Summery: It's been four years since Kyle's set foot in South Park and his return at age eighteen reminds him of how things use to be and what life use to be like; now he's finally able to make sense of the feelings he had in youth. StanxKyle, different POVs

AN: I really have no idea where I'm going with this djlkfsjdkfsdfldkfjsldf SO HOPEFULLY SOMETHING COMES OUT! This is my first serious fanfic so a review would be kickass!

Warnings: Initial OOC, swearing, slash pairing (STYLE), various POVs

Kyle:

It's been way too long. It's been four years.

He inhaled the stale air of his empty school dorm. Four fucking years. With his eyes closed, he tried to remembered the things he use to have, the places he use to live, all the people he use to know – their faces, their voices, the feelings he had at all those particular moments seemed so familiar to him – but it's been too long. He was sure they were different now.

His jeans were unbuttoned hanging from his hips, a sneaker casually hanging from his left foot, casually hanging from the edge of the bed and his tee-shirt twisted around him from the momentary troubled slumber he'd engaged in; an arm on his stomach, the other thrown to the side, idly waiting for some sort of command or authority to do something useful. But he was too tired to move and, conversely, too bothered to fall back asleep. 6:00AM flashed the red lettering from the alarm clock on his bedside. Four fucking long years away. He finally exhaled.

"Kyle?" The voice had said on the telephone last night, "It's me. Ike."

"I know. It's not like it's that big of fucking mystery." He breathed back, sitting in his chair at the desk that occupied most of his confined, cramped, bitter 15 feet by 10 feet dormitory – the glamorous high school lifestyle. "Why are you calling?"

Ike was in his teens – 14? 16? Kyle couldn't remember – and wasn't the type to make small talk with his adoptive brother. Kyle, regardless of their difference in blood, was raised to be the same way: simplistically quiet in the mouthpiece, oddly dazed from the earpiece – which was quite a surprised for the rest of the town who seemed to view their parents as something of the exact opposite; Gerald Broflovski was the highly acclaimed, in-your-face, self owning lawyer and his wife, Sheila Broflovski, who needs no introduction. The boys were close, like survivors of a war with a battlefield of loud conversing from their parents; their bond was their silence, their natural reserve, their obsession with observing the situation instead of participating in it. Ike and Kyle had never, throughout the course of their childhood, spent much time together but their brotherhood was a silent vow they both subconciously decided to take.

"I was wondering when you'd be here." Ike muttered, clearing his throat mid-sentence. There was a hint of sadness in his tone as if only now, at the eve of seeing his brother after four years, he'd realized how much he missed him. "Mom's – I dunno – she's kinda panicking."

"When? I don't know. Tomorrow night? I haven't thought about it." Lies in desperation to sound indifferent. Nervous and worried, Kyle knew when he would be there and he had thought about it. He reran it in his head twenty times before and placed this act for Ike, this pretending like he didn't care, like none of this mattered to him. Like he woke up that morning and had thought to himself, I think I'll endure all the things I tried to abandon today. Sounds lovely. Ike breathed - or was it a sigh? Kyle couldn't tell anymore.

"I've cleaned the house, like, seven times already. She says that she wants you to know how much we all miss you and so, apparently, we're going to show you just how much by terminating every speck of dust within a 7 feet perimeter of the house."

Kyle smiled – 13. Ike was 13. He remembered now.

Four years. Four years. It's been four years since he's set foot in South Park, since he'd spoken to anyone back home but Ike and his parents – though this wasn't due to any vendetta. It happened in his freshmen year of High School, when he was fourteen. That was when the letter came. "Congratulations," it proclaimed to his distraught face which he tried to hide from his gleaming parents, "You've been accepted." These had been the words he'd been dreading to hear since the day his parents applied him to that god forsaken metropolitan Alta Vista Academy, that queer-shit strictly boys' school in Boston. "Congratulations," his family had proclaimed to his distraught face he openly allowed them to view in hopes that they'd realize this posh shit wasn't what he wanted, "You've been accepted – have you packed your things?" He left at the end of summer, in a bitter state of a silent protest still clinging on the hope that it was all a sick joke. Leave South Park? He remembered thinking. Leave everyone? Leave his home behind, leave his friends behind, leave his life behind. How could they fucking do this to me?

