Archive of Our Own ^beta

Eighteen months ago, Kun had a nervous breakdown. Today, he’s been offered a promotion.

To backtrack a few hours, Kun first had a long string of mind-numbing meetings: he went from a two hour seminar on the “Opportunities and Challenges of AI in the Publishing Space”, to a headachey meeting with finance about investment tracking software, and then finally to the worst of them all: an “informal chat about an exciting new role” with Executive Management.

One might think this is a good thing, and it surely must be. The problem lay in the fact that Kun was miserable.

The position of Chief Editor was tempting and he was the only person qualified to take it on. “The perfect candidate”, they said. “Skills, experience and leadership qualities, all present,” they said. “An enthusiasm for the field,” they said.

That last point was the sticky one. 

Kun had had enthusiasm once upon a time, but that was at the start of his fairy tale in academic publishing. He felt that he was quite at the end of this tale, and it was not one of the happy ones. 

A twenty-year-old Kun would have leapt at this opportunity.  Now, over a decade later, Kun is limping toward it. The money might make it worth it, though.

Might.

He rubbed his eyes under his glasses, indulging in one last bit of moping, then straightened up to power walk to his private office.

He had already sat down heavily, chucked his briefcase aside and opened up his laptop before he finally noticed the unusual package sitting square in the middle of his desk.

The box was already unsealed, mostly due to its horrendous condition. The cardboard was falling apart; full of scratches and holes, and the whole thing was barely held-together by well-worn masking tape. With just a tiny tilt of the box, a book slipped out of the side onto Kun’s desk.

It could have been a hard-copy manuscript, though if Kun permitted himself the luxury of metaphor, it looked more like a medieval madman’s lost journal. The leather cover was flayed in places, with most of the binding being decomposed thread. A lot of the pages were loose, ready to fall out and be lost, and those pages were yellowed and dusty. 

Worst of all, however, this manuscript was unsolicited.

Kun called for his assistant. 'Hendery!'

Said assistant poked his head around the door almost instantly. 'Kun-ge?'

'Did you put this here?' Kun gestured to the tatty book. 'I'm not taking unsolicited submissions and you know that.'

'I do know,' replied Hendery. 'It's just that this one was addressed directly to you.'

Furrowing his brow, Kun checked the underside of the box. Indeed, there was his workplace address, as well as his full name:

ATT: Qian, Kun (Mr.)

Senior Editor: Materials Science

Oaktree Scientific (Pty) Ltd

4h Floor

Cnr Oaktree Ave & Pear Str

No doubt about it, it was sent to him specifically — but for what reason, he could not guess.

'"Scientific" is in the name,' he muttered. 'They couldn't have found a more unsuitable publishing house to send this to.’ He flipped through the dusty pages. ‘This looks like some kind of… fantasy kids book?'

'I wouldn't say that,' replied Hendery, then lowered his voice. 'It's got a bit of a saucy kiss scene at the end.'

Kun raised his brows. He resisted the urge to peek at the last pages to verify. In any case, he did not have the time to read this. There was a pile of manuscripts looming over him already, all of them shoved onto his plate after three editorial resignations in as many months. 

He took off his glasses to massage his temples. Then his mind belatedly circled back to what Hendery had just said.

‘You opened my mail and read it?’ Kun asked, scandalised.

Hendery grimaced. ‘I mean, the box is in such a state… the thing just fell out as soon as I picked it up, so…’

'Well, regardless, I don't have use for this,' Kun said, dropping the issue. When it came to his assistant, he was forgiving to a fault.  'Send it back for me, please.'

Hendery shook his head. 'No return address. I checked. Didn't get a courier call, either. It basically appeared out of thin air in the mail room.'

Kun sighed. 'Then throw it away.'

Hendery gasped, affronted, hand flying to his chest.'You wouldn't do such a thing, ge…'

‘Hendery…’

‘This is someone’s life’s work! Their passion project! To relegate it to the dustbin just like that…’

Kun huffed, regrettably quite moved by the plea. ‘You need to put “guilt-tripping” down as a skill on your resumé, Hendery. You’ve mastered it.’

‘It’s not that I’ve mastered anything,’ replied Hendery pleasantly. ‘It’s that you care too much! If you cared less, you’d be massaging your temples a lot less, too.’

Kun stopped massaging and glared at him. 

Hendery deadpanned, ‘One word from you will silence me forever—’

‘I can think of a few words,’ Kun replied drily. With his pen, he tapped the mason jar to the right of him, an oddity among the files and papers on his desk. ‘You know the drill.’

‘One for the Austen jar, I know,’ Hendery groaned, fishing a coin out of the pocket of his slacks. ‘You’re going to fine me out of house and home like this.’

‘You bring this upon yourself. What’s everyone’s obsession with that book anyway? It’s like I hear a reference to it every week. Mostly because of you, in fact!’

‘Would you say it’s the last book you would ever be prevailed upon to—’

Kun tapped the Austen jar. Hendery paid another quotation penalty. The jar had a healthy amount of money in it now, due to his assistant’s enduring habit of quoting Pride and Prejudice, a book that Kun despised for its flowery prose and ridiculous premise.

‘Go look busy, please,’ Kun chided him. ‘While I think about what to spend your Austen money on.’

Hendery curtsied, then turned and skipped out of Kun’s office. Kun shook his head — he was just barely hanging onto his annoyance, though. It was impossible to be mad at Hendery, whose antics were often the only bit of joy Kun could squeeze out of his nine-to-five. Or nine-to-nine, six days a week. The young man also had a surprising well of wisdom within him… if only he didn’t deliver it in such a vexing way. 

He drummed his fingers on the strange manuscript. Its cover was faded and the title seemed to have been haphazardly painted on with black ink. How utterly bizarre. Kun squinted at the writing to make it out:

One Cat Leads To Another

By ██████ 

An anonymised submission? Kun inhaled in exasperation. This author must be insane to think they’d get published without even offering their name, or a return address, or any way of verifying who on earth they were.

He flipped through the book carefully. He was not optimistic that the pages would conjure up any answers. In fact, questions popped up with every new detail he noticed.

Firstly, this manuscript seemed to have been created with a typewriter, as if this were still the early 20th century. Secondly, none of the characters had names. Or rather, they might have had them in an earlier version of the manuscript, before they ostensibly faded away or became obscured by a mysterious stain. Each and every instance of a person’s name had been redacted by some bizarre artifice. Kun scanned the pages, one after another after another, and could not locate any monikers beyond “Mr. Bookstore” or “The Pied Piper of hearts” or some such roundabout descriptor. The story followed a bookshop owner and a mysterious, enchanting figure. 

The singular proper noun in the entire book was “Leon”, and it was only the name of a bloody cat with a key on its collar. The key seemed terribly important, but Kun did not investigate any further than a quick skim.

Why redact the names of the main characters , for god’s sake? Was this what they called “experimental fiction”?

He herded up the pages that had come loose and begun creeping across his desktop, trying to coalesce with all the other papers lying about. The only experimental literature Kun was interested in right now was literature about experiments. He eyed the next manuscript for an editing pass, and stifled a groan. Pride and Prejudice and…Propulsion? Efficiency Standards of Alternative Methods in Advanced Structural Ceramics

Kun found himself longing for the day society let go of Jane Austen references for good. He massaged his temples.

*

After a feeble attempt at going to the gym after work – which was ultimately just a lead-footed walk on a treadmill for thirty minutes – Kun took the train home. It was past nine-thirty when he got to his building, and the elevator ride up to his floor felt much longer than usual. Eventually, he made it, and he grunted at a neighbour that passed him by on the way to his door — that was about as friendly as he could manage today.

He reached his apartment and stopped dead.

At his feet, placed right in front of his apartment door, was the package from earlier today. The crumminess of the thing was unmistakable.

Resolving to chastise Hendery for this mischief the next morning, Kun lifted the box with an exasperated huff, taking it into his home. 

He let it sit on his coffee table as he shucked off the work day. He had neither the energy nor the appetite for dinner, so he continued on to the rest of his nightly routine: shower, pack for the next day, pour himself a glass of wine and melt into the couch to half-pay attention to a movie.

When he started to think too much about how much nicer this would have been with someone at his side, he poured himself a second glass.

Despite his efforts to ignore that dreadful, decrepit box, Kun found himself glancing towards it throughout the evening. He could see the thin, dull brown leather of the manuscript cover therein, with its anonymised contents and moth-eaten allure. Maybe a glass-and-a-half of wine was the excuse he needed to read himself a fairy tale before bed.

And so he carefully took the book out and set it on his lap. He stretched his legs out, and sipped his wine slowly as he read, only setting the glass down to gather up loose pages that were fleeing from their binding.

Kun did his best to switch his Editor Brain off, but it whirred away quietly like sturdy old machinery while he read. It had been at least ten years since he’d touched fiction publishing (he was still an intern then, in fact), much less anything resembling a fairy tale,  and yet it was something of a nostalgic comfort to read this short, whimsical tale of love and cats and enigmatic beauties. It hit so many of the beats that had remained steadfast in fantasy since the dawn of storytelling: a tricksy witch with an ultimatum; a kind-hearted, altruistic hero; a magical MacGuffin and even a wicked monster to be defeated.

He fell asleep on the couch, a half-finished glass of wine on the side table. His sleep was fitful and full of odd dreams. He drifted in and out of anxious work nightmares interspersed with his subconscious’ interpretation of scenes in the storybook. At some point, he dreamt of being a bookstore owner chasing a cat up an endless hill, only for the cat to stop and say – in a cheerful, uncanny human voice – 'just a quick reminder that any annual leave not taken before end April will be forfeited.'

His dreams took a more pleasant turn eventually, when he found himself pouring wine for a suitor that he couldn’t quite see the face of. He only knew, with that unfounded yet unshakeable certainty that one only feels in dreams, that his suitor was lovely. His dreamself’s hand reached out to touch that imagined lover’s face, and whoever they were started to speak. They said, with a sultry look, “BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP—!”

