Ending Credits: Closer to Fine – Indigo Girls
"Jesus Christ, we look like weird, fancy clones of ourselves," I say, peering into the mirror in Token's bathroom. The hardest part of our ensembles to put together was the ties. Neither of us knew how to ties, and so we had to interrupt Token and Red in the midst of a heavy makeout (that looked like it was on the edge of going someplace else entirely, fucking gross) to get Token to teach us how to tie them.
"Doe the world 'google' mean anything to you two assholes?" was Token's first response, as he straightened his v-neck and rebuckled his belt.
Craig flipped him off and I managed to stammer out an apology. Why hadn't we thought of that? I felt stupid. But still, because Token is more accommodating that he probably should be, he hurriedly shows us how to knot a half-Windsor.
My hands, though much better after a few months of healing, are still stiff and difficult, so Craig tied mine for me.
That's how we ended up where we are now – about to head to Craig's house for dinner. Thomas Tucker begrudgingly invited us over last week while we were sitting in Harbucks. I'd been on my break, but Craig came to visit me for those short fifteen minutes. I don't know how they knew that we'd be around or if it was just coincidence, but I guess Mr. Tucker is maybe trying to relinquish his antiquated politics.
At least, he hopefully is.
Craig is nervous. He's pretending that he's not, which he should know better than to do, because I know Craig from the inside out (He wouldn't admit that, but still). He keeps staring at his reflection in the mirror and fucking with things that aren't messed up, like fixing his tie for the seventeenth time, or straightening his hat, which he refuses to go without.
"Ngh - Stop worrying," I say, even though I am worried as fuck. Last time I was in the presence of Mr. Tucker, things didn't go well, you'll recall. I slip my arms around Craig from behind and squeeze.
The embrace was meant to comfort him, but I end up clinging. I'm sure he can feel my heart beating erratically against his back. I've had like six cups of Token's fancy rich people coffee, and it's agitating me, I know, but the taste is comforting and I could really use another cup. Particularly if it was spiked with Bailey's.
Fuck, no. I was the one that told Craig that we weren't allowed to go to dinner at his family's house in any less-than-sober state. He wanted to get stoned. Maybe we should get stoned.
Fuck fuck fuck.
"Tweek, you're freaking me out," he says. Though stated in monotone, I know we're both fucked up over this. He's scared because he doesn't want to be rejected. Actually, that's why I'm scared too, selfishly because I think that if this doesn't go well, Craig is gonna flip shit again and we'll have another Teacup Apocalypse 2011.
"I'm sorry, sorry," I whine, dragging my hands through my hair, which I had been carefully attempting to arrange into some semblance of neatness. "Fuck," I mutter, smoothing it back into place.
It was Ruby that suggested we dress up – apparently they're dressing up to. We look nice, me in green and Craig in blue, but we definitely don't look like ourselves. I don't even dress like this for church. I don't know the last time that these dress pants have seen daylight. At least I'm still wearing my beaten-up Vans, and Craig is still in his dirty converse. Turns out the last time that either of us had worn fancy shoes was back before puberty struck and our feet grew like weeds.
The ties are alright, I suppose. It turns out the Red is pretty crafty – she decorated vintage 1950's silk ties with fabric paint and gave them to us as a surprise – mine has Lambtron from Chinpokomon, and Craig's has Yoda on it. They're awesomely tacky.
Unfortunately, no matter how trussed up I am, I can always mess it up. This situation definitely qualifies as too much pressure for me. I've started to fuck up my hair, which I spent a great deal of time attempting to flatiron (there is now a burn on my forehead). It's already sticking up on one side. So, in trying not to fuck up anything further, I start running the edge of my thumbnail around my cuticles, picking quietly so that Craig won't hear me doing it.
He does anyway.
"Stop that," Craig mutters, moving my hands apart.
