The next day arrived with the kind of sun that didn't just shine—it burned. The air in the classroom hung thick and heavy, smelling of sweat, cheap chalk, and the faint, sweet scent of drying mango leaves from the open windows.
By the time Flynn slid into his wooden desk, the back of his shirt was already clinging to his skin, his collar damp and chafing. He dropped his bag with a thud, leaned forward, and buried his face into the crook of his elbow, seeking darkness behind his closed eyes.
Another long day.
He barely registered the shadow that fell across his desk—or the familiar, deliberate footsteps that always seemed to announce trouble.
"Sleeping beauty's back," Dylan murmured under his breath as he pulled out the chair behind Flynn, letting it scrape loudly against the floor. He dropped his bag with a purposeful thump.
Flynn didn't lift his head. "Don't start."
"Start what?" Dylan's voice was a low, teasing whisper. He unzipped his pencil case agonizingly slow, the sound grating like a trapped insect. "I'm just... admiring your dedication to napping through the world's most boring homeroom."
Flynn raised his head just enough to level a weary glare over his shoulder. "Some of us don't have the luxury of wasting energy on stupid conversations."
Dylan's lips curled into a smirk. "And yet, here you are. Talking to me."
Their bickering had become as routine as the morning heat—so familiar most of their classmates didn't even glance up from their phones or whispered conversations. Dylan prodded. Flynn endured. Until Flynn finally snapped, and Dylan grinned like he'd won something. Rinse and repeat.
But today felt different. The heat was more oppressive, the air stickier. It clung to uniforms and tempers alike, shortening fuses and sharpening tongues.
---
By the time Physical Education rolled around, the sun felt personal. It glared down on the cracked concrete track field as if holding a grudge against every sweating, squinting student gathered there.
The boys clustered under the feeble shade of a tree while Coach Gonzales barked instructions, his voice hoarse and impatient. Flynn tugged at the stiff collar of his shirt, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
Dylan, of course, was right beside him. Still talking.
"Bet you can't outrun me," Dylan said, stretching his calves with theatrical exaggeration.
"I bet you can't shut up for five minutes," Flynn shot back without looking at him.
The coach's whistle pierced the humid air. "Pair up! Relay sprints—now!"
Flynn turned to find another partner, but Dylan was already there, falling into step beside him. "You're stuck with me, Luz."
"Fantastic."
They took their positions at the starting line. Flynn crouched low, fingers brushing the hot concrete, every muscle coiled. Dylan lingered beside him, cracking his knuckles as if preparing for a boxing match instead of a sprint.
The whistle blew.
Flynn launched forward like an arrow released from a bow, his form sharp and efficient. Dylan pushed hard, closing the gap between them with raw determination. Just as he drew nearly even, Flynn swerved subtly—not enough to be obvious, but enough to force Dylan off his line.
Dylan's foot caught on a cracked patch of pavement.
He stumbled, momentum carrying him forward uncontrollably before he skidded across the grass, knees and elbows scraping raw against the dry, prickly turf.
Flynn slowed to a jog, turning just enough to see Dylan sprawled on the ground, groaning as he rolled onto his back, face contorted in pain and frustration.
A laugh burst out of Flynn—raw and unfiltered. He clutched his stomach, bending over as waves of laughter shook him.
"I'm gonna kill you," Dylan grumbled, pushing himself up on scraped palms.
"That's—what you get—" Flynn managed between breaths, "—for trying to race me, you dumbass."
Coach Gonzales stormed over, his whistle swinging like a weapon. "You! Out!"
Dylan's head snapped up. "For what?!"
"For treating my class like a comedy show. Go cool off. Now."
As Dylan trudged off the field, shooting a half-hearted glare over his shoulder, Flynn gave him a mocking thumbs-up, still chuckling.
Dylan just shook his head, but a faint, unwilling smile touched his lips.
He didn't say it out loud—no one would hear it over the sound of the wind and distant traffic—but the thought echoed clearly in his mind:
If I could bottle that laugh, I'd play it on loop every damn day.
After their Physical Education class, they went back to their homeroomjust as the final bell echoed through the halls. It was a sweet, piercing relief. It cut through the humid afternoon air, triggering a wave of shuffling feet, zipping bags, and the collective groan of students finally set free.
Flynn wasted no time. He swung his bag over his shoulder, the weight of his books a familiar burden, and merged into the river of students flooding the hallway. The chatter around him was a dull roar—plans for the afternoon, complaints about homework, the sharp, happy shrieks of those thrilled the day was over.
He was almost to the main gate when a voice cut through the noise, aimed directly at him.
"Hey. Luz."
Flynn didn't need to turn around to know who it was. He slowed his pace but didn't stop.
Dylan fell into step beside him, his own bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. The knees of his uniform were stained with grass and dirt, and a faint, reddish scrape marked his elbow. He looked annoyingly unfazed.
"That was a dirty move back there," Dylan said, though his tone lacked its usual sharp edge. It was almost conversational.
"You tripped on your own ego," Flynn replied, not breaking his stride as he pushed through the school's main gate. The chaotic energy of the waiting jeepneys and cars hit them immediately—the smell of exhaust, the blare of horns, the call of drivers.
"My ego? You swerved."
"Prove it."
They stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, the flow of students parting around them. The afternoon sun, still fierce, gleamed off the hood of a parked car.
A faint, lopsided grin touched Dylan's lips. "You know, for a guy who wants to be left alone, you put on a pretty good show."
Flynn finally turned to look at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Dylan said, shifting his weight, "you could've just run in a straight line and won. But you went out of your way to mess with me. Seems like I'm growing on you, Luz."
The accusation was so absurd, so utterly Dylan, that Flynn could only stare for a second. "You're a fungus," he stated flatly.
Dylan's grin widened. "See? You even give me nicknames. We're basically friends."
Flynn shook his head, tugged his bag higher on his shoulder, and started walking down the street without another word.
Dylan slowed, watching him for a moment before letting out a short laugh. Then he turned the other way, heading home with his usual careless stride.
The city noise filled the silence between them, and just like that, the day was over.