It’s Craig who has Tweek’s clothes from way back when the Tucker residence acted as their main headquarters for beauty rituals, after they’d return with bags from the sale over at Express for Men. Without further ado, Tweek is handed an old pair of pants and one of his trademark green button-up shirts—they’re folded neatly, very unlike the way Tweek remembers tossing them before changing, and not at all like how they were kept at his own house. Without perfume on either of them, Tweek can take in the fresh scent of laundry soap, openly signaling that they’ve been washed recently.
“Thanks, man,” Tweek says, getting a simple nod of acknowledgement from Craig in return.
It’s kind of tense for a while. This feels different from changing in the gym locker rooms, but also nothing like playing dress up with his metrosexual friends. Tweek is inside one of the stalls, the door isn’t fully shut. Craig is outside, looking away from Tweek, holding garments Tweek hands him over, and making sure nobody else is coming in. He’s also what Tweek grabs for support when he almost loses his balance while trying to get both of his legs into his pants at the same time.
Eventually, he pushes the stall door open, and is greeted with Craig still facing away from him. “Rrgh—you can turn around now! It’s okay,” Tweek says, and Craig does face him again, getting a good look at Tweek before speaking up.
“That’s not okay,” Craig replies, and of fucking course it’s not. Tweek is wearing jeans, for god’s sake—they’re ripped, and not even fashionably. It’s just not okay for him to walk around like that. It’s not okay that he’s just expected to get used to things changing all over again, and it’s not okay for the two of them to be like this. He looks up at Craig to perhaps find the same judgmental gaze he already misses, before realizing Craig is in fact referring to the exposed parts of Tweek’s chest and stomach.
His buttons are all fucked up, which isn’t new or surprising, though it’s even worse than usual. In Tweek’s defense, he didn’t have to actually button up his shirt in a while, quickly getting used to the comfort that zippers offered at the time.
Apparently finding it unsalvageable, he proceeds to undo all the buttons and starts doing them from bottom to top. He’s doing it with intense concentration, an amount of focus Tweek wouldn’t be able to picture himself having towards anything— or never expect to be actually receiving.
It’s the same doting care, the sense that they’re sharing something special that others just can’t. It’s all just very familiar, it’s almost like things are still just like how they’ve always been, regardless of if his hands are covered with boxing gloves, moisturizer, or just dried glue and bandaids.
Perhaps that’s why after he’s done with the top button, Craig leans in, and Tweek also closes the distance between them, letting Craig’s thumb brush on his chin once again. Their faces are so close again now, but unlike before, there’s no perfume, no make-up, and a much stronger need— but also an invisible force snaps them out of the magnetic pull they’re in.
“Uh,” both of them let out at the same time before they both back away and avert their gaze—at least Tweek does. It’d be a good time for both of them to start laughing about old habits, but no nasal snort comes that his own raspy, awkward chuckle can follow. Instead, it’s just silence.
This time, Tweek wants to look more than anything. As his eyeballs wage a desperate war to gaze at Craig’s direction once more, he has to actively keep himself from giving in. It’s not an anxiety induced horror movie jumpscare he’s afraid of. Craig suddenly morphing into whatever monster he conjures up in his nightmares couldn’t compare to the sight of him not looking at Tweek back, or something even worse—their eyes actually meeting and all the implications that would arise out of it. He doesn’t want to face them, watch them grow and prosper, nor witness them crash and burn right before his eyes. Maybe it’s better that they never come to exist in the first place. Or maybe, he actually wants them to slip away from his sight and escape, hide and blend, continue to linger freely in the air and be buried deep and safe somewhere in the soil. All without him ever having to be aware, yet still patiently waiting to be freed. Today, though, nothing happens, and out of all the farewell gestures they’ve shared, this one ends up feeling the most like a Goodbye.
Because this can’t be their everyday anymore, and Tweek has to go and make peace with this fact, presumably all by himself. He exits the bathroom, Craig doesn’t follow him out of the door, and Tweek doesn’t look back at him. With every step he takes, he feels the distance between them grow and feed into the sudden whiplash he’s experiencing after being suddenly so far away— right after feeling closer than ever to Craig. Their faces being a hand span apart, and Craig’s neck and a small corner of his face being the only parts that make up the last glimpse Tweek has of him. Somehow, all of it felt even more intimate than when he's actually kissed him as part of a morning ritual. He keeps on walking, still reflecting on events that he knows he’ll be still thinking about when he’s playing basketball with Stan and Kyle and the other guys, and when Craig is in the other part of the playground talking about Space Trek or some shit with Kevin Stoley.
When they end up sitting a few desks away from each other in the same class, he feels Craig sneaking glances, unsure if it’s the result of some weird wishful thinking or just the usual paranoia—though in the end, it’s all the same, really. After all, everyone knows that Tweek makes stuff up. That he imagines things. So, even when he readjusts to normalcy and can’t recall the scent of Craig’s perfume anymore—he still finds himself wondering how Craig’s lips would taste without the chapstick or the lip gloss, and if he’ll ever get to find out, someday.
