You Can Never Go Back

Chapter 10:You Felt Abandoned By Me

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Alrighty, next chapter. Yay. I'm feeling optimistic right now, but by the time I get to the end, we'll see. That's how I write these notes most of the time- the beginning is before I've typed up most of the chapter, the end is when I'm done and sick of it. Anyway, I hope this is going okay. I love SP fiction, but for some reason I think a lot of them end up having a little bit of a WTF factor, and not in the good Cartman gave Kyle AIDS kind of way. And if it's not something like that, one of the boys always ends up bending over (oft-times literally, but that I'm okay with) and becoming a total pussy. I don't know. I just think romance can exist between two men without either of them becoming the 'woman'. However, as I say this, I have no idea if I'm at all capable of delivering- I have in past fiction, but it's been quite a while since I actually sat down and wrote one, so maybe I'm rusty. I hope not. You guys tell me if I'm starting to suck, m'kay?

Alright. I don't know how to say this, so I'm going to be blunt. I have no fucking clue what's going on. Stan and I were getting on great. Fabulous, dare I say. Then we go to that damned class reunion thing and suddenly, he's avoiding me. While not exactly at my throat, which is still a refreshing change from mere weeks past, he's definitely screening his calls and making sure he doesn't visit the spots I tend to haunt.

I haven't seen him in a week. You would think I'd be completely cool with that, I mean, I'm not a fag. I don't need Stan in my life. All the time. Every second. Right? I've been wasting time over at Kenny's. We've really bonded over reruns of Pimp My Ride and six packs of beer. Occasionally he gives me a shifty eye, but I ignore that, and we do just fine. I'm quite convinced it's all in my head. And I'm completely okay with Stan not being there.

So, the fact that I'm going to see him tonight shouldn't get me this excited.

It does. I'm a pathetic mess. Right now I'm practically quaking in my shoes, which are those moderately expensive patent leather ones I wear a-job-hunting. Speaking of jobs, I finally, finally got an offer from a relatively decent sounding place. It's actually more of a paid internship, but hey, beggars can't be choosers, right? My mom's ecstatic. I start the Monday after next. I don't even mind that I'm going to have to start driving out to Denver every day, because the hellish traffic doesn't even compare to spending all day at home with my mom.

Anyway, this thing we're doing is kind of a celebration. A celebration at Craig's bar, in fact. I'm not exactly sure what we're celebrating, other than my newfound job, but any excuse to drink, right? I'm wearing my work hunting clothes, because frankly they're the only nice things I have that still fit. I think I grew another inch during college, which my father tells me shouldn't be possible but my mother attributes to good genes. Good. Yeah. She doesn't have to try being the tall, gangly Jewish kid.

I don't even want to tell Cartman that my internship is at an accounting firm. I can just see the jokes rolling my way.

The point is, I'm excited, dressed to the tee, and practically bouncing up and down on the bar stool. Craig's half watching me and half watching some baseball game. I think it's the Angels versus…I don't really know. It's spring training still, so I don't really care. It's not like the game counts for anything. Still, Craig's dark eyes are trained on the TV, intensely watching the screen for something…I let myself imagine that maybe he's searching for a glimpse of Token, who always was a baseball fan. Didn't Stan say he lived in California? Although I thought he mentioned the San Francisco area…Then again, I might just be romanticizing the situation. I don't even know for sure that Craig's in love with Token. I have no reason to doubt Stan, but the bastard bar owner might have lied to him to get in his pants. Craig's shifty that way.

They finally walk in the door. I bound to my feet, eager to greet them.

Stan's all dressed up. Dressed up meaning he's donned this red trucker hat that I'm nearly certain he must have stolen from Kenny, and a brown and yellow plaid shirt. All he needs is a cigarette and a beer and he'd be the spitting image of every other redneck in our hometown. The annoying part is it looks good on him. Really good.

Meanwhile Kenny's version of dressed up consists of ripped jeans and a white wife beater with unrecognizable stains, and Cartman's wearing some cashmere sweater that just screams GAY.

Why, I feel overdressed.

"Kyle!" Kenny practically shrieks, throwing his arms around me so that I can get a whiff of whatever he's been pre-gaming with on the car ride over here. It smells faintly like rum.

