Clark stands at the side of his father's grave, the moon half-covered by low hanging clouds. Snow has been falling throughout the day, through the long afternoon of visitors at the house and almost-strangers patting him on the shoulder, telling him what a good man Jonathan Kent was.

Was.

It still doesn't feel real. He can see the thin rectangle of white, the ground newly shrouded with snow since this afternoon's service, and all of their footprints have been erased, covered over. As if none of them had stood here and listened to the minister consigning Jonathan Kent's body to the ground. His soul to heaven.

Clark screws up the muscles in his face. He's not going to cry. He's not. His chest feels like it's going to break apart with the effort it takes not to run away. Scream. Hit something until it shatters under his fist.

There's a sound behind him, the step of a shoe in the snow, and he wonders how long the footsteps have been moving toward him without him noticing. He doesn't need to turn around to know who it is.

"What do you want, Lex?"

Clark can't bring himself to look at him, or be courteous. He buried his father today. He's allowed to be a jerk if he wants to, and he's pretty sure Lex doesn't expect anything else from him. Not these days. Not after everything.

If Lex is surprised Clark recognizes his step, his voice doesn't show it. "I wanted to see how you were. See if there was anything I could do."

"How did you know I was here?"

A step closer and Clark shakes his head slightly. He doesn't want Lex near. They're not friends anymore. Clark doesn't want his comfort, or whatever it is Lex thinks he's offering. He's going to be alone. He's accepted that since the day Cassandra showed him a future where he was surrounding by gravestones, and it's clear this isn't the last grave he'll stand beside. He wishes Lex could just leave well enough alone.

"I went to the farm," Lex says. "Your mother said-"

"She didn't know where I was going."

"No, she didn't," Lex concedes. He takes another step, and he's standing a foot behind Clark now, off to his right so that Clark can see the tails of his black trench coat fluttering in the light breeze. They look like black sails against a sea of white.

Clark refuses to move from the spot he's chosen, just closes his eyes and lets the snow melt against his face. He'd made the mistake of letting his vision wander earlier, and he doesn't need to think about the hundreds of skeletons lying in the ground beneath him. Outlines of crumbling bones that were someone's family member, loved one, friend.

Father.

"I was thirteen when my mother died," Lex says conversationally. Clark doesn't want to hear it because he's already heard a hundred variations in the last week. I know how you feel. I'm sorry. Time heals all wounds. He's in a better place now.

Lex continues, his voice the same easy tone he uses when he's talking about history or explaining something important, and for a moment Clark feels a twinge of regret. He's missed the conversations they used to have. He just didn't realize it.

"It was the worst day of my life. The only thing I wanted to do was crawl in that coffin with her and die too. Nobody understood and everyone said it would get better. It didn't. Not for a long, long time."

It isn't what Clark was expecting to hear. But then, Lex has never really been predictable, and Clark knows he's been wrong about Lex more often than he's been right. He doesn't admit that to himself very often, and he'll never admit it to Lex.

"I never really got over it. Her dying." Lex sounds thoughtful, not really sad, but something Clark can't quite place. A touch of regret maybe. He isn't sure. "I don't think we're really supposed to get over it. No matter what people say."

There's a fierceness in the last sentence, one Clark doesn't hear very often. It almost makes him turn and look, Lionel's voice echoing in his head the way he knows it would've rung in Lex's ears: "You'll get over it, son. You're a Luthor."

Clark finds himself nodding because he knows this hurt is never really going to go away. This was his fault, and it doesn't matter how many ways he thinks about it, how many times his mother holds his face and says he can't blame himself, it's going to always be there. A secret he'll carry for the rest of his life. Every choice has consequences.

At some point Lex has moved up to stand beside him. Clark can feel his presence there, inches away, and all he can do is nod stupidly. He doesn't have any words for how he feels. If he opens his mouth, he's afraid of what will come out. So he stares at the ground, the clean white rectangle of snow marking his father's grave, the toes of his black shoes that he had to polish this morning.

He wants Lex to go away almost as desperately as he wants him to stay. He's not ready for this-this life without his father. He wants things to go back to the way they used to be. It all seems so very long ago now.

"You never get over it," Lex says again. "It's just that way with people you care about. People you love. You never really accept it-not deep down-even when they're gone. It still hurts, sometimes as much as the first time you realize they're not coming back. That things have changed." A pause. "There are days I would do anything to change it. To go back."

"It's not possible," Clark says between gritted teeth, even though he knows it is. Sometimes. He saved Lana from death. He changed things. He has to live with that, and now he knows there's too much risk involved in trying to set things right. "We can't go back."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lex's head raise, knows he's looking at him.

"No, I guess not," Lex agrees. Clark's almost certain it isn't what he was going to say, and there's a moment when he thinks Lex is going to touch him. There's a flutter of coat as Lex raises a hand, then seems to change his mind and slips it into his pocket instead.

Clark lets out a relieved breath, one he can see in the cold night air. He hears the sound of Lex leaving. Eventually the purr of a car engine reaches his ears. It gets softer even as the snow starts to fall in larger flakes, dense clumps that cling to Clark's eyelashes for a moment before being blinked away. He can feel the wet slide of them against his cheeks.

When he turns to leave, Lex's footsteps have already disappeared beneath a covering of fresh snow. As if he'd never been there at all.

Clark knows it's time to go home. He doesn't want his mother to worry.

THE END