The Simplicity of Skin

A/N: Prompted waaaaay back when. I was in a fannish mood and hyperfocused said "There's either a desperate shortage, or a dangerous overabundance of plor*. Either Clark or Lex has to fix the problem. (Embarassingly, I don't know what plor is, obviously.)" Also? I hate the present tense. It has this way of turning all past-tense-y WITHOUT MY PERMISSION. Hope that didn't happen in here anywhere.

“Merry Christmas, Lex.”

For an insane moment, Lex thinks it must be the ghost of Christmas Past, because it’s been years since he saw Clark Kent standing in the doorway with a smile on his lips instead of an accusation. It’s been snowing since noon and Clark’s dark hair is spangled with bright drops of melting snow, his cheeks rosy from the cold. And it could just be Lex’s wishful thinking, but he could swear that Clark’s eyes are shining with genuine happiness.

“Shouldn’t you be curled up on a hearthrug with your girl and your faithful dog?” Lex asks, unable to avoid the instinctive defensiveness. “It’s Christmas night.”

“Lana’s spending Christmas with Nell in the city,” Clark says. “And Mom and Dad and Shelby looked like they didn’t need anyone else on the rug with them.” He steps into Lex’s office, unwinding his scarf and beaming. He’s juggling a paper bag from hand to hand as he wrestles with his coat. If it were anyone but Clark, Lex would guess the bag contained a bottle of some sort.

Perhaps catching the direction of Lex’s gaze, Clark waves the bag as he drops his heavy winter coat to the floor. “Do you want some?” he asks cheerfully. “It tastes really good.” The way Clark dropped his coat combined with the way the flush in his cheeks isn’t fading finally convinces Lex that his initial guess wasn’t so very far off the mark.

“Clark, are you drunk?” Lex asks, shocked and amused at the same time.

“No,” Clark scoffs, and in taking a few more steps forward, he stumbles over his lately-discarded coat and bursts into giggles. “Alcohol doesn’t affect me.”

“Maybe not, but whatever’s in that bag is sure having an impact,” Lex returns, hurrying forward to catch Clark by the elbow. It’s been so long since he touched Clark – he thinks maybe the last time was when they had their knock-down fist fight back in the early fall – that he’s forgotten how warm Clark is to the touch, like there’s a fire at Clark’s core that radiates all through his large frame.

“It was a gift,” Clark offers with a beatific smile. “From my dad.”

“Your dad gave you liquor?” Lex says doubtfully as he guides Clark towards safe harbor in the form of his leather sofa. He wants to take the bag from Clark to see what exactly the boy’s been chugging, but he has a feeling he’ll encounter resistance – Clark’s knuckles are white as they tightly grip the neck of the bag.

“It’s Christmas, Lex!” Clark says, frowning just slightly as he collapses next to Lex. Actually, he collapses half *onto* Lex, and he’s not a small boy. Lex grunts with the impact and tries to squirm out from under Clark. “Christmas,” Clark intones gravely, “is a time for reconci-condil—for making up with old friends.” With this conclusion, he seems to notice Lex’s attempts at escaping and wriggles his way more firmly into Lex’s lap, slinging an arm around Lex’s neck.

Clark is most definitely drunk, because in no Christmas Past, or any past for that matter, has Clark ever used Lex as a beanbag chair. It’s almost a pity that Clark is too drunk to observe it, because he’s probably never seen Lex so at a loss for words.

“So I’m making up with you,” Clark says, the paper bag slipping from his hand and down his leg, hitting the floor with a glass clink. His hand, now free, comes up to join its brother, fingers knotting behind Lex’s neck. “I should probably kiss you to show you how sorry I am,” he adds thoughtfully, green eyes narrowing with contemplation. “Patch things up all the way.”

“Clark–” Lex begins awkwardly, but his protest (of course he was about to protest) is cut off by the descent of that warm wide red mouth. Lex jumps at the touch of lips, his back straightening reflexively and his hands going to Clark’s shoulders, to push him away. Except Clark’s heat is here, too, his mouth open and eager and it’s maybe been a bit too long since Lex kissed anyone – any woman, he’s *never* done this – because for the briefest of instants, Lex’s hands clutch at Clark instead, and his mouth opens too, and Clark sighs noisily through his nose.

