The house was empty when Stan got home. Kenny's truck was blocking the entirety of the driveway, parked so badly it must have been intentional. A dick move. Stan rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath, pulling a face as he parked up on the street. It was either that, or cut across the corner of the front garden. And if Kyle caught him driving over the flowerbeds again, he'd throw a conniption. Avoiding that wrath was worth just tucking in the wing mirror and risking a ding in the door panel.

It always unnerved him when he came back to an empty house. Kyle finished work before him, long before him, and was always already fannying about when Stan got home. Stan would come in to find him lounging on the sofa, reading a book, making himself something to eat, preparing dinner, taking a nap, glaring at the TV, pretty doing whatever the fuck he wanted. Just existing. A warm body in a cold house. Some fluffy, belligerent, wriggling, complaining thing to look forward to coming home to. An angry ginger tomcat.

But not today. Today was just the cold house. Today he was out somewhere, with Kenny, doing something. Something stupid, probably. Something that might well end up getting him in trouble, or hurt, or in one of those outlandish, dangerous situations Kyle always seemed to find himself in. Usually due to his own kindness, his misplaced faith in humanity, his fucking stupid naïveté. Frowning slightly, Stan kicked off his shoes, hanging up is coat nearly on the hooks that lined the coat floor, before stomping heavily up the stairs. Knowing Kyle was safe at home and not, you know, throwing himself off buildings with cardboard wings or going into cardiac arrest or getting in car crashes or getting himself kidnapped by Apple or whatever, well, it had been sort of reassuring. It was pretty much the only benefit of his accident. As much as he might want to, Stan knew it would have been immoral (and impossible) to lash Kyle within the house, even of only for this week. But having him piss off somewhere with a barely sober redneck without even bothered to leave a note or any indication of where they were or when they'd be home was hardly encouraging. It was fairly selfish. And stupid. It was pretty typical of them both.

Exhaling, Stan pulled a disorganised wedge of paper out his briefcase, shaking off his suit jacket, sitting down on the ugly green sofa. He might as well try getting some more work done whilst it was quiet, whilst the house was empty. Hell, if he'd known Kyle was out, he'd have stayed later at the office.

It was nearly an hour before they came back. The sun was just beginning to set, casting hazy orange shadows across the street when Kenny bounded through the front door, bounded up the staircase, and bounded into the living room, leaving Kyle to wheeze up after him. Stan was still sitting on the forest green sofa, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, a frown marring his face. He was toying with a fairly garish gold pen (a graduation gift from his mother) with one hand, whilst clutching a sheet of paper in the other. He was glaring at the crinkled sheet and scribbled words as though they marked a sloppy invitation to his mother's funeral or something, his expression wholly unipressed, and just a little bit angry.

He glanced up at Kyle, frowned, glanced back down, froze, and did a double take.

"What in hells name are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm curing cancer! What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?"

"I honestly don't have a clue…" He narrowed his eyes. "Step aerobics?"

"No! I went for a fucking run!"

"Oh." Stan paused for a second, innocently fidgeting with his pen, absently clicking the top, clicking it in the way that Kyle always found painfully irritating. Kyle did not look a happy bunny. Kyle really, really, did not look a happy bunny. He was flushed and flustered, sweaty, and had an expression akin to a natural disaster. Stan innocently bit his lip. "Did you enjoy it?"

"I hated every fucking moment of it. I hate my life. I want to die."

"Awh, don't hyperbole. I'm sure it wasn't that bad. Besides, it's nice to see you actually got dressed for the first time in two days. Even if you are wearing…" Stan trailed off, gesturing meekly at the painfully mismatched clashing colours and patters that made up Kyle's makeshift running clothes. He wasn't quite sure what Kyle was wearing. He wasn't quite sure what Kyle had been attempting to wear. It looked to be a mixture of things dragged from the back of the closet, pyjamas, and old holiday clothes. A hideous, paint splattered t-shirt, a garish pair of (luridly neon) Bermuda shorts, teamed with the slightly too small track top he used to wear when he'd played basketball in collage. It really wasn't a pretty combination. Kyle blinked, glaring at him. Stan lowered his eyebrows, ignored him, narrowing his eyes at the faded handprints on Kyle's chest, his handprints, trying to remember what exactly it was they had painted such a hideous lilac.

