Homestead

Summary: Alex and Clark adjust to life without each other. Secrets are revealed.

Warnings: More themes of child abuse, revisiting what happened in the last chapters, including mild nudity.


Several months later:

Alex was bruised, and his lower lip pulsed from a cut that burned as the tissue swelled and purpled.

But he was satisfied. Oliver was seated the hallway from him in a chair that was just as hard and uncomfortable. The two of them shared a glare that would melt butter.

He was in just as bad a shape. The orbit of his eye was puffy and bruised, and the lapel of his jacket was torn. Both of the boys’ garments were heavily soiled from tumbling over the ball field during their latest skirmish.

Miss Hart exited the headmaster’s office, sighing as she took in their bedraggled appearance.

“Both of you, please come in here,” she ordered in clipped tones. She swept aside and beckoned them in through the door. They trudged inside as though greeting the executioner. They stood like wooden dolls before the headmaster’s desk and waited for several long seconds, only sparing each other a short, baleful glance.

It’s all your fault.

“I have to tell you both, I am very disappointed in you. Your parents will be contacted, and this will be dealt with swiftly and severely. I hope I’m making myself understood?” He awaited their reply with steely gray eyes.

“Yes, Mr. White,” Alex replied, glad to have done so first.

“I understand, Mr. White,” Oliver piped up, not to be outdone.

“I’m unconvinced that you do, Mr. Queen,” he tsked dryly as he adjusted his spectacles. “Aside from a letter sent home to your families, you will be subject to five demerits each. For each of those demerits, you will report one day to the chore section I have chosen, promptly, at risk of suspension or expulsion from this school.” Alex quailed and stared down at the floor until Mr. White took up his ruler and gave his desk a sharp whack to get his attention. Even Oliver jumped.

“You will pay attention whenever any adult or staff member of this school addresses you, Alexander!” Oliver smothered a snigger. The headmaster wasn’t finished.

“Oliver, you will report to the dining hall’s service entrance each day after morning prayers to help serve the meal. You will obey whatever directions you are given, and I will receive a report of your behavior while you are there.” Alex bit the inside of his lip at the vision of Oliver draped in the long white apron that many of the older students wore when they worked off similar punishment.

“Since you two boys have so much difficulty getting along, Alexander, you will be separated during the course of your punishment, even though you currently share a quarters. There will be no tolerance for fighting at this academy, and I expect you both to comport yourselves as proud students and respect each other. I don’t know how you behaved where you grew up prior to coming here, Alexander, but your behavior leaves much to be desired. Since you insist on such beastly behavior, you will work outside among the beasts. Report to the stable each day at two in the afternoon.” Alex’s reaction was mixed.

He’d be outside, away from the stifling confines of his room, and away from Oliver.

But he’d be working with horses. Horses. He swallowed back dread.

Miss Hart collected them and escorted them back to their quarters. The rest of the students had retired to their rooms for study hour already, so the halls were empty.

Miss Hart held Alex back a moment and shooed Oliver inside, beckoning to him to remain. She led him away from the door a few paces and reached into the pocket of her long pinafore. She handed him a slightly crumpled envelope, scrawled in slightly childish print. Delight bubbled in Alex’s stomach.

Clark had written!

He suppressed his smile, but Miss Hart allowed him the simple pleasure, for the moment.

“Your privileges for free time have been docked today, Alex,” she warned him, “so any correspondence in kind to reply will have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Yes, Miss Hart.” The letter seemed to burn a hole in his hand. “May…may I read it now, please?”

“Go ahead. But you won’t neglect your studies, Alex.” Despite the school’s insistence on proper names and titles, Miss Hart occasionally made concession to using the boy’s favored nickname when no one else was in earshot. The boy was bright and a diligent student in the classroom; despite his occasional haughty air, he was also inclined to tutor younger students, even if his methods weren’t ideal. They regarded him with curiosity and awe, despite the older students reviling him.

