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I feel great. I lied to save your feelings.
truth convened, my head smashed through the ceiling.
I lost an arm, no one harmed, you diplomatically alarmed.
I sulked away to lick my thin skin. I'm not over you.
I'm not over you.
--R.E.M.
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Lex Luthor slipped easily out from between moist satin sheets. He bestowed not a single glance upon the king sized beds remaining inhabitant, she didn't matter, none of them did. Only one ever had.
He walked silently across the expansive bedroom of his mid-town Metropolis flat, located at the top of Luthor Towers--mid-town Metropolis' most sought after, most expensive apartment complex--and pulled on his robe.
Sliding open one massive glass door he stepped outside, shivering slightly in the ever present wind that swept over and around the buildings peak; sometimes caressing, sometimes brutalising. He crossed the balcony, pulling the robe tighter around himself, and leaned onto the thick concrete railing.
It was an awe-inspiring scene. The sleepless beast known as city, a living and breathing machine. But he no longer felt awe for anything, did he?
He gazed thoughtfully at the myriad of twinkling lights that comprised its shape in the dark of night. An earthly representation of the cosmos. Hundreds of miniature sparkling stars that bathed their light upon peoples homes--like suns to their planets.
Yet the beings of this microcosm had Luthor instead of God; or Satan, it depended on what point of view one possessed. He was positive that most held the name in the devilish regard, but that didn't matter because along with an oppressor always came a saviour. These people, they had their saviour, and in a more tangible form than most worlds like theirs.
Superman.
Or Clark Kent if you prefer to place a mortal name to the face.
Oh, yeah. He knew. God, how could he not? Luthor's were not stupid, ever. And he was the brightest of them all, the most cunning. Although he would admit it took a ridiculously long time for him to figure it out, and he had yet to aquire hard evidence to corraborate his knowledge. But he didn't need any, he just knew, and the connection answered every question he'd ever had about the boy he'd once--still?-- loved. The boy he'd lost.
Lost.
How could he have been so...so...stupid?
Lex sighed, turning his back on the city, resting his elbows on the railing and tilting his head back to stare up at the heavens. It wasn't much to look at. Merely a few scattered stars whose light wasn't drowned out by the powerfully illuminated city below him. Nothing like the millions he'd viewed countless times from a certain dusty loft. A certain "Fortress of Solitude" that contained as many incredible moments and memories for him as there were stars in any sky.
He suffered multiple reacurring dreams of that place. Most pleasant throughout, but oh, so painful to wake from and realize they'd been just that: dreams. Nothing he could do would stop them, they were a part of his accursed life. They were meant to haunt him with the possiblities of what could have been had he not been born a Luthor; or if, at least, he'd made something positive of the name.
But could humans really change their destiny?
Perhaps he was proof that they could not. He'd wanted to, so very badly. He had tried. Hadn't he?
::You have the power to be whomever you wish to be, Lex.::
The one time Clark had ever been wrong.
::Should you choose to believe it.::
He had never believed...in anything...
well, except Clark.
::And I'll be by your side no matter what.::
A lie.
Only the second Clark had ever told him. The one that hurt the most.
He turned again, placing his head in his hands. What kind of a bastard was he to blame the boy--man!--for his pain? That confession had been sincere(Was Clark capable of any more devious a sentiment? He didn't think so.) and it had been his destructive nature that had mutated the loving phrase into falsity. It was his curse. He'd been the one to terminate their relationship. He had single handedly laid waste to what Clark and he had shared with one another.
Was it love?
He could never be entirely sure. It had been profound and utterly immaculate. And love, that word, so small; could it alone sum up the vast and infinite wonderfullness he had felt in the arms of that boy? Man. That man. Clark Kent.
He straightened up, looked out at the horizon, and suddenly he needed to be higher.
Slipping back into the flat, he removed his robe--opting for his much warmer, black, ankle-length overcoat. As he readied himself to leave, the small alarm clock on his nightstand went off, signaling midnight. The beds occupant stirred and woke up, glancing first at the clock; then at him.
She smiled. "Happy Birthday, Lex."
He made a dispassionate grunt, preferring not to be reminded that he was turning forty.
"Why not come back to bed so we can celebrate?" She murmured seductively.
He shook his head, not having the patience to be polite, and searched his pockets for his keys.
The woman in his bed frowned. "Where are you going?"
"Out."
"Like that?"
He peered down at what he was wearing; then pulled his coat tight around him.
He could go out in nothing but boxers and a overcoat if he damn well pleased.
"Yes," he snapped, walking out the door and slamming it behind him.
Stupid bitch.
Seconds after he thought it, the Clark in his head berated him for being so unnecessarily mean.
And who the fuck are you to decide what is necessary for me to feel or not?
Hunched over, he stalked past the elevator and shoved open the door to the stairwell.
