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diego-hargreeve2 · 6 years ago

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light in the dark

Part Eighteen

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy (Netflix)

Ship: Diego Hargreeves x Original Character

Warnings: Language, abuse (emotional and physical), mental illness, violence and, in later chapters, smut.

In the Brethren they made their own clothes. Eve had few talents, but she knew how to sew, and how to knit. Diego’s clothing was full of holes – she could only assume caused by other people given that he wielded his own knives with a precision she found both slightly terrifying and incredibly arousing at the same time – and she’d persuaded Paula at the shelter to lend her a needle and thread to let her fix a few of the worst. After seeing her repairs, she had become the go-to person for taking up hems, stitching up holes that would let draughts in, and fixing the wear and tear in clothes you get from living on the streets. She was happy to do it in truth, to feel useful and because it was one of the few activities from her childhood she still enjoyed, finding peace in the simple task where you could measure your progress in such clear ways.

On the basis that she expected Diego to swing by at some point she was sat in what the shelter called a ‘foyer’ – hardly more than a wide hallway in truth by the front door – and keeping an eye out for arrivals so she could call somebody actually qualified to help that. Eve expected anyone who walked through to be…well, like her. In need of a shower, wearing clothes that prized function over fashion, and looking for somewhere safe to put their head down.

She didn’t expect Detective Patch.

Her head lifted before her eyes as she finished the stitch and pulled the thread taut before looking up – and staring, stunned.

“Eve? What’re you doing here?” Eudora asked, frowning in confusion. In one hand she held a poster, details of a missing teenager she’d been handing out to every shelter in her precinct in hope of finding the boy before somebody with less honourable intentions.

“I live here” she explained, mentally kicking herself for the answer - that was far more than she needed to have revealed, more than she should have revealed. Placing her needle down she lifted one hand, twisting it behind to grab the phone that sat on the desk. Leaving Eve here helped free up a staff member to cook, to clean, to talk to those who had nowhere else to go – but they would answer when she hit the buzzer that rang through the building.

“You live here?” Eudora repeatedly, her voice full of pity and sorrow at the concept. As shelters went, this was a good one – when she found people who needed help, it was her preference to bring them here. It relied on charity but was better funded than some, and there was no religion or sanctimonious cruelty in its walls, but it was still intended to be a temporary shelter not a long-term home. Eve shrugged, one finger holding the button down that set off a buzzer and an older woman bustled through, lighting up with a far more welcoming smile than Eve had offered.

“Eudora my dear! How are you?”

It had been a long day and a friendly face was a relief at this point. Detective Patch handed over the poster, discussing in low tones what she knew about the teenage runaway and her concerns. What she wanted was to know where he was, and to know he was okay – she wouldn’t force him back home, there were other options, but first she had to find him.

“If he shows up, we’ll call” Kathy assured her, one hand reaching out to squeeze Patch’s elbow gently. “I’ll put this in our back office – wouldn’t want to scare him off by hanging it up out here”.

“Thanks Kathy” she said, a weary smile crossing her face.

The woman left, disappearing into the shelter, and Eudora considered Eve – it hadn’t escaped her notice that the blonde had watched their entire interaction out the corner of her eye whilst pretending to busy herself with a needle. Only when Patch faced her directly did Eve drop her gaze back to her lap, silent and waiting for the door to swing shut and mark her exit. Except Patch had a different idea. Walking over she stood directly before Eve.

“This was the last stop of my shift – and I’m far too tired to consider cooking. Fancy coming to get a bite to eat with me?” she said, trying to keep the offer light and avoid sounding like she was taking advantage of a chance to interrogate the other.

Eve looked up with a gaze full of wariness. Patch had seen that look a lot – in stray animals when she was a kid, cats she’d tried to tempt with meat scraps so she could trap them and take them to be fixed, in children whose parents emphasised their points with fists, in women who didn’t understand that love isn’t accompanied by scrapes and bruises. It still broke her heart; she had never grown used to it.

“Why?” she asked after a moment.

“I hate to eat alone in public – plus I know a place that sells the best fried chicken” Patch joked, but there was no answering smile and she sighed. “Because you’re Diego’s girl, right? And Diego…is an old friend. I’m probably the person whose known him longest who isn’t family. So, I’d like to get to know you”.

Dropping her gaze back to her idle needle Eve considered. Put like that, it did make sense. Eve hadn’t done a good job so far in integrating herself with his friends, and the suggestion tugged at the guilt she felt over her difficulty in making friends. And Diego trusted Patch…

“Okay. I’ll come along. Give me five minutes” Eve said after a moment, unravelling herself without dropping her stitching and disappearing through the door.

When she returned – wearing her coat, the parka huge on her and half hiding her hands even with the sleeves folded up and followed by another volunteer to take up her position on watch – she was secretly hoping Eudora would have gotten bored waiting – but no, there she was, lounging in the seat Eve had vacated and she stood up rapidly.

“So…where are we going?” Eve checked, hovering by the desk.

“It’s called the Chicken Hut – it doesn’t sound much, but trust me” she assured the other, wondering why the name mattered – but she got her answer in a moment. Eve touched one hand to the desk, ensuring she had the young man’s attention and offering a faint smile.

“If Diego comes by – tell him where I’ve gone?”

“Sure thing Evie” was the response, the volunteer already putting his feet up and opening a book, happy for the break.

As they walked out the building Eudora gestured to her car, although in truth the distance could have been walked. Then she’d have had to walk back though – and frankly, she preferred to keep her cruiser close by.

Once they were both in and buckled up, Patch couldn’t resist the urge to ask, “So – Diego just expects you to be there whenever he shows up?”

Put like that Eve knew it sounded pathetic and she blushed hotly.

“I don’t…I generally don’t have anywhere else to go. It’s more that…he’d be worried, because me not being there or at his place would be weird”. Patch had expected Eve to sound defensive, maybe even annoyed, but her tone was apologetic and ashamed instead. It wasn’t the reaction she expected, and it made her feel guilty for the question – so she lapsed into silence as she figured out her next words. The journey passed without another word, but it was so short that the silence barely had time to grow awkward before Eudora was parking up.

Her greeting to the hostess – an old friend, she knew the manager of the restaurant who was close with her mother – and being seated broke up the quiet and once the young girl had walked away, she turned back to Eve.

“So tell me about yourself – Diego’s been characteristically close lipped” she joked; banter involving Hargreeves had worked before after all. Today however Eve shrugged, twisting her fingers together in her lap.

“He’s just…private. And so am I” she admitted, her unhelpful answer provoking a sign from Patch.

“Your accent isn’t local – I’d guess…Montana?”

“Idaho. So close” she admitted.

“How long have you been in the city?”

Eve lifted her gaze, eyeing Patch at the question, wondering why it mattered. Even telling herself that Diego trusted this woman, that she was her friend, old habits died hard and she was suspicious of a detective prying into her life. For a moment she watched, fighting the two instincts inside, before turning her attention back to her lap as she answered.

“A year…and a few months? I think six months…eighteen months altogether?”. Enough to see a cycle of seasons before she ran into Diego by chance, and then the time they’d shared together.

It was like pulling teeth – but Patch was used to asking questions of people who didn’t want to answer. Normally however those people were handcuffed to the table, and she could raise her voice to make a point. Eve was free to go, had done nothing wrong – Patch couldn’t even say her efforts to rebuff the attempts at friendly were criminal or rude, everything she had guessed so far (and she put a lot of stock in her guesses) made it completely natural.

“But you’re still living in a shelter?”

At that Eve clammed up entirely. Explaining why she couldn’t get a job, couldn’t rent a property, was skirting too close to things she didn’t want to share. Patch saw it happen, like blinds dropping behind her expression, and pressed on anyway.

“Evie – do you prefer Evie?” Everyone else seemed to use the nickname, even though the blonde introduced herself as Eve, but the only response was shoulders lifting and falling again, “I’m sorry if I’ve…well, I don’t even know. I’m just trying to be friendly. I see a lot of people in positions like yours and-”

“And kicked them along like garbage?”

That raised eyebrows.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a cop. I know cops” Eve said, unable to meet Patch’s eyes despite the bitter edge in her voice – if she looked up, she would lose all courage. “They act like you sleep on the street for your own amusement, move you along to keep shopkeepers happy, treat you like you’re garbage...like you’re an eyesore instead of a person”.

There was a beat of silence, Patch ensuring she replied calmly rather than provoke Eve’s visceral emotional reaction.

