Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Tweek Tweak loved silence.

He loved it in the way you love breathing—you don’t think about it until it’s gone and suddenly everything is a suffocating mess.

So yes, when he said he loved calm, quiet, and even the dullness of routine, he meant it with his whole twitchy little soul.

After spending his teenage years trapped in a chaotic blender of caffeine addiction, social anxiety, and what he liked to call "spontaneous public stress concerts," nothing brought him peace like uneventful mornings and the gentle sound of absolutely nothing happening.

Which, naturally, meant he never got to have any of that.

Because college.

College was loud, unpredictable, and filled with professors who seemed to think sleep was a reward you earned after suffering. Add deadlines, endless projects, and group assignments that were basically just trust falls in academic disguise, and you had Tweek's current lifestyle: a walking, jittering, over-caffeinated scream in a sweater.

Still, having his brain too busy to spiral was surprisingly useful. It was hard to drown in existential dread when your to-do list had you too tired to feel anything.

"Tweek. Helloooo. Earth to Emotional Gremlin."

A hand waved in front of his face like it was trying to swat a fly out of his mental atmosphere.

Jet-black hair. Perfect eyeliner. Iconic resting bitch face.

Wendy Testaburger.

She was staring at him like he had grown antlers.

"What?" he blinked, sitting up straighter.

"Have you been listening to anything I’ve said in the last five minutes?"

"Uhhh—yes?"

Wendy sighed with the exhausted energy of someone who had already accepted that she was the responsible one in this friendship dynamic.

"Liar. Anyway, what I was saying," she continued, dramatic as ever, "is that I had to drop Art History."

Tweek froze mid-sip of his third coffee of the morning.

"What?!"

Wendy raised a hand. "Chill. Don’t explode. It was either that or take a night class in Quantum Math and I don’t hate myself that much."

Tweek stared at her, horror blooming in his eyes like a nuclear flower. "But—but we were supposed to take it together! That was the plan! You were going to sit next to me and stop me from combusting in real time!"

"Tweek."

"What am I supposed to do now? Talk to strangers?!"

Wendy deadpanned. "The horror."

He groaned, letting his head fall onto the table with a dramatic thunk.

She sighed again, less mockingly this time, and reached out to rub his back in slow, comforting circles. "Come on. You’re gonna be fine. Maybe this is good. You know, like—character development. Get you out of your emotional support bubble."

He peeked up at her with wide, panic-drenched eyes. "I like my bubble. My bubble is cozy."

"Your bubble is dysfunctional."

"It’s also coffee-scented and comes with cat memes."

Wendy gave a soft laugh. "Okay, that part is valid. But seriously. You might meet someone cool. Maybe even someone hot."

Tweek rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Because that's exactly what I need right now. A new emotional crisis."

"Tweek," she said, more gently now. "You can do this. You're way more normal than you think. You've got weird little raccoon energy, sure, but it's endearing. People like you."

He looked doubtful.

"Name three."

"Me. Professor Davis. That one girl in studio who asked if you were Swedish."

"She thought I was foreign because I said 'sneakers' instead of 'tennis shoes', Wendy."

"That still counts."

Tweek groaned again. She pulled him into a sudden hug before he could sink back into full spiral mode.

"You're gonna be okay," she said, giving him a quick squeeze. "Be cute. Use your face. Make friends. Or lovers. I don't know, live a little."

And with that, she flounced off to her next class with all the elegance of a sleep-deprived ballerina.

Tweek remained seated.

Emotionally obliterated.

He looked at the clock. Art History was in twenty minutes. No Wendy. No buffer. No backup plan.

He was going in alone.

"Cool. Normal. Chill," he muttered to himself. "I’m totally going to die."

Tweek stared at it like it might bite.

This was stupid. He was twenty. He had voted. Paid taxes. Survived a pandemic. And yet here he was, contemplating faking his death to avoid talking to people.

He took a breath.

He took three.

Then, before his brain could convince him to run, he pushed the door open and slipped inside.

The lecture hall was massive. Like, unnecessarily large. Cathedral-meets-college-auditorium large. Art majors, apparently, required space for their drama.

Tweek climbed the stairs slowly, eyes scanning for a seat. He spotted a row in the middle with no one in it—prime territory. Not too close to the front (where eye contact with the professor was a threat) and not too far back (where the Cool Kids sat, probably planning TikToks or tax evasion).

