The next day, In their science class, Flynn slouched low in his seat, head resting on his folded arms. The distant hum of the electric fan did little to drown out the dull monotony of their Science teacher's voice as she explained their topic.
The chalk scraped against the board like a whispering ghost, but Flynn was long gone—eyes closed, expression unreadable. Not quite asleep, but not fully present either.
Every 10 AM class, while the rest of the class scribbled notes or stared into space, Flynn curled into himself, as if the world outside his head was just too loud.
And of course, seated behind him, Dylan couldn't let that slide.
"Hey," Dylan hissed under his breath, leaning sideways. He jabbed a capped pen into Flynn's side. "You planning to die here or what? You've been asleep for fifteen minutes. Wake up, man" Flynn didn't flinch. Didn't even move.
That only made Dylan smirk.
With his foot, he nudged the leg of Flynn's desk—once, then again, harder the second time. The metallic clink echoed just loud enough to make the students in the front row glance backward.
Flynn finally lifted his head with a slow, deliberate sigh, as if the very act of acknowledging Dylan's existence drained him.
"What?" he muttered, his voice raspy from disuse.
"You look like a corpse," Dylan whispered. "I was gonna poke your nose next."
"Do it and I'll break your hand."
"Oooh, scary," Dylan grinned, leaning closer.
"Come on, we've got five more subjects today. Don't be a zombie. Be a contributing member of society for once."
Flynn straightened slightly and gave him a dry glare. "You talk too much."
"And you sleep too much."
Their silent war of glances continued for a beat longer before Flynn dropped his head back onto his arms. Dylan, still grinning, turned forward, pleased with himself.
This kind of back-and-forth had become their unspoken tradition. They weren't friends—at least, not in the conventional sense—but they existed in each other's orbit, constantly pushing, constantly poking.
---
It was right after lunch, and the mood in the classroom was heavy, as it always was in the early afternoon. Heat slithered through the open windows, sunlight pouring onto the tiled floor in golden streaks.
Their homeroom teacher, Amanda, clapped her hands as she stood in front of the class.
"Alright, guys! Before we dive into our next lesson, let's break the ice a bit, shall we?"
A few groans escaped from the more introverted corners of the room. Dylan perked up.
"I want to know more about you," Miss Amanda continued. "Let's play something light. Who here can sing?"
Silence.
Heads turned, but no hands were raised. A few nervous chuckles spread across the room. Miss Amanda looked amused. "Come on. I know at least one of you can carry a tune. Don't make me call you."
And that's when Dylan struck.
Like a hand grenade lobbed into the center of a peaceful town, he shouted with too much energy.
"Flynn Amaro Luz"
Flynn's head snapped toward him, murder in his eyes.
The class erupted into a mixture of laughter and gasps. Even Miss Amanda looked pleasantly surprised.
Flynn's voice was ice. "Dylan."
Dylan only grinned and leaned back like a villain who just lit the fuse. "Don't be shy. Share your gift with the world."
"Is that true, Flynn?" Miss Amanda smiled. "You can sing?"
Flynn was about to refuse, to lie outright, but the room had already begun chanting his name like he was a reluctant celebrity. He sighed through his nose, shooting Dylan a dagger-filled glare.
"I'll kill you," he muttered as he stood.
"Oh no," Dylan said with a mock pout, "Please don't."
Flynn walked to the front of the class, calm and composed, but inside his chest, something buzzed. His hands were in his pockets, his expression flat, but there was tension in the way his shoulders moved. He stopped by Amanda's desk and glanced once more at Dylan.
Then he sang.
🎵 "And I'll be your crying shoulder...
I'll be love suicide..." 🎵
The classroom fell into a stunned silence.
Flynn's voice wasn't just decent—it was rich. Smooth. A warm baritone that resonated through the small room like waves brushing a shore. There was no theatrics in his tone, no fake vibrato or forced charm. It was honest. Raw.
🎵 "And I'll be better when I'm older...
I'll be the greatest fan of your life." 🎵
As the final note hung in the air like mist, the class burst into applause.
Flynn simply nodded once, turned, and walked back to his seat—like nothing had happened.
Dylan, still frozen, blinked. His usual grin was gone... he was speechless.
What the hell was that?
He wasn't expecting that voice—wasn't expecting the way it hit him like a quiet punch to the chest. It wasn't just that Flynn could sing... it was how he sang. As if there was an entire version of him hiding under all that sarcasm and sleep.
When Flynn sat back down in front of him, Dylan gave a soft whistle. "That was... something."
Flynn leaned over. "Pull another stunt like that and I'll make you swallow your retainer."
"You're assuming I wear one."
Flynn didn't smile—but he looked less pissed.
Dylan couldn't stop replaying that moment in his head, even hours later. He wasn't sure why it stuck with him.
Maybe it was because, for a moment, he'd seen a version of Flynn that wasn't behind a wall. A version that had depth and heat and—God forbid—emotion.
And for some reason, that made Dylan curious.
Dangerously curious.