Craig slept for twenty hours. Just... out of it. At first it was fine, they all left him to it in the raft. But as the hours passed, everyone was growing mildly concerned. With the exception of Tweek, who insisted this happened before. They'd all taken turns poking and prodding at him, Eric even going so far as to continuously stab him with a sharp stick. Kyle had given him shit, breaking out into a fight over trying to skewer him with a fucking branch.
"If he's dead, we could eat him!" Cartman argued, poking Craig in the thigh again with the stick. Kyle reached out, trying to smack it from his hands. Eric just yanked it out of his reach. "We're not eating my friend, you fat fuck! He's not dead!" Just because Cartman was pissy they were stuck on Craig Duty didn't mean he was allowed to try to turn him into Swiss cheese. Cartman tossed the stick down into the sand, peering in to the raft to stare Craig down. "What if he's just faking," he said, and turned to look at rolled his eyes. "He's not faking it, you moron. Why would he be faking it?"
"He's an attention whore," Cartman said simply, leaning in and yanking on the sleeping man's pants. "Wake up, Craig, we know you're full of shit!"
Kyle groaned, going to grab Eric's arm to get him to stop. "He's the furthest thing from an attention whore. Leave him alone, or I'll poke you with a stick and see how you like it." Cartman pulled out of the raft, turning to lean on the inflated yellow wall of it. He reached out, snaking an arm around Kyle's bony hips and yanked him forward between his legs. Kyle made a small noise of surprise before settling against his chest, pressing his cheek against it. Kyle could feel his ribs beneath the skin, hard and uncomfortable. "I could poke you with my stick," Cartman chuckled, and Kyle scoffed. "You're disgusting." Eric laughed, burying his face into Kyle's knotted curls. "Not what you said last time I poked you with it."
"Actually, technically it was this morning when you were rubbing up against my ass and I told you to stop or I would bite it off," Kyle countered.
Eric hummed in agreement, rocking them from side to side as he spoke. "Right, right, I always forget how much of a cow you are in the morning." Kyle would have protested if it wasn't true. He wasn't a morning person, especially when at sunrise some asshat was dry humping him. Kyle liked his sleep, a lot more than he liked morning sex. If anything, morning sex was gross. He liked to shower, brush his teeth. Put on some deodorant. Small luxuries they didn't have anymore. Fuck, what he wouldn't give for a proper shower and a tooth brush. Not that it made much of a difference now anyway. If they smelled, no one could really tell anymore...
They were silent for a long while, Eric swaying them in time with the sound of the waves breaking on the sand. When he started humming, Kyle could feel it through his chest. "Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away. If you can use some exotic booze, there's a bar in far Bombay." Cartman sang, voice low.
"Come on and fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away. Come fly with me, let's float down to Peru. In Llama Land there's a one man band and he'll toot his flute for you."
Every now and then Kyle caught him singing, and he had a lovely voice. But the song caused him to chuckle. It had been one of Stan's favourites, of course. Probably still was. Eric seemed to take his amusement as encouragement, and moved a hand from Kyle's waist to grab his left hand before pushing off the wall of the raft. They danced in a small four step that was easy enough for Kyle to follow. He was the worst dancer, and easily gave the lead to Eric. He was clearly a natural, eyes closed and getting incredibly into it. Most of Kyle's enjoyment was coming from watching.
"Once I get you up there, where the air is rarefied, we'll just glide, starry eyed. Once I get you up there, I'll be holding you so near. You may hear all the angels cheer because we're together. Weather wise it's such a lovely day... Just say the words and we'll beat the birds down to Acapulco Bay."
The pace of their little dance was picking up, and Kyle had to tear his eyes away from Eric's face to look down at his feet. He'd trip otherwise, far from used to such trivial things. His dancing experience was limited to bouncing around in his college dorm room or private shower performances. But Eric was clearly well versed in it. Kyle wanted to ask where he'd learned, since this was obviously a simple dance for the brunet, given his ease of doing it barefoot in uneven sand with his eyes closed. But he didn't want to interrupt the performance.
"It is perfect for a flying honeymoon, they say. Come fly with me, let's fly, lets fly away!" Eric began humming the instrumental, opening his eyes to make sure Kyle was present, judging by the quick turn in the sand. Kyle stumbled, only to be fully supported by Eric's arm wrapping around his back to support his weight and hold him closer.
