-No, I will never shut up about Kon being canonically 5'7-

Clark's next idea was to show Conner his old room. They crept in the back door and up the stairs so as not to bother Mr. and Mrs. Kent.

The room was small and had clearly, over the years, been converted from a nursery to a child's bedroom, to a young adult's room. There were still a couple glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and the entire place felt preserved from another time: spotlessly clean but suspended in the past.

There was a box labeled 'Clark - Clothes' resting on the bed.

"Oh mom," Clark laughed, opening the box. He pulled out an old flannel and laughed. "I wore this like every day for a year when I was your age," he said, unfolding it. "Well not your age exactly, but you get what I mean." He held the shirt up to Conner. It was massive on him. That made sense, Clark had already been scraping 6'0 when he was sixteen and Conner was barely 5'7, he was definitely small compared to his brother. Clark didn't mind, it just made him easier to pick up and carry. "I'll see if I can find anything from when I was around fourteen, it might fit you better..."

Conner seemed to catch on. "I already have clothes."

"But all your shirts have the crest on them," Clark argued, "You always have to turn them inside out. You shouldn't have to wear the crest all the time."

"I like wearing it all the time. It makes..." Conner trailed off.

"What?"

"It just-- it's all I have to prove I'm... who I am."

Clark straightened up, "Conner, you're still kryptonian when you aren't wearing the crest."

"I know, but it's the only thing I have."

"It's the only thing you had." Clark corrected. "Back then it was the only thing you had of your family, I get why you never wanted to let go of it, but things have changed. You have me now, you don't need a shirt to tell you who you are." 

Conner hesitated. His shirt had been the first thing that had been just his, and though that original shirt was long destroyed it's model had stayed in his wardrobe and had become what Red Tornado classified as a security object. It sounded pathetic but he usually couldn't sleep without the symbol on his chest, let alone make it through a day at school without the reassurance that the crest was still there, even if it was hidden.

"I-- I don't--"

"It's okay," Clark backpedaled, "if it makes you feel safe that's what matters, I don't want to take that away. I just want you to have other options in case you ever need a break from being super."

"I'll think about it."

"Alright." His brother gave him an affectionate look, and continued digging through the box on the bed.

"Are you having a fashion parade without me?" They turned to find Mrs. Kent in the doorway, watching them. "Go on, sweetheart, try something on."

Conner looked between the two of them.

"Go on." Clark said.

Cautiously, Conner took the flannel off the bed and shrugged it on, looking at the adults for approval.

The shirttail fell long, and the sleeves draped down, hiding his hands almost completely.

Mrs. Kent gasped softly, clasping her hands. "One thing," She said, reaching out and plucking the glasses off her son's face. Clark blinked a couple times to adjust his eyes as his mother gently extended, placing the glasses on the bridge of Conner's nose. "Oh," she exclaimed, "oh it's just like stepping back in time." She cooed. "Clarkie, you forgot to brush your hair..."

Her fingers brushed his fringe.

Conner felt his stomach drop into a vortex between his hips.

"Excuse me." He pushed past her as delicately as he could, storming from the room as fast as his feet would carry him. He was in the bathroom in the blink of an eye, he tried not to slam the door this time, but he still shut it hard enough to rattle the walls.

It was falling into place; the welcoming attitude, the kind words, the forgiveness, they weren't there because of him.

They only wanted him because they wanted Clark.

Conner caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink. He looked just like the boy in the photographs downstairs.

For a moment he'd actually thought he was Superman's brother instead of just his copy.

"I see what you were saying," he heard Mrs. Kent's voice through the walls.

"It isn't usually this bad," Clark replied. "It's a big day for him, please be patient."

"Of course."

There was a gentle knock on the bathroom door. "Conner?" Clark called softly. "Can I come in?" Conner didn't reply, sinking down to sit on the edge of the bathtub, hands on his knees, hunched in despair. "Are you okay? I need to know if you're okay." 

