You Can Never Go Back
Chapter Twenty Three: I Forgot All The Rules My Rabbi Taught Me In The Old Schul
By: Jondy Macmillan
A/N: Did anyone else know that Stan and Wendy have sex in the actual SP canon in 3rd/4th grade, or was I just completely out of the loop on this? –is confused- This takes place later the same day as the end of the last chapter, btw. In case that's not clear. I tried to make it as obvious as I could, but I don't think I did a good job of it- cutting off the last chapter where I did made it difficult-ish. Thanks to all you who reviewed this last round- my inbox had me grinning like a maniac. I was home for the weekend and I think my mom wanted to slap me just to make me stop. Keep it up!
Somebody told me once that coming home from college is like coming home from war. Everything's different, but it's all the same too, and you can't figure out why. And then you realize; you're the one who changed.
I think that's the most apt description I've ever heard. South Park hasn't changed. It hasn't become bigger, the stores I love haven't closed, and the people I used to know for the most part still keep doing the same things they've done since the day I was born. It's me. I'm the one who just can't seem to fit in.
"Stop making excuses, Bubhie."
"I'm not making excuses, Mom."
"Then why don't you want to take your little brother to practice?"
"I'm tired."
My mother rolls her eyes, huffing, "That's an excuse."
"It's not an excuse, it's a reason."
"No, it's an excuse. What else have you got?"
"Mom, I've got work to do. I can't take him to practice and wait around for him to finish so I can drive him back home."
"Excuses."
"Mom, work is a reason."
"Excuses."
You know what it feels like to bang your head against a wall, over and over again? I imagine it must be similar to this. Parents are an endless reservoir of therapy-inducing years.
"Fine, if you don't love your brother enough to actually act like a mature adult, I'll take him," my mom vents, and I can tell she's trying to fake tears to guilt me into caving, "I hope you're happy, Kyle."
No. I'm miserable. Which she knows. I mean, she's the one who had to pull me out of the car a few minutes ago while I just sat outside, pondering why my life sucks balls.
Okay, so she can only guess at the reason, but she knows that I'm having a pretty crappy week. Which is why this whole commando mom routine is kind of obnoxious. I just got inside five minutes ago, and like I said, she's the one who forced me to. I thought it was because she couldn't stand me staring blankly at the steering wheel, but apparently it's because Ike needs a ride to hockey practice.
Good old motherly love.
She just makes it so damned hard sometimes.
I don't give into her guilt trip, despite her eyes boring disproving holes into the front of my chest. I mean, since I'm already wretched to begin with, having her disappointed in me shouldn't be that much worse. And I really am tired. I also really do have work to do. Not that she believes me. Excuses, excuses, excuses.
One day I'm going to have an excuse to punch her in the face.
Not that I would ever. She's my mom. I love her.
I clench my teeth and keep that chant going in my mind. Finally mom ends up tutting something inaudible and stalking out of the kitchen. I take note that she grabs my car keys on the way out. Guess she really isn't giving up possession of the Kia.
Oh well. It's not like I have anywhere to go. Screw work. I just want to crash in my bed and sleep for all eternity. Eat, sleep, and work. I could probably live a comfortably numb life if that's all I ever do.
I hear mom rev the engine of the tiny car, burning rubber down the street with my poor little brother trapped inside. I feel kind of bad that he's likely being subjected to one of mom's uber-rants about how messed up her eldest child has become, but he's used to it. Ike has an amazing ability to tune mom out that I just never got the hang of.
I climb up the stairs to my bedroom, collapsing on my comforter fully clothed. I'm wearing the black button down and gray slacks I donned for work early in the AM, which aren't exactly comfy clothes, but exhaustion is sneaking up on me, blacking out my vision in the corners of my eyes. Have I ever been so tired before? I can't recall. Everything's going fuzzy and gray, the darkness creeping in.
My phone vibrates where I dropped it on my nightstand, but I ignore it. Chances are its mom, calling to ream me out for not filling up the gas tank. Whatever. She'll call dad and bitch to him instead.
I fall into one of those half-sleep states. You know, when you're aware of the stuff around you, but you're not actually conscious? I don't know how long passes, but I know that I'm still drained, a zombie, weakened and broken. It's almost as bad as not having fallen asleep at all.
When the doorbell rings, I almost come to, groggy and deadened.
I must have imagined it, I think, and curl up tighter on the comforter, intent on getting back to meaningless dreams.
But it's really hard to sleep when there are eyes watching you.
My eyes process what I'm seeing before my mind can catch up. Long black lashes. Color. Cobalt, like the stormy sea.
Stan.
He stares at me, downright belligerent, with his face colored in shadows, "You're not fucking giving up on me."
"W-what?"
"You're not, Kyle," he reaches out, taking hold of the front of my shirt. He yanks me forward off the bed, and I only have a second to take in the warm, hard lines of his body before I'm lost in a kiss.
I must be fucking dreaming, because there's no way this is actually happening.
