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The Sin-Eater
Clark was oblivious.
Super-Clark with the super-speed, the super-strength, the impossible hearing, the five kinds of vision, the invulnerably, was not paying attention.
Therefore, Jonathan Kent was dead.
And Lex was forced to acknowledge his true destiny, once and for all. To face the ugly truth that the past year was a joke of cosmic proportions, the punch line delivered a month ago, promises to ashes, hope to despair, mercy to cruelty. In the blink of an eye the God ruling Lex’s life changed from Eros to Hephaestus. He had been crazy to believe that this time it would be different.
Lex had believed though, he’d been lulled by the last year’s perfection. Since that first night Clark appeared, as if by magic, in his 2nd floor bedroom disheveled and desperate Lex had believed with the fervor of a Saint. Forgetting somehow that all Saint’s are martyrs first.
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There was no noise, no change in the light, but Lex went from asleep to bolt upright in the space of a breath. Clark was motionless, poised between the bed and the window scantly lit by the full moon. Lex couldn’t see Clark’s eyes for the shadows but the muted lines of the boy’s body spoke volumes.
“Clark?” Lex’s voice was rough. “What’s wrong?”
For a moment he hoped Clark might be a dream, or some kind of residual drug effect, but when he lifted his head and gave Lex his eyes, that hope was dashed. In Clark’s familiar face was the weight of the ages and for a split second all the options open to him rushed through Lex. Lionel’s blood, the Luthor DNA, singing him siren songs of the future, showing him the infinite possibilities trapped in this moment. Ways to bind Clark to him, ways to control Clark and use him as the weapon he knew Clark could be. Manipulations that would allow him to drive the old lion out of the pride and make himself the ruler of Metropolis. The thin air at the top of this devil’s mountain made Lex’s voice softer and rougher.
“Tell me what’s wrong Clark and I’ll fix it.”
Clark’s laugh was bitter and old. “You can’t fix it Lex. No one can.”
And in that second none of the plans his blood and DNA mattered, the only relevant thing was easing the boy in front of him.
From that point, Lex’s choices were easy. Without hesitation he moved towards Clark, calmly ignoring the desire that flashed across his friends face in the moments it took Lex to pull on a pair of sweats and a tee shirt.
“Well, then.” He smiled at Clark. “If I can fix it. I can at least feed you. Come on.”
Clark hesitated for a moment, then mustered a smile and followed Lex to the kitchen. There, over a variety of foods, Dagwood sandwiches, soft French omelets and even a box of coco puffs cook had secreted on a top shelf somewhere, Lex Luthor fell hopelessly in love.
And truly found out absolutely nothing more than he already knew about the true mystery of Clark Kent.
“I don’t feel connected to anything Lex.”
“No one understands what it’s like to be me Lex.”
“I can’t stand the pressure Lex.”
“I think I’m gay Lex.”
“I can’t stop dreaming about you Lex.”
Around a lap full of trembling Clark Lex smiled at the pedestrian nature of teenaged angst and cared not one whit for any mystery that did not involve love.
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More here
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Lex's insistence on waiting until Clark was 18 before they became physically intimate imbued the time with a sweet tension that made Lex’s blood sing. The lack of physical intimacy was difficult, but it only served to deepen their emotional bond. The year since Clark had broken down the wall between them and forced Lex to admit what he felt had been the sweetest of his life. More perfect in some ways then the time before his mother died, when the Luthor’s were a real family. Nothing that involved Lionel had ever been this easy. He felt safe with Clark, almost invulnerable. They complimented each other perfectly. Clark was young in many ways, but an old soul when it came to love. Lex, worldly and sophisticated, really had no idea how to love someone, how to allow himself to be loved. Lex felt guilty sometimes because their contributions to the relationship were so unequal. Clark taught Lex how to be human; Lex taught Clark to like wine and helped him with his homework.
Lex had brooded on this for some months. He thought he would work it out for himself and never have to admit his foolishness to Clark. He would have sworn nothing about his attitude or demeanor had changed, until one day after the physics homework was put away and before the movie they had chosen started, Clark suddenly grabbed him and pulled him into his lap. Lex froze for a moment, unused to being handled so forcefully. He struggled to free himself, but Clark simply ran his strong hands up Lex’s arms to cup the back of his head. His thumbs under Lex’s jaw, he tilted the smooth head back and forced Lex to look at him.
“I can’t make it better if you won’t tell me Lex. I can’t take away the fear if you don’t tell me what’s scaring you.” Clark told him.
