*Intorno all'idol mio
Spirate, pur spirate
Aure soavi e grate
E nelle guance elette
Baciatelo per me, cortesi aurette.

Al mio ben che riposa
Su l'ali della quiete
Grati sogni assistete,
E'l mio racchiuso ardore
Svelateli per me, larve d'amore.*

Around my idol
breathe, just breathe,
breezes sweet and pleasant,
and on the favored cheeks
kiss him for me, gentle breezes.

To my darling, who sleeps
on the wings of calm,
happy dreams induce;
and my covert ardor
unveil to him, phantoms of love.

- Giacinto Andrea Cicognini, librettist, from Cesti's Orontea

"You know, this is just great. This is super," Clark ranted, while his mother struggled with the bowtie at his throat.

"Clark, it's hardly fair for you to reproach me for not knowing how to tie this thing," she rebuked him. "After all, bowties are generally not a big part of farm life, and you're the one who assumed I'd know how."

Clark grunted in concession, but didn't stop twitching with nervousness and embarrassment. "Can't I just wear a tie? I'm okay with ties."

"No, you can't wear a tie with a tux, Clark. You'd look -"

"-Like a farmboy who doesn't know how to tie a bowtie?" Clark supplied, shooting his mother a smartass smirk. "Well, did you figure it out yet? What if it's not done up when Lex gets here?"

Martha sighed in frustration and backed away. "No, I have no earthly notion of how those ends are supposed to make a bow." She paused and surveyed her son. "What about using the clip-on bowtie from when you were in swing choir in middle school?"

Clark shot a glare at his mother that would have set her on fire, had he not been too distracted by trying his hands at the tie himself. "Mom, that's a green bowtie."

"With a matching cummerbund," Martha laughed, unable to restrain herself, in spite of the danger of immolation by teenage moroseness. "Oh, honey, it looked really cute on you when you did the solo in 'Tangerine'."

"Yeah, Mom, I was a soprano back then," Clark exhaled, dropping the ends of the unruly bowtie in frustration.

"We could colour it black with a laundry marker," Martha offered.

Clark rolled his eyes. "It probably wouldn't even go around my neck anymore, even if it wasn't green. Besides, I don't to smell like I've been sniffing a jiffy marker." He ran his hands through his hair, surveying himself in the mirror with great distaste. "I look like a doofus. Why did I say I'd go?"

"Because you're a good friend, and a young man with an open mind," Martha answered firmly, picking up the tuxedo jacket and holding it open for Clark to put on.

Clark obediently shrugged into the jacket and was buttoning it up when he heard a car pull up outside. He shot another pleading glance at his mother, who merely smiled. "You know, I'll bet Lex knows how to tie that thing. He could probably even teach your old mother how to do it for next time."

"There will be no next time," Clark said darkly, bracing himself for deepest humiliation.

"Not even at your wedding?" she cajoled, leading the way down to the front hall, where they could hear Jonathan and Lex having a stilted but civil conversation.

"I'm wearing a tie to my wedding," Clark announced, a little more loudly than he had intended. His voice carried down the stairs and Lex looked up to see him descending in the half-sideways manner of the large-footed man.

"That's good to know, Clark," Lex commented mildly. "But it's the opera, not a wedding. And you can't wear a tie with a tuxedo."

Clark blushed furiously. It was just as he had feared - there were little twitches of amusement at the corners of Lex's mouth as he surveyed the world's biggest country bumpkin. "Mom couldn't figure out how to tie it," he blurted, resorting to blame and denial.

"Ah," Lex said simply, while his grey eyes smirked knowingly. When Clark reached the bottom of the stairs, Lex took charge of the tie, giving Clark's mom a cooking-show type demonstration. Martha, who had easily mastered the usage of very complex farm equipment, looked completely bewildered and was obviously not learning anything from the swift and practiced motions of Lex's slender hands.

"Like that," he finished, giving a tug. Clark now felt like his head had been tied off like a balloon, but he resisted the urge to pull at the tie. After all, there was an entire evening of boredom, social awkwardness, and feeling like a hick, still to come. He swallowed, feeling his larynx glide over the edge of the tight collar, and met Lex's eyes. Lex was watching him was sardonic glee and a hint of admiration. "You look very handsome, Clark," he spoke softly, and Clark grinned in spite of himself. Something about Lex ... he could make you feel like a complete moronic asshole, then set you spinning with the simplest compliment.