“I’m not that kind of cop”, her voice gentle but insistent. “And I’m not here as a detective. I’d like to be your friend”

“Why? You don’t know anything about me”

“I know Diego likes you – and he’s particular about the company he keeps. It’s enough to be a starting point”.

The waitress returning to take her order was a welcome respite, a break in the tension that crackled between them. Eudora ordered rapidly, noting the way Eve shook her head slightly and doubling her own dinner – if Eve wouldn’t eat it, somebody would. As she walked away Patch looked back to her, trying to figure out how to get through to her. After all – she had cracked Diego. She had to be able to find a way to reach Eve.

“Diego runs around this city in a spandex costume pretending to be a superhero and throwing knives at criminals”. Eve didn’t want to laugh at that description and yet despite herself amusement twitched at the corner of her mouth – and Patch noted that. It was a better reaction than resentment.

“I’ve never locked him up – well. Yet” she said, testing the humour again.

“He’s helping people” Eve insisted, admiration and adoration was clear in her voice.

“Which is why I ignore his antics most of the time. I joined the police to help people – and I’m sorry you’ve had different experiences with cops” Patch said. Eve looked up; head tilted to one side as she scrutinised the other woman.

She looked sincere…and soft. It was a look she saw on the faces of shelter volunteers, but she had never seen a police officer wear the expression. It helped more than any words. There was no question to answer but she nodded very slightly, the movement more about accepting the kindness being offered than agreeing with any sentiment.

“He won’t be happy if he hears you called it a costume” she said. Diego was their common ground and making a joke would him was a safe way to talk Eve figured – safer than sharing her past, however well-meaning Patch’s intentions.

“He’s heard me say it before”, the comment casually dismissive and confident than even if Eve were to report it back, Hargreeves would forgive the remark – from her at least. Confidence can be dangerous though, and relaxing a little Patch pushed forward.

“My point is – I’m not here to punish you. I’d like to help. Even if it’s just by giving you a friend to talk to. I mean – he’s a good guy, but I know how much patience a relationship takes with him. I just figure…talking to somebody who gets it…you might find it helpful”.

It wasn’t like Patch to slip up or fail to spot warning signs – but she had glanced away as she composed her words, and she missed the way Eve looked up sharply as she alluded to the past between her and Diego.

Her blue eyes snapped up, her whole-body tensing.

“You know?”

sorry our beloved knife boy doesn’t make an appearance in this chapter - he’ll show up again soon though dont worry

@lovinglydiego @reblogserpent @klausbutgayer @me125 @fatbottomedcurls @rhymesmenagerie @mrsdiegohargreeves @carryon-doctor-lock

#diego hargreeves x oc #tua fanfic #light in the dark

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punmasterkentparson · 7 years ago

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Hooked on Feelings

kicking this out of my WIP folder ‘cause it’s been there for almost a month.

(ao3, part of the Parswoops Neighbors AU)

It’s not even halfway through January when Jeff’s life takes a turn for the worst.

It happens like this: he’s walking through the parking lot of his company office when he hears a soft, sad sound. He stops dead and turns his head slowly, listening. He hears the air conditioning units on the other side of the building, and distant drone of cars on the highway. Nothing out of the ordinary. But through that, Jeff hears the sound again.

He takes a few steps towards it, stops, and listens.

There, again.

He carefully follows the noise across the parking lot, all the way to the hedges that line the building. The noise is coming from behind them, so he has to lean over them to see the source. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. To be honest, he isn’t giving it much thought; he follows out of curiosity more than anything else.

He only realizes his mistake when he catches sight of what’s behind the bushes, curled up and shivering on the wet mulch.

“…Oh, fuck.”

–

When Jeff gets home, he puts his foundling in the bathtub, nestled among a pile of towels. The wet thing cries for an hour before going to sleep.

Jeff’s second order of business is to text Kent frantically. There’s no reply for hours.

When Kent finally does get off work, he doesn’t text to say he’s coming; he just shows up at Jeff’s front door, already grinning like a smug loon.

“Shut up,” Jeff says. Left alone to his own devices, he has lost all sense of composure. He barely managed to scrounge up dinner with a side of beer to calm his nerves. Ten minutes ago he realized he was still in his work suit and finally changed for bed, which means the rattiest clothes he owns. Meanwhile, Kent is wearing the sleek, expensive-looking active wear that’s basically his work uniform and makes him look like a fitness god. Kent looks calm and capable. Jeff feels like a helpless hot mess.

Kent comes in, still grinning. “Where is it?”

The “it” has started making noise in the bathroom again, so Jeff doesn’t even bother with an answer, just waves a hand. Kent goes right in.

As soon as Kent sees what’s in the tub, he lets out the softest gasp that Jeff has ever heard out of a grown man.

“Oh, honey,” Kent sighs, and reaches into the tub to pry a meowing, squirming little gray-and-white cat off the towels. He gathers it in his arms, heedless of its claws, and cuddles it to his chest. “Aren’t you just the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jeff can absolutely agree with that. The cat (or kitten? It’s medium-sized, at least.) is drier than when he brought it in, but it still has matted fur in odd places and a bite out of one ear. The worst thing, however, is its tail, which is hanging on by a literal thread with the tip dragging along like a sad, lifeless caterpillar. Jeff honestly had been afraid to touch it when he found the cat outside, and had gone back to his car for a reusable shopping bag. (Which he is absolutely going to throw away or burn, now.)

Kent is cooing at the gross monstrosity and gently petting its ears. The cat has settled right in, which is annoying because Kent hasn’t even done anything yet, whereas Jeff rescued the damn thing and it squirmed the whole way into the apartment. There are red lines all over his arms from overgrown claws.

“It was outside my office,” Jeff says. “I found it in a bush. It was pretty cold, though, so it didn’t really wake up and start making a racket until I got it home.”

“And you just couldn’t leave him out there, huh?”

“How do you know it’s a he?”

“Magical cat-owner sense,” Kent replies, deadpan. “Also, I checked when I picked him up just now. He’s got massive cat balls.”

Jeff looks to the heavens for deliverance. “Look, obviously I don’t know a damn thing about cats. Can you take it for the night? I’ll pick it up tomorrow afternoon and take it to the vet, or the shelter, or whatever. Or, hell, you can keep it if you want.”

Kent’s shit-eating grin doesn’t bode well for Jeff. “Bro, I’ve got a house cat with a delicate constitution in my apartment. She’s vaccinated and shit, but who knows if this guy has fleas or ringworm or something. When I go home, I’m not even gonna touch anything until I’ve dumped all my clothes in the wash.”

“Ringworm? Fleas?” Jeff feels ill.

“Well, I take it back on the fleas,” Kent says, his fingers carefully searching through the cat’s fur. “I don’t see any flea dirt, so you’re probably in the clear. Still, better safe than sorry, those suckers are a pain in the ass to get rid of.”

This is officially the worst day of Jeff’s life. He is never going to do a good deed ever again. “So you’re telling me I’m stuck with a possibly flea and worm-infested cat for the night?”

Kent’s smile quirks in a way that’s almost fond. “I’ll hook you up with some cat food, and the name of Kit’s vet. They open at eight, so if you take some time off in the morning, you can probably take him in right away.”

“Where the fuck am I supposed to shower?”

Kent straight-up laughs, the dick. He has to see that Jeff is losing his shit. “Chill, bro. You can use mine. I’ll give you a key, you can just come right in whenever.”

So that’s that, apparently. Kent puts the cat back in Jeff’s bathtub—which Jeff definitely needs to sanitize the hell out of now, Christ, fuck everything—and leads Jeff upstairs. Before going into his apartment, Kent strips off his sweatshirt and shoes, and the moment they’re in the door he starts pulling off the rest of his clothes, too.

Despite knowing why Kent is getting naked, Jeff feels himself getting warm under the collar. And everywhere else. “Um.”

“Don’t touch anything,” Kent says as he pulls down his shorts and then shimmies out of his leggings. His ass is like marble and watching it move is making Jeff’s stomach flip. For better or worse, Kent is wearing skin-tight briefs underneath. “I’ll get the cat food, hold on.” Kit chooses that moment to run up, but Kent hops backwards, saying, “No, Kit—baby, just give daddy a sec, okay?” Then he scampers off to his bathroom, leaving a confused cat standing near Jeff, who hasn’t moved from the door except to close it behind him.

