Soundtrack: Die Alone - Ingrid Michaelson
This is possibly the worst birthday that Craig has had in his life, and this is counting the Peru incident in the fourth grade with stupid Stan Marsh and his band of stupid asshole friends. On a whim, he actually went to his classes – and his professor in the first sprung a pop quiz on shit that he knew nothing about, and the second threatened to boot him out of the class permanently because of his less-than-sterling attendance record. God, he hates when people force him to give a shit about doing something.
Then there was work.
Craig…hates his job, but after he lost his previous job at Pizza Hut when he was caught smoking a joint in the back with one of coworkers, the Office Depot was the only place that offered him a position. He didn't have an option, not when he needed to make rent for the apartment that he shares with Tweek.
Or, as he's recently been known, Captain Cockblock.
Craig has not gotten laid in a whole week and a half.
Both Tweek and Clyde have caught him jacking off this week like his life depended on it, multiple times. And it's embarrassing, damn it. He has a boyfriend. He shouldn't have to be jerking himself off over the toilet at two in the morning like a preteen guy that's just discovered the magic of touching his own cock. Fuck.
But work – fuck work. Office Depot employs no type of people but miserable, boring souls, and then him. And Clyde. At least work would have been fun if Clyde had been there like he'd been scheduled, but Clyde called in sick, which Craig knows for sure isn't fucking true. The chubby bastard was in the living room only that morning, just fucking fine, reading a comic book in the safety of the cushion fort that he'd built with Kevin Stoley the night before.
When Clyde's around, they roll around down the linoleum aisles and fight each other with the cleaning equipment, or fence with sticks of connected markers. But the asshole ditched Craig. On his birthday.
And so, instead of having a marker fight or an office chair race, Craig sat behind the register like a normal goddamn employee, helping high schoolers find the graphing calculators and trying to emulate Tweek's origami capabilities with pads of multicolored sticky notes when the store is empty. Scratch that, Craig doesn't give a shit if the store's empty. He'll fuck around whether some whiner needs help or not. Shit, everything has a sign above it, how hard can it possibly be to find the fucking printer cartridges?
And fucking Tweek. Tweek is a bossy little shit most of the time. People that don't know Tweek well consider him to be a timid, frightened kind of a guy. First of all, those people have obviously never boxed with Tweek. Second of all, those people definitely have never fucked Tweek. He's so fucking picky about how he likes to be fucked, which honestly is why Craig sometimes gives up and lets Tweek fuck him, because Christ, it's easier than listening to the streaming list of instructions on how, exactly, Tweek would like to be touched, and where, exactly, Tweek would like to be bitten.
He receives a text from Tweek just before he's about to clock out of his shift. All it says is Don't be late for dinner. Bossy-assed fucker.
Just to spite Tweek, Craig drops by the liquor store and grabs himself some cheap vodka. He knows that Tweek hates the cheap stuff, so he'll have the bottle all to himself. He checks his watch and discovers that sadly, if he left for home right now, he would still be on time for dinner.
Tweek, although the guy cannot cook for the life of him, has a set time for eating. Usually it's takeout but sometimes it's something that Clyde has made (most of Clyde's food-making ability is limited to indulging in horrible experiments that end with disastrous results). God, he's crossing his fingers for takeout tonight. He can't stand trying another entrée that Clyde has decided would taste better with bacon in it. Not that Craig doesn't appreciate bacon. It's just that Clyde often does bacon a great disservice by sticking it where it does not belong.
As much pleasure as Craig thinks he would take in pissing Tweek off by being late, he's too lazy to go anyplace else. So, like the boring bastard he is, he ends up wiping the bottoms of his sneakers off on their welcome mat a whole five minutes before he actually needs to be home, coming to the beck and call of Tweek like he's some sort of trained poodle.
Craig sighs, lamenting his commitment to routine, before he opens the front door. He hears shuffling somewhere in the apartment when he steps inside, before hanging his jacket on the coat rack and kicking his shoes into some dark corner, not really caring where they land. He scratches his head as he enters the kitchen, hoping that the night won't have to go on for too long, and he can just go the fuck to sleep instead of wallowing in how much today has sucked. It would have sucked on a normal day, anyway. As a birthday, this is just pathetic.