Fielding the parental warnings that ranged between concern for road safety and Clark's ability to stay awake through an entire baroque opera, they managed to get into the porsche in just under three minutes.

"Are you ready to rock?" Lex asked, his hand settling on the gearshift as his other hand adjusted his sunglasses. Funny thing, sunglasses with a tux didn't look at all incongrous on Lex Luthor.

Clark grinned again, and nodded. "Bring on the fat ladies!" he crowed, settling back for the car ride to Metropolis.

"You know, the thing about the fat ladies is really a Wagnerian cliche," Lex commented, unable to hold back. His eyes focussed on the road, he could nonetheless feel Clark's adolescent glance of jeering humor. Lex sighed, looking over at his passenger. "The opera we're seeing tonight predates Wagner by a good two hundred years."

"So? Aren't there going to be, y'know, viking hats and guys dancing around in tights and ... well, fat ladies?" Clark's voice was light with the fun of teasing Lex, but underneath ran the fear of impending boredom.

"Well, the viking thing really is Wagnerian," Lex began. "Guys dancing in tights is more like ballet, and fat ladies, in my experience, are becoming less frequent in modern opera productions." Lex clicked his tongue. "Sorry to disappoint you, Clark ... hope you weren't really looking forward to the fat ladies." A pause, followed by a test. "But if you're lucky, there might still be some guys in tights."

"Yeah, that's my kind of luck," Clark grinned, taking Lex's remark as sarcasm and replying in kind.

Lex laughed along with Clark, his hand tightening on the gear shift inconspicuously. He wondered if Clark, extraordinary as he was, realized that he was a perfectly stereotypical homophobic farmboy. Lex doubted the kid had even considered that Lex might be serious about watching men in tights. Of course, if Lex wanted that kind of spectacle, it wouldn't be the opera he went to, and it sure as hell wouldn't be Clark he chose as his companion.

"Well, if it helps at all, the composer's name is Cesti," Lex offered.

"Chesty?" repeated Clark, flushing prettily.

"C-E-S-T-I," Lex spelled patiently. "Italian - you pronounce C's like 'ch'."

"So my name would be 'Chlark' in Italian?" Clark said, entertained.

"No, actually, C is a 'ch' only if it's followed by E or I."

"Oh. Well, that's less fun."

Lex glanced over at Clark, who had snuggled his long form up against the passenger door. It was easy to forget that he was only a kid - sixteen years old - with such an adult body, especially at moments like this, when there was no clumsy puppy-like motion to betray his age. "Anyway, I think you'll like it, all joking aside."

Clark nodded, politely agreeing. "I'm open-minded," he stated, as though trying to convince himself.

As open as a Smallville business on a Sunday morning, appended Lex mentally.

"So this is ... baroque opera?" Clark asked as he and Lex settled into their box seats. He was really more interested in fiddling with the little binoculars Lex had given him on the way in, but he figured he ought to make conversation before the music started.

"Yes. Earlier baroque Italian opera." Clark's brows barely had a chance to knit together before Lex reassured him, "With surtitles - see that little projection screen above the stage?" Clark looked, and saw the words "Tonight's presentation has been made possible by the generous support of:"

"At this time in music, everything was very formal," Lex explained, flicking open the lower button of his tuxedo jacket and leaning back. "Music wasn't about depicting events so much as emotions, and even emotions had to be shown in a discreet, genteel manner. They called them 'affectations'."

"Isn't that like, when someone has a weird habit, you call it an 'affectation'?" asked Clark, still watching the surtitles. The screen now read "Lexcorp Industries" and had Lex's logo beside it.

"Yes, that's the modern usage," Lex agreed. "But back then, it was more about this sort of thin veneer of gentility, coating everything a person felt or did. You didn't just react to things - that was considered crude, anti-social, even. If you were happy, you didn't just laugh or hop around - you had a certain posture, held yourself a certain way, smiled just so, and I'm boring the crap out of you, aren't I?"

Clark hadn't really registered the last part of Lex's speech, so he looked over at Lex and said, "Huh?" Quickly mentally replaying what had just passed, Clark hastened to add, "No, I just ... Lexcorp sponsored this ... is that why you have a box all to yourself?"

