You Can Never Go Back

Chapter Eighteen: Finding Myself Making Every Possible Mistake

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Mwaha, and I just realized the opening scene is remarkably close to the opening scene of 'Breathe Me'. Either I lack originality or I just really like the idea of Kyle spooning with people. You decide. Okay, ready to pick up where we left off? Good, me too. Let's go.

It takes me forever to fall asleep. Between Stan's stiff posturing and the burning knowledge that he's right there, next to me, possibly thinking about me, it's near impossible to drift off.

But…I do.

I wake up to find that my legs have somehow entangled themselves with Stan's, which are very, very warm under the stifling heat of my comforter. I vaguely recall turning up the thermostat before going to sleep. My parents must not have made it home, because I know my mother would have turned it down to icy cool and barged in to yell at me about wasting energy by now.

Lazily, I reach over the side of my bed for my cell without freeing myself from Stan's embrace. Its nice being wrapped up in his arms, although his legs are hairier than mine, and kind of scratchy. I wouldn't have even noticed if his calf wasn't rubbing up against my thigh. Oh well.

I'm in that half asleep, half awake daze where everything just seems so comfortable. I can't be bothered worrying, not about anything.

I check my cell phone display, and find that my mom has left me a rather long winded message about not being able to make the drive home. Park County High School is located relatively close to a tiny, rundown motel, and she and dad decided to stay the night because of the blizzard. That's all very well and good, but her voice is way too loud for this early in the morning. I hear something about making sure Ike gets home from school okay if he even has it before hanging up. The message will be saved in my voicemail if I need to actually listen to the whole thing later. Sighing contentedly, I throw my phone back onto my messy floor before sinking back into Stan's arms. He has one thrown over my stomach and the other wound around my left bicep, which is comfortably numb from his weight.

This should be weird, but it isn't. Maybe because the steady rhythm of his breath is keeping me calm, or maybe because it feels too hazy and safe and reality hasn't sunk in yet. Either way, I don't care. I snuggle closer, and end up with his head nuzzled into the crook of my armpit. Eh. Whatever.

I spend the next hour drifting in and out of sleep before his warmth leaves me.

"Kyle?" his voice sounds as rumpled and adorable as he looks when I manage to crack open an eyelid. He's still next to me, but our bodies are sadly no longer touching.

Gaaaah. Bad thoughts, bad thoughts.

"Mm," I mumble out, "Yeah?"

"I'm hungry."

His stomach growls, just to emphasize his point.

"Me too," I say, although I'm not really a breakfast person. We bolt downstairs, not bothering to brush our teeth. After we both wolf down a bowl of cereal, there's a competition for who can secure the bathroom quickest. I should by all rights win, being taller, but apparently God favors football players. Stan locks himself in the bathroom for close to half an hour. I can't think what else he has to do in there other than pee and raid our stash of guest dental care items. It isn't until he emerges from the bathroom with rather shiny, well arranged hair that I realize what he's been doing.

"You're such a fag."

"Kyle!" he turns towards me, face red.

"What? You just spent half an hour in my bathroom. Doing. Your. Hair. Dude, do you know how badly I have to piss? The least you could have done is masturbate. That's what normal guys do in the bathroom."

Stan rolls his eyes, "I did that in your bed, this morning."

I'm speechless.

"That better be a joke, dude. I don't want your jizz all over my sheets."

"Relax, moron. I didn't do anything. And for your information, Wendy's coming over later today, and I have to look nice. It's our anniversary."

Oh.

I shouldn't feel so crestfallen about that, should I?

"That's uh…nice. What number?"

Stan stares at me blankly, "I have no fucking clue. Do I look like a chick to you?"

"You don't know how long you've been dating Wendy? Dude, you're the worst boyfriend ever."

"I wouldn't even know it was our anniversary if she hadn't texted me about it last night."

Last night. When he appeared at my door, all dripping and god-like. It's just not fair. He said he loves me, right? So why is he celebrating his anniversary- wait. No. I'm not thinking about this. I resolved not to think about this. I'm just accepting I like cock. I don't need to start dwelling on love, much less getting all jealous the way I have been lately. I told Stan he could keep seeing Wendy. I shouldn't be so freaked out by it.

"You're such a callous asshole," I tell him, "When do you have to meet Wendy?"

"Around five. And I'm not an asshole," he corrects me, "I'm just really bad with numbers."

Idly I ask, "How long have we been friends for?"

Immediately he replies, "Twenty two years and five months. And I know what you're doing. Stop it. That's different."

"Why?"

I sound like a loser. Do I really need affirmation about this? Isn't this that annoying thing that girls do?

"Because you're the most important person to me," he says softly, his eyes so deep and blue that I swear I could drown in them.

