Kenny let himself in. Even though they'd told him not to, even though they'd begged him to knock, or ring the bell, or text them, or something, he still let himself in. At first he'd only done it because he'd been excited they'd trusted him with a spare key. Hardly anyone ever trusted him with a spare key, especially not to houses as nice as Stan and Kyle's, as nice as their pathetically clichéd, clean, provincial little townhouse, situated just on the outskirts of the achingly stylish part of Denver, that part of Denver where all the childless young professionals lived, where everything was nice and green and expensive and so San Francisco-ish, so it was sort of a big deal for him. He'd wanted to milk it for all it's worth. Now the gleam of the gesture had worn off, he did it just to annoy them. The irritation Stan, not so much Kyle, but very much Stan felt when Kenny just willy-nilly sauntered into their sunshine-bright little living room, was well worth the mental trauma he'd developed from the numerous unclothed moments he'd accidentally walked in on.

Kyle was lounging over one of the broad arms of the (fairly hideous, at least in Kenny's opinion) forest green settee. He looked about as happy as a deflated plush toy, and no-where near as cuddly. With his lower arms bandaged loosely to his elbow, with his bright eyes glaring out over the sofa, under his hair, angry and judgemental, he sort of looked like an unsuccessful suicide attemptee. But Kenny wasn't going to tell him that. He'd known Kyle long enough to know you don't poke the bear when it's already pissy. And Kyle was very, very clearly, already pissy.

Kenny raised his eyebrows, casually leaning back against the painfully bright white doorframe, his back to the landing, the staircase. It always mildly irritated Kenny that they'd brought a house with three floors. As narrow as the floor plan was, and as much as they tried to justify it, it always smacked a bit of showing off. His and Powder's house (or shack, if you were being technical) only had one floor, and it was a fairly shitty floor at that; yet here Stan and Kyle were with three. He was missing one, they had an extra one. They didn't even really use the lower one for anything, everything they needed was on the upper two. Sure, they greeted people down there, and sure, they had several nice potted plants scattered about, but aside from that, all they used it for was coat storage. Coats and shoes. They'd brought a whole floor to store their coats and shoes.

Kenny frowned, crossing his arms across his coat. He refused to leave his coat down on their coat floor. It was his way of protesting it. No-one should have a coat floor, regardless of how well you did at college. "Should you really be lying like that? Surely that can't be good for your ribs."

"I don't care. They hurt no matter what. At least this way I can focus the pain."

"You're such a drama-queen sometimes." Kyle made some unimpressed pout-like groan, clearly demanding attention, sympathy. He clearly wanted to be coddled. Kenny ignored him, too busy picking at his nails. Coddling him was Stan's job, Stan's or his mother's, but definitely not his. "Anyway, I can't stay long, so don't get too exited."

Kyle frowned. "Why? Where are you going?"

"I'm taking Powder out to dinner tonight. It's our date night." At the sound of the name, Kyle made some dismissive, Yiddish throaty snort, pressing his face down against the fabric couch arm. Kenny just deadpanned him a glare. "Oh, you just don't like her because she said you looked stocky that one time." Kyle pursed his lips, his face still driven against the fabric. Kenny just crossed his arms, frowning darkly. "Stan calls you stocky all the time. It's one of your fucking pet names!"

"Yeah? Well Stan's fucking me. He can call me whatever the fuck he wants."

"She said you looked cute too!"

"I don't give a shit."

"God you're a dick sometimes!"

"Oh, fuck you! I'm fucking injured! You're supposed to be being nice to me!"

"Oh, you're fine! Don't milk it! You had a bump, it's no big deal! Christ, anyone would be happy to have a few days off sick, and here you are acting like they're forcing you to work overtime!"

Kyle paused slightly, turning his face away, curling round slightly. "I'm not."

"You are!"

Kyle sighed, sitting up suddenly, covering his eyes with the heels of his palms. "I'm really not."

"You're not milking this?"

"No, I'm not fine."

Kenny narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?" Kyle just ignored him. He was frowning into his hands, chewing at his lip. Kenny just cleared his throat. "Kyle, what do you mean? Do you need a doctor or something? I told you you shouldn't lie like that! Christ, when it comes to bruised ribs, I sort of know what I'm talking about yeah?"

"It's not the way I was lying! It's-It's… You know, it's fine. I'm just tired. They kept me in the hospital until, like, two in the morning."

Kenny blinked. Kyle could be a pretty terrible liar, especially when he wasn't trying. Uncrossing his arms, Kenny stepped forwards, walking into the living room, sitting on the coffee table, facing the sofa. Facing Kyle. Kyle had forbidden him from sitting there after that one time he'd accidentally gouged a dent into the sleek wood with a rivet on his jeans, but hey. Kyle was obviously not in any mood to scold him, not today. "Seriously Kyle, what's up?"

