Because You Knew by roxymissrose

[teot]

Title: Because You Knew
Rating: R
Word Count: 8,001
Cover: Cover #1

Summary: Young Master Luthor is summoned to the family estate…

Notes: Thanks so much to Treetracer, and Arianstarr for your help! Any boo-boos or clunkiness is entirely my fault.



Because You Knew
by roxymissrose

February 12, 18-

I confess I was indulging in self pity when I arrived home, a flaw that I’ve had little success in overcoming. My father, as usual, had disrupted my studies and interrupted the comfortable flow of my life in the misguided belief that his wishes were mine.

At the start of the year he’d sent word informing me that my presence home would soon be required, for two occasions. One was a happy--presumably happy--one. He was about to be married. I’d aware of his engagement to Martha Kent, the widow of a prominent landowner, for some time. With the help of her son, she’d worked hard to maintain his estate, and my father helped them with their financial matters. Friendship had bloomed, grown deeper over time, and now according to his letter, they planned to wed. I was happy for my father, less so for myself. The other reason for my journey home was to meet my fiancé.

An occasion decidedly less happy.

The Wayne family had never been close to the Luthors-but we boys, Bruce and I, had been closer than brothers until the tragic death of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Shortly thereafter, dues to circumstances that still had the power to shame me, Bruce Wayne and his sister had been sent to live in England. We lost contact. Now, they were home once again-and through some miracle, or perhaps, monumental stupidity, Bruce Wayne had allowed my father to convince him to join families. I was to marry his sister, and cement the futures, and fortunes, of our two families. All this without me having had sight or contact with the girl, or word or letter one from her brother. It was all very primitive and operatic, the stuff of trite romance novels.

The Waynes were enormously wealthy and certainly a part of my father craved that added wealth, but perhaps what truly drove him was their reputation. The Waynes were an old family, respected and well thought of for their philanthropy. Our family, on the other hand…well…at university I got quite the education in how the world perceived the Luthors. Upstarts, crude, new money…try as he might to reinvent himself, my father was a common man who’d toiled and sweated for every bit of his money. Not one of those privileged drones could conceive of how hard my father had worked, how much he’d given up to achieve what he could, for my mother and me. I knew assuring my future was important to him-that was ever my conflict with my father-I admired his overwhelming sense of responsibility to family, but questioned, sometimes even hated, the lengths he’d go to….

Now, through my fiancé-and his own fiancé, he’d managed at last to buy respectability. I suppose he felt this was the only real way to be sure that I was…happy. Since happiness to my father meant money and position, my desire to teach was seen as a sort of hobby, some childish lark to be gotten out of my system. He just couldn’t understand.

I could only hope that young woman was an agreeable person, and we would be able to find some common ground.

The day is really quite cool, even here near the platform. The air is crisp but full of the promise of a lovely day. I let my eyes roam over the crowd as I wait. There’s no entertainment quite like that of observing one’s fellows, people can be very amusing.

Few people are about yet; it’s early, and the merchants are just beginning to open their shops. Smoke from the engine and steam billows from the train and in the chill morning air, is thick as fog. The cold air carries the shouts of the stevedores clearly, the call of the few merchants on their business snap on the breeze.

Weak morning sunlight makes even everyday, common items into treasure, everything is glazed in an almost magical wash of rose and gold-and perhaps that is why the youth holding the arm of the tiny wisp of a woman with such obvious tenderness, stands out-he is gold, and red-that is my first impression-golden skin and red, red mouth…I think of cherries…even from my distance, I can see his eyes are the color of Chinese jade….

His maroon coat and gold waistcoat mark him as well off, the cut and color speak of money but not flash. I notice also that his boots set off calves very well. Very well.

The chill air has colored his cheeks red, and even dashed the tip of his nose with pink, and I find it so charming I can’t help but smile. Of course, it is at this moment I notice he has been observing me nearly as intensely as I have been observing him. My heart sinks-what must he see? A too thin and too pale, bald sketch of a man? I feel warmth flare in my cheeks-this is really too embarrassing.

He frowns slightly as I’m thinking this, and looks directly into my eyes. I read in them-nothing. I refuse to invent emotions that can’t exist. There is no instant meeting of hearts, love at first sight exists solely in tales written for overwrought pubescent girls and there is no such thing as a soul-mate.

In the blink of an eye, his expression changes, he’s smiling at me. Sweet, and open and totally guileless, but as I watch him, it turns slowly wicked and filled with a deadly charm…I damn myself again by smiling back. I’ve promised myself-swore-that I’d no longer act on such impulses-again and again, I swear it.

