Chapter Text
"I'm home," scara drawled out his greeting, finally stepping inside their apartment. His face and fingers begin to sting, unfreezing. The autumn has just started, but god was it a cold one.
Summoned by Scara's tired voice, Childe immediately appeared to meet him.
“You're here,” he smiled and ruffled Scara's damp hair. It was pouring outside: an awful mixture of snow and rain that turned the street into an unnavigatable slush puddle. Scara was spluttered in it from head to toe.
For some mysterious reason, Childe also looked like a mess. His shirt was stained, as if something muddy had rolled over his chest and stomach, dirt dots mixed in with the freckles on his face and his ginger curls looked even messier than ever. He was supposed to be studying the inner workings of cattle intestines for his exam tomorrow, but surely he wasn't putting anything into practice, was he?
As suspicious as this was, Scara had more important questions on his mind.
“Have you cooked anything?” he asked, kicking his shoes off. Childe galantly helped him slide the coat off his shoulders.
“Hm?” childe hummed, as if Scara's question confused him for a second. But then he answered quickly. A bit too quickly: “Oh, yeah, of course! I just finished. Are you hungry?”
Scara didn't like that nervous haste in his voice. But the thought of warm, delicious food dissolved his worries. Thinking of childe-made dinner was what got scara through his shift.
“Let's go to the kitchen then,” Childe said, throwing Scara's coat on a hanger.
Expecting Childe to go and plate dinner for them, Scara went to wash his hands. He needed some warm water… But, as soon as he reached to open the door, Childe stopped him.
“Wait, where are you going-”
Scara gave Childe an annoyed look.
“To wash my hands?”
“Can’t you do that in the kitchen?” Childe tried to seem casual, leaning on the bathroom door to block it.
A bad feeling started to creep in Scara’s guts.
“What’s in the bathroom.” Scara asked, strict and threatening.
He could already imagine it: flooded floor, broken pipes, the neighbours complaining about inundation... The landlord will kill them. Even worse - kick them out for good. God, why couldn't Childe just sit still and prepare for his exam like a normal human being?? Now they were going to get evicted. Definitely evicted.
“Uhh,” Childe stretched, trying to find something non-suspicious to say while Scara’s mind reeled with thoughts about their future homeless life.
Then, a small sound broke through the door. It was a weird, croaky, high-pitched sound that felt like a living creature screeching.
“Nothing.”
“Move.” Scara nudged Childe to the side. Childe relented: he wouldn't risk to mess with his boyfriend when he was already hungry, tired and pissed.
The bathroom was fine apart from one thing. A suspiciously cat-shaped ball of black fur waddling around on the floor and screeching. It got scared as soon as the light turned on and tried to scurry into a towel conveniently lying by the sink.
Scara took in the situation silently for a second and then turned to Childe.
“Care to explain?” he said, folding his arms on his chest.
“It’s a kitten,” Childe tried to smile, yet his grin was nervous. Looking Scara in the eyes right now was like daring the Death itself.
“And what is it doing in our bathroom?” Scara said in a voice that made his threat even more prominent. Pressure of his glare made Childe abandon all jokes and excuses.
“I went to the store and heard him crying in the bushes. I couldn’t just leave him there! Have you seen the weather?” he pleaded. Scara had experienced the awful weather himself, but it didn’t make him any more sympathetic.
“Go put it back where you got it.” Scara ordered, mentally cursing Childe’s soft heart. Of course he would drag any sad-looking thing into their house without thinking twice. Probably without even thinking once.
“What? C’mon, Scara, we can’t just throw him away now! That’s cruel,” Childe pleaded even more. Dismissing him, Scara marched to the sink to finally wash his damn hands.
“Well we can’t keep it either,” Scara turned on the faucet, “what do you think our landlord’s gonna say to this, huh? Praise you for being such a kind boy?”
Just thinking of dealing with their landlord gave Scara a headache. They had barely convinced her to let a couple of suspiciously gay–shaped dudes rent her precious apartment, so this little furry fella definitely won’t slide.
“She doesn’t have to know about it though,” Childe insisted. “If we can hide your cigarettes, we surely can hide a kitten.”
“Yeah, because it’s definitely the same thing,” Scara rolled his eyes, baffled by Childe’s non-existent logic. Hiding a cat meant hiding the fur it will leave everywhere, its food, its toys, its litter… None of which they had.
“We don't even have any cat stuff.”
“Well, about that…” Childe said, rubbing the back of his neck like he was guilty of something. Scara already knew what it was.
“Don’t tell me you’ve already wasted our money on it,” Scara gritted through his teeth. They were barely scraping by on his cashier salary and Childe’s humble scholarship.
“It’s not a waste!” Childe argued. He nimbly fished the kitten out of the towel and planted it on his hand for Scara to see. “C’mon, look how cute he is.”
Scara finished washing his hands and leaned his back against the sink, reluctantly taking a look at their little furry trouble-maker.
The sight was horrifying.
The clumped up lump of thick, black fur trembled on Childe’s palm, so small that it fit on it fully. Dirt hung in long, muddy clot peaks all over its little body. Scara didn’t know much about cats’ health, but even he could tell the kitten was sick. It looked at him with its teary, festered eyes, blinking them in turn. It’s hard to tell if it could even see anything behind all that puss and blood. The sounds it made weren’t pretty either: they didn’t sound like meowing at all, rather resembling squeaky, hoarse croaking.
Unable to look at the miserable creature any longer, Scara looked up at Childe:
“Did you pull it out of a dumpster??” he asked, pulling himself away from the ball of disease and infection. “It looks contagious.”
“Cats aren’t contagious,” Childe corrected, offended on behalf of his furry demon. “It’s just a little eye infection. All strays get them.”
“You’re not making it sound any better,” Scara huffed. How could Childe even hold it in his hands without gloves? Just looking at the kitten made Scara squeamish. “It looks gross.”
“You’re gross,” Childe finally put the kitten back down on its make-shift towel bed, where it immediately tried to hide again. “He’ll get better in no time. He just needs to get his eyes cleaned. And some medicine.”
“And I’m assuming you’ve already bought it…” Scara grumbled, grieving the loss of budget. Getting rid of the kitten now felt like bad idea. Money was already wasted, and throwing the kitten out meant throwing out everything spent on it too.
“I did. And I already washed his eyes. And fed him.”
Scara rubbed the bridge of his nose, resignation slowly settling into his expression. Guess that’s his life now.
“Just don’t expect me to help you take care of that thing. I’m not touching it with a stick,” he finally relented, but not without showing how unhappy that development made him.
“So you mean we can keep him?” Childe’s eyes lit up. He didn’t wait for Scara’s answer before leaning down to press a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you! I promise he won't bother you.”
Scara knew it wasn’t true. It was impossible for him to not be bothered having a sick kitten sitting in the bathroom of their rented apartment. But that was a thought for another day.
“C’mon, let's get you something to eat too!”
“Finally. I was starting to think you'll let me starve to death.”