Regeneration
by Aklani
He had driven past the Kent farm thousands of times on his way to Lana's house, and he had only once stopped. The Fordmans had been shopkeepers from the time the family had first settled in Smallville. They had no interest in farms or farmers, unless the farmers could not pay their bills, and Whitney had never set foot upon the Kents' land other than that one time. It had been during Clark's party. He had paid little attention to anything but Lana during the time he'd been there.
Martha Kent showed him the way to the barn, leaving him at the doorway with a smile and nod, surprised but pleased he'd stopped by to see Clark. Whitney knew Clark had only a handful of close friends. Martha probably felt encouraging a relationship between Whitney, "Model Jock Type Boy" Fordman, and her quiet, somewhat reclusive son, would be a good thing. Whitney wondered if she'd feel the same way if she knew he'd been involved in a prank that could have left Clark for dead had it gone wrong. He doubted it. Obviously Clark had kept that tidbit to himself.
Secrets. Clark had a few, and Whitney wasn't blind to it. The run in with Wade Mahaney and his cronies had led him to realize Clark was much more than the shy, gawky boy who sat in the back of Whitney's calculus class and knew all the answers before the teacher did. Clark's brief stint on the Smallville High football team had made Whitney realize Clark wasn't nearly as clumsy as everyone thought either. He was a fantastic athlete, and one glance at him in the locker room made Whitney wonder if Lana wasn't in need of glasses. Clark certainly gave Lana the "I want you" vibe, but Lana stuck with Whitney and ignored Clark.
That is, until recently. Clark was now casting his eye towards the much more attainable Chloe, and Lana was watching Clark with a little more than friendship on her mind.
Whitney wasn't sure how he felt about it. He wasn't sure how he felt about a number of things lately. His life was in a tail spin due to his father's sudden illness, and even more sudden demise, which had left him wondering what he was to do with himself now that the old tyrant was gone. Suddenly the template upon which Whitney's whole "self" had been built, was gone, and he was free of all constraints. He could be who and what he wanted to be, without his father's overbearing presence. He just wasn't sure he knew how to begin rebuilding himself. He'd been trying to mold himself after his father's ideal for so long now it was habit. He couldn't stop.
He felt his first step was to apologize to Clark.
The barn was dark, except for a light near the eaves which illuminated a high loft platform. Music was playing; some popular alternative artist Whitney recognized but could not name, and he heard the quiet tap of a foot upon the wooden floor. It beat in time with the music, and in time to Whitney's heartbeat as he stood at the foot of the switch back stair. He was nervous, and he rubbed his hands on his jeans before he began his climb.
Clark was sitting at his desk, bent over some homework paper, bobbing his head slightly to the music while he tapped his foot upon the floor. Intent upon his work, he did not see Whitney's ascent from the dark stairs into the bright light of the loft, nor hear the soft tread of Whitney's sneakers. He only looked up when Whitney cleared his throat, and his eyes were wide with surprise as he became aware of the identity of his visitor. Whitney smiled slightly.
"Whitney. I - uh - hang on a sec."
Rising with a fluidity belying his reputation as a klutz, Clark went to a shelf against the far wall, and switched off the music. It suddenly became very quiet in the loft, save for the sound of young frogs peeping from outside the open window, and the soft creak of Clark's weight upon the floorboards as he returned. He gestured for Whitney to take a seat on the old sofa that was the only other place to sit besides the desk chair, but Whitney declined with a shake of his head. He did, however, stride further into the loft, pausing to look out the window. He made a note of the telescope; snorted softly.
"How are you holding up?" Clark asked quietly.
Whitney toyed with a dial on the telescope and shrugged. "Fine." he said. "It's just weird not having him there."
"I would be lost without my father."
Whitney pursed his lips, glancing up at Clark, who simply stood against his desk with his arms crossed. "Mine, wasn't all that great," he blurted finally. "Kind of hard to admit, but it's true."
God, he thought. What is it about him? I want to tell him everything. Every time we talk he pulls from me things I don't even tell my mother, or Lana. I don't understand it. Why him?
Clark shrugged. "Nobody's perfect. My father has his hang ups," he said. "Doesn't mean you don't love him, and you don't miss him."
Poised on the edge of telling Clark, no, he didn't miss Jack Fordman, Whitney struggled with his conscience. He did not want to speak ill of the dead, but his father had been a hard man, and now that he was gone, things would be a lot easier for the Fordman family in many ways. Whitney's life would certainly be much easier.
In the end he managed to hold back the confession he so desperately wanted to make but couldn't, not to himself, and certainly not to someone he barely knew. "This isn't why I came here. I need to talk to you about something else."
"Sure, like what?"
Whitney sighed. "I want to clear the air between us, make peace...."
"Whitney, you don't have to..."
"Yes I do!" His voice was strident, focused, and intent. "I have to get this out, okay. Let me do it." He turned his eyes up towards Clark. They still burned from tears shed, not for Jack, but for himself; tears of relief. "I need this, Clark."
Clark stared at him silently, and then spread his hands in a gesture of acquiescence.
Whitney could almost hear his father's booming voice, bragging that he'd never had to apologize to anyone for anything in his life. Apologies were admissions of guilt, and a Fordman never did anything to require atoning for any feelings of guilt. He'd been proud of Whitney's participation in the scarecrow incident. It was a long standing tradition in Smallville, and only the top leaders among the Crow athletes were usually involved. It marked Whitney as a leader among leaders. Whitney felt it marked him as a jerk.
"Kent could have died, dad. He was out cold when we strung him up." Whitney had protested.
Jack had cuffed him, only half playing. "Boy, he was faking, hoping you would let him loose."
Whitney wasn't so sure about that, but it could have been true. Clark certainly survived with no ill effects. He'd freed himself and gone home apparently, for he'd shown up with his parents at the farmer's market the next morning looking fresh and well rested; not at all ill as he'd been the night before. Whitney had seen him the next day and it had been all he could do to keep his relief from showing.
Secrets. His mind came back to the thought of secrets, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He remembered the sensation of a warm, hard body against his own, and the slick, satiny feel of sweat beaded skin beneath his hands....
He should not have come here.
"Whitney?"
His eyes snapped opened. "I want to apologize Kent. I know things have been kind of rocky between us this year. I'm sorry. I've been unfair to you." His eyes begged forgiveness....
A Fordman never begged, Jack would have said.
With a slight nod, Clark accepted the apology, seeming to understand how hard it had been for Whitney to make it. He added nothing, and expected nothing more, but Whitney, having found his voice, felt Clark needed to have more.
"I'm mean there have been several times you could have just stolen Lana right from under me, and you didn't, and you pulled my fat out of the fire more than once." He bit his lip, and shook his head, raising a hand to push back the long bangs he had once affected. His father had made him cut it. He ended the gesture abruptly.
"*You look like a fucking girl. It's bad enough you got a girls name.*"
"Why didn't you?" Whitney drowned out the echoes of his father's voice with his own. "Steal Lana, I mean."
"How fair would that have been?"
"All is fair in love and war."
"Are we at war, Whitney?"
Clark's green eyes were guileless, wide and innocent, as he gave Whitney an analytical stare. It was a look Whitney had seen before, and one which always made him wonder if Clark could read minds. He always seemed to know what was going on in Whitney's head, and ironically had played interference during more than a few arguments with Lana. It was part of Clark's appeal. His quiet, introspective nature made him easy to talk to, and fulfilled, for Lana at least, a need to express herself. With Clark she could discuss her feelings, her thoughts of the past, and her hopes for the future, something she could not do with Whitney. He didn't know how. He'd never been allowed to express himself. The only emotions permitted in the Fordman household had been pride and anger.
A lot of anger.
Publicly the Fordmans were the ideal family. Whitney's father worked, running the family business, while Mrs. Fordman stayed home to raise Whitney and his younger sister. He was involved in various clubs and political organizations around town, while she did volunteer work and was a Girl Scout Troop leader. Whitney would follow in his father's footsteps, and possibly even go further with a scholarship to Kansas State and the opportunity to play for the Metropolis Sharks. Angie was a brilliant scholar and musician. The whole family did things outside the home together, and were considered the role model for the rest of Smallville's families to emulate.
The truth was that Whitney's memories were of the constant shouting matches; protests against the strict restraints placed upon him by his father. They would fight and Whitney's resolve would ultimately crumble beneath the onslaught of Jack Fordman's bellowing and his heavy backhand. Angie would cry, and go to her room, where Whitney would hear her sob herself to sleep later. Their mother retreated to the bottle of wine she kept in a cupboard in the kitchen. "For cooking," she would say cheerily. Both Whitney and Angela knew better. For Angie's sake, Whitney had learned to hold back, and cause as little disturbance in the household as possible. He submitted himself to his father's wishes. He forced himself to be what Jack wanted him to be, despite his own feelings. He poured everything he had into "the game."
He hated football. He had rejoiced when he'd lost the scholarship, but as always, was forced to hide those feelings. Jack had been infuriated, but by then, too ill to cause too much difficulty. Whitney had found himself in trouble immediately, falling in with Wade Mahaney's group. He still didn't understand why. Had he been punishing himself, or his father with that defection to the dark side? Or had he simply been unable to handle not having Jack dictating his every move? Whatever the reason, Clark had saved his ass.
Again.
Whitney wasn't sure if he wanted to thank him, or kill him.
"No," he said quietly. "We're not at war, Kent."
Clark appeared somewhat relieved. Whitney was suddenly convinced that had they truly been at war over Lana, he could not possibly win. Not anymore. Whitney's advantages had died with his father. Clark now held all the cards.
"*Don't be a pansy, boy! Step into the ball.*"
All his life Whitney had struggled and fought to become his father's son. He was tired of hiding beneath the veneer that was Jack Fordman's legend. He was tired of being a walking symbol of Jack Fordman's virility. The popular quarterback, the boyfriend of the prettiest girl in school, the boy parents threw up to their children saying, "you want to be like Whitney don't you?" - these things were not what he wanted to be at all. These things were what Jack had forced upon him. Whitney was tired. He no longer wanted to be the roll model. He no longer wanted the uniform his father had made for him and demanded that he wear.
He wanted to be able to find himself, the Whitney Fordman that had been so thoroughly buried he wondered if there was anything left to recover. He wanted to become that person again. He wanted to leave Smallville and start all over again in a place where no one knew him. He wanted to be free.
"But I'm not blind. I know how you feel about Lana. I know how she feels about you. You could have taken her countless times. I appreciate the fact that you haven't."
Did he really?
Whitney turned abruptly to look out window. It was going to be a beautiful spring night, warm and cloudless. The sky was littered with stars. Whitney wondered what they would look like from somewhere else. "I'm not good with words." he muttered. "Just - thank you, Clark."
"Sure," Clark said quietly.
