[ Author's Notes ]:
Alright! It's been a while since I've written anything for Nijihai.
Just go with the concept of the fic if you may. I haven't decided if I should continue or just leave it like this.
And please note that this fic was UNBETA'd, meaning that it's a little messy with the grammar and there might be typos. I was writing this minutes before class was starting so I just went straight for it and it partly came out different than what I wanted. I'll just edit and rewrite it sometime in the future.
Anyways, enjoy! This is dedicated to all NijiHai fans out there!
The thing about taking in stray cats is that they're pretty high maintenance — sometimes, just a little more so than cats from the pet-store.
A lot of these cats yearn for a home, a warm place they can call their own and have someone shower them in love. A few of them, though, would hiss at the sight of a stranger's open hand. Those strays are the ones that require a lot of work and handling — a lot of loving and some special treatment only because they're the spoiled sort.
The thing about strays is that they're the dirty, wild beasts of the streets, with their claws so sharp and jagged and their fur and skin sometimes laden with scars and scratches and bald in some places. They're the cats that are flea-ridden and unkempt, a look of disinterest and hatred stinging in their eyes as they hiss at anyone. They're the ones that steal things from others because it's there, unguarded, and ripe for the taking—they really couldn't care less if someone's name is on it or not. They're the cats that saunter down the streets with their chins head, tail up, acting like they don't care about anything, despite possibly sporting a broken ankle. They hiss at getting domesticated, but mewl when there's free food and then run off in trickery.
The thing about taking in stray cats is that they're mangy, spoiled, and rotten, pushing things down just because it's up in a high place.
A lot of people can't handle the trouble that comes with strays, so no one really bothers taking them into their homes. These cats aren't always going to be diamonds in the rough; sometimes, they're just coal that like get to enflamed just so that they could burn others.
And even if this isn't remotely accurate, even if it's not true that all stray cats are dirty or bad and that there are some that don't give as much trouble as they're worth, the sad truth is that there are still the people that don't like 'dirty' things — things that aren't as clean as they should be.
The only time that these cats are ever adopted was usually by the ones who have a secret soft spot for trouble and unruliness, the ones who can actually look past the flea-ridden fur, the sharpened claws, and the threatening hiss that take these strays, get scratched, but bring into their homes nonetheless.
"Shuzo?"
A short woman with black hair and a soft face blinks surprised, almost at a slight loss for words as she watched her son come into the kitchen with a boy following in tow.
Although she didn't mind it when her son brought friends home, the boy who stood under the kitchen arch, with his bruised lips and his black eye, certainly did not seem like someone that her son would befriend.
The boy's eye was swollen, dark and completely bruised. His lips were just as bad, a rip right down the middle of the bottom one with blood oozing out and puffing out swollen. His cheeks were plumped and it wouldn't surprise her if the boy was missing a few teeth because he looks like just got out of a street fight.
The sleeves of his white, long shirt were ripped and torn, the rest of it completely dirtied and partly bloodied with someone else's and his own. The jeans were in the same shape, torn holes on the knees and just barely hanging off his body with the belt.
He stood under the kitchen arch waiting and silent, both hands in his pocket, posture slouched, and his eyes staring down at the floor. She heard his breathing to be heavy and rough, making her wonder if he'd been hit at the throat. He just remained in that one spot, neither moving or nor beginning to look anywhere else but the spotless, glistening floor.
"Mom."
Caught off-guard, she lets out a small gasp and nearly drops the dish in her hand. Her son—Nijimura Shuzo—looks calm and unaffected by the present matter, standing close to the opened fridge with a hard stare.
"Do we have any ice?" He asks.
"Hm?"
She shakes herself out it, placing the unwashed dish back into the sink for a moment and wiping her hands all over her apron.
"Any ice," Nijimura repeats again, looking into the fridge and doing another quick scan. "Maybe an ice pack or something."
"Ah," she says, glancing at the beaten boy and then her son, watching as he appears so nonchalant. Although she can guess the answer, she still prompts for curiosity's sake, "What is it for?"
"A black eye."
"Oh," she starts, nodding her slowly. As she maintains her attention on the boy, she continues, "Just grab some meat from the freezer." She watches as the boy winces from barely touching at his eye. "The steak. We need to thaw it out for dinner anyways." And then she found herself saying, almost robotically, "Do you like steak?"
"Yeah." Nijimura answers but he can tell that she wasn't listening, the entirety of her attention and curiosity on him. "Just call when you need it again." And with that, he turns on his heel, circling around the table and ushering the boy to walk up the stairs.
However, before Nijimura could actually get one foot up on the steps, she calls out to him.
"Shuzo?"
Nijimura halts in his steps and looks back to her. He tells the boy to turn towards him and shoves it into the boy's arms, instructing him afterwards to climb up the stairs and go into the first room directly to the right—Nijimura's room. All she could is wait patiently as she hears Nijimura finish with "And you don't you dare touch anything." She couldn't imagine who this boy is to her son.
"What is it, mom?" Finally alone, her son looks at her, still calm and normal as any other day.
She's almost shy to ask.
"Who was that?"
For a moment, Nijimura doesn't say anything, looking up the stairs and taking in a deep breath and then exhaling it out, his nose flaring. It takes another second before he places one foot on the steps and finally answers.
"A stray cat I picked up."
And then he heads up the stairs to his room.