Chapter Text
A sharp, deafening crash jolted Simeon awake.
His heart hammered wildly, blood roaring in his ears, phantom flashes bursting behind his eyelids. But everything around him was perfectly still. No sound at all.
Morning light poured softly through the window, as if murmuring: *It’s just your imagination. Just a little panic attack. Nothing serious.*
It took effort to focus his gaze on the objects swaying close by. Finally he recognized them: several strands of hair—fine, deep gray—hovering in the air, trembling faintly with each of his exhales.
Just hair. *His* hair.
Simeon let out a long breath and told himself: this has been going on for a long time now. It’s nothing.
His captor, his savior, the arrogant lord of the house—or simply the cat. A big, perpetually displeased gray cat named Miles Edgeworth, who kept Simeon Saint confined here.
As long as he treated Miles as nothing more than a large feline sharing the same roof, and avoided thinking too hard about *why* he had ended up in this situation, life became bearable. Easy, even.
Lying in this warm, soft bed, he ought to feel satisfied. Very satisfied.
They weren’t lovers. Miles had never taught Simeon how to label whatever this was. He had patiently explained countless pieces of “normal person” common sense to him, but conveniently skipped this one.
From what Simeon could gauge, Miles, too, seemed content with their current arrangement—including sharing the same bed at night.
He didn’t like dwelling on what happened before his release, or anything further back.
Over the past year he had moved into Miles’s house, spent a while as a full-time NEET, then—with Miles’s help—found work: a part-time consulting position at a juvenile classification center. It was public-service oriented, the pay wasn’t great, but it covered his “rent,” at least.
Their life was simple, frugal, quiet. By Miles’s standards, everything appeared to be steadily improving—so Simeon had no desire to disturb the balance.
Today was Saturday, but he still had work.
He was just about to slip out of bed quietly when—“Simeon.”
The man beside him woke. An arm stretched across and dragged him back into the embrace.
Simeon protested softly: “Let go, Miles.”
“No.” Miles nuzzled into the crook of Simeon’s neck, voice muffled. “Why are you getting up so early?”
“I have a consultation. One of the kids has a complicated situation. I need to go.”
Miles’s arm loosened slightly, but didn’t release him entirely. “What time?”
“Ten.” Simeon glanced at the clock. Only seven. “But I still need to prepare.”
“Then why get up *now*?” The spoiled big cat promptly turned petulant. “There’s still plenty of time. You can sleep with me a little longer.”
“Because I have to make breakfast,” Simeon tried reasoning. “I can’t just let you go hungry.”
“I can make it myself.”
“But…” Simeon paused, then gave a small smile. “But I *want* to make breakfast for you.”
Miles froze for a second. His face flushed faintly. Reluctantly, he let go.
“Fine. But come back quickly.”
“I will, I will.” Simeon sat up, gathered his long hair, then leaned down and pressed a light kiss to Miles’s forehead, right where his bangs fell.
“You don’t have any work today, right?”
“None.” Miles said. “A rare full day off.”
“Then rest properly. Sleep in. When I get back, we can do something together later.”
“Like what?”
“Chess?”
“Mmmph.”
Miles clearly wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t argue. He simply closed his eyes obediently and burrowed back under the covers. Simeon hoped the warmth he’d left behind would still be there when he returned.
Of course, it wasn’t *that* kind of thing anymore.
They rarely had sex these days. Simeon remembered periods—especially right after his release—when the hunger had felt almost frantic. But as everything settled, even that desire had grown easier to satisfy. It was as though both of them had silently agreed to step back a little.
After all, they were both in their thirties, and in Simeon’s opinion Miles was somewhat sexually indifferent anyway. Which, on the whole, was probably for the best. It made living under the same roof feel lighter, more natural.
If he wanted to express care and gratitude, occasionally wielding a spatula was more than enough.
Simeon wasn’t much of a cook, but he could handle the basics without disaster. These days he even enjoyed it a little—humming tunelessly under his breath.
“Didn’t I say you could sleep longer?”
A while later Simeon turned to see Miles standing in the kitchen doorway, looking faintly surprised.
“You’re up already? I can’t fall back asleep once I’m awake.”
Miles walked over and reached to snatch a piece of bacon.
Simeon immediately blocked him with the spatula.
“No stealing.”
