Chapter Text
The air was warm. The sun was beginning to set on the vast horizon. Even from a dirty window in his school, Martin could clearly see why there were so many songs written and movie scenes about the sunset; it was something truly beautiful and somehow calming. It almost made him forget that he was still in his classroom, trying to stay in the moment so he wouldn't have to go home.
That peace didn't last long. Minutes after he finished scribbling on his desk, the alarm rang, startling him slightly and pulling him out of the trance he had created for himself. The blond-haired boy bit his lower lip and started gathering his materials before he completely lost the will to even try. Not that he was an example of effort; his best friend, James, always said that Martin didn't seem to care about anything other than the music playing frantically in his headphones.
"Hey man, wanna come over to my house this weekend?" James asked in a monotonous tone, standing up from the table and slinging his backpack over his shoulders.
"You know I'd do anything to avoid staying home," Edwards replied, already following him down the hallway towards the exit.
The truth was that Martin was practically part of the furniture in his best friend's house. It was a comfortable place where he felt he could finally breathe—especially the basement, which had been a complete refuge for both of them since they met at the age of twelve, the day that forever changed his view on friendship.
James was the new kid at school back then, yet he possessed a magnetism that drew everyone in. It was the classic story of a kid who was too cool for school, his face and jeans always stained with some kind of watercolor tone. Everyone knew he was adopted, a detail that sparked curiosity about his past. But his popularity wasn't just about that. Maybe it was his unique accent, or the fact that he had two mothers, while everyone else usually had one or none.
This unique background didn't seem to bother the young Yufan. He was simply happy to finally have his own family, having spent his early childhood in a harsh orphanage surrounded by children who didn't understand him. That was, of course, until he met his favorite tall, blond boy, whose face never seemed happy enough, mirroring the loneliness James had always carried deep down.
Suddenly, on any given day in elementary school, they became close. So close that James knew exactly what every annoyed grimace Martin made meant. For James, knowing someone so deeply actually made him believe in "soulmates"—because that was truly how he felt about the taller boy.
The walk to James’s house was spent mostly in silence. a silence filled by the muffled sound of the song ' freaks, by surf curse ' escaping from Martin’s headphones and their synchronized steps on the urban concrete. Inside, however, their minds worked at completely different rhythms. Martin felt the knot in his chest loosen with every block that distanced him from his own home; for him, that walk was a countdown to freedom. James, meanwhile, kicked a small stone down the sidewalk, watching his friend out of the corner of his eye. He recognized every line of tension in Martin’s shoulders and knew that, behind that indifferent facade, the blonde carried a weight he rarely put into words. James felt a silent pride in being the only one capable of offering a roof where that weight finally vanished.
When they finally crossed the front door and walked down the creaking wooden stairs, the outside world seemed to evaporate. The basement carried that characteristic smell of acrylic paint mixed with dust and the old upholstery of the torn sofa. On the back wall, James’s unfinished canvases shared space with posters of the bands Martin had introduced him to. It was their perfect chaos.
Martin threw his backpack on the floor with a dull thud and collapsed onto the old sofa, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. For the first time all day, his lungs truly expanded. James watched him for a moment before walking over to his mom drawing table, pretending to organize the brushes even though his mind was fixed on a lingering doubt. He wanted to ask what had happened at Martin’s house the night before—he had heard the muffled screams over the phone—but he feared that pressing his friend would destroy the peace he had just found. Instead, James turned on the old record player, letting the melody of 'the adults are talking by the strokes' fill the room as he waited patiently for Martin to decide to break his own ice.
" Do you think juhoon is okay? i sent a message to him earlier since he wasn't in school today" The blond says while ajusting himself in the sofa, his eyes were fixated toward the record player where the music was still calmingly taking up space in the basement.
Today had been the first day of school since spring break, and Martin started to wonder when the last time Juhoon skipped class was. Somehow, just thinking about it sent a shiver down his spine and made him bite down on his lower lip.
"I don't know, man... The last time I talked to him, he seemed fine... But you know how Juhoon is. It takes a while for him to say anything a little too personal." James took the space left by Martin's side and spread himself out on the tiny sofa too, turning his head to look at the blond again. Now, somehow, Martin's expressions became a little clearer, and James could see the thoughts passing through his head and the worry consuming him whole.
"Do you think I should—I mean... we should call him? Just to check." The phone was already lingering in his hands, his fingers pressing Juhoon's contact before even hearing an answer coming from the boy beside him, which made James smile a bit and start nodding.
