Archive of Our Own ^beta

BANG

The first bullet enters from behind, the bite and the sting amplified by shock. It rips through him like the truth he has always known, finally tearing him apart. He stumbles, and so do the sprinters in his heart, their bare feet bleeding crimson as they run their final stretch. 

BANG

The second accelerates the descent to his knees. The boy’s arm should be useless but he holds it in the air. It is desperation, not foolishness, that drives him to assume the universal stance for surrender.

“I don’t have a gun! Stop shooting!"

But we all know the cop will not stop. In his eyes the boy is as black as the road he begs on, a grotesque danger that has to disappear. 

BANG

This is the American story; history remembers and history repeats. The land feeds off the freedom of the people who walk its roads. It feeds off the rights of the other. The unfamiliar who are seen as demons, monsters, creatures, giants.

Michael Brown was a 'giant’.

The gentlest of giants falls from the beanstalk that only exists in the fairy tales of white children. The valiant hero slaying the beast. 

BANG

This is the lie we tell ourselves. That our stories are a monolith, that they are not for boys who look blue under moonlight, not for girls who blush a deep indigo when they smile with pearlescent teeth. These children are forced to grow up faster than ever, and when they grow too large they become a threat.

The titan in Michael's chest struggles to keep his world on its shoulders. His spirit is wounded with the lies of tainted blood, with the lies that black is the colour of evil because we fear what we cannot see. What we cannot understand.

BANG

The titan gives up on understanding. He shrugs, and the globe shatters before it hits the ground.

BANG

Six shots, and innocence is silenced. No more questions, only answers to those that have never mattered. 

The first tweet is sent as Darren Wilson leaves and within hours the world knows of Ferguson. The sky turns to ash as the sun hides in shame, and the clouds wished they had turned their eyes away. In the streets there is shouting and there is crying. The people are angry.

Another black boy is dead.

“It is a privilege to have you all here today.”

The droll of the loudspeaker is hushed, and people strain to hear the pleasant but otherwise mumbled speech. Another rally, before another protest, and another march.  Anna stands on her tiptoes, craning her neck to keep her head above the small crowd of a few dozen.

New York City, the hustle of eight million interweaving journeys. And while there is strength in diversity, Anna wishes that they could just be pointed in the same direction. If only we could all agree on something, be united in purpose. There are around fifty today. Imagine what an entire city, an entire country, an entire planet could do.

“Hey fuck you!”

Her reverie shaken, Anna turns her attention to the source of the voice from across the road.

A bespectacled woman around her age, all dreads and dark colours. She spits on the ground, continuing to hurl curses at their group.

“You arrogant pricks don’t know nothing. Nothing! You come out here with your signs and flimsy picket lines, shouting at a wall who’ll gladly flatten us because you try to be civil against an uncaring, violent hegemony."

The insults keep battering the crowd like the late autumn wind, an uncaring, screaming chill that’s annoying at best and exhausting at worst. Anna’s not usually the kind to speak up, but there’s a spark in her today.

"Can’t you see, we’re on your side?” Anna replies, hands cupped around her mouth. "We need to work together!"

Anna can see the lady's eyes narrow into a sneer. “Soy latte,” she begins, with as much venom as can be mustered. "White mocha frappucino. I see you."

Someone with a ginger beard shouts “ad hominem” but Anna is beyond caring.

“What is wrong with you?” Anna shouts back. She can feel the prickly hot feeling of shame and rage creep up her cheeks. “People sacrifice their precious time, and effort, because they care and believe in something beyond themselves, and all you can do is shit on that? Grow up!”

“Someone’s already crying to mama? Ready to go home and kick back because a fierce black lady roughed you up a lil? Maybe racism is alright after all-"

“Why you-"

“Hey back it up, it’s not worth it.”

“She started-“

Anna gets pulled back, into the crowd and out the other side, floundering onto a sidewalk and finding her balance. Her blood’s still on fire but the intercessor’s still by her side, arms around her shoulders to steady her. Anna’s breathing stabilises, and she looks to the stranger.

The girl looks like Sandra Oh in her early to mid twenties, and would have a magnificent crop of wavy long hair if it hadn’t been cut short. She wears her hair like Prince did, a high fade leading into a curly fringe that hangs in front of her eyes. She’s wearing a white tee half tucked into washed out ripped jeans. The bisexual flag is printed proudly over her chest area.

“Er, wrong event?” Anna squeaks, still out of it. “It’s a bit late for Pride isn’t it?”

“Intersectionality, my dear,” the young woman smiles with a shrug. Her accent sounds heavy and deliberate, even though it must’ve been the most natural thing to her. “I’m not here to steal any thunder, but all things are connected. Civil rights is a movement for all."

“Well, um, thanks, I guess,” Anna replies. “For back there."

“Hey, hey. Calm down,” she says. “Deep breaths. First time out here?”

Anna shrugs. “Outside of a campus context."

“Shit happens,” the lady says, and lights up a cigarette. “Want one?”

Anna shakes her head and politely declines.

“You can call me Ever,” she says, grinning. “I’ll be your personal grief assistant today.”

“I’m not grieving.”

“Oh my dear,” Ever starts - “I’m Anna,” Anna says - “you need to loosen up! What I mean is that we need good people to fight the good fight and I’m here to make it easier for you.” She takes another drag of smoke. “It gets tough."

“I know what I signed up for,” Anna crosses her arms. “But she-! Just think about how this must look! If there were any neighbourhood reporters around, the optics-"

“Trust me, you don’t want to go there,” Ever laughs. "The moment you start believing that they can’t do this without you, that’s when you’re in pretty deep shit."

Anna blinks, confused. "But isn’t that the case?”

“Oh dear,” Ever sighs, tousling her own hair. “You’re really fresh, aren’t ya?”

“Well if you’re so smart,” Anna rolls her eyes. “Why don’t you just teach me? If what I’m doing is so wrong, why can’t she just tell me what’s up?"

“First of all, I don’t know,” Ever grins. “Just because I’m some academic with a useless degree doesn’t mean that I have answers. And secondly, I shouldn’t have to be your education. And neither should she. That onus is on you, not any of us.”

“I’m here!” Anna throws her hands up. “I’ve put myself out here to participate, to learn!"

“And that’s great!” Ever chuckles. “Being on the streets gives you skin in the game. It’s what the paper pushers do when they need a reality check. But you’ve gotta keep coming back. Activism isn’t a two week holiday."

“Alright,” Anna nods, headstrong. “I’ll be back. But I’m here today, is there something I can do? Something I can learn? I shouldn’t need to earn all my stripes before the first lecture of Woke 101."

