Archive of Our Own ^beta

1

Finally. School was out, thank God, and he had the summer to more or less do what he wanted with…or as Dad so gently suggested—"get a job."

Great. Everyone else in the SV was probably sleeping right now. Well, everyone not on a farm at least. How many of those kids had to get a job? It wouldn't even matter--he could do it easily and have time to spare but Dad insisted he be--average. Average. Clark rolled his eyes and huffed in frustration. He tried to reason with Dad, get him to agree he could use more of the "special something" he had to get the chores done earlier and finally have a real social life this summer, just like everyone else—why couldn’t Dad see that he needed to get out if he was going to get laid *ever* in this lifetime…not that he'd put it like that to Dad, but come on, the intent was clear, it had to be. But no—Dad had taken him aside, put his arm around his shoulder and said, "Clark, you wanna super-speed around doing your chores, okay…but imagine yourself a hen. Imagine setting on eggs…now imagine a super-speeded hand up your butt. Or maybe you're a cow, and someone is milking you…really…really…*really*…fast."

He'd flushed bright red at that point because yeah, super-speed can hurt if you're doing it too fast and…and…Clark dropped that line of thought. Anyway, he'd won being able to use speed for mucking stalls, cleaning the sheds and little repairs and that granted him some extra time. Thanks Dad.

Light peaking between the slats of his blinds woke him up, and just like every morning, he woke with a smile…until the reality of having to get out of bed hit him. He rolled to his feet, yawning, and rubbing hard at his hair, twisting it into even higher peaks all over his head. On his desk, the newspaper lay open to the classifieds, red circles scattered liberally over the pages. A red circle and arrows pointed out one in particular that had caught his eye. It sounded really easy, a great way to make some cash for spending money *and* money to put into his MetU fund. He had fingers crossed for a scholarship, and hoping to sock enough money away to take care of stuff like meals and books and lots of other depressing things. Not everyone had it as easy as Pete Ross, The Little Prince of Creamed Corn…He grinned, shook his head. Y'know, that really never got old…

"Clark! Breakfast! And…" his mom sounded bemused, "telephone. Pete…can you believe it…" her voice trailed off, she was talking to Dad now. Really? Pete? What the hell—the Little Prince never got up this—he peered at the Transformer clock, and it's belly told him that it was seven o'clock—early which meant he'd slept late today and Pete was up insanely early. He whisked through his morning routine and was downstairs two minutes later, dressed and ready, grabbing the phone from his mom.

"Pete! What the hell—heck, man? Is there a fire? Did Timmy fall in the well?"

"Shut the fuck up. We're job hunting today. I'll be over in a few—is your mom making pancakes or French toast?"

"French toast—"

"Fuck yeah! That's what I'm talkin' 'bout. I'll be there in ten minutes!"

"See ya," Clark said into the dial tone. "Mom, Pete's—" his mom was already setting an extra plate with a little smirk. His dad flat out laughed.

"Your other son's coming for breakfast, I see." Mom laughed, and got out the milk, and Clark grinned too. He took it from her and poured glasses for himself and Pete.

"We're going looking for jobs today. Pete's dad told him to get a job or it's going to be water and saltines all summer for him…" he snagged a slice of French toast out of the frying pan and dodged Mom's spatula—she was fast but not fast enough, he grinned. "I think it's supposed to be some sort of character building thing, the job I mean, not the saltines. Actually, we've got a lead on a good one—landscaping."

"Hmm. Landscaping, Clark? I don’t know…you'll have to hide…a lot. You'll have to remember to…you know."

"Dad. I've had lots of practice—I'm seventeen. I know all about this stuff okay? It'll be fine. You *know* I'm careful." He gulped the glass of milk to shut himself up. Sometimes Dad really didn't get it.

Dad sighed. "You're right, I know you are. Just, couldn't you work in an office? Maybe Abbie's got room for an intern in her office. Indoors, light work--wouldn't that be nice? No accidentally lifting a truck, or shoving your arm in a chipper--"

"Dad! Besides, tell me you'd want to spend all day long inside, wearing a tie or something? Da—dang, that'd be like---murder!"

"Clark…" Dad sighed again. "You do what you think is best son." He fixed Clark with a level look. "You've never disappointed me."

Clark smiled, nodded but inside, groaned. Low fuckin' blow Dad. Thanks for the emotional blackmail.

2
They decided to start with the landscaper's first, and Pete drove since Clark's truck lacked air-conditioning, and as Pete liked to say, real seats, like a smidge of duct tape was a sin or something. "You got your social and your driver's license, Cee?"

"Yes, I put them in my wallet last night, Mom. I washed behind my ears and wore clean undies too."

"Good, you don’t want to be embarrassed when they scrape your dead sarcastic ass off the road. Man, I hope I get this job, and get Billiam off my ass. And by the way, have you seen this guy's daughter—hot to death. Oh wait; I forgot who I'm talking to. Clark Kent, Lana Lang's most devoted stalker. Have you ever had a conversation with her that didn't start with 'oops' and end with 'my bad'?"

"Eff you Pete." So what if Pete was right? Lana was just…you had to be careful. You couldn't just flail around her, throw yourself at her…besides she had a pretty big boyfriend….

As if reading his mind Pete said, "Yeah, Whitney's kind of a big wall to get around. He's good looking, captain of every fucking thing, smart…plus he's got money out the ass…what girl's gonna turn that down?"

"Thanks so much, Pete. It hurts less to get shot down by you."

"Oh shit, Clarkbar, you know I didn't mean it like that. You're—you're great, you know that."

In SV, only two things counted—money or a good name. Not a name like the Kents, who'd been here since for fucking ever, but had always been poor—'good name' meant folks like the Langs, the Smalls, Potters…they might not have money anymore but they had a genteel sort of poverty, respectably poor. Now, the Fordmans, the Rosses, that other family that was new to town, they had serious money and that made them a-okay. In fact, more money people were coming in all the time. People were discovering the SV, folks who wanted clean, picturesque, and what they considered inexpensive …there was a rumor some big time rapper had actually bought a house out where that old castle was falling apart but Clark thought that was pretty far-fetched—what the fuck would a rapper want in white-bread Kansas? He'd been too afraid to ask Pete if the rumor was true. He didn't want another lecture along the lines of "motherfucker, what do I look like, the ambassador to the white race?" Maybe he could ask Roger. Or whatever the fuck he was calling himself now. Lo-Balls or something like that. Now *Roger* was embarrassing, fucking little…Paul Wall wanna-be and why was he friends with him anyway? That Billy managed to hang out with him without killing him definitely made him a candidate for sainthood. But then again, Billy had been laid back to the point of catatonia since kindergarten. And he made a damn good keeper for Roger, he sure as hell needed one….

Clark sighed and cocked his elbow on the Mustang's side. He seriously needed some new friends. The only one who wasn't weird was Pete…he glanced over at Pete who was making faces at himself in the rear view mirror…okay. Check that.

They pulled up in parking lot of Sullivan Lawn and Landscape and Pete shut the engine off. Sullivan Lawn and Landscape was in an old industrial park, built when the concept was shiny, bright, and new. The building was sheathed in a fading turquoise and blue steel siding, but the little patch of lawn in front of it was emerald green and looked thick as a comforter. Fat mounds of impatiens lined the short stretch of sidewalk leading to the glass doors labeled 'SL&L' in green. 'Gabe Sullivan, Owner' was under that in smaller white letters. "Hey, isn’t that Greg's piece of shit Subaru over there?"

A battered red Subaru station wagon crouched at the far end of the lot. Clark huffed in surprise. "Yeah, that's his…" Greg Arkin was a friend of their's since childhood. They'd seen less and less of him lately, and Clark felt bad about it but it was Greg—he was pulling away from them, slowly but surely. Clark wasn't sure what created this new reclusive Greg…he'd always been a little left of center but lately it seemed to step up…a lot. Plus, there'd always been a little bit of unspoken competition between him and Greg. They were both of them full of unrequited love for a dream neither one of them was likely to touch…Lana.

"Speaking of Greg—" He was coming out of the glass doors of the lawn service now—he did a little double take when he saw them climbing out of the Mustang. "Hey Pete, Clark…" Even now he looked reluctant to greet them, his eyes darting sideways and back, not really making contact.

"Greg—what's up? You applying here, too?" Pete flipped his keys into his pocket and strolled over with a grin.

"Yes--I got hired," he smiled and Pete and Clark looked at each other. Okay, Clark thought, he's a bean pole…Pete's short, but he's got muscles on his muscles. Greg…Greg was made of Kleenex and chopsticks.

"Oh, that's just great, Greg! If me and Pete get lucky, maybe we'll be seeing you on the job!" Clark said and Greg smiled and this time it actually was a real smile, kind of shy and sweet, the way he used to smile, Clark thought, a long time ago. He even made eye contact, fleeting as it was. Clark smiled back, and Greg waved before he drove out of the lot.

Pete watched the smoke trail from Greg's car start to dissipate and said, "Man…first hot day and he's going to die screaming."

Clark nodded. "Screaming."

Mr. Sullivan was really nice; he asked a few questions and smiled at Clark in a way that had him convinced he had the job wrapped up. "Kent, right? Yeah, know your dad, good man," he muttered and flipped idly through Clark's application. "Well," he looked up and smiled. "There's not much about this job that'll be a mystery to you, hunh? I'm not necessarily looking for experience but with you...I can look at you and see you can handle the work. But Clark, I'm looking for a go-getter too, not just brawny guys but guys who can think and follow orders *and* deal with possible problems on their own. I'm looking for guys who can bring something to the job besides clock in, clock out, y'know?"

Um…it's just cutting grass and hauling crap…Clark reminded himself to keep smiling big, and nodded. "Like Greg?" Chopstick arms, die screaming in flames Greg?

"Exactly," Gabe beamed. "He might not be as…large as you, but he's smart and eager, a go-getter type…and so are you. I think you'll be a good addition to Sullivan Lawn and Landscape." He stood, and held his hand out, and Clark grabbed it with a huge grin.

"Thanks Mr. Sullivan!" For financing my Summer of Getting Laid….

"Sure thing Clark—wow—heck of a grip, son."

Fuck! A sharp chill ran down his back, and Clark whipped his hand back. "Sorry, I forget my own strength sometimes…"

Gabe laughed and pretended to shake feeling back into his hand. "The girls in the office will take care of you. Have Doris give you the necessary papers, okay? And send in Pete willya?"

Clark managed to peel Pete away from Gabe's daughter's desk and was about to go to Doris when he heard the boom boom boom of a deep bass outside in the lot. He looked out the door and rolled his eyes. Ski-Balls or whoever he was this week was hopping out of his car, and behind him staggered Billy, looking dazed. And more than likely, deaf. Poor Billy…he really deserved a medal or something.

"Hey, Low-Brow," he said as they came in and Roger rolled his eyes. His thin frizz of mustache accented the frown he was sporting, and the glass encrusted crown at the end of his chain momentarily hooked on the big rhinestone buckle of the belt not holding his jeans up and he stumbled.

"Man, you're funny like STDs. Shut up."

Billy glanced at Clark through a thick fringe of black hair and shrugged, dropped into one of a row of orange plastic chairs. "He's just Roger this week," he muttered and grabbed a magazine. Roger rolled his eyes again and flopped down next to him.

"Bill, just so you know, you suck as a posse."

"Eat me and not even your grandfather says posse anymore, Rog. Besides, the word implies more than one and no one else is this stupid," Billy said calmly, attention on the car book he was reading. Clark snickered and headed up to the little glass partition that separated Doris from the lesser mortals.

3
Clark was up before the sun the next morning, because he was terminally stupid and managed to get hired at a job that required him up at the ass-crack of dawn. He raced through his shortened list of chores, and checked the time. Five o'clock…Dad was up, getting dressed…Clark made a big pot of coffee and grabbed a cup, headed out to the porch to wait for Pete.

The sky was just barely turning pink; the sun was a thought on the horizon. Clark slurped at the cup of steaming coffee and waited….Pete had five minutes, and then he was running to SL&L. He refused to be late on his first day—there was plenty of time for that later. The morning air was still a little cool, but with a hint of underlying stickiness that promised the humidity was beginning to crank up. Just as Clark set his empty cup on the wide porch rail, Pete pulled up at the end of the drive, parked. With a huge grin, he leaned on the horn, even though Clark was standing right in front of him.

Clark hurried over, jumped into the car, and fixed Pete with a mock scowl. "A-hole."

"You know you want it," Pete said. "Hold onto your dick--" Pete peeled out of the driveway, and Clark winced. Dad was going to have a fit…

They pulled up at SL&L at the same time Roger, Billy and Greg did. At the end of the lot, two guys were sitting on the tailgate of one of the two white trucks decorated with a looping green SL&L logo, sharing a cigarette. They seemed to be deep in conversation. The taller blonde clapped the shorter one on the shoulder, and he laughed. They looked up and seemed to take notice of them for the first time. They both scowled. Both blonde, built, jock looking mother--

"Oh fu-uck. Clark—it's Whitney. Did Gabe tell you Whit was going to be our boss?" Pete had a thing about Whitney…not exactly a competition, because the other guy had to notice before it was a competition….

Clark shook his head and groaned inside. This was going to be the funnest fucking summer ever. The boyfriend of the girl he'd not so subtly lusted over for almost eleven years, the guy who almost hung his ass in the corn because of his stupid crush, was their boss? Great. Nothing could make this better.

Whitney Fordman came strolling across the lot toward them, and as they came closer, they could see that was the guy following him was Jason Teague. Fuck. Well, he'd been wrong. There was something that could make the summer better, and here it is was, walking straight at them and scowling like he was constipated. Teague was famous for being a dick. Tales of his dickhood circulated among the jocks, made their way even to guys in the lower tier—guys like Clark.

Whit came to a stop and grinned, crossed his arms and waited. Jason took a step in front of him. "Hello, pussies. Welcome to hell." Whit stood behind him and snorted.

"Hell? C'mon, Jay, it's not that serious." He dropped his hand on Jason's shoulder, and Jason shrugged it off like it was a horsefly. He took a step closer and Clark felt a little shiver of alarm. Jason looked just a little…nuts. Jason watched entirely too many war movies.

"I don't know what Gabe told you, but don’t think you're gonna be sitting around, sipping fuckin' lattes and lounging in the back of the truck." Pete and Clark exchanged 'what the fuck' looks while Jason droned on. "You're going to work and sweat and you don’t like it, fuckin' McDonalds has a fuckin' hat with your name on it. You, Nancy—" he pointed at Billy. "Ever run a stand-on lawn mower before?" Clark bet Billy was fighting the urge to shout no sergeant.

Billy's eyebrows crawled up to his hairline, and he looked at Jason like he was crazy. "No-oo…not much call for one in a second floor apartment…"

"Well guess what smartass; today's your lucky day. The rest of you, just follow Whit and he'll explain all. Problem, Kent?"

Clark was shocked, but mostly because Jason knew his name…how did he know his name? "No sir—Jason—no, Jason." Jerk. Any second now, he's gonna make us drop and give him twenty….

Whit gave them all a wry, lopsided grin. "Yeah…Jason's not exactly a morning person, he gets a lot sweeter when the sun's all the way up, and he's had a few dozen cupsa coffee. Don’t ya?" He snorted again when Jason flipped him off. Clark was still…open mouthed with surprise bordering on shock…Whit was teasing Jason the Dick? Jason didn't have a sense of humor. He was famous for not having any kind of real human feelings. In fact, if he didn't know who the alien in the crowd *was*, he'd pick Jason. The way Whit was laughing at every fucking thing out of the guy's mouth made him wonder if maybe Jason was hiding a sense of humor somewhere…maybe he *was* kidding? Clark was afraid to find out. He felt a sharp poke between his shoulder blades. Whit was staring at him. "Jesus—try to look a little less brain dead and get in the truck, Kent."

All during the drive, Whit kept throwing little looks at Clark as they drove, and Clark was just damn glad that Jason was in the pickup ahead of them…Pete leaned over and out of the corner of his mouth, thinking his voice was low enough that only Clark could hear but of course, astronauts in outer space could have heard him, 'whispered' "Semper Fi much?"

"Ross, shut the fuck up." Whit didn't raise his voice, didn't even look at him and Pete shut up. Clark gazed at him in awe, wished he had the power to do that. It was a lot more useful than setting shit on fire with your eyes…though he should be grateful it wasn't his ass…Pete's looking at me weird, damn, was I laughing out loud again?

They stopped at the big bank on Federal Street, the first job of the day, and pulled the trucks around the back. Whit showed them what they'd need and he and Jason showed them how to trim the little bushes lining the drive. He had a long, hyperthyroid version of Dad's hedge trimmers. "Attend, little boys. These are not bushes—they're fucking poodles, all right?" Jason was saying. "Green mother fucking poodles, we cut them so there's no mistaking them for real, useful bushes." He swept the trimmer over the bush, and each pass bit and nibbled away branches until it was a fluffy little ball of green. "See? Stupid…"

Whit chuckled again like Jason was a fucking comedian, shook his head like, 'oh, that Jason,' and led them to the next bush while Pete and Jason went to manhandle equipment out of the truck. Clark and Billy and Whit took turns cutting the bushes and Greg was there with wheelbarrows and a rake and he swept up the trimmings and fried in the sun like bacon.

Clark glanced over at him and did a double take. Fuck, you can probably see his ass from space… Clark walked over to the flaming red kid. "Say…didn't you do sunblock or something? Because you're really very red."

Roger whistled. "You're like, burning bad, man. That's gonna hurt like a mother fucker."

Greg looked at himself in surprise. He was red as a lobster, and he turned his arms this way and that--looked at his skin in a kind of marvel of horror, like he'd never seen it before. "I didn’t even feel it. Hunh."

Jason came up behind him and grimaced. "Shit, Greg, look at you. Idiot. Whit, look at this fuckin' idiot. He's as stupid as Rainman over there," he said, and jerked his chin at Roger.

Whit sauntered over and leaned on Jason's shoulders and laughed. "Fuck dude, you're going to hurt." They snickered together and Clark watched them laughing over Greg's possible flaming death. They seemed to be taking an awful lot of pleasure out of this. And just when he was starting to think Whit might not be so bad. The two walked back to the truck, shoulder to shoulder and talking about something that wasn't making Whit laugh, and Clark felt a twinge, a prick of something…he wondered what Lana saw in that creep. He wondered why Whit could be a good guy sometimes and then be such a dick.

"Man, I hate those motherfuckers. Look at them. They gon' fuck with me one too many times, an' imma have to kill me one." Roger scowled at the two older boys lounging against the truck. He yanked at the back of his shorts.

Billy sighed. "Please shut up, Roger, you're embarrassing me. Though why it should bother me at this point in time, I don’t know…"

"Nig—" Roger started and Billy froze.

Pete jerked his eyes toward Roger. "I will kill you with a smile on my face. Just so you know."

Roger frowned, blushed, and kicked a marigold out of the bed. Billy slapped the back of his head, hard enough to make the chain he was wearing swing. "Roger, why do you always have to be the yutz? Why am I the friend of the yutz?"

Roger rubbed the back of his head and adjusted the ball cap he was wearing over a bandana. "Fuck you." He stalked over to the truck, Billy following and reading him the riot act.

Clark watched Roger and Billy and muttered to Greg and Pete, "Why does Billy hang out with Rog anyway?"

Pete said, "What's a yutz?"

Greg shrugged. "Roger's an asshole…so what does that make Billy for putting up with him?" He walked off to join Whit and Jason.

Clark watched him walk away and sighed. "Greg's really changed this last year, hunh? You still pissed off at Roger?"

"Who, Roger? Fuck. Most of the time he makes me laugh, him and his Eminem wish he was self. I feel sorry for Billy—he's got the job of keeping him in check."

"It's like he's Roger's grandma or something," Clark laughed and Pete chuckled, his momentary anger forgotten. They joined the rest at the truck when the leads called them over.

Jason passed out paper cups and told them, "Lunch break. Take a full hour. Whit and I will be right back. Don’t leave the property." They jumped in Jason's truck and drove off.

Pete gaped after them. "Where the hell are they going? Can they do that?"

"They can do whatever the fuck they want, including going off to get something better than a baloney sandwich and fucking warm coke in a can," Roger groused, and sat his ass on the tailgate. Clark sat next to him, and grabbed his sandwich, tore it in half and ate half of it in one bite.

"Hey!"

"Don’t get your bandana in a bunch. Here, have half of my peanut butter. I like baloney."

Clark let Roger's steady stream of invective roll over him like a lullaby, kind of marveled at all the ways he came up with to describe Clark having sex with himself…he leaned back and tilted his face into the sunlight. The sun felt good, really good, like he was coated in it, soaking in the warm rays. Summers were the best time of year. Winters were great too--he felt really sharp and clear and full of energy. But summer…summer was like one long lazy hug for him. Like being a tiny bit buzzed all the time….

He closed his eyes and leaned back against a tool box, let the warmth seep into him, jogging his knee and humming to himself. The red wash behind his eyelids wheeled and swirled and occasionally a face would swim up…Lana, Chloe…Whit. Hm. He frowned a little. Where did they go? Would they get in trouble for leaving an inexperienced crew alone? Did he really give a shit if Jason and Whit got in trouble?

"Hey."

Clark felt the jog of an elbow in his side and rolled with the push. "What?"

"You sleeping?" Roger asked. He glared at Roger--his knee was still bouncing. He glanced at his knee, glanced at Roger. Roger grinned.

"No. I *was* really comfortable but thank you for saving me from that." Roger snickered, and Billy glanced over from where he and Pete where sitting. He got up, stretched and walked over to Clark and Roger.

"It's twelve thirty, should we get back to work?" Billy looked skeptically at the stand-on mowers. "Anybody ever used one of those lawnmowers before?

Clark nodded. "We use one at home for the back yard. I can do the lawn. How about you guys trim the bushes on the other side of the bank and Greg and Pete can finish mulching the flower beds that pissed Roger off?"

They split up to do their various jobs but Pete stopped Clark. "Hey. Whit and Jason aren't going to be happy that we didn’t wait for them. They're going to think we're trying to show them up."

Clark shrugged. "Gabe said he wanted self-starters on the team. Well, here we are, self-starting."

Whit and Jason roared into the lot fifteen minutes later, looking guilty, and when they saw the boys had things under control, Jason managed to look relieved and disgruntled both and Whit laughed. He pushed Jason around, teasing him and the crew until he finally started to smile. Clark shook his head. He did not get it. What the hell…Whit. Weird.

They did a few fast food places, a residential job and that was it. The end of the day came a lot faster than he'd expected. They gratefully packed up, more than ready to call it a day. Whit passed Clark and said, "You did a good job today, Kent." Clark grinned back at Whit and had a feeling that he looked goofy and pathetically grateful of a good word. Whit just slapped his shoulder, and gave him a little push toward the truck, just like he did with Jason, and that made Clark blush and grin harder.

Jason came up on his other side, startling him. The guy moved like a god damn cat. He stared at Clark, not exactly hostile, not exactly warm, which was kind of cat-like too, and said, "I know you were the one who took charge here, Kent. I don't get it. Why do you always hide what you can do?" Clark opened his mouth, closed it. Shrugged. Jason narrowed his eyes at him and finally said, "Figured. Good job. Meet you at the shop." Clark watched him walk away…he had…really long lashes. And was a huge asshole. Really huge.