He dropped his bag, pulled out his notebook, and checked his phone. 11:15AM. Still fifteen minutes until class.

Typical. No one ever showed up early for college lectures—he’d learned that by now.

He, however, had a terrible habit of arriving incredibly late to class on the regular. But on the first day of the semester? He always made an exception.

Something about being late on Day One just felt... sacrilegious. Like showing up late to your own wedding.

One leg began to bounce uncontrollably. He unlocked his phone.

Tweek:

wendy you need to getmeoutof here

idon’t know anyone):

not even one ofyour cute party girls

there’s only

guys.

Wendy:

Iugh.

You are a guy, by the way.

Have fun :*

At exactly 11:30AM, the professor stormed into the lecture hall like a very tired tornado in orthopedic sneakers. She had a death grip on her laptop and muttered something that might’ve been “good morning” or “surrender to the void,” but honestly? Hard to tell.

Everyone went silent instantly, like a remote control had hit the mute button. Bags zipped shut. Phones vanished. Postures corrected. Brains… not included.

Tweek sighed, turned off his phone, and flipped open his notebook with all the anxious determination of someone pretending he totally belonged here and was not, in fact, spiraling into a minor emotional collapse.

He uncapped his pen. Took a deep breath. Focused on the slide title.

Art Through the Ages: A Gentle Intro to Human Creativity.

Cool. Chill. He could handle this. He was ready.

And then.

Oh God.

And then he walked in.

The door creaked open in the back of the room and there he was—like some kind of sentient storm cloud that had put on clothes and decided to ruin Tweek’s life today.

Tall. So tall. Easily 6’1”, maybe more. The kind of tall that made ceilings nervous. He was all long legs and narrow hips, thin in a way that somehow made his broad shoulders even more unfair. His hair was black—really black—like the kind of black that light tried to escape from. Messy but deliberate. Like he’d just rolled out of bed and accidentally invented fashion.

He wore a deep blue chuyo—one of those knitted earflap hats that somehow didn’t look stupid on him—and a matching blue jacket, zipped halfway down to reveal a white NASA shirt underneath. NASA. Of course. Space nerd. Probably smarter than Tweek and definitely cooler. As if that wasn’t enough, he had on black jeans and matching black shoes that looked expensive in a casual “I don’t even try” way.

But the worst part?

The vibe.

He moved like he didn’t care about anything. Not you, not the class, not gravity. His face was completely unreadable—expressionless, like a statue that just barely tolerated being alive. Eyes deep-set and sharp, like they saw everything and judged most of it. Lips pressed into a neutral line. No frown. No smile. Just... nothing.

Even his voice, when he gave a short nod to the professor, sounded monotone. Like he’d been programmed for sarcasm and apathy, and someone forgot to install Emotion Pack 2.0.

Tweek’s brain short-circuited.

He dubbed him, very unofficially: Mr. No-Expressions.

Because holy crap, that guy had none.

Not even resting bitch face. Just... resting nothing face. Total emotional blank slate. A human “...” in hoodie form.

And yet—

Something inside Tweek stirred. Like his organs had all made eye contact and decided to throw a panic party without his consent.

His chest got tight. Not like “aw he’s cute” tight.

Like “oh no, something’s wrong and I don’t know what” tight. Like “I’m about to cry for no reason and I don’t know this person” tight.

What. Was. Happening.

Mr. No-Expressions scanned the room with all the enthusiasm of a kid forced to attend a seminar on taxes. Then—just as Tweek was begging the universe to spare him—

Their eyes met.

And holy shit.

It was one second. Maybe two. But Tweek’s soul basically exploded.

There was no dramatic music, no actual lightning strike, but it felt like there was. It felt like someone had taken his brain, microwaved it, and poured glitter into his bloodstream. Every nerve ending screamed. Every muscle froze. His pen rolled off the desk and he didn’t even blink. 

It was like an age-old classic,

And then—just like that—the guy looked away.

Tweek gasped quietly. Like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it. His eyes were suddenly glassy, ​​filled with tears that threatened to spill out. He forced them to not even dare to try.

Cool. Normal. Chill.

He stared down at his notebook, eyes wide, heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.

Okay. Okay. Okay. You’re not dying. That’s just your body betraying you. Happens all the time. Totally normal. Nothing weird here. Just a random tall hot stranger activating your fight-or-flirt instincts.

