Homestead

Summary: Alex grows older, but his life grows more complicated. Clark still misses him and tries to sort out feelings of his own.

Martha remembered the details of that night with clarity. Jonathan had gone out to cut firewood. Idly she made a neat line of feather stitches, using a blue gingham shirt Clark had outgrown for scraps.

Then:

CHOK! CHOK! CHOK! Jonathan rested a moment, rotating is shoulder cuff to relieve the burn before swinging his hatchet again. CHOK! He cleaved the wedge in two, spraying his pants with more dust and splinters, but he stood back, satisfied. Now he had a cord of wood, just in time for the blizzard that he knew was likely to hit them before week’s end. His herd had been restless, a sure sign that they were in for snow that would keep them from town for weeks.

Jonathan briefly removed his hat and wiped his brow. There were moments, at times like these, when he wished he had a sturdy son to help him load his wagon, but it was a sore subject. He counted himself lucky to have a wife like Martha. She was smart, generous, hard-working, God-fearing, tender and an unbeatable cook; he wouldn’t count barrenness as a shortcoming in his otherwise perfect wife. Three miscarriages broke both their hearts, and a still birth nearly killed her.

Martha Kent compensated for this loss with charity. When a new baby among their circle of friends was born, Martha cooked, quilted and played midwife. She delivered home remedies whenever anyone had a sick child, easily dispersing gossip that Jonathan’s wife was “fallow.” Smallville loved Martha Kent, and they were protective of her.

Jonathan was mentally counting how many supplies they could afford if he cut and sold another cord of wood when he caught a strange flash in the sky.

It was too early in the evening for shooting stars; it was barely dusk.

Buck nickered at him and shied, spying it, too; Jonathan caught his bridle and calmed him with soothing sounds and strokes, but he was still ill at ease.

There. Another flash. And another. Jonathan had never witnessed anything like it, and he was anxious to return home. Martha would be just as awed, when he told her.

His knees buckled when the ground around him thundered and shook, and he cried out, cupping his ears from its deafening roar, louder than a locomotive. Buck reared up and tore at his tether, and his whinnying reminded Jonathan of a woman’s scream as he fumbled for his lantern. He fought to load the wood quickly, not wanting to lose a day’s work, but he had to find shelter and lie low. He guesstimated that the closest, makeshift bunker was the clutch of caves; he was less than a mile away.

All around him erupted Armageddon. Martha’s low, sweet voice reading their nightly Bible scriptures in front of the fire came back to him. Revelations. He was witnessing it now, and wanted to fall to his knees…

Trees shook with each impact against the ground, and Jonathan numbly realized they weren’t stars. They were just destructive.

Glowing, pulsing rock gathered friction and heat as it jetted through the sky, plowing through the earth as it landed and uprooting everything in its path. Buck and Beryl were frothing around the bit now, and Jonathan knew he had no choice, firewood be damned. He had to make it to the caves.

He leapt up into his wagon and gave the horses their head, driving them out of the woods as though Hell was behind them. In a way, it was.

“Almost there,” he grimaced as his wagon barreled along the gravel trail. His heart pounded in his ears as the ground suffered another barrage of rock. All around him, fields were ruined; he knew this night would result in ruin for many families. His stomach twisted at the sight of a burning barn in the distance and the smell of smoke.

Less than twenty minutes later, he sat huddled in the caves with his lantern by his side. He watched, despondent, as the flaming rocks continued to fall. It was nightfall now, late enough that Martha would be worried sick. His heart went out to her, and Jonathan craved the feel of her bundled against him, whether she scolded him or not.

His musing and silent prayers were interrupted by a shrill cry.

“Dear Lord,” he murmured incredulously. He waited a moment, and listened again.

A child! He didn’t hesitate this time; Jonathan merely grabbed his lantern, clutching his coat more tightly around his frame as he exited the cave. Beryl nickered a warning behind him.

The ground still shook beneath his feet, but he remained steady as he followed the sound.

There. In the clearing, he spied a shallow crater, still smoking and throwing up gouts of dust motes into the air.

“Oh, no!” he cried anxiously, and his feet sped him through the debris, heart hammering on behalf of the child. Where was the family? He sent up a prayer as he picked his way through the smoke, wrapping his mouth in the fold of his coat sleeve.

The cries were hiccupy and desperate, piercing him. Jonathan didn’t ponder for long how odd it was that the rock hadn’t pummeled down a house or shack; there were no broken boards or roofing shingles around the crater. It made no sense, but everything about this night defied sense.

“I’m coming! It’s all right, I’m coming! I hear you,” he shouted reassuringly, hoping the little mite would be comforted by the sound of his voice. “I’m coming!” The cries became more plaintive, but stronger, telling Jonathan he was close.

