Chapter Text
By midnight, the campsite is a disaster. There are empty soda cans around the fire pit, a half-melted bag of marshmallows sitting dangerously close to the coals, and one of Stan’s shoes is missing because Kenny threw it into the woods during an argument about whether Bigfoot could beat a mountain lion. Cartman went into his tent almost an hour ago after announcing that mosquitoes were targeting him because his blood was “richer,” and Kenny followed not long after, still laughing about the shoe.
Kyle should go to bed, too. His sleeping bag is inside the tent, where it’s warm, relatively bug-free and considerably less likely that he’ll wake up with a spider crawling into his mouth. Instead he’s lying on his back in the grass beside Stan, using his folded sweatshirt as a pillow.
“Dude,” Stan says. “Look.”
“I am looking.”
“No, over there.” Stan points toward a patch of sky that looks exactly like every other patch of sky. “I think that’s the Big Dipper.”
Kyle squints. “That’s not the Big Dipper.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the Big Dipper looks like a dipper.”
“That does.”
“It looks like a triangle.”
Stan considers this. “Maybe it’s the Little Dipper.”
Kyle laughs and shoves his shoulder. Stan catches his wrist for a second, probably expecting Kyle to try again, but Kyle doesn’t. Stan doesn’t let go anyway.
They’ve been coming up here since they were kids, though usually someone’s parent came with them. The first time Randy brought them camping, he’d gotten drunk before sunset and accidentally set one of his folding chairs on fire. Sharon made them leave early the next morning, and Stan spent the whole drive home apologizing even though none of it had been his fault. Kyle remembers sitting beside him in the backseat, their knees touching, sharing the headphones from Kyle’s CD player.
He looks at their hands now. Stan’s thumb is resting over his wrist.
“Do you think people are supposed to end up with certain people?” Kyle asks.
Stan turns his head. “What?”
“Like fate, I guess.”
“Are you asking me if I believe in astrology?”
“No, asshole.” Kyle pulls his hand away, mostly so he can smack Stan’s arm. “I’m asking if you think some people are always going to find each other.”
“Oh.” Stan looks back at the sky. “Yeah. Probably.”
Kyle wasn’t expecting him to answer that easily. “Really?”
“Sure. I mean, look at us.”
Kyle’s stomach does something weird.
“What about us?”
“We’ve been friends basically our whole lives.” Stan shrugs. “Every time something happens, you’re there. Even when we’re pissed at each other, we always end up hanging out again.”
“That’s because you don’t have any other real friends.”
“Fuck you, dude.”
Kyle grins. Stan does, too, and after a moment their shoulders settle together again.
A shooting star cuts across the sky. Kyle almost misses it, bright and quick enough that it’s gone before he can point.
“Did you see that?”
“Yeah.”
Kyle thinks he’s supposed to make a wish. He can’t come up with one. Stan is warm beside him, their arms pressed together, and tomorrow they’ll wake up sore and covered in bug bites before spending another day getting lost in the woods with their idiot friends.
Maybe Stan is right. They’ve spent their whole lives losing each other for a little while and finding their way back.
Kyle closes his eyes.
“Wake me up if you see another one,” he says.
“Dude, I’ll probably be asleep before you.”
“Then I guess we’re both gonna miss it.”
Stan laughs quietly. A few minutes later, his head falls against Kyle’s shoulder.
Kyle doesn’t move it.