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Immanuel Kant waxes essays upon essays about the importance of intention. One’s intention, their thought and heart's reason for beating is far louder than the pounding of a drum, than the slam of a gavel. Intentions in the mind of this western philosopher make all the difference in this world. If one acts out of love, then why punish the gentle hearted?
Bruce has read the claims of Kant and though he finds the proclamation a noble one, he cannot find himself standing for man's ideas, for no matter how much he intertwines each intention with his love, the follow through clatters out a hollow sound. It doesn’t matter how many times he practices the words in his head, or how long it took for his tongue to become familiar with the shape of I love you falling out of his lips – all is futile if he says nothing at all in the moment of truth.
12:05 am Saturday
A man of mystery stands before the solitary billionaire, a mysterious form garnered in glasses, a soft blue flannel with rips at the elbows, black sweatpants with a strange amount of bleach stains, and slippers that look as if a dog had spent months chewing on their heels for breakfast each morning.
Clark Kent, the man of the hour, the stealer of hearts and the outpour of midwest manners and charm that he is – sighs and deflates next to Bruce, all the gusto and can do attitude fizzling out in one breath.
“Right, so,” Clark taps the worn pencil against the small, hand held notebook that was nearing the end of its use, eyes squinting, face contorting and falling flat, a pout seemingly taking shape on his chiseled features. Bruce focuses on the notebook instead, forcing his mind to erase the way his forearms flex and contract when he grips the notebook tight, how the blue of the flannel perfectly contrasts the tone in his skin, how–
“You got the call from the desk assistant who saw the alcohol bottles on her way in?” Bruce’s eyes flitted up for only a moment, catching sight of piercing blue and darting away. He looked down at the pile of empty beer cans sitting in a heap in the mulch next to the dorm's entrance. He looked to Andrew Kavinsky, who was still slumped in a begrudging curl of angst and resentment, like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“No.” Bruce rubbed his thumb against the side of his phone in his pocket, a soothing motion grounding his memory.
“Elane Stanford was just leaving from her 12am desk shift when she saw Andrew trying to dump and seemingly attempt to hide the cans of alcohol in the bushes, she was calling me just as I was coming back from the vending machines across the way at McClain Hall.”
Clark was furiously jotting down all the words Bruce was speaking, biting his bottom lip in an unknown habit born out of concentration. He looked up again, eyes bright despite the exhaustion Bruce knew was hiding behind them.
“And that’s when you called me.” He nodded, saying this quieter, more for himself than Bruce. He looked over to Andrew who had been mumbling his grievances to the wind since he made eye contact with Bruce, caught in the act.
“How ya’ doing Andrew?”
“Fuck off farm boy.” Clark nodded, taking the insult in stride, turning to Bruce to give him a look they had begun to give each other in the small seconds of stillness they had in moments like this: tired irritation. Clark put the notepad in his pocket, Bruce fiddled with the sleeves of his sweater and watched as Clark took a seat next to Andrew on the bench.
“You had Anatomy and Physiology today right? Didn’t you tell me earlier this week that ya’ll had a quiz or something? How’d it go?” Calm and welcoming as ever, Bruce gritted his teeth and winced at the sight of true compassion oozing off his on duty partner. Clark looked at Andrew, waiting for an answer he was genuinely interested in hearing about. He waited with patience built from a faith in others Bruce only dreamed of having, bellowing head first into connective conversations in spite of being cursed out only moments before.
Bruce kept his eyes out for campus security, he knew his role, Clark was the heart, the feet on the ground, Bruce was the details, the one in charge of the semantics.
“Eh,” Andrew shrugged, turning away from Clark like a kicked dog, “I feel pretty confident in my answers, spent eight hours studying last night, was gonna party tonight to let loose but–” he shrugged again, glancing to Bruce like he was the one who killed all the fun and joy this day had to offer and Bruce had to inhale a steadying breath to remind himself to gain an ounce of the empathy his Co. has. He steadied himself, looking out, waiting for blue and red lights–nothing. He looked at the resident and curled his tongue into a shape of meaning.
