I was both right and wrong about Lionel coming to visit me. At the end of my first week in Smallville, two very important things happened to me. First, I found Clark in a cornfield, naked, and tied to a pole, and rescued the kid. Unfortunately, he ran off before anything could happen. Then, on Saturday, I set up candles, filled a tub with bubble bath, poured us some glasses of champagne, stripped off my clothes, and climbed into the water to wait for him. Three hours later, the man called to tell me that he wouldn't make it until the next evening. I sighed, ran a hand over my head, finished the rest of the champagne, cried, and crawled into bed. I woke up the next morning, more pissed than hurt, and—luckily for me—the Kent kid showed up, in the early afternoon.

"Are you okay," I asked, keeping my physical distance, unsure as to what exactly he had been through. Generally speaking, teenage boys don't strip another boy's clothes off—not including consensual sex, which doesn't usually end with somebody getting crucified—unless it's for one of two reasons. Either they want to embarrass the naked boy, and Clark had nothing to be ashamed of, or…well, the other reason usually involves some sort of sexual abuse. He shrugged.

"It was nothing," the kid lied, looking at me as though I were out of my mind for worrying about him. "I lost Lana's necklace." This seemed to be his biggest concern, even though he'd already said he didn't like her as more than a friend. I told him I'd found the thing, handing it over.

"I don't believe you. It wasn't nothing. Clark, they left you tied to a pole in the middle of a field! Even the Roman's saved that for special occasions." He didn't seem to get the reference.

"It's a tradition," he excused. I wasn't really sure what to say. I wanted to reply, so was…and then remind him of some sick, disturbing, out-dated tradition that civilized people had long since given up.

"Those guys didn't hurt you, did they?" I was careful with my question, making sure that I didn't scare him in case they had done something, or weird him out if they hadn't.

"I just don't—I'm pretty…it was nothing." This time the words weren't nearly as strong. "They jumped me in the parking lot, and punched me a couple of times. Whitney threw me in his truck-bed, and he…most of them went in their own trucks, or in the cab."

"Was there anybody else in the back with you?" He shook his head. "But they did hit you? They beat you up?" The kid nodded. "Used to happen to me all the time. I can teach you to fight, if you want."

"I think I'll be okay.' He flashed me a quick smile. "You wanna play pool?" he asked, standing right next to me, so close that—were he less gorgeous, and sweet—it usually would have made me uncomfortable. I smiled, and said, sure. "I'm not very good at it. Can you give me some pointers?" I smiled, first trying to show him how to do it, but Clark insisted that he needed physical assistance. So, I stood behind him, my hands on top of his, and helped him shoot. We took a couple turns, but he still wasn't doing very well, or he was pretending to suck so that we could stand like that. After a couple more plays, he started to squirm, his blue jean-clad ass rubbing against the front of my trousers.

"Um—Clark, that's maybe to the best position—to uh…I mean, what—what are you, what are you doing?" I croaked, sliding my hand down his arm, interlacing my fingers with his. He blushed, slightly, taking a step forward.

"I forgot. I hafta go home and…uh—bale some hay," he squeaked. Before the kid raced out of the room, I managed to get a quick glimpse of his crotch, pants streaked tight over an erection. Crap, I thought. I scared the poor guy off. Now, I'll never see him again. Lionel showed up three hours later, and found me running up and down the stone staircase, dressed in an over sized t-shirt, and sweat pants.

"What in the Hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"There are forty rooms in this place, and not one of them is a gym, or has gym equipment. I needed to work off some steam, and …I've been slacking off food-wise. I had French toast, eggs, bacon, milk, coffee, and hash browns for breakfast."

"You thought I wasn't going to show up, didn't you?" I shrugged. To be honest, I hadn't spent much time thinking about him since the incident Clark. "How was your week," he asked, climbing the stairs, and grabbing me by the arm so I'd hold still. "Was it really that terrible?"

"Work sucked, but I made a new friend." He smiled, leading me towards the bathroom, for a shower. "Actually, it's the same kid who pulled me out of the river. He was just here a couple of hours ago."

"Hmm," Lionel murmured, completely uninterested.

