Archive of Our Own

‘So it’s a coherent system of interrelated and sequentially organized stories that share common rhetorical desire to resolve a conflict by establishing audience expectations according to known trajectories of its literary and rhetorical form.’

‘What? But what’s the fun in that~?’

‘That’s irrelevant, Alexander. I’m pretty sure Braddock won’t make you argue the entertainment merit of Metanarratives for finals.’

‘He should, though.’

Bruce couldn’t contain the heavy sigh that had been threatening to come out since the first five minutes of him tutoring the younger boy sprawled on his bed.

Bruce never could quite put his finger on Alexander Luthor, and it unnerved him when people are like that. He’s easily one of the brightest people Bruce had ever met. He’s the kind of ‘smart’ that’s infuriatingly heaven-sent, and not Bruce’s kind, where it’s a product of dedicating oneself to one’s studies. He has a sharp mind and a quick wit behind his intense blue eyes. There’s no reason Alexander should almost be failing his Advanced Philosophy, but yet there he was. And somehow Braddock managed to persuade Bruce, the best in his year, to tutor the boy for extra credits.

Bruce didn’t really need extra credits. He’s been doing excellently this year. And although his cultivated public persona demands him to play the social game – amicable with his peers and respectful towards the teachers – tutoring Alexander Luthor really wasn’t on the cards of said social game.

The boy was now lying sideways on Bruce’s bed, head propped up with a palm on his cheek. His wrist was pale and brittle-looking under the afternoon sun seeping through Bruce’s window. He can see the blue veins running across it and wanted nothing more than to suck the skin there, marking it bright red. Almost suddenly, Alexander’s intense stare turned half-lidded and a smirk was blooming on his face, as if he could hear Bruce’s thought.

‘I like the one about subverting illusions in our language and ideologies. No longer pretending they provide unquestionable natural grounds for knowledge.’ His smirking lips said, confirming Bruce’s believe that the boy couldn’t be bad at the subject. A flash of pink tongue swiped over the boy’s pinker lips halted his thoughts, making him want to chase back its path.

Climbing onto his bed, he leaned forward until the boy settled on his back as he positioned himself above him. ‘You’re an incurable post-structuralist.’ Bruce said, their mouths mere inches from each other, and Bruce could feel the boy’s silent laughter.

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ Alexander said, sounding pleased with Bruce’s retort.

‘C’mon, Wayne, I can think of lots of things with superior entertainment merits that we can do instead of this,’ he said lazily, smirk firmly plastered now, a hand coming up to toy with the Windsor knot in his Excelsior tie.

If tutoring Alexander Luthor wasn’t in his social cards, kissing the boy hard, tongue plunging as deep as he could into the boy’s pleasantly red, inviting mouth was even further from it. He was supposed to be in the student council by six, supporting the newly elected head of student body—which was part of his social game—but Alexander moaned in delectable little gasps, and so Bruce is making an exception.

Because ratio has no place against the challenging stare of those blue eyes.

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Huh. Never knew he’d be a Voltairean.

It was the first thing Bruce thought as he listened to the engaging speech of one of the nations’ young political rising star. He was prepared to be bored to death today, as he’s wont to be in these kinds of charity galas, but had to admit the host serves good wine—an Opus One from an excellent year, probably 1999—and isn’t a half bad orator either, judging from the enthusiastic claps from his audience as the man descended from the podium.

A part of his brain—that was still sixteen and still stuck in his Excelsior days, apparently—pointed out how he’d always known how orally talented the man really is. Bruce snorted at his own crude joke while his eyes followed the slender figure sliding his way between charity patrons before climbing up the stairs to the mezzanine level.

‘I see you brushed up on your philosophy,’

At the sound of his voice, Alexander Luthor turned around, and with recognition in his eyes, an all-familiar smirk bloomed on his lips. Something stirred low in his stomach at the sight. He’s still delectable.

‘It was thanks to you, Wayne,’ Alexander walked closer until the tips of their shoes bump into each other.

‘To me?’

‘Let’s just say your--ah, tutoring, stirred a passion towards philosophy in me.’ And there’s the mirth dancing in the man’s eyes that Bruce always found so intoxicating.

‘I’m glad.’ He’s having trouble keeping up with the aloof playboy billionaire persona tonight, knew he’s already openly smirking back. ‘Although, Voltaire, really?’

Alexander laughed sharply at that, and they’re close enough Bruce can feel his breath. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said coyly, ‘I think the idea of benevolent despotism suits me.’ His red lower lip was trapped in the straight line of his teeth for a fraction of a second as he enunciate the ‘v’ in ‘benevolent’, but it was enough to make Bruce wants.

He’s still Bruce Wayne, though, no matter how heady Alexander’s laughter is making him feel, and he can still sensed eyes on them. Sharp, assessing.

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw a dark haired man, looking at them almost unblinkingly. The word ‘PRESS’ was written in bold, block letters on the ID around his neck, and Bruce guessed they do make for an intriguing view, him and Alexander, the two young billionaires always under the spotlight in their own rights. Together, who knows what people think they’re doing.

Planning on taking over the world, probably.

Bruce has more modest plans for the night, although it does include Alexander’s–hopefully enthusiastic—presence.

He placed a hand on the man’s elbow, firm but light and felt completely natural, like he never stopped touching Alexander since boarding school. The press man is still watching them intently, his eyes narrowed a bit now, focusing on the touch. Any other night, and it would’ve piqued Bruce’s interest. That doesn’t look like a passing curiosity that the press man has.

But Alexander is also looking at Bruce’s hand on his elbow before raising an eyebrow at him.

A challenge.

‘Have dinner with me? My place?’

He’s rewarded with both eyebrows raised for that.

‘I thought you’re supposed to be a reclusive billionaire playboy.’

Bruce feels himself genuinely smile. ‘I’m making an exception’

The ‘for you’ wasn’t spoken, but judging from the man’s pleased expression, Bruce knew he’d heard it.

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘You should.’

Their smiles at each other are shared secrets, fanning the furnace inside his loins. He guides Alexander down into the first floor and out the foyer to the parking lot, guests reaching out to them all the way out of the party, wanting either of their attention, but Bruce doesn’t feel like sharing much, tonight.

The man with the press ID is still looking at them out the veranda, and Bruce’ll probably dig up his records come morning. But it’s a distant thought from the challenging blue of Alexander’s eyes.

Ratio has no place here.

 

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