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It’s stupid. It’s really, really stupid.
It’s even worse when you know how it started. Jon was waiting for his arm to heal, and during those dark times, those dark and dreary and hopeless horrid times, he impulsively bought a camera. Maybe during those times, he’d take nature hikes and he’d go around the house, capturing moments in time that he thought were exquisite, breathtaking. Just moments that he found cool, for lack of a blander word.
And maybe he showed it to his art teacher and it’s possible she encouraged him to show it at the upcoming school art showcase. After a week of constant prodding and praise, it’s also possible that he agreed to put his work on display for other people to see, because it’s also highly probable that he thinks he has some talent. He thinks he has something to show, so he agreed. He agreed quite stupidly, he should add.
She gave him three fliers that would act as formal invitations. One for Jordan, one for dad, and one for mom. Ms. Katherine worked with him for hours after school trying to decide which photos were the best. She said they were all too good to choose from, something that he thinks he’ll never forget.
It was so stupid of him to have given such a late notice. The fliers were his own telltale heart when they sat in the bottom of his bag for over a week. Then, a eight days before the showcase, he decided to give them out.
He told mom first.
“Mom,” he had said, bowl churning over the cereal in his bowl. She was working a case, he remembers.
“Yes?” She hummed.
He had waited a few more moments, his fingers curling around the paper. His hand was out of the cast, but the phantom pain was constant. And at that moment, it was nearly unbearable, only beaten by the pulsing of his heart in his head.
He had finally gathered his courage and he spoke again, eyes cast downward. It had been hard to speak to her in the time following the RV incident. He slid the rumpled paper across the counter, waiting until she took it to speak again.
“It’s a showcase. An art showcase — I mean. I do — not art but, like, photography and stuff. And I was wondering— “
”If I could come?” She finished his words, and he felt so relieved, sitting back and pursing his lips. He was so anxious that he barely heard her laugh. A melodic, relaxed sound that was rare in their conversations those days. She nodded. “Sure thing. Just remind me the day before, okay?” He nodded back.
That was anxiety-producing enough. But the next challenge proved even greater. He waited a whole other day until he trekked out of the farmhouse and over to cellar of the farm. Each step was like walking on hot coals and it made his heart beat faster with every moment.
He got to the cellar door. He hesitated, hand wrapped around the doorknob, knuckles turning white. He tries his best to avoid this place these days. It’s reserved for the supers of the family. It’s a training spot, an unspoken privilege and gift. If Jon wants to train, he can use the grass above ground, just like any other human. Not that training would put him at the same level as Jordan, anyways. Not that Jordan even has the training Jon has dedicated himself to completing over a decade of his entire life.
He brushed the thoughts away and opened the cellar door. Just the sounds of dad laughing with Jordan nearly turned him away. It was something Jon didn’t really hear these days. But it was heartwarming that Jordan was finally laughing along after a lifetime full of shying away. The sound was becoming Jon's new favorite.
Jon quietly walked down the stairs, a smile slowly masking over his face. He got to the bottom step, and there was Jordan and dad. Dad was clapping loudly and Jordan was wheezing from laughter. They looked so happy, so purely happy.
Jon tried to think of the last few months. There was the moving and then the accident in the farm. But it’s the things like starting a fight at that stupid bonfire, going off on his own to save dad, being an idiot and going into the RV alone — lately, Jon’s been faced with his parents’ wrath. They don’t hate him, he knows that. He does. He does.
Jon introduced himself with something dumb, though it wasn’t all that heard by either of his audience. Jon cleared his throat, and dad looked up first.
”Hey Jon, what’s up?” Dad asked that. Jon’s mouth was dry, his lips were sticking together, and he finally gave up, ripping the fliers out of his pocket and thrusting them forward.
Once both his targets took one, he shoved his hands into his pocket and shrugged. “Not that big of a deal,” he said convincingly, “but if you could come, I guess that would be nice.”
Jordan snorted, so similar to how Jon does. They are twins, he has to remind himself. “You do art?”
A hint of annoyance prodded at him. Where did they think he's been for the past few weeks after school? “Photography. A little bit, not much work but I guess — well I sort of worked hard so if you could come that would be nice I guess. And if not—“
Dad clapped him on the shoulder. Jon looked up, and dad was smiling and nodding. “Of course we’ll come, Jon. It’s important to you, so it’s important to us.” The warmth was something Jon basked in, remembering how it felt after so long away.