He stumbled against something hard. It made a hollow, resonant sound, like metal.

Gusts of wind swept through the field, buffeting him. Jonathan held tight to his hat and huddled further into his coat, finally bending down and using the metal as a bulwark and anchor. The cries continued. Jonathan was petrified but determined. He had to help that child.

The wind died down to a mere whistle. Jonathan wiped the grit from his eyes and peered about the crater. It was shallower than he was tall, thankfully, and craggy enough for him to have an easy foothold to get out. He leaned his forehead against the metal, shivering at how cold it felt along his flesh.

“wwwaaaAAHHH-uh-AHHHHH! AHHHHH! AHHHHH!” Those sobs wracked his ears. He was right on top of their source.

The baby!

The child was inside the metal!

“Good…Lord,” he breathed incredulously.

The sight staggered him, yet sickened him. Who would lock away a child in such a contraption? The metal gleamed from beneath the dust. Its surface was scarred with burn marks and dents, showing that it ran into obstacles during its travels, however it got there…

The leaflet of an idea drifted down to Jonathan, and he still couldn’t accept it.

“It can’t be,” he whispered, stroking the strange, clear pane that revealed the baby’s tiny face, twisted and puckered with its cries. The baby stopped for a moment, hiccupping again and waving tiny pink fists.

He had to get him out. Now.

“Easy,” he crooned, desperate to find something to pry open the capsule. He felt along the sides, looking for an opening, or a hinge. His fingers connected with a strange, protruding nodule, and he depressed it hard.

It clicked and made a sliding noise, and Jonathan felt the capsule thrum loudly, shuddering under his hands.

The pane slid open neatly, and the baby’s cries were unimpeded now, wracking his ears as he reached down, plucking it from its nest.

“How on earth will I explain this to Martha?” The baby had no answers from him, still squalling as he wrapped him in his coat.


Now:


Martha looked up at the sound of Clark’s clumping footsteps as he entered the kitchen. He grinned at her as he snatched up a cookie from the plate.

“Clark! Not right before dinner!”

“I’m starving,” he insisted, backing away quickly and biting heartily into the cookie before she could get up from her quilt frame.

“That’s enough, Clark. Go. Sit down and study. Tell Pa that the stew’s ready. Go.” She shooed him off sternly, even though he smiled at her again. He was hard to resist when he smiled.

“All right, Ma.” He stuffed the rest of the cookie into his mouth and headed outside. She sighed after him. Thirteen years old, and Clark was nearly as tall as Jonathan. It baffled her. She put away her thimble and folded the scraps, laying them carefully in the basket. Martha set the table and shook her head at her son’s cheek. Starving, indeed. Clark had the appetite of ten men.

They still bore the burden of his secret. Martha still lost sleep at night.

She was stirring the stew and ladling it into large, thick ceramic bowls when the two men in her life ambled back inside. Jonathan greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, bringing in the scent of fresh air and smoke. He’d butchered two hogs several hours ago, and they’d have enough smoked ham left to sell, thankfully, even after they stocked their own pantry.

She watched them both seat themselves at the table, letting her eyes linger on her husband. His skin was more weathered, and there were more strands of gray woven through his dark blond hair. The lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes and flanking his lips had deepened, but it didn’t take away from his handsomeness. His posture was a bit more stooped than it had been from years of hard work, but he wore it well. Clark caught her appraising glance, letting his own eyes land on his father. His brows drew together slightly in concern.

“You look tired, Pa.”

“That won’t keep me from your ma’s stew,” he scoffed, reaching over to ruffle Clark’s dark waves. Martha joined them and they said grace. Clark made short work of his plate, making her shake her head.

“I nearly forgot, Clark. You received a letter today.” His green eyes lit up as she nodded to the side table.

“Can I read it now?”

“Clear your plate and excuse yourself,” she reminded him.

“Excuse me,” he offered, hating how impatient he sounded.

“You’re excused, Clark,” Jonathan added as he broke open a flaky biscuit. Clark hurried over and snatched up the small, cream-colored envelope with Alex’s characteristic, neat script.

He dashed out to the barn, faster than his parents could blink, and climbed up into the hayloft. Alex’s letters were a rare treat and deserved his full attention, and privacy.

You sound pretty smitten with Lana, if you ask me.

“Am not,” Clark grimaced aloud, but he still smiled. Maybe just a little smitten…

Whitley’s full of hot air, Clark. Women like someone strong and steady, in the long run, like your pa. Courtesy goes a long way. Offer to carry her books, if you want to get her attention. And for the record, if I had to guess, I’d say that Chloe Sullivan has her eye on you. Watch out for that one, Clark. The way she gossips, she’ll set tongues to wagging all over town that you’ve asked her father for her hand!

