You Can Never Come Back

Chapter 4:Everything Looks Perfect From Far Away

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Hey guys. So I'm trying this thing where I update relatively regularly. I know you're all itching for the romance, and believe me, it will come. I'm a huge fan of angst and romance. Don't worry though, our Kyle won't get girly and bitchy- I HATE when that happens. Just because you're gay doesn't make you a woman. Well, sometimes it does, but I really doubt it would in the case of the SP boys.

Oh, and to MikuMiku- your review in particular made me laugh. I have a few gay friends, but one of my roommates has a ton she brings into our suite. Get this; they're all Go-go dancers. These boys are just about beyond flaming, in an amusing way. They're such WHORES. I have never seen anyone heterosexual so occupied with who they're erm…fucking from night to night. There's even one kid we call Supergay. He likes it, too! But your review definitely made me think of them.

To the rest of my reviewers, I love you all. You really brighten up my day- I know I should reply to reviews individually, but I'm sort of in the middle of finals. So…um, no. Sorry. But don't let that make anyone think I don't REALLY appreciate them!!! I do!

"Seriously, Kyle," Stan is half-glaring at me across from a steaming cup of untouched hot chocolate, "You need to calm down. I think you're hyperventilating."

He might be right. His joke about almost dying without me is neither funny nor acceptable.

"I was kidding. Sure, I was upset when you ditched me, but high school friends are supposed to grow apart right?" Stan is looking at me with the most curious gleam in his eye. I know he's right, but somehow this isn't the reaction I expected at all. His cobalt eyes are filled with humor, and I can't help but think he's handling this way better than I am. Of course if Stan had caught me mid-penetration with some whore, I'm sure I wouldn't find something as simple as long separation embarrassing either.

Wendy's bustling around in the kitchen. Now that she's made tea and cocoa, she's decided it's necessary to make cookies, and I can't help but feel a little bit sorry for her. I never liked her much; she was too occupied with the latest trends and too scary when it came to her relationship with Stan back in the day, but she seems nice enough at this point.

I'm rambling on about how I'd still like to be friends with Stan, despite the fact we've 'grown apart'. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. He's looking at me like I'm some kind of freak, eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Stop with the drama, Kyle. I never stopped being your friend or anything. Did you ever stop being mine?"

Drama? I'm almost insulted. I'm male. Males don't have drama, unless it's about cheating girlfriends, and then it's always the female's fault. Males laugh in the face of drama and walk down to the local bar and…geez, lately my thoughts have been occupied with drinking. I miss college.

Plus I keep trying to mentally reaffirm my masculinity. Hmm. I don't have any issues about it. I mean, I've never questioned the fact that I have balls. Erm. Fuck. I sound insecure. Okay, I'm going to pay more attention to Stan now.

"No," I reply carefully, eyeing him. He says we never stopped being friends. He said he doesn't care about the old fight we had. Forgive and forget and all that. Stan's never really been big with the grudges, either. I think his attention span is too short to actually hold one, not that it's an insult or anything. I always kind of liked that about him. But, for some reason, this time I thought it would be different.

I wonder if I'm disappointed that it's not.

I discover that Stan had called in sick today, so I was pretty lucky to catch him at home. Wendy of course, was always home during the day, having a night job and everything.

After chatting aimlessly for about an hour, I discover three things. One, Wendy makes fucking amazing cookies. They're steaming hot, smell divine, and literally melt in your mouth. If she cooks everything so well, I'm not surprised Stan decided to get back with her. Two, Stan really hasn't changed that much. He's still the laid-back, friendly guy I've known since I was small. The only thing that bothers me is that he isn't as…emotional as I remember. He's always been a sensitive guy, but every once in a while he says something that makes me think he's gotten a whole lot more apathetic in the past four years. Three, and this is one thing that really worried me; we still click. Amazingly, instantly, after all that drama that is, Stan and I still get along like we never spent a day apart. Don't get me wrong, we're not automatically super best friends. When I tried to woo him into hanging out with Kenny and me later that night, he was mostly neutral about it. Still, we talked and laughed and joked like we still knew every single detail about each other.