I decide that it would be best for me to walk away…there is a bakery nearby. If I can’t indulge one hunger, I can at least satisfy another…I find my steps take me beyond the bakery, I’m suddenly eager to be completely alone. The path I take leads me to a small copse; through the trees I see a cemetery…I walk behind a black marble crypt, dripping with bloated angels and little stone roses, a sure sign that even in death it was possible to be crass and pretentious.

Frightening it may be, but it’s soaked up warmth from the sun, and I lean against it gratefully, hands in my pockets and wishing I had my gloves with me. It is silent here, no vendors shout, not even the creak of a wagon wheel to be heard. It’s the perfect place, this necropolis, to think about my life, my problems…until a footfall behind me jerks me to attention-I whip about to come face to face with…

Incredible beauty, eyes so green, and mouth, so red, and a large hand reaches out for me, perfect, and well sculpted as the David’s, his eyes full of promise. His head inclines, and all I can do is shiver. I’m already erect as the boy/man slides to his knees and slowly button by button, opens my trousers, my heart is racing, my brain is on fire with arousal and wonder-this boy is more than enchanting-he is a god and I’m falling, falling under his influence, into sin, into ecstasy so fierce my body shakes….

Hot mouth on my penis and my eyes close at that touch-it’s a struggle to open them again, but I have to, I need to memorize every bit of this, the hot slide of his red, red lips on my prick, so deep a red I look pale in contrast, long thick fingers pressing into my hips, gold fingers pressing, molding over the bones -pain and pleasure. I have no idea who this man is and yet I’m owned, in this golden moment, I can only think, ‘I belong to you.’ He chuckles, and the vibration flies through me.

“I’m glad you feel that way,’ he says, and I realize to my deep embarrassment I spoke aloud. I feel the press of his cheek to my thigh, and know that this is not a simple meeting of flesh and lust. Something has taken-is taking place here, outside of the normal world. He’s opened his pants, he stands and guides my hand to him, and it’s like touching velvet and iron, the touch sends a feeling though me like none I’ve ever had before-like finally discovering a missing part of myself.

“You feel it, don’t you,” he asks, his breath coming fast and shallow. “I felt it too when I saw you…” all I can do is hold onto him, my mouth is under his and he tells me wait… I can’t. I touch him, stroke him, love the feel of his head on my palm, the wet slick slide of it through my fingers. He’s pushing into my grip faster and faster, when he comes, he sobs, once--the heat of his spunk runs over my hand, fills my palm…I bend my head to lick it clean and he watches, his gaze like a physical weight on me and it makes me harder. I touch myself, still slick from his mouth, and my body flutters, I feel it coming so close, a quick tug and I’ll join him. I cup the head of my prick and he stops me, circles my prick and tightens.

My groan of disappointment must be heard around the world. He laughs again, and tells me, don’t be so impatient, like a long time lover, like a friend…he’s on his knees again, and I’m undone by the sensation of the smooth passage of his throat taking my prick in deeper, hot, wet lips and hot fingers working in me. In too short minutes I feel my balls tighten, I feel the desperate need to release, and I try to move, give warning. He swallows-it’s too much, and I come violently. Even in the midst of shaking myself to pieces I feel his hands on me, gently stroking, soothing.

Almost before it’s begun, it’s over, the golden moment passed, and I’m aware of the world again. The young man rises and licking his lips, he hands me his handkerchief and I wipe myself hastily. He kisses the damp wad of material I return to him and it makes me gasp. I touch myself without thought and that makes him smile, a sharp, knowing smile. He touches my face, and without asking, my scalp. It’s a caress, not an intrusion. His smile is sweet now, and with the softest touch of a single fingertip under my chin, he makes me come close. He touches my lips with his, soft, too soft, but before I can think to protest, the touch grows firmer, deeper. I close my eyes, no more than a blink, and he is gone.

I’m alone, more alone than minutes ago. I berate myself for being so foolish-and so foolhardy. I lament my lack of control and how easily I fall again. I can still feel the touch of his warm fingers on my skin. My body shivers in delight at the memory of his mouth, but my heart, foolish heart, is gone with him.

February 13, 18--

My homecoming went as I expected. My father welcomed me at the door, with open arms. Her seemed genuinely happy to see me again. That’s unfair perhaps-I know he loves me, and I do love him. It’s that our concerns and aims are worlds apart. It sometimes makes me sad. If only he would understand that the world of academe is where I’m truly happy. That my desire to teach is just a different way of making my mark on the world, and it’s no less important or valuable than carving the Luthor name on the landscape and passing it down to…future heirs.

