Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is nothing quite like the countryside in the early mornings.

The wind has a comfortable chill to it, the golden sun climbing into the sky and the roosters announcing Their majesty's arrival accompanied by the sound of a fifteen year old falling onto his bed.

Ever since he was ten that was Clark’s wake up. The sun’s warm rays energised his cells and then he was awake and falling four feet back onto his bed with a thud and muttered cursing.

It didn’t hurt. The pained “ow” was just theatrics. It was just annoying. He would like to experience a lie-in like every other teenager. But no, his stupid cells get over excited about the slightest ray of sunshine.

Surprisingly it is better in the winter, the longer nights allowing a longer night's sleep. In summer it isn’t dark enough for Clark to ever say that he gets rest.

Weary he pushed himself up and out of the plush nest of blankets that he created during his sleep.

He felt like a zombie, eyes barely awake enough to stay open and hair making it seem like he was doing a low budget cosplay of a mad scientist.

This is maybe the only time of day when he isn’t hiding. He was too out of it to care that his face is flushed lilac from his sleep. Or that the weird way his hair chose to style itself reveals his elf ears as Pa calls them. Or that his electric blue eyes weren’t hidden behind their usual contact lenses that made him want to tear his eyes out.

The early morning is perhaps the only time where he doesn’t perform for his safety. Where he can just be thanks to the disorientation sleep brings.

Clumsily he reached over and grabbed from what he could tell was his red baby-blanket, pulling it over his shoulders like a cape. The blanket might just be his favourite possession, it smells like Ma and Pa and freshly cooked muffins surrounded by hay.

It smells like home.

But woven into the fibres there is another scent of another place he once called home before he was fully aware of what home meant.

Deep down the comforter smelled like the Kent farm in Kansas and the Great City of Kandor on Krypton. It smelled like love.

With careful grace he floated down the stairs. He didn’t want to wake his parents up and the old farm house has far too many loose floor boards that go off like a car alarm if you place the tiniest piece of weight on them.

It was far too early for anyone to be up, let alone his parents that don’t get to sleep in often.

The farm was often peaceful during the small hours of the day, one of the few things that made the forced wake ups bearable.

He could sleepily make his way through the motions of sticking bread in the toaster and pouring a cup of orange juice without any disturbances.

The sun rose to its throne in the sky warming the air and glimmering across the dew while Clark sat in silence sipping on his drink and munching his toast leisurely.

He liked watching the Earth wake from her slumber alongside him. It made him feel more normal. Like he wasn’t the only one on the planet forced to wake with the sun against their will.

Still, after the last crumb of toast was licked up and the last drop of OJ was downed he still needed to find a way to fill two hours.

When he has tests or any homework he may or may not have forgotten to do he would profit off of the peace by getting his life in order. However he did not have any school related work to do and no farm chores for that morning.

So naturally he gravitated towards the TV, already knowing what he wanted to watch. He had watched it so many times that even in a half asleep state he knew exactly what to do.

Carefully he flicked through channels and apps until he came to “In the Night Garden.” Technically, it was a show for young toddlers but he didn’t care, the surrealist bedtime show brought him comfort and that’s what mattered.

He watches it when he wants to go to sleep, sometimes it helps guide him into the land of nod.

He calls it reverting to his factory settings because when first arrived on Earth at the tender age of two, not knowing where he was or how to speak any language, it was the only thing that used to put him to sleep.

It is still one of the few things that does, which makes him question if he has changed at all since he was two.

To sum it up the show has helped him through life more than he would like to admit.

Not to mention that Iggle Piggle is amazing and the Ninky Nonk is just a surreal representation of his Ma’s road rage. Those are just facts.

Unfortunately that morning the weird and wonderful world of the Night Garden did not put him to sleep. But it did wake him up.

It did that sometimes and every time he watched the show he was taking a gamble with his already terrible sleep schedule.

So until his parents came down he sat snuggled up on the couch under his baby blanket, watching episode after episode.

He laughed at the characters' antics and wished each of the puppets goodnight at the end of each episode for the fun of it. There was a simple kind of comfort in it.

He knew to switch off the TV when he heard the upstairs floor boards groan to life. It's not that his parents would judge him for watching the show.

It just means that it's time to start getting ready for the school day ahead. Something he would rather not do but is forced to endure nevertheless.

By the time he had detached himself from the couch his Ma was up and dressed and his Pa was tailing behind her.