Ever fails to stifle her chuckle. “You’re priceless, you know that? Alright. I suppose we can have some conversation.”

Pushing the small of her back, Ever guides Anna back into the crowd. The march hasn’t started yet, but it will soon enough.

“Lesson number one is anger,” Ever says. “That woman just now. She was angry.”

“Uh huh.”

“Anger isn’t all bad. Anger gets shit done.” Ever’s lips curl into a smile at the second line, then flatlines as her brows furrow. “But anger can be toxic and it sucks to be on the receiving end. And that anger is vindictive but it isn’t wrong."

“How can she be angry at me?” Anna asks. “At us? She doesn’t even know us? She-“

“Me, me, me,” Ever sighs, shaking her head. “Full of white people confidence, you. I’ve been there. Lesson zero, is that the world doesn’t revolve around you. You may have done nothing evil-wrong - although, debatable - but it’s all about context. The white man has had the black man under their thumb for centuries. That’s centuries you can’t erase. Colonialism has its mark on everything."

“So I’ll just take it?”

“Just take it,” Ever nods. “No reverse-racism false equivalencies here. Some people go through the worst the human imagination has to offer just because of who they were, because of who their ancestors were. Because they were dealt unimaginable levels of hate that became law, became systems and institutions that uphold this hate, which translates into violence. Just imagine the demented irony of telling black people to go back to Africa when white people were the ones who brought their ancestors across an ocean to become slaves.”

Ever extinguishes the stub of her cigarette, looking straight at Anna. "That fucks with you, knowing that you’re fucked and that you’ve been fucked before you could have taken your first breath."

“When you put it that way...” Anna starts. “I mean, I kinda know this already, but-“

“You don’t truly understand it,” Ever replies. “You can’t. I can’t. Identity politics is thrown around as a dirty word these days but politics has always been about identity. The idea that policies affect people because of distinctions between arbitrary biological and social factors is not new. But because these distinctions are arbitrary - ah shit we’re going into postmodernism we don’t have time for this - things are… fluid.”

“You’re monologuing,” Anna teases, hands in her pocket and breathing warm air into her scarf.

Ever bumps her in the shoulder. “If that’s the case all university lecturers are villains and hey, you’ve got a point there. Where was I- okay well. I’m Korean American. The splitting image of my mother even as my family name is Whitley. Some days I pass off as white. They see my name and think I’m the daughter of some white-collar liberal family from Oregon. Over the phone I sound like some over eager grad student looking to do an MFA. Then they see my face and shit hits the fan. Identity is messy and confusing and there are no hard and fast rules."

A whistle blows, and like a car getting started while dew is still building on the underside of a leaf, the machine of the crowd kicks into gear. A small vehicle, one hoping to carry change nonetheless. Signs go up like flags, and the chants mark the rhythm of each step, the five-kilometre march making its way.

“Look,” Ever says, raising her voice above the crowd. “You already know all this. White privilege, police brutality, yada yada. Your heart’s in the right place, if not you wouldn’t be here. You probably won’t matter, you never will. But it’s never about you."

“That bleak, huh."

“That’s not a license to go all nihilistic!” Ever snaps. “We are all so small yet so large. Take care of yourself, yeah?"

“I will."

“You will keep stumbling, keep screwing up. But then we get up, and we learn. We listen and we get better,” Ever tells Anna. “That’s all we can hope to do. I hope to see you soon.”

“I hope to see you too,” Anna replies too, juggling between her sign - All Lives Matter But Black Ones Are In Need Of Mattering Even More - and her phone. "Can I have your number? Coffee or something, for another day?”

Ever smiles, yellow teeth beneath a nose too large for a Korean. “Of course, Anna.”

The crowd marches on, against the futility of progress but they march on anyway. Because they can’t afford not to.

Michael Brown, killed by Darren Wilson on August 9th 2014. There was a failure to indict Wilson.

Eric Garner, killed by the NYPD on July 17th 2014. There was a failure to indict the police officer responsible.

The following are a list of African Americans who are victims of police brutality in the United States. They are dead.

Akai Gurley

Steven Isby

Dustin Keith Glover

Victor White III

Dante Parker

Iretha Lilly

Darrien Nathaniel Hunt

Ezell Ford

Kajieme Powell

Justin Griffin

Briatay McDuffie

McKenzie Cochran

Willie Harden

Rumain Brisbon

Tyree Woodson

Balantine Mbegbu

John Crawford III

Yvette Smith

Donitre Hamilton

Jordan Baker

Barrington Williams

Tamir Rice

Jonathan Ferrell

DeAndre Lloyd Starks

Kimani Gray

Reynaldo Cuevas

Kyam Livingstone

Arvel Douglas Williams

Larry Eugene Jackson, Jr.

Miriam Carey

Tyrone West

Chavis Carter

Dante Price

Pearlie Golden

Jersey Green

Kaldrick Donald

Carlos Alcis

Deion Fludd

Justin Slipp

Reginald Doucet

Kendrec McDade

Hallis Kinsey

Malissa Williams

Duane Brown

Ramarley Graham

Jerame C. Reid

Raymond Allen

Rekia Boyd

Timothy Russell

Nehemiah Dillard

Robert Dumas, Jr.

Sgt. Manuel Loggins, Jr.

Zikarious Flint

Shantel Davis

Ervin Jefferson

Charles Goodridge

Shereese Francis

Johnnie Kamahi Warren

Ronald Singleton

Tamon Robinson

Rondre Lamar Hornbeak

Asia Roundtree

Trayvon Martin

Sharmel Edwards

Wendell Allen

Alonzo Ashley

Eddie Ray Epperson

Jimmell Cannon

Tanisha Anderson

Kenneth Chamerlain

Raheim Brown

Aaron Campbell

Aiyana Jones

Danroy Henry

Derrick Jones

Steven Eugene Washington

Kiwane Carrington

Oscar Grant

Jeremy Lake

Shem Walker

Kenneth Harding

Victor Steen

Tarika Wilson

Briant Paula

DeAunta Terrel Farrow

Oliver Jarrod Gregoire

Sean Bell

Vernicia Woodard

Henry Glover

James Brisette

Ronald Madison

Leo Blackmon, Jr.

Timothy Stansbury

Alberta Spruill

Eleanor Bumpurs

Lashano Gilbert

Orlando Barlow

Florence White

Treon Johnson 

Ousmane Zongo

Michael Ellerbe

Anesson Joseph

Timothy Thomas

Earl Murray

Malcolm Ferguson

Patrick Dorismond

Juan May

Prince Jones

Ronald Beasley

Amadou Diallo

Tommy Yancy

Eric Garner

Nicholas Heyward, Jr.

