Work Text:
Akira lived with a cat.
Except the cat that he lived with wasn’t your everyday, typical kind of housecat.
It was a cat that resembled a human in all but demeanor and some minor (major) physical features. Standing over the impressive height of 180 centimeters, Shiki—the stray cat Akira had taken in months ago one rainy day—looked hardly different from any other human being. He could’ve easily been mistaken for one, too, if it weren’t for the set of cat ears and tail that he had.
They weren't ornaments or mere accessories. They were moving, organic body parts that responded to stimuli and sometimes seemed to have a mind of their own. Akira had seen it more than once before; the flick or flattening of a pointed ear that extended from the crown of Shiki’s hair, or the languid swish of a tail, curving and curling in the air with the hypnotic lure of a metronome. Shiki himself didn’t seem to be aware of these quirks, and Akira didn't want to be the one to bring it up. So the topic was never mentioned.
But even without these physical traits as an indicator, Shiki was unmistakably a cat. He would do things for no other reason than to seemingly piss Akira off. He had a tendency to groom himself to a perfectionist degree. He was quiet and mostly kept to himself, though if he did have anything to say, it was usually complaints toward Akira or about their living situation, prickly and fickle as he was.
Just this past week, Akira had heard more than a few complaints already.
“You’re late.”
“The pantry is empty again.”
“Why do the walls tear so easily?”
“You smell terrible. Hurry up and take a shower.”
The last comment in particular, Shiki would often say whenever Akira came home from work or school. Akira didn't think he smelled that bad, but apparently the smell was strong enough that Shiki would immediately drag him by the arm in the direction of the bathroom.
What was most bizarre and bewildering about Shiki’s behavior, however, was his tendency to proclaim himself as Akira’s owner.
“If you hate it here that much, then why don’t you just leave?” Akira had asked one day after hearing Shiki complain about the lack of food that suited his palate. They were sitting in the living room together eating dinner on a shabby kotatsu. Akira didn’t know how to cook anything other than a packet of instant noodles, and Shiki was a cat (or part cat, now), so they usually ended up eating takeout or processed food from the convenience store.
“Because I am your owner,” Shiki replied incomprehensibly while putting a sushi roll in his mouth with a pair of chopsticks. His tail was swaying back and forth, the ends of his fur prickled up in visible dissatisfaction. The fish wasn’t to his liking—Shiki had mentioned that it could hardly even be called fish—but he ate it nonetheless.
Akira didn’t know how to respond to that. Wasn’t it the other way around?
But then again, he’d never really “adopted” Shiki. He had simply let this strange black cat follow him home to take shelter in his apartment while waiting out a thunderstorm. At the time, Shiki had taken on a different form. He wasn’t as tall as he was now, and he didn’t talk—in fact he didn’t resemble a human at all, or whatever hybrid species he could be called now. He really was just like any other stray cat that roamed the streets: lithe and small, quiet and unassuming, distant and avoidant.
When the storm had passed through the night and then blew over, the morning misty with glistening dewdrops and the sky a yawning gray-blue upon which the sun crested, Akira had unlocked the front door to his apartment and let it creak wide open to the outdoors, which was still damp with petrichor lingering from the night before.
Except the black cat didn't leave. It refused to. In the days that followed, Akira would leave the front door open, or even crack a window wide enough for a small animal to slip through, but the cat didn't leave. It would dip into the shadows; weave between the nooks and crannies of furniture, and at night, Akira would hear the occasional jingle of its cross necklaces. Eventually, the weather got cold enough that Akira had to stop leaving these escape routes open, because clearly, the only thing that was going out was warm air.
…So maybe he was the one who got adopted by Shiki. But that didn’t make the relationship between them any less incomprehensible. In fact, it just made it even weirder.
Akira's gaze drifted up the stairs leading to his tiny and plain apartment. He was coming home late again. In his mind’s eye, he could already make out the flat, twitching ears peeking from Shiki's hair and the sharp, angled curl of a tail. With a low sigh, Akira ascended the stairs.
When he opened the door, he was greeted to the sight of a rather displeased Shiki.
“Akira,” he said. His arms were crossed. Behind him, his tail was thumping erratically against the wall.