That night, he fell into bed feeling kind of what he imagined Dad meant when he said he was tired. Sometimes spending the whole day in the hot sun did that, almost like he was overloaded or something. At any rate, he'd survived his first day, and felt pretty good about it. Everyone did okay, according to Whit, and everyone got through the first day in one piece. Except for Greg. Poor guy. He was so red, right now he was probably glowing like a lightning bug in the dark…

4
So, Clark thought…self-starters. Gabe would be thrilled at how self-starting the crew was—Whit and Jason disappeared every lunch break for almost an hour and left it up to them to handle their biz, as Rog said…

Clark angrily jammed a shovel into the flowerbed under the Ezra Apartments sign, just missed killing a little family of impatiens. Why did they leave? What were those jerks doing everyday at lunch? Pete wandered by. "What the fuck is it with you guys and the flower hate?"

"Hunh--what? Ish!" The little family of impatiens lay scattered on the turned flower bed… victims of Clark's absent minded, temper fueled shoveling.

When Clark finally figured it out, he felt kind of stupid.

It was one day when the two of them came back later than usual and they looked…hell, even *Clark* knew what they looked like, and God knew he wasn't getting any but Whit and Jason obviously were. Getting any. Lots of any by the look of it. They rolled up, all rumpled, sleepy-eyed, and sporting huge grins of obnoxious satisfaction, throwing it in everyone's face, the bastards—oooo, cool--they brought ice-cream! Clark straightened from where he'd been plastered against the side of the truck with Pete, both of them sucking down the hundredth thimble sized paper cup of water Gabe so generously provided.

Pete leaned into Clark and spoke out the side of his mouth, in that way he mistakenly thought was casual. "Hey…you think they're taking off to get laid? They look like they got laid. They're getting laid on their lunch hour, lucky bastards…wonder who they're nailing?"

Clark's face twisted in disgust. "Jesus, Pete--who cares? Just the thought--" He shuddered. Why would anyone even want to think about Whit having sex, or care who with?

"I'm just saying…wow, look at the honeys in Mcdonalds. Yeah, you know you want this…" They stared into the windows, eating their sex guilt ice cream and watching the girls inside watch them. Clark wondered if any of the girls would want to have sex with Whit. Would any of them be content with a lunch hour fuck?

Jason called Pete over, smirking. "Hey, let's have some fun…take your shirt off and walk over to the truck for some water, make it good."

Pete looked surprised. "Why do I have to---oh, wait—" a slow, evil grin spread over his face. "Okay." He took off his shirt, stuffed it in the back of his shorts and sauntered across the baking blacktop in a way that was so casual it screamed look at me. Clark watched the girls inside, giggling and nudging each other—one or two actually stood to get a better look, and Pete played it up. The girls were fanning themselves, laughing and Clark glanced over at Pete with a grin to say something and stuttered into silence. *holy fuck…*because Pete looked…good. Really good. Damn…he knew Pete was built but this…this was crazy. Pete yawned and stretched and Clark gulped. Muscles slid and bunched and relaxed and it was like watching a dirty dance…damn. He glanced over at the others, to see if they saw what he did. Whit was watching the girls watch Pete and laughing at his little show. Jason watched Whit like he was trying to decide if he wanted to laugh or not and finally chuckled. Greg scowled a little but he'd always been oversensitive to body issues, and Billy…Billy was blushing and doing that looking without looking thing a person did when they were embarrassed. Roger—Roger looked highly pissed off for a second, before breaking into laughter too. He broke from the group and walked over to Pete, and leaned on him, pointing out some of the more vocal girls inside. They waved, and got waves back. Roger held up his hand—five fingers splayed. He mouthed, we get off at five o'clock. Some of the girls nodded.

Billy didn't look embarrassed anymore. Now he just looked kind of pinched and…tired. Roger and Pete wandered back, laughing hard, and Pete said, "Your turn Cee."

Clark just stared. "My turn? What for?" Who the hell would want to see him? His baggy shirt, hanging low over his baggy shorts covered nothing special. "It's not—I'm not like Pete." They teased him and dared him and kept on until finally he snapped, "All right!" He pulled his shirt off, and everyone except Pete was prepared to laugh—because Pete knew what Clark didn't even know.

There was silence…it stretched. Clark flushed. well fuck. Okay. So he wasn't Pete, but it wasn't like he was Quasimodo either, or Igor, or other hunched up guys…He had muscles, really. Some. And he wasn't ugly, he knew he wasn't ugly. oh hell. His face was burning as he started to yank the shirt back over his head, but Pete whipped it away, threw it at Clark's head and gave him a push that sent him out into the lot.

"Go on Cee—get over there and reel something in, man." Clark walked a lot faster than Pete had across the lot, straight to the truck, still blushing furiously. He was too embarrassed to look at the window, or the girls giggling behind the glass. He grabbed a cup, filled it and gulped it down and headed straight back to the flower beds, feeling kind of unpleasantly exposed and really--like a prize idiot. He swung the shirt over one shoulder and hitched at his shorts—they were sliding down again. He scowled down at the offending shorts, looked up and almost stumbled. They were all staring at him, with various expressions of surprise. "What?"

"Clark…you grew some since last summer," Pete said. Roger was looking everywhere but at Clark and managed to step on Billy's foot somehow. Billy had tears of pain in his eyes and he was looked really super pissed at Roger and Jason--Jason looked furious, red-faced, lip stuck out and his eyes were narrowed as if he were trying to squeeze laser beams out of them. Clark shuddered. He really could look kind of borderline nuts some time…Whit looked like he'd been hit by a truck. "What?" Clark asked again. "Ack! There's something on me, isn’t there?" He twisted and turned, brushing frantically at himself, trying to dislodge whatever thing might be clinging to him, and Whit made a strangled noise.

"Get back to work Kent," Jason snapped.

Something happened to the relaxed and silly atmosphere of before…tension was ripe as they said...

At the end of the day, Roger and Pete stayed behind, winking and nudging and being disgusting and annoying--Billy and Clark left with the leads.

At SL&L, Billy lingered a bit by his car, until Clark walked over. "Hey, Billy, you okay? Too much sun today?"

Billy did look exhausted. "Yeah Clark, too much sun. Too much everything," he muttered. For a second, he looked older than he was and his eyes were deep and dark. Clark was seized with the insane desire to pick him up and hug him…Billy smiled. "Just being stupid," he said, and his face fell into its familiar deadpan expression, and his voice smoothed into its usual toneless mode. "All the world's a stage, Kent…blah, blah, blah. Ciao, I've got to pick up my idiot."

He jingled Pete's keys in his pocket and watched Billy drive off. My idiot…he glanced around the lot. The leads' cars were still there, parked next to Gabe's car…Clark headed for Pete's Mustang, climbed in and sat. Pete said he'd call. He glanced around idly, noting the cars, looked at the woods bordering the park, watched a squirrel run around, zoomed in on it for practice…he was getting better and better about controlling this stuff. Except for that floating thing—which wasn't too bad, it was the waking and crashing thing that was a problem. And now his bed was a mattress sitting up on a sheet of plywood on top of some cinderblocks…yeah. He focused on the squirrel, concentrated on hearing its little teeth work over a nut or something. He could hear the critch critch critch of its teeth, its little satisfied whiffles. He smiled. He heard a breathy moan…oookay. That was not a squirrel, not unless it'd found an unbelievably good hazelnut. Someone was in the woods. He blushed, and what the hey, gave in to the temptation…was it being a peeping tom if you weren’t actually there?

"Fu-uck," he heard, and flushed. Sounded like Whit, and that was a pretty horrible thought. What if Lana was here? He heard panting, moaning, hurried whispered commands for quiet, and demands for more. Clark gulped and pressed against the growing bulge pushing his shorts away from his body, listened harder, almost afraid to hear Lana's voice…"Jason, fuck that's so good—"

Jay—hunh?Clark suddenly felt like he was flying, zooming over the ground, through the woods through trees, and then he was right there in a little dip in the woods, a grass lined ditch through the trees and two skeletons were trying to become one really hard.

"Yeah, fuck me, feels good—harder. Shit you're like a fucking little girl, come on, damn it!"

"I don’t want to hurt you…"

"Make me feel it, asshole, you can't hurt me—aah! That's it…"

Clark blinked and he was looking at skin now, at bodies connected intimately…Jason on Whit's lap, legs trapped in his shorts, t-shirt pulled up behind his head and Whit's hands running up and down his back, fingers grabbing Jason's ass, digging in hard, pushing his cock in and out of him. He was moaning, "Jay, shit—shit---I'm gonna come…"

Jason laughed, and began moving faster, and Clark could hear the wet smack of flesh and it made his cock throb. "Not yet, not yet…" Jason had his hands on Whit's shoulders his head tipped back, his movement frantic.

Clark was so hard it was unreal. None of this was possible—it shouldn’t be like this—it shouldn’t be anywhere near this fucking hot. He stared hard at Whit's cock driving in and out of Jason, the stretch of muscle, the wet gleam of Whit's cock—he had an overwhelming desire, so strong it made him groan, to be right there. He wanted to feel Whit, to watch Jason come and smell it and feel it and taste it…his cock jumped. Whit, he whispered. He watched Whit's face, watched his teeth grab his lip, watched it swell as he bit down, watched his pupils swell, and blood flush his face, his neck, and heard the small sound well up out of him, grow louder and louder until he was grunting, holding Jason's waist and thrusting—hard sharp and each push in he murmured, "Jay, Jay…." Clark groaned when Jason leaned back, far enough that he could see how hard and red his cock was, the way it jumped, and the way come spattered Whit's belly.

Clark came back to himself with a wrench so sudden that it shocked him. He panted, felt himself throb and jerk, felt wet cotton clinging to him…damn—damn--He shook his head, took great big gulps of air and pulled soaked fabric away from his body. He needed to get out of the lot before—before they came back. Clark was afraid to listen anymore, afraid to look and when a squirrel ran across the lot, he blushed hot as hell and shuddered.

The next week, Jason didn't show up for a couple of days, and Gabe looked unhappy but not pissed off, which was kind of strange since the few times something had kept one or the other of them out, Gabe acted like he was passing a kidney through his ass. Pete tried to hit Chloe up for information but she blew him off. "Really Pete, the puppy dog eyes aren’t going to help—I have no idea what's up with Jason, or Dad." Clark thought the puppy dog eyes were doing something; she was smiling after Pete even as he walked away…or you know, it could be his ass.

Whit on the other hand, looked-and acted--as pissed off as Gabe should be. He stalked around like a grizzly with a thorn in its paw and every time he looked Clark's way, Clark wanted to shrink and disappear. He hoped it didn't show in his face, but every time Whit turned his way he could feel his face burn…like it used to when he saw Lana. It could have gone on into really bad territory, but thankfully something happened to squash the…the god-awful crush or whatever the hell it was, from developing.

Lana stopped in one afternoon to visit Whit and Clark stared at Whit as he hugged her and laughed with her and in general acted like he was completely love-struck…what a *dick*. What a complete asshole…poor Lana.

The minute she left, the smile Whit had sent her off with dropped away, his eyes were bleak when he turned. When he caught sight of Clark, they flared with barely concealed anger—if he hadn’t been human, Clark would have ducked. Clark swallowed—shit, it must be all over his face, how he felt. He raised his eyebrows and tried for nonchalance.

The whistling might have been over the top….

"What the fuck's your problem?" Whit snapped and Clark said the first thing that came into his mind, that given the situation that he supposedly didn't know anything about, was a pretty stupid thing to say.

"Where—how's Jason?"

"What? Jay….he's okay." Whit started to turn away, and turned back. "You got something you want to talk to me about? Because you look like you've got something on your mind."

"No, no, I was just concerned. Gabe said that Jason was sick and I wondered…"

"He's fine Clark. He'll be at work tomorrow. And really, it's none of your business."

Clark watched him walk away—stung by his rudeness. He's more than an asshole—he's the asshole of the *Earth*! No—the fucking *universe!! How does Lana stand it? Whit drove by without a glance. How *does* she stand it? Maybe…maybe someone should tell her…?

Clark thought about Lana all that night…well, he thought about Whit too, but mostly about Lana. And thought about the good old days when he'd get a hard-on thinking about her, not her boyfriend…or her boyfriend's boyfriend— gaah, what the fuck was wrong with his life? Wasn't it enough to be a freak from space? Thanks a lot God, don’t ever let anyone tell you you don’t have a sense of humor.

He waited until Dad went out to the porch with his paper for a little quiet time, and followed him. Because if he didn’t talk about this to someone, his brains were going to explode and Dad had surprisingly good advice considering he was an old guy.

He dropped down next to Dad, and Dad waited patiently…sipped his ice-tea and shook the newspaper suggestively as in, get a move on Clark…"Dad…if you knew someone was cheating on someone else, and you were friends with the someone else, would you tell them?"

"Hunh. It depends. Were you telling them to help or to clear the field?" His dad searched his face, folded the paper and laid it down. "What's up, Clark? You look…upset."

Clark shook his head. "Truth, Dad? I don't know. I'm…I guess I'm trying to figure stuff out…I. You know Lana?" Dad snorted. "Yeah…well, I'm worried about her. But today I realized—I'm just worried about her. I'm not…it's different. And I'm not making sense." Clark felt confused, and he must have looked as confused as he felt. Dad patted his arm.

"It's called growing up, Clark. You've had a crush on her since first grade…it's natural that it's fading--changing. Other girls, other interests…it's okay. You don't have to be faithful to an image of someone." He smiled briefly and then the ghost of a frown made the smile fade. "So…is Whitney cheating on her? That's the problem?"

Clark shrugged and stared down at the suddenly fascinating toes of his boots. "Sort of. I don’t know if I should tell her or not. She might think it's just jealousy, and that's—I don't want to make a problem where it doesn’t exist, y'know?"

Dad shook his head. "Son, it's been my experience that certain kinds of news almost always result in the death of the messenger. That's all I can tell you about that."

Jason was back, turned out he'd taken a bad spill down the basement stairs. He was still limping a little, and he had yellow fading bruises all long his left side: face, shoulders, ribs, and his hands. Pete said it looked like he'd fallen down the stairs and the stairs got pissed off and kicked the shit out of him.

It was surprisingly better with Jason back, Whit was back to normal, work was back to normal—well, more or less--there was the weirdness of Lana coming around more often and Jason seemed to be keeping away from Whit. Not so much work wise, it was just…they didn’t act weird and they didn't take lunches away from the site anymore. Gabe must have said something. After a while Clark put that knowledge of them in a little box and shut it. It must have been some kind of…temporary madness. Whit was all over Lana all the time. Folks were starting to talk about marriage and perfect and fairytale romance. And everything was fine….

They were sitting on a picnic table in the back of SV's biggest law office. Great job—there was a strip of grass and marigolds in front of the building and two small yews flanking the head of a brick sidewalk. A purple clematis climbed a fake gas light pole trying to make the brick and glass building look like it been there since the town was built and not brand new in 1999. Between the strip of front lawn, and the little postage stamp of a lawn in back, where the table sat, this was a sweet, spin it out kind of job and the only guys on it were Clark, Jason, and Whit. Clark yawned, stretched, and got a vicious glare from Jason, which he ignored. It wasn't him Jason was glaring at—rather it wasn't a personal glare. Jason had been eyeballing everything with a viscous glare. Though today it was an especially viscous glare, since Lana came to bring her Prince Charming lunch. Jason sat next to Clark on the picnic table and watched Whit and Lana chatting on the sidewalk, laughing and flirting, being pretty as can be together and Jason's teeth were grinding slowly and he said, not loudly, but very clearly, "whore."

Clark jerked. "Did you just call Lana a whore?" 'Cause, granted they were nauseating but…

Jason looked steadily into Clark's eyes, and said. "No, I did not."

"But you just said--" and some part of Clark's brain kicked in, and slapped his mouth shut, and it was a miracle. He was very grateful to whatever part of his brain it was, and promised it chocolate cake. Jason didn’t speak again, but he might as well have been screaming and cursing non-stop for as comfortable as the rest of the day went. Clark was thankful to the point of tears to be away, and Whit, Whit looked like shit…he should. Cheating bastard. Okay and the weirdness there was that he wasn't sure who Whit was cheating on….

5
Saturday was going to be a long day with no work, but he'd really looked forward to it. Nothing to do after the animals had been taken care of, Mom and Dad took off to Metropolis for Mom's annual For God's Sake, Let's Get Some Culture tour, and that meant he was on his own and loving it. That meant cereal, coke and TV for breakfast. That meant really loud music, sneaking a beer and maybe some jerking off where you didn't have to bite a hole into your pillow but that wasn't the best part of them being out of the house because that would be kind of pathetic. Kind of. Clark slurped up a spoonful of FrootLoopCheerioCinnamonCrunch and flicked back and forth from Nik to ESPN. Yeah, it was shaping up to be a good morning.

The phone ringing knocked him out of his sugar-laden trance. "What?"

"That's how you answer the phone?"

"Sorry…yes, oh Little Prince of Creamed Corn?"

"Yeah, fuck you. What are you doing tonight?"

"Why?" Clark mumbled around a mouthful of cereal. "I'm free though—Mom'nDad are out for the night."

"Fucking hell, you're kidding! That's perfect! Whit and Jason are having a party for the crew, guests invited, hello. There's going to be food, and beer and it'll be fun."

"Beer? How are we getting beer? They're not old enough to buy it either…"

"Whit's Dad is cool. He says as long as we don’t leave the house, it's cool."

Cool? Clark grimaced. It sounded like a real bad idea. But still…if Whit's parents were going to be there, how bad could it be? "Are you gonna tell Abbie and Billiam about the beer?"

"Hell no—they'd never let me out of the house if they knew. But if I tell them it's a barbeque for the crew, out of the kindness of Whit's walnut-like heart, we're good to go—oh, and I'm telling 'em I'm spending the night at your house. Which is always cool with them, 'cause they know you're such a fucking Boy Scout."

And spending the night was code for if I get lucky you won't see my ass 'til tomorrow. "Well, I guess…okay. You picking me up? Or should I drive myself?"

"Take the truck, I'm hoping like hell to get lucky." See? Just as I thought.
"I can't be suave and debonair with your giant ass in the back seat."

"Yeah, luck with that, buddy. Thank God you're rich."

"Screw you Farmer Kent."

Clark thought that was funny. He finished the cereal, watched some animated kids kick each other's ass for a while, and decided to take a shower now, instead of later. Not that it was important what he looked like. Not at all.

Under the comforting rush of water, he let himself go, let his mind wander wherever it wanted to go. Which apparently was back in the woods, watching Whit fuck the hell out of Jason, but this time, he was there, helping…in a way. He stood over Whit, fucked his mouth while Whit fucked Jason. It was a good position—he had Whit to suck him and he got to watch Jason fall apart. It took him a few minutes to come and being alone was great because he got loud—really loud. His throat ached, muscles from stomach to ass ached, he came so hard, and it made him wonder--did it feel as good as Jason made it look, to be fucked like that…?

6

So in a way that's how Clark ended up in Whit's driveway, in the back of the crappy old truck with Lana. Not that he touched her; he kept a respectful distance from her, just in case. She was staring at him, and Clark thought as he had many times before, what a piercing gaze she had. It had weight, you could feel it going through you, he thought. She cleared her throat and Clark jerked. Oh. He'd been staring.

"Clark, we're friends, aren’t we? We've been friends for a long time." Clark nodded, they had been, on and off for years. The only person he'd been friends with as long was Pete Ross. "I feel like I can talk to you—confide in you."

"You can, anytime, you know that."

"Clark…first let me make this plain. I think of you as a friend. I always have, I always will, but I know that you feel differently, and…I'm sorry. I'll never feel that way, and…it does make me sad."

Clark nodded uncertainly. He understood what she was saying—was it worth it to tell her that she needn't feel sad--that he didn’t feel quite that way anymore? She went on, unaware of Clark's internal debate.

"The thing is, Whit and I…" she sighed. "I'm sure you've been hearing talk about marriage and stuff. Some people have already set the *date* for this imaginary wedding and I…I don't think I want that, in fact, Clark I'm sure I don't." she sighed and almost seemed to collapse. "There. I said it out loud. Oh gosh…"

Clark appreciated how hard that was for her. In some ways, appearances were important to Lana. He figured it meant safety, security, something she could control…changing her mind like that after all the expectations thrown on her—that had to be an awfully hard thing for her to do. And kind of brave in a way… "It's better if you tell Whit that, Lana. Maybe…maybe you should take a break from each other—to think." Clark felt a little like a hypocrite, especially when what he mostly felt was relief—she wasn't in love with Whit like *that*, and would never be interested in him…which meant a clear field. Jason's scowl flashed through his mind—almost clear.

She nodded. "My art teacher and I have been talking about the study abroad program that Lowell County is going to offer next year. It's a scholarship program and whoever gets selected will spend next summer in Paris studying art—I know I'm only going to be a junior next year but still, I'll be seventeen. She said with Nell's approval I could go. It's just…it's a pretty large field to compete in."

"Yeah, but you're really *that* good. You'll win the spot, no doubt in my mind," Clark said with such certainty that Lana looked at him, a huge smile warming her face, and Clark's heart. She took his hand. "See? That's why we've always been friends. You're such a good person Clark; you have the biggest, sweetest heart…you’re good to all your friends. Does it…bother you that I can't be more than that to you?"

Clark turned his face away. It didn't…wow. It really didn't and that felt weird. After all these years, to not love her…it felt weird.

He walked her back to the party, and it was going in full swing. He handed her off with a bow to Whit, and went in search of Pete. He found him hanging off some girl who was not Chloe, which was kind of a relief because he really wanted to keep his job. The girl wasn't doing much of a job keeping Pete upright, she was barely vertical herself. Clark told himself to make sure Pete couldn't get to his keys. Jason was talking to Whit, and he looked angry. Clark sighed, grabbed a beer and wandered off into the little strip of trees lining the edge of the property. He could still see the party just fine from where he was. He crouched, popped the top off the bottle and drank. Didn’t really matter how much he drank, it never seemed to really bother him, certainly didn’t make him drunk so there was little point in it…he just did it from time to time to fit in. He rolled the cold liquid in his mouth letting it cool the inside before swallowing. He did kind of like the bitter-sweet taste…

Billy was walking around the back yard, blank-faced as always, kind of like a white board that only occasionally, briefly, had writing on it. Wow, until now…Clark was startled—Billy's face was far from blank--he looked completely shattered. What the fuck…for one long minute he looked like the world was ending and then, Clark could see him pulling himself together with an effort that was painful to watch. In seconds, he was smooth and blank again. He turned back to the party, shrugged his shoulders hard and walked back into the crowd. Clark took another sip of his beer and wondered what had happened. He could 'see' more, or listen in, but somehow the idea held no appeal.

Sun down and the air was still hot, still sticky…the heat worked on him, the drone of music, the drone of insects lulled him, and he settled back against the tree behind him. He closed his eyes and let the gentle hum of the earth sing to him.

