by Nifra Idril
Author: Nifra Idril
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Lucas is a Luthor. He knows what that means.
Thanks: Lyra for being extreme and Jenn for the encouragement.
You know when the phone rings that it's your brother, even if you don't know what `brother' really means. Other than the fact that you share some chromosomal heritage from Lionel fucking Luthor, you seriously doubt he has any more of an idea, no matter how much he pretends.
You debate whether or not you'll answer. Maybe you'll let him leave you another message, and maybe you'll snicker when you listen to him sounding pissed off and worried and confused, because he's such an old woman sometimes. He leaves messages asking you to call him, asking if you're all right.
Pretends like he gives a shit, which must be really fucking easy to do when Lex is sitting pretty in the ancestral home, up to his bald fucking head in money. You probably look really good from a distance - a little brother who will rebel and make Daddy even smugger about his perfect hairless heir.
You don't answer the phone. Fuck it, you throw it across the room and snicker when it tries to ring afterward. Then you knock back another shot of whiskey and try to decide what the hell you're going to do tonight.
You fucking hate Metropolis.
You want to be back in Edge City where it matters when you pay attention and it matters when you don't. You want to feel that bright, cold edge of danger.
Fuck up this hand? You die or lose body parts or something but the point is there'll be pain. Win this hand? It'll be a good night, and you won't remember a single fucking second of it. And that's the way you like it.
Maybe you and Big Brother have more in common than he knows. People here say he did the same thing once. Maybe in a few years you'll be ready for a mansion and a farm boy of your very own. Is that how a Luthor grows up?
Fuck that. You are not ever going to wear a lavender tie and you sure as hell aren't going to live in a hole like Smallville. Lex likes it there, and that probably has more to do with the way a certain pair of lips feel wrapped around his cock than anything else. Clark probably gives really good head. Maybe you'll visit soon.
You want leave. You want to walk out of this goddamned penthouse, with nothing but your knife, and go somewhere dark and dirty and filled with sharp edges and just get the shit kicked out of you. You want to get in a fight, and you want to lose because that would be a whole lot more honest way to get hurt than what you've been doing lately.
Sure, Dad, I'll go to the board meeting and I'll sit next to you at the press conference, oh and, would you like me to say that I love you in public? Yeah, let's fucking hug for the Daily Planet.
Lex was right, that sanctimonious bastard. There's no way Lionel's ever going to like you, or love you or give a damn about anything other than his own mangy motherfucking hide. And that's almost kind of comfortable, because you know what to expect from him. And, really, what did you think would happen?
That he'd get to know you and decide that all those years of overlooking you were a mistake?
Lionel doesn't make mistakes. He miscalculates, and you were the miscalculation from day one. You know that.
Besides, he knows you now. Knows that you're as much of an asshole as he is, and he really doesn't like that about you. Which is funny, because he's pretty fucking fond of himself, but maybe it just doesn't look as good on you.
You're realistic, and you know that this is the only family in the entire world that you could come from because Lionel is right. You're a son of a bitch. You lie, and you cheat, and you steal, and the only thing that matters to you is that you get what you want because nobody is going to give it to you. You're opportunistic and manipulative.
You're a goddamned Luthor.
And you're really good at being alone so it doesn't matter that Lionel thinks you're a sociopath. It doesn't matter that you're just a bargaining chip in the all-important struggle with Lex. It doesn't matter that when Lionel looks at you, he sees the ten percent of LuthorCorp stock you own, instead of the fact that you look like him.
You prefer being alone because then you don't have to listen to anybody else's bullshit. You don't have to explain yourself, and you sure as hell don't have to care about a thing.
Fuck Lex for trying to get to know you. Next time he calls you - which will be tomorrow if he stays true to form - you're going to tell him that he can sit on his concern and fucking rotate.
You stand up, and turn the music up as loud as it'll go and you can feel the bass in your teeth so it really ought to drown out your inner monologue, but it doesn't. It really fucking doesn't and the whiskey doesn't either, even though you're starting to slosh a little with each step you take.
You stumble, and yeah, so you're a sloppy fucking drunk. Who gives a shit? There's no one here to see you, no one here to notice if you break every fucking thing in the fucking living room and damn but that feels good. In the morning, it will probably seem like a really stupid thing to have done. But right now?
You. Don't. Care.
You don't care that the flat screen TV you're beating with a chair cost more money than you made most nights at the tables, and you don't care that your hands are bleeding. You don't care that you're out of whiskey and you sure as fucking hell don't care that the phone's ringing again.
What the fuck does Lex want? Because he's the only one who ever calls you. Edge City's over now that you're Lionel Luthor's son and besides, none of your ex-partners really miss you, because you're a cocky little shit, and the women you fuck don't exactly ask for your number or anything. Or, if they do, you don't give it to them.
You wonder what Lex does when he's lonely. Hell, you wonder if Lex ever gets lonely. He's pretty cozy in his castle. Probably curled up around the poster boy for the American way, and ...what the hell does it matter? You are not lonely.
You're drunk, and you're angry, and you really wish Lionel could see this because even for you, this is some quality destruction. You've always been good at destruction.
So you keep breaking things until there's nothing left to break and the living room looks like it's been shoved into a trash compactor. You lose your momentum, and you sit down on the floor and you don't regret what you've done. You don't regret any of it. You don't even really regret who you are, because what's the point? You can't change it now.
You're never going to be Lex, and Lionel is never going to love you, and that's really all you know right now. And that's enough, right? Two fundamental truths for you to grow the fuck up with.
Get over it.
You mean nothing and how the fuck did you forget that? You thought you'd learned it a long fucking time ago. Before you really knew that you were Lionel Luthor's son.
Back when your knees were always bruised, and you flinched when people touched you. Back when you weren't fast enough when you ran, but you were pretty enough when they caught you. When your baby teeth fell out and you just had smooth, smooth gums in the front, and you learned how to breathe through your nose even when you were panicking. Back when you weren't just an orphan, you were fucking dead.
You. Mean. Nothing.
The phone rings again. This time, you pick it up because you're too tired not to.
"What do you want?" you ask.
"Lucas, you're there. I've been trying you all night," Lex says, sounding worried.
"Yeah, and I've been ignoring the phone," you tell him because you can be honest, too. "What do you want?"
"I wanted to know if you were all right. I heard about the car crash."
You snort. "Don't worry, I haven't upstaged you. I didn't die, I just broke my ribs. Your crash is still the famous one."
"Are you all right?" Lex asks again, ignoring the tone of your voice.
"Yeah," you tell him. "I'm doing great."
"Yeah," you say. "I am."
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