”Yeah,” Jordan had said happily, “and photography is, like, super cool.”
And Jon had smiled.
It’s stupid. He gave the late notice, and his reminders for them to come were half-assed at most. The responses were quiet, and he never even asked them to check their schedules. He should have asked more, been more direct, less quiet and more of the affirmative, vibrant boy he is or was or — he doesn't know. But he knows that if he did, he wouldn’t have ended up like this.
He probably looks stupid. He does, he's sure of it. He’s at a booth, alone, with an entire presentation behind him. The board itself was designed and meticulously cleaned and kept pristine. The photos are masterpieces, and people continue to flow in and beeline for his work, staying for a few minutes to ask him how the heck he managed an angle or how he captured the light like that. And yet with so many people, with so much praise and affirmation, he feels alone.
The first half hour passes, and his smile is riding the waves of praise from strangers. Another fifteen minutes pass and he begins to check his phone and his watch. Another half hour passes and Lillian Jameson has packed up her booth and left, raising a pit of anxiety in his sinking gut. By the time the event is over, Jon’s booth is still up, and he’s sunken into his chair, watching as the final person other than him packs up their things and leaves.
The mayor complimented him. So did the principal and the fire chief and Emily Daves said that he was pretty good at art for a football player, and she’s on the cheer squad.
Ms. Katherine walks over, her smile turning sad. He's turning over the ELT in his hand, again and again, over and mournfully over, contemplating using it, running his thumb over the button like it would heal his heart. He studies each and every part. It's the size of his palm but it's the heaviest thing he's ever held.
“I’m really proud of you,” says Ms. Katherine, her voice gentle. “You were amazing. Even if your family weren’t here to see it, I’m sure that if you show it at home, they’ll be just as impressed if they saw it here.”
Jon looked at the ELT. He thinks of the smiles he once knew, the praise he yearns for when it used to come so easy, the mother he used to make proud, and he shrugs, pocketing the ELT, the lump in his throat rising.
”Yeah, yeah.” He was never showing them. But Ms. Katherine didn’t need to know that. She helped him so much already. And he was proud of his work, and that’s all that mattered. It is. It’s all that matters, what he thinks. He doesn’t need . . . he’s fine with his own praise. He’s okay — he is.
Now if only he could convince others better than he convinces himself.
Jealousy hasn’t always been in Jon’s palette of vibrant emotions. As a kid, he was the social one. He’d come each day and he’d tell his parents about how he befriended an entire class of kids in a single hour of knowing them. He’d win the competitions in gym class and the medals in whatever sport he was signed up for. His parents were his biggest supporters and so was everyone else he met.
But it was different with his parents. He remembers that after he scored a seemingly unachievable goal in soccer, his dad picked him and spun him around. Jon felt like he was flying. Not just because he was high in the air, but he was high on the overwhelming awe and love his parents were radiating. He thought the smile on his mom’s face was impossibly wide and the light in his dad’s eyes as he looked at his son was blinding.
Jon’s life has been full of hugs and head pats and shoulder pats and attendance to games and applause after much of what he does. He doesn’t mean to brag, he knows he is, though. Or maybe he’s reminiscing.
Of course, his view of his earlier years is far different than his twin’s. Typically, when Jon mentions to a new friend that he has a twin, they expect a carbon copy. It’s understandable that that’s where their mind goes. But no, that’s not how it is, that’s never even how it was.
Jordan was secluded. He was hurt for so many years. Jon was used to the tantrums, the screaming, the tears and the frowns. The frowns were so usual that there were two months where Jon thought his brother forgot how to smile. Jon hated when Jordan would scream because he sounded so hurt and Jon just didn’t know why. He was young. Jon didn’t know someone could hurt so much, or be so alone.
How the tables have flipped and smacked Jon smack-dab in the face.
Loneliness seems to be all he knows now. Jon goes to school and if his two friends aren’t there, then he eats in the library. If his two friends are there, he sits in the corner. No longer are there kids making schedules on when they’ll sit with Jon or becoming disappointed when he can’t work with them on a project. And to be honest, Jon isn’t sure his two friends even like him all that much. He isn’t sure he even likes them all that much.
