Over his shoulder, it looks like the mansion’s something brand new, something bigger than it ever was. Lex is standing by the front door, hands in his pockets, and when Clark waves reflexively, Lex just nods. He watches as Clark walks to his parents’ old truck, and doesn’t go inside until Clark turns the key, and starts slowly down the long black driveway. Clark moves slowly, pretty much on autopilot the whole time – he brakes as he waits for the gate to open, he turns the wheel and turns out onto the road, and what he’s thinking about is the small patch of skin over the top of his collar. He’s thinking about how Lex’s breath felt there, tiny wisps of air combing over his skin, like little breezes. Tiny tradewinds or something – warm, and gentle.
And maybe it’s a little strange that right now *that’s* what Clark’s thinking about; not what Lex had said, or the way he’d smiled, or the fact that he hadn’t remembered *anything*, and not even the way it feels like Clark’s sinking into something thick, and mean, and filled with sharp edges because right now? Right now Clark’s really *alone*.
But that’s not why he pulls over to the side of the road. That’s not why he rests his forehead against the steering wheel and presses his eyes shut. It’s because even now, even with all this – all the rest of these things that swirl and rage and threaten to pull Clark apart – he still wants Lex so much. Maybe more, now, to tell the truth. Clark wraps one arm around his waist, his fingers landing low on his back like Lex’s did, and he raises the other hand to the side of his neck. To the place where he’d felt Lex breathing, where Lex’s breath had hit him. He curls his palm over it, and lets out a shuddering breath of his own, and he doesn’t think about anything more than how warm Lex’s body is against his and how Lex’s eyes looked in the streams of stained light.
It seems that drabble-type things are the only way back to my Clark. And so I do it. One small drabble at a time.