Clark walks into the room just as the bell for the end of the school day rings. He finds John antsy and tapping down on the keys of his keyboard, one leg bouncing rapidly up and down.
"Hey, man," he encroaches into John's space with a bit of apprehension. There's a half-filled bottle of Gatorade and another of an open can of Redbull. There's also a paper bowl of cereal and a ziplocked bag of sour worms. "John?"
John flinches and turns, swivelling around on his chair to face him. "Clark, hey." His eyes jump from Clark to the door behind him. "Thanks for coming, I really appreciate it."
"Yeah, no problem. So, what's up?"
John licks at his lips nervously, his gaze darting toward the door once again. "See, I, uh, don't think Bruce would be fit to sing my song."
Clark's face is impassive before he blinks, his brows creasing just a bit with a confused frown. "Why not? I thought you wanted to work with him."
"Well, sure, yeah. But see, I just—I think I change my mind."
"You think?" Clark huffs out, his shoulders bouncing with an airy chuckle. "C'mon, what's really going on."
John gets up from his chair, "I don't wanna work with Bruce. He's great and he's a great singer but—but, man. He scares me."
Clark raises a brow now, his lips tilting up in a smile, "Bruce scares you?"
"Yeah! Doesn't he scare you?"
"John, buddy, Bruce is like a kitten. He's harmless—"
The door slams open with a bang as Bruce stomps his way in, fury rolling off of him as he points a pair of scissors right up at Clark. "I'm going to ruin his life."
Clark raises his hands up, taking a small step back. "Woah, calm down. What's going on?"
"Patrick!" Bruce shouts, "Sat on my new scissors." Said pair of scissors are completely black, and from where John is standing way, way behind Clark's staggering figure, he can see that there's a bat shape bolt holding both blades together. "Now, they're bent!"
Clark, used to Bruce's tantrums, is easy with his smile now, opening walking up to him. "I'm sure he didn't mean it."
"Bull shit! Now, they've lost their sciss—!" Bruce throws the pair of scissors right at the wall with no heed to potentially breaking any equipment or instrument displayed. The scissors stick, embedded right into the wall, a generic poster of a man now has his forehead punctured with a pair of blades.
Bruce's mouth is in a moue, arms crossed against his chest. Clark turns to John, with a quick wave, "You kids have fun." He bids just before he leans down to give Bruce's cheek a kiss and walks out without another word.
John can feel his heart pounding right up at his throat as Bruce stands, arms still crossed but the pout he wore is gone now, replaced by his sharp brows crinkled in a frown.
"Um." John swallows, the keyboard lets out a discordant noise as his palms pressed down on multiple keys at once, causing him to flinch in surprise. "L-let's make a song?"
Bruce huffs but otherwise doesn't react.
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Fingers on keyboard keys, random notes played in succession, a frustrated groan of an artist going through a mental block, followed by a slam of greater frustration when words even harder to come by the foundation needed of the piece they're working on.
That's how John finds himself, staring down between his legs, forehead on the keys and digging into his skin, a prolonged discordant note that's slowly dying out.
Bruce remains quiet, writing down on the thick pad of paper he'd brought with him. The sleeves of his jacket tugged low to cover most of his hand thus leaving his fingers the only thing peeking through a sea of black. The pen he's holding on to chimes in tiny metallic clinks, a bat-shaped charm hanging on a short chain on the top of the pen.
And there's the pout, not as obvious as when he'd first thrown his scissors at the wall earlier, but just noticeable enough to see the way his lips are jutting out, the slant downwards and the saddened furrow between his eyes.
John sits up, glances at the scissors before getting up and walking toward the wall. "You know, I could get this fixed, I think."
Bruce makes a noise at the back of his throat, "Hm?"
"Your new scissors. I have a neighbor who works with metal. She could probably bend it back to its original shape, maybe even get it sharpened." When John looks over at his companion, Bruce is staring at him, wide blue eyes and long thick lashes fluttering with each blink.
