A/N:
:)
As soon as Craig shuts off the Impala's engine, even before he's touched the interior door handle, his heart is racing. Through the windshield, he does a quick scan of the other cars in the tiny, cramped parking lot behind the building, but Tweek's Focus is nowhere to be seen amongst the other vehicles. A mixture of relief and disappointment washes over him, and Craig lets out a soft sigh as he opens his door and steps out of the car, careful not to hit the little Volkswagen next to him with about a million unicorn decals plastered all over it.
It's not like he's surprised that Tweek isn't here. It's Christmas Eve, for Christ's sake. Most normal people are probably at home, doing some last-minute gift wrapping or making cookies or, like Clyde had said, watching a bunch of feel-good, happy ending Christmas movies – probably all the same ones he'd made them all watch when they were kids. That's part of the reason Craig had declined his invitation to come over tonight. He's just not in the mood for a night full of unrealistically happy endings when he's fully aware he'll never have anything like that in his life, and he knows Clyde wouldn't be able to stop himself from trying to find the exact perfect movie to fix everything.
Clyde has always believed in the magic of Christmas. Even after he'd dragged Craig over to his house the year they were eight, convinced he could catch Santa in the trap he'd built out of toothpaste and mini-catapult toys from the dollar store, only for the two of them to successfully capture Clyde's dad instead.
Somehow, and completely unfairly, if you ask Craig, Clyde hadn't gotten in trouble at all. There was toothpaste everywhere, and Mr. Donovan had had to make an emergency eye doctor appointment, but his parents had both just brushed it off as a, "silly Christmas prank." Meanwhile, Craig had come home late, toothpaste in his hair and all over his new sweatshirt his grandma had sent over, and been grounded for a week. That was the year Craig had learned there was no Santa Claus, and that you could, in fact, be grounded from Christmas entirely.
He's never quite gotten the Christmas spirit back since that day, and there isn't a ridiculously cheesy, holiday-themed movie in the world that could make that happen. Craig locks the Impala, frowning at the layer of snow that's already covering the roof. With everything else that's happened recently, he would honestly just like to skip December 25th altogether.
Shoving his keys into his pocket, Craig begins to walk across the parking lot towards the front entrance of Sorriso. It's snowing so heavily that his shallow footprints are covered up almost as soon as he lifts his feet with each step, like the universe is trying its hardest to erase any evidence that he exists at all. Maybe that's how it should be. He's never done any good in this world anyway. Craig tilts his head up to look at the gloomy sky, squinting through the onslaught of snowflakes to send a lackluster glare up at God or Buddha or the drone from the government conspiracy or whoever the hell else could possibly be responsible for his being hopelessly, horribly cursed. Fuck you, he thinks to himself, but not even his inner voice has the energy to sound angry.
As if in response, a particularly large snowflake flutters down without warning, landing right in Craig's open left eye. He immediately starts trying to blink it away, takes another step without paying attention to where he's going, and skids a few feet forward on a slick as shit patch of ice before losing his balance. Luckily, this time when he falls, he falls forward; unluckily, as soon as his knees hit the ice, he's painfully reminded that his jeans have giant holes in that area, and so it's his bare skin that takes the brunt of the fall.
"Godfuckingdammit," he mutters, wincing at the telltale sting of fresh cuts. His eyes are already filled with frustrated tears and he has to consciously force himself to take a few deep breaths before he starts sobbing again. It wasn't enough that he's already miserable, the universe just had to get one more hit in? Craig isn't sure how much more he can take, and, as he gingerly pushes himself up to his feet again, being extra cautious of the ice this time, he considers just turning right around and going home.
But then his stomach growls so loudly it actually fucking echoes through the parking lot, and he remembers that he'd promised Clyde he'd eat something. And there's no point turning back and driving around for another half hour trying to figure out which of the fast food places will make him the least sick when he's come this far, and Sorriso is right in front of him, and he knows how good the food is there.
Craig brushes the snow off of his legs, using some of it to wipe away the few drops of blood from the scrapes on his knees. At least the damage isn't too bad. He supposes that's a silver lining of some kind.
Thankfully, he reaches the door of the restaurant without falling again, though that may have something to do with the fact that he's taking the tiniest steps known to man. He pulls the door open, steps inside, and is immediately fucking scared half to death by a high-pitched shriek coming from his right.
"Mommy! A zombie!" A little girl, who can be no more than five, ducks behind her mother, clinging to her legs.
Craig's face practically lights on fire and he casts a hesitant look down at himself. Shit. He knows he doesn't look great, but does he really look that bad? "Uh, sorry," he says to the girl's mom, awkwardly lifting a hand to adjust his hair. "I'm, uh, not a zombie." Not as far as he knows, anyway.
