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Jon comes back from space glowing.
Clark hates clichés, but there’s no way to describe the kid other than sun-kissed, with the faint blush on his cheeks and the pale freckles dusted across his cheeks.
He’s radiating power, but in that calm, satiated way. Stretches deliciously, yawns, “I’m tired,” and disappears into his room.
When Jon strolls past him—too slowly, too close not to be deliberate—Clark can feel waves of heat rolling off him, so intense that it feels like witnessing a thousand suns burning.
A Geiger counter must be going haywire around him now.
Again, Clark hates clichés, but he can’t deny the stab of jealousy when he thinks about the sunlight enveloping the boy, touching him so intimately. He gets to do that as well, but after the time spent apart, his hand sometimes pauses mid-caress, and he holds his breath when he hugs him, not sure if he’s doing it right.
Call it irrational or possessive, call it impromptu cuddling or an ego trip, but he wants to make up for what he missed.
Jon doesn’t acknowledge his presence in any way, except for a minute stutter in his breathing when the door creaks. He’s sprawled on the covers, soft-looking curls a tone warmer than usual, framing his face like a halo. Lips slightly parted, too inviting to resist.
Clark sits on the bed next to him, and the unbearable heat surrounds him once again, the air quivering under his fingertips when he leans lower. He kisses him, and Jon kisses back—without hesitation, though still half-asleep.
At least, there’s certainty in that. If one of them reaches out blindly with his hand, he finds the other’s outstretched one. One falls, and the other catches— it’s always been like that.
He leaves the last teasing lick on Jon’s lower lip, feeling it twitch in a tiny smile. Clark can still catch a whiff of space on his hair—something sterile and dusty—but when he nuzzles his neck and breathes in deeply, there’s still Jon underneath.
A memory comes up from the deep: Ma stirring syrup in a pan, him watching it flow from the spoon, thick and hot, the smell of burnt sugar all over the house. Clark can taste it now—warm and familiar, with a spice of excitement—when he presses his mouth to the throbbing vein on Jon’s throat.
Above him, Jon sucks in a sharp breath. Clark can feel his heartbeat quicken, against his lips and under his palm where it’s resting on the boy’s chest.
He shifts, lying down next to him, one arm wrapped around Jon’s midsection, the other naturally coming to rest under his head. Jon makes a small contented sound and scoots closer, like a cat seeking warmth.
“Remember the Icarus story?” The question is muttered into the top of Jon’s head.
“You’re not gonna lecture me about flying too close to the sun, are you?”
“That would be unfair.” Clark breathes out a laugh, hot breath fanning over the mussed locks. “Besides, I’d probably be the one flying by your side.”