Notes: Thanks to LouAnn, Lybel, LaCasta, and Frankie for the feedback!

Ruby Truth – Valentine Michel Smith

A DJ spun wax on turntables, seamlessly blending everything from Talking Heads to Nelly to Fatboy Slim. Bass rumbled, thundering rhythm as call, inviting dance as response.

Bouncing his ass, Clark navigated a sea of bodies, stopping only to bum a cigarette from a tiny blonde. He took a slow pull, released the smoke provocatively, returned the cig and kissed her.

"Clark?" The teenager turned, wiping smudged red lipstick from his mouth.

"Lex! Fuck! I didn't - Good to see you! You got the message?"

"What message, Clark?"

Clark's eyes twinkled. "The one I left on your voice mail."

Lex removed his cell and checked. "Hmmmm, imagine that. No messages."

"Must've called the house then." Lex bit his lip, an impatient gesture. More proof something was very wrong in Kentworld.

"Gwen!" Clark tossed his head slightly. Immediately, Gwen made her way through the crowd, appearing quickly by Clark's side.

"Refill?"

"Um hum." Clark kissed her ravenously. "Incentive."

Lex watched as the dark haired woman weaved through the rout. "Clark, what's going on?"

"It's a party, Lex."

"Good to know my eyes aren't deceiving me. Who're these people?"

"Friends of yours." Not from the look on Lex's face. "Well, names we got out of the Palm in the study."

"'We'?"

Clark tossed his head. "Gwen dialed and –"

Lex vetted Clark. "Are you... drinking?"

Clark smirked. "Scotch."

"You're underage."

"So what're you gonna do? Arrest me? Or is this a morality police offense?"

"Are you drunk?"

"Pfffffft."

"High?"

"Lex, you know me. Do I do drugs?"

"To my knowledge - no. But there's clearly a lot I don't know about you."

"Not so much."

"To quote badly: 'I have no idea what you're capable of'."

Clark grinned broadly and bobbed his head as much in time with the music as in appreciation. "Very smooth." Gwen reappeared, two highball glasses in hand. She raised her own in a toast. The dulcet tones of exceptional glassware was barely audible as both glasses met. Clark emptied the scotch, eying the drained crystal wistfully. "Much like the Glen Livet."

"Another?"

"Later," he said, stroking the woman's face softly. "Lex, Gwen, Gwen, Lex. You go mingle," he said, scooting her off. He turned to Lex. "We should talk. Awwwwww, shit!" Clark's head whipped around. He watched as people filled the proxy dance floor. "That's my jam!"

Lex quirked an eyebrow.

Clark tugged at Lex, then worked his way to the center of the floor. More women and men quickly followed him.

Watching from the sidelines, Lex never expected what ensued.

If ever he were to have the pleasure of seeing Clark dance, Lex had envisioned something a little more "Joe Box"-erish. Instead, he found himself witness to what had to be a miracle, unquestionably performed by a demented saint. Clark swiveled his hips, moving as though he were performing an upright, well, lap dance, Gwen clutched tightly, pressed wholly into him, insuring the utter fusion of whirling, thrusting pelvises. Clark guided her easily, as though they were a single organism, attached at the balls.

The only white man Lex'd ever seen dance like that was Patrick Swayze. Unless you counted some of the club kids from those days, and frankly, those days were a little too blurry for Lex's memory to lock onto.

Oh, and Clark made Patrick look like an amateur.

Had the circumstances not been so dire, Lex might've been amused. He might've taken pleasure in the near parade as an Amazonian redhead joined Clark from behind and a Whitneyesque man pressed himself into said redhead.

Then, there was the woman who decided Gwen's ass was in need of company. No one seemed to object, the beats driving shouts and squeals, grunts and moans. Sweat dripped from some participants, but Clark remained fantastically dry, unimpacted by what appeared to be sheer sensual exertion.

Given something more than an inopportune opportunity (ah, the curse of the curious and the goal driven), Lex would've been more than willing to participate. Life had a way of depositing such "opportunities" on one's doorstep, then pointing them in the direction of someone else.

Sigh. You snooze, you lose. You choose, you lose.

Lex waded into the throng, cognizant of the energy, the seductive pull of abandon and frenzy.

Kinetic joy. He'd traveled the road previously, drug enhanced and desiring escape. Now, he wanted not release and denial, but acceptance. Acceptance meant behaving like a responsible adult, something, in spite of being only 21, he'd grown into.

Acceptance meant loosing the hunger.

Acceptance meant doing The Right Thing.

Was there only one right thing?

There was the feel good thing that felt right. Then, there was the moral high road on which he found himself absolutely by choice.

Clark motioned to Lex.

Lex begged off and continued to watch from a very safe distance. He hoped Clark would come to him.

Clark didn't.

The lack of movement on his friend's part forced Lex to make a move. Contained. Controlled. Focused, in spite of proximity, opportunity (inopportune, inopportune, inopportune) and desire.

Walking slowly, Lex joined Clark on the dance floor. He leaned forward and spoke softly into Clark's ear, "You're right. We really should talk."

"Ok," Clark responded unhurriedly. "Pick a quiet spot." There was a beat before he added, " I'll find you."

The Amazon swept Clark into her arms, pulling him into a tongue bath. Clark didn't resist. He watched Lex with one eye as the bald man took his leave.