Slushy

The Slushy
by NURV CANADA

CHAPTER ONE

He'd run out of excuses. He just needed to see Clark. He had no justification for being there. There was no 'I wanted to see your parents about this' or 'I needed some more of your mother's delicious that'. He just wanted, needed, to see Clark.

"Slushy?" he asked holding up the rain-soaked paper cup. The drink was half empty and no doubt watered-down, ruined. He really had no excuse for being there.
"Jesus, Whitney," the awed whisper caused shivers to wreck him -- or was that the icy rain, the chilly wind, the inert vacancy of a soul?

Clark pulled him into a warm house and he immediately felt guilty, horrible in fact. He was bringing cold and wet into the Kent home and, yup, there was Mr. Kent not at all appreciating it.

Tears welled up in his eyes, a now familiar feeling. It was almost comfortable. "I should go," he whispered.

"Absolutely not! Look at you! Your shivering."

Martha Kent -- nice, warm, lovely and thoughtful -- stood, leaving her place next to her husband and in front of the fireplace and walked over to them. He felt a burning hot hand on his forehead and flinched away.

"Oh! Oh, no! Clark get him into the guest bed immediately! Tell him to get out of those freezing wet clothes." She turned to her husband. "Jonathon, get him a pair of your thermal PJ's."

Surprising Whitney for a moment, Jonathon nodded and ran for their bedroom. It took him a moment for the action to register. The Kents were not like the Fordmans. They were not petty and always wondering what was in it for them.

He shut his eyes tight, feeling Clark's big hands on his waist pulling him away.

"Whitney, God." Clark pulled him closer and ran his hands over Whitney's arms. "Didn't you at least have a jacket?"

Whitney didn't answer. When he'd gotten the phone call, he'd just walked out of the mansion and to his cars. He'd driven to the Talon, looking for Clark, driven ewherwhere, praying that the boy wasn't home. He'd driven to the outskirts of Smallville, then back. He'd picked up a slushy at the same time the rain began to fall, because it reminded him of better time, happier times. He'd then steeled up the courage to drive to the Kents and after only five minutes, the sky darkened and the thunder rolled. He knew that fate was daring him to go any further. He did.

Four and a half miles from the farm, on a slippery mud road, his car took water up the intake valve and stalled. The engine would not start and the battery drained completely with his repeated efforts to start. He'd have to get someone to jump-start his vehicle, but his cell wasn't working in the horrible weather. He couldn't stay as his need to see Clark had grown immeasurably. His chest was tender and his brain was mush. He grabbed his car keys, his slushy, then made his way.

On a good day he could have run and been there in little more than forty-five minutes. But he couldn't run, nor walk fast and, once the wind started to blow the rain in his exact direction, he could barely see. It had taken him two hours and 28 minutes to reach the farm. It would have been longer if Whitney had kept his shoes on.
"Oh, Whitney. You're shivering. What happened?" Clark opened a door and guided Whitney in.

Whitney looked up and demanded that his teeth stop chattering. It didn't work. "Clark, this is your ." ."

He nodded. "It's warmer and the bed doesn't have a wooden plank going right down the middle of it. Considering they're both twins..." He shrugged. "The middle is the whole bed in a twin."

"Clark!" Jonathon ran into his room with Martha not far behind. Jonathon held out the thermal pajamas and Whitney wanted to laugh. They were red and green plaid.

"Thanks, Dad."

Martha pushed in front of Jonathon -- who ran out the room again -- and walked to Clark's bed. "I've got the foot massager. I've put the water from the sink in it; it'll be warm in jiffy. I've got the cocoa water cooking but he can't have any of that until he's had the tea."

Jonathon came back in. "Here are the blankets."

Whitney couldn't believe the fuss being made over him. "I'm f-f-fine. Jussst little-ittle c-c-cold."

Real convincing, Whitney.

There was a moment of silence where everyone looked at him, then they turned back to Clark.

