Title: The Bittersweet Ballad of Pete Ross
Author: The Satyr Icon
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Set in Icon AU; Freshman Year
Classification: Smallville; Chloe/Clark; Pete Ross; hetfic
Disclaimer: All characters, references, and other things pertaining to 'Smallville' are property of the WB, DC Comics, Tollin-Robins, Al Gough & Miles Millar, and J. Siegal & J. Shuster; I am just writing for fun, and if I owned them, all would be good and clean in the World.
Summary: Pete and Clark go camping, but why is Chloe coming along? and why does that infuriate Pete?
Word Count: WIP
Written: Start: Plot: December 2004 Actually Writing: July 2006
The Bittersweet Ballad of Pete Ross
PROLOGUE
Abigail Ross sipped some coffee in the kitchen of Martha Kent and both enjoyed generous pieces of Martha's freshly-made apple turnovers. They talked about the going-ons in their homes and farms and, of course, about their young boys, Pete and Clark. Pete was Abigail's bundle of energy, and Clark was Martha's laid back light of her life. The boys were ten years old, and Pete brought his new basketball over on the trip, and they were playing by the barn. Both mothers laughed at the height difference (Clark towered by a head and a half over Pete) and how each were such opposites of each other (Pete was so active and Clark was so quiet). And how they had so much in common, too (Both loved the same comics and toys). It was the stuff that made the boys such good friends since they were three years old. Pete was Clark's first ever playmate after he was adopted by the Kents at that tender age, and, since then, they had been inseparable. They were simpatico.
"Cheater!" Pete shouted when Clark's hand altered his shot. The ball caromed away. "Quit blocking my shot!"
"I can't help it if you shot it into My hand!" Clark laughed and got the ball. "I didn't even jump!"
Pete frowned. Clark could jump, jump just that much more higher or farther than anyone in their fourth grade class at Jebadiah Obadiah Small Elementary if he wanted. Clark was bigger, stronger, faster already than kids his age so he was good at all the athletic stuff. And he was a nerd, smarter than those in his class. Maybe the fifth and sixth grades too, Pete sometimes wondered, maybe high school smart.
But it just wasn't at school that Clark excelled. Pete tended to notice how Clark could jump higher, run faster, or even be be stronger at their homes than at school. Clark would be smarter too, casually breaking down some intricate math formula to Pete in the barn as looked through Clark's telescope so Pete could understand theoretical space travel. But at school, Pete would watch Clark and it would seem like Clark was holding back. If Pete wasn't his best friend, he'd hate him.
The smaller boy watched his friend dribble, fake this way then drive that way...
"Kent pulls up," Clark said, describing what he was doing like a play-by-play announcer as Pete tried to play defense. Clark jumped and so did Pete, but when Pete reached the zenith of his jump and started back down, Clark kept going up, until the hand on Pete's outstretched arm was below Clark's chin. Pete could have swore his friend floated, he was in the air so long. "Kent shoots...and scores for the Metropolis Metros!"
"Hey! I'm the Metros and you're the Gotham Goliaths!" Pete said with a semi-scowl. Then the scowl turned into a face of wonder, and Clark got nervous. The boys shared a knowing look. Just when Pete was going to mention the crazy mad hop, Clark distracted him. Pete hadn't noticed how adept Clark and his parents were becoming experts at distracting friends and teachers about Clark's abilities.
"Ok! Goliaths score!" Clark laughed and bounced the ball saying, "Your ball."
The fact that Clark seemed to float was now forgotten. Pete dribbled the ball on the flattened dirt, first to his left, but Clark took a couple of steps and cut him off. Then Pete ran to the right and almost had an opening, but Clark shifted and blocked the lane. Pete dribbled and flittered around, darting in and out, trying to get to the rim on the back board. Pete must have dribbled for a good two to three minutes for a shot, but to no avail.
"You're hogging the ball!" Clark shouted. "Shoot!"
"I can't, Jerk!" Pete WANTED to shoot, but Clark's lanky frame and arms were stopping him. "I can't fly like you!"
