[Another sneak peak from Mountain Sounds (part of soulmate au)]
Kahar should’ve known something was off when Hakeem, Fahmi, and Zahrin stopped whatever they were doing to gawk at him mid-pack.
“Lain macam kau pack, nak jumpa mertua ke, Kahar?” Hakeem had said, trying (and failing) to suppress his grin.
“Aku rasa kau boleh muatkan Keem dalam luggage tu,” Zahrin added wryly.
Fahmi just blinked twice and said, “Kau… bukan terus menetap sana, kan? Ni dah kalah kes orang kene bawak lari bunian ni.” he muttered the last part under his breath.
Kahar had glared at them all like they’d just insulted his ancestors.
At the time, he didn’t get the joke. He still didn’t, really. What, was it wrong to pack responsibly? He had no damn clue what the trip would be like.
Plus, this was the first time he was actually going somewhere that wasn’t with Beja… or his father’s chauffeur.
In his five years at Kudrat, every outing or balik bermalam was either that or nothing. Once or twice, he tried asking if he could follow Hakeem or the others.
The answer was always the same: No. Usually followed by some snide remark from his father about “the kind of people” he mixed with. Not prestigious enough. Not “proper.”
But the day he became Kapla, his father didn’t even bother asking if he’d be coming home anymore.
Kahar hadn't really unpacked what that meant yet. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Still, standing there with his luggage that could probably hold a small body, watching Fakhri toss clothes into a backpack like a survivalist preparing for a weekend apocalypse, Kahar had felt a little ridiculous.
Then again… they were going to Fakhri’s place. Dude probably had half his life stashed there already. It made sense.
This was—what? His third or fourth time riding a public bus anywhere? Maybe fifth?
The gentle rumble under his feet, the stale air, the mix of people—adults, some old folks with plastic bags between their feet, a kid staring blankly out the window across the aisle—all strangers.
No uniforms, no rigid Kudrat rules.
And for once, no chauffeur waiting with polished leather seats and cold silence.
Kahar didn’t mean to smile, but he did. Just a bit.
Not that he wanted anyone to notice. Especially not Fakhri, who was currently pointedly ignoring him with his earphones shoved in, staring dramatically out the window like he was the brooding lead in a Malay drama.
Still… Kahar could feel the tension.
That thing Fakhri had said about Puteri Enam earlier had stuck with him. Gnawed a little. The way he’d gone all quiet after mentioning Puteri Empat—the way he rushed to change the subject after.
What did that mean, anyway? If Puteri Empat was during the time when they were about to Manifesto, then was it that bad?
Suddenly Kahar remembered the dark bags under Fakhri’s eyes, the bouts of tiredness, the spacing out.
The times he caught him with Ariz.
Immediately, his mood darkened.
Kot Puteri Empat teruk sampai dia biar Ariz dekat, Puteri Enam camner pulak?
Welp. At least Ariz wouldn’t fucking be anywhere near them for the week.
Kahar tried distracting himself by people-watching. A grandma trying to unwrap a sweet. A guy at the front nodding off with his head bobbing like a loose maraca. The kid still staring blankly.
Maybe he should ask again. Either to get actual answers—or to piss Fakhri off just enough to get a reaction. He was already reaching out, elbow cocked, about to nudge—
—and then a weight fell against his shoulder.
Slowly, he turned his head.
A tousled mess of hair was now firmly in his line of vision. Close. Soft. Fakhri was slumped against him, cheek pressing into the side of his shoulder like he meant to do that. Like he trusted him not to move.
Not for a solid ten seconds.
Because for someone who always looked constipated with heavy eyebags that made him resemble a broody panda, Fakhri’s face—relaxed and quietly vulnerable in sleep—was… something else entirely.
And all of a sudden, Kahar wasn’t thinking about the Ulek Mayang. Or his father. Or the soulmark hidden beneath Fakhri’s sleeve.
He was just thinking—Shit, shit, shit
Siot… nak kejut ke tak ehh budak ni? Kahar’s brain had been looping that question like a broken radio for the past few minutes.
Fakhri hadn’t moved. Still dead asleep. Still slumped on Kahar’s shoulder like he fucking owned it.
Cemana kalau terlepas rumah nenek dia?
Takkan aku nak buat announcement dekat driver—“Abang, budak ni tidur mati, nanti dia nak turun mana?”
Macam bangang sangat pulak.
Another glance. Fakhri’s lashes fluttered faintly in sleep. His breathing slow and steady.
Dia betul-betul ngantuk ke ni…? Takkan aku nak kejut… buatnya dia tumbuk aku camner?
Fakhri had a mean punch and Kahar really wasn’t looking forward to possibly meet Fakhri’s wan with his face all shades of blue (not that he wanted to impress her or anything).
