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The chandeliers of the ballroom glittered like falling stars, the golden light dripping over the crowd of tuxedos and gowns. Perched on the mid-landing, the ensemble played, their melodies intertwining to drape the atmosphere in a comforting glow.
Clark found himself standing near the back of the room, his figure looming over one of the white clothed bistros. He felt like a mess, the fabric of his tie rumpled, the greyish suit a little too tight around his arms. The press badge hung off his chest, his own printed portrait contrasting with the displeased expression on his face. He felt like he was on the edge of a cold sweat; his anxious demeanor a telling sign that he didn't belong here.
The glass of champagne sparkled in his hand, the rim pressing to his lips as he groveled in his predicament.
Perry had, for some bright reason, sent him to cover the Wayne Foundation's annual gala, a celebration that felt more like Gotham's own coronation than another charity event. This evening, as he had read so much about in the little time he was informed, was meant to honor the legacy of Thomas and Martha Wayne, alongside their contributions to this cracking city.
He could feel that underlying warmth in the air, like an old family country gathering. Its people weaved together a story, one that was full of familiarity. And yet, he stood apart, sulking in his own bubble. Guilt hung in his chest, feeling as if his presence was souring the night for everyone else.
Goodness, he felt like such a stranger.
The bubbles danced down his throat, the floral yet fruity aftertaste making up for its acidity. A soft sigh passed his lips, eyes lingering across the crowd while his pen shook in his other hand.
He wasn't exactly watching the guests, nor did he find much interest in the band.
Across the dance floor, Bruce Wayne moved with practiced ease, his hands tangled around his own glass of champagne. Clark could tell he was laughing at something, that beauty mark on his cheek lifting with a shining, fixed smile.
He seemed cheerful, more so than he usually was while performing his ‘Brucie Wayne’ persona. His shoulders sank, watching Bruce from afar like he was soaking in memories through a tattered camera.
This wasn't just Gotham's night; it was Bruce's night too.
The mayor had already toasted him twice, reporters flocked around him, and the board members of half a dozen foundations were lined up to shake his hand. Bruce stood at the center of it all, polished and radiant, every inch the city’s golden son.
Clark felt like a bystander at the edge of Bruce’s carefully constructed world. No matter how long they’d known each other, how much they’d endured, how deeply they loved one another, he couldn’t shake the sense that he was intruding on something he wasn’t meant to touch, like an inside joke he’d never been let in on.
“A refill, sir?”
Clark blinked out of his thoughts, startled to find a butler standing at his side, one that resembled a scary resemblance to Alfred. Maybe that’s just how all butlers looked, frail, exhausted, yet a sharp danger lingering behind their eyes. His gaze lowered to the glass in his hand, little more than a few drops clinging to the bottom. He parted his lips, coughing softly to clear his throat.
“I-yes! Yes, thank you. That would be nice.” He passed the glass onto the silver tray, watching as the older man’s steady hand replaced it with a taller, sparkling cup. Clark fixed the thick frames on his face, the bridge falling into the dent pressed to his nose.
“Enjoy.” How could he?
Clark gave a small nod, his lips pursed into a thin line. An awkward gesture that felt like the first real interaction he’d had all evening. He wished he could be better at this, more sociable, less the bumbling, clumsy journalist he always seemed to fall into being.
Even as he tried to remind himself he was here on assignment, just another reporter covering Gotham’s event of the season, his eyes betrayed him. They drifted back to the man in the tuxedo.
The world saw a billionaire.
Gotham saw a savior in silk.
And he saw…. well, he saw Bruce.
Seeing him like this, laughing with ease as though the weight of Gotham had never once bent his shoulders, Clark couldn’t decide if it filled him with happiness or unease.
His attention settled on the notepad beneath him, a blank page accompanied by only one word.
Focus.
Clark had written it unconsciously, like an unfinished thought shoved to the back of his mind. The name etched darker than his ink had any right to be, his thumb brushing against the lined paper like it would disappear. His eyebrows creased when the indentation remained, instead now slightly smudged to the right.
It felt mocking, in a way, like the world was telling him to screw his head on straight.
