Allen was brushing his teeth at the sink when Kimchi scampered into the bathroom and cowered in a corner, yellow eyes wide and agitated. Allen stared for a moment, mouth full of toothpaste.

"Kimchi?" he said after rinsing. The black cat hissed softly at him.

Kimchi hissed at everything. He hissed at birds outside his window. He hissed at his namesake whenever they had the dish for dinner. He hissed at Lenalee whenever she stroked him for too long or too hard. He also hissed at Kanda, likely because two cats (er, beings in this case) of similar disposition could never get along.

By a process of elimination, Allen knew that it was Kanda who had Kimchi so worked up.

"Kanda," he huffed. He petted Kimchi to console him before heading out to find the man he loved and to give him a proper scolding. This wasn't the way to treat a family pet.

Kanda was in the kitchen. Allen hesitated, words on the tip of his tongue, and watched instead.

Kanda was humming absently to himself, his hair tied up to keep out of the food. Allen couldn't tell what Kanda was making, but the air smelled wonderfully garlicky. Kanda was lean and long and barefoot, and he was swaying ever so slightly, as if he couldn't help himself. Allen didn't recognize the song he was humming.

"Haaa," Kanda sighed suddenly, and stopped humming, turning off the stove.

There was a pause then, a pause in movement and sound.

And suddenly Allen was afraid.

"Kanda," he said, breaking that pause.

(The pause was too abrupt.)

Dark eyes flitted over, then flitted away.

"Yeah?" Kanda grunted back, and he began plating the stir-fry.

(Allen was still afraid.)

"Kimchi was hissing."

"Was it."

"Be nice, Kanda."

"It was getting in my way, so I gave it a nudge with my foot."

"Kanda!"

And with the chatter and clatter of plates being set, Allen forgot about that pause, if only for a little while.