"Bring him down to the living room when you're done." Jonathon told Clark. "Let him stay in front of the fire for at least half an hour before he goes to bed. And make sure-"

"He wakes up for a bit every two hours." Clark walked towards Whitney. "I know."

"It's not the most scientific, but it works," Martha chimed in. She handed Clark a thermometer. "Not until-"

"I get him out of the wet clothes. I know the drill."

Whitney looked at the three of them. "Uh, ha. I c-can und-dress myself, th-thanks." The thought of Clark undressing him, peeling layers of wet clothing off his shivering body, putting his big, warm hands in places to steady Whitney's unbalanced limbs...

Even if it felt like he had no blood, what little was still circulating would be going to one place and one place alone.

Shit.

Jonathon crossed his arms. "Wh-what w-was th-that, W-Whitney?"

"Dad."

"No, Clark. Mr. Fordman thinks he can undress himself."

"Jon," Martha warned. She turned to Whitney, patient smile. "Try it, Whitney."

He nodded and took a deep breath waiting for her to leave. He gave her an expectant look after a minute.

She threw her hands up in the air and headed towards the door. "For heaven's sake. Two brothers, five cousins, three brothers-in-law, a husband and a son-"

Her voice continued down the stairs and Whitney looked guiltily at Clark. He smiled. "She's just mad cause she's a girl and it matters to guys. She's a volunteer medical aid at the shelter and during tornadoes and stuff, and she'll rave about how nobody seems to mind down there." Whitney looked down and Clark continued. "It's okay, really. I still chase her out when she walks in on me changing shirts."

"Give it a shot, Whitney." Clark glared meaningfully at his father, but Jonathon was having none of it. "Try to get out of yours."

Whitney's arms were crossed and felt frozen. He jerked them apart and tried to start unbuttoning his shirt. The only problem was he couldn't seem to aim his hands right, much less convince the trembles to subside.

Jonathon looked at his son. "Once you've checked his temperature, I've got some thermal socks."

Clark looked down at Whitney's feet. "Okay. I think- What the hell?!" He bent down and touched Whitney's foot. "Dad, he's only wearing socks! And they're frozen."

"Get his feet in foot massager immediately, Clark. If the storm lets up before too late, get him in the shower."

With that, Jonathon left Clark to his duties, closing the door to allow them some privacy. If he knew the thoughts that were threatening to break into Whitney's mind, he would have tossed the rich baldy back to nature.

"Damn it, Whitney." Clark ducked down to pull Whitney's socks off. "Where the hell are your shoes?"

"They g-got ssstuck in the mud."

"And where's your car?"

He shrugged as Clark managed to get the first sock off. "Couple of miles out."

Clgavegave him a tolerant look.

"Four," he whispered wondering how, of all his numerous opponents, a farmboy keeping who knows how many secrets from him, could always get the truth. If he knew what to ask. Whitney still felt guilty for wording around the whole "What do you think?" answer.

~"Was Pete telling the truth? Was Hamilton really here?"~

A question to a question is never the correct answer, Clark. He thought briefly about telling his friend the truth, but only when Clark fully trusted him could Whitney reveal his own hidden truths.

"Four miles out?"

"Can you hear yourself?"

He merely nodded. Clark lifted Whitney's pant leg and reached in to peel the other sock off. "Well, sorry to inform you, Whitney, but you're stuck herr nor now. Power failure. Lines are down for as far as we could see from the attic. Or did you not notice the lack of light in the house?"

As a matter of fact he hadn't. Now that he looked he found that Clark's room was currently being lit by a halogen lamp. He hadn't remembered it being in Clark's hands when he helped Whitney up the stairs.

Whitney lifted his leg to help Clark with the sock, and lost his balance. Before he could even start to tumble backwards, Clark caught him around the waist and looked up at him, brow creased, green eyes open with worry.

"Whitney?"

Whitney tried to ignore how close the boy was to his crotch. He stood there sockless as Clark pulled the massager from the bed and placed in front of Whitney.

"Mom's already put in the hot water. It's battery powered so it'll stay warm. Step in."

