Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bruce and Clark met on a sunny afternoon, golden light bathing the green fields in Metropolis University. Rolling two suitcases and a full backpack, Clark walked inside his new room, meeting for the first time the man who was going to be his best friend.

In the beginning, when they clashed and fought, Clark wanted the man to move away, hating the constant knocking, rich kids wanting to talk to Wayne, inviting him to parties, snob assholes treating Clark like trash.

Their routines clashed too, Clark liked to wake up with the sun, Bruce barely slept at night, Clark liked to run outside and use the gym on the campus, Bruce did a workout at unholy hours while playing music too loud and too scandalous for Clark’s taste. For the first one or two months they kind of hated each other.

But they learned pretty soon how to deal with the other.

Clark learned Bruce exhausted his body every time he had a nightmare or was stressed, he was more comfortable in the silence, liked to have his mind working, and was kind, despite the losses in his life, that he still found kindness and love in the world.

They cultivated their friendship, talking late in the night, offering helping, learning to enjoy their time together, sometimes it was hard, really hard. There were times, when Bruce tried to push away or acted like an asshole, in which Clark felt like the only one reaching out, or wondered if he pushed Bruce’s boundaries too hard, but, in the end, everything worked, just knowing they could trust the other, and would be there every time they needed.

Clark looked at the text Bruce sent him a few hours ago. Straightforward and right to the point, the words on the screen were clear, but Clark still looked at them confused, understanding but not processing the meaning.

'I'm going to adopt a child'

Bruce was smart, one of the smartest people Clark had ever met, he was leading a gigantic company, planning and crafting charities all over Gotham to help people, but the idea of him caring for another human being, when he still asked for Alfred's approval for the things he did was unbelievably hard.

The text was sent the last night, close to midnight, Bruce knew Clark would be sleeping at that hour, and, under the text, Bruce sent a link, to a Gotham’s Gazette article about a troupe of aerialist dying in a terrible accident, leaving a little kid orphaned. It wasn’t hard to understand why Bruce would like to adopt that kid, and, with his money, giving him a good life wouldn’t be hard, but Bruce, the man that lived in PBJ sandwiches and cold pizza every time Alfred left him for a weekend, didn’t seem fit to be a father.

He was looking at the little schedule Bruce gave him, highlighting every hour he had free to attend calls or answers to text with his finger wandering around the call button, sipping coffee in the photocopy room and waiting for the papers to come out, when Lois Lane entered, pushing the door with her hip. She was chatting on the phone and gave him a nod when she noticed his presence.

“See you at seven.” She said on the phone. Then, looking back at Clark, she crossed her arms and leaned on the wall. “What’s on your mind, Smallville?”

“Bruce wants to adopt a child.”

“Wayne?”

“Do we know another Bruce?”

Smiling, Lois moved closer to the printer. She rolled a pen in her fingers. “The security guard that comes every holiday for the night shift, but he is seventy and only talks about his dead wife, so I don’t think he could take care of a child,” winking at Clark, “Though I’m not sure if Wayne can do it either.”

Sighing, Clark finished his coffee. He threw away the little cup and took the pages he printed. Looking back at Lois, his gaze wandered over the affable smile, the shiny lips curled up, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up, the black vest Clark gave her framed her figure, the black pants were the same she brought to their last date. Her blue eyes, smart and cunning, were analyzing every inch of Clark.

“He could.”

“The man can’t deal with commitment; he asks for second dates every blue moon and no one ever got to go to a third date with him.” Clicking her tongue, Lois pointed her finger at Clark. “A kid needs constant attention and care. He might be a good friend, but that’s because you were the one doing the pushing. A kid can’t be expected to be the one who puts in all the effort to build a connection.”

His phone buzzed, an invitation from Bruce to have dinner together, so he waved goodbye to her. He texted back an answer with many happy emojis, picturing the scowl Bruce would surely make when he read the reply.

They ate in silence, in one of the fancy restaurants Bruce liked to go. The table was hidden behind plants and veils, giving the idea of privacy, Clark tried to do some small talk, but his effort fell flat, not even gaining the sounds of approval or acknowledgment Bruce usually granted. He was clearly lost in his thoughts.

All of sudden, Bruce spoke.

“When his parents fell from the trapeze, I felt like the boy in the alley again." Bruce's voice was soft, barely a whisper, and he scratched the empty dessert plate with his spoon. "He is in juvie because there wasn't a place to him, and I want to help him."

"I can't stop you."

For the first time in the night, Bruce looked at Clark, right in his blue eyes. They were open, allowing Clark in like he never did. He stared. The look on his face, usually buzzing with ideas and plans, wise beyond their age, now, they looked young, so young and lost. Doubt and uncertainty were painted all over.

"I think there is nothing you can't do. Sure, this will be hard, raising a child isn't easy, you can't pull away from him, show affection in weird ways, or throw money at him; kids need attention, constant support, and love, but you can do it." Smiling Clark leaned on the table, holding Bruce's arm, looking right at him. "I'm here, and whatever you need, I'll be there for you."

Bruce smiled, a little smirk on his face.

"Thank you, Clark."

It wasn’t hard to get foster custody of Dick Grayson once Bruce flashed a smile and some bills to the CPS. During the first weeks, Clark got an insane number of texts, which felt really strange because Bruce usually only texted him once every week. The messages were photos and audios of everything the kid did, and Clark smiled at the annoyed fondness he had started to detect in Bruce’s tone.

The only bad side was the cancellation of their usual weekly meetings, and Lois mocking him about looking like a sad puppy, but the invitation to spend his weekend at Wayne Manor compensated for everything else.

There was something about the Manor that calmed him, back when they lived together, Bruce liked to take Clark on trips back to Gotham. They would stay over at the mansion, and get lost in the estate. Sometimes it felt almost like home, away from the city’s sounds, and he enjoyed exploring the Manor, learning about the little stories Bruce told about his childhood adventures or tales from his ancestors, and how the Wayne’s intertwined with every inch of the long tapestry of Gotham’s history.

Alfred’s food was another thing that made Wayne Manor one of his favorite places. The exquisite cuisine had a touch of home, making Clark think about Ma. Her cooking usually consisted in less fancy plates, but the love and dedication, something he missed the first time he moved away, were the same. Even more so after so long, just looking at the butler as he drove patiently in Gotham’s traffic, Clark felt at home.

“Bruce had told me wonders about Dick.”

“Master Richard is an excellent lad, educate and joyful. We have to thank whoever is up there he didn’t lose himself is that horrendous tragedy.”

They stayed in silence, and, sooner than later, they arrived at Wayne Manor. They arrived at the imponent doors, with an intricate design of metal bars twisted and folded in the shape of flowers, and the gates opened. Alfred drove inside and brought them at the stairs of the principal door. Carrying Clark’s backpack, the butler stood at his side.

“The Young Master is quite energetic,” he warned, clearing the entrance, “and full of surprises.”

As he stepped on the rug, Clark noticed a little kid snooping behind a half-closed door. He had shaggy hair falling in dark and messy curls, and his cerulean eyes locked onto him immediately. Clark waved his hand in greeting, and he smiled when the door was pushed open.

Dick Grayson walked into the hall with a big smile on his face.

The kid was tiny and running shoeless on his toes. He stopped next to Clark, doing little jumps on his feet. He was wearing a blue hoodie and a bright smile on his face, looking up. He extended his hand to Clark, shaking vigorously when the man accepted the offer.

“Hi, my name is Dick, B talked a lot about you, he said you were his friend, you live in Metropolis, right? I’ve been there a few times; did you know there is a shop that sells giant gummy bears? He also told me you were from Kansas; I’ve been there too when we were on our last national tour.”

He talked so fast, Clark had a hard time following him, still shaking his hand. Adorably, the kid was even standing on his tiptoes to try and face him. Alfred gave a dramatic sigh, taking Clark’s suitcase to the room he always used in the Manor, but the kid only giggled. Still talking about the places he had been, he pulled Clark along by the hand and dragged him to Bruce’s study, where he pushed the door open.

Standing on the doorstep, Clark looked at Bruce, reclined in the big chair, a cup of tea at his side and papers on his desk, eyes focused on the computer and a pen moving in his fingers. The same pen Clark gave him when both of them graduated. He was wearing a turtleneck, tight around his body, and his hair was messy in the same way he allowed himself to get when they were alone. His mouth was slightly twisted and he was poking his tongue slightly.

“Bruce, Master Kent is here, you said you would stop working when he arrived.”

Bruce looked at them over the computer, finally. He rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh, fondness hiding behind the pained expression, at the reprimand but he moved. He caught Dick in a hug, ruffling the hair as the kid laughed. He was still holding Clark's hand.

"Don't walk around in just your socks." Pulling the hair of Dick's scalp, Bruce smirked.

Pushing Bruce, Dick giggled. Out of the blue, he twisted his body to stand on his hands, body perfectly straight, and begun moving away just like that.

"What a cannonball you have there."

"He already climbed every chandelier in Wayne Manor and broke one." Pointing with his head at the couch, Bruce sat. Clark melted on his favorite spot, with his legs extended and smiling at the judgment from Bruce. The man was sitting in a perfect position. "Dick's a little shit, but he is so charming, it’s not hard to care for him."

Bruce had his mouth twisted, just barely, his brow twitching, and his blue eyes, as clear as a lake in summer, we're fixated on his hands, but the worry was hetched heavy on his shoulders. Clark moved his hand, brushing the hair away, tucking a rebel lock behind his ear, fingers lingering on the skin in slow movements under the jaw. He kept moving slowly, feeling the hot skin under the jaw, moving until his hand was on Bruce's shoulder.

"I'm here for you, everything you need.”