She couldn’t be his friend, but she could keep an eye out for him. She took her leave of them once Alex was behind closed doors.

Oliver sat disgruntled and pondering his mathematics text. He scowled when Alex sat at his own desk and opened the letter. “What’d you get in the mail, Big Head?”

“Nothing, Pea Brain.” Alex decided to ignore him.

Oliver peered over at the envelope as Alex scanned the contents. “Looks like a baby wrote it,” he sneered. “You’re a baby, anyway, Alex.” Alex wasn’t listening. He had already retreated into his own little world that included baseball, caves and Clark.

Dear Lex,

My ma is helping me write this letter, but I told her she can’t read it. Only friends can read it, and you are my friend.

I miss you, and so does Biscuit. Shelby does not miss you yet, because you did not meet Shelby. But he would miss you if he did.

I helped my pa with the hay today, and we patched a hole in the barn roof. I like being up on the roof. It feels like flying in the sky. I don’t know how I know that, but I know.

Pete and I play ball. Lana tries, but she still can’t catch. All she does is make eyes at Whitney. My pa calls that making cow eyes, even though Lana is not a cow. All Lana and Chloe do is tell secrets, anyway. They are just girls.

I heard a piano yesterday when Pa and I came to town. He said we could not go inside, because children were not allowed, and the grownups were drinking whiskey. But I heard a piano. They did not play what you played. I like what you played best. Does your big school have a piano? Do you get to ride horses?

I have to go now. I have chores with Pa. Then Ma is making dinner. When you come back, you can have some, too.

Your friend, Clark

Alex’s slight smile widened into a grin by the time he was finished. He reread it twice before folding it and tucking it into his desk drawer, joining two others Clark had sent so far.

There was never any correspondence from his father, which suited him just fine.

“What are you smiling about, freak?” Oliver accused.

“Nothing you need to know,” he shrugged as he dug out his grammar text. Oliver shot him sour looks for the rest of the afternoon.


Two years later:

Alex’s shoulders burned from his exertions, but he was relieved that he was almost finished. He blithely shoveled the last of the manure-riddled hay from the stall and propped the pitchfork back in its corner. He was drenched in sweat and in the earthy stench of the barn, but he didn’t mind. The huge bay horse whinnied at him and flicked his tail.

He approached the stall and dug in his pockets for the broken lump of raw carrot and offered it to Duke, chuckling at the ticklish feel of the horse’s lips searching his palm.

Who would have known Alex would grow to like horses?

It wasn’t like having a pet; Duke was more of a confidante. The most that he did on any given day was nose and push at him, nicker and swish his tail during their “talks,” but Duke offered him freedom and quiet, something that was in short supply in the schoolhouse.

He ascended the hay loft and picked out his favorite bale as a makeshift seat, leaning back and opening the latest letter. They were becoming slightly more frequent. Mrs. Kent’s neat script had been replaced by Clark’s younger, rougher scrawl, but he was getting better.

Dear Alex,

I wish you were here yesterday at school. Whitney and Jason got into a fight after Jason pushed Lana into a puddle and got mud all over her dress. Jason has a fat lip. He looks funny now.

Pete and I play ball a lot. We also went swimming at Reeve pond and went hunting for frogs in the creek. Pete stepped into some leeches, and we had to run to his ma to have her pull them off. Pete was scared. I wasn’t. He cried a little, but he said not to tell you that.

I like working with Pa in the barn. Pa tells me stories sometimes, really good ones.

I saw your pa two days ago. His hand still looks like it hurts him sometimes. He smiled at me. My pa didn’t smile at him, though. I guess he can’t hurt you anymore. I’m glad.

Pa won’t let me go to the caves after I got sick the last time. I just want to see the pictures again.

Your pa sent some men into the caves to find more of those green rocks. My pa says they are valuable. They just look like green rocks.

Your friend, Clark

Alex removed his dirty smock and hung it on the peg. He approached the stable hand and showed him his work, receiving a nod of agreement that he’d done a proper job before he was dismissed.