Honestly, both of them put his wake-up habits to shame. Despite being up for hours, he still looked like a mad scientist crossed with an elf while they had only been up for half an hour and already looked immaculate.

Seriously he would kill for that level of discipline.

He passed his Pa on the stairs. His blanket-cape billowed out behind him as Clark trudged up each step.

Clark felt a pat on his back and a “morning sport” echo through the staircase as he and his father crossed each other.

Despite being more awake than when he first awoke, socialisation was still something that required more energy than he had. Meaning that for his troubles Pa received a muttered “mornin Pa” and some quiet joyful hums.

Quickly he deposited the blanket on his bed before going to the bathroom to start his morning routine properly.

First he rinsed his face with icy water due to the boiler not having kicked in yet. But he didn’t mind the cold, in fact he barely felt it at all so it's not like he could complain.

Once his face was clean and dry he shoved his Ma’s make-up drawer open, his hands naturally gravitating towards the concealer, setting powder and a blender that he should probably get around to cleaning.

Over the years he had mastered the art of making it seem as if he wasn’t wearing any makeup at all, while still using enough to hide the purple tint of his cheeks.

It wasn’t exactly easy but do it enough times and it becomes a walk in the park.

As he dabbed the peachy liquid into his skin he remembered when his Ma used to do it for him. He was younger then, around six years old, and every morning before school he used to sit on the toilet lid while his Ma delicately applied concealer to hide his natural blush.

That was before they knew that his blood was purple. One day when he was seven he tripped and fell on a green rock in the fields and scraped his knee. That was the day he found out that he bled purple.

Before that his parents just used to think that he was always too cold. Now they know that he blushes that colour because it's just his blood not hypothermia.

Still after all these years how different his face looks when he is done with the products never fails to surprise him.

Then it's putting the contact lenses in. He hates them, they make his eyes itch and water and if he had a choice he would never put them in.

But he needs to, they help him to hide. They dull the blue of his irises and make his pupils look circular instead of square. It was a necessary but painful step of his routine.

To finish the look off he styles his hair, carefully sculpting it so it looks naturally messy even when every strand was placed with intent to cover his ears.

It's hard to pass as human when your ears make you look like an elf. Even if you aren’t an elf.

When he glanced in the mirror a different person to the one he started with stared back at him.

Maybe most people would find it unnerving. However it has never fazed him in the slightest. Though he has been doing this since he was two, so maybe he has been trained out of the uncanny valley feeling he is supposed to get.

His brain recognises his disguise more than his natural look.

Either way he doesn’t have time to dwell on what he does or doesn’t look like. After all, school waits for no one.

So he rushes through brushing his teeth, still sensitive from when he gnawed them down the night before, and throws on the same flannel and jeans he always does.

The consistency of it all made something deep within his brain hum with joy. Why? He doesn’t know. Just for some reason not having to think about what to wear each day makes him happy.

When he was dressed and at least physically ready for the day ahead, he swung his beaten-up backpack over his shoulder, checking that his hair still covered his ears before heading back downstairs.

The kitchen gave way to a comforting scene of his Ma making coffee while his Pa read the paper, neither of them needing to be anywhere unlike him.

Life would be so much better without school. It would definitely allow him to help around the farm more often at the very least.

Still he dashed around the small kitchen, weaving through people and furniture as he went.

As he dodged he skilfully packed a simple sandwich for his lunch and left after giving both of his parents a hug. He technically didn’t need to get the bus but he liked the experience of it.

Well he liked seeing Chloe and Pete before school. But for once he was actually on time.

You’d think that a guy who could run faster than a car would be on time more often wouldn’t you? Safe to say that he is living proof that being fast doesn’t make you punctual.

Maybe today would be a lucky day, because just as he skidded to a stop at the end of his drive the ugly yellow bus from hell arrived.

The old motor hissed to a stop, it was time to do this. Time to hide behind the carefully concocted personality of Clark Kent for yet another day.

Honestly, part of him thinks he should be awarded a Grammy or something for acting because it’s been roughly thirteen years and so far nobody has noticed that he isn’t biologically human.

Mentally psyching himself up, he forced a smile as he climbed aboard and went to join Pete and Chloe at the back. Both of them seemingly were surprised that he made it onto the bus.

Maybe the day wouldn’t be too bad?

