fic post:Mariposa
1/3/07 02:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:Mariposa
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/Whit…
Rating: 2
Summary: This AU version of Smallville is chewing my brain into tiny bite-size bits…Enjoy!
The Previous Parts are here, learning how to clog dance. What? I don't tell them what to do with their free time...
Whit called his mother, told her the store was locked down, and he was going to pick up something to eat. Told her he wasn’t going to the hospital that night, wasn’t sure if he was going to sleep at home or not.
“Oh. Well. If you’re sure…your father was asking about you.”
Whit rolled the windows down, letting cold air stream over him. He was racing down the road away from Smallville and he couldn’t get out of the town fast enough—“Yeah, Mom, I’ll talk to you later, all right?” He hung up without waiting for an answer, threw his phone on the seat and drove on for a while. Finally he slowed, pulled over, and bumped his truck down an access road between still unplanted fields. When he was truly in the dark, he shut off the truck and sat in silence—the creak of the cooling engine, his breath the only sound in the cab. The cold seeped into his bones, his gut, he got out, and lay in the truck bed, letting the cold bite him, letting the weight of stars hold him in place.
After a while, with cold stiff fingers he took out his phone, and called Clark. He waited silently in the dark, tried to figure out just what he was going to tell Clark when he answered.
“Whit? Is that you? Listen Whitney, your *girlfriend* talked to me yesterday. Or threatened me, I’m still not sure which…”
“Oh fucking hell—don’t pay attention to her Clark—whatever she said ignore.”
“Kind of hard, Whit—she said you were in danger of losing your scholarship…she’s worried about you, and so am I. I know about your dad…why didn’t you talk to me?”
“Oh God, oh God…look—I’ll explain, okay? Don’t….don’t worry.”
He hung up and drove back into Smallville. He turned back into town and suddenly, it was too much--Clark, Lana, his dad--they all wanted something and he didn’t know how to divide himself to give them all what they wanted…he turned towards the old factory district, led there by the directions on the paper Wade gave him.
********
The noise was banging all around him; it was like wading through a semi-solid wall of sound. Smoke and heat made the air heavier, made sweat run down his ribs, his back. Wade and his buddies kept pushing beers at him, and he sucked them back, one after another, until every fucking thing was too funny, and he realized what had been missing in his life lately. Fun—fun with guys who knew how to party, who didn’t give a fuck about anything else but that, who sure as hell didn’t give damn about him or what he did or how he acted….
Wade dragged him around the loft, introducing him—which mostly consisted of shoving his face into someone else’s face--to people who weren’t locals, who didn’t seem to be like anyone he knew. He watched open mouthed as a girl with a lime wedge clenched in her teeth handed Wade a drink. She wore a shirt open to her navel and a skirt almost that short. She passed him the lime without hands, because one of them was cupping Wade’s head, and the other one was cupping Wade’s crotch. Wade’s hands disappeared under the scrap of fabric doing duty as a skirt, and took the lime, sucked juice from her mouth and neck, and rode her hand before pushing her along. He grinned at Whit, who could feel the stupid blush crawl up his neck.
“It gets better,” he said. He threw an arm around Whit’s neck and turned him to face the crowd. Whit could see that it did indeed get better for some people. He blushed even harder and Wade laughed. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
Wade’s lips brushed his cheek as he spoke and Whit shuddered and tried to move, but Wade’s arm was like a steel band, and he pulled him along to a room within the loft, his buddies laughing behind them.
They pulled back a big metal door, and in the dimly lit room sat a big leather chair. It was reclined, the foot rest up, the movable arms pointed upwards. There was an articulated lamp hanging over it, and some equipment on a metal tray next to the chair that after a moment he realized was for tattooing—inks, needles…he looked at Wade. “What’s this?”
The tallest of the three laughed, “Come on bro, we’re going to ink you, make you a member of the club. Make you cooler.”
Wade pulled his t-shirt up, exposing a primitive looking green inked tattoo around his navel. “You can get one here—or maybe your arm, break you in easy, hunh?” He looked back at the tall guy and he smirked at Wade. They stared at Whit like dogs at a steak.