“I’m quality-checking for safety.” Miles had already popped it into his mouth and was chewing with satisfaction. “As the official food safety officer of this household, it’s my duty.”
“Food safety officer? Since when?”
“Since just now. Given a certain someone’s culinary track record, I believe the position is urgently required.”
Simeon rolled his eyes. This man was far more childish than his exterior suggested.
But he was completely used to this level of dry sarcasm. In fact, if Miles ever stopped speaking to him in that smug, superior tone, Simeon would probably feel strangely empty.
“Since you’re the food safety officer,” Simeon said, “and you refuse to actually help, kindly wait in the dining room like a good boy.”
“No. Given the potential for various emergencies, on-site supervision is necessary.”
“Sure, sure. Whatever you say.”
Miles showed no intention of leaving, yet made no move to assist either. He simply watched Simeon work—like a cat observing a human from a safe distance: aloof yet oddly clingy. Facing his unexpectedly mischievous lord, Simeon could only sigh quietly to himself.
By the time the food was on the table and they sat across from each other, Simeon propped his cheek on his hand.
“All right, Mr. Safety Officer. Give me an objective evaluation.”
“Acceptable, I suppose.”
“*Just* acceptable?” Simeon pretended to be offended. “I put real effort into this.”
“Since you asked for objectivity rather than praise—” Miles chewed his fried egg with exaggerated “nom nom” sounds “—I’ll be honest. The coffee is still the best part.”
The eggs were probably too salty. The bacon might have been overdone. Only the fully automatic coffee machine required zero skill—and Miles had bought the machine, chosen the beans, and pre-ground them. Yet somehow he was still critiquing Simeon’s cooking.
Still, this was already an improvement. In the beginning Miles had been blunter.
*“There’s no love in the food you make.”*
That sentence still stung whenever Simeon remembered it.
Even if he’d nearly burned down Miles’s kitchen once, wasn’t the real culprit the man who voluntarily brought an ex-convict home in the first place?
“Your consultation today—it’s nothing too serious, right?”
Simeon was about to retort when Miles changed the subject. The sleepy gray eyes from earlier had sharpened, studying him.
“Oh.” Simeon recalled the details. “One of the kids reported bullying in the institution, so now he’s labeled a ‘snitch.’ Strangely, when the staff asked the others, everyone stayed silent. The director’s worried. She thinks I might have experience handling this kind of thing.”
“Does it have to be you?”
Simeon tried to read Miles’s intention. Concern for his safety? Or just sulking because his day off was being interrupted? He hadn’t mentioned it to Miles yesterday, but Miles rarely interfered with his work. The question felt… unexpected.
“It’s nothing major. Just talking to a few kids, and the director will be there. They hired me precisely to deal with the tricky cases, didn’t they?”
He half-expected Miles to object, but those gray eyes flickered with something complicated before Miles simply nodded in understanding.
“Be careful. Come home early.”
After breakfast and their coffee, Simeon checked the time. He really had to leave.
At the genkan he hugged Miles, kissed him on the lips, and said: “See you later.”
The big cat in pink pajamas stood sulkily in the doorway. Simeon’s loungewear was the same style, but of course Miles wore it best—broad shoulders, solid chest. Hugging him really did feel perfect.
It took all of Simeon’s willpower to look away. He genuinely had to go.
“If anything happens, call me anytime,” Miles said.
Making Miles happy was one of Simeon’s most important responsibilities—no matter how proud or difficult this feline creature could be.
So far he’d done fairly well. On the whole he’d give himself a solid seventy points: he hadn’t screamed himself awake from nightmares, hadn’t vomited on Miles’s floor even once.
Yet Miles still wasn’t entirely pleased.
That particular mission was far harder than anything at the juvenile center.
The consultation lasted four hours but went more smoothly than expected. Simeon told a small lie—the director wasn’t actually present. It was just him and those indifferent, impatient, or shrinking boys, all of whom looked right through him like glass.
With a few gentle tricks, subtle coaxing, and the slightest hint of menace, they spilled everything. The toughest alliances crumbled one by one.
Simeon was familiar with—perhaps even enjoyed—the sensation. As though he’d been born knowing how to do it.
He reported the information to the director. The rest wasn’t his concern. Whatever measures they took would presumably be good for the kids, right?