Lex nodded, surveying Clark closely. Clark suddenly became conscious of the way he had rolled his glossy program into a tube; running a hand over his head, he could feel that his hair was sticking up in the back from the way he'd been lying in the car on the way there. "Don't, it's okay," Lex smiled softly, his hand covering Clark's. "Yes, I got the box because of the sponsorship, but also because I thought you'd feel more comfortable if it was just us."

Clark felt immensely comforted by Lex's touch and smile, and he smiled back, removing his hand and relaxing. "So ... affectation - a way of looking like an emotion, without actually feeling it?"

"Oh, no, the feeling is very much real. It's only in the expression that it becomes artificial."

"I don't get why they thought that was cool," Clark protested. "Like, 'Hey, I love this girl, so I think I'll just hold my hand like so and hope she gets the message.'"

Lex was watching him steadily, one eyebrow raised. Clark blushed as he realized that his example was not exactly sterling. "Well, I mean, what if you're mad? You just look mad, but in a polite way? What, did these people never punch each other?"

"Oh, no, there was punching ... there was even murder and sex ... but that was, to the aristocracy at the time, not the interesting part. The interesting part was the play of affectations, the exploration of emotion without action upon it."

Lex's grey eyes were still locked on Clark, and Clark felt himself grow warm under the gaze. "Still sounds kind of pointless to me," Clark managed.

"Well, Clark, sometimes, the emotion is all you'll ever have," Lex answered softly, then sat back in his chair as the lights dimmed.

Clark was asleep by the second act, but Lex didn't mind. In fact, it was pretty much what he had planned all along. He felt the anticipation building as the act progressed, sensed the eager shift in the audience below as the scene arrived - Orontea's scene.

The soprano in the role of Orontea was spectacular - Lex had made sure of that. She had managed to rivet Clark's attention through the first fifteen minutes, between her lovely voice and her lovelier body, the boy's eyes practically fused with the opera glasses as he inspected her low-cut costume thoroughly. He had even turned to Lex, after the first aria, and said, "Hey, this is actually pretty cool," with a wolfish grin. Then had come several more arias, and now Clark was limp with surrender to sleep.

His lips were slack, with the merest trace of moisture at the corners of his mouth. His cheeks were flushed with a childish beauty, but the line of his jaw, dotted with stubble, was strong and supple by contrast. His shoulders were slumped ever so slightly, his bowtie askew. His hands were half-closed, and Lex was struck by the impulse one has on seeing an infant, wanting to stroke that wide palm and see if the big fingers would close in reflex. He stayed his instinct, however, and drank in more. The tiny curls at the nape of Clark's neck, where the heat of the crowded theatre and the boy's natural metabolism had conspired to stick the locklets to his skin in tantalizing queues. The sooty flutter of thick lashes spread on golden skin, made even more ethereal by the dim light of the box. The lanky sprawl of the impossibly long legs, and the soft tilt of his pelvis speaking of some slight discomfort. The big feet - God, they were big feet - in the scuffed, outgrown-looking cheap imitation leather shoes, adding just the faintest reminder of the endearing way that the boy had donned this disguise for Lex's pleasure.

Over it all, the soprano's voice soared, singing of secret love and the yet more secret desire for disclosure. Lex felt like his heart would break with the longing to unburden himself of this torturous, all-consuming love - to lean down and wake his idol with a kiss, and breathe back into his mouth all the yearning that had been pent up inside since that day on the riverbank.

Clark slept on, oblivious. The aria ended, and the act, and the lights went up in the house as the applause faded. Clark snorted once, startled by intrusion of light and the sense of bustle below, and found Lex standing over him, buttoning his jacket. "Do you want a coffee or something?" Lex asked, with only a hint of gentle malice.

The second half was long, and even Lex seemed to be getting bored by the end of a few more yowling arias. Clark saw him look at his watch twice, then yawn.

"Guess you should have had coffee too," Clark murmured, grinning with glee to have caught Lex in this moment of impatience. Lex cut a glance at his companion, not resentful as Clark might have expected, but questioning.

"Wanna get out of here?"

Clark blinked, hardly believing his luck. He had been expecting to stay through this torture, unable to sleep - he shouldn't have slept in the first place, what the hell had he been thinking, he could have floated right the hell over the stage - needing to pretend the coffee had affected him.

"Well, let's go then," Lex said, not bothering to whisper anymore, and getting to his feet.