It was fun.

I missed that.

I stand to leave, gathering up my coat and hat. It's fucking frigid outside. I'd pretty much be screwed if I'd forgotten them. Plus it's a long walk from Stan's apartment back to my house. I give Wendy a quick hug and Stan an affectionate pat on the back. He looking at me kind of warily, "When did you get so tall?"

I can't help it. I laugh. Last time I saw Stan I was probably about the same height as he was. I've never been miniature; my mom may be short, but I drank a lot of milk in my day. Still, I expected to stop growing in college. Instead, I now stand half an inch taller than Stan, but probably two inches shorter than Kenny. We're technically farm boys. Don't you know that we're raised to be tall, built, and incredibly sexy?

Okay, that sounded queer. I won't be saying that again.

As I walk out of the apartment, I'm smiling. I'm so glad to have finally sorted things out with Stan. I'm so glad that he doesn't hate me.

Fuck. He was so chill. I'm still wondering why that's bothering me, but it can't wipe the grin off my face.

I'm sitting in a bar, in Denver. Actually, I'm sitting at a very specific bar in Denver, but I'll get to that. My current predicament is that I've met up with Kenny after a long day toiling on the job market. Kenny's showing me a photo album his mom dug up of our childhood foursome. In the picture we're peering at now, Stan, Kenny, Cartman, and I are building a snowman, but having some trouble. The adult versions of Kenny and I are pointing and laughing at our expressions.

I stare at the picture and inwardly grimace. There's one thing I need to clarify about the pictures from when I was younger. I never realized it before, but my friends back at school might have mentioned once or twice or three times that I never changed my clothes. Nor did my friends. In any of the pictures.

We fucking changed, okay? Here's something you have to know about kids; they grow at an astounding rate. In the whole of my life, I've probably gone through at least twenty five different winter coats. That's one point something coats a year.

Yes, one point something. Give me a break, guys. I'm out of school. My mental calculator is temporarily off.

Anyway, do you know how much a freaking nice, weather proof parka costs?

Even for an upper middle class family like my own, the answer is too much to buy more than one or two a year for growing boys. Since most of my pictures of my friends were taken outside, it's only natural that we're all wearing our tried and true winter wear. Sure, at the time we could've asked for new ones for our birthdays or the holidays, but we wanted new toys! The point being, I do not appreciate people constantly thinking I or my friends never fucking changed our clothes, even if it was only when we were younger. We're hicks to be sure, but not redneck dirty ones.

I guess I get a bit sensitive about pictures from when I was a kid. Kenny seems to sense that I'm no longer interested in laughing at the album, because he shoves it to the side and orders me a whiskey. I'm not very big on whiskey, but Kenny swears there's nothing better than a rocks glass full of Johnnie Walker Black Label, and I don't feel up to arguing. I've only been hanging out for him a week at this point.

Back to the subject of the bar. Kenny had told me Craig owned one, which I didn't really understand. How could a kid my age actually own…well, anything? I barely have enough money for gas.

When Kenny called me up and told me to meet him at this place, I hadn't known it was Craig's. Which made it ever so awkward to find the raven haired boy behind the bar staring at me.

"Shit, dude. Kyle Broflovski. You haven't changed one fucking bit," the bartender leaned across the tabletop, simultaneously hugging me and flipping me off. It was the finger that made me realize it was Craig. He had changed a lot since high school. In school, he'd channeled most of his energies into the school newspaper. He had a boner for journalism that none of my other friends really understood. At the same time, he thought it made him into a pussy. He dressed in ripped jeans and a brown leather jacket, and wore his hair in this longish style that all the girls swore made him look like sex on a stick. Like I would know. Now his hair is still shaggy, but a lot shorter. He's all dressed in a white starched shirt and black slacks, very professional like.

"Hey Craig," I flashed him a genuine smile. I always liked Craig. He had this fuck-all attitude that I kind of envied. When someone pissed him off, he made sure they never managed to do it twice. Everyone feared, respected, and wanted him.