He reared back struggling against Clark’s big hands feigning anger to cover his terror.
“Let go of me damn it. I am not a doll or a pet for you to manhandle. LET GO!” This last almost a scream.
Clark released his skull and moved his arms around Lex, and held him still against his chest, stroking his back, murmuring into his ear.
“You’re Lex and I love you and you are going to tell me, if we have to stay here forever.” He felt Clark’s smile against his ear. The next works were licked into the rim of it and nibbled, exquisitely into the lobe. “Which would totally blow your plan to wait until my 18th birthday.”
Lex didn’t like to be touched. He had vague memories of his mother holding him and stroking his hair, before the meteors. For a long time afterward his newly naked skin was just too sensitive. He had to have his clothes specially tailored to fit smoothly against him. Any movement of the cloth against his skin caused him discomfort, like a thousand ants were trying to crawl under his skin. The doctors told his mother the meteors had left him with a slight electrical charge. They couldn’t tell her why this was so; only that it would likely go away. It did, but not until after his mother had died and by then his reaction to the touch of others, like his style of dress were ingrained. He only allowed others to put their hands on him during sex. This discomfort was the largest reason his sexual encounters tended to be quick, lusty, drug fueled affairs, lacking all but the most basic physical contact, ending with orgasm and exit. He had almost married Victoria because she seemed to be the same way. Their couplings were always brief and violent. No casual touching before, no long cuddles after, just teeth, claws and separate bedrooms.
Loving Clark had started to change that. Touch was still not easy between them, but it was possible. Mostly he touched Clark, carefully stroking him until he purred. Clark loved to be touched, loved to touch Lex, but was equally careful, understanding Lex’s reticence. Often he would sit between Lex’s outstretched legs, leaning back against Lex’s chest and shoulders, rubbing his cheek against Lex’s hands and sometimes recently Lex’s neck and the hollow of his throat.
But that night months ago, pressed against Clark’s chest, ear against his strongly beating heart, Lex fought for control over his fear and increasingly his arousal.
“Clark” he hissed between clenched teeth. “Let me up.”
“No Lex.” The words once again followed by Clark’s tongue. “I’m scared too, but I’m not running away. I’m ready to tell you what scares me, as soon as you’re ready to talk to me.”
He gently ran his soft mouth over Lex’s mother of pearl smooth skull, kissing and licking, ratcheting up the emotion, until Lex began to cry.
Clark picked him up in his arms and carried him from the study to the master suite. The big canopy bed was deep and soft, sinking under the weight of the two of them. Clark moved his feet onto the bed and lay back, pulling the sobbing Lex on top of him. His big hands began to stroke Lex’s back through the shirt, trying to sooth Lex, stop him from drawing away. As he lifted up, Clark’s hands caught his shoulder and forced Lex’s face closer. Gently he brought their mouths close together and began to speak gently, his breath caressing Lex’s lips.
“Shush Lex,” he whispered, “It’s just me. Feel. Here are your arms and your back. You’re safe with me Lex. You can tell me anything.”
As he spoke, he touched Lex, running his hands down Lex’s gray long sleeved tee shirt, he grabbed the hem and pulled it off. Then one handed, the other still on Lex’s neck he ripped his own tee shirt down the front and pulled their exposed chests together.
“Just tell me Lex. It will be fine. You’ll tell me and I’ll tell you and after we’ll laugh and it will all be fine.”
For a time Lex sobbed and then he slept, torpid against Clark’s chest. When he awoke and looked up, Clark’s green eyes were watching him calmly.
So Lex just told him. All of it, the feelings of inadequacy, the terror of loving Clark, the knowledge that it would end badly with Lex broken and alone. The tears began to come again but before they could breakout, Clark leaned down and captured his mouth, achingly gentle and coolly firm. His broad flat tongue stroking the inside of Lex’s mouth like it was the sweetest candy. Clark’s teeth worried the scar that marred his lip, biting gently on the line of his jaw, up to his ear. Again, Clark's words were accompanied by kisses and nips to the shell of Lex's ear.
“I’m an alien Lex. A big, dumb, gay alien, virgin, who will love Lex Luthor until the day I die.”
And Clark had been right Lex could only laugh.
Looking back, Lex is still ashamed of his foolishness. It was, he knows now, the first sign of his unworthiness.
