"Look," Clark spreads his arms out, head tilting, expression contorted into exhaustion, "I—I don't want to be your boyfriend anymore if we're just gonna fight all that time."
Bruce's eyes widen, just for a split second he looks taken aback, shuffling from one foot to the other as his lips quirk up into a rueful smile, "So, you want to break up?" Bruce crosses his arms resolutely, physically guarding himself as he takes a small step back from his boyfriend. The hurt that flashed on his face gone as soon as it came.
"That's not what I said—" Clark protests even when, between the lines, it is what he meant. Somewhere deep down, he's tired, he's tired of constantly having to placate Bruce, of having to constantly take the heat for his insecurities and jealousy. The sex is great, sure, but Bruce is overbearing on the best of days, and accusatory on the worst. Sighing, Clark closes his eyes and utters aloud, "I'm tired of fighting."
Bruce finally takes a step back, throat bobbing with a swallow. "Okay." He pauses, walks right up to the door—the silence is deafening, but then, Bruce turns around to face them, "I'm going to walk out that door, and I'm gonna count to 10."
"Uh—" Barry intones, looking worried, his gaze switching back and forth between Clark and Bruce.
"If I get to 10 and you're not out there, I'm going home. And we're over." Bruce opens the door and the moment his foot passes the threshold, he starts counting, his voice a bit muffled but with how he's shouting out the numbers, it sounds crystal clear even through the thick wood.
Their friend group all exchange looks. Diana's lips are pursed as she leans back in her seat, arms crossed, Barry's fingers at nervously tapping at the back of his chair, still sitting sideways as he looks up at Clark. Shayera remains standing, sending John a look, meanwhile John has discarded the lollipop he was sucking on, shuffling on his feet, torn with indecision. Lois looks tired and worried, she doesn't know what to do either, just as frozen with indecision. She's about to go to Clark to try and comfort him but Clark's already moving.
Taking large sweeping strides toward the door before he stops.
They all jump and go to him, surrounding Clark and whispering for him to keep going, the door is only 3 steps away and Bruce has reached 7 in her count. But Clark looks at the door with slumped shoulders and a clenched jaw.
"8," Bruce says, his voice taking an effect, it wobbles a bit, fragile at the edges but then it disappears when he continues, "9." On the other side of the door.
"Go—!" John hisses and it seems enough because Clark surges forward, hand wrapping around the door knob, except he pauses.
Clark looks down at his feet, clutching tightly around the knob, and his friends all look on in horror as Bruce says "10" like it's a death toll. The door doesn't open, and with a stuttered motion, Clark lets the door knob go, fingers sliding off the metal, using the very same hand to rake through his hair with a chest-heaving sigh. He looks back at his friend, Lois looks back at him with her mouth agape, Diana's eyebrows are furrowed and Shayera looks shocked. John and Barry are stunned, their gazes flickering from Clark's figure to the still closed door.
"Let's play some card." Clark orders, walking around the coffee table and toward the dining room of Lois' home.
"Y-yeah," Barry agrees reluctantly, following after him.
"I'm gonna go check on Bruce," John finds himself mumbling, he and Clark's shoulders brushing as they walk around each other. And for a second, John expected Clark to grab his arm and tell him to fuck off but that doesn't happen. No, Clark continues on toward the dining room where Lois' card table is set up.
John exchange glances with Diana, her subtle and soft nod of approval all he needs for John to walk out of that door.
He jogs out of Lois' parents' property, heart beating out of his chest as he hopes that Bruce hadn't driven off yet—only to come to a slow stop when he spots a figure sitting on the side walk.
Bruce has his hands on his knees, legs drawn close to his chest. The shoulder bag he has wedged between his thighs and chest, head resolutely facing forward. But John sees the way Bruce's back straightens up, sees the way his shoulders lift just a bit, and it pains John to call out to him, so he doesn't.
When Bruce finally glances over his shoulders, his eyebrows crinkle with obvious disappointment, his shoulders hunches in and his back slumps into a imperceptible curve. "Hey," John murmurs, dragging his feet as he comes closer, taking the empty spot next to the other teen, making sure to have space between them.
Bruce doesn't return the greeting, his eyes still staring forward, staring unto the unlit street opposite them. John leans forward, taking a peek at Bruce's face—there's no tears, no sad line to his lips, no glassy look to his gaze—Bruce looks frozen, like a porcelain doll who's waiting to be moved.
"I'm—" John starts only to feel a lump lodge into his throat, mind whirring overtime to think of something to say. He parts his lips, works his throat, trying anything but nothing will come out.
"He's not coming out." Bruce mumbles, the hands on his knees clenching on it, fingers white-tipped with pressure.
John shakes his head, a wordless agreement that Clark isn't coming out and chasing after Bruce, not anymore. Then Bruce's chest inflates, his body curving in on itself even more as he releases a shaky sigh. "He was right, I am unlovable."
That sets ice forming in John's veins. Shocked to hear such a thing coming right out of Bruce's black-coloured lips. Clark had told him that he's unlovable? The very same guy who goes out of his way to help their fellow students around campus when they're having a hard time? The very same Clark who readily opposes his friend when they say something self-deprecating? That Clark? No, that can't be.
Bruce glances at him, an airy snort shaking his entire frame. "You'd never believe the shit that comes out of his mouth when he knows no one's listening."
"No. No way, Clark's—he's my best friend, no way he'd say something like that. Especially not to his boyfriend."
Bruce's eyes close, thick lashes fanning out across his milky white complexion. "I'm not his boyfriend anymore, remember?"
