Seventh in the Away series, follows 'Normal'.

A big thank to my terrific beta reader Moss and to Sinisterf, from now on known as wonder girl for her super-fast last minute editing.

Unluckily, Jen didn't manage to finish her revision, for reasons beyond her control. I'd like to thank her anyway for trying. I really appreciated your "little bit", my dear Jen, and I do hope you will throw in your lot with us again next time.

Any lingering mistakes, as always, are mine and mine alone.

Feedback will be received with much gratitude.

He must have been really drunk. That would be the only explanation. Not that it would be news. He had been on a drunken bender since the beginning of the summer vacation. Or since the beginning of college. The details weren't that clear in his mind. Perhaps it had all started earlier. Much earlier.

Entire periods of his life were fuzzy, to say the least. For instance, the summer of his seventeenth year. He remembered his father sending for him. Remembered being thrilled and frightened at the idea of seeing him again, after all those months. They hadn't met since that day at the hospital, after Lex had awoken from the coma. Of course, he had deluded himself again. He had arrived in Metropolis from England only to be welcomed by the housekeeper, Thomas. The servant had informed him that his father was on a long business trip throughout South Asia. Lex had hated himself for feeling disappointed, and had immediately decided to take advantage of the situation.

Armed with the new confidence he had acquired at Holy Souls Boarding School, he had started to go clubbing. Alone, at first, but not for long. Freely handing out money and seductive smiles, he had quickly gathered a small court of hangers-on, parasites, admirers and so-called friends. He had hung out with them almost every night. Had been fucked up on drugs and alcohol almost every night. He had had intercourse with so-called friends and complete strangers in public bathrooms, his home, unknown apartments, and hotel rooms almost every night. A blurred whirl of faces and places and pills and powder and drinks, until his private life had again hit the tabloids, complete with explicit snapshots of a wild party at Galaxy disco: LUTHOR HEIR'S RIOTOUS NIGHTS OUT.

Lex probably wouldn't even have noticed it, if that day, after having finally managed to crawl out of his bed at 12.40 PM, he hadn't found his father in the dining room. Lionel had been sitting at the table, quietly eating his lunch, as if he had never left Metropolis. Lex had felt scared and strangely relieved at the sight. He had opened his mouth to say good morning, or good afternoon. Anything. But Lionel's severe countenance, and the tabloids folded on Lex's side of the table, had frozen him.

Lex had read the headlines and briefly looked at the photos. He had sat and started to eat some bread in silence, pretending not to give a damn. And he hadn't, actually. But for the fact that they had brought his father back, that they would have forced Lionel to acknowledge him. It was irritating. It was maddening. But he had had to accept it. He was glad Lionel was there. To insult him. To beat him. Which ever. As long as he stopped him. As long as he had stopped that awful spiral of abjection, and guilt, and loneliness, and crushing despair. Because it hadn't mattered how many people surrounded him, how many people he'd screwed. He had never felt that lonely. That disgusted. And tired.

"These photos don't do full justice to you, son," Lionel had suddenly began.

Lex had barely managed not to snap his head up. The first words he had heard from his father's mouth in months. As if triggered, he had immediately mustered all his irony, and put on his well-practiced defiant look.

"If only I had known the paparazzi were there, dad, I would have posed for them."

Expressionless, his father had sipped his glass of Evian. He had seemed too calm. Lex had wondered what he was planning.

"I thought you knew better, Lex. Evidently, I over-estimated you."

Lex had felt sick, and hated himself for it, because he knew Lionel was perfectly aware of the effect those words would have on his son.

"I had hoped Holy Souls would help you grow up," his father went on. "I found it very instructive when I was your age."

"Did you study there?" Lex had muttered, surprised. "I didn't know."

Lionel had smiled. "Yes, son, I studied there. It left me wonderful memories. Excellent teachers, likeable schoolmates... smart girls of good families." The smile had disappeared. "I imagine they were too much for you, considering the dregs of society you keep company with." He had pointed at the tabloids. "And you insist on stuffing yourself with that filth. You never learn, do you? If you want to kill yourself, son, at least do it as a Roman, not as a paltry junkie."

Lex had been floored. He couldn't believe what those words implied. He had struggled hard to keep his composure.

"Are you suggesting that I should stab myself to death?" he had asked, dryly. "Perhaps with one of your precious ancient daggers? Well, I'll think about it. Next time, leave the showcases open."

Lionel had shaken his head in dismissal. "See? You never listen to me. If you did, you'd know that a true Roman would only kill himself for a noble reason, not for despicable cowardice. This cowardly need for slow self-destruction isn't worthy of a Luthor. But this is just one of your usual ploys for attention, isn't it? I can't tolerate this debauched conduct, especially when it hits the headlines and when it takes place in my house. And you know that I know everything that occurs here. Besides, if you were seriously determined to die, you'd do it quickly, and without bothering others. Well, you have my full and undivided attention. Now choose: the clinic or Holy Souls."

"What?"

Lionel had finished off his dessert. "Your vacation ends now, son. Where do you want to wait for the beginning of the school year? At Holy Souls or in the clinic?"

