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1970, Singapore
With a final swing of his leg over the top bar of the metal gate, he glances down at the ground beneath him, inches away from freedom. Sneaking out of school is new for him - and the normally compliant Singapore knows he isn’t going to hear the end of it once his boss hears of what he’s done.
Singapore jumps to his feet, hastily brushing dirt off his shirt and pants. Rounding the corner of the building, he hops onto the bike that he had left parked behind the school, and pedals out of the compound and onto the main road.
It’s cold - the rain is really starting to come down, and he quickly lifts a hand to brush the blur of rainwater out of his eyes. Five tickets are tucked in the pocket of his pants. News of the Golden Venus’s rumoured closure had sparked a recent flurry of ticket sales, and Singapore had to chope them early for his friends.
Friends. He’s not sure if he’s allowed to call them that. He had always been close to Malaysia growing up, but he didn’t see Indonesia and Thailand all that often anymore, and he’d only met Philippines once, under extremely formal circumstances three years ago.
Singapore still isn’t sure what spurred him to try and pull this stunt off in the first place. There’s no telling if any of them even has the time to travel all the way out here, and neither of them are under any official obligation to show up. He’d written in his letters that he wanted to commemorate the three year anniversary of the ASEAN Declaration’s signing, sure, but-
“Oi!”
The blare of a car’s horn breaks him out of his reverie. Someone collides into him, shoving him off his bike and onto the wet pavement. There’s a bang, right as a car speeds down the road - his bike a mangled heap in place of where he had been moments before.
Indonesia, his dark hair now dripping wet with rainwater, pulls Singapore to his feet. His umbrella is left abandoned on the pavement. “Are you okay?”
Singapore frowns in annoyance. It’s hard to hear Indonesia clearly over the patter of rain around them, but that frustrating tone of concern from someone a head taller than him is starting to make Singapore feel like a child again. “Indonesia, please. I’m fine. I’m not a kid anymore.”
“Mmhmm… You always say that.”
They had run into each other a few blocks away from the hotel Indonesia was staying at, a ten minute walk from Venus now that Singapore was without his bike. The rest of their walk is quiet - painfully awkward, actually - Singapore realises, as water sloshes around in the toes of his shoes.
He used to be a little bit intimidated by Indonesia, back when he was a kid. Maybe it was the combined landmass of all the islands that constituted his country, the biggest in all of Southeast Asia. Or maybe it was his empires of old - the illustrious history that made up his long life, so much longer than Singapore’s.
But Singapore had quickly learnt that Indonesia was much more kind, laid-back, and oddly bashful than he’d initially thought - chasing after young Singapore and Malaya whenever they misbehaved during official events, obliging them whenever they pestered him for ghost stories even though he was scared of ghosts himself, letting them curl up beside him when they were too frightened to sleep afterwards.
They don’t do ghost stories together anymore. It’s been at least a century since the last one - and the strange silence currently hanging between them makes Singapore want to kick himself for thinking that this would be a good idea.
Despite the rain, there’s a crowd already gathered near the entrance of the Golden Venus, huddled under umbrellas and open newspapers, excited chatter almost drowning out the patter of rain overhead. The sky has dipped into the dark yellows of early evening, allowing the glowing neon lights of the cabaret to shine even brighter in contrast. A figure waves excitedly in their direction, a Kodak camera hanging from his neck.
Like the rest of the crowd milling around him, Philippines is ducked underneath an open newspaper for shelter. The hand drawn map Singapore had sent along with the letters is clutched in his left hand, soggy with rainwater.
That smile of his is still bright as ever, though. “Indo! Singa! Over here!”
Philippines is here, early - and unsurprisingly. If Singapore was going to count on one person to show up, it would have been him. Happy, upbeat Philippines who was all smiles in Bangkok three years ago, as true as day to everything Singapore had heard of his ever-presently cheerful nature.
Trust Philippines to be able to put on a happy face no matter the circumstance. This would only be their second time meeting in person, but Singapore had already heard plenty about him - mostly from what Malaysia had dubbed lovesick ramblings on Indonesia’s part.
It was hard to imagine that the beaming, bright-eyed nation who’d shook his hand earnestly at the Bangkok signing was the same nation who had to spend the last few centuries fighting against colonial rule after colonial rule, one after the other. Yet, his optimism, and his never-ending stream of cheerful chatter, is magnetic.
