In Denver, there were no nights like this. There was never a time where he could freely venture out into the world, plodding all by his lonesome down a stretching sidewalk. There was a perpetual tension trying to ignore the never-ending line of cars zooming by, each bursting with the vibrations of piston engines tutting away, music blaring from cheaply installed speakers projecting from overpriced satellite radios. They would rocket right on past without a care in the world for the pedestrians moving alongside them, zipping by in blurs of red, white, gray, red, blue, black, beige, red. Kyle often wondered what the fascination with red cars was, that maybe drivers considered it an intimidation tactic. It's the color of fresh blood, of warning, of impending danger. It's the sound of a shrieking budgie, of treaded shoes slipping gracelessly across a polished gymnasium floor.

Or, at least, for him it is.

But Kyle doesn't know their reasoning towards their choices, nor does he care to hear it. People talk for far too long. Their syllables clutter amongst each other, every other word an unnecessary addition to their point. He would never get so simple an answer as 'I like it'. No, he would be subjected to a harrowing tale for a good three minutes of how they resonated so deeply with red because of the accented border of a handmade afghan their mother had strewn across the back of their sofa throughout their childhood. That they found such comfort in the hue and it felt like home. Kyle had found over time that everyone, even the proclaimed 'shy' populous, loved the sound of their own voice. They bathed in their personal prosody, made movements when they wanted to be sure that you heard the inflection in their tone. They wanted every ounce of the listener's attention.

And Kyle had realized when he was fourteen years old, just barely reaching the crest of the hill to start that climb towards adulthood, that that was why he found himself feeling so isolated.

His attention could never rest on one mere element, it had to zip about to everything in the surrounding area. A conversation could begin decently enough; he would stare at their face, watching their lips move, seeing sparks of color blasting across his eyes in transparent blurs. But those colors wouldn't quite fade, he'd have to adjust himself to remain in his fixed direction, try not to follow the figures flittering across his vision. But those colors led to more sounds, those sounds led to more distraction. So, he'd try to push that away, his focus unwillingly falling elsewhere for a moment, maybe picking up the sound of a fan whirring away in the foreground and unable to tear himself away from it. It'd lead to more color sweeping along before him, trying to dominate over the voice of his companion who would be happily chatting away. They would flick their wrist up in emphasis and straining green eyes would catch the glint of a golden wristwatch, and he would be assaulted with the burrowing noises of rodents scratching away at the inside of a wall. A minute scritch scritch scritch would dominate his attention, only looking to find the person opposite himself staring, awaiting response to a statement he never caught as he continued to swim in a soup of sensations he could never articulate.

With such daunting truths hanging over a consistently pounding head, Kyle wonders why he agreed to tonight's plans. Why he let himself be persuaded by a coworker to hang out. Kyle frowns. He knows why. Because regardless of the mess he is, regardless of the pain they tend to unwittingly throw onto his neck, he needs interactions.

Besides, he reminds himself, Stan seems nice enough. He'd been the first to welcome Kyle into their company, into South Park in general. He had been the first in Kyle's few months amongst their peers to recognize that Kyle needed him to speak a little softer. With a voice that could easily boom across their cubicles should he want it to, Stan managed to see the box of Imitrex Oral that Kyle kept by his computer monitor, taking the initiative and Googling just what the hell Kyle was dealing with, immediately beginning to lower his timbre. Kyle had found it both endearing and aggravating at the time, cursing himself for leaving his medication so plainly out for people to see and get nosy over.

But, it had its benefits as well.

Stan had slipped around the office to their coworkers, muttering to them about chronic migraines and explaining that that was why Kyle kept so quiet and locked away in his space. Why they would occasionally walk by and he had earplugs. Why he would wince when they got the rare chance to talk to him. Opinions had shifted on a dime, and Kyle had gone from the snobby Bachelor degree-holding city slicker who thought he was too good for their redneck town to a poor guy just trying to keep his aching head up over the course of an eight-hour day and trying his damnedest to still contribute.

