Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Breakfast tastes bitter.

Halilintar scrapes off the burnt parts before biting into his charred toast, an uncomfortably audible crunch filling the silence of the kitchen.

Burnt bread isn't exactly his favorite, but he can't fault his sister for being in a rush in the morning. Kira'na always tries to make time for him, even with how busy she is with her job. She had been gone as soon as he woke up. Just like yesterday. And the day before. The toast was proof she had thought of him, but it didn't make the kitchen feel any less empty. Less spacious.

Despite being sixteen, Halilintar finds his sister still insisting she could do everything herself. From the housework to running errands— everything. It exasperates him just as much as it concerns him. He's not eleven anymore, clinging to her arm with grubby little fingers and needing her help for the simplest things.

Still, he downs his breakfast quickly. Grabbing his backpack, he settles the towering dishes in the sink, checks the stove one last time, and locks the door behind him. If she isn't going to let him help, he'll find his own ways to be useful.

The walk to school is something Halilintar has learned to familiarise himself with. There are streets he's yet to explore, neighbours he hasn't greeted, and no faces he can recognize. Just two weeks ago, Kira'na and Halilintar had officially moved to a brand new city— the former claiming it would be a fresh start for the both of them.

He gets it, he really does. But the familiarity of old houses and street signs being stripped away from him claws at his chest. Halilintar, like any other human, is a creature of habit. He had counted the number of street lamps decorating the roadside from his home to his old school, memorized which alleyway to steer clear of stray dogs (he didn't like the loud barking), kept track of the date his favorite snack would stock up in their local shop.

The routines, the normalcy— he clings onto those little things to feel a sense of order in his life. Back at their old place, it was by no means perfect. It was awful. Terrible, even. But it was familiar. And being familiar made it predictable. Normal. Habitual. And Halilintar was— is always a creature of habit.

The unfamiliar road to his new school makes Halilintar suppress a sigh. The rough gravel scrapes against the soles of his shoes. New school, fresh start; he tries to drill that into his skull. New friends too, he thinks solemnly, unconsciously clenching the strap of his bag tighter.

As he makes his way to cross the road, his eyes meet the pearly white gates of another school. It's a bougie private building that's been said to rival the school he attends to in literally everything. Or so that's what he heard during the first few days of settling into the new neighbourhood. He doesn't get to dwell on it much before a sudden blurred figure shoots past him.

What?

Halilintar’s eyes widen as he instinctively jerks back. Before he could even open his mouth, the figure, quite literally, runs back towards him with a terrifying speed. "Hey, hall monitor!" the boy grabs Halilintar’s shoulders before shaking him vigorously.

"What—"

"Look, man, I'm really sorry for running in school grounds and stuff, but like..." the boy digs into his pockets, emptying out junk and trinkets as they clatter to the ground. After what seems to be a solid thirty seconds, he pulls out a small bag of Skittles, the wrapper crinkled horribly. He holds it out like some kind of peace offering. Scratch that— it's a whole ass bribe.

Halilintar can only stare in utter bewilderment.

The boy isn't wearing the same uniform as him. His shirt is untucked and he doesn't even have the signature blazer draped over his figure, but rest assured, they definitely don't attend the same school. Halilintar’s school doesn't even have mandatory blazers. That's some private school bullshit.

"Don't write me up, dude! Please? I don't want another lecture from my mom!" said boy tries to get Halilintar, who stays rooted in place, to accept his colorful bribe. "This can stay between us. Eh? Eh? Truce?"

What.

Halilintar blinks, finally snapping out of his shock, before gritting his teeth. He shoulders past the boy, ignoring him and his weirdly inadequate bribery. He scoffs, "I don't even go here."

A pause.

"So... that's a no to the candy?"

Halilintar snaps his head towards the boy with an irritated scowl, only to be met with a shit-eating grin and bright blue eyes. Oh. He's getting fucked with. He's getting fucked with at 7:15 in the morning.

Before he can snap back a retort, the blue-eyed boy runs off again— this time, with an equally mischevious laugh that grates his ears. Halilintar huffs, sharply turning around to get to his own school. With his mood already dampened with annoyance, he's already dreading the day ahead of him.

