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Lex braces himself for the next thrust. It's a bit too hard and a bit too fast, and even though pain has never been something he's sought out or enjoyed before, he likes it that way when he's with Clark.
He likes it, not in spite of the hurt, but because of it. It hurts now and it'll hurt the next day, and it may well hurt for a week; for all he knows, it might hurt for the rest of his life. In the moments he's honest - moments when Clark is behind him, over him, in him - Lex admits to himself that it will hurt for the rest of his life. Of that much, he's sure.
He'll feel it when he sits at his desk reviewing videos and reports that hint at things he can't prove, even as he rubs smooth the memory of the octagonal paperweight he can't find.
He'll feel it when he walks up the stairs into Clark's loft, and even though his rational brain tells him it's nonsense, he'll be quite certain the pain increases as each step carries him closer to his lover.
He'll feel it as he sits behind the wheel of his car, any one of his cars that sports an intact roof and an undamaged frame.
He'll feel it any time he gets out of that car to lean his head over a shiny-new railing.
He looked down at a moving river that didn't end anything, that started everything, that kept flowing and keeps flowing and never revealed the secrets it's seen.
There had been a time the river knew more than he did. That was no longer the case. Not that it mattered, because the only one who could rightly have revealed the secret hadn't. Wouldn't.
Clark fucked him, loved his body but not his mind. Clark whispered words, empty and meaningless words, lies, all of them.
Naked, writhing, glistening with the sheen of passion, syllables of love and need and desire flowed off of full, wet lips when they weren't kissing his neck, his back, his arms, his chest. But never, never once had those lips wound their way around what should've been said.
Relationships built on lies and deception were doomed to fail, and the refrain was a tired one even to him. The fact of the matter remained -- repetition doesn't dull that which is truth.
There are times he can't hide the his unease in his mind, in his soul, and the trouble washes over his face like the tide; he's never been as impassive as he'd like. The examination comes, a conclusion is reached, disease and cure provided by the same physician.
Soothing words arrive soon after, melodies of "forever" and "not leaving you" and "it's all right that you can't say it, I know how you feel." But he didn't.
He didn't.
He never had.
So Lex looks down at the river, thinking about the lie of destiny, and about what will happen when he's finally able to go.
For now, he takes what's offered him; clings to it like a ship to an anchor, allows it to keep him stable. Settled. Sane.
But he knows, in the deepest recesses, that someday he'll leave. Cast off that anchor, the dead weight of half-truths and false love, and set off unencumbered by any of it. All of it.
Because failure isn't his destiny, it isn't an option. He'd watched as his angel's lips opened to him in offering, and seen the forked tongue of a serpent inside.