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the-cat-at-the-theatre-door · 1 year

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Coricopat and Mistoffelees with Coricopat POV, if you want to

There is something...unique about you - uneasy, raw - but somehow profound.

-Jaal Ama Darav (Mass Effect: Andromeda)

Coricopat believes, in however many years he’s been on the planet, however many lifetimes, that he has become a good judge of character.

...

Perhaps that is unfair; he believes that the telepathic abilities granted to him by the Everlasting Cat has made his ability to get a moderately complete read on cats within moments of meeting them of statistically higher quality than the average tom.

That was more accurate.

So one would think, then, that when it came to matters of companionship, of developing and budding connection, that he was otherwise at a higher advantage than others; however, the truth was (and perhaps always would be) that this was simply not the case.

Coricopat’s handle on the abilities granted to him were about as strong as they were wont to be, but applying them practically to situations where practicality was perhaps demanded wasn’t always something he was able to do. Heavy and rapt contemplation and introspection was a forte moreso of his sister; she was able to learn cats quicker than they could open their muzzles, which was fascinating, surely, but often - in her words - boring. Of course that wasn't to say he was incapable of such depth of thought and analyzation; he was more than well equipped. But Coricopat is only flesh and blood; his heart bled and his tongue often tripped over itself were he not careful. There had been more than one occasion where he'd received the judgement of "creepy" or "unsettling" before he'd even had the chance to make their acquaintanceship. And while that did not cause him the level of upset it perhaps should (or, at least, that's what he'd repeated to himself enough times until he started to believe it), it had prompted him to change his approach early on. Jellylorum had said that one could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar; Coricopat was not certain what comestibles had to do with pest control, but it seemed to agree with his hypothesis. And Jellylorum had rarely steered him wrong before.

As it was, Coricopat found simple pleasure in the process of keeping himself at enough of a distance so his connections with other cats came about organically; he did not particularly enjoy digging around for secrets, nor did he find any entertainment in prying for details. He figured, in due time, were he meant to know a cat in its entirety, that they would reveal themselves to him when they wished to do so. Once they did, then he could pass his slowly brewing judgement upon them and decide whether he liked or disliked their company. Until then, he was nothing but patient, and pushed little more than a placid smile plastered on his muzzle that hid the depth of his thought - that was perhaps why he had an easier time than Tantomile did. Learning others in their entirety in one sitting seemed dreadfully dull - especially since so many cats seemed, in his mind, very much the same. Easier to just turn it all off and see what happened.

That did not, however, completely remove his compulsion to...peek a little bit. Just under the surface. As said: he was only flesh and blood.

Mistoffelees appears suddenly and with little fanfare when the moon is at its fullest, bellied with the extent of its magic. He is much like a spider, long limbed and careful stepped, casting his skeletons beneath him as though on display for other cats to forebode. His features seem to shift as he does, never quite solidified on the flat plane of his face, ears curled up - an outline of horns in the trick of light. There is an air about him that seems to cast off a presentiment of warning, radiating the tantalizing energy of a brightly lit flame in a cloud of unsuspecting moths.

But Coricopat is not afraid of him. Peeking has its benefits, though no amount of telepathic ability would have truly prepared him for the tangle of thorns that was the Magical Mr. Mistoffelees.

Mistofeelees, he displays very quickly, is in fact magical. The emphasis was purposeful; Coricopat has never met a cat outside of his sister and Old Deuteronomy who was so drenched in magic. Being in his presence was like being before a roaring fire with nothing more than matchsticks; he feels practically drunk with it. Coricopat, comparatively, is no more than a kitten playing in his mother's belongings, his own practical magic bending beneath the sheer force of Mistoffelees' will with barely more than a nod of his head.

But when he catches Coricopat staring unabashedly at him from the shadows on the night they meet, he immediately notes how Mistoffelees' yellowed eyes betray his age - his exhaustion. That, he feels, creates far more of a lasting impression than anything else. There are cracks in the mask he wears, and burns that stain his paw pads black, and points of starlight poking through his skin. Foreboding, perhaps. But there is more bubbling just beneath the surface - pulsing through translucent veins that Coricopat can almost see if he focuses hard enough.

Coricopat is fascinated, there is no other word that better described it; if curiosity killed the cat, he would gladly be slain just to comprehend even half of the scrambled whole that was presented before him.

“You speak so strangely," Coricopat breathed to him one evening when he comes across the strange tom in the clearing, reciting his tongues while turning in circles. "Where have you been?”

Mistoffelees does not blink at his presence - not much surprises him. He flourishes his paws out in a grand gesture of showmanship and chuckles; it sounds just like the bells that Coricopat and Tantomile had once worn on their collars, many moons ago back when they had been one. Coricopat's chest tightens. “Here and back again.”

