Work Text:
The camera clicked off with a soft mechanical hum, and James stood from the floor with a stretch that made his spine crack dramatically. “That’s one way to destroy my posture,” He mumbled, adjusting the lens and waving his hand vaguely toward the couch. “You can sit while I set up. Still figuring out the lighting in this corner.”
Will nodded and took a few hesitant steps toward the couch. Even though he’d spent what felt like half his life in Jame’s flat, there was something about filming days that always made the space feel more…charged. Maybe it was the way James focused when he worked, brow furrowed and lip tucked between his teeth. Or maybe it was the way Will’s heart clenched every time he caught James half-smiling in his direction.
He sat. Not on the edge–though he considered it–but settled deeper into the cushions, hands resting awkwardly on his knees.
And then Otto struck.
One leap. No hesitation. Just the soft thud of paw on thigh and a quick scramble of claws against denim before the cat tucked himself into Will’s lap like he owned the place. Like he’d been waiting all day for this exact moment.
Will blinked. “Uh…”
Otto purred–deep and smug. It reverberated against Will’s abdomen, as if to say: Don’t move. This is happening.
James glanced up from the camera and raised an eyebrow. “What the hell?”
Will looked helpless. “He jumped.”
James tilted his head. “Otto doesn’t do laps. Like, ever. He tried to climb into mine once and fell asleep with his butt on the armrest instead. You must be blessed.”
Otto shifted slightly and bumped his head against Will’s chest with a possessive sort of affection. Will reached down automatically, fingers brushing over soft fur. Otto closed his eyes. The purring got louder.
“I–I can move him,” Will said, though he did not attempt to do so.
James snorted. “Doubtful. He’s locked in. That’s his war cry.”
Will hesitated, fingers still combing slow, soothing lines across Otto’s back. “Maybe he just likes me more now.”
James gave him a look–playful but curious. “Have you been bribing him behind my back? Sneaking him treats?”
Will chuckled nervously. “I wouldn’t dare.”
Otto sneezed–once, dramatic–and nestled deeper.
James moved to the couch but didn’t sit. Instead, he hovered nearby, fiddling with the angle of a tripod that had already been adjusted twice.
“I’m still shocked,” James murmured.
Will glanced down at the cat in his lap. Otto was soft, warm, and steady–none of the erratic energy he usually showed during filming days. There was something calm about him now. Intentional.
Will’s heart thudded in his chest, and he hated how much he wanted to lean into it–to pretend Otto’s comfort permitted him to feel something James didn’t know he carried.
“You think it means something?” Will asked, half joking.
James looked at him, gaze sharp and unreadable. “Cats don’t do anything without meaning.”
Will swallowed. “Right.”
Otto purred louder. James finally dropped onto the cushion beside Will, just close enough that their legs touched briefly before James shifted.
The space between them was small. But it felt enormous.
They started filming. Something light. Something dumb. Otto stayed in Will’s lap the entire time. When Will laughed too hard and leaned to the side, Otto placed a paw on his chest like a warning. Don’t go far. When James made a joke that made Will’s stomach twist in the best way, Otto bumped his head against Will’s wrist–grounding him.
And James kept glancing sideways. Every time Otto moved. Every time Will flushed. Every time the silence between takes felt heavier than it should.
That night, when Will got home, he found cat fur clinging to his jeans and the lingering echo of Jame’s voice ringing quietly in his head.
He didn’t know what Otto saw in him. But he knew, somehow, that Otto had decided something Will hadn’t dared to admit.
+++
It wasn’t the first time Will had come over midweek to grab a charger he forgot or re-export a file corrupted in the cloud. And James had, as usual, left a key tucked under the mat outside the door.
Inside, the flat was quiet–no music playing, no kettle whistling, no James humming along to some half-written verse. Just Otto padding across hardwood with his usual confident grace, tail flicking lazily as if he’d known Will was coming.
Will muttered, “Hello, little man,” And bent to scoop him up, surprised when Otto allowed it.
