His parents’ earliest discipline is how to be conscientious; how to be scrupulous and careful about your own image. Unlike the other paragons that litter the upper echelon of their social bracket, their carefulness wasn’t to conceal any insincerity but to flaunt their moral truth, never deigning a glance to anyone that fell beneath their standard. They’re good people, diligent people, keen and merciless people. They’re people that can talk about things like justice and morality without the disenchanted aftertaste coming to sour it. They’re people with conviction, who uphold their ideals unremittingly.
One bad apple will always ruin the batch, no matter if the rest of the seeds have yet to bloom. He finds himself alone more often than not because of this, separated from would-be friends because his parents say so. Fate can be sealed by the age of fifteen, that’s how they think, and sometimes that stamp is pressed by another person’s hands; hands you aren’t even responsible for. They impart each lesson clearly, and irrefutably, prescribing a doctrine which they enforce like an iron grip. That’s how it feels anyway, like there’s something else dictating tightening the lead around his neck, tugging even when he’s doing what they ask, which right now is to sit quietly at the table they pointed him to.
Sit beside Matthew Choi, the token prize of a family his parents consider one of the most reputable, at a celebration whose purpose he hadn’t paid much attention to. Matthew meets the unspecified quota of goodness required to safely associate with the Hiranchai heir. He exceeds it, even, insofar he’s placed on a pedestal that Sunan is pushed toward like a goal his father says he should emulate. It’s too high up for him though, he doesn’t know how to approach it, evident in the way his utensil slowly grazes over a plate whose hors d’oeuvre seems more decorative than actually satisfying.
“Uh,” he tries just the once, tentatively, clearing his throat, unhanding his fork so he could fiddle with his tie. “Have you … um,” thinking, gaze rolling through the room unseeingly, smiling shyly, “ever thought about eating walrus? What it would taste like, I mean. Or an orca. Or a polar bear. I feel like we’ve gone centuries without trying any new kind of meat, so,” he coughs, fingers rubbing down his nape, horribly aware of himself.
“I would like to try that, I think. Walrus and then maybe something avian. I’ve never eaten a hawk before. Do you think it’s safe? Or something like a Finch. I bet they serve Finch though, don’t they?” He blinks, coughs again as if to dispel his thoughts, hand outstretched as soon as he realizes he’s forgotten his own introduction.
“Hi! I’m Taay. I forgot to say that. I forgot to say that I’m Taay, and to say hello.” His lips upturn, teeth flashed amidst nervous laughter that spills like a popped bubble. “Oh, and also, that I’d never actually eat a Finch. They’re precious pets, actually! I’ve never had a pet though. Have you? I’ve never had a pet bird either, but that’s also because I’ve never had a pet before, like I said. Um,” he pauses, lips tucked into his mouth, thinned out into a solid line of impending defeat.
“I, um — I really like your suit.”
@matthewchr / 2011.