Whitney braced himself, hand on Clark's shoulder, and put one foot in. He winced at the burn, pulling his foot back. "It's too hot." He hated the whine in his voice.

Clark looked even more worried. "It just barely above lukewarm, Whitney. God... You know, you'll be lucky if you walk away from this with a raging case of pneumonia."

Whitney watched as Clark stood up, wondering how he got so lucky to have someone worry about him so. "C-Clark, I'm sorry."

Clark put his hands to Whitney's face, his burning hot hands, but Whitney didn't shake them off. They were Clark's hands after all.

There was something intense in Clark's eyes, something with meaning and if Whitney could just stop the shakes, could just pay attention to something other than the cold for just a moment, he was sure he would like what he found.

Such a beautiful boy, he thought vaguely. So pretty and nice to me. I hit him with a car and now he's my best friend. I wonder what I could do to get him to love me.

"You have no idea, do you?"

Clark's whisper broke his trance and he swallowed.

"W-what, C-Clark? N-n-no id-d-dea ab-b-"

Clark's finger on his lips shushed him and he resisted the urge to lick it, taste it, feel it's warm suffuse him. Clark had to taste better than any morsel he'd ever bit into, any liquid he'd ever sipped.

Better than the damned slushy, that's for sure.

The slushy! He was still holding it in his right hand.

"C-Clark?"

His voice interrupted whatever thoughts were going through Clark's head and he started. To Whitney's great disappointment, Clark's hands left his face, and the cold came rushing back. Clark's fingers found the buttons of his lavender shirt, water-soaked to a deep, royal purple.

"Yes?"

"I g-got you a s-slushy."

Clark's eyes shut tight for a second. "Whitney..." He opened his eyes, still mere inches away from Whitney's face. "Thanks for the drink."

He took it from Whitney's hand and placed it on the bed, then returned to unbuttoning Whitney's shirt. Halfway down the shirt he started to shiver uncontrollably.

"Whitney?! What's wrong?!"

Whitney heard the worry in Clark's voice but he couldn't respond. His whole body was rattling so hard, so violently...

When the darkness came, it was a blessing.

+_+_+_+_+
Whitney went limp in his arms, still shuttering. Clark started to panic. Whitney's whole body. Limp. Heavy with an exaggerated weight that felt far too much like death.

Okay, frostbite, pneumonia, system shut down...

He couldn't take Whitney to the hospital in this weather. Normally it would take him five minutes to get there, but with the way everything looked out there, it would take him at the very least ten. He didn't want to expose Whitney to the cold for that long.

Maybe if I wrapped him in a bunch of blankets-

The rain would soak the blankets.

And then put a couple of raincoats over him-

Besides how would you be able to tell if he was breathing or not?

-I could use my X-ray vision.

How often would you have to stop to make sure?

"Too often."

He was about to call his parents and have them help him when he got an idea. He'd seen a few movies where it had worked and it was worth a shot.

He's just too cold, he told himself as he placed Whitney gently down on the floor. I have to warm him up, that's all.

Clark tried to unbutton Whitney's shirt, only to find his hands trembling brutally.

"Fuck it." He ripped Whitney's shirt open then, finding it too hard to slide the sleeves off the lifeless arms, just ripped those off as well.

He was able to unbutton and unzip the slacks Whitney was wearing and clumsily pull them down while still cradling the older boy. Even his monogrammed boxers were drenched and Clark looked away as he pulled them off.

"Whitney?" He pulled the older boy to him in a last ditch effort to revive him. "Whitney, please. Wake up. Come on, come on."

The pale face just lie there, not moving, not flinching when Clark patted him, not crying out in indignation when Clark slapped him. He was completely passive, inanimate and the hysteria was starting to build inside Clark's gut.

Hypothermia, he thought, knowing that you're not supposed to let someone suffering from the cold go to sleep. They could slip into shock.

He picked Whitney up and moved to the bed tossing the multitude of covers aside and slipping Whitney beneath them. He shed his own clothes as quick as he could, leaving on his boxers, and climbed in with Whitney. He pulled his naked best friend to him, curling his arms and legs around Whitney's chilly form and began to rock.

