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The collar chafed.
Reo had grown accustomed to many discomforts since leaving the large dwelling with its endless rooms and the hands that grabbed too tightly, cooed too loudly. The metal thing around his neck—marked with symbols he couldn't decipher but somehow knew represented him—was merely another indignity to bear. Still, he held his head high as he navigated the narrow pathways between wooden structures, tail raised like a banner.
He was magnificent. Even without the soft cushions and prepared meals, even with dust clinging to his sleek coat, Reo knew his own worth. Other creatures—the mangy ones that scattered at his approach—recognized it too.
So when the human appeared in the doorway of a modest dwelling, Reo did not lower himself to begging. He simply sat. Observed. Assessed.
The human was... peculiar.
Tall, with hair the color of fresh snow and eyes that seemed perpetually half-closed, as though the effort of keeping them open was too troublesome. He stood there, blinking slowly at Reo, making no move to approach or shoo him away. Just... existing.
Reo's ears flicked forward with interest despite himself.
The human made a sound—low, contemplative. Then turned and shuffled back inside, leaving the door open.
An invitation? Or simply carelessness?
Reo's stomach growled, answering for him. With as much dignity as he could muster, he rose and padded through the threshold.
The dwelling was sparse. Sleeping mat in the corner, a low table with scattered objects Reo couldn't identify, a small cooking area that looked barely used. But it was clean, and more importantly, it was quiet. No grabbing hands. No shrill sounds.
The human had already settled back down, half-reclined against the wall as though standing had exhausted him. He watched Reo with those sleepy eyes, one hand extended loosely.
Reo approached with caution, each step measured. He sniffed the offered hand—salt, rice, something faintly sweet—then pulled back, considering. The human didn't lunge or grab. Didn't make demands.
Acceptable.
Reo sat just out of reach and began grooming his shoulder, pretending disinterest while cataloging every detail of his new surroundings.
The human called him something. A sound—soft and rounded—"Reo." He repeated it while looking at the collar, then at Reo's face, as though confirming. Smart enough, then, to understand the symbols.
But the human never offered his own name in return. Instead, he simply gestured to a small dish he'd filled with rice and fish, pushing it toward Reo before returning to his previous position of doing absolutely nothing.
Reo approached the food, sniffed it thoroughly (not poisoned, fresh enough), then ate with delicate precision. The human watched with what might have been amusement.
"Eat well," the human murmured, though Reo couldn't discern the meaning. The human was always making sounds—sometimes directed at Reo, sometimes at nothing at all. Reo had begun to recognize certain patterns, certain tones, but the specific meanings remained elusive.
When Reo finished eating, he sat and stared pointedly at the human.
The human blinked slowly. "What?"
Reo made a sound—short, demanding. The dish required cleaning.
The human's mouth curved slightly. "Ah." With visible effort, he reached over and removed the dish, though he didn't take it far. Just set it aside as though that solved the problem.
Reo's tail lashed once in irritation. This human. This human. So utterly...
The human had already closed his eyes, breathing evening out.
Sleeping. Again.
Reo huffed and began exploring the dwelling properly. There wasn't much to discover—a few garments folded neatly in a corner, some scrolls that meant nothing to him, dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. Everything in its place, yet nothing suggesting ambition or activity.
The human simply... existed. Ate when necessary, slept often, moved rarely.
How frustrating.
How... peaceful.
Reo settled near the door, positioning himself where he could observe both the room and the outside. He wouldn't stay long, of course. This was temporary. He was merely resting, regaining his strength before continuing his journey to... wherever magnificent creatures such as himself belonged.
Just temporary.
Temporary became days.
Days became something else entirely.
The human—still nameless in Reo's mind, simply "human"—maintained his infuriatingly slow pace through life. He woke late, ate simply, and seemed to view exertion as a personal affront. Yet he always filled Reo's dish. Always left the door open so Reo could come and go. Always made space on his sleeping mat without complaint when Reo deigned to rest nearby.
"Reo," the human would murmur in the mornings, fingers scratching behind Reo's ears with surprising accuracy. "Still here?"
As though Reo might have left. As though Reo wanted to leave.
The human began speaking to him more—long, meandering sounds that Reo couldn't fully parse but found oddly soothing. The tone was gentle, unhurried. Sometimes the human would hold up objects and name them, as though Reo cared what "cup" or "brush" meant.
But Reo listened anyway, storing away the patterns.
When the human was too lazy to retrieve something from across the room, Reo would sometimes—sometimes—fetch it himself. Not because he was asked, but because watching the human lie there, arm outstretched but unwilling to stand, was simply too pathetic.
