Work Text:
Gusts of wind slipped through the classroom windows, lifting the curtains and casting light across the nearly empty room at that late hour of the afternoon. The last class had been an elective; the same recycled speech about autonomy and self-leadership, moralizing in its own way, even though none of the students present seemed remotely interested in any version of the future that wasn’t under a bridge.
— For fuck’s sake, Vernon. Did you seriously have to lose that damn old thing right now?
Boo Seungkwan crossed the rows of desks with a specific kind of irritation. Not quite anger, but the sort of impatience that had been part of his personality for as long as he could remember. His hands searched through other people’s surfaces with minimal care, looking for the Motorola that belonged to the friend in question. Chwe Hansol Vernon, on the other side of the room, repeated the gesture in obvious contrast: the absence of urgency would have been a blessing if being this slow and out of it hadn’t already been routine in the boy’s life. He knelt and leaned around his own desk, still maintaining a calm that bordered on indifference.
— Could it be... That someone took it? — the American wondered, a little concerned.
— Relax, — Seungkwan let out a humorless laugh, his little eyes fixed on a desk at the back, marked with crooked drawings of male genitalia and bits of gum stuck to the surface. — no one’s going to want that piece of junk... And if they’re taking it to sell, even free would still be overpriced.
— Shut up!
The classroom, in the end, was empty. Only the two sillys remained, occasionally exchanging words that mimicked sudden surprise, followed by a sigh of frustration upon realizing the item still hadn’t been found. They stayed there longer than they had expected, which, compared to the dark clouds gathering outside, was not a good sign.
Fortunately, Seungkwan found the phone just as the final bell rang. It was loud, leaving them momentarily deaf.
"Hm? What’s this?"
The brown gleam of his eyes lingered a second longer than necessary on the newly lit screen. There was a notification from a messaging app. Boo had his back turned to the younger one, his body slightly leaned forward in a posture that betrayed reluctant curiosity. It wasn’t his habit to invade other people’s space; but there are habits that surface when no one is watching.
Thank you for yesterday :)
By the way, the ice cream was great, bononie
Kwan frowned, his thumb hovering over the screen for far too long. Bononie?
What kind of freedom had Vernon given someone for them to think they could call him that? The idea sounded ridiculous in the face of his blatant jealousy.
And, still with his brows furrowed in a mix of confusion, he lifted his gaze to see who the bastard was that had sent such a message to his best friend. His heart tightened and his throat went dry as he recognized the name: "Hyungjun" glowed in spaced letters, burning into his retinas in disgust.
The same Hyungjun who walked around with that wide grin — the kind Boo would have loved to slap right off his face — while spreading lies around the school. The one who would clap him on the shoulder after games, calling him a "volleyball genius", and hours later make sure everyone knew that Seungkwan was only where he was because he "kissed up to the coach".
The same Hyungjun he had decided to erase from his own life and never again dare to consider a best friend and, even so, volleyball kept insisting on placing them on the same court and team.
— Did you find it? — Vernon asked, already stepping closer, oblivious to the scene that was beginning.
He huffed, blinking a few times after quickly locking the screen, disguising his unspoken anger with a small nod.
— Yeah, it’s here. — he replied dryly, holding out the phone with poorly acted indifference. — It was under one of the back desks, loser.
The younger one accepted the phone with a relieved smile, mumbling something about Seungcheol having borrowed it and forgotten to give it back.
— Ah, I knew it! Thanks, Kwan.
They left the classroom together and followed their usual path. The hallway was already almost empty, with a few hurried footsteps and distant laughter echoing in the background. When they stepped past the school gates, they felt the cold wind hit their faces. The foreigner’s fringe shifted with the breeze, while Seungkwan slipped his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and kept them there to shield himself from the cold.
— The weather’s crazy today, huh? Doesn’t even feel like you were complaining about the heat at lunch. — Chwe commented, glancing up at the heavy sky with a hint of concern. — It might even hail.
— Yeah — the other replied, in a lazily drawn-out murmur. He thought, without saying it, that maybe a chunk of ice really was necessary, something abrupt enough to fall over that hollow head and, with any luck, make him understand that his actions hurt.
They walked side by side along a street they knew with their eyes closed from having passed through it so many times. It was a quiet neighborhood of low houses. They walked close enough for their shoulders to almost brush, but not enough for the contact to become inevitable.
