You Can Never Go Back

Chapter Twenty Six: The Person Falling Here Is Me

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: ZOMG. One more chapter to go after this. Please, please review. I felt like the last chapter was like pathetic or something. Did it suck that much? Oh god, it totally did. Sorry!!! Anyway, I was going to post this last night, but I was wine-drunk and not up to editing, which I figured you lot wouldn't appreciate very much.

Thanks for the reviews guys, and to all the United States-ians out there, Happy Fourth!!! Why are you reading this today? Go see some fireworks and get krunked, guys.

The first time I call Stan, he doesn't pick up.

The second time I call Stan, nothing. Fucking bastard. I know he's awake. He's never asleep before one, minimum. He's just avoiding me. It doesn't matter. I'm going to keep calling until I hear his voice or the world ends with me waiting for him.

The third time I call Stan, I'm already sick of listening to his voicemail. Hi, you've reached Stan Marsh. I'm a total douchebag who doesn't appreciate the effort my friend is making to get in touch with me. I hate him. This resolve thing is already wearing thin, but I don't know if it's annoyance or fear that just maybe he'll never answer that's luring me into giving up.

The sixth time I call, which I'd already decided would be the last time, the phone clicks right before voicemail kicks in, and he's there. There, at the other end, screeching, "You are such a fucking asshole. Do you know what time it is?"

"Twelve thirty?" I ask, confused. I mean, I kind of figured he didn't want to talk to me, but he sounds a little too hostile. He could have kept on ignoring me.

But he didn't.

Inwardly, I can't quash a celebration. I get to talk to him. Finally! As long as he doesn't hang up before I can get another word out.

"Kyle? Oh. It's you. Two thirty," he groans, "I'm in New York."

"Uh. Yeah. I know," I grimace. Sounds like he didn't check his caller ID before talking.

Does that mean I'm not a fucking asshole anymore?

Somehow I think not, 'cause whoops, forgot about those pesky time zones. New York has a two hour difference from South Park.

"I was this close to just turning the goddamned phone off," he exhales, his breathing growing steadier, less irritated, "I have an orientation meeting at six."

"I…sorry, dude. I didn't think I'd get you," I'm berating myself in my head. Yeah, Kyle. Great way to begin a conversation; piss him off.

"You didn't think you'd get me after calling six times?" he demands incredulously, "Dude, Kyle, what do you even want?"

Is this a trick question?

"I want to talk to you. You've been ignoring my calls," I accuse. Trying to light an indignant fire in my belly, rouse some righteousness, and all that. It doesn't really work, and I end up just sounding tired.

"What calls?"

Oh, so that's how we're going to play it?

"I called you like thirty times this afternoon, douchebag."

Stan's dead quiet. Then he says, "Did you leave any messages?"

"Uh, no. Should I have?"

I didn't think of it, mostly because of my developing hate-filled relationship with his voicemail.

"I was on a plane this afternoon. My phone was turned off."

Wow. He really knows how to kick a man when he's down, doesn't he? Why didn't I think of that? Stupid, stupid, stupid. My cheeks are flaming, and I'm glad he can't see it.

"Oh…uh…I guess I thought you were pissed about last night," I say bluntly, because I've decided to be brave and will hate myself if I start stammering like some kind of idiot. What I really want to say is, 'Oh. I thought you didn't like me anymore.' How pathetic is that?

"I was," he says, and my heart stops, "You were drunk off your ass and telling me I'm the worst person to walk the earth."

Those so weren't my exact words. I'm constantly being misquoted.

"Not my proudest moment," I concede, because I doubt he'll be impressed by my keen recollection of the nasty things I did say to him, "It's hard to form a cohesive argument when you're three sheets to the wind."

"I get that," Stan says, and the tone of his voice makes me think he must, really. We've all been there, right?

"Which is why I'm not so mad anymore. But dude, can we talk tomorrow? I don't mean to be a bitch, but I've got a really early wake up call."

"Sure," I agree, even though inside I'm kind of convinced he's never going to talk to me again. He's just fucking with me, because I tricked him into picking up with my late night calls, and now he's even more pissed and…I'm letting my imagination run away with me. I really need to quit that.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he says, and before I can even tell him goodbye, the call disconnects.