As he walks into the building, he takes note of the change from his usual environment. The halls are smaller, more crowded. But the paint jobs and wallpapers plastered are decent, so he can't complain much. At least this school actually cares about outer appearances. He can't really say much for the one at his old place, remembering the vandalized bathroom stalls that the janitor gave up cleaning.

It's still quite early, so students are just pouring in. Halilintar is glad to find his class mostly empty as he takes his seat right next to the window. The past few days, he's been consistently sitting there so no one would claim that spot. It's the best seat because not only does he get to see the school cats stroll by, but it's also placed at the furthest corner from everyone, so, fewer interactions with his classmates. Win-win.

Plus, he prefers the early morning stillness rather than the bustling sounds of a busy afternoon, finding silence a much better company compared to meaningless chatter.

Unfortunately, said quietness is shattered when two boys burst into the classroom. Halilintar jolts, before his eyes narrow into a glare aimed towards them. They were already roughousing one another— cackling and shoving until their backs hit the desks.

He inwardly groans. It's Gopal and Qually; a duo that unsurprisingly made their way into the growing list of people he wants (needs) to avoid. They're the exact people he doesn't get. Obnoxiously talkative and loud. Unfunny, too. He could count the amount of times he so much as snickered at one of their little quips with the amount of stable relationships in his life. Zero.

"Can you two knock it off?" Halilintar snaps at them, prompting the boys to pause. He's trying to be somewhat civil, even with his growing irritation. God knows what would happen if—

"What's his problem?" Gopal nudges his friend, who shrugs in return. They're both whispering amongst each other, but it makes no difference at all since they clearly don't know how to control their volume. "New kid's got some nerve, bro."

Halilintar’s glare sharpens, his jaw clenching with a mixture of exasperation and anger. Fuck being nice, and you know what, fuck being the bigger person too. Halilintar has a name, which should be really obvious because they've been classmates for the past week. He shoots up, his chair scraping against the floor. "You—"

"Alright guys, settle down."

As if sensing the rising tension, the class monitor enters the room, his tone is calm, but there's an undercurrent of firmness in his voice. It's someone everyone can recognize even before glancing towards him — Gempa. "Class is gonna start soon. Take your seats."

Halilintar bites the inside of his cheek, but ultimately backs down with a click of his tongue. Gopal and Qually both turn to Gempa with sheepish expressions, and the room feels a lot lighter.

"Yo, Gem! Did you, uh, finish yesterday's homework?" Gopal rubs the back of his head cartoonishly, a shaky grin plastered on his face.

Qually raises a brow, slowly turning to his best friend. "... We had homework?"

Halilintar watches as the three of them continue to exchange words, the class monitor's sternness dissipating. Just like that, Gempa's face changes from a strict frown to a boyish grin. "Sucks to be you guys. It took me three hours to finish mine."

"Three?!"

Gempa is... 

Someone Halilintar can respect. A lot. He carries himself in this manner that makes Halilintar question if they're the same age or not. He's firm when the situation calls for it, responsible as a leader should be. He knows how to keep people in line without raising a fist or his voice. Just one word, and it makes people freeze and turn to him. Not out of fear, but out of respect.

It's... admirable.

Halilintar isn't even half as pragmatic as Gempa. He's blunt, cutting straight to the chase with little regard for how others deal with it. He snaps at taunts and he's petty to a fault. His temper isn't pretty. He could barely contain a sharp retort when Gopal and Qually made a lighthearted comment.

Something twists in Halilintar’s chest. It's not envy, not contempt. He peers at Gempa through the corner of his eye, watching just how easily he could interact with other people. How easy it was for him to voice his opinions, not having to scream it out just to be heard, and having people actually care.

It's not jealousy, he feels, that's contorting his insides— it's longing.

And that's a dangerous, dangerous feeling. Because Halilintar had learned long ago that he could never truly get what he wanted. He had yearned, had clung on until his nails bled, had ached and hurt and got hurt, himself— only for everything he had ever cared about to be torn away and ripped from his hands.

