One wouldn't think that sifting through a closetful of monochromatic outfits would be such a test of endurance, but Kyle is twenty minutes in and utterly exhausted already.

All he wants is a damn sweater, but even that seems to be the impossible task for him to accomplish. His mind has been racing for hours, only vague recollections of Stan's "advice" have seemed to linger in the slightest. Something about Token liking sports, a no-go for Kyle. The mere idea of being trapped in an array of jewel-toned jerseys and neon foam fingers amongst the roar of a stadium of people sends a tortured spike of phantom pain through his temple. Stan mentioned Token's affinity for boating of all things, apparently a cherished childhood memory of his from his family's time spent at their lake house. Kyle's never even seen a damn lake outside of pictures he was forced to endure during his damn environmental science class in college, let alone let his own feet sift through the gentle wind-swept tides and array of snapping turtles.

Of course, the one thing Stan was so adamant about stands out in Kyle's frazzled mind: "Just be yourself."

Kyle scoffs, biting his cheek as his eyes sweep over the dark midnight blue of his shoddily-painted closet door, greeted with the calming purr of a running engine and allowing himself to take a long, composing breath. Being himself would be a disaster in and of itself. No, he has to be so much better than himself, like he always has to be in public. No whining, hold back the flinching, keep up a damn conversation to the best of his ability. He just has to find what he can focus on and hunker down with it, just has to pray that they're going somewhere that isn't lit like a family diner, that the tables or the plates or something carries consistency in their hue. Even if it's an obnoxious color, something that really presses against him, it's still only one thing to have to focus on sans Token's voice.

He pauses, shoulders sinking. That carries its own problems.

After all, this is a date. He's supposed to maintain eye contact, have an unwavering attention focused on whatever the hell pours from between Token's lips. Kyle gulps, a mental flash of that moss creeping along and he groans aloud, letting it become engulfed in mauve.

"Goddammit, Broflovski, come on," he chides himself, finally forcing himself to settle on a deep gray sweater and throwing it on over his work shirt. The clanging of plastic hangers sends gentle pelts of iris towards him, dissolving like neon snowflakes with each flutter of his lashes. He tediously slides the closet door shut, humming loud enough to distract from the roll of brackets and wood and planting his eyes on the cut and dyed blue rug beneath his feet. His lips twist, noting a thin layer of dust starting to settle on spots of the carpeting, knowing that he needs to call another damn cleaning service to handle it before the colors begin to blend and make his haven yet another nightmare to contend with.

At long last the door is vanquished, and he can walk away, closing his eyes before he crosses the threshold and taking a long breath to ease himself into the tonal shift of the pewter gray of his living room. His attention is immediately caught by a black spot in the corner of his left-side front wall, glaring at a spider oh-so-calmly making itself at home in its obnoxiously obvious settlement. It brings with it the slow, building roll of a timpani, and Kyle forces himself to swivel and keep it from his line of sight.

An irritated hum radiates its way through his throat, wishing so damn hard he could just get a damn vacuum himself and go through a thorough scouring of his apartment, not have to risk a particularly gabby housekeeper coming into his flat-toned space. He wonders just how many that he's hired over the years have done just as he fears, have ran straight to their friends with pictures of his homes and a claim of not knowing what they'd walked into. Kyle shakes his head, more than certain it's happened on multiple occasions, that he's been referred to as an inside joke amongst cleaning businesses, people wondering if he was just eccentric or insane and certain that whoever scrubbed his walls down had barely escaped with their life.

No amount of warning the owners over the phone probably could prepare them for such diligently precise coordinating walls, floors, ceilings, and furniture. Only a few minor essentials that couldn't be painted stood out against their monochromatic layouts: His laptop and workbag set on his coffee table, the overhead lamp and its obtrusive ivory cover, the white internet router set up in the corner on a lone nightstand with its damn red and green blinking lights that Kyle could still see through the gray painter's tape he'd plastered over them.

Ike had come to visit him once in Nevada on his way through to California, finding an identical color scheme in his old apartment and just shaking his head. "And I thought it was weird when it was just your room," he'd said. "Must've cost you a pretty penny to dye all this shit."

He wasn't wrong, not at all. But, as Kyle had meekly reminded him with a pained, embarrassed smile, he saved a hell of a lot of money others didn't by not being able to own many forms of entertainment. No televisions or game consoles or instruments or whatever the hell people had so-often told him that they did with their spare time. No, only eight painted bookshelves that lined the walls like a prison's library with cut and coated paper covers.

