You Can Never Go Back

Chapter 7: Who Cares When This Lightning Starts

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: I swear to god, I don't want to start any new fics because this is the first time I've been able to consistently update something that isn't on fictionpress for like, years. BUT, having said that, I really want to read a Kyle/Kenny fic where Stan is also a factor- I've read love triangles where Stan and Kyle end up together, but I haven't found one where it ends KK (and still has lusty Stan too)- well, maybe ONE.

I'm kind of proud of myself, because this is the third chapter I've posted today- two on fictionpress stories and then this, so its like an accomplishment. I'm in Boston, visiting my older sister, and my dad's like bed ridden at the hotel we're at- since he won't let me steal the rental car and I have nowhere to go anyway (everyone I know at BU has either graduated or no longer speaks to me...we won't discuss that), I'm BORED out of my mind. Which means fics for you all! Anway, as always, thank you so much to my reviewers. I've never replied to anyone, but I think I'm going to start, because you all write me such lovely things, and I feel like an ingrate when I don't say anything back. I've gotten so many reviews that make me smile and laugh, so please keep them coming. You guys brighten my boring life.

I'm at the strip club, facing the worst surprise of my life. Kenny led me to his favorite back booth, where his favorite stripper is due to come service us shortly.

And what to my wondering eyes does appear, but a fat tub of lard cradling an empty martini glass. He takes one look at me and sighs, "Kyle, goddamnit."

Funny. I want to say the same exact thing back. I turn to Kenny, giving him my best 'Why the fuck is Cartman here?' look. I perfected that in high school. Kenny grins sheepishly, which really doesn't answer my question. He leans over Cartman and snatches up his martini glass, giving the fat boy a disgusted look when he discovers it's empty.

Cartman scowls, and makes a play for the glass, "Get the fuck away, Supergay."

"Hunh," Kenny remarks, his blonde hair catching the colors of the flashing lights of the club, "I would have thought Superfag would be a more appealing title for you."

The brunette rolls his eyes, "Supergay rolls off the tongue more easily. I met some gaysian down at that club in Boulder who called himself that."

"Gaysian?" I ask, but I've already got the gist of it. Gay plus Asian. Somehow I really didn't need to know that term.

"Yeah, there's an Asian gay club in Boulder," Kenny grins. I think he's figured out that talking about this stuff grosses me out. He enjoys that fact.

"They're such 'mo's there," Cartman scowls, even though he pretty much ultimately admitted that he has yellow fever. Which reminds me. Why the hell is he in a strip club? I ask him this much, and he sort of mutters under his breath that while the place smells like pussy, which in turn smells like decomposing fish, they have the cheapest drinks in town.

"Today's a drinking day," he adds. I guess I can agree with that. Grudgingly, I take a seat next to him. I want to forget the fact that Stan's a dickhead. I want to forget the fact that for some reason, I can't get him out of my head.

Cartman, surprisingly, orders us up a round of drinks. I don't even complain that they're Gibsons, which are gin martinis with fucking cocktail onions in them. I mean, who eats cocktail onions? They pucker your lips into…okay, now I just want to stop that train of thought right there. The words Cartman and cock-sucking-lips do not ever need to coincide in my brain. I try to think of a different pair of lips, but all I come up with is that brunette bitch Stan drove his cock into. Shit. Now I'm thinking of Stan, thrusting and…

Oh god. Concentrate on the pretty strip club, with it's pretty dancing naked women, and the fact that I'm here with my two gay friends.

Before I can start panicking about the bad place my mind is in, a pretty girl with shapely hips and fiery hair prances over to us. She's wearing a sequined bra and the tiniest g-string I've ever seen. My mind has snapped back to hetero-land.

The stripper giggles, and I see that her eyes are lined with rhinestones and fake feather duster lashes. A streak of metallic blue highlights her irises, but to tell the truth I'm more occupied by the fact that her boobs are practically bursting out of her bustier. On the other side of Cartman I hear Kenny mutter, "Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy."

