Archive of Our Own ^beta

1]. He exists. Period. 

“Hey, Paul?”

“Mhm?” Paul doesn’t even look up from his newspaper. He flips a page.

“What the fuck is that?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Patrick. I’m not a mind reader.” He sets the newspaper down with a soft sigh, and with his newly freed hands, he scoops the offending little thing off of his table and sets it in his lap, turning to face Patrick. It purrs loudly as he strokes its head, and from his spot in the doorway, Patrick almost gags.

“That,” he repeats, more emphatically this time. He points at the animal, and, as if sensing his movement, a set of yellow eyes opens to look at him, staring him down. “The- the animal. It’s in your apartment.”

With that, Paul cracks a grin, scratching it underneath the chin. It damn near falls over trying to lift its head up for him, and that obnoxious rumble starts to grate at Patrick’s patience. “He sure is. His name is Camembert. Isn’t he just the cutest?”

“Since when are you a cat person?” Patrick sneers, and Paul shrugs, turning back to the table. Patrick, refusing to be ignored, immediately takes the seat across from him as he resumes his reading. “Get rid of it.”

“Of him.”

“Oh my god. You’ve got to be kidding me. Who gives a shit? You’re not keeping it anyway.”

“Last time I checked, Pat, you don’t live here.” He drops the newspaper once more, lounging back in his chair. Right then, Patrick swears that Paul is amused by his annoyance, by his disgust for whatever stupid plan he came up with. “Maybe it’d be nice to have an animal around for once, y’know? Besides, he’s a stray. He needs somewhere to stay.”

“An animal shelter? Outside? Literally anywhere else?” Paul just shrugs again. “How did you even get ahold of the damn thing?”

“I told you, he’s a stray. He was cowering under a bench outside, and I didn’t see anyone looking for him, so I decided I’d take him inside to keep him warm.” He pauses to tap its flat ear, which the creature then flicks with a soft ‘meh’. “His ear’s tipped. He must have been out there for a while, at least long enough for someone to trap him, vaccinate him, and let him go again.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s disease-free or something. Cats are disgusting. They shit in a box, lick themselves clean, they leave hair everywhere-”

Paul holds a hand up, and the thing immediately looks up to try and find it. “He’s friendly. I like him. He’s staying.”

And for a moment, all Patrick can do is sit there, totally dumbstruck at being cut off. He fumbles, and once he regains himself, he pushes the chair out and stands back up. “Fine. Then I’m not coming over anymore. I don’t want to be around it.”

“Fine,” Paul echoes. “I’ll see you later tonight, then.”

Patrick pauses, already stepping towards the door once again. He turns back to Paul and raises an eyebrow. “Did I miss a memo somewhere? We didn’t plan on going anywhere later.”

“Nope. You’ll get over yourself and come back when you realize that I’m not going to give you what you want.” 

Oh, that’s rich. Patrick snorts, storming out of the apartment without another word. He makes sure to slam the door behind him, and with the utter lack of noise that follows, he gleans that absolutely nothing happened as a result of it. He didn’t even scare the little rat. 

Fuck this. He doesn’t need Paul, not right now, not ever. He doesn’t need to be in Paul’s apartment if he has to share the attention that’s rightfully his with a lower life form. 

Then again, the cab ride back to his apartment feels a hell of a lot longer than usual. 

Patrick makes it three hours before he folds. Not because he was looking forward to seeing Paul that afternoon, of course, and definitely not because he likes Paul enough that maybe, just maybe, he can deal with that animal for a price.

He unlocks Paul’s door with the key Paul gave him months ago, and he hardly makes it two feet in the door before Paul greets him. He moved to the couch at one point or another, cat cradled in his arms and some stupid action movie playing on the TV as his eyes flit over to Patrick. He shoots him that ever-patient smile, and Patrick’s chest clenches up. “Welcome back.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Patrick snaps, making his way over to the couch. He sits on the opposite end of it, pressed up against the arm to get as far away from the two of them as he can. “If it gets anywhere near me, I’m sucker-punching it out the window.”

“No, you won’t,” Paul replies, all matter-of-fact and certain of himself. Silently, he places a hand between the two of them, palm up, and Patrick immediately snatches it up, lacing their fingers together. He glances over at Paul, if only to catch the way his smile widens.

In his arms, Camembert shares that self-satisfied smirk.

2]. He is, without a doubt, trying to kill him. 

Weight.

Sleeping at Paul’s isn’t so bad, save for the cuddling he insists upon each and every time they end up in bed together. Sure, Patrick practically crawls into his arms most of the time, having developed the weirdest craving for physical affection since they started spending time together, but jesus, do people have to be so heavy? 

Usually, it’s an arm across his chest, or maybe Paul rolled on top of him in his sleep. Every once in a while, Patrick takes a knee to the side, jerking awake in the middle of the night, and while he admonishes Paul for moving around so much in his sleep when the morning rolls around, Paul shrugs helplessly and offers to sleep on the couch instead. Patrick refuses. He shouldn’t have to suffer because Paul can’t better himself.

He hardly registers the pressure at first. Whatever it is, it slips into the dream he’s having, the one

(where he’s back in his apartment and there’s an axe in his hand and paul’s laying on the ground dead in front of him and oh god paul)

hasn’t seen in quite a few months now, as it moves up his leg. It makes its way to his left arm, a sharp pain digging into the skin there, and then the weight redistributes, landing on his chest. It pushes down, constricting his breathing, and

(he’s having a heart attack this is how he dies not with a bang but with a skull cleaved open with a howl of grief and of regret and of a need for punishment that’ll never come so please god send him anything anything at all)

a meow breaks through the silence of the bedroom.

Patrick’s eyes snap open.

Immediately, he’s aware of two facts. First, he’s absolutely drenched in sweat, the sheets slightly damp underneath him. Second, that the weight on his chest is decidedly not Paul. 

It’s that fucking cat again.