Kyle sighs, the barest essence of his voice slipping out and bringing a long streak of mauve sliding across his peripheral. That one is easy enough for him to bypass. It's his one constant, one of the smoother, subtler ambiances to manage. He continues moving along the sidewalk, the quiet, steady tap tap tap of his work shoes against the cement in the still night echoes, brings rings of powder pink. A traffic light to his side turns, he flinches at a glowing green emphasized with a crackle of hail pounding on glass. A deep, purposeful breath slides through his mouth. He hums, trying to let that mauve take control again. It's tuneless and droning, a coping mechanism with maybe a twenty percent success rate. It brings Kyle no amount of surprise when the patters don't stop until the light is well behind him, still set straight and true towards the end of the road where Stan requested to meet.

He doesn't like bars. He never has. They're noisy, they're crowded, they cost too much and everyone wants to make with the chitchat. Glass clinks and chairs scoot, there's almost always music playing through a static speaker or a television blaring with the sounds of game announcers and thralls of cheering people. Things break, people yell, there's always movement to draw his attention and isolate the sounds. Pennants and pictures line the walls, a vast array of brightly colored liquor bottles always linger within view.

Kyle shakes his head at himself, already feeling overwhelmed with the impending torment he's leading himself towards. Stan had given him an out that afternoon, telling him that if his head hurt too much that it was no problem to not do anything. Kyle doesn't want that, doesn't want to shove himself into another box devoid of other life. He's done it far too many times already, finding himself alone and spiraling into depression on top of his already tumultuous problems. He's moved too many times, he's been called too many awful things for just trying to protect himself. He can't do that anymore. Migraine or not, he's making himself go through with this. Twenty-seven years of learning to maneuver through his issues was plenty enough to make just one outing doable, even if only for ten minutes, he'd promised himself before leaving the safety of his apartment. Ten minutes and he'd accomplished his goal. The effort was what counted here, not the duration.

Of course, that was his doctors' theory as well, and he considered all of them to be nothing more than lying quacks that he paid far too much for as little as they had helped him. Didn't matter how long he'd seen any of them, complaining of his issues since he was a babbling toddler unable to form fully cohesive sentences as he tried to catch the fleeting images playing before him. What mattered was how accurate he was. He couldn't even get medication until he was nearly thirteen and finally finding a semi-competent physician. After all, his condition was rare. None of them had a handle on it. And those familiar with the terms in turn wouldn't believe his plight.

"No, Mrs. Broflovski," one had explained to his mother at her wit's end trying to help her teenage son find a way to function as he sat on the examination table, holding his head and rasping for air, trying not to look at the multicolored tiles or the 'soothing' artwork lining the walls as his temples pounded. "He needs tested to see if he's telling the truth."

"He's been tested. Since he was four! And every year since then! Why will none of you help him?!"

"If he does have chromesthesia, then it's one way or the other, Mrs. Broflovski. It's either he sees and hears or hears and sees."

"Do you not see him?! He's always hurt! He's always crying! He can't walk or see half the time! He hasn't had a full night's sleep in years! Give him something to help; I'm sick of you people only saying to give him Advil and hope it solves itself! I can't give that to him every day, he already only has one functioning kidney! Why are you trying to kill my son?!"

Since she'd threatened with a lawsuit and finally gotten him a prescription with a concession for doctors to keep their eyes on him, Kyle's been all but declared a sensory anomaly. He still gets tested biennially to be allowed to stay on his prescription, doctors waiting for him to 'slip' and prove him for a fraud. After all, a low B-natural gives him evergreen, and a B-flat shows him a rich navy. And if they play that flat and he sees green, then they caught him in the act. It's pressuring, having to prove how sick he is time and again, knowing that one slip because he was tired and can't differentiate between cream and ivory can get his medication ripped away from him. But he can't risk that, he can't go back to how he was with carefully spaced out doses of ibuprofen and acetaminophen that barely keep him from simply passing out every day. So, he takes the blood tests and the CAT-scans and the demeaning comments with a grain of salt. He knows it's worth it in the end if it keeps him able to take these chances of communication. Tolerable beatings against his skull are more favorable than crippling agony, after all.

