The morning light in the Kent farmhouse was soft, filtering through the dust motes in Clark's bedroom. But inside, the atmosphere was anything but quiet.
Sage stood in front of the full-length body mirror in the corner of the room, completely butt naked. He stood with his hands on his hips, turning slightly to the left and then to the right, admiring the silhouette he had developed over the last five years. At fifteen, the transition from the boy on the porch to the young man in the mirror was striking.
"I definitely have my mother's hips and ass," Sage spoke out loud to the empty room, his voice calm and analytical. "Even though I have a flat stomach, I've got the tone in my thighs and arms. Not bad."
Leaning into the free-spirited nature of the Anodite race, Sage didn't feel a shred of modesty. To his people, the body was just a construct of light and meat, a temporary vessel. Being naked in his best friend's room felt as natural as breathing, even though he knew Clark could walk in at any second. He turned his back to the mirror, glancing over his shoulder.
"Yep," he nodded to his reflection. "I have a bubble butt. Interesting."
He turned back around and ran a hand through his hair. It was a rich, deep brown; the sides were faded clean, but the top was a thick, three-inch crown of tight curls. He was lost in thought about the Luminous business metrics when he heard the heavy, rhythmic thumping of Clark's boots coming up the stairs.
The door swung open. Clark was mid-sentence, ready to say something about the bus, when he let out a strangled, high-pitched scream. He whipped around instantly, facing the hallway and the stairs going downward.
"Sage! Come on!" Clark yelled, his voice cracking. "You just cannot be naked in my room! What if my mom had come up here? What would I say? 'Hey mom, I know you see Sage naked but, he's just hanging out without clothes?'"
Clark's ears were bright red, and a deep, frantic blush was spreading across his face and neck.
Sage didn't move, totally unfazed. "Clark, really. I'm just trying to see if my body has changed over the years. It's a biological check-up. Okay, you can turn around now."
Clark hesitated, then slowly turned back around. But since Sage was still standing there completely exposed, Clark's gaze lingered. He looked at Sage's body—specifically his butt—a little bit too long. A strange, heat-filled tingle started to crawl up Clark's spine, settling low in his pants.
Panic flared in Clark's sapphire eyes. He quickly adjusted his jeans, cleared his throat, and shuffled past Sage toward the computer desk.
"I'm… I'm gonna let you finish putting your clothes back on," Clark muttered, staring intensely at the monitor.
Sage shrugged, not caring about the awkwardness. He began pulling on his designer jeans and a fitted shirt while Clark sat at the computer, his heart hammering in his chest—a sound they could both hear.
On the monitor, a web page sharpened into focus. It featured articles about "miracle" children—a Korean boy lifting a car, a teenage speedster, a girl starting fires.
"Clark! Sage! You're going to be late!" Martha called from the kitchen.
Sage ignored the shout for a second, smoothing out his shirt. He took one last look in the mirror, adjusting his collar and thinking about how Aunt Rose always said looking good was eighty percent of the battle. Clark, however, sat in his T-shirt and sweatpants, fifteen years old now with glossy black hair, his eyes filled with an intense, burning curiosity. He ignored his mother too, but for a different reason—he was clicking on another story, desperate for answers.
"Clark Kent! Sage Hall! If you don't get down here right now, I'm coming up!"
She didn't wait. The heavy, rhythmic footsteps of Martha Kent began to thud up the wooden stairs. Only when Clark heard her hand twisting the doorknob did he panic and hit the screen saver.
The door swung open, and Martha stepped in, holding a suit in her arms. She looked between the two boys—Sage, who looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine, and Clark, who looked like he'd just been caught doing something top-secret.
"Welcome to Tuesday, boys. Now get your butts moving."
"Don't worry, Mrs. Kent. I'm fully decent and ready to represent the Hall name. Clark's the one moving at human speed this morning," Sage said with a grin.
"I can see that." Martha turned to Clark. "I was thinking of altering this suit of your father's for you. The Homecoming dance is this weekend."
"Mom, I'm not going. I don't have a date, which I figured was the big tip-off," Clark sighed.
"Sage, have you found a date yet?"
"Honestly? I haven't found one either. Everyone at school is a little too… ordinary lately."
Sage looked over at Clark, a playful spark in his eyes. He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms.