After a moment, Whitney moved away from the window, pacing slightly before it. Unbidden came the memory of the first time he'd seen Clark, or, rather, the first time he'd truly "looked" at Clark. He'd "seen" Clark all his life, like he'd seen other kids in the community. They'd grown up together. Even though Clark was a few grades behind him in school, Whitney had always been aware of his presence. He was a school mate, Lana's neighbor, the youngest Ross boy's friend, and Jonathan Kent's son. Jonathan Kent had been another "ideal" boy, constantly thrown up as an example to Whitney by Coach Walt as the best football player Smallville had ever known.
"*Get out there and kick some ass, boy*!"
Always boy; never his name.
He'd hoped Clark would play, following in his father's footsteps as Whitney followed in Jacks'. He'd watched Clark run laps during gym and told himself it was simply because he recognized a fellow athlete, but the admiration for Clark's graceful way of moving and the strangely mature cut of his body, went somewhat beyond clinical observation. It was on the track, as Whitney had sat in the bleachers talking quietly with Lana, that he had first really noticed Clark. It was hard to miss him, as he stood head and shoulders above most of his classmates.
"Who is that?" Whitney had asked of Lana.
"Where?"
"The big guy."
"Oh," she had laughed. "That's just Clark."
Just Clark.
Whitney remembered Clark as a kid. He'd been terribly thin, with huge green eyes that gave him a perpetually startled expression, and he had the nervous habit of biting on one of his thumb nails. He'd looked like he'd stepped out of an Japanese anime cartoon with those eyes and his wild mop of black hair. Shy, quiet, and bookish, Clark had very few friends other than Pete Ross. He never participated in any of the games kids would get going on the playground during lunch and after school, nor did Whitney ever see him move faster than a slow amble.
That day on the bleachers, he had finally given Clark Kent a good long look, and the kid had surprised him.
In more ways than one.
He had watched Clark easily jog twice around the track, admiring the fluidity of his stride, the way his t-shirt clung to the muscles of his back and shoulders, and the curve of his ass....
Whitney had hated him immediately.
He hated Clark for reawakening feelings Whitney had thought buried and gone. Growing up in Jack Fordman's shadow, such feelings were best kept buried, because the one time Whitney had dared even suggest that being gay was not necessarily a bad thing, Jack had torn into him like a pit bull on a poodle. Whitney had not even been referring to himself, but to some character on television. Jack's scathingly homophobic tirade about "cock sucking shit packers" had left Whitney feeling physically ill. The suggestion that if Whitney ever entertained any such notions, Jack would hurt him, had been the most frightening thing he had ever experienced.
Watching Clark from the bleachers that day, Whitney had understood that some things could be buried, but like an abscess hidden beneath the skin, they could fester and grow painful, and dangerous. He'd had crushes before; mild and easily subdued. The attraction he found himself developing for Clark was something he could not shake, and he found himself nearly obsessed with him. He watched Clark's every move, growing angrier and angrier, not at Clark, but at himself. He masked it as jealousy, and people accepted that readily. It was no secret that Clark had long coveted Lana.
No one knew Whitney's secret, and until he'd spent that hour watching Clark during gym class, he thought he'd even hidden it from himself.
"Are you sure you're all right?" Clark said now, his voice quiet, filled with an honest concern that Whitney recognized from previous conversations. "I can drive you home if you need me to, it's no problem."
Whitney shook his head. "I'm fine."
He wasn't fine. He was lost without the rules. Jack had made the rules, and made sure they were kept. Now Whitney was finding himself unfettered for the first time in his life and the one thing he wanted the most was still denied him.
He'd dreamed about it before; several times. He dreamed of Clark's body; the hard muscular build of someone much older than sixteen, and the sex of a grown man. Whitney had come to know it during Clark's very brief stint on the football team, when they'd showered together, and one quick, surreptitious glance confirmed what Whitney had long suspected. Clark was exquisite. There was no other word for him, and Whitney would laugh to himself later when he realized none of the girls seemed to notice, including his own. Had Lana seen what Whitney had seen - well he doubted he'd have her now.
In his dreams Clark had come to him, sliding into his bed where he lay naked upon the sheets. He'd stared up into green eyes outlined by long, dark, lashes and was as captivated as if he'd been entranced by some sort of mythological Siren. Full, soft lips had found his, and the velvety slide of their bodies against each other warmed him to arousal. He had raised his body upward against the broader, stronger one pressing against him, letting Clark feel him and understand that he was willing. He felt hands along his sides, drawing his legs upward, and he had wrapped himself around Clark's hips. He'd reached out a hand, grasping the warm length of the shaft between Clark's legs, and had stroked it as he moved his own less magnificent offering against Clark's muscular thigh....
Only to wake with a cry of denial, his boxers wet and sticky, and the specter of Jack Fordman's disapproving backhand hovering over his head.
"I'm fine," he repeated hoarsely. "But thanks. I - I'll be going."
"Thanks for the apology, Whitney. I appreciate it." Clark pushed himself off his desk, and crossed the space between them to walk Whitney to the "door" like the proper host. "I know you're having a rough time right now. You didn't have to do this."
Whitney stopped at the top of the stair, one hand on the banister, and turned to face Clark. He sucked in a quick breath upon realizing how close Clark was standing to him. "I know," he whispered.
Their eyes met then, blue and pale hazel green. Whitney was reminded of his dreams, and in them the hypnotic draw of Clark's eyes as they pulled him in for a kiss. He dug his fingers into the wood of the banister, hoping to drive away the visions before they consumed him and burned away his self control. He failed, and he found himself moving towards a point from which he could not return. He found himself moving towards Clark until he could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, smell the faint scent of whatever soap he used, and hear the soft sigh of his breath. He closed his eyes seconds before there was physical contact.
"Whitney."
His eyes popped open. He felt the gentle pressure of Clark's fingertips against his chest. Clark had not moved, aside from raising that hand, and his eyes still bore into Whitney's with a serene expression. They remained very close.
"I don't think you want to do that," Clark said softly.
"I do," Whitney's breath caught on the truth. "I have for a long time."
Clark's voice remained soft. There was no need to raise it when they still stood so very close to one another. "Why didn't you say anything before?"
He laughed. "You're kidding, right?"
Those eyes never left his.
"No."
Finding himself unable to keep the eye contact, Whitney shifted his gaze to a point just beyond Clark's shoulder. "The most influential men in my life were my father and Coach Walk, Clark. You tell me why I've kept - secrets - from everyone. It should be obvious." He glanced back to find Clark still looking at him with a somewhat concerned expression. "You don't seem surprised. Have I been that easy to read?"
"No, I'm just not easily surprised." Momentarily tipping his head back to look at the ceiling, Clark sighed. "Of course," he added quietly. "I'm also good at keeping secrets," and he lowered his eyes, seeking Whitney's gaze once again.
Whitney stared at him in confusion, his mind fighting to understand the subtle messages he was reading, or thought he was reading, in Clark's eyes. The silence lengthened until he laughed again, uneasily, and shook his head. "Nuhuh, I'm not buying it."
"Why? Because of Lana?" Clark cocked his head to the side, looking for all the world like a slightly demented puppy as he smiled coyly from beneath the heavy fall of his hair. "It's a crush I've had for a long time, but as you pointed out, she's been with someone else." He drew his brows together. "Does she know?"
"Know what?" Whitney asked.
"That you're gay."
The response was immediate, borne of years of denial and terror. The indignation in his voice was real, put there from years of mental conditioning that all things homosexual were repugnant. "I'm not...."
He stopped.
Clark raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"No." The word was an exhaled breath; barely audible.
"If your father was alive you wouldn't be here tonight, would you?"
"No." Whitney admitted. "I wouldn't."
"I'm sorry for that, Whitney."
Sighing, Whitney idly ran his fingers over the smooth wooden stair railing. "You have no idea, Clark, what it's been like for me. I stayed. I wanted to leave here so badly so many times, but I never could find the courage." He snorted softly. "I stayed when I should have gone, and now that he's gone, all I want to do is run away."
"Start over?" Clark replied quietly. "Without living under the shadow of the quarterback? Without corrupting your father's memory and the son he made, as opposed to the son he actually had?"
"How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Know what people are thinking?"
The smile was coy again; all feigned innocence. "Deductive reasoning."
They were still standing very close, so close Whitney could see in Clark's eyes the pale flecks of gold surrounding the dark pupils. "I don't know what to do." His words were almost pleading, as if in lieu of his father's guidance, he was seeking Clark's. Again he had to ask himself, why Clark? What was the attraction, besides the obvious physical draw?
"What do you want to do?"
"Right now?" Whitney managed a bitter laugh. "Jesus, Clark. Do you really want me to tell you?"
"Yes, tell me. I'm not easily surprised Whitney, I told you."
"Would you be disappointed if I said, I don't know."
One corner of Clark's mouth twitched, but his smile remained idling in neutral. "Maybe."
Whitney sucked in a sharp breath. "My father isn't even cold in his grave," he said roughly. "And I'm..."
"You're what?" Clark asked. "Being true to yourself for once in your life? I'm sort of curious to meet the real Whitney Fordman if you want to know the truth, the one that hung me up in a cornfield was kind of a jerk."
The statement made Whitney laugh; probably what Clark intended.
"I'm serious!"
"About what? Wanting to meet the real me, or that I was a jerk?"
Clark's voice grew softer, and the coy smile crept across his lips. "Both," he said. "Why did you really come here, Whitney?"
"To apologize, for the scarecrow thing. I could have killed you." He smiled bitterly. "I hated you, for a long time, because your father never made you play football."
"My father wouldn't let me play football, that's the irony. You admired me," Clark took one step closer. "And I - admired - you."
The silence was heavy around them. All Whitney seemed to be able to hear was the rasp of his own breathing, and the pounding of his own heart. He wanted to run, turn and rush down the stairs to his truck as fast as he possibly could, and escape before he broke the rules. They were the rules that his father had set and Whitney had followed to the letter all of his life, the rules that said boys were boys and girls were girls and there was no crossing that line, no matter what your heart told you.
His father was gone. The rules could be rewritten.
At first he thought he would be stopped again, but as he tasted the first hint of Clark's breath, he realized Clark had no intention of stopping him. As delicately as he would have kissed Lana good night, he captured Clark's mouth with his own, applying just the slightest amount of suction, and the faintest caress of his tongue. It was no different from any kiss he'd ever given Lana. Why that should surprise him, he did not know.
Their lips parted, and Whitney let his breath out with a sigh. "Why?" he whispered. "Why, despite everything he ever did to me, do I still love him?"
"Because he's your father, and despite what he tried to force you to do with it, he still was the one who gave you your life."
Whitney nodded. "What would your father have done, had he seen - that?"
Clark laughed, "He'd probably ask me what I did to you," he said, in a tone hinting at some hidden meaning.
"You set me free."
They both grew sober. Hesitantly Clark leaned in again, his breath soft against Whitney's mouth as he ran a hand up to cup the back of Whitney's neck, The kiss was more intense, firmer, warmer, and spiced with the delicate sparring of tongues. Clark drew him in close, pressing his lips harder against Whitney's, until Whitney responded in kind and their actions grew somewhat frantic. Whitney drew back, breathless, as Clark dragged him further into the loft by the top of his jeans.
