"Lex is obviously trying to manipulate you, Clark. He wants something from you. Something that you can't - or more likely shouldn't - give him. How can you be so blind?"

"You're the one who's blind, Dad. Lex and I are friends. Period. And nothing you can say or do is going to make a difference. Why can't you understand that?"

"Because I'm a repressed, antiquated blow-hard who can't see past his own freakish hang-ups, that's why. Now go milk the cows or something."

"No way, Dad. I'm going camping with Lex this weekend and that's final. And you know what else? I'm going to let him lick every curve and ripple of my finely chiseled abs. I'm going to moan with pleasure when I feel his hot breath against my skin as he bites and kisses his way up the side of my neck and worries my earlobe between his tongue and front teeth. I'm going to blush like the delicious, willing virgin I am as he brings me to new levels of ecstasy I never thought possible."

"Not without videotaping it, you're not. My closeted ass hasn't seen any real action since college."

Despite himself, Lex Luthor laughed out loud, dropping the Stern Jonathan Kent Face he had been making and then wrestling with the steering wheel to swerve his Explorer back onto the proper side of the road. He checked his rearview mirror for any vehicles filled with horrified locals, but the small country lane was as deserted behind as it was ahead. Lex grinned, chuckling again at the absurd scenario he had concocted in his head. One of his favorite occupations while driving was to conduct out-loud conversations with himself, playing out whatever particular set of circumstances happened to be at the forefront of his mind. Most of the time he used this habit as a business tool, exploring the complex decision tree of a debate or contract negotiation until he found the optimal pathway, like a chess master who can predict his opponent's every response from opening gambit to checkmate. It was a personal quirk that served him well: advanced knowledge and control of how, precisely, a conversation was going to transpire was invaluable in making sure he always got his way, not to mention its use in obviating any potential surprises that might disrupt the perpetual icy calm that had made him famous for more than just his name in the business world. The resulting apparent omniscience in the board room had gotten him labeled as a prodigy early-on. Sometimes, however, he preferred to employ this technique for more... frivolous purposes.

When he had begun his simulation of the conversation he imagined was happening across the Kent breakfast table it had been in an earnest attempt to predict the scenario that would be waiting for him when he arrived at the farm. Jonathan, no doubt, would try to sway his son from joining Lex on this perfectly innocent weekend getaway. Clark, of course, would resist. You didn't need an analytical mind of Luthor caliber to figure that out. The real question was, who would win the argument in the end? Before he could determine the answer realistically, however, Lex had indulged his imagination and let it roam into the realm of humorous fantasy, taking particular delight in his parodically loathsome impression of the elder Kent. All in all, though, it was a good thing that he had broken character when he did: had he allowed his Clark-self to ramble on any longer about the many erotic delights that awaited them in the cool seclusion of the mountains beyond Metropolis he probably would have swerved off the road entirely.

Lex took a deep breath and thought about baseball as he approached the gravel turn-off to the Kent Farm. Assuming Clark had won the argument with his father and their camping trip was still a go, it was going to be an interesting weekend. For all the sensuality and hot determination of his Fantasy Clark, Lex was far from confident that he had figured the kid out. There was a lot of depth there, behind the facade of farm-boy wholesomeness. A lot of complexity. Lex liked that. And while, in all honestly, he deemed it unlikely that he would be tracing out his name in sweat on the well-muscled curve of Clark's inner thigh on this particular weekend, he was more than willing to be patient.

Not that he didn't think it was possible. Lex had learned early in life that literally no one was insusceptible to his allurement once he had chosen to exercise it. Whether he exerted his charms for the sake of sex or money or power was essentially irrelevant. Everyone caved eventually. Even dear old dad. But with such compelling personal magnetism came an easy boredom. For Lex, the appeal of seduction had vanished the moment he discovered its triviality. The challenge now was in the psychology. The aim was not to seduce but to subtly influence an unsuspecting party into seducing him. The net result would technically be the same, just infinitely more satisfying. Lex chuckled softly as he caught sight of his image in the side mirror, his lips curled into a cunning smirk. "And people call me manipulative," he told his reflection as he pulled up the long driveway to the Kent Farm. "Fucking brilliant is more like it."

Almost immediately after he had honked to announce his arrival, Lex saw the blinds of the kitchen window part and a pair of bright, eager eyes peek out. Well that was a good sign. Clark must have managed to out-stubborn his father this time. Good for him. Lex took off his sunglasses, tossing them carelessly onto the dashboard, and climbed out to lean against the side of the truck. He took a deep breath without flinching - he was finally getting accustomed to the omnipresent Smallville odor of hay and Luthor Corp. Manure (TM) - and smiled. Even independent of his interest in spending some quality time with Clark, Lex was really looking forward to a weekend away. As much as he enjoyed the fast-paced thrill of business and the adrenalin rush of countermanding the majority of his father's managerial decisions, he also had a fine appreciation for the art of the vacation. One of his mother's greatest gifts to him was in teaching him how to relax, how to detach himself from the chaos of life and just enjoy the simple, Zen-like pleasure of existence. This detachment, he imagined, was the only way she had survived being married to his father.

