Lex is flawless. The clean lines of his clothes, his long black coat. The way he moves at perfectly calculated angles to the world. Smooth as a shadow and just as untouchable. Untouched by anything. The way he's... bald, the way he makes it sexy, like being naked. Or maybe it only seems that way because Clark's never seen Lex anything less than totally dressed. Gleaming shoes and crisp slacks and shirts buttoned up to the collar.
Even when Lex is at the gym he wears layers. Loose sweatshirts over long-sleeved thermals. Face raw with perspiration, still polished, gleaming, clean. Hard as diamond. Silk, sweat, anger, fear: Lex makes everything he wears into armor.
Clark's never even seen his arms.
He finds himself staring at Lex's mouth. A lot. And he's not so innocent that he doesn't realize his gazes could be. Misinterpreted. But he's not thinking about... he's not even thinking about kissing Lex.
It's just that scar on Lex's mouth, that lone imperfection. When it's cold out, Lex's lips go pale and you can hardly see it. Lex was dead white when Clark pulled him out of the river, so he didn't notice at the time. But he's wondered about it, since. He's had... Clark's mouth has touched that scar and he didn't even see it was there.
He thinks it's like a thorn or a splinter, that scar. Just a little scratch, uneven split on Lex's slant mouth. The one thing that's not smooth and crisp, controlled and ironed down. It caught at him, Clark thinks. Caught him.
He knows Lex, now. Knows he's nowhere near as smooth and flawless as he looks. Nobody could be, but Lex... Lex is all angles underneath the lines. All tangles underneath the smoothness. All twisted up, and now Clark's hooked, snagged like a sweater on a nail. Caught and coming apart, because Lex is sharp and crooked, bent like an old fish hook. Under Clark's skin and working his way in. Deep. Not that Clark knows what that feels like, but...
He can imagine.