At least he hoped it wouldn’t, as he tossed his bag and body onto the seat next to Pete ready to join in with whatever conversation he and Chloe were having before he got on the bus.

Chapter Text

No matter how the government and media bedazzled the high school experience, to Clark it was groundhog day.

Every day was the same: the same faces, the same classes, and the same conversations with the same two friends. Sure occasionally a pep rally or a chess tournament was thrown into the mix.

But usually he knew how the school day was going to go before it had even started.

First he would either make or miss the bus, usually the latter, leaving him to run to school. When he saw Chloe and Pete they would either complain about homework or Chloe would go on a political rant about something she wants to write an article about, even if it has no impact on the school or the local community.

At school he would go to his locker and then make his way to the back of his homeroom for registration. And then the day goes on from there, he would try not to lose concentration in science, his ears would start itching around noon and he would have to fight with himself to not mess up his perfectly placed hair and let his secret out.

Occasionally there would be a meeting for the chess team and it's a rare day when he didn’t sit in the Torch office with Chloe debating what to include in the next publication. But overall it's very repetitive.

To make matters worse he was exhausted. Not physically but rather emotionally. The kind of exhaustion that caused him to faze in and out of conversations and feel all floaty.

Last night he had that dream again.

The one where he is being chased endlessly through a shifting landscape.

One moment he was in his house. His parents were trying to get his attention, shouting at him in a dead language only he speaks. Then he was at school a mob of students following his attacker. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the mob was gone and he was in a place he doesn’t even remember being. But he must have been there because it always features in his dreams.

It's always the same. And just before he wakes up he’s always caught by himself, looking every bit the human he wished he actually did.

There was nothing scary about the dream, it just filled him with adrenaline and a looming sense of dread that one day he would completely lose himself to one mask or another.

Still he had to shake off the superstition otherwise he would never make it through first period. At least the day didn’t look so bad.

Sure it was populated with subjects he absolutely hated. But nestled deep within his timetable was a glorious period of English language. It was one of the few subjects that he actually had to try in.

His grade didn’t hinge on multiple choice questions that he could memorize the answers to but his ability to argue a point through writing and he loved it.

It was one of the few subjects that he was on a level playing field with the others for. Usually his brain just memorized facts and statistics that he learned in school, often against his will, and just refused to forget them.

Sure it means that he technically doesn’t need to revise, he can’t even begin to count the amount of times that he has a pop quiz he forgot to practice for and still got an A. However it also means that he always feels guilty because he has a slight edge that he can’t control and can’t force away, all because he isn’t biologically human.

It just didn’t seem fair.

Fortunately the essay subjects didn’t bring this guilt and so he quickly fell in love with them. English language just happens to be his favourite.

So with the longing of English sealed into his mind he mentally prepared himself for the day ahead.

The bus stank of teenagers who didn’t quite know how much deodorant to use, and everytime it hit a rock it bounced like the Earth suddenly gained the gravity of the moon.

Chloe’s ramblings of the political revolution that took place in Nepal however made it more bearable. He doesn’t know how she will fit it into the school newspaper but she seemed determined to do so and who was Clark to tell her no.

He valued his life, thank you very much.

Soon the quiet country highways gave way to a small but bustling town center. It felt like a cruel joke to have to watch people go about their daily lives while they all get carted off to school for seven hours.

What any of them wouldn’t do to be Mr Megunnis, the sixty-year-old florist, for a day.

As the bus pulled up to the school a wave of dread settled over the bus. Nobody wanted to get off but they all found themselves parading off the bus like prisoners waiting to be assigned a cell.

Whoever said that the high school years are the best of your life clearly never actually attended.

Once off the monstrosity of a bus he and Pete said their goodbyes and silent prayers to Chloe, the trio being torn apart by homeroom.

Honestly, what was the point of homeroom? All they did was sit around and chuck wads of paper at each other while the teacher read the day’s announcements.

Clark’s sure that Purgatory is actually just homeroom. After all, both of them are pointless.

If he has to come to school he would like to actually learn, not just spend an eternity sitting there.

However he and Pete were together, which made the experience slightly more bearable. The two of them exchanged silly drawings and notes of random scenarios that they could escape into.

It was at least one way to pass the time before the bell screeched to signify the start of the school day, Pete and Clark going their separate ways.

Once again Clark was left alone as he weaved through the jammed corridors to his math class, already debating if he could get away with daydreaming throughout the entire thing if he sat at the back.

