"Where the hell are my pants?"
Mitchell stomped past the kitchen again and Keith ignored it.
"Seriously! Pants!" More stomping.
"Are you even listening to me? Keith!"
"Uh-huh?" He folded the sports section closed and reached for the classifieds. A hand came down on top of it and held it in place. Keith followed the arm up until he was looking into Mitchell's eyes. His glowering, one practically twitching, eyes.
"Have you seen my pants?" he forced out through a tightly clenched jaw. He seemed to be restraining himself from some kind of violent... violence.
"Why don't you ask your new friend?" Keith answered primly, taking note of how that one eye was now definitely twitching.
"Ask Rocko?"
"Yes. Ask Rocko. Maybe he took them."
The classifieds crumpled; Mitchell's fingers clentched the newspaper tightly like he wished it were Keith's head. Keith leaned back in his seat and took a sip of his coffee, watching the other man over the rim, just in case he might need to move suddenly.
"Rocko... is an inanimate object, Keith," came the slow explanation. "He couldn't take my pants on a dare, let alone tell me about it when questioned."
"Rocko's a mute?"
"Rocko's a rock, you asshole! He's a pet rock; a joke. Stop being so goddam jealous and help me find my damn pants already!"
"Wasn't jealous," Keith muttered, but he set his mug in the sink and followed his room mate down the hall to start looking for the elusive pants.