The cat nuzzled his cheek, then promptly climbed onto his shoulder like a fuzzy parrot, which was how Will found himself snooping around James’s living room with feline supervision perched on bone and muscle.
He spotted the charger on the shelf beside the TV. Grabbed it. Started for the door.
But something stopped him.
It wasn’t loud or obvious. It was the soft shift of color in the hallway–something out of place, just enough to tug at the corner of his eye.
A hoodie. Gray. Slumped against the laundry basket in the hallway, a little rumpled and not folded by human hands.
Will froze.
He walked over slowly, aware of the cat still balancing on his shoulders, and bent down. The hoodie was his. Not one he’d worn today, or even the last few times he’d been over. He recognized it by the frayed thread near the wrist and the tiny sun-shaped patch ironed onto the back–an impulse gift from James last winter when Will had been going through one of his darker stretches.
Otto lept down with a soft thud and meowed–a chirpy, innocent sound that didn’t match the sheer oddness of what Will was looking at.
He picked up the hoodie. There were faint paw prints on the sleeve, like Otto dragged it through some dust on his journey. But that was the thing–Will had no idea how Otto had even gotten to it. His backpack had stayed zipped during his visits. The hoodie had last been in his bedroom at home, shoved into a drawer weeks ago.
“Did you steal this?” Will whispered, as if the cat would respond to him.
Otto plopped down in front of him and cleaned a paw like he hadn’t just committed a small but emotionally significant act of larceny.
Will carried the hoodie into the living room, feeling suddenly like he was walking through James’s space with a piece of himself lit up in his hands.
He sat on the couch, Otto hopping beside him with practiced ease.
The hoodie smelled faintly of lavender and dryer sheets, which was odd–it had clearly been washed recently. James had washed it.
Will rested it in his lap, staring.
Something about the gesture made him feel split open–not in a bad way, but in that aching, tender way where everything felt a little too intimate. He couldn’t stop picturing James folding it, tossing it over his arm, maybe even smiling as he did so. And worse, he couldn’t stop imagining James noticing the hoodie and thinking this belongs here.
Will hadn’t told James about the panic attacks lately. The ones that crept in quietly like shadows in the shower, tight and choking. But something in this–this small thing–felt like care he hadn’t asked for but somehow received anyway.
And Otto just purred beside him like a smug psychic.
Will sat there for nearly forty minutes. Not editing. Not texting. Just running his fingers over seams and remembering every time James had handed him this hoodie in winter, draping it over his shoulders without making eye contact, always pretending it wasn’t an act of love.
When James finally texted– “Still okay to let yourself in? Otto probably already gave you the guest pass lol.” –Will replied:
“He gave me more than that.”
Then immediately deleted it. Rewrote: “Yeah. He’s supervising.”
James replied with a laughing emoji and a simple: “He only supervises the people he likes.”
Will stared at the screen and typed: “He dragged my hoodie into your laundry pile.”
James took a minute before responding: “Otto’s started nesting with your stuff lately. He dragged your old beanie into my bed last week. I thought it was mine. He’s collecting you.”
Will’s hands trembled faintly.
Otto pawed at his knee.
And Will, for the first time, let the thought creep in like fog: Is Otto trying to leave breadcrumbs?
+++
Saturday filming days were usually smooth. At least in theory.
James had a habit of obsessively prepping–adjusting camera angles, triple-checking audio, clearing migs off side tables because “visual clutter was an aesthetic sin.” Will, on the other hand, oscillated between nervous laughter and chronic sleeve-fidgeting, pretending like he hadn’t spent the last hour before showing up choosing a shirt that would look good next to James’s skin tone.
Otto, naturally, was unimpressed.
He lay stretched on the windowsill, soaking in the pale light like a feline statue carved from smugness. His tail twitched faintly each time James cursed under his breath at the audio interface.
Will curled up on the couch with a throw blanket half-tangled around his legs, flipping through the Q&A prompts on his phone. “Someone wants to know our ‘most awkward friendship moment’.”