Malice Green

Edmund Perry

Michael Stewart

Ron Settles

Eula Love

Cedric Stanley

Mark Clark

Fred Hampton

Emanuel Jean-Baptiste

James Powell

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg, pristine white and cold with apathy, sinking under its own weight.

She has a longer list, each name carefully fact-checked after hours on Google, Wikipedia and other pages. She has made the arrangements ahead of time, and the preparation calms her.

On December first, she walks in and sits. The artist already knows what to do, the beginning of an arduous and weary picture. The canvas is neither white nor black. It is the colour of the earth.

She repeats this process every other day of the month, sitting for hours on end. Her project is financed by compassion, and an entire summer’s worth of double-shifts saved up. It’s worth it for her.

On December 30th, she walks out and heads back home. She has a hoodie - and she knows what happens to people with hoodies and her skin colour - but she’s willing to risk it. She’s not ready yet. The day before the day of the new year. Surely the festivities will keep her away from danger. Surely the winter is the perfect excuse to cover up. 

She reaches home without incident. After closing the door silently, she detours to the kitchen, sneaking past her parents. And after grabbing a pair of scissors, rushes to the shared washroom, hurriedly locking the door. In the crackling light she takes a peek at her reflection, before bringing her hood down and daring to stare.

Letting her face sink in for the last time.

She slips off her hoodie, and her sweater follows as it clings to the outerwear. She begins lobbing off her hair, snipping away bunches and putting them into a bin. Stray strands fall to her socks, sticking to them, and she curses at her lack of foresight. She tiptoes to a corner and undresses fully, bunching up all her clothes and kicking them as far as she can in the tiny toilet.

Taking her father’s razor from the sink top, she begins. She paints rawness with her brush, in neat parallel lines from left to right. She struggles at the tougher angles at the base of her neck, picking up a smaller hand mirror to guide her. When she is done, she admires for the first time the naked sculpture of her own design. It looks like she is drowning in patches of brown and ink, her head above water. 

She mourns her bald head, but not for long. Hair can grow back. Words will never fade.

No backing out now.

On December 31st, she walks in at dawn.

On December 31st, she walks out before dusk, and the world can see.

The world remembers Sophia Isabella Cara for her message, her brown skin detailed with the names of the dead, the deep black now a part of every inch of her being. She is eighteen years of age, maybe too young and maybe impetuous, but she will always be proud of every inch of her African-American Latina heritage. Her brothers and sisters will not be forgotten, through her.

They see and they remember: Michael Brown plastered in black down her scalp to her forehead, along with two hundred and ninety seven others that fill her up. Rivers of drowned names flowing from her collar to her waist, spiralling down her thighs and scrubbed through her toes. 

Never forget the children sent back to the earth, even those without the peace of soil to keep their cold bodies warm.

All the world’s a stage, but the curtains of this story rise an ocean away from the star-spangled banner, on a little red dot of an island.

March arrives like a lion, the roar of students filling the corridors of National Junior College as they are herded into their classrooms. 18SH09 has had a paltry one month to find their own rhythm, but their dynamic is about to be shaken up once again.

“His name is Michael,” their Civics Tutor announces from the front, as eighteen pairs of eyes stare at the black boy in grey uniform. Michael gives them a nervous smile, his teeth a stark contrast against liquorice skin. The curls of his buzz cut fade down his sides, his hairline and soft cheekbones framing curious brown eyes.

Michael is taller than all his classmates, and has the wiry build of a sprinter in-the-making. Already, the basketball and track members lock eyes across the classroom. They are all concocting schemes to get the black kid into their own sport. 

“He’ll be your new classmate, so please make him feel welcome!” the Civics Tutor continues. “I’m sure you all have many questions, but we’ll be starting Math shortly, so keep them for the break.”

The lesson is three thousand six hundred ticks of the second hand, but the eight note bell arrives, and the class erupts into chatter. Most of the girls prefer to keep their distance, speculating and gossiping in their own corner. But four boys decide to make the first move, approaching Michael.

The boy at the head, leader of the group, steps forward. Charming smile, sleeves rolled up that it looks slightly puffy at the shoulders, pants that are very tapered and very not allowed. A pair of white Nike Flyknits that look almost brand new, but are a year old. He reaches out for a handshake hug.

"Whaddup ma n-"

“Whaddup,” Michael interrupts, as they pull each other in. After they break apart, they give each other a casual fistbump, like they’ve been friends for a long time.

“Do u kno da wae?” the boy asks, with the widest, shit-eating grin.

“Yeah?” Michael raises his eyebrows, a smile plastered on his face.

“He is asking if you know the way around here,” a smaller voice clarifies. It belongs to a boy with mellow features and a button nose. His hair is clean and short, spiky towards the front. “He just has an affliction that makes him speak in memes sometimes."

“I’m familiar,” Michael replies, hands in his pockets. “Both with the meme and the school - thanks! I’ve had my own tour, but if there’s anything cool I’ve missed, y’all can show me.”

“NJ’s almost as new to us as you,” a third boy says. He has a pair of half-rimmed glasses and a warm grip as he places a hand on Michael’s shoulder. A blue pen can be seen sticking out of his shirt pocket. “I’m Asyraf.”

The leader blows at his fringe, a tad annoyed that he didn’t get to introduce himself first. “I’m Yong Zhi, but if that’s too tough you-“

“Don’t condescend him,” the second boy sighs. “My name is Cameron, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

As Michael reaches out to shake Cameron’s hand, the fourth boy speaks up. He’s the only one seated, legs dangling off the table and elbows resting on his fidgeting thighs. He has a thick, messy crop of dark hair, and constantly checks his phone which he keeps spinning with one hand.

“You can call him Young, because he’s a fake Korean and dreads the days when youth is out of his grasp,” he says. He stops spinning the phone, his moody eyes making contact with Michael’s. “Call me L.”

“Not to be confused with Ele,” Asyraf points out. “Eleanor’s a sweet girl but this bugger wouldn’t budge on the nickname switch."

Yong Zhi glares at his friends, something along the line of you all like to stand me up is it? but otherwise shakes his head, returning his attention back to Michael.

“So… Michael. Probably named after Michael Jordan eh?” he asks. “So you can play ball right? Come on, I have two năi chá and a Nationals riding on this."

“Nah,” Michael shrugs. “My Nanna’s devout so mom gave me a good ol’ classic name. I’ve played before but it’s not for me."

