fic post: mariposa
11/28/06 10:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:Mariposa
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/Whit…
Rating: 3
Summary: AU’s are like mother’s milk.
The Previous Parts are here, wondering if their ass is too fat…resolving to put that donkey on a diet….
That evening, Clark got a phone call from Whitney, who explained he’d been on the run the last few days, and he had a tryout the next afternoon with Kansas State. Clark listened to him and couldn’t stop smiling—Whitney was so excited, so worried, was so much in need of reassurance. Clark did his best, told him over and over that yes, it would go well, and they’d be idiots not to realize how great Whitney was and for god’s sake, Whit, stop worrying.
“I will, I will…I just…I wish you could come with me,” Whit whispered into the phone. “It would be great to spend a weekend in the city…the hotel room looks real nice.” He laughed nervously, and Clark smiled.
“Some day, maybe. Go get packed, I’ll talk to you when you come back.”
“Yeah…unh, when I get back, I need to talk to you about some stuff—and I’ve got to take Lana out someplace nice for her birthday—since I’m missing that party tomorrow. Can you do me a favor, and…and be her escort for the evening? As a favor for me?” He laughed again, that same short nervous bark of laughter.
Clark closed his eyes. There she was again…wherever he turned, Lana was there…he was silent, and Whit was silent, and then said, “Okay, I better go. I—see ya.”
“Yeah.” Clark hung up and cursed himself for a fool.
******
His parents were gone for the evening, and the house was too quiet, and the loft wasn’t much better. He walked around feeling as if his shoulders were cracking under the weight of the world. He had no one who really loved him, and he was never going to have anyone in this town. He was made to be alone, to live his life with no one at his side…he rubbed the heel of his hand across his eyes and sighed. The worst part was that Whit was leaving, and he didn’t care, and tomorrow nothing was going to be different…his heart hurt, his soul hurt. He needed to be free for just a little bit, to not think about all this for a while….
He sat at his desk, adjusted the lamp, and stared at himself in the mirror for a long time, looking, thinking. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he felt—lighter. He took out his makeup, and smoothed foundation over his face, and took a brush, and using what he learned from magazines, he applied blush, highlighted and contoured until he was pleased with the results. Shadow and liner came next, chosen to bring out the green of his eyes, and he tilted the mirror to see the effect. Nice. He’d had to guess on the shades…it wasn’t as if he could ask someone. He laughed quietly, opened a tube of lipstick…his favorite part. He loved the feel on his lips, the taste, the color, loved gliding the tip of his tongue over the slickness. When he’d smoothed a coat on, he examined the total effect. He liked it. Brushing his hair around his face made it look softer…there was nothing he could do about his jaw, his throat—but he didn’t want to—this was fine, this was enough.
He closed his eyes and sat very still, finding his center, finding…control. Ease. He hummed quietly to himself, and thought about putting on the silk robe he’d gotten from Chloe, the one with red and gold butterflies all over, it was butt ugly and bought as a joke, but it did feel very nice against his skin…he looked at himself in the mirror and wondered, what would Whit think? Hell, Whit—what if his parents found him looking like this? He shivered. They’d stroke out, no doubt, just like any of his friends would…he took one more look at himself and sighed, reached into the drawer for the wipes he kept there. He grabbed a few, tossed them on the table top and walked over to the window and took a quick look—he’d thought he heard a truck engine but there was no truck outside, no one in the drive.
He turned, ready to go back to the desk and found himself looking into a pair of shocked blue eyes. “Oh crap,” Clark whispered. Now, he thought, would be the perfect time to have a heart attack. A really big fatal heart attack.
“Fuu-uck.”
Clark stared back at Whit who stared at him open-mouthed, crushing a forgotten paper bag in his hands. He took a step forward, “What…you…there’s…” stammered into silence.
