You Can Never Go Back

Chapter Seventeen: It's Never Too Late To Redirect Fate

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Ooh…Please review!

"Hi," Stan does this absent little finger wag-wave thing that allows me to see the bone-white icy pallor tingeing his joints. He's got to be freezing. All he's wearing is a pair of jeans darkened by the damp and a sopping blue and black plaid shirt. Its flannel, and must be absorbing water like a quilted paper towel.

That doesn't stop me from a stuttering out, "Um. What are you doing here?"

Oops. That was rude. He doesn't look surprised. I guess he knows that when I'm shocked my mouth tends to run off before my mind can catch up. After twenty three years of friendship, he should.

Stan gives me this rueful look, and I can't help but notice how sexy the way his bangs have separated into fringe is, dripping rivers over his eyes and cheekbones.

"I wanted to see you."

"Oh."

Awkward. I don't know what to say now, so I let him in. It feels like when I go to visit a girl to apologize for somehow screwing up royally, except in this scenario, I'm the girl, and I have no idea how to act feminine or charmingly inviting. Especially with another guy; particularly when that guy is Stan. My heart does this bass line rhythm that I don't have time to process, and I step aside to let him in, my eyes glued to the floor.

I give him a dry change of clothes. My jeans are a little too tight and a little too long on him. I've got skinnier legs, despite being a bit taller. He's padding around my dark living room barefoot, with them unbuttoned and showing off the penguin print on his boxers. He's had those things since like sophomore year of high school, but I never found them quite as intriguing as I do now. My eyes are unconsciously following the little trail of hair starting right beneath his belly button and descending down beneath the waistband. The penguins are smiling and winking at me.

I tried to get him into a t-shirt, but he refused it. Possibly to torture me.

In fact, I'm positive this was his aim when he finally acknowledges me, rubbing a towel over his head and glowering. The threatening twist of his lips doesn't stop my eyes from wandering over the way his torso stretches as he rubs that towel tantalizingly over his head.

Still, that apologetic expression is long gone, and I realize this is supposed to be 'serious' time.

"What?" I ask in a tired voice.

He just continues to stare at me, all pissy-like.

"What?" I prompt again.

After the third time I say 'what', he finally opens his mouth and accuses, "You told Kenny you were gay."

"I told Kenny I like guys," I correct him, sighing. Kenny has a big mouth. Maybe I should have let Cartman hunt him down and stick things in it.

Stan blinks, "Same thing."

"Not really."

"Why would you tell him and not me?" he asks, and I can tell I hurt him. Again.

If there was an award for hurting Stan, I'm pretty sure I'd win it.

Shit. I knew I should have told him, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I was scared of the implications, I guess. I should have known that not telling him would result in him standing in my living room, glaring at me like I'd made a move on his girl. It seems to be what always happens when I don't tell Stan something.

We're always at odds, always turning on each other the second we suspect a hint of betrayal. I wonder why that is? We're the worst super best friends ever. It wasn't always like this. Our relationship wasn't always some terrible, twisted parody of what real friendship should be like. Was my leaving the catalyst for this strain, or was the seed of love the thing that grew between us?

I used to be able to read him like a book. Now his eyes are the dark blue of the thrashing ocean, and as guarded as a high security prison.

"I don't know," I reply, ashamed of myself, "I wasn't thinking."

"Kyle!" he snaps, and I'm scared he might lunge across the room, "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying."

Much.

He just glares at me in this way that says 'I don't' believe you'.

"Okay. Fine. I didn't want to tell you," I cross my arms, daring him to challenge me.

"I thought it was something like that," he cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes, "Why?"

"Because I didn't want you to jump to conclusions. Just because I've decided," I gulp, take a deep breath, and try again, "Because I've decided that other dudes are mildly attractive doesn't mean I'm accepting your…feelings, or whatever."

Yeah. Real eloquent. Way to go, Broflovski. I sigh.

He sinks down on my couch, and I enjoy observing the way his abs sort of ripple a little. All that baseball practice back in high school did him good.

Okay. So not the time.

"Aw, dude. Not cool," Stan groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Not cool at all."

I can feel my cheeks redden with embarrassment, and I demand, "What?"

"You are such a fricking idiot."

"Hey!"

He mumbles something about subpar intelligence, and in a blazing voice I ask him if he cares to repeat it.

Stan swivels his head towards me, anger and frustration evident, "You heard me. You are such a moron. How could you even think that I'd try to pressure you like that?"

Oh. Er. Oops again.

I'm fully stopped in my tracks, and he knows it. He doesn't say anything else. Even as the worst super best friends ever, we still understand each other underneath it all. He knows what I know; I can't really say anything to fix this. I didn't trust him, and that means I crossed a line that we've never been over before.

The living room is dark except for the flickering of my TV, which I muted when I went to answer the door, thinking a police officer wouldn't appreciate delivering horrific news to the dulcet tones of Terrance and Phillip. The plateau of Stan's chest is colored white, then blue, then red; each commercial flashing by transforms his skin into a kaleidoscope.

I've suddenly got a full blown mental image of Wendy, undressed and sweaty, riding Stan's cock like it's a fucking mechanical bull. In my mind his cheeks are red from exertion, and his blue eyes have that intensity they get when he's really focused on something, just like the way he's watching me right now. In my mind's eye, he's focused on the way Wendy's breasts are bouncing up and down and the euphoric expression on her face the deeper he thrusts. Jealousy twists hard and fast in my gut.

Sometimes I really wish that I wasn't so good at visualization.

Stan's still watching me severely, and I must have an odd look on my face because he says, "Are you okay, man? You looked weird for a second there."

I grimace, "Gee, thanks."

