“Man, I’ve said this before, but you really need a stylist.”
Uka grouses. “Literally. Why.”
Arya snorts. Typical, so very typical. Uka is still unable to completely cotton to his life and environment now. “If you have one you can go out without a fuss.” He hasn’t change. Perhaps one day, yes, perhaps Uka will finally change as well (their world today has invisible hands unknowing of mercy negligent to consideration discretion hands that always and forever crush and quash and flush—), but right now they are friends and as any good friends do one is always there for. Even when it’s just trifling exasperating things like this. “Can’t do that now without minding your appearance.”
Said friend pauses. “It’s just clothes.”
“And people have always paid attention to it.” Arya twirls his forefinger, asking in silent. “It’s just that now more people will do it. Maybe even nosier, louder. You’re a national celebrity now.”
Uka turns round. Slowly. So languorous and gauche. People like this would’ve already been dead lambasted by Arsin. It’s a good thing Uka isn’t a model.
Arya thinks of it for a second. White flare pants, red-and-gold songket crop tank laced-up on the side, and a black leather military jacket with spikes… it’s eccentric, but not too much. Arsin did his job well. Extremely well, Arya thinks. He gets that Uka admires Freddie not only from his music. Personally Arya only sees perfection in it, fitting for their event later and balanced—not lacking nor teeming of anything, but he knows Uka is discomfited. The man barely dresses, if at all. If he can he might just cop out of this, but his choices were milled. Arsin sent them all his special designs. Haute couture. And Uka is too polite to nix it.
“It’s nice,” says Arya. He folds back the few clothes that were laid on the bed. “Shoes, and we’re done.”
Uka sulks. “I look like a clown.”
“You’re not even looking in to the mirror.”
He plods to the mirror, judging his own reflection for some short seconds. Then, “a fucking clown.” Again.
Arya piles up the clothes he was tidying. “Arsin designed that because you’re a huge fan of Freddie Mercury.”
“I know,” Uka responds. He stares intensely at the diagonal slit laced up by white ties on his tank, the space where it’s loose enough, a small door to the body behind. “But Freddie’s gorgeous. I’m not.”
Arya chuckles. “Freddie and you? You win everytime.” He doesn’t immediately realize. Uka glances, and Arya blinks before he gets up from the bed. “No homo,” he says, light enough to keep it easy, but fast enough to expose his worry. (Still afraid? Still dubious, huh, you?) Yet Uka scoffs (like usual) and every last fear that besieged him dissolves. He takes the folded clothes. “The difference is Freddie didn’t care. You’re still yo-yoing.” Then he puts the clothes back into Uka’s almirah.
“It’s so over the top.” Like we’re going to kondangan.
“That’s the concept, dummy. We’re musicians, anyway. It’s normal.”
“We’re not performing.”
“Just think of it as Met Gala.” Arya quietens afterward, thinking fast on his own words. An Indonesian Met Gala? That’s fun. Yeah, he can bring it up later.
Uka still looks so dissatisfied, though. Anxious or plain vexed, he keeps frowning at his own reflection. “You’re modest,” he accuses Arya. One second later comes the regret marking his face, maybe just now processing that, actually, Arya’s extravagant as well. “Well, not as extreme as me.”
Arya rolls his eyes. He makes finger guns, shoots at Uka, tsk-tsks with a lopsided grin. “Inspo’s Prince.” He grabs at his right pocket, opening the blazer at Uka like a small wing. Playful and showing.
His attires, when compared to Uka’s, do look moderately simpler. Orange satin button-up, a half-blazer, and black velvet houndstooth skinny pants. Arsin said that combo really punctuates his character. Lean, but still toned. His brother especially likes the balance of his shirt and blazer. The blazer’s kind of opulent. One-sleeved half-cut, made from special black-and-silver songket balapak. The shoulder’s padded upwards like a horn. Wide on the chest, fitting on the waist. The cut is wiggly on the (decorative) button side. Crashing waves during the night. Under his right collarbone hangs a draped cloth, layered, clinging around his hips, night clouds above the ocean. The cloth was pinned as a substitute for enswathed sarung. It’s a homage to Minang men’s daily wear during the end of 19th century. Fitting perfectly to Arya, Arsin had told him that it looks really nice and he’s proud of the work. Siluet Uda apik bana, he said. It mesmerizes Arya, too, when he looks at the mirror and truly grasps how impeccably tailored the blazer is. His right shoulder, rising in defiance, is contrasted with his left shoulder that sits loose and humble. His satin buttons up falls and wrinkles lightly. Playful. Pants clinging on every inch of his skin. Complete with the Chelsea leather boots, platform boots, Arya does feel that the whole look brings out another side of him. The fit is simple, and yet flamboyant. It follows tradition while breaking the rules. A lover, a wayfarer, a renegade. A wallbreaker.
