Work Text:
Singapore; 16 December 1921
“Governor, is there really no other way? We are in peacetime, so surely-”
“Unfortunately, this is the way it must be. Perhaps if relations between London and Tokyo improve, then these restrictions may be lifted. But from what I understand, it is unlikely that either of us will witness such a thing happen in the near future.”
“...I see.”
“I know this is all rather irregular, but even so, I trust you will follow these new regulations once they come into effect. Won’t you, Singapore?”
“Yes, Governor Guillemard, of course.”
“Good. Very good! I had the sense when we first met that we would get along well. That you were an honourable, hard-working young man – or colony, I should say – and that you would cause no trouble. I’m delighted to see that is still the case.”
—
A torrent of water falls from the heavens in rippling sheets. People dart about, some on bicycle and some on foot. They splash through the wide puddles of the civic district, anxious to be home before the dark night sets in. The lucky ones squeeze onboard the bustling electric tram with their elbows and umbrellas poking through the open windows. Unfortunately, Singapore was not one of those lucky ones today.
Clasping his cold hands together, Singapore rubs his knuckles. He huddles in the seat of his hired rickshaw, grimacing at his situation. The spats covering his shoes are terribly soggy and the rain has soaked his grey trousers up to the thigh. He leans back in his seat, sheltering beneath the rickshaw’s canopy, hopelessly trying to stay as dry as possible. Normally it wouldn't be an issue, but tonight... Malaya is visiting for dinner. It’s the first date they’ve had in months.
There is a tightness behind his ribs and Singapore takes a steadying breath. He needs to dispel the stress of the business day and the terrible news he was given.
None of that matters at the moment. Even though his disheartening meeting with the Governor went on for much longer than expected, he should still make it home before Malaya arrives, because that silly oyen is often late himself. And to the rickshaw puller’s credit, they are speeding down the muddy streets.
Eventually, Singapore’s abode reveals itself wedged amongst a long row of shophouses. The vehicle’s rickety wheels slow to a halt and the rickshaw man glances back expectantly. Quickly, Singapore tosses a few coins his way. Then, he hops out of his seat, over the gate, and dashes through the five-foot way.
He pushes open the wooden door to his house and pauses, holding his breath. The darkened front hall is quiet and none of the oil lamps appear lit. Thank goodness. Tension floods from his shoulders and he releases a sigh.
He slips off his shoes and carries them inside, hoping to wipe the leather dry and preserve his valuable Oxfords. His bare feet tap terracotta tiles as he pads through the front office, then the smell of firewood hits him, mingled with the aroma of red chili and garlic. Peeking into the hallway, he sees dim light and steam emanating from the kitchen in the back.
His hairs stand on end and a second later he’s bursting into the warm room.
“Why are you here so early?!” Singapore demands.
Malaya flinches and glances up from the stove. “Oh, you’re here!” A bright smile blooms across his face, putting his crooked fang tooth on full display. “Welcome back!”
“You’re never early! How did…?”
“Ah? I thought I was late. You said we would meet in the afternoon.”
“No, we said it would be in the evening.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” Malaya chuckles. “I thought it was strange when I walked in and nobody was home.”
“Wait, what are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m making dinner!”
“But I was going to....” Singapore’s words fail him as he gawks at his kitchen. The mortar is smudged with trace remains of crimson spices and his stove is lit with the smoky haze of burning charcoal. Malaya tosses peppers into the wok and effortlessly works the sizzling heat like he was born for it. Singapore sighs. “Never mind. Let me take over from here.”
Malaya laughs incredulously. “But I’m almost finished!”
“It doesn’t matter. This is your first time in my new home! You’re my guest.”
Malaya quirks an eyebrow and gestures to Singapore with the backend of his chuan. “Singa, you’re dripping wet. You’ll get rainwater in our food.”
Baulking, Singapore looks himself over. His suit is darkened and heavy, leaking droplets onto the floor.
Grimacing, he deflates. “...I’m sorry.”
“Ah? You don’t need to apologise.”
“No, I should have arrived earlier. I had plans for our dinner together; I wanted it to be special.”
Smiling wider, Malaya seems to melt on the spot. “Sayang….”
“I can take over after I’ve changed.”
“No. This is my cooking now.”
“But–”
“It’s fine. You work too hard!” Malaya steps away from the wok and nudges Singapore out of the room. “Quick! Go change out of those clothes before the food is ready.”
Reluctantly, Singapore trudges upstairs to his bedroom, glancing back at the kitchen as he goes.
Once upstairs, he takes a moment to tend to his Oxfords, the higher priority, before his own comfort. When he’s satisfied that the leather is dry enough, he peels off his wet business attire, shivering despite the humidity, and then towels his damp skin. Throwing on something clean, he pauses in front of a small mirror to tame his dark hair before returning downstairs.
