A/N: This is my attempt at writing something a bit more fast-paced and with shorter chapters. Hope you enjoy! Also, feel free to follow me on tumblr (ghostgenocide)!
Even though it's a fairly chilly day at the end of October, the temperature in the office is a sweltering eighty-two degrees. The air is stagnant and muggy, too warm to breathe without it feeling like a chore, and being shoulder to shoulder with sixteen other griping bodies in a room with hardly any circulation isn't making things any more bearable.
Craig leans forward, unsticking himself from the back of his chair. He's hot, and he's irritated, and his eyebrows are doing a pisspoor job of keeping the sweat out of his eyes, and as if things don't suck enough already, all three floor fans either don't reach or stop just short of blowing over him. Craig glares at the bare floor-to-ceiling windows encasing the office with contempt. Any appreciation that he might've once had for seamless architectural design had gone right down the drain back around the first time that the AC went out when he first started working there two years ago, because there was absolutely nothing worse than being forced to bake in a makeshift human greenhouse because none of the windows actually open.
Across the office, Bebe fans herself with a copy of US Weekly. David loosens his tie as he pokes at the ever-malfunctioning copy machine. Clyde, in the next spot over, has long since abandoned his sweat-stained shirt to let it air dry over the short fiberglass partition separating their workspaces, dress code be damned. Craig is convinced that if he can manage to just sit still enough and not exert any amount of effort, then he won't pass out from heatstroke.
"I think today's the day," Clyde says in between a yawn as he stretches his arms up and over his head. He leans back in his chair so that he pokes out sideways from the other side of the partition. Craig looks at him curiously because he can't recall having read any memos lately.
"What day?"
"The day I actually melt. Holy fuck, it's so hot," Clyde bemoans. His bare shoulders are riddled with angry red pimples and the occasional mole. A single bead of sweat rolls down his flushed neck. "Would it kill the dude who owns the building to just replace the goddamn AC already? It can't be that expensive. It's probably cheaper than having to fix it every four months."
Craig squints at his computer when he hears his notification alert. He has twelve unread emails, two of which are from his boss, Kyle Broflovski, in the office straight ahead. Kyle really likes his privacy and always seems to have his blinds drawn. Craig can respect that. If he had his own office he wouldn't want to see the rest of these miserable cunts, either. He reads the two emails from his boss and deletes the rest.
"Hey, did you get the picture I just sent you? It's funny right?"
"No."
"You're no fun. You never read my emails." Clyde cranes his neck to get a better look at Craig's monitor and Craig makes quick work of minimizing the office-wide email from their boss reminding everybody that the company costume party will begin tonight at 7:30 PM in the building's shared rec area two floors down where the heat and AC both actually work. Clyde makes a face. "So, what, you delete my emails but not Kyle's?"
"He's our boss."
"And I'm your bro."
"Don't you have a game to watch or an article to write or something? You better not've rushed me on those Brady cuts for nothing," Craig says, glancing impatiently at his computer clock. 3:05 PM. "And Wendy's gonna kick your ass if you keep sending personal emails. You know she's watching you like a hawk after cc'ing those PornHub links to everyone."
Clyde groans. "It was an accident."
"Still."
"Yeah, well, sorry for wanting to show something to my best friend, I guess. I just thought you might like them."
"Like I said. Don't you have work to do?" Craig asks, because he really doesn't want to talk about Clyde's terrible lesbian porn suggestions. For being his supposed "best friend," Clyde had completely missed Craig's target demographic.
"It's too hot to work," Clyde complains.
When Clyde loses interest in pestering him and decides that he'd rather take a nap instead, Craig goes back to boredly scrolling through Feedly until he finally hears the telltale sound of a door click open. He looks up just in time to see Eric Cartman lingering in Kyle's doorway for a few seconds before bidding him a mocking farewell. Minutes later, Kyle takes his place.
"Ready, Craig?" He beckons. Craig nods. He grabs his external hard drive, furtively mops the sweat from his face with the back of his hand to make himself look more presentable, and follows Kyle into his office.
Compared to the rest of the fourth floor, Kyle's office is nice and cool. He'd invested in a portable evaporative air cooler about a year back during a particularly beastly summer, and coupled with the rotating fan he has going, it's both a blessing and a curse; a blessing because the cool breeze on Craig's skin is a welcome change from the stale heat of the rest of the office, and a curse because he doesn't get to witness Kyle with his damp red curls plastered to his forehead.
