Under the Streetlight - Newtmas

O n e

Thomas.
"Come on shank! We're gonna be late for the third time this week!" Minho's sundry rants traveled through my window; he — not so patiently — waited downstairs, sticking his head out the window of his precious car: a rusty red Ford Probe he'd gotten as a present from his mom on his 16th birthday.

"Give me a second!" I throatily shouted while I crouched over, my antsy fingers scrambling to tie the slippery laces of my sneakers. I felt my backpack slip forward at the same second I sprung up, grasping my phone before heading out of my room.

I jumped down the stairs stepping over two trad boards at a time — sliding my hand down the handrail like a racing car in a circuit — and I drifted by the hallway, stealing a warm piece of toast from the kitchen table before I finally ran to the door, where my mother was engaged in a friendly conversation with my best friend.

"Bye, mom!" I waved to her, dodging her kiss just in time.

She knitted her eyebrows together — creasing her delicate forehead — and tiredly waved back with a small, almost imperceptible grin. I climbed into the passenger's seat of Minho's characteristic red car — which he took care of like a child — and closed the door with a loud thump, earning a dirty look I didn't bother to acknowledge.

"Finally man," he hissed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "You're worse than my sister, geez."

"Well, the first two times were entirely your fault because of your hair gel; and I quote, 'Do you think my hair looks that good because I was born this way? Nah man, you gotta take care of it' am I right?" I smiled, satisfied, while I gave a pleased bite out of my miserable toast.

"Bitch-ass boy," he mumbled, afflicted, while he snapped his head forward and twisted the keys in the orifice, that made a slightly annoying clinking noise. I watched the soccer ball-shaped keychain swinging until it went still, and seconds later, the engine turned on, the entire vehicle vibrating; I could feel the quavering under my feet.

The morning was humid — yet unexpectedly warm — the sun shone dimly behind the fuzzy clouds, and the birds seemed to enjoy it like a kid with a lollipop, for they were chirping to each other excitedly. It was mid-autumn, and the colorless leaves were starting to slowly fall from the trees, getting gradually naked; the ones that still managed to hang on the branches, were stained of red due to the incoming cold. The otherwise empty streets were filled with brown patches of dead leaves, you could tell by the faint rotting smell they emanated, and the children playing over them like they were climbing a mountain. I felt a sudden, brief feeling of nostalgia, but it vanished before I could give it further thought.

"Have fun sweetie!" fluttered my mom, blowing a sweet kiss into the air — unmistakably referring to me.

"I'll sure do Mrs. Stilinski!" slyly answered Minho, and stepped on the accelerator before I could get a word out my mouth.

Minho acted like this since we met each other — nearly five years ago, damn! — he flirted with every form of a human girl, succeeding about ninety percent of the time with a messy kiss involved. Despite my mom finding it quite funny, I wasn't particularly fond of him kissing her on the cheek every time he walked in and out of my house; like, dude! At least do it out of my territory. 

"Are you for real?" I grimly snapped, watching Minho grin like the idiot he was.

"You're gonna have to accept that we love each other one day, son," he gravely drawled with a serious, serene expression — which was quite impressive, considering the fact that he couldn't keep a straight face for more than a minute when he was around me.

I looked at him dead in the eyes, squinting, and despite he was staring at the street in front of him, he could feel my restless gaze perched on him, and eventually, he burst out laughing.