WARNING: NC-17 Slash Fiction

The State of Kansas declared the first Monday in August "Piss On Whitney Fordman Day," only somebody forgot to send Whit the official proclamation. He had to find out the hard way that being ditched by his lover on Sunday was going to be the best part of his week.

Apparently the reward for excellence on the Sharks football team was a brutal Monday workout on the field followed by an evening of verbal abuse criticizing his performance in the scrimmage. Practice had been almost unbearable. The coach had been brutal; his trainer, ruthless; the other players, equally divided between bone-deep jealousy and ribbing him mercilessly for the "glory-boy" treatment he'd received in the press.

By the time he could say the day was over, every organ, muscle, and cell in Whitney's body ached, most particularly his heart. Driving home was exhausting. Getting out his truck was torture. Walking across the parking garage was like sludging through quicksand. Even raising his arm to press the button for the elevator seemed to require more stamina than he possessed, but somehow he managed to get from the parking garage to the lobby without falling apart.

One more elevator to go and he was home. He crossed the corridor between the banks of elevators and pushed the up button.

"Mr. Fordman, sir, you have a visitor."

Even though he knew better, a stab of unwarranted hope quickened Whit's pulse as he turned to the guard at the reception desk. But Lionel would never wait in the lobby for him. Lionel would never even call. Whitney Fordman wasn't going to see Lionel Luthor again until hell froze over or there was some torturous Sharks' football event to celebrate or commemorate.

Whit's pulse dulled even before he saw Clark coming at him from across the lobby. It was the first time in years he could remember not being happy to see his friend. "Thanks, Truman," he said to the guard.

"Have a good night, Mr. Fordman."

Shit. Lex Luthor had a big mouth. That didn't come as a surprise, but Whit knew he should have been expecting this. If he'd been thinking more clearly, he would have.

"Hi," Clark said as he approached. Even with his senses dulled from grief and exhaustion, Whitney could tell from the look of pity in his eyes that Clark knew everything Lex Luthor knew. Whit could also tell that Clark was all geared up to pull Whitney into a hug. Fortunately, the elevator door opened and Whit was able to deflect any public show of affection by stepping on. He held the door for Clark.

"Security cameras," he warned softly as he pressed the button for the 21st floor. "No audio, only visual."

"Oh."

"Have you been waiting long?" Whit slumped against one side of the elevator. Clark stood awkwardly on the other.

"About five minutes."

"How'd you know what time I'd get home from camp?"

Clark's patented 'aren't I adorable' grin popped up. "Getting info like that isn't hard when you're training to be a world-class investigative journalist. And fucking the owner's son on a regular basis doesn't hurt either."

Finding anything humorous was beyond Whit, but more pain wasn't. This one hit him square in the gut. "Do you really?"

Clark was clearly confused. "Do I what?"

"Fuck Lex. I mean--" Whit flushed and looked away. "I would have thought young Mr. Luthor would be a top."

"He learned to be flexible pretty quick," Clark replied, studying Whit too closely. "Is 'Len' a top?"

Whit couldn't have held back the bitter burst of laughter if his life had depended on it. "My friend, that is the understatement of all understatements."

"Is that what you were fighting about yesterday?"

"That was the excuse. I'm still not sure of the reason."

The elevator settled to a stop and the door opened, revealing one of Whit's neighbors waiting for the carriage. He exchanged places and quick pleasantries with the elderly Mrs. Lippman and her fox terrier, Reggie.

They fell silent until Whit let them into his condo, a spartanly furnished six rooms with an open floor plan and a great view of the city. "Make yourself at home, Clark." He tossed his sports bag onto a chair, then moved up one level to the kitchen. "What'll it be? Beer? Wine? Juice? Arsenic? Rat Poison?"

"Beer." Clark followed Whit up the two steps to the kitchen and slid onto a stool at the island that separated the kitchen from the living area. "I take it you and Lionel haven't kissed and made up yet."