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!

Eyes still barely opened, Kun threw his arm to the side and felt around for his blaring phone. When he failed to find it by touch alone, he admitted defeat and turned over, annoyed that his alarm had gone off too early.

When he blearily unlocked his phone, however, it was very much 7:45 am; he needed to be at work in fifteen minutes.

‘Fuck!’

He scrambled off of the couch and sped through his morning routine like a madman.

He made sure to say a quiet but forceful fuck between each task: hopping in and out the shower, pulling each sock on, tying and retying his uncooperative tie.

Just as he dashed out the door, he smacked his forehead with his palm. The manuscript! He had to take it back to the office — even with his name on it, it was technically company property. 

At last he scrambled out of the house, One Cat Leads To Another barely holding together in his hands, and sprinted for the train station. 

He checked his watch obsessively on the way. There was absolutely no chance he’d make the next train. He could lose forty more minutes waiting for the next one.

Kun launched into a quick jog (or a sensible run), deciding to skip public transport altogether. If he cut across the town square on foot and keep a quick pace, he could make it to the office in less than fifteen minutes. He had done it before and he would do it again, so help him God!

As he ran, he found his mind clearing up. He made peace with the fact that he’d be late regardless, but was so pumped up on adrenaline that his body did not protest the relentless cardio it was being put through. In fact, while he weaved through pedestrians and cyclists, he thought back to the story he’d been reading before bed. 

Between wine and fatigue, he’d fallen asleep with the fragile book still in his lap. He’d made it through almost the entire thing, but was unconscious before reaching the very end — he was short only one or two pages. The last thing he remembered was Mr. Bookstore getting into a fight with a mean, cat-hating brute and then being confronted by the enigmatic beauty who lived at the persimmon tree house, holding out a cat collar and crying out, “Why won’t you take it?!”

Kun had fallen asleep right at the climax! He was just about to get some answers, maybe even reveal a final twist in the tale, but, alas, he couldn’t even wake up early enough to squeeze the last few pages in. 

He thought about squeezing in a quick read once he got into the office…

He’d just rounded a corner when his foot collided with something soft, but sturdy, which also yowled. Kun barely registered that he was falling, so his reflexes took the reins — he caught himself with his hands on the pavement, one of his knees knocking hard into the ground. Like a fountain of parchment, the pages of the manuscript erupted into the air, flying hither and thither. Kun scrambled up with a groan, desperately grabbing for pages before a wind took off with any of them.

‘What the hell did I—?’ he looked behind him and spotted the reason for his tumble: a tan-coloured cat with yellow eyes, which was now tensed up on top of a garbage can. It watched Kun suspiciously. Realising he’d football kicked a poor cat, Kun apologised profusely to the creature.

It did not react except to swish its tail from side to side. It did not run off either, which Kun took to mean forgiveness. Or, at least, extremely conditional tolerance.

Kun continued picking up the scattered pages, suddenly aware of how embarrassing this all was. He was sweaty, out-of-breath, and hunched over in a back alley scrabbling around for all the stuff he’d dropped — all in his corporate wear. If the cat needed revenge for being kicked, then this had to be it: Kun felt thoroughly demeaned.

He also despaired at the manuscript’s state of disarray. He prayed as he worked, hoping he’d be able to pick up each and every page. By now he’d lost all hope he wouldn’t be scolded for coming into work extremely late. He could feel that Chief Editor position fading from his future.

Once every page he could see had been gathered, he crouched down to put them all together. He carefully checked each page number as went, slotting the sheets back in their proper order. As a professional editor, and an amateur sleight-of-hand practitioner, this was something he could do with a swiftness. Like a well-oiled machine, he put every page in place.

Every page except for one. The last one.

He stood up and scoped the area, desperate to spot the page he’d missed. Had it blown away? The mere thought could drive him crazy — losing a piece of someone’s original manuscript was so irresponsible! He swore quietly to himself as he paced in hopeless circles. 

Then the cat chirped. When Kun looked back, it was holding a piece of paper in its little mouth.

‘Oh, God,’ Kun said, beside himself with relief. ‘Heeeeyyy, ps-ps-ps… can you give me back those pages please? Kitty, kitty? Ps-ps-ps…’

He began the undignified ritual reserved for coaxing a strange cat towards you, holding out his hand and making inane noises. The cat made no motion to come towards him, so he carefully stepped forward in the least threatening posture he could manage.

That’s when it bolted. Kun lunged forward on instinct, only for his arms to meet air. He watched the cat speed down the alley and disappear with the page, hanging on to that ratty paper as if it were a tasty piece of fish.

Kun dragged his hands down his face. Defeated, he picked up his things – including the now-incomplete manuscript – and made for the office building. He was officially out of time.

*

Kun was prepared for the company Director’s eyes to find him the second he walked through the office doors and braced himself for the reproach of a lifetime.

Instead, there was no-one. The receptionist wasn’t even at the front desk. Kun walked through very slowly, confused about the lack of anyone in this part of the office — the fear of a missed company-wide meeting crept through him, but he tried to remain calm and take advantage of the situation. As he snuck towards his private office, he came to hear a commotion further down the floor. When he peeked around the cabinets towards the noise, he saw all his missing colleagues crowded near the windows. They were looking out toward the street, pointing and chattering.

Hendery stood out. He was atop a table, wanting to get a better view over everyone's heads. 

Kun took this distraction to set himself up in his office – as if he’d been there since opening time – and fixed his disheveled state. Once he felt he was in the clear, he joined the crowd to see what the fuss was all about.

The fuss in question was happening at the ground floor, in the middle of a quiet street. Well, it was normally quiet, but this morning there was a van parked there, with the city council logo printed on the side of it. In front of the van, two men were arguing. Though they couldn’t be heard from all the way up here, it was heated. A portly man in a suit was on the receiving end of some wild gesticulations, made by another man, who looked slighter and younger. The confrontation finally ended with the younger man pretend-kicking the van (but refraining from making contact), then storming off into a small building with a large front courtyard. There was a sign in front of it which Kun squinted to read: MRS. PERSIMMON’S FELINE RESCUE.

A few minutes later, the van pulled off and left, putting an end to the show. Everyone shuffled back to their desks, satisfied with the morning amusement. Hendery bounded up next to Kun at once and walked him back to his office.

‘Someone wasn’t quite on time today,’ Hendery whispered.

Kun looked around uneasily. ‘Did anyone notice?’

‘Nah, the execs aren’t in yet either. You’re good. Besides, aren’t you too senior to be worrying about this? No-one’s gonna bother you, of all people.’

‘I need to be a role model, Hendery.’

‘And you are. In fact, you’re my hero.’

‘Firstly, what did I say about flattery? Secondly, your “hero” is an hour late for work and lost a page of that stupid manuscript — which you should not have sent to my house, by the way!’

Hendery’s eyes went round as saucers.

‘I didn’t send anything to your house, Kun-ge.’

Hendery could be impish, but he never lied. Kun scanned his face, and found it mirrored his own confusion.

'Are you sure?' Kun asked.

‘One hundred percent!' Hendery said. 'You’re saying it ended up at your place?’

‘It did…’ Kun said. ‘Could someone else have taken it out of my office?’

‘I would’ve seen that. No-one went in there after you left.’

‘Well,’ said Kun flatly. ‘That is bizarre.’

‘I’ll launch an inquest,’ Hendery proclaimed. ‘I shall leave no stone un-turned—’

Kun waved his hand to halt the dramatics before they gained momentum. ‘Launch it after you’ve reviewed those author contracts. They’re due this week.’

Hendery saluted and left, leaving Kun alone once more. He clicked around his Outlook for a few minutes, totally unfocused, mind still on that lost manuscript page. Or rather, not lost — stolen! By a cat! Kun sighed, chin in hand, wondering how on earth he would track down a stray cat in a city this size.

Then he remembered: it was not a stray at all. It had a collar and a tag. He lifted his head out of his hand, another realisation lighting up in his mind — the feline rescue downstairs! He could head there after work and ask around; the shelter could put out a notice for him, or better yet, they might know the owner of the cat.

Wishful thinking, perhaps, but Kun was satisfied that he had a lead. Now that he had a game plan, he put the situation out of his mind and set to his work tasks with a spring in his step.

*

He could hardly wait until five o’clock. He practically bounced out of the office when he clocked out, shifting restlessly on his feet on the long elevator ride down. It was a short walk to Mrs Persimmon’s Feline Rescue, and he wondered how he’d never noticed such a whimsical-sounding cat shelter before. He seldom took walks on this side of his office building, but he was he really so dense?

He begrudgingly admitted to himself that maybe he was, indeed, so dense. Such were the consequences of being married to work.

When he reached the front gates of the shelter he took time to read the notice posted outside of them. It was handwritten with a fat black marker:

URGENT: VOLUNTEERS NEEDED

the rescue is in urgent need of weekday/weekend volunteers

duties: feeding cats, cleaning cages, playtime, transport

ALSO NEEDED!!!! exterior painting, gate repair, whatever else needs fixing

cat lovers only please 

!! if i don’t like how you hold the cats i will show you the door !!

Contact: TEN (Li Yongqin)

The notice concluded with a doodle of a cat holding a knife.

It was certainly an interesting array of requests and threats. Kun couldn’t help but grin — he particularly liked the cute drawing.

The gate was slightly ajar. In fact, with a quick look, Kun saw that it couldn’t latch closed at all. It was wrought iron and very grand, but had been weathered by time and… well, weather. There was rust infecting every part of it, and the latch itself had been warped by some violent force. He was no detective, but Kun guessed someone had tried to force the gate open at some point, damaging it.

Beyond the gate was a short gravel path up to the front door. Even from here, Kun could hear the orchestra of cat meows within. The decor of the shelter’s exterior was rather… eccentric.