Ike had assured him, much more able to do so when he wasn't forced to live like this in a shared home any longer. He'd told him that he was just a frontrunner in the minimalist style. Kyle just thought he was running his own private asylum.

He sighs, running a hand up through his hair and focusing lazily on the wall and the light pattering of a rainy fall day. Usually it's a soothing sound, but here, tonight, it comes with an added layer of feeling, it comes with a cold he isn't expecting. His nerves are heightened, his defenses trying to build already and he hasn't so much as stepped out the door yet. He just doesn't know what to expect, doesn't know if he could be pleasantly surprised or end up with Token getting so angry at his inability of being a functioning human being he ends up just abandoning him.

Kyle groans. He regrets this already. He could've just been here on his own, reading with Kenny's music in the background and waiting out his time until the damn sun set and he could crawl into bed and try to momentarily run from his problems.

The thought makes him automatically touch his pocket, checking for perhaps the fortieth time that his iPod is indeed still where he put it. Bringing it with him seems like it has the potential to turn disastrous, but he figures if it gets too hard on him, he can just escape to the bathroom for as long as a song and lull himself back into a somewhat stable state of mind. Maybe. He's not entirely sure, he hasn't exactly had the opportunity to test Kenny's music's ability in short bursts.

Kyle supposes he can only hope.

A sudden knock on his door has him flinching, sporadic fireworks of tawny flashing in the bottom corner of his left-side vision. He takes a deep, collecting breath, nerves aflutter and attempting to silence a hundred anxiety-induced hypothetical scenarios.

It hasn't worked in this long, he doesn't know why he thinks it'll start now.

He gulps as he steps forward, hands patting his pockets for his keys, wallet, and phone. Kyle nods to himself, sure he has everything he needs. Now he just has to get out of the apartment without Token seeing his decorum. The first obstacle of the night; if he can get past this, he can weather the entire evening, he tries convincing himself. He immediately shuts off the light and grasps the doorknob, taking another long breath before pulling it open just enough to come face to face with the bright smile of Token.

"Hi!" Token greets.

Kyle slips through the narrow threshold and quickly shuts the door behind him before Token can even consider glancing inside. "Hi," he says with an awkward smile, pulling his key out of his pocket and fumbling to lock his door.

Token's brow quirks in the slightest, laughing lightly. "Messy place?"

"…A little, yeah," he shrugs. He's fine if Token thinks he's just a slob, he can live with that, it's certainly a common enough trait from what little he's seen of other people's homes. Certainly nothing off-putting enough that any sane person would run off and tell anyone about. He turns back up as the lock finally swivels with an unpleasant chartreuse scrape of brass and metal grinding against one another. "So…" he says, feeling that awkwardness settled over him like a creamy film, so obtuse one can't help but take notice but inescapable until the issue is rectified. "How are you?"

That smile never wavers, Token waving for him to follow as they pivot and head into the parking lot. "Great. You?"

"Can't complain," he keeps his own warbling smile plastered atop his face. 'More like won't,' he thinks, trailing behind Token like a lost child.

Token takes note of his lagging speed and slows, allowing him to catch up to his side. "I got us a reservation at Faggoncini's," he says casually and Kyle gulps. Reservation usually means crowded, right? "I wasn't sure if you liked Italian food," he admits with a wince. "If that's not okay there's plenty of other places we could go."

They step up to Token's car, the sleek, black Lexus bringing a reprise of timpani into Kyle's perception and he sighs through his nose, clearing his throat to try to distract. "I love Italian food," he assures him. At least that's one thing he doesn't have to lie about tonight. Sure, his head's already pounding, and his eyeballs are threatening to pop right out if they don't get some well-deserved rest and he's trying to pretend to be normal… But he does love himself some fettuccine alfredo when the opportunity presents itself.

He and Token step to their designated sides, Kyle hurriedly sliding himself into the vehicle and taking another long breath as he's greeted with deep circuit red leather and the sound of fork tines scraping against one another. 'God forbid his car interior goddamn match,' he thinks, settling into his seat and trying to focus on the drums of the black glove compartment. Token slides in beside him, Kyle's eyes slipping shut for a moment in the hopes of being greeted with a rich midnight blue but dismally disappointed at the vibrations of the car rumbling without a sound. 'Goddamn motherfucking new cars and their goddamn silent bullshit-'

"So," Token starts, throat clearing as he slips on his seatbelt alongside Kyle and begins backing out of the parking space, "I'm sorry about earlier."