Geez. He's like a little boy. A gay, breast fetishist, little boy.

Our drinks arrive, but I don't even think we glance at the waitress in thanks. The stripper has all our attention.

"Hi, I'm Passion," she says, drawing her name out long and slow. Her lips are ruby red and luscious. Now those are cock sucking lips, and I don't associate them with Cartman or Stan.

Maybe Kenny, since he knows her.

Double shit. I down my Gibson with little more than a wince. I've never been a gin fan.

The waitress is still there, and she hurries off to fetch me another. Passion starts winding sinuously in front of us. Man, this chick is hot. I can't take my eyes off her. I'm starting to feel a lot better about the fact that my friends are all either gay or complete and utter pricks. As long as Passion keeps shaking her butt like that.

Two hours and ten drinks later, Passion has made at least three hundred bucks off us, as have her friends Tangerine and Kitty. I think the redhead is still Kenny's favorite though, although I kind of like Tangerine's dark, raven colored hair.

"Thanks, Red!" Kenny screams as Passion once more sashays away from us. We're drinking hard now, so I bet on her being back within half an hour. Why give up on a good thing? It's still the middle of the day, and the club is pretty much empty except for us dickholes.

"No problem, cutie," she winks at us all.

"Red?" I burp, looking at Kenny, "Why does that name sound familiar?"

"She went to school with us," Kenny replies happily, "You and Stan peeked at her in the locker room that one time and got a month's worth of detention."

"Oh."

OH! That bitch gave me the first detention of my life. Her boobs have certainly gotten bigger. I start laughing hysterically. Cartman decides to remedy that by forcing another nasty Gibson down my throat. Fucking hick drink. Can't we have something cool, like a vodka martini with a twist, like James Bond. Shaken, not stirred.

I'm wasted, if you can't tell.

Cartman's been pulling bills out all night, paying for the drinks and strippers like it's no big deal. I wish I had that kind of money. I'd be downing Patron and sitting in a much classier gentleman's club than this; perhaps 'Eyeliner', the establishment I always see in Denver. I only ever see guys in Armani suits walking in and out of that joint.

I tell Cartman this. His response is weird.

"I always liked you, Kyle," Cartman tells me casually. My ears perk up. What is this I hear? Is he finally going to apologize for all those years of brutal bullying? Is liquor finally sending his tongue wagging in guilt over all his misdeeds?

Sadly, no.

Like I give a fuck; every time he tried shit with me, I gave it right back to him. We've both taken the hits and the insults, even if mine were usually on the defensive.

Cartman grins and continues, "You were always a devious bastard, just like myself."

"Excuse me?" I choke out.

"Yeah. You had some of the scariest ideas of any of us."

"Don't put me on the same level as you, fatass."

"Why?" Cartman asks innocently, "It's a compliment."

Yeah right. Being compared to the tub of lard; something I imagined only in my wildest nightmares.

"I am nothing like you," I seethe.

"Well, not now, since I've turned to the Lord and let him show me my true path," Cartman simpers, "But before…you've never backed down, you've never given up on anything. You never took shit, from anyone. I heard a few people back in high school wanted to gang up on you and take you down a few notches 'cause you were such a smug bastard. I almost wish they had. It would have been one hell of a show."

I think, in some twisted way, he's trying to be nice. I think. I've been wrong before.

"The only one of us who was ever a weak link way that way-" he eyes me, "-and by that way I mean acting like a total pussy and letting himself be used as a fucking doormat, was that bitch Stan."

"Don't talk that way about him," I say automatically, although I'm not feeling up to defending my once BFF right now. Cartman senses that and for once, doesn't pursue it. I'm not fooled. His inner prick, which is easily confused with his outer obnoxious jackass, is waiting to come out.

Kenny decides it's his turn to try out dancing, and leaps up onto stage with Red. She's amused, but the owner of the bar decidedly is not. He kicks us out. Bastard.