The building’s walls were painted with colourful designs; cartoonish cats, flowers, lizards, landscapes from some other world — but the walls were heavily faded from sun damage, and even peeling in places. A hand-carved wind chime swayed in the gentle breeze, knocking its pieces together to make a quiet, pleasant, woody tune. The grass towards the walls of this area looked overgrown, and the lawn was patchy in places.

Mrs. Persimmon’s Feline Rescue was in need of its own rescue, if Kun was being honest.

The reception was a small room with a counter dead ahead, and behind it was a man with glossy black hair bent over a notebook. He did not seem to notice Kun coming in.

Kun cleared his throat politely before saying, ‘Are you Li Yongqin?’

‘That’s me,’ the man replied. ‘Call me Ten, though.’

He flipped his long hair out of his face as he looked up to answer, and Kun immediately knew he was never, ever going to forget a face like that. A lot of adjectives lit up in his mind in quick succession, like a firework display, but he eventually settled on “lovely.” A workhorse of a word, perhaps unoriginal, but one he did not often get to see in his clinical line of work. Lovely. 

‘Ten, nice to meet you,’ Kun greeted, offering a smile. ‘I have a strange request—’

‘You want to volunteer?’

Kun was taken aback by the interruption. ‘Er, I’m afraid not. I’m here about something else.’

The man named Ten looked visibly disappointed – even unimpressed – by his response.

Kun shook it off and continued. ‘See, I ran into a lost cat – well, I don’t know if it was lost, but it was running around in the street – so I was wondering if I could ask you about it. Maybe someone posted a notice, or…’

‘No notices recently,’ said Ten.

Kun deflated. ‘Oh. Well, maybe if you do see it around, you could give me a call…’ He reached into the inner pocket of his blazer and produced his business card, courteously holding it out for Ten to take. 

Ten took it and gave it look-over. He looked up at Kun, then back down, then back up, as if deciding whether Kun’s name and occupation suited him or not. Then he set the card aside.

‘What does the cat look like?’ he asked.

Kun described it as best as he could: short hair, light brown that was dark in places, and yellow-green eyes in an almond shape. He also mentioned it wore a rope collar with a tag of some kind.

‘Round tag, heart-shaped, fish-shaped…?’ asked Ten.

‘No clue,’ answered Kun apologetically. ‘Before I could really look, it ran off. It was carrying something of mine, too.’

Ten gave him another long, hard-to-read look. It was fitting that this Li Yongqin, or “Ten”, should be working in a cat shelter — the disinterest in his expression and the slow, lazy way he spoke was unmistakably feline. 

‘I’ll be in touch if I see it,’ he finally said. ‘Can I help with anything else?’

Disappointed, Kun shook his head and thanked him for his time (he tried to suppress the sour thought that there was nothing else to thank him for). He was tempted to revoke the descriptor of “lovely” that he’d decided on earlier, but thought was a bit too cruel. Shelter workers were a very pressed lot — they didn’t owe him any customer service warmth. 

Still… he would have liked to have made some progress today. He made his way down the gravel path towards the rusty gate, his laptop bag feeling heavier than before. 

He had just pulled the gate open when he spotted movement in his periphery. He looked up and to his left — and there, perched atop the high wooden fence around the lot, was the page-thieving cat from that morning. It held eye contact with Kun in an eerily knowing way. 

‘You little fatty,’ said Kun in a low voice. ‘Come to taunt me? Where's the page you snatched?’

The cat was unblinking. Arrogant. Untouchable at the top of his mountain. 

So Kun had to grovel again. He crouched down, wiggling his fingers and making air kisses. He slunk forward, head bowed low in deference, hoping that the cat would take pity on this peon and finally come to him. 

The prostrations were in vain. The cat’s ear twitched and it jumped down off the fence, on the other side, and was gone from Kun’s view again. His heart sank. He was hoping he could follow it, maybe see if took the manuscript page somewhere… perhaps to its home, or…

‘You good?’

Kun jumped in alarm. Ten was leaning against the door frame of the main building, arms crossed and watching Kun with unabashed judgement. He must have seen Kun skulking across the yard. 

‘Uh, yes, I’m good,’ answered Kun. ‘I just thought I saw that cat…’

‘You can’t catch them just by standing there looking pretty,’ said Ten. ‘It takes time. Or a net.’

Kun frowned. He was not about to use a net to trap the poor thing. He wasn’t that desperate. 

Time, however… 

Kun huffed, weighing his options. He didn’t exactly have time to spare either. It was crunch time at work; extra hours were expected of him, and chasing a cat around was absolutely not a viable use of his energy. His only hope was if the cat came to him, like it almost did just now. For all he knew, it was a frequent visitor of the shelter.

A thought struck him. He glanced at the gate, in a state of disrepair, and then looked back to Ten.

‘Your gate’s quite rusted,’ he said.

‘No kidding,’ replied Ten in a bored tone. ‘I’ll paint it at some point.’

Kun made a pained face. ‘Paint over the rust?’

Ten shrugged. Kun felt his pragmatism fighting his conscience. This cat shelter’s DIY projects were beyond Kun’s capacity at the moment and he absolutely could not volunteer here, no matter how sorely the help was needed, no matter how deep and dark the eyes of the shelter worker were—

—but what if that cat showed up again?

‘Tell you what, I’ll sort out your gate,’ Kun said against his better judgement. ‘It’s a good gate, and it’s only a little bit of rust. Could get a new latch, too, easy. And maybe a weld near the hinges there. Then a new coat of paint after that… it’s not a big job.’

Lie after lie after lie. This was a three day job at least. Kun was so earnestly unwise.

Ten cocked his head at him. ‘For real?’

‘You need volunteers, don’t you?’

Ten sized Kun up with just a look. It was possible that he didn’t think Kun looked like the physical labour type, with his work slacks and tie and glasses — and that wouldn’t be an unfair assessment. But Kun knew how to fix things. 

‘If you’re serious, you can come back tomorrow,’ Ten said. ‘And if I’m happy with your work, we can talk about giving you that paper back.’

Kun thought he’d misheard. ‘Paper?’

‘That’s what you’re really here for, isn’t it?’ Ten replied coolly. ‘Well, you can have it back after you fix the gate.’

Kun was aghast. He marched right up to the shelter worker. ‘You have it?! And you’re withholding it until I do volunteer work for you?!’

‘Yes. And yes.’

‘That’s extortion!’ Kun cried.

‘It’s good business,’ Ten shot back.

‘This is a non-profit!’

‘And it’s gonna get bulldozed if I don’t fix it up!’

This silenced Kun. The look in Ten’s eyes, the way his lethargic posture straightened up — the conversation had hit a nerve. 

Ten turned on his heel and went back to the shelter reception. He turned back to Kun one last time. ‘We open at seven in the morning on Saturdays. Come or don’t come. Whatever.’ With that, he shut the door behind him. 

Pieces fit together in Kun’s mind at last. The altercation from earlier – the one all his colleagues had watched from the windows above – was one between Ten and the city council. The continued existence of the shelter was being threatened by some potential development in the area, and so Kun could only imagine how touchy the shelter worker would be about it.

He suddenly didn’t feel too good about his selfish motives for volunteering. He made haste to leave, speed walking to the train station. Well, help was help, wasn’t it? What did the intent matter?

He stood on the train, swaying this way and that, deep in spiraling thought. He was dismayed by the day’s events. He found himself pining for the finale of the story — the saying about curiosity being a lethal force certainly felt true now. How did the story end? What became of the the enchanting figure and Mr. Bookstore? Of Leon, the cat with the coveted key around its neck?

He remembered what Hendery had said about a “saucy” kiss scene. Kun felt a renewed annoyance that he hadn’t had a chance to read that scene for himself. Romance novels were not his preference, of course, but was he so wrong for being… intrigued…?

He had been single for a long time now. A bit of titillating escapism wouldn’t have hurt.

He crossed his arms over his chest, a new wave of irritation coming over him. He was going to try again tomorrow – that page-thieving cat had to turn up eventually.

Yes. It would turn up at the shelter in danger of being shut down for lack of public support. Kun despaired. He was never getting that page back no matter what.

You care too much , Hendery had said. The poor man didn’t know how wrong he was.

With his head against the train window, watching nothing and everything go by at speed, Kun concluded that, instead, he did not care enough.

*

Kun arrived promptly at the shelter at 8am on Saturday, his own toolbox in tow. He was left waiting for twenty minutes before Ten sauntered up to the gate, swinging a set of keys around his finger. 

‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ he remarked as he went to unlock the padlocked chain. He sounded half-asleep, still.

‘Of course I am!’ Kun said, offended. ‘I can’t believe you’re late!’

Ten pushed the gate open lazily with his foot, then gestured for Kun to step through. ‘The cats aren’t keeping track, I promise.’

‘Well, what about your boss?’ Kun asked.

At that, Ten laughed. ‘I don’t think she’s watching the clock either.’

Kun nagged him all the way down the path, insisting that Ten tell him what was so funny. When they got inside the reception area, Ten just pointed to a framed photo on the wall. It was of an old woman, smiling beatifically into the camera — but there was a mischievous glint in her green eyes that was captured even in this grainy portrait. She had wild grey hair and wore some quirky clothes, including dangling earrings that seemed to be made of repurposed pet name tags. 

Underneath was a modest plaque: 

In Loving Memory — Our One And Only Mrs. Persimmon

(1923 – 2022)

A friend and guardian to all cats.

May this have been just one life out of nine.

‘Oh,’ said Kun quietly. Then he turned to pout indignantly at Ten. ‘You could have just said she’d died instead of laughing at me.’

‘I could have,’ admitted Ten. ‘But you have a stick up your butt.’

‘Should I just go home?!’

Ten disappeared into a door, from which a loud chorus of meows escaped as soon as it was opened. He called out, ‘Our toolbox is in that cabinet.’

