Chapter Text
“E-ES la Prima-VeRA!”
It wasn’t often that Craig gave a full bellied laugh. But when he did, Tweak was enraptured by the sight. Like the warmth of sunlight embracing him. It’s enough to make anyone smile. For Tweak, it was enough to make him smile for the rest of the week. Like he’d been given such a treat, sending his head and heart afloat to join the clouds.
Even so, it nagged at him that he didn’t know where his boyfriend’s sudden amusement had come from. Surely his Spanish Homework wasn’t that funny.
“Wha-! I-I’m really trying!” He sputters, the vapid twitch in his fingers tapping against his cheekbones. He tucks a strand of blonde hair behind his ear, the swipe harsh and nearly scraping his ear.
Craig is still laughing, much to the blonde boy’s chagrin, but it’s soft now, breathless almost as his shoulders shake. His boyfriend sits up from where they rested. In the field of wildflowers that grew like weeds over the length of the mountains behind their homes. The colors are lovely in their swaying dance next to Craig’s rich complexion. Of violets and lavenders and blues to brush against golden-kissed skin.
Craig pressed closer against Tweak, bicep bumping into his. He’s everything for Tweak’s love sick heart, internally reaching out to him every time Craig reached back.
He’s a vision in blue in his memory. Blue. Blue. Blue. A blue that brought everything together in his world. Blue. . .
Blue, in Tweak’s dreams.
Craig smells like the clean laundry detergent Laura Tucker uses, fresh and with the softest hint of citrus. It’s a smell the wildflowers can’t give Tweak, that peace he finds in the thick atmosphere of the taller’s space. Soaking into his bones. Pulling Tweak towards him, like an organized chaos of a moon around it’s planet.
The boy brushes his fingers over his wrist, sliding his shoulder blade behind the latter to let Tweak lean against him. It’s always the smallest of details with Craig, whom pays extreme attention like he does with everything even when it looks like nothing.
“Sorry, I just kind of forget about how closed off this town is. It’s a bit aggressive, honey.” He turns away from Tweak’s little glare, smiling while staring at the town ahead of them. It’s one of those more treasured moments, when the blonde can drink in the times when Craig is feeling more affectionate than usual. Under the only attention that mattered, he’d say. “You kind of sounded like you’re giving me orders.”
His eyes gaze fondly down at Tweak, tender and oh so sapphire. Tweak doesn’t think there would ever be a perfect shade of crystal to match that deep tone.
It was always a bit of a wonder about the Tucker’s genes. Whereas his parents donned commonly recessive traits, fair hair and skin, Craig had been granted the tanned skin and thick jet black hair from his grandparents. Grandparents whom came from a very interesting background of Italian and Peruvian ties. Needless to say, having a multilingual boyfriend was always nice. It had been a secret reason on why Tweak had taken a Spanish class instead of the other more artsy and hobby-like classes the other kids had the option to take. Hearing Craig communicate to his family in Spanish felt more intimate, more vulnerable.
Which was beginning to make Tweak grow a bit impatient as his boyfriend teased at him lightly.
“Alright then.” Tweak narrows his gaze, feigning a frown. He knocks his head back against the shoulder blade cushioning him, glancing up at the boy. Craig plays with the blonde’s pencil, clearly finding the bite marks on the pencil unimpressive if the raise of a dark brow was anything to go by. “How would you say it?”
“Well for one, just let it roll.”
Tweak bites at his lip in frustration. “That literally makes no sense.” He twitches, growing tense. Why was Tweak so bad at this? It shouldn’t be this hard for the average person, right? There’s something wrong with him, clearly. He’d look like a white kid making fun of his boyfriend’s language if he butchered it this bad. They’d hate him. They’d laugh, actually, and then hate him, and then they’d tell him to never see them or their son again and then Tweak can just roll over and die under a bridge never to be seen again after he got an F and failed Spanish and then maybe school- He accidentally smacks his boyfriends head in his flailing to begin biting at his poor nails. “What if I fail the class? That’s-That‘ll look so bad Craig! What if-“
“Hey, listen.” “No, Craig I can’t-“ Tweak heaves, chest tight and blood twisting a jumping and splashing under his skin in heavy turbulence under his storming anxiety.
“Hey, wait. Okay?”