Whit stared into the refrigerator, trying to remember why he was standing there. Oh, yeah. He grabbed two bottles of Sam Adams, opened them, and took a long swig of his own before he handed the other to his friend. "It's over, Clark."

"Are you sure about that?"

Another short, humorless laugh. "Trust me. Clark. When Lionel Luthor tells you you're a meaningless piece of ass and orders you to get out, you know it's over."

"Shit. He didn't say that," Clark countered.

"I believe the exact phrase was, 'An avenue to convenient sex' and 'nothing worth negotiating for.' You gotta say one thing for him, he's eloquent."

Clark slid off the stool. "Will you please come sit down before you fall down?" He plucked at the sleeve of Whitney's T-shirt and guided him down the steps to the sofa.

Whit dropped unceremoniously. "Don't sit too close," he warned.

"Why not?"

"Because you're a kindhearted S.O.B. and you won't be able to resist touching me or hugging me, and if you do, I'll fall apart."

Clark ignored the request and sat within easy reach of his friend. "Maybe you should."

"Don't have the energy for it." He drained the beer and set the bottle on the side table.

"I'm not going to ask you why you didn't tell me you were seeing Lionel."

"I didn't want you to have to keep it from Lex."

"That's what I figured. But..." There was a long pause, then, "Lionel Luthor? I have to know why, Whit! What in God's name do you see in Lionel Luthor? I know it's not the money — you wouldn't give a shit about that. He's twice your age. He's cold and unfeeling..."

"He's gorgeous and sexy, brilliant, funny..."

"Did I mention old?" Clark countered. "You're young, you're incredibly handsome, intelligent, funny, kind, generous to a fault..."

Whit did manage to find that humorous. "Thank you, Mom. Would you write that down for my personals ad, please? 'Brokenhearted jock recently dumped by billionaire lover seeks long-term relationship with something other than his own hand. Remaining closeted a must, so be ready for lots of quiet evenings at home, never being taken on a date, watching your boyfriend pretending—'" The ache in his heart finally broke through the exhaustion and the retaining wall he'd tried to build around the pain of Lionel's rejection. "Shit..Oh, God!" A sob doubled him in half, but when Clark reached out to him, Whit pulled away. "Don't! Shit!"

He lunged to his feet and took a deep breath to force back the swell of emotion he'd just unleashed.

"You're going to have to let that out eventually, Whit."

"No."

"Why? Big tough football players don't cry?"

"I told you. I don't have the energy. It's not important. Lionel Luthor isn't worth crying over."

Clark stood and moved to his friend. "That is the biggest crock of shit I have ever heard you utter. Last week in Smallville you told me you loved him."

"No, I didn't."

"Yeah, you did." Clark cupped Whit's face in his hands and kissed him lightly. "I seem to recall an afternoon in the Fortress of Solitude two summers ago when you wrapped your arms around me and held me while I cried my heart out."

Whit closed his eyes and let his head rest against the warmth of Clark's hand on his cheek. "I thought you were going to shatter into a million pieces — and you're not easy to break."

"Lex broke me. You put me back together."

Whit squeezed his eyes against the sudden burning, but the tears rolled down his cheeks anyway. By the time the first sob hit, Whit was in Clark's arms, sheltered, supported..., safe, and there was no holding any of it back. The misery, the rejection, the loss, the horrible fear of the return to loneliness, it all came pouring out in a storm of sobs that Clark absorbed and carried away and still somehow hold his friend at the same time.

The storm finally passed, leaving Whitney drained, but not quite as dead inside as he'd been a few minutes before. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. Embarrassment began creeping up on him, but true to form, Clark rescued him, letting him go a little at a time. Whit realized with considerable surprise that somehow during the maelstrom his friend had eased them onto the sofa.

"You wanna talk?"

Whit shook his head. "What's to talk about? I got too close, asked for too much, and had my heart surgically removed by an expert. Can we change the subject?"