Kit sits on the floor and regards him.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t mind me.”

Kit gives him a slow blink and a tail twitch. From Kent’s bathroom comes the sound of rummaging, and then Kent emerges wearing only a towel. He’s dry, so clearly he didn’t wash off, he just…stripped.

“Aren’t you going a little overboard?” Jeff asks. His heart feels like a locomotive picking up steam.

“Nope,” Kent replies, and disappears into the bedroom. He doesn’t close the door, so Jeff has to pretend he doesn’t see the towel getting flung onto the bed, or a flash of Kent’s bare ass as he crosses the room to his closet.

“God, I hate you, you sexy motherfucker,” Jeff mutters under his breath.

Kent comes out a few minutes later, wearing sweatpants and a clean hoodie over a ratty t-shirt. He’s got his key ring in one hand and is twisting something off it. “Here. Spare house key.” He holds it out to Jeff, who takes it.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Kent looks amused by Jeff’s befuddlement. “I sleep like a rock, so even if you come in at the asscrack of dawn, you’re not gonna wake me up.”

Waking Kent up was not the basis for Jeff’s objection. Clearly the issue of trust never crossed Kent’s mind. Jeff vows to guard the key like it’s his own deposit. “Okay. Thanks.”

After that, Kent pulls half a dozen cans of wet cat food out of his kitchen pantry and puts it in a bag for Jeff. Then he borrows Jeff’s phone and programs in the number of Kit’s vet. Jeff would chirp him for having the number memorized, if he wasn’t still vaguely haunted by the memory of Kent breaking a glass and crying in his apartment when Kit was sick.

Too soon, Jeff is back in his apartment, alone, with the yowls of a gross street cat echoing in his bathroom.

He groans, sighs, and heads for his kitchen to dig out a make-shift food bowl.

–

The next morning, Jeff wakes up at his usual time of five-thirty and hauls himself out of bed. The cat stopped crying at around one a.m., so that’s about when Jeff fell asleep. He feels like shit. He needs coffee, breakfast, and a shower. So, after starting the coffee maker, he grabs a towel and heads upstairs to Kent’s place.

Unlocking the door and sneaking inside when the lights are all off makes him feel like an intruder. He bumps into a few things on his way to the bathroom and finds out that Kent’s shower is noisy as hell. When he comes out ten minutes later, damp and wearing the clothes he arrived in, he’s amazed to see that Kent hasn’t stirred. The door to Kent’s bedroom is open and Jeff catches sight of him passed out under the layers of bed sheets.

Jeff sneaks back to his apartment. The mangy monster in his bathroom is awake and starting to meow.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get your damn breakfast,” he tells it when he goes in to retrieve its bowl. By the time he has fed the creature and gotten coffee for himself, it’s nearly six-thirty. How does time go so fast?!

“Yeah, hi,” he says when he calls his department head. “Sorry, Ted, I know it’s early—Just needed to let you know I’ll be late getting in today. …Maybe noon? Yes, of course. I’ll email it to you, and look over your notes when I come in. …No, nothing like that. Just a little situation at home. Yeah, see you. Thanks.”

Thank god for Jeff’s infamous work ethic. He hasn’t taken unplanned time off in almost a year. People will notice he’s gone, but nobody will side-eye him for it.

It’s not until Jeff has googled the address of Kent’s vet, gotten dressed, and mentally prepared himself to head out that he realizes something vital: he has no fucking idea how he’s going to transport the furry goblin from his apartment to his car.

“Jesus H Christ.”

Last night, when Jeff wrapped it up in the cloth shopping bag, the cat had been too cold and hungry to protest. Now, having warmed up and slept and eaten, the thing is scratching at Jeff’s bathroom door and crying to be let out. Just because it didn’t scratch Kent up last night doesn’t mean it won’t tear into Jeff if he tries to move it somewhere this morning.

He digs a jean jacket and a pair of thick winter gloves out of his closet for protection. Then he steels himself for disaster and opens the bathroom door a crack to squeeze inside.

The cat doesn’t escape. Instead, it flees to the other side of the small bathroom, hiding behind the toilet and continuing to yell.

“Okay, buddy,” Jeff says. “Come quietly and please don’t send me to the hospital, yeah?”

By some miracle, Jeff gets the cat in the bag, out to his car, and halfway across town to the vet’s. He arrives about five minutes after they open, so they’re able to see him immediately. With far more visible comfort than Jeff had displayed carrying the cat in, the vet carefully takes the animal out and examines it.

“We’ll need to run some tests for parasites,” she says. “I’d also recommend an FiV test.”

“FiV?”

“Feline HIV.”

Jeff nods. “Okay. Yeah.”

“As for the tail,” she adds, carefully touching the sad, stringy thing with gloved hands, “I probably don’t have to tell you that it needs to be amputated.”

“I figured. How much will all that cost?”

She gives him a rough estimate. Jeff sighs and says, “Sure. Let’s do all the things you said.”

The tests come back in twenty minutes. It turns out that the cat does not have fleas, but it does have intestinal parasites that will require twice-a-day meds for the next week. They still need to take care of the tail, so after getting the results and paying for it all at the front desk, Jeff leaves, heading home for a change of clothes before he goes to work.

Around noon, Kent texts him.

just got up, how’s ur cat?

Jeff sighs, puts down his sandwich, and sends back,

Not my cat, and it has intestinal parasites. They’re gonna amputate the tail. I have to go back tonight to pick the cat up.

Kent sends a smilie face.

Jeff leaves work at his usual time and drives to the vet. He hadn’t told anyone at his office the reason for his morning lateness. He doesn’t want to spend a week fielding inquiries about the cat’s condition.

The cat is subdued from its experience at the vet. It has seventy-five percent less tail, the end of which is wrapped up in bandages that the cat is not allowed to lick or bite under any circumstances. A Victorian-style plastic collar has been included for the purpose of preventing this. Jeff goes home with a bag of medications, a cat carrier, and a cat brush. He’d been strongly advised to brush the cat out and get rid of the matting as soon as possible, before the clumps of fur become hazardous to the cat’s health or invite—of course—fleas.

Once home, Jeff gets the cat settled in his bathtub, giving it dinner and a bowl of water. He also brings in a few more hand towels for extra comfort, because he’s animal-inept but he’s not heartless. Now that the worst of the situation has been dealt with, he can take a moment to sit on the edge of the tub and just observe.

It’s not an ugly cat, he decides. It won’t be winning any beauty contests, not with that knobby tail stub and half-bitten ear, but its fur markings are okay. He dares to pat the cat while it eats. It ignores him.

Five minutes later, Kent shows up. “How’s the patient?” he asks, still standing at Jeff’s front door.

“You didn’t even call to see if I was home. Have you seriously been listening for me, just so you could see this damn cat?” Jeff demands.

Kent doesn’t deny it; he just waits for Jeff to roll his eyes and show him to the bathroom.

“I have two different types of meds I have to make it eat twice a day this week,” Jeff bemoans while Kent sits on the edge of the tub and coos over the cat. “I think they’re pills. How do you make cats eat pills?”

“Mix them with the food,” Kent replies. “Or find a treat the cat really loves and put it in that.”

Jeff nods. “I have to brush it out, too, apparently.” He’s a little scared to do it. What if he does it wrong and the cat bites him? What if he pulls out fur or skin?

His fear must show on his face because Kent just smiles, shakes his head, and says, “I can show you. D’you have a brush?”

And it turns out that brushes are some kind of cat cheat code. Within minutes, Kent has the cat flopped out in the tub and purring like a motor while he carefully scrapes through a thick matt near its tail. “It just takes patience,” he says. “You wanna give it a shot?”

Jeff does not. Kent gives him the brush anyway. Jeff switches spots with Kent at the tub and tries to mimic his movements with the brush. He knows he’s a bit stiff, but he’s still worried that he’s one fuckup away from a bleeding hand.

Kent, however, settles down on the tile to watch. “It’s just a cat,” he says, the lit to his voice definitely teasing. “Not a bomb. If you relax, the cat will relax.”

Jeff shakes his head. “I suck at handling animals, Parse. It’s just fact.”

Chuckling, Kent gives him a light smack on the thigh. “Good thing you’re cute, then.”

Jeff’s heart skips a beat. Kent has averted his gaze to the floor. There might be a blush on his cheeks, but Jeff doesn’t know what it means—if it’s, ‘oops, I said too much,’ or ‘oops, no homo.’ He likes Kent too much to risk being wrong. “I really doubt the cat cares,” he replies, and after the silence stretches a few safe seconds, he adds, “Thanks for helping me with this.”