"Once I get you up there where the air is rarefied, we'll just glide, starry eyed. Once I get you up there, I'll be holding you so very near, you might even hear a whole gang of cheers just because we're together." Eric sang, letting go of Kyle to spin him into the arms of Stan, so easily rehearsed that Kyle hadn't doubted they'd done this routine before. Stan had taken the lead so smoothly, whereas Kyle's legs just fumbled about stupidly in the sand. It didn't cause Eric to break the pace of his song, either. Kyle couldn't help but wonder just what in hell went on with the pilots, and he made the mental note to ask.
Stan had joined in alongside Eric in the song, and in a turn he spotted Kenny's familiar blonde head just before he chimed in alongside them. Neither of them were nearly as talented, vocal wise, as the first officer was but they weren't half bad. Just how often was this performance done? And Stan wasn't half a bad dancer himself, thought Kyle only had the brief experience with Cartman.
He passed Kyle off like a rag doll back to Eric's arms, the other pulling him closer in an instant, his voice being the main one Kyle heard. He heard the final verse of the song directly by his ear.
" Weather wise it's suck a cucoo day. You just say those words and we'll take our birds down to Acapulco Bay. It's so perfect for a flying honeymoon, oh babe, come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away. Pack up lets fly away."
Kyle was out of breath by the time Eric brought them to a stop, grin on his face. "You're a shit dancer," he told Kyle, and in response Kyle smacked him in the chest and looked over to Stan for some sort of support. Stan shook his head, laughing. "Sorry, man."
Assholes.
Kyle pulled out of Eric's arms, feeling too hot now to want to be embraced. He sunk down into the sand, pushing hair back from his face. "That was way to rehearsed. Do they pay you to be a barbershop trio up there?" He asked, looking at the three of them. All of them shared the same look.
"We get bored on standby," Stan explained. "Walked in on Kenny and Eric dancing once, and they still wont tell me why it started but I got roped into it anyway. Kenny's a great dancer. You should see him in heels." Kenny grinned proudly, standing on his tip toes and taking Eric's hands, dipping himself low and kicked a leg into the air.
"I'm pretty impressive, if I do say so myself," Kenny laughed, before getting winded when Eric just let him go to fall backwards in the sand. "Didn't your mother teach you not to brag, McCormick. Especially when you're wrong," he said, jumping aside when Kenny tried to kick at him from his spot in the sand.
Kenny laughed. "She taught me how to play the system and deal drugs, fat ass, what do you think?" he said, before rolling on to his front and pushed himself up on to his knees, only to have Eric use his foot to kick one leg out from under him. He fell back to the sand, getting a mouthful of it. Kenny rolled to his back and spat it up at Cartman. "Fight me, fat ass," he said, making a 'come at me' gesture with his hands. Kyle and Stan watched them for a few minutes, interested only in seeing if Cartman would actually fight him. The two stared at each other for a few moments before Stan and Kyle grew bored of it, and Kyle focused his attention on his ex-boyfriend.
"You three are fucking weird, you know that?" Kyle had said it several times over the last three weeks, when he watched them all interact with each other. Stan shrugged, grinning as he saw Cartman dive down into the sand to sit on top of Kenny. His signature move usually was just that, sitting on them like a cat suffocating their prey. It didn't seem as effective now that Cartman looked like he was dying. "We're together all the time. When we're not flying, we're usually all in the same hotel because our boss is a cheap bastard. The only times we don't see each other is when we've not got any bookings," Stan said. "We're a weird family I guess."
Kyle felt a little envious. He had his friends, of course. Most of them were here with him, but they didn't see each other day in or day out. They had lives outside of each other. None of them worked together, and Kyle wasn't friends with his coworkers in residency. Kyle's friends weren't his family, hadn't been since Kyle left his best friend for university. Stan had grown and filled that void, and Kyle was suddenly hit with the words from ten years prior. That Stan would be well settled before Kyle even started his own life. This here was proof that Stan was right. And even though he had consistently expressed worry that he'd never get another job flying again, he had Kenny and Eric in the exact same situation with him.
Although, who knew if they'd even get off this island, let alone get another job. They'd probably filled Kyle's place in residency and he doubted he'd be able to get it back after being gone this long. And that was assuming they'd be home soon... It had been three weeks. "Do you think they think we're all dead," Kyle asked, looking over at Stan's sunken and furry face. He shrugged, shaking his head. "I dunno, dude. Probably. We haven't even seen a plane fly over... Maybe it's time we start forming a different plan."