He was speaking to me, but truthfully I paid him little mind. At that point, I was desperately tired, and still unsettled by the intensity of my earlier encounter, still haunted by green eyes. I wanted nothing more than a bath and a glass of wine to calm me. He spoke on and on but I was hardly aware of what he was saying, until he mentioned Martha Kent, and I admit, I was more than curious about the person I’d only known through letters.

He said, “Martha Kent and her son will be having dinner with us tonight. I’m thrilled that you’ll finally be able to meet her, and she’s very excited to meet you. It will be a late supper, I’m afraid, they came by train today, in fact they came in at the same time you did.”

I had the oddest feeling when he said that…a presentiment of something coming close and I wasn’t sure if the thing was good or bad or if I wanted it to come. My father talked on, telling me what a fine young man her son was, kind, thoughtful and very intelligent, and how he hoped we’d become good friends.

“I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.” I said, and asked if all preparations for the wedding were complete, and he assured me that they were. He said, “Yours are complete as well, and after Martha and I are wed, so will you be.” At my protest, he held his hands up. “Son, there’s no point in waiting. The time is right, and you’re of an age to start a family. Really, it is happy news. As I recall, the Wayne girl is quite attractive. Most men would consider themselves extremely lucky for a match like this.” He smiled at me, and though his face reflected only a slight paternal interest, his eyes pleaded with me. In his heart, he knew full well that it mattered little to me what the woman looked like, yet hoped still that I had changed. Would change. Poor Father. I prayed that she was at least pleasant, for there was no question that I would do this. He was my father after all, and the only family I had…at least until the wedding, when I would suddenly gain a mother and a brother.

“Go, wash up, and than dress for dinner,” he told me, “You’ll be meeting your new mother and brother soon. He embraced me and stepped back. He said, “Lex, my boy, you must know that I’ve never been unhappy that you are my son.”

I’m afraid I simply raised an eyebrow at that statement; I spent a few years, in the wake of my crime, at Excelsior, the type of private school that existed to teach young men that money was no excuse to be soft and Christian morals were instilled with liberal use of the switch. He went on, sensitive to the chill I felt at his words. “I wish you would believe it, Lex. No father could be prouder.” I did believe him-I wanted to believe him. I hugged him back. “Thank you Father. I know.” was all I said, but it seemed to make him happy.

Evening came and a servant tapped on my door, announced that dinner was ready. I’d spent a pleasant afternoon. I’d been able to devote a little time to my studies, and a little to reading for pleasure. I hadn’t noticed that the sun was low, and candles had been lit and now that I marked the passage of time, I was hungry, and looked forward to the meal. I followed the servant into the dinning room.

My father was at the table, as was his fiancée, the Widow Kent. My first impression of Martha Kent was that she was a very attractive woman. I noticed next her sweet smile and the kindness was evident in the line of her face-I liked her immediately. Next to her sat the person who was my brother to be.

I called on all the willpower I possessed to calm myself, to keep from exclaiming. The Fates are cruel and filled with wicked humor, and certainly here before me was a prime example. The boy at the table was the boy in the cemetery-and he had not even the good grace to blush, or to look away. In fact, he looked delighted. Cheek. Pure cheek.

I greeted Martha and expressed pleasure to meet her, and was pleased not to have to act, it really was a pleasure, and nodded rather curtly I’m afraid, at the boy before being seated, as further proof of the Fates’ sense of whimsy, across from him. He smiled, and reached into his pocket. With wide innocent eyes, he dabbed pointedly at his lips with a crumpled kerchief-I felt my face burn…and felt heat flare elsewhere. Shameless.

And when he smiled at me, I could not hold my answering smile in check.

It’s odd that from such a potentially horrible beginning, what’s become the most valuable relationship I could ever hope to have is blooming. Without Clark’s friendship, I don’t think I could survive. Clark is the brightest light in my life-his mother another. He and I speak to each other about almost anything, and would speak of all, but I can’t bring myself to discuss what occurred between us that day. I can see in his eyes that he’d gladly recreate that moment, but I feel incapable of accepting such potential for joy. I have my duties and he has his…it is difficult, but I see no way to change my destiny. My course in life has been laid out for me, and I try to make this plain to Clark, that there are no choices to be made and he should understand. In some ways, our life is alike. He has a deep understanding of the responsibility one owes to family. After all, he took on the duties of a landowner after his father passed. He had to quickly become a man, learned do a man’s work and not from choice but duty.

