Author's Notes: Hooray, second chapter! Hugs and thanks to every one of you wonderful people who reviewed/watched/favorited this. I am really impressed that people are even giving Mark/Craig a chance. Hopefully we will be able to keep you guys into it for longer than just the first chapter, haha 3 Anyway, thanks, and here is more of Craig being a sandy butthole with emotional issues:
Craig knocked twice before bursting through Clyde's bedroom door. There was a very good chance he would be naked or in some sort of horrifyingly compromising situation with himself, but it was a risk Craig was willing to take. He had places to be and he would be damned if Clyde was going to slow him down with any accidental nudity.
"Jesus Christ, man," Clyde scolded as he pulled a worn Zelda shirt over his scruffy head. "I could have been jacking it or something. I mean, I usually do that in the shower so you'd be safe, but Jesus Christ all the same."
Craig, unaffected by this information, tapped his foot on the carpet, arms folded. "Speed it up, fatty, we gotta get going."
Clyde grunted in reply and zipped up his hoodie, shoving past him and thudding groggily down the stairs.
"Where are you going?" Craig asked, when he saw that Clyde was not bolting for the door, but was instead making a bee-line toward the refrigerator.
"I am getting breakfast. It's what humans do in the morning before they go to their human schools," Clyde mumbled, still half-asleep. "I'm making a sausage biscuit, you want one?"
Craig rushed into the kitchen, grabbed a half-empty box of S'mores Pop-Tarts from the cabinet and threw them at him. "You're going to eat these in the car and you're going to like it."
Clyde looked down at them, shrugged, then followed him out the door.
To Craig's relief, Tweek was already waiting outside for them when they reached his house, steaming thermos in hand and hood pulled up over his head. He slipped into the back, settling comfortably amongst the dirty sweaters and fast food detritus. Unlike with Clyde, Craig waited until he was fully in the car before pulling out of his driveway.
"See, Tweek knows how to be ready. He's not an idiot failure who can't button his own pants by himself," Craig said, shaking slightly. He couldn't figure out if it was adrenaline or the energy drink he had downed before he left the house, but he didn't think too hard on it. Insulting Clyde was easier than thinking.
Clyde turned to Tweek, who had also begun to shake, not unlike a frightened dog. "Don't mind Craig. He's having emotional problems right now."
"When isn't he?" Tweek mumbled, lips pressed against the lid of his thermos. He twitched slightly.
Clyde laughed. "Tweek made a joke, Craig. You should stop being a sandy butthole for a couple of minutes and appreciate this rare occurrence."
Craig looked into the rear-view mirror and nodded at Tweek in congratulations, before stepping harder on the gas pedal.
A number of screams and sharp turns later, Craig screeched to a halt in the school parking lot. He eschewed their typical parking space (farthest left, four spaces up from the very end) and instead chose one closer to the doors. When he got out of the car, he saw that one of the rear wheels had made it into the adjacent parking space, but Craig disregarded this fact entirely.
"Okay, something is seriously wrong with you," Clyde said, helping an incredibly shaken Tweek out of the back seat.
"I'm fiiine," Craig replied, shoving the key into the lock with a shaking hand before Tweek had even shut the door behind him.
"What the fuck, man, are you on caffeine pills again? You're manic. It's scaring Tweek." Clyde narrowed his eyes at Craig, inspecting him carefully. Tweek was clutching his thermos as though it were the only thing keeping him from running away, screaming. It probably was.
"What? No, I'm fine, let's just go." Craig gave the parking lot one last scan with his eyes, then power-walked to the double doors. He caught Clyde's eye again. "No seriously, I'm awesome."
Clyde raised an eyebrow, looking thoroughly unconvinced. "Whatever you say, broseph."
.o.o.o.
The last five minutes of English class crawled. He reread the writing on the board for the eleventh time, then looked down at the notes he had taken, adorned with frustrated scribbles and a very bad rendition of he thought the monster from LOST should have looked like. It was part monster truck and part dinosaur. Regardless, it was not his best work. Snyder's voice droned in the background as he watched the last two minutes count down, eyes fixed solidly on the black and white clock face. About forty seconds before the clock hit 8:45, however, the bell rang, shattering his intense concentration. His shout of surprise joined Tweek's usual yelp, but he didn't let himself wallow in embarrassment as he usually would have. He had places to be. He didn't even bother to say goodbye to Token and instead slipped stealthily out the door and began jogging to chemistry class.
When Clyde caught up to him, he grabbed the strap of his bag, wheezing. "What the fuck, man. You are high. There is no way you aren't high. Is it Meth? Do I need to be worried?"
