in which you can't walk past a little black cat, crying for help from inside a carton box, drowning in the rain. months later, after the two of you have adjusted to each other well, the cat disappears. but? not completely.
word count: 10067
music
warnings / tags: cat!yoongi displaying cat!sentient behaviour. lots of scratches but make them weird. i am... very honest about my kinks. no smut. mostly fluff. couldn't stop myself from bringing rabid ot7. lots of cursing. reader in this one has a bathtub because i said so
The alley is tilted, so the rain, when it pours, always slides down in cascades. You often remove your shoes in monsoon season because it's useless trying to jump over puddles. Splashing on water, trying not to slip, you hold your sneakers in one hand, the pointless umbrella in the other; your tote bag hanging from your arm, the contents of it completely soaked... at some point the rain stops being an inconvenience and becomes the real element, and you spiritually give up. It's only water, after all. Not like it can harm you.
Unlike the littlest creatures in the corners of the streets.
Beyond an almost monstrous hiss of the pour, you think you hallucinate the thin, shrill sound; at first you thought it's someone's tires screeching, but, as you walk on, in the direction of your house, it grows louder.
You then locate the sourse of it; a basketball-sized carton box, turning into mush, grey and soaked, pushed against the wall. And inside, it. Him. Or her. The pink mouth opening wider as emerald eyes spot you. The cat raises its head in hope once it registers human presence. Gone are the days when humanity believed animals were dumb, unreceptive, just NPCs. Seeing this little guy (or gal) hunched over, curled inside the slowly sinking box, wet all over, screaming for help, your heart is clenched in a painful spasm.
To shit with it. The timing is never good, is it? First, you're in college, so you don't have your own place. Then, you're searching for a job, so you don't have time. Then, the job is bad, so you don't have enough money. When you overintellectualize it, getting a pet is never a good time.
But this one has no job, no time and no warmth. You pull the bag onto your shoulder and quickly, hurriedly close the umbrella serving no purpose anyway; shove it into the bag as well, and then, shivering in your damp clothes, walk over to the box. The cat presses itself deeper out of instinct. Black, wet fur, it's shaking with cold as well. The month's June, but when it rains, it gets very chilly. Especially for small things with spine sticking out like that.
The emerald eyes study you with concern, but its mouth keeps asking for something, meowing loudly. You pull it out of the box, and the cat doesn't struggle, only presses its thin paws into your chest as you try to shove it under your hoodie.
"Cold?" you ask, "god, you're so cold".
Worry strikes you. You put your palm over its head to hide it from the rain, but you still soak together, as you pace on, towards home.
The way lay through the alley and past the little light shop where grandma Malsoon watches the weather from the inside. You turn your head to her little place every time you pass the spot. She is always inside, and the warm, golden light always mesmerizes you, especially when the outside is wretched or windy.
Grandma Malsoon cocks her head when she sees you with a cat. She nods her chin, and you nod back, without slowing down. Even forget to bow, so concerned with the cat's wellbeing. You must have seen it before; there's a possibility it lives in the alley, occasionally rubbing against people's legs. Right. You can check at home, you think. If it's the cat you're thinking about, it will have a torn left ear, from a street fight perhaps. You vaguely remember it being accompanied by other cats; there's a grey one, and a ginger one for sure. Who knows why today they hid away from the rain and left the black one alone.
The electric lock is broken again because of the downpour, so you need to open the door manually. You drop the keys, of course, sleek wet fingers numb with cold. The cat protrudes claws and drives them into your shoulder as you bend down to pick them up, and you hiss with pain. The small, barely living body in your arms.
Finally inside the apartment, you let it down on the floor, and it immediately shakes the water off, and raises its tail (a boy), looking around. You throw everything down: the bag, the shoes, the clothes. Get some towels from the wardrobe and rub him furiously, until he opens his pink mouth again, showing impeccably sharp little fangs, and hisses at you.
Emerald eyes observe you as you carry it into the bathroom, and then he tries to claw his way out of being washed.
"You just soaked all through", you mutter, trying to wrestle with the cat, "it's just a little more water, and it's warm!"
You carefully take his head and check the ear. Triangle-shaped wound indicates a bite, maybe even from a dog. The cat slips inside the bathtub, trying to get out, as you stress yourself out. It doesn't help that the boy just doesn't shut up, yelling his cat obscenities, or calling for help - from you now.
In the evening, you are both so exhausted from this fight - with the nature, and with each other - that you barely move. You crash on the couch, pulling your cold feet up and cuddling with a blanket. The cat walks around in the kitchen connected with the tiny space you call living room; drying in the warm air, elegant creature of four paws and exquisitly sensitive tail, jerking the tip here and there as he sniffs around. Walks between the chair legs, rubs himself against the surfaces to leave the scent. Then looks at you again.
"You're wet", you say, and the cat sits up and tilts the head. It's been a hot minute since you lived with a pet, and it's super exciting. All the chores ahead: buying food, taking care, choosing bowls, thinking where to place his litterbox - are happy now. It doesn't get better than a cat, objectively. He has been here for three hours, and you are already attached.
"And glossy", you continue. The cat starts grooming himself, sharp tongue on the little paw.
"I'll name you Yoongi".
The cat doesn't care. He's licking himself all over; then, with fur all groomed and flattened, walks over to the couch and sniffs your knees before crawling onto your lap.
🐾⋆ 🐾⋆ 🐾⋆
"Does the cat have a name?" the vet asks, pointing the pen at the little notebook.
"Yoongi".
"That's rare", the guy smiles.
Yoongi is staring at you from the carrier bag like he's about to choke you. Even when he is sitting on all fours, because otherwise he is black as night, you can still see the pale of his flesh; had to shave off his belly for an X-ray. Yoongi is pretty scared, so he keeps looking at you like you're the only familiar thing in the world. You remember it was the same with the previous cat. You take all these things too personally: whispering to him while he is spread out on his back under the vet's hands; and petting him between the ears, and wincing while they administer vaccines; and apologizing to him while he is waiting as you pay. You've had him for a week. At this point, you're ready to sacrifice your life for that creature.
"He does look like that one cat from Kiki's Delivery Service".
You grin.
"Yes, but he is very different personality wise. Super chill, actually".
