Rating: NC-17

Disclaimers: Just passing through.

Jenn wanted clichefic. Quarantine at Lex's house, with bondage. Who am I to say no?

Day One

On the first day of the quarantine, Lex and Clark went through the mansion to assess damage.

"I can't believe you did that to your laptop," Clark said, looking at the remains of precision circuitry scattered over the floor of the library.

"I wasn't myself."

"Obviously not."

"I thought I was being attacked."

"By a white, furry Sasquatch from beyond the stars."

"You said you weren't going to repeat that any more."

"No, you said I wasn't going to repeat it any more."

"I was hallucinating! I had a fever of a hundred and four!" He stepped over the shattered pieces of the Sung vase that had once been on a shelf nearby, and muttered something. Clark's superhearing caught, "...never said the word 'Sasquatch.'"

Clark grinned. Lex on the defensive was too rare not to enjoy. "I saved your life."

"You're usually not so smug about it. Oh, god, is that the Eisenstadt?" Lex picked up a shattered frame and inspected the photograph within.

"Don't you want to hear how we decided that a shock to the body would kill the meteor virus?"

"Didn't Chloe figure it out?"

Clark frowned. "Well, yes. But I implemented it on the spot. In the midst of a crisis. When you thought I was a white, furry Sas--"

"Clark, you turned a fire hose on me!"

"The virus was fatal, Lex. I think a little discomfort -- "

Now Lex was frowning. "I seem to remember being knocked off the roof of the castle."

Clark looked down at his sneakers. "You must have hallucinated that part, Lex. You had a temperature of a hundred and four."

"I suppose," Lex finally agreed, after a moment. "But that would've been quite a shock, wouldn't it? Falling off a roof? Bet that would've killed the virus, if the fire hose didn't."

"Yeah, but since it never happened --"

He was interrupted by the ring of a telephone. Clark dug around in his backpack till he found the mobile. It was huge, awkward, and ungainly.

"Jesus, Clark, is that from 1982?"

"If you hadn't cut the lines so your enemies couldn't get you and thrown your Nokia at the Sasquatch, I wouldn't have to -- "

"I hear that word from you one more time, you will suffer."

Clark got on the phone. "Hello?"

"Honey?" It was his mother. She'd given him the phone when he said he was heading over to Lex's and that he kept getting an "all circuits are busy" when he tried to call. Lex had been in close proximity to Patient Zero before she went nuclear, so the Kents were worried.

"Hi, Mom. Did the man from the CDC call you?"

"Yes, he did, and your father and I are a little concerned. Of course we're glad that Lex is all right now, but -- "

The phone was snatched away from her, and his father's voice came on.

"Clark, are you certain everything's okay there?"

"Sure, Dad. Why wouldn't it be? Mr. Henderson said they're just being careful. Ten more days, and they can be sure there's no chance of infection."

"And you and Lex are the only people in the house."

"Lex scared the staff away. None of them have symptoms, though. Mr. Henderson said they were just keeping them at a hospital in Topeka for a couple of nights. Isn't that great?"

"'Great' isn't the word I would use here, son."

Clark glanced at Lex, who was apparently in mourning for his Bernice Abbott series of science photographs. Clark wasn't worried, though; Lex got over mourning for material objects in ten minutes or less, and usually found replacements within 48 hours. At least, he always had when they were cars...

"It's okay, really. I'll be home in ten days, and it's not as if I'm missing school, and I'll make up the chores, I promise -- "

A sigh from his father.

"Is something wrong, Dad?"

"No. Nothing is wrong. But if something should be wrong, you'll call us right away, won't you?"

"Okay," said Clark, confused.

His mother got back on the line. "I hope there's enough to eat in the kitchen there."

"Relax, you could feed the entire football team."

There, Lex had already left the photographs behind and was starting to tap his fingers impatiently on the back of an armchair, waiting for Clark to get off the phone and entertain him. It wouldn't occur to Lex to think of it that way, of course. Nonetheless, Clark knew that if Lex didn't have three different things occupying his mind, he started to behave the way Sherlock Holmes did between cases -- right down to the substance abuse, if Clark read his friend's past accurately. Right now Lex stared Clarkwards as though his will alone could make Martha Kent wrap up a call.

"Honey, what happened to Lex's phone lines, anyway?"

Clark looked straight at Lex and said, "Apparently the Ninjas can use them to assassinate from a distance."

"You know, in London during the Black Death, they'd mark the homes of the infected with a cross on the door. And post guards to keep the families inside from running away."

"Lex, this is a little silly, isn't it? Shouldn't we talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about, Clark. This is your bedroom. Here's the linen cupboard, and anything you want washed, just toss it here and somebody'll take care of it... well, in ten days, I guess."

"Lex." He advanced a step, and Lex, who was not the sort of person to retreat, fixed him with his best "don't fuck with me" look. Clark halted and turned to verbal reinforcements. "It's not as if I'm still a virgin, you know."

"Barely."

"Whoa. Don't even try to give me that 'handjobs don't count' speech. Or I'll give you one of my Dad's about horses and locking barn doors."

"We agreed that that afternoon was a mistake."

"You agreed -- "

"And we've done very well in the last couple of months -- "

"By pretending. You can't say my reputation's going to suffer if we spend tonight in your room. There's nobody here, Lex. Do we have to lie, when there's nobody here but us?"

Lex regarded him with dangerous calmness. "Do you really want to start talking about lying and pretending?"

Clark felt the blush spread over his face. He looked away for a moment, then turned back to Lex and said, "Or you could stay here -- just for company. We... don't have to do anything."

Lex's expression eased. "Clark, I did just come out of a fever 16 hours ago -- "

"Oh, god, I'm sorry. I forgot. You need to rest -- "

"I'm all right, but some sleep would be good. You can have the television on as loud as you like in here, and it won't bother me." He smiled and added, "Besides, I still need to make you pay for spreading word about the ninjas."

Clark laughed. "She really won't tell anyone, Lex. My Mom's good at keeping secrets. You'd be surpri-"

He cut himself off, blinking. Moron! he thought. Lex's face had gone expressionless again. "Kinda tired, Clark. I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeah."

Clark wanted to kick the door after Lex closed it, but he was afraid of breaking the wood. Instead he pulled down the covers, which smelled of lavender and some kind of laundry freshener, and sat alone in the bed watching infomercials till nearly four. The room was big and drafty, and decorated by a taste miles from his mother's. The smells were nothing like home, either.

He'd never realized what a cold and lonely place the castle was when Lex wasn't around.

Day Two

Lex walked in around eight, wearing a silk robe and Chinese sandals, looking as cheerful as if last night's awkwardness never happened. He slapped the mattress, hard, and said, "Time for breakfast, Clark."

"Go away."

Lex sat on the edge of the bed. Clark glared blearily through half-closed eyes, and saw that he was holding a small painted bowl full of cherries. Lex took one, ate it with clear pleasure, and spat the seed into his hand with the delicacy of a cat. He glanced over to Clark.

"I'm surprised, Clark, aren't you a farm boy? The sun is high, the birds are singing, the lark's on the morn -- "

Clark groaned and buried his face in the pillow. Farm boys usually weren't up till four AM pondering their screwed-up love lives.

"'Awake! For morning in the bowl of night has flung the stone that sets the stars to flight -- '"

"Oh my God, are you like this every morning?"

"'And lo, the hunter of the east has caught the sultan's turret in a noose of light.'" He slapped Clark's ass in a friendly way. "Time for eggs."

"You can make eggs yourself."

"Of course I can." Lex leaned over, smiling in that way that made you understand how perfectly adult men with mortgages and families were willing to fall in behind him in business wars. "But it wouldn't be nearly as much fun without you there, now would it."

Clark felt the warmth of that penetrate him, and sighed, knowing he was outgunned. He pulled back the covers.

"I wonder if we have paprika," Lex said, padding away, apparently assuming, correctly, that Clark would follow.

