Work Text:
Your cat is kind of an asshole, the post-it note reads.
Andrew blinks at it before looking questioningly at King, who huffs at the accusation, staring up at him as if to say, what did I do?
Andrew bends down to pet her and glances at the note once again, turning it over to see if there’s any more information.
“Did you sharpen your claws on the cat-sitter, or what?” Andrew murmurs.
King indulges him a few moments longer, allowing him to fluff up her mane before she flounces off to the bedroom.
He thinks about calling the pet-sitting agency to ask if a complaint has been made or something, but then he notices his cupboards were clearly rifled through and he settles for writing a note of his own. Maybe you’re the asshole, he writes. Did you look through my cupboards? That’s pretty nosy.
It’s not like he’s keeping anything indecent in his kitchen cupboards, but the thought of someone being in his space makes his skin crawl a little. He would never have arranged for a regular cat-sitter in the first place, but between his thesis deadline looming, assisting with classes at the university and having to take extra shifts at the restaurant to cover all the outstanding bills piling up, he didn’t really have any other choice. King has to get fed during the day somehow.
He sticks the note back on the counter-top and dumps both his laptop and a stack of essays he has to grade on the couch before hurrying to his bedroom to change into his uniform. He pulls his already-tied bowtie around his neck and heads to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. After, he gives himself a brief inspection in the mirror. The bags under his eyes are getting more prominent every time he looks at his reflection, but he doesn’t have time to rest properly these days. He checks his watch and curses; he doesn’t have time comb his hair or wash away the day’s scribbled reminders scrawling across the back of his hand in blue biro. All he can do is head for the apartment door, grab his coat on the way out and hope his manager doesn’t notice that he is, to put it mildly, a mess.
-
Andrew picks up a few empty plates as he crosses the restaurant on his way to the kitchen to clock in. By the sink is a yet another new kitchen assistant. Andrew wonders how long this one will last. They burn through assistants quickly because the head chef is a pain in the ass to work for. Really. If Andrew worked in the kitchen the guy would have taken a steak knife to the heart by now.
Andrew casts a cursory glance over the newbie’s back as he punches his card with his free hand. He’s slightly scrawny and his messy auburn hair is haloed by a ratty bandana. His apron is tied loosely around his waist, close to coming undone. His shoelaces are actually undone. What a disaster.
“Plates,” Andrew grunts as he dumps the stack of dirty dishes next to the sink.
The new guy barely acknowledges him.
“Hello,” Andrew says, leaning forwards and waving a hand in front of the new guy’s face to get his attention. “Are you deaf?”
The new guy jerks away from Andrew’s hand and slowly turns to face him, his eyes narrowed in annoyance. He leaves his hands buried in the murky water, frothy soap suds sticking to his freckled arms. Andrew sees there are scars there too. Noticing them makes him want to itch his own, but he settles for swallowing against his dry throat instead and directs his gaze to the new guy’s face. He’s still staring at Andrew with those cold spring day eyes. He looks pissed and presses his lips together a few times, but he doesn’t say anything.
Andrew returns his stare, furrows his brow slightly and then moves to sign, are you actually deaf?
He hasn’t signed in a while but his fingers move deftly and quickly, forming the familiar shapes without him needing to give it much thought. The new kitchen assistant coolly regards his hands and then removes his own from the sink. The soft dripping of water on the tiles chips away at the silence.
I can’t speak, the new guy motions, before hesitating and then qualifying, most of the time. He pauses again before adding, asshole.
Andrew digests this information, letting the insult bounce off him like a rogue bullet of rain on a sunny day. It’s only when he raises his hands to respond that the memory surfaces, vivid and whole and bursting at the seams with colour, as if it happened just yesterday. He and Cass are sitting at the kitchen table and they’re making shapes with their hands. The memory shifts and they’re cooking dinner, signing the words to old poems and stories as they go.
Andrew’s fingers are spindly and pale. Ghostly ballerinas dancing through the air.
He blinks and he’s back. His fingers are thicker, tinted in places with the pale yellow smears of nicotine. A gusty sigh escapes him and the kitchen assistant is watching him curiously, waiting for a response.
Plates, Andrew signs brusquely before turning on his heel to return to the busy restaurant floor.
-
He makes it home a little after midnight and immediately curls up on the couch with a blanket and a bottle of beer. He exhales, feeling his breathing come from the bottom of the deep, shadow-filled well inside of him. His throat feels tight, as it often does these days. He doesn’t know what causes it. Maybe it’s from having to play nice with customers who are too rich and rude for their own good. Maybe it’s because he has to wear that fucking bowtie all night.
