You Can Never Go Back

Chapter 2: I Faced My Life Alone

By: Jondy Macmillan

Disclaimer: Is in the first chapter. Read it. Love it. Believe it.

A/N: Alright, so, I'm actually trying to update this regularly. I don't know if that's how it will happen, but hopefully…As an added note, the primary pairing in this fic is StanxKyle, naturally. But that doesn't mean there won't be other pairings (ie KylexCartman or KylexKenny, or say CraigxToken) I'm not entirely sure yet. So while this is a style fic, consider yourself warned. In other news, I've spent so long working on original stories over at fictionpress that's it's nice to be writing fics again. I hope everyone enjoys. Reviews=love.

Mom freaked. I mean, I guess I knew she would, but knowledge and experience are entirely different entities. It took three days for her to stop yelling, and even after that she couldn't stop looking at me with disappointment in her eyes.

"You were so close, Kyle," she'd tell me, like I didn't know.

Even at twenty three, your parents can be just as scary as they were when you were eight. Sure, I could find a way to make some quick cash and moved out, but that would just hurt my mom more. I'm not a bad kid. I want my parents to be proud of me.

My dad and little brother weren't any help either. Dad would scurry into his study the second I tried to approach him, similarly to a skittish cat. Ike was sympathetic enough, but seriously, he had only just hit puberty and discovered girls. High school was doing a number on him. I was lucky I got as much sympathy as I did. When I was in high school I probably wouldn't have noticed if the world ended, as long as I still had my friends and the occasional pretty girl hanging around.

Eventually I couldn't help bolting from the house any chance I got. I knew I needed to go job hunting, but ideally I would've preferred to put it off. Still, less than a week after I'd returned to South Park, I end up borrowing my mom's new cotton candy blue Kia so I could make the ride to Denver. I was going to have to buy my own car soon, once I got the money.

I frown, adjusting the seat and the mirrors so that I can see. My mom's so darned short that it takes a while for the seat to move back enough to make room for my legs.

Job hunting has never been one of my favorite things to do. It's all about appearances. Maybe it's because I've grown up in South Park, but I'm just a little less confident in mine than the average guy. I've tamed my thick red curls over the years into gentler waves, having frequented hair salons at a regular basis up in New England. It sounds kind of gay, but I prefer the word metrosexual. Ironic, hunh? Anyway, it could be worse. I could be one of those guys who gets weekly mani-pedis. Meeting my own eyes in the rearview mirror I snort, imagining it. I'm dressed in pin striped slacks and a black button down, and the nicest, most toe pinching shoes I could save from the back of my closet. But it doesn't matter how good I look. Once the interviewers take a look at my resume, I doubt a single one will hire me. That's not the kind of attitude you want to have going into a job, but I really can't force myself to care. Right now I'm more concerned with getting out of my house and away from my mother's stern gaze.

I visit several sites in Denver that I'd found in online job listings. No one wants me. I can hear it in their voices when they ask about my academic achievements and what I hope to gain in the future. I see it in their eyes when they question what I can do for their company. They ask me why I dropped out of school. I try to find the most delicate way to say I was kicked out. It doesn't work.

The best thing I can do is smile pretty and hope that maybe one of the female interviewers is drawn in by my charm.

After about the fifth place, I give up. Sighing, I sit on a bench outside some little coffee shop that's trying too hard to be trendy. I bought a cup of something I can't really pronounce, but now staring at the steaming brew, I find that I can't force myself to drink it.

Fuck Denver. It's not like I even want to work here. The commute is hell. Hours in a car aren't the ideal way to waste half your life. But South Park doesn't exactly have the kind of job opportunities I'm looking for. There I'll probably rot flipping burgers, even if I did somehow manage to take some night classes at the community college and finish out my degree. Setting the coffee aside, I prop my elbows on my knees, holding my head in my palms. Why does my life suck so much? What did I do wrong?

I wish I could call a friend and complain. Talking about my problems always made me feel better.

Then I remember. I don't have any friends.

I could call one of my university friends, but around this time, they'd be in class or work. Either way, they wouldn't really understand, not the way I need them to.

I sound like a fucking faggot.

Almost belligerently, I throw the coffee in the nearest trash can. You know what? I bet one day I'll look back at this period of my life and view it as my artistic phase. Long long in the future I'll see this as one of the beautiful follies of youth, because things just look better in the future. Like when people sing songs or write stories romanticizing the Holocaust. Everyone knows it sucked ass, that it was a literal blemish on human history. But now people can immortalize it with pretty words, using art to somehow make it look like a softer, kinder event. Oh dude. Did I just compare my life to the fucking Holocaust?