Until he flips the light on.
There's a cake on the table.
It's clearly not homemade. He isn't certain that Tweek or Clyde have the capabilities to create such a thing of beauty. It's an ice cream cake, which both of them know is his favorite, and it has a picture of Red Racer on it.
"Do you like it?" Clyde's head pops around the corner first.
"Did you really need a sick day just to get me a cake?" Craig demands.
"That's not all we have for you, bro," Clyde says, holding a hand to his heart in dramatic gesture, "Oh ye of little faith. We also got you your favorite." He lifts up a bag with the logo of Craig's favorite deli on it.
Craig eyes his best bro before asking, "Is that a chicken wrap?"
"Why yes, it is," Clyde says, voice almost sing-song, "with nothing on it but mayo, just the way you like it."
As much of a dick as Craig believes Clyde to be for skipping out on work to purchase a chicken wrap and an ice cream cake, it would be rude to not accept, right? Right.
Craig bites into the wrap. It's perfect. Not to dry, not too juicy. It's the best birthday dinner a guy could ask for, except for one detail. He glances up at Clyde, who is in the middle of devouring his own meal from the deli, a turkey sub with all the trimmings (Craig finds this gross, but for whatever reason, Clyde loves a sandwich that has juices and sauce dripping out the other end when he bites into it).
"Where is my boyfriend?" Craig asks.
Clyde responds as he chews with his mouth open, "He's afraid somebody is going to steal your other surprise, so he's been sitting in front of it for the last hour."
This kind of behavior from Tweek does not alarm Craig whatsoever, and so in reply, he just shrugs, and finishes his beautiful chicken wrap in a few more neat bites, before cutting himself a generous slice of ice cream cake to top the entire thing off.
"You've gotta come see your surprise, man," Clyde says excitedly. His eyes are practically sparkling, the same way a kid's eyes light up on Christmas morning,
Craig shakes his head, "Cool your guns. I have to rinse off my plate, first. And so do you, asshole. You don't just get to leave that on my kitchen table, you slob."
Clyde whines, but Craig makes him do it, insisting that he refuses to enter the bedroom he shares with Tweek until the cake is back in the freezer, the plates are rinsed and soaking in the kitchen sink, and the garbage from the deli is tucked into the trashcan.
"Wait, I'm covering your eyes," Clyde says.
"What – why? No," Craig protests, but Clyde's stubby fingers are already clamped around his face.
Craig pries at Clyde's hands, but he refuses to relent. He does not like this at all. Clyde's hands smell like mustard and cheap dish soap and it's not exactly a pleasing aroma. His protests, however, fall upon deaf ears, as Clyde nudges him forward, guiding them both in an uneven stumble.
"Ah – hi Craig!" he hears Tweek say.
Clyde takes his hands off of Craig's eyes.
Tweek is wringing his hands, right beside a new addition to their bedroom – a very big cage. Craig is almost afraid to ask what's inside, but he thinks that he already knows. Blindly, he stumbles forward and ducks down to peer inside.
There are two of them.
One of them is a solid color, a deep chocolate brown, and the other is mostly white, with caramel-colored spots near its behind. He swallows the lump in his throat and waves hello at them. The guinea pigs just stare. That's okay. They'll have plenty of time to get to know each other.
The last time that Craig had a guinea pig, he'd been in high school. Today, he's twenty-two. He hasn't really been able to bring himself to purchase another one, not after Spot (his second guinea pig after Stripe) passed away when he was fifteen. That day was the only time that he had ever cried in public, and naturally, it had to be in front of his peers. He and Tweek had only really been friends at the time, but he never forgot how Tweek didn't even ask him what was wrong – he's just wrapped his arms around Craig and squeezed him until he stopped crying.
Craig stands and reaches in the cage, picking up the chocolate brown guinea pig. He asks, "Do we have any treats for them? Do they have names?"
