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Pico wakes to the strong smell of coffee. He doesn’t get up, though, savoring the clutching throes of warm blankets and sleep. He dozes in and out for a while until he finally feels awake enough to get out of bed.
Well, “bed” is a generous way to describe it. It’s more like an old sunken and ratty mattress plopped on the floor of the small, nearly empty room that serves as the bedroom. The only things in it are the backpacks with Boyfriend’s and his clothes, their boom box, and a radiator in the corner that barely lets off heat when turned on.
Pico grabs a fistful of the hoodie he slept in and brings it to his nose to sniff.
Eh, still okay. He’ll change another day.
“Good morning, Pico,” Boyfriend chirrups getting up from the swivel stool by the window he likes to sit in front of as he does art. Bathed in bright light with contentment softening his already gentle presence, he’s so ethereal that Pico is sometimes struck with the unsettling notion he’ll blink and Boyfriend will turn out to be a dream.
He isn’t because he pecks Pico on the cheek and ushers him into the tiny bathroom half taken over by mold.
“Wash up and have breakfast.”
The water from the faucet comes out crooked, and Pico isn’t actually sure if the water is completely safe. It’s still better than nothing and neither of them has to go to the hospital yet, so he uses it to brush his teeth.
After relieving himself, he comes out, grabs the cup of coffee and bagels toasted in the frying pan, and leans against the chipped counter as he eats.
The apartment they live in can be what’s called depressing. The walls are a peeling sickly green and the thin carpet is pockmarked by mystery stains and cigarette burns. In the living room area is a saggy couch facing a plastic table and its box TV that was probably the height of technology in the 1980’s with only one channel, which is a miracle in and of itself. Sitting in between with a large crack splitting the middle covered with duct tape is a coffee table on top of which is the secondhand laptop Pico got from a friend of a friend. The stool Boyfriend is on now wasn’t even included in the apartment. They found it on the pavement.
In the kitchen area, there’s simply a fridge, a rickety table, and two chairs that wobbles. The pot, pan, mugs, and the few plates they have now are from secondhand shops. They don’t bother with cutlery. They just horde the plastic ones from takeout.
Still, considering they’ve slept in the streets before, this much can be called lavish. Boyfriend did his valiant best to make the space friendly and it at least feels lived in.
The entire wall behind the couch is pinned full of his art from sketches to fully painted pieces which Boyfriend takes pictures of to upload online where he takes commissions. Since the landlord probably won’t give two fucks and it’d actually be a favor, Pico spray-painted his own art on the opposite wall right above his army of spray cans cluttered on the floor next to the TV, ready to go whenever he takes his own commissions. It doesn’t save the ugly barf color of the walls but his art is definitely a thousand times better to look at.
The kitchen tabletop is messy with piles of sketchbooks and an assortment of art supplies including brushes, pens, colored pencils, and paint, some of which has splattered and spilled onto the cheap wood. Unsurprisingly, the entire apartment smells permanently of an art store, which is a huge improvement to that fetid smell that hung stale in the air when they first arrived here.
Glancing at one of the sketchbooks now, Pico casually reaches for one of them and opens it up, careful not to spill anything on it.
Boyfriend has improved in leaps and bounds. It’s apparent when looking from his oldest sketchbooks to his newest ones. From fumbling attempts at sketching flowers all the way to fully-colored and detailed images of a busy city street.
Pico has absolutely no patience to work up to all that. A simple sketch staring at the same object bores him to tears. He’s more freestyle, going along with whatever his mind envisions, so Boyfriend’s dedication in getting to this point with nothing more than internet tutorials and the library to guide him is amazing.
Pico closes the sketchbook as he finishes the bagel and takes out another while taking a sip of coffee.
He remembers how rough it was for Boyfriend in the beginning. He would sometimes get anxiety attacks while drawing because all his life, he was expected to get things perfect the first time around. He’d draw and get frustrated, erase, draw and get frustrated, erase, over and over until the paper is all torn up and Boyfriend is in tears clutching his head yelling, “They’re right! I’m never good enough!”
It was like a steel rod rammed into Pico’s heart, puncturing it but also shooting him full of some molten hot emotion something like anger and indignation but somehow a little different.
That night, he snuck Boyfriend out of his parents' mansion, and they rode the train to some random deserted part of the city. He unslung his backpack, unzipped it, and tossed him a full spray can of blue paint.
Boyfriend clutched it, utterly confused as he watched Pico withdraw a can of his own green paint.
“Paint,” Pico said, pointing at their brick canvas.
