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Scaramouche is fairly fucking certain his cat hates him, and quite frankly, he’s not the biggest fan of it either.
It hadn’t even been his idea to get the thing in the first place. He’d been perfectly content in his little apartment, alone, with no one but himself and the occasional bird that liked to shit on his balcony and wake him at the crack of dawn to keep him company. Besides, he’d never been much of an animal person really, especially when it came to the shedding ones.
Still, when the blond twins from three floors down had showed up at his door one summer and asked if he had wanted their cat as they were starting university and wouldn’t have time to care for it, he’d said yes. The thing, Venti as they called it, was admittedly kind of cute, and perhaps the thought of coming home to something other than an empty apartment intrigued him just enough to agree.
The thing is also a fucking menace apparently, something they’d failed to mention.
First of all, it refuses to listen to anything he says unless he brings out the wet food it seems to go all crazy for. He is aware that it’s a cat, yes, he was indeed not born last week, but Aether had made this big deal out of how intelligent and clever it is, how it seems to almost understand what they say and will respond accordingly, and Lumine had nodded enthusiastically in agreement. Scaramouche is yet to witness any of that, considering all the thing has done is shed hair all over his sofa and throw up in his bed.
Second of all, it keeps trying to escape his apartment. The front door will crack open ever so slightly, creating a gap he can barely see out of, and the fucker will shoot out from wherever it has been waiting and zoom past him, out the door, down the hallway and straight for the stairs. He’d understand if it was missing home and all, very aware he’s never going to be what Aether or Lumine were to the thing, but it doesn’t even run back down to their apartment, ever.
Scaramouche is fairly certain it’s just fucking with him.
He gives it a compromise. It can have his balcony. He gets his peace and quiet back, as well as his furniture free of any hair or vomit, and the thing gets out of the apartment for once. Unless it’s got some sort of death wish, it can go out there whenever it wants, do its thing whether it’s taking a nap in the sun or throwing up some more hair, and they’re all set. They can finally co-exist.
And their little unspoken agreement works perfectly fine until the thing discovers the fire-escape.
It’s one of the hottest days that summer, one of those where if he stands up a little too fast, he’ll break a sweat. He spends the majority of the day lounging on the sofa as he slowly but surely empties his freezer of anything edible.
He fills a bowl he rarely ever uses with water for the thing on the balcony, places it in the shadow of one of the lounge chairs and waits. They might not be on very good terms, putting it mildly, but he draws the line at animal cruelty.
“Venti,” he calls when nothing happens, “I got you water. I’d suggest drinking it before dying of a heatstroke, but you’re very welcome to suit yourself.”
The bowl of water stands untouched and undisturbed as he checks underneath the two lounge chairs and behind the dying plant in the corner to find nothing. He takes a quick peek over the railing to find nothing below.
So the thing’s not dead, thankfully, but it has somehow disappeared from his balcony while he wasn’t looking. Great. Fantastic. Just wonderful. He lets this thing into his home, feeds it, all but gives it his balcony, and this is the thanks he gets?
He stands out there for a while in the scorching sun, unsure of what to do now, when he spots something in the corner of his eye.
Further up the fire-escape sits the little fucker and stares down at him, and Scaramouche knows if it could laugh at him, it would.
It takes off up the stairs the moment he moves, and before he’s even one floor up he’s already regretting forgoing his shoes. The metal beneath his feet is uncomfortably warm from the sun and he’s burned his hands on the railing several times by the third floor.
When the thing eventually hops onto a balcony and out of Scaramouche’s sight, he’s lost count of how many stairs he’s just ran up. His feet ache, his hands hurt and he’s going to need a change of clothes and an ice bath after this, once he’s caught this little shit first, that is.
Uttering an array of curses, he climbs over the burning hot railing and hops onto the balcony to find the thing waiting for him on one of the two sunbeds. It waves its tail back and forth before making itself comfortable, clearly pleased with itself.
Occupying the other sunbed is a red haired man Scaramouche has never seen before and his legs nearly give out beneath him, because he’s shirtless. As in he’s not wearing a shirt and Scaramouche can see his entire tan, muscular chest shirtless.
“Hello,” the man says and pushes his sunglasses up to put them on his head, “can I help you?”
He’s got such blue eyes Scaramouche could almost mistake them for the sky itself. His red hair is damp with sweat and shines in the sun. Fuck, he’s hot. Why did that little menace of a cat have to run off to this balcony of all places?
