Kenny sighed, absently poking a fork into his tub of noodles, shutting his eyes against yet another setting sun. Yet another invasion of deep, orange light. He was getting pretty sick of this. He was getting pretty sick of Stan and Kyle's tall little house, of their nice little appliances and hideous soft furnishing, he was getting pretty sick of their pointless fucking coat floor, their perfect fucking life. He was getting pretty sick of Stan working late, of being called over to keep Kyle company. He was getting pretty sick of Kyle. He was sick of playing babysitter, day after day, having to drive the sixty miles to Denver, having to spend the day watching Kyle wallow in his self-satisfied sofa-nest of duvets and blankets and cushions and Chinese food and motherfucking misery. It was getting to the point where he was seriously wondering if spending the day at home with Powder, if having to listen to her talk about baby names and scan dates and telling the family, if having to sit there and worry about money and work and Medicare, if all that shit would actually be less depressing then this. Maybe he was avoiding the wrong one. At least his wife usually let him fuck her at the end of their arguments; with Kyle all he got was belligerence and glaring.

Kyle swallowed a mouthful of rice, spitting out a yet another self-righteous, barbed insult to the man on the History Channel, glaring furiously at the TV. Kenny shut his eyes, pained and slow. He wondered how angry Stan would be of he just smothered him, just pinned him down with a cushion and made him shut-up. Kenny thought it'd be justified. The courts might even side with him. But Stan probably wouldn't. He'd probably get all upset or something. He'd probably refuse to ever talk to Kenny again. But then he was stupidly attached to his irate fucking moggy.

Kyle called the presenters mother a syphilitic whore, and Kenny stabbed his dinner.

"Fuck Kyle, when do you actually fucking work?"

Kyle pursed his lips, glaring across the room, glaring at Kenny. Two shining, angry eyes, partially hidden amidst a mass of wiry ginger hair and patterned, somewhat frou-frou blankets. It'd be funny if it wasn't so fucking terrifying. "I could ask you the same question!"

"I work nights. I've always worked nights. I told you that. You know that! Holy fuck, do you ever actually listen to me?"

"Yeah? Well I'm off sick! You know that!"

"I know. But being off sick doesn't mean you have to…" Kenny trailed off, not quite sure how to put whatever the fuck it was Kyle was doing into words. Regress into teenage-hood would probably be the closest thing, but he couldn't ever remember Kyle acting like this much of a whiney bitch during his teenage years. He was far more hardy back then. Probably because of Cartman or whatever. "You could, always, you know…" Kenny hesitated for a moment, gazing across the messy room, wondering if the words about to leave his lips were really, really brave, or really, really stupid. "Do some housework or something."

"I am not the fucking maid!"

"I know you're not, I know you're not. But at least you'd be doing something productive. Christ, this whole mopey, depressing, love affair you've got going on with that hideous fucking sofa ain't cute dude. You should really be doing something!"

"I am not the fucking maid!"

"Fine! Well, then let's go for another run or something. Finish up eating, put on that… That delightful little outfit of yours, and we'll go for a nice sunset jog around the block."

"Fuck no! I've already gone on one of your stupid runs, you're not tricking me into a second! I'd rather watch TV then go though that fresh hell again!"

"Well, what about work. Don't you have anything you need to catch up on? Surely you must have some paperwork or coding or Tetris or fucking something?"

"No! I'll do it when I go back."

"And when are you going back?"

"Next week or something, I dunno."

"How can you not know?"

Kyle shrugged petulantly, glaring at his dinner. "I don't want to go back."

"Why? I thought… I thought that's what you fucking wanted! I thought you were angry they'd made you stay off!"

Kyle hesitated. He was angry at his office. He was angry that they'd made him stay home. He was angry that they'd not been calling him in. He was angry that they apparently didn't need him. He angry no-one seemed to need him. "They got rid of all the chairs. They make me sit on this stupid hoppity hop thing now. Apparently they're supposed to be good for your posture. Apparently it's supposed to make the company look all cool or whatever. I hate it. I keep nearly sliding off the fucking thing. It's hard to fucking type when you're trying to balance on a fucking ball."

Kenny shrugged. "So what? Just pretend like you can't because of the accident or something. Trust me, they ain't gonna argue with you."

"They might."

"They won't. Nobody argues with you."

Kyle blinked. "Stan argues with me."

"Stan doesn't argue with you. Stan bickers with you. Stan sits there blinking whilst you argue with him."

