Work Text:
Feathers and a scarf
Eddy’s cat is pretty.
Well, it’s not exactly Eddy’s cat. It would be truer to say he is this cat’s human. There is no name attached to the cat because Eddy always felt like it wasn’t within his rights to do so, even after years of impromptu visits - today again, he graced the studio’s windowsill with his presence.
The fan is working overtime in a desperate effort to push back the heat of a February afternoon in Brisbane, when it’s sticking to the skin and invading pores. Curled up under the breeze, the cat has his black fur ruffled by the steady motion and he purrs in tandem with the mechanic whirl.
People often ask Eddy if he is a she, applying to felines the same prejudice they have with humans, misguided by the petite frame and delicate bone structure, the long eyelashes when the cat blinked, and the soft touch of his paws.
Eddy grabs his violin and the cat opens a lazy eye, showing the speck of brown in his iris before rolling on his back, belly exposed in a gesture of trust. He only ever does that around him, and even though the cat isn’t his, sometimes it feels like it is.
*
The cold had started to mist his breath and the sun was playing hide and seek with the clouds, the first time he saw the cat, coming back from his second rehearsal with the Queensland Symphony Orchestra with a spring in his step.
Rolled up on top of the wall at the angle of his street, just a few meters away from his studio, a black ball of fur was shivering; Australia rarely ever got any temperature below zero and its inhabitants were generally bad with cold weather, the five-degree Celsius of this day leaving more than one bundled up in more layers than could be counted.
It wasn’t a completely conscientious decision when his fingers released their grip on the strap of his violin case to take off his scarf. He felt like a fool when the cat raised its head at the sound of his footsteps, casting a judgmental stare at the grey fabric in his hands and Eddy realized cats didn’t wear scarves.
“Huh. Hello? Do you- are you cold? I mean, yes, I suppose you are, that was a stupid question. You know what, I’ll just leave that here.”
In a few awkward gestures, he tried to create a little nest by folding the scarf on the wall, the cat watching his struggles with mild disinterest.
“It’s comfy, I swear, and still warm since I’ve just been wearing it.”
With a slow blink as the sole answer, the cat turned its head away and ignored the offering, letting Eddy cringe at the fact that his social awkwardness extended to animals.
He trudged back to his studio, feeling vaguely humiliated with every gust of wind on his unprotected neck reminding him how idiotic it was to give a stray cat a scarf.
*
When he left for morning rehearsal the morning after, a pink nose was peeking from a bundle of grey fabric.
He smiled for the rest of the day.
*
The cat had stayed around after that, everyone fed him - he was a pretty thing, the neighborhood’s stray, freely roaming in his domain, escaping the kids who wanted to pet him and sniffing carefully the bits of food handed to him.
As long as winter clawed its stiff fingers in the earth and flesh of Australians, the cat would sleep in the scarf every night, dragging the fabric in his maw to settle it on the designated spot for the night - it barely looked like anything now, all tattered and dirty.
Windows had stayed open with attractive displays of food in hopes of luring the cat inside to offer him a warm home but he never took the implicit offers, seeming happy to enjoy his freedom, a dark shape bouncing from walls to rooftops.
Eddy had been no different at first.
That was until he started practicing with the window open.
It had been a coincidence the first time - he had burned his attempt at making dinner, and the smell had permeated every single room of his flat, stinking up the place so much he had had to let every possible entryway open for fresh air. Then, because he was Eddy Chen, he had forgotten, letting scales to arpeggios resonate in the street, unbeknown to him.
Two hours in, a soft purring startled him, bow skitting on the chords when he saw the black shape rolled up on the windowsill. The cat threw him a nasty glance at the interruption and Eddy fumbled to start over, Brahms running smoothly from the violin once more.
Only then did the purring resume.
*
It became a tradition.
In summer there would be a bowl of cold water next to the fan, in winter the cat brought the scarf along to roll up in - Eddy had tried to replace it with something nicer but the cat had straight-up hissed when he had tried to retrieve the old thing.
He never really stepped inside the practice room, content to stay just out of reach and listen but every time the cat fell asleep to his playing, a thrill of validation ran through Eddy’s spine - he had always craved it, and even if getting it from a cat might be silly, the feeling of being special, somehow, still moved his stomach around pleasantly.
