You Can Never Go Back
Chapter Twenty Seven: Bartender, I Really Did It This Time
By: Jondy Macmillan
A/N: So for a little while there, I was on a writing streak. Now I've been on a reading streak. There's so much great new SP fiction out there, but by far not enough style. Sad. I think it's because fandom pairings come and go- like if you look between 2005-7 it's all style, and then 7-8 it's all k squared, and now kycart is the huge thing…I'm so rambling. Sorry, it's late. And, and, and…My baby! It's over! I think I'm going to cry. This was my first South Park fanfic, although obviously I've posted quite a few more. I really enjoyed writing it, although I'll admit that this chapter isn't quite the ending I originally had in mind…I hope you guys enjoyed reading it! I want to thank EVERYONE who reviewed, and will do so more thoroughly at the very end. Drum roll please…
The time Stan spends in New York City is the longest interval of my life, though it's barely any time at all. I feel suspended in a moment, even as I make my way through all the motions of normal life. No matter what I do my mind is stuck on a loop, a pulse that screams 'he's-coming-back-he's-coming-back-he's-coming-back'.
I'm constantly thinking about Stan's return from the big city up North. I haven't talked to him for the entire week, and some part of me is hoping that he's changed his mind. That he doesn't want me. That this is all a big mistake, because I'm the biggest coward in the world and don't know if I can handle it.
It's like I can't even function, but all the while, I do. I go to my internship that masquerades as an actual job. I watch conservative republican TV that I don't entirely like with my dad. I call up Kenny and have an actual conversation with him, even though it's halting and awkward. I cave into my mom's silent treatment and start taking Ike to hockey practice, mostly because I have strange brotherly warm and fuzzy feelings that actually have won out over being stubborn and making a pointless show of rebellion.
Mom appreciates it, I think. She's been talking to me again, as of yesterday. We have some work to do with the whole parent-child relationship thing; I can't spend the rest of my time at home arguing like banshees. I'm trying to behave, to not forget how understanding she was when I told her I was in love awhile back. I mean, she can be terrifying, but she's my mom. Nobody's perfect; not even parents. And considering the circumstances of my less than triumphant homecoming, I like to think she's reacted rather well. Despite being disappointed that my life hasn't turned out the way she'd like, she's still…proud. She never says it, but yesterday, when we made up, I could kind of tell. That's what really matters.
On the day Stan's supposed to come back, I don't do any of the things I should, like run to his apartment, throw open his door, and screw him senseless. I don't compulsively check the flight listings to see if he got in on time, or give into my inexplicable paranoia that there was a horrible, fiery inferno over New Jersey that resulted in a tragic end to my love story.
Instead I sit at home and play video games with Ike. I'm tense all over, waiting for my phone to ring.
My saving grace turns out not to be my cell phone; it's my mother's voice.
"Bubbalah," she exclaims, "Are you sticking around for dinner tonight?"
"Yeah, ma," I reply blankly, watching Ike's character hack me to bits with a machete on screen. I'm surprised she hasn't gone off about the game we're playing. It's bloody, violent, and exactly what I need to keep myself calm.
"Good," she smiles, and pats me on the head like I'm four, "Sharon Marsh just called. Stanley just got home from a trip, and he suggested we all get together tonight."
I tear my eyes from my 2D death and ask her to repeat that.
Now it's not just the invitation that I'm incredulous about.
My mom and Stan's mom have been friends for ages, but there's no denying that my mother is kind of the Nazi version of Top Chef. She hates going to other peoples' houses for dinner, insisting that they can't provide our family the proper nourishment and spiritual feasts required for a good Jewish family. Whatever that means. That's why our family usually asks theirs over, or invites them on picnics or out to restaurants instead.
The real kicker is that none of us are all that fond of my mother's cooking, but we're too nice, or too scared, to actually tell her that keeping kosher isn't exactly a fun and exciting gourmet trick.
She grasps what I'm asking immediately, and inclines her head to say, "You've been so down lately. I thought maybe dinner with Stanley and his family might cheer you up."
It's instances like these where I remember that even though being home is like my own special brand of hell, my mother loves me.
