What You Are Like In the Rain

by Nifra Idril

Written for the ee cummings challenge issued over at LJ by the wonderful Isagel_C and my podlet Lyra_Sena.

Title: What You Are Like In the Rain
Author: Nifra Idril
Feedback: Nifra_Idril@yahoo.com

Rating: PG
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Spoilers: None

Summary: This is the night and this is Clark's hand, outlined against your skin.

Disclaimer: Neither the poem `I have found what you are like' nor Smallville's characters are mine. They belong to other people, respectively ee cummings and Miller & Gough, and none of the above are, in fact, me.

Dedication: A present for Lyra! Enjoy, my love. All for you.

Author's Note: This fic was written for Isagel's and Lyra Sena's ee cummings challenge, which was to use the lines of an ee cummings poem in a fic. Pretty easy parameters, mais non?

So here's the poem I lifted certain phrases from:

i have found what you are like

i have found what you are like in
the rain,

(Who feathers frightened fields with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields

easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike

the air in utterable coolness

deeds of green thrilling light

with thinned

newfragile yellows

lurch and.press

-in the woods



And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut quietly)almost,

your kiss

What You Are Like In the Rain

This is spring, and the air in utterable coolness easily wields the pale club of the wind. This is rain that swirls through the trees like deeds of green thrilling light, to land with a calm plop on the soft cotton clad shoulders before you. These are the woods, which stutter and sing.

This is night and this is Clark's hand, outlined against your skin.

Your voice catches in your throat, and a thousand promises hang there, lodged tight in the hollow spaces between what you want to say and what you can't. This is your heart, and it beats loudly, beats in time with his, under the low rush of thunder.

The shush, the hush of the storm.

You have been kissed over and over, but this is your first time as water passes over you. This is always the first time, and your lips meet again, brushing against one another like paper, like leaves, and Clark's fingers curl on your arms and he whimpers your name and it's the noise that saves you.

This moment rushes over you - watery, and purposeful, like the torrents of rain that sheet down from the sky, like the currents of a river that you swirl in, that twine around your wrists like fingers.

And you have found what he is like in the rain, feathering kisses over your upturned face, and each pass of his lips is like the brush of wings. The moon shines softer than it would otherwise, spreading outward in ripples of silver and blue as the shower bends the light, and the night's distorted - like you've taken refuge on a riverbed. Clark pulls back, and you would dance all night in the curves of his smile if you could. The coolness of it is a stirring of birds between your arms, a lurch and press of feeling.

This is the green of his eyes, sparking with laughter; like new mint, like sun dappling grass beneath trees, like a candle held behind lace.

You want to kiss the shadows, the delicate filigree of starlight that traces his features. You want to breathe him in. You want to sigh against the line of his jaw, to learn the scent of his dreams, the taste of his neck as he sleeps. You want to trace your secrets large over the warm skin of his back, inscribe them in the dip of his wrist.

You fear that this will pass. Like the rain will pass, and that your breath will leave with him - that it will go from the long, dark, empty cavern of your chest to follow the smallest gold mote in his eyes, the tiniest twitch of his lips toward a smile. You will follow him, you know, though you're proud enough to deny it. But if this should wash away, you will drop quiet breaths into the patterns of his foot prints, you will hold your love like something sharp. You will use it to break your skin, and his. You will make it a weapon.

You fear that one day he will once have been yours, but be yours no longer -- that you will have to give him to a world that will not love him, not as you do. Because you love him like laughter on a snow bound morning, like roses on fire, like the shaking of thunder, and the warm tight hold of your arms around his chest.

And even if he does go, on nights like this, when the darkness fills the gullies and grooves of your doubts with a kind of sacred stillness, you'll wonder if he's waiting for you.

But now, right now his hands shake, and he tilts your chin up, and there are tears dropping onto your face, and he murmurs your name, murmurs a promise, and you realize that this is grace that falls from Clark's eyes. It is grace that falls to your skin, and rinses down your body as passion snaps at the edges of your thoughts. You pull him tighter, pull him closer, press him into the cool, sane dirt, fist your fingers into the ground as you memorize the textures of his mouth with your own.

You let the soil stain the hoops, swirls, loops of your calluses, and think that will be another mark of this night, and when you finally let him up, and the hugeness has shut quietly, you tell him that you would rather than anything have his kiss.

Beneath you his chest shakes, and he laughs, and kisses you again, lingeringly, and gives you all the words he can with his body.

This is spring. This is night. This is your first time in shades of fragile yellow and green, new in the soft wet grass. You tell him with your eyes that you know this is love, because there's nothing else it can be as the rain continues to fall and his hands stroke up your back. There's nothing else you'd want it to be.

And this is what you are like in the rain.

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