By the time Stan got home, Kenny was long gone, and Kyle was lying on his stomach, fast asleep, half-curled up into an awkward ballish shape on the sofa. The mixture of forest green upholstery, quickly fading sunlight, pale skin and wiry, frizzy red hair was vaguely pre-Raphaelite, in a bastardised, pseudo sort of way. Stan couldn't help but smile. He was just glad to be home. It'd been a long day. A bitch of a day. A bitch of a week, really.

Discarding his briefcase by the doorway, Stan perched down on one of the armrests, frowning absently as he fidgeted with his suit, glancing down at the curled up Kyle on the seat cushions next to him. Stan'd always found there was something immensely reassuring in watching Kyle sleep. Something immensely familiar. The faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his ribs brushed against his cotton lounge shirt, up, down, inhale and exhale, the slight snoring noises he made, the way he was drooling unapologetically on a scatter cushion, it was all so familiar. Stan found everything about Kyle so, so familiar.

Reaching down, he lightly traced a faint, pale scar that marked Kyle's eyebrow. A familiar scar, a familiar mark. He knew them all. He'd traced them all. Kyle was mapped with scars, scars from a kidney transplant, chickenpox scars, scars from Carpel tunnel release surgery, scars from fights, scars from experimental Apple procedures. Scars from everything. Life hadn't played fair with him, that much Stan knew. But then, life had really played fair with anyone Stan knew. Life just didn't believe in fair play. Neither did Cartman.

Stan sighed, gently brushing his fingertips across Kyle's cheek. He felt like he should have done something, brought something. Made a romantic gesture. Gifts, sugar-free chocolate. A card. A card with a poem, a card with a list. He wasn't quite sure what someone was supposed to do when their partner had been in a car accident. He probably still had time to compose a poem before Kyle woke up, but he doubted Kyle would appreciate it. Kyle had always been somewhat cynical when it came to Stan's lyrical. Still, maybe he should have taken the day off, stayed home, nursed him. Sat with him, amused him. His boss would have killed him though. His boss would have fired him

He could write a list. He could write the list. There seemed to be some ingrained relationship obligation to list the one hundred reasons you love your partner, to write all these stupid familiarities down. So far, Stan had made a pointed effort to avoid this cliché, carefully steering Kyle away from the idea any time it threatened to make an appearance. It wasn't that he couldn't do it. He could quite easily list a hundred reasons he loved Kyle, hell, he could probably list a thousand reasons he loved Kyle. They just weren't the sort of reasons Kyle would appreciate. He loved the sort of things Kyle did but tried to pretend he didn't, like how he frowned at the TV, like how he snorted in his sleep. Like the way he stood when he was pissed, legs squared, hips thrust forward, like he was about to challenge you to a pissing competition, or a duel, or a dance-off, or some equally pointless combination of all three he would undoubtedly loose anyway. He loved how angry Kyle got, how easy it was to wind him up, the way he sulked like a menstruating pre-teen when he didn't get what he wanted. He loved how moral he was, how pompous he could act, how even though he did stupid things sometimes, he was never cruel. There was nothing cruel about Kyle. Stupid, yes, but never malicious.

And as much as it scared him, the volatile, violent aspect of their relationship, he loved the fact that if he ever told Kyle any of this, ever wrote him this list, the real list rather then the stupid overused clichés everyone usually used, Kyle would, most probably, knee him square in the crotch. Because that's just what Kyle did. It's just the way he was.

Stan just frowned, thinking to himself, absently toying with a stand of Kyle's hair, gently straightening out the kinks, pulling it smooth, before letting it bounce back, curl back up, rejoin its wiry companions. They'd never really done any of that clichéd, coupley shit. Sure, they brought each other cards and gifts, they had their sickly romantic moments, their weekends away, their expensive dinners out. San Francisco, all that jazz. But it was proportionally more organic humping and quick dark corner fumbles, more sex against public bathroom walls and sneaking off to hidden places and unlocked store cupboards then it was rose petals and candles, champagne and silk. Sex with Kyle was already an event enough; Stan really didn't think it needed decorating.

After a few minutes, Kyle woke up, shifting slightly, inadvertently pulling his hair out of Stan's fingers. Stan just blinked, watching him murmur to himself, watching him blink the sleep out his eyes.

