This was written for the challenge over at the Metropolis Fic Forum (link can be found in my profile). I chose to use the following five prompts: Clark is in the school play and chosen for a main role, the play is The Importance of Being Earnest, he is developing one of his super powers, and one of his future Daily Planet employees makes a cameo, and he says his ever-famous phrase ;) Also, Tinheart gets all the credit for the usage of The Importance of Being Earnest because I was too lazy to research the play and she knew exactly which lines would fit my story. Huge thanks to her as always!

The Beginning of an Affair

Clark woke up itching all over. Even his eyes were itching. He scrunched up his body, scratching all over but finding no relief; it only seemed to make it worse, spreading the flames deeper under his skin like splinters in every pore. After fifteen minutes of thrashing wildly he stilled himself, not moving a muscle and breathing very slowly, trying to wait it out.

Thankfully he fell asleep again.

He folded the paper over, barely noticed his glasses falling forward as he ran his thumb over the smooth surface. It was deceptively smooth, though; it only looked that way. Felt it closely it was textured like a woven rug, white fibers all sewn up so tight that he couldn't see where one ended and the other began.

"Places, places everyone!" Mrs. Keats waved her arms around, bird-like and thin, fanning her flustered cheeks as she gestured everyone to where they belonged. Clark wasn't in this scene, but the next one they were practicing; he half-listened to them run it through and went back to the book to go over his own lines again.

When one is in town one amuses oneself. When one is in the country one amuses other people. It is excessively boring.

Clark mouthed the words, eyes squinting. People really used to talk like this? He couldn't imagine it. And what did they mean, amuse other people? He didn't see any "excessive amusement" going on here in Smallville.

Maybe he was just looking in the wrong places?

Running along the backroads Clark tried to keep his pace just slow enough so that he didn't create a major dust plume; Pop had made a few dry comments about unusual spring dust storms, one eyebrow raised meaningfully. Clark grinned to himself—soon he'd be able to ride those storms if he kept practicing.

He stopped in the kitchen to give his Ma a quick peck on the check.

"How's the play going, Clark?"

"Gotta go practice, Ma!" He tossed back over his shoulder, a cookie half in his mouth.

"But our guests are coming—" She sighed, sprinkling a little more flour down on the dough to knead. Boys, always on the run.

"I'm afraid I really don't know," he said, pacing through the tall corn.

"Oh, wait... I am afraid I really don't know," he amended. This speech seemed so stilted and strange to him. Speaking it he felt like he was someone else. He rolled his eyes at himself. "That's the whole point of acting, duh."

He puffed out his chest, pushed his glasses all the way up and strutted through the stalks, raising his chin the way he'd seen his father do when he was making fun of the Mayor.

"I am afraid I really don't know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I said I had lost my parents." His chest came down a bit, strut slowed. "It would be nearer the truth to say that my parents seem to have lost me…" He stopped walking, chin dropped; his voice was low and there was no haughty tinge to it, only Clark. "I don't actually know who I am by birth. I was… well, I was found."

He sat down heavily on the ground, air whoosing out of his lungs.

Now he could see how they talked back then.

He'd run through the whole play twice, now. But instead of going in for a late snack he just ran his fingers along the stems of the corn, fascinated by their reed-like grooves. Even the dirt was different; not so soft and giving, but tiny pieces of grit that stuck to his skin even when he'd brushed all visible signs off. He frowned when he realized that looking clean did not mean he was actually clean. Would soap wash these off? The invisibly indentations felt permanent to him, tiny specks of dust caught inside the pattern of his fingerprint.

He was so busy frowning at his thumb he didn't even hear the boy's approach, but suddenly he was looking at an upside down smiling face and a head full of riotous blonde hair.

"You live here?" The boy asked without compunction, "My name's Jimmy, I've never seen a farm before. Is this what they're all like?"

Clark's head swam with the assault of verbiage. "Uhh…yes, I live here. And almost all the farms around here are like this." He sat up and evaluated the boy, still smiling, shirt tucked neatly into his slacks, but his shoes were filthy already, most likely from exploring where he shouldn't be. "Where are you from?"

"Metropolis. I think I like farms but I don't ever want to leave Metropolis. It's my home."

"Do you amuse yourself there?" Clark asked, confused.

Jimmy squinted at him like he was an interesting insect specimen. "You've never been to Metropolis?"

"No."

He threw his arms into the air. "You have to come! You have lots of corn here and stuff but Metropolis… it's well… Metropolis!"

"Were you born there?" Clark asked, feeling emboldened by this boy's obvious disregard for conversation conventions. He wondered what he'd be liked if he'd been born in a place like Metropolis.

"Oh, well…" Jimmy deflated a little, kicking at the ground. "Not sure where I was born, you see. My mom and dad gave me to an orphanage." He stuck out his lower lip. "But Metropolis is the best home I could ever have, they were doing me a favor." He smiled again, natural buoyancy unable to be suppressed for long. "You'll see when you come."

Clark smiled, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Well, that sounds… that sounds just swell."