Summer Story part 3
4/5/05 02:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyYaY! I'm pretty happy! Stuff is happening, and I'm over the biggest hump here. *ah-hem* I'm feeling...stuff. Yeah. Stuff. *g* You ready?
Previous Parts are here, grooming their daddies
Sam drove into Smallville to meet with his realtor. She seemed positive she’d found office space on the main street that he’d like. He hoped so.
He felt pretty proud of himself. This morning had been more of the same frustrating, depressing dance he’d been playing with Whit since he came home but he was sticking with his Plan.
He wasn’t in a bar whining and feeling sorry for himself--he wasn’t getting high out behind the shed like he was thirteen again—he wasn’t driving out to Metropolis looking for trouble…in fact, he was doing pretty good and he had no trouble patting his own back, shit.
He vowed again that he wasn’t going to flip on Whit or the family—no more stupidity, no more drama. He had his plan and he was sticking to it. He was going to show Whit he wasn’t a complete asshole—and he was going to do something he wanted to do with his life. He was ready, the time was right. He could feel it.
He parked in the public lot behind the building he had an appointment to see, and walked around to where his realtor was waiting for him. Yeah, he had a real good feeling about this. It wasn’t all about getting into Whit’s pants. He stopped, shocked at himself and torn between giggling like a girl and smacking himself. He glanced briefly skyward. Lord, you know what I mean right? I hope so, someone needs to be on my side…
“Well, Mr. Ross, I think you’re going to like this one,” the realtor said.
She unlocked the stained glass door, and flipped the lights on. His first impression was bright—big. The room smelled of fresh paint and floor wax. He liked the big open space, and the corner was perfect for his drafting table, a couple would fit the area, and there already was plenty of storage, space….
He walked around the office area, perfect for meeting with clients, then back out to the main room. This would be a great place for the business. Ross Designs…or something like it. He grinned to himself. It was nice that it was on the main drag, the office windows looked out on the street. With a little work he should be able to snag some the business currently going out to Metropolis. A graphic design studio could do pretty well in Smallville. He smiled to himself. Patience, hard work and little steps, right?
He turned and said, “Let me think about it,” to the realtor, and she smiled.
******
Whit dragged himself from class to class. It really sucked being a good boy, he thought. And there were a hell of a lot of people who hadn’t got the memo, they still bothered him and sometimes the temptation to just say yes was pretty strong.
It had been easy to be a good boy during the summer, what with Charlie being there—he’d been busy all the time and he didn’t run into the people who were troublesome but now…and with Sam hanging around and driving him crazy—it was pretty hard.
It was hard too, to walk down the hall and meet the eyes of people who knew what he used to be, to look at someone and know 'she knows and he knows and she knows what I look like when I come—and I don’t like any of them’ or ‘he knows what I did for…what I used to do’…there were too many people in town who would never believe he changed, because they’d only seen him at his worst. He leaned his head on his locker door, letting the cold metal soothe his hot skin. If he get far away, some place no one knew him, he could start fresh--he could make it. He sighed. Fuck—the Marines sounded better and better all the time.
The metal warmed under his head, he lifted his arm against the door and leaned his head on that. God. He needed to get up before someone came out and saw him leaning up against his locker like Cinderella waiting for her fuckin’ prince. It was just…he felt so tired, his heart felt so heavy, like it was being crushed slowly against his ribs…his throat hurt every time he swallowed…his eyes burned and he hoped desperately he was coming down with something….
He sighed deeply, he wished Charlie was with him now—wished he was there to hold him and tell him he wasn’t shit and keep his mind off Sam. And immediately he felt like a bastard—that was selfish and nothing that Charlie deserved. He felt even worse, if that was possible.
He opened the locker and tossed his books inside, and yanked his jacket out. He shrugged into it, and slammed his hands deep into the pockets. He should just walk out and keep walking and there’d be nothing to stop him. He didn’t have anything, no one…Sam was an asshole who didn’t even try to—if he wanted him, if he cared at all, he would have acted like it. He’d have done something, or said something—but no--he was just moody and evil and when he wasn’t being that, he was just so fucking polite….
