Archive of Our Own

His first impression of Lex Luthor, once he’s not waterlogged, is “Wow, this guy is really cool.”

He’s not quite sure why he thinks it. He doesn’t have the words to explain it. He knows, objectively, that most people in Smallville hate Lex Luthor, but he-- there’s part of him that thinks, well, maybe they’re jealous. He’s rich, and an asshole, and so painfully cool that it just adds insult to injury, it just riles everyone up further. Like, for example, Whitney is a prick, but Clark would have to be blind to not see the coolness inherent to the man’s posturing and high school football...ness.

So that, in Clark’s mind, is Lex. Lex is rich and powerful, and so cool that the sun can’t touch him, and that makes everyone hate him more, because it isn’t fair when the person you don’t like absolutely rocks.

But then, Lex is cool in an entirely different way to Whitney’s cool. Clark has trouble with that one, too. Because Whitney is on the football team, and Whitney has the cool girlfriend Clark’s always wanted, and everyone likes Whitney, and he’s loud and braggadocios and getting out of this small town alive.

Lex is... quiet. Self-assured, quiet power, Lex seems entirely aware of every nanometer of space and inhabits it fully. Lex walks into a room, and no one can look away for a moment, the very air is filled with him. Maybe it’s being cool and an adult, Clark considers. That maybe checks out, though Clark’s pretty sure he’s not far off from adult either. He feels like the end of high school is right around the corner, he does nearly as many chores on the farm as his parents do, he’s learning that he’s an alien freak who’ll never be normal or safe. It seems like enough adult responsibilities are on his plate to make him one of The Big Kids.

And yet, there’s Lex. Different, other. Infinitely cool. Clark feels like, if he can just get Lex’s eyes on him long enough, he could really be somebody. Like all his self-worth relies on those eyes, noticing.

“Do you wanna’ go get coffee?” Clark asks, maybe a little over-eager.

Lex snorts from behind his desk. “If you can even call the burnt water here coffee.”

“Right, yeah.” Clark’s brow furrows seriously. Of course, the coffee in Smallville isn’t cool enough, Lex probably knows a thousand cool coffee spots in Metropolis. Stupid. Stupid, small hick who wouldn’t know the good, cool coffee if it bit him on the--

“But, needs must. There’s nowhere else to get a caffeine fix in this town, and I need a break from the computer screen.” Lex stands, and Clark’s heart jumps in his chest. Oh, so it was a good suggestion. Thank god. “One of these days I’ll have an espresso machine installed right here, and we’ll never have to grace those tainted halls again.”

We. Clark is one of the few, the invited, he’s got a spot of honor. He’s cool. Butterflies erupt in his stomach. “They make that? In-home expresso machines?”

“Espresso. Yes, I used to have one in my Metropolis apartment.” Lex replies patiently. Clark tries the pronunciation out under his breath. It doesn’t sound right, but when Lex says it, he sounds worldly and knowledgeable.

Clark jumps up to trail after Lex, who looks faintly amused. Maybe Clark is being too obvious about his desperation to get on Lex’s good side, and he tries for a nonchalant expression. Lex always looks nonchalant. He couldn’t be chalant if he tried. “Is there such a word as chalant?” Clark wonders aloud. “Like, nonchalant, but the opposite.”

Lex’s brow raises, amusement growing. “No, there’s not. It’s interesting, that’s a documented phenomenon, a lexical gap caused by linguistic drift and word loans from different language sources. I believe nonchalant came form the French, and they had a word very similar to chalant that was... mmm, I believe it was something to do with ‘hot’. In any case, nonchalant was borrowed, then it had its meaning drift from the original French, and chalant is now a word that’s impossible to port over.”

Lex knows so much, and Clark has no idea how. But beyond that, Clark noticed something interesting. Something interesting enough for Lex to get talking about it. Clark’s chest feels warm. He wants to run and tell Pete and Chloe this new information, like regurgitating it will make him look nearly as cultured and controlled and cool.

“Hurry it up, linguist, and maybe I’ll let you pick the car.” Lex calls over his shoulder.

Lex is the coolest person in the whole damn world.

Clark picks the red Ferrari Spider, because it’s sleek and flashy and the bright candy red makes him light up. He runs an appreciative palm over the hood, then pulls his hand away before he can smudge it.

“You and red,” Lex says, shaking his head. “Should’ve made your truck red, maybe then you would’ve kept it.”

Clark’s stomach swoops a little imagining a brand new, beautiful truck in this same red. Would he look a little like Lex? Driving down the streets in such an eye-catching color?

“Pa would never let me,” he says, can’t help the softly mournful tone. The gift was really too much, and his dad didn’t want to owe a Luthor, and... Clark’s not allowed to stick out. Clark, on top of being terminally uncool and incapable of it, isn’t allowed to command the attention of every room he walks into. If he owned a bright red car, his dad would get it painted tan while he slept.

Maybe this is what separates the Lex Luthors of the world from other people. Lex takes up space, without being huge and obnoxious like the football dads Clark has been forced to encounter his entire high school career. Lex takes up space in a good way.

“Just wait ‘til college, ‘pa’ can’t do much about it at that point,” Lex replies casually, sliding into the front seat.

Clark’s face heats. Going... against his dad’s wishes? In college? Lex implying they would really be friends that long? He’d said the stuff of legends, but Clark sometimes wonders if the other shoe is about to drop and he’ll be left with his old friends high and dry. Whom he loves! And cherishes deeply! But, well,

he peers through the window. Lex is in a signature purple silk shirt, which should maybe look gaudy or obnoxious but just looks luxurious on him. It hangs artfully off his frame, his hands perfectly positioned on the steering wheel to frame his body. His tongue darts out to wet his lip, and he looks over with his piercing eyes, silently asking Clark ‘getting in, or not?’

they’re not Lex.

Clark scrambles into the car, the seats comfortable and plush, the leather clean in a way his dad’s truck’s have never been, because the truck is for work. It still has the new car smell, somehow, even though Clark knows it’s not new enough for that.

“Strap in,” Lex tells him, casually commanding. Clark follows without thinking, because he’s a good boy who follows the traffic laws, and also because Lex said to.

“You’re quiet,” Lex observes as he pulls out onto the street. It’s just a few minutes’ drive to the coffee place, nowhere in Smallville is more than a few minutes’ drive.

Clark shrugs. “Just, y’know, thinkin’,” he says casually, going for cooly disaffected the way Lex seems to wear like a second skin. Lex hums in response.

“And do I have the privilege of knowing said thoughts?”

Clark shrugs. He goes mulishly silent for a moment, picking at his jeans, fraying ever so slightly at the knees from the repetitive stress of bending down when he bales hay. “You said... about college...” he clears his throat awkwardly. “You really think we’ll be friends that long?”

Lex smiles, soft and reassuring. “C’mon, I told you, didn’t I? The stuff of legends.” He raises his hand to knock it against Clark’s shoulder companionably, then lets it fall against the arm rest, knuckles so close yet so far from Clark’s knee. Warmth blooms in Clark’s chest.

Would it be cool to take Lex’s hand? He seems... physically affectionate, in some ways, but maybe that’s not what men do. Maybe that isn’t cool. Clark’s still finding the lines. He swings his knee to the side so it bumps into Lex’s hand, more a smack than a sign of physical affection, but also not not a sign of physical affection. Comfortably deniable. “Yeah. Legends,” Clark repeats, can’t help the stupid smile he can feel growing.

“Clearly I haven’t been doing my job if there’s any space to doubt.”

“No! I mean, you’re a really great friend to me. I just... get in my head.”

Lex switches hands on the steering wheel and rests his chin on his knuckles, elbow against the car door. It makes Clark’s eyes linger on his jaw. “You never struck me as the anxious type.”

“I try not to let it show.”

“Then I’m honored,” he says like it’s so important, “that you’re comfortable enough around me to let it slip through the cracks.”

God, Lex always makes you feel like you’re the only one in the room. He’s so good like that. Effortless coolness. “Well. That’s being friends, isn’t it?”

Lex regards him for a moment, eyes flicking between him and the road. “I suppose it is.”

They pull up to the Beanery a moment later, and get easy parking outside because it’s Smallville. Lex gets out and stands in the open door of the car with one arm on the roof, leaning casually like he’s in some kind of magazine as he waits for Clark to follow suit. Clark trips over his own foot getting out. He will never, ever be Lex Luthor, good god.

Lex doesn’t seem humiliated to be seen with him, though, all smiles, and Clark soothes himself with the knowledge that at least Lex is such a good guy that he doesn’t let it show when you’re being an absolute dork around him.

Clark gets to the door first and holds it for Lex because it seems polite, and maybe being polite is the secret, but Lex breezes past like it’s only natural the door would be held open for him, head held high, and Clark concludes politeness is not the secret to cool, it’s definitely something in the way you walk instead.

Lex takes his coffee black and sneers a little at the burnt taste, and Clark takes his with sugar and flavored creamer and enjoys it just fine.

“What self-respecting farm boy takes his coffee with mix-ins?” Lex asks, but he doesn’t sound angry, just amused.

“I like my drinks sweet,” Clark says with a shrug. “And it helps to mask the burnt taste.” In all honesty, he can’t really taste the burnt-ness that Lex complains of, but it’s the right comment to make because Lex nods in understanding.

“Maybe I should follow in your brilliant lead,” Lex says, moving to stand, “I just keep hoping, every first sip, that this time it will taste of coffee and not of burnt tires.”

Lex walks up to the counter to ask for creamer and sugar, then pauses as he actually looks at the little special placard on the desk. “Is it a real mocha?” Clark hears him ask skeptically.

“Uh, yeah. Do you want one?” The disinterested barista replies.

“As a matter of fact, I would like to try one.” He has over money, and not much longer later he gets back a cup that he peers at dubiously.

When he comes back, he sets his new cup down next to his old one. It’s got whipped cream and chocolate drizzle on top, and Clark eyes it curiously. So far he’d only seen girls ordering their new mochas, but-- if Lex did it, that means it’s cool, right? Must be a cool Metropolis thing, which Lex is ahead of the curve on and the girls are just catching up to. It looks interesting. And something about it looks very right, Lex sitting up straight, cup held delicately in his hand, one leg crossed over the other.

Lex takes a sip, makes a face. “Ah.” He sounds disappointed.

“Bad?” Clark asks sympathetically.

“Not precisely, it tastes better than the rest of the swill, but it’s definitely not a mocha. I was wondering where they kept the espresso machine in order to make one, but it seems they just poured in drip coffee instead. Sacrilege.” Lex slides it towards Clark. “Feel free to try some.”

