roxy. fic post: East of the Sun part 25

Title: East of the Sun

Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Lex/quite a few people, eventually clex of course

Rating:PG
Word Count:2235

Summary: Lex learns about trust and love from an unlikely source.
Notes/Warnings: my version of the swing era. Sure, it's weird—it's me!

Many, many thanks to

danceswithgary expert hand holder, brilliant beta and super patient person.

When Walt returned to the room, he found Alex spread over the bed, jotting down notes in a leather and gold-chased journal and tapping out a rhythm on his thigh.

Walt brushed his hair, kept his eyes on the dresser mirror, and nodded along. "Say, Pete claims the arrangement of Tuxedo Junction's too slow—slow, did he mean that—I mean, it's not a—say, where are my pants?"

He was doing up the dozen buttons on the union suit he wore and frowning at the clothes Alex had dumped on the end of the bed. Alex sneered at him, "You dress like an old man. Why don't you let me take you to my tailor?"

"First off—your tailor hates you 'cause you stiff him all the time—second, icing this here gorgeous hunk of a man with drapes like yours would be a waste of time. The dames know I'm hot. What else do I need?" Walt retorted. He slid his suspenders up over his shoulders and sighed. "Hey, I'm not kidding when it comes to that guy, Alex. You need to avoid him."

"I heard you the first time. We dealt with Mort. We can deal with Morgan's puppy."

Walt lit a cigarette. "Sure we can. Sure we can." He drew in deep and then blew the smoke towards the ceiling. He clambered over Alex on the bed and opened the window. Sounds of traffic nearly, but not quite, drowned out the twitter of the birds on the rooftops. "Here, take the rest." He inhaled again and bent over Alex, mouth open just a bit, smoke curling lazily around his lips, teasing. Alex's own inhalation had a sharper edge and he grabbed Walt's hand, sliding the cigarette out of his fingers to place it in his own smirking mouth.

"Don't play so much, Walt. You might get yourself in trouble one day."

Walt grinned, rolling off the bed to slide his suit coat on. "Nah, you ain't looking for me in here. Maybe you can get that other kid in your bed someday, hunh? You'd give him some trouble, I bet—" His grin slowly faded at the look in Alex's eyes. "Oh. I'm—I'm sorry, I guess—'m kinda stupid sometime. Sorry."

"Don't think about it, buddy boy." Alex hesitated, smiled wryly, and shrugged. "C'est la vie. I'll see you tonight."

@@@@@

Two days until Christmas, Clark thought, glancing at the calendar. He wiped clammy hands across his face. His shirt and jacket were stiff with frozen snow and his boots were soaking wet. He'd have to let the clothes dry on a towel. He didn't want to hang them with his suit, get it wet. He still owed Walt some for the suit, even though Walt kept trying to tell him he didn't, but that wasn't the way they—he—did things. He'd pay him back soon—every penny. Walt was a heck of a nice guy—as long as they weren't working, Clark grinned. Alex was trying to get him to go to his tailor, have a suit made and, as soon as Clark could afford it, he would. He had twenty-five dollars saved for it and a new pair of shoes. He smiled at the thought. If he owned two suits, it'd be one more than his dad had. Imagine that—two suits, two pairs of dress shoes…and ties. Chloe kept buying him ties for some reason. Every time she came around with a new one, Alex laughed like it was some secret joke that only he got. Clark shook his head. Alex was a confusing guy.

Clark stacked a library book under his notebook to sit at the table and then unwrapped the sandwich Willy insisted he take when he dropped by the kitchen to say hello. Sandwich in one hand, and pencil in the other, he scribbled in his diary/letter book. The pages were filling up with unsent letters to Hannah. Almost every day, he had something new to tell her. Tonight, he wrote about the dip crazy enough to try something in Metropolis. Most of them knew plying their art here was a chump's game anymore, with 'The Angel' looking out. He sighed. He wished the junkies and the thugs and the people who got a horrible delight out of hurting innocents were as easy to chase away. At least he'd been able to do something positive tonight--he'd been able to help some kids he'd found living in a closed-up warehouse near Suicide Slums. He'd gotten them food and pointed them in the direction of St. Pat's, where there was a shelter. It wasn't much, and it hurt him that he couldn't do more…"but I guess it's better to do a little than nothing at all. Someday, I will do more. I promise myself all the time, that someday I'll find a way to do more, to help more people.

It's a few days before Christmas, Hannah, and I thought that I'd be sad, being away from home and all, and it makes me feel bad to say it, but I'm not. I mean not too much. I miss you like crazy, of course, but my friends here have made it like home. It's so nice to have friends, people who look happy when you walk into the room. Yes, that's right, I'm a star. (smile) Oh, I wish you could meet my friends. They're all solid hepcats. That's what Pete says. Not me. Whenever I try to sling the lingo, everyone just laughs. I guess I just have corn in my blood. (smile)

My friend Pete I mentioned, he's a real hepcat. He's a really nice guy, and his family is, too. They've invited me a few times to go to church with them and I might do that one day. I do miss those sorts of family things. Pete has a little sister who kind of reminds me of you, only she's twelve, not twelve going on ninety."

Clark put down the pencil and attacked the sandwich. Willy made good sandwiches. He rearranged his wet clothes on a fresh dry towel and finished his sandwich, leaning on the wide windowsill and ignoring the brisk breeze. He cast out with all his senses over his city, listening for anything out of the ordinary. It was quiet for now, but soon the sky would lighten and the early morning workers would be out—milkmen, cops changing shifts, and the newsies grabbing up papers to hawk. And he'd be napping, or walking, or just thinking…wondering what his friends were doing, what his family was doing.