"This is your bar?" I asked him, still surprised.

Proudly Craig spread his arms, "Yup. All mine."

"How'd you get the money for this place? I mean I heard you graduated from State," a sour expression pursed my lips for a moment, but I shrugged it off, "But you couldn't have made that much in such a short amount of time."

Craig smiled, "My grandma died."

Shit.

"Sorry."

"Nah, I'm just yanking your balls. This place used to belong to my grandpa. Grams said it was time to pass it on."

"Sweet," I grinned. He served me up a Black and Tan. We started talking about the Broncos, until another customer came in and interrupted us. By the time Kenny came, it was pretty much packed. It is a Friday night, after all.

Kenny snaps me back to the present.

"How'd it go with Stan?"

"It went," I stare into my drink, "I think it went well."

"You see Wendy?"

"She's a fucking bombshell now, right?"

"Mmm," I agree, "Nice too."

"You're telling me you were checking out Wendy Testaburger for her personality?" Kenny gives me a distasteful look.

Panicked, I reply, "I wasn't checking her out."

"I know," Kenny laughs, "I'm glad it all went good. Cause I have a surprise for you."

I'm about to ask what, but I'm interrupted by a new voice. It belongs to someone I never wanted to see again after high school graduation.

"Jesus Christ," Cartman mutters, and I begin to seriously doubt what Kenny told me about his sudden reformation, "God save us all from fucking Jews."

Sputtering ridiculously I counter, "God doesn't listen to the prayers of fat assholes."

Kenny waves an arm between the two of us before Cartman can come up with one of his oh so original witty replies, "This argument has been going on for all time. Kyle, you are a fucking Jew. Get over it. I'm a fucking Christian, and you don't see me crying my eyes out every time someone calls me one."

I refrain from mentioning that no one ever came up with lewd, inappropriate words for Christians. The blonde continues, "And Eric, you are a fucking fatass. You need to accept that fact and move on."

"Aye!" Cartman objects, but I can tell that he's fallen victim to Kenny's charming logic. Bastard. I could have used a decent argument. Apparently when you reach maturity, it's considered rude to call others names. Cartman is my last bastion of obscenity, as it were.

To my shock and terror, he suddenly breaks out in a huge grin and engulfs me in a hug, "How you been, Kahl?"

I wiggle and squirm out of his embrace, "Erm-good. Let me go now?"

Kenny's laughing as I squeak. Just to piss me off, Cartman hugs me tighter. He may have gotten more proportional with age, but I'm fucking drowning in blubber here.

Finally he lets me go. I notice the brown haired boy is dressed in a blue uniform, and I remember what Kenny said about his job as a dispatcher for the cops. I guess people have to respect his authority now.

The lardass settles down on a bench, and it's sort of the same gig. Panting for breath, I ask him how he's doing. Annoyingly, he begins a long winded tale about how he's found his place in life. Bastard. Meanwhile I'm thinking that hug might have cracked one of my ribs.

"So you know I'm a fag now?" Cartman says suddenly, his dark eyes looking right at me.

I nearly choke on my drink. After swallowing I demand, "You what?"

Kenny did mention something like that before, but to be honest, I thought he'd been joking.

"Aye! Jew, you a 'phobe, or what?"

Cartman is staring at me with such a serious look that I immediately retort, "No."

It's true. Gay guys are cool. As long as they're not like, into me or something. Oh god, he doesn't like me, does he? I laugh inwardly. Like that would ever happen.

We walk out of the bar at two. Craig had to cut us off and kick us out, but I don't fucking care. I'm so not up to driving, but I'm planning on doing it anyway. Kenny and Cartman are walking me to the parking garage where the Kia is, laughing and belching, and generally being gross. The only reason I'm not with them is that I had to call my mom and explain why I wasn't home with her vehicle. Even half-asleep the bitch can yell.

Up ahead, the guys have reached the garage. They get in a tiny scuffle, something about something dumb. I can't really hear. I watch, amused.