He did it, and he excelled, he earned the respect of men older and more experienced than he. Clark has that quality that attracts-he is sincere, hardworking, dedicated, with a sweet nature, though sometimes he will let loose that delightfully wicked streak of humor.

I wonder, what would he have been like if he hadn’t had to carry so much, so early? Sometimes, when he thinks no one sees, he looks as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. I wish that I could help him, lighten his burden….

February 20, 18--

This evening, The Kents and my father and I went to dinner with my fiancé and her brother.

It seems simple, looking at the words I’ve written, but it was anything but that.

We met at a local restaurant, one that had always been my favorite. They were waiting for us at a private table, a beautiful young woman dressed in cream, her delicate features set off by a crown of chestnut curls and tall dark-haired man in deep green cutaway. He turned at our approach, and two years were gone in an instant as our eyes met. He rose at the introductions and as he held my hand, he held my eyes, his were filled with contempt. He had a right to it. His parents’ death was not the only reason he’d been sent to England.

“Lex. A pleasure to see you again,” he said, and his voice reflected no such thing. His sister blushed and dimpled when I took her hand. How odd it was to think of her as my fiancé, when I’d never seen her as anything more than Bruce’s sister.

Over the course of dinner she proved to be intelligent, well able to express herself, demonstrating a modesty that was natural and appealing. She was attractive, and no doubt would make a wonderful wife, a good mother, in fact be the perfect helpmate to someone who could love her.

Perhaps some miracle would occur. I would come to love her. I would forget Clark, and devote myself to her. Just as soon wish the night would become day.

Bruce asked if I cared to visit their stables with him after dinner, he had purchased horses that morning, and he wanted to make sure they were settled in and also wished to discuss a point or two concerning the future. His sister smiled again, dropped her eyes and blushed a lively pink.

I could feel Clark’s eyes on me as we walked away.

How can I begin to explain the madness that I was caught up in? Almost before I knew what was happening, I was leaning against the wall of the stable; feeling the rough boards bite into my palms. I caught my lip in my teeth; the urge to scream made me bite down. Sweat stung my eyes…Bruce held my shoulders with a fierce, nearly painful grip and thrust, his prick burnt into me and I was faint with arousal. He pulled out, muscles quivered around his shaft, my body was desperate to keep him. He chuckled low in his throat and it vibrated, slid deep inside of me…I couldn’t hold back a groan… “You’re as weak as you were when I left,” he growled, and I sobbed. “Bend over, spread yourself,” and I did as he said. “I want to feel you spill,” he said, which meant he wanted me to masturbate for him, and I did. Each plunge inside brought a lightning jolt of pleasure, it rattled what sense I had, and made my knees quiver. Try as I might, it was impossible to keep my cries of ecstasy muffled. As always with Bruce, I gave in--I threw my head back and gave in to the pleasure. His hands tightened on me, sure to leave bruises, but all I cared for was the sensation of his prick swelling inside me, filling me with heat as I painted the wall in front of me.

Afterward, I could only cover my face, and exhale-shame made the breath catch in my throat, shame that I wanted it again. I was already desperate for it to happen again. I hurried to my rooms, and passed my brother to be on the stairs.

He stopped me, and asked me if I was all right, he asked if I’d been hurt. I was filthy and stank of…sin. My eyes ached with unshed tears, but I shook my head and told him I was fine. He put his hand over mine, where I gripped the stair rail.

“You know you can tell me anything,” he said, and his kindness hurt worse than Bruce’s cruelty. I swore to him that I was fine. He looked skeptical and as I let myself into my suite, he asked me if Bruce was a friend, whether he was more than a friend.

“I’m going to be married to his sister, as you know. He’ll be my brother in law, she’ll be my wife and that’s all that’s important.” I told him, and it wasn’t until later that I thought how cruel my words must have sounded. They were certainly terrible lies.

I’m in the garden, and it’s a pleasant break.

My fiancé and future stepmother had taken the train that morning to spend the day in Lawrence, doing whatever mysterious thing women do when they disappear together. They looked beautiful; Bruce’s sister really is quite a beauty, a miniature, gentler version of Bruce, feminine and graceful. I wish as always that I could find in her what I need, and my guilt made me hold her that much longer, and kiss her cheek that much more fervently before handing her up to the conductor. I waved good-bye and watched the train steam away; stood on the platform long after the train had pulled out of sight, held there by a memory….