Boo kept his eyes fixed on the worn white line of the asphalt, following the erratic path of a dry leaf dragged along by the icy wind. He huffed at measured intervals, forgetting to hide the mile-long pout forming on his lips. He had no right to react the way he was reacting inside; they were nothing more than good friends. And even so, "nothing" sounded bigger than it should, as if the friendship, though solid, was insufficient. Hansol didn’t owe him explanations, nor the kind of loyalty he wanted.
He mentally repeated justifications that felt functional up to a certain point: it was just a message; just an ice cream; just some random nickname. Even though he knew, with the unwanted intuition of someone who isn’t naïve, that certain nicknames carry exclusivities only he should have.
And God, out of all possibilities, Hyungjun?
He wanted to hold onto his own anger firmly, but what kind of shit did Chwe have in his head to make him grant that kind of intimacy to him of all people? Wasn’t it enough that he was too slow to notice when someone was clearly into him, did he really have to choose the candidate with the most questionable track record possible to trade sickeningly sweet nicknames and go out for ice cream? At what point had Vernon granted that kind of freedom to earn a "bononie" in return? In what careless interval had he allowed that space — which Seungkwan silently judged to be his — to be occupied by someone else?
A short laugh, no longer amused, slipped through the younger one’s nose. Maybe he was overreacting, he thought; maybe it was just Vernon being Vernon: overly kind, too open, incapable of suspecting what doesn’t present itself as an explicit threat.
— Dumb… — he muttered to himself, not directing the word at the aforementioned in any audible tone.
His eyes, despite the effort to keep them fixed ahead, drifted toward his friend’s profile. The bleached fringe, now slightly tousled by the wind, revealed a broad forehead; the straight nose drew a firm line across his face; the mouth, naturally well-shaped, remained relaxed, unaware of its own ability to provoke reactions in others. The school had elected him the most handsome among them, and he had accepted the title with the same indifference with which he accepted almost everything life handed him.
The American always came with those "good vibes" speeches about beauty being an internal construct, and maybe he truly believed it. And that was what, in the older one’s eyes, made him even more irritatingly genuine.
Seungkwan, in turn, felt like crying every time he stood before the mirror each morning; he nitpicked the cheeks he considered too full, the body he judged inadequate to the standards he had learned to admire, even though he knew, rationally, that he was healthy, functional, and perfectly ordinary. The problem had never been his health, but the fear of not being worthy of love simply because he was something society did not appreciate.
And the conclusion did not come with tears, but with a harsh attitude he adopted almost by reflex. He knew, with an embarrassing clarity, that it was a typical vice of someone who doesn’t find himself beautiful enough — a flaw that kept resurfacing like a vicious cycle — and yet it was the only method he had found to avoid stripping himself bare; better to seem difficult than needy.
And that was, in fact, a double-edged sword: he feared that Vernon would never fall in love with someone like him. Complaining, dramatic, sarcastic... Loving his best friend was the most obvious and most impossible thing in his life.
He was afraid to confess and shatter the balance that held their friendship together. Afraid of hearing an embarrassed "ah, Kwan..." laced with pity. Not because Vernon was cruel, but the opposite of that.
It was precisely his gentleness that made everything more dangerous.
— Boo.
Seungkwan blinked as soon as he heard clapping right in front of his face. It took him a second to realize he had slowed down, falling a few meters behind without noticing.
Vernon had stopped, turning toward him in the middle of the sidewalk, one hand gripping the strap of his backpack, the wind pushing the white strands against his light eyes that now watched him with genuine attention.
— You’re way too slow for someone who was whining about leaving early. — the attempt at humor was soft.
— Don’t start. — the brunette replied, quickening his pace to catch up, stepping slightly ahead. — Just... I’m tired.
He noticed, from the corner of his eye, a subtle shift in his friend’s expression: the smile, previously loose and wide in a vain attempt to lighten the mood, discreetly lost its reach at the corners; the thick brows that usually rested in lazy relaxation drew together in a brief crease; the light eyes, ordinarily distracted, fixed themselves with exaggerated care.
And when he realized that, once again, he had been unnecessarily harsh, he huffed. And the curious thing, if anyone cared to observe, was that his sharpness did not manifest in specific shouts or insults, but in a complete indifference toward Chwe’s kindness. The guilt settled dry in his stomach: he did not deserve the friend he had.