I get less amused when Kenny brushes up against Cartman and I swear to fucking Christ, he giggles. Cartman obviously bristles and starts delivering a string of expletives to the lithesome blonde that consists of words I didn't even know existed. I don't know why he's upset, because Cartman even admitted himself that he's queer. Although I'm not stupid; I know gay guys don't automatically crush on every guy in sight. Ugh. That's not the point.

Now, I know that the younger generation, especially those of the female persuasion doesn't think much on this fact, because the boys they hang out with are not yet men, but no matter how you twist it men do not giggle. Sure they do, you'll argue. No. No, no, no. The occasional gay man giggles, but you know what? They're not men, they're flamers. They're an entirely different species dedicated to rainbow flags and worshipping Cher and Judy Garland! The point is that even gay men, the kind who can still call themselves men, do not giggle. So what the fuck is Kenny's deal?

I stare at him, horrified, wondering if I'm getting mixed signals or not. Is Kenny gay, or is he pretending? How could I not have noticed?

Does it matter?

I'm so fucking wasted, I can't even think straight.

I watch Kenny, who's now mock sashaying his skinny hips so that the rips in his oil stained jeans skim over inviting bits of flesh along his inner thigh. He eventually decides he can no longer keep up the façade, even to terrify Cartman, and collapses into a heap of laughter on the dirty, trash littered street we're standing on. I finally make it up to them in time to see hear his hysterical laughter close up.

"Retard," Cartman says dismissively, even though his cheeks are beet red. I don't make the mistake of thinking he likes Kenny, mostly because I know from firsthand experience that what Cartman loathes most in all the world is being embarrassed. He's blushing because Kenny just shamed the hell out of him. I guess he isn't as openly gay as he'd like to think. Kenny's still laughing. I think the poor sod might die of it.

That's not important. I wonder if he's gay. I ponder it. Kenny being gay isn't really that far a jump. He's the most open guy I know, sexually.

Hmmm.

I make up my mind to ask him later. Maybe our conversation will go like this.

"Kenny, are you a flaming homosexual?"

"Why yes Kyle. Would you like me to stick my hot, throbbing manhood up your peephole?"

I shake my head. When the hell did I become such a sadist? I try to dismiss the entire imaginary conversation from my mind, suddenly plagued with visuals of Kenny dancing about in a pretty pink tutu and little else. My mind is not a pleasant place to live.

As if to illustrate this point, I had a sudden image of Kenny's lean, lithesome body sprawled against blue sheets, thrusting downward, bedroom eyes. Jesus, if he was a pillow biter, he was certainly a hot one.

I finally ask him a few days later. I'm visiting him at the garage, mostly because I like it there.

Yes, I enjoy the smell of gasoline and oil. Yes, I'm a freak.

Kenny's working under the hood of a silver SUV, a Lexus. I ask him why he was usually the only one there, trying to segue into the subject of his possible sexuality as indirectly as possible. He tells me that the owner broke his hip two months back. Kenny was in charge until his recovery was done.

"He trusts me. I've been working here as a receptionist since high school, after all. I got the mechanic job as soon as I graduated," he positively beams.

"Really?" I'm surprised, "I never knew."

Kenny's eyes are dancing, "I have a lot of secrets."

Yeah. That'd be my cue.

"About that," I shove my hands deep in my pockets, "Um…I kind of saw you joking with Cartman the other night. Was there anything to that?"

Oh yeah. Real smooth.

"Are you asking if I like boys?" Kenny asks, amused, "Or are you asking if I like Cartman?"

"That would be super weak," I say, "Liking Cartman, I mean. Do you?"

"No," Kenny shrugs, "But I'm gay."

"Gay," I echo.

"Gay," he affirms.

"Not bi?"

"Chicks are too much work," he shrugs again.

"But you love chicks."

"I love cars too. Do you see me trying to fuck this Lexus?" he taps the hood of the car he's been working on.

"Erm."

"Be more open minded, Kyle."

"I am open minded," I protest, "It's just kind of hard to grasp the fact that the kid who ogled more boobs than anyone else on Earth suddenly decided he liked cock."