“Ugh!” Clark wrinkled his nose in disgust. Alex had it all wrong.

Oliver and I visited a college two weeks ago and toured the grounds. It was nice, but I don’t think Father will approve of the curriculum much. He still wants me to focus on business, but I prefer agricultural science. Oliver talked me into a new suit for our trip. I look like a dandy! It’s the most outlandish thing you’ve ever seen. I’ll let you try on the coat and hat when I get back. My train leaves three days from now, at one o’clock.

Clark’s eyes widened and scanned the letter’s heading for the date. “He’s coming tomorrow!” Joy filled him, and he sat up and ran his fingers over the smooth stationery, drinking in his best friend’s words and itinerary.

Oliver’s coming with me. I think you’ll find him amusing. Oliver’s father gives him a substantial allowance, so we’ll entertain ourselves in grand style when we get there.

I’m really happy about visiting you, Clark. See you soon.

Your friend, Lex

Clark folded it shut with a hint of disappointment. Lex was coming to see him, so why was he bringing along Olly?


~0~

Sometimes, it was just too easy.

Alex’s fingers danced over gleaming ivory keys, feeling the music keenly as he always did, but not losing himself in it as he would have liked. He had an audience to impress. Every now and again, he’d smile mischievously over his shoulder. Behind him, Oliver rolled his eyes.

Show-off.

Beethoven’s symphonies were still his best friends. He heard the faint feminine titters as he continued to play the sonata. He brought the last movement to its triumphant conclusion with a flourish, pushing himself back from the piano when he finished. He was greeted by applause from several sets of small, slender hands. Oliver’s laugh was disbelieving and sly. He shook his blond head at his friend’s pandering antics.

Women adored Alex. Apparently he wasn’t a mama’s boy or a freak, after all, Oliver mused.

Alex was brilliant and skilled in different pursuits. He was an unbeatable chess player. He furthered his musical education at the academy, gradually becoming a piano virtuoso as early as twelve. Now, at seventeen, he brought down the house.

His father’s money was no longer a setback. Alex found that his taste for travel offered his father the chance to pretend he was rid of him. He accompanied Oliver to Italy, Paris and Athens on holiday, despite Alex’s problem with seasickness, but it was worth it. The Queens were an amicable couple and they, too, admired Alex’s cunning intellect and impeccable manners. The only thing that unnerved them at times was the moody cast that came over his face from time to time, and his eyes that sometimes appeared ancient.

Alex and Olly slowly became thick as thieves. Roy and Olly’s other gang of cohorts tolerated Alex’s presence among them warily, remembering the scene at the creek, but also the way Alex had turned the tables on them. Moreover, they were in awe of Alex’s determination to humiliate Oliver, even at the expense of his own dignity. Oliver never told them what Alex shared with him the night in the paddock. There were some ills and hurts that couldn’t be shared, and what happened to Alex was unthinkable. Oliver still shuddered whenever he imagined Alex cowering in the dark, hearing his father’s voice calling for him. Mocking him.

Alex sometimes talked in his sleep. His first year at the academy was the worst.


Four years ago:

Oliver awoke after midnight with the urge to relieve himself. He groggily climbed out of bed and rubbed his eyes, trying to let his eyesight adjust to the darkness.

He heard his roommate fidgeting and tossing his bed, rumpling the bedclothes.

“Mnnnhhh…no. No, please.”

“Lex?” Olly muttered, slightly irritated that he’d woke him when he’d planned to be quiet. He adopted Clark’s nickname, although he didn’t admit that he liked it. Oliver merely insisted that Alexander was still too sissy a name, much to his friend’s disgust. Alex had taken umbrage by tying Olly’s shoelaces together beneath the table at supper, sending him sprawling. His face flushed at the memory. Damned Lex…!

“Father…don’t!” His voice became more plaintive, rising slightly in pitch. His hands twisted the covers, and he began to scrub his face as if wiping away a fly.

Alex’s features, what Oliver could make of them in the gloom of their dorm, were twisted in pain. His stomach knotted itself uncomfortably as he approached the bed.

“Alex? Wake up!” he urged impatiently. Alex’s hand grew tangled in the comforter. Oliver carefully freed it, but that didn’t cease his agitation.

“Father, don’t! DON’T! Don’t touch me there, Father! Please…I’ll be good! I promise!” Oliver blanched as he realized what Alex was reliving in his sleep.

“Jesus,” he swore, knowing his mother would smack his mouth if she could hear him. “Lex, it’s all right, wake up! Wake up, Lex!” He gently clasped his shoulder and shook him.

“DON’T TOUCH ME, DAMN YOU! I HATE YOU!” Alex roared, and his voice sounded like someone else’s, not a scared little boy. His blue-gray eyes snapped open, and they were filled with rage. His hand balled itself into a fist, and he hurled it into the face looming above him in the dark.