Furiously I shake my head. Things will get better. They have to.

Time passes. It always does. Before I know it, I've been in South Park for an entire month. My mother still won't look me in the eye, although she suggested I begin taking night classes when the new semester starts in the fall. It's a start, but it means I'll have to wait over half a year to do so. It's only February.

I try out job hunting in Denver about once a week. The rest of the time I spend in a futile attempt to beef up my resume by twisting words around and making myself sound more intelligent than I am.

After one particular job hunt, mom's Kia makes it to the outskirts of town right before it sputters and dies. I curse. I knew I should have gotten gas back near Denver. It costs so much that I'd thought to avoid it. If I'd just made it home mom would have filled it up, and then I wouldn't have had to worry. I'd been so preoccupied with the tires slipping on the icy roads that it had kind of slipped my mind anyway. Seriously, who buys a Kia when you have to deal with Colorado winters? Mom doesn't even have snow tires.

Used to the drive, I can see a tiny brown stone shopping complex down the way. It's not a gas station, but if I recall correctly, they have a mechanic's shop, a deli, and a DIY laundry. I think the shop is called Big Joe's. Maybe Big Joe will spare a gallon or two of gas, or if he doesn't have any, perhaps he can just tow me. Not feeling very optimistic, I set off, crossing my arms against the chill. I'm in my business attire, which wasn't made for tramping through the snow.

The mechanic's looks like every other mechanic's I've ever been to. There's a tiny, cluttered office bordered by a larger, still cluttered garage. Oil stains the floor of the garage in interesting patterns. A black escalade is in the center of the garage, windows half tinted. The only person there is working on the rest, treating the passenger side window with some sort of solution.

"Hello?" I try, hoping against all hope that this guy has gas.

"Just a second," the person grunts, apparently not even surprised by my entry. I wonder if he has one of those bell things, but then think that I would have heard it. My footsteps must have been loud enough.

Finally, the mechanic emerges from the side of the escalade. He's dressed in dirty brown coveralls rolled down to his waist and a black wife beater that still can't quite hide the stains of his profession. Oil is slick and brown against one of his sinewy shoulders, tracing a long line from what I can see of his collarbone. His face is marred here and there by a darker substance; probably the solution he was staining the windows with.

He smiles wide upon seeing me.

If anyone tells you that college won't change you, they're lying. They obviously go to some shitty ass community college or commute to a local university, and even then they're lying. Four years of your life, or in my case, five, pass by. It's impossible not to be changed by it.

Hell, Kenny McCormick didn't even go to college, and he sure looks nothing like the skinny, perverted guy I used to know. I almost had trouble recognizing him. Somewhere along the lines he'd become lean and muscular, with an angular face and a slightly crooked nose that looked like it had been broken at least once since I'd last seen him. His wild blonde hair had been cut short, although bits and pieces of it still strayed near his eyes, as though yearning for their former length.

He sees me and I can tell for a moment that he's taking me in. I wonder what he sees.

"You douchebag," he exclaims, eyes bright with sudden anger. I half-grin sarcastically as he continues his string of insults.

"You conniving, fuckfaced, assmaster, douche," he belts out again. Guess now I know how my old friends feel about me.

Then to my sudden surprise, he throws his arms around my neck so that I can smell his unique scent of stale cigarette smoke, engine grease, and some cheap bathwater cologne and hugs me tight, "Missed you, dude. Why'd you take so long to come home?"

Startled, I shrug off his hug, "Um, I…"

Kenny smiles. He was always so casual with his smiles, so carefree. The older I get, the less I find myself smiling or laughing, but Kenny hasn't seemed to encounter that problem. I don't think I've ever really seen him look miserable.

Finally I manage, "I thought you were mad at me."

"Sure," he replies easily, his hand tracing over the line of a wrench that hangs from his belt, "I'm royally pissed. You disappear for nearly four years without a word to any of your friends. Of course I'm pissed. Doesn't mean I didn't miss you. What, can't take a few insults?"

I break into a grin and exclaim, "Kenny!"

Now we share a full-fledged hug. Okay, it might be a little gay, but think of it this way. This is the first real human contact I've had with anyone other than my family and those ape-faced interviewers in a month. It's nice feeling like I might have a long lost friend.

