"I cannot believe you're making me do this."

"Just shut up and drive!"

Kenny pursed his lips angrily, glaring out the windshield, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. Kyle was sitting next to him, a trench coat haphazardly pulled across his chest, his arms crossed, his face plucked and flushed. Kenny frowned. He looked like a bitch on her period. All those times Cartman had said it, he was finally beginning to get what he'd meant. Kyle actually just was a bitch on her period, he was perpetually PMSing. Kenny blinked. He wasn't quite sure how Stan could stand it really. If it turned out his flippant comment had been right, and Stan actually was having an affair, Kenny really wouldn't blame him.

"You're being an idiot, you know?"

"I don't care. Just drive!"

"You should at least have gotten dressed! Fuck, they call me white trash! You're the one who can't even be arsed to get dressed, who's always running about in your fucking pyjamas, you're the one forcing me to drive you to your boyfriends work place so you can scream him out. You're the one behaving like a fucking Maury Povich contestant! Jesus Christ Kyle, I mean, what the fuck?"

"Yeah? Well fuck you! I can't be white trash."

"Oh, why?"

"Because I'm Jewish! Only goys can be white trash."

Kenny blinked, taking his eyes off the road long enough to give Kyle an incredulous look. "Since when?"

"Since forever! Since shut the fuck up and keep your eyes on the fucking road! Christ, I've already been in one accident this week, I don't need you getting me into another!"

"Oh my God, if you don't calm the fuck down and chill the fuck out, someone is going to stab you!"

Kyle gripped the dashboard. "Shut the fuck up and pull over!"

Cursing violently, Kenny skidded to the curve, accidentally catching the wing mirror of a parked car, accidently nearly tearing it off the door. Kenny blinked. The mirror was still attached, just bent, and scratched. Not that it mattered really, he had no intention of leaving his contact details regardless. Kyle didn't even wait for him to turn off the engine, the second the truck came to a stop, he'd yanked off his seatbelt and wrenched open the door. He was halfway across the street before Kenny had time to register what had just happened. Glaring slightly, he wound down his window, craning his head out into the night.

"You'd better hope Stan's not having an affair, because I'm sure as fuck not driving your crazy ass home!"

Kyle didn't bother to respond. He simply raised his middle finger over his shoulder, an angry salute. He didn't even look back as he stormed across the street, heading towards the sliding glass doors.

You couldn't really call Stan's office building "nice". It was imposing, it was officeish, it was corporate, yeah, but it wasn't pretty. It was simply some Meisian glass box, a Meisian glass box surrounded by other Meisian glass boxes, lost in a maze of glass boxes, generic and cliché, cold and unwelcoming. Concrete and glass. There Stan's tiny little backroom office was, windowless and airless, plonked right down in the middle of the business districted, hidden away in a labyrinthine of outdated corridors, camouflaged amidst a glass forest. A glass forest amidst a financial crisis. It usually made Kyle slightly sad, the knowledge that Stan worked here. His own office building was distinctly postmodern, quirky and ironic, a sense of fun amongst the money and worry. All Stan had was seriousness, glass and concrete, money and worry.

Still, Kyle wasn't really in the mood to compare architecture, nor was he particularly empathetic, not today. He was angry, well, no, he wasn't so much angry as he was scared. He was sort of terrified really. But he didn't like being terrified. Being terrified made him angry. He was angry that he was scared, he was scared that Stan wouldn't be there, he wouldn't be in his stupid Meisian office block, shut away in his shit little office. He was scared Stan was somewhere else, somewhere seedy, somewhere with a bed and dimmed lights. Somewhere he shouldn't be, with someone who wasn't Kyle.

He was scared Stan would be there, doing something obscene, vulgar and wonderful, something he should only be doing to Kyle. He was scared Stan would be locked away in his office, or locked away in someone else's office, locked away with someone nubile and new, someone not Kyle.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Kyle stormed across the lobby towards the elevator, a gesture rendered somewhat pathetic when preformed in slippers, pyjamas and a flapping trench coat. Slippers didn't really make storming worthy stomps, they weren't imposing in any way really. They just sort of flapped along softly. It was all pretty depressing really. The whole scenario was pathetic.

Luckily, objectively, at least, (Kyle was too angry to care how ridiculous he looked or who saw him), the office block was pretty much deserted. Some lone janitor who didn't give a damn was pushing a buffer across the marble lobby floor, head bowed, mind elsewhere. Throughout the office block, a few lights were still humming, a few late night stragglers still working. A few pathetically keen receptionists still tapping away, adding up, transcribing. On the way up to Stan's office, Kyle passed a flustered young woman clutching a stack of papers to her chest. She glared at him, belligerent and exhausted, but she didn't say anything to him. No one dared say anything to him.

Kyle turned a corner, storming past a cleaning lady, a young woman pushing a hover across the carpet. He knew the way to Stan's office, he knew the pathway like the back of his hand. When Stan had first got it, Kyle used to drive down during his lunch hour, they used to meet up for twenty minutes. They used to have a sandwich together, shut away amongst Stan's filing cabinets, shut away in the awful 80's decor. They used to share a snack, or kiss, or frot, or shag shamelessly and silently on the desk, on his stupid ergonomic chair, against the wall. The door. They'd stopped doing that years ago, back when Stan had begun to get paranoid, paranoid that his cramped little office space was beginning to smell perpetually of sex.