"Hmm, he is about four years old. And indeed very agreeable", the doctor nods and fills out his cat passport. "Did you see the scar on his hip, as well? And the ear?"
"Yes".
"Tough little guy", the vet looks at the carrier affectionately. Yoongi doesn't pay attention.
At home, he jumps out of the carrier and gives you one hurt stare, then lets go of it.
The character of him is, what the vet pointedly noted, quite agreeable. It's actually an accurate word. Yoongi is a yapper but he is quiet when the quiet is needed. He has active hours and gives you enough peace. The cat is curious with his important business of watching the world; he sleeps through the night and doesn't boink-boink-boink around the apartment like younger kittens. He does insist on sleeping on your head though, trying to dominate the bed. He doesn't hold grudges: as you're adjusting to each other, he learns that you don't look down when you walk, and once you step on his tail, he screams, then sulks for a couple of minutes. Then returns.
In the mornings, he runs into the kitchen after you and bumps his head in the inside of your knee. And if it's too early, your knee caves in. He likes fish the most, baking cookies on the floor even when he is chewing, and, like all cats, values the warm touch above all.
Life with a cat is a great life. He's not a dog that would make you feel guilty for leaving him alone all day while you're at work; he isn't overly needy; he warms up your side in the evenings as you watch movies; and doesn't mind being photographed. Soon, your friends learn that your rented place has that beautiful new addition in the shape of a black, flexible cat with a lot of dignity when it comes to licking his own balls with people around.
"He is a little like you", one friend points, "cool and quiet".
"What breed is he?" Chaewon asks.
"The vet said he's either Bombay or domestic shorthair".
"I say he's a fucking cutie", Soyoon coos, reaching for Yoongi and petting his head. The cat stands up, leaning into the touch. His exterior is a perfect blend of stunning and endearing. His fur is good; got rid of the street fleas pretty quickly; ears are getting better from the cold he had after the rain. And the little dent on the left one makes him look badass.
You kiss it every day in delusional hopes it might heal purely out of your own volition.
He's a cat. Just a good, cool cat. He eats a lot and digs into the sand in his litterbox, and throws it around, and claws into your lap, purring loudly, when you scratch his belly. Yoongi likes the belly rubs the most: stretches his whole body like a rabbit, sticking out all his little toes, and protests when you stop, then usually falls asleep under your touch.
🐾⋆ 🐾⋆ 🐾⋆
Grandma Malsoon steps out of the shop in her funny grey slippers and holds the door with her shoulder. The woman must be around seventy; has been when you moved in here a year ago, and still is. Will forever be.
"I saw you brought one of the street gang in?" she asks playfully. You nod and stop. Look at the wristwatch. Bow to her.
"The other cats will miss him", she grins.
"Where do the others live?"
She shrugs,
"Here and there. I sometimes feed them when they come. Very independent fellas".
"I named him Yoongi", you say proudly, "couldn't watch him drown in the rain. He was yelling so loudly".
Grandma Malsoon nods with understanding.
"You like animals?"
"I do".
"Live alone?"
"Uh-huh, grandma".
She always lets you know when she's done talking: her oval-shaped chin dribbles a little as she gives a sharp nod.
"Have a good day, y/n-chan".
Your brows crawl up.
"You're Japanese, Malsoon-grandma?"
She grins crookedly, kind of with mischief. She is one of those women who, if you shed her old skin, will step out of it a young girl again. She says nothing, because the convo has been over. Just glares at you with her slightly cloudy old eye. You go back to your business.
Yoongi likes to fuck the poor Disney World Stitch plush toy.
You look at it sometimes, as he ambushes the blue alien, and think whether it's too late to chop his balls off. Sometimes you try to yank the toy away from him. Sometimes you just leave him be, looking through your schedule to see a spot to call the vet again. Once Yoongi is done, he returns to the window sill to "ya-ah-ah-ah" at the birds that mock him from the outside. He gets on his back feet and scratches the window glass furiously, trying to get to the fuckers. It's clear they have beef.
Emerald eyes and the sharp tongue often wake you up in the morning, soft sides rubbing against your face. Seven months in, Yoongi has gained all the healthy weight and lives up to his glossy name. You often look at him when he is just soaking in the sun, loafing on the floor in between the couch and the dinner counter, sharp, green eyes blinking lazily. What a life. Sleep, eat, pee, fuck Stitch, demand scratches, repeat.
"You want one of your buddies at home? I think..." you scroll through your bank account, ruminating. Yoongi turns his head to you as he hears your voice, and the inner lids slide back from his eyes.
"I think I can pull another cat. Should we steal one of your friends from the alley?"
Yoongi couldn't care less. He lies on his side on the floor, gloriously shimmering black fur gleaming in the evening sun. You click your tongue and say,
"I'll get going. I will get really drunk tonight, so I'll be back late".
You get on your knees above him, as usual, because the cat is the owner of your ass, and kiss his wounded ear. Yoongi doesn't even open his eyes, just flicks the ear instinctively, then again, when you blow on it to annoy him.
"Bye", you rub his side, then leave. He has water and food in the cool corner of the kitchen. The door clicks electronically behind you.
As you pass the light shop, grandma Malsoon is sitting on a little chair, smoking the most hilarious cyan-coloured cigarette you've seen in your life.
"Good evening, grandma", you chuckle and bow. She waves her hand at you.
"How's Yunki?"
"Chewed on monstera and vomited yesterday", you nod. She is quite satisfied, then looks over your fit critically.
"Turn around, girl".
You twirl for her.
"You going out?"
"Uh-huh", you check your phone and see the messages from your friends with instructions.
"You need a man, looking like that", Malsoon says without a grudge, "after the darkfall, pretty little girl".
It looks like she's talking from experience. Your eyes crawl up above her head and onto her small, gleaming shop. As the evening comes, Wang Light Shop becomes the star of the neighbourhood, golden, cosy, Ghibli-looking.
"I have Yoongi", you smile, and she chuckles, then dismisses you, and you hop away.
🐾⋆ 🐾⋆ 🐾⋆
You stay the night at Chaewon's because the girls get you so drunk you can barely walk towards the taxi.
You'd sleep way past one o'clock, but you suddenly recall you have a cat waiting at home, probably hungry as fuck. As you check your wristwatch, you slide out of your friend's bed and get dressed, still swaying a little.