Clark shook his head, trying to banish the spiral of his own thoughts. Focus. He needed a statement, a quote, something for the article. His pen tapped restlessly against the notepad while he debated whether he had the nerve to approach Bruce and ask for just a moment of his time. It wasn’t as though Bruce had ever turned him away before. More often than not, their staged indifference in public ended in muffled laughter behind closed doors only minutes later.
Hesitance, that weight tugging in his chest as he urged his foot to start walking.
Just one request, one minute to ask Bruce to make something up. Then he could walk away, enjoy the gala, and let Bruce continue to be the center of Gotham’s attention.
Without… him.
He stopped, barely inches away from the bistro he stationed himself at, thumb absentmindedly clicking the pen open and closed.
He watched as Bruce glanced over for just a moment, his eyes landing on another guest with a polite greeting. The skin around his eyes crinkled with yet another practiced smile, his hair falling just perfectly across his forehead. The way his brows lifted with curiosity at every small comment, and the beautiful detail of his eyelashes brushing downward each time they narrowed. His heart ached.
That’s what it was.
Jealousy. Not of the attention presented to Bruce, goodness no, but from the lack of attention from the Prince of Gotham himself. Here he was, stuck playing the role of yet another nobody in the lavish life of Bruce Wayne. He knew they both had to keep up their secret identities. Bruce made that very clear when they agreed to make this relationship work, but sometimes Clark found himself yearning for change, for that acknowledgement in public.
Could he ever imagine standing next to Bruce like that? His body pressed against his, arm held out as Bruce’s own snaked around it. Every so often, he could lean down, whispering into Bruce’s ear just to see the pink dust creep over his face. He would be smiling ear to ear with pride, knowing that anyone would call him the luckiest person in Gotham. Not for the money, nor the lavish lifestyle, but for dating the most enticing man this planet could offer. Oh, how he would have loved to walk up right next to Bruce, slip a hand on his waist, and gush about how much he missed him- no matter who was standing in front of them.
A sigh trickled past his lips, and for the first time that night, he felt himself frown.
No matter, he couldn’t let himself get choked up, not when he had a job to do. One comment. Just a line for the article. He could do that, right? He could push past the lump in his throat, ignore the pinch in his chest, and walk over to Bruce.
He started forward again, pen poised, rehearsing the words he would say in his head. Perhaps a polite greeting, professional, maybe even paired with a flattering comment. Just enough to play into their roles, enough to pass off as a desperate reporter and let Bruce return to the spotlight. He hated that the closer he got, the heavier the weight seemed to press against his ribs. Every step felt slower than the last, every breath taut with a tension he couldn’t name. Clark wanted to reach out, call Bruce aside, but something in him hesitated. A quiet voice, one that was whispering that maybe tonight wasn’t the night.
The music shifted.
Clark’s attention drifted from Bruce, settling on the ensemble as a new melody swelled through the ballroom. Upbeat, jazzy, the kind of tune that lingered in the back of your mind long after you heard it. He caught himself noting its rhythm, filing it away for later.
In the brief moments his gaze strayed, the atmosphere seemed to shift.
When his eyes found Bruce again, he caught the man leaning close to a woman, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered something only for him. Clark’s chest tightened, though he couldn’t place why.
Then it happened.
Her hand slipped easily into Bruce’s, lashes fluttering as she tugged him away with practiced charm. Every step he took with her was measured, elegant, like the ballroom had been waiting for this moment all night. Before Clark could summon a coherent thought, Bruce was on the way toward the spotlight of the room. The crowd parted around them like curtains in a theater, the eyes of straying Gothamites following their every move. Her gown swept across the tile, Bruce’s palm steadying her with effortless control. Every twirl, every dip, it was like they had choreographed this before, polished to shine. Bruce’s smile was dazzling, catching the chandelier’s light like a reflection against gold. For a fleeting moment, Clark couldn’t tell if it was another one of Bruce Wayne’s carefully worn masks or something real. He looked absolutely radiant.