It stares down at him, completely silent, its claws digging into the flesh of his chest without remorse. While Patrick’s still too stunned to move, it leans down, pressing their noses together, and that snaps him out of it almost immediately. He jerks, startling the beast off of his chest, and it leaps into the air with a yowl before darting to the edge of the bed. Patrick sits up to meet its gaze, and from the corner, it stares at him, the faint glow from the kitchen illuminating those yellow eyes.

And, of course, despite the cat’s incessant noise and Patrick’s raspy, gasping breaths, Paul stays asleep. Typical.

“You just can’t be satisfied with the fact that you piss me off from a distance, can you?” Patrick stage-whispers, and, of course, it doesn’t respond. The second he opens his mouth, it hisses at him, backpedaling a few steps, and Patrick leans forward further, if only to fuck with it. 

It keeps stepping back. Patrick keeps leaning. When it finally falls off the bed with a sharp meow, Patrick has to cover his mouth from laughing too loudly. “Way to go, moron!”

The thing straightens up, glowering at Patrick as it stalks out of the room. Its ears stay pinned back all the while, its tail swishing low, and from what he’s gleaned from Paul, he manages to piece together that, despite not doing a damn thing, he pissed it off. He always has to hear about how sweet this cat is, how it never hisses unless Patrick’s around, but here it is, playing the victim for something that was absolutely its fault. 

Whatever. It has to learn that, while Patrick’s there, the bed is his territory. He flops right back down the second it passes out of view, and with a sigh, he shuts his eyes and tries to succumb to his nightmares once more.

He manages to drift off almost completely before it starts licking its ass at top volume.

Patrick sits up again, groaning, and through the crack in the door (when the hell did the cat crack the door open further?!), he can see it on the arm of the couch, leg hiked up. It keeps glancing up at him to make sure he’s still bothered by its antics, and when Patrick stands up, it bolts off into the darkness. Good riddance.

Usually, Paul wants to keep the door open so it can come and go as it pleases, no matter how much it bothers Patrick. Some mornings, Patrick will wake up to his alarm, only to find that Paul let go of him in the night in favor of cuddling his cat. 

If it’s going to wake him up in the middle of the night, then it can sleep outside for the night, Patrick decides. He nudges the door closed, turning back towards the bed, and he pauses when he hears the sound of soft, padded paws hurrying over to the door.

It starts yowling again.

Patrick lets out an exasperated sigh, reaching back and twisting the doorknob. Immediately, it pushes its way inside, letting the door bounce off of Patrick’s shoulder, and Patrick trudges back to bed as it darts in front of him. It makes itself comfy in his spot, and before it gets a chance to meow at him again, he scoops it up under the arms and holds it to the level of his eye.

“I’m letting you stay,” he mutters, putting their noses together for the second time that night, “because Paul likes you. I like Paul. We have something in common, you furry little douchebag: Paul is the only person either of us are ever going to give the time of day.”

There’s a paw on his chest. He ignores it.

“Look, cat. Animals are supposed to read people better than any human out there. You’re supposed to be scared of people like me, you know that? Evil psychopaths unbound by the constraints of morals? Serial killers? Freaks and basket cases alike? The only thing that keeps me from ripping the life out of your stupid orange body is the fact that it would devastate Paul.”

The creature lets out a little ‘murr’ in response. It presses their foreheads together, and Patrick scowls. “Stay out of my way, and you’ll get to keep all nine lives, got that?”

Patrick hardly gets a chance to finish his sentence before it digs its claws into his chest. He hisses, dropping it immediately, and it rakes a clean set of lines down his skin as he does. It darts over to Paul, tucking itself underneath his arms while Patrick reels, and after a moment, Patrick shoots it a glare. “Dick.”

Rubbing its face against Paul’s, it purrs. A bolt of jealousy rips through Patrick, and with a snarl, he lays down in his spot again, wrapping his arms around Paul’s waist and pulling him close to his chest. Even if it’s there, in this position, he has Paul. He’ll know that Paul is there with him, alive, and there’s no way in hell anything can take that away from him, not himself and definitely not some stupid hairball. 

It’s reassurance, Patrick tells himself. He doesn’t need to be comforted after a nightmare. He’s just making sure that Paul’s still there, and if his heartbeat lulls him to sleep, he’ll take it as an added bonus. 

He glares at the cat over Paul’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to the base of his neck. “I hope you choke on your own vomit.”

It doesn’t share the sentiment, of course, but he’s pretty sure the unrelenting eye contact means something like ‘fuck you too, Patrick’.

(It’s not all bad, really. Sure, the cat is still Paul’s perfect angel when they wake up the next morning, but he does get lightly scolded as Paul bandages the scratches on Patrick’s chest. It runs off and sulks until breakfast, refusing to watch Paul dote on his mortal enemy any longer, and Patrick can’t possibly be more pleased by it). 

3]. He can’t keep his paws off of things that don’t belong to him. 

The cat keeps them from going to dinner now, apparently. That’s… fine.

At least, Patrick pretends like it is. Paul still apologizes profusely every time he needs to go home and check on it, and half the time, it cries and whines so much the second he steps foot in the door that suddenly, Paul can’t bear to leave it alone any longer than he already has. Every time, Patrick says it’s all perfectly okay, and Paul tells him that he knows he’s upset about it. No matter how well Patrick trains out his facial expressions, Paul manages to see straight through them; he tells Patrick not to lie to him, and Patrick brushes him off.

If Paul cancels one more reservation for the sake of that animal, though, Patrick may just snap. Aren’t cats supposed to be low maintenance?

Cooking never goes well for them when they’re stuck on their own. Sure, Paul knows how to do enough to get by, putting together a college student’s version of dinner from time to time, but Patrick can’t. Paul taught him a few things, but it’s significantly easier to order food than it is to toil over a stove for god knows how long, no matter how hungry he gets. Besides, the cat seems intent on finding every way possible to kill Patrick or die trying; once, it burnt its paw trying to push a pot of boiling water off the stove (directly onto Patrick), then ran yowling to its father the second it had to face the consequences of its actions.

