Work Text:
Misto peers at the man sitting across from him on the train while he slowly types up a text to his sister.
There’s some kind of 1960s greaser on the metro with me rn
And he’s got a kitten
Misto hits send at the same time the kitten in the strange man’s hands meeps quietly, muffled by the train rumbling beneath their feet. It’s a black cat, or at least Misto thinks so; the man has his hands wrapped around it, and he’s wearing a black leather jacket, a black t-shirt, and black leather pants, so the kitten blends in like a little shadow. Misto wouldn’t be sure it’s a kitten at all if it weren’t making those noises, which it does again while Misto’s watching from the corner of his eye. A little paw kicks out from between two of the man’s fingers as Misto observes, and the man looks down at his squirming, living cargo with a frown on his face.
He’s handsome. Not the kitten, the guy. In a weird kind of way; he looks like he just walked off a movie set or something, with meticulously slicked-back hair and purple eyeshadow to compliment his all-leather outfit. It’s a strange aesthetic— 60s greaser doesn’t feel totally accurate when accounting for the makeup. Maybe 1960s greaser mixed with a 70s rocker or something.
Either way, not the average joe taking the train home from work, and not the kind of guy he’d expect to find toting a kitten around.
Misto looks down at his phone when it buzzes in his hands.
Is he cute?
Misto huffs silently at his sister’s priorities. I can’t see it very well but yeah I assume the kitten’s cute, he types back.
She sends an eye-rolling emoji right away. The guy, she clarifies a couple seconds later. Is he cute? Where’d the kitten come from?
I don’t know, Misto responds. I didn’t talk to him.
He turns his head to eye the man and his kitten again and smiles while it squirms in his hands, clearly trying to make a very ungainly escape attempt that the man squashes by simply adjusting his grip on the little guy, mouth pinched. The way he handles it doesn’t speak of confidence or certainty to Misto, and he thinks any sane cat owner bringing their pet to the vet or something would do so with a carrier. Which admittedly is leaving Misto very curious about what the two of them are up to.
Then go talk to him!!!! Victoria responds while Misto is contemplating the matter. And normally Misto doesn’t take orders from his little sister of all people, but he is kind of curious, and the guy looks pretty lost. So he thumbs his phone off and shoves it into his pocket without responding.
When he stands, he has to grab a nearby pole to keep his balance on the moving train, and kind of pushes off of it to cross the small rumbling car as efficiently as possible.
The buckle of his bag clanks against the hard plastic seat when Misto flops into it; the man looks over at Misto with big eyes, clutching the kitten a little closer to his torso.
“Hi,” Misto introduces himself. “Is that a cat?”
“Uh, yeah,” the man says, in a voice considerably more musical than Misto was expecting. He shifts closer and opens the cage of his fingers a little to show Misto the bundle of black fur cradled in his palms, which meeps indignantly upon being given a measure of freedom. The kitten lifts its little head to glare up at Misto with its big blue eyes, and he smiles at it in return, charmed.
“I found it by my work,” the man explains. “Little man was hanging out back when I clocked in earlier today, and when I left he was still there, kicking up a racket. No mom or anything.”
“No siblings either?”
“Not that I saw.”
Misto watches as the little guy attempts to escape again: one of its stumpy legs manages to flail out between two fingers, though its face remains smushed up against the man’s thumb. Clearly too young to have any measure of elegance or strength, but certainly old enough to feel indignance about its position. Probably only a couple weeks old, by Misto’s uninformed guestimation.
“Maybe it was abandoned—” Misto starts, then cuts himself off when he notices how the fur along the kitten’s back is plastered down. “Is it wet?”
“Uh, yeah, it was raining earlier,” is all the guy needs to say before Misto starts to lift the strap of his bag off his shoulder. “I tried to dry it off a little, but—” he gestures down at his leather outfit.
Bag removed, Misto grabs his cableknit sweater by the back of the collar and peels it up over his head. Left only in his t-shirt, he bundles the sweater up over his hands and holds his covered palms out. “Here,” he says, and the man passes the kitten over a little comedically eagerly.
The kitten meeps again when it finds itself plopped onto Misto’s sweater, and then continues to protest while Misto wraps the sweater around its body and then starts to scrub the little guy dry.
“I’m not a cat guy,” the man admits while Misto is drying the squirming kitten. “I just didn’t want to leave it there.”
