Author's disclaimer: I do not own Wicked, Disturbed, Bright Eyes or Smallville, though I love them all. Don't sue me. Please?

Quartus Epistula

Quibus ego visio utriusque everto quod angelus

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I had a disturbing dream last night.

Oddly, it was disturbing because of how I woke up, not only because of what I saw while I was asleep.

The night began normally enough, however. Knowing my knack for the classics and Latin, Clark had asked me to help him with a paper for school on the writings of some of the philosophers of antiquity. We met at the Talon at five, and drank endless cups of coffee while wading through various full works and Cliff's Notes of others. It was unremarkable, other than that I tried a new creation of Lana's. Nutmeg, chili peppers, cinnamon and cardamom were mixed with Thai coffee grounds and drip brewed. Mixed with condensed milk, it was called, unsurprisingly, "Thai Coffee." However unoriginal the name was, the flavor was like nothing I had ever tasted: dark and mysterious, exotic but sweet--though not ad nauseum; the taste of the coffee was there, keeping it earthy without being bitter. Apparently, Lana had had a Thai friend in Paris who had drunk nothing but this in the mornings. I cannot help but think that a cup of this would be a far better start to my days than my traditional black coffee.

Finally, after many "accidental" hand bumps on my part, three cups of Thai coffee a piece, and a few pages of the paper written, I checked my watch and was surprised to see that it was already eight thirty. Glancing outside, I saw that it was already dark: the streetlamps shown under a bruise-black sky dense with what were apparently heavy rain clouds. The Talon had nearly emptied out, and, breaking the companionable silence, I suggested that I give him a lift to the mansion and help him finish the paper there, after a bite to eat and maybe a few games of pool. Pausing in his typing and rolling his shoulders slightly in an effort to release tension, he agreed. Did he know how sensual that was? I resisted the temptation to offer a massage, and, instead, got up and started towards the door, looking back over my black silk-clad shoulder and raising an eyebrow.

"Ready?" I will not think sexual thoughts about Clark Kent.

"I'm coming, hold on."

He's not making it any easier.

We left the Talon, the bells on the door tinkling lightly like glass breaking.

My car was parked a block away, and we walked in companionable silence. I pressed the unlock button on the key chain, and I could hear the sound of doors unlocking as the Porsche's lights flashed. We got into the car, both of us having to bend our heads, and I turned the key in the ignition. As the stereo turned on, I heard strains of Disturbed murmuring from the speakers, the bass beat thrumming softly ("Can you feel that? That shit"). The night had turned cold, but I put the driver's side window down. I'm willing to sacrifice my warmth for the feeling of cold air caressing my skin, slipping over it like frozen black velvet--besides, what else are seat heaters for. I cranked up the stereo and sped off down the road towards the mansion.

"Drowning deep in my sea of loathing
Broken your servant I kneel
(Will you give into me?)
It seems what's left of my human side
Is slowly changing ... in me
(Will you give into me?)"

I cranked up the stereo till the bass vibrated the car and finally relaxed into the soft black leather of my seat.

"Looking at my own reflection
When suddenly it changes
Violently it changes
Oh no, There is no turning back now
You've woken up the demon ... in me"

My mind drifted... the music reminded me of being younger in Metropolis and spending my nights in clubs. Bodies upon bodies--a sea of bodies, moving to the deafening bass beat, feeling it in my bones and on sweaty skin as I ground against strangers in leather and studs, black eyeliner and fishnet, my skin a hypersensitive mass of nerves as the lights sent me higher. An utterly sensual experience--one of the things I miss about what the tabloids refer to as my "wild youth."

I flashed back to an image of myself in a bathroom at one such club, bracing myself against the sink, cold water running. I glanced up at the mirror and caught sight of myself--thick black kohl around my eyes making me look like an Egyptian pharaoh...in a skintight fishnet muscle tee and tight black pants. Black rubber bracelets around my wrist, a studded collar. My reflection smiled wickedly. If the tabloids wanted a story to ruin the Luthor family name...