He squints as he approaches a magenta neon sign reading 'Skeeters' and he cocks his brow, doing his best to ignore the echo of a high-pitched metallic clang. "The fuck kinda name is that," he murmurs. In his few months residing in the sleepy mountain town, he's discovered that he doesn't quite understand a majority of the things they do. They have town meetings regarding new buildings coming in, they have a community where everybody knows everybody. It's bizarre but charming, confusing but delightful. But it's Kyle's own catch-22. He wants to be integrated with these people, wants to be known and have people quietly wave to him like they do Stan when they make lunch runs for the office. But he doesn't want them to know he's in perpetual pain, doesn't want them to see how his eye twitches at certain people's voices. But he also does want them to know, to lessen the chance of hurt feelings by a smidgeon at least. He's tangled in the web of suburban life, wanting both the privacy of a white picket fence and the potluck block parties.

He puts a shaking hand on the door handle, wrapping slowly around the metal and taking a deep breath. 'Ten minutes, Kyle. At least ten,' he goads himself onwards. He permits himself a confident nod, slight regret hitting as his head throbs upon returning upright. Ripping the door open, he forces himself to step into the fray, stomach dropping at once as he's assaulted with an array of clustered sounds and taupe walls. Cranberry booths jut from all sides, waxed oaken tables accompanying them and catching the vibrant glare of the overhead lights. Kyle winces and glances towards the ceiling, whimpering to himself at the fixtures themselves made of cages of multi-colored glass and filled with the tiny noticeable specks of expired bugs lying in the bulb housing. He gulps, looking back to the flooring beneath him, relieved to find a solid periwinkle tile. He avoids the areas coated in spilled beer and barbecue sauce remnants from dropped chicken wings, trying to hone in on just the one thing, let himself be annoyed with the mere sound of a hissing tea kettle instead of the grandiose marching band surrounding him.

"Kyle, over here!" a voice manages to break through his concentration.

Unwillingly, he forces his sight back upright, nearly stumbling over as his vision crosses at the influx of activity surrounding him. Green eyes narrow behind curved lenses as he scans for familiarity, he's inundated at the whole crowd of maybe forty spread across the establishment. A plethora of different voices smash into him, picking up single words and noises at a time and flooding his eyes in a kaleidoscope of shapes and tints. He wonders if maybe he should've popped an extra pill, his body accustomed to being home by now and able to let its guard down. Finally, he catches a mop of black hair and dark blue eyes that stand out through the chaos trying to weigh him down waving from a booth across the room.

He breathes every few steps towards the table, trying not to get his attention drafted to the other patrons as they flail about and bellow with laughter. 'One, two, one, two,' he guides himself through calculated walking. The closer he is to his target, the closer he is to something to focus on. He can find a color, fixate, and let Stan's voice work its way through the mess. 'You got this,' he promises himself.

Stan smiles at him, bright as the cruel bulbs hanging above their heads. Kyle can read relief in his stare, possibly from wondering if Kyle had bailed on him. He can't say he'd be surprised at such a case, he tends to get to places a bit late from being so distracted. He attempts a smile back, wondering if it comes off anywhere near convincing, if Stan can read the vicious frustration he feels etching itself into his brain. The walk seems to span for eternity, Kyle picking up on the subtle clack against the tiles, the murmurs surrounding him. He's a mess of dissonance already. 'Maybe ten minutes was a bit of a stretch,' he thinks in exhaustion, wanting nothing more than to run back home and crawl under his quilt into utter darkness.