The clinic. The Clinic. There was no doubt what his father had meant with those words. Lex had tried hard to erase that period from his mind. Sometimes, he had even thought he had succeeded. He knew he would have had to broach the subject some time. He had needed, still needed, to ask him that unspeakable question: "What did you do to me, dad?" What had he done to his son? Why? Actually, Lex could understand why, but could never, would never, understand how. How a father could do a thing like that to his own child. It was simply maddening, and he felt, he knew, that only a thin line separated him from total insanity, from taking shelter again, perhaps forever, in the safe, comfortable, restful numbness of body and mind. That was the reason why he had desperately tried to forget, still tried to. And that was the reason why he kept telling himself that Lionel couldn't have known what Burke had been planning to do. The orderly must have misunderstood his orders. His libido had gained the upper hand, hadn't it? It was Lex's fault, as always. It must have been. Must. Right? Right?!

Those were questions he couldn't allow himself to repeat out loud, as much as he wanted to know. Because asking was dangerous. It would have made all that too real. And could have provided the wrong answer. Could have destroyed his last, precious delusions. Thus, he had whispered: "Holy Souls."

"Good choice," Lionel had approved while wiping his mouth with the napkin. "I guess asking you to not give me any more trouble would be too much. Well, I trust in the school's personnel. I'm sure they will be able to keep you under control. At least, until you'll turn eighteen. By then, hopefully you'll be less immature and self-centered."

Do you have my diary, dad? The disjointed thought had popped into Lex's mind. Did you read it? And again, he hadn't been able to bring himself to ask.

Lionel had stood up and headed for the door. He had stopped in afterthought, just before exiting.

"Ah," he had said, half-turning. "The showcases aren't locked. I thought you knew that."

Lex had been sure he had seen him smile as he left the room. The next thing he had been aware of was that a plate of ravioli rested on the table before him. Thomas had served him with lunch and he hadn't even noticed.

Lex had spent the rest of the day and all the following night trying to figure out what his father expected from him, what he wanted him to do. Several times, he had been about to go to the room where Lionel kept his weapon collection and plunge a dagger into his own flesh. Would his father have been satisfied then? Was that what he wanted? But why should Lex have given him that satisfaction, although that could have freed him from his unbearable sadness? Why was he even just thinking of killing himself in order to do a favor for that man?

The next morning, Lex had discovered Lionel had left the penthouse in the middle of the night, to go back to South Asia, without even waiting to see if his son was going to carry out his veiled suggestions. Perhaps he had known Lex wasn't going to do anything. Lionel thought he was too cowardly, or not cowardly enough. Perhaps Lex had just misunderstood him. Yeah, he must have misunderstood him. Must have...

Thomas had received orders to pack Lex's travel bag. The chauffeur had gotten orders to drive him to the airport. And in no time, Lex had been at Holy Souls again. Alone, except for the school-caretaker, the gardener, and few employees. Like the first weeks of his vacation, those days had left few memories. He had been knocked out by benzodiazepines almost all time. In order to stop the nightmares. In order to prevent himself from obsessively whacking off, and feeling filthy, and sick, and hurting himself.

His last school year before college had slipped away in the blink of an eye, a see-saw of stupor induced by sedatives, and highs induced by the stimulants he took to face the exams, and Victoria, or one of the other girls he had bedded. He had almost flunked his finals because of that.

The nightmares had haunted him, as they still did. Sometimes they even surprised him while he was awake. He would be attending a lesson, listening to the radio, reading a book, watching TV, and suddenly he would believe himself to be in the middle of intercourse with another man, often more than one, always older than him. Sometimes it was his father, Burke, Jim, even Doctor Martin or Bruce. More often, they were complete strangers. He blew them, he got fucked. Now and then they even had an audience. People laughing at him, pointing a finger at him, calling him names. Those head trips were so real that he could clearly smell the stink of urine, or the scent of cologne or aftershave, and felt a sensation of choking when the other man penetrated his mouth. He would then come to himself all of a sudden, as from a trance, gasping, sweating, sometimes gagging on semen that wasn't actually there, spitting pubic hairs that weren't actually there. He didn't feel anything in those dreams, just focused on his partners' pleasure. But, when he woke up, he sometimes discovered, to his dismay, that he was excited. Then again the urge to masturbate, and the disgust, and the guilt, and the despair at the additional confirmation of his degenerate nature.

He had taken it out on the girls he screwed. He felt he was in command, with them. He could keep control, and did it relentlessly.

At the college, he ruled. He was Lex the Stud, Lex the Viveur, Lex the Man About Town, Lex the Reveler, Lex the King of the Fraternity. There was a never ending challenge between him and the other boys, and he always was a step ahead of them. Nobody threw parties as he did. Nobody collected as many women as he did. Nobody drank as much as he did. Nobody drove faster than he did. And they loved him for that. Sure. They admired him. They were amazed at his tolerance for alcohol and drugs, his carelessness, his success with girls. Nobody there wanted to beat him up or make fun of him. Instead, they wanted to be like him. Wasn't that extraordinary? He adored that sense of power. Of course, there was the other side of the coin. Which in his case was that terrible, terrible confusion. Sometimes, he wasn't able to distinguish between fantasy and reality anymore. And that was good. Yeah. Was good. Most of the time. But, now and then, that blur wasn't pleasant at all. No sir. Not at all.