That fateful day the two of them were sprawled on the floor of Lex's bedroom, Clark had his head on Lex's lap and Lex was admiring the rightness of his long pale fingers in the darkness of Clark's hair. He soothed and tugged tying lover's knots for the joy of smoothing them. Imagining what was to come, what he would do to Clark's hair when all of Clark was his. He could feel Clark's jaw move against his thigh causing twitches and tingles deep under his skin. Clark's voice was reduced to a soothing 60-cycle hum, a new age sound track for Lex's fantasy of the future. Since the night they had exchanged secrets Lex had been happy, giddy at the prospect of tomorrow and for the first time in his life, completely without fear. He believed himself saved with the faith of a Paul or an Augustine. His big brain had become goofy with happiness, unreliable with joy.
Lex was oblivious.
Lex with the perfect control over everything, with all the power and money, with seventy-five different cars and the love of Clark Kent, was not paying attention.
Therefore, Jonathan Kent was dead.
He can't be sure how long Clark had been detailing his father's symptoms, without any idea they were symptoms, but certainly more than this one afternoon. He can, however, clearly remember the words that shattered his Eros induced stupor, like a Hephaestus' hammer to lilac sugared glass.
“And this morning he gave me the key to our safety deposit box and my great-grandfather’s watch.”
Clark held up the dull tarnished watch up for Lex to inspect and sure enough, the bright silver bank key was attached to the chain. It hung, suspended like a tear in the mote filled sun of the study. It caught Lex’s eye and in his hindbrain, he heard the sharp click of the universe marshalling against him
Clark was a boy, with no experience of death. Clark was a boy with a crystal belief in the strength and immortality of his father.
Clark was a boy.
Lex was a man with a dead mother. Lex was a man with a hard-earned understanding of the weaknesses of all men, especially fathers.
Lex was a man.
If anyone was responsible for missing the signals, it was Lex.
The truth was Lex had not really been paying attention. For weeks all his focus, all his planning, all his care had been given over to Clark. He had let his mind wander, the iron control over his world ease shamelessly and so that day he'd ended with Jonathan Kent's brains on his shoes.
As soon as Clark had understood, he'd bolted. Lex had called Martha Kent, the police and the ambulance, and then followed as quickly as he could. The distance between the house and the barn, the super-speed, the quarter of a million dollar's worth of car had made no difference. Lex found Martha in a heap at the entrance to the barn, screaming; a grotesque parody of Munch, wet and loud, but taut like a completely new kind of art. He brushed past her and from a great distance away he fished the cell phone out of his jacket and dialed Nell Potter. He said her name when she answered and began to explain
"Martha . . ." was all he got out.
When Lex inhaled to finish, the smell snuck in with the air and coated the back of his throat. His mouth filled with saliva, it was nothing like copper or tin, there was nothing of pennies in it. It was floral and rotten, like a newish grave, with offerings of flowers and food, sitting on the hot earth, through a week of cold nights. It was panic and peace, fear and prayers; and Clark was crouched in four-point stance on a bale of hay. Lex moved towards him without thinking, he took two steps before his ears registered the soft squish under the soles of his shoes. His eyes wavered, skittered away from Clark towards the floor. Starting with the red on his shoes, red flecked with small textured white blobs, everything was shiny in the muted half-light of the barn. Lex felt the pressure on his chest increase as he followed the trail of strangeness to the sprawled lump of meat in front of him. Meat that had been Jonathan Kent, until he swallowed the barrel of the sawed off shotgun in some deranged act of fellatio.
The vice on his chest tightened again as he imagined the act. Had Jonathan caressed the barrel with his teeth, sure of the invulnerability of his lover, or covered them carefully with his lips so as not to damage. Had he run the barrel in and out of his mouth before he pulled the trigger, imagining the explosion as orgasmic completion?
To ease the pressure in his chest and stop the pornographic visions is his head, Lex started to move forward, the thickening blood stretching between the sole of his shoe and the floor, the sick, flat clack drawing a whimper from somewhere that was not Lex.
Clark.
Other than the soft noise, Clark was a statue on the bale. Lex finished the step he had taken and took one more. His hand wandered in front of his eyes, like something that belonged to somebody else. His fingers looked obscene and slug like as the moved towards Clark’s face. He stayed immobile when Lex touched him; he stared straight ahead at the meat, icy cold. Lex tried to turn Clark away, soft white hand on the ashen cheek, but Clark would not move, not turn away from the meat that had been his father.
