Stan was sitting in his ergonomic office chair, one hand pressed against his temple, the other angrily clutching a sheet of paper. Kyle was sitting meekly on the edge of Stan's desk, one leg loosely crossed over the other, his head dipped. He was absently toying with the half-eaten cookie Stan had brought him, passing it from hand to hand, careful not to get crumbs on Stan's carpet. Stan would kill him if he got crumbs on his ugly office carpet. Why, Kyle didn't quite know; the pile was nothing short of hideous. So hideous, in fact, that even Kyle could see it was hideous. Ugly, brightly coloured, geometric shapes and circles, sea green, yellow, red, were imposed on a sea of deep lavender. It was an embodiment of everything awful about the eighties, faded and ratty, begging to be replaced. Scattering it in crumbs wouldn't worsen its appearance, nothing could. Scattering of crumbs would at least offer the eye a distraction. Anyone would rather look at crumbs then at that carpet.

Kyle frowned, shifting slightly. He was tempted to just throw the cookie away, but he knew Stan wouldn't let him. He didn't really want it, he really didn't really need it, but Stan had insisted he ate it. It was just easier to allow Stan to think he was in the midst of some befuddling hypoglycaemic haze then admit he'd stormed all the way down here because he'd thought Stan was cheating.

Stan exhaled, frowning angrily down at his page of sheet music, correcting it, rearranging it. Pretty much rewriting it. Kyle could still remember watching Stan learn to read sheet music. He'd always known tabs and chords as a kid, the pointless, half-assed stuff his dad had taught him, in between riots and beers, but he hadn't actually learnt to read sheet music properly until middle school. Until he started learning piano. He'd always hated it. The piano and the sheet music. Pianos always reminded him of his sister, and sheet music just irritated him. He thought in chords and tabs. He always would.

Kyle bit his lip, casually discarding the cookie on the desk next to him, dropping it into one of Stan's many, many dirty coffee cups. Stan didn't even blink.

"Are you alright?"

Stan frowned, glancing up. Sturdy, sturdy, strong, and soft. Kyle had always been sturdy, strong and soft. Always reliable, always there. Well, usually there. He had his moments. Everyone did.

"Yeah Ky, I'm… I'm fine. Are you alright?"

"Oh yeah, I'm great. I'm fine. That cookie… I'm fine."

"Good. I'm nearly done, we can go home soon. You can go home now, if you want. I'll call you a cab. Or you can call Kenny. Whichever."

"No, don't bother with a cab. There's no point. I'm fine waiting. And, Kenny won't come back. I think I've really pissed him off."

Stan pulled a face, still staring at his paper. He should probably test the alterations out, but he really couldn't be arsed. It was too late. It was dark outside. It was Friday. Who the fuck forces people to work late on Fridays? He didn't give a shit anymore. "How?"

"I dunno. He's been acting like a bit of a bitch recently. Got his panties in a twist for some reason."

Stan frowned, still staring at the sheet of music. The tempo was all wrong, it was really fucked up. It jarred with the pointless, irritating lyrics. He couldn't see how to fix it. "You should be nicer to Kenny."

"Why? Kenny's a dick. You should hear the things he says sometimes. He's pretty much the only reason I'm here."

Stan pulled a face. "I know, I know. But he's going though a lot at the moment. You should cut him some slack."

Kyle snorted. "Oh, what? Are they threatening to repossess his shack again?"

"C'mon dude, play nice. I know he can be a dick, but he's been helpful this week, watching over you, keeping you company whilst I've been busy."

"I'm not a dog Stan. I don't need babysitting."

"You say that, but you do some fucked up shit when left alone. Even you have to admit that. Kenny didn't have to drive down, but he did." Stan pulled a face. "He's got a lot on his plate at the moment."

Kyle got that look about him, that uppity, stuffy look. Pursed lips and set eyes. It was the same look his mother got when she was the last to know the school gate gossip. It was the look Kyle got when he thought his friends were keeping secrets. When he thought he was being left out. "What do you know that I don't?"

Stan shut his eyes. He hated this jingle he was writing. He hated the tune, he hated the lyrics. He hated his boss, he hated the product. But most of all he hated the client. He'd written song after song after song for these people, pop, classical, jazzy, slow, fast. None of them were right. They were never fucking happy. It was like they expected him to crap out Pachelbel overnight or something. Having to rewrite this shit again and again was really soul destroying. "Nothing Ky. It doesn't matter."

"I fucking does matter! What do you know?"