The dining area is bathed in warmth and an array of dishes decorate the table. Dinner is set out before him: tomato rice with a yam masak merah, a mix of chicken and dried chilies sambal. The saucy red soup glistens in the lamplight and Singapore’s belly rumbles. Malaya snickers, placing the finishing touches on the table and telling him to dig in.
With a flush rising to his cheeks, Singapore thanks his companion and relents. He takes a bite of the chicken, and a burst of rich, creamy, spice hits his tongue. It’s so delicious that he sighs, the flavour bringing back memories of other rainy Decembers, long past. When it was just the two of them, huddled beneath a small, thatched roof.
“Abang, it’s so good,” Singapore says. “Thank you.”
“Anytime!” A wide grin graces Malaya’s face as he produces a gorgeous bottle of tapai rice wine and pours both of them a healthy glass. Then he sits as well, going for his tomato rice, and talking unabashedly between massive mouthfuls of food. “You know, I think your last house was better.”
Singapore pouts. “Don’t say that, lah. I was hoping you would like it here.”
“Well, ah… it’s not what I was expecting.”
“I was able to get this because my markets have been paying well. Would you prefer it if I returned to a timber attap house? Go back to my old kampong?”
Malaya sheepishly raises his hands in mock surrender. “No! It’s just very… different?”
“It’s closer to the city centre. And it’s modern.”
“Okay, okay! I’m sorry.” Malaya leans in and gives Singapore a quick kiss on the cheek – an apology. He leaves behind a few sticky grains of rice, and Singapore rolls his eyes before brushing them off. “You worked very hard for this, so I’ll admit, for a city house, it is really spacious and fancy.”
Singapore swallows a few more bites of food while considering his companion’s sentiment.
Indeed, the new dwelling takes some getting used to. Bought last July, Singapore’s abode stands three stories tall and has an elaborate, ornamental façade. Decorated with colourful tiles and plasterwork, it is more stylish than his previous place. If only the floors were worn in, and the rooms smelled of the forest, perhaps then this mass-produced building would feel more like a home.
It’s no matter, though. He will adjust. As if reading his mind, Malaya pokes his elbow and gestures to the open courtyard. “Plant a garden in the spring; that will help.”
Singapore glances at the bare space and imagines it filled with kang kong, lemongrass, and chili plants. It warms his heart.
“That would be nice.”
Malaya polishes off his rice and sets the bowl down. “So, you meet with Guillemard today?”
“Ah… that’s right.”
“Mm! I’m meeting with him in a few days, too. What did he say?”
Singapore ducks, suddenly very interested in the wood grain of his table. “I’ll tell you after dinner.”
“Come on, tell me. Is it good news?”
Weight settles on Singapore’s shoulders and bears down on his neck. “No, it’s bad.”
“Now I have to know!”
Singapore sighs. The locks in the back of his mind slowly release, allowing a bitter slurry of unease and gloom to trickle forth. He’s been holding onto this all day and he was never good at hiding things from his dearest.
“You’re not going to like it.”
Malaya downs a swig of rice wine. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
Singapore follows his lead, taking a sip from his own cup and allowing the burn to roll down his throat. He swallows, and means to slam the cup down, but it settles with a skittering series of taps. Is he nervous, or just upset?
“Guillemard said… beginning next week, we cannot have any contact with Taiwan, Korea, or any other kingdoms under Japan’s control.”
The statement falls wet out of his heart to splatter ruin onto his new, tile floor. Malaya blinks, silent for a while, his eyes going wide.
“No, that can’t be right.”
“Personal contact lah,” Singapore clarifies. “We can’t send them letters, telegrams, or schedule any visits.”
“Not even letters?”
“None.”
Malaya gapes. “Why would he say that? Did he have a reason?”
“I couldn’t get all the details.” The morning and afternoon were like a whirlwind. Questions flew around the rooms of the Governor’s estate, from not just himself, but even the groundskeepers who he caught whispering in the halls. “I heard there was a conference,” Singapore continues, “and a treaty was signed. Somehow, this new treaty ended the alliance between England and Japan, but it was more than that. Apparently, there has been tension between them for a long time, maybe years. So, it is possible… perhaps a combination of different things ....”
“Wait, wait!” Malaya cries, jolting Singapore out of his recollection. “ Tahun Baru Cina!”
It takes Singapore a moment to understand. “What about it?”
“Taiwan invited us to celebrate with her. You remember; we were meant to visit her in that city... what are we calling it these days?”
“Taihoku?”
“That’s it!”
“I’m guessing that will be cancelled.”