In fact I really hope it's not happening, because I have morning breath from my nap and even though this kiss is going straight to certain parts of my anatomy, I find it impossible to quell my anger at him.
Convinced I'm asleep, I arc my body away from him, breaking the kiss. All it really succeeds in doing is making me hit the back of my knees against the edge of the bed, so that I fall back on my butt.
"Stan," I mumble, slipping my fingers over my mouth so that he can't smell my horrendous breath or make any sneak kiss attacks anymore. You know, I'm thinking about this a little too much for a dream. He hasn't dissolved from sight yet, and now he's just glaring at me head on, mad as all get out.
"I called you like, fifty times, dude," he says, and I realize that this is most definitely not a dream.
"I-uh- yeah," I mutter back, unbalanced upon figuring out he really is in my room, "I ignored you. Um, how did you get in my house?"
"Your mom's kept the spare key underneath the windowsill since we were three," he replies shortly, more keen on glaring daggers at me than actually acknowledging his breaking and entering.
"Doesn't mean it's an open invitation."
"No, I'm pretty sure I recall her saying 'Stanley, come over whenever you like'," he responds in a sardonic voice, and now he's making fun of me, which isn't cool. I just woke up. I'm barely coherent. And much as I hate to admit it, his lips on mine stole my breath away.
"I guess its practice for your future as a ninja," I mutter, blinking in the vain hope that the room might get any brighter. The days are still so short that the sun's disappeared by five, and my room's got blackout blinds. Stan's figure is painted in steel, black velvet, and midnight blue. Part of his cheekbone is highlighted by the green numbers illuminating my alarm clock, and he looks dangerous.
I stare at his lips and wonder. Did they really taste like fire? In my memory, even seconds ago, Stan's mouth on mine burned, all the way down to my toes. Was that really how it felt?
I don't even realize I'm up off the bed, crossing the distance between us. My mouth is on his, and god, it's as hot as I remembered. I feel my lips give way to his, but he doesn't even give me a second of the upper hand. Instead Stan pushes me back once more, slamming me hard against the bed. I fight against him, trying to regain control, but he only pushes me back so hard that I'm certain his grip on my wrists is bruising.
Jesusinheaven, I'm seeing stars. Fuck, there on the back of my eyelids, shimmering like a heat wave, they explode. I never really understood that whole 'fireworks' expression until now. And these aren't fireworks; these are fucking all consuming bombs, like the nuclear apocalypse is unfolding in front of my eyes.
And I don't care.
The second Stan's mouth leaves me in this desperate gasp for breath; I make a sound like a wounded animal and practically lunge back towards his lips. It doesn't matter that I'm pissed at him. If anything, it only makes me want to kiss him more, harder. He grinds his hips into mine, the length of his body so hot that it could very well be made of flame. I'm not going to lie, most of my focus is on how fucking horny I am right now, and well, yeah, I'm bucking my hips up towards his just to rub against that fire.
His tongue is ravaging my mouth, but not in the horrible shove-it-deep-as-it-goes sort of way. It varies from gentle massaging to full on conquering, and I'm giving in, moaning, thrusting my body against his like I have no power at all. And maybe I don't. Maybe I've been kissed like this before, and maybe I haven't, but right now isn't the time for remembering, and it doesn't even matter anyway. Nothing matters but Stan, straddling me, making noises I never thought were possible. Fuck, yeah.
Somewhere in the back of my brain, something's protesting. But me, the parts that are most wholly me, are sick of protesting. I'm sick of this am-I-am-I-not game, and if making out with a guy who might just be the sexiest thing in this town according to my hard-as-hell dick destroys all my doubt, then so be it.
But…
I'm Kyle Broflovski. I can't NOT think. Even when Stan's running his fingers under my shirt, up and down my sides, toying with the waistband of my pants.
"God Kyle," he groans into my mouth, and it's in this husky, primal sort of voice I didn't even know he possessed, "You're getting me so fucking hot."
My brain's rebooting, working like an ancient computer. I'm slogging through the muddled synapses that ceased to work about ten minutes ago, I'm attempting to form something coherent.
His hand slides full into my pants, under my boxers, fingernails scraping against the skin that joins my leg to my hip. Pleasure laces through my body, stopping my mind dead on. Fuck thinking. All I want is for him to do that again.
I make a noise of protest when he extracts his fingers from my underwear, not caring how it sounds. He knows. His fingers are fumbling with the clip in the front of the damned work slacks, clumsy and slow. I feel them trace the zipper of the pants, brushing lightly over the bulge at the front.
JesusMaryandJoseph.
I can't stop myself I cry out, "Stan, fucking now!"
And then his fingers yank the zipper down, the metal teeth falling away. My hard on is straining through the fabric of my boxers, but Stan doesn't let it sit. His fingers open the slit like a window, and then he's around me, touching me where I-GOD- needed it, and I'm driving my body up into his hand, because it's the only thing that exists.
Afterwards. How do I describe it?