“…Shiki,” Akira replied, unsure of how to react aside from a default tone of voice. He didn't even hear Shiki approaching the door from the other side. Momentarily, his gaze was drawn to Shiki's tail, but then he recovered and met Shiki's gaze again.
“You’re late again.”
Akira’s lips pinched slightly and he exhaled through his nose. He wasn’t that late. “I had to stay a few minutes after work today.”
“Hmph.” Shiki was still standing at the doorway, his gaze hard and keen on Akira’s face, ears angled down sharply, and for a while, it seemed like he was contemplating whether or not he should “disown” Akira and kick him out of his own apartment. But then Shiki moved aside and retreated from the doorway, and he turned his back to Akira.
“Go take a shower,” Shiki ordered. There was a hidden inflection in his voice, like he was holding in his breath… which he actually might be.
Akira stepped inside the familiarly monotonous space of his own apartment. He wondered what it was, exactly, that Shiki could smell from him every time he came home that made him turn his nose up. His clothes couldn’t have gotten that dirty, not from his job and not from his commute between school and work and finally, home.
Shiki retreated to the kitchen, his long tail swaying idly behind him. He was… less upset than Akira expected. Akira couldn’t say for sure. After living with Shiki these past few months, he had become accustomed to Shiki’s moodiness, not by intention, but through the inherent force of familiarity. It had gotten easier over time to tell when Shiki was genuinely upset about something, and when he was just in one of his prickly moods that would eventually pass by and blow over like a quiet storm.
Brushing those thoughts off, Akira went and grabbed his clothes from the bedroom.
As he walked down the hallway to the bathroom, he paused. From the direction of the kitchen wafted the smell of spices, bright and blooming on the senses. Akira's head turned and he found himself looking upon Shiki in the kitchen, who was currently stirring a pot of simmering soup with a ladle.
The sight was so utterly mundane yet surreal that Akira couldn't help but find it absurd. (It was absurd enough already that Shiki had turned from a cat into a human.) Shiki was tall enough that his head nearly reached the ventilation hood above the stove, and if his ears were fully upright, he might actually graze it. He had an apron on as well—something he initially found offense toward but reluctantly began to wear after accidentally staining his clothes one time in the kitchen.
Akira glanced away and continued down the hallway before Shiki could catch him staring.
By the time he was done with his shower, the kotatsu in the living room was set with various dishes and plates. Shiki was already sitting down. Akira took his seat across from Shiki and looked at the meal in front of him. There was rice, fish, miso soup, a variety of vegetables, and meat, all finely plated and presented. It was like a full-course meal, except it was entirely homemade.
A warm and mild aroma surrounded the kotatsu, the smell of all the dishes blending together. Shiki wordlessly picked up a pair of chopsticks and began to eat. Akira followed suit after a beat.
They ate in relative silence, only the soft clacks of chopsticks disturbing the otherwise placid and homely air between them. Akira glanced at Shiki—only to see his tail waving somewhat casually. Shiki's expression remained impossible to perceive, but Akira couldn't help but think he appeared a little self-satisfied.
About a month ago, Shiki had decided to take it upon himself to start preparing meals at home after having enough of eating cheap, store-bought food from the convenience store. Since Akira had little time on his hands, and Shiki had entirely too much, it became a natural development that Akira would handle whatever errands that needed to be done outside (groceries, shopping), while Shiki would handle the chores at home. It was an unspoken balance between them. Shiki couldn't go outside; not if he wanted to get stared at in public due to his unusual features, and he might catch unwanted attention.
Akira's gaze wandered back to the plates laid out before him. He picked out various vegetables with his chopsticks, adding them to his bowl of rice. The simple act of indulging in a warm and home-cooked meal was a relatively recent development in his life, and it still felt foreign to him, even after a month of this.
Between having to attend classes, go to work, and also run weekly errands, Akira barely had time to cook—in fact it was the reason why he didn't know how to cook at all. He would usually skip breakfast, grab one of the baked buns from the school cafeteria when it was lunchtime, and then, after work, he'd take one of the bento boxes from the convenience store home. Since he was an employee, he could buy things at a discounted rate (which had ended up proving to be even more useful when he started having to buy two pre-packaged meals instead of one: one for him and one for Shiki.)
