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Walking up to Wayne Manor to visit a friend will never feel normal, Clark thinks as he ascends the heavy stone steps to the large front door. Still, it's far less outlandish than entering through the caves beneath the mansion, flying through hordes of bats and into the dark underbelly where Batman often resides in front of the ominous screens of his computer.
As always, Alfred opens the door before Clark has even had a chance to reach the door and knock. And as always, Clark briefly considers if the butler has some kind of super hearing or spidey sense for his arrival.
Either that, or Bruce has some alarms installed that register his biosignature. But that's definitely the less boring option to consider.
“Mr. Kent. A pleasure to see you. Please, allow me to take your coat,” Alfred says, holding out his hand. Clark thanks him, shrugging out of his trench coat. “Master Bruce is in the music room,” the butler adds, noticing Clark awkwardly looking around himself.
“The music room? That's a new one.” Clark's eyebrows shoot up, as the butler suppresses a smile while nodding at him. But sure enough, Clark hears faint tones coming from deep within the house, even without focusing his super hearing.
“You'll find it in the west wing, Mr. Kent. Though I'm sure you can already see it.” Alfred steps back, letting Clark pass further into the entrance hall. He looks west, through walls, and doors and corridors, and sees a room full of the most beautiful instruments. Bruce sits at the grand piano, playing, eyes closed.
And Clark is drawn to it.
His advanced hearing is not enough. He needs to be in the room with him, watch him play and get lost in the music.
He turns back to Alfred. “Ah, thank you,” he tells the butler again. “I'll uhh… I'll find my way up there.” He points in the general direction of the sound, and turns on his heels, walking towards the stairs and the west wing. It's best to get away from Alfred's scrutinizing gaze as quickly as possible while he feels blush creeping to his cheeks, he decides.
When he reaches the music room, after walking through long hallways and winding staircases and turning corners, he stops in the doorway. The curtains are drawn, in utter contradiction to Bruce's usual preference. Light floods the room and the instruments and the old wooden floor and the rugs on it, cushioning the melodies from the old brick of the mansion.
Bruce sits, and Clark watches from the doorway, afraid to disturb the peaceful scene. Bruce looks serene, brows furrowed and lips creased in concentration, none of the harshness of the Bat currently present. His elegant fingers slide across the keys, alternating between stroking gently and pushing hard. The movements seem to come from deep within, drawn from his heart and traveling through his swaying shoulders and angled arms and writhing wrist, all the way to the tips of his fingers.
Bruce's foot taps to count, gray wool socks underneath fashionable slacks. He looks every bit the young aristocratic man he's supposed to be.
The music he plays is melodious, although Clark doesn't recognize it. It sways, and takes Clark away until there's only Bruce, arched brows as he concentrates and feels and looks breathtaking doing it, and Clark. Clark in that lonely doorway, intruding on something private. Something emotional.
He has never seen Bruce's face so expressive before. It's a good thing his eyes are still closed, or piercing gray-blues might make Clark melt.
With a final note, Bruce stops. He opens his eyes.
“Clark,” he says, out of breath, and loses his impeccable posture, curling in on himself.
Clark pushes himself off of the doorframe, movements slow and arms open towards Bruce as if he's a rare species he doesn't want to chase away. “Please, don't stop on my account,” he says. He hasn't nearly heard or seen enough.
He walks further into the room, around the grand piano, the span of the large instrument separating them. There are other instruments in the room. A violin, a cello, several different flutes.
Music room, Clark thinks.
Because apparently that's a thing Wayne Manor has, and that Bruce has conserved, and uses, maybe even on a regular basis. He thinks of his pa’s old stringy fiddle, that he used to keep in a corner of the living room, but his jealousy is quickly replaced by curiosity. It makes him wonder what else he doesn't know about Bruce yet.
“I uhh… I play, sometimes,” Bruce hesitates. As if he's ashamed. “Rich kid, I had to learn to play,” he chuckles drily, explaining. Clark touches the butt end of the grand piano, sleek and black wood. He nods, as if he understands.
“I still do, to get out of my own head. It helps,” Bruce rambles on, nervously. Maybe Clark really is intruding on something private. Maybe Bruce is embarrassed, for having a hobby that has nothing to do with Batman.
“My mother played with me.”
Bruce is coping.
“Oh,” Clark says, at a loss for words. “I can leave, if you want.”
