Chapter Text
Chan is about ninety-nine percent convinced he’s being watched.
Granted, he’s walking home alone at half-past one in the morning and the streets by his apartment are not particularly well-lit, so it’s no surprise the skin on the back of his neck is tingling. It’s the perfect opener to one of those American crime shows his college sunbae Joshua liked to have on as background noise while he cooked dinner for the various hoobae tagalongs he picked up (to this day, Chan’s not entirely sure how they became friends. He suspects it had something to do with Hansol).
Something feels different tonight, though. Chan’s been walking home on this route from the bus stop at least four days a week, and sure, it’s always been a little creepy, but he’s never felt like he needed to stop walking every twenty paces and look behind himself.
There hasn’t been anyone behind him the past six times he’s turned around, and he doesn’t imagine there will be anyone the seventh—
“Mrow?”
Chan screams.
Jacket fisted in his hand over his chest, Chan closes his eyes, taking deep breaths to try and calm his rapidly-hammering heart.
“Mrooooow.”
A cat. It’s just a cat, Chan tells himself, opening his eyes and glancing over his shoulder. There’s nothing human-sized that he can see, so he turns around fully to face his stalker.
As expected, a cat stands in the middle of the sidewalk. It’s pale orange, with darker orange stripes and white fur around its mouth and belly. Amber eyes watch him curiously, tail swishing back and forth in the air.
It’s just a cat. Not a crazed serial killer.
Not that cats are much better, if Chan’s going to be honest with himself. He knows how to deal with people. Cats are… weird.
Animals in general are weird.
Granted, he’s never had the best luck with animals. One of his formative childhood memories involves him getting knocked over by a rambunctious dog at around four years old. Another, getting pushed into a pond on an elementary school field trip as wriggly tadpoles swam over his skin. Yet another includes a seagull ripping his grilled sausage straight out of his hands while on a trip to the beach with his family.
The list goes on. He doesn’t hate animals, but he’s certainly been put off of them—he’s never been interested in pet ownership, unlike most of his other friends. He’s a proud plant dad (to two cacti, a snake plant, and a smattering of pothos propagations in soju bottles) and that’s all he needs, really.
“Mrooooooooooow.”
The cat, however, has zero insight into the machinations of Chan’s mind and remains standing in front of him, eyes glinting in the streetlights. Usually the cats that Chan’s spent time around in the past would’ve run away from him by now, so he has no idea what he’s supposed to do next (admittedly, his sample size is not very large, but still.)
Is it hungry? Chan wonders. He doesn’t know a lot about cat behaviors, but he’s pretty sure it’s common courtesy among all living species to not stare for prolonged periods of time, especially when you don’t know each other.
“What can cats even eat?” Chan mumbles, digging through his backpack. It’s rats that can’t eat chocolate, right? Or is it snakes?
All Chan comes up with is a long-empty snack bar wrapper, faint traces of chocolate stuck to the foil. He shoves the wrapper in his pocket, hoping he’ll remember to throw it away later.
There’s a GS25 around the corner, though. Chan can’t believe he’s seriously considering buying food for a cat, let alone a cat that scared the living daylights out of him, but it feels wrong to walk away from a tiny hungry thing.
“Wait here,” Chan says. “I’ll get you something.”
The cat cocks its head to the side, shakes out its fur, and walks past Chan. It pauses a few paces in front of him, looking behind itself like it’s expecting Chan to follow.
What the hell? Chan figures there’s no harm in following for a few steps—he can always run away if the cat’s in cahoots with a real axe-murderer.
He finds himself led to the convenience store, where the cat stops and sits down by the front entrance. The cat must be familiar with the area. Maybe Chan isn’t the first unsuspecting sucker to get asked for food. Chan hasn’t really paid attention to many cats in his lifetime, but this one seems a bit thin, though, so maybe not.
Well, now that he’s here, it would be rude not to get the cat anything. The convenience store doorbell jingles as Chan walks though; the bored college student at the cash register barely spares him a glance as he heads to the refrigerated goods section. He’s pretty sure cats can eat meat, at least.
There’s some pre-cooked chicken with sale stickers on it, so Chan figures that’s as good a sign as any. He picks up a bag of chips for himself and pays, wondering if the cat is even still outside. At least he can eat the chicken later if he’s been hoodwinked.
The cat is, in fact, still there when Chan returns, sitting in exactly the same place it had been when Chan entered the store. Chan sits down on one of the chairs outside the store and holds out the shrink-wrapped chicken.
“Here you go,” he says, watching the cat’s reaction warily.
The cat takes a few steps forward, but remains standing about half a meter away. It looks pointedly at the chicken, then up at Chan. He has a feeling he’s missing something crucial.
“Look,” Chan says, “I don’t speak cat. I don’t know what you want.”
Can cats sigh? Chan has the distinct impression he’s being sighed at.
The cat walks closer, close enough that Chan could reach out and touch it. It lifts up one of its front paws, and Chan’s pulse thrums in his ears, body locking up. It’s not going to attack him, is it?
“Mrow.” It bats one paw at the still-wrapped chicken, plastic crinkling. Even though the package has a convenient notch on the side to open it, it’s not exactly helpful when you can’t hold onto anything to start with.
“Oh!” Chan exclaims, heat rushing to his cheeks as he rips open the package. “I’m sorry, cat-nim. I forgot you, ah, don’t have thumbs.”
He holds the opened side toward the cat, who stretches its neck out to sniff at the chicken.
Barely a blink later, the cat sinks its teeth into the meat and scampers off to some dark alleyway between two buildings that Chan is absolutely not inclined to follow it to.
Deciding to chalk it up to a weird fever dream of a night, Chan tosses the chicken wrapper in the trash can outside the convenience store and finishes his walk home, eager to get out of the late fall cold and into a hot shower.