Chapter Text
He hates Sundays, and he hates the stupid clothes he’s forced to wear. Formal never fit him right; he's too tall and too lanky for it to look remotely acceptable on a teenage boy. So, when his mom forces him to wear his Sunday best, it sours his mood. He’d go to church voluntarily the day it stops being boring and monotonous; until then he’ll put on a subtle frown every time they go. Can’t really complain much unless he wants another lecture from his parents. The priest already makes his ears ring with his never-ending sermons. It's repetitive in a way he can't quite get a hang of. Sit, pray, stand up, kneel, and sing. He absolutely hates it. The only good thing about the church is the basketball court behind it, where he often sees the altar boys play. He joins in when he gets the chance, enough that he becomes friends with some of them.
They arrive at the church just in time and sit at the front like they always do. It’s a blur of hymns and sermons; Klay wasn’t paying attention like he should, never really did, but he finally lifts his head, and he spots someone, a boy. The altar boy in his white tunic, right beside the priest.
He looked younger than his fellow altar boys. Klay squints his eyes at him, and the boy spots him staring. He could only subtly scrunch his face as if to say, "What?" and Klay averts his eyes. Embarrassed that he got caught staring, he couldn’t look at the boy’s face the whole service, couldn’t bear to meet his eyes again.
The service ends, and Klay couldn’t wait to go home and change his clothes. He wants to go back to the church as soon as possible to play basketball with all the other boys. Maybe he’ll get to see that baby-faced boy playing, and that also makes him more impatient. The moment his parents decide to go home, he fidgets like crazy. Legs bouncing in the car, looking at the window like it’ll make his dad drive faster. It’s no overstatement to say that he ran to his room like a man in hiding, changing clothes and running back down to mumble something about basketball to his mom before sprinting towards the door and into the streets.
He runs, making long strides like he’s getting chased, and finally he’s in front of the church again, hands on his knees bent over, breathing hard and looking at the concrete below him. He catches his breath before looking up, and to his surprise that boy was looking at him, still in his tunic. Klay notices his eyes first. Some shade of green with gold flecks under the afternoon sun. Caught off guard, he asks the first thing on his mind.
“How old are you?”
“Older than you, probably,” the boy laughs. Klay notices his gapped teeth. It fits him, makes him look younger than he is.
“You look like you’re still practicing how to color inside the lines.”
“And you look like a tree.”
“Short-ass.”
The boy gets closer, and he gets a weak punch to his left arm.
Klay smiles for the first time that day.
He learned the boy's name was Steph, and Steph was something else on court. It doesn’t matter that boys their age were taller or more muscular; he went to the three-point line and made sure they didn’t undermine his talents. Nobody was surprised but Klay because he was told that his form was textbook, perfect in every way, but watching Steph play gave him goosebumps. No matter how many times he gets bodied by a bigger boy, he gets up and throws the ball like he already knows it’ll go in. Klay was his teammate that day, and they clicked like no other; it felt as though Klay finally found someone who looked past the walls he built around himself.
After that, they couldn’t be seen without each other. Whenever they’re playing basketball with the other boys, they’d always be on the same team, no matter how much the others complained because it was unfair or some bullshit Klay couldn’t care to listen to. They didn’t really mind; it was either that or they'd sit the game out on the side of the court talking to each other like nobody else existed.
It’s funny how much he hated going to church before he met Steph. Now he’s there all the time, whether to attend mass because Steph is going to be there or hang out with him in the basketball court. He joked about becoming a priest because of Steph’s influence, and they both laughed about it.
“Yeah, when hell freezes over,” Steph laughed.
“Could happen though. I’m definitely a man of God.”
“Yeah, if He was a basketball player.”
Somedays, when Steph just wanted to attend mass, Klay would go with him. They’d sit next to each other in the pews, and Steph already knew what to do while Klay looked at him for guidance. He never really paid that much attention in church before; he lets the time flow and forgets all about it the moment he steps out of the building. With Steph, he pays extra attention to the way his face looks whenever he closes his eyes and prays or sings. Angelic. Klay finds himself paying attention to Steph more than the priest.
