Fic: I'll Fly Away
1/30/06 08:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: I’ll Fly Away
Author: Roxy
Paring: Pete/Clark
Rating: ranges from PG to R
Historical Fic challenge for SV Historical
It was the kind of heat that sucked sweat out of you and left it on your skin to turn into a thin coating of grease. Pete groaned and rubbed his knuckles over his eyes. It wasn’t the kind of heat you got in New York.
New York got hot all right. Hot as a mother but at least you could sit out on the fire escape and catch a little breeze. At least it rained and the temperature dropped some.
Mississippi. Mississippi was just hotter then hell and roasted you inside and out and grew mold between your toes.
The fan that came with the room was a piece of shit. The damn thing sounded like a helicopter—whup-whup-whup-all fucking day long and didn’t move air worth a shit.
He held his hand in front of it—barely a stir of air tickled his palm. Just a damn noise maker.
He was striped down to his shorts and undershirt and sweat still poured off him every time he moved. He flipped the flat hard bag they called a pillow to the dry side—the side that was slightly drier, anyway and looked down at his body stretched out on the bed. Light coming through the tatty Venetian blinds turned him into slices of hot wet and grubby Ross.
God damn it.
What the hell was he doing?
He must have been crazy.
New York
“No. There is no discussion about this. Have you seen the news? Do you read the papers? They’re killing boys like you down there. No. You are not going.” His mother sent his sister to her room and Pete groaned inside and prepared himself for a fight.
He pushed back from the table and cast his eyes towards his pop. “Help me out Pop. Tell her. It’s never going to get better if ‘boys’ like me don’t so something.”
His mother shot him a dark look and he went over to sit in the open window. He frowned as he tried to couch his arguments in terms Ma could understand.
“Ma—didn’t granddad leave Kansas to come here and make a better life? He struck out into unknown waters but he did it because he wanted his family to have a better life. Same as Poppa Ross—they all wanted more, a better life for their families.”
Pop nodded. “Yes. That’s true.”
“Look at you, Ma, you’re a clerk in the mayor’s office and Pop’s a partner in a law firm. You couldn’t have done that in Kansas. Sis goes to a mixed school, that couldn’t have happened in Kansas. Heck, he probably would have been shot for even thinking about those things.”
She huffed and turned away from him, started to clear the dishes off the table and said “And that’s why you don’t need to go down there. We came up here for a better life and you want to go down south and lose yours?”
“Abbie!” Pop said. “The boy is trying to do something good, something worthwhile. Most boys his age are only thinking about themselves. You should be proud.”
“That’s too simple. He will go down there and he will be killed. You put that idea out of your head, Pete, you hear?”
Course he didn’t pay attention to Ma—it was enough that Pop was cool with it. He loaded his old car with everything he could think of he might need—he was leaving civilization after all. He had a Coleman cooler full of baloney sandwiches and RC. It was going to be a long drive and he wasn’t going to have a lot of places to stop once he hit Delaware...
Everybody had come over to see him off. The whole church came out, the whole block came out and he was being treated like he was some kind of saint or something instead of a college kid with more—what, anger then sense?
He stood around and smiled and nodded and rocked to the slaps on his back. He held a warm bottle of beer in his hand and sipped and grinned and wished this shit was all over. The Temps blasted in the background and the kids were dancing. They looked hot—he moved a little himself, rocking his hips to the beat before he laughed and jumped down the steps and walked down the little alley that lead to the back of the house.
Out back, he leaned against the wall, fished a pack of Luckys out of his pocket and lit one up with the trusty old Zippo. Dad’s lighter.
He held it in his hand, turned the warm smooth metal over and ran a finger over the engraving. His thumb rested on the panther’s head engraved on a shield at the front of the lighter, ‘come out fighting’ it said under the shield, two fingers rested on ‘761st Tank Battalion’ engraved on the back—Dad knew about sacrificing for the greater good, all right. Those years in France—Germany—they hadn’t been easy, but he did what he had to do, Dad understood. He felt—oddly proud. Dad trusted him. Gave him this lighter and that seemed more important then the party or anything—a footstep behind him pulled him out of his reverie. He looked up and felt the world shudder to a stop.
“Larry.”
“Pete. I didn’t get an invite.”
“Well, Larry, you kind of made your feeling clear on the matter when you hauled off and smacked me one….”
Larry moved closer, and he was frowning, his forehead creased, his nostrils flared and he was still mad as hell. Pete took a deep drag and exhaled loudly, considered backing up just in case Larry felt like going for it again.