James turned from the camera with a grin. “Like we’d admit that on record.”
“Oh, I would,” Will said too quickly, too pointedly. “I have no dignity.”
“Good to know,” James teased. “And Otto’s our emotional PR agent.”
Otto blinked slowly, then yawned in a way that suggested he was barely tolerating this nonsense.
They settled into the shoot–two mics, one camera, a pair of matching cups filled with coffee. The vibe was light, easy. Familiar.
Until it wasn’t.
James asked, “Okay–what’s something you’d be doing if YouTube didn’t exist?”
Will opened his mouth to answer, but Otto made his move.
A sudden leap from the windowsill, paws heavy, aimed directly at the mic stand. It toppled over in an ungraceful crash, clattering across hardwood like a tiny thunderstorm.
Will startled. James swore. Otto landed beside Will’s foot and meowed innocently, tail flicking once, then twice.
“Did he just…” Will blinked. “He killed the mic.”
James knelt down to inspect the damage. “Otto’s a menace.”
Otto sat back and washed his paw as if he hadn’t sabotaged audio quality mid-sentence.
“I was about to say something serious,” Will added, more to Otto than James.
James laughed under his breath, tossing Will a glance over his shoulder. “Then maybe Otto’s trying to keep it unserious.”
They reset. Twenty minutes later, the boom mic was up again. Otto retreated–seemingly satiated with chaos. But James kept glancing at him like he expected another ambush.
“Take two,” He said, pressing record. “Okay. Question: Have you ever said something on camera you regretted?”
Will shifted slightly, gaze flickering toward James. “Yeah, once.”
James leaned in. “Oh? You never told me?”
Will hesitated. “It wasn’t on your channel.”
James raised a brow. “Spill.”
Otto’s ears twitched.
“I said something about not believing I’d ever be someone people stayed for,” Will muttered, quietly enough that James had to turn the gain up to catch it. “Didn’t think anyone cared enough to stay.”
James went still.
Otto crept forward–slow and deliberate–and jumped onto the table between them, tail swishing through the cords. His paw nudged the camera mount just enough to shift the angle.
“Otto!” James hissed. “Do you mind?”
Otto stared back like a prophet guarding the temple.
“I think he does mind,” Will said softly. “Just not about the camera.”
James paused, hand frozen on the tripod, fingers pale from tension. “He’s been weird lately. Clingy. Repositioning things. Your stuff, mostly.”
Will lowered his gaze. “He dragged my beanie into your bed last week. Thought it was a toy.”
“It wasn’t a toy,” James said. “He curled up with it. Like a stuffed animal.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable–but it hung between them, suspended like a loaded question they didn’t know how to frame.
+++
It wasn’t supposed to be an overnight thing.
Will had come over later to help James prep a thumbnail and eat leftover Thai. The rain started sometime around 10 PM–hard and relentless, tapping against windows like a hundred tiny drumbeats. By 10:45, James stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching the downpour and insisting, “You’re not going home in that. Otto would never forgive me.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “So it’s Otto who runs the guilt campaigns now?”
James just grinned. “He’s persuasive.”
Will hadn’t brought an overnight bag. No toothbrush. No change of clothes. But it wasn’t the first time he’d crashed here without planning to. The couch had become familiar–the soft blanket James kept folded behind the cushions, the pillow that still smelled faintly of lavender and laundry sheets. Otto usually curled up at his feet like a sentry.
Will laid out on his side, hoodie wrinkled, phone plugged in just barely with a borrowed cord. The flat was quiet except for James moving around in the other room, and Will found himself watching the light under James’s door like it might flicker into some new realization.
Otto, true to form, was suspiciously absent.
Will figured the cat had retreated to some surly-up corner or hidden perch–cats always knew when emotional tension was simmering too hot for comfort. And Will, deep down, knew he hadn’t looked James in the eye for more than a few seconds that evening.
