Chapter Text
The coffee machine melodically beeped. With one arm, Lex retrieved his mug, bringing it to his lips, and with the other, he smoothed out a copy of the morning’s reports. The blend was smooth and refreshing, revitalizing his mind and body to prepare for the endless meetings and paperwork that day. He sipped it contentedly before placing it on a glass LuthorCorp-brand coaster on his desk.
It’s been one month since the trial, and Lex has steered LuthorCorp back on track in almost all fronts.
After his unfortunate hiatus, Lex reconnected with his domestic and foreign partners to reestablish their agreements. While the PR department head won’t budge on prohibiting public endeavors, LuthorCorp’s pharmaceutical branch and engineering team have begun a long-term project combining nanites and replacement limbs. Lex has already made preliminary agreements to sell them to healthcare facilities for millions. And, following the dissolution of PlanetWatch, Lex successfully pushed forward talks on a new contract with the Pentagon to sell LuthorCorp technology for the US Peace Corps occupation in Kasnia.
It’s been one month and Lex’s pet project on Superman couldn’t be going smoother.
After the first day, Superman arrived on his own accord with a take-out box in his hand, a Scrabble board under his arms, and a goofy smile on his face. Lex had allowed it, entertaining Superman’s silly idea of companionship. Since then, Superman’s visits have become habitual. Reliable. Expected. And best of all, the idiot has yet to question Lex’s intentions or his abrupt “change of heart” again.
After each visit, Lex would carefully fill out a detailed report on the interaction, highlighting any new or surprising observations or developments. The dedicated Superman filing cabinet and digital documents resided in his penthouse office, alongside the combat data and a lead box containing strands of Superman’s hair—his key to the Fortress.
Superman’s persistence became both irritating and useful in unexpected ways.
Regular visits meant that Superman was breathing down his neck about every project, interrogating Lex about the ethics and morals of his experiments, which was entirely unwelcome. He’s also, annoyingly, become friendly with practically everybody in the office that he comes across, from Heather to the janitor, to his CFO.
On the other hand, Superman, unlike Lex, is a chronic people-pleaser. Whenever he can do something that he imagines would make Lex happy, he does it. Lex just has to say, I’m craving some udon from Tokyo, hand Superman his credit card, and not even ten minutes later, he has a (relatively) fresh, authentic Japanese dish in front of him. Despite Superman bitching and moaning to Lex about “eating local”, he never fails to retrieve Lex’s requests and often shuts up when he’s stuffing his face with his share of pasta or gyros. Lex marks this behavior in his documents as ‘particularly exploitative’.
While awaiting Superman’s inevitable arrival that night, Lex flipped through the tall stack of letters Heather left him to sort through. He noticed, among the bills and junk mail, a rather large envelope with an unfamiliar return address. He ripped it open. A typed letter and a collection of photographs fell out onto his desk.
The latter informed him of his late aunt’s passing, information which he already knew and did not feel strongly about. They were never close, and she took care of his father—her brother—after his stroke. As far as he knew, she never cared for Lex much either. The letter explained that the photographs were the only objects marked in a box with his name on it, so her will recipients decided to send them to him. Out of the pure goodness in their hearts, he figured bitterly.
Lex flipped through the collection. One was of him as a baby, held by his father and mother. He tore it up and threw it out immediately. Most were candid images of him as a meek red-haired adolescent, which his aunt must have taken of him when he visited her horse farm. The remaining were of Lex and his father in his childhood townhouse. They were perfect pictures of upper-crust Americana, with his father’s perpetually stern expression and cigars. Lex could almost smell the stale stench of smoke that possessed every corner of his youth.
He carefully laid them out on his desk, then organized them by what he assumed to be chronologically—he wasn’t sure, none of the photos were dated. It occurred to him then that it disturbed him that he could not pull fully forged memories from most of the photos. Each moment captured, clearly once experienced, was wholly unfamiliar now.
Lex sat back in his chair. The stack of mail long forgotten on the corner of his desk.
What does he remember from that time? It all seemed to blend into an incomprehensible timeline of abhorrent events. He rubbed his temple, frustrated.
Lex stared at the collection of posed bodies and unseeing eyes. The photos stared back at him, challenging him—daring him—to pick apart their mystery.
He opens a new bottle of scotch. This venture cannot go on unaided.