And he had to make Clark move, make Clark understand what they were both standing in, make Clark come back. Because Lex was just too new at this and Clark had been going to teach him how to cry before he had actually needed the skill . . . But there was no reason, because Clark loved him and why would he need to know how to cry, when Clark loved him. And Martha was keening somewhere far away and the rotten taste in his mouth was getting stronger and stronger and he had Jonathan Kent’s brains on his shoes.
Incapable of thought, in full panic mode, his base Luthor soul crippled by love Lex reared back and struck Clark as hard as he could. Nothing. Again. And nothing. The wide green eyes didn’t flicker; the taut body didn’t shift at all. Lex fought to keep the scream in, fought to stay sane, to stay there. He was lost and out of control. Another sign of his basic unworthiness, another indication of how weak and useless to he was to Clark.
Nell saved him.
She touched his arm softly and said his name gently. He jerked away from her hand, lost his balance and fell into Clark. This brought motion, a reaction. Clark shifted and caught him, his arms encircling Lex, protective and gentle, but also cold and still. Nell’s eyes widened for a moment, then she said in he cool firm voice,
“Take Lex home Clark. I’ll deal with things here.”
For a moment, Clark stayed still and cold, then he moved his gaze away from the interior of the barn and met Nell’s eyes over Lex’s head.
“It’s okay Clark. I’ll take care of your mum and dad, you just take Lex home.”
Clark shifted Lex’s weight and lifted him in his arms like a child. Looking neither right nor left, he carried Lex from the barn, past his collapsed mother and out into the yard. Before Lex could speak, Clark moved and when Lex could draw another breath, they stood at the door of the castle.
Mastering his fear and shoving his panic into the space between his heart and his gut, Lex climbed down from Clark and opened the door. He took off their corrupted shoes and tossed them out behind them. He took Clark’s arm and eased him into the castle, up the stairs and into Lex’s bedroom. Things became pedestrian then, Clark a large willing automaton, bathed and placed tenderly in Lex big bed.
The waiting began.
After a week of watching Clark sleep, Lex couldn't bear it any more. Alone with Clark, over coffee, on a perfect autum day, he did what Lex Luthor always did for the people he loved. He fixed it.
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More here
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There was crisp white linnen on the wrought iron patio table and cyprus trees dappling Lex with shadow. Clark's huge procalin mug picked up the thick fall light, making sharp patterns on everything. It was like being at the bottom of a peaceful blue lake. He had as much of Clark's attention as anyone ever got anymore and he certainly knew how. So he fixed it, removed his heart and soul, put them neatly in the lead box in his brain and forced Clark back to life.
"Clark, we need to talk."
The broad callused hands tightened on the coffee cup and the green eyes opened a little wider. All the way to half-mast, in the sallow dead face.
"I knew."
Ah. There it was, deep behind the eyes. A flicker, a shift, a spark of interest or maybe just instinct. Clark shifted in the hard iron chair and seemed about to speak.
"I knew Jon . . . your father was sick."
The eyes across from him twitched and opened a little wider. Lex knew that before this conversation was over Clark's eyes would consume his entire face.
"He. . . came to me, when he was diagnosed."
He lifted the medical file from the spare chair and laid it precisely on the expanse of white cloth between them, half of it in Lex cypress shadows and half of it in Clark's fall sun. Lex's half showed rust colored in the shade.
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An ending I likely won't use
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In the dream he stood by a silent black sea. Other men stood on the shore with him. They were out of his sight line but he could feels their emptiness all around him. Calmy he reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew the lead box, holding it in both pale hands. He thought about opening it for a moment, but it wasn't a real possibility. Instead, he pressed the lead into his forhead and imagined what it could have been like if Jonathan Kent had not been such a proud coward. If he had come to Lex and accepted the money for treatment or didn't. Just lived or died like every other human being on earth that wasn't a Kent . . . or a Luthor. To die surrounded by tribe, mourned with beautiful happy stories told again and again, to children and grand-children, this was the human way. But Kent had choosen instead to pledge blood loyality to acres of land that cared no more for him than it did for bison and brown men that passed before. Inside himself Lex smiled a slow secret smile, knowing and full of precious agony.
While Jonathan Kent had only pretended to love his son, Lex truely loved him. So eyes closed, in one smooth motion he pulled the box away from his forhead and through it into the deep dark sea.
Lex Luthor always paid when he got what he wanted.
And yet again, He should have remembered the taste of ashes was his salt and bread and nothing could change that
Yesterday is ashes; tomorrow wood. Only today the fire shines brightly
Clark was oblivious.