7
"Hey…"

He opened his eyes, smiled, and the face hanging over his changed, from concern to…something else. "Hey back," he responded sleepily, his hand sliding up under his tee shirt, his back arching a little like it did whenever he woke at home—oh. He was outside. Gosh…he wondered how long he'd been asleep. He yawned and sat up. "I'm okay, I just dozed off a little, I guess. Everyone still here?"

Whit blinked, licked at his lip and shrugged. "Must not have been asleep very long, most are still here--Pete's still here, and he's looking for you." Whit smiled at Clark's grimace. "He's not mad, he's just worried. Jason left…" Whit looked away. "Billy's here and Roger's still here, being an asshole."

Clark leaned up on an elbow. "Some times I get the feeling…is what I think's happening with those two really happening?"

Whit gazed at him, his eyes fading from warm to cool, distanced. "If you mean what I think you mean—probably. Bother you, Kent? I mean, besides the fact Billy's a fucking idiot."

Clark felt a little spark of anger for Billy, who as far as he could see was shouldering the burden of Atlas and doing it with grace, while Rog ran around like a fucking Pekinese in heat. "So's Jason then," he said and had that moment of clarity, the one in which the brain does a double take, smacks itself in the frontal lobes and yells, '*tell* me you did not just say that out loud? I'm connected to such an asshole'….

Whit huffed, "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing—nothing, I—I—nothing." Clark looked down, anything to get away from Whit's blazing eyes.

Whit pointed at Clark, said forcefully, "Look, Jay's a friend who's going through hard times; I don’t need you making it worse. You don’t understand what the deal is so just--shut the fuck up."

"Whit, I'm sorry, you're right, just…let me ask you one thing, please."

"What?" he growled. "Make it good Kent, you only get one."

Clark took a deep breath, and asked, "Why did you keep them from sticking me up in the field?"

Whit looked startled, opened his mouth—closed it. "I didn't…is that how you remember it?" He shook his head. "It wasn't me. But…I wish it had been. And I'm sorry. That was such a fucked up time. I'd just…found out something about myself. And tried to take it out on you."

Clark remembered shivering from reaction, from the green stone of Lana's necklace, the green stone that made him so sick. Whit's hands, hot and rough on his neck, the chain dragging across his chest, being fastened, Whit's fingers in his hair, feeling the pull, and then…Jason behind Whit's shoulder, looking horrified, sick. Clark blinked. He'd forgotten about Jason, forgot he was there. Jason was the one who'd stopped Whit and the rest of them…

Whit watched him, his eyes darted back and forth like he was reading him—he bent close, Clark thought he was going to tell him something else and then, his hand was on his neck, hot, and rough, he pulled until they were mouth to mouth. Clark was so startled that he let Whit lead him, ingrained habit making him give with a pull or push…for long seconds Whit pressed his lips against his, and Clark's mouth was stiff under his and then…he let it happen, let Whit's lips nudge his open, let a boy's tongue into his mouth and let it touch, slide over his, lick against his teeth, slip over the roof of his mouth, let the tip of Whit's tongue flick against his until he had to suck on it, to make it stop. The moaning noise vibrating against his lips he realized came from himself, he was making that noise, and pressing his chest against Whit's and locking his hands around his hips…Whit pulled back with a gasp.

"Fuck, I'd get so jealous of Lana sometimes I could hardly stand it…Clark." He pressed his forehead against Clark's neck, and Clark's hand automatically went up and cradled his head. The feeling sweeping him was…oddly protective. Whit felt nice against him. Clark slid his fingers into his thick blonde hair…he inhaled, and the scent of clean and fresh and underneath a hint of salt and musk filled his nose. Whit smelled good…felt good. Whit's broad hard body against his felt right, fit in all the right places…Clark squirmed against Whit, felt the quick brush of cock against cock and froze. This was it…he could…Whit might…but everything would be different, everything—oh shit, Pete! "Oh my gosh—Pete, he's looking for me…"

Whit pulled back with a wry smile. He brushed his fingertips over Clark's cheek and said, "Okay, let's go find him…wait." He pressed his lips against Clark's cheek, lingering there until Clark closed his eyes and sighed. "Let me…" Whit straightened Clark's clothes, combed his fingers through Clark's hair. "There. You look a little less like you've been molested in the woods."

Clark laughed--a shocked little gasp of sound. "…sounds like a poem. 'I stand molested in a yellow wood'…"

"You're deeply an asshole, Kent. Don’t try to make me laugh." But he was smiling, just like he did at Jason's crappy jokes. Clark felt like he was holding a sun inside.

Okay, so….Pete was pissed off. Really, *really* pissed off. Pissed of like on a scale of one to ten, he wanted Clark's head on a platter with celery shoved in every orifice left after the beheading. Clark knew this because Pete told him so. "You—you fell *asleep*? You--I was worried about you, I thought you got drunk and fell down somewhere and I've been looking for you—I could have been getting laid—laid, you hear me? But no—you came first. Mother-fucker."

"Awww," Clark threw his arms around Pete and hugged him hard, lifting him off his feet and swinging him around, ignoring sputtered curses. "I love you too, Little Prince."

"Yeah, fuck you Kent get off." He pushed Clark hard and Clark let himself fly backward onto the lawn, laughing—made Pete laugh with him.

They stayed that night, at the Fordman's along with a bunch of the other party-goers. Billy took Roger and his brand new girlfriend home, Jason left shortly after and offered to give Lana a ride and finally, it was quiet.

Clark found Whit on the porch steps, hands dangling between his knees, clutching a beer. There was a distant look on his face. He didn't turn towards Clark, just said softly, "Tomorrow I'll act like this never happened."

Clark felt a sharp tug of frustration--anger. "Is that what you do? Cheat on Jason and pretend like it never happened? You think that absolves you or something?"

Whit didn't react to the jab at all; he still looked distant, calm. "Jason loves me…" he shrugged."He needs me. He needs someplace that he can feel safe in." he looked up at Clark. "He's going away to college in the fall…I'll still be here."

Clark stared at him before shaking his head and walking away. He was not going to be that person, he was better than that. Whit could fuck himself.

Of course, the Universe laughed brightly, took out Its Daybook and reordered his plans. Instead of pointedly ignoring Whit's lying, cheating, cowardly ass happily ever after like he'd fully intended to do, Clark ended up spending the rest of the night hanging with him outside the Med Center while Jason was inside getting looked at. He'd gotten jumped on a beer run to Granville. He apologized over and over to Whit for being stupid, and to Clark, and to the nurses, the police…he described the guys to the police, but admitted the descriptions were vague, since at the time of the incident, he was busy getting the shit kicked out of himself. The cops sympathized, told him they'd try their best which meant that he was shit out of luck, and scolded him about underage drinking. His blood alcohol level was nil, he hadn't had a drop all night and that worked in his favor. Clark was surprised. He thought Jason was matching Whit beer for beer, but now that he thought about it, no, he hadn't been drinking. So why leave a party where there was plenty booze and all for free and go to Granville where he'd have to pay? Not to mention, find someone to buy it for him....

His mother stood by him in the ER waiting room, her hand wrapped around his wrist, worry creasing her brow. Clark couldn't help staring at her…she was a mom but wow…she was beautiful, as beautiful as her son, and looked fragile as a china doll, staring at Jason with wide, stricken eyes.

At the moment, poor Jason was a little less than beautiful. Dried blood was caked over his face, a cut over his eye gaped open, his lower lip was split, it looked raw and puffy and painful. His wrist was swollen, round as a baseball, and he hissed every time his mother bumped it. Clark watched her and felt oddly uncomfortable. She obviously doted on him—she hovered, she patted him, cooed and tutted over him. And at first look, she'd seemed so fragile, breakable…but Jason seemed to be even more so. He looked small and drained next to her, the way he curled in over himself, trying to protect what looked like a broken hand.

Clark felt uncomfortable enough to leave the waiting room—guilt pushed him out, sent him out to look for Whit and tell him to go back inside and sit with Jason and his mother. He found Whit stalking around and around in the parking lot, pacing like a grumpy tiger from his car to the curb and back again. He'd been the one Jason called to come pick him up, the one to take Jason to the hospital, sat with him until his mother came and then for some reason had called Clark and begged him to come, and then sent *him* inside to sit with Jason.

Clark pulled Whit to sit down with him on the benches in front of the Med Center. "So. Tell me what really happened because that story he told is so full of bullshit, I could spread it on the fields."

"Country mother fucker," Whit smiled, and shook his head. "He got jumped and beat. That's the truth."

8
The morning's first stop on the list was one of the funeral homes of which the SV had strangely many for a town its size. Whit dropped them off with instructions. "Prune the myrtles on the drive, mow, and water those hanging baskets. There's like a million of those fuckers. And don't forget to edge the drive in back of the place—look out for hearses."

So now they were piling pruned branches onto a tarp, just him and Pete. Clark was still thinking about what happened to Jason—in fact, he was still out, the third time since they'd started working for Gabe that Jason was out of work with some kind of injury. He piled branches without looking, his mind playing the Jason thing from all different angles…what if Jason was in a gang? Though honestly he couldn't imagine what the hell kind of gang Jason would be in…his gang would do what--drive-by blowjobs? And wear pink bandanas and slap people until they cried—and instantly felt like an asshole. Well, fuck what's the point in being catty, Kent, if you're gonna wither up with guilt? Man up-- "—hunh-what?"

"I said, you're building the fuckin' Great Wall of China here, what the hell are you thinking about, since you're obviously not here on planet Earth with me?"

Pete listened intently while Clark told him what happened while he'd been sleeping the sleep of the innocent, leaving off any kind of speculation about Jason lying about the mugging somehow. Pete nodded, looked very serious. He stopped and seemed to be mulling over what to say as he wiped sweat from his brow, and while he was doing that, Clark was mulling over how God was really,* really* good to Pete. Smooth brown skin rolled over tight muscle, gleamed like glossy melted chocolate in the sun…a fat bead of sweat rolled around a dark peaked nipple, slowly…lovingly…like it was sad to leave its happy home and…Clark vowed he was going to stuff his face with the green rock and gouge out his eyes and salt and burn his mind—for God's sake it was Pete! Could he be more of a perv? It was like—like perving on his brother. Geez…"--what?"

"Jesus, can you stay with me for more than half a minute? I said if you grab the hose, we can water all those baskets and chill until those guys come back to pick us up…and…" he sighed and looked uncomfortable. "I might have an idea about what's happening to Jason."

"You—okay—" he grabbed the hose and hooked it up to the spigot, and Pete moved along the funeral home's porch, watering hanging baskets of petunias.

"It could be, there was no ass-kicking by some random dudes. The way he hurts himself all the time…could be it's happening at home."

"What? How so? The only ones at home are Jason and his mother." He glanced around to make sure that they were alone—he didn't want crazy talk to be spread.

Pete said nothing, just raised an eyebrow.

"Hunh—don't be ridiculous!" Clark insisted, "She can't beat him up. Look at him—he's solid muscle, and he's bigger than her and--"

"What would you do if your mom hauled off and smacked the shit out of you? Smack her back?" At Clark's automatic outraged no, Pete said, "See? You wouldn't hit her and Jason isn't going to hit his mom either. He won't hit back—Cee, it happens. I know from my mom…she gets cases like this from time to time."

"But why doesn't he tell someone? Why didn’t he ever go to the school counselor—that's what they're supposed to help with."

Pete shrugged. "Bunch of reasons. He doesn't want to look stupid maybe? You know, getting beat up by a woman—'specially his mom? Or still protecting her even though…" He unscrewed the watering attachment from the hose. "I don’t know."

Whit came around the far end of the building, yelling at them to get a move on and Pete and Clark finished up their part of the job. As usual, the day left Clark thinking hard. Thinking about Jason, and him not being able to protect himself, thinking about Whit and how he told the truth without telling the truth and….about a lot of things. Whit knows everything and it's eating him up. No wonder he won’t leave Jason. Clark figured this whole thing was out of his league, and he was probably just causing trouble for Whit and as much as he wanted to—to have him, it wasn't possible… he just had to step aside and let those two handle their business.

9
Clark was comfortably sitting at a table in the back of the Beanery nursing an iced coffee and trying not to wolf down a chocolate chip muffin, when Jason sat down next to him and plopped a to-go cup of iced tea on the table. Clark swallowed and put the muffin down. "…hi."

"Kent." Jason glanced around, his usual frown pulling his face tight and his eyes narrow, and Clark thought Oh…bet he does that to look less pretty. He is really pretty—I mean, handsome. Whatever. It must be hard being Jason, being so pretty…Clark searched his face, noticed that the split lip of two days before was just a pink line now, and Clark had to look hard to see the gash over his eyebrow. He sure healed fast. Really fast.

Clark was also very surprised that Jason sought him out, considering he had the feeling Jason had a pretty good idea that something had gone down between him and Whit. Jason continued to gaze around the café, green eyes narrowed. He did that lip pursing thing he did sometimes and it was kind of hot. Clark opened his mouth, and words fell out. "You're really…" And there his brain seized up, threw a shoe, packed its little overnight bag and waved good bye—bastard motherfucker. Fuck. You're really what—come up with something good Clark or Jason is going to suck your eyeballs out and not in any kind of fun way--"…early. It's early." Wow. Lame and other L words.

"Early? The fuck—it's twelve in the afternoon…" He sneered. "Don’t get all excited, Lucy. I'm only sitting here because you look pathetic sitting here on your own."

Clark nodded and sipped his iced coffee and watched Jason some more. He really had pretty lips, looked like they'd be so soft and smooth, and warm…the longest lashes too. A flicker of thought swept him, looking down on those long lashes brushing his pink cheeks and fluttering against the cute freckles there, Jason on his knees with his pretty red soft smooth lips all wet and pulling at his cock, those pink cheeks hollowing as he sucked—

God! He was turning into some kind of sex fiend—lately it was all he could think about. Jason sucked hard on his straw and Clark watched his throat work as iced tea went down and he felt…well, there'd be no standing, that was for sure. Jason licked his lips and Clark remembered his cock, jerking and spurting all over Whit's chest and he'd love to make Jason do that in his mouth—for fuck's sake! What the hell--Whit did something to him—he didn't just kiss him, he infected him with—with sex spores. Or…Clark dropped his eyes, maybe he was in heat. Oh my God was that possible? Who knew! It could be, oh shit, he was in heat, some kind of horrible freaky alien thing and he was—

"…Kent? Are you listening?"

"What? Um, no…" He could feel his face burning. With any luck he'd just burst into flame all over.

Jason stared at him with a kind of dawning awareness, his expression sliding from somewhat shocked to somewhat intrigued. "Are you," he hesitated and licked his lip again and Clark wanted to curl up on the seat and die. Now would be a good time to find out he had the power of invisibility, or maybe he did because apparently he was entirely transparent to Jason. "Are you okay, Clark…you wanna leave?"

Clark nodded, speechless, guilt riddled and horny as hell but he felt that it wasn't really his fault since he was possessed by alien sex spores and had to do whatever Jason said, or something like that. Jason was asking him if he wanted to go for a ride and he was nodding again, and moving and then he was in Jason's truck…no, Whit's truck.

"Why are you in Whit's truck?"

"Lana picked him up and he asked me to take the truck back to my house so I am…eventually."

Clark nodded—again—and they drove out of town. Halfway down the road he realized Jason had said eventually. What did that mean?

They passed over the bridge that marked the unofficial entrance to town and he debated telling Jason the story about saving that rich guy who'd gone off the bridge in 2001, but figured it was a stupid subject to bring up and Jason looked kind of…Jason-y, more than likely he'd just laugh in his face, so he kept quiet. Jason was silent all the way up to the Castle, which destination Clark found really weird, considering what he'd been thinking about. Jason stopped at the far gate, and said, "This huge pretentious pile of crap is our next job. Used to be some Metropolis outfit that did it but Gabe's got the contract now. Dude's about to have a fucking coronary, he's so happy. Come on. And try not to be blinded by the hideous fake medieval architecture."

They got out and headed towards the fence and Jason made a slow down motion. There was a spot in the fence that was damaged, bent from something and he squeezed in…Clark squeezed his way in also, and maybe after he squeezed through, the gap was a little wider….

They wandered over the stepped lawn in back of the Castle, threaded in and out of a box maze. Jason told him the history of the place, or as he called it, the incredibly embellished bullshit fantasy tale masquerading as history. The Luthor family supposedly bought and transferred their ancestral family home to America, to rebuild in Smallville. "Trouble is, it's impossible for this to be their 'ancestral home', because Lionel Luthor is a two-bit hustling conman and social climber who didn’t have a penny to rub together until the seventies...Scots ancestors my fuckin' ass." He said it in the same tone anyone else would have used to say that the Luthors raped and murdered kittens. Clark wondered if that was jealousy talking—the Teagues were well to do, but the Luthors were stupid rich.

Clark walked along the slightly overgrown garden path, staring up at the crenellated rooftop, and tried to imagine living in a place like it. All he really knew about the Luthors was that Lionel was rich, and apparently a kitten murderer and his son was…interesting, liked to drive fast. No one of that family had ever lived here, even though it must have cost blood to move the place stone by stone to a relative backwater of Kansas. And then he stopped thinking about it when Jason suddenly in his face, breathing on him, and oh hell--parts of him were pretty happy….

10
"Clark…what the fuck are you playing at with Whit?"

"Playing—what ? What do you mean? This is why you brought me out here?" Okay, so Clark could admit to a little—okay, a lot of--disappointment. And that was totally not his fault, it was the alien heat sex spores--wait---what?

"I said, I know what you did, I saw you. I know…"

Clark felt an icy spear lance through him—Jason knew he was watching? Idiot—of course he didn’t know, he meant…crap. The party. Oh shit. "oh, ish. Jason, I…I don't know why I did that. I'm so sorry."

"You…you fuck. I have so little--don’t fucking take this from me, you bastard." Jason's eyes were red, his freckles blazed on paper white skin. "I mean it—"

Clark shook his head. "There's nothing I can take from you—Whit told me that he loved you."

Jason stopped, and his eyes lightened. "He said, he said that—Whit said he loved me? Oh. Oh." He looked pathetically happy for a moment, so raw and open that Clark dropped his eyes. Technically, it wasn't a lie—Whit had said so. Said he loved him, right?

"Come on, let's check out the rest of the grounds. This one is a money maker. Gabe's going to be happy as shit." Jason was all smiles now, almost forgetting to be the rough tough character he pretended to be and it made him look so…he knew why Whit couldn't walk away from Jason, Jason tossed him a smile, forgetting to sneer at him while still riding his little high.

Shit, he was really beginning to get what Whit felt.

11
The first day at the Luthor's castle was pretty adventurous. Gabe came out with them, walking around the place just like the rest of them, kind of awestruck at the incredible waste of funds it represented. "Boys, some day if you work really damn hard…" He started to laugh. "Oh gosh, none of us ever in our wildest dreams will make this kind of money!"

Pete nodded. "This is…unreal. Who'd need to have something like this?" Still, they walked the grounds fascinated, and peered in windows like tourists.

"Doesn't anyone stay here at all?" Greg asked, face pressed against the glass pane of a French door. Clark was about to warn him about the spiders building webs against it, but suddenly they all scurried off that particular pane like they remembered they'd left the gas on at home….Clark blinked. Hunh. That's…odd.

Gabe left them with strict orders not to try to get inside the place, and not to take pictures, and not to even think about bringing girls back to screw in the pool enclosure…they all laughed dutifully because that's what you did when old guys tried to do that male bonding thing. Clark tried to ignore the look Jason and Whit passed between them.

This time they had the mini-dump truck and the riding mowers—Clark was going to be driving the tractor with the tow-behind mower for the meadow. Part of the land was a certified wildlife habitat. Supposedly the son had arranged that. Clark shrugged. It looked like an overgrown field gone to seed to him, but hey, what did he know--Mom would probably get it.

Lunch time rolled around, and even Clark felt a little wiped, somewhat sun overloaded. Jason and Whit left, quelle surprise, and the rest of the crew gathered around the truck with the cooler, passing out the lunches. Billy and Roger took their lunches over to the herb garden steps. Billy looks pissed…I think…

Clark strolled over and plopped down on the tailgate with Pete and Greg. He wolfed down a couple of peanut butter sandwiches, a tuna fish sandwich, half a sub, and Pete and Greg kind of hunched over their own sandwiches, eating fast and watching Clark from the corner of their eyes. It would have been insulting but…he *was* still hungry….

They were lying on the grass listening to Greg drone on and on about his bug collection and suddenly, it seemed to be the right time to ask a question that he'd been thinking about, a lot. Trying to look casual and yet concerned, as one would be if worried about a dear friend, he asked, "Hey, guys…what if you found out one of your um, friends was gay?"

Greg made a disgusted face. "That shit's disgusting! I can't even stand thinking—who is it?" Greg stared at Clark suspiciously and Pete was staring himself.

"Not me!" Clark yelped, and felt like an asshole. And then felt perturbed and maybe a little angry when Pete relaxed and said, "Oh. Well, I don't know. It's a creepy thought, but. What goes on behind closed doors, you know…I guess. But I wouldn’t be doing any double-dating with them, y'know what I mean?"

"No, no, I get that, of course, sure--" Clark said. Fuck you Creamed Corn, I wouldn't go out with you and whatever skank you drag up if you were the last fucking humans on Earth…

He looked past Pete to where Roger and Billy were leaning on the side of the other SL&L truck, wondered at what point in the conversation they'd come up. Roger looked blank as Billy normally did, totally uninterested in anything but shifting a plastic drink straw from one side of his mouth to the other. Billy…Billy was looking right into Clark's eyes, a look flashed over his face like he'd just gotten stabbed. Clark kept his expression neutral by sheer force of will…Roger slowly, casually, curled his shoulder in so that he was slightly turned to the left, away from Billy, and ever so casually continued to move until there was a more than hands width space between the two of them. Clark was surprised at the depth of anger he felt, with himself, with Roger—Clark felt like slapping Roger a lot, at least twice a day. But right now, right now looking at Billy, he wanted to slap the living *shit* out of him. Roger was a faithless little dick…Billy saw him looking. The little twist of his lips was probably supposed to be a carefree smile. He glanced at Roger and back. This time, the smile was a brief flash, shamefaced, but real.

Clark got that you could be in love with someone who was pretty much a constant source of pain. What he didn’t get was the attraction. Personally, he thought it was nuts but…sometimes, maybe you didn’t have a choice in the matter.

Pete drove home pretty much as usual--like a crazy person, whipping the Mustang around every curve and whooping—riding home with Pete made Clark grateful that he was hard to hurt. They made it through all the curves, survived the shortcut through Bob Carter's cornfield—Pete swore it really was a road and Clark explained the difference between a Mustang and a Hummer with carefully applied head slaps. They were almost home and as usual, Pete slowed to the speed limit. He glanced at Clark, and glanced at Clark and glanced at—

"Pete! What is it?"

"I…you…it was you, wasn't it Clark?"