"Tell you what, Clark. If you're so worried about being dateless, how about I go with you to the dance? I wouldn't mind at all. Two best friends, best-dressed guys in the room. What do you say?"
Clark's breath hitched slightly. He looked at Sage, then quickly looked away, the blush from earlier threatening to return.
"I… I'll think about it, Sage."
"Well, it's a generous offer. But Clark, I know 'I'll think about it' usually means you're busy pining. Is the girl down the street still the only one on your radar?" Martha asked, smiling knowingly.
"Oh, she's definitely on the radar, Mrs. Kent. He watches her like he's trying to memorize her DNA," Sage laughed.
"Can we please just go to school?" Clark groaned.
Martha just chuckled, shaking her head as she headed back to the door. "Just don't wait too long to decide, Clark. Opportunities—and buses—don't wait forever."
As she left the room, the heavy wooden door of the bedroom clicked shut, and the two boys clattered down the stairs, their footsteps echoing through the hallway. Sage adjusted the cuffs of his fitted shirt, his movements fluid and precise, while Clark followed a step behind, his brow still furrowed with the weight of the secrets he was hiding—and the ones he was looking for.
The air in the kitchen was thick with the smell of strong coffee and fried eggs. Martha had already made her way down, her face a mask of practiced composure as she moved between the stove and the table. Jonathan entered from the back porch, his boots caked with the dark, rich soil of the south forty. He looked exhausted, the kind of deep-set weariness that comes from being up since three in the morning, but his eyes sharpened the moment he saw the boys.
Clark didn't waste time. He made a beeline for the milk carton on the table, flipping the tab and guzzling it straight from the source.
"Where did you learn your manners?" Martha asked, though there was a soft tug of a smile on her lips as she handed him a glass.
"On a farm," Clark replied with a smirk, wiping his mouth.
Jonathan didn't smile. He kissed Martha on the cheek, grabbed the carton from Clark, and took a long swig himself—a mirror image of his son. He sat at the head of the table, pulling the morning paper toward him. As he snapped the pages open, a crisp white slip of paper fluttered out and landed on the wood grain.
Jonathan's eyes tracked it. The room went silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator.
"What's this?" Jonathan asked, his voice low and cautious.
"Permission slip," Clark said, his voice dropping an octave as he tried to sound casual. "It's for the football team. A couple of spots opened up on the varsity roster. They're holding tryouts this afternoon."
Jonathan stared at the slip as if it were a live grenade. He didn't pick it up. He didn't even breathe.
"Come on, Dad," Clark pushed, leaning over the table. "You played football when you were in school. You were a star."
"That was different," Jonathan said, finally looking up. His gaze was hard, protective, and laced with a fear he tried to hide.
"Why?"
"You know why, Clark."
Sage pulled out a chair next to Clark, leaning back with a grace that felt out of place in a farmhouse kitchen, yet he fit perfectly within the family dynamic. He looked at Jonathan, his dark eyes shimmering with a wisdom that didn't belong to a fifteen-year-old.
"Jonathan, if I may," Sage interjected, his voice smooth and grounded. "Calm down a little bit. I've been training with him in the woods for five years. He isn't that kid who used to accidentally rip the handles off the tractor anymore. He has discipline now. He has control."
"It's not just about control, Sage," Jonathan snapped, though not unkindly. "It's about the risk. One mistake, one moment where he gets frustrated or loses his focus on that field, and someone gets hurt. Badly."
"I figure I can run at half speed and I won't hit anybody," Clark argued, his frustration beginning to bubble to the surface. "Most freshmen hardly even play. Chances are, I'll ride the bench most of the season. Dad, I can be careful. I am careful."
"You're meant for greater things than football, Clark," Jonathan said, the finality in his voice like a judge delivering a sentence.
"Like what?" Clark shot back. "Sitting on this farm? Digging fence posts until I'm eighty? Searching the internet for people who can do what I can do because my own father won't tell me why I'm different?"
Martha leaned against the counter, her eyes darting between her husband and her son. She looked at Sage, looking for an ally.
"He just wants to be part of something, Jonathan," Sage added, his tone more serious now. "He wants to feel normal for two hours a day. If you keep him under a glass jar, eventually the pressure is going to make the glass shatter. You can't protect him from who he is by preventing him from being who he wants to be."