“AAAHH!” Oliver cried as pain exploded in his nose. “Damn it, Alex!” Alex stared into the dark, horrified by Oliver’s crouching figure beside the bed.

“D-don’t hurt me,” he ordered coldly, despite his fears.

“I wasn’t gonna, Lex. What’d you do that for?” Olly whined. His voice was nasal from his tentative probing of his nose. Blood trickled down his upper lip and threatened to stain his nightshirt.

“Olly…blast! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I swear!” He sat bolt upright in the bed and watched his roommate stumble in the dark. Oliver rummaged through his bureau and found a handkerchief in the top drawer. He heard Alex’s light footsteps padding up behind him.

“Let me see.”

“Uh-uh,” he protested sourly. His voice was muffled by the cloth as he staunched the flow of blood. “Leave me alone an’ go back t’bed,” he griped. “Quit dreaming out loud.” Alex looked horrified.

“What d’you mean?”

“You were yelling in your sleep.” Alex swallowed and looked sick.

“What did I say?”

“You said ‘don’t.”

“Don’t…what?”

“You said ‘don’t touch me. Don’t hurt me.’ You were scared. Alex?”

“Yeah?” he replied. His voice shook.

“You were yelling at your pa.” Alex suddenly felt dizzy from a rash of hot prickles that swept over his skin. He drew back from Olly and dropped back onto his mattress, as though someone clipped his strings.

“Shit,” he breathed. Olly’s eyes widened. Alex almost never swore.

Alex broke his promise to himself that he’d never cry in front of Oliver again. Oliver felt uneasy as Alex sniffled raggedly and watched him cover his face, cradling it in his palms and resting his elbows against his knees. His sobs were silent, but his shoulders shook.

Something inside Oliver shuddered, and his reserve cracked. When he eventually grew into a young man, he’d remember back to that night and still feel pangs of sadness that someone could endure as much suffering at the age that they were. He continued to daub at his nose, absorbing the slowing flow.

“Lex?”

“Leave…me alone,” Alex whimpered. “Please leave me alone.”

“Uh-uh. You’re crying.”

“Shut up, Olly!”

“You hit me!” he pointed out, and his eyes finally adjusted enough to the darkness that he saw Alex’s face contort with guilt. His eyes gleamed from tears that he mopped away with his sleeve.

“M’sorry.” It was becoming a ritual. Olly sighed. His nose finally stopped bleeding, but it still throbbed.

“Next time you can just have your bad dream,” he groused.

“Why’d you try to wake me up?” Alex found himself feeling a mixture of guilt and gratitude.

“Because. Couldn’t sleep with you making all that racket.” He didn’t mention that he’d been about to go to the lavatory. Alex tsked.

“Don’t bother next time, if you don’t want a punch in the nose.” Olly watched Alex’s hand slowly, gingerly reach toward his face. “Does it hurt?”

“Yeah, it hurts,” he snapped.

He was surprised and interrupted from further rebuke as Alex’s slender fingers approached him, lightly touching his cheek. “What’re you doing, Alex?” He snatched his hand away, but Olly’s cheek still felt the warmth of his fingertips.

“N-nothing. Just…making sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine,” he argued.

“Ruined your handkerchief.”

“Mother can send me more. Who cares?” Alex was thoughtful for a moment.

“Was it special? I mean, did your mother make it?”

“Nope. Bought it at the mercantile,” he explained with a shrug. “Are you all right?”

“M’fine.”

“Maybe now you can stop crying and go back to sleep,” Oliver suggested, amusement building in his voice again. The dynamic between them was shifting back to what it was, but he clung to the moment a bit longer. Oliver doubled the handkerchief in his hand to cover the bloodstains and reached out to scrub the tearstains from Alex’s cheek. Alex sat stunned by the contact, but he didn’t lean away. The strokes of the cloth were fleeting and slightly rough, but he was comforted by Olly’s efforts.

“Idiot,” Alex pronounced gruffly.

“Baby,” he shrugged, but there was no animosity in his voice. His fingertips grazed Alex’s cheek as he crumpled the cloth in his hand. He continued to stare at him, holding his gaze. Oliver cocked his head.

Alex’s cheek felt soft and smooth. His hand stretched toward him again, and Alex held still once more while Oliver’s fingers touched him, caressing his skin and tracing his eyebrow, then his temple. Alex sat transfixed by his slow, gently exploration of his face. He tingled again, but this time there was a warmth in his gut. Heat rushed over his scalp and ears as Oliver stood before him, touching him whisper-soft.

