Blue Flag, with doyoung and yedam.
Note: this does follow Ao No Flag, yet there are minor plot changes such as time setting! You don't have to read Ao No Flag unless you want to! The plot was to be described a bit, Maybe? Hopefully— through my writing!
Dialogue heavy!
For the first time since third grade, they share a classroom together. It's Doyoung that shone with genuine appreciation it: smile wide, enough to make Yedam feel something — something other than a sense of guilt, guilt for feeling insecure. Although he shouldn't be. They're completely different people, not at all the same— and yet.
Doyoung's hands grab his shoulders when he raises his voice, and shouts out his name; Yedam's body moves on it's own, jumping toward to Asahi, his face paling, and heart hammering.
Doyoung laughs, and it does something to Yedam's heart. Makes his gut churn, and fists tighten.
“What class are you in, man?” Doyoung asks, his smile is wide— and his eyes are curled, and his face is bright beneath the sun beating down on him, it shone yellow high in the sky. Doyoung looked happy, and Yedam wishes he wasn't— only for a moment.
“Class A,” He replies, heart calming down from the scare. Palm rubbing over his chest, over his uniform— heart beating under his palm, drumming against bone, hard. Doyoung's face shifts, into something like surprise, or— Yedam doesn't know, he really doesn't.
Doyoung's arm wraps around Yedam's shoulder, pulling him into his side. “Woah! We're in the same class? That's crazy! Haven't been since the third grade!” He says, voice heightened. Laced with appreciation, or maybe, gratefulness. He smiles.
Then it shifts.
Voices call out for Doyoung, and he goes. Just as easy as he came, and it makes Yedam stare after him; Doyoung walking into arms, into his friends—
“‘Sup to you too, Yedam,” A friend of Doyoung's says, staring down at him. A smile on his face. Yedam's shoulders bunch up, and he smiles, doesn't feel right on his face. “... Uh, thanks. You too.”
He's unaware of the eyes watching. Burning on Doyoung, then on him.
—
During lunch, Asahi and Haruto pry. Not that they usually do, it's just different when it's about Doyoung, Haruto asks— “Hey... Something's been bugging me,” A beat of silence, “how are you and Doyoung such good friends?”
Yedam stops eating, thinking before he speaks, “We're been best friends since primary school,” and maybe that's why his heart does something for Doyoung, “but I don't think we're that close.”
Yedam really doesn't know— maybe they were close before. But they grew out of it, their closeness. Or maybe, it's a closeness that became one-sided, on Doyoung's part, or maybe on Yedam's part,— or maybe they've never really been close— his thoughts don't stick together anymore after that, Haruto speaks up again, “Nah, you both seem to get along well. Even though you are a completely different ‘class’, right”
“‘Class?’” Yedam's brow furrows. Face shifting, eyes staring— what did he mean? Class?— Yedam just, he doesn't know. It makes his heart drop, a bit. “Yeah,” Haruto shrugs, finger pointing out the classroom window, down onto the field outside.
Doyoung is out there, in his uniform playing soccer. The sleeves rolled up, and beads of sweat formed on his skin, the sun beating down, and other boys chasing after him. His forearm wipes his skin, the people out there cheer him on— Haruto continues, “Because that Doyoung... Has unrivalled skills in the baseball club, and his dexterity is above most, as well. He has great manners and a sense of humor so the girls are always fawning over him–” And it gets Yedam thinking. Really thinking. Heart sinking as he does. “He's someone who makes the most of life.”
“And yet he doesn't have a girlfriend, does he?” Asahi says, slow, curious. But not really caring. Just, curious.
Haruto jokes, “Maybe he just loves to lead people on,”
That makes Yedam lose his appetite, shoving his sandwich into his lunchbox, his face scowls. And Asahi pales, leaning toward Yedam, Yedam's voice lowers, sinks. “Stop it, Haru... Doyoung isn't that kind of guy.”
