Chapter Text
Craig doesn’t even know why he came to this stupid thing. Hanging out in the gymnasium at South Park High wasn’t his idea of a good time then, and it isn’t now. The playlist of 90s and 2000s bangers crackling through the overhead speakers only adds to the very specific flavor of painful nostalgia.
It feels vaguely like being transported back in time to a high school dance, except now the gym is filled with a bunch of tipsy almost-30-year-olds. And it’s brightly lit and decorated with “class reunion” themed banners instead of glittery streamers and mood lighting that was actually really weird in retrospect.
He didn’t think Tweek would show. Part of him still thought Tweek might even be dead.
Craig had played out so many different scenarios in his head over the years. A call from some random hospital, hearing about it through the grapevine of South Park, maybe a Facebook post or a news headline on his phone.
He always thought that the prospect of Tweek dying was maybe too fucked up. Like he’d have a Star Wars moment and feel it in the force or something if that actually had happened. But ten years was a long time to not hear from someone that was … well, your entire life at one point. And gone the next. Believing that he was dead was maybe easier. Because him not being dead meant that he really just. Didn’t talk to Craig for a whole fucking decade.
And now here he is. Walking into the crappily decorated gym for their 10 year High School Reunion. Looking nervous, as he should.
Craig’s heart isn’t racing. It’s fucking sinking.
Craig had told himself that he’d be fine whether he saw him tonight or not. Didn’t matter what happened because so much time has passed that it feels like a different universe. But now, he feels like he can’t breathe and his neck is getting sweaty. In an effort to regulate his escalating body temperature, he rolls up the sleeves of his navy button-down.
He pretends to be interested in watching Clyde and his wife teach Butters how to do some dance that was viral before tik tok dances were a thing. Acts like he hasn’t been monitoring the gym entrance from the moment he got here.
Kenny, who is also standing in their small circle, catches Craig’s shift in energy and looks up to see Tweek standing on the other side of the gym, talking to Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski like it’s the most casual thing in the world. Craig watches with silent horror as Kenny’s face lights up and he calls out to them, jogging over to join.
…Okay. That’s fine. He’s here. It’s whatever. Craig knew this was a possibility tonight. It’s a fucking high school reunion. And it would be stupid to deny the tiny part of himself that was maybe a little hopeful that Tweek would come.
Craig barely glances up again, just barely– fuck. Tweek is already looking at him. They catch eyes for half a second before Tweek quickly looks back to Stan, Kyle, and now Kenny. So yes. They’ve both seen each other now.
And they both looked away like a couple of pussies.
Craig’s grip on his beer tightens and he takes a few big gulps.
“I’ll be right back,” he mumbles, abruptly leaving the small group of his former classmates he’s standing amongst. They stop watching Clyde do the dougie long enough to see Craig disappear into the men’s restroom at the back corner of the gymnasium.
Craig pushes open the bathroom door and locks himself in the farthest stall. He sits on the toilet lid. Elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
He takes a deep breath. Caught in a loop of ‘why the fuck did I come,’ ‘this was a mistake.' Conflicting thoughts. I should talk to him– I shouldn’t. I should go home– I should chill. This isn’t a big deal– yes it fucking is.
Trying to stave off the dramatic flashback sequence, but ah. There’s that old wound again. The one that he put a thousand bandaids over and let fester until it scarred over. Thick and sore still when it gets hit the right way. And boy, is it getting hit the right fucking way.
Fucking Tweek.
Ugh.
Suddenly, Craig isn’t sitting in the bathroom stall with his head in his hands. He’s sitting on his own bed. Eighteen again.
Tweek was pacing manically around Craig’s room, scratching at his arms. Yelling.
“You think I want to be like this?! You think I enjoy freaking out? Losing time? Hurting myself?! I didn’t– rrgh, I didn’t ask to be a fucking meth head!”
“I didn’t ask to be a fucking babysitter.”
