You Can Never Go Back

Chapter Twenty One: All We Ever Are Is Friends

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys! Oh, (pimpage) and if you like college age fics, you MUST go read Natsu's "You Can Write It On My Grave". Its two chapters as I'm writing this, and already brilliant. I'm in love. Seriously. Um…warning…this chapter contains some serious anger. What's that saying? It's only when the sky is darkest that you can see the stars? Yeah. That applies here. Poor Stan. I've made him into such a horny bastard. He has self-control issues.

I spend a lot of time on Stan's welcome mat. I bet if I added up all the minutes I've stood in front of his apartment, staring blankly at his door, it might very possibly be a larger amount than I could count on my fingers. Which is pretty much all I have the brain capacity for right now.

I kind of expected to waste most of today doing much of the same. Standing and staring, I mean.

I walked the seven flights to Stan's apartment, lost in thought all the while. What the hell was I going to say?

Then I ended up here, in front of the door.

The door that's half way open.

Ignoring my conscious, which is screaming that nice boys don't intrude in other people's homes without knocking, even if the door is already ajar, I press my hand against wood. The door swings back with startling speed. I guess these apartments are new; the hinges must be well oiled.

Only, I kind of wish they weren't.

Mostly because I'm now scarred for life. Or I would be, if I wasn't experiencing major déjà vu.

The first thing I really register is that Wendy's wearing a red bra. Sheer, with satin stripes. It's pretty racy for a girl who spent most of her high school career lobbying against lumberjacks and deforestation. I guess being a night legal secretary forced her to push it up a level. The second thing I register is that her panties are black. Lacy. Odd, I kind of always imagined her as a matching lingerie set kind of girl.

It's only then that I let myself register the third, integral part that's been missing from the equation. Stan. Half naked. Sweat creating a slick sheen against the skin of his back. Wendy's legs wrapped around him, the black lace panties dangling from her ankle as my asshole of a best friend thrusts balls deep into her.

She moans, throaty and loud, while he kisses his way along her neck. I can already see the telltale bruising of a line of previously made hickeys.

The sound that comes out of his mouth is primal.

And this time, unfortunately, I'm not having one of my twisted fantasies.

The plastic bag full of Italian food I brought as a peace offering hits the floor with a resounding smack and splatter that most likely means the fettuccini alfredo is now coating the floor like a cum shot.

Wendy's head snaps up just as Stan yanks himself out of her, letting go of his grip under her ass and thighs. She falls onto the tile like a lead sack.

I guess that's what you get when you decide to fuck like bunnies in the foyer. With the door open. Who the hell leaves the door open? Moses, were they in that much of a rush?

I've never been in that much of a rush to bang. What have I been doing wrong?

"God!" Stan curses, manhandling his still hard dick back into his jeans. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was getting off on the fact my eyes are glued to his member. I must be imagining things. I feel faint.

"Don't you knock anymore?" he demands, pulling up his fly. They were in so much of a hurry neither of them could even undress properly. Hunh. Unless this is some kind of ritual for them. Like, hey honey, let's have animalistic sex where all the neighbors can see, and we'll stay half dressed so that when someone inevitably walks in, we can act embarrassed and pretend it was an accident.

I'm probably over thinking this. I can't help it. My brain was fried before even reaching the door, and whatever I expected, it wasn't an instant replay of my meeting with Stan back in January. What's he got about shoving girls up against vertical surfaces, anyway? Does that make it better, or something? Does it make him feel like he's more in control to have their legs wrapped around him, unable to escape?

Why am I stuck on this? Possibly because the image is now burned into my brain, yes. And there is the fact that half my mind is imagining if it's even possible for him and me to do the same sort of thing. I'm not up to par on the schematics of gay sex, but I'm pretty sure it'd get fucking uncomfortable for a guy to be in that position. Not to mention that there would be awkward ball squish-age. Nope, it definitely doesn't seem plausible. Maybe if he turned me around, or I did the same to him.

Not that it's ever going to happen now. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to speak to him again. Ever.

He's glaring at me with a passion, "Shit, Kyle. Aren't you going to say something?"

I toe the mess I made on his welcome mat and reply, "I brought pasta."

Wendy dresses with the speed of light. I didn't even notice her shrugging into that denim mini skirt and slinky top. She even managed to put on her brown heeled boots, and a deep royal purple wool coat. Her cheeks are still flushed. I guess I interrupted her orgasm. I probably should have walked in right as it happened, and then she could have enjoyed her post-coital bliss.