They are fast friends after that. Mistoffelees remains in his company, he says, because Coricopat is quiet and generally unobtrusive. Coricopat thinks, vainly, that it is perhaps his unquestioned understanding that is more attractive to the other tom than any such frivolous traits. He does not need to explain magic or rebirth or the inherent complexities of his existence - does not need to explain the depths or the beyond to him; there is a name that Mistoffelees whispers against the shell of his ear, tittering as though having shared an inside joke, that resonates deep within him. Coricopat was born with this understanding. He is more than equipped to deal with any such oddities that come along with it.

Yet, as much as he knows of what Mistoffelees is and what he could do, he has very little idea as to who he is.

At first glance, he reads little more than several loose stitches attempting to repair a wide, gaping hole; as though he were too big for his body, at one point, and had attempted to stuff himself back in its skin. To contain, perhaps. There is something of this cat that he holds behind the sharp of his teeth, the tilt of his head, that he doesn’t want others to see. There is an uneasiness in how he connects with other cats - much like Coricopat himself. As though he was...uncertain to the extent he was able to. As though he were afraid. He feels it when Mistoffelees gets close to him - when he notes the rabbit quick beat of his heart and stares searchingly into his eyes for explanation where there is none.

Though he is not quick to admit it, Mistoffelees is kind as he is tricky. He is kind in his tolerance and kind in his actions, even when the furrow of his brow would suggest otherwise. Coricopat has seen him tenderly breathe life back into ivy that had given up halfway up into the light, seen his expression pinch at the mention of sickness and plague, wholly undelighted by their destruction - unexpected reactions from one who claimed to have been born of shadows. Yet Coricopat feels the suggestions of their warmth echoing persistently in his head. It makes him feel...light. And weighted. At the same time.

There is one moment in particular that solidifies his fledgling assumptions, but it brings with it more trouble than Coricopat had thought it would.

Dead animals in the Junkyard are not uncommon things; there was a time for things to die just as much as there was a time for them to live. The two toms come across the downy pile of feathers at the tail end of their stroll, Coricopat having spent the evening attentively listening to Mistoffelees tell him where the constellations had once been, many moons before cats had even roamed the planet. He had barely noticed how much time had passed, occupied as he was.

It looks, Coricopat figures, to have been a fledgling, just shy of flying on its own, twisted at a miserable angle. He glances up; the nest is empty. Abandoned, then, by its kin when it had failed its biological mission. Shame. But not, then, a sneak poking its paws where it didn't belong as he'd first suspected; there was no dignity in a cat who hunted the easiest of prey, in Coricopat's opinion. Absolutely no sport in it. No, this was perhaps crueler, but more fair in nature's paws, at least.

"There is nothing fair in that," Mistoffelees says slunk up to his side, having come to a similar conclusion. Coricopat could feel the tendrils of him poking around in his mind; he cannot explain why, but he feels chagrined, lowering his ears as though he had just been scolded.

Mistoffelees tsks and breezes past him to examine the tiny body. He sniffs at it delicately, wrinkling his nose as though the smell were rancid. Coricopat wonders if he means to eat it, but says nothing.

Instead, he watches as Mistoffelees scoops the feathers from the earth and holds the bird in his paws, covering it near entirely. Coricopat feels his heart flutter as he observes the concentration set on his brow, the gentle curve of his claws in a cage of ribs the bird no longer had. Mistoffelees presses his paws close to his lips and starts his muttering, much of the same that he had heard in the clearing what seems now like a lifetime ago. Coricopat does not understand a single word, yet feels as though he understands everything. He almost asks what the other tom is doing, but quickly thinks better of it.

Then, suddenly, Mistoffelees opens his eyes and his paws, and, in a cacophony of feathers, the bird flies away. Whole and alive. Remarkable.

“No use in wasting life,” he murmurs, staring up towards the sun where the bird had disappeared. There is slightly less life in his face than there was a moment ago; as though he'd given some small shard of it away. There is a sudden urge in Coricopat to reach out to paw at the latticed shadows beneath his lashes; reveal their own sun underneath. "It is wasted enough.”

And it is immediately then that Coricopat reaches his final verdict.

Mistoffelees only ever appears as a half. Half of who he was, half of who he could be, but Coricopat contents himself with the half he is given. He is impressed and fascinated by the half he is given. He is, regrettably and inexplicably, very much in love with the half he is given.

Perhaps, someday, he would tell him as such.

And perhaps, someday, he would accept it.

#no beta we die - not like anything we just die #see i told you i never forget anything #Mr. Mistoffelees #Coricopat #coricoffelees #fanfiction #my fanfic #yeah i used a mass effect quote shut up #it does help though that i kinda associate jaal's voice with coricopat tbh #who better to relate to the beyond than another magical cat i wonder

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