You Can Never Go Back
Chapter Twenty Two: How I Love The Once And Yesterday Before It Vanished Into Thin Air
By: Jondy Macmillan
A/N: This chapter is for Natsu, who bribed me to post with promises of more 'You Can Write It On My Grave'. So I just found out every time I write a review drooling over the boys within a fic, I often write 'mmm'. But apparently this site shortens it to 'm'. So basically, I look like a total ass. Yeah. That's pretty much my pointless observation today when I was looking at my review history and going, why would I write 'm, yummy'? Dumb site.
My phone rings. Without looking at the screen, I pick it up. I'm trudging through snow ridden streets towards the one place I sort of promised myself I wouldn't end back at.
Kenny's going to kill me for showing up on his doorstep. God, I'm a wishy-washy bastard.
"Kyle," Stan's voice carries over my cell, "Kyle, don't hang up-"
Oops, too late. That'll teach the bastard.
Cheating asshole.
I hope he drinks all the beer in his fridge and dies in a puddle of his own vomit. Then we'll see who hides from their problems.
Self-righteous dick. How dare he preach to me when he just finished sticking it to Wendy? Gaaaah! Fuck. I'm so mad that I can barely see straight. I walk faster, stuffing my hands down my pockets to keep warm. Even my gloves aren't protection, and its fricking April. I hate Colorado.
Five minutes later, he calls again. I don't know why I pick up. Actually I do. I can't NOT pick up my cell phone. It's a neurosis of mine. Seriously. If I have no choice but to let a call go to voicemail, I feel all itchy.
So I click open my phone and go, "Yeah?"
"I told you not to hang up asshole!"
"Go fuck yourself," I say clearly back into the phone, and then I hang up again.
When he calls a third time, I force myself not to pick up. It's hard work. My mind goes on overdrive. What if he's calling this round to tell me there's been an accident? What if he just witnessed the death of one of my family members and the police asked him to call? What if- what if-what if? Jesus H. Christ, I'm spazzing more than Tweek Tweak on a coffee buzz.
I reach the entryway to Kenny's apartment building and breathe a sigh of relief. I have to remind myself not to do anything rash before I head over to his actual place. I promised Kenny I would be there for him, and part of being there for him requires not leading him on. We've hung out a couple of times since our heart to heart, but mostly its involved smoking and playing Texas Hold 'Em in the auto body shop with minimal conversation. He needs time, and I respect that. He probably needs space too, but unless he says something, I don't know if I can give it to him. He's the only friend I've got in South Park who understands.
It's selfish of me, but it's true.
I'm not going to talk about Stan though. I saw how much it hurt him last time, even though he put up a brave front.
Hopefully it won't all spill out of my mouth, which is my trademark venting process. I feel my anger boiling inside me, and I keep having flashbacks to the scene in Stan's foyer. Wendy. Lace panties. Alfredo sauce. Indiscreet gaping at Stan's member. Um. Wait, that part never happened.
Wendy. I wonder if it all comes back to her. I mean, I never should have told him I was okay with them still being together. I just…at the time I thought it wouldn't be fair, because I honestly never thought that our bet would get anywhere. I never thought Stan, Kenny, and Cartman were going to use their homo pheromones and lure me over to the dark side. In my wildest dreams I couldn't have imagined something like that happening, and now I'm…well, I'm not sure what I am. Angry. And filled with a pressing need to talk to Kenny.
Only when I get to Kenny's I realize I might not get the chance to.
Today is apparently national let's-not-close-our-doors day. Kenny's is wide open, but lucky for my poor, scarred ego he's not pounding some chick on the entryway. Instead he's sitting on his couch, drinking beer with Cartman. His eyes are glued on a baseball game, but I get the sense he's not actually watching. Mostly because they're involved in a conversation, which is something I frankly wasn't really aware the fatass was capable of having.
They don't see me, mostly because their eyes might or might not be focuses on the tight pants and attributes beneath them belonging to the baseball players on TV. I duck out of sight just in time to see Cartman turn, not entirely sure why I don't want my two friends to see me, but just certain that I don't. I sink down against the wall next to the door frame, listening.
"Are you ever going to leave?" Kenny wonders irritably. All lardbutt does is shift to make himself more comfortable.
