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Chapter Text

Theater class was the last place Clark Kent wanted to be in.

Though Smallville High School offered many electives, and many were robust in their curricula and learning opportunities for students, the drama department had laid dormant–that is, nonexistent–since Clark’s own parents had strolled through the red and yellow halls.

What passed as a department now, was the toil of a lone and very overworked teacher–Mr. Cooley–frantically piecing together whatever instructional materials he could for his students. The spectacled, balding man was often seen by Chloe as the sole remaining teacher in the school long after classes were dismissed and the sun had set.

Cooley was on his own to build a comprehensive semester of units that would see his students interpret key theater classics. If he pulled this class off, the administration had promised a production for families the following semester, and Cooley staying on as the theater teacher for the proceeding year and foreseeable.

It was all a tantalizing prospect, for English Language Arts instruction had previously left him on the brink of leaving education altogether.

Now if only he could conjure up enough hours in the day to develop the learning materials this new class required, mentor the crop of wannabe stars well enough to send them on their way to an amateur Broadway of their own, and still be a devoted partner to his husband, then he’d stop the continuous pacing back-and-forth of the classroom that was driving Clark, Lana, and Chloe all the more restless by the second.

Lana was the first one to say anything from her desk.

“Mr. Cooley,” she began. “Perhaps you should take a seat and get some water. It’s sixty-eight degrees outside and you’re sweating like me after I run the mile in P.E.”

The older gentleman stopped in his tracks, smiled at Lana, and finally appeared to gain the situational awareness required to recognize that he had been at this nervous routine since the bell rang and had not yet taken attendance or any of the other top-of-the-agenda tasks he typically set out to do at the onset of class.

“How right you are, Miss Lang,” he conceded. “It’s just that–well, I was hoping to have you all rehearse ‘A New Argentina’ today in the gym, but there’s a pep rally that no one told me in advance about, and I can’t get the printer to work to have us rehearse the number between Eva and Juan, I only have a single copy and I’m supposed to be doing after-school duty but I’m–”

Lana interjected before the poor man could ramble his way into a heart attack.

“We can work with a single copy,” she blurted out. “Clark and I, I mean. We’re playing Eva and Juan. We could rehearse that part, while the rest of the class works on painting the backdrops and set pieces. They’re already here and it doesn’t hurt to get ahead on that.”

Cooley contemplated this suggestion for a moment, getting lost in the blank space of air that floated just above his students’ heads. Then he spoke.

“That… would work actually,” he remarked. “Wow. Thank you, Lana. You could be my Teacher’s Assistant.”

This compliment had Lana flashing a grin that would rival the Cheshire Cat’s.

“Always the hero,” quipped Chloe. The aspiring journalist got up from her desk and whisked off to join a troupe of students in the southeastern corner of the classroom working away at transforming a few drab slabs into what will eventually become the Casa Rosada in Buenos Aires.

Clark motioned to Lana for them to join Cooley at his desk so that they may receive the copy of lines they were set to rehearse.

The instructor wasted no time in giving them directives.

“Okay, you two may head to the science lab closet to rehearse your lines. There’s only one paper, so sharing is essential. As is the large window you’ll find in the external door. Don’t get any ideas.”

The flamboyant fellow raised his right eyebrow at his two students.

Lana attempted to laugh away the tinge of embarrassment she felt at the insinuation that she and Clark were 1. An item 2. An item of a sexual nature and 3. An item of a sexual nature that would use school time and space to partake in salacious activities.

“Don’t worry,” she blushed. “We’ll be fine.”

The duo headed to the small closet stacked with science equipment on the walls and began memorizing their lines. They had brought a small portable stereo system with them, which they set on the floor while it played a disc with Evita’s tracks.

They did not speak of Mr. Cooley’s allusions of romance between them–things like that were simply too awkward to bring up.

On Lana’s part, she cared about this class and seeing Mr. Cooley succeed, and she did not wish to be deterred from manifesting the success of the drama department.

Clark, of course, was thankful for Lana’s quick pivot to studying.

Though his feelings for her had invariably remained strong since early childhood, the circumstances of his arrival to Earth had built him this one wall that he could not so easily smash into and break apart.

Acting on his attraction to Lana was simply out of the question. He did not wish to burden her with the knowledge that he was not your typical Kansan farmer and that there were actually far more questions about his true nature than answers.

