Mattie said to get a cat. Said that cats were like dogs-lite. Without all the calories, without all the effort. They could clean themselves and let themselves out, they wouldn't eat your CDs or chew on your most favorite toys. And they certainly wouldn't sleep without another man because they found you boring. So Alfred got a cat.
It wasn't like he was serious about getting the cat. It just happened to be that he was walking through the sleazy part of downtown when he saw the shop, fine silks and tassels hanging in the window. Which was nice and all, because if Alfred could appreciate one thing it was definitely pretty colors and shiny stuff, but that wasn't what really got him.
It was the cat in the window. It wasn't like most of the cats Alfred had met, snooty little things with tails held aloft and holier-than-thou attitudes. It ran along the window as Alfred walked by, followed his movements. Alfred doubled back, and so did the cat. He faked to the left, and the cat swerved with him.
Alfred paused in front of the window, hands on his hips, staring down at the cat. It was pretty cute. All dark fluff and curiously purple eyes. It had smart eyes, Alfred decided. Smart eyes and a ridiculously cute everything.
Its body was a rounded mass with little legs and even littler feet. It meowed silently at him, long whiskers rippling as its mouth opened. It pawed at the glass, pink pads working at the barrier, working to get closer to Alfred.
Alfred knew this trick, remembered it from when he was a child and the malls still had pet shops. They put all the cute ones in the front, the kittens and the puppies that whined and mewled and begged with their big eyes for you come in. And you would. You'd go in and pet them and coo and wonder how you could ever have lived without them.
Even with his knowledge, aware of how they lured you in and how it was best to walk by, Alfred went inside. The door jangled as he opened, and he was struck by how very dark it was inside. The walls were dark, the floors were dark, the lights were dim and it smelled of slightly burnt food and herbal tea. Alfred cringed at the mixed scent, eyes watering weakly.
It was hard to make out the store itself. There were cages, so many cages. But their inhabitants were nothing more than silhouettes, moving shadows that hooted and sang and made noises Alfred had never heard before.
He went straight for the cat, ignoring the other creatures as they pressed up against their confinements, the clawed foot of a bird grasping at a bar, almost human, furry fingers reaching out at another.
The cat's cage was different, more of an enclosure than a prison cell. It had four glass walls and that was it, the top uncovered for easy access. It had the purr to rival a truck's engine, and a full tail that twitched with excitement.
Alfred lowered a hand into the pen, smiling to himself when the cat sniffed gingerly at it, then rubbing a soft cheek against Alfred's knuckles. That was when the voice cut in, gruff and strict, like a school teacher who enjoyed calling children out more than teaching them.
"Don't touch the merchandise unless you plan to purchase it," it said, and it was as sweet and poisonous as antifreeze.
Alfred's body snapped back from the cat, his muscles stiffening with surprise as his cheeks flushed. He thought of all the adult things he could say, how coolly he could brush off the man with his sickly sweet voice and hold it together. He would come out on top, suave and grown up and not at all like the mopey, broken-hearted teen Mattie said he was.
"Sorry," was all he mustered as he turned to meet the man. "I just─ yeah. That's a cute cat."
Alfred was pretty sure his braces and bad skin would magically reappear, and suddenly he would be twelve, shaky and shy and not yet comfortable with himself and his place in the world.
But they didn't, and there he was, still a man in the face of this stranger. The stranger was as hard as the animals to make out, his only readily apparent features his cat-green eyes and the brows that threatened to overwhelm them.
His smile was uneven and somehow sophisticated, confident despite their yellowed appearance and odd gap. His posture presented someone refined, sure of themself, like the kind of man Alfred wanted to be. Someone who could think up witty one-liners without effort, a man with class and poise.
"He is rather handsome, isn't he?" the man said. "And so intelligent, too. I'd dare to venture he's nearly as smart as a human."
Alfred nodded, his tongue nervously darting over his lips. Beneath his casual airs, there was something that didn't sit right with Alfred about this guy. Maybe it was the way he looked through Alfred, or how his smile wasn't quite right, but it was definitely there.
"Uh, yeah. Cats are pretty darn smart," Alfred said, working more on steadying his voice than carrying on conversation.
"And have you found yourself looking for a cat? Because if you are, I can promise you, there is no feline finer than my little Ivan over there."
It was the man who said the name, it was his lips that moved and curled, but the name was said somewhere else, by something else. It was like the air was nothing but water, and the name was a stone dropped into its smooth surface, and the name was gone, sinking to the bottom, but still it remained, rippling in tiny waves.
Alfred had never realized how badly he needed a cat until that very moment. Suddenly he could see what he missed out on, how he didn't need a dirty, no good rotten boyfriend to feel good. A cat would do the trick, fill that niggling void in his heart that seemed to grow over the years, sleep on his pillows or lay at his feet. It would keep him company.
"I take it you're quite smitten with Ivan," the man said, a laugh on his lips.
Alfred nodded again and turned back to the cat, leaning down to better see it. "Well, yeah. He's a nice lookin' cat and all. What kind is he, anyway?"
"A Russian Blue."
Alfred frowned as he squinted, the cat settling itself against the glass, staring right back at him. It had dark, full fur, a strange white scruff around its neck and the end of its tail was light as well, like a paintbrush freshly dipped in paint. Its nose was something else. It made Alfred think of the guys who he'd played football with all through high school, the guys who ended up with broken noses and never bothered to have them set again, leaving them flat and wide and a little off.
It added character, Alfred decided. The whole cat had character, in fact. That something special in the way it walked and meowed and even blinked. But it didn't fit the image Alfred had in his head for Russian Blues. That was a sleek cat, streamlined, almost, with gray fur and blue undertones. Ivan was a fat, sooty-looking cat. And Alfred found he really dug that.
"Why don't I go get a cat carrier?" the man said, and Alfred found that to be the most perfect idea.
There was no register at the counter, no signs about what cards were taken and what bills would not be broken. There was nothing but the outstretched hand of the man, his fingers giving a single twitch, a gesture to pay up, while his other hand grasped the handle of the cat carrier.
Alfred upended his wallet into the waiting hand, crumpled bills and loose change falling into the outstretched palm. He didn't bother to ask for change, didn't even consider it as he was handed the carrier. The only thing on his mind was Ivan, and how Ivan would make life wonderful, worth living, and he would never leave Alfred for someone else.
A slip of paper came after the payment, the script small and dark, so tightly-written it looked like another language. Alfred got three lines in before he saw it to be a run-of-the-mill contract, a statement promising he would take good care of the cat. Alfred scrawled his signature on the bottom line with a grunt, passing the pen back to the man with an automatic smile
"Did you even bother to read that?" the man asked, his thick eyebrows rising with amusement.
"Uh, yeah. I'm just a speed reader and all," Alfred lied. It wasn't like he really needed to read it. He had common sense, after all.
"Well, be sure to remember the rules. And please, don't give it any vodka."
The words made Alfred pause as he headed for the door, his curiosity threatening to overwhelm him, begging him to ask why. But he stood strong, his eyes straight ahead as he pushed through the door, the bells sending him off. He didn't even really drink vodka, and he wasn't about to give it to his awesome, super-cool brand new cat.
