This, Too

by rageprufrock, seperis

 This, Clark thinks, has to be a dream. Not the ones where he's naked in class and supposed to be able to solve quadratic equations. And not the one where Chloe and Lana start making out and tell him that they really aren't into guys.

Because even those sometimes turn into nice dreams, and this doesn't look like it's going to cooperate.

Because in Clark's life? Cooperation doesn't happen.

"Are you high, Lex?"

Clark says this as he's running one hand over his mouth. This is stupid. And impossible. And Lex just kissed him -- like those other dreams that Clark pointedly does not have.

Lex looks incredibly insulted. "Of course I am!"

He says this like if he wasn't, there'd be serious problems. Clark is having serious problems. Not the least of which is that Lex --

"This isn't happening."

It shouldn't be happening, shouldn't have happened. He should be at the farm, in the loft, thinking about Lana's shiny hair. Lex should be in Metropolis, deep in business. Nobody should be sticking their tongues into anybody else's mouth. Somewhere there should be pie involved. Instead, he's looking down in resignation at what appears to be something out of an after school special, and the very smell of it makes him sick in a completely physical way.

Trust Lex to find, of all things, meteor-rock laced pot.

See, this wasn't covered in the after school specials.

Clark checks the inventory in his head: he remembers how Julie dealt with discrimination; he vaguely recalls how Dave managed to survive after his parents died; he gets how Jack overcame his disability. Clark was totally on wavelength with Sue and her pregnancy.

Lex is neither being discriminated against, bereaved, crippled, or impregnated.

No, Lex is kissing people and smoking meteor-rock pot.

And from the looks of that ashtray and the baggie from which Lex is indulging? A lot of it.

Smallville, Clark thinks crazily, it's because he's in Smallville. If they lived somewhere more Metropolitan -- New York, or maybe Bumfuck, Anywhere -- there'd be after-school specials about kissing your male best friend. Clark would take notes, he knows not to let opportunities like that go past.

Lex is sprawled strangely boneless on the couch, grinning up at the ceiling like it's a new comedy sitcom, but no, wait, a funny comedy sitcom. Giggling -- Jesus Christ, giggling -- at something Clark can't see.

Last night, Lex sent Clark away because of shareholders. Shareholders.

Clark is never leaving again. If Clark leaves Lex to finances and responsibility, he will always, always remember coming back to find Lex laughing at wood paneling.

"Relax, Clark. Sit down." One heel punches into the leather with the kind of determination people usually reserve for near death experiences. Clark takes a deep breath and looks for a useful platitude to cover this situation. Dad's voice drones on about good intentions and recklessness, but nothing that covers this situation very well. Great. Just great.

"Lex, what -- why -- why are you high?" The what is obvious. He just can't wrap his mind around it. It's like some kind of weird karma. Rescue Lana from water, get cuddled, find friend high, almost get groped.

Seriously, his life can't possibly be any more complex without the Pentagon being involved.

"Helen," Lex says importantly.

Clark just stares, carefully. "Helen?"

Lex makes a face that is halfway between disgust and disgusted amusement. "She made me look at cake, Clark." He shifts to sit up a bit. "Cake."

Right. Cake. "Cake."

Clark used to think that living in Smallville had prepared him for weird shit. He was wrong. Very, very wrong.

And why the hell isn't Helen here, exactly? Right, she's conferencing or sowing some female version of wild oats or hell, maybe she's high, too, which is completely unfair.

A fumble at his thigh reminds him of the reason he jumped off the couch at light speed only seconds before, and thank God Lex is high, or he might be asking questions about that little bit of pseudo-levitation.

Of course, if Lex wasn't high, Clark wouldn't be in the middle of this mess in the first place.

Repress, Clark coaches himself, and deny.

"Clark." Lex collapses back into the leather, the little smile that turns up the corners of his mouth making Clark Very Nervous.

"There was a wedding planner, Clark," Lex starts again. "Needed a nice, long fuck, if you get my drift."

Clark groans. He does, and he doesn't want to. Pot. Jesus.

The smile widens. See, Clark knows that smile. That smile asks, why are you still dressed? He used to get that a lot. Not so much these days, what with the entire consistent sex life Lex has going, but still.

"She...she wheeled all this cake into my office. Cake! In my office!" Lex laughed, incredulous and angry at the same time, looking at the ceiling again.

Thank God Lex isn't looking at him, but it does beg the question, what the hell is so interesting about that damned ceiling? Clark plants both feet firmly on the floor, well out of range of Lex's suddenly far too mobile hands, and stares down at his friend with a disapproving look.

"Lex, it's -- getting high is wrong. It's -- you don't need drugs. You -- "

What?

See, again, after school special thing? Not helping.

Not helping at all.

And does he sound like Dad?

Lex suddenly rolls into a sitting position, laughing. "I what, Clark? Don't need drugs to feel good about myself?"

He's laughing even harder now and Clark wants to punch him in the face, a lot.

"All I need to do is love myself, Clark," Lex says in between giggles -- shit, giggles.

Clark narrows his eyes. "Lex, this isn't -- this isn't funny!"

Lex, apparently, doesn't care, because he makes an extremely inappropriate hand motion (three times) and says, "I love myself plenty, Clark."

There's always walking out. A temptation Clark studies from all sides. Lex is high. He probably won't even remember Clark was here, and if he does? Clark can say it was a hallucination. Or look blank. That works. Not very well, but it does work.

Lex is high. Lex is alone in the castle, no Helen, no servants -- and where the hell are the servants? -- and God knows what will happen if he leaves.

Lex might buy Panama. He jokes about it too much for Clark to take the chance.

Which doesn't leave many really good options. And to think, Clark only a few days ago had been thinking how he missed these informal little friendly chats.

You know, the ones where neither of them were high.

Clark always tells everyone that Lex is a good person, and he's right, at least about the generosity, because Lex holds out the bag and says, "Come on."

He blinks, twice, and a stray thought runs through his head: none of the drug dealers on TV were this hot.

The parts of him that have some sense of self-preservation beat the shit out of the dissenting voice and make him look horrified.

"Lex! I -- no!"

Lex rolls his eyes. "God, Kent. I bet you used to be fun."

Wha -- "I'm not fun because I don't want to get high?"

Lex doesn't answer, just makes a face.

Clark really doesn't know what to do in situations like these. The last time anyone got into anything they shouldn't have and acted out, Clark was ripping off Chloe's clothes and then Chloe and Pete drove off a cliff. This is...not a good sign.

He takes a deep breath, and tries again. "Lex. Give me the drugs."

Lex narrows his eyes. "What're you going to do with them?"

Clark doesn't throw a chair at Lex, but it's very hard to resist the urge. "Nothing. Just give it here."

Lex rolls his eyes.

"Lex, I'm serious. Don't make me take that bag from you," Clark warns.

Lex makes an undignified sound. "Oh, suck my cock, Kent, you will not."

Clark wonders at what point he's allowed to freak out. Not yet, apparently. "Lex--"

"How young were you?" Lex is staring at the ceiling with that grin again. Clark gives into temptation and peers up into the shadows, but no, that's just a ceiling and it's gloomy and dark and really high, but if you looked at Lex, you'd think it was broadcasting Comedy Central.

"How -- what?"

Slowly, Lex's head turns, smirking. "How young were you when you got it?"

Okay, what the hell? "Got what?"

"That stick up your ass."

Well, he walked right into that one.

If there's one thing that Clark has learned from Lex, it's to roll with the punches. Clark can keep fighting, but he's got this weird feeling that Lex is just going to keep talking about the stick up his ass, anyway.

"Seven," Clark says with great irritation. "Camping accident. Lex, give me the drugs."

Lex actually laughs out loud, and of course, totally ignores him. "Camping. Camping is stupid, Clark."

Clark is not going to cry. He's really not.

But he wants to. Right now.

He edges closer, and tries to snatch the bag away. Lex moves a lot faster than he lets on and he shoves the bag out of reach, glaring angrily. "Hey! That's private property!"

Clark changes tactics. "I just want some, Lex. You know, drugs," he says stupidly.

Lex frowns unkindly. "I already asked. One time opportunity. This is all mine."

This isn't working.

"Lex, please -- "

Little shiver. Just under the skin, not something anyone but Clark would have noticed, but there. Interesting. Slowly approaching, Clark leans into the arm of the couch and holds the blue eyes. "Lex, please? Give them to me?"

Huh. Lex's eyes fix briefly, then close hard. "I want to go out."

Oh, how many kinds of a bad idea can one statement be anyway? "You can't drive like this."

Lex sits up -- or tries to. Third attempt, however, is the charm, and Lex stares at him with narrow-eyed dislike. "I can drive."

And this is making things better how? Lex is levering himself up, there are about a million cars in the garage, and no, Lex should not drive.

"Give me the drugs and I'll drive you wherever you want to go."

And the second he says it? He knows it's a mistake. From the slow, strangely amused smile, Clark is beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, that was the plan all along.

Fuck.

---

The only reason that Clark isn't knocking his head against the car window right now is because the windows are all rolled down.

They are driving at what is way too close to one hundred miles an hour for comfort, and --

"I WANNA RIDE!"

-- Lex is singing along to the Red Hot Chili Peppers and "Love Rollercoaster."

Clark remembers thinking that Lex was too cool for kiddy stuff, like parties in farm towns and fairs. He's starting to get that this is all one big act, because Lex high is Lex in all his glorious geektastic honesty.

Also: Lex cannot sing. This is not negotiable.

Clark might have to kill him.

"You look constipated, Kent," Lex yells over the pounding music. He flexes his fingers on the wheel and Clark panics. They're not swerving, yet -- which surprises him, a lot -- but the fact remains that Lex is high and why in God's name did Clark agree to this stupid trade?

"Where are we going, Lex?" Clark asks.

If Clark were guessing? He'd say hell.

He's still not entirely sure what exactly happened here.

One minute, it looked hopeful; Lex was going to give him the baggy of horrible leaves and Clark was going to give Lex a minor concussion before dragging him back to the castle. But then Clark got all mixed around and Lex changed his mind and got into the drivers seat. Clark was lucky that Lex let him in the car at all. They were halfway down Lex's driveway before Lex handed over the bag and then before Clark could stop him -- Lex's foot dropped like a brick on the gas pedal.

Even Clark's not stupid enough to attempt to superspeed them out of the situation when Lex is at the wheel. That's like mixing chlorine and nuclear winter.

On the upside, the drugs are gone. Thrown out the window at sixty miles an hour into a cornfield. So yeah, that part worked oh so well. On the other? Lex is high. Lexis high driving a standard H. Lex is high driving a standard H Ferrari and Jesus, he just broke one twenty and Clark will now have proof positive on just how invulnerable he really is.

Somewhere, the sane, rational, normal part of his mind's gibbering and asking, okay, how will I explain a produce delivery gone clubbing? He was supposed to be home an hour ago. He was supposed to meet Lana for riding practice and some serious, endless glances. Somewhere in there, he was supposed to maybe spend some quality time worrying about his alien origins, but guess what? Plan's out the window.

Like the pot, he thinks glumly, and finds himself in the novel position of wishing he were with it.

"Metropolis." Lex says it like it's the most obvious thing, and right, it is, or would be, if Clark didn't suspect Lex owned an airfield and knew Lex owned a chopper.

"Okay, but where?"

Lex turns to look at him, that wild, disturbingly happy grin in place. Pete looked like that at age six when he discovered grasshoppers. The comparison is startlingly creepy. "This place."

Avril Lavigne cuts between them like the sound of doom, and Clark sucks in a breath as Lex's tries out his mezzo-soprano leanings with badly butchered lyrics. No, he won't kill Lex. That won't be enough to remove the memory of this. He may just have to kill himself.

"What is 'this place,' Lex?" Clark asks.

He remembers babysitting the Barry twins. He remembers projectile vomit. He can do this.

Lex has a big shit-eating grin on his face as Lex waits for it.

Clark thinks, oh my God, he's not going to --

"Why'd you have to go and make things so complicated?" Lex bellows with Avril.

Clark doesn't rip the stereo out of the dashboard and he's really proud of this because he could do that. He really could. He thinks he deserves a pat on the back or a gold star or at least for Lex not to be high.

None of these things happen. Clark decides God's really got it out for him.

"Lex," he says desperately. "Where. Are. We. Going?"

"I'm not mentally retarded, Kent," Lex says in a huff, a sudden one-eighty from a minute ago. "It's just Metropolis."

See, Clark's learned over these two years that any time Lex tags something with "just," it's never a good thing.

Watching the world pass by out the windshield, Clark finds himself envying the corn. It grows. It sits, staid and happy and non-moving, and it never has to deal with any friends getting high. Also, it doesn't have to be in this car, right here, right now, listening to Lex sing "Complicated" like he's connecting with the song in ways that no one really should. Ever.

The slim hand that settles on his thigh doesn't help, either. "Lex! Stop that!"

On the bright side, he does stop singing. "Stop pretending not to like it."

Long, elegant fingers, artistically callused from years of fencing, ink stains on the left knuckle from whatever Godforsaken report drove Lex over the edge. Or the cakes. Those goddamned, fiancee-ordered, Helen-I-will-never-save-you-ever-again-cakes, that apparently are the reason that Lex has gone insane. Meteor rocks couldn't do it, kryptomutants couldn't do it, Victoria and Lionel (oh God, does he need that imagery?) couldn't do it, but apparently, cake could.

Clark will never look at a cake again and not remember this. Nor will his cock, come to think, and oh damn, this can't be a good sign of things to come.

"Sexual repression leads to violence, Clark," Lex tells him sympathetically.

Clark figures that if he doesn't get sainted for doing this, then Chloe is right about organized religion being a vacuum. He takes a deep breath and tries to think around the slim fingers that are warm against his skin through his jeans, and he's doing pretty well until they start to stroke.

He yelps and slaps Lex's hand off, shouting, "Lex!"

"See!" Lex crows. "Violence!"

Oh, Clark will show him violence all right. Clark is starting to think that violence is his only option.

When he gets Lex back to Smallville, and when all of this gets out of Lex's system, they're going to have a long talk. About taking out relationship troubles on the people who caused them or the wedding planner but not on one's best friend or through illegal narcotic substances. They should probably go over proper driving conduct, how if you're in a car, it probably shouldn't be breaking the sound barrier, and how it's safer for everyone involved if no one is molesting anyone else while trying not to get them all killed.

Clark is gearing up for another round of useless inspirational speeches when a cell phone rings.

He eyes Lex's pocket warily, and Lex -- purrs.

"Vibrates, too," he says absolutely inappropriately, and retrieves the phone.

Vibrates. Of course it does.

Clark takes a deep breath as Lex flips the phone on. "Lex speaking." Strangely, he sounds some approximation of normal.

Clark leans his head into the window, slowly sucking in a deep breath. Two hands occupied. That's good. No groping. Even better. Still zooming at death-defying speed toward Metropolis, but compared to the last few minutes? So not a big deal.

"Pie."

What?

Lex is grinning as he talks. Oh God. "We should have pie. Cherry."

And hell if Lex doesn't look at him when he says it. Strange things are coming into Clark's head, like a sudden mention of Jessie and a convenient alley, but he clamps his lips tight and tries to think of something that has nothing to do with sex, because he's sixteen and in a car with his engaged best friend.

The engaged best friend who is talking to his fiancee and was fondling him seconds ago, and how many kinds of wrong-weird can you fit in one night anyway?

"Nothing, Helen. Nothing. I'm just -- contemplating."

Clark is momentarily astounded by the fact that Lex can still use big words.

And then he gets really scared about what Lex might think about saying to Helen about this, because Lex has been unpredictable and dangerous so far so it's not too far off to imagine that he might say --

"You're such a bitch, Helen, you know that?" Lex says casually.

Clark thinks that if he were human, that he might have had a spontaneous brain hemorrhage. Actually, he thinks he has one anyway.

He debates whether or not to grab the phone out of Lex's hands, but he's frozen stupid and all he can do is watch in horrified awe.

"One little disagreement," Lex goes on, voice smooth like silk, "and you're gone like I lit a firecracker under your ass. You left me with cake, Helen. Mountains of it. The village rats will feast at Luthor manor for years."

Clark thinks this might be good. Helen can't be happy about this and come tomorrow, she will have The Conversation about drug use with Lex that Clark cannot imagine having.

So really, Clark thinks, he deserves this.

"Also? I lied. I hate your dress."

Lex hangs up.

Slim fingers turn the phone over thoughtfully, and Clark watches with a kind of resignation as it disappears into the night. Doubtless to join the pot in isolation, out here in the middle of nowhere. Where Clark wishes he was, like, right now.

"So, where were we?"

Clark takes a deep, steadying breath. "Lex, that was a really bad idea."

And no, Clark's not admitting anything close to vague, completely denied, and unrealized satisfaction at what he just heard. Because everyone likes Lex and Helen together, even Lana, who commented on it several times, perhaps more than several times, even when they were getting dried off after that impromptu swim, and hey, hold on, why would Lana be so interested anyway?

When Lex's fingers reach for the volume on the radio, Clark slams his hand down on top. Denting the metal, he knows, but it's for a good cause. "No, Lex."

"Stick," Lex says very clearly and very, very, very annoyingly. "Meet ass."

Far ahead, the lights of Metropolis are lighting up the sky like some really, really techno version of hell, a big Sodom and Gomorrah and Babylon all wrapped together in one, or so Dad keeps implying every time Clark shows interest in anything that doesn't involve cows and large bundles of straw.

And is he holding Lex's hand?

Pulling back, Clark locks both of his own hands on his thighs, a doubly protective measure that blocks Lex's access as well. Not that the man isn't creative, and whoa, okay, when did he start thinking like this again?

Right, that would be when he came in this afternoon, sat down on the couch beside Lex, and received what amounted to being a slow, thorough tonsillectomy.

Right before he realized that Lex was high.

Right before he realized Lex was actually insane.

Right after he started kissing back.

Right after he realized his best friend was sexy when sprawled.

And to think, the night isn't even close to over.

---

"Apparently, Jeremy is totally fucking Deck," someone named Chaz tells Lex, and Lex rolls his eyes.

Clark just sits in the corner and tries to fight the very primitive urge to scream and run away.

When they got to Metropolis an hour ago, Lex didn't give Clark the chance to call home and explain things or to call Helen and make sure Lex wasn't castrated the next morning. No, no, but Lex did drive them to what even smelled like a disreputable part of town and a very, very badly-lit ex-warehouse filled with people who are all more high than Lex.

Clark thinks that if Lex is trying to get off by making this drug abuse issue a sliding scale, he's so wrong.

So far, Clark's been groped by six girls -- he thinks. The last hand he felt on his ass was decidedly larger than any girls he's ever seen. And Lex has been really vague about who exactly comes to this club.

Anyway, Lex has found friends. From his glory days. Clark has found nausea.

"I've been gone two years, and this is all you can tell me?" Lex looks bemused. And high. Clark is never going to forget the high.

They are sitting in the VIP section and Lex is sitting in between Chaz and "Charlize" who used to be Charles. Inappropriately close for an engaged man. One might even speculate, inappropriately close for people not engaged in sex.

And what do you know, Charlize has her hand on Lex's thigh again, and right now? Clark doesn't think invoking Helen's name is going to put an end to the fact Lex is leaving that hand right where it is.

It should be comforting Lex isn't groping him anymore, at least. Yet strangely, it's not.

The third member of the group, so far nameless, appears carrying an actual tray, nearly dropping it as he places it in the center of the table, and Clark stares at the array of neon liquids that seem to be -- though he wouldn't swear to it -- for drinking.

Drinking.

Electric blue for Chaz. Pink for Charlize -- how many kinds of cliche is that? Lex hones in on the purplish one like a force of nature, and Clark can only stare as the strange little green one is left for him to ponder, while they all look at him meaningfully.

