When Bruce was twelve, Lex's fingers were still sticky. Lex stole Bruce's monogrammed handkerchief and held it tight in his fist, pressed, white corner just sticking out above Lex's thumb at the graveside service. Bruce thought Lex very brave standing there alone, helplessly naked not just because he was bald, with his horrible father while they lowered Lex's mother into the ground. Despite the normally overwhelming presence of Mr. Luthor, all Bruce could see was how utterly, desolately alone Lex looked, how Lex had clung to his mother just months ago when they lowered his little brother into the tiny plot just feet from where they were now burying Mrs. Luthor.
At his own parents' funeral three years earlier, Bruce had been sick with shock, with rage, with a sharp, gnawing hurt biting his chest, but he hadn't cried. He'd been his mother's perfect gentleman, his father's sharp young man, Alfred's stoic little soldier. He had tensed up whenever the adults tried to hug him, offered a firm handshake and a grim smile in exchange. He allowed Alfred a hand on his shoulder for the few moments the old man offered it, more for his own sake than Bruce's, Bruce's solid shoulder a touchstone to remind him that there was something left of the family he'd served his entire life.
Lex hadn't put up with any of that crap. Even at six, Lex had been bossy and filled with bravado, just shoved past Bruce's fragile defenses and climbed right into Bruce's lap, wrapped his arms around Bruce's neck and pressed his hot little face into the hollow of Bruce's throat. Lex's curls tickled his nose. Bruce sneezed, but Lex just burrowed closer into him and cried so Bruce wouldn't have to.
Bruce wanted to hold Lex's hand, wanted to pull him away and shield him from all this hurt. At the wake Bruce yanked Lex into the coat closet, hid them away behind a forest of furs and pulled Lex back into his lap. Lex resisted for nearly half a second before giving in, colapsing onto Bruce, breaking down and crying. Lex shivered in his arms and all Bruce could do was hold onto him, stroke the naked curve of his head missing the riot of red curls, and think how thin Lex was.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
1/22/09 02:33 am (UTC)At his own parents' funeral three years earlier, Bruce had been sick with shock, with rage, with a sharp, gnawing hurt biting his chest, but he hadn't cried. He'd been his mother's perfect gentleman, his father's sharp young man, Alfred's stoic little soldier. He had tensed up whenever the adults tried to hug him, offered a firm handshake and a grim smile in exchange. He allowed Alfred a hand on his shoulder for the few moments the old man offered it, more for his own sake than Bruce's, Bruce's solid shoulder a touchstone to remind him that there was something left of the family he'd served his entire life.
Lex hadn't put up with any of that crap. Even at six, Lex had been bossy and filled with bravado, just shoved past Bruce's fragile defenses and climbed right into Bruce's lap, wrapped his arms around Bruce's neck and pressed his hot little face into the hollow of Bruce's throat. Lex's curls tickled his nose. Bruce sneezed, but Lex just burrowed closer into him and cried so Bruce wouldn't have to.
Bruce wanted to hold Lex's hand, wanted to pull him away and shield him from all this hurt. At the wake Bruce yanked Lex into the coat closet, hid them away behind a forest of furs and pulled Lex back into his lap. Lex resisted for nearly half a second before giving in, colapsing onto Bruce, breaking down and crying. Lex shivered in his arms and all Bruce could do was hold onto him, stroke the naked curve of his head missing the riot of red curls, and think how thin Lex was.