threat of joy | wen junhui

SIX?

SIX, TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT
VITA EAST HIGH

IMPOSSIBLE as it seemed to be able to piss off Junhui, who, as a matter of fact, was not prone to being ticked, he was indeed pissed off.

His skin throbbed excruciatingly to his mind via neurons from the still sensitive burn he had to experience twice, one from the relentlessly scalding hot sun on Friday for band, and the second from the prolonged pep rally just hours before. Flies had zipped only past him, of all the other kids, in the band room and his trombone decided to stay out of tune for the whole class period.

"Aw, is Jun sad because he didn't get in?" A voice noted on his walk across campus and though it was a teasing tone, he knew that it wasn't Minghao or anyone on his side. He whipped his neck back to meet the voice.

Michael, another trombonist and tubaist, averted the sunlight with his shadow. The boy crossed his arms, grinning cruelly, as if Jun's dissatisfaction amused him. The dark glint in his indigo eyes told him the truth.

"What do you want, Michael?" Jun sighed tiredly, immediately moving his heavy eyes to his sneakers, somewhat scuffed. It seemed like everyone always wanted something from him. "Are you seriously making the both of us late just to gloat?"

"It's just interesting to see someone as qualified as you are always said to be... excluded for once from the spotlight. Finally giving us a chance to shine. We're all kind of sick of seeing your face on the fucking papers and everything else we have to work for." Jun's eyebrows arched by the end of Michael's lecture, astonished, not at his words, but his tone. His words, too, actually.

"Are you sure you're still gloating? Because now, you're just complaining about me...at me." Jun might have winced playfully, purposefully adding ire to Michael's envious flames, but on the inside, his heart quivered on the tightrope of his insecurities.

The junior frowned harder, forming a worry deep into the pallid flesh of his forehead.

"What I'm saying is that: though you being the school's star has made you as cool as you think yourself to be all these years, now," his voice softened, as did the frown into a leer. It almost sounded like a question. "It actually kind of makes you a loser. Have fun, staying at school when we go to London and you don't, at the bottom for once and for all, by your-fucking-self. You deserve it, you fag."

Junhui didn't mean to break, like the dam(ned) or a river. He could feel the heat rising and screaming in his ears, his temper climbing like the seconds to countdown of a rocket's launch.

"What did you call me?" His voice didn't hold the typical humor, hint of flirt, or volume to enthusiasm. It just sank flatly like Titanic.

Michael chuckled, scoffing at Jun's leap to defense. Homophobia really filled the rhythm of whatever laugh he had been cursed with. It crystallized the air, tearing the atmosphere apart into fragments of a reality he wanted no part of.

"You heard what I called you and you know it's true. No wonder they didn't want you at the competition for London." A few kids passing by watched, listening, too. Jun felt his throat heat up, uneasiness filling him to the brim of his limit.

"I'm not gay and quit being a prick because you know for a fact that that's not why." The bell chimed in all corners of the campus, like a siren. Something's wrong. The fluidity of his voice hardened like the lump in his throat.