Gritting his teeth he marched onwards through the sea of people, enduring the dull ache that rang through his jaw.

By the time he reached the room he could already feel his hair tickle his ears and his eyes start to water behind the contact lenses.

He just needed to make it to English, he reminded himself. He repeated the phrase over and over as if it were a sacred mantra as he made a beeline for the seat near the window in the back corner.

There was less chance of him being picked on by the teacher that way, not to mention the window gave him a source of entertainment for the period. He just needed to keep his head down.

Once he got to English he would be okay again, but until then he had to endure.

Chapter Text

He was right.

By the time that English rolled around all Clark wanted to do was lock himself in a dark room for the immediate future.

He wanted to be in a place where no sound would ambush his ears, no light would enter his pupil and no make up would be caked onto his face. Everything was too overwhelming and all he wanted to do was escape.

His skin felt like it was two sizes too small as he took his usual seat in the corner, the bell screeching to announce the beginning of the next period.

Still, after the onslaught of the bell, Clark found himself relaxing into the rhythm of English Language. Their teacher Miss Woods had this smooth yet authoritative voice that aided the class's immersion in whatever exercise she had planned for the lesson.

That specific day they had been assigned a simple creative writing task: “Using the picture above write a description of what you see.”

Said picture was of a crowded street and far too many road signs. While other students sat there with their hands in their heads, Clark was immediately inspired.

He didn’t think he just wrote, his pen gliding elegantly across the lined paper. From his imagination erupted a story about a young boy called Joe struggling to understand the signage, unsure about which direction to go.

The idea was that Clark would turn the jumbled signs into a metaphor for not knowing where your life is taking you.

As much as he loathed to admit it Joe’s mental turbulence did not sprout from nowhere. Subconsciously he drew on his own thoughts and fears to make the character and the description come to life.

He wasn’t exactly comfortable with weaving his own emotions into a school assignment but he kept it the same, telling himself that nobody will care because in the description they aren’t his troubles rather Joe’s.

At least it was one hell of a good story. At least in his opinion it was.

Before he knew it the bell had screeched once more to announce the end of the lesson and Clark was scrambling to organise his books and pens.

It was time to leave the oasis and re-enter the burning pits of hell that was the rest of the school. He whispered a thanks to his teacher as he left and handed in his work to be marked but inside he was dreading his last lesson of the day.

The peace of English couldn’t last of course. No. Why would it? He had gym next and was fully convinced that the universe despised him. Not to mention that he was already running late.

He was going to have to wait for everybody else to change and leave before he could even think about changing his clothes below the waist line.

Sure it meant that he got to listen to random gossip that floated around the boy’s changing room, but it also meant that he would be at least five minutes late to the lesson. Still better to be late than carted off to Area 51 or The Pentagon.

It was either that or have everyone else think that he is trans, which being in the Bible Belt he did not want either.

It was again one of the times when he desperately wished he looked like everyone else. He wouldn’t have to hide his ears, or gnaw his abnormally pointed teeth down each day, or get changed for gym out of sight because he doesn’t have a dick.

Most people don’t know how lucky they are not to have to analyse their every move to hide, to protect themselves and their family. Most people could just be without any of those worries.

Clark often wonders what that would be like. He does again when he enters the locker room, settling down on a bench and taking his sweet time changing his flannel for a tee and hoodie.

Chatter wafts around him as he stalls, however he is bombarded with thirty distinct squishy heart beats each of them as grotesque as each other.

Suddenly the lingering remains of the English calm wore off and he wanted to be locked in a dark room for all of eternity once more.

After five minutes of killing time the crowd had thinned down enough that he felt safe quickly changing his jeans to sweats. At least now he would only be two minutes late to the lesson instead of five.

Still he always felt self conscious changing in front of others. Even if he knows that they didn’t see anything, that they weren’t looking in the first place, he always feels thousands of tiny stares piercing his body, silently investigating it for any abnormalities.

He shrugs it off. He has to otherwise he would never get anything done.

In the gym the teacher is explaining the day’s activity to the class and Clark practically feels the disappointed stare trained on him as he enters the room silently.

He was only two minutes late, it could have been worse, something he believed Coach Davies should really appreciate more.

He turned up did he not? What more could they want of him?

He settled in with Pete near the back of the room, mentally groaning as soon as the Coach even mentions running. Now he knew that the universe really did hate him.

