Ambun Arya had a bad habit of annoying people.

It wasn’t much a deal, really. It shouldn’t have been. He was thought the kind of guy who doesn’t know personal boundaries; it is true that Arya liked to shove himself in the small sofa space between Uka and Irfan. That he pillowed on Sam and rattled Cakra’s bag around trying to find his own thing he stuffed there without telling her. Arya, well, yeah, Arya just don’t know who personal space is, that’s what his bandmates would say in interviews. Arya would simply smile. Neither agreeing nor objecting.

But it should be crystal clear it wasn’t like that—he did and does know people’s boundaries. Arya never forced himself on anyone unwilling. He didn’t think it’s important, thinking of these stuffs, because aren’t all his bandmates sharp? They’re all astute. Well-read. Educated. Whatever. They must’ve known that Arya just wasn’t like that. It’s a gimmick! Yes, yes, it was. They said it to entertain people the way they say everything else. Didn’t they? Didn’t they? Geniuses like them, no way they wouldn’t get it. Shit couldn’t be any more obvious with that open lid.

Or. At least that’s how Arya always thought of it.

Three in the morning and Arya was half-drunk in his own home—oh, no, no, this is not his home. His own home was burned to the ground by the mobs just short of two weeks ago. Arya glanced around, remembering that it’s his uncle’s home he’s been entrapped in, Sidi Anwar’s. Sidi Anwar is an old shot. A living legend already. Different to Arya and his band, Anwar liked to deliver his songs better poised and composed. The message within is gentle. He never was as fiery as Zaman Reaksi. His songs are more humble and meaningful, comforting yet galvanizing. Delightful to anyone it comes. He was never as controversial as Arya and Zaman Reaksi—had been, but only once, and that was more because his mind is too zealously provident than what people here can comprehend.

What was he going to say? What about Sidi Anwar? Oh, right. His own friends. Or rather his bad habits?

His mind started to blur.

He drank a bit too much earlier. Smuggled, because Anwar would be mad if he knows Arya is drinking again. Much more in Anwar’s home. But. What is there to do. War ravaged his head and Arya doesn’t have any home to scarper to now. His career wretched, his friends vanished, his family estranged, and his home annihilated. Least he could do is to douse the fire inside.

Why is he even still alive, anyway.

Desolate, Arya took his phone. The screen hadn’t light up and for a split second he saw his own reflection there: messy hair, dead eyes, sagged tattoos outgrowing its tiny cage. That neck tat on his right is something far too intimate to him yet he could barely recognize its shape now. It fucked him up even more. Arya had never liked looking at his own reflection and finding out just how different his memories are from actuality.

A quarter past three. Usually at this hour Uka often woke up to take a leak or a snack. Arya scrolled through every numbers (he had never been able to go to his social medias or chatting apps that he used to use daily) to find Uka’s name and almost pushed the green button, but his thumb froze mid-air. Numbed.

Something flashed behind his eyes, and Arya cowered. Uka is a lost cause. He scrolled instead. Then he stared at another name, Cahbot—Irfan’s number. The name was an inside joke they never shared with anyone else. Arya smiled slightly, but he didn’t even try to call.

He imagined: buuuuuuzzzz. Or, what do you want? Or, who?

His stomach churned. Arya quickly scrolled again and called Sam without thinking. Sam is a good man. He never blamed Arya like hell as did Irfan and Uka. Sam actually helped him to go back to Indonesia, though now he’s here he also doesn’t have a clue what for—this just isn’t his place anymore. If people are lucky Indonesia will still be his final abode, his tanah tumpah darah where his blood waters the ground, but this just isn’t his homeland anymore. Motherland, perhaps, but not homeland. As did his mother, the time has come for this country and everyone here to leave him all alone.

Arya waited.

Until the last buzz it still wasn’t picked up. He tried again. Same result. Stubbornly he tried ten times and that ten times Sam ignored him as well, whether he’s asleep or just plain sick of his ass.

Lastly—and Arya hated doing it—he dialed Cakra’s number. Cakra always looked up to him, sort of like an elder brother figure under whose armpit she took refuge. Arya didn’t want to, but to whoever else would he run? God knows which of his friends are still sincere. Besides Sam and Cakra, Arya had run out of trust to spare.

(The last time he trusted almost all of him, he got here: Rama rammed him, Uka almost killed him, and Irfan finally had enough of him.)

Arya rubbed his temple, biting lip dizzily thinking about what he’d say. What does he want to say? What is there to say? Who knows. Everything are so silent here and Arya wanted to talk his tongue dry, but about what, he didn’t know.

It rang five times and—the number you are calling…

Well, fuck.

Arya ended the call. Once more he was left alone with his beating heart (will you just stop) and the howl inside his head. Indeed he didn’t have anything anymore. Haven, companion, whatever and whatever.

Suffocated, Arya unbuttoned his shirt and downed what little was left in the bottle, thinking: oh how good it is to be able to fall. Just like long before. Just like when he was still whole and Zaman Reaksi would always be there, waiting for.