Now, for instance. He must have been really drunk. That would be the only explanation. Because she couldn't be there. She belonged to another place, and another time.

"Lex!" exclaimed his college friend Hugh, joining him at the bar. His arm was wrapped around the girl's shoulder.

Lex scrutinized her, concealing somehow his agitation. Studied her red hair, her fair complexion, her slender body, clad in a close-fitting black dress. He felt as if he had just seen a ghost. He shouldn't have snorted that latest line of coke.

"Lex, let me introduce you to my fabulous friend Fabienne."

Fabienne. It was her. It was really her.

"We've met before," she smiled.

She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She was a woman, now. And the shorter haircut gave her a very sophisticated look.

After the first moment of surprise, Cool Lex took over.

"Fabienne, ma cherie!" Flashing his trademark charming smile, he took her by the arms to pull her closer. He kissed her on the cheeks. "It's been ages. What are you doing here?"

She laughed lightly, as if they had always been old chums. "What are you doing here. I'm French, remember? I have a right to stay here. My father owns a hotel in Cannes."

"Terrific. We rented an apartment in Nice, instead."

"Wait, wait. You've already met?" Hugh chimed in. "Where? When?"

"Chez Bruce Wayne," Fabienne explained. "At his Christmas party. We were still in high school."

"Bruce Wayne? Do you know Bruce Wayne?" Hugh asked Lex, in an accusatory tone. "You never told me!"

Lex shrugged, dismissively. "I knew him years ago. He was just a boarding school mate."

"Just a boarding school mate?" Fabienne echoed. "This isn't the impression I got. I thought you were bosom buddies."

"You were wrong."

"I heard he won the Baumann prize for the young manager of the year," Hugh said, in awe. "Can you believe this? He isn't much older than us."

"One year older," Lex stated.

"He could be a valuable acquaintance. I mean when we graduate. He knows the right people. Moves a lot of money."

Lex had an impression of two small dollar signs shining in Hugh's eyes. "I told you. I lost contact years ago. I just know what the papers say, same as you."

He had written his last letter to Bruce the day of his seventeenth birthday, and never sent it. Never finished it, actually. There was no point. Apparently, he didn't have enough to give to Bruce. Didn't have enough to give to anyone. He couldn't really blame Bruce for not wanting him. Lex hadn't tried to contact him since then.

"What about you?" Lex asked Fabienne, doing his best to look only mildly interested. "Did you keep in touch with Bruce?"

"No. I've had no chance to see him again."

Lex delighted in the thought that she hadn't been luckier than him.

"I had a crush on Bruce," Fabienne said. "I must admit it."

Whoa, this revelation tilts my world, he thought ironically.

"But I remember you caught my eye too," she purred. "You were so different from the others."

He's said to be completely... How do you say? Hairless. Everywhere! It's creepy, don't you think? He's like... like a worm, like... like one of those disgusting smooth rats that live underground.

Lex barely maintained his "I'm having lots of fun" mask. He felt anger and resentment grow inside him. Felt a sense of relief, too. Because anger and resentment were better than attraction, let alone love. They were easier. Safer.

"Yeah. Always have been," he assured her, trying to hide the sarcasm. He cast a furtive, meaningful glance at Hugh. His friend picked up the signal. Didn't appear happy, but withdrew, muttering an excuse.

"Can I get you something?" Lex offered.

"Martini, thanks."

Martini. Excellent choice. Lex showed two fingers to the bartender, who quickly filled the order.

"So, is this one of your hang-outs?" he asked, swallowing a mouthful of his drink.

"No, I've never been here before."

"Nor have I. What a coincidence."

"Yeah. How are you getting on?"

"Fine, thanks. Still studying."

"Me too. Where?"

"Yale."

"Oh. I heard it's good."

"Yeah. It will make an impression on my curriculum vitae," Lex recited, ironically.

So Lionel said. Lex didn't even know why his father had let him enroll in MetU at the beginning.

Lex had chosen his hometown university because of its excellent Chemistry Department. That was the official reason, and it wasn't really a lie, not completely. But truth was that a part of him, much to his irritation, had hoped the closeness would give him the chance to establish some kind of relationship with his father. Of course, he had deluded himself again.

His father actually hadn't touched him ever again, but for PR photos. This didn't mean he had become more caring, though. Truth be told, he seemed to remember he had a son only when Lex got into trouble, and even then he preferred to commit him to the charge of his lackeys, like that slippery Phelan who had helped him get out of the Zero affair.

The other occasions in which Lionel remembered Lex's existence were when his son had to make a decision that could affect his life or career. And then, every time without fail, Lionel would interfere to ensure Lex's best interests - which, in Lionel's mind, coincided with his own - were met.

Thus, Lex hadn't understood why his father had been that accommodating with regard to the choice of college. Perhaps it was a kind of ruse, a way to make him think Lionel was on his side. Lex often wondered if his father had had something to do with the ugly affair he had been kicked out for.