Okay, so maybe he was being a bit unfair. After all, she was only attempting to protect his image. Luthor's certainly did not go out in public in less than perfect condition. However, he didn't plan on going anywhere remotely public. In fact, the more alone he could be the better.
He'd have to make it up to her later, he shouldn't have blown her off. She was loyal, beautiful, and enigmatic. She loved him. What more could he want? Who else dared love him?
Only one...
only...
"Fuck!"
He jiggled the key in the lock, pushing against the door with all his weight. Pain in the ass lock! Never wanted to fucking open when he needed it to most. More jiggling and finally it clicked. Open.
He swept out onto the roof top patio, his personal roof top patio. His coat flapped wildly as he padded barefoot across the smooth flagstone. Clouds were gathering, thickening, and clumping together. It was his kind of weather, harsh, tragic, dangerous. Like him.
It was cold. Freezing really. But what did it matter. So was he.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt warm. Truely warm.
Or wait, yes...he could. It was with...it was when-
::Do you know how much I love you, Lex?::
He knew. How could he not?
::I love you, Lex.::
Clark....
::Mmm...I love- oh God- oh Lex....::
He shuddered. Could've blamed it on the cold, but didn't bother. The memory was much more pleasant, so much warmer, sweeter, and infinitly depressing.
Stepping down a small set of steps, he slipped past some humming transformers and reached his destination. A secluded corner of the massive structure, his "Corner of Despair", he'd spitefully deemed it one particularly distressing evening. He snatched a pleasantly full flask out of the left inside pocket of his coat and drank from it deeply. After swiping his hand across his mouth, he pulled himself up onto the ledge, allowing his legs to dangle. Ninety-nine stories between them and the ground.
He ran a hand over his head, through nothing. Still a habit after all these years.
Forty.
He was forty years old. An old, fucking lonely, pitiful man.
Christ, how he hated birthdays. He hadn't always though. Had he?
::Happy Birthday, Lexy. Should I give you your present now or later? Or now and later?::
Had they even left the bed that day? He didn't think so.
::Fuck me, Lex. Love me, Lex.::
Oh and he had. Both.
He'd never fucked and loved a single person so hard, or so much in his life. Or for so long. Seven years. And it could have been longer. Should have been longer. Seven years, and he'd never once told him.
How many times had the words been poised on his lips, a breath away from being uttered?
Everytime he'd laid eyes on the boy. With every stolen kiss; with every fevered touch.
God, his love lingered in every droplet of sweat that glistened on his sex-soaked, Clark ravaged body. He'd bleed love for that boy, his own private stigmata.
And he'd have died a thousand deaths for him--no second thoughts. Yet, he could never find the strength within himself to murmur those three small words.
He gripped the cement ledge till his knuckles were white. Fucking coward.
I loved you, Clark. Always.
He still did. So bad that it hurt. So much so, that to merely breathe became a chore when he recalled their time together. And why they fell apart.
His throat tightened with an slowly growing lump.
::Oh, God. Lex....how- how could you?::
He was so very sorry. So sorry, but he was a Luthor. Wasn't he? Was it so entirely surprising when one factored that into the equation?
::But...but I- I love you. Have always loved you. And you...you love me. I don't understand, Lex.::
What more had there been to understand? He was his father's son, always had been. No action, no motive was absolutely selfless. And for a Luthor to hang around when there was no goal to be had, no long term profit in the partnership. That was pointless and uneconomical. Lex Luthor would never be the prodigal son.
Fucking liar!
::Why...why are you doing this to me? To us? I won't leave without the truth.::
He had people that could take care of that. They'd shown him the way to the door. They'd escorted him away from the danger, away from the inevitable heartache. Luthor's were not allowed happiness for excess amounts of time. He'd broken every toy he'd ever owned, nothing whole survived his influence.
He'd given Clark release. Saved him from a love that was destined to fail and done it early enough to allow them both time to move on, time to heal. Right?
And yet, he had never healed. The hole in his heart had only festered and spread. Ate away at him. It threatened with every passing day to drag him down, to hollow him out. A task that it would see to completion. So close already.
He growled deep in his throat.
Dammit, Clark should have known.
He should have come back. Should have called him. Came to him.
He'd never even tried. And he should have...
....because he'd never have been able to reject the boy twice.
The first time had nearly killed him; had taken every ounce of his naturally ingrained Luthor strength of will.
He laughed, a bitter, exiguous sound devoid of any real humor. It was more due to the irony. Had he actually expected a second chance?
There had never been any second chances in his life, and there never would be.
You haven't forgotten? There was that one.
He was an immense fool. He was lost. Beyond fucked. And tired, so very tired.