Haruto leans toward him, finger touching his forehead, “Maybe. But he's on a completely different field than us,” A beat of silence, and Yedam's heart is sinking so low into his gut, “You are being used.” Yedam wishes Haruto never spoke. His heart sinks as well.
A boy shouts. And clutter is loud. Echoing everywhere in the classroom.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing!” A dark-haired boy has a finger pointed at a light-haired boy, voice deep. Irritated, and angered. The light-haired boy points his finger at the dark-haired one, “... He pushed me!” It comes out quick.
Someone:s voice echoes, “(name) hasn't even eaten half,”
Your lunch lays on the floor— scattered, and you're picking it up, face flushed— burning red, cheeks colored so deep, Yedam begins to think it hurts. Yedam lowers his brows, the side of his mouth raised. He doesn't really like you.
Your friend, her voice is low, has a softened edge lingering beneath, “Are you okay, (name)?” You don't answer, just continue picking up your food. Burning beneath her gaze, and everyone else's. “Apologize properly to (name).” She says, and the light-haired boy raises his voice, “It's her fault for always eating so slowly, and always diddy-dallying!”
And your friend's face hardens. She's always been scary, Yedam thinks. And her voice goes even lower, anger lulled low, humming beneath. “Huh? It's your fault for rampaging through here!”
A voice perks up, mocking, taunting. “Ah, it's the gorilla girl run,” And they snicker beneath palms, the boys move. Run toward their desks.
Asahi asks, quietly, “Was that (name)'s lunch?” And Haruto clicks his tongue, “Looks like it.”
Yedam stares at you, just watches. The burning of your skin, your blush infectious. “As always, (name) is stupid and slow...” Yedam says, and it makes Asahi stare at him like he's grown another head, and Haruto calls out Yedam's name.
“Yeah?” He turns around. Eyes curious, wondering— “I have another question, why don't you like (name)?”
Asahi speaks, easing his way in, “You're pretty cold to that girl, aren't you?”
“I don't mean to be...” It's true. That much is very true. And Haruto says something Yedam doesn't get that quickly, “Even though you like small animals,”
“Huh?” His hand rubs over the nape of his neck, smoothing down the hairs. “(name) kind of seems like a small animal, doesn't she? Kind of like a hamster.” Asahi brightens up at that, and looks your way. “Ah. Hamster-ish girls.”
“Hamster girls?" He questions. Looks your way too— your hands are clasped together, and your face is still red. “Hamster lady?” That makes Asahi stare Haruto down, Haruto says, “Nah, that's wrong, right, Asahi?”
Yedam has so many questions. But he doesn't ask. He just, he doesn't know. He doesn't—
—
He walks down a hall toward his classroom. Wondering what the problem was— his relationship with Doyoung was the problem. That he hadn't changed, but was of a different ‘class’.
Then he thinks of you. How long he's known you, yet hasn't really known you— he's always been in the same classroom as you. Your eyes had met often. You never really spoke to each other— Yedam halts, gazes absentmindedly out the window. His reflection staring back. You're slow. And always looking down— and it's exactly like—
“Whatcha’ looking at?” Doyoung's face is suddenly too close, and it makes Yedam jump back. Doyoung laughs easily, “You're such a wimp, Yedam!”
“You always appear so suddenly!”
“Ah, really? Sorry.” Yedam wonders why Doyoung's face softens when he rubs the back of his head. They walk into class together.
The voices again. They tell him he's amazing, and he's good, and they question why he's so good, and what can't he do?— and he stutters a bit— “W–well,”
Yedam just, he doesn't know. It's not like he doesn't like Doyoung, they just don't get along anymore— Yedam walks toward his desk, without saying anything. Misses the way Doyoung falters, the way he stares after him.
Your desk is beside Yedam's.
—
Yedam finds you.