It's not like Clark wasn’t good at it, in fact he was an amazing runner. Still when your average time means that you could technically beat Usain Bolt by miles, that isn’t the blessing it appears to be.

Instead he would have to go at a snail's pace and purposely labour his breathing. It’s, like most parts of his disguise, painful. There is a reason why sane people don’t purposely make themselves out of breath.

But at least it was the last period of the day. Afterwards he would be home free and later that evening Pete would randomly appear at his house to stargaze and all would be right in the world.

Unfortunately he just needed to survive physical education before he could escape back to the farm. Somehow even fixing the permanently breaking-down tractor was seeming more appealing than the lesson’s contents.

Once the Coach had finished his long-winded explanation and forced everyone into groups Clark knew what he had to do, trying to steal himself as he took his position around the relay course.

Only forty more minutes to go until he was granted his freedom.

He would be fine… probably.

Chapter Text

He was not fine.

By the time that the torture of gym had ended Clark was left contemplating what he did to make the universe hate him that much. His chest was tight from the forced heavy breathing and his pulse was sporadic.

He had essentially forced himself into hyperventilating, and paid the price for it while he helped the coach put the equipment away. Anything for there to be as few people as possible when he has to change back into regular clothes.

It was all so tedious and long that by the time Clark eventually made his way back home all he wanted to do was pass out. But his body wouldn’t let him… and he had homework to do.

Make-up had wormed its way into all the crevices of his skin and he desperately wanted to scrub it off until his face was an angry purple. Still he couldn’t, Pete would be coming over in a bit and there was no point in taking the gloop off only to reapply it not even an hour later.

So the horrid concoction would remain glued to his skin, the less than favourable decision coming to a natural conclusion as Clark raided the sugar pot for the remaining cubes before making his way to his room.

Homework was unfortunately not optional.

Still before starting he made a point to take the contact lenses out, he doesn’t actually need them after all. Besides they were driving him crazy and if he had to put up with them later he refused to do so in the privacy of his own room.

It was science first. At least it would be easy he thought to himself, a pang of guilt seeping into his heart. Sighing he plopped a sugar cube into his mouth and pulled out the relevant papers, begrudgingly ready to start.

Over the course of the next hour or so the small stash of sugar cubes slowly decreased and so did his pile of homework. Once his science task was out of the way he quickly drew a diagram for Geography and filled in a worksheet for Spanish.

By the time that he had finished everything that needed to be done the sun was starting to set and Pete was nearly there. At least Clark assumed he was judging by the small notification that jumped onto his lock screen.

As the sun gave way to the moon Clark could feel his body relaxing, ready to finally let him rest. Even if he knew that he couldn’t.

So he bid his bed a farewell, licked the sugar off of his lips and put his contacts back in. He needed to set up the star-gazing spot and he had only ten minutes to do so, which sure in super speed feels like a lifetime.

But he wanted to do things the normal way instead of leaning on his abilities for once.

He fetched a blanket and the old beaten up telescope and set them both in the currently unused field where he knew that the light pollution was non-existent.

Just as Pete pulled up, Clark was frantically zipping up jumpers and coats, trying to seem like he could feel the supposed freezing night air. For dramatic effect he pulled his red blanket over his shoulders and went outside to meet Pete, feeling every bit like the abominable snowman as he walked.

Something about being with Pete was just calming. Clark didn’t feel as if he was performing like he did when he was at school.

There wasn’t the same sort of pressure to “act normal” when it was just him and Pete. Both of them said weird, slightly cryptic, things to each other all of the time. Because that’s what friendship is all about.

So if something about him not being biologically human sprouted, Clark trusted that Pete would shrug it off as a strange joke. He loved Chloe but she did tend to overanalyse everything.

Pete however didn’t. Maybe that’s why he was his best friend. Either that or they met in elementary and became conjoined and now neither of them could leave the friendship even if they wanted to.

Pete, like the legend he was, brought a flask of hot chocolate that they shared as they battled with the telescope to get Mars into the lens. The ancient telescope may be crappy but it isn’t so crappy that you can’t see the next planet along through it.

The pair passed the responsibility of wrangling the equipment around a lot. Neither of them had the patience to actually try.

So for the next twenty minutes the routine was that one of them would try to solve the problem while the other sat on the blanket and critiqued their telescope handling while sipping hot chocolate like it was fine wine. After five minutes the original person would give up and they would switch roles.