Clark’s hands rose slowly, slowly to his face, his mouth dropped open and his eyes closed, tight. In the dark now, he waited for—a punch, curses, the sound of feet pounding back down the stairs—why was it that death never took you when you wanted it to?
“Clark, look…”
Clark cracked his eyes open, peeked between his fingers at Whit. Whit held out the bag, and said, “Um, this is for you,” looked at it as though it had suddenly grown in his hand. He grimaced and tossed the mangled bag on the couch. He took a step back, away from Clark, and swallowed hard. The look on his face set Clark off—anger overtook fear. “So, what are you going to do now? Run tell everyone? Beat me up? Take off and never come back? Or maybe just ignore me, pretend you don’t know me?” he took a step forward, for every step Whit took back, Clark took one closer. “Shit, I’m used to that. Go ahead—say it! I’m even more of a freak than you thought, right?” He laughed, and felt like he was coughing up razor blades. “You have no idea.”
Clark’s words broke through Whit’s fog of confusion. “God damn it Clark—don’t you ever listen to any one but yourself? I told you I was your friend—what the fuck do I have to do to prove it--get ‘I’m Clark’s Friend’ tattooed on my damn forehead? Shit!” he pushed past him and threw himself down on the couch. Clark gaped at him. “Geez Clark--I knew before this. I saw your stuff—I’m always in the drawer, getting you aspirin or something. You know that I know. Here.” He held up the bag. “Open it.” He dipped his head, looked up at Clark through his eyelashes and Clark felt warmer.
Clark took it and unrolled the crumbled top, looked in side. “Oh.” There was a tube of a really wild color of purple gloss inside.
“I’m—I don’t know. I wanted to get you something, but I don’t know what books you want, or what music, and then I thought well, maybe that stuff is too much money anyway, and swear to god, I’d kill myself before I got you flowers and–okay, this is almost as bad…fuck, it’s stupid, isn’t it?”
“Whit.” Clark sighed. He leaned over and rubbed Whit’s shoulder. “This is really nice. It is. It’s a hideous color but--”
“Hey!” Whit laughed, and batted Clark’s hand away, grabbed it to pull Clark down next to him. He quieted then, his smile faded and he asked softly, “So…this…is this why you can’t buy a car? Are you saving money for a—a sex change?”
“WHAT?” Clark yelled, and fell off the couch laughing.
Whit watched him laugh with a growing scowl. His cheeks flushed bright red and finally he snapped, “Knock it the fuck off, Kent. It’s not funny.”
Clark gasped and nodded, “You’re right, it’s not funny. I was just—Whit, when you came up the stairs, I was so afraid you were going to kill me. And instead you…give me a present.” He shook his head, a soft smile on his lips, “No Whit, this isn’t what I am, it’s what I do. Does that make sense? ‘Cause that’s as close as I can get to explaining…” He reached out, and Whit pulled him to his feet, and Clark sprawled on the other end of the couch. He looked at Whit and grinned. “You have no taste, but you’re a good guy.”
“Yeah? Thanks, I guess.” Whitney snorted. “I should have my butt in bed, instead of coming out here to reassure you. I mean…oh boy.”
“What *do* you mean?” Clark leaned forward. “What exactly do you mean, and in English, if you please?”
“God, Clark.” Whit rolled his eyes. “What do you think I mean? I don’t really have time to spare but I’m sitting here with you instead of down the road.”
Clark raised an eyebrow, and Whit growled. “Instead of with Lana, okay? Geez.” He leaned closer, and inhaled. “Wow. It’s so wild--you really look incredible. Really beautiful.”
Clark smiled, and Whit reached for him, gently, his hands barely making contact. Clark told himself if he tried to kiss him, this time, he’d let him. He wanted him to—maybe he should kiss Whitney first. Whit pressed his lips to his cheek, inhaled again. “I like the way you smell,” he said.
“It’s just soap, from the shower this morning, and deodorant…well, not so much now,” Clark said after a quick sniff of himself.