As fate would have it, however, the number which they were rehearsing for was none other than the steamy first encounter between actress Eva Duarte and Colonel Juan Perón, in which Eva seduces him into a romantic partnership after pitching the political benefits this union will bring them.

Clark wasn’t much of a singer, though he found slipping into an Argentinian accent easier than he’d initially perceived it to be. Lana, on the other hand, did have a nice set of pipes on her.

“I’d be surprisingly good for you,” she crooned as they settled into a rhythm where the lyrics left their lips as if they had been stored in their respective memories for a lifetime.

It was fitting that they were in a cramped lab closet, for the setting of the scene called for them to be in an elevator.

As they delved deeper into the ebb and flow of the number, there was no shortage of arms draped around each other’s shoulders and waists.

In one memorable moment for the both of them, Lana came dangerously up close with Clark while serenading him–to the point where she could smell his aftershave.

That was when one unlucky bystander was also treated to this romantic scene–Whitney Fordman. Star quarterback for the Crows, a chief among the jocks at Smallville High, and most importantly, Lana’s boyfriend.

En route to the restroom during his History class, Whitney observed the playful caressing and ostensible affection emitting from Clark and Lana in the closet.

He paused briefly just outside of the closet window, yet they were blissfully unaware of his presence, continuing to hold one another in, swaying and singing along with the romantic tune blaring out from the stereo.

Fuming, he picked up the speed of his steps and entered the boys’ bathroom with a fury that sent the door slamming back.

His biological needs took a backseat to the more pressing matter at the moment. Making his way to a nearby sink, he grasped onto it as if it was a rail from which he was holding onto for dear life.

Sweat began to decorate his forehead, and his complexion grew increasingly red.

Anger, betrayal, fear–all three emotions rummaged their way through his heart like a car at full velocity. A car with a hard-pressed pedal, despite having no driver. That’s how Whitney felt.

Eventually, he was reminded of nature’s calls to relieve himself of the Gatorade he’d been guzzling on all morning and shifted to the urinal close by.

Once he was finished, he made his way over to a sink to begin washing his hands.

As the water dripped, he heard just a faint of commotion to his right.

Turning swiftly, he could make out what appeared to be the top of a black hat–what seemed to him like a black beret–and streaks of platinum blonde hair. This oddity was occupying the center window that was adjoined to the restroom’s ceiling.

He turned his sights to the sink to finish his sanitizing, then redirected his gaze to the window, where there was no longer anything in view but the trees and blue sky just outside.

He surmised he must be seeing things in this flurry of rage and panic.

On his way back to History class, he took a different, longer path that avoided passing by Mr. Cooley’s classroom and the adjoining closet.

Settling back into his desk, Whitney could not resume any manner of concentration in History.

For all he cared, the only battlefield he was ruminating on was the one inside his heart at the moment.

He was going to get at the Kent farm boy, no matter the cost.

Chapter Text

That same afternoon, Clark, Lana, Chloe, and Pete made their way to the Talon to do a quick group study session with the assistance of some much-needed cappuccinos and lattes.

They were in the middle of a spat between Chloe and Lana on who was the better boyband when they were greeted by a brooding late addition.

“It’s so *NSYNC! Come on,” protested Chloe. “No Strings Attached broke all the charts! Plus, who’s the Britney and Justin of the Backstreet Boys?”

“Please,” retorted Lana. “Call me when *NSYNC has a song as good as ‘Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely.’”

Clark and Pete were beginning to think they had been forsaken by some wretched curse that would force them to witness girl talk for the foreseeable future with no end.

That was when Whitney made his way to their table.

“Whitney!” called out Clark.

Clark’s acquaintance with Whitney had been anything but warm, yet here he was feigning a genuine excitement at seeing the football star, merely thankful for the interruption to the great boyband war that was erupting before him.

“Kent,” replied the blonde sternly.

“Have a seat,” remarked Lana, signaling to an empty chair between her and Chloe. “How was practice?”

“Um, would you guys mind if I spoke to Clark and Lana by themselves?” spoke Whitney while eyeing Chloe and Pete.

“Sure,” replied a nonchalant Pete. “Table’s all yours. Chloe and I have to get back to the Torch anyways.”

He and Chloe said their goodbyes and were off, leaving a most confused and tense trio.

Whitney wasted no time in confronting Smallville High theater’s leading stars.