“You have Dr. Fletcher, right?” Andrew and Clark both looked to Bruce and his contribution to the small talk only done to fill the void between the inevitable consequences. Clark’s head had shot up like a dog hearing a knock at the front door, all wide eyed and filled with curiosity, and what Bruce found strange–a fondness.
“Uh, yeah.” Bruce nodded, deciding to stare at the space between Andrew and Clark as a happy middle-ground.
“Dr. Fletcher is a very straightforward professor, he’s not the kind of guy to throw in curve balls on an exam. I’m sure that you did well considering the amount of time you spent studying.”
Andrew nodded, whether he actually appreciated Bruce’s commentary was neither here nor there, he looked to Clark instead to gauge a proper reaction. The gentle smile plastered on his face reddened Bruce’s cheeks and the tips of his ears, the way pride was so easily found in the crook of his smile, endearment nestled between the gap of his two front teeth, it was enough to spiral him, but he couldn’t look away. Bruce attempted to reenact the expression but it was lacking the ease his counterpart had, it was clunky and awkward, stifling onto his features and gone in an instant, disappearing with the aversion of a look, the tear of his gaze to red and blue LEDs. It was time to fill his role, to morph into his other self, into what his job required. Posture stiffened and the muscles in his face stilled to a blurry expression.
“Good evening Officers,” he began in a media trained tone and once again, he was lost to the task in front of him, no longer idle to watch his counterpart with ease.
2:25am Saturday
“Oh my gosh, my brain might be melting.” Clark fell onto his bed, which was raised, meaning only his burly top half sank into the cool toned bedsheets and seemingly handmade quilt. He slumped, all pout and exhaustion. Bruce was no better, he leaned over his laptop, posture horrific and curled as he sat on Clark’s dorm floor, eyes strained, fingers cramping from typing. Bruce, for the first time in a long time, felt the childish urge to cry, to scream and wail purely from exhaustion just to do something with his frustration. He rattled out a sigh, blinking hard.
“So at 1:15 was when we found the other resident hiding in the closet, correct?”
“Uhh no, no it at 1:15, or somewhere around that time, maybe it was 1:30? I don’t know,” Clark muffled his response into his bedsheets, turning his head to face Bruce after sighing.
“All I know is that a resident who was intoxicated came in, red solo cup in hand while we were having the residents present gather the alcohol in the middle of the room when she yelled something like “Is Mikey in the closet still?” and that’s when I had the resident who lived in the dorm, Ryan, open the closet door and yea.”
Bruce nodded, typing, “Was that really at 1:15?”
“Yes. I always check my watch every 2 minutes when we encounter an incident on duty so we can keep accurate reports.” Clark nodded, lulling himself off the bed, flopping next to Bruce, leaning over the other's shoulder, reading along.
Bruce tried not to tense at the soft touch of his chin against his shoulder but Bruce had realized that Clark had a way of knowing him when he even hid from himself.
Clark had taken up a habit of being physically closer to Bruce, touchier. It was all soft and cautious. Every inch he gave he left thousands of miles for Bruce to run and hide. It started a month ago with a hand just so happening to be in the same vicinity as Bruce’s or a shoulder gently brushing against his own. Hands would reach out and fix clothes, pull fuzzies out of his hair, and on long nights like these, the habit became muscle memory, done out of a subconscious need the other man had to just be closer to Bruce. There was still caution, but hesitation was nowhere to be found in his movements in the dead of night. He rested his chin on his shoulder, curls brushing against Bruce's neck and face– he really needed a hair cut– like it always went there, like it was simply something they did. Bruce brushed a hand through curls in attempts to move them but intention was lost in translation for all his fingers could do was thread through the unruly locks, brush them out of the others eyes and cared through once more, just because they could.
They didn’t speak, didn’t mention the action because what was there to confidently say? Bruce didn’t speak unless his words could hold certainty. What Clark Kent called hope and optimism sounded far too similar to false promises. But on nights like these, nights that start with a smile, start with a look and end with Bruce falling into the gentle, playful touch of the other simply because there are no words to say otherwise; Bruce wonders if his tongue could contort and dispel words without gagging on doubt.