But that’s just Philippines, you know, Indonesia had told Singapore, an odd twinge of endearment in his voice.
Philippines ducks underneath Indonesia’s umbrella with them, squeezing together in a queue that snakes down the length of the cabaret. It’s the usual throng of people - students, expats, couples - dressed in the latest department store fashions of bright colours and cropped fabrics. Philippines, in his white and blue top and washed jeans, melds right in.
“What is this place anyway?” Philippines asks.
Singapore looks up. The sign emblazoned across the front of the building glows a brilliant neon pink, casting a similarly coloured hue over the bustle below. “It’s a cabaret - you know, live music and drinks and all the fun human stuff that we don’t get to do a lot of.”
Philippines’s eyes light up. “Ooh! Do you think they’ll let us sing? I wanna sing!”
“I don’t want to sing…” Indonesia mumbles.
“And what’s with this?” Singapore asks, tugging at the strap hanging around Philippines’s neck. The camera attached to its end is small and rectangular - modern, so much smaller than the bulky ones flashing in their faces at the Bangkok conference. “Carrying this expensive thing out this late? You’re not scared of getting robbed ah?”
Philippines grins - the suggestion doesn’t faze him at all. “No, but since today’s going to be a fun day, I was thinking that we could all take a bunch of pictures together - this baby winds the film for me, and it shoots colour! Try it!” He presses the camera into Singapore’s hands. “Indonesia! Smile!”
Through the viewfinder, Indonesia blinks back at him awkwardly. Singapore fumbles with the camera, focus swaying in and out at a familiar figure standing a few feet away.
Philippines seems to have caught sight of him too. “Thailand!”
Indonesia flinches at the open exclamation, but nobody else seems to have heard Philippines over the crowd and drizzle of rain around them. They’re near the front of the queue by now, and Thailand jogs over to greet them.
Thailand hasn’t changed one bit - not from the days when he was once called Siam, and definitely not from when they’d last met at the ASEAN signing either. His jean jacket is hitched over his head to protect from rain, with the same pair of rectangular, wire-rimmed glasses that he’s had for the last hundred years or so perched atop his nose.
He had hosted the signing that day, five of them squeezed into their most formal outfits on a hot summer’s day in a Bangkok meeting room. Singapore wasn’t sure what to make of Thailand then, seated at the end of the table in his white military jacket. He had heard about how Thailand could get ‘real scary’ when he got angry - yet he was always smiling, with a proper handshake and a gentle way of speaking.
And Thailand did manage to hold on to his independence the longest out of all of them, after all.
The group of students in front disperse into the cabaret, the ticket attendant now looking pointedly at them, huddled together under a too small umbrella. Singapore digs into his pockets for his five soggy tickets, and hands them over. The ticket attendant glances at his watch.
Thailand clasps his hands together. “Is that all of us?”
And then, there was Malaysia.
“No,” Singapore bites out. Some part of him had dreaded this. Fifteen years’ worth of this new coldness between him and Malaysia, the sad conversation attempts, the constant elephant in the room that was their separation. “Forget it lah. He’s probably not even-”
“Waaait!”
Singapore can recognise that yell from anywhere. It’s Malaysia - late, again - one arm waving frantically above the sea of heads behind them. The crowd parts around him, and he stumbles over to the group, grabbing on to Indonesia’s arm for support.
“Ahhh, I thought I wasn’t going to make it!” Malaysia straightens up, his face breaking into a bright smile. “Thanks for waiting, guys!”
He had been late to the signing too, smiling sheepishly at the other nations who passed as his boss scolded him by the door. It was just one of the two things that stuck with him - between his consistent lateness, and his unending enthusiasm.
Singapore had looked up to Malaysia when he was younger, back when he was called Temasek, and when Malaysia was called Malacca. They were inseparable - Temasek had trailed after him and clung onto his every word, and Malacca - as affectionate and openhearted as he was - looked out for him with all sorts of kindness in return.
That was the point of their agreement, as Thailand had put it, in his speech from when they’d first signed the Declaration three years ago. They’ll be looking out for each other.
The attendant rifles through his tickets again, and motions for them to enter.
“You know,” Indonesia begins, idly spinning the cap of his soft drink on the table in front of him, “I never took you - any of them, actually - for the clubbing type.”