A clap, then two, the crowd around them slowly falling into the beat of the music. Bruce spun the woman one last time, releasing her with a gentleman’s bow before his hand found another waiting in the crowd. A man this time, the same one Clark had noticed him speaking to earlier. Their bodies fell into rhythm with startling ease, Bruce’s palm settling against the man’s shoulder, the stranger’s grip settling into the curve of Bruce’s back. This time, Bruce laughed. It was unguarded, warm, the sound rolling through his throat as the two of them spun across the floor. Clark knew no one else could have caught it over the music, yet his ears followed it instinctively, tuning out everything else just to hold onto it. For a breath, it was his alone.
The truth settled in.
None of it was for him.
None of it acknowledged the countless moments they had hidden from the world, the secrets they had traded in dimly lit corners. It pushed past the fleeting touches hidden beneath shadows, the rare moments when Bruce let his mask slip and allowed Clark to see the man behind the facade. Those memories had felt singular, untouchable, as if they belonged only to them. Yet here Bruce was, offering that same ease, that same practiced intimacy to someone else as if those secrets had never existed.
Clark’s pen hovered over the notepad, the tip scratching faintly against the paper, useless. His words for the article felt small and meaningless in comparison to the sight of Bruce’s easy smile aimed at someone else. He felt like he could be sick, his body curling up in fear and shame.
He felt… replaceable.
Clark told himself to breathe, to think rationally, to find a sliver of reason that he was just being foolish. Yet the jealousy that roared in his chest burned with a heat so fierce it felt almost alien, something that only a Kryptonian could endure. No amount of shouting in his head could stop his gaze from fastening onto Bruce as he moved across the floor, every turn and every laugh holding him captive. What felt like after hours, he finally forced himself to look away, his hands lowering to his sides in defeat. His vision felt narrow, his chest too tight, every sound of laughter and music in the ballroom pressing down on him like a weight even he couldn’t handle. The steady bass of the orchestra was like a mockery to his heart, hammering out of control.
It was suffocating. He needed air, desperately.
Clark’s silhouette rose carefully, slow enough that it wouldn’t draw attention out of the better-dressed around him. His shoulders remained hunched, excusing himself past what felt like hundreds of gowns and tuxedos. Conversations swelled and dimmed around him, meaningless chatter he didn’t bother to absorb. Not like he wanted it to, every laugh and cheer seemed to echo that bitter thought circling in his head.
He hadn’t realized how fast his shoes clicked against the waxed tile, each step harder than the last. He ignored the blur of Bruce behind him, descending into the darker corners of the mansion. The tall doors of the balcony loomed ahead like a reprieve, his curly black hair hiding the wrinkles in his desolation. The change was immediate, Gotham’s night air rushing to meet his face. It was cold, sharp, cutting straight through the suffocating warmth that he had left behind him. He let out a deep exhale, approaching the balustrade with a new exhaustion. His arms pressed against the old architecture, his body leaning just for a moment of relief.
The city stretched out endlessly before him, the glittering lights in the sea of darkness reflecting against his frames. It was beautiful in its own fractured way, the soft glow of neon signs painting colour across the skyline. He could see the hint of smoke drifting from rooftops, the hum of traffic, and distant wails of sirens, all showcasing its Gotham charm.
He gripped the railing, holding it tight enough that he swore the stone cracked in the lines of his palms. For a moment, he let himself close his eyes, drowning in the cold. Jealousy was a fool's magnet, and he had tripped into its unkindly hands. He had no right to feel this sharp ache, not when he knew what Bruce’s life demanded of him. Still, the feeling gnawed at him, wishing just for a moment that he could go back to that farm in Kansas, away from the burdens of Superman, away from being journalist Clark Kent. Ma would know what to say, but then again, she’d probably swat at his shoulder, reminding him just how emotionally swayed he could always be. His calloused hand raised to his face, fingers rubbing against his eyes just to ease that creeping headache.
…
Bruce was spun gracefully by his dance partner, the music kicking his feet to move. Applause rippled from the guests around them, the song dipping in tempo to signal its approaching finale. Bruce’s smile landed him exactly where he needed to, earning the admiration that Gotham expected of him. He guided the final moments, dipping his partner so low the room seemed to hold its breath. Another wave of cheers, Bruce’s hands lifting the stranger to a standing position.
“I’ll be here all night!” He laughed, fixing his hair that had fallen from its perfect mold.
