Chapter Text
The late afternoon sun poured through the arched windows of Metropolis College’s hall, casting long golden rectangles across the scuffed hardwood floor. Beautiful music swelled from a small classroom across the campus in the music block. Inside, a young accomplished teacher sat playing a baby Steinway grand. Clark Kent, twenty-three years old and arguably overqualified for the basic teaching job, smiled where he played, closing his eyes as he enjoyed the melody bellowing out of the instrument. Clark had graduated from university in 2018 with a ridiculous array of diplomas in Journalism, Global History, and Agricultural Science, which were all framed and hanging up in his tiny downtown apartment, but when the time came to enter the workforce, Clark had felt an overwhelming urge to do something entertaining rather than study more. The world was heavy enough at the moment, and he wanted to lighten it by inspiring others. However, when he had called home to announce he had accepted a position as a Music Theory and Performance Instructor at the college, the silence on the other end of the line had been deafening.
“Music teacher, Clark?" His mother, Martha, had asked, her voice tinged with fond confusion. "I thought you’d look at the Daily Planet internship or the science enterprise that offered you double the salary?"
"I like playing the piano, Ma," he had replied simply. "And it makes people happy."
It made him happy, too.
Currently, his large fingers- and fingers that could crush a lump of coal into an actual diamond- were dancing across the mock ivory keys, mastering a complex, upbeat jazz progression. The syncopated rhythm bounced off the walls of the empty classroom, and for a few uninterrupted minutes, Clark enjoyed the absence of the weight of the world on his shoulders and instead the sweet melody. But silence could only last for so long; Clark's super hearing extended far beyond the thick walls of the music building, and he zeroed in on a sudden, sharp spike in two human heartbeats.
"I told you to back off, man!" A voice grunted.
The voice was coming from the narrow alley behind the science building on the other side of the campus, and Clark heard the distinct, heavy thud of a body being shoved hard against corrugated metal, followed by the tearing of a shirt and a sharp, frightened intake of breath. Clark sighed, gently closing the lid of the piano. Checking to ensure the hallway was empty, Clark blurred out of the room, making sure not to rustle any posters off the wall or shake the windows and arrived at the alleyway just as a tall student drew back a fist, aiming directly for the face of a smaller, terrified boy pinned back against the bins. Clark stepped quickly forward into the alleyway and blocked the student's fist with the palm of his hand. To the student, it felt like coming up against a solid brick wall.
"Ow! How-" the student winced, desperately trying to pull his hand back, but Clark held it firmly for a second, offering a calm, unimpressed look from behind his designer glasses, before gently letting go.
"I think it’d be best for everyone if you apologised to Callum here, picked up his books and headed off to your next class, Caleb. Does that sound like a good plan?" Clark smiled.
Caleb rubbed his hand, looking up at the imposing, six-foot-four frame of the music teacher. The fight had entirely drained out of him, replaced by a confusing sense of awe. “Yeah," he muttered, his face flushing slightly red. “Sorry,” he gathered the textbooks into his hands and shoved them into Callum’s chest before jogging out of the alleyway.
Clark turned to Callum, his stern demeanour melting back into his usual warmth. "You alright?"
"Yeah," the boy breathed, adjusting his backpack. "Thanks, Mr Kent. That was pretty impressive for a piano player."
"Farm boy originally," Clark smiled, adjusting his glasses and looking back toward the music block. “Don't be late for class.”
“Yes, sir.”
Clark walked back to his classroom following a group of year eight students who he would be teaching next, and as they settled, he quickly brought up a section of Chopin’s Nocturne in C Minor on the interactive board. Clark stepped away from the board and walked over to the piano with a careful, deliberate pace, always mindful of his own immense weight and strength, and sat on the bench, careful not to let his knees bump the wood.
"Music isn't just about the melody,” Clark said, looking over the keys. "It's about the mechanics and the releases. Chopin didn't write this to be a clock. He wrote it to breathe."