Sure they weren’t exactly getting far in their hunt for Mars, not that it was a hunt they knew where it was they just couldn’t get the lens to line up right. Still it was fun, the light banter flowing between them warming their bodies in tandem with the hot beverage.

“Do you think that if we put marshmallows in this they would come out?”

Clark posed the question during Pete’s turn to struggle. He was bored and quite frankly wanted marshmallows to go with his drink because they are amazing.

“Probably not.”

Why must Pete be right?

Clark commiserated the death of the idea by taking a swig of the chocolatey goodness like how an alcoholic would take a swig of rum.

“Wanna swap?”

Pete eyed the telescope as if it had personally insulted his entire family as he posed the question. He was clearly over trying to solve the issue and who better to dump said issue on than his friend. Who signed an invisible contract when they first met to deal with all of his problems.

So begrudgingly Clark lifted himself from the rug and onto his feet, wordlessly passing the flask over to Pete as he took up the spot on the mat.

Maybe this time he would get it right. You know what they say, 5th times the charm.

Clark could practically feel Pete’s smug smile etching into his back as he started to move the body of the telescope around. He fiddled with knobs and made slight micro adjustments, using the broken view finder to try and aid his efforts.

Honestly its a miracle the device still worked, what with its life of being for the most part unused and occasionally manhandled. Honestly Clark likes to joke that the old piece of equipment is the astronomer version of a beautiful flower that immediately dies if the pH of the soil is too high. Minus the beauty.

The cool night air tickled the ends of his hair as he fumbled around with knobs and screws trying to set it just right. There was a comforting peace to the quiet, the stars shining down on both of them as Pete amused himself with Clark’s struggle.

That was when he saw it. After yet another barely noticeable adjustment that did not lead to Mars being shown through the lens, Clark instead accidentally stumbled upon something else. Something far more dear.

To the naked eye it looked like the black void of space, even through the strongest telescope lens. However, the lens coupled with his super vision revealed a sun burning a fiery red, an asteroid cloud of green rocks orbiting it.

The last remains of a planet he called home before he even truly understood what home meant.

The destroyed shell of what was once the planet Krypton.

Now Clark doesn’t really remember ever living there, he was sent to Earth when he was one after all. But for the first year of his life he lived there with people he will never properly meet.

He loves Ma and Pa, nothing will ever change the fact that they are his parents. But it’s surreal to know that he once had another set, who loved him just as much on a world that he can’t even remember.

He wanted to tear his eye away from the cylindrical lens. But he couldn’t. Every muscle was locked in place, refusing to budge.

Deep down some twisted part of him wanted him to see it. Wanted him to remind him that he will never truly belong anywhere now that the one place he might have been, was destroyed.

Slowly silent tears trickled from the corners of his eyes, the knowledge that he was the last one left sinking deeper than usual into his bones.

He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted someone, just someone, who would fully understand him and his struggles. Sure Ma and Pa did to a high degree but they will never know the pain that comes with pretending to be “normal.”

He is normal, for a Kryptonian. But nobody on Earth would see it that way so all he can do is blend in.

“Clark… are you okay man? You’ve been standing there silently sobbing for the last five minutes.”

Pete’s voice cut through the silence like a knife through butter. Concern radiated from his mouth and shocked Clark’s limbs out of their limbo. However Clark didn’t budge.

He no longer wanted to, not really.

Maybe the twisted, sick part of his mind had grown because he genuinely wanted to look at the remains of his dead planet. Think about how much of a disappointment he would have been to his ancestors.

He knew that he was too Kryptonian for Earth and too Human for Krypton. Even if the planet had miraculously survived, he couldn’t have gone back because he knew that nowhere would accept him.

However, that doesn’t stop him from speaking.

“Zehdh." Home.

He didn’t think about what came out of his mouth. Maybe he didn’t care. Still the alien tongue wormed its way out of his thoughts and into the world for a millisecond.

Part of him was worried about how he would explain it to Pete. The other half was mourning over something he never knew.

Behind him he heard the slight shuffle of the rug as Pete stood up and made his way over. He didn’t care, too transfixed on space where, maybe in another universe, he might have called home.

“I do not know what you just said. But whatever’s wrong it's okay.”