His eyes filled up with tears. Clark could normally get by the winters without feeling the same cold as others. He wasn't as effected by the chill, but he could feel the icy hardness of Whitney's usually beautiful pale skin, so soft looking and delicate.

He wouldn't let Whitney die. There was no way Clark was going to lose him. Not at all. He'd do anything.

"I'll tell you the truth, Whitney," he whispered, burying his face in Whitney's neck. "I'll tell you everything that I know. How I came down from the sky with that fire, with those rocks. "

He could see Whitney's gorgeous smile from his memory and his breath hitched. Tears rolled down his cheeks. "How every time I see you I feel filled with energy and love." He let his hand trace the small scar under Whitney's chin. "How I want to kill anyone that tries to hurt you. I can't stand seeing you in pain, or in danger. I just want to keep you with me, in my arms." His fingers found Whitney's lips. "If you come back I'll tell you everything, Whitney. Like... Like how much I want to kiss you and hold you and... make... love to you."

He pressed his lips to Whitney's, the tears streaming, and wished with everything he had that he could take Whitney's chill away. That he could force warmth onto him.

To Be Continued...
[tomorrow, I promise!]

The Slushy
by NUANADANADA

CHAPTER TWO

Clark woke up to something feeling around his chest. He opened his eyes to a shivering but warmed-up Whitney.

And sunshine.

He started and was suddenly very grateful that his parents hadn't wandered in on him and Whitney like this.

Whitney.

The older boy was smiling at him, eyes half-lidded and the look he was giving Clark from under those long golden-fire lashes was beyond erotic. Clark's stomach flipped and his heart began to pound.

"It's cold," Whitney purred. Clark's dreams of Whitney hadn't even begun to approach the level of sexy that that voice reached.

"Uh, yeah," he whispered and realized with a start that the things touching his chest were the fingers of Whitney's left hand. His right hand was currently rubbing up and down Clark's ribcage.

What the hell?

Whitney rubbed up against Clark. Gasping, Clark's eyes shut tight and his groin jerked tightly.

Whitney was hard as iron. And he clearly wanted Clark.

"You're so shy this morning."

As opposed to-?

"You usually would have me bent over the bed already."

"G-God," Clark stuttered and began to pant. Whitney was clearly delusional. Was this a typical reaction/symptom of hypothermia?

Whitney's right index finger trailed Clark's cheek. "Why, love?"

Tears sprang up behind Clark's still closed eyes but he didn't let them forward. He was glad that he hadn't seen Whitney whisper those words, because he would have lost it then. He'd been wanting Whitney to consider him as a possible romantic interest for the longest time.

"You're so quiet."

He'd dropped hints left and right after making it clear he was no longer interested in Lana and/or Chloe. He kept inviting Whitney over, asking him to movies and to sleep-overs in the barn. He'd almost had the courage one night to profess to Whitney just what he'd felt; the older boy began talking about some football stories and broke the mood, reminding Clark of the many, many reasons why Whitney could never be interested in him.

When he got his courage back, he'd sent sterling roses [the only of lavender color and consequently a thornless breed; symbolically perfect he thought] and letters. Never with his name of course, but with an anagram: Ken Jerret Tolkam. Nhe bhe best, especially the last name, but he'd hoped that Whitney would catch on. And really can\can't blame a guy for not having enough vowels and good letters in his name. And it was better than Ren K. Tlack.

"God, you're gorgeous," whispered Whitney, moving closer and Clark whimpered. Whitney was naked and hard and Clark had his boxers on but his own erection was peeking through and he couldn't help it. How was he going to resist a Whitney that wanted him? A Whitney that he'd been wishing for and dreaming about for how long?

He breathed in deep and remembered the drenched, half-frozen Whitney from last night, like a poor, lost and wounded animal searching for refuge in the only warm place he knew.

"Clark?"

He'd just have to keep in mind that Whitney was delusional and highly influential. Obviously he'd awaken in this state to find himself wrapped in Clark's arms and, not being completely there, his mind came up with the reasoning.