"Thanks mom."
"Sure," she winks, "Sharon does make excellent pie."
So, Stan's house for a dinner with the Marshes. It's the first join meal with them I've attended in years. I'm nervous as all get out, and still thinking that it might be best if he just tells me that whole phone conversation was a huge, colossal fuckup.
Then I walk into the Marshes' house, my father's arm around my shoulder. He's talking my ear off about investing in retirement plans and things so far off in the future that I'm having trouble conceptualizing how they apply to me.
I see Stan standing there, looking better than sex in his worn blue jeans and a blue and black flannel button down hanging open over a tight black t-shirt.
Automatic tune out from dad's bolstering-your-future conversation.
Mostly because I have to fight the overwhelming urge to tackle my friend to the couch.
God, I hope he didn't change his mind. Fuck being a coward. I will do anything in my power to get this guy alone for an hour.
Stan smiles, slow and easy and says, "Hey Kye."
It's like, click.
Everything falls into place, and somehow, I know it's going to be okay. We're going to be okay. But I can't say any of the things that are bursting from my throat, so instead I choke out, "How was New York, dude?"
Dad seems to know that I've lost all interest in discussing benefit packages, and leaves my side in favor of Stan's dad. They immediately strike up a conversation about who-the-fuck-cares-what.
"Eh," Stan shrugs, and I can't take my eyes off him, "I kind of missed the snow."
"Miss anything else?"
His smile only grows bigger. I want to run my tongue over those perfect teeth and make him moan.
My mother ruins my fantasy, jostling me with her elbow and chiding, "Don't be silly, Bubbalah. Of course Stanley missed Wendy."
Ouch. Way to stick the knife in deep, ma.
To my surprise, Stan shakes his head, "Actually Mrs. Broflovski, Wendy and I broke up."
Really?
"What?" Randy Marsh's gruff voice demands from where he's been standing, chatting with my father, "Stan? You didn't tell me you broke up with her! Why would you do that? She was a total bombshell!"
"Gross, dad," Stan wrinkles his nose and makes an I-dearly-hope-you-weren't-ogling-my-girlfriend-because-you're-old-and-that's-sick-face, "Wendy was seeing someone else."
"Anyone I know?" I ask, arching an eyebrow, all the while thinking that this is the best news I've heard all year.
Stan laughs, "Clyde Donovan."
"No shit?"
Wow. Wonder how that one went down. Last time I saw Wendy, she seemed to believe that Stan was going to be her future husband.
I think of her sobbing in the bathroom, telling me that I fucked up her boyfriend. I wonder how much I actually had to do with this breakup, and how much of it was Wendy herself. I'm going to ask Stan later.
"Kyle! Watch your mouth!" my mother yells. Sharon Marsh visibly tenses. I think she's kind of scared of my mother, despite their millennia old friendship. Smart lady.
"Sorry, mom."
Stan shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, and I ask, "Are you okay with that?"
"Your son's not very bright, is he?" I hear Randy ask my dad, "Wendy's a total babe. No shit Stan's not okay."
I notice no one reprimands him for his language, but I don't really care. My eyes are trained on Stan, on his eyes; deep and cobalt, and tantalizing.
Damn. He's doing this on purpose. No one looks this hot without trying.
"Why wouldn't I be?" he shrugs and smiles again, a secret smile that's only for me.
And Ike, who exclaims, "Dude. You guys are acting like total fags."
"Ike!" mom screams.
She thinks her sons have gone off the deep end, I can tell. She hates it when we're not polite little gentlemen. She hates it when we're not perfect in front of others. I get the feeling it's more for our sake than hers. She doesn't want anyone to look down on us, ever. Not even because of stupid bad words.
"But they are," Ike insists to my mother's tomato red face.
I look at Stan, and he looks at me. We laugh, and nobody can figure out why. I haven't felt this good in ages. He's here. He's mine.
Right before dinner, Stan says he got me a souvenir. He tells my family it's in his room, and I have to come up and get it.
Randy says, "The little Broflovski's right. You are acting like fags."
Stan shakes his head and warns, "Dad!"
"Alright, alright. God. Fag used to be a PC term."