"I thought you wanted to stay," Clark protested weakly. "I mean, you sponsored this. You should stay, don't worry about me, you like opera, I'm trying to get what's going on -"

"Shut up Clark," Lex cut him off, softening his words with a smile. "Let's get some burgers and shakes. I know a good place."

"I'm sorry," Clark said for the fifth time. "I tried to stay awake, I just ... I was up at five this morning, helping Dad, and then it was really pretty, and sort of all the same, and then ..."

Lex shook his head. "Clark, it's okay. You tried something new, and I appreciate that. But baroque opera is not for the faint of heart, I should have realized that. Next time we'll try Mozart."

Clark's eyes widened, obviously trying to come up with a reason why that was a bad idea.

"I'm kidding," Lex reassured him, though he was privately perusing the idea of hearing the Contessa sing "Dove sono i bei momenti" while Clark slumbered beside him. "Eat your fries. They're part of this nutritious supper."

Clark laughed and obediently pushed a handful of fries into his mouth. Much as Lex had enjoyed watching Clark sleeping, there were aspects of conscious Clark that weren't anything to sneeze at - like the way those red lips encircled that milkshake straw, and pulled hard, working against the thickness of the ice cream. "Want some?" Clark asked, seeing Lex's gaze fixed on him and sweetly misreading it, as always.

"No. Got my own," Lex answered, waving a hand towards his untouched shake.

It was a quiet car ride home, in the dark this time. Lex was speeding less than he normally did, wanting to stretch out this quietude, this silent togetherness. Clark wasn't sleeping, though he was so silent, Lex checked periodically. His eyes, reduced to glitters in the black, were looking out the window, watching farmland go by with hypnotic indifference. At last, the dim glow of lights that marked Smallville's location began to glow on the horizon ahead, and Clark stirred.

"Lex?"

"Yep?" Lex answered, inwardly surprised that his passenger was still awake.

"That thing ... that affectation?"

"Yeah?"

"And you said that thing about only having the emotion sometimes?"

"Yes." Shit. Lex had had the feeling that that one was gonna come back and bite him in the ass. He shouldn't have looked at Clark like that, so openly challenging him to grasp his meaning.

"Were you talking about me and Lana?"

Relief, mixed with anguish. "No." Why did he say no?

"Oh. Was it Chloe and me, then? The way she feels about me?"

"Clark, not everything I say has to be an object lesson on your life," Lex snapped, more sharply than he had intended.

There was a pause, and Lex was actually considering an apology, when Clark spoke again. "It was about how you feel, isn't it." No question mark.

Lex's hand tightened on the wheel, his heart racing madly with a sudden surge of adrenaline. He wanted desperately to look over at Clark, and see ... what? Barely contained rage and disgust? Innocent perplexment? Schooled indifference? But his courage failed him, and he simply tried to keep his breathing rate slow.

"It's how you feel about me."

The words dropped directly into Lex's centre, each syllable weighted with lead. He found himself unable to breathe at all, never mind slowly or quickly. He couldn't decide whether to pull over or step on the gas.

"How you feel like you can't show your feelings to me with actions."

Clark was preternaturally still on the other side of the seat, that much Lex could gather from his peripheral vision. He could also feel Clark watching him, but he still didn't know what the kid was thinking.

"Isn't it."

Certain that he was about to drive off the road, Lex pulled over, noticing in some distantly ironic part of his brain that they had stopped just before the bridge where Clark had saved Lex's life. With an effort surpassing all efforts, Lex turned his head to see Clark, who was nestled back in his corner, watching Lex with a liquid unfathomable gaze. His features were still, but his eyes were vividly alive, like the eyes of a cat about to spring on its prey. He was only waiting for some cue, some sign that the time was right.

Lex thought he might be the prey. He was still unable to formulate words.

Then the smallest touch of a smile on Clark's lips, and he was shifting his big warm body forward, and he was sitting up, leaning towards Lex, and he was still waiting. But it was much clearer what he was waiting for this time.

Lex was helpless to stop himself as he leaned in and brushed the lightest of kisses on those expectant lips. Clark's arms were around him in an instant, his mouth urgent and opening under Lex's, his excitement flushing his skin with impossible heat. Lex couldn't - didn't want to - think, and tasted chocolate milkshake and coffee and just Clark, and -

Clark broke away, panting, still clutching Lex tightly. "All I'm saying," he spoke, his voice a husky purr, one hand stroking the line of Lex's jaw, "is that I don't think I'm a baroque kind of guy."