He opens his mouth to say he's way too young to drink, but with this crowd? Probably not a deterrent.

"Your friends are usually more adventurous, Lex," Charlize points out in a low baritone purr. Bobbed auburn hair and widely spaced green eyes. Scarily pretty for Clark's small town sensibilities. Candy-pink lips stretch around the straw in a way that reminds Clark of Lex and his devotion to his water bottles.

Or, if Clark lets himself extrapolate -- and since the whole world has gone crazy, why the hell not -- the way that Lex's mouth felt against his own. Hot and so much softer than Clark would have expected, at least at first. And then there was hard (and God, was it hard) kissing, the lick of a hot tongue and his lips had just parted like they were supposed to do that sort of thing for another guy and he'd let Lex kiss him breathless.

But Clark is now focusing on how Charlize's hand is ridiculously close to Lex's...uh, apex.

Clark panics. He tells himself he's doing this worrying thing because his best friend is engaged, and not because Lex's apex isn't up for public examination.

But Charlize's hand moves again and Lex still doesn't do anything about it, so Clark stiffens and yells, "Lex is engaged!"

Chaz, Lex, and Charlize all turn to stare at him.

Chaz with wide eyes; Lex blankly; Charlize with a scowl.

Chaz says, "Seriously?"

Lex says, "Stick."

Charlize says, "That's illegal in Kansas, you know."

Clark takes a deep breath as Lex glances between the people that aren't Clark. "Yes. Engaged." To a girl, he almost adds, but he's not sure that the table can survive much more in the way of shock. 
"Like with Victoria?" Charlize looks hopeful, and yes, that hand is officially entering the No Touching Zone. At least, the No Touching Zone With The Exception of Helen. Who isn't here to point that out, and right now, Clark's resenting that fact a lot.

"No." Lex throws back the liquor in a single swallow. "Not bad. Any more where this came from?"

And Charlize still hasn't stopped touching. This requires more desperate measures. "I'll get it." All three stare up at him, but Clark picks up the glass, stepping over Chaz to get around the booth, and what the hell, he's getting some himself, too. He deserves it. God knows, he deserves something.

The bartender smirks a little but doesn't even bother to ask for ID, and Clark grits his teeth and tries to look less young and insane, taking both fragile glasses and turning around. Charlize is - - Jesus Christ, is her tongue in Lex's ear? Oh no. Someone here has to be sane. Protect Lex's virtue. From himself, if necessary.

Coming back, Clark studies his goal, then carefully and very deliberately steps onto the seat by Lex's hip and steps over him, foot coming down like a wall between Lex and Charlize's thighs, and he doesn't even give her time to blink before he drops squarely down.

The sound of a shocked whimper is plenty satisfactory, and Clark tries to look surprised that anything was in his way. Like Charlize.

"Oh, your hand? Sorry about that." Sitting the drink in front of Lex, Clark tries on Apologetic Expression v3.2. Best applied with Chloe formerly, but now pretty much regulated to classroom use only.

And Charlize and her hand are now completely unable to get anywhere near Lex Territory.

Lex looks oddly pleased, and Clark is not going to examine that closely.

Clark does paste a big stupid smile on his face and hands Lex the green drink. He says, "Speaking of engaged, Lex."

"Let's not," Lex interrupts, and throws back that drink, too. He levels a glare at Clark. "I thought we discussed this."

Discussed engaged? It might have happened. If it occurred during the interim between Lex pulling his tongue out of Clark's mouth and Clark realizing that Lex was high, then yes, yes, Clark might have missed it. Have Helen and Lex broken up? Maybe this isn't about the cake at all!

"That stick up your ass can't be comfortable," Lex finishes.

Oh.

Well.

Yeah. Clark's getting really sick of that.

He narrows his eyes at his best friend before he glares at Chaz and Charlize, both of whom look very put out.

"I need to talk to him."

They just stare.

Clark sighs. "Alone."

Chaz says, "Oh!" and Charlize just rolls her eyes before flouncing off.

The thought, oh, great, there are at least two people in Metropolis who think Lex and I are screwing only has time to pass through his brain before Clark is saying, "Lex, we have to go home."

Lex studies Clark for a long time before nodding.

Clark feels a big smile on his face, and it only grows as Lex stands up decisively, looking over the booths of the VIP section.

Clark stands up, too. "All right, let's go?"

Lex grins. "Yes. I love this song."

Clark stops dead. "What?" Translating Lex-talk is sometimes tricky, but even now, Clark can't quite figure out how 'we have to go' somehow translated to 'listen to heavy bass for a while.'

Lex grabs Clark's hand -- and Clark can't help but to feel long fingers slide so warm against his palm like a welcome or a homecoming or a tease -- and drags him out into the pulsing crowd. "I love this song!" Lex yells.

"Depeche Mode," Lex adds, as he jerks the two of them through the winding, writhing masses until they're in the middle of the floor where it's so hot Clark can't breathe and doesn't think there's enough air for it, anyway. "Never Let Me Down Again -- very good song."

All right, Clark's brain says, we're so not going home.

High or not, Lex still moves like he's never even comprehended the concept of awkwardness, but this is all-new. He's never seen Lex dance.

Lex, who's high and maybe a little drunk and so not caring about a fucking thing, eyes halfclosed, sweating through the lavender silk business shirt that has no business in a club like this, sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to reveal fragile-looking wrists and pale forearms.

Answering a question Clark had never had the chance to think to ask, smooth and soft-looking and not a single stray hair in sight, and then Lex is grinning at him like a kid on curfew and those long fingers are slipping into his belt loops and dragging him in.

"Pretend," Lex murmurs, and somehow, over the heavy music from too many huge speakers, Clark can hear every word, dripping thick as honey to slick the skin beneath his ear. "Didn't I ever tell you?"

Lex's voice is too close, too rich, Lex is too close, touching him only on denim, and there's the smells of sweat and alcohol and something herby, Lex's drug of choice tonight, and Clark finds himself staring down, thinking that no after school special on earth could have ever prepared him for Lex.

Nothing on earth ever could even begin to. "What?"

"No consequences."

Something Clark's missing, maybe, or he's just too wired, and Lex is just too close. Lex, who lets go of the belt loops and runs his palms over Clark's hips, almost chaste except Lex isn't chaste. Even now.

"There's always consequences," Clark whispers, and he's got memories of those. When control breaks, it's good, but the morning after is always the killer.

"Only what we let happen." Slow fingers are pushing up beneath his t-shirt, stroking slow and easy over bare skin. "Dance with me, Clark."

All the music feels like a tangible thing, a hot crush of silken sides as the crowds and the dark beat crush Clark closer to Lex and he feels it: fingers that had been hot on his hand are cool against the skin of his stomach and he doesn't bother to push down the shudder that rises. Lex is stroking him, gently, slowly, not sweetly, because Lex doesn't do saccharine, but he's doingsomething.

Clark swallows, and tries to remind himself that tomorrow, the sun will still rise, that Lex will still be Lex Luthor and Helen will forgive him.

Clark would. Clark will. But Clark doesn't know if he'll forgive himself.

Much as he might press away the questions underneath acceptable heterosexual intention, the root of this fascination is that Lex is always there, like every kind of sprawling temptation, and Clark wants.

Lex is still looking at him, appealing with blue eyes that already know Clark's answer.

So Clark leans in, breathing in puffs and he can feel the wet heat of Lex's breath near his mouth, the pads of Lex's fingers still stroking him, and Lex's other hand, anchoring their hips together, stilling them until --

Until -- and Clark groans so loudly he thinks that everyone might turn around to look -- Lex's stroking hand brushes one nipple while Lex's hips grind into him in time to the beat.

Clark thinks his knees might be buckling.

Clark also thinks that he might not care because Lex has looped his finger into Clark's jeans and pulled him closer -- close enough so that Lex is mouthing Clark's neck and stroking and grinding and Jesus, it's all getting tighter, denser, until there's only this sensation.

This -- completely different, unkind, rough, slow crawl of heat, nothing like anyone, echoes of Jessie's pliant body and quicksilver hands, echoes of the guy who pinned her against the wall of an alley and touched her. Echoes that his body wants to remember even when his mind doesn't, palms sliding over silk-covered shoulders, broader and stronger than Jessie, strong (male) body close enough to touch and a layer of air away with every beat of the music before touching again.

His body, remembering what Jessie taught him, how to move, and then the comparisons are wiped away, gone, forgotten when fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down, breathing against his lips. "Who?" Lex whispers, and Clark can't help answering:

"Jessie."

Who, and what, and where, and why, there's a dark, dirty alley that vanishes a little more every second under these bright, hot lights, under the tip of Lex's tongue when it traces the outline of his mouth, slicking his lower lip and biting down, and Clark arches and hears himself whimper. A whimper that ends with a tongue's slow insinuation, warm and wet and so good, this taste, Lex and alcohol, Lex and pot, just Lex, who doesn't seem to care when Clark opens the top button of his shirt, desperate for the skin beneath, smooth he knows, silky he's always hoped, sweaty he can guess. Fingertips skidding and pressing and touching, breathing forgotten, everything forgotten but this kiss that's rewriting the rules by the second.

Jessie made him hot when he was a different person. Lex, right now, makes him want to be that person.

Someone who could bite right there, just below Lex's jaw, leave positive proof of somewhere he's been, somewhere everyone can see and know. Someone who can brace a hand between Lex's shoulder blades and take control of the kiss, sucking Lex's tongue, make him arch and whimper and shudder and push closer.

Someone who cannot give a good shit about what happens after.

Hands are one of those things that you worry about a lot when you're just starting to discover your girl parts and boy parts. Clark remembers wondering where he would put his hands if he was kissing someone.

Here, now, right this moment in this screaming mess, his tongue in Lex's mouth and Lex's tongue in his mouth and hands touching all the right places and hips locked together -- hopefully forever -- his hands are moving on their own.

They're sliding down the curve of Lex's back and grabbing at his hips to press him closer.

They are cupping the sides of Lex's face and drawing him nearer.

They are sliding between them and seeking purchase, sliding underneath because he wants more and the top button isn't good enough.

Clark can't believe he's still moving, that they are still rocking to the music and it's changed tracks by now, but he can't care because he's hard and so is Lex and he can feel himself grinding against his best friend. He can't use any pretty words for this moment, because this isn't about Love or about Friendship; this is about visceral urges and how hot and dirty and dark this is, dry-fucking on a dance floor and Lex's curious fingers, stroking ever lower underneath the waist of Clark's jeans even as their bodies rub together.

Raw, he decides is the right word, but he doesn't get to process it because Lex is pulling away all of a sudden, looking at him like he's starving. He says, hoarsely, lips kissed-red, "Back." Clark nods and Lex starts off into the crowd. Clark figures everyone in the club knows where they are going and what they might do there but Lex said "No consequences," and it's a very good lie.

So Clark just stumbles after Lex and slams into him hard -- God, just right -- when Lex shoves open a door to the back alleyway of the club and turns back around to face Clark, eyes dark like all kinds of desire.

And then they are dancing again, this time to the faint pounding techno from inside and the ambient street noises as cars and people walk by. Clark wonders if anyone else can see this, see the sparks flying outward from them and the next thing he knows, Lex has flipped them and Clark is pressed against the cold bricks and Lex has one hand at the buttonfly of Clark's jeans.

Clark thinks that he should probably say no, but he's too occupied with moaning into Lex's mouth as one skilled hand slips into the denim.

"Lex."

He wants to be as high as Lex is. This is the attraction, he's getting it. Nothing to do with inside, everything to do with deniability. When you can say, it wasn't me.

Red let him. This won't. Lex bites his jaw, hard, licking after like a cat. "Lex."

"Don't tell me to stop."

"Get me drunk."

It's instant. When this happens, this -- this connection, and Clark had forgotten how Lex could read him, would read him, when he looked close, and God, it's been too long since he has. When Lex steps back, a slow, single nod, and he understands, thank God, they both need it this way. Fingers in his hair, pulling him down into a hard kiss, then pulling back to stare up at him in something so close to approval it almost hurts.

So Lex pulls away and Clark almost shivers from the gust of air that fills the space between them.

But it doesn't last long because Lex holds out his hand and they're moving together again, through the side door, through the raving crowd.

And they're outside again, emerging on the same street that Lex parked -- badly -- the Ferrari. Lex is fumbling through his pocket for the keys and Clark can see the sheen of sweat on Lex's brow and head. It's taking a lot of effort not to reach over and lick him.

Instead, they slip into the bucket seats and Clark feels the leather mold around him like a prelude. Get comfortable, he thinks it's saying.

Clark can do that, all he has to do is ride this adrenaline high until he can ride an artificial one. Jesus, why did he throw away the weed?

He doesn't have to worry about it long because the first stoplight they come to Lex grabs him and pulls him in for a scorching kiss, one that has Clark seriously, seriously wondering why people don't do this all the time, or why Lex isn't constantly being molested by everyone around. Because his tongue is extremely clever and stroking Clark's mouth, running over the ridges of his teeth and Lex's lips are bruisingly hot. Lex lets his teeth close down over Clark's bottom lip and he bites down hard.

Clark groans and reaches for Lex's shoulder -- only to find the car moving again and Lex too far away.

Clark debates whether or not he'd (a) get arrested, (b) get embarrassed, or (c) get off if he were to just stick his hands down his pants right now, but settles on waiting for the next red light.

"Music," Clark hears himself say, and it's inane, but the silence is bad. Silence is thoughtprovoking and he doesn't even have the cover of Smallville to hide from himself here. Somewhere in the back of his mind is Dad's voice, and Lana's voice, and Jesus, Pete's voice, this Greek chorus of don't and never and can't and shouldn't, but when Lex flicks on the volume, it's all beat and meaningless words, and the hand on his thigh makes him forget even that.

He wants this, like he wants to be normal and wants to be human and wants to be real. Wants to touch and wants to forget and he thinks, somewhere in his head, that Lex might feel that, too.

"Where--?" His voice comes out dry and dusty, like he's never used it. Fingers tracing circles on the inside of his thigh, just enough of a tease to make him want to reach down, pull it up,touch me, Lex, don't let me think, don't let me worry, just make it real.

"Another place I know. Better." And somehow, Lex seems--calmer. Not in control so much as giving it up.

Lex and his places, Clark thinks stupidly. Lex's places always make things happen, so Clark is willing to go with that.

He is starting to understand that he cares too much about the consequences anyway, and how in the grand scheme of things, all that does matter right now is that Lex's hand stays right there, keeps stroking him, and -

The car makes a dramatic left turn, hard enough that Clark hears the screech of tires, and they roll into a parking deck. Lex doesn't bother to explain and Clark doesn't ask, so he just follows Lex out of the car, through the garage, into an elevator, and lets himself get slammed against the elevator wall.

He's pretty sure his elbow left a dent but he also thinks that Lex's tongue is burning a pattern into his neck.

Dark, sucking kisses are being lathed on him, and Lex is now stroking his collarbone with his tongue in time to the rocking of his hips.

Clark remembers walking with a hard on was a problem; it's not a problem right now.

Right now, the problem is standing up, but he doesn't have to worry because Lex has his shoulders pressed so hard against the metal, and Clark is clinging so desperately, that they're staying up through pure force of will.

Desperate, hungry noises come out of his throat and he finally loses patience, grabs the collar of Lex's shirt, and hauls him up to meet him open-mouthed for another kiss, long and dirty and slick-hot with lust. Clark's hands are moving underneath Lex's shirt and he can hear muffled moans -- whose? he doesn't know and doesn't care -- as he dips three fingers beneath the waistband of Lex's pants.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.

And like that, Lex is pulling him, rough, jerky movements, keycard somehow out and ready, pushed into the door, and here's where he could have come that day if Lex hadn't betrayed him to his dad, this is where they would have come, like this, just like this, touching like this and hot like this. Where Clark would have pushed Lex up against the front door and shut it with the weight of his body, captured that gasp inside his mouth and ground up against him, tell him how Jessie looked on her knees and how much he'd like to see Lex the same way.

Like here, like now, like Lex said, no consequences.

When he draws back, swollen, reddened lips, and he can taste blood on his tongue.

He hears, "Come on, come on." Lex has always been the impatient type, so Clark gets half pulled, half shoved into the room until he stumbles, Lex stumbles, and they crash to the floor together, a mess of tangled limbs and damp clothes.

Lex pulls off long enough for Clark to see him clearly: thighs on either side of Clark's hips and he might just die from the mental image alone. Lex is straddling Clark, red-faced with a bittenthrough lip and a promise in his eyes that Clark is going to make him keep or kill himself trying.

"Wait here," Lex says.

Wait? No, that's not computing.

So Clark grabs for Lex's hips but Lex shifts away in time to smirk and say, "Wait. Here."

He disappears for way too long and Clark is desperate, lying on that floor becoming more and more lucid, staring at this ceiling and thinking what the hell's he doing?

A few more seconds along and God Almighty, he'll have buttoned up, zipped up, and straightened out and buried this all beneath a comfortable blanket of lies.

But Lex reemerges with time to spare, a bottle of Absolut in one hand and shot glasses in the other.

"Your wish is my command," Lex said breathily, getting down on his knees and pulling Clark to a sitting position.

Wishes, commands, Clark doesn't question any of it. All he wants is tonight.

And he doesn't want to overthink it.

Deliberate, when he watches Lex take that first shot, mimicking the flick of his wrist, the quick swallow past the burn. Only beer, whatever that pretty neon drink had been in that bar. He'd known then, on instinct. Here, he's working from a model. Lex, who fills both glasses and the second follows with a flush of wet heat and raw sensation up and down his throat, hitting his stomach like a car at sixty miles an hour, all freefall, and his freakish alien heritage that's taken so much away from him never bothered to try and take this.

He remembers drinking with Jessie and remembers how good it felt, and right now, his body's telling him he can stop remembering and just start feeling.

She'd laughed and said, breathe. Lex gets up on his knees and straddles Clark's thighs, long legs folded neatly as he lowers himself, God, pressure but not enough on his cock, Lex hard against his stomach, taking the shot and sealing their mouths together, and it's vodka and Lex, and it's better.

Even better when Clark fumbles his hands between them, tearing off the button, ripping down the zipper, sliding his hands over hot, damp skin, narrow hips he can hold and rock against when Lex feeds him the next drink.

Next taste, this craving, just let the fuck go Clark. And all the voices in his head are silent, even the one of the dead father that haunts him night and day.

The other Clark, the one with the excuse to do this, would have started taking. Pulled Lex down harder, bit more bruises into that flawless throat, pressed fingerprints everywhere he touched. The Clark that Lex hadn't wanted, had walked away from, but this moment of clarity, when Lex throws back his own shot and rocks down, fingers digging into Clark's back when Clark presses his teeth into Lex's throat, this moment maybe means that this one Lex won't walk away from.

That scares him and gets him higher and he's laughing, biting down, grinning when Lex shivers and growls, fingers in his hair, jerking him into a rough kiss, like he can't be hurt. Like neither of them can be.

And it's as true as it's ever been and every bit a lie:

No one can hurt Lex like Clark, and Clark has seen the bruises in Lex's gaze.

No one can hurt Clark -- except for Lex. Twist like a knife and scrape like claws along his thought like the nips of teeth in bright, hot flashes across his brain as Lex is tasting him, taking him in, eating him alive. Lex has always known exactly how to go for the jugular.

It's morbid and there's something wrong with wishing mortality but Lex, busy, wonderful hands tugging Clark's shirt over his head, and then a flick of the wrist and the shirt is gone. Clark never wants it again, just wants hot skin flush to hot skin and to feel breakable.

He's grasping at Lex's collar again, pulling him from his study of Clark's neck to kiss him but it's not going to work this time because Lex doesn't want to play at second base anymore.

So Lex shrugs out of Clark's hold and those same hands shift down, unbuttoning the jeans and slipping inside as he rocks hard against Clark, fucking him through their clothes and through the inhibitions, shattering any chance for surfacing.

