Work Text:
One afternoon in February, Simeon stood in the kitchen, surveying the wreckage before him.
In the mold, the poorly tempered chocolate had congealed into a dull, grayish lump, its surface covered in white bloom, like the sorry carcass of a deep-sea fish left to dehydrate. The bottom of the double boiler was scorched black, the stovetop splattered with cocoa residue, and the air hung thick with a cloying, burnt sweetness.
He stared at the thing for a moment, then calmly picked up a spatula and scraped it into a trash bag. This was the third time.
As for why there was a third time. Simeon was neither a good cook nor particularly passionate about flavor, to say nothing of the fact that he despised sweets. But he possessed a peculiar kind of stubbornness, one that had nothing to do with intelligence or skill. It probably belonged in the category of some clumsy, dogged loyalty. Failed? Try again. Failed? Try again. If he'd applied this quality to other areas of his life, things might have turned out differently. Unfortunately, this stubbornness seemed to activate only for the wrong things.
Today was one of Miles's trial days, which meant he wouldn't be home before six. There was still time. Simeon washed his hands, tore open a fresh bag of chocolate callets, broke them into pieces, and dropped them into a bowl. The clerk at the baking supply shop had recommended 72% cacao, said the balance of bitter and sweet was just right. He'd nodded along, thinking the whole time that it wasn't like he'd be the one eating it.
The YouTube tutorial said the water bath shouldn't exceed fifty degrees. The first time, he hadn't bothered with a thermometer and let it boil outright. The chocolate overflowed and turned into a pot of black sludge. The second time, he stood guard with a thermometer, but while trying to chop nuts he forgot to watch the heat. By the time he looked back, the chocolate had separated. Fat floated on the surface like it was mocking him. So he dumped the entire bowl, with the same satisfaction as punching Carmelo Gusto in the face.
This time, he was keeping it simple. No additions. Just the basics: melt, pour, cool. He even turned off his phone, relying solely on the tutorial he'd memorized, to eliminate any possible distraction.
For someone like him who could barely distinguish flavors, making chocolate was a bit absurd. But Miles's evaluation system had always been built on "effort" rather than "results," though he'd never admit it out loud. All Simeon needed was to produce something intact, bloom-free, and reasonably chocolate-shaped. As for whether it tasted good, he trusted Miles to put it through that paranoid, poison-testing ritual of his and judge for himself.
Even as he stirred with all his focus, a devilish thought crept into his mind.
Valentine's Day.
The day after tomorrow, to be precise. He'd never been someone who cared about holidays. Or rather, his life had never afforded him the luxury of caring. But as Valentine's Day approached, he'd noticed the entire world had been painted pink. Saccharine love songs, shop windows overflowing with bubbles and ribbons, walls of roses stacked taller than a person. Retailers pulling out every trick in the book to sell the idea that love was alive and well. When exactly had "love" become so hard to move that it needed this much marketing?
Office workers rushed past without a glance. Only kids who hadn't seen enough of the world still held onto that kind of excitement. A group of middle school girls chattered about what to make for their boyfriends, and the moment he caught the words "handmade chocolate," a vivid image flashed through his mind: Miles, biting into a piece of chocolate.
Specifically, that face of his. The one that thought its expression management was flawless, when in reality every emotion was written plainly across his eyebrows. The image was so funny that Simeon had ducked into a baking supply store on his way home.
The water hit exactly 50 degrees. Simeon killed the heat and kept stirring, slowing his movements, letting the temperature drop evenly. The thick chocolate gradually turned smooth and glossy, its flow just right. This time, it seemed to have worked. He carefully poured the liquid into the mold. A plain square mold, not a heart-shaped one. Heart-shaped was too embarrassing.
When he finished pouring, he let out a long breath, scraped the mold clean with the precise efficiency of someone whittling wood, placed it in the fridge, and finally turned his phone back on to set a twelve-minute timer.
Perfect. His lack of cooking talent was already a merciless betrayal of his family bloodline, but if he could pull off something this precise, it would be a direct blow straight to Carmelo Gusto's face.
Fighting the urge to open the fridge every few seconds to check on things, Simeon started cleaning up the disaster on the stovetop. First the glass bowl he'd melted the chocolate in, then the residue that had spilled over the rim of the pot, then a damp paper towel to wipe down the crumbs and scorch marks on the counter.
Beep beep beep. The timer finally went off, and he immediately dropped what he was doing to pull open the fridge door. But the very moment he opened it, a terror swept through his entire body.