Pete, no, it wasn't me. But if it was...Only what came out of his mouth was "Yeah." 'cause really, he couldn't lie about everything…

"I thought so. I've always felt there was something you were hiding from me." Clark had to bite his tongue to kill a laugh. "I'm kind of hurt—did you think I couldn't handle it? Greg might be a homophobic idiot but me? I love you, man." Pete stuttered, waved a hand around. "I--you know, like a brother, not like that. Not that it's weird or—I mean you're a good looking guy—FUCK me. I mean…"

"Pete, slow down. No, I mean really—slow down!" Pete dropped his foot from the accelerator and Clark sighed in relief. "I understand what you were trying to say in the middle of all that panicking and thanks. I get it. And me too, Little Prince."

They were in Clark's driveway blessedly in one piece, watching the sun set the sky on fire. Clark smiled. The cows were shuffling about, muttering impatiently and waiting for him to come out. In a few minutes, he'd bring them in for the night, feed them—do the normal things he did every night. Normal things, like watching the bats come out for their evening dance, dipping and diving for night insects, and listening to the sleepy cooing and trilling of the doves that lived in the barn rafters, probably bird talk for 'keep away from my nest or I'll fuck you up'. He liked having that stuff in his life, the plain old average stuff….

"I like being out here in the evening, it's so peaceful. I even like the way it smells, you know?" Pete said. He sighed. "Have you told your mom and dad about this?"

"That you like the smell of cow-pooh?" He dodged an elbow with a snicker. "No, not yet. I'm kind of just really dealing with it now myself." Sort of. "I haven't really…done anything about it."

"Oh! So you never? Man, no disrespect but I can’t see it. I could never give up tits. I love tits, man. I love it the way they kind of squish against my chest…I love squeezing them, love the way they fill up my hands...I love when you can feel her nipples getting hard against your palm…it makes me—"

Pete made little grabby hand movements and Clark laid a gentle restraining hand on his arm. "This has gone beyond the realm of guy talk into inappropriate sharing, dude."

"Oh! Sorry man—am I grossing you out?"

"No Pete, far from grossing me out. Really embarrassingly far from it."

Pete looked confused for a moment and then enlightenment dawned. "Oh—Shit. Sorry!" He laughed. "Man, sorry! And yuck, too."

"S'okay, Pete. I liked that stuff too, you know. It's just…I like this other stuff too."

"Hey--maybe you're bi," Pete said, like suddenly that made it a little bit more okay.

Clark shrugged, annoyed. "Maybe. Anyway, I've got a lot of ladies who want my attention right now. See ya tomorrow?"

Pete nodded---and stuck his hand out. "You're my friend, Clarkbar, forever, no matter what—don’t you ever forget that."

Clark beamed, and took Pete's hand. "I hoped so, Pete, and I appreciate that. I really do. My little prince."

Pete snorted, and tore off down the drive in reverse. Fuck, Pete…Dad's going to have a fit.

12

"So, I'm standing at the concessions with Nik, right, and Bill comes in and I didn’t even know he was going to that movie and you know what the fucker does, blows right past me like I ain't there. Why would he do that? Plus come to the movie when I had to have Nik's brother drop us off, my car's not working and why? 'Cause Bill's too damn busy to help a brother out—anyway Nik is pulling on my arm whining about popcorn and I'm still trying to figure out why my boy dissed me and—"

Saturday night, and the crew had decided on a movie night. Billy, Whit and Jason couldn't make it, but the rest of the guys were milling around in the lobby waiting to get tickets. Clark was listening to Roger describe how Billy had rudely ignored him and dampened the thrill of his date with his girl—'Nik'. Nikki with an 'I', no 'E'. Yeah.

Pete glanced at Clark and rolled his eyes. With a tone of deepest suffering, he said to Roger, "Okay, Powder, you dork ass motherfucker. Take a breath. We talked about that shit already--what not to do? No fist bump, no diss, no 'this is how I roll'? And Billy should kick your ass. You've been treating him like shit since you been seeing this girl." He turned to Clark. "And shouldn't I be able to kick Billy's ass for leaving us with this yatz?"

Clark shook his head. "Yutz. And no, you can't kick Billy's—well, maybe a little. You're such a yutz," he told Roger.

"Fuck, what the hell, are we girls? I gotta call him and tell him what's going on?" Roger would have said more but the girls came out of the bathroom and what was the deal with that anyway? Did they have some odd herd instinct that made them huddle up like that to pee…or was it that they couldn't stand to be alone with the guys for that long and if that was the case he totally got it, he really did and stared hard at Roger and Greg.

"What?" Chloe Sullivan, the beloved offspring of their boss, Mr. Gabe's pride and joy, was smiling at Pete, and looked kind of happy to be there with him. Clark was amazed, pleased for Pete, and planned to find out just how he did that.

Pete smiled at her. "Oh, nothing. There was a crazy man in here, but Clark chased him off." He looked pointedly at Rog, who clamped his mouth shut and frowned. Pete shook his head and walked away, Chloe and Nik followed. Roger wanted to follow too, but Clark planted a big hand in the middle of his wire thin chest. He stared down at Roger. Roger, with his big fake chain studded with big fake gems, and his fake flea market jeans, and fake glass in his ears. He leaned closely, said quietly in his ear, "So, how often *did* you and Billy do it?"

Roger turned paler than Clark could ever have thought possible and froze. "How—what—" He stuttered to a stop. "You're crazy, you're making shit up." He wilted under Clark's stare. "We're not gay—you *know* I'm not gay—didn’t mean anything," he mumbled so low that only Clark could hear.

"Maybe Billy's feeling different about this than you are. Maybe, he's not a big effing coward like some I could name—and just what the ish is your name this week, Rog?"

"Fuck you, and stop calling him Billy. It makes him sound like he's twelve!" Roger looked ill. "If you spread that crazy shit around, it'll make my life—I finally started to get shit under lock, Clark--please don’t say anything to anyone."

"See, Rog, that's why you're lucky you're *Billy's* friend. Because *Billy* might eventually teach you how to be a decent person. Because *Billy* would never even have asked me, let alone begged me, not to say anything—he would have known I wouldn't. Just--get away from me."

"Faggot," Roger muttered and started to walk away.

Clark bristled and then, calmed himself, pasted on a bright smile and called out, "Hey Roger, you talk to Billy, tell him I'd like for him to give me a call, okay?"

It was kind of catty and shit, but it felt *good.* He thought he might be able to get the hang of being a dick.

13
Whit called him late that night, asked him to come out and meet him at the elementary school. Clark explained that he had a curfew, unlike graduates, who apparently could come and go as they pleased. Three o'clock in the a-crack of the morning was not a time his parents allowed him to stroll about…he told Whit all this as he was getting out of bed, pulling on his boots and jeans. He jumped out of his bedroom window. He hit the ground kind of hard, must have been the weight of all that guilt….

He never, ever broke curfew, he never lied to his parents—not real lies anyway, never skipped school, never did anything his parents told him not to—well, you know, the major things—don't get high, don't stab anybody, don't rob a bank…He found Whit out on the playground, led to him by the gleam of the burning ember of a cigarette. He came a little closer. Ah. Not a cigarette. Whit was sitting in one of the swings and looking unhappy. Which was a real mild way to describe how Whit looked.

"Hi, I'm here. I'm in deep crap and my parents will have matching aneurysms if they find out, but…I'm here."

Clark," Whit breathed and dropped the end into the sand under the swing. "Thanks. I'm sorry, I just don’t. I don’t really have anyone I can talk to talk to, y'know?"

"Oh yeah," Clark said and sat in the swing next to his. "Lucky you, I'm famous for being able to talk to. Where's your—your friend?"

"Jay? Jay's…at home."

He looked so lost, so broken, Clark blurted out, "I think I know what's going on with Jason and his mom—" Brilliant, just brilliant… and waited for Whit to yell, or run, or tell him he was imagining stupid shit which honestly, that's what he was hoping for because no parent should do that to a child….

Whit snapped his head around and stared at Clark, his mouth working, before sagging in the swing. He looked about twelve, Clark thought, like he needed a hug so bad, so Clark slid off his swing and dropped to the ground in front of Whit, wrapped his arms around him. "Whit…Whit…"

Whit threw his head back to the sky, blinking hard. "God--this shit with him is killing me. I can hardly deal with it anymore. I don’t *want* to deal with it. And I feel like a massive dick anytime I say that out loud…I'm supposed to deal with it right? Supposed to have his back? Just…Fuck! Why doesn't he do anything to help himself? Why drop it all on me? Fuck."

"Hey, it's a lot. The adults have a hard time with it, what makes you think that it should be easy for you?" Clark rubbed Whit's back, careful not to linger, or let his heat sink into his palm, or rub his bare arm, tight muscles and creamy smooth skin and tiny hairs that tickled his palm in a way that made him swell a little—Clark yanked his hand away. "S-stop beating yourself up over it. Can’t you get him to do something? Talk to someone? Or…tell his mother to stop or else?" Nice, Clark—get a stiffy consoling your fucked up desperate semi-boss…

Whit laughed, high and loud. "You haven't seen his mom pissed off. She's a scary bitch. No one believes just how freaking scary she can be, and…she knows Jason won’t hit her. She knows he loves her…Bitch. I fuckin' hate her. He tries so hard and she uses it against him—" He wiped at his face. Clark felt twice as bad, and rubbed his back some more. But platonically, completely platonically. Fuck, he was such a horny dick…

"Whitney. If you're that worried about him, tell someone. Tell his doctor—"

"Are you kidding? He's been in and out of that jerk's office and he hasn't picked up on it by now? Either he's an incompetent asshole, or Teague's got him wrapped around her little finger."

Clark huffed. "Yeah…Whit, let me take you home." Whit looked up at him, sighed and handed Clark his keys.

"Okay."

They drove home, silent for miles, each lost in their own thoughts until Whit said, "Did you sleep with Jason, that day he was supposed to take my truck home?"

Clark sputtered, "What? No! What, are you guys playing hockey with me or something? No I didn't sleep with Jason." Silence. "I wanted to."

"Geez, Clark, do you ever have any fucking thought you keep to yourself? Besides, you know you don’t mean that."

"Why not? Am I supposed to be a priest or something? You really have some kind of screwed up idea of who I am. Jason's hot, he's hot as hell and you—" Clark shook his head. "Anyway, I don’t think Jay can even *think* about anyone else but you."

Whit smiled. "Um. Don't sell yourself short, Clark. I think everyone wants to get to know you."

Clark blushed. He doubted that, but it made him happy that Whit thought that even as it made him feel guilty that Whit wanted him. Maybe just a bit more than wanted him.

After he dropped Whit and his truck at home and managed to make him to believe that yes, he'd be fine walking back, really, no worries, he ran over to the Teague place.

It sat up on a hill, looking over a little copse of trees, a long curving drive led directly to the multi car garage that sat opposite the house. The house wasn't huge, but it was nice. He liked the way it looked, friendly, inviting—kind of a hunting lodge look in a way. There was a porch that went all around the house with those wooden deck chairs sitting on it, and hanging flowers in baskets that Jason probably took care of. A chest high wall of river rock lined one side of the drive and wrapped around to the back of the house. It was almost five in the morning, and lights were on in one wing of the house…he shook his head and got ready to run home when some odd noise stopped him. He looked around the grounds, looking to see if there was some animal in distress, but he didn't see anything out of the ordinary—and then the sound came again. Someone was saying stop over and over. Jason was asking his mother to stop…

Clark took a deep shaky breath. Should he go in and take Jason out of there? He listened against his will to the sounds coming from the house…he backpedaled from the house, stepping faster and faster, putting distance between himself and the sound—he should be running forward, towards the house. He just couldn't.

It seemed really wrong to get home and find out no one missed him. He jumped up into his bedroom window. He walked around his room, took his boots off. He pulled his jeans off and draped them over his desk chair. He studied the posters on his wall, the pictures on his bulletin board. Turned his TV on and watched a program that might have been about selling dusters, but could also have been about selling overly talkative blonde housewives…He lay on his bed and suddenly he was freezing, he couldn't get warm. He slid under the cover, but he only had a sheet and a throw on the bed—he never got cold, winter, fall—God he was freezing now. His teeth chattered, and he got up and pulled a sweatshirt over his tee, and pulled on a track jacket, and put boot socks on, and wrapped back up in the sheets and shook and shook until finally he fell into deep dreamless sleep.

14
"Okay little girls, up and at 'em. We've got a shit-load of jobs today, that Luthor job put us behind and the assholes are bitching. Rich people—I fucking hate them. And no eye-rolling and oh-so-sardonic comments, especially from you, *Ross*."

Whit stood behind his boyfriend, tucked a cigarette up behind his ear and snickered as Jason went on to describe the depth to which he hated rich people, including the rich people on the crew playing at being 'just average folks'. Clark couldn't bring himself to mock Jason in his mind, the way he usually did, in fact he winced when Pete called him Sister John Wayne under his breath, possibly loud enough to be heard in the Amazon rainforests. He knew now what pain Jason's crabby attitude covered. He understood Whit now more than ever, and now he understood Jason too. He realized that the guy was braver than anyone knew. When Pete went on to describe Jason in an intimate act with a porcupine and a shoe horn Clark shushed him. Pete looked at Clark as if he had two heads. Clark smiled back weakly.

The crew began loading the trucks while Jason struggled with the full insulated water jug and Clark watched him struggle alone. Not this time...he went to help him.

"Yo--get *off*, you freakish asshole. You'll make me drop it."

He tried to elbow Clark aside without dropping the jug, and Clark tried to wrestle the cooler out of his hands. "I'm trying to help you—"

"Did I *ask* you to help me, assface?" he snapped. "Get lost—go do something useful, you dumb fuck."

"But Jay, you can hardly carry it—"

"I can so, and my name is *Jason*, motherfucker." He tried to kick Clark. "For fucks sake you dumb fuck—fuck off!"

Clark bristled. "You know what, you're—you're a huge *a-hole*! And you'd be a freaking *mute* if they took the eff word out of the language, you ungrateful creep!"

Jason manhandled the cooler onto the back of the truck and twisted fisted hands under his eyes. "Oh, Oh! Boo-hoo-hoo. Someone told wittle Clarkie to fuck off and broke his wittle sensitive heart and shit. When I want your fucking help Kent, I'll ask for it." Clark was furious—Jay was a huge fucking dick—really a major asshole, what made him think he wasn't?

Jason jumped off the truck and walked off, and Clark saw what he'd been mostly successful at hiding--a limp. Fuck. And just like that, he felt like the worst kind of shit. Deeply and completely. Whit was walking past--he stopped Jason, and said something to him, and Jason shook his head. Whit cupped the back of his skull, made a fist in Jason's short hair and shook him. It sent a painful sort of thrill through Clark, it was so open--a show of real affection between the two of them. Clark could hear Jason laugh and Whit slapped him on the back and walked away. Clark knew Whit felt Jason flinch, but he didn’t ask, or look…it was all in his eyes as he walked away from Jay. Whit wasn't being callous; he was letting him hold onto whatever shards of self-respect he had.

Clark had thought that morning he knew all about everything, understood everything, now he realized he didn’t know shit about anything.

15
The rapper turned out not to be. He was just a guy with a lot of money, a lot of cars, Roger's fashion sense and a real estate license. His place was a prime example of how much Lowell County was changing, though. A gated community of McMansionettes were scattered across a few acres that used to be wheat farms. Rich folks, the kind Jason couldn't stand, were enjoying what they perceived as the somewhat exotic call of the bucolic life. Or so Jason explained it, only with a lot more sneering and spitting in disgust.

Clark was coming to see that Jason might be just a little prejudiced.

They came in through the back gate, parked their trucks on a driveway wide enough to be a helipad—hell, maybe it was. The lawn was a wide, cushiony expanse of emerald green, broken up by beds of shrubbery, flowers and trees. There was a water feature, a pond with its own little waterfall, and Clark thought that was nice, especially the koi dashing here and there through the water. He wondered how they kept the raccoons from eating all the fish. Whit noticed him looking into the pond, and said with a wry smile, "I bet they restock that sucker all the damn time." Clark grinned at him. Whit always knew what he was thinking.

"Okay, okay," Jason yelled, "Enough gawking girls, let's get cooking—go, go, go!"

Pete groaned. "You heard Sergeant Slaughter, let's go, go, go…Jesus." They jogged over to the truck, just in time to see Greg decked out and ready to work. Clark grinned. Really, he looked like a goofy giant preying mantis with his goggles and earmuffs on, his thin frame almost bowing under the bulk of the gas leaf blower. "Are you okay with that?" Clark asked.

Greg got a little huffy at Clark's apparent insinuation that he was too slight to handle the blower. "Just worry about yourself," he snapped. Billy came up besides him, looking like Greg's preying mantis twin.

"Greg, are you all right?" Billy asked, and looked surprised when Greg snapped at him too, before storming off. Billy huffed. "Is it me, or is he developing into a little prima donna?"

Pete said, "If by prima donna you mean crabby ass little bitch, yeah. Have fun working with him—come on, Cee, we got shrubs to murder. Moo-hahaha." He waved the trimmer around with an insane look of glee, and really, he was enjoying the thought of trimming defenseless shrubbery entirely too much. Clark grabbed a couple of transplanting spades from the truck, tossed a pair of gloves at Pete and tucked a pair into his own back pocket—appearance counted--and followed Pete.

They worked side by side, Clark edging the bed and Pete humming as he reduced scraggly bushes into shapes not found in nature, and along the way, Clark finally managed to find out what the deal was concerning Pete and Chloe.

"Well, I've thought she was cute for a long time. You know she's the editor of the Torch?" Clark nodded. He knew that—kind of. "Well, sometimes I'd bring in some stuff about the team, and we'd talk, you know, and I found out she's more than just pretty, she's funny, and smart as hell—a little odd too, but that just makes it more interesting…"

They walked over to another artful puddle of shrubbery and trees. They switched, Pete taking the spade and Clark taking the hedge trimmers. "So when we got this job, I thought, finally—a chance to really get to really get to know her. And you know, maybe hang out around the office without a shirt on…"

"Oh." Clark knew Chloe slightly. She seemed nice—enthusiastic. Clark didn't get involved in school very much, not unless it directly involved his classes, he wasn't really allowed to. Mom and Dad would rather that he restrict his friends until they felt he was ready to handle having all the abilities he had and could control them without thinking, which he really did understand, sure…he swallowed. Clark thought, he'd never done anything they didn't like, not until he became friends or whatever it was they were, with Whit.

Pete went on, used to a lot of his conversations with Clark being somewhat one-sided. "She's a great person. And not just because she hands me my checks," he laughed and then smiled shyly. "You know, I think maybe she really, *really* likes me back."

Clark nodded, stared out over the lawn, and watched the peacocks that the guy owned for some reason, stalking around the spacious lawn. Peacocks…he shrugged. Whatever floats your boat. Oh, hang on a minute…oh, man this is too good… Clark elbowed Pete, "Yeah…hey, look at the peacocks. They're stalking Whit and Jason."

Pete sighed, stopped talking, and leaned on his shovel. "What?" The birds were circling behind the two leads as they worked, blithely unaware of their feathered audience. "Yeah, so what?"

"Watch."

As they watched, the cock spread its tail feathers, kind of quivered all over and let out a noise like a cat exploding. The sound rolled out over the lawn, loud as hell. The two guys shot straight up into the air…"People keep them kind of like watchdogs," Clark said mildly.

"You knew that was going to happen?" Pete asked, and fell out laughing at Clark's grin. "Did you see how high Dickface jumped? Wow," he gasped. "That was so damn good I would have paid to see that."

Clark tried not to laugh out loud as Whit struggled with a yelling Jason, trying to keep him from killing the peacock with a shovel. "Yeah," he snickered. "Me, too." Because there was guilt and there was feeling bad, but there was also watching someone get the crap scared out of them and really…what could be more important than that?

They were still snickering—very quietly--about it when they stopped at the lot to pick up the car. Billy walked past Roger, who was waiting to be picked up by his girlfriend, and asked Clark if he would like a ride home, and Clark said loudly and clearly, "Yes, thanks Billy. I would."

Pete raised an eyebrow, and Clark told him he'd call him later, with a significant look, and Pete said, "Oh. Kay." There would be explaining to do. Roger watched Clark and Billy drive out of the lot like he had the x-ray vision.

They drove along listening to the radio, and then Billy hesitantly asked Clark if he wanted to go straight home. Clark weighed the options, calculated the odds Dad would let him…"Ah, let me call home and see if it's okay."

Billy smiled. "Oh, well, everyone knows your parents are kind of strict. I'll just take you home now so you don’t get in trouble." He looked out through the windshield with a pleasant little smile still turning up the corners of his mouth. Clark watched Billy be strange, smiling like a toothpaste commercial…oh. Oh!

Billy thought he was making excuses. He was smiling, even though he thought he was being rejected…that sucked. Clark took out his phone and called, and after a few minutes negotiation, smiled at Billy. "It's okay—I can hang for a little bit."

Billy looked surprised. "You mean…you really had to ask permission? Oh. I thought you just wanted to avoid being alone with me."

"Why?"

"Because you know. About me."

"Well, yes. And that's not a problem for me. It's been …an interesting summer so far, Billy."

16
"Wow, you live all by yourself? That's great."

"Not really. My—unh--I didn't have a lot of choice. But I am glad to have this apartment. I've been living around for a bit. Rog's mom let me use her address for school, but I kind of floated from here to there, really."

Clark glanced at Billy, but he was blank—being Billy. He'd never let on, ever, that his life was less than normal. Clark felt vaguely guilty, as if he should have known. He looked around the little one room apartment. It was super neat, and one wall had bookcases stacked on top of each other so that from floor to ceiling there were books, books about all kinds of things. There were some inexpensive framed prints on the walls, and one shelf held an odd assortment of figurines, soldiers and knights out of metal and resin and china…Noticing his interest, Billy came to look with him "I collect them," he said. "I like stories about the little guy winning out against impossible odds—like St.George, you know? Silly, but I like it."

"Not silly. What about this Saint George?"

Billy waved a hand, dismissing any importance to what he'd said. "Aah, it's a story I heard a long time ago. I just liked it and…my mom gave me the knight that started all this crap. Called it St. George. That one." He pointed out a sad little chewed on plastic knight, the kind you used to be able to get a dozen in a plastic bag at the Safeway. "She gave it to me before she got…really sick, and couldn't take care of me anymore. It's still my favorite one."

Clark nodded. "Cool." Clark had a pretty good idea the story wasn't that simple or neat….he casually led them away from the bookcase. That pathetic little knight was going to make him cry.

They made popcorn and watched a movie, and sat on the ugly couch in the middle of the room. After a bit, Clark yawned. Billy made a move to get up. "I'll take you home."

Clark said, "Nah, I still have some time. But my legs are killing me on this tiny torture device you have the nerve to call a couch." He shifted, raised his eyebrows and held his legs out and Billy nodded, "sure."

Clark laid his legs across Billy's lap, and suddenly he just couldn't get comfortable. He fidgeted, wiggled, and shifted his legs around, moving this way and that until Billy threw his head back and groaned. "Jesus Clark—you've got to stop moving—sorry."

Clark was suddenly aware of the warm bulge under his calves, realized that every time he shifted he was rubbing against Billy, and Billy was…reacting. "Oh crap, Billy--I'm sorry—I didn’t know—" he tried to draw his legs back and Billy gasped.

"Clark..."