After a while, he gave up, glancing up with a thin, wry smile. Kyle's painfully liberal attitude regarding fashion always amazed him. "You look lovely sweetheart."

Kyle pursed his lips, crossing his arms, squaring his stance. The challenging stance, the pissing contest stance. "Oh, blow me."

Stan smiled, properly this time, placing his sheet of paper face down on the tabletop, pulling himself to his feet as he reached out, causally netting Kyle, casually pulling him closer. Casually ignoring his protests. "Willingly darling."

"Shit Stan, don't! I'm all sweaty."

"Fuck Kyle, I've seen you sweaty before. I fucking like you sweaty. Sweaty generally means I've done a good job."

"I know, but-"

"Hush."

And Stan was kissing him, strong and wet, one hand guiding Kyle's head, furrowing its way into the sweaty, damp curls, the other pressed firmly against his back, gripping at the rutty old t-shirt, furrowing it's way under the hem. Kenny frowned, averting his gaze, absently warming down his calves. This really didn't seem like a relationship that was in trouble.

After a few minutes, Kyle pulled away, wiping his face with his sleeve. "I'm going to take a shower."

"But I'm enjoying myself."

"You can enjoy yourself after I've showered." Kyle rubbed his side, stepping back. "Start dinner, yeah? I'm fucking starving."

"Yes, your highness."

"Oh, shut up Stan! My ribs fucking hurt. Fuck running!"

With that Kyle exited, frowning into nothingness, undressing as he went. Petulantly discarding his running clothes in messy little piles on the staircase. Stan watched his half-nude ascent with a slight smile, causally leaning on the doorframe. Kenny just exhaled, glancing up, causally stretching out his arms. He hadn't bothered to change into a hideous running outfit, he'd just worn his clothes. Everything he owned was pretty worn down anyway, so it's not like it actually mattered what he chose to sweat in. He supposed Kyle would have leant him a spare t-shirt if he'd asked, hell, he could have lent him some shorts and trainers too. However, after seeing Kyle's horrendous getup, Kenny had decided against asking.

He'd taken off his coat though. He'd left it abandoned conspicuously in Stan and Kyle's kitchen, spread out across their shiny, clean counter. A further coat-y little protest of their stupid pointless coat floor. Their superfluous coat floor.

The shower started humming. Stan sighed, turning away from the doorway, sitting back on the couch, scooping the mound of papers off the coffee table, the sheet music, the notes, the letters, ramming them unceremoniously into his briefcase. Kenny quirked his lip, absently sitting down next to him. Knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder. Kenny in a sweaty, worn out pair of jeans, a faded t-shirt, his falling apart pair of shoes. Stan in his immaculate slate shirt, sleeves rolled up, top button undone, oh so causally. Stan in his tailored, pinstriped trousers, his neat, argyle tie. His shiny, silver tie clip. Kenny bit his lip, looking away. Two separate worlds. Two separate lives. A universe apart.

Still, he hadn't expected it to be much fun, running with Kyle. He'd imagined the whole affair would have been a bit like forcefully dragging a donkey down the road. But it'd ended up having its perks. Sure, Kyle whined like a bitch from start to finish, sure, he dragged his feet and complained, all hurry up and wait, but during the times they had run, Kenny had found himself really going for it, really sprinting as he tried to put as much distance between him and Kyle as possible. As he tried to make it look like they weren't together. He'd decided he'd rather strangers think he was some thief fleeing a crime then think he actually knew the hideously dressed Richard Simmons interpreter bounding along behind him.