Flirt?! No! NO. WHAT?!

This was not a thing. This was a reaction. A malfunction.

Mr. No-Expressions didn’t even look at him again. He took a seat two rows behind and one column to the left. Close enough to feel. Far enough to avoid. Strategic. Calculated.

Probably planning world domination from back there.

Tweek tried—really tried—to pay attention to the lecture. He even wrote down the words “Ancient Egyptian Art” and underlined it six times, like that would help anchor him to reality.

It didn’t.

Because all he could think about was him. Sitting right behind him. Breathing the same air. Radiating emotionally repressed chaos.

His hands were sweating.

His thoughts were a tumble dryer of:

What if he hates me?

What if I imagined the eye contact?

What if he’s a criminal?

What if he’s the best person in the universe and I never talk to him again and die alone wondering what it would’ve been like to say hi?!

The professor kept talking. Slides changed. Something about Mesopotamia. Ziggurats. Clay tablets. Tweek’s clay tablet was currently the mental equivalent of a screaming toddler in a grocery store.

The class dragged on.

And on.

And Mr. No-Expressions didn’t move. Not even a fidget. No phone. No pen tapping. Just... stillness. The calm before the emotional storm that Tweek already was.

Finally, the professor closed her laptop. “All right. We’ll pick up with Ancient Greece next time. And yes, there will be a quiz eventually, because life is suffering.”

A few people laughed. Most just groaned.

Tweek, meanwhile, was already preparing to bolt—but carefully. Casually. He didn’t want to trip and make a fool of himself in front of That Face. That chin alone could probably cut glass.

Then—

As he gathered his stuff, a paper fluttered off his desk and landed between his chair and the one behind him.

Of course it did.

Because the universe has a sense of humor.

He leaned to grab it, but before he could—

Another hand reached out.

Their fingers brushed.

He flinched like he'd touched an electric fence. So did the other guy. Maybe it was just the static, right?

It had to be something logical.

Tweek looked up.

It was him.

Mr. No-Expressions.

Up close, his features were even more ridiculous. Jawline like a geometry project. White skin, but not sickly. More like marble. Or moonlight. Or something unfair.

He held the paper out to Tweek silently. No smirk. No words. Just… that same deadpan stare.

Tweek took the page with a trembling “Thanks.”

A nod. That was it. Not warm. Not rude. Just… neutral. Professional handoff. Like they were spies exchanging classified documents.

And then he was gone.

He turned, walked out the door, and vanished into the hallway crowd without another glance.

Tweek stared at the space he’d just been in.

What the hell.

Who was he?

Why did his heart hurt?

Why did he want to cry and also ask for his number and also hide under a table and die?

Why did a literal three-second eye contact make him feel like he’d forgotten something important?

He was spiraling. No brakes. Just vibes and cardiac distress.

Eventually, when the lecture hall was nearly empty, Tweek stood up and left, legs feeling like Jell-O and dignity scattered across the linoleum.

He didn’t know Mr. No-Expressions’ name.

He didn’t know why his chest felt hollow and full at the same time.

But he knew one thing:

That guy was going to ruin his semester.

Or maybe his whole life.

That night, Tweek slept like someone had unplugged his soul.

No tossing. No anxious flailing. No waking up at 3 a.m. convinced he’d forgotten to submit an assignment from 2016.

Just... darkness.

And then—

Warm light. A porch. Old wood groaning beneath his feet. The smell of pine and something older—rain on earth, maybe.

He was outside.

In front of a house that looked like it had once been loved, then forgotten, then rediscovered by accident. The windows were cracked. The walls leaned like they were tired. It was a mess.

But it was beautiful.

And somehow—impossibly—he wasn’t alone.

Mr. No-Expressions was there.

Except, not the quiet guy from class. Not his Mr. No-Expressions.

This one looked... soft. 

He had all of the expressions.

His shoulders were still broad, his dark hair still messy under that same blue hat. But his face—God. His face wasn’t blank. It wasn’t guarded.

It was warm.

His eyes, those same deep dark eyes, were lit from inside like he had stars in his head and wasn’t afraid to show them. He smiled, and Tweek’s whole chest ached like a bruise pressed too hard.

"Craig, this is-"

Craig. That was his name.