“Speaking of that—”

Before Bruce could continue, Dick came back wearing a nice pair of sneakers and holding a book tight on his chest. He immediately jumped to sit between them and looked up at Clark, smiling and winking, then he began jumping slightly on his seat and moved his gaze back to Bruce. He nodded, as if they had already practiced something they needed to tell Clark.

“Dick has been a big fan of the daily planet,” started Bruce, talking in an exaggerated tone, smirking back at his ward.

“Not like that!” hissed the boy, moving his hand to stay between them and Clark.

“Then you should say it.”

Clearing his throat, Dick looked up at Clark. “Mister Kent.”

“You can call me Clark.”

The kid gasped comically, open eyes and mouth, almost vibrating in excitement, nodding vigorously, pushing the book on Clark’s lap.

“Clark,” Dick started again, savoring each letter on the name, “as B told you, my parents and I were huge fans of the Daily Planet, and we had made a scratch book with our favorites columns and articles.” The kid opened the book, and Clark stared at the cut pieces, pasted on the paper. He turned the pages – wasn’t surprised to see Lois’ name popping up a lot of times, she was one of the best – , but seeing his name too was flattering, especially when Dick stared at him with such pride. “As you can see, we were huge fans of your work, and Lois Lane’s too; B told me you were friends, and he said your signature would make a great addition.”

Clark smiled wider. “Where do you want me to sign?”

Dick clapped, taking the book and going for the last page, where a thicker paper was added, soft to the touch, in a creamy color. Dick passed him a pen, whispering in Clark’s ear. “It’s one of the fanciest Bruce have.”

“I’m honored.” Once he had signed the page, he ruffled the kid’s hair. “You know, I’m a good friend of Lois. I could ask her to sign it too.”

“You think she would do it, she is always traveling and doing amazing jobs, I don’t want to bother.”

“She will do it.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Clark and Bruce spent their time with Dick, the kid talking about his favorite articles, until Alfred interrupted to get the kid to help him in the kitchen and leave the two friends alone.

“You are smiling.”

“I’m not.”

Clark laughed, resting his chin on his hand. Now, Bruce too was melted in the couch, legs extended and head lolled to the side. When he yawned, his hand moved slowly, brushing the hair on Clark’s forehead, twirling the rebel lock between his fingers.  The long and cold fingers touched his skin then rose to Clark’s crown. His fingers started massaging his head. They stared at each other, smart eyes halfway closed, thin lips pulled up at the edges in a small smile but enough for Clark. The hand moved down, stopping at his neck so that strong fingers could press on the knots at the top of his spine.

They stared, an eternity lost in each other’s eyes, feeling the steady breath of Bruce, his knee pressed against his thigh, hot and hard but not tensed. Clark licked his lips, feeling the hand on his neck pushing him down, and he moved, until something at the back of his head shouted, alarms ringing. He pulled away, his skin flushed, neck and ears burning, his heart beating on his throat.

“Dick’s parents were murdered.”

That sentence completely destroyed the mood.

“Oh,” was the only thing his mind made, still lost in Bruce’s touch.

“I want you and Lois to do an article about it, Commissioner Gordon has evidence and can help you.”

Clark felt his chest deflate, his hands itched to reach for Bruce, but his mind still beeped in desperation, the noisy alarms at the back of his skull.

“We will talk to Perry on Monday.”

Bruce walked away, tension clear on his frame and avoiding Clark’s eyes. He stopped on the door, holding the frame and standing in the hallway. “Dick and Alfred will almost be ready with the dinner, don’t be late.”

***

Smallville kept faith to its name. Everyone knew everyone, secrets were hard to keep because rumors ran fast in places like that little town in Kansas, newcomers were strange, and the only visitors were lost drivers. The only source of news from outside came from the radio, only two people had satellite TV, and the newspaper was a school project. The unspoken rules were clear too, and the most important was always, don't be different. Strangeness is bad. Step over the line and you are going to be in a living hell.

Clark had always been a good boy, always helpful, kind, and smart. He knew the rules and he never acted out, was chivalrous with Ma’s friends and a good sport for Pa’s. In truth, something itched under his skin, like fleas running and biting all over him. His mind shouted, saying something was wrong, and he always squeezed down the protests, letting it be a numbing sound inside his head.

The first time that voice went silent it was summer. The grandson of their neighbor was spending his summer in Smallville, and Pa asked Clark to befriend the kid.

Small and scrawny, Clark was surprised to know he was a year older than him. His name was Danny and he was pretty. He had a soft face and plump lips, like an angel from the church. His hair was long and curly, soft to the touch and he had a lot of moles on his back. He had big eyes, dark brown, framed with thick eyelashes and delicate eyebrows. Even his hands were delicate, inadequate for farm work. His laughter was scandalous and funny, and his kisses always tasted like cherry.

Clark was seventeen at the time, alone because his friends were working for the summer, and spending all the time with the boy was easy. Kissing him didn’t bring pain to his chest, not like kissing girls did. Swimming all day on a little lake was better than uncomfortable dates. Good things like that, though, ended fast.

Someone beat Danny up one day and no one knew who did it but everyone knew why. Clark became terrified and started hiding in his parents’ barn, avoiding him when they were outside. Danny moved back to the city in the middle of July, walking on crutches, his cheekbone still purple from the attack. Before going, he sneaked up on Clark and he looked at him with sad eyes.

I hope you get out of here, was the last thing he said.

Clark forced himself to work from dawn to sunset, taking care of the crops and the animals, avoiding Ma’s questions and Pa’s gaze, only thinking about the days under the sun, about kissing the soft skin and feeling those smooth lips over his own when they were alone in his room. The boy wandered on Clark’s mind when he drove Pa to the market, listening to the men calling slurs.

That summer was pushed to the back of his mind, buried next to cries of wrongness his mind made. Clark focused on school, the perfect excuse for not having time for girls.

“This was your idea or Wayne’s?” Lois was stirring her coffee, grinning at Clark.

“Bruce said we should do it together,” sucking the sugar from his thumb, Clark sighed, "I think it’s because Dick admires you, and you have a good reputation."

"He has a good story, I'll give him that, and Perry would be on board even if it was just a first fluffy interview for the kid."

Clark drank the rest of his coffee, walking behind Lois. When they reached her cubicle, he dragged his chair closer and they fell on a rhythm, throwing ideas at each other like how they used to for group projects back in college. Lois used to curl on his chair and Clark would stay on the bed while Bruce tried to ignore them. Eventually, he used to growl and huff when Lois tried to annoy him.

“How is the kid?"

"He is a really good kid, smart, pretty intense sometimes, like a ball of energy. He broke two chandeliers. I’m sure you will like him." Standing up, Clark smiled to himself thinking about one Dick Grayson, small and joyful. "I think Bruce will be a good father. He’s trying."

"I can make my own opinions, Smallville."

Clark left, moving to his cubicle. He felt the phone in his pocket buzzing, and smiled when a photo of Dick greeted him, bright and sunny, with Bruce and Alfred in the background, holding a net. The kid also sent a lot of emojis. Clark tapped down an answer, then shoved the phone back to his pocket, sitting to end his last report.

The week passed fast, and sooner than later, Lois and Clark were taking the Friday night train to Gotham. Perry was delighted Bruce asked for them to be the first ones to interview Dick, and booked the most expensive hotel he could pay for.

Looking at the landscape at the window, Clark wondered if Bruce would act angry around him, in the dance they did since the first year of college – one of them pushing away, walking on eggshells until the other cooled down, and never talking about it again.

“Perry wanted to reward us, with the hotel room, but he only booked one room.”

“Aren’t you going to stay in the Manor?”

“The hotel has better company.”

Lois laughed, leaning on her bench. She moved closer to face Clark, licking her lips, just a few inches away from him, her hair falling around her face. Clark could smell the fake fruity scent of her shampoo, the floral and soft tones of her perfume, and feel the hot air hitting his mouth. Looking in her eyes, bright and big, at the plump lips, shinning slightly with her cherry lip gloss, her skin shone in golden undertones, and the sun of the mid-afternoon falling in a striped pattern on her face, moving closer, he cupped her jaw, slim and soft.

They kissed slowly. Clark savored the cherry taste of her velvet-like lips and the mixture of sweetness and sourness from the gummy worms she ate not so long ago. Her hands moved to the back of his neck, as she pulled Clark closer. Closing his eyes, Clark let his mind wander a little bit. No one needed to know that, sometimes, he thought about other people when he kissed Lois, or any woman to be frank. He really liked her: she was beautiful in every way, her body was breathtaking and her mind was an extremely rare jewel, she was kind and smart and fearless. But, sometimes, Clark's mind conjured other bodies, stronger arms, sharper jawline, a broader back.

No one needed to know whose smart blue eyes were inside his head.

Kissing Lois was easy, being around her was easy. She didn’t want a boyfriend. Enjoying the time with the other was enough, and sometimes they slept together, but most of the time they acted like good old friends. A part of Clark was relieved to have an excuse to stop kissing Lois when they arrived; the other was guilty over being happy

On the station, Alfred was holding a banner with the stylized letters of their names. Waving at the old man, Clark rushed to his side and then followed the butler to the car that was going to chauffeur them.

“Miss Lane, what a pleasure having you around.”

“Mr. Pennyworth, I’m delighted for the invitation.”

Buckling his belt, Clark listened to the small talk Lois and Alfred were making, wondering how Bruce was going to act tomorrow. The car arrived at the Grand Gotham Hotel, but, before Lois opened the door, Alfred turned, two envelopes in his hand and a little smile on his face.

“Master Richard has asked me to give you this.”

The tick envelope was snow-white with their names scribbled on the front in delicate calligraphy, flourishes at the end of the letters. It had been waxed shut and, breaking the seal, Clark found a paper, small and soft to the touch, with less dramatic letters, but still elegant and pretty. It was an invitation, from Dick, asking them to have dinner at the manor.