"I'm going to go to the bathroom," I gulp, racing past him and slamming the door. Hard.

I find Stan fiddling with his old acoustic guitar on my back porch. He gave it to Ike when we were juniors in high school because his dad bought him a new one. He must have snaked it from my little brother's room. The burglary doesn't really bother me, but the fact that he's sitting in about five feet of snow does. He cleared off the plastic chairs, but he didn't really bother making a path to them. I shove on some boots and tromp out to sit next to him, my pants soaked within seconds.

With a warning look I joke, "You better not have written me a song. I'm not a girl. You can't win me over like that."

Stan flashes me a grin that practically stops my heart in my chest.

I hate him so much right now. It shouldn't be possible for him to make me feel this way. It shouldn't.

"I know," he replies casually.

"Its balls cold out here, dude."

"I like the snow."

"You're a freak of nature. No one likes the snow this much."

He shrugs. I notice he stole one of my college sweatshirts out of my closet. He's wearing the same jeans he borrowed from me yesterday, and a pair of my dad's snow boots. It's kind of nice that he knows exactly how to make himself comfortable in my house. It's a reminder of how long we've been friends.

Goddamnit, I'm getting so sappy. I'm staring at Stan like some kind of puppy while he strums the strings of the guitar idly, creating a jarring, incomplete melody.

This town is rotting my brain.

"Dude," Stan mutters, still toying with the strings, "What do you want to do with your life?"

I'll admit it. I didn't see that one coming.

"Wha- where the hell did that come from?" I sputter.

Stan shrugs, shifting so that the long lines of his body are on display for me. I don't know if he's trying to look sexy on purpose, but the guitar settles along next to him like another body, and he's so casual in my sweatshirt, wrapping his arms around the neck of the instrument.

Now, I don't know what it is about us testosterone types and people wearing our clothes. I just know that seeing someone you're attracted to in your boxers, in your shirts, or pretty much anything that belongs to you is a major turn on. If I had any doubts that I'm attracted to Stan, seeing him lying on our plastic lawn chairs on my back porch, hugging that guitar, wearing my filthy, unwashed college gear…yeah, those doubts are eliminated. His cobalt eyes are piercing through me, and I am seriously turned on.

"Come on, Kyle."

Seriously, he says that. Why would he say that? Does he know what he's doing to me?

"Um."

"You have to have thought about it."

Ravishing you? Yes. Now I am.

Wait, what was the question?

"Thought about…" I say breathlessly, "Um…the future?"

Stan gives me this 'duh' look that in no way diminishes how hot he's making me, just sitting there. I don't know where these thoughts are coming from. Granted, I've been fantasizing strange things about him for days now, and sleeping together last night without molesting him might possibly be one of the hardest things I've ever done, but I normally don't have control issues like this. Yet here I am, silently chanting to whatever god will listen.

Please don't let me tackle my super best friend!

"What do you want to do with your life?" Stan prods me with a finger, and I have to stop myself from grabbing it and sticking it in my mouth like a fucking lollipop. Moses. Did mom stick aphrodisiacs in my box of cornflakes?

"Oh, uh-er. I don't know. I haven't really thought about it too much."

"You haven't-?" his mouth gapes open, and I know he thinks I pretty much just said the stupidest thing in the history of man. If I'd stayed in school for that final semester, I would have graduated college. I had a major. I had a plan. Or I must have, right?

The truth is…I don't know if I'm ready to tell Stan the truth, because I haven't even admitted it to myself.

When I was younger, things seemed so easy. You grow up. You graduate high school. You go to college. You go to grad school. You get married. You have kids. Life is perfect.

I always assumed that was how it worked out, and up until high school graduation, things seemed just so. And then I got to university and I realized…I didn't have a fucking clue what I wanted to do. How do you decide what you want to spend the rest of your life doing?

When I was a kid, I wanted to be an astronaut. I wanted to be a cowboy. I wanted to be a doctor. And I was smart enough to do all of that; well, I don't know if cowboy would be an applicable profession, but you get my gist. I could pass Organic Chemistry. I could pass Thermodynamic Physics. I could pass anything if I studied hard enough. No sweat.

But…I was alone. No Stan. No mom and dad telling me what to do. My college friends were cool…but they wouldn't be there forever. I was completely and utterly the master of my own life.

Goddamn did it scare me.

I've never had the firmest grasp on reality. People who spend their time dwelling with their heads in books rarely do. It never occurred to me that one day, far in the future, I'd be all on my own. And then suddenly I was. Alone. Completely.

I hate being on my own. The simple truth of the matter is that I like being told what to do with my life. I like having a controlling mother to instruct me about what's good and what's not. I like having friends who decide how we're going to spend the day.

I wasn't used to making gigantic, unalterable decisions about my life.