Jonathan stood up, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. He ignored Sage's logic, his focus entirely on Clark. "One of these days we'll figure out what it is, but until then, we've just got to hang in there like we promised."
"I'm tired of hanging in there, Dad!" Clark yelled, the sheer volume of his voice making the silverware on the table rattle. "I just want to get through high school without being a total loser!"
Clark grabbed his bag and stormed out the back door, the screen door slamming with a crack that sounded like a gunshot.
The kitchen fell into a heavy, uncomfortable silence. Jonathan stood there, his chest heaving, looking at the door his son had just vanished through.
"He's right, you know," Sage said quietly, standing up. He looked at Martha, then back to Jonathan. "He's changing. The world is getting smaller for him, and the secrets are getting bigger. You can't keep him in the dark forever."
"He's our son, Sage," Jonathan whispered, his voice cracking for the first time. "We adopted him. We protect him. That's the end of the story."
"Is it?" Martha asked, her voice steady but heartbroken. "Because if we don't tell him the truth, nobody will have to take him away from us, Jonathan. He'll leave all by himself."
Sage didn't wait for the rest of the argument. He knew when a family needed to bleed out their frustrations in private. He caught Martha's eye—a silent nod of support—and then turned to follow Clark out into the morning air.
Outside, the air was crisp, but the tension was still high. Clark was already halfway down the dirt drive, kicking stones with enough force to send them flying into the cornfields like bullets.
Sage caught up to him, matching his stride. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Over the rustling of the corn, they heard the low, distant roar of a diesel engine. They both looked toward the road just in time to see the yellow school bus shoot past the end of the driveway, the dust cloud trailing behind it like a funeral shroud.
"Great," Clark muttered, stopping at the edge of the road. "Now we're late. Perfect start to the day."
Sage looked at the empty road, then back at Clark. "Well, Clark. Looks like we're walking. Or… you know. I could have us at the front steps of Smallville High in about three seconds. A little blue blur, a little bit of Sage Magic, and nobody's the wiser."
Clark looked at Sage, his sapphire eyes reflecting a mix of anger and exhaustion. "Not today, Sage. Not today. I need the walk. I need the silence."
"Fine," Sage sighed, falling into step beside him. "But if we get detention, I'm telling Chloe it was your fault we were late. She'll have a three-page exposé on 'The Kent Lateness Factor' by lunch."
They started the long trek toward town, two boys carrying secrets that could change the world, walking down a dirt road as the sun began to climb higher in the sky.
The dirt crunched beneath their boots as they left the boundaries of the Kent farm. The morning air was still cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and ripening corn, but the heat between the two boys hadn't quite dissipated. Clark walked with his head down, shoulders hunched as if he were trying to physically carry the weight of his father's refusal.
Sage didn't say anything at first. He knew Clark's rhythms. He knew that if he pushed too hard, Clark would retreat into that shell of stoic farmhouse silence. Instead, Sage reached down as they walked, his fingers brushing against a fallen hickory branch. He plucked it from the dirt, snapping off the excess twigs until he had a smooth, supple length of wood. He tucked it under his arm, his movements casual, as if he were just playing with a piece of debris.
"Your dad is just scared, Clark," Sage finally said, his voice cutting through the quiet. "He sees a world that isn't ready for a boy who can race a train. He thinks if he keeps the lid on the pot, the water will never boil."
Clark let out a short, bitter laugh. "The water's been boiling for years, Sage. I'm finding things. On the computer… there are others. A kid in Korea, a girl in Florida. I'm not the only one. But every time I try to ask where I came from, he shuts down. He says he 'adopted' me and that's the end of it. But I know it's not. I don't feel like a normal kid from Kansas."
As Clark spoke, opening the floodgates of his frustration, Sage began to move. He didn't look at his hands; he kept his eyes on the horizon, but his spirit—his mana—began to hum.
Under the crook of his arm, the hickory stick began to shiver. Sage reached out into the air, his fingers dancing as if plucking invisible strings. To anyone else, it would look like he was just fidgeting, but in the unseen realm, Sage was pulling the ambient mana from the atmosphere, compressing it with the weight of his will.