At the library near school. Reaching high, on a stepping ladder. Fingers spread outward, touching. But missing the book your reaching for— Yedam turns. Frowning. Wishes this weren't happening, because he feels like he'd feel bad if he didn't help you, you look like you desperately need it—
“Are you okay?”
You stiffen. Face burning again, “Eh? Eh? I— Yed—” and Yedam moves toward you, “Move.”
You do, slowly. And you're burning so much, he feels like he can feel the flames touching his skin, a butterfly-touch, too soft— “Which one? I'll grab it for you.”
“Th– there's no need! You can't look!” And Yedam looks up toward the shelf where you were reaching— and he immediately wishes he hadn't tried to help you—
About romance, about love, about liking, about having crushes— he turns red. And your hands cover your face. Your blush is, infectious. Is all he thinks. And he's embarassed too.
He reaches up anyways. And he spreads his fingers out. Missing the book your reaching for too. Fingers grazing against it— he can't reach either— and when he does reach it, it's crammed too tightly between the other books. He gives up.
It's embarassing for the both of you — you both leave the library, and find yourselves at the intersection outside of the look. Waiting for the light to change color.
He can feel your gaze, sometimes it burns, and other times it's too light to even feel— you look like you want to say something.
You do. “Um... — S–so... Yedam!” And he looks at you. You're set ablaze, and you're staring at him. Bright. Radiate. The universe. Silence surrounds you, and the street noise is faded. “... (name)?”
You jump. Burning even more. “Ah! I— I'm sorry!” The light changes color. And Yedam is desperate to leave, to never try be around you again— he apologizes. “... No, I'm sorry about earlier, I went a little overboard.”
Your hands clasp together, close to your chest. “That's completely!—” And Yedam is staring at the light, wishing he could leave— your eyes shut tight, and you burn bright— Yedam begins to speak again, because the light is going to change soon, and he really wants to get to the other side of the street already, he's embarassed enough— “Well, I won't tell anyone so it's fine,” His hand gestures to the other side of the street, and you're burning up even more, “I've been out for a while, so I should probably head back now. Ah, well, I'll be–” then the light switches and his insides are screaming.
You don't mind though, and he thinks, of course you wouldn't— you fumble with your words, “Um... Yedam... I...— Well, I...”
“I have something I want to talk about with you!” Your eyes are closed tight when he looks to you, you burn beneath his stare— it must hurt— you've just shouted at him, and he thinks about how infectious your blush is— “Talk about? With me?” He questions. You open your eyes, and you nod a bit— “W-what...?”
“D... Doyoung... He...” Yedam stares. Waits for you. You inhale, before exhaling, the tension in your body leaving, but not entirely. “What kind of person is he?” Your hands come to your face, touching your cheeks— The universe, radiate, bright. “Doyoung?” He echoes, wondering why him, why why why— “Y-you and Doyoung are good friends so...” You reason softly, shyly, words almost tender— Yedam scratches his head, “but that's not really the case...” Because it isn't, they aren't good friends, they aren't close— “The discussion... It's about Doyoung? What kind of person is he?” It dawns on him. Softly, brightly— the library, the books, everything else.
“(name), could it be...” it's not far-fetched, why wouldn't you? his hand drops, and the world is still, “you like Doyoung?”
“E... Eh... Eh?!” You set ablaze. “Wh-why? Why? Wh–” You're burning, and Yedam just knows. You're so easy to read. “Well... no reason?” He says, and thinks, (name) and Doyoung, they won't get on well. It doesn't look like they have anything in common... But thinks about Doyoung, and remembers how well he gets along with everyone— This is about Doyoung. About you. About romance— crushes, love. “If it's that kind of conversation then I'm useless!” The light switches again, and he's moving to the train station, “When it comes to love advice I've got nothing!” Yedam says, chest tightening. “And I'm not that good of friends with Doyoung anymore...” You follow after him. Steps slower, softer, “That's... But you guys chat so easily!” Your hands are clasped tightly in fists, and Yedam— he keeps talking anyways. “We don't chat that much!” He argues back. Thinks different classes, we're on completely different fields— “Now, We're completely... – It's just that I've known Doyoung since primary school.” Different classes, different fields, different— “Our friend groups are different. He's in the baseball club, and I'm in the ‘go home’ club,” different classes, different fields, different— “Since we entered high school, we've been in completely different classes too. So–” Different classes, different fields, completely different— “We've been with him since primary school?” You question, making him stop. “Eh. Well–” He begins, before you cut him off.