"Sure. You ready for some good news now?" he asked lightly.

"Oh, yeah."

"Lex knows."

Whit frowned at Clark, confused. "Of course he knows. He walked in—"

"About us."

"Shit. Clark, why did—"

"I didn't. He's always known. He was just waiting for me to tell him. After he caught you with his dad yesterday, he stopped waiting."

"I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"We're fine. I told him what happened between us was precious to me and it was none of his business."

"Thanks. I wish I'd been there to see that."

"No you don't."

"You're right. I must be one of his all-time favorite people now. Should I avoid dark alleys?"

"No, you're safe." Clark gave him the grin. "So... Wanna get laid?"

Whit laughed. A genuine from the gut laugh. "Well, I know you're not offering, which is good, because I couldn't get it up now with a forklift and a hot air balloon. What did you have in mind?"

Clark chuckled. "When you're ready, I've got a friend—"

"Ugh! A set up? Clark, no. Please."

"Like I said, when you're ready. You're new in Metropolis and it's not like you can hit the bars or do stuff in the Gay Community to meet someone." Clark clasped his hand on the back of Whit's neck. "It's hard for me to think of you alone, Whit. You deserve more."

Whit shook his head. "We're not all lucky like you, Clark. Besides, my glass is better than half full — I've got a pro-football contract, my Mom's going to be just fine, I've got a few good friends who mean the world to me... What do I need with love and sex?"

"Well—"

"That was a rhetorical question, Clark. Just leave it alone. I'll be fine."

"I know you will be."

It was just going to take a while. A very long while.

Practices didn't get any easier, but that was the Pros, and Whitney adapted quickly to the endless succession of coach, trainer, and teammate shoes — some with cleats — that kicked his ass on a daily basis. He did his job full tilt, giving a 100% of what they asked of him, then pushed himself for 20 or 30% more just so he could be certain that at the end of the day when he stumbled home there were no options available to him but drop into bed and sleep. Without the extra push, he walked into an empty condo keenly aware that he was alone with nothing to look forward to but a glass of wine, a little music on the stereo or a movie on dvd, then bed. Alone. No history lessons, no one to listen to him bitch about the hazing and the brutal workouts, no one to laugh with, no one to massage away the kinks in his muscles or kiss him until he begged for more than kisses... No Lionel to touch, to hold, to be with... Without that extra 20 to 30% push, the nights were way too long and most of the time Whit had no idea how he survived them.

He spent his days off -- usually Sunday and Mondays -- in Smallville with his mother, who was home and chafing under the restrictions placed on her by the doctors and the home health companion Whitney had hired to help her around the house. The days in Smallville were the worst, because he had time to rest and that meant he actually had the mental acuity to think. He spent a lot of time trying to convince himself he'd fallen in love with a fantasy he'd built out of four years of imagining what it would be like to be Lionel Luthor's lover. The only problem with that was that by and large, the reality had outstripped the fantasy 10-to-1. Even with the distance and the manipulations, the three months he'd spent with Lionel had been the most wonderful time of his life. Not once in three months had he felt alone or lonely. Unlike now.

Of course, it might have been easier if Lionel hadn't started making daily appearances at practice. Never at the same time any two days in a row, so Whit never knew when he'd walk toward the bench and see Lionel deep in conversation with the coach or glance over after a pass completion and see him strutting up and down the sidelines, pausing to focus his laser-like attention on a play or a player or the coaching staff. Watching everything, including Whitney, but never overtly so. Never so that anyone would notice and say, "Hmmm... Will you look at that."

But Whitney knew when Lionel was looking at him, he felt in every part of his body, but he was a pro now, and not once did Whitney miss his receiver or fumble the ball or forget the mechanics of the play he'd been instructed to call. He was a Pro, by God, and he would be damned before he let Lionel know that seeing him made him ache so badly inside that it wasn't uncommon for tears to mingle with the sweat that drenched his face in the August heat.

