Sehun wakes up heavy and warm. He finds, upon opening his eyes, that both heat and weight come from the same source.

Peaches, the cat-that’s-not-anymore managed to move Sehun up off the floor and had taken the opportunity of an unconscious body to curl up between Sehun’s arm and side. He has Sehun’s phone in-hand, swiping at floating fruits.

“I was hoping I was dreaming.”

“Life with me is always a dream.”

“I could’ve sworn you were a kitten. Why are you so big?”

“You have no concept of cat years, do you?”

“No.”

“I’m older than you are.”

Sehun snorts. “Perfect. Bullied by my cat.”

“No different than before.”

“Before I could pick you up and move you. Now ... .” He tries to roll away, tries to sit up, and gives up with a huffy sigh. “Now,” he stresses with a grunt, “I can’t even sit up.”

“You don’t need to. You just got home.”

“Yeah. I got home, took a little nap, but who’s going to make food?”

The cat stills, slices a watermelon in half, and drops the phone on Sehun’s stomach as he sits up. “You make a good point for once. Get up and feed me. I haven’t eaten all day.”

“You have food sitting out all the time.”

Peaches combs a hand through his hair, a parody of a grooming cat. “Have you ever tried dried food? It’s bland." Comb comb. "And dry." Fluff. Comb. "And gross.”

“You never complained before.” Sehun scoots off his bed to stand.

“Yes, I did. You thought I was just being cute.” He shoulders past Sehun and hops onto the kitchen countertop.

“Hey! Down.”

“Make me.” Bigger and brawnier evidently means sassier and feistier. Sehun shrinks a little under the challenging, dark-eyed glare and is a bit more convinced that the human-cat is, in fact, his former cat-cat. He has been on the receiving end of that same glare many times after treading on a tail or paw, removing an insistent feline to change his sheets, and taking away the “people food” from a curious nose and tongue.

Sehun backs down and opens the fridge to avoid the slanted stare. “Fine. At least you shouldn’t shed as much.” He closes the fridge again. “Is pasta okay with you? Easy, fast, put what you want on it.”

“Sure.”

“And if this,” he gestures to the cat’s humanoid body, “is permanent, then you need a different name. I refuse to call you ‘Peaches’ in public.” He fills a pot with water, turning over names in his head. Everything he comes up with is the name of a friend, family member, or drama character. Setting the pot on the stove, he turns it on high and leans back against the counter. “I got nothing. Do you have any ideas?”

“Nope. We don’t really do names for ourselves. Everyone just smells different. Which is weird,” he continues with an experimental sniff. “Nothing really smells, anymore. It’s like my nose is stuffy with nothing. I can’t even smell YOU, and I’m wearing your clothes.”

“Another thing that has to change. You’re too big for my clothes.”

The water begins to bubble. Sehun is impatient and dumps a bag of pasta in. As the water boils and the pasta cooks, he retrieves his phone and does a couple web searches. The human-cat watches closely over his shoulder.

“Must you be so close?”

“You never complained before.”

“You were a lot smaller and less human before.” Sehun shows him the phone screen. “Here. Tao. Chinese. Pretty much the same, only this is actually used as a human name. Can you live with that?”

“I suppose. It could be worse, anyway. Your pot’s boiling over.”

“Why didn’t you take it off!?”

Newly-dubbed-Tao returns to his perch on the counter without a reply, bored with the scolding. Cat habits die hard, evidently.