Kent’s cheeks are still rosy when he looks up and grins. “No problem, man. Trust me, you’ve got this.”

–

The week drags on and Jeff doesn’t feel like he’s ‘got this’. He keeps the cat in his bathroom out of paranoia of parasites and having all his furniture clawed up while he’s gone. (After all, his apartment is not remotely cat-proofed.) Not that it matters. For the first week, he comes home daily to find shredded bath towels and teeth marks on the cabinet door corners and puddles of urine next to a perfectly good litter box that Kent helps him buy. He goes through endless paper towels and does a shit-ton of laundry and learns to dab hot sauce on anything the cat might deem edible.

He scoops so. Much. Cat poop.

But life continues, taking him to work and home again and back, and somehow he manages to feed, water, and medicate the cat without causing it any harm. He even brushes out all the matted fur, leaving bald spots and dander. Then, once the parasites are gone and the tail is healed up, he takes the cat back to the vet to be neutered. The cat strongly objects to the return of the plastic collar. Jeff figures it’s just as well he’s keeping the cat in his bathroom, since he can’t imagine what the cat might knock over with its cone head.

This means he also continues showering at Kent’s place. It feels weird. In part because he uses Kent’s shampoo since it’s easier than bringing his own every time—and because Kent insisted—but also because catching glimpses of Kent still asleep in his bed makes Jeff feel domestic. Like he actually lives with Kent, instead of just borrowing his bathroom. “Good thing you’re cute, then,” keeps echoing in his head like a broken record.

Dealing with the cat is bad enough, so Jeff pushes those heart-pang feelings to the back of his mind until he can ignore the fact that he has them.

The weekend following the cat’s neutering, there’s another hockey game with the league—and this time it’s against another team. A co-ed club from a community college the next city over takes the bus into Vegas, gear and sticks and all.

Jeff really enjoys playing that night. There’s an acute sense of competition, of “us versus them,” and although there are no refs to call penalties and therefore a standing agreement that they all play fair, Jeff wouldn’t say they’re all necessarily polite. Nobody is hooking or tripping or cross-checking, but they’re also not above bodily shoving each other out of the way to get at the puck.

The co-ed team wins.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?!” Rabs hollers at them as they celebrate, which gets him some laughter from both teams and a brazen middle finger from one of the college kids.

“I’m surprised your knee held out two full periods, old man!” yells back a girl who’s probably barely eighteen, and she high-fives her teammates when the beer league guys just laugh at Rabs.

Half the beer league and most of the college kids go out for drinks after. As they commandeer a couple of tables, Bommer yells over the fuss, “If I catch any of you kids drinking underage or using a fake I.D., I’ll arrest your ass. Got it?” Then he heads for the bar.

One of the college kids leans close to Jeff. “He’s not serious, is he?”

Jeff knows for a fact that Bommer isn’t, because Bommer arrests drug dealers and vandals and rapists but not idiot college kids trying to sneak a beer—he just lectures them into next week. But Jeff looks the college kid dead in the eye and lies, “He once arrested his own daughter.”

It’s really fun to watch that little story get passed around in hushed whispers.

It’s also surprisingly fun to hang out with the college kids. Sure, they’re obnoxiously cocky and self-assured, but it’s just a product of their age. They chat about school, careers, reality TV, celeb gossip—and hockey, of course hockey. Some of the college kids are shooting for the big leagues, others content to leave hockey on the sidelines while they pursue other dreams. The college kids who are legal get drunk faster than the league guys. Most of them proceed to make fools of themselves, while their underage friends take pictures and videos to blackmail them with later.

It’s good. Kent is two seats down, close enough for Jeff to yell-talk at him but far enough away that after Jeff’s hands won’t get stupid after he’s had a few beers. Kent is loose and relaxed tonight, his smiles a dime a dozen, and every time Jeff catches one directed at him, his stomach swoops.

The college kids nearby manage to drag him into a conversation about Survivor, and then Lost. This leads to him getting into an argument with two of the girls about which season of Lost was the best (Jeff says the first, they’re adamant it’s the last). One of the girls is laughing a little too much at his lame-ass jokes and almost falling over her friend as she leans in to yell over the music. At one point, she catches herself from swaying with a hand on Jeff’s thigh and she leaves it there, and—okay, Jeff knows what this is.

He laughs and says, “I think you’ve had enough for the evening, huh?” He takes her hand off his leg and politely pushes it back to her. She’s drunk enough that her embarrassment just makes her laugh, and her friends laugh, too.

“Are you gay?” asks the drunk girl. It’s not an accusation, just a loose tongue brought on by alcohol. “’Cause, like, that’s cool, just I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable, you know?”

“I am, actually,” Jeff says, and winks. “But even if I wasn’t, you’re a little young for me, honey.”

“But college boys are so lame!” the drunk girl hollers, and a couple of the guys around her immediately jump in to refute this assertion.

The conversations splinter and roll on. Jeff’s attention shifts away from the college kids and back to his own friends, where a few seats are already empty due to the guys in question having babysitters to relieve, spouses to see, or weekend shifts to get ready for. Kent, for once, isn’t heading home early, although he does keep checking his phone.

When he catches Jeff looking, he grins and shows him a livestream feed of his living room. In it, Kit is curled up on the sofa.

“That’s adorable,” Jeff says, and he really means it.

Kent grins and takes his phone back. “What about your monster?”

Jeff is not thankful for the reminder. “I fed him and made him take his pills before I left. I also scooped his gross litter box and changed the towels in the tub. He won’t stop peeing on them,” he complains.

Mike leans in. “Swoops, are you holding a kid hostage in your bathroom?”

Kent’s grin takes on epic proportions. “Jeff got a cat.”

“I did not get a cat,” Jeff corrects. “I found a dirty stray in a bush outside my office, and now it lives in my bathroom. I haven’t showered in my own apartment in weeks.”

Mike makes a point of sniffing Jeff until Jeff shoves him away. “Funny, you don’t smell any worse than usual.”

“Haha, you’re hilarious. I’m showering—somewhere else.” Jeff catches himself before he confesses to both having Kent’s apartment key and free access to his shower. Mike looks skeptical, so Jeff adds, “At a neighbor’s.”

“Generous neighbor,” Mike says, at exactly the same time as Kent stands up and says, “Last round, any takers? I mean orders, you moochers, I’m not paying!” All the previous requests for booze are waived off, which make Jeff laugh.

Once Kent is gone, Mike raises an eyebrow at him and says, “Kent lives in your building, doesn’t he?”

“Sure does,” Jeff replies, and chugs half his beer to avoid furthering that line of inquiry.

Mercifully, Mike lets it go, and they talk about other things. Until Mike is checking over his shoulder at the bar and lets out a low whistle. “Well, that’s ballsy.”

Jeff knows he shouldn’t look. He looks.

Kent is leaning on the bar, drink in hand, talking to one of the college guys. They must have met up at the bar, getting drinks at the same time. Except they’re standing close, and College Boy has a hand on Kent’s arm, and as Jeff watches, College Boy leans in to say something into Kent’s ear. Something that makes Kent laugh.

College Boy is flirting and Kent…doesn’t mind.

Jeff turns back around. He feels like his face is on fire. Guess that answers the question of homo or no homo, he thinks, mildly hysterical.

Next to him, Mike says, “The kid’s got balls going for Parson, I’ll give him that. He’s a little on the young side.”

“They’re both adults,” Jeff replies, mouth on autopilot. Now that the surprise is wearing off, he’s starting to simmer with resentment. How the fuck is a college kid managing the balls to flirt with Kent when Jeff has been sitting on his own hands since fall?

Mike snorts, and takes another look back over his shoulder. “Well, you can chill. Parson’s coming back.”

A few seconds later, Kent drops into his seat and then asks, utterly sans segue, “If Darth Vader and Voldemort faced off, who would win?”

“Voldemort,” says Mike without hesitation.

Kent gestures so hard with his free hand that he almost spills his drink in the other. “That’s what I said!” he exclaims, and then shouts down the table, “Because you can’t use the force if you’re Avada Kedavera’d to death, Peter!”

Jeff looks down the table and recognizes “Peter” as the flirt. He’d been on the brink of voting for Vader, just to be contrary, but now the retort dies in his throat.