Craig gives him a look. The one that doesn’t scream stop. Unlike everyone else who asked Tweak to do the impossible. Because that’s not Craig. Craig was never Tweak’s remote control. Couldn’t just magically make him stop, no matter how much Tweak was in awe of him. And he cherished him for that. Treasured Craig for knowing it too. That he and Tweak or anyone couldn’t control the way his mind betrayed him. No. Craig’s gaze is one that said wait. The one that filled Tweak with rushed adoration for him all over again. Because Craig could wait for him, no matter how long this took.
Craig contemplates, roaming over the textbook, always so careful with the words he chose. It was funny, how everyone could think he was so blunt, when really, it was exactly what he planned to say. He’d always been the more mature one out of their friends, something grounding for them. Ever the voice of reason. The pull for Tweak to come back from whatever frenzy cloud had swept him up.
Craig’s stare motioned over to the wildflowers that gently bent against the breeze. Bouncing up once more after a beat. Then bending down once more. Craig hated asking him to just breath, he’d told Tweak once. Said it made him no different than anyone else that thought breathing could be a simple command followed when everything was spinning fast.
Like asking something to take a deep inhale and exhale in the midst of a speeding roller coaster.
So he’d usually find something with a beat to it. And sometimes, he’d do it himself, with a rise and fall to his shoulders. An up and down soothe of his hand on Tweak’s hand.
Or he’d speak in the same amount of syllables, aware of Tweak’s attention to music.
“Spanish is soft. . .it should roll. .. off your tongue. . . Like a song.”
Tweak squints. His heart slowed, beating softly back to its normal rhythm, no matter how unnatural it’s usual beat was. “A song?” He supposed it made a bit of sense. The language was beautiful, and in his head, it did sound like a sort of unlabeled harmony.
Craig ducks his head down at Tweak’s textbook, dark hair sweeping over his brow bones with the grace of no care.
“Es la Primavera.” The words were elegant in the way they curled around Craig’s tongue, voice smooth and gentle.
With a patient pause, he motions for Tweak to repeat.
And there’s that shift in him. The one that the blonde will never want to forget. Because only Craig has ever made him feel such a way with only a look. No one else did.
Looking at him without any doubt.
Tweak tries again.
“E-Es la Pree-mavera.” He blinks. Not exactly. But not worse. “Oh.”
It was a sweet epiphany. He sits back up straight, almost knocking into Craig’s chin from where it had leaned against his head. Excitement bubbled over his exterior, a happy giggle carried by the Spring air blowing through the valley.
“Es la Primavera!” He glances back at Craig, haloed by the sun resting over the mountains behind him.
The dark eyed boy hums, nodding as he picks at a dandelion. It spins around in his fingers, fiddling with the flower as if he were shy.
Tweak laughs, nuzzling his head back into that hold.
Back against the lips that brushed over his rosy cheeks.
He almost doesn’t hear it.
“Eres Primavera. . .”
Something told him it was exactly as Craig had meant it. Like always.
Tweak doesn’t have time to ask.
Doesn’t have time to look at him longer, memorize the way the light kisses at Craig’s skin or remember what his hand felt like in his.
Tweak wakes up.
…
The town is still the same one from his dreams.
Roads slicked in a sheen of black ice from winter's remaining residue. The soft blanket of snow that never quite left this town, no matter how warm it could get. It was a gentle reminder, snow in general, of all that he had left behind. The cold enveloped him the minute he stepped out of his Uncle’s car, a passive aggressive welcome back to the air that he grew up in.
A cloud of fog escaped from his lips, a breathless shock coursing through him at the sight of his childhood town again.
His home.
It was the same, and yet all too different. Far from the image his burred dreams, where hazy memories of every structure in this town became a little bit more different with each passing year.
The obnoxious burgundy color that his father had insisted on was now coated with a pale blue, the detached garage a cream and neutral brown theme. It was obvious that his Uncle’s money had taken into the account of many renovations (and his own eye for design), what with the way the grass had been well cared for and the garden around the old arbor entailed.
He doesn't know if he's happy about the change. And yet, it almost makes him sigh in relief. That he wouldn't be stepping back into the hell that he had once caged himself in.
The nausea that stung over his nose and taste buds, the colors being too much and too bold for his stimulation. Hurtling over his head.
The never ending quiver in his system. That he would never fully be safe here. Or with himself.
Now, everything is. . . still repairing itself.
They weren't broken anymore. Now just. . .slightly fractured.
Uncle Sam steps inside, the silhouette of his baseball cap a relaxing reminder of his reality. He held a good amount of luggage with his bulky figure, though most of it was just the few decor and clothes the man hadn’t brought in yet. Everything had already been settled and moved into the house, Sam being quite the strictly prepared man he was.
