SV fic post:East of the Sun part 11
2/29/08 12:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: East of the Sun
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Lex/people, eventually clex
Rating:R
Word Count:1993
Summary: Lex learns about trust and love from an unlikely source.
Notes/Warnings: this is me putting the boys in my version of the swing era, just to see how pretty they look.
Many, many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
danceswithgary for beta duty, and the beautiful cover!
It was a quiet afternoon; sun bright, a little warm—an Indian summer day. He'd finally begun to feel a little relaxed after days and days of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Nothing horrible had happened. Nothing too horrible, anyway. His life was back to what it had been; once again he was just an overly tall, overly clumsy outcast. No one spoke to him, and he counted himself lucky considering. He was the recipient of dozens of hard looks, and sure there were whispers and the locker room was a living hell, but bruises healed fast, he never had to explain to his folks what was going on….
He was walking past the Talon, taking his time about going to the library, the sun felt good, and helped him to cheer up a bit. He was just beginning to whistle a little when he heard a voice that made the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up—
"You take that back, or I'll pound you good!" His sister was yelling—screaming in anger, and suddenly, she made a noise he'd never heard from her before—real pain—
He ran towards the sound, and found her in a ring of other kids, taunting and pushing her, she careened from hand to hand, a punch, a push, a slap sent her to the next.
"My brother said your brother's a queer—you're a queer too, aint'cha? Queer!" The circle took up the chant, and Hannah was screaming, and trying to get back at them—
Clark broke through the ring and scooped her up. "Run," he growled, not caring that they were children, not caring that he might have hurt them running to get to Hannah. Children being the perceptive creatures that they could be, ran for their lives. He held Hannah in his arms and carried her home, and had to listen to his sister cry all the way.
Clark let her walk up only when they were in sight of home and after she insisted that there was nothing wrong with her feet and he should put her down. Holding her hand as they walked up the driveway, they were silent all the way to the house, and all through dinner. Clark didn't miss the worried looks his mom and dad gave each other…it was a very quiet meal. The click of silverware against crockery sounded so loud. Clark swore he could hear himself chewing mashed potatoes.
After dinner, Clark sat on the porch and Hannah came out to sit with him. She started talking, and Clark let her speak at her own pace. "Today wasn't the first time that happened, but it wasn't as bad before." It had been happening to her nearly every day since Whit turned on him—his sister was fighting his battle, and he never realized.
"They started saying things about you, and I beat up Alvin but he wouldn't stop, and the other kids started, and everywhere I go…" She cried and rubbed her head. "And I have this bad, bad feeling that something horrible is going to happen to you, and you should take off the cross, Clark, you should take it off."
"I can't! It's the only thing that makes me normal, and especially now, I have to be, don’t you see?" Clark's eyes stung, and he sniffed hard. Hannah's pain was hard to bear.
"It's not true, is it? You're not a queer are you?"
"Hannah…you don’t even know what it means. Those kids don’t know."
She wiped her nose and leaned against Clark. "Do too. It means you like boys. You don’t, right? You like Lana. Why would they lie like that?"
Clark didn’t say anything. He sat silently, his sister on his lap, her head warm against his chest and her swinging legs rocking them both a little. "I love you Hannah."
She stopped swinging, and turned a little to look at him, her forehead wrinkled. She looked at him for a long, long minute. "Clark…" she winced and sighed. Closed her eyes and leaned against him again. He barely heard her tiny whisper, "You are *not* a freak."
@@@@@@
"You're not a freak." He whispered it to himself when ever he felt most lost. Whenever Whit passed him in the hall with barely a look. Whenever Lana stared at him, looking confused, and sad. Whenever he got shoved against a locker, his books knocked out of his hand, when he was ignored by his teachers, he told himself, "You're not a freak." When his mom asked him what was wrong, or his dad tried to get him to talk, he'd think it, and assure them that no, everything was fine.
Two weeks before Halloween, Whitney finally spoke to Clark. He stopped him in the hall, without even looking to see if anyone was around to see. "Clark, please meet me after school? Before you say no, I want to tell you…" his voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, "I'm sorry."
Clark wanted to believe that Whit felt bad for what he'd done, and he seemed to be telling the truth, and it felt good to have Whit's attention again. Whit nodded as if Clark had spoken. "Out by the drugstore, okay? Maybe…maybe we can go to Granville, so we can talk without…you know."
"Granville? Oh. Okay…" He watched Whit walk away, conflicting emotions locking him in place. He wanted to hurt Whit like he hurt him. But he also wanted to talk to Whit, try to understand what he did. And…he hoped maybe Whit might explain how it changed like it had.
@@@@@@
Whitney was waiting in the street behind the drugstore, just like he said. Clark climbed into the truck, and Whit looked—sad, nervous, guilty.
