A/N: Another story written during a bout of insomnia! I had this idea in my head since my last oboe lesson, and I decided to put all of what I learned into a Style story! This fic's fluff rivals that of a cloud... *cough*. Enjoy :)

"Stanley Marsh go practice that oboe now!" yelled my mom for the third time, turning off my Guitar Hero game.

"Aw, Mom, I was about to beat that song!" I whined to her. She gave me a stern look and pointed a finger sharply at the staircase. I hate it when she does that when I'm in the middle of something. After stomping up to my room, I slammed my door shut.

I mumbled something unintelligent under my breath as I got my oboe case, stand, and music book out. I set up my oboe before taking a small one inch jar to the bathroom and filling it with warm water to soak my reed in.

"OK, let's start with the B flat scale," I said, to no one in particular once my reed was wet enough to play on. The small, double-reed French scrape wasn't my first choice, but it was cheaper than the others. I took it out and put it in my oboe.

I started with by playing a B flat note, or at least, I tried. Blowing through the reed, I used everything from changing my embouchure to re-soaking the reedi in hopes of some improvement in my sound. Nothing happened. I spent 10 minutes of pure frustration to get the damn thing to work.

The most sound I got out of it was an irritable squeak. I had only one option left:

I had to call Kyle.

If he hadn't chosen the oboe with me in the school band, I don't know what I'd do.

I picked up my cell and dialed his number.

A few rings later and he picked up. "Hey Stan, what's up?" asked Kyle.

"An uncooperative oboe is all. Can I come over?"

"Sure, my parents are eating out with Ike for his achievements or something. See you in 10?"

"OK. Bye." I hung up my cell and ran downstairs (oboe in hand, not a wise choice on my part). I told my mom where I'd be as I slipped on my shoes and hurried over to Kyle's house. I didn't bother bringing my book. Kyle had the same one.

I arrived at Kyle's front porch and rang the bell.

"Hey dude. Did you run with that thing this whole way?" he asked bewildered, seeing me out of breath with an expensive oboe in hand.

"Yeah. I can't make any sound."

"OK. Let's come into the living room." Kyle invited me into his house and lead me into the living room. He already had his oboe set up along with his music and stand. We sat down on the loveseat to begin practicing.

"Play the B flat scale in half-notes." he instructed me. I started on B flat (with a fair sound), and got all the way up to E flat before I couldn't make any more sound. I tried again with no more luck than last time.

Kyle asked to see my oboe to analyze it. He studied it for a few minutes, checking to make sure everything was OK. Next he took out my reed, handed it to me, and replaced it with his American scrape. He played the B flat scale perfectly.

"I think the only problem is your reed, Stan," he said, taking his reed back out and placing it in his water jar.

"Could I see your reed?" he asked, and I handed it over to him. He studied it before putting it in his mouth and crowing it. I gulped, childishly remembering back to elementary school when someone put their lips on something and another person did the same, it was considered kissing. I shouldn't feel so nervous. Kyle was my best friend. What's wrong with me?

He made no sound on my reed either, and tossed it in the trashcan to his right. I watched in horror; that was my last reed. Just as I was about to complain, Kyle got another reed out of his case and put it in his water jar on the coffee table next to him. A few minutes passed before he took the reed out, handing it to me.

"This is a Lesher reed, American scrape. I think they have better sounds than the French scrape. I already cut it, so give it a try." And then I tried the B flat scale. No sound.

"Support your sound with your diaphragm, from the bottom of your lungs, and take a deep breath through your mouth." Kyle said. I was amazed at the amount of patience he had with me.

I did as told, but had trouble since it's not often I breathed through my mouth.

"Here, stand up." I stood as he said, and he did the same. He took my oboe and his and gently laid them down, reeds not touching the couch.

Kyle got behind me and put an arm around my waist over my stomach; he was an inch shorter than me, making it a bit awkward. I tensed noticeably.

"Breath in like I told you. Just relax." How am I supposed to relax with him touching me, and the though of 'I could be gay' playing through my head?

A few minutes of the breathing exercises passed, and I began to get the hang of it. Kyle let go of my waist and I relaxed further.

"Hey, Kyle?" I asked, turning to face him.

"Yeah?"

I couldn't resist his soft, pink lips, emerald eyes, curly auburn hair trapped under his lime green ushanka. Grabbing his face with my hands, I placed my lips on his and kissed him. I opened my eyes a bit in surprise when he kissed back.

It didn't last long; he pulled back first after a few seconds, sort of aghast and confounded.

"Thanks for your help." I smiled at him.

He gave a small smile back, face flustered from the kiss. He stayed silent. I don't think he knew how to respond to that...

Feedback is appreciated!