Clark stopped moving at the sound of those words. He did feel like law of gravity was broken, even if it was for mere seconds. And it scared him, just like everything he could do, so much better than the rest.
For Pete it was different; he finally saw his opening and shot the ball. Pete loved sports like Clark, had the desire to play but unlike Clark, not much of the skill. The ball left Pete's hands ok, but it went too high because Pete was so excited to actually be able to shoot, and the new light-orange ball went over the backboard and up onto the tool shed's roof. "I guess that's game," Clark said sadly.
"Yeah, right. You're saying that because that could have been the tying basket," Pete smiled.
"What's the score?" Clark asked and Pete shrugged and they giggled. They didn't actually keep score, they just played endless games.
"Your jumper is getting too unblockable," Pete said slowly and looked up into his friend's eyes. Clark's faced changed like always when Pete brought up Clark's physical or intellectual prowess; it was the look of guilt, of getting caught.
"Thanks," Clark said lifelessly. He thought of how his parents warned him of showing off too much. Then he thought of something else. "I hope we can go on our camping trip."
Pete nodded, distracted, again, this time from his friend's Michael Jordan-type hops, to an event they planned every year. "We will; that's why My moms is here, getting it ok'ed with your momma."
For the last 2 years, the boys went into the woods on the Kent property and camp out with in a clearing for a night or two. It was something both fathers, Jonathan Kent and Rodney Ross, and Abigail thought was both a great learning experience and growth experience for the boys. Martha was very protective of Clark or more accurately, protective of the kids Clark was exposed to, and each year needed convincing to let Clark go.
Clark liked going on the camping trip, because he was away from the watchful eyes of his mom, away from the chores with his dad, and just enjoyed a day or two in nature; he photo-hunted with his mom's camera, or just played with Pete and his friend's toys. Or listened to Pete's rap CDs. Pete always had the cooler stuff.
Pete loved getting away from his mom and dad and 4 older bigger brothers, and play older brother to Clark (he was, according to birth records, older by a few months). Even though Clark was book smart and graced with athletic skill, he was a blank slate personality wise, and Pete just liked teaching Clark stuff other than what they learned at school. Like girls.
"C'mon," Clark said and they ran into the house and into the kitchen.
"Can I go? Pllllllllllllllease?" Clark said, smiling, happy. Each year it was the same, Martha thought, watching her son in front of her. She looked at Abigail, knowing that she spent the last five minutes building a "no" case. Abigail just smiled and sipped her coffee again.
"Please let Clark go, Mrs. Kent." Pete said sweetly. "I"ll keep an eye out for him like I do at school. And we won't go too deep in the woods and if Clark gets sick, we'll find a new spot to set camp."
Martha smiled. That is what she needed to hear; Clark was so susceptible to getting ill so suddenly around the farms and countryside of Smallville. And in a few steps, Clark could be right again. "Okay, boys."
Both boys yelled out "sweet!" and Clark high-fived Pete. He then turned and hugged his mother, and Pete did the same to his mom, and they both ran upstairs to Clark's bedroom to plan what they were going to take with them this year. They made plans and set out the next day.
The first night out, after a day of hiking, gorging on Momma Kent Super Duper Camp Sandwiches, wondering if the animal tracks they found were of a bear or a Bigfoot, and fishing, the boys made camp and talked about Pete's favorite subject and Clark's most difficult one: Girls.
Thanks to his older brothers, Pete liked girls (since his brothers did and Pete looked up to them), so he talked about girls with Clark. Pete liked Felice Chandler and Clark liked Lana Lang. Unlike Pete, who could pass notes to Felice and hang out at lunch with her, Clark couldn't even make cohesive sentences around Lana and usually spazzed out to the point that Lana ignored his spasmodic shivering on the ground. So, even though Clark was the fourth grade version of the Olympic Ideal (Bigger, Stronger, Faster), Pete's leveling ground was girls; he talked about them, sharing his own worldly knowledge of woman (just Felice) and what he overheard from his brothers. Clark listened, learned, and watched from the best, he told his friend.
