Warning: This story is rated T for shounen-ai/yaoi.

Note: This story is based on a post I found on Pinterest:

"'Your cat can smell when I'm making fish, and dang it, this is the third time this week she's climbed through my window' AU".

Royalty

"Time spent with cats is never wasted."

―Sigmund Freud

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

I really need a new blower, I think as I open the window over the sink. It's springtime now, so cooking makes the house too hot, but it's still too chilly outside to switch the heat to cool. But the chicken was on sale, and cooking alleviates the stress of teaching high school French to rowdy teenagers all day and keeping up with a much better-behaved teenage son's lacrosse games. The blower can wait.

I hear the clatter of the soap bottle falling in the sink before the meows.

Turning to the sink again, I stare at the little Scottish Fold as she cries at me imploringly. She's not a large cat, hardly bigger than a kitten, with white and orange markings and a flea collar, but after months of petting her occasionally, I know that she's quite sweet and loving, even if a bit skittish. And a nuisance sometimes.

"No, you can't eat the chicken," I tell her. "And Royal has already eaten the fat and extra pieces."

She cries again.

I finish cooking the chicken, and sometime during that, Royal comes to visit. She seems rather unperturbed by the other feline in her house, but said other feline hisses. Turning off the stove and moving the pot to another eye, I scoop the cat up and rub behind her ear to distract her from my carrying her to the door. In the past, she has simply tried to come in the window again or meow at the glass for up to half an hour, so instead of leaving her outside the door, I carry her to the house next door.

I don't know Arthur Kirkland especially well, other than he's British and has a son who goes to school with Matthew. And apparently has a cute but insistent feline.

When I ring the doorbell, the cat in my arms mews, and a moment later, the door opens to reveal Arthur, dressed in a Beatles t-shirt and jeans. His hair is dirty blonde and sticking up everywhere, much like his cat's tail, and his green eyes look between said cat and me. "May I help you? And why do you have Belle?"

I give the cat―Belle, apparently―back to her owner. "She climbed into my kitchen through the window. That is the third time since Sunday."

"Oh, I apologize," Arthur says as he holds the cat against his chest. "She's mostly an outdoor cat, so I really can't control where she goes." Then he frowns. "Wouldn't closing the window fix the problem?"

"When I cook, I have no way to circulate the air, so that is not an option." I glance at the cat for a moment. "I have a cat myself; I realize that they simply do what they wish, but it has become a problem."

Arthur nods. "I understand. If she ever comes in again, feel free to bring her back and I'll keep her in the house for a while. I know it's not the best solution, but…."

"If I think of something better, you will be the first to know."

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

It isn't until a few hours later that Arthur Kirkland becomes much more…relevant to my life. Or…I don't even know what to call this. It's before a lacrosse game starts, and I'm just trying to find Matthew before he goes on the field. Instead, I find two boys in a rather intimate position behind the bleachers, which reminds me of my high school days until―

The slightly smaller boy jumps away from his partner with a curse. "I-it's not what it―" More cursing.

The other boy just looks confused, tilting his head at the blonde before he sees me. Then he smiles sheepishly. "A-ah, I apologize for our indecency, sir."

The smaller blonde looks at me with wild, blue eyes, and I recognize him then. Alfred Kirkland. "I swear, I'll do anything, okay? I'll mow your lawn every day for free, weed your garden, wash your car with a toothbrush, anything! Just don't tell my dad!" Alfred looks between me and his partner. "Please."

"It is not my secret to tell," I say, raising both my hands in surrender.

"Papa! What are you―oh." Matthew stops beside me. Then he glares at Alfred. "Warm-ups started five minutes ago. I'm not covering for you again."

Alfred scampers away, leaving the ashen blonde boy leaning against one of the support beams. He smiles at me. "Thank you very much."

I hum. "High school is difficult enough without worrying about parents."

He nods before he slips off around the other end of the bleachers.

Matthew looks back at me. "What was that all about?"

"Alfred was worried that I would tell his father about his preferences," I reply. "I did not realize you knew him so well."

He shakes his head. "I don't. I mean, we're both on the team and we have a few classes together." He looks down at the helmet in his hand. "His mom died when he was really young, too, and we're always mistaken for twins, but he only hangs out with me when his other friends aren't around."

With a smile, I put a hand on his shoulder, and he looks up at me. "Mathieu, invite him over. Get to know him better."

