Exodus
It's seriously fucked up, as his roommate Jack tells him, but Whitney can't seem to stop. Play, fast-forward, freeze and rewind. A miracle the tape hasn't worn out yet as often as he watches it.
Knows which parts to fast-forward. Chloe and Pete's empty little speeches, the short segment with Brandon and Steve talking about how much they miss him on the team. It's nice to be missed, Whitney supposes, but on his more cynical days he wonders whether they miss him as a friend or a player.
Whitney's not a masochist, he doesn't think, but he's almost watching Clark more than Lana nowadays. Sound muted as Clark gazes earnestly into the camera, cocksucker mouth forming soundless words, then dipping his head, cheeks flushed.
Lets himself drift away to the memory of Clark hanging from the scarecrow, a smear of crimson paint curled in the shape of a serpent across his chest. Not 's' for scarecrow, as Clark had thought, but a snake to remind what Whitney considered back-stabbing farmboys trying to steal his girl.
Which only proves that some things are inevitable, after all. Fathers with heart conditions won't live forever, and the serpent will invariably slither into Paradise, tempting Eve with organic-grown apples and guileless green eyes.
"Fordman," Jack says, no louder than a whisper, and Whitney pretends he doesn't hear him, yet.
Softer. "Hey, Whit."
And Whitney rolls over on the cot, dangling an arm over the edge. Shudders as Jack licks a wet stripe along his lifeline, biting down lightly on the fleshy part of his palm.
"C'me here."
Jack's got a girlfriend back home, a pretty Korean girl called Lei. Whitney's seen pictures of her, where she almost resembles a porcelain doll; flawless ivory skin, almond-shaped brown eyes and hair like black silk spilling to her shoulders. Barely reaches up to Jack's chest, and he's lifting her up in his arms in the photographs as easy as a child.
Whitney remembers that feeling, holding Lana like he was afraid she would break if he held on too tight. Which is pretty fucking ironic considering she's the one who broke him and not the other way around.
Jack doesn't feel breakable. He feels warm, solid. Sometimes in the darkness he almost looks like he could be Clark's older brother, and Whitney refuses to think about how fucked up that makes him for considering it a turn-on.
Lana's fingers were always gentle, tentative. Her eyes either screwed shut or intent on his face as she slipped a hand down the front of his pants, as if she didn't want to see what she was doing. Maybe she even pictured someone else in his place, for all he knew.
Jack pulls down his slacks all the way down to his knees, calloused hands pushing his thighs apart. Mouthing wetly against the tender skin of his balls before wrapping his lips around his cock. Doesn't even try to make it last, simply sucks like his sole purpose in life is to make Whitney's spine melt.
Jack's gonna marry Lei when he gets back, Whitney is pretty sure of that. Doesn't mind, just as Jack never says anything when Whitney says
"Clark."