Larry reached out and pulled the cigarette from his hand and took a puff himself. He spoke and the smoke seeped out of his mouth and nose. “You just walking away from all of us, hunh?”
“Fuck, Larry, it’s not like I’m not coming back, for God’s sake. A few weeks—a few weeks in Mississippi, that’s it. I’ll be home; I’ll have some stories to tell and some sharecroppers will vote, and maybe we can actually *be* a part of this God-damn country finally.”
Pete was breathing heavily by the time he stopped and Larry was standing next to him. He looked scared and resigned.
“Gimme that fucking cigarette back.”
Pete handed it back, and looked around quickly—he shot forward and grabbed Larry by the back of the neck and kissed him. Larry tried to pull back but Pete pushed on and finally, he relaxed under Pete’s grip, and turned into the kiss.
Pete stepped back and instead of that soft creamy look that usually softened Larry’s face after a kiss, he looked angrier than he’d been, his cheeks bright red against his high yellow skin.
“That’s your solution to everything.”
“What? What’re you talking about,” he said impatiently, and ground the butt into the gravel until it disintegrated.
“Pete, some day, you’re going to have to face a problem instead of…of screwing it into submission. This isn’t going to work for you forever.”
Larry walked away. “Wait-come back to the party with me!” Pete called after him.
“So we can hold hands and tell everyone how much we’ll miss each other? Maybe you introduce me to your folks, and we can—“ his voice broke. “Bye Pete. Be safe. Don’t take any chances.”
He walked away and Pete stared after him, scowling—angry that he hadn’t given in. Larry just didn’t get it. He didn’t realize how important this was. Dad was the only one who really seemed to understand what he was trying to do. Fuck that. He’d be back in a few weeks and Larry’d be begging for him to come back.
******
Pete had been prepared. He knew that outside of his home state, things would get worse than walking into Macy’s.
They got worse.
Northerners were generally politely racist but these folks…no one had to tell him twice not to let the sun set on his black ass in Delaware—in Maryland—in Virginia. Up north there were places you just didn’t go. Everyone knew it. If you wanted a sandwich you went to Meyer’s, you didn’t go to Gorman’s—you just knew.
Down south—you didn’t have to just know. They were damn happy to tell you so. The No Colored signs weren’t the first he’d seen—but for some reason they were the harshest. With images of southern trees so fresh in his mind, those signs took on the kind of warnings that crazy kings got from weird hags in the dark of night--portents and omens of a bad kind.
His little Coleman cooler saved his life--he’d like to have starved otherwise. A list of places and folks willing to feed and let a room out to a poor black boy kept him from sleeping in his car a good bit of the way and for that he was thankful to the folks at home. It galled him, not being able to go where he wanted—but he wasn’t trying to end up on the side of the road somewhere between Virginia and Mississippi either.
For the most part, folks treated him good when they found out his purpose. There were always the ones who chastised him for trying to upset the cart—afraid to have the white man really notice the folks under his nose.
Pete tried to have patience with those types but it was hard. Why couldn’t they see it was time to change? By the time he and people like him were done--this country would have arms open for all it’s children—segregation would be a thing of the past and racism would be dead and forgotten.
He drove along the dark country road and sang along with the radio. Life for his sister’s kids would be a whole different thing then life for him…anyway that was what he told himself and believed as he drove deeper into the night and deeper into the South.
TBC
****
Author: Roxy
Paring: Pete/Clark
Rating: ranges from PG to R
Historical Fic challenge for SV Historical
It was the kind of heat that sucked sweat out of you and left it on your skin to turn into a thin coating of grease. Pete groaned and rubbed his knuckles over his eyes. It wasn’t the kind of heat you got in New York.
New York got hot all right. Hot as a mother but at least you could sit out on the fire escape and catch a little breeze. At least it rained and the temperature dropped some.
Mississippi. Mississippi was just hotter then hell and roasted you inside and out and grew mold between your toes.
The fan that came with the room was a piece of shit. The damn thing sounded like a helicopter—whup-whup-whup-all fucking day long and didn’t move air worth a shit.
He held his hand in front of it—barely a stir of air tickled his palm. Just a damn noise maker.
He was striped down to his shorts and undershirt and sweat still poured off him every time he moved. He flipped the flat hard bag they called a pillow to the dry side—the side that was slightly drier, anyway and looked down at his body stretched out on the bed. Light coming through the tatty Venetian blinds turned him into slices of hot wet and grubby Ross.
