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The apartment is uncomfortably bright in the afternoon, full of angles and warmth Choso doesn’t know what to do with. Yuji stands in the kitchen doorway, a blur of pink hair and contagious energy, waving a neon feather toy in one hand.
“If you’re really my brother, you’ll do this for me,” Yuji insists, grinning, his voice caught somewhere between teasing and pleading. “Her name’s Soba. Please, Choso?”
Choso crosses his arms, trying to look disinterested. “I would be more useful fighting alongside you.”
Yuji’s face softens, though his shoulders remain set, resolute. “I’ve got Megumi with me. I need you here. I promised Mai I’d watch her cat—if anything happens, I’m toast. And anyway…” Yuji hesitates, glancing down as the little gray kitten sniffs curiously at his shoelaces. “She gets lonely. Just for a few hours?”
There’s a flicker of something in Choso’s chest at being trusted, but he buries it, offering only a flat grunt. Yuji beams, patting his arm once before heading for the door, jacket slung messily over his shoulder.
As the door swings shut, the apartment drops into a heavier kind of silence—one Choso has never really liked. He glances down to find Soba, the kitten, circling his boots with the confidence of a creature who’s never met danger. She sits abruptly and stares up at him, unblinking, as if daring him to try and impress her.
He kneels, careful and awkward, hands uncertain. “You require sustenance,” he murmurs, and she responds with a high, unimpressed mew.
In the kitchen, there’s a list on the fridge in Yuji’s childish handwriting:
Food: 4pm
Litter: scoop if stinky
Play: try the feather thing, she likes it
Choso reads the instructions, lips pressed into a thin line. He’s fought curses, survived things that would make most people’s hair go white, but this—this is human. Mundane. Strangely terrifying.
The can opener is a greater foe than he expected. He turns it over in his hands, scowling, only relenting when Soba lets out a pitiful yowl that echoes off the cabinets.
He pulls out the phone Yuji forced on him—a chunky, fingerprint-smeared device he barely knows how to unlock. Choso holds it gingerly, as if it might detonate. The kitten lets out a warning yowl, tail twitching, while he stares at the screen, baffled by the sheer number of icons.
He pokes at the wrong app twice before finding the search bar, glaring at the predictive text as if it’s mocking him. With slow, awkward taps, he manages: open…cat…food? The phone buzzes, spitting out videos and guides, none of which make any sense. He watches one, expression deadpan, brow furrowed in deep concentration as a cheerful woman on the screen demonstrates the can opener’s secrets.
It takes three attempts and a near miss with a spoon before the lid finally pops free. Soba looks up, wide-eyed and impatient, as if to say, what took you so long?
She leaps onto the counter, triumphant, and Choso can’t help but stare at her, tiny and demanding and—he has to admit—kind of impressive.
She eats quickly, tail swishing. He watches her in silence, remembering how it felt to protect someone small. His brothers, with their easy trust and quick, clumsy affection. The urge to guard, to make things safe, stirs somewhere deep. He doesn’t push it down this time.
Soba finishes eating and pads to the sun-warmed couch, climbing with all the delicacy of a queen ascending her throne. Choso hesitates, then sits cross-legged on the rug, the feather toy limp in his hand.
He gives it a half-hearted flick. Soba ignores him.
He tries again, voice flat and experimental: “Engage with the feather.” He swishes it, a bit more intent. The kitten pounces, all claws and energy, tumbling through the dust motes like she owns the world. Choso can’t stop the small, surprised smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The mask slips, just a little.
He talks to her, his voice low and almost uncertain. Tells her about his brothers—how they’d fight over who got to sit closest, how quiet the world became after they were gone. Soba blinks, then attacks the feather with renewed vigor. She wins every round.
The afternoon slides by. The sun paints stripes across the hardwood floor, washing everything in honeyed gold. Choso reads more on his phone—why is my cat screaming so much, how to brush a kitten, best way to make a cat like you. Soba ends up curled beside him, purring in a way that’s somehow reassuring and bittersweet all at once.
He brushes her fur, awkward at first, then gentle. She melts, eyes closing, breathing slow and contented. Eventually, she drapes herself across his chest, impossibly soft, and falls asleep, one paw pressed against his heart.
Choso wants to move. He knows he should—there’s still the window to check, the city to monitor, threats to watch for. But Soba is a tiny, solid weight, anchoring him, reminding him that sometimes, safety means simply staying. For once, he lets himself do nothing but exist, quiet and still, with something to protect.
Evening falls; the city hums just outside the glass. Choso’s eyelids grow heavy.
Yuji returns just after dark, shoes scuffing quietly on the entryway tile. He pauses, caught by the sight in the living room: Choso, usually so composed and unreadable, sprawled on the couch with Soba fast asleep on his chest. His hair is even more wild than usual, face relaxed, younger somehow. He looks—Yuji can’t help but think—human.
Yuji grins, warmth bubbling up in his chest. He lifts his phone and snaps a quick photo, unable to resist.
Choso stirs at the sound, eyes flickering open, instantly alert. Soba shifts and stretches, purring so loud it’s almost comical.
“You’re a natural,” Yuji teases, grin wide.
Choso glares, but there’s no heat in it. He strokes the kitten’s head, fingers gentle. “She’s… acceptable,” he mutters, but the word is soft, almost fond.
Yuji laughs, the sound bright and real in the warm, sleepy apartment. For a moment, Choso lets himself enjoy it—the light, the comfort, the familiarity.
And as Soba burrows deeper into the folds of his robe, Choso thinks that maybe he could get used to this. The kitten’s warmth seeps through the fabric, her steady purr vibrating gently against his chest. For the first time, the apartment doesn’t feel strange or empty—it feels, in its own quiet way, like home.