When it's over; and by it I don't mean sex, because as I told Stan, I draw the line at something going in my ass, and I think I have to adjust to the idea of putting something in his. Sure, my hormones were essentially screaming 'screw it' and begging me to get some. But, horny or not, I have a healthy aversion to pain. I didn't even have to worry about disappointing Stan, because he's apparently gone through the same sort of thoughts, the same sort of shit.
With Craig.
Eurgh.
Ahem, anyway, when it's all over, and my dress pants require a trip to the dry cleaner and my hand and Stan's are sticky with the fruits of our…um, labor, we lay on top of my bed. I half expect the front door to slam at any second, my mother barreling into my room and screaming at me more about not taking Ike to his stupid hockey practice. Instead the house is deathly quiet. Maybe because my ears are still ringing from what just happened, from Stan's oh-so-sexy moans.
"I didn't know you could make noises like that," I inform him, his rhythmic breathing beside me the only sign that someone else is in the room. Hell, he's not even touching me now.
I hear the smile in his voice when he says, "I didn't know you could either, dude. You should have let me give you a blow job."
I groan, "Do you know how much self control it takes to say no to that? Please, man, just let it go. Let's not speak of it until," my voice hitches, just imagining the proposition, "Until next time, okay?"
"There's going to be a next time?"
Cocky bastard. He says that like it isn't even a question.
"Probably," I reply, "If you behave."
"I always behave. In fact, I could show you exactly how good I am right now," I feel him shift beside me, but I refuse to look. If I see those damnable cobalt eyes, I might just crack and give in. I might let him blow me. I might let him fuck me. I might let him do anything he wants to me, and I have to be the one in control right now.
"I'll pass."
He pouts, but I ignore him.
"You know what?" I ask.
"What?" he settles back onto his side, smelling of sweat and cologne. It's probably weird, but I like the intermingled scents. I like that I get the chance to smell them. I might very well be a freak.
"I'm happy, right now. Like, really happy. I feel like my life has been turning into a soap opera. I feel like the drama's been getting out of hand, and right now, everything just stopped."
"It hasn't stopped. It probably hasn't even started. Drama's just like…massive feelings. Which I've always had for you. And I probably always will," a smile tugs at my lips when he says this, but I listen quietly, "You know that. It's just…the drama began when you found about them. When other people butt in. When other people get involved; that's when drama starts. And you know if this thing, this you and me thing continues, other people are going to get involved."
I sigh, "I know. I hate feeling like my life's part of the fucking Soap Network."
"Dude, honestly? We live in South Park. Life's never been normal. Life's never going to be. I think this, what we've got? It's like love. And love's the most normal thing we can have."
"Love," I repeat, tasting the word.
"Yeah, love. I don't want to be pushy, Kyle, but do you love me?"
Uh. Shit.
"Are you going to start sounding like a fucking girl on me, dude?"
Okay. So not the right answer. But I don't know what else to say. I can't bring my mouth to form the words it needs. I'm a coward. Or I'm just not ready. Right now, feels like the same exact thing."
Stan chuckles, but I can hear the discomfort in that laugh, "You're right. Next thing you know I'm going to ask to cuddle."
"Cuddling is manly," I protest jokingly.
"Sure. Wen-" his voice falls short.
"Wendy," I complete the word for him, "Wow. I forgot about her."
"Me too," I finally turn, only to see shame color Stan's face. He sits up, "I've got to go."
I don't ask why. Not because I know, just because it seems insensitive to ask. In an ideal world, Stan's going to go break it off with his girlfriend right now. Actually, wait, in an ideal world, Stan wouldn't have to. I'd have some perfect shiksa to introduce to my mom, and I never would have just experienced what might just be the best moment of my life. Which I plan to top very, very soon.
I lie on the bed while Stan stumbles up, adjusting his pants and smoothing out his rumpled shirt. He's wearing an old Park Regional High School Baseball Club jersey and red and white track pants. He looks completely fuckable, but I stay still, sated for the moment.
"You're going to come back, right?"
"Tonight?" he turns to me, and I can't help but notice he's avoiding my gaze a little.
"No," I groan, pushing myself up onto my elbows, "Soon, I guess? We need to talk."
"That sounds really gay."
"What you just did to me was really gay," I smirk at him, and I'm completely satisfied when he blushes slightly.
"Kyle," he breathes, and then in one rapid motion, leans down and steals a kiss. I don't even have time to respond. He rushes of my room like the wind, like he was never there.
Only I have this huge grin on my face to prove that he was.
A/N: Gah, sorry guys! I had so much trouble writing this chapter. I get crazy nostalgic at the end of every school year anyway, and on top of that it's my last semester. Plus everyone's left three days before me, so I'm basically living on a ghost campus. My suite has six singles, and they're pretty much all empty. So sad. Meanwhile I had finals that I didn't really study for, and I considered just giving up writing, dropping school, and becoming a burlesque dancer. I've no clue why.
Actually, that option is still on the table. Too bad I can't dance.