Mike says, “I was thinking more along the lines that he’d be faster. Is magic even legal during a game?”

Peter is shaking his head. “If it’s not legal in Quidditch, it’s not legal in hockey.”

“Do wizards even have hockey?” asks a girl next to Peter.

“Darth Vader probably sucks at hockey,” Kent says. “He grew up on a freaking desert planet, come on.”

Somehow, the argument continues for another half hour. Jeff thinks the only reason they eventually leave is because the bar makes its last call, and the fact that all the college kids still have to get to their motel.

Outside the bar, while they wait for taxis, Jeff sees Peter sidle up to Kent again and murmur into his ear. Kent giggles, shakes his head, and gently pushes Peter away towards his friends, who pull him towards a cab. Jeff shouldn’t feel as relieved as he does.

Kent catches Jeff watching. Jeff instantly looks away.

After Peter is gone, Kent joins Jeff on the sidewalk. “That bother you?”

Jeff’s heart jack-knifes in his chest. “No,” he manages. “Why—why would it bother me?” As smooth as a rockslide. Fantastic.

Kent shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets. “I dunno. Some guys have a thing about it. And, you know, I never mentioned I’m bi, so…” Another shrug.

Oh. Oh. They’re having a totally different conversation than Jeff thought. He’s not being called out on his pining; Kent thinks Jeff might be a shade homophobic. Clearly he didn’t catch the exchange Jeff had with that college girl in the bar. He needs a moment to re-orient himself. Then he blurts, “I’m super gay. Just—unbelievably gay. My horoscope sign is a rainbow unicorn.”

Kent doubles over laughing. When he can speak again, he wheezes, “Wow. Okay. Crisis averted. Jesus, that’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said.”

“It was definitely not,” Jeff argues. “I’ve said way funnier.”

“Way dumber, too.”

“You’ve said way dumber, today.”

Kent laughs again and slings an arm around Jeff. It feels hot and strong and Jeff’s whole body is tingling. Kent leans in and declares, grinning, “Yeah, but I’m drunk, ripped, and hot. Nobody gives a shit what I say.”

Jeff picks a perfect time to glance sideways and drop his gaze to Kent’s mouth. Christ, it looks wet and soft.

“See, you’re not listening to me at all, are you?”

“Am too,” Jeff retorts, strained, and drags his gaze back up. There’s a shadow on Kent’s jaw, the blond beard just dark enough to betray a missed morning shave, and Jeff is having the insane urge to just lean in and find out what that feels like under his tongue.

Rabs startles him half to death by yelling, “We got you guys a cab, get in!”

They’re sharing with Cash, which is a blessing and a curse. Jeff gets squished between them, and when Cash starts pulling up pics of his kids that his babysitter sent, Kent leans over to see. He smells like beer and fried cheese and hours-old cologne, and his warm, solid body is plastered all up along Jeff’s side. Kent puts his arm back around Jeff and it feels so good to be tucked against him that Jeff’s chest feels like it’s caving in with the force of his heartache.

God, how he wants.

Kent’s and his apartment comes first. They clamor out and wave after the disappearing taxi until it’s gone. Then they head into the building, where they find an Out Of Order sign on the elevator.

“Goddammit,” Jeff grumbles. “I hate taking the stairs. So much fucking exercise.”

Kent grabs his hand and tugs him towards the exit door. “It’s just five flights. Come on, you baby.”

“I’ve got four flights to climb,” Jeff complains, though he’s mostly distracted by the firm surety of Kent’s grip to really protest. “Why are you dragging me up to your floor?”

Kent holds his hand up the whole three flights. Jeff’s heart is pounding by the time they reach Kent’s apartment. He knows it’s not from the climb.

“You wanna come in for a bit?” Kent asks. “Say hi to Kit?” His smile is lopsided and so openly fond that Jeff knows, intuitively and like a vise on his ribs, that if he says ‘yes’ to that offer, he might actually get what he’s longing for.

He didn’t know until now that he’s a coward.

“I gotta check on the monster,” he says, carefully letting go of Kent’s hand. “You know, food and shit.”

“Right, right.” Kent’s hands go into his pockets, out of reach. Jeff wants them back in his more than he can say; which is probably why he doesn’t.

“Night, Parser.”

“Night, Jeff.”

It’s a lonely walk up to his apartment. As soon as he’s inside, he clenches his jaw, then his fists, and after a second of internally fuming, he kicks the door. “Goddammit!” he hisses. “Fuck. Fuck me.”

From his bathroom, the stray cat yowls. Jeff waits until he has taken a few calming breaths before going to feed it.

He finds broken glass and the stench of cologne. The cat is cowering in a corner to hide from the smell.

“I hate you,” Jeff groans, and retreats to the kitchen for a roll of paper towels.

–

Nothing changes between Jeff and Kent. Jeff remembers everything from that night and he knows Kent remembers everything too, but nothing about their friendship changes. Jeff wouldn’t have minded that if he didn’t get the feeling he’d blown his chance for more.

At the next hockey game, there are two scouts in the stands, and Kent chats with them both. He also chats with the scouts who show up to the game after that.

It’s impossible for the rest of the guys to miss.

“They’re like flies on shit all of a sudden,” Rabs says after a day of three scouts. “Parser, you getting any offers?”

“Did you just call me dogshit?” Kent demands, and then shrugs noncommittally. “Not really offers, just talks.”

“Yeah, but. You gonna sign, if you get something good?”

And Kent replies to that like he always does—laughs it off, shakes his head, says something about how nobody’s really looking to sign him, they’re just checking him off a list of known free agents. None of it means anything.

Jeff believes that, right up until he sees the contracts.

It’s by accident; he goes into Kent’s apartment at the ass-crack of dawn, like always, ready to shower. He finds Kent passed out on the sofa. Jeff pauses in the living room, curious, because Kent is wearing his sleeping clothes but clearly drifted off before he made it to bed. The lamp next to him is still on.

What catches Jeff’s eye are the contracts spilled out over Kent’s coffee table. There are three, as far as he can tell, and each one has a piece of notepaper next to it covered in notes.

It’s what Jeff wanted for Kent, and what Kent has worked for. But it makes Jeff feel so sick at heart that he almost leaves without his shower. Almost.

Kent is awake when Jeff comes out of the bathroom, damp and clean. The contracts are stacked up, not gone. Kent is sitting upright on the sofa, rubbing his eyes.

“Good offers?” Jeff asks, like a jackass, because if Kent hasn’t ever mentioned it before then it’s obviously not something he wanted to discuss.

Kent sighs, sounding exhausted, and shrugs. “Bunch of zeroes. No-trade clauses, two- and three-year deals. So. Objectively, sure.”

Jesus. That’s the real deal. “Are you going to sign?”

Kent sighs again. “I don’t fucking know, Jeff.”

That’s not a “no.”

Jeff leaves and doesn’t bring it up again. He doesn’t mention it to the guys, not even Mike. Kent acts like it didn’t happen, still coming to games and texting Jeff at work and dropping by Jeff’s apartment to visit the monster cat that still lives in Jeff’s bathroom. The cat has monopolized the space for almost two months, now, because Jeff is too afraid of the potential destruction to let it wander free.

“I can help you cat-proof your place, you know,” Kent offers—again—one night when he comes over. He’s crammed into the bathroom with Jeff and the cat. Somehow, Kent has managed to entrance the cat with just a shoelace, dangling it and pulling it along the tiles and laughing when the cat tries and fails to pounce on it. “You can’t keep him in your bathroom forever. Have you even named him?”

Jeff calls the cat “the monster” or “Monster,” but Kent continues to insist that Jeff pick something better. Kent also brings new cat toys and treats every week, like the animal is a nephew he’s trying to spoil. Jeff has repeatedly asked Kent if he wants to keep the cat, but Kent keeps saying no. Jeff gets the impression that Kent expects him to keep Monster, so Kent can continue to dote on it.

Honestly, Jeff has thought about it. But he keeps coming to the conclusion that it’s not in the cards. He likes his life how it is and he doesn’t want the complication. So he says, “It doesn’t matter what I name him. The new owner will probably change it. I’ve got someone at the office who’s seen pics and she says she’s interested.”

Kent goes still. “Wait, you’re seriously giving him away?”

Jeff internally squirms under Kent’s wide-eyed look of betrayal, turning his gaze to Monster instead. “I’m not a cat person, Parse, I told you. It was okay playing the good Samaritan for a bit, but this isn’t me. I can’t see myself having a cat long-term.”