This drowning in impossibility, it's too important. If the vodka fails and they turn lucid, Clark is going to find and kill the responsible parties.

But it doesn't happen and Lex's hand is wrapped around his cock, tight and oh-God-so-good and not moving, just considering, and Lex is watching Clark's face and seeing what must be eight kinds of desperation.

Stretching them both to their limit, and Clark won't beg, can't beg, but his mouth's opening, forming the words, "Please, Lex, please" and he gets that shiver and watches the eyes darken to gray, and even that responsibility is taken away when Lex begins to stroke.

Too slow, too hot, Clark's too needy and too desperate, trying to arch into every touch, and Lex is just watching, trapping him on the floor, unable to do anything but breathe, with nothing but that careful touching and the clear, utterly satisfied gaze into his eyes.

Just not caring, and that's hot, too.

Reaching for the bottle, this decadence, a jaded sophisticate that can jack him off and still take a shot without spilling, long throat rippling with the slow swallow, tongue circling the mouth of the bottle before Lex looks at him again. The same man who grins before another drink and feeds it to Clark drop by drop, pushing inside him with his tongue, too fast for Clark to catch. Rubbing the bottle against Clark's overheated face and murmuring something filthy about pretty boys and big beds.

Pulling away and reaching into his own pants and pulling himself out, fuck, cock to cock, nothing between, not even sweat, rough grind of sandpapery sensation that will drive him over the edge any second. Bracing himself on Clark's shoulders so he can grind harder.

Whispers things like "You feel so good, Clark" and "Touch me, Clark" and it's like a command that Clark can't even imagine disobeying. All that skin to touch and taste, the bruises he comes back to lick and suck, gasping, panted breaths and just feeling. Straining on the edge of something that's as terrifying as it is addictive.

Jessie was nothing like this. Not making every inch of skin feel raw and exposed and dirty in a way that makes him never want to be clean again.

"Lex, please--"

"I like to hear you beg. Keep doing it."

Jesus. Please. Yes. Lex. Single syllable words. The only ones his mind can form, the only ones that seem important when he arches and twists and tries to get more, just more, so close, God, and Lex is leaning close, hot breath against his ear, a bite to the lobe that makes him gasp and shake before his voice, rough and jagged and almost cruel, is in his ear.

"And to think," twist of pale, thin, stronger-than-expected hips, the hot slide of denim against wool and cocks against one another brutal and screaming in Clark's mind.

"You wanted," another thrust and Clark knows he's sobbing for it now, vision blurred with sweat that stings his eyes and the large, looming image of Lex, fringed at the edges by night. He's so hot he thinks he might explode and he can't feel his arms, doesn't want to feel his legs and all he knows is the rough, dirty, tight friction that's driving him wild. And it's all so unfair and imprecise because sometimes their cocks rush together and sometimes they miss and Clark wants to wrap his legs around Lex's middle and just fuck up against him, into him.

"To go home," Lex finishes, and bites down hard on the spot right behind Clark's ear.

Clark's shouting and he's on the edge, so close to orgasm and he's never lasted this long before. But it's never been Lex before and the vodka is making him woozy, beautiful and dizzy and everything is so dark and hot and Jesus God please fuck me good and liquid, swimming all around him. His brain has melted and he's really happy about that, happy to be trapped here, and 
-
Christ! -- with his hands grasping Lex's hips so hard he knows that there'll be bruises -- his -- later and later doesn't matter.

"Please," he manages with a gasp. "Please."

Tomorrow doesn't matter and neither does the day after. Morning won't ever come and night won't end and even as this moment fades away it will always be this moment because Clark can't bear for it to be anything else other than this: this feeling of Lex's cock and Lex's tongue and the rough edge of carpet burning against his shoulder blades and the tension that burns into every inch of his body

It's never been this good and it won't ever be again so he's just got to live in this moment forever.

But Lex grunts and slides one hand away from Clark's tangled hair to drift between them and their cocks are hitting every time now, hard and hot and oh God so perfect against one another like that, like that's what Clark's been waiting for his whole life and he never even knew it.

But he's almost there, almost there, and he's tired, terrified, and so high that if he falls even he won't survive.

Distantly, he hears, "Open your eyes."

Clark can't. He can't. All he can do is feel this, ride this, live this.

"Open your eyes," Lex says, this time harder, more desperate. Like he's doing this thing, too.

So Clark moans and does and he meets Lex's gaze.

Lex is breathtaking, shocking, chased out of anything like control, biting his lip and blood smearing his mouth and God, Clark wants to taste it, memorize it, draw it over Lex's skin with his fingers and his tongue. Braced on one arm above him, shocky-hot jerks of their cocks, his hand somehow holding them together and pushing so close that Clark's not even breathing, can't be sure he even knows how anymore.

Staring at him with that intensity that he's missed and didn't even know it, gone for so long he'd almost forgotten what it was like to be Lex's focus, all of it. Forgot how good it felt, forgot how much he liked it, forgot and hated when he didn't get it.

All remembered in a blind haze of sheer lust and he's making sounds that he's never heard before. Dirty little grunts and whimpers and broken, sharp sounds like breaking glass, and then Lex shivers and pushes down hard.

Hard and fast and rough and so good, and something breaks inside him. Huge, hot rush of sensation that's everywhere, he can feel every nerve, every inch of skin, everyplace he's being touched and everyplace he isn't. Chokes out a scream that's some garbled version of Lex's name and comes, God, like he has never done it before, shaking every muscle loose and liquid, hot wetness between them, and Lex doesn't stop, doesn't look away, lip trapped between his teeth and Clark watches dazedly as Lex breaks above him, on him, thick and wet and slick across his chest and stomach and that just makes it dirtier. Better.

Lex, who slowly sits up, shaking, pale and almost glowing. Rubbing it into Clark's skin, everywhere he can reach, marking him in a way that won't ever wash off even if it does. And Clark doesn't dare close his eyes, sucking in slick fingers that taste bitter and sharp, pressing down on his tongue and wishing he could remember how to move.

Wishing more that he never has to again. Lay here, just like this, Lex painting his body with their come and never having to think again.

---

Morning filters in gray and misty.

And Clark knows it logically, intellectually, but all he can feel is how disgusting his pants are, and he doesn't want to know what the sheets look like.

He doesn't even have a blissful moment of unknowing; he snaps awake to instant realization.

He and Lex had sex last night, under the influences of narcotics, liquor, and desperation. He can't see how this can end well.

But last night, he thinks bitterly, blinking the sleep from his eyes and Lex nowhere to be found, he was all about the no consequences. He thinks he told Lex, "There's always consequences," and then Lex lied and said that there weren't. Or something like that.

But he's feeling really numb and...noises are starting to register.

The images sift in, after the realization, and he sees flashes, the two of them locked together on the living room floor.

Come dripping and sticking and being spread all over their chests and Clark remembers thinking that seeing his own come all over Lex's shirt was the hottest thing in the world just as he blacked out to sparks of light behind his eyeballs.

He remembers that he was supposed to be home -- a really long time ago, and how this all started because Lex couldn't say no.

So he looks around the bedroom and feels numb until he rolls out of bed and into the bathroom.

He needs to clean up, and his clothes are ruined and nothing will fit, but he can't care.

He just gets into the enormous shower and peels off his pants, throwing them out and turns on the water hot enough to boil him, if Clark could be broken like that, and lets it sluice down his shoulders, over his hips, and he thinks about hands, fingers, mouth, and teeth, that marked him everywhere.

Everywhere he can't see.

As if simple hot water could erase anything.

Picking up the soap, he begins to wash, moving too fast to be human, almost not caring, hating the feel of being inside his own skin. Hating that he hates that he never thought of morning. Hates that he let it happen at all.

Wants it back, all of it, alcohol and Lex and a meaningless fuck on the floor.

He's out of the shower, dripping water on the rug in fine, glistening lines, when the smell hits him, familiar and suffocating, and it's Lex's, God, he smells like Lex, fine and subtle all over his skin. Like if he couldn't be marked one way, he has to be marked another.

Jesus. Leaning into the shower door, Clark shuts his eyes, hands shaking fists at his sides. Breathe. Calm. One night. Nothing changes, nothing unless he chooses, and he's done more and worse and looked into their eyes after and pretended everything was okay. It's his gift, comes with the territory, blank expression and puzzled smile, and when he looks up, the mask that stares back at him scares him even more.

It should be harder to look like this much of a lie, with Lex's scent coating his skin.

There's a towel in the cabinet, thick and fluffy, and he dries off, wrapping it securely around his waist as he listens at the door. No sounds, no one in there--say it, no Lex in there--and walks out, glancing at the open blinds to the drizzly gray day outside. Outer world matching the inner weather. Just fucking great.

Some part of his brain, the logical pieces that he drank into oblivion the night before, is telling him that there are very simple things that he needs to do.

He needs to find some pants and a shirt. And then he needs to call his folks and get home, as soon as the fuck possible, because he's pretty sure he's grounded until he dies.

Possibly, several years into death, if they find out why he didn't come home last night.

But that's all secondary because the first thing on that list -- "I like it when you beg, Clark" -- is to find some pants and -- "Keep doing it" -- stop fucking thinking about the night before.

The sick thing, he reflects, stalking around a closet as big as his room back home, is that he can still smell Lex, see the way his eyes were dark and misty and burning hot. For him. For Clark. No one has ever looked at him like that before and Clark has this horrible, sinking feeling that no one ever will. Because Lex is the only person who can make that expression, who can rule him with a gaze, and Lex is marked, claimed, someone else's.

But it's Clark's fingerprints on Lex's hips, Clark thinks suddenly, darkly, viciously. Mine.

He grabs a pair of jeans and then some slacks and none of them fit. Lex is so fucking thin. You'd never think he was strong enough to screw Clark into the floor.

He gives up, finds some sweatpants and a t-shirt, and puts them on. He tries not to look at himself in the mirror as he walks out of the bedroom but it doesn't work. Clark doesn't scar, he doesn't mark, there's no way that he can be sex-bruised, but he feels it. Every kiss, every bit, it's showing up on his skin like an overlay of guilt. It's all yelling, "Look what you got! Look what you did! All because you couldn't wait. All because you listened to Lex -- he was out of his mind, you know." He's leaving when he looks at his mouth, and it seems -- still swollen. The voice adds, "And you mean nothing."

Lex isn't in view anywhere, and Clark isn't sure if he's relieved or not. Huge place, he thinks, blinking a little as he turns in a slow circle. Lex could be anywhere in here. Someone, however, opened the blinds on the big living room window, soaking the room in faint gray light, and beyond it, Metropolis still seems to sleep.

God, he wishes he was. Still curled in sweat-stained, soiled clothing on sticky sheets, body memory reminding him of the shape of Lex's hip beneath his hands, the way he'd held on every time the slim body had shifted away in the night. Even fainter memories of fingers stroking his hair, curling into it without thought, animal-pleased with the shared warmth.

The place on the floor is clean. Clark finds himself mesmerized by that spot, sixteen inches from the coffee table, just off center of the rug that last night had been nothing but many shades of gray. Soft patterns of swirled tans and greens and creams all mixed together. Slowly, he kneels, touching the woven cloth with one hand, coming away dry and clean. No vodka, no Clark, no Lex, no--come. No memories except the ones he carries.

"Good, you're up."

He's still a small town kid, even now--a little jump, losing his balance as he pushes himself up, turning to see Lex, cool and calm only feet away. No shoes -- explains the quiet -- elegant silk socks and straight black pants, a pullover the color of the day outside. Hiding nothing at all on skin like parchment, where Clark wrote with fingers and mouth, but it's like Lex doesn't even notice. Like there's nothing to hide. Like anyone, anyone at all, could see him and he doesn't even care.

"I have to get back." Clark stares the length of polished wood, fixing around knee level. "I've got to--"

"We can't." Clark can hear the shrug in Lex's voice. "Apparently, the current weather situation has shut down a few major freeways." It's a huge effort, but Clark forces his gaze up, trying to read something in Lex's face. Anything. "The phone is over there. Feel free to avail yourself of whatever you want to use." A slow, precise turn, and Lex pads away, leaving Clark alone.

And an entire, unfamiliar penthouse is stretched out around him.

Clark stares at the phone and shudders at the very thought. No way in hell. He's not ready.

He feels like he's in one of those horrible movies: nowhere to go; no way to do it; and no one he can call.

Only that's not true at all. He could go home, and his parents might not kill him immediately. He can just run home, but that would take too much explanation. And the phone's right there. But...

So he sucks it up, looks around himself, fists his hands and follows Lex wherever he went.

He steps over the spot on the carpet because even if Lex doesn't think it's a big deal, it is one, and Clark just -- he doesn't work like Lex does.

He's not really noticing his surroundings, and he should, because he's been looking for excuses to see the penthouse for ages. For whatever reason, every time the chance comes up, it goes away just as fast: emergencies at home; fights; or maybe Lex had a new girlfriend in town that wanted some alone time. He's here now, and today? He is the girlfriend. Sort of.

But he's really not registering anything except that the walls are the softest charcoal gray he's ever seen, and then his feet hit cold tile.

He looks up, blinking, to see a steel and mahogany kitchen, something out of House and Garden magazines, if they were more upscale.

Lex is standing at the sink, filling up an empty coffee pot with water, eyes intent on the rising line until it reaches ten cups, and then he shuts the water off. He empties the pot into the coffeemaker, sets the carafe back in its place, and turns it on. This is all so sickeningly mundane that Clark doesn't know what to make of it, or what to do with it. So he sits down at one of chairs at the bar and watches Lex, watches the muscle ripple beneath his pale, bruised skin, and tries not to think how that dark red mark got there, right on Lex's collarbone.

There's only one mug out on the table, and Clark blinks at that.

It takes a few seconds, but it hits him, what's fundamentally wrong:

Lex is...being thoughtless today.

Lex is not, by nature, a sensitive and loving creature, that much Clark knows anyhow. But Lex is always prepared. Be it for guests he doesn't want or stupid small town kids who drop by the mansion and might want to try a glass of this or that, want to take a swim.

Lex has always had the servants put out something for Clark. Get it ready, make him comfortable, make everything right.

Today, Clark looked for clothes on his own, even though he's sure Lex went through that bathroom and closet before he did.

Today, Clark is sitting at a kitchen counter in Metropolis, no more than ten yards away from where he got fucked the night before, staring at the man who did it and who hasn't gotten him a coffee mug, and he thinks this is all going to come crashing down around him.

Clark is not blinking away tears, they just won't come.

Nothing is sinking in, and he feels like he's drowning anyway.

It's something, though, when Lex turns around and there's a second of pure shock. A twist of rich satisfaction when one long fingered hand closes over the edge of the counter, like Lex didn't expect this at all. A single blink, tightness everywhere, and then Lex is Lex again, this other Lex, the one that once upon a time threw him out of the castle and tried to destroy his friends.

Yes, that one, and Clark holds the cool gaze, and it's more than a little something that Lex is the first to look away.

"Coffee?"

Clark leans his elbows into the fine grain of the pale wood tabletop. "Sure."

That Lex isn't familiar with the room is obvious with every movement--the scan of the cabinets with narrowed eyes, the way he moves slowly, like he's not entirely sure what he'll find, but another cup appears and is placed on the table, and Clark turns his gaze down to stare at the purple ceramic while Lex leans into the counter and tries to look like dead silence is perfectly natural.

Hell, maybe it is. The man lived with Lionel Luthor all his life, and Clark can't be sure what kind of conditioning Lex could have brought out of that.

Clark wraps his fingers around the mug and he feels it smooth and seamless in his hands. He turns it over and sees it emblazoned with the stylish "LexCorp" logo that he remembers Lex telling him about so proudly not so long ago. Before Lionel took the company and before Lucas and before last night. Before. Before is one large, nebulous time now. There is Before Fuck, and After Fuck.

They sit silently while they wait for the coffee to perk, and it's probably the worst seven and a half minutes of Clark's life.

Just the dripping, drizzling sound of coffee hissing and popping to the sound of rain on Metropolis. Somewhere in the penthouse, there must be a computer turned on because Clark can hear the faint, clicking noises that he automatically associates with a CPU. Lex doesn't say anything, just breathes in and out intently as he stares at the coffeemaker, like it has all the answers.

The tension is palpable, and Clark's pretty sure no knife would be able to cut through it.

So he just strokes the side of his mug and watches Lex watch the coffeemaker and wonders if either of them are ever going to say anything at all about this.

"Helen called this morning."

Oh, well. Not exactly about this.

Clark doesn't break the ceramic, but it's a near thing. He forgot about that.

He says, "Oh." There is a long silence. "How is she?" he asks, because he really can't think of anything else.

He was wrong. This is the worst moment of his life.

It's one thing to wake up debauched and disgusted with yourself, haunted and not really sure if it was consenting when one party was stoned out of their mind and the other asked to be made that way so that the wrongdirtybad could happen.

It's another to be sitting stewing in the ugly consequences and hearing your best friend -- or exbest friend -- talk about the fiancee that you forced him to betray.

"She's okay," Lex says lightly. He takes the carafe out of the coffee maker. "She says we have to talk."

Lex turns around and pours Clark's mug full first, forever the gentleman. "Cream and sugar?"

"No thanks." Surreal, that Lex is sitting down now, like it's no big deal, calmly adding cream and sugar, and Clark takes a slow, careful drink, pretending heat can hurt him and pretending this moment doesn't.

"How long will the roads be out?" Clark hears himself ask numbly.

"No estimate yet. You should call your parents." Lex, always looking out for the Kentish adults. Fuck it.

Clark hears himself laugh, tries to hide it, but--nothing. Strange, high sound, almost a giggle, like Lana when something hits her in class funny and she just can't help herself. Putting the coffee cup down too hard, hot coffee splashes across his hands and he doesn't even care. "Yeah. That's--that's a great idea."

Lex only looks politely puzzled. "Clark?"

"They-they'll be really understanding." Even to himself, his voice sounds--hysterical. Laughter underneath everything, shaky with no grounding, and he pushes away from the table, feeling his stomach turn over, the coffee slushing uncomfortably. He needs to throw up and he needs to do it now.

"They're probably worried."

That's--even funnier. "And you think this would comfort them?"

Lex's mouth tightens. "I didn't force you to do anything."

No, he hadn't. Not stay in that castle, not get in that car, not drink that drink, not dance with him and touch him and shoot vodka with him and fuck with him. It's never about force, it's always about Lex. Lex, who makes him want to be someone else who can do all that and makes him wish he were the kind that could never do it at all. Just so he'd never feel this way again.

Jessie, who patted him on the cheek with one callused palm and said "You're a good fuck".

He hears Lex stand up, his voice saying something low and meaningless, probably something inane, nothing he cares to hear. He's already moving, knocking the chair aside, catching himself on the counter with one half-closed fist and feeling the give of solid granite when he pushes too hard. But that's what he does--pushes too hard and too fast and wants too much and Jesus, he needs--God. Something not here. Somewhere not here. Last night, before he stopped thinking.

This morning, before he started remembering.

It's totally ridiculous, because the angst is supposed to come after your first time. The people afterward don't matter, do that?

Only Clark can hear snatches of Lex's voice, from before, from afternoons at the castle with the pool table and Warrior Angel comics, and from last night, filthy hot in his ear and like a fuck itself, taking Clark's mind and running it through with all sorts of promises that Clark knew Lex couldn't, wouldn't, and never would be able to keep.

He's leaning against the counter now, he's got his hands braced on the edge and he's looking at his feet, going for balance and failing miserably as the images keep swimming back into his head.

The black, thick crowd of people and neon light from overhead at the club and how it felt, two fingers in Clark's beltloops, pulling him--closer.

