Colorado is cooler, and busy enough to be anonymous. He is not "Whitney Fordman: Smallville's future" here. There is no confusion. No girlfriend with a history he can't cheer her out of, no father with expectations beyond his own past. He's just here to play.
He could be anyone he wants. He wonders who that is.
The one Whitney wants is back in Smallville, deceptively awkward and shy.
The hands are strong and lovely without the power that holds him in dreams. The mouth is not quite right; but it makes him forget he can never voice what he wants.
He cries out "Clark!" when he comes.
"Colin," says the boy. "But that's close enough."
When they talk, it's about girls in small towns: Amy, who sounds like Lana, but clingier. Colin doesn't ask who Clark is, and Whitney doesn't wonder who Colin might be thinking of when he touches him.
The air is thinner in Colorado, but it's easier for Whitney to breathe. He can push himself farther; unfurl the flag no one in Smallville knows he carries.
"We'll teach that creep a lesson."
"I've seen the way he watches Lana."
"Kent won't bother you anymore."
"Scarecrow boy."
They try so hard to get into his good graces. Whitney wonders if they'd still feel the same if they knew how he really felt.
He fakes brotherly camaraderie as he slips Lana's necklace around Clark's neck. He knows he'll never get the image of Clark out of his head: on his knees, sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat.
The big red "S" stands for "sick". It stands for "shame".
He shouldn't be feeling like this. It's not like his father got sick on purpose. He just can't see him like that. Weak. Old.
The look Clark gives him as he takes the ball is kind, and a little bit calculating. Like he can see inside him, and know the real truth.
It isn't the look of someone who hates him. Whitney cannot fathom why. He is not worthy of this kid's thoughtfulness.
"We also regret what we don't say," Clark tells him.
"Isn't that the boy you met at basketball camp?" she says. "You won't do anything stupid like that, will you, Whitney?"
"No, Mom." He doesn't tell her he's done stupider things already.
He remembers the way Colin was always in motion; chasing the ball across the court; sinking purposefully down his body. He can't picture him lost in stillness, now.
He thinks of farm boys tied to fence posts. He thinks of chances taken, and opportunities missed.
With uncommon insight, she tells him "I'm not your cheerleader anymore. I get the feeling I'm not what you really want, anyway."
He asks her what she means.
"I'm not an idiot. You've been looking at Clark the way you used to look at me."
"I'm sorry," he says.
"Don't be. We've both changed."
"I'm not sure who I am anymore."
"Then it's time you found out."
"I haven't been much of a friend to you. I'm sorry."
Clark looks uncomfortable. "That wasn't all you. I know that."
"That doesn't excuse me. My friends thought they were doing me a favor. Assholes. I didn't know you would get sick."
"It was the necklace. I'm allergic." As soon as the words are out, Clark looks scared, like Whitney will use it against him.
"I'd never tell anyone, Clark."
"Remember when you told me we regret the things we don't say?"
He tells Clark about Colin. The weekend. The accident.
"I didn't realize you were ? I'm sorry about your friend."
"I didn't want to admit it, but it was always there. But the thing I haven't been able to say -- until now -- is that I wanted it to be you."
Clark's grin is incandescent as he leans in to kiss Whitney.
An old movie flashes in his head. The Wizard of Oz.
It hits him then, the memory: a sports conference. They'd bonded over cheerleader girlfriends, and a mutual attraction they'd never talk about, or act on past the weekend.
Later, when Ephram strokes him, it's like going Technicolor. Colin doesn't tell him this is nothing new.