Whit sighed and walked away from the bank of lockers and down the hall, scowling ferociously and people parted around him and he walked like he was alone. He walked until he came to the front door and walked through and walked out into the street.
Screech--
The sound of tires grabbing the street and sliding to a stop broke him out of his fog. Someone was cursing at him, and for a moment he couldn’t make sense of it—then he grinned, Bring it, asshole, lets go”
“Whitney! Get your fucking ass in the car now, damn it!”
Whit froze, he heard Wade calling him again—he could feel his hand twisting on his arm, shoving him in the car God damn it get your fucking stupid ass in the car! He heard the words hissed into his ear, memories flooded him, held him pinned in place.
“Whitney.”
A soft voice brought him back to reality. “Whitney, get in the car. Please?” And Wade disappeared, the voice evaporated like smoke.
“Sam…I…okay.” He drew a shaky hand through his hair and took a deep breath.
Whit didn’t want to look at the faces turned his way, he felt his own face burning as he climbed into the suv, behind them horns were honking, but Sam paid them no mind until Whit was in and buckled. Sam raised his eyebrows and smiled a little.
“Wow, I don’t have to argue with you about buckling up?”
“Habit,” Whit mumbled and sank down a bit. He could see Sam shake his head out of the corner of his eyes.
“Whit, what the hell were you doing in the middle of the road? You do know you walked right out in front of me? I thought you saw me at first…what’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“Whit—“ Sam started, and then took a breath, started again. “Whitney. Do you want to get lunch?”
Whit’s automatic response was to say no, but the second his stomach heard the possibility of food it growled so loud that Sam grinned. “I’m gonna take that as a yes- no arguments.”
He surprised himself by agreeing, and he started to feel a little warmer. “Okay—lunch sounds good. As long as it’s your treat--”
“You know, you gotta be one rich motherfucker, since you don't ever spend a dime of your own money,” Sam said and then winced, afraid he may have over stepped the bounds of their fragile truce, but Whit grinned back.
“Fuck yeah, that’s my game plan.”
“It’s good we all got a plan, than.”
“Oh? You’ve got one too?”
“Negro, I got capital P plans,” he grinned at Whitney and Whit looked at him, looked at his smiling face, clear, happy and looking a lot like Sam the high school senior and coolest big brother ever. In fact he was looking pretty damn good—Whit relaxed and muscles he didn’t even know where tight nearly creaked with relief.
“You can buy me lunch and tell me all about your plans.”
“Damn, thank you for the privilege.”
“Yeah…it is,” he grinned.
******
Three hours later, they were still hunched over the Formica topped table. The top was littered with lists and drawings scribbled on napkins—Whit was fascinated by the whole thing, Sam was transformed, his face alive in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time.
“What do you think Whit?” He was asking and Whit focused on his words again instead of his mouth, “Brilliant Sam.”
Sam beamed and took a quick gulp of coffee. He cradled the mug in his slim fingers and looked thoughtful. “I mean it’ll take a while to get started, and I’m sure I’ll be drawing a whole lot of damn cows at first, but I’ve got clients that want to work with me and Metropolis is close enough—what?”
“Nothing. It’s just great to see you look so happy, it’s been a while…” Whit wished he could take the words back as he watched the play of emotions on Sam’s face. Finally he raised his eyes and looked into Whit’s and he smiled.
“Well, wait until I start trying to launch this thing. Then we’ll talk about how happy and relaxed I look,” he said but the smile didn’t leave his face and Whit felt himself falling forward into his eyes....