"Um. Billy, why can't I just kind of…leave them there? Or…maybe…"

Billy shoved his legs off harder than he expected, and he almost hit the floor. "Uh-unh. Not me, I'm not the one. If you're curious about stuff, go find Whit. He'll show you anything you want to know." He stood, and Clark had a weird combination of feelings—kind of proud that he had that effect on Billy, and kind of dickish about trying for more…

"But Billy, I don’t mean that—well, maybe some. And what's wrong with it if we do? Rog is such an a-hole. Why should you hang around alone, waiting for him to make up his mind…such as it is."

Billy's lips twitched and his eyes glittered, but the look he leveled at Clark was his usual deadpan face. "Clark, gotta say, that's awful generous and self-sacrificing of you," he said dryly, "but I don't need anyone to hold my hand."

Clark's brain let his mouth out to play without a leash, again. "I wasn't planning on holding your hand," he said with a waggle of eyebrow and a look that was meant to be a leer.

Billy snorted. "Smooth," he said. "Might be one reason you're still a virgin." Clark didn’t even try to protest. Billy knelt on the floor next to him, and brushed his lips against Clark's. Clark tried to kiss back, but Billy stuck a hand in his chest, and clamped the other hand on his thigh. "Stop—oh. Damn." He squeezed. "Fuck Clark, you're like an ox. So fucking big."

Clark bit his lip, and flushed. By the grace of God, he kept any stupid comments trapped inside and just tried to move subtly, so that Billy was grabbing his cock instead of his thigh, but Billy was too clever for him and moved.

"Clark…you're hot as the sun, but I have a thing for stupid white boys in wave caps. Plus, I swear, wild horses couldn’t get me to strip in front of *you*."

"Me? Why not? You're a pretty hot guy, Billy. Way hotter than Roger deserves," he mumbled.

"Clark, you visit here whenever you want, I like talking to you. Out of everyone in town, I think you probably understand the most. Plus, I'd like to help you—in a non-sexual way—with your kind of suddenly discovered bisexuality. And? You need to talk to Whit."

"What the eff, Billy. Why do you keep bringing him up? Besides he's got a- a—" he laughed bitterly. "A lot of people. You know what I mean."

Billy sat next to Clark, and Clark scooted closer, still a little hopeful, but one look at Billy's face told him to abandon hope. "I know. But the fact remains, when he thinks no one's looking, he stares at you like you’re the last steak on the planet. He doesn’t look at Jason like that—God knows what he sees in Attila the asshole. He doesn’t look like that at Lana either, poor kid."

"So, you're blowing me off, and throwing me at Whit in one breath? 'Cause you don’t like Jason?"

"Because you like Whit," Billy said. "A lot. And you'd be better for him than Jason."

Clark thought about it, not too sure about that at all. He turned to Billy. "So, no making out? I'm kidding, I'm kidding…pretty much."

"You're fun Clark, loads of fun--"

Whatever Billy was going to say next was interrupted by a volley of bangs at the front door, before it flew open. Roger was there with a pizza and a scowl, wearing no-name jeans, a store brand polo shirt and no chains. Clark barely recognized him.

"Hey. I brought pizza…and a movie too. Some pop."

He looked angry, but Billy stood and took the stuff and smiled as he invited Roger in. "Plenty room for one more, Rog."

"I don’t want to intrude," he said, looking daggers at Clark, who blushed a little but was determined not to feel guilty. He stood, stretched, and casually disengaged from the lumpy embrace of Billy's really god-awful uncomfortable couch.

"No, really, I have to go now anyway. As my dad says, the cows won’t milk themselves." God, be more stupid why don't you?

Roger smirked. "Guess not." Billy came up and stood next to him, to say good bye to Clark and Roger said, "Bye Clark." and stared pointedly at the door.

Okay. So… Mr. WannaBe Eminem doesn't touch Billy but no one else does either? "What an a-hole," Clark muttered as he trotted down the stairs back to the street.

Clark ran home, thinking that maybe he wasn't just an alien, maybe living in SV had given him some sort of mutation, like everyone else…maybe he had some sort of power to get other people together and wasn't that just lovely? Yeah.

So much for his Summer Of Getting Laid….

17
Their last job of the day was the Luthor place. When they pulled up, there was a lot of activity going on. Trucks, cars…"Looks like someone's moving in," Greg said.

"Yeah, maybe we can get inside the place, y'think?" Roger said.

"Keep moving girls, keep moving." Jason snapped. Whit smiled and directed the guys to their jobs for the day. Clark came up behind him, and peered over his shoulder at what was happening on the driveway.

"Hey, it looks like some body's moving in finally, hunh? Wonder if it's the Luthors or did they finally sell the place? Say, did I ever tell you about the time I almost met Lex Luth—"

"Clark—the mower's waiting for you. How about a little less yakking and a little more working?" Whit walked away without a backward glance. Clark was furious. What an asshole—

"Oh, and take your friend Billy with you, I wouldn’t want him to get lonely."

WHAT? Clark gaped after Whit. The hell—oh hell no. Who the fuck did he think he was—being all bitchy and jealous? How dare he! Wait, wait…he was jealous? Clark grinned from ear to ear. He was jealous. Oh hell yeah—wait. Wait. So fucking what, Whit was involved with Jay…Clark groaned. His head hurt. Fuck this; he was going to go murder some weeds.

They worked all day getting the pool area in shape. The pool guys were doing final checks on the water—it glistened like sapphires in the sunlight, it's cool watery bosom beckoned seductively…it slowly raised it's legs and exposed the gleaming center of…Clark gulped, looked around guiltily. Geez. He wiped his sweating forehead, and fanned himself with the hem of his shirt. Sometimes…things just went a little…odd…in the sun.

Greg and Pete chatted quietly as they weeded the beds that lined the wall around the pool, Billy and Roger edged the beds, and watered the potted palms that had magically appeared around the pool, Whit pruned the wicker baskets of exotic plants hanging from the rafters of the pergola stepped back from the pool, and Jason mowed the swath of grass that separated the pool area from the box maze and sunken gardens. There he was, arrogant as hell, riding the back of the mower, shirt stuffed into the back of his shorts, earmuffs and goggles that were unfairly *not* making him look like a doofus. He turned the mower and Clark watched a whole delightful series of muscles leap into play, eager to help Jason make the turn, skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat, and he'd glow like gold in the sun if Clark could add a little moisture of his own--FUCK. Clark shook his head hard. Damn it! Between sun buzz and alien sex heat spore what-the-fuck, he might just die…man, being teenaged and hormone-driven sucked ass.

Clark turned his attention away from Apollo driving his chariot over the lawn and towards the relatively safer contemplation of the pool.

Yeah.

Whit walked across the tiled floor of the pool enclosure, his shirt over his head and his chest bare. Try. Not. To. Stare. Clark tried, he really tried not to stare, but the way muscles moved over Whit's ribs, the way his calves bunched and stretched, the way, oh my, his ass shifted…Clark closed his eyes, and he yanked the hem of shirt down far as he could, and asked Greg if the cabana bathroom worked now.

"Yes—God. I don’t want to know you've got to use the facilities."

"Yeah, well, normally I'd just piss against a tree but with all these people around—"

Greg gagged and walked away.

Clark found the bathroom, slipped in and locked the door. He sighed in relief. Now he could indulge himself and imagine that walk in slow motion, only this time, Whit was walking towards him.

Smiled right at him, the sun reflected from his hair, lit it like a golden halo. His eyes glowed, and he whispered Clark's name, licked his lips. He unbuttoned the top button of his shorts, and ran a big corded hand up his stomach, over his nipples, tweaked them and mouthed Clark's name again. His hand slid into the gaping waistband of his shorts, bunched under the material and his eyes narrowed, he hissed a little, pushed downward…the shorts dropped…his cock sprang up, red and hard and leaking. He ran a finger up the throbbing shaft, circled the head, slick with pre-come, stuck the finger in his mouth and licked it like a lollipop. Clark, he moaned, and maybe there were muted saxophones in the background… God, I need you, Clark, I need your mouth, need your ass… Clark bit his lip and moaned. This was a pretty good fantasy, usually he just imagined Whit grabbing him, flipping him on his stomach, and fucking the heck out of him, with lots less shiny lights and glowing hair. God! He shuddered all over, and was just about to imagine Whit bending him over, teasing him and pushing his fingers slowly into him, when the whole idea just became too much for his body, it grabbed him by the balls and said, Go!

He went. He tried like crazy not to moan out loud, his knees buckled, his breath left him in loud harsh gasps…and damn, but it felt good.

He cleaned up, directed a little embarrassed and loopy grin at the red-faced goofball smirking back at him from the mirror over the double sinks. He washed his face in ice cold water, but it was still stoplight red. Sure, his body was invulnerable—but it couldn’t stop his blood vessels from misbehaving? He tried a look of nonchalance and realized he was really, really bad at nonchalance. The look was more like massive guilt teetering on the edge of insanity…

He walked out of the bathroom whistling and Whit and Jason were sitting on the diving board at one corner of the pool. They gaped at him, and then, burst out laughing. It was the damn whistling…when was he going to realize no one outside of a book whistled casually? Oh fuck you both. He smiled and walked off and tried to act like he wasn't horribly red and sweating and hadn't just jerked off to a vision of Whit that was only missing the porn track. They couldn’t know…could they?

18
They packed up the truck and Whit called them over. He smiled, a wicked little grin that made Clark grin watching him. "Okay, Gabe said he'd murder us if we got into the pool because that would not be professional. It would be a bad thing, a childish and awful thing. So, you have five minutes to call who you want, limited to SOs and there's beer in the cooler under the front seat of the big truck. And don't pee in the pool." He laughed as the guys whooped and pulled out cell phones. Clark looked over at Pete to see who he was calling—"Chloe, you idiot? Remember who her pop is? Mr. Sign Our Checks, Mr. Keep Your Butts Out Of The Pool?"

Pete waved Clark to silence, his face twisted with irritation. "Chloe's not stupid, besides the boy said S.O. She is my S.O."

"Awww, that's so sweet, Little CCP." At Pete's look, he explained, "Creamed Corn Prince." He had to use a shade of super-speed avoiding Pete, to keep him from breaking toes on his shins.

Sooo…what happened was, a crowd showed up. Kind of a big crowd. More people than could account for SOs—unless everyone was into threesomes…in short order, there was a noisy party in full swing down at the old Luthor manse.

The noise level dropped suddenly. For a long couple of seconds, there was only the sound of water lapping against the pool sides…Clark was seized with an irresistible urge to start a slow clap. He glanced at Pete and from the twitch of his lip, he must have been experiencing the same impulse…instead he whispered in a typical 'they can hear you in space' Pete Ross whisper, "I think we got busted by the Pool Nazi."

The pool guy came over, outrage written all over his face. Whit cursed softly. "Ohhh, shit. It was nice having you, job. I'm going to miss you…God damn."

Jason snorted. "Yeah, sure. Fuck that." He strolled over with a big friendly smile, hands shoved deep in his pockets, it made his shoulders rise, and even though he was taller than the pool guy, he managed to give the impression he wasn't, he appeared to be looking up at the guy through his eyelashes and was so the very picture of innocence that Clark was hard pressed not to throw him down and roll around on him like a Labrador Retriever--I found it and it's mine mine *mine*

"What's up," Jason said. "You work here?"

"You're not supposed to be in the pool—or still on the property. I could call the police—" Clark heard the slight emphasis on 'could', and Jason smiled even wider.

"Come on over here, and let me talk to you…" He raised an eyebrow in question.

"John," the pool guy said, slightly suspiciously, but with growing interest. Jason threw his arm around John's shoulder and led him towards the back of the pool house, chatting away like a game show host.

Whit seemed concerned—he kept looking toward the dark corner Jason'd led the pool guy to. Clark glanced at Whit, and to the shadowed corner, back at Whit…Oh gosh—Whit thinks—but that's stupid. Jay's not….he wouldn't—ever. Clark glared at Whit. What the hell was wrong with him?

Did Jason *do* that kind of thing?

He was just about to chew Whit out when Jason came strolling back with John, who was all smiles, winking and waving. "Party on, peoples, party on…" He walked back to the house and after a bit, they heard the sound of a truck on its way off the grounds.

Whit huffed, "What did you do to make him change his mind?"

"Shit, I ended up giving that guy like two hundred bucks to shut up about this—the motherfucking shark."

"Oh!" Whit turned a deep red. "Oh," he stammered. "I…"

"What did you—dude! What the fuck, you fucking—fuck! Even though *I* should have gotten a mother fuckin' blow job, as much money as I spent to keep these high school fucks happy."

Whit glanced around, and Clark was a little miffed, or maybe a little bit turned on—shit, he could never tell what it was he was feeling around these guys--when Whit leered at Jason, said, "It could happen."

"Yeah?" Jason smiled, and pinked a little, glanced shyly away. "Okay."

Clark wished the alien spores would just hurry up and kill him, for God's sake.

The little impromptu party chugged along. Rules where, no one was to go in the house or they died, no one fuck up anything or again, the offending party died, no one vomit or throw a condom in the pool or Jason was sure as hell going to kill a bitch, other than that he didn't give a damn what anyone did. Whit amended that to, "Look, don’t be stupid. You know what being stupid is. Don't make me regret deciding to trust you."

Clark gaped after Whit. Damn…had he just given the Whit version of Dad's "don’t disappoint me" talk?"

Clark didn’t get a chance to talk to Whit or Jason after that, Whit kept dragging Jay off into dark corners, and after a while, it didn't matter…an empty Miller provided the means to play a childhood favorite—spin the bottle. Only not like in those days, the pointed-at-ee had to kiss whoever was the spinner—regardless of gender. And the more liquid and not liquid refreshment was consumed, the more hilarious it got. Or not. Roger had his mouth over Nkki with an I's, kissing like there was no tomorrow, and Clark glanced over at Billy. He was blandly smiling…the sight made Clark want to put his foot into Rog's narrow ass. Boy…just *let* that bottle point at Billy…all fuckin' SV would be talking….

The music made a lovely background to the sound of people hissing and ooooing…Pete swung the bottle and it chittered and chattered on the tile as it swung, pointed at Chloe, who was braving possible life-long grounding by being there with her boyfriend…it swept slowly, majestically past her and finally came to rest… pointed at Clark. Oh *my*, it sounded like George Taki had invaded his mind....

Pete gaped, swallowed a time or two. "Ooookay. Um. Pucker up, Clark."

Clark grinned and scooted across the tiles to sit next to Pete. Right before he kissed Pete, he joked, "So, tongue or no tongue?" Which in retrospect might not have been the smartest thing to do, because as his lips were touching Pete's, Pete's were opening to ask, "what?"

And so it ended up being a kiss with tongue… Clark enjoyed the soft cushiony kiss almost as much as he enjoyed Pete's startled yelp. He was sorely tempted, but he kept it as platonic as a kiss that featured your best friend's tongue practically in your mouth could be.

"Thanks, Pete," he grinned as the crowd woowooed and behaved in general like a crowd of seven year olds hyped up on sugar. The bottle swung around and around again, magically pointing out only hetero kisses--until Clark swung the bottle again with a wink and a lascivious lip lick at Pete who laughed uncomfortably.

Critch-crackle-slide…it swung around and wobbled slower and slower and when it stopped, it was pointing at Billy.

There was a long second of non-movement and then Clark shrugged, "My lucky day, I guess." There was a little buzz of speculation, of *course* and I told you so as he walked over to Billy, knelt on the tiles and touched his mouth to his. And touched. And pressed a little, tried a tentative suck to his lower lip—and Billy groaned, yanked Clark's head down and kissed him like he was made of all the kisses in the world. Billy sucked his lip, top, then bottom, pulled Clark's tongue into his mouth and sucked that, lightly, then more, and more, and then, with a gasp released him--and then jumped right back in. Clark was biting Billy's lower lip, and shoving his tongue deeper into his mouth, licking teeth, the roof of his mouth, touching and feeling everywhere inside. He dimly was aware Billy was in his lap and they were naked chest to naked chest and when Billy shifted in his lap, Clark groaned into his chin as his cock jerked awake and—

"Yo—get a mother-fucking room, girls." Jason was kicking him in the ass. "Go cool off," he said, and pushed them over into the pool. Jason himself was sporting a hideous hicky the size and shape of Texas on his neck so Clark thought his reaction was kind of hypocritical. Whit was staring at him like he was the biggest bastard in the world and personally Clark thought he had a damn nerve—fuck that, Roger deserved it. Billy was red-faced and swimming away from him. Damn it, how fucking much had he screwed up?

Clark ignored the cat-calls and swam to the far side of the pool, pulled himself out. He hid in the pool house, lying down on the floor behind the chaise lounges. Okay, he was acting like a little girl, all twisted up and embarrassed. And… he'd really had no reason for what he did besides being caught up in what everyone else was caught up in. Too much sun, too much to think about, too much sex in the air…he closed his eyes and let himself relax. Eventually it'd be safe to come out…he remembered the feel of Billy's mouth and his cock jerked. Billy was a damn good kisser.

He drifted in and out of sleep, listening to the steady splash of water, the creak of the diving board, laughter…he rolled to his side, and drifted, drifted…slowly a sound he didn’t associate with swimming and parties broke through his sleepy mind.

He opened his eyes and despite the dark could see Jason, chest to one of the pillars supporting the pergola roof. Whit was leaning into him, his chin on Jay's shoulder. He was rocking against him…Jason's arms were folded on the pillar, his cheek to Whit. He was whispering…no barrier to Clark…"I love you inside of me…"

Oh no. He saw…Whit's shorts were barely clinging to his hips…their naked backs were to him and all he could see were the long muscles in Whit's back, flexing, his hips rocked into Jason. "I love fucking you."

Jason tilted his head back and said, "You got hard watching him kiss Rainman's fuckbuddy…you wanted it to be you."

"Don't, Jay—"

"You did. Admit it…you want to own him, fuck his ass, his mouth, like you do me..." Jason began moving in a way that made Whit groan and gasp like he couldn't get air…"you want to see your come dripping off that angelic face, want to see him licking it up, sucking you like candy. And you do taste so good, so good."

"God, yeah—I want to, I want you both—"

Clark curled into a ball, and quietly as he could, rolled under one of the chaise lounges set against the wall. He pressed his palms hard against his ears and found to his surprise that he could hear right through his own maybe invulnerable hands which was interesting, because he kind of thought stuffing his fingers in his ears would work. He worked hard to distract himself from what was going on by doing math in his head, singing nursery rhymes, imagining dead stinking pus oozing rotting things of all sorts and came with Jason anyway….

19
Clark was standing in the kitchen, fiercely concentrating on the coffee maker. He'd been up since five, later than his dad, but earlier than his mom, and thought he'd make a fresh pot for them all. He tossed out the dregs of the pot his dad had made and measured grounds out for a new pot. He filled the carafe with water, dumped it in the pot's reservoir and this time managed to get most of it inside the pot and not on the counter. He looked idly around the kitchen while he waited for the coffee…snagged a couple of cookies and chewed…the puppies on the calendar near the back door grabbed his attention, and with a faint metallic taste of shock, he realized it was almost August. Almost time to go back school, for Whit and Jay to start college…for the job to be over. Over.

He chewed snickerdoodles and thought. Gabe had offered them all part-time jobs for the fall and winter—landscaping businesses were busy in the off season too. Jason was leaving of course, and maybe Whit. Pete and Rog were definitely not doing it but Billy said he could use the extra money…Clark was undecided. Maybe…maybe if Whit did it, he would too.

Whit.

Just saying his name did something to him. "Whit," he whispered, tasting it, feeling his name purse his lips, curl his tongue…it was bad if you almost got hard just saying the person's name. Damn it.

Whit. He was in love with Whit. Something like love anyway. Because he wanted more than just shoving his hand down Whit's pants and maybe getting him to return the favor. He wanted Whit to laugh at his jokes the way he did at Jason's—shit, he was at least as funny as Jas—okay, maybe not, but he *wanted* it—he wanted Whit to look at him and smile, and make that little noise when he told a joke that wasn't a giggle only because he was a man, a big guy with big shoulders and a nice big….

"Clark?"

"Oh! Hi Dad—didn't hear you come in." aaaah, scrub brain, scrub brain…

"Really? You didn't? You okay?"

"Of course I am," he started out with a big smile but it collapsed into a shaky frown. "There's something I need to tell you. It's…a big thing."

"Is it bigger than the thing we discussed a couple of years ago?"

"You mean, after that 'nearly getting creamed on the bridge' deal?" Clark huffed and scratched the back of his neck. "Well…maybe. Have you ever…known anyone who was gay?"

"Me? I knew of folks who were--a couple of guys and girls who were out, back in college. No one who was a personal friend though—as far as I know. It's not like it would have been a big deal or anything. Why are you asking--oh God. Don't even—are you trying to tell me—shit. How do you know—no, no wait—don’t tell me. No, no, go ahead and tell me. God, are you sure? Well hell, you must be sure or you wouldn't ask--" Dad stopped, took a deep breath and some color came back to his face. "Wait, wait. Hold on. Okay, okay. Don't get me wrong Clark. You're my son. I'm worried. Even afraid--*for* you. But nothing else changes, okay? You're my son, and I *love* you, no matter what."

Clark didn't think he could speak—shit, he didn't think he could breathe, so he just nodded. Could it really be this easy? He didn’t even have to say anything; his dad just had a little melt down and…and told himself. Heck yeah.

"Are you really sure? I mean, have you even been with a girl? Maybe you're bisexual?"

"Yes, I'm sure. No, I---no." Gaaaaawd, of course nothing was ever be that easy for *him*…Clark sighed. "And…maybe. But right now, I'm not thinking about any girl."

"Oh. So…are you? I mean, seeing someone?"

"Well, I see the person I like everyday…but I've never said anything to them---*him*. To him."

Dad sucked in air, so much Clark worried he was going to implode—he let it out in one long breath. "So. Whit…?"

Clark did a double take that would have made all three Stooges proud. "Holy—how did you know?"

"Tchah—you’re a Kent—you have good taste."

Clark kept smiling but inside his head his brain threw up. Did Dad just try to have a bonding moment over his crush? That was wrong on a bazillion levels. But God, you had to love him—he was trying.

"I hope you don’t get your heart broken, Clark…unrequited love can be pretty painful—"

"Dad. Whit's gay."

"Holy—but what about Lana?" Dad looked so puzzled. And kind of lost.

"Dad, he's in high school sports. He plays football, baseball…gay and sports don't mix. So there you go. And they look good together--she's really cute." Dad looked hopeful for a second so Clark shook his head firmly. "Nope. Definitely Whitney."

"Okay." Dad deflated a little and Clark's heart hurt. He felt kind of guilty asking Dad to cope with more…

"You know, there are some states let you get married, and adopt children and….and live the way you should be able to, you know." Dad looked kind of defiant, like he was going to take on the whole country just for him. Dad. For him it really was about his son's happiness, not his gayness. It made his throat hurt and his eyes blur. "I love you, Dad." Could anybody be this lucky?

Dad shoved back his chair, came around the table and grabbed him. "Hey! Don't cry." Clark rested his forehead on his dad's shoulder and realized--*really* realized—that he was taller and broader than him and it made him feel a little scared, and a lot more watery-eyed. He might have sniffled. Like uncontrollably, for way too many minutes.