Reaching Stan's door, Kyle didn't bother to knock. He just put his weight behind it, forcing it open, causing it to ricochet against its hinges. He wanted his entrance to be intimidating, dramatic. Just in case Stan really was doing something he wasn't supposed to with someone younger and prettier then him.

"Stanley!"

"Jesus, Kyle! What are you doing here? Are-are you okay?" Behind his desk, Stan was startled, staggering to his feet, tripping over his chair. Accidently pulling little mounts papers off his desk, scattering them across the floor. Stan's elderly, Meisian boss on the other hand, remained seated. He turned around in his chair, catching a single sheet of A4, glaring at Kyle with a look that seemed half shock, and half loating.

"Hello Mr. Browmousey."

Kyle just blinked, taking a step back. "Broflovski."

"Right, yes. What are you doing here?"

Kyle swallowed, biting his lip. He'd had never managed to make a particularly good impression when it came to Stan's boss, not really. Not at all. It had all stemmed from their first meeting, a meeting that saw Stan suddenly pull an unwilling Mr. Shenner from a crowd of suited and booted higher-ups, only to be presented with Kyle. Kyle, who had chosen that moment in time to ram one too many vol-au-vents into his mouth, had, inadvertently, just gagged himself with pastry. What followed had been an awkward silence that saw Mr. Shenner stare and a struggling, choking Kyle, who was looking back at his boyfriend's boss with vaguely ashamed eyes. Stan had remained oblivious to this awkwardness, he just stood there, beaming at Kyle with a pathetic kind of worship.

At that moment, whilst watching the wide-eyed redhead suffocate himself with the entrées, Mr. Sheener had decided that Stan's persistent infatuation with the wholly unimpressive entity that was Kyle was probably one of those things he was getting a little too old to understand.

Stan cleared his throat, stepping round his desk. "Sorry, he's… it's-it's my fault. We… We... We had dinner plans. I-I completely forgot."

Kyle just crossed his arms, discreetly pulling his coat shut, trying to hide his ratty lounge shirt.

Mr. Sheener raised his eyebrows. "You had dinner plans?"

"Yep, dinner plans. Completely forgot. I'm sorry. Ky, just-just go get yourself a cup of coffee, yeah? We'll… We'll be done in a minute."

Kyle blinked. "Alight."

Kyle just prayed his coat was covering his pyjamas. Stan just prayed Mr. Sheener didn't notice the slippers. Nether of them realised they didn't actually have anything to worry about. Kyle had always struck Mr. Sheener as the sort of guy who'd contemptuously wear plaid trousers to dinner.

Kyle didn't go to get a cup of coffee. He didn't want one. And he had no idea where the kitchen was. It'd been so long since he was last here, last in that kitchen, he'd forgotten the finer details of the layout. Instead, he'd just walked round a random corner, and awkwardly leaned against a random wall. He still held his coat shut discreetly across his chest, the cleaning lady still was pushing the vacuum cleaner across the carpet, and he was still flushing. He was embarrassed, wholly and absolutely embarrassed. It was pretty clear Stan wasn't doing anything he shouldn't be, he was just at work. Having a meeting. With his very heterosexual, very intimidating boss. Just like he'd told Kyle he would be.

After ten, awkward, embarrassing minutes, Kyle heard voices, and a door opening. Padding back down the corridor, he peered round the corner. Stan was waiting for him, framed by the doorway, his arms crossed across his shirt. Mr. Sheener was disappearing down the corridor, walking away in the opposite direction, muttering something under his breath.

Stan beckoned him over, disappearing back into his office. Kyle meekly padded in after him, his head dipped, shutting the door behind him.

"Seriously, what are you doing here?"

Kyle blinked, flushing slightly. "I just… I… Kenny said something stupid, and I sort of thought…" He trailed off weakly, staring up at Stan with a vaguely bug-eyed expression. He really didn't want to admit what he'd been mentally accusing Stan of doing. Now he was standing here, in the middle of Stan's shithole of an office, which smelt, Kyle thought, sort of peculiar, now he was standing in the middle of a nearly deserted building, he realised that no, no Stan wasn't cheating on him. Stan was honest and kind, Stan was decent and loyal, and Stan would, most likely, be very offended, maybe even mortally wounded, if he knew what Kyle had been thinking. Accusing. So Kyle just blinked up at him, still staring, still bug-eyed. He sort of hoped that if he just kept gaping and staring, Stan might think he was still concussed from the accident, or that he was sleepwalking, or delusional, or something. Something that left him not in control of his faculties, and hence, unblameable for his actions. Something that would explain away his rude intrusion. Something that Stan would take pity on him for, drive him home for, put him to bed for. Cuddle him for. Kiss him. Forget all about this awkwardness. This stupidity. His stupidity.

Stan frowned. "You thought what?"

"I dunno. I thought… I thought… I thought I'd come and see you."

"You thought... You thought you'd come to see me?"

"Yeah. Just… Just see you. See how you were doing, you know?"

Stan's frown deepened. Kyle didn't look particularly well. He was sporting the odd combination of bug-eyed staring, flushed and pallid. Quite frankly, it looked like he was a few minutes away from passing out. "Are you alright?

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You look hypoglycaemic or something. Do you need something to eat?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Look, just, just sit down. I'll go get you a cookie."

"Seriously, I'm fine."

"Just sit."

A/N – Apologies apologies for the delay, I had an essay essay to write for Uni. Still, thank you thank you for reading reading, hope you're enjoying it so far, and an uber super duper thank you thank you for reviewing, is awesome and lovely and thank you so muches. Loves loves.