Singapore’s eyes trail over to the front of the stage. It’s easy to pick out Philippines, Thailand and Malaysia from the crowd of dancing patrons - between Philippines’s constant shoulder shimmying, Thailand’s surprisingly good footwork, and Malaysia bumping into Thailand every few seconds. Indonesia and Singapore had refused to join them. “It’s… I don’t know lah. I used to come here after school a lot. Helps me forget about all the crummy nation stuff we have to deal with sometimes.”
The inside of the cabaret is warm, toasty, and a stark contrast to the rain from outside. The live band onstage has been playing non-stop ever since they’d arrived (much to Philippines’s excitement, when he pulled a very embarrassed Indonesia to the barman to ask please when can we have our turn?), as the laughter of the crowd and the smells of freshly fried finger food flit all around them.
With a final note, the band’s steady beat to Jailhouse Rock draws to a close. The crowd cheers in appreciation, Malaysia waving back at the two of them with a huge grin on his face. Indonesia nudges the basket of onion rings forward, just as the others stroll back to their table.
Malaysia’s face drops. “Eh, is that all you ordered?”
“I’m physically sixteen!” Singapore snaps incredulously. “How much pocket money do you think Ah Gong gives me in a week?”
Philippines plops down onto the stool next to Indonesia’s, and shakes the basket. It’s not a bad serving, about ten golden flaked rings laying on top of each other. But for a group their size - “Looks like we gotta ration this out.”
“Maybe we can go in a circle and pass it around,” Thailand suggests, “Whoever has it has to talk about something.”
No politics talk, though - that was the unspoken one. The sixties hadn’t been the best for anyone - as Singapore threw himself into his businesses and economy as a way of doing anything other than think about how the nations his bosses had carelessly deemed as problems were once his friends - as if the proposition of their group in ’67 was some kind of band-aid slapped over the crack that was the splintering relations throughout their continent.
Singapore taps a finger on the table. “Okay, if we’re going to have a talking basket, we should probably set up some rules.”
“Indonesia and Singapore must dance to at least one song by tonight.”
Singapore unclips a pen from his pocket, and scribbles on the back of a napkin. “Rule one, Malaysia doesn’t get to contribute.”
“Eh, don’t like that lah…”
“No hantu stories,” Indonesia adds. “Please.”
“Wait wait wait -” Philippines begins, pulling the napkin out from underneath Singapore’s pen. “I know we don’t usually hang out like this in such an informal setting, so we’re probably not used to this. But we’re not in a meeting anymore, and it’s not like there’s any schedule we have to follow-” He grabs the basket, shoving it across the table and into Malaysia’s hands. “Tell us how you’ve been!”
Malaysia doesn’t react at first, looking down at the basket in his hands, then back up at the four expectant faces blinking back at him. Another band is up on stage, the opening notes of Shanghai Nights flitting through the hall as the dance floor around them starts to fill up once again.
“Well - my bosses have been working on a tourism wing at my place - wait, you gotta hear the slogan I had in mind-” Malaysia spreads his hands across the table, grinning from ear to ear, “Malaysia truly Asia - you guys should come over some time - not officially, just for fun - I’ll be your tour guide - what am I talking about, you guys love me, of course you’ll come!” He reaches for an onion ring, and tosses the basket over to Indonesia. “Abang, your turn.”
Indonesia leans back on his stool, idly drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “My first lady was talking about opening a national theme park sometime in the next few years… Not like the ones at America’s place, but focusing more on our culture.”
“Ooh, all about that Indonesian charm, hmm?” Philippines hums, elbowing Indonesia in his side. Indonesia’s face goes red, and he chucks the basket over the table to Singapore.
The basket slides to a stop in front of Singapore’s seat. His knee is bouncing incessantly under the table, not really sure what to say. “It’s - uh - been three years since the signing, right?”
“Oh yeah!” Malaysia adds, “8 August - your independence day's coming up also.”
“Yeah, abang, when your boss kicked me out of your house,” Singapore responds flatly.
Singapore barely has time to register the pained laugh that comes from Malaysia opposite him, as Philippines smacks his arm across the table between them. “You guys forgot already? No politics talk, diba?”