Uncle Sam never married despite being ‘quite the eligible bachelor,’ as Tweak’s grandmother would say. As a forty-nine year old former ranch hand, he was much more dedicated to his work than other commitments. Just that alone could be it’s own reason, really. Despite his mother’s extroverted personality, her older brother was-
“Good?” His Uncle asked, a man on a mission to only speak in one word syllables.
-dry.
And believe it or not, this has been quite the advancement that the two had in terms of communication.
Ironically, finding himself unable to speak, Tweak nods.
Then, out of the anxiety of being vague, he chokes out a response.
"It’s good." He pulls the small carry on along. “I like what you did. With the place, I mean.”
The older man grunts in acknowledgment, satisfied with his answer and then quickly moving on. Sam was awkward like that.
Tweak feels the stairs almost glaring back at him. Daunting and shadowed by the lack of light on the second floor of the house.
"Taylor?" Sam calls out, seeming to have found whatever courage he was mustering up to ask him what had been on his mind. Some days, it was easier to talk to each other. Other days, he wouldn't allow himself to forget. The attention of a parental figure, especially not one that looked so close to his own mother.
Those scenes came at him in far too tender moments. Drawing back from hugging her or his father out of the discomfort clawing at his chest.
He turns, one step barely at the stairs, gripping onto the polished wood carved railing. Now coating the crescent dents of his finger nails from a younger age, always waiting below the stair case sometimes in fear of leaving the safety of his room.
"Yeah"
The man pursed his lips, mustache wiggling, glancing off to the side before finally looking at him. Dark brown eyes like Tweak’s mother.
"I can still call the district and set you up for homeschooling, if you change your mind, Son."
The blonde feels his heart race, a habitual feeling that he could never escape.
"No. I. . . I can do this. I'm not turning back." He winces at the way in his words, instead sending him a warm smile. Wobbly, but strong enough for his Uncle, "But thanks."
Sam escapes the eye contact first, clearing his throat as he makes his way back to the truck.
"Alright then, Kid. See you in the morning.”
"Yeah, see you."
…
There's only 2 suitcases of his. He hadn't been allowed for anything more back at the center, but he didn't care much to begin with back then.
Still too. . .discombobulated. With a thousand thoughts running through his mind. But the one sentence in bold stood out most. That he shouldn't be here.
He hadn't been the one that did this to himself. He didn't even have the choice.
He didn't even feel when the cappuccino had slid over the skin of his arm, the scalding hot liquid searing at his palms as he collapsed behind the counter. His heart felt frozen for a moment, like he was underwater and his limbs had tremored in the sense of a lightning bolt having shot through him. Hearing nothing but the panic having settled through the shop as his own thoughts were drowned out by the absolute shock in his muscles.
It was just his luck, or rather, his father's misfortune, that the new detective assigned to their town had been his customer. Mr. Atkins. A regular, actually. He had been a kind customer, a blue eyed, blonde man possibly in his thirties, walking in everyday at 8:45 a.m. with his German Shepard after his morning workout. The locals (more as the mothers and single middle aged women) in the small town grew to be infatuated with the polite man and his trusty K-9.
Richard Tweek had never been fond of animals. Tweak had always imagined it was why he hadn't allowed pets in the Coffee House. Dogs especially. It was a bit upsetting, because Tweak himself always loved the warmth that animals brought. But in a way, he could see how his counselor's suggestion of an emotional support pet was rejected by his parents. Looking back at it now, maybe it had been a good call. He hadn't wanted to stress out a poor dog with his own scatter brained mentality back then. If he couldn't take care of himself, how could he care for a pet?
Funny how they say being a kid was easier. They truly hadn’t met Tweak Tweek. Whom he had been before Tweak Monroe, taking his Uncle’s last name after Sam had gained custody of his nephew.
On the rare days that his father wouldn't enter the shop, Tweak had let Mr. Atkins in with his pet rather than have the dog obediently wait outside. He starts off with the pup cup he always gifts to the man's pet, whom surely deserves it if her owner was waking her up at the crack of dawn to go running. At least, that's what Tweek believed. It was surprising, later on, that he didn't ask how the dog was so well trained before hand.
Tweak had felt it then. Passing it off as just the steam from the machine overwhelming his senses. That the porcelain in his hand was only shaking the normal amount. That the extra sheen of sweat on his forehead was the usual outbreaks of his violent hormonal switches.
The last coherent sound he processed was the Shepard, Jessie, whining. A foretelling of his state to come.
He collapses.