King rounds the corner and hops onto his lap. He strokes her robotically as he drains his bottle of beer and then shoos her away so he can pull his laptop onto his crossed legs. He minimises his draft thesis and pulls up his browser. He Googles mutism, then sometimes mute and before he knows it, he has around twenty tabs open on the topics of selective mutism and progressive mutism. He reads until his eyes feel weary and then he switches to YouTube videos. King purrs prissily as she settles down to sleep at his side. At some point, he also drifts off. He wakes and pads through to the kitchen, feeling like he’s hardly slept at all. Outside the window, which is smudged and grubby, he sees an impossibly blue sky, like one out of a photography book. It’s striped with fading airplane trails. Hole-punched with a sun bright enough to give him an instant headache. He squints and returns to the couch. Despite the exuberance of the day, his apartment feels cold and grey. He wishes he could turn on the heating and doze on the couch for another few hours, but he can’t. He doesn’t have the time and he doesn’t have the money. He folds up his blanket and takes his empty bottles through to the kitchen before brewing a pot of strong coffee.
He has a class to attend and then he should go to the library to do some research for his thesis and then he has a closing shift at the restaurant. Nothing seems to end. He swallows the coffee, which is rich and bitter and hot. Too strong but importantly so.
He needs all the help he can get.
-
He returns to two post-it notes this time.
The first reads, I plead guilty to opening the cupboards but I was only looking for King’s food, promise. You won’t tell, right?
Stuck right next to it is another which says, P.S. She was less of a little shit today. Maybe she’s starting to like me?
Andrew huffs a laugh out through his nose and then grabs a blank one from the block. You, likeable? Andrew writes. Don’t make me laugh.
He taps the pen against the counter-top and then adds, your secret is safe with me.
As he changes into his work clothes, he thinks to himself, am I actually flirting with my cat-sitter via post-it note? The tiredness must be making him stupid as well as dizzy because it certainly feels like it’s what he’s doing and he should know better by now. He doesn’t have much time in his life for boys, which is probably a good thing because boys usually equal confusion and trouble and emptiness in that order. Besides, he doesn’t know anything about the cat-sitter other than what was included in the profile the agency sent him a while back. All he knows is this: the cat-sitter is called N.A. Josten and he’s been cat-sitting for around a year and he somehow has a myriad of five-star ratings and, perhaps most vitally, Andrew most certainly does not have room in his life to flirt with him. Or anyone else, for that matter.
Just like the smoking, the hook-ups were another bad habit he’d decided to give up at the beginning of the year. No more nicotine and no more meaningless sex. Those were the two goals he’d set for himself. And he had to achieve them by himself, because after Bee, he couldn’t handle finding another therapist to help him out.
Bee, Bee, Bee. Hands soft like new bedsheets. Unironic honey scent filling up the room, buttery and sweet. A sleepy, ancient feeling of wanting to be held.
His head is suddenly overwhelmingly full of noise. Tires screeching and car horns blasting. Dial tones. An endless flatlining sound. He grits his teeth and shakes his head and everything quietens.
The next time he comes home to a note, he’ll just dump it in the trash where it belongs.
-
Andrew finds himself on break with the new kitchen assistant. He looks even more tired than Andrew does, if that’s even possible. They both simultaneously yawn into their fists as they wait for their staff meals to arrive.
Once they come, Andrew devours his food like he hasn’t eaten all day, which, come to think of it, he probably hasn’t. Meanwhile, the new guy pushes his fish and peas around his plate like he’s angry at the food’s existence. He eventually puts his cutlery down and then looks up at Andrew, who is pointedly avoiding engaging in anything resembling eye contact, choosing instead to stare at the countless unread emails shown on his phone screen.
How come you know ASL? The kitchen assistant signs, drawing Andrew’s attention to his hands, which are puckered and red from washing dishes all evening. He smells like dish-soap. Lemony and clean.
Andrew slips his phone in his pants pocket and sighs. One of my foster mothers was deaf.
The new guy nods. You can stop signing, he tells Andrew. I can hear you, you know.
Don’t be stupid. Andrew rolls his eyes. If you sign, I sign.
The new guy just shrugs.
Are you, Andrew starts before fingerspelling, s-e-l-e-c-t-i-v-e-l-y mute?
The new guy nods again, looking vaguely surprised.
What’s your name? Andrew asks.
The guy fingerspells N-e-i-l and then signs, and you?