I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache, with that thought as my last recollection.

The song ended, and I glanced over at Clark, who was looking back at me with an odd, slightly frightened expression on my face. I realized that I had a somewhat maniacal smile on my face, and quickly straightened my features into my customary mask.

"You alright, Clark?"

"Uh...yeah." He stared straight ahead, looking slightly shaken.

I raised an eyebrow, but turned back to the road.

The next song was, mercifully, more low-key.

When we had finished 15 games of pool (Clark was not satisfied until he had beaten me at least once), we headed for the kitchen. The staff had the night off--it was a Saturday and I allow them Saturday night, then all day on Sunday--so I found some leftover penne pasta with marinara from a couple of nights before. Clark settled (typically) on a turkey sandwich with so much mustard that I visibly cringed when he took the first zealous bite. Gathering our food, we settled by the fire (philosophy paper completely forgotten) and sat eating in contented silence, staring at the flames, listening to them crackle.

Clark broke the silence after some time. "So you're leaving for Chicago in the morning?"

"Yes."

I studied Clark's face for secret motivation, but saw none, only mild curiosity and relaxation. I noted with some regret that his shoulders were now looser than they had been (an opportunity probably best left missed, anyway) as he draped his arm across the back of the couch, looking for all the world as though he were waiting for his date to return and reclaim the seat next to him. I squelched a bizarre and utterly unwarranted spasm of jealousy. I glanced back at the fire.

"What are you gonna do there?"

I looked up again, thinking the answer was obvious

"It's a business trip, remember? Work. Meetings. Confrontations with my father. The usual."

"No, I mean, what are you going to do there, sightseeing and stuff."

"I've been to Chicago so many times, and you can see the same sights only so many times without being bored to death." I glanced at Clark, he seemed to be waiting for me to go on, head tilted slightly to one side, firelight playing off of his still features. The image was so much like a child waiting to hear a story that I decided to humor him. "I'd like to catch a few shows, I suppose. I saw RENT last time that I was there and liked it...you remember me telling you about it?" I had explained the story to him when I had gotten home, and played him the soundtrack; I hadn't mentioned that I saw myself in some of the characters...the drugs...the sex...all of it was still a bit too familiar. (I didn't want to have Clark unnecessarily worried about my having contracted HIV, as I knew he inevitably would be. After all, I had used a condom, and it had been so many years ago that, had the disease entered my blood, I would have known it long ago. Besides, I had yet to be sick since the meteor shower.)

"So...what shows are you seeing this time?"

I shrugged. "I'm not there for long. Maybe Wicked. It recently moved there from New York." Having bought the soundtrack, I suspected that I might see myself in Ephelba: the future Wicked Witch of the West who only tries to do good, though the results tend to sour. As a line in the show goes, "no good deed goes unpunished." A melancholy, selfpitying thought, but one that I felt held a fair amount of accuracy, nevertheless.

Knowing the answer before he asked, Cark questioned, "Do you have the soundtrack?" I always listen to the soundtracks to shows that I am contemplating seeing, if they are available; I like to know that I will not be wasting my time at a flop.

For an answer, I walked over to the stereo and opened the CD case nearby. Placing the disc in the player, I pressed play and walked over to my bar, pulling out two blue water bottles.

"Good News! She's Dead!
The Witch of the West is dead!"

I tossed Clark one and sat back on the couch, relaxing, staring at the fire, and letting the strains of music wash over me, bleeding into a dream-world in which I am Ephelba: doubly cursed, green and bald, and the citizens of Smallville march on the mansion with pitchforks and torches, demonic and grotesque in the flickering light

"No one mourns the Wicked
No one cries, 'They won't return!'
No one lays a lily on their grave
The good man scorns the Wicked!
Through their lives, our children learn What we miss, when we misbehave"

Clark appears, both Galinda and Fiyero at once, and delivers my eulogy, which sounds like the song, but also like something someone once told me:

"And Goodness knows
The Wicked's lives are lonely
Goodness knows
The Wicked die alone
It just shows when you're Wicked
You're left only
On your own"

Someone once told me that some of us are meant to be alone. If I am one of those, am I also Wicked? If so, can I be redeemed?