The constant fear of inadequacy had plagued him since his teenage years, out of sorts in every environment - the only kid that liked classical music in school, the only nerd that liked anime in Youth Orchestra, the shy one in uni - the desire to be cool, to be liked, to be recognized pulling and seizing but never leading to anything apart from time in a wheelchair from over-practice.
Getting undivided attention from the elusive cat everyone had tried to attract in their house was an achievement he never thought would get him this flustered and happy.
*
The cat blinked and stood on his haunches when Eddy busted a happy birthday as soon as he dropped on the windowsill, turning his head left and right in such a human sign of confusion the music and musician dissolved in ricochets of laughter and G major.
“It’s been one year since I met you,” he explained while putting the violin down, “So, huh, happy birthday to us I guess?”
For a few seconds, the cat stayed immobile, eyes sharp on Eddy’s soul - that’s when he noticed the strange spot in his left iris, a brown speck in the gold - then, for the first time since Eddy had given him his scarf, he jumped inside and circled over a music sheet.
“The Tchaikovsky concerto?” Eddy raised his eyebrow, trying to contain the urge to pet him. “Do you want me to put on a performance for the occasion?”
A glance was cast to his violin before the cat bounced to his usual spot, a waiting look on his face.
“Alright I guess, I haven’t practiced the solo part since uni though, so don’t meow if it’s terrible.” He hadn’t even pressed the bow on the strings that the cat erupted in the loudest cry. “Are you fucking kidding me? I haven’t even started!”
With a smug look, his audience of one rested his head between his paws and stared in expectation.
“You’re just trolling me,” he chuckled and finally started the piece.
He fumbled through the fastest passages, missed a few notes, and slowed down maybe too much in the second movement, but the cat had barely blinked during the whole performance, seeming content with the way Eddy’s soul was pouring from his fingers.
Flushed and hot despite the cold weather and open window, he finished the concerto with a flourish, smiling around his huffs of breath. Delight and pride surged and mixed in his blood as the cat gave a small nod before disappearing.
*
The first feather left him confused, as Eddy had never owned a cat or a pet at all. He grew up mostly lonely once his sister had left for London, his mother refusing any demand for an animal because he might get allergies and how could he be expected to take care of someone else when he couldn’t even take care of himself. In his group of friends, only Phoebe owned a dog, but he hadn’t visited her often since she got married.
So he stared at the offering with scrunched eyebrows, unable to understand why the cat looked so proud.
“What is that? Are you coming to brag that you killed a bird?”
And the feather found its way in the trash can.
The morning after, there were two on his doorstep.
A week after and he had to deal with a whole mouse carefully laid at his feet.
It was only as he was examining a shiny pearl that had been recently licked clean that the eight-year-old daughter of his neighbors he gave violin lessons to in his free time whined.
“It’s so unfair, he only ever gives you gifts when we put out fish for him every day, but it’s you he thanks.”
“Those are gifts?”
“Of course,” the girl nodded with all the wisdom of her age, probably proud that she could explain something to an adult. “He’s giving you a share of his hunts, and bits from the treasures he hoarded, you’re privileged.”
“What am I supposed to do with dead rats and fake pearls?”
“How should he know? He’s a cat.”
Then she bounced to the door as her parents knocked to signal the end of the lesson, and Eddy realized they barely did anything today but talk about the cat.
*
This was when the neighbors started referring to him as Eddy’s cat, and even if that wasn’t true, it still made Eddy smile silly because the cat wasn’t his, but Eddy was certainly his favorite person around and he had never been anyone’s favorite person before.
*
The cat’s visits upgraded from practice time only to an unpredictable but frequent schedule. He would appear on the counter of his kitchen as Eddy stumbled, groggy and half-awake toward the coffee maker. Would then disappear for five days in a row only to be found giving curious nudges to the latest anime figurine adorning Eddy’s shelf. Would hide under the couch to snatch at Eddy’s socks as he was trying to read - he wasn’t big on novels but would devour any piece of knowledge that came by; physics, medicine, spirituality, dubious self-help books, fashion.