Finally, he finds himself sliding into the seat beside Stan, wanting to dramatically flop down onto the table in weariness and triumph like a marathon sprinter. He deserves a gold medal for this, he thinks. Stan watches him with a slightly tilted head, that beaming smile fading just a tad. "Dude, head?"

A quiet sigh before a nod, Kyle taking the effort to finally lock eyes with him, hating that doting stare. He despises pity, is repulsed by sympathetic pats and condescending claims of "There there, it'll get better". Reminded him far too much of the first doctor to introduce a term for his condition into his life when he was eight. The way that synthesia and his personal subset slipped off his tongue with a vague promise of "Eventually you'll get used to it; it'll all be nothing but white noise to you." Nearly two decades later and Kyle was still waiting for that glorious promise of a better future to come to fruition.

That damn commiseration of Stan's remains steady. "I told you we didn't have to come out," he reminds him with an edging of guilt.

"I need out more," he finally manages a full-fledged sentence, fighting back the urge to cover his eyes to hide from the bustling pallete engulfing them both.

Stan gives him a small chuckle, a tiny non-physical pat on his back of support. "I kind of figured, half the reason I invited you out."

"Only half?" he repeats, a bit too proud for managing to keep his focus on one of Stan's eyebrows. Dark enough to not overwhelm him, close enough Stan would believe he was making eye contact. It was the subtlest of things that kept him going in the world, he'd found. There were nuances to learn to avoid someone becoming aggressively offended, not that Kyle ever thinks for one moment Stan would be one to act out on him for being a little off-kilter. He'd already seen Kyle staving through some awful days, knows only the barest of reasons as to his condition and accepts it at face value. After all, as Stan had told him a few months prior, he wasn't his doctor, his health business is his own. But still, he offers a hand, gives Kyle rides home when he just can't make that ten-minute walk, brings him water or crackers if he's shaking. They do nothing, but Kyle always appreciates the gesture.

Stan gives him a sheepish shrug, shaking a near-emptied beer bottle, "I'm also a low-key alcoholic. So, we both win." Kyle lets out a tiny huff of a laugh, and Stan brightens for managing to rid him of his pained expression for even the briefest of moments.

"What can I get ya, Hon?" a voice appears, sending a wriggling neon flash of lemon through Kyle's peripheral. He squints a bit, turning his attention to a woman staring at him with a notepad in her hand and the expression of hours of underpaid work slapped across her face. Her hip cocks, feet shifting to try to take advantage of standing still for a moment.

He considers, running himself through the copious warnings slapped onto the side of his prescriptions, knowing that he runs the risk of exacerbating his hallucinations. But there's a chance of lessening them as well. It's a cruel game that his body loves to play, a constant round of Russian roulette with the odds so rarely in his favor. But he doesn't want to drink water, watch Stan progressively lose inhibitions while he wonders throughout the night if he pulled the trigger at the wrong chamber. "Um, just a vodka and Coke would be great."

"Got it," she nods sharply, glancing at Stan. "You want another beer?"

"Please."

"I'll be right back for ya," she smiles in exhaustion, writing as she turns on her heel and heads towards the bar.

Stan turns to Kyle with a chuckle, "Vodka huh?"

"Beer tastes like piss, Man. Some of us have standards." Stan laughs, flicking his arm as Kyle turns his attention back to rest on his face, hone in on his tenor. Sharp bursts of dodger blue flicker in and out with each rise of his voice, dissipating to spread across the board, and Kyle wonders for a moment if he'll drown in the saturation. But no, Kyle realizes with passing sparks, Stan is no flood. Noah didn't lead the animals through patches of land to guide them to safety. Stan is his own form of independence in Kyle's eye, droplets that strayed from the waterfall to make a new path, to make their own ripples amongst the few others who managed to escape the conforming box where Kyle had placed all the "normal" people.