“What was he like in primary school?” your eyes brighten, the universe— it does something to him, his chest tightens, a pressure growing in in his chest— sweat forms on his skin. Doyoung? What was he like? — “Doyoung hasn't changed at all. Same as now, he was everyone's favorite.” Is? Was? He doesn't know—
He thinks, about primary school, about Doyoung— “Whenever he started something new... It would become a fad for the entire class,” Classes, fields— Doyoung is in a class, in a different field— he thinks of primary school, thinks of Doyoung, and then thinks of battle pencils. “Ah, battle pencils.”
It's nostalgic thinking about it, reminds him of being a kid. When he was free and at ease to be one— you repeat after him, eyes brightened, searching, curious— “Pencils?” It makes him smile.
“You roll the pencil then battle with the side you rolled.” Yedam gestures, mimics a pencil rolling— it's weird, seeing him do it without a pencil, but it's enough, enough for you— “Back then, they were super popular! Doyoung started that one too.”
Thinking back, it's the most friends he's had— for a moment, it makes him happy, to have had more friends, to have been enough— he turns to you, and you stare at him. Pink embedded in your cheeks, like that's where it's supposed to bloom, and he thinks, what the hell am I talking about.
He doesn't realize the train is pulling in, and he's still. Standing there, with you— Yedam panics, “The train is already here,” He turns red. Face heating up. Setting ablaze. “W-well, if that's the case,” You let out a small noise, confused, curious— “Eh?” and Yedam says, “Bye.” Before he's running off.
You watch after him, and on the inside, Yedam is feeling so, embarassed.
—
“Are these okay?” You're holding your hands together, staring down at the battle pencils you set on his desk. Yedam stares, “How did you get these?” And you mumble, stutter over your words. “T– they're my brother's, but will they be okay?” And Yedam doesn't understand why you're asking him. Doesn't know— “Why?” He asks, he knows he's mentioned it— of course he does— what will they be okay for? Why?— Why ask him?— “What's that, Yedam?”
Doyoung is there. Reaching, and touching the pencils on his desk. Holding one in between his fingers, says, these are nostalgic, and you turn. Just a bit, and stare. You set ablaze, and Yedam swears he feels your cells burning.
“Where's this from, Yedam? Is it yours?” He's staring at you— Yedam is staring at you, and you do look like a hamster— one that's in trouble, and one that's shocked, it can't move— “Nah...” Yedam tells him, and burns too when he realizes how much you like Doyoung— burning so bright, and so hot— bright, radiate, the universe— “Huh? so it's (name)'s, then?” And you burn even more when Doyoung shifts his attention to you, you shake your head, body vibrating, trembling almost. “Huh? It's not?” Doyoung questions, uneased— “Apparently, they're her brother’s,” Yedam says, his face dropping. You lied, and he's not finding it amusing, it's getting annoying— “Ah,” Doyoung replies.
Your brows furrow, and you make a face at Yedam— fists coming up, and you turn to Doyoung, your mouth opens, and Yedam is thinking, you're about to talk— “Doyoung!” You say the same time Doyoung speaks, “By the way, Yedam!” His voice louder, clearer— Yedam burns a little, “Do you still have them?” Doyoung asks, and Yedam is confused a bit— because what? “The ones you were making!”
Doyoung holds up a battle pencil. Smiles, bright— “Custom battle pencils!” He says, and his smile is so bright, Yedam's chest begins to get heavy, “I used to really love those!”