He was only using a few old tricks to gather intel. If the shadows he’d carried from the old world could serve the new world Miles wanted—and do so outside Miles’s line of sight—that was ideal.
Carrying a faint, long-forgotten thrill, Simeon thought: maybe tonight he’d make the curry Miles liked. He couldn’t taste ordinary food properly anymore, but curry was hard to ruin completely—
Perhaps today really wasn’t a good day to leave the house. Or perhaps thinking about Miles the whole drive back had distracted him.
Either way, when he started the car he didn’t notice the silver sedan barreling through the red light on his left.
*Bang—*
The impact felt like the entire world dissolving into nothingness.
A tremendous crash; his head seemed to slam against the side window. When awareness trickled back, Simeon found himself still in the driver’s seat, seatbelt biting into his chest, airbag deployed and blocking his view.
He tried moving his limbs. Everything hurt, ears ringing, head spinning—but nothing seemed broken.
“Sir? Are you okay?” Someone was knocking urgently on the window.
Simeon turned groggily. A young man stood outside looking panicked. Presumably the driver who hit him.
“I… I’m fine,” Simeon said. His voice sounded distant. He fumbled with the seatbelt, but his fingers trembled from pain and wouldn’t cooperate.
“I already called the police!” the man said. “I’m so sorry—I was on the phone, didn’t see the light…”
Why was he shaking? Why did every hair on his body stand on end, cold sweat dripping like urgent warnings urging him to *run*?
Finally he managed to unbuckle, open the door—but when he tried to stand, the world spun violently. He collapsed back into the seat, hunched over the wheel, and slammed the door and window shut tight.
“Hey! Wake up!” The other driver looked guilty. “Are you sure you’re okay? Should I call an ambulance?”
In the rearview mirror Simeon saw his own face—ghastly pale. He lifted his head with difficulty, clenched his teeth, and forced a weak gesture and lip shape: *Leave me alone.*
*Just let me rest a minute… just a minute…*
The police arrived quickly. Fault was obvious: the other driver ran the red light. Insurance adjusters showed up, took photos. “Sir, open the door. Do you need us to contact family?” An officer knocked, voice sounding far away.
By then Simeon’s strength had returned to about seventy percent. His chest and legs no longer throbbed so badly. He hesitated.
He had no family. The closest thing to it was Miles.
But no. Miles was off today. No paperwork, no complicated cases—a rare full rest day for the workaholic.
Don’t bother him.
Besides, it was just a minor accident. He could handle it himself.
He struggled out, inspected the damage—the rear end was crumpled but drivable. With shaking hands he signed the fault report and told the officer: “I’ll go get checked at the hospital.”
“Do you have family we can contact?” the duty nurse asked. “Concussion patients should have someone with them.”
Again the same question. Simeon stared at Miles’s number on his phone screen, thumb hovering over the call button.
It was already afternoon. Miles might be reading, playing on the console curled up on the sofa, or sitting alone by the window moving chess pieces with those long fingers. One call and his perfect weekend would be ruined by Simeon’s mess.
“Sir?” the nurse prompted.
“I…” Simeon began, then stopped.
He remembered Miles stealing bacon in the kitchen that morning, remembered him standing in pink pajamas at the door, reluctant to let Simeon leave. If Miles knew he was in the hospital, he’d rush over immediately. And then he’d worry. He’d be anxious. He’d be hurt.
“I don’t have family,” Simeon said at last. “Sorry… please just take care of me.”
In the end he was admitted and placed in a single room. White walls, white sheets, the sharp smell of disinfectant. Simeon lay on the bed staring at the gradually darkening sky outside.
One problem: if he didn’t go home tonight, Miles would definitely call. What excuse could he give?
He picked up the phone to text Miles that he’d be late—but couldn’t think of a single believable reason.
Work emergency? Miles would ask for details. Out with friends? Simeon had no friends, and Miles knew it.
He typed and deleted over and over, anxiety mounting with every passing minute. He knew he should just tell the truth, but the thought of Miles’s possible reaction filled him with dread.
Not anger—Miles probably wouldn’t get mad about a wrecked car.
What terrified him was Miles’s *concern*… and the look of worry and disappointment that might cross his face. Simeon had seen that look before.