Clark picks up the cup, examining it for a moment, then taking a swig. Sweet chocolate and bitter coffee mingle on his tongue, burnt notes washed away by the whipped cream. He’s aware he makes a soft noise, and is now clutching the cup with both hands. “That’s really good.”

Lex chuckles. “Feel free to keep it.”

“Oh, I couldn’t--”

“Clark, it’s one faux-mocha. I’ll be fine. We can swap if it makes you feel better, I’ll finish yours with the creamer.”

Lex, drinking his coffee, the way he takes it. From the same cup he was using. Something about that feels exciting and dangerous, maybe the transgressiveness of someone Cool approving of his coffee order. “Alright,” he acquiesces, eager to drink more mocha, even if Lex says this is a bad mocha.

The door opens and Clark looks up automatically, grinning when he sees his friends walking through the door. “Hey Pete, Chloe!” He calls out, waving them over, then pauses and leans in to ask “It’s alright that they sit with us, right?” He wants all his friends to like each other. He’s not sure why it’s so important that they approve of Lex, but he needs them to see how crazy cool Lex is and admit it.

“Uh... hey.” Pete looks obviously uncomfortable with Lex’s presence, but also screws up his face at Clark’s drink. “What’s that?”

“Oh, this is their new mocha. Lex says it’s not like a real mocha, but it’s still really good, you should order one.”

Pete eyes the whipped cream, mouth twisting downwards. “Nah, nah, I’m good. You enjoy the... whipped cream.” He breaks off to go order.

“I think it looks real good, Clark,” Chloe says, but it sounds more like an apology for Pete’s curtness than an actual comment about his coffee. Did he not drink it right? Lex had looked cool with it, trendy and interesting. Maybe mochas are crossed-leg drinks. Clark’s not sure he can cross his legs like that in jeans. She also scurries off to order, and Clark tries not to deflate too much in their absence.

Chloe drags Pete back once their order’s up, and his face twists bitterly about it, but they both seat themselves at Clark and Lex’s little table. “So, what’s on the docket for today?” She asks.

“I finished my homework, and Lex was sick of looking at his computer screen, so I thought a break at The Bean would be good for both of us.”

Pete looks surprised that they were both together before the meet-up, but Chloe’s expression stays even. “Any scoops on LuthorCorp business either of you could give me?”

“I don’t talk to reporters,” Lex says smoothly, “but if I did, you would be the first one I’d call.”

Chloe smiles. “I could use a story like that. All I have right now is drama about breakups and what they’re putting in the cafeteria lunches. So not riveting.”

“What are they putting in the lunches?” Lex asks.

“Oh, you don’t want to know.”

Clark wrinkles his nose. “Maybe I should start packing lunches.”

“With all the leftovers your ma makes? Absolutely you should.”

“Do you need me, or can I go?” Pete asks, and Chloe rolls her eyes.

“What the hell is that? Are you trying to sound nonchalant? Just join the conversation already, god.”

Clark feels a nervous energy buzzing inside him. “Did you ever notice that there’s no chalant?” He says, trying desperately to channel Lex’s energy. “It’s because English borrowed nonchalant from French, but it didn’t, uh, borrow chalant. So now we don’t have an opposite. For nonchalant.”

Pete looks unimpressed. “Are you, like, feeling okay, dude?”

Lex looks mildly amused at Clark’s fumbling attempts to distill the information he’d provided earlier. Clark’s excitement curdles in his stomach, and he blushes, looking down at his coffee. “I thought it was cool,” he defends weakly.

“Linguistics is an intriguing field. Language is far less prescriptive than most people give it credit for. We could start using the word chalant right here, right now, and in five years’ time if enough people pick up on it, it could become a full-fledged word and enter the dictionary,” Lex leans back in his chair, coffee cup in hand.

How did he do that? It just sounds right coming from him. Clark feels further embarrassed to be shown up.

“Chalant’s not a word,” Pete says, sounding irritated, “and if I’m not needed, I’m going.”

“Hold on, Pete,” Clark says, but Pete’s already walking towards the door.

Chloe glances between them, looking torn. “I promised him we’d hang out today, so...” she says, getting up with her coffee in her hand. “I kinda’ can’t ditch him. Sorry, Clark, see you around?”

She scurries after Pete, calling out for him to wait up, and Clark sinks down in his chair with a groan.

“I guess we’ve found out Pete is no budding linguist,” Lex says mildly. His elbows are perched on the arms of his chair, and Clark notices a ring on his middle finger. It has a single blue gem in the middle, thick without being chunky or ostentatious. Clark’s never seen a man wearing a ring that isn’t a class ring or a wedding ring, but it somehow looks right on Lex’s hand. Like it was molded to sit there.

How does he make everything look so right?

“We should go do something,” Clark says suddenly, standing up.

“I thought we were doing something. We’re drinking coffee. Well, liquid that proclaims to be coffee, anyhow.”

“Yeah but that’s not an activity, that’s just... sitting around. We should do something, you know?” What do cool people do? Lex probably looks through art galleries and bids on the best pieces, but there’s nowhere like that around Smallville.

“Any grand ideas for this mythical activity?” Lex cocks his head to the side, considering Clark.

They usually play pool, or video games, which Clark likes a lot but he doesn’t want to drive back to Lex’s place yet. Smallville has a museum and a nice park, but neither really scream cool. There’s a shooting range-- and maybe he’ll bring that up to Lex someday, but Clark doesn’t have any guns to shoot and the place doesn’t rent any out, and that feels embarrassing for some reason. “There’s... the movie theater?”

Lex nods. “There is actually a film on that I wanted to see, I was surprised when I saw that Smallville was showing it.”

Clark lights up. “Then we’ll go see that! What did you have in mind?” He knows Joy Ride is showing right now, but somehow that doesn’t seem like Lex’s speed.

“Mulholland Drive.”

“Haven’t heard of it.”

“It’s by the director of Twin Peaks.”

Clark searches his memory for Twin Peaks. “I think my parents used to watch that?”

Lex snorts. “Everyone used to watch it, it was the water cooler conversation of the entire nation. Not that I was around the water cooler then, I’m not that old.”

“You were never around the water cooler, that’s for mid-range employees,” Clark shoots back. Lex smiles.

“That it is. But still, I want to see the film. I’ve heard good things.” Clark bounces on his toes, excited to see a movie that excites Lex. “Fair warning, it’s not very action-heavy, it’s more cerebral.”

Cerebral. What a Lex word. “I can do cerebral. I get top grades in English class.”

The look on Lex’s face says he doesn’t think very highly of Clark’s English classes. “I’m sure you do, Clark.”

They walk to the theater, leaving Lex’s Spider where it’s parked because there’s no meter and no one cares, and because it’s a nice day. Clark drinks his whipped cream coffee eagerly, smiling at people as he passes who look on at him with confusion, and only belatedly worrying he has a whipped mustache once the drink is nearly finished.

He tosses his drink in a nearby public trash can and wipes his mouth on his sleeve, then regrets it because Lex probably would never. All his sleeves are probably designer or bespoke. He’s not sure that he really cares about all that, but he wants to imitate whatever it is in Lex’s energy that makes him so magnetic, and maybe caring about your sleeves is part of that.

Lex buys the tickets, because he’s Lex, and Clark busies himself filling the soda cup and making sure the popcorn has enough butter. Lex had said it wasn’t really ‘a popcorn movie’, but Clark’s not sure what that means or how any movie could not be a popcorn movie.

Clark starts to understand that statement about ten minutes into the film.

His brow furrows further and further the longer the movie goes on, trying desperately to follow the events as they unfold, but the little elderly couple in the box just about breaks his brain. He glances over at Lex periodically, trying to get a feel for how he’s enjoying the movie. He looks almost... studious, watching the screen carefully, not smiling or frowning. But at one point he must feel Clark staring, because he looks over and smiles. Clark looks down at his lap, suddenly flustered at being caught out. He takes a sip of soda and his arm brushes Lex’s. Lex shifts, presses their arms together more deliberately, reaching into the bucket for popcorn. Clark leans in to whisper “I told you so,” and Lex smiles wider, smacking Clark’s shoulder and then pointing at the movie to silently shush him.

Their knees knock together, their shoulders press. On the screen, giant lesbians kiss each other. Clark’s stomach flips and he feels himself getting hot. Not hot like sexy, but cold-hot, like when shame hits you, or when you’re twelve and you realize your mother’s just seen through your lie. He isn’t getting hard--thank god for that--but he feels off-kilter and put on the spot. It’s enticing, watching these beautiful women do something he knows, instinctively, they’re not supposed to. Or, rather, he doesn’t care if people are gay, and doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with acting on it, but he’s aware that other people say they shouldn’t. They’re not supposed to in the eyes of society. He feels like he’s getting away with some grand crime just by watching these women move together.

His eyes blur, and he realize he hasn’t been blinking. He’s not breathing either, like someone will catch him and smack him on the hand. What would ma think about him watching a movie like this? Adults don’t think like that, but adults out in the world don’t have Martha Kent on their case twenty-four-seven. He can’t tell, does he hate this scene? Does he love this scene? He thinks it could maybe go on forever and that would be alright. The movie could just end right here and it would be a good movie to him.

Which is normal, yeah? He’s a red-blooded man, and men are supposed to like women kissing.

The scene ends and he doesn’t think about it any further. Yeah, men like women kissing. And he didn’t freak out and run out of the theater like a baby, which means he’s getting a lot of cool, mature points right now. Plus there’s a decomposing corpse, which means gross-out points for sticking through it and eating popcorn like there’s nothing gross about it at all.

By the time the movie ends, Clark has forgotten about the kissing scene, and the way it had made him hot all over. He stumbles out of the theater with an empty popcorn bucket to throw away. “So, what did you think?” Lex asks, hands in pockets, looking relaxed.

“Uh,” Clark says, searching for something to say. He wants to sound intellectual, but he’s drawing a real blank. “I... don’t think I understood it,” he admits.

Lex laughs. “I figured, you sent some real panic-eyes,” he says, smiling so that white, sharp canines are on display. “I liked it, though.”

“Oh yeah? So you have an idea what it was about?”

Lex rolls his neck, thinking. “Well, it could be about a lot of things. It could be a sort of mobius strip-- the two tales leading into each other in an endless cycle, one side the same as the other side because it’s really one side leading into itself. Or perhaps the earlier segments were the dying dream of Diane, told in nonlinear order. I’d probably need to watch it again to get a more solid theory, or think on it longer.”