Clark raised his hands, and just for a moment consciously calibrated his muscles. If he used even a fraction of his inhuman strength, he could reduce the keys to splinters. So, he let his fingers hover above the keys for a moment, feeling the ambient warmth radiating from the instrument, and pressed down with feather-light precision. Clark didn't just hear the notes, he felt them; the physical vibration of the copper-wound strings, the exact resonance of the soundboard, and the thump of the pedal joints inside the instrument bouncing the hammers. Clark pulled his hands back from the keys at the end of the piece, dropping them into his trouser pockets and turned to his students.
"You see? I'm playing slightly behind the beat on the right hand," Clark explained, gesturing to the sheet music. "Rubato. It means 'stolen time.' You steal a microsecond from one beat, and you give it back to the next. You have to listen to the rhythm and let the sound of the first chord fade before you rush into the next. Clear the sound,” he pressed the toe of his leather brogue down on the pedal quickly to demonstrate his point.
One of the students, Maya, raised her hand. “How do you know exactly how long to hold it?“
Clark politely shrugged, adjusting his glasses again. “Well, the piece has a natural rhythm," he said softly. “You just have to collaborate the chordal groups with a clear tap. Listen.”
As Clark placed his fingers back on the keys, the students watched carefully. A chord was played, then on the next, it was cleared by a quick release of the pedal before holding the keys down again richer and heavier. Clark closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the warmth of the harmony wash over him. The music was so passionate that when the bell rang, a couple of students physically jumped, and Clark smirked.
“Okay, we’ll pick this up next week. Don’t forget your theory tests are due too,” he chuckled slightly at the groans as his students got their stuff together.
“Thanks, Mr Kent,” Maya grinned and left the classroom, and Clark feeling immense pride.
He shut the door to the classroom and smoothed down his slacks before sitting back down at the Steinway. His fingers found the keys again, striking the opening chords of a sweeping, classical sonata. The music bloomed, filling the room with sweet melodies drifting out into the open courtyard and down the corridor towards the main office.
At twenty-three, Lois Lane was the hungriest, most relentless apprentice the Daily Planet had seen in about a decade. She wanted city hall scandals, gritty police beats, and front page exposés, but for the moment she was stuck shadowing the veteran editor of the Arts and Culture department, who was currently conducting an agonisingly slow interview with the head of the arts department about a new theatre block. Lois clicked her pen slowly and with boredom, while her notebook stayed entirely blank, save for a few aggressive doodles of smiley faces. It was at that moment when the music reached her. It filtered through the walls of the office - a piano sonata so rich, intricate, and deeply expressive that it instantly cut through the two men’s droning voices. It was a masterclass in technique, but more than that, it felt alive. Lois blinked, her journalistic instincts suddenly firing in a completely unexpected direction. She had to find out where it was coming from and who was playing.
"Excuse me," Lois whispered unexpectedly to the Arts editor, already sliding her pen into her blazer pocket. "I'm going to step out and grab some... opinions for the piece."
Before the editor could object, Lois slipped out of the office and followed the sound of the piano. The melody guided her down the corridor towards a closed door where the sound grew louder, wrapping around her. She approached the small glass viewing pane on the door, rising up on tiptoe to peer inside, and Lois froze. She had expected to see an elderly professor at the piano, but instead, it was a strikingly devastating handsome young man with a sharp, strong jawline, and a thick shock of black hair that fell slightly over his forehead sitting at the piano. He was dressed in tailored dark trousers, a crisp white shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up to his forearms, and a black waistcoat that accentuated his remarkably broad shoulders. Lois' eyes traveled down to his feet. He wore soft, dark leather brogues that tapped the pedal with a flawless, rhythmic beat, controlling the swell and fade of the music with absolute mastery. For a woman who prided herself on always having something to say, Lois found herself completely speechless where she stood leaning up against the door mesmerised by this man commanding the delicate keys with breathtaking gentleness. Inside the room, Clark kept playing, but his ears picked up the sudden, rapid acceleration of a heartbeat just outside the door. He kept his eyes on his hands, with a quiet, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Lois gripped her notebook and swallowed her uncharacteristic hesitation, then pushed the door open. The hinges gave a soft creak, but the music didn't stop. Instead, as if acknowledging her presence, Clark shifted the dynamics of the sonata into a softer tone. He leaned into the keys, accentuating the performance ever so slightly and the chords grew deeper- the melody swelling with a rich, cinematic intensity that vibrated right through the carpet. He finally looked up, his bright blue eyes meeting hers through his glasses.