I sit back on my bed. I thought the longest night of my life was the one where Stan slept right here next to me. Now I'm thinking tonight wins that trophy.

How the hell am I ever going to sleep?

I don't even get a siesta. I end up rereading some mystery paperback my dad leant me, and then playing online poker for about five hours. I'm so unfocused that I get my ass kicked royally by some jerk named MuffDvr969 and the automated dealer. It isn't the first night I've ever been bested by a pervert and a robot, so I take some comfort in that.

Very small comfort, mind you.

It's finally a weekend, at least, so when I finally do manage to pass out into a blissful, dreamless daze around eight in the morning, I get to stay in bed until one or so. That's about the time when my mom starts yelling and telling me that if I'm not going to get up and be a productive member of society, I'll have to find my own place.

Get up, get out, and throw away the key.

I tell her not to tempt me. It doesn't do wonders for our already tense relations, let me tell you.

Still, I try to be good and make an appearance at lunch. Mom makes something that vaguely resembles stew, and tastes pretty decent. Ike's chowing down like he hasn't had a bite to eat for a week, but that doesn't fool anyone. He eats like fifteen meals a day since joining the varsity hockey team. Something about burning calories really fucking fast.

The home phone rings about halfway through lunch.

My mom picks up, "Hello? Oh, Stanley! How are you?"

She listens to Stan's reply, which I can't hear. I'm this close to tackling her to the ground just to get the phone away when she says, "That's wonderful. How about I pass you on to Kyle?"

Wordlessly, I get a glare and the phone.

I take the phone and ignore the glare.

"Hi, Stan?" I ask, sounding all breathy and stupid. Ike's mocking me from his seat at the kitchen table. Shooting him a dark look, I walk into the living room, "What's up?"

"I told you I'd call you."

"I know. I thought you'd ring my cell."

"I did," he says humorlessly, "A couple times."

I think of the tiny plastic contraption that should be in my pocket, but is actually upstairs, in my room. On vibrate. I switch tactics with haste, "How was orientation?"

"Great. Grad school sounds like it's going to be fucking hard, man. All the other people there were like, the brainchildren of Einstein."

"NYU's a hard school," I say, then realize that I'm not being encouraging, "Um, but you'll do fine."

"Thanks," he replies dryly, not fooled. I wonder if he's doing that annoying thing where he seems like he can read my mind, even though he's a million miles away. Okay, more like a couple thousand, but it feels like he's halfway across the globe.

A silence fills the void between us, the distance from Colorado to New York City. I can hear my mom berating Ike in the kitchen, my dad typing in his office, and then mom's footsteps as she marches upstairs. There's nothing on the other end at all.

Until Stan asks, "We have to talk, right?"

"Right."

"So talk," he prompts in this voice that fills the pit of my stomach with dread. My heart jumps up into my throat, constricting my airways, making it hard to breathe. He doesn't sound very forgiving. Or understanding. Or any of the things I need him to be for this to work.

I glance back in the kitchen, where Ike's reading a comic book and munching down my lunch as well as his. He keeps sneaking spoonfuls of stew out of my bowl, not even bothering to surreptitiously sneak a peek and see if I'm watching.

Little bastard probably wouldn't care if I was.

At least he's not listening. I can't even imagine what he'd have to say to my parents about the words that are going to escape my lips in a few seconds. Talk about eternal blackmail.

I don't want to say what I'm thinking. It's against my better judgment, and it's not even how I really feel. I just have to check, "Stan, the reason you left…uh…the other day, when we did that…thing…is it because you're in love with Wendy?"

Stan's voice on the other line is nonexistent. I can hear his breathing, soft and shallow. I count his exhalations; one, two, three. It takes forever for him to speak, and when he does he says, "Kye, don't take this the wrong way…"

My inhalation is sharp. My heart practically fucking flutters when he says my nickname, but those words aren't good. He's going to say it's true. And then he's going to turn me down. He's going to reject me. I'm going to shrivel up and die; create a crime scene right here in my living room.

"…you can be the stupidest person I know sometimes."

Okay. That's not what I expected.

I see red before I can stop myself, "What? Fuck you!"