That’s how Superman found him, at his desk, well-aided, trying to determine if this photo of him standing near the fireplace was before or after his eighth birthday. He couldn’t tell if the marks on his hands were bruising from the swats from his Latin tutor or water damage. He threw the photo down, unable to look any longer. The child had a certain frailness that Lex resented.
He had heard the balcony door open and close, Superman’s greeting dying in his mouth, and his careful steps approaching. Lex didn’t look up, but he could sense Superman watching him intently. The room felt twenty degrees warmer.
Taking a seat across from Lex, Superman picked up one of the photos and examined it. “This was you?” He holds up a picture of ten-year-old Lex wearing his riding britches. The photo was deceiving—he wasn’t really into equestrianism, he only rode once or twice at the suggestion of his aunt.
“Yep.” Lex moved the fireplace picture to the to-be-burned-later pile and took the riding photo from Superman.
“Who’s this?” Superman holds up another with his father, only his father, standing next to an old wooden LuthorCorp logo. If Lex looked closely, he could see a sparkle of pride in his eye. How rare.
“That’s my old man.” Lex took the picture and crumpled it in his hand, tossing it into the waste basket. He poured himself another glass. “He was a piece of shit.”
“Oh.” Superman delicately held the discarded fireplace photo. He looked at the child in the photo—not the man in front of him—with sorrow. It made Lex inexplicably angry. “He hurt you?”
Lex snatched it back. “He never hit me. Oh no, that sort of thing was below him. When I needed discipline, my father used to lock me in the coat closet. Did you know that? He used to forbid the maids from letting me out. I would scream until my voice was gone, but I wouldn’t be let out until he wanted me to. Sometimes I was in there for so long that I was forced to relieve myself.” He takes a generous sip to suppress the bile rising in his throat.
“Lex—”
“No. Don’t talk. I don’t want your pity, Superman.” He poured another three fingers and drained it. The words flooded the still office air like an overflowed river. “When I turned seven, my father forbade any of my maids from talking to me. Practically the only conversations I had until high school were with my tutors. I can speak five languages, did you know that? Sprechen Sie Deutsch, Superman?”
Superman shifted in his seat, his brows furrowed, his lips parted with…confusion? Distress? Disgust? Lex couldn’t tell. He couldn’t be bothered.
Lex clumsily pours himself another glass, the amber liquid splashing onto the surface of his desk. His hands shook as he raised the glass to his lips. “The other thing—the other thing was that my father wasn’t a religious man. No, he was a man of politics and—and capital. His God was the machine on Wall Street that kept his pockets full. But some nights I would pray that someone, anyone would listen to me. And see me. For the first decade of my life, I was fucking invisible. Now look at me. Everyone knows who I am. Everyone sees me. I have my face on fucking GQ and fucking Fortune and Time fucking Magazine.”
Lex could barely taste the scotch anymore as it ran down his throat. He placed the glass down harder than expected, jolting Superman from this stupor. “What about you, huh? Where were you, Superman, when I had no one but my failed experiments to keep me sane? Aren’t you supposed to save people? So much for being a fuckin’ hero.”
He reached for the bottle, only to find it empty. Cursing, he clumsily reached into the cabinet for another.
“I’m so sorry,” Superman whispered, his voice oozing with sympathy.
Fuck Superman’s sympathy. He survived his father on his own. His only mistake was not putting hydrogen peroxide into his father’s bedtime tea when he had the chance.
“It’s hardly your fault. That bastard had the audacity to die before I could do anything about it myself.” Lex lifted the glass, but before it met his lips, Superman’s hand was on his, guiding the glass down and gently prying his fingers off.
Instantly, Superman materialized beside him. “I think we’re done with that for now.” His voice felt close, soothing. “C’mon.”
Lex could feel Superman’s hand travel from his upper back to his underarm. He’s lifted from his desk chair. The motion made him lightheaded and a little nauseous. With Superman’s arm around him, Lex lulled his head onto his shoulder and tried to memorize every pore and hair visible on his profile. This is the closest he’s ever been to Superman, he supposed. Unless he counts that one time he threw Lex against the wall. But those were mere moments. This felt like forever.
All of a sudden, he’s on the couch outside of his office, his head propped up on a throw pillow.
“Want to know another secret, Superman?” His hands clasped tightly across his chest. He’s still dizzy. His body no longer felt like his own, like he was watching himself from across the room.
“Hmm?” Superman sat on the floor against the couch, his arm resting along the seat of the couch, pressed up against Lex’s thigh.
