A/N:
:)
Craig stares down at the plate full of food sitting on the table in front of him, somehow both absolutely starving and not at all hungry at the same time. He'd let Clyde order for him, knowing there was no way he was going to be able to focus on something like a menu when Tweek and fucking Stan were sitting in such close proximity. In a surprisingly thoughtful moment that reminded Craig just why they were best friends, Clyde had tried his hardest to inconspicuously alter the seating arrangements so Craig didn't end up sitting next to Stan. The only problems with that were, one, juggling the placements of nine people around one big table isn't exactly the easiest task; and two, Clyde is about as inconspicuous as a flashing pink neon sign.
Carefully, Craig picks up his fork and jabs at a piece of steak, swirling it around the little pool of teriyaki sauce on the plate. His stomach gurgles its appreciation, and Craig can practically hear it shouting at him to just eat the fucking thing, but he's too nervous to even try.
To his right, Clyde is happily chatting away to anyone willing to listen, his mouth constantly full of food as he steals from everyone else's plate while simultaneously devouring his own steak. There used to be a piece of garlic toast on the side of Craig's plate, but that had disappeared over twenty minutes ago.
"So then," Clyde is saying, gesturing wildly with his hands, narrowly missing grazing Craig's ear with his steak knife. "I opened the box, and guess what was inside!"
"What?" Lola is leaning nearly halfway across the table, her eyes wide, so into the story Clyde is telling that she doesn't even notice that the ends of her hair are dangerously close to going for a swim in her gravy.
Next to Clyde, Kenny nudges him with his elbow, a lazy grin on his face. "Careful," he says. "You're going to set some high expectations for Lola's boyfriend if you finish that story."
Craig tightens his grip on his fork; without moving his head, he flicks his eyes up just long enough to shoot a glare at the boyfriend in question.
"I really don't think I've got too much to worry about." Directly across the table from Craig, Stan drapes his arm over Lola's shoulders and leans over to kiss her on the cheek. "I'm pretty sure I exceeded all her expectations last night, don't you think, beautiful?"
Lola's cheeks redden and she leans back, covering her face with both hands and letting out an embarrassed giggle. "Oh my God, you can't say that!"
"Why not? It's true, isn't it?" Stan shrugs. "I mean, I've never heard any complaints…"
"Maybe I should complain, then." Lola turns to Stan, peeking through her fingers at him. "Is there a number I can call?"
"Yeah," Stan smirks, leaning in closer, "It's 1-800 Kiss Me."
"God, you guys are fuckin' disgusting," Red mutters from Lola's other side, rolling her eyes as her friend and Stan engage in the most vomit-inducing PDA to ever occur in the known universe.
Craig feels a rush of gratitude towards her for saying exactly what he's thinking, even if she's saying it for different reasons. He glances down at the piece of steak on his fork and grimaces a little bit against the sudden surge of nausea he feels. Underneath the table, something nudges his right foot, trying to get his attention. Craig lifts his head and turns to Clyde, expecting to see the brunette giving him another look of apology, but Clyde is busy reaching over Kenny's plate to snag half a baked potato from the blonde's coworker Bridon from the hotel.
The nudging becomes more insistent, now feeling less like a demand for Craig's attention and more like this person is actively trying to start a fire by rubbing their ankles together. A tingle runs up Craig's spine as he realizes what's going on, and he's all of a sudden hit with the uncomfortable sensation that he's been transported into the climactic scene of a horror movie, and that as soon as he figures out the identity of the Footsie Killer he's going to be brutally murdered in the worst way possible.
Fighting desperately to keep his expression blank, Craig slowly swivels his head to the left. He's praying with everything he has that things aren't as horrible as the cold feeling of dread he's experiencing is making them seem, but, once again, of fucking course they are. Holding onto his fork like it's the one thing keeping him from spontaneously combusting, Craig lets his gaze land on the top contender for World's Biggest Asshole, freezing when he sees that, despite currently making out at the fucking dinner table with his fucking girlfriend, Stan is staring right back at him.