“I know it’s not much,” Craig interrupted, pacing the porch like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “But I figured if we knock down this wall… maybe add a big window on the east side…”

Tweek didn’t hear the rest. Not really.

He just watched him. Listened to the sound of his voice like it was the only language he wanted to learn.

Craig turned, met his eyes. “You always liked sunlight.”

Tweek’s breath caught.

He stepped forward—almost like his body moved before he could think about it—and took Craig’s hands in his own. Rough palms. Familiar skin.

How?

Why?

What was this?

“It’s perfect,” he said, voice steady even though nothing inside him was.

Craig looked down, his thumb tracing over Tweek’s finger—and paused.

There was a ring there. A plain gold band. Simple. Solid.

And there was one on Craig’s hand, too.

He didn’t remember putting it on.

Tweek felt it all at once—the weight of it, the warmth, the promise.

And then the dream peeled back, like pages fluttering open.

A memory unfolded.

A door. Slamming.

Yelling. A voice too loud. Footsteps too fast.

His parents. A bedroom. A half-buttoned shirt. Craig’s hand in his. The fear. The shame.

The bruises that bloomed across that other version of his skin like storm clouds.

And then—

The night they ran away.

A gray friday morning. 11:30 AM. Craig knocking on his window with nothing but a backpack and that look in his eyes that said Now or never.

So they left.

Boarded a train, the B303. No destination. Just the idea of away.

They fled to freedom, even if it came in the shape of this crooked house with a leaking roof and a single working faucet.

And on one cold, rain-slick night, Craig dropped to one knee on the back porch. Pulled out a little black box that had been crushed and wrinkled from living in his coat pocket too long.

Inside were two rings.

Nothing expensive. Just metal and meaning.

He didn’t even ask.

Just held the box out like a question only their hearts could hear.

And Tweek— Tweek said yes before he could cry.

That night, soaked and shivering and dressed in their best (read: driest) clothes, they stood beneath the stars and married each other with whispered words and borrowed vows.

Not in the name of a god who had never loved them.

But in the name of each other.

And Tweek remembered—

God, he remembered—

The feeling of it.

The breathless, terrifying freedom of finally choosing love over fear.

Because it was the 1930's.

Back then, he had a million reasons to love Craig.

And only one reason why he shouldn’t.

He was a boy.

He leaned into him. Arms around Craig’s waist. Nose tucked under his chin. Like they’d done this a thousand times before. Like there was no such thing as awkwardness between them.

Just peace.

And then, just when Craig was about to kiss him-

Everything faded.

BEEP BEEP.

The alarm clock screamed like a banshee with commitment issues.

Tweek’s eyes snapped open, wide and glassy.

He didn’t move right away. He just blinked up at the ceiling like it had betrayed him.

His heart was pounding.

His throat was tight.

And his cheeks—

Wet.

“Oh—what the fuck,” he mumbled, voice cracked and half-choked as he wiped at his face with the sleeve of his sleep shirt.

He was crying.

He didn’t even remember starting to cry. But the tears were there, and they weren’t stopping. Not the dramatic sobbing kind—more like a quiet ache leaking out of his skin.

His chest hurt.

Not physically, not like a panic attack. But... somewhere deeper.

He didn’t know what he’d dreamed exactly. It was already fading—like smoke the moment you try to grab it. But the feeling lingered.

Familiarity. Warmth. Loss.

And him.

The guy. Mr. No-Expressions.

Except not the one from class.

That Craig—ugh, no, he still didn’t even know if that was actually his name—was all cold silence and stiff posture and zero eye contact.

This one had smiled. Had held him like they’d never been apart.

Tweek sat up slowly, rubbed his face with both hands, and groaned into his palms. Okay. Chill. It was just a dream.

A super vivid, weirdly emotional, wildly specific dream featuring someone you literally don’t know and have spoken zero words to.
Not strange at all. Definitely stable behavior.

He peeked at the clock. Groaned again. He was already ten minutes behind schedule.

“Cool,” he muttered to himself. “First week of the semester and I’m already emotionally compromised by a stranger. Awesome. Very on brand.”

He pulled on a hoodie (inside out), shoved his hair into something kind of human-shaped, and stumbled into his morning like a broken Roomba.

But the ache in his chest?

It stayed.

Quiet.

Constant.

And every time he blinked, he swore he could still feel the ghost of that porch under his feet. 