I blink. Stan's staring at me, his face heated with rage.

I guess I should have come to visit earlier. I told Wendy I'd stop by, but I've become an expert at putting things off. I still had a week and a half, at least, until the agreement was over. So I went to the community college and signed up for classes. And then I let mom con me into babysitting Ike. I spent the rest of my time at work. Then I realized I only had a week. So I came. At least I should have given him a courtesy call. Then he would have known not to schedule the Skinemax show during my arrival.

I turn around, taking a step forward. Away from the apartment. Away from this- I squeeze my eyes shut to keep from thinking all the expletives making a grand tour through my head right now- all of this.

A warm hand wraps around my forearm, stopping me in place. I look up, my eyes meeting cobalt blue. Like the ocean. Like the midnight sky.

Fuck.

Wendy murmurs something like an apology to me. I think she's too embarrassed to speak. She kisses Stan on the cheek, and then hurries past us both. I watch the purple of her coat as she flees down the hallway, fluttering away like a butterfly.

Stan lets go of my arm and mutters, "You are like a perpetual cock block, you know that?"

I nod meekly and follow him into the apartment, stepping over the remains of what would have been a conciliatory dinner. He's staring at me again, even as he collapses onto his couch with exhaustion. He's still not wearing a shirt, and the glint of his silver belt buckle blinds me, making my vision blur. I turn away to get rid of the sight.

"What are you doing here?" he sighs.

I turn back again. Stubble has grown thick on Stan's chin and jaw line. He looks like some displaced drunkard, kicked out of the bar at four am. It's kind of hot.

He shifts uncomfortably and I realize he's still hard. You would think massive humiliation might squash the arousal, but apparently not.

"Er- I…I came to tell you," I lick my lips nervously, all my well planned out speeches falling away, "I came to tell you something."

"Yeah?" he cocks his head to the side like a dog.

"I was just…I mean I realized there was only a week and," I gasp, feeling my breath finally leave me completely as what I just witnessed sinks in, "My god."

He glances at me, worried now, "Kyle?"

"I came over here to tell you that I think…that I thought I was maybe, maybe almost in love with you…"

His face hardens.

Is this some kind of April Fool's joke?" he asks, scowling.

"Yeah. Fuck you, you cocksucking bastard. It's an April Fool's joke," I have to bite down on my tongue to keep from saying more. All the thoughts I've kept so neatly locked up in my head are threatening to spill out of my mouth, and I know if I let them, any chance Stan and I have at real friendship will be over. On the other hand, I'm starting to think any chance we had is already gone. I don't even get why I'm so attached to the idea of us being friends. Four months home and already my memory is getting hazy. I was so certain I couldn't live without my super best friend, and now I can't even recall where that certainty came from. It's still there though, lying deep in the pit of my stomach, stabbing at me every time I even consider walking away and never coming back.

Right now it's battling with wave after wave of white hot jealousy. I don't know whether my assuredness or my envy is going to win. Considering the situation, I'm kind of hoping for the dark side.

Stan's taken aback by the venom in my voice, which was kind of the point. I don't know what it is in me that likes seeing that hurt look in his eyes. Hell, maybe it's the Prince Charming at my core that likes being there to pick up the pieces after he slices them up. I must be a sadomasochist.

But if I am he is too.

"Kyle," he says my name once, twice, three times, like a mantra.

And that's when it happens. I lose it.

"You. You're so fucked in the head! Can't you just make up your mind? You hate me, you love me, you run away from me, you ask me to stay. Goddamnit am I sick and tired of spending all my time thinking and bitching about you."

"Kyle-"

"No. My time to talk," I grimace at him, "What the hell was that I just walked in on?"

"That was me, and my girlfriend," Stan whispers, "You know that. You knew that. You told me I could still be with her until you decided."

"So, what you're just using her as a warm body to replace me?" I demand.

"No. Never," Stan shakes his head, eyes bright with fear, or anxiety. I can't tell which. I don't really care.

"Then what is she? Some kind of cum dumpster?"

"What? No! It's not like that. I-"

I cut him off, challenging, "What? You what Stan? You love her? Do you love her, or do you love me?"

"I told you that already," he says, his voice heartbreaking in the stillness of the apartment.

"But you fucking ran away!" I scream, my voice bouncing off the walls, coming back to me as something broken and lost. Shit. Why is it I can never figure out how intensely I feel something until it ends up pouring out in public?