Kyle's eyes reopen at the introduction of moss, braving a glance to Token. "For what?"

He cringes, "I was… ridiculously awkward talking to you," he says shyly. "I am the worst at asking people out, any of my exes could verify," he rolls his eyes.

Kyle blinks, lips slowly quirking into a smirk. "Well, I'm awkward about everything. I didn't help you any," he chuckles embarrassedly.

Token shakes his head, "It's really not as bad as you think it is, Kyle. Everyone thinks they're worse than they actually are."

His expression falls wryly, "My entire life and the judgment I've faced for it beg to differ."

"Well you're what, twenty-eight?"

"Seven."

"Right right," he nods as he takes the car out of the lot onto the main road. "Well, we're all just kind of tip-toeing into adulthood now, right? People don't stop acting like freshmen in college being jackasses until our thirties. Or, at least that's what my parents tell me," he shrugs.

Kyle bites his tongue, resisting the temptation to rattle off a list of countless examples of people far past his senior taking the time out of their busy lives to inform him of his oddities. Instead, he nods and musters out a soft, "One can hope."

"I mean you're still pretty new to the town," he continues, not the least bit deterred by Kyle's demure tone. "It takes time to adjust and you're still finding your footing, right? Plus, with your headaches and everything, you just talk a little softer, that's not weird."

Kyle's lips twist, reminded all at once of the decibels of his mother's voice, how she could shake the walls with even the slightest bit of emotion. He'd only raised his own voice a handful of times, more often than not screaming for someone cornering him to get away or howling in pain when he was a teenager. He hates his voice when he screams, how somehow the raised volume feels natural, yet his mauve streak is decimated, turned into a warbling mess that dizzies and confuses him. But God, he thinks, if anyone deserves to let loose and just shout aimlessly at nothing for an uninterrupted stint of time, it's goddamn him. "People don't seem to mind the quietness," he says, "it's the hiding and stammering they hate." And the flinching. And the wincing. And the complete lack of social finesse.

Token shakes his head again, "Nah. It's not too bad, makes you more interesting," he assures him with a sideways glance and a soft smile, getting one in return and brightening. "Just give it some more time, people in this town are pretty good once you give them some time and patience."

"So Stan's told me," he replies, refocusing his eyes on the dashboard and taking a long, tired breath, Token's sprawling moss accompanied by the low, steady roll of the drums. He's trying, trying to branch out and trying to not only talk to himself.

But god, the effort.

He keeps his attention forward, figuring that, if anything, Token can take his lack of eye contact as a combination of not wanting to distract his driving and his aforementioned social ineptitude. The conversation diverges into workplace happenings, Token spiraling into a mini rant of the inefficiencies of his fellow workers in processing. Kyle nods along, listening only for key words to respond to and curling his fist tightly atop his lap.

He deserves a nice night, a stimulating enough time for his mind -and ears- to take a backseat to just appreciating spending time away from home. Kyle forces himself to look back over at the symphony sitting beside him, chest heaving in a deep breath and stomach twisting in the same flattered flutters he'd felt earlier that afternoon. A subtle nod bobs his head, Token's olive timbre dominating his peripheral but Kyle fighting to keep his attention front and center.

Well, at the very least, he can damn well try to enjoy himself for once.

Kyle's mother had always tried her best to find ways to make him feel better, whether it be through affectionate touches on his back, kind words, or, her favorite methodology: Food.

It'd always been a tricky subject for them, finding the right combination of colors in a meal that wouldn't completely destroy any sense of pleasure he could possibly have from a good dinner. Too many colored peppers thrown in a salad would force him into a cringing fit, the varying browns and creams woven through the braids of her challah would have him unable to appreciate the intricacies of her baking, having to face away from the bread and be handed a piece to eat with his damn eyes closed.

But, with time -much more time than he would wish on anyone- food became a more tolerable everyday nuisance. It'd been an obnoxious training regimen with his mother, learning how to appreciate food without focusing so heavily on presentation. He'd staved through odd dinners where he would have a hoodie pulled over his eyes and have to describe to the family what he tasted, or days where she would teach him how to cook for literal minutes at a time before he had to walk away. She had a never-ending patience that she had for little else in his or his brother's life, but it was the one thing she thought she could do to make a difference. And it got Kyle out of his room and away from eating nothing but rice and beige gefilte fish every night. So, they kept trying. And, finally, when he'd reached about 17, it paid off well enough. Nerves finally started to become redirected, his attention taken from the orchestral ambiance of life and focused down into tastes and textures.