Now I sit in the cool shade of the oaks in the garden, and I finally am able to catch up on my studies. I see Clark walk into the maze and Bruce walk after. I’m curious-the maze is a work in progress, a project of my father’s. I wonder what attracts them-as far as I know Bruce has no interest in gardening of any sort, and Clark-I’ve never seen him in this part of the garden before…

As I round the corner of the maze, I hear voices and assume Clark must be discussing his future plans with Bruce-closer, and I hear that the sound is certainly not that of conversation and now my feet move on their own, even though I know, I know nothing good awaits me.

Bruce, Clark…it is shocking, it’s horrible, and it takes my breath away. Clark looks…like a martyr, crucified…I run, run as fast as I can. I run to my rooms and lock the door, pushing against it like I’m holding back some horror. I feel betrayed, I wish to forget-I wish for death. And in a few minutes, I wish for Clark to be with me as I labor towards a spine shattering orgasm. I know in my heart, I deserve no better.
Clark’s face had held no pleasure, only pain and degradation and yet, it was just that expression I pictured…

Idiot. Fool.

March 1, 18-

The wedding draws near, and I had no idea beforehand how hectic my life would become, no part of it seems to belong to me anymore. My days are consumed with wedding plans and visiting friends and acquaintances of the Waynes. Everywhere I feel as if I’m on display for people who make it plain that they don’t particularly approve of this match, of me, my father.

I’m sure I’ve fallen into a nightmare. I’ve settled into a routine of escorting my bride to be by day, and submitting to her brother at night, and realizing more and more, my heart is being pulled to bits.

I don’t love Bruce, he doesn’t love me. Bruce is paralyzed by unshed grief and guilt, and true, some part of me is drawn to that like a moth to flame. He’s consumed with the need to hit back, to punish and there’s a part of me that needs that as well, and that makes me shamed.

Anger and guilt drives Bruce. There is no explaining to the boy trapped in amber that he could not have held off the highwaymen. That his parent’s death was not his fault. He hoards his grief; and it festers inside of him, and explodes in me night after night….

What am I to Bruce? A handkerchief that he nightly masturbates in and tosses aside.

Clark-looks at me. He sees me…I hope he doesn’t hate me.

He doesn’t hate me. I know it. I believe it and hold to that belief because it’s all I have.

Clark was waiting for me outside of the barn. He’d hidden himself until Bruce left, and stopped me. “Lex…”

“Clark, please. Don’t.” I couldn’t bear to hear him accuse me, to look at me with scorn. I had the ammunition to turn blame back to him…accuse him of the same crime-

I would never. I couldn’t.

He shook his head. “Lex, I don’t blame you. Truly, I understand. Bruce considers this justice-payment for wrongs committed against him. I tried to stop it, to offer myself in your place…”

He must have misread the look on my face, as blame for him instead of myself. He stopped and paled, and went on dispiritedly. “But…. Maybe you love Bruce, and I was wrong to try and come in between you two? Lex, love or not, whatever penance you feel you pay Bruce, you must know that for him, it can never be enough, it can never end.”

I looked into his jade green eyes and was overcome with wonder. My heart filled to bursting, my love for him could fill oceans, move mountains. No one before had ever sacrificed so much as a minute for me, never cared that much, never…what he gave, what he did, for me…

“Lex, I love you. I feel-I feel as if we’ve known and loved each other forever.”

“Clark…” How could I explain to him what was in my heart at this moment? How much I wanted to respond in kind? I gave him the only gift I could--the truth. “I’m marrying Bruce’s sister in two weeks. What you want, what I want, means nothing. My father wishes it, and I owe my father so much. You owe my father.”

His head dropped, and ebony curls fell forward to veil his face. I couldn’t stand to see him so bereft. I tilted his chin up and brushed his hair back--my fingers traced the line of his pink cheek, his rosy lips, and he opened them to take my fingers in.

That simple touch sent blood flowing to fill me; I was achingly hard in seconds. He laid his warm palm over my aching prick. “Do you remember the train station? I dream of it constantly.”

He plucked at my buttons but I pulled away, and his face fell, all playfulness gone and the light in his eyes died. “I really do understand, Lex. I’m sorry.”

He made to pull away, but I held his hand, and dropped my own to his buttons. “You don’t understand…let me this time. Please.”

The joy that filled his face made my knees weak. I pulled him back to the shadowy depths of the barn; we dropped, clutching each other, into the hay. I pushed him to his back, and pulled his trousers down, revealed his prick. I admit to gasping at the sight and I felt heat flare in my cheeks at his quiet laughter. His big warm palms pressed gently over my cool scalp, and I heard him say softly, “Touch me, than.”

