I owe comments (same song, I know). Hopefully, I'm back to my old (occasionally) commenting self. I need to get all interactive again!
Title: For Him Alone
Rating: Teen, R for language
Length: 565 words
Spoilers: S1 up to 1x12, "Leech"
Warnings: slash, no porn, possibly purple
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. All belongs to Al & Miles, WB/CW and DC Comics.
Summary: Lex hears rumors. He knows the truth.
Oh, he hears the whispers: Lex Luthor sweeping in to steal their one-horse town Adonis, like the Luthors steal everything, tarnishing it. What else would he want with a beautiful boy like that, they say. Disgusting, and he doesn't even try to hide it, him and all his father's money. All the whispers.
He doesn't need to keep his ear to the ground; he has other people to do that for him. Birds on a wire, humming accusation and vicariously getting off on it. What does he do with that boy? Exactly? Like he's some dark prince come to steal the children, eat them up and spit out their bones.
God, they don't even know what they have, their homegrown hero. The only thing they want for him, from him, is the glory found in the painted field, arc lights against October skies, the clash of bodies. Luthor's holding him back, they say. Doesn't want to see any bruises on that perfect skin.
Yes, he's seen them, mottled and glaring. Something he never wants to see again.
These people don't know anything. Just graze off the truth, like a skipping stone, bouncing on the water, never plunging in. Like he had.
Clark is the one golden and gleaming, but it's Lex that fell like Icarus into the water that day, speeding into nowhere, away from his father. Folly, all of it, the life before.
Honestly, they don't know what the fuck they have. The golden boys always fly away at the first opportunity. And he's seen them at every party, at every club: Metropolis, Paris, Bangkok, Sydney. Everywhere, broken and sharp and hungry, all these blessed heroes that each small town has lost. All bought so easily, and some with his money.
Clark...there is no comparison.
They couldn't know what drives him almost every evening up that country road, that dusty driveway. Couldn't know what makes him ascend that Jacob's ladder to a hayloft, Clark profiled in the evening light, stars around him. Couldn't know what makes him sit back on that fleabag of a couch and lay his burdens down. Lay them down with someone who listens, not for money or privilege or power, but because the words are his. Each unwrapping of who he is, what he's done, told so gracelessly. And Clark doesn't flinch. Not once. How Clark pulls him from the rushing river of his life and simply lets him breathe.
The truth. Christ, just for once, the honest truth.
Why would he fuck with that by fucking it? He's had them all. Still does. But this is something that he cannot touch.
And he's come so close to losing it all. Questioning and probing, seeing enemies and lies hidden in the belly of that gift. He's shut that door and shut it gladly.
Let him have Lana Lang and their Fields of Gold, their young and impossible love. Let him open his eyes and see the startling Chloe Sullivan right in front of him. These are rewards that Lex knows how to give, if Clark would just stand still long enough to receive them. A whisper from Lex here, events managed there, all done so easily.
And if his fist clenched by his side remembers the fabric once held within it, pulling something glorious down and towards him, what of it? That was for him, and him alone.