His hand twitched, he wanted to touch him so bad. But today was one day—one day against what felt like forever. He leaned against the booth back and watched Sam drink his coffee. Well—every day was the start of a new day right? He lifted his cup to his lips with one hand, the other slid under the table and he crossed his fingers.
eta: idiot! *smacks self*
tbc
Previous Parts are here, grooming their daddies
Sam drove into Smallville to meet with his realtor. She seemed positive she’d found office space on the main street that he’d like. He hoped so.
He felt pretty proud of himself. This morning had been more of the same frustrating, depressing dance he’d been playing with Whit since he came home but he was sticking with his Plan.
He wasn’t in a bar whining and feeling sorry for himself--he wasn’t getting high out behind the shed like he was thirteen again—he wasn’t driving out to Metropolis looking for trouble…in fact, he was doing pretty good and he had no trouble patting his own back, shit.
He vowed again that he wasn’t going to flip on Whit or the family—no more stupidity, no more drama. He had his plan and he was sticking to it. He was going to show Whit he wasn’t a complete asshole—and he was going to do something he wanted to do with his life. He was ready, the time was right. He could feel it.
He parked in the public lot behind the building he had an appointment to see, and walked around to where his realtor was waiting for him. Yeah, he had a real good feeling about this. It wasn’t all about getting into Whit’s pants. He stopped, shocked at himself and torn between giggling like a girl and smacking himself. He glanced briefly skyward. Lord, you know what I mean right? I hope so, someone needs to be on my side…
“Well, Mr. Ross, I think you’re going to like this one,” the realtor said.
She unlocked the stained glass door, and flipped the lights on. His first impression was bright—big. The room smelled of fresh paint and floor wax. He liked the big open space, and the corner was perfect for his drafting table, a couple would fit the area, and there already was plenty of storage, space….
He walked around the office area, perfect for meeting with clients, then back out to the main room. This would be a great place for the business. Ross Designs…or something like it. He grinned to himself. It was nice that it was on the main drag, the office windows looked out on the street. With a little work he should be able to snag some the business currently going out to Metropolis. A graphic design studio could do pretty well in Smallville. He smiled to himself. Patience, hard work and little steps, right?
He turned and said, “Let me think about it,” to the realtor, and she smiled.
******
Whit dragged himself from class to class. It really sucked being a good boy, he thought. And there were a hell of a lot of people who hadn’t got the memo, they still bothered him and sometimes the temptation to just say yes was pretty strong.
It had been easy to be a good boy during the summer, what with Charlie being there—he’d been busy all the time and he didn’t run into the people who were troublesome but now…and with Sam hanging around and driving him crazy—it was pretty hard.
It was hard too, to walk down the hall and meet the eyes of people who knew what he used to be, to look at someone and know 'she knows and he knows and she knows what I look like when I come—and I don’t like any of them’ or ‘he knows what I did for…what I used to do’…there were too many people in town who would never believe he changed, because they’d only seen him at his worst. He leaned his head on his locker door, letting the cold metal soothe his hot skin. If he get far away, some place no one knew him, he could start fresh--he could make it. He sighed. Fuck—the Marines sounded better and better all the time.
The metal warmed under his head, he lifted his arm against the door and leaned his head on that. God. He needed to get up before someone came out and saw him leaning up against his locker like Cinderella waiting for her fuckin’ prince. It was just…he felt so tired, his heart felt so heavy, like it was being crushed slowly against his ribs…his throat hurt every time he swallowed…his eyes burned and he hoped desperately he was coming down with something….
He sighed deeply, he wished Charlie was with him now—wished he was there to hold him and tell him he wasn’t shit and keep his mind off Sam. And immediately he felt like a bastard—that was selfish and nothing that Charlie deserved. He felt even worse, if that was possible.
He opened the locker and tossed his books inside, and yanked his jacket out. He shrugged into it, and slammed his hands deep into the pockets. He should just walk out and keep walking and there’d be nothing to stop him. He didn’t have anything, no one…Sam was an asshole who didn’t even try to—if he wanted him, if he cared at all, he would have acted like it. He’d have done something, or said something—but no--he was just moody and evil and when he wasn’t being that, he was just so fucking polite….
