You Can Never Go Back

Chapter Six: Misery Comes Crawling

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Wow, guys. Thanks for the reviews and the alerts. I love the feedback I'm getting, although now I'm scared I'm going to crumble under the pressure! Ya'll are cheering me up over finals here. So, do you know that on this site I can't find a single Eric/Kenny that isn't a one shot or doesn't involve Kenny being pathetic and Cartman saving him? Hmmm…this is problematic. I might have to go write one myself, because I very much doubt Kenny would just willingly take it from Cartman…Okay, my mind just went dirty, dirty, dirty places. Onward to the story. (But if anyone can suggest a good Cartman/Kenny story, tell me!)

You know, just because I've gotten a little older and a little wilder doesn't mean I've got piss poor morals. I'm still righteously outraged when Cartman does something evil. I still love my family, and I still care about my friends. I still want to make a difference. Even if I don't know what that difference is.

So when the first job I get offered is to work for a hunting lodge, I turn it down. Not only is it not my dream job, not in Denver, not prestigious, and not well paying, but it just kills me to see dumb bastards kill helpless animals. Not as much as it would kill Stan, but hey, I've got a little bleeding heart in me yet. I think it was on my eighth hunting trip with Jimbo and the gang that I started seeing the pointlessness in killing little Bunny Foofoo. And y'know, Stan stopped going on the trips, which meant we all did too. After all, two old men taking a bunch of little boys they weren't related to into the woods just screamed 'weird'.

The main point being that I've gotten offered exactly one job, and I turned it down. Looks like I'm going to have to start applying to some fast food chains.

Eurgh. Like that would ever happen. I don't like to know how the food I eat gets made. It's bad for digestion.

My mom flips. We end up fighting. Again. You would think the fact that I'm twenty three and perfectly capable of making my own decisions would occur to her, but no. Apparently I should have taken the offer and made myself a productive member of society, at least until I could land something better. Yeah, because murdering baby deer is totally productive. The only thing I see that getting me is sued by PETA.

I essentially storm off. It's a weekend, so I can't really steal her car and run off to Denver. She's been using public transportation to do whatever it is she likes to do during the day, but I'm under the impression she thinks it's high time I get a car of my own. I wish I had that kind of money. My parents do, but they tell me they've already sunk too much into my school fees and that if I want anything, I should get off my fucking ass and start handling some responsibility.

Fuck responsibility. I'm too young and too antsy for that. I guess it's funny that someone as school-minded as I am doesn't want a job, or you know, didn't even graduate. It isn't that I don't like school, either. I love studying. I love learning. My grades weren't even the issue when I got kicked out. Well, some of them were, but let's just ignore that. I just don't want a job. I don't want to be stuck in some nine to five hell, like Stan. The guy seems pretty happy, but I really don't have the kind of insight I'd need to tell.

Speaking of Stan, I manage to run headlong into him on the way to Stark's Pond. I'm walking there because…well because Kenny's working, mom's a bitch, and I've got nowhere else to go. That's sad in and of itself.

So I'm walking, hands shoved into little balls in the pockets of my thick down parka, which is a shade of Kelly green that supposedly matches my eyes, according to my asshole mother. She just loves brandishing her power when it comes to buying me clothes. It was a Hanukah gift. I suppose it looks good on me. I don't know. Anyway, I'm staring at the ground trying carefully not to slip on the ice. It's nearly the end of fucking February, and the ground is still hard and frozen. As I step off the curb into the street I glance up, only to be met with the most intense sapphire colored eyes I've ever seen. It takes me a minute to realize they belong to Stan.

I lose my footing, my feet flying out from beneath me. I don't even have time to brace myself for the hard landing that's about to leave black and blue bruises on my butt for a month.

It never comes. Warm calloused hands are wrapped around my waist. Stan had caught me. He probably used those reflexes that made him the star athlete of our school system. Basketball had never given me reflexes like that. Good to know his hadn't dulled, I'm sure they came in useful. In fact I know they do. My head is barely a foot from the ground, dangling awkwardly. Cautiously, Stan pulls me back up, and I land against his chest with an 'oomph'.

"You okay, dude?"