Craig remembers his own cold voice and Tweek flinching at his comment like he was hit.
They fought so much in those final days.
Fuck. It all comes rushing back. Like a shitty little VHS tape with every shitty little memory that Craig spent 10 years burying, fast-forwarding in his head and he’s forced to watch.
All the times he sat on the bathroom floor with Tweek while he clawed at his own face. Holding him while he cried hysterically. Screaming at his parents.
All the times Tweek wouldn’t tell him where he was going. Begging Tweek not to lie to him.
All the skipped hangouts, the unanswered calls. The things Craig gave up to try to keep shit together.
All the days spent feeling like the world was ending.
Craig’s little internal cassette tape viewing abruptly stops at another memory in his bedroom.
It was middle of the night. Tweek was lying next to him. Curled up on his side, facing the wall. His breathing was uneven. Neither of them were asleep.
Craig was staring up at the ceiling. Still dotted with stupid little glow in the dark stars that they put up together when they were children. A knot in his chest when he asked,
“Are you awake?”
“Yeah,” Tweek had responded softly. Muffled in the pillow.
“You didn’t drink your coffee this morning.”
“I didn’t feel like it.”
Craig had chewed on one of the metal studs in his lip and nodded to himself absently, even though Tweek couldn’t see it. Tweek was lying. Didn’t feel like it? He always felt like it. That was the problem.
“Where’d you go earlier?” Craig had asked. “You were supposed to meet me after class.”
“I forgot,” Tweek replied too quickly.
“Right.”
Silence again. Tension was filling all of the spaces of their fucked up little world. It made Tweek restless. He turned onto his back but still couldn’t look directly at Craig.
“You’re mad at me,” Tweek said to the stars on the ceiling.
“I’m tired,” Craig replied flatly. So exhausted.
“Same thing.”
Craig turned his head to look at the sliver of Tweek’s profile in the moonlight. His messy blonde hair and his fingernails in his teeth.
“Are we good?” Craig asked quietly.
Tweek didn’t answer right away. Craig remembers that heavy pause so well– maybe that was the moment that the world had turned on its axis.
“You mean like… us?” Tweek finally said.
“Yeah.”
Another pause. Longer this time. Before Tweek’s cracked voice said, “I don’t know.”
Craig wanted to argue. He wanted to ask why. But he already knew. He joined Tweek in stargazing at the ceiling. He couldn’t bear to look directly at him when he asked,
“Do you still love me?”
At that question, Tweek finally turned around to fully face him. His eyes were wide and red. Eyebrows furrowed. He looked panicked, but honest.
“Of course I do. Jesus, Craig.”
“Then why do you keep doing this shit to me?”
Tweek didn’t cry that time. Just huddled close and tucked his head against Craig’s chest. Unable to look him in the eye when he told him he didn’t mean to, he didn’t mean to, he just didn’t know how to stop–
Ugh.
The crummy VHS tape in Craig's brain starts to slow and he tries to eject it, but he sees his 18-year-old self wrapping his arms around his drug addicted boyfriend. Sees them holding each other tightly. Not because it fixed anything, but because it was all they could think to do.
Craig presses his palms to his eyes and stands abruptly. Movie’s over. Get it together.
Brain wiped clear, he huffs and emerges from the toilet stall with a renewed sensibility. He finds a sink that works amongst the lineup on the bathroom wall, and splashes cold water on his face. Stares at himself in the mirror. God, he feels old right now. And he’s still ruminating over his high school ex-boyfriend. Jesus Christ.
The door creaks open. Craig sees it in the mirror.
He looks down. Doesn’t turn around, but he hears the footsteps. He already knows it’s him. That’s how fate works.
“Hey.”
Craig closes his eyes, frozen. His chest tightens.
“Sorry for following you in here,” Tweek says softly. Apologetically. His voice still sounds so sweet. It’s overwhelming to hear after so long. “I just thought it would be easier to have our uh, first encounter somewhere that wasn’t in front of a bunch of spectators.”