Lex made eggs while telling Clark about the Roanoke colony, Alexander's relationship with his mother, and how it was afternoon in London at this very moment (prompted by Clark's eyes sinking closed during a prolonged period of Lex fighting the omelet pan) and what that meant for the buying and selling of stock.

Lex was intense enough in small doses. Ten minutes with him at the Talon, and he left an electric aftertaste that lasted hours. Two days of close proximity, Clark felt, were already having a strange effect on him. Like biting into jalapenos, or something. He was losing all track of what was normal.

Quarantine with Lex was like being quarantined with a small city.

After breakfast, Lex suggested that it was high time he taught Clark to fence. But first, he sent him to find the mobile phone, so he could check in with his assistant at LexCorp. Clark obligingly retrieved it and handed it over.

As Lex punched in the numbers, he said, "It's hard to believe Neanderthals could make an instrument this delicate. I mean, given those big fingers -- "

"Very funny, Lex. I can take back our only lifeline to the outside world if it offends you..."

"I was praising it, Clark. It's a mystery of the ancient world, like the building of the pyramids. Imagine the tribesman sitting around the cave entrance, pounding circuits together by the light of the fire... Rita? Is that you? How's the Anderson deal going?"

And just like that, Lex's mind teleported to Metropolis. Like flipping a switch. He turned and started to pace, no longer focused on Clark -- not even aware of him, as far as Clark could tell.

"That wasn't in the agreement. No, I don't care what Carl says. This isn't the time to look weak. Okay, patch me through. ...Carl, if I may; what the fuck? Has the ability to follow simple directions left you, simply because Elvis has left the building? Because let me assure you, Elvis is never truly gone. ...No. I'm in quarantine, I'm not in Siberia. If I were, the phones would be better."

Ten minutes later, Clark let himself out of the kitchen and went back upstairs for a nap. Two hours later, he came down again. He passed by the library and heard, "Of course it's negotiable, everything's negotiable here, but you don't say that, or they'll never take us seriously. Did you talk to Legal?"

He sighed and moved on. Another couple of hours, and Lex walked in to find him watching television in one of the drawing rooms. "I'm sorry, Clark," he said at once, returning the phone, and his voice was as contrite as Lex ever got. "It was kind of a crisis. LexCorp is still young and vulnerable, and there are plenty of people waiting for us to make a mistake. My father among them."

Clark leaned back on the Chesterfield sofa, looking up at Lex. After a moment he said, "Every day is a fight, with you, isn't it?"

Lex sat down next to him. "That's the way it is when you're trying to build something."

"But you like it."

A pause. Then Lex said quietly, "Yes. Yes, I do. I'm not a man of peace, Clark. I wasn't raised that way, and... maybe it wouldn't have made any difference. Maybe it's just me."

"So those sharks that are circling, waiting for LexCorp to make a mistake... if that were a different company, you'd be circling with them."

"Yes."

Clark thought about it.

After a moment, Lex said, "Does it bother you?"

Clark said, "I've never seen you go out of your way to hurt anyone."

"Not civilians, anyway."

He was silent again. Then, "I see. It's a game, and you figure the other people playing know the rules. Like, if someone gets hurt playing football, they shouldn't be shocked."

"Something like that."

Clark thought more, and nodded. He turned to Lex, feeling breathless, and said hoarsely, "Don't hurt me." And he kissed him.

He kept his lips against Lex's until he felt the initial urge to protest pass, and let himself open, re-learning Lex's mouth and the sudden, sharp pressure of fingers in his own back.

He pulled away, finally, and heard Lex take a deep breath. "Fuck."

It was the "fuck" of a man whose best judgment was not working out. They stared at each other, and, before Lex could start all this inappropriate thinking again, Clark decided to take direct action. He put his hand on Lex's cock and leaned forward. All right, he wasn't the most experienced guy in the world, but he knew that if anyone he found remotely attractive did that to him, he wouldn't be adding up a balance sheet of potential social risks.

Lex's eyes widened in a lovely sort of shock. They kissed again, and Clark used the opportunity to unzip and get his hand inside. Lex groaned into his mouth. God, he could get used to this. He suddenly felt like the sexiest guy in Smallville. And while he still believed that he scored way at the top of the dorkometer scale, and that Lex was deluded on the whole question of Clark's attractiveness, boy, the delusion was working for him now.

"Lex, please..." His voice came out husky, a little broken, and god, even he thought it sounded sexy, so no wonder Lex trembled a little and his cock jumped in Clark's hand.

"Fuck," Lex said again, and this time Clark liked what it conveyed.

And then the phone rang.

Lex stiffened, but not any part of him that would have been helpful in this situation. The phone rang again, and he drew back slightly.

"Don't you dare..." Clark began.

"I had to give them the number. This is serious, Clark. It's a make-or-break thing."

And this isn't? he thought. But no, he wasn't being fair. This was Lex's life, and the lives of a lot of people who depended on the company's survival, and he knew he was being selfish, but... it would have been nice to be selfish for a while. To have Lex, for once in his over-booked, over-scheduled life with the new company, entirely focused on him. They were in quarantine, for god's sake. Was that too much to ask?

He let go of Lex, who moved for the phone. Clark thought: God, if you're really there, and you give a damn about my trivial problems, I would just really like to fuck Lex Luthor. Or, I don't know, the other way around. I've never done it before, so I'm sorry my preferences aren't more clear. I'm seventeen, God, and I'm assuming I've got this sex drive for a reason. If you think it's a bad idea, give me a little guidance, but otherwise, if you could see your way clear --

Lex handed him the phone. "It's your parents."

So much for heavenly intervention. Clearly nobody wanted him to have this.

"Hello?"

"Hi, sweetie. Just wondering how you were doing."

"Um, fine." He sat carefully, adjusting for his hard-on. He cleared his throat. "Just watching television. Lex has digital, you know."

"Yes, you've told us before. Is everything okay? Nothing you need?"

"You couldn't bring it anyway. Nobody's supposed to enter the grounds."

"Well -- I could exercise my motherly prerogatives, and worry, at least."

Clark let her hear the smile in his voice. "You're doing that anyway."

"Chloe and Pete said to say hi. Chloe's trying to get an article together about the meteorite virus, but the CDC seems to think it's just a variant of -- "

Clark's attention shifted to the sound of Lex's footsteps as he rose from the sofa and started heading out of the room. No, no, no. Unacceptable.

"Mom," Clark said, barely aware that he was interrupting, "Did I tell you that Lex had a temperature of a hundred and four when I got here?"

"Oh, the poor boy! I wish I could come over -- "

"He's a lot better now. But he was actually hallucinating."

The footsteps stopped.

"More than ninjas?"

"Oh, way more than ninjas," he said distinctly, and turned so that he couldn't meet Lex's eyes, which were bound to be pretty intimidating at this point. "Did I mention the Sasquatch?" The footsteps returned. Clark kept his eyes down; he saw the legs of Lex's pants standing in front of him, but refused to look up. Discretion was the better part of valor, here. "As a matter of fact, it was a white, furry -- " Lex dropped to his knees and unzipped Clark's pants in one efficient movement. Clark forgot what he was going to say. Lex licked a stripe down his cock as though it were a Dairy Queen sundae, and Clark heard himself gasp.

"Clark! Are you all right?"

His mother's voice, right in his ear, startled him. "Y-yes," he said, and cleared his throat. "Yes. What were you saying about Chloe?"

Oh, this was bad. He didn't want his mother in the same galaxy as Lex's tongue and his cock, but... tongue. Cock. NewWorldOrder. He was utterly frozen -- if he moved, hell, if he thought too hard, it might stop.

Lex looked up for a moment with a quiet smile. Clark knew he had to be returning it with the look of a deranged moron, but anything else was beyond him. One speculative, measuring glance, and suddenly half his cock was sucked in.

The voice on the phone faded to white noise in his head, until he heard, "Clark? Clark!"

"Dad?" His voice sounded totally dazed. When had he closed his eyes? And when had his father gotten on the line? He looked down and met Lex's gaze.

"Son, what's going on there?"

