practice

practice

[brunchhope]

Every time Megat looks at Kahar, he can't help but think that Kahar is indeed an anomaly, a glitch in that glorious family. It’s like Kahar is not supposed to happen, like he is a curse gifted from his grandparents, like everything about Kahar is wrong. Yet, Megat’s desire to reach for him grows greater after he notices the change in the boy's eyes.

Some parts of him wish Kahar to have a lot more similarities to Beja. That way, at least, he can use Kahar to let out all of his anger towards the younger boy, but no matter how much he forces himself to picture Kahar as Beja, his eyes can't create the image he wants to see. It seems like his brain has altered the signals from his retina to form a different portrait.

His hands slowly make their way to Kahar's warm skin, touching it carefully as though the skin can break if he touches too hard. Almost like porcelain. There are purple colours on Kahar's skin, painting the boy like he is a white canvas. Kahar has always been into the arts, no?

He runs his fingers against the bruises, barely touching them, but he already hears small sounds the boy makes in his sleep, and he feels the fluttering feelings in his stomach, like there are butterflies inside him, living in an ecosystem he never knew existed. Uncomfortable, yet he cannot help but need Kahar to make those small sounds once again.

It feels like a drug—Megat has once tried the white substance in the form of a powder. It happened last year. A senior called him; they were kind of close, but not close enough for Megat to call the senior his best friend. Not enough when Beja was everything he wanted to be next with—and in front of him was a straight line powder. He was given an inhalant, and after watching the demo shown by his senior's friend, he followed the same method, which was by snorting the powder into his nose using the inhalant in his hand.

He still remembers the vivid feeling after committing such a crime for the first time—and how Beja was worried for him—that his brain has formed a new addiction—and of course, Beja has the cure to every problem Megat has. Of course, Beja knows everything he has done behind his back. Every time Megat tries to sneak around, Beja will appear out of nowhere, asking: kau nak ke mana tu?

The sudden movement in his hand brings his attention back to reality. He doesn't realize he has held Kahar's wrist, and it is warm like an oven. He lets go of the wrist, watching it fall onto the thin mattress that gives everyone back pain if they lie down for too long. It twitches violently as if Kahar is trying to get away from him, but no matter how much the boy wants to run away, Megat has always known how to chase.

Maybe, it’s the way Kahar’s eyes are open wide that scratches his brain—and it feels too good that it makes him want to lean into the boy, inhaling the scent of the weak until his mind turns mushy, until his body grows weak after taking the blows from Beja, until he can feel the claws from Kahar's nails, digging into his skin, drawing blood that Megat never appreciates.

Through this moment, Megat let his hand move to Kahar's neck, tracing the lines between the skin. He can feel the vibration from the larynx in that neck of Kahar, screaming in terror. It shakes the whole room, but the window never shatters into broken glass. Instead, his fingers rest on top of the bump on the front of Kahar's throat, thinking about the decision he should make right now.

Megat blinks once, then removes his hand from that neck. There is an ache deep in his heart after sensing no warmth at the end of his fingers. He sighs. Kahar should be quiet; who likes to cause a commotion in this early morning anyway?

So, he changes his facial expression, matching the panic in Kahar's face, like they are connected in some way, like Megat can feel the anxiety inside that piece of flesh.

“Kahar?” He holds both of Kahar's shoulders, eyes staring at the boy with an artificial concern. It never sits well with his face, it looks plastic on his skin, but it works—Kahar is not moving around anymore, though those eyes are still wide open. Like Kahar just saw a ghost, a monster—should Megat laugh? He has his food laid on this table, which he can devour in any second, but look at him, he is doing nothing except for bringing Kahar into this boring reality.

In this room, their breaths are mixed, and if Megat leans a little bit more forward, their lips would crash against one another, creating a beautiful moment, but Megat stays still until those shoulders under his palms shrink into the thin mattress.

“M-Megat?”

“Shh, kau okay.”

The soft hair strands brush against his fingers, he likes the feeling of it. Kahar's skin is flushed. Megat takes the chance to cup the boy's face in his hands, taking all the heat from Kahar like he is a doctor to his patient. His thumbs gently stroke the cheekbones, portraying an affection as if he cares deeply for Kahar: aku ada kat sini, kau jangan risau.

Delicate and frail, it makes Megat want to crush this skull like an egg, watching Kahar's brain spill like a yolk. Addicting, is it not? The type of feeling you can only imagine because you don't have the power to experience it, so your brain creates an imagination—fake pictures scatter across the white plane, but it feels like Megat can almost touch them, giving him the same feeling as if they are real.