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Mistletoe
Lex hates Christmas.
It's all so horribly clichéd. And yes, hating Christmas might also be something of a cliché; but that's the lesser of two evils. At least his hatred is genuine. The rest of it – the decorations, the nostalgia, the absurdly affected high spirits and good will towards men – is no more than elaborate artifice. As if the calendar were really capable of making the world brighter, people more loving, futures more promising.
Lex's future is already promising, and his world is already as bright as wealth can make it … money may be shallow, but platinum and Porsches do sparkle. But as for love … well, if what Lionel shows him is love, he'd thank the holidays more for less of it.
He's managed to compress his hatred for Christmas into an arch air of detachment. Lex understands the importance of outward appearance; a skilled leader must marshal his own feelings and do what is expected. But to be cheerful on schedule also gives the unpleasant sensation of not being his own man; and so he watches the season approach each year with distaste.
He isn't cheerful. And no one is granting his wishes. No one brings him what he wants, on Christmas or any other day. Not that he minds; there is a thrill of power in taking things himself. But if Christmas is for giving, all it gives him is the stark reminder of how alone he really is.
Clark, on the other hand, loves Christmas. And why shouldn't he, with his innocent ideals and his pure heart, the very spirit of everything this season pretends to be. So Lex tells himself that's why he so needed Clark here with him tonight: a comfortable friend to deflect that insidious holiday cheer. It lurks beneath each flocked Douglas fir, leers from each bedecked hall of the mansion, ready to spring and suck you into the maw of its banality. It is hazardous at best. But Clark's company is soothing, normalizing even in the face of crisis; so only he could get Lex through the torture of the LuthorCorp company Christmas party.
Plus, Martha taught him lovely manners - Clark is always last to leave, always volunteers to help clean up. So if he can just get through the evening, its torturous small talk and empty well-wishing, he'll be rewarded with a little time alone with his closest - his only - friend.
There's little Lex wouldn't do for that. And there's nothing he wouldn't do for more than that. But he knows there's no Christmas miracle in his future; so he'll take what he can get.
Clark is devastating in his sports jacket and red sweatervest, but he hangs back and lets Lex make his rounds. They exchange few words throughout the party; Lex has speeches to make, Christmas checks to distribute. He notices that Gabe Sullivan takes Clark under his wing, and while he's grateful Clark has some company, he also feels a pang of regret. He'd much rather Clark were at his side; the fact that he's mixing with the employees instead just magnifies his own sensation of disparity. If tonight he's a miser giving alms, that makes Clark the priest who offers grudging absolution. He wonders how his friend can watch him without disgust.
It's such a gross display, this seasonal pandering; he appreciates his employees all year round. Why can't he give them bonuses in the middle of August for no good reason? He feels much more cheerful in mid-August - or mid-March - or any time, frankly, that isn't mid-December.
His guests don't seem to be concerned with the triteness of it all, though. When he extends his hand to shake hers, one of the lab interns plants an impetuous kiss on his cheek, then promptly flees the room amidst the giggles and squeals of her peers. Then his assistant, brave on a glass and a half of champagne, forces a Santa hat onto his head.
His thin veneer of affability begins to crack.
He's lying, having a Christmas party at all. And he shouldn't be hitting the peppermint schnapps so hard, but getting drunk is all he can think of to keep up the charade of good cheer. There are a good number of others getting far drunker all around him; it's a night of doing the done thing. But even with the warming effects of alcohol, he still has to grit his teeth to force them into some semblance of a smile. By the time the final employee has bid him goodnight and Happy New Year, he's sporting a grimace as painful as his lockjaw.
Luckily you can still drink through that expression.
The door closes behind the last guest, and Clark claps a hand on his shoulder. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Shoot me now," Lex groans, and tosses back the rest of his drink. "No, better yet - get me another schnapps. Then shoot me."
"I thought it was a pretty nice party," Clark offers, steering him back in from the foyer. They pass through the ballroom, where the band is packing up their instruments, and dining room, where the caterers are breaking down tables and chairs. "The music was great, and everyone loved the food."
"The only nice thing about that party," Lex grumbles, grabbing a bottle from the bar as they pass it, "is that it's over." He takes a deep swig and winces at the burn in the back of his throat.
"Come on, now. It could have been lots worse."
"Yes," Lex agrees sardonically. "My father could have showed up."
They can barely walk side-by-side through the halls; it seems like there's a Christmas tree every other foot, and in between them are an unending series of mullioned window through which you can just glimpse snow beginning to fall. Lex eyes it all morosely and takes another drink.