"Don't stop on my account," Lois said, stepping forward. "That's easily the best thing I've heard in Metropolis all month."
"Thank you," Clark replied, his voice a warm baritone, and kept playing. His left hand held down a steady, rolling bass line while his right hand drifted lazily across the higher octaves in precise chords. “And you are?”
"Lois Lane, Daily Planet apprentice," she replied automatically, flashing her press badge before stepping closer to the piano.
“Clark Kent.”
The investigative journalist in her immediately took over, though she had to fight to keep her voice steady. "Well, Mr Kent... I didn't know the college brought in concert pianists for the undergrads."
"I’m hardly a concert pianist. Just a teacher," Clark chuckled, his large hands moving with an impossible, fluid grace. "Though I appreciate the assumption."
Lois leaned against the edge of the Steinway, flipping open her notepad. She subtly began to interview him, masking her fascination at his playing behind a barrage of quick-fire questions. "An instructor at twenty-three? That's a fast track. Where did you study? How long have you played for and…” she grinned. “And how are you playing while talking to me?"
"Multitasking is kind of a job requirement," Clark joked and seamlessly transitioned into a softer movement. His soft leather shoe tapped the sustain pedal with mesmerising precision, the fabric of his tailored slacks shifting slightly with the movement.
Lois tried to write down his answers, but she kept getting flustered. Every time she looked down to write, her eyes were drawn back to his hands. They looked so strong, so broad, yet moving over the keys with a gentleness that felt almost inhuman. It was a masterclass in absolute control, and it was making it very hard for her to remember her next question.
"I graduated university in 2018," Clark looked up, sensing she was distracted and eased the tempo to help her out. "I achieved a few degrees in a number of subjects but I wanted to do something in life that was fun and rewarding.”
Lois smirked, leaning a fraction closer. "And you think playing sonatas in an empty room is fun, Kent?”
"It wasn't empty an hour ago," Clark said softly, holding her gaze. "And it's a lot more fun now."
Before Lois could process the sudden, electric warmth blooming in her chest, a harsh voice cut through the music from the hallway.
"Miss Lane! We need to get to the photo op!"
It was the Arts editor. Lois internally cursed the timing and a sharp pang of disappointment hit her unexpectedly as she turned away from the piano. Clark, too, felt his smile falter just a bit and he brought the sonata to an end, the final note lingering in the air.
"Duty calls," Lois said reluctantly, closing her notebook.
"The Daily Planet waits for no one," Clark shrugged, his hands finally resting on his lap. "Good luck with the apprenticeship."
Lois walked toward the door, but stopped. Turning back, she looked back at the towering, handsome music teacher sitting at the Steinway in the afternoon light. Lois was many things, but she was never timid. With purpose, she marched back over to the piano bench and before Clark could register her movement, she leaned down and pressed a friendly kiss to his cheek.
"Just for the performance," Lois smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a spark in her eyes. "Don't hide your talent, Clark. Metropolis needs to hear this.”
Finally she vanished out the door, her footsteps echoing down the hallway. Clark sat frozen on the piano bench for a long moment thinking over what she had said. He slowly raised his hand, and brushed the spot on his cheek where her lips had just been. His heart was hammering against his ribs in a way he hadn’t felt before. He looked at the empty doorway, then back down at the piano keys with a surprising grin spreading across his face. His parents had worried he was wasting his potential in the college music department, but as Clark started up an incredibly upbeat jazz melody, he realised he could do anything he wanted to with his talent.