Paul didn’t take his side on that one. He cradled the cat, kissing its forehead, and he scolded Patrick for not paying more attention. The pot didn’t actually tip over, and it never does anything like that to Paul, so it must be completely innocent, right?

Patrick, however, knows what he saw. He also had to take a twenty minute walk to cool off, and even then, he didn’t eat dinner with Paul that night.

After a few too many futile attempts at getting a proper meal put together, they stop trying. Patrick doesn’t try to tell Paul that the cat will be fine on its own for another hour or two, and he gives Paul his takeout order when he asks. He ends up sulking on the couch until Paul finally decides to give him the time of day again, kissing him on the cheek and thanking him for his patience with him after all that time. He climbs on his lap, bothers him, compliments him, and Patrick really can’t stay mad at him after all of that.

The cat, though? He can stay mad at the cat.

Tonight, the little shit managed to con Paul into staying home, and naturally, Patrick stayed with him. Paul ordered a pizza from some family-owned, hole in the wall place downtown that Patrick has never heard of, one that Patrick is almost reluctant to eat (does Paul know how much grease is on a pizza?); he accepts the plate that Paul hands him anyway, sitting down across from him, and Paul barely opens his mouth before his cell phone starts ringing. He pauses, glancing at the screen, then picks it up. “Give me a minute. I have to take this.”

“You can stay here, if you’d like. I don’t care.”

“You kinda do. You’ll want it on speaker so you can be nosy.” Paul stands, walking straight past him. He ruffles Patrick’s hair on the way to the bedroom, and, by some miracle, he keeps his hand. “I asked Bryce a question about an account I’m supposed to get from him, and of course he picks now to call- Tim! Hey, man, how’s it going?”

That’s all Patrick hears in full before Paul shuts the door behind him.

With a sigh, Patrick gets up out of his chair, heading over to Paul’s liquor cabinet. He may as well get himself something to drink while he has time to kill. 

He pours himself a drink, eavesdropping all the while. He has to strain to hear anything Paul’s saying, but he can tell it’s definitely something work-related, as he said. Something about an account, about some rich old bastard who isn’t paying them nearly enough, about…

It doesn’t matter after that. It might be overly cautious to assume that Tim Bryce would try to sleep with two of his 

(partners lovers future victims fucktoys)

romantic prospects, especially not Paul, but he can’t be too careful.

The second he stops focusing on Paul’s voice, another sound breaks through his peripheral. It’s wet, he realizes with a slight disdain, but it sounds like it’s coming from behind him. He and Paul are the only two people in the apartment; with a start, Patrick remembers that yes, they’re the only two people in the apartment, but he hasn’t seen the cat in a while, and-

He whirls around, and there it is, pizza sauce across its muzzle and all of the toppings from Patrick’s slice dangling out of its mouth.

The shock of it all paralyzes Patrick for a second, staring at the cat with pure confusion until it hits him all at once. “Hey! Get off the fucking table, you don’t belong up there!”

To his surprise, it listens. It starts scarfing down the pizza toppings faster, then bolts, dragging the plate off the table with it as it runs off to hide under the couch, trailing marinara paw prints behind it. The plate shatters on impact, and Patrick swears a bit louder than he means to, slamming a fist down on the counter.

Then, there’s silence.

The bedroom door clicks open before Patrick gets a chance to move, and Paul sticks his head out, looking around in concern. He notices the plate, then Patrick, frowning. He raises an eyebrow, giving Patrick a thumbs up, and Patrick waves him off with a slight grunt, already storming off to find the broom.

Paul keeps talking, and Patrick manages to catch the very first part as the door closes. “Bateman? Yeah, he’s here, we were just gonna-”

The door shuts before Patrick can hear the excuse that Paul gives him. 

A few minutes later, Paul comes out of the bedroom again, only to find Patrick fuming at the table. He cleaned up the mess that the cat made while Paul was gone, paw prints included, and Paul sits down across from him, reaching for his hand. “What’s wrong?”

Begrudgingly, he lets Paul’s hand slip into his. He refuses to make eye contact with him, his other hand pressed against his cheek as he stares down at the table. After a moment, he mumbles, “Camembert stole my goddamn toppings.”

A beat. Paul grins. “Really?”

“Yes, Paul, really!” Patrick pulls his hands away immediately, throwing them up in annoyance. “The little shit got on the table while I had my back turned, ripped the toppings off my pizza, and then swallowed them whole like some kind of snake! Broke a plate, trailed sauce all over the floor, and- Paul, stop laughing!”

“No, no, I’m not laughing, it’s just-” Paul wheezes, trying his absolute best to stop giggling over there, taking a quick second to cover his mouth. “Oh my god. That’s amazing. Baby, it’s fine, we can get you another piece.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

“Plenty, but that’s only because you get flustered when I do.” He grabs the new plate Patrick took from the cabinet, setting another slice of pizza on it. “I’ll agree with you this time around. He’s kind of an asshole. If you hadn’t been here, he definitely would have been sitting at the door, yelling and carrying on until I gave him attention.”

“Why didn’t he do that now?”

Paul shrugs, picking up his pizza and taking a bite out of it. “He likes bothering you. If you stopped being so mean to him, maybe he’d like you a little bit more.”

“Yeah, right.” He glances warily back at the couch, only to see a red-stained paw peeking out from underneath the couch. It tries (and fails) to drag the remaining crust under the couch. “I don’t understand why you keep him around. He’s an unsociable, needy little bastard, and he doesn’t seem to like you all that much. You’re like a pet to him.”

“Funny. People have said the same stuff to me about you.” Immediately, Patrick’s head shoots up, appalled, and Paul has to hold a hand up with a soft chuckle before he launches off on some tangent. “Kidding! C’mon, Patrick, eat. I don’t want you to do stuff on an empty stomach later.”

Patrick sighs, grumbling something that, admittedly, isn’t made up of words in response before taking a bite out of his slice of pizza, and-

Oh. It’s not that bad, actually. “You know, you have pretty good taste other than that cat.”

Paul grins. “Damn right.”