“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” Whit whispered. “I like that you smell like you…”
Whit’s thumb traced the line of his lip, and it made him quiver, it moved along his cheek, and his jaw, and pressed down just a little… “Oh,” Clark breathed, and felt a tug in his gut, and Whit’s eyes burning on him made the tug grow. It was a wave now, flowing from his gut down…lower. Clark felt his mouth open, heard himself say ‘kiss me’ and Whit sighed. His eyes fluttered closed, and slowly he touched his lips to Clark’s. The touch was so soft, and Clark hadn’t expected soft It was…nice. The pressure on his mouth increased by achingly slow degrees, until Clark’s lips opened, and Whitney’s tongue touched the tip of his—a brief but overwhelming caress, it sent a bolt of electricity through him and was gone too soon. Clark felt like he was tipping into Whitney, he was burning, and every bit of him felt more alive than ever before.
Whit stood and said, “You’re so beautiful, and I have to go. Right now. This minute. Because I don’t trust me.”
Clark nodded, his cheeks flaming but not completely from embarrassment and he stared at the bulge tenting the fabric of Whit’s jeans, his fingers twitched.
Whit backed away quickly and his voice was hoarse when he spoke again. “I’ll call you tomorrow. And think about taking Lana to that thing for me, okay? And…you’re beautiful,” he said and almost ran down the stairs.
After Whit dashed away, Clark carefully wiped away the makeup and shoved the brushes and shadow and lipstick far back in the desk drawer, behind model paint and notebooks. He wondered if Whit could ever understand why he did this, what this meant to him. Clark shook his head. Probably not—he wasn’t sure himself sometimes why he needed it. What was important was that he was okay with it. With him. Clark smiled and thought about the kiss. This kiss tonight he decided was his first kiss, the one that he’d remember as the first forever. None of the others counted, because this one—had been incredible.
Clark leaned on the edge of the loft window sill and stared out over the field, turning over the events of the evening …it pleased him, and it bothered him, that Whit had called him beautiful….
TBC
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/Whit…
Rating: 3
Summary: AU’s are like mother’s milk.
The Previous Parts are here, wondering if their ass is too fat…resolving to put that donkey on a diet….
That evening, Clark got a phone call from Whitney, who explained he’d been on the run the last few days, and he had a tryout the next afternoon with Kansas State. Clark listened to him and couldn’t stop smiling—Whitney was so excited, so worried, was so much in need of reassurance. Clark did his best, told him over and over that yes, it would go well, and they’d be idiots not to realize how great Whitney was and for god’s sake, Whit, stop worrying.
“I will, I will…I just…I wish you could come with me,” Whit whispered into the phone. “It would be great to spend a weekend in the city…the hotel room looks real nice.” He laughed nervously, and Clark smiled.
“Some day, maybe. Go get packed, I’ll talk to you when you come back.”
“Yeah…unh, when I get back, I need to talk to you about some stuff—and I’ve got to take Lana out someplace nice for her birthday—since I’m missing that party tomorrow. Can you do me a favor, and…and be her escort for the evening? As a favor for me?” He laughed again, that same short nervous bark of laughter.
Clark closed his eyes. There she was again…wherever he turned, Lana was there…he was silent, and Whit was silent, and then said, “Okay, I better go. I—see ya.”
“Yeah.” Clark hung up and cursed himself for a fool.
******
His parents were gone for the evening, and the house was too quiet, and the loft wasn’t much better. He walked around feeling as if his shoulders were cracking under the weight of the world. He had no one who really loved him, and he was never going to have anyone in this town. He was made to be alone, to live his life with no one at his side…he rubbed the heel of his hand across his eyes and sighed. The worst part was that Whit was leaving, and he didn’t care, and tomorrow nothing was going to be different…his heart hurt, his soul hurt. He needed to be free for just a little bit, to not think about all this for a while….