"Wait, no! No!" He planted his feet and clamped a hand around Clark's wrist. "I can't, I can't...."
Clark stopped, frowned at him. "Whitney, I'm not going to molest you, I just don't want you to fall down the stairs."
Shakily, Whitney looked over his shoulder, and he realize they had been standing dangerously close to the top of the stairs. "I'm sorry," he turned back, stricken. "I didn't mean..."
"Don't worry about it." There was a pause, and Clark slowly let go of the top of Whitney's jeans. "Unless you want me to molest you." His palm pressed against the warm bulge beneath the zipper, and his fingers closed around it with the faintest squeeze. "This, says yes."
Whitney closed his eyes. He could feel his nails digging into his palms, and he heard his father's bellow echoing through his mind spewing hate, and anger and intolerance. He trembled, years of conditioning warring with the overwhelming desire growing beneath the firm grasp of Clark's hand. Images of Clark lying helpless and half naked upon the tailgate of his truck sprang to his mind, and he wondered if this wasn't Clark's way of getting back at him for that night.
He found he didn't care. He found himself nodding.
Mindlessly he followed Clark to the sofa, allowing for more kisses, and more caressing, and wondering when it ceased for a moment, how Clark had undressed them both so quickly. They lay in a tangle of limbs upon the couch, hard, trim bodies molded together as if they were carved from a single slab of marble. Whitney knew he was in shape, he'd kept up with his lifting and his morning jog despite not actively playing ball and despite his father's illness. There had been a chance Jack would recover, and Whitney would be pressured into playing again.
"*Watch your weight, boy.*"
"*You're lagging behind, boy, pick up your ass!*"
Kisses were more confident, less rushed, and Whitney was amazed at how stimulating just kissing could be as he raised his head to accept Clark's lips again and again. He lay beneath the greater bulk of Clark's body, enveloped in it's warmth and protected from the chill of the air now drifting in through the open window. He shuddered, wrapping his arms around his chest, when Clark suddenly rose from him and walked across the loft to close the window. Whitney watched him, stunned.
What had happened? What demon had he awakened? The boy - no - man - who walked across the room bore little resemblance to the shy and gawky kid Whitney had always known. It was as if Clark Kent had been replaced by an entirely different person. His stride was confident. He was comfortable with the fact he was unclothed, and as he padded softly back towards Whitney, he oozed an almost exotic sensuality. Tall, lean, and well muscled, he reminded Whitney of a cheetah loping casually across a dusty plain looking for something to chase.
He shuddered again, and this time not because of the cold chill. Whitney realized that the chase was on, and he was the one being pursued.
"Your parents," he said hoarsely. "Won't they come up here?"
"They're gone. They had dinner plans tonight." Clark detoured on the way back to the couch, pausing to dig around in the back of a drawer in his desk.
Whitney kept his eyes on him. Regardless of how he felt about sports, Whitney recognized and appreciated a well honed body whether it belonged to a man or a woman. Clark had the cut of an athlete, with strong sinewy muscles sweeping across his thighs and over his hips, and his stomach was flat and hard. His shoulders and arms were broad and well developed and based on just the petting they'd done thus far, Whitney could tell he was very strong.
So why had he never played sports, particularly when Jonathan Kent was recognized as the epitome of a football hero by both Coach Walt and Jack Fordman? Jonathan had not allowed Clark to play. Was it some sort of ego trip? Was Clark not permitted to outshine his father on the football field? If that was the case, his father was almost as fucked up as Whitney's.
"*Clark? Jesus, Johnny couldn't have picked a worse one than that little twerp. Damn crybaby.*"
Jack apparently had been correct in his assessment of Clark as being fey. Whitney was about to experience the conclusive evidence supporting it. That thought made him nervous, as did the identification of what exactly Clark had dug out of his desk drawer. It was a tube, much like one used for toothpaste, with a flip top lid that Clark idly flicked open and closed with his thumb as he stood scowling around the room. For the second time that evening, Whitney suddenly felt like getting up and bolting for his truck.
"Ah!"
"What? Hey!" Whitney sat up slightly as Clark pulled his wallet from the pocket of his discarded jeans. His protest died as Clark held up the thin package between his first two fingers and raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
"Lana?"
Whitney blushed, then realized how stupid it was of him. Here he was, lying stark naked on a couch in a damn barn, waiting to be lubed up and fucked, and he was embarrassed that Clark had found a condom in his wallet.
"Just in case," he murmured. "She's not really ready to go that far."
"Are you?" Clark asked, and at first Whitney thought he was being smart, but his expression said otherwise. He was genuinely concerned. "Because this can end right here." Fluidly he moved from the foot of the couch where their clothes lay in a pile, to crouch next to Whitney's head. "You're still grieving, Whitney, and maybe you aren't thinking this through all the way. I don't want you to do something you may regret later."
He took his time answering. "That's just it, Clark," he said finally. "I'm not. I grieved for the loss of my father, but not the man who kept me virtually imprisoned for eighteen years, and the only regret I have is that I never stood up to the bastard. I never said, look, this is who I am, and I want to be that person."
Clark's green eyes were unwavering; his expression was solemn. "Nobody could fault you for that, Whitney. It takes a lot of courage." He smiled slightly. "Do you think I'd tell my parents about this? It would kill my father."
"To find out you're gay?"
"To find out you are gay." Clark laughed. "Me, I'm just less discriminatory, and he'd probably be relieved." He shook his head. "But that's a different story."
Whitney narrowed his eyes. "You still want Lana." He said quietly. It was not a question, and the expression on Clark's face told him he was correct. "So, as soon as you're done with me, are you going to run right to her and take her away from me?"
"No."
"Why not? It would be perfectly logical."
"Because you still need her." Clark interrupted. "Because one night isn't going to erase eighteen years."
Turning his head, Whitney stared at the back of the couch. No, one night would not erase eighteen years of blind servitude to a man who's idea of love was to make sure his children do exactly as he ordered regardless whether those orders suited them or not. Whitney had been dating Lana for four years, and those four years of playing football and establishing his reputation as the big man on campus had been a nightmare for him. Her presence at his side had gotten him through it all, and he truly did love her, just not with any sort of sexual attraction.
"*She's going to be a nice little wife.*"
Jack had liked Lana. He'd found her sufficiently submissive, which in his eyes, was how a woman should act. The only time Whitney's mother had ever stood up to Jack Fordman was in regards to her son's name. He was named after her real father, who had died when she was young. Jack had torn up Whitney's birth certificate during a fight with him just before Whitney had entered high school because he'd refused to start going by his middle name of Todd. W. Todd Fordman looked better on recruiting lists for college and professional football than the girlish, "Whitney."
It had always been what was on the surface for Jack Fordman, never about what was inside.
"You need to tell her though, Whitney."
He nodded. He owed her that much.
"And it's only fair that I admit to you that I do want her. I'm sorry. If that changes your mind about...."
Whitney turned his head back, and reached out a hand to Clark's arm, holding him back from rising to his feet. "No, it doesn't, but thanks for the warning."
Clark frowned. "Warning?"
"I could easily fall in love with you, thanks for letting me know I shouldn't."
Guiltily, Clark looked down at his hands, and what they held. "Sometimes," he whispered. "It's best to know what's going to happen if and when a situation arises."
"Practice makes perfect? Who else are you sleeping with, Clark?" Whitney propped himself up on one elbow, suddenly realizing exactly why Clark kept a tube of lubricant around. He just hoped to god it wasn't because he was screwing the fucking cows.
There was no reply, but Whitney had the sneaking suspicion he knew the answer. A rumor had circulated around Smallville High School for months until Chloe Sullivan found out and went on a clandestine, and rather vicious anti-Clark-gossip campaign. She had been appalled, indignant, and throughly convinced of its invalidity and in the face of her adamant stance, the rumor had gradually been phased out before it ever reached Clark's ears. Whitney, knowing Clark's dogged affection for Lana, had actually helped squelch the talk. So, he thought, it was true. Clark was fooling around with Lex Luthor.
"What makes you think it's true?" Whitney once asked a team mate, who had scoffed at him.
"Have you ever seen the way that bald creep looks at him? Jesus, Whit, I saw him at the Beanery the other day watching Clark. He was practically drooling and dry humping the table."
"And Kent does that whenever Lana walks by him. I think you're losing it Phillips if you think there's any truth to that rumor. It's bullshit."
Whitney owed Jim an apology.
"Never mind, Clark." Whitney leaned forward and kissed him. "I don't want to know."
After a pause, the kiss was returned, and Clark joined him on the couch once again. Whatever Lex had taught him, Whitney was ready to learn. He allowed his body to do as it pleased, letting his mind focus completely upon the sensations produced as he arced up against Clark's hard form. He allowed his hands to go exploring, tracing the outline of Clark's sleek body from his shoulders to his thighs, as their tongues sparred. His fingers found the condom, and the hard warmth Clark pressed against his thigh. He stroked it as if it were a living creature, and it moved beneath his fingers as he applied the rubber sheathe himself. It was symbolic; an invitation.
Clark cupped Whitney's face between large strong hands, and drew his tongue deeply into his mouth, sucking at it with slowly increasing pressure, making him moan. He moved downward to Whitney's chest, and suckled there. The pleasure resulting in having his nipples thus stimulated surprised him with its intensity and he felt an increased sense of arousal between his legs. He wanted to feel Clark's mouth there, and said so, drowning out the echos of Jack's voice with the increased roar of his blood through his veins. Clark obliged him.
It made him stupid. It stripped away any defenses he ever had and turned his mind into a babbling mess of incoherent thought and blinding white bursts of sheer ecstasy. He threw his head back hard against the arm of the couch, one arm flung over his head, and the fingers of his other hand twisted within the dark, silken mass of Clark's hair. His hips came off the couch, and Clark allowed it, moving with him until Whitney was on the edge of finding release. Clark denied him that; it was too soon. He withdrew abruptly and Whitney moaned as the cool air of the loft replaced the warmth of Clark's mouth.
He was limp. Strength and resistance had been completely leeched from him by the work of lips and tongue and breath. His body responded to Clark's hands on its own, allowing him to move it into whatever place he needed it to be upon the couch. The cloth was rough against skin now used to the silken brush of Clark's body and the heightened sensitivities brought on by sexual stimulation. He felt a pillow beneath him, raising his hips, and opened his eyes as he raised his legs, wanting to make the most of all his senses. His eyes were heavy lidded and half closed, as if he were drunk on sex.
He was drunk on Clark. He was beautiful with his hair disheveled, his face slightly flushed, and his sinewy body glowing with an aura of light cast by the overhead lamps. Whitney drank him in, ignoring the more technical aspects of he was doing, and rode the first hint of discomfort on a Clark high. Distantly he heard his voice whimpering, but after a moment he grew used to the feel, relaxing enough to simply enjoy the view. When there came a new, unexpected sensation, he was jolted back to attention by the shock.