"Hey, Ken," I reply easily, not bothering to disentangle myself from his arms. I know if I try, the mechanic will just latch tighter, so I oblige and return the hug. I see Craig look at Stan, and then pointedly glance back at the baseball game. Hunh. Strange.

"Kyle," Kenny whispers into my face in the confidential manner most drunks undertake when they're going to reveal something to you that you already know, "You haven't visited me in so long."

"I was at your house yesterday, Kenny," I tell him with good natured amusement.

The blonde brightens, "Oh yeah!"

"Time to let go now, Kenny," Stan begins to pull the poor guy off me, gentle with his ministrations, but to no avail. Kenny's decided I'm his new teddy bear.
Stan gives me an inscrutable look, leaving me wondering what exactly is going on in that brain of his. Is he happy to see me? Does he hate that I'm here? Am I imagining all of this?

"Kyyyyyle," Kenny drawls, "Tell Staney to let me go. He's been grumpy the entire ride up here, you know?"

I snicker. The look on Stan's face is priceless. He mumbles something about Kenny being a prick and then stomps over to the bar to get a drink from Craig, leaving me to fend for myself. Seeing this, Kenny untangles his arms from around my neck, only to press himself up against me.

"Whoa there, McCormick," I grin, pushing him away, "How much did you have?"

He sing songs back at me, "Not much."

I can't help but notice that his fingers are trailing up and down my bicep, tracing a line over the thin cloth of my dress shirt in a way that makes me shiver.

"Stop flirting," I warn, "Save it for someone's whose queer."

Kenny shrugs, straightening, cerulean eyes light, "Can't blame a guy for trying."

He winks at me, and I suspect he's considerably more sober than that little act he just put on revealed, and sigh.

"Let's get some drinks, buddy," he winds an arm around my shoulders again, this time companionably, and leads me over to the bar. Stan's already had two tequila shooters, and Craig's watching him down another with amusement. I glare at the bar owner, thinking that he shouldn't take so much joy from other people's oblivion drinking. When Stan slams down the shot glass on the slick wooden surface of the bar, Kenny stops him from ordering another by insinuating himself between the two dark haired men, demanding that Craig serve him up some of the best alcohol money can buy. Then with a cheeky grin he promptly informs Craig that drinks will be on the house, of course. Craig grunts something unintelligible and hurries away to fill some rocks glasses, possibly with poison.

"You really shouldn't piss off the bartender, Ken."

"Craig's a bastard," Kenny shrugs, "But he's not going to do anything. We're his friends, and he needs us. He doesn't really have anyone else."

Stan's studying one of the empty shot glasses in front of him, lips curled into a grimace, saying nothing at all.

Kenny ordered us up a round of whiskey sours, which I firmly insisted were girly drinks. He and Cartman downed them during my protest, then both cast me innocent looks that said, 'so'?

"Man up, Jew boy," Cartman commands, "Or haven't you got the balls to look gay?"

Kenny sneers behind the fat boy's head, his nose crinkling cutely as he tries to imitate Cartman's angry expression. He's mouthing obscenities behind the other boy's head, but Cartman continues trying to goad me into drinking the sweet whiskey, oblivious to the blonde's making a mockery of him.

"Fine," I give in, downing the drink in seconds flat. Craig informs me that it costs eight bucks, and I give him a look and deliver a line back about how he should give a discount to old friends.

"Free," Kenny tells the dark haired young man firmly, "You're giving us all the drinks free."

"I heard you the first time," Craig snarls back, "And if I give you everything free, you guys will drink everything in the damned bar."

"I'll control them," Stan speaks up, finally done staring at the beads of honey colored liquid left in the shot glass, "Scout's honor."

"You were a sucky scout, Marsh," Craig informs him.

"But I've still got honor," Stan replies deadpan, his gaze narrow. I wonder if they're having a fight. I wonder why that makes me happy.

Craig returns to watching the game, only paying any attention to us when we order drinks or that one time when Cartman decides to call him a rat-faced-cunt-bastard, during which he pours an entire bottle of decently priced whiskey over the time of his head. Cartman ends up sitting in a puddle and lapping the liquor off of his own face. Kenny tries to give him a kiss, but the fat boy just swats the blonde away.

"Kyle," Kenny sidles up to me, "How've you been?"