Malaysia waves Philippines off. “Yeah lah, yeah lah - no merger talk, no Sabah or Sarawak talk - but in my defence, Singapore brought it up first -”
“Eh, you don’t chibai ah-”
“Thailand!” Philippines cuts in loudly, moving the basket over to Thailand’s seat in one swift motion. “Did you want to say anything?”
Thailand leans over the table, the side of his face propped against a balled up fist. “Well, I just wanted to say that I’m really happy that the five of us got together. I know we didn’t exactly have our moments over this past decade, but, I appreciate us starting anew like this.”
There’s a soft whack as Malaysia socks Thailand in his side. “Oi, who told you to get all sentimental like that?”
“Hard not to,” Indonesia adds, eyes trailing around the length of their table. “Most of us grew up together. We just grew apart, I guess. Politics has a way of doing that to people.”
“But we have our own group now,” Philippines insists, “That was the whole point of it, wasn’t it? We’re all neighbours - we’ll look out for each other and watch each other’s backs. And it won’t just be the five of us - we’ll get Viet, Brunei - everyone else in Southeast Asia to join us too. I’m sure of it.”
One-two, one-two. The upbeat swing of the song feels almost out of place, the carefree air of music club goers swirling around them contradictory to their very existence. Philippines is being his usual optimistic self, his bold claim betraying no uneasiness in his youthful face. It’s only been three years - and three years is nothing to their long lives, but…
Thailand’s lips pull into a thoughtful smile. “We all want this to work out, right?”
Singapore glances around their little round table. Malaysia nods eagerly. Indonesia hums in agreement. Philippines shoots Singapore a reassuring smile.
“Yeah,” Singapore says. The ticket stub tucked in the back of his pocket feels oddly precious to him now. “Of course we do.”
“Then it’ll work out,” Philippines proclaims, holding a hand out as he gets up from his seat. They’re playing Johnny B. Goode - just as a gel-haired teenager throws his head back in the middle of an energetic guitar solo. “And on the account of our newly celebrated friendship,” Philippines continues, “I must insist that everyone dances with me. Pakiusap. Come on, Indo, I know you love this song.”
Thailand and Malaysia are already on their feet, arms swung around each other’s shoulders as they kick along to the driving rock-and-roll rhythm, huge grins plastered on their faces. Philippines gestures again for Indonesia and Singapore to join them.
“Eh tidak lah-” Indonesia begins, but Philippines pulls him up without warning, hands clasped together, twisting and moving him along to the beat of the song. Indonesia’s steps are unsteady at first - stumbling back and forth as he struggles to keep up with Philippines’s nimble steps.
Singapore stifles a laugh as Indonesia nearly trips over Philippines’s feet, when - urk! Malaysia’s grabbed onto his own hand, spinning Singapore with him - the cabaret fades into a blur of bright lights and music and the laughter of his friends around him. Beside him, Indonesia’s starting to loosen up as well - Philippines was right, he does like this song - if the way he’s started to dance and laugh is any indication.
Singapore’s aware of how little they look like nations in that moment. And somehow, that’s completely alright with them.
1976, Indonesia
“Bro, I love you, but I’m telling you-” Malaysia begins, bent over a chopping board as he slices spring onions into thin strips. “The best nasi lemak you can find in Singapore is whatever you tapaued from across the causeway.” He sticks his free hand out behind him. “Pass me the cucumber.”
Singapore makes a face as he tosses the cucumber to Malaysia, a pile of shelled prawns by his side of the kitchen. “Wrong, and I did chili crab first.”
“I still outdo all of you in desserts,” Philippines pipes in cheerfully, reaching an arm out to wipe at the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He pushes at the cooking oil with his spatula, the wok before him sizzling with an energised vigour. “I even brought some sapin-sapin from home to share with you guys!”
Malaysia lets out a satisfied noise of approval. “Aii, Piri, you’re the best.”
The ceiling fan hanging over the five sweaty nations is whirling away at full speed, the heat of the warm Balinese evening radiating through open kitchen windows. They’re all out of their suits by now, suit jackets and neckties left strewn over the tops of Indonesia’s living room sofas.
Indonesia’s kitchen has never been this crowded, the others having made the sudden unanimous decision to cook dinner at his house instead of heading to a restaurant after the summit. They’d spent way too long at the market debating over what should and shouldn’t be in nasi goreng - even though Indonesia was pretty sure he had taught them the recipe first when they were kids - and eventually settled on a mix between their own interpretations of the dish.