This starts my mother in on how fag was never, ever a politically correct phrase. Her voice fades as I climb the steps behind Stan, watching his silhouette as he ascends. Watching his ass, too.
The second we're in his room, I ask for my souvenir. He puts his hands on my hips and pushes me into the wall, grinding against me and kissing me breathless.
Best present ever.
When he pulls away, I ask, "Wow. Does everyone get one of those?"
"Just you," he murmurs, irises darkened with lust, and then he's kissing me again. His tongue touches mine, soft and probing, and then hard and deep. I can't figure out which I like more. This calls for exploration.
I kiss him back, wanting to get closer.
Needing to get closer.
Stan's hand is tracing my hipbone, and he pulls away from my mouth so he can start giving me a hickey I feel all the way down to my dick. I haven't been this hard, ever, it feels like, which I'm sure I said before, but this time, to quote the fatass, I am so seriously.
"Did you miss me?" he asks against my throat, the vibration making me all tingly everywhere that it counts.
"Ah, no," I gasp as his tongue traces his name out against my jugular, "You never answered me on that count. Is the snow the only thing you missed? Are you still thinking?"
"Yes I missed you," he groans, half laughing. He guides one of my hands down to his jean clad cock, which feels hot and spasms at my touch, "And does it feel like I'm thinking? Anything?"
"That's what I like to hear," I tell him, and pull him up against me again.
We get to make out for all of zero point two seconds before my mother starts shrieking from downstairs like all of Armageddon has let loose.
"Stanley! Kyle! Dinner!"
We both groan with disappointment and unrestrained lust as we pull apart.
"Rain check?" Stan asks.
"Lots of rain checks," I promise, "Frequent ones."
At the dinner table, Sharon's cooked up a feast suitable for way more than our two small families, no matter what my mother thinks. This woman could feed a small country. Or Cartman.
Plus I smell pie cooking in the kitchen. Could this day get any better?
I'm halfway through my mashed potatoes, listening to my father and Randy's mindless political debate and Sharon and my mother's small talk about gardening when the conversation turns my way.
"So Kyle, what are your plans for the future?" Randy asks, "Putting that genius to use, hunh kiddo?"
"Kyle still finding himself," my mom says fondly, placing her hand over mine, and it makes me angry.
I take it back. Screw her and her pride and her kindness.
I know who I am.
But…maybe it's true. I hate that it could be. Knowing myself and knowing where I stand in the world are different.
Then Stan leans over and whispers, "I know who you are. Always have. You're Kyle. Even when you're not…"
He trails off, because we're being watched by the entire table. It doesn't matter. I know what he means. Even when I'm not the person I'm supposed to be. The college graduate with the perfect life. The straight guy. The one who never makes mistakes. All those things that made up Kyle Broflovski, but don't really, not anymore.
I'm strangely okay with not being that Kyle.
We spend the rest of dinner playing footsie, although at one point it escalates into a kicking match. Hey, we're still guys.
There's a party at Craig's later that night.
Surprise, surprise. The party is for him.
About Craig. I guess things with him and Token didn't spiral into a fist fight; but what really happened that night is anybody's guess.
He's not giving up. He's taking the money he's made from the bar and opening another one.
In San Francisco.
When I ask him about the new place's proximity to Token, all he does is shrug and wink, saying, "Never surrender things you want, Broflovski."
I think I get it. Sort of. He seems less angry now, so whatever did go down must have affected him somehow. I think Token took my advice. I think he gave Craig hope.
It's kind of weird thinking that while I've been agonizing over Stan and my feelings and all that, Craig's had his own gauntlet to run, and that he's doing okay so far. Reminds me I'm not the center of the universe, no matter how much I like to think I am.
Anyway, so we're all at the bar. Kenny, Cartman, Stan, and I. There's a bunch of other old faces here too. Bebe and Butters. Red, AKA Passion the Exotic Dancer even pops in for a while. She seems to be taking my newfound gayness alright, claiming that she called it first. Let me mention here that I didn't announce it to the world or anything; only Kenny, Craig, and Cartman. Red just happened to walk in on Stan and me groping in the bathroom.