"Not bad," I say, although that's kind of a lie, "I got a job. Isn't that why we're celebrating?"

Kenny glances at me in surprise, and then whoops, "No. We're celebrating Stan, my man, being single again!"

"What?"

Shocked, I'm staring at Stan now, who just ducks his head and shrugs.

"You guys broke up?" I demand, coming up behind him since he refuses to move from that damned barstool. He looks up at me, expression unreadable.

"Wendy and I are on a break," he tells me hesitantly, ocean colored eyes dark.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not," he mutters. Then he turns away from me and goes back to whatever it was he'd been doing. I've narrowed it down to staring at the toxic green liquid in the Midori bottle or looking at Craig's butt. I'm really hoping it's the former.

Not that Stan looking at Craig's butt bothers me or anything. Except in the homophobic, ew gross, kind of way.

Kenny, who had delved deep into conversation with Cartman about something I overheard but refuse to think about because I'll have to gouge my eyes out should my mind even flicker to what was said (think anal beads, and then go dirtier), decided to start paying attention to us again.

"Still fighting?" her murmurs n my ear.

"We're not fighting," I rebuttal, but really I don't know what's going on with Stan and I, so that might be entirely inaccurate.

Smirking slightly, my blue-eyed buddy rolls his eyes. He takes hold of my arm, his grip tighter than it should be. I think mechanic-ing his way through life is giving Kenny unnecessary muscle. I preferred it when he was just a skinny little shit with a future that only promised unemployment, lung cancer, and alcoholism. That's not true. I'm just being grouchy. Kenny pulls us both up by our elbows, promising Cartman and Craig we'll be right back after a teensy weensy cigarette break. Never mind that neither Stan nor I smoke, or the fact that Craig actually does. Smoking wasn't the only thing Kenny wanted to do.

"Guys," he places us a side by side next to the neon lights that brightly announce the presence of Craig's bar amongst row after row of mundane red brick buildings, examining us each with a critical look and a cigarette dangling between his fingers, "You're both moping."

Stan grunts something unintelligible in reply and snatches the pack hanging out of Kenny's pocket. He taps a cigarette out for himself, and then one for me. When he hands it to me, I take it, my fingers brushing against Stan in the first real contact I've had with him in the past week. Him trying to get Kenny off me before doesn't count.

"You don't smoke Kyle," Kenny glares at me disapprovingly, and then takes a place against the wall between me and my super-former-current-really-fucking-confused-right-now-best-friend. I notice he doesn't say a thing to Stan, who flicks the lighter open, the flame sparking to life in the darkness of the alley. He then inhales and exhales like a pro. I light up too, determined to show that I did learn something those days I smoked in college, kissing the tip of my cigarette up against Kenny's and breathing in deeply. I used to be a social smoker, but I never really liked doing it without alcohol involved. Mostly because of the promise I made to Stan. He must have forgotten, since he handed me the cigarette. I kind of count this as not breaking the promise. Also, like I said, I broke it once or twice in college, but only when I was drunk. Seeing as I'm halfway gone now, this counts. Anyway, he's not saying a word. It kind of hurts to think that he doesn't remember.

After I proceed to awe them both with my smoke rings, I tell Kenny, "You're such a fucking cliché, you know that?"

In a bored voice he asks, "How so?"

"You're giving yourself lung cancer with these things," I wave my cigarette in front of his face, and then proceed to suck on it like its oxygen, only speaking again when I exhale, "And you know it. Because you always die."

"Everyone dies eventually," Kenny shrugs, "At least this way, I'm choosing how I get to go. It's nice to have that option once or twice."

"That's really depressing," Stan scoffs, eyes focused on a streetlight a little ways away. It reminds me of the way Craig was so intent on watching the baseball game, and I wonder what exactly Stan's looking for up there. He's so…capricious lately. And I know that unpredictable things are caused by anger, fear, and love. So what's Stan's reason? He definitely had anger over being abandoned. Did he fear anything? It took a lot for me to think of anything my brave once best friend had ever been afraid of. And did Stan love anything? Well, that just brought us back to anger. About Wendy, I guessed. About broken friendships…I don't know. I really don't know anything about Stan, which sucks, because I thought I knew everything.