“Neither would I,” Misto tells him. “My family had cats when I was younger, but I don’t know much about kittens.” The kitten glares at Misto when he uncovers it, clumped fur sticking up in every direction.
The man laughs at the kitten’s makeover. “He’s got a little mohawk!”
Damn him, but he has an attractive laugh too. Eyeing the man sideways, Misto seriously spends a moment or two contemplating the possibility that he’s having some bizarrely mundane dream before he redirects his attention back to the kitten. He uses a finger to flatten the kitten’s mohawk, then smooths the ruffled fur on its back with his palm before wrapping the little guy back up again.
“What are you going to do with it?” Misto asks, turning to the man with the kitten all safely bundled up.
“There’s a pet store by my apartment,” he explains. “I was gonna take it there.”
“Do pet stores take stray cats?”
“I dunno. I figured I’d buy some cat food and ask if they have the local shelter’s number or something.”
Misto nods at the logic there. “When’s your stop?”
“It’s, uh—” The man looks about for a second or two, freezes, then whips around to stare at the route map on the window behind them. “Where are we?”
“Fifth stop was a minute ago.”
“Oh thank god.” The man slumps, twisting back around. “I’m sixth.”
“So am I. Are you talking about the place on Main Street? By the plaza?”
“Only pet store I know of.”
“I could walk with you, if you like. That’s basically on my way home.”
The man turns his head to look at Misto —perhaps for a couple seconds longer than he would usually expect— and then his gaze slides down to the collar of Misto’s shirt. Misto raises his brows, kitten resting bundled in his hands.
“I wouldn’t complain,” the man eventually says, gaze dropping to Misto’s lap. “I think little man likes you more than me.”
Misto looks down at his hands, where the kitten has been still and silent for a short while now. He raises them in order to eye the kitten inside the bundle, resting its little chin on Misto’s palm with its eyes half open.
“I think he just likes the sweater,” Misto replies, amused.
They talk for the next couple minutes before the train starts to screech to a slow stop. The man, very politely, helps Misto get his bag over his shoulder without having to let go of the kitten, and then follows Misto off of the train after an overhead voice declares the name of the stop and the doors open.
“Oh shit,” the man says right after the doors snap shut behind them.
Misto casts his gaze sideways. “What?”
“I just realized I never asked your name.”
“Misto.”
The man taps his chest with two fingers. “Tugger.”
“Tucker?”
“Tugger.”
“Ah.”
“Is Misto from something?” Tugger asks, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Misto leads the way towards the escalator on the left side of the station. “Mistoffelees.”
Tugger wrinkles his nose as he follows along, smiling. “Is that from something?”
“Mephistopheles, a demon of German folklore.”
“Jesus,” Tugger chortles. “A demon? What did you do to your poor mother?”
Misto stops at the base of the escalator and twists to look up at him, eyes big. “I killed her.”
Tugger’s face falls with a kind of instant hilarity that it’s hard not to smile at. “I, uh— shit, sorry—”
“I’m fucking with you,” Misto cuts his stammering off with a smile that only widens when Tugger’s expression immediately goes flat with exasperation. “My mom’s fine. She just likes weird folklore.”
“Alright,” Tugger wheezes out, so long-sufferingly that Misto can't help but laugh.
“Sorry,” Misto says, though he’s sure he doesn’t sound very sorry at all. He steps up onto the escalator. “Is Tugger from something?”
“No clue. Maybe they misspelled ‘Tucker’ on my birth certificate,” Tugger muses with seriousness, which Misto laughs at.
Misto and Tugger continue to talk on their way out of the station and then down the street towards the pet store. First about the subject of their names, which branches out to their parents –during which they discover that both Tugger’s father and Misto’s mother were single parents— and then their siblings, Misto’s Vicky and Tugger’s two elder brothers. The kitten squeaks a couple times, especially when they step outside into the cold late autumn, but otherwise remains quiet within Misto’s sweater while they head down the street, elbows bumping.
Tugger gets the door for Misto –and the kitten— when they stop before the little pet store just down the road from the metro station. It’s a cute little place with basically no customers inside, so Misto smiles idly down at a display of little hats sized to be worn by a dog while Tugger chats up the only working cashier, explaining his conundrum.