It was… different coming home to a meal already prepared for him, that was for sure. No longer was he eating chilled food for dinner with rice that was stiff, the individual grains compacted together like rocks. He could actually taste the subtle flavors and aroma of the food he was eating instead of just the stale aftertaste that lingered from said food being chilled in a refrigerator for hours. And it was convenient, he guessed. He was saving money at least. Even the increased cost of having to buy more groceries every week was still less than the overall cost of buying takeout food every day.
When they finished eating dinner, Akira helped Shiki clear away the bowls and plates and carry them to the sink. There was barely any space in the kitchen for two people though, so eventually, Shiki told Akira that he was in the way and to leave.
Akira almost protested at first, not because he actually felt a strong inclination to help do the dishes, but because he didn't like being ordered around and told off like that. He paused when he saw Shiki focused on washing the dishes though. Shiki's ears were downcast and his tail was slightly perked up. He seemed less annoyed by Akira's presence and more concentrated in the task of doing the dishes.
Akira quietly backed away from the kitchen. Technically, he was living in an apartment meant for one person, so the space in the kitchen was small enough that only one person could really occupy it at a time. It hadn't been much of an issue when Shiki was just a cat that was small and lithe enough to leap onto the kitchen countertops. He would watch Akira with his red-eyed gaze and slink around from cupboard to cupboard, raised tail curling behind in quiet curiosity while Akira washed the dishes.
It was a bit ironic how it was the reverse now—Shiki washing the dishes, and Akira watching him. Akira didn’t linger for long though; eventually, he left and retreated to the bedroom. There was some homework he had to do, and he figured he should get a headstart on it while he still had some time to himself without Shiki bothering him.
In his bedroom, his gaze was instinctively drawn to the wall where his desk was placed against. Signs of damage were visible on the wall: the paint was peeling, revealing the layer of rough brown underneath, with flimsy scraps of white barely hanging on. It was as if someone had gone in with a scraper and tried to tear the wall down from inside out, though Akira knew the truth was way more absurd than that.
It was Shiki's fault, which was easily the least surprising thing about this. Just a few days ago, Shiki had attempted to scratch the wall with his nails—out of habit or instinct, Akira didn't know—but the resulting mess was a streak of jagged lines running down the wall in what eerily resembled claw marks. When Akira returned home and saw the damage done to the wall, Shiki, without displaying a shred of remorse, coolly told him it was the wall’s fault for “being too weak.” Whatever the hell that meant.
Akira wasn't really upset about it. It was just a wall, and the rent was suspiciously cheap enough that Akira wouldn't be surprised if the walls really were reinforced poorly.
If he thought Shiki had been troublesome as a cat though, then he was even more annoying to deal with now. At least when Shiki was still just a cat that barely reached up to Akira’s knee, Akira had found his antics annoying but tolerable and easy to ignore. It was a lot harder to ignore those same antics when they were being done by a tall figure who loomed over Akira’s stature and constantly made his presence known in Akira’s periphery—overbearingly so.
Akira sat in the chair at his desk with a faint sigh. It wasn't like there was anything he could do about the damaged wall now. The only cause for concern was in appearance anyway; so long as the wall remained functional, there was no need to go telling the landlord about it.
Akira retrieved his laptop from his messenger bag. There were some assignments he had to do for his classes. He opened his laptop and got to work.
It was a while later that the bedroom door opened. Akira didn't have to turn around to know that it was Shiki coming in with the possible (inevitable) intention of bothering him. He stayed focused on the words on his laptop screen, even as he heard Shiki’s footsteps.
Shiki's footsteps were soft against the floor, but instead of coming up behind Akira, he opted to occupy the bed instead. Akira found it weird, but didn't say anything, let alone turn around to glance at Shiki. He kept his gaze focused on his laptop screen, trying to complete his current assignment.
The silence only lasted for a few minutes before Shiki opened his mouth.
“Akira.”
“What?” He kept typing away on his keyboard, his pace unbroken by the interruption.