I now know what locks are for.
Clyde's here too, but no Wendy. He claims she's a little more torn up about the breakup than Stan is, or than he even implied. I guess she and Clyde is a relatively new thing; more of a counter measure than a desire to be with him. It's just her fucked up way of getting back at Stan. They've got some work to do before they can become friends again. I feel really bad about that, but what can I do? Some things we can't fix, no matter how badly we want to.
Kenny orders us up a round of drinks. He's dressed like an Abercrombie and Fitch model. His boss is coming back to the garage in a few weeks, and he says it's high time he starts looking into a real job. One that will get him out of South Park.
I'm still not entirely sure if we're good. He takes the idea that Stan and I are together-although we're not entirely sure what being together entails-with uncharacteristic grace. I see a flicker of sadness in his eyes, right before he puts his arm around me and kisses me on the cheek. It hurts to know that I put that sadness there, but I think he's going to be okay. There's fire in his gaze and a smile on his lips, even after all this.
He's tough, Kenny McCormick. Too tough and too amazing to be wasted on this town. I'm glad he's getting out while he still can.
To Stan he says, "If you hurt him, I'll never forgive you."
Then he kisses Stan, full on the lips. Outraged, Stan pulls back, yelping, "Kenny, what the hell?"
Okay. I've made a grave, libelous claim.
Kenny's not getting out of South Park, because I'm going to kill him.
"What the fuck?!" I demand, indignant. He didn't just do that, did he?
"Just checking," Kenny replies innocently, "Can't have him wandering off."
At that moment, one of the dangling overhead lamps falls on his head, promptly spilling blood from his skull all over the table. Some of it splashes in my drink.
"Oh my god!" Stan screams, "They killed Kenny!"
"You bastards!" I chime in with considerably less enthusiasm. I mean, he kind of deserved it. I stare at the crimson floating around in my beer, and then shrug, taking a sip.
Stan turns to Cartman and exclaims, "You're a cop! Aren't you supposed to like, arrest Craig for faulty wiring?"
"Watch it, Marsh," Craig warns, "My wiring was approved by the fire inspector!"
"Whatever. Po'Boy totally brought that on himself," Cartman smirks, but I notice he looks a little cheerless about it. Hmm.
"He's not a real cop, Stan," I interrupt, trying to draw his eyes away from Kenny's corpse. I swear to god, when that guy comes back to life, I'm going to kill him again for that damned kiss, "He's just a dispatcher."
"Aye! I got a gun!"
I roll my eyes and reply smugly, "Which you'll someday be convicted for using in crimes against humanity."
"Fuck you, Jew."
"Fuck you right back, fatass."
"Kyle, I thought we talked about this!" Stan squeaks, and it takes me a second to realize he thinks I'm alluding to something that I am not, in any way, alluding to.
"You're sick in the head," I tell him, but I'm grinning.
He cares.
It's enough to make a guy glad all over.
We spend most of the night drinking, laughing, and talking. Kenny comes back towards the last hour before closing, and Craig forces him to clean his brain matter while the rest of us drink.
Over my beer, I catch Stan's eye. He's some kind of beautiful, and I'm still not really certain where we stand. Is he my boyfriend? We haven't worked that one out yet. All I know is that no matter what we end up being, I'm a lucky bastard. My boyfriend- or whatever the hell he is, loves me. Me.
Who'd have thought that was even possible? I've fucked up with Stan more times than I have with the rest of the world put together, and he forgives me. More than that, he wants to be with me. I mean, when I'm with him, I'm good enough. For the first time in ages, I'm not a screw up. Because of him, I'm just Kyle.
And yeah, that's a really gay thing to say.
We don't really know how we're going to end up working out, or if we'll even stay together. He's still going to NYU come fall, and it's up to me whether or not I want to follow him. By then I'll be done with my CC degree, for real this time, and I'll have the opportunity to do anything I want.
By then I might even know what exactly that is.
Bebe starts singing some song from her new album off key, and Red starts dancing on top of a table. Butters and Craig are doing car bombs by the bar, and Kenny and Cartman are talking to Stan and I. We're discussing some stupid thing, something that doesn't even count as real conversation. All I care about is that I'm here.