"You need to make up," Kenny reasons, blowing smoke into Stan's face just to watch the dark haired boy shy away.

"We're not fighting," he growls back, "Right Kyle?"

"Oh-uh," I mutter, intelligence shining through once more, "Um. Right."

Funny how I'd been kind of under the impression we were. I guess he didn't want to let on, just like when Kenny had asked me before. I think the blonde's kind of insulted that we're not having a big heart to heart in front of him, but he's too chill to really show it.

That's one of the things I love about Kenny. Even though he's a nosy bastard, he's still hyper-aware of when he's toeing the line.

"If you say so," he shrugs and throws his cigarette to the ground, stomping it out with the sole of his Timberland boot, which is as scuffed and stained as everything else he owns. To my chagrin he turns towards me and gives me this cutesy, flirtatious smile that he's totally faking just 'cause he knows it makes me uncomfortable, "Ky-le. Let's go back inside and get a drink."

I refuse to be intimidated by my friends, even though they get their jollies off by fucking with me. How do you think I've managed to stay connected with Cartman for so long?

I return his smile, making sure to put every ounce of sex appeal I have in it, doing this little shoulder shrug thing and saying brightly, "Sure thing Ken."

He doesn't even bat an eyelash. Instead, I think he's proud. He's always on my ass about being too uptight.

Stan just mutters something that sounds like 'fags', which might be an appropriate description of Kenny, or perhaps him, but is totally off-base when it comes to me. Mature as ever, I stick my tongue out at him before following Kenny back into Craig's bar.

"Jesus H, guys, took you long enough," Cartman whines the second we find our way back to the bar. Craig's ready with more whiskey. This time it's straight up. For the record, whiskey is so not my favorite drink. I know it's supposed to be manly and everything, but the whiskey sour I bitched about before tasted a hell of a lot better. Not that I'd ever tell Cartman or Kenny that.

Ever.

"I don't get why you two are so desperate to get drunk anyway," I say, after downing the liquor as fast as possible. That's really the best way to tackle a drink that tastes medicine-foul; drink it so quickly that all you feel is burn.

Kenny gives me this look that kind of screams 'what twenty three year old boy wouldn't want to get drunk?', but all he says is, "Well shit. Yer' just brim-full of fancy, hoity-toity virtue ain'tcha?"

It was a dead on impression of his father.

"Don't ever do that again," Cartman tells him, and I nod my head vigorously in agreement. Back when we were kids, Kenny definitely had a bit of his parents' redneck drawl, but he'd sort of broken himself of it once sixth grade rolled around. Partially because Stan and I had helped, embarrassed that he was driving away the girls.

Kenny gives us a smug smile and wordlessly finishes his drink. He turns to me, "So why do you think Stan and Wendy broke up?"

"Dunno," I reply, suddenly very interested in the way the ice melted into my glass. I dig a cube out, popping it in my mouth, "Maybe she found out."

"Chewing ice is a sign of sexual frustration," Cartman interjects casually. We both ignore him.

"I doubt that," Kenny's eyes roll up to the ceiling, deep in thought, "I kind of got the impression that he was the one who prompted it."

"You're really interested in Stan's relationship."

Serious, he turns to me, "Only because I thought you would be. You're the one who's been hell bent on talking about Marsh twenty four seven since you got back."

"That's-" I feel my face burn, "That's different."

"If you say so," quiet, he sips on his drink, "Kyle?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you fuck me?"

I spit the ice cube out, and the projectile zooms right into Craig's head.

"Fucking watch it!" he yelps, flashing me the finger. I apologize, ducking my head so I don't have to see his evil glare, or meet Kenny's watchful eyes. Craig decides not to pursue it, instead hurrying off to help a young couple who just waltzed in. I watch his black haired head bob away.

"Well?" Kenny queries, undeterred.

"Are you serious?"

"I'm seriously," he grins, and even though I'm sure (read: hoping to God) that Cartman wasn't paying attention, he elbows Kenny in the ribs and tells him to mind his filthy po' boy mouth.

"What, you've got a patent on the phrase?" Kenny demands from the fat fuck, who simply crosses his arms and replies, "Actually, yes. I do. You have a problem with that, Kenneh?"

Ever wise, Kenny drops the subject. Apparently it's much more important that he embarrasses the hell out of me, "Sorry Kyle. I mean, I'm serious."