"Like what, getting home ourselves?" Kyle was skeptical. Navigating the ocean on their own was dangerous. Especially when all they had was a raft that wasn't nearly as plump as it originally had been. He could see Stan thinking about it, the gears behind his eyes working wildly. "No, man. It's not worth the risk. Who knows where we'd end up?" Stan didn't answer, his eyes on Cartman pinning Kenny down with one arm while he tickled him mercilessly with the other, causing Kenny to scream and try and kick him off with his legs.
"I will piss on you, fat ass, don't think I won't!" Kenny yelled, flailing his legs and managing to get Cartman off him in the process.
Kyle rolled his eyes, before looking back to Stan. "See, these are the people we're with. How the hell are we gonna navigate the high seas with a bunch of morons and a dinghy?" Stan started to laugh, before speaking. "A Bunch of Morons and a Dinghy. Dibs on that being the title of my memoir. When they make it into a Lifetime Movie, you can be played by Carrot Top."
Face going sour, the redhead punched Stan in the shoulder. "Don't be a fucking tool," Kyle huffed. "Cartman can be played by Amy Schumer, though." The two others stopped roughhousing when Cartman turned to stare Kyle down, a look of loathing on his face. He had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing at him.
"Fuck you, Jew," he said and tossed a fistful of sand in their direction. Stan and Kyle tried blocking it with their hands, not succeeding all to well. In retaliation, they both threw their own handfuls, Stan's flying over Cartman's head and straight into the face of a very, very angry looking Craig.
Craig was not happy. Not happy in the slightest. His head was pounding, his stomach felt like it had consumed itself and then started to form a black hole inside of him. And to wake up with loud noise and a face full of sand...? If Craig had the strength, he'd kick their asses.
Craig stared at the Four Idiots of his personal apocalypse, and they stared back stupidly. How long had he been asleep for, because they looked like they were seeing him wake from the dead. Who knew, maybe he did die and his personal hell was walking around with these tools for the rest of eternity.
"Morning..?" Kyle said, looking cautiously at him and Craig tried to glare back, but his eyes struggled to adjust to the sun. So he flipped the four of them off, not even finding the strength to make his middle finger stand tall and proud.
Placing most of his weight on the raft, Craig hung over it as he tried to climb out only to give up halfway through and lay flopped over it, feeling like soggy toast. Maybe he could just give up and die right here. But he was thirsty. So fucking thirsty... "Water..." Craig cracked out, dry throat burning with lack of use and dehydration. He grabbed weakly at the air, until someone had enough sense to bring over a coconut half full of water for him.
Of course it was Stan. Craig managed to roll his eyes, drinking the liquid in one drink before he held it out for a refill. Kyle passed the jug over water over, and what a better idea that was. He tossed the coconut to the sand, reaching to take the jug. He dropped it once before Stan held it, tilting it so Craig could drink until he felt like he was going to throw up. Already he could feel the headache start to subside, brain no longer feeling like it was going to burst from his skull. He grumbled out a thanks, and slid forward. His stomach rubbed against the yellow vinyl, hot from the sun, until he landed in a tangle of his own body in the sand. Craig would gladly lay there and die, so long as it ended soon.
"You alright, man?" Stan asked, crouching down beside him. He could feel his hands go under his armpits, and Craig let out a childish whine. "Kill me," he mumbled, turning his head and resting his cheek on the warm sand. He heard Cartman say something about eating him, and heard the sound of a hand on skin and wondered if Kyle had smacked him. Good. He was too bony to eat. They'd be better off eating Butters or something. Butters still had his baby fat, plump and round in the cheeks, both facial wise and ass wise.
Fuck, he was messed up. The idea of eating Butters' ass- that was the wrong fucking choice of words, Christ- really made him want to drive that whole 'kill me' thing home. Poor Butters, but mostly, poor Craig. He was hungry, so hungry. The dehydration and hunger caused such a horrible headache, worse than any hangover Craig had ever experienced. The he chugged back helped, but it'd be a bit for his body to rehydrate itself. He could feel Stan hoist him off the ground, and Craig made such a pitiful noise. "I'm hungry..."
Stan laughed, sitting Craig up and against the raft. "I'd bet. You tripped out and then fell asleep for like, twenty hours." Craig snorted, remembering it all quite visibly. "I know, thanks for the reminder." Craig remembered it all so well, as he remembered every other time his insomnia crossed the line from somewhat easy to deal with to full blown hallucinations and delusions. Rubbing at his temples, Craig closed his eyes and tried to will the humiliation away. At least it was just Stan, nose still bruised and swollen from Craig's assault. "Sorry 'bout your face, man," he grumbled as Stan handed him some coconut and fruit on a leaf.