Indonesia backs into the kitchen, a pot of rice cradled in his arms as he squeezes in between Malaysia and Philippines. “Thailand, do you have the kecap manis?
Thailand sticks his head through the kitchen arch, reaching over to place a wooden mixing bowl on the counter. “Already mixed it. Piri, go take a break. I’ll stir-fry the rest.”
“Ah - it’s fine, I’ll do it.” Indonesia sets the rice pot down, easing the spatula from Philippines’s hand. “You’ve all already done a lot, and I’m supposed to be the host here.”
At that, Singapore lets out a snort. “What, and let you do all the work? What was all that talk about the ASEAN spirit that you were on about?”
The recent memory of his opening speech at the summit hits Indonesia like a truck. “I - uh - we’re not talking about that.”
“Then let us help lah.” Malaysia grins, glancing back from his chopping board. “ASEAN Way right? We’re doing informal diplomacy right now just by making dinner. You should be proud of us, abang.”
Indonesia opens his mouth to object, but the others have turned right back to their stations - as if they hadn’t been sweating by the kitchen stoves for nearly an hour already. The savoury sweet smells of dark sauce and chilli paste waft through his tiny kitchen. Over the sharp sizzling of the cooking wok, the other four are going at their back and forths again. Indonesia can’t remember the last time that his kitchen’s been this full.
Indonesia leans against his kitchen counter, the whirring table fan behind him blowing at the sweat that clings to the back of his white cotton singlet. He balances his plate of nasi goreng in one hand, his cup of ice cold Milo in the other. For some reason, they’d opted to eat in the kitchen itself, rather than at Indonesia’s big dining table outside - Singapore sitting cross-legged on the floor, Malaysia crouched beside him, and Thailand sitting on the stool by the fridge.
Malaysia spoons a large bite of rice into his mouth, as Thailand watches him curiously. “So. Verdict?”
A large grin spreads across Malaysia’s face, and he lets out a satisfied sigh. “Ahhh, sedap! Abang Indo can host and he can cook. He’s the best.”
“Come on, you guys helped me, technically,” Indonesia interjects awkwardly.
“Yeah,” Singapore adds, “You know, if we were all as focused in meetings as we were in the kitchen, maybe we’d get our work done a lot faster.”
Malaysia looks almost offended. “Hey, we take our food very seriously, okay!”
“In all seriousness, though,” Thailand begins, smiling warmly and getting up from his stool to pat Indonesia on the shoulder. “Good job on hosting today.”
“Look what I found!”
Philippines pokes his head into the archway of Indonesia’s kitchen - he’d left to change out of his sticky dress shirt, a touristy I <3 Bali souvenir shirt in its place. There’s a framed photo in his hand, and he holds it out for the others to see - and before Indonesia’s realised what exactly Philippines has taken from his living room, Malaysia and Singapore are already pushing him aside to get to the photo first.
“No way!” Malaysia yells, and right away Indonesia knows that this can’t be good. “Indo has a framed photo of us just sitting around in his living room? Aww, he really does love us!”
Heat shoots to Indonesia’s face almost immediately. He turns to put his plate down, but before he can grab the frame back from Malaysia - which shouldn’t have been hard, considering his height - even Thailand is pushing Indonesia aside to get to the photo himself.
“I didn’t take you for the sentimental type,” Thailand notes, amusement colouring his voice.
“Mine’s in my Malacañang office,” Philippines proclaims proudly. “Been there for six years already.”
The five of them are crowded around the little framed photo in Malaysia’s hand, preserved perfectly behind the thin sheet of glass and not looking a day older from when Philippines had developed it. It’s the same photo that Philippines had taken of them that night - sweaty, tired, huddled together outside the warm yellow glow of the Golden Venus’s neon signboard.
“Alright, alright, that’s enough.” Indonesia plucks the photo out of Malaysia’s hand, holding it above his head to prop it on top of the kitchen cupboard. “It’s not a big deal. I have to remind my bosses that I have friends every now and then, anyway.”
There’s a sudden sharp knock on Indonesia’s front door. He turns around instinctively, but is stopped by Philippines’s outstretched hand, grabbing onto the back of his singlet. Malaysia and Singapore exchange a look, and Thailand’s already disappeared out of his kitchen.