“I still don’t have a single friend.” The admission came from nowhere. He felt like a child again. He isn’t. He never will be again. “No one likes me. Not really. They like my money and my intelligence and my connections, but it’s all superficial. That’s just how people are when you’re better than everyone. It’s lonely at the top. That’s what they say.”
He wishes he could shove the words back into his mouth as soon as he said them. In his last coherent thought, he hoped to be so fucking drunk that he would forget this conversation ever happened, or he would blow his brains out in the morning. At least he has options.
“We’re friends.” Superman puts a hand on his calf, right below his knee. It’s warm and grounding and entirely undeserved.
Lex scoffs. “We are not. You hate me.” He meant to say, I hate you. Or maybe he didn't.
“No, I really don’t.” Superman looked humored, he’s finally smiling at Lex again.
“I don’t believe you.” Lex brought his hand up to his face and wiped away a tear. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying.
“You don’t have to believe me for it to be true.” Superman squeezed his leg gently.
Lex didn’t deign him with a response. His nausea subsided, and he could feel the enticing pull of sleep in his core. He rolled onto his side, his back to Superman.
A pounding headache woke Lex at the crack of dawn. Last night blurred together in an embarrassing abstraction. How completely humiliating.
He allowed himself ten seconds of screaming into the throw pillow before adjusting his suit and heading back into his office.
A glass of water and Advil sat on his desk. A faint burning smell emanated from his metal waste basket. From the bottom of the bin, he picked up a half-incinerated photograph, his father’s image deliberately lasered out, while his ten-year-old self remained. The rest of the photos were neatly stacked and facing down. The corner of Lex’s mouth twitched upward at the gesture. He slipped the burned photo into his desk drawer and swept the remaining ones into the waste basket.
There was no reason to believe that Superman would act any differently after that night. After weeks of close observation, Lex knew this to be true. Superman apparently considered them to be friends, much to Lex’s chagrin, and Superman is nothing if not loyal to his friends.
Still, Lex found an unexpected relief when Superman returned the next night with two copies of the Sunday crossword in his hand and that stupid grin on his face. They did not discuss Lex’s father or his childhood, and the scotch was kept locked safely away in the cabinet behind his desk.
Their routine continued as usual until three weeks later, when Superman didn’t show up at his usual time. Nor did he arrive after hours, when most of LuthorCorp had left for the night. Lex checked the window. No creatures or fires or unhinged metahumans to be seen. It was a disturbingly peaceful evening.
At almost two in the morning, Lex checked his watch for the millionth time. Superman was never this late to their meetings—if he’s ever delayed, he always alerted Lex through Heather from a payphone.
He was about to head home to write an angry speech on timeliness and respect to give to Superman tomorrow, when a rush of wind blew through the office and Superman stumbled out through the balcony door.
Lex stood up immediately. He’s beyond annoyed. “Do you have any idea how late it is—”
Superman, faster than Lex can process, lumbered forward and collapsed into Lex, his arms fastening around his shoulders in an iron hold. He shook, sobbing into Lex’s collar.
Lex stilled. His hand slowly moved to grip Superman’s biceps, though realizing that any escape attempt was futile. It takes only moments for the weight of Superman’s embrace to force them both to sink to their knees on the cold, polished floor.
On the ground, Lex managed to twist out of Superman’s hold. Arms braced on the tile floor, he pulled himself away until he could see Superman’s full, miserable face. His usually fair skin is blotchy and twisted, his eyes bloodshot. Snot dripped from his nose. Lex should be happy to learn that Superman’s an ugly crier. He should be.
Lex plucks a tissue from the box on his desk and hands it to him.
Superman blew his nose noisily. “She was just a child. Oh, God—” He choked.
Lex handed him another tissue.
Between hiccups and sobs, Superman explained that he answered a call for a home invasion in the suburbs. While he assessed the wounds on the pregnant mother, one of the unaccounted-for invaders fired a round into the victims’ house. Most of the bullets didn’t hit, but one punctured the neck of the family’s ten-year-old daughter. It happened in less than a second. He tried to save her, or at least stop the bleeding until the EMTs arrived, but it was no use.
Superman broke down into tears again. Lex handed him the whole tissue box.
It occurred to him then that Superman was at his most vulnerable, willingly seeking Lex’s comfort. Discomfort crawled into his chest. He’d never considered himself to be a source of comfort for anyone.
