A/N: I'm back, I'm so sorry for the wait. I hope everyone had a good holiday season!
Craig wakes up to the scent of tacos invading his nostrils, the smell so strong it's almost suffocating. His eyes still closed, he groans, only realizing once the sound makes it way up his throat and past his lips that he can still taste vomit on his tongue. That, combined with the overwhelming intensity of Eau de Taco, is enough to make his already aching stomach turn and he braces himself for another round of throwing up, but it never happens.
Instead, something cold and damp is suddenly draped over his face, and in that moment, Craig becomes acutely aware of a few different things.
One, he's laying down on what feels like an actual bed, as opposed to the hard, cement-like hallway floor of the dorm that he'd been expecting. He has no idea whose bed he's in or how exactly he'd gotten here, but right now none of that matters because it's nice and soft and comfortable as shit. He could be laying in anyone's bed right now and Craig would be perfectly fine.
Well, he thinks, as his stomach reminds him with a low warning rumble that that's not quite true, almost anyone's.
Two, his head hurts like a bitch, and while whatever the cold thing on his face is is easing the headache part a little bit, it's not doing anything for the tender spot just above his left eye. Craig gingerly lifts one of his arms to touch his face and discovers that the cold thing is, in fact, a washcloth, judging by the feel of the fabric. It drips when he moves it, a few little droplets of water running over Craig's eyelid and down his face, and he's grateful he's had the foresight not to open his eyes just yet.
The third thing he realizes, thanks to a chilly gust of air that seems strangely out of place inside a dorm room, is that he's not wearing a shirt. Wait, fuck. That means whoever is in this room with him who had put the washcloth on him has seen him shirtless. Shit. Craig shivers, his fingers scrabbling around on the mattress next to him, searching for a blanket to cover himself with; instead, he finds something solid, and sort of crunchy.
What the hell?
Craig grasps the mystery item with as much strength as he can muster and pulls it up onto his chest, cracking one eye open to get a closer look. It takes him a few seconds to focus enough to place what he's looking at, and make out the words printed on a bright blue background; but as soon as does, both his eyes fly wide open and he sits straight up on the bed, shoving the package of mint Oreos to the floor in the process.
"They're actually my favorite, so…"
"Whoa."
Craig picks up the washcloth from where it had fallen into his lap, wincing as he carefully holds it up to his forehead again. He turns to see who had spoken, and suddenly the taco thing makes a whole lot of sense.
Clyde is sitting cross-legged in the middle of his own bed, a couple of Taco Bell bags open beside him and a container of cheesy fries balanced on his leg. Craig flicks his eyes to the left to see all of the cleaning supplies Tweek had brought over the day before piled haphazardly across the wooden surface and his heart aches in his chest, knowing that there's no chance he'll ever be coming back to finish cleaning. Tweek's never going to set foot in this room again. He's probably never going to even talk to Craig again, and as much as that kills him, Craig can't say he exactly blames him. He doesn't particularly feel like being around himself either.
"How are you feeling?" Clyde asks, his eyebrows drawing together in concern when Craig lets out another small groan as he readjusts his position on the mattress.
"Like shit." Craig's voice is raspy, and with every word comes the disgusting reminder of earlier lingering on his taste buds. He eyes one of the fast food bags next to Clyde, seriously considering asking for something to get the taste out of his mouth, but when he breathes in again he decides that Taco Bell and vomit are much too close together on the taste/smell spectrum for his body to be able to handle that right now. "The fuck happened?"
His gaze drifts down to the package of cookies on the floor, next to the shirt he had been wearing earlier. Surprisingly, the idea of eating one of the mint Oreos doesn't cause his stomach any distress. Keeping the washcloth pressed against his head with one hand to combat the headache pulsing away in his skull, Craig leans down to pick up the package. He carefully lifts the wrapper and takes out a cookie, trying, and failing, to keep the memory of Tweek holding this very same package of cookies out of his mind.
"I was going to ask you that." Clyde shoves a couple cheesy fries into his mouth, chomping on them like a rabid velociraptor a few times before swallowing and continuing, "Kenny and I were on our way here to bring you lunch 'cause I felt bad you didn't get your steak last night–"
Another loud rumble erupts from Craig's stomach at the mere mention of steak, and he winces, hunching forward slightly and crossing one arm protectively over his abdomen. "It's fine," he manages to say through tightly clenched teeth. He lets the washcloth fall to the side onto his bed and leans back against the headboard.