Summer kissed skin backlit by the sun, scrunched up nose, giggling at whatever lame joke he said. Klay can't help but stare. His fingers itch to hold a camera, take a picture of this moment, and frame it. Maybe put it in his wallet. Back against a tree, they watch the sky turn from azure to a light purple. Suddenly he’s struck with an idea and remembers the pocketknife he brings to the field because he likes poking around.
Klay turns around to flip the knife open. Steph looks at him with his brows knitted in curiosity, mouth slightly agape as if to ask a question, but he keeps it to himself and lets Klay do his thing. He carves the letter ‘T’ on the side of the tree, pressing hard on the downstroke just to make sure it never fades, adds a plus sign next to it, and wordlessly hands the knife to Steph once he’s satisfied. Steph appears to get it and adds his own letter ‘C’ without saying anything.
“And they say I’m the corny one,” he jokes after brushing the pad of his thumb against the rough surface of the bark, feeling their initials under his touch.
“I just want to remember what tree we always go to. This is officially our tree now,” Klay says proudly, like he’s some conqueror.
T plus C.
Take care.
He smiles at that, his mind always somehow running from him, a thought melts with another, the present already a memory of a memory.
“Take care,” Steph repeats, and it makes Klay do a double take. He was thinking out loud, it seems.
“It’s stupid. Don’t listen to me. I’m just saying shit.”
“I think it’s sweet, actually.”
“Y’all act like boyfriends or some shit.” One of their friends joked one day, lighthearted banter.
As he laughed it off, he saw Steph flinch before doing the same, albeit with less humor and more of a nervous tinge to it. Weird.
Klay’s heart sinks, and he doesn’t know why.
Steph was always surrounded by people, his boyish charms on full display. He doesn’t mean to be such a bright start amongst the bleakness of high school wannabes. He’s just earnest in a way that sets him apart. So as prom rolls around for the seniors, such as Steph, Klay is left to wonder who Steph’s date is going to be.
Sitting side to side on the foot of his bed, controllers in hand, but they’re not really trying.
“Who you takin’ to prom?” he asks suddenly, genuinely curious, but also there’s a pang in his chest, knowing Steph is probably going to be with some cheerleader or one of those pretty girls in his classes.
It’s not jealousy, he thinks to himself, because that’d be absurd. It’s just that he’s two years younger and would feel like he’s missing out on going to prom with Steph. But not like that, he swears. Whatever, it doesn't matter anyway. He braces himself for Steph’s answer.
“You.” Steph laughs like it’s the most obvious thing ever, as if Klay was stupid to not already know.
Klay stops looking at the screen and turns his head to the side to meet Steph’s gaze; he doesn’t look like he’s joking at all. It’s an honest answer, and he feels something swarm his insides.
“Fuck off, really, who is it? Is it that girl in your English class? I swear she wants you, man.” anything to escape the brutality of it all, Steph’s sincerity a weapon he wields well, and Klay is on the other side of the sword today.
“Nah, plus prom is bullshit anyway. I’d rather hang out with you,” he smiles at him, like that isn’t the worst thing he could say. He even slings an arm on Klay’s shoulder, clinging onto him like a fucking tarsier.
"Dumbass,” Klay says monotonously and playfully pushes Steph away as if he’s not fighting a smile and something sour in the back of his mind.
“I’ll even do a promposal if you want,” Steph jokes. “Make it real corny so you say yes.”
“Some shit like ‘Roses are red, I’m shootin’ my shot, be my prom date cause you hot.’ I can already imagine it.” Steph sighs dreamily as a bit, like he’s actually imagining it. Hand on his chin, looking up, the whole ordeal. Klay wants to slap the shit out of him.
“Don’t start that shit, man. I swear to God I’m beating your ass on the spot,” with no real heat behind his words. Steph thinks he’s being really funny though, with the way he’s making himself laugh while Klay stares at him. “I’ll go with your loser ass, but just know we’re gonna look like the dumbest pair in school.”
“My lucky day then ain’t it,” he’s smiling ear to ear like he just won the lottery and not a ‘date’ with Klay. “I know you’d come around. C'mon, we’ll look fly as fuck.”
“Dumb as fuck you mean.”
“Hater.”
“Virgin.”
“I know you ain’t just say that.”