Alex’s clothing stuck to him; he longed for a swim. He trekked up the winding path to the creek, letting the midsummer sun beat down on his bare scalp. His letter from Clark was tucked into his cap, and he whistled his mother’s favorite waltz as he walked.

Sometimes he still heard her screams in his sleep. He would wake every now and again to Oliver’s grouchy, groggy complaints that he made too much noise and to stop being such a baby. Alex never spoke a word about his mother and brother. He kept a Daguerrotype of them tucked into his trunk, unwilling to keep it within Oliver’s sight. It was too precious.

He arrived at the creek. The wind shifted, and he already felt cooler the closer he came to its banks and the generous shade. Alex heard voices and splashing through the birch trees; unfortunately, he wasn’t alone.

“Blast,” he muttered. The benefits still outweighed the risks. He was going to swim. Period.

He shucked his boots and vest, laying them aside on a large rock. His shirt had been protected from the worst of his labors by the smock, but it still clung to his sweat. He worked off his knickers, stockings and shoes, enjoying the exquisite feeling of cool air against his bare skin. His bare toes dug into the moss and mud on his way toward the creek, which nearly felt decadent after spending the previous few hours in uniform, buttoned up to the teeth.

He entered the clearing and was glad for the moment that his peers hadn’t noticed him yet. They appeared to be involved in a game of tag, of sorts.

It looked fun. Lots of fun. Alex squelched the urge to ask them to include him.

He saw Oliver hoisting Roy over his shoulders and chucking him back into the water, which swallowed the younger boy’s shrieks. Like Alex, all of the boys swam in their drawers and nothing else, bordering on indecency. The thin cotton would dry quickly enough in the sun, allowing an easy change back into school clothes in time for the evening meal.

At twelve, Alex was tall and slender for his age, and was developing a hint of sleek muscle tone that was fast replacing his baby fat. He already knew how to swim, one of the only things his father had shared with him during happier times, even though he’d taken some of the joy out of it by stating “You won’t disappoint me. Never tell me you can’t, Alex” when he professed a fear of the water. His skin was slightly tanned, bringing out a spray of freckles on his back and shoulders, and a few more on his face. His baldness still lent him an air of maturity beyond his years when adults saw him for the first time, but it was the intensity of his face that made them stare the longest. His slate blue eyes had seen too much. He walked quickly wherever he went, with an economy of movement; Alex never lingered.

He waded into the shallows of the creek, getting used to the tepid water.

SPLOOSH!

Alex bellowed at the rush of water crashing over him and the sudden pull of someone emerging behind him. He no sooner recovered from the initial onslaught than another wave of water landed in his eyes and smacked him in the ear. He sputtered and choked as the attack kept on coming. He heard Roy’s high-pitched laugh.

“Got ‘im, Olly!”

“Whatsamatter, baby? Can’t swim?” he heard Oliver crow. He was being overwhelmed. He could barely see for the water being splashed in his eyes and he was losing momentum as he tried to splash back.

Alex took a different tack and ducked underwater, holding his breath. The water was clear enough. He saw that there were actually five boys surrounding him now.

“Where did he go?” Roy inquired. The boys stopped splashing once they realized their target disappeared. Roy’s dark red hair was slick as a seal’s and dripping into little ringlets, almost making him resemble a girl. He was the shortest of them all; the water came up to his chest.

That made him an easy mark. He yelped as he was suddenly grabbed by the legs and pushed up, up, up and dashed back into the creek!

If Alex weren’t holding his breath, he would have laughed. The resulting splash backwashed into Oliver’s face, sending water up his nose.

Alex wasn’t finished taking umbrage yet. Each boy wore cotton drawers for their afternoon swim as small concession to modesty.

They were flimsily fastened with buttons, and, Alex noted, delightfully easy to remove.

“Hey! Quit it!” Oliver yelped, skipping to keep his balance in the water as something went slithering down his ankles, nearly tripping him. He beckoned to his friends to stop splashing, but they were too far gone in the act of stirring up the water in the wake of Roy’s splash.