"Oh, god! God - ah."
"Feels good doesn't it?"
Whitney nodded, unable to speak, and gasped as Clark repeated the touch with strong, supple fingers. Whitney squirmed, moaning. It felt more than good. It was pleasure unlike anything he'd ever experienced.
It was not enough. He wanted more, so much more, but found he didn't understand how to ask. New doors had been opened, and he walked through them shedding the outer layer of his "self" to reveal what had long been hidden. Answers to questions he never understood were suddenly becoming clear. Feelings he had never experienced before pulled him down and drowned him, spitting him back out naked and trembling; reborn. He was lost, and needed someone to guide him, and Clark held out a hand for him to hold.
Whitney moved his body, pleading, begging, and unable to verbalize. Clark simply responded. His hands moved to caress the straining muscles of Whitney's thighs, and his body shifted forward. Innocent, inexperienced, and afraid, Whitney expected pain, and it did indeed hurt him, but no more so than being repeatedly pummeled to the hard ground of the football field. That pain he understood perfectly. This was new, and unlike the other, it came intertwined with pleasure, making it both much more and much less. He cried out, and Clark stopped, concerned, until Whitney opened his eyes and looked up at him.
They didn't speak, but Whitney felt he didn't have to say anything at all. The tears spoke for themselves, and Clark bent to kiss them away. He was gentle with his kisses, letting them speak of comfort rather than passion. He was gentle with other things too. Whitney embraced him as they moved together, pulling him close, opening to him with both body and soul and allowing him inside where no one else had ever had been allowed to venture. The pain gave way fully to the more pleasant sensations, and the heartache was burned away by the heat of passions awakened from a long time lying dormant.
"*You are my son, and you will do as I say!*"
You will be who I want you to be.
No more, Whitney thought, closing his eyes. No more.
His nerves shrieked with tension, and his muscles cramped with a building pressure. He felt bloated and sick. He strained against Clark's hard muscled torso, and Clark, intent now on his own body, reared back to move with more determined effort. Whitney opened his eyes to watch him, admiring the strength of his build, the flawlessness of his skin, and the beautiful sweep of his cheekbones. Lana had always been praised for her exotic beauty, Whitney had complimented her himself, but he realized her beauty paled against Clark's. Had Clark been a girl, Lana would be hideous in comparison.
Whitney touched himself, as he had before when he lay in his room trying to force his mind to see Lana's face and not Clark's. He'd found no joy in it until he broke down and let go, allowing his imagination to bring him visions of Clark; visions of this very situation. He'd dreamed of this before, but nothing his dreams could manufacture had prepared him for the sensation of having Clark actually with him and within him. His imagination had not supplied the musky scent of sex, the warmth of Clark's skin, or the power of his body as it increased its tempo against him. Whitney could feel him straining. They were both on the edge, and then they were both falling over it.
Clark was virtually silent. He threw back his head with a gasp, and that was all. His body spoke for him. Whitney moaned repeatedly under the final onslaught, his senses on fire and his body shuddering as he rode it to its conclusion. He pulled Clark down to him again, tasting the panting breaths as he tenderly addressed lips made slack with the numb mindlessness of orgasm. He felt whole again. He had given Clark power over him with his confession, and Clark had given it back during the exchange of passions. He felt recharged, as if in the exchange Clark had infused the power with his own strength, and presented it to Whitney double what it had been before.
They lay in a tangle of limbs, simply breathing, simply existing, until Clark kissed him one last time and got up. He produced, of all things, baby wipes, and Whitney laughed beneath the clean up, which was was alternated with kisses. He felt he could never get enough of Clark's mouth. He explored every bit of it with his own lips and tongue, while holding Clark close with the light touch of a hand against the back of his neck. Clark eventually pulled away and moved off to get dressed. Whitney's mouth burned, his body felt sore, but he felt a growing contentment as he quietly observed Clark getting dressed.
Don't fall in love with him, he warned himself, and wondered if it had been too late for that from the very start.
Clark glanced back at him, smiled the coy smile Whitney now knew masked a much greater confidence, and leaned against his desk. Whitney slowly pushed himself into a sitting position; reached for his clothes.
"You okay?"
Whitney nodded.
"Sure?"
"Yeah, just - a little overwhelmed I guess." He dressed slowly. Muscles he didn't remember having protested his movements. "In a good way," He added.
The smile twitched, faded slightly. "What are you going to do now?"
Whitney sighed, and ran a hand over his face. He felt the faint presence of stubble and remembered as a child watching his father shave. He had sensed a difference within himself as a very young child, and he remembered wanting nothing more than to please Jack Fordman, because in his eyes his daddy could do no wrong. He had learned the hard way that following in Jack Fordman's footsteps was more difficult for him that it had ever seemed, and that Jack Ford man was frequently wrong.
"*Does it hurt, daddy?*"
"*Avoid getting cut, and it won't hurt.*"
Sometimes one had to get hurt in order to make things better. Sometimes wounds had to be lanced. Whitney had been avoiding getting hurt, and in the end, he had made it hurt worse.
"*I'm sorry, dad. I love you, but I can't be you anymore.*"
"I don't know," he replied. "Take a step back, think about things, then decide from there."
"You still want to run away?"
He considered as he pulled on his shirt. Afterwards he cocked his head up at Clark and made a wry face. "More like walk, but yeah, a fresh start might be a good idea. I'll figure out a way to let Lana down easily."
"Consider telling her the truth. I think she'll understand, Whitney. Talk to her." Clark straightened as Whitney stood up, and as he had attempted to do once before, guided his guest to the "door."
"We'll see."
There was an awkward silence, then Whitney looked him in the eye. "Thanks."
"Sure." His voice was wry. "So, can I assume I'm not going to get tied up and stuck in a cornfield again any time soon?"
Whitney grinned. "If I tie you up again, it's not going to be in a cornfield."
"Really?" Clark's brows went up. "Whitney, you're full of surprises this evening."
They exchanged a light kiss, and Whitney ran one hand down his chest. "Or maybe, he said quietly, "you could tie me up. It would only be fair."
Clark's voice was slightly husky. "I might take you up on either one," he murmured.
"Now who's full of surprises?" Whitney said quietly. "What other secrets are you hiding under that veneer of innocence?"
"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."
"Funny."
Clark shrugged. "You'd better go. My parents will be home soon, and if you keep touching me like that we might end up back on the couch."
Almost reluctantly, Whitney backed away from him. "Call," he said. "Please."
"I will, I'll keep an eye on you."
Whitney nodded, and slowly descended the stairs.
He sat in his truck for a long while, reflecting on what he'd done and the consequences of his actions. No longer afraid, and no longer living under his father's shadow, Whitney did feel reborn. What had started out to be a simple apology for a stupid stunt, had turned into much more, and Whitney felt somehow fate had stepped in to guide him. Clark had freed him from the last vestiges of Jack's grip, and only now could Whitney recall the good times he'd shared with his father.
He remembered learning to ride a bike with Jack's steadying hand on the back of the seat. He remembered the fishing trips, and the quiet evenings spent tossing a ball back and forth while talking about a favorite movie or television program. He remembered holding his father's hand as Jack lay so sick in his hospital bed with his bellow reduced to a whisper, and his strength that of a small child.
Whitney realized, as he started the ignition and turned the truck around towards the lane, that Jack Fordman had feared only two things. He had feared death, and he had feared losing his son. He had kept Whitney under wraps, abusing him mentally and sometimes physically, because he loved him. It was backwards and wrong to be sure, but he thought he understood it. Had he been allowed to be the person he felt he was inside, he and Jack would have had nothing in common and there would have been no communication between them at all. Pride, and anger, had been the only emotions Jack could express. In order to show Whitney his love, he had to turn him into something he understood. He had to make Whitney make him proud.
He found in himself forgiveness, and gave the fates their due. Jack Fordman was gone and could hurt him no longer. The past was in the past. Whitney had sacrificed himself to make his father happy, and the man had gone to his grave feeling he'd raised a son of whom he could be proud. Whitney had done his duty as a son. Now it was his turn to live for himself. He had no regrets, and he felt no guilt about what he had done, nor with whom he'd done it. He was content as he drove down the sweep of the long lane leading towards paved highway, but at the end of it he stopped, pausing the truck as it drew next to the car coming into the lane.
The sleek silver Jaguar idled quietly anyway, but the sound of its high performance engine was completely drowned by the low rumble of Whitney's truck. Like beer and champagne, hot dogs and caviar, the two vehicles were radically opposite, and so were the men who drove them. Whitney's window was down already, and he waited as the driver's side window of the Jag silently descended.
"Lost?" Lex inquired archly. "Doesn't Lana live next door?"
"I came to see Clark."
"Well perhaps you should tell me what cornfield you left him in so I can get him down."
Whitney sighed. "You know, I'm getting really fucking tired of being reminded of that. Clark has let it go, I'd appreciate it if you did the same."
The smile was not quite a smirk. "Did I hit a sore spot, Fordman? Personally I don't like it that you're here. It seems every time Clark has anything to do with you he ends up very close to dead. If you didn't crucify him, and you didn't get him wrapped up with mutant assholes who like to manually stir up people's chest cavities, what did you do?"
"Fuck you. Luthor, it's none of your business what goes on between me and Clark."
There was a long pause, during which Whitney felt himself being uncomfortably scrutinized. He met the rather ominous stare, and refused to look away despite his unease and the conviction that his expression said it all. He disliked Lex, and always had, based largely on some things he'd heard from his father about the family. Jack had known Lionel, and he had known about some of the things Lex had done in Metropolis, which Whitney realized weren't very benign. Whitney had kept his knowledge to himself, but he now found himself wondering if he shouldn't warn Clark.
Of course, given Clark's secrets, it was possible he already knew, and it was now pretty evident to Whitney that Clark could take care of himself.
"It's my business if Clark gets hurt, Fordman." Lex said finally. "He's a good kid."
"Yeah, he is a good kid, and you better remember that yourself. He's not something you can just toss aside when you're finished with him, like you do with everything else. You can't buy and sell affection like you do stocks either."
"Since when have you held Clark in such high esteem?"
Whitney didn't answer him. "Just remember Luthor, if you end up hurting Clark, I'll personally kick your scrawny bald ass all the way back to Metropolis."
"I'm terribly afraid." His tone indicated the opposite. "I have no intention of doing anything that would hurt Clark. If you are so set upon making sure Clark is happy, why don't you back off your girlfriend and let him have her?"
It took exactly three seconds for Whitney to make the decision to let Lex have it. "I might do that," he said. "if only to have the satisfaction of seeing you squirm."
"What do you mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean. Don't look so surprised Lex, I had you pegged from the first time I saw you." Whitney shoved the gear shift back into drive, then smiled out the window. "By the way, I hope you brought protection. Clark is out, and we had to use mine." He paused just long enough to savor the poleaxed expression upon Lex's face, before gunning the truck out of the lane and into the road towards home.
World, he thought, meet the new Whitney Fordman.