“Why do you think they were--” Clark stops himself. For some reason, he’d been about to ask why they were lesbians. He’s not sure why he was about to ask that. He wasn’t even thinking about it. He looks away to gather his thoughts and Clark locks eyes accidentally with Whitney, who’s here with Lana. Clark’s stomach sinks. They are quite obviously heading to the theater showing Serendipity, which makes it a date between the two of them, which makes sense because they’re dating, but that doesn’t mean Clark has to be happy about it.

Whitney sees which theater they’re heading out of and makes a face, whispering something in Lana’s ear, and she turns to look. She waves at Clark, and elbows Whitney, but something about the look on her face says she’s also finding the choice strange. Whitney makes sure to walk past Clark and Lex. “Enjoy the pansy movie, Kent?” He asks.

“Hardly a movie for pansies if it’s got chicks making out,” he says, a deflection to save face in front of a guy who could make his life genuinely miserable, but as soon as he says it he feels sick, hopes Lex isn’t looking at him. Reducing this film--even if he hadn’t understood it--down to just ‘chicks making out’ feels wrong. It feels uncultured, uncool, it feels cheap. But he’s said it, no way to take it back now.

“Yeah, that you have to watch through pansy shit to get to. Who wants to see a couple of dykes anyway?” Lana says his name sharply, elbows him harder.

“Ignore him, he was grown under a rock.” Lana grabs his arm and starts dragging him away.

Clark feels hot, then cold, then hot again. Dudes are supposed to be into lesbians, right? Had he gotten that wrong?

“Ah, talking with the locals is always so bracing, isn’t it?” Lex says sarcastically. “You’d been about to say something before the Cro-Magnon interrupted?”

Clark blushes. Would he sound like Whitney, if he asked? Or some other kind of terrible creature? “I don’t remember,” he lies. “Probably because the movie confused me.”

Lex watches him for a moment, then shrugs. “We’ll expand your cinema palate and films like this will be less confusing. Though Lynch is known for his confusing filmmaking, so that will probably remain constant.”

Lex wants to watch more movies with him, which means that he didn’t entirely fuck up the interaction. Relief washes over him. “Wanna’ just go play video games?” Clark asks.

“I do eventually have to get back to my job, you know... but sure, a few rounds of Super Smash Bros. never hurt anyone.” Lex claps a hand to Clark’s shoulder, and doesn’t move it until they get back to the car.

That night, laying in bed, Clark thinks about the women kissing in that movie, their soft lips and curves, and tries to touch himself. It seems like what he should want to do, and something keeps drawing his mind towards the scene like an inexorable spiral. But every time he tries to touch himself, that spiral brings him right back to the corpse, and eventually he gives up. The movie must be rotting his mind.

The shooting range comes up in conversation quite naturally. Clark doesn’t even mean to mention it, but then as a part of the sparse list of local attractions it comes pouring out of his mouth, and Lex locks onto it like a guided missile. “I figured out here everyone got their practice shooting real deer.”

“It’s not always the right season for that, and no one wants to get rusty,” Clark replies.

“Indeed,” Lex replies, standing up straight from where he’d just sank the last ball needed to declare himself the winner of yet another game of pool. His pants shift, hugging the curve of his ass as he goes from bent to standing, and Clark tries not to stare at the movement, eyes drawn to the way the fabric bunches right under the swell of his ass. His head feels a little fuzzy. He wonders if Lex’s pants would fit him, if he would look like that in them. “Want to go shooting?”

Clark blinks, clearing his head. “What?”

“Shooting. Want to go? I have a gun you could borrow.”

Clark’s brain blue screens. Somehow Lex and guns and casual target practice doesn’t seem to compute. “But-- you... you have guns? Multiple guns?”

“I’m living in Smallville. I think they throw you out if you’re not carrying. It’s an obscure bylaw.” Lex leans against his pool cue, hip cocked, smirking.

“Right. Yeah.” Clark’s mouth feels dry. Why is he so fucking cool, it’s not fair.

“So is that a yes, or...?”

“Yeah. Let’s go shooting.”

The range is mostly deserted, which seems to suit Lex just fine. He shows a license to the attendant, a license that Clark was entirely unaware Lex had. There’s a lot you don’t know about Lex, his mind whispers traitorously, and for some reason that makes him feel... bad. It’s only fair, he has his secrets and Lex has his own, but for some reason Clark has the crazy urge to go rooting around in Lex’s past and dig up every little secret, every rock turned over to get to the delicate, juicy details of Lex Luthor’s life.

He tries to ignore this urge, partially because he sometimes sees that same crazy urge to bare all secrets in Lex’s eye, when Lex gets a little too close to Clark’s origin, and it makes him feel like a bug pinned to a board, so he’d hate to make Lex feel that way.

Then again, maybe mutual obsession is just the way of them. Maybe giving into it would help them both chill out.

His thoughts are interrupted by a pistol being placed in his hands.

“The safety’s on, but I trust you know not to point it at me anyway.”

Clark gives the gun a once-over. “I’m more comfortable with rifles,” he admits. He’s not a big hunter, but he’s gone shooting now and again just like everyone else in town.

“Fresh out of rifles, just have the beretta, the springfield, and...” A second handgun is pulled out of the trunk of Lex’s car, and then he lifts the lid of one of his gun cases and Clark sucks in a breath.

“Is that a damned uzi?” Clark asks in a harsh whisper, and Lex laughs.

“Certainly not a blessed one,” he replies coolly. “If it offends your delicate sensibilities, I’ll keep it in the trunk. Just thought a variety of options would work best.”

“Hurry up and close the lid, I feel like we’re tempting fate just by having it out in the open,” Clark complains.

“Fine, fine. Big baby.” Lex rolls his eyes, and Clark doesn’t like the idea of Lex thinking he’s a baby, but really he does have to put his foot down somewhere. “Come on, let’s go down to the targets.” Lex picks up a few boxes of bullets and tucks them under his arm, closing the trunk.

“Technically, we’re supposed to keep these in their gun cases until we’re on the range,” Clark informs him.

A man with an open beer can walks by with a revolver tucked into the waistband of his pants directly on cue, and they watch the man pass in silence, Lex’s brow raised.

“Any other rules I should definitely know about? Is it a faux pas to carry bullets at the same time as the guns? Should we make two trips just to be safe and make sure we don’t trip and dump a bunch of bullets into the guns as we fall?” Lex asks, and Clark glares at him.

“If you weren’t holding a firearm, I would smack you.”

“That seems like more incentive to carry, not less.”

Clark huffs. “Just get walking already,” he says, giving Lex a light shove.

The sun is bright and the air is crisp, nice weather for shooting. Clark tests the weight of the gun in his hand, considering it carefully. He feels a bit like a loaded gun with the safety off, no true control over his powers, the ability to ruin someone’s life with a single twitch lurking at all times.

But then, he’s not like a regular gun. He’s more like... a concealed carry. Or a prototype designed by a foreign power, if anyone found out he’d be stolen away and taken apart piece by piece so they could understand the inner workings. He wonders if guns had feelings, how they would feel about the people who use them. Is it fulfilling, to execute your purpose, or does it feel like being trapped? He’s got a destiny, and he has to keep secrets to fulfill it, and failing that isn’t an option.

“The gun doesn’t fire psychically,” Lex tells him, checking his own gun and then setting it on the small table along with the bullet boxes.

“I’m used to rifles,” Clark says again, “I’m thinking about how to hold it without a body to place against my shoulder.”

Lex steps in close, manually moving Clark’s body until he’s holding the gun at arm’s length. “Don’t hold yourself too stiff, or you’ll hurt your joints when it kicks, but too loose and you’ll bash yourself in the face.” Lex is close, breath on Clark’s cheek, hand on his shoulder. “You’re still bracing your shoulder, just not against the body of the gun. See?”

Clark swallows hard and nods.

Lex nods. “Downrange,” he announces, and walks down to put up the targets, side by side, before returning with an equally firm “Clear.”

“Thank you for following that protocol,” Clark says with relief, “sometimes you really stress me out.”

“I knew you’d get tetchy without it. And anyway, I’m not a complete fool, I know when something is a needless risk. Now stop stalling and start shooting, I want to see your form.”

Clark sucks in a breath and lets it out slow, holding the gun how Lex showed him. He keeps both eyes open, because his pa always told him to, gives better depth perception. Nice and slow, he squeezes the trigger.

It’s always so loud. He remembers belatedly that they’re supposed to have ear protection, and he’ll probably be fine, but what about Lex?

The bullet didn’t hit the center, but it sits comfortably within three rings of center, slightly to the left.

“Not bad,” Lex says, sounding genuinely impressed. “It was like there wasn’t any kickback at all, still as a rock.”

Clark flushes. Maybe he should’ve pretended to experience kickback? Would that have looked more natural? He can’t change it now, or Lex will know something’s up. “Thanks. Guess your advice was good.”

“My advice is always good. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” Lex looks smug.

“I thought they paid you well because of your daddy.” Clark replies innocently.

Lex barks out a laugh. “Yeah, right. If he could get away with leaving me penniless, he would. Thankfully, that reflects even worse on him than me misusing every red cent that comes my way does, so I’ve got free reign.”

His stance seems so casual as he raises his gun, one arm held out, the other in his pocket. He aims, squeezes, and hits just left of center, moving with the kickback instead of fighting against it. Smugness just radiates off him. His hip’s cocked a bit, silk shirt ruffling in the breeze, looking like an action movie star to Clark’s eye.

He swallows hard, eyes raking over Lex’s body.

“Thoughts?” Lex asks, smirking.

Clark steps a little closer. “If you plant your feet wider, I think you’d aim even better.”

Lex looks unimpressed. “I’ve taken lessons from some very impressive people, Kent, I think my footwork is fine.”

“Okay, well, they don’t shoot to put a deer on the table, they shoot to look fancy. Just-- trust me, here.” Clark steps in close and nudges Lex’s feet until they part just a bit further. It doesn’t look as cool and relaxed, but it does make him a little steadier. “You can swivel better if you’re more firmly grounded. Which should translate to better aim.”

Lex looks dubious. He tries again, takes aim, keeping his feet planted further apart. Breathe, aim, squeeze, explosion of sound in the cold, quiet air. It’s still not a direct hit, but it touches the line of the inner circle. Lex lowers his gun, finally looking impressed. “Well I’ll be, farmboy. You actually taught me something.”

Clark’s chest glows with pride.