Alfred vowed to give Ivan nothing but the best. He would buy all the Fancy Feast he could find, serve it in the crystal bowls like they did on TV. He'd even ding the side with a fork, let the ring of glass call Ivan to his dinner. He would buy Ivan the most amazing cat tree, a veritable plethora of little toys that squeaked and were decorated by feathers.
In reality, all he was able to afford were two tin cans of an off-brand cat food. The crystal bowl would have to wait until his next paycheck. In the meantime he'd let Ivan play with twine and eat from plain old saucers. But Alfred would make up for the lack of material with kindness, with soft cooing and light scratches in that perfect spot behind a cat's ears.
Ivan had other plans. The instant Alfred closed his apartment door and opened to cat carrier, Ivan shot out, more a blurred streak than anything, tearing through the tiny living room and around a corner. The urge to give chase made Alfred's muscles tense, but he knew it would do nothing but frighten Ivan further.
Instead he went to the kitchen and popped a tin of cat food, rapping his fingers against the lid, halfway hoping Ivan's fluffy head would peak out from the doorway. There was no sound aside from Alfred's own breathing. He set the food down and filled a bowl with water, clucking his tongue in a vain plea for Ivan to return, but he never appeared.
Alfred went to bed that night with the broken heart he'd been nurturing for the better part of a month. He wondered how long it would take for the cat to fill in the hurt, why he'd thought it was be such a sudden fix. Mattie made it sound like cats were the solution to all of life's problems, and Alfred wanted that to be so true.
But now all he had was an empty wallet and an empty bed. He checked the saucer a hundred times before he finally forced himself to sleep, but it remained full as ever. He got on his hands and knees and searched beneath dressers and tables, but found no sign of Ivan. The idea that Ivan had somehow escaped started to cross his mind, curl in the dark places that always bothered him.
He was half asleep when he felt it. Felt the weight of tiny paws weighing down his blankets, walking along the mattress. Fine fur tickled at his nose, puffs of warm breath skimming over his skin. Alfred pulled himself from sleep enough to raise a hand, his eyes still closed as Ivan sniffed once again at his hand, and this time succeeded in rubbing against it without interruption.
And in that small, sleepy moment, Alfred knew Ivan would make everything better.
Ivan came out of his shell at an almost unbearably slow rate. He was more of a glimpse of a tail beneath a desk or the most fleeting flash of purple eyes in the morning. Food disappeared from the bowl regularly, as did the water. The litter box was dirtied and the twine Alfred left about was moved on occasion.
It was only at night that Ivan would manage the courage to come out of hiding. Alfred found himself crawling under the covers earlier and earlier, feigning slumber so that Ivan would emerge from hiding and join him in bed. He would curl up in the crook of Alfred's arm or the curve of his neck, his purr a steady white noise that would send Alfred off to sleep.
During the day, Alfred thought about Ivan a lot. He looked at clothes for cats online, read articles about their unusual behaviors and the body language of their tails. He watched videos of them fitting themselves into too-small boxes. There were photos of cats with a multitude of expressions, large white fonts imaging what their words would be, all of them misspelled to some extent.
There seemed to be a running theme with cats and 'cheezburgers.' He went out of his way after work to pick up a burger. One for Ivan, two for himself. As he pulled up into his driveway, he could have sworn he saw a very feline face watching him from the living room window, but when he checked again the face was gone.
There was not the slightest hint of sound as Alfred opened the door. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed his keys in a bowl by the door as he made for the kitchen. He pulled two plates out of the cupboard, one for him and one for Ivan. He took particular care with Ivan's burger, stripping away the yellowed wrapper and placing it gently on its respective plate.
He said grace for the both of them and settled down to wait. The clock ticked on in the empty kitchen, steady as the drip of the leaking faucet. The food got cold and Alfred's body settled itself into a formless slump. He stared so long at Ivan's plate that it ceased to be a plate, instead morphing into a hazy image that never changed.
Eventually he found himself talking to Ivan, cooing and whispering and urging him to appear, as though he were a creature that needed to be summoned through a ritual. Alfred's gentle coaxing soon turned to groveling, low and hoarse and impatient.
"C'mon, Ivan," he droned, his leg jogging. "We're gonna start eating dinner together, like a family and stuff."
The clock ticked, the water dripped, and Ivan did not appear.
"Let's make a deal, buddy. I'll even pretend you're not around. I'll do my own thing, and you do yours."
There was the barest whisper of padded feet against hardwood, and Alfred held his breath. The sound got louder, and it took all of Alfred's willpower not to sneak a peek. He busied himself by setting to work on his burger, chewing thoughtfully over the noise of Ivan doing the same.
"Look at me," Alfred said around a mouthful of food. "Look at me not looking at you. Look at how little I am looking at you. Let me tell you, I am not looking at all. I'm like Lot. There is no way I am looking, I will not end by day by turning into a salt pillar."
Alfred continued on with his small talk, mainly congratulating himself for his willpower and how good his burgers were. He wanted to get Ivan used to his voice, to his presence. He wanted Ivan to understand that when it came to owner-people, Alfred was the coolest owner-person. But most of all, he wanted Ivan to like him.
It was after he finished his second burger that Alfred lost it. He looked at Ivan. He hadn't meant to, but his eyes had slipped and it had happened and there was no going back. Ivan looked at the same time, and their eyes met.
Alfred's first thought was that he was definitely better off. Sure he had a few crumbs around his mouth, but Ivan had half a pickle between his teeth and mustard in his lashes. Alfred's second thought was that he had made a mistake. Ivan's body immediately hunched in on itself, his full tail wrapping around his body, pupils dilating as his ears edged backwards.
It was the first time Alfred had really seen Ivan. The pet shop had carried a certain, constant dimness. In the cat carrier, Ivan had huddled into the back, nothing but a mass of fur and two scared eyes. At night he was nothing but a blurred, dark mass, a fuzzy ball that Alfred's eyes could not quite assign features to without his glasses.
Ivan was so much bigger than Alfred realized. Alfred had seen dogs smaller than him. He still had the unusual nose Alfred remembered, and the tail dipped in white paint with his scruff a matching shade. But the eyes, they were what really struck him.
Cats didn't have purple eyes. Alfred had looked it up, scoured the recesses of the internet for proof pointing otherwise. He'd come to think that the eyes he saw in the pet shop were a trick of the light, something his mind had conjured up in the moment. Yet there was no other color he could apply to Ivan's eyes. Not the richest of blues or the startings of indigo. They simply were purple.
And like the pet shop owner had said, there was something human in them. A certain lucid self awareness that he'd never seen lent to cats before. It made Alfred wonder if Ivan thought about more than food and sleep and licking himself. If there was a part in his itty-bitty cat brain that understood the world outside itself, could comprehend what Alfred said.
"Hey, Ivan," Alfred said softly. "You're a big guy, aren't you? And pretty to boot."
Ivan inched away from his plate, and it took every ounce of control in Alfred's body not to jump up and plead with him to stay. But instead he kept himself calm, his words smooth and even as he continued to speak.
"I don't know what life was like for you in the pet shop, or even before that, but you're gonna love it here. You can sit around and snooze and even scratch up the furniture. I won't be mad, dude, I promise. I totally get that his place is all new and weird and scary and smells funny, but it's still the most chill place ever."