"You work here," I observe, trying not to be Captain Obvious and miserably failing.

"Sure thing. Why, did you think I was Big Joe?"

Kenny asks why I showed up, and I explain that my car ran out of gas. Gravely he informs me that I shouldn't let the car do that; it will ruin my engine. I tell him that just means I'll see more of him.

"I don't give freebies for friends," he laughs.

It warms me to think that he still calls me a friend. He grabs an orange two gallon jug of gas, which I guess mechanics keep around for all those just-in-cases. We walk amiably to my mom's Kia. He asks why I'm home, and if I'm staying. I tell him the story, glad to finally tell someone who won't look at me like I ended my life prematurely. Kenny's a great listener. He's always sympathetic. By the time we reach the car I feel like maybe he'll be able to forgive me for ditching him and everyone else in South Park. I'm still not brave enough to broach the question of how everyone else is, particularly Cartman and Stan.

Just as I think I might get the guts to do it, I puss out and ask if he has a girlfriend instead. He grins and says, "Nope. The ladies aren't big on the engine grease."

I laugh, because he doesn't really look torn up over this fact.

"But you were like a Greek God in high school," I protest.

Kenny blushes, "Well, I guess I still have my fair share of luck now and then."

It's as he's filling up my tank that I realize something else. Even though he's laughing and trading stories with me, Kenny's got that glint in his eye. The one that I recognize from my high school days. It's the glint that says he wants out, and he wants out now. I almost expect him to come screaming and clawing at me like a savage in an attempt to steal my car and race out of South Park as fast as my Kia will take him.

Instead he swerves toward me with an easy smile, "Kyle! You're all set."

"You're a lifesaver!" I gasp, pulling open the driver's side door and motioning for him to get in. We drive back to the shop, where I pay him for the gas.

"I hate to leave, dude," I tell him, "We were just catching up."

I almost expect him to say get the fuck out. Sure we were catching up, and sure he called me a friend. That doesn't mean they weren't just empty words. He could be holding his breath until I leave, ready to call everyone and tell them that the 'douchebag' is back in town.

Instead he glances at the Escalade and says, "You know, I'm pretty much done in here until tomorrow."

"Don't you have to finish that?"

"The sun's starting to go down. It's hard to see how much I'm tinting when it gets dark. Plus it's creepy as fuck here at night," he laughs, "I end up all alone where no one can hear me scream."

"Do you wanna- like, hang out?"

Oh yeah, Broflovski. Real smooth.

Kenny mimics my invitation in a childish voice. I pretend to throw a nearby tool at him.

Don't kid yourself. Even in your twenties, you're still just a kid at heart.

"I know somewhere we could go," he grins, a peculiar gleam in his cobalt eyes that I only vaguely remember from high school. I feel my stomach flip. A paralyzing fear takes hold of me. What if he decides that I really am just a long lost grade 'A' asshole who isn't worth his time and wants to punish me by dropping me in the midst of the woods. There I'll wander until dawn and probably catch hypothermia. Since the woods are within city limits, I'll become some sort of living human popsicle and a bunch of snot-nosed kids will turn me into a museum attraction to make some quick cash.

Kenny is staring at me expectantly. I shake my head; since when has my imagination been so twisted? I guess I hadn't realized how truly scared I was to encounter old friends.

I try to keep my voice level as I query, "What did you have in mind?"

I don't know why it surprised me that Kenny decided to take me to a kegger. I'm standing in the midst of trailer-park-land which rests on the very outskirts of town. I always knew the Mexicans lived somewhere; I certainly couldn't imagine them in the identical clapboard houses that the rest of us all shared. I just hadn't guessed they had their own compound of sleek silver trailers haloed by kitschy colorful lanterns. It looks like someone's quinceañera decorations exploded across the sky.

Parties as a matter of course have three different manifestations. The first type of party is the kid party. You know, the one with chips and dips, no alcohol, and a perpetual question of whether or not you'll have a good time. It always depends on the company and whether or not there's crappy board games involved. The second type is the fancy party, which as long as you make it through with your sobriety not intact, is sure to be a blast. These kinds of parties are marked by bubbly champagne and girls in skimpy, supposedly classy dresses. The last, and best type of party is simply this; a party. Sometimes there's a keg. Sometimes there's jungle juice. Sometimes there are jello shots. If you go in ready to party hard, you'll have the time of your life. If you go in whining about how you're underage, you're too moralistic, or you're the sulky designated driver, it'll probably suck. Even sober however, there's still a chance you can enjoy yourself. Drunk people are like monkeys who don't throw poop. Well, most of the time. Fucking with them is hilarious.