He pushed back against Wade, moved away when he released him. “Unh—unh. I’m not into tats—never wanted one.”
“No, you’ll like this--it’s so much more, trust me.” Wade snatched up a tube of poisonously green liquid from the metal tray. “This will change your life. Really.”
Whit tried to back up, and Wade reached out and grabbed his arm in a grip so tight it made Whit wince. “Hey—I said I don’t want this,” Whit snapped. “I don't need this.”
“You drank our beer, partied with us,” growled the shorter of Wade’s buddies. “You owe us.” Wade let him go, and the other guys grabbed Whit, slammed him against the door. He impacted the metal with a muffled boom.
“No one’s going to bother us in here. You should think twice before saying no.” Wade grinned as Whit lunged against the grip of the other two. He poked Whit in the chest, ran a finger up under his chin, down again and circled his navel. “You wouldn’t believe what we can do. He suddenly jerked away from Whitney. “Let him go.”
“What?” The other two shouted almost in unison.
“I said let him go. Tell you what, Fordman, go on home. I’ll come talk to you tomorrow. Explain the whole sitch, and why it’s a good one. Go sleep it off tonight.”
The other two glared at Wade like he’d gone suddenly and violently crazy in front of them. He reached out and rubbed Whit’s shoulder, his eyes warm and concerned, and Whit thought that maybe he’d just imagined the snake-cold look a minute ago. “Yeah…okay. I guess so.”
“Cool.” They pulled the door back open, and noise and smoke and the throbbing lights hit him hard as a punch after the dim quiet of the tattoo room. He looked over his shoulder and Wade waved him off. “Tomorrow, Big Guy, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
Whit drove away from the former factory district, turning the odd events of the evening over in his head. The street wavered in front of him, and his stomach did leisurely dips and dives, and all he wanted was to be next to Clark, for Clark to be holding him, rubbing his head, kissing his face…Clark was all he needed, all he wanted….
He drove around aimlessly and ended up at an all night supermarket, wandering around the aisles and drinking cup after cup of the comp coffee from the bakery department. He found that the people who shopped in the wee hours of the morning were either scarily strange, or too frazzled and tired to be even remotely social. He avoided shopping carts and stopped smiling. After walking about in a semi-daze, he ended up at the registers with boxes of condoms, some lube, purple eye shadow, a comic book, and a couple of packs of gum. The kid at the register eyed the assortment on the belt, and eyed Whit. He so plainly wanted to ask ‘what the fuck?’. Whitney was asking himself the same. “Just ring it,” he muttered.
******
He stood on the lawn, and threw rocks at Clark’s window and hoped like hell the Kents didn’t wake up, and that he didn’t break Clark’s window. He bent down to grab another handful of rocks and his pocket beeped. He pulled himself upright, slowly reached into his pocket and felt…his phone. He held it in his hand, looked at it, started giggling and once he started, he couldn’t stop. He called Clark’s number, giggling the whole time and kept on giggling into the phone when Clark answered. Clark sounded pissed, and that just made him laugh, and he fell down on the crisp grass, laughing…a shadow fell over him. He looked up and Clark was staring down at him, and boy, did he look pissed, and yes, that made him laugh even harder. Clark bent, and grabbed him by the collar.
“Get up. Get up, damn it.”
Whit staggered to his feet, and grabbed Clark’s waist. “I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not drunk—I’m just an idiot.” He tried not to giggle, and laid his head on Clark’s shoulder. “I had a phone the whole time.”
“What? Never mind.” Clark turned to the loft, dragging Whit behind him. “You stink like a bar. That’s not funny. You’re not legal.”
“I’m a senior; I can do what I want, so there.” He held himself back from going nyaah-nyaah because that would be immature.
“Whit, you could lose your scholarship if you get caught. I know you worked too hard for it to throw it away.”
The laughter was gone, leaving an aching hole behind. He was too fucking sober all of a sudden. He staggered along after Clark. “Hey. Stop a moment. Clark—stop.”
Clark looked back at him. “Come on. Talk to me upstairs.”