It hits Lex when he hears that messy Clark sound, that sound that Lex has never heard or even imagined (why would he imagine it, after all?), that this is *Clark* in his lap, and Clark is drunk, and Lex is straight, and none of this should be happening. Sure, he’d entertained his fantasies about Clark years ago, back when consequences were still fuzzy and the future seemed all too short and yet impossibly distant. But this isn’t the time – god, Lex is running for *office* and he can’t afford to indulge his long-banked libertine fantasy life just because an inebriated and admittedly buff farm boy dropped, quite literally, into his lap.

“Clark, stop,” Lex pants, breaking away and pushing Clark so that he rolls sideways off Lex’s lap, landing on one hip on the couch beside Lex. Lex stands and steps away, to better remove himself from temptation, but he accidentally kicks the bottle on the floor as he goes, and Clark follows the sound as though Lex has rung a bell for dinner.

“Are you sure you don’t want any?” Clark asks, and now he’s kneeling -- *kneeling* -- at Lex’s feet, happily rumpling the paper bag to find the neck of the bottle, pulling out the cork with a neat pop. The liquid is murky in the blue glass, but Clark seems to savor it, smacking his lips as he lowers the bottle again and corks it.

“Clark, what the hell is going on?” Lex demands, feeling tension in every muscle as he runs a palm over his scalp.

Clark sets the bottle down carefully and wipes his mouth with his forearm before looking up at Lex with wide eyes. “I’m making it up to you.” And then he’s got Lex by the hips and he’s pressing his nose into Lex’s stomach, exhaling softly and raising goose bumps under Lex’s shirt. “All the bad things I’ve said and done.”

“Stop, stop,” Lex says hastily, backing away again even as Clark follows him on his knees.

“You don’t want me to stop,” Clark says. “Come on, Lex, you’ve wanted this for years. You can’t tell me you haven’t.” His smile suddenly gets pointy and his teeth open and then close on the hem of Lex’s knit shirt.

“I haven’t,” Lex answers, shocked. Has Clark thought this all along? That Lex has just been waiting for a chance, that he’s deeply closeted and secretly fixated on Clark? The idea is ludicrous. Lex entertains a scientific fascination with the mystery of Clark, true, but it’s not as though Lex *moons* over Clark, or is strangely attached to him, or even that he thinks about him *that way*.

And just because he did once (or, repeatedly on a daily basis for a short period of months a long time ago), it doesn’t give Clark the right to have either noticed (he was fifteen at the time!), nor to have remembered it at this inopportune moment.

But Clark doesn’t seem at all moved by Lex’s declaration, because he’s since dissolved into helpless giggles, his laughter fizzing against Lex’s belt buckle. “You’re funny, Lex,” Clark says, and then his hands are sliding around to cup Lex’s ass. “But you smell really good.” He pauses, drawing back, and Lex hears a small sound of protest escape his own mouth. “Maybe I am a little drunk,” Clark muses, then smiles again. “I like it.”

His fingers insinuate themselves into the cleft of Lex’s ass through his wool pants, and all thoughts of indignation and the sexual habits befitting a senatorial candidate evaporate, because Clark’s hands are big and warm and Lex is rediscovering his inner pervert.

“I’m not gay,” he says, mostly as a reflex, because Clark’s teeth are grazing his fly now and a certain part of him is reacting in a way that might give Clark the wrong idea about his sexual preferences. “It’s just been a while.”

Clark has gone non-verbal, though, so it’s difficult to tell whether Lex’s assertion has reached him. His hands have begun roaming again and Lex finds himself fascinated with the dip and flash of Clark’s heavy lids, his long dark lashes. Lex’s hand drifts into Clark’s hair and Clark breathes out in happiness, and this is all just too surreal, because Clark is drunk and happy and in Lex’s presence, and Lex would have bet his career earlier today that those three things would never happen at the same time.