"I love you."

A single rogue and damning tear slipped from his eye just as Whitney's lips pressed to his, petal soft but pleading in urgency.

Clark kept his mouth shut tight. He could do this. For Whitney he could do anything.

Whitney whimpered against him. "Clark," he whined softly, erotically. "Kiss me."

Clark used all the strength inside him to pull away. "No, Whitney."

He opened his eyes. Whitney was startled and hurt. Clark looked away before he broke down and... and just went down on Whitney.

"What do you-" he started and his voice cracked. "What do remember from last night?"

Whitney frowned. "I really can't remember what we did." He looked suddenly guilty, like a lover remorse. "I'm so sorry, love."

Stop calling me that, he thought, but didn't say it aloud. As long as Whitney kept saying it, the more times the word passed his lips...

"Your car," Clark started for him but it only seemed to confuse Whitney more.

"It got stuck in the mud."

"Did we call Triple A? I'm a member."

Clark sighed. "There was a storm last night. You came over."

Whitney leered at him. "That much I can tell, farmboy." His hand traveled quickly down Clark's stomach to grasp-

"Whitney!" he yelped and pulled Whitney's hand away.

"Yes?" the boy asked innocently before licking Clark's jugular.

"The storm? Your car got stuck? You came here?"

"Shorter version isn't any better than the first."

"You don't remember?"

"No, and to telu thu the truth, Clark, this is all starting to get very boring." Whitney licked him again. "Especially when I have a farmboy with sexual needs that have to be taken care of."

"Whitney," he started.

Whitney pulled himself up on top of Clark with all his strength and Clark pretended that he couldn't fight it. Whitney would never know the truth about Clark's real strength and Clark could dream about this for the rest of his life. A naked Whitney, aroused for Clark and lying on top of his lap.

Wey bey bucked against him and sat up, straddling Clark. From his peripheral vision, he saw Whitney's flushed cock straining forward invitingly.

So many things I could do. So many times I've dreamt of us like this.

He tried to push it from his mind, even as Whitney laughed. "I want you, Clark Kent. I want you to fuck me."

Clark blushed and his body quivered. "Shit, Whitney, you don't know what you're saying or doing."

But Whitney wasn't listening. "I want to lick you and suck you, Clark. I want you to come in my mouth."

Clark shut his eyes again and fought the urge to buck up. His cock was against the cleft of Whitney's cheeks and he wanted nothing more than for all of Whitney's illusions to be true.

But this was just fucking torture.

"I want you to make love to me, Clark. Make me yours."

That was enough. He felt the precum and knew all too well that he would do what Whitney asked him to if he didn't move now.

He sat up and moved Whitney off of him, bolting off the bed and away.

"God, Clark! What is with you this morning?"

He spun around. "WHAT'S WITH ME?" Checking the clock he saw that it was 8:15. Both his mother and his father would be out. Why hadn't they retrieved him?

He lowered his voice anyway. "What is with me? You're the one that- I mean I just wanted to- I can't even think." Whitney got up, the sheets and blankets slipping from his naked body to reveal such a lean, pale specimen that Clark's cock jumped. Whitney was so fucking perfect.

And so fucking not yours!

Whitney started towards him, but he held out his hand, averted his eyes, and prepared to say the hardest four words he would ever have to.

"We're not lovers, Whitney."

"What?" asked a startled Whitney.

Clark sighed. "You, for some reason, needed to see me last night. You braved the freezing rain and the storm to come and see me. Your car broke down. You walked four miles in the horrid weather to get here. You lost your shoes. You were cold, almost frostbitten for sure. I was trying to get your clothes off to put you in bed when you fainted. I guess you went into shock and the only way that I thought I could help was... body heat."

There was the sound of Whitney's body dropping to sit on his bed then a thick and uncomfortable silence for more than a minute.

"Oh."

The one word was so dreary, so sad and forlorn, so heavy with heartache that Clark looked over to his friend.

