to the journey

"constant”

“You know you're not actually a housecat, right?” Chuuya tells Dazai dryly. “You're a human-housecat hybrid. You're nearly six feet tall and you have opposable thumbs.”

“Mrrah?” Dazi retorts. And?

“You're perfectly fuckin' capable of getting your own damn food. You don't need to yowl at me from the other room.”

Dazai blinks at him. Once, twice.

Wordlessly, he turns, opens the kitchen cupboard, and takes out a can of tuna.

He holds it out in front of him, as though he wants to hand it to Chuuya. Chuuya does not take it.

“Now I know I've shown you how to use a can opener,” Chuuya grumbles.

The cat gestures again with the can. Take it, take it.

“What,” Chuuya deadpans. “Use your words.”

Dazai just stares back. His vocal cords have been healing well, these days, and he knows enough sign language to communicate. He has to be staying silent just to be difficult on purpose - which, actually, is pretty on brand for him.

Chuuya looks at him, into the depths of his yellow feline eyes. He used to find those eyes unsettling, but he's wholly used to Dazai, now, and all of his weirdness.

That doesn't necessarily mean he's capable of psychically communicating with the guy, though.

Chuuya takes the can of tuna. “What is it?” he asks again, although he doesn't really expect an answer. Why would Dazai meow at him from the kitchen as though he's totally incapable of feeding himself? What about his housecat traits makes him want to— what? Insist on Chuuya's presence? His servitude? Chuuya really has spoiled this ridiculous creature.

His eyes slide to the kitchen clock. 7 p.m. - more or less dinnertime.

“You wanna eat together?” Chuuya guesses.

“Mrrahh!” Of course I do! Chuuya's so stupid.

“Alright, crazy cat,” Chuuya grouches, “I'll make us both a tuna salad, and we can sit together and eat, how about that?”

“Mrrow.”

“Yeah, yeah. Put those useful human hands of yours to work and get out the chopping board, would ya?”

Dazai twitches his ears sulkily, but complies.

“When you wanna eat together,” Chuuya says, plonking the can of tuna down on the countertop so that his hands are free, “Just fuckin' tell me.”

Forefingers extended, he brings both hands to meet in front of him. Together. One hand palm up, he raises the other to his mouth, index and middle fingers out, like chopsticks. Eat.

Dazai copies him, tail swishing, curious. Together. Eat.

“Good,” Chuuya says. He knows Dazai knows the signs already, but he also knows his cat appreciates praise for a job well done. Knows it's hard for Dazai to be honest, to be vulnerable, about wanting something that might not be guaranteed. “Next time come to me and do that, instead of the constant meowing. Hurts my fuckin’ ears, y'know?”

Dazai smacks him with his tail. He's half turned away, facing the countertop, but Chuuya sees him tap his pinky finger to his chin all the same.

Alright, fine.