Craig snorted derisively and hesitated for a beat before he opened the door. He felt his insides do some sort of complicated figure skating move when he saw that Mark was already there. He smiled unconsciously when Mark caught his eye and went to say something, but realized that his brain had ceased to form coherent thoughts and was now just making a loud, disorienting buzzing noise.
Mark smirked at him, nodding from across the room in greeting. "Hey, Craig."
Craig stared, quickly realized he was staring, then stared some more because he wasn't sure what else to do. Opening his mouth again, he managed to choke out a strangled, "Yeah," but it sounded more like a quiet squeak than proper words. He cleared his throat to try again, but decided against it and sat down. He didn't trust himself to not throw up.
Mark just grinned, then turned back to Tommy Turner, who he had been chatting with rather amiably.
Clyde tugged on his hat strings, pulling the blue chullo hat down over his eyes. "Craig, me and Tweek love you and we are only worried for your safety. Aren't we, Tweek?"
Tweek whined.
"See? If you're selling your body to afford Meth, you can tell us. Okay, maybe you should spare Tweek the sordid details because I think it would break his fragile little heart, but I doubt I'd be too surprised."
Craig groaned, tearing off his hat to stuff into his bag. However, he realized that his hair probably looked terrible, so he pulled it back onto his head.
"No, I am not selling my body for Meth and I am not high," he hissed quietly. "I just had an energy drink this morning and also you're an asshole."
Clyde patted him on the shoulder. "That's all we wanted to hear. Whoops, here comes Skeletor. Time to zone out to thoughts of Arwen in a chainmail bikini to keep myself from shoving a pencil in my jugular."
Snorting with mock contempt, Craig rested his head in his hands. His gaze strayed to Mark. He watched intently as Mark slipped quietly into his chair and, after a few moments, pulled out his paperback. Craig still couldn't see exactly what it was, but he saw that he was at least a few more chapters in than he was before.
He blinked, wondering if it was weird that he realized this. It was, he decided, and after sneaking another sheepish look at Mark, he tried to busy himself with something that didn't make him feel like a total creeper. It was a losing battle.
After roll call—which Craig had managed to only barely survive without trying to bludgeon himself in the head with his textbook—the teacher plunged the class headfirst into a lesson that Craig was sure would have been incredibly understimulating if he hadn't gone back to staring at Mark. He scribbled idle circles in his notebook, watching Mark writing what he assumed were actual notes. The way Mark sat reeked of security and slight boredom, as though he were only here because there was nothing better to do. His hair fell into his slender face, obscuring his long, straight nose, his lips parted very slightly in concentration as he wrote. Craig rubbed his own nose self-consciously, blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes. There was something about Mark's face that made him feel vaguely...insignificant.
When the bell rang, Craig stretched and leaned back in his seat, giving up the break before their lab to continue his (admittedly creepy) study of Mark's classroom habits. He watched him pull out his paperback and squinted, trying to catch the cover before he flipped it open, but failed. He sighed, entertaining ideas of just going up to him and asking him what he was reading, but quickly realized that he would rather cut off his own hand than make a fool of himself again.
"Are you feeling better yet?" Clyde asked from over Craig's shoulder. "You aren't shaking anymore and it looks like you're actually paying atte—" Clyde paused. "Nevermind, you've just been drawing the whole time. Regardless, I'm pleased that you've made a speedy recovery."
Craig just grunted in reply, taking one last look at Mark before turning around in his chair. "Hey, you weren't paying any attention by any chance, were you?"
"Marginally. I have some notes." Clyde passed them forward. "Ignore the stick figure drawings of myself and Arwen making out on the back of one of those giant eagles from Lord of the Rings; it was all I could do to stay sane."
Eyes skimming the hastily scribbled notes, he handed them back. "You are shit at drawing. Also, these notes suck."
Clyde shrugged. "Whatevs, we'll just copy off of Tweek again."
"Ergh," Tweek choked. "My notes are terrible. You'll fail. We'll have to take this class again and we'll all have to deal with Mr. Bloom for another year and then you'll end up with lasting psychological damage and it will be my fault because my notes are really, really bad. You'll hate me forever."
Clyde twisted around in his seat to pat him affectionately on the head. "All for one, one for all. I'm sure they're fine."
Whimpering, Tweek handed over his notebook. The shaky, disorganized writing filled the page, which set Clyde and Craig at ease. At least half of it would be useless, but the other half would probably be enough to keep them from failing miserably on their next test.