"Hungover?" Chaewon mumbles from under the pillow. The girl doesn't need to breathe; she covers her own head with a pillow and a blanket at night and sleeps like that without any trouble.
"Gonna vomit in the cab, probably", you confess.
"Eat some kimchi in the kitchen".
You nod, grateful, limp there, one foot in your jeans, then in twenty minutes you feel a little human again, and leave her place to ride through the city, and home.
Morning Seoul is glistening with moist. Air is thick; May is coming with heatwaves and wilting fruit trees. You do not vomit in the taxi but feel properly miserable, especially with the constant notifications beeping, when Chaewon wakes up and starts sending you pictures from last night.
You crawl down the alley home and wave at the surprised grandma Malsoon who walks out of the shop and pops the hip, a hand on her side, watching your walk of shame, limping, squinting in the sun.
Once you enter the apartment, the first thing you expect is to see the black cat running angrily towards you, like he always does, tail up, mouth open, demanding.
Your eyes drop to your feet to spot him out of habit, but nothing is there.
Instead, there's some dude sitting on the couch in your fucking living room, with the Stitch toy on his lap, squeezing the neck with a big hand.
You're not drunk anymore; hangover isn't so bad that it would debiliate your movements.
Your fight or flight response is quick; a year ago it would've been first. But now life is better, so it's the second. Yes, the connection between those factors is frail. But you dart inside the kitchen that's just two steps away from the front door, once you see him get up.
A full ass male stranger in your apartment, looking unhappy and dishevelled - like you aren't the only one who drank last night.
As you grab the knife from the stand, you produce a yell.
"What the fuck?!"
He drops the blue toy on the couch and puts his hands on his sides, and you realize with horror, the true, animalistic horror, that you can't see Yoongi.
"Where is my fucking cat?"
The words start falling out of your mouth like pebbles.
"Don't approach me! Where is my cat?! Yoongi! YOONGI! How did you get in here?!"
The man frowns, then winces, hearing your shrieks.
"Shut... I am..."
The knife starts shaking in your hand. You press yourself against the wall, sliding slowly towards the bedroom door. Maybe Yoongi is just asleep. Maybe he just doesn't care about the strangers in the house. He's a street cat after all, and he is also used to seeing your friends. Maybe he is just napping.
You try to assess him: if he jumps you, you're cooked. Shoulders too wide. Arms with more or less defined musles. Wide frame. About sixteen centimeters taller than you. No chances. You need to stab, or scream, or run.
But you can't run until you know what happened to your cat. It's your responsibility. Your child. Your own.
"What did you do with my cat?? Who are you?"
"Stop screaming, for fuck's sake!"
As he raises his voice, your instincts kick in harder. Your elbow shakes. You push the bedroom door open and look inside, trying not to lose him from your field of vision. It's weird that he doesn't attack. Weird that he is trying to say something. Maybe he's a neighbourhood drug addict, or an alcoholic, or someone's psycho relative who wandered into your place.
"Yoongi!" you call again, your eyes scanning the room. Your gut sinks with a thud: it's empty. Panic makes your voice even louder:
"Where is my fucking cat?"
"It's here!" he yells back. The dude has the audacity to be annoyed. "I'm here!"
You look around to spot him again. Your mind is trying to bargain, but no. Yoongi can't blend in with furniture, or the floor. He is striking black. He is very spottable.
"I am Yoongi!"
"Shut the fuck up, idiot! There was a cat here! Did it run away?" you realize, looking at the door, "when you broke in? What do you want? Did you see my cat?"
He falls silent for a moment, cutting the tension. It makes you pause, too. His hands drop at his sides helplessly, as his mouth droops open. It gives you a second to study him again: and it dawns on you, in another coil of terror, that the man is wearing your own clothes. That oversize shirt you've had forever, in which you sometimes sleep, with the crusty print falling off in small chunks: Bladerunner merch. And the sweatpants you never wore because the legs were too long for you. They end at his ankles; the man stands next to the couch barefooted, coal-black hair framing his oval, doll-like face, like he was crafted to be an idol. Shame such a pretty-looking individual has chosen the life of delinquency.
Then you actually start hearing him:
"It's me, y/n. I am Yoongi. I am the cat".
The tip of the knife stabs the air. There's about seven steps between you, and he doesn't approach, staring at the weapon.
"Shut up", you pant again, you don't know what else to say, "you sick asshole. If you did something to him..."
He rolls his eyes and then falls back on the couch, spreading the legs on the floor.
"I am hungry".
"You on drugs?"
He scratches the side of his face, then looks at his own hand, then, at you, wide-eyed.
Yes, if you look closely, he does possess some cat-like features. The dizziness hits you, together with the wave of nausea. The knife shakes so much in your hand that you find it hard to keep pointing it. The vomit crawls up to your throat, and the panic hits you again. You breathe deep through your nose.
"Why the fuck have I been waiting when I have hands now".
He stands up slowly from the couch and drags his feet around the table.
He walks, moving his hips to the sides. The lazy-smooth stride is too elegant for a guy. He raises his eyes up to the top shelves of the cupboard. His eyes. Sharp and angular, but then again, everybody in this city has eyes like these. He opens the cupboard where you keep Yoongi's wet food, and pulls a pack out. Then tears it open and disappears behind the counter. You are forced to step up, still numb with shock and who knows what else - panic still sitting firmly on your shoulders. Against all logic, all common sense, you keep watching him, because - in some distant, separate plane of existence, his words keep ringing in your head.
"Argh! Eough!" he spits on the floor, gags, throws the package away.
"It's expired, y/n".
"It's cat food".
He lifts up his face, and you shudder.
That's how Yoongi looks at you when he hears your voice. Not necessarily with expression, but with focus in his eyes. You see his pink mouth slightly ajar, wrist slightly bent at the corner, wiping away the food.
"And you're a dude".
You gulp with realization.
"Have you, uh, have you come from the hospital?" you coo, trying to sound gentle. Knife not in the air anymore, but at your side, still clutched. "The hospital on the corner, yes? Have you gone for a walk and got lost?"
The man looks to the side, mouth still open. If he has convinced himself he's a cat, that's the only explanation for how he manages to look like one. So incredibly close. Eyes move left and right, feet tucked under him. As he closes his mouth, his lips form a line, and there are small dimples on his round cheeks.