Asyraf cackles, giving Cameron a high-five behind Yong Zhi’s back. “I hope you’ve got Usain’s fire in you, because Track and Field could use another bolt-“

“Naw man, I’m sorry to disappoint,” Michael shakes his head. “I swore off cardio since ninth grade."

It was Yong Zhi’s turn to revel in sadistic glee as Cameron pats Asyraf on the back. L stands up, deciding to participate.

“You nerds,” he chides as he walks through the middle of his friends. He leans towards Michael, foot on one of his chair legs. "I’m not gonna go into that Michael Jackson shit but even if you’re not a musician there’s definitely sweet apple honey your earworm craves. What’s your jam?"

“You sound like a musician,” Michael replies. “Which instrument?”

L smirks. “All of them. The age of electronica is here."

"I get’chu!” Michael laughs. "I respect classical, but that shit’s wack. Them fingers ain’t dextrous ‘nuff for that.” He mimes playing a keyboard or a saxophone, no one can tell.

“So you do play.”

“I just listen,” Michael shrugs. “Occasionally curate. I know my way around Garage Band with a mouse."

“L’s the best DJ there is,” Yong Zhi proclaims, putting an arm around his friend. “He can spin something even this prissy stiff can bop to.” He points towards a cross-armed Cameron.

“Will keep that in mind,” Michael beams. 

“Still waiting on that beekeeper to your nectar,” L continues, his gaze relentless with his interrogation.

Michael rocks in his chair, taking a moment to come up with an answer. But he’s always known it, and chuckles to himself before giving a name.

"Frank Ocean."

"Good choice,” L nods, straightening up.

"Who’s that?”

"I might have heard of him before.” Cameron puts a finger to his chin.

"You know him?” Yong Zhi is incredulous, almost shouting.

“It’s ‘aight bro, I’m as stumped as you,” Asyraf nudges Yong Zhi.

Michael looks at the four of them, their dynamics and their laughter and their ribbing. He glances at the rest of the class, and exhales. He could get used to this.

“Ocean’s accessible,” Michael says. “I don’t Spotify but-“

“That’s a brother right there!” Yong Zhi howls, pointing at both L and Michael. L rolls his eyes but hides a smile of his own.

“Streaming’s important but it’s the Titanic to me. Whatever happened to owning your media?” L explains.

“-I imagine you’ll easily find him there,” Michael finishes. "I’ll tell you the best songs to get started on."

“Appreciate it,” Asyraf gives him a thumbs up.

“Michael,” Yong Zhi snaps, wanting his new classmate’s full attention. “Even if you think you know this crib you ain’t gone through the Young Orientation yet.” He pauses for effect. "We’ll lay on all the fresh deets bout this beautiful burden of a garden city eventually-"

"You don’t normally talk like this stop it-"

He ignores Cameron. “-but this cultural exchange is a two way street, ya dig?”

“So what we’re dying to know,” Asyraf continues, each stress enunciated with an accompanying gesture. “Who’s your hero? Who’s the quintessential black icon for you?"

Michael grins his widest, a mirror of the shit-eating grin that all mischievous boys learn before they know how to run.

⦿

“SonicFox?”

"The only black icon worthy of my undying admiration,” Michael replies, as he pounds his chest twice. “He’s two years older than us but he’s already a three-time EVO champion, and one of the best professional fighting gamers in the world.”

“What’s a fighting game?”

“Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat you dunce.”

“There was that Naruto one on the PSP once upon a time, yeah?”

“I’m not familiar with the scene. The guys from 04 have been hammering away at a pirated Smash emulator for years but that’s all I know.”

“Well, YouTube is your best friend. And Twitch too nowadays, so-“

Michael thumbs through his iPhone as he delivers the lore of the fighting game scene as concisely as possible. He still burns through almost half of the one hour break, his fried rice untouched in front of him, as his new friends listen with rapt attention, Yong Zhi or Asyraf occasionally interrupting with questions. 

After the boys have a vague enough picture that they’d forget within the next two hours, they collapse into their chairs as the bell goes off.

"This was not… what I was expecting,” Asyraf admits.

“Hm?”

“But it’s still new stuff. Just…” Asyraf trails off, running his fingers through his hair. “…not what I imagined it’d be like! But you don’t know what you don’t know, right?"

"The buzz when we heard a black kid was joining our class!” Yong Zhi shouts - why is he always shouting? - before slurping the last of his prawn noodles. He smacks his gravy coated lips and sighs. “All the speculation and theories and - it was almost like a zoo ya?"

"To the typical Singaporean, anyone of African descent is as elusive as the holy grail,” Cameron shrugs, attempting to translate Yong Zhi’s sentiment. "If one never leaves the country, I doubt they might ever meet a black person face to face."

"But you were coming, and honestly… what came to mind was every stereotype imaginable,” Asyraf confesses. "Black culture filtered through Buzzfeed listicles. The ironic self deprecation so prevalent in Black Vines-"

"Watermelon and fried chicken,” Yong Zhi cuts in, scratching his nose.

“I was hoping you’d tell us how Singapore’s fried chicken measures against those where you came from,” Asyraf grins. “I’m sure there’s no contest, but I will not stand for any slander against the Malay auntie’s ones."

“It’s really good fried chicken,” Cameron adds, wistfully staring at the Malay stall. “Too bad it’s only on Wednesdays, and there are so many choices on Wednesdays.”

“I’m sure it’s fantastic fried chicken,” Michael replies.

Asyraf pats him on the back. “Anyway look. I’m a minority race in Singapore, so I know the experience of being seen as an other. I know it’s just so immature to treat you like a foreign alien but I guess there’s a child in all of us minus the innocence. Curiosity can go too far I guess?”

Cameron nods, Yong Zhi’s staring across the canteen for his eye candy, L continues to stare at his phone. Asyraf sighs, giving Michael an apologetic shrug. “Sorry if we make things suck for you. Tell us if we do, ya?"

“It’s aight,” Michael returns a polite grin. “As far as first impressions go, your hospitality’s far from lacking."

“But also Asyraf was looking forward to meeting a librarian who can update his rap and hip hop archives,” L adds, never looking away from his phone, his chopsticks tapping Michael’s plate for attention.

“Hey L, that was said in confidence! Not cool-“

“I would also like to know more about hip hop,” Cameron says, ruffling Asyraf’s hair.

“Definitely got secret stash somewhere one,” Yong Zhi snaps, returning to the conversation. Cameron groans because they’d promised they wouldn’t devolve into Singlish in front of Michael, not just yet. “Bro, I’m sure there’s more fish in the sea."

"Look, Ocean’s the top,” Michael states. "That’s my list, and each to them's own. I don’t really know what you’re looking for? You don’t need me to talk about Kanye, Pusha, Snoop, Gambino, Nas. They’s all over the wide canon of hiphop. You want the secret stash?"