"What do you want, Whit? I doubt there's anything we have to say to each other that needs us going to Granville."
"We can get some lunch without being bothered. Talk about what happened. If you want to. Ignore it if you don't. I had to…I had to save myself, Clark. You're stronger than I am. Look how you're handling this. I couldn't be as brave as you are."
"I don’t want to be this brave, Whitney. It wasn't my choice. It wasn't even my fault—it was you. You're the queer," he spat, suddenly so furious his hands were shaking.
The look Whit gave him was devastated, hugely hurt, and angry. He grabbed Clark's collar and pulled. "You can’t say that. You can’t ever say that, Clark." The truck swerved as Whitney yanked Clark closer and Clark tried to pull away.
"Whit…stop! Pull over. Pull over before you hurt us."
Whit stepped on the gas instead, and sent the truck racing into the cornfields. "I don't want to do this, I have to do this. I have to prove I don't…I don’t…" He stopped and Clark thought of taking off the necklace and running—and then he heard a dozen voices, and the door flew open, and he was being dragged out into the dying sunlight.
They ripped at his clothes, until he was standing in only his underpants, shivering in reaction—fear, horror, betrayal of a sort he never expected. The gang of excited boys pushed him against a post and crossbar, left over from some past season's scarecrow, and one of the boys tore the necklace off, ripping a track of fire against the back of Clark's neck.
"Someone like you shouldn't be wearing this," he hissed and drew back his arm to throw it. Clark couldn’t keep his eyes off the silver strand and the boy smiled crookedly.
"That worried about it, faggot? Then keep it," and he pushed it in Clark's mouth, thick fingers bitter against his tongue. The cross was pushed to the back of his mouth and Clark struggled not to swallow it--tried not to scream—it hurt. The chip of rock burnt like a live coal on his tongue. The pain grew larger and larger. It seared the tender tissue inside his mouth, the roof of his mouth. He gagged and a thin trickle of blood ran down over his lips, and Whit looked horrified—frightened. He stood back as the rest of the boys tied Clark's wrists to the crossbar of the thing, tied his ankles to the center post.
Someone waved a can of paint and a brush under his nose. "You know what they call it in the Bible--sodomite." The paint-filled brush slopped against his chest, sketching an 'S.' "So everyone knows what you are."
Clark couldn't stop the tears the pain made, he tried to beg, to plead with them not to do it. He searched out Whit in the group. Please. Remember what I did for you…please.
When they began throwing dirt at Clark, Whit picked up a handful and threw it too.
Clark closed his eyes and dropped his head. All he could do now was concentrate, concentrate on not choking, on ignoring the stinging clods of dirt that hit him, in his face, his arms, legs, and fell into his underclothing…he was alone with wolves, and no one knew where he was. No one was coming to help him because the only friend he thought he had, had brought him to this.
They cursed him and laughed, and taunted him some more, and then Clark heard the trucks leaving. He was shaking from cold, and pain—fire raced across his shoulders and grew bigger and bigger. Inside his chest felt thick, the air he tried to breathe in felt soupy. His mouth was on fire.
I'm going to die. I can’t do this— He knew the boys hadn't planned on his death, but it was going to happen and he felt sad and guilty for leaving his family like this and frightened of what death was like and, finally, a little spark of self-preservation kindled. He gagged around the burning weight of the cross on his tongue—he could save himself if he didn't have the cross. A little voice whispered, how stupid can you be? How much do you have to suffer—spit it out, idiot, spit it out….
There was a moment when he thought he was going to swallow the thing, and the fear it caused approached a sort of glory. He imagined it burning all the way down his throat, a white hot sun going into his gut, exploding—but finally, finally, it fell out of his mouth and dropped away into the dirt, and then, so quickly it frightened him again, the pain was gone. The pain ripping his shoulders in two was gone, the nausea was gone, and the blood running down the back of his throat seemed to vanish. He wasn't hanging from the posts anymore. In fact, he barely felt the wood or the ropes. What he felt was strong—strong enough to pull his arms forward and crack the wooden beam in two, and rip the rope as if it were thread. He dropped to the ground, and shrugged out of the splintered hemp and timber. He staggered, stepped on the necklace and shuddered as he dropped to the ground. Reluctantly, so very reluctantly, he picked it up, rode out the waves of pain, took deep breaths until his body remembered what it was to be shackled. With the necklace in place again, he searched through the weeds and found his clothes, but his shoes were lost out in the corn somewhere. After looking a while, he gave up hope of finding them and headed for home, tears flowing, knowing that Mom was going to be so angry with him for losing those shoes….
He walked the long, cold miles back to the farm in silence, blank inside. He'd go home and continue and, after a while, it'd be like nothing happened, and he could just—go on.
part 12
TBC
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Lex/people, eventually clex
Rating:R
Word Count:1993
Summary: Lex learns about trust and love from an unlikely source.
