The moon hanging outside the window is impossibly round and white, a sliver of chalk pinned on black cardboard. Looks almost magical. Inside the office the light of the fireplace works its own magic, casting long shadows across the ceiling, turning the glass of whisky in his hand the color of boiled honey.

It's very late, Lex is very drunk and he's beginning to lose his patience.

He is pacing up and down the room, Dominic following a step behind, moving so close that Lex can feel his breath against the back of his neck.

"Mr Luthor would never do that, he needs me, this is all some manufactured plot, spreading lies-"

Dominic looks terrified; trembling so hard that the knot of his tie vibrates against his Adam's apple. Disgusting.

"Always the loyal lapdog. You're pathetic, Dominic. At last my father has seen through you."

"I don't believe this. Lionel needs me, he'll always need me."

"I'm not sure we are referring to the same person, Mr. Santori. My father doesn't need anyone."

"I don't believe you."

Lex bares his teeth into a smile, before swallowing the last sip of his drink.

"I can show you," he says, bending over the desk and shuffling among the endless stacks of paper for the report on Santori.

"I was loyal" Dominic mumbles over his shoulder as he searches for the file. "I was eager. I'd do anything. Anything."

Lex turns round, and finds Dominic close, far too close. Parted lips, a sour scent of sweat, a breath tasting like aspirin.

"Wh-?"

"Oh," Dominic mouths silently and looks trapped and helpless, eyes rolling around in panic. He unbuttons the collar of Lex's shirt with shaking hands and bends down, sucking the nape of his neck. Lex allows that for a moment, drunk and stunned. The mouth is wet and cold, a fleshy snail trailing over his collarbone. Then Lex raises his arm and backhands Dominic, violently, a loud sound as his knuckles crack against the side of his face.

Dominic stumbles backwards and losing his balance he collapses to his knees. Blood is flowing from his nose. In the firelight it looks almost black, like tar, cutting muddy dark paths across his jaw. He lifts his hand to wipe it away and spits a piece of broken tooth into his palm. Lex glances down at him, unsure about what to do next.

Then Dominic's hands fall on his pants, struggling with the buckle of his belt. His movements are slow, their intent clear and Lex allows it because it's very late, he is very drunk, and the full moon has robbed him of every trace or rational thought.

He screws his eyes shut and tries to imagine another face, another mouth. Clark, with his sugar-glazed lips and his eyelashes shaped like hooks. But the image remains clouded and insubstantial, the edges blurred like something glimpsed through a keyhole because Clark isn't here, can't be, Clark never belonged here.

Clark never really existed after all, not in the way Lex wants him too. He manufactured him, a product of his own mourning for all the things he never had, his marionette of innocence with limbs propped with wire, his hay-filled scarecrow of purity, pumped with illusions and delusions. Clark's face is bleeding, melting away, the cheeks are hollow, the eyes are empty sockets. The skin becomes transparent like water, then it peels off and Lex can see who it really is now, who is walking behind his closed eyelids.

The spiky hair of the beard is rough like sandpaper against his skin. Eyes with a tint of red, the crispy white collar of the shirt and that disconcerting scent of eau-de-cologne.

His father kneeling in front of him, mouth open, his tongue hot and dry, like a cat's, long fingernails digging into Lex's thighs - no, this doesn't make sense. Lionel, sitting on his armchair, leaning back with his eyes closed, Dominic's head between his legs. Lionel thrusts into his mouth, again and again and again.

Lionel spreading Dominic over the desk, dry-fucking him, moving fast and rough, a dazzling movement - no, it's wrong again. It's not Dominic, it's himself. His trousers are pushed down to his ankles and he is shoved face down, his cheek rubbing against the waxy surface of the desk. He feels veins swelling at his temples; Lionel's hand is heavy on the back of his neck. Harder and harder, until Lex's feet don't touch the floor any more, the desk creaks and the neatly organised reports start fluttering around the room like paper butterflies. No. And the image dissolves into nothing like a film reel that suddenly snaps.

It's Lionel on his knees, standing up, the wristband of his Rolex reflecting the light. Lionel wiping a white smear from the corner of his mouth, wiping his son's sperm from the corner of his mouth and laughing and laughing until the whole world shatters and breaks apart.