"You're still drunk huh? Had fun? I've been waiting all night, and it's", he points to the small clock in the shape of the moon, perched on the window sill, "almost three in the afternoon".
You have no idea why he sounds so damning.
"Why are you in my home", you whisper, almost begging. You hold yourself up on the corner of the table, then step away when he lifts himself up off the floor and looks at the fridge.
"Because I fucking live here?"
"No, you don't. Listen, I don't know what-"
"I woke up like this, okay?"
He turns, and you lose balance. The left ear peeks through the thick black hair, and you see the triangle dent. The guy ignores the handle of the fridge, instead trying to open it with the tips of his fingers, pulling on the side.
You're mute for the best part of it, watching him struggle silently. He finally has mercy on you only when he succeeds in opening the fridge. He shoves his head inside, eyes running up and down, his face lit up like he's had an epiphany:
"Yesterday everything was okay. But I woke up this morning - and someone shaved all my fur off. I even had to dress up", he looks at you for a moment, "I don't know what happened either, so can you stop overreacting, huh?"
He takes a pack of sausages and tears it open with his teeth, then sniffs carefully.
"Oh-kaay".
You drop on a stool next to you. The knife finally goes on the counter. Then you touch the side of your face: numb.
"Oh, Jesus, I am still drunk", you realize, "or someone laced my drink. I am fucking hallucinating".
"I wish", he says grumpily, then bites into the sausage. His eyes wander back into the fridge immediately.
You tilt your head. Given, it's the most flabbergastingly stupid thing that's ever happened, you see it. You see it. The way he cocks his head as he looks around, is not just cat-like; it's Yoongi. He rolls the meat from the right to the left side of his mouth as he chews, like Yoongi. He sniffs quietly through his nose when he finishes it, like Yoongi. That's one detail you found individualistic and adorable about the cat. Each one is different. Animals have their own unreplicable features, too. Your cat sniffs when he eats, like he is evaluating.
"Yoongi?" you say weakly, finally.
He immediately turns his head, eyes darting to you.
You see the kitchen swirl, then spin, as you slide down from the stool and onto the floor. It's a good thing you don't faint completely: he doesn't rush to catch you, just watches at first. Then steps towards you, and his hand touches your shoulder. Testing; your body is limp, brain in overdrive. Almost incapacitated. Rebooting. You can get stabbed now and you won't be able to fight, but he ignores the knife. His jaws still chewing something, he is curiously touching your shoulder with the tips of his fingers, then with full palm. Then his hand gets under your chin, and... tickles.
You flinch, looking up. The... Yoongi frowns, but smirks at the same time. You try to get away from his hand, shivers down your back with unease.
"Uncomfortable, huh?" he tickles harder, "how's that feel?"
He kneels next to you and starts tickling you with both hands. Your body sends the waves of shock, cold goosebumps of fever, in an attempt to get the muscles to work. Yoongi's hands get to your ribs and tickle hard, and you yelp.
"Stop it!"
"Not nice, huh nonconsensual touching? You do it allll the time".
He finally lets go and stands up again, then bows above the sink and opens the tap.
"Don't drink it!" you shout. Yoongi flinches and turns.
"What?"
"What are you, nuts? You can't drink tap water".
He winces,
"I do it all the time".
"You..." you suck the air in between dry lips, "humans can't".
You pull yourself up and elbow him away from the sink. Then get a glass and fill it with filtered water. He watches you over the shoulder, fixated, focused, totally consumed by it. Then accepts the glass from you. Now, you stare. He blinks at the water, then sniffs. Dammit, he acts like a cat. The tip of his tongue lowers into the glass and touches the water.
"Drink normally, goddammit", you whisper, and his eyes bore into yours.
"Like I know how!"
You cover your mouth with your hand. Then the impulse takes you: your grab his head, tilt it back to get a good look at him. It's impossible to say. You think about the small black cat and his habits. The mannerisms. The emerald eyes. These eyes, that look back at you, are dark-brown, almost black, but they lack human expression. They are - mechanically - focused, observing. Yoongi jerks his head away, but you grab again. Your fingers slide over his torn ear.
"Where did you get this?" you demand, like he has stolen the injury.
"Fought with Jiminie", he says shortly, then attempts to drink again, more successfully this time. Half of the water drips down his chin and onto your Bladerunner shirt, and he dips his head to look.
"This body is so..." he hisses.
"How the fuck is that possible, huh?" you breathe out, "cats don't just randomly turn into people. You're human. Human male".
"Uh-huh", he places the glass on the table and immediately gets distracted by it. His finger pushes it back and forth. All attention there.
"Are you sure you're not schizophrenic?"
He bites the lower lip, long eyelashes moving. The face of full concentration as he is toying with the half-full glass, pushing it dangerously close to the edge.
"What is that".
"It's when..."
Your hands fall to your sides and you look at his hips.
"What other scars do you have?"
He reaches for the hem of your never worn sweatpants and pulls it down a little. Pale flesh, very similar to the shade you remember from the X-ray some time ago. His hip bone is stricken through by a dark-pink hard line:
"That bastard from the sweatshop threw a stone at me when I was little", he says without expression.
"Kim Minho?"
He shrugs, then loses all interest in the glass and steps away, stretching. He is as surprised by his own body as you are: his eyes crawl up curiously as he moves his arms; he observes his own forearms, sticks the fingers apart, and then walks around the counter again.
Total inability to accept something that you deem impossible is making you sound like an idiot. At least internally. He is too chill about this; but then again, Yoongi has always been chill. Your finger pokes at your lip as you watch him open the window; slowly at first, carefully. Then he suddenly takes the monstera pot and - before you can say anything - flings it outside.
"The f- Yoongi?!"
He plops on the couch.
"Fucking poison. I nearly died yesterday because of it".
Now that is something nobody except for you or your cat could know. And grandma Malsoon, of course...
You pace towards the window and lean out into the street. Good thing it's empty and narrow. Good thing you live on the first floor.
Monstera lies on the asphalt, ceramic pot cracked and in pieces. Black soil scattered around the broken stems and leaves.
"Yoongi, you can't throw plants out of the window".
"You should thank me. What if you ate it as well?"
"I don't eat plants", you hammer.
He blinks at you from the couch. Then his palm closes, only index finger sticking out, and he says,
"Come on".