Whitney was no longer my-wmy-white but an ashen-gray. He looked ill and morbid.

"Whitney, are you-"

"No." He stood up, not bothering to cover his declining anatomy. "Would you excuse me for just a second?"

Without waiting for an answer Whitney calmly stepped out of Clark's room, walked quickly to the restroom, shut the door and threw up.

Clark was by the door instantly. "Do you need any help?"

"I'm just throwing up, Clark," he snapped. There was a sigh. "Could you please get me my clothes?" he asked, his voice softer, more polite.

Clark winced. "You sort of don't have them anymore."

There was a pause. "I see. Would you mind loaning me a few?"

Clark hated the formality of Whitney's words and tone. "Sure, Whitney. No problem." He wanted to throw in an extra 'what are good buds for?' but wasn't sure he could it it off.

Was Whitney still his best friend? He didn't want to lose him, no matter how awkward things might be for a while.

In a rush he ran into his room, got dressed and grabbed a few things that would fit Whitney. He handed them to Whitney through the bathroom door and aute ute later the boy came out.

His compaion was a little better, but he still looked terribly ill. Dressed in baggy jeans that were too small on Clark and a tee that looked just his size, Whitney looked so touchable. The shoes looked a little goofy, but incredibly endearing.

"Whitney-"

"I apologize, Clark, for any embarrassment I have caused you. I don't know what exactly got into me." "Thank you for your kindness and hospitality, Clark, and thank your parents." He stopped and smiled up at Clark, but there was nothing in the smile. It was dead, like his voice. Just upturned lips, nothing more.

"You saved my life again. Thank you."

"Whitney, please-"

The older boy started down the stairs again. "I'll see to it that your things are returned to you. Thank you again."

The screen door slammed seconds after Whitney left his sight and Clark couldn't move.

~I'll see to it that your things are returned to you.~

Not, 'I'll drop your stuff off later, Clark. See ya.'

Whitney was treating him like a stranger. Like someone who didn't matter a damned bit.

Two weeks later Clark was at the Talon with Chloe when Lana stunned him with the news. Whitney hadn't just decided to move back to Metropolis. He'd already done it.

It was then that Clark realized the friendship was over. Before he ran into the bathroom to do some throwing up of his own, he realized that he hadn't even gotten his clothes back.

To Be Continued...

[tomorrow (I hope!) comes the last part]
The Slushy
by NURV CANADA

CHAPTER THREE

Whitney sat on the roof of his new apartment building thinking about the only thing he'd been thinking about the last three months. He hadn't even noticed the rain until the lightning had scared the shit out of him. And still he stayed, not really caring about the danger. This was the only place he could think and think clearly about anything.

Of course his 'anything' was only limited to one subject.

Clark Kent.

He thought that if he quit his father's business, went back to school, started dating pretty young girls -- safely around his age -- he could forget about Clark. He wouldn't go back to his earlier ways. He would have no reason to.

Quitting the family business hadn't been easy, but things didn't matter to him anymore. The one thing he'd ever wanted with his soul, he thought he'd had. He'd been touching and tasting and feeling within those few minutes. But requited passion and perpetual euphoria was not to be his. Reality came crashing through his reverie and smashed the light inside him.

Nothing. Mattered.

How could it?

Whitney breathed in noticing the lack of full truth in his thoughts. Something mattered. Science. A little. He was delving into it now, getting back to his roots. Dabbing in new things and... and he'd met a girl. Tall, strong and sweet. Country fresh. Independent.

Dark hair -- not as black as the hero in his dreams -- cut short and eyes like winter-green grass. Not quite the forest on fire, the trembling ocean ready to quench his thirst... but it was a soft relationship, a quaint romance.

Claire Kelly.

And it hadn't lasted.

He didn't have to wonder why. Nothing lasted anymore. Except science. Science and the rain. It was always raining.

"You're a tough guy to find."

He shut his eyes tight and buried his face in his JC Penny's windbreaker, a little light for this weather but his physical body and his mentality had ceased to communicate for a long time now.