It was unfair to transfer onto Vernon a discomfort he could not even name, and yet, there he was:
Two steps behind, he watched. He knew Seungkwan was naturally talkative, so this heavy silence building a barrier between them made no sense. His eyes dropped to the younger one’s lips, noticing the exaggerated pout disproportionate to the unknown reason. Against his own better judgment, he found it strangely adorable. There was something about that sulking curve — about the full mouth pressed tight in resistance — that stirred contradictory impulses in him: to laugh, to tease, to grab him by the arm, to ask until an answer came, even if it arrived wrapped in a muttered "fuck off."
Alone, he smiled foolishly. "It’s impressive how he manages to be cute and intimidating at the same time. Even when he looks like he’s about to kill me and hide my body from the police… still adorable."
Still confused, he mentally replayed the day: normal lunch, boring class and canceled practice. Nothing that justified the frown on the other’s forehead.
So why?
It was within that ordinary space of confused assumptions that Vernon adjusted the rhythm of his own steps, first speeding up and then reducing the distance until he aligned himself beside Seungkwan, whose posture made it clear that something was not right.
— Did I do something? — he asked, this time with a tone stripped of teasing.
The Korean, in contrast, kept walking, ignoring him as if his voice had been swallowed by the very pride that held his chin high.
— Boo Seungkwan. Answer me.
The name, spoken with moderate firmness, made the other halt mid-step. Vernon sighed and brushed his fringe away from his forehead with his fingers, choosing his next words carefully.
— You’ve been acting strange since we left school. Tell me if I did something wrong, please.
The silence that settled between them was filled with the noise of passersby, two girls whispering to each other at the dramatic scene worthy of a movie, barely disguising their interest; an older man cast a sideways glance before moving on. Seungkwan’s fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightened and the first question came out dry, like a punch to the stomach:
— Vernon, are you dumbass or do you just try really hard to be?
— Hey...?
— Since when do you go out for ice cream with Hyungjun?
Chwe blinked, even more confused than before.
— What?
— Don’t play stupid.
— I’m not playing anything. What does that have to do with you acting like this?
The question, even if rational, struck Boo in an already flammable place: his heart, sick with love. He laughed without humor, the mockery surfacing in his irritated features.
— Of course it has nothing to do with me, right, Chwe Vernon? My God… It’s just Hyungjun. Just the guy who spread half of those stupid rumors about me. — The smile that followed carried no warmth. — But sure. Totally normal for you two to be swapping cute little nicknames.
It was at that moment that understanding struck Vernon, late enough to sting. His eyes widened slightly, his lips parting in a focus that was almost admirable.
— Ah. I can explain-
Seungkwan stepped back, his chest rising and falling in a quick rhythm.
— Explain what? That I’m crazy? That I’m overreacting again? Keep it to yourself. I’ve heard enough.
He turned before his voice could betray the tremor beginning to creep in. He walked fast, but not fast enough to make Vernon give up.
— Boo, wait.
His fingers wrapped around the younger one’s wrist with restrained force.
— Let me go-
— Not here. Please. Let’s go over there.
He nodded toward a side alley, not exactly hidden, but far enough for the curious stares to lose interest. Seungkwan hesitated; pride demanded resistance, but the hand holding him did not tighten.
— Five minutes — the taller one added, with an unusual softness. — If after that you still want to leave, I won’t stop you.
The absence of imposition was what encouraged him to follow through with what had been proposed. The Korean did not respond, but neither did he pull away.
The alley, narrow and marked by chipped walls, carried the smell of dampness and warped any word spoken within it. As soon as they stopped, Boo spoke first, pointing his finger at the other’s chest with a tense tone:
— Why are you hanging out with him?
— I’m not “hanging out” with him.
— Then what was yesterday? The message I read on your phone was a mirage?
Hansol took a deep breath. The memory, which until then had seemed blurred, arranged itself with surgical precision: the empty classroom, backpacks open over the desks, the phone missing between chairs, Seungkwan turning the case before handing it back, too quiet. The silence of that moment, once interpreted as distraction, now gained a different meaning.
— Ah… you read it.
The calmness of the statement was received as provocation.
— Ah, I read it? — he repeated, his voice rising half a tone. — Seriously? Wow, how invasive of me, right? Sorry for existing and having eyes.
— I’m not mad that you read it.
— No? Then what’s with that look? — He stepped forward. — What am I to you? Some dumb you keep around while you make plans with someone who hates me?
