by Ein

When everything's made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.

Whitney wasn't stupid. He might be a jock, and he might be blonde, but no, Whitney wasn't stupid. He knew that there was something going on between Clark and Lana, could hear it in Lana's voice as she repeated her "We're just friends" routine, could see it from the way she had delivered it with exasperation and a slight pleased amusement evolve to a wistful tone and a faraway look in her eyes.

Once upon a time, Whitney would never have been worried that Lana would leave him for Clark. Clark was a nobody, a kid who didn't run in the right social circles, a kid who didn't play sport (a one way ticket out of the elite), a kid who stumbled and fell and stammered every time Lana walked, no, floated, past. He just could not fit with Lana the way Whitney did. Lana, the proverbial fairy princess, and Whitney, her knight in shining armor. They fit. A perfect match. Being Homecoming King and Queen had just served to cement that. Clark was the antithesis of a knight, everything a hero was not, and he could never hope to have the princess' heart.

Or so Whitney thought.

He never could pinpoint the exact moment the metamorphosis of Clark Kent occurred. Perhaps it was after Lex Luthor came to Smallville, driving off a bridge in true Luthor fashion and Clark saving him. Or perhaps when Clark saved Whitney himself from the inferno of a car explosion. Too many incidents to list, and Whitney wonders why Clark got to be the hero.

Stars in Lana's eyes, and Whitney no longer the one to place it there.

He supposed Lex Luthor was the catalyst. Luthor, with his sly grins and knowing eyes, and an attitude which just screams out at you. It was kind of like being hit by a truck, and Whitney notices Luthor alright, notices the way he walks, with grace unmatched by even Lana, the smooth slick way he talks and the way he looks at you like he can see right through to your core, and it's easy to blame all this on him.

Easier to hate Luthor than Clark.

Clark, who was always so nice, so pure, in ways Whitney knew Lana wasn't. The easy way he took his defeat during their basketball game, as if he was playing for the sheer joy of it, and not for winning. Whitney admired that. It was hard to hate someone who did not seem to have a single malicious bone in his body, and Clark was always so earnest, so eager.

So innocent. Even now, Whitney still isn't sure of why he chose Clark as the Scarecrow. Oh he kept telling himself how it was because he saw Clark with Lana; it made sense, it justified his actions. It was easy, understandable (even if not acceptable), to slide into the role of jealous possessive boyfriend and establish dominance over what he saw as a threat. A threat to what? Him and Lana. Lana and Whitney. Them. He whispered all this to himself under his breath, as if saying it out loud would make it sound like it was the truth.

Shaking his head, he stepped out of his truck, and breathed in the fresh crisp night air. The sky was devoid of stars, and the moon shone weakly through a cover of clouds. Faint beams of light from Lana's porch guided him, and he walked on, giving one last glance behind him, where a barn stood, detached from the main house, solitary. The light was still on; he was not asleep.

Lana let him in with a smile and a hug, and he trailed after her into her bedroom, treading quietly so as to not wake Neil. Would he wait in the room decorated in pink and fluff, with photos covering every inch of the walls, photos of him and her, from then until now; she had to brush her teeth, she explained, and wash up. He nodded, knowing from experience that she would take a while, even spray on a bit of that flowery scent she liked, and step into her white virginal nightgown with laced sleeves.

A smile with a hint of promise of what was to come, and the door shut.

Whitney looked about the room, tracing with his fingertips a photograph of him and Lana when they were in eighth grade, and wondered if twenty years later, he would still be on that wall. Something near her window caught his eye, and he paused, squinted.

It was a telescope. He never knew Lana was into star-gazing, and a few steps brought him to the window, and he bent down, peering through the eye piece...

...and found himself looking right into a loft, where a boy sat on the window ledge, looking up at the sky, a wistful look of yearning on his face that was so raw, so vulnerable it made Whitney feel slightly guilty, like he was intruding on a private moment. He watched as the boy sighed, and buried his head between his folded arms, hidden from the world.

It was like a scene from a movie, so surreal, and Whitney felt an ache deep in his heart, and wished the moment would still and he could find a way to possess that boy with the sad eyes. He wanted to capture that moment of desperation and sheer anguish, the cause of which he did not know. Love, he guessed, most likely unrequited; after all, what else could evoke such unrestrained emotions?