It’s possible that if he refused any warmth, Superman might not visit again, throwing off his whole project. But it’s also simply not in Lex’s nature to give out free hugs to depressed aliens. As a compromise, he gave a couple of tentative pats on Superman’s shoulder.
Superman turned his head and gives a small, teary smile. Lex retreated his arm and turned away. He couldn’t have Superman looking at him like that.
When Superman’s sobs finally subsided, he gave Lex a crooked smile. “Wow. You’re so quiet. If you want to say something, you can.” Superman bumps his shoulder gently, like it’s Lex who needs comforting. “Here: ‘You can’t save everyone, Superdork’. How’s that?”
“Incredible. You’ve finally lost it.” Lex bit his lip, suppressing a smile. “I do not sound like that.”
“You sort of do.”
Superman inches closer until their shoulders are just barely touching. Lex holds a bated breath. He feels like he’s on fire.
“It wasn’t your fault.” The words come out of Lex’s throat low and harsh.
“What was that?” Superman looks up at Lex with those big, wet eyes. It’s pathetic. It’s beautiful.
“Don’t be obtuse.” He wasn’t going to repeat himself to the guy who could hear a pin drop from a mile away.
Lex looked at his watch. The hour hand was inching closer and closer to four. He had already decided that he wouldn't be getting any sleep that night.
He felt the warm presence leave his side. “Sorry, I’ve overstayed. I should get going.” Superman pushed himself from the floor to lean against the desk. He still looked so forlorn.
“No.” Lex scrambled to stand. No, you haven’t overstayed. No, don’t go. “You kept me up. Find a place so I can get dinner.” Superman raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “I’m craving something local.”
Superman practically beams.
Lex began to regret his choice of words as Superman instructed his driver to take them to a seedy street on the East Side. Although he was relieved to finally leave his office after twenty-one hours, he didn’t imagine they would be queueing up for kebabs before dawn. He looked around the nearly-empty street nervously; there were more rats than people out, but he pulled his hood lower over his face anyway. Superman greeted the vendor like an old friend, and Lex hung back as Superman ordered for them both.
In a silent agreement, they walked to the edge of the river. Superman perched himself on the wall, feet dangling over the edge. Lex leaned forward, resting his elbows on top of the cool cement.
It’s a brisk, windy morning. Superman’s cape flapped behind him as he mournfully gazed into his food. Out of the corner of his eye, Lex noticed a darker section of the cape, a deep burgundy staining the bright carmine cloth. Lex didn’t need to be a forensic scientist to imagine what had happened. Superman had wrapped that child in his cape in a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding. From how blood-soaked the cape was, the intruder must have hit an artery. She would have never survived, even if the EMTs had arrived in time.
Lex looked back up. Superman had finally started to unhappily devour his kebab. Lex took a bite and watched the crumbs fall into the water. He knows the exhaustion will settle in much later while he’s in a meeting or on an important call. But for now, he’s wide awake, eating pedestrian food, and watching the sunrise with fucking Superman.
At nearly five in the morning, Lex called his diver. Superman insisted on waiting with him until his car arrived, though his kebab had long been eaten.
As he stepped into the vehicle, Superman called out to him. “Thanks for everything, Lex.”
Lex didn’t know how to respond.
After a week, two months into the project, Lex reviewed his logs. What he found were not only weaknesses, but unexpected imperfections. Metropolis’ hero couldn’t save everyone every time, even though he’s capable of sonic speed and possesses superhuman instincts. He’s graceful when he flies, but clumsy when he walks. He stutters, he raises his voice, he’s inexplicably bothered by small, insignificant annoyances. But he was confident and mind-numbingly earnest. It was irritating how aware and self-assured Superman could be about these defects that couldn’t be compensated for with his muscles or abilities. He also didn’t seem to care that he exposed himself so thoroughly to Lex. Wearing his heart on his sleeve, for Lex to rip off and mutilate.
Another anomaly arose. After that fateful night when Superman sought Lex’s consolation, he began looking at Lex differently. He was more regretful when he had to cut their meetings short to save the city. His hand would linger on Lex’s shoulder, on his elbow, on his forearm. He even complimented Lex’s new tie, a blue silk one that his stylist picked out (“It matches your eyes!”). It was too friendly and too suspicious for Lex’s liking. Yet, he allowed it and logged the behavioral changes in his ever-growing documents.
Lex’s suspicions were heightened when Superman requested to meet at a two-star hotel on the edge of town at sunset.
When he arrived, alone as promised, Superman offered to fly them to the roof.