Chocolate is toxic to cats.
The thought struck without warning. It didn't even feel like remembering. More like a sentence had been shoved directly into his consciousness from somewhere else, narration imposed from the outside.
Simeon's hand froze.
He knew this fact, though he'd long forgotten where he'd learned it. Maybe from a magazine he'd flipped through at the orphanage, maybe a fragment from some late-night TV program. Theobromine. A cat's body can't metabolize theobromine. Ingestion leads to cardiac arrhythmia, seizures, and in severe cases, death.
Back when that proud white cat from the circus used to wander everywhere, yowling at all hours and disturbing him without regard for time or place, the thought had crossed his mind. Chocolate was easy to come by in the circus. For a cat that small, a single piece would be enough. Pry open that soft little mouth, let a drop of something too sweet trickle in, and it would go quiet forever. No one would notice. No one would suspect him.
But Miles isn't a cat!
Of course he knew that.
And yet, in this moment, that knowledge felt unreliable, like a pane of glass suddenly showing cracks. He'd been calling Miles a cat for a long time now. Not as an occasional joke, but every day, in every moment he needed to explain to himself why he was still alive. A cat doesn't need a reason to take someone in, and a person doesn't need a reason to be taken in by a cat. The cat just pads in, then sprawls out and claims the place as its own. The same way Miles had walked into that detention center, appeared out of nowhere in his world, and simply stayed.
If Miles wasn't a big gray cat, then what was he?
Simeon looked away, staring at the chocolate remnants on the stovetop, and found he couldn't move. His fingers gripped the dishcloth, knuckles white. Miles was a person. A human being who could digest chocolate, the same as him. He probably knew that statement was true, the same way he knew "everyone has a 0.005% chance of dying today." But he couldn't bring himself to believe it on a gut level, because he was still alive, still breathing. He couldn't imagine the stovetop exploding in the next second, or the ceiling caving in, burying his brief life right then and there.
He wanted to live, so Miles was a cat. But that created an inexplicable paradox.
He was making poison for Miles.
No. No no no no no. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
He was making chocolate for Miles, because the day after tomorrow was Valentine's Day, because he wanted to see Miles take a bite and struggle to keep his expression in check, because they could be classified as some kind of "couple." This was a normal thing. A normal thing that normal people do. Nothing out of the ordinary.
But if Miles really was a cat...
Simeon threw the dishcloth onto the counter and stepped back.
No. Stop thinking.
He yanked the fridge open again and pulled out the mold. The edges had already begun to pull away, so demolding was easy. Just flip it over, tap lightly, and the set chocolate slid onto the plate. A full slab. On close inspection, there were still air bubbles and imperfections, but it was the best he could manage. If it wasn't poison, it would make a perfectly fine gift.
Simeon broke off a piece, ruining the perfect square, and then did something he'd never normally do. He mechanically shoved it into his mouth.
His sense of taste was still dull. For him, most foods differed only in texture and temperature. But his tongue faintly registered a sweetness so concentrated it turned bitter. He broke off another piece. Shoved it in. Like he was carrying out some task, or destroying evidence. Chew, swallow, break off another piece. When the test batch was gone, he moved on to the bag of callets he'd bought as raw ingredients. The oily richness of cocoa butter built up layer by layer, coating his tongue and throat.
If he ate it all, there'd be nothing left that could kill the cat.
Absurd. He knew it was absurd. But his mouth kept moving, his hands kept moving, his esophagus and stomach accepted it all without complaint. His body was certain this was necessary. As if by swallowing it all himself, the toxicity would be metabolized by his body instead, and the danger would end with him.
The sweetness piled up in his mouth, gradually curdling into a dizzying bitterness. He hadn't eaten this much sugar in a long time. No, not a long time. Never. He hated sweets. His stomach began to protest faintly, but he didn't stop, like a man starved past the point of reason, desperately scooping up fistfuls of dirt from the ground.
He was down to the last few bites when he heard the front door open.
"I'm home."
Miles's voice drifted in from the entryway, accompanied by the sound of keys being set down and shoes being changed.
Simeon quickly gathered the remaining ingredients, stuffed them into a plastic bag, and shoved it into the fridge. Fast, but not fast enough. He didn't have time to deal with the traces of cocoa powder on the counter or the thermometer still sitting out in the open.
By the time Miles reached the kitchen, Simeon was standing at the sink washing his hands, rinsing the dark residue from under his fingernails. His fingers were still trembling.
Miles sniffed the air. "Were you baking something?"