Unfair, perhaps. But Kyle learned early that he had to do what was necessary so he didn't spend his life in a hospital. Sometimes that meant shoving people back a bit if they lacked any hint of patience with his illness, which, he had unfortunately found, accounted for the majority. The world is sharp, full of angles that threaten Kyle always. He plays a cautious game, seesawing between sensations, finding the few that fit his comfort zone. Sometimes it meant compromise, and Stan had become his prime example, a golden standard. His voice grates, it can be painful and put Kyle's nerves right on the edge if he's having a particularly vibrant day. But it's tolerable, is associated with the securities of what he supposes he can now consider an actual friend. It's worth staving through a handful of burning pinpricks against his brain for such a rarity.

He ponders if Stan's the first actual buddy he's had in his adult life that didn't disregard him within a few weeks. He knows he's certainly the first to leave any hint of an impact since elementary school before his peers learned just how different he was. He's been one of the firsts to not prod as to the specifics of what he deals with. Kyle sighs to himself, wondering what Stan would do should he learn. He speculates how Stan would handle such knowledge, if he would continue his support or follow the example of so many others and slowly but surely begin drawing that distance between them. Kyle doesn't want that. He's let far too many people know in his life already and lost them all.

South Park is his canvas, for once he controls just how much vividness appears before him. Doctors and his boss, that's all that need to know in his eyes. Just the ones that take care of him and the one he needs to understand why some things may take him longer. Everyone else can deal with his ambiguity, his quiet claims of "no one knows why; I'm just unlucky I guess". They could listen to that and he could give vague answers to their typical follow-ups: "Are you sure it's not a brain tumor or something?" "Have you tried holistic medicine, there's essential oils that are great for headaches I use them all the time!" "Maybe get some more sleep, it's probably just exhaustion." "Well, were you vaccinated as a baby? That mercury in them will mess you up, I can't believe your parents hurt you like that!" "Okay, but have you tried weed? That'd help with the pain no doubt, I could hook you up." Stupid queries that Kyle would politely bat off while attempting to stop the agonized quavering of his voice. It was an arduous routine, but necessary for minute degrees of societal acceptance.

Stan stares at him, biting his lip in concern at the purple under Kyle's eyes seeming so much more prominent than they appear in the office. He looks lost in a void that he can't escape, only able to cling weakening fingers around the edges for a minimal amount of enjoyment in life. Stan tries to count how many times he's seen Kyle not forcing an unsteady smile onto his face, is confident that he could tally the number on his hands alone. "It sucks you get those so often," he finally speaks.

Kyle lets out an exhausted laugh, eyes focusing back into the moment and shrugging. "'Sucks' is putting it pretty mildly, Stan."

"Sucks ass?" he offers.

"Better," he nods, looking nearly lucid with slow, purposeful bobs of his head. Stan can only think of how his father looked when he got wasted on their couch throughout his youth, how Stan would come to him with a question and get that same nod. The one that says "I can't say I'm sure, but I don't have the words or comprehension to actually disagree". Bright red splashed through Kyle's sclera sing the same tune as his father's did, just in a separate octave. His father willingly gave up control over his body, Stan wonders if Kyle ever had it to begin with.

"You're sure you're all right?"

Kyle rolls his eyes a bit, shivering at a dizziness trying to wash over him. "Stan. If I wanted to go home, I would." Stan seems to accept this, finishing off the last of his dwindling beer and sliding the bottle towards the edge of the table for pick-up. Kyle takes a deep breath, forcing himself to initiate a topic for once, "So, I'm guessing this is the only place to really talk to people in this town?"

Stan chuckles, a part of him embarrassed at the lacking livelihood of his hometown. "Unfortunately. Unless you got a thing for mingling in a J-Mart."

He catches the slight shame and offers him a kind smile, "Nothing wrong with that, Man. Small places are better anyway."

"Ah, spoken like someone not from a small place," he smirks. "The quaintness wears off real quick. You get stuck here."