I can tell he knows I am. His eyes are dancing with amusement. I can't believe I never realized how deeply blue they are.

Suddenly disgusted with myself, I push lightly away from him. His hands immediately release my waist, finding a resting place in the back pockets of his faded jeans.

"Yeah, thanks for catching me," I mutter, "I'm so damned clumsy."

He grants me a toothy grin, "What are you doing out here?"

"Walking to the Pond. You?" I shove my hands back in my pockets. Even through my gloves, I'm pretty sure that frostbite is beginning to set in. This is why my little brother thinks I'm a hypochondriac.

Stan gives me a funny look, "Why?"

"Bored," I reply. He hasn't answered my question, I notice. Bastard.

"I'm heading to my apartment to grab lunch. Do you want to come?"

Free food? I'm there.

Barely half an hour later I'm staring at a jar full of tomato garlic sauce, some diced onion, dry pasta, and a pot full of cold water. Stan's hard at work trying to microwave some leftover chicken that Wendy made the night prior. I don't know why I didn't get that job.

I stare at the pot of water. I know I'm supposed to do something with it. In my own kitchen I probably could have managed, maybe. Stan's stove has about fifty dials on it, and I don't want to look like an idiot. My kitchen only has four dials, and I still am not entirely sure how to use them.

"What are you doing, Kyle?"

I glance at him with a scowl, "Um."

"You can't cook," Stan looks at me as I stare helplessly at the ingredients on the counter.

"Well…I can microwave things," I tell him, "And I make mean Easy Mac."

Actually, Easy Mac and Velveeta are pretty much the extent of my culinary skills, and even then only because I had to fend for myself when my meal plan ran out at the end of each semester. Stan's still kind of shocked, but I mean what does he expect? I have a strict Jewish mother who coddles the hell out of me. It's not like I ever needed to learn how to cook. Hell, the first time I learned how to wash my own clothes was freshman year of college, and for the first half I had one of my girlfriends doing it for me.

"You can't boil water," he gestures to the pot, "How the hell can you make Easy Mac?"

"I microwave the water in a mug," I reply sensibly.

"Kyle," Stan starts, but then shakes his head, "Move over."

"I could do it," I object, even though I can't really tell the difference between the vegetables. I know all the easy ones, but what the hell is that funny looking one with all the ridges, and why does that long stemmed weed looking thing smell kind of like onion?

"I know you can," Stan says simply, "You're the smartest guy I know. I'm just going to teach you how."

Stan was going to teach me how to cook.

Hunh.

It turns out Stan can't really cook much. His knowledge is limited to pasta, pancakes, and sizzling steaks, but I think that's also all he eats. He's always been a picky eater.

"You know who cooks well?"

"Who?" I ask. I expect him to say Cartman, because honestly the guy's such a pig. Then I realize that Cartman would hardly lift a finger to prepare food. That's servants' work- oops, I mean his mom's. Same thing.

"Kenny."

"Kenny can cook?"

"Yeah. He can bake, too."

He has to explain that baking is the process of making things in the oven, like cookies and pastries, because of the blank look I gave him at that comment.

"When the hell did Kenny learn how to cook?"

"About the time he got his own apartment," Stan explains, "He always loved food. Maybe because he didn't get enough of it. The second he got his fridge working, he stocked it full of goodies and taught himself how to make them. He's not like, a top chef or anything, but he definitely can cook."

I tell myself that I'm going to force Kenny to take me to his place one of these days instead of wandering aimlessly or hitting up a rundown bar. Then I'll make him prepare me food. I'm getting pretty sick of mom's cooking, a feat that I never thought possible back in university, when all I wanted was a decent meal.

The pasta Stan makes is fine. It's not amazing or anything, just fine. The chicken is better, even reheated, and Stan said that Wendy is a decent chef herself. It's one of the things he loves about her.

I can't stop myself. With a mouth full of chicken and pasta, I mumble, "Then why do you cheat on her?"

All the color drains from his face. Was there some unwritten rule that I wasn't supposed to ask? I half expect him to snap that I should mind my own business. Then his face relaxes.

"I'd forgotten you saw that."

That's all? That's all he has to say?