The days pass in even ebbs and flows, long while happening and then drifting away like they were never there at all. He fills his days with Lex when he isn’t at school or doing chores, and Lex allows it, which makes Clark feel special. He tries, fruitlessly, to get all his friends in one location and not at each other’s throats, but the best he can get out of Pete is a few minutes of sullen silence. Clark tries not to think about it, focusing instead of watching the way Lex moves, cataloguing each twitch and smile as if it holds the secret to what makes Lex magnetic.

Lana asks Lex for a whole coffee shop and gets it. Clark is proud of her, and insanely jealous whenever she calls Lex her ‘partner’, even though business partner is an accurate description of their interactions. Clark doesn’t have a burning desire like that, a guiding star that pushes him to reach for lofty dreams, she’s driven and impressive and Lex is facilitating that, and for a moment Clark feels entirely left behind by it all. Lex is thinking about the coffee shop, and Lana is acting cool, and Clark is sitting on his hands, circling in a holding pattern that betrays a complete lack of ambition.

What does Clark Kent want?

Maybe that’s the secret to cool. Lana wants something and works towards it, Lex is working towards something. Clark Kent wants to be cool, and normal, and hopefully helpful to the people around him. Not extensively impressive.

He wants...

He wants Lana. He wants that beautiful, ambitious person, and to help them reach their goals, and to live a happy, normal life with her where they have children and careers and a life.

He sees her one day, in the halls at school. She’s talking to Whitney, who then turns and walks away to get to class, and Clark decides now is the time to make a move.

Clark has made no headway as Clark, but maybe, if he just channels Lex, it would change things. Maybe he could be that cool, and get Lana, and then the whole rest of his life would fall into place. The flannel he’s wearing doesn’t scream elegance, but he makes sure it’s unbuttoned by a few buttons at the top, artfully opened to reveal the skin underneath. He walks up to her, casual, and rests his shoulder against the lockers directly next to hers, popping his hip out the way he’s seen Lex do. He keeps his expression cool, unaffected.

“Hey,” he says, forced casual.

Lana raises a brow. “Hey Clark. How’s it going?”

“About as well as can be expected,” he replies. “I’ve got a paper looming, but it shouldn’t be difficult, just tedious.” Lex uses words like tedious, right?

“Uh... huh.”

“I wanted to congratulate you again, on the coffee shop, the Talon. Quite the achievement.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see if I can make something of it. It’s all pretty new, I’m trying to make sure I don’t mess it up too badly.”

“Don’t worry about all that, I’m sure you’ll do marvelous things with it.” Clark takes her hand, and she gives it like she expects them to shake, but Clark raises it to kiss the back of it instead, head lowered so he can gaze at her through his lashes. He knows he’s seen Lex do something like that before.

Lana doesn’t look impressed, though, her eyebrows pinching and her lips turning down into a frown. “Are you feeling alright?” She asks.

Clark blushes. That wasn’t the response he was looking for. “Yeah, I’m fine, I just-- you know, wanted to be nice.” His heart pounds in his ears.

“Right... well, I gotta’ get to class.” She jerks her thumb over her shoulder, indicating that she’s going to walk away now, and closes her locker as she starts down the hall.

“S- see ya’!” Clark calls after her.

As soon as she can’t see him anymore, he’s groaning and hiding his face in his hands.

Clearly he has no idea what the hell he’s doing.

Thankfully, no rumors come out of Clark’s disastrous attempt at flirting, and Whitney doesn’t hear about the kiss on the hand, so Clark has avoided social suicide, even if he’s pretty sure he hasn’t avoided killing his chance with Lana for the foreseeable future.

He wanders behind Chloe as she pushes clothes around the racks at the thrift store, disinterested but with nothing better to do. She picks up a winter jacket with a cut that might’ve been trendy if it tried a little harder, and a tiny imperfection where sleeve meets shoulder. “What do you think? If I sewed up the hole.”

It’s a perfectly performative question, and he goes to answer that it looks fine as he has a million times before in his life, only to pause and say “It’ll fall apart in a season.”

Chloe blinks, thrown off-script. “What?”

Clark leans in closer, points to fraying threads near the shoulders. “Lex taught me a little about threads and like, hems n’ stuff. See how the seam is almost like, puffy? They didn’t do it right, it isn’t a good seam for this type of fabric, and it’s causing a lot of pressure. You can sew it up all you want, but it’ll just keep unraveling now that it’s started. See how weak the thread is?” He pulls on a sleeve, and another thread snaps.

Slowly, Chloe looks between him and the jacket. Her mouth works for a moment, as if in disbelief. “...Alright. Yeah, I’ll put it back.”

He thinks about Lex’s shirts, with their strong stitching and their vibrant hues. How good the color looks on him. “And I don’t know if purple is your color,” he adds, because he’s pretty sure it’s Lex’s color.

There are movies being shown at the Talon again.

Lana’s idea to drum up business. After some test runs, she’ll decide on old reruns of films that old timers miss and younger audiences never had a chance to see, putting important works back on the big screen. This will clear up the playbill so three new releases at the same time aren’t all vying for airtime on a single screen. First she’ll combine the two ideas, with new releases airing during the week, and a new feature plus an oldie double feature each weekend. This will prove to be a bad idea in the long run, most people don’t want to sit that long, and only order one coffee so the pricing isn’t that viable, and there are only so many ideas for pairings of new movies with old ones. It will move, gradually, to oldie-only weekends, and then old reruns on Fridays, and then midweek oldie nights, and then they’ll give up the ghost and make it all old-movies all the time. It also stops her from being in competition with the Smallville theater which has three whole screens to The Talon’s one, which really means there is no competition.

But for now, it stays, and for now the weekend showing is Ocean’s Eleven. Heist movies aren’t at the top of Clark’s list, but they’re not at the bottom either, and he wants to support Lana’s endeavor, and Lex wants to make sure his investment is being spent properly, so they go together.

Clark notices various people from school, friends and foes alike, as well as adults he passes often enough, or that his parents ask him to deliver crops to. The waitress at the local diner is by the front, the old man who needs extra help getting the crops in the door. There’s a few empty seats, but the novelty of the extra theater hasn’t worn off yet, so it’s fairly well filled.

People turn and look when he and Lex walk through the doors, clearly moving on instinct, but a few let their gazes linger. Lex has a hand on Clark’s shoulder to help lead him through the crowd while Clark holds the drink and popcorn. Pete, way down at the front, looks disgusted. Still has a chip on his shoulder about Clark being friends with a Luthor, and that stings, but Clark makes a mental promise to talk to him about it soon, try and clear things up.

They take their seats, and Clark still feels eyes on his back, but when he turns to look, he doesn’t see anyone staring, though a few heads do snap around quickly. He frowns, but Lex patting his hand to get the popcorn bucket steals his attention back.

The movie’s fun. The movie’s great, even. Not Clark’s usual bag, but good. As he’s watching, though, his eyes drift to George Clooney, the way he sits in Brad Pitt’s space, the way he speaks and just knows what Pitt’s thinking. They talk in short, disjointed sentences, completing thoughts only for themselves, not for the rest of the world. They know each other in a way few people have ever known each other.

Clark’s stomach flips like it did during Mulholland Drive, cold-hot-cold shame, but he can’t identify where it comes from, where the source is. He just knows that Clooney isn’t supposed to be in Pitt’s space like that. Lex’s knee swings wide, presses against his, and he jumps.

He doesn’t know why, but he suddenly has his parents’ voices in his head, telling him that all they want is for him to be normal. He just wants to be normal. He can’t stick out, he can’t be special, he can’t be cool, and he can’t be--

himself.

Self is danger. Self is wrong, self is bad.

All we want is for you to be normal.

If they wanted a normal child so badly, why did they pick up an alien in a field?

Lex’s knee against his, again. He feels like he’s going to be sick, but he doesn’t move from his seat, staring up at the big screen. It’s okay for Lex to do that, because Lex is being normal, but Clark can’t do it back, because he would be abnormal. Clooney gets to lean into Pitt’s space, but Laura Harring is abnormal in Naomi Watts’. He doesn’t know where this knowledge comes from, just that it’s deep inside him and rings true. He can’t think about what the connection is, but the connection exists.

He refocuses on the film. He doesn’t want to think about this.

He lays in bed and touches himself thinking about the kiss scene in Mulholland Drive, and when he orgasms he thinks about Clooney and Pitt, shoulders touching.

Time passes and he doesn’t talk to Pete, because talking to Pete seems hard, and talking to Lex is easier, and because his parents have started giving him more chores. Free time gets more sparse, and he’s forced to choose between school and chores and friends and Lex, and two of those are non-negotiable, so there’s really no choice at all.

Seasons change, weather gets colder, Clark wakes before dawn and toes the lines of midnight each night. He doesn’t mind, boundless font of energy, and his parents need the help. It doesn’t really matter what happens to him if things are easier for other people, he thinks. His dad asks one day what his plans for the weekend are, and he screws up his face. “I wanted to hang with Lex, but, there’s a wall of the barn that needs fixing, so...” he says, and his pa claps him on the shoulder, tells him he’s proud that Clark’s making the adult decision. Clark figures that’s as good a sign as any, figures with the amount of farm work he does and this admission from his pa that this is the moment he passes into adulthood, just a few months shy of 16, which is as good a time as any.

He wipes his brow on the back of his hand even though he doesn’t sweat, because it looks good. Doesn’t matter what he really feels, as long as it looks good. Looks normal.

But gosh, to be cool...

It starts to snow, and his fingers don’t go numb, his nose doesn’t turn red. Christmas is around the corner, and Clark doesn’t have an abundance of money to spend, but he does know that he wants to get something for Lex, something that shows how cool he thinks Lex is, something that shows that Lex is important to him. But he has no idea how he’s going to do that, when Lex can buy anything he wants at any moment. There’s always handcrafts, but Clark worries anything he makes would turn out looking silly.

He pours over the meager offerings of the local thrift store, feeling stupid. How could he possibly find something for Lex Luthor among these dingy selections? He moves listlessly through the racks, pokes through books to see if anything looks old enough to count as antique, lifts knick-knacks off piles to turn them around in his hands and then place them back where they were found. He even starts pushing around piles of costume jewelry, sifting them back and forth. Then, he sees it.

It’s in fairly good condition. A silver chain, and hanging like a pendant is a single golden ring. The ring itself is thick, with wide sides, wide enough for the lettering pressed into the metal, an inscription of Latin, though Clark doesn’t know the phrase off-hand. It looks interesting, elegant and rich. The price tag screams that they priced it along with the rest of the costume jewelry, and Clark rushes to purchase it before they realize their mistake. While he’s there, he also buys a necklace box, which looks slightly ratty but will keep the necklace safe while he gifts it.

