Chapter Text
“Wh—” She groans and holds her head between her hands. “Ow.”
“Yeah, I feel that. Looks like we went to the same costume party and both got one of the worst headaches ever.” Her head snaps up to meet with a teenager on the other side of the elevator. Is that where they are? An elevator? She turns her head, looking around to the metal walls, to the button board at the side of one of the closed metal doors.
“Where are we?” she asks, turning back to the teenager. Teenager? More like a man. Young adult for sure. How old is this guy?
He’s dressed a little weird, even for a presumable costume party she has absolutely no recognition or recollection of. She’s not sure what he’s supposed to be dressed as, but with the domino mask, it’s giving her the impression that he’s probably dressed as a superhero. Right? Maybe? The suit on him is skin-tight leather, with hard plastic-looking plating that bulks up his chest and the sides of his shoulders, a look that she can’t exactly disagree with. It fits him. Sort of. Doesn’t match the diamond-green eyes, startling and beautiful, something Christmas about it that she can’t exactly quite put her finger on, but it’s… fascinating. It’s not bad. Clashing with that blonde hair, but in a way that makes him look good. What gives?
What’s with that round compact mirror he has on his wrist tied on there with string?
He has his legs folded in order to not squish her against the other side of the elevator. He’s tall— duh, that’s for sure— but he tries to make up for it by curling in on himself to give her more room, almost like he’s embarrassed by how long his legs actually keep going. Kilometric. This man is massive, in both muscle and size, and there’s this oddness about it that she can’t quite place, because it gives her this distinct feeling that she’s absolutely dwarfed by him.
Wow. His hair is such a beautiful golden blonde. Wow, wow, wow. She’s enamoured by the color the moment she glances at it, jaw slack and staring and staring and staring.
“Is there something on my face?” he blurts out, mouth thin and wonky.
“No.”
“You’re looking at me like there is.”
“Sorry,” she lies, not all that sorry at all. “Nothing. Sorry. Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s my outfit, isn’t it? It is. It totally is. Is my costume weird?”
“No.” Except. Except. Except, of course, she doesn’t say ‘no’ as in ‘no, of course not’, she’s said it as in ‘no?’ as in a question.
This man who she has no idea who he is, narrows his eyes in such a familiar way that she immediately narrows her eyes back in return, feeling a little silly at the interaction.
“You’re lying,” he remarks. “I don’t know how I know but I just know.”
“Not lying,” she lies again.
“What’s on my face?”
“Nothing.”
“So, you’re a chronic liar, then?”
“Hey, that’s not a nice thing to say to someone you’ve just met—”
“Then what? Huh?” Oh, he’s teasing, something about that smile makes her quick to blush… “Why are you staring?
“I’m just”—a quick pause to lick at her teeth, scrambling for a rebuttal—“look, I’m sure someone at some point has told you that you’re handsome, right? That’s not news to anyone? You’re pretty model-worthy.”
Though the elevator is quiet, it turns really, really quiet when she snaps her mouth right shut. Truly, at this point, she needs to be careful not to snap a fang; but it’s blurted out of her, risen up from out of nowhere like a carbonated drink, floating out of her mouth like the most impulsive shot she’s ever taken in her life. She’s quick to cover her mouth with her hands, squeaking behind her fingers, trying not to wince.
The man turns just as red as his suit. “O-Oh. Thank you. I think.”
“I’m looking at you— gawking, even— because you’re not a bad sight.”
“Thanks,” he tries again. “You’re… not bad looking yourself, you know. Very cute.”
“You’re very handsome!”
“I—”
“I cannot control my mouth,” she whispers. “What’s happening? Why did I just blurt that out? I’m so sorry, that must’ve made you so uncomfortable— I can tell even beneath the mask you must look really nice!” She squirms in her seat, doing her best not to take in that indulgent smile he has on his face, something fond that she recognizes but doesn’t, something endearing that makes her heart pound but there’s no reasoning behind it at all. “Sorry, sorry, I’ll shut up now. Let’s— let’s focus. Uhm. Where are we?”