As the phone began to ring, Martin’s eyes wandered around the basement, landing on a corner that felt distinctly like Juhoon. Next to James’s art supplies hung a vintage, slightly torn poster of Chungking Express and a polaroid of the three of them at a local arcade—pieces of Juhoon that had permanently integrated into their sanctuary. It made his absence feel even louder. If Seonghyeon and Keonho were already back from their vacation, the basement would be loud and chaotic right now. But those two were only scheduled to return the following day, leaving an eerie emptiness where their group of five should have been.
The phone kept ringing, its rhythmic buzz cutting through the soft chords of The Strokes, but nobody answered. Martin held the device closer to his ear, staring blankly at the Chungking Express poster as if waiting for the glossy paper to give him a clue. After the fifth ring, the call abruptly cut off, replaced by the mechanical, cold voice of the automated voicemail.
"He never lets it go to voicemail," Martin muttered, lowering the phone but not locking the screen. The bright glow illuminated the growing anxiety etched on his face. James shifted on the sofa, the old springs groaning beneath them. He wanted to tell Martin that he was overthinking, that Juhoon was probably just sleeping off a post-break exhaustion, or maybe his phone was dead. But James knew Juhoon too well. Juhoon lived with his phone glued to his hands, especially when he wanted to avoid his own thoughts. The silence on the other end of the line felt intentional, heavy, and it sent a cold ripple through the cozy, paint-scented basement.
"Maybe we should just head over to his place," James suggested, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "It's not that far, and it might ease your mind."
Martin immediately shook his head, locking his phone screen at last. "No way. You know how much he hates unannounced visits. Juhoon would lock his door and ignore us for a week out of pure spite." He sighed, trying to force the tension out of his muscles. "Let’s just wait. He'll probably text back later."
To shake off the heavy atmosphere, they intentionally drifted to a lighter topic: Seonghyeon and Keonho. They spent the next hour laughing about how many times those two must have bickered and made up during their trip. Keonho’s stubbornness and Seonghyeon’s dramatic reactions were legendary within their group, and imagining their chaotic dynamic in a foreign city was the perfect distraction. Hours slipped away in the safety of the basement. The sky outside the small, high window turned into a deep, starry black. Suddenly, the heavy wooden door at the top of the stairs creaked open, and a warm, savory aroma drifted down, followed by a familiar voice.
"Boys! Dinner's ready, come on up," Marina called out. James’s mother stood at the top of the landing. She was a slender woman with long, cascading curly hair and light brown eyes that always held a gentle warmth. Just seeing her there made Martin feel an instant wave of relief; Marina’s presence always solidified the feeling that, at least for tonight, he was completely safe from the reality waiting for him at his own house.
They washed their hands and headed upstairs into the brightly lit dining room, where James’s other mother, Jia, was already setting the table. Jia was a woman of quiet strength, her sharp eyes softening the moment she saw the boys enter. The contrast between her grounded presence and Marina’s breezy, expressive nature was the glue that held their home together.
As everyone took their seats, the room filled with the comfortable clatter of silverware and the easy flow of conversation. Marina laughed heartily, recounting a chaotic mishap at her pottery studio, while Jia gently teased her, passing a bowl of steaming food to Martin with a maternal warmth that required no words. Watching them, a familiar, bitter sensation began to creep up Martin’s throat. It was a dark, heavy envy that occasionally consumed his entire body, leaving him feeling hollowed out. He looked at James, who was casually complaining about homework to his two mothers, completely wrapped in an unconditional safety that Martin could only dream of.
The blond felt a profound guilt for harboring such resentment toward his best friend, but looking at Jia and Marina, he couldn't help but bleed inside. He envied the way they looked at James with pure pride, the way the house smelled of home rather than hostility, and how a simple dinner didn't feel like walking through a minefield
"Martin, dear, you've barely touched your plate," Marina’s voice suddenly broke through his spiral, her light brown eyes filled with genuine concern. "Is everything okay?"
Before Martin could force a polite lie out of his mouth, Jia’s quiet, observant eyes locked onto him. Unlike Marina’s expressive worry, Jia possessed a sharp intuition that didn't need a torrent of words to understand a situation. She noticed the slight tremor in his fingers as he held his fork, the way his shoulders instinctively hunched forward as if protecting his chest, and the sheer exhaustion veiled behind his eyes. She recognized that look. It wasn't the face of a teenager who was just tired; it was the face of someone carrying a survival instinct into a safe room
"He’s probably just exhausted from the first day back, Marina," Jia said smoothly, her voice a calm, grounding force that instantly de-escalated the attention on Martin. She reached across the table, not to touch him—knowing he might flinch—but to gently push the platter of roasted vegetables closer to his side. "But make sure you eat something, Martin. You're staying the weekend, right? We need you fueled up if you and James are going to carry those heavy clay boxes to the garage tomorrow."
