Work Text:
The city didn’t sleep, but Thomas was learning to pretend he could. He leaned against the railing, both elbows resting on the metal bar, fingers idly tracing the scratches and dents left by years of weather and neglect. His shirt was rumpled, sleeves pushed up past his forearms, and if Bujang noticed the faint bruise forming on his knuckles, he didn’t mention it. Beside him, Bujang crossed his arms, shielding himself from the cold breeze on December night. The glow of his cigarette drawing soft halos in the dark before it tangled with the rest of the thin air around them.
Bujang exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching it curl into the dark before dissolving. "You’re quiet tonight," he remarked, tapping ash over the ledge. "Either you’re dying, or you’re thinking. Both are dangerous."
Thomas snorted. "I’m just enjoying the view."
"Liar," he said, but there was no bite to it. They didn’t talk much — not unless they had to. Not unless the silence got too loud to ignore. At this point it haven't bother them, they wished so.
“Bujang,”
Thomas called, because he needs to say it. Needs to be heard.
Bujang doesn’t straight up answer this one. Instead, he crushes the cigarette under his heel and nudged Thomas’s shoulder with his own.
"Hey. If you’re trying to say something—"
"I’m not," Thomas lied.
Bujang held his gaze for a beat, then shrugged. "Okay." He pushed off the railing, stretching.
They lapsed back into silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t entirely easy, either. The kind of quiet that made Thomas hyper-aware of the space between them—close enough to touch, far enough to pretend he wasn’t thinking about it. “You ever think about how different things would be,” Thomas started, “if you were someone else?”
Bujang didn’t answer. He never did, not when the questions weren’t really questions. His eyes narrowed at the statement, the dark—tired eyes, staring down at the city lights. Bitter and sour taste mingling inside his mouth after he took the long drag earlier. His lips moving, decide to answer that fool question "I've been considering about the presidential election—"
"No, dumbass. I mean—" He gestured vaguely, “If you're different...” Thomas murmured underneath his breath, his tone was uncertain. Quieter this time, “if you were a woman, this would be easier”
Bujang went still for half a second before his usual smirk slid back into place. Bujang took a slow turn and smiled without humor. "Wow. Okay. Didn’t realize you had a type." He doesn't seems to care, it's always difficult to guess his true emotion behind those facade.
Thomas shoved him lightly. "Shut up. That’s not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" Bujang’s tone was teasing, but his eyes were sharp, watching.
Thomas swallowed.
Thomas doesn’t answer right away. He watches the way the ember flares burnt the end of Bujang’s cigarette on the dry slab, its ashes fell gracefully. He listens to the soft rustle of wind against the rooftop tarps. City's lights flicker below them like stars that never learned how to rise. “You wouldn’t be you,” Thomas echoes, an awkward cough as he cleared his throat. “And.... it’d be simpler, maybe."
“You don’t get to say that,” That gets Bujang to glance at him. Not with anger, not even surprise. Just that same look he’s always had. The one that says I already knew. The one that says you’re breaking my heart and I’ll let you. Thomas looks down at his hands. There’s blood under his fingernails, someone else’s. He doesn’t remember the fight, just the aftermath. Just Bujang, standing at his side like always, like always. Like maybe that’s love but he doesn’t know how to call it that. Bujang murmurs, "Is that a bad thing though?" Bujang huffed.
Thomas flinches. “That’s not,” he says. Bujang doesn’t argue. He never does. That’s the worst part. “Screw you,” Thomas adds, and it’s not defensive — it’s helpless. “I just... I don’t know what to do with it,” He rubbed the bridge of his nose like he could press the words back in.
Bujang laughs once, dry and low. “That’s the thing, Tom. You don’t have to do anything. You just have to let it be what it is.”
"Not what I meant," Thomas muttered. "I mean... if you were a woman..."
Bujang went very still. When he spoke again, his usual teasing tone was gone. "Would that make it easier for you to say whatever's stuck in your throat?"
Thomas's breath caught. The air between them suddenly felt charged, fragile. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Bujang turned toward the rooftop door. "Right. Of course."
"Wait—"
Thomas couldn't face his best friend. he’s stiff, like a man trapped in a memory that’s too damn heavy to hold. His heart was racing, but not for Bujang — not really. He was fighting himself. He regretted it. Every word. Every breath of it. But the silence was worse.
"You're walking away again," Thomas said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. No accusation - just quiet desperation.
Bujang paused, his back still turned. When he spoke, his voice cut through the night, soft but sharp. "I'm not walking away, Tom. I never did. You're the one who keeps leaving."
The truth of it stung. Thomas stared at Bujang's silhouette against the city lights. "I'm not—"
"Yes," Bujang interrupted, still facing away. "You are. You're just trying to pretend it isn't there." A barely-there crack in his voice.
The words hung between them, all the years of almosts and not-quites finally given shape. Thomas's chest ached.
"I don't want you to be easy," he whispered. "I just... I don't know how to handle this."
Bujang finally turned, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "Then don't. Just let it be what it is."
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Bujang huffed a quiet laugh, the tension easing just slightly. "Besides," he added, the familiar teasing creeping back into his voice, "if I were a woman, who'd save your ass every time you pick fights you can't win?"
Thomas barked out a surprised laugh, the moment shifting back to something safer, something familiar. "Shut up," he muttered, but he was smiling.
Bujang nodded toward the door. "Coming? Or are you gonna brood out here all night?"
Thomas hesitated, then pushed off the railing. "Yeah. I'm coming."
And as he followed Bujang inside, he tried to ignore the way his heart still pounded - not from fear this time, but from something dangerously close to hope.
And for now, that was enough.
And Thomas finally understands. He’s been so afraid of breaking them — but maybe it’s the only way they’ll ever heal.
It's not the conversation that break the unsaid things between them.
He should’ve known better. Two nights after that talk, everything blew up on his face.
Bujang's arranged Marriage.