Kyle shuts the door and sits back heavily into his own chair behind his desk with a frustrated sigh. He only seems slightly irritated, which is considerably less so than usual whenever Cartman comes down from his gilded executive throne room to micromanage and just be an overall pain the ass. Craig likes it when that happens because flustered and agitated Kyle is just as enjoyable as hot and sweaty Kyle, and hey, one outta two ain't bad.
"You look angry," Craig points out, hoping to rile him up just a little before he can start his own interrogation. Judging by the way his nose crinkles at the suggestion, Kyle takes the bait.
"I'm not," he says. The words come out sounding a bit too pointed to be true, but Craig knows not to take it personally. Kyle shakes his head. "Cartman's just—ugh, he's infuriating."
"Was it about the new office?"
As if Craig had said the magic words, Kyle screws his eyes shut and lets out a steady, labored breath through his nose before spiraling off into a short but passionate tangent about how much he hates his own boss.
Cartman had bucked up and purchased a building to move the company and all its acquisitions into about two months ago, and although it's a lot smaller and needs a lot of work, it still has plenty of space and an all-new heating and cooling system to boot. That's fine. Great, even. The problem, according to Kyle, is that Cartman has been forcing him to put his "genetically superior accounting skills" to good use by overseeing the whole renovation project, which has been going on for over a month now and isn't expected to be finished until sometime after the holidays. Apparently Kyle had just found out that he'll have to forego his Thanksgiving plans to see his family so that he can stay in town and keep tabs on everything, so it's only natural that he's a bit peeved.
"I honestly don't know what he wants from me. I'm just an editor," Kyle reasons when he's through letting off some steam. "Why can't he just do it himself? Or make Butters do it! That's what assistants are for, aren't they?"
"Yeah."
"I swear, it's like he exists for the sole purpose of making my life a living hell. Piece of shit."
"Sorry."
"Don't be. I'm sorry. I shouldn't even be talking to you about these things," Kyle apologizes. Craig wishes he wouldn't because he thoroughly enjoys getting to see this side of his seemingly straight-laced and hot-headed boss. "Anyway," Kyle begins after taking a few seconds to compose himself. "So, how are things?"
Most employees would be terrified to be in Craig's current position, but everyone knows that Kyle's not like that. Kyle likes to call everybody one-by-one into his office on Fridays to talk about how things had been with work that week. Craig never calls out on Fridays.
"Fine," he says as he usually does, because it's true. It's always true. He leans forward and slides his external hard drive over to his boss. Kyle's brows shoot up in surprise.
"You're finished already?"
"Yep."
"This is everything? The pictures, too?"
"Mhmm."
"Oh, wow." Kyle seems awestruck. He takes the hard drive and turns it around in his hands as if he's handling a precious gem. "That was really fast. Didn't I tell you to take your time?"
"I did," Craig lies. In reality he'd been up late the past three nights splicing and editing all of the images and video footage he'd amassed over the past month from attending various political rallies around Denver, where he followed Kyle around and played cameraman on his off days in return for a free lunch and the chance to see Kyle outside of his work clothes.
Being one of the only two people in the office with professional backgrounds in media and film production, Craig doesn't go out into the field all that often since he's usually tied to his desk editing videos on the regular—which is fine, since he definitely prefers sending Stoley out to do the grunt work instead. Sometimes Stoley's busy though, and Craig doesn't have a choice but to accompany his coworkers to film an interview or capture something specific. Thankfully those days are far and few in between, and for the type of website that he puts together material for, there really isn't all that much to do aside from editing interviews, sports plays, and rehashing already-aired news clips or the occasional viral video since most of the website's content takes form in articles and lists. Special requests from Kyle—such as this one—are a different story.
"Dude, you're the best. Thanks," Kyle says with a grin that serves to make Craig's gut twist at the sight of it. He doesn't even care that Kyle totally sounds like an immature fourteen-year-old boy rather than his boss when he calls him that. "Now I can finally publish that piece I've been working on forever. Maybe even tonight if I skip the party. Just in time for election day."
"That's cool. Hopefully the shots are alright."
"You're kidding, right? They're probably amazing. They always are. I can't wait to check them out," Kyle gushes as he gingerly tucks the hard drive away into his brown canvas messenger bag for later. "You've got a much steadier hand than Kevin and you do the best editing work out of everyone in this building. Not to mention you're quick, too. That's why everyone comes to you for help, you know."
"Thanks."
"Speaking of editing, is everything alright?"
"What?"
"I mean, I know you said you were fine, but editing is a lot of work, and you're usually always so busy—especially when you're constantly picking up the slack for those other guys, too."
