Man on the Moon

WARNINGS: So, there's a lot about Mon-El's parents in here, and in this, they say things that are very hurtful and could be upsetting to some people, as well as in-depth conversations about suicide. Sorry guys, I just want you all to know that it gets a bit rough at times.

Mon-El was a writer. His published novel was simplistic, and stuck to textbook structures and tones. Basically: the world saw his work as unimportant and shallow.

He wrote under the pseudonym "Mike Matthews" and was rather unknown for a long time. His story was about a great man who went on wild adventures across the stars--places he dreamed one day he'd be able to see.

He'd gone to college and flunked out. Not because he wasn't smart enough, but because he didn't care--he'd only gone to please his parents. They were rich, and liked to consider themselves aristocrats who lived in a high-rise apartment buildings and hardly spoke. They'd never been the strongest of role-models.

In fact, they hadn't so much as asked him about anything he'd been up to for four years, when he was suddenly offered a book deal, which lead to his success. Unfortunately, the story that brought him into the publishing world was one he wrote on a whim. He'd put it up, chapter by chapter, on the internet, and a company had contacted him.

Seeking someone who knew him for who he really was--not "Mike Matthews" or some one-night stand--he'd picked up the phone and called his parents. They hadn't picked up, probably because they were out doing something like pretending he hadn't totally embarrassed them in front of all their friends and tarnished their name. But never-the-less, he left them a voicemail, telling them he'd gotten a book deal. He didn't know if they ever even acknowledged the fact that he was an author before this--when it actually became of something.

Being a writer had never gotten him many girls, but his flashing gray eyes and sharp jawline certainly caught their attention. He didn't mind; he quite liked being admired for his symmetrical face and dark hair. He never thought deeply about being in a relationship--all the women he was attracted to would want him gone in the morning. He didn't mind that either though; unlike most writers, he prided himself on never knowing the highs and lows of an epic romance, or even a little one. He thought the tropes and the prose and the language were all overused and frankly, he found them all repetitive--or so he told himself.

So, here he was, in a loud bar--a classic setting for him--that smelled of smoke and scotch. There were so many people packed inside the dive that it felt like when you were on the subway and you think no one else can get on, and then at the next stop, five more people cram inside. He had barely enough room to lift his arm to get his bottle to his mouth. He glanced around, forcing the roar down in his head, watching people.

He put his empty beer down on the counter next to him, and looked over as the bartender pulled it away and replaced it, an easy smile on his lips.

"Another for the now, published and less struggling writer?" He smirked.

Mon-El laughed, "Thanks, Winn."

"Sure." He leaned on the bar across from his friend, "I'm proud of you man."

Mon-El smiled, taking a sip, "Really?"

"Yeah, I haven't seen this big of a rager since your last birthday." He said, and they both chuckled, "Who knew that so many people would be so happy that your book is such a success."

"Well, I'm pretty sure that seventy-five percent of them don't even know who I am, let alone what book I wrote." He said.

"They're better off." Winn teased and Mon-El rolled his eyes.

"Shut up, Winn."

Winn glanced over Mon-El's shoulder and his brows raised. "Huh."

"What?" Mon-El frowned.