"But―"

There's a whistle, and Matthew runs off.

Shaking my head, I walk around to the stairs and climb into the bleachers.

Not a moment later, Arthur sits beside me, out of breath. "Did I miss anything?"

"The game is just beginning," I reply. "And besides, the other team has lost every game for the last two years."

"You're not wrong," Arthur says.

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

When Belle hops in the window, I roll my eyes and tell Matthew to watch the pasta while I return her. Alfred is over for dinner today, and when he sees his cat in the kitchen, he frowns. "Why's Belle here?"

"She insists on climbing into the kitchen when I cook," I reply, and I only feel annoyance towards the cat; I stop her from nuzzling closer and purring. And I don't pet her. Or scratch behind her ear. I certainly don't press a kiss to her cheek.

Matthew stares at me blankly. "You don't seem to mind."

"Yeah, seriously." Alfred laughs. "You're worse than Dad!"

"Cats are royalty and they will act and expect others to pamper them as such," I say while I cuddle Belle.

Matthew rolls his eyes.

So I walk next door again. The last trip was nearly a week ago, and when the door opens, Arthur sighs. "I thought she might have stopped."

But when Arthur reaches for Belle, the feline all but wraps her paws over my shoulders and buries her face in my neck. I try to look at her, unable to tilt my head down at all, and smooth a hand from her back to flank. Then I look back at Arthur, who seems…hurt by his cat's sudden favoritism.

The words are out of my mouth before I think about it. "She obviously wants you to follow me back to my house. I am making dinner, if you would like to join us."

Arthur blinks sharply at me, and I can see the argument in his eyes, wondering if this is an offer from a friendly neighbor or something more. After he agrees, he manages to wrangle Belle off of me and says he needs to change clothes, though he's already wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

And when he shows up ten minutes later, his new jeans are darker, tighter, and his shirt is a white button-up. The style matches my casual jeans and pale blue dress shirt―my favorite and therefore good enough to wear to work and at home―and I catch the subtle scent of cologne. Nothing fancy. But when I invite him in, I give him a smile. "I will try to be appropriate in front of the boys, but you must forgive me; I tend to be easily distracted by beauty."

Arthur splutters and turns his head. "I will not forgive you if you do such a thing!" Then he adds, "Compliments will get you nowhere, bloody frog."

I smirk.

Oh, Alfred, I really doubt your father will mind that you're gay.

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

Matthew and Alfred are more than happy to play video games on our flat screen in the living room while I teach Arthur how to cook. Or so they think.

"Does Alfred know that you like men?" I ask as Arthur and I eat macaroni and cheese. Because a date can also be a cooking lesson, and it's best to start simple. The pasta is a bit overcooked and the cheese is somewhat bland, but for a first, it's not bad.

Arthur shakes his head before he swallows his mouthful and takes a sip from his Pepsi. "I'm withholding it until he tells me that he's gay."

I raise an eyebrow. "How long have you known?"

"Our phones are under the same email and account, so his internet history comes up on my phone as well." Arthur chuckles. "He started with much more…ah, vanilla videos than what I watch, so it wasn't hard to figure out. And besides that, he's been bringing Ivan over for nearly a year and still thinks I believe that Ivan is a 'study friend'."

I laugh.

"And what about Matthew?"

"One of the more awkward moments of my life," I say with a grin, thinking back on it. "He has always been extremely perceptive, so I really should have seen it coming. When he was in eighth grade, he started watching Supernatural because he loves that sort of genre, and he wanted me to watch it with him. At the end of the first episode, he asked if I thought Sam or Dean was hotter."

Arthur snorts. "Who did you pick?"

"Dean, but once Sam grew up…well, it is hard to choose. But Gabriel is by far the most attractive."

"Benedict Cumberbatch beats them all," Arthur says.

I pause. "Favoritism."

"How so?"

"He is British."

Rolling his eyes, Arthur points his spoon at me. "He is sexy. End of discussion."

"So you like curly hair."

"Maybe."

I wink.

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

Matthew figures it out rather quickly and just doesn't mention it, as far as I know, but it's nearly three months before Alfred notices anything.

I haven't really been hiding it, and I don't think Arthur is trying to, either, but Arthur is also very conservative in public, even if "public" is inside the house with the boys. And "public" apparently excludes gay clubs, because I once found a box of all leather gear in the bottom of his closet, as well as BDSM equipment. Needless to say, Arthur was less than happy by my findings, but he told me about his college adventures. You know, college. Before he became a bookstore owner.