He was…perfect, unreal--a pink and blush marble column that curved gracefully to his navel…I eased the hood back, to reveal a crown like a perfect plum, deep rose and glossy, sweet to the taste and shaped to fit my mouth. Thrill after thrill raced through me, and hardened my own prick, his filled my mouth wonderfully. I had no coherent thought-only sensation--smooth and velvet, heat and salt and sweet in my mouth and still I wished for more and deeper until he pulled back, chuckled again, “Breathe, love, breathe.”

I smiled at him, though my lips felt bruised and swollen. He reached down to stroke them tenderly. I took him in again, and soon, too soon, his spunk flooded across my tongue. I drank him down, tasted him and rolled it in my mouth like wine. He pulled me to my feet as if I were a child, as if I weighed nothing. He kissed me, and we shared his taste.

I opened my eyes and saw that tears stood in his eyes. “Don’t marry her, Lex. Come away with me. Please. I promise you, I can make it happen. We can be together forever.”

I could only shake my head. He knew and I knew that there could be no other way. My path had been laid out, and we could only follow it.

March 22, 18-

My father and Martha Kent married on a beautiful spring day. The sun cast its golden rays over all, but most especially it seemed on Martha and her son, her son was impossibly beautiful on this day….

My father was happier than I’d ever seen him before. My memories of my birth mother were dim and not particularly happy--she’d been very sick for so long. I hardly had any memories of my mother and father together, but I hope that once, they were this happy. His eyes danced whenever he looked at his bride, and she was as pink and as dimpled as any girl…as I suppose my own bride would be.

Champagne flowed freely at the reception, and I’m afraid I drank a bit too much. I made my escape as soon as was seemly, and escaped to the outbuildings, searching for privacy. I admit I indulged myself in self-pity. I may have shed a tear or two, but I place the blame on too much champagne. I leaned against the stable wall, eyes closed, and the sound of footsteps brought my head up. How like my precious memory of that time, that first time Clark and I were together….

Bruce stood there.

“Lex, when your father and step-mother return, everything changes. You’ll be my sister’s husband. My brother.”

I agreed, and wondered what point he was trying to make, and slowly I realized I was seeing something no one else ever had, Bruce Wayne, suffering a complete loss of equilibrium. He shuffled his feet in the dirt, he squinted against the bright sun, and was silent for so long that I wondered if he even remembered I was there. Finally, he spoke, his voice low, and dry, as if it was an effort for him to do so. “I blamed you for all my trouble, Lex. I blamed you for making me want this. For making me want you. When they found us in that way, I blamed you when they sent me away, hated you for that. When I returned, I wanted you to hate yourself as much as I hate myself. I wanted you close, so that I could take you apart bit by bit…” he licked his lips, looked away. “You’re too beautiful, Lex. Too easy to hurt.”

Again he was silent, but this time, I relaxed, waiting for him. I listened to the music of the spring air. let the heat of the sun pin me against the stable wall…my eyes slid shut, and I felt heavy in all my limbs…Bruce’s voice was in my ear, his lips brushed my lobe and he said, “Make my sister happy, and you make me happy.” His hand clasped my jaw, and turned my mouth to his. His tongue forced its way past my lips, and he took one final kiss from me, his teeth pressing into my lip, short of breaking skin. I laughed to myself. That he didn’t make me bleed was Bruce’s idea of tenderness.

May 15, 18--

Bruce’s sister is now my wife. Clark watched alone from the last pew. Bruce was my best man. The priest spoke and I stared at Clark the whole time. Bruce touched me on the shoulder when the ceremony was done and it was sealed. “Whatever you need,” he said to me.

I looked for Clark after the ceremony, but I didn’t find him.

Martha told me he was gone, to school, she said but I doubted it. I have no idea why but I didn’t believe it then and I don’t believe it now. I’m afraid I’ll never hear from Clark again.

February 20, 18-

My son was baptized today. It was a moment I’ll never forget. Looking down into his dear face, I felt a moment of pure joy. This tiny person was my own, my child. He was beautiful and perfect and he made the aching hole in my heart less deep, less wide. His brown curls framed his face, made his blue eyes that much bluer and he looked like a tiny version of my wife, my dear and faithful wife.

Clark was there. How, I don’t know. I left the christening party, and stepped into the garden, just for a breath of air. He was there. He was behind me, hands on my shoulder and lips at my ear. “I missed you.”

“I missed you.” What else could I say?

“Your son is beautiful, as beautiful as his father. Alexander junior?” He chuckled, that soft low breath of sound, and it brought back memories I had successfully hidden, ripped them raw again…

“My lady’s choice.” I tried to smile back, but I couldn’t. “Clark, why are you here?” I had to ask him.