Lex took another swig from the flask, a grim attempt to wash away the choking sob he felt fighting to burst from his chest. When it didn't work, he took two more; then a third. Too fast because now he was choking for real. The alcohol burned worse on the way up and he sputtered and spit and laughed again. Laughed at his own idiocy, at what a fucking pansy he was. What a sight he must be.
Such a pathetic, twisted, sick, sick, fuck. So tired. So alone.
Clark.
Sobbing.
Tears tracked down his face, a torrent. Their salty streams following and filling lines on his face that had never been there before. Creases that mirrored his shriveling soul. He was old. He was forty for Christ's sake. The most powerful man in Metropolis. The richest. The greatest Luthor there had ever been. A crying, sobbing, heart-broken mess.
He wanted Clark. Needed him.
Clark Kent. Superman. Who the fuck cared? It didn't matter to him. Didn't matter any more. Nothing did.
He pulled his legs up, hugging his knees to his chest. Cried into his coat, drunk and despondent. He moaned, a continuous vocal expression of gut-wrenching sorrow, punctuated at random intervals whenever he needed to breathe. Gasping in gulps of harsh, cold air.
Minutes passed before the flood began to subside. His throat was raw, his chest tense and sore. Lifting his head, he didn't bother to wipe his eyes, his nose. Downing the last bit of liquid in the little silver flask, he screwed the cap on tight, and admired the shine of the thing. Perfectly polished; a handsome, simplistic design, and comprised of a newly developed alloy. The strongest, most durable metal ever made. Nothing at all what it seemed. Just like...
It was a product of Luthor Corp., of course. A billion dollar breakthrough, "purchased" from a man who'd mysteriously disappeared from the face of the earth shortly there after. He suddenly felt nauseous. Disgusted and ashamed.
A last fleeting glance at the thing, a narrow-eyed glare at the Luthor family crest engraved on its front and he threw it. Watched it spiral and spin out of sight; then stood.
He paced, angry and wild along the two foot wide ledge. A fine fucking time to develop a conscience, too late to change, too far gone to ask for forgiveness.
Lex Luthor: the Devil's advocate, or the devil himself. Who knew what it took to make a demon? Perhaps only the masses belief in the thing, in the evil. He should be punished, should feel the pain of his mistakes. How dare he cry? How dare he feel sorry for himself? He deserved every ounce of pain he felt. Didn't he?
He'd lied to, betrayed, and hurt the only one who'd ever loved him. The only person he'd ever loved. Would ever love. His cowardice had cost them everything.
His eyes welled once more, silent tears, bitter and self-destructive. He sat once again, reached slowly into his coat and pulled out his pocket knife. He flipped open the blade, holding it up to peer at his reflection on its slim mirror-like surface. He looked a mess. His eyes leaking, puffy and red; his face wet and pale. Real and alive on the outside, dull and dead within. What he'd give to feel again.
Warm. Loved. Special.
He would kiss those plump, pliant lips till they were bruised and raw. Would hold and touch and stroke, and never let go.
He brought the tip of the knife to his chest, letting his coat fall open. Placed it against his hairless ethereal flesh, directly above his heart, and pushed. Not a single flinch as it pierced his skin and freed his blood from its veins--a sharp contrasting red against his natural milky white.
A groan, as he slid it down diagonally, five inches to the right before stopping. Twisting it and hissing as he drew it diagonally another five inches the opposite direction. And again; back the way of the first.
Three bright, bleeding lines carved in a crude letter "S".
The blood dripped from the top line, blending and mingling with the others as it ran down his chest. And he let it drain, carelessly dropping the soiled knife onto the roof.
He sat, boneless and bleeding, still crying a steady flow of saline sadness.
Only after the blood had slowed and most had soaked into the waistband of his silk boxers, did he attempt to move. He had no more tears to cry and no will to cry them even if there were. Turning, he rose and pulled his coat in around himself. He would go inside. He would take a bath and bury his pain beneath a steely, self confident, exterior. Just like always. He could do this.
Five steps away from the ledge; five steps back into his numb, monotonous, life, he paused. Something wet splattered onto his head and the wind whipped violently. He turned his face up to the thick throng of clouds as they rolled and seethed above him, dark and prophetic. Another drop; then another. Heavy, massive droplets, that soaked in seconds. One more step toward the safety of shelter. And unremitting emotional nothingness.
Lightening streaked, bright and purposefully across the sky, the thunder clapping angrily behind it. The rain fell harder.
And finally he listened, obeyed its command, believed in its purpose, and had faith. Face the danger. No more running, no more masks, give up the charade. Either live, or don't at all.
No second thoughts.
He spun, ran, held out his arms and....
jumped.
Floated.
Fell.
His coat spread wide out around his weightless body like crude black wings.
Twisted in the air, arms wide open toward the heavens. He longed to embrace them. And one way or another he would.
He'd either plunge to his death and embrace that destiny with liquified remains.
Or maybe...
just maybe...
somebody would save him.
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