Kahar scrubbed his face with both palms, trying not to scream into them.
And then—movement caught his eye.
At the front seats, two boys—maybe 10, 11?—sitting beside what looked like their mother, were staring at them.
Like, full-on staring. The older one nudged the younger, and the younger made a ridiculous fish face before giggling.
Then they both started silently mouthing "aaaaawwwww~" while pointing discreetly (but not really) toward Kahar.
Kahar narrowed his eyes at them. Real slow. Real deadly.
They didn’t stop. If anything, they giggled louder.
He was this close to mouthing "kau nak penumbuk?!" when he heard another soft giggle—from further back, just a couple seats before him and Fakhri.
Kahar turned slightly, and there they were.
Two girls, probably around their age, sitting a few rows on the other side. They weren’t even being subtle—one of them straight up gave him the cheeky thumbs-up.
The other one just smiled in that annoying knowing way.
Kahar faintly scowled, slouching lower in his seat.
Takde kerja ke semua orang sibuk tengok sini lak? Macam bodoh.
He seriously debated throwing his hoodie over both their heads just to make a statement.
But before he could settle on an actual plan, the bus suddenly lurched forward, hitting a bumper way too fast.
And just like that—Fakhri’s head lolled closer.
Kahar’s eyes widened as he felt the full weight shift from shoulder to neck. And—
was that Fakhri’s lips just now???
Kahar didn’t know what to do with his body. His soul. His breathing. His neck.
Was he supposed to move? Pretend he didn’t feel that? Tap Fakhri awake? Lean into it?! (NO! WHAT THE HELL!)
His heart was pounding like a damn war drum in his chest.
He stared straight ahead, vision unfocused, entire body rigid like a corpse.
He couldn’t look. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think straight.
The fish-face boys were now losing it. One of them was hitting the other with a rolled-up comic book, trying to hold in laughters. The girls were clearly whispering and giggling louder now.
Unabashed, Kahar shot all of them the middle finger.
Then he slowly, very slowly, tilted his head the other way, neck cramping slightly just to create an inch of distance.
Not enough to wake Fakhri—God forbid—but enough so his skin didn’t feel like it was on fire.
Even with that inch between them, the ghost of that warmth lingered.
Kahar didn’t want to admit it—but his right hand, clenched tight in his lap, wouldn’t stop trembling.
There was a small shuffle.
Just a subtle shift in weight. The brush of soft fabric. The ghost of warm breath along his jawline.
And Kahar froze, yet again.
Fakhri stirred faintly, the top of his head nudging under Kahar’s chin for half a second before he—thankfully, mercifully—leaned away.
One eye blinked open groggily. Then the other.
Still dazed with sleep, Fakhri frowned slightly and raised his wrist to squint at his watch. He turned lazily to the window, gaze sweeping over the scenery now dotted with faded shop signs and dusty roads.
No panic. No embarrassment. Not even a hint of awareness that his nap had involved accidental shoulder intimacy.
Just a sigh and the way he visibly relaxed into his seat, slouching deeper with that same disheveled, half-asleep look.
Like nothing had happened.
Like Kahar wasn’t still sitting like he’d just been electrocuted.
He stared at Fakhri in disbelief.
The idiot didn’t even fucking know.
For a second, Kahar’s fingers twitched with the temptation to say something. To tease. To smirk and lean in and go, ‘Oii sedap ehh kau tido kat aku free-free gitu?’
Just to see how Fakhri would react. Watch his face go red or maybe hear him swear and try to punch his arm.
But before he could even open his mouth, Fakhri beat him to it—murmuring sleepily, voice still heavy with drowsiness, “Nanti jap gi bas ni stop jap nak isi minyak…”
He paused, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand.
“Aku nak turun jap beli barang. Kau jangan merayau lak, kang kene tinggal, Aku tak tahu.”
The words weren’t scolding. Not really. More like autopilot from someone who was too used to dealing with chaos.
Kahar almost rolled his eyes. Almost snapped something smart back like, ‘Kau ingat aku ni budak ke?’
Instead, he shut his mouth. Let the moment pass.
Because somehow… somehow that sleep-heavy voice, that unthinking trust, that ordinary familiarity—it made something in his chest squeeze.
So Kahar just leaned back, arms crossed, gaze turned toward the seat in front of him. He could feel Fakhri still shifting beside him, now rummaging in his pocket for coins or checking his phone.
There were still people throwing glances at them.
The girls in the back giggling. The fish-face boys looking smug like they were in on something.
“Apehal diorang tengok sini macam tuu… pelik-pelik je laa,” Fakhri muttered, glancing around, puzzled.
He just closed his eyes, let his head thump softly against the solid back of his seat, deciding to keep what just happened to himself just a little bit longer.
His mark on the nape of his neck burned the whole way.
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