Ivan slowed his retreat, and Alfred went on.
"I mean, you're a real sweet kitty. You're all quiet and nice and don't play with toilet paper. But, like, it's cool if you want to hang out more. You don't have to wait until I'm asleep to chill, I won't be mad or anything. So, like. You and me. Tonight. Come around before I am totally zonked out."
Alfred turned away then, let his gaze settle back on his empty plate. A blush crept along his neck as he realized how ridiculous he was being, trying to convince a cat, in English, that they should be friends. He wanted so badly for things to go smoothly. Cats didn't care about what you looked like or what your interests were, they simply liked people for being people. Alfred wanted to be liked.
The hint of a tail brushed along Alfred's leg as he sulked. There was the hint of a raspy meow, like Ivan hadn't spoken in so long that his vocal chords were rusty. Alfred's heart gave a flutter and a smile came to his lips.
That evening things started to change. After his shower, Alfred found Ivan already waiting in bed, eyes wide and alert, as though he expected to be scolded. Alfred made a show of ignoring him, pretending to be far more interested in running his fingers through damp hair or adjusting the tie on his pajama bottoms.
He crawled under the sheets still-half damp, mussing up the covers as he went. His hands reached out for Ivan, fingers winding their way into his fur, scratching lovingly under his chin and behind his ears.
Ivan slept on Alfred's chest that night, curled up tight with his purr a constant throughout Alfred's dreams.
Ivan became bolder as time passed. He sat on the fridge and gazed down at Alfred as though he were a king observing his subjects, spread himself across multiple pillows at a time and hogged the bed. Alfred got around to buying a faux-crystal glass and Ivan took to eating at the table with him.
As Ivan became bolder, his antics grew more amusing. He slept in sinks, meowed feverishly at birds on the other side of the glass. If the faucet was running he'd swipe at the flow of water with his paw, or try to drink directly from the spout.
Alfred took to snapping photos, cataloging them on his computer and separating them carefully. There was the photo where Ivan had his serious face, his sleepy face, his face where his pupils were the size of plates. His poses ranged from loaf-like in appearance to gentle arches, the rounded back as he awoke him slumber.
Soon the photos weren't enough. Soon Alfred found himself taking video, following Ivan about as he made his way around the house. And Ivan drank it in. He twined himself around Alfred's legs as they walked, waited at the window each day for Alfred's return.
To Alfred, it was a logical step to put the videos online. For Mattie, of course. Well, that and the secret hope that others would see Ivan for how great he was. That one day Alfred would wake up to calls for morning talk show hosts wanting to meet the man who owned such an awesome cat. He'd return from work and the pageviews would be off the charts, the comments too many to read.
Most of the views ended up being from Alfred, who checked the videos with an almost feverish enthusiasm. Mattie commented on occasion, a one word remark here or there calling Ivan cute or cool, but the words seemed empty.
When Alfred came home one day to find a comment from a stranger, a person going by the name of Cyberian12. He had posted on a short clip of Ivan lying on his back, claws extending as he sleepily clutched at the air, a low purr thrumming in the back of his throat. Alfred always mentioned in the descriptions that Ivan was a Russian Blue, but this commenter seemed to have a problem with this.
Is cute kitty cat, Cyberian12 wrote, but is no Russian Blue. Have good day from Siberia.
Alfred stared at the comment, let his eyes read over it again and again. Well of course Ivan was cute. He had a cute broad nose and a cute tubby body. He walked cute and he talked cute. But the man at the store had said he was a Russian Blue, and while he really didn't look like one, Alfred wanted to believe.
There was a hot thrum in his veins as he stared at Cyberian12's name. Who was this man to pass judgement on the breed of his cat? What backing did he have for his remark, this ultimate decision that Ivan wasn't a Russian blue?
Alfred clicked on the name, expecting to see the account of an idiot filled with boring movies and mean comments. He needed the reassurance that he was not in the wrong, the one who had believed and been lead astray. His anger was instant and fierce, unjustified and misdirected, but it needed to be fed.
Alfred was pulled from a video-induced stupor by the sudden weight of Ivan leaping into his lap. He looked down, bemused and not completely sure of where he was. He realized belatedly that his stomach was growling and his mouth was dry.
Somewhere along the way three hours has passed, filled at first by Cyberian12's own videos, short clips of Russian pop music and the occasion video post where he simply sat in front of a camera and talked. Alfred couldn't understand the words, but he could feel the rhythms and intonation, and he enjoyed each syllable.
He'd moved onto Cyberian12's favorites after that. Sat through videos with folk dances and recipes for some red soup that looked weirdly good. He watched black and white film reels of Russian broadcasts during World War II. He saw women with beautiful braids and men with striped shirts.
Alfred found himself strangely entranced, taken in by the culture, each new thing he learned like a mental pat on the back for him, a feel good sensation. It was a lot like getting lost on Wikipedia, clicking through page after page, coming away with nothing but knowledge.
Scooping Ivan up in is arms as he stood, his thoughts filled with Russian things, Alfred made his way to the kitchen. Ivan yawned and stretched and curled, all half-closed eyes and soft mewls, his purring fading as Alfred set him on the counter top.
Alfred pulled open his fridge and popped his head inside, somehow convinced that food had been delivered to it since he got home from work, that some magical food fairy had restocked it. Instead he saw the same thing he had that morning. Already opened tins of cat food wrapped in aluminum and an almost empty gallon of milk. There were some wilted greens in the crisper and a pack of uncooked bacon in the meat drawer.
Ivan gave a raspy meow as Alfred pulled one of the cat food tins from the fridge and set it on the counter. He was too tired to warm it up, too tired to pull out the crystal glass and make a show of it. And Ivan seemed to know it, for he put up no fuss, inched along like a lazy caterpillar until he came to the tin, and ate directly from it.
Alfred watched Ivan without really seeing. His stomach continued to growl, but he ignored it. A cold unease had crawled into his heart as he wasted away his time watching videos, a biting that made him remember he had no one to share such silly things with.
Alfred had no one but Mattie. And Mattie had his own life, was a grown man with his own place and a steady job that was going places and a loving lady who welcomed him home every day. And all Alfred got was a dead-end job and a fat cat.
Not that Alfred didn't love Ivan. But Ivan couldn't enjoy movies or understand the intricacies of spooning. He couldn't understand inside jokes or why Alfred liked the sound of a leaky faucet so much. He was a cat. He slept and purred and ate and existed. And while Alfred knew it was silly, that night as he crawled under the covers he wished desperately that Ivan was more.
After work the next day Alfred found himself in a little Russian supermarket. His breakfast of milk and crackers had done nothing to sate him, and the vending machine at work had been out of his favorite granola bars. And it wasn't like he didn't need to go grocery shopping, and he definitely wasn't stopping here for the sole fact that he was taking an interest in all things Russian.
As he walked the aisles, a blue basket held in one hand, he wondered what he had gotten himself into. He wasn't Russian, he didn't know what these boxes said. He studied the pictures on the fronts, pretending to read the directions on the back. He kept his head down and avoided meeting anyone else's eyes. He made believe that it was him against the Russians, an American spy infiltrating an restricted area, stealing secrets from shelves.