Kun tutted. If he had any self-respect, he would walk away from this shelter and never come back.

But he did not, so he just went straight for the cabinet in this room and found the toolbox in question. It was lacking, to say the least. Kun had to fish around in what was essentially a pile of junk, and came away with tools that clearly hadn’t been used or updated in years. Maybe decades. 

He sighed and stood up. He walked to the door Ten had gone into and stuck his head in, unsure if he was allowed any further.

The room was lined with cat cages, all of them occupied. Some of the cats lay listlessly on their bedding, nonplussed by Kun’s appearance. Others were singing their little songs at varying volumes and pitches. Some yowled, some had breathy honks, others squeaked. Kun momentarily forgot what he’d come here for as he grinned at the kitties closest to him. There was an orange cat with a round, expressive face that was so adorable that Kun had to clench his fists to stop himself from squealing. 

Ten popped his head into the room as well, from another door on the opposite end. ‘What’s up?’

Kun remembered himself. ‘Rust dissolver?’

‘Huh?’

‘Do you have rust dissolver…?’

‘I really wouldn’t know. Check the shed.’

Kun opened his mouth to scold Ten’s lack of inventory-keeping skill. Just then, the ceiling light began to flicker. Without a word, Ten produced a broom from somewhere and smacked the light with a practiced jab, at which the flickering stopped.

'If it starts doing that, just smack it,' Ten advised. 

'Shouldn't you just… fix it?' Kun asked.

Ten shrugged, then left. He liked to do that, just shrug at Kun, and he bristled every time. It prompted a self-righteous impulse to defend himself, justify himself, and worm his way into Ten’s good books — assuming the man had any. 

Putting a pin in the flickering light for now, Kun tracked down a grimy-looking can of rust dissolver in the shed – a shabby wooden thing nearly engulfed by overgrown grass – and prayed it was enough. With that, he went straight to work on the gate. 

The sun was unforgiving. The fact that Kun was doing manual labour in direct sunlight didn’t help one bit. There was much more rust on the large shelter gate than he initially thought, so by the time he finished scraping off paint, painstakingly applying rust dissolver to every nook and cranny, and cleaning up the paint chips, he was sunburnt and starving.

He groaned as he got up from a crouch, knees creaking. Ten had promised him “unlimited” bottles of water, and didn’t seem interested in offering them to Kun himself. In fact, he hadn’t come out to check on Kun even once the entire morning, which made him feel rather… neglected. He would have liked a bit of a chat, at least. Or some help. Actually, help would have been ideal.

The promised bottle of water was on the reception desk, and Kun gulped the entire thing down without break. He could really feel just how sweaty he was in the weak air conditioning of the indoors — every bit of skin felt the cooling effect, and his T-shirt stuck to him everywhere. He felt gross yet satisfied.

Sweat meant hard work, and hard work meant progress.

Since the rust dissolver had to sit on the gate for a full day, he had nothing left to do here, and thought about leaving. That is, until he remembered the flickering light in the room of cat cages. 

He went over to inspect said room. The cages were mostly empty now, aside from a few. Ten was nowhere to be seen anymore, so he assumed the cats were somewhere being fed or played with or… whatever they do at shelters at this time.

Kun hunted around for a step ladder for a few minutes, finding it lying sideways in a patch of tall grass in the front yard. A lecture already began forming in his mind about safe, practical storage on a property like this, which was interrupted when Ten finally walked in on Kun shakily climbing the ladder in the middle of the room.

‘Dude, what are you doing?’

Kun reached up to unscrew the light cover. 'One last little thing before I go. Could you hold this ladder for me, please? Just a few seconds…'

Kun felt the ladder stabilise under his feet as Ten grabbed hold on either side. He started on checking the bulb. It felt looser in its fitting than it should be, so he carefully tightened it.

After a short silence, Ten said, 'Your card said you were an editor, but you're offering your handyman skills left and right.'

'Engineering degrees,' Kun answered simply.

'Degrees? Multiple?'

'Yep.'

Ten whistled.

'This here doesn’t take a degree to fix, though, I hope. Ah, okay, get the light for me? Let's see if it's better.'

Ten did not respond. Kun looked down and behind him to see what the delay was, and found Ten’s gaze rather fixed on something. 

‘Is there something… on my butt?’ Kun asked self-consciously.

‘Uh, no,’ replied Ten quickly, turning around. ‘The light, right? I should switch it on?’

‘Please.’

With a flick of the switch at the wall, the light bulb came back on — and it flickered no more. It had a steady, bright shine. Kun’s self-satisfied smile shone to match it.

He hopped off the stepladder and beamed that smile right at Ten. ‘I’m a handyman!’

‘Congratulations,’ said Ten. ‘Really sweaty, too.’

Kun went on the defensive. ‘It’s a hot day and I am labouring! ’ He stopped, suddenly concerned, and gave his shirt a sniff. ‘I don’t smell, do I?’

‘You’re fine.’

‘I need a solid “no”, please, for my pride.”

He thought he heard Ten snort as he disappeared into the next room. The high of being helpful could not be dampened by the shelter owner’s poor manners. It was also very difficult to stay mad in a room full of meowing cats, which were all so cute and so silly and so aloof. He cooed and muttered inane things to them for a while before he decided it was time to leave.

As he packed his things, Kun found himself excited to come back.

*

The next morning, Ten met him at the shelter gate on time. Kun’s appreciative smile was not lost on Ten, who immediately teased him for it.

‘Punctuality giving you butterflies?’

‘What if I said yes?’ Kun countered. ‘I’m in publishing, you know. I live by deadlines. I like when they’re met.’

‘This is a cat shelter, not a corporate,’ said Ten. ‘Totally different world. Unless your office has wind chimes and charm bags, too?’

Kun blinked. ‘Charm bags?’

Ten pointed these oddities out to him as they walked through the grounds; hung up in seemingly random spots were little fabric bags filled with God knows what, and tied together with twine. They hung from trees, were nailed against exterior or interior walls, or sat nestled among the various tchotchkes that decorated the shelter’s interior.

‘I’m sorry if this is an insensitive question,’ Kun began. ‘But are you a… like, a pagan, or—’

Ten turned sharply, eyes boring into Kun. ‘Am I witch, you mean?’

There was a tense silence. Kun felt that gaze pierce him, looking through and beyond, like that of a supernatural being. His innate skepticism faltered under those dark, enigmatic eyes, the way the light seemed to dance inside them, like the eyes from Kun's recent dream—

Ten burst out laughing.

Kun went from hexed to vexed in an instant. ‘You—! No, stop it! I don’t believe in witches, I just thought… you had this vibe—’

‘You looked scared, like, for real—!’

‘I didn’t!’

A breeze picked up outside and the wind chimes rang out in harmony with Ten's laugh. The smile was wide and uncontrolled, and now Ten's plain humanity was not under suspicion.

Ten composed himself and began to explain. ‘These decor choices aren’t mine. I just haven’t really changed anything since Mrs Persimmon died. It didn’t feel right to.’ He regarded the portrait of the previous owner, pensive. ‘She was one of a kind, is all I know. Loved cats more than anything in the world. Believed in things I don’t really get, liked to do “rituals” or give people blessings… she could’ve been a witch, I guess. But she was harmless. I have a bunch of her charm bags at home that I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with, but she always insisted on giving them to me, saying they “could be magical if I let them”. Anyway—’ he shook himself out of his reverie and looked back to Kun. ‘Her last big gift was this shelter. I went from a volunteer to a receptionist to the owner — and that’s how I know she was crazy.’

Kun sensed an uncertainty in Ten's words; an anxiety that bubbled despite an effort to keep a lid on it. He gave Ten an encouraging pat on the arm, which Ten seemed surprised to receive.

‘You’re doing well,’ Kun told him. ‘Without nearly enough help, no less. I’m sure Mrs Persimmon knew what she was doing handing this place over to you.’

'That's generous,' said Ten dryly. 'This shelter might not last another month.'

'What? Why?'

‘Ask that stupid inspector from the stupid city council. He comes by with his clipboard and makes a bunch of big red X’s, like I’m failing a test, and then says “they wanna rezone this plot, yada-yada-yada”. He can eat shit. I’ve got plenty in the litter boxes for him, if he wants.’

Kun puffed up, now sharing in Ten’s indignation. ‘They can’t shut you down just because of– what, rezoning? This is a shelter!’

‘They can do whatever they want,’ replied Ten bitterly. ‘They’re just looking for the final straw now. Last time it was that “security risk” of a gate, or the “dilapidated facilities”. My ass. The facilities are just fine .’

Ten opened up the cat cage room, and a chorus of meows drowned out his grumbling. Kun was curious what was through the next door, which Ten often disappeared to, sometimes with these cats in tow. Just as Kun was about to ask, Ten turned to ask him, ‘Do you want to help feed them today?’

Pleasantly surprised by the offer, Kun accepted. His scheduled hard labour could wait until he’d spent some time with the shelter cats, and the inscrutable owner of said shelter.

And he tried to be professional, he did. But the very second Ten put a kitten in his hands and said “just hold him for a sec”, Kun abandoned any version of himself that could be called stoic or masculine. The little creature – white and fluffy and a little bit hideous in the way very young kittens often are – squeaked as soon it was cupped by Kun’s hands. He was glad that Ten had turned away to fill a syringe with liquid food, because Kun was in the throes of making kissy faces. Every time the kitten went myeh in its teeny-weeny voice, Kun held back his own echoing myeh.

I want a cat so bad, he thought, and the thought was basically a screech in his head. I need a cat so bad. Look at her! Baby, baby, baby, baby.

‘Yes, I know, she’s baby,’ Ten said, returning to Kun’s side on the floor.

‘I was… saying that aloud, I see.’

‘Yes. Hold her up—’

Kun’s embarrassment was short-lived; Ten did not seem to care that Kun was baby-talking the kitten. 