Shiki didn't say anything more, but in the next few seconds, a soft thwap thwap could be heard. Akira had heard it enough times in his life to recognize that it was the unmistakable sound of Shiki’s tail hitting the bed.
“I’m busy,” Akira said. He really was.
Still, Shiki didn't relent. His tail continued tapping up and down against the bed sheets, almost following a set rhythm but not quite. Akira momentarily considered putting on his headphones and listening to music, but then Shiki might really get pissed off about that.
Akira finally turned around in his chair to look at Shiki. Shiki was sitting on the bed with his arms crossed and his ears pointed downward. Behind him, his tail continued to thump rhythmically against the bed. Akira frowned slightly.
…Back then, Shiki would sit curled up in his lap while Akira did his homework. It would be one of the rare times that Shiki actually sat still and didn't make a fuss. If Akira didn't let him sit in his lap, Shiki would meow until Akira relented.
Obviously, Shiki was too big to sit on his lap now—not to mention he might even take offense to the prospect of doing such a thing. Did he even remember that he used to sit on Akira’s lap as a cat?
Sighing, Akira quietly got up from his chair, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. He walked over to the bed where Shiki was sulking and sat beside him.
“What did you want?” Akira asked, even though the answer was obvious.
He wanted attention.
Wordlessly, Shiki plopped his head down on Akira's lap. Akira tensed at the sudden weight on him but slackened his posture again soon after.
“Don't just suddenly put your head in my lap,” Akira grumbled.
Shiki continued to laze against him on the bed as though he didn’t hear him. He had his eyes closed, an almost nonchalant expression on his face, but his ears were flicking back and forth, nestled within the crown of his hair.
Akira stared at Shiki's face, unsure of what that expression was supposed to convey. He could only assume that it was complete and utter disregard for Akira's words and personal space. If there was one thing that remained consistent from when Shiki was a cat to what he was now, it was that he did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted—plain and simple.
Akira glanced away from Shiki's face. Shiki hadn't always been in this form. Akira didn’t know what happened; only that he’d gone to sleep with Shiki curled up inconspicuously like a black ball of fur by his side one night, and then found a man in his bed the next morning.
Somehow it had been easier to gauge Shiki's moods when he was still just a cat that couldn't talk. This Shiki was infinitely harder to understand. He would say one thing, but his ears and tail would say another. Akira had no idea what Shiki actually wanted from him at times. He had never been good at understanding others or reading the various, intricate emotions that human faces and bodies and voices were capable of expressing.
Shiki chose at the moment to suddenly get up from Akira's lap. He turned toward Akira, an indefinable expression on his face. Shiki leaned in, their faces a breath away, and he cradled Akira's face in his hands.
Akira held his breath in anticipation, his spine absolutely rigid. Shiki’s tongue peeked out of his mouth, and then he… licked Akira's cheek.
The silence was dead awkward—or at least it was on Akira's end. Shiki seemed to act as though there was nothing wrong or strange about him licking Akira's face. Well, there would have been nothing wrong or strange about it if Shiki were still a cat, with four paws and whiskers and all. But he wasn't. And for Akira, having his face be licked by a human tongue was a vastly different experience than having it be licked by a tiny but sandpaper-y tongue. It was more wet and warm and…
Akira started to feel a tingle in his nape, one that almost made him want to arch his shoulder blades back reflexively. He tried to nudge Shiki away. “Stop that.”
Shiki didn't stop though, because of course he didn't. Akira endured a few more seconds of this, and then he really dug his heels in.
“Shiki,” he said. Akira reached up to grab Shiki’s face, forcing him away.
Shiki said nothing. His gaze was heavy on Akira's face; the kind of gaze that was impossible to look away from. Shiki reached one hand up and laid it over Akira's. It was surprisingly warm.
Akira searched for something to say.
“…Your nails have gotten long,” he said.
“Is it a problem?” Shiki said. As though his only concern might be that having too long nails would dissuade Akira from letting him touch him.
“No,” Akira replied. “Well, maybe.”
Akira chose at that moment to let his hands slip away from Shiki’s face, finally able to find an excuse to get out of this position. He got up from the bed and rummaged through one of the drawers in his desk for something, eventually pulling out a nail clipper.