The air around his palm began to ripple and distort. Slowly, a brilliant glow manifested—a swirling nebula of deep crimson, burnt orange, and a flicker of golden yellow. He molded the energy, cooling it, hardening it until it crystallized. It didn't look like a spell; it looked like nature perfected. When he finished, a maple leaf sat floating just above his palm. It was a gemstone, translucent and rich with the colors of a late October sunset, yet it felt as light as a whisper.
Clark didn't notice the magic at first; he was too deep in his own head. "Sometimes I feel like I'm waiting for a signal. Like I'm a radio tuned to a station that hasn't started broadcasting yet. Do you ever feel like that? Like you're just… a guest here?"
Sage didn't answer. He was busy with the stick. He ran his thumb down the wood, and where he touched, the hickory began to soften and transmute. The organic fibers groaned and shifted, turning into a metallic, burnished copper. He twisted the copper into a spiraling, open-ended bracelet, etched with delicate, vein-like patterns. With a final flick of his wrist, he took the gemstone leaf and pressed it onto the copper. The two materials fused instantly, the leaf sitting perfectly in the center of the metal vine.
"Sage? Are you even listening?" Clark asked, turning toward him.
Sage stopped walking. He reached out and grabbed Clark's wrist, startling him.
"I'm always listening, Clark," Sage said softly. Before Clark could pull away, Sage slid the copper band over Clark's hand and snapped it onto his wrist.
Clark froze. He lifted his arm, staring at the intricate piece of jewelry. The "leaf" caught the morning sun, throwing shards of orange and red light across his face. It was beautiful, heavy with craftsmanship, yet it felt strangely warm against his skin.
"What is this?" Clark asked, his confusion momentarily overriding his anger. "Where did you get… did you just make this?"
"It's a prototype," Sage said with a nonchalant shrug, though a small, secret smile played on his lips. "The 'Hall Fall Collection.' I wanted to see if the colors worked. Consider it a gift. Something to cheer you up since you're being a moody farm boy."
Clark ran a thumb over the gemstone leaf. He could feel a faint, rhythmic pulse coming from the bracelet—something steady and grounding. "It's… it's amazing, Sage. Thank you."
"Don't get emotional on me," Sage teased, nudging him with his elbow. "It just looks better on you than it does on a stick."
The tension broke. Clark let out a real breath, the tightness in his chest loosening just a fraction. He looked at the bracelet one more time before pulling his sleeve down over it. "You're a weird guy, Sage Hall."
"And you're a guy who is about to be late for his first day of high school," Sage retorted, pointing ahead.
The brick buildings of Smallville High appeared in the distance, shimmering through the morning haze. They picked up the pace, the long walk having served its purpose. By the time they reached the front lawn, the familiar, harsh clang of the first bell began to ring out across the campus.
"See?" Sage said, checking his watch. "Perfect timing. We didn't even need the blue streak."
They crossed the threshold into the school, the hallway a chaotic sea of screaming teenagers and slamming lockers. Clark looked at Sage, the bond between them solidified by the copper on his wrist, and for the first time that morning, he felt like he had a place to stand.
The hallway was a gauntlet of hormones and high-gloss floor wax. As Sage and Clark moved through the crowded artery of Smallville High, the atmosphere shifted. It wasn't just that they were freshmen; it was the "Sage Hall Factor." Being the face of a rising fashion empire meant that every step Sage took was monitored by the social radar of the student body.
Near the trophy cases, a cluster of sophomore girls huddled together like a pack of brightly dressed hunters. In the center was Hannah, a girl known for her high-end lip gloss and even higher social ambitions. Her friend Sarah nudged her hard in the ribs, whispering loudly enough for the lockers to hear.
"Just go for it, Hannah! He's right there. Imagine the jewelry you'd get for an anniversary!"
Hannah smoothed her skirt, took a breath that was meant to be "alluring," and stepped directly into Sage's path. Clark slowed down, looking awkward and ready to play the role of the invisible bodyguard, but Sage didn't even break his stride.
Before Hannah could even part her lips to deliver her rehearsed greeting, Sage's eyes flickered toward her with the cold, analytical precision of a diamond cutter.
"No, thank you," Sage said, his voice cutting through the hallway chatter like a silk blade.
Hannah blinked, her mouth hanging open. "I—I didn't even ask—"
"You were going to ask for a date to Homecoming, or perhaps a 'casual' hang-out at the mansion," Sage interrupted, his tone bored but firm. "And let's be honest, Hannah: the only thing you're interested in is the 'Hall' in my name and the carat count in my family's vault. That's a no-no. So, bye-bye now."