It’s not that Jon wants things to go back to how they were. Jordan is so happy now. He has Sarah and he has dad and he has an understanding of himself that brings a light to his eyes that Jon used to know so well, see so often every time he looked in the mirror. Jordan is so much happier now, and that warms a part of Jon’s heart that was so cold in those two months.
But it’s just that Jon is . . . he doesn’t know what he is. He’s not their parents’ shining star anymore. He’s not even a star. He looks in the mirror and he can’t find the light in his eyes. But he’s sure he’s overreacting.
He stares at the door, his hands gently holding the photos he took in a portfolio. The showcase ran from five to seven-fifteen, right after school. He knows that Jordan has gotten used to Jon staying after school for clubs and sports, and that mom works late, and that dad is always on call. Jordan got distracted, mom was needed at her job, and dad was saving the world somewhere and they’re all going to be apologetic and he might yell a few times but it’ll be okay. They didn’t forget, and the school has crappy reception so they might’ve sent a text and he didn’t get it.
But a big part of him knows that his phone should be going off now if that was actually the case.
He takes a deep breath, stepping up onto the porch, ready to ring the doorbell.
“Jon! Hey!” An arm swings around Jon’s shoulder, nearly knocking him to the ground. Jon stiffens in Jordan's embrace. Disconnected from his body, he's pushed forward by Jordan's weight. Jordan begins to talk, but his words are lost to his twin. Jon can't . . . he doesn't want to accept it. He doesn't want to accept that he was forgotten, pushed aside like he think he was. Because if that's the case, well, he doesn't know what he'll do.
Jordan is talking with dad occasionally joining in. "Where," Jon licks his lips, eyes focused on the ground. "Where have — what — where have you been?"
Jordan shoots his dad a confused look. He must've explained it while Jon was thinking. He looks back to Jon, and the similarity on Jordan's and dad's faces make Jon sick for a reason he can't seem to pinpoint. "What do you mean?"
And Jon's heart shatters.
He looks back down. The ELT in his pocket is burning. His eyes are stinging and his vision is blurring as tears threaten to fall. Jordan's had to deal with this years and he never got this upset. Jon should take it, he should deal with it, but he can't. It's hard to speak and it's like there's a spotlight on him now that he just wants forcefully turned off. He wants the shadows back because at least then no one knew that he was forgotten. He wants to go back to the blissful ignorance he had moments before.
But he can't. They really don't know.
He hates Smallville and he wants to move back to Metropolis but — no, no, he wants to go back in time. He's a horrible son, that's why they forgot. He's been too much trouble these past months and he wants to go back to when he didn't make his mistakes and he was in a spotlight that made him empowered. He wants to go back to family talks that didn't make him feel so guilty. He wants it back how it was and he wants it now.
”Hey, where were you? Isn’t . . . isn’t Thursday your free day?”
Jon turns to his brother and his dad. “Yeah, asshole,” he spits. “It is.” He shoves Jordan's off of him with as much force as he can muster. Jordan grunts and falls and there's a whoosh as dad tends to the better brother. Jon doesn't care about the yelling behind him because he's throwing the door open and the handle slams into the wood and he dashes madly for the stairs because he just needs to get to his room and then he'll be fine—
Mom blocks the stairs, arms crossed. Jordan is behind him and dad is, too and Jon keeps his eyes down because looking up makes him feel even more trapped than he already is. He bites his tongue and hopes that's also biting his words.
"What are you doing, young man?!" She's yelling, more in shock than anything, and she's disappointed and he can't take it right now he can't. He aggressively side-steps her, hands crumpling his backpack strap and the portfolio that he spent so much time on and they didn't even bother. But she doesn't give up and it's just the worst thing for him right now. "Jonathan Samuel Kent — I am talking to you!"
Jon stops on the third step. He raises his head, his back to his family. Logically, this was a one time thing. Logically, he's been bad these past months but he's been good for his entire life. He's been such a good son his entire life and this shouldn't affect him. Logically, Jordan has been through so many more disappointments when it comes to therapy sessions and logically, Jon knows he's overreacting and this isn't that big of a deal at all but—
He whips around, eyes hardened to a dam to block waves of tears. “Where were you?!” He yells at his mom. He's never yelled at his mom. For Pete's sake, he loves his mom. He adores her but now his throat hurts because he's shrieking at her. “And — and where you two?!” His shaking finger turns on his dad and brother.