It could not have been Lana, the rational part of his brain argued, as he admitted that as lovely Lana was, she was not the kind to inspire such deep feelings in anyone. But then, who? Chloe? He ticked off a mental check list, and was puzzled when all of a sudden, the boy lifted his head, a smile on his face that came and went, ephemeral, and he looked lost, radiating uncertainty and nervousness.

He heard the reason for that a few seconds later, the purring of an engine that cut through the silence of the night, coupled with the screeching of tires that were obviously overworked. A sleek silver Porsche sped its way up to the barn, and Lex Luthor got out without bothering to park, dressed in black, and Whitney lost track of him as he ran into the barn, reappearing almost instantaneously in Clark's bedroom.

Whitney was suspicious. What the hell was Luthor doing at Clark's place so late at night? He became more and more confused as he saw Luthor gesturing wildly, no longer the poised confident Lex, spreading his hands in front of Clark as his face took on a similar expression to that of Clark's.

Luthor's face was unguarded, hiding nothing, showing Clark what the world would never get a chance to see. It stunned Whitney to realise that Luthor might actually be capable of human emotions. He had always assumed he had found them far too plebian.

He turned his attention back to Clark, whose huge eyes were luminous with tears, and the next thing he knew, they were clinging on to each other like orphaned brothers, desperate in their affection, with an almost tangible fear that they would be separated by the world.

He did not see who kissed who first, and did not know why he was so utterly shocked, so surprised; he must have been blind not to see it coming. He supposed they all were, the signs had always been there, they just did not recognize them for what they were.

He watched as buttons were undone and flannel fell to the floor in a heap, leaving that glorious tanned body exposed. Whitney was sure that if Clark had been born in a different era, he would have been worshipped as a god; Adonis most likely.

He licked his lips, no longer feeling guilt at playing the voyeur.

Expensive silk was torn next, ripped, then discarded without regard, and there he was, pale expanse of alabaster skin, smooth and silky, and he could see how Luthor was lean and muscled, another unexpected thing given the very nature of Luthor's job and the office clothes that he always wore.

He watched as Luthor knelt and licked a line up Clark's stomach, ending at his ear where he did things that made Clark squirm and throw his head back, leaving that lovely neck exposed for the taking. He did not know if he wanted to be Clark, or the one doing all those things to him, and it was that sudden thought that made Whitney conscious of what he was doing, what he was witnessing.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and he jumped away, looking at the shelf of books instead, pretending to be browsing through them as the door creaked open and Lana walked in. She had done just as he had expected, and he could without bias, admit that she did look like an angel.

He strode up to her, and grabbed her towards him in a tight embrace, causing her to drop her towel into a pile on the floor, kissing her with lots of tongue, almost aggressively, and felt her surprise, before she kissed him back with fervor. He kissed her as if they were someone else, not Lana, not Whitney, and for a second he could almost taste the truth in the lie.

A stolen scene that did not belong to him played in a loop in his head, and he sank to his knees, pushing up the nightgown and licking Lana's stomach as she held his head to keep from falling, and he followed with playful nips at her ear, bathing it with his tongue, wishing that the body beneath his hands weren't quite so soft, and he felt an emptiness that he ignored as he breathed in the floral scent.

As they tumbled onto the bed, his mind was wondering what was happening in another room not quite so far away, even as the nightgown joined the towel on the floor, accompanied by his t-shirt and jeans a few seconds later. Even as he entered her in one smooth stroke and started moving in a fast quick, almost brutal rhythm, it wasn't enough, and he didn't quite know what would constitute enough, even as she cried out in orgasm, and he followed her a few minutes later, the unvoiced name on his lips, in the mingled breath between them as they shared a tender kiss.

He sees them in the Talon the next day, and this time he understands the glances Luthor gives Clark, the subtle touching, the eye fucks. He understands it, the way he understands why Luthor is dressed in a high collar shirt, why there won't be a Clark and Lana, why there won't be a Whitney and Clark, why there'll always be a Lana and Whitney.

Whitney isn't stupid; he understands it all.

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Ein

Also, why not join Level Three, the Smallville all-fic list?


Level Three Records Room