"Here?" He almost squeaked. "Nothing. We're watching television." He thought of ice water, lots of it. And how Mr. Simons, the math teacher, kept a pitcher of the stuff on his desk and did a comb-over to hide his bald spot that no one could possibly think of and be aroused. The number of bald eagles free in the wild, and wasn't that something every American should be concerned about?

He gave Lex a desperate look, which Lex returned by flicking his tongue gently along the bottom of Clark's cock. A slight moan tried to escape him, and he managed to turn it into something else. "Gah." An embarrassing but unidentifiable sound, he hoped to God.

He had super-strength. He should be able to push Lex away. Really, he should.

"What was that?" his father asked, suspiciously.

"Nothing. It's the movie. It's, uh, kind of gross."

"What are you watching?" Because I'm just checking, son, to make sure you're not getting blown by your best friend. Before I start home-schooling you through college.

"What am I watching?" he repeated, throwing a glance of pleading toward Lex. His own mind was totally devoid of any movies at all, except, for some reason, The Sound of Music, which had nothing gah-like in it.

Lex returned the glance blandly. This was so unfair. Lex probably thought that by the time the quarantine was over, any odd behavior on Clark's part could be explained away. I'm writhing in embarassment now, though, Clark thought, adding the puppy look.

Nothing. He buried the receiver against his shirt. "You win."

"Psycho."

Clark lifted the phone. "It's Psycho, Dad. The Alfred Hitchcock thing."

"Oh." The voice on the other end was slightly startled, as though expecting that any "gross" movie watched at Lex's must involve donkeys and the corruption of Ancient Rome. "Janet Leigh and Tony Perkins."

"Yeah."

"I guess that's all right. Stay out of trouble, now, okay?"

"How can I get into trouble? It's just Lex and me here," he said, using every bit of denial at his command.

"Right. And remember what I said about calling. Bye, Son."

"Bye, Dad."

He switched off the phone. And looked down at Lex, annoyed. "I don't know how you could have -- "

Lex swallowed him whole. Pleasure spiked through Clark like a steel rivet driven into his body, and he gripped the sofa and rode it out, lightning arcing through and through, until he emptied himself in his best friend's mouth. Lex seemed to have no problem with it.

Clark collapsed on the sofa, boneless and mindless, and looked up as Lex gave him a friendly tap on the cheek.

"If you want to register a complaint, let me know."

The phone rang again, ten minutes later. Clark roused himself to answer, then handed it to Lex, who padded back into the room and took it.

"Lex Luthor. ...Thanks, Rita, that's the most important -- Rita? Can you hear me? I think the batteries are going. ...Okay. Just watch Carl for me, all right? And let me know... Damn." Lex shook the phone, as though that would help, then hung up. He looked at Clark. "You brought over a phone on the edge of coma."

"I only thought I'd be here for half an hour."

"Couldn't you have warned me? I'd've planned my use more carefully."

"Hey, like I know how many hours are on that thing. We never use it at home; it's just for emergencies. Like, if the truck breaks down someplace."

Suddenly a thought struck Lex, and he grabbed the phone again. "Oh my god, the due diligence!" He punched buttons. Nothing. He glared at Clark. "Couldn't you at least tell the voices were fading?"

"I thought it was just me." And your tongue.

Lex turned and stared out the window, in the winter of his discontent. "Do you realize we'll be here for another eight days, with no way for me to talk to my people?"

Yes! Yes! Thank you, God!

"I'm sorry, Lex. Can't you... recharge it, or whatever?"

"This monster? I don't have a recharger that would be compatible."

And I promise to be more understanding when Dad talks about when he was my age. And to help Mom with the dishes, and let Pete win more often when we arm-wrestle...

Day Three

On breakfast of the third day of quarantine, over French toast, Lex talked about Fermat's last theorem, why it was hard to walk in high heels, and how people in Elizabethan times went to the bathroom. The conversation continued as Lex led the way through the mansion like a point man on a mission, looking for some project that needed doing.

"So then they'd take the bowl and fling the contents out the window, after shouting 'Gardy loo!' -- which is actually from the French -- "

"What's that?" Clark interrupted, pointing.

Lex was prowling, really, more than walking, and he stopped and gave Clark a look. "It's a chess set."

"I know that. I mean, it looks so cool. What's it made of?"

"Ivory. They're copies of the 'Men of Lewis' -- there was a storm on a Scottish island in 1831, and when it was over, they found these chesspieces left in a sandbank. They're from the twelfth century."

Clark picked up the Queen, her big square head supported on one hand in an attitude of almost Lexian boredom. "Isn't ivory illegal?"

"I didn't kill the elephants myself, Clark. This set was made in Victorian times; I just bought it. The originals are walrus tusk."

"Let's play with them!" Clark looked over at Lex, grinning.

Something lively moved behind Lex's eyes, and then it was banked. "I don't think so."

"But you play. There's that set in the library that's in the middle of a game."

"I'm playing that with an acquaintance of mine in Hong Kong."

"So, we're both here now, and you won't have to wait for me to reply by email." Clark smiled; it seemed simple to him. Lex was bored, why not play a game?

"It's not a good idea."

"Chloe taught me the moves. I know I don't have your experience -- "

"That's not it."

"What's it, then?"

Lex paused, as though wondering how to explain an arcane law of physics, then said, "Clark, with you, I would want it to be a nice, friendly game -- "

He protested, "I play a nice, friendly game!"

Lex looked at him. "I don't."

Oh. Clark thought about it as they went on to the next room, and then said, "What about our game yesterday? On the phone? You were willing to go no-holds-barred with me then."

Lex said, puzzled, "You got a blowjob out of that, Clark. How was that not friendly?"

Sometimes Clark thought that Lex was so careful with him because he didn't know any better. Before Clark, he didn't really have friends, he just had enemies he liked. Maybe he thought that smashing Clark's ego into pulp wouldn't be good for their relationship; Clark wanted to prove to him that his ego wasn't that smashable.

Lex liked separate containers. Enemies here, privileged there. Snap open a carton without even looking, and you knew what you'd pull out.

He just didn't always tell people which container they were in.

Lex did seem to play all-out war games against his father, though it was hard to know how to interpret that. Lex's relationship with his father was complex, but Clark had stopped telling himself there wasn't a certain amount of hatred mixed in it.

Late that afternoon, after another fencing lesson, Lex suddenly appeared carrying two buckets of red paint he'd found in the basement. He announced that they were going to re-do the weapons room to match a Pompei brothel he'd once seen.

"It was very tasteful," he explained, in response to Clark's look.

"That wasn't my objection," Clark said.

"The challenge will be to match the original colors. You can do a lot of fading when your city's been buried for centuries in volcanic ash."

"I'm sure," Clark said. He realized it was the same tone his mother had used when he'd announced his intention to marry Lana, at age 12.

Clark took one of the buckets and a brush.

"Background first," Lex said, giving the wall a look that said it was going to sue for mercy soon. "Then design."

"Right." By the time they'd finished the base coat, they'd talked about Robert Frost, disco and the Beegees, and why wheat was politically important to Roman rulers. It seemed to Clark that Lex's attention span was getting more frantic, but he might be reading into it.

The stream of talk petered out as they worked, and halfway through the second coat, he became aware that Lex had stopped and was looking at him. "What?"

Lex's face had lost that "desperately seeking something" expression. He seemed quite calm, in fact. "Your shirt, Clark. You've gotten a spot on it."

Clark pulled the shirt around and tried to see. "Where?"

"Maybe you should take it off. You wouldn't want to ruin it."

With the sun lowering behind the other side of the castle, the room was growing dim. Lex's voice was strangely flat, but there was something about it...

"It's a warm day, Clark. Take it off."

Suddenly Clark was finding it hard to breathe normally. He knew that he wasn't being coy when he told Lex he wasn't that good-looking; he believed it. Putting on extra layers made him feel protected. Less open.

But suddenly he wanted to take his shirt off, just because Lex said to. He swallowed. The silence stretched a moment, and then, dreamlike, he pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it in an arc into the corner.

