A/N:
Surpriiiiise! This is just an epilogue, or like a post-credits scene, if you will. I hope you enjoy.
A little less than an hour later, Craig is flat on his back on his bed, with his comforter spread out overtop of him, a position he's been in thousands of times. The difference between those times before and this time, though, is that Tweek is curled up right next to him, with his head resting on Craig's chest, just under the noirette's chin. The Santa hat he had been wearing is now balanced precariously on Craig's head instead, the purple bow that had once been attached to it long ago lost to God knows where. Underneath the blanket, Craig's left arm is wrapped loosely around Tweek's bare shoulders, and his right is dangling off the mattress, the tips of his fingers just barely grazing the fabric of Tweek's button-up, which has been lying on the floor for the better part of forty-five minutes.
Holy shit, is all that Craig can think, as he stares up at the ceiling, the words repeating over and over on a loop in his mind. He's just spent nearly an hour making out with the hottest guy to ever exist in the entire fucking universe. Him. Craig Tucker, the poster child for fucking dumbasses everywhere. He licks his lips, savoring the taste of cinnamon and coffee that is lingering on them, a taste that he is going to forever associate with the angel of a human lying next to him on the mattress.
It's taking every ounce of inner strength he has to keep himself still and not leap right up off his bed and go running up and down the halls yelling at the top of his lungs. He just still can't believe any of this is really happening. It doesn't make sense to him, any of it.
Honestly, he's still twelve percent worried that it's all a big, elaborate, horrible trick and that at any moment, Tweek is going to disintegrate into nothing and he's going to be alone again. Instinctively, Craig tightens his grip on Tweek's shoulders a little bit, that thought sending a chill up his spine, and his gaze drifts down to the blonde's golden hair, as messy and absolutely fucking perfect as ever. God, please, don't let that happen. Not now.
Tweek shifts a little bit so he can tilt his head up to look at Craig, his green eyes filled with so much concern that Craig is sure he can feel his heart literally melting. "Hey," he says softly. "You okay? Your heart's racing like crazy."
"Oh, uh, yeah." Craig can already feel himself blushing. God, what is it about Tweek being able to hear his heartbeat that makes it sound so fucking intimate? "I was just, um, thinking."
"About what?" Tweek sits up and scoots back a bit, the comforter falling to his waist when he leans against the headboard.
Craig tries in vain not to stare, because even he knows how creepy that is, but he just can't help it; every time he looks away it only takes a few seconds for his eyes to once again find their ways back to Tweek's upper body, the greatest distraction since the fifth Red Racer movie, the one with that infamous shower scene. Craig's pretty certain he's responsible for at least half of the total views of that scene on YouTube. Oh, shit, now he's thinking about Tweek being in that shower scene, and does that ever make him feel things, Jesus Christ.
Craig awkwardly pulls his knees up a little, adjusting the blanket so it's not laying so flat against his body and therefore has much less of a chance of betraying him. He's actually grateful Tweek still has his jeans on at the moment, otherwise he's not sure he'd be able to get any words out at all. "Oh," he says again, having every intention of answering the question Tweek had asked him, but then he frowns. "What's that?"
"What's what?" Tweek folds his arms over his chest, shivering slightly. Craig isn't sure if it's from nervousness or because he's cold. It's possible that the dorm room is chilly, on account of it being fucking December and all, but considering Craig feels like he's about a million degrees at the moment, it's impossible to tell.
He slides his body up against the headboard so he's level with Tweek, being careful to ensure that his lower half is still fully covered. "That," he says, reaching out to touch a spot just above Tweek's belly button. It's a small, almost circular area that looks to Craig like some kind of scar. From a burn, maybe?
Just before he makes contact with Tweek's body, his brain catches up with what his arm is doing and he freezes, his hand hovering in midair and making him look like one of those ridiculously posed K-Mart catalog models. And, since he's ninety-nine percent sure he's already had his hands all over every inch of Tweek's currently exposed skin within the last half hour alone, he knows he looks like an even bigger idiot than usual; and yet, he's so lost as to what to do now, not even a one step WikiHow article on moving your fucking arm would help him.