He filled his basket with the most familiar looking things he could find. A can of the red soup he'd seen before, some kind of frozen food with a cross-section on the front that looked like it was some kind of meat wrapped in bread. The last thing he picked up was vodka, because at least he knew how to drink that without instructions.
He kept to himself in line, smiled a small little smile at the cashier and nodded when they tried to speak to him in Russian. He swiped his card and pressed all the right buttons, took his receipt with his same little smile and averted his eyes. He left feeling like a hero, like he was emerging from enemy lines unscathed.
Ivan was all kinds of curious when Alfred got home, leaping onto the table with a gentle thud as Alfred put his bags down. He nudged at the frozen bread-meat things and batted at the soup can. He nuzzled against the bottle of vodka and pawed the plastic bag that held it all.
"I bet you're hungry too, my little kitty," Alfred said, running his hand along the length of Ivan's back, feeling the cat arch into his touch. "Yeah, I thought so. I'll figure this all out and let you have some."
Ivan meowed, a deep baritone noise that fit his size, and took his place at the table. He watched Alfred, his eyes as lucid and smart as ever, the slightest touch of sleepy dullness in them. Alfred stared back, fingers clumsily working to rip open the frozen food box.
He'd read the other day that cats could talk with their eyes, Well, sorta talk with them. Most of their cat-language was done through the way they carried themselves, through the curl of their tale or the placement of their ears. But according to some animal-people scientists, they blinked special if they liked you.
It was a subtle blink, nothing flashy or overdone. It wasn't a wink, a coy little gesture, it wasn't a wince or something forced. Instead it was simply... a blink. But it was slow, that was the catch. You'd find your eye caught, yourself entranced, and then the cat would blink at you, a muted, toned down closing of the eyes. Like maybe it was sleepy or bored.
Alfred was pretty sure Ivan was slow-blinking him. Slow-blinking him a lot, in fact. He was doing it right now, blinking away as Alfred kept staring. Before he knew it, Alfred was blinking back, letting himself fall into the secret language of cats. Ivan and Alfred blinked at each other for a few minutes until Alfred realized how silly he was being, and how dinner wasn't going to make itself.
The red soup he cooked well enough, letting it simmer on the stove top as he popped Ivan's food in the microwave. He almost managed to pull the bread thingies off perfectly, but a fear that they would be cold in the middle if pulled out too quickly caused him to leave them in the over until their exteriors were slightly burnt. He tried scraping off the worst of it with a butter knife, but the damage was done.
Alfred finalized their fancy dinner by dimming the lights, lighting a candle, and pouring himself a shot of vodka. He wanted tonight to be special. He wanted to eat this new cuisine and absorb it, to feel like he was part of something bigger for a few minutes. He felt, somehow, that eating this food would change him, make him more interesting or witty, more cultured.
Alfred downed the shot before he started to eat, bypassed grace as the warmth bloomed in his stomach. Ivan watched his with an unusual intensity, his mouth chewing through cat food as he did so. His tail gave an agitated twitch before sweeping back and forth like a broom.
"This is the good stuff," Alfred announced as he poured himself another shot. "We're gonna be classy guys tonight, let me tell you."
Ivan kept watching and eating, pausing every once in a while to lick his nose and do a slow-blink. Alfred was compelled to repeat the latter gesture back as he tucked into his food.
The soup was interesting, to say the least. It was a funny kind of burgundy, almost. The taste was not something Alfred could put his finger on, it matched nothing else he'd ever eaten. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not, and a quiet part in the back of his mind rejected it outright. He chased away the after taste with another shot.
The meat things were infinitely better. Beneath their slightly burnt exteriors was soft, flaky crust. The insides were warm and tender, settled in the warm spot in his belly the vodka had made. He dipped it in the soup and washed it all down with even more vodka. He wondered why he'd never really tried vodka before, it was surprisingly awesome.
Somewhere between finishing his bread thingies and wondering if maybe he was having a bit too much to drink, Ivan crept forward. He bowed his head over the soup, lapped at it delicately while Alfred gnawed at the rim of his shot glass. A little of the red stuff wouldn't hurt Ivan, right?
"What'd'you think?" Alfred asked when Ivan raised his head. His voice came out in an easy slur, syllables blurring, the letters entangling themselves. Alfred laughed at the sound of his own voice, tried to pretend it didn't belong to him, tried to pretend he wasn't alone.
Ivan lapped at the bowl of soup as though it were a saucer filled with cream. He came away with the fur about his face stained a dark red. He licked his paw and swiped it over his face a few times before he seemed to deem himself clean.
"We'll have to do this more often," Alfred said, reaching out his hand, letting his fingers clumsily tickle beneath Ivan's chin. "Heck, I'll even let you have some'a the bread stuff next time. Or maybe vodka. Can cats have vodka? Prolly not, huh?"
Ivan watched as Alfred poured himself another shot, his gaze strangely alert and intense. He pounced forward, paws settling lightly before the shot glass. Alfred's reaction was automatically, his palm covering the rim, Ivan's sandpaper tongue licking once at the back of his hand as though he'd been expecting a mouthful of vodka.
"No," Alfred scolded. "Bad kitty. No booze for bad kitties. An' I'm pretty sure that weirdo at the store said you don't get any, either. Man, what was up with him? All tellin' me not to touch you. I'll touch you all I want."
Alfred sniffed as he thought back to the pet shop. He wasn't really all that sure where it was. He tended to wander, keep track of landmarks more than street names. He couldn't recall a name on the shop front. It was the kind of store he could walk by a hundred times and not remember. Maybe he'd already walked by it before.
He tried to think of the shopkeeper, but the image was faded and fuzzy. He saw the eyes and their brows and nothing else. He remembered the smirk in his voice and the signing of the contract, the warning not to give Ivan vodka. Something about the memory made his pulse beat out a wicked tattoo, a thrumming buzz running through his veins.
He thought of Cyberian12, who told him he was wrong. Who had this apparently irrefutable knowledge about cats and all things Russian. And he thought of the shopkeeper, who told him he couldn't touch Ivan. Who told him what he could and couldn't let Ivan have.
Even as an adult, a man with his own place and car and meager but very much their savings, he was still treated like a child. Told what to do and what not to, reminded not to eat ice cream for dinner or wear his shirt inside out. He got the feeling that he was nothing but a very tall child now that had to pay bills and didn't get obligatory presents.
"That's it," Alfred announced. "Today we are grown ups. We won't let no one tell us what we are or what to do. You're gonna be a Russian Blue and have vodka and I'mma stay up late an' sleep with no pants on tonight."
Ivan's eyes brightened as Alfred took his hand away from the glass. He gave a single, thankful meow before he bowed his head, the surface of the vodka rippling out as he began to drink. Alfred smiled to himself, letting Ivan have a few mouthfuls before he gently slid the glass away. Sure he was going to let Ivan have a sip, but he wasn't about to find out what a drunk cat was like.
Ivan's reaction was nonplussed at best, his body following the glass from the table to the countertop. His muscles tensed as Alfred poured it out, ready to spring down into the sink. Alfred stopped him with a quick tutting noise, picking Ivan up and holding him to his chest.