The rush of cool air in the alley behind the club and Lex's mouth like a demon, consuming Clark and making him forget all about caring and the other big "C" words, like consequences and consciousness.

How it felt crashing down together, how it felt to have vodka burn down his throat and Lex burn on his tongue and carpet burning his shoulders, and their cocks, burning side by side.

And all of this is a big, ugly lie now.

He can't breathe and he's getting lightheaded even though he knows that he technically can't.

He hears Lex walking away, until footsteps pause, considering. Clark shuts his eyes when Lex says again, "I didn't force you to do anything," like he's trying to convince himself and Clark at the same time.

Only Clark knows that, really well. Clark gets that, clearly.

But what's running through Clark's head is how he forced Lex to do this, or some variation of it.

Because Lex high as a kite on meteor-rock marijuana with a wild look in his eyes didn't know what he was doing and Clark did. Clark knew exactly what he was doing and everything that he wanted when he'd been in that club, against that wall, in the car, and when Lex straddled his hips on that spot on the floor he was begging for it, begging for a reason or an excuse. Something to make it okay, for that night at least.

Got your wish, he thinks hatefully, and then he can't think anymore.

---

There's a massive television in a room he finds by accident, wandering anywhere he can be sure Lex isn't, and that's a lot of space.

Like the castle, too many rooms that don't seem to have much in the way of use, no stamp of Lex's personality anywhere in sight. This room's no different--stereo that's never used, a television that was probably removed from its box and never touched since. Flawless leather couch, wide and deep, and overhead lights like spotlights positioned for least glare on the screen. Spartan and strangely bare, a huge room that feels empty, but Clark knows how that feels.

A few minutes of fumbling among remote controls on the viciously bare coffee table, and Clark finds one that switches the television on. He doesn't bother with lights, and right, it's the height of drama, to sit in a dark room watching television and sulking, so very teenaged it makes him vaguely sick.

You're a good fuck, Jessie had said, still flushed, still with him inside her, still trembling and sweaty and smelling of beer and him. Panting from swollen, smeared lips, eyes drowsy and dark. And numbly, he guesses she was right.

He keeps the volume almost off--some stupid urge to be quiet, hide, not be found, let Lex think he wandered off and walked home or something. Stretches out on the couch, wincing at sore places that don't exist but should, remembering how Jessie had limped when he let her down, knees almost buckling and making him laugh. Arm curled up under his head, and God, he feels too young and too old at the same time.

The screen's a riot of color--he can't settle enough to stay on any station too long, everyone's huge and bright and bigger than life, smiling people, laughing people, unhappy people, cut with mundane commercials about cleaning products and soap and shampoo. Every breath, he can smell Lex still on his skin, like this is something he'll never be able to wash off. Like some cosmic version of fair, that Lex gets the bruises, but he gets the body memory.

He's hated Lex a lot of times, but never the way he hates himself.

The screaming technicolor of the high definition TV pauses in conjunction with a low, low moan. Clark drops the remote and as he's fumbling around for it, he looks up long enough to note what's actually happening on the TV.

Three girls, enormously large and really unnaturally round breasts pressed together as they're kissing each other and Clark can tell right now that it's not real.

Real is messy, and not everyone is perfectly tanned.

But he's fascinated because they seem to be chanting, seem to be really into this, and he should be, too. If he were into this sort of thing, then last night wouldn't have been a problem. Best friend drags you out on dance floor for some hot, gay seduction?

Only Clark's not like that at all, he's finding.

Clark's as twisted and dirty as any of the girls on that TV, the only difference is that they're being paid. Clark's a slut all on his own.

The world seems to bottom out on his brain and all he can think is that word: slut.

After all, his first time, that one he wanted to have with Lana so long ago, all soft and pink and slow with smiles, was with a girl he'd known for a day. He remembers gasping that he loved her when he came.

And now? Now this. He's destroying friendships and seducing people and wrecking homes left and right.

He's what the little old ladies in church talk about in the back row while the pastor is lecturing about telling falsehoods, only this is not a lie.

It's so stupid it's funny, because who would have thought?

Perpetual loser Kent, a slut after all of that pissing and moaning about never getting laid.

He leaves the TV on and he just stares.

He doesn't know what he should do now.

But he knows what he will do, anyway

He always knows when Lex is watching him, so it's no surprise now to turn his head, see Lex standing at the door. A fumbled finger hits the remote--imagine that, he does have shame. Black screen and the kind of dark he thinks he should get used to.

The outline of Lex reaches for the light switch.

"Don't."

It's a long second of watching the silhouette stand, still and perfectly silent, before the arm slowly slips down, and if Clark were capable of reading anything accurately these days, he'd say it was defeat.

"Clark, you shouldn't sit here in the dark alone. Trust me, it's not -- " A little laugh, strained and bitter. "Never mind. Do you need anything?"

And now he gets polite Lex.

"I'm fine." Lex doesn't move and neither does he. A shift on the couch makes a soft, strangely seductive sound, the bare skin of his feet sliding on the sensuously butter-soft leather. Smooth, like Lex's skin, and he doesn't even realize he's rolled onto his back until he realizes he's looking right into where Lex's face would be if there was any light at all.

Wonders, suddenly, what he looks like, dressed in Lex's clothes on Lex's couch. And chasing behind it, a sickening curiosity, if Lex likes anything he sees.

Lex isn't moving, doesn't even seem to be breathing, so that would argue a yes.

"Clark--"

Deliberately, Clark flicks his finger on the button and the television is on, shocking and bright and God, those girls--but his focus is on the light it throws on Lex's face, eyes wide and dark and--something else.

"I'm entertaining myself."

Lex swallows hard and Clark lets himself watch Lex's Adam's apple bob without trying to pretend he's doing anything else; sluts are allowed to do that.

And he stretches -- just a bit -- on the couch, hears it sigh beneath him like an invitation, before he curls up, pushes himself up so that he's on the couch on his knees, eyes chest-level with Lex's unreadable expression.

"Why do you even have this channel?" Clark asks quietly, the girls in the background getting louder. One of them yells something incredibly dirty and Clark flashes back to last night, when it wasn't dirty at all, when it was just right.

Lex blinks twice before he shrugs, tight in the shoulders. "It comes with the premium package."

Clark can't help but to smile at that, just like Lex. "Everything top of the line," he whispers.

Lex has this thing about toys.

It's obvious. In the shiny new cars of ridiculous value and negligible worth that appear in Smallville every few weeks, like Lex gets sick of each one as the new car smell fades or he sees a better one in a catalogue. He makes the call, and soon enough, he's screaming down Main in something else that makes the male population of Smallville drop to their knees in awe.

It's all in the gadgets, how Lex seems to have a new palm pilot every month to go with the new cell phone. Last week, Lex spent an hour trying to convince Clark to let Lex buy him one of those camera phones. Just so Lex could send someone pictures and not have the access wasted.

It's all in the women, until recently. Lex has always had "company" on the weekend, always discreet, but astoundingly beautiful company

Gorgeous girls with legs up to their breasts, large eyes, shiny hair, open minds.

Clark doesn't ask too many questions and he pretends not to see the stray bruises and scratches. He's not supposed to be looking.

But that changes now, since the bruises and scratches are his, and Clark is the new toy.

He doesn't even get to be mad, because he made the decision. Lex didn't buy this one; Clark volunteered. So he'll do it again. He's tired, and he doesn't want to think, and all he really needs to do is get out of his own head any way he can.

"Luthors always get the best," Lex says automatically, like a reflex, and he's staring at Clark too hard now.

Clark doesn't say anything, just leans closer, lets himself slide against the leather in a way that he knows must make him look like a five-dollar trick. "What about me?" he asks.

Lex pales immediately. "Jesus --Clark!"

But he's not letting this one go, so Clark crawls off the couch and takes four big steps closer until they're face to face again, nose to nose, hot breaths on each other's skin and Clark's already sold himself, ruined everything, so he might as well go down screaming, right?

"What about me?"

Lex opens his mouth, and Clark realizes he can't stand to hear it. Not if Lex lies, not if he tells the truth. No -- especially if he tells the truth. Leaning forward, those long inches that go by too slowly, give Lex too much time, he's finally, God, touching him. Soft, so soft, even now, even when Lex pushes him back but not like he means it, palms lingering on his shoulders and fingers pressing into his skin.

"Clark." It's breathed, like regret, and Clark thinks he understands.

It's okay, he wants to say, but Lex is leaning into the doorway and isn't trying to get away. It's okay, he'd say if he could, if he wasn't mouthing warm, silky skin that smells of soap and a hint of the coffee they drank that morning. It's okay, Lex, you can do this because we both know what I did and that makes anything okay from now on.

Don't think, he tells himself, and shuts his eyes, breathing Lex in. Fingers tangling in his hair and a hand on the small of his back, pulling him up into a slow, sweet kiss that sucks away everything but feeling. Close and touching and whispers of air against his mouth, and then Lex pushes him -- back one step, then two, but God, good, he's following, until the thick, soft leather is under Clark's back and Lex is licking into his mouth, slow and easy, a first-time kiss they never had.

Like this is supposed to be more than something cheap and dirty, and Clark wonders if this is Lex's way of saying he understands.

His cock doesn't care -- never did, not about people or things, just this. Warmth and pressure and heat and the thigh between his legs that he can push into, breathes out relief at the feeling. Strong hands cupping his face, like everything in the world's concentrated on their mouths, every slow, silky lick and soft suck.

The first time he ever did this, Clark wanted to shout, laugh, scream and keep on forever, because hell -- it was sex, and he's a guy, and Jessie was hot.

All emotional trauma notwithstanding.

Last night, he wanted to bite down on Lex's shoulder and fly off into a million pieces. And even though now he knows he was wrong, that he took advantage and that he turned himself into a slut because he couldn't get it together enough to not fuck his best friend and ruin their lives, he can't say that it wasn't...different, good, better than words or chocolate or want. Maybe because it was so wrong in every way.

This time, Clark feels like he's going to start crying.

He's swallowing back great, heaving sobs for what he was and what Lex was and what this used to be because he broke it all as Lex's fingers seek purchase underneath his shirt, start sliding up in that oh-so-good way that makes Clark shudder even though he's so disgusted with himself, with what he's doing, with what he'll keep doing anyway.

This is all he's good for anymore.

And Lex jerks back suddenly, like he's been burned, eyes wild with fear and regret and a thousand other things that didn't register the night before. "Wait -- Clark -- "

"No," Clark insists, pulling him back down. "No."

"Clark. Wait."

And God, Lex is pulling away, how did that happen? No. No. No thinking, no wondering, nothing but this, but them, right now, fuck everything else. Arching, just enough, the softest brush of cock on cock, and Lex trembles, eyes shut tight, hands grasping at the leather, and Clark slides a hand down, across flawless dark cloth, cupping the hard length, strange pleas forming in his head, but his mouth already knows the one that works best, works always. Lex said it himself. "Please, Lex."

Please, and even to himself, he sounds sexy, rough and hot and needy, and Lex makes a sound that's muffled by Clark's mouth, thrusting his tongue inside, no finesse at all: it's last night all over again. Rough fingers in his hair, pulling his head back, arching his throat for Lex's mouth, shivering for every touch. He'd let Lex do this to him forever if he had any choice at all. Just touch, taste, feel, senses fully engaged, nothing else in the world.

Eyes open on naked women, too slick and too perfect to be doing anything this real and this dirty. This good.

The kisses that he sees now, in between blurs of sensation, are so artful, so clean and so perfect. And for it to be real it's got to be messy, and hot, and not everything works perfectly.

Suddenly, he can't watch the screen anymore, that's--too far from what's happening. Probably some ridiculous plot about a pizza boy or the mailman; no one talks about fucking over, fucking up, fucking your best friend because you've wanted it so long you were willing to do anything, pretend anything, to get anything.

No one talks about being a slut in anything but abstract terms. Clark's seen porn before, and the sigh of "Jesus, you're such a hot slut" as the girl sinks down on one pointless, faceless, meaningless cock or another means something completely different when it's unspoken, when it's Clark and Lex and it's their morning after.

This wasn't the way that any of this was supposed to happen.

All Clark wanted was a drug free America.

Right now, Lex is his drug of choice, and Clark is making that very clear. His hands are pulling Lex down, until there's a thump and a shift and the grinding pressure of their two cocks together gets heavier as Lex collapses on top of him, boneless and strung as tight as a wire all at the same time, grinding them down into the couch even as the TV gets louder and louder.

Clark sucks on Lex's tongue, strokes his sides, starts pulling off the shirt and fumbling with Lex's pants, having a hard time deciding between the two as Lex just grabs the waist of Clark's sweatpants and jerks them down, over Clark's hips, and they're some sort of macabre gay porn film gone horribly wrong. Someone's going to fall off the couch; the director will call cut, and then Clark will wake up and none of this will have ever happened.

But that doesn't come true and suddenly, Clark gets angry, flips them over so that Lex is on the bottom, breathless and wide-eyed and flushed, pupils dilated in shock as Clark slides down his body, kisses down the length of exposed abdomen, Lex's shirt rucked up to the chest. Clark swirls his tongue at the dip between Lex's hipbones, wonders if Helen ever did that, tasted and just took it all in.

"Jesus, Clark." It's whispered like some kind of prayer, and Clark chokes on a laugh, tongue chasing salt and slickness, pulling the pants down and off, boxers an afterthought that float to the floor like a memory of regret. Lex, hard and pale and fucking gorgeous, spread out here, for Clark, under him, shuddering and sweating and wanting and Clark wants to give it to him. Eyes wide open, holding shocky blue when he leans down and sucks the head of Lex's cock into his mouth.

He needs both hands to hold Lex down, the instinctive arch that pushes Lex farther into his mouth, strange strange, being filled like this, completely unfamiliar. Bumping gently into the back of his throat, Lex gasping, both hands buried in his hair, wanting more and obviously not sure what to do about it.

Like some bad joke about blowjobs, but there's Jessie, who did this, and he remembers watching and petting her hair, liking how she made him feel, pretty pet, he thinks viciously, and goes down, past the instinctive need to gag, swallowing down surprise at the stretch, all worth it when Lex yells something that's some garbled version of Clark's name.

"Yes. Like that." Whispered into the air, and Clark comes up, breathing through his nose, pushing against the hands on his head, make me, Lex, do it, make me take it, please, and he licks along the prominent vein, coming back up to slide his tongue around the tip, listening for every bitten off curse and feeling every shiver. Marking them like bookmarks on flesh, Lex likes it when he licks just under the head and shudders when Clark sucks just the tip. Going down again is a new lesson in wonder, because he had no idea it was like this. No idea he could do this to someone.

Looking up just enough to meet those eyes before sliding up and going back down, swallowing hard, taking all of him, mouth pressed to the base and he's shaking.

God, this is good.

And Lex is just talking nonsense now, which Clark is okay with, because everything that Lex is trying to say he's saying with those choked, dangerous little noises.

All he needs in the desperate, upward rush of hips and hands in Clark's hair, pushing and tangled and how Lex's cock keeps bumping into the back of his throat, past that, deeper still until Clark thinks he's going to throw up and then he doesn't. 'Til he's just filled to the brim with unthinking action and he does what his body tells him.

It's all blurring together and he's breathing hard now, sucking and stroking and licking and he wraps one hand around the base of Lex's cock so he can make those filthy, wrong, horrible little sounds that are coming out of Lex's throat come a little louder.

In no time at all, he's staring back up again, and Lex is staring back down, blue meeting green eyes and the moment is electric so Clark takes it all in, to commemorate the occasion, feels the pulse of Lex burning down into his throat and he wonders if Jessie felt this, if those girls on the TV, still moaning and screaming and riding feel this too -- lack of control, loss of orientation, total surrender, and the cheap fabric of cotton rubbing against his skin like a grating reminder.

He made all the wrong choices twice now, and this is the end result.

But he can't...regret it, exactly, because Lex is yelling something indecipherable at the top of his lungs and shoving Clark's face down and fucking up hard enough so that Clark is choking this time, fighting to breathe and swallow and he can feel his throat convulsing around Lex's cock as it jerks, twitches, and starts spilling salt-bitter come down his throat.

There is a moment of profound silence, and Clark knows it's stupid, but it feels like something big should happen here.

Angels, choir, maybe a band bursting into tremulous song.

Whatever, that's all wrong and bad since he's still got Lex's cock in his mouth; musical accompaniment can't do anything but make him die from embarrassment faster.

But what are you embarrassed about, a voice in his head asks, and Clark hears Lex's uneven breathing soften in the background, you're already letting yourself act like a whore. Just let go, dumbass.

In a second he's pulling off, licking his mouth and tasting Lex on his tongue.

It's strange to have someone that far inside you, Clark thinks, and sits dumbly, watching Lex sprawled out on the couch, head thrown back. He doesn't even mean that in the sexually perverse way.

It's probably bad timing, but he can't help but think it:

The night before woke up all sorts of things in his head, sleeping demons or dogs or ghosts he doesn't know if he wished had remained locked away. If they'd stayed hidden, he would not be sitting on the far end of a leather couch, mouth tasting like Lex Luthor's come, lips red, face flushed, thoroughly debauched and thinking, Jesus Christ, Lex is beautiful.

On the other hand, his parents wouldn't be going apeshit in Smallville, either.

It's hard to balance these sorts of things when Lex is lifting his head and staring at you with one furrowed brow.

Clark debates smiling, or waving, but makes himself freeze in place before he does anything that will require him to commit seppuku with a meteor rock katana.

There is a long moment before Lex blinks sleepily, and then he seems to awaken all at once.

Clark is still exhaling hard by the time he finds himself laying on his back on the couch, arms and legs akimbo and Lex's eyes dark and deep and hungry like the night sky he's seen before.

Lex's eyes are asking, what are we doing?

But his mouth is on Clark's neck, hot and hard and clever from years of experience, and Clark can't think.

It's like ozone, sinking to ground level, clouding his mind and he's getting lightheaded, whimpering, stroking at Lex's shoulders, grabbing.

One of those long, talented hands he remembers from the night before drifts, and Clark feels like he's drowning again.

The sweatpants are gone; lost somewhere in a hot haze of hard hands and hard mouth. Lex's tongue on his collar, teeth grazing behind like he's leaving a trail to follow later, and Clark grabs for leather, not quite trusting his own strength. Head moving mindlessly against the cushions, and he could be saying things, but he's not sure he wants to know what they are.

A bite on one nipple almost brings him upright, sensation like current flowing beneath his skin, all moving south. More than even need--an ache that spreads through every nerve, and he's begging, arching up, needing pressure, hating Lex every time he pulls away.

Lex, more naked now than most people will ever be, pushing Clark's thighs roughly apart and leaning over him, a tantalizing graze of his stomach against Clark's cock before he pulls back, mouth fastening on Clark's throat, fingers twisting in his hair, forcing his head back farther. As if Clark would resist. As if Clark could even comprehend the possibility of resistance.

"Lex."

A single flash of electric-blue eyes, dark and rich. "You're never going to forget this." Big hands slip down as Lex sits up, fastening beneath his thighs, pushing them up, and Clark blinks, coming up on his elbows as his calves slide helplessly over Lex's shoulders. The pale head ducks, and Clark catches his breath just in time to groan it out at hot-wet feel of Lex's tongue.

Lex, who, God, knows how to use his mouth, agile and fast and hard and soft all at once, tongue slicking behind his balls, sucking into the delicate skin there, invulnerable or not, it's so good it's like pain. Trying to arch, but following the hands that hold his hips, obeying the implicit command in them. Don't move or I'll stop, and the brutal thrust of Lex's tongue is all the motivation Clark needs.

Don't stop. God, don't stop.

So -- God, so different, and he should be embarrassed, but his cock's straining, almost painful, skin stretched too tight and he's so hard he feels like he's never come in his life. And Lex, God, Lex, thrusting into that hole that up until yesterday hadn't been the focus of any part of Clark's attention but now feels like the center of the universe. Slick, liquid tongue chasing in and out, slick rhythm like something musical, whisper soft licks around the edge to make him groan and harder pushes inside that make him feel -- full. Empty. Wet. Tight. Something.