“Custom?” Quiet, softly, you echo to Doyoung— and he's quick to look at you, leaning in, “Yeah! Yedam was super good!”
Yedam begins to burn, everything— from the back of his neck to the whole of his face— “That's a nice story but! Aren't these ones better, they look hard to make.” And Doyoung is getting the chair from your desk, and saying, “Let's do it, let's do it!”
Doyoung looks to you, “come on, (name) too!”
You burn, setting every cell in your aflame. “Eh?” And your face is red, so very red, “But...” Yedam is staring, “The rules...” Doyoung is sitting, staring so brightly at you, “You don't know them? That's fine, I'll teach you!”
You stare back, burning— bright, radiate, the universe— Doyoung smiles, eyes closing, curling, “Yeah?” And Yedam is thinking, good grief...
You three okay with the battle pencils, and without even knowing, Yedam ends up helping you with Doyoung, and that's fine.
After, when class begins. When he's sitting, staring ahead, thinking— you place a folded piece of paper on his desk and he looks to you, and unfolds it. The paper scratches against his skin when he opens it, his heart beats in his chest— and he just, doesn't know. Thank you for earlier.
Yedam looks at you, and your face is burning— you're already staring at him, and the book you have in your hands move a bit, away from your mouth, uncovering it. You smile, bright, radiate, the universe— your eyes are closed, and your face is pink, blooming— he burns too.
Doyoung watches, pencil pressing against his bottom lip.
—
At lunch, a day later, Doyoung's friends, the voices call for him— and he goes. You watch after him. Holding your pencil case full of battle pencils, just watching Doyoung— Yedam watches you.
He stands, “Ah! Yedam...” You say, so softly. Burning. “Today, do you...” He knows, yet he doesn't— “Nah,” he says, you flinch, eyes widening. “With just two people, it's...” You deflate, even more when Yedam says that. “... You're right.” A moment of silence, awkward, and too long— Yedam scratches his cheek. “You want to do it with Doyoung, anyway, right?” And you flinch again, burning, setting ablaze. “Then invite him, not me.”
Yedam stares at you, thinking, it's not like you'll do it— you look up at him, determined, “Ok!” And Yedam turns white, paling— you're going? You stand, and then you sit back down. “What should I say...” You're thinking aloud. And you look to him, “If it was you, what would you say?” And Yedam— he doesn't know, why are you asking him— “Eh?! Me?” Why am I apart of this— Yedam thinks aloud, “What would I... Would... Normally, I'd say yo.” There's a cold sweat forming. And his voice gets louder, “I have absolutely no idea!” He's annoyed, with himself, with—
“O... O- of course... I'm sorry...” A breath, soft. It's timid, and enough— Yedam stills. His annoyance halting completely, “You don't need to apologize...”
He stares at you, watching, lingering— your hair is different, tied into braids— puffy, and messy, and so, you— you touch the ends, and Yedam thinks, P.E. is today?
“Do we have P.E. today?” His head is tilting, staring at you— you straighten up, “Eh? I don't... Think so.” And you wonder too. He speaks again, gesturing to his hair, “It's just, tat you've tied your hair all up, and I thought you only tie your hair up when we have P.E...” He doesn't know how he knows— maybe because he's always shared classes with you— maybe because he—
You burn. Like always. “W- well. There's no special reason for it today.” And Yedam hums. And you touch the ends again, wondering. “I wonder... What hairstyles do boys like.” You brightened, burn a bit more. “Doyoung's prefered style... And stuff.”
“I don't really know Doyoung's preferences, but I don't think preferences mean anything really.”
You make a noise, and Yedam continues. “Honestly, when it comes to hair and stuff, guys don't notice small changes.” And he thinks, and yet he doesn't— “Obviously, if you go and cut it all off. You'd make an impression.” His hand gestures again, shorter this time. And you stare. A boy comes in, “Yedam,” and he turns, “Huh, Asahi?”