After all the very young kittens were fed, Ten explained how to go about feeding all the other cats. Kun was precise and patient with measuring kibble portions, and didn’t take any hissing personally — but Ten had to scold him for losing focus from time to time, as some of the free-roaming cats came to rub up against Kun’s leg begging for attention. Kun gave it to them without question, even if that meant taking forever to do the feeding run.

‘That about covers it,’ Ten announced, locking up the food storage cupboard. ‘It took longer than I thought, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ Kun insisted. ‘Thank you for letting me help!’ He clenched his fists, remembering the sweet round faces and gorgeous little mews of all the cats. ‘How do you not go crazy from how cute they all are?’

‘No, I definitely do,’ Ten replied. He smiled at Kun, meeting his eyes.

Kun’s tummy did something strange at the sight of such a genuine expression. Ten really had perfect teeth, and a charming mouth shape. He came to notice it more and more; simply because Ten was smiling more and more. It was a stark change from the cold reception Kun had received when he first visited.

If Kun hadn’t chased a cat to this place in pursuit of missing pages, he might never have gotten this opportunity. He wondered if he should thank the little feline mischief-maker.

This also caused him to remember that Ten was technically extorting this volunteer work out of Kun, which meant that not even Kun’s help could be considered genuine altruism. The two of them were simply using each other as a means to an end, and suddenly the joy of the present moment was sucked out of Kun.

Out of guilt, Kun remembered his real duties here. ‘I’ll go finish up your gate. I have everything I need, so…’

‘Thanks,’ said Ten, without a single trace of irony in his voice. It was soft. Kun’s tummy did another funny thing.

He hauled the paint and tools out of the shed and got to work.

*

Sticky with sweat, Kun latched and unlatched the gate. Then latched and unlatched it again. He swung it open and closed, testing the new hinges. Everything moved smoothly without so much as a squeak of protest — the gate was finally quieter than the kittens on the property.

It was glossy with fresh black paint, looking brand new and extremely respectable. Two days of work shone like a beacon at the shelter’s street entrance, and Kun himself was aglow with satisfaction. He hadn’t done anything this backbreaking in years, and he was certain his muscles would ache for the next while — but, by God, was it worth it.

He pushed the gate side to side some more, enjoying the silence of its smooth joints. ‘Quiet as a mouse,’ he said in a low, sing-song voice. ‘Not a squeak from you.’

‘Squeak.’

Kun jumped in fright. Ten had appeared right behind him, amusement shining in his eyes at Kun’s expense. 

Kun cleared his throat. ‘The gate is… quiet as a mouse. And so are you, I’ve just learned.’

Ten laughed, then appraised the newly-fixed gate. His expression did not reveal much, but he ended his appraisal by nodding. ‘Looks really good.’

‘And now it can lock,’ Kun explained. He demonstrated the functional new latch. ‘That should solve any security concerns that the inspector had.’

‘When you do things, you really do them properly, huh?’

‘What would be the point otherwise?’

‘I hope you remember that I’m not paying you for this.’

Kun smiled. ‘You have something of mine, remember?’

Ten hummed mysteriously. Then he took a look around the front yard, with a particular focus on the surrounding fence. Kun could predict what he would say before he said it. 

‘These fences could use a fresh coat…’ said Ten, trailing off with a pointed sidelong look at Kun. 

Kun sighed and nodded. ‘Yes, fine, I’ll help you paint the fences. That should be enough volunteering, right? Then I get my page back?’

‘Should be,’ Ten assented. ‘But you can get an early reward. Do you drink?’

Confused, Kun nodded. 

‘Cool. Come with me to the back.’ 

Without offering further explanation, Ten lead him through the shelter to a room at its rear, tucked away near the storage cupboard for food and cat litter. He had to fight the handle of the old door to get it open, but when he did, Kun’s eyes went wide at the sight within: wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor shelves of wine bottles, resting here in complete darkness.

Ten took a bottle off a shelf, produced two cheap plastic wine cups, then began to pour a glass for each of them. The bottles weren’t labelled, and the liquid inside was cloudy; Ten also ignored all of Kun’s questions.

‘Just taste it first,’ Ten insisted. He watched Kun intently as the latter took a hesitant sip. Then, he grinned in dark delight as Kun’s face pinched in disgust.

It was alcohol, alright. Strong . Immediately bitter, followed by an overly sweet aftertaste that actually made matters worse. Just the fumes from the cup alone made Kun dizzy. 

‘What the f– wow!’ Kun coughed. ‘Is this gasoline?’

‘It’s persimmon wine,’ Ten replied. Despite, presumably, knowing what to expect, he took a sip of his own. His face pinched, too. ‘The previous owner made all of it. There used to be a tree, but it stopped producing fruit after she died. Still—’ he gestured to the dozens of bottles around them — ‘she made enough moonshine to last lifetimes before then. Drink up.’

‘Ugh…’

They clicked their plastic cups together and downed the rest of their cups, mirroring each other's grimace as the bitterness went down. 

'So,' Kun started, distantly aware of how slurred just that one syllable was already. 'Just to be super clear — you're not a witch?'

'I swear I’m not a witch,' answered Ten, moving his hand over his heart in a scout's promise. 'But sometimes I can be—'

In unison, they said '—a bitch.'

Kun laughed hard at his own sass and failed to dodge Ten's resultant attacks. Even as Ten smacked him in pretend outrage, Kun could hear him laughing along. They devolved into a petty, tipsy, low power smack-fight.

'You fight like a cat!' Kun wheezed out between giggles. 

‘I can call myself a bitch,’ Ten scolded him. ‘You can’t! Here — punishment. Take another sip.’

Kun tried to escape the room, but Ten’s grip was surprisingly strong. He grabbed Kun by both arms and steered him back to the shelf that acted as their table. Under playful duress, Kun took a second glass of persimmon wine, and drank it all in one go at Ten’s behest.

Still grimacing, Kun shot his hand out between them. ‘Rock, paper, scissors. Loser has another.’

Ten took the challenge at once, and lost. He cried out in defeat, then tried to flee, just as Kun had just before. It was Kun’s turn to drag him back, giggling, until Ten took his punishment.

Ten gasped and slammed the cup down. With a sense of humour lubricated by alcohol, Kun could not stop laughing. 

Ten said, 'You have a dorky laugh.'

'Mean!'

'It's not an insult. Dorky in a cute way.’

Their giggles petered out at the same time, both suddenly sobered by Ten’s sentiment. Kun was sincerely touched. 

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For the compliment and…’ he gestured to the cups. 

‘Sure,’ replied Ten softly. 

Plastic clinked against plastic as Ten awkwardly packed up the cups, and Kun made idle chit-chat while he corked the wine bottle. Both were clumsy and embarrassed, though Kun couldn’t quite pinpoint a reason for the latter. It simply felt odd that they had gone from acquaintances to drinking buddies in the dusty backroom of a cat shelter, and that the transition felt organic. As organic as the revolting home-made wine they had shared, one could say. Maybe, if Kun played his cards right, he could worm his way into a sober Ten’s heart as well.

He flushed at his own thinking. He hadn’t come here to worm his way into anything, much less – well, much less a beautiful man’s affections—

He veered away from these thoughts. To distract them, he asked, ‘Are you a wine drinker, otherwise?’

Ten made a face. ‘Never tasted a wine I liked.’

‘What if you tried grapes instead of persimmons?’

The corner of Ten’s mouth quirked up for just a second, but he buried the amusement quickly. ‘Grape wine is just as bitter.’

‘It grows on you! Trust me.’

‘Not sure I can trust you on that, ’ replied Ten skeptically.

Kun latched onto the intonation there. ‘But you trust me for other things?’

‘At least three things,’ said Ten, starting to count off on his fingers. ‘Fixing lights, repairing gates, and holding kittens. I want to add a fourth, but…’

He trailed off in an inviting tone, and Kun picked up where he left off. ‘Yes, yes, I get it. Painting fences. I already agreed, didn’t I?’

‘A work week is enough time to change your mind—’

Kun shot out his hand for a handshake. Ten was wary in taking it, like a cat sniffing food it wasn’t familiar with.

‘I’ll be here next weekend,’ Kun promised. ‘Shake my hand and hold me to it.’

Ten did so, all while giving Kun a long, narrow-eyed look. Kun did his best to read those eyes — Ten had trust issues, and they came in first, second and third editions. Kun pondered on just how many flaky people, broken promises, and disappointing phone calls a cat rescue employee had to deal with, and felt his heart sink at the thought.

Ten had inherited more than just a lot full of cats needing care — Mrs Persimmon had bequeathed to him an endless string of hellos and goodbyes; of cats he could not love too much or for too long; of mental loads that could not be left behind at the gates of the shelter. Kun had felt both vivid adoration and a dull, aching grief each time he looked into the eyes of a rescued cat, knowing that they were once lost, abandoned or hurt — and Ten, the custodian of this place, must have felt these things acutely every single day. For years now, and for years more.

If the shelter survived.

*

Kun came back the next Saturday, bright and early at 6.30am. Ten had agreed to trade off sleeping in for painting in cooler morning temperatures, but his miserable, sleep-deprived expression betrayed much regret. Only one grande Americano later was Ten ready to make conversation as they painted.

‘How are you so fast?’ he grumbled, peeking at the long line of fence posts Kun had already painted. Ten had only managed five, struggling to keep pace between his lethargy and fastidiousness.

‘How are you so slow? ’ Kun asked teasingly. ‘It’s not an art project, Ten. You don’t need to be so careful.’

‘I want it to look neat…’

‘Just be neat and fast. The sun is gearing up to cook us.’

Ten groaned. ‘Okay, boss.’

Kun scoffed. ‘I’m not your boss!’

‘True,’ Ten agreed. He paused, thinking. ‘I’m your boss while you’re volunteering, actually.’