Kyle raises his brow, "Stuck?"

"We've called it South Tar before," he says dryly, both glancing at drinks sliding onto their table and thanking the waitress before turning back to each other, Kyle battling another round of unexpected colors. "All but maybe three from my graduating class are still here.," Stan continues. "You get locked in and you can't function in a bigger, better place. Hell, I went to school in Boulder and came right back after I graduated."

He hums a bit, blindly gripping his glass and letting himself focus on the deep brown coloring of his fizzing drink, sighing with slight relief at a soft, low droning like a distant lawnmower. It's steady; he can latch onto it with ease. "Better than fluidity, honestly," he says, a certain sadness in his tone.

"You sure about that?"

Kyle allows himself to look at him for another moment before dropping back to his comfort zone. "I would think it'd be nice to have things worth staying for. You're talking to someone who's moved about eleven times in their life, Dude. I can pack up and leave and no one even remembers I was there to begin with."

Stan cocks his head in concern, but with a string of amusement playing on his face. "How emo."

He chuckles, "Okay yeah. That came out pathetic as fuck, but unfortunately I'm not exaggerating." He takes a sip of his drink, sighing at the bite against his tongue redirecting some of his attention for a moment. One of the few luxuries in life: Carbonation, spicy foods, and pieces of pizza that were still too hot. Anything to divert the senses. A few seconds of bliss here and there was sometimes all he needed to get through the day, to remind himself that there was still more to him than what he could see and hear. His drink drops back down, his gaze following and misting over with hard truths that Stan both wants to hear, and wants to wait until he's too drunk to remember them. "Things are rough when you don't have an actual 'hometown'. People ask me and I have to tell them to specify an age."

He blinks, "I mean… can't you just use where you were born for that?"

Kyle shrugs, looking at the clash of his white drink stirrer against his alcohol, barely able to smash down its noises and let the humming continue. "Sometimes I do. But some people think it's where you started to grow up and comprehend things. I didn't comprehend shit in Jersey. Well, to be fair, most people don't comprehend anything from there regardless of age," he scoffs.

Stan breaks into laughter and Kyle smiles through the dips and curves of blue slipping by. He takes a sip of his beer and nods, still giving quiet chuckles. "Fair enough. Careful though, this place may grab you by the roots."

"Well, it'd be nice to finally have some roots," he admits with a sheepish shrug. "I've lived in one other small town but it wasn't like this. Not this… erm…"

"Rednecky?" he guesses with a smirk.

He snorts, sparing him another look. "Well it was in Tennessee, so it was pretty Hick Central. Rude as shit, though."

Stan props his cheek in his palm, watching him with interest. "I wouldn't figure you of all people would've lived in cities with as many headaches as you get."

Kyle winces, knowing just how much sense his quandary made. It's often a tough one for him to explain away without people pressing farther. "Um, well, cities have, you know… better medical facilities. Better doctors for the most part."

"True," he agrees. "But then why'd ya come here?"

"Hell's Pass has a doctor that's fairly familiar with the kind of issues I have," he answers slowly, trying to pick his words with precision, to tie off loose ends a securely as he could manage. "So, I got both things I needed. Quiet and at least one somewhat competent person to give me my medications." A bit of a lie, he hates his doctor here. Doctor Kels had met him before he made the transition into town and promised he'd take care of him, only for Kyle to be handed off to residents anytime he schedules a consultation. He's already sick of being shuffled from doctor to doctor, having to explain in extensive detail what his ailment consists of, his dosage needed, and their comments of "…Huh. We never learned about that in school."

But, his money is tied into his apartment, and he's at least managing to convince the physicians that, yes, he really does need his pills. At least with the help of a confirmation call to his testing center. For now, he feels rocky, but settled. He doesn't have to fall asleep to the blaring of a car alarm every night, no longer does he have to hide with his head under the covers suffocating because the city never goddamn sleeps and continues to shine. Here, the nights are tepid, only the occasional rush of audible heat soaring through and disrupting him. He appreciates it. He doesn't love it, and he's not sure if Stan's right that he'll be kept here, but there's a level of fondness he's found already for their tucked-away borough.