Prom rolls around, and Klay finds himself in front of the mirror looking at himself stupidly, brushing off imaginary dirt and lint from his black suit, a blue rose as his boutonniere. He doesn’t know why he’s even trying; they’re barely going to the party. Probably do something else like go to a shitty diner and drink milkshakes, make a fool out of themselves, then go home to play video games. He can’t lie and say he doesn’t feel just a bit smug about being Steph’s ‘date’ because he knows at least half of the girls in school want to be him right now. Fuckin’ losers, he thought to himself. Klay won’t admit it, but he relishes in the fact that he always has Steph on his side. He almost gloats about it.
He can hear several knocks on their door, and with one final look in the mirror, he goes down the stairs to open it. He opens the door to none other than Stephen Curry on his doorstep, a black suit, a fresh haircut, and green eyes under the fluorescent lights of their porch. A big smile on his face and a daffodil on the left lapel of his suit. How can a boy be so pretty is beyond him.
"Alright, stop smiling like a maniac on my porch; we have a prom to be bored at.”
“No compliments?” Steph pouts. “You look good, by the way.” he touches the blue rose on his chest, looks up at him, and smiles. No jokes, no humor behind it, just an honest to God soft smile that makes Klay feel like he’s staring at the sun.
“Shut up,” he says before his mouth stops working.
“Ouch, you wound me.” In typical Steph fashion, he theatrically puts a hand on top of his heart.
“Man, get your ass inside the car.”
“Jeez, prince charming over here.”
Steph’s the one driving, claiming to be 'such a gentleman’ and that he should appreciate him being a great ‘date’, but Klay thinks he just wants to show off his driving skills because Klay said his driving license was bullshit and rigged.
The party was a bust, just a bunch of hormonal teenagers in one place; it was horrible. Klay wanted to pour bleach in his eyes. Everybody is getting in his space, bothering Steph even though they’re obviously talking to each other. He hated it more than anything; nobody can really tell under his stoic expression that he’s irritated beyond words, but he’s one couple doing PDA away from throwing a chair at someone. The only good thing was that the lights looked good on Steph—a mixture of dizzying atmospheric blue and pink.
Steph starts to sway to the music while Klay stands still with his drink in hand; smooth movements contrast his rigid posture.
“What? You ain’t know how to dance?” Steph teases him, letting the music move his body, and Klay could only watch in awe.
“C’mon, relax a lil.” he laughs as he grabs Klay's hand and gets him close. Continues to dance, encouraging Klay to do the same, and he tries. Smaller movements compared to Steph.
“Gotta do better than that. Y’know your pretty face ain’t gonna carry you far.”
“Look who’s talkin’.”
“You sayin’ I’m pretty?”
“You called me pretty first.”
“I wasn’t lying.” Steph smiles. Klay just pushes him away jokingly, doesn’t know what else he could do when he felt his heart skip a beat and his face heat up. The tips of his ears are surely a shade of pink.
“Whatever, man. Let’s get out of here. I remember someone saying something about ‘wanting to just hang out with his buddy’ or did you change your mind about prom?”
It felt right like this, just the two of them on the empty court. The air around them has a bite that tears through the fabric of their suits—not enough to go home though. Alone together like they've always been, even when they were with the other boys. The world only revolved around him and Steph in his mind anyway.
They play an unserious game of horse. Steph goes first, and like the asshole he is, he goes from halfcourt. Doesn’t even do anything creative, just a half-court shot because he can.
“That’s in,” Steph calls out before the ball is even halfway to the rim.
And just like that, the shot goes in.
“Showoff.” Klay scoffs, turning around to get the ball.
“You love it,” he winks, and Klay just clenches his jaw. Not out of anger, no, just sheer annoyance that Steph is right.
He goes in the same spot, breathes in, dribbles the ball once, and goes for it. They both watch as he makes the shot, all net.
“Not bad.” Always so competitive, a smirk on his face like he wants to get punched. Klay doesn’t know how he hasn’t been in a fight yet.
“One day you’ll get your shit rocked for that attitude.”
“They can’t be mad ‘cause I’m naturally better.”
“Whatever dude.” he goes for something simple, a corner three. He hears Steph shout boringggg like he’s trying to sing it. Klay sinks it. Easy.