"Are people born Wicked? Or do they have Wickedness thrust upon them?"

Well, one thing is for sure, if wickedness is genetic, I'm pretty much screwed.

After perhaps half an hour, Clark yawned proclaiming, "I like it, but I'm beat. G'night, Lex. Sweet dreams."

I opened my eyes with a jerk, not realizing that they had been closed, and glanced at him in surprise, eyebrows raised.

He shrugged a bit sheepishly. "My family always says that before one of us goes to bed."

I liked that. Did that mean that, somewhere, at least subconsciously, he thought of me as family? I filed that question away for another time. "Good night. I'll see you in the morning, if you're up early enough...otherwise, the guestroom is all yours; feel free to have breakfast if you're in the mood in the morning. You know where it is." I was struck by the familiarity of the statement, and surprised that I had to keep myself from calling out, "Sweet dreams to you too." I gazed into the flames, deep in thought by the time Clark left the room.

I stayed awake a while, half-listening to the music, intending to finish the soundtrack, but eventually falling asleep, lulled by the dimming warmth of the fire and the sweet strains escaping the speakers of the stereo.

"...I couldn't be happier
Simply couldn't be happier
Well - not "simply":
'Cause getting your dreams
It's strange, but it seems
A little - well - complicated
There's a kind of a sort of... cost
There's a couple of things get...lost
There are bridges you cross
You didn't know you crossed
Until you've crossed
And if that joy, that thrill
Doesn't thrill you like you think it will... Still, I couldn't be happier,
Because happy is what happens when all your dreams come true..."

Clark and I are sitting next to each other on the couch, discussing some innocuous topic, but eventually fall silent. I idly watch the fire light on his face and hair, setting them aglow. A heavy feeling of warm, lazy contentment spreads through my limbs as the minutes stretch on. The CD player is still playing the Wicked soundtrack, and a new song begins.

"Kiss me too fiercely
Hold me too tight
I need help believing
You're with me tonight
My wildest dreams
Could not foresee
Lying beside you
With you wanting me"

Clark half-smiles but it doesn't reach his bottlegreen eyes, and I see something there-- a depth of caring, and a softness and openness that makes my breath hitch, but some odd sort of deep sorrow, as well. Somewhere, burning faintly, is a spark of hope, for what, I cannot tell.

Still smiling slightly, Clark leans forward and presses his lips to mine in the sweetest, most chaste kiss I have ever experienced. A comfortable, satisfied warmth gathers in my chest even as I feel myself getting turned on. I feel the 5 o'clock stubble rough on his jaw line as my hand goes up to touch his cheek, tracing his cheekbone tenderly with my thumb. After a moment he pulls away. I am practically drooling, I am panting so hard with desire. But there is still that strange sadness in his eyes. I look at him uncertainly.

He pulls from somewhere a set of silver ropes, glowing gold. I laugh, saying that I didn't think he'd be so kinky. His slightly swollen lips give that same peculiar sorrowsweet little half-smile, and he approaches me slowly. Kneeling, he carefully ties my legs to my leather armchair, testing the knots, and I watch the dying firelight play darkly off of his inky hair, grinning in anticipation. He looks up at me apologetically, and still strangely sad, his head almost in my lap. Fighting for control, I smirk and grit out a husky, "It's alright: I'm plenty willing to put up with your kinks, Clark. I've been waiting so long for you, that, even if I weren't into this, I wouldn't mind. But since I do enjoy it..." my smirk widens. "...Do your worst." He doesn't meet my eyes, just continues to bind me to the large chair, first my arms, then my torso.