Lex hadn't even been around when that girl had fallen out the window of the fraternity house, injuring her spine. He had been engaged in a drunken orgy with Candy and Mandy Kaluznic in another room. Three boys had been expelled for having given LSD to the girl, but Lex had been accused of being the brains of the gang and kindly asked to leave.

His father had administered the usual rant, but he hadn't completely managed to conceal his satisfaction. He had taken control of the situation, silenced the girl's family with an undoubtedly considerable sum, taken Lex's name out of the papers, and enrolled him in Yale, which had probably been his plan all along.

"And you, what do you study?" Lex asked.

"French Literature. At la Sorbonne."

"Interesting."

"Are you spending your whole summer vacation here?"

"I don't know. We spent a week at Ibiza with our Spanish friend Esteban. He invited us to his villa at Palma de Mallorca. We may go there next month."

"Is Hugh your new buddy?"

"Just a college mate."

"Have you no close friends?"

"Plenty of them. But I keep them hidden. How do you know Hugh?"

"A friend of mine introduced me to him a quarter of an hour ago." She giggled. "When I saw you, I told him I wanted to meet the famous Lex Luthor."

Poor, stupid Hugh. Lex emptied his glass and popped the olive off the toothpick. He nonchalantly rolled it on his tongue before chewing and swallowing it. He knew he looked sexy when he did it. It was one of his favorite seduction moves.

She blushed slightly, graciously sipping her martini.

"Want to dance?" he invited her.

"Why not?"

He took Fabienne's hand and led her to the dance floor, weaving through the crowd. Strobe lights, pounding music, too loud to allow them to exchange further words. Perfect. He didn't need to talk, didn't want to. Don't let her get close. Don't let anyone get close. They'll hurt you, as soon as they've got the chance.

He didn't know why he had run the risk with Amanda. He probably wouldn't have gone through with it, anyway. Just wanted to separate her from his so-called friend, Jude. An asshole, like all his so-called friends. Oh, a good party buddy, but an asshole nonetheless. She was sweet, and beautiful and sensible. With her he was Lex the True Friend, Lex the Sensitive Man. He listened to her carefully, showing sympathy and understanding. Sometimes he didn't even have to pretend. He just liked to be with her, he had discovered in bewilderment. He couldn't allow himself the luxury of loving her, of letting her see the void under his mask, but Jude shouldn't have had her either. He didn't deserve her. So Lex had studied that plan. It shouldn't have ended like that. He hadn't wanted Jude to die. He was an asshole, yes, but this had never involved a death sentence. So, he had lost her, had lost him, and lost even the last vestiges of respect for himself.

He started to move to the rhythm of the music, as he had learnt to do. He knew how to use his body perfectly. He swayed his hips in the black leather pants. Slowly, sensually. Fabienne studied him, trying to imitate his moves. After a while their bodies were rubbing together, among dozens of other sweaty bodies.

Three drinks, an indeterminate number of dances, and two hours later, they were exiting the club, heading towards his brand-new red Ferrari, bought in Italy just two weeks before. Damn. It was drizzling. Luckily, he had pulled up the canvas top.

They ran towards the car, giggling. He opened the passenger's door for her, then sank into the driver's seat and peeled out.

"I have to be sincere," said Fabienne, drunkenly, caressing his shoulder through the light, smooth fabric of his wine-colored silk shirt. "It was me who decided to spend the night at Club Exploit. When my friends told me Lex Luthor and his friends would be there."

"Really?"

"Oui. I've heard about you. And seen the pictures," she said, slurring slightly. "I know some of those girls."

"Yeah? Which ones, precisely?"

"Veronique. And Lene."

Veronique? Lene? He didn't even remember the names, let alone the faces. It wasn't surprising. Most of his quickies were utterly forgettable, at least as far as he was concerned. Truth be told, most of those girls weren't worth remembering. When they threw themselves at him, he simply complied, without discriminating. They needed him, sought him, wanted a good fuck, wanted to be fucked by him. They liked him. They made him feel appreciated. Made him feel proud. Why would he have said no?

"I hope they told you good things about me," he observed, certain of the reply.

"Oh, I'm not that intimate with them. But you've got a name in the jet-set. And they do, too."

"A bad name."

"Oui. I expected something like that from you."

"Really," he repeated, making an effort not to sound annoyed. "Why is that?"

"Oh, I don't know. You had that air about you."

"What air?"

"You know."

"I don't."

"That air. Uh, how do you say?" She suddenly smiled, satisfied with having found the word. "Roguish."

But he's a nerd, too. This is definitely his fault. Look, I'm sixteen. I'm certainly not going to date a boy out of pity, or just because he's rich.

"Thus you wanted to find out personally."

"No, not really. I'm sure you're only enjoying yourself, awaiting the right person."

Oh, and I assume you are that person. That's it. So now she was old enough to appreciate a rich, spoilt bald boy complete with Ferrari and Armani clothes. Did he have to feel honored?

He stepped on the gas.

"Nous allons avoir un accident," she protested, but didn't sound that scared.