Looking closely, Clark noticed the erased trace of the letters, less fancy, underneath. There had been a lot of care put in the thing, Dick even added shades on the capital letters with markers and color pens and a childlike drawing of some red birds at the bottom, flying around. Lois looked surprised, eyes fixed on her own invitation, hand over the card tracing the words with her fingers.

“Would you accept our humble invitation?”

Smiling, Lois looked at Clark, the question clears on the arch of her eyebrows and the little twist of her mouth. He nodded, and followed the conversation with Lois and Alfred more thoughtfully, pitching in occasionally. Something had fallen away from his shoulders leaving his chest lighter.

“Bruce knows?”

“Master Bruce is an intelligent man, but he and Master Richard have a deal, and the young lad knows how to justify your presence in the terms of their agreement.”

Dick was at the door of the Manor, sitting legs crossed on the stairs, tapping his hands on his knees. He jumped up when the car rolled on the road and immediately ran to the parkway to pull Clark’s door open. As soon as he’d dragged the man out, he began talking his ear off, chatting about some cartoon he was watching and a new book he found in the library. When he saw Lois, he turned even more energetic.

“Wow, I can believe Lois Lane is here!” Dick ran to shake  Lois’s hand, standing on his tiptoes. “My name is Richard Grayson, you can call me Dick, it’s a pleasure to meet you, my family has been following your work for a long time, Mom liked to say you were super pretty, and Dad said you were super smart, and I really enjoyed reading your works, they are very funny and I learn a lot; B said you will firm my scrapbook, and Clark said he will ask you, Alfred told me I should invite you for dinner.” Dick started walking, pulling Clark with him, intertwining their fingers and swinging their arms. “I wanted to text Clark, but Alfie told me that wasn’t proper, and, if I wanted to be a good and educated boy, I should send a suitable invitation, did you like the card, Miss Lane?”

“Of course, I liked it. The care you put in them is obvious, and I’m honored your parents liked my work.”

“Thank you, the scrapbook helped me learn English.”

Dick dragged them to Bruce's study, where he pushed the door open to jump on Bruce's desk, crossing his legs and smiling innocently at the man’s face, head cocking to the side. Blinking quickly, Bruce growled, and Dick leaned on the desk, elbows on his knees, resting his chin on his hands. Growling deeper, Bruce turned off the computer. “Go help Alfred.”

Jumping down, Dick ran away, his mischievous laughter filling the halls. Trying to avoid Bruce’s gaze, Clark sat on the couch with Lois pressed to his side.

“What do you want us to write?”

“The police are investigating the Grayson’s deaths as a tragic accident, but Dick listened to someone threatening Haly, the owner of the circus saying the main act would end if he didn’t agree to smuggle things for them.” Bruce moved, taking a folder from his desk. Lois took it, and Clark hovered over her to read, feeling hyperconscious of the places they were touching, their hips pressed together, his arm around her back, her head on his shoulder. “A friend of mine, the only policeman in Gotham I can trust, asked to study the ropes the Grayson used on their act and found some acid, capable of burning the fibers slowly.”

“You are telling us Haly’s and Dick’s words, but the only thing you have to prove they might be right is the rope, we don’t speculate in the Planet, we could write something about Dick’s adoption, or, in case the police start a process against Zucco, we could follow the case, we can only call him a possible suspect.”

Lois crossed her ankles, melting next to Clark, her hand pushing his glasses up to his nose. The soft smile on her lips caught Bruce’s attention, his eyes burning on Clark’s lips. Clark knew they had to be redder than normal, the colored lipstick Lois wore printed on his face, and he felt suddenly too conscious about the last time he was on the same couch, too close and too far from Bruce.

“Tony Zucco has a lot of money, I doubt he would go to prison, and if he does, he will be out again in a short time. A moving article about the tragedy for Dick, and the injustice on Gotham’s courts, might push the people to side with us and ask for a longer sentence. Put some pressure on the judge.”

“Are you going to put your kid in a Cinderella story?”

“Knowing the killer of his parents is punished will help Dick, and I’m trusting you two to help me.”

Clark moved, leaning to hold Bruce’s arms. They looked at each other and he noticed the worry lines on his forehead, the pursed lips, and the sadness. He squeezed, fast and lightly, giving him a smile. Clark pulled him closer, just a little bit.

“We are here to help you.”

Just then, Dick ran inside, loud and bright, and announced the dinner was served. He called Lois to talk about the scrapbook, asking again if she was going to sign it. Bruce stayed behind, putting away some of the things on his desk back to the drawers.

Tell me you are not mad at me, Clark wanted to say, tell me we can be friends.

“I’m sorry,” what was came out of his mouth.

“For what?”

For kissing Lois and thinking about you, for pulling away every time we got close, for panicking and hurting you.

“Go back to Lois,” was what Bruce hissed at him, after a long silence, walking at his side, heading to the door. “You two make a great couple.”

Looking at him, one loose-fitting shirt still tensing on his shoulders and chest, the hair a little bit longer brushed to the side, dark and shiny, falling at the side of his head, at the thick eyebrows, straight and full, and the smart and oh-so-blue eyes with darker splashes around, the wavy nose bent slightly to the side where he got punched one time at a party, the ivory skin smooth, nicely shaved, and the thin lips tasting like mint, soft and skillful, were pursed.

“Clean the lipstick,” he added, walking away in leg-hugging pants, back straight, giving a last glance before turning on the hall.

I could love you, was what Bruce told him not so long ago, and the only answer Clark gave was a kiss, awkward and soft, shaking under him, the ‘me too’ was stuck on his throat, buried next to the sad smile that boy on Kansas gave him, wrapped on bandages, bruised and bloodied, the whispered I hope you run away from here heavy on his chest, and the need to share one more day on the meadow, bathing on the sun, kissing, laughing and touching, ignored.

He didn’t pay any attention to the small talk on the table, smiling and laughing when it was expected of him, but not really there. He wasn’t present when they arrived at the hotel, or when he moved to kiss Lois, hoping to shut down the voice calling for Bruce.

She was beautiful. He found himself holding the narrow waist, listening to the feminine moans, kissing her neck and around the collarbone and all around her breasts, and he felt her legs hooked around his hips. Her plump and red lips open, the blush on her slim shoulders, her lean arms, her long and delicate hands, her dark hair spilling over the mattress like ink, as she arched her back, crying Clark’s name, smiling and kissing, laying there in his arms.

Back in college, people would call her a piece of cake, with her provocative figure, the round and big breasts, her sharp eyes and sharper tongue, her kissable lips, the smooth skin. Objectively, she was hot, so many people had told he was lucky, having a woman like her in his arms.

He knew she was what every man would want, but his mind, treacherous, wondered what would be like to have a bigger body sleeping at his side, flat chest, stronger arms, sharper jaw, how the burn of a beard on his cheek would feel.

He wondered how it would feel to have Bruce at his side and a gigantic void opened in his chest, leaving him to miss him like crazy, to wonder how things could be if he wasn’t a coward.

Thank god Lois was a professional. Talking with Bruce, Alfred, and Dick, while he felt like dying seemed impossible, but she looked at ease, doing small talk on the way to the Manor, easing the kid into a friendly and warm conversation until he was ready to answer the questions.

Bruce, giving the kid room to talk, was pacing at the door of the room, Clark noticed, and moved to his side.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Should I push him under the public light?”

His hand moved to grip Bruce’s arm, stopping the fidgeting. Bruce looked at him, letting himself slip a little, showing Clark the fear in his eyes, the insecurity, and the raw love he had started to feel for his ward. Moving the hand to rest on his shoulder, Clark smiled.

“You can trust us, Lois and I. You know we are not sensationalists, and we are not going to throw him under the bus, you can count on me for that.”

Staring at each other, Clark felt the time slip between his fingers like golden nuggets, the fortune falling from his hands as Bruce licked his lips, batted his eyelashes, moved his head, slightly, barely an inch. They were getting closer, the bright eyes looking at him behind the eyelashes, but not open, not like before.

Dick’s laughter broke the spell, pulling them apart. They poked their heads back into the room, where Dick was upside down on the chair, legs stretched to touch the head of the back. Moving his hands, laughing and smiling, He threw his legs forward, turning in the air to fall on his soles, and then rushing up to hold Bruce's hand.

“Bruce, you have to tell Lois about Zitka and Kimba.”

Smiling at Lois, he shook his head, letting Dick drag him back to the chair. The child chose to sit over his legs, grabbing Bruce’s arms to wrap himself in them. “He told me Kimba and Zitka were part of the deal if I wanted to take him in.”

“Of course, you have to!” Clicking his tongue, Dick sighed. “I was the one taking care of Zitka! Without me, who is going to feed her and bath her? Kimba needs me too, who is going to teach the cub how to behave?”

It was strange, looking at Bruce grinning, huffing, and following Dick’s reasoning. The kid was all smiles, charming in his answers, and it was making Bruce look at ease. The Bruce he met so long ago was cold, harsh, blunt on his words; they clashed for half a year until the man warmed up enough to trust. Clark thought they looked good together, the kid shining a light Bruce seemed to lack.

Sooner than later, the afternoon ended. Saying goodbye in the front yard, Dick brought a box full of cookies and left it on the seat. He hugged Lois, jumping on the balls of his feet, and looked back at Bruce. Clark smiled, hands inside his pockets, waiting for Bruce to walk closer.

"Haly Circus has a stop in Star City, next week."

"I'll tell Lois, she would like to talk to Mr. Haly.”

Dick ran to Bruce's side, jumping up the steps to stand on his toes to hug Clark, wrapping his arms around his waist. The kid was pretty small, barely reaching his chest, and when he pulled away he went to hold Bruce’s hands.