He sighed, and apologized. “How could I not be here? Why should I not share in some of your happiness?”

“Happiness.” I laughed, and sheer willpower kept me there with him.

“Whenever you’re ready, call me,” he said, and was gone again.

I went back into the house, and asked Bruce if I could speak with him in private. I felt no guilt that night.

March 2, 18--

My wife and I have made our life a pleasant one. We are as close as brother and sister, our relationship the same. We sleep in our separate rooms, and go about our separate lives, happily or nearly so. Our son brings us so much joy. I can not imagine my life without him.

Time passes so slowly and at the same time, so quickly. My father is making tentative moves to retire and leave the business to me. My mother has been instrumental in that. She is arranging a tour of the Continent for the two of them. I laugh every time they talk about it; my father’s eyes fill with panic and her’s grow steely. It is a clash of wills that he will lose, no doubt.

Mrs. Luthor is the only thing the man fears in this world.
Wise man.

“Papa, look! Look at me!” Alex is sword fighting his way across the lawn, parrying and thrusting, shouting insults t o his invisible foe. He’s a lively, sometimes very loud, boy, and I enjoy his enthusiasm. Everyday is an adventure for him, even so simple a task as collecting the mail becomes a wonderful adventure when Alex narrates it. Currently we are being attacked by pirates, but I’m not to worry, as he’s a skilled swordsman, and more than capable of subduing the scurvy knaves…

I gather the mail and look through it as we walk back to the house, there’s an envelope with a European stamp on it-France. The address is in Paris, the handwriting one I know quite well.

Clark.

I miss you, he writes, as always. He asks after my family, as always, and tells me what he’s doing, his adventures. Promises to visit soon…he’s been home a few times in the ten years Alexander has been alive. Alex’s christening, the Christmas before my father retired…once on my birthday….

Gifts and cards come like clockwork. Every birthday; every Christmas, Alexander receives something from whatever place Uncle Clark is. His shelves hold books and masks and carvings, toys from Ethiopia and Japan, from Holland and Switzerland…

Faithful Clark is, I am. Faithful. We are drowning in faithfulness.

May 5, 18-

We buried my father today. It’s so strange, I feel like I’ve lost part of myself, my last connection to who I was once upon a time. I’m happy enough to be what I am today, a father, a husband, if not lover…but with the loss of my father, I am now nobody’s child. It is ridiculous, I know, but I feel like an orphan--

I hope my father was happy in his declining years, he seemed to be. I know that once he married Martha, he was a very different man. He loved his wife very much, loved his grandchild, and he saw his business prosper.

I know he loved me.

A few days before he passed, he apologized to me. He didn’t say what for in words but I knew, I read it in his eyes, the grasp of his hand. And now, he’s in the ground, and his wife is a widow once more.

Clark sent his sympathy, he was sorry he could not be with me. I was sorry too.

Bruce sat with me, and we talked of childhood, long into the night.

April 9, 18-

Martha Kent has passed, and it’s every bit as painful as I feared it would be. She was truly a mother to me. And to my wife. She taught everyone around her what it was to be loved.

I was the one who found her, sitting on the porch steps. Her shawl was around her shoulders, a basket of unshelled peas on her lap, a few scattered on the ground…it must have been that quick, and I hope, painless. Her lips were turned up with the ghost of a smile.

She wasn’t alone. Clark was at her side, arms around her, his tears dropping onto her crossed hands. He looked up at me. “I heard her, Lex. I came as fast as I could, but it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t save her.” His eyes were huge and dark and so full of pain and confusion, so like a little child asking why, why it had to hurt so….

I didn’t question then, I didn’t waste time demanding explanations.

Clark was Clark.

As far as the world knows, he never came home for his mother’s funeral. But I know. I know how deeply he grieved, and did what I could to help. I could never feel guilt for it. Even now, I recall clearly how he held me, moved inside of me, and cried, how desperate he seemed to touch every part of me, to create a connection. Maybe to life, or to humankind. It’s an instinct for us, when touched by death, to try to life the void with life…perhaps Clark’s people feel that drive as well. All I know for sure is that his touch filled me, that having him was like coming home, being with him I knew this was where I was meant to be.

I wake at night, I feel his release spill hot across me, I feel the heat of his hand as he rubs it into my skin as though it were truly happening and not a memory.

“I love you,” he told me, I love you.” The echo of his words are in me all the time. They keep me alive.

I love him so much.