She is very eager to help him, it seems. And bat her eyelashes at him. And giggle at everything he says. And Tugger in turn seems particularly invested in making her laugh. Misto watches the two converse over the register with some amusement and perhaps even a bit of disappointment. Tugger isn’t the first nor last Tragically Heterosexual man he’s met, but Misto did enjoy his company for the few minutes they talked, and he’s certainly not unattractive.
Oh well, Misto supposes, looking down to address the bundle in his hands that just meeped.
“Yes, I know,” Misto tells the squinting kitten. “Life is pretty unfair.”
“Yeah, sure,” Tugger says to the girl just then. “Misto?”
Misto looks up when he’s addressed, and then scurries over with the kitten after Tugger gestures at him to join them.
“Awww, what a cutie!” the cashier chirps when Misto sets the bundle down on the conveyer belt and unwraps the little guy. The kitten meeps, as if in agreement, and then meeps again when the girl leans over and scoops him up under the belly. “Yes, I know,” she coos at the kitten, turning it around to peer at its face. “You were just so cozy and I ruined it. Ah— aha. Yeah, I bet this little guy is about three weeks old.”
“You can tell by looking at it?” Tugger asks.
“His teeth are starting to come in, see?” She turns the kitten so that Tugger can see its kind of hilariously angry expression. Misto leans in and smiles when it meeps obligingly, and he spots a little row of barely-visible gummy teeth. “Speaking of which—” She lifts the kitten’s tail a moment. “Yeah, ‘he’.”
She sets the kitten down on the conveyer belt, next to the sweater, and Misto watches the funny little guy wobble like a drunkard on his four paws, triangle-shaped metronome tail behind him ticking back and forth.
“So do you guys have contact information for any nearby shelters or something?” Tugger asks her, resting his hands on his rhinestone belt.
She leans on the counter in thought, palms flat on the metal. “Well… Yes, but they probably won’t take him.”
Tugger’s nose wrinkles. “Isn’t that their job?”
“Most animal shelters are pretty much chronically overcrowded and understaffed, and don’t have the resources to look after newborn kittens like this. They need to be fed every few hours, heated, and watched constantly. Most orphaned kittens this size are fostered out. If you go to a shelter they’ll probably just ask you to foster him.”
“Oh,” Tugger says. Misto scoops the kitten up under the belly when it tries to nosedive off the counter, and it meeps in outrage at the indignity while he sets it back down on the conveyor belt.
“Not a bad thing!” the girl insists. “They’ll provide any supplies the kitten requires, and they’ll handle any vaccinations and neutering for free up until he gets adopted. But yeah, if you want to get rid of him, you might have to find someone else to take care of him.”
Tugger glances over at Misto. “Hey—”
“I’m not ready to be a father,” Misto cuts him off.
“Hm.” Tugger shrugs and turns back to the girl. “Alright, worst-case scenario I can probably foist him onto my brother. You got a number for this shelter? And any idea what I should feed it?”
While the girl is running Tugger through the process of becoming the kitten’s foster, starting with calling the shelter tomorrow morning, Misto watches the kitten wobble over to his sweater still sitting on the conveyer belt in a lump. The little guy fumbles to get his balance on the soft material, climbing over a sleeve with his round paws flailing, and then settles in the center of the pile of fabric before flopping onto its side.
“I've fostered kittens before,” the girl tells Tugger. “It’s a lot of work, but super fun, don’t worry.”
“Yay,” Tugger says. “Am I going to need cat food or something? Or a litter box?”
“Since you won’t be able to contact the shelter at this hour, I can grab you some stuff you’ll need to last the night and show you how to use it?”
“That’d be great, thank you.”
The girl skips off to her task, leaving Misto and Tugger standing there, watching the kitten. It’s got such cute little triangle ears and tiny paws; he imagines the little guy must be hungry after sitting out in the rain for God knows how long.
Misto looks over at Tugger to ask how long his work shift was exactly, and falters when he finds Tugger watching him and not the kitten.
Misto blinks, reaching up to scratch at his chest with nerves. “Um, hi.”
“Hi,” Tugger says, starting to smile a little.
“Uhh… is there something wrong?”
His brows pop up. “No, why would there be?”
“You were just staring at me.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He’s quiet for a second. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
Misto admittedly was not expecting that question. “Um… no?”
“Boyfriend?”
“No…”
“Situationship?”
“Also no,” Misto asserts. “Why— OHMIGOD—”
He happens to glance to the side while he’s speaking, and his gaze falls upon the kitten at the edge of the conveyor belt at the exact moment the little guy takes a tottering step right over the edge and dives straight off the counter to the hard ground below.
