Tertius Epistula (Diary III)     Tertius Epistula (Diary III)

 by lostmarble

 Disclaimer: I don't own them, unless you want to give them to me for
christmas. 
that's one present I would LOVE to unwrap. 
I love feedback almost as much as a giftwrapped Lex. 

 

  

 AN: normally don't do these, but...blatant plea for a beta! I think this
needs it...or even if you review with an error that you notice, it would
be beyond appreciated 

 <hr> 

 Tertius Epistula 

 Quibus verum est duplicitas 

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 I finished Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil today, and I was
pained by how much I identified with, and perhaps even envied, Jim. Now,
if you know the book, you know that this is illogical. He lived in
Savannah--a small, traditional city in the South that is so set in its
ways that he cannot be accepted, because of what he is. He may have been
wealthy, as I admittedly, painfully obviously am, but he was on trial for
the murder of his lover-a sexy boy-toy (and sometime hustler) named Danny.


 I am apparently on a streak of empathy, however. Two in two days-a new
record for me. First a drug-addicted musician with a father that never
loved him and now this, a millionaire in a traditional, small town with a
penchant for fine alcohol and younger men. However, in this case, I find
it easier to find the places where his world ends and mine begins. After
all, Smallville is a farming town, not the seat of old Southern gentility.
I haven't tried to murder any ex-lovers recently, though they have tried
to murder me. I am half-ashamed to admit that I envy his closeness with
Danny. Though the subject of his desires was tempestuous and violent, it
was clear that the two shared a passionate, even caring relationship, at
least for a time. 

 Again in a black mood, I envied this closeness and intimacy. 

 And the fact that felt myself envying Jim for this reason made me feel
remarkably guilty. I was doing it again-lusting after Clark. Though the
age difference is less in our case (since when is there an "us"?) the
basic circumstances in the time leading up to Danny's death was enough to
make the description click. But what really did it for me was a simple,
five-word description of Danny. 

 "A walking streak of sex." 

 These words echoed in my head as I lowered the book to the table. Clark
may be the opposite of Danny in every other way--from his innocence to his
calm politeness--but this, he most certainly is. They continue to resound
vaguely through my skull, like a bell that should have forgotten that it
has been struck, but continues to reverberate. 

 And so, I desire him. What of it? I have desired many others in the past,
and I am capable of restraining myself. 

 Nitimur in vetitum semper, cupimusque negata. 

 Ovid, the spring of truth. The desire in my veins, however, is too potent
to be called anything other than longing. How odd-I was under the
impression that Luthors never needed any one. Apparently, this is another
of my childhood "lessons" that was later contradicted by the real world. 

 <hr> 

 Again, I find myself staring at wine. This time, however, I am more
civilized; I have managed to pour my drink into a glass before downing it
like a football player chugs his Gatorade after a draining match. Perhaps,
I do not have the burning need to get drunk that I did the last time I
wrote. I am able to approach life more calmly...or I have worn myself out
with the mental football game that is emotion. I understand, now, why my
father cautions against emotion. 

 Hear that, Dad? I'm admitting you're right. 

 To quote you, "you only get one." 

 I certainly make quite an image right now, and it is one that I can take
pleasure in. I sit a couch in front of a fire, writing a letter by hand on
expensive paper. (I write by hand so that I can be sure there is only one
copy. Computers always leave trails, so sometimes the most primitive
method is the best for recording one's private thoughts.) The fire in
front of me casts a glow on my skin that makes me seem rather more healthy
than I normally look, nearly the color of Clark's honeylit skin. The
flames sparkle through my nearly empty glass, the Bordeaux glowing like a
ruby on fire. 

 Oh , inconcessus diligo , vestri virus est dulcis quod magis decadent
quam teres vinum. Ut particeps vestrum necne , aut est morior. 

 Interesting. I am honestly not sure where that came from. 

 However, I have now accepted that I am becoming a clandestine poet.
Handwritten notes and letters have always appealed to my creative side,
because of their simple physical beauty, and inherent intimacy. The truth
behind this statement is...ambiguous. I have no idea what created the
verse, whether it was my thoughts of Clark or the beauty of the wine in
the firelight. If I am a poet, does that make Clark my muse? 

 I am banking on the idea that "in vino veritas," may not hold true. 

 Love, though? No. I think not. These letters to myself, in their
intimacy, have prompted me to become introspective with regard to my
desires, emotions and ...feelings. Yes, Lex Luthor has feelings, too. Just
because I don't show them to you doesn't mean that I don't cry myself to
sleep at night. 

 Just kidding. Of course. 

 I don't. 

 Really.   
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