TBC
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/Whit…
Rating: 2
Summary: This AU version of Smallville is chewing my brain into tiny bite-size bits…Enjoy!
The Previous Parts are here, learning how to clog dance. What? I don't tell them what to do with their free time...
Whit called his mother, told her the store was locked down, and he was going to pick up something to eat. Told her he wasn’t going to the hospital that night, wasn’t sure if he was going to sleep at home or not.
“Oh. Well. If you’re sure…your father was asking about you.”
Whit rolled the windows down, letting cold air stream over him. He was racing down the road away from Smallville and he couldn’t get out of the town fast enough—“Yeah, Mom, I’ll talk to you later, all right?” He hung up without waiting for an answer, threw his phone on the seat and drove on for a while. Finally he slowed, pulled over, and bumped his truck down an access road between still unplanted fields. When he was truly in the dark, he shut off the truck and sat in silence—the creak of the cooling engine, his breath the only sound in the cab. The cold seeped into his bones, his gut, he got out, and lay in the truck bed, letting the cold bite him, letting the weight of stars hold him in place.
After a while, with cold stiff fingers he took out his phone, and called Clark. He waited silently in the dark, tried to figure out just what he was going to tell Clark when he answered.
“Whit? Is that you? Listen Whitney, your *girlfriend* talked to me yesterday. Or threatened me, I’m still not sure which…”
“Oh fucking hell—don’t pay attention to her Clark—whatever she said ignore.”
“Kind of hard, Whit—she said you were in danger of losing your scholarship…she’s worried about you, and so am I. I know about your dad…why didn’t you talk to me?”
“Oh God, oh God…look—I’ll explain, okay? Don’t….don’t worry.”
He hung up and drove back into Smallville. He turned back into town and suddenly, it was too much--Clark, Lana, his dad--they all wanted something and he didn’t know how to divide himself to give them all what they wanted…he turned towards the old factory district, led there by the directions on the paper Wade gave him.
********
The noise was banging all around him; it was like wading through a semi-solid wall of sound. Smoke and heat made the air heavier, made sweat run down his ribs, his back. Wade and his buddies kept pushing beers at him, and he sucked them back, one after another, until every fucking thing was too funny, and he realized what had been missing in his life lately. Fun—fun with guys who knew how to party, who didn’t give a fuck about anything else but that, who sure as hell didn’t give damn about him or what he did or how he acted….
Wade dragged him around the loft, introducing him—which mostly consisted of shoving his face into someone else’s face--to people who weren’t locals, who didn’t seem to be like anyone he knew. He watched open mouthed as a girl with a lime wedge clenched in her teeth handed Wade a drink. She wore a shirt open to her navel and a skirt almost that short. She passed him the lime without hands, because one of them was cupping Wade’s head, and the other one was cupping Wade’s crotch. Wade’s hands disappeared under the scrap of fabric doing duty as a skirt, and took the lime, sucked juice from her mouth and neck, and rode her hand before pushing her along. He grinned at Whit, who could feel the stupid blush crawl up his neck.
“It gets better,” he said. He threw an arm around Whit’s neck and turned him to face the crowd. Whit could see that it did indeed get better for some people. He blushed even harder and Wade laughed. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
Wade’s lips brushed his cheek as he spoke and Whit shuddered and tried to move, but Wade’s arm was like a steel band, and he pulled him along to a room within the loft, his buddies laughing behind them.
They pulled back a big metal door, and in the dimly lit room sat a big leather chair. It was reclined, the foot rest up, the movable arms pointed upwards. There was an articulated lamp hanging over it, and some equipment on a metal tray next to the chair that after a moment he realized was for tattooing—inks, needles…he looked at Wade. “What’s this?”
The tallest of the three laughed, “Come on bro, we’re going to ink you, make you a member of the club. Make you cooler.”
Wade pulled his t-shirt up, exposing a primitive looking green inked tattoo around his navel. “You can get one here—or maybe your arm, break you in easy, hunh?” He looked back at the tall guy and he smirked at Wade. They stared at Whit like dogs at a steak.
