— “Do you think anyone will miss you when you’re gone?” The question makes him pause, his fingers stilling in the silt as he looks up. “Pretty deep question, huh?” He’s crouched on the edge of a stream, sun beating down on tanned skin, black hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. Gray eyes meet dark brown as his friend looks over and grins crookedly, shoulders moving in an easy, casual shrug as he dismisses his question as easily as he voiced it. “Just asking,” the gray-eyed boy says, pulling the collar of his t-shirt up to wipe his face, wincing as he rubs the cotton fabric a bit too roughly against his freckled skin. The black-haired boy rolls his eyes in skepticism as his gaze wanders back to the stream, tracing shapes in the silt at the edge of the water with his fingers. “I don’t know. I hope so.” His hand drifts near the water, nearly dipping under the cool surface, before pulling back as he stands up and stretches. The red-and-blue soccer jersey he wears lifts up with the movement, revealing a strip of sun-kissed tan skin that’s covered as soon as he lowers his arm and bends down to pick up his skateboard. “Really?” His companion tilts his head, still smiling like it’s his natural expression. He stands as well, wiping his face with the back of his palm in a futile effort to combat the sun’s merciless heat. “Yeah,” the taller boy shrugs as he looks over his shoulder, brown eyes flashing in the sunlight. One earbud dangles from his ear, the wire connected to it flapping slightly with the movement. His pocket jostles as he reaches for the second earbud, which he offers to his friend. “What, you don’t?” “Wanna be missed? Nah,” the shorter scoffs, placing the earbud securely in his left ear with the kind of ease that comes from countless similar motions and moments. He picks up his bike, kicking up the stand. “Once I’m gone, I’m gone. That’s it. Life is for living. Once my time is up, I don’t wanna be somewhere I can’t even experience myself. I don’t want to live in memories.” “Like a firework.” “What?” “A firework,” the boy with the skateboard shrugs as they walk along the stream, back to the path which leads to the skate park. “You explode, then you vanish. No burning out or slow melting.” After a moment of consideration, the boy walking the bike nods, grinning. “Exactly. I’d rather make my mark and then vanish. If I’m gonna exist, gonna be here, I’m going to be here as me. Not as a ghost.” The taller hums in consideration, thoughtful as he speaks. “I can see why you’d think that. It suits you, in a way. Being a firework.” “Really?” The other tilts his head to the side, curious. [cont. below]
“Yeah.” He looks at his friend, brown skin tinted red and shining with sweat from hours out in the summer sun and sprinkled with freckles, green t-shirt soaked from an impulsive jump in the stream earlier, messy brown curls everywhere, a mixture of light brown and honey-gold when he passes through a sunbeam, gray eyes tired but bright and alert, and the enthusiastic, constant smile that never seems to leave his face. “You’re bright. You, like, explode, you know? Loud, strong, you draw attention pretty easily.” “I can’t tell if you’re calling me annoying or not.” “You are annoying.” At the remark, the curly-haired one gasps in offense, shoving the taller’s shoulder. In response, he’s shoved back, and nearly knocked into the stream. A shocked laugh erupts from his chest as he catches himself just in time, stumbling off the rocks. “Oh my god, you almost killed me!” He glares at the brown-eyed perpetrator accusingly as he picks up his bike, breath still quick from the shock. His friend is watching him with amusement, looking smug as they keep walking. His skin is more tanned than usual in the summer, his clothes drier than the gray-eyed boy’s due to his wise decision not to start swimming in the stream. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, dimples showing as he laughs at his friend’s misery again. The blue denim of his jeans is faded, the seams worn and fabric littered with holes after years of use. He claims it’s style and refuses to get a new pair. “So,” the shorter boy says as they emerge from the tree-lined riverbank and return to the sidewalk, “what about you? Why do you want to be missed?” “I guess…” the black-haired one trails off in thought. He places his skateboard on the ground and steps on it, starting to roll alongside his friend instead of walking. “I guess it’s because it would mean I was cared about, y’know? To have someone miss you, it’d be nice. And I’d want to be remembered, to make a mark so, even after I’m gone, there’ll be something to show I was a person, not just a population statistic.” “A fire pit.” “Explain?” “A fire pit,” the brunette starts, “is something that provides warmth, food, and all that stuff. And even after the large flame is gone, there are still small embers. There’s still smoke. And even when you find no fire at all, the existence of a fire pit, of those charred logs and sticks, it shows there was something—someone—there. And, you know, you’re like a fire pit in other ways too. You’re not very loud, but you’re stable. And you’re unique, not something that people normally expect. You’re both simple and complex, and what you give is mostly dependent on how you do things, not on what is expected of you. You’re versatile.” “I didn’t know you knew that many words.” “Oh shut up, I give a whole monologue about you and your first instinct is to insult me? I thought we were friends.” Despite his betrayed words, the gray-eyed boy is laughing, swinging his leg over his bike as he easily hops atop the seat. The boy on the skateboard rolls his eyes, before sighing. “Fine. Thank you.” He grits out the words like they’re painful to say. “Happy?” “Depends. Are you buying me food?” “Fine. Whatever. Sure.” “Then yes,” the brunette nods in satisfaction as they approach the gate to the skate park. “I accept your gratitude.” Before the black-haired boy can answer, the bike takes off, speeding towards the basketball courts nearby. He sighs as he watches, before following. He wonders, idly, if he’ll remember this day when he’s older. He hopes that if not him, at least someone will. Maybe it’ll be a story, years from now, told around a campfire, or maybe under fireworks. Maybe both, he thinks. He imagines, decades from this moment, a hot summer night, the air filled with voices and stories and woodsmoke, under a night littered with stars and fireworks. —