Clark’s right hand has found the clasp of Lex’s buckle, and then it’s tugging at the fly of his pants. Lex’s fingers are trembling when he lifts them to assist. He’s never done this, for all his other experiments during his adolescence. All his boarding school compatriots were only too ready to believe he was gay, and Lex had fought long and hard against the rumor, which followed him out of school and into his early adulthood in Metropolis. His carefully fostered reputation as a ladies’ man could never have survived it if Lex had ever acted on this kind of impulse, and so – Lex realizes it with shock – Clark is now methodically destroying Lex’s last scrap of any kind of virginity.

“Wait, wait a second,” Lex breathes, shaken, and Clark lifts his chin just enough so that Lex catches hold of those dark-framed wide eyes, the eager mouth underneath. “Do you know what you’re doing down there?”

“I’m all grown up, Lex,” Clark murmurs, and with dexterity, he unzips Lex and pulls his hard cock free. “It’s been a long time since I blushed at the sound of your name. Now, are you going to let me make up with you or are you going to –”

Lex doesn’t wait to hear the second option. He releases a desperate breath of air and pulls Clark close again, and then Clark takes the head of Lex’s cock in his mouth and Lex’s eyes fall closed as his hips shift forward eagerly. A blowjob is a blowjob, and the fact that Clark looks beautiful in the firelight doesn’t have anything to do with Lex’s willingness to accept this offering. Still, Lex opens his eyes for another look, wanting to see what Clark Kent looks like when he’s on his knees blowing Lex, and while he’s looking, Lex takes a second to trace the delicate arch of one dark eyebrow with his thumb.

It’s enough to direct Clark’s attention upward again, and Lex has to close his eyes, because Clark almost seems sober, his gaze sharper and more intense than before. Lex forces thought from his mind. It’s surprisingly easy to do with Clark mouthing his way down Lex’s shaft, Clark’s tongue teasing the base of Lex’s cock and then sweeping around his balls, and *Christ*, Clark knows exactly what he’s doing, there’s no question that he’s done this before, and had it done for him, and Lex doesn’t know whether he’s more angry or aroused by the image of Clark on his knees for someone else, Clark doing this for someone not Lex, or the somehow more galling image of Lana kneeling in this kind of supplication before Clark, making Clark shiver and grunt like Lex is doing.

Lex’s fingers drift over Clark’s cheekbone, testing the way Clark’s jawbone is flexing. As though to provoke a reaction, Clark takes Lex’s cock in his mouth and pushes it into the pocket of his cheek so Lex can feel it with his hand from the outside, the hard smooth thrust of his own cock distending Clark’s cheek. Lex makes a choked noise at the discovery, and Clark laughs low in his throat, drawing back again and sucking so that Clark’s cheek is concave again. Lex outlines the base of Clark’s jaw now, feeling it work as Lex’s cock is slowly, mind-meltingly slipping in and out of Clark’s mouth, feeling underneath to find where the base of Clark’s tongue is pulsing in tempo with the strokes of silky wet to the underside of Lex’s cock. The dark burr of stubble is startling, so much so that Lex has a half-formed thought about how old he imagines Clark to be, most of the time. But then Lex winds his fingers in the soft hair at the base of Clark’s skull and holds on, because Clark is suddenly changing gears and the starry wonder phase of the blowjob is coming to an abrupt end.

Clark’s jaw opens and his hands pin Lex’s hips and he goes down on Lex in a smooth deep stroke. Lex hears a shout escape his throat, but can’t stop the noise. He can only hear it, as though some small part of him is standing on an observation deck miles and miles away. The rest of him is wholly in the moment, wholly absorbed by the way Clark is holding Lex still and fucking his mouth on Lex’s cock, making hitching soft breath noises like this is the most important thing Clark has done in years. It’s noisy and messy and fast, so fast that Lex can’t quite keep up, so fast that Lex almost wants to stop Clark, force him to make this last, but Clark is too good and Lex’s higher brain function is still stranded on that look-out point out in the wilderness of lust. Lex tries to warn Clark, but his tongue is as weighted as though he’s the one with a hard cock in his throat, and isn’t *that* a thought, Clark’s cock in Lex’s mouth, Clark making the kind of harsh sounds of panic that Lex is making, and Lex opens his eyes and Clark is looking up at him, still ferocious and lucid, and Lex throws his head back and feels his spine explode at the base.