Craig grips the sink, head down. He exhales through his nose, jaw clenched tight. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he stiffly replies.
The buzzing of the harsh fluorescent lights in the bathroom is deafening.
Tweek is still standing in the doorway like he’s afraid to approach, maybe debating running back out into traffic. He clears his throat.
“You… uh. You look good.”
Craig glances up to Tweek’s reflection in the mirror, caught off guard. He says the only thing he can think of to say back.
“You do too.”
Silence. They stare at each other through the mirror, like the glass is some sort of filter that shields them from the full weight of real eye contact.
Jaw going slack, Craig’s eyes roam instinctively. He takes in the shape of Tweek’s shoulders under his tan corduroy jacket, his height that hasn’t changed at all, the mess of blonde hair that he used to run his hands through. It’s just a little longer than he used to wear it, a stubby ponytail at the back of his head. His face is still cute, if not a bit sharper with a couple more lines under his eyes. He does look older. Wiser, even. Or maybe that’s just what drugs do to your appearance. Craig doesn’t know. It’s too much. He looks back down at the sink before his staring becomes an issue of dignity.
Tweek shifts on his feet a little before walking to stand in front of the horizontal stretch of mirror next to Craig, at a respectable distance of course. He initially joins him in looking down into the sink, but his gaze slowly wanders over to Craig’s hands.
“I didn’t think you’d come to this,” he says nervously.
“I didn’t think you’d still be alive,” Craig deadpans.
Tweek laughs too loudly in response. “Y-yeah, fair.”
Their gazes are both downcast. It’s hard to look at one another. Craig can’t help but feel standoffish. They’re both trying so hard to be normal, trying to read one another after not interacting since they were teenagers. Trying to gauge how much the other has changed. Totally chill and not hard to navigate at all.
“I’m, uh… sober,” Tweek announces because what the fuck else is he supposed to say to his ex-boyfriend that he ghosted ten years ago to go do drugs? “Been clean for almost seven years now.”
Craig nods slowly. He wants to say congrats, or I’m proud of you, or how have you been sober for this fucking long and not contacted me at all you fucking asshole– but instead he just says,
“Cool.”
“Yeah,” Tweek replies. “Super cool. Real cool of me.”
Craig breathes out a dry laugh. Barely a laugh. A ghost of one.
“So, what do you do now then?”
As if Tweek didn’t have any interests outside of drugs. He has this kind of defensive look about him that he’s trying to cover up with an amused smile. “Um, a few different things. I live in a co-op kind of situation. Got really into gardening and silversmithing.”
Wow. What eclectic hobbies. Craig isn’t impressed because the idea of Tweek picking up new interests without him admittedly pisses him off a little.
“Oh. Neat,” Craig replies dryly.
Tweek scrunches his nose and chews his lip. “What about you?”
Summoning some strength, Craig wills himself to loosen up a little. His nerves are slowly calming down now that the ice is broken, but God damn. “I opened up an auto shop here in South Park. Pretty boring, but I get to be in charge of myself. So that’s cool.”
“Wow,” Tweek says with a genuine smile, looking far cuter than Craig is prepared to deal with. “Well you like boring, so that sounds awesome.” He says it like he still even knows Craig at all.
Craig nods absently, mulling over what to say next. There’s too much to say, really. Ten years worth of shit. He’s about to mention something else about the shop, but then Tweek speaks again.
“I didn’t know if I should come tonight. I thought you might, uh. Hate me.”
Craig’s throat constricts. He stares at his warped reflection in the chrome faucet.
“I don’t,” he says after a second. Tilts his head back and forth like he’s weighing his options. “I did for a while. But I don’t.”
Tweek nods. His jaw tenses and he swallows like he’s trying not to cry. Maybe that answer hurt more than the opposite.
They both shift uncomfortably, still standing apart.