The other scratched the back of his neck, looking away for a moment before meeting his eyes again.
— I’ve been practicing after school.
At this point in the story, Seungkwan was practically a giant question mark with legs. Nothing made sense; not what he felt, nor what he wanted to say.
— Practicing? What practice?
— Volleyball. The one I didn’t tell you about yet because I wanted to be sure first.
— Stop making excuses.
— I’m not making excuses. — His voice remained steady. — I’ve been going to the court earlier this week.
Kwan hesitated, but insisted:
— If that’s true, why with him? You’re always saying I’m the best player in that school. And you go ask him for help? That just makes it worse…
— Don’t think like that, Boo. — Vernon stepped a little closer, reducing the height difference between them. — I’m bad, you know that. In class I just stand there watching. I can’t even receive properly. It sucks just sitting on the sidelines. I wanted to… — he paused briefly — surprise you.
The air there felt heavy.
— If I got better, maybe you’d look at me the way you look when someone plays well.
Seungkwan swallowed hard at the sudden confession, the words taking their time to leave his mouth.
— And the ice cream? — he asked, still defensive. — Was that part of the plan too?
— I kicked the ball out of the court. It landed in a neighbor’s yard and he got pissed. I paid for ice cream as an apology.
The silence that followed was anything but pleasant. Boo watched the narrative he had built to justify his jealousy lose its shape, its pillars dissolving under the calm voice and the patience only that American seemed to possess.
— And… the nickname? — he muttered, feeling his cheeks burn with embarrassment.
— What nickname?
— ... "Bononie."
Chwe made a subtle face.
— I didn’t ask him to call me that. I didn’t give him the right to, either.
Seungkwan tried to answer with sarcasm, but his throat closed into an involuntary knot. He turned his face away, rubbing his nose as if he were actually scratching it.
— You’re so stupid…
— Why? — the question came out genuinely curious, as always. Kwan felt like crying, because he felt like a monster.
— Because I’m an ridiculous, okay? — His voice came out louder than he intended. — I make things up in my head, I spiral over a message, over a nickname… I’m so dramatic.
His eyes were shining, but the tears didn’t fall.
— You must think i’m paranoid. I don’t even have the right to feel like this.
The wind crossed the alley, misaligning strands of hair and carrying with it the scent of his shampoo mixed with the cold of the afternoon.
— I should just stay quiet. Be normal. But I don’t know how to do that.
Vernon remained still, attentive, like someone who understands that certain moments require less explanation and more presence.
— I just… — his voice thinned into a thread — I get like this because you-
He cut himself off, knowing he couldn’t simply say what he wanted so badly to say. Because you’re the only one for me.
— Forget it. I’m pathetic.
That was when Vernon took two steps forward and held Seungkwan’s face by the sides, his cold hands contrasting with the warmth of his skin.
— Stop… Don’t talk about yourself like that.
When the other tried to pull away, he drew him against his chest instead, in a warm, tight, comfortable hug. The smaller one stayed stiff for a moment, then gave in, hiding his face in the warmth of the hoodie, fingers gripping the fabric firmly.
— I don’t think you’re crazy — Hansol murmured, his voice low.
He paused briefly.
— And I like that. — The silence that wrapped around them was no longer hostile; it was possible to hear Seungkwan’s shaky sniffles. — I like you the way you are, Boo. When you complain. When you nag me. When you get sulky. — a breath that was almost a laugh. — Even when you call me stupid.
His hand squeezed the other’s back lightly.
— Don’t try to be less than that.
Kwan could feel the strong wind cutting through the denim of his jeans but, at least inside that embrace, the temperature was positive. The American’s scent was something masculine, though not strong enough to overwhelm; clean and neutral.
That was when the first tremor lifted Boo’s shoulders slightly. The sound of crying emerged low and trapped in his throat, breaking free in sobs that betrayed any façade of indifference. The American pulled his face back just enough to look down at him; the younger’s lashes were clumped together with round droplets, his cheeks and the bridge of his nose flushed red, clashing with trembling lips that still tried to preserve some shred of dignity. And seeing him like that, so close, Hansol felt his heart ache almost physically.
He didn’t want to be the cause of another tear on that beautiful face.
— Hey… — he murmured, closer now.
The alley light traced the fresh marks of crying across Boo’s soft face. The taller one’s hands, still cold from the wind slipping through the narrow space, slid from his back to the sides of his soft cheeks. His thumb brushed beneath the reddened eyelids, collecting the tears that insisted on falling.