~Fin~
by Aklani
He had driven past the Kent farm thousands of times on his way to Lana's house, and he had only once stopped. The Fordmans had been shopkeepers from the time the family had first settled in Smallville. They had no interest in farms or farmers, unless the farmers could not pay their bills, and Whitney had never set foot upon the Kents' land other than that one time. It had been during Clark's party. He had paid little attention to anything but Lana during the time he'd been there.
Martha Kent showed him the way to the barn, leaving him at the doorway with a smile and nod, surprised but pleased he'd stopped by to see Clark. Whitney knew Clark had only a handful of close friends. Martha probably felt encouraging a relationship between Whitney, "Model Jock Type Boy" Fordman, and her quiet, somewhat reclusive son, would be a good thing. Whitney wondered if she'd feel the same way if she knew he'd been involved in a prank that could have left Clark for dead had it gone wrong. He doubted it. Obviously Clark had kept that tidbit to himself.
Secrets. Clark had a few, and Whitney wasn't blind to it. The run in with Wade Mahaney and his cronies had led him to realize Clark was much more than the shy, gawky boy who sat in the back of Whitney's calculus class and knew all the answers before the teacher did. Clark's brief stint on the Smallville High football team had made Whitney realize Clark wasn't nearly as clumsy as everyone thought either. He was a fantastic athlete, and one glance at him in the locker room made Whitney wonder if Lana wasn't in need of glasses. Clark certainly gave Lana the "I want you" vibe, but Lana stuck with Whitney and ignored Clark.
That is, until recently. Clark was now casting his eye towards the much more attainable Chloe, and Lana was watching Clark with a little more than friendship on her mind.
Whitney wasn't sure how he felt about it. He wasn't sure how he felt about a number of things lately. His life was in a tail spin due to his father's sudden illness, and even more sudden demise, which had left him wondering what he was to do with himself now that the old tyrant was gone. Suddenly the template upon which Whitney's whole "self" had been built, was gone, and he was free of all constraints. He could be who and what he wanted to be, without his father's overbearing presence. He just wasn't sure he knew how to begin rebuilding himself. He'd been trying to mold himself after his father's ideal for so long now it was habit. He couldn't stop.
He felt his first step was to apologize to Clark.
The barn was dark, except for a light near the eaves which illuminated a high loft platform. Music was playing; some popular alternative artist Whitney recognized but could not name, and he heard the quiet tap of a foot upon the wooden floor. It beat in time with the music, and in time to Whitney's heartbeat as he stood at the foot of the switch back stair. He was nervous, and he rubbed his hands on his jeans before he began his climb.
Clark was sitting at his desk, bent over some homework paper, bobbing his head slightly to the music while he tapped his foot upon the floor. Intent upon his work, he did not see Whitney's ascent from the dark stairs into the bright light of the loft, nor hear the soft tread of Whitney's sneakers. He only looked up when Whitney cleared his throat, and his eyes were wide with surprise as he became aware of the identity of his visitor. Whitney smiled slightly.
"Whitney. I - uh - hang on a sec."
Rising with a fluidity belying his reputation as a klutz, Clark went to a shelf against the far wall, and switched off the music. It suddenly became very quiet in the loft, save for the sound of young frogs peeping from outside the open window, and the soft creak of Clark's weight upon the floorboards as he returned. He gestured for Whitney to take a seat on the old sofa that was the only other place to sit besides the desk chair, but Whitney declined with a shake of his head. He did, however, stride further into the loft, pausing to look out the window. He made a note of the telescope; snorted softly.
"How are you holding up?" Clark asked quietly.
Whitney toyed with a dial on the telescope and shrugged. "Fine." he said. "It's just weird not having him there."
"I would be lost without my father."
Whitney pursed his lips, glancing up at Clark, who simply stood against his desk with his arms crossed. "Mine, wasn't all that great," he blurted finally. "Kind of hard to admit, but it's true."
God, he thought. What is it about him? I want to tell him everything. Every time we talk he pulls from me things I don't even tell my mother, or Lana. I don't understand it. Why him?
Clark shrugged. "Nobody's perfect. My father has his hang ups," he said. "Doesn't mean you don't love him, and you don't miss him."
Poised on the edge of telling Clark, no, he didn't miss Jack Fordman, Whitney struggled with his conscience. He did not want to speak ill of the dead, but his father had been a hard man, and now that he was gone, things would be a lot easier for the Fordman family in many ways. Whitney's life would certainly be much easier.
In the end he managed to hold back the confession he so desperately wanted to make but couldn't, not to himself, and certainly not to someone he barely knew. "This isn't why I came here. I need to talk to you about something else."
"Sure, like what?"
Whitney sighed. "I want to clear the air between us, make peace...."
"Whitney, you don't have to..."
"Yes I do!" His voice was strident, focused, and intent. "I have to get this out, okay. Let me do it." He turned his eyes up towards Clark. They still burned from tears shed, not for Jack, but for himself; tears of relief. "I need this, Clark."
Clark stared at him silently, and then spread his hands in a gesture of acquiescence.
Whitney could almost hear his father's booming voice, bragging that he'd never had to apologize to anyone for anything in his life. Apologies were admissions of guilt, and a Fordman never did anything to require atoning for any feelings of guilt. He'd been proud of Whitney's participation in the scarecrow incident. It was a long standing tradition in Smallville, and only the top leaders among the Crow athletes were usually involved. It marked Whitney as a leader among leaders. Whitney felt it marked him as a jerk.
"Kent could have died, dad. He was out cold when we strung him up." Whitney had protested.
Jack had cuffed him, only half playing. "Boy, he was faking, hoping you would let him loose."
Whitney wasn't so sure about that, but it could have been true. Clark certainly survived with no ill effects. He'd freed himself and gone home apparently, for he'd shown up with his parents at the farmer's market the next morning looking fresh and well rested; not at all ill as he'd been the night before. Whitney had seen him the next day and it had been all he could do to keep his relief from showing.
Secrets. His mind came back to the thought of secrets, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He remembered the sensation of a warm, hard body against his own, and the slick, satiny feel of sweat beaded skin beneath his hands....
He should not have come here.
"Whitney?"
His eyes snapped opened. "I want to apologize Kent. I know things have been kind of rocky between us this year. I'm sorry. I've been unfair to you." His eyes begged forgiveness....
A Fordman never begged, Jack would have said.
With a slight nod, Clark accepted the apology, seeming to understand how hard it had been for Whitney to make it. He added nothing, and expected nothing more, but Whitney, having found his voice, felt Clark needed to have more.
"I'm mean there have been several times you could have just stolen Lana right from under me, and you didn't, and you pulled my fat out of the fire more than once." He bit his lip, and shook his head, raising a hand to push back the long bangs he had once affected. His father had made him cut it. He ended the gesture abruptly.
"*You look like a fucking girl. It's bad enough you got a girls name.*"
"Why didn't you?" Whitney drowned out the echoes of his father's voice with his own. "Steal Lana, I mean."
"How fair would that have been?"
"All is fair in love and war."
"Are we at war, Whitney?"
Clark's green eyes were guileless, wide and innocent, as he gave Whitney an analytical stare. It was a look Whitney had seen before, and one which always made him wonder if Clark could read minds. He always seemed to know what was going on in Whitney's head, and ironically had played interference during more than a few arguments with Lana. It was part of Clark's appeal. His quiet, introspective nature made him easy to talk to, and fulfilled, for Lana at least, a need to express herself. With Clark she could discuss her feelings, her thoughts of the past, and her hopes for the future, something she could not do with Whitney. He didn't know how. He'd never been allowed to express himself. The only emotions permitted in the Fordman household had been pride and anger.
A lot of anger.
Publicly the Fordmans were the ideal family. Whitney's father worked, running the family business, while Mrs. Fordman stayed home to raise Whitney and his younger sister. He was involved in various clubs and political organizations around town, while she did volunteer work and was a Girl Scout Troop leader. Whitney would follow in his father's footsteps, and possibly even go further with a scholarship to Kansas State and the opportunity to play for the Metropolis Sharks. Angie was a brilliant scholar and musician. The whole family did things outside the home together, and were considered the role model for the rest of Smallville's families to emulate.
The truth was that Whitney's memories were of the constant shouting matches; protests against the strict restraints placed upon him by his father. They would fight and Whitney's resolve would ultimately crumble beneath the onslaught of Jack Fordman's bellowing and his heavy backhand. Angie would cry, and go to her room, where Whitney would hear her sob herself to sleep later. Their mother retreated to the bottle of wine she kept in a cupboard in the kitchen. "For cooking," she would say cheerily. Both Whitney and Angela knew better. For Angie's sake, Whitney had learned to hold back, and cause as little disturbance in the household as possible. He submitted himself to his father's wishes. He forced himself to be what Jack wanted him to be, despite his own feelings. He poured everything he had into "the game."
He hated football. He had rejoiced when he'd lost the scholarship, but as always, was forced to hide those feelings. Jack had been infuriated, but by then, too ill to cause too much difficulty. Whitney had found himself in trouble immediately, falling in with Wade Mahaney's group. He still didn't understand why. Had he been punishing himself, or his father with that defection to the dark side? Or had he simply been unable to handle not having Jack dictating his every move? Whatever the reason, Clark had saved his ass.
Again.
Whitney wasn't sure if he wanted to thank him, or kill him.
"No," he said quietly. "We're not at war, Kent."
Clark appeared somewhat relieved. Whitney was suddenly convinced that had they truly been at war over Lana, he could not possibly win. Not anymore. Whitney's advantages had died with his father. Clark now held all the cards.
"*Don't be a pansy, boy! Step into the ball.*"
All his life Whitney had struggled and fought to become his father's son. He was tired of hiding beneath the veneer that was Jack Fordman's legend. He was tired of being a walking symbol of Jack Fordman's virility. The popular quarterback, the boyfriend of the prettiest girl in school, the boy parents threw up to their children saying, "you want to be like Whitney don't you?" - these things were not what he wanted to be at all. These things were what Jack had forced upon him. Whitney was tired. He no longer wanted to be the roll model. He no longer wanted the uniform his father had made for him and demanded that he wear.
He wanted to be able to find himself, the Whitney Fordman that had been so thoroughly buried he wondered if there was anything left to recover. He wanted to become that person again. He wanted to leave Smallville and start all over again in a place where no one knew him. He wanted to be free.
"But I'm not blind. I know how you feel about Lana. I know how she feels about you. You could have taken her countless times. I appreciate the fact that you haven't."
Did he really?
Whitney turned abruptly to look out window. It was going to be a beautiful spring night, warm and cloudless. The sky was littered with stars. Whitney wondered what they would look like from somewhere else. "I'm not good with words." he muttered. "Just - thank you, Clark."
"Sure," Clark said quietly.