"I don't think I'm entirely comfortable with that. Sorry, dude."

Dead cool, he says, "I don't buy that answer."

"What?" I squeak, wondering why he won't believe me. I've never thought about Kenny that way. I mean, when he first told me he liked dick, I did have that vision of him all sweaty and horizontal, but it's not like I've been having wet dreams about him. I don't think. I don't usually remember my dreams, even when they are of that nature. So Kenny could have had a cameo, maybe.

But I'm not gay, so probably not.

Before I can formulate an answer, Cartman has me by the arm, and I see that Stan has decided to deign us with his presence. Just my luck, I can't escape the meaty hand wrapped around my bicep, and Stan's dutifully avoiding my gaze. Kenny doesn't bother trying to save me, and I can't figure out whether or not I'm relieved.

I stumble after Cartman, who takes me out the same door Kenny lead me through only ten minutes ago, except he isn't satisfied standing beneath the sickly halo of the neon signs. He pulls me down the street, into a dark alley.

"Why were you hesitating?" he asks.

"What?"

"Why were you hesitating to answer Kenneh?" his eyes are dark and dangerous, cinnamon on fire like those flaming drinks Craig makes.

"I didn't," I reply, bewildered as to how this is any of Cartman's business. The night is blanketing the whole alley, masking our presence from the rest of Denver, and from our friends only a little ways away.

"You did," he accuses.

"Why do you care?"

I regret asking. The fat boy abruptly has me pinned up against a wall, and I think maybe he's got a kink for trying to ravish helpless Jews or something, because just like that time at the library I can't escape. However, I'm prepared this time when he tries to kiss me, but not enough. I can't help but be surprised when he lowers his lips to mine more chastely than I thought the Neo-Nazi could possibly be capable of, rather than reenacting the bruising kiss I'd experienced before.

"You didn't take the hint last time," he whispers, his lips brushing over mine as they move. My eyes flicker open and I see his are wide too, as warm and brown as honey, all signs of menace extinguished. Funny how I still feel trapped.

I don't know what to say. What hint am I supposed to be taking? Even though this moment is akin to seeing the softer, gentler side of Eric Cartman, I don't believe for a second that it's real.

I'm sick of having my head fucked with. His lips are still there, his breath hot and scented like a mixture of corn chips and whiskey. Using all the pent up frustration that's been building over the last two months, I shove him away, hard. He stumbles back, his butt hitting the asphalt. I hear his breath whoosh out of him with an 'oomph', but I'm too pissed off to care.

"Jew, what the fuck?" he demands, and even in the dark I can see the scrapes on his palms where he tried to catch himself on the cement.

"You are a ridiculous bastard, you know that?" I practically scream at him, "I'm so sick of this hot and cold thing you're playing at. You kiss me, then you ignore me, and now you're trying to kiss me and tell me what? That you like me?"

Unabashed, Cartman mutters, "Well, yeah. If you weren't so thick, you probably would have picked up on that."

At the mouth of the alley, I see an odd assortment of business men and party girls beginning to assemble, wanting to catch what all the commotion is about.

"Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!" I yell, not caring that I'm starting to attract a lot of attention, "I don't for a second believe that. You have some scheme going, and I don't want any part of it. Asshole."

I spit on the sidewalk, although not directly on him, and then march away. Technically speaking, I just threw a hissy fit. I don't care. He's using me for something, even if I can't pinpoint what, and I won't get taken advantage like that again. And if he's not…well…

Cartman will get over it, right? Right? There was something in his eyes, when he kissed me…still, it's not like any of them are in love with me or anything. Kenny just wants sex, I think. Cartman's just fucking with me. I think. Um.

No. I don't think. I know. It's Cartman; obese, sadistic, anti-Semitic, son of a whore Cartman. He has a heart, I know that, and I don't underestimate him because I think he doesn't. The thing's just so buried beneath the folds of his fat that it doesn't really connect with his brain.

Since when did life get so confusing? I trek back into the bar, shoulders slumped and forlorn as can be. Stan's cradling Kenny's body in a booth across from the bar; I think the mechanic passed the fuck out. Meanwhile, he's deep in conversation with Craig, whom I've never seen look more animated. Maybe he really is in love with Stan, and that whole Token thing was honestly a line. Stranger things have happened.

