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“Bujang.” Thomas called out, the sound of his footsteps echoed along his impatient walk. At the end of the hallway was one room, and he knew Bujang was inside.
“Bujang, fucking answer me!” and again Thomas was ignored, bile rising to his throat. It was so ugly, the feeling he bore inside him for his friend—concern and adoration and genuine fear and all things he thought he couldn’t feel together at the same time. They made him nauseous and witless.
Thomas knocked and knocked and knocked to no succession. He took a sharp breath, trying to settle his nerves. “I’m coming in.” he announced.
Thomas forced the wooden oak door open, and it creaked heavily. Stark darkness welcomed him. He felt himself going even paler. You can’t stand darkness, he wanted to say. His eyes adjusted themselves and he saw Bujang sitting forlornly on top of his bed.
“Hey,” he rushed over to Bujang, kneeling in front of him. He left the door ajar, hoping that some lights from the hallway would shine its way inside.
Bujang’s unresponsive figure looked small in the dimly lit room. The white shirt on his body had its seams ripped on both arms, dark crimson colour spreading like blooming flowers. “Hey,” Thomas breathed, as he reached his arms to roll both of Bujang’s sleeves up. “You should’ve learned to do this yourself by now,” he said, feigning calmness. “You aren’t hurt anywhere, are you?”
Thomas had double-checked. Bujang’s personal doctor had said to him twice: no, Bujang only had minor scratches. He did not want to bandage it up, but it was not something to worry about. Thomas still needed the confirmation from Bujang’s own mouth.
“Bujang—
“Leave me.”
Thomas stared.
Perhaps when he’d asked if Bujang was hurt, he already knew the answer: no, he wasn’t, but yes, he was. Bujang was hurt, Thomas was not blind and he certainly wasn’t stupid. He didn’t understand what to do, because Bujang had always been strong. Bujang had always recovered fine from a fight. Bujang had always patched things up, not Thomas.
Perhaps this was why the two words rejection stung so much. Because Bujang thought Thomas wouldn’t want to see him like this. As if Bujang ever shied away from Thomas when he (rarely, but it happened a few times) broke down.
As if Thomas would leave Bujang when all he wanted in this world was right there, in front of him.
Instead of sulking and hoping that this would end in Bujang finding him somewhere in the kitchen eating M&Ms and them bickering childishly, Thomas stood his ground. This was different, he reminded himself.
Thomas placed his hands gingerly on Bujang’s taut necktie, knowing that Bujang might as well throw his body down and beat him up to a pulp. It never ended good, this part. This habit of Bujang that Thomas had noticed since they first met, and desperately tried to put an end to. His stomach lurched when Bujang’s warm hand came on top of his own, stopping the motion.
“We need to—” Thomas whispered; unable to finish his sentence when Bujang decided to look at him, his ghostly gaze unnerving. His eyes were searching something. Thomas didn’t know what.
“No.” Bujang said after a moment, his grip unyielding. “No,” he repeated, softer this time. His thumb brushed Thomas’ knuckles slightly, and Thomas pulled himself rigid to not let his body shiver. “Please.” Bujang whispered.
Thomas was shot silent. Bujang, even in this state, could tell him to kneel and end himself; and Thomas would say yes without hesitation.
“We need to—we need to give you some room to breathe. Come on.” Thomas managed.
Bujang’s jaw tightened. He dropped Thomas’ hands, diverting his gaze to the marble floor. Thomas hated himself instantly.
“Look, Bujang, it was not your fault.” Thomas pleaded. He bit his lower lip enough to draw blood. “Never was.” Tears ran smoothly down his cheeks. Thomas exhaled sharply through his mouth, silently cursing himself for his lack of self-control. He was so damned scared for Bujang. “We just need to undo the knot, okay? Bujang? Please let me.”
Bujang was still not looking at him. Thomas struggled to not flinch when Bujang’s breathing became more ragged. All he wanted was to cut the fucking tie. But Bujang would not react well to that, if Thomas knew anything about him. Thomas did not want to end up bloodier than he already was, but damnit, Bujang already couldn’t breathe properly.
Instead, Thomas wiped away his tears silently. He stood upright, eyes wild. His silhouette made Bujang’s skin darker, almost blue under the moonlight filtering through the half-closed window.
“Agam,” Thomas murmured, using his gentle yet authoritative voice. It was a crazy bet. But if—
Bujang’s eyes snapped back to focus on Thomas.
Thomas never used that name before, not even as a banter. God knew how many times Bujang had called him by his childhood name, but it was different. Bujang’s name felt personal, and it wasn’t who Bujang introduced himself as. Still, it earned Thomas a reaction. His brain was shouting at him to keep going.