“Wha-what? This is vandalism!” Boyfriend squeaked.
“No.” Pico shook his can and then sprayed a line. “It’s beautification.”
Boyfriend gaped at him.
“B-but what if we g-get caught?” he asked, hunching his shoulders and glancing towards the street from the mouth of the alleyway they’re in illuminated just enough to see thanks to a nearby streetlight.
“Then we’d better finish before someone comes by. Now paint,” Pico said, unrelenting.
“I-I don’t even know what we’re painting!” Boyfriend protested.
“Doesn’t matter. Do whatever you want,” Pico said flatly. To demonstrate, he started an outline of some indiscernible shape. “You’re not leaving until you finish off that can.”
Boyfriend looked between the can and Pico. Seeing that he was dead serious, Boyfriend finally shook the can and nervously began.
He went slowly, carefully tracing out pointed ears and a head before abruptly freezing, staring at the cat he barely even started on.
Pico reached over and sprayed some lines until it was a fat letter B with cat ears and a tail.
Boyfriend turned to him with wide eyes.
“Why’re you looking at me? C’mon, hurry up and finish.”
Boyfriend began again this time a little quicker. He faltered halfway through a bird, and Pico turned it into a stylized rocket. He hesitated on a tree, and Pico put spirals in the branches that whirled into a school of fish. Every time Boyfriend wavered, Pico continued the work until they painted in tandem, adding to each other’s work. At some point, Pico had to pull out a flashlight so they could see as they moved deeper and deeper down the alley.
Finally, their paint ran out, and they took in what they’d made. It was a sprawling thing that went the length of the alley in a jumbled series of nonsensical yet somehow interconnected pieces of art.
“What do you think?” Pico asked, tossing the can away where it clattered and rolled away on the ground. Boyfriend was more conscientious and set his can down.
“It… it looks nice,” Boyfriend replied, scanning along their creation.
“I think it looks good too,” Pico agreed. “I like the penguin.”
He nodded towards the section with a Pop-Tart penguin with sprinkles on its belly riding a sled.
Boyfriend ran his hand along the wall until he reached the cat B. It now also sported a top hat, a monocle, and a mustache.
After a brief pause, Pico said, “You get it now?”
“Get what?” Boyfriend asked quizzically.
Pico slid his hands in his pockets.
“Mistakes ain’t the end of the world, darling. You can make them and still end up with something good.” He knocked against the wall in emphasis. “It just depends on your perspective and whether you wanna keep going.”
Boyfriend looked at the B before stepping back to view their handicraft again, seeming to mull over it. Finally, he turned to him with a nod and a firmer face; just what Pico wanted to see. Grinning sharply under his bandana, he made his way out the alley, patting Boyfriend on the shoulder as he passed to begin leading the way back.
Of course, that wasn’t the end of it. Boyfriend had to struggle with that ingrained mindset of perfection. He doubted himself and got frustrated, but he never quit, and the results speak for themselves. Pico can’t be prouder and happier for him.
Pico flips through the pages of the sketchbook, admiring the sketch of a cat stretching, a colored drawing of an orange cat lying down, another colored drawing of what seems to be the same orange cat sniffing a flower pot…
With each page Pico flips through, his brows rise higher and higher before finally, he raises his eyes.
“Hey, BF?”
“Yeah?” Boyfriend replies a bit absently.
“Why’re there so many of this orange ca—”
Boyfriend stiffens before slowly curling over the sketchbook with a barely audible, “Beep…”
Oh.
He narrows his eyes at Boyfriend’s back.
“Do we have a cat?” Pico asks flatly, waving the sketchbook in his own hand even though Boyfriend is turned away from him.
Boyfriend fidgets with his pencil.
“N-nooo…?” The grip on the pencil tightens, and Pico can practically see his grimace. It’s good that he knows he’s a crappy liar and shouldn’t even try. “Kind of?” he confesses instead. “I mean, he always just… shows up around me. It’s not like I meant to take him in.”
Pico lightly smacks his forehead, letting his hand run down his face.
“You named him, didn’t you.”
“Uuh…”
Oh no, he’s attached.
Pico sets down the sketchbook and glances around the apartment.
“Is he in here?”
“No!” Boyfriend swivels around with his hands up and shakes his head frantically. “He stays outside. I just feed him every morning and play with him a little.”
