changing my major

~ • ∆ two ∆ • ~

As he walked away, Stan tried to figure out whether or not Kyle was planning something. Because he always fucking was. Especially when he said “I didn’t plan anything today” only to become so damn adamant about going to the aquarium. And what for? It was just an aquarium. Sure, Stan loved fish - hell, if he wasn’t getting a degree in music, of all things, he’d probably be getting his degree in marine biology - and maybe Kyle knew that, but why did he just decide today that he wanted to go to the aquarium? There were a lot of questions that Stan didn’t exactly have the answer to, and at this point he was beginning to become frustrated with himself so he gave up on those racing thoughts.

With a huff, Stan elbowed open their shared bedroom door. He closed it with his back as he began peeling that Broncos shirt over his head, tossing it into the hamper. Kyle was always very particular about not leaving laundry on the floor, and Stan didn’t exactly have much of a choice but to comply. He opened one of his dresser drawers, digging for a pair of jeans that wasn’t stained with some mysterious liquor that he didn’t even really remember the name of. At some point he meant to stop overthinking this whole thing, but he just couldn’t bring himself to. He felt the same way he did when he went on his first date with Wendy, his first - and, like, last - girlfriend.

Was he treating this like a date?

Well, to be fair, friends do this all the time. If he was coincidentally treating this like a date, then those feelings were most certainly misplaced. He almost felt disoriented, but continued in his search for a damn pair of jeans.

His thoughts were interrupted when he found a decent pair of jeans. Stan sighed in relief as he sat down on the bed, pulling the denim fabric over his legs. He closed the drawer of the dresser and pulled open the drawer just above it, picking the first shirt he saw out of the drawer since it didn’t exactly matter what shirt it was. He’d just be putting on a jacket over it anyways. That’s how it is in Colorado - shirts don’t matter because there’s always a jacket going over it.

As Stan strolled out of the bedroom, he slipped his jacket off of a hook and fumbled to get his arms in the sleeves. He was greeted by Kyle struggling to get his ugg boots on, which caused a small, charming grin to cross his lips. Stan let out a soft chuckle as he wandered over to Kyle, who had managed to only get one boot on.

“Need help?” Stan asked, causing Kyle to roll his eyes.

“I’m not a damn damsel in distress,” the redhead huffed, “I can get my own fucking boots on by myself.” Stan was just glad that he stopped there instead of going on another speech.

“Okay, okay,” Stan chuckled, throwing his hands up in defeat before bending down to pick up his own sneakers and grabbing a pair of socks from their sock bin. He didn’t really ever see the point of a “sock bin”, but Kyle said that’s always how his mom made him sort the socks, so he just sorta went with it.

As Stan plopped himself down on the couch, he saw Kyle stand up out of the corner of his eye, reaching up for his green ushanka left on the hat hook thing that Stan never knew what to call. It was just a few hooks by the door that they sometimes left jackets or hats on but never really used for anything else. Stan never questioned that either, just assuming it was something his mom told him to do when he was little and he never got out of the habit. He didn’t mind the small bit of convenience they provided, either, so there was no point in complaining about it, really.

Stan slipped a pair of white socks on, with a pair of Vans following suit. Kyle, on the other hand, was busy trying to make sure all of his curls remained under the hat. It was a useless endeavor, because there were always, without fail, a few tufts of red hair sticking out of the front and back of his hat. Stan had always found it endearing, but Kyle complained that it just wasn’t enough and constantly got frustrated by that part of his body. To be fair, though, Kyle was constantly frustrated with himself - nothing was ever enough for him. Stan’s mom called it perfectionism, but Mrs. Broflovski called it silly.