A/N:
:)


Craig leans back in his chair and clasps his hands together, stretching both arms out in front of him and cracking his knuckles. In front of him on the counter, he's in the middle of building a precariously tall tower of novelty erasers shaped like dinosaurs; although, in Craig's expert opinion, calling them erasers is very misleading. These things are more likely to rip a hole in the fabric of space and time than erase even the faintest trace of pencil on a piece of paper.

They're also just one of the strangely out of place impulse items littering the front counter of the South Park Community College bookstore. Alongside the plastic tub of them next to the register, there is a box of mood rings, a bucket of multicolored bouncy balls, and a container of tiny rubber ducks that Craig can't for the life of him think up a practical use for.

He'd commented on the uselessness of all these things during his first shift, but Clyde had, infuriatingly, pointed out that Craig didn't own the bookstore and therefore couldn't dictate what they could and could not sell.

"We have no power," Clyde had said, taking a bite of the granola bar in his hand and spraying crumbs everywhere as he spoke. "We're just a couple of freshman suckers who need some extra cash."

They've been best friends for nearly their entire lives, from preschool all the way up until now, in college, where they are roommates. Clyde has been working at the bookstore three weeks longer than Craig, though, and so he actually does have some modicum of power, in the sense that he has seniority over Craig, which he of course brings up at every possible moment. Craig can't seriously get too upset about it, since if it weren't for Clyde, he wouldn't have gotten this job – which meant that he wouldn't have been able to earn enough extra money to finally buy his current most prized possession: a 1965 Chevy Impala.

It had taken him six years, two inheritances, and three part-time jobs to be able to afford it. Last week, when he'd settled into the driver's seat and turned the key, the sound of the engine rumbling to life had nearly brought a tear to his eye. Nearly, because Craig Tucker, of course, doesn't cry.

He picks up a pterodactyl eraser, turning it thoughtfully in his fingers as he frowns down as his prehistoric tower, debating his next move. It's mid-December, the day before the beginning of Christmas break, and so naturally, the store is dead. He'll be working here for at least a good part of the next two weeks, though; he's volunteered for all the inventory shifts that are to take place over the break, because really, what the fuck else is he going to do? His family had moved to Ohio or somewhere equally as terrible for hid dad's job almost as soon as Craig had moved into the dorms, so it's not like he's got anywhere to go for Christmas. Clyde had offered for him to come to the Donovan's house for the holidays, but he was also planning on bringing his boyfriend, and Craig has zero interest in hanging out with someone he hasn't been able to stand his entire life.

He's just started to place the pterodactyl carefully on top of the tower when his phone buzzes obnoxiously loudly against the countertop, his Red Racer notification tone almost deafening as it blasts through the silence; startled, Craig drops the eraser, knocking over the entire stack in the process. He scowls and flips off the pile of dinosaurs strewn over the counter, then picks up his phone. He's got a text notification from a number he doesn't recognize, and he frowns, trying to think of who the hell would be texting him. He doesn't have very many friends apart from Clyde, and he definitely doesn't make a habit of giving out his number to anyone.

He clicks on the message, his frown deepening and his eyebrows drawing together in confusion when he reads the words on the screen.

I'm on the liberty!

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Craig stares down at his phone, unconsciously mouthing the words as he reads them over, trying to make sense of the message. He reaches up to tug on one of the earflaps of his hat as he thinks, a habit that's followed him since elementary school. His initial thought is that Clyde had signed him up for some kind of weird texting game, like the ninja scavenger hunt thing from tenth grade, but then his phone vibrates again with another message.

I'm in the library*** where the hell are you?!

Oh. Wrong number. Craig rolls his eyes, because, seriously. A wrong number with a phone call, okay, that he can maybe understand. But texting? It's right there in front of you the whole time, how do you fuck that up?

He doesn't really know why he does it, because it's very much not a Craig type of thing to do. But with barely any hesitation, he types a message back.