“What is going on between you two?” inquired the quarterback. “And please–don’t act dumb. I saw you guys in the science closet this morning.”

Lana scrunched her face in disbelief.

“Whitney,” she began. “Clark and I were simply rehearsing for our play–you know, the one about the Argentinian First Lady? Clark’s the President and I’m Evita. Some of the numbers require us to display affection. But a production is all it is.”

This did not alleviate Whitney’s contempt for the two of them.

“And just who was behind such a pairing?” he furiously asked.

Now Clark chimed in.

“Mr. Cooley,” said the Kryptonian. “I swear. You can ask anybody in the class. He had all the boys put their names in one jar, and all the girls in another. Then he randomly drew one out of each to select the actors for Perón and Evita. It was his way of being fair. He didn’t want anyone fighting over the leading roles.”

“I also have a bit of scene time with Jerry,” elaborated Lana. “You know, the science TA in Ms. Baccari’s class? He plays Ché, and I do a waltz with him. Would you like to sign off on the permission slip for that? Since now I apparently need your permission for any academic endeavors I pursue.”

A fire burned in Lana’s eyes and tongue.

“No!” shouted Whitney.

Some of the staff and other patrons at the Talon turned to their table in an apparent alarm.

“It’s not that,” protested Whitney. “Lana, you know I will always support you. It’s just–it’s not as easy to see this.”

Closing his eyes and letting out a deep sigh, it appeared as if Whitney suddenly transported himself to a contemplative solace where he reflected on an unknown hardship. A hardship that he was not yet comfortable in confiding to Lana about, much less Clark.

“Hey,” verbalized Lana as she reached over to caress his back. “I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. I can ask Mr. Cooley to tone down some of the more overtly romantic numbers. We’re quite a ways away from putting on the production in the gym.”

This was getting quite awkward for Clark. He had not anticipated when he accepted the role of Perón that it would cause this much trouble. Still, he refrained from speaking, out of fear he would only make this already-tense situation worse.

“No,” blurted out a defeated Whitney. “You… wouldn’t ask me to give up or change football… it’s not fair for me to ask this of you.”

Silence followed, and Whitney at last met Lana’s concerned gaze.

She was stumped at what to say.

No one at the table was a stranger to jealousy, but she had yet to see Whitney in such a rage. Not even his bad plays in unlucky games for the Crows had elicited this reaction.

“My parents are expecting me at the farm,” interrupted Clark before dashing away. This was simply too heavy an afternoon for him thus far. He yearned for the silence of his barn.

This left Whitney and Lana to spend the next few moments leaning on each other while staring aimlessly at the drinks on the tables.

“Be honest with me,” Whitney said at last. “What is Clark to you?”

“He’s just a friend,” replied Lana. “We’ve been over this before. You are the one I want to be with. You are my focus. Honestly, Whitney, I’m concerned that this isn’t something deeper between you and Clar and not me. Because my feelings couldn’t be clearer. They are with you, not Clark.”

Suddenly Whitney was not so eager to have this conversation. In fact, now he regretted confronting Lana and Clark in the first place.

“My feelings are clear too,” he replied. “They’re with you. You’re all I think about.”

Flashing a forceful smile, the blonde teen signaled that it was time to move on to other matters.

“And I want to treat you while I have you,” he remarked. “Come on. There’s a showing of ‘Red Planet’ we can still make if we scurry out of here.”

The couple collected their belongings and made their way out of the Talon, resuming their usual dynamic for the proceeding evening.

Whitney soon realized as he draped his arm over Lana’s while at the movies, that he would have to find a way to settle this without further involving, or worse, hurting her.

Chapter Text

Chloe Sullivan was forming a new theory.

This one had nothing to do with meteor rocks, extraterrestrials, ghosts, or any of the myriad of unexplained, potentially supernatural things her small Kansas town was laden with.

No, this theory had more to do with the fluctuations of teenage hormones that dominated every high school in the nation.

At the Torch, she was listening intently to Clark as he recapped the odd confrontation Lana and him had with Whitney yesterday.

Once Clark had finished, she let out a deep sigh and beamed a sympathetic grin to the farmer boy.

Biting her lip, she hesitated before verbalizing her next words.

“Okay,” she began. “You’re going to think I’m crazy for this.”

“Oh,” replied Clark. “Like the ‘Wall of Weird’ and every other tale you publish here isn’t crazy enough! I’m all ears.”