Months of nightly abuse at Lionel’s hands taught Alex how to hold his breath. His lungs were burning by the time he erupted from the other side of the creek. Triumph surged through him, making his heart skip…or perhaps that was just from the cool water and skipping up onto the muddy bank. Smugly he waved Oliver’s drawers over his head like a flag.

“Give those back, you bastard!” Oliver shouted. His face was turning beet red as his friends suddenly stopped splashing each other and noticed their leader crouching slightly in the water, arms close to his sides.

Alex winced for a moment at the slur; for one brief moment, he remembered his mother’s sobs at his father’s hands after he’d taken his nightly measure of brandy.

Never forget, Lillian, that I’m raising your bastard as a Luthor. Do you hear me? His mother turned white as a sheet the day Alex asked her what the name meant, when he was old enough.

He recovered himself quickly and jeered, “Who’s the baby now? Maybe your mother needs to change your diapers, Olly, since you don’t know how to wear pants yet!”

“Look! Olly’s naked!” one of his cohorts pointed out gleefully, giving Oliver a short splash to drive the fact home. Oliver’s hands were cupped around his privates; he fumed and cursed under his breath before finally turning to Roy.

“Go! Get ‘em for me!” Alex was finally enjoying himself. Amusement percolated in his stomach, along with a sense of closure.

Revenge…was sweet.

Feeling full of himself, Alex hopped into the spare drawers, turned and shook his rump at his audience, who were shocked, disgusted and amused by turns, entirely at Oliver’s expense. “Come and get them, if you want them back so badly.” Alex’s voice held much of Lionel’s haughtiness and inflections that were present whenever he had the upper hand with any of his associates, or his enemies. It would come to serve him well.

In the meantime, however, he never expected Oliver to move that fast…

Oliver was barreling through the water, plowing through it with his hands in sweeping motions, centered only on getting him. Alex whooped and scampered back a few steps, still grinning. His friends stood dripping and agape. Oliver’s eyes resembled burning coals.

“He doesn’t care! Look at him!” Roy shouted, pointing and then shrinking back, waiting for the rest of the boys to react to his nudity.

Alex was riveted in place for scant seconds, eyes pinned to the sight of Oliver’s body rising out of the creek, lips drawn into a straight line and fists cocked.

A strange, tingling hot flush crept over Alex, and his smile slipped. Oliver was roughly as tall as he was, but his skin was burnished from the sun, and he wasn’t given to freckles like Alex. He was suddenly uncomfortable; it was one thing to cause someone’s nudity. It was another thing, altogether, to witness it. His eyes drifted lower – briefly – where they shouldn’t.

Oliver caught the shift in his attention and roared, “C’mere, you bastard! I’m gonna kick your ass!” His cronies were shocked silent at the profanity; if any of their parents had heard them using such language, they’d have been horse-whipped. A chorus of mutters could be heard behind Oliver as he dashed after Alex.

Maybe I should just give them back! Alex’s lungs burned as he tasted the wind, feeling his bare feet slap the ground and smart with the impact. His arms pumped as he listened to Oliver’s footfalls and pants behind him, mingled with muttered curses. He was in so much trouble…

Trouble came calling sooner than he’d expected. He felt Oliver’s hard shove before his knees buckled. The center of his back throbbed from the force of the other boy’s knuckles, and his knees burned and rasped along the grass, promising weeping scrapes. He barely caught himself, almost spraining his wrist, but he bit his tongue on the way down, and nothing cushioned the impact of his fall.

Then the blows began, buffeting him and overloading his senses. He felt Oliver’s slim, taut frame crouching over him, crushing the breath out of him as he straddled his rib cage from behind. Alex struggled to lift himself up, but continued to take unwitting mouthfuls of the ground. Oliver pummeled him, egged on by the jeers from the creek and his own rage.