Bruce swallows, and stares straight ahead. “Don't,” he settles on, eventually, softly. He is unsure of himself. It's a foreign tone of voice for Bruce, one that Clark has never heard before. But Bruce doesn't want him to leave, and that alone makes Clark's heart beat louder in his chest.
He smiles. “I'll sit and listen, if you don't mind. It was beautiful.”
Bruce nods, pointing to a bench by the window. On it, warmed by the midday sun, Clark listens to Bruce's fingers hovering through the air over the keys again. It's a whisper of molecules, of hesitation, of absolute silence. The next step is one still unspoken between them, towards a deeper connection, a more private one.
For a moment, Bruce stares right into Clark's eyes over the piano. And then his fingers come down to form a single tone.
Bruce plays, eyes closed and swaying again. Clark listens, eyes open, committing it all to memory. He knows the melody this time, lets Bruce take him away on the melancholy of it.
When it's done, Bruce looks at him. Waiting. Clark smiles again, not wanting to ruin the echoes of the song with his voice, and releases the breath he was holding.
“That was beautiful,” he says eventually. “Satie, right?”
Bruce nods. “Yes. One of my mother's favorites.”
“She had good taste.” Clark gets up again, Bruce drawing him in with the sunlight on his face. “Pa played the fiddle but I never took the time to learn,” he recounts, giving Bruce a private thing in return. “Now I wish I had.”
“Don't blame yourself. You remember them in other ways.” Bruce turns the page on the sheet music in front of him, even though he evidently doesn't need it. “How about piano? Have you ever played?”
“Nope. My only musical experience is plucking some guitar in middle school and at campfires.” Clark chuckles, remembering Lana bashing him for wanting to look cool doing it.
To his surprise, Bruce's cheeks dimple from smiling. “Sit. Seems there's something I can teach you after all.” He puts a hand on the bench next to himself, freeing up space for Clark.
Clark sits, taking the first step down.
They're side by side, shoulders touching on the small bench. Bruce's cashmere sweater is soft against his arms, and smells of his cologne.
“You'd be surprised,” Clark says, not daring to turn and look at Bruce's face, for fear of it being close enough to touch.
Bruce shakes his head and sighs. “Superman,” he mumbles.
“Yes?” Clark answers, out of habit, out of eagerness.
“Place your right hand here, like this.” Bruce indicates the keys. “Push your index finger down on the counts. And then your middle finger, every third count.”
Clark places his hand, touching Bruce in the process. For a while, it's good. Their arms intertwine, each playing one hand as Bruce counts out loud, guiding Clark's fingers with his own. Bruce's hands are rough, but the pads of his fingers are soft on top of Clark's nails, pushing down to help him with the rhythm.
They're making music. Together. Clark doesn't want to read into what that means too much, coupled with the warmth and the closeness of Bruce's body and the light touches of his hands. When the song is done, he chuckles sheepishly.
“Wow, that was good. Now I just have to find something I can teach you.”
Bruce takes his hands off the keys, releasing air. From the corner of his eye, Clark sees his mouth lift up infinitesimally, but it's enough. “I'm sure you can think of a thing, Superman.”
Bruce's rich baritone voice is suddenly much better than any music they make together. Clark turns to him now, risking closeness, stepping through the gate that Bruce opened. “Alright,” he smiles, accepting the challenge and meeting Bruce halfway. “It's a date.”
Bruce huffs and it's a sound Clark has heard a thousand times before, but this is the first time it's sent butterflies straight to his heart. It swells, threatening to explode as he looks at his friend, rosy cheeks from closeness and concentration, and sharing deeper and more personal than he has with anyone else. From Bruce, that alone is an admission of trust greater than he could ever put into words. Bruce stares back at him, heartbeat thundering in his ears.
They sit, not an inch between them. Clark breathes. “I'd really like to kiss you, Bruce. May I?”
Bruce swallows, hesitating only for a moment. But then he gives in. “Yes. Yes, you may.”
Clark's fingers slip off the keyboards in a single note and on to Bruce's chin. His lips are soft, the kiss is gentle. When it ends, Bruce’s pupils are blown and his eyes half lidded, looking downright sultry. He licks his lips.
“What-” he starts. He finds his footing, his voice. “You’re here to work on the new transporters.”
Bruce, right back to business. Clark smiles, running his fingers over the shell of Bruce’s ear and down to his chin again. “I did. It can wait another few minutes,” he says, and leans back in.