A quick recon has her spotting oddities in the elevator she hadn’t noticed before: there’s an uncapped lipstick tucked up next to her black boot, with most of the beautiful red color missing from the tube, and she watches him pick it up and search for the cap between them both. Shimmying over to the side to look behind her, around her, and around the man with curly blonde angelic hair and a sweet smile brings up nothing at all, leaving them with more questions than answers. It’s nowhere to be found within the elevator.
“I— I have no idea.”
She finds herself sagging. “That makes two of us.”
“Huh, okay.” He frowns, though pretty-like and handsome in a way she can’t describe, even as his mask pinches in the middle and makes all the dots and spots on it crinkle. She is so, so capable of keeping her mouth shut. Score! “I have no recollection of anything,” he continues. “I can’t even remember my name.”
“Oh, shoot. I have no idea what my name is, either.” Before she can even stop herself, she blurts out: “I hope your name is Angel, cause you sure look like one.”
One of the softest, gentlest laughs bubbles out of him like soda. “Hey. Watch it, Pretty Kitty.”
“I’m just telling the truth, Handsome.”
That blush of his is never going to come off, is it? Even as he rolls his eyes, gold lashes fluttering to hide down-turned eyes, staring at his lap, mumbling out something equivalent to: “Some party we just came out of. Must’ve been a good one if we can’t remember a single thing.”
“I know. Lucky me,” she swoons, trying to alleviate the tension in those shoulders of his. It’s working. Smidge by smidge, she’ll get him to stop worrying about whatever it was they forgot. It’s probably not important, anyway. “Stuck in an elevator with an angel, what a steal!”
“Are you normally this flirty?”
“You’re asking the wrong person, quite frankly.”
“My mistake,” he muses, and he breaks out into a laugh so gentle and so sweet that— oh, oh— she could just eat it right up! “I guess we can figure out our names later?”
Right, right. That makes sense. “I’ll just stick to the basics. ‘Handsome’ it is!”
He’s found the twisting motion of the lipstick pretty fascinating, spinning the tube all the way up until the broken piece of lipstick comes up in this gorgeous shade of red, to all the way back down.
“You know, wherever it was we were, I think you killed it. Your suit looks like it was made for you, you look really cute.”
“Really?”
“Really. Especially with those eyes of yours,” he continues, nodding like he’s agreeing with her even though she’s completely stunned silent. “Are they… contacts? Maybe?”
She tilts her head. “My eyes?”
“You look like you have cat eyes. Your pupils are in the shapes of diamonds.” He gestures out the shape by pressing his pointer fingers and thumbs together, stretching them as far apart from each other as possible— a rhombus. “In fact, you’re entirely dressed as a cat.”
“I don’t think I have contacts in?”
“There’s no way that’s your natural eye color.”
“Surely, you’re joking.”
“Take a look at yourself, if you don’t believe me. Actually, come here, let me show you your tail.”
Tail? Tail? Sorry, hello? Oh, there it is, just to her left— it moves— and she squeaks and tries to turn to look at what animal it’s attached to, only to find that the tail moves and follows her as she swivels her hips. She grabs at it, only to jerk at the touch— wait, that’s hers. That’s an actual tail. Furry, fluffy, a bushy black tail that reacts to her touch like an actual limb. And what about her gloves! Her hands? What is going on?
She’s dressed in a skin-tight, all black costume herself.
She has claws— she’s not sure if they’re her real nails, or just some kind of weird… strange ‘magic’, but she’s fearful of them. Her claws, wow, they look sharp enough to tear through just about anything, and she can tell just by the way they glint in the elevator light. There’s bits of red pigment smeared at the back of her hand and her fingertips, as if she’d grabbed for the tube of lipstick by the wrong side at some point.
“Cat,” she replies, swift and dead and worried. “I’m dressed like a cat— I have a tail— and you’re dressed like the world’s hottest superhero.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, you’ve got a mask on.”
“Maybe I’m a cat superhero?”