"He loves you, Bruce. You guys just need—you just need some space. You know? And then tomorrow, you'll be back together, sucking faces like you usually do." He chuckles, edged with apprehension and uncertainty. "Just you wait and see."
It does the opposite of what John had hoped because Bruce bows his head and his shoulders tremble. His curtain of dark hair makes it hard to see but John doesn't need to, to know. He breaches the small space between them and hesitantly, carefully wraps an arm around the other's shoulders, pressing them close together. "I'm sorry, Bruce."
A small, barely there sniffle—if it weren't so quiet around them, John doubts he'd have heard it, but he did, and it makes his chest ache to see Bruce so in pain.
He's never one to stick his nose in other people's business, especially not when one of half of it contains Bruce, but now he wishes he had—at least just to get a picture. Usually, he only be there when Bruce and Clark are deep in the throes of an argument or when Bruce and Clark are attached at the hip as if they never had a fight in the first place.
He was never really there before a fight, of what was said, of what was done. It's always during or after.
Bruce leans in, head tucked up against John's chest, there's more sniffling now, a tiny whimper, hands that come up to wipe hidden tears away, and John doesn't know what else to do other than hold him.
For a moment, John scrambles, tongue darting out to lick his lips as he thinks of what to say. 'You're okay' sounds too simple and trying to say that he and Clark will be okay feels like a lie. He and Bruce were never particularly close. Almost always in association with Clark. And when he and Bruce partnered up for a song-writing project, he'd discovered that Bruce wasn't as scary as he initially thought he was but it still wasn't enough to bridge the gap and truly make them friends without needing Clark as a common thread.
"T—" He swallows, gives the shoulder he's holding on to a squeeze, "Um, there is no upper hand," he starts soft, almost like a whine as the song comes back to him in pieces. Bruce's sniffling stops. "I'm giving you mine."
"It doesn't have," Bruce murmurs into his chest, hands moving as he wipes at his face, "—to end up wasting your time."
"There's things that I could say—"
"But here in my way—"
"I wanna let you know that it's all okay." John gives Bruce's shoulder another squeeze, tugging him closer. He wants to lean down give Bruce's head a kiss but that's—that's too much. And Bruce will always be Clark's in his mind, never mind his feelings for Bruce. It's a near thing, certainly. He finds himself leaning down to give it only to realise a split second after what he's about to do and stops.
In his hold, Bruce continues moving, hands wiping at his face, perhaps a bit aggressively now, and when there's resistance, John readily lets Bruce go.
The street light casts them both in a warm orange glow, and it makes the black of Bruce's outfit stand out even more, but what catches his breath is the stain of darkness streaking down Bruce's cheeks and across it too. His eyes are still wet, his lashes are all thick and clumped up together, and the smile he sends John's way is shaky but it's an effort that Bruce puts forth.
"Thanks, John."
Nodding, John still can't rid himself of the ache in his heart, Bruce's mascara-stained face will forever be seared into his brain, the whimpered tears that he had to hide, the tremble of his voice as he sang. He hopes that Clark will make it up to Bruce but he can't shake the gut feeling that this is it.
This is how Clark and Bruce will end, with Bruce counting to 10, waiting for Clark on the other side of a door, and Clark standing right next to it, refusing to open it.
Who broke up with who is irrelevant, not when Bruce so clearly had thought that Clark would chase after him only to end up disappointed that it was John who came to see him. Not when Clark turned his back to the door and opted to stay with their friends instead.
"You're—" Bruce's voice is croaky, hoarse with pain and tears, "You're a good friend, John." He tries for another smile but it's still fragile at the ends, still forced and fake, pushed out for reassurance, and it's wrong because John should be the one comforting Bruce, not the other way around, yet— "I'm gonna…" Bruce stands up, his boots scuffing the pavement, his hands busy with fixing the sling of his bag and resting it on his shoulder once again.
Car lights flash with a beep. John wipes his palms down his thighs. "Yeah. Yeah, just—be careful, all right?"
Bruce rolls his eyes and it's the only response John gets as Bruce gets into his car and starts it. He stays there even as the car drives off and turns a corner, disappearing from his sight. There, he idles, sitting down on the same spot that Bruce had occupied, staring into the same darkness that Bruce had early.
He can still feel Bruce's body pressed up against him, can still smell the faint scent of vanilla and something cottony. He can still hear the way Bruce whimpered through his singing. It hurts, his chest, Bruce's pain so fresh and so imprinted into his brain that every time blinks, he sees flashes of Bruce's face and the heart break that showed there.
But as he stews, as he lingers, the more the ache turns into something hotter, angrier. Bruce is Clark's, how can Clark just throw Bruce by the way side? They'd been together for nearly 3 years now—been together since the start of high school, and Clark just turns his back on it, that easily?
It's cold, especially for Clark. It's wrong. Bruce is a chill, nice guy, his humour's a bit twisted and he can be scary when he's angry, sure, but—but Bruce is beautiful beneath all that, he knows that now. Surely, Clark knows it too. He does, they've been together for so long—longer than John has known Bruce, so, why? How?
"This is—" he sighs, "Messed up, man." He says to no one. Deep in the pits of his stomach, where the anger is taking root and the empathetic ache in his chest remains, there's something else forming. Something familiar and something he thought he made sure to would never happen again. A butterfly flaps its wings as he it gets ready to fly, small and almost unnoticeable, but there, existing, bursting out of its cocoon once again.
Dragging a hand down his face, he refuses to think about it. At least, for now.