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If it weren’t for the simple fact that Ryouji knew he wasn’t slipping, he’d be worried about his mental state. He shifted the lot of his groceries into one hand as he fished around for his keys with the other, entering his apartment complex through the back so he didn’t have to make a special trip to check his mailbox later. Getting his combination right the first time made him scowl further at the growing predicament he found himself in, and the junk mail that had been crammed into his mail box over the last two weeks (he had better things to do than check his mail every single day, thank you very much) got the brunt force of his displeased scowling.
The mind, they said, was the first thing to go. But considering the only thing he kept misplacing (in mass numbers) were dish sponges, it couldn’t have honestly gone. Right?
Besides, as his brother loved to tease him over, his hair was the first thing to go. Go grey, anyway, though the world wouldn’t be knowing that so long as he had access to a sink and enough money to blow on some dye every few weeks.
Grumbling under his breath at the thought of his brother, he shut his mail box a bit harder than necessary, not honestly caring that there was someone else in the small room to witness his frustration. But witnessing their movement in his periphery still drew his attention, and since his parents had taught him manners he waited for them to leave the mail room first, occupying his vision away from them just to be sure he wouldn’t have to participate in any small talk or other conversation.
He didn’t make too much of a habit of keeping up with the apartment billboard. The colorful and sometimes gaudy papers tacked on there were mostly advertising things he either had no interest in or no use for. Babysitters, dog walking services, AA meetings and shuttle information and updates on some sort of pranking war between some of the residents here (apparently it was hilarious to them to post fake ads concerning their friends). But the billboard drew his attention then and was a convincing enough distraction to ward of social interaction - and something there caught his eye almost immediately.
Over the past several weeks, Ryouji had gone through no less than five packs of sponges. The kind he bought were nothing special - just the cheapest he could find that still had scrubbing power - but they used to last him a good while each, considering it was just him by his lonesome in his apartment, cooking meals for himself and reusing his coffee cup most mornings after just a quick rinse (the blessings of drinking it black). Yet over the past little while they just kept disappearing, and no amount of head scratching or searching throughout his not-very-big apartment ever revealed where on earth they kept running off to.
If his mind wasn’t so sharp concerning everything else, he would’ve been concerned. Early onset memory issues were not something to be scoffed at, and even Ryouji would not have been so stubborn as to ignore them. But he knew it wasn’t just forgetfulness plaguing him, and as his eyes found a printed off picture of a rather small and fluffy animal tacked on to the board he found the oddest answer to the great mystery that was his missing sponges.
The small and fluffy creature was apparently named “Princess Flufferbutt”, a name that had him cringing even as he blinked at what the primly groomed cat held proudly in her mouth. A sponge. Held as if showing off a trophy hunt, with her front paws together and her tail ever so delicately wrapped around her short short legs.
Standing out against the munchkin’s light white and tan fur were rather bold and colorful letters, the largest of which read “Dear neighbors”. And honestly, any normal day of the week would see Ryouji ignoring the rest, but that damned sponge held so proudly in the cat’s mouth hand him bending down closer and squinting his eyes, wishing he’d went with his glasses instead of his out-of-date prescription contacts this morning, taking the rest of it in:
Dear Neighbors,
I, Princess Flufferbutt, have a problem. A problem that my owner Shokashi has just recently been made aware of whenever he discovered my hidden stash of prized sponges I’ve been hoarding under the sofa (as well as my secondary stash under his bed, which he was most startled by). Considering these were apparently not mine by law, a law which I do not agree with nor had no say in, he has informed me that I must return them to their rightful owners.
I disagreed, but, alas, he is the one who brings home the cat food I would starve without in mere minutes.
If anyone’s prized sponges have gone missing within the last while, please feel free to stop by and shame me. As well as have them back.
Sincerely, Princess Flufferbutt, Apartment 423
Ryouji stared at the rather long letter, perplexed beyond reason. He stared long enough that the person he’d been avoiding talking to by staring at it had left plenty long ago, and yet he couldn’t stopped being baffled and almost amused by what he was seeing.
Someone was trying to return lost sponges. They were certainly having fun while doing it, but still. The two packs in one of the bags dangling from his left hand cost less than $3 combined, and yet this person was going out of their way to not only notify everyone that their- his cat was a thief, but that they were welcome to have their sponges back.
Well. Ryouji’s sponges, because he was 99% certain that’s exactly who they belong to. Not that he was going to bother stopping by over some sponges. He straightened himself back up and reflexively tried to push up the glasses that weren’t on his nose, heading into the main apartment building and taking the staircase up to the fourth floor.
Nope. There was no need to go speak with someone over a silly cat poster and what couldn’t have been less than $10 worth of stolen cleaning supplies. None at all. Absolutely no need to dawdle in front of his own front door, eyes peeking over where two doors down he could see the bright silver numbers 423 embossed over the door frame.
There wasn’t a single reason in the world for him to consider going over there. Hanging his few grocery bags on his doorknob and keeping an eye on the halls to make sure no one was around to witness his curiosity, to walk over and stop right in front of Apartment 423 and stare at the door as if it might give him the answers as to what he was doing.
His motives were an enigma even unto himself, and they remained as such even as he knocked briskly on the door in front of him, arm going back stiff to his side before he decided to cross them instead.
The man who opened the door was exactly the type he’d expect to own a spoiled munchkin cat. Short himself, well groomed, hair very stylish and tidy, for some reason not at all perturbed by someone knocking on his door out of the blue, greeting Ryouji with a friendly and warm smile that had him shifting uncomfortably.
This, if anything, was a mistake. Ryouji did not do people. He didn’t know why he was here. But here he was anyway, with this small stranger taking his grunted out and awkward explanation of “cat poster” in good stride, inviting him in for tea - and Ryouji had been taught manners and knew better than to not accept despite himself.
It would take a lot more than one single evening seeing that brilliant smile and listening to Shokashi laugh for Ryouji to admit the man was cute, but even Ryouji, stubborn as he was, as stuck in his ways as he was, would be warn down eventually. And it was all thanks to that damned cat (that he refused to call anything other than Princess, because her “proper” name was ridiculous) sneaking out over their balconies and in through his small kitchen window that they ever met in the first place.