So, Halilintar stops hoping. Stops expecting things will get better because it just won't. He doesn't trust the highs because of the doomed, inevitable lows. He can long for things and experiences all he wants, but it will never be his to take and go through. Halilintar accepts it, wholly and completely. Because it's the kind of thing that makes his ache less painful.

When school passes in a blur of time, he doesn't stay back to hang out or chat around with his classmates. It's better that way. They don't need to know him just as much as he doesn't need to know them. At the very best, they're mere acquaintances. At worst, he's a stranger in their little world. A needle that can burst their bubble if he so much as moves an inch.

So, Halilintar remains stagnant in his place, not willing to ruin something that's not made for him. Not again. The walk home isn't quiet. Most students are already heading home, the streets bustling with life. Children run to the ice cream motorcycle that parks itself in front of the gates, shouting at one another with their crumpled dollars clenched in their hands. Cars drive past with the intention of their drivers coming home to their families. People walk past him, some groups blocking his way because they don't have the common sense to not crowd the small path. It's lively, this neighbourhood.

Which is a sharp contrast when he opens the door to his house.

With how Halilintar and Kira'na just moved in two weeks ago, their furniture and decorations are minimal. It's a little bare and plain, but he doesn't complain since he knows his sister would drive to the nearest IKEA store and spend the whole day there just to find something to fill in the blank spaces. He had witnessed her spend a full six hours to find the right shade of red to paint his room back at their old place. Bless her heart, but Halilintar doesn't want to overwork his sister more than she's already taking on. He wasn't the easiest child to raise.

Speaking of, Kira'na pops out of the kitchen the second she hears the door click shut. Her striking red hair is free, falling loosely across her back and framing her face. She's still in her work attire, her frame is slouched and her tired expression isn't lost on her features. In spite of that, she immediately lights up upon seeing her little brother, the weariness in her gaze flickering off in an insant as her back straightens. "Hali! Welcome home. How's school today?"

Halilintar could say a lot of things about today. He could tell her about the nuisance from the morning that tried to bribe him with Skittles, or about the classmates he doesn't like that he's pretty sure hates him back, and maybe he could even talk about how easily everyone gets along with one another, as if he's misisng one part of his sense of self that makes him connect with the people around him— the part that makes him human. He could say a lot of things about himself, a lot of things that Kira'na should know. But instead;

"School's fine. Nothing new happened."

Chapter Text

Halilintar was a problem child.

That was what teachers had written on his report cards. Violent, unstable, defiant— they spoke firmly, coldly, as they described one of his many outbursts to Kira'na. He remembered detentions, the corners he was turned to as reprimands for his temper. And he definitely recalled what they said about him during PTA meetings, their stiff smiles disguising the contempt in their eyes;

'He doesn't get along with other kids... he's very troublesome.'

'He can't behave at all— it's affecting other students.'

'You need to discipline him better. He won't listen otherwise.'

'There's something wrong with him.'

Something was wrong with him. Something is wrong with him.

That much, Halilintar knows. That much, he knew, even at the ripe age of 11.

He felt it in the heat that coiled in his chest whenever he was frustrated, in the way his hands balled into fists and twitched to break, to rip, to hurt. He knew it when he saw the look on Kira'na's face after every phone call from school— tired, pleading, but never surprised.

He shoved, he yelled, he got into petty fights— Halilintar couldn't help it. Every taunt, every tease, and hurtful word thrown at him, they made his skin feel tight, rigid. Like he couldn't do anything but claw and scratch and tear. To externalize the ache coiling in his chest, the hurt that twisted and churned underneath his skin.

Halilintar was meant to hurt.

His name held the meaning of thunderstorm. Violent, crackling, and splitting the sky with a roar that made others flinch. Every time his eyes narrowed or his fingers clenched into fists, the people around him stepped back— bracing for the ineludible storm that threatened to sputter.

And when it finally broke, it wasn't graceful, it wasn't quiet. It was a downpour of words, fists, and trembling rage, leaving nothing untouched, leaving him empty afterward, hollowed out. Aching.

