Stan was long gone by the time Kyle woke up the next morning. He had a dim recollection of being woken up some hours ago, a misty, warmed memory of being gently shaken by the shoulder, being offered some breakfast, being given a cuddle, a kiss, but he wasn't certain whether it had been a dream or not. Stan was never usually so nice to him in the mornings, and he often found himself dreaming of things that seemed real but hadn't actually happened. In fact, he often wondered whether the things that he thought had really happened were actually dreams. Some flight of fancy he'd been sure was happening, nothing but barely conscious sounds and actions rearranging themselves in his mind, convincing him they were real, replacing the actual reality. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe he'd always been crazy. Maybe it was all just one big lie.

Either way, he was dimly aware of having declined Stan's offer with a few spat out curses and choice insults, before rolling over and falling straight back to sleep. Which was a pretty dickish thing for him to do, had he actually done it, but he had just been woken up. He was never all that amenable in the mornings. Stan knew that. Which might explain why Stan was never all that nice to him. Because he was never all that nice to Stan.

Exhaling, Kyle stood up, wrapping himself in the duvet as he padded out the bedroom, padded to the bathroom, padded into the living room, padded over to the ugly green sofa. He wanted to go back to work now. He'd had enough of sick leave. An e-mail he'd received from his boss had told him to take a week, take two, take longer then that if he felt he needed to. Take the however many weeks it would take them to fix his car, for his bruises to fade, for the friction burns to heal. For his ribs to stop aching. Take the however many months, even. If they could fix it, that is. The back end of his Toyota was so damaged, so crushed, so fucked up, it might be better, cheaper, to just replace it. Still, that wasn't really up to him, it was the insurance companies prerogative. They might try to fix it, they might just send him a cheque and wish him the best.

Kyle sighed, rubbing his face. All the insurance shit, all the papers, all the phone calls. He sort wondered whether he should just buck it up and tell his parents; sure, his mom would dive him insane with her cloying, coddling worry, but at least his dad would sort the insurance out for him. His dad might even sort a hire car out for him. Sort how Kyle was supposed to get around now he didn't have his car any more. His dad was good with forms and papers, good with big companies, good at working out deals, getting bargains. He was good with things like that.

Kyle pursed his lips. It depressed him that his job seemed so keen to ward him away. Sure, they could just be being nice or whatever, they could just be looking out for him, but they seemed so eager, so sure, so adamant he took a week, took two, took time to "recover" himself. He'd always thought he was fairly good at his job, fairly good at doing what he did, but now he wasn't so sure. He wasn't so sure why they were so gung-ho about his sick leave, why they were so amenable about his time off. Maybe he was actually really awful at coding. Maybe all his work was really actually shit. Maybe they all just hated him. Maybe they were all desperately hoping, desperately waiting for a chance to fire him. He was doubting his skills. He was doubting his eyesight. He was doubting himself. He was doubting Stan. He was doubting Stan's fidelity. He was doubting everything recently.

Blinking slightly, Kyle clutched the duvet across his chest, clicking on the TV, desperate to distract himself. He thought about reading, but he wasn't in the mood. Too jumpy, too distracted. He thought about doing something on the computer, editing the grammar on Wikipedia, designing a blog, doing some work, asking them to send something down, but the PC just depressed him. It just reminded him of his doubts. He wanted Stan to be here, he wanted Stan to be keeping him company, he wanted Stan to amused him, entertain him, he wanted to do something, go out, go to the movies, go for a coffee. Hell, he'd even go on one of Stan's precious walks. But Stan was too busy doing what Stan did, writing cheap rhymes and rifts, concocting those pointless, repetitive jingles. All he had was the TV. The stupid, idiotic TV.

For several hours Kyle watched poor people scream at each other from across a plywood stage. Missing teeth, incomprehensible accents, slurred words, peroxide hair. Awful, streaky highlights. Trailer trash, bad clothes. Slutty, whoreish. They all looked like Cartman in drag; lumpy, hideous beings, so foreign, so removed from Kyle's nice little townhouse in their steadily gentrifying area of Denver, so removed from their nice little life. Their nice, new life. So far away from all that shit that happened in South Park, all that shit that was South Park. It was only an hour's drive away, but that was far enough. Sixty miles was all it took.

Kyle frowned, biting the inside of his cheek. They all sounded like Cartman too. Incorrect, idiotic points, wrong ideals, negative IQ's. But they screamed with such conviction, like they actually believed the baby was his, they really believed they hadn't been cheating, like they really believed themselves, their own lies. Enough lies, enough conviction, people begin to believe themselves.

It was only after some pointless peroxide woman bounded on screen and began toting the health benefits of drinking urine that Kyle gave in. Making some angry, Yiddish growl, he angrily slammed down a button on the remote, silencing the bounding, piss drinking women, before twisting round, grabbing up the receiver, angrily jabbing in Kenny's number. Not even another afternoon of being insulted could be as bad as watching some idiotic woman downing her own piss.

xxx

xxx

xxx

"I swear to God since you started taking it up the arse your faggotry has risen threefold."

Kyle blinked, shifting slightly. He was still wrapped in the duvet, still occupying the couch, still in his nightclothes, still curled up. Still feeling sorry for himself. Even he had to admit he was being vaguely pathetic. But hey, he'd recently been injured. He was upset, he was hurt, and he was depressed. Stan was ogling other people, Stan was ogling women. He had every right to be pathetic. He was miserable.

"Dude, I don't just take it up the arse, yeah? I give it up the arse too. Fuck, we're not some heteronormative cliché. We mix it up occasionally."