Jordan scoffs, though not as angrily as defensive. "What are you even talking—"
"The showcase, dickhead!" He shouts at Jordan but his eyes flicker to the rest of his family. His feet are ready to run and he clutches his things to his trembling body.
Dad looks hurt, stepping forward and trying to meet Jon's gaze but the boy refuses. "We were — we were practicing outside. I — we lost track of . . . of time. Jon . . . " he trails off.
"And that's a good excuse?!" Jon screams, his wild eyes snapping up to tear through his family again—
"You need to calm down." How dare mom reprimand him now — Mom looks hurt. She looks sad. She never looks sad. Jordan looks hurt. Jon is hurt. He's hurt so badly and it sucks and it's deafening to all logic but through it, still, guilt washes over Jon. He's yelling at them for something he could've controlled. He could've called. He should've called. He should've—
He clenches his hands at his sides, the ELT between the fingers on his left hand. He stares at the floor, unable to meet their eyes. He wants to yell. He wants to hide. "I'm sorry!" He yells, sounding too angry still. But he takes a deep breath. He reigns it in. He tries again. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "It was just . . . just a showcase. And I . . . I don't . . . I'm not even into photography. It's stupid."
"Obviously it's not stupid," says his mom, placating as best as Lois Lane can.
"Yeah," agrees his dad, "what's wrong?"
And now they're caring. Now they're caring and it just hurts even more. He thought it was supposed to be better if they cared. He thought it would make him feel better but now he feels crappier because he just made everything crappier and he makes everything crappier and he hates how it is and he just wants it to go back to how it was.
Jon bites down everything. The hatred, the anger, all pressing it inward and turning it the same way. His lip trembles and he's not about to cry in front of Lois Lane, Superboy, and Superman. He won't hurt them anymore. "Let's just forget—" His breath hitches — "forget about it."
He turns to the stairs, and on his way up, the ELT and his photos drop.
“Dinner’s ready.”
Jon lays against the headboard. His homework is cast aside and he's taken to throwing and bouncing a ball off of the wall. It thuds distantly and unrhythmically. He didn't cry, and he tried doing his homework but he couldn't focus on a question, staring at questions for three minutes at a time without a single coherent, calm thought running through his head. He's wallowing in the stink of his self hatred and he's not about to leave.
He can feel his dad's eyes from the doorway he's leaning against. He doesn't dare meet his eyes. “I’m not hungry.” Jon may not have super-hearing or super-intuition-reporter skills, but he faintly heard muffled voices. If he tried any harder to make out words, then he most definitely would've cried.
“Jon-“
”I said I’m not hungry.” He takes a deep breath that stutters. "No offense."
He keeps his eyes on the ball, steadily going now. At least that's a constant: the thump-thump-thump. It's reliable. Unlike some people.
"May I?" Dad gestures to the room with an extended hand. Jon shrugs. The superhero begins to parade around the room, looking at the medals and the trophies, the framed pictures on the desk. There's one of the family in place of where a photo of Eliza used to be. His desk is now littered with the photos that didn't make the final cut, not that there's much to be jealous of. "I looked at the photos you took. I'm jealous, honestly. I could never do something like that."
You're Superman, he bitterly retorts. He shrugs. "You're a reporter, not a photographer."
"Yeah," Dad laughs. "though I still think Jimmy has his work cut out for him. I mean, the one with the rainbow that's shot through the broken window? I loved that. I'd put it front and center on my desk if I still had one. Now, I'm thinking it'll go up on my bed table. Or maybe I'll give it to mom, and she'll frame it in the Gazette and then everyone will see it."
Jon stays silent. He's not giving the silent treatment, but all he wants to say is 'They already did, not that you'd know that' and mom says if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything. Jon doesn't even look at his dad. He wants a hug, he wants a smile, but it's just . . . Jon doesn't even know what it is now.
Dad sighs. "Listen, I'm sorry. You put a lot of work into it."
"I guess," Jon agrees, albeit quietly.
"And you really wanted us to come. And you were probably expecting a good excuse, and there isn't one, and that hurts."
"Ding, ding, ding," he mutters. He shakes his head, catching the ball. It's a baseball. Jon caught it when he was nine. Dad held him up so he could be tall enough to do so, and Jon didn't let it out of his sights for a month. He runs his fingers over the stitching, breath catching in time with his nail. "It doesn't matter. It's over, you missed it, you don't need to feel guilty. It's okay."