After a moment, Whitney moved away from the window, pacing slightly before it. Unbidden came the memory of the first time he'd seen Clark, or, rather, the first time he'd truly "looked" at Clark. He'd "seen" Clark all his life, like he'd seen other kids in the community. They'd grown up together. Even though Clark was a few grades behind him in school, Whitney had always been aware of his presence. He was a school mate, Lana's neighbor, the youngest Ross boy's friend, and Jonathan Kent's son. Jonathan Kent had been another "ideal" boy, constantly thrown up as an example to Whitney by Coach Walt as the best football player Smallville had ever known.
"*Get out there and kick some ass, boy*!"
Always boy; never his name.
He'd hoped Clark would play, following in his father's footsteps as Whitney followed in Jacks'. He'd watched Clark run laps during gym and told himself it was simply because he recognized a fellow athlete, but the admiration for Clark's graceful way of moving and the strangely mature cut of his body, went somewhat beyond clinical observation. It was on the track, as Whitney had sat in the bleachers talking quietly with Lana, that he had first really noticed Clark. It was hard to miss him, as he stood head and shoulders above most of his classmates.
"Who is that?" Whitney had asked of Lana.
"Where?"
"The big guy."
"Oh," she had laughed. "That's just Clark."
Just Clark.
Whitney remembered Clark as a kid. He'd been terribly thin, with huge green eyes that gave him a perpetually startled expression, and he had the nervous habit of biting on one of his thumb nails. He'd looked like he'd stepped out of an Japanese anime cartoon with those eyes and his wild mop of black hair. Shy, quiet, and bookish, Clark had very few friends other than Pete Ross. He never participated in any of the games kids would get going on the playground during lunch and after school, nor did Whitney ever see him move faster than a slow amble.
That day on the bleachers, he had finally given Clark Kent a good long look, and the kid had surprised him.
In more ways than one.
He had watched Clark easily jog twice around the track, admiring the fluidity of his stride, the way his t-shirt clung to the muscles of his back and shoulders, and the curve of his ass....
Whitney had hated him immediately.
He hated Clark for reawakening feelings Whitney had thought buried and gone. Growing up in Jack Fordman's shadow, such feelings were best kept buried, because the one time Whitney had dared even suggest that being gay was not necessarily a bad thing, Jack had torn into him like a pit bull on a poodle. Whitney had not even been referring to himself, but to some character on television. Jack's scathingly homophobic tirade about "cock sucking shit packers" had left Whitney feeling physically ill. The suggestion that if Whitney ever entertained any such notions, Jack would hurt him, had been the most frightening thing he had ever experienced.
Watching Clark from the bleachers that day, Whitney had understood that some things could be buried, but like an abscess hidden beneath the skin, they could fester and grow painful, and dangerous. He'd had crushes before; mild and easily subdued. The attraction he found himself developing for Clark was something he could not shake, and he found himself nearly obsessed with him. He watched Clark's every move, growing angrier and angrier, not at Clark, but at himself. He masked it as jealousy, and people accepted that readily. It was no secret that Clark had long coveted Lana.
No one knew Whitney's secret, and until he'd spent that hour watching Clark during gym class, he thought he'd even hidden it from himself.
"Are you sure you're all right?" Clark said now, his voice quiet, filled with an honest concern that Whitney recognized from previous conversations. "I can drive you home if you need me to, it's no problem."
Whitney shook his head. "I'm fine."
He wasn't fine. He was lost without the rules. Jack had made the rules, and made sure they were kept. Now Whitney was finding himself unfettered for the first time in his life and the one thing he wanted the most was still denied him.
He'd dreamed about it before; several times. He dreamed of Clark's body; the hard muscular build of someone much older than sixteen, and the sex of a grown man. Whitney had come to know it during Clark's very brief stint on the football team, when they'd showered together, and one quick, surreptitious glance confirmed what Whitney had long suspected. Clark was exquisite. There was no other word for him, and Whitney would laugh to himself later when he realized none of the girls seemed to notice, including his own. Had Lana seen what Whitney had seen - well he doubted he'd have her now.
In his dreams Clark had come to him, sliding into his bed where he lay naked upon the sheets. He'd stared up into green eyes outlined by long, dark, lashes and was as captivated as if he'd been entranced by some sort of mythological Siren. Full, soft lips had found his, and the velvety slide of their bodies against each other warmed him to arousal. He had raised his body upward against the broader, stronger one pressing against him, letting Clark feel him and understand that he was willing. He felt hands along his sides, drawing his legs upward, and he had wrapped himself around Clark's hips. He'd reached out a hand, grasping the warm length of the shaft between Clark's legs, and had stroked it as he moved his own less magnificent offering against Clark's muscular thigh....
Only to wake with a cry of denial, his boxers wet and sticky, and the specter of Jack Fordman's disapproving backhand hovering over his head.
"I'm fine," he repeated hoarsely. "But thanks. I - I'll be going."
"Thanks for the apology, Whitney. I appreciate it." Clark pushed himself off his desk, and crossed the space between them to walk Whitney to the "door" like the proper host. "I know you're having a rough time right now. You didn't have to do this."
Whitney stopped at the top of the stair, one hand on the banister, and turned to face Clark. He sucked in a quick breath upon realizing how close Clark was standing to him. "I know," he whispered.
Their eyes met then, blue and pale hazel green. Whitney was reminded of his dreams, and in them the hypnotic draw of Clark's eyes as they pulled him in for a kiss. He dug his fingers into the wood of the banister, hoping to drive away the visions before they consumed him and burned away his self control. He failed, and he found himself moving towards a point from which he could not return. He found himself moving towards Clark until he could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, smell the faint scent of whatever soap he used, and hear the soft sigh of his breath. He closed his eyes seconds before there was physical contact.
"Whitney."
His eyes popped open. He felt the gentle pressure of Clark's fingertips against his chest. Clark had not moved, aside from raising that hand, and his eyes still bore into Whitney's with a serene expression. They remained very close.
"I don't think you want to do that," Clark said softly.
"I do," Whitney's breath caught on the truth. "I have for a long time."
Clark's voice remained soft. There was no need to raise it when they still stood so very close to one another. "Why didn't you say anything before?"
He laughed. "You're kidding, right?"
Those eyes never left his.
"No."
Finding himself unable to keep the eye contact, Whitney shifted his gaze to a point just beyond Clark's shoulder. "The most influential men in my life were my father and Coach Walk, Clark. You tell me why I've kept - secrets - from everyone. It should be obvious." He glanced back to find Clark still looking at him with a somewhat concerned expression. "You don't seem surprised. Have I been that easy to read?"
"No, I'm just not easily surprised." Momentarily tipping his head back to look at the ceiling, Clark sighed. "Of course," he added quietly. "I'm also good at keeping secrets," and he lowered his eyes, seeking Whitney's gaze once again.
Whitney stared at him in confusion, his mind fighting to understand the subtle messages he was reading, or thought he was reading, in Clark's eyes. The silence lengthened until he laughed again, uneasily, and shook his head. "Nuhuh, I'm not buying it."
"Why? Because of Lana?" Clark cocked his head to the side, looking for all the world like a slightly demented puppy as he smiled coyly from beneath the heavy fall of his hair. "It's a crush I've had for a long time, but as you pointed out, she's been with someone else." He drew his brows together. "Does she know?"
"Know what?" Whitney asked.
"That you're gay."
The response was immediate, borne of years of denial and terror. The indignation in his voice was real, put there from years of mental conditioning that all things homosexual were repugnant. "I'm not...."
He stopped.
Clark raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"No." The word was an exhaled breath; barely audible.
"If your father was alive you wouldn't be here tonight, would you?"
"No." Whitney admitted. "I wouldn't."
"I'm sorry for that, Whitney."
Sighing, Whitney idly ran his fingers over the smooth wooden stair railing. "You have no idea, Clark, what it's been like for me. I stayed. I wanted to leave here so badly so many times, but I never could find the courage." He snorted softly. "I stayed when I should have gone, and now that he's gone, all I want to do is run away."
"Start over?" Clark replied quietly. "Without living under the shadow of the quarterback? Without corrupting your father's memory and the son he made, as opposed to the son he actually had?"
"How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Know what people are thinking?"
The smile was coy again; all feigned innocence. "Deductive reasoning."
They were still standing very close, so close Whitney could see in Clark's eyes the pale flecks of gold surrounding the dark pupils. "I don't know what to do." His words were almost pleading, as if in lieu of his father's guidance, he was seeking Clark's. Again he had to ask himself, why Clark? What was the attraction, besides the obvious physical draw?
"What do you want to do?"
"Right now?" Whitney managed a bitter laugh. "Jesus, Clark. Do you really want me to tell you?"
"Yes, tell me. I'm not easily surprised Whitney, I told you."
"Would you be disappointed if I said, I don't know."
One corner of Clark's mouth twitched, but his smile remained idling in neutral. "Maybe."
Whitney sucked in a sharp breath. "My father isn't even cold in his grave," he said roughly. "And I'm..."
"You're what?" Clark asked. "Being true to yourself for once in your life? I'm sort of curious to meet the real Whitney Fordman if you want to know the truth, the one that hung me up in a cornfield was kind of a jerk."
The statement made Whitney laugh; probably what Clark intended.
"I'm serious!"
"About what? Wanting to meet the real me, or that I was a jerk?"
Clark's voice grew softer, and the coy smile crept across his lips. "Both," he said. "Why did you really come here, Whitney?"
"To apologize, for the scarecrow thing. I could have killed you." He smiled bitterly. "I hated you, for a long time, because your father never made you play football."
"My father wouldn't let me play football, that's the irony. You admired me," Clark took one step closer. "And I - admired - you."
The silence was heavy around them. All Whitney seemed to be able to hear was the rasp of his own breathing, and the pounding of his own heart. He wanted to run, turn and rush down the stairs to his truck as fast as he possibly could, and escape before he broke the rules. They were the rules that his father had set and Whitney had followed to the letter all of his life, the rules that said boys were boys and girls were girls and there was no crossing that line, no matter what your heart told you.
His father was gone. The rules could be rewritten.
At first he thought he would be stopped again, but as he tasted the first hint of Clark's breath, he realized Clark had no intention of stopping him. As delicately as he would have kissed Lana good night, he captured Clark's mouth with his own, applying just the slightest amount of suction, and the faintest caress of his tongue. It was no different from any kiss he'd ever given Lana. Why that should surprise him, he did not know.
Their lips parted, and Whitney let his breath out with a sigh. "Why?" he whispered. "Why, despite everything he ever did to me, do I still love him?"
"Because he's your father, and despite what he tried to force you to do with it, he still was the one who gave you your life."
Whitney nodded. "What would your father have done, had he seen - that?"
Clark laughed, "He'd probably ask me what I did to you," he said, in a tone hinting at some hidden meaning.
"You set me free."
They both grew sober. Hesitantly Clark leaned in again, his breath soft against Whitney's mouth as he ran a hand up to cup the back of Whitney's neck, The kiss was more intense, firmer, warmer, and spiced with the delicate sparring of tongues. Clark drew him in close, pressing his lips harder against Whitney's, until Whitney responded in kind and their actions grew somewhat frantic. Whitney drew back, breathless, as Clark dragged him further into the loft by the top of his jeans.