"If you don't care, then why even bother asking?" Dad didn't respond, in fact, he didn't say much of anything, aside from the gasps, grunts, and one quick, "that's my boy," until after we'd finished with our shower, and spent the evening rolling around between the sheets. Then, I fell asleep in his arms again. He did stay this time, for a couple of hours. I awoke to find him rubbing my shoulders. Then Lionel moved to my thighs, massaging them.

"Now, are you going to tell me what's bothering you, or do I have to threaten to leave to get it out of you?" I pretended to be very interested in something on the back of my hand. "You were running up and down steps. My guess is that you had been doing it for at least an hour. You only exercise obsessively when you're upset." Forty minutes, I thought, shows how much you know. I must have been staring because he then added, "I might not discuss your problems, but that doesn't mean I don't know anything, or care about you, understand?" I nodded. "Tell me what's wrong?"

"I think Clark may have been flirting with me," I admitted.

"Your new friend?" I nodded again. "And this is a bad thing…because you don't find him attractive?" he taunted. I just shrugged. "No, that's not it. Lex, I don't like guessing games. Tell me what's wrong." Lionel laid his hand across my shoulder.

"He's fourteen," I said stalling. Lionel squeezed my arm. "And this isn't Excelsior, or Metropolis. I'm in Smallville. It's the middle of nowhere, and…I could be wrong. We were playing pool, not making out. He asked me to help him. So I stood behind the kid, and showed him how to move his arms, position himself to sink difficult shorts." Lionel chuckled. "What did I do now?"

"Lex, I don't think that young man could have been clearer if he had torn off all his clothes and sprayed whipped cream on his genitals." I pushed away from him. "You think he might be completely naïve and that if you try something, he might get scared and then you will have ruined everything, including your ability to stay here without getting shot or hanged, hmm?"

"Well there's that, and…" I've never had a friend in my whole life, and here comes this sweet, wonderful, amazing little kid who actually likes me! I can't screw this up. "He's—he likes me!" And even you don't like me.

"I don't know if it's the same with men as it is with women, but the only advice I can give you is this. When it comes to someone you have feelings for, there are two choices. Either do nothing, hope the other person makes the first move, and maybe wait the rest of your life, or you can go for it, and maybe things will work out, maybe you won't, but at least you will know you tried." I sighed, and started to get out of bed, but he grabbed me yet again, and pulled me in close for one more hug. "What are you going to regret more, spending your whole life wondering what could have been, or having a relationship with somebody who loves you?"

"Oh for heavens sake! Even when you're trying to be a good father, you act like a total creep! It's not that simple. Clark Kent is a high school freshman from Bumblefuck Kansas, who probably thinks that that the word gay means happy!"

"Did you say Kent?" he asked, running a hand across my face, and down my neck, softly.

"Yeah, how do you—you know him? You know his family?" He nodded. "How is that even possible? You haven't been in Smallville since the meteor shower," I gasped.

"That's when I met the Kent's," he said, without elaborating. I wanted to scream. I hate it when he does that. Wouldn't it be easier for him to just not respond, rather than giving me half of the "truth," fully knowing that I'm going to go nuts and rip my non-existent hair out, trying to find out what he's hiding. I suddenly realized something. Lionel knew exactly what those little half-truths did to me, and he loved that, because it gives him even more control over me, my actions, and my behavior.

"When exactly did this happen? Between screwing over the Ross family, dodging meteorites, and neglecting a sick, depressed, nine-year-old—who, by the way, nearly had a heart attack because you held him captive in a helicopter until he "got over" his fear of heights—to the point of almost killing him, you had a busy day." Lionel raised his hand to strike me, but stopped when he saw the terrified, sad look in my eyes. I vaguely remembered him hitting me once before, but couldn't figure out what for.

"They drove us to the hospital. That family saved your life. Apparently twice, now." He tried to smile, gently and reached to touch the side of my face. I pulled away, and begged, "Don't. He let me go, and scooted away to the other side of the bed. Lionel looked guilty for a millisecond. Then, he went back to being his usual, heartless self. "I have to be at the office early tomorrow, big merger. If you want, I'll stay, but it would be better if I left."

"You have to work, go work." Once again, I tried to sound brave, and strong, like I didn't care, but in reality, I was still that same, sad little boy, desperately seeking his father's love, approval, and time.