“Did you tell him?”

“I was doing it before you interrupted me.”

“It’s not my fault you’re slow; they have to take the train soon, do it quickly.”

Rolling his eyes, Bruce brushed Dick’s head with his knuckles, holding him by the neck as the kid yelped and trashed, trying to push him away, squirming to get out of the hold. Both of them looked at Clark, can you believe how he is? painted in their eyes.

“B has a thing in Star City the same weekend Pops Haly is going to be there, and he said I’m too young to go alone.” Batting his eyelashes, smiling at Clark, Dick pressed his hands together, as if he was praying. “Can we spend the day together?”

As soon as he nodded, Clark was attacked by a hug. Rubbing the boy’s back, he smiled at the exasperated sigh Bruce made. The man pulled the kid back to his side by his shirt a little later and Dick laughed. He waved at Lois before yelling his goodbye as he ran back inside.

“Lois is waiting for you; I won't bother you anymore.”

“I like spending time with you,” Clark blurted, feeling clumsy, so close and so far from Bruce.

“She is pretty, I like her eyes,” in a noncommittal tone, Bruce walked away, moving his face, avoiding Clark’s eyes.

“Pretty blue eyes.”

He didn’t look back. He walked to the car acting like he always did. Talking about the article with Lois, taking the train to Metropolis, sharing the cab with Lois to her place, dragging his feet up to his, falling on the bed, feeling immensely tired despite doing nothing more than talking to Bruce and Dick. He hid his head under the pillow after crawling under the covers. He peeked from underneath, and looked at the photos on his nightstand. The one with his parents, a smiley Kara, another with Jimmy and Lois, and finally he stopped to stare at Bruce, looking bored next to Clark, the phantom of a smile, barely there.

The day of the photo was during their first year in college. They were visiting a little town outside Metropolis for one of Clark’s assignments, at a little market. It was one of the first occasions in which they spend time, together, outside of their dorm, drinking pumpkin juice, eating sugary goods, Bruce walking at his side while he talked with the people of the area.

Growling, Clark closed his eyes, turned off the lamp and resigned to thinking about Bruce in the dark.

The week was tiring, dragging slowly day after day. Lois, the workaholic, didn’t have time for Clark, a thing he guiltily welcomed, spending his free hours looking at Dick’s Instagram - a private account on Bruce’s order - full of little videos of the kid jumping around the manor, hanging from handrails, sitting on the roof or swinging on the equipment Bruce bought for him. Some of the photos included Alfred, Bruce, and a little redheaded girl.

Dick, also, sent texts to him, planning their weekend on Star City in a joyful tone, making it really easy to picture him jumping on the ball of his feet as his bright cerulean eyes shone in gleeful emotion.

In what felt like years, Saturday came again. He waited for Bruce and Dick in Star City's International Airport, alone, for a while, wandering around the cafes and tourist traps. When he finally spotted Dick as the kid walked outside the doors of the national arrivals, holding hands with Bruce, he waved at them.

"Did you have a good flight?"

"They gave us earphones and a blanket!" Jumping on the balls of his feet, he moved to hold Clark's hand. His palm was so much smaller wrapped around his middle finger; and he swung his arms, hard and wide, making the men follow the movement. "I watched a musical and Bruce a historical drama, they served us a turkey sandwich and B bought some candies."

"That sounds like a fun trip."

Nodding, the kid dragged them toward the exit, telling Clark everything he did, Bruce, texting on the phone, added some things here and there, all the conversation carried by Dick and his enthusiasm for his first time in a plane.

"You can't let my hand go!"

Glaring accusingly, Dick pouted at Bruce, making a grabby gesture with his hand. The man sighed dramatically, holding his hand on his chest like he was wounded.

"How could I forget such an important rule, will I be forgiven?"

Dick giggled, grabbing his hand again. “You have nothing to do all the morning, Clark and I would be happy to include you in our plans.”

Humming, Bruce walked them where the cabs waited in line, opening the door of one of them, pulling Dick to sit between him and Clark.

“Clark would be tied to the same rules that I am?”

“He is just your friend.”

Ruffling the kid’s hair, Bruce gave the taxi driver their hotel address. He kept a hand around his son’s neck, pulling softly the dark locks, twirling the hairs between his fingers. Dick was glowing at the touch, pressing his back on Bruce’s side, one of his hands still holding Clark’s.

“He is my best friend, and I will call him your godfather.”

Dick looked at Clark, lolling his head to the side. “What is the job of a godfather?”

“Taking care of their godson, if anything happened to me Clark would take care of you.”

“Clark has to take my hand when we are outside?”

“Yes.”

That was enough answer for the kid, craning his neck to look outside the window; Clark looked at them, at the ease in Bruce’s posture, watching his phone while he caressed Dick’s scalp, and the happiness beaming from the kid, curled between them, his fingers playing with Clark’s hand and his chirped laugh filling the cab, pouting at Bruce when he got off, waving away.

“Have you ever been in Star City before?”

“Once or twice, have you?”

“Nope,” Dick popped the last letter, looking at the window. “We had a show here, but I was four and didn’t go outside the circus.”

Dick, imprinting on Bruce for sure, had a long-detailed plan of what he wanted to do. The itinerary was well crafted, passing from every major landmark on Star City. They held hands as they walked around the city, the kid pulling him to look at the tallest towers to enjoy the views, taking photos with a little camera, awing at the views Star City had.

He was like a little rocket, jumping around, talking without a pause about the things he researched about the city, barely stopping to take a breath.

“Do you think Bruce would hang out with us?”

Bruce spent a lot of time with Dick, according to his photos and what they told to him. Maybe, if they weren’t on that push and pull cycle, Bruce would be with Dick, hanging in his hotel room. Sitting on a bench in a park, eating roasted peanuts, the boy looked sad, fidgeting, fingers twisted together, legs bouncing on the floor. “Of course, he brought you here.”

“I told him I didn’t want a new father; do you think he is angry?” Dick pulled his legs to his chest, rolling one of the peanuts on his fingers. “I like him, he is funny and takes me to different places, he likes to buy a ton of things, but he is always thinking about what he gives. He could be a cool dad, but I had a father, and he was a great one, and I don’t want to forget him.”

Clark didn’t know what to do, of course, he would be a great father, immensely patient and kind, his kids would be blessed if they had him, playing with Dick's hair as Bruce did before, he felt the little body melting at his side, curled on himself, holding to Clark, he pouted.

“I don’t want him to hate me,” he whispered with a broken tone.

Sadly, for better or worse, Bruce could understand how Dick felt.

“How could someone hate you?” asked Clark, letting Dick wrap his hands around his arm, a small sob shaking his chest. “You are a great kid, Bruce enjoys spending time with you; he can understand why you don’t want a new father, and won’t judge you for it.”

“Thank you,” he whispered on Clark’s jacket, rubbing his face on it, sniffling.

Soon enough, Dick came back to being the happy kid running around Star City, they entered a Madame Tussaud Wax Museum, and Dick asked Clark to take a photo of him with every statue, despite not knowing who all of them were. They had lunch on a little farmer’s market, and spent the rest of the afternoon on an artisanal market, with handmade candies, clothes of artisanal fabric, furniture in wood and metal, marble statues and instant photos. Stuffing his mouth in cotton candy, Dick looked like a chipmunk, a little scarf wrapped on his neck, a little bird paperweight, and a set of pepper and salt shakers, flowers painted on the surface. He even bought a small pin for Clark, a feather writing over parchment, and Clark bought a little red bird for him.

Clark looked at his phone. According to Dick’s timeline, they only got one last thing to do, look at the lights show the Star City’s skyline did every Saturday. They took a walk on the biggest pier and bought tickets for the ferry, to look at the show from the sea. The bus that was going to take them there passed every half hour, and Dick was laughing on an uncountable list of facts from both the light show and the artisanal market, waiting for their bus.

His phone buzzed, and Bruce’s name flashed on the screen. Taking the call, he put it on speaker, looking at Dick who squeaked in delight, jumping on the bench from the bus stop, clapping his hands gleefully.

“Are you still on the market?”

“The bus will come in the next ten minutes and the ride to the pier would take half an hour,” explained Dick, looking down at the phone.

“Do you think I can go with you?”

Dick climbed to stand on the bench, eyes squinting, to watch from above on the people around them. He yelped in joy when he spotted Bruce and ran to his side, slamming on him, jumping to wrap his arms and legs around his torso, laughing. As soon as he rested his head on Bruce’s shoulder, he started to talk his ear off whit all the things they did.

“How was he?” he asked Clark, sitting, Dick still over him.

“A delight to be with.”

“Would you see the show with us?” asked Dick, lolling his head, the sweet blue eyes begging for him to go.

“I promised to spend all the day with you, didn’t I.”

Dick jumped, legs still wrapped on Bruce’s waist, grabbing Clark’s neck, giggling, whispering thank you on his ear.

During all the ride, Dick talked non-stop, sitting next to Bruce on the bus, with Clark on a singular chair next to them. He only managed to talk when the kid needed to take a breath. Dick gave the paperweight to Bruce, and showed the shakers he bought for Alfred. He grabbed both of their hands to get off the bus and run to the ticket’s cabin. He pulled them across the pier, along dinners and tourists traps, down the stairs at the end of the pier, until they finally stood on the line to board the boat.

“How was your thing?”

“Good, just an auction for charity, tomorrow I can spend all day with you.”

Dick clapped, pulling them to the third floor of the ferry, alone in a corner, Dick stood on his tiptoes, grabbing the handrail, one of Bruce’s hands on his back, keeping him steady while the ferry sailed, Clark stood at their side, his right hand still under Dick’s, grabbing the cold bar.