His lips parted just so, the gloss on them glistens beneath the fluorescent lights of the room, showing off the peach colour he's using.
"Really?" He asks, a bit stunned, a bit awed, "You'd do that for me?"
John suddenly finds himself feeling flat-footed, reeled back by rope wrapped around his stomach as his gut twists and his chest squeezes. "Y-yeah. Of course."
Bruce's cheeks round out despite the small smile on his face, ducking his head to hide it away. And John finds himself stunned too.
"That'd be—" Bruce huffs, lifting his head up to look at John, "Thanks. I'd... Appreciate that."
"No problem."
A few seconds pass, or maybe a few minutes, a whole month, an entire year. It's hard to tell, but when Bruce raises his brow at him and tells him to get back to song writing, John jumps and hastily goes back to his seat.
"Can't we just bail?" John finds himself whining telling Bruce about 10 minutes later, when's got the chorus written out but the words still fail him. It hurts him to offer, mainly because he knows he so close to that breakthrough he knows he'll get to if he just pushed through but he's also been writing and crossing out and writing words since they started.
Bruce must be bored out of his mind waiting for hours for him to finish writing his song just so he can sing it and move on.
"It's, like, 12 am. Let's call it a night and just do this again tomorrow."
Bruce pops a piece of cereal into his mouth, shaking his head, "Nuh-uh." He tugs at his sleeves and hugs himself, "You have to finish your song; the chorus."
John lets out a short groan, leaning back into his seat. "It's been 3 hours and the chorus just won't come to me."
"Wow," Bruce intones sarcastically, his lips turned up, chewing cereal once again, "Great. Now, shut up and sing something."
Sighing, John rolls his chair toward the keyboard, "Okay, don't say I didn't warn you." Bruce huffs out, raising a brow as he pops another piece of cereal into his mouth.
Blowing out a breath through his mouth, John places his fingers on the keys, taking a quick glance down at his notepad to double check that he hasn't forgotten the chords to his own song after 3 grueling hours of a musician writer's block.
"I—" he starts off with a long drawl, "Really wish that I could write the next line. Uh—my favourite letter's B, tuna fish fillet, I'm gonna wash my pet with some blue shampoo."
When he ends, Bruce is looking at him with an amused yet incredulous expression, those sharp eyebrows of his creased together but the mirth in his eyes isn't hard to miss, his pink glossy lips still shining under the light.
Then, without even a hint of hesitation, he swings the microphone stand toward him, "Fine. Record me."
John rolls to his laptop, moving the mouse to press record then rolls back on over to his keyboard. Bruce gives the board a gesture with his head, and he follows without a word, watching as Bruce puts on a pair of headphones connected to the keyboard.
"There is no upper hand—I'm giving you mine." Bruce starts singing effortlessly, his eyes closing gently. There it is again, that churn in his gut, that flutter of something moving from his stomach to his chest, his heart squeezed by his lungs as he watches on, a bit breathlessly, a lot awed, and maybe even just a hint of infatuation.
"It doesn't have 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 all okay." Bruce ends softly, sombrely.
And as John keeps playing, mindless and on auto-pilot, his speechlessness overtakes him, watching as Bruce pulls the headphones down to his neck. "How was it?"
There's a high pitched whimper escaping him, his fingers finally falling away from the keys as Bruce's shoulders shake with a short-lived chuckle. "That good, huh?"
John nods, wiping his palms down his jeans and becoming aware of the hardening form between his legs, which he immediately closes and presses together.
"Write it down, c'mon."
He finds himself following the order, once again, hands trembling and heart pounding quickly as the fluttering in his stomach intensifies and the sirens in his head blares deafeningly loud.
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Lois opens the door with a yawn, eyes squinting and face scowling. "John? The hell are you doing here?" She glances down, "In your underwear?"