To my surprise, when I get closer I hear Bebe's name being dropped repeatedly. Craig's going on about Bebe and Butters like the two are akin to the bubonic plague, but I can't quite figure out why he's so upset with them. It sounds like they did something to really piss him off, which is kind of confusing to me. I never realized they were even friends with Craig.

"Stan," I interrupt, "Is Kenny okay?"

He glances down at the mechanic, "Yeah. Think so. Just a little trashed."

"He always goes overboard when he drinks," I say fondly, patting my friend's head. He snorts a little in his liquor induced sleep. Craig glances at him distastefully, and I notice that he and Stan have discontinued their conversation. I wonder if I really did intrude.

"Aye!" Cartman storms into the bar, barely squeezing himself through the door, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Drinking, fuckwit," I mutter darkly.

Cartman opens his mouth to say something nasty, I'm sure, but Stan asks, "What's he going on about?"

The brown haired boy freezes. I grin in triumph, knowing that he'll be too embarrassed to admit he was trying to kiss me in front of Stan, Craig, and the entire bar.

'I win' I mouth at him, which he returns with a vicious snarl and a glower.

At least I feel like I got something accomplished tonight.

We drink for another hour, leaving Kenny to snore away in the same booth Craig and Stan had been in. Craig joins us in the festivities, but it doesn't really seem like much of a celebration to me. If anything, the overall atmosphere is tense and unyielding. I think Craig's relieved when we finally decide to skip out on our tab. He doesn't even complain about it.

I help carry Kenny to the parking garage where Cartman's car is, then pause at the entrance.

"What are you doing, Jew?"

I glance at Stan, who's trailing behind us and more than a little unsteady on his feet. If I know Cartman, he'll throw Stan in front of the doorstep of his apartment and abandon him there.

"I think I'm going to take Stan home," I explain, "And you can take Kenny."

Cartman frowns, "Why?"

I shrug, "His house is close to mine."

I can tell that Cartman wants to argue all our houses are close together, but he sort of heaves a sigh and gives in. He casts one last look at me.

"I want to kill you over and over and over again," Cartman groans, heaving Kenny's body over his shoulder and carrying him to his car. I admit to being slightly worried when he throws the blonde into the back seat, but then I see that Kenny merely curls into a little ball and lets loose a content smile. Cartman glares daggers at the poor boy, but he continues to blissfully, ignorantly sleep.

I usher Stan into my car, where he proceeds to stare out the window and fiddle with my radio for the entirety of the drive home. It's rather annoying. There's nothing to look at out there but blue-white snow, and thick cloud cover hazing over the stars. Trust me, I know.

Right before we pull up to his apartment buildings, Stan says, "No."

"No what, dude?"

"I don't want to go to my place."

"Um, why?"

"Wendy's there."

"Why is Wendy in your apartment? Doesn't she live with her parents?"

"Yeah, but…" he sighs, "She stays over a lot, and she doesn't want to tell her mom and dad what's going on with us. So I said she could stay over."

I scowl, "Well, what do you want me to do?"

He looks up at me, all child-like innocence that I don't honestly believe, "Can I stay at your place."

Jesus.

"Okay," I sigh, "Fine."

We get back to my place. We get back to my place, and since my parents and little brother are all fast asleep, I break out the bottle of vodka I've kept hidden for a special occasion. I have a feeling that Stan and I are about to have a conversation, and I'd rather be drinking my way through it. I worked up a light buzz at the bar, but the long drive here killed it. Now I need to be drunk.

We're in my kitchen, where the light is silver from the moonlight just barely making its way through the clouds. We don't turn on the lights for fear they'll wake my mom, and even though we're legal, she'll still throw a fit if she sees us drinking at…shit, three in the morning. I coerce Stan into a game of 'up the river, down the river' which happens to be my favorite get-drunk-quick fix.

About halfway through, he looks at me.

"Kyle, dude," Stan's frowning, "If something's wrong, you can always tell me. Even if we've been all…distant."

I smile at this admission, "I know."

Whose fault does he think the distance is, I wonder?

"You know we were really getting along there, for a little while," I tell him.

"We're still getting along," Stan says, studying his cards. He's never played this game before, and he's been getting royally screwed.