(They end up ‘doing stuff’ a lot later than expected that night. Paul has to bathe the fucking cat, apparently, despite claiming that it keeps itself clean. After that, Patrick mandates that he showers before touching him, and by some miracle, the creature is still hiding under the couch from him by the time he finishes. Paul puts him on his knees, tells him how much he means to him, and the second an iota of doubt slips into Patrick’s mind, Paul makes sure to remind him that he has damn good taste; Patrick wouldn’t be there with him if he wasn’t worth something). 

4]. Patrick is jealous He’s a massive attention whore. 

Patrick refuses to touch Camembert under any circumstances. Camembert (the name has sort of grown on him, much to his annoyance) approaches him far more often than he’d like, batting at his arms, headbutting his shins, stepping on his face as it checks that Patrick is still breathing, but he avoids touching it willingly. He won’t pet it. He won’t pick it up, and he definitely won’t cradle it like Paul does.

Paul, though? Paul never stops touching the thing.

Against his better judgment, Patrick keeps trying to schedule their ‘date nights’ at his apartment instead of Paul’s; he always has to clean cat hair off of every surface of the house after Paul leaves, but at least Paul pays attention to him and not the cat when they’re not at his place. At Paul’s, he has to fight Camembert for his attention, and Camembert can climb into Paul’s lap a hell of a lot easier than Patrick can. 

They can’t do a damn thing without Camembert wanting Paul’s attention. If they eat dinner together, the cat hops up on the table and begs for food until Paul gives it something off of his plate. They can’t sleep with the door closed, nor can they do much of anything alone in the bedroom without Camembert scratching and meowing at the door. They can’t sit together on the couch without Camembert hopping up and wedging itself between the two of them, and by that point, Patrick just pulls away and sulks until it leaves again. 

Before this, their version of a quiet night in consisted of a movie that only one of them cared about, the volume turned down and the curtains drawn shut, and time spent on the couch together until one of them broke. They’d make out, or Paul would start talking about things he noticed during the week, or Patrick would start rambling out of sheer boredom. If they didn’t end up in bed together, they’d stay on the couch, tangled up in each other’s limbs for as long as they could stand. 

That doesn’t happen much anymore. Nearly twenty minutes ago, Camembert jumped up into Paul’s lap, and even though Patrick slid half a foot away from Paul right after, Paul hasn’t said a word about it. He just keeps petting his cat, watching the screen with his cheek propped up on a fist.

And it’s fine. He’s not upset about it at all. The cat needs attention too, after all, and Patrick totally isn’t bitter. 

“Have you been glaring at Camembert for the last five minutes on purpose, or did you not realize you were doing it?” Paul asks, and immediately, Patrick snaps back towards the TV, sitting up ramrod-straight. 

“I wasn’t glaring.” He doesn’t look over at Paul, pursing his lips. “I just zoned out. That’s how my face looks.”

“That’s not what it usually looks like when you stare at me.” Patrick says nothing, raising an eyebrow, and Paul continues after glancing over at him. “You have a serious resting bitch face, but you kind of look- I don’t know. Awestruck, maybe?”

“Then you must have just caught me off guard. It’d be stupid to pick a fight with a cat, anyway.”

“If you say so, Patrick.”

They fall silent again. Patrick resists the urge to reach over and strangle one (if not both) of them. 

Paul gives Patrick another few minutes to concede, and when he doesn’t, he speaks up again. “Do you want me to move Camembert so we can cuddle without getting any cat hair on your clothes?”

“That’s stupid. I told you, I’m not mad about the cat.”

Paul shoots him a look. In return, Patrick scowls at him, only softening up when Paul raises an eyebrow. “...Yes.”

“Alright, there. All you had to do was ask.” He picks up Camembert, earning a meow from it as he sets it on the arm of the couch. He puts his forearm across its back, scratching it behind the ears, and it goes right back to purring. With his free arm, he gestures for Patrick to slide back over. “I was getting cold. C’mere.”

Patrick says nothing, pressing their sides together and slinging an arm around Paul’s shoulders. Paul, in turn, wraps an arm around Patrick’s waist, and immediately, Patrick’s heart rate slows. He settles into the couch, into Paul, and the words slip out of his mouth without a second thought. “You still like me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I like both of you.” Paul briefly boosts himself up, pressing a quick kiss to Patrick’s cheek. Had it been anyone else, Patrick would have wiped it off immediately; Paul gets a pass. “You’re both very, very special to me.”

Patrick just hums. He knows by now that Paul doesn’t need the sentiment reciprocated; it goes unspoken most days, and if Patrick does manage to say something, it comes out forced and stilted. Paul’s continued existence is proof enough to both of them that, in some weird way, Patrick still cares about him. Hell, the fact that Camembert gets to exist in the same space as the two of them is pretty damning evidence. 

He kisses Paul’s jaw, then rests his forehead against the side of his face, shutting his eyes. He doesn’t need to see the screen. He’s always here for the company, anyway, and he appreciates the way said company pulls him closer in that near-silent living room.

Maybe he and Camembert can find a way to coexist.

5]. He’s a total slob. 

The cat hair was bad enough when Patrick just visited Paul a few times a week; it gets exponentially worse after he moves in with Paul. 

Moving in is an ordeal all on its own. Patrick has to make peace with the fact that he’ll be almost constantly in the presence of another person, and more importantly, that he’ll constantly be around Paul, which makes up half of his hesitation. He has to pick out what parts of his own apartment are coming with him and what gets tossed into a storage locker for later use. He has to find a buyer under the table, unable to list his place anywhere that their colleagues (or, god forbid, Evelyn or his father) would see, and he doesn’t dare to hire any movers, not trusting them to keep his things safe as they transfer them to Paul’s place.

The change of address forms go through. No one at P&P notices, and if they do, they don’t say a word. Tim still seems a little wary after he heard Patrick over that phone call with Paul a few months ago, but a sharp glare from Patrick dismisses those comments immediately. He and Paul debate what goes in the apartment for what feels like hours, and by the time it's all over, Patrick climbs into their bed, curls up beside him, and falls asleep in his new apartment for the first time. 