Re: Craig/Tweek, homoerotic tension, kissing, longing. with metro Creek
“Thanks, man,” Tweek says, getting a simple nod of acknowledgement from Craig in return.
It’s kind of tense for a while. This feels different from changing in the gym locker rooms, but also nothing like playing dress up with his metrosexual friends. Tweek is inside one of the stalls, the door isn’t fully shut. Craig is outside, looking away from Tweek, holding garments Tweek hands him over, and making sure nobody else is coming in. He’s also what Tweek grabs for support when he almost loses his balance while trying to get both of his legs into his pants at the same time.
Eventually, he pushes the stall door open, and is greeted with Craig still facing away from him. “Rrgh—you can turn around now! It’s okay,” Tweek says, and Craig does face him again, getting a good look at Tweek before speaking up.
“That’s not okay,” Craig replies, and of fucking course it’s not. Tweek is wearing jeans, for god’s sake—they’re ripped, and not even fashionably. It’s just not okay for him to walk around like that. It’s not okay that he’s just expected to get used to things changing all over again, and it’s not okay for the two of them to be like this. He looks up at Craig to perhaps find the same judgmental gaze he already misses, before realizing Craig is in fact referring to the exposed parts of Tweek’s chest and stomach.
His buttons are all fucked up, which isn’t new or surprising, though it’s even worse than usual. In Tweek’s defense, he didn’t have to actually button up his shirt in a while, quickly getting used to the comfort that zippers offered at the time.
Apparently finding it unsalvageable, he proceeds to undo all the buttons and starts doing them from bottom to top. He’s doing it with intense concentration, an amount of focus Tweek wouldn’t be able to picture himself having towards anything— or never expect to be actually receiving.
It’s the same doting care, the sense that they’re sharing something special that others just can’t. It’s all just very familiar, it’s almost like things are still just like how they’ve always been, regardless of if his hands are covered with boxing gloves, moisturizer, or just dried glue and bandaids.
Perhaps that’s why after he’s done with the top button, Craig leans in, and Tweek also closes the distance between them, letting Craig’s thumb brush on his chin once again. Their faces are so close again now, but unlike before, there’s no perfume, no make-up, and a much stronger need— but also an invisible force snaps them out of the magnetic pull they’re in.
“Uh,” both of them let out at the same time before they both back away and avert their gaze—at least Tweek does. It’d be a good time for both of them to start laughing about old habits, but no nasal snort comes that his own raspy, awkward chuckle can follow. Instead, it’s just silence.
This time, Tweek wants to look more than anything. As his eyeballs wage a desperate war to gaze at Craig’s direction once more, he has to actively keep himself from giving in. It’s not an anxiety induced horror movie jumpscare he’s afraid of. Craig suddenly morphing into whatever monster he conjures up in his nightmares couldn’t compare to the sight of him not looking at Tweek back, or something even worse—their eyes actually meeting and all the implications that would arise out of it. He doesn’t want to face them, watch them grow and prosper, nor witness them crash and burn right before his eyes. Maybe it’s better that they never come to exist in the first place. Or maybe, he actually wants them to slip away from his sight and escape, hide and blend, continue to linger freely in the air and be buried deep and safe somewhere in the soil. All without him ever having to be aware, yet still patiently waiting to be freed. Today, though, nothing happens, and out of all the farewell gestures they’ve shared, this one ends up feeling the most like a Goodbye.
Because this can’t be their everyday anymore, and Tweek has to go and make peace with this fact, presumably all by himself. He exits the bathroom, Craig doesn’t follow him out of the door, and Tweek doesn’t look back at him. With every step he takes, he feels the distance between them grow and feed into the sudden whiplash he’s experiencing after being suddenly so far away— right after feeling closer than ever to Craig. Their faces being a hand span apart, and Craig’s neck and a small corner of his face being the only parts that make up the last glimpse Tweek has of him. Somehow, all of it felt even more intimate than when he's actually kissed him as part of a morning ritual. He keeps on walking, still reflecting on events that he knows he’ll be still thinking about when he’s playing basketball with Stan and Kyle and the other guys, and when Craig is in the other part of the playground talking about Space Trek or some shit with Kevin Stoley.
When they end up sitting a few desks away from each other in the same class, he feels Craig sneaking glances, unsure if it’s the result of some weird wishful thinking or just the usual paranoia—though in the end, it’s all the same, really. After all, everyone knows that Tweek makes stuff up. That he imagines things. So, even when he readjusts to normalcy and can’t recall the scent of Craig’s perfume anymore—he still finds himself wondering how Craig’s lips would taste without the chapstick or the lip gloss, and if he’ll ever get to find out, someday.