He hears his door swing open, Thailand saying something to someone outside, and then the door clicks shut again. Singapore pokes his head out of the kitchen’s archway, gestures for Malaysia to follow him, and slips out into the living room. Indonesia glances behind him at Philippines’s smiling face. What sounds like heavy furniture has started to scrape against his panelled floorboards.
“Uh… What are you guys doing?”
Philippines tugs at Indonesia’s singlet again. “Just wait.”
With a final whine of someone dragging what must have been one of his sofas across his living room, the noise stops. There’s a quick rustling of clothes, just as Malaysia clears his throat. “Will the representative of the Republic of Indonesia please step into the living room?”
This was getting weirder and weirder by the minute. Philippines has let go of him by now, zipping out of the kitchen archway and into the living room. Indonesia sets his Milo cup down on the microwave, and steps out of the kitchen.
The first thing Indonesia realises is that they’ve set Philippines’s camera up on a tripod and pointed at two of his sofas, shifted side-by-side to the middle of his living room. Malaysia, Singapore and Philippines are sitting on one of his sofas, having hastily tossed their formal wear back on - Philippines still fiddling with his tie knot.
Thailand is seated on the other sofa, smoothing out a crease in his jacket. There’s a record sleeve in his hand, but not any record that Indonesia recognises - the sleeve cover itself is blank. Indonesia glances between the four knowing faces staring expectantly back at him, and walks over to the last empty spot beside Thailand.
“Mr Indonesia,” Thailand begins, handing the record to him. “On behalf of your friends in ASEAN, I’d like to congratulate you on your success in hosting our first official summit.”
Indonesia flips the record’s sleeve open. There’s a mixture of different coloured pen ink scrawled on its inside, a bullet-pointed track list in four different handwriting styles. It’s cabaret music from the 60s - Johnny B. Goode, Jailhouse Rock… “Did you guys get me a custom pressed vinyl?”
Beside them, Malaysia cracks a huge grin. “One of the greatest gifts of diplomacy that you’ll ever receive.”
“We all agreed that that night out was our best memory together as a group,” Singapore adds. “It’s no professional diplomatic gesture, but we hope it’s a nice memento. Something a bit more personal, ah.”
“Really makes us feel like a real association, huh?” Philippines winks, pulling the record out of Indonesia’s grip and turning to fit it on the open lid record player on the shelf behind him. “But even if we’re colleagues now, we’re still friends first, diba?”
Singapore lets out a snort of amusement. “Eeyer. Always so chummy lah you.”
Philippines flicks the switch on, and a low static hiss starts to hum from the machine. It quickly breaks open into the first twangs of Johnny B. Goode’s opening hook, and that all too familiar wave of nostalgia starts to crash over.
Indonesia cocks his head to the side, watching as the other nation nods idly along to the music. “Was this your idea? Turning my living room into a cabaret?”
There’s a charmingly mischievous smirk tugging at the corners of Philippines’s lips. “How else was I going to convince you to come to the cabaret again with me?”
Thailand’s already started to push the sofas back to the other side of the living room, as Malaysia pulls an already grumbling Singapore to his feet. Philippines is smiling like a cat, leaning comfortably against the wall just beside where the record player sits. The others are in their sweat-stained suits and ties, completely inappropriate attire given the scorching Balinese heat, yet a complete given for the mini ceremony they’d just held. It’s not a cabaret this time, it’s the middle of Indonesia’s living room. Yet, it still feels oddly like it did six years ago.
Philippines steps over to where Indonesia is sitting, head still bopping along to the beat of the song. Pulling his lopsided tie over his head, he tosses it back over the top of the sofa and holds a hand out to Indonesia. “Come on, abang. I know you love this song.”
And Philippines is right. Indonesia does love this song. So he takes Philippines’s hand, and allows himself to be pulled onto the floor of their little makeshift cabaret.
1998, Vietnam
To this year’s host, our dear Ms Vietnam -
Congratulations on being picked to host the ASEAN summit this year! I’m sure you’ve worked very hard in preparation for these two days, and I hope you’re rest assured knowing that you’ve got all of our support behind you. We’re all neighbours, and we’ll be looking out for each other, after all.