“Clark,” she said. “Are you sure it’s Lana and you that Whitney is fixating on?”

“Obviously,” he replied, dumbfounded that someone as smart as Chloe would be doubting this.

“Maybe I’m not being clear,” retorted Chloe. “I don’t think it’s the idea of you and Lana together that has him in this rage. I think it’s just you.”

Clark furrowed his brow, looking out of the open door and into the school hallway with great contemplation.

“But I’m no one,” said Clark.

Chloe sensed she was going to have to lead him like an uncooperative horse getting to their water.

“I mean, he’s got it all,” continued Clark. “Good looks, a girlfriend, quarterback of the Crows–with the good grades necessary to keep playing. He’s not exactly lacking in any department. Meanwhile, I’m spending my teenage years stacking hay at the farm.”

“Okay,” she whispered. “You know how I have sources, right? For the latest stories and most salacious gossip?”

Clark nodded.

“These sources have eyes everywhere,” Chloe explained. “In the surreal and mundane. Well, a little birdie has told me there’s more to Whitney than meets the eye. Specifically, his tastes.”

“Don’t tell me,” protested Clark. “He’s a vegan, hates my family’s line of work and is hellbent on destroying us through me.”

Stunned, Chloe stammered through her next words.

“Um, no,” she hissed. “Wow, you really don’t know anything about the human condition. What are you, an alien?”

Kent rolled his eyes.

“Clark, I’m pretty sure Whitney is into you,” she blurted out.

She forced open her jittery eyelashes to see Clark unable to muster even a faint blink of his own eyes.

“You–you mean that—he–he’s” stuttered the plaid-sporting teenager.

“That he’s gay?” inquired Chloe, still in a hushed voice. “Look, all I can share with you is what my source has on him, which dates back from when Whitney was in middle school.”

She motioned for Clark to close the door and bring the nearest seat closer to her.

“Let me paint a picture for you: football players can get close, haze each other, be wildly affectionate and aggressive in the adrenaline of the sport–but kissing each other on the lips, holding hands, and committing vandalism after being caught with your boyfriend by your teammates and thus outed as gay to the entire football team? That’s what Whitney was up to in Granville with a boy his age. Before Lana, before Smallville, before the Crows. And when he caught you with Lana yesterday and stormed off to the bathroom? My source recognized the fury in him. It was the same rage which gave way to a horrifying sequence of events that resulted in Whitney being expelled from his last school district and landing him here with us.”

“He was expelled for being gay?” asked Clark.

“No,” answered Chloe.

She beckoned for Clark to look at the computer monitor before her. A document featuring a header and logo from the Granville Unified School District was displayed on the screen.

“It says here that Whitney went on a rampage in the eighth grade at his old middle school. He broke into several of his football teammates’ lockers, compiled their personal belongings, as well as their uniforms and equipment, and burned it all in a solo bonfire that he personally started in the school quad. The district board was unanimous in their vote to expel him after several eyewitnesses spotted Whitney mid-arson.”

Clark swallowed hard and felt a new set of emotions that he could barely begin to compute, much less make peace with.

There was so much more to Fordman than he ever suspected. So much more, that he felt a bit overwhelmed.

“Okay, I think I’m beginning to understand,” he said. “But I still don’t get how this all stems from him being gay. Not that I don’t trust your source, but, I mean–I just never would have taken him for that–I mean, it’s Whitney…”

The Kryptonian trailed off in disbelief.

“I come with tangible evidence that supports my source’s story,” Chloe said sternly. The computer monitor exhibited a new image, one that resembled a scan of a yearbook page. “This is from the year Whitney spent his final months in the Granville School District. Look at the door to the gym just behind this picture of the wrestling team. What do you see?”

Clark used his eyes to carefully scan the pixelated, zoomed-in image displaying red graffiti on a blue door. He spoke the words he saw.

“Whitney Fordman is a queer,” he soberly said.

Chloe allowed a moment of silence between them to have the severity of such hateful speech and the confirmation of Whitney’s encounter with such discrimination to fully register.

“I–I just–I don’t know where to start with all of this,” remarked a defeated Clark. He looked like he had been handed a responsibility he did not know how to carry.