Apparently not. He takes a bite of pasta and then says thoughtfully, "I don't really know why I do it. I mean…sex with strangers is kind of exhilarating. But that's not a reason…"

I'm not exactly entranced by his answer. Trying to be as tactful as I can, I utter, "How many people have you…you know, since you got with Wendy?"

Stan sort of starts silently ticking off his fingers, but by the time he runs out of digits I realize I no longer want to know the answer. It doesn't matter anyway because he shrugs and chuckles, "Don't really remember."

I wanted to be friends with him again. I was desperate for him to forgive me. Deep down, the guilt I felt about acting like a dickhole never really faded. The thing was…Stan outshone me. I wasn't embarrassed of him; every one of my friends liked him. I was embarrassed because Stan has always been better than me. That's why I stopped calling. By the time I realized I was being an idiot, it was too awkward, too late. I'm a fucktard, I know. It's the one thing in my life I regret. Yet here, sitting in his and Wendy's kitchen, listening to him tell me he doesn't even know how many people he's slept with- how many people he's cheated on his girlfriend with- I sort of resent him for making me feel all that guilt. I loathe him for making me want to be friends again with some guy who's obviously become a plague to women-kind. It's sort of a built in reaction; my mom raised me to be chivalrous. I know most girls don't want a knight in shining armor anymore, but even so, I've always felt protective over chicks. Knowing that Stan fucks them and then fucks them over…well, it isn't sitting right.

At the same time…I know Stan. I know he can't sit through serious movies without fidgeting or falling asleep. I know he's always been naturally talented at sports, but he just doesn't care. That's why he never got a baseball or football scholarship, even though he was pretty much the MVP of both high school teams. I know he's got a temper, but it takes forever to rile him up. He can be a little slow to catch on, but he's smart. He's always been a little bit scared that Cartman is going to kill him in his sleep. He's too eager to please every girlfriend he's ever had. And me, once upon a time.

He wants so desperately to belong, but the thing is he never really does. That's why he always hung out with the three of us. I mean I'm pretty much a nerd, Kenny's always been a poor, horny, bastard, and Cartman's well…Hitler Junior. Stan was always the one that didn't seem to fit. Even I always kind of wondered why someone so perfect would spend all his time with freaks like us. He was the only thing that made us kind of cool. Then Wendy dumped him the first time and Raven came out. He started venting by writing gothic poetry and talking about the virtues of straight edge razors. That's about when I realized that Stan had issues too. He was just extremely good at hiding the fact he has a dark side. Even after Raven disappeared again, I watched him for any slip ups. In eighth grade when I noticed his hair had gotten a shade of black pitcher than before, I made him sleep over at my house for a week. In high school, when he broke his collar bone playing baseball and couldn't go outside, I found poetry about funeral pyres in his drawer. I burned them and made sure he always had company to keep him occupied. It's hard for him to accept the dark parts of himself because he's so occupied with trying to be a good person. That's why Raven exists.

I don't really care about being good. I care about injustice. I care about correcting wrongs. But not because I think its good; just because I think it's right. I don't mind if I do things that are a little evil sometimes, as long as I'm always doing the right thing in the end. Good and right are entirely different things.

This cheating douchebag isn't the guy I know.

He notices the way I'm staring at him. Appalled. Repulsed. He gets angry.

"Don't fucking judge me Kyle. You of all people have no right to fucking judge me.

Stan's a guy of action. I guess I am too, but we go about it different. If Stan sees something wrong, he freaks, stresses, and then does whatever he can to fix it. If I see something wrong, I lose my temper and usually try yelling until it's fixed.

I think he's in the freaking stage currently. The problem is, what needs to be fixed is me, and I don't plan on being swayed.

"I'm not judging you, assmaster. I'm just fucking thinking that you must really be hurting Wendy."

"It can't fucking hurt her if she doesn't fucking know," Stan snarls.

Oh god. What happened to my super best friend?

Stan all but kicks me out of his house. I'm pretty certain I've ruined all chances of social interaction between us for a while.

Kicking a boot deep into a snow bank, I decide I don't fucking care if Kenny's working. I need to talk to him. I hitch a ride to the mechanic's, making up some lie about needing to get towed to the gray bearded man who is stupid enough to pull over and pick me up. The entire way there I'm thinking doesn't he know he shouldn't pick up hitchhikers? I could be a serial killer, for all he knows. Then again, he could be one too, so I'm equally stupid in this equation.

