The skin on James’ arms bulged red around the handles of the grocery bags he was hauling from his motorcycle. It was too much for one man to carry, but he’d be damned if he’d make a second trip. 

Despite needing to feed a household of three people and a cat, James did the shopping alone. He knew that his boyfriend Victor was an intelligent and rational man. But Victor also swore he could live off of a diet of nothing but potato chips and cola, and insisted that everyone else could too. James’ other boyfriend, Ollie, the sweet adorable little bean that he was, would buy things like cilantro and chickpeas and then have no idea what to do with them. So James bought groceries by himself– it was for the best. 

The others had no concept of cooking or nutrition, so James took it upon himself to try and keep them healthy. He didn’t want to die before thirty after all. He was barely twenty-one! And all those bad eating habits were going to cancel out his gym routine. 

So, with ambitious hopes, bags of healthy necessities, and enough Coke to appease the soda vampire back home, he was feeling quite accomplished.

When he approached the front doors of the mid-rise apartment building where the triad had lived for the last three years, he noticed a fancy car parked in the visitor parking. A man was sitting in the driver’s seat, arms crossed. He was talking animatedly to nobody. James did a double-take, but the man was probably just on the phone. Whatever, he passed him without further thought and struggled to pull the door open.

It wasn’t a hot day, but sweat dampened his close-cropped hair as he slogged up the fifth flight of stairs. Maybe he should’ve called the others to meet him after all. When he finally opened the stairwell door to his floor, he heard a loud shout and a heavy thud from just ahead. The door to the apartment next to his own stood open, and someone cried out in pain. His hackles immediately raised. Was there a fight going on? Their building was usually very quiet. They were the youngest tenants on their floor by at least forty years, so rough-housing or loud neighbors were definitely not the norm. 

Cursing his tangled hands, he rushed to the source of the sound and peered through the open door. A small male figure was writhing on the ground, and over him loomed an Asian man in his mid-twenties. The little guy started crying. For some reason, James’ own housecat, Freckle, was now on his lap. 

James could recognize domestic violence, or he was at least bright enough to figure out that this wasn’t a joke. “Hey!” he barked, adrenaline rushing through him. He stepped inside just as the older man was in the middle of saying something. He was apologizing? 

Don’t be fooled! James told himself, abusers often apologized after hitting people. Gaslighting! He’d learned it in school.

The man noticed him and quickly stood to move between him and the crying boy, holding out his arm as if shielding him from danger. James was confused. 

“W-what are you doing?” he managed to articulate. 

“Who are you?” The man demanded in return. Squaring his shoulders as if preparing for a fight. 

James set his own feet. “Did you hit him?” 

He didn’t answer, and James didn’t get any explanation either, because just then Victor walked in like he owned the place.

James froze, shocked. He wasn’t sure what he had expected to happen next, maybe a fight,  but definitely not this. The boy was now sniffling and petting Freckle who was purring as though he’d been reunited with a long lost friend. After a second look, the boy was probably older than James initially thought– maybe the same age as him. He had black hair and pale skin, just like Victor. But he was more pretty than handsome, frailer, less sharp lines. Right now, he was flushed and teary.

Victor stood next to him and for a brief moment took in the chaos, then promptly decided that he didn’t care. He turned towards James. “Did you bring my snacks?” He didn’t wait for an answer before tugging out a bag of chips. Then he crouched and stretched out his hand. “Come here Freckle,” he said gently. 

Freckle didn’t move. Freckle didn’t even spare him a glance. 

Victor frowned, offended, then shifted his attention towards the boy sitting on his ass. “Are you crying?” He twisted to look at the older man. “Is he crying?” James couldn’t place his tone, he had no idea if Victor was mocking or concerned or completely uninterested. Often, it was hard to tell. 

The guy on the floor finally spoke, tears running down his cheeks. “I’m not crying,” he hiccuped. “Why are you in my apartment?!” 

“Well,” Victor started, a sly smile curling his lips, “you stole my cat. I’m here to take him back.” He wasn’t amused. 

“I’m sorry guys,” The man joined the conversation too, “we didn’t mean to scare you, we just had a misunderstanding.” He spoke in a soothing voice like an adult diffusing an upset group of toddlers, “Is this your cat? Do you need some help?”

“I didn’t steal your cat!” The boy shouted. He was still holding Freckle on his lap. His hands had automatically gone to Freckle’s ears and were already petting. Freckle’s loud, deep purr reached them across the room.

Victor clicked his tongue and glared at James as if he was supposed to do something about this insult. James’ head was hurting. Great. 

Just.

Great.