Totally unfazed by my sarcasm he goes, "I meant you spaced. No need to get so defensive."

"I'm not defensive!" I cry, pretty much proving that I'm really, really suspiciously wound tight, and not just about the impending apology I owe him.

Stan just rolls his eyes, "Whatever."

"I'm not," I insist in a weak voice, but I don't even know why I'm trying. I won't say that Stan can see right through me; anyone as dense as Stan Marsh doesn't have the capability to see through my guard like it's a plate glass window, but he has been unusually perceptive lately.

It's kind of annoying.

I really wish he'd stop it. He's looking straight into my eyes with this kind of cynical smirk on his face that I'd love to wipe off with my fist.

Then he distracts me.

Stan's gaze drifts from my eyes to my lips before darting back up again.

Seriously? Was he seriously just staring at my mouth?

You know, all this time, I've been so self-obsessed that I haven't even really considered what my agreement with Stan means.

It means he wants to kiss me. More than that, it means he wants to fuck me. He wants to tear off my clothes and put his hands everywhere and lick and nip and touch. God, that sounds really…good. I feel my cheeks warm from the vivid visuals my avid mind is producing. This is much better than thinking about him and Wendy.

So far all my homoerotic fantasies have featured me wanting to pin Stan down; never the other way around. I find the reverse is pretty tantalizing.

I wonder if he's any good in bed. He must be, from all those girls he got on with. And Craig.

Loudly, he sighs. I must be the only one having strange fantasies about us being alone and him half-naked at that, because he demands, "Are you going to apologize, or what?"

I jump, shaken out of my perverted thoughts, "I didn't think that would make a difference."

He gives me a fond, exhausted smile, "It always makes a difference, even if it doesn't make things right."

"I'm sorry," I say quickly, with as much feeling as I can.

"Just…trust me next time, okay? If you stop believing in me again, I don't know what I'll do."

Stan looks so tired. Is all this thinking and feeling giving him as much trouble as it is me? It must be. Stan's one of the most masculine guys I know. Even though he's been dealing with all this for way longer than I have, now that's its sort of encroaching on reality, he must be having a difficult time. I feel for him. No really, I do. Just because he's an inconsiderate bastard who's made me question my sexuality doesn't mean I want him to go through his own private crucible. Plus it must really be killing him not to continue his quick-lay therapy with random girls. And Craig.

"I never stopped believing in you," I tell him quietly, wishing the TV wasn't on mute anymore so there would be some kind of background noise.

"You did," he insists, "You left. You never called."

This again. Fun.

"That was…I'm only human Stan."

He laughs, dryly, humorlessly, "It never seemed that way before."

"Well, I am," I retort, trying not to let his words kill me inside. If he knew how long I'd agonized over this, I doubt he'd be bringing it up again and again. It's like he's telling me that he's never going to forgive me.

Stan softens, "Sorry, Ky. I didn't mean it like that. I've been so nostalgic these past few months, what with you coming back into my life. It's hard to remember that the past is gone. But remembering that I spent time hating you…it makes waiting for your answer easier."

He doesn't have to mention that if I decide against him, it will be easier to go back to despising me that way.

I start to say something, but he holds up a hand, "Not that I'm expecting an answer this second. That wouldn't be fair."

My lips snap shut. God. Does he have to be so damned nice? Isn't it like a psychological condition, being too nice?

So I change the subject, "Do you need to get home? I can drive you."

Stan arches an eyebrow, "Trying to get rid of me?"

Briskly, I retort, "Of course not. Stay, for all I care."

"I will," he answers, amused.

"Okay then."

"Fine."

"Yeah."

He picks up the remote and turns the sound back on. We watch some show for about an hour before deciding sleep is a much needed amenity for us working men. Actually, I should say that Stan watched the show, while I mentally stewed over everything. It didn't help that Stan remained conspicuously shirtless.

Things would have been so much easier if I'd just stayed in New England.

We walk up to my room in silence. Stan could sleep in Ike's room if he wanted.

I don't suggest it, and neither does he.

He strips off the pants I loaned him, and his skin is as pale as alabaster in the moonlight. I know once summer hits, all those sleek muscles will be so tan from games of ultimate Frisbee, impromptu football matches, and swimming in Stark's Pond that he'll look like a different person. But right now, the whitish sheen of his body makes him look oddly vulnerable. Maybe it's also because he's standing there in his boxers, shivering from the cold.

Hastily, I pull back the same worn green comforter I've had since elementary school, allowing him to slip into my bed.

Sharing a bed has been our sleepover ritual since forever ago. Even in high school, when doing so was considered gay, we secretly slept side by side. At the time, I never thought why. For me it was because it was easier than putting sheets on the couch cushions to appease my mom and having to stay down in the living room so we could continue whatever late night conversation we'd been having.

Tonight I wonder if it was ever about more for Stan.

The second, the minute that I find myself wearing only boxers and a t-shirt and under the covers with him, I realize that this time around it's about more for me. He's hot, burning up next to me. Even though he's facing my wall, I can practically hear his heartbeat. Or maybe it's my own.

I want to put my hands over my ears to drown it out, but I can feel it, pulsing beneath my skin. Muffling the sound won't do any good.

It's going to be a really long night.

A/N: Short chapter. :winces: Sorry. I know everyone was expecting a kiss. My bad. I actually don't feel as guilty as I should about that. All the lovely heat building up between Stan and Kyle is making me oh so happy, and I kind of felt the chapter title for the eighteen fits better anyway. This story isn't done yet, even if they do hook up, and I don't think (though I may be wrong) that things are going to go quite the way people are expecting. Then again, even I don't know what exactly is going to happen- that's half the fun of writing. I have an idea, of course. I hope you guys enjoy it.

Again, I'll ask! Please review!