hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2003-07-01 12:04 pm
hackthis_archive) wrote2003-07-01 12:04 pm
Something for everyone.
They built a hero out of expectations
and what a hopeless hero was he
with sticks for legs he shook when the wind blew, even slightly
and he welcomed the smiles, he welcomed the applause
and he hoped that they'd never forget just who they thought he was
they dressed him up in rich man's clothes, and told him he was beautiful
then they expected miracles…
- HP -
His robes swirl around the nothingness of his ankles, and his glasses fog up when the weather changes dramatically, as though they can’t quite keep up with the illusion and need time to change the set before the next act.
Sometimes Harry is slow.
He does his best to curse along with his friends and laugh when they laugh. He finds a girl to adore and fixates on her the way the rest of his friends do. He plays Quidditch and attempts to listen when people tell him things that are ‘important.’
Anything to fill in the void.
There’s quite a bit to fill up.
It’s a good trick.
*
Sometimes he wakes up in the morning feeling empty. It’s not a hunger as much as it’s an emptiness; Harry Potter is only a shell of a boy, so he eats quite a bit and drinks a bit more. He never got enough before, and now that this is after, there’s a lot to make up for. There’s always extra work to be done.
A hero’s work is never done.
Harry does his best to be what people expect him to be, even though he’s always thought of himself in some other sort of job, perhaps as an illusionist.
*
People expect Harry to be taller/ shorter/ thinner/ fatter/ older/ younger. They expect fire to shoot from his eyes and for him to walk on water. All slights of hand and trickery, but they all think he is beautiful, and that comes naturally.
He is their symbol.
They say he is a miracle.
*
Draco Malfoy rattles when he walks, and his voice is thin and hollow. Harry knows what that’s like, and when they fight Harry feels… full. Alive. More substantive.
One day he’s going to use Malfoy to fill the holes in his life.
*
The greatest trick Harry Potter has ever pulled is convincing the world that he’s a living and breathing boy. He’s not.
The flesh and blood are obvious, but he is only what people want him to be. He is figment of expectations, and the miracle of his existence is that he really doesn’t exist at all.
One day he’s going to change that.
he was groomed for greatness from the time he was young
raised on a diet of television, he was taught to listen, kept dumb
and he welcomed desire
and reckless luxury
the world soaked up every drop of drama and insecurity
they dressed him up in rich man's clothes and told him he was beautiful
then they expected miracles
- SV -
There are grains of sand coating Lex’s skin. Between his toes, in his ears, wedged in the cheeks of his ass. His skin is raw, and sex is uncomfortable.
There’s a glaring lack of lube and prophylactics on this particular desert island, and the last place Lex needs friction burn, or a burn of any kind, is on his dick. He can survive a lot, but even Lex has his limits, so he pushes imaginary-Clark away and rolls over on his bed of palm leaves, looking for the cool spot even though there’s no such thing.
The sun is too bright, even through the canopy of trees, and it’s entirely too hot outside.
Lex has gone to hell, but he’d always heard that the second ring wasn’t nearly this hot. He’d thought this particular dimension had more ships or something of that sort. Something about lust that he can’t remember right now, and every thought about hell takes him away from Dante and closer to Rimbaud.
This is Lex’s season in hell, only he is Paul Verlaine, and Clark is going to be the end of him. If his memory recalls. If he can remember full lips and black lies without blacking out. The heat makes him black out a lot.
The heat makes Lex do a lot of things, and he talks of Plato’s grave disease to coconut trees.
Love. Love will drive him insane in the end.
He has done his best to resist the temptations of Clark Kent, but he is only a man. He should be a god, and he spends his days swimming out to sea. He always comes back, even though one day he promises himself he won’t.
Lex never promises anyone anything, and one day he will make good on his promise. It’s only fair. It’s only right, even though palm leaves cut into his skin. They’re soft and sharp and warm and too many things for any great man to have to suffer through even though Lex never bleeds. Miracles indeed.
Lex is a great man. Lex is a trapped man on this sandy, barren island where he jerks off using smushed bananas and overripe mangoes. Lord Acton was right: he is a bad man.
There are grains of sand in places that it doesn’t belong, but Lex does his best to ignore that. Them. Lex does his best to ignore a lot of things, but the blue of the sky is too bright and the red of his blood is a cape flapping in the breeze.
Lex’s island becomes Napoleon’s plan and now that Lex has shown up he’s not sure what’s going to happen, and when Clark wakes him up in the middle of the night, Lex’s legs are tangled in the sheets and his heart is beating a thousand times a minute.
He’s not on the island anymore, but there are grains of sand in his mouth.
they packed up their paint and were gone
and he stood alone,
their beautiful disaster,
wondering were he'd gone wrong
and he wanted the smiles and he wanted the applause
but no one would look him in the eye now,
no one returned his calls
they dressed him up in rich man's clothes
and told him he was beautiful
then they expected miracles
- X2 -
He woke up in anticipation of an alarm that hadn’t been set, and he stumbled out of his bed before his brain could have a chance to engage. The tiles of the bathroom were cold beneath his feet, and the water in the shower scalded his skin. He washed with a non-existent bar of soap and left half the shampoo in his hair.
He didn’t shave.
He picked his clothing from what was scattered on the floor of the bedroom, and then he made the bed. Not his bed, but St. John’s bed.
Johnny never made his bed, but Bobby did.
*
He gathered all the clothing he could find from the left side of the room. He took it down to the laundry room and ran three loads in the middle of the night: one white, one dark and one in between. He straightened the books on the shelves, slipped several issues of Batman into their covers and replaced them where they belonged.
Bobby dusted the dresser, put St. John’s leather jacket in the closet, right next to his winter parka, and hung his robe on the back of the door.
When the laundry was done Bobby took it back to their room, folded the socks and shirts and hung the jeans on hangers. He turned off the lights, lit a candle, and left the room.
*
He sat on the floor by the phone and waited for it to ring.
*
Dust gathered on the bed and the comic books began to yellow from the sunlight. Bobby changed the sheets once a week and bought an enormous graphic novel to protect the comics.
He stopped shaving.
He bought himself a Zippo lighter with a shark on it.
And then he waited for St. John to come home.
-finis-
Notes: Song ‘Miracles’ by Matt Nathanson. Dedicated to
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
happyminion who felt that Lex should be crazy by now, and to everyone else who wanted X2 and H/D. Inspired by The Usual Suspects, Monsieur Rimbaud, and one too many petulant teenagers.
no subject
I think the Lex section is definitely the best--something about it just pops. Maybe it's the style, which seems to be a little bit more inside his head than the other two. But I like them all. Lovely.
no subject
I wasn't trying to make a song fic, I just, you know, really liked the song and wanted to share. I think the Lex piece is my favorite as well, there's just something about it.