Pete seemed calm and collected by the gentle wave of his voice. However Clark knew that if he turned around he would have been met with a face full of confusion. Yet he appreciated the comfort.

Slowly he allowed himself to be dragged away from the telescope and back to the blanket with him and Pete hand in hand. The tears had stopped and the rivers of tears that once cascaded down his cheeks had started to dry up.

Subconsciously he pulled the baby blanket further around his shoulders. He didn’t need it for warmth rather it was creature comfort. He simply felt safe surrounded by the item that connected both his homes.

“Sorry about that. Umm… I’m fine now.”

Clark’s voice was weak, hesitant, as he spoke. He was scared to change the awkward silence that they had fallen into. Petrified to confront what just happened.

“Clark, you are not fine. You were literally just speaking in tongues. You didn’t join a cult without me did you?”

Despite Pete’s clear concern, Clark couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle at that.

“If I had, you know I would have told you. That was… that was my native language.”

There he had said it. No escaping it now. Though there was still a chance he could convince Pete that his native language was a strange and practically dead dialect of something. Rather than a dead alien one.

Kryptonese is beautiful but it still doesn’t sound anything like a human language.

“Wait a minute, you’re not American. You, the literal embodiment of a cowboy, are not American?”

Pete was maybe just faking the shock but it still helped to pull Clark from the more depressed part of his brain back to reality. A reality with parents that love him and a friend that cares for him. Even if it's in his own strange way.

“Umm no. How did you not know this? I am literally adopted.”

It was a genuine question. Everybody in Smallville from their aunt to their best friend’s neighbour’s cat’s child knew he was adopted. Perks of living in a small town where everyone knows each other. You can’t escape the gossip mill.

“In my defense that never came up. So anyway… if Mr America himself was in fact not born in America, where are you from?”

A spark of curiosity had ignited in Pete’s mind, Clark could practically feel it. He knew that Pete wouldn’t push if he didn’t want to share. But a part of him did.

Maybe if he shared the less conventional part of him then he would feel less alone.

He should have probably consulted Ma and Pa, but they weren’t there and he needed to be decisive. Because quickly going to check with your parents about where you come from is suspicious.

In the end the decision was made without him realising it. Slowly Clark trailed a hand up to his hair, fiddling with the ends as he tried to distract himself with what he was about to say.

“I… I come from another planet.”

His voice was small and unsure but he said it anyway.

The sceptical look on Pete’s face told him that he didn’t believe it.

“I’m not lying, I really am an alien. Look.”

He emphasised his point with a dramatic flick of his hair behind his ears, leaving the perfectly pointed cartilage visible.

For what felt like decades, but was probably only mere seconds, Pete existed in a stunned silence. It was clear that he was trying to process what his friend just told him while also processing the existence of alien life at the same time.

However eventually his face returned to its usual slightly smiling resting face.

“Clark Kent, do you mean to tell me that your elf Halloween costume was not fake. Dude you’re a space elf.”

Okay so in the end he was fine after all. Take that anxiety fuelled thoughts.

Chapter Text

“I am not a space elf. Where did that nickname even come from?”

Clark's protests fell on deaf ears as Pete continued to annoy his friend with the petty nickname.

The two had abandoned the picnic blanket and telescope long ago, Pete in favour of the farm house’s heating and Clark in favour of whatever Pete wanted.

This is how they found themselves sitting along Clark’s bed, layers shed apart from Clark’s baby blanket that he was using to sooth himself more than for heat. Clark was bearing his soul to the one person whose opinion really mattered and it was daunting, even if so far Pete seemed okay with the alien thing.

“Anyway space elf, why are you here if you don’t mind me asking?”

Silently Clark wishes that Pete had started his questioning with what makes you alien. Anything other than why he lives on Earth and not the planet he was born on.

Still he wanted Pete to know the truth and it isn’t too much of a touchy subject, he just wished that Pete hadn’t chosen to start with something so depressing.

“Okay so, I was born on a planet… a world called Krypton. So I am Kryptonian, at least that's what the documents say. The… my ship’s in the storm cellar by the way, if you want to we can go see it one day. Anyway so, I was sent here when I was around one. My planet was… it was dying and my biological parents sent me to Earth to protect me. And before you ask, no I don’t really remember ever living there. I taught myself full Kryptonese about a year ago. Before then I only knew a few basic words.”