Tweek holds out a bag of baby carrots and says, "That one's Mocha Latte."
Craig extracts a carrot and offers it to Mocha Latte, who takes it from him eagerly. He could swear that his heart is melting as he sets the little guy next to his companion. He asks, "And the other one?"
Tweek blushes, "The other one is named Extra Whip."
Tweek named his guinea pigs after Craig's favorite Harbucks drink.
Mocha latte with extra whip.
Craig tries to gather his thoughts. He thinks back, wondering if he's ever been given a birthday gift as wonderful as this one, but can't think of anything. He hates been this emotional, it's just that this is so fucking nice of them. All of his frustration about his crappy day diffuses in an instant. His shoulders feel less tense, he feels less eager to wreak revenge on the both of them, and more like he's so flattered that he doesn't know what to do with himself.
God, he hates emotion-heavy moments.
"Thanks," he finally states. He knows that probably doesn't sound like a lot, but these guys know him. Clyde smiles impishly and Tweek smiles hesitantly.
"Group hug!" exclaims Clyde, before lurching forward and latching his body to Craig's.
"Goddamnit, Clyde," Craig says, irritated, "Get off of me."
"Not until you hug me back," Clyde says into Craig's chest.
Craig sighs, but brings his arms up and pats Clyde awkwardly on the back. Don't get him wrong, he loves his bro, he just isn't one for too much affection in the presence of other people. That's actually why this last week and a half has been so painful – he's wanted touch Tweek non-stop, but Captain Cockblock has reign of the apartment until he can get back on his own two feet.
Clyde draws away with a grin on his face. He glances at the Chinpokomon watch around his wrist and exclaims exaggeratedly, "Would you look at the time? I promised Kev I'd hang out with him tonight. I think I might even spend the night over there."
"You're a terrible actor, Clyde," Craig mumbles, but he's fucking stoked that Clyde is finally giving him a chance to get it on with Tweek for the first time in fucking forever. Still, he waits until he stops hearing Clyde's humming, until he hears the front door, the jingle of keys, and the sound of the car starting.
Tweek is listening, too. Craig can tell. He's like a little animal, paused, with his ears perked up. As soon as the sound of the engine fades away, Tweek is on Craig in a second, pouncing. He grabs Craig by the strings on his hat and yanks him down into a heavy kiss. Tweek tastes like coffee and breath mints, like he's been waiting for this moment all day, which, if Clyde and Tweek had planned this out as elaborately as Craig thinks they might have, is exactly what Tweek has been doing.
Tweek leaps up onto him, coiling his skinny arms around Craig's neck and hooking his legs around Craig's waist, crossing them and hanging on tightly.
Man, Craig wishes that he looked sexier than he does. He's still in his work uniform, he probably has hat hair, and he swears that he's had a breakout of stress acne just from how terrible his morning classes were. In comparison, Tweek looks damn good. Of course, Tweek skipped his classes, smells like he bothered to shower, and had a moment to run a comb through his hair (not like the last one made much of a difference, but it's the thought that counts). He smells like that weird fruity body wash that his mom brings him sometimes. Mrs. Tweak seems to think that if she doesn't drop by every other week or so, Craig and her son will forget to eat, forget how to shower, forget how to clean up after themselves – he once came home to her scrubbing their dishes in the sink, and Tweek later explained that she didn't listen when he said that they were perfectly capable of doing so themselves.
Craig walks them back to their bed. It's not much – a queen, sure, but with the way that Tweek tosses and turns in his sleep, it feels like they're trying to sleep together in a cot.
Craig pulls their mouths apart and rains smaller kisses down on Tweek's face, pausing to run his tongue along the curve of Tweek's ear, and rub himself gently up against Tweek's pelvis. He can feel his boyfriend getting hard, and that knowledge makes Craig light up like a fucking Christmas tree. He bites along Tweek's neck, sucking on the skin hard. God, there's something intoxicating about his skin. It's beyond the sweet smell of him, beyond how warm he feels or how he's clearly hopped up on caffeine because he's vibrating non-stop. It's just that he's so fucking Tweek, and that in itself is what Craig can't get enough of.