Conner stared at the tile grout, a crawling, insidious feeling in his chest. A familiar voice in his head was growing in strength, equal parts jealousy, envy, yearning and vindictive pain, insisting that this was what he should have expected. He was stupid for thinking it would go any different. People loved Superman, few even knew Superboy existed. He was reminded every day of what he was meant to be like-- what he could never recreate-- and it hurt. 

The door handle creaked to the side, agonizingly slow, and light from the hallway slid across the white tile floor, silhouetting his brother's shadow which stretched across the room. 

Conner didn't look up, frozen where he sat, as the footsteps creaked across the bathroom towards him. Clark sat on the toilet lid, shifting to face him.

"I want to go home again." Conner murmured.

"I thought you might." Clark replied. "Remember last time? We had a talk and then you decided you didn't need to go home?" He tucked two fingers under Conner's jaw, drawing his chin up so that their eyes met. "I was hoping maybe we could try that again."

"I want to leave," Conner said, "I don't belong here. It's not right. This is your home, your family... They don't want me."

"What makes you think they don't want you?" Clark asked.

"They don't want me, they want you." He grunted, his hands fidgeting irritably.  

Clark got quiet. "Do you mind?" He asked at last, reaching out and removing the frames from his little brother's face. "The glasses are kind of my thing." He said, remounting them. "I don't have to wear them at home, but it feels safe. Reminds me that there's a part of me that isn't completely alien. I guess it's kind of like your shirt, it's comforting."

"It's better I leave now," Conner said. It was only a matter of time until the other shoe dropped and they realized he wasn't what they hoped. "I'm not what they want."

"Conner, just because you aren't like me just doesn't mean you're bad. You're just different, and I'm sure that the more they learn about you the more they'll like you."

"No they won't."

"Yes, the--"

"They won't!" Conner snapped, and then instantly his stomach filled with regret and shame. 

Clark had winced, but adjusted himself. "Conner..."

"I want to go home." He said, crossing his arms.

"I know."

"I don't belong here."

"I understand how you're feeling." Clark stood. "How about we try talking to Ma and Pa about it?"

"No!"

"Conner, I know they're new to you, but I've known them my whole life, and I can promise you, it's okay to be vulnerable with them."

"Who said I was afraid of being vulnerable?!"

Clark smiled at that. "Look, if I ran into this problem myself, they're the first people I'd ask for advice." He stood, holding his hand out to Conner. "Wanna try?"

Conner didn't feel good about it, but he trusted Clark. Clark wouldn't throw him to the wolves, right?

Martha Kent was still in her son's room, unpacking the box, making sounds of awe and nostalgia, and then refolding each article into piles.

Conner paused in the hallway, his stomach jittery. "Clark, I don't--"

"Hey, Ma?" Clark knocked on the doorframe. "If, hypothetically, you had the option between an exact replica of me, or Conner, what would you choose?"

She exhaled a soft laugh, relaxing her shoulders. "Is someone feeling jealous?" she asked, leaning around to see Conner, who averted his eyes elsewhere. "I'm sorry, sweetie, no younger brother should have to feel compared to his older brother."

"It's fine," he grunted.

"It kind of hurt Conner's feelings," Clark explained, "He was worried you'd stop being nice to him if you found out he wasn't just like me."

Conner glared at his big brother. 

"Poor baby," Mrs. Kent said, stepping closer, "I didn't mean to make you feel like that. We want to get to know you. That's why we asked Clark to bring you over."

Conner turned to Clark, frowning, "I thought you asked them."

"Nope," His brother replied, "They were just that excited to meet you."

"That's right," Mrs. Kent assured, "We knew you wouldn't be just like Clark, because if you just like Clark then we'd already know all about you."

That made sense, and suddenly Conner felt a little ridiculous for making a scene like that over something he made up in his head. He wanted to apologize, but the words got stuck in his throat. Apologizing seemed even more upsetting than if he'd just been yelled at.

"Does that help to know?" Clark asked. Conner shrugged, eyes on the floor. "Thanks, Ma." He said, kissing the woman on the cheek.

Mrs. Kent chuckled. "I should go check on Dinner, I'm sure you boys can figure this out."