"Dude," Kyle was still blinking, still thick with sleep. He lifted his head off the scatter cushion, leaving behind a neat little patch of drool, sliver and still damp. "You're really late."

"I know. I'm sorry. Busy day."

"Again?"

"Again."

Kyle groaned, pulling himself upright, kneeling on the couch, readjusting his t-shirt. Pulling it down. It had ridden up in his sleep, casually exposing a few inches of hip and stomach. Stan bit his lip. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really." Kyle blinked, rubbing his ribs, frowning slightly. He was aching slightly, the bruises where his seatbelt had been, his lower ribs. Perhaps he shouldn't have been lying like that. Perhaps Kenny had been right. "I think I've been asleep too long."

"You should have just stayed in bed. You should be resting anyway."

"Kenny came over. We watched TV."

"Sounds fun."

"It really wasn't. There are too many idiots on TV. And Kenny's a dick."

"At least you kept yourself amused."

Kyle made some noncommittal, throaty sound, stretching a kink out of his shoulder. Smiling slightly, Stan shifted off the couches arm, shifting onto the seat next to Kyle, the seat he'd just been curled up in. It was still warm, the mix of human heat and dying sunlight.

"My mom called. I didn't tell her about the accident. I didn't want to worry her. It's their 30th wedding anniversary next week. They're having a party. We have to go."

Pulling a face, Stan looked away. "Why? Can't we just send them some flowers or something? A nice bottle of champagne and a box of chocolates?"

"No! Dude, just buck up and come with. Thirty years is a long time you know. It's not something to be sniffed at."

"We'll last longer."

"We will?"

"Yup, we will. We'll last fifty. We'll a hundred."

Kyle sighed sadly, dropping his gaze. "Will we? Will you still love me when I'm old and bald and wrinkly?"

Stan frowned, pressing a kiss against the side of Kyle's head. "Why bald?"

"My dad's bald. Knowing my luck, I bald too."

"I doubt it." Stan slipped his fingers into the unkempt mess of twists and curls, gently gripping a wiry fistful, gently pulling, gently tugging Kyle's head back. Kyle made a choked, protesting mewl, trying to pull away, but Stan just smiled. "You've inherited your mother's puff. I really don't think it's going anywhere."

"Well whatever. Will you still love me when I'm old and wrinkly and puffy then?"

"I'll adore you when you're old and wrinkly and puffy Ky. I just can't wait until you start going grey; you'll look like a fucking Q-tip! Or that creepy colourless cotton candy. Or Doctor Emmett Brown or something. It'll be hilarious!"

"I hate you."

Stan's lip quirked. "Except you don't."

"No" Kyle stretched slightly, resting an elbow on Stan's shoulder, "I don't."

Smiling gently, Stan laced an arm round Kyle's hips, rucking up the heavy cotton that covered them. The plaid lounge trousers he was wearing had a thick, navy drawstring around the waist, a flat, woven ribbon. Stan found there was something immensely pleasing about that drawstring, but he wasn't quite sure what. It just made him happy. He just liked it.

Sighing sadly, Kyle slipped his arms round Stan's neck, relaxing against him. Chest to chest, Kyle was sort of half sitting on Stan's lap, half kneeling on the couch. It was a slightly awkward, but pleasing, none the less. Grinning against him, Stan pressed a kiss against his shoulder, looping his own arms round Kyle's back.

"You're so adorable when you're tired, you know?"

Kyle just sighed, shutting his eyes shifting slightly, relaxing against Stan. Relaxing into him. The warmth, the weight, the shapes he made, the lines and curves, the friction, the way he was shifting, the way he smelled of soap and cleanness and sweat and human and laundry detergent and Kyle. It was exciting. Kyle was always exciting.

Slightly too exiting, sometimes. Stan shifted, pulling back slightly. "Sorry."

"Stan, I've woken up with your dick jammed against my arse nearly every day for the past ten years. I'm pretty fucking used to it now."

"Well it's not my fault my dick has a homing instinct. He just knows where he wants to be."

"What? So it's just force of habit now? I'm just your worn-out old dick-warmer or something?"

"Trust me Ky, there's nothing remotely worn-out about you."

"Well that's reassuring."

Stan just smiled, driving his face against Kyle's chest.

A/N – Pointless chapter is completely pointless. And ohgod, I think my Uni is trying to kill me. So much work.