He sat at his desk, adjusted the lamp, and stared at himself in the mirror for a long time, looking, thinking. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he felt—lighter. He took out his makeup, and smoothed foundation over his face, and took a brush, and using what he learned from magazines, he applied blush, highlighted and contoured until he was pleased with the results. Shadow and liner came next, chosen to bring out the green of his eyes, and he tilted the mirror to see the effect. Nice. He’d had to guess on the shades…it wasn’t as if he could ask someone. He laughed quietly, opened a tube of lipstick…his favorite part. He loved the feel on his lips, the taste, the color, loved gliding the tip of his tongue over the slickness. When he’d smoothed a coat on, he examined the total effect. He liked it. Brushing his hair around his face made it look softer…there was nothing he could do about his jaw, his throat—but he didn’t want to—this was fine, this was enough.
He closed his eyes and sat very still, finding his center, finding…control. Ease. He hummed quietly to himself, and thought about putting on the silk robe he’d gotten from Chloe, the one with red and gold butterflies all over, it was butt ugly and bought as a joke, but it did feel very nice against his skin…he looked at himself in the mirror and wondered, what would Whit think? Hell, Whit—what if his parents found him looking like this? He shivered. They’d stroke out, no doubt, just like any of his friends would…he took one more look at himself and sighed, reached into the drawer for the wipes he kept there. He grabbed a few, tossed them on the table top and walked over to the window and took a quick look—he’d thought he heard a truck engine but there was no truck outside, no one in the drive.
He turned, ready to go back to the desk and found himself looking into a pair of shocked blue eyes. “Oh crap,” Clark whispered. Now, he thought, would be the perfect time to have a heart attack. A really big fatal heart attack.
“Fuu-uck.”
Clark stared back at Whit who stared at him open-mouthed, crushing a forgotten paper bag in his hands. He took a step forward, “What…you…there’s…” stammered into silence.
Clark’s hands rose slowly, slowly to his face, his mouth dropped open and his eyes closed, tight. In the dark now, he waited for—a punch, curses, the sound of feet pounding back down the stairs—why was it that death never took you when you wanted it to?
“Clark, look…”
Clark cracked his eyes open, peeked between his fingers at Whit. Whit held out the bag, and said, “Um, this is for you,” looked at it as though it had suddenly grown in his hand. He grimaced and tossed the mangled bag on the couch. He took a step back, away from Clark, and swallowed hard. The look on his face set Clark off—anger overtook fear. “So, what are you going to do now? Run tell everyone? Beat me up? Take off and never come back? Or maybe just ignore me, pretend you don’t know me?” he took a step forward, for every step Whit took back, Clark took one closer. “Shit, I’m used to that. Go ahead—say it! I’m even more of a freak than you thought, right?” He laughed, and felt like he was coughing up razor blades. “You have no idea.”
Clark’s words broke through Whit’s fog of confusion. “God damn it Clark—don’t you ever listen to any one but yourself? I told you I was your friend—what the fuck do I have to do to prove it--get ‘I’m Clark’s Friend’ tattooed on my damn forehead? Shit!” he pushed past him and threw himself down on the couch. Clark gaped at him. “Geez Clark--I knew before this. I saw your stuff—I’m always in the drawer, getting you aspirin or something. You know that I know. Here.” He held up the bag. “Open it.” He dipped his head, looked up at Clark through his eyelashes and Clark felt warmer.
Clark took it and unrolled the crumbled top, looked in side. “Oh.” There was a tube of a really wild color of purple gloss inside.
“I’m—I don’t know. I wanted to get you something, but I don’t know what books you want, or what music, and then I thought well, maybe that stuff is too much money anyway, and swear to god, I’d kill myself before I got you flowers and–okay, this is almost as bad…fuck, it’s stupid, isn’t it?”
