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He lets a grin slip onto his face, multi-coloured lights flashing around him, disorienting. The scar on his chest aches and he reaches out to grasp the little bag, two grams of coke just waiting for him.
The girl he has his arm around giggles and he leans down to kiss her; open mouthed, sloppy, he’s sure he tastes like hand sanitiser with the amount he’s had to drink tonight. She’s all sharp edges and bold colours. Nothing like before, the soft colours and gentle touches of Smallville, the farm. He tugs her girl with him to the nearest toilet and sets up two lines for himself, letting her have whatever's left in the bag.
He should probably know her name, but right now all he can think about is the buzzing combination of drugs in his system: coke, ecstasy, some weed, ket- you name it, “Kal” has used it all tonight. Honestly, he’s a bit of a legend ‘round here. “Kal” leans his head down over the toilet seat, covers one nostril and snorts, rinse and repeat on the other side, followed with some water to get the dregs of any powder caught in his nose.
Dark hair drapes over his face and the motion drags his attention (now distant) to the cuts he proudly bares on his arms. With his new personality came no fear of what anyone thought, applicable even to his hidden habit. The scars range up and down his arms and thighs, dark and purple, thin and white, raw and pink; they paint a glorious picture of his past, which he now dares to show to the world. His vision goes hazy and he giggles while he brings himself up, chancing a look at his companion, seemingly already having left.
Long legs take rocky steps and Clark stumbles back to the dance floor, he lets himself meld and disperse, feels waves of liquid courage spill into his cup then into his mouth. Tears glisten on his face and alcohol dribbles down his chin in thick rivers, the salty tears bleeding down and forming wet trails all over his face. Not that that impacts anything, Clark spends the majority of the rest of his night making out with his “companion”, and when people start getting pushed out the club, they head over to his place. Not without another baggy of course.
XXX
When Clark comes to the next morning, it’s to a mouthful of bleach blonde hair and warm arms wrapped around his torso. Grunting, he shifts her arms off him and her body away from him, momentarily ashamed before a blaring pain disrupts his senses and any thoughts- the pain is unbearable, burning sharply on his chest, it’s in his screams that he wakes his accidental guest and he looks down to see the bright red light emanating from the scar on his chest from Jor-El. The blonde quickly dresses and books it, she doesn’t bother to call an ambulance, Clark notes, somewhat offended but also grateful at the end of the day. Before he collapses to the floor, he makes the decision to rip off the red kryptonite ring from his finger- the relief is instantaneous. Quickly, it is followed by deep shame, guilt, shock. Memories of exploding storm cellars and lost babies flood his mind as he gasps and splutters, grasps at his bedside table for a lead box. When he finally has a hold of it, his breaths are fast, uneven, he hastily pulls the kryptonite out of the armoured box and winces.
Nausea overcomes him, bile rushes to the back of his throat. Clark perseveres- he needs this. Needs it like he’s never needed anything before.
Clark might be the worst person he knows. Every person that’s ever had the misfortune of meeting Clark has only suffered because of that fact! Clark wrenches his arm closer and tears into weakened skin, and much like returning to an old friend, Clark is reminiscent, nostalgic. His muscles tense and go lax in spasms, and vicious green pumps in his veins. Thick, deep cuts dance up his arm and blood, tinged green and slightly iridescent, gracefully tiptoes in the opposite direction. Clark’s breathing slows and he goes near-limp, panic blazes in him and he makes one last ditch attempt to get the kryptonite into the box, successfully shoving it in and snapping the lid shut.
Almost immediately, the wounds knit themselves together in a grim imitation of something delicately sewn and his skin returns to his usual golden glow. The young man sighs, in relief or disappointment, he isn’t sure.
The bed creaks a little and his sheets rustle as he collapses into them, popping a couple pills on his way.
XXX
This time when Clark wakes, he abruptly realises he left his ring off, so tumbles out of bed and slides it on.
It’s time to go out again.
XXX
“Kal” strolls with ease up to the club, sporting his usual leather jacket, alongside dark grey jeans, a green gem t-shirt (ironically) and biker boots. He’s allowed in by the bouncer with no hustle.
Inside, the brunette finds himself with a free drink in hand, some discounted coke and ecstasy. That same grin graces his face and boot-covered feet seem to bring him by their own will to the bathroom. He finishes off both bags by himself- but the buzz is.. Different. His vision swims and “Kal” struggles to stand up to get a good look of himself in the mirror- if he’s being honest with himself? He looks like shit. His pupils are blown, skin is pale, one side of his face must be blowing up like a balloon or something, it certainly looks like it in his reflection. Clark brings a hand up to his expanded face, but feels nothing different from his usual. Then his leg buckles underneath him, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, Clark is drowned in nausea. His body knocks onto the floor, face up in the white lights of this club bathroom.
Clark’s eyes droop, and he decides he’ll let himself sleep.