When he steps back, his head is still tilted downwards, and his long, wavy bangs obscure his eyes. He doesn't move from his spot in front of me. His back is to the fire, and he is nearly in silhouette. I notice that his muscular shoulders are shaking slightly. Squinting into the darkness of the shadows on his face, I see twin trails of tears shining like diamonds, or stars. " Clark?" I ask tentatively. He finally looks up at me, and I actually gasp at the anguish so starkly etched on his features, thrown into hot relief by the flames at his back.

"Please Lex, I... so sorry... God, so sorry," he chokes out.

I stare at him in bewilderment. The comfortable, warm glow in my chest is slowly being leeched out by tendrils of a fog of cold panic and dread.

"Unlimited
The damage is unlimited
To everyone I've tried to help
Or tried to love"

Tears still falling from his sad, sad eyes, Clark takes a deep breath, and looks away again as though he is trying to steel himself, or gather his resolve. Perhaps both, because his next words blow me away.

"It's better this way...it's for your own good...for the good of the world. If you can never leave, they will never bleed, Segeth."

I sit there for a moment, numb, disbelieving that he would think that I would wreak so much havoc and bloodshed. Then I remember the old woman, the blind seer, dying of fright when my future was made known to her, before she could even tell me what was so terrifying. "Oh God..." I mumble. 'I wouldn't...I couldn't...?' But the uncertainty grows, making my chest ache all the more.

"One question haunts and hurts
Too much, too much to mention:
Was I really seeking good
Or just seeking attention?
Is that all good deeds are
When looked at with an ice-cold eye?
If that's all good deeds are
Maybe that's the reason why

"No good deed goes unpunished
All helpful urges should be circumvented No good deed goes unpunished
Sure, I meant well -
Well, look at what well-meant did"

"You could, Segeth," he says strongly and sadly, wearily echoing my own fears. Oddly, all I can focus on is the fact that he isn't saying my name. " ...And I can't stand to watch them suffer, to watch you cause so much pain. You know not what you'd do. Can't watch you..." his voice cracks, and with that blatant biblical reference, he stops mid sentence and walks to the door, opens it, and leaves the room quietly. I have the odd, disconnected feeling that I imagined it all, but look down and see the silver ropes gleaming brightly in the dying light of the fire. As I watch, they begin to melt into my skin, through the fabric of my clothes, leaving no mark on the clothing but burning me hotter than fire ever could.

"My road of good intentions
Led where such roads always lead"

The scene is too much like another scene of betrayal, bound and burning in a chair in the same room. Though this time, the psychological anguish of being left vies with the scorching of the ropes. I scream out in agony as the two pains fuse into a white-hot light behind my tightly closed eyelids.

"Oh god. Clark. Don't leave! Please? Clark, I lo--"

I felt a sudden gust of wind, cooling my feverish body. Then, a voice, balm on my frantic mind.

"Lex, what is it? I'm right here!"

I hesitantly opened my sleepfogged eyes.

The dream had seemed more...true than the world I was returning to; the colors had been more vivid, more solid, the sounds truer and my body more...alive. I felt as though a bit of me had died, loosing the heightened consciousness of the dream and returning to a reality that was not quite real, as ludicrous as the thought was. The CD player must have been set on continuous: the soundtrack continued to play in the background, and I was sleepily distracted, listening. A sudden thought occurred to me, and I dazedly swam back to reality.

"How--?"

"I heard you calling and I came. I thought someone was trying to kill you--you sounded like you were in pain..." He trailed off, but I did not glance up.

Shaking my head, I ran my hand over my scalp, a bewildered gesture. My guard was still down, and I am shaken. I felt Clark's eyes on me, and I finally looked up, confused and, I admit, slightly hopeful. However, I followed his eyes to my wrist and, suddenly, there was a rushing in my ears, and my stomach clenched. The cuff of my shirt had fallen back, revealing a fine, rope-shaped tattoo, circling my wrist.

Fantastic. Now my dreams are manifesting themselves physically. It's not as though this hasn't happened before (read: desert island), but this is the first time that someone else has been able to see the manifestation. It begs the question: why this dream--why not one of the ones in which I make love to supermodels, or Clark...perhaps both?