Notes/Warnings: this is me putting the boys in my version of the swing era, just to see how pretty they look.
Many, many thanks to
danceswithgary for beta duty, and the beautiful cover!It was a quiet afternoon; sun bright, a little warm—an Indian summer day. He'd finally begun to feel a little relaxed after days and days of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Nothing horrible had happened. Nothing too horrible, anyway. His life was back to what it had been; once again he was just an overly tall, overly clumsy outcast. No one spoke to him, and he counted himself lucky considering. He was the recipient of dozens of hard looks, and sure there were whispers and the locker room was a living hell, but bruises healed fast, he never had to explain to his folks what was going on….
He was walking past the Talon, taking his time about going to the library, the sun felt good, and helped him to cheer up a bit. He was just beginning to whistle a little when he heard a voice that made the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up—
"You take that back, or I'll pound you good!" His sister was yelling—screaming in anger, and suddenly, she made a noise he'd never heard from her before—real pain—
He ran towards the sound, and found her in a ring of other kids, taunting and pushing her, she careened from hand to hand, a punch, a push, a slap sent her to the next.
"My brother said your brother's a queer—you're a queer too, aint'cha? Queer!" The circle took up the chant, and Hannah was screaming, and trying to get back at them—
Clark broke through the ring and scooped her up. "Run," he growled, not caring that they were children, not caring that he might have hurt them running to get to Hannah. Children being the perceptive creatures that they could be, ran for their lives. He held Hannah in his arms and carried her home, and had to listen to his sister cry all the way.
Clark let her walk up only when they were in sight of home and after she insisted that there was nothing wrong with her feet and he should put her down. Holding her hand as they walked up the driveway, they were silent all the way to the house, and all through dinner. Clark didn't miss the worried looks his mom and dad gave each other…it was a very quiet meal. The click of silverware against crockery sounded so loud. Clark swore he could hear himself chewing mashed potatoes.
After dinner, Clark sat on the porch and Hannah came out to sit with him. She started talking, and Clark let her speak at her own pace. "Today wasn't the first time that happened, but it wasn't as bad before." It had been happening to her nearly every day since Whit turned on him—his sister was fighting his battle, and he never realized.
"They started saying things about you, and I beat up Alvin but he wouldn't stop, and the other kids started, and everywhere I go…" She cried and rubbed her head. "And I have this bad, bad feeling that something horrible is going to happen to you, and you should take off the cross, Clark, you should take it off."
"I can't! It's the only thing that makes me normal, and especially now, I have to be, don’t you see?" Clark's eyes stung, and he sniffed hard. Hannah's pain was hard to bear.
"It's not true, is it? You're not a queer are you?"
"Hannah…you don’t even know what it means. Those kids don’t know."
She wiped her nose and leaned against Clark. "Do too. It means you like boys. You don’t, right? You like Lana. Why would they lie like that?"
Clark didn’t say anything. He sat silently, his sister on his lap, her head warm against his chest and her swinging legs rocking them both a little. "I love you Hannah."
She stopped swinging, and turned a little to look at him, her forehead wrinkled. She looked at him for a long, long minute. "Clark…" she winced and sighed. Closed her eyes and leaned against him again. He barely heard her tiny whisper, "You are *not* a freak."
@@@@@@
"You're not a freak." He whispered it to himself when ever he felt most lost. Whenever Whit passed him in the hall with barely a look. Whenever Lana stared at him, looking confused, and sad. Whenever he got shoved against a locker, his books knocked out of his hand, when he was ignored by his teachers, he told himself, "You're not a freak." When his mom asked him what was wrong, or his dad tried to get him to talk, he'd think it, and assure them that no, everything was fine.
Two weeks before Halloween, Whitney finally spoke to Clark. He stopped him in the hall, without even looking to see if anyone was around to see. "Clark, please meet me after school? Before you say no, I want to tell you…" his voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, "I'm sorry."
Clark wanted to believe that Whit felt bad for what he'd done, and he seemed to be telling the truth, and it felt good to have Whit's attention again. Whit nodded as if Clark had spoken. "Out by the drugstore, okay? Maybe…maybe we can go to Granville, so we can talk without…you know."
"Granville? Oh. Okay…" He watched Whit walk away, conflicting emotions locking him in place. He wanted to hurt Whit like he hurt him. But he also wanted to talk to Whit, try to understand what he did. And…he hoped maybe Whit might explain how it changed like it had.
@@@@@@
Whitney was waiting in the street behind the drugstore, just like he said. Clark climbed into the truck, and Whit looked—sad, nervous, guilty.
"What do you want, Whit? I doubt there's anything we have to say to each other that needs us going to Granville."
