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From the moment he saw the shivering, scared cat in the trailer park behind the circus, Apollo knew exactly what he had to do; he knows intimately the aching, ripping, burning pain of abandonment, and he couldn’t in good conscience just walk by and let this little cat—by nature so trusting and loving—suffer and yelp alone.
“Hey, girl, c’mere,” Apollo says, now a week into his newfound cat-fatherhood. Mikeko—as she has lovingly been named since he laid eyes on the calico—meows indignantly and circles the opposite end of the sofa; it doesn’t offend Apollo, because he knows exactly what it’s like to be closed off from any form of love, but he’s made this cat his pet project now. And he will get her to open up, if only because looking after something so reliant on him has opened up a lot of long-buried wounds about his own neglect.
Walking over to the kitchen of his small studio apartment, Apollo puts some fresh tuna into a bowl and lays it on the floor. While he has been living off cup ramen and tinned soup in the interim between cases, he stocked up on the nicest tuna and cat food for Mikeko only a few hours after basically adopting her; he might not have the energy or self-respect to look after himself, but he wants to give this tiny, adoring creature everything that the world has never been kind enough to offer her. Thankfully, she crosses the room on cautious paws and Apollo takes a few steps back, watching with a smile as she takes some tentative bites of the food and then, realising that it’s safe—that Apollo isn’t going to hurt her—she polishes off the whole bowl.
God, she reminds him of himself in the orphanages.
He sits on the kitchen floor, wrapping his old, torn dressing gown around his chest. When he chose to adopt Mikeko, he thought he’d be doing a good thing—he didn’t expect to have to address all those repressed feelings from his childhood about the simplicity of never being good enough, because really, why else would everyone leave him? Why would his biological parents abandon him unless he truly was an unwanted child? Why would Dhurke send him away if he wasn’t tired of him? Why would his patchwork band of orphanages and foster families never keep him around for longer than six months if he weren’t such an impossible person to like?
Holy Mother, he’s pathetic. Before he even realises it, the sadness, the inadequacy, the self-hate—it all hits him at once; these feelings he’s been repressing so well, all the time and effort spent convincing himself that he might not be loved, but that’s fine, he doesn’t need to be loved, he only needs to be useful—it bursts with pain against his chest, right inside his heart. He is a Prince Rupert’s Drop—so sturdy, withstanding so much, until a quiet moment in the ache of the night cuts him at the most vulnerable spot and he shatters into a thousand broken pieces.
And now he’s crying.
You’re pathetic, Justice, a voice in his head says. It sounds like Kristoph. It sounds like himself.
With fistfuls of his own hair clenched between his white-knuckled fingers, Apollo decides that if his neighbours can put up with his Chords of Steel at 5am, they can deal with him sobbing loudly in the late evening. It shakes his whole body, ripping the very core of him from his chest, laying it bloody and bare on display, and with every cry, he aches out all the thoughts that he’s done such a good job of forgetting since he was a scared child with nobody in the world: you are alone you are unloved you are alone you are unloved you are alone you are unloved.
You are unwanted.
You are not needed.
Nobody loves you. How could they?
It’s only when he notices that his hands are no longer shaking that he manages to squeeze his eyes open to see that Mikeko has climbed into his lap. Subconsciously, he must have loosened the tension in his whole body in order to hold her without hurting her, but he’d be lying if he said that it’s an inconvenience—even if his hands are on autopilot, when he’s petting her unruly fur, he does feel some kind of alien, rhythmic calm.
“Sorry, little one,” he whispers, his voice low and broken. “Did I scare you?”
Mikeko meows. She buries her head into his chest, and he opens up his dressing gown, closing it again once she’s settled against his old pyjama t-shirt. Her eyes blink a few times, and then close, and her breathing slows out into a gentle purr.
“I know what it’s like,” he continues. Tears still spill over his eyelids, but he doesn’t dare wipe them away in case he disturbs her rest. “I never had a home, either. It’s stupid, but this overpriced LA studio apartment is more secure than any of the places I grew up in.”
He leans down and plants a kiss against Mikeko’s head. “But I’m not going to leave you. You have your forever home here as long as you’ll have me. I might not… I might not be able to give you the fanciest food, or the best place to roam, but… I won’t abandon you. I won’t leave you, Mik. Just… don’t leave me, either?”
Opening her eyes, Mikeko climbs up Apollo’s chest so that her head is resting on his shoulder. He gently rests his hand against her back, still sobbing, and drops his head so that he’s looking down without really seeing anything.
“I’ve got you,” he sobs. “I’m not letting you go. You won’t be alone anymore, Mik. I promise.”
Mikeko meows, like she’s saying you too, Apollo. You too.
“We’ve got each other, haven’t we? Just two losers,” Apollo laughs bitterly, and then immediately starts sobbing again. “Two of the world’s rejects, thrown onto the waste pile. But it’s okay. I’ve got you. You’ve got me. We’re going to be okay.”
He smiles. Mikeko is half asleep on his shoulder. “Yeah. We’re gonna be fine.”