In the bookstore.

When the response comes, he can't help the little extra puff of air he exhales through his nostrils, the closest to a laugh he's come all day.

WHY ARE YOU THERE THAT'S ALL THE WAY ACROSS CAMPUS

Dunno, Craig types back, casting a glance around the empty bookstore as his fingers move. Seems like a nice place.

The reply is almost immediate:

UGH FINE STAY THERE I'M COMING

Wait, shit. Craig blinks down at his phone. That wasn't supposed to happen. He sighs, tossing his phone onto the counter, wincing as it hits the surface harder than he'd intended. Now he's going to have to deal with a pissed off college kid, while also being a pissed off college kid. He's never been much for math, but even Craig knows that that's not the most ideal equation in the world.

He scoops up the dinosaur erasers and drops them back into their container on the counter. A look up at the clock tells him that he's still got half of his shift left, and the gross gurgling sound in his stomach reminds him that it's been almost thirteen hours since he's eaten anything. Great. At least Clyde's already gone for the break, so the leftover fettuccine alfredo in their mini-fridge should hopefully still be there when Craig gets back to the room later. He's just got to hold out for two more hours.

Ten minutes later, Craig is scrolling through an article about the creepiest sea creatures ever discovered, when he hears the loud stomp of footsteps as someone enters the bookstore. He doesn't even look up from the article, but he hears the muttered, "Goddammit," from near the counter and has to consciously make an effort to keep his expression neutral.

He probably should have seen it coming, really, but this anglerfish he's reading about right now is probably the coolest fucking fish he's ever seen, and he's distracted. When his phone goes off with the Red Racer ringtone right in his face, Craig actually jumps in his seat a bit, and drops his phone on the counter with a clatter.

"What the fuck?!"

Craig looks up, one of about a million snarky comments on the tip of his tongue, but he's rendered completely speechless by what he sees.

Standing in front of the counter, one hand holding a cell phone, the other grasping a fistful of wild blonde hair, is the hottest guy Craig has ever seen, ever, in real life or otherwise. He's tall, not taller than Craig but only by an inch or two, so probably somewhere around 5'11''. He's skinnier than Craig for sure, but not in an unhealthy way; it's the kind of skinny that someone not currently stunned into silence would call slender. His eyes are a bright shade of green that Craig has never seen before, and even though they're currently filled with confused anger, he finds himself getting completely lost in them.

"What?" Craig has never been so grateful for his natural monotone; with minimal effort he can sound entirely disinterested, even during times like these where his heart is threatening to thump its way right out of his chest.

Hottest Guy Ever lets out a loud huff and drops a backpack that looks like it weighs approximately fourteen tons onto the floor with a thud. He gestures with one pale arm to Craig's phone on the counter. "Why do you have Clyde's phone?! Who are you?" For just a second, something akin to panic flashes in those incredible green eyes. "What did you do to him!?"

Wait, what? "You know Clyde?" Craig asks, stupidly. Of course this guy knows Clyde. Everyone knows Clyde, he's the friendliest and most charismatic person Craig's ever known. Clyde can charm the shit out of someone trying to rob him at gunpoint and end up going out for tacos with them by the end of the encounter.

No, really. Dating Kenny McCormick has gotten Clyde into some sketchy situations.

"How do you know Clyde?" Mr. So-Hot-Craig-Is-Literally-Dying demands, releasing his hair to put his hand on his hip, glaring at Craig suspiciously.

Craig is glad he's sitting down or else that tiny gesture would probably have made his knees buckle. His palms tingle and he wonders how it would feel to have his hands on those hips.

"Clyde Donovan?" He doubts that this guy could mean any other Clyde. Craig has never met anyone else named Clyde in his life that isn't approximately eighty-five years old. He finds it ironic, considering that Clyde is so hopelessly immature for someone with such an old name; but then, most of their friendship has been rooted in irony.