Maybe he'd give his girl a call, or go to the show. The Roxy had that new Cagney….

He checked his change jar. He had more than enough, but suddenly, neither thought appealed overmuch. He glanced at his notebook, thought about writing some more. Not now, he decided. He lay down on the bed and wrapped himself in his blanket. He closed his eyes and slowed himself down…time to sleep. Maybe...he'd have a dream about home. That would be nice….

What was he doing here? He glanced around, startled--he was on the banks of a river. He knew this place—it was Elbow River. The last time he'd been to the river was in summer, but this wasn't summer. The trees were bare, the grass was brown and he was dressed in overalls and a red barn jacket. He was sitting on the branch, the thick one that hung out over the river, and that worried him. He remembered the last time…he'd been with Whit, and he was really less than pleased to be here again. Maybe he should leave…he heard someone call his name and reluctantly turned….

Suddenly, it was darn good to be right where he was. He smiled, and felt warm from head to toe. 'Hi, hi, you found me. Come over and sit by me.'

Alex sat. He was fully dressed also, in a suit and hat, his overcoat folded neatly over his arm and a silky white scarf around his neck. He leaned back to look up at the moon and Clark stared at the ivory arch of his neck. He wanted to touch it so very much, so much. An owl flew overhead, its shadow swept over the moon and was gone…the river chattered and splashed below them… Alex sighed. 'Don’t push me in—it's too cold.'

'Oh, I wouldn't. I would never push you in.'

Alex smiled and said, 'Hmm. But would you pull me in?' He reached over and drew his finger up Clark's leg, swirling invisible designs higher and higher up his leg, drawing up over the growing bulge between his….

Clark groaned, gasped awake and blinked. Something was burning…the oilcloth cover that covered his little table was smoking, and twin holes glowed in it. Clark was so startled his eyes flew wide—and the cloth was stippled with tiny flames, thin coils of smoke blooming all over it.

"SHIT!"

He jumped out of bed and smothered the growing flames with his hands, fighting to keep his eyes closed because the fire was definitely coming from his eyes….he peeked carefully into his cupped hands, and when nothing happened, eased his eyes open again. They felt fine. Normal. He slumped to the floor, legs splayed wide and hands locked together in his lap like a little kid, and thought life could hardly get more complicated. What if someone had seen that? What *was* that? Just another thing to add to his list of freakish accomplishments—fiery eyeballs?

And suddenly, a deep wave of dread struck him. "Oh." Oh my. He'd been thinking, dreaming about Alex…and what he'd been dreaming about paled at the thought that feeling *sexy* had made his eyes spit flames. "Oh no, that can't--that's just not *fair*." He staggered to his feet. "Oh please—I wanted to have sex at least once in my life," he moaned. What good would it do to find love and then not be able to--not ever have—Mom was *wrong*. "There's no one for me here, not ever going to be."

His eyes filled with tears, plain old human-style tears, a little warm, wet…normal. He couldn’t be alone for the rest of his life--just couldn't. But he could be...careful. He could hold back. Maybe he could just do everything but kiss.

And have sex. He sighed. Especially that. He sighed even harder. Would Chloe still care when there were no more kisses?

@@@@@@

…I have a girlfriend. Her name is Chloe. She likes me a lot, she says. She's really pretty, blonde and tiny, and boy—she's got a big temper! But she's funny too. She makes me laugh hard enough to hurt. Some day, you're going to meet her and when you do, you'll see, she's great. There's another friend I have. He's really amazing, this guy is so talented. You would be bowled over, I know it. He plays clarinet, and he plays from his heart. He's every bit as good, maybe better, than Benny Goodman. He's really something else. He's as hip as I'm not. (laugh) but he's nice to me anyway.

He wrote more about Alex, humming to himself, and after a while, he realized he was humming carols. He stopped writing and stared at his notebook for quite a while, before finally deciding the time was right. He ripped a page out of the book, and wrote.

Dear Hannah,

Merry Christmas. I don't have a lot of money, but I hope this letter will count as a Christmas present. I'm fine, I'm safe, and I'm happy….

@@@@@@

Clark replaced the oilcloth twice, and had to paint the wall opposite his bed once before he decided wishing was just not going to make it go away. What disturbed him most was the new direction his dreams were taking. He was fairly certain the next time he'd set his tablecloth on fire, he'd been dreaming about Chloe…his brow wrinkled. Pretty sure. There'd been a lot of skin and blonde hair. And kissing. There was that time he'd dreamed about Pete. Clark blushed. That ended up with a smoke-filled room, a burning tablecloth, and washing his underwear in the bathroom sink. Then there was the dream he had about Alex, full of mysterious things, heat and mouths and hands, sweat and teeth...that time, waking up had hurt, and coming in his boxers hurt so good, and burning twin tracks of black up the wall, shaking the bed and crying had…well, not hurt, but made him almost die of embarrassment. Clark covered his face. His cheeks were burning and his eyes felt like they were full of hot, gritty sand. He knew how wonderfully cooler they'd be, how refreshed they'd feel if he let the flame go like it wanted to.
That was just what he should do. He needed to learn to control himself. Or, no—what he needed to learn was control of this new ability. Because it wasn't anything to be ashamed of, nosiree, no more than blinking or…burping was. Or…or…other stuff. It was part of him, so he'd learn to control it and who knows—it might even be useful. He thought of grilling sausages on a stick, and the silliness of the image surprised a laugh out of him. Yep. Very useful.

part 26

More coming soon!

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Posted by

danceswithgary

I love the letters to Hannah to bits and the Alex/Walt banter in the beginnning is great!

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fic post: East of the Sun part 25

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