“Fuck, no. I’m taking the elevator.” It’s not like he’s afraid of heights; Superman could drop him for God’s sake.
“The building’s locked,” Superman called after him.
He tried the door anyway. Locked. “Can’t you just use your super-strength to break in?”
“That’s illegal.”
“Isn’t trespassing on a roof also illegal?”
Superman shrugged with faux innocence.
Lex huffed and crossed his arms. “Fine.”
Superman, with too much enthusiasm in Lex’s opinion, scooped him up. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”
Lex didn’t realize he had closed his eyes until Superman set him gently on his feet. When he opened them, he saw a mostly bare rooftop except for an ice cooler.
Superman pulled out a vintage bottle of Dom Pérignon from the box and proudly presented it to Lex, grinning ear to ear.
Lex accepted it hesitantly. “What’s the occasion?”
“It’s your birthday. Happy birthday! Unless I got it wrong. September 28th, right? I read it on your Wikipedia page.”
“Oh. No, that’s right.” All of the built-up annoyances faded away as he turned the bottle in his hands. Lex hadn’t realized the date.
Superman guided them over to a dewy metal bench overlooking the east shoreline. “Ah. I forgot it rained.” Without hesitating, he detached his cape and laid it over the seat. Superman gestured for Lex to sit on it.
“What a gentleman,” Lex deadpanned. A weaker man would’ve been completely charmed. Lex was only half-charmed.
“I aim to please.” Superman rummaged around in the cooler again, his smile fading slightly. “Ah, shoot. I forgot the glasses. I hope you don’t mind sharing. It’ll be like high school.”
“Oh, sure.” Sharing a bottle of liquor on a rooftop had never been Lex’s high school experience. Maybe Superman’s was. He could imagine it. Youthful. Popular. Star of the football team. Taking girls to rooftops to drink cheap beer and pretend to be rebellious. “You can tell me if you’re planning on getting me drunk, pushing me off the roof, and pretending that it was an accident.”
Superman just laughed, like Lex told an outrageously funny joke. “What? No. I just wanted to show you my favorite spot. I used to come here all the time when I first moved to Metropolis. Now, I mostly just use it to watch the end-of-the-carnival firework show.”
The sun fell behind the shoreline before them, decorating the coast with a violet-orange hue. They passed the bottle in silence. Occasionally, Superman would point out large birds or other creatures that Lex could barely make out in the distance.
When darkness blanketed the city, as promised, fireworks lit up the sky in sparkling greens and golds and reds. Lex found it reluctantly endearing when Superman called out the types of explosions as they appeared. He hadn’t even known they had names.
The fireworks eventually faded, and Superman took a deep swig of the champagne. “I feel like you should know why I came to see you all those times before the trial. I thought that if you could get to know me as—as a person, you wouldn’t hate me so much. And maybe if you didn’t hate me so much, it would be better.”
The champagne made Lex feel lighter, his ears still ringing from the fireworks. “What would be better?”
“Everything.” He’s looking at Lex now, wide-eyed and serious. “I also wanted to get to know you. And learn more about you.”
“And what did you find out?” Lex couldn’t stop himself from asking. He remembered the now hundreds of thousands of physical and digital documents detailing Superman’s every move.
Superman leaned in, like it’s a secret only he and Lex can know. Lex notices the crow's feet on the corners of his eyes. Inhuman but not ageless. He can’t stop himself from imagining an old Superman with sunspots and wrinkles, refusing to stop fighting monsters and saving kittens from trees. And himself, crippled with age and over-drinking, refusing to step down as LuthorCorp CEO.
Superman’s hand rested near his, and Lex couldn't find the strength to move it.
“That you’re stubborn. And irascible. And you drink too much when you’re upset.” Lex resented that. He’s not an alcoholic. “You love winning, and you stay up with me until four in the morning.
“You’re resilient and creative. And the smartest person in Metropolis. Don’t tell Mister Terrific I said that.” He’s closer now. Lex could feel Superman’s breath on his cheek. It’s warm. He wanted to find it disgusting. He doesn’t.
“And you know more about me than I do myself sometimes.” He’s impossibly close now. He smelled like cheap coconut shampoo and gravel.
His eyes reflected the moonlight, the blinding brightness suffocating Lex.
Stillness surrounds them, enclosing them in the night air.