“I told you! Give ‘em back, Alex! You think you’re so smart, huh? Bastard!” There was that word again. “You’re just a big baby, and nobody likes you! How d’you like it, huh? Huh? Tell me how much you like it, Big Head!”

Alarms went off in Alex’s head.

It was happening again.

He wasn’t hearing Oliver’s taunts and rants anymore. He heard Lionel, calling him the same names, beating him with the stiff crack of his belt. He felt Oliver’s clammy flesh butting up against his lower spine, his skin still chilled from the creek. Over and over again he punched him as he lay on his stomach. The pain was nothing.

Alex had to get loose, and he had to get loose now.

He clawed at the dirt, fighting to get purchase and writhing to shake off the weight pushing him down. He bucked and arched, finally flipping himself onto his back, but Oliver clung fast, still punching him.

Naked. Cold. Exposed…weak. Fear gripped him, making him sick.

“AAAANNNNNGGGGHHHH! GET OFF! GET OFF, GET OFF ME! All he saw was the rage, now mingling with confusion on Oliver’s face.

“Fine,” he sneered coldly. “Give them back.” He pressed his hand against the center of his chest and shoved him again, forcefully enough that he bit his tongue. Mercifully Oliver lifted himself off of Alex, only to bend down and jerk the second pair of drawers down from his waist, making the other boy cringe beneath him again. He cowered back, and instantly hated himself as he scrabbled free of the cotton pants.

“That’s what you get, taking anything from me,” Oliver promised, but Alex was too far gone and could only concentrate on emptying the sour contents of his stomach. Oliver watched in disbelief as Alex struggled to his feet, bolted and threw up behind a tall oak. Oliver winced and wrinkled his nose, but suddenly felt a pang of worry.

“Ewwww…what’s wrong with you, Alex?” The other boys were already leaving the water, sorting out their discarded clothes, and they were equally squeamish at the sound of Alex wretching so miserably.

He’d felt so exultant before, and so relieved that he wasn’t the target of Oliver’s humiliations this time…or Lionel’s. But this time he brought the punishment down on himself. The enormity of it made him wretch again.

“Hey, Alex,’ Oliver interjected, wringing out his drawers, which were now hopelessly grass-stained. “C’mon, get up.” Alex heaved and gasped, closing his eyes as he leaned against the raspy bark. He began to shudder. “Alex…” Oliver put his squeamishness aside and donned his drawers, buttoning them and sidling up to the sick boy. He reached out and poked him. Alex reflexively slapped his hand away before he could blink.

“You started it,” Oliver lied.

“Hate you,” Alex grated out. Slate blue eyes glared balefully at him, but were filled with hurt and betrayal. “Hate you, Oliver.”

“Pfft…so?” But he felt guilt edging through him, somehow, watching Alex suddenly seem so vulnerable. Alex stiffened and stood up straight, brushing the grass off his hands. His knees were already reddening with shallow scratches and abrasions.

“To hell with you,” Alex shot back. Oliver and the other boys paled for a moment. He’d said it with conviction, and sounded so much like Lionel.

He was well away from the boys when he fumbled with his shirt, shrugging back into it and pulling on his stockings.


~0~

After dinner Alex made himself scarce, ducking out of the dormitories past curfew to be alone in the stables. He’d smuggled pencil and paper along with him and slumped against the fence post of the paddock. He set down his lantern to allow himself some light and began to scrawl in copperplate script, practicing it out of habit. He hoped Clark could read it.

Hello, Clark.

School keeps me busy. I am working hard to make my father proud. He expects that of me, and I cannot disappoint him. You were right, though. He is a mean man.

I like horses now. I don’t think I’m afraid of Biscuit anymore. I’d like to ride him again, someday. I never got to see your pa’s farm. I sure want to.

Tell Pete I bet he still throws like a girl. I still play baseball sometimes. I’m getting bigger, now. I might be as big as my father one day. I hope I get even bigger than that. Then he can’t hurt me.

