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slodwick. Happy Belated Birthday.
(I waspredisposed indisposed this weekend and am late, but I hope you like it all the same.)
Smallville
Burning Photographs
The glint of the sword is dulled, first, by the black and white picture, and then by the thick pane of glass separating him from the television, but Clark can still make out the slope of the blade.
He knows this scene.
He knows this movie and its entire ouvre. He can lip-sync to the dialogue as though he were *in* the movie, as though he were at least in the living room, curled up against black leather, pure wool and the scent of the Ghiardelli’s chocolate that Lex likes to sneak after dinner.
Lex has always liked this movie. He’s always liked a lot of things.
Clark blinks as the rain runs into his eyes, and he wonders how long he’s going to stay this time. Sometimes it’s five seconds; sometimes it’s five hours.
Watching TV through the balcony window isn’t very easy, but it’s not as though this is the first time Clark’s watched from the outside.
It’s not even the first time he’s watched Lex from the balcony.
Clark can hear the dialogue on the television as though he were in the room, and he knows that the tinkling in the background is the sound of ice cubes in the glass Lex is holding in his right hand. Clark knows it’s ice tea, not alcohol, in the same way that Lex knows he’s there, watching.
Waiting.
Clark can tell by the rigid line of Lex’s back, and the slight quickening of a heartbeat that’s not his own.
He’s not stalking; he’s not visiting. He’s just there – existing – because that’s what he’s there to do. As long as Lex breathes and rails and refuses to let him in, this is what Clark will do, because as long as he’s alone he has nothing better to do.
He used to have a life though.
He used to go to midnight showings of these exact same Kurosawa flicks at the old movie theatre on Grand. He used to feed the ducks in the park on Sunday mornings.
Sometimes he, they, would do both in the same night. He, they, would take the leftover popcorn from the movie and go feed the ducks at three in the morning and then go for coffee and talk all night.
‘He’ used to be ‘they’.
Lex used to make Clark part of ‘they.’
They used to talk instead of shouting.
But not anymore.
The scene changes on the screen, and Lex shifts slightly on the sofa, but Clark’s still outside.
Still waiting.
Billions of people are living while Clark watches an old Kurosawa film through a balcony window, waiting, hoping, despairing.
His nose is filled with the stench of wet ink, damp umbrellas and being unforgiven.
The balcony reeks of death when Clark has always associated Lex with life. Or. Perhaps Clark has just mistaken that smell for the scent of all of his dreams.
Clark used to loiter around bookstores, flipping through their glossy magazines and looking at random pictures of a man he could see whenever he wanted. Sometimes he would collect them, and when Lex came home in the evening, Clark would wave the latest article around and smile at Lex’s diatribes about the poor lighting in the photographs. *Now* Clark wastes his heat vision trying to ignite stacks of wet magazines with Lex’s smirking visage on them, because that’s all he has. Now Clark lives alone, because even Superman can’t explain all the things he’s done in the name of love and have it sound possible. Let alone true.
Wake up.
Work.
Patrol.
Sleep.
Rinse.
Repeat.
Sometimes Clark has tuna for lunch instead of ham. Sometimes he wears the red tie instead of the blue. Sometimes he flies by the 73rd floor of the Lex Corp building and wonders if Lex still has the photograph they took together the day of his college graduation.
Sometimes the movie doesn’t seem to begin until Clark’s boots touch down on the balcony, and he still fools himself into thinking he has a life to call his own.
-end-
Notes: Inspired by Ryan Adams ‘Burning Photographs’
Thanks to H for read-through. Remaining fuck-ups are always mine.
slodwick. Happy Belated Birthday.(I was
Smallville
Burning Photographs
The glint of the sword is dulled, first, by the black and white picture, and then by the thick pane of glass separating him from the television, but Clark can still make out the slope of the blade.
He knows this scene.
He knows this movie and its entire ouvre. He can lip-sync to the dialogue as though he were *in* the movie, as though he were at least in the living room, curled up against black leather, pure wool and the scent of the Ghiardelli’s chocolate that Lex likes to sneak after dinner.
Lex has always liked this movie. He’s always liked a lot of things.
Clark blinks as the rain runs into his eyes, and he wonders how long he’s going to stay this time. Sometimes it’s five seconds; sometimes it’s five hours.
Watching TV through the balcony window isn’t very easy, but it’s not as though this is the first time Clark’s watched from the outside.
It’s not even the first time he’s watched Lex from the balcony.
Clark can hear the dialogue on the television as though he were in the room, and he knows that the tinkling in the background is the sound of ice cubes in the glass Lex is holding in his right hand. Clark knows it’s ice tea, not alcohol, in the same way that Lex knows he’s there, watching.
Waiting.
Clark can tell by the rigid line of Lex’s back, and the slight quickening of a heartbeat that’s not his own.
He’s not stalking; he’s not visiting. He’s just there – existing – because that’s what he’s there to do. As long as Lex breathes and rails and refuses to let him in, this is what Clark will do, because as long as he’s alone he has nothing better to do.
He used to have a life though.
He used to go to midnight showings of these exact same Kurosawa flicks at the old movie theatre on Grand. He used to feed the ducks in the park on Sunday mornings.
Sometimes he, they, would do both in the same night. He, they, would take the leftover popcorn from the movie and go feed the ducks at three in the morning and then go for coffee and talk all night.
‘He’ used to be ‘they’.
Lex used to make Clark part of ‘they.’
They used to talk instead of shouting.
But not anymore.
The scene changes on the screen, and Lex shifts slightly on the sofa, but Clark’s still outside.
Still waiting.
Billions of people are living while Clark watches an old Kurosawa film through a balcony window, waiting, hoping, despairing.
His nose is filled with the stench of wet ink, damp umbrellas and being unforgiven.
The balcony reeks of death when Clark has always associated Lex with life. Or. Perhaps Clark has just mistaken that smell for the scent of all of his dreams.
Clark used to loiter around bookstores, flipping through their glossy magazines and looking at random pictures of a man he could see whenever he wanted. Sometimes he would collect them, and when Lex came home in the evening, Clark would wave the latest article around and smile at Lex’s diatribes about the poor lighting in the photographs. *Now* Clark wastes his heat vision trying to ignite stacks of wet magazines with Lex’s smirking visage on them, because that’s all he has. Now Clark lives alone, because even Superman can’t explain all the things he’s done in the name of love and have it sound possible. Let alone true.
Wake up.
Work.
Patrol.
Sleep.
Rinse.
Repeat.
Sometimes Clark has tuna for lunch instead of ham. Sometimes he wears the red tie instead of the blue. Sometimes he flies by the 73rd floor of the Lex Corp building and wonders if Lex still has the photograph they took together the day of his college graduation.
Sometimes the movie doesn’t seem to begin until Clark’s boots touch down on the balcony, and he still fools himself into thinking he has a life to call his own.
-end-
Notes: Inspired by Ryan Adams ‘Burning Photographs’
Thanks to H for read-through. Remaining fuck-ups are always mine.
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Date: 2003-11-25 09:17 am (UTC)