"You know another Clyde?" comes the sassy retort. "And you didn't answer me – why do you have his phone?!"

"It's my phone," Craig says, regretting it almost instantly. Why did he say that? Why didn't he just lie? It's not like Clyde is the most reliable person in the world, it would totally be plausible for him to have lost his phone for the trillionth time that month.

Hottest Dude To Ever Walk The Planet's eyes widen, if possible, even more and he looks from the phone in his hand to Craig's phone on the countertop. "What?! What do you mean that's your phone?! I wasn't texting you!"

Craig, doing his very best to seem casual, lifts one shoulder in a shrug, reaches over to pick up his phone, and turns it around so the screen is facing whoever this guy is that has the audacity to be so hot he's sure the temperature of the room has gone up at least ten degrees since he got here. "Right, except it looks like you were."

Most of the righteous anger leaves those brilliant green eyes as they scan the screen and see that Craig is telling the truth. The confusion left behind is so cute it's unfair and Craig just cannot comprehend how it's possible for someone to be this kind of combination of hot and adorable. He would be jealous if he wasn't already falling half in love with him.

"Why didn't you say something? Why did you let me think I had the right number? Why did you tell me you were here when you're not even the right person?!" The questions come rapidly, one after the other with barely a breath in between them. Adorably Hot Guy hoists his backpack up off the floor and swings it onto his shoulder, the weight of it making him tip over a little bit; he lets out a little squeaky kind of shriek as he regains his balance, and Craig's heart cannot handle it. "I was supposed to meet Clyde at the library and get his half of our final project but I have to leave for work in five minutes, I'll never get back there in time!"

"Clyde's not even here anymore." Craig lifts his hands, palms outward, when Basically Thor But Hotter takes a step towards the counter, the fire back in his eyes. "He left to go back home this morning."

"Why should I believe you?!" Hottie McHotFace reaches up and tugs on his hair. Craig wants to stretch his arm out and swat the guy's hand away, because that hair is fucking incredible and should be preserved in a fucking museum.

"He's my best friend," Craig says, adding, almost as an afterthought. "And my roommate."

"You're–" Blonde Hottie claps his hand over his mouth, and it's only because he suddenly becomes very still that Craig realizes he had been practically vibrating before. "Oh, God," he mutters, the words muffled. "Are you fucking serious?"

"Yes?" Craig can kind of understand why this guy is so shocked to hear that. He knows that he certainly doesn't look like the type of person who Clyde Donovan, Mr. Popular, would be best friends with. He's basically the polar opposite of Clyde in every way; where Clyde has an ever-present big goofy smile, warm brown eyes, and an incredibly welcoming personality, Craig is all dark hair and cool gray eyes, "fuck you" always two seconds away from rolling off his tongue.

"Shit." Craig's New Obsession looks down at his phone again and another impossibly adorable squeak flies out of lips Craig suddenly finds himself unable to look away from. "I don't fucking have time for this!" He spins on his heel, the weight of his backpack causing him to do at least three full rotations before he rights himself and starts stomping towards the exit. Just before he yanks the bookstore's door open, he fires over his shoulder, "Tell your roommate Tweek says he's an asshole and if I fail he fails!" And then he's gone.

Craig's gaze lingers in the space where Hot Guy – Tweek, he'd said, which was somehow both the most ridiculous and most adorable name he's ever heard – had just been for much longer than he'd care to admit. Finally, he looks down at the phone in his hand, at the short conversation showing on the screen. He taps the button to add the number to his contacts and types in, Tweek? as the contact name. Then he hits the back button and taps his most recent conversation with Clyde.

Hey, he types out with his thumb. I'm supposed to tell you Tweek says you're an asshole and he wants you to fail some project shit you were doing with him?

He tosses his phone back onto the counter and pulls the container of dinosaur erasers closer. Clyde's notoriously terrible for texting back within a decent amount of time. He might as well make another attempt at his Pterodactyl Ptower while he waits for a response.