The human would smile then, soft and genuine. "Thank you, Reo."
Reo would turn away, tail high, pretending the words didn't create a strange warmth in his chest.
The first time it rained, Reo returned to the dwelling soaked and irritable. He'd been hunting—not that he needed to, but a creature of his caliber required challenge—and had misjudged the weather.
The human looked up from his dinner, eyes widening slightly. "You're wet."
Reo shook himself vigorously, water spraying everywhere.
"Ah." The human didn't sound upset, merely resigned. He retrieved a cloth and approached slowly, kneeling. "Come here?"
Reo held still—a gift, really—while the human dried him with careful movements. The touch was gentle, methodical, avoiding the places Reo disliked and focusing on the areas that felt best.
"Better?" The human's voice was soft, almost tender.
Reo butted his head against the human's hand—once—then stalked away to groom himself properly. But later, when the human settled down to sleep, Reo curled up against his side, accepting the warmth offered.
The human's hand came to rest on Reo's back, barely moving. Just... there.
Reo's purr started before he could stop it.
They developed routines.
Mornings: the human would wake (eventually), and Reo would demand breakfast. The human would comply, moving with his characteristic slowness, but he never forgot. Sometimes he'd prepare fish specifically for Reo, setting aside the best pieces.
Afternoons: the human might work—mending things, organizing scrolls, occasionally tending to a small garden that seemed to grow despite his minimal effort. Reo would supervise from various sunny spots, offering commentary through strategic meows.
The human rarely interpreted correctly.
"You want to go out?" the human would guess when Reo was clearly requesting better cushioning.
"Hungry already?" when Reo was pointing out that the human himself hadn't eaten.
Frustrating. Endearing. Frustratingly endearing.
Evenings: they would sit together. The human might read scrolls aloud—meaningless sounds that nonetheless created a pleasant rhythm. Reo would groom himself, or hunt the occasional moth, or simply rest nearby.
The human had names for things now. Or rather, Reo had learned more of his sounds. "Come," "stay," "good." Reo responded when he chose to, which was increasingly often.
But the human never offered his own name. And Reo never thought to wonder why that bothered him.
There was a day the human brought home something new—a toy. A simple thing, feathers attached to a stick.
Reo regarded it with disdain.
The human dangled it anyway, waving it with minimal effort. The feathers danced.
Reo's pupils dilated. He held his ground, dignity intact.
The feathers swooped lower.
Reo's haunches wiggled.
No. He was above such base—
He pounced.
The feathers evaded him. He pounced again. And again. His body moved on instinct, chasing and leaping with a abandon he'd nearly forgotten. When he finally caught his prize, he looked up triumphantly.
The human was laughing. Not loudly—he never did anything loudly—but his shoulders shook and his eyes crinkled with genuine delight.
"Cute," the human murmured. "You're so cute, Reo."
Reo dropped the toy and stalked away, ears flat. This human was utterly clueless. Reo was sleek and powerful, a creature of fine bloodline, one who walked with pride. He was not cute. How dare he.
The human, perhaps sensing his error, offered fish a few minutes later—the good pieces, carefully prepared. Reo accepted with dignified silence, though the warmth in his chest suggested forgiveness had already been granted.
Seasons changed. The human remained constant in his inconstancy—always there, always slow, always accepting. He never demanded Reo be anything other than what he was. Never forced affection or closeness. Simply existed beside him, a steady presence that Reo had stopped questioning.
When had this dwelling become home?
When had this human become his?
Reo didn't know. Didn't care to examine it too closely. He simply knew that when he ventured out now, he always returned. That the human's sleepy smile was the best part of his day. That the sound of his name—"Reo"—spoken in that gentle voice made something in him settle and spark simultaneously.
There was an afternoon the human tried teaching Reo something new. He kept pointing at himself and making a sound: "Shirou. Shirou."
Reo tilted his head. The human repeated the sound, then pointed at himself more emphatically.
Oh. A name?
"Shirou," the human—Shirou?—said again, then pointed at Reo. "Reo." Back to himself. "Shirou."
The sound was... nice. Soft. Lazy. Fitting.
But in Reo's mind, he remained simply "human." The distinction felt important, somehow. This wasn't just any human. This was the human. His human.
Though when had that happened?
More seasons. More moments.
The time Reo brought a mouse inside and the human, instead of praising his prowess, just sighed and said, "Outside, please." (Insulting. Reo left it on the doorstep as compromise.)