AB IMO PECTORE

Pectore makes him think of pectorals, like the muscle, but he doesn’t know about the rest.

The library doesn’t have a book on Latin for him to check out, and while he knows Lex does, he has no way of borrowing it without tipping Lex off that a gift is on the way, so he’ll just have to take the plunge and gift it without knowing what it means. Just the fact it’s in Latin will be enough, right?

Clark steals wrapping paper form his mom. He could wrap it when everyone’s wrapping, but it feels special, secret, like something he doesn’t want the world knowing about.

So he steals a bit of paper when she’s not looking and wraps it with slow, careful hands. Lex seems like the kind of person who’s never opened a sloppy present in his life, like everything becomes immaculate just by being in his presence. Clark makes sure the corners are sharp and then tape is minimal, tongue sticking out as he works.

He’s thankful that he was able to get his chores done early as he races to Lex’s house with the parcel in his hands. He doesn’t want to ruin it by shoving it in a jacket pocket. It’s only once he’s walking through the front door that it occurs to him that he didn’t arrange for a time to swap presents with Lex, so he’s just kind of... showing up unannounced, which he does normally, but now he’s got a gift, which he worries makes it weird. But Lex is calling out ‘in here!’ from across the castle, which Clark knows means he’s in his study, and it’s too late to turn back now.

Lex is on the phone when Clark walks in, but he gestures for Clark to take a seat, and Clark tucks the present behind his back to hide it while he waits. He turns his head to look out the window, watching as flakes fall silently. It isn’t Christmas yet, but it’s getting there, the world slowly turning white and quiet. He likes a lot about winter, the brightness of the snow and the togetherness it fosters, the celebrations and the lights, but the sun setting so early always puts him in a funk. He’s sure he’s not alone in this, but it seems to bring him down further than others. He hides it behind cheery smiles and hides himself in hard work, but the quiet is there, the low feelings persist.

When Lex finally snaps his phone shut, Clark feels like he’s been staring into space forever, thought it’s probably only been a few minutes. “Homework to get done, or looking for a lesson in pool?” Lex grins, and Clark’s stomach flips.

“I, uh...” Clark squirms for a moment, suddenly feeling awkward. Lex watches him with a critical eye, brow raised, waiting expectantly. “I got you something. And I didn’t want to wait for the day, ‘cause, y’know, I don’t know what you’ll be doing that day, so...” Clark stands, holdings out the box to a still-seated Lex.

Lex takes it gingerly, looking down at the neatly wrapped package. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says, turning it over.

“Well. I did, so...” Clark shrugs, cheeks pink, heart racing with excitement.

The paper falls away, and Clark squirms a little at the shabby box, hoping the present inside is good enough. The box makes a soft sound as it opens, and Lex freezes as he takes it in. He reaches out to run his fingers along the gold ring, and Clark’s stomach swoops. “I don’t know if it’s real gold. You don’t have to wear it, I just saw it and thought of you.”

“Ab imo pectore,” Lex murmurs softly. “Supposedly said by Julius Ceaser. Do you know what it means?”

Clark flushes and shakes his head. “They didn’t have any books in the library...”

“From the heart. Directly translated, it means from the heart.” Clark’s own heart beats even faster.

Lex smiles, and it’s one of his real smiles, one of the ones that reaches his eyes and makes Clark feel like he’s just won a prize. “You got lucky with that translation.” His eyes sparkle with amusement. “I love it, Clark. I’ll cherish it.”

Clark ducks his head, stomach feeling like it’s tying itself in knots.

“I actually have something for you, too, though it feels a bit paltry in comparison.” Lex stands, turning to the bookshelf-- and there, on a high shelf, sits a box Clark hadn’t noticed. It’s a beautiful box, crisp and clean, and Clark takes it in his hands, palms sweaty. Lex loves giving presents, always looking for an excuse to spend money on him, which makes it all the more confusing why he’s so nervous. He wipes his palms on his jeans, which and covert, then opens the lid under Lex’s watchful eye.

There’s a card on top with thick cardstock and beautiful, sweeping lettering, proclaiming “For a good friend --Lex Luthor”. The signature sweeps and loops and Clark wants to trace it with his fingers, stare at the graceful curves, but more important is the gift beneath it. A sea of ruby red that Clark carefully unfolds. A scarf, and probably the softest thing he’s ever touched, too, long enough to wrap around his neck twice and even drape artfully the way Lex does. Clark can’t stop moving his fingers over it, taking in the cloud-like texture.

“Cashmere,” Lex supplies, “and I noticed how you like red. Hopefully you don’t mind the shade being slightly less garish.”

Clark moves suddenly around the desk, sweeping Lex up in a hug. “I love it, Lex!” He feels giddy, like a little kid, clutching both the present and Le tightly. He only pulls back to wrap it around his neck, trying to make it drape. the way Lex does, burrowing into its soft warmth. “I’ve never had a scarf before,” he confesses, and confusion mars Lex’s face. “God, it’s just so soft. I’ll never take it off, ever again.”

“Might get a bit sweaty and gross in the summer, or filled with hay,” Lex replies, and Clark huffs.

“Alright, I’ll take it off in the summer and for my chores. But it’s not moving, otherwise.”

“Well, I’m glad you like it.” Lex reaches out to right the scarf, fiddling with how it lays, how it hangs. Clark turns to look at his reflection in the window, and it doesn’t look as cool or as right as it does on Lex, but it seems to change him somehow. He can’t really put it into words, but he feels... more right, somehow.

“I really, really love it. Thank you, seriously.” Clark runs his fingers across the soft fabric, nuzzles his cheek against it.

When he looks back, he sees his own present around Lex’s neck, nestled between the open collar of his silk shirt. Clark smiles to see it, and Lex takes Clark by the arm.

“Let’s go play a round of pool,” he offers.

After pool they watch a movie to increase Clark’s media literacy, as Lex promised they’d do. They flip a coin a few times and eventually land on Thelma and Louise, and Clark is horrified to find his eyes welling with tears as the movie speeds towards its climax, at the injustice of it all.

“Let’s not get caught,”

“What are you talkin’ about?

“Let’s keep goin’!”

...

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

The women on screen lean in and kiss, and Clark’s stomach flips and squeezes like it had during Mulholland Drive, but there’s no time for the cold-hot-cold shame because the next sequence happens too fast, carrying away his feelings of shame. There’s no time to wallow in the feeling of the kiss when her foot stomps on the gas. Lex doesn’t coddle him, doesn’t interrupt his tears with platitudes, just lets him feel what the movie is making him feel. Doesn’t step in to say anything until Clark starts angrily rubbing the tears away. “A good film is supposed to make you feel. There’s no shame in it.”

Clark nods, looking down at the back of his hand, now damp with tears. “It was good,” he says in a wavering voice, and Lex smiles.

“I’m glad.”

Eventually lex does have to do work, and Clark has homework to do, and as much as he’d like to spend all day with Lex, he doesn’t want to be a hanger-on. They agree that they’ll meet the next day to go into town together, because Smallville’s going to dress up the streets for Christmas and set up a nice, big tree. Clark can wear his new scarf, and show Lex all the Christmas sights he’s grown up with. In the meantime he takes his homework to the local library, walking excitedly through the streets of town, new scarf keeping his neck toasty warm even if the cold can’t touch him anyway. He gets a few looks, and holds his head up with pride.

The library is quiet and sparse, but Pete and Lana sit in the corner, studying together. It’s not that common to see them alone together, but Clark thinks they have a class together, so they must be studying for that. He waves, and they wave back, somewhat hesitant. As he looks away, he sees the two of them leaning in to speak quietly, and Clark focuses on not letting his hearing overact, keeping their conversation private. It’s probably about school, anyway.

He gets settled at his own table, but before long he sees someone approaching out of the corner of his eye. He looks up and smiles when he sees Pete. “Hey man, how’s the studyin’?” Clark asks, quiet to respect the space.

“Hey... did you lose a bet?” At the confusion on Clark’s face, Pete continue “The dude scarf.”

Clark smiles thinking about it, ignoring Pete’s tone. His fingers reach up to touch it. “A Christmas gift from Lex. It looks cool, right?”

Pete’s face screws up. ana glances between them. “You really like it?” She asks, and Clark’s brow furrows as he confirms he does.

“it’s just... It’s kinda’... metrosexual, isn’t it?” Pete asks, and Clark feels his face heat. “And I mean, your nails--”

“What about my nails?” Clark asks sharply, struggling to keep his voice quiet.

“You’ve been cleaning them and, like... shaping them.”

The disdain in his voice makes Clark’s hackles raise. “I’m pretty sure girls don’t want dirt in their-- parts,” he hisses.

“Well, yeah,” Lana says, “to an extent, but too clean is just... y’know?”

Clark’s hands shake. “No, I guess I don’t know.”

“We don’t mean it as an attack, we know you’re a normal guy,” Lana says gently, trying to smooth things over, “just, you know, you’ve been changing recently. Your friends are worried about you.”

“I know I’m normal. Just because I’m learning a bit about Metropolis guys--”

“Yeah but you’re not a Metropolis guy. You’re a Smallville guy. And that’s alright, you just need to remember who you are,” Pete says, quiet but emphatic. “This Luthor guy is messing with your head.”

Clark slams a book shut harder than he means to and gets shushed by the librarian. “I think I’ll study at home, thanks,” he bites out, shoving homework hastily in his bag.

“C’mon, don’t do that, Clark. Come study with us. We miss you. You never have time for us anymore with all the Lex, Lex, Lex,” Lana says, and Clark knows that he should want that more than anything, knows that Lana wanting to study with him should make him over the moon, but right now it just sits sour in his stomach.

“I’ll pass.” He turns on his heel and stomps out of the library, only pausing once the cold air his him. He takes a moment to just breathe, watching the air puff out around his face.

He starts to walk, quick at first, then a slower trudge, kicking at the ground as he goes. Why can’t they see? Why is it that what looks cool on Lex looks lame and weird on him? Lex had thought he was good enough to wear this scarf, this symbol of Lex’s style, and the style doesn’t suit him because he’s... he’s not from Metropolis. He’s not worldly.

But, no. Maybe if he just keeps wearing it, he’ll become the kind of man who can pull off a cool scarf. He’ll become someone who embodies the style he’s reaching for, and he’ll show all the stupid people in this town who don’t know any better.

