You Can Never Go Back

Chapter Fourteen: I Got An Arsenal, An Infantry, I'm Built For This Mentally

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Uhmmmm….yeah. No lengthy note today. I will say that I'm currently watching The Coon, and any doubts I had about Butters and Cartman being a good couple have now vanished. I mean, way to make the Batman/Joker thing come to life…Oh, and I guess some of my transitions in the chapters are kind of abrupt; a reviewer pointed that out. I'm sorry. I just suck at blending things together well…ooh. :is distracted by snow flurry outside:

Thanks again to everyone for your reviews. You guys are pure fawesomeness. (fucking+awesome+ness, in case that wasn't totally obvious).

"Do you remember that time that Kenny died of syphilis?"

Stan glares at me, "That stopped being so amusing after I contracted it."

Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Oops. I shrug and fall back on Stan's bed. It's a nice bed. King sized, with a big blue and gold comforter, and sheets with a high thread count. Not that I know anything about thread counts. Okay, maybe a little, but don't tell anyone. My mother's a bed sheet Nazi. She made sure we only got the best growing up.

"Did you contract it here?" I ask, wrinkling my nose and poking one of his pillows, "Should I be worried?"

Stan frowns at me. Apparently syphilis is not okay to joke about.

A thought trickles absently through my mind. I wonder how he and Wendy are doing. I wonder if he still…for lack of a less faggy way to phrase it, I wonder if he still makes love to her. Here. On this bed. Where I've got my face buried in the comforter, and possible jizz stains.

Sick, dude.

I sit back up, "You know, when you invited me over to spend time together, I figured that we'd be doing something other than moping around your apartment."

His eyes crinkle at the edges when he makes a face. It's cute, really.

"I was just getting to that. Kenny's St. Patrick's Day party is in like, four hours, right? So I was thinking that we could kill the time by watching a movie."

I raise an eyebrow. This is his great idea?

"Dude, I don't want to shell out ten bucks to go see some lame ass blockbuster shit."

He looks hurt. I watch him run a hand through his thick, dark hair, sigh and say, "No, man. I meant on my TV. I rented a bunch. We could make popcorn…I mean, if you think my idea sucks…"

"Oh. Uh. It- it doesn't suck," I say to the ceiling, not really sure what else to do. I mean okay, it's not the most original of ideas, but why is he getting so defensive of it?

We set up his DVD player with some nineties slasher flick that's probably going to blow. Popping popcorn's making the whole kitchen smell like melted butter. I settle myself on his couch. It's hard to get comfortable what with my bruised ribs and everything. Gee, now who do I have to thank for that? I'm not too chuffed about it though. At least my bruises can be hidden. Stan's had to take a lot of shit from his coworkers because of his lovely black and blues. In turn, I've taken the brunt of his annoyance over it. He should just feel lucky I didn't rearrange his face, although with the purple swelling around his eye, it looks like he just went through some sort of cheekbone reconstruction.

For some reason I can't get my mind off of whether or not Stan and Wendy are still doing it. Do they bang like animals? What's their favorite position? Do they do it here, on this very sofa?

What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I going mental? Those are probably more appropriate questions.

We watch the FBI warning roll by. It's one of those DVDs where you can't skip the intros. Sneaky bastards.

Conversation. Conversation is a good thing. It's a good way to take my mind off whether or not Stan likes foreplay.

I must be coming down with something. It's the only explanation for the graphic thoughts scarring my brain. I press the back of my hand against my cheek. No fever. Somehow I'm not surprised.

"Where's Shelly? I thought she was home this week. I figured you wouldn't be able to hang."

"Free pass today," Stan smiles that killer smile of his, "I think she's trying out for that Bollywood movie their filming in town square."

"The one where they keep singing about cheese and handcuffs? And that one guy is wearing really tight jeans and smoking all the time."

Stan raises an eyebrow, "Cheese and handcuffs?"

"That's what it sounds like. I don't speak Hindi."

"O-kay then. Well, yeah, that's the one. I hope she makes it. It would be hilarious to see her trying to dance in some foreign film."

"Those girls aren't wearing much," I point out, having already titillated myself a few times by walking by the square just to catch a glimpse of the girls' skimpy outfits, "Are your parents okay with it?"

"I think my mom's trying out too," Stan sighs, "And when I asked why, they told me-"

He pauses and readies his mock-mother voice, "It's so cultural!"

