𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 | yungi

3

It only takes Yunho two alarms to yawn out of bed for his last first day of high school. He performs his familiar waltz: brush teeth, eat breakfast, sling his backpack over one shoulder and kiss his mother goodbye. It's a twenty minute walk filled with birdsong and the click of his heels on brown cobblestones. He entertains himself by jumping over the cracks in the pathway spilling with moss and dandelions. By minute fifteen, he is not the only boy in uniform walking to his destination, but he is clearly the loneliest of them all. He meets no one at the snack store beside his school, does not stop to talk about his summer with back leaning on a lamppost. The least he gets is a smile from a passer-by he unintentionally makes eye contact with as he dumps textbooks for his afternoon lessons into his locker. The sunshine seeping through the window opposite has made the metal door hot to the touch. He does not flinch away from the burn when he clicks the lock back into place.

He scrapes his chair and props bony elbows on his assigned desk in the middle of the form room. It sits slap bang in the centre of the classroom. He knows he is not nearly worthy enough for a window desk- it's reserved for main character, protagonist kids who get to romanticise life. All he can do is put his earphones in and block out the chatter around him.

There is a new addition to his form, his teacher says before he registers them. Only then does he look up.

(Psalm 139:13: "The Lord does not treat us as our sins deserve." If that is so true, then Yunho has no words for his God right now.)

Song Mingi stands facing forwards, rubbing his nose with the back of his palm in nervousness. They share a glance, and nothing more. Parallel streetcars, passing by in opposite directions. Different destinations. There is a free seat at the back of the room. Window seat. He gets a couple fist bumps as he makes his way towards it. A classmate asks why he moved forms. He replies, "I talked too much, so they kicked me out" with a humorous grin. His classmates laugh.

Song Mingi is the same boy he's always known, in the same way he is still the Yunho that Mingi once knew. He is quiet until spoken to, like a match before it is struck. Struck in a second, a flame unable to be ignored. He cackles graciously and loudly, lingering like fire to fuel. He is still until prompted, then untameable and filling up space with his presence. It takes a certain kind of person to ignite him. Yunho is the opposite, the double-edge of the sword. Loud and playful, easy to extinguish. Yunho is a used wick- difficult to re-light, stubborn and disintegrating into ash; left forgotten.

Form disperses, and he leaves to his classes. Science, Advanced Calculus, English. His heart does not grant him peace. It thumps around his ribcage at the mere suggestion of Mingi's presence, beats to the possibility of a rekindled friendship, swells towards the idea of reciprocation.

That would be the cure. The answers to all the questions Yunho has ever asked in his lifetime. He would never have to even think about flowers for the rest of his time. A cure so simple, yet so out of reach it hurts.

Lunch rolls around. Mingi's desk is surrounded by his friends, encircling him in boyish jokes and banter. Yunho wipes the blood from his mouth and leaves to find a quiet place outside.

Sixth period, and Yunho breathes a long exhale of relief. History. He's early to class. Overachiever. He cracks his back in two places as he bends over to grab his textbook from his bag.

     "Uhm, do you mind if I sit here?" Someone asks. In hindsight, Yunho's ashamed he didn't recognise the voice at the first uttered syllable. It's deep, far deeper than any other boy in their year. Low and soothing, and just the right amount of raspy. A bit like rocks in a tumbler; edges smoothed and curved to perfection. Song Mingi peers down at him, hand on the chair sat beside him, poised to pull it out, inviting himself in.
     "Yeah, sure," Yunho replies, looking away quickly.