Balm of Hurt Minds

by a campbell

Smallville, Clark Kent/Lex Luthor

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The young man in the black jacket and black jeans pulled over, well after dark.

While he couldn't really get tired, he needed a break, to rest and regroup.

To forget, even if only briefly.

Still cold at night in the month of May, but that didn't really matter. He could take the cold. He was tough.

Needed sleep, if only to "knit up the raveled sleave of care," a forgotten wisp of memory from sophomore English class that was gone before he could grasp it.

He stretched out on the wooden bench in the rest area picnic ground, well away from the main building, and the security lights. Long, booted legs hung over the end of the seat.

Turned almost at once onto his side, pushing away the pain, memories of that hick small town, thoughts of his mother, his father, the brother or sister he'd never have, now, well away from his conscious mind.

Who needed them, anyway?

Thoughts of all the other losers left behind. The dark-haired girl, who had refused to come with him. Who needed her, anyway. Little bitch. Why had he--The blonde? Well, she was a bitch, too.

Who needed any of them?

He was quits with that place, and with everyone there. Bring on the future.

***

A waking dream, while he dozed.

First time, in the barn loft. Early spring afternoon, the smell of earth and planting in the damp air. Farm dogs barking in the distance, humming of machinery far off, the sound of his dad's tractor in the fields.

Lex, his best friend, his real best friend, looking at him in the dusky light, amused, quizzical, delaying acknowledgement of the affection that burned white-hot between them, connecting them. Lex, massaging circles on the denim of his jeans with sleek fingers.

Himself half-protesting, in fast-fading deference to the way he'd been raised. "Lex, I don’t think we--"

Lex not paying any attention, just intensifying his caresses, his strokes, going, "Shhh...stop talking. Just relax, Clark."

Clark realizing that he was unable to stop whatever was happening, but making one more half-hearted attempt to argue.

"Lex, please..."

Lex, stopping his trembling mouth with kisses that were wet, desperate, hungry-- impossible to resist.

Clark, feeling his limbs softening even as his cock filled with blood, so hard, finally, that it hurt. A voice that sounded mostly like his own, but a little like someone else's, chanting in his head, "Touch me, Lex. Please. Keep touching me. Just like that." He may have said this out loud, he wasn't sure. Because Lex was rubbing his cock, through the denim, with the flat side of his palm, as he pushed him down on the ratty old couch, (refugee from a long-ago yard sale) sliding down Clark's zipper, one-handed and deft.

Lex freeing him, pausing to admire for only a second before going down, sucking him so hard that Clark’s gasps and moans twisted hopelessly, tangling in his throat, hopelessly. Lex breaking off for just a moment to whisper, hoarse, "Come for me, Clark, now," before returning to his task, as Clark scrabbled for a grip on his bare scalp, to delay--

Clark jerked into awareness as he came with a groan.

The moon had wheeled south. It would be dawn before long.

"Lex." His moan startled him. He looked around. He was alone.

His throat tightened, dry and sore.

Clark sat up, coming fully awake, looking down.

Shit. Damn. His only fucking pair of pants.

Lex. Who'd fucked him over, and who the hell cared, anyway? The past was dead.

Lex was married. Fuck him. Forget him.

He thought for barely a moment how Lex had looked afterward, how he had touched Clark's bitten lips with a fingertip, chuckling a little, then kissed him more gently, and drawn him into his arms.

Clark made a harsh sound, and looked at his watch. He didn't need light to read the dial.

4:52 a.m.

Only about 20 more miles to Metropolis. He could be there by sunrise, if he started now.

And then, he'd make the place his.

He got up, got on the bike, revved the motor, and took off.

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