I find Kenny under the hood of a beat up old Saab. I think he's changing the oil, but the truth is I know next to nothing about cars. Fuck, I can't cook and I can't tell the difference between this and that part of an engine. I really am spoiled.

"Kenny," I say. He jumps, head slamming up and into the sheet metal of the hood.

He lets off a string of expletives that are way more creative than anything I could have thought up, ending with, "-Kyle, you fucker! Don't you ever think about sneaking up on me again."

I half shrug by way of apology, and he lets it go. Kenny never holds a grudge.

"So what's new?" he asks, wiping his hands on his coveralls.

"I got in an argument with that dickhead, Stan," I say apologetically.

"Somehow I knew this was coming. What over?"

"The fact that he thinks cheating is an acceptable form of foreplay."

Kenny's eyes light up, "Ah. I've had that argument with him too."

"I feel so fucking bad for Wendy."

"Why? You hardly know her. She moved away so long ago."

"I remember her from elementary. Anyway, what Stan's doing just isn't right," I grimace. Kenny motions for me to follow him outside, which I do. He fishes a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his coveralls, ignoring the fact that he's getting little brown-black grease stains all over the packet of Marlboros.

"Kyle, don't worry about it too much. Wendy's a princess. She's a lot like you- she believes in what is right over what's good, but when what is right and good get in the way of what she wants, then screw it all. Wendy gets what she wants. Always. She can be sweet, but she can be oblivious, and she can be cruel too."

Kenny sighs. I think he's spent a lot of time thinking this over, "She's not one thing or the other. She's all things. That was kind of what Stan always liked about her I think. If he was just with some bitch, it would have gotten on his nerves, and if he was just with a sweet girl, he would feel overwhelmed with guilt about not loving her. But Wendy's a survivor. She wants to be a lawyer someday. She needs to dominate and manipulate, but she needs to get taken care of too."

"Stan's not taking care of her."

"Stan's cheating on her," Kenny corrects me firmly, "That doesn't mean he isn't taking care of her. He's completely kind to her face. He practically buys her affection with all the shit he's constantly getting her. I mean, he's pretty much any broad's ideal man. That's what Wendy wants."

"Why is he doing it?"

Kenny opens his mouth. Then he closes it.

"One of the great fucking mysteries of the universe," he finally says, "Whatever happened to Stanley Randall Marsh?"

I laugh harshly, because that's not an answer. He's giving me a strange look.

"Kyle," Kenny begins with serious eyes, releasing his cigarette. It falls forgotten into the snow, but I have bigger problems. He's trailing his fingers up and down my chest in a rather distracting fashion. I don't know whether to smack him or to just ignore it. My parka's hanging open, giving him pretty much full access to the button down beneath.

"Erm," I eventually reply, because his fingers occasionally graze the bits of skin beneath the buttons of my shirt. Despite this being mildly disturbing, I find it's not altogether unpleasant.

"You know, you shouldn't let this whole thing with Stan worry you. He's a big boy. He can take care of himself," Kenny smiles elusively, his eyes not really in it, "He has been for over four and a half years."

"But that's my fault," I bite my tongue the second that comes out of my mouth. Stan forgave me. That whole ditching him thing, it's over! So why can't I stop fucking thinking of it?

"It doesn't matter. Guilt is supposed to help you deal with the negative emotions you've put into the world, and grief is supposed to help cleanse you of them. You haven't dealt," Kenny tells me decisively, making me wonder if he's thought a lot about this too, "Blaming yourself is just your defense mechanism so that you won't get hurt just in case Stan secretly blames you too. But really, it's the past. You need to move on."

"I have moved on," I shuffle my feet guiltily, "Mostly."

Kenny's cobalt eyes bore into me, "Have you had a single real relationship since you and Stan stopped talking?"

"I've had plenty of girlfriends," I reply angrily, thinking he's implying that I'm like him. Gay. The word tastes bitter on my tongue. I stumble back into the wall of the auto body shop, shoving his distracting, limber fingers away. Kenny shakes his head impatiently.

