May's nose wrinkled, and she took a deep inhale. She stirred.
"Ugh~ Ben, making coffee this early in the morning," sleep still embraced her, "is not playing fair at all. It's too damn early!"
The room held its breath. A snore answered her, steady and deep, and she jolted upright. Eyes wide, she glanced at the lump of sheets next to her – it rose steadily on intervals – the hoarder of blankets was still asleep! Then who could possibly be making breakfast at this odd hour?!
She swung her legs off the bed, effortlessly sliding them into her fur slippers. She draped a coat over her nightgown and set off for the kitchen, it couldn't be the boys. Rising up before her was unheard of.
Making breakfast on top of that?
'What if it's a homeless beggar borrowing my kitchen?' She gasped, her feet rooted to the ground.
She thought of heading back and fetching Ben, but then a bud of courage bloomed within her. This was her house! It was her kitchen!
'Ugh! They better not have touched those eggs! I fought a bunch of moms for them!'
Righteous rage overwhelmed her fear, and she stomped down the stairs, two steps at a time. May caught sight of a shovel on her way down. Her hand had already reached out for the makeshift weapon.
"Oh, I will show you for stealing my eggs you, you you—"
With the tool held high, clutched in both hands for a devastating swing, May came to a halt at the scene of a young man in her kitchen. His presence struck her as oddly familiar, yet not at the same time.
He glided across the kitchenette, as if he was a professional skater on ice, hands shuffling through cabinets, fishing out ingredients with grace of a housewife. May heard sizzling, and the aroma hit her; the coffee was freshly ground, its scent earthly, like a patch of rain soaked soil, and farms, and the rays of sunlight filtered through trees. She sniffled and set her weapon down.
He hadn't noticed her presence; his attention was consumed by the quiet art of whatever dish he was creating, as though the world beyond his counter didn't exist.
The two allowed a comfortable silence between them, each in a trance of their own. Time was fickle, it moved too fast for her liking, the hypnosis was coming to an end. The chef untied his fluffy apron and just as he was turning around, a new entry broke the silence.
Haaaaa~
"Hmm~ that smells good. Watchu making, Aunt May?" A young voice, remnants of sleep evident in his sluggish tone.
May turned and smiled when her nephew stepped into the room. His dark–brown hair was a messy nest, he squeezed his hand behind those circular lenses to rub at his eyes. May smiled, walked over to him and cupped his young face in her hands, and pecked his forehead.
"Well Pete, we both are in for a surprise this morning, hm?"
Together, they turned toward the counter. Peter let out a slow yawn, the scene before him taking longer to register. But the next instant, his drowsiness vanished. His eyes flew wide, breath catching in his throat. A trembling finger lifted as he pointed at the impossible: his own likeness standing calmly behind the counter.
"Wait—what?! Maly, you made breakfast?!"
The chef sighed, neatly folded then placed his apron on the counter and cracked his neck. May and Peter grimaced at the pop.
"Get seated. Breakfast in two." And with that, he proceeded to set the table, everyone else tuned out of his little world.
Nephew and aunt stared at each other, jaws slackening in disbelief. One raised a brow, the other answered with a shake of the head.
"I'll, I will go wake up Ben." May rushed up the stairs, and the room plunged into silence. Peter swallowed loud, his clothes suddenly felt small round his frame. He shuffled his hands as he tried to think of something to say.
"So erm…wait, hold up. Where the heck did you learn to bake a cake!?"
Another beat of silence hung in the air.
Malique said nothing as he continued arranging the dishes, every movement precise, almost ritualistic. The table gave a low, weary creak beneath the weight of the meal. He paused, frowned slightly, and adjusted one of the platters by an inch. Only when everything met his quiet standard did he look up. His gaze found Peter, calm yet cutting, the faintest glint of disinterest behind his circular spectacles. Grey eyes, steady and unreadable, regarded him with the kind of bored intensity that felt like he was dissecting a thought rather than a person.
"Go wash up."
Peter was taken aback, was that all he had to say? He didn't even answer his question. His lips parted, a clever retort at the tip of his tongue; locked and loaded. Yet no words came forth, he now took note of both their attires. He had just woken up, worn out pajamas across his back, whereas Malique looked crisp and composed. He had done something to his outfit. The same clothes Peter had seen countless times, yet somehow reinvented and combined together into something new. And his hair too, it was styled, the unique unruly curls they both shared, had somehow been tamed into a confident hairstyle.
"Dammit! Don't eat my share!"
His only response was a scoff.
°°° ••• °°°
Malique believed he had outdone himself with the breakfast, considering the pathetic options of ingredients he had to work with. He raised his hands to massage the bridge of his nose, only to meet the metallic link of his spectacles. He groaned.
"Getting used to these," he tapped the lenses, " seems like an impossible feat." He murmured to himself as he arrived at his destination.
Malique stared at the cheap wooden door, he almost gagged.
He knocked gently, afraid of drilling holes into it by mistake.
"Gimme a minute, almost done…" Came the urgent reply.
"Time is running out. We have to leave." Malique still couldn't grasp his head around the concept of high school.
He had been homeschooled from his childhood as Zalach. Nonetheless, he was slightly interested in what a gathering of minds and personalities shall offer him. He mentally counted to five and his patience ran out, dropping to his knees, Malique fished out a paper and hair pin from his backpack and worked around the mechanics of the lock. The satisfactory click was instantaneous.
'Cheap locks. How ironic. I now live in a house that practically invites intruders.'
Peter was leaning too close to the mirror, his hair disgusting, with how much wax and hair products he'd applied.
"First of all, May might kill you for wasting her precious products as you are," Peter startled, losing his balance and smacking his forehead against the reflective surface. He grumpily tapped around for his eye aids.
"Nobody taught you to knock before barging in? And how did you even get in? I am sure I locke—" He rubbed at the point of contact on his forehead, hopefully, a lump wouldn't rear its head.
"Secondly, don't just mix hair products like that, you might start balding."
"Wait. WHAT?!!!"
"Also, I don't recall seeing your Bugatti parked outside. Fifteen minutes till that sardine tin of a bus crawls by."
Malique seized him by the shoulder and dragged him toward the sink. Before Peter could protest, his head was under the tap. He yanked off his specs just in time, seconds before his maniac of a brother unleashed the flood.
Whenever Peter tried to speak out, he was forced to face the jet of water. After a few stubborn attempts, he kept to himself and allowed Malique to get on with his work.
His hair was washed, dried, and as a bonus, Malique styled it.
"Oh, thanks! This looks great! Now with this, I think I can have a better school life…"
Peter's gaze drifted up the mirror and locked with Malique's reflection. His brother stood behind him, arms folded loosely, the faint hum of the bathroom fan filling the silence. Steam clung to the glass in thin, uneven trails, softening the edges of the room…but not him.
Under the white glow of the vanity light, Malique's caramel skin took on a cooler tone, almost bronze where the shadows touched and pale gold where the light struck. The contrast drew out the lines of his face, the quiet sharpness in his eyes. There was a stillness to him – steady, self-contained – but something about that stillness had changed. It wasn't the easy calm Peter remembered. It felt honed, like a blade that had learned restraint. His movements had lost their casualness; every gesture now felt measured, as though his body had learned discipline overnight.
The silence lingered, pressing between them until Peter's eyes faltered. He looked away, suddenly aware of the faint drip from the tap, the way the air felt heavier now.
He couldn't tell when it began, but Malique carried himself differently. Not louder, not colder, just refined in a way that unsettled him.
Still, he thought, glancing at the reflection again, at least Malique wasn't ignoring him. That had to count for something. Right?