A/N:
:)
As it turns out, Tweek surprises are infinitely better than Clyde surprises, at least when it comes to choosing a restaurant. He's taken them to a little Italian place that Craig's never heard of before, despite living in this town his entire life. Although, in his defense, they're so far northwest that they might as well not even be in South Park anymore, so it's totally understandable that this tiny restaurant called Sorriso has completely escaped his notice until now.
The second Tweek pulls the Focus up to the miraculously vacant parking space directly in front of the building, Craig's stomach lets out a growl so loud that it literally sounds like a wild animal has just woken up in the backseat of the car and discovered two humans who'd had the audacity to invade its territory. Tweek shifts into park and pulls the keys from the ignition, shooting Craig another small smile as he does so.
God, that smile. Craig gulps, focusing all of his attention on the slightly faded area on the right knee of his jeans to avoid looking at the blonde's face lest he get caught in those green eyes again. Tweek has no idea what smiling like that does to him. As much as he's been telling himself he's got no chance in hell, Craig can still, somehow, see a future in that smile, and unless he wants his heart to be shattered into a million pieces, he needs to do everything he can to not look at it.
"Don't worry," Tweek says, clicking his seatbelt open and reaching to open the car's door. "You won't be hungry for much longer." He pauses, wrinkling his nose as a slight frown appears on his face. "As long as this is okay? Do you like Italian? We can go somewhere else if you want."
Craig has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning like an absolute idiot. Fuck, he's so fucking cute, and so much different from everyone else Craig has ever gone out to eat with. Clyde will pick a restaurant, whine for twenty minutes until everyone else gets on board, and then change his mind the second they pass somewhere else that "looks better". Token's choice of food establishment depends on which one he's promised to review on his college radio show up in Denver; that's how Craig had learned the hard way that he detests sushi, but at least he hadn't had to pay for it. Jimmy's usually pretty chill about things like restaurants, but the downside of that means that he never makes a decision. And the one and only time Craig had gone out for dinner with his mortal enemy, Stan hadn't asked him so much as told him where they were going.
But here's Tweek, making a decision and then being fully willing to go right back on that decision if Craig has an issue. And the ironic thing is, even if Craig did have an issue, even if Italian food wasn't his second-favorite food in the world and he hadn't been dreaming for hours of his lost fettuccine from the night before, he would never say anything to Tweek about it. He's only known him for barely two days, but Craig's pretty sure that he can perfectly visualize the look of apologetic disappointment that Tweek would have on his face if he did, and he doesn't think he would be able to handle being the cause of something like that. Tweek deserves to smile all the time, even if Craig can't see it.
"No, um, I like here." Craig fumbles for his seatbelt with his left hand, his eyes still on his own leg. "I mean, I've never been here before, like, to this place, but I'm good with Italians- Italians- Italian, you know, like, pasta is, uh, good." God, it's hot in this car. Maybe he should have turned off his seat heater; his entire back feels like it's been set on fire. Jesus Christ, why is it so hard to unbuckle a fucking seatbelt? He's got fucking giant hands compared to the fastener, there's no reason it should be taking him this long to click the fucking button.
"Okay, great." Tweek pops his door open, a sudden rush of cold December air filling the interior of the vehicle as he gets out.
The fresh air does wonders for Craig, or maybe it's the fact that Tweek is out of the car now and not watching him struggle with something as simple as a seatbelt. In any case, Craig finally manages to find the button to release himself from the prison disguising itself as a safety strap, just in time to nearly topple right out of the Focus and onto the curb as his door opens from the outside.
"Oh, sorry!" Tweek says with a laugh, backing up a step so Craig can get out of the car properly and gesturing to the parking meter next to the vehicle's front right wheel. "I had to put money in the meter so I just thought I'd get your door for you."