In some moments suspended in time, laughing at stupid videos or watching a movie, Eddy would feel a soft pressure against his shoulder, hold his breath as fur tickled his chin and the cat would curl up on his shoulder and stare at the screen with him, darting back into the night the second Eddy tried to touch him.
*
His position as a casual at the QSO became a full-time engagement, and with that, he spent more and more time at the concert hall, which meant getting to know his colleagues better.
Which meant crushing on the elegant and introverted oboist who had the nicest laugh around.
*
The first time she visited his place, his heart was beating out of his chest, trying to hide his nervousness behind bad puns and smooth-talking, ultimately failing at being charming but she had laughed enough he had still considered the evening a success.
He was cleaning up the boxes of takeaway when he noticed the cat was nowhere to be found and hadn’t even peeked when he had practiced.
*
After he kissed her for the first time, the gifts stopped for two whole weeks.
*
After they spent a night together, the cat disappeared for a month - he had never left for so long in the three years he had known him, and worry gnawed at Eddy’s gut, disappointment blooming between his ribcage whenever he spotted a black shape and it wasn’t the cat.
When Eddy spotted the first feather in what seemed like forever lying on his doormat, he cradled the tiny black and grey peace offering with a smile too big for what it was.
The morning after, the cat was curled on the windowsill during practice time, letting the sun shimmer on his black fur.
*
“Nah, nah, nah,” he was laughing, a hand tracing lazy circles on her arm. “You have to be shitting me, there’s no way a musician said that.”
“I swear,” she was engulfed in one of his sweaters, legs up on the armrest of the couch, long hair cascading from her shoulder to his own. “He straight up blamed it on lack of talent and left.”
“Man, this guy really doesn’t know what talent is. Or hard work for that matter.”
“I haven’t seen you practice a lot since I’ve been here,” she teased, exposing the length of her legs.
“You’re distracting me, that’s wh-”
A crash exploded from the kitchen, startling both of them into a yelp.
On the floor, in fragments of ceramic, the leftovers of his favorite mug were spread over - the one with the first few notes of the Sibelius violin concerto swirling in a treble clef around the handle, a gift from his sister.
On the counter, the cat was licking his paw with the most unrepentant look ever.
“You little-” he started and stopped, the smug face of the cat too much to bear. “That was on purpose.”
“Maye your cat is jealous,” his girlfriend gave a short laugh as the black shape darted past her to perch on top of the fridge, emperor of the mess he had caused.
“He isn’t my cat,” Eddy spat, feeling ridiculously upset and betrayed.
*
They made peace eventually, the cat begrudgingly accepting the new feminine presence in their life, but the quiet times curled up on Eddy’s shoulder in the evenings disappeared.
Which leads them to now. With the pretty cat who is not exactly Eddy’s cat but shared his life for the past four years sitting on the windowsill, enjoying the practice session, and basking in the sun.
Those are his favorite times, experimenting with a new grip on his bow, to try and have a better ricochet, opening his eyes every once in a while to see the approving looks in the cat’s eyes when he managed a particularly good one. It’s hot and sunny, the cat purrs in tune with his playing and it seems like today is a perfect day.
But then there’s a knock on his door, and she passes her head, shy all of a sudden, nervous like she hasn’t been since the start of their relationship a year ago.
“Hey, Eddy. Can I talk to you for a second?” She’s fidgeting and Eddy’s stomach pummels because he can taste catastrophes on the tip of his tongue right before they happen.
*
She breaks up.
*
When you are not well, every little annoyance can become a life-altering hindrance.
So. His head aches.
This happens all the time - he doesn’t always sleep enough, forgets to get hydrated, practices too much - but suddenly, Eddy can’t deal with it.
It doesn’t go away and he can’t focus on anything, his head pulses and the wave of pain ricochets from the back of his head to his forehead. He’s getting more and more frustrated, the headache a task he can’t overcome, a personal failure, an enemy laughing at his weakness. He still sees her face in the cracks of his vision and feels the texture of her skin under his finger, the sound of oboe whistling between the branches near his window.