“Oh.” Kent is quiet for a long moment. Monster jumps on the shoelace and tugs it away; Kent doesn’t resist. “I guess you should do what’s best for you.”

“That’s all it is, Parse. I’m just not a cat person.”

Soon after that conversation, Kent leaves. He smiles as he goes, acting casual, but there’s a shadow in his eyes like something’s gone wrong. And, look, Jeff doesn’t always catch on quick, but he’s not an idiot. Even if he’s not sure what specific sentence was the wrong one, he knows he fucked up somehow. Rather than go upstairs and ask Kent to clarify, however, he just curses himself and kicks his door. Again. It’s becoming a pattern.

Why is he such a coward when it comes to Kent? Even back when Kent was a noisy menace, the only time Jeff didn’t go upstairs to confront him about it was the one time it had sounded like Kent really needed company. Now that he knows Kent personally, would he do differently? He hopes so. But, god—he also never pegged himself as a guy who’d avoid so many important conversations just because he was afraid of the outcome, even a potentially good one. He’d always thought that if he ever cared about someone like he cares about Kent, he’d bare his heart and put it all on the line.

He never expected to find himself approaching Valentine’s Day wondering if Kent was already finding someone else.

It’s desperation for reassurance, not courage, that makes him text Kent about coming over for pizza and beer.

“Dude, about time you had me over again,” Kent says when he arrives.

Jeff rolls his eyes and waves him in. “The fuck do you mean ‘about time,’ you’ve been over here doting on the cat every day.”

“Your cat is better looking, is why,” Kent replies. He heads for the sofa, only to stop short when he sees Monster curled up on it.

“Oh, yeah,” Jeff says. “My co-worker is picking him up tomorrow. I thought I’d give him a night to live it up before he moves out. How much damage can he do, right?”

Kent snorts. The look on his face is one of jumbled emotions, confusion and fondness and resignation.

“You can move him,” Jeff says. “He’s pretty chill suddenly, doesn’t really care if you pick him up or touch his feet and shit. Which is a goddamn turnaround, considering how nuts he always acted in the bathroom.”

“He just needed to feel at home, that’s all.” Kent crouches by Monster and pets him until he purrs and shows his belly. “Nobody feels at home in just a bathroom.”

Jeff feels awkward and he’s not sure why. “You know you could still keep him, if you really wanted. I’ll tell my co-worker there was a change of plans. She’ll understand.” She won’t. But Jeff would face Sarah’s sour disappointment for a year if it meant keeping Kent happy.

Except the offer just makes Kent look more unhappy. “No, it’s—fine. You promised.” Kent sits on the sofa arm, still petting Monster. “Come on, gimme pizza.”

Kent acts normally from then on, talking shit through the movie and criticizing Jeff’s choice in beer. But there’s a sadness weighing on him that comes out in the silences, and makes his fingers drift to Monster’s fur whenever he’s lost in thought. Monster attaches himself to Kent, nuzzling and purring, like he thinks Kent needs it.

Jeff hates it because it feels like his fault. Which it can’t be, because if Kent won’t keep the cat and Jeff can’t, there’s nothing else to fucking do.

The night concludes as it always does, with Kent smiling and giving him a half-hug before going home, and Jeff still sitting on a crush that he hasn’t yet dared to air out. In the living room, Monster is stalking the empty pizza boxes. When Jeff walks over and shoos him away from a stray piece of crust, Monster meows indignantly.

“You’re a weird-ass cat, you know that?” Jeff grumbles, and wiggles the boxes until Monster hops out.

Jeff crosses his fingers for no overnight disasters and goes to bed early. He wakes up on Sunday morning to find Monster sprawled out on his bed, whiskers twitching in his sleep. Jeff stares for a while. Monster still isn’t a beauty; he’s got half an ear on one side, almost no tail, and even without his balls he has a throaty, tomcat yowl. All of these disclaimers were made clear to Sarah before she agreed to take him. Jeff supposes that if you’re into cats, the little imperfections don’t matter.

Monster blinks awake and sees Jeff already looking. Without prompt, Monster starts to purr.

“You’re a terrible cat,” Jeff tells him. “I can’t wait until you’re gone and I can have my own life again.”

Monster closes his eyes and purrs louder.

“Shut up.” Jeff gets out of bed. Monster, sensing breakfast, follows. Once there’s food in front of Monster, Jeff escapes to his bathroom. He gets his towel and clothes and is halfway out his door before he remembers that he doesn’t need Kent’s shower anymore.

Well. That’s how it should be.

So he goes back to his bathroom and gets in his own shower for the first time in over a month. It feels strange. Kent’s shower setup had been the apartment’s standard, but Jeff’s is custom, and it’s like he’s completely forgotten how to use his own showerhead. He keeps twisting the knobs wrong, and twice he misplaces his shampoo. When he gets out, he shaves over the sink and frowns at himself in the mirror.

He takes Monster—and all of Monster’s accumulated shit—to his co-worker’s house that afternoon. Sarah takes Monster out of his carrier right away and coos over him. Monster squirms.

“He needs time getting used to new places,” Jeff says. “And new people.” Even as he says it, it doesn’t feel true. Monster had settled into Jeff’s bathroom and then his apartment in no time flat. And although Monster had been a matted, parasite-infested wreck when he first met Kent, he’d done nothing but knead and purr.

Sarah closes the door behind Jeff and puts Monster down. Monster slinks up to the first bit of furniture he can find—a bookshelf—and cautiously sniffs it. “We’ll make it work,” Sarah says.

Jeff nods. “Just leave him alone and keep feeding him, he loves food. He doesn’t care what happens as long as there’s food in front of him. Oh, and play with him. He’s got a ton of cat toys, courtesy of my neighbor, although for some reason he likes dumb stuff like shoelaces and towels.”

Sarah gives him a look. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep him? You sound attached.”

Jeff watches Monster take a slow swat at a book and ignores the tightness in his chest. “I’m not a cat person.”

Sarah nods. “Well, okay. Do you want to come into the kitchen, have a drink? I’ve got coke, coffee, or I can make tea. Give you a little more time to say goodbye to your cat?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

And just like that, Jeff is out the front door and back in his car, driving home. Alone.

–

Without Monster around, Kent has no concrete reason to drop by all the time, so he mostly stops. They don’t drift apart—they keep texting, and sometimes bump into each other in the elevator. But Jeff doesn’t fool himself; it’s not the same. He spends the next week feeling like there’s a hole in his life, and he’s self-aware enough to know that the hole is Kent-shaped. Their conversations aren’t as frequent and lack the spark they used to.

At the next hockey game, Kent doesn’t make a beeline for him the second he steps on the ice. There’s a scout waiting for Kent when the game is done, and he spends a long time talking with the guy—the longest he’s talked with any of them yet. He’s actually late to arrive at the bar, and when he takes a seat on the other end of the table from Jeff, it feels on purpose, not by chance.

Jeff is starting to feel like he gave away Kent along with Monster.

Are you mad at me? he sends from his work desk on Thursday, when he should be typing up a report. ‘Cause I didn’t keep the cat?

Kent’s reply comes instantly. And keeps coming.

Kent: what?! no!! of course not. i guess i just miss him. i got used to him being around but i’m not mad at YOU for not keeping him. its your life. and i really believe you should only get a pet if ur 110% committed. you shouldn’t make a commitment if you’re not able to, u know?

Me: Exactly. I just want what’s best for Monster.

Kent: i know. i’m never gonna be mad at u for doing what u gotta do, k? i’ll get over it.

Jeff should put his phone down and get back to work. But he feels like they’re finally communicating after almost two weeks of being lukewarm, and he’ll be hard-pressed to find this level of openness again. So he sends,

Me: You know you’re my best friend, right?

Kent’s icon shows that he’s typing for a long time; either preparing to send a wall of text, or second-guessing himself dozens of times. Neither bodes well.

Kent: i didn’t, actually. but ur mine, too.

Fuck, Jeff will die happy just from this.

Me: Right. So I want you to know that you’ll still be my best friend if you play in the NHL. Or the AHL. Or if you move to Russia and join the KHL. Or turn them all down and play in the beer league the rest of your life. You’re my best friend and nothing changes that.

Another long pause.

Kent: thanks, man.

It’s not much, but Jeff smiles in relief, anyway.