I mentally shook myself, for what may have been the tenth time in as many minutes. On a hunch, I surreptitiously glanced at my other wrist, then bent down as though I were straightening my pants, checking for similar marks on all three.

Nothing.

I stared at the inside of my wrist, suddenly catching sight of the words there, script, directly under the rope: "unus servo memoria." Above the rope was an odd design, reminding me of the one that had been burned into the Kent's barn a few years ago. (Which Clark had steadfastly denied knowing anything about; now, I was more than slightly incredulous.) Thank God for small favors; the Latin will, at least, keep their meaning hidden from most prying eyes.

"Lex...what on earth...?"

I remained silent for a moment, and the music continued in the background. The CD must have been on repeat. How could I explain this bizarre dream...especially the given the truth behind it?

"Kiss me too fiercely,
Hold me too tight
I need help believing
You're here tonight."

You've got to be fucking kidding me. After a moment's silence, I said in an utterly emotionless and innocent voice, "Clark, I'm sure you've heard all about my 'wild days' when I was younger. Why should a slightly kinky tattoo surprise you?"

Clark gawked, his mouth actually falling open (I forced my mind to go numb), but recovered quickly. "But... I've never seen it before...and I've seen you..." Clark stopped mid sentence, turning a hilarious tomato color that matched his pajama pants.

My pajama pants.

My clingy, thin, red silk pajama pants.

Clark was wearing my pajama pants. And. No. Shirt. Normally, I would have pressed the question, asking him jokingly to finish the sentence, however, my already-humming libido immediately went into overdrive.

"Every moment
As long as you're mine
I'll wake up my body
And make up for lost time."

Unreal. This is absolutely unbelievable. And it was, but, as I've said before, fate is bitterly ironic. Without a word, I abruptly got up and went to the stereo. I hit the "skip" button, and, on a whim, "shuffle" as well. Next, I crossed over to the bar, and poured myself a full glass of scotch, stiff. It was going to be an even longer night than I had thought.

"Clark, do you want anything?"

"Just water. Thanks Lex."

Back turned, I rolled my eyes even as I let out a sigh of relief. Clark would never disobey his parents and have a drink with me, but tonight, that might have been a good thing. His sobriety would give me incentive not to get utterly shit-faced--if he would remember everything in the morning, I had to be on my guard. If nothing else, I would have no regrets.

I brought the drinks over to the table, keeping my eyes fixed on anything other than the finely muscled, bare chest in front of me. It was a rather futile attempt. He was blatantly unselfconscious about his state of undress, which ensured that I got an unobstructed view of his unbelievably sculpted upper body. Besides, what harm can there be, so long as I treat him as one of the Classical statues that he so resembles--"look but don't touch"? But...though I'd seen Clark shirtless before, I had yet to see him as such in my own home, wearing my clothes, sitting in front of my fire. I had the almost uncontrollable urge to spill the water down his abdomen and simply watch the crystalline beads as they slid down his chest, reflecting the fire, looking like tiny flames.

With that thought, I immediately downed two gulps of my scotch, grimacing as it burned down my throat, but momentarily distracted from any other sensations that might have been beginning in my groin.

Clark gave me a smirk and raised an eyebrow--he consistently makes a point of making it clear how much he disapproves of my drinking habits, and I had been downing the scotch down like cold water.

If only it had had the same effect.

I sat down across from Clark and surreptitiously crossed my legs, retaining my outer calm and mentally thanking my years of training myself appear emotionless. I took another, slightly more elegant sip or my dink and resolutely stared at the fire. Minutes stretched on as we sat in silence, the music continuing to play softly-- this time, without event. I mentally counted to a hundred. Calming down...better. Just when I had regained my control, Clark spoke tentatively.

"Lex?"

I glanced over at him, keeping my eyes resolutely focused on his face--His eyes, dammit! Don't look at his lips!--and took a slow, deep breath. "Yes Clark?" I questioned calmly.

"Could I see your wrist again?"

I held out my wrist, tilting it so that the markings were in the light.