"I'm serious. I mean, you're a genius, don't get me wrong. But…remember that time you jumped off the roof in elementary school just to prove Cartman wrong? That was a really idiotic thing to do," he sighs, like it was a recent occurrence, instead of one that happened in fucking elementary school.

"Gee. Thanks, asshole," I call him to confess my undying love and devotion, and this is what I get?

I can hear the frown in his voice when he says, "Aw, come on. You're blowing this way out of proportion."

"What, you telling me I'm a moron?" I ask pointedly.

"Ky-le," he draws out my name, exasperated.

"No, no," I mutter, "Go on. Tell me how stupid I am."

"You're pretty fucking stupid," Ike calls from the kitchen.

Guess he is listening. I flip him off.

"Mom, Kyle gave me the finger!" Ike yells.

"Bubbalah, I swear to Abraham, don't make me come down there!" my mother shrieks from upstairs, "Be nice to your brother."

"Got it ma!" I scream back, glaring daggers at my little brother. Then I return to the phone, "So?"

"Okay," Stan groans, "Remember that time you became a Blainetologist?"

"I was nine, Stan. It's not really fair for you to base judgments off what I did when I was nine."

Sounding exasperated, he commands, "Dude. Shut the hell up and listen for a minute."

"I don't want to."

Gee. Maybe I should stomp my foot to emphasize the point, or at least complete the image that I'm three.

"You are such a dumbass."

"Yeah, so you've said," I shoot back. I don't care that I'm being immature. Except…I kind of do. It feels like I've had this argument a thousand times. People telling me I'm stupid, and me knowing it's true, I mean. Maybe that's why I'm upset that Stan's the one who's buying into it. He was my best friend, once. He should just know better.

"Dude," now he sounds more irritated, and I don't blame him, "If you're not going to listen, then why the fuck are we talking?"

"Because," I exhale, aware that I'm about to make myself sound like a total pussy. It can't be helped.

"Because I'm a dumbass and I want my best friend back," I moan, hating myself for every word that comes out of my mouth, "and more than that, Stan."

I don't expect him to actually get anything out of it. So when his breath hitches, I'm kind of surprised, "More? Like, more, more?"

Stunned by my admission, I can't find the words I need. That wasn't exactly how I meant to say it.

But…I guess it's true.

"Yeah…more, dude."

Now we're both quiet.

I prompt, "So what were you saying about me being stupid?"

Ike snorts something unintelligible from the kitchen. Moses, if he's been listening to every word I'm saying, I can't imagine the amount of 'fag' insults I'm going to get later. Still, I ignore him, listening hard for whatever Stan's about to say.

If I was expecting something sympathetic, I'm sorely disappointed. He laughs. Hard and long.

"I was saying that you're the stupidest person I know sometimes, but that it balances out."

Didn't expect that either.

"What?"

"I mean, you may be dumb, but I'm an incredible jackass. So it's even."

Warmth spreads towards my fingertips. I know he's smiling, even though we're on the phone. Hell, I'm suppressing a grin.

"And what does that mean, exactly?" I prod him, even though I have an idea. It might be a stupid idea, lying low in the back of my head, but it's still an idea. One I'd give my right arm to pursue.

"It means…we'll talk when I get back."

"You're coming back?" I demand, and okay, I'm surprised.

"Duh, man. I was only in New York looking at the school and checking for apartments for next fall. I'm back next week. Couldn't just up and quit my job and everything."

"Your mom made it sound like you'd stay there."

"My mom's scatterbrained," I can almost hear him roll his eyes.

"That is true," I pause, "She makes kickass hot chocolate, though."

"Wait. You got hot chocolate? You went to my parents' house?"

"I had some things to say to you," I tell him defensively. I mean, it's not my fault that he decided to evacuate the state the day I decided to tell him…stuff.

"Like?"

"Like…that I want more."

"Yeah. That," he's quiet, and I can't tell if it's good or bad.

"Stan?"

"Yeah?"

I imagine his face. His cobalt eyes and the line of his jaw. The way he looks when he smiles, when he's sad, and when he just can't stand me anymore. I wonder how his face looks right now, this second, this moment. Being apart from him is turning into a form of torture.

In the spirit of being brave, I discard all that and say what's on my mind. Even if it'll make him hate me.

"Do you still want, um, more?"