Anyway, this group of us arrived a week earlier than we were supposed to for this year’s summit. You can ask how each of us did it later, but for me (Malaysia :D), I just kept begging my bosses until I managed to annoy them into letting me go. Highly recommended method of getting what you want from anyone (hehe)
Viet~ I bet you’re wondering what we were doing during these few days! Well, we managed to do a lot of sightseeing (Hanoi is a beautiful city, but it’ll be so much more fun if you brought us around yourself - let’s go after the summit, okay?) but we’ve also been busy planning a little event for you~
You’re the first out of the non-founding members to host, so we understand if this is all a little intimidating for you. We know what it feels like - our first years were as filled with uncertainty as you’re probably feeling right now, but we managed to forge our way through in the end, with each other’s help. We hope we can help you in that same way.
So (since none of these guys seem to be getting to the point), we have an initiation ceremony prepared for you. Please head to the address written on the back of this letter at 5pm, on the 14th of December. This is a nation-to-nation ceremony, so please don’t bring any of your government officials. And don’t be late, or I’ll bill you for the location rental.
(no he won’t :p)
Thailand, Malaysia, Philippines, Indonesia, Singapore
She’d almost stepped on it in a bleary daze on her way out to get more coffee. The past few days had been a nonstop whirlwind of work, work, and more work for Vietnam - she’d even booked a room at the hotel to ease off on commuting time, yet it still felt like she was up to her neck in paperwork. And this was just from pre-summit preparations alone.
She sighs, running a hand through her hair in weary frustration. This didn’t seem like a reward for her efforts, as much as it felt like a punishment for having to herd this group of cats. If they’d sent her a formal letter, maybe she could barter with her bosses for some extra time off to do whatever it is that they apparently had going on. And yet, pushing a handwritten note like this underneath her hotel room’s door seemed right on brand for their group. She’d read the previous summits’ transcript in preparation for this one, and whatever Indonesia had said in his ’76 speech about the personal diplomacy of the ASEAN Way clearly still held true for them.
By some miracle, she’d managed to wrestle some free time out of her schedule by the time the 14th of December rolled in. The address scribbled on the back of the letter would lead her to a cabaret down the road from where the hotel stood. A music club - the location that they’d picked was confusing enough.
Picking something to wear was difficult too. Vietnam didn’t usually fuss too much on her attire, but something between the formality of a ceremony and its location in a cabaret didn’t match up. Eventually realising that this group was probably as easygoing as they come either way, she throws on a floral patterned áo dái, and phones for a taxi.
Vietnam finds herself lingering outside the ornate front door of the cabaret’s interior, her hand hovering over the door’s handle. The five of them were up to something - that much had become quickly apparent, right from when she’d stepped out of her taxi. She’d never been much for music clubs, but the missing queue at one of the popular cabarets in Hanoi right as the sun began to set was new, even for her.
Did they really book out the whole building…? Vietnam leans closer, pressing her ear against the heavy wooden door. Someone’s playing music. Upbeat pop music pulses faintly through the wooden floors - ABBA, and then Elvis, switching quickly from one song to the next just before the previous one finishes. Why the hotel ballroom wasn’t an option for their event, she doesn’t know.
There’s a sudden jerk, just as the door she’s leaning against swings open with a start. She stumbles to her feet, and hurriedly smoothes down her áo dái.
Thailand stares back at her, one hand resting on the silver-plated door handle, a small smile of unspoken amusement tugging at his lips. “Were you eavesdropping, Vietnam?”
Vietnam frowns. “No.”
For a ‘formal’ event, Thailand is dressed surprisingly casually. He scratches at his collar, loose denim jacket hanging over a bright red graphic tee. “You know you can come in, right? You’re our guest of honour today.”
“Viet!” Philippines lowers his handheld camera to wave at her from where he sits, cross-legged on top of a small round table. He’s dressed just as casually as Thailand is, his slightly unbuttoned, too-big tie-dye shirt pulled over baggy denim jeans. “Glad you could make it!”
“Oi, she’s here already lah!"
“Okay, okay I’m hurrying! Abang, how’s the sound system?”
Behind Philippines, Singapore hurries from one side of the room to the other, two cardboard boxes of music records clutched in his arms, its colourful tops sticking out from the over box’s open lids. Malaysia follows close behind him, a turntable clutched underneath his arm. Vietnam had never seen them out of uniform like this before - a colourful, floral outer shirt tucked into the waistband of Singapore’s knee-length pants, and a navy batik shirt with a crashingly bright green fanny pack hung loosely around Malaysia’s waist. Indonesia, also in a collared navy shirt, is kneeling on the wide performance stage at the back of the cabaret, aux cord in hand.