The microwave beeps. Stan excuses himself to get the popcorn, and I hear him rattling around in the kitchen; the clatter of the bowl he grabs, the crinkle of the bag as he empties it. I feel the couch cushion give way under my butt as he makes himself comfortable beside me. He's close. Maybe a little too close.

I glare at him. He shrugs innocently and says, "How else are we going to share?"

Yeah. Okay. That makes sense. I lean back, and Stan uses the remote to select 'play' from the DVD menu. Creepy piano music trickles into the room as the screen goes dark before the credits start.

I spend about a good hour forgetting my problems in a world full of blood and perky breasts. The movie's not really scary, just gross. Occasionally Stan and I make some kind of crude comment, mocking the film's…well, everything. There's just so much to make fun of.

A sampling of our commentary follows:

"You know the only reason he wants to kill all these people is because that one chick didn't give him any,"

And…

"Dude, do you know what we could do with that much pot?"

And…

"She just spreads her legs for everyone, doesn't she?"

And…

"That's okay; you don't need that part to live. Agh, maybe you need that one."

And…

"Oh man. He's going to kill you now. You totally just stole some of his weed."

And…

"That's so wrong. Necrophilia is baaaad, Mr. Serial Killer. Dude, do you think anyone's ever tried to get off with Kenny's body when he's dead?"

Yeah. We aren't really intellectual about our critiques.

So the movie's nearing the end. At least I assume it is, since most everybody's died except the nubile young virgin. I reach into the popcorn bowl, my hand scraping bottom just around the same time that Stan decides to do the same. His fingertips brush over my knuckles, and I can hardly hold back the gasp that bubbles up from my throat. It wasn't electric or anything like that. It's just I hadn't expected…I hadn't thought…I just hadn't been prepared, okay? Alright? Good enough for you? Fuck.

I can't concentrate on the rest of the movie. When the end comes, I don't even know whether the virgin died.

Maybe I'll skip Kenny's party. I check my forehead, ignoring my still tingling skin.

I still don't feel feverish.

Balls.

Kenny's St. Patrick's Day party is a tradition spanning back…all of this year. Actually, this is the first time he's thrown the bash, but Kenny's notorious for parties, so there's no lack of people crowded into his apartment. He shelled out for three kegs. Three. Do you know how much drinking it takes to polish off three kegs, not to mention the handles lining his glossy linoleum countertop? I'll tell you. Enough to get every person in here wasted, as well as half of Colorado.

I'm in heaven.

That sounds like something an alcoholic would say. I'm not an alcoholic. It's just been a very long week. Long and torturous.

I'm sitting on Kenny's couch, cradling a red cup full of something sickly sweet and a bag of sour cream and onion chips on my lap. Funny how I don't have dirty thoughts about what shenanigans Kenny gets up to on his couch. I'm not going to think about that. I'm going to think about that cute blonde standing near the keg in the corner, and the way her legs just don't seem to stop. Yeah. There's my happy place.

Am I allowed to be having thoughts about other girls when my date with Red's tomorrow? It's not like we're going to make a habit out of it or anything. I'm not her boyfriend. What the hell am I thinking? She's a stripper, she won't care.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I imagine my mother saying, 'Now Bubbalah, strippers have feelings too.' I wonder if my mom's ever tried to support some cause for strippers. Do they have a union for that sort of thing? The Union of Strippers? Or, excuse me, Exotic Dancers?

I see Stan, ever the chivalrous knight, standing in the kitchen and mixing Wendy a drink. Wendy, his girlfriend. Wendy, the girl he makes love to on the couch where I sat. Maybe.

I think I need to shoot myself in the head. It's the only way to make the thoughts go away. Bad, wicked thoughts.

I take a long chug out of my cup, surprising myself when seconds later I come up empty. No more liquor? Wow. That was some strong shit, too. I just drank it down like water. I guess I should get some more.

This gives me the opportunity to spring up and walk over to Stan and Wendy. They're talking. She's giggling. Her lips are painted candy apple red, like a street prostitute. She's wearing another one of those cleavage baring shirts, and a pair of skin tight jeans that must have been sewn on. With her curves, she looks stunning. I resent her for it, and I don't know why.

Stan's idea of party casual is a pair of brown cords, tight in places that I'm trying to keep my eyes away from, and loose down near his ankles. He's got on a black band t-shirt. I've never heard of the band, and I've never liked him in black. It brings back memories of all those emo-pussy phases he used to go through every time he got dumped by a girl. Um, I mean, those 'sensitive phases'. Right. At least the color matches his bruises.