Alfred left his dirty dishes on the table as he made his way for bed. He was an adult. Adults washed dishes when they darn well wanted to. And they got to leave their socks on the floor. And their pants. Staying up late was on the agenda. They watched too much TV in bed and that was exactly what Alfred was going to do.
Alfred changed the channel to the Animal Planet at he crawled into bed, plopping Ivan onto his chest. They watched Cats 101 and Big Cat Safari together. Alfred buried his hands in Ivan's fur, twirled it mindlessly through his fingers. The silver-screen felines blurred together, one after another, talk about hair balls and health and coat mutations filling Alfred's ears and eyes.
"Just you wait, buddy boy," Alfred mumbled, his mind bogged down by exhaustion. "Tomorrow's gonna be a brand new day. Brand spankin' new. We'll be like─ like new people."
Ivan's purr rumbled in Alfred's thoughts as he went to sleep, thrumming in his dreams, soothing as the sound of the waves swallowing up the shore.
Alfred woke with an ache. It wrapped around his crown like a laurel wreath. It squeezed in his chest with every breath. It was like being pressed into the ground, a book set at the bottom of the stack. It was like having a too-heavy body on him combined with a hangover. At least the hangover bit made sense.
He moved his tongue along his lips, dry and parched, cracked like mud in the desert. The sleepy dust in his eyes sealed them shut, and he hadn't the energy to wipe it away. He lay in bed, eyes shut tight against the strong light of the early afternoon, and let his body slowly catch up with his mind.
The wreath on his head refused to fade. The weight overlaying his body remained, a constant that kept his breathing shallow, his lungs unable to fully expand. He became aware that the weight was not inside his body, not the weight of his bones and tendon and muscle, but an external source.
Alfred opened his eyes to find the world more or less the same. It was hazy, smudged around the edges, but his walls were still his walls and the TV was still where it had been. His glasses sat awkwardly on his face, having never been taken off the night before. One lens rode up while the other sat at a jaunty angle. The world seemed half in focus and half out.
He straightened his glasses and gave a stilted stretch, scratching absentmindedly at his chest while his other hand went to pet Ivan. Instead of the usual fur he was accustomed to, his fingers found their way winding through something more akin to hair. It was somehow familiar, carried the impression of something Alfred had felt before, but was hair nonetheless.
Alfred tried his best to sit up, but found himself pinned. He raised his head, neck arching and craning as he looked down at himself. There was definitely a head on him. A head followed by some shoulders and arms and a pretty darn naked torso with long legs.
There was a full grown, bare-ass naked man in Alfred's bed. And he was lying on top of him. His hair was a shade that Alfred couldn't quite place. It made him think of snow, but darker, more silver. His skin, though, that was the color of snow. His body was free of any tattoos or scars, nothing but smooth white skin pulled over resting muscles. He kind of had a super cute butt, too.
A flush of heat spread through Alfred's body as he continued to stare. His last memories were of Ivan, all happy and cute and purring. And now somehow there was no cat at all but this dude. Alfred wondered if this was what it was like to have a blackout. Have a bit too much to drink and wake up the next day to find a pair of mysterious pair of pants hanging on your car antennae like a flag, or wondering how you got a shiner and a phone number with the name 'Maxxy' written next to it.
Alfred couldn't remember getting out of bed, heading out or hitting up anyone. He couldn't recall if he put his pants back on or if he'd gone waltzing pants-less down the streets at three in the morning. And no matter how good looking this man in his bed was, what with his strong jaw and defined nose ─ and not to mention those cheekbones which were totally begging to be touched─, he probably wasn't exactly the best person to be sleeping around with if he'd followed a bare-legged and very drunk Alfred home.
He most likely had a name, this naked man. Well, of course he did. Alfred just didn't recall it. He hoped the man didn't know Alfred's name either, that way they'd be even. Or perhaps they hadn't bothered to exchange names, had instead embraced one another in the darkness of the night, all clumsy liquored-up kissing and biting teeth, roaming hands and whispered promises.
The thought of it all made Alfred's cheeks burn red. He wasn't like that, wasn't like that at all. He liked going on dates, getting to know people, find out their interests and silly fears, discovering who they were beyond their outer appearances. He didn't like the thought of bringing someone home for the sake of a body in his bed.
The man stirred as Alfred's thoughts went into a downward spiral of worries. He nuzzled sleepily against Alfred's chest, his mouth opening in a wide yawn. He propped himself up on one elbow, his breathing deep and even, relaxed.
His eyes were purple. Not trick-of-the-light purple, or even contact-purple. They were purple-purple, a mirror image of Ivan's. They seemed unworried by their surroundings, not so much as flinching as they looked at Alfred. The man gave a languid arch of his back that reminded Alfred of Ivan.
Where the heck was that fuzz ball anyway? He'd never been one for going outside. He preferred to watch the world from inside the safety of Alfred's little place. If Alfred was home, he was never far behind. He would be in Alfred's bed in the morning as surely as the sun would rise in the sky.
Maybe he was in hiding, afraid of this mysterious man and his not-so-mysterious lack of clothes. Alfred didn't blame him. He'd be hiding too if it was at all feasible. Instead he was stuck, trying his best to casually wiggle his way out from beneath the man.
"Hey, uh, would you mind scooting over a bit?" Alfred asked, his voice cracking at the end.
The man gave him a lazy look and rolled onto his side, his form loose and limber. His sheer lack of concern reminded Alfred of Ivan, how he could never be bothered to move once he was comfortable, how he transformed into something akin to a load of bread, paws tucked under and eyes half-lidded with bliss.
Alfred slipped from bed with an awkward cough, surprised to find that despite his lack of pants, his boxers were still on. And his shirt. He inspected his clothes for any unwanted stains or signs of the night before. There was a spot of red from the soup last night, a few crumbs yet to be brushed away, but otherwise it was as clean as ever.
He looked back over at the man in his bed. He was currently making his way under the covers, sniffing lightly at Alfred's pillow. He appeared to be so completely as ease that Alfred wondered if maybe he had some kind of mental deficiency. Maybe he was─ was simple. He probably showed up all late-like on Alfred's doorstep. And Alfred, being Alfred, let him in. The booze probably swayed him, too.
"I'm, like, gonna take a shower now," Alfred said, plucking his clothes from last night off the floor. "Don't feel like you have to stick around or anything. It was, uh, cool. Cool getting to know you?" He shuffled for his bathroom, a quiet dread festering in his mind that the man would try to follow him in.
Alfred closed the bathroom door with a click. He locked it, wriggled the knob to make sure it was locked, then fiddled with the lock again. You couldn't be too sure about these things. He checked behind the shower curtain for Ivan, beneath the sink's cupboards, even behind the toilet.
He couldn't find the slightest trace of him.
Alfred took a shower to pass the time. He rinsed and repeated, read the information on the back of his shampoo and conditioner, matched the ingredients and puzzled over their names. He sat in the tub and put his hand over the drain, let the water pool and rise a few inches before taking it away.
When there was nothing left for him to do and the water started to run cold, Alfred turned off the taps. He took his time toweling off, listening for any hint of noise from outside. He wrapped a towel around his waist, dirty clothes tucked under one arm, and ventured back into his room, confident that the man would have beat it.