They really had booked the whole building out. There’s nobody behind the cabaret’s bar, nobody else sitting by the round clothed tabletops that dot the expanse of the cabaret’s wooden panelled floors. Vietnam steps over the parapet and into the cabaret’s space, one hand resting on the intricately carved pillars that stand by the front door. Oblong, lantern-like lights hang overhead, glowing yellow and warm.
She sees Malaysia jog over to join Indonesia on the stage, kneeling down beside him as they fiddle with the tangle of cords and wires that poke out from behind the stage’s sound system. Singapore follows close behind, setting the box of record sleeves down next to them.
There’s a sudden fizzle of electricity, and the entire room plunges into complete darkness. Malaysia yells something that sounds like a vulgarity, and then the lights overhead flicker back on, casting the ballroom back into its warm yellow glow. The all too familiar tune of ABBA’s Dancing Queen crackles over the speakers by the stage.
Philippines, still sitting cross-legged on the table, is swaying along to the beat. Malaysia hops off the stage, pulling a disgruntled looking Singapore by the arm with him.
Thailand pulls his jacket off, tying its sleeves around his waist. “Are you familiar with cabarets?”
“It’s a thing we do!” Philippines calls out from his place on the table. His elbow is perched on his leg, camera poised in hand. “You’re one of us now, so you’re going to!”
Before Vietnam can respond, Thailand’s already taken her by the hand, pulling her closer to the centre of the dance floor. She can feel her ears burning bright red. “I don’t dance.”
“Neither does he!” Malaysia yells out cheerfully. He’s moving his hips and his shoulders along to the beat, arms outstretched, his bright green fanny pack now slung across his arm. Singapore rolls his eyes at Malaysia’s comment. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his pants, but he’s moving along to the music as well.
You can dance, you can jive… The song picks up in tempo - Thailand’s grabbed onto Vietnam’s other hand, pulling her back, and then forward, a comfortable rhythm settling over the both of them.
Having the time of your life… She can feel the initial awkwardness start to melt away, the easy swing of the song coming easier to her, as she pulls Thailand along with her with a newfound enthusiasm. The song’s melody seems to pulse through the floor, through the warmth of the air all around them. Malaysia’s started to sing along, and even Indonesia’s gotten down from the stage to join them.
She’s not sure how long they go on for. The one called Johnny B. Goode seems to be their favourite. Malaysia slides down the stage on his knees, air guitar-ing vigorously, and even Indonesia and Singapore have started to loosen up a lot more - arms linked as they laugh and dance along to the guitar’s steady beats. Philippines hasn’t moved from his place on top of his table, grinning to himself as he holds the camera up to his eye.
Vietnam stumbles over to one of the round tables, partially slumped over out of physical exhaustion. There’s sweat on her neck, her ponytail’s loose, but there’s a dull feeling of endearment blossoming in her as she watches her new companions. Thailand’s sitting opposite her, two open glass bottles sitting between the both of them.
She takes a gulp, the ice cold sweetness of the soda helping her to catch her breath. “I don’t feel like I’m at a work event.”
“It’s not,” Thailand replies gently. “It’s just a thing that we’ve always done. We gave this custom vinyl stack to Indonesia in the 70s, and just kept adding on to the playlist over the years. We had that shared liking of music and dance as we grew closer as friends, and since you’re one of us, we wanted to include you too.”
“That’s…” Vietnam isn’t the most fluent at expressing affection. “Oddly sweet.”
Thailand reaches for his own bottle, an amused smile forming at the corners of his lips. “It’s also the last summit of this millennium, but you know, no pressure.”
Against her better judgement, Vietnam lets out a snort of laughter. “Come on, you guys have somehow managed to survive for this long. What’s one more millennium?”
He raises his drink. “Well, I probably couldn’t do it without you five around.”
Vietnam clinks her bottle against his. It’s an unspoken agreement - it’s nice having this odd little bunch around, even if they really are the strangest group of friends she’s ever had. She can hear the laughing, the singing, the upbeat music going on from behind her, so much warmth and energy emanating from the space of their little cabaret.
Taking a final gulp of soda, she sets the empty bottle down, and gets to her feet once more.