“Do you wanna go… rejoin the party? Before someone notices that we’re both gone and makes a big deal out of it?” Tweek asks with a hint of levity.
Craig finally meets his eyes. They both look tired already.
“Sure. I need another drink."
Craig steps out of the restroom first, as casually as he can. Tweek follows and does a half jog to catch up and walk beside Craig, shoulders a little hunched out of obvious self consciousness.
The music is louder now in the gymnasium to compensate for the growing volume of drunken voices. The lights are dimmer too.
And… Craig catches eyes with Clyde, who stops mid-sip of his drink to nudge Tolkien like they’re in a corny 2000s movie. And God does it feel like that with Weezer playing in the background. Craig pretends not to see Clyde’s wife batting at his arm and telling him to stop.
But alas, he can feel the news traveling across the room. Heads turn like it's high school all over again. Craig and Tweek are a spectacle for all to see. Kenny elbows Butters and waggles his eyebrows at Craig as he passes them without giving them the satisfaction of his acknowledgement. Eric Cartman rolls his eyes and calls them fags. Wendy Testaburger puts a hand over her mouth to hide her shock. This stupid small town shit. Everyone’s watching. Everyone’s judging.
Craig sees it all but he plays it cool, keeping his eyes forward.
Tweek, however, is beet red and tugging on the collar of his shirt. Practically speed walking to keep up with Craig's long legged stride to the concession stand, which has been converted into a bar for the night.
Craig orders another beer.
“So does everyone know what happened?” Tweek whispers urgently, leaned in way too close. Smelling way too good.
Craig scoffs. Tweek probably thought that enough time had passed that everyone would forget he and Craig’s business. Everyone has their own lives, right? But South Park is still South Park. Everyone knows everyone’s business here.
“Probably,” Craig replies.
Groaning, Tweek rubs viciously at his forehead. “God, they probably all think I showed up to– like– rgh, apologize and cry and beg you to take me back or something.”
Craig cracks open his beer with a hiss and side-eyes Tweek. “…Did you?”
Tweek stares at him, mortified. Craig sips his PBR.
“What– n-no!! I mean I did want to apologize–agh, I don’t know! I just–“
“Calm down. Do you drink?”
“No,” Tweek replies helplessly, clenching and unclenching a fist. Trying to regulate, Craig knows. “I mean, sometimes– I don’t want anything right now.”
“Don’t blame everyone for being surprised to see you,” Craig says bluntly. “If it makes you feel any better, it’s gonna be my problem too. So at least we’re in it together.”
Tweek swallows hard and looks at his feet as they step to the side of the bar to allow the line to keep moving.
Across the gym, Clyde is trying to wave the pair down. Craig isn’t ready for that. He glares at Clyde and turns to Tweek.
“How long are you in South Park for?”
Tweek looks taken aback. “I, uh, just– just the weekend,” he answers. “I leave Monday morning.”
Craig nods, trying to think of what to say. The silence stretches on a little too long, and Tweek clears his throat.
“Do you still keep in touch with the crew?” he asks awkwardly, gesturing towards Clyde and Tolkien, standing with their wives. Jimmy is hobbling his way over to them. Craig looks over at his friends. Clyde gives them both a big double thumbs up. Tolkien facepalms. Tweek blanches.
“Yeah,” Craig replies. “Clyde and Tolkien both live in Denver, but I talk to them pretty regularly. Jimmy’s in Texas so I never see him. But I actually kick it with Kenny a lot now. He still lives here, so.”
Tweek nods, looking a little dissociative. Craig finally turns to him, serious.
“No one hates you, if that’s what you’re wondering. They just don’t know what to do.”
Judging by Tweek’s torn expression, he’s clearly being hit with some unexpected truths. He really thought that he was going to come back here and everything would just be brushed under the rug? Tweek is staring at the disco lights reflecting off the polished gym floor. It’s quiet between them again, even though the room is buzzing with noise.
“Can we maybe… try to just act normal for now and we can talk more later?”