He moans a little against Tweek's neck, before he even realizes what he's doing or how lost in Tweek he is.
"Fuck," mutters Tweek, "Jesus – I need you. Please." Apparently, he can't be patient for two seconds while Craig gathers the scattered scraps of his brain and puts them back together, because Tweek flips Craig onto his back and straddles him, shoving his shaking hands under Craig's polo shirt and tearing it over his head. He scrapes his nails down Craig's chest leaving a trail of tingling sensation, and it's good, so good. Fuck, it was hard to go without this for so long.
Because, really, a week and a half is too long to wait for this.
Craig wants to wrap his arms around that skinny body and never let go, but it appears that Tweek has other ideas. He leaves little bites all down Craig's chest, circling each nipple with his tongue, all the while staring Craig straight in the face with a wicked look in his muddy-green eyes.
While Tweek kisses down his check, his hand rises to the tent in Craig's work slacks, where he starts rubbing. He's gentle, just teasing.
Sensation floods Craig's body and he throws his head back against the pillow, biting down on his lower lip to stop the helpless moan in his throat from bubbling to his lips.
Above him, Tweek slides out of his oversized t-shirt, a shirt that Craig suddenly realizes belongs to him. He loves when Tweek swipes his clothes and wears them. It makes Craig feel like Tweek will always be wrapped up in him, always have him there.
Tweek's naked chest is dotted with hickeys that are on the brink of fading completely. Craig wants to change that, but Tweek seems to want to have this round in his hands – that's okay, they've got all night, and probably tomorrow morning, as well.
While kneeling like that, with his legs spread over Craig, Tweek starts to move. He grinds himself against Craig's erection in a tantalizing but torturously slow rhythm, riding him softly. He starts to make those fucking noises in his throat as he rolls their bodies together, tiny ahs and quiet curses. Then, as he continues to move on top of Craig, he unbuttons his fly and reaches inside his pants, pulling out his cock just enough that Craig can see the head, stroking himself with determined pumps.
"Shit," Craig bites down on his lip again, but this time it doesn't stop the groan from escaping him. He wants to be inside Tweek so badly, so much that he feels like he'll explode (and he very well might anyway) if he doesn't get what he wants. Craig grips Tweek's narrow hips, digging his fingers into the fabric of Tweek's jeans, pulling him forward so that their bodies collide harder, the rhythm is faster.
Christ. He needs the rest of their clothes off. Now.
He and Tweek must be on the same wavelength, because Tweek lifts his body off of Craig's and removes his pants while Craig rushes to do the same, fumbling with his belt and kicking the damn things off.
Tweek commands, his breathing heavy, "Lube."
Craig fishes around on the top of their bedside table, finally finding the half-used bottle hiding behind the alarm clock. He tosses it to Tweek. Instead of catching it, the lube hits Tweek in the chest. Craig chuckles sheepishly as Tweek retrieves it, glaring, and coats his hand.
Tweek grins, then, and ducks down to apply a quick line of kisses to Craig's forehead, nose, and lips, before he sidles over him, straddling Craig's body like he was before. He spreads his legs further apart, and with one hand beginning to move up and down over Craig's cock, Tweek pushes the other behind him to touch himself.
"Fuck," Craig says brokenly. He begins to thrust up into Tweek's hand, helpless, as his boyfriend fingers himself. Those fucking noises. Tweek mutters as he pulls his fingers in and out of his own body, massaging himself in all the right places. Craig can tell when Tweek finds his prostate – he flinches, almost like he's been hit, and lets out a long, keening moan, followed by a tense, 'Jesus Christ.'
That's it. He can't take it anymore. Craig surges upward and seizes Tweek around the waist, locking their lips together as they groan. He tries not to manhandle Tweek in bed, but sometimes Tweek likes that, and he's guessing that tonight is one of those nights. He lifts Tweek's thin body up off of his own and deposits in in front of the headboard, still in his kneeling position.