After I got the stitches out, they look mostly okay. There's a little bit of scarring, and I still dry them out with constant marshmallow hand sanitizer. Craig doesn't seem to mind, though. He loves the smell of it, probably because he is a freak of nature. I think that Craig still gets sad about my hands, even if he won't say it. He traces my scars a lot when he's thinking, like a subconscious thing. He lifts my hands to his face now, holding them so they rest on each cheek, and leans up to kiss me. He's nervous too. I can tell. I've gotten good at reading Craig. Well, I think I have. Or maybe he just cares less about upholding his precious reputation around me.
Craig checks the watch fastened around his wrists and remarks, "We should probably go." His house is only a couple minutes down the road, but I think Craig and I both need time to steel ourselves against whatever this dinner might entail ("Steeling ourselves" will probably involve me hyperventilating and Craig trying to get me to calm the fuck down, even if he's doing the same thing on the inside).
We don't bother saying goodbye to Token since he's otherwise occupied. Craig just takes the keys to the BMW (which he isn't supposed to – especially if I am also going to be the car with Craig – and Token has made that clear, but Craig never listens).
"We look really stupid," I mutter. I fidget with the Lambtron tie around my neck and sigh uncomfortably.
Craig agrees, "We've never looked stupider." Says the one who will wear his R2D2 sweater upon his boyfriend's request.
"We're going to die," I say, taking in a rattled breath. I stick my hand in my mouth and nibble on the end of my thumb.
"We're not going to die," Craig says. He very forcefully removes my hand from my mouth and tugs me closer. He kisses my palm. He doesn't look at me as he says, "We might die."
Oh shit. He's way more freaked out than I thought he was. That does fucking nothing to fix my own mood, and I find myself feeling like I need to throw up. Jesus Christ. This sucks. It sucks so much. Why aren't the Tuckers just like my parents? Why couldn't they just treat being gay like a normal thing and buy Craig Teen Scene magazines with Aaron Carter on the cover? Okay, maybe not. No. Being gay is normal, but my parents aren't. Nobody should be like my parents, because they're just as weird as I am, just less...jumpy.
Craig leans over and kisses me, tugging me forward so he has better access. I make a mmph noise and shove his hat back so that I can play with his hair. He doesn't mind, right? His hair is gonna be under the hat, so who cares if I mess it up?
Craig leans into me and we end up falling back. The parking brake is digging into my back, but I'm too nervous about this dinner to care, and kissing Craig seems like the only thing besides getting totally plastered that will keep us both calm enough not to bail. He tastes like spearmint.
Craig breaks off the kiss and stares down at me, "Did you just spring one?"
"No!" I deny fervently, though it's a little self-incriminating when I use my hands to cover the protrusion in the front of my dress pants.
"That is definitely a boner," he says.
"No it isn't," I deny.
"You're retarded," he says.
"You're an asshole," I say back.
I don't want to fight now! What the fuck are we doing? I lean up and press a close-mouthed his to his lips. I say, "But you're my asshole." I pluck his hat off of where it's sitting on his seat and pull it back onto Craig's head, sparing a second kiss before adding, "We'll look bad if we're late."
"We already look like we fucked and put ourselves back together," he says, voice surly. He's kind of right. We're a lot more rumpled than we would have been if we'd skipped the impromptu makeout session. And those things have got to stop happening in Token's BMW, for Christ's sake, or we're going to get in trouble with Token again.
We exchange one last glance before Craig starts the car and we're off. I can tell I look anxious. Craig doesn't look nervous but I know that he is, because when he's nervous, he looks even more serious than usual.
As he puts the car into reverse, I put my hand on top of his.
Into the fray, I suppose.
But I think it'll be okay.
Even if we do look stupid.
As always, a giant thank you to the reviewers: hopesterocks, Andymin, tsuki-shitsuji, Virivie, TheAwesome15, lucy sinclair, toolazytologin (Bahaha lolol), Reverse Psychology, KirstenTheDestroyer, zimgr2, animegafan123, Mallory, prettyoddrydonfan, Kayakokitty, conversefreak3, R.R. Miaera, blobblab, MariePierre, WizerdBeards, ArisuXMehla381, ObanesHarvest, and friendlyfaceseverywhere.
Thank you to all the wonderful people that have read this fic. You guys are awesome, and I hope that you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'm sure I'll see some of you again when I start my Style fic. ;)