Kenny licks his lips, "I can't believe I'm going to explain something psychology related to you, Mister Genius. Did you ever think I was so desperate for boobs to cover up the fact that I wanted to suck dick?"

Well…no.

"When did you get into psychology, Kenny?"

The blonde grins, "I knew this smart kid in high school. Made me think learning is kind of cool."

His smile is contagious. He declares we should take a cigarette break. He offers me one, but I decline.

I know I've kind of shocked him. In high school I was the go-to guy for cigarettes, and I only smoked Reds. Yeah, I was hardcore.

"You don't smoke anymore?"

"I promised Stan I'd quite senior year."

"You could break that promise now. I don't know if he hates you. You said he didn't, but he seems pretty darn close to not being a friend."

"He's a dickhead," I breathe, sort of hurt that he brought up Stan. We're friends. He said so. I just haven't talked to him all week. What did I expect? I knew we weren't suddenly going to be on the phone every day, like old times. Stan's got to focus on his life, and I've got to focus on mine.

I shake my head again, "It just feels wrong to break that promise."

Kenny shrugs, "Suit yourself."

We pick up the conversation about his sexuality again. I ask him what it's like. I can't imagine wanting another guy.

"The problem with being gay," Kenny mutters as he takes a long drag on his cigarette, "Is there's no guarantee that the guys you fall for will be."

"And if they are?" I ask, curious.

"Then there's no guarantee that they'll actually like you back. It's twice as hard as being straight because there are two obstacles- the liking thing and the whole sexuality thing."

"You know, you've gotten awfully philosophical in your old age."

Kenny bristles, "Speak for yourself. You're older. I'm still a blushing boy of twenty two."

I snort, "Yeah, parts of you are blushing."

"Throbbing, pulsing, aching," Kenny continues, a lecherous smile across his face.

"Sick, dude!"

"So what did you think of Cartman?" Kenny changes the subject abruptly.

"He's changed," I mutter, "But not that much. You know, he may not have raped that girl," I laugh and glance at Kenny, "But he did hack up some kid's parents and feed them to him. And then he licked him."

"Yeah, so?"

"I'm just saying, he's never been the most stable person around. Or the straightest," I shrug, "It's not so surprising he's gay now that you all got me thinking about it. He's cool enough though. I don't know if I buy that whole community service crap he was talking about."

"It's Bible truth, man," Kenny coughs, "I've seen it. He's all warm and fuzzy and gentle now."

I crack a smile, "Cartman has never been gentle."

"You think he's scary?"

"No. I mean, obvious danger aside, I've never thought he actually had the guts to hurt anyone he cares about. Like us. He cares about us."

"Oh I know," Kenny laughs, "I fucked him a few times."

I stare at him, horrified, "You what?"

"Jesus, dude. I'm kidding. I have standards."

"You do? No offense, but all you did in high school was talk about how horny you are. Plus you always had girls throwing themselves at you…"

"One or two," Kenny agreed, "But A, I didn't like easy girls. I've never…you know."

I'm still staring at him, but this time in awe, "You've never had sex? You can't still be a virgin. That's against the laws of nature."

"Kyle," Kenny says patiently, "The only girls who liked me were the trashy ones, who thought the fact I was so horny was hot."

"So?"

"Nice girls don't like overly horny guys."

"Um, again, so?"

"I wasn't going to have sex with some trashy girl!" Kenny exclaims, miffed, "For all I know the condom would break and I'd get AIDS. Or hepatitis. Or fucking genital warts. With my luck, that's how it would happen. It's the same with guys, now that I know I'm gay. On top of that I have to worry that if I bring some random guy home, he might turn out to be a serial killer. Do you know how many times I've been offed by a serial killer without inviting them into my home?"

"Um. No," I didn't want to tell him that I didn't really keep track of his deaths. No one did.

"Five. Five, Kyle. Five fucking times."

Wow. Kenny's life kind of sucks.

But I've had AIDS before. I tell him so. He just gives me a disgusted look and calls me a fag. I point out that's more his gig than mine. It's nice having friends.

A/N: Reviews=love. And more chapters.