"Guys, what the fuck is taking you so long? If we're late, I'm going to be pissed!" Kyle yells from the front door.
"Yeah, how come the only lady here is ready before the fellas? Ain't that ironic?" Marjorine adds from the couch.
"Don't stereotype yourself, M-Marj. Can you please grab my shoes?" Jimmy asks as he hobbles out of his room, dropping onto the couch beside her.
"Sure thing, Jim." She prances over to the rack by the door and takes the shoes from Kyle.
"Also, you'll be p-pissed for sure, but Leslie will be li-livid," Jimmy chuckles at Kyle as he slides his shoes on.
"Yeah, she will. I don't know how much Chef'll care, but I don't want to find out," Kyle sighs, glancing down at his watch.
Since they took care of Clark's abuse of power, a lot of things have changed. Leslie quickly worked her way up to the position of managing the band. This was partly because she's the one who pulled strings to get Chef the position as the head label rep, and partly because she's damn good at what she does. Clark was unfortunately still employed by Thanatos Records, but he had been demoted all the way down to a receptionist.
"Alright, I'm good," Kenny announces as he enters the room, actively pulling his jeans up as he walks. "Where's Stanny Boy?"
"I don't know, but we need to leave, like, now," Kyle sighs. "I'm going to check on him."
"You do that, lover boy," Kenny teases, yelping when Kyle flicks the back of his head as he passes him heading down the hall.
He knocks lightly on the closed door.
"Stan? You alright, dude?" Kyle asks, jumping backwards when the door is ripped open. He doesn't get very far before there's a fist tangled in the front of his shirt yanking him into the room.
A very shirtless Stan closes the door behind them again and starts pacing, barely acknowledging Kyle as he rambles.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to wear. Everything feels too scratchy on my arms but I can't not cover them up. I don't want to go to this thing. They're going to ask about rehab, aren't they? God, and if I do anything wrong people are probably going to think I relapsed. I'm not drinking, though. I'm clean. It's not like I don't want a drink right now, but-"
"Stan," Kyle interrupts softly.
He stops pacing and looks up at Kyle, surprise written on his features as if he hadn't tugged Kyle into the room moments prior.
"Take a deep breath, please," Kyle instructs, and Stan obeys immediately. He takes a few deep, shaky breaths before he visibly relaxes. His shoulders drop from their tensed position and he slouches back to his normal posture.
"Okay, I'm good. Can, uh- I don't know what to- Help," He stutters out, chuckling a little airily and running a hand through his hair.
"Yeah, okay," Kyle snickers and crosses the room to Stan's closet.
They go about what's become a routine on Stan's bad days. Kyle breaks down his complaints into bite-sized pieces to make them less overwhelming, and then he suggests solutions one issue at a time.
Stan settles on a plain black tee. His arms are exposed, which he's not comfortable with, but Kyle offers the cardigan Stan seems to have an affinity for. By that he means that it disappears from his room like clockwork and he either notices Stan wearing it or finds it in the dirty laundry shortly after it vanishes.
"What about the rehab questions? I can't control what they ask me," Stan worries the inside of his cheek as he pulls the cardigan on.
"You can control what you answer, though," Kyle says, folding the shirts that Stan had ripped from his closet in a panic.