Super-Clark with the super-speed, the super-strength, the impossible hearing, the five kinds of vision, the invulnerably, was not paying attention.
Therefore, Jonathan Kent was dead.
And Lex was forced to acknowledge his true destiny, once and for all. To face the ugly truth that the past year was a joke of cosmic proportions, the punch line delivered a month ago, promises to ashes, hope to despair, mercy to cruelty. In the blink of an eye the God ruling Lex’s life changed from Eros to Hephaestus. He had been crazy to believe that this time it would be different.
Lex had believed though, he’d been lulled by the last year’s perfection. Since that first night Clark appeared, as if by magic, in his 2nd floor bedroom disheveled and desperate Lex had believed with the fervor of a Saint. Forgetting somehow that all Saint’s are martyrs first.
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There was no noise, no change in the light, but Lex went from asleep to bolt upright in the space of a breath. Clark was motionless, poised between the bed and the window scantly lit by the full moon. Lex couldn’t see Clark’s eyes for the shadows but the muted lines of the boy’s body spoke volumes.
“Clark?” Lex’s voice was rough. “What’s wrong?”
For a moment he hoped Clark might be a dream, or some kind of residual drug effect, but when he lifted his head and gave Lex his eyes, that hope was dashed. In Clark’s familiar face was the weight of the ages and for a split second all the options open to him rushed through Lex. Lionel’s blood, the Luthor DNA, singing him siren songs of the future, showing him the infinite possibilities trapped in this moment. Ways to bind Clark to him, ways to control Clark and use him as the weapon he knew Clark could be. Manipulations that would allow him to drive the old lion out of the pride and make himself the ruler of Metropolis. The thin air at the top of this devil’s mountain made Lex’s voice softer and rougher.
“Tell me what’s wrong Clark and I’ll fix it.”
Clark’s laugh was bitter and old. “You can’t fix it Lex. No one can.”
And in that second none of the plans his blood and DNA mattered, the only relevant thing was easing the boy in front of him.
From that point, Lex’s choices were easy. Without hesitation he moved towards Clark, calmly ignoring the desire that flashed across his friends face in the moments it took Lex to pull on a pair of sweats and a tee shirt.
“Well, then.” He smiled at Clark. “If I can fix it. I can at least feed you. Come on.”
Clark hesitated for a moment, then mustered a smile and followed Lex to the kitchen. There, over a variety of foods, Dagwood sandwiches, soft French omelets and even a box of coco puffs cook had secreted on a top shelf somewhere, Lex Luthor fell hopelessly in love.
And truly found out absolutely nothing more than he already knew about the true mystery of Clark Kent.
“I don’t feel connected to anything Lex.”
“No one understands what it’s like to be me Lex.”
“I can’t stand the pressure Lex.”
“I think I’m gay Lex.”
“I can’t stop dreaming about you Lex.”
Around a lap full of trembling Clark Lex smiled at the pedestrian nature of teenaged angst and cared not one whit for any mystery that did not involve love.
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More here
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Lex's insistence on waiting until Clark was 18 before they became physically intimate imbued the time with a sweet tension that made Lex’s blood sing. The lack of physical intimacy was difficult, but it only served to deepen their emotional bond. The year since Clark had broken down the wall between them and forced Lex to admit what he felt had been the sweetest of his life. More perfect in some ways then the time before his mother died, when the Luthor’s were a real family. Nothing that involved Lionel had ever been this easy. He felt safe with Clark, almost invulnerable. They complimented each other perfectly. Clark was young in many ways, but an old soul when it came to love. Lex, worldly and sophisticated, really had no idea how to love someone, how to allow himself to be loved. Lex felt guilty sometimes because their contributions to the relationship were so unequal. Clark taught Lex how to be human; Lex taught Clark to like wine and helped him with his homework.
Lex had brooded on this for some months. He thought he would work it out for himself and never have to admit his foolishness to Clark. He would have sworn nothing about his attitude or demeanor had changed, until one day after the physics homework was put away and before the movie they had chosen started, Clark suddenly grabbed him and pulled him into his lap. Lex froze for a moment, unused to being handled so forcefully. He struggled to free himself, but Clark simply ran his strong hands up Lex’s arms to cup the back of his head. His thumbs under Lex’s jaw, he tilted the smooth head back and forced Lex to look at him.
“I can’t make it better if you won’t tell me Lex. I can’t take away the fear if you don’t tell me what’s scaring you.” Clark told him.