"Why Kenneh, I get the distinct impression you don't want me here."
"Then you're more observant than I thought," Kenny snaps, raking a hand through his hair. It looks like he hasn't washed it in a few days, judging from the way blond strands are matted to his forehead, some curling and tangling like he's trying to grow dreads.
"God!" Cartman growls back, his fingers delving into a metal bowl I hadn't seen before. His hand reemerges with a fistful of Cheesy Poofs. I wonder if he brought them over himself or if Kenny's actually trying to play host, "What crawled up your poor ass? Must be pretty fucking big, 'cause I know how you guys like to stick all kinds of things up there in the ghetto."
"Can you leave?" Kenny says, stressing the last word.
I'm just about to crawl to my feet and save my friend from Cartman's presence when the Nazi-in-training announces, "I bet I know what's up there. Does he have a Jew fro and a big nose? Hmm? Or maybe he likes to sit in drum circles and smoke the ganja."
Warily, Kenny eyes Cartman, "What are you talking about?"
"Oh come on! Either the Jewrat or the hippie is putting you in this mood. I'm trying to be a good fucking friend and find out which one to bitch out, but you're not really helping when you just want to mope like a goddamned girl on her period."
"I'm not-" Kenny starts, but Cartman predictably cuts him off.
"You totally are, Po'boy. Acceptance is the first step."
Kenny sighs, "Why are you trying to be a 'good friend' anyway? I thought the only person you care about is yourself."
"True," Cartman crosses his arms, nodding in agreement, "I do happen to be the most extraordinary being in the universe. However, you acting like a little bitch is inflicting boredom on mah psyche."
What's with the big words? Did his mommy buy him a dictionary for his birthday or something?
"You're so full of crap."
"No, no, I'm seriously. You need to take that giant fucking pole out of your ass, wipe the sand from your goddamned vagina, and act like Kenneh again. Otherwise you're useless to me, and I have been experiencing a craving for chili lately. You know what ingredients go in chili?"
Kenny opens his mouth, but Cartman barrels right ahead, cutting him off, "Useless people, Kenneh. Useless people deserve to get cut up and eaten."
"By you?"
"Fuck no. I'd feed you to your drunkard parents. They need to the nourishment. Anyway, I don't want your poor germs. I might catch something."
We can only hope.
Kenny scowls, "You are such a prick, you do know that?"
"Fine. That's just fine, Kenneh. If you don't want to admit that you're acting like Miss Prissy-Pants, I'm not going to stop you. Screw you, I'm-"
"It's Kyle."
I frown. I didn't expect him to actually admit it. Why the hell is he talking about me with Cartman?
"Aha! It's always the fucking Jew."
"And Stan," Kenny adds, giving him a sharp look, "And Kyle and Stan together."
"I knew Marsh had something to do with this," Cartman frowns, "That fucking hippie has more issues than even Freud managed to cover."
"I didn't know you knew anything about Freud," the blond's lips quirk in amusement.
"Aye! I'm intelli-gent, I'll have you know. Freud's that guy who talked about fucking your mother."
Close enough.
Kenny skips the obvious joke about how Cartman's mom would probably fuck him if he asked nicely, and stays quiet.
Cartman pauses, unsettled by our friend's lack of response, "Wait. The Jew and the hippie are together? Like…together?"
Kenny nods, "Maybe. I don't know."
Hey, join the club, Ken. I've got no clue either. Actually, wait, I have a pretty good clue. I want nothing to do with Stan the douchebag Marsh.
Cartman's exclamation takes me by surprise, "Aw, weak dude! That's completely nauseating! Goddmanit, Kenneh. My cheesy poofs are coming back up."
"What?" the blond blinks in surprise, "I thought you were…into that. You don't still have a thing for Kyle, do you?"
The fat boy's face looks distinctly green, "That was a passing phase, Kenneh. I thought we agreed never to mention that again. Ever."
"But don't you, I don't know, think that the two of them getting together would be hot or something?" he mumbles, obviously not in the least turned on by the idea of Stan and I doing any such thing. I feel really bad. Kenny's always turned on; being the one thing that turns him off is sort of akin to being hated.