He sighed again. Though he had forgotten most of the desires that once belonged to “Simeon Saint,” he still recognized certain things he desperately did *not* want to happen. And this was definitely top-tier.
*Don’t say anything yet… just stall a little… or maybe confess…*
Fortunately, while he was still wavering, the phone rang.
“I’m in the hospital. I had a small car accident on the way back,” Simeon hurried to add, “It’s not serious—just a mild concussion. They want to observe me overnight. Really, it’s nothing.”
“Which hospital?”
Thankfully, Miles didn’t sound angry—just calm, as always. Simeon gave the address. The other end said, “I’ll be there soon.”
When Miles arrived in a perfectly pressed suit—like some avenging angel descending on the ward—Simeon finally found the strength to smile. He immediately noticed the bento box in Miles’s hand and caught the unmistakable scent of curry. Perhaps precisely because Simeon hadn’t come home, Miles had been forced to cook properly for once.
“You look decent,” Miles said, stepping inside and closing the door.
“I told you it’s not a big deal.”
“Disappearing for nine hours doesn’t qualify as ‘not a big deal.’”
Miles sat in the chair beside the bed and opened the insulated box. Only then was Simeon certain Miles wasn’t angry. Inside was golden curry and rice, steam rising warmly.
The hard-faced, soft-hearted man said:
“So without me watching, you don’t even eat?”
“Sorry… I meant to tell you earlier. I made you worry.”
Simeon ate slowly. Miles watched him. For a while the only sound in the room was the spoon gently tapping the bowl.
When Simeon had nearly finished his portion, Miles finally started complaining.
“Imagine waking up from a nightmare about you, feeling uneasy the entire day, terrified something happened, and then getting *zero* information. And the very last thing I said to you was that damn ‘objective evaluation’…”
For some reason, whenever he was with Miles, Simeon’s usual silver tongue failed him. What came out was a stiff, awkward defense.
“I wanted to call you… I just… felt like I’d be bothering you. It’s your day off. No overtime.”
“I’m not blaming you.” Miles said. “I know you have trust issues. I understand you don’t do it on purpose—you sometimes can’t fully recognize the consequences of your actions. So I can’t really blame you. There’s no reasonable expectation of different behavior. It’s like how someone lacking capacity isn’t held criminally responsible.”
“That metaphor is kind of hurtful.”
“Isn’t it accurate?” The big cat leaned forward until their foreheads nearly touched, noses hovering close, breaths mingling. “…The hurt you’re feeling right now is probably only about one-tenth of mine.”
He really did sound wounded. Simeon apologized sincerely: “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. No need to apologize.” Miles closed his eyes. “The important thing is that you’re still alive…”
A sudden thought flashed through Simeon’s mind.
“Miles… are you very afraid of me dying?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes.” Surprisingly, Miles admitted it. He nodded, eyes still closed. “I’m very afraid of you dying.”
“Why?”
“Why?” The voice came with a faint, sad nasal tone. “I don’t really know. I just feel that… as long as you’re alive, the world might still have some good things happen in it…”
Simeon turned his head away.
Karma? Heavenly justice? Redeeming old wrongs? Thinking about those things still hurt too much right now. And between them, some words never needed to be spelled out completely.
Instead he stroked Miles’s fingers the way one might handle something precious that had almost been lost. Miles turned his hand over and held on tightly, drawing warmth from each other.
“Stay here or go home?”
“Let’s go home.” Simeon made up his mind. “I might need help with the paperwork.”
Miles was already standing and gathering things. “Fine. Come home and play chess with me.”
“Hey. Taking advantage of me while I have a concussion? That’s low.”
“I don’t care. You promised.”
His cat-like, pain-tolerant boyfriend seemed to have regained his usual energy.
When Miles stepped out and the door slowly closed, the room fell quiet again. Muffled footsteps and voices drifted down the hallway, then faded.
Simeon looked blankly around.
On the bedside table sat the closed insulated box—still more than half full. Strangely, it felt as though he’d just been fed a mouthful of cold rice and solidified curry; a sudden shiver ran through him.
Not physical cold—the room’s heater was on full blast—but a chill that seemed to grow and spread from somewhere deep inside.
As though, while Miles had been here, an invisible protective membrane had shielded him from the real world.
Now that membrane was gone.
He couldn’t wait for Miles to come back.