“Oh Clark,” comforted Chloe. “When you’re an outcast like me, you have a way of noticing when other people struggle to fit the mold as well. Bonus points if those people are putting in incredible work to conceal their true selves. I saw that in Whitney from the moment I met him. I knew the whole jock superstar thing was a slick facade. And I knew he was pining after you soon after.”

“What?” exclaimed Clark. “How can you know this and not tell me?”

“Because it was merely a suspicion at first,” Chloe defended herself. “But then it went way past a hunch. I have perfected the ways necessary to become invisible and see the mask slip off of Smallville’s best performers. Once I locked onto Fordman, all I could see was his repressed adoration for the masculine. Football only gives him so much of an outlet to unleash it all. Whether it was the glances he sneaks at you with pupils that dilate at every sight, or the middle school boyfriend that also happens to sport a combination of dark hair with colored eyes that sealed the deal for me, I don’t exactly know. It all crystallized quite quickly for me.”

Clark crossed his arms and adopted a more authoritative and disapproving look.

“So, is this what you do now?” asked Clark. “Look into people’s most personal secrets? Will this be making it into the Torch? I can’t defend you if you do.”

“Hey!” shouted Chloe. “No, it is not going in the Torch, and I am offended that you would ever think I would do something like that! I don’t look to expose people’s lifestyles, especially ones that they don’t feel comfortable disclosing themselves. This was something I fell into by accident by way of a completely unrelated endeavor that I undertook with my source. Did I get carried away? Of course. But my intentions have never been malicious. I am a part of the Gay-Straight Alliance here on campus, didn’t you know?”

Clark relaxed his stance and let out a slight chuckle. “No, I did not know.”

She gave him a slight nudge and at last slipped into a more relaxed voice and demeanor.

“Clark, just–I know it’s gotta be hard,” she pleaded. “But think about how much harder it must be for Whitney. He has to lie to everyone and put on a front that is neverending. Because if even the slightest crack shows, his whole world would come crashing down.”

“I’m not going to say anything to him,” said Clark. “I just wish I could be there for him–as a friend, I mean–to support him.”

“There’s only so much anyone can do if he’s not ready to share that part of himself with others,” maintained Chloe.

The two nodded to each other and had their stupor broken when Pete walked into the door.

He was carrying a few slices of pizza, and for the next few moments, Whitney retreated into the back corner of the starved adolescents' minds as they joined their friend in feasting on pepperoni and cheese.

Chapter Text

Physical Education was a good class for Clark Kent.

Even before his abilities blossomed and his parents had advised him to perform with the utmost caution as to prevent exposing his supernatural skills or hurting anyone, Clark enjoyed bodily activities, especially running.

He often hypothesized that his birth parents must have come from an athletic background.

Today, with cloudy skies above Smallville High, he was in a bliss of sorts as he rounded out his fourth and final lap around the school’s large track.

Practicing incredible restraint, he made the most believable final sprint he could possibly make to pass fellow classmate Jenny Jurwich and take first place in finishing the assigned mile.

Coach Kirkpatrick gave him a high-five and instructed him to head indoors to the gymnasium.

Once inside, Clark set out to shoot hoops while he waited for Pete to join him.

A few successful scores later, Clark caught a glimpse of a red-faced Whitney through a pair of large windows.

The quarterback was twisting open a water bottle and proceeding to pour its contents onto his body. He appeared to have concluded his running for the day and was taking a quick breather before he joined the remaining students in the gym.

Clark had not seen Whitney since the Talon yesterday, and this was the first time he was in any proximity to him since his talk with Chloe earlier on in the day.

Immediately, seeing him in the aftermath of unraveling his past sent a bit of a shock through Clark’s system.

So much so that his heart rate increased.

The sight his eyes were treating him to was also contributing to this heightened reaction.

Whitney was now using the bottom of his jersey to dry himself off from the flood of water he was soaking in.

Each grab of the shirt exposed his lower abdomen. A compact set of six-pack abs twinkling in drips of water exposed themselves.

Clark grew all the more breathless at every brief peek that he got.

Combined with his incredible height, Whitney appeared more and more to Clark like something out of a textbook illustration portraying Ancient Greek heroes.

He might have soon called attention to his creeping, what with standing alone near the gym’s windows staring out into the track in total wonderstruck.

Thankfully, such a crisis was averted with the sudden impact of a basketball to his right ear and the familiar laughter of Pete.

“Earth to Clark!” rang out his close friend.

“Hey! I didn’t notice you coming,” replied a startled Clark.

