Work Text:
Keonho feels like he could fly. He leaps over the asphalt road, and the clouds separate like string cheese, the striking early morning sun beaming down on him. Keonho can smell the wet dew from last night's rainfall, almost see his grin in the cornflower blue of the sky.
God, is he glad it's summer—
The ground almost swallows Keonho entirely, his knees wobbling because Martin Edwards Park (that brat), decides to trip him on his way down.
"Asshole!" Keonho yells as he stabilizes himself. Martin doesn't wince like he used to when they first became friends in grade three, 'loudmouth' his favorite nickname for Keonho.
Instead, coral pink lips stretch around a goofy yet conniving smile. "You looked stupid jumping like that. It hurt my eyes."
Keonho kicks at him, which Martin smoothly dodges, chomping down the last of a popsicle as red as his sunwarmed cheeks. He'd rather stub his big toe than let his mom slap sunscreen on him before he escaped her clutches. It's one thing he and Keonho had in common: their utmost disdain of staying in the house, letting their precious teenage years flutter by.
"Ready to head home?" Martin adds, plopping down on the bench near Mrs. Kim's candy shop, long limbs folded in, trying to make himself small. The sunlight pierces through the blue some more, igniting a small petunia in rose gold.
Keonho joins his friend, before plucking the flower for some reason, figuring it's 'cause he's never seen one so yellow before. "Hell no."
Martin cackles, all white teeth and round cheeks. One thing he really enjoys is Keonho's misery. "That's why you shouldn't have put off your chores until the last minute. I don't think you'll be able to leave for the next three days," he berates.
Keonho shrugs, but he can already smell the sharp, powdery scent of laundry soap and imagine folding loads of underwear. What a way to ruin his morning.
Keonho rolls and twirls the petunia inside his calloused palm. It flutters in the salty country wind, almost like it's dancing. "Let's not go home yet."
A sudden calm silence follows. Keonho turns and catches Martin silently studying him under the protection of his flimsy olive cap, chocolatey eyes darkened. The cheeky wind plays with the ends of his chestnut curls as much it does with the flower, and Keonho thinks—yellow and green, how nice that would look.
"Take off your cap," Keonho says.
Martin blinks like the one time last summer he'd tripped inside Keonho's bedroom while Keonho struggled to read through his stupid literature textbook spread-eagle, only for him to collapse on top of Keonho and—
"Why?" Martin asks, cutting Keonho's thoughts short.
Keonho shrugs, forever scatterbrained whenever Martin is concerned. "I dunno. Just take it off, man."
They've been friends for too long and Martin is more than familiar with Keonho's impulsive—and often childish—antics. He'd always been a smart kid, kinda brilliant as far as Keonho is concerned, even though he often hides that part of himself so he wouldn't stand out more than he already had in their tiny town.
So when Martin stills, taking a huge breath of the chilly atmosphere before removing his hat without a word, his soft mousy hair falling into wide, doe eyes, Keonho's mind halts like a scratched vinyl record.
"What?" Martin hums, an eyebrow raised, questioning.
Martin has witnessed Keonho's many, many embarrassing moments, but somehow, Keonho doesn't want this to turn into another one of them.
Scrambling for something to do, Keonho leans forward—crosses the uncharted threshold between him and Martin like Martin had done in his room—and perches the golden petunia above Martin's reddened ear. It gleams like a sunrise, a perfect contrast to Martin's forest green graphic t-shirt, the hazel of his eyes.
Which are currently peering right at Keonho. Keonho feels his face get hot and snaps a pic with his phone, leaping off the bench before Martin can get the chance to break the already cracked screen some more.
"Oh my god—Keonho!" Martin yells, and Keonho, troublesome to a fault, makes a run for it.
Martin wastes little time chasing after Keonho. Keonho only hastens his pace, hoping all the swimming practice he's endured over the past few years come to his rescue. Pebbles pick up after him as he twists around a corner, his lungs burning.
Martin has never liked sports ever in his life, disliked sprinting and was the absolute worst when it came to basketball—but Keonho hears him loud and clear just a few feet behind him, his sharp exhales stark against the peaceful summer breeze.
It's a lost cause. Keonho's already slowing down, not knowing why he even decided to start running, but when he hears something that sounds suspiciously like a ragged cough, he stops all of a sudden—but Martin doesn't.
They knock into each other because Martin has the grace of a newborn foal, but Keonho can hardly complain, grateful for the thick grass that cushions his and Martin's fall.
"Fuck," Martin rasps.
"Shit," Keonho mutters, eyes fixated on the endless blue sky.
He can feel Martin looking at him, reaching out. Wordlessly, Keonho tosses him the phone, a smothering heat creeping up his neck as Martin immediately scrolls through the gallery.
Martin freezes. Keonho looks over, meeting the Martin he'd only ever seen one other time, the kind he wanted to immortalize forever in his phone camera.
Martin's dark brows furrow. "I look... weird."
Martin isn't smiling in the photo, but his features are relaxed. Face lit in a soft blush, chestnut hair silky beneath the sunlight, the petunia a vivid splash of color against his skin. He stares at the camera—at Keonho like he doesn't see anything else.
Keonho swallows thickly. Weird isn't the word he'd use.
Real-life Martin promptly deletes the picture.
"Why'd you do that?" Keonho asks.
Martin shields his face from the sun, from Keonho. Tries to shrug, act all nonchalant when Keonho knows he's anything but.
"Dunno." Martin looks at everything so he won't have to look at Keonho, picking out some grass. "It's embarrassing."
"How?"
"I don’t know, Keonho." Martin tenses up, makes himself smaller like he always does when things get too complicated. "Like—how vulnerable this makes me."
Keonho suddenly remembers what happened last summer. How warm Martin had felt on top of him, his arms caged around his sides to steady himself. The way their eyes locked, the spark of electricity between them.
They never spoke about that day. Keonho regrets it now. The sun is almost too hot, perspiration bubbling over Keonho's upper lip. He wipes it off, the silence heavier than anything else.
"Hey, Martin?"
Martin's eyes flicker to Keonho in an instant. It doesn't have to be awkward, Keonho thinks. Not now, not in a million years.
He sits up, Martin's eyes fixed on him. Not too far off rests a rose bush. Keonho gently picks a bright red one and watches Martin flush like a tomato.
"You're my best friend," Keonho says, leaning over, offering the blooming rose like he's offering his heart. He clears his throat, Martin's expression making him blush. "You also look pretty with flowers."
It must be the incoming heart stroke. Keonho convinced himself he would've never confessed otherwise.
Martin gets up and accepts the rose, failing at holding back his broad smile. He's always been the sentimental type. "It's not Valentine's Day, dude."
It's hot, they're both sweaty and Keonho's mom would rant about the dirt stains on his shirt for the next two days probably—but this is the most romantic he's ever felt. "So what?"
Martin beams at him, clutching the rose with all his might. "You're crazy, y'know that?"
"Yeah." Keonho also knows Martin likes him more than anyone else.
Martin's lips brush against his, the wind in their hair and the sun heating their skin, and Keonho's eyes flutter shut, letting it all wash over him.