“Whit.” Clark sighed. He leaned over and rubbed Whit’s shoulder. “This is really nice. It is. It’s a hideous color but--”
“Hey!” Whit laughed, and batted Clark’s hand away, grabbed it to pull Clark down next to him. He quieted then, his smile faded and he asked softly, “So…this…is this why you can’t buy a car? Are you saving money for a—a sex change?”
“WHAT?” Clark yelled, and fell off the couch laughing.
Whit watched him laugh with a growing scowl. His cheeks flushed bright red and finally he snapped, “Knock it the fuck off, Kent. It’s not funny.”
Clark gasped and nodded, “You’re right, it’s not funny. I was just—Whit, when you came up the stairs, I was so afraid you were going to kill me. And instead you…give me a present.” He shook his head, a soft smile on his lips, “No Whit, this isn’t what I am, it’s what I do. Does that make sense? ‘Cause that’s as close as I can get to explaining…” He reached out, and Whit pulled him to his feet, and Clark sprawled on the other end of the couch. He looked at Whit and grinned. “You have no taste, but you’re a good guy.”
“Yeah? Thanks, I guess.” Whitney snorted. “I should have my butt in bed, instead of coming out here to reassure you. I mean…oh boy.”
“What *do* you mean?” Clark leaned forward. “What exactly do you mean, and in English, if you please?”
“God, Clark.” Whit rolled his eyes. “What do you think I mean? I don’t really have time to spare but I’m sitting here with you instead of down the road.”
Clark raised an eyebrow, and Whit growled. “Instead of with Lana, okay? Geez.” He leaned closer, and inhaled. “Wow. It’s so wild--you really look incredible. Really beautiful.”
Clark smiled, and Whit reached for him, gently, his hands barely making contact. Clark told himself if he tried to kiss him, this time, he’d let him. He wanted him to—maybe he should kiss Whitney first. Whit pressed his lips to his cheek, inhaled again. “I like the way you smell,” he said.
“It’s just soap, from the shower this morning, and deodorant…well, not so much now,” Clark said after a quick sniff of himself.
“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” Whit whispered. “I like that you smell like you…”
Whit’s thumb traced the line of his lip, and it made him quiver, it moved along his cheek, and his jaw, and pressed down just a little… “Oh,” Clark breathed, and felt a tug in his gut, and Whit’s eyes burning on him made the tug grow. It was a wave now, flowing from his gut down…lower. Clark felt his mouth open, heard himself say ‘kiss me’ and Whit sighed. His eyes fluttered closed, and slowly he touched his lips to Clark’s. The touch was so soft, and Clark hadn’t expected soft It was…nice. The pressure on his mouth increased by achingly slow degrees, until Clark’s lips opened, and Whitney’s tongue touched the tip of his—a brief but overwhelming caress, it sent a bolt of electricity through him and was gone too soon. Clark felt like he was tipping into Whitney, he was burning, and every bit of him felt more alive than ever before.
Whit stood and said, “You’re so beautiful, and I have to go. Right now. This minute. Because I don’t trust me.”
Clark nodded, his cheeks flaming but not completely from embarrassment and he stared at the bulge tenting the fabric of Whit’s jeans, his fingers twitched.
Whit backed away quickly and his voice was hoarse when he spoke again. “I’ll call you tomorrow. And think about taking Lana to that thing for me, okay? And…you’re beautiful,” he said and almost ran down the stairs.
After Whit dashed away, Clark carefully wiped away the makeup and shoved the brushes and shadow and lipstick far back in the desk drawer, behind model paint and notebooks. He wondered if Whit could ever understand why he did this, what this meant to him. Clark shook his head. Probably not—he wasn’t sure himself sometimes why he needed it. What was important was that he was okay with it. With him. Clark smiled and thought about the kiss. This kiss tonight he decided was his first kiss, the one that he’d remember as the first forever. None of the others counted, because this one—had been incredible.
Clark leaned on the edge of the loft window sill and stared out over the field, turning over the events of the evening …it pleased him, and it bothered him, that Whit had called him beautiful….
TBC
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