"You know, I get it," Clark says softly as they reach the solarium. "You feel like you don't have ... the kinds of things that Christmas is all about."
"Oh, that's not true," Lex sneers, opening his arms wide. "Look, I have a forest of Christmas trees. A fortune in fairy lights, a metric ton of tinsel. And let's not forget all the money in the world. Surely that's enough to buy a Merry Little Christmas."
Clark considers for a moment, then reaches out and takes the bottle from his outstretched hand. "I think you're done."
"If you think that's the only bottle," Lex threatens, "you don't know me at all."
"I know you pretty well," Clark says, crossing his arms. "For instance, I know that the only things you hate are the things you can't have."
"I can have anything I want," Lex contradicts. It makes him even angrier to hear the whiny timbre his voice has taken on. But he doesn't want to argue with Clark tonight, least of all about what he can and cannot have.
"You can," Clark agrees. "But that's not really what we're talking about, is it?"
"No." Lex turns away from him and the way the white-lit trees make his eyes sparkle. "Or maybe yes. I don't know. I don't want to talk about Christmas. I'd really just like it out of my house."
Just then the housekeeper delicately intrudes to inform him that the staff have all finished. He thanks her as kindly as he can - it's not her fault it's Christmas - and bids her goodnight. Once she's out of earshot, he mumbles, "I should have asked them each to take home a tree or three. I suppose now I'm stuck with them until after New Year."
"I thought the decorations were wonderful," Clark replies. "What can you have against some innocent greenery?"
"It's just all of it ... the show. It's so disingenuous, so false."
"They were definitely not artificial trees," Clark jokes. "How could you have missed how wonderful it smells in there?"
"I was really, really trying."
"You know," Clark muses, slipping his hands into his pockets, "I think you're just fighting a little too hard. It wouldn't seem forced if you just ... let yourself feel it."
Lex glares at him, arms akimbo. "Is that what you think? Then tell me what it is I'm supposed to be feeling."
"How about ... that it's beautiful. I mean - just look."
He sweeps a hand around the room and Lex's eyes can't help but follow it. The snow is falling thicker now, and the solarium as they are creates the illusion of being right at the center of its silent softness. The thin glass walls are easy to imagine away, leaving Clark and Lex standing in a bubble of warmth in the middle of the garden - alone together, at night, with the light of a thousand tiny bulbs to add to the romance.
Romance.
Oh no.
"It just sneaks up on you," Lex sighs forlornly. "It's like you have no choice in the matter."
"You do though." Lex's anger is starting to dissipate, and that was all that was keeping Clark so far away. As it goes, he feels freer to move closer. "You can choose to enjoy it."
"I shouldn't." Lex shifts on his feet, his eyes still wandering and wondering at the scene around them. He can feel it now, the insidiously tempting charm working its way beneath his skin, making him notice uninvited details like the scent of fir and balsam or the candy canes on Clark's breath. "It makes me lonely ... it makes me want."
Lex is seldom so candid, and Clark feels the urge to reach for him. "You said yourself - you can have anything you want."
Lex doesn't answer right away. He knows he shouldn't be watching the snow fall with childlike anticipation. He shouldn't be feeling the chill in the air and thinking of how warm it must be in Clark's pockets. He really shouldn't be noticing the huge bunch of mistletoe hanging from the solarium ceiling, just inches above Clark's beautiful and oblivious head.
But he is doing those things. And they're alone now - everyone else has all gone home and left them in this world of cinnamon and pine, of snowflakes and sweetness, of wishes and possibility.
With that the dreaded wave of Christmas spirit finally subsumes Lex; and while he may still want to resist, he decides he wants not to more.
"That's right," he says at last. "I can."
Lex wonders if it's his red sweater, the season or the schnapps that make Clark's eyes look so evergreen. But it doesn't really matter which it is; those eyes grow wide all the same as Lex takes him without ceremony into his arms.
"Lex? What are you ..."
"Shh," he whispers, kissing him. "'Tis the season."
He's not a convert, not really. But then Clark opens to his kiss; and at that moment Lex recognizes that he does believe in miracles after all - both the Christmas and everyday varieties.
When their mouths part, Clark gathers their bodies closer together and presses his cheek to Lex's forehead. "I'm not going to look up," he says, "but tell me the truth. There's mistletoe, isn't there?"
"There is," Lex concedes. "But I think I'd have kissed you anyway."
"Good."
"Good?"
"Because I'd hate to think you kissed me just because it's Christmas."
"No, it's definitely because of you," Lex assures him.
"Just me?"
"... Well, and maybe a little bit of Christmas."
"Good," Clark repeats. And then kisses him again.