It's more than he can say in regards to his ten previous homes at the very least.

Kyle flinches at a song starting above their heads from the radio, blaring aggravating rock music, assaulting him with unseen Fenders. A soft groan leaves him before he can stop it, cupping the side of his head and pressing his fingers to the base of his skull. The tempo grinds, rasped vocals collaborating in a frenzied mess to envelop him in a tangled onslaught. A drum kit bashes on, a violent boom ratata ratata boom ratata tish swirls a confusing mixed signal to his nerves, brain both painting a picture and telling him that he needed to run from this sadistic assault.

Stan watches guiltily as he wades through the cruelty of Classic Rewind, shifting in his seat. "Ky, if you wanna go, we can go."

His eyes open in slight shock at a sobriquet finding its way so casually out of Stan's mouth. He's never had that. He's always just been Kyle, or Mr. Broflovski, or Freak. This is unfamiliar territory, Kyle doesn't know how to approach such a drastic shift in dynamic. He glances up through throbbing eyes to see Stan cringing, as though he believes he said the exact wrong thing. Kyle gulps. He has to answer him. He has to do it fast before he messes this up. A weak smile crawls up his face, struggling to keep it looking passable. "Dude, I'm fine," he fibs. "It's a small one, not like I'm not used to 'em."

He looks at him, wincing with uncertainty, "Are you sure?"

He manages a casual enough looking shrug, shaking his drink a bit. "We gotta pay for these whether we finish 'em or not. And I don't waste vodka. So, I think we don't have a choice here."

Stan relaxes in the slightest and Kyle follows suit, holding back a whine as tints pulse before him. "So long as you're positive you're okay."

"Absolutely," he assures him, hoping Stan didn't notice the subtle crack of his voice. "It's all good."

He nods slowly, taking another sip of his drink. "Well… I say we call it after this one unless you're feeling better."

Kyle frowns, "Stan. I'm a grown man. I think I know how to take care of myself."

Stan holds up a defensive palm, patting it against the air. "I didn't mean it like that," he winces. "I mean that… I kind of picked the worst place for you to be stuck."

He blinks. Well. He's not wrong. Regardless, he gives him another shrug, "Well, I don't want to linger around J-Mart aisles, and I doubt they'd let us drink in there."

Stan lets out a small huff through his nose, "I dunno, Man. In this town, it's a coin toss."

"See, perks to small places," he tips his glass towards him in a small salute before taking a long drink, struggling as he brings the container back to the table not to break into a violent coughing fit. He tends to forget how little he drinks out of his paranoia, and blocks out the always-present fact that alcohol burns. He shudders as it roars its way down his trachea, putting the back of his hand against his lips and stifling a choke.

He watches him with a barely-contained cackle. "For a liquor drinker, you sure can't hold it," he teases.

Kyle calms, eyes shifting towards him shadily and his middle finger making itself well known, Stan losing his reserve and busting out in laughter. "Lotta talk comin' from a man drinkin' a four percent bitch beer," Kyle drawls.

"It is six percent, thank you," he feigns offense. "And I can down enough of these to equal yours before you can finish half at the rate you're goin'."

Kyle smirks, "Some of us have something called self-control."

"That's a nice way of describing 'talking too big a game you can't live up to'."

A scoff leaves his lips, breath catching a wisp of curled carmine hair hanging over his forehead to flop back down languidly. "You're one to talk, Mr. Budget."

Stan pouts, tapping his finger on his bottle. "Okay but… that's the only reason we got you so… silver linings?" he winces.