"Uh, thanks?" Craig awkwardly stands beside the Focus for a moment as Tweek digs some coins out of his pocket to feed the meter. Just before the blonde turns back around, Craig realizes he's left the passenger door wide open and kicks it shut with his foot. The force of the kick causes him to lose his balance on the icy sidewalk, and with no time at all to react to save himself, he starts to fall backwards, feeling it happen in slow motion. Fucking perfect. Craig closes his eyes, bracing himself for the concussion he's sure this is going to give him.
He's about two seconds away from smashing the back of his skull on the concrete when he's roughly yanked back up to his feet by one arm.
"Jesus Christ!"
Tweek is staring at him, his eyes wide, one hand grabbing a fistful of his own hair while keeping a firm grip on Craig's arm with the other like if he lets go Craig is going to just throw himself backwards again. "Are you okay?! What happened?"
Craig swallows hard, forcing himself to look away from Tweek, keeping his head down and his gaze glued to the ground. Now that he's looking, he can see the ice covering every inch of the part of the sidewalk that he's standing on. "Slipped," he mumbles with a slight shake of his head.
"Okay, well, be careful next time, okay? I thought I was going to have to take you to the hospital!"
Tweek suddenly hooks his arm through Craig's, pulling him close enough so that their shoulders are touching. Craig's heart nearly stops at the contact and for a second he's one hundred percent positive that he actually had hit the sidewalk and that he's now in some sort of ultimate fantasy coma dream; and that if he lifts his head, Tweek's going to be dressed in that fucking hot as shit leather bodysuit again, ready to do everything he'd been about to do the first time Craig had had this dream, before his fucking phone had interrupted.
He's got himself so hopeful that when he finally does manage to summon the nerve to look up, his heart sinks a little bit with disappointment when he sees Tweek wearing normal clothes. That disappointment only lasts for about point seven seconds though, because that's when it hits Craig that if this isn't a coma dream, that means this is real life, which means that he's actually standing here, arms linked with someone so far out of his league it would be laughable if it didn't hurt so much.
And thank God Tweek's got such a strong hold on him, because with that realization comes a sudden wave of dizziness so strong it almost knocks Craig off his feet again. "Fuck," he mutters to himself, but not quietly enough.
"All right," Tweek says, gently tugging Craig along with him as he starts walking towards the restaurant. "Come on, you really need to eat before you pass out from hunger again. I'll help you get inside and then come back and lock my car."
"Uh-huh," Craig practically squeaks, thankful that at least Tweek hasn't figured out that his fainting earlier wasn't due to a lack of food consumption. His vision blurs a little bit and he stumbles slightly just as they reach the door of the restaurant. Okay, maybe it had a little to do with a lack of food consumption.
He lets himself be led inside the restaurant, his mouth watering the instant they step inside thanks to the myriad of fucking delicious scents wafting through the air. Craig barely registers anything about the establishment's decor, Tweek talking to the hostess, or the short walk to one of the small two-person booths lining either side of the dining area, but he does register Tweek unlinking their arms to gently place a hand on his shoulder.
"Do you need a hand?" he asks, and it takes Craig a moment to understand that the kind of hand Tweek is referring to isn't the kind of hand Craig desperately wants from him.
"Uh, um, uh-uh." Craig all but collapses onto the seat of the booth and picks up the small menu from the table, staring hard at the word Sorriso written in fancy, flowing script at the top of the page. "I'm good."
"Okay. I'll be right back," Tweek turns to leave, then turns back to add, "If our waitress comes, just order me a coffee? And remember to get yourself some water."
"Sure." Craig nods, hanging onto the menu tightly with both hands. "Uh, like, special coffee? I mean, um, not special like, uh, drugs, or anything, just, like, any specific–"
"No."
The sudden harshness of Tweek's tone, not to mention that fact that he interrupts Craig, is such a contrast to how he normally speaks that all of Craig's awkward nervousness is startled right out of him for a moment.
"Are you okay?" Craig drops the menu back on the table and looks to Tweek curiously, catching just a glimpse of his shaking hands, clenched jaw, and wide, almost fearful, green eyes before the blonde turns away.