"What?"
"Pet me".
You try to imagine ears on his head. Now they are on the sides, like with all humans. The imaginary tail growing from his butt. He sighs, crossing his arms.
"Maybe you should take a nap, skinwalker".
"You really are a cat, aren't you?"
He nods. His teeth nibbling on his lip. He tilts his head sharply and scratches the side of it, then rests against the couch. Looks around the kitchen, the living room.
"Everything is suddenly... elevated. I walk on two paws. And the air smells different, everything is muted", he sounds almost sad. Preoccupied. His wide black eyebrows frown as he looks at you, then thinks of something and gets up. You're pressed against the window sill and can do nothing as he towers above you. Your cat. Now weighs seventy kilograms, maybe. He puts his lean face very-very close, studying you curiously, speaking in pout:
"You smell different, too".
This velvet-deep voice is nothing like the high meow you are used to.
"I haven't had a shower yet".
"No, from the usual. I guess my sense of smell is weaker, I heard you humans can't smell each other like we do".
He puts the tip of his nose against your cheek and sniffs quickly, several times.
"It's still recognizable, but very, very weak. At first I thought I was dying because everything went blank, and vivid at the same time. Thought I was having a stroke. Colours are too... bright".
He stabs the air behind his back with his thumb:
"You can go take a shower".
You widen your eyes.
"I can? Well thanks, shit".
He shrugs.
"You said you didn't shower?"
You realize he still has the cat mindset. You realize. He thinks he is the owner of this household. Of you.
The catfood is still on the floor, drying on the linoleum, and the cupboard door is open. Half-finished glass of water on the table. Yoongi walks across the living room and opens the bathroom door.
"Let's go?"
You try to click out of this paralysis, you truly do, but all that comes out of your mouth is,
"Huh?"
He sighs, like you're really difficult to deal with.
"S h o w e r?" he says clearly.
"You're... not going with me".
"Why's that?" he seems worried. True. The cat Yoongi always went to the shower with you. Cat instincts. Watched you soap and rinse yourself. Also observed you going to the toilet; god forbid an enemy attacks while you're vulnerable.
"Wait", you shake your head, "okay, okay. You were a cat. Now you're a dude".
He nods, distracted again. He pulls all his weight agains the door handle, leaning on it.
"But why do you look Korean?"
"I was born here", he deadpans, "all my family was Korean, what's your point?"
"And how did you... learn human language?"
Trying to poke a hole in this legend. In this absurdity.
"Ugh. I lived among you all my life. It's not a hard language to learn".
You walk around the kitchen slowly. Motion helps you think. You tear off a sheet of paper towels and start cleaning the floor from the food he spat out.
"But you still speak cat?"
"Mmm, I don't think so".
Yoongi crooks his neck to see what you're doing. When he observes, his mouth pouts involuntarily, like he is impressed and surprised at the same time.
"How do you not fall over without a tail?"
He shakes his head as you talk. With the corner of your eye you see: he is looking at the last fur spot he has on his body, hands touching the long locks, brushing through them. The hair covers his face as he studies it.
"I try not to turn too sharply".
As if to demonstrate, he moves his hips, bare human feet sliding soundlessly on the floor.
"But it is weird without it. I feel its absence".
"You have a different tail now", you grumble. The elephant in the room. The weird, uncomfortable something hanging. The reason it's so visceral, so uneasy to have him too close to you.
"It's a dick, y/n. How do you not know?"
A pause. You huff, cleaning the floor, then look at him darkly.
"Oh, sorry. You get no action at all", he says sympathetically. It flares you up.
"You", you point to the couch, where the Stitch toy is lying on its side, "get action with a plushie".
Yoongi cocks his eyebrow judgingly, tucking his hair away behind the ears.
"Let's not talk about that".
🐾⋆ 🐾⋆ 🐾⋆
"Why do you always do that?" he asks. Then imitates your motion: brings his hand to his mouth and shows how you tug on your upper lip.
"Stress".
He rolls his eyes with no expression, then turns again. Cats are known for their endless curiosity for their own dwellings even if they have been through each and every drawer numerous times. Now Yoongi, who has seen, sniffed and touched pretty much everything in the apartment, goes through it again. From the new perspective. He walks around the bedroom, sucking on the inside of his cheek, demonstrating you an impeccably cat-like profile of his face. Pointed and animalistic eyes, open wide but so prettily-angular. And the snout. As a cat, his nose was an okay nose. All cats have pretty much similar noses. Now, in the human shape, it's like a button nose. Smooth slide down. And the round tip. It's boopable. Or maybe you're violently spiralling. After a night out like that, with the hangover, you want a nap fiercely. You'd take a nap after the shower (Yoongi, fuck him, sat on the floor hugging his knees, and guarded you while you tried to curl into yourself and wash as quickly as possible behind the blue curtain). But now with this dude in your house you still feel alert even though you are... 76% sure he is, in fact, your cat turned human.
That happens. Right. Just a normal Saturday. Yesterday he was a cute black cat. Today he is a dude with a wolf cut and attitude. And you're supposed to just move on with it.
He doesn't radiate threat. He moves around, going through all the objects on the wall shelf, taking each little figurine, glass cube and photo frame, touching for texture, looking at it from all sides. The treasured forbidden shelf he wasn't allowed to crawl on.
He is adjusting his sight, his tactile perception, and the hearing, as well. When the noise comes from the street, he walks over to the window and looks out, pressing his nose against the glass, then returns to his intel collecting business.
You shoot questions from time to time. Weak, tired, half-awake, clutching the blanket. Yoongi said the smell of shower gel masks your natural scent and demanded that you stop using it. You told him to suck it up.
"So, you know some complicated words", you hum. The brainwork you're putting into this probably makes you more exhausted.
"Indubitably", he says.
"How?"
He sighs, like it's you who's acting irrationally. Like you're stupid for it.
"I watched about nine hundred movies with you. Plus, I used to like to crawl up under the roof of the Buncheong market, you know?" he looks at you, expecting an answer. You nod.
"Listened to humans yap", he pulls the sweatpants up, then, when he moves his foot to quickly, he bumps one ankle into the other and ouches with pain. You recall sleeping with the cat. Little warm paws you struggled with, that insisted on always touching your face while in bed. Like he was too sick of being alone and without contact.