"Aye! Just because I happen to like enacting a bit of ass poundage myself doesn't mean I get off on the Jewrat and that douchey hippie being anal pirates together. Fuck, can you imagine? When their dicks collide it's probably all rainbow farts and gold coins."
"I thought you liked that sort of thing," Kenny says with a tired expression, "Don't you get your rocks off just thinking about it?"
The fat boy shudders, rolls of flesh jiggling on his face and he says in disgust, "Eurgh. You don't like Jews. Or hippies. It's against nature."
"But-" he seems to really want to argue the point, but instead Kenny frowns, "Cartman, why the hell are you really here? Don't pretend you're trying to cheer me up."
Cartman frowns, scrunching up his face like a pug, "Kahl told me you're a fag."
"I seriously doubt Kyle said it in those exact words. You're so crude."
"Since when has that been a crime, Po'boy? You don't like it when they talk dirty?"
"Eric-"
"Let me finish!"
"No, assface. You let me finish. I don't want to talk about Kyle and Stan. Or Stan and Kyle. Or any variation thereof. It's always about the two of them, destined fucking butt buddies, and I'm so sick of it. I just want to go a day without hearing either of their names! You just had to bring it up!"
Cartman shifts uncomfortably, "Thought you worshipped those ass rammers."
"They're just fucking- they're friends, okay? But I need some space."
"You- erm, Kenneh, you liked the Jewfag?"
I watch his blond head snap up, "What? What makes you say that?"
"You just look…sad."
And my stomach drops out of my chest. Goddamnit. No way can I go in there now. I shouldn't even be listening to this.
"I- I like Kyle, sure," Kenny nods slowly, "I thought maybe I might…well, you know? But we talked about it, and Kyle basically told me it wasn't going to happen."
"Oh. So you are a queer. I thought that-er, that person was lying about it. Kenneh?" Cartman asks tentatively.
"What?"
"If you want, I could kick him squah in the balls."
Kenny chuckles, humorlessly, "No. Don't do that. He-I-we had a good talk. I realized that I don't like him for the right reasons. Maybe. That's what I got out of it, anyway."
"Sure you don't want me to kick him in the balls?"
"I'm sure."
Cartman turns back to the TV, and they sit in silence for a minute. Then he says, "Baseball sucks donkey cock. Wanna hit up the arcade?"
"Hell yes. Anything to get out of this apartment."
Before they make it to their feet, I'm down the stairs.
It makes me sad. I kind of thought we'd insta-resolved things the other day. Maybe that's kind of impossible. I'm not really good at giving people space. But now I've heard what Kenny said, and I realize that maybe I just have to give it to him anyway. When he's ready to talk, he'll call. I hope.
And if he fucking doesn't I'll march down to the mechanic shop and force him to talk to me again, and again, until he realizes that I was serious about not ever giving up on him, platonically. But for now, I know he's not testing me. For now I know that he really felt something for me, even if he hid it. And that sucks, but I know that it means when we finally do get everything worked out, we'll probably be even closer friends. Maybe it's about time there was a new Super Best Friend in town.
God knows the old one's been fired.
This love thing kind of sucks.
Wait. What did I just say?
Love?
No. It can't be.
I told Stan that I thought I might be in love with him, but all it meant was that I like him. You know, like him as more than a friend. It didn't have ANYTHING to do with love…even though the words just came out of my mouth.
Shit. I think back on our argument. Why the hell was it so important to me that he admits that he loves me more than Wendy? Why was love even a factor? I just wanted to be sure of where he stood on this dating thing, right?
Right?
No way do I fucking love Stan Marsh.
…
He's a total dirtbag.
…
I think of his cobalt eyes and the curve of his hipbones. I think of the piercing pain in my chest when I walked in on him and Wendy, and all the jealous thoughts I've been having lately.
FUCK. Why didn't I notice it before? Why would I be jealous if I didn't want him? Why would I spend all my time thinking about him if he hadn't wiggled his way into my heart?
It's not fair. I shouldn't be having this problem. I shouldn't have to worry about things like fucking love.
I think of the way that stupid nickname, that single syllable word affected me.
And now I know.
I've been wrong all along. I said I needed him, but what I really meant was…
No. What I really meant doesn't matter, because there's no way I'm ever going to have anything to do with him again.