Craig shrugs and nods.
They mutually agree to just blend back in. Chill. Be cool and socialize with the others. Do the reunion thing.
They split up.
Craig finds himself ignoring Clyde’s immediate questioning and sandwiches himself between Tolkien and Jimmy to listen to some gossip about someone’s divorce. He laughs when appropriate. Sips his beer. Plays along like he didn’t just have a PTSD flashback in a bathroom stall. Like his heart isn’t skipping a beat every time he remembers that Tweek is here, and they are going to 'talk more later.' Apparently.
Across the gym, Tweek is clutching a sparkling water and nodding along to something Bebe is saying. Every couple of minutes, his eyes flick to the left side of the gym where Craig is.
They keep doing that. Momentary glances. Playing chicken with eye contact.
Nichole, Tolkien’s wife, asks Craig how he’s doing. Craig says he’s fine. But he watches as Tweek makes the rounds with his former classmates. A lot of people seem eager to talk to him. See what he’s been up to or whatever. He has absolutely zero social media presence as far as Craig knows (not like he’s obsessively searched for him or anything, definitely not) so it’s likely that no one knows any more about Tweek’s life than he does. At least, the still inappropriately possessive part of him fucking hopes not.
From a distance, Craig tries to analyze him further. Completely out of curiosity of course. Certainly not in an annoyingly yearning way.
Tweek’s rocking this pseudo-spiritual kind of aesthetic that Craig clocked from the moment that he first walked through the gym doors. He has his jacket tied around his waist now, so Craig can see that he’s wearing some patched-up oversized cardigan with a bunch of different textiles and patterns, over top of what looks like a faded band tee. His jeans are classically too long and frayed at the cuff where they meet a pair of well worn hiking boots. He’s got some kind of jewelry around his neck with a pendant that Craig can’t quite make out.
This older Tweek looks like one of those uppity Colorado hippies who composts and burns sage.
But… he does look lighter. He’s now having a conversation with Jason White and he’s laughing. Soft, low, not frantic. He looks like he’s an active listener, rather than someone who's waiting to escape the interaction.
He looks more centered now than he did when he was talking to Craig a bit ago. Which is funny because it used to be the other way around.
Craig narrows his eyes.
He may have this granola treehugger fashion thing going on, but Craig knows from speaking to him earlier that deep down, Tweek is still a nervous, intense, emotional weirdo.
…Right?
It dawns on Craig that his assumptions might be wrong and he may actually have no idea what Tweek is really like now. Craig isn’t sure how to talk to a version of Tweek that he doesn’t know. Maybe Tweek has changed more than Craig understands.
Tweek tucks a lock of hair behind his pierced up ear and Craig notices that he has rings on his fingers. He finally forces himself to look away. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. He doesn’t care to know. He goes outside and smokes a cigarette alone.
An hour goes by and they bump into each other again at the open bar. Not on purpose. Definitely not on purpose.
Craig gets another beer and Tweek orders another La Croix.
They joke a little and Tweek snorts. It bubbles out of him, unguarded and genuine. Craig glances sideways at him, a flicker of that old fondness threatening to fill his eyes.
Somehow, even after everything, Craig still finds Tweek to be the most comforting presence in this whole room.
“So are we going to keep worrying about what everyone thinks all night or can we hang out now?” Tweek jests, clicking a silver ring against the tin can of his seltzer water.
Craig averts his eyes and jerks his head towards the bleachers. “Let’s go sit.”
They ascend the stairs to claim the top corner of the bleachers, careful to avoid sitting within ears reach of any of the other random people scattered around. Maybe the very top of the bleachers isn’t the most subtle place; makes them more of a focal point, but that was always their spot.
They clumsily ease into conversing with each other. A little banter, some shit talking, a few awkward jokes about old times.