It felt sweet and foreign to him. Tenderness was no longer a part of his life after Lillian and Julian were taken from Alex so cruelly. He leaned into the caress and closed his eyes, wishing. Hoping.

Oliver felt himself quiver, heart pounding as he ran his warm palm over Alex’s bare scalp, savoring how silky and smooth it felt, almost like an infant’s. He was drawn to him, unable to turn away or draw back to allow Alex the privacy he insisted he needed to compose himself.

His head inclined itself toward Alex, and he lowered his face toward his.

“Alex…”

“Olly?”

“Please…hold still.” His breath felt hot and tickled Alex’s brow right before Oliver’s thin, supple lips pressed themselves against his forehead, right above his eyebrow. Alex jerked back in surprise, eyes flying open accusingly.

“What’d you just do??!” His own heart hammered in his chest, too, and Alex felt dizzy again. He hugged himself vulnerably, not knowing whether to feel exhilarated or betrayed.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep!” Oliver cried as he spun and fled, letting the door close behind him with a sharp click. He ran toward the lavatory as though mad dogs were nipping at his heels.

Alex huddled under the covers so deeply the back of his bald pate was barely visible when Oliver came back, and he faced the wall.


~0~


Two years ago:

Metropolis summers were generally hot and dry and enjoyed little to no rain. When they were occasionally blessed with a cloudburst, the students at the academy enjoyed a swim in the brimming creek.

Alex and Olly waded indolently in the shallows, watching minnows and searching for frogs. They chortled occasionally as Roy and another boy roughly his size rooster-fought on the shoulders of two upperclassmen. Roy was triumphant, successfully wrenching the other boy sharply from his perch and knocking him back into the creek.

“Get ‘im, Roy!” Olly cheered. Alex sniggered as his opponent surfaced, complaining about water getting up his nose. He turned back and prodded the muck beneath their feet with a stick.

Oliver contemplated his friend, sneaking looks at him with hooded eyes and admiration.

The sun left his creamy skin slightly burnished and brought out a few freckles on his shoulders and cheeks. His youthfully slim, angular body promised sleek muscle, and the beginnings of a proud bearing that would make all who saw him pay close attention. Alex Luthor’s face was starting to realize his mother’s beauty, marred only by a tiny scar on his upper lip. His cheeks had hollowed and lost their hint of baby fat, and his eyes held intelligence in their depths, but they still looked haunted. Long, slim fingers drew ripples in the water idly as he continued to watch the minnows.

He turned to Olly and snorted once he caught his pensive gaze. “What’re you staring at?”

“Nothin’,” he shrugged before abandoning his frog hunt. He gradually waded into the water up to his chest and ducked, submerging himself in the welcome cool. He broke through the surface again and decided he’d had enough.

He was already most of the way back to the bank before turning to Alex. “You coming?” Alex cocked his head curiously, then nodded.

He was unsettled. Every time he looked at Oliver, he just felt strange, lately. Itchy and restless.

He’d awoke days before with sticky drawers and unexplained stiffness between his legs. It wasn’t unpleasant, not by far, but he was shaken.

He’d dreamed of Oliver. Only this time, he’d kissed him. It completely confused him, and his face colored every time he remembered back to that night, seemingly more shameful than their meeting in the paddock. He’d nursed that memory and the resulting feelings for months, fighting to push it to the same place in his conscious where he kept the things he outgrew.

Oliver was on the bank, dripping wet. His britches clung to him, nearly transparent now, and molded to his long, slim legs and buttocks. Oliver’s hair was a darker blond from the wetness and slick as a seal’s, emphasizing the planes of his face, leaner now like Alex’s, but more rakish. His mouth loved to smile broadly, even impishly, and he was destined to break hearts. Even one closer to him than he thought.

The other boys gradually filed out of the creek, joining them on the sun-dappled bank. Oliver lay on his back, eyes closed, drinking in the decadent sunshine to warm his lax limbs.

He felt Alex’s eyes dart over to him, flicking over his face every minute or so, prompting him to crack one brown eye.

“Quit staring at me!”

“M’not,” Alex muttered petulantly as he picked up a nearby stone and flung it into the water. He leaned back on his elbows and contemplated the water and his own feet.

Oliver caught him again mere moments later. “You’re doing it again.”

The other boys were fumbling reluctantly with their clothing, heedless of the exchange.

“I can’t stop,” he admitted and he stared down into his lap, bursting with shame. Oliver made a small sound and sat up, finally staring back. His eyes probed him. His curling, dark lashes were still wet. Alex flogged himself as the words leaked from his mouth.

“C’mon, Olly!” Roy shouted.

“M’coming later,” he complained on a shout before he turned back to Alex.

“Go ahead. Go.” Alex wanted to sulk over his admission and feelings of idiocy in peace.