Tell Shelby I would like to meet him if I ever come back to Smallville. By the way, Clark, your ma is very nice. I still have that green rock we took from the cave. Have you been back to the caves?

I went swimming today.

Alex paused, swallowing back revulsion. He couldn’t tell Clark…it was too much. He was nearly bursting with the burden of it, but it was his shame to bear, handed out by his father. He continued blithely, resigned.

The school’s big. They have a creek here. No leeches, so far. The food is good here, but not as good as your ma’s stew. I like arithmetic and science, and we are learning more about agriculture, too. I want to be the smartest person in the class. Maybe in the school, if I work hard enough. School is important, Clark. My father always says that nothing’s more important than knowledge.

If you want to, you can write me again.

Your friend, Alex

That was enough. He folded it and stuffed it into his pocket, planning to place it in the outgoing post in the morning.

He stepped outside of himself and just let his eyes wander over the landscape before him, drinking in the night sounds beneath the twinkling stars. The air was still slightly humid but was cooling enough to promise mosquitoes if he stayed out too long. Unbidden, Lionel’s voice came to him, lilting and deep, chilling him to the core.

Oh, Susannah, don’t you cry for me… He gulped back bile but mastered it this time. Dinner had been an ordeal. Several sets of eyes watched him every time he lifted his fork, and he occasionally heard sniggers and whispers. The roasted potato stuck in his throat, and milk tasted sour on his tongue.

Melancholy was all Alex knew. Joy didn’t live here, not even as an infrequent guest. He toyed with a stick, drawing patterns in the dry soil.

“Hey!” His head snapped around at the sound of the voice behind him.

Oliver.

The curious youth approached him hesitantly. Alex wasn’t expecting much beyond a rematch, but he wondered why he came out there to speak to him, alone. Oliver’s dark eyes held no rancor, but he smirked anyway. Alex cut his eyes at him accusingly.

“What are you doing here?” he griped.

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “Why are you out here?”

“This is my spot,” Alex explained as though he were talking to an idiot. “I can be out here if I want.”

“Not after curfew.”

“You’re out after curfew.”

“So?”

“So why don’t you just go back inside,” Alex suggested archly.

“Why don’t you?”

“Because I was here first!” Oliver huffed and made a face.

“Listen to the baby trying to sound all tough.”

“You’re not so tough, either.”

“I showed you at the creek.”

“All you did was knock me down.”

“Yeah, sure! I didn’t just knock you down! You got sick all over yourself,” Oliver crowed. Alex had had enough.

“This is still my spot, so you should leave! Go find your own spot.”

“You don’t own the school. Or the yard,” Oliver pointed out, emphasizing his point by sitting in the dry grass and weeds, toying with a stick of wheat grass. He was several feet away, but even that proximity made Alex’s skin crawl and indignant heat flush into his cheeks.

“My father could afford to buy this school if he wanted,” Alex challenged.

“So what! So could mine,” Oliver argued. “I don’t care.”

“Well, I don’t care, either. Why don’t you just go home to your father, then, if he’s so great?”

“Why don’t you?” Oliver countered.

“Is that all you can do? Say everything I say? You’re not too smart, are you, Olly?”

“You’re too slow. I caught you,” he reminded him. “Why did you get sick?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“It was disgusting. Everybody saw you.”

“Everybody saw you with no pants on,” Alex retorted. He could tell that got to him; Oliver was back on his feet.

“You’re still a bastard, and nobody likes you!” His finger stabbed at him as he pronounced his sentence.

“Don’t call me a bastard!” Alex shouted. “Just shut up!”

“Make me!” Alex searched for something, anything through a red haze of anger and resentment. His eyes landed on a craggy, gray stone that felt cool and bumpy in his hand. He hefted it and whipped his wrist, letting it fly. His aim was true as it connected with Oliver’s temple.

“OWWW!” Alex recoiled instantly, contrite and newly shamed. When Oliver drew his hand away, blood came back on his fingertips.