He always figured if his headaches didn't make him so nauseous, he would have leaned on food far harder and ended up around 300 pounds by now.

The pasta three-quarters of the way gone atop the plate in front of him served a hardy reminder of this, a lingering sensation of creamy alfredo atop his tongue taking over his attention. The tart remnants of two and a half glasses of cabernet sauvignon certainly aren't hindering the process, either. Seems luck is finally on his side for a change.

He's staunchly reminded of his low alcohol tolerance as he watches Token from across the table telling an animated story, his head heavy as he nods along and catching himself slurring a word or two. But Token's moss is shriveled, the room previously so daunting with the scraping of silverware against ceramic dishware and the sporadic conversations of fellow patrons is subdued into little more than an irking.

He grabs his glass, tipsily swirling it around and looking down at the dark currant shade emitting the subtle thump-thump, thump-thump of a heartbeat. It's oddly soothing in a way, a reassurance he doesn't find often.

His lips twist. If alcohol wasn't such a toss-up with exacerbating his headaches, he figures it might've become a nasty vice for him as well.

But, ordering water meant being robbed of the possibility of focusing on anything with a solid color scheme, and ordering soda after Token handed him the wine menu seemed strangely pretentious, as if ordering a damn Coke would make Token feel awkward about getting alcohol himself.

Whatever, he figures, taking a languid sip and sighing contentedly. Fate worked out in his favor, and the night has been nothing but pleasant.

"So how about you?" Token asks, snapping him back into his hazy attention.

Kyle blinks, an already-heated face turning red. "I'm sorry… what?"

Token smirks, unfazed. "Favorite movie."

"…Oh," he says softly, clearing his throat and tucking his hair behind his ear. He supposes there was no possibility of avoiding this cliché of a first-date question. "I um… I don't have one."

A thick brow raises on Token's face. "You don't?"

"We didn't have a tv when I was growing up," he lies, inwardly grimacing at the memory of the 40-inch screen that dominated every living room of every home they had when he was growing up. It taunted him, he'd hear his family watching movies together and shooting quotes back and forth at the dinner table, always giving him the same line when he'd look around confusedly: "You had to see it, I guess". They would try to tell him plots, but eventually the three of them talking over one another would be too much to handle and he learned to just stop asking them to try. "I just… never bought my own or had an interest in doing so. I'm fine with just reading."

Token nods, "Well nothing wrong with that. What's your favorite book then?" he smiles, dropping the television discussion and the typical ensuing of "but you gotta see…" rant that Kyle was typically afflicted with in this scenario, much to his relief.

Kyle pauses, considering his options. He has an entire shelf that he reserved for only his favorite stories among his collection, a lifetime of relying on them for any hint of entertainment had garnered him quite the assortment. He thinks a moment longer, trying to recall what book he found himself turning towards the most often, what pages he'd flipped through so many times even his immaculate care couldn't save them from the occasional crease. "Uh…" he says, tonguing over his lips, "I guess… The Metamorphosis."

Token smirks, "Well, for once someone who doesn't just list off a top-twenty classic, pleasant surprise." He pushes off his finished plate of steak to the side and folds his forearms on the table, leaning forward and keeping his attention locked on Kyle. "What's it about?"

He clears his throat, "Uh, it's a little weird. This guy wakes up and he turned into a bug… creature… thing. And basically, everyone in his family tries to accommodate for him at first but they just… get annoyed and want him gone. And he knows he's a burden so he just lets himself starve to death."

He's met with slow blinks, "Not exactly a… happy story. Is it?"

"No, not for him at least," he murmurs, looking down into his wine and sighing. So, he told a partial lie, it isn't his favorite book by any stretch. He only reads it when his self-degradation hits its high and he just wants to feel sorry for himself, which he knows is pathetically more common than it ought to be. "Some people think the metamorphosis isn't about him changing, though, and instead his sister growing up," he says, trying to lighten the mood he set if only a tad. "It ends talking about how much she matured taking care of him for the time she did."

He props up a cheek in his palm, grabbing the pinot grigio beside him and taking a swig. "Feminist theory then?"

"I can't tell if you're upset by that."