God damn it.
What the hell was he doing?
He must have been crazy.
New York
“No. There is no discussion about this. Have you seen the news? Do you read the papers? They’re killing boys like you down there. No. You are not going.” His mother sent his sister to her room and Pete groaned inside and prepared himself for a fight.
He pushed back from the table and cast his eyes towards his pop. “Help me out Pop. Tell her. It’s never going to get better if ‘boys’ like me don’t so something.”
His mother shot him a dark look and he went over to sit in the open window. He frowned as he tried to couch his arguments in terms Ma could understand.
“Ma—didn’t granddad leave Kansas to come here and make a better life? He struck out into unknown waters but he did it because he wanted his family to have a better life. Same as Poppa Ross—they all wanted more, a better life for their families.”
Pop nodded. “Yes. That’s true.”
“Look at you, Ma, you’re a clerk in the mayor’s office and Pop’s a partner in a law firm. You couldn’t have done that in Kansas. Sis goes to a mixed school, that couldn’t have happened in Kansas. Heck, he probably would have been shot for even thinking about those things.”
She huffed and turned away from him, started to clear the dishes off the table and said “And that’s why you don’t need to go down there. We came up here for a better life and you want to go down south and lose yours?”
“Abbie!” Pop said. “The boy is trying to do something good, something worthwhile. Most boys his age are only thinking about themselves. You should be proud.”
“That’s too simple. He will go down there and he will be killed. You put that idea out of your head, Pete, you hear?”
Course he didn’t pay attention to Ma—it was enough that Pop was cool with it. He loaded his old car with everything he could think of he might need—he was leaving civilization after all. He had a Coleman cooler full of baloney sandwiches and RC. It was going to be a long drive and he wasn’t going to have a lot of places to stop once he hit Delaware...
Everybody had come over to see him off. The whole church came out, the whole block came out and he was being treated like he was some kind of saint or something instead of a college kid with more—what, anger then sense?
He stood around and smiled and nodded and rocked to the slaps on his back. He held a warm bottle of beer in his hand and sipped and grinned and wished this shit was all over. The Temps blasted in the background and the kids were dancing. They looked hot—he moved a little himself, rocking his hips to the beat before he laughed and jumped down the steps and walked down the little alley that lead to the back of the house.
Out back, he leaned against the wall, fished a pack of Luckys out of his pocket and lit one up with the trusty old Zippo. Dad’s lighter.
He held it in his hand, turned the warm smooth metal over and ran a finger over the engraving. His thumb rested on the panther’s head engraved on a shield at the front of the lighter, ‘come out fighting’ it said under the shield, two fingers rested on ‘761st Tank Battalion’ engraved on the back—Dad knew about sacrificing for the greater good, all right. Those years in France—Germany—they hadn’t been easy, but he did what he had to do, Dad understood. He felt—oddly proud. Dad trusted him. Gave him this lighter and that seemed more important then the party or anything—a footstep behind him pulled him out of his reverie. He looked up and felt the world shudder to a stop.
“Larry.”
“Pete. I didn’t get an invite.”
“Well, Larry, you kind of made your feeling clear on the matter when you hauled off and smacked me one….”
Larry moved closer, and he was frowning, his forehead creased, his nostrils flared and he was still mad as hell. Pete took a deep drag and exhaled loudly, considered backing up just in case Larry felt like going for it again.
Larry reached out and pulled the cigarette from his hand and took a puff himself. He spoke and the smoke seeped out of his mouth and nose. “You just walking away from all of us, hunh?”
“Fuck, Larry, it’s not like I’m not coming back, for God’s sake. A few weeks—a few weeks in Mississippi, that’s it. I’ll be home; I’ll have some stories to tell and some sharecroppers will vote, and maybe we can actually *be* a part of this God-damn country finally.”
Pete was breathing heavily by the time he stopped and Larry was standing next to him. He looked scared and resigned.
“Gimme that fucking cigarette back.”
Pete handed it back, and looked around quickly—he shot forward and grabbed Larry by the back of the neck and kissed him. Larry tried to pull back but Pete pushed on and finally, he relaxed under Pete’s grip, and turned into the kiss.
Pete stepped back and instead of that soft creamy look that usually softened Larry’s face after a kiss, he looked angrier than he’d been, his cheeks bright red against his high yellow skin.
“That’s your solution to everything.”
“What? What’re you talking about,” he said impatiently, and ground the butt into the gravel until it disintegrated.