So I didn't. I chose a major that seemed okay. And then I bombed my classes. Drinking was easier. Being at parties where thinking was optional was so, so much easier. And now I'm back here, where my mom dictates my life again. For a little while at least.

No way can I tell Stan I don't even have the balls to choose what I want to do. That being on my own scares the shit out of me.

"I just…haven't found my path," I say, even though it sounds like some stupid, new age bullshit.

Stan's watching me. I'm struck by the sudden, inexplicable fear that he knows. How can he know? I'm supposed to be the smart one. I'm supposed to be the one who understands…everything.

So why is it I understand nothing?

"You'll have to decide eventually," he says quietly, running his fingers over the chords of the guitar once more.

"I know that," I snap defensively. I want to scream, but I can't. Here I am, sitting across from a guy I'm immensely attracted to…a guy I've known my entire life, and nothing would make me feel better right now than railing at him. But Stan hasn't done anything wrong. If anything, he's acting more Stan-like than he has since I've returned to South Park. He cares about me, and he's trying to help.

I don't want his fucking help. I want to keep hiding, and pretending that the future is far, far away.

So I say, "What are you going to do? You're not going to keep that office job forever, right?"

Ooh. Good going, Kyle. Turn the tables. See if he has some big plan. God, I'm so mature.

Stan smiles sort of absently. He brushes a thick lock of hair out of his eyes and turns his face towards the sky. I feel like he might fly away.

"Nah. I applied to a few grad schools for the fall. Got accepted to two. Just have to figure out which one I want to go to."

"You…uh…grad school?"

Shit. I hadn't even known he'd gotten his bachelor's degree yet. How the hell did he get into grad school?

Immediately I feel bad for even thinking it. Stan's not stupid. I know that. I'm just jealous. It's not fun.

"Yeah," he smiles that slow, absent smile towards the clouds again and says, "I've been taking night classes, you know? I'm finishing up my degree this May."

"I…er…I didn't know that."

"Really?" he looks surprised, "I thought I mentioned it."

"So where did you get accepted?"

Good. This is what good friends do. They ask questions. Questions pertinent to the conversation, that have no hint of unrestrained envy in them.

"NYU," he beams, "And some school in Florida. I thought maybe I'd like to see a little more of the sun."

He makes a haphazard gesture to the permanently cloudy sky that looms over our town.

"New York? And Florida. Wow."

Wow. Those are…really fucking far away.

Seriously? How the hell can he run off to a whole different state this fall? After forcing me to decide if I can date him or just not be friends? I feel all my pent up sexual frustration churning my stomach, turning to pure rage.

"Yeah. I don't know which to choose. I'm supposed to visit the campuses in a few weeks, actually. I guess I'll decide then."

"Wow," I repeat.

I think he senses that I'm pissed. He's staring at me now, wide eyed.

"Kyle," he says.

I open my mouth. I glare at him and begin to reiterate, "Wo-"

Stan leans forward, propping his hands against the plastic of the lawn chair. He closes the distance of the porch between us, and abruptly I'm speaking into his mouth.

"-w."

His mouth is soft, and the kiss feels like nothing at all, like he brushed his fingertips over my lips.

I'm frozen. Literally. I thought my heart had stopped before, but now I'm not even breathing. I don't know if I'm ever going to breathe again, not if it will make him move away from me.

"You sonofabitch," Stan curses lightly, the words tangible against my lips, "What were you thinking?"

I reach out a hand to steady myself against his arm, clutching his bicep tightly. I didn't realize it, but I leaned over my own deck chair, and now I'm precariously close to falling head first into the massive snow bank between us.

Even though our mouths are still half connected, he's looking at me. He expects a response.

I mumble, "I thought…I was thinking you're going to leave me."

He smiles against my mouth, and all of a sudden we're kissing for earnest. His tongue darts out over my lips, and I'm pulling him closer, crushing my mouth to his because god, nothing has ever felt this right. It only lasts a moment, because now I'm falling into him, and he's tumbling forward too. We both end up with our faces planted firmly in the snow, and my fingers freeze before scraping my deck's surface and pushing myself up.

I hear robust laughter and see Stan's already found his feet. He's standing tall over me, up to his knees in powder, his hair wet and straggly.

"Dude, you look like such an idiot," he says. I flush, pulling myself up and shaking snow off my head. Then I push past him, my numb fingers finding the door handle so I can flee inside.

I ignore him calling my name, stripping off my coat. My jeans are soaked all the way through now, but I'm not going to take them off in my kitchen. Stan might take that as an invitation.

Stumbling into my living room, I collapse on the couch. Mom's not home to yell at me about getting the sofa sopping wet, so who cares? I listen intently as the back door slams shut and Stan enters the kitchen, stomping snow off his feet and shucking my dad's boots.