But more on topic, while the boys and Ivan are playing video games in Alfred's room, Arthur and I are watching a movie on the couch downstairs. We aren't really cuddling, but we're sitting too close to just be friends and then Arthur's arm is stretched out on the back of the couch so that I can lean my head back against his shoulder.

When Alfred comes bounding down the stairs, he's rambling about chips and salsa, but then he stops dead at the bottom of the stairs.

"The salsa is in the refrigerator," Arthur says.

"I…Dad…you―"Alfred frantically gestures to the two of us.

Arthur raises an eyebrow.

"You never told me you were gay!" the teen bursts.

"Neither did you."

Alfred turns red in an instant.

"And I'm bisexual," Arthur says. "Now maybe you can introduce Ivan as your boyfriend instead of your study friend."

Looking at Francis, Alfred mutters, "Did you tell him? You said―"

"I did not. He has known," I say.

After Alfred flees back upstairs without any chips or salsa, Arthur sighs and grumbles, "That wasn't really the way I imagined the conversation happening."

"But it has happened now. Nothing more to worry about," I say. Then I fix my eyes on the coffee table. "So you are bisexual?"

Arthur nods. "Yes. I thought I was gay when I was a teenager, but then I met a few women I fancied in college."

"Including Alfred's mother?"

We haven't really talked about that. The boys' mothers.

"Yes." Arthur pauses. "We had Alfred a few months after we married. He was four when she died. Cancer."

"I am sorry."

He shakes his head. "She was an amazing woman, but I've moved on. And you? I assumed you were bisexual as well, but by your reaction…."

"I am most definitely gay." I shrug. "My parents and I have no connections due to it, but when I was in college, I tried to change myself. One of the women I slept with was Matthew's mother, and he was…for lack of a better word, an accident. Once he was born, she took off and pays child support; I think she lives in New York." I pause. "Matthew does not know any of that; he thinks she died in a car accident after he was born."

"Why?" Arthur's voice is soft and curious, not judgmental.

"Because he has always struggled with feeling loved. There is only so much I can do as a single parent, and when he was younger, he did not have grandparents to stay with and I am an only child. And he was so shy, so much so that he never spoke at school until middle school." I sigh quietly. "I am afraid that he will think I do not love him if he knew he was not planned."

"It's certainly an understandable worry," Arthur murmurs.

Before I can reply, Belle hops into my lap before she promptly flops over, sprawled out across both my and Arthur's thighs.

"You spoil her," Arthur says as he rubs behind Belle's ear.

"She is your cat," I reply. "And besides, cats are royalty; they are meant to be spoiled."

"That wasn't what you were saying when Belle was climbing in your kitchen window."

"Why do you use the past tense? She still does."

Arthur smirks. "I think you use it as an excuse to visit now."

"Are you complaining?"

"Absolutely not."

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

Arthur's house is slightly larger than mine, mostly because his previous spouse had an extended family that liked to visit.

This is what I tell Matthew when we sell the house and move in with Arthur and Alfred. And Alfred goes to stay on campus during college, so Matthew doesn't have to worry about sharing a room. That much. Just on vacation, when he has to put the pillows back on the bottom bunk for Alfred to sleep on. Matthew does so love his pillows.

It's almost a year before I grow accustomed to living with someone, but it's only a few weeks before I start missing the presence of a slim band on my finger while I shower or when I do yard work.

One Friday night, I finish grading and head to the bedroom, ready to pass out. Arthur is reading, as he so often is, with Belle and Royal curled up together between his legs. When I lie down, Belle is on me in seconds, nuzzling my face and purring thunderously, and even as I pet her, I say, "Royal, you traitor."

Arthur chuckles while Royal stretches. "She obviously prefers a Briton to a Frenchman."

"Just like her caretaker," I mumble, holding Belle as I wiggle around to get comfortable against Arthur. "And I believe that Belle prefers the French."

He shakes his head before he sets his book on the nightstand and turns out the lamp. Then he half-turns onto his side to brush his lips over my forehead. "Never. The French are far too dramatic, always speaking of cats as royalty and whatnot."

"We speak the truth," I reply through a soft chuckle.

I hear Arthur roll his eyes; it's the laughing sigh that gives it away. "Alright then, Your Highness. Go to sleep."