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The muffled giggles are annoying enough to make Stan stir, but he doesn’t fully wake up until he hears a quiet, harsh “Shut up Clyde!” followed by even quieter laughter. Cracking open one eye, he sees two figures hunched over another body sleeping on the ground. As his eyes adjust to the dark, he realizes what exactly the two are doing and he sits up.
“Dude, seriously?” Stan whispers, not wanting to wake any of the others in the room. Luckily he still catches the attention of the two already awake, who whip around in surprise.
“Goddamn it Clyde, you woke Stan up,” Cartman mutters. He waves his hands around in a faux mystic way, as if trying to cast a spell. “Go back to sleep, Stan, this is all a dream.” Stan rolls his eyes, then wriggles out of his sleeping bag.
“Drawing on people’s faces? C’mon.” He crawls over and snatches the marker out of Clyde’s hand. “We’re in high school now, guys. Grow up.”
“Hm, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Stan. It looks like you’re the only one with a marker here.” Cartman grins smugly, his marker now nowhere to be seen. “Are you sure you didn’t draw all over poor Craig’s face here?”
“Yeah,” Clyde quickly says, catching on. “You totally drew on his face.”
“It’d suck if he were to wake up right now and see…” Cartman’s hand hovers over Craig’s sleeping face as if his intent is to smack Craig awake, something he’ll no doubt pin on Stan too.
“Don’t!” Stan grabs Cartman’s wrist, panicked. Despite the fact that he invited Craig to this sleepover, he’s pretty sure the only reason Craig said yes was because Clyde said yes first, immediately enticed by Stan’s promise to let him play his new PS5. Craig still seems to hate Stan, or at least snarks at him whenever he has the chance. No way does Stan want to be blamed for the crude dicks scrawled all over his face.
“I… fine.” Stan shrinks back and holds his hands up in defeat. “Do whatever you want.”
“Damn right I will,” Cartman nods. He takes out his marker again, then produces another one from somewhere and hands it to Clyde, who goes back to drawing on Craig and stifling his laughter. Apparently satisfied with his own contributions, Cartman moves on and shuffles quietly over to another one of their sleeping friends. Despite the dark, Stan would know the silhouette of those curls anywhere.
“Hey!” He catches up to Cartman, once again stopping him before he can make a mark. There’s no telling what vile things Cartman planned on drawing and writing on Kyle. Stan can already picture the screaming fight that would ensue come morning and is determined to stop it now. There isn’t much time to come up with a plan though, not with the way Cartman was scowling at him, marker still at the ready.
“Let me do him,” Stan mutters. “You go do…” He looks around the room. “Kenny.” Cartman’s eyes narrow, considering this proposition. Stan lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding when Cartman caps his marker.
“Alright. I will be coming to inspect your work later, Stan, so you better not pussy out.”
“If I do, you can write whatever you want on me. And I won’t wash it off,” Stan promises. This seems to further satisfy Cartman and he creeps across the room to Kenny, leaving Stan kneeling over his own best friend.
Kyle suffers from RBF, always halfway through a grimace or an eyeroll at whatever others are up to. While it doesn’t make him popular among his peers, it’s something Stan always deeply admired about him. He wishes he could stand by his convictions no matter what too. Then maybe he wouldn’t be here, trying to think of what to draw that wouldn’t piss Kyle off in the morning but would also make Cartman leave him alone.
That signature RBF is gone though, replaced with a much softer expression in sleep. Kyle’s lips are relaxed, parted just slightly, the occasional light snore sounding from them. His head is lolled back on his pillow in such a way that his curls frame it like the sun. An ideal canvas, really, but Stan’s hands shake as he brings the marker down on Kyle’s cheek, terrified that he'll ruin it.
The marker tip ghosts across Kyle’s skin, leaving behind the lightest line Stan has ever drawn in his life. He sits back, hoping he can pretend to be done with it, but catches Cartman judging him from across the room. Stan quickly bends back over Kyle and draws a more decisive line. Kyle now sports a 90 angle on his cheek. Weird for sure, but not embarrassing which was no doubt what Cartman wants.
Stan squints and tilts his head. Looking at it more closely, he hasn’t just drawn lines; he’s connected the dots. Freckles, to be more accurate. Stan makes another careful line between Kyle’s freckles, and then another and another.
“What the fuck, Clyde,” a sleepy groan comes from behind Stan. He turns to see Craig, finally awake and sitting up, staring at Clyde’s handiwork that he could see with resigned frustration. They make eye contact and Craig crawls over to see what Stan came up with.
“What is that even supposed to be?” he asks, antipathy clear in his nasally tone. “A shitty big dipper?”
“I just started,” Stan mutters defensively.
“You suck at this, Marsh,” Craig shakes his head. “Clyde, lie down. My turn.” For whatever reason, Clyde obeys and lays down, handing his marker over to Craig. Stan turns his attention back to Kyle. As much as he hates to admit it, Craig is right. What he’s drawn does look like the big dipper. That would make Kyle’s freckles stars, which feels right to Stan. He doodles a few little sparkles around his dipper to emphasize this and smiles.
Entranced, Stan continues making stars and constellations between Kyle’s freckles, filling his cheeks and moving to his arms when he runs out of room. They’d always had the habit of forgetting others existed, content with a universe of just them. That Kyle would be host to it, that Stan would shape it– inevitable, just like taxes and death.
Stan is so absorbed in his work, in this moment with Kyle, that he fails to notice as people begin crowding around him. It’s not until someone turns on the room lights does Stan stop. He blinks unhappily then looks up to see nearly all his friends staring at him, slack jawed.
Craig, the culprit of the sudden brightness, stands by the light switch.
“Told you,” Craig says, gesturing. “He’s doing some gay shit.” Kyle’s face scrunches, the light finally rousing him. He opens his eyes, clearly confused, before spotting Stan and the marker in his hand.
“Dude, what’s—” Kyle answers his own question before he can even ask it, glancing down at his arms and seeing Stan’s masterpiece. A mortified blush quickly colors his face, one Stan is sure he’s wearing as well. He swallows dryly, trying to figure out how to explain himself (if he even can). As he starts to speak, Cartman cuts him off with howling laughter.
“Oh my god!” Cartman falls back, cackling. “You guys are so cringe!” Clyde joins in, cracking up right alongside Cartman. Stan wants to point out that Clyde has “I love sucking dick” written across his forehead, but deep down he knows what he’s done is much gayer. Even Kenny, who apparently woke up for this, is laughing at them.
“Oh God,” Kyle groans in embarrassment, brows furrowed at Stan in a way that clearly asks a desperate Why?
“Cartman was gonna do it,” Stan mumbles. “So I said I would instead.” His reason sounds stupid coming out of his mouth, but the sigh Kyle heaves doesn’t sound frustrated at all. In fact, while the others are all distracted wiping tears from their eyes from laughing too hard, Kyle mouths a silent Thank you . Stan beams.
“Well Stan,” Cartman says, uncapping his marker, “as much as you and Kyle being gaywads brings me joy, you did pussy out.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead.” Stan shuffles over, resigned to his fate. He’s not sure what everyone is writing and drawing on his face, though he has guesses from the way they’re all snickering. Kyle hangs back, his expression a clear indication that Stan will probably regret his promise to not wash anything off. He can’t bring himself to be too mad right now though, not when he sees the way Kyle is admiring the constellations. His quiet smile is all worth it.