He pushed back against Wade, moved away when he released him. “Unh—unh. I’m not into tats—never wanted one.”
“No, you’ll like this--it’s so much more, trust me.” Wade snatched up a tube of poisonously green liquid from the metal tray. “This will change your life. Really.”
Whit tried to back up, and Wade reached out and grabbed his arm in a grip so tight it made Whit wince. “Hey—I said I don’t want this,” Whit snapped. “I don't need this.”
“You drank our beer, partied with us,” growled the shorter of Wade’s buddies. “You owe us.” Wade let him go, and the other guys grabbed Whit, slammed him against the door. He impacted the metal with a muffled boom.
“No one’s going to bother us in here. You should think twice before saying no.” Wade grinned as Whit lunged against the grip of the other two. He poked Whit in the chest, ran a finger up under his chin, down again and circled his navel. “You wouldn’t believe what we can do. He suddenly jerked away from Whitney. “Let him go.”
“What?” The other two shouted almost in unison.
“I said let him go. Tell you what, Fordman, go on home. I’ll come talk to you tomorrow. Explain the whole sitch, and why it’s a good one. Go sleep it off tonight.”
The other two glared at Wade like he’d gone suddenly and violently crazy in front of them. He reached out and rubbed Whit’s shoulder, his eyes warm and concerned, and Whit thought that maybe he’d just imagined the snake-cold look a minute ago. “Yeah…okay. I guess so.”
“Cool.” They pulled the door back open, and noise and smoke and the throbbing lights hit him hard as a punch after the dim quiet of the tattoo room. He looked over his shoulder and Wade waved him off. “Tomorrow, Big Guy, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
Whit drove away from the former factory district, turning the odd events of the evening over in his head. The street wavered in front of him, and his stomach did leisurely dips and dives, and all he wanted was to be next to Clark, for Clark to be holding him, rubbing his head, kissing his face…Clark was all he needed, all he wanted….
He drove around aimlessly and ended up at an all night supermarket, wandering around the aisles and drinking cup after cup of the comp coffee from the bakery department. He found that the people who shopped in the wee hours of the morning were either scarily strange, or too frazzled and tired to be even remotely social. He avoided shopping carts and stopped smiling. After walking about in a semi-daze, he ended up at the registers with boxes of condoms, some lube, purple eye shadow, a comic book, and a couple of packs of gum. The kid at the register eyed the assortment on the belt, and eyed Whit. He so plainly wanted to ask ‘what the fuck?’. Whitney was asking himself the same. “Just ring it,” he muttered.
******
He stood on the lawn, and threw rocks at Clark’s window and hoped like hell the Kents didn’t wake up, and that he didn’t break Clark’s window. He bent down to grab another handful of rocks and his pocket beeped. He pulled himself upright, slowly reached into his pocket and felt…his phone. He held it in his hand, looked at it, started giggling and once he started, he couldn’t stop. He called Clark’s number, giggling the whole time and kept on giggling into the phone when Clark answered. Clark sounded pissed, and that just made him laugh, and he fell down on the crisp grass, laughing…a shadow fell over him. He looked up and Clark was staring down at him, and boy, did he look pissed, and yes, that made him laugh even harder. Clark bent, and grabbed him by the collar.
“Get up. Get up, damn it.”
Whit staggered to his feet, and grabbed Clark’s waist. “I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not drunk—I’m just an idiot.” He tried not to giggle, and laid his head on Clark’s shoulder. “I had a phone the whole time.”
“What? Never mind.” Clark turned to the loft, dragging Whit behind him. “You stink like a bar. That’s not funny. You’re not legal.”
“I’m a senior; I can do what I want, so there.” He held himself back from going nyaah-nyaah because that would be immature.
“Whit, you could lose your scholarship if you get caught. I know you worked too hard for it to throw it away.”
The laughter was gone, leaving an aching hole behind. He was too fucking sober all of a sudden. He staggered along after Clark. “Hey. Stop a moment. Clark—stop.”
Clark looked back at him. “Come on. Talk to me upstairs.”
TBC
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1/4/07 02:49 am (UTC)thank you!