For anyone watching, it was perfect, but Bruce’s eyes were already searching.
The applause blurred into white noise as his gaze swept the room, instinctively tracing the edges of the crowd until he found the space where Clark had been. Empty. His brow twitched into a furrow, that once shining smile burning out like a star.
He straightened, giving his adorning fans one last nod of acknowledgement, murmuring his thanks with the same smooth cadence he filtered all night. That’s what they wanted to see: a gracious face and a show.
All night, it seemed that Bruce had been glancing at Clark like a nervous tic. He knew how Clark got during events like this; he wasn’t fitted with years of experience for crowded expectations.
Had he simply gone home early? No, he hadn’t even touched Bruce on the topic of helping his story. In fact, they hadn’t exchanged a word all evening, a mistake that he was sure to dwell on the next time he saw him. Was he too distant? He had assumed he was doing enough to make sure he was comfortable and accounted for. Every so often, he had even sent one of the catering staff to make sure his glass was always full, a small unspoken courtesy, a favor to make Clark fit into the audience like a glove.
He slipped through the mass, murmuring to familiar faces and pulling aside workers to echo the same question that swirled in his head.
“Has anyone seen Mr. Kent?”
A casual, yet polite question, carrying an edge that he didn’t bother to hide. His expression shifted again, exasperation accompanying his purposeful stride. It took him minutes before he caught a hint of Clark’s presence, a fleeting comment that a man in a suit, to which looked distinctly thrifted, had slipped off towards the upper balcony. Bruce could feel himself sigh in relief, his hand absentmindedly messing with his cuffs as he moved to the second floor. He moved with a quiet urgency, not fully conscious of it, but driven by an instinct that felt almost natural.
It wasn’t long before he felt the gentle breeze rush down the corridor, his head tilting to peer into every opening. The orchestra muffled into a distant hum, the squeak of his shoes falling to a hush once he spotted the silhouette against the moon.
There, Clark stood, towering over Gotham’s jagged skyline. Every line of his body tensed with restraint, broad shoulders weighing down with a loneliness that Clark would have been a stranger to any other night. Bruce paused in the doorway, an arm behind his back and the other fidgeting with the tie around his neck. Like most of this world, he saw Clark as a symbol, a force so indestructible that he felt like a gift from God himself. However, what he was looking at before him wasn’t the glowing light that adorned a red cape. Clark looked unbearably human, so disheveled that Bruce could hardly believe it was real.
He caught the subtle twitch in Clark’s shoulders, the shifted weight from one foot to another. He knew with certainty that the man across from him was now aware of his presence, his head dropping further in anticipation of who would talk first.
Bruce decided that would be him.
“Couldn’t stand the crowd?” The question scraped at Bruce’s throat, curiosity pressing him forward. Clark didn’t answer immediately. He stood still, as if caught in a frozen frame of film. His jaw clenched, attention fixed on the breeze and the steady thump of Bruce’s heartbeat. That comfort was replaced by dread, no longer a breath of reassurance. When his voice finally came, it was uncertain, as though he wasn’t sure if giving into pettiness was worth it.
“You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”
Bruce let out a short scoff, barely catching the edge of sarcasm threaded through Clark’s tone.
“I have to,” he said, a dry chuckle slipping, “Wouldn’t want to be a downer to the people, now would I?” Bruce let a coy smirk tug at his mouth, amused by his own jab.
…but the subtle twitch in Clark’s shoulder told him the joke had landed wrong. It wasn’t often he saw Clark react like that, not to him, the realization pressing uncomfortably against his chest.
Another blanket of silence settled over them, heavy as a shroud. Bruce fixed his gaze beyond the grove, holding back the quiver in his pale hand. The journalist never looked up, angling his head in the opposite direction like a silent retreat. Bruce’s mouth parted as if to speak, but nothing came. Words felt… wrong here, too sharp for the string that was keeping them together. It was funny, Bruce had faced men who could kill him with a glance, gods who could crush planets in their way, but this? This was the kind of unease he was never trained for. He noticed his hand loosen against the railing, like he was afraid it could crumble in a second.