Kenny stalks up, takes a look at my empty cup, snatches it from me, and hands me his. He then proceeds to fill the cup he stole with beer and chug it all down in barely five seconds flat. Following this, he slings an arm around Stan's neck and burps, "What's going on guys? Feeling a little Irish yet?"

He waggles his eyebrows in an exaggerated way.

"You're disgusting, McCormick," Wendy wrinkles her nose. His belch did kind of smell.

"Kyle, you're not drinking."

I frown at him. He stares back, unblinking. I wave the cup he handed to me in front of his face. He doesn't bat an eyelash.

Sighing, I start downing the cup. That's when he smiles. Cocky asshole.

"When this party is over, nobody better be able to see straight," he crows, planting a kiss on Stan's cheek. The dark haired boy scowls at him, looking like he's trying quite hard not to regurgitate whatever he just swallowed. Wendy just crosses her arms and gives Kenny a sour look.

I, on the other hand, am attempting to suppress a viper quick attack of venom coursing through my veins. I want to shove Kenny away from Stan. Or maybe I want to shove Stan away from Kenny. I'm not sure. All I know is that I don't like them touching like that. I don't like Kenny kissing Stan. I don't…I don't know what the hell's wrong with me.

I finish my drink, crushing the cup and throwing it on Kenny's floor. Time to go talk to that hot blonde.

Two hours later, the blonde's disappeared and I'm on the couch again, crushed between Kenny and Stan. Kenny's belting out some lilting Irish lullaby. He's got the voice of an angel. Those singing lessons his parents paid for back in grade school really paid off.

The party's still in full swing, but nobody seems to be taking note of us. I saw Bebe earlier, waltzing by in some glitzy little pink number, Butters hot on her heels. I think they stayed just long enough to pilfer a handle of Stoli and then scarpered into Kenny's bedroom.

At least my fascination with how other people get it on doesn't extend to them. I don't think I'd be able to ever gouge the image of Bebe and Butters getting all sweaty and horizontal out of my brain if it appeared.

There've been a couple of other familiar faces in the throng of the party, but the most I've gotten from anyone is a 'hi' and 'is the keg tapped out yet?' It doesn't matter. I caught up with everyone I wanted to at the informal reunion a few weeks back.

Now Kenny's singing some ballad about the IRA.

"Dude," I groan, shifting against him. Stan's head falls into my lap, his breath hot on my thigh, even through the denim of my artfully torn jeans. I want Wendy to come cart him off, but she left half an hour ago for work, giving Stan a chaste goodbye kiss and assessing that we looked like two peas in a pod. That was before Kenny decided to serenade us with songs about revolutionaries.

"Dude," I try again, ignoring the warmth on my leg, "I don't think its PC to sing about the IRA at a St. Patrick's Day party."

"Why not?" Kenny sing songs back, "Ireland's free, I'm free, you're free, everyone's free! You know what we're free to do? Drink! Let's get blitzed!"

Some guy whoops in agreement, and Kenny proceeds to convince him to muster us up another round of drinks. Just what we need. I try to shift Stan's head on my lap, but all that succeeds in doing is putting his mouth closer to my cock. Which is not where I want his mouth.

My package decides to disagree, twitching half-heartedly as he sighs comfortably and hugs his arms around my waist.

Oh, god. Could he just stop BREATHING already? My hormones can't take this.

Not that I am in any way attracted to Stan. It's just…I'm a guy, and there's a face in my crotch. I'm sorry. I challenge anyone to resist that kind of temptation.

Maybe that's not a good argument.

Shut up.

I command my dick to stop reacting. Yeah, that's right. I'm in control here.

Oops. Not so much.

Please?

I glance down. Stan's head is there, his hair all glossy and black as a raven's wing. In my lap. Near my…

I'm not gay.

I'm not.

I'm just drunk as fuck. Yeah. That's a good excuse.

Stan shifts again, and I groan. He's definitely got something hard poking him in the cheek now, and I'm thinking he might be faking this alcohol induced nap, because it can't be comfortable to have my boner rubbing up against his bruises. I can't believe I actually just made it through that thought coherently. Sick with myself, I jump to my feet, letting Stan's head fall hard against the cushions. He moans slightly, but doesn't wake up. I guess I was wrong about him faking it.