Andrew fingerspells his own name and is flooded with a nostalgia so intense it feels like he’s been punched in the chest. Using ASL feels familiar yet distant, like returning to an old life, like stepping right through the Spears’ front door. As they converse about easy things - whether Neil is settling in at the restaurant or not, and about how much of a dick the head chef is - Andrew distracts himself with wondering about Neil’s selective mutism and what its source is. If it even has one at all. A lot of the websites he’d looked at indicated it stemmed from anxiety. Others suggested it could be a result of trauma. Andrew’s eyes flick from Neil’s hands to the scars poking out of his sleeves and collar and then he forcibly pushes away his curiosity.
He knows how unpleasant it is to be the subject of intense scrutiny. More than that, he knows how it feels to want to leave ugly things behind.
Now that he’s not wondering about that, though, he’s got nothing left to distract himself with other than thinking about Neil. This person sitting across from him talking about how spring has finally arrived and how nice it is that the days are growing longer and the flowers are blooming. His eyes aren’t cold at all, not really. They’re bright and watery, like the surface of a lake on a mid-spring day. They’re expressive too, but not as expressive as his mouth. His smiles are warm like sunlight, ranging from small and easy quirks of his lips to big, face-splitting grins that dimple his cheeks and almost make Andrew want to smile along with him.
Almost.
You’re not eating? Andrew signs before pointing to Neil’s unfinished meal.
Not really, Neil’s movements get a little smaller and his eyes dim. When I’m stressed out, I can’t really eat. No appetite, you know?
Andrew doesn’t know. When he’s feeling stressed, he does the complete opposite. Comfort eating. Filling the void. Blah blah blah. Yet another bad habit he should probably break one day.
What are you stressed about? Andrew asks before cringing inwardly at the forwardness of the question.
Neil doesn’t seem to mind. Regular stuff, he motions, smiling faintly. Work. Bills. Existing in general.
Andrew lifts his fingers to respond but the head chef suddenly appears at the door, barking at Neil to get his ass back in the kitchen. Annoyance briefly flickers in Andrew’s chest, and Neil catches his eye, his own narrowing slightly, that lake from before suddenly freezing over, but then he stands and turns and leaves. Andrew runs a hand through his hair, surprised over how easily the last thirty minutes slipped by, and follows him.
He doesn’t know why, but he tosses Neil a stupid two-fingered salute as he makes his way back through to the restaurant.
Neil smiles and returns it and somehow, it feels like the best part of Andrew’s day.
-
Andrew wakes early. So early it’s still kind of dark out. A film grain-coated sky.
He gets up and sets an alarm for when he needs to leave. Then, he makes himself a cup of green tea and a hot water with lemon. He drinks them once they’ve cooled and then chases them with a bottle of cold water from the refrigerator. Once that’s done, he takes the longest shower of his life, lathering his hair and body in strawberry and orange blossom foam. Finally, he sits on the rug and pulls out his knitting basket. As he works, something in him lightens. It feels like he’s put down something heavy. Just for a moment.
The needles click together and the scarf gets longer and then the alarm squawks and he’s got to get on with things. Drag himself through the day.
Unfortunately, he has to take the heavy thing with him. Talk to someone, something inside of him urges. He thinks about calling Bee’s old number and listening to her answerphone message but they finally disconnected the number a few months ago and he doesn’t have that lifeline anymore.
And, because he’s Andrew Minyard, there’s nobody else he can call.
-
He thinks about tossing the post-it note in the trash without reading it, but his curiosity wins out.
I’ve left you something as a thank you for being an excellent secret keeper.
“What,” Andrew mutters under his breath.
P.S. King was all cuddles today. From Ice Queen to Ultimate Softie all in the space of a week. I’m a cat genius.
Andrew glances at King, who’s asleep on the couch and who barely acknowledged him when he arrived five minutes earlier. He was clearly surplus to requirement now. The cat-sitter was stealing her heart.
He opens the cupboards and sees packets of sour worms and gummy bears next to his candy stash.
Maybe the cat-sitter was stealing his heart too.
Andrew promises himself that this will be the last time, and scrawls a curt thanks on a new post-it note before going to get ready for his shift at the restaurant. Waking up so early has slowly taken its toll on him throughout the day and he’s regretting it now. Still, weekday nights are manageable, and Neil will be there.
Andrew scoffs at himself as he buttons his shirt, but there it is. The truth of the situation. He has come down with an unfortunate case of infatuation. He’s been thinking about Neil all day. That tired boy with eyes like April. With marmalade freckles and dimples so cute Andrew kind of wants to poke them. He sighs. That is not a good sign. He has to nip it in the bud, this fluttery feeling of interest.
Bad habits aside, he simply doesn’t have time for it.
-
“Hey, I’m talking to you.”
Andrew enters the kitchen to snarling, raised voices and something kickstarts in his chest.