"Good man," Clyde said, handing it back as the bell rang. Tweek stifled a yelp, burying his face in his sleeves as people filtered back into the classroom.
After the class had settled, Mr. Bloom cleared his throat at the front of the room, staring over the students as he waited for them to quiet. Craig was impressed, though unsurprised, at how quickly they did so. He shuddered.
"This is the lab portion of your chemistry class," Mr. Bloom said, looking out over the classroom. "As you all know, we will be working with things that can, and probably will, injure at least half of the students in this class."
Craig heard Tweek wheeze fearfully from behind Clyde and made a mental note to not allow him to handle anything that could possibly hurt him, although he assumed Tweek would make sure of that himself. He only half-payed attention as safety measures were gone over, eyes again straying to Mark, who had since put his paperback away entirely.
"Before we start our first lab, you are all going to pick your lab partners for the year," Mr. Bloom said as he set a box of safety goggles on his desk. "Choose wisely, because I don't care if you end up hating whoever you pick."
"Okay, Tweek," Craig turned around lazily, but stopped when he saw that both Clyde and Tweek were already standing. Together.
Tweek caught Craig's eye, then slipped quickly behind Clyde, thin fingers gripping Clyde's sleeve.
"Yeah, about that," Clyde said, scratching his head. "I'm taking Tweek this time."
Tweek peered out from behind Clyde's shoulder. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I trust you less with dangerous chemicals than I do Clyde. You've been sort of..."
"Manic and unpredictable," Clyde finished for Tweek.
"Yes, manic and unpredictable, and quite frankly, I'd like to not die in this class." Tweek paused. "I-if that's alright with you."
Craig just stared at them. "I'm going to kill Token."
Clyde gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat. "Before you do that, you should probably find a lab partner first. God forbid you end up with Biggle."
"Shit," Craig said, looking around the room. Most of the students had already paired off, including Red, who he cursed inwardly as just as bad as her traitor boyfriend, as well as Pip, who he had been surprised to see, since he hadn't noticed him slip into to either English class or Chemistry. Unconsciously, he saw that Mark was still free, though he was sure there would have to be another, less terrible choice.
"Heya, Craig!"
Feeling his heart almost stop, Craig snuck a glance at the source of the voice, though he knew he would regret it. Much to his terror, Butters was standing only a couple yards away, hand waving blithely and braces gleaming in a way that could only be described as "ominously" in the florescent lighting. A shock of horror ran through him as he felt them make eye-contact.
It had seemed like the best thing to do at the time—to climb over two rows of desks and to stop in front of Mark, breathing heavily, eyes wild and frightened.
"MARK," he wheezed. Mark looked up at him, bewildered into silence. "Lab...partners."
Mark raised his eyebrows, took a look around the classroom, then nodded slowly, standing up from his desk. Through the unintelligible screaming in his head, Craig noticed that Mark was a lot taller than he thought he was. Craig shifted awkwardly and averted his eyes, disliking how incredibly small he felt at the moment.
Without speaking, the two of them found their place at one of the lab tables in the back. Craig let Mark pick where they sat, which, to his dismay, was on the other side of the room from Clyde. He stared longingly at Clyde as he helped Tweek adjust his safety goggles, wishing he could punch him in the gut, but also wanting cling to him like a sad baby lemur clings to its stupid, fat mama lemur.
"Here," Mark said, handing him a pair of goggles. Craig cringed, realizing he had not only forgotten them, but Mark had been attentive enough to get an extra pair for him.
"Uh. Yeah," Craig stammered out, pulling them over his eyes, careful not to get them caught in his hat strings.
Mark looked at him with an expression that Craig could only assume was contempt, probably mingled with pity and regret. It did not sit well in Craig's stomach and he was fairly certain that if the teacher didn't tell them what to do very, very soon, he was going to throw up and pass out.
Luckily, after the class had finally settled, Mr. Bloom explained their lab in excruciating detail, writing things on the board as he went. Craig found the depressing effect of Bloom's voice strangely calming as he pointedly avoided Mark's eye. Boiling solutions and predicting their boiling points. It sounded easy enough, though somewhere in the back of his mind, he couldn't help but play all sorts of scenarios that involved him spilling molten saline solution all over himself, or—an even more horrifying possibility—all over Mark.
He suppressed a groan of despair and squirmed uncomfortably on the too-hard wooden stool, feeling like an idiot as Mark organized everything they needed to do. He thought to possibly offer his help, but found that his jaw refused to unlock long enough to blurt out something stupid. Perhaps it was for the better. This was already starting to play out like a bad movie—he didn't want to further tempt fate by speaking.