“No,” Alex whispered. “Olly…I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he croaked, slightly louder as he dug into his pockets for a handkerchief.

“Look…what you did,” Oliver cried shakily, trying to straighten up but still floored by the sudden sting that made his temple throb. The welt promised to purple darkly once the cut scabbed shut. Alex was horrified by the sight of blood, and the rictus of pain that fell across Oliver’s features.

Alex was thrusting something soft at him; he batted at his hand until he pressed it into his palm. A handkerchief. He flinched and backed away but still took the cloth, pressing it against his head to staunch the blood.

“Shit,” he winced, “that stings! Ow! Why’d you do that?”

“You just cursed again,” Alex stammered.

“You just hit me with a rock!”

“You still cursed,” Alex urged, but he tugged on Oliver’s sleeve, prodding him to sit against the post he abandoned. Oliver conceded and slumped to the ground, cradling his wound.

“I’m sorry,” Alex repeated. “Sorry I hurt you.”

“What’s the big deal? I called you a bastard.” Alex swallowed.

“My father says I am a bastard,” he blurted out miserably. The pains of the day and the gravity pushing in on him undid him. Hot, stinging tears leaked from his eyes. He turned away and paced to the next closest post, hunching into his jacket and bowing his head beneath his cap. His shoulders shook, and Oliver watched him with concern and regret.

“Alex…”

“I hate you!” he sobbed brokenly. “I hate you for saying that in front of everybody! You’re just like him! You just came over here when I wasn’t doing anything, and you…just wanted to come hurt me and make me sick! Just because it’s dark, and we’re alone, you think you can just do what you want!”

“I got mad. You took my pants,” Oliver pointed out. “What’d you want me to do? I just wanted them back.”

“Y-you were on top of me. I got scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of what you would do, to m-me.” All of it came pouring forth in a rush, jarred from him from Clark’s letter, the day at the creek, and the cooling darkness around him. “He touched me. He hurt me. Took my pants, made me take my clothes off. Wouldn’t leave me alone. I kept hiding. It was dark, so he wasn’t supposed to see m-me.” His voice was broken by sobs.

“He’s your pa,” Oliver argued softly. “Where did he hurt you?”

“Here,” Alex admitted, not looking up at Oliver, who was standing closer than he’d anticipated, never feeling the closing gap between them when he approached. Alex was still crooked over the post, but Oliver watched his hand slide over his stomach, just resting below the waistline of his knickers. Cold realization flooded Oliver and made him twist the handkerchief in his grasp.

“But he’s your pa, he can’t do that.”

“He does whatever he wants,” Alex sniffled, smearing away a thin trail of snot with the back of his hand. Oliver nudged him with the handkerchief, offering it back. “He’s a Luthor,” he added, as though, once again, it was supposed to explain everything, only to a different audience.

“You’re here now,” Oliver reminded him quietly. “He can’t hurt you when you’re here.”

“I have to go home soon, for holiday,” he told him, gulping back the last of his tears. Oliver blanched.

“Do you have to?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.” Oliver was at a loss.

“Alex…why did you get sick?”

“You were on top of me. I felt you against my back. And then, you took off my…your pants. It felt like him.”

“I’m sorry.” Alex turned to stare into his face, dumbfounded. Oliver had just given him an apology? “I just thought you were a freak. I didn’t want you to throw up.” Alex elbowed him sharply.

“Aw, why don’t you just get out of here, Olly?” he said brashly.

“Why don’t you have any hair?” It was the first time anyone at his school had asked him with simple candor instead of tauntingly.

“Something happened.”

“When?”

“When I was small.” He’d never been able to put it into words for Clark. “My mother didn’t like to talk about it much.”

“Can’t she stop your pa from hurting you?” Alex shook his head numbly.

“Uh-uh.”

“Why not?”

“I killed her,” he replied.