Lex looked at him for a moment, then turned back to painting.

Clark was aware of Lex through every minute of the next hour. He couldn't help glancing over to see if Lex was watching him. Sometimes he wasn't. When he was, he never looked away when Clark's eyes met his. It was always that same calm regard. There was not one trace of lasciviousness in it, and Clark felt as if he'd taken his pants off, too, and was painting completely naked.

Thank God he wasn't, though, because by the end of the hour the ache in his cock had spread through his whole body.

This was ridiculous. Nothing had happened. He was painting a wall.

The second coat was finished, stroke by stroke. Clark felt like a marionette on a string, the same movements, the same dipping of the brush, cleaning it off, sensing the texture of the wall beneath, all dreamlike and silent.

When it was complete, Lex stood back in the center of the room, beside him. "It may have been in better taste when it was faded. But never mind; the design will help."

"What shade is it?"

"Dusty gold. There are more colors in the basement; I can mix something close."

That calm voice was making the hairs on his arms prickle. "You think it'll help?"

Lex reached out and took the brush from Clark's hand. He lifted Clark's forearm, the sensitive inside up, and drew the brush gently against it. A long stroke of red appeared. "See? Red and dusty gold. A beautiful combination."

Clark stared down at it. He felt Lex put the brush back in his hand. Lex circled behind him and put his arms around Clark's waist. The room was dimmer, and he was fathoms deep.

"You've thought about me fucking you?"

Stupid thing; Clark was used to thinking the word, but not hearing it much; not in the circles he lived in. Movies, sure. The guys, sometimes. But not in a way that meant anything; not in a way that said sex. Hearing it from Lex's mouth made his cock twitch. He felt every inch of his inexperience.

"Yes."

"I will, unless you move."

He didn't move. But he said, "Shouldn't we go to -- "

"No. Here." Hands roamed over his skin, polishing it. "Drop the brush."

"It's still wet. Your floor -- "

"Drop it."

Clark dropped it. It left a streak of blood on the inlaid floor.

"I'll look at that and think of you today. How you look right now. The sounds you're making."

He was making sounds? A hand scraped one nipple and he heard it, that faint, strangled thing deep in his throat, like something was fighting its way out.

He'd wanted Lex's complete attention, and it looked as though he'd gotten it.

"Pants," Lex said, and Clark's hands began unbuttoning the top of his jeans and pulling them down, without any help from him. He heard Lex's footsteps walk away as he stepped out of them, and pulled off his underwear. He didn't even trouble to turn his head. The steps were back a moment later, just as measured and calm, as if Clark were a book that had been left open at a particular passage and there was no chance of finding anything but the expected page upon return.

Lex tugged him over to the dropcloth, nearer the wall. Clark felt the cotton beneath the soles of his feet, the rougher patches where paint had gotten. A hand smoothed back his hair, and fingers trailed behind his ear and along his neck. "You're so beautiful," said the voice, not anything Clark would have believed at any other time, but the tone was so husky, so selfishly pleased, like the emperor from one of Lex's stories this afternoon receiving a satrap's gift, it went straight to his gut and Clark gulped unexpectedly as though he'd swallowed honey.

Which just made it all the more natural, somehow, that when Lex put a hand on his chin and turned his face into a kiss, his legs felt as if they were going to let him down any second. And they did... but that was all right, because he was guided onto his knees on a tangle of dropcloth, Lex beside him -- like some kind of ritual, both of them on their knees in a room with cases of swords and maces and daggers shoved away from the walls.

Like some kind of ritual where you came out at the other end a different person. You'd think he'd be scared, but he just wanted this. Not even knowing what it was or what it meant.

And he guessed Lex's brain never entirely shut off, because even now he was talking; well, murmuring really, and it didn't even sound like English. Latin, Clark guessed, and it could have been baseball scores for all he knew, and for all Lex seemed to care; he was using the tone to gentle Clark down, as if he were an animal. Only Lex would do it in a dead language, Clark thought, and the rush of affection he felt made him giddy.

Or maybe that was the mouth sucking at his shoulder. The hands that kept touching, touching, all over, making everything off-kilter, making the ground beneath the house throb. Touching, smoothing, with a possessive pleasure in every movement, a subtext that said as loud as words that he was rare and valued and at last here where he was supposed to be.

And it was having an effect, because Clark didn't feel like himself at all. He felt like some incredible luxury item brought from a far country at great expense, and it was a strange, good feeling, reassuring as the humming of honeybees. As though anything he did would be right and accepted. ..But wait, no, here came a storm of Clarkitude again, because Lex had left off the Latin for a moment and taken his hands away to get something and it broke the spell, and suddenly a rain of questions pattered down.

He'd never done this before, and what if he disappointed Lex, not that Lex would ever say that, but that would only make it worse, and he wasn't sure if he was expected to be doing something specific right now, and this was an awkward position because he couldn't see Lex's face and guess, and dear God what was he supposed to do with his hands -- which felt like the ugliest, hugest, clumsiest farmer's hands in the entire universe --

"Whoa. Whoa, Clark, relax. You know this isn't a test, don't you? There are no right or wrong answers."

"But there really are, aren't there?"

He turned his head around and met blue eyes an inch away. Lex's lips found his and they kissed until the jittering in Clark's chest felt good again. Then Lex drew back and whispered, "Only essay questions. And if you need more time for your answers, just ask."

Clark said, as though it might solve everything, "What were you saying in Latin?"

"I was talking in Latin?" Lex sounded a little shocked. He got a distracted look in his eyes, as though he were rewinding a tape in his head, and then he smiled. "Behold thou art fair, my love, behold thou art fair. Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is sweeter than wine." Another kiss, slow and thorough, until Clark heard the ocean in his ears and Lex pulled away, gasping. "That's you. Now hold this."

He felt something flat and shiny put in his palm and immediately dismissed it from his mind, leaning in for another kiss.

This time he came out of it like caramel melting off a spoon.

"Good," murmured Lex, looking at him through lowered eyes, though he hadn't said anything.

Then there were fingers, jesus, slipping inside him, and he arched as though a string had been pulled at both ends, thoughts scattered like a flock of crows when a hunter's gunshot rang from the edge of the woods. "Lex..."

"Hold on. Soon." Lex reached around his waist and plucked something from his hand. A tearing sound.

And oh, dear god, Lex was inside him. Inside him, and with a sure hand on his cock, and it was nothing like that afternoon when they first touched, nothing like being sucked off, it was an entirely new ocean with new continents. Words were in his ear, soft and fast in between gasps, and if they were English, he couldn't tell any more.

A long arc through the sky, held in someone else's arms. He came first, couldn't have stopped if he wanted to, and held onto Lex's arms, both of them freefalling until he felt Lex jerk as though hit with the same brickbat.

Do you believe a man can fly?

The arms uncurled from him and Lex fell sideways, lying on one elbow, the picture of dissipation. Clark knelt back and looked at him, and blue eyes met his.

He heard his own harsh breathing. He supposed Lex did things like this all the time. Maybe he'd get a friendly tip on performance, or maybe Lex would say one of those things that was meant to put everything in perspective.

"Next time, I'll see your face," Lex said. Calmly, like a promise to himself, like, one day I will own LuthorCorp. And he got up and put the tops back on the paint cans, and carried them away.

Clark finally stood up. He looked vaguely around for his pants and found them not far from the corner where -- oh, yes, he remembered now -- he'd thrown his shirt on command. It was all strangely complicated and unreal, and he didn't care. But when he scooped a hand down to grab his clothes, he froze.

He remembered, distantly, wondering what to do with his hands. He must have found something, though, because the palms were blood red. And there were two handprints in the freshly painted wall.

Day Four

Clark wasn't sure what he expected the next morning, but aside from having firmly gotten over his "no touching" rule, Lex was the same as ever. He nailed Clark in the shower with no qualms at all, then suggested that they try to make a frittata for breakfast. This led to the importance of foraging to Napoleon's army, the stimulus/response work of B.F. Skinner (a tangent created when Lex walked behind Clark's chair on the way to the stove and traced his shoulder with an index finger), and the last twelve years of X-Men comics.