The man was still in his bed, the covers now tucked up to rest beneath his nose. He stared at Alfred with a familiar intensity, eyes wide and interested. The tips of Alfred's ears heated as he darted for his dresser, rifling through the drawers for clean clothes. He was in and out of the bedroom in five seconds flat.
Alfred struggled with his shirt, his skin still damp, beads of water rolling down the small of his back. The jeans he picked were old, too tight, too worn. He hopped up and down while pulling at the belt loops, flustered and out of breath by the time he finished.
Simple or not, that dude was overstaying his welcome. From all the movies he'd seen and the stories Alfred heard, he was pretty sure that one night stands left as easily as they came. You woke up in the morning, it was awkward, and then they gathered their things and left. They didn't part their naked butts in your bed and sniff your pillows.
He ran through every awkward morning after he could recall. He thought of all the ways they'd ended. The sudden realisation of both parties, the covers pulled to chests and the sputtering. The occasional yelling match and the scene of someone being thrown into a hallway or onto a porch, their clothes thrown after them. The oddly tender moments where breakfast was made before one of them left.
Alfred's heart lurched in his chest, wild and excited. That was it. The guy wanted some grub. Now that he thought about it, Alfred was kinda hungry too. He'd be killing two birds with one delicious stone if he scrambled some eggs and buttered up toast, brewed a few cups of coffee and brought out the cream.
After giving himself the quietest of pep talks in the fogged up mirror and doing his best to tame his hair, Alfred emerged as a new man. That's what he'd planned to be all along, after all. He wasn't sure if he liked the new him bringing home strangers, but the other stuff was all well and dandy.
"Well good morning, sunshine," Alfred chirped as he emerged again, shoulders squared and head held high. "Why don't you rest your tootsies for a bit? I'll cook us up something yummy to eat." He clucked his tongue and winked with a confidence he did not have before strutting out of the room.
His body sagged instantly when he was out of his room and into the hall. He hadn't so much as heard Ivan moving about, let alone seen him. He was so used to having Ivan with him at all times that to have him gone was somehow wrong, as though he didn't have a shadow.
He pulled a tin of cat food from the fridge along with eggs and butter. He rooted through pots and pans and pretended his kitchen wasn't already a mess from the night before. He tossed a chunk of butter in a pan as he cranked the burner up. He watched it sizzle and spit, cracking eggs and dropping them into the pan, the empty shells tossed in the sink.
He poked and prodded at the eggs as they cooked, flipped them with a spatula and patted the tops merely to watch them jiggle. He took the dirtied plates from last night and replaced them with paper ones loaded with food. He wasn't about the whip out the good china for Mr. Cute Butt.
While he let the food cool he cleaned Ivan's glass bowl, warmed his food and took out a fork. He tapped against the side of it, a sweet ring echoing in turn. He clucked his tongue and clapped his hands, made all the noises that Ivan associated with food.
"Here, kitty," Alfred cooed. "Who's my good kitty? Good kitties come and get food now."
The sound of soft steps made Alfred's heart flop and trip over itself. His lips pulled up at the edges automatically. There was a sense of rightness that came with the noise, memories of watching scary movies with Ivan and whining to him about the new H.R. guy at work. Memories of sensations, of the feeling of his funny nose nuzzling against Alfred's hand and the tangled figure eights Ivan did between Alfred's legs.
The rightness was replaced with a pulsing shock when the man from bed entered the kitchen instead. Alfred's nerves clammed up, turned in on themselves and shrank at the sight. He still hadn't bothered to find himself any clothes, and Alfred was suddenly sure that there was no way they'd had a romp last night. No matter how drunk, Alfred wouldn't have been able to forget it with a guy like him.
"Hey, man. Okay, I dunno what happened last night, but could you not waltz around with your junk all swingin' about?" Alfred asked, his tongue as twisted as a corkscrew.
The man said nothing, fixated instead on the glass in Alfred's hand.
"This isn't for you," Alfred said. He was becoming coming to the conclusion that this guy was seriously simple. Simple enough to eat cat food. Alfred put the glass back in the fridge and pointed to the plate on the table. "You just eat that, okay? I'll go find your clothes."
Alfred squeezed through the doorframe, the man showing no intention of moving. There was an electric moment, a second of wild excitement that coursed through Alfred's veins as they touched. He scurried off to his room without looking back to see the other man's reaction.
Alfred found no signs of a wild night in his room. While his clothes had been surprisingly clean, he was convinced there would be evidence left behind. An abandoned pair of socks between the sheets, the smell of sweat and sex still lingering, a discarded condom. But there was nothing, not so much as a sweater rumpled in the corner or a pair of unfamiliar underwear.
Aside from the rucked up state of his sheets, everything was in order.
Alfred resorted to his dresser to find clothes for the mystery man. He pulled out an oversized Disney sweater and said a quiet goodbye to it, thanked it for sacrificing itself for a greater good. He found a pair of sweatpants, the one with the worn elastic band, the one he wore on his 'fat' days and had seen him through Lifetime movies and breakups alike. The underwear he picked at random.
He went back to the mystery man immediately, shoving the clothes into his arms without an ounce of ceremony. The man had stayed in the doorway, apparently content to stare at the food instead of eat it, and only then did Alfred truly realize how big he was. He back was broad and strong, his arms muscled and inviting, the kind you saw on romance novel covers holding distressed maidens.
The hormonal bits of Alfred's brain didn't want to see it go, but his sensible side stood strong. Not that it didn't sneak glances as the man dressed, of course. Alfred only had so much self control. He found the act of the man dressing decidedly unsexy, in the end. More bittersweet, leaning on depressing.
The man didn't make a show of it. Instead he struggled through the process, like someone imitating what they'd seen before, like he'd never had to dress himself. He managed to turn the sweater inside out in the process of pulling it over his head, his arms unsure of where to go, poking and prodding until they found their correct openings.
The underwear and pants were even more of a struggle. He appeared to be lacking the coordination for such a task. He got the first leg in without much trouble, but each time he tried to tackle the second he inevitably stumbled to the side, a ship being rocked by invisible waters.
Alfred found his body moving without consulting his mind first. He inched closer to the man, hands finding their way around him, steadying him. He pulled away to admire the man once he managed to get his pants on, ignoring the fact that they were backwards. There was a calm gleam in his eyes, as though he were at home, comfortable in his own kitchen and with a close friend. His lips never moved.
Alfred guided him to the table and sat him down, wrapping his fingers around the fork before he took his own seat. He demonstrated the appropriate use of it, the stabbing, the scooping, putting it to his mouth. The man followed his actions, clumsy and unsure at first, but improving with every bite.
Alfred looked at his wrists, tried to find some kind of identification, a bracelet saying who he was or if he had a disability. He didn't speak and he didn't seem to do much on his own. He struggled with the smallest things and was unsettling at ease in Alfred's home. The thought of having to take care of him any longer made Alfred's breathing come fast and weak.
"Hey man," Alfred said, trying to be friendly. "I have this cat. I kinda can't figure out where he is right now. Have you seen him about? He's real cute and all, big and fluffy and dark, but also white. His name is Ivan."
The man's eyes brightened for the first time, like he'd caught up to the world, was living in it instead of existing in a half-asleep state. Alfred nodded his encouragement as he stood and tossed his soggy paper plate in the trash.
