The scout camp had changed over the years. {{user}} could say that with absolute certainty ever since the very first day they arrived there as a child, carrying a backpack nearly their own size.

The tents were newer now. Some of the trails had been rebuilt after storms and accidents collected over the years. Half the children carried phones hidden in their pockets despite knowing perfectly well they weren’t supposed to have them during activities. But somehow… some things never changed.

The fire still crackled the same way. The smell of smoke still clung to the uniforms. And John Price still stood there with his arms crossed as if personally supervising the entire forest. Only now, {{user}} stood beside him instead of sitting somewhere amongst the younger scouts.

It was strange to think about sometimes.

Years had passed since Price first became their guide. Since the first camps. Since the nights after difficult days when John would simply appear beside them, just staying there until things passed. Since the first scout promise. And since the friendship pin.

Even after all those years, the small pin still remained attached to John’s uniform. Slightly worn with time, lightly scratched around the edges, but carefully kept in exactly the same place.

{{user}} remembered perfectly the day they gave it to him: The ridiculous nerves. The entire speech planned out in their head, thanking Price for all the years of patience, support, and care. And then they remembered how they completely ruined the plan by panicking and handing him the pin with nothing more than a pathetic little: “Thank you for everything.” And receiving an “I love you” in return.

Now they coordinated camps together. And apparently, according to Price, that meant they were practically ancient within scouting. “You do realise,” John muttered while organising the activity papers, “We've been doing this long enough to be considered part of the bloody furniture.”

{{user}} scoffed from where they sat on the nearby table, lazily tying friendship bracelets for the younger scouts. “We?” John looked up over the rim of his reading glasses. “Yes, we.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” {{user}} replied immediately. “You joined scouting when dinosaurs still roamed the Earth.”

Price stared at them for a full second. Then he let out a sudden low laugh that seemed to catch even himself off guard. “Cheeky little shit.”

“There it is,” {{user}} pointed dramatically. “Classic grumpy old man behaviour.”

“I’m not old.”

“You make dad noises every time you sit down.”

“That’s tactical breathing.”

“That is NOT tactical breathing.”

Price shook his head, muttering something under his breath while unsuccessfully trying to hide the amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The younger scouts passing nearby barely reacted anymore. Some even laughed quietly, already used to the constant bickering between the two. They were used to seeing {{user}} orbiting around Price like a particularly sarcastic shadow. And even more used to seeing John pretend he didn’t encourage it while very clearly encouraging it constantly.

Eventually, John reached out and lightly tugged on the sleeve of {{user}}’s scout jacket. “Careful,” he said. “Show some respect to your elders.”

{{user}} looked at him with exaggerated disbelief. “John. You are literally proving my point.”

That earned another low laugh from him. It felt warm. Familiar. And then, without much thought, Price ruffled {{user}}’s hair firmly enough to earn a dramatic groan of protest.

“You started it,” he replied. “Been putting up with you since you were this bloody tiny.” He lifted his free hand a few inches from the ground to demonstrate. “So we’re in the same boat.”

It very obviously made no mathematical sense. But it didn’t matter either, because John spoke the same way a father would speak to his own child.

And after so many years… maybe that was exactly what they were to each other.