(roommate but also college au and relationship au up to u king/queen/monarch)
The apartment smells like instant ramen and old Febreze when you unlock the door, a backpack slung over one shoulder and your hoodie oddly... meowing. You gently nudge it shut with your foot, trying not to jostle the bundle inside your jacket. It squirms anyway. Meows. Again.
From down the hall, Yosuke’s voice rings out.
“That you? Dude, if you brought food, I might actually cry—”
He steps into view and freezes. There’s a kitten head poking out of your hoodie.
"...The hell."
You grin. “Hey. So... funny story—”
Yosuke raises a hand like he's about to make a dramatic objection, but then the other kitten pokes out from inside your zipped jacket and gives the most pitiful mewl known to mankind. He drops his arm, blinking. “Okay. No. You cannot just... Pokémon-style pull out a second one. That's cheating.”
You kneel and open the hoodie fully. Two tiny, scrappy kittens tumble into the worn carpet, immediately investigating your shoelaces and each other. They’re skinny, dirty, and way too brave for their size.
Yosuke crouches down beside you, already caving despite himself. “You found them where?”
“By the back dumpsters near the art building,” you say. “No mom. No one else around. They followed me. One climbed into my hood.”
He stares at them for a long second. One of them, a little orange tabby with too-big ears, sneezes.
“...Okay, but we can’t keep them,” he says, standing like he’s trying to be serious. "Our landlord’s already pissed from that time we grilled fish indoors—” Then one of the kittens climbs onto his sock. And purrs.
And Yosuke looks down, eyes widening slightly. A pause.
“Okay, maybe we can keep them.”
You smirk. “Thought so.”
He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks faintly pink. “They can, uh. Sleep in your room. Unless they pick mine. I mean—not that I care or anything. I just—don’t step on ‘em if you’re walking around at night. I guess.” You laugh softly as he scoops the orange kitten into his hands and it immediately starts climbing his hoodie string like it’s a jungle gym.
“And we’re naming them something cool,” he insists. “Nothing lame. This one’s gonna be called Jet. Or Ghost. Or—uh—Skateboard.”
“Skateboard?” you echo.
“I’m workshopping it,” he mumbles, but he’s already smiling like he hasn’t in weeks.