Lex gave her a mischievous smile. "You know, I'm really nasty."

She chuckled, eyes shiny, cheeks flamed.

Averaging 170 kilometers an hour, they reached Cannes in less than ten minutes.

"Here," she said, when they got in sight of the hotel. Lex pulled up in front of the entrance.

"One last drink?" she offered, as she slid out.

"I had begun to fear you wouldn't ask me."

She smiled. "Come on. I'll tell the concierge to park your car inside."

He followed her as she wobbled towards the entrance.

Her room was actually a wide suite with a breathtaking view on the promenade. He paid her the proper compliments.

"I like this carpet," he added.

"Feel free to take off your shoes. I got the floor carpeted with this soft moquette just for this reason. I love to walk around my home barefoot."

He took her literally, making himself comfortable on the sofa.

Several issues of Vogue and Paris Match were scattered across the small glass table before him. The sight unnerved him, and he couldn't restrain himself. While she walked to the bar, he swiftly stacked them up.

"What can I get you? Here we have scotch, cognac, whiskey, vodka, brandy..."

"Brandy will do fine."

She poured them each a glass. He took advantage of her distraction to rummage into his pants pockets, produce a pill and throw it in his mouth. Then smiled, taking the glass from her hand, and downed the pill with a swig of brandy. Special K. Sexe extraordinaire garanti. Fabienne was beautiful, and being out to get her surely would be a sufficient turn-on. But he needed to be higher. If he was very high he could ignore the tightening in his stomach, the fear of not living up to the expectations, the terror of being caught by his horrible waking nightmares at the least opportune moment, the dread of losing his mind again, as at Bruce's house or in the clinic after the rape.

She sank down beside him. He slammed back the rest of his drink, and she imitated him.

"I remember you asked for my e-mail, in Gotham," Fabienne said, lightly. "I'm sure you liked me."

"Of course. Who's more likeable than you?"

"Why haven't you ever written to me?"

"Sorry. I would have done it, if I hadn't lost your e-mail," he lied, without effort.

He leaned in, aggressively claiming the kiss he knew was waiting for him. She parted her lips and returned the kiss, a bit stiltedly. His internal radar immediately told him to change tactic. He had already figured her out. She liked it slow and sweet. Well, he could do gentle. He could do whatever they wanted. He promptly turned into Lex the Sensitive Man. His tongue caressed and teased, and slowly explored the inside of her mouth. She kissed him back, hungrily. Arched into him. Yeah, well done, Lex. This she liked. This she loved. She couldn't wait to have more.

He felt the pleasure start to pool in his belly. His body was responding perfectly. Good. From now on, it was downhill all the way. He was in total control. He was an excellent lover. He was a champion. He knew how to get a woman off. Sex had no secrets for him. He had studied it carefully, learned all the tricks. Nobody had ever had to complain about his performances. He could last however long his partners needed. He was a record-breaker. Truth be told, sometimes he didn't even come. But that wasn't important, was that? Indeed, it was... cleaner, somehow. It was okay with him, as long as his partner didn't care or didn't notice. And they were generally too centered on themselves, too gratified, too drunk or high to do either of those things.

He trailed his fingers along Fabienne's sides, along her silky, naked thighs. Ran his hands up her arms, over her shoulders, her neck, fingers gently tangling in her hair. He blew lightly against her skin. Felt her arms tighten around him. Heard her moan. Yeah. Yeah. Go on like this. He took his time. Kissed, nibbled, nuzzled, caressed every bare part of her body. Then let his hands roam under the hemline of her short dress, pushing it up. She shifted and raised her arms, allowing him to pull the dress over her head. She started unbuttoning his shirt, while he unfastened her bra with one dexterous move.

A few moments later, Fabienne lay under him on the couch, writhing against him, legs entwined with his, arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers raking over his back.

"I... I usually don't behave like this at the first date," she panted against his mouth, as he cupped her left breast with one hand and pulled down the string of her thong with the other.

Sure, he thought, and there really is a Santa Claus. Bitch.

"There is always a first time," he gently whispered in her ear. "Don't worry. Relax."

Yeah, relax. Learn the lesson.

She was completely naked, now, and gasped while he slipped inside, cried with pleasure while he started to thrust in long, languid strokes.

Yeah. What's it like to get nailed by a freak? To be fucked by a disgusting, smooth rat? Not that bad, hmm? You love it. Oh, yes. You love it, don't you? And this is just the beginning. You'll never come this hard ever again, I promise.

He would show Fabienne what she had missed all those years. What she would miss for the rest of her life.

"Absinthe, le liqueur maudit," Hugh sighed, while the icy water poured over the sugar lump. The sugar melted and filtered through the perforated spoon down onto the distillate, producing the transparent, emerald green drink. He admired it in wonder. "Damned liquor. Did you know that in some countries this delight is forbidden? Pure cruelty."

Dieter nodded. "A crime against humanity," he added with his marked German accent.

"Five parts of water and one of liquor," observed Lex, absently. "It's essential to keep the right proportions."

Hugh lifted his glass. "To those who appreciated this pleasure before us."