“I don’t feel like going yet.” He turned back to the water. “And you don’t own the creek, anyway.” It was the staple of every argument they ever had.

“Fine.”

“Good.” Roy and the others peered over their shoulders at the two remaining boys as they made their way back to the schoolhouse.

They were alone. Silence yawned between them for long minutes. Oliver gave up on his nap and adopted the same posture as Alex, leaning against the heels of his hands.

“Oliver, why’d you kiss me?” Oliver’s fingers fisted in the grass, and his stomach dropped into his feet.

“I didn’t…it wasn’t…I don’t know.” He swallowed in frustration and embarrassment. His usual cockiness fled him.

He couldn’t explain how Alex’s vulnerability touched him and called to him like a siren song, anymore than he could describe the strange tug of his body to want to be…near him, somehow.

He was stirred from his self-recriminations by a gentle brush of Alex’s fingers over the back of his hand. Alex focused on the act, not wanting to risk rejection if he looked into Oliver’s eyes. He owned the moment instead. A current of electricity flowed between them at the contact, and Alex felt a tightening in his crotch. He felt Oliver’s pulse hammering in his wrist and trembled when he realized it matched his own.

He skimmed his fingertips along the column of his arm, grazing him and making Olly’s stomach flutter.

Suddenly he yanked back his hand as though he’d been scorched. Alex’s face reddened and closed up.

Olly’s voice didn’t sound like his. “Do it.”

Alex’s eyes pleaded with him and asked permission before he reached for him again. Oliver’s skin was smooth save for the fine, sandy fuzz of hair coating his forearms, another burgeoning sign of puberty. This time Alex stared into his eyes, following the contour of his shoulder to the taut cords of his throat. Oliver had been leaning closer, shifting his body toward him and heeding the call of his touch.

Alex trembled, disbelieving that he was allowing him to touch him. The air around them was sultry, and a faint wind kicked up, ruffling the damp waves at Oliver’s nape. The rustling of the trees overhead and Alex’s own heartbeat filled his ears.

Oliver took the initiative and closed the gap. Alex’s eyes were already drifting closed as he waited and hoped. This time, Oliver’s soft lips landed on the corner of his mouth. His heart pounded in his chest and he nearly drowned in the euphoria it caused.

Oliver… A voice inside him whispered that voice in wonder and awe. The emotions roiling inside of him threatened to undo him, but he needed it. He craved it, starved for affection and tenderness for too long. He felt bereft as Oliver drew back. He opened his eyes. Oliver watched him, waiting for his response.

Alex simply nodded. This time when he kissed him, his own lips hesitantly pushed back. Their breath steamed each other’s lips, sharing heat and the unfamiliar flavor of each other’s skin.

In his fifteen years, Alex never felt like this, never this heady, forbidden excitement flowing through him, kissing someone privately. Not in greeting, not a quick goodnight, and not the perfunctory peck from a visiting adult.

Alex gasped at Oliver’s hand skimming over his chest. Again, it felt strange, but not wrong. He still pulled back in surprise.

“What’s wrong?”

“I…nothing. C’mon, Olly, let’s go,” he encouraged as he rose from the grass and slapped bits of it from his drawers.

“Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“I, uh, I wanted to do that before.” He wouldn’t look at him as he reached for his own pants. “Y’know, that night. When you were crying.”

“You did?”

“Uh-huh. I didn’t want you to be sad anymore.” Alex was still reeling from the path the day had taken, but he felt satisfied.


~0~


Now:

Oliver and Alex chatted with the girls as Alex collected and put away the sheet music. He was, in his own words, dressed like a dandy. His black suit was sedate enough except for the royal blue satin vest beneath it, winking out from his jacket. His tie was held neatly in place by a gleaming pearl tack. He wore his clothes with jaunty charm.

Oliver was no less flamboyant. His own suit coat was a deep forest green over the more sedate black of his vest and slacks, but upon closer inspection, the fabric held a subtle pinstripe. Both of them wore spats and gleaming, hard leather shoes.

They were visiting Oliver’s parents in Star City briefly while Oliver packed for his trip with Alex to Smallville. Alex merely laughed at Oliver’s initial selections of clothing and helped him revise his choices.

“You’ll ruin that in five minutes, as soon as you step off the train. Smallville’s known for its dust,” he explained as he replaced a fine red, brocade vest with velvet flocking in the armoire. “And you’ll stand out like a sore thumb.” Olly snorted under his breath. At seventeen, he cut a fine figure in whatever he wore, and he liked to make a lasting impression.

He certainly was now. The young girl with long, dark curls held back from her face with a black ribbon wore a dove gray blouse with a ruffled collar and yoke and a darker gray, bustled skirt. Her olive skin kept her from looking washed out in such a bland palette, and her eyes were blue as topaz. She giggled as Oliver gave her a wolfish look.