"No." Simeon turned to face him. "Just cleaning."
"Cleaning with a thermometer?"
Simeon's eyes darted, and he fired off a quick, well-practiced little lie: "Checking the fridge temperature."
Miles still had his briefcase tucked under one arm, his red suit travel-worn, half his body leaning into the kitchen and half still outside it. Those gray eyes swept the room, as if weighing whether to accept this explanation that didn't bear scrutiny, or to call out the painfully obvious lie. The stare made Simeon squirm. He turned away again, pretending to wipe down the counter, waving the dishcloth around aimlessly. But this, ironically, drew Miles in. He finally set down his briefcase and walked over.
A hand caught Simeon's arm and held it still. That proud head leaned in without a second thought, and a warm, damp tongue swept across the corner of his lips. Before Simeon could even regret his lack of table manners, Miles smacked his lips and delivered his verdict: "Sweet? You were making chocolate?"
See? Not a cat? He's absolutely a cat!
At this point, bluffing was the only option. Simeon pulled his arm back with a bit of force. "What I do is none of your business."
Miles folded his arms like a predator that had locked onto its prey, perfectly at ease.
"Is that so? You're sure it has nothing to do with me? Today is February 12th, you know."
Ha. Found the flaw in his logic. Things had swung back to their familiar rhythm of bickering, and Simeon steadied himself, spreading his hands.
"Oh? What's the occasion? And why would you assume it has anything to do with you?"
Miles wore an expression that didn't quite suit his age, catlike, brimming with curiosity.
"Chocolate. You're not exactly the type to eat this stuff, let alone make it. Whether or not it has to do with me, I think you know better than I do." He pointed to the side. "Also, your ears are red."
Simeon raised a hand to touch his ear, got halfway there, realized he'd walked right into the trap, and slammed his hand down on the counter in frustration. But he could feel the heat spreading across his entire face.
Miles pressed his advantage.
"Don't tell me it's not because Valentine's Day is coming and you wanted to make something for me?"
"Can't I just be doing it for fun?"
"Can you?"
"Fine, if that's what you want to think, then sure, it's for you." Simeon gave in. "But the chocolate is mine. You're not touching it."
"Why not?"
Because.
Simeon looked down at his hands. Dark traces of cocoa powder still lingered under his fingernails. The cloying sweetness still coated his mouth. His stomach was still quietly protesting, unaccustomed to that much sugar all at once.
Because you'll be poisoned. Because you're a cat. Because I spent three years turning you into a cat so I could pretend I don't owe you my life, pretend it wasn't you who nailed me to this world and kept me here. Because if you're just a cat, it doesn't matter if what you eat doesn't taste good. If you frown, it's only because cats don't smile. I can never admit this to you, but if you're just a cat...
Then I don't have to face "who are you," "who am I," "why am I here," "what's going to happen to us." All those questions with no answers. All I have to do is make sure you never swallow a piece of poisoned chocolate.
But he looked away, and what came out was a string of clumsy excuses, stubborn as a kid throwing a tantrum: "Because I messed it up. It looks bad and tastes worse. The stuff is bitter and burnt. You'd definitely hate it."
"That doesn't matter."
"What?"
Simeon looked up in surprise, meeting Miles's gaze. Miles spread his hands. "None of that matters. I know you're not a pastry chef, and I never expected you to make something delicious. As for whether I like it or not, that's for me to decide."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Put simply: I want you to give me the chocolate you made on the fourteenth, and then I'll decide whether it's good or not."
"No. Absolutely not. Chocolate is hell." Simeon refused outright. And there it was again, that insufferably proud, roundabout "Miles Edgeworth tone," which made him instinctively want to counter-attack.
"You've already tasted it, actually."
"?"
Now it was Miles's turn to be confused.
"Just now." Simeon tapped the corner of his own mouth. "You licked it yourself. So technically, your Valentine's chocolate has already been delivered."
Miles's expression froze for an instant. That exceedingly rare blankness of someone outmaneuvered by his own actions. His mouth opened and closed. His eyebrows twisted into an impossibly complicated angle. And then came a flush that started at the tips of his ears and spread across his entire face at a visible pace. Like a cat whose belly had been touched without warning, fur standing on end, unable to decide whether to arch its back or roll over.
"Your ears are red too, you know."
"Shut up."
Simeon untied his apron and smiled to himself. He'd gotten his Valentine's gift after all — this was exactly what he'd wanted to see, and it was ten thousand times better than a cat biting into a piece of chocolate.