"If anything, it's an improvement," Kenny laughed, appearing above Stan, hands on his shoulders. Craig couldn't help the pang of jealousy when Stan looked up at the blonde, face bright and smiling through his beard and bruises. Craig's stupid little crush was grating on his nerves, reminding him of the time he'd had that little thing for Clyde before he and Tweek started dating. Silly and pointless, based purely on physical attraction and not much else. It usually stemmed from attractive guys giving Craig any sort of affection whatsoever.
Sulking, Craig occupied himself by shoveling the coconut and fruit into his mouth, stomach grateful for finally giving it something, anything to digest. Thinking of Clyde made him uneasy, missing his best friend more than he'd thought he could ever miss the idiot. He hoped to all hell he wasn't pissing everyone off around them crying all the time. And that his guinea pig Guinea Pig was fine. Craig knew he should have left him with Token. Tweek's plants were probably long dead now, too. The sad little lemon tree he'd spent ages trying to coax into bearing fruit only to finally start seeing the beginnings of one form. Tweek had been pollinating the blossoms so meticulously with Q-Tips for years in hopes of getting a lemon, all for not because his idiot friend Clyde probably killed it.
"I wanna go home," he mumbled, looking up through his dark lashes at Stan and Kenny. "I wanna see my guinea pig." Both of them blinked down at him, and Craig could see Kenny biting back a smile under his own dirty blonde beard. Not nearly as impressive as Stan's, whose had grown incredibly quickly. Craig instinctively brought a hand to his own jaw, scratching at the stubble. "You have a guinea pig?" Kenny asked, and Craig nodded. "I like them, I've had a few over the years." Okay, he had like... six since he was a kid. Stan and Kenny were looking at him like they were shocked that Craig had a heart for something like a rodent. He felt his defenses rise, narrowing his eyes. "They're cute, okay? What's so weird about a grown ass man having a pet Guinea pig?"
Stan chuckled, and Kenny shrugged before speaking. "Nothing, man, you just don't seem like an animal guy." Craig took offense to that, never liking anyone assuming anything about him. Especially people who didn't know him. "Kyle's little brother doesn't seem like a stoner, but he's the biggest pothead I've ever seen." Kyle's red head perked up, his bickering with Cartman stopping in an instant. "What?"
Craig gave a fake look of 'oops'. "You didn't know that? Whoops. What did you think him and his buddies were doing the first week here in the woods?" Mind, Kyle always had a knack on focusing on himself first and foremost, as far as Craig knew him. They weren't that close, only friends by association. Kyle hung out with Wendy and Bebe, and their girl friends, and Bebe hung out with Clyde and Token, and Clyde and Token hung out with Craig and Tweek. In turn, Tweek hung with Jimmy and Timmy. "How do you know that?" Kyle asked him, curious look on his face. Craig wondered how long until he gave Ike a lecture about the dangers of smoking. Craig had heard that countless times from him.
"I went through their shit while they still had smokes," Craig said. "They had a bag of weed. Was gonna take it, but THC isn't really my thing." He had debated using it to chill Tweek out a bit, but he'd stolen at least half of Firkle's smokes. It was cruel to take their other drugs. He did pocket the airplane minis though, stored them away under the raft for future use. For what, Craig didn't know. Maybe he wanted to dump them on his head and set fire to himself as a way to end the suffering of this shitty island. Or he could drown himself, or hang himself... Fuck, he wanted to go home.
"We're making a plan to leave," Stan had told them when Wendy and Bebe came back from their little adventure with a shirt full of coconuts and a handful of eggs Bebe had scooped from an unattended nest. Wendy looked over at her girlfriend, trying to gauge her reaction on the subject. She seemed to think it was a good idea, but Wendy was skeptical. By now, everyone else had returned to camp as evening began to fall. She was pleased to see Craig was awake, albeit a little miserable looking. That was nothing new for Craig, though.
Sitting down on one of the rocks they'd brought from the shore to use as a chair, Wendy began to dump the contents of the shirt bag onto the sandy ground. "You sure that's a good idea, Stan? None of us have any knowledge of navigating the ocean..." She assumed the same about Stan and his crew. They flew, they didn't sail. But as far as navigation went, Stan was likely the best bet they had anyway. Stan sighed, still mulling this over in his head. They were all desperate. They all wanted to leave. Wendy missed her home, their cat, their bed. Clean clothes, a tooth brush and a warm shower... But you ran the risk of dying on the seas.
