HYSM

Eight

So the era of 'new normal' - essentially, a fake normal - dawned.

Each and every morning, as the neighbours' ruby plumed cockerel crowed, Mew greeted his own bathroom mirror reflection with a "Susu na", bracing and steeling for a day of pretending ahead.

Because it took a lot of energy, this business of being 'normal'. Of Mew pretending to behave no differently towards Gulf (which meant hating him), whilst simultaneously pretending to hate him (when really he loved him with all of his heart). Loved him, even more deeply, since the night he had held him close, made him moan, and seen glimpses of an inner self that he suspected even the younger man himself hadn't known to exist.

But however draining and energy sapping, however tiresome and wearisome and ultimately heart wrenching the faking was, it was what Mew felt was right. Because hadn't he said it himself? His words, chanted as a mantra, an hourly reminder alarm: "Everything will be the same as before. Phi promises".

So...he teased Gulf, he pranked Gulf, he provoked and pestered and bothered - just as usual - wicked eye glint and smug smirk firmly in place. A mask.

Yet with one subtle difference: He made sure, with the last drops of his energy, that the two were never alone.

Mew knew he was skilled at pretending - it was second nature to him after all those years. But not that. That would be too much to bear even for him, the strongest and most noble of souls.

So he daydreamed instead, of he and Gulf alone in a perfect white vacuum of time and place - Mew saying everything that he wanted to say. Just simple things, in a rich, warm voice, giving his care to the only one he had ever wanted to care for...

'Are you ok?' He would ask.

'Do you want to talk about it? Can I hold you? I'm here for you Gulf'

And he meant every imaginary word.

//

Gulf had gnawed his nails down in dread of every terrifying scenario that could arise on that first day back at university, bowels quivering as the taunting images looped feverishly in his mind's eye...

Mew confronting him, with questions he couldn't answer.

Unnatural friction between the two men - onlookers whispering and tittering behind hands.

A rumour. Gossip. Mew revealing secrets, whatever they were...

No - the younger man had shaken his head in decisive dismissal - the last image jarred, no ring of truth to fool him. For Gulf was instinctively certain that the elder man would never act as such. It was strange, but he trusted his oldest adversary more deeply than any one of his closest friends. Strange, yes, but unerringly true.

So when he entered the early morning lecture with unknowing comrades Yin and Bow on 'the day after the night before', Gulf had indeed been soothed - overwhelmingly relieved - by the familiarity of Mew's behaviour.

The way he had chosen to ask Gulf, with an audience of hundreds, a question about relief of lactic acid build up in core muscles, clearly aware that the younger man had been gazing distractedly out of a high window at sky patterns of flying geese, during the lecturer's opening statements.

The way he 'accidentally' plonked himself down to sit directly on Gulf's rucksack as classmates met under shady boughs at lunchtime, a lychee juice carton bursting within to make an ink stained, soggy mess of the day thus far's lecture notes.

The way he veered his motorcycle too close to the kurb to shower Gulf, Grace and Jom with road dust, only to shout back gleefully over his shoulder "Sorry sis! Sorry Nong Grace!", as the three spluttered and cursed - red-eyed and nostrils burning - at the culprit disappearing mischievously over the horizon in a speeding, blurry haze of leather jacket and trousers.

It was as Mew had promised to the Gulf who clung desperately to him: Everything was, comfortingly and comfortably, just the same as always - at least on the hard surface anyway.

All...except that one thing.

As days ticked rhythmically by like the steady, waving arm of a metronome, Gulf became suddenly aware that he and Mew were never, never alone. It had struck him as coincidental at first. After all, they hadn't chosen to be alone together in the past, so if and when it happened it would have been by force of mere accident.

But as days elongated into weeks - a presto tempo stretching out to lento on the metronome then - the younger man began to suspect that ever-present public audience to be a deliberate tactic on Mew's part. It was unsettling.

Gulf turned demented detective to test out his theory, making a play of forgetting his wallet and rushing back towards the tutorial room in which Mew had lingered. Eyes narrowed in focus, he registered the elder man previewing his return via the corridor windows and ducking out of a side door before Gulf could reach his destination.

Strike one.

Next, he ambushed Mew in the campus library. Trailed the elder man as he entered the Physiotherapy reading section, shadowing him intently as he drifted along the narrow avenues of bookshelves, tracing elegant fingers over ancient spines, before rounding a corner to face him head on; deadly-eyed duel. Only for Mew to visibly fluster, unfamiliar blush creeping out across his cheeks as he reached hurriedly for his pocketed phone in the pretence of taking a call - no ringtone sounding, no vibration buzzing and no incoming call image flashing across his screen.

Strike two.

One final investigation: Gulf knocked at the Jongcheveevat household under a half hearted, vague guise of discussing an assignment - having watched wickedly through the window as Mew returned home just moments earlier - only to be informed by a fidgeting, shifty-eyed Jom that her brother was, in fact, definitely not at home.

Strike three.

Yes, Gulf had confirmed it: Mew was avoiding being alone with him.

And that bothered him. A fucking lot.