He'll never look at the stars and see them like that again.
"It's not really a star, you know."
Clark sees gas giants and twists of red-gold-green, bending geometry in ways that science hasn't caught up with enough to explain. It's the way his eyes interpret energy in space, bright wraps of gamma and pulse of radio, ultraviolet and infrared. He can see farther every day.
Lex is warm at his side. He's right. It's a meteorite, a bright, fast burn in the atmosphere, a thousand million times a day, not that Clark's counted or anything. It's old hat, no news, nothing he's never seen, but this one is with Lex, and that's anything but old hat and anything but ordinary.
They're on a blanket...in the grass...in the barn...but then it could have been anywhere at all. It could have been the night Clark came home and found Lex on his doorstep, immaculate suit and dustless shoes, long fingers pressed to dark wood, bitten nails from sharp, worrying teeth. A tiny imperfection in a sea of clean order, his eyes clung to the reddened tips, and he began to smile.
It could have been when Lex stood up and dusted clean trousers of imaginary dirt and glanced up at the sky. "Did you see that?"
"What would you wish for?" Lex shifts against the blanket--the floor--the porch--and Clark grins as he watches the sky, wide and dark, stretched cloudlessly over barren fields. The heat of summer has never been so thick, and Clark thinks drowsily that he's never been more content.
"Help people. Make the world better. Rain."
"Practical of you." Lex shifts again, the barely audible scrape of bitten nails on soft wool, a hiss that no one else could ever hear. A special part of Lex that only Clark will ever be able to know.
"What would you wish for?"
Lex's eyes widen, and Clark looks up, focusing on whitebright heat, a pure second, dazzling and blinding, and he never hears Lex's answer. When he closes his eyes, he makes a wish, the clear white burned into the lids.
Clark closes his eyes and makes a wish when he sees a star fall.