As his speech simmered out both of them were left in a stunned silence. Pete didn’t know how to respond to that comfortably and Clark didn’t know what else he could say to break the silence.

Why he was on Earth was a depressing subject after all but it is what it is and if Clark had never been sent to Earth he would have never met Ma or Pa or Pete. So really it's not that bad.

“Man… I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It's fine, what's done is done and all that. I’ve learned to live with it. Hey you don’t mind if I take my contacts out do you, I need to start getting ready to sleep.”

It was true, the moment that Pete’s car pulled out of the driveway Clark’s head would be hitting a pillow. Exhaustion had started to creep into his bones and well he knew that Pete wouldn’t be offended by the question.

“Sure… Wait since when did you wear contacts? Clark, you already wear glasses.”

Clark didn’t bother giving a response. He just sat his glasses down and carefully plucked the mini torture devices off of his eyes, placing them carefully in their special little case.

The little “o” Pete’s mouth formed upon seeing his friend’s abnormally electric blue irises and square pupils told Clark that his point was received.

After that they fell back into the normal routine of debating rumours spreading through the school corridors and sharing crazy theories about a book series they were into. It was domestic, as if nothing had ever changed.

Of course things have changed, Clark was sitting there looking his most alien after all. Still Clark relished the fact that Pete didn’t seem to care about his inhuman nature. That him being weird didn’t mess up one of the few friendships he had managed to find himself in.

Not having to hide felt nice. For once outside of the drug of sleep he could just be without any consequences.

In the half an hour before Pete’s mom pulled into the driveway, the two mainly chatted about random things that had filled their lives. So mainly small town gossip that they had picked up from their parents.

Scandals such as the baker’s husband’s niece being gay were apparently hot topics amongst the reading group. Honestly they were both just happy that the club had moved on from the bus driver’s divorce, it was getting old by the fourth month of hearing their mothers recount reading group affairs.

Sure somehow Clark’s alienness came up once or twice, but only because he brought it up himself. Honestly he was shocked that he felt comfortable enough to do that, but it brought a freeing kind of pleasure with it.

By the time Pete had to go, he had learned that the “friendship bracelet” that Clark wore on his left wrist was in fact a Kryptonian prayer cord that he and his parents made together and that Clark doesn’t have typical male anatomy.

Clark didn’t explain the second one any further, because who wants to talk about their junk with a friend? Still it only came up because Pete joked about Clark either being incredibly late or incredibly early to gym class. It felt wrong not to give an explanation for the erratic behaviour when Pete now knew about his secret.

As Pete left Clark made him do a little oath. Really it was just theatrics, Clark knew that his friend wouldn’t tell anyone about his secret, but there was something undoubtedly special about making Pete recite some nonsense and shake hands with him.

By the time Pete left on his merry way Clark had never felt more seen. He didn’t have to worry about putting his contacts in or making sure his disguise was flawless because he no longer had to hide from his friend.

As he finally washes the thick make up off of his face, Clark wonders to himself if that's how most friendships are like?

Because if it is Rao does he wish he got to experience it more. Normal people didn’t know how easy they had it. There was no fear of the government taking them away to become a lab rat if they didn’t hide.

Human rights laws exist to protect them, not Clark. He knows that he wouldn’t be classed as human in the eyes of the government. Even if he had spent the vast majority of his life in America.

Still he decided that he liked not hiding. When it’s safe, obviously. But not acting all of the time felt like a tidal wave of fresh air and he loved it.

That night after carefully manoeuvring himself under the covers, Clark picked a small bracelet off of his bedside table. The bangle was made of a silver metal (Clark had no clue which just that it wasn’t from Earth) sculpted into intricate patterns that encompassed gem stones.

It was the first prayer cord he received, the one from his biological parents. He may have outgrown it since he was one but it had other purposes. However this was his favourite.

Sleepily he pressed the gem in the dead center of the metal, allowing a holographic display to pop up and sound to drift lazily around the room.

“Threvzeht :jeva i kir us. Rao chao i wegh krym dhiviao. Rraop shovuh unah.”

Happy name day to our little boy. May Rao and your wisdom guide you to greatness. We love you son.

His biological mother’s voice echoed on loop, replaying the same message from his first name-day. His only name-day.

Soon he was lulled into slumber as Lara’s voice sung gently still, forever trapped in a moment that was long gone.

That night Clark fell asleep knowing that he was loved. Knowing that he was no longer alone.