Malaya releases a puff of air. “They can’t just cancel the New Year!” He slumps, staring forlornly at his empty rice bowl. He looks like a cat, longing for more food, as though that would be enough to fix all the problems of the world.
“Someone else might host,” Singapore suggests.
“This is terrible,” Malaya mutters.
Singapore frowns at his wine, cloudy and glistening in the lamplight. He imagines it reflecting a sea of red lanterns as they ripple in the night air, a dream of years past. If he concentrates, he can recall the clamour of jubilant voices, the thrum of drums, and the crackle of firecrackers.
Gathering under one roof to welcome the New Year was a tradition they shared. Who started it and when, Singapore does not know, but every house he visited would be brilliantly decorated in a rainbow of colours, and every table would be packed to the edge with food. Different people would host and attend each year; a variety of familiar faces that came and went. Philippines, Vietnam, Siam, Manchuria, Korea, of course China, and more. Sometimes there were so many of them, there were not enough seats to go around!
Occasionally, the turnout was smaller due to war, famine, or sickness, but it was always a pity when it happened. It’s still a pity now. Singapore sighs, again. “I’m sorry for ruining the evening with depressing news. This date was meant to be special.”
Malaya blinks, returning to life, and shushes him. “You know, if you keep stressing out, your hair will turn white.”
Something in Singapore's face must be betraying his feelings, because Malaya’s smile falls almost as quickly as it appears. He shuffles closer and secures a steady arm around his lover’s shoulders.
“Abang….”
Rain pitter-patters on the courtyard stone. The distant sounds of city life grow quieter as night falls. Is it raining in Taihoku as well? Is there a little girl on the other side of the sea mulling over the same sad news? Poor Taiwan. She’s still just a child; she won’t understand.
A knot has lodged itself in Singapore’s throat. Times like these serve as a potent reminder: it is the spiderwebs of alliances that shape their uncertain destinies. Of course, he is not a revolutionist. Order, harmony, and life are too precious to him. All he must do is keep his head down, work hard, and if he does that, he can get by. But sometimes… sometimes….
Without prompting, Malaya whispers, “I know,” and hugs him, lean muscle cradling Singapore’s thin frame. And Singapore doesn’t realise he is clenching his jaw until Malaya strokes his cheek and it slackens. Heat radiates through his ribs like an antidote. A rattling breath escapes his chest and his eyes fall shut. Their bodies slope together.
They stay that way for long minutes. The weariness of the day begins to levy its toll on Singapore’s consciousness and his head droops. Safe in his companion’s arms, sleep tempts him. He almost doesn’t hear when Malaya whispers: “When do these rules start?”
“Next week,” Singapore murmurs.
Malaya’s lips press gently to his temple. “Then we will send Taiwan and the others some letters. We will wish them an early Happy New Year, before these awful new rules take effect.”
Shifting, Singapore meets his brilliant golden eyes. Dark umber bangs brush the tips of his eyelashes and a firecracker lights in his heart. His oyen is so handsome. They kiss and Malaya’s inviting mouth tastes faintly of chilies.
“Can I stay with you for more than a few days?” Malaya whispers.
“Of course,” Singapore says. “But is that okay? Won’t you get in trouble with the sultans?”
With a wave of his hand, Malaya dismisses the notion. “I’ll just keep begging my bosses until I manage to annoy them into letting me stay. Besides, my sayang is worth it.” A smile dawns on Singapore’s features and they entwine their fingers. Malaya nuzzles his hair. “And after I go, I'll come back in the spring to help you build your garden. We can plant some red hibiscus together.”
“...That would be nice.”
Suddenly, Malaya squeezes him tight and peppers his face with kisses until he’s laughing. And the spark in his heart becomes a booming firework display, so bright and colourful that it threatens to burst from his soul.
Eventually, Singapore has to push him away, before things get heated and they make a mess of both their clothes and the dining table. He suspects there are red chili smears decorating his face. Malaya relents only after leaving a suggestive bite to his neck, practically purring with delight.
They gather up the dishes from the table, and as Singapore follows his companion back to the kitchen, he finds he is able to stand straighter. Malaya has a kind of resilience, a living strength that courses along the lines of his shoulders and blooms in the curve of his toothy smile. And Singapore has always found it captivating. Despite their misfortune and the struggle of navigating life, his oyen thrives and endures. How lucky he is to share delicious dinners and squander time with this special person.
Singapore’s thoughts drift to the feathery bed that beckons them both and suppresses a shiver of excitement. Hurriedly, he plunges a bowl into the water basin and scrubs it clean, eager to indulge in the rest of their evening and the precious days ahead.
As long as he has Malaya, everything will be okay.
End / Fin