"Aw, son, don’t, don't--it'll all be okay, you'll see. It will be fine because we'll make it so. We love you, no matter what." He patted Clark's back, the awkward pats getting more and more confident, as if his dad was discovering that he didn’t need to call his mom for the hugs and kisses part of the feel better program. And in fact, Dad was tilting his head down and bussing him on the forehead. Clark laughed—well, made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"Hey," he said, "I'm not five!"

"Shush—if I want to hug and shmooch my kid, I can. Parental privilege. Now, sit down, I'll get us coffee and you tell me all about this—this new thing. It's not that much different than you getting—well, the x-ray vision thing, right?" He stopped in the act of putting mugs on the table. He asked Clark, "Say…is that how you found out that you were—"

"Dad! Ew. No!" Damn, hadn't even thought of that…wow, gym was going to be awesome—at that moment his brain replayed what Dad said and apologized to Clark. 'I just threw up a little in my temporal lobe, again.'

20
It was warm and yellow, bright. He rolled in deep fluffy piles of cotton, blankets, sheets, clouds…a hand on the back of his neck rubbed soft little circles…a finger lower down rubbed soft little circles between his butt cheeks and he could feel himself opening up, pulse beating in his throat, nice, gentle, warm…he tried to nudge the circling finger deeper inside him, it slipped in and made him feel like he was made of honey, thick, dripping and warm like the sun. Sun…sunsunsunsun…sun goood…He woke up, with the sound of a snore echoing on the edge of his hearing and giggled to himself. Woke himself up snoring...he smiled and arched, stretched arms wide as he could, and plopped back down, started to worm his hand into his waistband. He liked sleeping with his hand splayed out over his tummy…like giving himself a little hug. He sighed again, and giggled sleepily when the grass under him tickled. The sun was shining through the leaves of the oak he was laying under…gosh. Summer was nice. Niiiice. Sun was nice, the cows were nice. Lana was nice…Lana? Oh fuuuck, she was really there. Clark made a supreme effort to pull his sun-buzzed brain back on line. "Hey? Lana?" and reminded himself that you couldn't actually die of embarrassment—no matter how much you wished it was possible.

"Um. Clark. Your mom said I'd find you out here. You look…comfy. Very." She tilted her head. "What are you reading…I don't think I…know that one," she frowned.

"It's pretty bad," he said and quickly turned the book on its face. He'd suffered agonies of the damned buying it at the book store, and it was the worst crap ever and now the freakin' clerk looked at him funny whenever he walked in there. Served him right for thinking there was no way a story about a gay vampire could *not* be good. Amazing how you could take a good idea and choke it to death with words…He also yanked his hand out of his pants and spared them both the awkwardness of trying to explain how he wasn't grabbing his stuff…"Uuuh, Hi. What are you—I mean—what a nice surprise?"

"Well, it certainly was a surprise." She was still looking at him oddly, and then gave him a slightly puzzled smile. "Can I sit with you?"

"Of course!" He sat up and scooted over, and patted the ground next to him.

She folded neatly to the ground. "Thanks. So…I did it." She was vibrating; Clark could see she was barely managing to hold herself in check. He reached over and grabbed her, squeezed hard and she finally gave in to excitement. "Clark! Clark! Can you believe it! I did it—I'm going to Paris next year! Me!"

Clark laughed and hugged her, kissed her cheek and kissed her nose and laughed harder when she sputtered and made a big show of wiping it dry. "I told you, didn’t I? I knew you were going, no doubt in my mind."

"You did, you didn't laugh, or poke fun or act like you had no idea how important art was to me…you really supported me, Clark." She leaned against him, settling her head on his shoulder with a happy sigh.

"Well, yeah—why shouldn't I? And see--I'm not the only one who gets how special you are."

She smiled and stared at her feet, thinking, probably about Paris and possibilities…Clark watched her with a little smile of his own. She looked so happy it made him feel good too. After a moment, her secret smile faded, took on an edge of regret. She turned to him, and said, "I have to…break up with Whit."

Ooooh shit. "Oh? Really? Unh…not to sound like a jerk, but why even bother? You're leaving and he's leaving and eventually…"

Lana shook her head. "No. I have to be honest with him. Besides, I think he'll be okay. We're both of us just going through the motions. I know it and I'll bet you do too."

Clark's brain sat up and took notice. Trouble? Timmy's in the well? "Why…me? Why would I know? I know?"

"Because you're his friend? And friends talk?"

"Me? Me? Since when?" Since he called you in the ass crack of the morning to come save him from playgrounds but no way are you going to tell Lana that….

"Since this summer, goof. It's so great how close you guys got this summer. I'm glad that silly competitiveness is gone. I swear, you're all he talks about, Clark this Clark that—Clark did this funny thing today, Clark is such a goof, Clark's such a decent guy—it's like *I'm* working with you," she laughed.

"He does? He talks about me?" Clark smiled.

"Umm. I thought…I was beginning to think you were my competition," she smiled and Clark choked.

"Me—hahaha. Really? That's really funny since we're both you know, hah!—straight. Yeah…" He hoped that she hadn't heard about the Pool Incident. Lana suddenly went tight all over; Clark could feel it radiating from her. oo-oh shit--maybe she *had* heard…"Clark. I have something to tell you but you can't tell anyone else—please? I mean, you have to promise me."

"Ooh-kay. As long as it doesn't involve murder, or kidnapping, or—"

"I'm pretty sure Whit is gay—bisexual, whatever. We haven't—we've never done anything but kiss and-- *you* know." She turned a bright red and muttered, "Let's just say we haven't officially gone all the way." Clark coughed and looked away. She added, "And here I was thinking what a patient boyfriend he was…but mostly…he was hanging out with Jason. You know what I mean."

"J--Jay—Jason?"

She nodded. "Don't let my calm exterior fool you. I've already had massive temper tantrums—I'm almost over it." She smiled, and it looked genuine to Clark, so he relaxed. She leaned forward, pulled her knees to her chest. "And one other thing is bothering me…I think Jason's in trouble."

Clark jumped, guilt cascading through him. "He…yeah. I know he is. I just don’t know what to do. Who do I tell? How do you know?"

"I…overheard Whit talking to him not too long ago. I tried talking to Jason…"

"Oh man. I'm sure that went well," he winced.

"Yesss. That was…probably not the best thing to do. But I've been looking. There are…hotlines you can call though…and anonymous tip lines…" She looked uncomfortable suggesting it, and Clark knew that Lana would rather confront Jason directly, offer him help personally instead of hiding behind a tip-line or an anonymous call.

"Well, I think finding the information and giving it to him is about the only the way to go with him. He's got to decide on his own. He can be a very…hard-headed guy, enormous dick no matter how sensitive he is deep down," Clark said and hoped that sounded natural.

"We can look on line. There are places you can go," she said, and her expression said 'help me please'. How could he resist? He stood and stretched, reaching for the skies and taking in great breaths of warm air, lingering, taking in the sun…until Lana coughed.

"Heh—how about you come inside and show me?" He was pleasantly surprised that he *wasn't* blushing…much.

Yeah, so pretty much as he figured, Mom just about had an aneurysm of joy. Didn't matter what he'd said, how he tried to explain to her that it was different with him now, that it wasn't about Lana anymore, or about any other girl so far and Whit really was his ideal, for right now anyway, and could she please just be understanding and try to get it, like Dad had, but no. For some reason, she'd fixated on Lana as a future daughter in law and just knew that any moment now he was going to slap himself in the head and exclaim to the heavens, 'what *was* I thinking?'.

Dad got it—he knew Lana was not in the picture anymore and he did *not* get that look of relief that flashed all over Mom's face when Lana walked in the door. In fact, he looked pretty confused when he saw her sitting at the kitchen table. Whereas Mom was all, 'what can I get you—coffee? Soda? Can we build a new wing on the house for you, knit some baby blankets?' Yeah. Clark glared at his dad over Lana's shoulder as they went upstairs to his room, mouthed, 'talk to her please'.

They combed through a lot of information, even with all the interruptions: offers of food, of drinks, of all expenses paid Hawaiian honeymoons…and what Lana managed to find was pretty good info and they figured that it was Jason's call to use it or not but the look in Lana's eyes said he was going to use it one way or another.

He'd have to talk to Dad about what they planned to do later. And let Mom know there wasn't ever going to be a big ass wedding…not with Lana anyway. And not in Kansas either.

The day rolled along slowly but it was nice anyway…he strolled the fence line behind the barns checking for bad spots, brought the cows in and got them settled for the night. He cleaned up the tool bench in the barn, and replaced some nails in the loft stair railings. He wandered up to the loft, and looked around with a critical eye. It was a pigsty. There were chip bags and empty cans and it looked like Spiderman's fan club had moved in. There were fucking cobwebs hanging from everything. Clark decided it was time to clean up, and replace the dead plant hanging in the corner. And whatever it was that smelled under the desk. He lifted the desk and found a plate with a…ham sandwich? A very ex-ham sandwich. What the hell—why had he put that under the desk? Hunh.

By the time it was dark, he'd cleaned the loft from top to bottom, shoved stuff back where it belonged, threw another blanket over the back of the couch, emptied the hammock of magazines and tissue boxes, and in general made it look as close as possible to Mom's original idea of what a young man's private place should look like…tcha-yeah, like any guy needed more than a TV, a couple of skin mags and a place to—oooh! Dinner time!

He snagged dinner and a slice of pie and told his folks he was staying up in the loft over night. He loped across the yard, carefully shielding his pie from night flying insects, and trotted up the stairs. Comfortably spread out over the old couch, he scarfed down the hamburgers his dad had cooked that evening, and savored the pie his mom made—best damn pie in the whole world, no doubt. He was licking the fork, and kind of idly looking around, smiling a little and wondering if he should invite Whit over, now that the place was all neat and clean, his own little nest—whoa—wait--*nest*?

Ohmigawd! *Nest*! Fucking—his alien sex spore heat crazies was making him into a bower bird or some other thing that built nests to attract a mate. He blinked. And groaned. Gaaaawd, he wished he'd never heard of such a thing as the animal channel…fuck!

Why the *hell* couldn’t those bastards have thrown a *manual* into the fucking *ship*when they threw their fucking *kid*into it? Clark felt like throwing his plate, but there was still some smears of filling and pretty good sized crumbs of pie left on it….

He calmed himself down. The idea was ridiculous; he was just…doing what Mom would want, and cleaning the joint up. After all, she worked damn hard to make him a nice place. He owed it to her…besides, it was crazy to think he had to clean up for Whit. Who wouldn’t give a damn anyway, because all he thought about was Jason, and his problems…why couldn’t he spare a thought for Clark Kent, he had some problems too, poor guy. Poor alien guy. Poor alien virgin guy...with some sort of sex disease or something…

Whit was standing over the couch, sliding soundlessly onto it with him and Clark felt a deep gratitude to himself for not choosing the hammock to sleep in…Whit lay over him, still without speaking, and Clark figured what the hell and slid his hands down that long muscled back, walked his fingers under Whit's waistband, brushed them over the swell of his ass. Boldly, bravely, freaking himself out, he pressed his finger into the cleft, deeper into the heat…Whit gasped and muttered something, shifted until Clark felt more of his weight and better, his cock—hard and hot. It was nice, so nice that Clark pushed and rubbed himself against it, moved his finger inside of Whit until Whit moaned, his mouth was soft on Clark's ear. "Clark, more of that, that feels so good. You feel so good, let me touch you, feel your cock." He mmm'ed and stuck his tongue in Clark's ear. Wow, that feels…why does that feel so good? he thought about it for a half a second, until the part of his brain that handled sex took over. Then all he could do was spread his legs as wide as possible and beg Whit to make him come some how. Oh wait—and kisses! There should be—

He pressed their mouths together, waited for Whit to understand that kisses should be happening right about…there we go… The inside of his mouth vibrated with Whit's moan, got wetter with the slide of Whit's tongue. His cock got harder with the feel of it all, harder, and hotter, and there was this tightening that started low and spread, filling him, making him feel like he was being squeezed and filled up at the same time—"I'm going to come—"

"Fuck." He felt Whit throb against him, felt him clench around his finger and thought, I'll let it happen, and Whit pulled him out, slid off of him—no, not now, and then he felt the wash of air over his skin, and then soft wet heat, His cock slid into Whit's mouth, he was in Whit's hot wet tight deep—"ohhhh, fuck, fuck…"

It was so much more fun having an orgasm with someone than by yourself, especially a talkative someone, and oh, he wouldn’t quite rate himself a sex god but if that's what Whit thought, well…. Also, come didn’t taste too bad and he could get Whit's cock really, really deep, once he got past the gagging part, in fact, his cock was in so deep, he didn’t even really taste or feel it, which was most likely a good thing because he had the feeling it would probably be a lot like having a mouth full of snot…he licked his lips and stared up at Whit.

Whit reached down and stroked Clark's hair away from his face "I've never come so hard ever before, Clark my beloved, not even with poor, simple Jason. I realize I love you more than anyone in the world…weee-eell, except maybe Yul Brenner, or do I mean Jason Stratham…or…Patrick Stewart…? " Whit looked horribly puzzled for a second before smiling again and Clark woke up with a loud pained groan, the feeling of coming really hard slowly drifting away and his shorts full of…come. "Blerg."

He lay splayed out over the couch, breathing hard—Stupid ass dreams.--it had been so *real*! He thought...it'd felt like it was really happening. If the real thing felt like that, than how did people force themselves to get out of bed?

21
It was fucking ridiculous just how fucking hot it was. Hotter than…hotter than…just really fuckin' stupid hot.

"Man, Heckle and Jeckle should just call it—they fuckin' cancel games in heat like this. Clark---they like you, go tell them to let us go." Pete looked kind of like a big sweaty cranky baby. His shirt was wrapped around his head, soaking up sweat…they all looked like a kindergarten Nativity play. Only not really because--shirtless. Because their shirts were wrapped around their heads. And no one was pretending to be a camel. And there was no virgin Mary…virgin…What's that you say Clark, tired of being a virgin? Well let your old friend Whit take care of that...Clark, have you ever been in a Turkish prison?

Clark flinched and tried to shut his rampaging, heat addled brain down. Yeah. This day was toast. He wiped his face with the tail of his tee-shirt. "'Kay. I'll go find them." God. It had to be too hot even for those guys.

He walked up the broad expanse of lawn that Braddock's Funeral Home sat on, passed the hedge, and on the other side, Greg was standing. Staring. Motionless. Fuck, he died on his feet….Clark tapped his shoulder. Once. Twice. "…Greg?"

Greg turned to him, and he looked…weird. Looked completely….blissed out, Clark guessed you could call it. Pupils blown, a little loose smile. "I'm watching a spider wrap its prey in silk. Cool. You should see."

Clark nodded and smiled. Crazy cakes, oh my god…. He was about to back up when Greg spoke again.

"You don’t see Lana anymore," Greg said, looking vaguely puzzled. "I mean—you just don’t *see* her. Is that what it's like to be a homo? Why is this crew full of homos, I mean besides me and Ross?"

Clark reminded himself that you shouldn’t hit girls, folks with glasses, crazy people or anyone whose outsides weren't made of alien invincible stuff…

Greg went on, oblivious to Clark's slow burn. "And Roger, I think…it's hard to smell—*tell*, I mean, hard to tell."

"Saaay, Greg, maybe you should get out of the sun? You're burning. Again."

Greg dropped his head and raised his arms at the elbows, palms down. He quivered for a moment and then raised his head with a smile. "I know, right? Keep on burning. I never tan, just burn, and shed. Break out of my old skin," he grinned. "Hey, I'm going back to the truck and get some water."

"You do that. Get lots of water. And don't forget your trimmer."

"Right, right, thanks, can't lose that. S'important."

Clark watched him walk away. Can’t ever say that life in the SV isn’t interesting…or something like it.

Whit and Jason caught up to him. Jason snapped, "C'mon, pretty boy. It's too fucking hot out here. Gabe let us go." He looked over at Whit. "We should go out to the lake, hunh?"

Whit smiled at him, reached out and brushed the hair off his forehead. "That sounds great, Jay…" the slow smile he gave Jason disappeared when he looked at Clark. "You heard him—go tell those guys we're done for the day."

Yeah, fuck you and your little dog too. "Okay."

The crew got the equipment squared away and stowed for the day. They hung out in the office a bit, sucking up the air-conditioning, teasing Chloe and annoying the hell out of Doris, even though it was obvious that she had a soft spot for Jason. Clark watched him charm the woman he personally referred to as Dragon Lady but never out loud and definitely only in the privacy of his own head. Eventually she chased them out of the office, away from the coffee machine and the bottles of free water and cool dry air, out into the hot and humid embrace of summer again. The guys milled around the parking lot for a bit, trying to decide if they should go to the lake with Jay and Whit, and Clark hoped his prayer that they'd all leave couldn’t be seen in his eyes.

Billy decided to leave first, and Clark couldn't help but notice he was ignoring Roger, who was waiting for a ride. Clark kind of hoped his ride would be a no-show and he'd end up crisping in the parking lot, the dick. Pete decided against going too, Chloe had indicated that if he was smart, his plans would include taking his girlfriend to the mall instead of hanging out at the lake with a bunch of guys. Greg had taken off the minute they'd finished stowing the equipment—the trail of black oily smoke his Subaru Death-A-Wagon had left was just beginning to dissipate.

"Well, it's just us three than," Jason huffed. He looked at Clark speculatively. "You got a suit, Kent?"

"Well, no…" Duh. "I thought I'd just wear my shorts in."

Whit laughed, and looked at Jason—hesitated when he saw how hard he seemed to be thinking. "What's up Jay? What's on your mind?"

Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by the shrill blast of Jason's phone going off. He looked at the phone, grimaced and walked away a bit while talking. His shoulders were hunched inwards, and occasionally a word would drift over to them as Jason got louder, but mostly the conversation was hushed and full of sibilants. Whit looked at Clark, looked at Jason…shook his head and climbed in his truck to wait.

Jason was back in a minute or two, red-faced and angry. It took an effort but he managed to rein in his temper. "Hey. M'not going. Mother's coming to pick me up. There's something we have to do, apparently, something that just can't wait."

Whit shrugged. "Okay. I'm sorry. See you later?"

"Maybe."

"Um…Jay--*Jason*--did you look at those papers…you know?"

Clark had handed him Lana's list at the top of the day. He'd glanced over them, frowned and started to hand them back, but for some reason, stopped. Looked them over again and folded them into his back pocket, and that was the last it'd been mentioned until now. Clark could feel his face burning. He felt like a giant ass and winced a little, waiting for Jason to jump all over him. He took a chance and glanced at him.

Okay, shock built on shock. Jason was not cursing at him, and he was not scowling…the look could almost be described as…fond. Like he was looking at a brain damaged hamster, but it was *Jason's* brain damaged hamster. He was actually smiling. Sort of. "I did. I think...thanks Kent. I think they might be helpful. Anyway, I'll look at them later."

Whit's head flew up, and he gaped at Jason…and slowly his look of shock melted into a smile. He got out of the truck, about to speak….

The moment shattered when a silver Porsche flew up the drive and screeched to a tire-smoking halt. For a brief second, Jason looked shattered before all emotion drained from his face. Clark shivered. It was like watching a person become a cartoon. Infinitely creepy. "Gotta go," Jason said, and looked at Whit. "See you tonight?"

Whit nodded. "If you want, I'll be there."

Clark watched the Porsche fly away, and felt like once again, he'd let Jason down. He turned and caught Whit glaring at him and groaned inside. He had the feeling this afternoon was only going to get worse.

22

He went with Whit to the lake anyway.

23
They chatted about school and work on their way out, and Clark thought that maybe everything was going to be okay, that the evening would go all right after all; right up until Whit's arm brushed his and his whole skin caught on fire and burned. And Whit brushed him again and now he couldn't breathe, and he felt heat building up right under his belly button. Clark felt his face flush and sweat break out to wet the little hairs on the back of his neck…by the time they made it to the lake, Clark had his hands knotted up in his t-shirt, pulling it almost to his knees….

If Whit touched him one more time, he was going to come.

Whit parked on the road to the lake, they got out and walked to the shore. Halfway there, he stopped him. "Hey Clark, wait a minute."

Clark stopped by a tree and turned, "Yeah--?"

Whit pushed him up against the tree—hard. He yanked Clark's mouth to his, banging noses together, clicking tooth against tooth until he slowed a bit and got the angle right and his tongue was in Clark's mouth, rubbing, sliding slick and wet inside and making Clark moan and moan and moan…Whit was lifting the leg of his shorts, shoving his hand up under the leg, pushing up and digging nails into his skin—who knew that could feel so fucking good? Clark huffed and threw his head back, breaking Whit's grip so he could spread his legs as far apart as was possible, let Whit get better access. Whit growled, and grabbed his mouth back, thanked Clark by squeezing his balls, scratching at the hair around the base of his cock…when his fingers found and curled around Clark's jerking cock, it was kind of like Christmas, with the opening of surprise packages and screams of joy…kind of, not so much with the screaming. Out loud. This was twenty million times better than any fucking dream ever….

Whit slid his hand up his leaking cock, pulling skin back up with it, fingers pulling and teasing at it all the while, pushing back down to rub his thumb over the sensitive head, spreading and smearing pre-come all over. Clark woofed, shuddered all over, and tried to swallow Whit's tongue…Whit laughed into his mouth and pulled back. "Slow down--I'm going to need it later."

Clark moaned, imagining what Whit might need his tongue for later. He fucked Whit's fist, eyes squeezed tight and tears gathering in the corners…it was just so *good*, he tried to tell Whit how much. "Oh, you—that's good—you make---oh crap, that's great—Whit, you're—oh God, more, harder—"

He felt weaker and weaker, but it was a good weak, where his knees felt like butter, his spine felt like hot spaghetti, and the wonderfully slick tight squeeze of Whit's fist up and down, up and down made his stomach jump, clench. Something hot and ferocious was building up behind his cock, filling him, making him try and grind into Whit. He mouthed his way along Clark's jaw, whispered in his ear, "I'm going to fuck you and make you come hard enough to pass out," and Clark moaned, came over Whit's hands and in his shorts and down his leg and was astonished he'd been able to hold out that long. The thought of Whit filling him made his cock jerk and try to shoot again. His knees gave up and Whit had to hold him up against the tree….

Whit was breathing hard, and the front of his shorts were spotted were he'd leaked into them. Without thinking overmuch about it, Clark dropped to his knees and pressed his face against Whit, rubbed his cheek and mouth over the heat, the hard bulge pushing against the fabric. He pulled them down and Whit's cock jumped out, and slapped against his cheek, leaving a long wet smear.