Lex. Dear God, Lex.

Lex, who takes a breath and lifts up, just long enough to meet his eyes, darkly sexual, and Clark bucks, can't help it, even as the strong hands tighten and Lex goes back down. Eating him alive, like he'll never stop, and Clark's chanting words that don't mean anything, pleading and begging and God, he wants, he'll do anything, say anything, be anything, just to have this, keep this, make Lex never stop.

Something else pushing inside -- harder, less flexible, slim, and Clark blinks at the difference, pushing down on, yes, Lex's finger, working him open. Twisting and pressing and that--

"Christ."

That place. Which couldn't exist, he'd never heard of it, but something there. Something bright and white-hot and sweet that makes him push down and plead, and Lex pushes another finger inside, murmuring something into his skin. Like "open up for me" and "take all of it" and the words in this context are the hottest thing Clark's ever heard.

Lex, scissoring those fingers and pushing in another, and Clark wonders how he lived this long without this, without Lex's fingers riding his ass and Lex's mouth biting patterns into his inner thigh. Sucking his balls into his mouth maybe just to make Clark shake, wanting more, wanting everything Lex is thinking and wanting it now.

Clark has seen enough porn and overheard enough private conversations between girls to get that there's this concept of "full." And Clark, in locker rooms, has always gotten the idea of tight.

And now, he's starting to get also that all the girls and boys and porn and books in the world are wrong because this is more than being filled, more than being tight, because Lex's mouth is nipping away and sunbursts are flashing behind his eyes in time to this. He's rocking up into Lex's hand and he can feel Lex's fingers bottoming out, palm hot and tight against the curve of his ass and that wicked, hot tongue tracing out unspeakable patterns along his skin.

He just can't think right -- all he knows for sure is that Lex is marking him, burning him, leaving fingerprints on his thighs and his mouth is creating patterns.

Clark can feel flesh sizzling and he knows that if he looks later --later? if this ends, Clark will die -- there will be dark scorches along his thighs.

And he will stroke them with willing fingertips and think back to this --

Only he won't because suddenly all the light in the universe is drifting away and he's rising, floating, elevating until he's as high as he was last night only more so because Lex's fingers are still stroking him, only harder, faster, now, mouth still teasing, still tasting.

"So fucking hot," he hears, distantly. "Come on, Clark, come for me, come for me. Fuck. So hot."

Clark doesn't know if he wants to listen, but he's also feeling that it's not really his choice either way.

He's fucking desperately into Lex's hand and he doesn't know how no one has any broken fingers yet and he doesn't care because suddenly Lex's fingers, deep inside, twist, curl, and presson some impossible, unreal place and he's feeling Lex's teeth at his throat and he's hearing, "You're beautiful when you're fucked."

And he's coming.

He's yelling and he's twisting and he's bucking desperately and if anyone has a broken finger or eight now it doesn't matter because he can't control himself, he's sobbing for air and losing the fight and he wants to curl up and die or fly off a building or just clutch Lex to him, make this never end.

He comes back down shuddering, spots of black and rainbow floaters in his vision.

And Jesus, he knows it's dark but it's still too bright.

So he reaches out blind and weak and Lex rises up, mouth on his and he can taste himself, taste them together, and he aches all over in the best way possible.

Somewhere, he knows that this was the wrong thing to do.

Somewhere, he cares.

Here, Lex's tongue is in his mouth and he's fading fast.

---

It's -- not sleep. No one sane would call it rest.

An endless drift in and out of reality, gray flashes of television shows and snatches of the news. A blanket had appeared at some point, tucked around him, while Lex in nothing but his tailored trousers slouched on one end of the couch, Clark's head in his lap. Being stroked like some exotic pet, careless and habit.

Soothing, maybe, and Clark wonders if he could live with being kept like this. Fucked and petted and fondled when wanted, ignored when not. Fingers touch his mouth whenever he thinks he might try to speak. Like even Lex knows that any words outside sex will only make things worse.

The traffic mess doesn't seem to be doing much other than making things worse. Heavy drizzle and fog from an early spring hitting a still-cold Metropolis, and Clark slits his eyes open just enough to watch the footage of cars skidding drunkenly on slick roads before shutting them tight.

Breathes in the concentrated smell of sex all around them, almost better than air. Like he could live on this scent alone, have it always, wrapped around his mind like wool and shutting out all traces of rational thought. Rational's overrated anyway.

It's so easy though -- to just lay here.

He thinks, and if he tries, he'll have a panic attack, that if he really examines what has happened in the past forty-eight hours, it might become more three-dimensional.

For the moment, it's all one big show on one large, silver screen; it'll fade as soon as Clark decides to join the real world, and he's not ready yet. He doesn't let himself bury his face in Lex's hip (because that's...not his, really), but he lets himself sigh and melt onto the couch (because at least that has to be public domain) and forces himself not to think of corn, Kansas, or custom-made engagement rings.

Thing is, one day, not far from now, this is all going to impact: the fact that Clark took advantage of his best friend; destroyed his marriage before the marriage happened; ruined his own life; turned himself into a slut; and is now taking it as an alternative to thinking.

For now, he's doing the not thinking thing, and he's okay with that.

He just sighs and feels the thousand-dollar wool shift beneath his head, soft and warm against his skin. He never would have believed that Lex could feel this way before; twenty minutes ago, he wouldn't have believed that Lex could be anything but an angel wreathed in scarlet, tongue licking flames and fingers shattering him.

Right now, Clark almost thinks that Lex is soft.

He doesn't remember this metamorphosis happening. It might have been when Lex was zipping up his pants. These sorts of things happen when you're not paying attention.

This time, Lex's fingers don't drift over his mouth in time, and he says, "It's a nice apartment."

Lex pauses his stroking long enough to register this change. But Lex is resilient. He says, "Thanks." He runs four fingers through Clark's forelocks. "You've never been here before."

Clark nods, and relishes the feeling of warm, sliding flesh just beneath cloth. "Something always came up."

There is a long, long silence that Clark can't decipher. "Didn't this time," Lex says oddly.

Yeah, Clark is thinking. Why is that?

Another shift, and Clark almost moves, but the hand in his hair tightens, holding him in place as Lex reaches for something on the end table. Settling back in the leather, Lex flips the channels again, restless and impatient in every place but his body, and that's kind of like permission, that Lex doesn't move away when Clark rests a hand on his knee.

"Busy," Clark offers into the quiet as Martha Stewart talks about roasts. "All the stuff with--" The wedding. My alien heritage. Also, the entire thing where we don't talk as much.

Jesus. Reality needs to fuck itself. Or at least, stop fucking Clark.

"Hungry?" It's a beautiful segue, something Lex had to have been taught by some hideously expensive etiquette teacher: How To Get Away From Unpleasant Conversation.

"Not really." He thinks he should be, but even the coffee hasn't settled well and he's not entirely sure what will happen if he tries solids. "Just tired." And he is, and it surprises him a little, surprises him even more when Lex's hand stills in his hair.

"Of course you are." Clark would need subterranean gear to figure out everything that's going on beneath the cool surface of Lex's voice. "Go back to bed for a little while. I have some work to finish anyway. With any kind of luck--" a pause to glance at the television, "this will be over in a few hours."

It's not necessarily a command to move, but Clark does anyway, and he has to be imagining that Lex's fingers only reluctantly leave his hair. Lex gets up first, flicking the television off, leaving them in almost perfect darkness, and the rest of the penthouse isn't much better. All silvery-gray and strangely surreal, and it shouldn't be a surprise that Lex leads him back to his bedroom, going into the closet while Clark stands helplessly on the rug, staring out the window until clothes are pressed into his hands. Warm fingers brush his, maybe lingering a second too long, before Lex withdraws. "Get some sleep. I'll wake you when I hear something."

Clark does, but only because this will stop working if he protests.

---

He goes from sleeping to waking in a blink and all that's left of his dream is the one still image of Lex's face, contorted into a disbelieving expression, before it all fades like dust into sunlight, suspended, and then gone.

Clark blinks twice, and realizes what's so terribly out of place today: sunlight.

Farm living has brought him up on a few fundamental principles, one of them being that if you wake up after the sun you're obviously hellbound in a serious way. Clark thinks he learned this before he got toilet trained; he might be wrong, but he's pretty sure he isn't.

But he rolls over in the bed to find that he's wearing a comfortable t-shirt that smells like Lex and boxers that are tight around the waist.

He feels fat for about six point eight seven seconds before he tells himself to stop being such a fucking girl, and that Lex is too skinny anyway.

By the time he sits up, other things are registering -- carefully -- and Clark thinks he might be hearing voices from another room.

It's all jumbled together, but with effort he's got his feet on the floor and he's walking around. Jesus, he's so proud he could cry.

"No, Mrs. Kent," he hears, and his stomach drops to his feet.

Instantly, uncomprehendingly, he wants to rush into that room, wrap his hands around Lex's neck and snap.

And just as quickly, he can't breathe, needs to sit down, close his eyes, and let himself go away before all of this hits him hard.

But Lex keeps saying things like, "No, really, Mrs. Kent. It's no trouble. In fact, it's all my fault."

Crazily, Clark wonders how his parents even know the number of the penthouse before it settles in his brain that he has a shitty memory and he writes everything down. Lex called him from the penthouse (once, a year ago). Clark is stupid.

He wants to go home. But not really. He wants to rewind, but he can't.

He wants to go into the other room and drag Lex away from the phone and forget.

Even if it's for a little while.

Tuning out the voices helps a little -- breathe, calm, no trouble, Mrs. Kent, it's my fault, Mrs. Kent, and your son is a whore, Mrs. Kent.

And let me tell you how many ways that's true.

Going to the window, Clark looks out at the shiny-clean city. Gray receded, though still dark on the horizon. Clark carefully brushes his fingers against the latch, air coming in, and tastes the rain that will drown the city in less than three hours. Farmbred if not farmborn, he's known since he was able to speak English how the weather feels when it's changing.

All upset and bright and confusing, a hot sun with a cold wind to chase it. Like something huge is happening and you had to get ready to move before it hit.

Pulling the window back in, Clark re-latches it and turns around just as the door slides open. Lex comes in, impeccably dressed in different slacks and pale lavender, eyes fixed on the folded newspaper in his hand. The blue eyes travel to the bed and freeze, body following, and there's an almost desperate turn before he finds Clark at the window.

The relaxation wouldn't have been obvious to anyone who hadn't seen Lex come. Several times.

"It looks like we'll be getting back soon after all," Lex says, coming up a very correct few feet behind him. Stepping out of the way, Clark shakes his head, wondering a little at the feeling of vertigo when he opens his mouth.

"Not soon." Feeling Lex come closer, Clark stares at the clouds darkening even farther on the horizon. "Storm."

He can feel Lex stiffen behind him, as if all the air in the room has frozen.

"How long?"

Too long, Clark thinks, taking another step back. "Two hours or less."

A second like this one--hot and bright and cold, and Clark turns enough to see Lex's face. Unreadable, but he feels like he should be able to. Like he's just missing something hugely important. "So we're staying."

Clark closes his eyes at the sound of Lex's voice. "Yeah."

---

Clark remembers that he's got some sort of paper about the Tokugawa era due (and it's not like he even knows what that is) about an hour after Lex stares at him dolefully.

As if staying in a contained space with Clark is tantamount to hurting himself badly.

Clark remembers turning off the TV and saying, "What did you talk about with my mom?"

And Lex, shrugging in the semi-dark and saying, "She thought you'd run away. Wanted to know if you were hiding in Metropolis with me." Clark had winced at the wording; could almost hear the relief in his mother's voice as Lex tells her that yes, her wayward son is in Metropolis, safe and sound with his extremely responsible adult chaperone in what is undoubtedly the best part of the city, where even crimes are committed politely.

He's not going to think too much about laws that were and probably will be broken again in this so-called haven.

"She said not to let you know that she'd called. She's under the impression that you'd run away," Lex said. Eyes curious, he went on, "I told her it was our secret."

Those words, Clark reflects now, mean more than they should.

But that's not important now, because Lex pointed at some encyclopedias and planted himself in front of his laptop about an hour ago, and he's not looking up.

All Clark hears is the furious clacking of keys and all he sees is the concentrated look of irate discipline on Lex's face. Clark still doesn't know what the Tokugawa era is and that's not bothering him like it should. He can't help it. He wonders if sex makes people stupid; it might explain a few things about the football team and the cheerleading team and to some extent the Chess team, only in polar reversal.

Clark flips through a few pages in To-Tz.

He stares at Lex.

He's starting to wonder if maybe school would have been better, anyway.

Maybe misery really does love company. It would at least explain why Lex hasn't run again.

Run away. Well, it could be worse, he thinks, as the book becomes a meaningless series of hieroglyphs that refuse to come together in any meaningful way. Not sure how, exactly, but it could.

Getting up, he abandons the book, padding out of the room in search of the kitchen. It's a bad habit, eating when unhappy, but he figures if that's the only complex he gets out of his adolescence, he's way ahead of the game. And a super metabolism takes care of that one pretty well. Pizza. Chicken. Crackers and peanut butter. His mother's home remedies for all emotional trauma and Clark's one sure bet.

It can't be a good sign that he's staring at the fridge in the hope that it will magically dispense just the right food for the end of the world.

Jesus, Clark thinks, can I be any more of a girl?

But considering what he was doing about four hours ago, he's got zero leverage in the manliness department, and Clark figures that his father is having spontaneous chest pain back at the farm, and he doesn't even know why.

He pulls open the fridge door and just stares.

It's not...totally hopeless, because he recognizes the organic orange juice and soy dream milk.

And he's pretty sure his parents know the folks who make the organic, non-homogenized tofu. But in the, "Did you hear what the freak Jensen is planning on doing next week? Rain dances, rain dances. Brings good chi to his latest batch" sort of way.

Clark's not going to panic, because he's seen Lex eat enormous slabs of beef and grilled cheese sandwiches and his mom's pies and cakes and cookies and everything in Clark's kitchen and the one at the mansion by now.

Somewhere in the Mecca of the bastard child of Wellspring, GNC, and the Fair Trade Federation, there will be something other than TyNant water and -- Dear God -- homemade miso.

Clark is digging through the shelves frantically at this point, terror over the gay thing and the sex thing and the leaving home, molesting best friend, wrecking marriage and destroying chances with Lana thing all fading to oblivion as it really sinks in that Lex has nonfat tofutti rice dreamsicles in his refrigerator but not peanut butter.

He tries to regulate his breathing but he's pretty sure it's not going to work.

He always used to frown at Lex for drinking too much; of course Lex drinks so much, his newly-enlightened brain supplies. I mean, dreamsicles.

"Problem?"

He's beyond rational help and knows it.

"I--" Tofu like a great, grasping beast, reaching out to scare his taste buds and destroy his soul. Peanut butter, chocolate, ice cream, dear God, Fritos and Doritos at this point would be acceptable, anything. "You have peanut butter?"

It sounds stupid. It is stupid. He really doesn't care.

Lex gives him a look of bemused interest and pushes by, looking into the refrigerator like it's the most perfectly normal thing in the world to have--God help them all, is that a bag of leaves?

And someone mislabeled it as salad.

"What do you want?"

A strangely complex question, Clark realizes as Lex leans over. Oh no, this can't be good at all. He forces his eyes back up, coming face to face with what appears to be some kind of weed but he thinks is also called sprouts.

"I was just -- "

Lex half turns to give him an amused look. "Don't worry. This is what my housekeeper eats." Turning back around, Lex surveys the refrigerator, reaching in to poke at something faintly slab-like that Clark would almost swear pokes back. "Very strict vegetarian."

Clark feels himself breathe again. "Oh." And it may say something that his greatest terror now doesn't involve bizarre sex or really, really bad nights, but the fact that he'd had sex with someone who could eat tofu and like it.

"Hmm." Lex steps back, shutting the refrigerator door and surveying the kitchen. "We're going to need food."

Just what Clark was thinking. But - -Lex is -- leaving the room? It's automatic and strange, that Clark follows him, walking through the penthouse that's becoming disturbingly familiar in that way that's going to be even more bizarre once all of this is over. Bedroom. Huh. Lex goes into the closet, and the sounds of shuffling and things moving bring Clark to the door.

"Lex?"

"No one human considers grass food, Clark. I don't care what any nutritionist says."

Yes. Oh God yes. Clark almost sags in relief, only to stare a little blankly as a pile of clothes appear in front of him. "Wha -- "

"Those should fit you."

Uh huh. Because he and Lex are so close in size. Leaning over, Clark picks up the jeans and sweater bundle, going back into the bedroom and laying them carefully onto the bed.

One sweater, green. This is a Clue. One pair of jeans, well worn, too large. Like a Big Clue. And he's not going to think of why Lex would have clothes that he would never wear and could not fit into, but again, his brain has this thing about fucking with him.

"Whose are these?" Clark asks as his head emerges from the neck of the sweater, and really, it's the last question on earth he wants to ask. So of course, he has to ask it.

He hears drawers opening and closing in the next room and he forces himself not to think about how domestic this is. "An old acquaintance's," Lex's voice says.

Clark doesn't bother to hide his snort and he pulls on the jeans as he says, "That what you're calling it?"

There is a long, horrible stillness, and Clark knows that he has gone over that very important, intangible, liquid line between the two of them. By the time he finishes zipping up, freaking out, and coaching himself about not being an ass, and walks back out, Lex is sitting on the edge of his bed, eyes hard. His hands are clenched into fists on his knees and he's wearing a black long-sleeved shirt and worn jeans. He is not as relaxed as his clothes. At all.

And yeah, Clark knows that's his fault. He says, "Sorry, Lex, I didn't -- "

"Dylan," Lex says, springing into action, on his feet, hands uncurled suddenly, face clear. "Dylan Larabee. Freelances for the Daily Planet sometimes." He sifts through his pockets, fingers emerging with one expensive, leather corner of a wallet before tucking it back. "He forgot to pack those when he left."

Clark flushes a dark red and then pales immediately. He feels the sweater against his shoulder and he feels suddenly overwhelmed, suffocated by this new information. Not only did Lex have another -- another man before Clark, Lex kept his clothes. He feels hot and annoyed and dirty all over again, but for all the wrong reasons: everything that has happened so far is one large, ugly mistake, and Clark is not going to add to the tally by feeling jealous.

He smoothes down the cloth over his stomach and tries not to feel hollow, tells himself it's just because he's hungry. "I'm sorry."

Lex starts walking, and they are in the elevator down to the parking lot by the time that Lex says, "You didn't know."

Maybe not, but he could have guessed.

Staring into the ground, Clark follows Lex out, trying to pretend this is any day. Right, so penthouses never happened, and shopping together either, but--it could. And he's thinking about shopping with Lex, who is doubtless taking them someplace where Clark will feel overawed and a little out of place, and he's still thinking about that when Lex stops him at the door.

This moment, where he stares into the bluest eyes he's ever seen and feels--that. A single, painful clench, like being near meteor rock but not really anything close. Like waking up after a bad dream and knowing it's not real. Like the way Lex's mouth tilts up at the corners now, this grin that he's never turned on anyone Clark has ever met, even Helen, the one that says they share secrets that are theirs alone.

A smile Clark hasn't seen in far, far too long, and his mouth answers before his mind can catch up.

The quiet distance lifts like fog in the car. Lex has obviously forgotten that he spent a lot of good time molesting Clark in the car the night before. Clark's not going to remind him or anything, especially since Lex has turned on the radio and is asking Clark about--about what, exactly?"

"The Tokugawa era, Clark," Lex says, looking at him from the corner of one eye. "The reason you turned out my encyclopedias?"