On the other hand, if you don't know anyone other than your lanky mechanic friend, the best course of action is to grab a beer and suck it back hard and fast. Drinking is an art form, and one I like to think I perfected in college. Kenny watches me down a Bud Light in one quick chug.

"Dude," he mutters in awe, "I see classes weren't the only thing you were learning up there."

I flash him a quick grin before picking up another beer. He follows suit.

It turns out he doesn't actually know anybody at this party, but that a friend of a friend told him it would be happening. We take advantage of all the liquor we can just in case someone decides to kick us out, mixing beer, some kind of juice mixed with alcohol that tastes hella strong, and shots of tequila.

It doesn't take long for us to get blasted.

"You know," he burps loudly, the downs a swig of his concoction, "I moved out of my house less than a year after I got the job."

"Why?" I ask, mildly curious. We'd been talking about my options in finding work somewhere closer to South Park. Kenny squints at me, like that's a silly question. I'm confused. It wasn't like he had to move. The mechanic shop is only a few miles from his house.

Kenny glances at me conspiratorially, "Everyone thought my parents were beating me."

"Were they?"

"Fuck no," Kenny snorts, "I think people automatically assume that just because we're poor and alcoholism runs in the family that we don't fucking love each other. I tried to deny it, and told people that their fucking asshole opinions weren't welcome, but eventually I realized it would be better for my folks if I just moved out. Work's steady. I send them what money I can."

"Good for you, Ken," I say softly, thinking that even he'd found something to do with his life.

Shit, now I'm even jealous of a friend working some low level job. I really need to get a life, and get one fast.

It's about then that I try to grow some balls, "So whatever happened with everyone else. I sort of lost touch…"

Kenny gives me an amused glance, "Yeah, I'd heard. Hmm…Well, I bet you haven't heard about Cartman!"

"What about him?" I ask. Last I'd heard from Stan he had actually made it into a local university. Stan had been burning with jealousy about it.

"He was at school, at some party or another and got accused of raping a girl."

"What?"

"Yeah, it was way harsh, dude. Especially since we all knew he didn't do it."

"How do you know?" I ask, thinking that Cartman has always seemed kind of harmless to me (well, mostly), but that it didn't mean he couldn't have been hiding a dangerous side.

Kenny starts, "You mean you didn't know?"

He's practically yelling over the loud, frantic music emanating from a nearby boom box.

"Know what?"

"Cartman's a fag dude. He always has been. I would've thought you'd guessed."

My mouth falls open in shock. I mean, it all makes sense now. All the jokes, all the cruelty, all designed to throw suspicion off himself. I gasp, "I had no idea."

Kenny shakes his head, "I thought everyone knew."

"So what happened?"

"Well, even though it was obvious the girl was lying through her teeth, he landed a year in jail and tons of community service. He's been out for two years, and it's the weirdest thing…"

I look at him, curious. Kenny concludes, "Cartman's been an upstanding citizen ever since."

"No fucking way."

"Yep. He spends all his free time at the homeless shelter and the free clinic, volunteering," Kenny practically sneered at the word, "And he has a steady job as dispatch for the police department."

I glance at the now dark sky in amazement. Will wonders never cease? Who would have thought that Eric fucking Cartman could make something of himself.

Kenny obliviously plows on, telling me how Clyde, the star quarterback of South Park High has been working in his dad's shoe store and taking night classes to get his masters, of all things. I can't even get my bachelor's and stupid Clyde is getting his frickin' masters? The blonde tells me that Token ended up moving to California, while he's actually working towards getting his MD so he can be a doctor. Then I think he realizes that all this talk of motivated scholars is getting me down and hands me another beer. He switches gears and tells me about Craig, who ended up buying a bar in Denver. Craig had turned into a bit of a rebel in high school. All the girls liked him, and all the guys wanted to be him. Kenny tells me that he and Craig have actually gotten quite tight over the years. I blink in surprise. Then he tells me that Bebe actually got recruited by a recording company and plans on being the next Britney. Apparently everyone's gone on to have their own thing.

He spends the better part of updating me on the South Park graduating class of '04.

I notice he skips over the person I most wanted to hear about. When he slows down to take a shot of tequila I patiently wait for him to swallow and ask, "Ken, whatever happened to Stan?"