The boys stayed up past their bedtimes, of course, but they were pooped out at midnight (well, Pete was; Clark seemed tireless and faked sleepiness). Pete rolled over in his sleeping bag. "Dude! I have a great idea."
"No," Clark said. "I can't eat any more S'mores."
"Not that, goon," Pete smiled, though that was a good idea."You know we're best friends forever, right?"
"Duh." Clark closed his eyes, but added, "Nothing will come between us!"
"We can make it specialler," Pete sat up.
"More special," Clark corrected and was awarded a smack with Pete's pillow.
"More special, then." Pete wasn't one for semantics. "We can be 'Blood Brothers,' Clark."
That got Clark's attention; he didn't have any siblings, and even though he loved his mom and dad, seemed out of place sometimes. But around Pete, he felt normal. "Ok!"
Pete took out his Swiss Army Knife and solemnly said, "I'm Pete Ross, Clark Kent's blood brother." he winced as he ran the blade over the side of his thumb, and smiled at the sight of the rich crimson of the blood. "Your turn."
Clark took the red handle of the knife and placed it against his own thumb. "I'm Clark Kent, Pete Ross' Blood Brother." He did the same as Pete, running the thin blade's edge on his thumb, but slower. Nothing happened. He looked at Pete.
"Don't be ...a wuss, Clark," Pete said slowly. He saw the speed that blade traveled and Clark could have drawn blood. He watched Clark try two more times. He knew that Clark was afraid of needles. And green peas. And some patches of land where the meteors just so happened to hit Lowell County in 1989 when they were three years old. "Look...just cut yourself," Pete said, shaking his head at his friend.
Clark was trying though. But no matter how hard he pressed, and he was pressing hard, the blade wouldn't cut. "It's dull," he said lamely and Pete looked at his knife. "It got dull real fast."
"That's weird." Pete said; the throbbing in his thumb reminded him of those bygone minutes of when the blade was sharp. He looked at Clark with that same wondering look when they were playing basketball. Or like in first grade when Clark shoved a kid that was picking on his friend through a door; not pushed him and the door swung open, but shattering the door. Pete was used to strange occurrences around Clark. And Clark knew how to deal with those looks from Pete or anyone else.
"We can't be Blood Brothers!" Clark flopped back onto his sleeping bag and buried his face into his pillow. He kicked for emphasis. He wanted to be blood brothers, but he needed to make a show of it so Pete wouldn't make a deal about the weirdness. It bothered him to do that to his only friend.
"Its ok, Clark," Pete said, and patted his friend's head.
"No, it's not!" Clark bellowed. "I wanted to be your brother!"
Pete never seen his friend so sad. His mind raced. "I have another idea."
Clark's head turned on the pillow and one green eye looked at his friend. "You do?"
"Ok," Pete started. "It might be a little gross and we can't ever tell. I'll have to say we drew blood, not what we really did."
Clark looked suspicious. "What do you mean, gross?"
"You'll have to drink something. I need your spit."
"What?" Clark scooted away but the tent wall stopped him.
Pete didn't see that, he was busy getting the Thermoses. "We'll be 'Backwash Brothers' Clark."
"Say what?" Clark wanted to be brothers...but this was weird.
"Here," Pete said, putting his green Thermos between his knees and handing Clark his own blue Thermos. "We take a drink and backwash back into the bottle. I pass mine to you, you to Me, and we drink. 'Backwash Brothers'. Just like blood brothers but not bloody."
"Or cool." Clark said making a face but opening his thermos.
"You never worried about being cool before, Clark," Pete laughed and Clark blew a raspberry at him. "You want to be brothers, right?" Pete said before taking a drink. Clark nodded. "Well, since you didn't cut yourself, we have to backwash, ok?"
"OK," Clark nodded. It did make sense; his parents always said he'd have to adjust. They both drank chocolate milk at the count of three, backwashed back into the bottles, and passes them and sealed their pact by drinking from each other's bottle.
"Brother," Pete said, and held out his hand.
"Brother," Clark said and shook it.
Nothing or no one would come between Pete and Clark. Their friendship would be stuff of legend.