It’s sort of nice, being wanted like that. He knows that, at the end of the day, he has somewhere to go back to that isn’t the cold, white palace he once built for himself. He knows that he has someone waiting for him, and he gets to spend each day with his most recent obsession.

He also hasn’t killed anything in a year, and he doesn’t crave to do it again, which is a very new experience.

There’s downsides, of course. Paul’s human, and unfortunately, humans do gross human things all the time; it comes with the territory, but Patrick learns to live with it. He has to ask Paul to leave him alone if he wants some time on his own, and he tones down the grotesqueness of the stuff he watches on TV on his own volition. Somewhere along the line, he decided that it was a price he was willing to pay, and he stands by that.

Patrick does, however, wish that Camembert would stay out of the fucking dry cleaning.

Thank god it’s a Saturday. If Patrick hadn’t noticed him sooner on a workday, he would have had to lint roll his clothes, and he never has time to do that in the mornings. With a sigh, he picks the cat up off of the clothes pile on the bed, dropping him onto the floor. He tries brushing the hair off of his suit as he calls out to Paul. “Your son got on top of my laundry again!”

Paul sticks his head out of the bathroom, and immediately, Camembert starts meowing at him. He scoops him up without a second thought. “Why’d you leave it out?”

“I was planning on wearing it, I turned around to pick out a pair of socks.” He gives up after a few swipes, scowling and heading off to the front of the apartment. He grabs the lint roller, sits down on the bed, and starts cleaning the orange fur off of his suit jacket. Paul stays in his line of sight, fixing his hair in the bathroom mirror as Camembert headbutts his arm. “Have you ever thought about how weird it is that we live with something that’s just constantly naked?”

Paul pauses. “No, Patrick, I can’t say I have. He’s not naked, he has fur.”

“He still doesn’t wear pants.”

“You don’t wear a shirt while you’re working out.” He continues fixing his hair, taking one hand off of it every so often to pat Camembert on the head. “Besides, if someone wears fur, they’re still clothed.”

“That’s different. That’s not their fur. If someone walked out of their house wearing nothing but their own skin and body hair, they’d be arrested. He’s a nudist.” 

Paul turns, ready to step out of the bathroom, but he stops at the last moment, glancing back at Camembert. He scoops the cat up right after, and with a massive grin, he holds him up. “He’s not naked! He’s got socks on!”

“Oh my god,” Patrick mutters, rolling his eyes. “Still fur, Paul.”

“Yeah, well, I think you’re just being a grouch.” He sets Camembert down on the bed, taking a quick glance at Patrick’s suit as he does. “I thought you didn’t have anything to do today. Why are you putting a suit on, anyway?”

Patrick shrugs. “I said I didn’t have anything important to do today, not that I didn’t plan on doing something with myself. I still have to look nice.”

“You could dress down for once.” Patrick just snorts. In retaliation, Paul drapes himself over his shoulders. “I’m serious, Pat! Come on, you have no desire to wear jeans and a regular shirt for once?”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be right now? Like, anywhere other than here?” Patrick nudges him off, earning a gasp of mock offense from Paul. As an afterthought, he turns, catching Paul’s lips in a quick kiss. “Seriously, though. You’re late.”

“Am I? No, I’m not.” Paul glances down at his watch. His eyes shoot open when he sees the time. “Oh. Shit. I guess I am. Be good, don’t do anything stupid, I’ll be back at- I don’t know, two? We’ll see.”

And, just like that, Paul leaves him alone in their shared apartment, trusting him wholeheartedly. He never worries about finding organs in places that they shouldn’t be, and he’d never dare to imagine that Patrick would hurt his cat.

That being said, Patrick eyes Camembert the second the front door closes. Camembert stares at him right back, and as the cat stands up, Patrick heads the other direction, stepping into the closet. “You have five minutes,” he says, and the sound of paws on hardwood follows.

He does dress down, sort of. He puts on something other than a suit, just to appease Paul, but the more casual blazer he ends up in still costs more than most peoples’ salaries. 

Once he’s dressed and presentable, he sets off into the rest of the apartment, prowling to find Camembert’s hiding place. They do this song and dance from time to time, and Camembert has gotten smart enough to find new hiding places every once in a while, but Patrick knows where his favorite spot is by now; Camembert keeps sticking his paws out from under the couch to cut him as he walks past, and he looks just as ready to pounce when Patrick lowers himself to the ground to make eye contact with him. “If you scratch me, I’m getting you declawed.”

Camembert just glowers at him, tail flicking. They have a mutual understanding of sorts by now, and while he wriggles in protest as Patrick drags him out and carries him over to his crate, he doesn’t scratch. He does, however, bite Patrick’s hand as he tries to put him inside, and Patrick hisses, shoving him into the crate more abruptly than he needs to and latching the door. Patrick glares at him, and Camembert, still pissed, turns and faces the other direction in the crate as Patrick gets a band-aid for his hand.

Seriously, why would Paul get such a nasty animal? Does he even know how much bacteria is in a cat’s mouth?

Either way, Patrick has plans, and a single bite mark isn’t going to get in the way of those. He carries the crate outside, hails a cab, and shoves double the necessary cash into the cabbie’s hand when it looks like he’s about to protest the cat. The driver falls silent, turns back around, and takes Patrick where he needs to go.

On the way, Camembert starts meowing. Patrick smacks the top of the carrier with his fist. “You’re fine,” he says, and after a second, he hears Camembert’s paws whapping against the side of the crate. “Seriously. Just know you’re a lucky bastard since I’m not taking you to the pound right now. Plenty of kill shelters in New York.”

“Anyone ever told you that you’re kind of a strange one, mister?” the driver chimes in, and for a moment, Patrick’s too stunned to speak. “Talking to a cat and all.”

Right. He’s talking to an animal. Patrick cracks one of those award-winning smiles, forcing himself to look as casual as possible. “Actually, no. Most people think I’m pretty boring. You’d be surprised.”