Those Other Guys consist of the four other "companies" that Cartman owns and houses in the same building. Craig uses that term loosely because he's still not entirely convinced that Cartman's crowdfunding company directly below in suite 3A isn't actually just some sort scam, and because his failing music streaming service in suite 3B is bound to crash and burn any day now. The rest are all niche websites, the largest being the one that Craig works for in particular—think New York Times meets BuzzFeed meets VICE, except not as popular and with too many stories that read like actual real life Onion articles to seriously be trusted as a viable news source—and Craig just feels stupid referring to websites as companies when they publish ridiculous articles such as, "How to Get a Sugar Daddy in 10 Days," (Bebe Stevens, Beauty and Gossip), and, "Should Cage Fighting Replace the Presidential Election? Duh," (Clyde Donovan, Sports), no matter how successful they might be.
But Craig is confused, because even though it's true that he does take on some additional work here and there, it's mostly just to keep himself busy; a good portion of his days are spent reading comics and watching Netflix, ultimately doing little more than keeping a seat warm, and Kyle knows that. He enables it. So Craig's not really sure what the hell Kyle's talking about.
"I'm fine," Craig insists.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"You don't think you could use an extra pair of hands to help ease the workload, maybe?"
"What's this all about?" Craig asks, growing suspicious. It's not unusual for Kyle to dote on him—whether it's because Kyle likes him or if he's just worried that Craig might someday snap or something, Craig doesn't know—but never before has Kyle ever suggested hiring another editor.
"I just don't want you getting burned out," Kyle says.
"Well I won't."
"Alright." Kyle nods and sits back in his chair. It's obvious there's something else on his mind by the way he worries his bottom lip, but he doesn't say anything, choosing to stare down at a packet of stapled papers in thought instead. When the silence between them starts to feel awkward, Craig goes to stand up. Then Kyle asks the most ridiculous question: "Do you think the website would benefit from a pets and animals sections?"
"Anything would benefit from a pets and animals section."
Kyle laughs. "I figured you'd say that. You sound just like my best friend," he says. Craig doesn't know who Kyle's best friend is but he imagines them to be quick-witted and well-read like Kyle.
Kyle sighs and slides the stapled packet into a manila folder labeled Job Applications. He hands it to Craig. "Do me a favor and send Clyde back in here? And if it's not too much trouble, could you take this up to HR?" he asks. "Make sure you give it to Wendy."
Clyde is not easily woken up and Wendy eyes him the second he steps out of the elevator, but Craig manages. When he finally returns to his desk, Clyde is already fast asleep once more, squashing the opportunity to ask what was so important that Kyle had to talk to him twice about. Craig's curiosity is short-lived though, since Kyle had apparently decided to emerge from his office for the first time all day while Craig was off running errands and is now currently leaning over the side of David's desk, palms flat and hip cocked to the side as he chats amiably among a few of his surrounding employees. Kyle's fitted olive green pants leave little to the imagination, and with Clyde out of commission and nobody to block his view, Craig is welcome to stare at his boss's ass without shame. Bebe does, too.
When the work day's over and it's time to leave, Craig waits until almost everyone else is gone before he gathers up his camera equipment and shakes Clyde awake. Together they take the elevator alone with Kyle and Jimmy, who are always the last two out of the office. Craig likes to use this time to examine Kyle more closely, especially when he's busy looking at his phone, like today.
"So are you fellas going to the c-costume party?" Jimmy asks once they hit the ground floor.
"Oh, shit. That's tonight, isn't it?" Clyde asks, then yawns. "I dunno. I'm kinda sleepy. Craig?"
"I don't have a costume."
"Me neither. Wanna hit up Wall-Mart real quick and see what we can find?"
"God no."
"I feel ya. Yeah, I think I'd rather go home and crash to be honest," Clyde says as he holds the front door open for their disabled coworker like a good samaritan. Kyle can't hear since he's too far ahead and has his headphones in, and Craig is too busy watching the wind whip through his short auburn curls as he rolls down the sleeves of his thick cable knit sweater to care about whatever else Clyde and Jimmy have to say.
Maybe someday out there in one of the infinite universes that Craig believes exists, Craig will chase Kyle down and catch him at his bus stop—finally ask him out to dinner or the planetarium or something, or even just a movie—but not this one. And that's fine. Craig is nothing if not a realist, and realistically, keeping this safe distance between them is probably for the best. Because relationships are hard, and Kyle's probably too much of a stiff to date one of his employees anyway, and life's not some cheesy office romcom where everything turns out alright in the end; Craig knows you don't shit where you eat, and believe it or not, he actually does like his job. So for now, he's content with just this.