Token laughs, shaking his head. "Not at all. One of my favorite stories is The Bell Jar. So, ya know, super 'smashing the patriarchy'."

"And a plethora of mental illness," he smirks lightly, getting a small nod. "I haven't read that one for years."

"Me neither, truth be told," he twists his lips into a reflective pout. "I used to read all the time, but once I started working full-time, I just couldn't find the energy to anymore. It was always just easier to turn on the television."

Kyle nods, "I imagine it takes less concentration."

"Yeah, exactly. I was one of the damn nerds in our school," he chuckles. "Did spelling bee and debate and co-founded the literature club with Wendy."

His brow rises, "Stan's Wendy?"

"Yep. She and I were pretty proactive together," he says fondly. "We hung out all the time and went to protests and shit together, and Stan would tag along sometimes." He smiles at him, "I'm willing to bet if you'd grown up here, you would've been there with us."

He snorts, "Maybe as spiritual support from a few miles away, I'm not good in a situation that involves a lot of yelling and movement."

"Hey, man, someone's gotta write the speeches," he says with a grin. "Nothing wrong with being the one behind the scenes.

Kyle smiles shyly, shaking his head, "My writing tends to be too angry even for protests."

"I think you grossly underestimate how nasty they can get," he laughs. "Once, Wendy and I went to one that was about a lack of recharge stations for electric cars. So you know, hippie as it gets. Wendy and I both left goddamn jail the next day because we broke the noses of a few Hummer drivers."

"Jesus," he murmurs with a soft, surprised laugh. "You broke their noses just because they drove something that wasn't electric?"

"First of all," he starts, tipping his glass towards him, "they are… the gas guzzliest of cars. And the Hummer plant is also a main plant for military vehicles. But also, they hit us first. I had a black eye and Wendy got shoved over and her head was bleeding, so they deserved it."

Kyle smiles, giving a conceding nod. "Sounds like it." It's an oddly pleasant surprise, despite the subject matter. His opinions of Token have never been too strong one way or the other, just a good guy from processing that he had few problems staving through a conversation with. But it's nice, seeing the layers of a person for once as opposed to the deceptive topcoat of sound and color.

Political activism certainly wasn't something Kyle had imagined to be a pastime of Token's, but he finds himself intrigued by the notion. Spending his life reading meant scouring his fair share of newspapers, and he finds himself more often than not angered at the state of affairs in the world. A part of him has always wished he could be more politically involved but leaving the safety of his home to vote has always been the extent he can handle.

Not an easy life for someone raised in so opinionated a household.

But, for now, the troubles and turmoil of the world seem far off and away, Kyle lost in the foreign sensation of mild comfort and subtle-enough distraction. And maybe a touch too much wine for his crippled tolerance. But the crinkling plastic of their cloud gray walls and the oddly ironic accompaniment of rustling branches from the spearmint lattice accents are diluted just enough to be nothing more than a minor underscore to Token's talking. He sighs, warm and comfortable as he takes a long, last sip of his wine, a part of him wanting to pull out his wallet and demand the bottle, wanting desperately to stay situated in this state.

However, it isn't meant to last.

The kitchen to their right is suddenly wrought with the clamorous noise of a dropped pile of plates and silverware and the dining floor erupts with the echoes of clanging and shattering. Kyle flinches, a firework's display of color sweeping through his retinas and trying to beat down the calm he's found. The calamity of the kitchen lasts only seconds, but the effects continue to sweep over the patrons like a flowing tide. Quiet laughs arise at the communal startling, hands placed against chests from the shock of being torn so hurriedly from their meals and conversations.

Token is among them, asking Kyle through a few quiet chuckles if he's all right.

Kyle can't quite hear him, a mess from being jolted from a mundane serenity into mental chaos. He clears his throat, keeping his eyes forcibly wide to prevent his typical wincing fit. Through the mishmash of the swirling orchid waves of shattering ceramic and the magenta of forks and knives smashing against one another, a wildflower field of voices arises, and he's reaching the end of his ability of stay composed.

"I… I'll be right back. Bathroom," he says, standing out of his chair and hurrying away to the far side of the restaurant, eyes keeping down to the carpet matching the spearmint decorations and trying to find himself lost in a gusty forest. It serves as little more than a static over the bedlam, and a ball of anger starts to form in the pits of his chest.