"We mainly listened for some food spots. But guess I picked up some lingo, too".
"You have... human sentience. You realize you are alive, right?"
"Obviously".
He gets to the bookcase, and it's clear how scattered his attention becomes: human vision allows bright, vivid colours. Yoongi yawns immediately, crunching his nose. His eyes move up and down, looking through the books. Then he smirks and, not without a struggle, pulls one out. Then shows it to you, with a weirdly endearing smile. It's devastating; he looks absolutely adorable as he pulls his mouth to the sides, showing pink gums. It's the smile that only appeared on him in the cat form when he sneezed.
You realize you started thinking about 'cat form' and 'human form'. Like you've accepted this lunacy.
"I am a cat", he says, tilting the book. That's the title. By a Japanese author Soseki Natsume, with a cat on the cover. The cat looks nothing like Yoongi: the book one was a plump, grey kitten.
"Can you read?"
He nods, opens the book and reads out loud:
"Let me introduce myself: I am a cat. Simply a cat, and I do not possess a name yet. Well, I do", he finishes, quite pleased. Your hand still tries to groom you, keep you calm. It scratches the side of your head. You fall back on the pillow and stare at the ceiling.
"So... have you always had... this consciousness?"
"No. Yesterday I was a cat. Having cat thoughts".
Yoongi loses interest in books. He doesn't put the one he's holding back: he drops it right on the floor and walks over to the bed.
"What do cats think about?"
"You know", he begins, then pauses. "Actually, I can't formulate it. I know I was ruminating about something. But I can't tell you what".
"Like, mice? Birds? Food?"
He clicks his tongue. Yoongi sits on the bed and then does something that obviously doesn't seem strange to him. He gets under the blanket, and you twitch at the weight of his body.
"Yeah I am a cat, not dumb. I thought about life a lot. I think I thought about my friends from time to time, but I can't remember now".
Your arms go stiff. Then you shake yourself awake: Yoongi slithers his head onto your chest like it's the most normal thing in the world. Using his functional fingers, he lifts your hand and places it on his split ear. His skull is so much heavier now; it's clear he has no idea how to position this huge body with long legs; he kicks against you, then kicks the blanket down, purrs unhappily, pressing into you, tries to curl into a ball out of habit and then, exasperated, huffs.
"What the fuck is this piece of bare meat", he grumbles. It hits you: it's your kitten. Four year-old kitten, now five. And the wave of familiarity makes your fingers curl in his hair. The sensation of it is actually the same. That's exactly the same fur he used to have on his head, but longer. He purrs, and it's low. Human deep voice, working through the cords in his throat, comes out in a vibrating hum. His knee is kicking you in the rib, you have to push it down.
"Are you really..." you give up slowly. The world tilting off the normal orbit, floating into the territory of uncanny. "The cat I fished out of the box during the monsoon?"
"Yeah".
He is caught in between the halves of a displeased groan, still trying to stick his arms somewhere. Must be discovering that humans can't curl limbs however they want, that the joints go numb. He ends up putting one hand under his ear and the other, grabbing your side. At first you flinch again. Not used to being touched by human males while lying down. Yoongi is right about that, the way only a roommate can know. You get no action, you want none.
Then he starts pinching your side and releasing it; pinching and releasing.
You realize he is baking cookies.
It feels so morally wrong to scratch his head through the hair and then slide your finger along the ear with the triangular dent. He also produces these sounds of pleasure that make you question everything you're doing.
As your fingers tickle the side of his cheek, helping you think, Yoongi throws his head back and opens the neck, like he always does. With cats, it's pretty automatic. You scratch the head, he leans in, then signals you to scratch under the chin and then on and on to the belly.
This guy has Adam's apple that vibrates under your palm, prickling you with short, sharp heads of stubble. He purrs again:
"Oh, that feels like fucking heaven. When you cut your nails for Christmas I thought I'd prick your eyes out. Never do it again".
"You turned five already, right?" you mutter. Hand exists separately from you. Brain trying to normalize it all. Yoongi sounds drunk as he hums, eyes closed.
"That is what... around thirty-four in human years. But you've physically existed for five years on this earth", you pause. You could as well be talking to yourself; Yoongi is out, low grunts breaking only when he takes a breath. Habit of purring stayed. The anatomy changed.
"By the way, do you know when your birthday is?"
"Mmm, why would I know that", he mutters, moving his head left and right, showing you where to scratch.
"Humans celebrate birthdays".
"That's stupid. What is that? I always wondered?"
His eyes flap open and he stares at your wrist above his eyes as you move your hand up. He is looking at your skin. You check it.
"A birth mark. You have one on your belly, I remember", you say. Then you can't help but observe his throat and collarbones:
"And several on your neck. Why this body? Like, how, who..." you gasp with helplessness, "you sure you don't remember what happened exactly? You just woke up like this?"
"Uh-huh. The only good thing about this ugly costume is you can understand me now. Oh, you're so annoying I swear. I am trying to speak to you and you reply something like, you're the cutest boy in the world. Like I know that".
You frown. His hair is spread on the pillow.
"I know it's not your fault you don't speak my language, but it was still stupid as hell. Scratch my belly".
"I won't scratch your belly", you say. Then fall back on the second pillow, absolutely powerless. "That's too much".
"Why the fuck not?"
"You're still a yapper. You yap all the time".
"Yeah I have things to say. Scratch my belly now".
You tuck your hands to yourself and lie on your side. You need to either sleep or vomit. The thick spring air fills the room, the window Yoongi opened in the kitchen letting the smells of the street in.
"There are certain boundaries now, I'm afraid", you mumble. Yoongi's face is composed of frustration and confusion.
"It's not that disgusting, even without fur".
"It's not about bare skin, it's just... uh, you're human now".
"So? I am still your cat. And you will pet me when I tell you to".
And he bumps his head into your face. It leaves you wide eyed and mute.
It's all really funny when it's about cats. "It's his house now", "it's his cup now", "it's his bed now". Yeah. Funny, all those cartoons about how cats actually control people, and own them, and not the other way around. His rather large, although pretty, palm next to your face on the sheets. Fingers half-curled because he's done with the cat pleasure ritual. Yoongi huffs, irritated.
"Fine. Whatever. You're such a bitch sometimes".