In the midst of his seizure, the cup shatters against the polished, hardwood floor.
Only the bystanders nearby know the rest.
They say that Detective Atkins, alarmed and widely concerned, had dropped down to support him, cushioning his head as he writhed. Yelling for someone to call for an ambulance.
Jessie, having been trained in assistance and a former service dog, had inched forward to help as well.
She stopped the moment the scent of the cappuccino's fine China reached her nose.
In the midst of the chaos, of the fatal six minutes that overtook his body and his mind, she springs into active alert.
An overt reaction to drugs.
Methamphetamine.
Someone calls the Emergency line.
And after Mr. Atkins is sure that Tweak is being treated with the best attention his unconcious state can recieve, he makes a call as well.
"They say that the Tweek boy was sent into a seizure. An over dose of some sorts!"
"You think that's bad? They found two pounds of Meth in the back! One more in their home!"
"You don't think. . ."
"Well of course! There's no wonder why the kid is like that!"
"The Denver State Police Department arrest Richard Jake Tweek and Mary Tweek, owners of the local coffee house Tweek Bros., for drug possession and accomplice liability Tuesday afternoon at 1:25 p.m. Emergency Respondents were notified of a major health crisis for their only child suffering a fatal seizure that same morning, a K-9 inside the coffee shop having detected the smell of methamphetamine stained over a cup. Police were able to impound the cases hidden in a safe near the stock room and are now--"
"Poor kid. Apparently the dad laced his drinks with that shit."
"I always knew something was up with Richard."
"They say there's no hope for that Richard and Mary now. No amount of good lawyers can get them out of this one."
"I heard they had to send the boy to the psych ward after everything! He went berserk when he found out! Tried to kill his dad!"
(Not entirely true, but the one visit his father had been allowed to come see him, the poor excuse of a man had the gall to joke that this was coming out of Tweak's paycheck. Needless to say, it had taken the (nosey) nurse and doctor to place him under anesthesia to calm him from his mental breakdown)
"Rehabilitation center! At twelve years old!"
Tweak remembers then, stepping into his room that day. Everything had been too bright. Too white. Too clean and sterile. The nurse had ushered him in, to make himself at home. As much as a frightened, angry, and somber mess of a person that a twelve year old kid could be in a rehabilitation center.
Now, almost six years later, he's almost relieved to see that his room was as wiped out as the former one he had slept in.
A fresh start.
They probably haven’t forgotten.
He nods to himself.
You’re still a Tweek. Maybe not a literal one anymore, but that’s still who you were. No last name can change that.
Yeah. He can do this.
You think he forgot? Maybe it’s better that he did. But you know you’d rather he didn’t.
How bad could it be?
It would kill you if he did.
Tugging his headphones up, he gets to work setting up his bed sheets.
…
It’s going to be a shit show.
Sometimes, he had a bit too much faith in the type of people here.
The thought struck him, at about 11:36 after he had somewhat dozed into a light sleep when settling into bed. No amount of tossing or turning would get the jittery mess of his mind to relax itself. The bed covers were too hot, or they’d tangle in between his mess of limbs, suffocating him.
Whoever said not to think about your problems after 9 p.m must have not taken into the account of a High School Senior about to go back to school with the probability of his peers knowing of his former addiction to meth, bar shit hallucinations mid day, and being sent to a rehab facility and sober living home for the past six years and—
Ok. Okokokok just- calm. Breathe. He exhaled, squeezing his eyes shut for a minute. The thudding nerves had leapt into his throat, resting there like a dumbbell. Weighing his head against his bed.
He glances out the frosted window, debating his choice.
With a sigh, he kicks off the bed covers.
…
There’s not much of a night life in South Park. It was a Monday, anyways. The walk to the nearest convenience store is short, as he hadn’t wanted to alert his Uncle of his absence with his car. The walk is short, the glowing hum of the store accompanied by the moths fluttering about outside.
It’s in the fifth aisle, the golden little bear smiling back at him in shiny packaging. God, was he obsessed with these as a kid. Honey Bear crackers were one of those local supermarket type of cookies. The hidden treasures in every small town. Beside them, an obnoxious green bag of Cheese Poofs presented themselves, a good chunk of the bags almost gone. Tweak wrinkled his nose, as he never did like the way those things rank of a sickly amount of cheese and feet. Too mild and sharp for his over stimulated taste buds back then. Even now, with his slight picky eating habits.
Securing what he had come for, he makes a rapid dash to the checkout station, only praying that he wouldn’t have to make any early greetings from someone who recognized him.