He reared back struggling against Clark’s big hands feigning anger to cover his terror.
“Let go of me damn it. I am not a doll or a pet for you to manhandle. LET GO!” This last almost a scream.
Clark released his skull and moved his arms around Lex, and held him still against his chest, stroking his back, murmuring into his ear.
“You’re Lex and I love you and you are going to tell me, if we have to stay here forever.” He felt Clark’s smile against his ear. The next works were licked into the rim of it and nibbled, exquisitely into the lobe. “Which would totally blow your plan to wait until my 18th birthday.”
Lex didn’t like to be touched. He had vague memories of his mother holding him and stroking his hair, before the meteors. For a long time afterward his newly naked skin was just too sensitive. He had to have his clothes specially tailored to fit smoothly against him. Any movement of the cloth against his skin caused him discomfort, like a thousand ants were trying to crawl under his skin. The doctors told his mother the meteors had left him with a slight electrical charge. They couldn’t tell her why this was so; only that it would likely go away. It did, but not until after his mother had died and by then his reaction to the touch of others, like his style of dress were ingrained. He only allowed others to put their hands on him during sex. This discomfort was the largest reason his sexual encounters tended to be quick, lusty, drug fueled affairs, lacking all but the most basic physical contact, ending with orgasm and exit. He had almost married Victoria because she seemed to be the same way. Their couplings were always brief and violent. No casual touching before, no long cuddles after, just teeth, claws and separate bedrooms.
Loving Clark had started to change that. Touch was still not easy between them, but it was possible. Mostly he touched Clark, carefully stroking him until he purred. Clark loved to be touched, loved to touch Lex, but was equally careful, understanding Lex’s reticence. Often he would sit between Lex’s outstretched legs, leaning back against Lex’s chest and shoulders, rubbing his cheek against Lex’s hands and sometimes recently Lex’s neck and the hollow of his throat.
But that night months ago, pressed against Clark’s chest, ear against his strongly beating heart, Lex fought for control over his fear and increasingly his arousal.
“Clark” he hissed between clenched teeth. “Let me up.”
“No Lex.” The words once again followed by Clark’s tongue. “I’m scared too, but I’m not running away. I’m ready to tell you what scares me, as soon as you’re ready to talk to me.”
He gently ran his soft mouth over Lex’s mother of pearl smooth skull, kissing and licking, ratcheting up the emotion, until Lex began to cry.
Clark picked him up in his arms and carried him from the study to the master suite. The big canopy bed was deep and soft, sinking under the weight of the two of them. Clark moved his feet onto the bed and lay back, pulling the sobbing Lex on top of him. His big hands began to stroke Lex’s back through the shirt, trying to sooth Lex, stop him from drawing away. As he lifted up, Clark’s hands caught his shoulder and forced Lex’s face closer. Gently he brought their mouths close together and began to speak gently, his breath caressing Lex’s lips.
“Shush Lex,” he whispered, “It’s just me. Feel. Here are your arms and your back. You’re safe with me Lex. You can tell me anything.”
As he spoke, he touched Lex, running his hands down Lex’s gray long sleeved tee shirt, he grabbed the hem and pulled it off. Then one handed, the other still on Lex’s neck he ripped his own tee shirt down the front and pulled their exposed chests together.
“Just tell me Lex. It will be fine. You’ll tell me and I’ll tell you and after we’ll laugh and it will all be fine.”
For a time Lex sobbed and then he slept, torpid against Clark’s chest. When he awoke and looked up, Clark’s green eyes were watching him calmly.
So Lex just told him. All of it, the feelings of inadequacy, the terror of loving Clark, the knowledge that it would end badly with Lex broken and alone. The tears began to come again but before they could breakout, Clark leaned down and captured his mouth, achingly gentle and coolly firm. His broad flat tongue stroking the inside of Lex’s mouth like it was the sweetest candy. Clark’s teeth worried the scar that marred his lip, biting gently on the line of his jaw, up to his ear. Again, Clark's words were accompanied by kisses and nips to the shell of Lex's ear.
“I’m an alien Lex. A big, dumb, gay alien, virgin, who will love Lex Luthor until the day I die.”
And Clark had been right Lex could only laugh.
Looking back, Lex is still ashamed of his foolishness. It was, he knows now, the first sign of his unworthiness.