Whit sighed and walked away from the bank of lockers and down the hall, scowling ferociously and people parted around him and he walked like he was alone. He walked until he came to the front door and walked through and walked out into the street.
Screech--
The sound of tires grabbing the street and sliding to a stop broke him out of his fog. Someone was cursing at him, and for a moment he couldn’t make sense of it—then he grinned, Bring it, asshole, lets go”
“Whitney! Get your fucking ass in the car now, damn it!”
Whit froze, he heard Wade calling him again—he could feel his hand twisting on his arm, shoving him in the car God damn it get your fucking stupid ass in the car! He heard the words hissed into his ear, memories flooded him, held him pinned in place.
“Whitney.”
A soft voice brought him back to reality. “Whitney, get in the car. Please?” And Wade disappeared, the voice evaporated like smoke.
“Sam…I…okay.” He drew a shaky hand through his hair and took a deep breath.
Whit didn’t want to look at the faces turned his way, he felt his own face burning as he climbed into the suv, behind them horns were honking, but Sam paid them no mind until Whit was in and buckled. Sam raised his eyebrows and smiled a little.
“Wow, I don’t have to argue with you about buckling up?”
“Habit,” Whit mumbled and sank down a bit. He could see Sam shake his head out of the corner of his eyes.
“Whit, what the hell were you doing in the middle of the road? You do know you walked right out in front of me? I thought you saw me at first…what’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“Whit—“ Sam started, and then took a breath, started again. “Whitney. Do you want to get lunch?”
Whit’s automatic response was to say no, but the second his stomach heard the possibility of food it growled so loud that Sam grinned. “I’m gonna take that as a yes- no arguments.”
He surprised himself by agreeing, and he started to feel a little warmer. “Okay—lunch sounds good. As long as it’s your treat--”
“You know, you gotta be one rich motherfucker, since you don't ever spend a dime of your own money,” Sam said and then winced, afraid he may have over stepped the bounds of their fragile truce, but Whit grinned back.
“Fuck yeah, that’s my game plan.”
“It’s good we all got a plan, than.”
“Oh? You’ve got one too?”
“Negro, I got capital P plans,” he grinned at Whitney and Whit looked at him, looked at his smiling face, clear, happy and looking a lot like Sam the high school senior and coolest big brother ever. In fact he was looking pretty damn good—Whit relaxed and muscles he didn’t even know where tight nearly creaked with relief.
“You can buy me lunch and tell me all about your plans.”
“Damn, thank you for the privilege.”
“Yeah…it is,” he grinned.
******
Three hours later, they were still hunched over the Formica topped table. The top was littered with lists and drawings scribbled on napkins—Whit was fascinated by the whole thing, Sam was transformed, his face alive in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time.
“What do you think Whit?” He was asking and Whit focused on his words again instead of his mouth, “Brilliant Sam.”
Sam beamed and took a quick gulp of coffee. He cradled the mug in his slim fingers and looked thoughtful. “I mean it’ll take a while to get started, and I’m sure I’ll be drawing a whole lot of damn cows at first, but I’ve got clients that want to work with me and Metropolis is close enough—what?”
“Nothing. It’s just great to see you look so happy, it’s been a while…” Whit wished he could take the words back as he watched the play of emotions on Sam’s face. Finally he raised his eyes and looked into Whit’s and he smiled.
“Well, wait until I start trying to launch this thing. Then we’ll talk about how happy and relaxed I look,” he said but the smile didn’t leave his face and Whit felt himself falling forward into his eyes....
His hand twitched, he wanted to touch him so bad. But today was one day—one day against what felt like forever. He leaned against the booth back and watched Sam drink his coffee. Well—every day was the start of a new day right? He lifted his cup to his lips with one hand, the other slid under the table and he crossed his fingers.
eta: idiot! *smacks self*
tbc
(no subject)
4/6/05 02:51 pm (UTC)