"Frank Ocean’s not an underground name,” Asyraf points out. “We want the good stuff you normally can’t be able to find, the hidden gems."

“But he's not Orpheus come back with his Eurydice.” L jumps in to defend Michael, Yong Zhi struggling to keep up with the metaphors. "Pick any random student I assure you they’re sleeping on the budding local scene, and they’ll struggle to name you indie hits in their mother tongue."

"You want underground?” Michael continues. "You can scour Soundcloud, and there’s big names coming from there - Tentacion’s one of them. There’s others like Sleep Sinatra and Prince Wiser but they ain’t my alley. They do good work and they expand the genre but ultimately the most important stuff is already out there."

Asyraf leans closer. “So?”

“You want my champions?” Michael grins. “Janelle Monae. She’s doing phenomenal multi-genre multimedia and has some indispensable wisdom we could all be reminded of. Go back to John Legend and move past All of Me, because he has such a rich body of work. The classics are the classics and I don’t need to tell you of The Purple One. They’ve been formative for generations beyond ours."

Cameron whispers to Yong Zhi. “Who’s the purple one?”

“I don’t know lah. Code for Michael Jackson maybe?”

“Cultural phillistines,” L sighs. Michael taps a few buttons, grinning at his friends.

“But I’d still start y’all on Frank Ocean. Let’s go from the top of this album,” he announces, turning to Yong Zhi. "I think you’re gonna like it."

Yong Zhi angles his face away to prevent his friends from seeing his flushed face. Michael hits play, cupping one hand around the phone’s speaker to amplify the sound. The steady, chill-hop beat sets a groove that the boys settle into, just as the first lyrics start to surface.

These bitches want Nikes

“That’s me!” Yong Zhi roars before the song can even take off, spinning around in glee. “I’m sold.”

“Shut it,” L groans, as the swell of the canteen’s chatter crashes onto shore in the back of their minds, and the ocean continues singing its song.

⦿

“That’s autism man.”

Rowdy insults, equally heated comebacks, noise and signal and words not meaning anything. Only the careless lizard brain posturing towards an animalistic sense of coming out on top.

“No it isn’t.”

Awkward silence cuts through the mostly empty classroom. Fifteen minutes to the bell, with the boys having finished lunch earlier. Danielle sits at her desk, tapping her stack of foolscap against it, a stern expression on her face.

“Come again?”

“That’s not autism and being autistic is not an insult.”

“I never said it was an insult.”

“But that was how you used the word."

“That’s how you’re choosing to interpret it.”

“I’m not. I want you to take that back and never use it again.”

“Psssssh. Go finish your Econs tutorial."

“No, Yong Zhi. I’m not letting this go.”

“Danielle it’s alright, you don’t-“

“Shut up Cameron don’t make this concern you."

“I was gonna say that stiffs stick together but clearly this is-“

“You could’ve used many other words in the English language to convey, whatever it is you wanted to. Clumsy, silly, blur like sotong. But you didn’t, and that’s not okay."

“That’s lame. You’re lame."

“Apologize. Now."

“Back me up here guys.”

L takes out his earphones, and moves to the furthest corner of the classroom. Cameron’s getting shut down as mediator and Asyraf is unusually quiet. Michael whistles and comes to Yong Zhi’s side.

“Okay look. That was a shitty thing to have done-“

“But everyone is-!"

“Yes I know. I don’t know which streamers you’re watching, but man gaming culture’s toxic.”

“You think my image is that of a guāi kià is it?”

“I’m sure you have a very well established image. But whatever it is, Danielle’s upset and that’s not cool.” Michael turns to Danielle. "You know this one,” he says, patting Yong Zhi’s shoulders. "All mouth and no brain. Imma take care of him more, yeah?” He whispers urgently in Yong Zhi’s ear. “Apologise already!"

“Sorry you got hurt by my words,” Yong Zhi shrugs. “If there's someone you know, I don’t mean to talk shit about them, I-"

“I have to agree with her on this.”

“Asyraf?”

“Don’t bullshit this, Young. Language matters. Words matter."

“This not some haram shit right?” Yong Zhi frowns. “Come on bro you swear all the time-"

“Casual racism enters the fray,” Cameron mumbles.

“It’s not about swearing,” Asyraf replies, calm. “It’s about slurs. You should know this, Michael."

“Yes,” Michael starts, cautious. “But-“

“Then you should know that there are words that are used to demean and crucify specific groups of people and that those words should not be said!”

Asyraf’s voice simmers, his normally jovial facade under strain. His smile is forced, sombre, as he faces Michael. “We can do better.”

“Why are you bringing Michael into this?” Yong Zhi snipes. 

“Because he’s an African American and just because he’s in Singapore doesn’t mean he doesn’t have to deal with micro-aggressive bullshit.”

“English please,” Yong Zhi’s expression is pained. “Or better, Singlish.”

“It’s not cool to use the n-word to gain brownie points with Michael. The converse, actually.”

“What? That’s not an insult. It means brother! That’s what they all say when the blacks are calling their homies! Right, Michael?"

“Technically, but-“

“Then?"

“No, no, no.” Asyraf’s words pick up in volume and velocity. "I don’t have time to go into reappropriation and the nuances of identity because trust me, this shit’s so complicated. But words absolutely matter because words mean things. And you can’t divorce meaning from its context, you can’t separate words from the speaker, you can’t just erase history with a flick of your hand because it’s more convenient for you-

"Yo Asyraf, ch-"

"I need you to understand!” Asyraf’s voice cracks. "This isn’t a matter about hurting feelings.”

“Asyraf’s right on this,” Michael shrugs. “I don’t say it cause I’m not comfortable myself, but if you’re not a black you don’t really get to use it."

“Because there are still people in this day and age who use it as an insult,” Asyraf continues. “Because Michael’s parents probably lived through the Civil Rights movement, and because it’s been slightly over a century since slavery was still a reality, and words were used to enforce the subhuman status of black people.”

Yong Zhi breathes. He tries to understand. “Ok,” he nods. “Ok.”

Danielle has her lips pursed as she watches the tense exchange going on.

“But I… I’ve never thought bad of black people. Before Michael I’ve never met one! I didn’t… intend any harm.”

Asyraf shakes his head. “Intent can always be misconstrued. Even if Michael never came, it still wouldn’t be okay to use it because there’s always someone listening.” His glacial patience returns to him as he lays it out for Yong Zhi. "Even if Danielle never knew anyone with autism, it’s still not okay to use it as an insult because people are listening and then they’ll think that saying it in this way is alright. You picked it up because you heard someone else say it, didn’t you?"