A subtle wave of gratitude washed over Martin, making the heavy knot of envy in his stomach dissolve into simple, raw relief. Jia had given him an easy exit without making him feel exposed. James instantly groaned at the mention of chores, successfully redirecting Marina’s focus into a playful debate about manual labor, leaving Martin a quiet pocket of air to finally take a bite of his food.
After dinner, the boys headed back down to the sanctuary of the basement, the comfortable warmth of the dining room fading as the heavy wooden door shut behind them. Martin had barely sat down on the old sofa when his phone finally vibrated against his thigh. His heart skipped a beat. He unlocked the screen to find a message from Juhoon. It was short, dry, and carefully constructed—the kind of text that practically screamed there was something ugly hiding between the lines.
Juhoon claimed his mother had suddenly fallen ill, so he had decided to stay home to help take care of his little sister. He ended the message by casually adding that he would be back at school the following week. Instead of washing away Martin’s anxiety, the text only made it worse. A cold knot tightened in his stomach. The message was simply too calm, too tidy. Kim was many things, but a domestic, selfless caretaker who gracefully handled family emergencies without complaining wasn't one of them. The eerie tranquility of the words felt like a carefully painted mask, and looking at it only made Martin’s intuition scream that something was wrong.
Martin stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the glass as the words blurred together. He noticed too much when it came to Juhoon—sometimes far more than he ever wished to. It was an exhausting, involuntary hyper-awareness that consumed him from the inside out. He couldn't quite understand this part of himself; he couldn't decipher why a single, detached text message had the power to make his chest tighten like this, especially when the subject was Kim Juhoon. There was a strange, magnetic pull in the way Juhoon existed in his mind, a constant background noise that Martin didn't know how to turn off. It was terrifying how easily Juhoon could disrupt his fragile peace without even trying. Martin swallowed hard, the quiet hum of the basement record player suddenly feeling too loud, leaving him trapped in the suffocating realization that Juhoon held a piece of him he wasn't entirely ready to face. It had been that way ever since he had met the brown-haired boy.
"So... do you wanna do something or just keep staring at your phone?" James said jokingly, breaking the full-on overthinking session the taller one had started in his own mind. This led Martin to come back to his senses and slip his phone into the brown hoodie he was wearing.
"I think I'm gonna take a quick shower. You can go ahead and choose some movie for us to watch—something good this time, please!" he said warmly, trying to bury his thoughts away as he moved up the stairs toward the nearest bathroom.
As the night went on, a warm feeling wrapping around the boys as they watched movies from the 90s and made jokes about how they would act if they were the characters. They had set up comfortable, warm blankets on the mattress laid on the basement floor. Eventually, the room became quieter and darker; the only light came from the notebook screen, still stuck on the last scene of a movie they had been watching before both of them became a snoring mess.
It was now Saturday morning. James was already awake and upstairs, probably in the kitchen, as Martin began to open his eyes and look around the room. He felt a calming sense of relief realizing where he still was: his favorite place, James's basement. He was already up when, reaching for his phone, he saw messages in a group chat named "The Freakites." He just stood there, staring at the screen, remembering last summer and how that name had even come to life.
───
The rain quietly poured outside the Zhaos' house as the five boys argued about whether they should make popcorn or just order some pizza. Martin's gaze lingered outside, wondering how many days of summer were still left.
"The last time we even tried to make popcorn, Keonho made me burn them, so I just can't let food be wasted like that again!" Seonghyeon said, getting up from the living room's massive sofa and picking up his phone, already dialing their favorite pizzeria's number.
"You can't just accuse me! It was all of us who got distracted by the movie!" Keonho claimed, looking around the room, waiting for someone to agree or just back him up. But none of them did; they just laughed and threw pillows at the honey-skinned boy. "Ugh, you guys are such losers. I don't even know why I'm friends with you all!" he said dramatically, crossing his arms.
"Losers is actually such a nice way to call freaks like us" James said, laughing at Keonho's face and giving a small nod.