Kyle blinked, his eyes glued to his fingertips, his gaze pointedly averted. "I'm just tired. I couldn't get to sleep last night."

Kenny furrowed his brow slightly. "Dude, just stop with the bullshit. You didn't call me over here to tell me you were tired. You're not that needy. What the fuck's the matter with you?"

"I-I… I don't know." Kyle exhaled, curling himself up into a miserable ball, his knees pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped round his legs. Kenny just blinked at him; it was a fairly pathetic spectacle.

"What do you mean you don't know? How can you not know?"

"Stan was checking out some woman the other day."

Kenny just stared at him, completely nonplussed. "I'm sorry, but what?"

"When we were walking. He was ignoring me-"

"A lot of people ignore you. You squawk a lot about pointless shit sometimes. He'd go insane if he didn't ignore you. Anyone would."

Kyle glared at him, pressing on with his sentence. "He was ignoring me so he could gawk at some woman's ass! He was, like, totally leering at her. And not me."

"You're upset… Because Stan checked out some woman's ass? Because he wasn't leering at you?" Kyle nodded. Exhaling, Kenny just ran his hands across his face, still staring at him with the same, wide-eyed, blindsided expression. Still absolutely incredulous. "Seriously? Stan checked out a woman? This is seriously the biggest problem in your life right now?"

"Yeah."

Kenny blinked. He wondered if all middle-class problems were as retarded as this. "Oh, my God. I mean… I mean fuck Kyle! Stop behaving like such a little bitch!"

Kyle just glared at him for a moment, before sighing heavily, drooping dejectedly, completely wrapped up in his own world of misery. "You just don't get it. It's horrific. I'm horrific. It's no surprise Stan's gawking at every ass that wiggles by. Fuck, I'm surprised he hasn't dumped me yet."

"You do realise you're being ridiculous, right? Every day I pray he's the one that dies first, ya know?"

Kyle frowned. "That's a bit of an awful thing to say."

"I don't mean it maliciously. It's just that if you die first, he's going to be an absolute fucking wreck. I mean, fuck, he'll go all Grayfriars Bobby on us and refuse to leave your headstone. At least you'll be alright on your own. I mean, sure, you'll be sad, but you'll at least be sensible."

"You do realise I'm almost certainly going to die first, right? I'm diabetic, sickly, unhealthy, I have one functioning kidney, a kidney that once belonged to Cartman for fucks sake! Fuck, I've already fought though a plethora of serious diseases, who knows what's next? I'm just not built to last. Stan is. Longevity runs in the Marsh family; Christ, his grandpa lived to be like, a hundred and twenty! He had to practically chase death down before it took him! Stan isn't going to be felled off easily."

"Well if he lashes himself to your fucking gravestone, I'm not going to be the one who feeds him!"

"No! That's not fair! If I die first you have to promise me you'll feed him."

"Fuck off! I don't want to inherit your obligations!"

"Kenny!" Kyle whined it, all big eyed and disapproving. Kenny just sighed, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. Since he'd managed to usurp Eric from his life, Kyle had had to distribute his overreacting melodramatic tendencies elsewhere. He'd taken to taking everything else that bit too seriously. It was rather irritating.

"Alright, fine! I'll feed your fucking boyfriend for you! Jesus Christ Kyle, you'd better outlive him. Or at least have the decency to shoot him in the face when you feel the end is nigh."

"Thank you!"

Kenny just pulled a face, propping his elbows on his knees as he rubbed his forehead. After a minutes silence, he blinked, narrowing his eyes towards the window. It was a lovely day, and a lovely view. It was only an hours drive away, yet it was a completely different world to South-Park. There was a completely different world waiting for all those who'd managed to get out. "Are we really that old we're completely at ease contemplating our own mortality?"

Kyle shrugged, lounging back against the cushions. "Well I did just have near death experience. Those always make you contemplate things."

Kenny glowered at him. "Getting rear ended does not count as a near death experience. Fuck Kyle."

"Hey, people die on the road all the time Kenny. A little faster, a little to the left, a little closer, who knows what could have happened." Kyle frowned, shifting slightly. "Besides, my ribs really actually hurt."

Kenny shut his eyes, inhaling deeply. "I did tell you not to lie like that."

"Well, my arms hurt too!"

"You're milking it again."