–

On Friday, as Jeff is getting ready to leave work, Sarah comes up to him. She’s been showing Jeff and everyone else in the office photos of Monster—re-named Stuart—since the day she brought him home. Jeff expects more of the same today, and mentally prepares an excuse to leave after viewing no more than five pictures.

He’s confused when, instead of pulling out her phone, Sarah asks, “Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

“No?” Jeff replies, then freezes when he remembers that tomorrow is February 14th, Valentine’s Day. Awkwardly, he says, “I’m, uh, flattered, but—”

“What?” Sarah blinks, and then her eyes go wide. “Oh—god, no! Jeff, I have a girlfriend.”

“…Oh.” Jeff takes a moment to mentally re-evaluate everything he knows about Sarah. He feels stupid for assuming that the woman in all her photos was her sister.

“Yeah,” Sarah says, like she can hear what he’s thinking. “Which is why—god, I feel terrible about this, but I can’t keep Stuart. My girlfriend is allergic. I mean really allergic.” She sighs. “We knew she had allergies, but they’ve never been so bad. She can’t come over to my place at all.”

“Oh,” Jeff repeats. “I can, uh, pick him up this evening? If you want?”

Sarah looks relieved enough that she might hug him. “Thank you so much. I’m so sorry. You were right, Stuart is a sweetheart once he warms up to you, and Jenna and I love him so much. But… well, we’d really rather just get a hypoallergenic cat than install special filters all over the house and do laundry three times a week.”

Although Jeff has never had allergy issues, he finds it easy to relate to the problem of Monster giving him too much housework. “It’s fine. I was gonna leave now, but I can hang back until you’re done.”

“Thanks so much. I’ve just got to send a couple of emails and I’ll be ready to head out.”

It’s dark when they get to the parking lot. Jeff follows Sarah’s car to her house, and comes inside with her to collect all of Monster’s belongings. Monster comes right up to him and rubs against Jeff’s shins, purring and meowing.

“Aww, he missed you.”

Jeff can feel himself blushing a little, so he just shrugs and stoops to pat Monster’s head. Monster yowls and pushes his face into Jeff’s fingers. “Yeah, yeah,” Jeff mutters while Sarah stuffs the last of Monster’s toys into a bag, and then to Monster he says, “Apocalyptic allergies, huh? Nice to see you can make a nuisance of yourself wherever you go.”

Monster is noisy on the drive home, in the elevator up to Jeff’s apartment, and then even after Jeff has brought him inside and let him out. Monster prances around rubbing against all the furniture.

Jeff drops the bag of toys next to the sofa and sinks onto the cushions. Monster trots in from the next room and hops up next to him, climbing onto Jeff’s lap and meowing at him. Jeff gets a face-full of fish-scented cat breath and coughs. “I was nearly free of you,” he complains, and submits to Monster’s demands by scratching his chin. “I don’t have anyone else lined up to take you.” He thinks for a minute. “We could put up flyers, maybe. Free cat to good home. Facebook, too, I’ve got a ton of friends all over the country who are suckers for cats.”

Monster closes his eyes and settles down on Jeff’s lap while Jeff keeps scratching his chin. The warmth and weight of Monster is kind of nice, Jeff decides. And waking up to Monster that one morning was the least lonely he’s felt at five a.m. in…well, a while.

“One of the guys might take you,” he continues, still brainstorming aloud. “Cash’s kids have been bugging him for a pet. You’d be good with kids, right? You’re chill. And you don’t have much of a tail to pull or step on.”

Monster begins to purr. It’s a deep, guttural rumble that seems to seep into Jeff’s bones.

“Oh, Christ, stop. I’m not keeping you, you goddamn noisy, ugly cat. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve been from start to finish? You destroyed my bathroom. You’d probably destroy my apartment. And you’re expensive, fuck, I’ve dropped so much cash on you. You had parasites, remember? Then the surgery for your tail, plus your balls, and if I keep you, I just know Parser is gonna talk me into microchipping you ‘cause he’s paranoid like that.”

He sighs, his fingers slowing. Monster tucks his face into his paws, so Jeff strokes his fur instead. Monster keeps purring. “I hate you, Monster. So much.”

He can’t fucking believe he’s considering this.

–

The next morning, Jeff wakes up to Monster curled up at his side.

“Manipulative little shit,” he accuses, to which Monster mumble-meows and bats at Jeff’s face until he gets up.

Jeff feeds Monster in the kitchen. While Monster noisily eats a can of soggy Friskies cat food, Jeff starts the coffee pot and contemplates…everything. Last night he’d gone to bed without making a firm decision about Monster. In the cold darkness of the morning, he doesn’t feel any surer. He’s still not a cat person. The whole experience of feeling outrageously sentimental about a pet is still something he can’t fully relate to. Even Monster, with his soft fur and adoring slow-blinks and motorboat purr, is still an alien entity whom Jeff regards with more confusion than unconditional love.

But as he watches Monster chomp down a fat piece of tuna, Jeff has to admit that he has grown attached.

He can’t fucking believe he’s resigning himself to this.

Kent will be ecstatic.

Kent also might sign an NHL contract and move across the country, rarely seen again, and it won’t matter that Jeff has finally given in and adopted Kent’s favorite ratty cat. Anything Jeff could have said, anything he might have wanted, will be lost in the face of Kent’s new whirlwind career.

A man can only be a coward for so long.

Fuck it, Jeff decides. If he can’t find the courage to do this shit on Valentine’s Day at the ass-crack of dawn when he has just decided to keep an utter wreck of a stray cat, he never will.

He puts on his fuzziest slippers and warmest sweatshirt and ventures upstairs. With his heart pounding in his chest, he knocks on Kent’s door.

Eventually, it opens. “Fuck, Jeff, it’s like six o’clock,” Kent complains when he answers. He’s wearing sweatpants and no shirt and he’s got terrible bedhead, plus a couple creases in his face from his pillow. He looks like he has every morning that Jeff has snuck by him sleeping in bed.

By now, Jeff’s urge to wrap himself around Kent and bury his face in Kent’s neck is mostly under control. “Just let me say this before I chicken out,” Jeff replies, and that gets him Kent’s attention. He takes a fortifying breath and says, “I like you.” Not the most eloquent, but in his defense, he hasn’t had coffee yet.

Kent blinks. He definitely hasn’t had coffee yet, either. “I like you, too?”

“No, Parser, I like you. Do you remember when I first brought Monster back from the vet, and we were sitting in my bathroom brushing him and I said that I sucked at animals, and you said it was a good thing I’m cute? I’ve been thinking about that non-stop ever since.”

Kent blinks again. “That was two months ago.”

“I know. But I’ve been thinking about it because it was the first time I really chickened out of being honest with you. Because you’re my best friend, and I don’t have best friends, so I can’t fuck this up with you. But I’ve also got a cat downstairs that I am apparently fucking keeping now, so if I can do that insane shit, I can do this insane shit.”

Kent’s eyes widen. “You’ve got—Monster?”

“Sarah, my co-worker, her girlfriend has massive allergies, so she asked me to take Monster back. I picked him up yesterday. I figure I’ll just keep him. Look, I’m sorry it’s so fucking early and I’m sorry it’s Valentine’s Day, I’m not trying to be a cliché, it’s just that I’ve been wanting to kiss you since Christmas and I kept chickening out—and for Christ’s sake, why are you always half naked? You wear shirts to bed, I’ve seen you.”

Kent’s sliver of a smile is halfway between amused and incredulous. “You’re getting off topic.”

“Not if you’re this sexy on purpose.”

“You’re really keeping Monster?”

That doesn’t answer Jeff’s totally legitimate question at all—because it is still the middle of February and damn cold. But Jeff nods seriously. “Yeah. Might as well. I’m already two months committed, what’s another ten years?”

Kent shakes his head, grins, and steps in close enough that Jeff can smell the faint remains of his body wash. It’s citrusy, familiar, and intoxicating. “I actually did take my shirt off a couple times when I saw it was you. Not always. But you always got so red, I figured it couldn’t hurt to throw you off your game.”

“I knew it—” is all Jeff gets out before Kent kisses him. It’s careful and hesitant, just the barest brush of lips in hopeful inquiry. Jeff pushes back a little to make it firm, more sure, and smiles against Kent’s mouth when Kent hums in relief. It’s good to know he’s not the only one who’s afraid of a kiss fucking everything up.