“I was just getting my cat,” Scaramouche explains, and the little fucker in question has the audacity to purr and stretch out on the sunbed. It’s mocking him, he’s sure of it. “He likes to run off sometimes,” he adds with a glare thrown in its direction.
The hot ginger man reaches a hand over to pet the cat in question. It lets him, purring and leaning into his touch, and now it’s definitely mocking him. It’s never let him pet it before.
“He’s yours then.” He scratches the underside of its chin. “I was wondering where the little guy came from. He’s been here a few times now. I would have taken him back to his home, but he didn’t have any collar or anything.”
It has?
“Really?”
The man gives the thing one last scratch on the head before sitting up in his seat, grabbing the shirt draped over the back of the other sunbed and slipping it on. “Yeah, I found him napping out here one day and gave him some water since it was pretty hot out.” He takes his sunglasses off his head to instead let them hang from the collar of his shirt. He looks respectfully. “I hope that’s alright. He seemed thirsty.”
Great, now this hot ginger man is going to think he’s not taking proper care of his cat.
“That’s fine,” Scaramouche says, watching as said cat finally hops out of the sunbed and saunters off as if its work here is done. The thing disappears down the stairs and he’s left with the now not shirtless man.
“What’s his name?” the man asks after a few seconds of silence.
“Venti.”
The man smiles up at him, all charming and boyish, and Archons above he’s attractive. “And what’s your name?”
“Scaramouche,” he replies, and makes the mistake of resting a hand on the railing, burning his hand. He suppresses the yelp in his throat. “Sixth floor, so you’re aware where to take him.”
He glances over the railing, but can’t see the cat anywhere. Much further down he can spot his, or rather his cat’s, balcony. “Which floor is this?”
“Eleventh.” The man stands, and not only is he hot, he’s tall too. He holds a hand out for him to shake. “I’m Childe.”
And Scaramouche would be lying if he said that man, Childe, didn’t occupy his mind at least once a day after that whole ordeal.
On particularly hot days he’ll sit on his sofa while the cat naps on the balcony, and his mind will conjure up the image of Childe lying outside on his sunbed, basking in the warmth of the sun. His skin is tan and glows ethereally in the sun, and little freckles spread across his broad shoulders and down his arms, and Scaramouche wouldn’t mind running his hands over that built chest.
Sometimes the cat will meet his gaze through the open balcony door and just look at him, as if it just knows what he’s thinking of. One day it sparks an idea.
Time to find out just how clever this cat can be.
“Venti,” he calls, slipping through the door and stepping out onto the balcony. He finds the cat spread out in the shadow of one of the chairs, and it doesn’t stir. It is indeed alive though, because its chest visibly moves up and down at a steady pace. “Do you want a treat?”
At that it all but bounces off the floor at the sight of the little stick of meat in his hand. Greedy little shit.
“You can have this if you do something for me.” The cat follows him over to the fire-escape and watches intently as he waves the treat in the direction of the spiral staircase. “Can you do that?”
It sits down in front of him and stares up at him with its big eyes, and he feels a little stupid. Is he really about to send his cat up to an attractive man’s balcony only so said man can take his cat back down, where he will coincidentally be waiting?
Yes, yes he is.
He was promised a clever, intelligent cat that can understand what’s being said and respond accordingly, and so far he’s seen none of that. It’s the perfect opportunity to figure out whether or not that is actually the case.
“You get this,” he waves the stick back and forth and watches the cat’s eyes follow its every move, “and you run up these stairs and find Childe, alright? Remember him? Red hair, tall, physique of a god?”
Is he going insane? Maybe.
“Here you go.” He places the treat down on the floor and it’s gone before he even gets to stand up. Did the cat even chew? “Now go,” he says, gestures at the fire-escape and hopes no one below or above happens to be outside to hear all this.
To his–pleasant–surprise, the cat proceeds to hop over the railing and onto the fire-escape, disappearing up the stairs. Maybe the twins were right about its intelligence after all, though it doesn’t give it away for free to just about anyone apparently.
Now, time to sit down and wait.
He pulls one of the lounge chairs further into the sun, pulls off his shirt and tosses it aside, slips on the sunglasses he’d shoved into his pocket, and sits down to wait for his cat to bring him his hot neighbour. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Doesn’t matter.
An unknown amount of time passes and Scaramouche is growing impatient. The sun hangs high and radiates heat like a furnace. If his cat could show before the sun either burns his skin off or makes him drown in his own sweat, that would be nice.