Tugger whips around at Misto’s yell and they both make a series of squawking noises as they hop back from the spot the kitten impacted with the ground, ‘Oh no’s and ‘Oh God’s and ‘Little man!’s flying about as they take in the crime scene.
But—
“Oh, he’s fine!” Tugger chirps, crouching down to eye the kitten already tottering forward again after finding his footing. Misto crouches down as well, balancing on the balls of his feet with a frown. The kitten seems to not have noticed the panic he’s caused, and wobbles away from the register with another meep, as if he just remembered he has some shopping to do (and nearly killed himself trying to do it).
He seems perfectly fine.
“Cats,” Misto sighs nervously.
“Always land on their feet,” Tugger agrees, standing. “You can stay down there,” he adds to the kitten, not that it seems to be listening. “Where you can’t fall off of any more shit.”
“‘Fall’ gives him a lot of credit,” Misto insists, standing as well. “I saw; the little bastard basically jumped.”
“Oh, so we have a little daredevil, here.” Tugger twists at the hips to eye the kitten wobbling away behind him. “Johnny Cash with an adrenaline streak.” He turns back around, pauses, then chirps, “Johnny Crash!”
“Johnny Crash,” Misto echoes, incredulous and perhaps also a little too fond for a man he just met.
“Yeah.” Tugger looks at him a moment. “You know, Johnny Cash. The man in black?” When Misto just stares at him, he adds, “One Piece At A Time? A Boy Named Sue?”
Misto makes a face, trying not to smile. “I know who Johnny Cash is, I was just judging that pun. And, um... Are those Johnny Cash songs?”
“Boy Named Sue and One Piece? Yes, of course.”
“Why did you not go for like… Ring of Fire when trying to explain who Johnny Cash is. Or Hurt.”
“Well excuse me for having some culture, Mr. German Folklore,” Tugger snorts in response.
“Are you a country music guy?”
“I’m a good music guy,” Tugger corrects him, tapping his chest.
Misto smiles. “Is that like a boy scout badge, or…?”
“No, but I’ve had a lot of old people tell me I have impeccable taste for my age, which is close enough.” Tugger waves a hand. “I work at a record shop.” Before he can retort with the expected explanation of his own career, Tugger uses his gesturing hand to point in Misto’s direction. “And you’re a dancer.”
“What gave me away?” Misto asks with humor.
“Thighs.”
He looks down at his legs, which… yeah, okay. He got told he ‘looks like a girl’ one too many times during high school to deceive himself into thinking he cuts a masculine figure.
Misto nods, resigned to the truth. “I teach classes.”
“That’s cool. Like for kids?”
“Yeah, I—” Misto pauses; it’s… been quiet for a while. “Where did he go.”
“Who,” Tugger prompts, then follows Misto’s gaze down to the (unoccupied) floor of the register lane. “Oh shit. Little man!” he calls, turning on his heels in the direction the kitten had wandered off.
“Careful not to step on him,” Misto tells Tugger, sliding around him to join the search.
The two of them pace around with their noses to the ground for a minute or so until Tugger eventually finds the kitten sitting at the base of a display. It meeps indignantly at him when he scoops it up under the belly.
“You,” Tugger huffs at the little guy, raising him eye-level. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Misto shoves his hands into his jean pockets, stopping at Tugger’s shoulder. “He’s doing his weekly shopping. Buying cat treats,” he supplies with a smile.
“Yeah, and on whose dollar?” Tugger demands, poking the kitten in the nose with a finger. The kitten, predictably, meeps at him.
The cashier comes back around then with an armful of products weighing her down. Greeting them both, she returns to her place at the register and starts to scan each item she had fetched up, explaining as she goes. A heating pad to keep his temperature normal, a box of kitten formula, a blanket, a tiny bottle with tiny nipples, and an additional small variety of odds and ends to keep the little guy happy and healthy for a few hours.
Tugger remains quiet through her bubbly explanations and while swiping his card afterwards, leaving the three of them in a sort of awkward silence.
“Thank you for all the help,” Misto says when it starts to get a little unbearable.
“No problem,” the girl responds with a smile, heaving one of the two paper bags onto the conveyor belt. “If you have any more questions, the shelter will be able answer them for sure. And if anything comes up tonight, there’s tons of stuff on the internet about taking care of kittens.”