“Did you know the show started to be a thing when the Queen family created the attraction to bust the economy?” Dick pulled the little camera he had been carrying all day, directing the lens to the city skyline. “Because of that, Star City is one of the greenest cities on the west coast, and in the top ten of the United States.”

“Do you know how they got the power for the lights?”

“Solar panels, they charge all week for the Saturday show.”

Dick recorded all the show, awing and gasping, while the lights formed figures on the silhouette of the buildings, Clark looked at the little smile on Bruce’s face, the long coat tight around his chest, the hem brushing his knees, all black, except for lines of blue on his tie, and the white-collar of the shirt poking out, the hair brushed back, but the ocean breeze still pushed the dark locks on his face, the cold air giving a pink flush on his cheek and nose.

Bruce looked at him, lips parted, plump and shinning, thanks to the red tongue poking out to lick at them, Clark felt the blush creeping up to his neck, his cheeks turning an angry red, staring at each other, Clark moved his free hand, fingers brushing away the fluffy bangs on his forehead, the tips going down to the base of his neck, pulling up the hemline of the coat to fix it.

He moved his hand down, oh so slowly, until his hand was on the small of Dick’s back, giving a shy smile to Bruce. As the man gasped, moving his fingers up to intertwine them with Clark’s, he felt his heart beating on his ears. He squeezed, softly and, for a moment, they stood there, until Dick pushed back from the handrail, breaking the hold, moving to wrap their hands as he leaned on Bruce, yawning.

“Are you tired?” asked Clark, half-joking.

“It’s my bedtime in Gotham,” freeing Bruce’s hand, he extended his arms to Clark, in a clear gesture to be picked up. “My feet are killing me, and I’m hungry.”

With Dick holding onto Clark like a koala, they sat on one of the benches. He used an arm to support the kid’s back, feeling at peace at Bruce’s side, while the ferry went back to the pier. He carried Dick down, they walked down the pier, the kid yawning with his head hid in Clark’s neck, and they stopped at a little dinner at the end of the walk. “Wanna eat here?”

Walking inside, Dick sat between the window and Clark, stretching his limbs. He took one of the menus on the table, pursing his lips, finger moving down the options, brow furrowed in concentration. They didn’t take long to order, and Dick started to paint with the crayons the waitress gave him, scribing over a printed, black and white, cartoon dinosaur, swinging his legs while he painted.

It was unusual, compared to the silence on Bruce’s presence. The chirped joy in Dick’s voice was something new, not bad, though, that filled their little boot with his voice. He asked questions to Bruce about his occupation, and pushed Clark to talk about his week, only falling silent when he stuffed his mouth in food, identical to a chipmunk, bobbing his head at the rhythm of some sugary pop song the waitress put on the radio, yawning from time to time, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands.

Clearly dozing off, Dick climbed on top of Clark and pressed his forehead on his shoulder. When Clark stood up, the kid tightened the hold, laughing softly when he heard Bruce growl and rolling his eyes. “Go and wash your hands.”

“I don’t want to walk, M’ tired.”

“Clark is tired too.”

“There is no problem, we can go to the bathroom.”

Dick, cocky, smiled at him from the mirror, legs still wrapped around Clark. Twisting his back to turn on the water, he hummed a song while he rubbed the soap between his fingers.

“I like spending time with you, thank you.”

“Whenever you need me, kiddo.”

Dick shook his hands, moving back to hold onto Clark, as the man used the sink. They walked back out where Bruce was paying.

“Want me to take him?”

“No,” answered Dick, snuggling on the embrace.

Sighing, Bruce brushed the hair on his face, and walked them down the street. He raised his hand to call a taxi, and quickly Dick cuddled between them, head on top of Bruce’s lap and legs curled on Clark’s, yawning, eyes closed. He was drifting fast, leaving the cabin in a quiet atmosphere. The taxi driver barely acknowledging them, separated by the glass behind the front row.

“You are a great Dad.”

“You sure?”

“I’m happy he has someone like you.”

Bruce snorted, shaking his head. Looking down at the kid on his lap, sleeping safe and sound, curled like a cat, his hands ached to touch Bruce as they did back on the ferry. Trapped in the little bubble that was the cab, all he could do was brush his shoulder against Bruce’s.

“Half of the time I’m double-guessing myself, he deserves so much and I’m terrified of not giving it to him.” Huffing, Bruce arched his neck, moving to the side, to look at Clark. “How can I know if I’m doing a good job?”

“I don’t know, but I’m here, and I’ll be there every time you need me.”

He barely caught the way Bruce’s lips pulled up, staying in silence, just enjoying their company, the arrival to Clark’s hotel felt too soon. He moved to open the door, but Bruce grabbed his arm.

“If Dick, had you as a father, you would be great too.”

This was the first time Clark spent the holidays away from his parents, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year meant family reunions, curling in front of a TV with his parents, hanging out with Kara. In contrast, staying in Metropolis, with the tall and shiny buildings, reflecting the lights at dusk and dawn, felt cold, nothing like the Kent Farm in Kansas, with the brown walls looking like a gingerbread house covered in frost, smelling Ma’s apple pie, and wearing puffy sweaters and heating in front of the fire.

In the first year of college Kara´s parents invited them to National City, but now he was stuck in Metropolis, selling the tickets he bought to pay some debts back in Kansas.

Drinking chocolate from the machine on the hall of the building, which tasted more like hot water, alone in the room, he fell on his bed, rolled to the side and buried his head on the pillow, ignoring the door opening and Bruce throwing something that bounced on his back.

“Do you have plans for the holidays?”

“Sleep, maybe going out to see the Thanksgiving parade, watch Christmas movies.” Clark rolled to his side, taking the bag of chips Bruce had thrown at him and supporting his head on his hand. “What are you going to do?”

Bruce sighed, falling heavily on his bed, hands behind his head, looking at the ceiling.

“There is the Thanksgiving ball the mayor's office does, and my Mother had this foundation where she went to the orphanages to give things to the kids.” Bruce sat on his bed, opening a water bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Tearing away his gaze, Clark tried to focus on something else. “I’m just going to spend time with Alfred, what about your parents?”

“I didn’t book tickets and right now they are too expensive.”

Bruce looked at him, eyebrows arched, and clicked his tongue, as he closed the bottle. “Are you going to be here for all the holidays here?”

Shrugging, Clark ate the last of the chips. He turned the bag into a ball, threw the thing at the garbage, and then he fell flat on his back, yawning.

“Wayne Manor has a lot of space, and Alfred won’t mind me inviting anyone.”

“Isn’t the house yours?”

Bruce huffed a laugh, shaking his head, crossing his legs. “Everything is in my name, but he is the one in charge.”

The next week Mr. Pennyworth was driving them to Gotham City, clearly delighted for the guest, while Bruce talked about his grades in a flat, matter-of-factly voice, telling everything he did to the butler as if they didn’t talk every weekend, and Clark grinned every time Bruce looked at him from the rearview mirror.

Metropolis, people liked to say, was a star, a beacon of hope and progress, all shiny and polished, filled with dreamers, the city of tomorrow. Gotham, on the other hand, was a rough diamond, dark and gritty, with tall buildings hovering dreadfully over the streets; her people with hard hearts, molded whit freezing rain. The old saying went, be hopeful in Metropolis, sharp in Gotham, and thank god you aren’t in Blüdhaven.

Before Metropolis, he never traveled outside Kansas. Before Kara and her parents moved to National City, they lived in Wichita, which was just a few hours away from Smallville, and seeing Gotham for the first time, while Mr. Pennyworth rolled around the city, driving to the parking lot of a high building, was an emotion in itself.

“I want to show you something.”

Bruce left the car when they parked, hands hiding inside his pockets, and nodded towards the elevator. At the reassuring smile of Mr. Pennyworth, Clark walked to his side and looked at Bruce from the mirror.

“Didn’t you have a Mansion?”

“Most of Gotham belongs to the Wayne family, and that includes various residences across the city, but this is just Wayne Tower.”

Clark snorted. He stretched his limbs, tired from the ride, and Bruce moved to his side, brushing their shoulders. His heart skipped a beat, but he tried to think about something else that Bruce’s body heat next to him.

The doors opened and they walked to the lookout. The tallest building in Gotham, right on its heart, giving them a good view of the city. They stared at the lights of the dusk, soft pinks, vibrant oranges, and deep blues. The place was empty, no guards or tourists, only them.

“Dad liked to tell the story of this place, built by my great grandparents, I think, and about the gargoyles watching every inch of Gotham. He and my Mom enjoyed coming here after the entrance was closed. Sometimes we had dinner, or they danced under the stars.” Clark’s hands were on the handrail, and Bruce’s moved to brush his fingers. “She taught me a lot of dances here, and, most of the time, I fell asleep here, and woke up on the ride home.”

As if of its own mind, his hand moved to hold Bruce’s arm, giving a fast squeeze, but then stood there, feeling the muscle and warm skin under the shirt. Bruce looked vulnerable, none of the usually quiet and cold blue eyes, or the mocking glints he often had. These ones were bright, reflecting the purples and pinks of the sky, with something burning inside them, something raw.

Bruce moved. The arm Clark wasn’t holding slid to grip his waist to pull him closer. Facing each other, he cupped Clark’s face, thumb brushing over his jaw. This close, the inches Clark had over Bruce were pretty obvious. Tilting down his head, they brushed noses and something burnt inside Clark, feeling his heart hanging from his sleeve.

They kissed, slow and soft, more like pressing their lips together than actual kissing, feeling the hand around his waist holding him tightly, and the hand on his cheek, strong and hot, keeping his head steady. He felt the slow movement of Bruce’s lips, the grip of his arms, and he gasped, moving the hand on Bruce’s arm to his scalp, rolling the black locks, smooth and straight, cold on the tips, burning on the roots, pulling him closer with an arm looped around his back, feeling the little grin on his lips, and the shivering breath coming from his mouth.

