When you get home from working your stupid fucking hospitality job, taking the late shift and having to close up on your own, all you want to do is collapse on your bed, watch some crap on your phone- maybe with a pot noodle if you're feeling fancy.

You returned to your shoebox apartment in a wreck, couch pillows torn into and strewn about, the singular vase you owned knocked over and smashed on the carpet as well as a loud scratting coming from the kitchen.

Christ...

You kicked off your shoes and dumped off your bag before heading into the kitchen with a sigh. Most people would call the cops if they were broken into, you were utterly beyond that point.

You found Art hunched under your small kitchen table, properly hunched over like a gargoyle or some sort of animal or something, shoving handfuls of your cereal in his cheeks and slobbering all over the laminate kitchen floor with his open mouth chewing. Delightful.

He looked hurt, perfectly pitiful if you didn't know that he'd be fine within the morning, his nose looked mangled and dripping into the box he was currently eating out of.