“I can carry the bags if you got the kitten,” Tugger tells Misto then, and Misto looks at him for a moment, surprised. Admittedly, there’s no way Tugger could carry the two bags and the kitten by himself, but in Tugger’s shoes Misto would feel a little hesitant inviting a stranger to his apartment. Not to mention he probably would have asked if said stranger was willing to walk with him to the apartment before tossing around orders as well; he hadn’t been planning on following Tugger all the way home when they got off the train earlier.
Misto is willing to change his plans and all. But he would have asked. If a friend of his ever made a similar assumption, Misto would have poked fun at them for it, but as is he just shrugs and leans forward to scoop up his sweater-slash-kitten-transportation-device. “Sure”
It’s already colder outside than it was when they got off the train, and from the dreary sky above Misto assumes it’s going to rain again soon. He hopes this little guy doesn’t have any siblings that Tugger failed to notice wandering about in this weather, because it’s certainly not going to get any drier or warmer as the sun sets.
“Looks bad out here,” Misto says for something to fill the silence.
“Hm?” Tugger glances up at the sky. “Yeah, I guess.”
Misto clicks his tongue in the following silence. He and Tugger got on pretty good on the way here; Misto obviously doesn’t know the guy well, but he gets the impression that this silence isn’t characteristic.
“Hey,” Misto decides to venture after a few minutes of walking in the cold. “If you— I mean, you don’t seem thrilled about this whole kitten thing, so if you don’t think you can actually take care of it, I can—”
“No,” Tugger cuts over him, earnestness on his face. “No, it’s not a big deal. At least I don’t think it is. You said you know about cats, right?”
“A little. Not kittens. Have you ever had one?”
“A cat? No.”
Misto nods. “Dog person?”
“Uh. Not a ‘pets person’ in general, I guess.”
“Didn’t you say your brother may take him?”
“Maybe. He’s nice like that, though I suppose it’s possible that he can’t.”
Tugger follows that up by slowing to a stop in front of an apartment building. He looks down at his paper-bag-burdened arms while Misto pauses beside him, and then turns in a quick circle, sort of like a dog chasing its tail.
“What are you doing?” Misto asks, lost.
“My— keys,” Tugger explains, whirling around again as he glares down towards his hip.
Misto glances up at the apartment building beside them, then over at Tugger, still futilely spinning, with more fondness than he expected. “Maybe if you turn faster they’ll magically fly out of your pocket,” he suggests wryly.
Tugger slows to send Misto an exasperated look, which he snorts at. “They’re in my left jacket pocket.” He hefts the one paper bag and shifts to show Misto his left side. “Do you think you could grab them, or do you think more smarm might help instead?”
“More smarm couldn’t hurt,” Misto figures, but he shifts the quiet sweater-wrapped bundle to his one hand and steps over to Tugger. The kitten meeps while Misto digs one-handedly into Tugger’s pocket and plucks out a keyring.
“You smell good,” Tugger says right before Misto steps away, then immediately adds, “Sorry, weird.”
“Only a little weird,” Misto assures him with more amusement, whirling Tugger’s keys around his index finger before clasping them in his palm. “Though I’m not sure if that’s me you’re smelling; I don’t wear cologne or anything.”
“You think it’s the cat toys that smell like mangoes, then?”
“Mangoes? Oh, that’s my shampoo,” Misto concludes. “Thanks; it’s stupid expensive.”
“Big hair-care guy?” Tugger asks while Misto wields the keys and lets them into the building.
“Not really, most shampoo just hates my hair texture.” Misto pushes open the door to the lobby for Tugger with his hip.
“Oh, I’ve been there.” Tugger follows Misto inside. “Elevator’s on the right; we’re the third floor. We have so much in common.”
Misto glances sideways at him while heading towards said elevator. “We have so much in common… because we’re both headed to your apartment?”
Tugger makes a face. “No, I meant because of the shampoo thing. Sorry, I’m… usually more charming than this.”
Misto laughs at that and punches the up button with his elbow.
~
“Real quick thing after you unlock the door,” Tugger interjects several moments later, after he pauses in front of a door marked 3A. Misto pauses with the keys held aloft in his hand, glancing sideways at his new friend.
“Yeah?” Misto prompts when Tugger doesn’t immediately elaborate.
“Sorry, I’m gonna be weird again. Can you, uh, just sit out here for a minute? While I go in?”