"Yeah," Tweek lets out another little laugh, but even Craig can hear how forced it sounds. He's been laughing like that for the past two days, he knows what it means. "I'm fine. I have to go lock my car." He's gone before Craig can even begin to try to say anything else.
He runs through what he can recall of the last five minutes in his mind, trying to figure out what the hell could have happened to cause such an abrupt shift in Tweek's demeanor. Oh, fuck, it had probably been the drug thing, his awkward as fuck way of trying to make a stupid joke to cover up the fact that he couldn't fucking speak English. Shit.
Craig groans, resting his elbows on the table and leaning his head on his hands. Maybe he should just go be a fucking monk in the mountains and take a vow of silence for the rest of his life. The list of shit Tweek probably thinks about him is just getting longer and longer: creepy, awkward, idiot, horrible singer, klutzy dumbass, and now possible drug addict.
"The fuck am I even doing here," he mumbles into his palms. As if in answer, his stomach rumbles again, but the sound is drowned out by his phone, which blasts the Red Racer theme song at the same time.
"Red Red Racer, he races 'round the–"
Craig sighs as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. Right on cue. Clyde's probably texting to either ask him how he's doing or to send him five hundred crying-face emojis and a long rambling apology about the way things had gone down at the steakhouse. Neither of those options are things Craig has any desire to deal with, but he knows if he doesn't give Clyde at least one message in return, nothing will stop his best friend from texting every five minutes for the rest of the night.
He clicks on his messaging app, and immediately regrets his decision with every fiber of his being.
3 hours.
The text is followed by a picture, but that's not the worst part. The worst part is that even though this is the type of picture that makes Craig instinctively tilt his phone's screen away from the edge of the table and cup the device in his hands so nobody walking by can accidentally catch sight of it, he can't tear his eyes away from it. It's been a long time since he's gotten this kind of picture and he's both disgusted and ashamed with himself for the instant reaction his body has to it. He feels his cheeks heat up the longer he looks, the montage of memories playing in his mind just making everything worse.
Craig taps on the bottom of the screen to pull up the keyboard, hesitating for a minute as he tries to figure out what to say. He knows what he should say, but for some reason he just can't bring himself to type the words. He's actually considering agreeing to this, despite all of the fifteen million reasons he knows it would be a horrible, horrible idea. What the actual fuck is wrong with him?
Another text comes through, this one making Craig roll his eyes and breaking the momentary spell of temptation that had fallen over him. Try not to drool, Tucker. I know you're excited.
Yeah, right, he starts typing back. The fucking audacity of this asshole.
"Sorry about that." Tweek reappears at the table and slides into the other side of the booth, all earlier traces of tension gone like they had never existed in the first place. He cocks his head, blinking at the way Craig is clutching his phone in his hand. "Everything all right?"
Craig tries to calm his racing heart, reassuring himself that there's no possible way Tweek could have seen anything. He hits the send button, looking up at the blonde across the table, not noticing that he'd accidentally deleted the second word of his message before sending it. "Uh, yeah," he lies, locking his phone and tossing it onto the booth next to him.
"Good," Tweek says. "No emergencies allowed until we get some food in you." He leans across the table and frowns in concentration as he reads Craig's menu upside-down, letting out a fucking adorable little, "aha" when he locates what he's looking for. He points to an item on the menu. "I wanted to recommend this to you."
Craig follows Tweek's finger to see what he's pointing at, and when he reads the name of the dish, a fucking miracle happens. For what he's pretty sure is the first time since he'd met Tweek, Craig smiles, and it's a real, normal, natural smile, not one that makes him look like a combination of the Joker and the shark from Jaws.
Fettuccine alfredo.
Craig's never been a big believer in fate or anything like that; he's always been far too skeptical to trust in things like destiny or astrology or psychics, or any of the other shit that Clyde likes to talk about. But maybe, just maybe, the universe has just given him a reason to believe.