"Stan argues with me."

"Oh, not this shit again. You're being a retard."

"Oh, how come?"

Biting his lip, Kenny pulled open his pork, balancing the box on his knee. "Your relationship is fine. Yeah, you bicker and snap occasionally, but it's not like you ever fight seriously. It's fucking easy for you two."

"For God's sake, it's never been easy Kenny! How can you say that?"

"Oh, come on! It's always been easy for you!"

"No, it hasn't! Remember what happened in collage?"

"I didn't go to collage titface!"

"I mean what happened to me and Stan in collage! We're not talking about you, okay?"

Kenny rolled his eyes. They never talked about him. "You mean how fannied about reading some books or how you fucked a lot and broke a bed?"

"I mean the drinking thing Ken. Remember the drinking thing." Kyle's voice cracked, so he rammed a forkful of rice in his mouth to cover the waver. It was a valiant attempt, but wholly ineffective. "Fuck, dude, I nearly lost him."

Sighing, Kenny toyed with his food, pushing it around the box. "I know Ky. And he knows. Everybody knows. But dude, this isn't like that. That was serious, really serious. This, this you're just dramatising. You're overreacting."

"How am I overreacting?"

"It's a bit fucking much comparing Stan's genetic tendency towards alcoholism to a one time leering incident. He checked out one woman's ass; he's not hording bottles of whiskey Kyle."

"It wasn't just a one time thing, okay? He's done it a few times. He doesn't even try to hide it Kenny!" Kyle just sighed, jamming his fork into his rice, spearing a piece of chicken. "It just, it feels like I'm loosing him. I really fucking hate it!"

"Look Kyle, I'm sorry, I'm sorry Stan isn't giving you his attention twenty-four seven, I'm sorry he's aware other people exist, I'm sorry he's not oblivious to them, I'm sorry you feel the need to throw a conniption and commit hikikomori, I really am. But you're getting yourself worked up for no fucking reason. This really isn't comparable to the drinking thing."

"I know, I know it's not like that, like what happened in collage or whatever. I know it's not, like, really all that bad or anything. I'm…" Kyle sighed, leaning back, leaning against the armrest. The presenter on the History Channel introduced a flickering, black and white film clip; the flashing, jerky images illuminated the room in a jarring light. "I'm just getting tired of it, I guess. Tired of it all. Tired of this all."

"Kyle, everybody leers at people sometimes. Fuck, I leer at people all the time. It's not like it means anything, it means nothing. I leer at you sometimes. I leer at Stan too, sometimes. I leer at that chick who answers the phone at work constantly. She has, like, massive tits. None of it means anything though! At the end of the day, I always go home to my wife! I'll always, always go home to my wife!"

"No, no, Ken, it's not just the leering. There's also the whole working late thing too. I mean, he's always working late. Always coming home hours after he's supposed to, always coming home exhausted, always running off to answer his phone during dinner, when we're talking, even at night, he's always fucking busy! I mean, I know people get busy, but he's always busy. He's been "always busy" before, but he also always used to make time for me too! Now he won't even pay attention to me when there's a better ass is wiggling by."

Kenny snorted into his noodles, spearing a few strips of pork with his fork. "Dude, when you say it like that, you just make it sound like he's having an affair."

Kyle froze, his mouth full of rice. "What?"

"Come on? Staying out late, secret phone calls, tired and distant? Dude, that's the cliché romance-affair plot down to a tee!" For a moment Kenny obliviously kept on chewing. Then Kyle beamed him with the remote.

"Fucking ouch, you dick!"

"Drive me to Stan's office!"

"What?"

"Fucking drive me to Stan's office!"

"Oh, Kyle, no. No. I was just joking. Don't be stupid."

"Ken, just drive me to Stan's office!"

"No! You're being retarded."

"I don't care." Kyle fought his way out of his nest, pulled himself to his feet, squaring his stance. The pissing contest stance. Kenny just groaned, rolling his eyes. Kyle didn't look threatening, not when his hair was all fluffy, not when he was still in his pyjamas. Not when he was still clutching a tub of rice with a two-handed, vaguely childlike grip. "Kenny, just drive me to Stan's fucking office!"

"Fuck Kyle, don't you at least want to get dressed or-"

"No! Shut the fuck up and drive me to Stan's office now!"

"Damn, has anyone ever told you want a demanding little bitch you are?"

"Yes actually, now get in your fucking truck and drive me to Stan's fucking office!"