That fateful day the two of them were sprawled on the floor of Lex's bedroom, Clark had his head on Lex's lap and Lex was admiring the rightness of his long pale fingers in the darkness of Clark's hair. He soothed and tugged tying lover's knots for the joy of smoothing them. Imagining what was to come, what he would do to Clark's hair when all of Clark was his. He could feel Clark's jaw move against his thigh causing twitches and tingles deep under his skin. Clark's voice was reduced to a soothing 60-cycle hum, a new age sound track for Lex's fantasy of the future. Since the night they had exchanged secrets Lex had been happy, giddy at the prospect of tomorrow and for the first time in his life, completely without fear. He believed himself saved with the faith of a Paul or an Augustine. His big brain had become goofy with happiness, unreliable with joy.
Lex was oblivious.
Lex with the perfect control over everything, with all the power and money, with seventy-five different cars and the love of Clark Kent, was not paying attention.
Therefore, Jonathan Kent was dead.
He can't be sure how long Clark had been detailing his father's symptoms, without any idea they were symptoms, but certainly more than this one afternoon. He can, however, clearly remember the words that shattered his Eros induced stupor, like a Hephaestus' hammer to lilac sugared glass.
“And this morning he gave me the key to our safety deposit box and my great-grandfather’s watch.”
Clark held up the dull tarnished watch up for Lex to inspect and sure enough, the bright silver bank key was attached to the chain. It hung, suspended like a tear in the mote filled sun of the study. It caught Lex’s eye and in his hindbrain, he heard the sharp click of the universe marshalling against him
Clark was a boy, with no experience of death. Clark was a boy with a crystal belief in the strength and immortality of his father.
Clark was a boy.
Lex was a man with a dead mother. Lex was a man with a hard-earned understanding of the weaknesses of all men, especially fathers.
Lex was a man.
If anyone was responsible for missing the signals, it was Lex.
The truth was Lex had not really been paying attention. For weeks all his focus, all his planning, all his care had been given over to Clark. He had let his mind wander, the iron control over his world ease shamelessly and so that day he'd ended with Jonathan Kent's brains on his shoes.
As soon as Clark had understood, he'd bolted. Lex had called Martha Kent, the police and the ambulance, and then followed as quickly as he could. The distance between the house and the barn, the super-speed, the quarter of a million dollar's worth of car had made no difference. Lex found Martha in a heap at the entrance to the barn, screaming; a grotesque parody of Munch, wet and loud, but taut like a completely new kind of art. He brushed past her and from a great distance away he fished the cell phone out of his jacket and dialed Nell Potter. He said her name when she answered and began to explain
"Martha . . ." was all he got out.
When Lex inhaled to finish, the smell snuck in with the air and coated the back of his throat. His mouth filled with saliva, it was nothing like copper or tin, there was nothing of pennies in it. It was floral and rotten, like a newish grave, with offerings of flowers and food, sitting on the hot earth, through a week of cold nights. It was panic and peace, fear and prayers; and Clark was crouched in four-point stance on a bale of hay. Lex moved towards him without thinking, he took two steps before his ears registered the soft squish under the soles of his shoes. His eyes wavered, skittered away from Clark towards the floor. Starting with the red on his shoes, red flecked with small textured white blobs, everything was shiny in the muted half-light of the barn. Lex felt the pressure on his chest increase as he followed the trail of strangeness to the sprawled lump of meat in front of him. Meat that had been Jonathan Kent, until he swallowed the barrel of the sawed off shotgun in some deranged act of fellatio.
The vice on his chest tightened again as he imagined the act. Had Jonathan caressed the barrel with his teeth, sure of the invulnerability of his lover, or covered them carefully with his lips so as not to damage. Had he run the barrel in and out of his mouth before he pulled the trigger, imagining the explosion as orgasmic completion?
To ease the pressure in his chest and stop the pornographic visions is his head, Lex started to move forward, the thickening blood stretching between the sole of his shoe and the floor, the sick, flat clack drawing a whimper from somewhere that was not Lex.
Clark.
Other than the soft noise, Clark was a statue on the bale. Lex finished the step he had taken and took one more. His hand wandered in front of his eyes, like something that belonged to somebody else. His fingers looked obscene and slug like as the moved towards Clark’s face. He stayed immobile when Lex touched him; he stared straight ahead at the meat, icy cold. Lex tried to turn Clark away, soft white hand on the ashen cheek, but Clark would not move, not turn away from the meat that had been his father.