Pico sucks in a small breath. He already hates himself for the discussion they’re about to have. He’s genuinely glad that Boyfriend found himself a companion. God knows, he deserves all the good things in the world. But even though their situation is as stable as it’s ever been, that doesn’t mean they’re in the clear. Their poor living condition aside, the Fairests are liable to crash back into their lives at any time. They can barely take care of themselves let alone a plus one no matter how small it is. And if it gets hurt or it dies in the crossfire? Boyfriend will be devastated, and Pico doesn’t want that.
“I know what you’re about to say,” Boyfriend preempts in a rush. “I-I’ve already thought a lot about it, and I’m prepared for the consequences. I just thought this would be a good compromise between owning him and not owning him…”
If he thought about it and he’s sure… But this can turn out so badly in so many ways… But it makes Boyfriend happy… But it can be used against him…
Boyfriend aims lost-in-the-rain sad puppy dog eyes at him.
Ugh… Dammit. There are few things he can deny Boyfriend and sadly, this is also no exception.
“What’d you name him?” Pico asks, resigned.
Boyfriend’s eyes practically sparkle at the pseudo-acquiescence.
“Pi—uh…”
His mouth suddenly clamps shut and his eyes slide away from Pico, which is suspicious as hell.
“Pi…?” Pico prompts.
Boyfriend mumbles something.
“I can’t hear you,” Pico says, folding his arms.
“P… Piki…” Boyfriend stutters out with a sheepish smile, ruffling the back of his fluffy hair. “Because his fur’s orange and… he kind of reminds me of you…”
Pico stares. Boyfriend squirms, his face flushing red.
“Seriously?”
Boyfriend nods.
“Oh my god,” Pico says, turning around and putting his coffee down to brace himself against the counter.
Why is his Softie so cute?
“I-if you don’t like it, I can change it!” Boyfriend tries to amend frantically. “Cheeto is also good or even Garfield!”
“Everyone names their orange cat Cheeto and Garfield. Don’t name him that,” Pico sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “There’s nothing wrong with Piki. I’m fine with it.”
“Oh, good,” Boyfriend says in happy relief.
“Just don’t call me Piki, and we’re cool,” Pico says, finishing the rest of the coffee and washing it in the sink.
“Nah, you’re already Toughie. It’d be weird to call you after the cat.”
“So am I going to meet this cat?” Pico asks, washing the frying pan too.
“Um, I feed him every morning before you wake up, so if you can get up that early, then sure.”
Pico lets out a noise of acknowledgement as he soaps up the pan. No wonder why he has no idea about this cat.
Maybe because of his upbringing, Boyfriend wakes up early by habit. Hell, he used to wake up as early as six even without an alarm like clockwork. The first time he overslept while they were on the run, he’d panicked and hard; hyperventilating, shaking, sweating, the whole nine yards. He didn’t seem to be all there either, and it frightened Pico half to death. It took a long time to help him calm down and reassure him that he was now free to wake up whenever the hell he pleased.
He’d had these attacks several more times since then though they seem to have grown less frequent as of late, and he now wakes up at a slightly more reasonable hour of eight.
Meanwhile, if Pico doesn’t have work and the apartment isn’t literally on fire or something, he’ll happily sleep past noon if Boyfriend doesn’t offer a tribute of breakfast before then. Usually, that’d be around ten because while sleep is great, Pico honestly doesn’t like to waste daylight.
Pico sets the pan and mug aside to let them dry and says, “Wake me up, then.”
---
Crap, did he say wake him up? He meant let him sleep forever.
“Pico! You said to wake you up! So here I am, waking you up!”
Alright, alright. Just… let him… have… fi… ve… m…
“Pico!”
He grunts when a weight drops on his abdomen.
Nice try, Softie, but he’s way too light to make that work. Pico shows him by rolling over to dislodge Boyfriend whose yelp turns into squealing laughter when Pico traps him under his own body weight.
Mmm, warm.
“Pico! Get off me!” Boyfriend cries through his giggles, trying to push him off. Pico only buries his face in his neck. “Pico! Picoooo! Piki is going to starve if you don’t get up soon!”
“Who cares, let him starve,” Pico mutters into Boyfriend’s neck. Sleep and Softie is more important.
“I heard that! I can also hear you thinking sleep is more important!”
“Shit, alright, you win.”
Pico doesn’t move.
“… Pico, if you don’t move, I’m never going to leave you any pizza rolls whenever we have them again,” Boyfriend threatens flatly but there’s still some faint amusement in his tone.
“You eat them all anyway,” Pico argues.
“Fine, then uuuh… if you do move, I’ll, hmm… we can do whatever you want today.”
Pico stills for a moment before levering himself up until he’s hovering over Boyfriend.