"I have a problem." He barrels past her, Lois muttering "come in, I guess" at him that he doesn't deem worthy with a response. Not when the dilemma he finds himself in is much more in need of attention.
"I think I have a crush on Bruce."
Lois's jaw hinges open, her barely awake eyes suddenly popping open with full mindedness as she closes the door. "I'll—" she mumbles, slippered feet dragging along the floor, "Go and make some hot cocoa."
They sit around the dining table, cradling steaming mugs of hot chocolate, John's using his to heat his face. Maybe this is all just a dream, and the heat from the hot drink will burn him enough to wake up.
However, Lois' question of what happened rings too true, too rooted in reality and John laments the fact that he is, unfortunately, not dreaming everything that happened. Everything that felt.
"I don't know what happened." He starts off slow, staring down at his drink, "W-we were just working on the song together. And then—" with a chest-heaving breath, John closes his eyes and he can see Bruce, bright as day, sitting in front of him, his note pad on his lap, that bowl of cereal he'd been snacking on on top of it, headphones hanging around his neck and the pleased little smile on his face. Now that he's thinking about it even further, he can remember the exactly way a dimple shows on Bruce's left cheek, small and subtle—cute.
Jumping, John quickly opens his eyes and he's back in Lois' home, around the dining table, at 2 in the morning. "He just—he looked so pretty, a-and cute. Then Bruce sang and it's like—like something just clicked. He was so..." John works his throat, scrapes his tongue across his teeth, on the roof of his mouth, "He's so pretty like that." And a smile has his mouth pulling upwards at just the simple thought of it.
Of Bruce's cheeks round and a bit flushed from praise, the shy glances he makes when he's caught off guard.
And then, Clark's voice echoes in his head. Bruce is like a kitten. And goddamn it, Clark's right.
"That's a problem."
"You think?"
Lois rolls her eyes at him. "So, what do you plan to do? Ask Bruce out?"
"What!?" Lois leans back as John jumps up from his chair, "I can't ask him out! He's my best friend's boyfriend! That's—That's like bro code number 1. And I do not want to ruin our friendship like that."
Lois, surprisingly, takes it easy as she reclines into her chair, tracing the mouth of her mug, the cocoa inside it still releasing a bit of steam.
Losing his steam, John slumps down into his chair, "I even wrote him a song."
Lois doesn't talk for a moment, her eyes twinkling with a plan. And John can feel the way he knows he won't like this plan of her's. "Then sing it for him!"
"No!" John slams a palm down on the table, rattling their mugs. "No, i can't. It has Bruce's name written about a dozen times."
"Yes!" Lois brings her arms up in a cheer, "You can! At the showcase. Y-you just, um—" she pauses, snapping her fingers as she searches for the word, "change the lyrics to have 'baby' in it. They both start with the letter 'b'.
"Besides," Lois takes a sip of her cocoa, "Bruce won't be the only person attending. Practically half of the school's going to watch it. Bruce won't have to know that you're singing it for him."
"I—"
"John, c'mon." She reaches over to clasp his hand in her's, "The quickest way to get over this crush of yours is to just be done with it."
Then, she grins, her face splitting in two with mischief, "And maybe, if Bruce and Clark break up, you'd have a shot—"
John jerks back with a flinch, disbelief at what she'd just implied painting his face. Lois' response is to shrug her shoulders, chuckling as she lets out an airy, "Kidding! Kidding. I'm promise it's just a joke."
Yet, something about the way she was so quick to say it has John's gut roiling with suspicion.
Despite all that, however, he finds himself practicing the song, humming it as he goes about his day. The showcase slowly approaching as the days pass by.
When he'd ask to have a second singer to make his song a duet, Barry was all too happy to agree, running his fingers through his newly dyed velvet red hair during lunch a couple of weeks earlier. Now, Barry beams at him, twirling a lock of hair around his forefinger. "What do you think?"
"Uh," John adjusts the strap of his guitar on his shoulder, "Did you just dye your hair?"