Yong Zhi nods.

“I love you like a brother,” Asyraf says, placing his hand on Yong Zhi. “And I want you to be better, alright?”

“Alright."

“Let’s do that apology again,” Cameron pipes up. “Properly, none of that I-didn’t-mean-to-hurt-you nonsense.”

“I’m sorry Danielle,” Yong Zhi exhales. “I shouldn’t have said that.” He turns to Michael. “I’m sorry Michael, I should’ve known better.”

“Hey no hard feelings,” Michael grins, hands in his pockets as he leans against the table. “You’re forgiven,” he says with Danielle.

“And I’m sorry y’all,” Yong Zhi says, in a splutter of laughter. “Thanks for telling me when I fuck up."

Five minutes to the bell, but the group are exhausted. As the rest of the class trickle in, they’re leaning against each other, a tangle of limbs sprawled across tables and chairs, sweaty brotherhood supporting each other. Learning to grow together.

⦿

“Michael, you need an education in sports.”

“Why watch sports ball when if you’re in front of a screen you might as well watch the best that pixels can offer-"

“Because the human body is capable of incredible feats!”

“And my fighters’ absolutely bonkers reaction speed and sick reads and not to mention their magic fingers - that ain’t incredible enough for ya?"

“You need the physical dimension, man! Just look at the NBA-"

“The NBA’s too much investment. Look, I ain’t judgin’ that people choose to do so, that just ain’t for me."

“You spend days on Twitch!”

“And that’s my poison, not yours! I ain’t expecting anyone-“

“Look, the World Cup’s this year-“

“And EVO’s every single year. I can understand the hype but it’s not like Singapore or America’s in it."

“Nationalism isn’t the point for us. Look. If you do the World Cup with me, I’ll do EVO with you."

“Deal.”

“That was-“

“You’re offering company?” Michael grins, punching Asyraf in the shoulder. “I’ll take it."

"You heard that boys?” Yong Zhi laughs, bringing his arms around Cameron and Michael. "We’re all doing the World Cup and EVO together!"

"I don’t remember agreeing to this,” Cameron protests.

L is suddenly no where to be found.

⦿

“Terima kasih!”

Five voices thank the middle-aged Malay woman, as plates of fragrant nasi lemak are laid out in front of them. The crackling of oil can be heard from the kitchen, with the promise of many more dishes to come.

Asyraf’s mother is an imposing presence, her smile cherubic and her laughter a mixture of shrieking and cackling. Her glasses match her son’s, but the half-rim is brown instead of blue. The homely two-bedroom apartment that is Asyraf’s home is all the more crowded with the five of them crashing over for the weekend for EVO 2018.

“No need to apologise about not crashing at your place,” Yong Zhi rubs his hands in glee. “I’d take mak cik’s cooking over a comfy guest room any day!”

“Sorry that my parents suck,” Cameron huffs, shovelling a spoon into his mouth. “Asyraf, this is divine."

“Tell that to my ma,” Asyraf grins, as the next dishes arrive. There’s steamy tahu goreng with a generous serving of peanut sauce slathered on top. A heap of táu géh sits in the middle of the table, the meal’s fibre and crunch.

"Another hymn from the blessing of the ocean,” L drawls. “Let’s have the reverend grace this meal."

"What’s it gonna be?” Asyraf asks, as Michael puts on the song.

Hand me a towel I’m dirty dancing by myself

With mouths full of food, the boys sing along and stumble over the lyrics, and Solo takes center stage. The delicious wordplay of the chorus fills them with awe, an image of the supernatural constructed with the clouds.

It’s hell on earth and the city’s on fire

Inhale, in hell there’s heaven

There’s a bull and a matador duelling in the sky

Inhale, in hell there’s heaven

Ikan bakar - nothing like Michael, or even Cameron, has ever tasted before - gets served up, Asyraf’s mother beaming from behind the apron. The sambal chili makes chinks in even the strongest of armours, and L is sweating as he finishes his glass of water. Yong Zhi is in a fit of coughing and laughing and Cameron excuses himself to the washroom. Michael grins in scarlet and his cheeks are rose.

“This stuff brings the fight to Texan chili,” he grins. “Woo that’s fire alright!”

“A closer call than Sonic vs Goichi?” L asks.

“You can’t do me dirty like that,” Michael groans. “It’s gonna start soon!”

Cameron’s computer is hooked up to Asyraf’s TV, with L installing a make-shift sound system with his own speakers. The Twitch stream is already building momentum, the chatroom all abuzz, but it’s still the calm before the storm.

And then the crowning dish - ayam penyet. Yong Zhi holds Michael’s shoulders, salivating like a coyote. Asyraf watches with satisfaction as his friends dig in, the crisp skin melting into the tender white meat. 

“You can’t beat home cooked,” Michael gushes, as his friends make noises of agreement. “That’s southern hospitality for ya. My pop and nanna would’ve loved this.”

“Maybe one day you can bring them over,” Asyraf says.

"Nanna - bless her heart - is no longer with us. My pop’s back in the States. Only me and mom’s come over."

“But-?”

“Mom’s not much of a home cook but she has a very picky palette,” Michael chuckles. “What little she does make is fantastic, because she polishes each recipe to perfection.”

“A tough customer,” Yong Zhi nods, wiping away his sweat. "My ma does what she can. No frills, just food.”

“No comment,” L states, grabbing another clump of beansprouts onto his plate.

Cameron’s more pensive than usual. “I’ve never had my parents cook for me in… forever. I guess a mother’s touch isn’t really something you can replicate huh?"

“What do you have then?” Michael asks.

“My helper does our meals, but it’s mostly Western cuisine,” Cameron explains. "If she was allowed to have her way with her own local dishes, maybe there would’ve been that personal touch. Maybe her cooking could shine. As it stands, it’s mostly pasta and baked rice variants, typical grilled meat, a pie of sorts every now and then."

“The true ang mor pai,” Yong Zhi teases, while Cameron shoots him a dirty look.

“Helper, huh?” Michael probes. "How does that work?"

“Oh, um,” Cameron scratches the back of his head, his other hand’s thumb methodically pressing down each knuckle. “It’s like… outsourcing the house work? A full-time butler of sorts.”

“But without the prestige,” L waves. “A nanny would be much more appropriate.”

“Most nannies had their own place,” Michael notes. “These domestic helpers, they live with you, yes?"