"For some reason the idea of you pinning Stan seems vaguely blasphemous. I like to believe you just take it up the arse, it makes everything easier for me."

"Why? Does overfeminising me make it easier to understand your gay little high school crush?"

"No! Fuck, you're hardly a dainty little femme Kyle. But you are kind of girly."

"I am not girly."

"Except you are. You're bitchy, whiney and sort of…" Kenny motioned vaguely with his hands. "Fluffy."

"I'm fluffy?"

"You're fluffy."

"Like a dog, you mean?"

"No!"

"Then what? You mean like a bimbo or something? A marshmallow? A cloud? Fucking what? How the fuck am I fluffy? No good things are ever fluffy!"

"Like a-like a… Dude, you're just fucking fluffy! Don't ask me to define it! You are it. You're just fluffy."

Kyle gave him some incomprehensible glare, mouth open, eyes narrowed. "I'm fluffy. Christ, you called me fat yesterday, and today I'm fluffy. God, you're a real dick, you know. Is it really that hard for you to just be nice to me?"

"I don't mean it like that! Stop being so precious."

Kyle just bit the inside of his lip, tilting his head away. He was looking for a fight. He was looking to act like a dick. As bad as it seemed, he wanted to infect others with his misery. "Well, I don't do it all that often, but I do fuck Stan in the ass. So cram it up yours and shut the fuck up!"

Kenny frowned slightly, crossing his arms across his chest as he lent his head back against the sofa cushion. He knew he should have given an excuse, lied, pretended like he couldn't come over. Kyle was in a fowl mood recently. But Kyle was also on his own recently. Leaving a pissed off Kyle alone was never a wise idea. Kenny had known that for years. "Why don't you do it often? Is it because he's taller then you? Is it because he's, er, bigger then you, if you get what I mean?"

"Assume I always get what you mean. You're not renowned for your subtlety Ken." Kyle huffed, crossing his arms. He was clearly unimpressed with his conversation. Kenny had clearly ticked him off. Ticked him off more then he had been already, which was some feat. "And no. He just… He just has more stamina is all. He's better at it."

"Awwh, does little Kylie shoot early?"

"No! Fuck you Kenny. Stop being such a fucking ass. I shoot just fine. It's just Stan has the stamina of an Olympic marathon runner." A small, ghost of a smile quirked the corner of Kyle's lips, so out of place with the rest of his huffy demeanour. "It's actually kind of brilliant."

"I think I need to vomit now."

"You brought it upon yourself."

Kenny sighed, shutting his eyes against the afternoon sun. He was still wearing his coat, he was still protesting their pointless coat floor. He'd continue protesting their pointless coat floor until the day he died. He hated their pointless coat floor. Nevertheless, the excess fabric was smothering him slightly, leaving him slightly too warm, making him feel sort of dizzy. Kyle had the central heating on, and the day was unseasonably sunny. It wasn't a good combination. Nevetheless he wasn't about to concede his point. He wasn't about to use their superfluous coat floor.

"Why did you call me anyway? You go weeks without seeing me, and now you want me twice in two days? It's a bit needy, Kyle. I have my own life too, you know."

"Fuck you. I just wanted some company. I'm bored."

"Buy a cat."

Kyle shuddered. Cat's always reminded him of Cartman. As cute as they may be, every time he saw one, he always, always thought of Cartman. Well, Cartman or his dads cheesing problem. "No."

"Buy a dog, then."

Kyle pulled a face. "Stan wants to get a dog. One of those big, lumbering ones."

"So? Get a dog then. Fuck, at least it'd give you something to talk to."

"No. All that walking and all that mess. Way too difficult."

"Oh, stop being stupid. Lots of people have dogs, they're not that bad."

"Yeah? Well lots of people have ugly houses. I don't want some drooling, bounding thing destroying our house, scratching my tables, chewing on my furniture! I like my furniture, as is, thank you!"

"Oh, lord forbid anything harm your lovely forest green couch! It's so classy, after all!" Kenny snarked it out, waving his arms about in an overly dramatic gesture as his did.

"Hey! Shut up! I like this sofa! It's a nice sofa!" Kyle lied. He hated the sofa. He'd regretted buying it almost immediately. It was hideous, he knew that. But he wasn't about to admit it. Especially not to Kenny. Especially not when Kenny was being a dick.

Kenny just quirked his lip, looking away. "Whatever you say Kyle. Whatever you say."

They fell silent, Kyle lost in pathetic, brooding thought, Kenny rubbing his face, absently watching him. Watching him think. It was eerily silent in the house, nothing but ticking, ticking clocks, the street sounds, cars, the road, people. Kenny wondered if he should turn on the TV, turn on a radio, start cooking something to eat. Bang some pots and pans about. Start singing to himself. His house was never silent. There was always something making a noise, Powder walking about, Powder talking, Powder on the phone, his parents, her parents, the TV, the radio, Powder's screechingly awful, yet vaguely engaging soaps. The neighbours, screaming at each other, incomprehensible, slurring their words. There was always noise, there was always something.

Not here though. It was quiet here. This was a nice neighbourhood, after all.

After a minute, Kenny cleared his throat, casually adjusting his coat, casually pulling the fabric off his chest. Desperately trying to cool himself down. "So, what do you want to do?"

Kyle blinked. He was depressing himself, his doubts, his whatevers. He was overthinking things. He was always, always overthinking things. He wanted his car back. He wanted Stan. He wanted his burns to be gone. He wanted his job to need him, like Stan's job needed Stan. He needed to get out the house. He was driving himself crazy locked up in here. He needed to get some air.

Clearing his throat, Kyle frowned slightly, glaring at the blank TV screen. "Can we… Can we go for that run?"