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When Horatio first appeared on the doorstep in the rain holding a soggy cardboard box with a cat in it, Hamlet didn’t really know what to make of it.
“They said getting you a cat or something to care for would make you less likely to kill yourself,” Horatio said before Hamlet could ask anything.
From inside the box, Horatio scooped up a Pokémon-sized ball of black fur wrapped up in a handful of their kitchen towels. That was the cat then. Horatio lifted it into the crook of his arms like it was a baby. Hamlet remained unsure of how to react. It wasn’t that he disliked cats, he had just never given much thought to having a pet. Much less a stray that Horatio picked up in the rain as a roundabout means of suicide prevention.
The cat nuzzled its nose against Horatio’s finger. “Aw, Hamlet isn’t she the sweetest?”
Not to mention how much Horatio was fawning over her. But admitting he was jealous of a stray kitten would be embarrassing, so he deemed that bit irrelevant.
“I…never had a pet before,” Hamlet said finally. He moved closer, his arms crossed casually over his chest so Horatio couldn’t try to hand him this wet, unvaccinated creature. “Where did you find it?”
“Her, it’s a girl. I’m pretty sure, at least.” Horatio was totally focused on the cat, not even looking at Hamlet. Hamlet rolled his eyes.
“I saw that.”
Hamlet rolled his eyes again, this time with more emphasis.
“Anyway,” Horatio continued, “I found her on a stoop, one of the houses by the bus stop. Poor thing was crammed in this box just labeled ‘FREE’ with a bunch of DVDs, old hairbrushes, a stack of doilies, one stained cushion, some water bottles—a lot, basically.”
“Uh-huh. So you brought her home and now we’re here.” It came out more sarcastically than Hamlet meant it to.
Horatio, still cradling the swaddled vantablack, moved to the kitchen and gingerly set it down on the counter. It wriggled around as he gently patted it down. “I’m sensing you’re not thrilled by this.”
“I mean I’m not mad, I just…an anti-suicide cat? For me? Really?”
“They work! Come hold her, then you’ll see.”
Hamlet walked on over, leaning on Horatio’s side as he watched the cat on the counter. “Is that why you don’t kill yourself, cause you have me to hold and take care of?”
Horatio smiled. “No, my lord, I’m one of the many people who go through life without ever wanting to off myself.”
“Are you flirting with me?” Hamlet grinned.
“Perhaps,” Horatio replied as he cupped Hamlet’s face and kissed him.
Hamlet slid his hand down to Horatio’s waist and pressed him into the counter, but the cat began mewing incessantly and the two broke apart. God, that cat had barely been there ten minutes and it was already interfering.
Now that it was standing, Hamlet could see she was slightly bigger than he’d originally thought, though still very skinny. She had sharp claws, and some white spots that, upon closer inspection, were balding patches in her black fur. She sat and looked up at Horatio, still meowing scratchily for something or other.
“I asked Ophelia if she could pick up some cat food and litter, since she was out already.”
“I’m sorry, you told Ophelia about this whole thing before me?”
Horatio pursed his lips without reply, trying to comb some of the cats wet fur with his fingers. Hamlet groaned at Horatio’s lack of response. For the first time since its arrival, the cat looked toward him. Then she walked in circles and started meowing to the sky again.
“She’s a hungry girl, poor thing.” Horatio truly couldn’t seem to get enough of petting her. The cat seemed content with this, as she nuzzled up to his hands and then flopped down on the table, stretching out her stubby legs. “What should we name her?”
“She’s your cat,” Hamlet shrugged.
“No she’s your cat,” Horatio said as he held his hands just out of the cat’s reach, giggling as he watched her bat at them.
Hamlet gave him a look.
Horatio blushed. “Ok, she’s our cat. Still, I think you should get to name her.”
Hamlet had never been good at naming things. Even as a kid all his stuffed animals had very literal names; Teddy, Froggy, Doggy and Puppy, Bunny…he suspected Horatio would not be thrilled by the uncreative suggestion of Kitty. Plus Rosencrantz and Guildenstern already had a dog named Kitty, their failed attempt at humor and irony, so that was off the table. His mother had once had a dog named Prince though.