Because something was shifting. He felt it like a tightness behind his ribs–like the warmth he felt around James had outgrown its place and turned sharp around the edges. He hated that he missed James more when they were in the same room than when they were apart.
And Otto–somehow–seemed to know that too.
Extremely early the next morning, Will stirred and realized the blanket had slipped off. He reached for it but paused when he heard a soft meow. Not from the hallway, but from James’s room.
Will blinked.
Another meow. Just as soft. Like a tap-tap-tap on the door of his restraint.
He sat up slowly, listening. Then stood, padding barefoot across the hardwood and pausing at the half-open door to James’s room. James wasn’t in there, having already left to stop by the recording studio for a few.
Otto was on the bed. Sitting tall. Watching.
The sheets were rumpled. One pillow skewed slightly. Beside it–a beanie. Will’s. One he hadn’t worn in weeks. He recognized the frayed seam.
And beside that –James’s hoodie.
Otto meowed again and pawed gently at the beanie.
“What are you doing?” Will whispered, stepping inside slowly, like he might spook the cat or himself.
Otto curled into a loaf beside the pillows and blinked at him with the kind of slow, calculated affection that made Will feel vaguely accused.
“You nest with my stuff now?” Will murmured, picking up the hoodie.
It smelled like James. That mix of cedar soap and something vanilla, subtle and grounding. Will held it carefully, afraid it might slip from his fingers like something too delicate to deserve.
Otto watched him. Silent now. The kind of quiet that felt like expectation.
Will hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the bed, the hoodie resting on his lap. Otto shifted slightly and pressed his paws to the beanie like a guardian, making sure it didn’t leave again.
Will exhaled. The room was warmer than the couch, gentler somehow. Like it held memories in the walls.
He lay back–not entirely, just halfway–and stared at the ceiling. His heart beat like someone had turned up the bass. Otto padded over and nestled against his side.
It was domestic. Stupidly domestic. Like he’s wandered into the kind of closeness he’s been avoiding for months, one soft step at a time.
His hand drifted to Otto’s fur. “You want me here, huh?”
Otto purred. Quiet, steady. Like he’d been waiting for Will to figure that out.
Will swallowed hard. His throat hurt. His chest felt heavy.
Because this space–James’s room–felt like more than walls and blankets and pillows. It felt like trust. Like quiet intimacy. Like permission Otto had granted without saying a single word.
And Will hated that he wanted to stay.
He closed his eyes, trying to breathe through the sharp edge of longing. Trying to imagine what it would be like to be allowed here permanently. To belong. To not just drift through someone else’s comfort zone like a ghost with too many feelings.
Otto nudged Will’s elbow once, then settled back down.
And Will whispered, “Why do you keep pulling me closer when I’m not ready?”
Otto didn’t respond, obviously.
But Will didn’t leave the room that night.
And when James came home later in the day–coffee in hand, eyebrows raised–he peeked into the bedroom and saw Will still curled up, Otto asleep beside him, his hoodie flooded under Will’s arm like it had been there all along.
James smiled, too softly to be seen.
Otto blinked awake.
And neither of them said a word.
+++
Will hadn’t meant to stay long.
It was one of those errand-like visits: James was out of town again for a short stint of recording, and Will was stopping by to check Otto’s water bowl, drop off a new SD card, and feed the plant James swore he’d keep alive this time. He promised himself he’d be in and out. No lingering. No letting the walls feel too familiar. No pretending this place felt like a home.
It didn’t work.
He walked through the flat like someone tiptoeing through a memory. The smell hadn’t changed–faint cedarwood from James’s candles, a hint of espresso from the machine he used religiously but never cleaned properly, and the subtle echo of his presence that lived in clutter and coziness.
Otto trotted over as soon as Will stepped inside, tail curling like a question mark. Will reached down and scratched behind his ears. “Yeah, I know. I’m late.”
Otto chirped in acknowledgment, then padded down the hall without waiting for permission. Will followed.
He expected Otto to lead him toward the kitchen or the bathroom or the infamous stash of toy mice that Otto had hidden beneath the couch for weeks. Instead, Otto settled in front of the gallery wall.