Most people would be pretty surprised, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

Thankfully, Camembert doesn’t freak out whenever Patrick takes him into the groomer’s. Seeing as he’s unfamiliar with the place, he doesn’t quite know what to expect yet, and Patrick refuses to try bathing him himself again. He sets the crate on the counter, giving the receptionist a grin. “He has an appointment.”

“What’s the name?” she asks, and right as Patrick opens his mouth to speak, she notices Camembert in the crate. He turned around to see her at some point, surveying his surroundings, and she gasps. “Oh! Isn’t he just the cutest?”

Patrick has to stifle a groan. “Isn’t he just. His name is Camembert. Camembert Allen, because your website asked me for a last name for the cat.”

“Right. The owner thinks a pet deserves just as much respect as a human, so we like to have a first and a last name for them.” She sticks her fingers between the bars of the crate, and Camembert rubs his face against it, his purrs reverberating through the box. “And is there any particular problem, Mr. Allen, or is this just routine?”

Mr. Allen.

Patrick freezes, immediately going to correct her, but he pauses. It doesn’t sound… horrible, at least. She doesn’t know Paul, but Patrick does, and the implications of it-

He doesn’t correct her. “He sheds. I saw that bathing a cat can help with that, so I thought we may as well try it and see how well it works out.”

(He’s also sick of seeing the cat look like a total hot mess, and he won’t let anyone bathe him anymore. He definitely won’t let Patrick brush him, either, and he only begrudgingly sits through it for Paul whenever Paul tries it. It’s not worth the struggle anymore).

The receptionist nods. “No problem. We’ll see what we can do and have him back out in about an hour and a half.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Patrick leaves without another word, waiting until he’s far enough away from the building to duck into an alleyway and slap a hand over his mouth. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, sinking down against the wall, and he manages to stop himself before he hits the ground. 

Mr. Allen. 

It kind of makes his stomach flutter. He can’t quite breathe when he thinks about being called that again. He should really get that checked out, or maybe he should just bring it up during his next little session with Paul, just to see what happens. It could never be a reality, but maybe it would be nice to imagine.

Patrick shakes that thought off and steps out of the alleyway, scaring the shit out of a passerby. Inwardly, he grins to himself; he’s still got it.

One prolonged walk and a cup of coffee later, Patrick heads back to the groomer, only to find that the damn cat still isn’t done. He takes a seat, tapping his fingers against the edge of the seat, and after a moment, he pauses. He spots a machine in the corner of the room, reading the label on the side, and it all clicks once he sees the display next to it. 

Cheap. He could do better.

He spends five minutes at the machine, then calls in a same-day delivery to their apartment for the other part of the plan. By the time he’s done, he gets Camembert back, and he leaves a tip worth god knows how much before leaving. He doesn’t even bother to look at Camembert in the crate.

Camembert bolts off to some corner of the apartment the second Patrick opens the crate door and wrestles him into the new gift Patrick got him, and Patrick can’t care less. He sits down, turns on the TV, and watches it with a snack in hand, only for Camembert to come creeping out on his own accord eventually. He starts badgering Patrick for his food, nudging his hand and meowing, and once Patrick gives him a little scrap of meat, he settles down on Patrick’s lap, purring loudly. There’s a warm, vibrating weight on his thighs, and he has to hold back from throwing the thing off of him immediately.

Hesitantly, Patrick runs a hand over his back. 

Camembert doesn’t move. He just keeps on purring, and as Patrick continues petting him, he starts to relax into the couch himself. Huh. Apparently it does relieve stress, just like Paul said. 

That’s how Paul finds them half an hour later, both of them staring at the TV in boredom until he walks in the door. Patrick perks up immediately, and Camembert springs up off of his lap to get to Paul, meowing and carrying on. Paul smiles once he sees them, first at Patrick, then at Camembert, but he pauses whenever he sees the cat. “Uh. So.”

“Mhm?” Patrick leans on the arm of the couch, watching as Paul scoops up Camembert and looks him over.

“He, uh… looks different. And you were touching him. What the hell happened while I was gone?” Paul stops, his head jerking over to Patrick. “You didn’t swap him out, did you?”

“Of course not,” Patrick says. He keeps his voice flat. “I was sick of him not cleaning himself, and he sheds, so I took him to the groomer’s. They bathed him and gave him a trim, I guess.”

Paul relaxes, pulling Camembert in to cradle him. “Oh. Okay, fine, I can kind of believe that.” He takes a second to gesture to Patrick’s lap. “Looks like it worked, for the most part.”

Patrick glances down, and he’s immediately hit with a smug feeling of satisfaction at the sight of his clean pants. “You’re welcome.”

“Yes, thank you, of course, and-” Paul glances down at Camembert again, and that’s when he notices it. He laces his fingers in Camembert’s new collar, tugging on it lightly before looking at the tag. “‘Camembert Allen,’” he reads. “‘If lost, return to Paul’. Hey, Pat?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Where in the hell did you find a Tiffany cat collar?”

Patrick shrugs. “Tiffany, obviously. I told you, it’s weird that he’s naked all the time. If he’s going to live here, he may as well be a little more dignified.”

Paul chuckles, and as he walks past, Camembert still in his arms, he presses a kiss to Patrick’s cheek. “Jesus. I knew you secretly liked him, but I didn’t know you liked him that much. You’re dressing my cat in designer.”

“I still don’t like him,” Patrick protests, but Paul’s already gone. Patrick knows he’ll be back after he’s done changing, but he can’t help but sigh anyway, settling back into the couch. At least Paul’s happy with it, and Patrick won’t have to deal with all of the cat fur anymore.

(As a bonus, Camembert seems to remember that Patrick was the reason he ended up taking a bath that afternoon. He avoids him like the plague the next day, hiding in all his favorite spots and scratching Patrick if he gets too close. Oh, well. That little demon was getting a little too chummy, anyway).

+1]. They both make Paul happy.

“He’s staring at me again, Paul.”

“So what? You stare at me all the time, and I don’t take that as a personal offense.”