“Fuck that, fuck that shit!” he swears and grabs his keys - forgets his phone - and sets out to run.
It’s one in the morning, the streets are empty, only the sound of his footsteps and breathing echoing in the night as he runs.
He’s just doing that, running and running until his head is empty, his legs screaming, and his lungs are burning. Only then is he slowing down, lost somewhere in the dark, and lifts his head to the stars.
And then there’s a pair of eyes shining into the night.
“Oh, fuck me,” he breathes again as he spots the speck of brown in the gold, standing just centimeters away from him, the eyes’ owner perched on top of a car. “Hey, cat. How’s it going?”
Predictably, the cat doesn’t offer an answer but stretches lazily before jumping in one smooth motion to the ground.
“Yeah, as usual for you, huh.”
He feels tired, then. Empty. Like there’s no energy left in him to move his body around. The strings are cut and he crumbles on the ground, ass on the sidewalk. It’s dirty and dark, away from the streetlights and he doesn’t see the cat glide around, almost yelps when he feels the weight against his leg.
“What are you- oh.”
Since he started dating her, the cat hasn’t touched him even once and it takes him by surprise, the unexpected contact.
“Can you tell?” he can’t help but wonder, reminiscing about animal instinct and the strange intelligence in the cat’s eyes. “Can you tell that she broke up with me?”
There’s a purr and the cat climbs higher on his lap, until he’s straight-up snuggled against his stomach. Eddy isn’t sure what it means, but he’ll take all the comfort he can get.
“I don’t suppose you know where we are…” he trails off, sending a concerned gaze to their surroundings - he doesn’t recognize any of those houses. “I don’t have my phone.”
There’s a strange noise coming from the cat, something that sounds suspiciously like a snort and the warmth of his body leaves Eddy, a cold feeling settling where he was pressed.
Then the cat circles around him once and bounces in a direction with a mewl. Keeps mewling until Eddy scrambles up and runs toward him, cheeks hot in embarrassment.
“Ssshhh! You’ll wake up everyone,” he yell-whispers.
He has no time to catch up before the cat hops away again, calls from a few meters, and darts as soon as Eddy reaches the vicinity.
By the end of the chase, he’s giggling at the absurdity of all of this and raises his head to realize he’s in front of his building, still a bit winded from the game of cat and mouse, a bit wounded by the leftover hurt, but gratefulness surges and washes away the worst of it, at least for a few seconds.
“Thank you.” He fully expects the cat to melt into the night, black in the darkness, as he turns the keys to his door.
Then he steps inside and the cat follows. Entering from the front door like he never did before.
The fan is still buzzing on the windowsill and he turns it off; leaves have accumulated on the outside, he notices when he pressed his palms against the wooden frame.
“I’m not doing great,” he finally admits when he feels a black shape by his elbow, fingers trailing above the small head and pointy ears, hesitating to touch. “It’s a bit pathetic really, it’s been weeks now, I’m supposed to start getting over it. I wish this was easier. I wish I didn’t care so much.”
The cat doesn’t do anything, doesn’t even move, and, for once, when Eddy lets his hand meet the soft fur between the ears, there’s no darting away. He stays put and accepts the petting. Silence lingers for some time, it’s impossible to say how long because Eddy still doesn’t have his phone, and the night cradles him differently. Like his problems can’t fully reach him as long as the sun doesn’t rise. It’s only when his arm starts cramping from supporting his weight against the sill that he moves.
Clothes are left astray on the way to the bedroom, and when he snuggles in bed, sweat cooling on his skin, there’s a small weight pressing on the mattress.
The bedroom never knew the cat; in the four years that have passed he never once set a paw inside, never once spent the night closed in a house.
“Tonight’s a night of firsts for you and me, hey,” Eddy manages a smile, running the calluses of his skin from the top of the head to the base of the tail, and back again, marveling that he’s finally allowed to do this. “You’re just a cat,” he whispers, and it’s easier in the dark. “But it sometimes feels like you’re my best friend. And I could really use one right now.”
*
The cat doesn’t come back after that and every day, Eddy glances at the windowsill in hopes of catching hints of a feather, stares up at the wall on the corner of the street to never find a grey scarf.
