"Dude, we're going out." You step into the lounge of your apartment.

Karkat is lying on the couch with an elbow propped up and a fist to his cheek. The fingers of his other hand ghost over the page of a book that rests on the cushion adjacent his chest.

"What for," he states.

You watch him. Every little action of his always infatuates you. The way his voice reverberates through your bones, the way that- regardless of his raucous articulation- his demeanor grasps an 'I don't give a fuck' air (which might have rubbed off from you), the way his unruly hair drops across his features, his chest with every relaxed breath, his exposed clavicle through the top of his shirt, and the way his gorgeous eyes flicker over the lines of his reading material.

His eyes were a dust storm; a pale hue between red and gray. In due time his natural pigments will conquer the drab normality of the latter, his irises tearing off their protective coat to wear the blood in his veins.

It agitates you that he loathes red so much when the color becomes him unbearably more than you tailor it.

"I said what for," he repeats. The moment he took his concentration from the book to replace it with your face escaped you.

"The pantry is as barren as the fucking Sahara. We need to pick up food."

He groans. You can understand why: January. Although it rarely snows, the weather is cold and dry and downright awful. No one wants to leave their homes in this shitty weather. Your fingers might freeze and crack apart. Or better yet, maybe icicles will form on your eyelashes and every time you blink they will stab into your eyes- by the end of the day you will be as blind as Terezi if she had hyposmia and a burnt tongue.

"We'll just go to market downtown. Even I don't want to walk anywhere in this shit. My tolerance for temperature developed in Houston's sweltering heat."

"Fine, whatever. I'm sure you're too incompetent of a moronic fuckwit to manage to 'swagger' your ass downtown and pick up logical types of human food in lieu of the sodium-caked, Trans fat-drenched, sugar-loaded, calorie overdoses of filth you call snacks."

"And that is why you're coming with."

You toss on a leather jacket (because, fuck yeah, leather is a wind-protectant, and you wear it well), while Karkat garmented his coat.

As he nestles his feet into his boots, you notice- even with his coat buttoned- his collarbone is still exposed.

You walk back into the apartment and into the room you shared.

"Where the fuck are you going?"

You rustled through your closet, littered with shitty swords, Karkat's shitty romcoms, a few jars of preserved dead things, books of his, old electronics yours, clothes of yours, clothes of his, clothes you shared, so much shit‒ how is this even a closet‒ ah, there it is.

Returning to him, who still stands by the entrance, you drape the red plaid scarf you scrounged up around his neck.

He knits his brow. "You know my disposition towards this color."

"Don't care."

He huffs in annoyance, but fiddles with the scarf until he is comfortable.

‒

The wind bites; the chill too weak for shivers, while bitter enough to flush your skin. The raw air leaves a harsh taste in your mouth, and the sky cannot decide if it wants to smother you into depression or leave you hanging with a sense of pessimism.

Out of the corner of your eye Karkat struggles against the wind. He squints and raises a hand to his face, his permanent scowl edging deeper into his expression.

You restrain from smirking, shove your hands in your pockets, and focus back on the path in front of you.

It was a generous walk from your apartment to the market, though effortless in comparison to the journey you trek to your routine grocery store. The one you both resort to when supplies get as low as they are.

Karkat fusses over where the two of you shop, and the one place he respects happens to be on the other ass-end of the city. He enlists the help of his and your friends when food shortages occur because of the sheer quantity he buys when it does. He turns a simple task into a grandiose cultist gathering to pick up food.

He calls up John and Kanaya and has you call Rose (if she was not with Kanaya), and if the number hands remained insufficient, he forces any of the trolls or humans available to help.

You glance over again and realize something caught his interest. Not just a minor slip up in attention; he is arrested by whatever gained his appreciation. He has even halted his steps.

You shift your gaze to follow his line of sight and are met with the window of a pet shop. A tiny fluff ball of black with bright blue eyes stares up at the two of you.

Karkat's mouth slips open in a silent gasp as he eyes the little creature, and he stretches his fingers by his side.

The kitten places its paws on the window ledge and flicks its tail as it eyes Karkat back. It strikes you as oddly familiar; an emotion between nostalgia and déjà vu settling in your gut. Have you seen this cat somewhere?

The thought is gone when you tag the flush on Karkat's face as too deep for the temperature to be the lone culprit. This "moment" he shares with the little feline delights him.

"Vantas?"

Your voice shakes him from his reverie, and he grips the fabric of his pants while bringing his attention to you.

"What." He scrunches his nose and furrows his brow.

"Nothing." You smirk.

He bites his bottom lip and avoids eye contact.

Well, you know where you are stopping by later.

‒

"Jesus fuck, why the hell did we buy so much shit? Why did you buy so much shit. You knew the people carrying the bags were the two of us. This was a trip to temporarily restock until we could hit our normal place. Yet you still went as haywire as a cow who hasn't seen green grass in fucking weeks."

You drop the five grocery bags you lugged two miles onto the floor with a heavy thud.

Karkat glares at you. "Don't drop them," he snarls, as he places his four bags on kitchen table.

"Whatever. I'm leaving."

"Wait, what? No, help me put this shit away."

"I've got a gig tonight, remember?"

"Yeah, in two hours. Get your ass back here."

"Strider is out of the house," you hum with a rich tilde in your voice, and toss a back-handed wave to him as you strut out the door.

You hear him grumble 'douchebag coolkid' among other insults as you descend the stairs.

‒

The door jingles as you stride into the pet store. Why did these places always have bells on their doors? The simple sound-making device does nothing productive, unless annoying employees into being moody bitches and deterring customers from coming back counts as useful.

You walk by the pen near the window and count three kittens, two of which you had not noticed earlier. One of them rolls onto the other in its sleep. The third, the charcoal creature that unnerves you with familiarity, saunters toward you and settles on its hind legs.

A distinct, bright color resides in its irises, riddled with innocence.

It trails your movements with its gaze.

And, you called it, the woman working the register frowns when you walk up to her.

"Can I help you?" she spits. She sounds ecstatic to see a customer, with her indignant tone and bluntness.

"Yeah, I got a question about the cats." You ignore her attitude and glance back at the kittens.

Sky-smeared orbs still have you under surveillance.

"Oh, them. They're not the shops, we don't sell pets."

That cleared up nothing. You turn back and get her a scrutinizing stare behind your shades.

She might have sensed it, because she sighs and continues talking without you having to question.

"We sponsor the city's animal shelter. It's not too far from here, but it's out of bustle of the inner city. It doesn't get much attention. We take a few of their animals and put them on display here to raise the chances of adoption. If you want one of them you gotta take that up with the shelter. Do you want directions?"

You pull your phone out of your pocket to check the time. An hour and a half until the club needs its DJ, but you are not in the mood for chancing.

"Could you write them down? I'll check it out tomorrow."

"Sure. Actually, I think these kittens are going back to the shelter tomorrow morning. We get new animals every week." She shrugs and shuffles around for a pen.

She scribbles a few lines on a scrap piece of paper and hands it to you.

"Thanks." You nod to her.

As you place a hand on the door, the little cat tilts its head to the side and flicks one ear.

Why is it so familiar?