There’s a few people in the store, though it seemed they were only making quick stops as well. A truck driver filling a cup of coffee, a tired mother retrieving a can of baby formula—
—Or, to Tweak’s luck, a whole case of Coronas if you were Randy Marsh.
Panic overcomes the blonde’s system. He clutches the bag of cookies a bit closer to himself.
Even if it was one of his former peer’s father, Mr. Marsh was possibly one of the worst people to come across if you wanted to avoid any sort of attention. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the man, but in no way was he wanting to engage in any sort of contact with him. Tweak wouldn’t call Mr. Marsh a total moron and an absent minded idiot. Just on some particular days back then. He remembered the man having a level headed type of nature in his younger years, but as the kids had started growing into their junior phases, Tweak began to wonder how exactly he had a P.h.d in Geology.
‘Still a thousand times better than your own dad.’ Tweak’s mind supplied.
Ducking his head, he makes a beeline for the register like a headless chicken.
A bored older woman stares back at him, smoking out of a laughably small cigarette. She’s still inhaling when she points behind him.
Tweak almost groans at his skittish movements when he doesn’t feel his house keys in his hoodie. Damn it.
“Hey Kid, you. . . you dropped your….keys?” The man seemed unsure of the ring of keys he was holding, clearly intoxicated AND faded out of this world if the cloud of red around his eyes were saying anything. “Yeah, keys.”
Tweek reaches for the ring, averting his eyes from the piercing black ones analyzing him. “Thank you.” The blonde mumbled, hoping the interaction was over and done with.
“Y-Y-You lookkkk familiar.” Tweak doesn’t think he’s sweated this fast before. “WWWait,” Watery eyes scan over Tweak’s face, squeezing them close. “Jennifer Connelly? Y-You’re still seventeen?! D-did you dye your hair blonde?”
Said blonde feels the sweat in his palms almost loosen his grip on his bag of graham cracker slash cookies. He didn’t even care that they’d be dust by now.
For once, he thanks his dark brows and green eyes. Actually, that was a pretty nice compliment, even if the man basically called him a girl-
“. . .Yes.” Tweak blurts. He doesn’t even catch himself lying before he says it, defense mechanism making a home run.
Mr. Marsh doesn’t even hesitate to accept it.
“Hm. . . Ok. Can you tell Tom Cruise that I said thanks for staying out of my kid’s closet? Wait. . . You’re still filming Labyrinth right? Never mind, uh-. . . Tell him in like. . .elevendy-seven years.” The man slurs. Then, he swings a bit and points behind Tweak, as if the blonde had been the one holding up the line.
The cashier blinks tired eyes back at the teenager.
“Two dollars and fifty cents, Honey.” The older woman says with an unimpressed glance at Tweak. Probably an unamused witness to Tweak saving face.
“O-Oh, Right!” He scrambles for his card, fishing it out of the pockets of his oversized zip up.
There’s an awkward silence that hangs in the air. Tweak lightly sways on the heels of his feet. There’s just background noise now. The sound of the register approving the purchase, the receipt printing, Randy Marsh greeting the cashier with a-
“Hey, N-Nut Gobbler.”
She doesn’t seem fazed.
“Hey there, Randall.”
Tweak furrows his brows as he leaves the establishment, extremely concerned at the way the older man recognized the woman while heavily induced in Tegridy marijuana and alcohol (and yet couldn’t recognize him), apparently looking like an 80’s female actress but blonde, or the way that the woman’s name was actually the one that ‘Randall’ had slurred.
South Park was still the same fever dream.
How oddly comforting.
…
"What?" His voice rasped out. He doesn't have the strength to feel anything other than shock, before the moment overcomes him like hard rain splashing down on him. He looks at the man before him, burnt orange hair a noticeable figure as he sat on the chair beside his bed.
Only the heart monitor gives him an answer, as Thomas Tucker seems to be considering his words. The machine picks up at the twelve year old Tweak’s quickening heart beat. Jogging before it’s big run.
"I know this. . . asking you to do this is almost cruel." The man chuckles humorlessly. "Kid, you don't know how worried we were when we found out. We care about you, so much.”
Tweak knew that. Maybe sometimes he doubted such a feat, the fragile mess in his mind corrupting his every comfort. But he saw how real their warmth was. How they could so easily accept him by Craig’s side, like a part of their son. How there was always a chair for him in their dining room table. A space for him in their family.
“-And. . .that's why I think it would be better like this. For Craig. And you."