Stan glanced up, Kyle's fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. He was set, angry and belligerent. He wasn't going to let this go. He never, ever let anything go. Stan sighed, absently lifting a hand up, absently rubbing the side of Kyle's thigh. He really wasn't looking for a fight, not tonight.

"Powder's pregnant."

"She's what?"

"She's pregnant."

"Oh Christ." Kyle paused for a moment, blinking slowly. "Is it Kenny's?"

"What, dude? Of course it is! At least… At least I assume it is! Why on Earth would you think it wasn't?"

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't put it past her."

"Jesus dude, you really have to get over the whole stocky embargo. She said it once, she wasn't looking to offend you. I mean, you are stocky. I call you stocky all the time!"

"But it's different when you say it. You're allowed to say it. She isn't!"

"Oh really? What makes me so special?"

"You're you. She isn't!"

Stan quirked his eyebrow. "She can't say it because she isn't me?"

"Well, yeah." Stan just smiled wanly, tensing his fingers against Kyle's thigh for a second, glancing back down at the sheet music. Kyle just sighed, tilting his head back. "When's it due?"

"Hmm?"

"The baby. Their baby. When's it due?"

"I honestly have no idea. Not for a while yet. I think he still wants Powder to… To abort it."

Kyle frowned. "Why does he want her to abort it? Everyone's been having kids recently. Bebe's just had her second."

"I dunno. The recession. The shack. Powder's not working. They don't have the money. It's not a good time. Choose one."

"Christ, he lives in South Park. He's Kenny. It'll never be a good time. He might as well just do it."

"Maybe. Maybe."

Stan blinked down, altering a note. Maybe they should just buy a song and adjust the lyrics. Write a parody. That seems like the sort of tacky thing these clients were looking for. Sighing slightly, Kyle absently fiddled with a stray pen, twisting it round his fingers. "Do you think he'll let us be "uncles"?"

"I really have no idea. He might."

"I hope he does. It might be fun. Babies can be quite cute in moderation. It's nice when you get to give them back, you know?"

"It would be good practice, I suppose."

"Practice for what?"

"Practice for when we have one."

Kyle snorted. "When we have one? Jesus Stan, that'll be a feat. Are you going to pop one out, or should I?"

"Dude, I'm being serious! C'mon!" Stan sighed, slamming his sheet of paper face down on the desk, groaning as he ran his fingers across his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. He'd stopped being able to see it long ago, the notes, the tune, the tempo, and lyrics had long since devolved into pointless squiggles and dots, white noise. He really had no idea what he was doing anymore. He was tired, really tired, he had a headache, his eyes hurt. He just wanted to go home. He just wanted to take a shower, have something to eat, and go to bed. He just wanted to bury his face in Kyle's hair and go to sleep.

Biting his lip, Kyle reached across the desk, shifting a stack of papers, sliding across the cheap wood.

"Hey, c'mere." He braced his feet on the arms of Stan's chair, shifting over, letting Stan drive his face weakly into his lap. Letting Stan clutch at his back, grip his sides. It'd been a long day, a bitch of a week. A bitch of a week for the both of them. Kyle would be happy when it was over.

"I've been neglecting you, haven't I?" Stan was addressing Kyle's crotch, a move Kyle found ironically apt.

Kyle shrugged, absently fiddling with the ends of Stan's hair. The amount of paperwork Stan had piled around him, the piles on his desk, on the filing cabinets, on the floor, they made him feel slightly bad. Slightly guilty. Slightly really, really guilty. He never really had paid all that much attention to Stan's job, to his workload. To what he had to do. He'd always been slightly too preoccupied with himself, with his own job, his own life. He'd always been slightly too selfish.

"You've been busy, I guess. I'm just bored, being at home. It's lonely, even with Kenny. I want to go back to work already. I want my car back. I want to do something. Christ, I just… I just don't know."

"I know. Look, how about we go for coffee tomorrow, how about we go get something to eat? We could go on nice walk. Like on a date? We haven't been on a date in a very long time."

Kyle bit his lip, glancing across at one of the less steady towers of paper. "Don't you have to work?"

"No." Stan frowned down at the paper. "That shit ain't getting any better. After the week they've put me though, I think they owe me my fucking Saturday."

"Do we have to go for a walk?"

"No dude, we can do whatever you want to. We can go watch a movie, or go to a gallery, or a museum, or whatever. Choose whatever pretentious cliché you want."

Kyle smiled. "Alright. It's a date."

"Good. Now let's go home. What do you want for dinner?"

"I've already eaten."

"Oh. You still hungry?"

Kyle pulled a face. "A little bit, yeah."