It was like babysitting a hyperactive kid. Who had the ability to make you orgasm any time he wanted.

The shower had had a mirror, and Clark didn't seem to look any different in it, but through all of last night, waking up this morning, the breakfast dishes and the polymath babble, he was aware of a vaguely shocked feeling running underneath, as though he were some kind of metal that had been passed through a furnace, and its structure permanently altered. He supposed the sensation would wear off eventually, which would be a shame and a relief -- he couldn't imagine going through life at this level of intensity. Even invulnerable boys have design limits.

Clark wondered if his parents were worried about his not phoning in, but he wasn't too concerned. When you've got an invulnerable son, it's more likely that the batteries ran out than that anything fatal's happened to him. Besides, if anything terrible had happened, he had a pretty good idea that his parents knew Lex would ignore quarantine and go for help. Lex never let rules get in the way of practicality.

On this day, after their afternoon fencing lesson, Lex brought an armful of wine bottles up from the cellar.

"I thought you went down there for paint."

"I was distracted. Clark, there is wine here the like of which Smallville has never seen -- at least, judging by the Grand Hyatt out on Route 10, where an overpriced thirty dollar bottle of Gallo is the zenith of a business dinner."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I have decided to get you drunk, Clark, on wine which you cannot possibly appreciate consciously, but which I believe will elevate your finer senses and show you what true intoxication can be."

He felt himself smiling wryly. "Where did this idea come from?"

"You haven't been drunk before, have you?"

"No. A few beers once, but -- "

"There you are. What better time to experiment? By the time quarantine is over, all the after-effects will be gone. No sad stagger home to the Kent house, listening to disapproval and damnation as you seek the nearest bathroom. That would be a pitiful ending to a wine-tasting of the gods."

"You've been drinking down in the cellar, haven't you."

"I sampled, the better to choose your introductory vines. Sit over here."

Clark sat. Lex fetched a good dozen wineglasses. "How many guests are we having?" Clark asked.

"You're not going to learn the difference between a cabernet and a merlot unless you can compare."

He spread the glasses on the floor, and Clark lowered himself to the rug beside them. Lex lay on his stomach. He handed a bottle to Clark and said, "Oldest first."

"I'm younger than you."

"The wine, Clark."

Oh. He never thought about wine in terms of age. He never thought about it at all, except for the single glass of champagne they had sometimes at Thanksgiving or Christmas, and that was whatever Mr. Salter had in the cold case down at the store. Usually it was on holiday sale, and came with a big purple foil ribbon.

He sipped from the first glass. It had a rich, heavy taste, something like beef or blood -- not what you'd think to crush out of fruit, anyway. Like something born through some wholly other method.

"I like it."

"Try the zinfandel." Lex nudged a bottle over and Clark took it and poured. "We'll do port next." He rolled over onto his back and hummed a bar of something Clark didn't recognize. Lex was indeed drunk, at least mildly, and Clark was wholly won over by the privilege he was receiving. "If you read the gourmet articles, they talk about cream and chalk and nuttiness and the aftertaste of chocolate. I often suspect they're making the whole thing up, because it always just tastes like wine to me."

"I saw a man on TV once who could drink a glass of water and tell which of the Great Lakes it came from."

Clark offered this in all sincerity, and was taken aback when Lex rolled again onto his stomach, looked up at him with gleaming eyes and a wry smile and said, "'Even one whom we at all times admire will suddenly seem ten times more beautiful than they were before.' Lady Murasaki."

Clark shifted, embarrassed, under the sudden depth of this regard. "Friend of yours from college?" he asked, trying to lighten Lex's gaze. Suddenly he thought again of handprints in walls.

Lex held his eyes for another moment, then smiled. "All right," he said, as though agreeing to some proposal of Clark's. "We're not singing '99 Bottles of Beer,' though."

Three hours of measured sampling later, and they'd discussed stoic philosophy, serial killers, and the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Lex didn't really approve of "if thou must love me, let it be for naught except love's sake only." "It's like that old Billy Joel song, Clark -- 'I love you just the way you are.' He's practically telling the woman she's stupid and no fun to be around. Why can't you love people for great reasons?"

"Maybe she's afraid the things you love in a person could change."

"I thought you said you didn't know the poem."

"I don't."

"You're a ringer, Clark. Don't think I'm too drunk to see it."

Clark wasn't sure that he himself was drunk, but he did feel a little glow-y and dizzy. Maybe it was a contact high.

And not ten minutes later Lex was quoting from "My Last Duchess," written, he said, by Ms. Browning's husband, and telling Clark that he relished it as a kid -- "it's about a murder, though no one ever uses the word" -- but that, in retrospect, it was just a little too close to his parents' lives. Clark made a slightly dizzy note to check it out of the library.

Not something to think about now, though. Now was a very different time, the conversation slower, the silences more prolonged, and a deep upswell of something Clark couldn't wholly define but that felt like contentment. Like it had taken all those subjects, all those words, to bring them to this place where speech felt like a superfluous ability.

Lex sat cross-legged on the oriental rug, leaning against the armchair. A semi-circle of partially filled glasses bordered his right side. On his left, Clark lay on his back, staring up at the painted moldings above. Baroque, out of period for the castle, Lex had said, but Clark liked it. Blue and white sky, heaven like a Kansas summer afternoon; though that probably wasn't what the painter had in mind. Lex's fingers kept raking gently through his hair, so naturally that Clark wasn't sure he knew he was doing it. Clark could feel faint shivers trail through him with each stroke. He'd never understood the word "forever"; he couldn't imagine anything so purely good, you'd want to freeze it for eternity; but yes, he could stay here like this forever. No future and no past.

"Lex?"

"Mmm?"

"I just wanted to say that I appreciate all the thought you've put into corrupting me."

The hand left his head long enough for a courteous, aristocratic waving away -- not at all, don't mention it, my pleasure.

"How do you feel?" Lex asked.

"Happy."

"I meant to ask if you felt drunk yet, but a reply like that should not be tampered with."

Hand back in his hair, good. He lay there, timeless and unwilling to move and shatter this.

Lex, however, was thinking more practical thoughts. "Six more days," he said, and you could just picture the cream on a cat's smug whiskers. For Lex, eternity was made up of molecules and atoms: seconds, hours, dollars, cents. He took what solace he could within that, and though Clark sometimes had a savage urge to pull the damned timeline of greatness out of his head and burn it, he knew that Lex's surrender to ten days of limbo was a huge concession.

So -- "More than that," Clark said, offering the reminder.

"Hmm?"

"Weeks. Months. Years."

A pause -- not the right kind of pause, as though a natural rhythm had been smashed. And the hand was gone from his head, leaving Clark alone, and Lex was sitting up straighter. "We can't -- we can't have this once you leave."

And now Clark sat up too, paradise forgotten. "Why not?"

"You know why not. We've talked about it."

"We've also fucked, and you had my dick in your mouth." Clark was a little surprised at how easily the words came to his tongue when he was angry. Or, all right, afraid. He'd thought they were past this. "It's a little late to -- "

"What we do here doesn't count. It can't change anything one way or another. People know the house is quarantined; they may speculate on how we're passing the time, but that's something we have no control over. What happens later, though, we can do a little about."

"We've been friends for two years already, and nobody's tarred and feathered me."

"And if you want to hang out at the Talon, we can do that. And you can still make deliveries here. But we can't take it further because it gets out, Clark. It always gets out, and in a town like this, sooner rather than later."

"I don't agree, but so what? I can handle a little talk."

"A little talk about your sexual preferences -- and believe me, the talk will be detailed -- or a little talk about your willingness to put out for one of Satan's right-hand freaks?"

Clark stared at him. "Jesus, Lex."

Lex returned the look coolly. "There are a lot of words you're going to have to get used to hearing, if you insist on going down this road." His voice was becoming more and more measured. Emotionless, as though he were talking about some tedious checklist of equipment.