"Holy fuck, Clark…"

Clark opened his mouth and Whit pushed forward. Clark swallowed. Whit was in his mouth…heavy, warm and salt-sweet …something the dream hadn't prepared him for, the *taste*…he pressed his tongue against the underside and Whit shivered. "Yeah, just like that, rub a little…" He cupped the back of Clark's head, and moved back and forth carefully, almost delicately, little moves that encouraged Clark to take him deeper, to suck harder, cup Whit's ass and urge him on until he was fucking his mouth and then, spilling down Clark's throat. Clark swallowed, held Whit there when he tried to pull back…God, God, it was so much better than his dream, so much better and when he opened his eyes again, he was still going to see Whit…

Whit stroked Clark's head, and eased back, slowly slipping out of his mouth. Clark opened his eyes, Whitney and gently rubbed the softening head of Whit's cock against his lips, barely touching. He felt a surge of warmth inside, a desire to do anything, be anything Whit wanted him to be…he wanted to touch Whit forever and ever. Whit hadn't stopped petting him since he first touched his head. He was steadily stroking Clark, rubbing his scalp, drawing his fingers through his hair…he murmured. "I've dreamed about this. I've thought about this, what it would be like."

Clark leaned against Whit's stomach, reluctant to break the connection. "Was it okay? It didn't make you think of Yul Brenner, did it?"

"Of *who*? That Ten Commandments guy? What the hell for—no, never mind," Whit laughed. "Clark…Clark…" He urged him up and kissed him. "Yes. It was okay. More than okay. I feel like…this was supposed to happen."

Clark nodded, fiercely wanting to believe that—his mind was full of nothing else but Whit groaning and coming in his mouth, over and over and saying…he loved him. Loved him.

'Course, that might just have been the orgasm talking. He really hoped not.

They were floating in the lake, washing off sticky sweat and spit. Felt good, sliding up against a warm, wet, body…Whit held Clark against him as they floated, chin resting on his head and the feeling of arms around him…so nice. Floating and being held like he was five again…it was almost too good.

They drifted back and forth, slowly moving into the bank and out again. Whit was humming, and the vibration rolled through Clark…"When did you know?"

Whit didn't ask what Clark meant, he answered, "First time I really saw you--when you threw your books down in front of Lana. Smooth."

"I didn't--shut up. I meant when did you know you were gay?"

"Oh!" Whit snorted, and shifted Clark a little and Clark thought it was really awful how much he loved being held like this…"Um. Six."

"Six!"

"I had a crush on Harrison Ford. It was pretty intense. Lots of posters, little action figures, dreams about holding hands…" Clark snorted, and Whit dropped him, earning a frown. "Hey, I was six. And don’t make fun of me when I'm sharing deeply personal experiences. Anyway…first practical experience at thirteen…"

Clark thought about that. Thirteen…seemed so young.

"…we had nothing but time and our parents weren't around much and he and I just kind of…stumbled into it…"

Thirteen. He was still watching cartoons and evaluating with great seriousness which breakfast cereal truly delivered the maximum amount of sugar in the least offensively fibery-state at that age. Sex? He hardly knew what the hell his thing was for at that age. Fuck it hadn't even really seemed important until recently…maybe he was a late bloomer. He'd always admired Lana but it had been more, he realized lately, in a kind of 'she's a perfect fairy princess' way…

"Hey, did I shock you? You’re thinking awfully hard."

"No, no…yes. Kind of. I guess I'm realizing I don’t know much about…" he waved a dripping hand around," this." He rolled away from Whit and swam towards the shore, Whit followed. He pulled himself out onto the bank and searched through the little pile of clothes for his shorts. Looking over his shoulder, he caught Whit watching him in a way that made him blush…and smile.

Whit wasn't smiling, though. He climbed out and joined Clark, who was studiously not looking at his really, really, gorgeous cock. "It bothers you, doesn't it? I've been with a lot of guys, Clark. Jason too. We're not exactly exclusive…" he pulled on his shorts, sat next to Clark on the bank. "Listen… right now, I do what I do. But I know that someday, when I meet someone who means everything to me, I'll only want to be with him. …"

"Why are you telling me this?" Clark asked, ignoring the little girl inside of him who was flapping her ittle wittle hands and squealing OMG it's a message! He's trying to tell us something--

"So you won't think I'm too big a slut," Whit grinned.

His inner little girl flipped Whit off. "You suck," Clark said, and Whit laughed.

"Yeah, I know. But really Clark, Jason--he just needs me to help him through…what happens." He winced. "You did more for him today than I've ever done."

He shook his head. "Lana. She's the one who did that. She's the one who cared enough to do something about it. You should thank her."

Whit sighed. "Wow. I owe her a lot, Kent, more than you can imagine. I hope she finds happiness out there some day, she a good person who deserves a lot more than me."

Clark nodded. "That is true. But me, I'm not that good a person." He glanced at Whit, and Whit grinned.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Sadly, I think I'm stuck with you."

"Cool," He glanced away from Clark, smiling the small soft smile he sometimes gave Jason, the smile that Clark knew from now on he was going to crave like a—a—a person who craved stuff.

Clark smiled up at the fluffy clouds sailing over head. He wasn't just Clark Kent now, he was Clark Kent, ex-virgin….

God, he *loved* summer.

24
The sun was peeking over the trees, Roger was just hopping out of E-less Nikki's car, Whit and Jason were leaning against the mini-dump truck, deep in conversation, and Pete was describing in depth, to a mind-numbing degree, his date with Chloe the night before, and Clark wondered what would happen if he just started screaming, or—or telling Pete all about The Lake—everything. In detail. The thought was highly entertaining and he smiled the whole time Pete talked to him, which just encouraged Pete, so—backfire….

Billy rolled into the lot, riding shotgun in a classic black Trans Am. The driver leaned over and said something that made him bite his lip and blush. He got out and started to walk towards them and the driver called him to the open window and squeezed his hand before driving off. Whoever it was, they made Billy smile—a real smile, not the grimace of hurt he tried to pass off as one. Meanwhile, across the lot the same scene was being reenacted with a slightly different tone--Nikki screamed something at Roger before driving off and leaving him alone in the lot, pretty much a repeat performance of the last few mornings. Roger pulled his shorts up, brushed imaginary lint off his Greatest Rapper of All Time memorial t-shirt and studiously avoided their gaze.

Pete glanced at Clark, jerked his chin towards Billy. "Hunh. Looks like love is in the air."

"Yeah, it sure is. I'm glad Billy's taking care of himself." Clark smiled at him and Billy gave him a totally blank look and arched an eyebrow slightly. Clark chuckled.

"Looks like love is whipping the hell out of somebody else, though--whip, like pussy-whipped, you know--*whip-pah!* Puss--"

"I *get* it."

Pete just snickered harder and pointed at Roger, who'd heard the whisper clearly, as clearly as Lowell County and half the state no doubt had. Clark glanced at Pete and had a horrible moment of wondering if he was that 'quiet' in bed too….

Jason strolled over, trailed by Whit, both of them with big smiles on their faces. Jason stepped in front of Billy, turned to face the back of the lot. "Yo, Rainman, get your fucking ass over here with the rest of us," he yelled. As Rog stomped over, Jason said pointedly, loudly, and with a nice thick layer of artless innuendo, "So, Billy. Big fuckin' engines in those classic cars, real hot rides…" He winked. "Good on you," he said, a little quieter.

Roger looked like he wanted to swallow his tongue and Whit giggled—there was no other way to describe the sound he made, and Clark thought how fuckin' cute was that—and wanted to slap himself. Talk about Whit-whipped….

25
He and Pete were fucking around in the office, teasing Chloe, drinking Doris' coffee, waiting for Greg before going out to that morning's site. Greg, Mr. Punctual As A Heart Attack, actually seemed to be a no-show. That was weird on par with bloody eclipses of the sun.

Gabe came out of his office with a worried look. "Clark… this just isn’t normal for Greg, not to show. I know it's crazy but I feel like something's not…right. You guys are going past his place today, check on him."

"You gonna fire him?" Pete asked, chewing on one of Doris' coffee straw thingies. Clark could feel her angry little gila monster eyes on the back of his neck…yeah, bet if *Jason* wanted to eat her straws, she'd give him a gift wrapped box every payday…."Hunh? What?"

Gabe repeated patiently, "I don't want to fire him because he's been an asset to the crew…even if he is a seriously strange puppy. Just check, okay? Call me if it's you know...bad. Or something."

Jason and Whit watched them leave. They were drinking Doris Coffee too, no doubt lovingly prepared and presented by her own wrinkled little claw, Clark thought bitterly, both of them comfortably sitting in the bed of Whit's truck. Clark risked a flail meant to be a wave when they passed. Whit waved back and smiled. *That* smile. Which Clark was totally not expecting to get. A doofy grin creased his face, his cheeks caught on fire and there was a definite shifting of blood southwards.

Jason gave Clark a long level look before smirking, and then puffed out a series of smoke rings and who knew such a disgusting habit could look so…insanely obscene, especially the way his tongue curled on each little outward puff…Geeeez, what the hell was Whit thinking, Clark thought. Jason might be a dick but he was a dick made of pure sex, and he…he was an enormous clumsy alien changeling oaf. shitshitshitshit *shit*.

Mrs. Arkin opened the door to his tentative tap and peered out, looking distinctly under whelmed. She stood squarely in the doorway, as if she expected them to storm her little castle. With as much lack of enthusiasm as her expression indicated she said, "Oh, it's Pete and Clark. I haven’t seen you boys in ages. Greg said he was working with you." She smoothed her little twin-set flat and looked over her shoulder, a mild look of concern making her crows-feet prominent. "He's not feeling well today, just a summer cold but you know how they can be at times. I meant to call…" She shrugged, and her little pearl drop earrings clicked. "I'm sure he'll be well enough to work tomorrow."

"Glad that it's nothing serious," Clark said. "Tha—" The door shut decisively. "—nks".

"Wow, did she always have that giant stick up her ass?" Pete asked.

"Well, ish—what a B," Clark muttered. "I feel sorry for Greg. She must bug the hell out of him."

They reported back to Gabe, who only sighed and shook his head and glanced over at his foremen. "Go ahead you guys; make sure you let Doris know I approved your hours before you leave today."

They had fast food places on the menu today, two chains and one home grown burger joint that made burgers so good, eating one was almost as good as sex…almost. Clark had to think hard about that one…he pushed the mower in and out of the small areas between the shrubs. It was cooler than it had been the last few days, the sun had a more brassy rather than golden quality to it…the weird chirp-drone of cicadas filled the air. He felt a little less blurry-buzzy-hot today. He'd feel that way less and less as the days cooled. Fall was coming, and winter…and winter was very, very good, very different. He loved summer but in the winter he felt sharp, in control…in charge of himself like he never felt in the heat. Just…different.

He carefully edged along the hedges, taking his time. Pete or Roger would come along behind him with the weed murderer. Grass killer, hedge hacker…He wondered about them all for a second, them and their violent metaphors for such an innocuous activity…he snorted. Yeah, it was pretty funny.

It was an ordinary day; right up until it went all…weird. Or the word you use to describe something so weird that 'weird' is only as weird as your grandmother, unless of course, Granny danced naked on the front lawn at full moons. And maybe that wasn't weird so much as really, really--gross…

"Hey, sweetie, what are you doing for lunch today?"

He pulled the phone away from his ear, stared at it, held it back to his ear, and said carefully "…Lana?"

"Yes, who else? What's wrong, I can't call my favorite guy?"

"Is…there trouble? Is someone there with you? Just say yes, if you're afraid to talk…"

"Clark, stop being a goof. Listen; have lunch with me at the Beanery today, okay? I have something I want to talk to you about."

"Um…the Beanery?" He scratched idly at an itchy spot over his ribs and glanced over at Pete tossing equipment in the back of the truck. "About that…couldn't we have lunch somewhere more…free? I mean, I'm trying to save money for—"

"Oh Clark, you’re the cheapest man I know! I'll treat all right? Just make sure you get your butt here at two o'clock…please?"

Clark sighed. Lana was evil—she knew just where to hit him. "All right. Your treat, you say?"

"Oh my gosh!"

"No, no—I'm kidding." Really. pretty much.

"Okay, it's a date." She blew a kiss—or maybe a raspberry--and hung up

He grinned to himself a bit, and looked up when he heard another phone go off. Whit answered, and looked a little surprised. He smiled, and nodded and said something. He laughed a little and hung up. Jason was giving him a look, and Whit just shrugged.

Clark admired his own restraint—to eavesdrop on what Whit was saying was a temptation. Especially since he hadn't called or really *talked* to him talked to him at all after the…after. Jason kept smiling at him though…it was really kind of creepy. Creepy. Oh, and fuck—kind of hot.

26
When he pushed through the Beanery doors, he had to grin—Lana's enthusiastic waving was probably cooling the coffee off on nearby tables….

She was smiling a pert little smile, a curve of the lips that in anyone else he'd have called smirking. She pointed at a giant cup of coffee sitting next to a regular cup on the table. Great, she was treating! He squeezed through the crowd at the door--and stopped short. A familiar scent wafted through the air, tickled his nose—Whit. Whit? And Whit was pushing past him with a grin and a bag of cookies. "Hey."

"…hey?" Oh god, what the hell was going on in Lana's little head? Crap, she was looking so proud of herself…ooooh fuck. She was match-making for fucks sake. He felt his cheeks go warm and Whit smiled up at him from his seat next to Lana. He flashed a Clark a quick amused wink.

It was a nice lunch. Clark thought it was cute how pleased Lana was with herself. She kept smiling at them, dimpling, asking leading questions…Clark was afraid any minute she was going to pass condoms across the table. Whit reached over and patted her hand, murmured, "Babe, relax. You're about to explode."

Clark was about to take a sip of coffee, but gasping in shock and trying to drink at the same time was not a good idea and furthermore being invulnerable didn't mean being immune to slurping coffee down the wrong pipe…his eyes were watering and he was trying to fend off Lana's attempts to whack his back and god forbid, break a hand and the reason he choked slid into the empty seat next to him. A scent he'd recognize in a forest fire slid into his nose.

"Well, well, well, look at us—one big happy family." Jason reached into the bag of cookies and grabbed one—a chocolate chip one too, Clark's favorite. Great, that meant one less for him. Jason took a bite of the cookie. "Whit. You're looking…rested," he smirked. "Lana. Love what you've done with your hair—what d'ya call that—brushing? Clark." He stared at him for a few seconds, and then waved his hand dismissively.

Clark glared at him—fucking giant *jerk*! "Hello Jason," he said, because he was raised to be polite like that. Jason rolled his eyes. Lana smiled at Jason and Clark glanced at her, and swallowed. There was steel in that look…finely honed, knife sharp steel….

"Jason," Whit said softly and just like that Jason heeled, and really, Clark thought—that shouldn't have seemed so fucking hot.

"Was looking for you, Whit," Jason said.

"Yeah?" Whit smiled, a warm lingering 'make Lana look dismayed' smile. A smile that made Clark's stomach tie itself in knots. He was such a fucking idiot—a stooge. An easily led, hormone driven, sucker and. Look at Whit, the son-of-a-bitch. All cheesin' and shit, oh hi Jason, oh let's go have some really loud sex somewhere not where Clark is, the loser--Why won't Whit smile like that at me?

"Yeah," he said, "I'm going to have to…beg off this weekend. I'll be in Metropolis. *She* wants to look for apartments."

"She's looking for an apartment for you? But that's cool. No dorms for you."

Jason looked disgusted, exhausted. "For us. Me and. Her."

"For—no Jason—don’t do it. Going to college is your chance to break away—"

"Yeah well, nothing's written in stone, right? Anyway, I'm just—trying to keep the peace."

"Jason, you know it's not…in your best interest." Lana, said, ever so gently and diplomatically. "Did those numbers we gave you help at all?"

"I haven't actually got around to calling any of them yet. Maybe when I get back. Listen, you guys are just over-reacting to things. She's kind of high strung—worse since my father left. Maybe…maybe we both need some help." He shook himself, and his face tightened again, sardonic Jason back in charge. "Okay. I've gotta go. Enjoyed our lunch…oh. Tut-tut. Look at that—no more chocolate chips. Aw." He smirked at Clark. He reached across the table and grabbed Whit's coffee and drank it down. He put the cup down with a sigh, stood and leaned over to Whit's side of the table. He grabbed a handful of his hair and tilted his head back and kissed him.

No, *kissed* him.

It was sex without involving other body parts. It was the hottest kiss he'd ever seen and it went on and on and…on, until there was total silence in the Beanery, like you could have heard a pin drop, or an alien spore infected person bite their lip and struggle to keep their hands from crushing their coffee cup. It was close. Lana said, "oh my…" She looked a little warm, a little pink…hell yeah, she was probably as turned on as he was—you'd have to be dead not to be, Clark thought.

He didn't know which end of that kiss he wanted to be on.

He didn’t know what the hell made Jason do it….

The paralysis that had descended on the Beanery as if by magic vanished—just like a bubble popping, normal sound swept the place and of course doubled because…well, because SVHS's BMOC was just now swapping spit with someone who was decidedly not his girlfriend and had way too much…dick. Didn't matter that the girlfriend was sitting right next to him openmouthed and red cheeked and looked to be about a step from cheering them on and anyway--dudes, sucking face, gross!

Jason let Whit pull back, reluctance in every fiber of his being. He let Whit's lip slip from his mouth slowly, rocked back on his heels, a wet red smirk on his face.

Whit looked a little shell-shocked. "Wo-ow. Okay."

Clark could tell plenty of people wanted to say something, and there was muttering a-plenty—and maybe a cheer or two, kind of quietly mumbled behind a napkin. That was cool. Clark sat motionless in his chair and pretended to enjoy his cup of coffee. He wasn’t embarrassed to be sitting with them, he really wasn't. Besides, he couldn't stand up at the moment if he wanted to. Better to wait…just a bit. He took a quick sip of the cooling coffee. Maybe a minute or two….

Whit looked at Lana and then at him and smiled. "I'll be back in a minute," he said and followed Jason outside. Clark swore there was an actual breeze caused by heads snapping their way…the buzz rose again when the door shut behind Whit and Jay.

"So."

"So." Lana dimpled, and blushed.

"When did you…?" Clark played with his nearly empty cup, eyes on the table.

"About five minutes after I got home that day. When I thought about our conversation and what you weren't saying very loudly. And what Whit *was* saying. And I thought—" She giggled. Giggled. Clark blushed. It was almost as cute as when Whit did it.

"You thought you'd give Whit a going away gift. Me."

"Well, when you put it that way it sounds almost sleazy but…yes. Good idea? Bad idea?" She waited.

Clark grinned. "Great idea. Maybe it would have been nice to let me in on it. But thanks. Uh…"

She sighed and leaned back in her chair. "Yes. There's a little problem. Whit's outside with Jason, and you're in here with me." She laughed a little and Clark leaned over and kissed her cheek.

"Don’t worry about him—or me," he said. "It's going all going to work out, I feel it."

27
He was walking home the long way, thinking…about Jason, about Whit and his ex-girlfriend, and the increasingly odd way he fit into this. Whit definitely was interested in him, but it was pretty obvious he had something for Jason that went beyond…FWBness. And Jason acted like he owned Whit when he wasn't rolling over so Whit could scratch his tummy…Clark slowed. Ouch. That brought images. He swallowed and kept on. A car full of jocks rode by and they took time out of their busy schedules to yell faggot out the window. Youth of America, he thought, wondered idly if it would be wrong to throw a rock through one of the tires. He walked until he was on the outskirts of town. Apparently his dick wasn't the only thing that has a mind of its own. His feet seemed to have decided that a trip out to Jason's mother's house was just the thing.

Sundown was going though it's colorful stage by the time he made it to the odd ranch house on the little hill. He stopped at the stone wall, listened. It was quiet; the only sound he could hear was some really bad drippy music—sounded like an elevator threw up in their living room. His feet, the enormous traitors, were taking him up the driveway, and now his cock had to throw its two cents in—it was getting crowded in there with all the rebellious body parts….

Clark studiously avoided the steer horn shaped door knocker and his pounding on the door yielded a hissed "State your business." The door cracked open just enough to reveal a heavily mascaraed eye rolling up at him.

The Mother.

Clark barely suppressed a shudder. The door opened wider and there she stood, an impeccably dressed and coiffed china doll, a drink in one hand, the other clutching the door frame so tightly her little knuckles were white. She swayed a little, not noticeable except to alien eyes. Clark was regretting his extraordinary sense of smell, thanks Ma and Pa Alien. At the moment, the ability to smell real good was--not. Jason's mother smelled like she was marinating herself in booze…and oddly, mayonnaise.

"Hi, is…can…" Can Jason come out to play, Mrs. MajorNutJob?

"I have it Mother; it's one of the boys from the crew."

Jason's mother's face twisted like *she* smelled something bad. "Oh. That. Well, don’t be long dinner's in," she glanced at the hunk of ice pretending to be something as mundane as a watch, "a half hour." She wandered away.

"You guys eat dinner this late?" Clark marveled. Rich people. They're so funny

"Are you kidding? I ate a long time ago. Dinner's a laugh around here. Cook leaves at six so Mother drinks her dinner. If she actually gets hungry, Cook has a plate—fuck," Jason slapped himself in the forehead. "What the fuck am I discussing my private life with you for?"

"I listen really good," Clark said.

"You mean well," Jason interrupted kind of vaguely and stepped outside. "So, did you come to bitch at me for this afternoon? Don’t worry; no one's going to hurt Whitney. Most guys are scared shitless of him."

"Really? But he's so nice…"

"That's because he's never tried to kill you on the field. So. Did you like fucking him?"

"Wha—no—what…hunh?"

"I can see why you make him hot—you’re so fucking articulate. Come here." He looked at Clark, and tossed his head. "Come *here*," he said again, and lo and behold—there was a string connected from his cock to Jason's finger, when he crooked it Clark found himself moving forward with no control at all. Feet and dick once again working against him. He didn’t want to get closer to Jason because frankly, Jason scared the shit out of him. And made him hot enough to fry eggs on…a vivid picture of himself wearing eggs flooded his mind--Clark had about half a second to wonder about himself and then he stopped moving because he was in front of Jason who was putting hands on his shoulders and…

Hunh. He never realized that he was that much taller than Jason.

And then, oh. So hot…the inside of Jason's mouth was so hot and wet. Silk, velvet…he couldn't decide what described the feeling best and then Jason reached up, grabbed his chin and tilted his head down a little and it was even better. He gripped Jay's hips to steady himself. He felt lightheaded and a little wobbly; his heart was banging in his chest. Jason was sucking his tongue. It sent bright sharp tugs straight to his cock. He was making these little sounds too, like "mmm" and "unh", and Clark could not believe how incredibly fucking hot just those little noises were. Jason had his lower lip in his mouth and pulled, bit down, licked…he was riding Jay's hand, rubbing hard as he could into his palm without hurting him, oh God, don’t hurt him, remember to be careful and don’t tighten too much, watch your hands and—and—don’t forget to breathe and God!--this was too good.

Jason was feeling it too, he pulled away to breathe and he was bright red, his mouth was swollen and wet and shiii-iit…Clark twitched, flexed hard and his boxers were getting warm and wet. Any minute he could come. He could come he could come....

Jason shuddered, almost pounced on him, jerked his head down and moaned right into his mouth.

And then pushed him away. The fuck?

"Damn it Clark. No wonder even your little straight friends have a crush on you. Jesus…it's been forever since I've felt on the edge just from making out. You're freakishly hot. Whit would be stupid not to…but that's between you and him. I think…maybe it would bother him to know I fucked you." Jason narrowed his eyes and stared hard at Clark. "Wonder if I could get him interested in a threesome for real?" he muttered.