And then Superman's lips pressed against his, kissing him like a starved man. He’s soft and insistent. And Lex is kissing back with equal fervor. One hand presses into the cape below, shakily holding himself up, with the other, he traces up Superman’s arm. The skin-tight suit reveals every taut muscle, every subtle movement of his tendons. He wants to peel back his skin and reveal every pulsating capillary and vein and dissect his very being.
Superman pulls away. He’s breathing hard. Lex couldn’t look away from the insufferable smirk on his lips. “I thought you said I wasn’t your type.”
“You kissed me, idiot.” Lex doesn’t move away.
Superman’s smile deepens. Those fucking dimples will be the death of him.
“And I’ll do it again.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Superman pulled him in, his hand knocking the bottle off the ledge. The glass shattered and champagne splashed onto their ankles. They jolted apart at the noise. Superman stared in horror as the bubbles fizzled into the pores of the concrete.
After a moment of stunned silence, Superman buried his head in his hands and groaned. “Sorry, this was such a disaster.”
Lex could’ve said, This is the best birthday I can remember, and it would’ve been the truth. Instead, he said, “I’ve had worse birthdays.”
And that was also the truth.
Lex let Superman fly him back to his house, not out of pity, but out of convenience, if anyone should ask. The experience was less horrible the second time, courtesy to the one-third bottle of champagne and Superman’s arms wrapped tightly around him.
“So, this was nice.” Superman lingered outside on his balcony, his boot scuffing the ground.
Lex nodded. He was slightly disoriented from the flight, and a bothersome migraine was forming.
When Lex’s hand reached the door, Superman’s voice rose abruptly. “I, um. I’m not seeing anyone else. So, you know…”
Lex shouldn’t have looked back, but he did. The spark of hope in Superman’s eyes made his ears burn. Almost six months of continuous data collection and analysis, and not once did he predict Superman would…proposition him. For the first time in his life, Lex felt paralyzed with indecision.
On the one hand, it could all be a fucked up joke. A set-up to ruin Lex again. There could have been hidden cameras on the rooftop or in his office. Hidden microphones in Superman’s suit. His buddies at the press could be ready with an exposé by morning. He could see the headlines now: Criminal CEO Duped by City’s Sweetheart. And it would be Lex’s fault for trusting and confiding in the alien in his most vulnerable state.
On the other hand, Superman bought him expensive champagne. Superman celebrated his birthday. Superman called him the smartest person in Metropolis. Superman kissed him. And if Lex was being honest with himself, he wouldn’t mind Superman kissing him again like he did before. Like Lex meant something to him. Now thinking about it, it is the only logical conclusion that if Superman should court anyone, it should be Lex, the pinnacle of mankind in every way. Perhaps Superman has finally realized Lex’s superiority over his small-minded fans.
On the hypothetical third hand, Lex hadn’t been with another man since he was sixteen, kissing Carlos Santiago in the bathroom between classes. A hall monitor had noticed. The headmaster had been notified. Lex doesn’t remember how Carlos’s short-cropped hair felt through his fingers. He doesn’t remember how it felt when Carlos’ hands pulled Lex impossibly close. He does remember the aftermath. The humiliation. He never saw Carlos again; his father made sure of that. But his father is dead, and no one on Earth can keep Superman away from Lex, except for Lex himself.
There he was, standing in front of Superman, the greatest threat to humanity. Superman, the alien whom Lex obsessed over relentlessly. Superman, who defeated him with a smile on his face and ugly red trunks over his suit. Superman, who visited him when no one else did. Superman, who forgave him based on one simple, insincere gesture. Superman, who came to him first for comfort. Superman, who despite not completely understanding Lex’s genetics and particle physics experiments, listens anyway. Superman, who, beyond all expectations, is clever and witty. Superman, who sees him.
He might be the only one who ever has.
It might be the stupidest choice Lex has ever made in his life.
Lex lifted his hand off the door handle. “I’m not either.”
He tried to sound composed. He hated being weak in front of Superman.
A grin spread across Superman’s perfect face. He took Lex’s hand into his and brought it up to his lips. He pressed his lips to Lex’s knuckles, then his wrist, then pulled Lex into another searing kiss.
Lex placed a hand on Superman’s chest. “You should go…” He could feel a quick staccato heartbeat. “You should go,” he repeated more forcefully.
Superman pressed a final kiss on the corner of his mouth. “See you tomorrow, Lex.”
Mercifully, Superman let him go and hopped up on the edge of the balcony. With one last longing look, he took off into the night.