REEAALL! Their tag on ao3 is so dead but I yearn for more. If I knew how to arrange my Thoughtsβ’ into a coherent story I'd write 50 stories just about THEM.
David slipping into Alexei's accent whenever he says his lines has to be my favorite thing about the character. You can just tell that he enjoys playing him so much
Hey! Just a reminder! AO3 does NOT have an app. This garbage was made by theives who steal fan artistβs work and sell it back to you.
βOh, but itβs free!β There are ads. They are making money off of this. They are stealing from the creators you love and you are hurting those same creators if you use this app or any similar app.
There's an unseasonable chill blowing through the cemetery as Clark parks his car in the furthest row from the gate. He exits the driver's seat and shuts the door behind him, then fumbles his keys as they fall to his feet. He stumbles forward, bending slowly to pick them up. Each movement is a slog, a fight against the invisible weight crushing him from the inside out. He moves like a ghost through the graveyard, stumbling over headstones and wilting flowers, barely registering where - or who - he is, until his steps end at a fresh mound of dirt. It's marked only by a small laminated placard -- "Floyd Smernitch", written in sharpie.
Clark collapses to his knees, ignoring the rash of dirt and mud skidding along the expensive denim. He looks down at the disturbed earth, all too aware of the buried treasure beneath him. The tears come fast and heavy. His hands shake as he wipes them from his face and onto his thighs.
"Hey Bitchin' Heart of Gold," he signs, flexing his fingers and attempting to still the tremor. He takes a deep breath then tilts his head back, gazing into the gloomy sky above.
"No sunshine," he says, his voice a low, grave whisper. "I'm trying. Trying to let it in. I just can't find it, man. There's nothing but gray."
He weeps again, wiping his nose with his sleeve and desperately trying to fight it. A painful tension pulls at his neck as he clears his throat.
"I told Carol," he continues. "The truth about what happened that night. She said she'll tell Richard. The whole story. Just not right now. Not all at once."
He tugs at the weeds sprouting between the blades of grass in front of him. They lift easily, and he tosses them aside without looking up.
"I wrote him a letter. Gave it to her to give to him. I'm probably the last person he wants to hear from, ever, but I just felt like... like I should find a way to let him know just how special you were -- and how much you cared about him."
Clark feels an intense heat, a burning in his chest. He feels as though he's being smothered by his own breath, drowning in the oxygen. His vision zooms in, goes dark. He presses a hand to his chest and closes his eyes, trying to calm his body. He wishes, more than anything, that he could see his friend once again, even if it means joining him beyond this life. He shakes his head, fighting the urge to give in, to give up, and focuses his thoughts on his girls -- his perfect little girls who deserve so much better than his absence. He counts to ten, his heartbeat slows, and he slowly opens his eyes once again.
"I came by today to tell you. I'm uh, I'm moving to Chicago. I got a job at the station there. It's um, it's off camera but it's the only position I could find -- what with the headlines and everything."
The admission. Leaving. Running. Abandoning the friend who never abandoned him. The guilt pricks at his skin like a thousand poisoned needles.
"The divorce left me with, well it left me with very little. And Eimy's fighting for full custody so, I don't want to leave but I've gotta bring in some money, you know?"
Clark hears the smattering on the treetops above him. He looks up in time to catch a few drops of rain on his lenses. He takes off his glasses and rubs them with his shirt, smearing the moisture. His efforts are futile as he sits underneath a steady, mild drizzle.
"I should've been a better dad," he cries, his tears blending with the mist. "Like you. But I'm trying, you know? Trying to fix what I broke. I found a new doctor. The last one wouldn't see me anymore, after ... But I managed to find a nice woman with a clinic who lets me pay out of pocket and um, I got on this medication. And it's helping. It's not magic but... it's helping stave off the lowest of lows. Those dark thoughts that creep in late at night."
His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out just enough to see who's calling -- another debt collector -- then silences the vibration and shoves it back into his jeans. He lifts his hands in front in him.
"I've been keeping up with my ASL," he signs. "I practice every night, watching videos online."
"The instructor," he continues, his voice a devastated whisper, "the one in the videos, he's got a nice face. A good smile. He's animated and really draws you in." He pauses, picturing Floyd dressed in all black in the middle of a heat wave. "And I pretend... I pretend like I'm talking to you. I sign and I picture you signing back. And I smile. And I cry. And I cry. And I cry until my head hurts, then I fall asleep singing songs that remind me of you and replaying that summer, that night, over and over and over again."
He can barely choke out the words now. His wails skip like a broken record, laced with sadness and anger and an all-consuming grief fiercely gripping every nerve in his body.
"I'm so sorry, Floyd," he howls. "I'm so fucking sorry. I fucked everything up. I should've been honest from the start, should've just been happy with what I had. Then none of this would've happened! Maybe we wouldn't have become friends, but you'd still be here. And the world would be brighter because you'd be in it."
He bends down, stretching his arms out to hug the dirt, and presses his ear to ground, desperate to hear the sound of Floyd's beating heart.
"You should still be here," he whispers.
"I wasn't sunshine, man, you were. You were. You made everything brighter. Everything better. I was reaching for sex, danger... I don't know. It was all bullshit. I should've been reaching for you."
He lays there until the rain soaks his clothes. He dreams of the weight of the water causing him to sink into the earth below, of the pure joy of the reunion six feet deep, of disappearing into the forever embrace of the one person who made him feel safe.
"It was you, Floyd," he says. "It was you all along. I love you." The words are dense with hurt and healing. "I love you," he repeats. "I love you," he echoes again, praying his voice carries high above the solemn site and into the eternities.
stormborns
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
areudirty
vaporwave