“Well yeah..? Because they’re foreign?” Cameron’s voice hitches upwards. “I don’t know where this is going, but I’m not dumb, and I’m old enough to know that things aren’t the best or maybe even fair but. I’ve been nothing but grateful towards my helper and I know she’s getting a decent wage."

Asyraf pats him on the back. “We’re not saying your parents are evil but, silence is being complicit in whatever system that… exploit is a heavy word, but you know what I mean. The sins of the father stop at the father.”

“He’s still a kid,” L sighs. “We all are."

"When I’m an adult, I just won’t have a huge place and then chores will be manageable,” Cameron declares. "Domestic workers being a necessity will be a thing of the past."

“Necessity, huh?” Michael ponders. “I’m sure that’s what they said, way back when. Just saying.”

Even Yong Zhi got the subtext, and the food tastes like cold citrus was sprayed all over it.

"One day the roombas will stand on two legs,” L suddenly announces. “And I, for one, welcome our robot overlords.”

“You nerd."

“It will be the machine zombie apocalypse, and that Acer with Windows XP on it will ask you why you threw a water bottle at it before it strangles you in your sleep.”

“I was eight, and my sister showed me that stupid jumpscare!"

Just like that, normalcy resumes, the problems of the past and future brought to the recesses of the mind. And then, the match of the decade.

“Here we go.”

“Fullscreen!”

“But I wanna see chat.”

“No you don’t."

“You can see chat on your phone if you really want to but we’re here for the cinematic experience.”

“Shush guys, I can’t hear!"

For the next hour, entering Michael’s world, the boys watch astounded, enraptured, carried by the energy of a 250,000 strong crowd, as a gay black furry wins the most coveted championship at the peak of his career, the story unfolding like the rollercoaster of a season finale. They witness their feed erupt and the victory tweet arrive, a legacy cemented in history.

im gay

also the best dbfz player on this fucking planet dont forget it.

— Echo Fox | SonicFox (@SonicFox5000) August 6, 2018

⦿

“I’d invite you in for a drink, but only if you want to.”

“Since I’m here, why not?”

“You didn’t have to. I can always catch up."

“You’re no Asyraf, I know maths doesn’t come easy for you.”

“Way to prop up my self esteem. I thought we were friends."

“So are you gonna let me in, or are we going to keep talking at the door?”

L rolls his eyes as Michael holds the bars of the grill gate, the former unlocking it and swinging it inwards. The two fist bump, and Michael finds himself in L’s humble abode, fanning himself with his shirt as he takes a seat. The NJ uniform is not cooling in the least.

Michael sets L’s math notes and homework instructions on the coffee table, as L returns with two cups of orange juice. Despite his indifferent demeanour hinting at a rebellious streak, L is a self-avowed teetotaller, rare even among underage teenagers. Maybe that’s his form of resistance, Michael thinks.

He’s in a black singlet and black FBT shorts that seem too baggy - “extras from my brother,” L replies, when Michael inquires about the brand. “He’s three years older and serving."

A gravely voice from deeper in the house calls out. “Ah Hui ah!"

“Tán-tsi̍t-ē!” L shouts back, giving Michael an apologetic glance, before hurrying off. Bouts of incomprehensible dialect fill up the silence, as Michael sips the refreshing juice. 

L is much more… normal in private, he notices. The veil of apathy slips, and there’s much less obscure, bombastic metaphors. The sardonic banter remains, though, but that’s a constant for every seventeen year old smartass wannabe.

When L returns, Michael raises his brows. L returns with a similar expression, but doesn’t chide Michael’s unsubtle attempts at probing. Much more transparent when he’s alone too, Michael notices.

“Our teachers are nice enough they respect how I want to be called,” L shrugs. "Long story short my parents were expecting a girl so I have a feminine name I don’t like. They didn’t bother to check and they trusted the Fengshui master completely so they’d already done the paperwork by the time the midwife delivered me.”

“That’s quite a tale,” Michael says.

The afternoon is spent chatting over superficial things, the both of them telling stories they’ve experienced or heard before, L occasionally checking up on the… grandparent (Michael couldn’t tell which one) in their room. 

L learns about Michael’s fear of cats - “thrice! Three times I was fooled by the same cat and each time they pounced on my arm, scratching me, and stealing my tuna sandwich like a rabid monster. I even changed route, but the same tabby found me anyway.”

And Michael has the gaps filled in for the one month before the boys met him. How Yong Zhi basically bullied his way into their lives, playfully forcing each of the boys to be his friends. But he and Cameron went way back to secondary school, so they had some form of history.

“Cameron was scared shitless I tell you,” L recounts, Michael noticing his first lapse into Singlish. “I practically stayed on because I wanted to see how this acne-ridden joker would terrorise the poor boy. I wasn’t disappointed, but I also saw that they... have a lot of heart.”

“Asyraf tries so hard,” L grins. “He works harder than all of us combined because he knows where he wants to go, and what he needs to get there. He knows what's necessary to give his family the life they deserve. And his curiosity and empathy will carry him far, make no mistake.”

L refills his cup as he continues. “Cameron’s had a crash course in the way things are. Army’s supposed to do that to you if your life is a pillow fort, but you can’t be too early. He doesn’t apologise, which I like. Some of his types do a complete 180 and become snivelling, self-hating cowards. You don’t need bougie arrogance, but come on grow a backbone. Cam’s shy but he owns who he is."

“Young has a lot more depth to him than when I first saw him,” Michael reminisces. “He’s endlessly narcissistic and distracted and indecisive. But he doesn’t cherish any single point of view.”

Raising his glass and grinning, L nods. “The most flexible asshole I’ve ever seen. He’ll screw people over and get pummelled himself but he gets back up, he adapts, and you’ll never believe it the first time you talk to him but he remembers. That counts for something.”

“It does,” Michael agrees. He places his glass on the table. “And you?"

“I’m me,” L smirks. “Surely you don’t need a detailed vivisection of your own psyche? It’s been an ongoing project of ours for the past nine months.”

“De-flec-ting,” Michael replies, sing-song, and L throws a small cushion at him. The two laugh and then quiet down when the grandparent lets out a cry of protest. L heads to the back, and when he returns, there’s a twinkle in his eye.

"Hey you wanna check out my sick beats?”

Michael’s mouth hangs ajar for a moment. “I thought you’d never ask."

L boots up his laptop, and fires up Fruity Loops, Ableton, showing off an impressive library of samples scrounged throughout the years. He brings out the Midi Fighter, his amateur recording setup - “USBs are the worst. Get an XLR mic and invest in a good audio interface and you’re set for life” - complete with bullshit cloth padding, and a second hand Numark Mixtrack he managed to haggle down to something that wouldn’t break his wallet. He shows Michael his favourite remixes, how DJs do the thing that keeps the party going forever, and breaks down the basics of creating an indie track.