"And now you're just going to ignore me? Like I'm not here?"

It often started out this way. He wasn't sure how it would end. He never was. Clark had come to see him in his mind so often. Usually, nowadays, it was while he was asleep. He'd dream of the minutes that he had with Clark the one morning he thought he'd awaken with everything, with the world in his arms.

He hadn't had an honest-to-God hallucination in a very long time.

"I'm not leaving until you hear me out."

"You never do," he mumbled.

"What?"

He shook his head, and watched the city twinkle in the distance. It really was beautiful.

He wondered how long it would take the hallucination to ask him to turn around.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking, and, really, I can't figure out just why the hell you left me."

Whitney frowned. This was a first. Fake-Clark always had some reason. Either Whitney was being cursed for being a pervert or a bad friend, but fake-Clark always had something to make Whitney feel like shit.

What the hell?

"I mean I can understand your embarrassment with the situation we were put in-"

'We were put in?' It was usually to the effect of 'why'd you touch me like that, you sick bastard?'.

"-but I mean leaving Smallville was a little extreme."

"What makes you think it was all about you, Kent?" he snapped. This new illusion was getting on his nerves. It was too much like Clark. He preferred the ones that yelled at him. They helped him linger within his selfish self-pity. This one was starting to make him think too much about what Clark might actually be thinking.

"Well, I thought..." he trailed off and Whitney didn't have the heart to continue.

It's just your mind, you fucking moron!

His mind or not, the likeness between the voice and Clark Kent was too real.

"I couldn't be near you anymore, Clark. It wouldn't have been the same."

"Why?! What would have changed!"

Whitney pushed him bac backwards, off the ledge and onto the roof. He stood, turning towards Clark. He was surprised to see that the boy was wearing black jeans, a black turtleneck and a long black, wool coat. He was also wet from the weather.

Whitney's stomach became heavy. Never in his dreams or his delusion had the mirage a la Clark ever deviated from the same worn farm clothing. It had never been influenced by the weather either.

Just what the hell is going on? Did I inhale something at the lab?

"What would it change?" he called out, trying to push away his hormones. "What would it- Everything, Clark!"

"Okay, so we were naked and in bed together-" Clark started. "And you were- I was- We were both a little-"

Whitney realized why Clark was blushing, why he was stuttering. "Aroused, you mean?"

Clark cleared his throat. "Uh, huh. Anyway, it's nothing that we couldn't have found a way around."

Whitney shook his head and turned back towards the city, shivering and pulling his windbreaker tighter around him. Now he could identify this phantasm. It was the fancy of his mind, one he would not allow for the longest time.

The Forgiving Clark.

There was no way Clark would ever, ever-

"I'm an alien, okay?"

There was a silence in the air as the rain and thunder and city all seemed to fade away. In slow-motion, Whitney found himself turning around. Clark blinked but did not look down. The rain fell around him and when the sound of it falling on top of the cement rooftop came back to Whitney, he could finally speak.

"What?"

"The truth, right? That's what you want to hear?"

"You're an... alien."

"Yes."

He shivered but he wasn't sure if it was from the cold rain or the sliver of realization that was trying to break through. There was something his consciousness was trying to tell him, something important, but his mind felt he couldn't handle it.

This is all-

What?

This is all-

He shook his head. "This doesn't make sense, Kent. This isn't real. First you find me on my roof-"

"Your Landlady, Kay, said you might be up here when you weren't answering your apartment door."

"And you don't know why I left-"

"Should I?"

"You don't hate me-"

Clark looked hurt. \ouldould never hate you, Whitney."

"And you're not blaming me for anything."

"Except for leaving, but I know it's my fault."

Whitney shook his head again, unable to believe that this could possibly be.

This is all very-

"No. Because I was an ass. A perverted ass. I tried to make love with a fifteen year old boy that I was perversely attracted to, even thought myself in love with, and now you're here telling me it's your fault and that you're an alien?"

"You're in l-love with me?" Barely a whisper but the world had gone silent again and he couldn't have missed it.

To be continued...