Dark.   Clark walked back and forward and back again.   Still dark.   Xray vision was great, but without light it was plain old blindness, Cassandra without the flashes of future.   And seeing was, not believing, but knowing.   His effect.   On Lex.   

This wasn't spying.   More like what they did in old war movies.  Reconnaissance.   Which made Lex his enemy, so wrong, but this dark trek through junglish carpet was necessary.   And his eyes were adjusting, a sign of rightness.   Lex believed in signs, and Clark believed in Lex, so it all balanced out in the end.   He hoped.  Because wanting Lex had to find a balance in Lex wanting him, and hoping just wasn't cutting it anymore.   His dad always said thinking was like doing without the diploma, weird for a farmer, but his dad sometimes surprised him.   

Clark didn't like surprises, which explained in part the problems with walking a straight line in Lex's hallway.   Nothing about liking Lex moved in a straight line; it was like being drunk all the time on that strong stuff his dad swore was medicine and his mom sometimes used to clean the oven.  

Paintings on either side, like a room in a museum.   Lex lived in a dead house, a ghost town, too quiet, not even a mouse stirring like in that kids' Christmas story.   The air smelled really sweet, another death smell, dying flowers everywhere at his grandfather Hiram's funeral.   What did that lady say in that old Clint Eastwood movie?  ‘They say the dead don't rest without a marker of some kind.'    

Lex almost died, but Clark saved him, split that car open and pulled him out.   They kissed after that, and Clark still dreamed about it, not a real kiss, okay, but still lips on lips and Lex's eyes fluttering, then wide and confused and something else.   But Clark's dad showed up and the police, which was safe, except they were too late to stop whatever had started.

If anything had started.   Lex had Issues, according to Clark's dad, who didn't know about things like subtext and guys wanting guys.   It was just a general warning, like putting Lex in a black hat (and come to think of it, Lex did wear almost as much black as purple).    "Can't trust a guy with a father like that," he said every time one of Lex's expensive cars pulled up at the farm.   "Money's all that matters to those Luthors."   Apparently Lex's dad was a cross between a Nazi and a corrupt sheriff, complete with a twirlable mustache.   Clark's father was a great guy, but he could use some Xray vision of his own.  

Another step forward, because Lex was more than expensive cars.    His feet sank in that fat hungry carpet, and his hip brushed a sentry table that came from nowhere.   Almost yelped, no pain with his body wired wrong, just startled.   Definitely lighter in here, all bumps into tables aside, and the hallway skittered right to a plain wooden door.   Last chance.   Last chance to get the hell out of Dodge or Luthor Manor or maybe hell if you believed the Bible thumpers.   

Clark stopped, breathing flower-thick air, going over the List of Proof That Lex Liked Him.   It was long, and his cock got hard thinking about some of it.   Like the way Lex drank from those long-necked bottles, his tongue out and licking.   He'd seen that once in a dirty movie at Pete's, only Lex did it much better than the girl.   Realer.   Or like how Lex gave him those fireworks for his party, and Chloe said after that fireworks were, you know, a Freudian thing.   Explosions and fire and, yeah, sex.    

That was the reason he was here moving in the not-quite-dark toward a door that was not-quite-closed.   He'd called Lex only a few minutes ago, and said some things that were open to interpretation.   References to dreams and friendships and thoughts at night alone in the dark.   Then said, "Goodnight.   See you tomorrow, maybe."   So he was here to see if Lex did what Clark normally did after they talked.   The one-handed tribute thing.   

Only this wasn't just about sex, if it was about sex at all.   The rumor mill churned when Lex came to town a few months back.   It churned overtime, enough crap to fertilize Smallville for years, but some of it matched with hints Lex gave.   Like before they met, Lex was sort of lost, and maybe mad at his father, which made him do stupid and even scary things.   For some weird reason, when Clark was around, Lex stayed good.  Ish.   And Clark got a little bad, which he needed, with his parents like jailors who freaked if he crossed the street against the light. 

Quiet, expecting door, no squeak when Clark pushed it, which had to be another sign.   Or maybe just some of that oil from Jackson's Hardware smoothed onto the hinges.   He didn't open it much, a triangle, isosceles or maybe acute, enough to tell the light wasn't electric but moon from a window with big square panes.   It lit the foot of Lex's bed, which was covered in something dark and silky, like pond water.   Water under a bridge.   Water that nearly killed Lex.   

His toe met the door's edge and it swung wider.   Lex's foot was bare, silvery pale, the heel facing Clark.   Wrong, perverted even, to find a foot so sexy.   He'd look into therapy, only later.   Inevitable things were happening now, as the foot became a smooth calf, also bare, sliding up to a thigh, also bare, and...

Lex lay on his side, his back to Clark, clothes-free.   Not even covers.   Illegal view now, Clark, go home, but he couldn't get his eyes or feet to remember things like retreat.   More geometry, curves and angles, better than porn, smoother and paler.   He should be disappointed, since Lex was possibly asleep, and definitely not engaged in any below the non-existent-belt activity.   Only, like a smart soldier-guy, he changed tactics.   Had to adapt to all circumstances, right?   For survival.

The carpet hungrily swallowed Clark's shirt.   Hard to get it off, still staring with obsessive fascination at Lex's ass, which, God, was better than porn, than Lana, than every fantasy he'd ever jerked off to.   And the back.   How could a back make him so hard?   Shoes behind him now, socks, and Lex's spine climbed up into his skull in this perfect line that made Clark think of music, the kind with violins and oboes.   A soundtrack.  

Pants gone, then everything was, and he stood beside the bed, listening to Lex breathe.   Watching Lex's body rise and fall in a rhythm that he imitated, and they breathed together for a long minute.   Now or never, high noon, forge ahead, whites of their eyes...But he couldn't.   Didn't want to scare or force or get rejected.   Maybe Lex was--

Rolling onto his back.   Hard, like Clark.   Awake, like Clark.   Smiling, like Clark was starting to.   

"Kind of late to deliver groceries," Lex said.   His hands slid behind his skull, and he looked like a peace offering, like he was waiting and maybe even asking.   But codes were easy to misread.

"Yeah."   The porn guys always said something hot at this point, but Clark's tongue was too busy wetting his dry lips.  

"And I don't see any groceries."

"That's not why I'm here."

"No?  Because I could get into this naked-delivery thing."

"I thought that maybe you'd like it."

"You were right."

"Lex."   

"Clark."

A movie script would come in handy right now, with things kind of deflating in more ways than one.   But the only dialogue he could think of was, "Put ‘em up," which seemed a little rude, not to mention unnecessary.   He started to laugh, like a total dork, very unporn guy and totally not John Wayne, but this was a very strange scene, and, well, maybe he'd better start coming up with his own lines.   New words as ammunition.    "I like you," he said, around his grin.   "I like you a lot, Lex."

Which maybe wasn't Clint Eastwood or Steve McQueen, but Lex didn't seem offended, just smiled so warmly that Clark felt it, and patted the bed beside him.   

So Lex didn't say anything back, but that was okay, with Lex not really a saying kind of guy.   He liked his tricks and games.   Unpredictable, which made Clark crazy in all the right ways.   That, and his mouth, with the scar, that was..."Oh, Lex."

Clark got what he wanted, a victory, you could say, later that night, when Lex was miles-deep inside him, covered in sweat, hand around Clark, stroking.   That mouth was against his neck, but the words still came through loud and clear:   "Clark, you're so...God."   

No script there, nothing polished and delivered with the tip of a hat, but real.   And Clark, who really did like reality, took it as his cue, and came.