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Hira’s natural inclination is to follow Kiyoi to the ends of the Earth, so it’s a bit of a mind-fuck to avoid him like the plague. A dazzling, amazing, treasure of a plague. Hira keeps lifting his nose and sniffing the air like if he just tries hard enough, he’ll smell Kiyoi’s lavender shampoo and cedar cologne and natural musk all the way from the bedroom. There’s a whine in the back of Hira’s throat that won’t go away. His tail’s wilted, the thick black fur heavy on the living room floor. He went most of his life without it ever wagging, and then a pretty cat walked into his classroom, and it went off—usually, it wags non-stop at home. Because Kiyoi’s at home. Hira’s home. Their home. Living together has been a heaven-sent fever dream that normally has him panting with delight but has abruptly become a curse.
Huddled in the corner by the television, all swamped in shadows, Hira keeps debating putting on the latest drama Kiyoi’s in. Then he could at least be with a fictitious Kiyoi. But he’s worried the noise will disturb Kiyoi, and Hira will be banished from the house.
He should probably leave on his own. He knows that. He keeps glancing forlornly at the sliding patio doors. The noble thing to do would be to sleep on the grass out back, or maybe even wander all the way down to the river where his presence won’t bother Kiyoi at all. But he just can’t bring himself to go that far away.
He nearly jumps out of his skin when his phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s late—way past dinner—probably too late for Noguchi to call, and no one else ever does. Hira fumbles it out anyway just so it won’t make anymore noise in the otherwise silent house.
His heart starts hammering when he sees who it’s from; Kiyoi’s sent:
Where are you?
Cold sweat beads on the back of Hira’s neck. He’s too close to the sun. His fingers fidget and stutter out the answer—I’m sorry
Kiyoi’s probably glaring at his phone and grunting, gross.
Dots appear, disappear, waver; Hira can tell Kiyoi’s debating scolding him or moving on.
Hira quickly asks first, Do you need anything? Water? Ginger ale? Medicine? He already brought all of that to the side of the bed, then hurriedly scampered out, even though it was so tempting to stay there and stare at how cute Kiyoi looks curled up in a little ball. Hira felt blasphemous for even thinking that. Kiyoi’s been in pain for several hours—he nearly threw up twice—he kept holding his stomach with his triangular ears down and his trim tail flicking in irritation. He changed right out of his fashionable work clothes and into pajamas, loose plaid bottoms from Hira’s half of the wardrobe and a grey hoodie that’s hard to tell who it belongs to anymore. Except in Hira’s mind, everything in the house, including Hira, belongs to Kiyoi. The whole world should.
Kiyoi was still in a fetal position, all snuggled up in the blankets on the center of their bed, when Hira last saw him. Hira brought supplies, bowed, offered help, spluttering apologies, and ran away like a traitorous coward.
Kiyoi takes too long to answer, so Hira adds again, I’m sorry.
Kiyoi ignores him. Why aren’t you in bed yet?
I’m sorry. I’ll sleep on the couch. Or outside?
Wtf is wrong with you
I’m sorry.
Ffs it’s a stomach ache; I’m not contagious!
I’m sorry.
Stop apologizing for shit that’s not your fault!
Hira’s inside are writhing. He wants to throw himself in a pit of boiling lava. He’ll never be forgiven for harming the most exquisite creature in the universe. It is. I’m sorry.
“Hey.”
Hira yelps—if he were standing up, he’d probably topple over. He’s a terrible wolf. Canine hybrids are supposed to have heightened senses—good hearing, a good nose—and he’s usually so attuned to Kiyoi—but he’s so lost in guilt that he didn’t notice Kiyoi’s bare feet padding down the hallway. Kiyoi’s standing in the mouth of the living room, phone clutched in his hands, pretty lips pinched in a tight frown and eyes on fire. In the wild, a wolf could gobble a housecat right up. But Hira keeps thinking Kiyoi’s going to claw him to shreds and honestly feels like he deserves it.
All night, Hira’s been sadly keeping himself out of Kiyoi’s path, but he can’t help himself—he scrambles over on hands and knees, just so he can bow to the floor and fumble again, “S-s-sorry!”
“You actually think it’s your fault, don’t you?”
When Hira dares to peek up, Kiyoi just looks puzzled. Hira nods.
“Why?”
Hira may as well be a fish—his mouth keeps opening and closing. It’s obvious. He has one job in life: serve Kiyoi. And he fucked it up. “I... cook your meals?” He works hard to make healthy and delicious food for all of Kiyoi’s needs. He spent considerable time in the kitchen preparing dinner and lovingly served it up to his beloved kitten. And then Kiyoi got a tummy ache. So someone needs to hurl Hira into an active volcano.
Kiyoi wrinkles his nose and rolls his eyes. “Are you serious? That’s why you’ve been... you’re ridiculous.”
“I’m sorr—”
“There was chocolate cake on set. I was hungry, it looked good, Anna kept gushing about it, so I had a little and figured I could get away with it. And obviously, I didn’t.”
Hira’s eyes go wide, horror filling him up—it doesn’t matter that he’s off the hook, because Kiyoi had chocolate and that’s toxic to cats. Too much could be lethal. He can feel tears prickling at the corner of his eyes and frantically tries to remember the emergency phone number for poison control, but Kiyoi scowls and tells him, “Don’t look at me like that—I barely had any. I’ll be fine in the morning; it’s just a stomach ache.”
“Kiyoi shouldn’t have—!” Hira clamps his mouth shut halfway through his outburst, because how dare he scold Kiyoi. But he’s also distraught that happened. Kiyoi’s expression softens, though Hira sill waits to be yelled at for daring to question him.
Instead, Kiyoi mumbles, “I know, it was stupid. I messed up.”
Hira’s instinct is to snap no, you’re perfect, but Kiyoi’s moving, and that distracts him. Sinking down to the floor like Hira, on all fours, Kiyoi ducks his head. His handsome face looks a little flushed, so he really must be sick, but it’s hard to tell in just the moonlight. He pushes forward, rutting his head into Hira’s shoulder, rubbing his ear on Hira’s arm. Hira instantly reaches up, carding his fingers through Kiyoi’s soft hair, because he’s well-trained to pet Kiyoi at every opportunity. He always wants to pet Kiyoi. He used to think he’d never be worthy of it, but now he knows how much his kitten appreciates and craves the attention, so Hira dotes on Kiyoi whenever possible. It’s been torture, not petting him all night.
Kiyoi mutters, “This is what you should’ve been doing hours ago. Why didn’t you come cuddle me?”
“I’m s—”
“If you apologize again, I’m going to bite your ear off.”
Hira shuts up but dutifully redoubles his petting efforts. Kiyoi makes a low rumbling sound, probably too sick to purr properly. Hira aches with sympathy. He wants to find whoever brought chocolate to a set with cats and murder them. They should go in the volcano.
Kiyoi’s pulling away. Hira whines like he’s the one suffering. Kiyoi lets his tail drag along Hira’s knees as he slinks back up to his feet, and then he’s bee-lining back out into the hall, towards their bedroom.
Hira understands his orders. He bolts to his feet and hurries after, tail eagerly wagging again even as he plots the show’s caterer’s demise.