"I don't know, man. Sometimes I feel like you idiots aren't even human to begin with," Juhoon said with a sarcastic tone only he could pull off while still looking innocent.
"Can't we be both? Like some kind of parasite freaks or something," Martin laughed. As the words came out of his mouth, it all sounded like something a stupid 90s movie character would say.
"Well, that's definitely an opinion..." Seonghyeon said as he hung up his phone, finally ending the pizza call. He walked over toward the boys on the sofa, sitting beside Keonho once more.
"We shall be called 'THE FREAKITES' from now on!" James shouted, stepping up onto his living room side table and making a grand gesture, like a knight vowing before his king.
The room was filled with laughter—loud, messy, and bright, just like all summers should feel. "Oh, I'm gonna miss this " Martin thought as he laughed, throwing his head back against the cushion of the sofa, as if his head were just too heavy to stand still and his body too alive to stop moving.
───
The messages flooding the group chat were mostly Seonghyeon and Keonho bickering, complaining about each other in that loud, familiar way that usually made Martin smile. They kept texting about how they couldn't wait to landing back home and hanging out with everyone later that day. Martin looked down at his phone screen, biting his lower lip as a quiet, heavy ache settled into his chest. Amidst the chaotic spam of his friends, there was only a single, sterile message from Juhoon—just a few words saying he didn't know if he could make it to James’s house later.
It was true that Juhoon had always been a quiet person; he wore his silence like armor. But he was never this quiet with them. He was never this distant with Martin. Staring at the glowing screen in the dim morning light of the basement, the blond boy felt completely powerless, left with nothing but a haunting spiral of questions.
Then after a while he locked his phone and let out a soft sigh, trying to shake off the cold weight in his chest. He stood up, stretching his aching limbs, and followed the sweet aroma of toasted bread and fresh coffee upstairs. In the kitchen, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to his internal turmoil; Marina and Jia were sharing a quiet morning conversation, and James was already half-asleep over a bowl of cereal. Martin forced a warm smile, taking a seat beside his best friend. For a little while, the domestic comfort of the Zhao household managed to quiet his racing thoughts, the gentle clatter of plates serving as a temporary anchor.
Once breakfast was over, the boys drifted back down into the familiar sanctuary of the basement. The Saturday morning sun filtered through the small, dirty window, casting long, dusty beams of light across the concrete floor. To break the silence, James walked over to the record player, and soon the melancholic, fading drum beat and the iconic acoustic chords of '1979' by The Smashing Pumpkins filled the room. The music carried that perfect, bittersweet teenage energy.
They tried to let the song distract them. James picked up a sketchbook, his charcoal scratching rhythmically against the paper in sync with Billy Corgan's distant voice, while Martin lay back on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling pipes. Yet, even with the warm melody wrapping around them, the ticking clock felt incredibly heavy. The basement, which usually felt like an open refuge, now felt like a waiting room. With every hour that slipped away toward the late afternoon, Martin’s eyes kept darting back to his silent phone, suspended between the eager anticipation of seeing Seonghyeon and Keonho again, and the suffocating dread of Juhoon’s empty space.
Hours had passed now and the sunny morning had slowly bled into a soft, late afternoon light when a chaotic thud at the top of the stairs broke the silence. A second later, the heavy wooden door burst open, and Seonghyeon and Keonho practically tumbled down into the basement, their faces split into wide, exhausted smiles. The lively energy they carried instantly flooded the room, shattering the long hours of waiting. They collapsed near the mattress, immediately launching into a breathless, synchronized storytelling session about their week away. They talked about how staying at Seonghyeon’s grandmother's house in the countryside had been one of the most comfortable, core-healing memories of their year so far—laughing about the homemade food, the quiet nights, and the countless petty arguments they had ended up having on her porch.
The blond one did his absolute best to smile along, nodding at the right moments and forcing out chuckles to blend into the warm, familiar dynamic of his friends. He didn't want to ruin their high. But beneath the surface, it was an exhausting performance. Every few minutes, like a broken record, his thoughts would ruthlessly drift right back to Kim Juhoon. The bright, cheerful atmosphere of the basement only made Juhoon's absence feel darker and heavier. Martin’s gaze kept sliding toward the empty space on the sofa, a desperate, quiet ache blooming in his chest. He didn't just want answers anymore—he needed to physically see Juhoon. He needed to look into his dark eyes, to feel his grounded presence, and to finally, once and for all, silence the screaming voices of doubt and paranoia tearing his mind apart.