There’s a moment of non-perfection when Clark coughs in surprise – not *that* experienced after all, not so very grown-up – but Lex can’t bring himself to care, watching through barely-open lids as Clark jerks back and catches the next few spurts of come on the blade of his tongue, thumbs coaxing circles on Lex’s hipbones, drawing out the orgasm until Lex makes a small animal sound of protest and Clark finally lets him go.

“Are you okay?” Clark asks as Lex tries to convince his heart to stay inside his chest, so hard is it pounding.

Lex manages a nod and a grunt, but that’s all he gets before Clark has scooted back to reconnoiter with the bottle. “What the hell is that stuff anyway?” Lex asks, his mouth functioning this time.

“Plor,” says Clark, offering it to Lex yet again. “It’s – foreign.”

“And it’s from your dad?” Lex asked, taking the bottle from Clark to inspect it. He pulls it free of the paper bag only to discover that the bottle is label-free, surprisingly non-descript in shape and size. The glass is a deep cobalt blue, the color obscuring the liquid within. Lex’s curiosity is piqued, so he manages to find his legs and walks over to the bar. In Waterford crystal, Clark’s drink of choice is not any serene shade of amber or wheat-gold. It’s not even a rich ripe red, or a dark currant color.

It’s a violent shade of periwinkle.

Lex swirls the liquid, frowning at the way it slides against the inside of the glass, more like shampoo than honey, leaving iridescent swirls in its wake. However, regardless of proper etiquette or even proper drink identification, it’s more important for him to be drunk right now than it is for him to learn more about Clark’s Christmas beverage. After all, Clark just – he just – Lex closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lifts the glass for a healthy swig.

It is possibly the worst thing he’s ever had in his mouth.

His idle thought that the stuff resembled shampoo in its viscosity proves to be unfortunately apt. But under the overwhelming soapy roll of flavor, there’s something too-sweet and animalistic, something that mixes the most overwhelming body odor Lex could imagine with the unwashed yeasty stickiness of a small child’s hands. Lex chokes, manages to swallow, and then gags all over again on the crackling bitter aftertaste.

“It’s good, huh?” asks Clark enthusiastically, taking the bottle back and tipping his neck for another slug.

Lex tries to speak, and for long moments his tongue only drags along the roof of his mouth like a slug sprinkled with salt. “W-what did you say it was called?” he manages at length.

“Plor,” Clark says, smacking his lips. “I don’t like most drinks, but this stuff is –”

“—like eating sweat socks,” Lex finishes for him in spite of himself. “I’ll stick to scotch, thanks,” and he pours himself a healthy three fingers of Glenfiddich. His taste buds have apparently stopped working, possibly in protest at the recent labor conditions, but Lex is unconcerned. He merely takes advantage of his mouth’s numbness to tilt a few large swallows of scotch down his throat.

“More for me,” says Clark, pleased. Lex turns back to see Clark fellating the bottle with only slightly less enthusiasm than he displayed moments earlier. Lex’s mouth goes dry.

Clark is hard, and the fact could scarcely be more obvious, because Clark is now settling back onto his heels, letting the bottle roll across the floor with an empty clink, and bracing himself back on his palms as though presenting himself on a platter. Lex suddenly finds himself wondering if Clark’s mouth tastes like sweat socks too, or if it will only have the clean male bite that he remembers from earlier.

“What are you doing down here?” Clark asks, eyes lazily watching as Lex gets on his knees too and crawls towards Clark. The scotch, untasted or not, is quickly making itself known. Lex’s fingers are hot against the parquet.

“Shut up,” Lex orders, and pushes Clark in the center of his chest, watching as Clark melts into a puddle of warm gorgeousness, sprawled on his back with skin nearly as golden as the hardwood under him. Lex swings one leg over Clark’s hips and settles there, the ridge of Clark’s erection riding up between Lex’s legs. Clark sighs and smiles.