“That’s different. I like you. Camembert fucking hates me, he’s probably thinking about all of the ways he’ll try to smother me in my sleep so he can eat my eyes.”

Paul sighs, turning in his desk chair to face Patrick. When he went in to ‘finish his work for the day’ (read: to play Minesweeper), Patrick dragged a chair in from the kitchen to sit next to him, and Camembert made himself comfortable behind Paul’s computer monitor. He keeps batting at spots on the screen when he doesn’t have his eyes locked on Patrick, and as Paul turns, Camembert turns with him. Paul grabs Patrick’s hand. “I promise with my whole heart that I’m not going to let my cat eat you.”

Patrick’s lip curls. “You can’t promise that. They just do that on their own accord.”

“Since when are you a cat expert?” Paul asks, grinning ever so slightly. Patrick snorts, and he doesn’t manage to get out an answer before Paul turns back to his keyboard. He doesn’t let go of Patrick’s hand, typing with the spare one. “Google says they only do that to dead things.”

“And I’ll be dead eventually. He’s getting a head start.”

“That’s not the reason. I would bet money on it.” Paul starts typing again, and Patrick, eager to be right, scoots his chair closer to his to watch over his shoulder. He doesn’t get a chance to see what Paul searched until Paul starts reading off the results. “He’s staring at you because he likes you, Patrick. He trusts you.” 

“What?” Patrick sneers, peering around the computer screen at Camembert again. “That says they stare at you if they’re scared, too. That has to be it.”

Camembert, however, can’t seem to agree. He keeps the same soft gaze on Patrick that he’s had all day, all week, and blinks at him slowly. He then turns his head away, flops down on the desk, and starts licking his paw.

Patrick scowls. “See? Eye contact if they trust you. He broke it, so clearly, he doesn’t trust me.”

More typing. “It says the slow blink means he really, really trusts you. It says he loves you, actually.”

That has Patrick jolting up in his seat, staring at Paul with a certain fire in his eyes, and when Paul glances over at him, grinning triumphantly, it takes everything in him to force himself to relax. “No way in hell. He’s constantly underfoot, he headbutts me constantly, and he sticks his claws in every single pair of pants I own. He has it out for me.”

“Oh, really?” Paul glances back at his screen again. “He’s underfoot because he wants to be near you. He headbutts you because he has scent glands in his head and is effectively marking you as his. I’ve seen him kneading you, he thinks you’re his mom. I know how to pick ‘em, Patrick, I know I’ve got damn good taste.”

All Patrick can do is sit there, floored and fuming, trying to sputter out a response until Paul’s phone rings. Paul immediately grabs it off the cradle, shooing Patrick with a wave of his hand as he launches into his latest business spiel. Patrick is helpless to do anything other than comply, getting up and storming out. He thinks about slamming the door behind him, but he thinks better of it. On one hand, it would piss Paul off, which he’d like. On the other, it would piss Paul off, and he’s grown to hate it when Paul’s mad at him.

It’s a good thing he didn’t. Camembert decided to follow him out, apparently, and the cat quickly takes to weaving in between Patrick’s ankles and purring once he catches up. He would have shut the door right on top of him. 

Either way, he half-snarls, scooping Camembert up into his arms in the same way he’s seen Paul do a million times, cradling him close to his chest. Without thinking, he puts his forehead against Camembert’s, glaring at him, and Camembert just does that stupid slow-blink at him in return. Patrick’s eyes narrow. “You’re the luckiest cat in Manhattan, I hope you know that, asshole. You’re lucky he likes you so much. You’re not supposed to enjoy my company, you’re supposed to be terrified of me.”

Camembert just keeps on purring. Seriously, how can Paul find him so charming, especially when all the ways he shows his love are so annoying? All he does is bother Patrick, and Paul thinks it’s endearing?

They get back into the office twenty minutes later, resuming their positions, and an idea starts to form in the back of Patrick’s mind while he sits there with his head on Paul’s shoulder. He starts to take notes.

The second Paul figures out what Camembert’s tells are, he starts responding to him. If Camembert blinks and looks away, Paul tells him that he loves him, too. If he almost trips over Camembert trying to walk to the front door in the morning, he’s sure to scoop the cat up, kiss him on the forehead, and tell him to behave while he’s at work. He’ll headbutt him back from time to time, and Camembert always starts purring louder because of it. Clearly, Paul notices every little sign that says Camembert cares about him, even though the cat isn’t capable of saying it out loud.

Paul gets it. Paul gets it, and Camembert doesn’t have to say a word.

It takes two weeks for Patrick to try it out for himself.

He doesn’t get any more affectionate with Camembert. God, no. He can hardly stand him to begin with, no matter how many times Paul has found them curled up on the couch together. Instead, he makes mental notes of Camembert’s tells and tries them out from time to time. Patrick tells himself repeatedly that he’s just doing it to see if Paul’s actually paying attention to him, but it’s not like he’s completely tactless with it. He picks the right moments.

Dinner reservations. Patrick stares at Paul until their eyes meet, slow-blinks, and looks away. He doesn’t get a response, but Paul does ask him if he’s feeling alright as soon as they get in the cab that night.

Their bedroom. Patrick presses his forehead against Paul’s shoulder insistently, not hard enough to hurt, and Paul just wraps an arm around him and drags him closer. He keeps his head exactly where it is, and he doesn’t reciprocate. 

Around the apartment. Whenever he can bear it, Patrick starts to sit and stand as close to him as possible. Paul seldom pushes him away, but he mentions that he seems a little bit more willing to ask for his attention now. Noticed, but not quite understood, Patrick makes sure to flop down on the couch and sling his legs over Paul’s that night, just to make sure he couldn’t get up. 

The most infuriating thing is that Paul still notices all of the same behavior from Camembert well into Patrick’s little experiment. When the cat does it, it’s cute, a massive declaration of love for his owner. Whenever Patrick does it, it’s just another odd behavior on the pile.