I had expected him to glance at the symbol, and perhaps try to decipher the text. What I did not expect was for him to trail a featherlight finger over my skin, tracing the band, then the geometric design over it. My breath caught in my chest, and I was afraid to look at his face. I closed my eyes as my throat and chest constricted, trying to ignore the effect that his touch on my skin was having on my body. Shit. At the same time, however, I was reveling in the feeling, slightly euphoric. I risked a glance into Clark's eyes, curiosity unbearable, and saw that he was staring at my wrist still, trailing his fingers over and over the symbol. His gaze was unreadable, his lips parted slightly, and his cheeks flushed. My throat clenched even more painfully, in hope and apprehension.

"Hands touch
Eyes meet
Sudden silence
Sudden heat
Hearts leap in a giddy world."

Blinking, awakening from my daze, I sprang out of my seat and walked quickly over to the stereo, resisting the urge to full-out fly at it. My sole coherent thought was New. Music. NOW. Tearing the CD out of the player, I pulled another from a nearby case. Paying no attention to the title, I slammed it into the stereo. The first notes of Damien Rice's O filled the air. Fantastic music to make out to--highly inconducive to my desire to keep my literal and metaphorical cool. Slightly frantic, I flipped through the case, finally settling on Bright Eyes' I'm Wide Awake It's Morning. Aah, a healthy dose of cynicism. Perfect. I pressed hit "play," and began to breathe.

Finally calm, my shoulders, which I had not even realized had been tense, relaxed, and dropped. I turned and glanced back at Clark. His face showed an odd mixture of bewilderment, amusement, and...what could have been either disappointment or relief. I hoped it was the former, but even I couldn't rationally believe that that could be the case.

"So, where did you find that symbol that you got tattooed on your wrist?" His eyes still sparkled slightly, but his words were serious.

Thankful that he had chosen to overlook my bizarre actions but guiltily irritated over the loss of contact, I walked nonchalantly back to the couch where I had been seated and picked up my scotch. I swirled it and took a pensive sip. At the same time, I searched Clark's eyes for ulterior motives, but they were veiled. I couldn't tell whether he had recognized the symbol from his barn last year or if, as I suspected, he was feigning innocence to conceal an even larger reason behind his question.

Two could play at that game. Nonchalantly tracing a pattern on the carpet with my eyes, I responded, slightly capriciously, "From some old book of ...Indian symbols that they had at the tattoo parlor. No clue what it means, but it looks sort of... familiar, doesn't it?"

He picked up on the vein of sarcasm in my voice, and had the grace to wince, and turn slightly pink.

"Sorry, Lex, I didn't mean..."

I raised an eyebrow, daring him to go on. He shrugged helplessly.

"...didn't mean to...pry?"

I smiled slightly. "You know I dislike secrets Clark."

At that, he gave a sad smile.

"Me too."

I was struck by the sincerity and forlornness of his words and, without knowing why, I felt incredible sympathy for the young man sitting slumped in the couch across from me. I leaned across the table and put a hand on his knee--for once, a completely platonic gesture. "You know, I could listen, if you'd like...I promise. I'm your friend and I just want to help." A little of my curiosity about him must have seeped into my voice, because he glanced up sharply. He must also have seen the remorse on my face, however, because he gave that odd, sorrow sweet little half-smile...familiar...where did I see it? The dream! I stared at him in surprise, but he said only. "I know, Lex."

His eyes were beginning to droop, and he curled up, childlike, in a corner of the leather couch.

"Lex?"

"Yes?" I said, slightly sleepy, but smiling slightly at the childlike purity of his position. So nave. I studied the high cheekbones, honeylit skin and dark chocolate hair (my favorite flavor--so much more complex), colors made all the more rich by the firelight. I suddenly realized that he is the reason that I am so fond of Smallville--there is a purity to him that I ascribe to the place, a trusting simplicity that, though not necessarily real, is nevertheless rather comforting. He feels the way that, as a child, I thought Home should.

And I realized that this might not be such a revelation, after all. He is family, and I love him. At least as a brother.