Seungkwan avoided his gaze for a second. He didn’t want him to see the damage.
— Stop looking at me like that. — he muttered, his voice cracking.
— Like what?
— Like I’m… — The word died before it could take shape, malformed in the agony of a closed throat.
Vernon tilted his head slightly, leaning closer. His clear eyes were serious in a rare way, almost too firm for someone who was usually such a dork.
— Like you’re important to me?
Boo contemplated the silence with his heart nearly leaping out of his mouth. What was this? Why did it feel like all his dreams were unfolding right there, in a narrow alley on a cloudy Thursday? He felt Chwe’s thumb trace the warm curve of his cheek again, absentmindedly — a small gesture that nonetheless sent the butterflies in his stomach into Olympic-level somersaults.
Seungkwan held his breath without even noticing. His lips parted in an involuntary reflex, his chest rising far too quickly for someone pretending to be in control. Hansol noticed — not just the subtle tremor returning to his hands, but the specific fear that always came before retreat, that familiar impulse to turn any closeness into a self-deprecating joke before it became too real.
And before that defense could activate, he made a silent decision.
Vernon began to tilt his face in a movement so slow it bordered on absurd. Boo’s eyes dropped naturally to his mouth, that usually calm line now only inches away. His breath faltered, dragons — no longer butterflies — setting his insides ablaze.
Almost unconsciously, he leaned in too. Just a little, but enough to alter the geometry of the space between them. The tips of their noses brushed, the distance shrinking into a fraction of everything they had never dared to articulate in all these years of friendship.
— Vernon… wait… are you really-
The sentence never found its ending, because Hansol closed the remaining space.
It was unnecessary to state what had happened. The kiss shifted from hesitant to something steadier. The American’s lips touched the smallest with tenderness, as though apologizing for the misunderstanding from earlier. Both kept their eyes closed, focused solely on the sensation of each other. Kwan’s fingers clutched the hem of his friend’s hoodie, anchoring himself to anything that kept him there, living out one of the thousands of fantasies that were no longer impossible.
Vernon, in turn, felt that grip and understood he didn’t want to let go — that, if he could choose, he would rather be the cause of that growing, silent warmth than the tears that had stained that same face minutes before.
The kiss gradually softened, not from lack of desire, but because they both needed air. Vernon eased the pressure first, brushing their lips together one last time before pulling back.
Kwan’s breathing was uneven, his eyes remaining closed a second longer than necessary, as if opening them might prove that what had always fed his daydreams was nothing more than imagination.
Hansol stayed close, his larger frame sheltering the smaller one. His hand still rested against soft skin, hooked between jaw and ear, gently stroking the short strands at the nape of his neck. When he opened his eyes, he saw a Seungkwan he had never imagined witnessing — quiet and flustered. And the best feeling was knowing he was the reason for that flush.
It was then that the sky finally fulfilled what the heavy clouds had long been suggesting. First, a sharp drop landing beside them. Then another, more deliberate, striking the shoulder of the American’s hoodie in small stains that slowly spread. The scent that precedes rain on grass — petrichor, the exact name — rose quickly through the open space. The thunder, which until then had rumbled distantly, now rolled in a low, continuous growl, amplified by the post-kiss silence between them.
Vernon blinked, allowing the cold drop to slide from his temple to his jaw, his body briefly tense. There was an unfamiliar stiffness in him, still processing what he had done, trying to understand at which exact second he had decided to lean in, hold Boo’s face, and simply… kiss him.
It hadn’t been part of his plans and yet, when it happened, it felt as natural as anything that was meant to be. He ran his tongue over the corner of his lip, still tasting the other there. A sly — almost insolent — smile spread shamelessly across his face; he knew he had dragged it out for far too long. With a certain satisfaction, he realized that, despite the circumstances, he shouldn’t have waited so long to make that move. His hands slid along the other’s back, shielding him from the drops that were beginning to fall more steadily.
Boo let out a small, still-shaky laugh, hiding his face against his friend’s chest once again.
— You’re such an idiot… — he murmured, but didn’t try to pull away.
Vernon rested his chin on top of his head, a gesture that from a distance could pass as mere shelter from the rain, but under closer observation revealed a quiet need for proximity; he inhaled deeply against the soft, slightly damp strands, keeping his arms closed around him.
— I know. But I’m your idiot…