Chapter Text
"Take this along, hon." Ma Kent put the Tupperware container on top of the stack of textbooks already in Clark's arms. He could have carried a hundred times the load without breaking a sweat, but he still bent his knees. He tilted his chin down to look at the container. "It's not too heavy," he said. "Thanks, Ma."
In the last year Clark had shot up enough that she had to reach to cup his cheek. He ducked his head obligingly, books pressed into his chest. "That poor boy's catching sickness all winter. You're being a good friend, Clark." Clark smiled with half a nod. He couldn't imagine being anything less than helpful.
"Now, then," Ma said briskly, dropping her hand, "don't come bringing anything back neither." She meant the food, as well as any germs. Clark's grin widened. "I won't, Ma," he promised.
The walk to the Ross's wasn't long. While Clark kept the books hugged to his chest, a part of him itched to run, to test how fast he could get from his house to Pete's if no one was watching. But he forced himself to walk at a measured pace. The air was crisp and cool, stinging his nose. Pa said that was good for him and he half-believed it.
Mrs. Ross opened the door before Clark could even knock. The smell of baking bread drifted out, warm and yeasty. "Clark! Your mama thinks of everything, doesn't she?"
Clark offered the container. "She says don't bother bringing it back right away."
"Tell her she's a saint. Pete's upstairs, if you want to bring those up."
The Ross home was smaller than the Kent farm, cozy in it's own right. The stairs creaked beneath his feet as Clark made his way. In Pete's room the curtains were half-drawn, leaving the space in a drowsy half-light. Clark put the books on the desk first.
"–And this is the geometry assignment." Clark explained, setting down the instruction sheet. "It's due Wednesday." Pete groaned from the bed, turning his face toward Clark. His cheeks were flushed, and his hair was messy and plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looked miserable.
"Tch. Being sick's as bad as going to school. Only I gotta do all the work and feel like crud." He tried to glare at the stack of papers, but his gaze slid away as though even looking at them was too much effort.
Clark looked at him half-apologetic though he had nothing to apologize for. Pete sniffled wetly and reached for another tissue. "How come you never get sick?" His tone was sullen—not really a question, more a complaint he wanted to air.
Clark hesitated. He could have shrugged it off, but instead he considered it. Pete was his friend and deserved more than a careless answer. But while Clark had an inkling, he wasn't sure about sharing it. "Oh… I think it’s the fresh air?" he offered, sheepish.
Pete squinted at him, unimpressed. "It's the same air I'm breathing." Clark winced, stuffing his hands into the pouch of his sweatshirt. "Sorry, Pete."
"Don't be sorry," Pete muttered, pulling the blanket higher. He scoff-snort-sniffed, a sound somewhere between defiance and defeat. "Ain't your fault."
Still, Clark didn’t know what that felt like. A scraped knee healed in minutes. Cuts closed overnight. A fever never came. "Do you think you'll be better next week?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
"Yeah. I'll live." Pete waved weakly toward the stack of books. "Thanks for coming by."
Clark gave a small nod, even though Pete was already closing his eyes again, before slipping quietly out of the room. Mrs. Ross smiled and waved him good-bye without asking questions, which Clark was grateful for.