“We both know I’m gonna make that.” Steph jogs and stops right in front of him. Ball in both of his hands and uses it to put distance between them. Just a basketball apart, Klay can closely see his green eyes under the moonlight. “You wanna get some ice cream?”
"Sure."
The 7/11 was empty, except for the guy behind the counter looking at his phone, deeply uninterested in their existence. They walk in in their suits, completely out of place in this haven of white tiles and slushie machines.
They get their ice creams; Steph pays, of course, because he’s still at it with the ‘perfect promdate’ bit. Whatever, Klay won’t turn down free ice cream. They go outside to sit on the pavement, side by side, their knees touching.
Klay watches as Steph licks the ice cream dripping down the waffle cone, his eyes trained on it. Klay never noticed how long Steph’s eyelashes were before, not really. The way his lips are wet with the sticky, sweet ice cream, how his tongue flicks and laps at it—it’s childish, almost. Klay couldn’t take his eyes off him, his own ice cream melting until it’s running down his fingers.
Steph catches him staring.
“What?” he scrunches his nose. Klay can’t help but be endeared by it.
"Nothing,” Klay replies, monotone like he wasn’t laser focused on his friend’s lips.
“Whatever, weirdo,” Steph simply says, going back to his ice cream.
Klay just raises his middle finger.
They end the night in Klay’s house, Steph sleeping over without bringing anything; he knows he could just borrow clothes and everything Klay owns, acting like he basically owns the boy’s room too. Klay just throws his clothes at his face, and Steph only giggles.
“No fucking way! There ain’t no way you didn’t cheat, asshole.” Steph looks at the screen proudly announcing his defeat for the third time, and he’s absolutely dejected, but there’s that familiar edge in his expression. His eyes fiery, like when he gets competitive on the court and Klay just stares at him with this funny look on his face; Steph can see it in his peripherals. It pisses him off a bit.
“You just suck,” Klay laughs, punching Steph’s arm.
Steph lunges at him at that. Grabbing him, and suddenly they’re a tangle of lanky awkward limbs with his back on the carpet and Steph on top of him struggling to keep him under. He’s skinnier compared to Klay. He pushes against the smaller boy, hands on his shoulders.
“Ow, fuck.”
“Shit—let me get up—”
One moment Steph was straddling him; the next he got him pinned to the ground. His legs planted firmly on the floor as he grabbed the others t-shirt for leverage, technically his t-shirt. Steph's movements falter; they stop, both out of breath and slightly damp, breathing out their mouths heavily.
“You giving up already?” Klay exhaled as he’s catching his breath, his chest rising and falling noticeably under his shirt. The movement makes Steph’s eyes flicker to it for a moment before quickly looking back at Klay.
“Fuck you, man. You broke my ribcage or something.” Steph whines, like he’s not two years his senior.
“Whatever, stop being a baby.”
“Ain’t my fault you built like a tree.” He starts struggling against Klay again, their faces close enough for him to feel the words on his skin.
They continue to wrestle and roll around the carpet, pushing and pulling each other, clothes bunching up and getting wrinkled. Klay can almost feel the rug burn on his arms. Finally, they stop again, both worn out and tired. He’s on top of Steph, forehead on the carpet, breathing heavily next to his head.
"Loser,” he says.
Klay straightens up to look at him, arms still on both sides of Steph’s head.
“Shut the fuck up, Thompson.”
Eyes on him like the sea trying to swallow him whole.
A beat passes.
He looks at Steph’s lips and then back up at his eyes. Finds them staring at his lips. Steph looks up, and they lock eyes.
It was a blur. One second, he was looking at a sea of green; the next, his eyes were closed while his lips crashed against the other boy’s lips. They were soft, a bit chapped, but most importantly, they were Steph’s. It was awkward at first—a clash of teeth, not knowing how to actually kiss—but then it was electrifying.
That was his first kiss. Their first kiss.
Oh.
Oh God, no.
It dawns on them at the same time because, as he panics and tries to scramble away, the other boy was already pushing him hard. He has this shocked, terrified look on his face, soft lips agape, brows knitted together. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand; Klay does the same but with the collar of his t-shirt.
They sit there unable to speak, and Klay starts to pray in his head for this moment to pass. He doesn’t want to lose Steph over this; God knows that’ll break him.