"Lex," he said, laying a hand on my bare shoulder. "Come here," he demanded. I rolled over, pretending to fall asleep. "I'll see you next week," he promised, but of course he didn't. Lionel didn't return for months, but it didn't really matter. I was busy in Smallville. I was happy. Sort of. Not really. But at least Clark came back to the mansion after a few days. He arrived early—for me at least—exactly one week after running out. I thought it would take at least twice that long. It was a pleasant surprise, especially in comparison to my father's lack of a visit, call, fax, or even so much as a memo.

Clark rang the bell this time, and some servant with a giant mole on his cheek escorted the kid to my office/ the library.

"Hey," he whispered, not looking me in the eyes. 'I um—I'm really sorry about what I did the last time I was here. It wasn't anything personal. I just…something embarrassing happened, and I didn't want you to know about it." He blushed, actually fucking blushed.

"I think I know what you're talking about." His ears flushed bright pink. "It's nothing to be embarrassed by. It happens to every man in the universe. Mostly the reaction is involuntary, and it doesn't necessary have anything to do with sex stuff," I explained, gently, giving him a small pat on the shoulder. "I once got one in biology while dissecting a frog." Clark looked up at me all wide-eyed and amazed. I flashed a quick little smile at him. "So, are we okay again?" I asked, trying to make myself look all sweet and innocent. He nodded. "Maybe we should try something with a little less physical contact this time, unless you….I don't—I'm not disgusted or anything by you were really uncomfortable. I figured we could watch a movie, or read comic books, or play video games."

"We could shoot hoops," he offered.

"You've got a major height and strength advantage on me," I explained, although it wasn't even close to my real reason. I didn't think I could be that close to him, physically, and not mount, maul, or molest the poor teen. I wanted him so bad, but—at the same time—I was smart enough to know trouble when I saw it coming.

"You could always run me over with the car, and kneecap me," he smirked.

"Oh good, I was worried you might be bitter about that whole nearly killing you thing." He sort of shrugged, still looking at me like I was some sweet, wonderful angel, instead of a pervert with a hard on, for some ignorant farm kid.

"Or we could mess around." I must have jumped ten feet off the ground when he said that, and then touched my hip. I gasped, turning around to try and cover my suddenly too tight slacks. "Sorry I shouldn't have said that. I'll go now, and you'll never hafta see me again. Nobody will."

"Hey," I whispered, gently, touching, and then lifting up his face in my hands, so I could look him in the eyes. "Are you trying to tell me what I think you're trying to tell me?" He nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks. "And you've never told anybody that you think you might be—before now?"

"I tried to tell my dad. We were talking about girls, and dating, and him wanting me to ask Chloe out, and I said, "what I liked guys?" He started screaming, and calling me a freak, and stuff. That was an hour ago. I ran out, and I don't think I'm going back. Ever. I was so upset I didn't even grab clothes or anything."

"You can stay here as long as you want, but Clark, I gotta tell you, this just isn't smart. Speaking as somebody who understands complicated father-son relationships, I gotta say, your dad really seems to love you. Now, I'm not saying that he has any right to hurt or treat you badly, but—give him another chance. Go talk to him, just wait a while, let the guy calm down. I'll call your mom later, and see if she will let you spend the night in one of the guest bedrooms, okay?" He shrugged. "I know you're underage, but—at your size, half a glass of wine or something will calm you down without making you sick, or drunk—do you want something?' He nodded, downing two glasses of scotch in four sips. I was worried at first, but Clark didn't seem effected in at all.

"Can I stay with you," he begged, leaning forward, and giving me a quick, shy closed-mouth kiss on the lips. I ran a hand through his black curls. God, I'd give anything to have head buried in my lap, I thought.

"I'm just worried that I'll—I…look if you're scared, and hurt, and confused, and we do something…it could really mess you up. First time—especially with a man—is terrifying, painful, embarrassing, messy, and it's beautiful, fun, incredible, and amazing, but—I'm not rejecting you, that's really, really, really important for you to know. I want us to do this. One day, eventually, when you're ready, but if I don't—if we do this too soon, it's going to be more traumatic than good, and could put you off of sex for years." He grunted, wiping his eyes, on his shirt sleeve.