"You think because you know what that means intellectually, you really know it. You don't. Your friends will look at you differently. People you've never even met will have an opinion about you, and it won't be favorable. You'll drive into a gas station and some guy will give you a look, and you'll wonder, was he just standing at the counter with the owner saying, 'Hey, it's Lex Luthor's fag boy'?"

"Lex -- "

"And the guy'll stiff you when you pay for a bag of chips, and you'll wonder, is it just because he's an asshole, or does he hate me, personally? Because you can't always tell any more when you're being paranoid."

"Lex, stop it."

"Living that way does things to a person. But it's not going to do them to you."

He stood up, and the drunkenness was visible, if at all, in a finer precision of movement. "This isn't negotiable, Clark," he announced, as though Clark were one of his fucking business deals, and Clark had to get up and stride away before the blackness he felt in his chest spilled out over everything.

He lay in bed that night, torn between resentment and mourning. On the one hand, he'd felt it, it had been right there inside him that afternoon, a kind of happiness that he couldn't help suspecting some people never reached in their entire lives. And on the heels of that, anger, because how blind did Lex have to be not to see that that was worth any kind of grief the outside world wanted to give them?

But no, he had to be protective, and Clark couldn't even rage at him properly for it, because he was aware that in some fundamental way Lex just couldn't stand the thought of his getting hurt. Lex had been through this kind of crap all his life, and he didn't think Clark understood how bad it could get.

And yet, when you thought about it, what did that mean? That Lex didn't think he could handle it.

Sure. Lex thought he was strong enough to fuck and to talk with about things he never talked to anybody else about, and strong enough to save his friend's life, but not strong enough to endure gossip or pain or the risks of adult emotions. Seventeen, Lex said, as if he hadn't already told Clark that Alexander the Great was regent of an entire country when he was a year younger.

Well, Clark didn't plan on conquering the world -- he was happy to leave that to Lex; but he knew that his future would be different, and he did plan on being just as strong as that required.

And Lex didn't have to leave him wrapped protectively in a box somewhere, only to be taken out for special occasions.

He needed to prove that to him. To demonstrate it conclusively.

He needed to surprise Lex. To beat him. Here, on his own territory, at one of his own games.

He didn't have the fencing moves Lex had taught him down yet the way Lex did. He might win through using his powers, but if he amped up his reflex speed, even (he'd like to believe) subtly, it would raise all those questions he'd so patiently waited for Lex to drop.

Chess. Lex wasn't tempted.

Sex. Lex was extremely tempted.

Clark thought about it.

Day Five

Neither of them mentioned the fight.

On the fifth day of quarantine, after their fencing lesson, Lex carried two buckets of gold paint up from the basement. Before he could start in on the history of Prohibition or the sex lives of crickets, Clark grabbed one wrist and rubbed it against his cheek. Lex looked at him, and Clark held his eyes and moved in for a kiss. Long and slow, but there still must have been intent written all over him, because when he pulled back, Lex asked quietly, "Not that I'm complaining, but what's this about?"

Clark stepped back and gave him his best macho stance. It was an amalgam of several actors on television, but he felt it would get the message across. "You think you're pretty good at making me come."

"Clark, you're seventeen. I don't need magical powers -- "

Clark smiled. "Come on. You think you're pretty fucking good."

There was a faint twist to Lex's mouth that he knew meant a broad grin was being held back. "Okay. I'm pretty fucking good. Your point?"

"A little game."

He made sure there was a trace of challenge in his tone, and for a second he saw that lively spark in Lex's eyes, before they went carefully opaque. "A game." Noncommittal.

"A sex game."

"I never thought of you as the gaming sort, Clark."

"Goes to show you, then, doesn't it." He kept his voice cool and casual. The kind of voice he heard people like Whitney use when they were playing hoops in the lot behind Salter's, the kind that made other boys stop and take off their jackets and go one-on-one.

Shit. It worked, too, because Lex hadn't moved, but his focus was like a laser.

"Tell me about this game."

"Easy. If you can make me come, you win."

The laser gaze moved up and down his body, in a way that suggested Lex already considered it his territory; Clark wondered if this were the equivalent of trash-talking. If so, he'd never considered that trash-talking might make his cock jump. Lex said, slowly, "Yes, the goal seems straightforward." His voice dropped a register, and Clark felt himself flush. He ignored it.

"There are rules." You up for it?

"Tell me." In the same voice, that made him want to shiver.

Here was the good news: it looked as though Lex was being hooked into the game. Here was the bad news: he was dangerous when he played anything, so god knew what this was going to be like.

"Well, like you said -- I'm seventeen. No point in finishing this in three minutes, right?" He'd given it plenty of thought last night. Setting parameters with Lex was a lot like those stories where someone made a deal with the devil. You'd want to be as careful and specific as possible, because he was bound to have a rabbit in the hat somewhere. "So, rule one is, no touching of any... key points."

Lex stepped in closer. He said, in a whisper, so that Clark had to bend in to hear, "By key points, I take it we mean here..." as a hand brushed his cock, "...and here." A warm touch on his ass.

"Yes," he got out, in a slightly strangled tone. Hell.

"I see."

Clark swallowed. "Rule two is, I jerk off before we start, so we can begin with an, uh, even playing field."

"Well, that seems fair."

"It does?" he asked, surprised. He'd been stacking the deck in his favor. Granted, he wasn't the most experienced guy in the world, but as far as he could tell, he needed touch. True, he'd had his moments of inappropriate hard-on embarrassment, but while he'd heard stories about guys who came in their pants, he just wasn't that hair-trigger. At least, he didn't think he was.

Hence the rules. He wanted to be sure he won, and besides, if he was going to lure Lex in it was important that he feel... challenged.

"Anything else?"

Jeez, wasn't that tough enough? Lex simply looked... intrigued. Amused. Confident. But maybe that was just his game face.

"No, that's it." The game face was troubling, though. I suppose suggesting that you try to make me come while sitting across the room in an overcoat would be gilding the lily.

"All right. Not bad at all." Lex circled him slowly, eyes on Clark's face. This must be how the rabbits on the Nature series feel when they see a cheetah. "As the challenged, the choice of weapons is mine."

"We're not fighting a duel."

"Of course we are. Come on, Clark. I'll abide by all your parameters, but in everything else, we do it my way."

Clark thought about it. This was the place where Satan usually slipped something by in the fine print. But try as he might, Clark just couldn't come up with a way Lex could beat him here. Clark didn't believe he could come without physical contact where it counted. That was a matter of personal biology, and he didn't see how Lex could get around it.

"All right," he said finally. "Deal. Everything else, your rules."

"Good." Lex gave him a smile not unlike the one he flashed when newspaper photos were being snapped, and it upped Clark's nerves by a good ten percent. "Now, we need something to help out on your end."

"What?" Clark stared at him. "I don't need the game handicapped, Lex. All the advantages are already on my side." Maybe he shouldn't say that, but the deal was struck, and Lex didn't seem to mind it.

"Clark, please. You're seventeen, healthy, and the reward for losing is sexual pleasure. Part of your brain is going to be fighting for the other team, unless we come up with some incentive." He thought. "I have it. You win, and you've got one claim on me."

"Claim," Clark said slowly. "For what?"

"Anything you want. No limits."

"Lex, I already had to send back a truck, so if you just want to torture me -- "

"No, no. Let me put it this way. Tomorrow, twenty years from now, on my deathbed -- if there's something you want me to give, or take, or do, or stop doing... you've got one claim."

He thought about it. "That I can cash in at any time."

"Yes."

"What if I came to you ten years from now and asked you to turn over your entire business empire to me?"

"That would assume I had a business empire..." He met Clark's raised-eyebrow look and a smile spread over his face. "Okay. I think it's unlikely that the you-of-ten-years-from-now will be that different, but it's risk that makes a game interesting."

One claim...

Insurance.