He hums in understanding, and something about his line of sight shifting over her body makes her chest feel tight. Is it hot in here? Is it her clothes? Why does she feel like she’s suddenly catching on fire, now that he’s appreciating her in a new light? “Makes sense. You have black little kitty ears at the top of your head, too, maybe you’ve got a theme? They look so realistic, too. It’s cute.”
“My tail is real!”
“Wait, seriously?”
“I can feel it whenever I touch! So that means that my ears…”
She’s scared to pull her hands away from her tail, but she can afford to reach up with one. She pats at her head, and feels for two black, furry ears. Oh! Oh, they’re kind of soft, too! They twitch against her touch as if real; a quick eep from her mouth has the teenager on the other side of the elevator reaching over, kilometric (kilometric!) arms reaching over (holy heck!) to pet her ears in a way that’s just so soothing, and who can blame her for melting? His touch is liquid, something relaxing about the way he cups the domes of her cat ears with those gloves on and it just makes her purr.
Wait.
“You’re purring,” he gasps, impressed and awed. Eyes shining like he’s holding something precious, and it’s something that totally makes her want to chew her lip raw and squeal and jerk back and away; oh, is it instinctual for her to hide this from people? And yet, why does she want to get closer? Chase his hands when he starts to move them away in an attempt to give her more space, keep them on her head until she’s goop and syrup and completely useless in this tiny little elevator. “Wow. Impressive, little Kitty.”
With that nickname? Her heart is never going to take a break for the rest of her life.
“I think I like that choice in a name,” she whispers, rumbling over purrs.
“I can tell, you’re purring even harder.”
“It sounds sweet, coming from you.”
Oh, doesn’t he look smug? “I’m starting to think you like me.”
Ha! “Don’t let it blow up your ego, there’s not enough space in this elevator as it is!”
“Sorry, am I taking up too much space? Let me scoot over—”
“Wait, Handsome, I was kidding”—and she does, she does chase his hands, getting close enough to be in his personal space—“stay right here,” she argues, frowning. “We can figure out what’s happening later. It probably wasn’t important, anyway, right?”
“Maybe?” No, no no no, why are his eyes starting to drift around the elevator? Can’t he see she’s busy, trying to get his attention? Hello? What’s more important than her comfort? “Oh, look at that,” he hums, pointing with a finger behind her. “There’s something scribbled there with the… lipstick? Is that a drawing?”
Fine. She’ll look. Just a little bit, a peek, so that they can get back to what’s really important.
Behind her, there’s a smear of lipstick on one of the walls, just like he’d mentioned, but anything other than that is hard to decipher. Is that a doodle? Or just a weirdly shaped letter ‘O’? No, no, wait— hold on— there’s a crude message in the red pigment, the word ‘Funcle’ in a soft, swirly letter that registers in her brain as her handwriting, and she crawls closer to it to look at it, pulling on his hands to follow and continue petting her ears.
Funcle.
Funcle.
Funcle…?
“‘Funcle’?” she repeats, plopping a giant red hand right at the dome of her skull. Talented, strong fingers comb through what he can of her hair, squeezing the base of her ears in such a familiar way that she can just barely place how much she’s missed it. Nostalgic. She’s two centimetres to the left of starving for this type of touch.
“Oh, is that what that says?” he says, completely not paying attention to how she melts again.
“Don’t make fun of my handwriting,” she laughs, finding herself elbowing him softly in the ribs. The man doesn’t even budge.
“You wrote it?”
“The handwriting looks familiar. I think so. Any idea of what it means?”
“Beats me,” he mumbles.
“Maybe it’s in a different language?”
“I don’t know many as it is.”
Well. Back to square one, it seems. Oh, she’s tired already, but at least he’s here. If she were here alone, what would’ve happened? Something tickles her brain telling her that she’s not good at self entertaining in the slightest. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to get out of the elevator, right?”
“Let’s just try some of the buttons and see what happens.”
Too bad a series of tiny little beeps start to echo in the elevator with them, the ring on her finger starting to burn white and hot and heat.