The sun was still low on the horizon but it had already started to burn away the early morning haze and felt soothing, comfortably warm, as it fell across Lex's skin. He leaned back and let it wash over him, slipping his hands into his back jeans pockets and feeling grateful, once again, for the chance to spend the weekend out of a suit and tie. The cotton of his t-shirt was impossibly soft against his chest. It was an old shirt - the one he had worn to most of his fencing meets in college - and the fabric had been well tempered by hundreds of laundry cycles.

As if the shirt carried with it some sort of leftover emotional charge, Lex got the sudden sensation of giddy nervousness, the kind he always used to feel in the fleeting moments before a bout as the director strolled up and down the strip, testing that the blades were properly grounded and weighted. That had been in the glory days of saber fencing before they had outlawed the fleche, when bouts were fast and furious, primal, like sex, and you could score all five of your points on a single surge of adrenaline. The pure ferocity of the saber provided a stark contrast to the strategic chess game of advances and retreats that made up the foil matches so vastly, and in Lex's opinion incomprehensibly, preferred by his father. Eyes closed, Lex let his memory drift back to the days when he would linger in the fencing room, his own bouts long since over, and watch the lanky epeeists bind each others blades in long, indescribably boring but strangely hypnotic endurance battles, their lumbering footwork echoing across the low-ceiling and the rows of vacant strips.

Clark would make a good epeeist, Lex found himself musing out of nowhere. He had the perfect build for it, tall and strong with a killer reach. As long as he had enough stamina for the lengthy bouts and just enough quickness to defend the characteristically lugubrious epee attacks he could probably do some serious damage in the NCAA. Lex smiled, making a mental note to offer Clark his coaching services.

Fencing with Clark could definitely be fun... or at least interesting... no, definitely fun. Lex had always found one on one sports, particularly those that originated from fighting techniques, to be supremely sexual, far more arousing than even the most delightful foreplay. He enjoyed pretty much all of the sports from that genre: Wrestling... kickboxing... anything to get the heart racing and the blood flowing and provide the unique energetic rush of an activity that's just a little bit dangerous. Of course, it wasn't just the fighting aspect that appealed to him. That kind of activity wasn't erotic with just anyone - most of the time the sport was just a sport - but with the right person, slick with sweat, glaring back at you with competitive intensity and the sound of their ragged breath and your own heartbeat pounding in your ears: God, it was incredible. Lex smiled, eyes still closed, and almost blushed as he recalled getting thrown out of a certain Judo class when he was about Clark's age. But fencing... fencing was his absolute favorite. Maybe it was the added danger and historic romanticism of it, maybe the mysterious edge of having his opponent's facial expression half-hidden behind a mesh mask, or maybe it was all the wonderful layers of clothes and equipment, just waiting to be peeled away. Lex smiled languorously, immersing himself in the vividness of possible experience.

As with so many other things in his life, Lex Luthor was very particular about his fantasies - his real fantasies, that is. The ones that went beyond the petty diversion of his earlier mockery of Jonathan Kent. He liked them to be complete. He liked them to be detailed. He liked them to seem real. Leaning back against the car door, Lex took a deep breath and constructed a viable scenario, imagining himself and Clark, white clad, facing off on the fencing strip in his Smallville mansion, now finally starting to feel like home.

As the scene unfolds, the afternoon sun is shining in through the stained glass windows, illuminating flecks of dust that float lazily in the stale air of the room. The scent of sweat is heavy in the air and they are drilling half-speed, practicing double lunges and parry-ripostes as they move from one end of the strip to the other and back again. The distance between them remains unerringly constant and Clark looks fairly good for a beginner. His footwork is somewhat awkward and his stance stilted, but certainly no worse than one would expect for his first time in whites. At a nod from Lex they up their pace to full-speed and Clark, in his haste to retreat from Lex's quick attacks gets lazy in his grip, letting his blade drop and exposing his wrist, a valid target in epee. Against a right-handed opponent he might have been able to recover, but Lex's blade is already too close and he scores easily. Clark looks up in surprise and Lex smiles, standing and removing his mask.

"The majority of points in epee are scored against the blade arm," Lex remarks amiably. "It's the closest target and the first thing most fencers stop defending when their arms start to get tired."

Clark removes his mask and nods thoughtfully. His cheeks are flushed and his sweat-soaked hair is matted against his forehead. He is breathing hard, but not panting, and the left side of his face is tinted by the sunlight blazing through the purple window panes on the near wall. He spends a few moments contemplating a piece of fuzz on the strip before pushing it absently to the side with his shoe and looking up at Lex with a smile.