"But it's not okay, Jon." His mom walks into the room. Dad takes a seat on the bed and Jon swings his legs over to hang off the side of the bed. He sits next to his dad, head hanging low. He clutches the baseball, his only lifeline. Dad's knee brushes against his. Jon's frozen body aches at the warmth.
"No, it is. I — I . . . it's okay. I guess I just . . . "
"You just," Mom prompts, kneeling down in front of him, hands on his knees. He avoids her gaze.
"I just missed you. I've missed you. Been. Not just tonight, but . . . but for the past few months. It's been hard for me, which I know isn't an excuse for the trouble I've been making. I really haven’t been the best son, I know that. You’re — you’re amazing parents. You’re amazing people, and lately, I haven’t been so great. I just . . . I’m wondering, okay, if, like, I don't know and maybe I'm overreacting but, like, I wonder if you guys still love me as much as you used to." He looks up, the tears brimming in his eyes and through a throat so tight he finally gets it out, “You guys still . . . you guys still love me, right?”
"Oh, honey." A gentle hand cups his cheek and Jon can't take it anymore; he's not meant to be cold. He breaks into a sob, falling to the floor and lunging into his mom's opened arms. She holds him and he feels like a little kid again but he's not embarrassed. He clings to her, burying his face in her shoulder with his arms clenched around her waist. He melts into her hold, trying to stop the swallowing tears. A hand rubs his back and he snatches it, pulling it into his chest so both his parents can hold him because there's nothing he wants more.
The hand that he grabbed laces with his fingers. A third body pulls against his own, embracing him with the kindness he wonders if he's deserving of. The embrace from both parties is gentle. It's kind. He loves it so much and he wants to soak in it for as long as he can.
He's suddenly back in Metropolis. He's sitting on the floor of his room and he's crying. He can't remember why. Maybe it was a nightmare. But his mother is rocking him back and forth. His dad is behind them, wrapping his family in a hug, his body encompassing theirs'. He could've been crying because Jordan destroyed a teddy bear in a tantrum. He could've been crying because he had a nightmare. But his parents were there, they were holding him, and he knew they'd be there tomorrow. He didn't think he'd have to worry about his dad becoming dust on some mission in space or his mom getting shot by a robotic man. And the most he had to worry about with Jordan was a tantrum later on. He didn't know heartbreak, not like he does now.
What he knows now is that his dad is Superman. That he's invincible but every time he falls in a fight, Jon seems to fall with him. He knows that his brother is putting the 'alien' in his 'half-human, half-alien' diagnosis and that he's in pain from emotional turmoil and powers he can't control. He knows that his mom's worry has always been correct. He knows that he can't do a thing about any of those things he knows and he hates it. He also knows that out of all of them, he doesn't know if he can with them, being a forgettable human teen.
It isn't long before his mom pulls away, both hands cupping his face, pads of her thumbs wiping away his tears. He curls back into his dad, who hugs him tightly. His mom smiles at him but her smile is sad. He hates seeing her sad.
"Jon," she starts soothingly, "We could never stop loving you. A few bad days or months or even years won't change how much we love you. You might've been a jerk, sure, but you're not awful."
His dad's strong arms wrap around him and he hiccups, eyes still on his mom. "We should've been there tonight. And we should've been there for you these past few months."
"It's okay—" Jon tries, although whispering.
Mom cuts him off before he can even start. "Say that one more time and you're grounded, young man." Her words have no bite to them. She smiles playfully. He gives a small laugh back, one that's sniffed through the snot and the sobs. Her smile drops, and she leans forward, instead taking his hands in hers. "You matter to us, Jon. You're our son; our love is unconditional."
"And it will always be." Dad punctuates his statement with a small squeeze. Jon leans back, his dad behind him, his mom staring at him and trying to show him just how much she loves him and just how much he means.
He knows that his mom is here. He knows that his dad is here. He knows that Jordan is probably outside the room, waiting with a comment or an apology or a cake that he knows is Jon's favorite and that he probably butchered in the worst way but it'll taste good to Jon. He knows that his mom is going to stay home from work tomorrow and Jon will wake up late to hugs and kisses. He knows that his dad has no intention of letting go anytime soon. And Jon knows he's okay with that; he knows that he's okay with all of it.
Maybe he was never really forgotten. Maybe all he needed was a reminder. But he got just that. He knows his family is by his side, and really, that's more than enough for now.