These longs silences are killing me. I might drop dead of a heart attack before he gets a word out. My family's going to have to walk over my corpse to get out the door.

Finally, Stan breathes, "I think so, man."

Well.

Wait.

That's not exactly what I wanted to hear.

Offended, I demand, "You think so? What's there to think about?"

"If I recall correctly, it took SOMEBODY over a month to think about things," Stan snorts, accompanied by background noise of beeping, honking, and scattered chatter. It sounds like he just exited a building, or something.

I'm turning red, because it's a low blow, "Okay, that's different."

Just to be difficult I think, he queries, "How?"

"Because," I hiss, glancing at the kitchen. I hope Ike's turned off his supersonic hearing, "Because I didn't know I was gay, okay!"

Stan teases, "You're just slow. Admit it."

I screech, "I am not slow!"

"You kind of are," Ike yells from the kitchen again.

That's it. I'm going to kill my baby brother. He's heard too much. And he has to learn some respect. Insulting one's elders is just not acceptable.

"Tell Ike I said hi," Stan tells me, chuckling, and he doesn't seem to care that Ike may have about a lifetime's worth of blackmail on the both of us based off this conversation.

"I hate you," is what I reply.

"No you don't," he says seriously, "You don't hate me."

"I don't," I confess, smiling because it sounds like things might be turning around, "And you don't hate me, right?"

"I told you. Have to think about it."

I groan, "Haven't you fucked with my head enough?"

"I've fucked with your head?" he sounds interested, "Really?"

"Really," I confirm, "Can't get you off my mind."

"Wow. That's really queer, Kyle."

"I take it back, I hate you."

He's laughing again. Nothing has ever sounded so good.

"So we'll talk when I get back? About…more?" he asks in this sultry tone, and now I really can't wait 'til he gets back.

"We gotta take it slow," I tell him.

"Okay," he replies, and I think he's smiling.

"Just," I exhale, hating myself for this part, "Just…I don't want syphilis, okay?"

He chuckles, and his voice sounds oh-so-delectable over the phone. I want him here, now, now that things are almost cool between us again. I want to see him, smell him, touch him.

"What are you talking about, Kye?"

"You gave Wendy the syph. And if you're with me…I don't want that to happen."

"Whoa, I thought we were taking it slow!"

"Moron," I frown, "I'm not saying I'm jumping you! I'm saying I don't want you to cheat on me!"

He's dead quiet again. I almost think he hung up.

Then he says, "Didn't I tell you already? That's not going to happen."

"How do you know?" I hate the whine that creeps into my voice.

"I just do," he pauses, and then says, "We're going to take this one step at a time. No stupid bets. If you start feeling sick about it, or you think I'm going to stray, or hell, you're suddenly attracted to Cartman-"

"Gross!"

"-we can stop. I…we…we went about it wrong. This time we're going to do things the right way. The grownup way."

"That's…kind of terrifying," I admit. I don't know how to be a grownup. I should, but if this whole experience has taught me anything, it's that I have no clue. I can't even remember to take out the garbage, or reply to the letters my loan companies keep sending. I'm a complete child.

"I know."

Just maybe Stan is too.

After a second or so I say, "Hey, I thought you were still thinking. If we're going to do things right does that mean you've decided?"

"Uh," he pauses to think, a grin creeping back into his voice, "Nope. Still undecided."

"Cartman's suddenly sounding very sexy," I tell him, laughing.

He hangs up on me.

A/N: Quick updates! Yes! I hate this chapter. A lot. And okay, so that was not the end. I could end it here, but that would be anti-climatic, and I figure you all want to know what happened to Kenny. And Craig. And even the fatass. And of course, no happy ending is complete without a kiss…Wait, did I say happy? Hmm. One more chapter…there's still time for more drama…:ducks:

Oh-ho, and the Jewish thing. I'm not Jewish, and I know there's a whole bunch of variations on this site for writing 'Bubbalah'-'Bubbelah'-'Bubbeleh'-'Bubala'. Bubbelah/Bubbeleh seems to mean 'darling', which is realistic, while Bubbalah is some puffy thing served during Passover- which I find highly amusing and also realistic. Thus I've gone with bubbalah, because I think Sheila Broflovski is more likely to call her son a food product than darling.