The Queens’ parlor was as elegant as Lillian’s while she was alive, filled with heirlooms and fine furnishings. Oliver’s mother’s handiwork was everywhere in the form of crocheted tablecloths and tatted lace doilies. She was one of very few people in their neighborhood affluent enough to own a piano. Oliver wasn’t a diligent student on the instrument, much to her dismay, but Alex was glad to indulge her taste for music on each of his visits.

“Excuse my son for being too rude to offer you ladies something to drink,” his mother chided as she brought out a tea tray. Olly grinned sheepishly and bade them to sit while his mother poured. He caught Alex staring at his back; sure enough, when he turned around, he was making a face and rolling his eyes. When no one was looking, he stuck out his tongue. Very little between them had changed.

They still jibed and traded insults in class or in the courtyard. Oliver wasn’t above snubbing Alex in the company of his peers, and Alex wasn’t too shy to let him know when he was acting like a jackass. They were frequent athletic rivals; Oliver could outshoot Alex with a bow, whereas Alex was better skilled at fencing and with a rifle.

Once their dormitory door was closed for the night, all of the ills and pains of the day fell away. They argued and chatted like brothers, taking umbrage with pillow fights, pinching or tickling each other until they were sick.

Oliver began a ritual of kissing Alex goodnight. The first time stunned him as much as the day at the creek, but he inevitably looked forward to it. Just a light stamp of his lips, and off he went. That changed one winter night, when they had an unseasonal thunderstorm.

Oliver woke with a shout in the middle of the night, making Alex nearly jump out of his skin. Lightning illuminated the darkened room; Alex heard the rocking creak of Olly’s bedsprings and realized he was sitting up in bed. He rubbed his eyes and rolled upright, squinting at him in the dark.

“Whatsamatter, Oll?” he slurred. Olly was stiff as a board, huddled back against the wall.

“N-nothing,” he insisted. “Go back to sleep!”

“You woke me up,” he complained with a heavy sigh.

“Mind your own business, Lex!” His snarl was cut off by a crack of thunder that shook the suite.

Oliver looked terrified. That’s when it dawned on Alex.

“You’re afraid.”

“Am not!”

“Are, too!”

“Don’t be an ass!” he hissed, but tension and fear were written all over his face. Alex got out of bed and padded across the room, not caring about the freezing cold floor boards beneath his feet.

“S’okay, Oll,” he assured him. The bed sagged beneath him, and he felt Alex reaching for him. His hand found him in the dark and clumsily patted his cheek, his hair, until Oliver inclined himself toward him. He gave him an awkward embrace while Oliver remained huddled in the blankets. With Oliver’s temple pressed against his cheek, Alex felt his pulse beating in his throat.

It became the first time they shared a bed. Oliver silently beckoned to him, and Alex eased in beside him while he covered him with the comforter. Oliver felt warm stretched out beside him, and his arm gently wrapped itself around his waist.

“Fraidy cat,” Alex accused.

“Am not,” he mumbled into the pillow. Oliver was already drowsy again huddled against his roommate. He still startled and jumped slightly with each boom of thunder, but the patter of rain on the roof and Alex’s soft breathing lulled him to sleep. Alex felt protective of him, stroking his hair and giving him a brief kiss.

The feelings never went away, no matter how hard he tried to fight it: Alex was falling in love with Oliver, and it scared the shit out of him.

Most disturbing of all, while watching Oliver flirt with Dinah (under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Queen and Dinah’s chaperone), Alex felt pangs of jealousy. Dinah made the polite pretense of chatting with everyone else in the room, but she giggled at every other word out of Oliver’s mouth, eventually handing him one of her name cards as a memento of their visit.

~0~

Lionel swirled the last of his cognac in his glass, watching the firelight shine through the amber liquid. Perry and his wife were gone for the night. Beside him, his current mistress lay slumbering and tousled; her perfume and the scent of brandy lingered on his sheets.

Alex was coming home. Frustration gnawed at him and wouldn’t let him sleep.

The more he grew, the less malleable he became. Each visit with his son found more hatred in his eyes where there was once grudging filial respect.

~0~

The last time that Lionel visited his son’s room in the dark was the final one after Alex broke one of his father’s precious bottles of whiskey and brandished the jagged neck, aiming for his father’s gut. Only then did Lionel truly see him.

All of his boyish softness was gone. Alex underwent baptism by fire at the academy, having to prove himself everyday as worthy of his classmates’ respect. The whelp lying in his son’s bed gripped the bottle neck so tightly his knuckles were white. Alex’s nostrils flared and his lips were a thin line. He exhaled heavily through his nose.

“Get. Out. Leave me alone,” he rasped through his teeth.