“Yeah, probably because you were in total Michael Myers mode. What were you staring at anyways?”

Clark quickly rummaged through his most recent visual memories to construct a butt-saving lie in mere seconds.

“Jenny Urwich,” he responded. “Girl finished her mile second only to me and is back out on the track doing more laps with her lagging friends. She’s well on her way to the Olympics at this point.”

“She’s a natural,” said Pete. “Anyway, what about a little one-on-one until we hit the lockers?”

Thus the two boys immediately locked into a competitive play that saw Clark once again holding back on the premise of fairness and safety.

Edging out Clark by a mere two points, Pete emerged victorious before the bell soon concluded the game and the congregation of students began to make their way to the locker rooms.

As they stepped foot inside the room scented with spray-on deodorants, Pete speedily informed Clark that Chloe was expecting him at the Torch and that he would catch up with him later. They parted ways as they walked to their respective lockers.

Clark was back in his red plaid shirt and blue jeans just as he received a slight tap on the shoulder.

It was Coach Kirkpatrick, and he shouted to be heard amongst the ruffle of lockers slamming, showers, and general high school boy rabble.

“Kent!” exclaimed the older, bearded man. “I’ve got something I want you to consider. See me in my office.”

Before he could even respond, the teacher was already halfway across the row of lockers.

Clark finished his changing, fastened his backpack, closed his locker, and traversed the spacious room to meet with the coach.

Kirkpatrick was already reclining in his computer chair with his feet resting atop his desk, which also housed a small television.

A baseball game was occupying his full focus. A knock on the open door was what Clark had to perform to pull him out of his trance.

“Kent!” exclaimed the coach. “Listen, I’m going to get right to it, son. You’ve got a real talent. You make even my best track stars from last year look like snails. Have you given any thought to trying out for the team for next semester? We sure could use ya!”

There was a visible red hue beginning to show on Clark’s face.

He had discussed matters like this with his parents before.

With his powers growing and him being merely a teenager still learning how to manage the standard emotions without the added complication of possessing superhuman strength–well, there was simply too much on the line for sports to be a feasible endeavor for him.

He hated having to turn down the coach.

“I’m sorry coach,” he lamented. “I’ve kind of got a full plate at home helping my parents run the farm. It just wouldn’t work out, and I’d hate to let you down in the future. Still, I’ll make sure to support the team at any future races.”

A solemn look came across Kirkpatrick’s aged face. He had heard this spiel from other promising students before, and felt immensely sorry that a young man as talented as Clark was caught in it.

“I understand,” remarked the gentleman. “Simply promise that if you have any similarly-gifted friends, you’ll pass them along to me.”

A compassionate wink and smile met Clark’s gaze, and the farm boy instinctively flashed a wide grin back.

“You got it, coach.”

Clark exited the office and was making his way back towards the foyer of the locker room when he heard the familiar sound of the back door opening and closing.

He knew that was the coach making his way to the parking structure nearby.

It was the end of the school day, after all. Soon he would begin making his exit as well.

Yet even a superpowered teenager still needed to keep hydrated.

A water fountain near the first row of lockers greeted Clark on his way out.

Leaning forward, the Kryptonian savored the taste of communal water.

Suddenly, a nearly undetectable force clinched the back of his jacket, yanked him backwards, and slammed him on the opposing row of lockers.

It was Whitney.

Clark barely had any time to mentally process the sudden disturbance–for he thought he was the last remaining person in the locker room–when he took notice of the condition Whitney was in.

Completely immersed in a drizzle of water from head to toe, Whitney had apparently been showering.

What seized Clark’s attention even further, was his state of undress. The quarterback was in nothing but a white towel wrapped around his waist.

It took every fiber of Clark’s concentration to keep his eyes on Whitney’s face, where his teeth clenched in palpable frustration, and his blue eyes narrowed in a visible fury.

Focusing on his face–though admittedly a typically pleasant sight when resting in neutral or joyous expressions–was becoming a harder task for Clark than attempting to gather strength when exposed to the debilitating green meteor rocks.

Fordman managed to begin speaking amidst the effort from having to uphold Kent against the locker.

“You idiot hick,” hissed Whitney. “You just can’t let me have anything, can you? I’m a star athlete. I need Lana. And in more ways than you’ll ever know.”