"So you've seen him then? I bet he's hiding out somewhere, thinkin' he's being sneaky." Alfred turned the taps on, grabbing a sponge as he went to work on the dirtied pots and pans from breakfast and those left over from last night.
There was a blur in the corner of his eye, muscles tensed, forcing him back with the automatic flinch that came with surprise. A strained squeak escaped his throat in an instant, pitched high and alarmed. Too late he saw the blur was no threat, instead nothing but a hand. A hand batting at the steady stream of water that poured from the faucet.
Alfred turned to look at the man, studied the plain joy in his face, the focus in his eyes. Those eyes were really something else. So like Ivan's in their hue, in how rounded they are, the brightness of them and that tapered, elliptical shape of his pupils.
Except people didn't get pupils like that. Like, ever. And most of them tended not to bat at water like a playful cat. Alfred let his hand run under the faucet, wetting his fingertips. He lifted his hand and gently flicked the drops, letting them fly, his heart shivering as the man pulled away, lips drawing back as he let out a momentary hiss, a two-step retreat following.
"Ivan?" Alfred asked, his voice nothing more than the ghost of a sound, a bewildered noise that held no sense.
For the first time, the man smiled, and Alfred saw the resemblance. It was in his eyes, of course. But also in his nose, in the curve and the bump of it. It was in his expression, had always been. His hair was the color of Ivan's scruff and his paint-dripped tail.
"It's you, isn't it?" Alfred held one trembling hand out to the man, reaching out to touch his face. The man leaned into his touch, nose rubbing against the palm of Alfred's hand.
Alfred had Ivan in his arms impossibly fast, arms wrapped around him, squeezing him tight. He let his hands trail along Ivan's back, scratching at the base, a laugh bubbling his throat as Ivan's back arched as it always did. He cupped Ivan's cheeks in his palms, rubbed their noses together in an Eskimo kiss. His fingers found their way behind Ivan's ears, scratching in that perfect spot. Ivan let out a contented hum that bordered on a purr.
"Oh my god," Alfred said. "This is so unreal. Super unreal. I can't handle this amount of unreal." There was a numbness in his lips, his mind sluggish and slow, not yet processing the situation, sorting slowly.
Alfred had a cat. Had. Then he'd gone to bed and woken up with a mute, naked guy. Who was his cat, but not. That was where the brain-train malfunctioned. The brakes squealed, sparks flew, the end of the tracks was in sight and his mind couldn't stop fast enough. The questions came flooding up to meet him, smothered what sense he had left.
Was Ivan hurting? Was he okay with his new body? Was he still supposed to eat cat food or would his diet need changing? Did he understand anything beyond his own name, would he always be mute? The questions ran together, an endless barrage that flowed without end.
The shop keeper. They'd have to go back to him. He was the one who mentioned the humanity in Ivan's eyes. He'd known somehow, that tricky bastard, had simpered and smiled and smirked, taken Alfred's money without qualm and handed over Ivan with no instructions other than to not give Ivan any vodka.
Alfred's heart stilled, shivered with cold dread. He'd done that, hadn't he? Only a sip, but he allowed Ivan some vodka. Things had been fine until he'd pulled his hand away from the glass and now he was left with a man who was a cat but also not.
"Right," Alfred said, mustering all the bravery he could. "We're going to go for a walky-walk, alright Ivan? I know the outside world is big and scary, but we have to visit someone. I'll get my shoes and─ uh─"
Alfred looked down at Ivan's feet. They weren't so small or furry anymore, and they were certainly bigger than Alfred's.
"Well, we'll figure something out for you. Come on."
Alfred took Ivan's hand in his, squeezing reassuringly as he led him back to their room. He rooted through his closet, through pairs of shoes and sandals and old combat boots from his younger days. He found his sneakers readily enough, but finding something for Ivan was proving to be more difficult.
The only shoes Alfred found that were big enough weren't even his. He wasn't even sure how they were still in his closet. Two sizes too big and made from fine Italian leather, too stuffy and nice for Alfred to understand. It was the last relic of his previous relationship, the sole survivor, the single escapee of the Great Breakup of 2012. It had ended with bleach and a bonfire in the yard. Also a lot of Lady Gaga and being a 'free bitch.'
Alfred tossed the shoes to Ivan. "I'll get you something better later, but for now it'll have to do."
Ivan sat next to Alfred as they put on their shoes. He seemed almost mystified by his own, loafers that needed nothing more than to be slipped on. His fingers went to where laces would have been, touched the air as though he would find them hiding. Alfred laughed gently, helping Ivan to his feet once they were finished.
It turned out Ivan wasn't keen on the outside world. Alfred had figured he might be shy, might try to turn back. But he hadn't expected Ivan to go rigid at the sight of a dog passing by, its head hanging out of a car window, ears streaming in the wind. Or that his eyes would narrow and his body tense at the sight of a cat sunning itself on a porch.
But he had expected the stares. You didn't walk around with a hypersensitive and vigilant man, hand in hand with your steps in tandem, without getting them. It didn't help that Ivan looked all kinds of goofy with his inside out sweater and backwards sweats, topped off with his fine shoes.
Alfred ignored the passersbys who stopped, who looked twice and spoke in hushed tones. He kept his grip firm on Ivan's arm, pulling him closer when he tried to stray. The shop fronts ran together. Bakeries and cafes, high end boutiques and thrift stores. They walked along streets named by numbers and single letters, from 1st and A to 26th and Z. He checked in the seedy alleys behind Chinese restaurants and pizza places, asked for directions from the few strangers that didn't give him a wide berth.
For lunch they stopped for frozen yogurt. Ivan's motor skills with utensils had changed for the better, but his eating habits needed help. He licked at his spoon, apparently unable to put it in his mouth and chew. Alfred had to show him how to use a straw, but he adapted quickly.
As the afternoon sun waned and Alfred's feet ached, Ivan began to lag. He was no longer as interested in the animals that passed him, no longer flinched when a motorcycle whizzed by. His expression was sullen, unhappy. Despite his human features, he had the grumpy cat-face down.
"I know you're tired, Ivan," Alfred said. "And so am I, but we gotta find that store."
Ivan stopped in his tracks, jerking Alfred to a standstill with him. Alfred gave a firm tug, but Ivan stayed put. He counted to ten, focused on his breathing, tried to will away his growing irritation. Alfred's feet throbbed from their walking, his left pinky toe hurting with each stepped, rubbed raw and blistered. His patience was dwindling, evaporating under the hot summer sun.
"Five more minutes," Alfred promised. "Five more and then we are totally going home."
Ivan remained rooted to the spot, his expression grim and determined, his frame unshakable. Alfred tugged and heaved, coaxed and pleaded, but nothing moved him.
"Are you hungry, big guy?" Alfred asked, turning to look at the stores around them. He found himself facing a very familiar shop front. There was no cat this time to catch his attention, but the tassels still hung and the insides were dim as ever.
"I totally owe you," Alfred said as he pushed open the door, Ivan allowing himself to be pulled inside after him.
Birds trilled at their entrance, a rasping bark sounding in the back. There was what looked to be a giraffe in one cage, all thin legs and willowy neck, small enough to be a lap pet. There was a cat leaping from the tops of cages, eyes the same electric green of the shop keeper's, ears folded in on themselves, snub-nosed and slightly wild.