Fuck. What the actual fuck. Craig wants to say something snarky, he wants to kick Stan in the fucking shins, he wants to stand up and scream, flip the table and get the fuck out of there. But he can't move. He can barely manage to tear his eyes away and refocus his attention on the forkful of steak that he has yet to eat. He grinds his teeth together, trying to ignore the fact that Stan's still harassing him with his goddamn foot under the table, the tip of his shoe pushing its way inside the leg of Craig's jeans, grazing his skin.
"Hey, are you okay?"
Craig jumps, dropping his fork onto his plate with a clatter and jerking his leg backwards. "Uh!" He reaches up to pull his hat further down onto his head, grateful beyond words that it's back in his possession. "Yeah, I, uh." He gulps, calling upon all of his inner strength to force himself to turn to his left and look Tweek in the eyes, those fucking unbelievablly gorgeous eyes. "I'm good?" It comes out as a question, the words so faint for a moment Craig thinks it's impossible that Tweek could have heard him and has a inner panic attack for about five seconds at the thought that he'll have to repeat himself.
"Do you not like your food?" Tweek tilts his head, looking down at Craig's plate, something almost like concern in his eyes. Why would he care?
Craig looks down too, suddenly incredibly self-conscious about the fact that he hasn't actually eaten one bite in all the time they've been here. "Oh, no, uh, it's great."
"Are you sure?" Tweek pushes his plate a little bit closer to Craig. "If you'd rather have something else, you can finish mine."
"No, I–" Craig swallows, not having a fucking clue how he's going to finish that sentence, and having less of a fucking clue how he'd ended up here, sitting across from the one person he hates most in the world and next to the one person he'd do anything to keep in his world forever.
He instinctively wants to blame Clyde, but there's no way Clyde could have known what sitting beside Tweek would do to him; and in his best friend's defense, he'd really tried to keep Stan and Craig apart. It isn't Clyde's fault that Stan had claimed there was a draft overhead and switched seats. Never mind the fact that Red hasn't said a word about the supposed draft and that Stan clearly had just wanted to sit near Craig to fuck with him. Although, to be fair, Red seems to be so distracted by Bridon at the moment that it's doubtful she would notice if the ceiling caved in on her, so it's possible there is a draft. Craig just really, really doubts it.
"Wow, Tucker." Speaking of assholes. Stan, finally having unglued himself from Lola, shoots Craig a smirk, his words positively dripping with innuendo that, somehow, only Craig seems to pick up on, "I've never seen you have trouble finishing before."
"Is something wrong with it?" All the attention being given to Craig's food has finally caught Clyde's attention, and then brunette leans over, poking at Craig's steak with his own fork. "I don't understand, I had the same thing and mine was fine!"
"There's nothing wrong with it," Craig mumbles, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, all-too aware of the fact that everyone's eyes are now on him and his uneaten teriyaki steak. "I'm just not very hungry."
"But–" Scrunching up his face, Clyde begins to protest that statement, but before he can get two words out, Kenny speaks up from his other side.
"Nah, Clydester," he says, ruffling Clyde's hair affectionately and shooting Craig a quick, knowing glance. "I believe him, fainting can fuck you right up. I remember I passed out once at work and felt like shit for days. He probably just needs to go home and get a good night's rest."
"Yeah," Craig says after a moment of being stunned that it's Kenny McCormick of all people that is coming to his rescue right now. "Yeah, I just gotta... " Jumping right on the out that Kenny's giving him, he pushes against the edge of the table with both hands to slide his chair back and stand up, hoping to God that his legs are going to be able to support him. Pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, he flips it open and begins fishing out some cash. "Uh, what do I owe you guys?"
"Don't worry about it," Kenny waves a hand. "It's on me. Just call it an early Christmas present."
"Thanks." Craig replaces his wallet, and with a half-hearted nod to everyone at the table, making eye contact with no one, he starts slowly making his way towards the restaurant's exit, keeping one of his hands against the wall for balance.