Misto glances down at the kitten-bundle held in his one hand. “What, are you worried it’s not cat-safe?”
“Yes! Cat safety!” Tugger confirms brightly, and when Misto sends him a look at his suspicious enthusiasm, he slumps and adds, “No, it’s just a huge mess in there.”
Misto has to laugh again. “Don’t worry.” He sticks the key in the lock and turns it before smiling over at Tugger. “I won’t look.”
“Yeah, okay, thanks,” Tugger blurts out and then slides inside after Misto tugs the door open for him. With a roll of his eyes, Misto shuts it behind him and then slides his freed hand under the kitten bundle.
“He might be trying to get rid of you by locking me out,” Misto whispers to the kitten. “But if he is, jokes on him because I still have his keys.”
The kitten responds with a soft meep, as if too tired for any other response but wanting him to know it appreciates the comedy.
Though Tugger doesn’t immediately lock the door or anything, and Misto can hear him scurrying around in there, wet boots on smooth hardwood. Guess he really was just self-conscious of the mess. Just when Misto’s trying to come to a conclusion whether it would be funny or bad if he overheard Tugger trip and eat shit on the no-doubt slippery floors, the door flies open again.
“Okay, done!” Tugger declares, and steps back to let Misto inside.
Of course Misto has to be judgmental as possible about the cleanliness of the just-workshopped space, and he glances around at the small apartment with a critical eye. It’s not bad; the worst he notes is a couple of half-empty glasses sitting on the coffee table by an old couch.
The size looks pretty similar to his own piece of shit apartment actually, and the layout doesn’t seem to be terribly different either. The door to Tugger’s probable bedroom is shut tight on the opposite end of the single hallway: Misto assumes that’s where Tugger shoved all his stuff just now.
“Man,” Misto says brightly. “It's so tidy. You must be insane about cleaning.”
“Oh yeah.” Tugger slaps a hand on the column that separates the open kitchen from the living room and leans on it. “All day every day. ‘Spotless Tugger’, that’s what they call me. Because, uh, my apartment is spotless.”
Tugger makes a face at himself, though Misto does laugh at his lame sense of humor.
“Sorry,” Tugger says again. “I’m normally funnier.”
Misto laughs again. “At a certain point you’re going to have to write me an IOU for all of this charm and comedy and such you have to offer.”
“I can do that,” Tugger offers in such a feeble way that Misto laughs a third time. “Anyways.” He pushes off the column to head towards the couch. “The stuffs all here; I’ll be honest, half of what that girl at the pet store said went right over my head.”
Misto also crosses over to the couch; he sets down the kitten bundle on one of the cushions to address the two paper bags leaning against each other on the far end.
“She said we’d have to feed it,” Misto reminds him. “Being that it was probably alone for so many hours, it’s probably starving.”
“Okay cool,” Tugger says. “Do we put out a tray of milk or something?”
Misto eyes him a little judgmentally. “Were you listening to the cashier at all earlier?”
“No,” Tugger admits readily.
“Did you even look at the stuff before paying for it?”
“Also no.”
Misto has to roll his eyes a bit as he leans forward to dig around in the one bag. “You have to bottle feed them at this age,” he explains while searching for the tub of kitten formula. “She said to look up a video so we don't mess it up.”
“How do you mess something like that up?”
Misto surfaces from the bag with a little nursing bottle in one hand and the kitten formula clasped in the other. “I don’t know. Choking them, I assume.”
“Oh.” He pauses for a moment. “So you’re going to do it, right?”
Misto frowns over at him. “Why do I have to do it?”
“You just seem so suave and knowledgeable about the whole thing.”
With a sigh, Misto turns towards the kitchen, gesturing at the bags and then the kitten lump. “Why don’t you set up the litterbox stuff somewhere it’ll do some good. And maybe set up that heating thing too, I think he’s getting cold.”
“You got it, boss,” Tugger says, and then they’re off to their respective tasks. Misto finds a video on his phone about kitten nursing that he plays while carefully following the instructions on the formula box, peeling the bottle out of its packaging, and filling it with the directed amounts of water and powder. He can hear Tugger humming to himself and shuffling around by the couch, occasionally muttering to the kitten by the sound of it.
Once he’s finished, Misto returns to the couch to find the kitten snuggled up above the colorful heating pad and below Misto’s sweater. He’s also wearing—
“Tugger,” Misto says.