My cell phone rings, buzzing against my hip. My fingers trace the plastic cover, but I don't pull it out. I know its Stan. Again.
I wonder if I can get his number blocked?
Because now I have no choice. I have to forget him.
The thought makes my chest hurt.
Work. I think work was developed specifically for the purpose of distracting people from their problems. Seriously. You live in the medieval era and you can't stand the fact that the clergy has marked you as the devil? Go plant a fucking cornfield. You live in Alabama and your mom is actually your sister? Why not found an internet startup company? You'll still be an incestuous byproduct, but hey, the McCormicks turned out okay, so you probably will too. And work will drown all your sorrows in the meanwhile.
At least, it's supposed to. Apparently when you're in love with a guy who happens to be the world's biggest man whore, burying your head in accounting spreadsheets doesn't actually make the pain go away. Sure, work helps, some.
Sadly it doesn't help nearly as well as beer. I've been steadfastly avoiding alcohol for the past six days since dashing out of Stan's apartment like Speedy Gonzalez. I'm trying to confront this running away problem of mine he claims I have. Which sucks, because I've been dying for a drop of something, and I can't help but wonder if I'm refusing to give into temptation because I don't want to disappoint Stan or because I want to prove him wrong. In fact, I can't even tell if I'm thirsty because I'm trying to hide, or if it's because I'm just honestly jonesing for a lager like a normal post-grad fuckup. Minus the grad, and emphasis on the fuckup.
So much for being intelligent, right? My problem solving skills have gone so far down the drain I'm pretty certain they're irretrievable.
Plus, you want to know a secret? Get this. My trip to the local community college revealed a miracle. I only need nine credits to graduate. Nine. Which I shouldn't really be that surprised over; that's all it would have taken at my fancy shmancy university too. But I guess I'd forgotten, and had kind of expected to have to do an entire sixth year over at the CC. Now I know I just have to take three summer classes. I don't even get to waste away this coming fall!
It's kind of disappointing.
Oh, and terrifying.
I mean technically I'm in the real world now, but once I graduate, I've got no excuses. I'll have to get an apartment. I'll have to get a real job, and have a strategy to take my life in a new direction. I don't do strategies. I find them limiting.
That's a lie. I don't find them anything, because I'm not the type of guy who ever has strategies. I don't think of them at all, usually. Taking life one step at a time without thinking of the future. That's me. That's what I do.
My mother tells me I need to get over this fixation of mine. It's her way of saying, 'Suck it up, kiddo'. Except my mom would never say anything that way, so she has to use psychological terms like 'fixation' and make me think I'm secretly losing my mind. Thanks, mom.
I hope Ike ends up as fucked up as I do, because if he doesn't I'm going to run out of people to blame for things.
I finish work at five, and this time I don't head to Craig's bar. I want to; my feet even start walking in that direction. I have to strengthen my resolve to prove…whatever the hell it is I'm trying to prove, and not walk towards the comforting neon signs. Instead I climb in mom's Kia, which I'm pretty sure she now only uses for grocery shopping on the weekends and whenever she has a new, enlightening cause that might initiate World War III. Or would it be World War IV at this point? I've lost track.
When I pull up in front of my house, I can't even figure out how I got there. Actually, even work, my savior, is kind of a blur.
Life bites.
And the sad thing is that this time, there's really nothing I can do about it.
A/N: And that was the end of the angst! For like…a whole chapter! I'm so SICK of angst. I just want to get to the lovin' next chapter. And I know this one has prolific use of the word fuck, but I know when I'm pissed my mind only works in expletives, so in retrospect it's actually probably rather tame. I imagine the non-fanfic Kyle could think up many more creative curses than I can.
Meanwhile, I must say, there are some three hundred of you purportedly taking the time to read this story. In fact, taking the time to read the last chapter. So why are there only six reviews? –review whorage- Review, people. Even if it's just to say hi. I'm that sad and pathetic, that I will totally take 'hi' as a compliment. Unless you mean it as an insult. Then say like…'hi fuck you bye'.
Actually, I'd probably still take that as a compliment. I'm a bit of a narcissist, you see…This site is totally turning me into a review whore. Gah. I'll stop now. To those of you who do review though, thank you SO much. If I could I'd make all the SP boys real for you and wrap them up and send them to your homes.