“What, can’t you speak?”
The head chef is in Neil’s face. Neil, who looks both scared and defiant at the same time. Whose hands flit at his side like baby birds. Hungry. Restless.
“We told you he can’t-” The sous chef tries to step in but the head chef raises a hand to silence him.
“How the fuck is he supposed to work here if he can’t speak?” He goes on. “If I tell him to hurry up with the plates, he needs hurry up.”
“Well, he’s not deaf -”
“What if the kitchen was on fire? What if he was on fire? We can’t have someone like this freak working here-”
Andrew starts storming towards them but Neil, it turns out, doesn’t need his help. Neil pulls his leg back and releases it, kicking the head chef hard in the shin. The chef yelps and raises his fist in the air as if to bring it down on Neil’s head but Andrew quickly grabs Neil by the back of the shirt and pulls him towards the exit.
“Yeah, you’d better cool off,” the head chef screams after him, “because you’re fired. The both of you.”
Neil is breathing sharply as he strides ahead of Andrew into the street. He’s still wearing his apron and his cheeks are flushed red and his heaving chest propels puffs of white air into the night and Andrew can’t tell if he’s about to kick something else or cry.
Fuck. Neil’s hands flap around wildly. He grits his teeth together and keeps repeating it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Then, I’m sorry.
Don’t be, Andrew signs, hurrying over to him. That idiot can’t fire me.
Neil sighs, relieved.
But you, Andrew goes on, you should go back when everything’s calmed down.
Neil shakes his head and scoffs. I need money, but not that badly. I’ll find another job where my boss isn’t a fucking bigot.
“Wow,” Andrew finds himself saying out loud. Neil looks at him and smirks.
Nice kick, by the way, Andrew moves quickly to recover. He deserved worse.
Neil nods and laughs breathily. The light from the streetlamps shines down on him softly and his eyes start to sparkle again. At least a little bit. And Andrew’s staring. When Neil notices, he swallows thickly and then he undoes his apron and passes it to Andrew. Could you get my stuff?
Andrew takes the apron back inside and grabs Neil’s coat and backpack. He lingers in the cold while Neil slips them on. The night sky above them is tiger-striped. Black and fiery orange. Andrew feels it then, that something is going to happen.
You should get back, Neil signs.
Andrew nods because he knows. He knows he should get back too. He really does.
And yet, fuck it.
What are you doing tomorrow?
-
Don’t look at me like that, Bee, Andrew thinks to himself as he dresses for their date.
It’s not like he’s going to hook up with Neil. He’s just going to hang out with him. That’s allowed. That’s fine.
He dresses plainly in an oversized white shirt and black jeans. He pulls down his fringe to ruffle it up and notices his hair still smells faintly like strawberries. He wonders, absently, if Neil likes strawberries. Neil. When he thinks about Neil, Andrew’s head feels kind of vast and glittery. A crystal-lined cave. He’s been on dates before, but this is different. Neil is different.
He gets to the restaurant and Neil is already there, waiting for him at a window seat. He grins when he sees Andrew approaching - a wide, dimple-inducing grin that could end Andrew’s entire life. They order appetisers and drinks and Neil rambles about looking for another job. He saw a notice in a teashop window earlier and he thinks he might apply. He uses this as an opportunity to tell Andrew about all the different types of tea there are and how they should brew at different temperatures for different lengths of time. It’s kind of interesting, because Andrew always thought there were only two kinds of tea: black and green. And, as he tells Neil, he would always just leave the bag in until the tea became bitter and dusty.
Neil is scandalised by this for many reasons.
Thanks for inviting me, Neil signs, as their entrees are brought out. I have to admit, I usually feel uncomfortable in places like this.
Are you okay now?
Yes, very comfortable. I think because I’m with you? You make me feel… Neil drums his fingers on the table while he tries to find the words. Like I’m here. Really here.
Andrew feels his skin prickle pleasantly.
Because I can converse with you?
Maybe. Probably. Neil shrugs sheepishly.
How long has this been going on?
Neil stills so thoroughly that Andrew instantly regrets the question. Sorry, he motions quickly. You don’t have to answer that.
No, it’s okay. Neil blows a loose wave of hair out of his face. I guess it started when I was around five? I don’t… come from a very nice family. They were caught up in some pretty shady business. A lot of bad stuff went on in my house and I was a very anxious, skittish kid and the silence I built around myself, around my existence- it just never really went away.
Andrew’s hands slowly tighten around his cutlery as Neil talks. His heart beats quick and fast in his chest. Not this, not this, not this, he thinks. Not to him.