Oh, yes, that. And Clark should mention how surprised he was that Lex owned them at all.

Lex makes a left turn and Clark says, "Oh, yeah. That." He debates whether or not to make up something, but then remembers that Lex knows all of ancient history backward and forward, so he'd only be making it worse. "Yeah, that didn't go so well."

Lex smirks, and the car starts slowing. Clark looks out the window to see a familiar grocery logo and blinks in surprise.

Sure, it's scaled-up shopping, with five dollar milk and scrawny chicken for more than Clark can ever remember paying for chicken, but it's not--prohibitive, he thinks, is the word. Clark might actually feel okay walking around here.

The car slides into a spot and the parking lot is mostly deserted. Lex turns off the engine, pockets the keys, and sets the parking break.

He says to Clark, "Anything specific on your mind?"

Clark freezes a moment, staring into large, blue eyes that shift into charcoal gray. He has lots of things on his mind, none of which can be easily explained, but all of which involve Lex. But that's to be expected; Lex is nothing short of extraordinarily complicated. Clark says, "Oh, God, everything."

Lex stares. "I was asking about food," he says quickly. Then he pauses, reconsiders slowly. "But, we could do everything." He looks at Clark for a long time. "You are a teenager."

That hurts for some reason, almost as much as it's embarrassing.

Clark's decided he's going on strike; if he's going to say stupid shit constantly, he wants an equitable wage of breaks. This is obviously not happening.

Getting out, Clark approaches the wide glass doors in something like awe. He's never seen anything like this, and as the doors open, bathing them in cool air that's scented with a thousand different kinds of food, Clark falls hopelessly in love.

It's so damn BIG.

Grabbing a basket, Clark starts walking, following Lex's slow, even footsteps as they start their stalking of the store.

Luckily, Lex spares him any more innuendo, and he has to be imagining that Lex is giving the syrup aisle far too long a look before moving on. Pushing the basket along like the good, dutiful boy he's been on grocery store trips with his mother, Clark surveys the food available.

There's -- a lot of food. And while he's usually pretty oblivious to Lex's wealth, it's hitting him he's in food-nirvana with a man who could, conceivably, buy everything in the store with spare change.

"So. What do you have in mind?"

Clark pulls himself from pure bliss to try and respond. It's English, fairly clear, and completely unanswerable. This is where God shops, and is that fifty kinds of peanut butter?

Stopping short, Clark draws in a slow breath, trying to imagine living in a world where your peanut butter choices are in the two digit range.

"Hmm. Organic, non-salt, no added sugar, fat-free--"

"Lex." Clark pauses, trying to think of a way to steer Lex away from those terrifying words. "Organic farmer, yes. Idiot, no. Real peanut butter."

The smile Lex flashes is so bright that even the visions of peanut butter heaven dissipate. "I stand corrected." Studying the shelves, Lex takes a jar and sets it in the basket. "We need -- something you've never had before."

Well, that would be most of the store. Clark fights the completely wrong urge to ask Lex to have the entire contents of this store delivered to the penthouse.

Lex smiles, and Clark figures that the melting feeling in his stomach could be attributed to something else. "We could blanket-purchase the whole store."

Clark's jaw drops. "Really?" he says, too hopeful.

Lex blinks, almost frowning. "Well, theoretically."

"Oh," Clark says, sheepish. Of course they can't buy this whole store. Stupid. Lex might be rich, but he's not crazy. He looks around to keep himself from blushing directly at Lex's face and says, "How about basics?"

So Lex walks them to the back of the grocery store through the produce. He is talking about how the layout of grocery stores is actually a very precise science, how distributors and managers plan it so that people have to go through all the junk food aisle, frivolous goods aisle, and make it past the enormous display of romance novels ("For bored housewives, Clark," Lex explains) before they can reach the necessities.

Lex has never liked being manipulated, so he walks through the produce aisle and buys grapes (enormous, succulent, and $1.03 a pound) before he takes a hard left and is picking between two and one percent milk.

Clark says that skim tastes like white water and Lex says that he's not drinking whole milk. Clark thinks it's inappropriate to make a fat joke but he really wants to, and especially given that now that he's seen the whole deal, Lex so does not need to be drinking skim milk, anyway.

This is...probably not the typical denouement to a day and a half of unspeakable debauchery and truancy, but Clark is willing to work with it.

Lex is trying to convince Clark that Eggbeaters bear some tiny resemblance to actual eggs when Clark sees it.

It being a clear plastic egg carton.

All he can do is stare and point at the abomination. "What. Is that?" he asks, voice lowered in appropriate horror.

Lex blinks twice, almost puts down the Eggbeaters, and turns to look. He actually stares for a second, like he's trying really hard to see what's wrong with the situation before he turns back to Clark. "Eggs, Clark. Unfertilized chicken progeny?"

Clark could tell Lex a really gross story about the time he cracked open an egg and a halfdeveloped chick was in it, but all he can do is try not to scream over the fact that eggs are being packaged in clear plastic cartons. Hiram Kent is spinning in his grave.

"Natural," Clark counters. Eggs do not come in plastic boxes. "Lex. There are some universal rules here. The sun rises in the east, gravity keeps us on the ground, and eggs come in Styrofoam. Or paper. Not plastic. Ever."

Blue eyes blink at him warily. "It's more efficient."

"No."

Lex shakes his head, abandoning the horror and turning to gaze around the aisle. "So. What do you want for dinner?"

Dinner. "Fried chicken." It slips out of his mouth and into the air, and he almost kicks himself, but Lex's mouth spreads with another wide, pleased grin. "But--I can't cook it."

Lex pats the side of the cart meaningfully. "I can cook, Clark."

And the sky's green. Clark blinks, taking a slow breath. "You can cook."

Lex pauses, frowning a little in thought. "Cookbooks, Clark. Heard of them? Fried chicken it is."

Clark can't wrap his mind around this fact. "You cook," he says dully.

Lex narrows his eyes. "Yes, I do, Clark. I'm a trained chemist, to boot. It's all very similar: mixing elements; heating them; or cooling them; or just letting them combine." Clark does notwant his fried chicken to go in the way of his school chem experiments. "It's not that complicated at all."

"I'm just saying," Clark recovers. "You don't seem like the cooking type."

Lex makes a derisive noise.

"People are obsessed with types, Clark," Lex says, and he is putting those *hideous plastic cartons* into the grocery cart. "

"Easy classification, I guess," Clark says automatically. He's trying not to wrap his hands in the sleeves of the sweater and grab the carton, throw it in the air, and set it on fire before it grows arms and becomes sentient and tries to make Lex father its demon offspring. That could totally happen.

Lex frowns at this, and they are moving again, toward the bread aisle and there's a girl watching them when she's not glaring at two different kinds of wheat bread.

"That's exactly the problem," Lex says, fingers running over the rounded edges of loafs in a surprisingly soft way. Nonsexual--well, inasmuch as anything Lex does is nonsexual. "Human classification shouldn't be easy. Everyone has edges. Types make people sloppy."

And the girl is still watching.

Mutant eggs and girls staring at Lex. Clark doesn't like it on so many levels he gets dizzy thinking about it. She's pretty, dark haired and dark eyed, with soft looking pink lips. Tall too. Reminds him of Helen, come to think, and when Lex looks up to flash a grin, Clark watches her blush and look away.

He's not available, Clark wants to say, or maybe, well, yell. And the first thing that pops into his head isn't Lex's nuptials or the engagement or well, anything rational. No, the first thing he thinks is, he's not available because he's with me.

And stupid, stupid, he's reaching across the basket and sliding his hand onto Lex's, and he tells himself it's just to get his attention, but it's really, really not.

It's really, really about the girl who sees that and looks away, busying herself with produce, and Clark waits the eternity for Lex to look at him before slowly removing his hand. "We need butter, you know."

"We're out of butter?"

Hell if Clark knows. Anything to get off this aisle and the girl who dammit, stop looking already.

"We need syrup," Clark says, and Lex blinks, but the cart is, in fact, under the control of one Clark Kent and they're moving. Lex almost trailing behind but not quite, and they're really close for two people who -- apparently, aren't as straight as could have been assumed from their lives to date.

Except for those pesky male lovers that Clark, at the moment, is seriously trying to forget, thank you very much.

"Was there more than one?"

And this is why, in essence, Clark sometimes wishes his alien parents had been just a little more alien and left out this entire tongue thing.

"Kind of syrup?" Lex says incredulous.

Clark wants to say, yes, but he's weighing the embarrassment of being that dumb versus the embarrassment of having asked Lex about his ex-boyfriends in a grocery store because of a horrible case of not-jealousy.

Of course, those breaks that Clark doesn't get don't just change their minds.

It takes a second for Lex to catch on but before Clark can come up with plausible deniability, Lex is saying, "Oh. Well."

Clark throws caution to the wind, like his virginity, and dignity, and sense of self-respect.

"Yeah," he says. He glares at the different sauces and tinned food, looks at the Aunt Jemima and wonders why it's culturally offensive for just a second before deciding that he's not going to buy it anyway. Most of all, he is not thinking about Lex and other men and doing this thing with them: the naked thing on the floor; the kissing; the dancing; the smiling and this had better be Lex's first time shopping for food with another guy.

When Lex doesn't answer Clark turns to look at him in horror, only to find his face a mask of deep concentration, like he's having trouble counting that high.

Oh my God, he probably had sex on the rug right where we did with someone else, too, flashes through Clark's head.

"Oh my God," Clark breathes, and feels like someone just knocked him in the stomach with meteor rock.

"Clark." And it's like the world's shifted, because Lex looks uncomfortable. "You -- the late nineties are a little blurry."

Like triple digits worth of blurry?

Gripping the cart carefully, Clark blots out the images of every pair of hands that might have touched Lex. Or oh God, that he touched. Touched and licked and bit and made come, possibly several times, possibly more than several times, possibly Lex even thought about it while they were fucking, oh God, don't go there.

Because really, he doesn't need more neuroses.

"Besides," Lex continues, falling smoothly back into character as if there'd been no uncertainty at all. "It was casual. A long time ago."

Not so long that Lex hasn't thrown out old boyfriends' clothing for the current -- lover? friend? sex toy? sexual predator? -- to wear, and oh yes, Clark, breathe now.

"Does Helen -- " Know about this? Clark's tongue stops with the easy application of teeth, but it's way too late -- Lex is looking back at him again, completely unreadable and about as approachable as a meteor rock.

"No."

Pushing the cart, Clark watches Lex add this and that to the growing number of items -- plenty to feed them, or a few dozen friends, whichever.

"It was different then."

Clark jerks his gaze up, but Lex is staring at olives with an intense expression. Like maybe they do tricks if you watch carefully or something. "Different?"

There's a lot of secret minefields in their relationship, not even including the most recent that's created entirely new planes of danger, but this has always been one. Clark's got a secret he can't tell; Lex has a past he simply won't.

A past that includes multiple male partners and sex and drugs and a life Clark can't imagine, walking under the wholesome lights of a ridiculously expensive grocery store. Clark tries to imagine it, thinking of Lex last night -- that vivid, unfamiliar, oddly free man who, just for a little while, seemed to forget something. Something that made the sarcastic smiles lose their edge and the slim body relax into music and allow big hands to slide along his hips.

The coolly responsible adult replaced with the kid Lex might have been once upon a time.

Nodding slowly, Clark watches Lex pick up a jar and put it in the cart before moving on, and Clark follows, simply watching the pile accumulate higher every second.

"What -- " Clark stops, taking a breath. "What else are you making?"

Lex smiles, dark like he's laughing at a joke that's too dirty to say out loud. "If I was morbid I'd say 'a lot of mistakes.'"

Clark blinks. "You did say it."

Lex shrugs and sets the jar down again, pushing the cart forward and keeps his eyes focused front and center, like picking out spaghetti sauce is planning a major battle.

"Lex, you did say that out loud," Clark tries again, taking three long strides to catch up and narrows his eyes.

He knows and Lex knows and God knows that there have been a lot of mistakes these past few days but no one involved has been saying that out loud and it's -- different, somehow, worseif you do. Because then it's real. Then you can't say, maybe this wasn't so terrible after all. Then, it's Lex saying that he wishes this never happened, that everything was the same, that Clark was still forgettable.

What's to say you still aren't, a voice in Clark's head asks, almost exasperated. You've been waiting for this since the day you met him. You're just not that interesting.

Clark doesn't have a chance to argue back with himself because Lex says, "I was just being morbid, Clark. Don't read so much into it."

And then Clark does something straight out of romance novels and probably Lifetime, Television for Women. He puts one foot in front of the cart and grab's Lex's wrist; just a pull and Lex is looking at him, whether he wants to or not, and impossibly blue eyes widen in surprise. Clark says, "You're talking about me, Lex."

"I'm talking about maraschino cherries," Lex says smoothly. "The store brand is almost two dollars cheaper. Let go of me, Clark."

But he doesn't miss the way Lex's eyes flicker away, and Clark. Lets go.

There are things you learn, given time. Silence can be more of a weapon than words ever could be, even sharper, and maybe he should thank Lex for that, who uses silences to build walls, break wills, force issues. It's not natural -- Clark uses them to hide, to conceal, but never as offensively, never as deliberately as he does now. With a simple step back and a look away, giving Lex the victory that he doesn't quite think Lex wants.

Lex wants a fight, wants an argument, wants Clark to strike out and give him the excuse to let it stand, and every instinct says yes, do it, and the words are on his tongue, but he bites them back and looks at the endless lines of food to either side. Watching as he walks, focusing all his attention on olives and cans of something not even written in English.

He could be outside and home in the time it takes to breathe a few times, and Lex would probably welcome it. Another way out.

They're in the frozen food aisle when Lex comes to a slow stop.

"Your mother told me to make sure you ate your vegetables," Lex says mildly, as if nothing untoward had happened two aisles over. Clark may be imagining the strain in his voice, just beneath the surface. "Anything you prefer?"

Clark shrugs, keeping his gaze on the floor. "I'm not picky."

The sound of the freezer door opening slides through Clark's thoughts, but he keeps his head down, concentrating on the floor. Bright, strangely glossy tiles. Too -- flawless for a grocery store. Something falls into the basket, and they start moving again.

Clark glances down and comes to a stop.

"Peas?"

He can't conceal the shock in his voice.

Looking up, he sees Lex's smile -- bright, cheerful, and determined as hell. "Aren't they your favorite?"

Son of a bitch. "Who told you -- "

Lex shrugs, like it's completely unimportant. "Something your mother said once."

Reaching down, Lex pulls up the bag, weighing it in his hand. "Peas? Or something you actually like?"

This, Clark thinks, is Lex's way of apologizing, without actually going anywhere near an apology. Brush it away, not having to say, no, I didn't mean you, which is all kinds of complicated, or yes, I did, but I didn't mean it that way, and Lex rarely explains himself and never when he doesn't have to.

Taking a breath, Clark forces out a smile. He's not going to force this. "Broccoli okay?"

The grin widens. "Fine."

Broccoli is in the basket and they're two more aisles over at the cereal before Clark gets his revenge.

Lex looks appropriately bemused when Clark throws of a box of marshmallow cereal in with the organic broccoli and unnatural eggs. "Clark," he starts, "aren't you a little too old for cereal that changes the color of your milk?"

Clark smiles and keeps walking, keeping ahead of the cart. "I want it for the toy surprise," he says innocently.

Lex makes a derisive sound. "Which is even more embarrassing."

Clark pivots, pauses, and grins. "Decoder ring, Lex. Very useful, you know," he says, and starts walking again.

The total lack of motion from behind him is utterly gratifying.

He slows down near the end of the aisle, long enough for him to hear the squeaking wheels of a grocery cart follow up and he's not going to laugh at the mental image of Lex fighting his temper and huffing to himself as he shoves around a green grocery cart. He's already in enough trouble right now, he knows, but he's going to giggle. He really is.

"I think you've been spending too much time with my father," Lex says casually, smacking Clark in the shoulder none-too-gently as he pushes the cart past and toward the deli.

Clark smirks. Direct hit. "Or not. Maybe you're just rubbing off on me," he says, and stares at all the ham.

Lex smirks and looks at the glass counter, hands in his pockets casually. "Someone could take that the wrong way, you know," Lex says, quietly, almost normally, and Clark flashes back to lazy afternoons at the mansion. Before all of this happened. And so does Lex, apparently, because in a flash, all that careless ordinariness is filed away and he's tightening his fingers around the handle of the grocery cart again. "Pick whatever you like, Clark."

Clark wants to say something about how he likes the way Lex was talking, just a second ago, but he knows that Lex isn't in the mood and they're still on shaky ground.

So instead, Clark gets a pound of prosciutto and some roast beef and puts it in the cart next to the decoder ring.

He's been in ten years of English classes, and even he can't find a parable in that.

The remainder of the shopping goes relatively smoothly, with Lex picking this and that almost at random, and the bagboy carrying the stuff out is kind of different, since Clark's used to doing that himself. Lex seems a little off, blue eyes flicking to Clark every so often, like he's still trying to work out something.

"What I said -- "

Clark feels every nerve tense and almost lunges for the door. "Don't."

Over the top of the car, Clark can see Lex's expression, as cloudy as the sky above. He's offbalance, and Lex off-balance is so rare and so unpredictable. "We need to get back unless you really like to drive in pouring rain," Clark says, almost desperately. Let it go, Lex. I don't want to know. Because I think I already do.

After a second, Lex seems to nod, unlocking the door, and then Clark slides inside, sinking into warm leather, pushing aside memory and feeling.

Just -- don't think. So much easier that way, and well, it's worked so far, hasn't it?

The silence is only vaguely comfortable as Lex starts the car, and Clark leans back, closing his eyes, but vivid memories keep pushing themselves into the front of his mind. Mistakes. Not just one now, but another one, and maybe he could have worked himself into excusing the first, but the one on the couch --

That one.

"I told your mother that you'd call and talk to her tonight," Lex says, and maybe it says something really bizarre that his mom is the method of two segues in conversation so far today. Clark nods, head resting against the seat. "Just so she knows you're okay."

"I will."

"You shouldn't -- " Lex stops, and Clark can almost see him grinding his teeth. Shouldn't what, Lex? Run out in the middle of the evening with my best friend who is high? Go out with him and then go back to his place and get very drunk? Nail him on the floor after and not go home?

"I know." Clark's voice is almost a whisper. "She's -- been tense. I didn't want to worry her." Though seeing him would have probably been worse, and maybe it's good he's still here. He might not have been able to resist telling -- something. To someone. Anyone.

"Yeah." Lex's voice is even lower.

"What -- did Helen say?"

Clark can feel Lex tense, and remembers that of all things, he certainly doesn't have any right to ask about Lex's personal life anymore. None at all. "Sorry. Never mind."

Lex's shoulders don't loosen but the engine starts, and they are at a red light about four blocks away from Lex's building when they hear the first roll of thunder.

It's a split second later when rain pours down like a waterfall and Lex turns on the windshield wipers, not that it helps the situation any. They drive -- for the first time ever, maybe -- below the speed limit and both of them stay quiet. No one is really interested in hydroplaning, indestructible or not. Lex might be a billionaire, but his car insurance payments are quickly catching up to his net worth.

"Jesus," Lex says, watching the city blur and melt down the windows in annoyance. "When you're right."

Clark can't help but feeling a little proud about that, and the familiar smell of rain seeps into the car, mixing in with the recycled climate-controlled air. He takes a deep breath and feels an involuntary shiver; maybe not so invulnerable, after all. "Grew up on a farm. I heard a lot of stories about the weather."

Lex laughs, softly, and makes a left turn onto a street that they can only assume is still there. The whole world is a silvery-gray blur. "I think that, Clark, might be the only admission that rivals my own childhood for utter boredom."