Upon Kyle's arrival to Alta Vista, he ignored the telephone, loudly stating his case through silence, refusing to speak to the people who had sentenced him to this impending academic hell. His parents, while concerned at first, viewed it as he was too busy in his studies to have small talk over the phone and excused his distance and, ultimately, his plea for the approval to return. But what had started as a teenage brood in the first month of his institution became four years of minimal communication between the Present him and him of the Past and in turn, of South Park and everything that came with South Park – his promises to keep in touch, to tell everyone his latest news went unfulfilled. He couldn't face them anymore, that bitter longing to return. He didn't even visit his past in his thoughts. His means of surviving the solitude had been to forget his previous affairs and, obviously, the life he had loved, aware that his fate had been sealed and he, young and alone in a new city, could do nothing about it. Alone in Room 45, a room number that the school associated with his name in paperwork – they used the term 'his home' to refer to the dry room - he had thought to himself himself in the middle of the night that maybe it was time to grow up.

So grow the fuck up, he demanded - and he followed his own advice.

But maybe he did it too fast.

Kyle didn't want to be a doctor like his parents gently had pushed during dinner conversations before they had even sent the application for him to this prison and God only knew the things he would do to avoid the career path is father had chosen. A lawyer? No thank you. A lonely red headed boy, small in his stature, defending the innocent in the court of law, subtle in his speech and gentle in his movements; he doubt he could sway anything to join his side. He could see himself now, standing in front of his desk; the judge peering down at him from his heavenly position with his heavenly gavel in his heavenly courthouse. "Can you speak up, Broflovski?"

So the South Park Kyle didn't want to be what his enrollment in the Alta Vista Academy would insure: Success. Power. Money. Emptiness. After the first few months, he found a solution to this. If he couldn't change his fate, he would change himself to love his fate. So South Park Kyle became Studious Kyle but wrongly so – he forgot them, all of them; he forgot his life, his town. But with this ignorance of South Park which was a town that had been half of his heart and soul, Kyle began participating in this droning ceremonious ritual he called real life. Of course it wasn't like he couldn't see that the loss of his town had caused his dejection but his naïve mind treated it like South Park had been his friend and friends lost touch all the time; it was just the way things had turned out. Then he started to lie. Compulsively. He even started to lie to cover up his lies; he changed himself. The friends he had now had no idea who he was or who he really wanted to be, they had no idea what was on his mind or why it was there. They smiled at him with genuine love and he smiled back, praying that they won't see past his mask of sincerity. He even faked his way through a two month relationship – which he decided to end when he lost interest, ignoring her until she caught his drift – finding that sex had been a momentous distraction from his loneliness – that's what he made himself believe anyways. What was her name again?

"You still remember where the house is?" Ike had tried to joke, desperately filling the miles between them with some sort of substance; anything but this uncomfortable hush of unfamiliarity. He laughed. It was forced, Kyle could tell.

"Yeah." He had replied bluntly with no hint of emotion, "I remember."

Kyle remembered his name; Kyle remembered him in those self declared glory days. Stan Marsh. He couldn't remember the last time they talked and the vision of him Kyle had in his mind was the spunky 15 year old – though he doubt that Stan looked the same. It's been four fucking years, my friend. Kyle didn't like thinking about Stan these days. He wondered if Stan even bothered to think about him. Or remember him. It became painful to imagine, the conversation he would have if he happened to run into the boy. Hi, how are you? Sorry I left without saying goodbye and sorry I called you only once to tell you I couldn't make it to your hockey game because I had already been gone by then. Sorry, really. Oh, by the way. Do you remember me?

He turned his head a little to face his alarm clock, opening one of his green eyes. 6:01AM. Now that he was hours away from boarding that plane back, he realized that he didn't want it anymore. Empty headed and grown use to the constant falsehood he ensued on himself, he wasn't sure if he could face that quant little mountain town, that place where he actually, unlike now, grew. He suddenly realized that he couldn't stand the idea of it – the idea of being complete again.

6:02AM. He inhaled