“I don’t..” Clark started, his teeth clicking shut. He made an effort to force the words back down. He wasn’t supposed to say it, not here, and definitely not like this. Jealousy was a concept beneath him; it was petty, it was too human. He sulked for a moment longer, that voice in his head finally pushing him to a proper stand, indignity reflecting in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
That was the most Clark thing he had done all night, at least that’s what Bruce thought. Still, he was unsure what he was supposed to be forgiving. He turned his head just slightly, his hand reaching out to catch the frames that nearly slipped from his face. He could feel the softest flinch, those familiar ocean blues settling over his body.
That seemed to catch his attention.
The gentle giant stepped closer, shoulders widening as his arms reached tentatively toward Bruce. His palms brushed along Bruce’s elbows, tracing where their bodies nearly met. His mouth twisted, words forming and dissolving before he could speak out loud. Bruce could feel the weight of his pause, the hesitation lingering in the space between them. “Clark..”
It felt like a leap of faith, his heart rattling against the confinement that was his ribs. His face ducked into the crook of Bruce’s neck, arms pushing beneath his arms and settling into the curve of his back. It was bravery, pulling him closer until their bodies clicked like a puzzle. He inhaled, time lost in just how long he had been holding his breath for. It was moonflower, with that lingering fragrance of aftershave he was certain Bruce applied each morning. It took a second for the shorter man to react to his touch. His eyes lidded, his own hands slinking around Clark and resting on his upper back.
“Do you want to tell me why you’re sorry?” He spoke up, softer to keep the fragile moment intact. His thumb brushed against his shoulder, an effort to ease the tension in his muscles. Clark’s chest pressed against him, and Bruce swore he could feel the heat radiating off of him like a sun. His hands shifted, gripping his sides to keep him in the embrace.
“For missing you,,”
Bruce stilled, the sound of those three simple words reverberating through him like an impact he hadn’t braced for. Out of all the excuses Clark could have made, out of all the walls he could have left standing, he had chosen raw honesty. Bruce’s thumb traced slow circles against Clark’s shoulder blade, his mind racing faster than his heartbeat would allow. He didn’t know what to say, not immediately. He wasn’t accustomed to this, holding a man who could move mountains, yet trembling like one wrong word would break him apart.
“Clark…” Bruce started, but the name caught in his throat, his voice thinning into something gentler than he thought himself capable of. He tilted his head, just slightly, until his lips brushed the edge of Clark’s hair. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”
Clark let out a shaky exhale, a sound of relief and frustration, muffled against Bruce’s neck. “It’s selfish.” He began, his face lifting just enough, “watching you tonight, with everyone else. You looked so pretty. They were just grabbing you, and you were laughing with them. You looked so happy you really did, and knowing I can’t-” He cut himself off, the confession pouring out of him like a running train. He was mortified, his voice breaking, “It’s stupid, I shouldn’t- I’m sorry, it’s immature of me. You deserve someone who doesn’t- someone who-” Clark attempted to pull back, but Bruce’s arms locked around him with an unyielding force. He didn’t budge, didn’t give him an inch of freedom, his fingers curling into the fabric of Clark’s ill-fitting suit. Clark could feel his lip quiver, his palms hovering over Bruce’s waist. Then, Bruce drew in a slow breath, firm enough to quiet Clark’s internal panic.
“You can,” he murmured, so low it was almost lost to the breeze of the city, “maybe not in front of them. But you can.”
Clark froze at the words, his breath hitching in his throat. His eyes screwed shut, as though afraid to face the truth of them, afraid that if he opened his mouth again, he’d ruin the fragile grace Bruce had just extended. His chest rose and fell against Bruce’s, too quick, too uneven for a man who was supposed to carry the weight of the world with ease. Bruce didn’t loosen his hold. He could feel every tremor running through Clark’s body, the tension coiled so tightly it felt like a single breath could snap it in two. It was an obligation as much as an offer, because beneath it all, there was something achingly familiar. Bruce knew what it was to carry a loneliness you could never quite name, even if it felt like the world around you offered its arms.