"Wait, no! No!" He planted his feet and clamped a hand around Clark's wrist. "I can't, I can't...."
Clark stopped, frowned at him. "Whitney, I'm not going to molest you, I just don't want you to fall down the stairs."
Shakily, Whitney looked over his shoulder, and he realize they had been standing dangerously close to the top of the stairs. "I'm sorry," he turned back, stricken. "I didn't mean..."
"Don't worry about it." There was a pause, and Clark slowly let go of the top of Whitney's jeans. "Unless you want me to molest you." His palm pressed against the warm bulge beneath the zipper, and his fingers closed around it with the faintest squeeze. "This, says yes."
Whitney closed his eyes. He could feel his nails digging into his palms, and he heard his father's bellow echoing through his mind spewing hate, and anger and intolerance. He trembled, years of conditioning warring with the overwhelming desire growing beneath the firm grasp of Clark's hand. Images of Clark lying helpless and half naked upon the tailgate of his truck sprang to his mind, and he wondered if this wasn't Clark's way of getting back at him for that night.
He found he didn't care. He found himself nodding.
Mindlessly he followed Clark to the sofa, allowing for more kisses, and more caressing, and wondering when it ceased for a moment, how Clark had undressed them both so quickly. They lay in a tangle of limbs upon the couch, hard, trim bodies molded together as if they were carved from a single slab of marble. Whitney knew he was in shape, he'd kept up with his lifting and his morning jog despite not actively playing ball and despite his father's illness. There had been a chance Jack would recover, and Whitney would be pressured into playing again.
"*Watch your weight, boy.*"
"*You're lagging behind, boy, pick up your ass!*"
Kisses were more confident, less rushed, and Whitney was amazed at how stimulating just kissing could be as he raised his head to accept Clark's lips again and again. He lay beneath the greater bulk of Clark's body, enveloped in it's warmth and protected from the chill of the air now drifting in through the open window. He shuddered, wrapping his arms around his chest, when Clark suddenly rose from him and walked across the loft to close the window. Whitney watched him, stunned.
What had happened? What demon had he awakened? The boy - no - man - who walked across the room bore little resemblance to the shy and gawky kid Whitney had always known. It was as if Clark Kent had been replaced by an entirely different person. His stride was confident. He was comfortable with the fact he was unclothed, and as he padded softly back towards Whitney, he oozed an almost exotic sensuality. Tall, lean, and well muscled, he reminded Whitney of a cheetah loping casually across a dusty plain looking for something to chase.
He shuddered again, and this time not because of the cold chill. Whitney realized that the chase was on, and he was the one being pursued.
"Your parents," he said hoarsely. "Won't they come up here?"
"They're gone. They had dinner plans tonight." Clark detoured on the way back to the couch, pausing to dig around in the back of a drawer in his desk.
Whitney kept his eyes on him. Regardless of how he felt about sports, Whitney recognized and appreciated a well honed body whether it belonged to a man or a woman. Clark had the cut of an athlete, with strong sinewy muscles sweeping across his thighs and over his hips, and his stomach was flat and hard. His shoulders and arms were broad and well developed and based on just the petting they'd done thus far, Whitney could tell he was very strong.
So why had he never played sports, particularly when Jonathan Kent was recognized as the epitome of a football hero by both Coach Walt and Jack Fordman? Jonathan had not allowed Clark to play. Was it some sort of ego trip? Was Clark not permitted to outshine his father on the football field? If that was the case, his father was almost as fucked up as Whitney's.
"*Clark? Jesus, Johnny couldn't have picked a worse one than that little twerp. Damn crybaby.*"
Jack apparently had been correct in his assessment of Clark as being fey. Whitney was about to experience the conclusive evidence supporting it. That thought made him nervous, as did the identification of what exactly Clark had dug out of his desk drawer. It was a tube, much like one used for toothpaste, with a flip top lid that Clark idly flicked open and closed with his thumb as he stood scowling around the room. For the second time that evening, Whitney suddenly felt like getting up and bolting for his truck.
"Ah!"
"What? Hey!" Whitney sat up slightly as Clark pulled his wallet from the pocket of his discarded jeans. His protest died as Clark held up the thin package between his first two fingers and raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
"Lana?"
Whitney blushed, then realized how stupid it was of him. Here he was, lying stark naked on a couch in a damn barn, waiting to be lubed up and fucked, and he was embarrassed that Clark had found a condom in his wallet.
"Just in case," he murmured. "She's not really ready to go that far."
"Are you?" Clark asked, and at first Whitney thought he was being smart, but his expression said otherwise. He was genuinely concerned. "Because this can end right here." Fluidly he moved from the foot of the couch where their clothes lay in a pile, to crouch next to Whitney's head. "You're still grieving, Whitney, and maybe you aren't thinking this through all the way. I don't want you to do something you may regret later."
He took his time answering. "That's just it, Clark," he said finally. "I'm not. I grieved for the loss of my father, but not the man who kept me virtually imprisoned for eighteen years, and the only regret I have is that I never stood up to the bastard. I never said, look, this is who I am, and I want to be that person."
Clark's green eyes were unwavering; his expression was solemn. "Nobody could fault you for that, Whitney. It takes a lot of courage." He smiled slightly. "Do you think I'd tell my parents about this? It would kill my father."
"To find out you're gay?"
"To find out you are gay." Clark laughed. "Me, I'm just less discriminatory, and he'd probably be relieved." He shook his head. "But that's a different story."
Whitney narrowed his eyes. "You still want Lana." He said quietly. It was not a question, and the expression on Clark's face told him he was correct. "So, as soon as you're done with me, are you going to run right to her and take her away from me?"
"No."
"Why not? It would be perfectly logical."
"Because you still need her." Clark interrupted. "Because one night isn't going to erase eighteen years."
Turning his head, Whitney stared at the back of the couch. No, one night would not erase eighteen years of blind servitude to a man who's idea of love was to make sure his children do exactly as he ordered regardless whether those orders suited them or not. Whitney had been dating Lana for four years, and those four years of playing football and establishing his reputation as the big man on campus had been a nightmare for him. Her presence at his side had gotten him through it all, and he truly did love her, just not with any sort of sexual attraction.
"*She's going to be a nice little wife.*"
Jack had liked Lana. He'd found her sufficiently submissive, which in his eyes, was how a woman should act. The only time Whitney's mother had ever stood up to Jack Fordman was in regards to her son's name. He was named after her real father, who had died when she was young. Jack had torn up Whitney's birth certificate during a fight with him just before Whitney had entered high school because he'd refused to start going by his middle name of Todd. W. Todd Fordman looked better on recruiting lists for college and professional football than the girlish, "Whitney."
It had always been what was on the surface for Jack Fordman, never about what was inside.
"You need to tell her though, Whitney."
He nodded. He owed her that much.
"And it's only fair that I admit to you that I do want her. I'm sorry. If that changes your mind about...."
Whitney turned his head back, and reached out a hand to Clark's arm, holding him back from rising to his feet. "No, it doesn't, but thanks for the warning."
Clark frowned. "Warning?"
"I could easily fall in love with you, thanks for letting me know I shouldn't."
Guiltily, Clark looked down at his hands, and what they held. "Sometimes," he whispered. "It's best to know what's going to happen if and when a situation arises."
"Practice makes perfect? Who else are you sleeping with, Clark?" Whitney propped himself up on one elbow, suddenly realizing exactly why Clark kept a tube of lubricant around. He just hoped to god it wasn't because he was screwing the fucking cows.
There was no reply, but Whitney had the sneaking suspicion he knew the answer. A rumor had circulated around Smallville High School for months until Chloe Sullivan found out and went on a clandestine, and rather vicious anti-Clark-gossip campaign. She had been appalled, indignant, and throughly convinced of its invalidity and in the face of her adamant stance, the rumor had gradually been phased out before it ever reached Clark's ears. Whitney, knowing Clark's dogged affection for Lana, had actually helped squelch the talk. So, he thought, it was true. Clark was fooling around with Lex Luthor.
"What makes you think it's true?" Whitney once asked a team mate, who had scoffed at him.
"Have you ever seen the way that bald creep looks at him? Jesus, Whit, I saw him at the Beanery the other day watching Clark. He was practically drooling and dry humping the table."
"And Kent does that whenever Lana walks by him. I think you're losing it Phillips if you think there's any truth to that rumor. It's bullshit."
Whitney owed Jim an apology.
"Never mind, Clark." Whitney leaned forward and kissed him. "I don't want to know."
After a pause, the kiss was returned, and Clark joined him on the couch once again. Whatever Lex had taught him, Whitney was ready to learn. He allowed his body to do as it pleased, letting his mind focus completely upon the sensations produced as he arced up against Clark's hard form. He allowed his hands to go exploring, tracing the outline of Clark's sleek body from his shoulders to his thighs, as their tongues sparred. His fingers found the condom, and the hard warmth Clark pressed against his thigh. He stroked it as if it were a living creature, and it moved beneath his fingers as he applied the rubber sheathe himself. It was symbolic; an invitation.
Clark cupped Whitney's face between large strong hands, and drew his tongue deeply into his mouth, sucking at it with slowly increasing pressure, making him moan. He moved downward to Whitney's chest, and suckled there. The pleasure resulting in having his nipples thus stimulated surprised him with its intensity and he felt an increased sense of arousal between his legs. He wanted to feel Clark's mouth there, and said so, drowning out the echos of Jack's voice with the increased roar of his blood through his veins. Clark obliged him.
It made him stupid. It stripped away any defenses he ever had and turned his mind into a babbling mess of incoherent thought and blinding white bursts of sheer ecstasy. He threw his head back hard against the arm of the couch, one arm flung over his head, and the fingers of his other hand twisted within the dark, silken mass of Clark's hair. His hips came off the couch, and Clark allowed it, moving with him until Whitney was on the edge of finding release. Clark denied him that; it was too soon. He withdrew abruptly and Whitney moaned as the cool air of the loft replaced the warmth of Clark's mouth.
He was limp. Strength and resistance had been completely leeched from him by the work of lips and tongue and breath. His body responded to Clark's hands on its own, allowing him to move it into whatever place he needed it to be upon the couch. The cloth was rough against skin now used to the silken brush of Clark's body and the heightened sensitivities brought on by sexual stimulation. He felt a pillow beneath him, raising his hips, and opened his eyes as he raised his legs, wanting to make the most of all his senses. His eyes were heavy lidded and half closed, as if he were drunk on sex.
He was drunk on Clark. He was beautiful with his hair disheveled, his face slightly flushed, and his sinewy body glowing with an aura of light cast by the overhead lamps. Whitney drank him in, ignoring the more technical aspects of he was doing, and rode the first hint of discomfort on a Clark high. Distantly he heard his voice whimpering, but after a moment he grew used to the feel, relaxing enough to simply enjoy the view. When there came a new, unexpected sensation, he was jolted back to attention by the shock.