Great. So I just got turned on by a sleeping guy. A completely innocent, perfectly asleep guy.

Time to find the blonde again. Maybe she'll forgive me for calling her love handles cute.

Kenny got his wish. I woke up this morning with my mouth tasting like stale vomit, feeling so light headed and dizzy that I could barely make it down the stairs for breakfast. My little brother spent the whole of it gushing about some hockey team, while I wished I could drown him in his cereal bowl just so the noise would go away.

I smelled like a brewery, and my mom noticed. She spent most of the morning giving me dark looks, but I managed to escape a lecture on being a corrupt, base creature. Her disappointment has been emanating off her in waves, but I'm kind of used to it by now. I've been putting up with her 'my son, the college flunkout' looks for months now. I can take her 'my son, the depraved sodomite' looks. Not that I've been doing any sodomizing. Or been sodomized in return, thank you very much.

It's okay. I'm ready to swear off inebriation forever with this hangover. It's nearly time for my date, and I still haven't been able to shake the pounding headache, although my stomach doesn't feel nearly as rebellious as it did this morning.

Now I'm hoping for a night of heterosexual debauchery, minus the stimulants.

I walk into the kitchen, which is scorching hot from the meal my mother's been preparing for some business dinner my dad's having. It's so bright. Why do lights have to be so bright?

"Bubhie," mom glances up, surprised, "Do you need something?"

"Aspirin," I moan, ignoring the disapproving look she casts me. What? Am I supposed to pretend I don't know that she doesn't know that I spent my night worshipping the porcelain gods?

She purses her lips and doesn't say anything. I wonder if those lines near her mouth have always been there. I wonder if those creases in her forehead are old, or if I put them there. Is she aging so fast because I'm an epic screw up, or has this progression been going on in secret for years, and it's only just starting to show?

I clear my throat and take a seat at the kitchen table, announcing, "So…I have a date."

She whirls towards me, all traces of displeasure replaced with a mixture of surprise and delight.

"Kyle, that's wonderful!"

Yeah, I'm excited too. I've got a date.

With a girl.

See, mom thinks I'm a good hetero. She didn't ask what gender the person I have a date with is. The thought probably didn't even cross her mind.

Why is it crossing mine?

"Yeah," I say, and she hurries over to take a seat across from me, her eyes urging me to tell her all about it. I decide to leave out the part about Red's job, "With a girl from high school."

"Is she nice? Pretty? What does she do?"

She's got a nice mouth. Bombastic ass. Dancer. Exotic.

"Uhm, yeah."

She accepts that as a response to all three. That's my mom. Ever supportive. She's just happy that I'm starting to settle back into living in South Park. Now I have a job, friends, and a girl? It's the trifecta in a Jewish mother's eyes.

My mom's hand covers mine, and she smiles, kindly. I can tell she's proud. Her palm is warm. Kind of sweaty, actually. It would be; she's been bustling around the kitchen nonstop for the past three hours. But something is off about this. I think of Stan. I think of his fingers touching my hand, ever so lightly, and how freaked out it made me.

…Because his touch hadn't felt JUST warm. His fingertips had touched my hand, and sure, okay, it had gone straight to my dick. But it had also gone straight to my toes, to my heart. It had given me tingles.

My jaw goes slack. I can tell my sudden lack of expression is putting off my mom, who withdraws her touch. I don't care.

Oh, sweet lord.

Why am I realizing this now? My date with Red's in half an hour.

I'M NOT GAY.

I can't be.

A/N: You know, I recently was playing around with two new fic ideas- I know, more???- and I realized there's only so many ways to tweak the friend dynamic between the foursome, especially if you're trying to keep Cartman in character and not add in any new ones. Oh well. I'm doing my best. Look forward to two new fics relatively soon. I could say I'll hold them off until this is finished, but once I get an idea in my mind it plagues me until I get it written, so that would be a lie. One will be pure style (and third person!), and one will actually be a craig/clyde/token love triangle (with a helping of style and k/k on the side).

I might be writing them all day, actually, since I plan on not moving from my laptop, bed, or TV until the Battlestar Galactica marathon and series finale is over…which isn't for over another eight hours. I love Fridays. I'm such a bum. And a geek. And a bum. Maybe I'll take a nap. That way I'll be refreshed for my OTP Lee/Kara!!! Sorry Stan. Sorry Kyle. It's time for some heterosexual lovin' tonight.