The very last time Patrick gets pissed about it, they’re in the kitchen. Patrick sits at the table, slumped over to rest his chin on his arms as Paul pours him a glass of water. The rest of the night is a blur to Patrick, but he vaguely remembers yelling at Paul when they got home for something stupid and Paul pushing him up against the wall and making out with him until he was a bit more compliant. He remembers the sex. He remembers giving up control to Paul again, then covering him in a patchwork of bite marks and bruises while they fucked. For once, Patrick himself managed to get out unscathed, but he can see every bit of damage he inflicted on Paul’s half-naked form. 

Paul trusts him. Paul trusts him enough to let him hurt him after he made himself vulnerable. He understands what could happen to him at any time, and yet he lets Patrick do just about whatever he pleases, trusting that he’ll be perfectly fine at the end of the day. Patrick stares at his handiwork adoringly.

Paul turns around eventually, glass of water for Patrick in one hand and the first aid kit for himself in the other. He catches Patrick’s gaze, then the slow-blink-and-turn Patrick does out of habit. He sets the glass down, then sits down at the table across from him. “You keep doing that. The blink thing. What is that?”

“What thing?” Patrick’s eyes half-lid as he looks up at him again, nudging the glass of water to the side so he can see him better. Paul presses the glass into his palm more insistently.

“Drink that. C’mon, Pat, mandatory aftercare.” He pops open the first aid kit, sifting through its contents. “You know, the thing. You stare at me, blink really deliberately, and then look away like that didn’t happen. It’s always at the weirdest times, too.”

Oh, god. He doesn’t recognize it.

Patrick’s stomach drops, and casually, he reaches for the glass, sitting up to drink from it. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“There’s a lot of stuff that you do that I write off as totally unique to you. If this is a specific thing I should know about, I’d appreciate the update.” He doesn’t even look at Patrick as he says that, poking at a particularly nasty mark on his collarbone with a wince. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“Camembert does it all the time. You figure it out every time he does it,” Patrick protests, and Paul furrows his brow, glancing up at him. All of the remaining fight drains out of Patrick, sinking into the floor beneath him, and all at once, the plan wasn’t worth it. He resents his work. This was a shitty idea, and-

“Hey,” Paul drops everything, tone of voice included, and leans forward to get closer to him. He knocks Patrick’s train of thought right off track, his eyes locking directly on him. “Is everything okay?”

Fine. Perfect. Way better than okay, he has a stupid domestic life with a boyfriend and a cat and he doesn’t want to kill himself nearly as much as he used to, but he can’t figure out how to express his feelings out loud no matter how intense they are, thank-you-very-much, and that’s exactly what he opens his mouth to say to Paul, trying to force as much malice into his voice as possible.

The truth manages to creep out through his teeth instead.

“I’m just trying to figure out a way to tell you that I love you,” he mutters, only half-conscious of what he’s saying. Immediately, Paul’s eyes go wide, and Patrick remembers that he’s telling the only person on earth he’s ever cared about that he loves him for the first time while they’re half-naked in the kitchen. Paul treats him to the perfect romantic life, and Patrick hasn’t been able to choke out those three words until now of all times.

“Oh,” Paul says after a moment. Then, nothing. Just another beat of stunned silence. “Uh. Cool.”

Wrong answer.

Despite himself, Patrick can feel the tears starting to well up in his eyes, a horrified gasp escaping his chest, and Paul immediately snaps back to reality, reaching for his hands. “Oh, my god. I did not mean to say that, that was the worst way to respond to that, I just- there’s no salvaging this. Fuck. Please don’t cry, I love you too, it just caught me off guard.”

Patrick chokes, and something between a sob and a laugh reverberates from somewhere in his throat. “You’re shitting me. I finally pull it together and give you what you want, and you say ‘cool’?”

“I didn’t mean to! It was an accident, you’ve just never said that before, and I-” Paul cuts himself off abruptly, dragging one of his hands back to tangle it in his own hair. “You’ve been slow-blinking at me for weeks. Like a cat.”

“Yes! Obviously! It took you long enough to notice!” Patrick hisses, but he hardly gets a chance to be mean about it. Paul leans forward the second he finishes speaking, pressing kisses to the corners of Patrick’s lips and his jawline. At one point, he stops, just to press his forehead hard against Patrick’s, and Patrick melts into his chair, weeks worth of tension going slack with a few quick actions. “I finally said it. I love you, or whatever. Are you happy?”

Paul presses his forehead more insistently against him. “Patrick, I know you love me, I love you too, you don’t need to tell me that! Jesus, I feel like an idiot. You’ve always reminded me of a cat anyway, all aloof and neat, I guess I just didn’t notice.”

“I do not act like a cat, don’t say that shit ever again,” he replies, if only out of instinct. Paul just hums in response, and as Patrick starts to calm down, he leans forward onto the table to get closer to him. “You get nothing out of hearing that, then?”

“I’m literally the happiest man on the face of the earth right now because you told me you love me. Yes, I’ve always known it, but it’s nice to hear it, you know?” Paul sighs, finally pulling away as he slumps back down in his chair again. “You don’t have to say it out loud ever again. I’ll watch for the slow-blinks and stuff, and I’ll thank the cat to hell and back for teaching you that. God, both of you are the best.”

Camembert hops up on the counter behind Paul. There’s another cup of something up there from god-knows-when, one that Camembert dunks his paw in so he can drink out of it. He makes a disgusted face after a few licks, flicking his paw in annoyance, and Patrick thinks, how did that little monster possibly teach me anything? You’re the one that taught me how to love.

He still doesn’t want to get rid of the cat. Camembert makes Paul happy, and some days, that’s all Patrick can bring himself to care about beyond himself. 

“Alright, fine,” Patrick murmurs, leaning back onto the table again. “Just make sure he doesn’t get a big head over it.”

(Camembert totally does, that smarmy bastard. He’s so pleased with himself for ‘getting Patrick to confess’ like he did any of the heavy lifting, but with how funny Paul thinks the whole situation is the next day, Patrick doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’s been trying to find a way to show that he loves him for a long, long time. The cat can stay, if only Patrick gets to see Paul’s smile every day of his life).