"Hey".
"I mean prioritizing everything over me, when you've promised to dedicate your life to me, you know. Work, friends, your own feeding time, or when I fall asleep and you start fucking thrashing around".
He makes another attempt to curl, and this time it's a little more successful: the top of his head pressing into your ribs. He crouches, looking at your hands and then repeating the gesture, pressing them to himself. He's too big, so you have to move back to let him rest.
"You curse so much", you notice.
"Picked it all up for you. I live in isolation now, remember? You caged me here. And now refuse to fulfill your basic function".
His hand pulls the blanket over him and covers his own head.
"Yoongi..."
"Whatever".
"I am not your slave".
He produces a curious, hollow and shrieky chuckle from under there. It's probably the first time he laughs, ever. So it's not tuned yet. He is, himself, surprised. There's a questioning hum.
"What was that?"
"Laughter".
You think of Chaewon who sleeps like that, covered, cut from air flow. You worry about him, try to pull the blanket away a little, and he clutches on it, sore.
What will your friends say if you let them know? Hey, uhhh, so my cat turned into a dude. Ever happened to y'all?
Most probably, the majority of people will laugh it off. It's so absurd, too otherworldly. This thought makes you concerned again, for a moment. Makes you return to your initial panic. What if he is sick? What if he is a human who pretends to be an animal? Killed Yoongi. Threw his body out. Will rape you once you fall asleep, and then cannibalise you. That is much easier to imagine than a normal fucking street cat randomly, magically transforming into a full, functioning, sentient, anatomically correct Korean male.
Yeah no, there is no way adequate people would believe that. Only, your friends will get concerned. Say they visit one evening.
Scenario: Chaewon and Soyoon enter the apartment. Yoongi is sitting on the couch with a bowl of chopped sausages and watching a movie, in your sweatpants. They say, hey, why didn't you tell us you got a boyfriend? He says, I am her cat. They laugh, and keep questioning it, until either he, or you, snap and get rude. The rest of the evening grows gloomy and awkward, they think you're being mean with them. Or drunk. Until they realize Yoongi, the black cat, is nowhere to be seen. So, they question: where's the cat? Verdict: they think you either killed or lost Yoongi, then brought a weirdo into your house to cope.
Scenario: you tell them the weirdo is Yoongi the cat. They realize you're serious and call the hospital. Yoongi ends up at the police station: he has no documents, except for his cat passport, and the picture doesn't really match anymore. He will inevitably be sent to the same hospital as you, if he claims he is a cat. Acute delusional psychosis, they will say. You'll be together at least.
Scenario: you tell Chaewon and Soyoon your cat turned into a human, and they say: Oh finally you're in on it. Don't you know? This year all house cats start to randomly turn human. Maybe it's coronavirus. You shoot yourself in the face.
You drift off to sleep while thinking it all through. There's not a single realistic scenario in which it goes well. There's no way to accept what happened. Only, you kind of already did. You feel his breathing against yourself, and now it takes effort to convince yourself it's not your cat.
You shove your hand under the blanket and poke him in the side. Yoongi is already asleep and he moves a little like he always does.
You lift yourself off the bed and, in the last spark of energy, crawl around the apartment looking for his tiny dead body. The shock of what happened has flattened the potential trauma of your pet being killed. But Yoongi's small, black corpse is nowhere to be found. You search thouroughly; behind the shelves; between the couch cushions; under the desk; inside the wardrobe; in all the cupboards; even under the bath tub. The only creature is sleeping in your bed curled in a tight ball, and, when you return, his arms start flinching violently. It is positively horrifying: Yoongi always sleeps like that. The first four years of his life he had spent in the street: fighting with who you assume is another cat, Jiminie; and with people; maybe running away from kids; being hit with stones; surviving the mellow indifference of Seoul suburbia. Of course he has traumatic dreams. You always wondered what the cat dreams about, when he starts beating his hind legs in his sleep, as if running away.
"Hey", you pull the blanket off him and touch his shoulder. "Yoongi".
It takes another rub to wake him up. He sniffs sharply, then opens his eyes. For the first two seconds, he stares at you blankly, dark eyes instead of emerald. Mute and unblinking. And this - here - is the last hammer strike. You know it's true now, because you see the animal simplicity of his stare slowly recalibrating into the heavy human sentience again. The first several moments he forgets he's not a cat anymore. Then it returns. He frowns and nibbles on his lip busily.
"What?"
"What were you dreaming about?"
"I don't remember", he grumbles, cranky. He grabs your forearms and rubs his forehead on it, then lets go. Marking his territory. You lie down next to him, and then the knuckles poke you in the side: little paws, striving for connection, always having to touch when he's asleep.
You fall into it quickly, too, exhausted, dizzy and light in the head.
🐾⋆ 🐾⋆ 🐾⋆
You put your slippers on your feet, and Yoongi emerges from the bathroom slowly. He isn't a helpless baby; it's an indescribable relief to see he knows how to use human toilet. Given, he has watched you do it before, which... anyway, this is all quite testing.
"You washed your hands?"
"Yes", he frowns like he does now every time when you try to teach him.
"Where are you going?"
"Market. You've eaten all meat".
You stop in your tracks, as another layer of implications gets downloaded into your brain.
Providing for a cat is one thing. Cat food is bought in bulk. Cats don't need clothes, you realize, watching him approach you in smooth stride. Now you have a jobless dude in your house.
"You're planning, uh, on staying like this long?"
His face expresses questioning openness.
"Like what? Vertical? Bare? Ugly?"
"You're not ugly", you mutter.
"I don't know. I hope not".
"Where are you going?"
"With you?" he echoes, trying to push past you with the passionately characteristic hatred for a locked door.
"You don't even have shoes".
Means nothing to him. You try to stop him: he unlocks the door because he knows how you do it. Because for a human, it's quite instinctive. You're afraid he'll dart once he sniffs the air of freedom. You put your arm across his chest, but here's the problem: he is so much bigger than you now. Yoongi has no idea of his own size and strength now, and he pushes back against you, almost crushing you into the shoe rack. Then looks curiously, observing, hopefully, making conclusions.
"I want out".
"I'll go at least buy you slippers and return", you say, getting up. He doesn't offer you a hand, just watches.
"You can't push me like that, you're not small anymore".