Stan frowned, casually picking at his fingernails. "I'm amazed you got him to go for a run. I can barely drag him out for a walk. He hisses like an agoraphobic cat every time I try."

"I think he's suffering from cabin fever. I could have suggested we go jump of a bridge and he'd have gone along with it."

Stan pulled a face, chewing the inside of his cheek. He knew Kyle was miserable left home alone, no car, no company. No company except Kenny, that was. Stan wasn't sure if Kenny really counted as valid company. He was pretty sure Kenny just made things worse. "I know. But hey, he'll be back at work soon. He'll be back ranting about clients and HTML and a whole load of other shit I don't understand before you know it. Before I know it. He should just enjoy it. Enjoy his paid vacation. I know I would."

"Yeah, well you're not wound tighter then a two dollar Rolex." Kenny exhaled loudly. "Kyle finds it hard to enjoy things other people make him do, no matter how nice. If it's not done under his own volition, he won't enjoy it. Hell, even if it is done under his own volition, chances are he still won't enjoy it. You should have heard him complain today. He's just like his fucking mother, you know?"

Stan shuddered, turning his face away. He never liked it when people compared Kyle to his mother. Partly because Kyle was nowhere near that batshit insane, not yet anyway, partly because Kyle's hair was nowhere near that monstrous. Partly because Kyle wasn't a fucking woman. But mostly because he didn't like to be reminded of their similarities. Shrill, complaining, short. Same nose. Same temperament. Some things just hit that bit too close for comfort. The last think Stan wanted to see when he looked at the person he was fucking was a shadow of Mrs. Broflovski.

"Thanks for that, yeah. But hey, you know him. Happiness in misery, all that jazz."

Kenny frowned; "I thought it was 'misery loves complany?'"

Stan just shrugged, casually smoothing out a crease in his trousers. Kenny sighed, leaning back on the sofa, his mildly sweaty back pressing against the green upholstery. Kyle was acting miserable lately. Very miserable. He'd been complaining, more then usual. Kyle had been complaining about Stan. Kyle had been worrying about Stan. Kyle had been worrying about the whole Stan thing. Kyle complained when he was worried. Kyle was miserable when he worried.

Miserable Kyle made pretty lousy company.

"Hey, Stan, do you ever wank off to other people?"

"You're such a classy conversationalist Kenny. I really don't understand why you're not invited to more dinner parties. Why, you're a modern day Dorothy Parker."

"I'm serious dude. Do you?"

Stan lent forward. He was frowning, absently running his fingers across a gouge in the coffee table. A gouge Kenny was pretty damn certain he'd caused. Not that he was about to admit to it, of course. "I'm not going to lie, I mean, I've tried."

"You've tried? What the fuck do you mean you've tired? How the fuck do you try?"

"I've… I've tried. But my mind just sort of wanders, and I end up thinking about stupid things, unsexy things, about what I need to pick up from the shops, about what I'm going to make for dinner, about deadlines and obligations and birthdays and errands. About work. About anything and everything. And I always end up thinking of Kyle, and once I've thought about Kyle, I just keep on thinking about Kyle, and the whole thing's rendered redundant. What's the point of cumming to thoughts of Kyle when I can just wait for him to stop pouncing about and cum in Kyle."

Kenny was narrowing his eyes at him. "Seriously? You have time to plan your grocery shop and work schedule whilst masturbating? Christ, how long does it fucking take you?"

"I dunno, I don't time it. It depends, you know?"

Kenny just shook his head, pulling a face. "Christ. Kyle was right about your fucking stamina."

"Bad choice of curses there. Slightly too literal." The hum of the shower had stopped. Stan was standing up, absently brushing the creases out of his trousers. He needed to start dinner.

Kenny quirked his eyebrow. "No, that was intentional."

"Of course it was. Witty. Are you staying for dinner?"

"No. I've got to get back. I'm due at work in a couple of hours."

"Suit yourself."