With Brookline, the Shark's starting QB, still sidelined for his groin pull, Whit started the first exhibition game of the season against Minnesota. It was different from college ball. He'd expected it, thought he was prepared for it, but when he was on the field and coping minute-to-minute with the reality of a faster pace of play and currents of power and position that shifted like eddies in a tidal pool, Whit had made every Rookie mistake in the book during the first quarter. Somehow, though, between the coach's ass chewing and his own determination to prove that he belonged here, he pulled it together. The Sharks lost, but Whit managed to kick enough Viking ass in the second quarter that he hadn't been totally crucified in the Sports Pages the next day.

That Sunday morning he'd gone out, snagged a bag of croissants from the deli bakery, bought every paper he could get his hands on, took them home, spread them out, and stared at them, not reading any of them, just staring, remembering the Sunday morning three weeks earlier on Lionel's balcony. Lionel reading to him, making fun of him, sharing a chaise with him, leaning back against his chest, sloppy kisses and silk and Lionel moaning and calling out his name, and Whitney screwing everything up by asking for more when he'd already been given so much...

Why the fuck did I push so hard? Why did I have to have it all? Why didn't I go slow? Why didn't I wait to hear what he had to say? The questions just kept on coming without answers, without relief, without any hope for an end to the pain.

Lionel looked out over the lights of his city, a light breeze ruffling his hair, a single malt scotch smooth in his throat. He heard the rustling as Celeste joined him on the balcony, but he didn't turn. She stopped behind him, one arm snaking around his chest. She pressed close, soft and sweetly scented, and it was easy to remember why he'd wanted her five months ago when they'd first started dating. She was beautiful and seasoned, not young any longer, but certainly not past her prime. She understood men and knew what it took to please them. Sex with Celeste had been pleasant, the companionship adequate. Her expectations had been a bit too high, but she'd been manageable. For the moment.

But that had been before Whitney Fordman came into his life and Lionel had found a convenient excuse to end things amicably with Celeste, because once he'd had Whitney, there hadn't been the slightest bit of room for anyone else. Little by little, Whitney had filled all the spaces that Lionel allotted to lovers -- and a few more he hadn't realized had been usurped by his beautiful Adonis until the relationship had run its course and Whitney had passed out of his life.

Only Whitney refused to vacate those places he'd assumed in Lionel's life. The quarterback was ever-present in Lionel's home, in his bed, in his office, in his life. Even now, with Celeste's pressed against him, her hand plying at the buttons of his shirt so she could gain access to his chest, all Lionel could think of, all he wanted, was Whitney's hardness pressed against him, his breath on his cheek. He ached for Whitney's smell, his taste. His laugh. The indescribable blue eyes that looked at him with such heat and adoration that he made Lionel feel like a god, more than worthy of being at the pinnacle of Olympus with an amazing young lover at his right hand. It had been weeks. Three of them, to be exact, and Lionel's hunger for Whitney was still as strong as it had ever been. Maybe stronger. And it was for damned sure that Celeste Willingham had nothing that would assuage that hunger.

It had been a mistake to reinitiate contact with her.

"Thank you for an amazing dinner. Please convey my compliments to Rudolph."

"I will."

"I didn't think you were going to call again, Lionel," Celeste cooed in his ear, letting her hand drift lower, her fingers tangling lightly in the stripe of hair that ran down his chest and disappeared beneath his belt. His shirt was unbuttoned to the waist now, and Lionel was hard, but it wasn't Celeste who'd gotten him that way.

Lionel finished his glass of Scotch and with his free hand, stilled Celestes' before she took this somewhere he suddenly knew he didn't want to go. "Perhaps I shouldn't have, Celeste." He stepped away from her.

Celeste took his departure gracefully. She reached for his glass and went to the cart to replenish it for him. "Because you're on the rebound?"

"Why would you think that?"

