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Clark awakes in-between the inhale of the sun and the exhale of night. The silk pillows across from him are wrinkled and empty—and a figure at the bed’s other side sits hunched, scarred back bathed in shadow, the morning light haloing him. He watches the light undulate with Bruce’s breathing. It’s steady, like waves, the light occasionally tipping over his shoulder and piercing Clark’s eyes. He can hear Bruce's heart palpitating.
Bruce eventually stands and pads over to the bathroom. Silence suffocates the room, the silk covering Clark scratches his skin and binds him. He listens to Bruce dress; slacks, a button-up, loafers that scuff the tile and a spray of cologne. Not the one he wore last night though, that’s on his nightstand.
Clark sighs and sits up. He looks at Bruce’s embossed cologne on the mahogany stand, along with empty condom packets strewn across it without care. He stands, the silk freeing him, and begins to dress.
The sun burns into his back and a flush makes its way up his neck. There’s no reason for such a feeling—Clark didn’t do anything wrong, and yet standing alone like this points to that being the only explanation. With his own words he’s caused this, ruined something kind of good, and now whatever is left will be worse than that. Clark scoffs to the air. Of course, what did he expect? He’s dealing with the same man who would rather stick a tracker on someone and watch with a screen between them than ask how they’re doing.
Bruce comes out putting on cufflinks. They’re plain, sterling silver, but work with his ensemble. Charcoal gray suit, black under shirt—unbuttoned as to keep to his Wayne signature—and gelled hair. It’s unremarkable, almost lazy, and lavish enough to clue someone in on what they need to know. Bruce Wayne is aloof and without care.
“Bruce—”
“Clark,”
“I think we should talk about last night.”
“What about it? It was great.”
“Don’t do that. You’re acting weird and you know it. What was it that I said last night? That I care about you? Christ you’re—” He huffs, running a hand through his hair, “you don’t just get to act like this because you’re freaked out. We’re adults.”
“I’m well aware, Clark. So much so that I have to get to my adult job just like you do, I believe. I have an early meeting, you can keep having this discussion with yourself or I can walk you out.”
Clark glares at him. All of this is so typical and expected. Clark could theorize why Bruce is reacting this way for hours. He’s afraid, he doesn’t want to be in a relationship, both. But none of those reasons would be that Bruce doesn’t feel the same, which is why it stings so much. Control is the mast on his ship, the thing that blocks him from anything close to something good. It’s not even what they have, it’s any good thing. Bruce steers himself away from happiness time and time again.
They walk out to the front of the Manor. Alfred is already in the car.
It seems there’s nothing left to be said. He walks to the car and puts his hand on the handle. Distant, he hears Bruce’s heart palpitating once more. In a sick way, Clark wants to label it as anticipation. Bruce is jumping for joy at Clark leaving, that he’s getting the easy way out.
Clark grits his teeth and turns around. “Bruce.”
A sigh. “What is it, Clark?”
“I know what you’re doing. You want me to leave now so that you don’t have to, because you don’t want to. And I want you to know I’m not going anywhere. Even if—even if our relationship isn’t romantic, or sexual or whatever—I’m still going to be here. I’m going to be your friend. So don’t shut me out.” Clark smiles, just a little. “Bruce, you’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met, but you’re also the biggest coward.”
He puts a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, leans in, and kisses his cheek. “It’s been nice.”
Clark turns and begins to walk back. A hand grabs his arm and he turns. Bruce looks at him, not saying anything.
Bruce kisses him. It’s robotic in movement, awkward, and his hands are shaking on Clark’s face. But he kisses him and Clark kisses back.
And they part, and Bruce’s brow twitches. Clark smiles and smooths it away.
“I’ll be seeing you then,” Bruce says.
Clark nods. “Yep. Good luck on that meeting.”
“Thank you.”
Clark walks away and gets into the car, his smile stuck.