Of course something had to happen. Of course something had to disrupt the melodic normality he was enjoying. His lip curls into a snarl, brow furrowing as his temples try to pound in protest. He can salvage this, he can for once not ask to end something just because he feels himself sliding his way down that ever-familiar step slope towards torment.

He slams his way through the men's room door, assaulted with a pristine tiled white and the thrumming tip-taps of fingernails rapping against porcelain. He groans, relieved with the separation from a myriad of conversation lingering beyond the door, but still reeling. Kyle hums, trying to deafen the sound of his shoes clapping their way against the floor in diagonal flashes of goldenrod as he hurries his way into a stall and leans back against the door, his head clunking uneasily against the steel.

His fingers slam and fumble in his pocket, sliding past the smooth sensation of his phone screen and gripping the plastic square wrapped in the cord of his earbuds and yanking it out. Frantic hands shake as he unravels the mess and presses the silicone into his ear. His thumb smashes the play button, shoulders sagging in relief at Kenny's voice flooding every aggravating distraction and mellowing his frayed nerves. He sighs, a gulp rolling its way down his throat and his eyes slipping closed.

Thank God for a lifetime of precautionary preparedness.

A subtle buzz from his pocket barely manages to breach the waves of sienna, his free hand languidly making its way to grip his waiting phone and pull it into the light. He allows his eyes to slip open, half-lidded and the glowing screen before him for once a comforting, subtle illumination. Why Apple makes it so fucking impossible to change color calibration is goddamn beyond him.

He sees Stan's name, a notification from 10 minutes prior and a part of him is in awe. Distracted enough to miss a text is not a state he often finds himself in, and it's weirdly thrilling in its own right.

Stan
'Hey, know you're on your date, but had to tell you my car is in the shop. Can't pick you up tomorrow morn, but can drive you home if you need it later. Sorry!'

He smiles softly, head shaking. He never asked Stan to start driving him around, had only requested one ride home on a particularly bad day since it was on his way about two months into knowing one another. He's beyond appreciative, chips in for gas each week, but being picked up is a rare occurrence unless he finds himself facing a walk to work in a torrential downpour or a particularly biting blizzard.

Limbering thumbs make their way to the screen, body relaxing against Kenny's vocals and stress slipping its way down and off his spine.

Kyle
'Not a problem. Thanks for letting me know.'

The response is almost immediate, Kyle huffing out a short laugh at his speed. Granted, he has limited practice, so he can only figure most people are far more proficient than he is around a phone's keyboard.

Stan
'Oof, not a good sign if you're texting when you're out with him. Going okay?'

He smirks, rolling his eyes.

Kyle
'It's going just fine, I stepped away into the restroom. It's been a really nice time, actually.'

Stan
'Good! I'll let you get back to it and you can tell me about it tomorrow. Have a good rest of your date, man.'

Kyle snorts, chuckling quietly and shifting against the coolness of the steel door behind him. Kenny's echoing voice hits a long, sustained note and he sighs contentedly. He wonders if this is something he missed in high school, going out on dates and knowing that the next day he could dish with someone he can, he guesses, consider his best friend.

He smiles crookedly. Dates, a best friend, and a cure for his headaches.

Teenage Kyle would've dropped his passive, sequestered nature and beaten the shit out of him to get his hands on any one of those things, let alone all three.

He's really living the life.

The song pulsing through his earbuds fades off to a soft end and Kenny's voice leaves him with a serene elation, a buoy in a sea of orange. He sighs, nodding to himself and turning off the iPod, yanking out his buds and wrapping the cord back in its place. He supposes one song is about the extent he can listen to and not ditch Token for too long, but it seems to be enough as he simmers back into his tipsy state with a fresh sense of revitalization.

He shoves his electronics back into his pocket and steps out of the stall, moving towards the polished sinks and quickly washing his hands free of the stall handle's germs. The rushing water splotching copper dots along his eyes barely deters him as soap suds slip through lean fingers. He tongues over his lips, lashes lazily fluttering and noting a loose, awkward movement to his hands as he scrubs his skin. He smirks, unable to remember the last time he was able to get buzzed without suffering repercussions, and he's living for it.

He shuts off the faucet, stepping to the paper towels stacked along the sill running along under the mirrors and quickly drying himself off. He almost can't believe himself, feeling so eager to get back out there and talk more to Token, to make conversation so normally. It's surreal and enchanting; a real dream come true for once.