“Let’s read through this one more time.” Bruce spoke and he hoped that Clark would ignore the tremor in his words, the falter of emotion crawling between the cracks.
“Want me to start?”
3:30am Saturday
“Oh fuck,” Bruce slumped over his laptop, wincing in realization.
“What is it?” The worry shooting through Clark's words shouldn’t have brought a pang to his heart and yet there he was, aching over the worry Clark seemed to carry for him.
"I have all my laundry on my bed, I put it there so I could fold it before going to bed tonight.” Bruce lifts his head from Clark's desk and he gives him that look, that look they both know well, the look of “I had so much planned today and it all fell through my fingertips and now brushing my teeth might be what breaks me”. Clark's face softened, the dark circles under his eyes apparent, the way he smiled with sleep riddling his features. He didn’t tell Bruce to just put it on the floor, didn’t ask him why he couldn’t still do it, or put it back in the laundry basket. He never asked, he didn’t seek understanding and instead found it within all Bruce gave to him, making the floor fall beneath the billionaire's feet.
“You can stay here tonight. I mean,” he backtracked, like always, every time he reached out to the other with too much enthusiasm he stuttered back, a hand going to scratch the back of his head in a nervous tick.
“You have a toothbrush here for when you don’t wanna use the communal bathroom so, I mean, you can just stay over so you don’t mess up your system.”
Bruce almost melted on the spot. He looked to Clark, looked away, only for his tired gaze to crawl back to his nervous shape that leaned against his bed, posture inviting, understanding, glasses tipped far down his nose. He didn’t pry for an answer, he left the air awkward, leaning into the silence Bruce left, almost as if to say “leave it, I enjoy being in your presence, regardless of the form it takes.”
“Sure.”
Intentions are meaningless if all they do is sit in still air, waiting, looming, falling to the earth without a sound worth noting. Intentions are meaningless, for it doesn’t matter how many times Bruce told himself that he was sharing Clark’s twin XL (which on its own was barely enough to fit the Kansas boy) with no hidden intention, nothing muddled beneath the surface of his agreement, that laying next to him, laying on the outside of the bed because Clark knew Bruce wouldn’t want to feel trapped, because Clark didn’t even say a word and curled next to the wall, leaving an open invitation that could be declined at any moment for him to take.
And Bruce acted with ease, an ease he had half a mind to be ashamed of but exhaustion was louder than his self deprecation at the moment of weakness. He twisted into sheets that smelt like cinnamon, laundry detergent and something so Clark, that it filled every empty space in his mind, every crack in his consciousness until all he could do was take in the presence of the man next to him.
Intentions are useless if the actions accompanying them deny their very foundation.
Bruce went to bed next to Clark Kent with the intention to sleep. He intended to act on the kindness outstretched to him, hoping to showcase his gratitude.
Instead Bruce watched as sunlight crawled its way up the man’s skin, he held his breath in awe as sunlight cascaded over his skin and he let the steady breath of the man lull him back to sleep. Bruce intended to crawl away within himself, and instead he indulged, he took and he took from what lay in front of him, he let his eyes memorize the shape of the mysterious man that had walked into Bruce’s heart with a patient outstretched hand and a gentle smile that said:
I’m not going anywhere
Bell Hooks writes of radical love, in her book All About Love, a collection of essays and articles depicting what it means to love as a way to gain freedom. Bell Hooks writes about the importance of love being seen as a verb and not just a noun.
We do not have to find love, for it is always there in front of us, we create love, we act with love, we do love, we simply love for love is not something one has to search for rather harness.
Bruce Wayne did not have to search for love. Love had built roots in his life in the shape of a man from Kansas, it slept with a steady rhythm and it had a tendency to sleep talk of a place called Krypton.
Bruce wondered what kind of dream like world Krypton was and whether one day, his name would fall from the very same lips amidst his slumber.