"We can get some lunch without being bothered. Talk about what happened. If you want to. Ignore it if you don't. I had to…I had to save myself, Clark. You're stronger than I am. Look how you're handling this. I couldn't be as brave as you are."
"I don’t want to be this brave, Whitney. It wasn't my choice. It wasn't even my fault—it was you. You're the queer," he spat, suddenly so furious his hands were shaking.
The look Whit gave him was devastated, hugely hurt, and angry. He grabbed Clark's collar and pulled. "You can’t say that. You can’t ever say that, Clark." The truck swerved as Whitney yanked Clark closer and Clark tried to pull away.
"Whit…stop! Pull over. Pull over before you hurt us."
Whit stepped on the gas instead, and sent the truck racing into the cornfields. "I don't want to do this, I have to do this. I have to prove I don't…I don’t…" He stopped and Clark thought of taking off the necklace and running—and then he heard a dozen voices, and the door flew open, and he was being dragged out into the dying sunlight.
They ripped at his clothes, until he was standing in only his underpants, shivering in reaction—fear, horror, betrayal of a sort he never expected. The gang of excited boys pushed him against a post and crossbar, left over from some past season's scarecrow, and one of the boys tore the necklace off, ripping a track of fire against the back of Clark's neck.
"Someone like you shouldn't be wearing this," he hissed and drew back his arm to throw it. Clark couldn’t keep his eyes off the silver strand and the boy smiled crookedly.
"That worried about it, faggot? Then keep it," and he pushed it in Clark's mouth, thick fingers bitter against his tongue. The cross was pushed to the back of his mouth and Clark struggled not to swallow it--tried not to scream—it hurt. The chip of rock burnt like a live coal on his tongue. The pain grew larger and larger. It seared the tender tissue inside his mouth, the roof of his mouth. He gagged and a thin trickle of blood ran down over his lips, and Whit looked horrified—frightened. He stood back as the rest of the boys tied Clark's wrists to the crossbar of the thing, tied his ankles to the center post.
Someone waved a can of paint and a brush under his nose. "You know what they call it in the Bible--sodomite." The paint-filled brush slopped against his chest, sketching an 'S.' "So everyone knows what you are."
Clark couldn't stop the tears the pain made, he tried to beg, to plead with them not to do it. He searched out Whit in the group. Please. Remember what I did for you…please.
When they began throwing dirt at Clark, Whit picked up a handful and threw it too.
Clark closed his eyes and dropped his head. All he could do now was concentrate, concentrate on not choking, on ignoring the stinging clods of dirt that hit him, in his face, his arms, legs, and fell into his underclothing…he was alone with wolves, and no one knew where he was. No one was coming to help him because the only friend he thought he had, had brought him to this.
They cursed him and laughed, and taunted him some more, and then Clark heard the trucks leaving. He was shaking from cold, and pain—fire raced across his shoulders and grew bigger and bigger. Inside his chest felt thick, the air he tried to breathe in felt soupy. His mouth was on fire.
I'm going to die. I can’t do this— He knew the boys hadn't planned on his death, but it was going to happen and he felt sad and guilty for leaving his family like this and frightened of what death was like and, finally, a little spark of self-preservation kindled. He gagged around the burning weight of the cross on his tongue—he could save himself if he didn't have the cross. A little voice whispered, how stupid can you be? How much do you have to suffer—spit it out, idiot, spit it out….
There was a moment when he thought he was going to swallow the thing, and the fear it caused approached a sort of glory. He imagined it burning all the way down his throat, a white hot sun going into his gut, exploding—but finally, finally, it fell out of his mouth and dropped away into the dirt, and then, so quickly it frightened him again, the pain was gone. The pain ripping his shoulders in two was gone, the nausea was gone, and the blood running down the back of his throat seemed to vanish. He wasn't hanging from the posts anymore. In fact, he barely felt the wood or the ropes. What he felt was strong—strong enough to pull his arms forward and crack the wooden beam in two, and rip the rope as if it were thread. He dropped to the ground, and shrugged out of the splintered hemp and timber. He staggered, stepped on the necklace and shuddered as he dropped to the ground. Reluctantly, so very reluctantly, he picked it up, rode out the waves of pain, took deep breaths until his body remembered what it was to be shackled. With the necklace in place again, he searched through the weeds and found his clothes, but his shoes were lost out in the corn somewhere. After looking a while, he gave up hope of finding them and headed for home, tears flowing, knowing that Mom was going to be so angry with him for losing those shoes….
He walked the long, cold miles back to the farm in silence, blank inside. He'd go home and continue and, after a while, it'd be like nothing happened, and he could just—go on.
part 12
TBC
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2/29/08 07:41 pm (UTC)(no subject)
3/1/08 05:17 pm (UTC)