And the shadow of that ring on his finger.

Like he missed it.

“So… you had a gay depression dream about a guy you’ve never spoken to,” Wendy said, sipping her strawberry milkshake like she was narrating a true crime podcast. “Honestly? That’s kinda hot. Like a wet dream.”

Tweek groaned and dramatically faceplanted onto the cafeteria table. The tray beneath him made a sad plastic creak like it, too, was tired of his life choices.

“Stop calling it that,” he mumbled into the Formica. “It wasn’t like that. It was—ugh. I don’t even know what it was. It was like a movie. A sad, rainy, French movie with subtitles and a tragic violin soundtrack.”

Wendy raised an eyebrow. “And marriage.”

“What?”

“You said you were married. In the dream.” She leaned back with a smirk, pink straw between her teeth. “That’s, like, some deep-cut Call Me By Your Name level symbolism. Except no peaches.”

Tweek flailed upright, nearly knocking over his black coffee—aka the last thread holding his soul together.

“It wasn’t like that!” he protested. “It wasn’t—romantic. Okay, it was, but not like in a hot way. It was emotional! Existential! He gave me a ring and we ran away from society together because everyone hated us and—” He stopped. Blinked. “Okay, now that I’m saying it out loud, it sounds incredibly romantic and also horrifying.”

Wendy nodded solemnly. “Like gay The Notebook.”

“Oh my god,” Tweek hissed, grabbing the sides of his hoodie like he could disappear into it like a turtle. “I’m losing it. I’m fully losing it. I need a CT scan. Or an exorcism. Or maybe just to drop out and live in the woods.”

“Didn’t 'dream you' already do that?”

Tweek glared at her over the rim of his cup.

Wendy, naturally, was unfazed. She reached into her leather jacket, pulled out her phone, and began furiously typing.

Tweek squinted at her. “What are you doing?”

“Looking it up,” she said, without elaboration.

“…Looking what up?”

She turned the phone toward him.

“Dreams of past lives and soul connections.”

“Oh no,” Tweek muttered. “Wendy, no.”

“Wendy, yes.” Her grin was wicked. “Listen, don’t panic—”

“I’m already panicking.”

“—but if this is a past life thing? It totally tracks. The vivid emotions. The wedding. The crying when you woke up even though you didn’t remember why.” She tilted her head, voice softening just a little. “Tweek, that doesn’t sound like a regular dream. That sounds like a memory.”

He stared at her.

Then stared at his coffee.

Then stared into the void.

“Nope,” he said. “I refuse. That’s too weird. That’s like ‘TikTok witch who charges her crystals under the moon’ weird. I don’t want my brain doing that. I just want to suffer in peace like a normal person.”

Wendy snorted. “Imagine, though. Just imagine—that guy from class? Craig Whatever-His-Name-Is? What if that was him in another life?”

Tweek didn’t respond.

Because his brain had already imagined it.

The rain. The porch. The soft smile that the real-life version of Mr. No-Expressions definitely did not have.

And the feeling.

That horrible, beautiful, aching feeling in his chest like something was missing and had just brushed by him again.

What if that was real?

What if he hadn’t imagined it?

What if he’d found someone and lost them—and now they were both here again, walking around with no clue?

He blinked rapidly and took a too-large sip of coffee. Immediately burned his tongue. Deserved.

Wendy, watching him have an emotional meltdown in real time, smiled gently. “You okay?”

Tweek nodded. Then shook his head. Then nodded again. “I mean, yes. No. I don’t know. I barely know this guy! He’s probably not even that interesting in real life! Maybe he listens to podcasts about car engines or collects knives or something.”

“Okay, first of all, knife guys can be hot—”

“Wendy.”

She laughed. “I’m just saying. You can’t know if there’s anything between you yet. But you also can’t pretend you didn’t feel something.”

“I didn’t feel—” Tweek started to say, but the sentence fell apart halfway out of his mouth.

Because he had.

And it wasn’t just attraction. It wasn’t about his face or his shoulders or his voice—though, like, those were also a problem.

It was something else.

That look.

The way their eyes had locked in class like the universe had thrown a brick at him. 

As if the universe needed them to meet. Again.

Tweek curled into himself, gripping his paper cup like it was a flotation device.