The feeling of abandonment hits him so strongly his knees feel ready to buckle.
*
This is when Brett barges in his life.
Where the cat’s paw had silently settled in his life in incremental touches, Brett has no finesse in the way he throws Eddy’s life upside down.
“Hey, I moved here recently and heard you play,” the man introduces himself with a genuine smile and a look that makes something jump in Eddy’s chest. “Maybe we could play something together, I’m also a violinist.”
He’s hit with the strangest déjà-vu, stares at the strange speck in his neighbor’s left eye, fumbles around words and thinks he ended up agreeing, still flushing when he closed the door at how awkward he sounded, replaying the man’s - Brett’s - amused smirk on a loop.
*
The new neighbor walks around Eddy’s studio like he owns it, at ease in the space and he jokes around with a heavy Australian accent despite coming from Taiwan - this is the kind of person who adapts so well to any environment they always seem like they were born in it. The kind of person who smooth-talks and has crinkles at the corner of his eyes, who charms easily enough to have tons of friends vying for his attention. And despite it all, Brett chooses to spend today with the heartbroken neighbor who nerds about anime, plays the violin and mourns the disappearance of a cat who was never really his.
He stares at the bouquet of feathers Eddy arranged - grey, black and white with the occasional dash of color, some frayed and old with broken bits, others standing proud and tall. Near it is a plate overwhelmed by all the shiny jewels he accumulated through years of constant cat's gifting. There’s something shifting in Brett’s face, like fingers going from fifth to sixth position - it’s a minute shift that changes all the colors of the playing.
“Why are you keeping that? It’s just feathers and a bunch of worthless shinies.”
“A friend gave them to me.” It is the only explanation Eddy is willing to give and his heart clenches with the words.
Brett hums, there’s something soft in his voice when he says ‘bro’ and ‘ dude’.
*
It doesn’t take long for Brett to settle in all the empty corners of his life.
It’s always at his place, he doesn’t even know from which part of the neighborhood Brett is from, because he always comes from a different direction.
They play the violin, first. Then it’s bubble tea together, followed by strolls at strange hours of the day or night - Brett seems to know every nook and cranny, every secret of every road of their surroundings, and they come back and crash at Eddy’s place in stitches, giggling as the phone that indicates three in the morning when they were supposed to take some air for a few minutes.
There’s something smug to his smile when he nails a hard passage, something proud when it’s Eddy that does it and Eddy can’t get enough of either of those expressions.
Brett Yang is nice and relaxed but full of explosive energy that just demands the slightest spark. He darts in and out of the flat like a whirlwind of sound and color, only for them to spend hours doing nothing but listen to music sometimes. It’s a strange mix of steadiness and movement that makes Eddy fall in love like a teenager. Hard and fast, smiling like a puppy when the man keeps coming back to him.
There are autumn leaves on Brett’s hair, red and golden crowning the shiny black and Eddy wants to worship every inch of him.
*
At one point he gets worried enough about the cat that he starts placarding posters.
No one calls and the eight-year-old girl tells him with a sigh that people have stopped putting food by the window by now. Stubbornly, Eddy keeps his own open - Brett never asks why they always play for the whole street to hear.
*
There’s a drop to Brett’s eyelids as he sits in the last rays of sunlight, fingers loose around the neck of his violin, seconds away from falling asleep.
“Do you want some coffee?” Eddy offers because he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do if that happens. “You look tired.”
“Oh, dude, I’d kill for coffee, yes please.” His guest that never behaved anything like a guest blinks his eyes open with a lazy smile.
The whirring of the coffee machine can’t completely cover the sound of Brett messing around on the piano, playing the first few notes of a Chopin nocturne then random chords that follow no progression before he gives up and Hungarian Dance no.5 joyfully escapes from his violin; there’s noise and life invading his apartment and before he knows it, Eddy is smiling like an idiot.
“Sorry, I only have this one.” The ugly yellow mug finds its way into Brett’s hands, there’s a tacky black mustache around the rim and ‘Call me Daddy ’ in bold letters underneath. “A cat broke my favorite one.”
“Oh, shit. I mean, sorry.”