Asahi asks, “Can I borrow your dictionary?” and he sees you, “Are you in the middle of something?” Not anymore— Yedam says, “Nah...” Looks to you, before stepping away, “It's fine.”
He takes a glance back. Lingering, let's himself look— he's not thinking, when is he ever though?
—
He knows it'd happen, he should have known— but when he walks into class, he's surprised— “... (name)?” It's short, really short— touching your cheeks, it— it suits you. “That...” But he isn't thinking, not at all. “...Head...” And you smile, hand coming up, touching the ends of your hair, you smile again, just like before, when you handed him that note— thank you for earlier— and you ask, “How... Is it?” And Yedam is frozen.
Until Doyoung tells him good morning, his attention shifting to you— “Woah, what happened?!” It sets you ablaze, and Doyoung's tone is, nice, nicer than Yedam's. Doyoung sounds, impressed. “Amazing! You went and cut it all in one go!” And you don't burn, but Doyoung's eyes sparkle— they brighten, like how yours do when you see him— Yedam begins, says Doyoung's name because it might hurt you— “It looks good. It suits you.”
You burn this time. There's hesitation in your voice, a shake— so soft, slow— “I... I-i, it's not weir–” Your shoulders almost touch your chin, they're so bunched up— Doyoung cuts you off, “Looks good. It's great!” And he looks at Yedam, stares right at him, “Right, Yedam?” Smiles, so bright it hurts. Makes Yedam's chest feel heavy— Yedam looks at look, you're red and burning and bright and radiate and the universe—
A voice takes Doyoung away. And It's just you and Yedam, and Yedam moves. Scratches his head, and tries to sit down— setting his schoolbag down, not turning toward you, you whisper a thank you Yedam!, and he wonders— “What for?” And you repeat after him, slower— like— like him...
“My hair. You told me, I should cut it short. Thanks to you, he complimented me!” He hates it, he hates this— there's a heaviness on his shoulders, like responsibility—yet, why would you go so far? why? why—yet... “Thanks to me...? When did I say you should cut it short?” It's terrifying— feeling this much responsibility— it's your hair— you make a noise, confused, you're still smiling, bright, radiate, the universe— “Eh...? Yesterday, you said—”
And he doesn't mean it— maybe he does, maybe in the moment he means it, he doesn't know— when does he know?— He shouts. At you, at himself at everyone— because he wasn't thinking, when does he ever think?— “I didn't say... Anything like that!”
The world stills. And Everything is quiet except for his heart racing rapidly in his chest— he wasn't thinking— and he's running, only after seeing everyone, after seeing Doyoung staring at him— you chase after him. Asking him what's wrong, that you're sorry, that you didn't mean to hurt his feelings— he turns abruptly once you're outside, near a stone wall, lower enough to sit, shouting again, because that heaviness, it won't leave— “I didn't say like “you should cut it short” did I?” He heaves, “I take no responsibility!” and you echo the last word. You panic, arms coming to your head, “It... It's really that strange? It's weird?!”
“No! That's not it at all! It suits you!” His hands come to his head, he feels— he doesn't know— he wonders why him, why you would go so far, for someone like, someone like Doyoung. And you, you're so— “So far...? He complimented me, didn't he?” You're so you, you're so slow, and always looking down, and— you ask Yedam it so easily.
“He complimented you...”" Yedam repeats, echoes it so indifferently. “He complimented you, but.” He's no longer holding his head, his hands coming together. “(name), what do you want to do with your love for Doyoung,” you make a noise, and he continues, “You want to confess? Do you want to go out?” And you're burning, making noises, “Um...” And he shouldn't mean it, but he does. “You've got no chance!” And the world is still again. He apologizes, “Sorry, I... I knew Doyoung's preference... I mean, the person Doyoung likes is... Slim, tall, and older than him. Has a mature girl vibe. She's sporty and straight to the point. As well as very colorful, and says things clearly.” A heartbeat later, “And also... Has long straight, brown hair.” His chest is tightening, you're you— bright, radiate, the universe— he continues speaking, “You're saying that his characteristics are just your type, right? He might be the perfect fit for you, but maybe you're not the perfect fit for him.” You hand touches your mouth, your heart hurts— “In Doyoung's case...” Yedam stops.
