#hatta

You have my heart, Jest. I don't know if you deserve it or not. I can't tell if you're a hero or a villain, but it doesn't seem to matter. Either way, my heart is yours.

📖:Heartless, Marissa Meyer.

They confused me. Like, these two never really got along at all during the book, but they also had this mutual respect for each other.

Hatta hated that Cath and Jest loved each other not just because he was also in love with Jest, but because Cath could spell the ruin for their plans and even their lives. His distaste is so founded, but he seems to grow a fondness for her after the tea party, and even gives her a hat.

Then everything low key falls apart with the Mock Turtle event and the King of Hearts just… kind of announces his technically nonexistent engagement to Cath, and Hatta’s attitude dips again drastically and doesn’t really recover after that. He is blatantly against her, and everyone knows it. He doesn’t think she could make it to Chess because he doesn’t think she is desperate enough, and spends a good amount of time mocking Cath.

Despite this, he is incredibly considerate and caring towards her after Jest’s murder. He is the one who removes her from an obviously distressing situation, and he even CARRIES her home. And what’s more, this display of consideration, we are shown, did NOT change his feeling about her. He is openly hostile at the end of the book, and verbally attacks Cath repeatedly.

Cath doesn’t treat him much better at this point either, what with the blaming him for everything and banning travel between Chess and Hearts, but she does show her concern for him and his decaying mental state. She genuinely feels bad for him when he admits he too loved Jest, and, to me anyway, the fact she stayed with him until his mind was completely broken says she wanted to be something of a comfort.

Had things been different, I feel like these two would have been amazing friends who cared deeply for each other, but they instead were two broken people stuck in similar circumstances. They understood things about each other no one else could, and that led them to care for each other in their own odd way, but they were able to breach that contempt in blaming the other for what happened while they had the wherewithal to do so.

[This scene got me in a fucking chokehold and I couldn't stop]

“Berapa umur kau?”

The second it leaves his mouth, he winces internally.

Macam interview pulak.

But Hatta doesn’t comment.

“23.”

Yusof pauses mid-slice.

Two years.

Same gap.

His grip tightens slightly around the knife.

Weird.

For a split second, a thought flickers—something absurd, something impossible.

Is there a version of the world where Fakhri was older than him?

He shakes it off, returning to the cutting board.

The questions continue after that—light, almost casual on the surface.

But each one from Hatta skirts dangerously close to something deeper.

Too close.

Yusof answers carefully, always just enough, never too much.

In return, he learns small things.

Hatta prefers Wonda Coffee over Nescafe.

He’s been practicing silat since he was a kid—of course he has. The way he carries himself already says enough.

Normal things.

Safe things.

Until—

“Kau setuju ke dengan apa yang diorang buat dalam Tarung tu?”

The knife stops.

Just for a second.

Yusof stares at the half-sliced tomato in front of him, juice bleeding slowly across the board.

Isa.

That bastard.

Obsessive. Twisted. The kind of man who feeds off fear like it’s oxygen.

Too similar to someone Yusof used to know.

Too similar to someone he used to be around.

His jaw tightens.

Fakhri—Hatta—would’ve hated Isa.

No.

Would hate him.

Some things don’t change across lifetimes. Yusof’s sure of that.

Still… past is past.

Whatever Kahar did—

That’s not him anymore.

And Hatta?

Hatta doesn’t have to hate Yusof just because Fakhri hated Kahar.

Right?

Yusof exhales, forcing a small laugh as he turns the stove knob, the soft tick-tick-foosh of the flame filling the space.

“Takde la aku fikir lama sangat pasal tu,” he says, voice lighter now. “Aku bukan siapa-siapa pun dalam Tarung ni. Paling-paling pun kerja macam Grab je.”

A joke.

An easy out.

He risks a glance over his shoulder.

Hatta’s smiling.

It was a small smile. Subtle.

But it’s there.

And for some reason, that’s enough to make something warm and giddy bloom in Yusof’s chest.

Maybe—

Maybe this time, things can be different.

Screw the hierarchy. Screw the fights.

Maybe he can do this right.

Yusof reaches for a patty, heartbeat just a little faster now.

“Kau suka burger ayam ke daging—”

He falters mid-sentence.

What comes out instead is softer, almost tentative.

“Kalau ayam… okay tak?”

There’s no pause.

No hesitation.

“Ayam okay je.”

—

Yusof freezes.

Completely.

The world narrows to that one sentence—those exact words, spoken in that exact tone.

Something cracks open in his chest.

Slowly—too slowly—he turns.

Hatta’s looking at him.

And there’s something on his face that Yusof can’t name..

It hits Yusof all at once, cold and electric.

Oh. Oh.

Shit.

There’s no time to think, but instinct kicks in anyway—

His hand snaps to the stove.

Click.

Flame off.

Good.

Because—

The cup flies.

“—OI!”

Yusof jerks back just as the plastic cup whizzes past his face, water splashing across the wall. Before he can recover—

SKREEECH—

The small plastic table is shoved straight into him.

“WOI WOI WOI—!”

He stumbles back, barely catching it before it slams into his waist. His grip slips, the knife still in his hand—

No.

Bad idea.

Without thinking, Yusof flings it sideways—clack!—it disappears under the cabinet just as—

A kick slices through the air where his head was a second ago.

“Gila kau—?!”

Hatta doesn’t answer.

Of course he doesn’t.

His eyes—

Same.

Exactly the same.

Yusof’s heart lurches.

“Fakhri—” he blurts, voice cracking, “—jap—”

Hatta lunges.

No hesitation.

“DIAM LA!”

Yusof ducks, barely avoiding a strike to his jaw, arms coming up on reflex. His body moves before his brain catches up—blocking, shifting, stepping back.

Silat.

Muay Thai.

Old habits. Old life.

“Kau dengar dulu—”

Another swing—fast.

Hatta’s attacks were cleaner than before. Where previously, teenage Fakhri used street smarts and experience tousles in the streets, like a rabid dog ready to attack.

Yusof barely manages to parry, stumbling sideways into the counter.

Hatta— Yusof dodges another kick at his solar plexus.

Hatta is disciplined.

Every movement tight. Efficient. Trained.

“Woi—!” Yusof pants, dodging another hit, “kau gila ke apa—?!”

No response.

Just another attack.

Yusof blocks—too slow.

THUD.

The punch lands clean across his face.

His head snaps to the side.

For a second, everything rings.

He staggers back, hand flying to his cheek, vision swimming as he tries to refocus.

And suddenly—

Déjà vu.

A hall.

A crowd.

Blood in his mouth.

The first time they fought.

Back when he was—

Kahar.

Yusof exhales sharply, spitting a bit to the side.

Then he laughs.

A little breathless. A little unhinged.

“Kan aku cakap…” he mutters, straightening up, eyes locking onto Hatta again—

A familiar glint returning.