It was a collage of moments: polaroids and postcards, photos printed on cheap glossy paper and thumbtacked with too much enthusiasm. James’s life in snapshots. Some images were chaotic–stage lights, blurry car selfies, videos paused at odd angles–but others felt intimate. Quiet smiles. Pillow creases. Hands holding coffee mugs.
Will had seen the wall before. Had skimmed over it absentmindedly while waiting for water to boil or taking off his shoes. But he hadn’t looked at it. Not like this.
Otto sat down, tail curled around his paws, and stared at a single photo near the bottom corner.
It wasn’t framed. Just pinned crookedly between two tour posters. Will knelt beside him.
The image was grainy. A party photo–he remembered the night. Someone had dragged them to a chaotic Halloween thing. James had worn vampire fangs for approximately three minutes before chewing one in half. Will had refused a costume altogether and ended up in James’s hoodie and devil horns borrowed from someone they didn’t know.
In the photo, James was laughing–head thrown back, fangs long gone, eyes scrunched in a way Will had always secretly loved. Will was in the background, half-blurred, holding a drink and looking in James’s direction. Not at the camera. Not at anyone else.
Just him.
Otto tapped the corner of the photo with one paw.
Will froze.
“You can’t possibly know what that means,” He whispered.
Otto tilted his head. Meowed.
Will reached out and touched the edge of the photo. It was slightly curled from humidity. The look on his own face–captured mid-linger–made his stomach twist. It was too soft. Too open. Too telling.
He hadn’t known anyone caught in that moment. Hadn’t realized the camera picked up everything he tried so hard to keep quiet.
“You’re ridiculous,” Will murmured to Otto, voice shaky. “You’re trying to be symbolic now?”
Otto flicked his tail and rubbed against Will’s arm. Then–with calculated ease–he stood up, walked over to another corner of the gallery, and pawed lightly at a photo of James onstage, silhouetted in golden light. The crowd was blurred into a sea of hands. But James was clear. Reaching toward the mic. Eyes half-closed.
It wasn’t the photo Otto focused on.
It was the one beneath it.
Another polaroid–Will and James filming in the kitchen, faces blurry from movement. Will was mid-laugh. James had flour on his cheek. Otto sat in the corner of the frame, tail curved smugly.
He pawed it. One deliberate touch.
Will felt something shift inside him–some wall cracking, some dam starting to drip.
“You’ve been trying to tell me something, haven’t you?” Will whispered.
Otto meowed once.
Will stood slowly, fingers brushing the side of the gallery wall. The photos, the angles, the fragments of time–all staked together like a visual version of every memory he and James had lived and refused to name.
And the cat? The cat had curated them. Not exactly, but close enough. Always pawing at the ones that made Will ache a little. Always lingering beneath the ones that showed James looking at Will like he was the center of a quiet storm.
Will backed away from the wall like it might speak aloud.
Otto followed.
And Will sat down on the couch, hoodie wrinkled in his lap, photos burned behind his eyelids. He reached for his phone, opened the message thread with James, and stared at the blinking cursor.
He typed: “Otto’s obsessed with that photo of us in the kitchen.”
James replied quickly: “Oh god, he still does that? He scratched it the other day.”
Will hesitated. Typed: “Do you know why?”
James took longer this time. Then: “No idea. Maybe he just likes how we look together.”
Will didn’t breathe for a moment.
Then Otto hopped onto his lap and settled in, purring.
And Will, in a rare moment of terrifying clarity, realized that Otto did know.
Had always known.
He just needed Will to stop pretending long enough to see it for himself.
+++
It was a quiet Wednesday when James returned from the studio–his voice scratchy from hours of recording, his hoodie damp from the mist that clung to the air. Will hadn’t expected him back until Thursday, but Otto had spent the morning pacing the flat like he knew something was about to shift.
