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Clark’s lying on a picnic blanket in front of the lake, soaking up the early morning sun. The crickets are particularly loud today, in the early days of summer, the temperature fluctuating between crisp and warm. The water strides create ripples in the water that nobody else can enjoy, like a light massage to the senses.
A shadow appears over him—not that it catches him by surprise—but it makes him smile, nonetheless. He notices the food cart behind Bruce, stacked to the top with pancakes, fruits, a selection of pastries, sausages and bacon and, of course, a bottle of champagne.
“Did you make all of that?” Clark asks, as Bruce kneels down to kiss him, still in his silk black dressing gown. Clark playfully tugs at the bow around it until it’s close to being unraveled. It falls out of the knot easily, as the light bounces off Bruce’s bare body.
His abdominals tense slightly, at either the warmth of the sunlight, or the cool breeze that kisses his skin. Either way, he looks beautiful.
“I’m trying to be romantic. Of course, I didn't make it. And you knew that, if you’ve been listening to Alfred and I in the kitchen,” Bruce replies.
“I knew that,” Clark says, sitting up. “Remind me again, what’s the occasion?”
“My boyfriend coming back to life,” Bruce simply says. He runs his hands through Clark’s hair, like he’s been doing every single morning since he’s been back.
“Good occasion,” Clark agrees, suddenly getting another whiff of the pancakes. His eyes trail over Bruce’s shoulder.
“You want the pancakes,” Bruce says.
“I do.”
“Alfred mixed in an unholy amount of butter in them.”
Bruce gets up to bring Clark his plate, along with the blueberries, in a lightly ice-chilled bowl. Keeps them cold and fresh. Alfred’s determined to maintain standards, despite, you know, the whole freeze breath thing.
Bruce tucks into a plate of sausages and eggs as they eat their breakfasts in easy silence. It’s nice, Clark thinks to himself, to be able to live in a world where him and Bruce Wayne can have this. Bruce really put in the work to make this a reality—their reality. It wasn’t just the resurrection; it was rearranging the pieces of their lives so that they could fit perfectly into each other’s.
Clark really appreciates it, for lack of a better word. He wants to tell Bruce this, somehow, but despite the comfort, everything still feels tender and raw between them.
When they make love in between empty plates, against the friction of picnic blankets and wooden floorboards under them, there isn’t much that escapes their lips apart from the sugar hot taste of each other’s names.
They’re sweating in the early noon sun; the weight of Bruce on top of Clark feels like a steady weight, keeping him grounded to this plane, to this new life. He doesn’t want to let it go. He can’t.
Bruce’s hips keep grinding against his like he doesn’t know the definition of an end. Clark supposes, he doesn’t.
They eventually roll into the waters of the lake, perhaps as a result of Clark trying to get Bruce off a particularly ticklish spot. Clark laughs as Bruce spits out water, shoving a palm in his face. He doesn’t know what to say, because this is ridiculous, and he’s stupid in love, and he’s happy.
The words—they’ll come later.
They’ll just bask in the feeling for now.