If I can't be everything to you.....you will be nothin to me

superdad

He slammed the axe upon the wood, felt his muscles tense and watched the plank split in two upon the stump, one half rolling over and hitting the ground.

Jon wiped the sweat from his hairline and took the two pieces to the growing pile.

It was about his height, then, but he wasn't planning on stopping anytime soon. He couldn’t. His eyes burned, but he shook his head and grabbed the next victim of a plank.

Clark watched from the kitchen with a mug filled with coffee that’d long ago lost its fresh morning heat. Lois stood at his side, refilling her own cup with the impending promise of a deadline. “You should go talk to him,” she said, with one hand at his arm, squeezing.

“I don’t know what I would say.”

“Tell him the truth."

Jon took the axe, slammed it down. Another two cut rolls for the pile. Well over a thousand planks, and he’d been going since dawn.

He should have been proud of himself, but there was still a pit he couldn’t fill and a twist in his gut he couldn’t sooth, so he’d keep going. He’d go until it was as tall as the barn, if he had to. “I think that’s more than enough wood for the Smith’s toolshed, Jon.”

He winced as his dad came up behind him, a smile and a steaming mug, one small pink heart at the center. He greeted him with a weak smile, meant to fool.

He was okay, or at least, he had to look it. “Yeah, sorry. I guess I just didn’t notice.” It wasn’t like him to lie, he knew, but he didn’t have a choice. He’d worried Mom and Dad enough over the last few weeks, not eating (he’d tried to force some eggs down his throat this morning, because Mom had made more than enough and he’d seen the looks on their faces as he’d taken a small helping, knew he couldn’t sit there and pick at them instead of eating, again).

Knew he hadn’t been getting sleep, that they knew he hadn’t, knew he hadn’t been leaving the house much.

He knew he was expending energy he didn’t have, but it was the only thing he could do to keep his mind… kind of clear. Keep his eyes from drifting to that stapled stack of three or so papers with smudged ink and wrinkled pages, names and words that hurt to look at but he couldn’t let it go.

He made a move to pick up another plank, but his dad was taking a seat at the stump before he could, cradling his coffee mug in two big hands.

He was still smiling, the way Superman only could, no judgement, and somehow that made it worse , so much worse , because he knew what was coming, knew they should have had this conversation ages ago.

“You’ve been out of it for a few weeks, now.”

He sighed, rubbed roughly at his eyes with his forearm. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, son, just tell your old dad what’s wrong.”

And just like that, the dam broke. He dropped the axe and pulled at his hair, shut his eyes because they were burning again and he couldn’t, couldn’t.

His head was killing him, he couldn’t track one emotion, and the thoughts in his head were so thin but fast and they bounced around like rubber balls and came back to hit him in the stomach, and he couldn’t keep them still, they wouldn't stop, and he just didn’t know what to do anymore .

“It’s Dahlia! I messed up, I messed up bad, and now she hates me and she’s probably going to make some other guy her standing with her  and--!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” His dad chuckled, raised one hand and one eyebrow and waited for his insane rambling to stop. “Why don’t you start by telling me what exactly you did?”