"Can you take down numbers while I watch the burner?" Mark asked, looking up at him briefly as he fiddled with the Bunsen burner. He still looked highly unimpressed with the entire situation.
"Yeah," Craig said, swallowing thickly.
"Did you predict the boiling points yet?" Mark didn't bother to look at him this time, sticking their thermometer into the beaker of water.
"What? Oh. Uh," Craig frowned, looking down at the blank piece of notebook paper in front of him.
Mark covertly rolled his eyes and slid his paper over to him. "I've done this already. They're a few degrees off so it doesn't look like I've cheated," he said, letting Craig copy the answers down. When he finished, he pulled it back.
Craig cleared his throat again, watching Mark stare idly at the beaker as he waited for it to boil. "So, uh. What are you doing in a junior class?" Craig asked, though he quickly regretted it, as Mark was looking up at him again. It wasn't that he was looking at him with any sort of derisiveness, so much as he was just looking at him.
"Huh? Oh, I'm taking it as an elective. They keep trying to get me into more art classes, but I argued my way in," Mark replied, then sighed and grimaced when the burner went out. "Hell..."
"Oh," Craig said, foot wriggling nervously against the leg of the stool. "That's, uh. That sucks," he added. He watched Mark light the burner again, then wondered if he was supposed to be doing something other than sit there and look like an asshole. He glanced over at Clyde again, who seemed to be taking care of the lab on his own with a sort of competency that made Craig feel even more useless.
"Ninety eight degrees Celsius," Mark said, pulling the beaker off of the burner with a pair of tongs.
"What?" Craig looked up, eyes wide. He had no idea what Mark was talking about.
"Just write it down for water," Mark sighed, setting the next beaker in place. He looked incredibly bored as he waited for it to boil, chin resting on the heel of his hand as his grey eyes watched the burner with little interest. Craig couldn't help but notice that his nails were very, very clean.
Feeling as though he needed to either do or say something to break the terrible silence—something that didn't involve screaming or setting himself on fire—Craig cleared his throat. He tapped the table gently with his pencil, trying to coax words from his mind and out of his mouth.
"So like, what's been up with you?" he asked, partly because it seemed like the most benign thing to say.
Mark looked up at him again. "Since we last spoke? Oh, loads of things. Middle school, high school," Mark replied, his voice too disengaged to sound properly sarcastic. He seemed to take pity on Craig, though, because he smirked slightly as his eyes went back to the beaker. "Nothing of interest, though. My little sister is ready to graduate from the community college this year and I'm still trying to get in my last few courses to graduate high school."
Craig frowned, unsure of how to reply. "That's...that's cool. I mean, Rebecca, not you having to..." he trailed off when Mark wrote down something on his paper and pulled the beaker off to cool.
Mark looked up as he was setting up the next one. "If it's alright with you, I'll just take down the numbers and you can copy them after."
Craig nodded, hesitating a beat too long before he replied. "Yeah, that's, uh, that's fine."
"Say, do you smell burning toast by any chance?" Mark asked, looking up at him again.
Craig hesitantly sniffed the air. "No?"
Mark smiled. "Good. Just checking."
Feeling a sort of intense urge to crawl under the table and shake uncontrollably, Craig clenched his teeth against any other floods of stupidity that might suddenly spew uncontrollably from his mouth. He resolved to keep quiet for the next twenty-four minutes, only opening his mouth to haltingly thank Mark for giving him the last few answers. Craig felt an overwhelming rush of relief flood over him when the bell finally rang, standing so quickly he almost knocked his stool over. He didn't even wait for Mark to say goodbye as he quickly collected his things and sped out the door.
He avoided speaking for most of the day, trying his hardest not to replay the earlier events in his head. It was only until seventh period that he had managed his vow of silence, however, though he could have gladly wallowed in shame for the rest of the day uninterrupted.
"Me gusta tacos y chalupas. Te gusta tacos y chalupas, Craig? Te gusta las chalupas spectacularrrres?" Clyde tugged again at one of Craig's hat-strings, warranting an irritable swat of Craig's hand. "Craig? Ground control to Major Craig. CRAIG!"
"Jesus, what?" Craig blurted, swatting again, though Clyde had already removed his hand from Craig's hat. "What do you want?"
"We are practicing Spanish. This is a group assignment." Clyde rested his chin in his hands. "I question your commitment to the group, Craig."
Grunting, Craig idly flipped through his textbook, not really reading any of the words.
"Clyde, you aren't even doing the assignment," Token said, squinting at the board. "Also, I don't even know if that was proper Spanish."