She laughed lightly. "Lionel, please. Give me a little credit for recognizing the signs. Did you really think I bought that story last spring about you not wanting to see me because you needed to focus on the LuthorCorp expansion deal?" She handed him his Scotch. "If I've learned one thing about powerful men, it's that the bigger the deal, the stronger the drive for sex. Wheeling-and-dealing is an aphrodisiac, and cutting yourself off from one source of satisfaction is only logical if you've got another waiting in your bed at night." Lionel sipped his Scotch as Celeste wandered to the ledge and showed him her excellent profile. "Care to tell me who he is?"

"Why would you assume it was a man?"

"Because you've been conspicuously absent from the society pages for the last four months." She turned to him. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"Of course not."

The breeze ruffled her hair and her dress as she glided to him and stopped. "You're not going to fuck me, either, are you."

Somehow, the crudity worked well for Celeste. Just not well enough to get him into bed. "No."

"You were thinking about him when I came out here, weren't you?"

"Celeste—"

"It's all right, Lionel. I'm insulted, but not excessively so. He's been here all night long." She stepped closer, pressing her beautifully toned, perfectly curved body against him, rubbing enticingly against his hardness. "Are you sure I can't take the edge off for you?"

"Quite. Thank you for the offer, though."

"Your loss. But you have my number when you get whoever he is out of your system." She kissed him lightly. "Will you call for your driver?"

"Of course."

A call downstairs, another few minutes of chitchat and Lionel was alone again, but no lonelier than he'd been when Celeste was there. No lonelier than he'd been since he'd kicked Whitney out of his life and made the determination that the price for getting him back was too high. He went to the Shark's practices every day as a test of his resolve to get Whitney Fordman out of his system, but instead, that resolve got a little weaker, the hunger a little stronger, the need a little darker.

There was a manilla envelope on his desk in the penthouse apartment, unlabeled, but he knew what it was: The report of an investigator Lionel trusted; the same one who'd compiled most of the reports on Whitney's college career. For three weeks, the detective, Jay Manning, had had a man on Whit, monitoring his activities, and for three weeks, there'd been nothing worth presenting Lionel in writing. Whitney went to practice, came home. He stopped at a popular sports bar with his teammates on occasion; twice he'd had dinner with Clark Kent. Always, he went home alone.

Today, Manning had dropped off a written report while Lionel had been at practice. The report was several pages thick by the look of the envelope. Lionel had not a clue what it contained, but he could guess. Whitney wasn't promiscuous by any stretch of the imagination, but he wasn't going to remain celibate forever. Lionel knew he was good, but he wasn't irreplaceable. He didn't want to read that Whitney had finally come out of mourning for a dead relationship and found someone not only willing to be fucked by the beautiful athlete, but eager for the privilege.

Refusing to draw a correlation between the appearance of the detective's report and his spur of the moment decision to call Celeste this afternoon, Lionel finally opened the envelope.

No photographs.

That was a good sign. If Whitney had been with someone, the investigator would have some type of photographic evidence, even if it was only a picture of the man entering or leaving Whit's building.

Lionel focused on the one page coversheet that condensed the report into its barest facts, and discovered that what he'd dreaded reading all day was the transcript of a telephone conversation between Whitney and his best friend, a journalism student who was finishing up her graduate degree at Berkeley. They'd been friends for nearly two years, ever since she'd transferred from Met U. to Kansas State for one semester to study under a visiting journalism professor. Her cousin, a Smallville teenager named Chloe Sullivan had introduced her to Whit. They'd dated, but only briefly because she'd figured out fairly quickly that Whit was gay. She'd kept his secret and they'd become fast friends.

Information was power and it had been decades since Lionel felt shame for intruding on anyone's privacy, even Whit's. Feeling nothing but relief that the wasn't going to have to read about his lover's encounter with another man, Lionel began reading the transcript of the telephone call between Whitney Fordman and his best friend, Lois Lane.

What he read changed everything.