The Kryptonian was puzzled as to why the tension had not been subdued by yesterday evening. Chloe informed him, after all, that he and Lana attended a routine movie date and she had even boasted about it over a telephone call between the two girls.

“Whitney!” pleaded Clark. He was not hurting from the inferior force the blonde boy was applying to him, yet he was uncomfortable at the unbalanced temper of his acquaintance nonetheless. “I’m not out to hurt you, to take Lana, or get anything from you! You have to believe me! I–I–”

The next words that came out of his mouth were likely to cause immense regret later. But Clark Kent hated lying any more than he absolutely needed to. It was one of the first lessons Martha and Jonathan had imparted on him.

“I know Whitney,” he blurted out. “I know what you’re struggling with. You’re hiding your true self. But it’s okay. I’m not here to judge you.”

Whitney lessened the pressure he was applying on the farmer and broke out of his angry stare into one that communicated absolute panic.

“Who told you?” he asked, teeth still gritting.

“No one!” exclaimed Clark. “I swear! I know–I know–because–becau–I also hide who I am.”

The two adolescent males swallowed hard in unison.

Whitney released Clark from his grip entirely and stepped back a foot.

“You–?” inquired the quarterback.

“I’m not who everyone thinks I am,” exhaled a panting Clark. “I hide in plain sight too. I have precautions in place so that I continue to obscure who I truly am. And most of all–I’m afraid of how others will react if they knew the truth.”

Now Whitney had relaxed enough to inch nearer and close the small gap between them.

“Being different is consuming,” brooded Whitney.

“Yes,” responded Clark. “And I promise I won’t tell anyone. Especially Lana.”

“I don’t want to hurt her,” said Whitney. His eyes displayed a sorrow Clark was not aware the jock was capable of.

“I don’t either,” replied the Kryptonian. “You can always come to me and talk to me, and I won’t share with a soul. Well, maybe the cows. But they understand and fraternize with us different folk. I think they find solace in our stripes being unique from the rest of the herd.”

A cheerful snort escaped from Whitney.

“Thank you,” remarked Fordman.

Clark noticed he was inching even closer to him now. But he did not yearn to pause this odd sort of catharsis that they had found in one another. That was hard to come by when one is forced to lead a duplicitous life.

“Looks like I’m not such a hick after all,” quipped Kent.

Then, before he could react, Whitney’s upclose grin engulfed his entire view, and Clark felt the sensation of the blonde teen’s lips on his.

All oxygen and air between the two appeared to be wholly extinguished.

The blonde’s lips moved in a precise motion against his lips. The kiss was of such a sweet and caressing manner that it gave Clark the sensation that this was a pent-up passion that was escaping Whitney.

Clark surrendered entirely, too stunned to reciprocate any gesture in the moment.

It also felt intensely good to feel the yearning that emanated from Whitney.

For about seven seconds, they were transported to another place and time–one where they could be themselves fully, and the warm embrace of being so in the company of another person who has had to posture for so long.

Until the sound of the back door opening yanked them away.

Coach Kirkpatrick could be seen from the distance, fidgeting with his keys to open his office’s door. Kent surmised that he must have forgotten something and had come back to retrieve it.

While his back was to the boys, Whitney hastily pulled away from Clark and dismissed himself.

“I’ve gotta go,” he blurted out as he sprinted away.

That left Clark alone, staring off into the row of lockers ahead of him in a medley of emotions and adrenaline that he could not adequately process.

It was as if a storm had come by, swept him off his feet to elsewhere, and then dropped him right back to where it had initially found him. Kansans were used to tornadoes, but this one was of an enormity that the farm boy had not ever witnessed.

Kirkpatrick was now exiting through the back doors once again, and the sound of the locker room's back door slamming shut–louder than the first time the coach had left–was what it took to spin Clark back into reality.

There was truly never an ordinary day in Smallville.

Chapter Text

The Talon could hardly hold all the gossip Smallville High’s students treated it to every afternoon.

It was as if there were new hieroglyphics being etched on the Ancient Egyptian-themed pillars and walls every day.

Only, instead of royals and empires, teenage tattle was what was now being immortalized here, amidst the hustle and bustle of overworked baristas.

Chloe Sullivan was grateful that a place like this could exist, though its increasing popularity had led to it becoming less of a sanctuary for her and her friends. That meant hushed voices while sharing gossip had become the standard practice.