“Ummm…Princess?”
“Hm?” Horatio replied, tilting his head towards Hamlet. His face then immediately flared red and he put his head in his hands. “You mean for the cat’s name.”
“Yeah it’s kinda dumb though so…OH, did you think—?”
“Doesn’t matter!”
The sound of keys turning in the door made both of them turn around.
“We will come back to this later,” Hamlet said deviously. He had forgotten how much fun it was to see Horatio well and truly flustered.
“Go help Ophelia with the cat supplies.”
“Anything for my Princess.” He kissed Horatio’s cheek and practically skipped down to the door.
Horatio laid the cat—they would discuss more names later—back in one of the kitchen towels and brought her out to meet Ophelia.
“Just get two bowels from the kitchen and put them on the floor, we don’t need to go buy whole new ones,” Ophelia was telling Hamlet as he staggered under the weight of cat food.
“Is there even space in the kitchen?”
“There’s always space for a cat,” she replied. Her face broke into the widest smile when she saw Horatio, and she dropped the kitty litter on the floor. “Aww, is this her?”
“We named her Princess!” Hamlet announced. Horatio shot him a sideways look, but didn’t object.
Instead he transferred the cat from his arms to hers, and Ophelia squealed. “Oh my god what a precious little babyyyy! Aren’t you just the sweetest little angel thing on Earth?”
The cat purred—one singular purr—and instantly Horatio and Ophelia were cooing over her. Hamlet cringed at the babytalk and dragged the bag of cat food back to the kitchen. He set it in the corner by the pantry and went to the cabinet to grab two bowels. Unsure of where to put them, and not trusting that he wouldn’t knock into them every morning, he set them right against the wall by the door. Yeah. That would be fine.
Horatio and Ophelia peeked in as he filled one of the bowels up with water.
“He’s actually doing what we asked when we asked it,” Ophelia whispered to Horatio.
“More than we asked. Little Princess is already working.” He gave the cats head a little scratch.
Ophelia pulled her head out of the kitchen and leaned against the wall, rubbing her face against the cat’s. “Is that really her name?”
Horatio tilted his head to the side. “It’s growing on me. She looks regal, doesn’t she?”
“She looks sleepy.”
“Here, we can lie her on the chair.” Horatio held out his hands as if to take the cat, but Ophelia cradled her closer to her chest.
“You’ve gotten to hold her so much, I can set her down in the living room.”
When Hamlet came out of the kitchen, Horatio and Ophelia were seated on the floor, intently watching the cat sleep.
“This cannot possibly be that interesting, guys. It’s a cat.”
“She’s,” the two corrected him in sync.
“Whatever,” Hamlet sighed.
Horatio held out his hand. “Come sit down and watch her with us.”
The clock on the microwave read 11:23, and all three had work or school in the morning. But something told Hamlet that neither of them would budge, and Hamlet hated falling asleep when Horatio wasn’t there. So he joined them on the floor in crisscross-applesauce.
The cat mewled softly, cracking open her eye ever so slightly. Ophelia and Horatio quietly “aww”ed in unison, once again, and Horatio squeezed Hamlet’s hand.
Well. The cat was very clearly making Horatio happy, and that made Hamlet happy. So maybe there was something to this anti-suicide creature. Even if she smelled a bit bad and was a complete surprise and probably a health hazard (he definitely ought to sanitize everything later, least one of them catch a disease and die, Hamlet would never be able to forgive himself) and honestly the fact that she would be kinda ugly if it wasn’t for her pocket-sizedness, and not to mention the scraggly and scratchy sounds of her meowing, through all that there was something endearing about her too. And something terribly anxiety-inducing about this tiny feeble creature being placed in his hands, making him liable for her life.
Strangely, the thought of high-stakes responsibility didn’t send him cartwheeling into a panic attack. His thoughts began racing, but he hit a brick wall at the thought the cat would ever die. No, he knew, not if we’re all taking care of her. Shit. It felt so weird to not be spiraling. Had he gotten new meds? He would have to ask Horatio about that, he would know for sure.