Bruce pulled them apart, and walked back to the elevator, not touching him on the ride back. He felt an angry red blush on his face when Alfred greeted them, sitting back in his seat, the hideous voice came, judging and mocking.

“When are you going to part, Master Bruce?”

“Where are you going?”

Mr. Pennyworth made a sound, something that was very close to disapproval, clicking his tongue, Bruce, having the decency to look ashamed, turned his face to the window, resting his chin on his palm, clearly avoiding Clark’s gaze.

“You looked like a beaten puppy, and I decided to give you a ride to Smallville.” Mr. Pennyworth cleared his throat, tapping the wheel. “Alfred knows how to drive a helicopter.”

“Of course, Master Bruce has to spend a few days in Gotham, the Thanksgiving party at the Mayor’s office is an unmissable compromise.”

Clark felt the blush heating up his neck, smiling at Bruce from the rearview mirror, he moved to grip his arm. “Thank you.”

“If I didn’t do something you would have spent your visit moping around.”

They arrived at the manor shortly after, and Bruce didn’t waste time dragging Clark around the place, briefly showing him the entertaining room, library, garage, and kitchen, ending the visit on Bruce’s room, darkened by the closed curtains, heavy crimson clothes.

Feeling the hand on his waist and the fingers pressed on his neck, he shivered, trapped between Bruce’s body and the wall, the hot breath on his neck, tense muscles keeping him in place.

“Let me kiss you.”

The whisper felt like begging, as Bruce left ghost touches lining his jaw, going up to his cheek, staying close to his lips. The smart blue eyes fixed on him, the same raw thing burning on them, as the hands gripped harder, and the beat on his chest sped up. Clark gasped, hands tickling at his side, closing his eyes, he ignored the alarm at the back of his head, going quiet when he moved near Bruce, shaking hands wrapped around his body, pulling his head, biting the grin the other made, melting in the hands, wobbly knees letting Bruce maneuver him around. Bouncing on the bed, he pulled Bruce to lay on top of him.

Kissing Bruce felt like breathing, the hands steady on his waist, the thin lips, smooth and hot, tasting like mint, smelling him all over the place, the scent of the cucumber soap, the one they started sharing a few months ago, tickling his tongue when he traces the neck with his tongue, burning wood and mint clouding his senses, smelling it on the bed, the clothes and the skin.

Almost whimpering when Bruce pulled apart, his hands moved to caress his face, more tactile than Bruce, touching him came unusually easy. His fingers touched Bruce’s cheek the only thing keeping them together. “You don’t have to stay with me, Alfred can take you to Smallville, if you want, I won’t be there.”

Reality hit him like a train, while he held Bruce Wayne’s face. He knew the world won’t accept them easily. Thinking about his neighbor’s grandson, he couldn’t help but picture Bruce laying on a hospital bed, looking at Clark with sad eyes, shivering under the idea of his parents throwing him out for coming out, confirming the people whispered gossip about the cities, full of queers, pansies running wild on the streets.

“I have never been outside of the closet.”

Bruce moved, his hand grabbing the one on his face, kind eyes on him.

“We can stay here, or you can go alone.”

“I want you there,” blurted Clark, lifting his body, looking at Bruce.

“As your friend?”

Something rang in the room, a line phone on the wall, Bruce walked there, talking quietly, hanging and opening the door. “Alfred is waiting for us down.”

Bruce ran away. Falling flat on the bed, Clark touched his lips, the mint still lingering on his tongue.

They ate in silence, the tension feeling like a rubber band extended at its limits, Clark moved to help Mr. Pennyworth, taking the dishes to the kitchen, as he paced on the room, fetching things for the butler, more for his sake than the old man, for sure.

“Everything is alright between you and Master Bruce?”

“Don’t worry Mr. Pennyworth.”

Mr. Pennyworth took Clark to his room, next to Bruce’s, and explained to him how to use the intercom, if he ever needed something from him; impulsively, he called at Bruce’s room, rolling the cord between his fingers for what felt like an eternity and listening to the muffled ring at the other side of the wall, knowing Bruce was there, only a few meters away.

“I had never dated a man, or a girl, not seriously, and never brought someone home. The only one that knows I’m not straight is my cousin, Kara.”

“I won’t out you, Clark, we can go back at what we were… or have something else.”

Pressing his forehead on the wall, Clark sighed, listening to the steady breath of Bruce. Closing his eyes, he held the phone tightly, until his knuckles were white.

“Can we have something else?”

“We can.”

Bruce was never there, not really, occupied with the obligations the Wayne name had for him, spending most of his time on the library, or trying to help Mr. Pennyworth around, listening to stories about ‘Young Master Wayne’ and his shenanigans around the manor, Clark also talked with his parents, both of them delighted about his surprising visit, and they talked his ear off about how they will attend ‘Mister Pennyworth and your friend Bruce’s evening,’ wondering who could lend them a bed.

The only time they spend together was the mornings and the nights, using the entertaining room the manor had, to watch movies, or walking around the land, kissing between time to time, nothing more than pecks, nothing compared to what they did the first night in Bruce’s room.

They never went back to Bruce’s room together.

During the Thanksgiving party, Mr. Pennyworth and Clark ate in the kitchen, watching the transmission of the gala, making small talk with the butler.

“Master Bruce looks happy around you.”

“Hard to notice.”

Mr. Pennyworth smiled, scrubbing the dishes as he let Clark dry them with a towel. “You are very helpful, Master Kent, and you can’t understand how he was before you met.”

“I thought he hated me, at the beginning.”

“Your presence does wonders on him.” Sighing, Mr. Pennyworth turned off the water, a sad expression on his face. “I’ve known him since he was a little kid, running down these halls around Master Thomas and Mistress Martha. When they died, I thought— I was sure I lost Master Bruce, but you lighten him up, bringing back something of what he was back then.”

They ended their work in silence, sending Clark away when he tried to put the dishes back on the shelves, falling on the bed. He sniffed the detergent Mr. Pennyworth used, the floral scent all Bruce’s clothes had, roses and something fresh, falling asleep.

Someone fell on top of him, and he gasped in surprise. He looked at Bruce, blown out eyes, hair still on place, slicked back, the shirt tucked inside his pants, and the tie nicely tied around his neck. The only thing giving away that something off were the eyes, shiny and unfocused, as he caged Clark on the bed, legs curling around his hips, sitting on top of him with hands at the sides of his head. With the unsteady breathing, the sharp smile, as Bruce looked at him, arousal and adoration plain in his eyes, leaning closer, he could smell the liquor, burning his nose.

“I want to kiss you,” his words sounded like an order and a plea, he licked his lips, thin and red.

They did it. Feeling the breath sucked out of his chest, Clark felt the teeth and tongue, the hardness around his lips, the boneless touching his cheeks, curling around his tongue. All felt surprisingly good, as the hands moved to his chest and Bruce shook over him, moans coming between bites.

His balance was off, letting Clark roll him to the side, feeling the lips sucking hard under his jaw, on his neck, right at the Adam’s apple, leaving wet tracks on his skin. He held onto Bruce, as the lips lined the collar of his shirt.

“I wish we could be something else.”

Bruce fell asleep on top of him, his kisses growing languid, less eagerness and more laziness. Trapped around Bruce, leg over his hip, arms around him, he shivered, feeling the hot skin through the shirt, blushing when he tried to take off the belt, shoes, tie and shirt, hands trying to touch the less amount of skin, feeling the head snuggling at the crock of his neck.

Tomorrow Bruce would be mortified.

Washing the dishes with Ma, Clark hummed the song playing on the radio, clearing the soap. He hanged them on the monstrosity his mother used to let them dry, three floors of bent metal standing upright by sheer luck, different kinds of tape keeping it all together. Trying to be as careful as possible, he piled up the dishes, the arch on Ma’s eyebrows daring him to speak up about the thing.

“Why don’t you change it?”

“It’s still useful, and hasn’t caused any accidents.”

Drying his hands on the towel, Clark sat next to Pa’, feeling like a kid when the man started to brush his hair with his fingers. He started to fall asleep with the radio and his parents' voices as background noise. He missed the years before, where he was a kid curled on Pa’s lap, and he sat on the counter next to Ma while she cooked. Taller and buffer than them, he couldn’t sleep over Pa again, sit on the counters, ride on Pa’s shoulders, or be carried by Ma.

Someone knocked on the door. Looking at the clock in the hall, he wondered who was outside at past eleven o’clock. With the snowfall that just ended, only fools would go outside at this hour.

Opening the door, he felt a little body smashing against him, limbs wrapping his neck and waist. The thick coat, soft to the touch, was wet on the shoulders and the back and Dick’s cold nose was pressed on his cheek, sending shivers down his spine. Laughing, the kid pulled back enough to look face to face at Clark.

“We almost fell from a cliff!” he declared, happy, craning his neck to look at Bruce still on the door in a long coat, a blue scarf around his neck, his cheekbones and nose tinted in a lovely red.

“Good night, Clark, Martha, Jonathan,” bowing his head at each of them, he walked inside with a paper bag in his hand. “I brought Alfred’s cookies.”

“Bruce!” Martha extended her arms and hugged Bruce, fast and loosely, taking the bag of his hands.

“And you should be Dick, Clark said nothing but wonders about you!”

Dick freed Clark from his hold, moving to shake Ma’s hand and let Pa mess with his hair. Bruce looked happy, the warm grin on his face, still on the door with warm eyes over Dick. As the kid started a conversation with Pa, retelling every detail of their trip, taking the hot cocoa Ma passed at him and picking the marshmallows with a spoon, Bruce approached Clark.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“It’s our tradition.”