“He what?” exclaimed the aspiring journalist, as she and Clark settled into a small table for the two of them while they waited for their drinks.

The farm boy had been relaying the events of the locker room while they ordered.

“He kissed me, Chloe,” clarified Clark. “It was completely out of left field. I thought I was completely alone in the locker room. We talked and–and he just leaned in and did it.”

“You talked, huh?” replied an inquisitive Chloe. “About what?”

“Well…” said Clark, dozing off into the cars that passed by on the street just outside the cafe’s windows.

“Okay,” affirmed Chloe. “I knew it. I knew there was more to this. Now you’ve gotta fess up. Just what did you say to him that would lead him to lay one on you? Don’t tell me there’s a new meteor rock with the side-effect of making everyone fall at your feet.”

Kent had no choice now but to come clean about more–he revealed how he’d let Whitney know that he was aware that he was hiding his true self, and that he would not judge him for it.

He also informed Chloe that it was by ceding common ground–letting the quarterback know that both of them are different–that he truly got Whitney to truly feel confident enough to act on his apparent attraction.

He did not elaborate on the depths of this difference; refusing to use any language that alluded to the duplicitous nature of his life–for though he trusted Chloe, letting other people in on the big secret of his life was a bridge too far.

Even Whitney was not treated to a complete story; just an abbreviated tale of shared marginalization to get him to understand Clark’s open-mindedness.

The farm boy had and was still putting his full faith that he’d be perceived as a million things before becoming the subject of any speculation that related to superhuman sensibilities.

Even if meant, like in Whitney’s case, that he’d be presumed to be gay.

“I mean,” snarked Chloe. “Now I can kind of see why you gave him enough latitude for him to go for it. You’ve got the empathetic angle down pat, Clark, but maybe next time, don’t lay it on so thick.”

“Don’t tell me you’re enjoying this,” retorted Clark with a roll of the eyes.

“On the contrary,” countered the girl. “I’m much too preoccupied with devising for you a way for you to untangle yourself from this web.”

Clark’s face now wore a despondent expression, contemplating his true feelings with the intensity of a difficult algebra problem. His friend was offering a way to help him with this, and he owed her that much honesty.

“Maybe it’s not such an issue,” he reasoned.

Chloe merely raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “I beg your pardon?"

“What I mean is,” resumed the Kryptonian. “When I was there with Whitney, and I told him how both of us are different–after I shared that with him–I felt, I don’t know, lighter. And seeing the relief in him when he realized I wasn’t going to judge him–I was elated. Joyous, even.”

“Clark, I understand,” stammered Chloe. “You want to be supportive of Whitney. He needs it. But he has crossed one line already, and you cannot give him mixed signals to cross another. For both you and him, a big fat red stop sign is necessary to prevent anyone getting hurt.”

“What if I don’t want this–this connection between us to stop?” divulged Clark.

“But–how–Clark, you’ve only ever liked girls, remember?” rebutted Chloe.

“I know,” remarked the chiseled boy. “It’s just that–that place I was with him when we kissed–I want to go there again. Finally, the world was big enough for us. Come on, Chloe, there are stranger things in Smallville than changing which team you play for when the right one comes along.”

Her eyes bulging and eyes blinking at intense velocity, the sharp-tongued Chloe Sullivan at last had nothing to say.

“Plus,” continued Clark. “It helps when he’s got eyes the color of the sky and the stature of a spartan.”

“My oh my!” quipped Chloe, biting her lower lip. “Well then, that changes things. If you’re sure about how you feel, then go for it. I’ll just know to refrain from questioning any odd sounds coming from the boys’ locker room.”

This was not as easy for Chloe as she was feigning.

She herself possessed feelings for Kent, though her care for him as a friend and person always overrode any potential jealousy she possessed when she was reminded of his own feelings for Lana or caught him being the affection of another girl.

Now she had to factor men into that equation, as well.

Still, all she truly yearned for was for Clark to be happy and for Whitney to be confident in himself. If Clark was a safe outlet for him to be so, then she was more than content.

Now it was up to Clark to fix the miscommunication from the locker room.

“What are you waiting for, then?” cried out Chloe. “Your prized jock is waiting. Go Kent, tell him how you feel.”

Without resorting to using his super speed, Clark managed to bolt out of the Talon with the urgency of a lover racing to be with his significant other.

It was a nice change of pace from the heroic antics.