It hurt others— pained Kira'na. Halilintar never wanted to hurt her. He would never even try to do such a thing. He never laid a hand on his older sister, of course. But he had messed up, time and time again. Every phone call she had to answer, every teacher and parent she had to meet who demanded answers and apologies, she waveringly smiled through it all but her hands stayed firmly planted on his shoulders.

'I'm so sorry for his behavior.'

'Hali, apologize to him right now.'

'It won't happen again, I promise.'

But it did. It just kept happening no matter how many pinkies he crossed with hers as an oath. Nobody knew why he was acting out so much, nobody wanted to know. Not the teachers, not Kira'na— not even Halilintar. He didn't understand himself, the twitch of his fingers when someone said too much, the purse of his lips to hold back a sharp retort, before the pressure eventually exploded violently.

People saw him, bruised and battered with glazed, narrowed eyes and thought trouble. This kid was no good. He won't ever change. He'll never get better. They didn't ask him if he wanted to because they've already set it in their hearts that he simply won't. Everyone seemed so sure of it, so certain, Halilintar's throat tightened with his own conviction. He wouldn't get better. He couldn't. Public belief had cast its verdict; defiance would only deepen their belief.

So, he fought— harder, dirtier. He gnawed at the hands that had long stopped feeding him. Halilintar doubled down, fully immersing himself in what they wanted from him— someone to blame. Someone to easily put into a corner and not deal with any further. It should have just been that, should've just stayed that way. Until it didn't.

Halilintar went too far.

He heard of that phrase all too many times, growing desensitised to the temporary scoldings he'd get. But this time, he was sure of it. Being thirteen should have been the start of something new, a flower finally blooming after winter had passed. It should have been the start of a change, just as everyone around him had embraced. But Halilintar stayed a wilting flower.

A broken arm.

That was what he heard, muffled through the principal's door. It was getting late. The sun had cast its golden hues, painting the hallways in rich light. Halilintar didn't dare to look up from his feet. His knuckles, bruised and red, sat trembling in his lap. Genuine, hot shame churned in his chest, twisting beyond comfort.

He didn't mean to go that far, didn't mean to push that boy too hard. He lost himself in anger— and he didn't even remember what he was so upset about in the first place. All he could recall each time he closed his eyes was the unfeigned terror in the boy's gaze and the sickening crack as his body hit the ground.

People swarmed immediately. Maybe it was because the boy had cried out in pain or the fact that they were already being stared at, but they surrounded him. Yells and panicked whispers erupted— some students tried to help, but were ultimately pulled away by a teacher who was called. The teacher— an older woman, yelled at everyone to step back, to stop crowding, and give the boy some space as her hands fumbled for her phone to call for help.

Halilintar was frozen in place.

His eyes stayed wide, his breath coming out in sharp exhales. He couldn't move, save for the twitch of his fingers. He could barely make out the chaos erupting in front of his very eyes, the whispers shrouding him. He choked out, "I—"

Eyes snapped towards him, multiple gazes burning through his skin. The teacher lifted her head and glowered, her jaw clenching in restrained venom that her eyes showed well. "Halilintar. The office— now."

That was how he ended up in front of the principal's office, his legs awkwardly kicking as the clock ticked. Kira'na was called. As usual. Indistinct voices could barely be made out through the door, most likely discussing disciplinary actions. Halilintar stopped looking at the clock, finding time to be taunting him with every strike of its hands. But the click of the door opening caught his attention, his head snapping up.

Kira'na.

She didn't say anything. Just stared at him for a moment, her eyes unreadable but heavy— then, she simply turned towards the school exit, her footsteps echoing. Halilintar blinked, before he immediately scrambled to catch up to his older sister. There were no comforting gestures, no quiet sighs, not even a scolding. Just silence. That was scarier.

The drive home was muted as well. Sobering, prickling stillness. The only sound was the air conditioning that was too cold for Halilintar's liking. He averted his gaze from Kira'na's, his eyes landing on the window's view instead. The uncomfortable silence felt suffocating, like a pressure that threatened to crush him if he so much as moved a muscle.