He let his hand drift up, brushing the back of Clark’s neck with a careful touch. His palms hovered a second longer before finally settling down. One against Bruce’s waist, the other against his back. Bruce exhaled slowly, letting the rhythm of it guide Clark’s ragged breathing into something steadier. He thought of the ballroom below, of the music that still drifted faintly through the open doors, the violins rising and falling as if mocking the silence between them. He thought of Clark’s jealousy, realizing there was no reason to deny him the one thing that might soothe it. So, Bruce shifted, leaning back just enough to catch Clark’s uncertain gaze. The sight struck him like an arrow, his eyes glassy, lashes damp, lips parted with words he no longer trusted himself to say. Bruce let himself do something foolish, something kind.
“Dance with me, big blue.”
Clark blinked, startled, the words catching him off guard more than anything Bruce could have confessed. “Here?” he asked, cracking on the single syllable, disbelief tangled with a flicker of hope.
Bruce’s mouth curved into the faintest shadow of a smile, “Why not? No one’s watching.”
Before Clark could argue, Bruce’s hand slid down, resting on that dip in his shoulder. His other hand caught Clark’s, prying it gently from the fabric of his suit, and guided it into place. The movement was deliberate, slow, like asking permission without words. Like an idiot, Clark gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the butterflies that danced around his chest. He let Bruce move him, let their bodies fall into a sway that mirrored the faint echoes of the orchestra drifting up from the hall below. At first, it was clumsy. Clark was too stiff, too aware of the closeness, but Bruce drew him nearer, chest to chest, until their steps found something unique. Clark kept his gaze fixed on Bruce’s collarbone, unable to bring himself to meet those piercing eyes. He focused instead on the gentle glide of their movements, the pressure of Bruce’s hand at his shoulder, the grounding steadiness of his presence.
“You looked happier with them,” Clark mumbled after a beat, words swallowed by the gust that tickled his ear.
Bruce’s fingers pressed tighter. “I wasn’t,” he replied simply. “I was smiling because it’s expected of me. It’s a big night, you know, I don’t see this many people at any other charity.”
Clark’s eyebrows creased, more embarrassment soaking his body.
“However,” Bruce spoke again, his voice caught like he was too flustered to continue, “I don’t let anyone hold me like this.”
That made Clark’s head lift, just enough for his eyes to find Bruce’s. The words struck deep, an anchor pulling him back from the storm of doubt. He could feel the red dust over his sun-kissed freckles, studying Bruce’s features like it was the first time he had seen them. Every hard line softened by the pale wash of moonlight, and for once, he didn’t feel the need to run or apologize. Clark let himself breathe, the weight on his shoulders deflating, melting into Bruce’s palm.
The first few steps were uneven, the weight of their silence tugging them in opposite directions, but Bruce’s grip didn’t falter. His hand at Clark’s shoulder guided him gently, insistently, until Clark’s body began to follow, tentative at first, then with a reluctant surrender. His eyes kept darting away, anywhere but Bruce’s face, the city lights, the railing, the shifting shadows on the balcony floor. Then again, every time Bruce’s thumb pressed against his suit, or his hand tightened around Clark’s, his gaze snapped right back, pulled like a tide he couldn’t fight.
“You don’t have to be jealous,” Bruce said quietly, his tone stripped of its usual sharpness. “The dancing. The laughing. It’s like a theater. Nothing more.”
Clark swallowed hard. “I know, but…” His voice cracked, his body leaning closer as if exhaustion had finally won. “You looked, you seemed so.. ” His words faltered, tripping over themselves. “…I hated that it wasn’t me making you smile.”
Bruce’s chest tightened at the admission. As long as they had been together, he still found himself a stranger to Clark’s affection. He wasn’t used to being wanted like that, not openly, not without someone twisting it into leverage. Clark wasn’t like that. With Clark, there was no game, just a man holding him too tightly, trembling with feelings too big for his body. The words seemed to crack something open. Clark’s grip shifted, pulling Bruce impossibly closer, their steps slowing until the dance was more of a sway, a heartbeat shared between them. His face tucked once again into Bruce’s neck, no longer hiding, but holding on.
“Stop apologizing for wanting me,” Bruce whispered. “I’m here. With you and only you.”