Leaning his back against the painted brick wall, Craig idly flicks at the corner of the label on his bottle of PBR and he only slightly turns his head towards Tweek. Attempting to keep his eyes from roving over his ex too much. He tries to keep his voice even and unreadable, like he didn’t rehearse this shit in his head a disturbing amount of times. “So… tell me what you’ve been up to.”
Tweek’s shoulders jerk and he scratches the back of his neck, a nervous half-smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Jesus. That’s a loaded one.”
“We haven’t seen each other since high school,” Craig replies sardonically.
“Yeah.” Tweek pauses, like he's weighing how much to say. He sighs and rests his head against the back wall, gaze distant.
“Well… I live in New Mexico now. With a couple of friends that I met on a- rgh- commune.”
“A commune?”
“Yeah, I um– Lived on this off-grid hippie compound for a while,” Tweek says sheepishly, clearly anticipating judgment or further questioning. Like it’s something he feels embarrassed about. Craig wonders how many crazy things Tweek has done over the last decade trying to find his way.
And now he’s some kind of bohemian desert hippie?
“Did you… like it?” Craig asks, genuinely curious.
Tweek laughs nervously and shrugs. “It was a cool experience. Lots of drum circles and kombucha. It got me into gardening. A welcome switch up from people screaming in trap houses.”
Craig shoots him a look. They lock eyes knowingly. They have too much to catch up on. It’s overwhelming.
“I wanna hear about you,” Tweek says. Clearly uncomfortable with how much he has to unpack. He shakes his head. “Can we actually– can we go outside? I assume you still smoke, cuz you smell like cigarettes,” he says.
Craig is about to apologize for his apparent odor, but Tweek follows up by asking, “Do you wanna go out with me for one?”
The question surprises Craig, but he agrees and the two sneak out of the gym to get some fresh air and some much needed nicotine.
The reunion noise dulls behind them. Craig holds the back door open with his shoulder while Tweek slips out and it clicks shut.
It’s cold. South Park is always still cold in the spring. The air smells classically like pine needles and car exhaust.
Craig watches Tweek pull a crumpled pack of turquoise American Spirits from the pocket of his corduroy jacket. Narrows his eyes because they’re the same brand and the same kind he smokes.
“So you’re a smoker now?”
“What? It’s not meth.” Tweek pinches the cigarette between his lips and cups his palm around his lighter to spark it.
Craig blows air out of his nose in mild amusement. He remembers when Tweek would give him shit for smoking when they were younger. Something about Tweek being a smoker further pushes the narrative that things have changed. And something about Tweek smoking his brand of cigarettes seems weirdly… intentional. Craig flicks his lighter and unceremoniously lights his own cigarette.
Smoke curls up into the cold and they stand side by side, silent for a moment.
Tweek exhales smoke and speaks again, looking downcast. “I um. Started when I was in rehab.”
Craig doesn’t acknowledge Tweek’s words with any eye contact, but he can’t help the way his eyebrows tick up in surprise. “Rehab, huh?”
Tweek flicks his cigarette a few times even though there aren’t any new ashes to shake from it. He’s trying to be nonchalant when he speaks again.
“Yeah. A guy in one of my therapy groups said it helped with the shakes. We weren’t technically supposed to, but… I don’t know. It felt like I needed a vice still or something. It gave me something to do with my hands.”
Rehab. Right. How else would Tweek have gotten clean? There was no way he could have gotten sober his own. It just re-iterates to Craig, how little he knows. How little he understands. How bad it must have gotten. How much he’s missed.
Craig doesn’t want to look like he’s completely shocked, and he doesn’t know what to say. So he just nods.
He feels Tweek’s eyes on him, studying him sideways. It’s surreal as hell to see Tweek ten years older, so Craig imagines that it’s strange for Tweek to see him too.
Time and stress have carved a crease in between Craig’s brows now that doesn’t go away even when his face is relaxed. His facial hair was only just coming in the last time Tweek saw him, but now his razor can barely keep up with the rate at which it grows. He prefers to be clean shaven, but his jaw almost always has a bit of stubble on it that he’s missed.