Will was curled up on the couch with Otto nestled tight in the crook of his arm, scrolling halfheartedly through texts he wasn’t answering. Otto’s purr was low and steady–less of a sound and more of a rhythm, syncing with Will’s breathing.
The front door clicked open.
Will didn’t move. Otto twitched once but didn’t get up.
James stepped in quietly, dropped his duffel bag by the door, and paused when he saw them.
There was nothing dramatic about the moment. Just stillness. James, standing there with his hair damp and his hoodie clinging to his shoulders. Will was half-curled beneath a blanket with Otto so deeply settled into his lap it was almost comical.
But something in James’s posture shifted.
He didn’t speak immediately. Just walked over slowly, kicking off his boots, then stood in the living room doorway like he wasn’t sure whether to interrupt.
Will cleared his throat. “You’re early.”
“Yeah,” James said softly. “Session ended ahead of schedule. Thought I’d surprise you.”
“You did.”
James gestured to Otto with a crooked smile. “You’ve been adopted.”
Will looked down. Otto blinked up at him, then pressed his paw lightly to Will’s chest and purred louder.
“He won’t leave me alone,” Will murmured, voice thick around something he couldn’t name.
James stepped closer and sat on the arm of the couch, their knees nearly touching. He leaned in just enough to look Will in the eye. “He’s been doing this for weeks, hasn’t he?”
Will hesitated. “What?”
James gestured to the cat. “Dragging your clothes into my room. Sleeping in your hoodie. Pawing at the photos where we look…close.”
Will’s fingers stiffened. “You noticed?”
James nodded slowly. “Of course, I noticed. I thought it was just him being clingy. But then I realized he’s only ever like that with you.”
Will didn’t speak.
James watched him quietly. “Do you think he’s been trying to tell us something?”
Otto shifted and nosed Will’s hand, demanding movement. Will absently stroked his back, voice low. “I think he knows what I’ve been afraid to say.”
James exhaled. “Will…”
“I feel like I don’t deserve any of it,” Will interrupted. His gaze flickered down to Otto. “Not the comfort. Not the quiet. Not you.”
“You do.”
“I wish I believed that.”
Otto headbutted his ribs, annoyed.
James moved from the armrest and sat beside him properly now, thigh against thigh, hand resting loosely on his own knee. “Every time I walked through this door, and I saw you in my space…it felt like home. I think Otto knew that before I did.”
Will turned to look at him, eyes rimmed red but dry. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I thought you’d need time,” James said gently. “To want it on your own terms.”
Will swallowed. “I did. I do. But it hurts.”
James nodded. “Love isn’t simple. Not for us. Not when it’s tangled in years of friendship and quiet moments we never named.”
Otto meowed once–soft, like punctuation.
And James reached out slowly, resting his hand atop Will’s where it sat on Otto’s back.
“I’m not asking you for everything right now,” He said. “Just let yourself see it. Let yourself be seen.”
Will stared at their joined hands.
And then–without meaning to–leaned sideways until his shoulder bumped into James’s. Otto stayed pressed close, like a talisman.
James didn’t move away.
Will whispered, “I think I’ve been loving you for longer than I’ve known how to.”
James replied, voice barely audible, “I think Otto knew since the first time you sat on my couch.”
They both laughed–softly, brokenly.
Otto stood and padded off the couch like his job was finally done.
Will, heart rattling, breathed for the first time in days.
Then he turned slightly, just enough to meet James’s gaze head-on. The laughter faded, but something warm stayed behind, hovering in the quiet.
James hesitated. “Can I?”
Will nodded–once, bravely.
The kiss was gentle. No fanfare. Just lips meeting like a whisper, drawn together by weeks of silence and months of everything unspoken. Neither of them moved much. Just enough to anchor the moment. Just enough to say: I’m here. I’ve been here.
When they pulled back, James leaned his forehead against Will’s and closed his eyes.
Will let his fall shut too, heart thudding–but steady now.
Otto sat on his cat tree, got comfortable, happily sated, and closed his eyes. He was tired from dealing with those two idiots.