"You're too quick on the defense, Kyle. What's the longest you've dated one of those girls for? Do you have any really close friends? Any best friends? Other than moi, of course."

I laugh when he demurely flutters his eyelashes to accent the 'moi'. But really, his words are grating on me. Okay, so what if the last girl I dated didn't last longer than a week, and most of the girls before her were one night stands? I'm a college aged male. It's natural. Anyway, I dated this one girl for…three months. That might not look stellar, but there was another one…who lasted almost six. I realize Kenny's going to take those answers and throw them right back in my face, so I keep mum on the girlfriend front. Friends I can definitely say I've had a few of. Why I could name at least ten…

Shit. If I can name ten close friends, then why haven't I gotten a single one to call me back in the past two months for more than a nanosecond?

"When did you get so fucking smart, artard?"

Kenny grins, looking for all the world like the cat that caught the canary. He replies primly, "I've always been this way."

Then he jabs me in the chest, "You were just too caught up in Stan when we were younger to realize it."

"Fag."

"You're one to talk, mister-I'm-going-to-go-play-with-my-super-best-friend-and-nobody-else-is-invited-so-there."

"I never kissed a boy," I stick my tongue out impetuously, knowing it's not helping me win the argument.

"I never played doctor with Cartman," Kenny deadpanned, "And Stan told me for sure that was your favorite game together."

Shit. I'd forgotten about that.

"I was checking for tumors!" I protest, outraged.

"On his penis?"

"Stan told me I had to check everywhere!"

Kenny clicks his tongue, "Uh hunh."

"I was six!" I say wildly. Kenny just shakes his head.

I'm pretty sure I'm pouting now, but I respond, "Go to hell."

"Been there, several times. Parties rock. Weather, not so much," he replies cheekily, and I have to fight the overwhelming urge to smack him.

"Don't come up with such fucking cliché answers, Ken," I tell him. He laughs.

Then he sobers again. I don't know how he can go from one extreme to the other so quickly.

"Seriously," Kenny begins again, "You can depend on somebody. It's okay."

"I'm as fucking fragile as you think, Kenny. But thanks."

He scowls, "I never called you delicate, doofus. I'm just saying I know you blame yourself for abandoning him…but he abandoned you all the same. There's no need to keep punishing yourself. Hell, if you don't like the fact that Stan's turned into such a douche, you're not even obligated to be friends with him. Not anymore."

I shift from foot to foot uncomfortably. Kenny's a really sweet guy. I'm not really used to dudes being sweet though. It makes me uneasy. Talking about my feelings has always come kind of easily for me, so I guess it's kind of surprising that I get antsy when other people talk about theirs or offer me any kind of support. It's all fine if you talk about your emotions when no one is going to do a damned thing about it, but when they meet you half way with open arms it's sort of unsettling. For me, at least.

I nervously tell Kenny to mind his own fucking business, to which he grins and asks if I want to go to a strip club. I tell him I'm not interested in seeing another guy's junk, to which he responds that gay or not, he still likes boobs. They're fascinating to him, apparently. Something about the bounciness. The tension in my shoulders dissolves. This is more normal. I can deal with this.

A/N: Yay, another chapter. Everyone confused on why Stan's an asshole? Good, that's the point. Don't worry, I actually love Stan best…well maybe Kyle…or Kenny. Okay, I love them all, but I think Stan's probably my favorite. This is likely because all my guy friends tell me I'm most like Cartman or Kyle, so I'm OBVIOUSLY not so secretly lusting after a certain raven haired boy. The next will have an abundance of Cartman, I think. It will also hopefully include a few other characters...most of the main cast will appear at some point or another.

BTW, if anyone's curious about the names of the chapters, I pretty much put my itunes on shuffle and whatever song comes up, I look up the lyrics and choose one. It's the most random way of choosing ever, although not the most original, but I have a lot of fucking music on my iPod. Three thousand songs, none of which are full CDs. And it's all different genres, including Hindi, Japanese, Chinese, Korean, and Celtic music. So…there we go. I keep ending up with songs I haven't even listened to yet. I guess that's too much info.

Review, review, review. Pretty please?