Kyle throws the towel in the bin, allowing himself a small pause to ensure that the throbbing of his head has ceased and the rigidity of his spine has lessened before pushing the door back open and walking back into the fray. He scans over the dining floor, seeing Token standing at his seat and he blinks, heading towards him and tucking a straying curl behind his ear.

"Everything okay?" he ventures as he steps up beside him.

Token looks down and smiles, nodding assuredly as he puts his wallet into his slacks pocket. "Just paid."

Kyle's face falls, "You didn't have to-"

"Wanted to," he cuts him off with a smirk. "It's not a problem."

"Okay but-"

"Kyle, you can get the next one," he laughs softly.

His face heats slightly. A next one. There's never been a next one. He gulps, nodding with a smile that Token visibly relaxes at. "Thank you."

"Wanna head out?"

Kyle nods, not wanting to deal with the possibility of yet another kitchen catastrophe getting the better of him and stepping forward to grab his sweater from the back of his chair and flinging it over his arm. Token takes the lead and Kyle trails behind him, unable to stop bashfully and happily nibbling at his bottom lip. He feels so flattered, so taken aback and joyous at how the stars seemed to have aligned in his favor.

It's so unique an experience, one he's gotten a multitude of times in just the last two weeks, and he isn't sure of how to take it. Seems that moving to South Park has opened the door to a number of them for him, and the drunken pits of his subconscious tell him to look at goddamn real estate listings for the area, because he never wants this luck to end.

They step out into the brisk air from the restaurant, Kyle taking a long breath of crisp, clean air and sighing appreciatively.

"So, don't know about you," Token starts slowly as they walk along the sidewalk towards his waiting car, "but I had a great time."

"Me, too," he says earnestly. "This was really nice-" he stumbles in his steps and comes to a full stop as a soft hand cups his chin and tips him up, eyes widening as full lips press down against his own. He's stunned, utterly lost for far longer than is probably necessary. But, he sinks into it, eyes slipping closed and pressing back into the foreign sensation. Awkwardness and inexperience take a backseat to a wave of endorphins, his fingers reaching up to curl into the soft cashmere of the arms of Token's sweater as Token's hand sweeps up to ride the curls of his hair and cup his head.

It's lengthy and sweet, and Kyle is lost in the new aroma of a strong cologne. He has no idea how long has passed before Token finally pulls back and Kyle falls back fully onto the soles of his feet. They smile, both momentarily stilled in a gawking loss of words until Token clears his throat, brushing back a few locks of Kyle's hair.

"So, little forward, blame the wine," he says with a soft, blushing laugh. "You wanna… come home with me tonight?"

The offer nearly sends Kyle reeling back in surprise, not expecting things to take such a sudden turn. "We… we have work tomorrow. Don't we?" he squints, still a little too dazed and definitely more than a little too buzzed to recall the calendar of all things.

Token snorts and nods, "We work at the same place," he reminds him. "We can leave a little early tomorrow and I'll take you to get changed at home and we'll go in together."

Kyle's blinks turn slow, and, for once, the world actually turns silent. He's lost, a mess of good feelings and hormones he's denied for too many a year, but the back of his mind reminding him how this can all turn sour, his luck is never good for that long.

But, the warmness of alcohol and the fluttering of his stomach and chest prove to be quite the debaters, arguing that doubt down into a meek little nub. 'You owe this to yourself!' they yell.

His hesitation hits Token and he winces. "Kyle, we don't have to, it was just an offer-"

"I know, I know," he says hurriedly, hearing those voices rising right back up.

'You haven't been with anyone since you were fucking twenty, and at least you goddamn know Token's name,' they say. 'Stave the fuck through it, Broflovski.'

He gulps and straightens up, determined by his brain's insistence on the matter. It's right. He does owe it to himself. Just a night of forgetting. A night of being a normal fucking person. A night of enjoying himself and pretending that the world could stay this fuzzy and pleasant. "Your place sounds great," he says, fighting off a nervous vibrato.

"You're sure?" Token asks, though his face curls into an excitement Kyle's never seen directed at himself.

"I'm sure," he murmurs, a boldness taking hold and pulling Token back down to seal it with another lingering kiss.

A soft sound from Token has olive crawling its way back against Kyle's right eye, but he ignores it, relishing in the warm feeling of his lips and the affectionate hand working its way to his lower back. It's nothing more than a minor blip on the radar, a teensy nuisance he can learn to tolerate with some time and patience, he's sure.

For once, he's not going to let such a thing stand in his way.

This is his night.