Tugger glances over his shoulder, the small box of cat litter in both hands. “Yeah.”
“What is this.”
He leans to the side a touch to eye the kitten resting atop the couch. “Looks like a cat to me.”
“Why is he wearing sunglasses.” Misto waggles his free hand at the small pair of sunglasses resting mostly in front of the kitten’s head rather than on it. “Where did you even get these?”
“They were on the display by the cash register,” Tugger informs him patiently. “And maybe his eyes are tired.”
“But it’s dark in here.” He’d had to squint at the text on the kitten formula box to read it in the dim lighting.
“You want me to turn on a light?”
Misto snorts. “While his eyes are supposedly tired?”
“He has the sunglasses, Misto,” Tugger explains. “So he won’t know.”
He has to shake his head at that little circular conversation. “Whatever,” he decides, amused against his will. “I have to feed him anyways. Do you want to watch?”
“Watch?”
“Me feed him,” Misto clarifies. He’s starting to get the feeling his new friend here is not the most observant man in the world.
“Oh, sure.” Tugger stoops down to set the box on the floor and scurries over while Misto settles down. The kitten rouses when the couch cushions move, and meeps a little in probable protest when Misto reaches over and scoops him up around the middle, lifting him from his cozy spot.
When Tugger plops down onto the couch he’s close enough that their thighs are touching; normally Misto would be annoyed by the lack of personal space at hand, but admittedly Tugger is supposed to be watching.
Misto had been kind of nervous about feeding the kitten, but as soon as he sets the little guy down in his lap and holds up the bottle, he latches onto the rubber nipple right away and begins sucking down formula with gusto. Misto is left just holding the bottle for him, sort of underwhelmed at how simple that was.
He turns to Tugger. “I thought this would be hard. He’s basically feeding himself.”
“And look at him go, too,” Tugger adds, watching the little guy practically inhale formula. He tacks on an additional, “Aw,” when the kitten lifts an itty-bitty paw and places it atop Misto’s finger next to the bottle’s cap.
Misto smiles at the sheer difference in size between his finger and that little paw. It’s not often that other living creatures make him feel large. The kitten pulls away only a moment later, smacking his lips, rocking an impressive milk mustache, and hopefully also taking a moment to do a bit of breathing.
“Here,” Misto says to Tugger, shifting in his direction. “You try a bit.”
“Me?”
“You’re going to have to feed him again tonight,” Misto reminds him. “The formula label said they eat every four hours.”
Tugger makes a face, but he does accept both the bottle and the kitten when Misto passes them over. Misto directs him in setting the kitten belly-down on his lap and holding the bottle at the right angle, but otherwise he needs no further assistance, and the kitten needs no further permission to start stuffing his face again.
“He must’ve been hungry.” Misto watches the cute little twitch of his ears as he continues to feed. “I wonder how long he was out there. Do you ever see cats around your work?”
“No,” Tugger admits. “But if I see one tomorrow, I’ll be sure to give them a talking to. Plus my bill.”
Misto snorts, smiling down at the kitten when he unlatches from the bottle again. He and Tugger both say, “Aw,” at the same time when he then yawns, showing off his gummy teeth with a short squeak. Though Misto frowns a moment later, turning to Tugger again. “What are you going to do with him while you’re at work?”
He shrugs, setting the bottle down on the coffee table before them. “I can bring him in with me. My boss won’t care; little man might actually sell a couple Johnny Cash records.”
“Johnny Cash rec—?” Misto starts. “Oh, right. Johnny Crash.”
“You could say it with more enthusiasm,” Tugger suggests jovially.
“It’s a name,” Misto concedes. “Anyways, I don’t know if you want any more help with him, but I get out of work early tomorrow—”
Misto cuts himself off when the opening notes of what sounds like Don’t Stop Believing start playing from the coffee table.
“Ah, shit,” Tugger says mildly, then leans forward to snatch up his phone, the kitten limp atop his thigh. “One second,” he tells Misto, then taps the screen and brings the phone to his ear.
Misto’s more amused than annoyed, but personally if he had company over and he had to pick up a call, he’d step into the kitchen or hall or something.
“Just the man I was looking to hear from,” Tugger says to whoever he’s talking to, and as close as Misto’s sitting he can hear a tinny voice respond, which Tugger cuts off. “Yeah whatever. Look, I found a kitten outside the record shop and— Yeah, a kitten. And the shelter might not be able to take him. Demeter likes cats, doesn’t she?”