This is when it happens. The most horrific day in my life. I know a lot of people are skeptical about that. Like what about the time I got plastic surgery to be black and then my knees exploded and I practically bled to death? Or what about the time Cartman gave me AIDS? Or what about the time Indiana Jones was raped right in front of me? Or that other time…

God, I've had a lot of bad shit happen to me.

This is definitely the worst.

Kenny's around the side of Quickie Check, the convenience store near his apartment where we stopped to pick up some eats. None of us wanted food. We were all just scared we'd die of alcohol poisoning.

Anyway, Kenny's around the side, puking his brains out. It's way harsh. Cartman and I are standing in the library next door, mostly because this place is close to my house, and I'm scared shitless than in the late afternoon sun, my mom will see me loitering and piss drunk. Nothing puts the fear of Moses in me like my mom.

I sort of tried to see if Kenny needed help, but all he did was grin at me with a little trail of vomit down the side of his mouth and say, "Just admit you want to bone me, and we'll be alright."

Um, no. So I backed off and decided Cartman was my best resort. We opted to go in the library so I could hide and Cartman could borrow a copy of Mein Kampf. Anti-Semitic homo.

"Kahl," Cartman sings out, his fingers running along the bookshelf full of books on that German pig he loves. I know he can say my name proper-like, so he's pretty much doing that to annoy me. If I was more sober, it would probably work, "Did you have fuuuun?"

"Sure," I grunt, nibbling on this turkey and cheese sandwich that tastes like it was made from construction paper.

"How much fuuuuuun?"

Jesus. Cartman sounds like someone slipped him an acid tablet. He continues his ministrations on the books, searching out that one that says, 'Hey, you can be a Nazi if you try to'. Found Jesus, my foot.

"Lots of fun," I mutter, still attempting to chew up my first bite of sandwich. This is gross.

"I bet I could make you have more fuuuuuuuuun."

Okay. Drawing out his syllables is getting obnoxious.

"Whatever you say fatass-"

My voice is cut off. I'm choking. I'm choking on the smell of ham and cheesy poofs, and the fact that there's a rather large mouth covering mine. I can't breathe. Shit, I'm-I'm-I'm….

I'm fucking being kissed by Eric Cartman!

Fight. That's my first instinct. All that testosterone raging around in my body is practically moving my limbs for me, pushing Cartman away. I don't even pause to think that I enjoyed the kiss, because it's not even a plausible thought to my mind. How could I enjoy a kiss with Eric Cartman?

Cartman's probably the only one in the world who handles rejection like a professional. As he stumbles back against the bookcase he uses the same momentum that's about to drop him to the floor to bounce right back up again and bound to me like an angry guard dog. His hot breath is back on my face in seconds, smelling vaguely like peanut butter.

"Fuck you, Jew," he breathes as he forces his mouth upon mine once more. He swings us around so that he can push me savagely against the bookcase he was just introduced to, and I find that even with all my strength I can't force him away. The alternative is knocking down the rows and rows of literature behind me by tipping the bookcase backwards, but I like this library and really don't want to get kicked out for destruction of property.

His tongue worms in between my lips. Without meaning too, I clutch at the cloth of his jacket.

A wave of nausea turns my stomach. Cartman presses his body full against mine, hard and soft in places I'm not quite used to. But God, does that feel good. Suddenly the sick feeling in my tummy is replaced by a different, better one, like heat and electricity. I'm responding to the kiss. I tell myself it's because there's no way I'll escape unless I-gag- kiss him back. I've never been all that good at lying. I'm disgusted with myself, because I haven't been kissed this way in a long time, and it doesn't even seem to matter that my tongue's currently locked in battle with Cartman's. There's no denying that passion is fueling this idiocy; years of pent up rage and frustration, and the way the brunette boy is grinding his hips against mine is really shading my thoughts right now. His lips are on my neck, sucking and pulling, his tongue lathering my skin.

He's making me horny.