The next day, Steph acted like nothing happened. He didn’t avoid Klay; he wasn’t acting weird about it, and Klay could only follow his lead. Both on a mission to forget what happened last night. It should be a relief to Klay that he doesn’t have to address it at all, but something in him wants them to talk about it; it meant something, right? He can’t be the only one that felt that. God, he can’t be alone in his feelings about this. But Steph's eyes tell him to forget about it, and so he tries to.
It comes without saying that Klay was there at Steph’s graduation. Holding onto his gift for Steph tightly like it’ll change anything, like it’ll rewind the years and allow him to cling onto Steph a little longer. He sounds like a petulant child, holding onto something he’s supposed to be giving up by now. He’s a big boy; he can handle this. The ceremony was a blur of speeches, screams, and caps getting tossed in the air. He wasn’t really paying attention, mindlessly clapping with the crowd. Only really paying attention when Steph was on stage; he looks good; he looks happy.
Once the ceremony was done, everyone went to their families, some with their respective friend groups, to take pictures. Klay was with Steph’s family, basically part of it by now.
Steph’s dad, Dell Curry, pats him in the back. “I know you’re going to miss him, son,” and he has this knowing expression in his eyes that to this day Klay will never forget. He could only nod solemnly.
Steph finally manages to get through the crowd, hugs both of his parents, kisses his mom on the cheeks, and daps up his younger brother. Once they congratulate him, his eyes immediately go in Klay’s direction, and everything freezes. Steph only smiles and goes to hug him, so fucking softly he feels like something fragile. He smells his cologne, and it’s sweet enough to make his head spin for a second. It’s like he’s been washed of sin, baptized, and reborn. He wants to stay in this moment, but it passes him like water cupped in his hand.
It doesn’t last as long as he wanted it to—a brief moment of reprieve before he has to go back to reality. Steph pulls back, and he looks flustered, his ears a shade of red. Gapped teeth showing proudly and his cheeks straining from how big his smile is.
“You got something for me there?” he pokes Klay’s side just to hear him yelp.
"Asshole,” Klay says after letting out an embarrassing, high-pitched yell.
“C’mon gimme.” Steph makes grabby hands like a fucking child. It’s only endearing because he’s, well, he’s Stephen Curry.
“Fine, fuckin’ hell. You gotta learn patience someday," Klay grumbles.
He finally gives the wooden box to Steph, small enough to fit the palm of his hand. Steph looks at him for a moment before opening it.
It’s a bracelet, wooden and made up of beads, with a small cross in the middle.
Steph immediately puts it on his wrist and admires it for a second before saying, “I’m never taking this off.”
“I got something for you too.” That catches Klay off guard.
He takes off his silver necklace with the cross, the one he wore every day hidden under his shirt. Klay has never seen him without it. Suddenly the finality of it all hits him—a punch to the gut that leaves his inside bruised. Steph puts it on him, and it sits nicely on his neck.
“You serious?”
“Of course I am; I can’t let you forget me now.”
“You know damn well I won’t. Actin’ like you going to war or some shit.”
Steph just ignores him and looks at the cross on his chest, silver, and it catches the light from the auditorium. “It looks nicer on you, though. Keep it safe for me.”
“Yeah, yeah.” he looks at the necklace on his neck, touches the cold silver cross, and looks up at Steph. “I will.”
Stolen glances and borrowed time, he knew he'd lose Steph the moment he steps onto that college campus. That they'll never be the same. He wishes he was wrong.
Klay said he didn’t want to watch him leave; better to leave on a good note, one last day together and all that. They spent it on the field near the church, watching the sun set while talking about nothing in particular. Klay feels the grass underneath him in his hands, clenches his hand, and digs his fingers into the dirt just to feel something.
He wishes he could grab Steph instead. Do something—anything at all. Have the heart to get mad and scream at him, but he can’t because what right does he have? He knows he’s being childish about it.
Grass-stained and melancholic, they walk back to Klay’s house to play video games, like the next day isn’t going to catch up on them, like today is a time loop. But the clock's hands are weighed down by the future as it shows it’s time for Steph to go.
Take care, man. Steph tells Klay before he walks out the door, tomorrow he’s going to college.