“Oh really? Do whatever I want?” Pico purrs in that throaty way he knows Boyfriend thinks is sexy, leering as his mouth stretches in a wide devilish grin that makes Boyfriend instantly flush a deep, tantalizing red. “Well, well, well, I never thought you’d have it in ya, Softie.”
“W-w-wha—T-that wasn’t w-what I…!”
Boyfriend seems ready to combust, much to Pico’s delight.
“Well then, how about we…” his finger trail along a flaming cheek, “go visit Sarv and Ruv later to leech free food from them?”
He flicks Boyfriend’s button nose and pushes himself up. Boyfriend stares at him with dazed eyes.
A slow, lazy smirk works its way onto Pico’s face.
“What’s wrong? Were you expecting something else? You have a dirtier mind than I thought, Softie,” he drawls.
Boyfriend’s stunned appearance is quickly replaced by a glare. Now he’s red for an entirely different reason. Laughing, Pico beats a hasty retreat before Boyfriend strangles him with his own bandana or bashes him over the head with the boom box.
Contrary to what Pico expects, they aren’t feeding the cat on the street. No, they’re climbing up to the roof which is only four flights of crumbling stairs from their apartment on the third floor.
The roof would’ve been restricted in any other building but obviously, no one gives a shit here. The lock on the door has been broken ages ago, and cigarette butts and empty beer cans are littered all over the place.
There, amidst all the garbage is an orange tabby cat sitting neatly in the middle staring at the door. The moment it sees Boyfriend, it moves towards him meowing loudly.
“Hi, Piki,” Boyfriend coos.
Piki stands on his hind legs as his benefactor crouches and opens a can of tuna like doing so will get him to the food faster. The moment the can is face-level, Piki stuffs his nose right into the tuna. Pico crouches beside Boyfriend.
“So exactly what part of him reminds you of me besides the color?” he asks, a bit curious.
“Hmm, I guess because he just does whatever he wants,” Boyfriend replies fondly.
”All cats do whatever they want,” Pico points out.
“Yeah but he just began following me around one day for no reason while I was coming home. Afterwards, I’d sometimes see him around and sometimes I won’t. Then, one morning, he surprised me by showing up at the roof. That’s when I started feeding him,” Boyfriend recalls.
“That’s because he can smell the sucker on you,” Pico teases, lightly pinching Boyfriend’s cheek.
Boyfriend rolls his eyes and pries off his fingers.
“Yeah, because you’d totally let a cat starve right in front of you,” he says then holds up a hand when Pico opens his mouth. “Shut up, you wouldn’t.” He smiles impishly. “I call you Toughie but you’re actually a softy on the inside.”
He pokes Pico’s chest in emphasis, and because Pico is a contrarian who doesn’t like to show his underbelly, he declares, “I’d kick a cat off a building.”
“Okay, Toughie. Whatever you say,” Boyfriend agrees breezily, bumping his head against his shoulder affectionately and chuckling.
Piki finishes his breakfast and licks his jaws as he stares at them. Boyfriend strokes his head and scratches behind his ears. Piki closes his eyes in bliss.
“Here, put out your hand so he can sniff you,” Boyfriend says, moving down along the neck.
Pico does so, and Piki sniffs curiously at his fingers but loses interest in favor of Boyfriend’s scratches.
“Now try petting him,” Boyfriend says, pulling away. Piki raises his head to follow the hand of his personal masseur as it withdraws.
“He’s not going to bite my fingers off or scratch my eyes out is he?” Pico asks warily.
“He won’t as long as you don’t kick him off the building,” Boyfriend answers with mirth in his throat, grabbing Pico’s wrist and moving it slowly closer to Piki.
Piki retracts his neck and stares at Pico’s hand as it nears him but doesn’t otherwise retreat. Seeing it as a good sign, Boyfriend lets go as Pico slowly reaches over the furry head and begins to gently stroke it. Piki starts to purr.
Boyfriend lets out a delighted hum.
“He likes you!”
“No, he likes that he now has two butlers instead of one,” Pico objects but doesn’t stop the motion of his hand.
“At least you don’t mind,” Boyfriend says with a soft smile as he watches him, resting his chin in a hand propped on his knee.
“I don’t get paid for this,” Pico complains.
“Now you sound like Ruv,” Boyfriend laughs.
“I do not get paid for this,” Pico repeats with a Russian accent which earns him another burst of laughter from Boyfriend.
Pico grins, the morning sun bright on the horizon, fur soft beneath his fingers, and Boyfriend warm by his side.