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to ensure the surrounding eavesdroppers caught every syllable.
"And one more thing for you to go along and tell your friends nearby: I'm gay. Extremely. So you can stop the scouting reports. It's a closed market."
He stepped around her with a graceful pivot, leaving Hannah standing frozen in the middle of the hall, her face turning a spectacular shade of crimson. Behind them, the whispers ignited like a trail of gasoline. Within seconds, the "Prince of Luminous" had officially set the record straight, and the Smallville rumor mill began churning at a rate that would make Chloe Sullivan's "Wall of Weird" look like old news.
"Wow," Clark muttered, trying to keep up with Sage's brisk pace. "You don't believe in taking the scenic route, do you?"
"Life is too short for bad motives, Clark," Sage replied, checking his reflection in a trophy case glass. "Now, let's find our lockers before the local paparazzi corners me for an interview."
They reached the bank of lockers in the C-wing, where Pete Ross and Chloe Sullivan were already entrenched. Pete was leaning against a locker, looking like he'd already decided high school was going to be a long four years, while Chloe was frantically scribbling in a notebook, her blonde bob bouncing with every movement.
"Look who finally decided to grace us with their presence," Chloe chirped, not looking up. "The Kent-Hall duo. I was about to start a missing persons file."
"Bus didn't stop," Clark said, reaching for his locker handle.
"Or maybe they were too busy making headlines," Pete added, nodding toward the end of the hall where the "Sage is Gay" news was still rippling through the crowd. "Word travels fast, Sage. Half the football team is already confused."
"Good," Sage said, popping his locker open with a satisfying thunk. "Confusion keeps people honest."
Pete's eyes then caught the flash of burnished metal on Clark's arm. "Whoa, Clark. Since when do you wear jewelry? That looks… expensive."
Clark instinctively pulled his sleeve down, but the mana-infused copper seemed to hum in response to his heart rate. "It's a gift. From Sage."
"Naturally," Chloe said, finally looking up. Her eyes narrowed behind her fashionable frames. "It's very… rustic-chic. Is that a new line for Luminous?"
"It's a one-of-a-kind," Sage answered, leaning back against his locker. "Just like the wearer."
The conversation was cut short by a sound—the soft, musical click of heels on the linoleum and a faint, familiar scent of lavender and soap.
Further down the hall, Lana Lang reached her locker. She was wearing her cheerleading jacket, her dark hair falling perfectly over her shoulders. She looked like the very definition of a Smallville dream, but there was a flicker of sadness in her eyes as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Clark went still. It was like someone had hit a cosmic pause button on his entire nervous system.
On his wrist, the copper bracelet began to thrum. The gemstone leaf Sage had crafted began to glow with a deep, internal warmth, vibrating against Clark's pulse. The mana within the "prototype" was reacting to the sudden spike in Clark's adrenaline and the sheer, raw yearning radiating off him.
"Clark, breathe," Sage whispered, nudging his friend's ribs. "Your heart sounds like a jackhammer."
Clark didn't hear him. He was watching Lana. She looked over, her eyes meeting his for a split second. She gave him a small, polite smile—the kind that makes a boy feel like he's flying and drowning at the same time.
The gemstone on the bracelet flashed a brilliant, fiery orange, a literal physical manifestation of the tingle crawling up Clark's spine. He quickly tucked his hand into his pocket, trying to muffle the magical feedback.
"I think your 'prototype' is a bit sensitive to heart-throbs, Sage," Chloe remarked, her journalist instincts twitching. "Is that thing supposed to glow?"
"It's a biological interface," Sage lied smoothly, not missing a beat. "It reacts to body heat. Clark's just… running a little warm this morning."
The final bell screamed, shattering the moment. Lana turned back to her locker, and the heavy thrum in Clark's arm subsided to a dull, warm ache.
"First period," Pete groaned, slapping Clark on the back. "Come on, Romeo. Before the teachers decide to give us our first detention of the year."
As they walked toward class, Sage lingered for a moment, watching Lana. He knew that for all of Clark's strength, that girl was the one thing that could truly make him lose his footing. He adjusted his own collar, his mind already drifting back to the Luminous metrics—and the fact that today was just the beginning.