The cat kept extending and retracting her claws, to the hushed cheers of Horatio and Ophelia. They were like lesbian moms at their daughter’s little league game.
Then she did a stretch (Ophelia honest-to-god started kicking her feet and clapping) and padded on over to sit in front of Hamlet. He just stared forward at her.
“I think she wants you to pet her,” Ophelia offered as Hamlet continued to sit there doing nothing. “Come on Hamlet, she is yours. Technically.”
Hamlet held out his hand to the cat, but it was the same way you would hold out your hand to offer a handshake to another human person. Obviously the cat didn’t know what to do with that.
“Has he ever pet a cat before?” Ophelia asked Horatio in an exaggerated whisper.
“I actually don’t know,” Horatio responded in like, “I just sort of assumed this was common knowledge.”
“I know how to pet a cat!” Hamlet insisted.
Ophelia and Horatio both gave him the same go on then look and he regretted that the two ever became such good friends.
He hesitantly reached out and pet the cat’s head, expecting her to jump out and bite him at any moment, despite all the evidence to the contrary. But she didn’t, instead she sat contently, eyes closed. Hamlet pet her in a straight line from head-to-tail, testing to see at what point she would attack. Still though, she continued in her serene enjoyment and Hamlet inched a bit closer, imitating the head-scratches he had seen Horatio doing. The cat flopped down on the couch, turning to expose her belly, and Hamlet pulled his hand back. Real good going there, pushing down a helpless kitty.
Suppressing a laugh at his boyfriend’s total lack of experience with pets, Horatio took Hamlet’s hand in his and rested them right by Princess’ head. “You’re doing great, that means she likes you. Just keep going like that.” Horatio guided his hand though it almost certainly was not needed; he liked holding hands, sue him. “Here, if you lay your hand here you can feel her purring.”
Her purrs filled the quiet in the room, mixing with the rain that has really started coming down outside. Add a crackling fire and this would be an excellent lo-fi study session mix. Underneath his hand, Horatio felt Hamlet start to tremble
“Hamlet? Are you okay—?”
His question was cut short by Hamlet nearly knocking their heads together to kiss him. A real, full-mouthed, lovers-declaration type of kiss.
“Woahhhhkay,” Ophelia said, looking up at the ceiling to give them a moment.
“I love you,” Hamlet said, his lips barely away from Horatio’s.
Horatio fumbled for words. “Thank you.” THANK YOU?!?! “I love you too, you know that.”
“I’m sorry for being a bitch about the cat,” Hamlet continued, still holding fistfuls of Horatio’s shirt. “I should’ve known you’d be right, you always are.”
“You weren’t being—“
“Eh, he kinda was,” Ophelia interrupted. Hamlet and Horatio both looked at her, no longer gazing into each other’s eyes. “I don’t mean to ruin the moment. Just—“ she yawned widely “—saying.”
The yawn, combined with how The Princess circled up into another nap, made all three realize how tired they were. Hamlet slouched against Horatio’s chest and Horatio rubbed his eyes.
“Perhaps it’s time for us all to go to bed,” Horatio suggested.
“Yeah, you’ll need a bed after that kiss, Jesus,” Ophelia said as she stood up, stretching her shoulders back.
“Jealous?” Hamlet teased. God it had taken them so long to get to this point.
“Haha,” Ophelia replied, deadpan expression on her face.
“How’s Hero doing, by the way?” Horatio joined in.
Ophelia blushed and subconsciously twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “She’s doing fine, we’re—I do not have to have this conversation with you two.” She turned on her heels and walked up the stairs to her room. “Goodnight! Love ya!”
“Sleep well!” Horatio called up as Hamlet turned to look back at the cat. She looked so peaceful, her entire body rising and falling as she breathed. Horatio watched him watch the cat. “Do you want to try having her sleep in our bed?”
Hamlet nodded. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”