When he closes his eyes, he sees them. Brief flashes of memory, somewhere deep behind his eyelids. Latched there, somehow. Each stuck there forever, as vivid and crystal clear as the moment it happened, playing for him like a movie he can't turn off.

Four years old.

He's climbing in the barn. He trembles as he grips the posts, looking for an alcove, a space, somewhere small and tight and warm for him to hide. Hide away from the loud voices and the anger.

His mother and father -- but no, he doesn't have those words, doesn't have any words yet; his thoughts are a series of images and feelings. They are the ones who care for him, for whom he feels that utterly dependent love, that perfect comfort and trust.

And now they were yelling. Everything loud and uncertain and wrong in a way Clark had never felt before. So Clark had scrambled outside his window and run to the barn.

He finds a hole now, and slips into it, curling up, making himself as small as possible. His eyes are wide and dry.

He stays there as the light fades around him. He is watching as they walk around and call for him, as his father climbs up the ladder to bring him down. His voice is soothing and his arms are calm and gentle and he brings Clark down to his mother. They hold him and kiss him and comfort him until he can only cry, and smile for them.

He's six now.

He sits at the dining room table with his mother beside him. The paper is in front of him. The pencil is in his hand. He is concentrating so hard that his head aches. He ignores it.

The paper has his name written at the top in his mother's perfect print. Clark Kent.

He knows his name. He knows his mother's name, and his father's name, and their phone number, and the name of their farm. When they go into town, his mother writes them down for him and pins the paper in the pocket of his shirt. If he gets lost, he should go to a policeman, or the person at the counter of the store, and they will find her or his dad. But Clark doesn't ever let her out of his sight long enough for that to happen.

Her hand wraps around his lightly, helping without really guiding.

"Come on, Clark. That's good. C -- L --"

And he's doing it, he's writing the letters, and he's so excited, because he's doing it right for once.

"A -- R -- You're doing perfect, honey -- K --"

The pencil snaps and breaks into dozens of pieces.

His mother forces his fist open and takes the piece he's still gripping. She wipes the rest of the bits from the table into her cupped palm. "It's okay, Clark. We'll just get another one and try again."

She walks to the garbage can and throws the pencil in, next to the first four.

And then ten.

It's stopped raining. The bleachers are freezing and wet. Not enough to affect him, really, but enough to irritate him. His butt should be numb now, he thinks. He should be shivering and miserable.

Well. Got one part right, at least.

The team is running onto the field again, and Pete turns and waves to him cheerfully, with that smile that seems too large for his face.

Clark smiles and waves back, trying to make it sincere.

He wants to be happy and supportive for his friend and cheer him on in his big game.

But instead all he can feel is jealousy. Anger.

It's not fair. He should be out there, too.

His father doesn't even let him do gym class now, ever since a few months ago, when they were playing tag at recess. He'd run to tag Lana and must've misjudged somehow, because she had fallen down hard. Her knees and hands both scraped, her face swelling, and she was crying, and all Clark could do was back away and stare.

He winces just thinking about it. Lana doesn't blame him ("It was an accident, Clark."), but he does. His father is right. He can't be out there with everybody else. He'd hurt them. He doesn't want to hurt anybody.

He wishes he didn't resent Pete for being able to do the things he can't. He wishes he didn't resent Lana -- everybody -- for being weak. He wishes he were a good person.

He wishes he were normal.

Twelve, finally.

He walks forward slowly, not quite unsteadily. His father is right behind him, guiding him, hands clasped over Clark's eyes. Not that it makes a big difference: Clark walked every step of this journey a million times in his childhood. There isn't an inch of the farm that isn't mapped in his mind.

But it's fun anyway, and he can feel the excitement his parents are radiating, so he shuts his eyes as tight as he can and tries to concentrate on something else.

Today in school he brought in cupcakes -- the last year, he thinks, that he'll be able to do that -- and the class sang to him. Later, at lunch, Chloe and Pete gave him their gifts. Books from Chloe, and that's perfect, because Chloe reads everything, devouring book after book, and Clark trusts whatever she tells him to try. From Pete, there were packs of sports cards. They'll spend hours together with their existing collections, sorting and organizing and trading.

He can tell from the smell and the texture beneath his feet that they're in the barn. His father stops him suddenly.

"Open your eyes, Clark."

They are directly in front of the stairs to the loft.

"What-?"

"Come on, upstairs."

His parents push him ahead. The equipment and odds and ends they'd stored there before are gone: it's clean and fresh and empty now, except for a gift-wrapped box by the window.

"It's for you, Clark," his mother says, as he stands there, just looking.

"For when you get tired of hanging out with us old folks," his father says. "It's your fortresses of solitude. For when you need some time alone. You're getting older -- you'll be a teenager soon, and ..."

Clark turns and hugs them to him fiercely; he remembers and eases up almost immediately. "I love you guys," he says into their necks.

"We love you too, son."

"Why don't you open your present now?" his mother says.

He lets them go and walks to the box. Inside is a telescope - he recognizes it as an old one of his dad's. "It's perfect," Clark says, and he beams.

Sixteen.

And now he stands at the bridge as the Porsche heads towards him, the boy -- no, man -- behind the wheel staring at him with naked horror as he hits and they fly into the air together. It seems to Clark that it takes an eternity for the water to swallow him, and suddenly they're on the shore.

He has him, and their lips touch, and the man is alive. There. New.

He brought him back.

It's like nothing he's ever felt before.

He reaches his hand out to Cassandra. His future is in front of him, and yeah. He wants to see it. Wants to know. Who wouldn't? All he has are questions. He just wants to know.

But this ... no. Not this. Cold and horrible and forsaken and alone beyond words. Alone. He doesn't want to be alone.

His lips on Lex's again, and it's so unbelievably better. More.

Perfect. He draws back and can't utter a single word. He can only grin his best grin to Lex and hope he somehow understands exactly what he means and can't figure out how to say.

Lex mutters his name in a low tone Clark's never heard before, and reaches for his head again.

Everybody who's died. Everybody who's changed. Lana's parents next to their car and Lana in the magazine; Lex in that cornfield; Cassandra in her house. Sean and Jodie and Greg and all of it is his fault. His responsibility. All of it because of *him*. And there's nothing he can ever do to make it right. To erase that hurt and wrongness or wipe the faces of all the people he's hurt from his mind.

He opens his eyes now. No more memories, just - now. Just this.

Lex sits above him, and wow. Lex. Lex has always been smooth, sophisticated, and self-collected: all the things Clark admires and could never be. But now Lex is shaking, flushed, breathing heavily.

He's rumpled, disheveled, and totally unlike himself. He's unearthly beautiful.

So sexy, Clark thinks.

And what about him? Who would have thought he'd be here now, with Lex Luthor's cock in his mouth? Clark Kent, the freak. The mega-dork. The perfect son. The good friend.

But Lex doesn't see him that way. Clark isn't sure what Lex sees as he stares at him and reaches down to touch his cheek, but it's him. Clark. And he seems to like it. To put it mildly.

"Oh, god, Clark..."

Lex is always, above all, in control, but right now he's shuddering, he's wanting and needy -- needs him.

Needs Clark.

Lex calls his name again, and as he makes Lex come, Clark is pretty sure this one'll stay there, too, vivid as all the rest, never fading or losing its luster, but right now Clark could care less as he climbs up onto the couch and kisses Lex again. Right now his eyes are wide open.

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