Although, now that he's thinking about it, maybe everything would have been better if he had just stayed at the fucking steakhouse last night. Sure, he wouldn't have gotten to kiss Tweek that way, and he wouldn't have found out that his impossible dream of the hottest guy in the world being interested in him was actually extremely possible after all, but…
Craig sighs softly, staring down at the cookie that he's holding, tracing the pattern with his eyes. If he hadn't left the restaurant, Tweek wouldn't have followed him, they wouldn't have spent the night together in Tweek's bed, Craig wouldn't have walked back into his own door to find crazy alcoholic Stan waiting for him, and Tweek would never have seen the worst moment of Craig's life with his own two eyes.
"It's not really, though, is it?"
When Craig looks over at Clyde, he's taken aback by the somber expression on the brunette's face. In the last eighteen years of his existence, he can only recall Clyde looking this serious a handful of times; every time it's happened it's been such an unnatural departure from Clyde's usual cheerful and optimistic personality that it's given Craig goosebumps, and this time is no exception. "What do you mean?"
"I mean… Well, like, Jesus, Craig," Clyde says, like it's obvious, giving Craig a look of utter disbelief. "Why did you kiss Stan?"
"I didn't fuckin' kiss Stan!" Craig practically shouts, clutching the Oreo in his hand so tightly the top cookie half cracks right down the middle. "I would never do that, you know that!"
Clyde glances at the dorm room door for a second. Craig follows his gaze, realizing for the first time that he can hear low voices speaking to each other from out in the hall.
"Okay, but then–" Clyde begins, but Craig shakes his head violently from side to side, so desperate to have his best friend believe him that he'll risk suffering a bout of vertigo-induced vomiting.
"No, don't believe a word he fuckin' tells you! He fuckin' attacked me in the hallway when I got back from–" He stops himself mid-sentence, not sure if he wants to tell Clyde about Tweek just yet. Not that there's anything to tell. Not anymore.
"Wait, what?" Clyde actually moves the container of fries and leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his brown eyes wide and confused. "That's not what– He came here to beat you up?"
Cringing, Craig takes a tiny bite of mint Oreo to combat the surge of nausea the question brings. He doesn't want to get into the details of what had happened with Stan. In fact, he would pay a million fucking dollars to be able to wipe his memory of the encounter entirely, but it's just now occurring to him that if there is one person in this world who might be able to convince Tweek to listen to him long enough for Craig to explain, it's Clyde. If he can talk a particularly combative hobo out of killing Kenny with a broken whiskey bottle, he can do anything.
At least, Craig hopes so, because at this point, Clyde is his only hope.
"That's what I thought," he mumbles as he chews. Apparently mint is the way to go to immediately cure a case of puke mouth, who knew? He swallows, the weird tingling sensation that immediately follows anything minty trailing down his throat. "But, uh, no. He didn't– He wasn't here to fight." It's harder than Craig had expected to get the words out, but he takes a deep breath and pushes himself to keep going. "He, uh, he hit on me." No, say the right word, Tucker. "Or, uh, assaulted? And he got…aggressive."
He goes on to tell Clyde exactly what had gone on when he'd gotten back to the dorm, feeling worse and worse with every word that leaves his mouth. He's waiting for Clyde to judge him, to ask him why he hadn't fought back, why he'd let Stan get anywhere near him in the first place. All the questions he's currently asking himself.
But, once again, Clyde proves himself to be one of the least judgemental people ever.
"What?!" The brunette's mouth drops open in shock and he instantly jumps up from the bed, nearly knocking the container of cheesy fries over. He takes a couple of steps towards Craig, his arms out like he's going to hug him, but thinks better of it and stops in the center of the room. "Oh my God, Craig! That's– And Tweek saw that?"
"Not the whole thing," Craig mumbles, his heart breaking all over again when he remembers the look that had been on Tweek's face just before he'd dropped the drinks and ran. "Just the part when– Wait." He looks up at Clyde, narrowing his eyes, suspicion clouding his features when the brunette refuses to make eye contact. "How did you know he was there?" He hadn't mentioned Tweek at all yet, so…why was Clyde bringing him up?
"Oh," Clyde says, running a hand through his hair, smiling nervously at some point just over Craig's head. "Um, just a lucky guess?"
"Clyde–" Craig starts, his heart racing with the realization that there is definitely something his best friend isn't telling him, something that involves Tweek and therefore is something that Craig needs to know. But before he can say anything else, the door to the room opens, and Kenny steps inside. Craig immediately pulls his blanket up over himself; Clyde seeing him shirtless is one thing, but Kenny is something else.
"Hey, Tucker, nice to see you back in the land of the living," Kenny greets Craig with a nod, pushing the door closed behind him with his heel and leaning against it. "Also, you're gonna have to let me know what your exercise regime is, 'cause when I carried you in here before it was like carrying a bucket of feathers."