Arsin references Prince without turning Arya into Prince.
Uka furrows his brows. “Which Prince?”
“Prince…” Arya tries to think of a specific enough answer, maybe an era or something, but the question comes across too baffling for him that his emerging sentence collapses entirely, what little remains shown on his judging, unbelieving stare. “Well, Prince.”
“You’re not even his fan.”
Arya shrugs. “First off, you’re dead wrong. I used to stay up all night for a whole week just to listen to his discography back-to-back. Second, bawel amat dah.” He rolls his eyes, sits on Uka’s bed. “Picking fights with me over dressing up?”
“Dak do ambo cakak jo waang.” Uka quietens for a while. “It’s too flashy.” He glowers again at the mirror. Almost as if he wants to attack himself, like a cat unrecognizing his own reflection.
Well, Uka does look more conspicuous than Arya, but Arya also knows that’s because Arsin intends to communicate who they are more effectively. Uka’s the frontman of Zaman Reaksi. He has to be more salient for that, but Arsin toch understands that Uka isn’t someone so pompous. The red-and-gold of that songket tank is indeed bold, especially with the laced up diagonal slit, but it doesn’t overwhelm the other elements of his look. The jacket on top tampers it. A little bit conservative, but still with fangs. The straps are golden yellow, complementary with the tank. And the spikes glint. His pants, one Arya helped to choose, is plain white, unassuming. Add the black sneakers still laying near the mirror and he’s done. He has drama, he has flair, but not too much. That’s exactly the kind of vibe Arsin shot for; one that he thinks of befitting for a frontman. Uka may think he looks so tacky right now, but Arya knows Arsin aims for the glam this time. And anyway, when he stands next to Irfan later Uka would realize his fit isn’t even that outrageous. (Arya has seen what Arsin designed for Irfan; feisty, yet so sleek. Typical vocalist, he said.)
Though, well, Uka sure does not understand such world. Fashion is a foreign tongue to him. It makes Arya wince in gail.
“Every events you go to I have to come ‘round,” he scoffs. “What if you have a date? Masa iya I have to style you too.”
Uka grimaces. His frown deepens. “I don’t understand things like that. If I can wear t-shirt there, I will.”
That fishes a laugh from Arya. “T-shirt to a fashion event,” he repeats, sarcastic. Then his phone rings quickly. Arya takes it, looks through the notifications. New message from Irfan. On the way.
“We don’t even dress like this for shows.” And Uka still grumbles while wearing his shoes.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll style us up more gaudily next time. We’ll do it in fucking Wembley.” Arya stands up. He glances at Uka again. It is unconventional, actually; Arya thinks even the fans would later be surprised. All this time even in their shows Uka likes to dress up more in the classic rock-and-roll sensibility, a little bit of punk perhaps, and Arya—anytime he helps around—he follows Uka’s own preference. So far Zaman Reaksi has never been too theatrical. Not in their fashion.
But who knows about the future. If they will shock people today, even their own fans, the prospect for their stage drama can come more riotously than ever thought.
“Irfan’s on the way,” informs Arya, when Uka rises back up. He gestures with his head, a soundless let’s go.
Uka sighs. Heavily.
Seeing him so fraught like this does make Arya sympathize. This is already troubling enough to him, but they still need to go to complete their face make up. It’s so obvious that Uka is self-conscious. He pats him on the back, offering a tiny smile; an apology, a support. “Just think of it as kondangan.”
Uka blinks. He laughs quietly. “I don’t mind,” he says. “I agreed to wear this. Well, it is what it is.” Arsin did ask Arya and the rest of Zaksi kids to come wearing his bespoke designs. He came to every one of them, did every one of his designs on his own, formulating it with every person’s character in mind. The debut of his new house really has thrown him off balance, stuttering from anxiety and restless; years after he dreamed of it, Arsin finally can stand on his own doing what he loves and excels to do.
Arya can’t really feel regret for coaxing his friends to agree. Yes, seeing Uka so overstrung like that makes him feel bad, but not sorry. Hearing that makes him more at ease.
“Spoken like a true mamak.” He titters. Uka tuts, tickled.
They descend the stairs one after another, circling, and Uka grins when Arya takes his last step beside him. “Next time your bro’s taking me to flaunt his designs, I’m demanding a new guitar.”
Ah, ah, ah. Jakarta Fashion Week will be really sensational.
Wednesday, 4 January 2023 — 23:08.
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