Work Text:
Close your eyes. A lover is standing too close
to focus on. Leave me blurry and fall toward me
with your entire body. Lie under the covers, pretending
to sleep, while I'm in the other room. Imagine
my legs crossed, my hair combed, the shine of my boots
in the slatted light. I'm thinking My plant, his chair,
the ashtray that we bought together. I'm thinking This is where
we live. When we were little we made houses out of
cardboard boxes. We can do anything. It’s not because
our hearts are large, they’re not, it’s what we
struggle with.
- Richard Siken, Snow and Dirty Rain
*
There is a curious intimacy to Lois and Clark's chaotic, half-unpacked apartment. You feel like an intruder as you knock on the door despite the fact that you're expected, as if you should tiptoe over the threshold at the sound of Lois's strident voice granting you entrance. (You don't remember how to tiptoe.) You open the door and nearly trip over a pair of Clark's shoes, hastily discarded and then forgotten. There are miscellaneous boxes arranged in vaguely maze-like stacks along with what looks like half their contents strewn across the floor; Clark is making coffee and Lois is sitting on the counter reading the Daily Planet - what else? - and munching on a piece of toast, bare legs swinging to some internal rhythm. Clark rests a hand on her knee as he reaches over to grab a cup, and you clear your throat.
"This a bad time?"
They acknowledge your presence with smiles - Lois's tinged with irony to match your voice, Clark's faintly embarrassed - and beckon you over, and you simultaneously want to disappear into a convenient hole in the floor and fling yourself into both of their arms. You wade across the room and pull up a stool, grateful for their small talk to erase the gaps created by your silence. This comfortable sanctuary isn't yours to keep, you don't belong here. Lois hands Clark another mug and he fills it with coffee and adds milk but no sugar and gives it to you. He knows how you take your coffee and you're touched and you hate yourself for being touched. Neither of them asked if you wanted any but it's okay because you do.
It's early morning and Clark is dressed for work but he's yet to put on a coat or tie and Lois is wearing one of his shirts. Her hair is messy; they probably just got out of bed. You wish you were anywhere but here and you also never want to leave. Lois is teasing Clark about something or other, smirking at him over the rim of her mug, and you catch her eye as her smile widens. It blossoms into full-fledged laughter and you weren't even listening to their conversation but you find yourself smiling back, helplessly. Lois and Clark make affection seem so easy. You want to unravel them to figure out how they work, how they make this space into a home just by existing in it. You want to understand why all of a sudden this sunny tornado's aftermath is your favourite place in the world. You could make it your own, build a fortress out of blankets like a child; you could curl up with your back against warm, solid brick and close your eyes, let the rising and falling inflections of their voices lull you into dreamless sleep. You could, only you've forgotten how.