"Well, yeah, duh. But I thought the red was too much. So! Now, I'm a ginger." He giggles, the freckles across his nose scrunching up with his grin.
"As long as it makes you happy, little red." Barry nods, taking the mic from the stand before leaning up against the railing of their raised platform. "So, you really want to do this?"
"Hm?"
Barry stares at him until he returns the gaze, then when he looks down at where their watching audience is waiting, he spots Clark with an arm loosely wrapped around Bruce's shoulders, the two of them sitting on the back of Clark's truck, surrounded by thick blankets, both of them staring back at them. Clark even gives them a wave.
"I—" looking back at Barry, he nods, even when the determination in his chest feels weak, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm doing this."
The performance, for all its worth, is a success. The student body are down below, clapping and cheering.
He can still feel the way the adrenaline is surging through his veins, making his fingers tingly and his heart to drown out all the other people around.
All throughout, he'd done nothing but stare at Bruce, watching the way he kept looked up. Watching him, jamming and vibing to the song, unbeknownst to the fact that it's about him.
About John pouring his heart, of promising Bruce that he's the only person stuck in his mind, that there's no one who can replace the flutter that he feels every time he even so much as thinks about Bruce, the promise of wanting to be with Bruce, for 365 days, 24/7, for the rest of their lives. Hopefully.
Here, as he pants into the mic, still staring down at him, he's snapped out of his trance when Barry leans against him, speaking into his own mic, "About someone special!" When he turns to look at his friend, Barry's eyes are wide with silent admonishment before they soften, nodding back down, to where Clark now has Bruce in a lip-lock.
As they stay up there, getting ready for the next song to perform, John tells himself, Clark is my friend. Clark is my friend, and I'm not going to ruin that.
It's the same mantra he chants as he stands, frozen in the middle of the hallway.
Watching in stunned silence as Lois reaches up, up, wrapping her arms around broad, thick shoulders, leaning up onto the tip of her toes. And Clark—Clark leaning down, his own hands coming down to place themselves on Lois' waist, pushing themselves together as their heads tilt. It happens as if in slow motion.
The indignation bubbling, spilling in rivulets over the metaphorical pot and touching the fiery red fire beneath it.
It's been a week. 1 week since they've broken up. And Clark is—moving on, just like that?
After being with Bruce for the first 2 years of their high school life, and he's just moving on as if it were nothing?
The indignation is swift to make way for emphatic sorrow, as he thinks about Bruce and what his reaction would be like.
Granted, Clark and Bruce being broken up for a week is short, especially considering the amount of times they've broken up and gotten back together over the years. One of their break ups lasted for 3 months before they just gotten back together again.
And usually, the routine is they'll both cool off before getting back together in a blink of an eye, as if they hadn't broken it off in the first place, their friends finding them making out against the lockers as they usually do.
But now—now, Clark is making out with Lois, and a little too enthusiastically at that.
Just then, he spots Barry. Quickly grabbing him by the arm as John presses them against the lockers, he hisses, "What do we do?"
Barry blinks confused eyes at him, "Um, what?"
John aggressively jerks his head in Clark and Lois' direction where they continue to make out.
Barry's face pales, his mouth hanging open as he gapes. "Oh."
Then, his brows furrow and he almost looks like he's about to start crying, "Oh no." He whips his head to stare at him, blinking too wide eyes, "What do we do? Bruce—he's, he's coming back to school today."
Bruce had been gone, purposefully missed an entire week of school with the flimsy excuse of being sick, never mind the very rare occurrence of Bruce—of all people—ending up with the common cold. It wasn't hard to correlate the absences with him and Clark having just broken up during the weekend prior.
Suddenly, a bowling ball drops to his ass at the news.
Somewhere deep within him, he doesn't want to be there to watch Bruce fall apart, to be witness again to the heart break and ache, to the hope dying away in his gaze.
But he knows, he knows, if he isn't there to catch Bruce, then who will?