Halilintar swallowed the knot forming in his throat, a shaky murmur escaping his lips before he could stop himself. "Kira?" a pause. "Are you... mad?"

The car hummed under her grip. The silence drove on. And for a moment, Halilintar thought she would simply keep her eyes on the road and her lips shut. But a heavy, deep sigh from his sister made him turn towards her.

"Mad?" Kira'na slowly shook her head, her voice flat. "No, Hali. I'm not mad," But the way her knuckles whitened against the steering wheel said otherwise. She bitterly exhaled, "You wanna know what I am? I'm tired. So goddamn tired."

His hands clenched against his lap, shoulders squared. Halilintar couldn't meet her eyes.

"... Do you think this is fun?" she pursed her lips before asking— interrogating. "Do you think any of this won't matter? Do you have any idea what it's like to sit in those meetings...? With those smug teachers and those stupid parents— having to nod along while they talk about you like you're some kind of animal? Do you? Do you, Hali?"

Halilintar shrank back into his chair, his gaze stuck to the carpet of the car. He couldn't trust himself to utter a single word, much less a reply. Kira'na's eye twitched.

"Answer me when I'm talking to you!" she snapped, her hand slamming on the steering wheel as the car suddenly surged forward. Halilintar flinched at the sudden rise in her voice, his breath catching at the ferocity he never knew she could muster.

His hands gripped the car seat as his eyes instinctively landed on the speedometer, the gauge rapidly increasing; 90, 100, 120–

"Kira—"

"No! Stop— just stop," Kira'na gritted her teeth, seething each word forcefully out of her mouth. "You don't get it, do you?! You think I'm not tired of this? Tired of that stupid office? Every single time, I sit there and watch while they tear you apart. They call you violent. They ask me what's wrong with you. They look at me like I'm the failure— like I can't even raise my brother properly!"

The car swerved— too sharply, too quickly— and the tires screeched in protest. A horn blared when she cut too close to another vehicle, but she didn't slow down, her knuckles locked tighter on the wheel.

"You know, I sit there like a damn idiot, and I smile, and I say sorry, and I promise you'll change. But you don't. You never do!" Her voice grew sharper, jagged at the edges. "You think I wanted this too? Think that I want to keep making excuses for you? Just for you to turn around and prove them right?!"

The car leapt forward, the engine shrieking as Kira'na pressed harder on the gas. The seatbelt cut into his chest, pinning him back as the tires screamed against the asphalt. Halilintar's stomach violently lurched, his breath stuttering, the blur of headlights rushing at them too quickly.

"K—Kira, I think—"

"You don't even know what it's like!" she screamed, her voice cracking with choked-out rage. "You don't even know what it's like to give up everything— everything— for you! My friends, my studies, my job! And it's never enough! You just keep being selfish and— and, fuck, Hali—!"

The car veered hard— too hard. The tires strained, the whole frame rattling so hard, an empty water bottle clattered out of the cupholder and rolled across the cramped floor. Halilintar's head slammed against the window, his vision dizzying.

Kira'na's chest hitched with broken sobs even as her foot jammed itself harder on the gas. "What do you want from me, Hali?! What else do you want me to give up? What more could you possibly want— what else haven't I given you?!"

The speedometer climbed— 130, 140– his breath hitching with every number. Halilintar's trembling hands clung to the seatbelt, nails digging into the strap. His chest heaved, his breathing stumbling out of his lungs in shallow, panicked breaths. The world outside blurred into streaks of color, the howl of the engine swallowing his own voice. "Kira, please—"

The headlights of an oncoming car flared across the windshield— too close, too fast. Kira'na jerked the wheel, the world spinning, the tires squealing, gravel crunching underneath— until finally, the car skidded off to the side of the road with a violent jolt, shuddering to a halt.

Silence.

Kira'na's forehead fell against the stirring wheel, the horn blaring endlessly. It was as if her own body crumpled from the weight of her own words. Her shoulders trembled, choked sobs heaving out of her lungs, "I can't do this anymore. I can't. I can't."