"Well," Stan said, speaking to the group. "Our last known location we we're off the coast of Cuba. We're somewhere between Cuba, the Bahamas and Turks and Caicos. With any luck, we're somewhere between the Cuba and the islands. If that's the case, we're no more than a hundred miles from somewhere with civilization. If we're on the other side of the Islands, we can't be more than fifty miles East. That means our best bet is to get on the raft and just go West. We'll either hit Turks and Caicos or Cuba..."
"Stan," Kyle said, and Wendy directed her attention to him. "We haven't seen traces of boats or planes. I think it's safe to say we're not between Cuba and Turks. Surely we'd have heard a plane going by by now if that was the case." Wendy couldn't help but agree. Perhaps she was playing skeptic or devils advocate, but they needed to analyze all risks before hopping in a raft and floating away in hopes of making it. "Kyle's right, Stan. And we can't travel fast enough in the raft. Even if we make a sail, we probably wont hit more than a couple miles an hour. It'll take us several days. We'd need food, water... We don't have anything to store enough water for all of us in the raft, and there's no guarantee that we'd even hit an island. And what happens if we blow off course or a storm rolls in?" The waves would capsize them easily, and there was no feasible way of swimming the rest of the way. It wasn't as if they'd gotten life jackets from the plane in their panic. The one thing the damn safety demonstration said. Even Kenny didn't put one on, more focused on getting them and his pilots out alive.
Stan stood taller, broad chest puffing up to show his authority, shaking his head. Wendy rolled her eyes at his so stereotypical male way of asserting command. "We've gotta do something, guys. We're dying here. We either die here, and hope our bodies are found. Or we can spend a few days doing what we can to build ourselves up for the trip. Take our chances. It's been weeks, they think we're dead. We know we'll die here. Aren't you sick of waiting for other people to decide your fate? There's at least the chance of living if we leave." Wendy bit into her lip, looking over at Bebe. The blonde took her hand, and gave it a shake.
"Stan's right, babe. We'll go crazy here. We already are. We'll kill each other, or ourselves, or we'll just waste away. That's no way to live. And I don't want to go home and say we did nothing. I also don't want them to find us as skeletons, decades from now when some rich son of a bitch buys this island to make it his vacation home. I want to go home." She looked at Wendy with those big brown eyes that had suckered her in from the day they met. Wendy'd do anything for her, and seeing her beg with her eyes made it impossible to say no.
"We don't all have to go," Butters pointed out, looking around as if he was waiting for someone to call him an idiot. "If some people aren't comfortable, we can split up. Some can go, and hopefully make it. Maybe they can get help. And... and if something does happen, we don't all die." It was... it was a suggestion. But Wendy couldn't imagine separating any of them at this point. They were a little family.
It was Tweek who shook his head in protest. "No," he mumbled, holding on to the pocket of Craig's hoodie. "We go together or not at all," he squeezed his eyes shut before looking at everyone in their circle. "No one gets left behind. Argh! We can't leave people behind! It'd be... It'd be way to stressful!" Wendy had to agree. There was no guarantee they'd make it, and Wendy wouldn't be able to live with herself if she never saw that everyone was okay. Or, at the very least, that they knew what happened to everyone. There was no promise that they'd all make it. But Wendy knew she'd be a lot better off if she could send off someone's soul with their body, as opposed to always thinking of the What If.
"Give us a week or so," Cartman said, standing up to join Stan. "We'll pack what we can. Even if we're two hundred miles off from somewhere, if we average a speed of three knots, it'll take maybe three days. Even if our dead reckoning is off, it shouldn't take much longer than that to come across land. Maybe six days to hit Cuba if we bypass an island. We continue West, and only West. Stan's watch has a compass, but the sun should be setting just due West an- what, Butters?" Wendy turned her attention from Eric to see Butters waving a hand wildly, like he was in grade school.
"What's Dead Reckoning?" he asked, and Eric scoffed, and looked at Stan. "Oh my god, Butters..." But it was Kenny who explained, smiling at Butters like he wasn't an idiot for not knowing their little piloting terms. It wasn't like Wendy knew exactly what it meant either, but she could figure out what Eric was saying just by the context of it.
"It means navigating via guesswork. It's what you do when you have no equipment, charts or landmarks to guess your position on," Kenny explained. "Fat ass is good at it, because he doesn't know how to read maps."
"Oy, fuck you, Kinny."