Tweek flinches, a faint shadow crossing his face. "Nothing," he answers, quickly. A little too quickly for it to actually be nothing. Craig's a melted puddle of moron whenever he's around Tweek, but even in moron puddle form he can hear the tiny tremble in the blonde's voice when he speaks. "It's nothing." He uncrosses his arms and takes Craig's weird hovering hand in his, gently guiding it over to rest on his hip, just above the waistband of his jeans. "Just don't worry about it," he says, his voice just above a whisper.
Oh, fuck. Craig's breath hitches in his throat, all of his senses immediately jumping straight to DEFCON 1. God, he's so weak for those fucking hips, and he hasn't even seen them without any of Tweek's clothing in the way. He swallows hard, desperately trying to stay focused. He really is genuinely concerned about what Tweek might not be telling him, but it's so fucking hard to think when Tweek is looking at him like that, through half-lidded eyes, his bottom lip caught between his teeth and his cheeks just barely tinged with pink. Jesus fucking Christ. Craig grips Tweek's hip a little bit tighter, unable to help himself.
"Tweek–" he starts, not even sure where the fuck he's planning on taking the rest of his sentence. He honestly can't even say for certain that there is a rest of the sentence. In fact, he doesn't even remember what the fuck a sentence is anymore. Words, and shit, or something. Semicolons. Who the fuck cares?
Tweek slides closer, reaching up to carefully cup Craig's face in his hands, studying his face intently for a moment. "I love your eyes," he says, blinking at the noirette through impossibly long eyelashes. "I've never seen ones like yours before."
"Yours, uh, are green," Craig says. The second the words leave his mouth, he cringes so hard the Santa hat tumbles off his head and all the way down to the floor. Godfuckingdammit. He'd meant to say something far more eloquent and romantic than that, Jesus Christ, like that Tweek's eyes are so fucking beautiful they literally take Craig's breath away every time he stares into them. But no, his idiot self apparently needs to just inform Tweek of his own eye color like it's new information and Tweek hasn't been fully aware of what his eyes look like his whole fucking life or anything.
The all-too familiar sense of humiliation creeps over him yet again, and Craig tries to turn away, possibly to go throw himself out the fucking window; but Tweek won't let him go. Instead, he moves his hands around to the back of Craig's head, carefully combing his fingers through his dark hair, and gives him a tender smile.
"I'm so glad I met you," the blonde murmurs, just before pulling Craig into another kiss.
Craig feels all of his limbs instantly weaken at the sensation of skin-on-skin contact when Tweek presses his torso up against his. Somehow his brain manages to fire a message off to his free arm, and he takes hold of Tweek's other hip, dipping two fingers just barely past the denim fabric of his jeans. A little whimper escapes Craig's mouth when Tweek cautiously runs his tongue along his lower lip, and, oh, God, yes, please, he's more than happy to grant him access.
Before he can think too much about it and second guess himself into oblivion, he's pulling the blonde on top of him the way he's dreamed about doing since the first time he'd laid eyes on him. Tweek straddles Craig's waist, sliding his hands back down to Craig's shoulders, kissing him with more urgency that Craig would have ever expected out of him. Not that he's complaining. God, no. Tweek nibbles at Craig's lower lip, eliciting a low moan from the noirette, who is absolutely content to let him do whatever the fuck he wants to him, from now until the end of time.
For just a second, there's a nagging feeling in the back of Craig's mind that he's totally spaced on something, but the thought is fleeting, disappearing entirely from his dazed brain before he's even fully aware of its existence.
Fuck it, he thinks, lightly running his fingertips up Tweek's bare back, oblivious to the small, scarred areas of skin that can be found there too. It couldn't have been that important.