"Me gusta muuuchooo," Clyde cackled.
Token just rolled his eyes.
"Okay, okay, fine," Clyde relented. "Token, you take control of this assignment. It's kind of your job, considering the fact that you have been promoted to leader of this group due to your outstanding intelligence and good judgment."
"Like I have any choice," Token replied.
"With great power comes great responsibility," Clyde said, garnering another roll of Token's eyes.
"I appreciate the promotion, but I'm still trying to figure out what the hell we're supposed to be doing for this assignment," Token muttered, leafing through the textbook as Tweek leaned over to watch.
"Some leader you are," Clyde replied, before leaning over to bother Craig again. "Hey," he whispered, with surprising subtlety.
"What?" Craig asked in a low voice.
"You wanna talk while Token and Tweek do our work for us?"
Craig frowned. "Why are you asking me if I want to talk?"
"I can still hear you, so stop fucking around and help me with this," Token sighed, tugging at a short dreadlock in frustration. He raised his hand to call the teacher over.
Clyde caught Craig's eye once more, giving him a severe look. "We aren't done here," he muttered under his breath, before smiling at the teacher.
Much to Craig's dismay, Clyde was correct in his assertion that they weren't finished with their conversation, and once Tweek had been dropped off at his house, Clyde cleared his throat. He looked over at Craig, arms folded, face all business. Serious business.
"You are having problems and you are going to tell me why," he demanded in a matter-of-fact way that made Craig just sort of look at him stupidly. "Did I stutter? Talk. Now."
Craig's hands gripped the steering wheel. He stared at the road intently, brows furrowed. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit," Clyde replied, running his hands through his hair exasperatedly. "It's that Mark guy, isn't it? You're freaking out about him."
"What?" Craig looked over at him, legitimately startled. He squeezed the steering wheel so hard it hurt, forcing his eyes back to the road. "No, what the hell. Why would I give a shit about him?"
"Gosh, Craig, I don't know. It probably has something to do with the fact that whenever you look at him you look like you're going to run up to him and throw up all over his shoes." Clyde rolled down the window to hang his arm out of it. "You know who you're acting like?"
Craig suddenly felt as though his insides were going to force themselves out of his mouth. His mind had gone instinctively to Stan Marsh's habit of projectile vomiting whenever he was having strong feelings about basically anything—a habit at its most noticeable when it came to his feelings about girls. Craig was seconds away from pulling over to throw up and cry in Clyde's arms, but waited for him to finish, keeping his jaw clamped shut.
"Fucking Batman," Clyde continued and Craig exhaled sharply, suddenly thankful that Clyde's brain was such an unbelievably ridiculous place. "You're all stoic and shit, and then one thing will send you off and you're fucking freaking out on the fucking Joker because he reminded you of your dead parents or some shit."
Craig looked over at him and burst out into near-hysterical laughter. "First of all, what the fuck? Second of all, I don't know, he just freaks me out for some reason."
"Are you still hung up on him skipping a grade and leaving you out in the cold or something? Because I'm pretty sure he didn't do it just to ruin your life."
Craig frowned, his brain grappling to accept this as the truth. He breathed deep and went with it, because it sounded logical enough—logical, and above all, safe. It was understandable that he was upset that Mark had practically abandoned him. It made perfect sense. Perfect, sensible sense, which Craig was not going to question in any capacity, because he was sure that if he did, he would end up thinking and feeling all sorts of things he did not want to. He let it be.
"Yeah, I guess so. I kind of hated him for, like, years after he ditched me so, like, I'm still mad or whatever," Craig mumbled, nodding as he pulled up to Clyde's driveway. Yes, it made total sense when he said it aloud. Not strange at all.
Clyde watched him for a few beats before he opened the door. "You sure you don't want to hang out for awhile? There's half a meatloaf in our fridge with your name on it."
It was tempting, but Craig shook his head. "Tomorrow, okay? I'm still worn the fuck out from getting up so goddamn early."
Clyde hesitated, then got out. "If you need to talk about anything, I'm here, okay?"
Craig rolled his eyes and grinned. "God, you are such a massive pussy. How do you live with yourself?"
"That's Mr. Pussy to you," Clyde said matter-of-factly before he closed the door and walked slowly up the driveway, almost as though he were expecting Craig to run after him.
The smile on Craig's face faded as he took his foot off the break and began the short drive home, wondering if he should just turn around. He sighed and decided against it, looking forward to another weak screwdriver and another night of trying his hardest not to think about anything at all.