Hey, it’s okay, Neil says, when he sees the look on Andrew’s face. I got out pretty early. I mean, I was on the run for a while, but they’re gone now. Promise. And even though I’m broke all the time and don’t really have anyone I’m close to, I like my life. I like it because I shaped it and it’s mine.
I’m the same, Andrew signs. Broke, struggling to make ends meet. He pauses. Swallows. Alone. But, yeah. This life is mine.
You don’t have a family either? Neil asks.
Andrew thinks of many things at once. Cass pushing him away. Him letting Bee put her hand on his for the first time. A strange and unbelievable conversation with a cop in a hallway on stiflingly hot summer afternoon.
Can he tell Neil any of that? That the Cass thing fell apart after he told her. And for a while, there was nobody. Then there was Bee. Then she was gone.
And that there might also be people out there waiting for him to come home.
One day.
Things don’t usually work out for me, he signs slowly. I was a foster kid and bad stuff happened to me too. But I want to look into it, sometimes. Where I came from.
Family, Neil signs, understanding.
But I also don’t mind that it’s an unopened door. Andrew can’t believe he’s doing this. He’s never told anyone about this part of himself. Not really.
Why?
Sometimes an unopened door is better than a disaster.
Than someone casting you aside. Than someone dying.
You should look. Neil’s eyes are sad but hopeful, shimmering with candlelight. I’m a lost cause, but you- there might be someone out there who-
Andrew shrugs and shakes his head. Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about your other jobs.
Well, I’ll hopefully work at a teashop in the near future. Neil rallies easily. And I do odd jobs here and there around my neighbourhood. Fixing things. Gardening. I also look after people’s animals, like when they’re on holiday or busy or-
Wait. You p-e-t-s-i-t? Andrew fingerspells. Their conversation suddenly feels vast and important.
Yeah. It pays okay and I get along well with animals, Neil signs and Andrew feels like he’s free-falling, rushing through the sky, so far gone he can hardly appreciate Neil’s devastatingly bashful smile. Most animals, I mean. I met a cat recently who I had to win over, but I got there in the end and- why are you looking at me like that?
The cat, Andrew motions desperately. What’s her name?
Neil blinks a couple of times, his long, red wine eyelashes batting slowly.
King, he finally reveals with an unsure swoop of his hand.
“Oh my god,” Andrew mutters, pinching his nose between his finger and his thumb. “You’re the fucking catsitter.”
Neil opens his mouth and then closes it again. He looks like Andrew just cracked an egg over his head. He looks as shocked as Andrew feels.
Andrew makes a few incredulous noises and then remembers who he’s with. You were flirting with me.
What?
The post-it notes.
It’s called being friendly, Neil signs before running a hand through his already-messy curls and adding, asshole.
Andrew stares at Neil and then an exasperated laugh breezes out of him. Of course. Of course the cat-sitter is Neil. It seems the planets are aligning for him. Finally. In some bizarrely confusing way.
I can’t believe this, he signs as dessert comes. It’s blueberry and yogurt panna cotta and he’s never been less infatuated with a dessert and more infatuated with the person sitting opposite it. All this time? Really?
Really, Neil replies, looking slightly wounded now. Is it going to be, his hands hover in the air for a second or two, a problem?
No. Andrew is sure. Not a problem at all.
-
Five months later
Andrew and Neil quickly figure out that living together means they get to split the cost of both rent and bills, which turns out to be miraculous for both their bank accounts.
It’s an added bonus that King is delighted to have Neil around full-time.
They fall in love quickly and quietly, like this: Andrew is cleaning the bathroom when the thought suddenly comes to him, unprovoked. Maybe I’d like to marry him someday.
For Neil, things are a little more complicated. He gets drunk and explains his feelings to his own reflection. There is a lot of laughter and a lot of tears. After all, he’s never felt this wanted or loved, not really. And here he with was a boy with eyes like a bonfire. A boy who’s small and fierce and protective in a way that made him want to re-evaluate his own worth.
Sometimes Neil feels comfortable enough to speak, so he does. Sometimes he remains silent. And Andrew takes his lead because, as Neil finds out, Andrew would follow him in anything. Anywhere. And he would do the same.
That said, they’re on their way to meet Andrew’s twin and cousin.
Andrew’s nervous. But Neil is there. Holding his hand.
“Ready?” Neil asks, squeezing Andrew’s knuckles with his fingertips.
Andrew knows he needs nothing more than this - this bright, brilliant person who stumbled into his life almost completely by accident, but he’s also going to open the door. Because he’s sick of carrying around heavy things. Even sicker of walls.
“Ready,” Andrew murmurs, squeezing back.
Neil’s smiles, and his dimples appear, and life is good.