In fact, the scarf is actually exactly what he needs, it will be the catalyst of his change into a Cool Guy. The coolness doesn’t inhabit him yet, but it will, and that will come from wearing the symbol of his future until it looks right on him. If he can just keep wearing the scarf, he can be someone he thinks he’s always wanted to be but didn’t have the words to describe. He didn’t really know what kind of cool he wanted to be, and maybe he doesn’t want to be exactly the kind of cool Lex is, he wants his own brand of it, but Lex’s brand is as good a starting place as any, and now he knows where to start.

The more he walks, the more certain he becomes, the more the scarf solidifies itself as a symbol of his perfect future, something he wants to embrace, something he wants to run towards at full tilt. This is what makes him worthy of Lana’s time, of Lex’s, this is what he pushes towards instead of just stagnating. And they can’t see it now, but that’s okay, because he knows what it means, and he knows that Lex can see the future too and is encouraging him down that path. Lex has faith in him, and if Lex believes it, it will be true.

By the time he arrives home his spirit is buoyed again, and he’s bouncing on his toes as he hangs his coat up on the hook by the door, but keeps the scarf around his neck.

“Welcome home hone... y...” Martha looks at him, and Jonathan openly stares. “What’s... what’s that, sweetheart?”

“A gift, from Lex!” Clark tells them enthusiastically. “It’s so soft, you wouldn’t believe it. I know, I know it’s not really my style, but I think I’m gonna’ grow into it, you know?”

“That’s... nice. That’s really nice of him.”

“A thing like that...” Jonathan mutters, and Clark sighs.

“I know, it’s too expensive of a gift, but really, it’s just a scarf. I don’t think you can get much simpler of a gift than that, and what else are the holidays for?” He kicks off his shoes. “I’m going with Lex to the tree lighting tomorrow. I got homework to do, see you for dinner. And I promise I’ll get my night chores done tonight, and my morning chores tomorrow,” Clark tells them, running up the stairs two at a time.

He misses the look Jonathan and Martha give each other, the words they mouth to each other, the barely-whispered ‘we agreed no scarfs on him, makes him look like a...’ and ‘well, how could we know he’d get a gift?’, because his back’s already to them.

“Clark,” his ma says when he comes down for dinner, “why not take off the scarf while you eat? You don’t want to stain it.”

Clark’s heart leaps. “Gosh, I’d hate to stain something I just got today. Thanks, ma.” It gets folded and set aside on the kitchen chair that lives in the corner that no one ever sits on. It stays there throughout dinner, and while Clark is doing his chores, and while Clark scrubs himself clean, afraid to touch it with dirty hands. He cleans under his nails, and Lana’s words circle around in his mind. He just scrubs harder, intent on scrubbing away every last speck of dirt.

“And don’t sleep in it, you’ll stretch it out,” Martha warns him as he carefully carries it upstairs.

“Thanks ma, I won’t,” Clark replies, setting it on the corner of his dresser after wiping away any dust with his hand. He’ll have to find a nice way to store it, for the times when he really can’t wear it, like barn work or sleeping. Someplace it won’t get stretched or wrinkled or dusty.

Clark pets the scarf for a moment, its promise for the future filling his heart with warmth. Then he turns away and tucking himself in for the night.

Clark wakes up to his alarm informing him that he’s overslept. He groans and slaps a hand against it, rushing about his room to get pants pulled on, looking for anything that isn’t wrinkled and ridiculous looking, makes sure he’s smelling fine and uses deodorant. He reaches for his new scarf and comes up short when his hand touches bare wood. He blinks, looking at his hand. He looks at the floor. Nothing.

He kicks some of his dirty clothes around, and then picks them up one at a time to put them in their basket. He opens drawers, then closes them when they turn up bereft. Opens his closet in case he hung it up and forgot. His breath starts to come faster.

One night? Is that really the longest he can be trusted with a present, one single night?

He runs downstairs and examines the kitchen chair. The house smells overwhelmingly of vanilla and sugar, piles of cookies on the counter, a burnt smell underneath that tells Clark his mother burned a batch as she so rarely does. There’s no scarf, though. It’s not up by the front door hook, or in the coat closet. Out of the window he sees his dad walking into the barn. If he strains his ears, he can hear liquid hitting metal; ma is milking the cows. Clark determines that as soon as she comes back to the house, he’ll ask if she remembers where it is. In the meantime, he goes back upstairs and drags things out from under his bed in the off chance that it somehow fell under the bed, but there’s nothing.

Frustrated tears well up in his eyes. This isn’t possible. It’s not fair.

The doorbell rings and he runs down the stairs, bell ringing again as he yanks open the door. “Clark, I-- are you alright?”

Whatever Lex was going to say dies on his tongue as he takes in Clark’s disheveled appearance. Clark feels stupid, and useless, shame swirling in his chest, and he can’t meet Lex’s eyes. “I... I lost the scarf,” he whispers, “yes, already. I just don’t-- I don’t know what happened. I looked everywhere, I...”

“Whoa, it’s alright, Clark. How about I help you look for it?”

Clark nods, the knot in his chest unfurling a bit. Probably he’s just looking right past it, Lex will see it and hand it to him and they can call the whole morning silly and go see the tree no worse for the wear.

But they scrub Clark’s room, and it isn’t there. The comb the stairs, empty. The minutes tick by, and Clark’s stomach just sinks and sinks. The living room is a bust, Clark crawling on his hands and knees to peer under the sofa fruitlessly.

“Clark, it’ll be alright. It’s got to turn up somewhere,” Lex says gently, and Clark knows he’s ruining their plans over a stupid scarf, but it just doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t-- kneeling there next to the fireplace, a flash of red catches his eye, and--

he turns to look at the fireplace. There, stuck on the bricks, is a little sprout of red. Clark reaches out for it with numb fingers.

A little tiny corner of cashmere, edge burnt. Clark goes very still as he tries to make sense of what he’s looking at.

“Did you find something?” Lex asks, peering over Clark’s shoulder. He sucks in a breath as he puts together what he’s seeing. “Oh, Clark,” he says, voice soft, hand resting on Clark’s shoulder. Tight, reassuring.

“I... I have to...” Clark mumbles, staring at the scrap. “I need to go talk to my dad.”

Lex looks like he disagrees on that point vehemently, but he doesn’t voice this, just says “Whatever you have to do, Clark.”

Clark nods, feeling disconnected from himself.

He makes his way to the barn on shaky legs, scrap still clutched in his hand. “Well, son, did you decide to stay and help me with-- ah.” Jonathan stops as he takes in Clark’s haggard appearance, the scrap of red cashmere.

“I just... why, pa?” Clark asks, voice breaking. He’s hurt, but he’s also baffled. Why? Why burn a gift?

“You don’t need any scarves, and you don’t need to walk around branded by lex Luthor. Now I knew you wouldn’t give it back, no matter what I said, so I thought I’d just make the whole process a little easier.”

The gears in Clark’s head are turning, but they’re not catching on each other, just spinning uselessly. “But-- what? You didn’t like my Christmas gift and you didn’t want me to have it so you burnt it? What the hell, pa?”

“Hey now, language.”

“To hell with language, what the hell, pa?”

Jonathan frowns deeply. “Now tell me, would you have returned the gift, if I told you that it was too much from a Luthor? If I said it was too much to owe?”

“Well, no,” Clark admits, and Jonathan makes a noise that means ‘there, you see?’, but Clark just shakes his head. “But that’s still insane! Obviously you should’ve at least donated it somewhere instead of destroying it, if you were hell-bent on getting it out of the house!”

Jonathan’s expression darkens. “No one in Smallville wants a thing like that.”

“Yes, they do! I do!”

“No, you don’t,” Jonathan says, voice a warning. “You think you do, but you’re confused, because you know you’re different and you’re tryin’ to make sense of it. But I know who you are, and that’s not you.”

“It could be me,” Clark says desperately, “it could’ve been me if I just could’ve kept it--”

“Then I’m damn glad I burned it, to hell with that you, that’s a you you should never become. You shouldn’t look a thing like him.”

“Just because I want to look cool,” he says, his father’s words a lance through his heart, “doesn’t mean I’m becoming something bad or--”

“Goddammit, boy, I will not have my son walking around town looking like a Luthor’s faggot!” His dad bellows, hand slamming down on the tractor so the clanging of metal echoes throughout the space.

Clark pants heavily. There’s so many emotions in him that he doesn’t feel anything at all, except a rising swell of panic. He feels himself shaking, and Jonathan sighs, rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he says, and before he can keep talking, Clark turns and runs.

Jonathan calls after him. Lex is waiting by the car, head bowed as if intending to give them privacy, but it snaps up when he hears Clark’s pounding footsteps. Clark yanks open the door of the car and jumps into the passenger seat, shouts “Drive me somewhere!”

Jonathan calls for Clark again, expression growing angry when he sees Clark in Lex’s car, and Lex makes a split-second decision. He hops into the driver’s seat and throws the car in reverse, hurrying down the driveway as Jonathan runs after them fruitlessly. Lex doesn’t approach regular speeds until the house is in the distance and he asks “Where should I take you?”

Clark shakes his head, whole body trembling. “Anywhere. Away. Just away.” He closes his eyes and tries to breathe.

Lex doesn’t say anything. He just keeps driving. Clark doesn’t know how long, how fast, how far. He doesn’t know if his eyes are open or closed. Everything is happening outside, and he is inside, in a dark little box. Time doesn’t pass in the box, there are no lights or sounds in the box, there are no memories or thoughts, everything is cool and dark and quiet and still, and it lasts forever and it doesn’t last at all.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. His head moves towards the feeling automatically. “...rk? Clark? Can you hear me?” Lex’s voice slowly comes into focus, and Clark blinks away the blackness, watching it recede from his vision.

They’re pulled off the side of the road, by a wheat field, because everything is wheat fields in Kansas. Everything is every other thing, there’s no distinction across the entire state, not in Clark’s mind anyway. He can run faster than a car, and he’s spent his whole life treading circles around the same few square miles. The world is so, so small. “It’s so small,” he whispers, because it’s true. The town and the state and the country and the world. Everything is so small suddenly, and he doesn’t know how to get back to the feeling he had last night, where the land stretched out before him.

“What’s small?” Lex asks, gentle and inquisitive, but Clark just shakes his head because he knows he can’t explain it.

The car is off. The door is open. Lex is kneeling in the dirt beside the open car door, hands on Clark’s shoulders, grounding and warm. “You’ll get dirt on your pants,” Clark says, panic welling up in him, because Lex wore nice dress pants to come see him, to take him into town, and Clark is being emotional and ruining everything and now his pants will be ruined--

“Clark, I have ten pants just like them at home, I don’t give a fuck about a little dirt. What I need is you to talk to me,” he says emphatically, and Clark finally looks up to meet Lex’s gaze. Tears start to well in his big, blue eyes, clinging to his lashes, refusing to fall but blurring his vision all the same.