“Use this,” Akira said.
Shiki looked at it with visible distrust.
“It’s a nail clipper,” Akira explained.
The skepticism in Shiki's expression didn't lessen in severity, but he silently took the nail clipper from Akira's hand. Akira stood there, watching. He figured Shiki was keen enough to figure it out on his own; even a kid could probably learn how to do it without needing help, and the clipper was so blunt (and cheap) that it was practically impossible to hurt yourself with it.
Then he remembered the numerous times Shiki had mistaken a normal, everyday household appliance for a toy and subsequently attacked it.
“I’ll show you how to use it just once,” Akira muttered. He took the nail clipper back from Shiki and sat next to him on the bed.
Akira took Shiki’s hand into his hold. He paused and glanced up. Shiki wasn’t looking at him, but rather at the nail clipper.
“Can I touch you like this?” Akira asked, his voice quieter than he intended.
“You already are.”
“That's not what I—” Akira paused. Then: “…Never mind.” Akira glanced back down at Shiki’s hand to properly inspect his nails. It would be a waste of breath to explain, and Shiki might get annoyed at being reminded of his past behavior as a cat. Akira remembered all the times Shiki would pull his paw away whenever he tried to trim his claws before. Better to just say nothing.
Shiki’s nails were ridiculously long. And maybe that was how he'd ruined the wall of Akira's bedroom the other day. It had been months since his nails were last properly trimmed. Ever since Shiki became a human, Akira hadn’t thought to trim them for him.
He began clipping Shiki's nails, starting from the thumb of his left hand. Shiki's hand was pale, almost winter-toned. His fingers were long and slender, unnaturally so, and the joints were visibly bony. Akira wondered if Shiki had always been this pale and lean, or if it was just the visual effect of his all-black clothes that made him appear this way. He hadn’t realized until now that he'd never seen Shiki's skin tinged with a flush before.
For a while, the only sounds that could be heard between them were the sharp snips of the nail clipper. Shiki was unexpectedly quiet and compliant. He didn't try to pull his hand out of Akira's grasp, nor did he voice any complaints. There wasn’t any resistance in the weight of his hand at all.
Akira managed to clip Shiki's nails on both hands. When he was done, he glanced up—only to see Shiki staring at him. Hard. It wasn’t quite a glare; there wasn't any disdain or dissatisfaction in that gaze. But it wasn’t something Akira could interpret and decipher either.
“…What?” Akira said in an almost defensive tone. He was feeling a twinge of annoyance from Shiki’s increasingly incomprehensible behavior.
That seemed to prompt Shiki to pull his hand out of Akira's grasp. Shiki evaluated Akira's handiwork on his nails. He didn't say anything aside from a quiet “hmph”—which honestly didn't tell Akira much.
Akira looked away. He hadn’t expected Shiki to understand or care anyway. But at least if Shiki didn't like having his hands being touched, he knew how to do it himself next time.
“You should trim them every few weeks,” Akira muttered offhandedly while getting up from the bed.
Just as he was standing upright, he felt a tug on his arm, pulling him back down. The sudden momentum caused him to face Shiki, and Akira found himself being held in Shiki's arms.
Akira tilted his head up. Shiki’s face was close to his own. Shiki leaned in and licked him again. His tongue traced the line of Akira's jaw.
A strange, mumbled sound left Akira's mouth. The sensation was slightly ticklish on his skin. He tried to turn his head away from Shiki's tongue, but that didn't work. So instead he grumbled under his breath, “I told you to stop that.”
He wasn't really upset. It just bothered him that Shiki was acting so capricious.
Shiki was looking at him silently. Akira glanced up to see Shiki’s twitching ears and the slight downturn to them.
And then it hit him:
Was this… Shiki's way of showing gratitude?
Akira sighed and, slowly but surely, he lifted his hand and patted Shiki on the head in an awkward manner. His hair felt soft and silky, which Akira already knew.
It might’ve been his imagination, but he could sense Shiki's head leaning into his touch.
“…Do whatever you want,” Akira mumbled.
In the end, Shiki was still just a cat.