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Lex's been in love, but only once, and it was a long time ago. Four
years. Which isn't a long time to, say, his father, or to anyone
else in middle age, but at the moment it's just under twenty percent
of his life, and it feels like eons.

He knew Bruce from a few dozen social events. And they knew each
other when they were kids, both haunting the edges of parties in
uncomfortable formal wear, more interested in lurking and watching
than in being fussed over. But in 1997, Lex was seventeen, in his
freshman year of university, and Bruce Wayne was twenty-one, and
neither of them was burrowing under heirloom furs.

They were both stronger than last time. Sharper-edged, smarter. More
interested in each other. What started at a party at which Lex drank
too much and Bruce drank nothing was still going days later, in
Bruce's Jaguar, pulled off one of the coastal roads northeast of the
city. Headlights pouring over the cliff. Bruce's impossibly perfect
sound system cut in and out when the radio signal flickered, and Lex
eventually fed the thing a compact disc just to mute the static.

He hadn't realized how quiet that would make it. The car was as
quiet and expensive-smelling as the coat rooms had been, and Bruce
was. Lex didn't think he was romantic enough to call Bruce Wayne
beautiful, but he was fascinating. Gorgeous. Smart and probably
insane, but interested in Lex in a way that few people were.

So it was probably that, as much as anything else, that led to the
first kiss. The next ones fed off it. Bruce's tongue in Lex's mouth,
Bruce's fingers between Lex's legs. Until Bruce finally crawled over
the stick shift and settled next to Lex in the passenger's seat.
Warm, soft kisses all that night, and they did, in fact, fog up the
car's windows. Bruce rolled Lex more or less on top of him, somehow,
and it seemed reasonable, given how massive Bruce was in comparison
with a body Lex knew was never going to be huge.

Sometime in their kissing, the disc ended, and they were back to
late-night radio. The static wasn't enough to bother him, by then,
and the music was a slow buzz at the back of his skull.

The passenger's seat was laid out nearly flat. Bruce mouthed along
every bone junction in Lex's skull, careful as a medical student. He
kissed Lex behind his ears. Kissed his underarms, pushing his shirt
back just enough to reach them.

Sometime after that, Lex was alone in his seat and Bruce was back
behind the wheel, and the sun was stretching grey over the water,
and they still hadn't left. Bruce traced patterns in the palms of
Lex's hands and wouldn't say anything. Lex was achingly hard, and
Bruce wouldn't touch him.

Eventually Lex realized that he was going to have to drive. He found
them a bed and breakfast, farther north along the coast, empty in
the off-season, and bedded them both down. Except that he was too
wired to sleep, and Bruce only sat on the bed and watched him.

Kissed him, when Lex demanded it. Mouth, chest, stomach. Naked,
eventually, and Bruce stroked Lex until he came, did everything Lex
asked for. Kissed him afterward, and searched his face for a while.

They didn't sleep. Bruce dressed and went out, came back an hour
later with coffee, and Lex was naked, on the bed, reading.

In the course of that afternoon, Lex remembers, there were a lot of
teeth in play. Bruce marked nearly the whole expanse of Lex's body.

They drove back to Gotham sometime after midnight, without ever
having experienced breakfast. Lex counted thirty-nine hours that
he'd been awake. Bruce dropped him at the glass doors of the
family's Gotham penthouse, and kissed him again, leaning against the
side of the car while the doormen looked everywhere but at them.
This moment that made his heart beat faster. He was always
fanscinated by Bruce's lack of shame, his ability to make scenes in
public without making a freak of himself. Just so consciously
sexual, so utterly gorgeous.

Lex slept that night with his door locked, naked and curled around
himself, with his heart pounding.