Totally inspired by a chat with shimmy, modern AU Anders and Karl all cosy and domestic lol
talking about karl and anders with syber always makes me want to write them more, and we were discussing modern stuff today, and, well… i can’t help it, it’s sweater weather!
first give me a kiss
Karl likes Horace better than Catullus. ‘Only not really,’ he admits. ‘Actually, it depends on the weather.’
‘I see,’ Anders says, then laughs, because he does and he doesn’t.
Anders likes Catullus better than Horace, and not just because Catullus is generally funnier, or because of the weather. It’s because of the sound of Karl’s voice when he reads the words: sly little things that get under Anders’s skin the same way a cat digs its claws through the fabric of his jeans. You can unhook them, but the feeling remains, lasting sharp far longer than it should.
Anders brings the cat home unannounced. It’s not that he meant to—but someone left it in a box and it was the last one, not the smallest or the cutest, obviously not, or else someone else would have taken it first.
‘I’m allergic,’ Karl tells him, shaking out his umbrella. He leaves it, open, by his shoes to dry, shoulders speckled with rain.
‘Shh,’ Anders replies. ‘You’ll wake him. He’s sleeping.’
In the middle of a dream, the cat shudders, all the way from his whiskers to his paws, a fine tremble against his taut belly, and kneads the denim in Anders’s lap over and over, while Karl goes to get tissues from the bedroom.
There’s an acupuncture technique to help with allergies, Anders tells him later, the cat on his thigh while his cheek rests against Karl’s. Karl’s nose is just a little bit red, but that might as well be from the weather, the dust on the binding of the old book he takes down.
‘Horace or Catullus?’ Anders asks, what it all depends on suddenly more important than not.
‘It’s a surprise,’ Karl tells him, tucking a curl of Anders’s hair under his ear, while Anders chuffs the cat’s chin and the rain patters on the window. ‘Just like a new kitten. Apparently.’
Anders kisses Karl’s thumb, and it smells of poetry, the good stuff: the paper, the other books nestled in tightly, and the glue in the binding, holding all the pages together.