“Bruce…” His name fell out of Clark’s mouth, broken, the kind of sound that pressed against Bruce’s chest and carved its way deep inside. He leaned into it without thinking, his chin resting atop Clark’s shoulder, closing the gap until there wasn’t a breath of space left between them. It was moments like these that he realized just how different they are. However, he saw the contrast between them not as a gap, but as a compliment. The man who bore the night’s shadows, and the man who carried the sun in his chest. Tonight, they were Bruce and Clark, filled with emotion that neither could carry onto the battlefield.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The shared gravity of simply existing together.
“Hmm…”
Then came a sound, low, steady, almost imperceptible at first. A hum, deep in Clark’s chest, vibrating through Bruce’s heart. It wasn’t the orchestra’s fading tune that carried up from below but something else entirely, a softer melody that burned at Clark’s throat with every note, like he had been holding it back all evening. Bruce’s brow furrowed as his ear caught the rhythm, his mind flipping through memory until recognition struck. The corners of his mouth twitched upward despite himself.
“Cheek to Cheek,” he muttered, just above a whisper, the faintest tease threading through his tone. “Didn’t take you for a romantic, Kent.”
Clark’s only reply was a faint sound in his throat, halfway between a laugh and a plea, his face burying further into Bruce’s cheek. The brush of stubble against his skin was as much of a request as it was a command: don’t ruin this, don’t make him say it out loud. His hum carried on, richer now, until it seemed to settle into Bruce’s bones. A slow step back, then forward, the faintest sway. Bruce’s smirk softened into something unguarded as he leaned close enough to murmur, “If you’re going to hum it, we might as well dance to it.”
Clark’s breath hitched, his hum faltering for just a second, before he nodded against Bruce’s temple. His grip on Bruce’s hand tightened, careful but insistent, and together they fell into a rhythm that was theirs alone. No orchestra, no audience, just the low hum in Clark’s chest and the soft shuffle of polished shoes against the stone balcony floor. The city sprawled beneath them, lights flickering like stars, but Bruce didn’t glance at it once. His eyes stayed fixed on Clark, studying every line of his face as if seeing him anew. There was something boyish in the way Clark smiled now, nervous and earnest, a flash of vulnerability that rarely broke through his polished exterior.
“You’re terrible at leading,” Bruce whispered, though there was no bite behind it.
Clark chuckled, the sound warmer than a thousand suns. “Then you lead.”
So Bruce did. His movements were small, deliberate, as if he were afraid of breaking the spell. Their steps circled in slow arcs, Clark’s hum melting into silence, replaced by the sound of their breaths syncing, by the faint rustle of fabric brushing fabric. The air between them warmed, charged with something wordless. Their shadows moved across the floor, fusing and separating like one shape pretending to be two. When Bruce pivoted, Clark followed effortlessly, his body trusting the lead without hesitation. It was disorienting in the best way, control that didn’t feel like power but like permission, like trust being offered and returned in equal measure.
Time stretched in the hushed melody. For every turn, every step, Bruce became acutely aware of the soft press of Clark’s chest against his own, the way Clark’s breath would hitch quietly whenever they drew too close, the faint heat radiating from his skin as if it were a language only Bruce was allowed to understand. The song, if it could be called that, ended not with a final note but with Clark’s hum tapering off, his forehead resting gently against Bruce’s. They stood still in the aftermath, swaying without music, as though the silence itself had become their melody. Clark took control of their movements, guiding Bruce closer to the edge until the rail dug into his back. Bruce let him, his hands smoothing slowly and deliberately across his collarbone, memorizing the span of muscle beneath his suit, the subtle tremors quieting under his touch.
Below them, the orchestra’s final notes drifted upward, the faint echo of applause rising from the hall. The world seemed to thank them.
Clark tilted his head, searching Bruce’s face with an expression so open, so unguarded, that it made Bruce’s throat tighten. There was no pretense here, just Clark waiting, asking without words. Bruce’s breath caught as their foreheads brushed, his resolve teetering like glass balanced on the edge of a table. He looked into his eyes, then just down, licking his lips out of a natural, driven desire. Clark chuckled, his hand pulling from his waist and cupping Bruce’s cheek. Clark closed the distance, and as their silhouette stained the moon, he finally felt forgiven for each of his mistakes.
Loving Bruce was all he needed, and it took him too long to realize it.