"Oh, god! God - ah."
"Feels good doesn't it?"
Whitney nodded, unable to speak, and gasped as Clark repeated the touch with strong, supple fingers. Whitney squirmed, moaning. It felt more than good. It was pleasure unlike anything he'd ever experienced.
It was not enough. He wanted more, so much more, but found he didn't understand how to ask. New doors had been opened, and he walked through them shedding the outer layer of his "self" to reveal what had long been hidden. Answers to questions he never understood were suddenly becoming clear. Feelings he had never experienced before pulled him down and drowned him, spitting him back out naked and trembling; reborn. He was lost, and needed someone to guide him, and Clark held out a hand for him to hold.
Whitney moved his body, pleading, begging, and unable to verbalize. Clark simply responded. His hands moved to caress the straining muscles of Whitney's thighs, and his body shifted forward. Innocent, inexperienced, and afraid, Whitney expected pain, and it did indeed hurt him, but no more so than being repeatedly pummeled to the hard ground of the football field. That pain he understood perfectly. This was new, and unlike the other, it came intertwined with pleasure, making it both much more and much less. He cried out, and Clark stopped, concerned, until Whitney opened his eyes and looked up at him.
They didn't speak, but Whitney felt he didn't have to say anything at all. The tears spoke for themselves, and Clark bent to kiss them away. He was gentle with his kisses, letting them speak of comfort rather than passion. He was gentle with other things too. Whitney embraced him as they moved together, pulling him close, opening to him with both body and soul and allowing him inside where no one else had ever had been allowed to venture. The pain gave way fully to the more pleasant sensations, and the heartache was burned away by the heat of passions awakened from a long time lying dormant.
"*You are my son, and you will do as I say!*"
You will be who I want you to be.
No more, Whitney thought, closing his eyes. No more.
His nerves shrieked with tension, and his muscles cramped with a building pressure. He felt bloated and sick. He strained against Clark's hard muscled torso, and Clark, intent now on his own body, reared back to move with more determined effort. Whitney opened his eyes to watch him, admiring the strength of his build, the flawlessness of his skin, and the beautiful sweep of his cheekbones. Lana had always been praised for her exotic beauty, Whitney had complimented her himself, but he realized her beauty paled against Clark's. Had Clark been a girl, Lana would be hideous in comparison.
Whitney touched himself, as he had before when he lay in his room trying to force his mind to see Lana's face and not Clark's. He'd found no joy in it until he broke down and let go, allowing his imagination to bring him visions of Clark; visions of this very situation. He'd dreamed of this before, but nothing his dreams could manufacture had prepared him for the sensation of having Clark actually with him and within him. His imagination had not supplied the musky scent of sex, the warmth of Clark's skin, or the power of his body as it increased its tempo against him. Whitney could feel him straining. They were both on the edge, and then they were both falling over it.
Clark was virtually silent. He threw back his head with a gasp, and that was all. His body spoke for him. Whitney moaned repeatedly under the final onslaught, his senses on fire and his body shuddering as he rode it to its conclusion. He pulled Clark down to him again, tasting the panting breaths as he tenderly addressed lips made slack with the numb mindlessness of orgasm. He felt whole again. He had given Clark power over him with his confession, and Clark had given it back during the exchange of passions. He felt recharged, as if in the exchange Clark had infused the power with his own strength, and presented it to Whitney double what it had been before.
They lay in a tangle of limbs, simply breathing, simply existing, until Clark kissed him one last time and got up. He produced, of all things, baby wipes, and Whitney laughed beneath the clean up, which was was alternated with kisses. He felt he could never get enough of Clark's mouth. He explored every bit of it with his own lips and tongue, while holding Clark close with the light touch of a hand against the back of his neck. Clark eventually pulled away and moved off to get dressed. Whitney's mouth burned, his body felt sore, but he felt a growing contentment as he quietly observed Clark getting dressed.
Don't fall in love with him, he warned himself, and wondered if it had been too late for that from the very start.
Clark glanced back at him, smiled the coy smile Whitney now knew masked a much greater confidence, and leaned against his desk. Whitney slowly pushed himself into a sitting position; reached for his clothes.
"You okay?"
Whitney nodded.
"Sure?"
"Yeah, just - a little overwhelmed I guess." He dressed slowly. Muscles he didn't remember having protested his movements. "In a good way," He added.
The smile twitched, faded slightly. "What are you going to do now?"
Whitney sighed, and ran a hand over his face. He felt the faint presence of stubble and remembered as a child watching his father shave. He had sensed a difference within himself as a very young child, and he remembered wanting nothing more than to please Jack Fordman, because in his eyes his daddy could do no wrong. He had learned the hard way that following in Jack Fordman's footsteps was more difficult for him that it had ever seemed, and that Jack Ford man was frequently wrong.
"*Does it hurt, daddy?*"
"*Avoid getting cut, and it won't hurt.*"
Sometimes one had to get hurt in order to make things better. Sometimes wounds had to be lanced. Whitney had been avoiding getting hurt, and in the end, he had made it hurt worse.
"*I'm sorry, dad. I love you, but I can't be you anymore.*"
"I don't know," he replied. "Take a step back, think about things, then decide from there."
"You still want to run away?"
He considered as he pulled on his shirt. Afterwards he cocked his head up at Clark and made a wry face. "More like walk, but yeah, a fresh start might be a good idea. I'll figure out a way to let Lana down easily."
"Consider telling her the truth. I think she'll understand, Whitney. Talk to her." Clark straightened as Whitney stood up, and as he had attempted to do once before, guided his guest to the "door."
"We'll see."
There was an awkward silence, then Whitney looked him in the eye. "Thanks."
"Sure." His voice was wry. "So, can I assume I'm not going to get tied up and stuck in a cornfield again any time soon?"
Whitney grinned. "If I tie you up again, it's not going to be in a cornfield."
"Really?" Clark's brows went up. "Whitney, you're full of surprises this evening."
They exchanged a light kiss, and Whitney ran one hand down his chest. "Or maybe, he said quietly, "you could tie me up. It would only be fair."
Clark's voice was slightly husky. "I might take you up on either one," he murmured.
"Now who's full of surprises?" Whitney said quietly. "What other secrets are you hiding under that veneer of innocence?"
"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."
"Funny."
Clark shrugged. "You'd better go. My parents will be home soon, and if you keep touching me like that we might end up back on the couch."
Almost reluctantly, Whitney backed away from him. "Call," he said. "Please."
"I will, I'll keep an eye on you."
Whitney nodded, and slowly descended the stairs.
He sat in his truck for a long while, reflecting on what he'd done and the consequences of his actions. No longer afraid, and no longer living under his father's shadow, Whitney did feel reborn. What had started out to be a simple apology for a stupid stunt, had turned into much more, and Whitney felt somehow fate had stepped in to guide him. Clark had freed him from the last vestiges of Jack's grip, and only now could Whitney recall the good times he'd shared with his father.
He remembered learning to ride a bike with Jack's steadying hand on the back of the seat. He remembered the fishing trips, and the quiet evenings spent tossing a ball back and forth while talking about a favorite movie or television program. He remembered holding his father's hand as Jack lay so sick in his hospital bed with his bellow reduced to a whisper, and his strength that of a small child.
Whitney realized, as he started the ignition and turned the truck around towards the lane, that Jack Fordman had feared only two things. He had feared death, and he had feared losing his son. He had kept Whitney under wraps, abusing him mentally and sometimes physically, because he loved him. It was backwards and wrong to be sure, but he thought he understood it. Had he been allowed to be the person he felt he was inside, he and Jack would have had nothing in common and there would have been no communication between them at all. Pride, and anger, had been the only emotions Jack could express. In order to show Whitney his love, he had to turn him into something he understood. He had to make Whitney make him proud.
He found in himself forgiveness, and gave the fates their due. Jack Fordman was gone and could hurt him no longer. The past was in the past. Whitney had sacrificed himself to make his father happy, and the man had gone to his grave feeling he'd raised a son of whom he could be proud. Whitney had done his duty as a son. Now it was his turn to live for himself. He had no regrets, and he felt no guilt about what he had done, nor with whom he'd done it. He was content as he drove down the sweep of the long lane leading towards paved highway, but at the end of it he stopped, pausing the truck as it drew next to the car coming into the lane.
The sleek silver Jaguar idled quietly anyway, but the sound of its high performance engine was completely drowned by the low rumble of Whitney's truck. Like beer and champagne, hot dogs and caviar, the two vehicles were radically opposite, and so were the men who drove them. Whitney's window was down already, and he waited as the driver's side window of the Jag silently descended.
"Lost?" Lex inquired archly. "Doesn't Lana live next door?"
"I came to see Clark."
"Well perhaps you should tell me what cornfield you left him in so I can get him down."
Whitney sighed. "You know, I'm getting really fucking tired of being reminded of that. Clark has let it go, I'd appreciate it if you did the same."
The smile was not quite a smirk. "Did I hit a sore spot, Fordman? Personally I don't like it that you're here. It seems every time Clark has anything to do with you he ends up very close to dead. If you didn't crucify him, and you didn't get him wrapped up with mutant assholes who like to manually stir up people's chest cavities, what did you do?"
"Fuck you. Luthor, it's none of your business what goes on between me and Clark."
There was a long pause, during which Whitney felt himself being uncomfortably scrutinized. He met the rather ominous stare, and refused to look away despite his unease and the conviction that his expression said it all. He disliked Lex, and always had, based largely on some things he'd heard from his father about the family. Jack had known Lionel, and he had known about some of the things Lex had done in Metropolis, which Whitney realized weren't very benign. Whitney had kept his knowledge to himself, but he now found himself wondering if he shouldn't warn Clark.
Of course, given Clark's secrets, it was possible he already knew, and it was now pretty evident to Whitney that Clark could take care of himself.
"It's my business if Clark gets hurt, Fordman." Lex said finally. "He's a good kid."
"Yeah, he is a good kid, and you better remember that yourself. He's not something you can just toss aside when you're finished with him, like you do with everything else. You can't buy and sell affection like you do stocks either."
"Since when have you held Clark in such high esteem?"
Whitney didn't answer him. "Just remember Luthor, if you end up hurting Clark, I'll personally kick your scrawny bald ass all the way back to Metropolis."
"I'm terribly afraid." His tone indicated the opposite. "I have no intention of doing anything that would hurt Clark. If you are so set upon making sure Clark is happy, why don't you back off your girlfriend and let him have her?"
It took exactly three seconds for Whitney to make the decision to let Lex have it. "I might do that," he said. "if only to have the satisfaction of seeing you squirm."
"What do you mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean. Don't look so surprised Lex, I had you pegged from the first time I saw you." Whitney shoved the gear shift back into drive, then smiled out the window. "By the way, I hope you brought protection. Clark is out, and we had to use mine." He paused just long enough to savor the poleaxed expression upon Lex's face, before gunning the truck out of the lane and into the road towards home.
World, he thought, meet the new Whitney Fordman.
~Fin~