The small voice says something else while Misto is sitting there a touch awkwardly. Tugger shrugs, leaning back and hooking one arm behind the couch.
“It was out there for hours. In the rain. If mama cat is still around I think she’s officially lost custody at this point.” He pauses and the voice says something else. “Well that’s what I’m saying. I don’t know anything about kittens. I still have to check in with the shelter, but if they don’t take him then…”
Here his gaze tracks over to Misto beside him, and Tugger falls silent while looking him up and down, too quickly for Misto to start feeling weird about it.
“…But if you can’t take him, then you can’t take him,” Tugger concludes, looking away. The voice starts to say something, but he cuts them off. “Don’t feel bad, Munk, I’ll figure it out.” Misto can actually hear the person on the other end raise their voice to be heard as Tugger continues to talk over them, not that it stops him. “I’ve already bought some stuff and I’m sure my boss won’t mind me hauling the little guy around for a while.” The voice says something else, audibly annoyed, but Tugger cuts him off again. “What can you do, you know? I’ll talk to you later, I’ve got company. Bye.”
And with that he hangs up while the other person is still talking, turning to smile at Misto.
“Turns out my brother can’t take him.”
“Ah,” Misto says, a little thrown. “Shame.”
“Right,” Tugger agrees. “Anyways, you were… saying something about coming over tomorrow?”
“…Right.” Misto clears his throat and shuffles. “I don’t know how much help you’ll want or need, but I don’t mind stopping in whenever; I don’t live far. I could give you my number.”
“Great!” Tugger chirps quickly. “That sounds awesome, I’d love that, I’d—” He pauses while scanning over the coffee table. “Where is my phone.”
Misto’s smile slides over his face slowly. “…You’re holding it.”
The expression on Tugger’s face when he tilts his chin down to look at the phone resting in his palm makes Misto snort. “Ah.”
Misto has to laugh at that, and accepts Tugger’s phone when he silently passes it over. “I don’t want to keep you any longer tonight,” he explains while he types his number into Tugger’s contact book.
“I don’t mind.”
“Still,” Misto insists. “We both have dinner to make and work to get to in the morning.” After saving his contact, he passes the phone back to Tugger and smiles down at the bleary-eyed kitten before grabbing his bag off the floor and standing. “Text me how he does tonight,” he suggests.
“Sure,” Tugger agrees. “Let me see you out.” He scoops up the kitten under its belly and stands himself, not without enduring a meep of protest along the way. “Thanks for your help, by the way,” he adds as he leads Misto around the couch to the door. “I appreciate it.”
“I mostly just held him and mixed up some formula,” Misto points out with amusement.
Tugger pops open the door and smiles at him, kitten in one hand. “You also offered some excellent company.”
Misto laughs. “Excellent company? That hardly sounds like me.” He shifts his weight to one leg, smiling. “But really, I don’t mind; it’s good the little guy is out of the rain. And who knows, maybe the shelter can take him.”
“Maybe,” Tugger echoes. “I’ll see you?”
“Yeah,” Misto agrees, then does a little wave at the sleepy kitten. “Bye-bye.”
He has to laugh when Tugger takes the kitten’s one paw between his fingers and waggles it back. He shoulders his bag and heads off through the doorway, turning to wave again once he’s out in the hall.
“Text me!” He reminds his new friend over his shoulder. “And don’t forget to keep feeding him!”
“You got it,” Tugger responds from the doorway, and stands there watching Misto go until he enters the elevator down the hall, a smile on his face.
Misto realizes pretty much the second he steps out of the apartment building that he left his sweater up there, but he supposes he can get it back when he sees Tugger and the kitten next. His phone buzzes while he’s heading down the sidewalk under the dreary clouds; he pulls it out and taps open the latest message he’s received from a new number, and smiles at the selfie of Tugger holding the nearly-asleep kitten right next to his face.
He really is a handsome bastard, Misto muses as he looks the picture over. And he’d hardly been difficult to hang out with either. Misto would jump to ask out someone half as agreeable and attractive.
But he clearly hadn’t been at all interested in Misto in turn, and there’s just not much to be done about that.
The little injustices of life, Misto figures as he shoves his phone back into his pocket. But at the end of the day, he made a new friend and had an interesting afternoon, and that’s all he can really ask for.