What Lex can’t quite understand is how Clark has become this person, and how Lex missed it. Because, in spite of the obvious intervention of the plor-substance, this isn’t like any of Clark’s other schizoid shifts. Lex can’t shake the notion that Clark’s transformation has been complete for a long while, that Lex has simply missed the metamorphosis, through negligence or willful blindness. Clark, loose-limbed and golden under him, is a man.

Which must be why this doesn’t feel anything like all those long-ago never-happened fantasies from Lex’s youth. Clark isn’t blushing, he isn’t trying to escape, and he isn’t patiently waiting for Lex to initiate things. He’s merely taking Lex in, the way Lex is taking Clark in, with wide beautiful eyes and a slightly opened mouth.

When Lex leans down to kiss that mouth, it feels less like capitulation to his inner pervert and more like an apology.

Clark tastes sharp and bright and clean, and Lex groans with it, shifting against Clark’s cock so Clark will groan too. Clark’s fingers scrabble at Lex’s waist, at first merely holding Lex’s belt like a harness, then tugging at his shirt, then scraping big hot fingers up the expanse of Lex’s back. Skin, yeah, that’s a great idea, Lex thinks stupidly, and rocks back onto his heels to hike up Clark’s t-shirt, to tug it off unceremoniously. Clark won’t let Lex back into kissing distance until Lex’s shirt is gone too, so when Lex is finally back where he needs to be, he’s greeted by the soft heated slip of Clark’s skin against his.

They kiss for long minutes and by the end of it, Lex is hard again and they are stretched out together on the floor, pressed against each other. Lex insinuates a hand between them and flattens his palm against Clark’s cock, and Clark’s mouth falls away with a soft cry.

“God, Lex, please,” he murmurs, and Lex can’t suppress his grin. Once a control freak, always – and Clark is writhing now, his hips inscribing tight little circles against the all-too-gentle pressure of Lex’s palm.

“What do you want?” Lex asks, because at this moment, he’d do it all. He wouldn’t just settle for the reciprocal blowjob that he’s been letting himself imagine, not if Clark wanted more. Even when Lex can hardly imagine what more might entail.

Clark’s hand cups Lex’s jaw, stroking sweetly even as his hips snap in sharp desperate jabs. “I want – can I – just, if you don’t want to, it’s okay.”

Clark, still sticky-sweet and wide-eyed even when he’s all grown up, and Lex has to kiss him to temper the surge of adoration that rises inside. When he pulls away, he knows what he wants.

“I have to get something,” he says. “Get undressed.”

He pauses to reinforce his determination with a few more swallows of scotch, noting that his taste buds have grudgingly returned to work. Then he rifles through his bookshelves and drawers, resolutely ignoring the fact that, mere yards away, Clark is dropping his jeans and stepping out of his boxers. Finally he finds his stash, by the Whitman (of course, by the Whitman, god, 2002 had been entirely devoted to sweaty Whitman dreams of boys and cornfields, and keeping condoms and lube nearby had been the only reasonable concession to his overactive imagination). Before returning, Lex finishes undressing too, keeping his back turned even though he’d dearly love to put on a show for Clark. But Lex can’t let himself get nervous, and he would be nothing but nerves if he let Clark watch him right now.

Clark has moved onto the thick rug between the sofas, having shifted the glass coffee table aside. He’s flushed and watching Lex’s approach, waiting impatiently with one hand tracing his own thigh over and over.

“I’m on top,” Lex announces, nudging Clark back down onto his back with one bare foot. “But you’ll need this.” Foil package that landed squarely in the middle of Clark’s broad chest, a pleasing symmetry to distract Lex’s focus as he knelt over Clark, as he opens the tube in his hands and squirts a small amount of lube onto the index and middle fingers of his left hand.

Clark is just watching, dazzled, so Lex closes his eyes. It was a long time ago, Victoria and games in this very room, that Lex last did this. Bracing himself right-handed on Clark’s shoulder, Lex reaches down and behind and slips one finger in. He hears Clark sigh noisily and sharply, but he refuses to be distracted. Concentrate, focus, or it would be too difficult, and this night can’t end in disappointment.