“Why did he call me that?” Clark says, mind skipping around erratically like a broken record. Lex murmurs gently, asks what his dad called him, and Clark sucks in air, breath hitching. “He said I looked like a...” He feels very distant again, very far away as the word echoes in his head. “...a faggot.”

He feels more than he hears Lex’s gasp. Clark continues, “And you too, and it’s not-- it’s not fair. I’m not-- you’re not-- we aren’t that. Why did he say that?” He sounds so small, so lost.

Lex watches him carefully, shifting on his knees. “Clark, I... I don’t know why he said that about you, but... I am.” Clark blinks in confusion, a few tears finally rolling down his cheeks. “I like women and men. I’ve had flings with both. I don’t tell people, but it’s... an open secret. He probably called me that because it’s true.”

Clark sniffles, considering this. “Oh,” he says weakly. “...Well, he still shouldn’t call you that. It’s not... nice. You’re not a faggot, you’re my friend. And he always said people can like whatever they want, so I don’t know why he said-- he said it like I was bad. And I don’t know why he said it about me because I like Lana, and he knows I like Lana, and-- and--”

Lex reaches down to undo Clark’s seatbelt, and Clark’s crumpling suddenly, collapsing out of the seat in a heap in Lex’s arms, crying quietly. Lex rocks him gently, the two of them clinging to each other.

A sudden fear rises in Clark’s throat, and he knows he doesn’t have the right words to ask the right way, to say it in a way that isn’t cruel, but he has to know-- he has to know-- “Lex. Is it normal to think gays are cool even if you’re not a queer? I think-- god, I think you’re so cool but everyone’s acting like I’m-- like I’m a freak, and I don’t know if I’m doing it wrong, or-- am I being... bad?” There’s a look in Lex’s eye, something angry, but not at him. Righteous fury, incredible grief, and deep, deep understanding.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” Lex says fiercely, “not a single thing. You know who made skinny jeans popular? Gay men. Straight people love gay fashion, they just don’t like to admit it. You like my style? That’s completely normal, that just means you understand yourself better than anyone else in this tiny, shitty town. You hear me? There isn’t a single thing wrong with you, Clark Kent.”

Clark nods, but he’s still shaking in Lex’s arms. He feels unmoored, like his whole world is threatening to cave in.

If Lex knew the truth about him, would Lex still say that? That there’s nothing wrong with him? A sick, perverse part of him wants to push the issue, needs to hear Lex call him a freak and leave him on the side of the road, thought playing over and over like pressing your thumb against a bruise, like digging your nail into a cut, something he hasn’t experienced since he was very young. He needs everyone to abandon him already, he can’t take the stragglers hanging on, because he knows it’ll happen. He knows it’s coming, and it just has to happen already. “I have to tell you,” he says, voice wavering, “you’ll-- you’ll hate me-- I have to--”

Lex puts a finger to Clark’s lips and shushes him gently. “Whatever it is you want to tell me, don’t tell me like this.”

“But, but all this time, you’ve wanted to know--”

“Not. Like this.” Lex says firmly. “A lot just happened, and you’re very upset. Whatever you say now, you’ll regret it. You wouldn’t be telling me because you trust me, you’d be telling me because you’re afraid.”

Clark swallows hard. So there it is. Clark is lying to Lex, and Lex knows Clark is lying to him, and Clark can’t tell him yet, so an ax is just hanging over their friendship. The one lifeline it feels like he has left in this town. Lex had said once that he didn’t forgive liars, and here Clark is, lying. And Lex knows it. Lex is going to be so mad. Lex is going to leave, Lex is--

He doesn’t know when he started breathing fast, but he becomes aware that Lex is rocking him again.

Lex starts speaking, calm and conversational, like Clark isn’t falling apart. “And you know what else? Your dad doesn’t get to win. I’ll buy you another scarf, and--”

“And he’ll just burn it again, Lex--”

“And I’ll just keep buying you new ones, a new scarf every day. You wear it in the morning, and he burns it in the evening. I’ll bury him in fucking scarves, just you watch.”

Clark can’t help but let out a little laugh at the mental image of his pa buried in a huge pile of scarves, and Lex seems to relax a little, seeing him laugh.

“You’re not a bad person,” Lex tells him again. “You’re the only person who’s ever given me a chance. How could a guy like that be bad?”

Maybe if he was lying to you the whole time, Clark thinks, but doesn’t say.

“Come on, let’s go somewhere more comfortable,” Lex says gently, standing and encouraging Clark to his feet. “I just got Gran Turismo 3 for the PS2, so we can speed as much as we want without any fear.”

Clark nods, getting up on shaky legs to get back in the car.

Neither of them talks about Clark going back home.

When they pop in the game, heaps of candy piled up around them, sodas for Clark to drink, the sun is still up, and yet they don’t stop until it’s long gone and threatening its return. Clark eats gummy worms, and Lex laughs like a little kid, free and unrestrained in a way even Clark rarely gets to see. They shove each other, and kick each others shins, and get lost in the turns and twists of artificial roads. Come morning, they’ll find themselves still on the couch, a crick in Lex’s neck, drool on Clark’s cheek, their heads resting together. Come morning, they’ll sit up blearily, rubbing their eyes and smoothing rumpled clothes. They won’t talk about what passed between them, or the fact that Clark needs to go home eventually. But for now, they’re happy, and relaxed, and laughing in unison like a pair of children that neither of them go to ever really be.

Lex drops Clark off at school. Clark doesn’t have his backpack or his homework, and he frankly couldn’t care less about it. He walks through the halls with his head down, trying not to stick out.

At lunch, he pays for his food quietly and goes to sit in a far-off corner, hoping not to be noticed, but his friends notice anyway and make a beeline towards him. His friends being Pete, Chloe, and Lana, which seems odd to him but maybe his absence has made their hearts grow fonder to each other. He didn’t think that Lana exactly knew that he and his friend group existed. Maybe moreso, after the Talon opened, but still.

“We missed you at the tree lighting yesterday,” Chloe says, and Clark’s heart squeezes in his chest. He’d wanted to show Lex so badly, and if they’d all been together, maybe he would’ve had a chance to help them all get along. Chloe doesn’t mind him, and Lana’s working with him, and there’s the smallest chance that could’ve helped sway Pete.

But that didn’t happen, because... because...

“I had chores,” Clark lies. “I couldn’t get them done fast enough.”

“Just chores?” Pete asks. “You look like hell, man.”

Clark winces, wonders just how much last night shows on his face. “Had a fight with my pa.”

They all make sympathetic sounds, and Chloe reaches out to pat him on the hand, giving it a soft squeeze. Lana’s the one that speaks up, says “I’m sorry, Clark, that must be rough. Do you want to talk about it? Maybe we could help.”

Maybe she’s not all that bad. Despite their confrontation the other day, maybe she doesn’t mean any harm. Not her, not Pete, not Chloe, not any of them. Even Whitney. Maybe they just don’t know themselves.

Maybe Clark doesn’t know himself, either.

“I don’t think so. I just want to forget about it.” Clark knows he sounds sullen, and he can’t really help it.

“Well, if you want to forget about it, maybe we could hang out after school! It’s been, like, forever since everyone was all together,” Chloe says, looking at him through her lashes.

“...You know, yeah, let’s do it, let’s hang,” Clark replies, avoiding thoughts of home deftly.

They have fun. Clark’s head still doesn’t feel screwed on quite right, and he thinks they can tell, because they keep glancing at him. He doesn’t try to imitate Lex, because every time he tries someone has something to say about it, so it doesn’t matter that it felt good, he just puts it all in a little box. He doesn’t quite try to be himself, either, because the harder he thinks about it the more he doesn’t know what that looks like.

But still, it’s fun. Chloe laughs and touches his arm, Lana explains how hard it is to run the Talon, Pete actually smiles at him like he isn’t some kind of freak. Maybe this is who he is, maybe this could be enough. Maybe his dad was right to burn the scarf, if it means forcing him back towards this, towards normal, towards a life he might enjoy living. Maybe this is him.

And yet, he sees glimpses of red, and he feels so much yearning he can’t breathe.

Chloe drives him home, asks if they can hang out again soon. Clark takes too long to answer, staring out the window, and when he apologizes she just smiles. “It’s alright. I hope things work out with you n’ your dad.”

Clark keeps staring out the window. “Yeah. Me too.”

When he walks into the house, it’s quiet. His mom is at the kitchen table, head in her hands. He doesn’t say anything, and when she looks up she doesn’t either. He doesn’t see his dad around, but then he probably had a lot of farm work to get done without Clark around to do his half.

The moment is so fragile. He looks at her face, and just... knows. He knows that she knew what his dad did. That she burnt the cookies on purpose to mask the smell, to help him hide it, and she knows that whatever tenuous moment between them would shatter if she tried to reprimand him for staying away, for not saying where he was going. The argument was too big, so the slate is wiped clean, Clark folded back into the household on the understanding that no one would mention what had happened. Not yet, at least.

He wants to run to her and burst into tears. He wants to get cradled by his momma and be told everything would be alright. He wanted her to pull out the scarf and tell him it was all a big misunderstanding, he wanted to get swaddled like an infant, he wanted her to rock him and sing to him and love him, he wanted his ma.

But he just turns away and trudges up the stairs instead, shutting his door behind him.

An interminable amount of time later he hears the front door. Hears the soft murmur of voices he doesn’t care to pick out. Footsteps up the stairs, across the landing, stopping in front of his door. Waiting. Waiting. Then, they move on, towards the master bedroom.

Clark falls asleep face down on his bed with his shoes still on, as if he might need to run at any moment.

Winter turns into spring. Things stay tense at home, and his friends start vying for more of his time. He sees less of Lex than he would like, but what he’d like is to live out of each other’s pockets, never leaving a room the other’s in for longer than necessary, so he knows it’s unreasonable to get what he wants.

He doesn’t like it, but he understands.

He goes to the movies. His friends take him to see Kung Pow! Enter the Fist, and they all laugh wildly, and on his own he sneaks into the theater with a hat down low and sunglasses to see a film called Sorority Boys. It bills itself as a raunchy fratboy sex comedy, but something about the poster calls to Clark while at the same time making his stomach feel weak and flippy. It is, he can admit to himself, not very good, but he’s entranced by it anyway. His eyes follow closely as Dave in Daisy’s guise adjusts his skirt or fiddles with his cardigan, gripping the armrests so tight he worries they might shatter when Adam-- Adina-- Adam shows off brightly colored panties above his shapewear but under his skirt. Low-rise hip-hugging jeans follow the curve of Adina’s ass, and his shirts are all garish, sexy styles begging for attention, bobbed hair falling around his face. He adjusts his fake tits in his shirt and Clark has to bite his own tongue.