Lex focused his attention on the toast. "To Baudelaire, mon inspirateur," he concurred, drawling his words. "To Rimbaud, Modigliani...

"...Hemingway," concluded Esteban.

"Yeah. Cheers," said Hugh. He took a tentative sip. "Ah, merveilleux."

The others imitated him.

Lex drained his glass in one swig.

He felt dizzy. The soft lights, the smoke and the ethnic music of Club Opium conspired to evoke a dreamy atmosphere.

"Uh, look who's coming," Hugh announced, squinting.

Lex followed his friend's gaze.

"Isn't that the girl you went away with last week?" Esteban asked.

"She's the one he stole from me three days ago," Hugh corrected.

Fabienne was entering the club with two friends. Lex stiffened. He hadn't seen her since that night in her hotel suite. He had gone away while she was sleeping. He had left her no note, no phone number, no address. He didn't expect to see her again. Not this soon, anyway.

"Did you tell her we were here?" Lex asked, threateningly.

Hugh looked at him, confused. "No, I haven't got her number. It must be a coincidence."

It wasn't a coincidence. If it hadn't been Hugh, it must have been the people at that table next to the entrance, because she had stopped to talk with one of them, and several heads were turning now in Lex's direction. He felt his ears burn. She must have unleashed her dogs to find him, he realized, while Fabienne started to strut towards him, followed by her two friends. Judging from their bellicose air, she must have taken them for support.

Lex's mouth went dry, but he managed to maintain his cool, indifferent mask. Hugh slid off his stool to welcome the girls. Fabienne ignored him and approached Lex without hesitation. He didn't move.

"Fabienne," he said, nonchalantly. "Would you like to join us?"

"Who do you think you are?" she snapped, her face hard, eyes sparkling with rage.

"Calm down, Fabienne. What's going on?" Lex asked, letting a hint of irony streak his voice.

"What did you take me for? I'm not one of your sluts, Lex Luthor!"

The patrons within ear reach were gawking at them now. Lex swallowed. He had to take control. He had to keep control.

"Well, you should have informed me before throwing yourself to me like that," he said, with a poisonous smile. "You knew my bad name. What did you expect? Preferential treatment? Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Fabienne's slender fingers curled at her sides. "You took advantage of me, you bastard."

"I don't remember hearing you complain."

Someone snickered, and Lex relished it with a sense of triumph. It lasted the blink of an eye. The slap hit him across his face, hurting his pride more than his skin. He blinked, taken aback.

"I would have never slept with you, if I hadn't been drunk, you slimy worm, you disgusting, hairless rat!"

He was petrified. He had the impression that a bubble of silence and astonishment held the entire club captive, as if time had stopped. And he suddenly saw himself sitting on the floor of a boarding school room, listening to his father slandering him before the only person that counted in his life. And he couldn't open his mouth, couldn't say a word to defend himself. It was as if his lips were stuck together, as if the connection between his brain and his vocal chords had suddenly short-circuited.

A small satisfied smile formed on Fabienne's pale, strained face. She turned on her heels and strode away. Suddenly, he heard a low buzz in his ears, then again the hum of conversation and the music around him, as if the bubble had suddenly burst.

"Fumier," one of Fabienne's friends insulted him.

The other limited herself to a glare. Then, both of them followed Fabienne out of the club.

"Wow, what a scene," commented Hugh, the amusement in his voice contradicting the uneasiness that etched into his features. "What have you done to her, you asshole? She was totally pissed off."

He would have probably been really amused if Lex had had the last word. But he hadn't. Hadn't kept control. And Esteban and Dieter seemed uncomfortable too.

Lex looked around. Nobody was staring at him, but he imagined their thoughts, their whispers, could almost hear them laugh at him behind his back. He felt sick. How could he allow a thing like that to happen?

Get it together, Lex. "I'll be going now," he stated, with all the grace he could muster, marveling that his voice could still come out that smooth and firm.

Nobody tried to stop him. He must have spoiled their night enough.

"See you at home," he told Hugh. He threw two bills on the counter, hopped off his tool and headed for the exit, feeling the eyes of his so-called friends burn through his back.

He didn't go home. Couldn't. Couldn't stay there alone. And couldn't go back to Opium, where everybody had been present for his public humiliation. Fabienne had managed to hurt him again. She always did, even when he believed that he had gained the upper hand. And now she played the victim, she thought to be right. You took advantage of me, you bastard. Had he done it? He had paid her back in her own coin. He had given her what she deserved, hadn't he? He had given her what she wanted, what everybody wanted from him. He hadn't forced... She wasn't that drunk, was she? He couldn't, would have never, had never...

Take it in, girlie. I know what you need. This is what you're made for. The only thing you're good for. Show me what you can do.

He felt his head spin. Slammed another mouthful of whiskey, before the nausea could hit him.

"Salut, mignon," said a sugary voice.

He hadn't even noticed that someone had occupied the stool next to him. He didn't bother to turn. He could imagine him. A middle-aged sweaty lecher. He hadn't realized the establishment was a gay bar until he had entered it. Apparently he had a sixth sense, as if his wicked body had a mind of its own and were able to lead him where he didn't want to go. But he hadn't gone away. Out of exhaustion, perhaps. Or masochism.