He's gotten all the way to the lobby before he remembers that Clyde and Kenny had given him a ride here, and that he's either got to wait fifteen minutes for a twenty-minute cab ride, or suffer the half-hour walk back to the dorms. Collapsing onto one of the small benches near the hostess stand, he pulls out his cell phone to Google the number of a cab company, not particularly interested in spending any longer out in the cold than he has to. He types in his password to unlock the phone, but instead of being greeted with his home screen, it opens to the last text message conversation he'd been on before locking his phone earlier.
Can we talk after dinner?
Sure.
Craig closes his eyes and leans his head back against the brick wall behind him, for once having the presence of mind to not accidentally crack his own skull against it. Fuck, he'd completely forgotten about that text message. Maybe he shouldn't have just up and left. Maybe he should go back to the table. No, he can't go back, that would make him look fucking stupid. Or, stupider – he already looks fucking stupid.
And rude, Jesus Christ, he hadn't even said goodbye to anyone, he'd been so eager to get the fuck away from everybody staring at him that he'd just walked away like a douchebag. Come to think of it, he realizes, he hadn't even thanked Tweek for washing his hat for him. He'd just taken it and sort of nodded at him before jamming the chullo back on his head like a shield. Tweek wouldn't know that it was because he was so attractive Craig basically lost the ability to speak in front of him; to him, Craig probably just looked like a gigantic asshole. Great, Tweek could add that to the list of things he thought about Craig at this point: a creepy, tone-deaf, dumbass, gigantic asshole of a weirdo.
Craig groans, clenching his fist around his phone.
"Craig?"
Craig sits straight up, his eyes flying open to see Tweek standing right in front of him. He's looking down, his head tilted in that fucking adorable way again that makes Craig's heart race and his knees weak and he's thankful he's sitting on the bench.
"Oh, uh, yeah?"
Tweek crosses his arms over his chest, his expression unchanging. "Are you feeling okay?"
Craig swallows. "Uh, I've uh, felt better?" Okay, not the greatest answer, but at least that kind of made sense. He can do this. He can talk to Tweek for two seconds without making a fool of himself. "Why?"
"Oh, well." Tweek takes a seat on the bench next to Craig, the piece of furniture so small their knees brush together. "Clyde said Kenny drove you guys here, and I wasn't sure how you were getting home."
"I was, um, just gonna cab it," Craig says, immediately cringing. Who the fuck talks like that?
"If you want," Tweek says, shifting slightly, causing their legs to touch even more and nearly giving Craig a heart attack. "I could give you a ride."
Yes. You can give me a ride any day. Craig's face heats up at the thought that immediately crosses his mind and he struggles to focus on the Tweek in front of him and not the Tweek that has suddenly appeared in his imagination.
"I was still hoping that we could talk?" Tweek looks down at the floor and bites his lower lip. "I mean, I know you said you're not feeling well, but I wanted to–"
"Yeah," Craig blurts out, trying desperately not to stare at Tweek's mouth, but finding it incredibly hard to look away. "Uh, yeah, sure, you can ride m– drive me home, um, if you want?" He continues speaking, like the more words he lets tumble out of his mouth the higher the chances Tweek will forget about that humiliating slip-up. "But you don't have to, I um, I wouldn't want to inconvenience you or anything."
"It's fine. Your dorm is on the way to mine." Tweek stands up and offers his hand to Craig, who stares at it for an embarrassingly long time before gingerly grabbing it and letting Tweek help him to his feet.
Letting go immediately after regaining his balance, Craig shoves his hands in his pockets along with his phone. "What, uh, what did you want to talk about?"
Tweek glances over his shoulder, back in the direction of the table, and then gestures to the door with a nod of his head. "Come on," he says, a tiny trace of – was that nervousness? – in his tone. "I'd rather get in the car first."
"Oh – okay." The word comes out much squeakier than Craig would like, and as he follows Tweek outside to the parking lot, he tries to ignore the panic bubbling inside him, but he's basically terrified. He has no idea what to expect from being in a car alone with Tweek, and all he can do is hope that he can get through these next twenty minutes alive.