The mom just gives him a suspicious once-over as she grabs her daughter by the hand and rushes out of the restaurant. Apparently, yes, Craig does look so bad right now that he legitimately resembles the undead. If he had any confidence left to lose, he would probably melt into a puddle of utter humiliation; but he doesn't, so he just sighs and says to the hostess, "One, please."
To her credit, the hostess manages to keep her professional smile plastered to her face, though her eyes definitely betray her distaste at Craig's appearance. She grabs a menu and gestures for Craig to follow her through the dining room, which he does, keeping his eyes on her shoes for guidance. She takes him to a small, two-person booth in the back corner of the restaurant, near the bathrooms, and Craig takes a seat on the side of the table facing the rest of the dining room. The last thing he needs is a waitress sneaking up on him and startling him so much he accidentally yells in public.
He stares down at the menu, needing to read everything at least three times before enough neurons fire in his brain for him to understand what the words mean. A waitress comes by and asks him if he would like a drink; Craig doesn't remember answering, but a few minutes later, a glass of water is plunked down next to him. He eyes the glass, suddenly aware of how fucking thirsty he is, and how long it's been since he's had any water. Setting the menu down on the table, he picks up the glass and drains its entire contents in one long gulp, and then goes to put it back down; but he misjudges the distance a little and ends up knocking the stupid thing onto the fucking floor, where it shatters.
"Shit!" Craig doesn't mean to speak out loud, nor does he mean for his voice to come out so fucking loud, Jesus Christ.
The same waitress who'd asked about him wanting a drink appears out of nowhere with a broom and dustpan, and goes to work cleaning up the pieces of glass at record speed, so quickly that Craig barely has time to try to mumble an awkward apology. "Uh," he starts, all of his self-conscious sensors going off, because he can just feel the eyes of all the other diners on him. "Sorry about–" The last word gets caught in his throat, and he freezes, all the blood in his veins suddenly running ice fucking cold.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck–
Across the restaurant, almost in a straight diagonal from Craig's booth, sitting at a table between Lola and the girl Craig can't think of as anything but Red, is Tweek. And he's looking right at Craig.
–why, why now, why fucking now?!
Craig's body is screaming at him to get up and get the fuck out of there, to just take off out the doors and back out to the safety of his car, but his brain hasn't gotten that message because it's too busy trying to send one of its own: SOS, danger, hide! Craig can't seem to tear his eyes away from Tweek to do either of one of those things, though, despite how appealing the thought is of crawling underneath the table and just waiting for death. All he can do is stare, his eyes wide, and have a fucking panic attack. God, Tweek looks just as incredible as ever, if not even better, Craig can tell that even from this distance. Of course he does. He's literally perfect.
As Craig watches, his heart thumping wildly inside his chest, Lola leans over and says something to Tweek. The blonde breaks eye contact with Craig to look at her instead, tilting his head in that fucking adorable way he does when he's confused and fucking Goddammit Craig is going to cry. He takes the opportunity to bolt out of the booth and through the nearest door into the bathroom, barely managing to enclose himself inside a stall in time before the tears are falling.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, he channels his inner Clyde, getting all of his overwhelming emotions out in a snotty, watery mess that leaves him feeling even more disgusting than usual when it's over. Craig grabs a handful of toilet paper from the dispenser and blows his nose a couple of times, cringing because ugh, gross. He sniffles, tosses the wadded up ball of mucus into a surprisingly convenient mini-trash can mounted on the wall inside the stall, and is just about to unlock the door and go wash his hands when he hears the door to the bathroom open and the sound of voices.
Very, very feminine voices.
Oh. Shit.
Craig squeezes his eyes shut, instinctively climbing onto the lid of the toilet and holding his breath in an attempt to make absolutely zero noise. Why? Why the fuck is he even surprised in the slightest? Why wouldn't he end up in the womens' fucking bathroom? It's not like he's been able to read and differentiate between the universally recognized symbols for women and men since he was fucking four years old or anything.
"I'm so glad I'm done," one of the voices is saying, a voice Craig recognizes as the hostess that had brought him to his booth. "I can't believe they scheduled you until ten on fucking Christmas Eve, though!"
"Yeah, I know." Craig can practically hear the eye roll of the other person, who he's assuming is one of the waitresses. "I mean, they're paying me extra at least, but sometimes that's not even worth it."
"Oh, yeah," the hostess agrees, just as the sound of running water fills the room. "Especially since you've got the worst table of the night, hey?"
"I guess, I mean, he's not that bad. Definitely looks like a homeless guy, though, I doubt I'm gonna get a tip off of him."
"He scared the shit out of some kid when he walked in here, she called him a zombie." The hostess and the waitress burst into laughter.
Craig's heart sinks when he realizes she's talking about him, and he again looks down at his clothes. With a shaking hand, he reaches up to touch his hair, registering for the first time in a long while just how much grease is left on his fingertips and just how awful he must actually look. A few more tears drip down his cheeks and he covers his face with his hands, willing himself to keep it together and not give himself away. Just the thought of getting thrown out of Sorriso in front of Tweek because he'd walked into the wrong bathroom like a fucking reject from planet Dumbass makes him feel sick to his stomach.