“Let me,” Clark says, and before Lex can formulate a refusal, Clark’s hand is right there with his. When Victoria tried, it never worked, but Lex’s body wants to open for Clark, and the first slip of Clark’s index finger alongside Lex’s is all too easy. Lex’s eyes open to see Clark doing this, watch his face smooth with rapt attention as he and Lex fuck their fingers in and out in slow gentle movements. Then Clark’s finger curves, just a little, and Lex’s left hand flies away in surprise, landing on Clark’s other shoulder to prevent Lex from falling. Clark laughs, low and soft, and crooks his finger again.

It’s been far too long. Lex had entirely forgotten that feeling, that feeling like whole parts of his body could light up and ring.

“God, you’ve done this before.”

It could be either one of them saying it, but it’s Clark, Lex realizes belatedly, opening his eyes again to see Clark’s curious gaze. “Not with you,” he answers, because that’s the only important thing.

Clark stretches up to kiss Lex before adding a second finger. Lex is so hard now, harder than he’s been in years, and Clark’s cock keeps catching under Lex as Lex rocks back into Clark’s hand. “Are you ready?” Clark asks, with a final push.

Lex nods and Clark removes his hand. They both fumble for the condom, laugh when their hands collide, and compromise, Lex holding Clark’s cock while Clark rolls the condom over it, both of them slicking it with quick circling motions, and then, too soon, too late, Lex is bracing himself over Clark while Clark lines his cock up, and – and –

God, Clark is big. Lex holds his breath, even though he shouldn’t, just to concentrate on the press and burn. But Clark’s stomach muscles are jumping fast, his hands shaking as they settle on Lex’s shoulders. He needs this, and that’s all it takes to make Lex breathe again. Breathe, and open, and slide down, and Clark is inside.

“God,” Clark says, as though beginning a new sentence, but then he gives up. “God,” again, scratchy and happy.

The long muscles of Lex’s thighs are protesting slightly – too many long nights working on the campaign, too long since Lex has worked out properly – but Lex is more aware of the solidity of Clark under him, inside him. He wants to feel it again, so he lifts himself up and down, faster this time, making Clark hiss and lift his hips off the rug.

Clark’s hands come up to thumb Lex’s nipples. Lex pushes up and down again, and Clark’s hips roll, and suddenly everything falls into a rhythm, hard and deliberate and determined, making Lex sweat with the energy of the motion, making Clark’s hands wander without purpose over Lex’s skin. Lex hears the slap of their skin coming together, hears the way Clark’s breathing is growing harsh and uneven, like he can’t quite adjust to the rapidly increasing intensity of this moment.

Lex gives him a moment’s mercy, shifts forward on his knees, planting his hand on Clark’s chest for balance, and starts moving again. Now Clark’s cock is driving into Lex’s prostate, and Lex stops thinking entirely, lets his body and Clark’s take over.

Clark’s hand encircles his cock and starts to pull, and Lex doesn’t even have enough presence of mind to be embarrassed when he comes after only a few strokes. He can only watch his come spattering Clark’s stomach and feel released, joyous, until Clark rolls them both over. Clark over him, arms braced on either side of Lex’s head, and it feels far too good when Clark starts driving into him, making Lex cry out. Yes, Clark is definitely an adult, entirely too sure of his own body, of his own needs. Lex can only hold on and ride the moment.

Finally, Clark shouts and slams forward, and Lex feels him come, watches his face, Clark’s eyes squeezed tight shut. The scotch must already be wearing off, because Lex’s immediate thought is that Lana gets to see this, Lana owns this. Lex shuts his own eyes and digs his fingers in, hard, reminding himself and Clark that however it came to pass, this moment belongs to both of them and no one else.

“God, god, god,” Clark prays, kissing the curve of Lex’s neck as his muscles unclench.

Lex shifts as Clark slowly blinks himself back to normal, or whatever iteration of normal he was before they ended up naked and fucking on the floor. “I think I liked this Christmas present,” Lex says while Clark extricates himself.

“I know I did,” Clark says, grinning and lunging towards the empty blue bottle, maybe with the notion of licking the inside of the neck.