Clark forces a weak smile to his face and doesn't say anything back. "Did my dad say anything?" he asks suddenly, because he's wanted to know since he found out his mom called and he just hasn't been brave enough so far.

Lex sighs. "Your mom didn't mention anything."

Clark nods and falls silent. Five minutes later, they're pulling into the parking deck and the car is dripping oceans of water.

Lex parks and steps out, pursing his lips at the impressive number of bags that are overflowing in the back seat. Clark is about to say how if they take two trips it'll be okay when Lex motions to someone behind Clark's left shoulder and says, "Yes, hello. I'd like these taken up to the penthouse."

Clark whips around and a middle-aged man smiles politely. "Absolutely, Mr. Luthor. They'll be there in a few minutes."

Lex smiles, tight and false. "Thank you."

Clark follows Lex to the elevator and he doesn't bother to keep his mouth shut or try to act cool. "You can do that?"

Lex actually laughs at this. It's so easy to pretend when they're like this, when there are other people around. Clark thinks that he might be able to do this forever, wear a green sweater and old jeans and pretend they're his -- that if they were, he'd be important enough for Lex to save them even after Clark has gone. Clark thinks that if he does do this forever, that it won't be so bad: nice cars; nice place; never have to carry groceries; and Lex, who is an entirely different and extraordinarily complicated sort of good. One that Clark wants all the same.

In what capacity, Clark knows, is really the only thing in question.

"Sure," Lex finally answers. "You have to be really rich though."

Clark stares. "Really rich."

Lex nods solemnly. "Required number of zeros."

There's a long silence where Clark isn't thinking about anything at all.

As the elevator doors ease close, he asks, "Are you lying, Lex?"

But the bell dings, Lex grins, and metal starts to move.

---

Dinner is fast -- Clark gives him that. And possibly, because cooking gave Lex a reason to be away from him, and Clark obliged as best he could and stayed out of the kitchen.

After dinner is a little trickier.

Lex -- Lex is thinking, and Clark isn't sure what to do with that or how to react. Clearing dishes seems infinitely preferable to any talking they might do, and the phone sits on the counter like the biggest elephant ever, telling him just how lousy a person he really is.

Lex goes to his office, and Clark tries to think of something, anything, to do.

The media room is just not an option.

Going back to the bedroom seems relatively sane--it's not like they had any kind of sex there, and how ironic is that? And it's a strangely comfortable thought, curling up on an unmade bed to clear his mind, and Clark kicks his shoes off and shuts his eyes, knowing nothing like sleep is going to approach, but at least it's quiet and he can pretend.

This -- could be a visit. Just a visit to his friend Lex, who always wanted to show him Metropolis, the world, everything. He came to visit, stayed over because of the storm. Lex laughed at him about Lana and made dinner. Somewhere along the line, Lex worked for awhile and Clark settled down to rest. That's all that could have happened, might have happened; maybe the story he can use in his head until he believes it.

He's good at lies, but not that good. He'll never look into Helen's eyes again and not be able to think about this. He'll watch Lex move on with his life like this doesn't count at all, and hell, to Lex, maybe it doesn't.

A mistake, after all. Stupid, drunken mistake with his friend, Clark, who isn't that great friend anyway, or maybe, just maybe, Lex never would have taken a risk like this in the first place. He had to know things would change, had to know what would happen, and he did it anyway.

He feels Lex at the doorway, feet stopped and quiet in their normal fast pace.

"There's other rooms, Clark," Lex says, and Clark sucks in a surprised breath, instantly sitting up. Just occurring to him that maybe Lex needs somewhere to hide, too. His feet are already on the floor, but he's stopped by--by Lex, moving again, crossing the space between them, slow and almost reluctant, like he's as uncertain as Clark is.

"I'm sorry." Clark mumbles the words. Where are his shoes?

"I was -- "

"Where?" There, at the foot of the bed, and God, he's stupid. Should have found a different bedroom, this is where Lex -- where Lex is with Helen, why would he want Clark in here? Why would he -- "Down the hall, right? I remember looking around this morning and you have a lot of rooms -- "

"Clark -- "

"Did I tell you what a nice place this is?" He's babbling -- silence he can't use, because God knows what Lex is wanting to fill it with, enough that a hand's on his shoulder, trying to make him turn around, and doesn't Lex get it? "Sorry, I'll -- "

"I want you here."

The way Lex says anything is usually halfway between an order and an offer and a challenge.

This time, it sounds like a request. And Clark can only stare stupidly and force himself to blink.

He -- can't quite wrap his brain around this. Lex said (out loud -- in a grocery store, for Christ's sake) that this was a mistake. Lex won't say anything about Helen. Lex treats this whole thing like some sort of horrible dream sequence, with short segues into reality so nobody starves to death. Lex just told him there are more rooms and now is asking him to stay and he *can't do that*, can't give hope and give Clark an excuse to think that maybe this was never a mistake at all.

"But -- this is your room," Clark says blankly.

Lex's thumb strokes down on Clark's shoulder in a circle, warm through the shirt. "And you're my friend."

Jesus, 'cause friends do this. The sex thing. Sure, why the hell not.

Clark doesn't nod. Just says, "Okay."

He's crawling back into bed and closing his eyes, feeling cool sheets against his hot face and thinks that everything is going to go wrong in such a perfect way.

But that's harder to focus on when he hears the thump of shoes falling and then a shift of cloth as the bed depresses next to him. Before he knows it, Clark is smelling Lex instead of Lex on the bedsheets and he leans back -- can't help it, leans in, and he feels Lex's chest against his shoulder blades. Clark is taking deep breaths, gulping in the smell of this bedroom and Lex's cologne and the rain, drawing himself closer and Lex is letting this happen.

In another universe, this might be called spooning.

But here, it's not. Because it's Clark, and Lex, and they're not like that and they won't ever be, and not just because Clark's "not from around here" and Lex is engaged. There're lots of good reasons.

Yeah. Lots.

Around here, it's just called Lex looping one arm over Clark's hip, long, tapered fingers stroking down the side of Clark's abdomen like he's trying to comfort Clark in a way that he can't with words. And they are so close, pressed together inch for inch. Clark has never felt this close to another person before.

Clark uncoils, un-tenses, and melts into the nearest source of heat, lets himself make a soft, tired noise and curl back into Lex and just breathe in and out, like this is allowed or something.

Clark and Lex drift until they sleep, and they'll worry about phone calls and social roles and the bigger picture in the morning.

It's a dreamy kind of sleep, weaving in and out of consciousness smoothly and softly.

He likes it -- vaguely surreal, and no thoughts can penetrate to mar it, not with all this warmth and wonder curled around him, not with Lex so close, so natural. Lex's slow, even breathing against him, and he shouldn't hate Helen for having this every night. Should treasure this instead, pack away the memory carefully.

Nothing wrong with the next drift in, hand covering Lex's on his stomach, and strangely, nothing wrong with Lex's shift, the warm breath against his hair when Lex murmurs something sleepily.

So -- right. In a way that he doesn't quite want to acknowledge, because it could all be pulled away so easily.

With a word -- hell, with the wrong thought, and he comes back to the bed startlingly awake and hating himself for that flutter of Helen across his mind. Because hating other people for the sole reason that you've wronged them is so wrong.

"Clark." It doesn't surprise him Lex is awake--it should, but it doesn't. Possibly felt him tense up, and he prepares for Lex to pull away, but the hand on his stomach just slides beneath his shirt. "The mistake wasn't yours. Just mine."

Shit.

Lex isn't, shouldn't be strong enough to hold him, but just those slow, thoughtful fingers are more powerful than entire walls of kryptonite. Wanting to pull away is great in theory, but he doesn't know how to anymore. Like a day with Lex has changed him, conditioned him somehow, these rare touches that before last night never existed between them given freely now in the damp dark.

"Lex -- "

"I took something I knew I shouldn't," Lex murmurs into bare skin, and Clark must have imagined the brush of silky lips. No. No.

"Lex." Even to himself, his voice sounds -- strange. Weak. No match for slowly stroking fingers and slow, gentle words. "I'm s -- "

"I'm not."

Lex pulls back, urging Clark without words onto his back, and the blue eyes look into his from shadows. Too intense, almost hyper-real. "I'll do it right this time, Clark."

He has no idea what's going on, how, why. Only that Lex is touching his face, fingers slipping through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "Your first time -- who was it?"

Clark's breath catches. "Jessie. She -- " Liked it. Sordid, dirty moment in an alley. Even more sordid in the Ferrari, a quick movement of clothing, over before it began, the ultimate masturbation.

Lex must see it on his face. "I took advantage of that. Knowing that."

"That I wasn't -- " What the hell? Clark wants to ask, figure this out, but Lex is -- touching him. Gentle and soft and sweet, God, so sweet, no other word to use, none he can possibly understand. Soft lips against his temple, distracting him from thinking, from doing anything but laying here and just feeling this.

A kiss on his cheek, almost chaste, then warm breath in his ear. "I want to make you feel good, Clark."

Jesus. Sweat's breaking out all over his body. Jesus Christ, Lex.

"I remember how you looked when you returned the car," Lex whispers, and Clark feels himself shiver when the tip of that talented tongue slips into his ear. "I knew, and you were -- God, Clark, you have no idea what you looked like."

Guilty. Afraid. Filthy. In a way that wouldn't wash off, ever.

Lex is pushing his shirt up, enough for his hand to have free access, and Clark hears himself whimper. "I don't want to be -- Lex, I don't want to be another mistake."

The kiss is slow and sweet, never even pressing between his lips. Clark doesn't know what to make of it. "You aren't."

But -- nothing's coming together, nothing's making sense, but it's like his fantasy come true. The one he should have had, because it had always been Lana with him, but this is so much better, so much more real. Lex's mouth trailing down the side of his throat, and he moves his head to let him, fingers twitching to touch, only a thin barrier of cloth between him and Lex's skin.

"I screwed up last night," Lex murmurs into his collar, licking a kiss that makes Clark hard, instantly. God. "Earlier. I'll do better this time."

Clark tries to grasp for something -- something rational. "I did that. I -- shouldn't have -- "

"I got high thinking about you. I wanted you there. I always know what I'm doing."

Jesus, Lex. Lex, who is painting with his wonderful tongue, drawing, making Clark hot and shaky and needy, and just from this. From soft strokes of his stomach and soft kisses and all this warmth.

Lex, who finally, God, finally kisses him, opening his mouth as slowly as a miser opens his wallet, like they have all night, like they have forever, like there's nothing else in the world to do.

It's strange, but cloth and clothing aren't the only things that are shifting now, and Clark can't help it -- in between kisses, deep kisses -- to think about shifting identities, to the people they are now. They people they will be to one another.

It doesn't feel so bad to want this anymore, he realizes, because Lex must want it, too. Enough to look for excuses.

But it's hard to think, very hard, because Lex's tongue is pressing against his and slender, deceptively thin hands are strong against his face and sliding under his shirt. Everything moves so slowly, like they're swimming in syrup. Clark can feel every angle and plane of Lex's body, the cut of his hip and the dip of naval, the arching shape of Lex's back. The whole world sounds like rain and breathing that falls away to a sigh.

Clark is starting to get that this time is different. The first time was all drugs and liquor and every reason that they're illegal but still attractive. The second was pain and desperation and self-loathing and every reason they're not advised but so popular. This time, he gets stupid ideas about love and forever and softness in the way that Lex's fingers are burning a trail across his stomach, underneath his shirt.

And Lex is just stroking, like he just wants to touch, softly and slowly to learn the planes of Clark's face and his stomach the way he didn't bother the first two times.

He's gasping into Lex's mouth and then he's gasping out loud as Lex pulls away, blue, blue eyes staring into him, through him, past him.

And it's absolutely silent for a moment, where Clark feels like the world is spinning -- no, cascading around them with the rain rolling down the windows and melting the city into strokes and blurs of color and light and contrast. The rain is making noises to fill in the spaces between sounds: the indulgent, wet hush of lips parting and meeting again, the soughing murmur of skin on skin, the linen rub of cloth. And Lex is just watching, appreciative with gentleness on his face that doesn't say a word about why they are here, how they got to this point, or all the people who are still waiting for them at home.

Right now, this is all that matters.

Clark doesn't nod and Lex doesn't ask but they both get it and then everything changes.

Mouths meet again and teeth click and tongues swipe and taste and wrap around one another, desperate and deep.

Both of Lex's hands are tugging at Clark's shirt and Clark's okay with that, lifting his hips -- and they brush oh-so-good against Lex's and they're both hard already -- so that Lex can tug it off, pull and jerk and tear it away until the sweater is gone.

Soft material under Clark's clumsy fingers, and the buttons seem to be shrinking, God, he's so bad at this. Lex pulls back, away, and Clark watches, wide-eyed, mouth dry, as Lex pulls the shirt over his head, pale skin washed marble-clear in the dark room.

Maybe he should say something--but the somethings that come to mind are stupid, completely the wrong thing, stupid cliched phrases like 'gorgeous' that don't fit, and Clark bites down on his lip when slim fingers ghost over the button of his jeans. Lex is staring at him with unreadable eyes, like he is waiting for a signal, and God knows what that could be.

Stretches out like some hugely satisfied cat beside him, almost-touching but not quite, and Clark doesn't have a clue what to do, even when Lex's hand brushes over his stomach. An entirely chaste touch that make skin shiver, goosebumps breaking out everywhere.

"What do you want to do?"

Jesus. Lex's voice. Thick, like honey or chocolate, and Lex makes it sound like 'anything' would be a great answer. Like that's the only answer.

Mouth opening, but again, no damned words, and then Lex saves him, leaning down to lick into his open mouth, quicksilver fast and over before it's even begun, and Clark reaches out, trying to pull him back in, the curve of smooth shoulders fitting flawlessly into his palms, and Lex makes a softly satisfied noise. Like maybe that was the plan all along.

Which is just fine, thank you.

Clark's always been good with change, even if he doesn't like it.

Changing to organic farming? Having to deal with more bugs than you can shake a stick at? All right. That girl? You don't just want to be friends with her, okay? Sure. That being fast thing? And the strong thing? You're an alien. Fine. Whatever.

He's kind of surprised how long it's taking him to get over the fact that he and Lex are doing this.

It's probably because his mother is at home thinking he's researching the Tokugawa era while working through his teen angst. Maybe --

And then it doesn't matter what might be because Lex has moved himself over Clark like a large, living blanket, and he's...rubbing them together.

Clark is about to start humming but Lex captures his mouth again and the rubbing becomes familiar, slow strokes through old jeans and fine woolen pants. Clark can feel the outlines of his cock brush against Lex's and he's moaning against Lex's tongue.

This is torture of an all new kind, and he's grasping at Lex's shoulders, seeking purchase against all that pale, milky skin and so careful not to hurt Lex, so careful.

But then Lex's talented fingers are back and they're stroking down his chest, down his stomach, down to the dip and curve of his hip and they stop along the waist of his jeans. Lex pulls away enough to look at Clark with inky black eyes, like he's waiting for Clark to answer the question he has been asking all along.

Clark growls. God, he's so sick of waiting and politeness.

So Clark flips them over and while Lex is still wide-eyed in that impossibly large bed Clark is tugging at Lex's pants.

He'd debating whether or not it's worth it to just rip them off. He'd hate to have to admit to his folks Lex knows that he's an alien because he couldn't wait to get Lex's pants off and sacrifices had to be made.

Jesus, the frustration must be showing on his face because Lex laughs and takes pity on him. They work together and pants slide off and land in an undignified heap by the bed while Clark leans down to kiss the hollow of Lex's throat, that place along his neck where the skin is so delicate and pale Clark thinks that it might break, like wet paper, if he presses too hard with his tongue.

A taste he's never going to forget, clean skin and the scent of detergent from Lex's shirt and the lightest sheen of sweat. He follows it to the juncture of Lex's neck and shoulder, and he arches into Clark, strong fingers lacing into his hair when Clark nips experimentally, tightening when Clark sucks. And it's good -- good to almost-taste the blood rising up iron-sweet beneath smooth skin, feel Lex moving into him, like liquid shaping itself around him. Can't even help bucking into the hollow space beside Lex's hip, grinding down instinctively as his tongue trails up, following the places that make Lex shiver -- just below his jaw, right behind his ear, a lick that pushes Lex's cock into his stomach and makes them both groan.

The least chaste making-out ever, more intimate than sex, somehow, even as Lex murmuring things into his ear about good and sweet, his other hand drawing endless lines over Clark's back, nails pressing in enough to send electricity through every nerve.

Clark thinks he could do this forever. This endless, easy sprawl, skin to skin, touching and tasting and feeling, catching Lex's lower lip between his teeth and bearing down just a little, just enough to hear Lex catch his breath, then slipping inside -- warm, wonderful mouth, silky lips, strong, wet tongue, licking, sucking, like they have all night, like they have all kinds of nights, when they don't have any nights at all.

Lex must feel him stiffen -- stupid fucking memory, always, always, freakishly aware -- and Lex starts to pull away, eyes darkening, and no, Clark doesn't want to talk. Talk never goes anywhere good, never ends well, always leaves more questions than there could ever be answers.

Kisses Lex until breath and sound and thought are gone, and there's only their bodies moving together, the rain outside. Them.

Clark takes a chance, since big chances give big payoffs, and he breaks the kiss to slide down Lex's body, down miles of pale skin till he is cradled between loosely splayed legs. Lex is looking at him with a dazed expression. The knife-edge is still there, Jesus, always there, never leaves. Clark wonders if Lex has ever been totally unaware of his surroundings. Probably took measurements in the womb.

But the point is that Clark is kissing the insides of Lex's thighs, soft skin and hard muscle just underneath contrasting deliciously on his tongue and Clark likes this, likes the hissing sounds that Lex is making, the little gasps and moans. Likes how Lex cusses at the end of a sigh and tangles his hands in Clark's hair as Clark's mouth gets closer and closer --

Until Clark decides to give mercy and presses one not-so-chaste innocent to the base of Lex's cock, open-mouthed, tongue pressing down to swirl against bitter-salty skin. And then Clark wants more, listens with one ear as Lex mutters curses and praise, focuses on licking the length of Lex's cock and following the raised curve of the vein underneath.

The fingers in his hair tighten and Clark decides he can do this. Like, for real.

So he wraps one hand around Lex's cock and strokes, gently, experimentally, up and down until he hears Lex fall absolutely mute and jerk against his hand.

It's -- entirely surreal.

Or not. Another word. More than real. Like imprinting, like knowing that this is something he'll never be able to forget, never want to. The soft, silky skin that gives under his lips, hard beneath, with the first slow kiss. Strange, strange, to be this close, everything he's learned on his own in the loft applied at an entirely new angle, in an entirely new way.

That sensitive spot on the head -- Lex has it, too, and reacts amazingly when Clark licks once, slowly. Curses with the swipe of Clark's tongue.

Gripping the base, Clark sucks the head into his mouth, aware of how his lips stretch around it, blunt and thick in his mouth, pushing down on his tongue. Warm, damp skin that slides so easily, and he uses his tongue as he goes down, across the big vein that always makes him twitch and yes, makes Lex twitch, too. His mouth brushes his own hand, wow, not so difficult -- unfamiliar, but like something he thinks he should know.

Thinks maybe he's always wanted to know.

"Clark." His name's like the biggest tease, like Lex can't breathe, like he doesn't even want to anymore, and Clark pulls back, sucking softly, those fingers tightening in his hair even more. Lex, who tastes good and smells good, earthy-musk, tangy almost, and no hair, making everything so smooth.

So addictively, wonderfully smooth and slick, so easy to just go back down, suck hard, and Lex bucks into it, pushing in even more. God, Lex likes this, and Clark shivers, reaching down to briefly squeeze his own cock before bracing one hand on a slim hip and pulling away. Pulling off, and Lex groans.

"This right?" he whispers, almost grinning, wanting Lex's voice like air. All those -- God, those sounds, and Lex looks down, flushed and sweating, eyes wide and pupils dilated.