Halilintar sat frozen, lungs burning for air, the seatbelt clung to him like a noose. His eyes stung with tears he couldn't acknowledge, wide and fixated on his older sister; shaking, crying, unraveled.

And that terrified him more than the near-crash ever could.

"Can you just—" Kira'na's lungs stuttered on the inhale, her frame quivering. "Hali, can you please just— hold it in? Hold your anger in, just this once?" she turned to him, her hair in disarray, strands falling on her face, mascara running down her stained cheeks, eyes frantic, pleading. Halilintar flinched, unable to look away.

She drew in a ragged breath, tears dampening her cheeks, "Please, Hali. I don't even know what to do anymore. I can't do this— do you even see what you're doing to me?" Her chest seized mid-breath. "Just hold it in. That anger of yours. Please. I'm so tired, Hali, please."

Another faltering silence. Uneven breaths filled the car. They arrived home at 8:03 PM.

________

They didn't speak for days after that. Kira'na broke the silence with a bowl of meticulously sliced fruits, left on the kitchen table. When Halilintar finally came out of his room, they had gone bad. Flies surrounded the rot. But Kira'na smiled when she saw him descending the stairs, her posture straightening, "Hey, Hali."

They didn't talk about it.

Sure. If anyone asked, Halilintar can now argue that the incident is one of the top ten things that have permanently altered his brain chemistry. One of those 'core memory' moments— the kind that makes him want to curl up and not think about anything any longer in the middle of the night.

Now 16, he's not the same immature kid three years ago. He's learned that his anger is an ugly, ugly thing that festers and unfurls, like a storm cloud brimming with thunder. Nobody wants to see that. Nobody wants to be struck down again. He knows what he's done, the damage he inflicts on the people around him with his volatile nature.

So he does what Kira'na did best; swallow it down, like he isn't repressing venom, and try not to choke on his own spit.

He keeps his head bowed, his eyes low. He's not exactly quiet. Just doesn't speak unless it's necessary. Which is most of the time. Teachers comment on his striking change. Too quiet, too inactive, too tight-lipped. But they can finally exhale in relief with genuine smiles, no longer having to worry about what he'll do next, when he'll snap. They look at him, no longer as something unstable, but as something finally repaired.

Halilintar is fixed.

He just isn't whole.

When they move to a new city a month later, Kira'na thinks the transfer will save them. New lanes, new buildings, new names to memorize— they call it a fresh start. A rebirth. A chance to shed the storm clouds clinging to his name. But thunder doesn't vanish when it's hidden— it just waits, rumbling beneath the horizon. And Halilintar keeps it caged in his chest, heavy with its storm.

But some days are hard. Some days, his chest feels tighter than usual, his hands tremble too much as he digs his nails into his palm, searing crescent marks into his skin to ground himself. Those days, Halilintar hates. The words from his memories stuck like barbed wire in his mind— repeating his faults over and over again. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Something is always wrong with him.

He kicks a loose pebble on the side walk harder than he means to, wincing as it clatters against the curb. The walk back to school is supposed to be one of the constants in his new life that Halilintar tries to keep consistent— the same signs, same streets, same cars. He practically memorized it. But in his distress, he took a wrong turn earlier, which makes him sigh in frustration. With a dead phone and no one familiar to turn to, he's about to retrace his steps. Then—

A soft, drawn-out meow.

Halilintar blinks, his gaze flickering down to find a cat, ginger and scrappy-looking, weaving through his ankles. The cat looks up at him, blinking its freakishly large eyes up at him.

He crouches down on instinct, reaching a hesitant hand towards it. The feline tentatively sniffs his fingers before bumping its head against his knuckles with a low purr. Halilintar's jaw unclenches slowly, a soft smile on his face.

"... You don't really care about anything, huh?" he murmurs, scratching behind its ear. "Guess all you want is food."

The cat meows again, as if agreeing with him, its tail flicking lazily against his shoe. And for a moment, Halilintar's chest doesn't feel so tight. A quiet exhale escapes his lips.

"His name's not whatever you said."

What.