“You forget yourself, son.” Lionel held up his empty hands and backed away a step from the bed. His voice was calm, but he felt the first pricks of fear chilling his flesh.

“No, Father. I know very well who I am.” His voice was flinty and hard, the inflections just like Lionel’s. “I don’t want you in my room, Father.”

“You live under my roof. You’ll obey my rules.”

“Everyone in town thinks I’m your son,” Alex challenged warily. “You still sent me away. You and I both know why, Father.”

“You sound foolish, Alexander.”

“If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off, Father.” Lionel raised his hand to strike him; his face was purple with rage, but Alex jabbed the air with the bottle neck.

“You’re a bastard, and you dare to quote scripture to me?” Lionel laughed incredulously, but he was finished. His lust diminished with their confrontation, and he was through with him. Lionel re-buttoned his pants and eyed Alex with contempt. He longed to lunge across the room and wring Alex’s wrist until he dropped the remains of the bottle, wanting to crush him beneath his weight and strip away his night clothes.

Alex’s helplessness fed Lionel’s libido. Without it, he only saw a worthless boy making empty threats. Lionel shook his head and smiled.

“You’ve no virtue to protect. You’re soiled and worthless. Just like your mother.” He let his eyes roam over Alex, making the boy feel just as violated as though he’d taken off his clothes. “I see nothing that I want, boy. Just realize that this was one of the last purposes you’ve served in my house.”

~0~

Lionel contemplated his drink again and pondered what to do about his son.

He needed an heir. He could remarry, but Lillian left a foul taste in his mouth. He had no use for a wife when a whore would serve the same purpose. He cursed Lillian’s soul once more for causing Julian’s death, but that wouldn’t bring him back.

Lionel peered down at his hand and flexed it into a fist, watching the scarred skin stretch over his misshapen knuckles. He wore gloves during the day, and Lionel was rich enough to distract everyone in town from his deformity.

He continued to watch the Kents like a fox. They’d intrigued him ever since he moved his wife and son to Smallville, purchasing the largest house in town. Lillian had no sooner hung their curtains in the front window than their son Alexander was struck by scarlet fever.

Perry was sent to the local apothecary and to rouse the town’s doctor, one whom Lionel deemed a quack, but Lillian wrung her hands and begged him to find help for their son. Alex’s skin was mottled and red from the rash and fever, nearly the same color as his titian hair. He burned with fever and aches and could barely keep down his mother’s broth.

The night that his illness reached critical severity, they witnessed the meteor shower in all of its fury. All around them the ground quaked and split as it was pummeled by smoking rock. Half of Smallville was on fire while Lionel prayed to God.

You’ve blessed me with so much, Lord. But please don’t take my son and baby from me. Lillian wrapped Alex in blankets and they huddled in the storm cellar, listening to the screams and collisions outside with sinking hearts. All Alex remembered was his mother sobbing over him and holding him close. Occasionally he felt something tickling his face, not realizing that strands, then clumps of his hair were slithering free from the root.

The day after the meteor shower, most of the town was in ruins. Lionel became a benefactor toward its reconstruction. He overheard Jonathan Kent speaking with Sheriff Ethan at the mercantile, describing the damage done to his paddock and the fence he had to replace.

The following week, Alex’s fever broke and his skin cleared, leaving him spry and as healthy as though he’d never suffered at all. Then the Kents arrived at church one bright Sunday morning carrying a baby boy wrapped in a pale blue blanket.

No one in town remembered Martha being pregnant. Smallville’s attention was so focused on the new addition to their family that Lionel was allowed to leave town without notice. His son’s condition and the state of the town posed a problem. He couldn’t expand his own interests yet with everyone still so shaken.

He laid low five years; Alex was placed in a boarding school when Lillian insisted that the boy was restless and exhausting his tutors. He needed stimulation in the form of peers his own age.

It was a dire mistake. Alex hated his school and pleaded for his mother to summon him home. Lillian was too wrapped up in her newborn son; Lionel’s wishes to keep him there held sway.

Alex stewed with resentment until the first moment that he met his brother Julian while he was on holiday from the school. Sullenly, he approached the expensive crib trimmed heavily in lace and peered inside.

The baby was still too young to smile, but his brown eyes focused fully on Alex’s face, studying him intently and following his subtle movements. When Alex reached out to count his little fingers, Julian met him halfway and squeezed his stubby fingertip in greeting.

Once Lionel rebuilt his resources and purchased the store, as well as a fleet of coaches, he moved his family from Metropolis, returning to their house and making it more opulent than before.

Lionel took another gulp of liquor, sighing contentedly at its slow burn.

Alex was precocious and brilliant, and just the man he needed to helm the mines. All he needed was the right form of persuasion.