With the three best friends I never even thought I'd see again back in December.
It makes me think I should just forget about planning for the fall. I don't even really know what's happening next week. And that's okay. I'm never going to know what the future holds. Hell, five years ago I never would have seen myself back in South Park. I was a star, and I didn't think I could fall. I never in my wildest dreams thought I'd be in love with Stan.
But things have turned out alright.
So yeah, pretty much checked my expectations at the car door.
I slide my hand into his.
A/N: The end. Finito. Owari. Whatever. Wow. This is the first fic I've finished in eons. Feels nice. Feels good. A little too cookie cutter cutesy happily ever after, maybe, but a lot of my other fics are going to end badly, or vaguely. It felt like this, my first South Park fandom baby, should get the storybook finale. Because in all the other ones, somebody's going to die…maybe. Lol.
Okay, I wanna say thank you to ALL my readers, including but not limited Van the Key of Lain, NanaKat, Imajinacion Reinbou, Space Captainface, Brat-Child3, MayMaddie, satanics, Peeve, Streakfox, Hermaphrodite, Mar-the-Fen, FrigidSnow, desBeasty, Wishmaster Kami, apie, marilynmanson1990, Aihoshi-chan, Alpha Hydra, A Muse Mental, LAWLOCAUST, Saphhire Sunrise, StupidityIsStupid, Smoocher of Evil, Arnold the Pygmy Puff, Lootons, DizzyAlice, EvanNJames, DCLynneHaddock, Swiper. No swiping, Andatariel.x, Doomed-Orange-Parka, thequillofdestiny, fingerpainting, JoseJalapenoOnASteek, yayme2012, and RisaShootingStar. Not only do some of you guys review this regularly and inspire me to no end, but some of you are also always reviewing my other fics, and putting up with me taking forever to update, and I love you for it. In this mix we've got some of my favorite authors and some just amazing reviewers, so THANK YOU! I wish I was a good person and answered individually, because you all deserve it!
Super special thanks goes out to the anonymous reviewers; so many of you gave me spectacular ideas and insights, and you deserve to be recognized for it, even if some of you only sign with an 'x'.
NOW, I have to give lots of recognition to Lilzenium, Hot Monkey Brain, Newey, and wezenana for reviewing on all the late chapters where there wasn't much left to say, but you still gave me encouragement!
Lastly, jayjabee and Natsu! Jayjabee encouraged me late night with some great PMs, so props on that one, and Natsu, aside from being a completely fantastic writer in reviews alone, managed to prompt me to actually update regularly because of her inspiring and amazing style/k squared fanfic. This fic owes a lot to her, so MEGA THANKS.
:deep breath: I think that's everyone, but if I missed you, I want you to know I'm quite possibly in love with you for sticking it out with this fic, and again, thanks.
This is the longest author note ever, but I have to do one last thing…Chapter titles from one to twenty seven (because I had to credit them sometime): Always by Saliva, Just for a Moment by Aqualung, Breakfast at Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something, Such Great Heights by the Postal Service, Northern Winds by Cursive, Born for This by Paramore, Ligtning Causes Madness by Kill Hannah, Confidence Man by Matt Pryor, Crazy in Love by Eminem, Girl on the Wing by The Shins, When I'm Gone by Eminem, Feeling Lucky by Jimmy Eat World, Death Valley Queen by Flogging Molly, I'll Still Kill by 50 Cent, Devil by The Servant, Xmas Cake by Rilo Kiley, Before You Burn by Tokyo Rose, New Soul by Yael Naim, Who Are You by The Who, The Ghost of You by My Chemical Romance, I Just Think She's the Best by HelloGoodbye (apparently this song is also called Lindsay Pia Aia Mode), Skin Against Skin by DJ Krush, Wow, I Can Get Sexual Too by Say Anything, Dizzy by Jimmy Eat World, Something Pretty by Patrick Park, Dreams by The Cranberries, and Sittin' in a Bar by Rehab. Some of these songs are great. Some of them suck. Blame iTunes Party Shuffle, and the fact that I have musical ADD.