Working in the garage has filled out his arms and shoulders in a way that looks more appropriate for his towering height. No longer a spindly, awkwardly tall boy with emo bangs. Well… he still has a little bit of side bang going on to subtly abstract his hairline. Which is in the beginning stages of receding, thanks to his father’s genes.
Craig doesn’t know when it started, but at the age of 28, he finally feels like a man. Actually identifies with the label.
“It’s weird, being here.” Tweek says. “And you’re still… you.”
“Disappointed?” Craig asks blankly.
“No,” Tweek says quickly. “Not even close.” His cheeks tinge pink and Craig’s stupid heart skips a beat.
It’s too… normal. Standing next to Tweek like this. Smoking cigarettes in the back of the high school that's flooded with their shared memories. For a moment, Craig can almost trick himself into thinking that time stood still in their absence here; that this Tweek is still the same person that he painstakingly loved. Preserved like a fucked up little flower, pressed between the pages of their high school yearbook. Unchanged.
But Tweek isn’t unchanged.
Craig watches him smoke and finally takes a moment to shamelessly look at him. He’s definitely older. Not in a bad way, just real. Weathered. He’s always had an edge to him, but he’s got a stud in his eyebrow now that broadcasts it. The same subtle freckles dust his face but they’re darker, like he’s actually spent time in the sun. His clothes are grungy, but on purpose.
And he’s got all of this… jewelry on. Silver rings with gemstones in them, a couple different necklaces– a wire wrapped crystal, some silver chains with the pendant he noticed earlier. Mismatched beads and leather cuffs around his wrists, definitely covering up old self harm scars. He looks like he puts some degree of effort into his appearance, unlike in high school. Tweek always had more of a natural fashion sense than Craig though, who generally opted for clean simplicity and a little bit of the blue-kid autism that followed him into adulthood.
Tweek still shivers now and then like he’s wound too tightly. But he’s holding himself differently, like maturity has taught him to brace for impact. He seems more put together overall. Or maybe he’s just gotten better at faking it.
Craig knows Tweek well enough to see that he’s trying to make a good impression. He’s thinking too long before he speaks, filtering every sentence through a strainer so that it won’t scare Craig away.
It’s disingenuous and it pisses Craig off. Mostly because he doesn’t want to have to feel cautious or skeptical around the person who used to be the most real, authentic, and special individual he had ever known. But in general, anger is just Craig's easy go-to when he’s got turbulent emotions that he doesn’t know how to process.
He went to therapy for a brief stint in his early twenties to appease his parents, and the only thing he really got out of it was a vague ability to take inventory of his emotions. Actually letting himself feel them is a different story, but he can at least look at them from the outside and recognize them and their names, like vocabulary words.
Currently, Craig has a wide array of annoying feelings to intellectualize.
Guilt, that he didn’t properly hunt Tweek down after he left. Longing, for something he’s not sure even exists anymore. Sadness, that they had to lose so much time to get to this moment together. Fear, that whatever is happening right now is just going to end in more hurt. And of course, anger– mad at Tweek, mad at himself.
But he also feels relief, that Tweek is here and alive. And just a little bit of excitement. Because Tweek is here and alive.
Thinking about it too, unlike the other stupid emotions that he’s repressing, the excitement that he’s feeling is almost difficult to restrain.
Tweek does look better. Not perfect. But he looks like he’s worked really hard to be here, who he is, in this moment right now. And goddamn it, Craig still wants to be around him. Even after all of the bullshit.
Craig isn’t sure about his judgment. But he kind of doesn’t give a fuck. Because he hasn’t felt excitement about anything in a really fucking long time. So he decides to chase the feeling.
He flicks the remains of his cigarette to the concrete, stubbing it out with the toe of his sneaker. He plucks a set of keys from his pocket and jingles them.
“Do you wanna see my car?”