“I can’t do this,” he muttered. “I don’t want this. I just want to have a normal semester and pass Art History and not develop some emotionally shattering obsession with a stranger, thanks.”

Wendy smiled, but it was softer now.

Less teasing.

“I get it,” she said. “It’s a lot. It’s weird. But… maybe it’s not a bad thing.”

Tweek didn’t respond.

He just stared into the swirl of his coffee like it might whisper the answers back.

She nudged him under the table with her boot. “Hey. Listen. Just… keep an open mind, okay? Maybe he’s just a guy. Maybe he’s not. You don’t have to decide today.”

He nodded. Slowly.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he repeated, a little more convinced.

Then added, under his breath, “Still gonna avoid eye contact forever, though.”

Wendy laughed so hard she snorted.

“You’re such a disaster.”

“I’m aware,” Tweek groaned.

But a tiny, dangerous thought lodged itself somewhere in his chest and refused to leave.

Sure, it sounds fun and scientifically impossible.

No one would believe that chessy-ass theory.

But what if it was right?

Cause, to him, it felt right.

Tweek had made a new rule for himself:

Never, under any circumstances, arrive to Art History early.

Because last time? Last time he’d spent fifteen minutes sitting alone in a half-empty lecture hall slowly unraveling into a sentient panic attack because he had walked in again.

Mr. No-Expressions™.

The tall, all-blue, NASA-shirt-wearing, human version of an existential sigh who had somehow wormed his way into both Tweek’s dream life and actual waking reality without doing anything besides exist.

And now? Now he haunted Tweek’s thoughts like a hot ghost with emotional damage.

So today, Tweek did the only reasonable thing.

He showed up late.

Not too late. Just “carefully calculated to avoid unnecessary social exposure” late. The lecture had already started, which meant less seating options, fewer eyes on him, and most importantly—he wouldn’t have to risk walking past Mr. No-Expressions in a silent hallway and, God forbid, making eye contact again.

He shuffled quietly into the back of the lecture hall, head down, hoodie up. He spotted an empty seat in the second-to-last row and power-walked toward it like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

He dropped into the chair and exhaled.

Safe.

He made it.

And then—

His eyes did the one thing they should not have done.

They drifted.

To the left.

Just a little.

And there he was.

Sitting one seat over.

Long legs. Black jeans. Blue jacket. Dark hair slightly messy, like he’d lost a fight with a wind tunnel and didn’t care. Same bored, too-serious face. Same ridiculous bone structure. Same absurdly attractive lack of interest in the world.

Craig. Well—not Craig. He still didn't know his real name. Just… Mr. No-Expressions.

Still unnamed. Still unreadable. Still casually ruining Tweek’s entire nervous system.

Tweek looked away so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.

It’s fine. He hasn’t noticed you. Just breathe. Take notes. Pretend to be normal. Don’t panic. You’re not dreaming this time. You’re fine.

Spoiler: He was not fine.

He was barely holding it together, and the professor was talking about classical sculpture like her life depended on it. Tweek tried to focus. Really. But he could feel the heat radiating off that one empty seat between them like the world’s most judgmental lava pit.

He kept his eyes on his notebook. Wrote the word “columns” three times. Underlined it. Doodled a tragic-looking Ionic capital that somehow ended up crying.

That’s when it happened.

The sound.

A low, frustrated sigh. Then—

“Do you have a pen?”

Tweek froze.

It was him.

His brain immediately short-circuited. He looked up, slowly, like a character in a horror movie opening a cursed music box.

Mr. No-Expressions was looking directly at him.

For the first time. Ever.

And up close?

Oh no. Oh no no no.

He was worse.

His eyes were darker than they had any right to be. Sharp and quiet, like the ocean during a storm but also… kind of sleepy? Like he hadn’t had a full eight hours since 2017.

His expression was still blank, still unreadable—but his voice?

His voice was low. Deep. Flat. Not mean, exactly. But not soft either. Just... neutral. Like everything he said was half a warning.

Tweek blinked at him. “Pen?”

Mr. No-Expressions raised his eyebrows just barely, as if to say yes, genius, that’s what I said.

“Oh! Yeah—yeah, totally, here—” Tweek fumbled in his pencil case and knocked out three pens, all of which hit the floor with a clatter that echoed across the hall like the universe hated him personally.

“Sorry—sorrysorrysorry—”

He grabbed one (not even his best one! Tragic!) and held it out awkwardly.