The time Reo got his collar caught on a branch and returned home disheveled, and the human spent an hour carefully working him free, murmuring reassurances the entire time.
The time the human was clearly unwell—moving even slower than usual, skin warm—and Reo stayed pressed against him for three days straight, leaving only for necessary functions. The human recovered, hand always finding Reo's fur, and whispered, "Thank you for staying."
As though Reo would have gone anywhere else.
They were pack now. Family. The words didn't exist in Reo's understanding, but the feeling did—bone-deep and unshakeable.
This human was his, and Reo was his, and that was simply how things were.
The day it happened started like any other.
The human had been moving differently lately—slower even than usual, with frequent pauses as though breathing required concentration. Reo had noticed but didn't know what it meant. Humans were strange creatures, always doing incomprehensible things.
That morning, the human filled Reo's dish but barely touched his own food. He settled down in his usual spot, but his breathing sounded wrong. Labored.
Reo approached, pressing his head against the human's hand.
"Hey, Reo." The voice was weaker than normal. The hand trembled as it scratched behind Reo's ears. "Good... good boy."
Then the human's eyes closed. Not unusual. He slept often.
Reo curled up nearby and dozed.
When Reo woke, the light had changed. The human hadn't moved.
Also not unusual. The human could sleep for extended periods.
Reo stood, stretched, then padded over. He bumped his head against the human's arm. Usually this prompted movement—a sleepy pat, a murmured word.
Nothing.
Reo tried again, more insistently. He placed his paws on the human's chest and leaned close, making a sound—questioning, demanding.
The human's face remained still. His chest didn't rise and fall with the usual rhythm.
Strange.
Reo walked around him, examining from different angles. The human's hand lay open on the floor, fingers slightly curled. Reo rubbed against it, purring loudly—the rumble that usually made the human smile.
No response.
Had the human achieved a new level of laziness? Was this a game?
Reo sat back, tail swishing with growing agitation. Fine. If the human wanted to play at ignoring, Reo could ignore too. He was excellent at dignity and disdain.
He stalked to the other side of the room and began grooming himself with exaggerated focus. Minutes passed. The human didn't move.
Reo's grooming slowed. This wasn't... this didn't feel right.
He approached again, more cautious now. Something in the air had changed. A stillness that went beyond the human's usual laziness. Reo pressed close, licking the human's face—the rough, apologetic gesture he used when he'd knocked something over or scratched too hard during play.
I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry. Please respond.
The skin under his tongue was cool.
No. Wrong.
Reo meowed—loud, plaintive. He pawed at the human's shoulder, claws carefully sheathed. Wake up. Please wake up.
The silence pressed in.
Time passed strangely. The light moved across the room. Reo's stomach growled but he ignored it. The human hadn't eaten either. That was the problem. The human needed food.
Reo jumped to the counter in the cooking area, knocking aside items until he found dried fish. He grabbed it in his mouth—awkward, too large—and dragged it back. He dropped it next to the human's face.
Here. Eat. Then you'll move again.
The human didn't reach for it.
Reo paced, agitation growing into something sharper. He bumped his head against the human's repeatedly—harder each time. Wake up, wake up, wake up.
Why wasn't he responding?
The light changed again. Evening, maybe. The human always moved before evening.
But he remained still.
And cold.
So cold.
Reo had never noticed how warm the human usually was until that warmth was absent. It was wrong, fundamentally wrong, like the world had tilted off its axis.
No.
Reo left the human's side only long enough to grab the sleeping mat's blanket in his teeth. He dragged it over, pulling and tugging until he could maneuver it partially over the human's body. Then he climbed on top, stretching himself across the human's chest, sharing his own warmth.
This will fix it. You're just cold. I'll make you warm.
He pressed close, purring as loudly as he could—the sound that always soothed, always comforted.
Please.
Day became night became day.
Reo didn't leave. Couldn't leave. What if the human called for him and he wasn't there? What if the human needed him?
He barely ate, just grabbed small things from the kitchen when his body forced him to. Water from the bowl. Scraps. Barely enough.
The human didn't improve.
The wrongness intensified. The smell changed—something Reo couldn't identify but that made his fur stand on end. But this was his human, and he wouldn't abandon him.
He talked to the human. Made all his different sounds—the greeting chirp, the questioning meow, the demanding yowl, the soft purr. Surely one of them would work. Surely the human would respond to something.
Please. I don't understand. Why won't you move? Did I do something wrong? I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please just make a sound. Say my name again. Please.
But the human remained silent.
Reo groomed him still—licking the human's face, his hands, keeping him clean. It was what they did for each other, wasn't it? The human had cleaned him when he was wet. Reo would return the favor.