"Qu'est-ce que tu fais ici tout seul? Un beau gars comme toi."

"Occupe-toi de tes fesses," Lex replied, briskly.

Not at all disheartened, the man chuckled. "Un autre pour mon ami," he ordered.

The bartender filled Lex's glass again.

"Fiche le camp. Je ne cherche pas compagnie," Lex informed him, wearily.

"You aren't French, are you? English?"

Lex didn't reply.

"What are you doing here if you're not looking for company?" the man teased him.

"Just killing time."

"I know better ways to spend the time. There are rooms, upstairs. Perfectly equipped..."

Lex looked at him. About forty-five. Black moustache above the insinuating smile, pomaded hair, lean but sinewy figure, a leather necklace and a hairy chest peeping out from under the cheap V-necked, half-sleeved shirt, a cigarette hanging from his thin lips. Lex found him simply revolting.

"My name is Denis," the man said, resting a hand on his. "Yours?"

"Alex," he rasped.

Denis trailed his fingers over the smooth sleeve of Lex's lavender shirt, up to the shoulder. Lifted his chin and studied him with an appraising glance. Lex shuddered and averted his eyes.

"Beautiful boy," Denis approved, licking his lips. "What do you say, hmm? Tu viens?"

Say no say no say no say no say no.

Lex gave a curt nod. He finished off his drink and slid off his tool, the hand of the disgusting man caressing the back of his neck.

He crouched down on the floor of the shower, leaning against the wall, shoulder and cheek pressed to the tiles, arms and legs close to his chest. Shaking uncontrollably. The hot spray wasn't enough to ease the tension from his sore body, and surely wasn't enough to wash this dirty feeling off his soul. He stared at his scratched, still-pulsing wrists. It was becoming harder and harder, to get clean after those obscene acts.

The more he saw the less he spoke. The less he spoke the more he heard.

Remembered himself strapped to the posts of the bed by rough leather restraints, naked, blindfolded. Remembered struggling against his bonds, squirming and gasping while the whip lashed and tore his delicate skin. Remembered bucking and grinding against the mattress, begging for more. And yet, it didn't matter how much he hurt, how hard he came, to what extremes he went, because the fall after the orgasm was always harder, more and more unbearable, more and more difficult to ignore. It was worse than crashing down from a high. And it was only his fault, because he had wanted this, and he had been perfectly aware, since the moment he had stepped into the bar, that it would end up like this. Because this wasn't the first time. Wasn't the first time.

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita, mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, che la diritta via era smarrita era smarrita era smarrita era smarrita era smarrita.

Seventeen, hanging out alone during his first clubbing nights in Metropolis. A gay club, and he had barely understood that some debauched old man was offering him a drink and some money in exchange for a blow job. He didn't need his filthy money. Felt only disgust for that man. And yet he had done it. He had followed a stranger into a dirty public bathroom and done whatever he asked. And then he had felt frightened, and confused, and had thrown up. And another time he had sucked off another stranger in exchange for two lines of coke, as if he hadn't learned anything. And he had vomited again.

Sometimes, when he was drunk, he still found himself in places like those. Almost without realizing it, he explored them with a glance, searching for attractive, dark, athletic, serious-looking young men. He hardly ever found them, and even then, he didn't dare to approach them, in the same way he couldn't approach the girls he liked the most. And always he ended up fucked in a bathroom or handcuffed in a dreary hotel room by a repugnant older man.

It's natural, like breathing to him. It's his way of drawing attention. He can't say no.

He couldn't say no, and he didn't understand why. It was as if he didn't have the right to say no. It didn't even cross his mind that he could say no. With women, or with men. It didn't matter if he was attracted to them or not. It didn't matter if he felt like doing it or not. He just did it. And afterwards he was always furious with himself for not having been able to say that simple word. No. No. No. No. No. Why couldn't you say it, you spineless pervert? And how could he ... feel pleasure in something like that? It was his fault, fault of his unsound mind and his freakish, abnormal body. You slimy worm, you disgusting, hairless rat.

He bit his right arm hard, cut into his skin with the teeth, until it tore and he tasted blood. Pervert. Pervert. He bit his other arm and his hands, furiously.

Don't think he's yours, just because he has given his ass to you. He's sick.

He closed his eyes and rested his hands against the wall. Started hitting it with his forehead. Freak. Degenerate Athenian. Pervert. Fag. Little bastard. You're vile. You're sick. Sick sick sick sick.

He would have liked to cry, but he couldn't. However much he was tortured, however much he hurt himself, he couldn't cry anymore. As if his last tears had dried him out completely. As if he had forgotten how to do it.

He stood still for a while in the hot spray, trying desperately to pull himself together. When he was reasonably certain he had managed it, he pushed slowly off the floor and out of the shower. He should have had a bath in disinfectant after having been in there. He turned it off and picked up a towel. He tried to ignore the reflection of his delicate, hairless, abused body in the mirror: cigarette burns, welts and bite marks. He didn't look well, but he had been worse. He dried himself cautiously. Out of the bathroom, he pulled his clothes on. Ever so slowly. He could feel his skin burn under the light silk of his shirt. While he was buttoning it, he eyed some bills on the nightstand. He winced. Exited without taking them.