Craig took it.

Without saying thank you.

But also without making fun of him. Or smirking. Or showing any emotion at all.

Just nodded.

Which was somehow worse.

Tweek’s heart was now sprinting a 10K in his chest. He turned back to his notebook, but his hand was shaking so badly he accidentally drew a column that looked like it was melting.

And yet—

Something about it felt… good?

Weirdly.

Like… he hadn’t been ignored.

Just… noticed. Barely. Like a glitch in the Matrix.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Fifteen minutes later, the professor announced that next week’s class would involve small group analysis. “Two or three people. Find someone. I don’t care who. Just not me. I’m tired.”

A couple students groaned.

Tweek’s stomach dropped. Immediately.

Group work.

Group work?!

Oh God. No. Please. Anything but that. I am not emotionally equipped for spontaneous partner selection in a crowded space.

As class ended, students started milling around. Pairing off.

Tweek stayed seated, clinging to the edge of his desk like it might save him from drowning in forced human interaction.

He glanced sideways, hoping maybe Mr. No-Expressions had already left—

But nope.

Still there.

Still writing with his pen.

Still not looking at anyone.

Tweek hesitated.

Should I say something? Should I ask if he wants to partner up? No. Absolutely not. I’d rather be eaten by wolves. Wait. Should I be insulted he hasn’t asked me? Oh god I’m spiraling again—

Suddenly, someone behind them called out: “Craig! You working with anyone?”

Tweek didn’t even register it at first.

But Mr. No-Expressions turned his head slightly and replied—

“No.”

And the guy walked off. No response.

Tweek blinked.

…Craig?

His brain backpedaled.

Wait. Wait wait wait.

CRAIG?

He looked over again.

Craig. The name from his dream.

The one that had sat in his chest like a quiet bell, waiting for a reason to ring.

And now it had.

“Oh my god,” he whispered to himself. “No. No way.”

There’s no way. That’s just a coincidence. Common name. Totally normal.
Totally definitely not the exact name from the exact dream where we got married in a forest and escaped homophobic oppression on the 30's, haha!

“Thanks,” Craig said suddenly.

Tweek jumped.

“What?”

Craig held out the pen. “For this.”

“Oh—uh, yeah, no problem, cool, totally fine—”

He took it back like it was made of glass and had been blessed by holy fire.

Craig stood. Gave him a single, unreadable glance. Nodded.

Then walked off.

Not a smile. Not even a full goodbye.

But Tweek’s hands were still shaking.

And when he looked down at the pen in his hand, he suddenly wasn’t sure if the whole thing had happened at all.

Architecture was supposed to be safe.

That was the whole reason Tweek picked it in the first place. Buildings didn’t talk back. Roofs didn’t judge your caffeine addiction. Floor plans didn’t make intense eye contact and then casually steal your pen before walking off like they hadn’t just sent your soul into cardiac distress.

But today?

Today was cursed.

His professor—an old man with aggressive eyebrows and an aura of perpetual disappointment—stood at the front of the room with a piece of chalk that squeaked with malicious intent.

“Your assignment,” he said, with all the joy of a funeral, “is to design a space that captures a memory. Any memory. Good, bad, personal, distant—doesn’t matter. Just make me feel something.”

Tweek blinked.

A memory? Sir, I do not have access to those. I deleted them all for storage reasons.

The professor continued. “You’ll be sketching first drafts today. Presentation due next week. No excuses. No extensions. And for the love of God, if you show me another minimalist dorm room with a Pinterest rug, I will walk into the ocean.”

Tweek half-heartedly chuckled with the class. But inside, his stomach sank.

Because he knew what memory he was going to draw.

He didn’t want to. Didn’t mean to. But as soon as the prompt left the professor’s mouth, it was like something behind his ribs had already decided for him.

So he pulled out his sketchbook.

And his pencil moved.

Not thoughtfully. Not with intention. But like it remembered.

A crooked little porch. Uneven steps. A house that leaned slightly to the left like it was tired of being upright. Trees in the distance—tall and patient. A missing shutter. A gaping hole in the wall that let the forest in.

A cabin.

That cabin.

He added details without thinking. Shingles that curled at the edges. A porch swing. A stack of firewood. A single light above the door.

He shaded the roof softly, then paused, pencil hovering above the chimney.