His mouth forms a perfect 'o' of astonishment. I don't know what he's more amazed at; the fact that I just screamed so loudly they probably heard me in the basement of the seven story building, or that what I'm upset over is him. He'd probably like the latter, the two-faced dick.

"You're never even going to tell me why you ran, are you?" I accuse, and then change the subject completely, "Have you cheated on her?"

He glares at me, "What? Fuck no. I promised you I wouldn't."

"Oh. That's…uh, good."

"Kyle."

"No, really. I mean it. Keeping promises is great. Very character building."

"Jesus, Kyle, you're overreacting."

"Overreacting? Fuck you, I'm mortified!"

He opens his mouth and then wisely closes it again.

I teeter on my feet, ready to slump against the couch, moaning, "I'm so done. Done, with all of this."

I think I must have underestimated his anger. Because just like that, the tides have turned.

"Oh really?" Stan raises a lofty eyebrow, staring at me dead on, "What are you going to do about it? Hey, I have a super idea. Why don't you go get drunk?"

The poison in his voice at that last word has me reeling. I hear my voice, raspy and choked, "What?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about Kyle."

"No, I don't have a fucking clue!" I yell, not understanding why my voice is getting louder, but hoarser, like I'm it's on the verge of cracking. I don't even really get why I'm yelling.

"Every time something big comes up, you run away to a bar. Or a party. Or Kenny's, where the fridge is fully stocked," Stan tells me, frost in his eyes.

"So?" I ask, trying to put all my frustration at his ridiculous accusation into that one word, "You drink all the time."

Stan shrugs his shoulders, "Yeah. When I'm bored. When I'm at a party, or a bar."

I cross my arms, "See?"

Instead of admitting defeat, he rolls his eyes, "I see perfectly fine. Twenty twenty vision. I said when I'm at a party or a bar. I don't go out of my way to find one. I might be some weak ass pussy, or whatever you guys used to call me at high school, but at least I'm not so weak that every time my life goes to shit I run straight to the liquor store."

"No, you go for the nearest vagina. Are you calling me an alcoholic?" I demand, fuming.

"No," Stan scowls, "Screw that. I'm calling you a motherfucking coward."

I don't get it.

"Hunh?" I can tell my confused expression is diffusing some of his rage, because he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, the way he does when he can't think of another way to express his inner turmoil, or whatever Goth shit he's got going on inside.

"Kyle," he breathes, "Ever since you came home, you've been hiding. From everything."

I still don't get it. Stan stares straight at me, cobalt eyes unwavering. His bangs cut shadows onto his forehead, black as a raven's wing. When did he get so goddamned beautiful?

Wait. I'm supposed to be furious. I return to seething, expecting to listen to some half assed explanation. Instead I get this:

"What I mean is that…you drink, sure, fine, that's great. But every time you don't want to deal with something, you practically gallop for Craig's bar, or Kenny's fridge. And you know what; the part where you drink is whatever. It's no big deal. The part where you're running away isn't cool, dude. Not at all. I bet if the whole of Colorado decided to become a dry state you'd find somewhere new to run. You're always running. Always hiding. Don't you just get tired of it?"

He's right. I'm fucking exhausted. But no way in hell am I telling this prick that.

"Up yours, dickhole."

"Do you have to be such a total bitch about everything? I get it enough from Wendy. I don't need you on my case too."

"Fine! You won't have me anymore," I shout, and if they didn't hear me downstairs now, they definitely do now, "You know what? I came over here because I thought with a week left, maybe we could make it work. Screw the last week. And screw you!"

Stan goes ghostly pale, jumping to his feet and blocking what would have been an extraordinarily dramatic exit, "Kyle."

"Get out of my way, slimeball."

"Kyle. Kye, calm down."

And the roller coaster of emotion dives down. I can't make my mouth work.

"Did you just call me Kye?"

"Uh, yeah."

"You haven't called me that since-"

"-Since we were fifteen and you told me not to because Bebe Stevens said it was fagtastic."

"Yeah."

Dead silence envelops the apartment. It's just a stupid nickname. All he did was take out a letter.

And I can't stand it.

He gives me this hurt puppy dog look that slices through my chest.

So I do what my instincts are screaming.

I just walk away.

A/N: You know, this chapter was going to feature Kenny and Cartman, but I kind of decided that this was perfect cut off point, even though it was short. I had a lot of fun writing that argument. I've no idea why. Ah, the angst. It will be over soon. Maybe. I make no promises. Please review.