Craig retrieves the lube and hurries, slicking it over himself, before he looms behind Tweek, rubbing up against him. Tweek grinds his ass back against him, and Craig grunts in pleasure, before he positions his dick, and surges up inside his boyfriend.
Tweek grips the headboard with both hands, so hard that his knuckles go pale, and moans so loud it sounds as though he's falling apart in Craig's arms.
Holy fuck, he missed this. There is no feeling in the world comparable to being inside Tweek Tweak. He's tight and warm and fucking wiggly, and it turns Craig on beyond anything else. Craig begins to thrust. He isn't gentle. They don't really like it gentle. As he pumps inside of him, he whispers lowly in Tweek's ear.
"I missed you."
"I needed you."
"You feel so fucking good."
Tweek whimpers and tosses his head back against Craig's shoulder. Craig takes advantage of this and engages Tweek in a long, thorough kiss. The taste of coffee and the shaking is almost too much for him. He feels his senses overloading as he fucks Tweek into the headboard, so hard that surely the neighbors must be hearing this. The headboard is smacking against the wall with every thrust. Tweek is a non-stop stream of pleasured, happy noises and under-the-breath curses, and the occasional sigh of, "Craig."
Craig kisses Tweek's neck, bringing faded hickeys back to life, biting down and licking and nibbling down his shoulders and his back.
He realizes that Tweek has reached down to touch himself again, and Craig smacks his bony hand away, wrapping his own fingers around Tweek's cock instead.
"Fuck, Tweek," Craig cries, sinking his teeth into Tweek's neck as he surges up inside him. He's going to lose his shit soon. He can feel it.
Tweek comes over his hand, almost going limp against Craig as he cries out, "Come inside me, Craig."
Those words send him over. Craig digs his nails into Tweek's hips and brings him back down on his cock with a final slam, where he releases. He rests his forehead on Tweek's shoulder and plants a fleeting kiss, before they disconnect and both sink down onto the sweat-damp sheets.
When they face each other, Tweek immediately throws his arms around Craig's neck and nuzzles his nose into his chest. Craig's arms circle around his back and draw him closer. For a moment, they just cuddle. Craig is spent and beautifully bruised and so fucking content he feels like he will break in two from the feeling of sheer perfection.
Tweek gives a small yawn and says, "I love you."
Craig rubs his nose in Tweek's wild nest of blond hair and kisses the top of his head. He says, "Fuck, I love you, too."
And he does. Sometimes it's hard to remember that he loves Tweek when Tweek is panicking about one thing or another, and up in arms about the next, but it's in perfect, untouchable moments like these when Craig realizes that there is nobody else so perfect in his life. What other person would buy him guinea pigs for his birthday and name them after his favorite Harbucks drink? What other person can Craig not say no to? What other person will wrap himself around Craig and touch himself?
There is no other person.
There's nobody quite like Tweek.
Craig considers telling this to Tweek, reminding Tweek that even though he can sometimes be mean and vengeful and generally grumpy, there's nobody, not a single soul, that he loves as much. But when Craig glances down, Tweek's eyelids have already shuttered down. His lips are already parted and his breathing is already even with sleep.
For a moment, Craig draws an arm away, just to pull a sheet up over them, and click the lamp on the bedside table off. He pulls Tweek to his chest again, and whispers, his voice hoarse from all the crying out that he's done, "I really do love you."
Tweek's lips curve into a small smile. Evidently, he was not quite as asleep as Craig believed. He mumbles in reply, his voice muffled by Craig's sweat-slicked chest, "I know that, stupid." And he presses a sleepy kiss to Craig's skin, smile still in place.
Okay, so most of today sucked. But tonight more than made up for it. You can't go wrong with Red Racer ice cream cake, a chicken wrap, guinea pigs named Mocha Latte and Extra Whip, and ending it all with a bang.
Just before Craig falls happily asleep with Tweek tucked into his arms, he has to acknowledge…this might have been his best birthday yet.