Halilintar stiffens, jerking his head up. A boy is sitting on the dull edge of the fence in front of him, grinning like he's been watching for a while. The boy— Halilintar's eyes widen in recognition— it's that blue-eyed boy that tried to bribe him with Skittles a week ago!

He gaped, "You—"

"It's Hydrogen Bomb."

"... What?"

Said boy jumps off the fence and hunches over next to Halilintar, clicking his tongue repeatedly to grab the cat's attention. The feline's head flickers up and it meows— abandoning Halilintar with zero hesitation as it curls up on the other boy's shoe.

Halilintar has to gawk at the now-empty spot in front of him, as if he has to convince himself that it really happened. He just got ditched by a cat for a boy who thinks Skittles is an acceptable bribe. Ginger traitor.

He turns sharply to face the boy beside him and scowls, "I was petting him first."

"Nuh uh," the boy, smug and unbothered, wriggling his index finger in Halilintar’s face. "Finders keepers."

"That's not how it works— I literally found him!" Halilintar argues back, smacking the other boy's hand before gesturing to the cat,  narrowing his eyes again, "And Hydrogen Bomb? Seriously? He's an orange cat."

The Skittles-bribing-stranger grins wider, pulling the cat closer to his torso in an embrace. The ginger feline, like the backstabber it is, nuzzles its face into the boy's chest. "An awesome orange cat. Which means he deserves an awesome name."

"That's not awesome. At all."

The other boy winks, "To you."

Yeah, Halilintar gives up. He abruptly straightens himself and turns around, ready to leave whatever the hell is happening right now and go back to his initial plan— finding his way back home. Ignoring the Skittle-boy's cries to come back, he rolls his eyes and walks even faster.

He's sure that the other boy will just give up and forget about him entirely. It's like trying to shake off a pestering bug. Except said bug is a boy his age with the cheekiest smile Halilintar has ever seen. He's lost in thought as he turns to another corner, his brows furrowing. He swears he's already seen the same bush about three times by now.

"Hey!"

Halilintar jolts when he hears that same voice, flinching as a hand pats his shoulder. He immediately twists back, his hand instinctively reaching out, tightening his grip against the stranger's wrist. His breath catches in surprise at the sight of that same blue-eyed boy from earlier. Again.

"Sorry, dude," the cat thief winces, his smile faltering slightly, just for a second. "Didn't mean to scare you. Nice reflexes, though!"

Halilintar's frown deepens, brows knitting with a combination of frustration and sparking irritation, "What do you want now?"

The boy waves his free hand frantically, "Hold on, man! You dropped this earlier— I just wanted to return it before you go!" He digs his hand into his pocket, rummaging for a while, before pulling something out.

Halilintar blinks down at the object pinched between his fingers. A cheap, beat-up pen. The kind he'd replace every other day after losing it, the ink half dried out, his scrawled on name faded on the rod. Nothing important. Nothing worth chasing someone for. He slowly lets go of his grip on the boy's wrist, his hand dropping to his side.

"... Seriously?" Halilintar mutters. "It's just a pen."

"Yeah. But it's yours," the other boy says simply, like that explains everything. His voice isn't mocking or sarcastic, his smile isn't strained— just plain and earnest. Genuine. "Halilintar, right?"

For a moment, Halilintar's throat closes up. He takes the pen stiffly, not trusting himself to speak, but the boy only grins as if this isn't strange at all.

"I... yeah. That's me."

"I'm Taufan," the boy— Taufan— tilts his head, offering his hand eagerly. Halilintar looks down again, before his gaze flickers back up to his eyes, as if seeing through the gesture. He tentatively takes Taufan's hand, his grip tensing.

Halilintar thinks that's it, that they'll part ways and Taufan will stop crossing paths with him. But somehow, by some miracle, the other boy falls into step beside him, words spilling out like a faucet that won't close. He talks about people, stories, school work that Halilintar doesn't know, but it feels so normal. Achingly normal despite how out of loop he is with what Taufan is going on about.

He barely responds— if at all— yet Taufan doesn't seem to mind. He just keep yapping, one story to the next, until Halilintar realizes they've already reached his street. Huh.

He isn't sure when he had stopped minding.