"But you don't think I'm a freak?" I couldn't believe my ears. I hugged him, tightly.

"No, you're gay. It's a completely normal variation—that came out wrong. People like you and me might not make up the majority of the world, but there are millions of us. Besides, you're fourteen. You're supposed to run around and screw everything and everyone in sight." Kid shook his head, violently, and latched back onto me. "Alright, then don't. Some people are…I promise, you're normal. Everybody feels this kind of stuff." Clark laughed, quietly. "It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay."

"I'm not normal," he muttered. I kissed the top of his head, hugged, and held him for what felt like a really long time. Eventually, the two of us made our way to the sofa, and laid down, Clark's face buried in my shoulder, eyes red, nose all stuffed up, his chest rising and falling slowly. I did what I could to sooth him, rubbing his back, and shoulders, gently, whispering in his ear over and over, and over, it's okay. You're okay. You'll see, everything is going to be alright. "I've been thinking about you a lot," he told me, pressing forward, and kissing my cheek. "And I—you know, thinking about us. I even had this dream where you bent me over the pool table, and then we did it, and you and I kind of melted into one big, happy person." He smiled weakly.

"I like the way that sounds," I explained, leaning in and giving him another, gentle, closed-mouth kiss.

"I even went up to the Luthorcorp website, and found a picture of you and your dad. I cut him out of it, and printed the picture out," he said blushing. I felt my own cheeks burn a little too. "You're really ho—yearly, sorry. You probably think I'm an idiot." I smiled, and shook my head. No, everybody says stupid stuff when they like somebody. Clark's face practically lit up.

"I like you too, Clark. You're cute—sort of."

"Really?"

"I'm letting you sleep in my bed, aren't I?" He giggled, again, and yawned. "If you're tired you should get some rest. I'm not going anywhere, honest." Clark started to relax, and soon fell asleep—he later admitted that he'd been awake for nearly 50 hours—and I picked up the phone, dialed his home number. Martha Kent answered.

"Hello?" Her voice and tone were almost identical to that of my mother's. "Clark, is that you?" I only noticed just then noticed that my hand was on top of my head. I yanked it down.

"It's Lex—Luthor. I know I'm probably the last person you'd ever want to hear from, but Clark is here. He's asleep," I explained, praying she wouldn't tell me to wake him, or worse, question my motives.

"In your room?"

"Well, technically I—or rather, my father—own this whole house so, yea it's mineor his, or whatever, but no he's not in the bedroom I usually sleep in." He's just in my lap. "I'm also sure you think it's none of my business, but Clark is only here because he doesn't think he belongs at home, or anywhere. He's upset and terrified, and hasn't slept in days."

"I don't have a problem with it. Clark is my son, and I love him with all my heart, but Jonathan is so…" Dear god, don't say it. I'm a fag. Your child might be one too. Hating us is NOT old-fashioned. It's downright, fucking prejudiced. "Stubborn," Martha finished at last.

"I don't know much about normal families, but I do know what it feels like to be in his position. He needs the love and support of his family, his whole family, or he's going to start acting out which will make things at home worse, which will make you and Mr. Kent more frustrated, and you will punish him harder, and …well, I think you get the picture."

"I love my son," she said, defensively. "And so does Jonathan." And yet you won't use your child's name! I wasn't sure what my last thought meant, but I wanted to shove my hands down the phone and strangle both Ma and Pa Kent, but my anger may have been more because of Lionel than anything either of them had actually done.

"If I gave him a couple of days to think about this, recover, realize how much his son needs your love and support, would you guys mind if—Clark can stay in one of the guest bedrooms over the weekend." All I could think was, don't do it! Don't say yes. You're just a few steps away from signing custody of your child over to a total stranger! Even Lionel never gave me away!

"Maybe it would be better if he came home—not tonight. I need to talk to Jonathan, but that's about all we—is that what Clark wants? Does he want to come home, or does he hate us?"

"I'll make sure to ask him when he wakes up," I lied, but she had no way of knowing that herson was half conscious, tossing and turning in my arms. I mouthed the words "I've got you," and he smiled, before conking out again. "Your son is not a freak; he needs to hear that from both of you. He's going to need to hear it a lot."