"Why are you so light? It's cause you're female?"
"And because you're adult".
He dimples his chin in pondering. You made him shave this morning, and it weirdly resembled the first ever wash in this apartment. He almost yelled. It's bad enough he is bald almost everywhere; he thought that someone had shaved him while he slept, and that treacherous act revealed the bare skin and made him so weird; in other words, Yoongi thought if he lets the fur grow on his face, he will go back to normal. You realized it; the existential crisis didn't happen with him because he hadn't really grasped it fully. "Human" and "Cat" are both vague to him. He is - essentially and firstly - Yoongi. He hadn't understood the tremendous, possibly irreversible change he had undergone.
Anyways, you made him shave because the face stubble doesn't go with his hair and the angelic appearance. Again, he displayed the grudge, for about ten minutes, then you offered him breakfast, and he forgave everything.
"You wait here. Ten minutes. I am not against getting you out", you muse, "maybe we will even meet your friends and you can ask them about what happened to you".
He looks at you still, thinking about something else, then steps back.
"Okay. Yeah, my paws are so sensitive now".
You run to the closest kiosk and buy him a pair of big human rubber slippers. You reckon 260 or 270 will be good for him; he has big hands. The shirt he fished out and put on is of the size L: for home you usually buy oversize to be comfortable. He is lucky it's the century where oversize is so popular and widely accepted; otherwise he'd have nothing to wear.
Yoongi is standing on his knees on the window sill. You're enraged to see he has knocked down the moon clock, the other plant pot and a book, to get there.
"Hey, cat!" you yell.
He turns his head.
"Those fucking dipshit cunts", he hisses, then looks back again. You throw one slipper on the floor.
"Why the fuck did you knock the pot again?! You have hands now, move it!"
He just clicks his tongue, ignoring you. You walk to him, then place a slipper against his foot sticking out in the air, to see if you've guessed the size right.
He is looking at a flock of birds on the ground beyond the window. Thank God he forgot he can open it; otherwise he'd be outside.
"You still understand what they're saying?" you wonder.
His eyes are narrowed.
"No, but I remember very clearly what they used to say", he says, his teeth gritted.
"Why do you hate birds so much?"
Sparrows hop around. The monstera pot is gone, the remnants of the plant in the tall glass in water on your kitchen counter. Sparrows do not peck anything from the asphalt but instead seemingly target Yoongi. They turn towards the window like they actually register him, and chirp.
"Cause they fucking bastards".
"Right", you pull him off the sill and make him look away.
"Put it on".
He pushes one foot into one slipper, then limps to the door and puts on the other. You get your bag and your phone, keys and cards from the counter, and check yourself in the mirror. Yoongi has nothing to grab. You wrap your palm around his wrist tightly.
"You can't chase them once we're out".
"Can't promise anything", he grunts. With the other hand, you rub his chin to see if it will work. Yoongi frowns at first, then blinks rapidly. Cat brain overpowers him, and he closes his eyes as your fingers tickle his throat.
"Don't run away, okay? You've seen the street before".
He nods quietly, eyes still closed. They open wide once you leave the building.
You give him a minute. His small pink mouth drops open as he turns his head. Buildings are much smaller now; he stares at the ground like he doesn't recognize it. His shoulder twitches when he hears the cars honk beyond the block of flats. His lean, cheeky face looks like a dumpling: lips parted, eyes darting here and there. He actually wraps his fingers around yours like he is uncomfortable at first. Then watches the street.
"I remember the way it smelt when you brought me home", he mutters, "now it smells different".
"You said your perception changed".
"I feel completely dumb. I can't detect anything at all", he whispers, "how do you live like this? What if there's danger?"
It makes you sad when you think about it.
"Humans live in a less dangerous world. You don't have to be aware all the time. There's not threat on the street".
He doesn't believe you. Brows together, one higher than the other, he walks too close to you as you pull him after yourself. Disoriented. Suspicious. He follows a passerby with his eyes, and the guy looks back at him, slightly annoyed. When you pass grandma Malsoon's shop, she is there as usual; sitting on her small chair, but now drinking coffee. She raises her head and looks at you both.
"Oh, she fed me sometimes", Yoongi says loudly, staring at her. Grandma looks at Yoongi blank, then, at you. You bow.
"Good morning, grandma", you hope she will ignore it. Yoongi pulls on your hand, trying to approach her, but you pull him back.
"Found a man?" she asks, quite unbothered, considering how he looks. Worn Bladerunner shirt (refuses to change); sweatpants. Light-green rubber slippers, and a needy look with which he is trying to touch her. You dig your nails into his wrist.
"Well..."
"How is Yunki?"
Yoongi says,
"Me?"
"This... his name is also Yoongi", you explain. "But the cat is okay, as well".
Grandma chuckles and nods her chin. You're relieved. You pull him away.
"So..." you throw one last look at the old woman, "baby, you can't do that with people".
"Huhmm?"
"We don't normally sniff each other, okay? Also, you shouldn't tell... anybody, that you're a cat".
"Why?"
He looks up, where a couple of crows sit (quietly) on the electric lines above your heads. The motion makes him lose balance, and he sways, and you have to grab him by the shoulders.
"Because people will think either you or I is crazy, and we might get separated, and-"
"No!" he shouts.
The crows are spooked and fly away. Yoongi grabs both your forearms.
"You're everything I have!"
You nod furiously.
"Yes, yes, exactly. So, don't speak to anybody. Try to keep quiet, okay?" your voice drops to a whisper, "I don't think cats turn into people regularly. Humans will not understand".
He gulps heavily. Looks at you with suspicion. Like you threatened to abandon him. Like that, nobody could mistake him for anything but a cat; nose crunched, chin dimpled, eyes pointed.
"Okay. No speaking. But grandma was nice though. She fed all of us each winter".
"She feeds me, sometimes, too".
His face smoothens up,
"What? Are you dumb or something? You have food at home".
"It's... ugh", you let it go. You spend the rest of the way to the market explaining the concept of tea and candy to him.
hi. i’m the guy who all that blood belongs to. yeah in all the pictures of anime girls and cool ocs holding knives. it’s mine. i don’t donate it or anything. they just kill me again and again. because someone’s gotta but that’s not the part people really wanna see. it’s okay though. it’s a living
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
2087
areudirty