‘Can’t we just be peers?’

‘Nope,’ said Ten firmly. ‘This is a strict hierarchy. The cats are my bosses, I’m your boss, and you’re boss of… whatever… at your whatever-company.’

‘I’m just a senior editor,’ said Kun. ‘I don’t order people around.’ He paused before quietly saying, ‘Yet.’

‘Oh?’

‘Ah, you know. Might get a promotion if I don’t fuck things up. Pardon my language.’

Ten laughed. ‘You’re pardoned. You don’t sound very excited about that potential promotion, though.’

Kun sighed, stopping his painting for a moment. ‘I just… it won’t be an easy position. I already feel like I have no life as it is.’

Ten hummed. ‘I get you.’

‘The higher ups watch you like a hawk, for better or worse! One bad day and it’s like a blight on your record. One bad month and you’re treated like a—’

Kun stopped himself. Ten’s calm presence and open ear was a terrible temptation to him, and caused him to ramble, almost airing out all his shameful work-life drama without thinking. Ten just continued gliding his paintbrush up and down the fence post, a clean white coat of white paint covering up the filth of the old coat. When Kun was quiet for just a bit too long, Ten spoke.

‘Did something happen?’ he asked. He added coolly, ‘If you want to tell me.’

Kun, having lost momentum, dabbed at a spot on the wood over and over. Perhaps he did want to tell him. Ten was the type to tease, to scold, but could also be the one to understand the struggle of overwork. At least, that’s what Kun hoped when he began answering.

‘I had a nervous–’ he paused, clearing his throat and correcting course. ‘I had a “workload crisis”, to hear HR say it. Around eighteen months ago, now, I think.’

Ten was quiet for a long time, so when Kun looked up at him, he found Ten staring quite intently at him. It was a bit unnerving. 

‘How are you now, though?’ asked Ten eventually. 

‘Repeating some old patterns,’ Kun admitted, then gave Ten a reassuring smile. ‘But finding better ones, too.’

‘You’re not gonna have a nervous breakdown while painting my fence, are you?’

Kun laughed in surprise. ‘You really have no tact, huh?’

‘You can handle it.’

Kun shook his head, unable to keep from smiling. This Ten really got on his nerves — and yet, to Kun, this sentiment wasn’t a complaint. Kun kept coming back to shelter, didn't he? Ten's attitude was doing the opposite of keeping him away.

Then, a thought occurred to Kun. ‘Hey, you have flyers, right? To promote the shelter?’

Ten furrowed his brows. ‘Not at the moment. Why, though?’

‘Make some!’ Kun suggested eagerly. ‘Let’s get you some more volunteers. Maybe some young, vigorous ones — not old men like me.’ 

‘You’re not old,’ replied Ten.

‘Oh, thank God,’ Kun said. ‘Someone agrees!’ 

‘Ah, on second thought—’

‘Don’t take it back!’

‘Old—’

‘Don’t!’

Ten continued to tease him, dancing around Kun and singing made-up songs about his “advanced” age. While it made no sense (Ten was his same age, as he discovered through some light online stalking), Ten relished in getting a rise out of Kun however he could.

But it gave Ten energy. It made him smile. It drew out a playful, impish side of him that Kun liked to see — that he wanted to see more of.

They finished the rest of the fence in high spirits, with Kun good-naturedly accepting Ten’s burst of mischief. After packing up, Kun convinced him to throw together a flyer for the shelter, complete with a call for volunteers and donations, which Ten did with a level of skepticism. Who looks at this stuff anymore? He would grumble while picking a font. People just throw these things away without looking at them , he would insist while Kun corrected his typos.

It’s worth a try, Kun would respond brightly. I’ll make sure people see them.

And Ten would go quiet – pensive, receptive – and thank Kun for all his help. Not with his words, though — with eyes that spoke a thousand of them nevertheless.

*

Hendery’s head popped into Kun’s office like a cuckoo clock bird.

‘Kun-ge, what is this email you just sent me?’

Kun didn’t look up from his typing as he answered. ‘It’s a flyer. Print about a hundred, leave them around the office. If there are spare, take some home and give them to your friends.’

Hendery blinked. ‘This isn’t for work, is it?’

‘Nope. For charity.’

‘“Mrs Persimmon’s…”’

‘Yes, the name is silly, I know.’ Kun smiled. He couldn’t help it — he loved that silly name. ‘The cat shelter needs help so I’m spreading the word.’

Hendery grinned back at him. ‘Remember when I said you cared too much?’

'Maybe I care just the right amount.'

‘Mhmm. And the Austen jar is empty because…?’

‘Because your kind donation was much appreciated by the shelter owner. Feel free to keep quoting Austen, if you like. It’s going to the cats now.’

Hendery grinned — it was very wide, and knowing, and targeted. Kun started to feel warm, like he was an ant under a magnifying glass under the sun.

‘What?’ he asked defensively.

‘You must really like those cats, ’ said Hendery.

‘I do very much like the cats,’ Kun replied.

‘The cats which you visit every day after work.’

‘Not… not every day, but—’

‘Because the cats are cute—’

Kun tapped the Austen jar. ‘This is now the General Grievances jar, and you are generally aggrieving me. Pay up.’

Hendery slunk away at once without paying, his knowing smile disappearing behind the door frame.

*

Kun came into the shelter one Saturday, an Americano in each hand — one for himself, and a bigger cup for Ten. There were no more chores left for Kun to do, but coming over to feed the cats and clean the cages had become a routine for him now. He had found himself bouncing his leg under his work desk as 5pm approached each afternoon, excited to cross the street to the shelter for a visit.

Ten never told him to stop coming, though Kun suspected it might have been because Kun always brought coffee or snacks or a donation of cat food each time. The shelter was looking better after all their hard work, and Ten look visibly less beaten-down from stress now that he had help. Donations had even flooded in after Kun shoved flyers into the faces of everyone he encountered.

This morning, Ten wasn’t at the reception desk. When Kun called out, no answer came.

He set the coffees down on the desk, and hazarded a peek into the back room with the cages — lots of cats, but no Ten. Kun stepped in further, until he heard movement from a smaller room further in.

‘Ten, it’s me, I tried calling out—’ he stopped when he saw Ten in the room, petting a cat named Daisy. She was old and wiry; a calm cat with a grumpy face, but which let herself be handled without fuss. She was often sick, and Kun had helped to administer her medication a few times before.

She lay on a table with squinted eyes and low ears, and Kun immediately felt the cold grip of intuition.

Ten didn’t look up, but slightly turned his head towards Kun to acknowledge him.

'Hey, uh, can you…' Ten started, then paused to sniff. 'The shelter has an old van. Can you drive us? Me and Daisy, I mean. Need to go to the vet.'

Kun's chest tightened at the way Ten said that. He watched as Ten pet Daisy very gently. Somber understanding settled upon him.

'Oh…'

Ten went on explaining in a weary voice. 'Her medicines aren't working anymore and she can barely stand. These days she shakes a lot. The vet said it would be more humane if… if, um, we took her there to be…'

Ten aborted the sentence. Kun could figure out the rest on his own.

‘I’m really sorry, Ten.'

Ten kept his eyes down on Daisy. 'It’s fine. I'm used to it.' 

The heartbreaking quaver in Ten's voice — he tried so hard to mask it, for the sake of that strong persona he puts on, but Kun heard it all the same. No amount of experience could dull it. Kun wanted to do something for him.

'Well, I'm not used to it,' Kun said quietly. His own voice, too, was unsteady now. 'So if it's not any trouble… I could use a hug.'

Though it was Kun who asked, and who stretched his arm out in the plea for contact, it was Ten who folded himself into Kun's arms completely; ducking his head into Kun's shoulder to hide. Kun held him, both arms all the way around Ten's back, and said nothing when Ten began to cry. When his body shuddered at the start of a clandestine sob; when he sniffed, as quietly as he could, but not quietly enough. Kun said nothing.

Kun had asked for the hug – but not because he was the one who needed it.

*

Kun carried the empty cat carrier back to the van. Ten trailed behind him, fidgeting with a small, soft toy shaped like a yellow flower. It had been a companion to Daisy until it was time for the end, and now it was a companion to Ten in his fresh grief.

When he and Ten were both seated for the ride back to the shelter, Kun paused before turning the key in the ignition.

'Have you eaten today?' he asked.

Ten shook his head.

Kun reached out to give Ten a quick, reassuring squeeze on the forearm. 'Let's go get you something. It's on me.'

Ten did not protest, but there was a complacency in him that Kun couldn't fault him for. To call it a "hard day" was a profound understatement.

Kun intentionally picked a sleepy café that would be all but empty this time of day, and ordered for Ten at the counter. He anticipated that Ten would have no appetite, but hoped to tempt him into eating something.

To be safe, he ordered several things, including an ice cream to be brought to the table later. Ice cream seemed like exactly what Ten needed.

Kun was relieved to see Ten bite into a bagel, and even pick at the plate of fries. When the ice-cream came, Ten wordlessly took his spoon and tucked in along with Kun. They shared the dessert in companionable silence; Kun saw no point in forcing conversation on someone who was hurting.

Eventually, after Kun gently pushed the ice cream bowl Ten’s way to offer the last spoonful, Ten spoke up.

'You've done too much,' he muttered. 'You can stop volunteering now. You don't have to pay for this food. And you can go back to your life.'

'Hey…’ said Kun gently. ‘Where's this coming from?'

'I'm freeing you,' Ten said, looking up at him with miserable, puffy eyes. 'No more painting fences or driving me to the worst vet visits ever. You don't need this shit.'

Kun straightened up. 'It's not "shit". None of this feels like too much. I want to help you.'

'You're helping me because you want your precious book page!' Ten replied hotly. This stung Kun, but then Ten deflated again, casting his eyes down and away. 'And I don't even have it.'

Kun took a few seconds to process this. He failed to, and said, 'Huh?'