"Thanks," he says, putting his mask under his arm and taking a few steps forward. "That was fun."

"Anytime," Lex replies, holding his ground. He can feel the heat radiating from Clark's body as he approaches. "So," he says, a hint of challenge in his voice, "you had enough for one day, or do you want to keep going?"

Clark grins broadly, all white teeth and lust. "I could go either way," he says. "What are you thinking?"

Raising his eyebrows, Lex smiles and reaches toward Clark with his ungloved right hand, resting it on the left side of his ribcage. Through the thick fencing jacket, Lex can feel the wrinkled fabric of his sweat-drenched t-shirt and the moist heat practically pouring off of his skin. He watches Clark close his eyes at the contact and step forward, parting his lips slightly. Lex allows his hand to slide around to the small of Clark's back, eyes still fixed on his quivering eyelids. With practiced deftness, he releases the clasp on the tether that moors Clark to the strip. The line, spring-loaded at its source, whips backwards with a hiss that screams of release. Then, suddenly, everything is a blur and in Lex's next cogent moment, Clark has him pinned against the wood-paneled wall and is tearing at the Velcro collar of his fencing jacket with his teeth. Lex smiles wickedly as he reaches beneath Clark's jacket to grip the sodden fabric of his t-shirt and Clark leans forward, right palm pressed flat against the wall behind Lex's head, epee dangling forgotten at his sleeve. Lex, sword still gripped in his left hand, presses the edge of the bell against Clark's right shoulder, directing the tip at the abandoned expanse of the empty mansion behind him. He disengages his right hand from Clark's shirt and reaches up to grip his wet hair, pulling him forward into a kiss, fiercely passionate, exhilaratingly forceful. Clark's lips are even softer than they look and his hands have managed to unzip Lex's jacket and are sliding beneath his suspenders to grip his shoulders through his old Princeton Fencing t-shirt, soaked with sweat but still so soft and practically paper-thin after so many laundry cycles... so thin that Lex can feel the well-worn calluses on Clark's fingers through the fabric as they dig into the fibers of his muscles and deliver an unfathomable heat, unbidden but not unwelcome, into all of his extremities...

BANG!

The seemingly deafening clatter of the Kent Family screen door against its frame roused Lex back into the present with an audible gasp. He blinked rapidly, shaking his head free of its mid-fantasy haze and took a few deep breaths to get his respiration back under control as Clark trotted cheerfully toward him. Lex bit his lip sharply, the pain jarring him back into the here and now, back into control.

"Sure you've got everything?" Lex ribbed as Clark approached, burdened with a hiking pack filled to overflowing with God-knows-what.

"I hope so," Clark beamed back with a shrug and an endearing snort. If he noticed Lex buckle slightly under the unexpected weight of the pack as he handed to him, he certainly didn't let on.

"Great," Lex laughed as he added Clark's pack to his own gear in the back of the truck, taking the opportunity to subtly adjust himself through his jeans pocket before ambling back to the front.

Already in the truck with his seatbelt fastened, Clark was evidently eager to depart but as he was settling into the driver's seat, Lex happened to notice Clark's parents looking on rather, well, parentally from the kitchen door. "Folks give you any trouble?" he asked Clark through a sidelong smile.

Clark shrugged. "A little," he said. "Dad needed to get some information out of me before he'd let me go."

"Really." Lex paused and glanced at Clark over his sunglasses, legitimately intrigued. "And what information would that be?"

Clark fixed Lex with his most solemn expression. "He wanted to know what kind of underwear you prefer," he deadpanned.

For the second time that morning Lex laughed unabashedly, an act that brought such a wide grin to Clark's face that Lex himself almost blushed. Not bothering to mask the good humor in his expression, Lex turned and offered Jonathan Kent a gracious nod before maneuvering the Ford, at last, off of the Kent property.

"So," Lex began with a smirk once they were barreling along the rustic but thankfully paved rural route, "what did you tell him?"

"Hmmm?" murmured Clark, already lost in a Saturday morning daydream.

"Your dad," Lex reminded him. "What kind of underwear did you tell him I preferred?"

"Oh, that," laughed Clark. "Boxer-briefs, of course."

Lex raised his eyebrows and looked slyly over at his companion. "Good guess," he said. "How'd you know?"

"Easy," Clark grinned. He took a long swig from the blue bottle of water Lex had left waiting for him in the passenger-side cup holder. "I've got some of those X-Ray specs. You know, the ones you can order out of the back of comic books."

"Aha," remarked Lex contemplatively. "Of course." He smiled and mused pleasantly to himself as they drove on in comfortable silence, glancing with satisfaction now and then at the morning sun as it played languidly in the hair of his weekend companion and increasingly interesting future epeeist.