When they part, Jeff says, “Just ‘cause I’m not a cat person doesn’t mean I can’t date one.”

Kent has his hands on Jeff’s hips and he squeezes gently. “Looks like you’re a cat person now, too.”

“No, I’m not. I have a cat, Parse, I’m not a cat person.”

“Semantics.”

“Do you wanna come downstairs and see my new awful cat, or not?”

Kent’s grin widens and he wraps his arms around Jeff’s waist. It eliminates the last few breaths of distance between them and makes Jeff gulp. The visual of Kent half-naked didn’t at all prepare him for the feel of it. “Yeah,” Kent says. His smile is like the sun. “Lead the way.”

#parswoops #savvy writes #it's late and i'm tired #the cat is asleep next to me #PLEASE let me know if there are awful mistakes #i'm too tired to see them #omgcp #kent parson #troyson #swoops #jeff troy #omgcp fic #omgcp fanfic

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jamesstegall · 4 years ago

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India is grappling with covid grief

Spring 2021 in India has been horrific and frightening: ambulances wail constantly, funeral pyres are alight 24 hours a day, seemingly endless body bags stack up, and grief hangs heavy in the air.

A year ago, it looked as if India might have escaped the worst of the coronavirus. While the Western world was struggling, India was relatively unscathed, hitting a high of about 1,300 deaths per day in late September 2020 before bottoming out again. Earlier this year, Prime Minister Narendra Modi declared that the country had won its battle against the virus. In a virtual appearance at the World Economic Forum’s Davos Dialogue on January 28, Modi boasted about India’s “proactive public participation approach, [its] covid-specific health infrastructure, and [its] trained resources to fight covid.”

Then, with vaccinations beginning to ramp up and cases continuing to fall, mitigation efforts were relaxed for what turned out to be catastrophic superspreader events in late March and early April: the Kumbh Mela (a major Hindu pilgrimage to India’s four sacred rivers) and giant election rallies in the states of West Bengal, Kerala, Assam, and Tamil Nadu. These crowded events attracted thousands of unmasked people who had traveled to get there. Within weeks, the hospital system collapsed; this month has been the deadliest yet in India’s fight against the coronavirus, putting the country just below Brazil and the US overall. Over 311,000 Indians have died from covid so far, according to official sources—but the true death toll is believed to be far higher.

As in other places, people are struggling to cope with these deaths at a time when traditional ways of grieving have been ripped apart. Natasha Mickles, a professor of religious studies at Texas State University, where she studies Hindu and Buddhist death rituals, says that millennia-old traditions have had to be ignored. “Traditionally, in Hinduism and Jainism, the eldest son is responsible for lighting the funeral pyre,” Mickles says. But covid’s infectiousness and fatality rate mean that the eldest son is often not available or, worse, dead. That means families are having to figure out how to cremate or bury their family member while already overwhelmed with the task of notifying relatives about the death.

“Death rituals are some of the most conservative parts of culture,” Mickles says. “A lot of them are so ingrained that they require cultural cataclysms to change. We’re seeing that with the pandemic raging. We’re seeing a transformation in how we grieve.”

476 #Funerals In One Day In #Kanpur#COVID-19 #victims being #cremated at #Bhairav Ghat Hindu Crematory, as coronavirus cases surge in record numbers across the country, in Kanpur. #SecondCOVIDWave #up78 #CoronaUpdate #CoronavirusIndia #CoronaCurfew #photojournalistarun pic.twitter.com/LBtzsKwcte

— Arun Sharma (@ARUNSHARMAJI) April 23, 2021

Online spaces have offered a crucial forum for expressing grief and venting anger about the Indian government’s handling of the crisis. Families that have faced loss are sharing their pain in WhatsApp groups. In mutual aid organizations that are crowdsourcing help, volunteers can barely process their grief for those who have died as they race to organize help for the next person. Twitter has become a steady stream of obituaries; one grieving woman’s plea to Modi to allow for mercy killings has gone viral.

But while smartphones are widespread in India at all socioeconomic levels, digital literacy and the ability to connect online are still linked to wealth and privilege—meaning that only a certain segment of the population is able to grieve online.

“I haven’t seen anything on this scale of pandemic grief ever,” says Shah Alam Khan, an orthopedic oncologist and professor at Delhi’s All India Institute of Medical Sciences. “Previously, you saw numbers of people who died from covid. Now, there are names. Each and every one of us knows someone who has been taken away by covid. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t know someone who’s died.”

In Khan’s hospital alone, he is seeing doctors so overwhelmed with grief that they are falling apart themselves. Just recently, after an eighth unsuccessful resuscitation attempt, a colleague killed himself in his office. It’s a death that Khan speaks of quietly: he admits he hasn’t wrapped his head around it yet.

“When death happens in our deeply religious society, grief becomes more a part of tradition than anything else,” he says. “I am atheist, but in this country, death and grieving are easier if you are a spiritual person.”

Seema Hari has been one of countless people using the Stories feature on Instagram to share resources such as Google Docs with information about where to find oxygen tanks, focusing on her native Mumbai. But as members of her own family have fallen ill with covid, she’s tumbled into grief, isolated save for her Instagram page.

“I spent most of my days worrying and trying to share resources with people, and nights checking in via WhatsApp—not just with my family but with other friends all over India, asking them the dreaded question of whether everyone on their side is okay and if they need any help,” she said via email.

Hari said she hasn’t felt the ability to grieve properly and doesn’t see herself doing so: “There is so much collective and personal grief to process, but it is almost like we have not even been afforded the privilege to grieve, because loss is so relentless and so many things demand our action and attention.”

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Seema Hari (@seemahari)

Nikhil Taneja, the founder of the youth media organization Yuvaa, has helped people connect during the unfolding catastrophe by hosting Twitter Spaces sessions with Neha Kirpal, a mental health professional.

We had an extremely insightful @TwitterSpaces session yesterday on COVID-19 grief and anxiety with @theInnerHour. Here are some excerpts

(THREAD)#MyMindMatters @tanejamainhoon @NehaKirpal1

— Yuvaa | Masks Up & Stay Safe India

(@weareyuvaa) May 20, 2021

Taneja says hosting these sessions has been an important way to help young people he saw posting on Twitter and Instagram about the grief they were dealing with. “There doesn’t seem to be any acknowledgment of grief in our country,” he says, pointing to the lack of apologies from Modi. “We are losing family and friends and loved ones. People’s lives are being reduced to statistics and numbers.”

It’s also hard for young people to reach out for help in a culture that finds mental health difficult to address. As Taneja notes, the word “dukh” means both sadness and depression in Hindi: “There is a difference, yet our language doesn’t reflect that,” he says.

Mickles says the past year has seen funerary rituals changing all around the world. “This is universal,” she says. “The move is going online.” Often that can be as simple as holding a phone up at a cremation site so family both near and far can be part of the process via Zoom.

But Zooming a funeral, using Instagram to crowdsource available oxygen tanks, or even WhatsApping the family group chat all require a level of digital access and literacy that correlates with wealth in India.

“So many people can’t afford laptops,” says Taneja. “A lot of people can afford smartphones but are just not able to access the internet.” He acknowledges that his Twitter Spaces sessions are only available to those who are digitally literate and can afford to get online. Options for grieving safely have to be far broader in reach. “The solution lies offline as much as online,” he says.

Hotlines might be one solution. Lekshmi Premanand, a senior psychologist for the mental health organization Sukh-Dukh, says she is dealing with multiple people who are grieving, isolated, and depressed, often without internet access.

Premanand, based in the current covid hot spot of Kerala, has noticed a difference in the type of grief people are experiencing. “If economic loss and loss of opportunity were the result of the first wave, losing friends and family is the scary, glaring effect of the second wave,” she says.

She’s found that increasingly the people calling into the help line are younger and with less access to the internet, yet desperate for support. Similar resources might start popping up as covid hits more rural areas without infrastructure, she predicts: “Where there is a need, an alternative is going to emerge.” In this case, that means going back to the more basic technology of the telephone.

Grief over what’s happening in India isn’t constrained by the nation’s borders, says Mickles. Those in the Indian diaspora are going to struggle to come to terms with what is happening in their home country while reopenings continue where they live. “Covid is teaching us the truth of interdependence,” she says. “What happens in India is going to affect us in America eventually, and vice versa. We need to understand that we are socially interdependent with each other. Indian grief is our grief.”

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#IFTTT #MIT Technology Review

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