Dick stayed up until past midnight, dozing off in Bruce’s arms. Eventually, he yawned and waved goodbyes, being carried up to Clark’s room.

“The mattress of the guest room was eaten by mice,” confessed Clark, looking at his old room.

His bed wasn’t small, but wasn’t the biggest, not like they had in Wayne Manor. As Bruce left Dick on the bed, taking off his shoes, the kid rolled to the side, curling on himself and snoring lightly, thanks to the bad angle his head had. Clark smiled, looking for the sleeping bags he had in the closet.

“Are you going to sleep on the floor?”

“You are the guest, Bruce, and you drove here.”

“Your bed is big enough for the three of us.”

They had never shared a bed since college, even when Clark visited Wayne Manor or Bruce went to his place in Metropolis. They never slept on the same mattress again, and the last time they did it was here, in his room, on that same bed.

“Dick likes to be cuddled in his sleep.”

He took the excuse, picking Dick up, a heavy sleeper for what it looked like, and Bruce pulled down the blankest, resting on his side, back pressed on the wall. Lying on the other side, Dick, like an octopus, hooked his legs on Bruce, and rested his head on Clark’s arm, taking the other to wrap it around his waist, heating up the covers.

Falling asleep, slowly, his heart skipped a beat when a hand brushed his, Bruce’s knuckles against his own, shaking, for what felt like hours. He stayed still, moving only when Bruce tried to pull his hand away to hold his fingers in a weak grip. Feeling the sweat on his palms, he realized he had been holding his breath, only when he felt the squeeze, a tighter hold, thumb drawing circles on his skin.

“I could love you,” whispered Bruce, so low Clark wondered if he was hallucinating, “I want us to be something else.”

“And Dick?”

“I want you to be part of his life, our life.”

His chest was aching. Feeling like drowning, he gave a soft squeeze, nose dug on Dick’s hair, a fruity childish smell. He let his mind wander around the idea as he fell asleep, still holding Bruce’s hand.

The next day, like a baby duckling, Dick followed Clark as he did the chores on the farm, despite Pa’s protest about them being guests. The kid was running around like an unstoppable force, awing at everything he learned, as he was taught how to protect the chickens from the wild animals and the cold, and learned how to differentiate between an edible egg and the ones that were going to hatch. He petted the cow, the ducks, the gooses, and played with Krypto, the old dog Clark had since he was a teen. Ma, extremely happy about having a little kid on the farm, fed Dick and Bruce with sweets and savory snacks as she taught the kid information about the kitchen.

Clark was amused by the way Bruce was following the kid everywhere he went, quizzing him about what he learned and letting him use his body like monkey bars, climbing up on his back, hanging upside down from his neck, and swinging from his arm.

Dick also jumped over Clark, laughing like crazy when he startled him.

One afternoon, Pa was teaching Dick how to milk the cow, while he petted the head of the calf feeding him with the watermelon’s skin, and Bruce was helping Clark concealing the holes the place had to protect the cow and her baby. His heart felt as if it was exploding every time they touched, a part of him wondering how many were an accident.

“How was Zucco’s trial?” asked Clark, smiling at the yelping Dick made when he milked the cow.

“A lot of the jurors read your article, and Gordon had a lot of evidence of Zucco’s drug trafficking operation. He got seventy years.” Brushing of the hay off his slacks, Bruce looked down at him, a shy little smile on his lips. As he pulled Clark up, he let his hand rest on the small of his back, moving closer to whisper at his ear. “Thank you, Dick has stopped having almost daily nightmares.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“He thinks his heroes put Zucco in prison, he adores you.”

“He adores you too,” looking at Pa and Dick, all their attention on the cow, he moved closer, pressing their arms together. “You are good for him.”

“You too, and you could be a bigger part of his life.”

Dick called Bruce, and he pulled away. Feeling his heart beating in his neck, Clark gulped air, letting the words dig inside his head. A tiny part of him ended up daydreaming the life Bruce wanted with him, but every time Bruce walked away, the red lights went up inside his head and he thought about all the things that could go wrong, something ugly curling at the mouth of his belly, hissing bad omens laughing cruelly at his hopes.

After that, for two days nothing extraordinary happened. They kept sharing the bed but didn’t talk about that topic again, Clark not letting it inside his head until, one afternoon, when he, Ma, and Dick were alone, Pa and Bruce in town buying things Ma needed for the Christmas dinner. Ma was whisking some concoction and Dick was doing a handstand, bored, telling them about Alfred’s whereabouts – apparently, enjoying himself on a cruise on the Caribe, Bruce and Dick’s gift -.

He twisted his body, his left foot hitting the dishes hanging on the dryer and making them all fall. Ma yelped, and Dick fell with a hard thud on the floor. Krypto ran away, scared from the noise, just as Clark ran to their aid to see Dick surrounded by broken dishes, eyes wide open, and Ma by the corner, a hand over her chest.

“I’m sorry!” The kid cried, his eyes shining, a little red on the edges. “I’ll be more careful! I’ll clean it all!”

Dick tried to stand up, pressing his hand on the floor, only to hiss when the ceramic pieces dug on his palms. Immediately, Clark pulled Dick up by the armpits and sat him on the table, bloody hands resting on his knees.

“I’m sorry.”

“Everything is okay, Dickie,” ruffling his hair, using the nickname they gave him, Ma moved to grab the broom, “it’s a miracle that thing didn’t fall sooner, the only thing holding it together was tape.”

The kid was shoeless, sobbing slightly.

“Can you show me your hands?” rubbing the palms with a wet cloth, Clark was relieved at not seeing any shards on the kid’s hands. The cuts were shallow, no need for stitches. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I hit my ankle.”

“Let’s go to the bathroom, give a good wash to your hands, and look at your ankle, okay?”

Staring at the floor, the shards haphazardly laying on there, he made Dick clung to his body as he carried him up to the bathroom, moving his foot up and down, a little pout on his mouth.

“Do you think they would be angry?”

“Who?”

“Your parents, and Bruce.”

“Pa had tried to make Ma put that thing in the trash for ages, and Ma had been searching for an excuse to throw away that crockery.”

Dick washed his hands, hissing while he rubbed the soap between his fingers. Dipping a cotton ball in iodine, Clark cleaned the cuts, pressing softly the wounds, talking gibberish to distract Dick.

Few cuts needed a band-aid, and, thankfully, his parents still got the old ones with patterns and printed animals. As the boy chose the ones he wanted, Clark found an ugly bruise tainting the skin on Dick’s ankle, deep purples, blues, and greens. Pressing a bag of ice, Clark searched for a cream Ma used.

After smearing the green goo on Dick’s ankle, he helped him jump back to the living room, and planted him to watch TV while he waited for Bruce.

“You would be a great father.”

“I haven’t found the right person.”

“You sure?” pointing at Dick, Ma smiled. “Do you think Bruce can take care of that kid alone?”

“Ma, I’m not…”

“You look at him like he put the sun and stars up in the sky,” moving closer to whisper on his ear, he felt Ma’s smile, “Jonathan and I love you, no matter what, and I bet Dickie would love for you to be in his life. And Bruce too.”

“I’m part of their lives.”

Ma patted his arm, then went to sit next to Dick, knitting with the TV as background noise. “We could buy new dishes in the fair, some things there are so pretty.”

“Smallville has a fair?”

“Every May, if you help me choose what to buy you can stay here.”

Grinning at Clark, she spent the rest of the afternoon telling dick all about the fair.

Bruce enjoyed driving. He looked happy in front of the wheel, ease on his shoulders that wasn’t there before, not going really fast but just enough to have the wind hitting his head. Clark liked road trips, rolling around the highway, feeling better on cars, buses, and trains. Dick liked to take trips too, used to moving around in Haly Circus, and he knew a lot of places around the world.

“Mama told me I had itchy feet, like her,” he explained.

“You must feel terribly bored on Wayne Manor.”

“B has like a ton of books,” hanging from Clark’s back, he whispered in his ear, “I don’t think he has read all of them.”

He carried Dick back to the car, the kid falling on the back seat, as Bruce was at the counter paying for the gas and the ton of the candies Dick got him to buy. Changing the radio station until he found something that Dick liked, Clark settled to wait for Bruce as he checked on Dick laying on the seats, feet pressed on the closed window.

Bruce drove them to Smallville in comfortable silence, Dick snoring on the back. Slowly, making sure the boy was deep in his sleep, and carefully, his hand touched Bruce’s, fingers brushing. He gasped when Bruce gripped his hand, their hands over the gear stick, long bony fingers between his, alabaster hands soft against his skin. Their hands never parted, not until they arrived at the farm and Bruce had to let him go to open the doors.

They spent the afternoon on the farm, looking at Dick running behind Krypto, his tail wagging like crazy. This time his parents had a spare mattress where Bruce and Dick slept.

As soon as the sun was out, Dick was waking all of them up, almost vibrating from the excitement. He ended up running up and down the road to the fair, Krypto at his heel. Ma and Pa were going in the afternoon, but Dick wanted them to be from sunrise to sundown, and they had been incapable of saying no.

They ate breakfast at the tent of Ma’s friend, and Dick jumped from place to place to taste everything, abusing those puppy eyes of him to get Bruce to buy everything and carry it for him. When lunchtime came, Dick had eaten from all the places and was ready to use all the games, starting with the little workshops some people made, like painting, making candles, carving wood, crocheting, and cooking lollipops. He used the pirate boat, the UFO that spun him on a box, a little roller coaster, the flying swings, and made all of them test the mechanical bull, being all smiles and laughs.

Bruce bought Ma new crockery, and Dick helped her choose which one, charming all Clark’s old friends. All the time, he hung from Bruce and Clark’s hands, never letting them go for long.