'I don't have it!' Ten repeated. 'I'm sorry. I lied. I just needed you to help me because no-one ever wants to help me . Always too busy, too apathetic, too whatever. I lied and now I can't give your page back, even after everything you've done. I'm sorry.'

Kun was incredulous. 'But… how did you know I'd lost something like that in the first place?'

Ten sighed. 'The cat you described — it did come by the shelter. It used to be Mrs Persimmon's – his name's Leon – but he's barely domesticated. He's a free spirit like his owner was. The morning of the day you visited, Leon jumped on my counter with paper in his mouth, but ran off the second I tried to take it. It was like a game to him or something, that stupid cat…'

Leon, Kun thought. The name was familiar. Painfully so — it itched at a half-forgotten memory. Leon. Leon? Who's Leon?

'...and then you came in that same afternoon, asking about it… it felt like some kind of—' Ten stopped and pursed his lips in a thin line, seemingly too embarrassed to finish the sentence. 

Kun finished it for him. 'Some kind of sign?'

'Yeah. It's stupid. Seriously, I'm really sorry.'

'Ten, I don't care at all.' Kun leaned forward, arms reaching out across the table for Ten. ‘I’d forgotten all about that page, honestly. I’m not mad at you. And I don’t regret helping the shelter.’

‘You’re lying because I’m vulnerable right now—’

Kun gave Ten a soft flick on the forearm. ‘I’m telling the truth. And you’re right, you know — the me from a few weeks ago was too busy and too apathetic. I might not have helped you out if I didn’t have something to gain at the time.’ He grimaced apologetically when Ten gave him a look — but it wasn’t a disappointed or chiding look. He actually seemed like a weight was lifted off of him at Kun’s words.

‘You’re welcome for teaching you compassion,’ Ten said.

‘You really turned my life around, coach,’ Kun replied.

They smiled at each other, quietly sharing in a moment of levity. Ten looked away first, and Kun was glad, because any more eye contact might have set him aflame.

*

Kun paced back and forth in the hall. He sniffed himself at regular intervals, paranoid that he’d sweat through his shirt and blazer — he was clammy with nerves, and Hendery paced beside him offering words of encouragement.

‘You still smell fresh and nice, Kun-ge'.

‘Thank you.’

‘And your performance has been exemplary this quarter.’

‘Alright, thank you.’

‘They say that handsome people are 38% more likely to receive promotions, which puts you well ahead of the competition.’

‘That is a made-up statistic, but thanks.’

‘No prob. And you’re very well-spoken, so really I think this interview is in the bag—’

Kun stopped and turned to him, grasping him by the shoulders. ‘Hendery, now you’re making things a bit worse.’

Hendery bowed shallowly in apology. ‘You just seem very worked up for nothing, ge.’

‘It’s not for nothing!’ said Kun, heart pounding harder by the minute. ‘I need this to go perfectly. This could make or break my promotion. The executives are all in there, waiting to grill me—’ he mimed the action of flipping burgers — ‘to within an inch of my life!’

Hendery cocked his head and thought for a moment, studying Kun’s face. Then he asked, ‘Do you really want this position?’

‘I… well, of course I want it. The money’s good.’ Now that Kun had said it aloud, he didn’t sound convincing, even to himself.

‘Kun, for shame,’ Hendery said, giving Kun’s bicep a comforting squeeze. ‘Money can only give happiness when there is nothing else to give it.’

Kun huffed. ‘That’s a quote, isn’t it?’

‘Sense and Sensibility,’ Hendery confirmed. ‘Don’t worry, I put money in the jar in advance.’

‘You’re unbelievable.’

‘Believe it!’ He punched Kun on the shoulder. ‘Best of luck in there, Kun-ge. I know you'll get what you want.’

Kun gave Hendery one last grateful smile before heading into the meeting room, where all the executives awaited him.

The forced air of corporate etiquette pervaded the room from the very moment Kun greeted them all — now, the light in this room felt uncomfortably bright, and every smile was uncannily wide and white. The small talk was microscopic and short-lived, like bacteria ejected from the body in a cough, and Kun was quickly being peppered with hard-hitting questions.

Hendery was quite correct — Kun couldn’t mess this up, because no-one was more qualified for this promotion than he was. He knew what to say because he intimately knew the work, the company, the culture and the potential of the role. He knew how to express himself well and where to insert a light jest, earning laughter as reliably as a sitcom laugh track. The executives tried to challenge him, trick him, get him to admit to weaknesses — but Kun was as smart as they came, and could not be tripped up.

‘Well, I guess our last question for you, Kun…’ the regional director said, entwining his fingers on the table top across from Kun. ‘In light of past pressures – you know, I have to ask, it’s nothing to worry about — do you think you could….’

Kun glanced to the side, out of the window of this meeting room, in response to movement in his periphery. He meant to ignore it and focus on the interview at hand until he noticed where that movement was coming from — on the ground floor, distant, was the figure of Ten in front of the cat shelter. He was talking to another man, holding something like a book or a – Kun squinted – a clipboard?

Realisation: the city council inspector, here to make the final call on the future of Mrs Persimmon’s Feline Rescue.

‘… and of course, we’re willing to support you, but the added challenges of the Chief Editor role—’

Kun stood up. The executives across from him blinked, and the regional director paused his question.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kun said, bowing. ‘I have to go do something.’

‘Kun, we—’

‘I’m sorry again. I have to go now. Right now.’

He hurried out of the room before regret could hit him — but even as he ran out of the office and downstairs, speeding up to a sprint once he reached the street, that feeling of regret never came. His tie flapped over his shoulder and the temples of his glasses itched his face as sweat beaded down; his leather work shoes hit the concrete hard with each step, and there was nothing but resolve coursing through his system.

Now was the time – the last time – he could truly help Ten.

He slowed to a heavy jog and eventually an inelegant stop just before the shelter gate, and bent over to wheeze. Now that he wasn’t sprinting, he realised that he did not have a plan at all. The inspector was here, more than willing to shut Ten’s shelter down if he found so much as a single fault, so what could Kun even do to help?

His mind raced. As the sound of blood rushing in his ears subsided, he could now hear their voices: Ten, sounding tense and almost shrill; the inspector, level and clinical, and even unimpressed.

Kun thought frantically. The shelter itself could not be faulted, right? The property was safe and secure, inside and out. Everything worked as it was meant to, and the shelter’s income had stabilised. The cats were healthy, and the unhealthy ones well cared for in their illnesses. The fences were freshly painted, for God’s sake! Beautiful! Perfect handiwork! What more could the inspector want?

He wiped the sweat from his face roughly — and, when he opened his eyes again, there was a cat standing just a few feet ahead of him, right in front of the shelter gate.

Mrs Persimmon’s cat! The page-thief!

Then the hail Mary came to Kun in a flash. If the shelter could be saved from this inspector, there was only one card left to play.

Sympathy.

And so, Kun took a deep breath, steadying himself for the toughest task he would ever undertake in his life: convincing a cat to come to him.

‘Listen,’ he whispered to the cat. ‘Ten needs us right now. The shelter needs us. The world — okay, maybe not the world — anyway, someone important to me needs our help. All we need to do is go over there, act like a nice little family, cat and cat-dad, and show that inspector how happy the shelter’s made us. How’s that? A little con, for a good cause? A little mischief?’

The cat blinked at him once.

‘I’ll do all the talking,’ Kun reassured it. 

The cat stood up, stretched, and turned around to leave. Kun hung his head; he had failed in the hour he was needed most. There was no appeasing this creature. He started to stand as well.

Then, the cat leapt into his arms. Kun cried out in surprise, but the cat sat comfortably against his chest, purring like an engine. 

There was no time to celebrate. No time to lose at all! He smoothed his hair with one hand and then marched into the shelter’s front courtyard, making a beeline for the inspector.

He waved for Ten’s attention.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr Li,’ began Kun, his candied, polite, affected voice entering the stage. ‘I was passing by and just had to come say hello. And him, too—’ trying not to cringe at the character he was playing, he lifted one of the cat’s paws up in a pretend wave — ‘Say hi to your old friend, baby!’

Ten, bewildered, waved back. 

Kun bowed to the inspector in apology. ‘Again, so sorry to interrupt. I adopted him from this shelter a few months ago and I’ve just been — oh, I’m getting emotional, sorry — I’ve just been so happy . Incredibly grateful. I’m so glad to see this place still up and running, you know, since it’s done so much good for me… and for the community… and for little, uh…for little…’ Kun’s brain scrambled to remember the cat’s name.

‘For little Leon here,’ Ten finished for him.

‘Yes!’ Kun agreed. Leon? Where had he heard Leon before? Unable to dwell on the familiar name, he presented his most dazzling smile to the inspector. ‘Good cat, this Leon. Healthy. No longer homeless. You know. Do you like cats, sir?’

The inspector blinked, processing Kun’s sudden energetic introduction. Kun panicked — he might have just blown it.

But then the inspector smiled for the first time since he’d arrived.

‘Heh,’ the inspector chuckled. ‘Good cat, yes. Actually, he reminds me of something… what was it? There was this story I read as a kid…’

He moved to scratch the cat under the chin, which was permitted. The purring increased in volume. 

The inspector went on, voice lilting down into an affectionate, nostalgic tone, ‘Don’t remember the name of the story, but there was a cat named Leon in it. Something about the whole town chasing down some cat that turned out to be a witch, or…or something or other. There were drawings in the book too – and, I tell ya, this cat looks just like the one in those pages! Can’t forget a face like that. Ain’t that right, handsome?’

Kun and Ten watched this change in demeanour with utmost fascination — both of the cat, and of the inspector. The two had become so saccharine and sentimental, that one could almost forget that one was a crafty menace, and the other was threatening to close down the cat shelter just moments ago.

‘Hey, you even got one of them little keys ‘round your collar!’ the inspector said brightly.

