, staring down at his phone, his grip tightening on the device as he reads the other messages. The ones that aren't from Clyde.
Hey, Craig.
Hope you're okay.
Clyde said he would talk to you, I'll get your hat back to you tonight if you come.
Craig reads Tweek's three messages about forty times before they start making sense. Why does he care if Craig's okay? Why is he the one who has Craig's hat? What does he mean, he'll get it back to him tonight? What's going on tonight? Craig never gave Tweek the key to his dorm to finish cleaning Clyde's side of the room, so he's not supposed to show up at the bookstore. Wait, if he comes? If he comes where? The only place he's going tonight is–
Shit. He's going out for dinner with Clyde and Kenny. "Clyde said he would talk to you." Tweek and Clyde are friends. Tweek must have told Clyde about having Craig's hat and Clyde must have invited him to come too. Fuck. He couldn't have mentioned that?! And now it's too late for Craig to change his mind. Clyde won't let him, especially since he knows Craig had passed out like a dumbass earlier, very likely because of not eating properly. Clyde, you motherfucker.
Maybe that's a little harsh. After all, Clyde has no idea that seeing Tweek makes Craig completely forget to act like a human being. It's just a really, really, fucking unfortunate coincidence.
But it's not even Tweek's messages that are fucking Craig up the most right now. It's the last message in the list, from the last person he had ever thought would text him again, given the way things had ended six months ago. And especially given their last interaction.
My place. 11 tonight. If you're not too busy being carried around like a baby.