And then, almost as if the universe were collaborating with him for the very first time in his life, a soft creak echoed from the top of the landing. The basement door clicked open, and a familiar silhouette stepped into the dimming afternoon light. Juhoon walked down the wooden stairs, his hands casually shoved deep into his pockets. He had a slight, crooked smirk on his face—the exact kind of effortless, cool expression he always wore when he wanted to blend into the background, his hair was slightly messy maybe because of the wind.
Seonghyeon and Keonho immediately erupted into loud cheers, shouting his name while looking in his direction, completely absorbed in the relief of having the whole group back together. Juhoon chuckled a bit, and then immediately launching into a quiet, smooth apology about his phone being dead.
"Sorry for not making it clear whether I'd come today or not," he said warmly, his eyes sweeping over the four boys all at once. "I was just a bit worried about my mom, but she insisted I should come... so here I am."
He was doing everything right. He was saying all the right words, his low, velvety voice wrapping around the room like a familiar melody, trying desperately to convince everyone that everything was perfectly fine. But he wasn't convincing one of them. While the others bought into the performance, Martin’s hyper-aware gaze locked onto him like a radar. He didn't see the smirk; he saw the faint tightness around Juhoon's jaw. He noticed how the boy's dark eyes looked just a fraction too tired, flickering a little too quickly around the room as if checking for invisible threats—and how his shoulders remained rigidly locked beneath his denim jacket, like a soldier refusing to collapse. The superficial calm Juhoon radiated was just another beautifully painted mask, a fragile canvas trying to hide a storm. It was the exact same artificial peace from the text message, now breathing in front of him. The voices of doubt in Martin's head didn't quiet down; instead, they turned into a deafening certainty. Juhoon was bleeding inside, and he was the only one who could see the stains.
Taking a seat on the very edge of the armchair furthest from the sofa, Juhoon immediately directed his attention toward Keonho and Seonghyeon, asking detailed questions about their countryside trip, nodding along and keeping the conversation moving at a frantic pace. He was deliberately putting on a show, pouring all his energy into being the perfect audience for his friends' stories. And through it all, Juhoon explicitly avoided looking at Martin. He kept his gaze strictly locked onto the other three boys, his eyes shifting from James to Keonho, but never once crossing to the blond boy sitting on the mattress.
Juhoon knew. He knew that if his eyes met Martin’s for even a single second, the carefully crafted walls he had built over the last forty-eight hours would instantly crumble. He knew Martin didn't just look at him; his friend could read him. Martin was the only one who could decode the exact meaning behind his micro-expressions, the subtle tension in his breathing, or the heavy hollowness in his chest. To look at Martin right now was to surrender, and Juhoon wasn't ready to do that just yet.
But the deliberate avoidance only confirmed everything Martin suspected. Watching Juhoon actively steer his eyes away from him felt like watching someone desperately hiding a wound behind their back. The louder the basement grew with James laughter, the heavier the silent, invisible thread stretching between Martin and Juhoon became, pulling taut until it felt ready to snap.
He couldn't take it anymore. The heavy, superficial laughter echoing off the concrete walls felt like sandpaper against his raw nerves, and watching Juhoon spin his elaborate web of lies was becoming physically unbearable. The invisible thread between them had pulled too taut, and Martin refused to let it snap without doing something about it.
Abruptly, Martin stood up from the mattress. The sudden movement caught the edge of Keonho’s attention, but before anyone could say anything, Martin looked straight at the armchair, his piercing gaze cutting right through the barrier Juhoon had spent the last hour carefully building.
"Hey, Juhoon," Martin said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet command that instantly sliced through the room's noise. "Can you help me grab some of those heavy clay boxes Marina asked us to move earlier? They’re just at the top of the stairs."
James looked up instantly, his sharp eyes widening just a fraction as he caught onto the unspoken urgency vibrating in Martin's tone. He quickly nudged Seonghyeon, loudly starting another debate about the train ride the boy was complaining about minutes before to give them an easy exit.
The boy just froze, his crooked smirk instantly vanishing from his lips. He looked at the other boys, desperately searching for a lifeline, but there was nowhere left to hide. He had backed himself into a corner. Slowly, with his shoulders still rigidly locked beneath his denim jacket, Juhoon stood up and followed the lanky, blond boy up the stairs, as the silence of the hallway swallowed them whole, leaving Juhoon to realize that outside the crowded room, no wall was high enough to hide the bleeding truth of his heart from the other.