"How do you know all of this," she whispered, in that motherly, I'm-so-worried-about-you-please-tell-me-what's-wrong-sweetie, voice. "I'm going to bring some of Clark's things over this afternoon okay?" I nodded, stupidly. "And Lex, you're not a freak either." You don't even know me, I thought, but said okay, and hung up. Mrs. Kent showed up with Clark's backpack, containing his school books, a change of clothes, his toothbrush, comb, and deodorant, as well as a framed family photograph.

"He's only going to be here overnight…right?"

"Yes, but I thought this might cheer him up"

"That was nice. I guess I'm just not all that used to stuff like that." She gave me a quick handshake and asked how her son was doing. "The cook is making him something to eat. You wanna go and say hi?"

"Really?" I nodded. "Thank you," she sobbed, wrapping her arms around me. "You're a very sweet young man, aren't you?" I stood with my arms at my side, terrified to make a mistake.

"That's sounds like me," I replied sarcastically. "People think I'm my father's son. Don't even bother to get to know me. They expect me to mess up when I do…sorry. People aren't usually polite to me, so I sort of tend to act weird when somebody is. I'll help you find Clark." We walked into the kitchen where he was sitting at the table, a plate piled high with food in front of him, covered in pancakes, eggs, bacon, potatoes, juice, and a little pastry thing. "Easy there, we're gonna run out of food before dinner." Martha shot me a, now-you-know-how-I-feel look.

"I doubt it," he teased back. "You've got more canned peaches than we've got food in our whole house."

"Oh come on, don't be ridiculous. I'm allergic to peaches." Clark shrugged and laughed again. I patted him on the shoulder. He smiled up at me weakly and then turned to his mother, a little nervous.

"How come Dad didn't come," the kid asked her. Boy do I know how that feels, I thought, pathetically. Martha looked almost like she was going to defend her husband's actions, but once again made the right choice. She apologized, and promised to talk to him.

"Maybe I should move into one of the rooms in the mansion," he said, popping a strip of bacon into his mouth.

"I don't think that's a good idea," I cautioned. He looked up at me with those big, blue, puppy-dog eyes. You don't want me either, they sobbed. "Your parents love you, Clark. Running away from home isn't going to solve anything, but I'll make you a deal. You can come over here, anytime you want, and I'm your friend so I'll help you, but you gotta try and work things out, or else you're gonna end up like me and Lionel."

"And you're not just saying that to get rid of me, right?" I swore that I really did like him, careful with my word choice and watched longingly as Clark's mother hugged and said goodbye to him, lovingly. "Hey, I have an idea. We should have a slumber party! We could put on our pajamas, stay up late, and watch movies and stuff."

"Ohh, goodie," I mocked. "Can we fix each other's hair, and eat cookie dough ice cream, then throw it up so we don't get fat?" Clark looked like I had stabbed him in the stomach. "I usually don't wear pajamas." That made him feel much better. "I wear a t-shirt and boxers," I explained, blushing just a little. Clark was so excited to that I agreed to his silly little plan, that he ran up the steps towards my room three at a time, throwing on—you guessed it—flannel jammies—while I pulled on some sweats. Then, the two of us curled up on the sofa together. He started off sitting, with his head leaning against my shoulder, but from there it slowly slid down, coming to a rest in my lap, staring up at the TV. Rather than risk upsetting him again, I grabbed a pillow, and slipped it in between my hips and his cheeks, explaining that I had a bony, uncomfortable lap. Even tough he had taken a rather long nap in the afternoon; Clark started to grow tired around 12:30. I led him upstairs to the bedroom, where he bounced onto the mattress, flying a good five feet up into the air, then landing with a thud, finally rubbing the sheets against his face.

"These are so soft," he exclaimed, yawning. I smiled, gently, and kissed his head. "So, um…how, what do you wanna…what exactly is gonna happen tonight?"

"We're gonna go to sleep. It's late—well late for you, I'm still getting used to Farm-time," I explained. Clark didn't laugh. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and the two of us curled up beside each other on the mattress. Clark closed his eyes, opened them, stared up at me for a minute, then his lids fluttered shut again, and he drifted off, peacefully. "I love you, Clark," I whispered, before I fell asleep too.