“Pete, some day, you’re going to have to face a problem instead of…of screwing it into submission. This isn’t going to work for you forever.”
Larry walked away. “Wait-come back to the party with me!” Pete called after him.
“So we can hold hands and tell everyone how much we’ll miss each other? Maybe you introduce me to your folks, and we can—“ his voice broke. “Bye Pete. Be safe. Don’t take any chances.”
He walked away and Pete stared after him, scowling—angry that he hadn’t given in. Larry just didn’t get it. He didn’t realize how important this was. Dad was the only one who really seemed to understand what he was trying to do. Fuck that. He’d be back in a few weeks and Larry’d be begging for him to come back.
******
Pete had been prepared. He knew that outside of his home state, things would get worse than walking into Macy’s.
They got worse.
Northerners were generally politely racist but these folks…no one had to tell him twice not to let the sun set on his black ass in Delaware—in Maryland—in Virginia. Up north there were places you just didn’t go. Everyone knew it. If you wanted a sandwich you went to Meyer’s, you didn’t go to Gorman’s—you just knew.
Down south—you didn’t have to just know. They were damn happy to tell you so. The No Colored signs weren’t the first he’d seen—but for some reason they were the harshest. With images of southern trees so fresh in his mind, those signs took on the kind of warnings that crazy kings got from weird hags in the dark of night--portents and omens of a bad kind.
His little Coleman cooler saved his life--he’d like to have starved otherwise. A list of places and folks willing to feed and let a room out to a poor black boy kept him from sleeping in his car a good bit of the way and for that he was thankful to the folks at home. It galled him, not being able to go where he wanted—but he wasn’t trying to end up on the side of the road somewhere between Virginia and Mississippi either.
For the most part, folks treated him good when they found out his purpose. There were always the ones who chastised him for trying to upset the cart—afraid to have the white man really notice the folks under his nose.
Pete tried to have patience with those types but it was hard. Why couldn’t they see it was time to change? By the time he and people like him were done--this country would have arms open for all it’s children—segregation would be a thing of the past and racism would be dead and forgotten.
He drove along the dark country road and sang along with the radio. Life for his sister’s kids would be a whole different thing then life for him…anyway that was what he told himself and believed as he drove deeper into the night and deeper into the South.
TBC
****
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
1/31/06 01:51 am (UTC)*bounce*
But i like it so far, yes i do.
Teeny thing:Pet tried to have patience with those types but it was hard.
Missing an 'e'...
*smoooch*
(no subject)
1/31/06 01:54 am (UTC)Wow, that was fast!
(no subject)
1/31/06 02:05 am (UTC)I'm glad i helped!
*smoooch*
(no subject)
1/31/06 01:53 am (UTC)I *do* like this fic. I love historical stuff - i'm going to be very interested to see this through your eyes. Thanks, bay-bee.
(no subject)
1/31/06 02:01 am (UTC)Here's the worst part, I posted this at Smallville Slash archive and not only did I screw up the formatting, I've also got god knows how many Pets in it!!! I found another whilst fixing the one you pointed out! Grrrrrrr!
Whoever reads the damn thing is gonna think I'm twelve and kinda stoopit--instead of the fine, mature, intelligent and just gosh darn wunnerful person I really am. *humble smile*
(no subject)
1/31/06 02:07 am (UTC)Fanfic, but fanfic about civil rights and possible violence and death and jayzus christ, a brief mention of lynchings which makes my blood run cold.
Well, once you've perfected this chapter you can re-post at the archive. Heh.
*smoshes you*
(no subject)
1/31/06 02:26 am (UTC)The description of going into the Deep South reminds me of all the stories my parents have told me about when they were my age. It is completely scary, yet so sad that it was true.
I can't wait for more. Fabulous work.
(no subject)
1/31/06 03:43 am (UTC)(no subject)
1/31/06 03:10 am (UTC)And poor Pete, trying to do things his way or no way, what with his Mom and Larry...charm will only take you so far and then what?
psst: try ctrl+f in word to replace "pet" with "pete"
(no subject)
1/31/06 03:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
1/31/06 01:47 pm (UTC)I'm loving it. I can't wait to see the connection between Pete and Clark.
Awesome writing!
(no subject)
1/31/06 03:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
1/31/06 10:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
1/31/06 11:48 pm (UTC)even though that's just so hot....
(no subject)
2/1/06 12:48 pm (UTC)you revived Pete!!
yay, looking forward for more, though the topic seems rather errrr, serious and scary?!?!
off to next chapter!