~0~

Jonathan strode out of the barber shop, cleanly shaven and carrying the ruck sack of goods he’d picked up from the store for Martha under his arm. He whistled jauntily, knowing he’d have to explain himself for coming home so late. Knowing Martha, she’d have held dinner. He looked forward to telling Clark the new tall tale he’d heard that morning while he was helping the Sullivans raise a barn.

He made his way down the planks and was nearly barreled over by two men stumbling out of the saloon.

“Easy now, Mist’r Luth’r,” the shorter of the two urged, shouldering himself beneath the crook of Lionel’s arm as he led him away.

“I’m fine,” he snapped petulantly before he noticed whom they nearly collided with. “Oh. Kent, isn’t it?” he slurred, and Jonathan watched with disgust as recognition dawned in his slack features.

“Jonathan,” he corrected him gruffly. The two men seldom crossed paths, and that was how Jonathan wished to keep it.

“That’s a fine young lad, that son of yours,” he blathered, reaching for Jonathan’s arm to pull him closer. Jonathan wrinkled his nose at the sour scent of whiskey on Lionel’s breath, which was currently painting the side of his face. He recoiled beneath Lionel’s grip. “Perhaps he takes after a distant relative, hmmm? Doesn’t seem to favor you or your lovely wife, Martha, does he now?”

“Clark looks like himself,” Jonathan replied calmly, feeling that was the end of it.

“Bright lad. I saw him playing baseball with the Ross boy some time ago. They came into my store and purchased as much horehound candy as a nickel would buy them yesterday.”

“It’s a rare treat. Martha frowns on him eating too many sweets.”

“Ahhhh…so did my Lillian, God rest her soul. Thank heaven, Kent, that you have such a fine son, but remember, pride goeth before a fall,” he mused.

“You also have a fine son,” Jonathan pointed out. Perry was struggling on Lionel’s other side, still supporting him but not liking the direction of the conversation.

“Not anymore,” Lionel stated, and his watery eyes turned into hard chips.


~0~

Dear Alex,

What did you and your friend Oliver do for the Fourth of July? Ma and Pa took me into town to watch the fireworks and we went to Pete’s farm for a bonfire. I ate more chicken than anybody!

Lana held hands with Whitney all night. Jason tried, but she just told him he could sit with her and eat with her next time. Chloe asked me if I wanted to hold hands, but I played tag with Pete instead.

“What did Clark say?” Oliver inquired, watching Alex’s slow smile.

“It’s just Clark being Clark,” he replied.

I don’t go to the cave anymore. I want to, and Pete and I tried, but I got sick again. Ma doesn’t want me to go there anymore.

Your pa is still looking for those green rocks. He calls them emeralds. They look like that necklace your ma had before, a little. I liked your ma. I wish you were with your ma and Julian. Sometimes I still have bad dreams. I see you crying.

I’m getting bigger now, too. Wait til you see me.

Here is a picture I drew of me and Pete.

Your friend, Clark

The drawing showed more character than skill, sketched in charcoal and pencil. Two boys were shown in a pool of scribble that Alex assumed was a field. The taller one held a bat, the other a glove. “This is for Lex” was jotted in the corner in Clark’s wiggly print. Alex kept it in his desk drawer, wishing he had a small frame. Oliver grinned when he saw it.

“That’s a funny drawing.”

“Clark’s only eight,” Alex qualified. “He’s still a little kid.”

“Alex, what was Julian like?” Alex’s smile faded, and he went back to a dark place.

“He was my brother. He loved me. Ma loved him more than me, but it was okay. I loved him, too. I couldn’t get him out,” he murmured dully. He’d related that day back to Oliver several weeks ago, shortly after the incident at the creek. Oliver had listened, stunned and remorseful, and the two of them had reached a truce.

“You’re just a kid, too.” Alex just stared at him as Oliver turned his nose back into his history text.

The dreaded holiday had come and gone, with Alex staying in custody of the school during the break when his father wrote them and gave his regrets, but he would be unable to arrange for his son’s journey home. Alex was relieved; his only regret was that he wouldn’t see Clark.