“I see... So the complete opposite of me, isn't it?” And you ask him, “Is Doyoung dating that person right now?” And Yedam looks to you, “No, It's his unrequited love.”
You smile, glancing at the ground. Yedam stares. “Well then. I really am thankful. You thought I had no chance, didn't you?” your hands move, fingers spreading. “But... You told me that straight from the beginning, so...” You smile, eyes closed. Your fists tighten, “I'll do my best!”
“Eh?!” Yedam feels, surprised, and— “If Doyoung isn't dating anyone right now, I still have a change, right? Even though you said I'm not his type, even if just a little he mag start to like me... Just a little.” And your voice is beginning to trembling, beginning to shake— “Even just a little.” Your eyes are glossy, and you're smiling— your face does something weird, and you're crying, and Yedam panics. “Are you okay?!” And your voice is trembling, “I'm fine! It's nothing! It will stop soon!” And your face is still weird, eyes wet and face squished together, red and blotchy— “But your face is...” Yedam is— he doesn't know. And a slow realization grows, he asks, “are you crying... Because of that?” Because maybe he'll like you, even just a little? Because, maybe he won't?
“I'm not crying!” You say, and your face twists, relaxes. Then you say, “Because I decided to change. I'll give up. I can't do it. I thought before doing this, I had no chance. But if I didn't do it, I would regret it... I won't like myself if I stay like this.” Yedam feels relieved, even though he had no reason to. Thinks, you won't have any regrets if you understand yourself and know your place. More than that, this— you won't have any reason to dislike yourself.
You're crying. And Yedam is awkward, heart beating heavy in his chest. “So... Are you going to stop crying?” Your hands cover your face, you burn, set ablaze— he's unaware of the cells beginning to burn in him— “don't look!” you say.
He remembers something, “You know, if you don't want to cry... Opening your mouth a little helps,” He opens his mouth a bit, staring intently at you, and your uncovering your face, “like this,” he says. His mouth open, “when you open your mouth, you can't focus on other things,” his mouth closes, and he stares, at the glossiness of your eyes, the sheen of glass, the tears threatening to fall, and the pink blooming in your cheeks— “so you won't cry.” Yedam opens his mouth, head tilting back. And you copy, slowly. Staring at one another until your tears at gone, and you both laugh— at free, and at ease.
“Yedam... I'm starting to like this hairstyle.”
—
Doyoung finds Yedam, Doyoung calls out Yedam's name, and he walks near, closer— “What was up earlier? You don't normally raise your voice like that,” Yedam stands, and so do you, “Ah.” Doyoung says. And he leans toward Yedam, quietly asking, “Did I get in the way here?” and Yedam asks, “Of what?”
“Huh? What was wrong earlier?” And Yedam stiffens, flinches, “Nothing really...” And you and Yedam both say, “It was my fault,” at the same time, it's enduring. You both argue, back and forth— “Huh? You're wrong, I said it's my fault,” Yedam begins, and you mumble, “Eh? That's not right, it's my fault!” “I told you, you're wrong, it's my fault!” “Why? I selfishly–” “Wrong.” “Why, I–” — Doyoung laughs, smiles. His hands raise, and they touch your heads, ruffling hair.
Life is a series of choices. In your first year of high school, you three, — maybe everyone, was living in ambivalence, choosing careers, taking exams, the future is spread out before you. It was going to be hectic, at this stage... The three of you landed in the same class. Best friends... Lovers... At this time, Yedam doesn't know how it ends.