After a few more minutes of conversation that Craig is too busy hating himself to hear, the hostess and the waitress leave the bathroom. Craig waits another minute after that before creaking the stall door open and cautiously moving towards the door, praying to God nobody else walks in to see him in here. Just as he reaches out for the handle, he automatically glances over to the wall of mirrors, like he usually does every time he leaves a public bathroom ever since that one time with the cockroaches at Raisins a few years back. Taking a stunned step back, running into the wall behind him, Craig immediately wants to throw up all the water he'd drunk earlier when he sees his reflection.
Zombie? Calling him a zombie was being nice. Craig looks like he's been thrown in a blender, pureed, tossed in the garbage, fed to fucking Cthulhu, and then reanimated as a dirty dumpster hobo. His eyes are bloodshot, he's got fucking raccoon circles, his hair is flat as shit and actually shiny from how dirty it is, and he literally looks like he got his outfit out of a box on the street.
Jesus Christ, and Tweek is here, Tweek has seen him looking like this, fuck. Craig's knees nearly give out underneath him but he grips the door handle tightly in his fist, willing himself to stay upright. Well, just in case he'd needed yet another reminder that he's fucking screwed, there it is, in plain sight, right there in the mirror. Tweek's probably sitting at that table with his actual friends thinking about how lucky he is that he'd dodged the bullet that is Craig fucking stupid moron dumbass Tucker.
Craig opens the bathroom door a fraction of an inch, and peeks out, desperately hoping that there's nobody around to see which door he comes out of. By some miraculous stroke of luck, just as he does that, the mens' bathroom door across from him opens too, and a group of older men file out, all of whom look like they're one red suit away from being dead ringers for Santa Claus, probably here for some kind of holiday convention or something, Craig doesn't really care. All he cares about is the fact that he can use them as a shield to get back to his table.
He slides into the booth with a silent sigh of relief, and picks up his menu, determined not to look in Tweek's direction again; even though it's killing him inside to not get at least one last look at everything he's lost, it hurts even more to look at everything he can't have. Craig flips the menu over, scanning the list of items, trying to find something small to order. Honestly, he just wants to leave, but after overhearing that conversation in the bathroom, he doesn't feel like he can walk out without getting at least something, and tipping well.
When his waitress comes by to ask him if he's finally decided on what he would like to order, Craig points to the picture of tiramisu, near the bottom of the menu. "Uh, I'll get, um, that," he says, nearly certain that if he tries to pronounce the word he's just going to fuck it up. The waitress gives him a curt nod, and takes the menu from him, very conspicuously holding it with just her thumb and index finger and walks away, looking a whole lot like she's off to throw that particular menu right into the trash, or light it on fire. Maybe both.
Craig pulls his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and having about two seconds to see that he doesn't have any missed notifications before the empty battery symbol blinks at him and it shuts off again. He sighs, tossing it onto the seat next to him and resting his elbows on the table, propping his head up in his hands. He closes his eyes, wishing he could just fast-forward through the next twenty minutes.
"Um… Craig?"
Before he even hears his name, just based on that small, 'um,' Craig recognizes Tweek's voice. His eyes fly open again and one of his elbows slips, his hand hitting the table with a loud smack. "Ow," he mutters, shaking his hand in the air like that will do anything to shake off the pain. He looks at Tweek, or, more accurately, at Tweek's right shoulder. He can't bring himself to look into his eyes again; he's terrified that if he does, he'll just start crying again. "Uh, h– wha– yeah?" He cycles through a few different words, having no idea what he's supposed to say.
Silently, Tweek holds out his hand, and Craig looks down to see his chullo laying in the blonde's open palm.
"Oh." Craig swallows. He'd never expected to see this hat again. He slowly reaches out to take it, making such a conscious effort not to touch Tweek's hand when he picks it up that he's reminded of that fucking stupid Operation game Token had been obsessed with in elementary school. He clenches the hat in his hand, but makes no move to put it on, completely distracted by the fact that with every breath he inhales, he can smell cinnamon and coffee. "Uh. Thunk– thanks."
"You're welcome."
Tweek's voice is soft, and almost…uncertain? Craig doesn't blame him; he looks totally unstable right now. He stares down at the chullo in his hand, expecting that to be it, and for Tweek to walk away from him without another word. He's so sure that's what's going to happen that when, in his peripheral vision, he sees Tweek slide into the seat across from him, Craig snaps his head up in shock so quickly he nearly gives himself whiplash.
"Craig, I…" Tweek blinks at him with those gorgeous, incredible, perfect green eyes, and takes a deep breath. "I think we should talk."