His head still betrayed him, though, as he drank root beer from one of the brutes that hurt the neighborhood grandson years ago, wondering if they could tell, by just looking at him and Bruce, that they weren’t normal, not like they should be. He wondered if the people would call them sick, he thought of the field day the pink press would have. Gotham’s most eligible bachelor was a fag and a single father, Gotham’s heir was gay and dating a farmer. By just being together, Clark could ruin Dick and Bruce’s life.

But the smile Bruce had, the fondness on his eyes when Dick laughed, the happiness he showed when Clark touched him, how he leaned, barely an inch, when Clark touched his back or arms, how happy Dick was when one of them picked him up, they all told a different story. They were happy, and Clark just needed Dick´s laugh, Bruce’s smart blue eyes on him, and their hands touching, fingers wrapped together.

He could face the world if he had those things.

Dusk came, and Dick pulled them to the fortune wheel, not as energetic as he was at the beginning of the day but not quite tired yet, still with pent-up energy to worn out. He told them all he knew about the meteor shower that was going to happen in the next few days, repeating all he read about the space.

“Scientists believe the meteors could be used in long travels, extracting minerals and gases from them to create more combustible and recurses for the life of the astronauts.”

“Would you like to go to space?”

“I like Earth. I would like to fly, though.” He sat on one of the bales of hay that were being used to mark off some paths, slurping the sugary beverage Bruce bought for him. “flying on the trapeze is almost like flying, you can go up and be weightless for a few moments.”

Before they went up to their cabin, Dick gave them a mischievous smile, running away before the cabin was closed. He ended trapped in Pa’s arms as the man lifted him up, his laughter filling the air, waving at them from the floor.

“He is a little demon,” whispered Bruce.

The cabin was small, their knees bumping, taking more than half an hour to go down. Bruce looked outside, pretty informal. He appeared to be calm, stretching his neck, Adam’s apple bobbing as he drank water. Clark’s eyes kept moving back at Bruce, just barely, no more than a few seconds.

“I like men.”

“I noticed,” Bruce looked right at him, breathing out, as something changed on his face. His eyes shining, back straight, pressed on the bench, as far away from Clark as he could get, he remained where he was but his hand was still on Clark’s knee, so close and so far away at the same time. “I’m not the one who needs to be convinced.”

“Before you, I was with some else.” The surprise on Bruce’s face made him smile, “He was nice. We met here, in Smallville, the neighborhood’s grandson. It was nice, and he was out, pretty close to the stereotype of a gay man, proud of himself. We had a summer love, but it all ended when someone beat him up and sent him to the hospital.”

He moved his hand, the pad of his fingers pressed against Bruce’s nails, shivering slightly. He shuffled around to rest the tips between Bruce’s knuckles, feeling like they matched perfectly, taking a deep breath, he kept going.

“I could love you, but I can’t help but think about him, about people hurting you, hurting Dick. I’m terrified of seeing you in a hospital bed, or you seeing me, wired with tubes and needles, hurt, because we are different.”

Bruce moved to cup his face. The smart, and kind, and beautiful, blue eyes of his were pouring compassion and fierce protection, and something else, something raw, still there despite everything. Feeling his breath punched away of his lungs by those eyes, the cold hand against his hot skin, he smelled the cucumber soap, Alfred’s detergent, Dick’s fruity shampoo and the caramel popcorn they ate.

“You don’t have to be scared when I’m here,” he declared. “I love you, and I want to be with you, but I can’t stay in these on and off ‘s that we have, not if I’m having Dick in my life. He needs stability, and the thing we have isn’t.”

“What if something goes wrong? What if we don’t work out? What if this ruins your life?” Clark half yelled and half cried, his free hand moving to hold Bruce’s, keeping it on his cheek.

“What if this works? What if are happy? Goddamit, Clark! We can be happy!”

Bruce moved forward, lips less than an inch away. It feeling like a test, as he waited for Clark's answer.

His lips still tasted like mint, soft to the touch, the caramel giving some sweetness to the kiss, harsh and unforgivable. They bit and pulled, moaning and growling, one hand pulling Clark from the scalp, as his own gripped the too-tight tee driving him crazy all day, holding the hard muscles of the waist, feeling the hard breath right at his lips. He whimpered, a pathetic little sound, moving forward, chasing the lips that had punished his.

“Can I trust you won’t run away from us?”

“Bruce…” he cried, gasping, looking at the sundown painting the sky in purples, blues, oranges, and pinks.

They kissed once again, slowly, tasting each other's mouths, not so inexperienced as before. Their tongues dragged slowly, shyly, grinding softly, sucking and exploring, pulling away one last time. The land getting closer, and unwanted looks too.

“We can be friends, but we are going to be just friends, for Dick.”

Back on the ground Dick just smiled at Bruce, “Ma said you would like a ride alone with Clark,” was his explanation.

The Kent’s farm was small, and, for good or bad, they weren’t alone for the days they would be staying. After an insistent discussion of the advantages Smallville offered over Gotham to see the meteor shower, including the different chores Dick would do to not be annoying to their hosts - really imprinting on Bruce -, he had brought his schoolwork, and talked with Alfred about Bruce’s schedule.

Clark wondered if it was good or bad he didn’t need to go to the office this week.

For some reason, Bruce and Clark were never alone. With only four days to the meteor shower, his mind always wandered back to Bruce. Being years since the last time they kissed, he let his mind wander around the idea. Being with Bruce, sharing a life with him and Dick, as both of them helped the kid with his homework. He could picture that kind of life.

One night, one day until the meteor shower, they found each other alone in the kitchen, where Clark was editing something for the Daily Planet and Bruce walked down for some water. He smiled at Bruce, on shorts and a tank top, messy hair swirling on the side.

“What about you and Lois?”

“We are friends.” Sighing under the heavy look Bruce gave him, Clark pushed aside the laptop, closing it. “I enjoy her company, she is a wonderful friend, but I don’t like her as I should.”

“As a heterosexual man should?” Bruce sighed, sipping from the glass of water he had. “That is going to bite you in the ass.”

“Do you still like me, after all this time?”

“How can I not?” Bruce smiled at him, warm, with a sardonic edge on it. “Talk to me when you get things straight, no pun intended.” Leaving the glass on the sink, he walked away leaving Clark with a mess in his head and his heart beating like crazy.

When Clark was a kid he liked to see the stars. His father built him a little place where he could lay down, up in the barn’s ceiling, big enough to have Ma, Pa, and Clark up there. Dick was delighted, climbing from inside and outside to get up there, using the stairs Pa built so long ago and finding more complicated routes to go up, putting Ma and Bruce on edge.

“If you fall I’m telling Alfred!” yelled Bruce, as they saw how Dick was hanging upside down, his feet hooked on a loose board. Dick just laughed. “Clark!” he yelled before letting go.

Catching the kid in his arms as the little hellion giggled at Bruce’s pained expression, he knew, right away, what he was going to do.

Looking up at the meteors, Dick curled between them, tossing popcorns in the air, catching them with his mouth, some of them hitting his nose, forehead, and chin, he looked happy. He had heavy blankets around him to make a little cocoon, and he was all smiles until he was yawning, thanks to Bruce that made him run all around the farm to tire him off.

As they sipped from the plastic glasses, the little lantern they took up there made marks on Bruce’s face, eyelashes leaving long shadows over his cheekbones, the under lip creating an elongated triangle, the messy hair, god blessed the nocturnal breeze, casting shadows on the tight white tee, getting longer, brushing the neck of his shirt, the bangs twirling upon his temple, as the thin lips stretched in a smile, looking fondly at the attempts Dick made to stay away.

“Do you have a wish?” His little voice sounded tired, rubbing the talon of his hands on the eyes. Dick stretched his little legs over the platform they were laying on. “I know shooting stars and meteors are just rocks burning in the atmosphere, but my parents liked this song, where the shooting stars were the souls of people that gave love,” Dick started humming, drinking the hot chocolate Ma gave them. “When you heard a kid ask, why the sun comes and goes? You told him: because there isn’t light without darkness.”

“I would like to wish for you to be happy,” answered Bruce, pulling the kid closer, curling at his side.

“My parents' health,” said Clark, as he was pulled by the hands poking out of the cocoon of blankets,

“Do you think you are going to be a shooting star?”

The first meteor skyrocketed throw the sky, like a burning arrow, white light leaving a trace up in the sky. Shyly, the next came, one becoming two, two turning four, and soon, the sky was filled with traces of light, the awe pretty clear in Dick’s eyes. Mouth half-opened, he muttered numbers under his breath, as if he was trying to count all the trails.

His hand moved, the index finger hooking around Bruce’s thumb, pulling his hand closer. He started to grab all his fingers, skin hot, despite the wind, and turned his head. He lost himself in those eyes, darkened by the eyelashes. Licking his lips, Clark moved, oh so slowly, to lock their fingers, moving to be palm-to-palm, and to give a light squeeze. Looking right at Bruce’s eyes, he smiled. “I would like to be a shooting star.”

Not every day he caught Bruce by surprise.

Dick talked long after the show ended, his yawning getting more and more frequent, his head falling on Clark’s lap, dozing off. A few stars kept falling, taking more time between each other. Looking at one, Bruce sighed. “I wish you were kissing me.”

“I wish we were dating.”

Bruce laughed, soft and deep, as he moved closer. Clark cupped his cheek, and their lips tasted like chocolate, sweet on the tongue, but the mint was still there. Their mouths were cold, a little cracked by the weather. Pulling away, their hands still together, one of Bruce’s on his neck and one of Clark’s on his cheek, caressing the skin, Clark lifted up their hands to kiss the knuckles, looking between his eyelashes at Bruce.

“We are,” whispered Bruce, pulling him of another kiss, “we are.”