His back screamed in pain as he eased down in the driver's seat. He turned the key and started the engine. He switched on the CD player and pretended to listen to the music while he was driving towards the apartment he shared with Hugh. It took him a while to realize he was going in the opposite direction.

He stopped, cursing. His eyes drifted to the colored front of the fast-food joint across the street. His fingers tightened around the wheel. Don't do it. Don't don't don't don't don't.

He drove to the parking lot, painfully uncurled himself from the car and entered the place, exiting some minutes later with a paper bag full of junk food. He slid into the car, opened the bag and started to eat. He devoured the ice cream, attacked the cheeseburger, shoved the fries into his mouth in handfuls, chasing them with desperate draughts of chocolate milkshake and coke. Then his eyes rested on his greasy hands, on the greasy crap strewn all over the passenger's seat and the cabin floor. He was overcome with loathing and contempt for himself.

He jerked the driver's door open and thrust two fingers in his throat. Pig. Greedy pig. You're repugnant. What are you trying to do to yourself? Aren't you filthy and ugly enough? You're polluted. You're tainted. You're wicked. Clean yourself, repulsive pig. He retched until he emptied his stomach on the parking-lot asphalt. A passing couple stared at him in disgust. They were right. He was disgusting. Revolting pig. Miserable worm. He hurriedly shut the car door, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pushed the key into the ignition, slammed his foot down on the accelerator and shot out of the parking lot, leaving tire marks behind him.

He barely avoided a Peugeot, which swerved and gave him a furious blare. Fuck you. It started raining. He drove faster, passing cars as if they were stationary, music at full volume in his ears. He recognized his road and turned onto it with a screech. Recognized the driveway too, and prepared himself to slow down. He wanted to slow down, really, but he didn't do it, he didn't know why, and realized it only when he saw the iron gate looming closer and felt the impact and heard the crash. The pain in his chest made him realize he had automatically remembered to fasten his seat belt. He unfastened it, took some time to gather himself, opened the car door and staggered outside. He studied the scene, rain hitting his bald scalp, pouring down his neck. The car was tangled in the gate. Too bad. Such a beautiful car. Well, it was the first time, that year. It could have been worse. He left the car there, door open, entered the building and limped slowly upstairs, every muscle complaining as if his dear old schoolmates at Saint Joseph had just given him a good thrashing, as if his father had made him spit up his soul by dint of flogging.

As if insane, he delighted in his weakness. Living in pain had been so normal to him that sometimes he missed it. Sometimes he thought he was happy to hurt and feel sick, like a suffering addict. And then he felt ashamed at himself, realizing once more he wasn't normal, never would be normal.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king's horses, and all the king's men, couldn't put Humpty together again.

He didn't find the rubber band around the door handle. Hugh hadn't come back yet, or at least he wasn't in entertaining company. Lex went in, switched on the light. Called Hugh's name, didn't get a reply. Went to the bedroom wardrobe, rummaged into his underwear drawer, found the case, took out one of the phials and a syringe.

He knew it, now. It had never stopped, never stopped, that awful spiral of abjection, and guilt, and loneliness, and crushing despair. It had dragged him lower and lower, and still was dragging him down, to the bottom. He was probably touching it right now. Or was there something worse? Could there be something worse?

He sat on the carpeted floor, his back against the bed, in the square of light from the sitting room. Prepared the injection, drove the needle in with a trembling hand and closed his eyes, waiting for the calming, stupefying effect. Ah... yeah, like this. That peaceful. That quiet. Some rest, finally. And, as always, while he slipped into oblivion, he hoped it would be the last time. Hoped he wouldn't open his eyes ever again.

"Lex!"

A slap across his face.

"Lex, wake up!"

Another slap.

Dad, no, dad, please.

"Lex!"

I'm a good boy, I swear.

"Lex, damn it, wake up!"

That voice. Not his father's, but familiar. Belonging to another time. Another slap wrenched him from the comfort of forgetfulness. He raised his hands, in a weak attempt of self-defense. The blows ceased at once, and he blinked in the dark. Still groggy, he looked with blurry eyes at the even darker figure standing against the light in front of him. His heart thumped hard in his chest. The imposing figure towered above him.

"Lex." Relief, almost affection, in that deep voice.

Lex barely noticed. Just stared at the monster in dread. Because it was a monster. A black devil with small horns and a cloak, and... it must have had a tail somewhere... A horrible demon coming directly from hell to take him away... No, not a demon, it was a kind of huge... He was going insane, he must have been worse off than he realized, must have lost his mind completely. He was hallucinating. It must have been a sort of delirium tremens, because that thing couldn't possibly be there, that huge, frightful bat.

The non-existent bat reached out. And touched his cheek. Touched him. Lex jerked back and screamed. The world spun around him. Or maybe it was his head. He realized the darkness was washing over him again. And, not for the first time, he was more than glad to embrace it.