Tweak feels his mouth go dry. Maybe it all gathered near his face. The tears blurring the corner of his vision.
"You. . . You want me to stop seeing your son." Tweak clarified. He’s stupefied, at the thought. He can’t remember a time in his life that wasn’t with Craig. But- Craig would never-no. ‘No!’ "P-please, I. . . I don't think I-"
The heart monitor gives off a warning with his sudden rush of movement, and Mr. Tucker is fast in trying to calm him down. The man rests his hands gently on the blonde’s frail shoulders, soothing him the best he could.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I just meant temporarily, Tweak. Not forever. Just so you can focus on healing.”
Tweak feels the tsunami flooding him. Feeling sick and cold. Embarrassed and ashamed. Nothing new, especially when word had finally spread about his horrific parents.
He’d only been here for about a week.
“Does he know?”
Thomas rests his elbows on his knees.
“We haven't sent him a letter since his last one came through. I just think, until this all dies down, it would be best if you two would take a break from the other. Just for a bit."
It was by some irony that Craig hadn't been there, at his lowest, unknowingly. He'd been sent to the Kennedy Space Camp, and although he'd been reluctant to leave Tweak for the Summer, Tweak himself had to drag him to the admissions office nearby to send the acceptance letter. It was an amazing opportunity, the camp having been invitation only after their class had been practically forced to sign up for good camp names that commonly looked very good on College applications. They had barely been in sixth grade, but Mr. Mackey had insisted everyone start at an early pace.
It was futile for Tweak, as his parents would in no way even think of sending him off to camp for the summer when he could be helping them in the cafe.
Even if he knew it was be agonizing, he could only think of all of the times he wished he could something for his boyfriend just as the other did for him everyday.
Though Craig was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve, Tweak could see the small tug at the corner of his lips when he'd received the news by their Principle.
It had even led to an argument between the two. Nothing nasty, but the two shared the common trait of being equally as stubborn. It had taken a ton of reassurances to even get Craig to consider the idea. To write to him consistently, call him, remember his affirmations.
He had left, two weeks after Summer started, with a shy kiss to Tweak's cheek in front of a gushing Laura Tucker and possibly the world's longest hug.
It was a brisk dusk by the time his flight was set to depart, melancholy and bittersweet as the colors streaming across the sky behind him. Like the sudden coolness that nipped at Tweak as he barely contained himself in the tight embrace.
For passion held in childhood, a whole Summer is longer than 70 days without the other. Letters were their only form of communication, the invisible string that tied them together no matter which distance.
But letters weren't Craig. They were from him. But they could never be him. They weren't the safe and warm hugs that wrapped around Tweak. They weren't the hands that would rub at his knuckles or the palm that pressed against his. They weren't the steady shoulders that Tweak would rest his chin on, or the lips that pressed pecks against his face. They weren't the voice that asked him to breathe or called him the sweetest of names.
It was left unsaid.
It had been settled.
Because in the long run, it wouldn’t be about Tweak anymore.
It would be better for them. For the Tweaks and Tuckers. Tweak hated that he couldn’t blame Thomas for his overall concern for his family. The ongoing investigation was delicate, every trace and link sensitive to his family now.
Not for the first time, Tweak had felt acid in his stomach jolt. Feeling sick of himself. It had been a long time coming, when he knew that he would say good bye to Craig in some shape or form. Always because of him.
Craig was too kind, contrary to everyone’s belief. His care was something Tweek knew anyone would hold on to, preciously. To hold tight and take care of and never let go.
His Craig.
He hadn’t known it then, like he did now. Maybe he would have fought back harder, if he had recognized his love for the boy with the storm in his eyes. The boy that did everything so intensely but genuinely for him, that he always left Tweak’s heart thundering. How indescribable Craig had made him feel as a kid. Not knowing that the deep set rush in his veins and thickness in his blood carried the first love that stemmed from him.
...
When he comes home, careful not to wake Uncle Sam, he reaches for the box perched in the highest corner of his closet.
Tweak pulls out the letter before he goes to sleep.
The last one.
The one kept in his breast pocket, close to his heart.
The one that traveled with him when he moved.
The one he had kept in the one book he was allowed inside the center with.
The one that read,
". . .- and I can't wait to see you.
I know how the stars feel now. Hearts burning when the Sun brings daylight and he can't see them.
I miss you.
With my love,
Craig."
The last letter Craig had sent him.
The last thing he had of him. And how it reminded him that Craig had been real, rather than sweet delusion he could only find in his dreams.