Oh shit. Oh shit. Maggoty mac n' cheese rotten chunky milk zombie brain eating puppies

Clark remembered the pool house and Whit saying he wanted them both and at the time Whit's cock had been in Jason's ass and—and—Clark's eyes rolled back in his head for a second, his cock jumped and his boxers were wetter and wow, that was some noise he just made judging by Jason's eyes….

"Get out of here Clark." Jason stepped off the porch and led Clark to the driveway. "Go home, go to bed, do whatever it is freakishly tall reets do by themselves at night, and go to sleep."

Clark took a stumbling step or two down the driveway, grinning and blushing, feeling like a—a massive idiot. He heard Jason curse and then he called out to him.

"Clark…I'll be looking for you when I get back from the Trop." He smirked, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Gotta see if the rest of you tastes as good. In fact, I wanna know what you taste like with Whit…"

He laughed when Clark stumbled. Damn it. It was getting harder and harder to walk.

"Don’t kill yourself tripping over your feet in the dark, dork king. Later." He bounced back up the stairs and into the house—Clark scanned it quickly and The Bitch was asleep, thank god. Clark walked gingerly home, not even bothering with imagining puking, puss-filled gopher guts…besides, he was terrified that he was beginning to find those images kind of hot…

28
That weekend Jason went to Metropolis and he never came back. He disappeared, dropped off the face of the earth.

He was gone and it took a few days to sink in—it was Whit looking for him that made Clark realize something was wrong and then Gabe came looking for him, and was angry then sad, and Jason's name came off the board at work. Not long after that, the cars were driven away from the weird ranch house on the hill, and then house was closed up and that was that.

It was weird to grieve so hard for someone you really didn’t even know, he thought, but there it was. He missed Jason, he mourned Jason. The loss was like a hole in his chest. After a while, he had the decency to wonder how Whit was feeling, but Whit kept everyone at arms length and Clark didn't quite have the balls to push past that.

29
"Maaan, this was a long ass summer wasn't it? I mean, it's not over but it's over, you know what I mean?"

Clark nodded. "Yeah." He was lying on his bedroom floor, bored, sad, and kind of drifting…he tried to pay attention to Pete, he really did…his epic tale of clothes shopping with Chloe which he was beginning to understand had been a little like descending through the various levels of hell went on and on, and Pete's voice was…well, kind of a soporific. If he could package it and sell it he'd be rich....

"Okay, mother fucker. You haven’t heard a fucking word I've said…I bet you didn’t even hear about the threesome me and Chloe and the sales girl at Wet Seal had, did you?"

"What!" Clark fumbled the phone, "You *what*? Oh my god, you're lying, you a-hole!"

"Of course I'm lying, you fucking maroon! Do you ever fucking listen me? Tell me one time you've ever really listened to me? In fact, tell me why we’re even friends!"

"Oh gosh--Pete—Pete. I'm such a jerk. You're right--I'm sorry. You know I love you, C.C.P.—I do. It's just…I was thinking about…crap. You know."

"Geez, Clark—go speak to the man! Tell him how you feel. Tell him you're sorry about Jason. Tell him something, for god's sake!" before I kill you was unspoken, but kind of hung in the air…"And yeah, you giant fairy, I love you too. Obviously, or I would have drop kicked your ass into space a long time ago, Clarkbar."

"See? We're meant to be. I don't know Pete…" Clark rolled to his feet, and wandered around his little room. He yanked at his hair, frustrated, angry with himself…"Talking to him…it's been too long. Now I'll just look like a—an enormous jerk." He pushed shiny new notebooks, crisp folders and fresh pencils to the side of his desk and sat down. His work schedule was on the desktop, and he had no shifts with Whit, no way to kind of run into him. "Change of subject--did you decide if you're leaving next week?"

Pete let out an exasperated breath, but he was used to Clark's clunky segues and went with the flow. "Yeah, hell yeah. School's starting up, and Billiam's finally got his foot off my neck. I'm chillin' for the rest of the year. Well, you know. As much as possible."

Okay, so Billy was still undecided, Rog was leaving and so was Pete. Clark felt a spike of guilt over Greg…Greg who'd pulled so far back into his weird ass shell that it was a fucking relief that he was quitting—to devote more time to his hobby, he said. Greg was breaking into weird little pieces all over the place and it seemed like no one was noticing it but him…maybe being back at school would help pull Greg back together.

Truth to tell, he was more than ready for school to start again.

Clark sighed and stretched his arms out to either side of him. He was laying spread eagled in a block of hot light the sun threw on the floor boards. The combination of the grass scented breeze blowing through the open window, and the boards warm with sun made him feel lazy, he liked the way they smelled, like home and comfort and a little bit like lemon oil…he felt good, not anywhere near as buzzy as the beginning of the summer where he felt like he hardly had control, this was more…coasting on the feeling, purposely letting it fill him. His heavy eyelids slid shut, his arms slid under his head. Sleep creeped up on him like a warm blanket, and in a few minutes he was snoring.

30
Anyway, that was summer. It was the best of summers, it was the worst of summers or something like that. He made friends and lost friends and losing them sucked the hardest. He should have tried harder, with both of them. He should have hung on but he didn't. His fault.

31
The Beanery was quiet, comfortable, and the place where one of his best friends was desperately trying to remain employed. How it was that someone could ace school and not remember an order from the time they left the table to the time they made it back to where the coffee was, was beyond him, but he struggled manfully to smile and sip at the what'cha'macallit with extra cream Lana'd brought him it as if it was the most delightful thing that had ever passed his lips. He was pretty sure he'd asked her for a plain old latte but this thing had sprinkles of chocolate and tasted like hazelnut or maybe just nuts with too much milk and whipped cream on top and. Bleah.

"What's wrong, you don't like it?"

Jesus! Clark wiped cream from his nose and chin, and Whit plopped down in the seat across from him. "Hi."

Whipped cream dotted the table with Rorschach blots…he swiped at them casually. "Hi…how are you?" Clark blushed. Good, great, show Whit you're still the same giant fucking dork you were the beginning of the summer. God, he looked good, smelled good and his hair was…shit. He was just fucking gorgeous...and he was smiling at him, he was actually sitting with him and smiling. Maybe…maybe Whit decided to forget that he was an ass-hole. Or…or maybe he had news. Or maybe he misses you that much. Sure. It could happen. That and flying pigs.

Whit tucked a coffee stirrer into his mouth and pushed back on the chair. "Gabe says you're working out good in the office. Never figured you'd like office work, farm boy like you…"

Whit and Billy ran the new crew, but for now Clark was in the office a few hours on the weekends—at least until after harvest--the real busy time on the farm. The office was cool though, interesting *and* educational—he'd learned two things so far. Chloe's taste in music sucked balls and Doris…wasn't quite as much of a bitch as he'd thought. She was actually helping him, and kind of sort of being nice to him and…okay, she was still creepy. But apparently she was creepy with a heart of—some sort of yellow shiny metal. She'd taken him aside one day, tears in her eyes; at least he assumed they were tears. The little chips of obsidian poked into her doughy face definitely had looked glassier than usual…she rasped, "We all need to be nice to Whitney, Clark. He really misses his friend." Her wrinkled little claw tightened on his forearm for a moment, and she heaved an enormous sigh. "We all miss Jason," and then she turned back to her desk. "Oh, and Clark? The toilet bowl needs bleaching." It'd been an incredible bonding moment—

Clark shuddered. "Yeah. It's. It's…nice." He looked up at Whit. "How's um, college? S'that going…good?" articulate, fuck yeah.

Whit looked away, and chewed hard on the straw. "Good. I like CKU. The commute's a bitch but…" He shrugged and looked back at Clark. "Jason's not at MetU. I checked. He never showed. Still don’t know where he is. Maybe Europe…I think he said once that his mother had some places overseas."

Clark sighed. So, Jason wasn't hiding from them, and wherever he was, it probably wasn't his choice….

"He'll be nineteen in a few months. If he wants to, he can leave…I don’t…"

Clark put his cup down and tapped Whit on the arm. "Hey. Let's go to my house—come for dinner. Mom's making beef stew. You've never tasted anything as good as my mom's stew."

Whit tilted his head and stared at Clark and then…he smiled. *That* smile.

32
So Whit kind of became a fixture at dinner, and Clark wasn't really sure if was because of him, or if it was his mom's cooking that made it like that.

Whatever.

Important thing was, he was there.

Dad was pleased that Clark was happy and he had a boyfriend who wasn't a meth addicted, mesh shirt wearing, feather boa flinging…Clark told Dad over and over not to watch the Queer As Folk. Especially since he insisted Mikey and Brian were meant to be and that was just completely and totally *wrong*….

Mom was just. Well. She was warming up to the idea that Whit was his boyfriend. Slowly. Glacially. With occasional elbow nudges when a 'hot chick' crossed their paths at the Stop n' Shop. At least she did kind of like Whit and Whit was working it as hard as he could. Whit trying hard was irresistible. No one could resist the smile, the twinkle. You'd have to have a heart of stone.

It was a weekend night, and Whit was sitting in the chair he'd claimed as his, and they were just finishing dinner, which had been pretty damn good. Mom outdid herself and the fried chicken had been so good it practically jumped off the plate and sang, which this being SV would have given everyone pause for about …oh, a minute. So--dinner, fried chicken, incidentally Whit's favorite. Baby steps. Baby steps.

Whit stood when Mom did and said with a great big Eddie Haskell smile, "Clark and I will do the dishes, Mrs.K. You take it easy—right, Clark?"

Fuck!Clark wondered if he'd ever develop the ability to kill someone with his mind…right now he'd settle for the ability to create a vicious cold sore. Sure Honeybunch, I'd love to do the dishes even though it's not my night. "Sure, Whit, that sounds like a good idea."

"Thanks, men," Mom said and headed out to the TV room. "Say, Clark, why don't you make some cocoa too, I like the one with the little marshmallows in it."

Clark nodded, smiling wide as Mom and Dad left the room and then turned on Whit. "You see what you started? Next she's going to want breakfast in bed—"

"Hey. She said I could spend the night. In the loft, with you. Hello—who am I going to be nicest to?"

"To me, doof! You can be nice to Mom all you want, I'm the one who’s going to—you know," and Clark made a tentative little move involving hips and eyebrows and flailing hands.

"First of all, that combo of images is enough to kill a hard-on dead. As for whatever that little move was supposed to be—what *was* that move supposed to be? You're gonna what--teach me to dance? Fake a seizure in case I get captured by spies?"

"I hate you even more now, you jackass. Hand me that towel and don’t touch me. Ever."

Whit smiled and crowded Clark against the counter, fit his chin perfectly into the space between Clark's shoulder and neck. "See that? See how I fit so perfectly there?" he murmured. He slid his hands around Clark's hips, pulled him back against him and inhaled. "We fit together all over like that, we just…fit. Now, tell me not to touch you."

"Cheater…" Clark leaned back, closed his eyes and loved Whit's touch. There was not a chance of him telling Whit not to touch him…or speak coherently at all, really….

It was still pretty hot up in the loft; it would take a while before it gave up all its heat. He turned on the TV in the corner, and pulled out the sleep sofa. Between the two of them they made the bed up quickly.

Whit poked around in the trunk at the foot of the couch. "Where's that sleeping bag—ah, got it."

Clark watched Whit unroll it and put a pillow on top of the bag. "Aren't you sleeping up here with me?"

"Clark, shouldn’t we at least pretend that I didn’t sleep with you and I say that meaning all possible interpretations."

"Listen, oh Prince of Not Very Convincing Lies, I'm pretty sure that they know, and I'm not going to dwell on that. Pick a movie, please."

Whit shuffled through the collection of DVDs with such serious concentration that Clark had to smile. He really was cute.

"Man On Fire? Denzel is hot…or Riddick. Vin Diesel. Yum."

"Yum? Wow, what a deep and thinky critique of Vin Diesel's acting skills. 'He's yum'."

Whit looked up. "Where you this sarcastic before we started dating, 'cause I thought you were a nice quiet boy?"

Clark beamed. "We're dating?" He slid lower on the bed and put his feet against Whit's back and Whit pressed against them.

"Well, yeah. We spend whatever free time we have together, talk on the phone when we can't be together, I'm doing your chores, you're wearing me out any chance you get…I'd say we're dating."

"So you're my boyfriend."

"I'm your boyfriend. Vin or Denzel?"

Clark took the movies out of Whit's hand and pulled him up until they were flush together, from chin to toe. "Let's pretend I'm Vin…and you're a sexy chocolate chip muffin…"

"You have very, very strange fantasies--"

33
The really great thing about the seasons changing was that he got to see how Whit looked in the fall, wearing big cable knit sweaters that he used to think were corny until he saw him in one, looking like he was glowing in that light that's only possible in autumn, sort of pure and magical….

Whit walking along the fields near the sunflowers was enough to make Clark thank god Those People sent him here and not to Mars or Venus or somewhere in the galaxy there was no Whit.

In winter, standing knee deep in pristine white snow, his nose, his cheeks red, only his eyes showing between the edge of his scarf and the edge of his cap—what was wonderful about that was that he was the one who got to warm Whit up, one kiss at a time, hands, and lips, and neck…taking layers off was like unwrapping the best present in the world. Whit and snow…

At Christmas, Mom kissed Whit, told Whit how happy she was that he made her son so happy. That was the best Christmas gift ever.

Spring meant mud, and bright green buds and tulips, and the slow build up to summer, and no one needed to know that nibbling a trail of jelly beans off his boy-friend's outrageously tight abs was the best fun ever…almost.

And then it was summer again.

34
Clark got an odd e-mail—no, a scary ass e-mail from Lana. She claimed to have met Jason in Paris. Only…he didn’t know who she was…and. And he hit on her. And got upset when Lana swore she knew him and not only that, that he was friends with Whit and Clark and…it was fucking freaky. She said she only saw him the one time and didn't look too hard to see him again. She said it was too weird.

Clark lay awake in his little room and thought hard. Jason was in France…he was still on the planet and that made him happy. He was insane, and that was beyond sad. His mother did something to him to permanently take him away from all of them and for that, Clark hoped fervently, she was going to Hell. He imagined sometimes that he had some way to get to France, and find Jason and save him, and bring him back home to live with him and Whit forever.

He only mentioned once to Whit that Lana thought maybe she'd seen Jason, and Whit's eyes lit up. "Really? I hope it was him. I hope he's happy." He reached over and stroked Clark's cheek and said "I hope he's as happy as I am."

Clark felt like the worst kind of shit, lowest of the low. But it made Whit smile, that lie, and it was only one on top of a million others and someday soon, he was going to have to break out of that cage. Dad would have to understand…it was that important. It mean that much to him not to have to keep lying to Whit.

fuck…He really loved Whit.

35
It was easy to tell Whit that he was fun to be with. That he loved sucking his dick. That his ass was a thing of motherfucking beauty, that he'd drink his bathwater and no guy made him want as much as he did. So how come he couldn't just say, hey, I love you? He started to say it a million times and it just. Wouldn't. Come. Out.

'Course, Whit hadn’t said it either, not even something close to it. He looked at him a lot. He smiled at him, a lot. He even laughed at his jokes…that had to be love right? Shit, that probably wasn't…hell, it wasn't important.

No big deal.

36
"Camping? What? What the hell…sleep on the dirt? Why would I want to sleep on the dirt?"

"Because we can sleep in a tent, with sleeping bags, private, away from the house in the woods and you can scream if you want to."

"…scream, you say?"

37
It was a little cramped in the tent, but it was warm, and fairly bug free, and Clark liked it a lot. He pulled back from Whit and dropped little kisses all along his lips, and throat. "Told you camping's fun…"

"un-hunh. Let's get your shirt off."

"We're not going to stop at my shirt are we?"

"No, but unless we can get all your gear off at once we're going to have to start somewhere…" Whit unbuttoned his pants as he talked and Clark admired his dexterity. Such a talented guy. "God, Clark…it feels like months since we had a chance to—"

Clark sighed. "School sucks…but break's coming up and then we'll have more time for—for everything."

He held his hands up and Whit peeled his shirt off, bent forward and kissed his ear, tickled the lobe. "Hey," he whispered. "I really love you, have I told you that lately?"

Clark looked at him wide eyed. "…you've *never* told me that." Screaming it when he was coming that one time didn’t really count. This—this was different. His heart was beating hard, he felt a little breathless…

"Hunh. Really? Well, that's stupid. I do, you know." He pulled off his own shirt and smiled at Clark. "Really."

Clark felt like…summer just blew up in his chest. "Yeah? I, um. I love you too. That sounds so…little. Like, it doesn't really say what I want it too…"

"Lift, "Whit said and pulled Clark's pants down. "Cute boxers. What are those, dancing brains? "

"What? No! They're happy turt--oh!" Whit's hand was in his boxers and warm on his belly, tracing lower and lower until he reached the end of his cock and at that point, he was pretty much hard. Harder…really damn hard. "Whit—"

"Let me see…" He bent over and took the tip peeking out of the slit in Clark's boxers into his mouth, and shoved his own pants down--multi-tasking. so talented. Whit ran his tongue around the ridge, and sucked until Clark spilled a little into his mouth. "Eager…" he drew back slowly, until only the tip of his tongue touched him, and played with him until Clark grabbed handfuls of sleeping bag, spread his legs until they almost hurt. "Clark…I love you. And…there's no one else."

Clark shivered. no one else. His inner little girl screamed and ran off to phone all her friends…"No one else?"

Whit leaned forward, staring into his eyes, so close Clark felt like he was falling into them. "No. One. Else."

"Okay." He pushed Whit down on his back and held him there, maybe using a wee bit of strength, just a touch. He had one hand splayed on Whit's chest and the other wrapped around his cock. He pressed down on Whit's chest again carefully, and he could hear a tiny gasp and felt Whit's cock flex in his hand. Hmmm…now that's something to remember. He applied just a bit more pressure, just to see, and Whit groaned, tried to arch and that was *definitely* something to remember. A little drop of fluid filled the hollow between his fingers and Whit's shaft…he licked it up, and followed the trail it left back to the tip. He opened his mouth and Whit slid in. He loved that part, loved Whit's cock sliding over his tongue, in and in until he couldn’t move anymore…Clark drew back a little and Whit apologized. Clark rolled his eyes, and sucked. Hard. Yeah, that apology just went out the window, he smirked—internally, his lips were busy….

He was bobbing up and down on Whit's cock, letting Whit cup his head and move him a bit because he liked doing that, and Clark was concentrating on how it felt and the sounds that Whit made, letting them guide him, using everything he'd learned about what Whit liked, like grabbing his ass hard, he liked that. And yeah, big ix-nay on the eeth-tay—impervious alien skin likes more teeth and nails than humans do—

Whit lunged forward, and shook, came with a strangled shout. Hot flooded Clark's mouth and he swallowed—Whit yelled a little and fucked his mouth, slower and slower until he moaned and pulled Clark off of him. He shook a little, petting his hair, stroking him, telling him how wonderful he was, how perfect…Clark floated on Whit's pleasure, enjoyed it as much as Whit did.

After a bit, Whit pushed him off and told him, "Now it's your turn."

"Oh goodie," he laughed softly. He rolled to his side, and Whit lifted his eyebrow. Clark rolled to his stomach and spread his legs. "I know what I want."

"I love a man who knows his mind."

Whit spent a long time kissing him, teasing him, carefully keeping him on edge, enjoying the tease way too much as far as Clark was concerned. Whit was slowly slipping a finger around and round his hole, just enough pressure to make Clark whine, make him slide around and try to force the tip of his finger *in*--"Come on, come on, come on—you're ready, I'm ready--"

"So impatient." He reached under the pillow and pulled out a condom and waved it at Clark. "I am ready," he smiled.

"Yay, the Trojan fairy came…"

"Oh my god. Shut *up*."

Clark laughed, eased up to his knees and Whit closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Fuck Clark…you're going to be the death of me…." Clark tried to imagine what he must look like to Whit, and surprised himself—the image was so fucking hot he groaned—

The press and the warmth of Whit's hand on his back, his cock circling his hole pulled him back into his body and he was completely *there*, so much it ached. "No more waiting—" he pushed back, and growled, and Whit chuckled.

"Okay, okay…" Whit was an evil heartless bastard. But thank god the evil heartless bastard was all his.

The press inward was steady and hurt in a way that felt wonderful—it was balancing between pain and pleasure and it just kept escalating, and it tipped into pain and then bloomed into pleasure—Clark gasped at the feel of Whit in him, far as he could go.

"Oh fuck, the way you look…" Whit's thumb traced where he was inside him. "Feel…feel that?" Whit rocked his hips, and it was like fire flowing through him. Clark stroked himself, matching Whit's rhythm, move for move, concentrating on nothing but how good it felt, how Whit felt so hot and heavy inside him. When Whit came he felt that too, the swell, and how warm he was, and how tight his hands were on his hips…Clark came hard…and *loud*.

Camping was great.

38
It was one of those afternoons where the sun was so bright it was like the sky was made of crystal, and the air was on fire. It was hot enough to make Clark sweat, and feel like he was a step or two from--flying. He could feel the goofy grin plastered on his face—he must look like a walking anti-drug ad. This is your Clark on drugs…a Clark is a terrible thing to waste. He was making himself giggle. See this is why I hate love summer.

He was walking, taking the long way home and enjoying his alone time before getting there. Thank god it was Friday and that meant the weekend, and Whit getting some time to spend with him, maybe Whit and him heading to the city, or just being together….

Loeb's Bridge was up ahead, and like always, he had a brief replay of The Day He Sort Of Almost Saved Lex Luthor, and grinned a little. He was the only one who remembered what he did that day--shit, even he barely remembered what he did that day anymore. He still hadn’t told Whit about his 'heroic rescue'—it was kind of pointless, really. He was halfway over the bridge when vibrations through the metal made him press against the railing, someone was coming and they were coming pretty damn fast.

When he saw the streak of blue fly past him he thought it was Pete at first, driving his usual teeth-grinding stomach flipping best. He stepped out on the bridge deck, ready to yell—and froze. The car roared over the bridge and slewed to a stop on the shoulder. Not a Mustang—a Porsche. Clark could hear the engine ticking as it cooled. The driver of the Porsche poured himself out of the car, he was tall and lean, dressed in black and blue, like a walking bruise. And, you know, bald. He was definitely looking at Clark; Clark could practically feel his eyes on him. It was him—the Luthor who'd finally moved into the castle after almost a year of rumors and no-shows…that Lex Luthor. Clark wondered if he'd recognized him. No fucking way, not after all this time…the driver stood hands on hips and tilted his head and at the same time, a horn behind him blared.

Clark turned. It was Whit, waving at him.

The truck's horn bleated again, and Clark glanced down the road at the blue Porsche and the driver.

Oh well. Maybe they'd run into each other in town or something. Clark waved like a loon at Whit and ran back to the truck, not *quite* as fast as he could—it was close. His heart soared impossibly higher. Life was so fucking good—his incredibly handsome boyfriend was waiting for him, and if he played his cards right—he might be able to talk him into a free cup of coffee and a muffin.

He had the whole summer, after all.

9-23-2008