“I’m going to turn this on,” he said, his left hand moving ever so slowly to turn on the reading lamp on top of Bujang’s bedside desk. “There. Now, I’m going to undo the tie.”
Thomas had expected a rejection, maybe Bujang turning away from him. But Bujang’s breaking voice greeted him: “But it’s the only way I could feel,” and god he sounded scared and small and not Bujang at all; and all Thomas wanted to do was to hug him and hide him from the world.
“You’re hurting yourself,” Thomas said softly without breaking their eye contact, placing a tentative hand on Bujang’s knee. Bujang’s body jerked involuntarily, leaning into his touch; and it was the confirmation Thomas needed.
“I can’t let that happen anymore.” Thomas continued. His voice had that sort of finality that most of his clients fell for, always agreeing to his demands. Bujang was no different—he was pliant, even when Thomas started to bend down and pulling the first tangled knot.
The only difference was that with his clients, Thomas wanted their money. With Bujang, he simply wanted him. Thomas wanted him whole; scars and all, wanted Bujang to know that he was not responsible to his mother’s death, wanted him to know that Thomas would lay down his life if it was needed to love Bujang’s imperfections.
Thomas held his breath while undoing the battered tie. It was supposed to be a new one; Maggie had gifted it to Bujang a week ago. But there was blood all over it, edges wrinkled by Bujang’s forceful hands. He was careful not to pull, to not hurt Bujang more than Bujang himself already was. Thomas moved closer, feeling Bujang’s erratic breathing on his cheekbone.
“There we go.”
Bujang was still looking at him, his hands formed into fists and he was shaking visibly. “It’s—I want to feel something. Thomas. Thomas. Tommy.”
His name felt so familiar and so right, coming out from Bujang’s mouth. Thomas wanted to cry.
“We will figure something out.” He replied shakenly, feeling the outline of the tie inside his pocket. Thomas couldn’t help himself and the overwhelming emotions he had. His hands moved to wipe the sweat away from Bujang’s eyebrows. “I promise. But not this way. Not with hurting yourself.”
“Tommy, please? Please. Please, pleasepleaseplease—
And when it all clicked to him, Thomas was the stupidest idiot in the world. “Come here, Agam.”
Their bodies met in a painful clash of bones, yet Thomas accepted Bujang’s warmth with relief. It was like seeing an oasis in the middle of a desert, as if he was a moth to a flame. It felt like he’d finally arrived to his destination after a long trip; it felt like home. Bujang filled all of Thomas’ senses, his scent and his presence overwhelming. His body was too warm with all the blood splotches and sweats on their shirts. Still, Thomas had never felt so… right.
Bujang sobbed into the crook of his neck, his fingers digging into Thomas’ back.
Thomas placed a soft kiss on Bujang’s hair, soft curls meeting his clean-shaven jaw. “Sweetheart. I’m here.” He whispered.
The only thing he could do was to hold his friend. Hopelessly trying to put him back as whole, stopping him from unravelling. Thomas didn’t know whether it was enough; but he wanted it to be. He wanted himself to be enough for Bujang and he wanted Bujang to realise that he was enough for him.
“I want to—” Bujang choked out.
“Shh. Agam. I’m here.” Thomas put his arms around Bujang’s neck. “You don’t have to hold back. I’m not leaving your side. I’m here.”
He felt Bujang nodding onto his shoulder. It was wet with Bujang’s tears, and Thomas’ feet aches from standing and holding Bujang’s weight at the same time. He manoeuvred them to sit at the edge of the bed, his hands were still protectively cupping Bujang’s head.
When Thomas whispered: “We’re going to be all right,” he was hoping that it counted as prayers.
--
Bujang was not letting out gut-wrenching sobs anymore, only the hiccups were left. If people were to see them, maybe they would saw the younger versions of them: two boys with open wounds and trying their best to hold each other whole.
Thomas ran his fingers gently through Bujang’s hair, tucking a stranded curl behind his ear. It had dawned on Thomas moments ago; that they were in too deep and there was no coming back. Thomas was weirdly content with whatever Bujang’s decision might be. Although he would possibly get hurt.
It was Bujang that broke the comfortable silence blanketing them. “Tommy,”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
Bujang pulled himself away from Thomas’ shoulder, his now clear eyes looking at Thomas with such softness and Thomas almost couldn’t bear it.
“I’d do anything for you, you know.” Thomas muttered. Gone now his playful and snarky remarks, only Bujang could do that. Only Bujang could strip him defenceless.
Delicate fingers were on his chin, and Thomas was forced to look up and meet Bujang’s gentle gaze. Bujang smiled at him; whirlpool of relief mingling with worry and love all the same when he said: “I know,”
Thomas smiled back.