I don't even get to process how wrong that is because his mouth is pressing so hard against mine now that I'm sure I'll bruise, and he's rubbing against me with this sort of urgency that makes me think he's only seconds away from cumming in his damn jeans.

"I hate you so, so much," he whispers against my lips, and I'm at full mast. I'm thrusting my pelvis into the front of his jeans, where I feel this warmth that makes my abdomen tingle. I groan, not caring that anyone could hear. I don't even care that I'm probably pressed up against Hitler's autobiography, making out with the German man's most avid devotee. All I care about is getting closer. My hands move of their own accord, sliding up Cartman's back, then down, then to the flesh beneath his layers. His skin feels soft and firm, and for the first time I realize that he wasn't entirely lying about being big boned. Oh Moses. I want to bang Eric Cartman right here and now.

"Hey guys…" Kenny trails off as the two of us snap apart. My hair is tousled, my lips are red, and I'm blushing profusely. There's no fucking way he didn't see that. I look at Cartman and see he pretty much has sex-hair himself. Fuck me. Fuck me over and over and over again. I don't even know what just happened, and I'm really wanting to blame it on the alcohol.

The only problem being that make out session just completely sobered me up.

I'm in Kenny's apartment. It's a nice place. I'm actually surprised. He's got hardwood floors and a fireplace, which is pretty much a miracle in this part of town. He's also got a full kitchen that's gleaming in a way that screams he never, ever uses it. Except I distinctly remember Stan telling me that Kenny cooks. Food for thought. Bad pun. I think I'm verging on hysteria, and not in the good way.

"I'm not really surprised," Kenny tells me. We're relaxing in front of his TV, watching a hockey game. Originally we were hinging on football and beer, but football made me guiltily think of Stan, and I think I'm joining fucking AA after what happened earlier with Cartman, so beer was out.

I don't want to ask. I don't want to know. I do it anyway, "Why not?"

"Cartman has always had this sick obsession with you. I think being gay like naturally transferred it to love."

I choke on my ginger ale, coughing and sputtering, "Sick dude. Cartman does not fucking love me!"

Kenny eyes me curiously, "Are you sure about that?"

I'm not sure about anything, but I'm not about to tell Kenny something that weak. I turn my eyes back to the game. It's the Bruins versus the Devils. They both are sucking royally right now.

Eventually he starts up again, "Did you like it?"

"No!" I yelp. There is no way I'm telling him the truth.

His face falls a little, "That's too bad."

"What? Why?" I wince, "I'm not fucking gay, Kenny."

"I know," he shrugs, "Bisexual maybe."

"Bi-bisexual? No fucking way. Stop messing with me, asshole."

"Kyle, I'm not messing with you. I'm just saying, that from my point of view, you seemed to like what Cartman was doing."

"He had me trapped," I mutter.

"He gave you a hickey," Kenny replies. My hand flies to the side of my neck. Son of a whore. The skin there is slightly tender. It better not be a fucking big one, because my mother will have my hide.

"You liked it," Kenny continues.

"That's wicked retarded, Kenny. I did not like it."

"I understand if you're having issues with your sexuality."

"I am not having issues with my sexuality. I'm not gay. Stop being a prick about this."

"Okay," Kenny settles back down on the couch, "I wouldn't mind…If you were gay."

"I would."

"You'd make a great boyfriend."

"Stop pressing this, Kenny."

"I'm just saying Kyle. If you decide to come out…I'm here for you."

It's about then that Kenny's words start hitting me. I glance at my friend, whose eyes are trained hopefully on me rather than the fact that Bruins just made the best play of this whole damned game so far.

He's being a good friend, I tell myself.

He inches closer to me on the couch.

God fucking damnit.

A/N: Dum dee dum dee dum. This fic is still Style. Yay. Even though Stan hasn't made an appearance in this chapter. I did promise you lots of Cartman though, didn't I? Heh. The next chapter will feature more Stan and Craig. And Wendy. Possibly Bebe and Butters, who are going to show up eventually.