“That’s alright, it’s not your fault,” Eddy chuckles and Brett answers with a short laugh that doesn’t feel genuine, hand clamping and relaxing around the handle of his coffee cup.
He’s strangely caring for the whole day, little attentions that make Eddy’s heart grow fond and melt in his chest, spreading waves of warmth.
But there’s a nagging at the back of his mind that refuses to leave him alone, comes in the way of his adoration whenever he looks at the speck of brown in his left eye.
*
The morning after, there’s a box with a cup on his doormat, it’s nothing like the one that ended up in shards on the floor of his kitchen, but there’s feathers printed in a pattern at the bottom, and that’s when he starts to wonder.
*
It clogs his throat further, the suspicion, when winter comes and Brett jokes about frozen fingers and blaming his intonation on the temperature while wrapping a grey scarf around the coat hanger. Heat explodes in Eddy’s chest again, veins alight in a fire he doesn’t understand.
He has always believed in forces unknown to humans, in spirits and the invisible, in things science can’t understand, and dubs magic.
*
“Do you- have you ever seen a black cat around here? He often goes- often went around with a grey scarf like this one. He stopped showing up when you arrived.”
The accusation is barely disguised but Brett stays unbothered, doesn’t even look at Eddy as they both sit at the windowsill.
“Yeah, I know the cat. He’s not around anymore.”
The moon is playing with the reflection of his hair, it glints blue and silver and Eddy feels like Brett will shatter and disappear into the night if he dares to touch it.
“What does that mean?”
His next heartbeat is stuck somewhere between his ribcage and Brett’s lips, there’s a car passing below their feet dangling in the air and it’s only once the sound of the motor gets lost into the distance that Eddy realizes he stopped breathing.
“It’s a part of his life that’s over with.”
“Is he dead?”
“No.” And Brett stares straight into his eyes like he rarely does, Eddy’s tongue dry against the roof of his mouth. “He’s something else now, maybe he’ll come back, who knows.”
“Do you know if he was happy with me?” He swallows around the love that blocks his throat, wishing desperately that the cat got at least a tenth of the comfort he brought to Eddy’s life for four years.
“Most of the time. When he wasn’t, it wasn’t your fault.” And he feels Brett’s words more than he hears them, with how close they sit, with the natural tilt of their head toward the other.
“Will you be happy with me?” His whole being feels cut open, a mouse put on display in front of its predator, everything is shivering and trembling, but the cold of July plays no part in it.
“I don’t know,” Brett’s eyes flutter close in a slow blink. “But I’m willing to find out.”
It’s too late now, gravity played its course and they crash into each other, secrets laid in the open air, dripping on the street below them. There’s nothing in the way of adoration anymore, nothing that can stop Eddy from worshipping every centimeter of skin and Brett’s knuckles whiten around the window frame to keep them from falling.
“Weren’t you wishing for a friend?” And it is so satisfying to see Brett lose his cool, control slipping as he tangles his fingers into Eddy’s hair with half-lidded eyes, lips bitten red around his words.
“No, I was wishing for you.”
*
The grey scarf stays wrapped around his coat hanger most of the time, and when he wakes up with scratches on his back and hair a bird’s nest, the mug with feathers at the bottom is still warm on the windowsill, coffee brewed just the way he likes it.
*
Eddy’s boyfriend is pretty.
Well, he’s not exactly Eddy’s boyfriend. It would be truer to say he is this person’s human. There is no name attached to their relationship because Eddy always felt like this wasn’t within his rights to do so, even after years of living together.
The fan is working overtime in a desperate effort to push back the heat of a February afternoon in Brisbane, when it’s sticking to the skin and invading pores. Curled up under the breeze, Brett has his black hair ruffled by the steady motion and he hums in tandem with the mechanic whirl.
People often ask Eddy what they are, applying to this relationship the same prejudice they have with others, misguided by the closeness and mutual belonging. Wanting to put in little cases the span of a relationship that doesn’t need to be defined.
Eddy grabs his violin and Brett opens a lazy eye, showing the speck of brown in his left eye before smiling gently, softness and love exposed in a gesture of trust. He only ever does that around him, and maybe, maybe sometimes Brett is his .