"Shut up."

xxx

xxx

xxx

Blinking slightly, Kenny pulled a face. He wasn't quite sure what it was they were watching, he assumed it was supposed to be a documentary of some kind, but he couldn't be certain. Whatever it was, it was clearly aggravating Kyle. He was frowning at the TV, his arms crossed, his face set. Kyle always frowned at the TV. Kenny was never quite sure if it was because of what was on the TV, or if it was because he couldn't see the TV. He assumed it was the latter. Nevertheless, he'd be damned before he suggested Kyle book in an optician's appointment, before he uncanned that wriggling mass of worms. Suggesting the overly-wound redhead might be going myopic was Stan's job, not his.

Kenny sighed, leaning back against the plush green cushion, absently squinting at a flickering, ancient clip, some black and white short, a segment of film a panel of "experts" were supposedly discussing. Kyle could be pretty lousy company sometimes, especially when he was pissed off and self-absorbed. Granted, he could be great company sometimes, he could be brilliant and compassionate and clever and fun, when he was happy and healthy and everything was doolally wonderful, but it all depended. You took the good with the bad when it came to him. When it came to Stan, too. And himself, Kenny supposed. You take the good with the bad when it comes to everyone. You just have to hope, that in the end, the good outweighs the bad.

Kyle was sort of a housecat. Obviously independent, obviously a tad overindulged. He just sort of prowled about his territory, sleeping, working, eating, doing whatever the fuck he wanted, whenever the fuck he wanted. Yet Kenny knew that despite all these standoffish illusions, Kyle needed love. He thrived when cosseted, when loved and protected, when he felt safe and secure and wanted. He didn't do well on his own. He'd never done well on his own. Generally, he tended to do stupid things when left on his own.

Stan was a dog, Kenny thought. He was a pussy, but he was a dogish pussy. A pussy of a dog. A bitch, but not in the way Kyle was a bitch. A bitch in the way a neutered Labrador is a bitch. Stan was a routine, excitable, bounding. He was vocal about his affections, licking and nuzzling, all extroverted emotions, barking and happy and easy to please. Above all that though, Stan was loyal, fiercely, determinedly loyal; he protected Kyle, their life, their home, with a dangerous vigour. Even when Kyle acted stupid, even when Kyle had brought it upon himself, he still reacted. He still protected. When anything threatened Kyle, threatened their domesticity, their happiness, their stupid hipster townhouse, Stan would react.

He'd taken over from Mrs. Broflovski in that respect.

That's why it made no sense, not really. Stan wouldn't ogle at other people, for the simple reason he had no need to. He just didn't. He never had. Or at least, he'd never been caught before. Kyle was frowning again, but not at the TV this time. The adverts had come on, and he was ignoring them. Instead, he was frowning up at the ceiling, his head tilted back, his pale neck, his chin, his slightly pronounced Adams apple, making a rather appealing silhouette. He was obviously still brooding, obviously still winding himself up. Winding himself up over the Stan thing. The stupid Stan thing, the act that seemed so little, so insignificant, yet meant so much. So, so fucking much. A glance, a look. Kyle was turning himself inside out over a look.

Leaning back on the sofa, Kenny sighed. This is why Kyle shouldn't be given time off work, this is why he shouldn't be allowed to stay home alone. Without the challenge of… Well, without the challenge of whatever-the-fuck it was Kyle did for a living (no-one had ever figured out exactly what it was he did, Kenny tended to zone out the minute Kyle began to mention coding) he'd just work himself up over nothing. He'd always done it, he'd always obsessed over the littlest, stupidest issues. He never let anything go. He needed a distraction. He always needed a distraction.

Tiling his head towards Kyle, Kenny bit his lip. "Look, if this is really upsetting you, come running with me tomorrow. It'll make you feel better, what with all the endorphins and adrenaline and shit."

"Fuck that. Only douchebags go running."

Kenny Glowered at him, jerking his head back. "Well then, just spend all day curled up in your pathetic, fat-arsed little ball! Because that's not douchey at all!"

Kyle's face fell. "You think I'm fat?"

"I was being facetious."

"Oh God, you think I'm fat!"

"No, I don't!"

"You just called me fat!

"You're not fat." Kyle was glaring at him, clearly unimpressed. "You're not Kyle. I mean" Kenny cleared his throat delicately, running his hand through his hair "granted, you're not, like, skinny or anything, but I wouldn't ever call you fat, no. I mean, Cartman's fat, you're just, well," Kenny made an abstract, wavering hand gesture "sturdy."

"Oh, well, thanks! I'm "sturdy"! Because that makes me feel so much better!" Kyle couldn't have looked more hurt if Kenny had simultaneously condoned the Nazi regime, sympathised with Palestine, and announced he was joining Hezbollah. Kenny sighed. If this was the sort of shit Kyle was getting himself wound up over now, a reunion with Cartman was long, long overdue.