What was the thing he most worried about? Losing this. Not only what might follow when quarantine was over, but that he might lose it entirely. Lex's friendship. Because he knew damned fucking well that he was a liar, and that Lex had trust issues, and that Lex had let him farther in than anybody else. Somewhere down the road, this could all blow up in his face, and he'd need to be able to stop Lex then, stop him in his tracks, and say, Wait. Listen to me with an open mind.

Because I have the right to ask you, and you promised one thing.

Lex was a gameplayer. He respected the game, he paid his debts.

"One claim," Clark repeated.

"Of course, if you don't think that constitutes an incentive, we could try something else -- "

"No. I want it."

Lex smiled. "I like the way you said that."

"Um, Lex?"

"Problem, Clark?" His hands were brought around behind and tied with soft, thick, gray silk. Clark had seen the silk; it had a deep luster that you could fall into, not like regular cloth at all. "We said, my rules."

"I know, I just..." He cleared his throat. "Hadn't thought about this." Although there was something strangely familiar about it, as though maybe he'd had a dream like this once.

Of course, he could tear through silk if he wanted to. But then, he could tear through steel. And he couldn't tear through either, not and keep his secret, so maybe it was a moot point.

"Does it bother you?" Slight challenge there, so subtle you had to be tuned to it. Forfeiting the game already?

"I'm fine." Aside from the fact that the silk being tightened so securely around his wrists seemed vaguely... hot. He didn't know why, but then maybe Lex knew something he didn't, because what made him chose this?

"Good. Close your eyes."

Another length of silk, this one deep blood red, and he'd never been able to x-ray through his own eyelids, so this was going to be...

He felt it slip coolly over his eyes and be tied in the back, and couldn't help a slight shiver. He felt awkward suddenly, off-balance, standing here in the dark.

Then a hand was on his shoulder, steadying, and Lex's voice sounded close by, focused utterly on him and reassuring. "Clark," he said, and paused. Then: "This isn't a game that should be played when anyone's upset. I know you didn't like what I said yesterday. Are you angry?"

"I was. I'm not now." And he wasn't. He took stock of his feelings: Wary. Expectant. Nervous. Mostly eager. He smiled. "It's okay, I want to do this."

"So do I."

He felt Lex's hands on either side of his head, so Lex had to be standing directly in front of him now. There was a pause. Letting Clark know that he was there, taking his time, inspecting him, judging the opposing force, when Clark couldn't see his face. Making him wait, Clark thought, and he could feel every second of the pressure of that regard.

Time stretched. And suddenly he felt it, the ghost of a kiss on his abdomen, so faint that he twitched and shifted to meet it. Light, shiveringly light, but startling, coming out of nowhere, and Clark got it now. That was the point of the blindfold.

Already he was off-balance. Then fingers dusted lightly across his arm, up to his chest, letting him know by touch which way they were going, reassuring him again. Caresses that encouraged him to relax. Hands took his bound ones and he was walked backwards a few steps, till he was braced against a wall. That was reassuring, too, because his balance had been strangely off ever since the blindfold went on. It must be psychological, because at home, he could always find his way around his room in the dark --

"I'm going to kiss you now, right here." A hand brushed the hollow of his neck, and then lips followed, a lick of tongue between them. The warmth lingered. Where was the warfare supposed to come from? Because it was all like that, the map of his body followed openly, warnings given. Lulling him into a false sense of security, he was sure, but it was hard not to relax into it, not when every signpost was so scrupulously followed. Just trust me, was the subtext, and everything will be good.

He was definitely melting. But there was no need for concern at this point; he was miles from any danger of coming, regardless of how good this felt, so why not let it happen? He lost track of time and started to have a vague sensation that he wasn't standing with his back against a wall, but was floating in the dark somewhere, enjoying delicious sensation.

Finally Lex leaned in and said, in a voice that just made him want to purr, "I'll be back in a minute." A careful lick at the junction of neck and shoulder.

Clark leaned there, still pretty liquid, but with the vague sense that he'd have to be on his guard when Lex got back. He'd be bound to have something more in mind than this (though as far as Clark was concerned, there was nothing at all wrong with this).

Footsteps, and the sound of a bowl being set down nearby. Then Lex's hands were back, smoothing over his chest, okay, good, I can handle th--

Out of nowhere lips abruptly closed around one nipple and Clark arched away from the wall, making a noise of shock.

"You bastard," he said, shaky. That mouth had had an ice cube in it a second ago, he was certain of it.

Affectionate laughter, and then, "Trust me, Clark, it's going to a good place."

"A good place in Helllll -- " His voice went up as Lex fastened on the other nipple. Back and forth, and soon a slight numbness had set in.

"You know," Lex said, conversationally, "I usually look for more compliance and less criticism from my partners in this sort of thing, but I'm willing to make allowances for inexperience."

Clark would have stared, if he were capable of it. "How many partners have you done this --"

And then Lex's mouth was back on that nipple, but this time it was warm. Unnaturally warm. Gloriously warm. Warmth spreading out from the point of contact in concentric circles, and god, it felt good. There was a pause as Lex pulled away for a moment, and Clark wanted him back now. A moment, the sound of what might be a cup being set down, and when that mouth touched him again, the tongue felt as though it belonged to some forest animal with a higher temperature than human. Clark arched into it, willingly this time, and when it moved across his chest he could feel himself writhing under it. The contrast of temperatures was sending out little sparks.

"I told you it would feel good."

"Mmm."

Sparks all over the place, down his spine, into his cock. "Turn your head, Clark, so I can get at your neck." Clark did, without even thinking about it. The mouth sucked at his neck, little bites that added to the sparks and made him want to rub himself against --

Right. Can't do that, he thought vaguely. His cock was in empty air, and that's the way it was going to stay. Too bad. Still, the ache wasn't enough to bother him; it was just enough to make everything else in his body feel sensitized and open.

A kiss, long and sweet, and then -- "Come on." He was helped to stand up straight, and found his knees shakier than expected. A tug, and he was guided across the room and... out into the hall, it must be. Bare feet on carpet, on stone, on polished wood, and they kept walking. Lex didn't bother to reassure him that he wouldn't let him fall, but then, Clark already knew that.

Periodically he was stopped and his mouth, well, ravished. There wasn't really another word. His sense of direction was totally gone, and he had no idea which room he was in -- on some level, if he'd pulled off the blindfold and found himself in another world, he wouldn't have been surprised. He was walking further and further into a dream.

Still, he thought they were probably going to the bedroom -- though he wasn't sure, or how far away it was, until he found himself already seated on the bed, the sheets pulled back for him. He moved up, positioning himself, until a hand told him that that was far enough. He hoped Lex was going to talk to him again at some point; not that it seemed necessary so far, he was communicating just fine, but Clark would have liked to hear his voice.

His hands were untied, and then one was brought back and tied again, this time to the headboard. Then the other. His shoulders were pressed down into the mattress, and he felt Lex straddle his waist. And finally, he spoke.

"That's all right, isn't it." As a hand scraped one nipple.

Arc of electricity. He could almost see it, a crackling line of white fire in the dark.

"Oh, fuck."

He didn't know how Lex knew he would like this, but he did. "Like" was too insubstantial a word for what he was feeling. There was velvet over his eyes and a rushing in his ears and he just wanted to drown in this dark, sweet river and never come up; never have to taste ordinary air again.

"I'm going to take the blindfold off. But you'll keep your eyes shut, because you know that's what I want, right?"

Dear god. He was having trouble breathing. "Yeah," he got out.

The silk was untied from his head and slipped off gently, no more weight than a breeze. It was still dark behind his eyelids.

Then -- a soft bite on the flesh of his inner arm. Another, without warning, at his collarbone. Bites alternated with a maddening stroking of his inner thigh that made his nerves fizz and overflow their glass. Next, a line of soft kisses that marched up toward his groin but in a surplus of unfairness never reached it. It was all incredible, but he never knew where it was going to happen next, and his whole body started to quiver with blind anticipation.