And he had to make Clark move, make Clark understand what they were both standing in, make Clark come back. Because Lex was just too new at this and Clark had been going to teach him how to cry before he had actually needed the skill . . . But there was no reason, because Clark loved him and why would he need to know how to cry, when Clark loved him. And Martha was keening somewhere far away and the rotten taste in his mouth was getting stronger and stronger and he had Jonathan Kent’s brains on his shoes.
Incapable of thought, in full panic mode, his base Luthor soul crippled by love Lex reared back and struck Clark as hard as he could. Nothing. Again. And nothing. The wide green eyes didn’t flicker; the taut body didn’t shift at all. Lex fought to keep the scream in, fought to stay sane, to stay there. He was lost and out of control. Another sign of his basic unworthiness, another indication of how weak and useless to he was to Clark.
Nell saved him.
She touched his arm softly and said his name gently. He jerked away from her hand, lost his balance and fell into Clark. This brought motion, a reaction. Clark shifted and caught him, his arms encircling Lex, protective and gentle, but also cold and still. Nell’s eyes widened for a moment, then she said in he cool firm voice,
“Take Lex home Clark. I’ll deal with things here.”
For a moment, Clark stayed still and cold, then he moved his gaze away from the interior of the barn and met Nell’s eyes over Lex’s head.
“It’s okay Clark. I’ll take care of your mum and dad, you just take Lex home.”
Clark shifted Lex’s weight and lifted him in his arms like a child. Looking neither right nor left, he carried Lex from the barn, past his collapsed mother and out into the yard. Before Lex could speak, Clark moved and when Lex could draw another breath, they stood at the door of the castle.
Mastering his fear and shoving his panic into the space between his heart and his gut, Lex climbed down from Clark and opened the door. He took off their corrupted shoes and tossed them out behind them. He took Clark’s arm and eased him into the castle, up the stairs and into Lex’s bedroom. Things became pedestrian then, Clark a large willing automaton, bathed and placed tenderly in Lex big bed.
The waiting began.
After a week of watching Clark sleep, Lex couldn't bear it any more. Alone with Clark, over coffee, on a perfect autum day, he did what Lex Luthor always did for the people he loved. He fixed it.
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More here
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There was crisp white linnen on the wrought iron patio table and cyprus trees dappling Lex with shadow. Clark's huge procalin mug picked up the thick fall light, making sharp patterns on everything. It was like being at the bottom of a peaceful blue lake. He had as much of Clark's attention as anyone ever got anymore and he certainly knew how. So he fixed it, removed his heart and soul, put them neatly in the lead box in his brain and forced Clark back to life.
"Clark, we need to talk."
The broad callused hands tightened on the coffee cup and the green eyes opened a little wider. All the way to half-mast, in the sallow dead face.
"I knew."
Ah. There it was, deep behind the eyes. A flicker, a shift, a spark of interest or maybe just instinct. Clark shifted in the hard iron chair and seemed about to speak.
"I knew Jon . . . your father was sick."
The eyes across from him twitched and opened a little wider. Lex knew that before this conversation was over Clark's eyes would consume his entire face.
"He. . . came to me, when he was diagnosed."
He lifted the medical file from the spare chair and laid it precisely on the expanse of white cloth between them, half of it in Lex cypress shadows and half of it in Clark's fall sun. Lex's half showed rust colored in the shade.
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An ending I likely won't use
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In the dream he stood by a silent black sea. Other men stood on the shore with him. They were out of his sight line but he could feels their emptiness all around him. Calmy he reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew the lead box, holding it in both pale hands. He thought about opening it for a moment, but it wasn't a real possibility. Instead, he pressed the lead into his forhead and imagined what it could have been like if Jonathan Kent had not been such a proud coward. If he had come to Lex and accepted the money for treatment or didn't. Just lived or died like every other human being on earth that wasn't a Kent . . . or a Luthor. To die surrounded by tribe, mourned with beautiful happy stories told again and again, to children and grand-children, this was the human way. But Kent had choosen instead to pledge blood loyality to acres of land that cared no more for him than it did for bison and brown men that passed before. Inside himself Lex smiled a slow secret smile, knowing and full of precious agony.
While Jonathan Kent had only pretended to love his son, Lex truely loved him. So eyes closed, in one smooth motion he pulled the box away from his forhead and through it into the deep dark sea.
Lex Luthor always paid when he got what he wanted.
And yet again, He should have remembered the taste of ashes was his salt and bread and nothing could change that
Yesterday is ashes; tomorrow wood. Only today the fire shines brightly