Kyle grants him a small chuckle and agreeing shrug. It's true, Kyle had only been permitted to move from working Denver's sister branch because Stan had severely overestimated accounts to be taken in for the year. Someone had to come in and tear everything apart down to the last digit to rebalance the company before it went under, and Kyle had been dubbed the right choice to do so. Kyle still holds a lingering suspicion that he was only offered the position due to his previous coworkers despising him but unable to fire him as he kept up on his quota and caused no trouble. He supposes it doesn't matter anymore. He doesn't report to them any longer, more than likely never has to speak to them again. He's found himself a new burrow of fellow number crunchers that, at the very least, tolerate him and his "quirks" as it had so nicely been dubbed by his last company. It's only a two-year contract, but Kyle more than figures it'll be extended with the way their boss comes to him with any and all financial questions that trip him up. A part of him hopes his supposition holds true, he actually gets included in the damn company coffee runs here.

His eyes scrunch as a guitar solo wanes on overhead, an aggravated groan vibrating through his throat as the world warbles around him. A particularly long chord voicing strikes him off-guard, a G, C, and D meshing together as a triad of luminescence flittering between tangerine, buttercream, and cyan. A sharp inhale, his throat clenches, his leg bounces. 'God, stop. Stop,' he begs.

Stan watches him with caution, "Are you gonna be okay if I leave you long enough to hit the bathroom?"

"I'm fine," he nods, a quick, firm jerk that he hopes speaks of more confidence than anguish. "Go on, Dude. I'm not the hall monitor." Stan smiles sadly, patting his arm and moving to slide out of the booth.

Kyle finally creaks his eyes back into the light as the damn note fades off, replaced with another pounding set of drums. He groans to himself. This is why he doesn't go anywhere without his earplugs, and he wonders if it would be uncouth for Stan to come back and find him relishing in silence with two bright yellow foam stubs shoved into his ear canals. Probably. Besides, he doesn't want to give himself an escape only to cruelly deprive himself moments later. Drastic fluctuation was almost as awful as being shoved into a damn crowd.

He digs his nails into his palms, pressing the heels against his forehead and shoving his glasses down the bridge of his nose as he tries to lead himself through a round of deep breaths. A saving grace comes in the form of fading vocals and the radio falling silent with an audible pop of a knob twisting off. "Thank you," he whispers, forcing away a sniffle and shifting his shoulders, trying to release a degree of tension.

Momentary bliss dwindles with the sound of a microphone, his body stiffening on cue, knowing the volume was about to turn up, that feedback and voice was about to dominate the room. A few people chatter excitedly as Kyle hears shuffling through the speaker, someone fumbling and prolonging their cruel and unusual punishment against him. "'Bout damn time!" a woman's lightly mocking voice pipes from behind him, a streak penetrating his retinas.

A smooth voice picks up through the subtle echo of the microphone, "Mm, I know. Just ain't the same without me, is it?"

Kyle nearly jerks out of the booth, closed lids flooding with an ocean of burnt orange. He allows himself to look again, see if his headache is just warning him that it's about to get much worse. "I know I'm runnin' just a lil late," the voice continues to tease, Kyle's jaw shaking at the room's alterations. An entire overlay of this warm translucent hue is here to greet him. A soft, muted tone that he's never experienced. Angles seem rounder, the world isn't spinning out of his control. His throbbing head is both trying to settle and rushing in utter befuddlement. He's never seen this before, and he doesn't know how to react.

His head slowly pivots, strained pupils scanning the room until landing in front of the window, staring blatantly at a man perched upon a swiped barstool, acoustic guitar in hand. Faraway eyes twinkle behind hanging blond bangs, a charming smile dominates Kyle's world as he wanders lost through this fire-glazed tone. Kyle's breath staggers at a soft brush against his six strings barely producing noticeable distraction along the edge of his vision, still locked down in this gift he's stumbled upon. The man smiles a little wider, and Kyle's heart pounds as he gives a sheepish smile and a lazy wink. "Sorry for keepin' ya waitin'."