"This last week or so…"

Fuck it. I hate sounding like a girl. I don't want to talk about my feelings anymore. Just fuck it.

"I know. There's…this thing…"

"Oh. Whatever dude. Are we cool?" I ask, trying to brush it all under the table. I'm trying to get rid of all the problems between us. I'm trying to pretend that everything's magically okay again, that he doesn't have to explain himself to me. I'll be okay, if he doesn't explain.

He blinks, "We're cool."

I'm staring into the depths of my glass, filled with fizzing soda pop and vodka. I ask Stan to pick a suit. He chooses clubs. I tell him to drink eight. He does. He downs it, clutching the glass like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

"I would love to know what's been going on with you," Stan tells me honestly, his cobalt eyes contrasting with the dark hair hanging in front of them, "We haven't been hanging out much."

It's an apology, I think. I smile. I guess I really was worried for nothing. I hope.

"You wouldn't believe what's been going on, dude," I'm already grinning in anticipation of his reaction, which I predict will be hilarious. I can't believe how far off base I am. The second I'm done telling him what Cartman's done, what Kenny's been hinting at, he snaps. His rage comes from nowhere, like a storm that appears without warning on a cloudless day.

Stan's eyes close. His breathing is rapid. Furious, he squeezes the glass in his hand. I watch wordlessly as it shatters, spilling my mixed concoction across the cards, across the table, all over the linoleum. Why is he so angry? The glass flies everywhere, but I barely notice it graze my skin, more concerned with the fact that Stan's hand had just been shredded.

"Fuck dude," I mutter, hurrying to his side and taking hold of his wrist to assess the damage, my elbow settling in the sticky mess of his playing cards, "What the fuck's wrong with you?"

Stan's face, red with rage, contorts. His eyes fly open, "They don't love you, Kyle!"

"W-what," I stutter, letting go of his hand so that the blood drips onto the floor.

"Kenny doesn't love you; he's just looking for someone to bang, someone who doesn't feel sorry for him and who'll just treat him like a fucking human being. Cartman doesn't love you either; his mind's just so fucking twisted by juvie that he thinks all that pent up rage he had towards you was actually sexual frustration. He's mistaking his hatred for love."

I think of Cartman's eyes when he tried to kiss me and know that Stan's wrong. Even though I dismissed it as an evil plot or something, there was definitely more to whatever Cartman's thinking than plain sexual frustration. And Kenny…I have no idea what's going on with Kenny, so I don't even try to defend him. Plus I'm just so confused as to where this is coming from that I can't form words anyway.

The dark haired boy is breathing heavily, and I remember that his hand is bleeding all over my kitchen. I hurry back to his side as he mutters, "They don't love you…"

"Okay," I tell him quietly, trying to pick the shards of glass I can see from his palm. When I realize it's futile what with all the blood I coax him over to the sink. Turning on the faucet I meet his serious eyes, which are more sad than angry now.

"I love you."

I blink, "More than Cartman and Kenny?"

It was a stupid thing to say, of course, but honestly Stan is drunk. I doubt he knows much of what he's saying.

"Don't joke about it."

Clean his hand. I focus on that, picking the glistening shards out, soaking his hand, picking more out. It's a process.

"Okay."

"You don't believe me," he says bluntly.

"I do."

I look at him. I really look at him. He looks entirely sober. He looks like I'll shatter his world if I say something wrong. It makes me not want to say anything at all.

I think he might try to kiss me.

I think I don't want him to kiss me.

"I'll go get bandages."

He watches me as I bust my ass to get out of the kitchen, away from him, far away. My heart's pounding, and I don't know why. I rummage through the drawers in my bathroom. When I find the bandages, I glance up. I see my eyes, crystal clear. There's something in them, but I don't know what. Fuck. I'm drunk.

I tentatively make my way back down the stairs, back to him.

He's gone.

A/N: Ummmmmm….I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter. I think I might have tried to fit too much into it. But I really wanted to move forward, plus I have to do a full system recovery of my computer tomorrow, and by posting this at least I know it's backed up online. And don't worry, Cartman's still going to be Cartman in the end. The next chapter probably won't have much Stan, but lots of Kenny. So yes. We've still got a while to go. Reviews are muchly appreciated!