We take care of each other. That's what we do. So wake up. Please wake up.
The sound came first—loud, aggressive. Not like the human's sounds at all.
Reo's head snapped up, ears flat. He'd been lying across the human's chest, his own body weak from hunger and exhaustion. How many days? He'd lost track.
The door burst open. Multiple figures—strangers—invaded the space.
No.
Instinct overrode weakness. Reo was on his feet, positioned between the human and the intruders. His back arched, fur standing on end. A hiss tore from his throat—feral and desperate.
Go away!
One of the strangers approached, hand extended. Reo struck out, claws connecting. The stranger jerked back.
"The cat—"
Don't touch him! He's mine! Go away!
More sounds from the strangers, but Reo couldn't parse meaning beyond threat. They were trying to get close to the human. Trying to take him away.
No, no, no—
Reo lunged at another stranger, teeth bared. He had to protect—had to keep the human safe until he woke up. The human needed him.
"—owner's been dead for—"
"—poor thing, must have been here—"
"—trying to guard the body—"
Meaningless sounds. Reo hissed again, darting forward whenever one got too close. His body shook with effort. When had he gotten so weak?
"We need to move the cat—"
"Careful, he's frightened—"
I'm not frightened. I'm protecting what's mine.
But his body disagreed. His legs trembled. The room spun slightly.
One of the strangers managed to grab him, hands firm but not cruel. Reo thrashed, yowling his fury and fear. Let me go! I need to stay with him! He might need me!
They placed him in a corner, blocked his path. He could see the human—his human—as they approached, touched, examined.
No! Don't! That's mine! He's mine!
But his sounds came out weaker now. His body wouldn't cooperate.
He watched as they covered the human with cloth. Watched as they lifted him. Taking him away.
No. Don't take him from me. Please.
Reo tried to stand, to follow, but his legs wouldn't hold. He collapsed, panting.
The strangers were making more sounds to each other. Some of them looked at Reo with strange expressions—soft, sad.
"—stayed with him until—"
"—loyal to the end—"
Give him back. I don't understand. Why are you taking him? Why won't he move?
The human disappeared through the door, carried by strangers.
Gone.
Reo lay where he'd fallen, body too exhausted to chase. The dwelling felt enormous suddenly. Empty.
Cold.
He tried to call out one more time—a weak, broken sound.
Come back. Please come back. I'm here. I'm still here. Don't you want me anymore?
One of the strangers approached slowly. Reo didn't have the energy to hiss. The hand that touched his head was gentle.
"Poor thing," the stranger murmured. Reo couldn't understand the words but felt the tone. "Stayed right by him. Must've been so scared."
The hand stroked along Reo's back. Normally he would have protested—strangers didn't earn such privileges. But the touch was warm, and Reo was so, so cold.
Where did he go? Why did you take him? When will he come back?
But deep in his bones, in that place beyond thought, Reo knew.
The human wasn't coming back.
Whatever had been there—the warmth, the gentle touches, the soft voice calling his name—was gone. The stillness had taken it away.
No.
Reo curled into himself, making his body as small as possible. The stranger continued petting him, making soothing sounds.
He was so tired. So hungry. So cold.
Human...
Not his name. Reo had never used his name. Had never needed to. The human had simply been... there. The only one who mattered.
But now he was gone, and Reo finally understood: he would never hear his own name again. Never feel those gentle hands. Never curl up against that warm body.
It's cold. I miss you. Why won't you call for me anymore?
His eyes drifted closed. Maybe if he slept, he would wake and the human would be there again. Maybe this was all a strange, horrible dream.
The strangers were still making sounds. One of them was touching his collar, reading the symbols.
"Reo," one said softly. "His name is Reo."
Hearing his name in the wrong voice hurt more than anything.
That's not right. You're saying it wrong. He says it better. Softer.
But the human would never say it again.
Reo's breathing slowed. His body felt distant, no longer quite his own.
There was a story—not a story, exactly, but a knowing passed down through instinct and dream. That creatures like Reo lived not once but many times over. That they moved through the world in cycles, each existence separate yet connected.
Nine times. Nine chances. Nine...
If that's true...
Reo thought of the human. His lazy smile. His gentle hands. The way he'd accepted Reo exactly as he was—arrogant, demanding, imperfect.
In all those times, every single one, I want to find you. I want to know you. I want to be yours.
So I'll find you. In the next time, and the next, and all the times after.
I'll keep finding you.
So please...
Call my name again.
Shirou.