"This is really a strange question..."

I raised an eyebrow, slightly apprehensive. "What are friends for?"

"Wouldyousingtome?" he blurted out in a rush, his cheeks matching his pants again.

I was startled out of my stupor, and not certain that I heard him right. "Excuse me?"

He turned even redder, if possible, and avoided my eyes. "Forget it," he mumbled.

"No, really, what did you say?" I asked with a slight grin.

Still red, staring at the floor as though he wished he could burn a hole in it to crawl through with his gaze alone, he mumbled, "I always hear you humming to the music whenever we're in the car and you seem happy, and I was kind of wondering what it would sound like..."

I was silent, waiting for him to go on.

"...if you sang." He glanced up at last, and, seeing my incredulous expression, added, "You were doing it again just now. Humming." My eyebrows shot up and I contemplated the request. I knew my voice to be a warm baritone, but it was probably husky with total disuse, but for my guilty pleasure of occasionally singing in the shower.

And, apparently, humming in the car.

I had not realized that I allowed myself to be quite that open around Clark Kent. Still, this would be a rather large leap. I had not sung for anyone since high school, though I had been an avid member of my school's choir and musical theatre productions. (From this comes my love for musicals over opera. Actually, I was fairly good at both acting and singing. My father refused to let me continue with it, however. After all, I am a Luthor, not a sissy. Real men don't act. Not that I'm bitter, or anything. Now, the only place that my acting skills get use is the board room during long, boring meetings, and when keeping my emotions under wraps.)

Well, why not, I finally decided. After all, Clark already heard me humming, and if he wanted to hear more, it obviously couldn't sound that bad. So, studiously keeping my eyes off of his curled-up form on the couch, I began to sing softly, my voice growing in strength as I began to feel the music and loose myself in it as I had not since I was young.

"When everything gets lonely I can be my own best friend I'll grab a coffee and the paper; have my own conversations With the sidewalk and the pigeons and my window reflection The mask I polish in the evening, by the morning looks like shit

"I know you have a heavy heart; I can feel it when we kiss--"

"Lex..." A soft voice brought me down from my music-induced high.

Oh no. I stopped, taking a deep breath. After a few moments, I glanced at Clark, expecting distaste, or perhaps pity, depending on how badly I had sounded

What I saw was shock. Not quite the reaction I was hoping for, but also not one of the ones that I expected. I waited for him to continue, standing stock still, back to the flames.

"That was...where did you learn to sing like that?" A bit of awe mixed with the shock in his eyes, and a small, happy smile curved his lips.

This was a sight I liked. I smiled slightly. "I sang when I was at school. I stopped when I graduated."

"Why?"

It was my smile that was melancholy this time. "Life."

He paused, unsure how to respond. "Could you keep singing, please?"

Slightly taken aback, I was happy to oblige.

"And I'm not sure what the trouble was that started all of this The reasons have run away but the feeling never did It's not something I would recommend, but it is one way to live Cause what is simple in the moonlight, by the morning never is What's so simple in the moonlight, by the morning is so complicated."

When the song ended, I sat staring into the fire, mesmerized by the flames and floating in a timeless state with my mind utterly empty, just watching the patterns in the smoke and burning logs. When I finally turned around, I saw Clark curled up on the couch, looking young and grown up all at once, with the smallest smile on his lips. The play of the fire sharpened his features, but, somehow, he still seemed soft and smooth.

Silently, and not knowing exactly why I was doing it, I crossed over to the couch and looked down at Clark. I lightly brushed a curl behind his ear and, still feeling disconnected, I covered him with the chenille throw resting on the arm of the couch. Feeling like a mother or a lover, I tucked the edges around his goose bumped skin, and settled myself on the other couch. Lying back, I drifted off while watching him sleep, music still playing softly in the background.

"...With these things there's no telling We just have to wait and see
But I'd rather be working for a paycheck Then waiting to win the lottery
Besides, maybe this time is different
I mean, I really think you like me."