Michael messes around with the drum kits, and spends an ungodly amount of time experimenting with brass synths that do not sound life-like at all. The both of them share a single pair of Audio-Technica headphones, as Michael hammers away on the Midi Fighter, playing infernal honks to a standard hip-hop beat.

The sun begins to set, with dinner around the corner. Michael knows he can’t impose, so he gets ready to leave. As he packs his bag, Michael feels L lean his chin against his own shoulder, body slumped against his from behind. L’s lips are barely an inch away from Michael’s ear, and he can feel the rise and fall of L’s chest against his back, the warm exhale against his sideburns. He feels the pit in his stomach open and the drop that comes with it.

"I’m gonna miss this so fucking much when it’s over,” L murmurs. 

The two of them hold this position for a heartbeat, a sigh, a flutter of an eyelash, three words left unsaid, two words given instead.

“Me too,” Michael agrees.

⦿

That’s a pretty fucking fast year flew by

That’s a pretty long third gear in this car

Two years is too little time. 

It will be the mantra the boys will whisper to themselves, as the weight of the next two years dawns upon them. But that’s in the future, and their current two years are in the past. It is December 2019 now. Things pass by too quickly - promos, nationals, prelims, exams, celebrations. And now graduation.

But first, Graduation Night. The creme de la creme of parties, the culmination of an adolescent’s expectations. It is imagination given life. Dresses and suits and styles for the ages, colliding in a ballroom of spectacle.

Yong Zhi comes with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his top two buttons undone, a scruffy charm to this tramp’s aesthetic. Khaki pants show off his signature Nikes, but the soles are a shimmering gold now. He moonwalks on money and laughs without a care in the world.

Cameron’s sporting navy shoes and a navy shirt, with a maroon bow-tie to match his pants. Dark suspenders complete the look with a dash of blush, a rose gold watch from his mom on his wrist.

Asyraf borrows his uncle’s white tuxedo but it fits him like a dream. A brilliant orange pocket square brings vibrance to the outfit, and his blue half-rimmed glasses looks almost professional on him. 

L is all black, in a romper that’s slick and sharp against his wiry frame. Byzantium eyeshadow and minimalist eyeliner hide behind Kors sunglasses, pairing with a wild mane he has tamed during meticulous hours in front of a mirror. 

And Michael arrives in purple. A purple jacket with orchid prints over an indigo shirt, leading into slim-fit magenta pants. He channels Chadwick Boseman with each step, the splitting image of NJC’s very own Black Panther.

“Daaaamn son! You lookin’ fine as hell!”

“And you are stunning! Cameron, aren’t you a dapper little chap?”

“I thought a beak cap might be overkill but on second thought I’m regretting it a bit.”

“Bold to flaunt some leg there! Damn you’ve really got the stuff to show."

“So smooth! Did you shave?”

“No comment. Michael, that jacket is paradise in a blanket. Asyraf, you’re a white Ferrari."

“Why thank y-“

“Wàh láo only one compliment?"

“You just want attention, you don’t want-“

“I deserve it bitches! Woah-!"

“-my heart. Maybe you just-“ 

“Oi my first dance was supposed to go to Lydia!"

“-hate the thought of me with someone-“

“You two make a very nice couple, except Young has two left feet."

“-new. Yeah-“

You just want attention, I knew from the start

You’re just making sure I’m never gettin’ over you

Even at the reception, the boys are a flurry of excitement and anticipation.

There’s some talks about NJ50, the very last moment the occasion could be stretched till. But they’re not here for that. They’re here for themselves.

The night passes like the year. It passes with photographs of food and good company, with conversations of everything and nothing at once, with entertainment that’s heartfelt and insincerity mocked into obscurity. And the dance floor opens, and the beat drops.

Dance is the language of being comfortable in your skin.

Music helps you forget that there were things you ever worried about.

Their bodies move with wild abandon to the best of Tiësto, their voices go hoarse as everyone jumps to Mr. Brightside. A simultaneous cheer and jeer bloom as Vitamin C’s Friends Forever comes on, but the students pair up across the aisle as they sway to the song. And when Summer Nights makes an entrance, the mass dance is executed with unanimous enthusiasm, stumbling over each others’ feet to giggles and applause.

And as the night ages into its twilight, the boys realise that someone’s not among them.

“Where’s L?”

The airy, kaleidoscopic organ synth floats across the speakers, and is instantly familiar to the four of them. From the front, L grabs the microphone as he announces Frank Ocean’s Godspeed.

“This one’s for my boys.”

He locks eyes with Michael as he puts down the mic, and makes his way across the crowd back to his friends. The mood is immediately hushed, melancholy, introspective, as the bittersweet end reveals itself.

I will always love you, how I do

Raw honesty given breath. 

Let go of a prayer for ya

Just a sweet word

As each student slowly exhales, they taste gratitude on their tongues.

The table is prepared for you

The lead partners extend their arms in invitation, and couples bow to each other before holding each other close. A cascade of fabric rotates around the ballroom tables, like the river gliding around patches of earth.

Wishing you Godspeed, glory

There will be mountains you won’t move

Asyraf walks up to Michael, both with hands in their pockets. He leans in and clasps Michael’s shoulder, whispering something inaudible to anyone else. Michael nods and smiles.

Still I’ll always be there for you

How I do

Cameron inhales hard, eyebrows drooping. He hugs Michael, squeezing, head on his chest and tears damp on the cloth.

I let go of my claim on you, it’s a free world

Yong Zhi pulls Michael into his arms, and then spins him out again.

You look down on where you came from sometimes

Their fingers part, and Yong Zhi gives Michael a wink, and then he’s off.

But you’ll have this place to call home, always

And then L.

Monosyllabic, mysterious L. Drifting like a sailboat in a light breeze, a dream cruising through unperturbed waters.

The two come face to face, and with instinct beyond words, they begin to slow dance. Michael leads, hands around L’s waist as they move, like two statues taking the entire existence of the universe to meld into one, everything condensed and contained in this tiny heaven of the two of them.

Their foreheads touch, a bump lighter than a carefree promise. 

I’ll always love you

Until the time we die

And as the album’s penultimate song fades away, Blonde’s final track creeps in, and an ocean of bodies let the music take them. The five boys laugh through their tears, and feel themselves carried by the waves, dancing towards a Futura Free.

But they know that uncertainty doesn’t have to be an ocean of grey. In between black and white, the dark and the light, is a myriad of colours. Seven billion shades today. And more to come tomorrow.