Lex wouldn’t have any objection to seeing that, actually. But instead Clark studies the blank face of the bottle for a moment before bringing it to his lips and kissing it enthusiastically and chastely, like a child kissing a teddy bear, on the smooth place where the label should be but isn’t.

“You should be careful when your father gives you liquor,” Lex said, finding this unexpectedly hilarious. “Sometimes there’s crazy juice in it.”

He half-expects a reprimand from Clark for not taking himself seriously enough, but post-coital Clark is a different creature, because he only casts a fond look in Lex’s direction before setting the bottle back down and lunging at him.

“I told you,” Clark says, between kisses to Lex’s eyes, cheeks, ears, “it’s not liquor. It’s plor.”

“There’s no such thing,” Lex says, happy to be where he is.

Clark is now lying alongside Lex, their legs idly fighting for closer contact and comfort. Clark’s hand comes up and cradles the base of Lex’s skull, and before Lex quite knows what’s happened, he finds himself settled with his head resting on Clark’s broad shoulder.

“It’s from my biological father,” Clark clarifies, the smile audible in his voice. “And it’s not alcoholic.”

“Then why are you drunker than a freshman during rush week?” Lex asks, turning a little to kiss Clark’s skin, which smells like apples.

“I’m not drunk,” Clark says, tracing complex lines on Lex’s back with his fingers. “I’m just – more inclined to consider acting on my impulses.”

“Where I come from,” Lex says, laughing softly, “we call that drunk.”

“It’s different,” Clark insists thoughtfully. “I’m not out of my mind, Lex. My reasoning is completely intact, even if I’m maybe a little clumsier than usual. But I’m more open to thinking and doing things that I normally wouldn’t let myself do, because maybe the reasons I wouldn’t do them aren’t so good after all.”

“Like?” Lex prompts, feeling heavy and sleepy and oddly alert at the same time.

“Like coming to see you,” Clark says. “Like kissing you the way I’ve always wanted to do.”

They both listen to the ticking of the mantle clock for a minute. If Lex wasn’t floating on a slight current of intoxication himself, he knows he’d be worried, worried that Clark was thinking big messy words like ‘mistake’ and ‘ruined’. But he is just loose-limbed enough to take his cues from Clark, and Clark is all sweet relaxation and caresses.

“Like admitting to myself that it’s not right between me and Lana,” Clark says at length, “no matter how much it’s going to hurt her to hear that.”

Lex doesn’t like that Lana has been brought into this space, doesn’t like that she’s suddenly become a thin sheen of discomfort separating his skin from Clark’s. He shifts in protest, but Clark is holding Lex captive with the careless weight of a single large hand.

“Like trusting you,” Clark says, pulling Lex closer, “the way I should have.”

Lex goes still, subsiding back onto Clark’s chest, hearing Clark’s heartbeat, how it’s not changing. He’s not scared, Lex realizes, and the idea makes him grin idiotically.

“In a minute,” Clark says, easing Lex up into a sitting position and kissing his lips briefly, “I’m going to tell you all about my biological father and plor and every weird thing that’s happened since that day you hit me on the bridge.” Lex’s own heart rate skyrockets, but Clark is still calm. “But first,” he continues, bending down to kiss the tip of Lex’s nose, “I want you to tell me something.”

“Anything,” Lex says, his mouth millimeters away from Clark’s, dizzy and happy and confused as hell.

“Okay,” says Clark, with one last kiss before pulling back and fixing Lex with a sober gaze. “Did you seriously, *seriously* think that you were fooling anyone?”

Lex is caught off-guard. He can only blink rapidly in response.

“I mean,” Clark says, bowing his head to run his tongue over Lex’s neck, “could you be any gayer?”

Lex has to laugh, and as he laughs, he tips Clark back down onto the rug, crawls on top of him and strokes his hands over the long stretches of soft golden skin. Clark is his, whatever he’s about to disclose, and, abruptly, nothing matters to Lex – not playing straight, not winning the senatorial race, not screwing his father over in business – nothing but this, the simplicity of skin in firelight, the quiet of a miraculous Christmas night, and the knowledge that there can be no other choice than this.

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