January--

I’m worried, more than that. I confess, I am a little frightened. I don’t seem to age. It sounds insane but I think it’s true. Year after year goes by, and less and less do I change. I used to heal quickly. Now, I heal almost instantaneously. I haven’t been really sick since I was nine years old.

I haven’t aged visibly since my Alex was a boy.

I hide it; people don’t see what they don’t want to. It’s laughable, really. My wife-doesn’t look at me.

Bruce knows. He sees everything.

“You need to leave. You need to be gone before its plain to everyone.”

“Alex needs me, Bruce. I can’t leave my boy. He--”

“-Alex is a grown man. He can run the business on his own, he’s skilled. He had excellent teachers.”

“My wife--”

“She’ll survive, she has her son, she has her life. She’ll do well without you.”

Bruce was right, of course she’d be fine, and I knew my son was more than capable…it was the thought of abandoning them that made me hesitant. I couldn’t bear for my son to think I’d run away from him. But Bruce was right-what would be worse, for my son to think I left him, or for him to age, grow frail and die, while I was perpetually healthy and whole?

Before he left me that evening, he asked me, “Lex…do you think you’ll ever die?”

I answered him truthfully. “I-don’t know. I’ve never given it thought.” And I hadn’t really, the prospect of living forever was impossible to consider. I doubt a sane mind is capable of seriously considering the prospect.

“Do you think it has to do with the incident that caused you to lose your hair?”

“It’s possible, Bruce. I don’t know. It’s nothing I’ve ever examined. Maybe. Maybe some day.” I laughed, I knew it was bitter, but I felt so full of bitterness then, so angry. “It seems I’ll have sufficient time.”

He nodded. “I’m sure Clark is somewhere in the world, waiting for you.” I must have looked surprised, he smiled and said, “Age brings wisdom and what was important once can change. I’ve wasted most of my life because of a moment in time that I could never grow past. Maybe I can make amends in another life-in this one all I can tell you is go, have some measure of happiness. Protect the ones you love, even if it’s from yourself.”

October 11, 18-

Bruce is gone. Back to England, finally moving on. I’ll miss him very much. We came to forge a kind of friendship over the years, an understanding brought by shared loss. He was broken beyond the power of anyone alive to mend, but he tried. If anyone gave Bruce pleasure, brought him close to happiness, it was Alex. Alexander opened doors in Bruce that no one else had ever been able to.

I used to love watching the two talking; spinning tales for each other, only Alex could make Bruce laugh out loud. How precious was the sight of that huge mountain of a man bent over a kite with my little boy, so serious the both of them, designing the ultimate flying machine, I remember Alex standing on Bruce’s shoulders to reach the fruit in the top of the trees, and Bruce content to be his ladder….

Bruce loved the boy, and he was no different than any father in the pride he took in Alexander’s achievements as a grown man. I don’t think Bruce loved anyone else the way he loved Alex, save his sister.

He reminded me once more before he left, that I would have to make a decision. We spoke of Alex, and spoke of my wife. He left me with much to think about.

I’m on the bow of the ship, watching the dip and weave of the gulls, watching them tumble in the air. Free. Free of all responsibility, free and answering only to them selves. Free like me. Finally, I answer only to myself, I’ve taken the reins to my own life and rode away to freedom.

I smile; it’s odd to think only of myself. I wonder if I’ll become used to it.

I turn by attention back to the gulls, and watch them sweep across the sky again. How wonderful to fly. I wished often that I could fly away myself. I suppose I finally have. I remember Clark telling me once many years ago, that all I’d have to do is call his name, and he’d be with me once again, like a genii granting a wish. I have no doubt he was capable. I have to laugh at myself and my desire to believe…my mouth moves, but no words come out…I am too old to believe in fairy tales.

There’s a gust of wind; it flings my jacket against me. Arms go around my chest and I turn and look into the face of love.

My heart pounds painfully hard, and it takes me a moment before I can speak. “How, did you…did you hear my heart calling you?”

He laughed, and that warm sound swept through me like golden honey. He shook his head, and showed me a letter. From my wife, detailing my departure, the ship…and asking him to meet me at the shore. I smiled, touched beyond all words. She’d always been an amazing woman.

“Are you ready now?” he asked, and the years fell away, we were young and lost in each other again, and I knew, I always knew in my heart he’d come for me the minute I was ready. I smiled, and laid my head on his shoulder. He pressed warm lips to my forehead. “Hang on, dearest, Hold tight. This is a new beginning-this is our second chance.”

He kissed me, and I held on, and we were soaring through the clouds….

3-19-2007

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