He eyes me uncertainly, "You really want to know? I thought you guys were like, sworn enemies now."

I gulp. So that's what Stan thought?

"I…I always meant to call him. It just got harder and harder….then I thought he must hate me, and," I choke on my own voice. I never really thought my super best friend would hate me. I toyed with the idea of course, but I figured eventually we'd make up. The idea was always in the back of my head.

Kenny shrugs, "Stan's working in some big office that opened up at the other end of town. He's dating Wendy Testaburger. Remember her?"

"I thought she transferred in eighth grade," I say, remembering outspoken, intelligent Wendy, whom Stan had crushed on since the second grade.

"Moved back," Kenny smiles, "She's working as a night legal secretary, which sadly is not secret code for prostitute. Trust me, I asked."

So that's that. Stan's happy. He's got a life too. I wonder if him and Wendy are thinking about getting married, or having kids, or all that domestic stuff that seems to befall happy couples who have spent most of their life lusting after each other.

Kenny excuses himself to go find a bathroom. He'll probably end up walking to the edge of the trailer park so he can just piss in the bushes, but whatever. I figure it'll take him some time. I try to make my way around the side of the trailer hosting the party, ducking by skimpily clad girls and a rather messy looking game of flip cup.

Leaning against the trailer I look up at the moon, which for once isn't obscured by a thick haze of clouds.

Everyone has their place now, except me. I sort of thought that maybe nothing would change while I was gone, that I'd get back and it would still be me, Kenny, Stan, and Cartman against the world. Maybe we'd have some zany adventures. We're too old for it now.

Before I can get too deep into my newfound depression, I hear a mewling sound around the back of the trailer. Curious, I wander to the other side. There's a whole setup here too; a table laden with empty handles of cheap vodka, the kind meant to give you quick oblivion, empty Bud Light cans littering the grass, and an overturned white plastic bowl that once held some variation of the liquor-juice concoction. I step over the cans, not wanting to frighten off whatever small animal I think I hear.

I scan the ground for something resembling a cat, or maybe a small dog, but find nothing. My foot falls on an aluminum can.

Suddenly I hear, "Oh shit!"

I turn to the left and see two bodies, frozen in front of me. It's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. A pretty brunette girl is pinned against the back of the trailer, wearing only her bra and apparently very close to the throes of ecstasy. She cries, "Why did you fucking stop?!"

The guy shoved deep inside of her withdraws, his eyes trained on mine. Then he doesn't move at all.

Apparently Stan had become the man-whore everyone always thought Kenny would be. Funny how life works out that way.

"Hey dude," I finally say, even though he's still frozen, the expectant brunette glancing back and forth between him and me. She finally gets a clue and unwinds her legs from his waist, stepping gingerly down to the ground. I try to ignore her butt wiggling as she searches for her underwear. She finds the lavender lace bit of cloth in the dirt behind the table o' refreshments. They must have really been going at it for her thong to have flown so far. She shrugs her lithesome legs through the holes of her panties, securing them and then her super short denim skirt in quick succession. Wordlessly she gathers up the rest of her clothes, which consist of a thin white tee and a leather jacket before scurrying off to join the rest of the party. Stan's still standing there, silent and gaping. His cock, still half hard hangs half-heartedly from his pants. It's shrinking quickly in the chill night air.

I look away, embarrassed.

"What the fuck, Kyle?" Stan bursts, springing into action. He shoves his dick back into his pants, hurriedly zipping the fly and buckling his belt.

I deign not to answer, figuring he needs a moment. His face, neck, and the front of his shirt are drenched with sweat. He was obviously very into his illicit activities. It makes me blush just thinking about what I just saw. I thank God for the shade of night.

Finally he stops flurrying around and looks at me, "Why the hell are you here, you fucking jackass?"

"Kenny," I say, as though that's an explanation.

"Fuck Kenny," Stan explodes, "Why the fuck are you in South Park? Shouldn't you be in school, ignoring the rest of us?"

Shortly I reply, "Failed out."

That stops him. He looks at me. His eyes are the color of the blue-black sky above, and colder still. I think he's going to say something, but instead he shakes his head and storms away.

That went well.

A/N: So…I'm considering upping the rating. I have it as T, because when I was a teenager, not so long ago, I read pretty much everything, and the sexier the better. But I do have an abundance of foul language and mention of sex…How about this, if anyone feels I should up it, please tell me.