He felt his head twist from side to side, trying to deal with the voltage running through him. If he'd open his eyes, he could see where the next attack would be, but Lex had said not to, and he'd agreed to those rules. Besides, he was experiencing an overwhelming urge to do anything Lex said, like it was some kind of natural law, so there was a good chance he would have kept his eyes shut anyway. It was tough, though. He was starting to feel like that story they told kids in school, Ben Franklin's kite with the key attached, tossed in the storm and sizzling with lightning strikes. He could almost smell the burnt canvas.

His cock had come up of its own accord, and was so high now that it nudged Lex, and at the touch Clark heard himself moan. God, it felt good.

And embarrassing. He'd touched Lex, not the other way around. "You know, you're forcing me to move," said Lex calmly, as he pulled away.

"Sorry."

"It's all right," said Lex, as courteously as if they were at one of those parties the school threw, where parents and teachers could mix, and nobody drank too much punch.

And then he gave him one of those kisses, one of those kisses that seemed perfectly friendly, like the warmth hazing up from the ground on a summer day, but which left entire cities in Clark's brain in smoking ruins.

When it was over, and Clark tried to breathe again, he felt Lex's fingers running through his hair, making his scalp tingle. "I saw you liked this yesterday."

Clark felt his face flush. He hadn't thought Lex was even aware he was doing it, let alone aware of his reaction.

The caress went on, and the tingles very quickly marched to his fingers, his toes, and his cock. His body was already half on fire, just looking for an excuse, a match, something to burn paper. This was going to be it, if Lex didn't stop. God, it felt good. He found he was starting to shiver, and couldn't stop.

On and on and on. Dear god. The other hand traced his neck, lightly and delicately. He was shivering and arching and, the fact was, pretty much out of control. He couldn't stop any of it. And fuck, it felt good, but it was killing him, and he didn't want it to stop, ever, but he was losing his fucking mind --

"Please." There should be some other words, he thought vaguely and a little desperately. Some phrase, some sentence he could say, that would communicate what he needed here. But there just wasn't anything else in his head. "Please. Lex, please. Please..." He couldn't stop until a mouth came down over his, and though the heat of it should have made him even crazier, it was somehow reassuring. It's all right, Clark, I'm paying attention, everything will be fine, just let it happen. Cool lips, sweet tongue, just let it go, Clark.

Just a leap into the dark. Without a parachute.

Lex gentled him down, murmuring, careful little kisses. It took a while, but at last he felt himself unrolling under them, relaxing, compass completely lost in that last jump, but not particularly caring. Lex had the map, let him deal with it.

And now that he'd finally stopped fighting, he felt Lex untie his right hand, and started to move it away from the headboard. Lex took his wrist, without force -- none was needed -- and stopped him. "No. You'll keep it right there, just as if it were still tied, because I say so, right?"

He nodded in the darkness, eyes still closed. Floating in space.

"There's only one way you can move it, Clark." The voice settled in his ear, words as breath, breath as life, each warm touch a new means of communication. "I can't touch your cock, but you can. I want you to do it, Clark. For me. Just because I want you to."

Oh, fuck, this was so unfair. He was making losing sound sexy and hot. But Lex had warned him; no holds barred.

"You're so fucking beautiful like this. I want you to jerk off for me, Clark. I want to see your face when you come, and know you'd never do this for anybody but me." Inescapable truth in the voice. Lex wanted everything he said, wanted to see Clark give himself up.

Another sound escaped from Clark's throat, and he heard the note of despair in it. Nobody could be expected to resist this. His cock had been hard for years, it felt like, and it was drawing rainbows around every word Lex said and making it sound like Holy Writ.

"Do it. Touch yourself. Come for me."

There was a reason he wasn't supposed to do that, but he couldn't remember what it was. ...Winning, he thought vaguely, he would win something if he held out.

What could he possibly win that would be better than jerking off for Lex right now? That didn't even make sense.

"You want to."

"Yesss." Like an animal, in his throat, barely human.

"Then do it. Don't stop, don't think about it." A pause. "Have I ever given you bad advice?"

He was vaguely aware of his head, turning to the left and right. No, Lex always steered him true north. Better than a compass. What would he do without --

Wait. That's what he would win. Insurance. Whatever happened, he could make Lex stay, listen to him, give him another chance...

Worth it. Worth anything.

"No." Clear refusal, and over the hill, he could see the gates of Eden being swung shut. Heard Lex's sigh.

"I never thought you'd disappoint me."

Oh! Clark knew it wasn't true, but Lex had warned him -- anything goes. He was allowed to lie.

Of course, Lex knew that Clark knew it was a lie, so maybe that's not quite what it was, after all. But the words alone could hurt, even in a game.

He could make Lex take it back. Give him the victory, and Lex would return absolute tenderness to him. And god, his whole body was straining toward it, toward the hands he knew would be wrapped around his as soon as he touched himself, toward the body that would wrap itself around him, too. Lex wouldn't think less of him for folding now. He'd put up a fight, and if he finally surrendered, it was out of desire and love, and who wouldn't accept that?

Too high a price. He shook his head.

"Open your eyes."

He opened them, and saw clear blue ones not six inches away. Blurry, not quite in focus. He must have had his eyes squeezed too tightly shut, he thought, and then became aware of wetness on his cheeks.

Game over, then. He couldn't possibly look into Lex's eyes and deny him anything, not when his body was ready to combust.

"You win," Lex said.

"Wh-what?" He looked up, bewildered, into Lex's face. "It's a trick."

Lex laughed. Beautiful, innocent laughter, the kind Clark hardly ever heard from him.

"Why?" Suspicious tone.

Lex said, "Because in the world of Clark Kent, a nice, friendly game doesn't have to end badly." And when Clark still looked wary, he laughed again and reached for his cock. "Let me help you with that."

But I've never won anything before, he thought, a little surprised to hear the same words in his head that Minerva Volstead used when she was awarded the big-screen HDTV at the State Fair.

Aliens and middle-aged, lesbian pig-farmers. When it comes to transcendent moments, not so far apart after all...

Some hours later they lay half-dressed on the oriental rug, the glasses of yesterday's wine adventure still around them, the painted baroque ceiling above.

"Explain this to me again, Lex."

"You said you'd seen a man who could identify Great Lakes water, right?"

"Right."

"So we should be able to identify Pellegrino versus Perrier versus Ty Nant."

"Lex, not everything in life is a challenge."

"Clark, one of the first statistical experiments ever done was devised informally at a garden party, because a woman there said she could tell just by tasting whether milk had been poured into the cup first, followed by tea, or tea first, followed by milk."

"Really? Could she?"

"The challenge was to find a way where you could really know. Because, see, if you took a sip of water I gave you and said it was Perrier, you'd be right one-third of the time anyway, just through chance, so how can you -- what?"

Because Clark was laughing. Not poking-fun laughter. Stripped-down, pure joy laughter. Plainsong. He shook his head, stopped himself, then leaned in and kissed Lex -- not as sexily as he would have liked, because Lex moved, and noses can make life complicated. But Lex didn't seem to mind.

"What was that for?"

He quoted back, "'Even one whom we at all times admire will suddenly seem ten times more beautiful than they were before.'"

There was a slightly startled pause. "I never know when you're listening."

"Oh, I'm always listening -- I'm like a stealth Clark, that way. You never know where I'll strike."

"Hmm. I'll have to tell that to Lady Murasaki. My old college chum."

It was a beautiful afternoon no matter how you looked at it, and how do you like that? Lex Luthor could play a game without it going to a place where he salted the earth and sold the women and children of Carthage into slavery. And he seemed to like the idea, judging by the smug expression that had not left him since they got out of bed.

Lex gathered him in and kissed his shoulder. "You're a worthy opponent, Clark."

Clark settled against him, below the blue and white painted dome of heaven, and smiled. It was as good as a sonnet.

Lady Murasaki Shikibu is, of course, the Heian author of The Tale Of Genji (circa 973-1020 AD). The quote is from her diary.

And the story passed down among statisticians is that the woman at the garden party identified every single cup correctly.