"Fuck you," Craig mutters. It sounds like a compliment, but he hears it for what it really is: a crack about the fact that he's a fucking twig. He grabs another Oreo from the package and shoves it into his mouth.
"Where's Stan?" Clyde asks Kenny. "He's not still out there, is he?"
Kenny shakes his head. "No, I got Bridon to come pick him up. He's a mess right now." To Craig, he adds, "You really did a number on him, Tucker.. Apparently he's been in love with you since high school?"
"What?!" This time it's both Clyde and Craig blurting out the exclamation, both of them staring at Kenny like he's just announced that he's gotten word from Jesus Himself that the world is about to end. Although, for Craig, his world had already ended earlier that day, so Jesus could go ahead and do his worst.
"Oh, yeah," Kenny says, pointing to his right shoulder, where the fabric of his orange hoodie is absolutely soaking wet. "He cried on my shoulder for like half an hour, talking about how much he regrets the way he treated you back then, and how he never knew how to tell you, and how he broke up with Lola just to be with you but then you rejected him and he didn't know how to handle it so he tried to kiss you to show you how sincere he was, and how now he's absolutely heartbroken." Kenny rolls his eyes, Craig and Clyde barely having time to process his words before he adds, "'Course, it's all bullshit."
"How do you figure?" Clyde wanders back over to the bed and picks up his cheesy fries, popping a few into his mouth.
Kenny reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a small, cream-colored card, waving it in the air. "'Cause he also gave me this."
"The fuck is that?" Craig eyes the card, torn between demanding answers from Clyde about Tweek and demanding answers from Kenny about why Stan is such a fucking asshole.
"This," Kenny spins the card around in his fingers, "is a wedding invitation, for Kyle Broflovski and Wendy Testaburger."
"Ooooooooooh," Clyde breathes, like it all makes sense.
Maybe it does to him, but Craig is still utterly fucking lost. "Kyle and Wendy? Since when are they even dating?
"Who knows?" Kenny shrugs, replacing the card in his pocket. "What I do know is that those are the two people that Stan has never gotten over. He used to sob on the phone to me for hours at a time about Kyle, specifically."
"But they were never together," Clyde says, wrinkling his nose. "Right?"
"Nope," Kenny replies with a shake of his blonde hair. It's not as bright of a blonde as Tweek's is, but the sight of it still causes a pang to shoot through Craig's heart. "Not for a lack of trying, though, I know Stan confessed his feelings to him multiple times. But Kyle doesn't swing that way." He sighs. "There was this one time, you remember the spring dance in tenth grade?"
Clyde nods eagerly, but Craig shakes his head. He wouldn't have been caught dead at a dance in high school. Or now, come to think of it.
"Okay, well, I guess at the dance, Stan cornered Kyle under the bleachers," Kenny continues, "and he had this whole big confession, poured his heart out, cried, the whole nine yards, and Kyle said no. That's when he started drinking." He turns to Craig. "And I guess that's when he started getting more intense with you, and your whole secret hookup thing." Kenny holds up both hands to do air quotes on the words 'secret hookup' and Craig immediately whips his head around to glare at Clyde again.
"You said you didn't tell anyone!" he hisses angrily.
Clyde holds up both hands defensively, hurt shining in his eyes at the accusation. "I didn't!"
"He didn't," Kenny agrees, holding up a finger. "Stan did, just before we graduated. He swore me to secrecy, so I never told you," he says to Clyde with a shrug. "I guess I could've."
"So, wait." Craig's head is spinning a little bit and he presses two fingers to each of his temples as he does his best to make sense of things. "He was messing with me because he's an alcoholic asshole who's got a fuckin' boner for his best friend, who is now getting married to the ex-girlfriend he treated like shit for years?"
"That about sums it up." Kenny walks over to Clyde and snags the last few cheesy fries before they disappear into the brunette's mouth. "It's a shitty thing to have to find out, and I'm sorry, Tucker, I really am. Nobody likes finding out they've been used."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Craig mutters to himself. It's fucking stupid, because he really does hate Stan Marsh with every fiber of his being, but he wants to cry. Not only has he lost Tweek, but it turns out the only other person who has ever seemed to be interested in him, even in a creepy, disgusting, rapey sort of way, was only using Craig to escape his own feelings for someone else.
He wipes away a single tear that manages to escape his eye before it can trickle down his cheek, and raises his head just in time to hear Kenny say to Clyde, "So did you tell him?"
"Tell me what?" Craig eyes the two of them warily.
Clyde sighs, tossing the empty french fry container at the trash can, where it hits the rim and tumbles onto the floor instead. "...Okay," he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "There's something you should know. But…you have to promise you won't get mad."