Alfred followed it straight to the desk in the back, hardly batting an eye as it leapt onto the shop keeper's shoulder, a wicked gleam in its eye. Alfred pulled himself together, thought of all the big words he knew and how best to use them. This was the part where he pulled out all the stops, stated his case and won everyone over.
"What the shit is this?" was the best he could manage, gesturing at Ivan.
"I daresay that's your purchase," the man said, voice smooth as honey and slow as molasses.
"Uh, well yeah. It is, but I'm pretty darn sure I bought a cat."
"And then you gave it vodka."
"Pretty much, but you look here─"
"What did I tell you not to do?" the shop keeper asked dryly.
"That's beside the point," Alfred snapped.
"Is it? Did you not sign a contract? Did that contract not state that you were solely responsible for your pet, regardless of changes in physical appearance, personality, or general demeanor? Not to mention any and all returns will be refused, and store credit is not issued at this branch?"
Alfred looked on, dumbfounded by the shopkeeper and his slick tongue. He'd done this before, had his spiel down pat. He looked to Ivan, who had taken to watching the shop keeper's cat with an intense distaste that only felines could manage. He was on Alfred's side.
"Like Hell am I givin' Ivan back to you," Alfred said. "He's my buddy now. You'd probably stuff 'im in one of those cages."
"If you have no intention of returning your pet, what purpose do you have coming back here?"
"He's not a pet, he's my buddy. And I just─ I dunno! What am I supposed to do now? Is there something special he needs to eat? He can't even put clothes on without help and he eats all funky. He doesn't even make any noise now, not even a meow."
"Ivan's been a cat for his entire life. Do you really think he'd adapt to a more human way of life right away?" The shop keeper waved his hand airily. "I can't promise speech, but he'll learn to take care of himself soon enough. Self-awareness does come to them though, so don't think he'll be okay with what you've given him for now."
The shop keeper's lips curled back at the edges, teeth yellowed and uneven. His cat imitated him in perfect unison. Disdain radiated off them, from the pulled muscles in their faces and cool, dimmed color of their eyes. A disdain for Alfred, who had broken the contract, broken the rules. A disdain for Ivan who was between two worlds. Alfred wasn't going to take it lying down.
"Just you wait, I'm gonna teach him words. I gonna teach him all of the words. And don't think you're getting off easy. You're getting the worst Yelp review ever from me. And you'll see how much business you get then," Alfred said, grabbing Ivan's wrist and heading for the door.
"Don't come running back to me if he proves to be too troublesome," the shop keeper called after him, unruffled as ever.
The sun waned on the horizon as they walked home, shivering and red as it descended. They trudged through streets lined with traffic and honking horns as smog filled their lungs. Ivan lagged behind, steps small and shuffling. He seemed to block out all outside stimulation, his eyes instead focused on his feet, on the pavement he walked on.
Alfred pulled Ivan into a few stores, buying up clothes for him left and right. Dark jeans and khaki shorts, button downs and graphic tees. Ivan took in the mannequins with a certain unease, skirting around them, sticking to Alfred's side. The only time he strayed was to admire a wall adorned with scarves.
Ivan pawed at them as though they were twine and feathers. He batted them back and forth, his pupils dilating. One of the floor salesmen watched from afar, mumbling something into a walkie talkie before coming closer. Alfred snagged the scarf from the rack and smiled sweetly as the man neared.
"We'll just be taking this," Alfred said as he breezed by the man, Ivan following after the trailing scarf.
Alfred vowed to wait until Ivan had better adapted to the whole being human thing before taking him out again. He couldn't have Ivan playing with clothes and drawing too much attention.
The first thing Alfred did once they were home was to change. He took the time to make an example of himself, shrugging off his day clothes first, fussing with buttons and zippers and laces. He demonstrated, as politely as he could, how Ivan needed to do nothing more than to toe his shoes off, pull his sweater over his head, and slide his sweats down.
It went alright at first. Alfred's blushing and stuttering was minimal, and Ivan appeared to have no qualms with semi-nudity. The problem came when Ivan decided his underwear was part of his day clothes, and they needed to go too.
"Ivan, could you not─ not like, yeah. Let's not strip naked. I'm not a trashman, so I'd prefer not to handle your junk."
Ivan tugged his underwear back up. Alfred shot him an encouraging smile and nodded before grabbing his pajamas and a pair he'd bought for Ivan. They were light blue and made of cotton, dotted with little black cats and miniature fishes. Alfred sat Ivan down on the bed, hoping it would better his balance as he dressed.
Alfred slid one leg into his pajama bottoms and Ivan followed suit. He needed help with the buttons, but Alfred didn't mind doing them up for him. They fell back on the bed as they finished, the covers still crumpled and cozy. Their stomachs grumbled in unison, and Alfred found himself rising again, slow and graceless as a corpse.
"Want some pizza?" Alfred asked. Ivan curled up at his side, the top of his head pressed against Alfred's thigh. "I'll take that as a yes, then."
Alfred ordered a pizza with anchovies. He sorted through his new purchases as he passed the time, trimming off tags and tossing the receipts. He folded Ivan's clothes into careful rows, rearranged his drawers to make room for them.
The top drawer was split in two, composed solely of socks and undergarments. The second drawer was Alfred's. His shirts and jeans, his few ties (and a single bow tie). The third was dedicated to Ivan's new clothes. All starched seams and without wrinkles. They were clothes. For a person. Not a cat, but a real person. Alfred rubbed his thumbs over the brass buttons on the jeans, worried his lower lip as it sunk in.
Alfred stretched and yawned as he finished his sorting. It'd all be jumbled and mixed in a week, but he didn't mind. He went to check on Ivan, found him still in bed, sprawled out instead of curled now. His body was twisted with the ease of those in deep sleep. A pale patch of belly peeked from beneath the hem of his shirt.
He wasn't something that could subsist on cuddles and cat food anymore. He'd need three square meals a day, need to have some form of entertainment while he waited for Alfred to come home. He'd need to be taken care of, looked after until he learned─ if he learned─ how to handle basic tasks on his own. Another mouth to feed, another person to worry about. Another expense on Alfred's already weakened bank account.
"What am I going to do with you?" Alfred asked, his voice a whispering sigh. He reached out a hand to cup Ivan's face.
Ivan stirred, his eyelids fluttering and he made sleepy, soft murmurs. He turned into Alfred's touch, his breath warm and ticklish against the palm of Alfred's hand. Ivan hummed deep in the back of his throat as he woke, the single sigh he emitted content and pleased.
"Think we'll make it okay?" Alfred asked.
Ivan lifted his own hand in response, thumbed the warm skin of Alfred's cheek. He scratched lovingly behind Alfred's ear, his expression turning expectant. Alfred did his best to imitate Ivan's hum, and his rendition put a sweet smile on Ivan's face.
"I think we'll manage alright," Alfred said as a knock sounded on the door.
As he made to answer it, Ivan grabbed his wrist for one fleeting second. Alfred looked down at Ivan, locked gazes with him. Ivan blinked once, very slowly and very purposefully. Alfred blinked back, and knew that any amount of hardship was worth going through to have Ivan by his side.