He pads into the living room and plops down beside me on the couch.

"Kyle."

I studiously ignore him in favor of examining the curtains.

"Kyle," he tries again.

When I say nothing, he bursts, "Dude, stop acting like such a dick!"

I turn to face him, ready to say something, anything, and just like that, we're kissing again. Goddamnit.

He's pressing his mouth to mine urgently, prying my lips apart so his tongue can gain entrance. I gasp, letting him do what he wants; because once more I'm shocked by how incredible it feels just to have his lips whispering over mine. I kiss back, letting his tongue ghost inside my mouth, wanting him closer. My fingers aren't numb anymore. They clutch the folds of my sweatshirt, which is damp from the snow, but that doesn't matter because his body is hard and hot underneath.

His mouth leaves mine, and I groan, but his tongue is licking and nipping along my jaw line, and the tingling warmth I feel there is mirrored by the pooling in my gut. His leg slides between mine and he leans me back against the couch, and I'm struggling up, wanting him closer, wanting him to fucking kiss me again, harder. My hand winds in his hair, and it's so soft, way softer than mine, but I yank the strands up so that his head is level with mine. His lips are red from all the pressure, but I don't care. I crush my mouth back against Stan's, arching my body up and into his. His thigh between my legs feels so good, and all I can think is closer, closer, closer. His hands are tracing my collarbone, and it feels good, but I want more. I let my fingers release my sweatshirt, wandering down to the strip of pale skin between the waistband of my jeans and my top, and did I mention him in my clothes is so freaking hot? He smells like Stan, but he smells like me too, like he belongs to me. My fingertips curl beneath the waistband of those damnable jeans and…

Stan's off me like a shot.

What the hell?

"St-Stan," I stutter, wondering why he has sex hair when all we did was kiss, even though that was the hottest kiss I've ever had.

"I can't do this."

"What?"

The incredulity in my voice must not be affecting him, because he's mumbling something about his anniversary, and then he's scrabbling for his shoes, his actual shoes in my foyer, and then the door opens.

There's my brother, standing there with an inquisitive look.

"Kyle? Stan? What's wrong? I had a half day so I came back early…" Ike trails off as Stan breezes past him, out the door, and then he's gone.

What?

He left so fast he didn't even close the front door, which is hanging wide open, kind of like how he left me hanging hard and sweaty and wanting. I feel like he punched me in the stomach, and that feeling, that feeling he inspired deep inside me, it's flooding away and leaving me empty. All I know is that I can't be empty, not right now, I can't feel like this.

Why did he look so scared of me?

"Kyle?" my brother asks, kind of scared sounding. I look at him, and I can't find any words to reassure him, because that feeling is leaving me.

Gruffly I murmur, "I'm going out for a bit."

And I'm out the door, and down the street, and this isn't the way Stan went, but I don't care. He went back to Wendy, for his fucking anniversary, and why does that bother me?

So I find myself at the only door in town where I know there won't be any questions. I'm pounding hard on it, and shit, what if he's not home? What if he's at work? But there's so much fucking snow, everywhere, and I should know because it's seeped through my jeans until I can't find my legs any longer. I should have taken the time to put on snow pants, but then the feeling would be gone, that warm, glowy feeling like I finally belonged somewhere, like everything might actually be all right. How dare Stan give me that feeling and then rip it away?

I pound harder on the door.

It swings back.

I pull the person behind the door towards me with a warning, "Don't ask."

And then I press my mouth to his, trying to hold onto that feeling.

Kenny kisses me back.

A/N: :ducks and runs away: GAH! Don't kill me! I swear to god, um, this is still style. I SWEAR! I've finally decided though that this will have at minimum another five chapters, if not more, so we still have a little ways to go. I know everyone was totally hedging on this being close to the end, and now I feel like I'm disappointing you all! Eep! Stick with me though, and I promise you a style-istic ending. There just needs to be some angst…well, not angst. Just…you know…life. I'm actually happy that this is going on so long, even though I know it can be annoying- this story is pretty much therapy for me. It's an escape from all my school work, personal issues, and actually my original stories over at fictionpress- which are my babies, but harder work. This has come pretty easy to me so far, and I HOPE it continues to. It's killer when your inspiration just dies. So far, I've been blessed by the writing gods. I'm hoping I'll get this done before they come down on me with total and utter slump-age. Thank you again for all your reviews- they really do make me so incredibly happy, and I know I'm a loser for not replying sometimes, but every time I get a new message in my inbox, I light up like a…lighthouse, or something, hoping it's from this site to tell me I have a review. So yes, super thanks.

Oh, and I swear Kyle is not a whore. I'm just throwing that in there for all you concerned about Kenny's well being.