Just as he’s getting up to go get some sunscreen, however, not too interested in getting skin cancer, he hears footsteps coming down the stairs. A floor above he spots the figure of a man, and he drops back down into his seat, leans back and relaxes. His skin can survive a little longer.
“Scaramouche, right?” He looks over to see Childe standing on his balcony, Venti nestled into his arms and looking like he’s having the time of his life. Understandable, yet annoying. He’s never let him hold him like that, at least not without digging his claws into his forearms, that is. “I brought your cat.”
“Thanks.” He runs a hand through his hair and straightens in his chair. “I take my eyes off him for two seconds and he’s gone, I swear.”
The cat looks at him as Childe places him down on the floor, narrowing his eyes at him before sauntering off inside. He’ll give him another treat later. He’s feeling generous.
Childe leans against the railing and watches Venti disappear into the living room. He’s not shirtless this time, though the plain white shirt he wears clings to his skin and leaves little to the imagination. With sunglasses on, Scaramouche is free to stare.
“Well,” Scaramouche’s gaze snaps up to see him pushing away from the railing to get back onto the fire-escape, “I should get going-”
“Wait!”
“Yeah?” Childe stops in his tracks and turns to look at him curiously. His mind blanks for a moment as he tries to conjure up something to say, some sort of reason for him to stay, even for just a little bit longer.
“Uh…” His gaze flits about as his mind works on a reasonable response, landing on his cat that’s now spread out on his sofa. “Do you want to give my cat a treat?” His ears perk up the moment he utters the words.
Childe follows his gaze and chuckles as Venti hops off the sofa and runs for the kitchen where he knows he keeps the cat treats. It’s the nicest fucking laugh he’s ever heard in his life. “Sure.”
He takes off his sunglasses, grabs his shirt, pulling it on to cover the skin he knows must be sunburnt at this point, and leads Childe to the kitchen. Venti sits and waits patiently on the floor by the drawer he keeps all the treats in, and as he rummages through it, the cat does not even wag his tail in impatience. Normally he would be whining his little lungs out for him to hurry up already.
He hands the tall, attractive ginger man standing in his kitchen a couple of the cat’s favourites. Consider this payment, you intelligent little fucker.
Childe sits down on the floor and holds out his hand full of treats with a smile. Purring as loud as a running engine, Venti eats right out of his hand, and Scaramouche can honestly not blame him. He too would eat right out of that man’s hand if given the opportunity.
When the treats are all gone, Childe gives the cat a few pets and he all but sinks into his touch. Again, can’t blame him. Upon finding Childe’s hands now empty, Venti walks right back out to hop onto the sofa to continue his nap.
The two stand there in silence for a few moments.
“So…” Childe wipes his hands on the fabric of his shorts and moves a little closer. “Can I have a treat too?”
Scaramouche feels as if his brain glitches just then, because what did he just say?
“What,” he begins, averts his gaze to find Venti looking at them from his spot on the sofa, “what do you want?” He’s fairly certain it’s not the kind of treat the cat would be interested in, and he seems to get that, as he goes back to napping.
Just when he looks back at Childe, warm hands slip under his shirt to settle on his waist, and he’s gently pressed against the kitchen counter. This close he has to tilt his head back to meet his gaze, and Childe looks down at him with a look in his eyes that makes him shiver despite how warm he feels.
“Is this ok?”
Scaramouche grabs his ridiculously broad shoulders and pulls him down into a deep, passionate kiss that leaves Childe stunned for a moment. When Scaramouche’s hands find his messy, red hair and grabs two handfuls, however, he soon snaps back to reality and returns the kiss with just as much enthusiasm.
As a hand trails up his spine, leaving his skin tingly and numb, Scaramouche pulls gently at the roots of his hair and sighs against his lips. He tastes like minty gum and fruity chapstick and he relishes in the taste.
Childe eventually pulls away to catch his breath, licking his lips and looking down at him with hazy eyes, though a moment later he’s pressing his lips against Scaramouche’s throat and nipping at the skin where his jaw meets his neck.
It feels good, so very good in fact, though it would feel a lot better if his cat wasn’t watching.
“Childe.”
“Hm?” is all he gets in response, and he sighs at the feeling of teeth sinking into his skin just ever so slightly. He misses the feeling already as he slips out of his grip to cross the kitchen.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.” He locks eyes with the cat on the sofa, gives him a smile, and promptly shuts the door.
Bless that cat and his intelligence.