He rushes home afterwords, paranoid that everyone can see on his face where he’s been and what he was watching even though the theater was hardly empty, destroys his ticket stub like it’s evidence in a murder trial. He feels like he’s going to vomit, and he’s plagued by dreams of Adina all night, horrible twisted parodies where he’s laughed at and dragged into the street by his hair, all his powers gone as he twists and twists, knows he’s wrong and disgusting but upon waking doesn’t know how his dream self knew that, because in his dream he wasn’t an alien. Or maybe he still was? It’s hard to tell with dreams.

With spring comes his birthday, or at least the day his parents use as his birthday.

He has been moderately aware, despite a lack of conversations about it, that his parents want him to see less of Lex. His opinion on that is that--

Well, honestly he’s tried very hard not to think about it. But his subconscious opinion that he tries not to approach head-on is that until Pa Kent apologizes for calling him a faggot, Pa Kent can shove his opinion on who Clark hangs out with where the sun doesn’t shine. He thinks his dad probably just wants him to be safe and happy, but Lex makes him feel safe and happy, and...

and ever since that day, Clark hasn’t felt the same kind of safe around his dad that he had the entire rest of his life. He gets tense when they’re alone in the same room too long. There’s part of him that needs to know he has someone he can go to that will listen to him and drive in the opposite direction, and there’s part of him that fears that Chloe or Pete might not.

So he cuts down on Lex time a bit, to keep the peace, but doesn’t cut Lex out, because he could never cut Lex out.

All that to say, when his parents throw him a birthday party, he isn’t surprised that Lex isn’t there. He wishes Lex were, but he isn’t surprised.

What does surprise him, though, is when, in the middle of the party when everyone is eating cake and milling about the living room and kitchen, the house phone rings. Clark’s nearby, so he picks up and asks who it is.

“Oh good, you’re the one who picked up. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how I’d talk my way out of it if your dad answered.”

Lex. “What-- why are you--?”

“Think you can sneak outside?”

Clark’s pulse races. “I think you’ve got the wrong number,” he announces loud enough for the room to hear, then calls over his shoulder “I’m gonna’ hit the head real quick,” to which a few people make acknowledging sounds. He hears Lex chuckling over the line as he hangs up, and he feels like a secret agent on a deadly mission as he sets down his cake and makes his way towards the bathroom. He checks over his shoulder-- no one’s looking. The bathroom window isn’t wide enough to crawl out of, but he can make it to the back door unnoticed from here, and he does, ducking beneath windows as he makes his way out front.

Lex is sitting in his car in the driveway. Clark hustles over and slips into the passenger seat before anyone can notice, and Lex pulls out of the driveway quickly, so no one does notice them.

“Happy birthday,” Lex says, grinning, “I thought you might like a kidnapping.”

“Yeah, well. Let’s not get caught.” He realizes what he’s said-- what he’s accidentally quoted-- moments after it leaves his lips, and he flushes red.

“I hear you,” Lex says, grin growing wider. “Let’s keep goin’, Thelma.”

Clark’s stomach flips, and flips, and flips. “The party wasn’t that bad. Ma’s always made a good cake, and they got a good list of invites. Other than...”

Other than the lack of you, goes unsaid.

“Well, I’m selfish. I wanted to drag you away and give you your birthday present in person.” He pulls into a field, empty grass as far as the eye can see. A glint of light around his neck, and Clark sees he’s wearing the necklace. He’s always wearing the necklace these days. “Try not to get Deja Vu.”

A box is set in Clark’s lap. Crisp, clean corners. He removes the lid, and is met with a sea of purple.

Lavender cashmere.

“I hope a repeat gift isn’t too much of a faux pas,” Lex says, pulling it out of its box to drape around Clark’s neck, “and I know you worry about your dad destroying another. So I thought I would get one for myself-- in a color I’m more likely to wear, if you don’t mind-- and when you’re at my place, you can wear it as often as you like. Then when it’s time to go home, you fold it back up, and I wear it the rest of the time. That way your father doesn’t see it and get angry. And then, when you go away to college, I can hand it over to you fully.”

Clark’s hand shakes as he pets over the ends of the scarf. Soft, in Lex’s color, branding him with Lex’s style. It’s another chance, a safer chance, to be all the things he wants. To become who he wants to be, without fear of reprisal.

This is the moment. He should say something meaningful, he should... he should...

“Clark? Do you like it?” Lex asks, soft and hesitant.

This is the moment. If everything’s going to come crashing down, it should be now, before everything he wants is truly in his hands. He looks up into Lex’s eyes. “You hit me with your car that day,” he says, and Lex’s brows furrow, mouth opening in shock. “I’m not just a meteor freak like the other people in town, though. I’m the cause of everything. I caused all this to happen when I was just a baby, crashing down to earth, because Lex, I’m... I’m an alien.”

Lex’s mouth works, opening and closing as he takes in Clark’s statement. Clark steps out of the car and runs-- really runs, no holding back-- over to a nearby fence and yanks off its metal latch, then he runs back, leaning over so Lex can see his hands as he flattens out the metal, then starts pulling and pushing like it’s made of paper, until it’s in the shape of a flower. He holds it out, scared, tentative. Lex reaches out with shaking hands and takes the metal flower, testing one of the petals and finding it has no give.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. You can hate me, you can call me a freak, ma and pa always told me that if I told anyone it would-- it would ruin everything. That I’d be taken away, and that I’d be asking everyone else to keep too big a secret. And I didn’t want you of all people to look at me and hate me. But I can’t take it anymore, I’d rather you hate me than keep lying to you. So you can drive away now, or scream at me or something, but just... know that I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Lex looks up at him, wonder on his face as he reaches out to brush his knuckles across Clark’s cheek. “You actually told me...” he mumbles. “You made me a flower.”

Clark blushes and ducks his head. “Yeah, well. You can start calling me a freak or an it any second now.”

“Clark, get back in the car.” Clark does obediently, face burning, squirming anxiously. “You are not a freak. You’ve never been a freak. You’re perfect just the way you are. All I ever wanted from you was the truth, and now that I have it... why would I ever be mad at you? You’re different, so what? You’re you. And you’re good.”

Tears spring to Clark’s eyes, and Lex leans in to hug him, holding him tight while Clark shakes apart, so lost, having been so certain that revealing his secret would cause nothing but hatred and disgust and betrayal. “I’ve hidden myself for so long I don’t know who I am. I only know how to try and blend in as normal.”

“Then we’ll find you. Together,” Lex promises, and Clark chokes out a sob, hiding in Lex’s shoulder.

“...I... I told you my secret, but I still feel like I’m hiding something, and I don’t know why,” Clark says, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Lex pulls back just enough to study Clark’s face. “I think I know why,” Lex says gently. “Think about it, Clark. Where does the feeling lead you?”

Clark sniffles, rubbing away his tears. He stares at lex, trying to decipher the puzzle, trying to make sense of it all, and the whole time Lex waits patiently, thumb stroking Clark’s cheek. Clark sways, sways closer to Lex. His gaze focuses on that tiny scar on Lex’s lip, heart thumping in his ears, and the next thing he knows he’s leaning in and kissing Lex on the mouth.

Everything slots together in perfect harmony as their lips meet. The world makes sense. Clark makes sense. His place in the grand play of the universe all aligns because he was always meant to be here, kissing Lex Luthor. He moans, pushes in for more even though it makes their teeth clack together, needs so badly, needs so desperately, Lex is kissing him back so soft and sweet and loving and what would his pa think of him now--

what would his--

what--

He pulls back as if burned, trying not to hyperventilate. “I can’t-- Lex, I can’t-- I can’t be-- what would pa say, and the town, everyone in town, and my f- friends and, oh god I can’t be a fa--”

Lex shushes him gently, petting his cheek. “It’s alright. It’s alright. I know. It’s new, it’s scary. We don’t have to do anything.” Lex leans forward, nuzzles their noses together. “But I need you to hear something. Like I said before, you are perfect, Clark Kent. There is nothing wrong with who you are. You can be anyone you want to be. You can be a-- a man who wears scarves.” He snorts a little bit at his own last line, tugging on Clark’s scarf gently, smile soft and fond. “Don’t ever feel shame for what you want. You can have it, and I promise I’ll get it for you.”

The worst of Clark’s hyperventilating slows, but he’s still breathing uneven, eyes glassy. “Here’s what I think should happen, and you stop me if you don’t like any of this plan,” Lex continues. “I think we should go very, very slow. Basically still friends. We don’t have to hold hands in town, we don’t have to confront your parents. We just exist in each other’s spaces. And then, in two years, when you go away to college, I go with you. That way, once you’re comfortable and safe, out of this town, then we can try this. But no matter where we are, we’ll be us. How do you like that idea, Clark?”

Clark shakes, trembles, leans in for another kiss because it’s gonna’ be his last for two years, and he knows he won’t be ready for it anytime soon, and he can’t bear to think that maybe Lex wouldn’t understand that he wants to kiss him, but he just can’t. It’s too much. The truth of it is just too big, and he feels weak and small and pathetic in the face of it.

But maybe it doesn’t have to be so bad, because Lex is holding him tenderly, kissing him back, cradling him, and they have a path for the future, and Lex promised he isn’t going anywhere. Not until Clark does.

Eventually they’ll have to stop kissing. Eventually Clark will have to take off the scarf, and hide who he is, and sneak back into the party hoping that no one noticed his exit. Eventually he’ll go back to school and daily, crazy happenings and tense silences with his parents. Eventually, he’ll go to college, and he’ll find the strength to hold Lex’s hand as they walk around campus, and he’ll let Lex play with his hair, and eventually Clark will get his degree, and eventually they’ll get to Metropolis. Eventually, word will get out and spread like wildfire through Smallville, and his dad will call him, angry, telling him to come home, and Clark only will because he needs to see his dad’s face when he stands up for himself. Eventually, the calls will become sparse for years in the wake of hurtful words and attempts to get Clark back in the closet ‘for his own good’. Eventually old friendships will wither while new ones bloom. Eventually, after many years, it’ll be 2013 in Metropolis, New Jersey, and Clark and Lex will jump at the chance to walk down the aisle together surrounded by new loved ones.

All that happens eventually, but for now they just lean into each other’s space, enjoying a moment that seems to stretch endlessly.