Why did this hurt so much?

It wasn’t even his memory. Right?

It was a dream. A vivid, heart-punching, emotionally disruptive dream featuring someone he’d literally never met before last week.

And yet—he could still smell the rain on the wood. Still feel the fog curling around his ankles. Still hear Craig’s voice saying: “You always liked the morning light.”

Tweek swallowed hard and dragged the pencil down the page in one slow, final stroke.

Then stared at it.

The sketch wasn’t perfect. It was messy. Uneven. Too many lines in some places, not enough in others. But it was real.

It was his.

He reached for the corner of the page to tear it out—

“Hey, nerd boy.”

He flinched so hard his eraser flew across the table.

“Jesus, Wendy.”

“You were emotionally sketching,” she said, plopping down beside him and immediately stealing half his desk space like it was legally hers. “I could feel the tragic gay energy from across the room.”

Tweek dragged his sketchbook away from her grabby hands. “Don’t look at it.”

“Oh my God, now I have to.”

She leaned over anyway, chin in her palm, peeking like it was an exhibit in a museum titled ‘Closeted Architectural Longing.’

Wendy’s brow lifted. “Is this a forest? Why does it look like it’s haunted but in a sentimental way?”

“I—ugh—It’s nothing.”

“Mmhm.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a protein bar like this was going to take a while. “So. Any updates on your mystery space boyfriend?”

“Stop calling him that,” Tweek hissed.

Wendy unwrapped the bar with the slow, smug confidence of someone who knew exactly how annoying she was. “Did he speak? Did you guys lock eyes again like long-lost lovers separated by capitalism and heteronormativity?”

Tweek sighed, thumped his head gently against the table, then groaned into his arms. “He asked for a pen.”

Wendy gasped. “Oh my god. Did you guys make out or what.”

“Wendy, please.”

“What did you say?”

“I—” Tweek raised his head and blinked. “I gave him a pen.”

“That’s it?”

“And he kept it. For a while.”

Wendy stared at him, deadpan. “Okay, so basically this is the beginning of a fanfic. Did he look into your eyes when he said thank you?”

“He didn’t say thank you.”

“Ohhh, we’ve got a rude one. Enemies to lovers arc coming in hot.”

Tweek rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small, dumb smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Wendy narrowed her eyes, clocked it instantly. “You like him.”

“I don’t. I don’t even know him!”

“What’s his name?”

Tweek paused.

Then, quietly: “Craig.”

Wendy’s mouth fell open. “SHUT UP.”

Tweek winced. “Wendy, shut up—”

“Shut. Up.” she whisper-screamed, punching his arm. “You dreamed that name before you met him!”

“I know!”

“Oh my god. This is some gay soulmate reincarnation multiverse bullshit, I knew it.”

“Stop—stop—people can hear you—”

“I hope they hear me! Y’all! My best friend is literally in love with his dream man!”

“Wendy.”

“His name is Craig. That is literally the dream name. What the hell!”

“I don’t know!” Tweek whisper-yelled. “It could be a coincidence! Maybe I’ve heard it before and forgot. Maybe I made it up. Maybe I’m psychic now, I don’t know!”

But the thing was… he did know.

The moment he’d heard someone call him “Craig,” something inside him had locked into place.

Like a door had quietly clicked shut in the back of his mind.

Wendy was already on her phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking him up.”

“Wendy, no—”

“Wendy, yes.” She typed furiously. “You said his name is Craig. What’s the last name? What’s the vibe? Tucker? Thompson? Don’t make me guess—I will guess!”

“I don’t know his last name!”

“Ughhh. You’re useless. Wait. Let’s try Tucker.”

She scrolled. Clicked. Scrolled again. “Okay. Okay, we’ve got like five Craigs. But this one?” She turned the screen toward him.

And Tweek stopped breathing.

There he was.

Profile pic blurry. Banner image completely blank. No posts. No tags. Just a private Instagram account with one visible highlight titled “space stuff 🚀”

Craig Tucker.

It even sounded familiar.

Tweek stared at the name. The profile. The stupid little rocket emoji.

He felt dizzy.

“You okay?” Wendy asked, softer now.

He nodded. Then shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You wanna follow him?”

He didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know what scared him more—following Craig...

Or the possibility that Craig might follow back.

"Alright, I'll follow him."