Kun blinked. ‘One of them little what?’

A car horn honked from the street, and all three of them (four, counting Leon) looked toward the sound.

The inspector shouted out and waved, then turned back to Ten and Kun. He pinched his lips into a line, clearly trying to work through what he’d say next.

‘Look, I can’t lie to you, Mr Li, the place still isn’t perfect,’ said the inspector at last. He sighed, eyes glancing down at little Leon again, and he smiled sympathetically. ‘But… I am impressed with how much you’ve turned things around here. Maybe with a little more time…’

Ten nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes. Time. Just a little more time.’

‘I hear ya. I’ll speak to the council, get ‘em to lay off on those rezoning plans. Maybe we can do a community survey or something…’

Now both Ten and Kun were assenting like crazy, optimism bubbling in both of them like champagne. 

The inspector reached out to shake both their hands in turn. ‘It was good to speak to you gentlemen. Mr. Li, I wish you luck. And you, sir, I didn’t catch your name but I sure do like that handsome cat of yours — I’m glad he found a home with ya.’

Kun laughed, unable to stop the relief from pouring out through it, and he knew from the look in Ten’s shining eyes that he felt similarly. 

The inspector took his leave, and they watched in wound-up silence as his car pulled off and disappeared, hopefully for good.

The shelter was safe. All their hard work had meant something. Kun was so giddy he was repressing the urge to jump up and click his heels together.

If Ten had been suppressing a similar urge, he failed to keep it in — he threw his arms around Kun (and Leon) in a hug. 

Kun mentally added another thing to his list of things to celebrate.

Then Ten broke the hug, and grinned at Kun. Now Kun noticed that Ten was very visibly holding back a laugh.

He quoted Kun back to him: ‘“Do you like cats, sir?”

‘Hey!’ Kun said indignantly. ‘I was doing my best out there. I panicked!’

Ten continued giggling, imitating Kun’s voice with an exaggerated cutesy tone. Once Ten had gotten it out of his system, he turned his attention to Leon in Kun’s arms.

‘Thank you for coming back,’ he said to the cat. ‘You always have such funny timing, mister.’

Kun scratched Leon under the chin. ‘They’re fickle and manipulative, these little things. So easy to look past it all after a while, though.’

Ten curled his finger under Leon’s chin for double scratches, and his knuckle brushed against Kun’s.

‘Mmm,’ Ten hummed. ‘They grow on you.’

Kun smiled. ‘They certainly do, yes.’

Ten looked down, twisting his lips a little bit and pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. A small smile flashed, quickly suppressed.

Without preamble, Leon leapt out of Kun’s arms. He trotted across the courtyard and hopped up on the fence with an impressive set of jumps.

‘Looks like he’s done with his work for the day,’ Ten remarked. Then he looked at Kun in puzzlement. ‘Wait, isn’t it still your workday?’

Surprisingly, panic did not seize Kun. He answered honestly, ‘I ran out of an interview to come here.’

‘What?’

Kun shrugged. ‘My priorities are straight, if you ask me.’

Ten shook his head, amused by the answer. ‘Well, damn. Thanks for all your help.’

'Don’t mention it.’

Ten made to walk back to the shelter’s entrance, but lingered. ‘I won’t keep you. Get back to work.’

Kun was a smart man. Ten wasn’t really trying to get rid of him. Kun let his mouth speak before the brain could interfere. 

‘Hey, um…’ he began, almost faltering when Ten met his eyes directly. ‘You know what else can grow on you?'

Ten thought about it before answering, 'Wine?'

'Right,’ said Kun. He steeled himself: ‘If you ever want to sample something better than persimmon moonshine… then maybe this weekend, we could…?'

Ten mulled this offer over. The seconds of silence went by like molasses for Kun. 

Just when the wait became tortuous, Ten answered, ‘How about right now?' 

‘Oh?’

'It's a short walk to the square. Lots of bars and stuff there. I’ll go get my stuff.’

‘Oh. Yes. Yes, sure, okay. Yes! Let’s go!’

‘Chill.’

Kun took great pains to chill. He stepped into the shade of a tree, took his blazer off, and fanned himself with his hand. It was futile, of course, and he could now feel the judgemental stare of Leon from up on the fence.

The cat watched him with a steady gaze. It sat perfectly still, staring at Kun with its big yellow eyes. 

‘You won’t understand a thing I’m saying,’ Kun said to the cat. ‘But thank you. I appreciate it — all of it.’ He smiled, leaning into this one-sided conversation. ‘No need to return the page or anything, if you were worried about it.’

The cat blinked slowly back. Kun was almost convinced it would speak when it opened its mouth  — but, of course, it merely gave a toothy yawn.

Just then, Kun noticed something. Now that the cat was sitting still, and Kun wasn’t only seeing it in motion as it jumped or fled from him, he got a good look at the collar around its neck. At the front was a tag, glinting gold in the early evening light, which Kun had always assumed was an ordinary circular name tag.

An incorrect assumption, Kun realised with astonishment. The shape of the name tag was clear as day: it was a little key. 

Almost as if noticing Kun’s expression change in realisation, the cat leapt off of the fence onto the boundary wall, darting off into the trees that lined the shelter. Its collar tinkled. 

‘Alright, I’m ready,’ came Ten’s voice. He walked up to Kun’s side. ‘Did the cat leave already?’

‘Did you know he had a key on his collar?’

Ten’s brow creased in thought. ‘I don’t remember that. Then again, he never let me hold him.’

‘I see…’

‘So… are we ready to go?’

Kun shook his head, chalking it up to coincidence. He was a scientist at the end of the day — magical cats did not spring out of storybooks, as much as he would have loved for that to be true.

In any case, he had better things to think about now. He turned to Ten and held out his hand. 

‘I’ll carry your bag for you,’ he offered.

Ten lugged it off his shoulder and into Kun’s arms without hesitation. ‘Thought you’d never ask. Now take me to the wine.’

*

Ten was, for once, open-minded about Kun’s recommendations. He matched Kun glass-for-glass at the bar, which, admittedly, had only the barest selection of wines to choose from. Still, Kun was enthusiastic about the process, encouraging Ten to swirl and sniff and really situate himself in the experience. Ten grimaced after every first sip of a new wine, whether white or red, but rejected none of them. 

After one glass, they were chatting animatedly. After two glasses, they were laughing together. After three glasses, they were sitting very close, and Ten began to touch his arm or bump shoulders with him, or tap his knee to emphasise a point.

Kun briefly considered a fourth glass, but decided he wanted to get home in a state that could not be described as a sorry one. 

While they could both still walk unassisted, Kun got the bill and they meandered through the streets to Kun’s apartment building. It was a long walk that felt short, by virtue of engaging in a conversation without pause. The wine made the street lights look softer, tinged with the romance of a poem, and Ten’s voice was a melody cutting through the background noise of city life. 

There was a moment of quiet in the elevator as they both leaned against opposite sides of it, fighting sleepiness. As the doors opened to Kun’s floor, Ten said, ‘You never told me about the book.’

‘Hm?’

‘The book that the missing page came from. What was it about?’

And so Kun told him — about the bookstore owner and the magical being; about the house with the persimmon tree; about the cat and the magic and the quiet comforts of a fairy tale. Ten listened attentively, showing pleasant surprise at the mention of persimmons and cats, and showing agreement with Kun’s fond musings on the nature of such fantasies.

Kun knew he was now rambling, but it didn’t stop him. ‘It’s funny, you know, I got so invested . I dismissed the book entirely, because… well, I mean, romantic fairy tales? Right? I work in science! Anyway, next thing you know, I’m reading it, and I’m enjoying it, and then I end up losing its final page. Now I’ll never know how it ends! Aside from an alleged “saucy kiss”, but still, that doesn’t answer all the questions I had…’ He trailed off.

‘That’s too bad,’ Ten replied. ‘So are those glasses prescription?’

Kun blinked in surprise. The question was arbitrary, but it did remind Kun that he’d been wearing them the entire night. He took them off, explaining, ‘Ah, no, my eyesight is fine. These are for screen glare—’

‘God, finally,’ Ten interrupted. Then, audaciously, he took the tip of Kun’s tie between his fingers, pulled him close, and kissed him.

Steady, warm, and sure — he kissed him.

He pressed his chest to Kun’s, his lips to Kun’s, keeping that tie in a gently commanding hold. Kun’s tummy swooped. With nothing left to do, he let his instincts take over: he kissed back, an embarrassing mmh escaping him. His tongue slipped into Ten’s mouth, sweet with wine and hot with ardor — an invitation for a harder press, a deeper kiss, which he took. At some point, he distantly noticed his tie being loosened and top shirt buttons undone. Then, before he knew it, Ten had backed him against his own front door, and they were making out like desperate teenagers in the middle of the hallway. Kun’s glasses clattered to the floor.

There was nothing on his mind but the taste and touch of Ten, and the notion of shame simply did not cross his mind. Anyone could walk by and see him and Kun did not care one bit. That mere fact that Kun loved every second – raking his fingers down Ten’s back, squeezing his waist, breathing hard against his mouth – was all he needed to keep him there, pinned and lip-locking out in the open.

Kun’s eyes flew open suddenly, remembering something important at the most inopportune moment. ‘You said Mrs Persimmon’s cat’s name was Leon? ’

Ten hummed in agreement and tried to keep kissing him, so Kun spoke against his mouth, trying to piece together memories through his own fog of lust. ‘Leon… in the book, the cat was also called—’

‘Kun, please focus.’

‘Isn’t it weird, though—’

Ten diverted his attention with a knee slotting between Kun’s legs, and he was forcibly reminded of his own words from before: my priorities are straight. He returned to prioritising putting his hands all over the man he liked so desperately.

It was juvenile and inappropriate. It was hot; it was thrilling; it was Ten. In some ways it was even meant to be. 

It was, after all, magical.