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"Girly."
That's what Clark had called his favorite cashmere sweater.
"Like...something Lana would wear. I mean, it's kinda purple."
That had made Lex frown, as the material was quite clearly periwinkle blue.
The purple sweater contained five percent angora.
Heathen.
Lex wasn't sure if he was more upset at having his clothing genderized or by having it associated with one Miss Lana Lang (or as he liked to call her when no one but the dust mites were around to hear, The Contemptible Whining Bitch).
He supposed he deserved the abuse. After all, he was the one who willingly exited his closet in the midst of dressing and asked Clark Kent, not exactly known for his up-to-the-moment fashion choices (and who was perched on the edge of his bed, dropping cookie crumbs onto the carpet), "How do I look?"
Now, Lex was a confident dresser. He had been dressing himself since the age of five, when he politely informed his mother one morning in October that a brown belt would simply not complement black shoes, and could he please have a red silk tie?
It was not every day, however, that he was invited to dinner at the Kent farm under the title "Clark's Boyfriend." Thus, his nerves were rattled, to say the least.
And that was when it had happened. That face capable of rivaling the Greek gods had scrunched up, and Clark had said, "Are you really gonna wear that sweater?"
Lex had patted his chest, expecting to find blood stains or (god forbid) pills, but no. Nothing but an expanse of the most expensive blue cashmere money could afford.
"What's wrong with the sweater?" he'd asked, and a very vain part of him had chanted, Please don't say it looks too tight.
"Um, well, it's girly."
Lex had nearly choked. "Girly?"
"I don't mean it in a bad way!"
In his twenty-something years on the planet, Lex had never lost a night of sleep over a totaled automobile. He had never apologized to an injured fencing opponent. He had never eaten french fries with ketchup, and he had never been so nervous as he was knowing that in seventeen minutes, he was to enter the Kent's kitchen and sit down to a dinner of meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
While sitting next to Clark, as if he were part of the family.
So there he stood, barefoot and taken aback, biting the inside of his cheeks.
Clark, being his significant other (and love of his life, etc. etc.), should have understood his paranoia and hugged him and said, "Oh, Lex. Don't worry. My parents love you."
Instead, he continued to chomp on his cookie, stare blankly, and ask with a full mouth, "...what?"
Lex was not going to cry. He was not going to regress to the age of twelve in front of his...alien just because his favorite sweater had been insulted. He didn't need Jonathan Kent's approval. He didn't need—
He needed a tissue, but his feet remained planted to the floor.
Clark wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "Lex?" he said, his voice softer than it had been a moment before. "Lex? What's wrong?"
Shaking his head, Lex felt something wet slip down his cheek. He hadn't realized he was sweating. He should turn the air conditioning up.
Then another.
And a third.
Humiliated, he stood dumb and refused to dry his eyes. Bit down hard on his lip. Sniffed.
In a blur, Clark was wrapped around him, warm and squeezing him as though he might try to escape. Lex didn't have the energy to do anything more than lean against him and nuzzle the side of his neck.
"I'm sorry," Clark whispered. "I really like the sweater."
"The purple sweater," Lex mumbled.
"But you like purple!" Clark exclaimed. Lex gave up trying to convince himself it was blue.
"Forget it," he sighed. "I'll pick something else."
"No," Clark said, and kissed him quiet. "Don't change."
There it was, the reason he loved him, this boy from the stars who regarded him as untainted and beautiful. Who would love him in return even in the face of his father's skepticism. Who held him close and rocked him like a child but loved him as a man. Who took his hand, helped him into his shoes, and led him from the bedroom and down the steps and out the front door into the afternoon.
Clark Kent, alien farmboy to his spoiled billionaire, whose smile deserved sonnets written to praise it and tasted like chocolate when Lex kissed him.