"Yes."

A wealth of meaning stuffed into that single word, and Clark sucks the head, slow and steady, using his tongue like he's used his thumb on his own cock, making Lex twist and moan and whisper dirty things.

And it's strange, past bizarre to be so...close to someone else. His lips are grazing his fingers again and his other hand is rolling Lex's balls between careful fingers. He's getting braver about this. Mostly because Lex is gasping louder and the hands in his hair are getting more insistent, until one slides away and Clark feels the mattress dip.

He looks up, finally, from where his lips are still tight around Lex's cock and the view is incredible.

Lex propped up on one elbow, the other arm extending to Clark's hair. Eyes dark like night. Skin pale and flushed and mouth parted. Lex's lips are swollen and red from kissing and wet from where his tongue is darting out to lick and Clark moans around Lex's cock in his mouth at the sight of that.

"Je-sus!" Lex gasps and the hands that were pushing him down are suddenly pulling him off -- insistently. "Clark -- shit, Clark."

It takes a little convincing but Clark eases Lex out of his mouth and before he gets to chance to think anything he's being drawn up and pulled into another scorching kiss, tongue and teeth and need like fire that burns when nothing else ever has. Lex's hand, the one not stroking down Clark's back has found its way between them, between Clark's legs and it's pressing That Spot just behind Clark's balls and Clark might be dying, might, and he doesn't care at all.

Instead, he's moaning and Lex is shifting them again and Clark is boneless and blushing hot everywhere as Lex is straddling him, a knee on either side of Clark's hips and cock still hard, jutting between his legs. Clark is having a hard time deciding where to stare and what to touch, to memorize the lines of Lex's face and neck or just to wrap his hands around Lex's cock.

Lex makes the decision for him and denies him both.

White, white hands are trailing down Clark's thighs and Lex pushing them up, bending them at the knee and Clark is shaking with anticipation.

They've done this before and if Lex keeps his promise --

Clark gasps and fists his hands in the sheets at the first kiss, wet and hot and long at the base of his cock, and then lower, just the barest brush of teeth along his balls and that clever tongue, so distracting is trailing behind and circling in all the hot, dark places Clark didn't think about before this, before now.

Those places that should scream 'gross' but now just mean hot. Hot, so hot and slick and wet, and his body moves with Lex like it knows exactly what to do.

He tries to say something, but it comes out in a strangled gasp with the first push inside, Lex's fingernails drawing hieroglyphs on the sensitive insides of his thighs, flickering casually over his balls, tightening them, cock leaking precome onto his stomach with every thrust of Lex's tongue.

Moving Clark's ankle over his shoulder and then -- oh God.

Sensation after sensation--hard thrust here, slow suck there. Long lick that makes him gasp, fingers pushing holes into the sheets, and there's another clue he'll never be able to explain to his parents, never want to, what do you mean, Clark, that Lex knows because he was using his tongue?

And what does it say about him that even that thought's not enough to bring him down?

The hand that closes around his cock is like adding heat to gunpowder -- Clark knows he's screaming, doesn't even care, thrusts into Lex's fist, down to get more of Lex's tongue, and comes like being knocked off a bridge -- endless falling.

God, Lex.

The world is fuzzy and he's still gathering himself back together but he opens his eyes to the image of -- oh Jesus Christ -- Lex licking him clean, hot, pink tongue stroking down a quickly softening cock and Clark's just really cool with the world right now. Really cool. Shit, Lex is good at that, and it's too soon, even for a seventeen year old alien so when his cock jerks with renewed interest, Clark winces and Lex pulls away.

Clark says, "Lex..." and Lex just grins and says, "Don't, it gets better."

Clark can't get over that. How is that possible? He can't really think right now.

Jesus he feels really good. And so do Lex's hands, stroking down the sides of his hips and slowly easing his thighs even further apart. Oh, Clark knows where this goes, and it's all good places.

Clark's really happy that he's still breathing. Really. Clark's really happy about everything.

And then Lex is back, face to face with him eyes dark again and Clark can only smile stupidly and fumble around until he's got one hand on Lex's neck and they're pressed together in a sloppy kiss, all tongues and intention and post-orgasmic bliss --

Until Clark stiffens and arches as he feels a finger slip in between his legs, new and strange and wonderful, just like the first time, just like last time, like Clark thinks it might be every time.

And Lex is still looking at him, darkly sexual. Clark can only stare back, two arms locked around Lex's shoulders now. He doesn't even try for dignity. It's not worth the effort.

Clark arches up against Lex's hand instead, spears himself against Lex's finger and bites back a shout as a second digit slips in, stretching him out, opening him up, and Clark can feel it stirring again, he's already half-hard and feeling Lex's cock hot and hard against his stomach isn't helping -- yet is helping, is doing something goddamn it.

Lex just smiles, indulgent and dark and lowers his head and suck on that spot just behind Clark's ear, the one that has a direct line to Clark's cock and in between shocky rushes of sensation, Clark realizes that his cock is hard and red and brushing against Lex's and that he's still, still fucking up into Lex's hand, moaning and getting louder and more desperate and "Please...Lex, God, please --"

And then everything pauses for a second, fingers ease away, Lex's thumb stops tracing that wicked, beautiful circle behind Clark's balls and Lex's mouth disappears. Clark almost cries at the sudden loss when he hears drawers opening and closing and Lex shifting back, feels skin meeting skin again.

Slow, searching kiss, before Lex pulls back, and that's unfair, so Clark tries to pull him back in, but Lex resists. This can't be good.

"Clark." A slow, sinuous rub of their bodies, sweat making it slicker, salt giving it friction, hot, period. Clark's skin is addicted, can't get enough, his hands reach for more, all he can touch, fingers reddening places that will be bruises by tomorrow. Tonight. "Clark, let me do this."

Anything. Everything. Name it. Fingers are pressing against him again, slicker, cooler, easing inside and it's so good, so easy to relax into every slow thrust, pressing up into that wonderful spot that makes the muscles in his thighs shudder, falling open more, pushing and sliding as he's being worked open. Even the stretch is amazing, and Clark arches into it, heels skidding on the sheets, trying to get more.

"That's it -- " Murmured into his skin. "I'll make you feel so good, Clark. So good. Open up for me. Just like that."

Entirely too comprehensible for someone who is so hard, every movement dragging Lex's cock over his stomach, and Clark reaches down, wraps his hand around it, Lex tensing and hissing. Lex's fingers press up again and Clark's prostate has never had it so good.

God, he's never had it so good.

"Please, Lex--"

"Shh. Relax."

Those wonderful, moving fingers are twisting everything hotter, tighter, and then -- the damn things are stopping. Pulling out, abrupt, sudden, and Clark feels empty, almost drained, hips following until they can't go any farther, and Lex settles long hands on his thighs, stroking slow over insanely sensitive skin.

"Lex--"

God, don't stop, he wants to say, but the words get lost in between his head and his mouth, and his body's doing slutty things like arching into nothing and maybe he's whimpering, but he can' be sure and doesn't care enough to check and see. Just for Lex, who's watching like this is some private show, entertainment only for him, eyes dark and small, unreadable smile. Stroking his skin so carefully and watching him move against the bed like there's nothing more fascinating in the world.

"I want to fuck you, Clark." Almost tickling his inner thighs, and Clark chokes. "Open up for me."

Oh. Oh God. Knees pulling up all on their own, his hands grasping for Lex, pulling him closer, and Lex kisses him, murmuring reassurance and promises in his mouth, against his ear, and Clark's saying yes, yes, yes, to everything he says.

He feels the head of Lex's cock pressing against him, hard and hot and so there. Lex whispering and gasping and promising and saying the most beautiful and filthy things that Clark has ever heard in between messy kisses, sucking on Clark's collarbone, one hand pumping up and down Clark's cock and sinking into Clark, so slowly.

Pressure unbearable and like pain but better -- a knife edge dancing just between good and burning. All Clark knows is that he's never felt this way before and he never wants to stop feeling this way: taken, consumed, possessed.

Clark is getting fucked and Lex is fucking him and in Clark's head, all he can think as Lex's cock is sliding into him -- friction like fire -- is that Lex is complicated. Lex is history; Lex is everything they have done and felt and argued over. Lex is all the things that Clark doesn't want to have to face day to day and everything that Clark wants but shouldn't ever, ever have. Lex is not simple; Lex is a life decision, the hardest one to make, the one left or right turn that will dictate how hard the road will be for the rest of your life.

Clark chooses Lex, and feels it like a brand.

A gasp and a sigh and Clark feels fuller than he has ever before. It's a foreign sensation and familiar all the same, like he's been waiting for this moment his whole life, with Lex balanced on both elbows over him, eyes large and beautiful, mouth opened and swollen, gasping for breath. They're joined at the hips and Clark's legs are splayed open and he can't care about anything. Clark can't worry about the farm or his mother or Lana or anything at all because Lex is buried inside of him and this is what was supposed to happen all along, and Clark just never knew, never knew, and he wasted so much time.

He's not going to waste any more.

Lex asks, "Are you okay?"

And Clark groans. "Yes. Please -- "

So Lex moans and shifts, and Clark is born all over again.

Lex pulls out, slow breath, almost shaking, and Clark hears a whine and realizes it's him, shifting after Lex, trying to keep him -- God -- inside. Inside, this strange, different, wonderful feeling of finally fitting, belonging, just like this, stretched out, pressing his heels into Lex's back at the next slow thrust. Filled up, stretched open, like every secret he's ever had is now exposed, and Lex looking at him like Clark's the only thing he's ever known how to want.

"Relax," Lex murmurs, and it's insane, because how can he relax? His hands won't settle, tracing over Lex's back and shoulders, unable to stop, needing to ground himself, feel this, feel everything.

God, yes, and Lex moving, slow and careful, never awkward, and Clark lets Lex's body tell him what to do.

Move like this. Arch like that. Feel. Learn. Like it's all bypassing his brain and going directly to body memory, like this is something he's always known and just forgot.

Like Lex is something he's always known and didn't even realize it. "Jesus, Lex...."

"Okay?" It's panted against his jaw, followed by a bite that's almost tender, and blue eyes stare into his. "Tell me you're -- okay."

"Yes." Lex shifts, another slow thrust, coming up on his hands to get better leverage, and hitting that place only his fingers have touched before. Sending Clark's head back into the pillow, teeth clenched to hold in the scream. It's so good it could kill him, and he wouldn't even care.

Sex. This is sex. Lex, who is sex, though Clark never got it, not really, not until now, how the smooth movement of his hips and that cocky grin could be so hot with each slow slide inside. Clark shudders at the scrape of teeth over his throat, quick and sharp, and Lex's hand on his cock is incredible. Slick and tight and wet, and God, Lex.

Gentle fingers thread through his hair, tilting his head back up again, and Lex looks into his eyes with the next thrust, watching him -- God, like he's being memorized, absorbed, taken, and Clark's young enough, flexible enough, to lift up, just a little, just enough, and catch that wonderful mouth and feel that tongue thrust between his lips the same second Lex's cock thrusts into his body.

Oh God, yes.

He's pretty sure he's shouting into Lex's mouth, yelling those same wonderful, slutty things that Lex was saying before into his ear. His legs are wrapped tight around Lex and he's digging into Lex's back with his heels, desperate and hungry and wanting more. He can't stop kissing Lex, swallowing the gasps and moans they're making and he can't even tell where they're coming from, just that they are being drowned in between teeth and tongue and lips.

And Lex, deep and hot and moving inside of him. Clark is whining and kissing and pressing himself against Lex, fucking up against him and pushing down on Lex because Lex isn't deep enough. He breaks contact long enough to pant, "Harder -- God, yes, fuck, yes -- harder -- "

This is probably the most coherent, most important thing Clark will ever say for the rest of his life because Lex growls low in his chest and obliges.

No more slow and deep and comfortable, just Lex bracing himself with a hand on either side of Clark's head, face twisted into an expression of exquisite agony, eyes shut in concentration and tongue darting out every few seconds to wet his mouth. And he's fucking Clark like this is the only thing he ever has to do, driving force that slams them together so hard that Clark thinks that he might have bruises in the morning, so hard that they're rising from the bed at the force of the motion and the mattress is thumping back against the wall. So hard that Clark's legs are gripping Lex's waist like an iron band and his toes are curled and his mouth is open and he's yelling something.

Clark's hand slips down between them and wraps around his own cock and he starts stroking himself, fast and sloppy and in time to Lex's fucking, fingers slipping and sliding against the lube and he feels the skin of Lex's cock as it's disappearing into him and Clark thinks that's probably the goddamn sexiest thing he's ever experienced.

Jesus God, he's never going to stop feeling this. He never wants to.

Muscles pulled tight, every inch of skin burning, needing, and Lex, murmuring his name lush, rich, and dirty, like something precious and secret and never meant to be shared. Lex, who is incandescent over him, and Clark's cock jerks hard when those blue eyes snap open, hips pushing forward hard enough to shove Clark's head against the headboard, and his name's shaped on silent lips as Lex shudders and comes.

God, comes inside him, hot and thick, nothing he would ever have thought was good except it is. So good he wants it always, Lex's body straining above him, still and almost silent, beautiful, and Clark jerks once on his cock, hard, shivering at the eruption of sweat all over his body, so close, just looking at Lex could take him over the edge, so close, please God, yes....

Lex reaches down with one shaking hand, somehow balancing just enough, fingers lacing through his, pulling his rhythm faster and staring into his eyes. "Give it up for me."

That's all it takes.

Twisting, shuddering, coming so hard he sees stars, trying to speak but Lex's tongue is in his mouth, Lex still buried in his body, Lex's hand on his cock, and he's being consumed utterly and doesn't even care. Wants it, wants this, wants to be lost here and never have to come out if he can keep this, have it, treasure it.

Soft strokes over his sweaty hair and thumbs on his cheekbones, Lex is tracing the line of Clark's brow, the bow of his lips; cartography, like he is writing a map of Clark to remember this by. Then Lex whispers, "This may feel a little strange" and slowly pulling out.

Clark's pulled close and tight, empty, sated and still hungry, cradled like a child, murmurs, and he reaches for Lex, holding on as tight as he dares, eyes closing when strong arms go around him, holding him close and telling him without words that everything's changed.

He's falling asleep before he's even lost the high.

---

Metropolis mornings are in polar opposition to Smallville. Smallville mornings are broken alarm clocks and waffles downstairs, his mother and father teasing one another or smiling at him and saying that one day, even superspeed won't even help him to get to class on time. Metropolis mornings are gray light and the sound of a shower running in the next room, destroyed bedsheets and a sore ass.

Clark lies still for a long time, blinking the last remains of sleep from his eyes.

He can't help but wonder what the hell he is doing.

He flexes his fingers and toes and even moves a leg. Not everything has changed. He still works like normal, apparently. The colors of the universe didn't shift. He isn't privy to the secrets of the world. And he doesn't feel any older.

Still. Different. Oddly so.

He guesses he's okay with that.

He knows he's okay with the sex.

The shower cuts off and he hears Lex padding into the room. There's a pause before a low chuckle. "You don't look any different, you know."

Clark shrugs and pushes himself up on his elbows. Lex is still damp, grins for just a second before adjusting the towel around his waist, and disappears back into the bathroom. "You need to call your mother," Lex says.

Clark's pretty sure this isn't normal Morning After conversation.

He can't really focus on that, though. The visual shock of seeing the dark purple bruises on Lex's neck and the lighter ones on the sides of his abdomen are registering and Clark's really getting that -- hey, yeah, the sex thing? They so totally did it.

He rolls out of bed and digs through the stuff on the floor to find his boxers, pulls them on and makes his way toward where Lex is examining two pairs of pants that look exactly the same.

"Okay if I...?" Clark motions toward the shower.

Lex nods distractedly. "Go on."

Clark's halfway through washing his hair before he realizes that he could have been talking about stealing the codes to Lex's computer for all the information that his question had given up. Jesus. What's happening?

He almost slips coming out of the shower but balances himself on one of Lex's insanely expensive marble countertops. That same countertop is bearing another pair of jeans and a black button-up shirt. Clark swallows the rise of jealousy in his chest and reminds himself that whoever wore the shirt first isn't the one who was in Lex's bed last.

He reminds himself that it had been a great night, and this was going to be a damned good morning.

One way or another, dammit.

Taking a deep breath, he walks out of the bedroom.

Lex is very prosaically setting food onto the table, and for some reason, though he can't figure out quite why, it -- helps. Cut fruit, some toast, and two coffee mugs. Okay, much better. A grin over the table that warms him, and Clark takes the seat Lex casually kicks out, picking up the carafe of juice and blinking a little at the sliced strawberries.

"We didn't get strawberries." And if he'd known, their adventures last night might have included them

"Found them in the crisper, hidden under soybean dip." Lex snickers softly and sits down, pouring them both a cup of coffee. "How are you feeling?"

Different. Changed. Uncertain. A hell of a lot less nervous. There isn't a word that covers them all, so Clark doesn't even bother to try. "Okay."

"Good."

They eat in the kind of silence Clark remembers from earlier in their friendship -- when silence was just quiet enjoyment, sharing a moment, requiring nothing but that they both be there. A nostalgic feeling slips over him as comforting as a blanket. They've -- changed. But maybe for the better.

"We need to get back."

Clark puts down the slice of peach and swallows quickly. Lex isn't quite looking at him. Long fingers rest casually on the surface of the table, tension nowhere, and Clark nods slowly. "Yeah. I -- need to call my mom. She's probably worried."

Lex nods, an unreadable smile on his face before he glances down at his watch and frowns.

When he looks up at Clark again he hands over his cell phone. "Go on, call, I'll get my stuff together, and we can be out of here in an hour."

That's -- fast. Faster than Clark is ready for. But Lex moves fast. Clark gets that.

So Clark does what he can. Takes the cell phone and he's dialing his home number and watching Lex make a beeline to the office; hears the shuffle of papers in one ear and the ring of a phone in the other.

"Kent residence," his mother says as she picks up the phone.

Clark swallows, and tries not to say, "I had sex with Lex! A lot!" He says instead, "Hey, Mom."

"Oh, God -- Clark!" she says, voice low and worried and scared. "Are you all right?"

Clark plays with a strawberry slice, watching his fingers get stained red. "Yeah. I'm -- I'm just fine. Sorry, Mom," he says. "I just -- "

Had to get away? Wanted Lex not to kill himself on his way to Metropolis? Had lots of sex with his best friend? Who's engaged?

And male? Can't forget the male part.

"I just had to get away," he finishes.

First guesses are mostly right, he's been taught.

There's a long sigh on the line. "Clark... Look, sweetheart, I understand that you're under *a lot* of stress, but you have to know that this...this wasn't the answer. You can't just -- " His mother's voice is tight and she sounds halfway between angry and sad. "I'm just glad you're okay. We'll talk more when you get home." Pause. "You're coming home, right?"

Lex steps out of his office, a stack of files in one hand, car keys in the other, and looks at Clark meaningfully.

"Yeah," Clark says, distracted. "We're coming home."

Notes:

Enormous thanks goes out to CJ and Lyra who heard the words, "Jenn," "made me," and "omigoshsomuchsmut" and did not bat an eye. If it weren't for their incredible beta work on this monster, this piece would never be readable. Further thanks extends to Lyra and SVMadelyn who actually sat up with me while I was editing this monster (and threatening to slit my wrists and planning to run away from home and fandom) and keeping me from doing any of the above listed. And even more thanks go to SVMadelyn for listening to my vitriolic rambling at dawn and doing one last beta-run.

And go Jenn, for being the most psychotic cowriter in the history of time.

But I say that with love.

These are the longest author's notes I've ever written. I think it has something to do with the fact that it is 4:16 AM and I have been working on this story for over six hours now.

Ect. Pru.