My patron presses his lips to the top of my head and whispers softly. I look into his gentle golden eyes, then close mine. And I make a vow—to heal quickly and properly succeed at that damned drift next time.
Kiiiuu—
The boy lets out a thin, fragile sound. Even deep in sleep, the pain must still be there. Calyx, unable to bear it, strokes the boy’s back, at a loss for what else to do.
He always feels it, but the body beneath his hand is so very small. When the boy curls up into a tight little ball, he’s almost completely hidden beneath a single fully spread hand. That’s why Calyx is always careful when touching him in his cat form. If he lifts him by the torso, it feels like the ribs might snap. If he holds a front leg, it feels like the tiny limb might break cleanly in two.
That’s how small he is.
When this small body was brought in the palace physician’s arms, Calyx truly felt as though his heart had stopped. The limp, unconscious little body left him unable to tell where or how to even begin checking. He wanted to stroke him, but fear surged—what if touching him made an injury worse?
Thankfully, aside from a single broken front leg, there were no other abnormalities. It was such a relief—and yet unbearably painful to accept that even that tiny front leg had been broken.
Calyx lowers his face and listens to the boy’s breathing.
Perhaps because of the fever, it’s rougher than usual, with thin, drawn-out sounds slipping in from time to time. All that irritability while awake, pretending not to be in pain—it must’ve been sheer stubbornness. Of course it hurt. How could a broken leg not hurt?
Calyx carefully strokes the boy’s leg, firmly secured with a splint, with just the tips of his fingers.
Even with a knight assigned to guard him, accidents still happen. The boy had gotten excited and hurt himself—it was an accident born of his own carelessness. Knowing that, Calyx still can’t stop the anger rising inside him. No matter how recklessly the boy runs about, protecting him is the knight’s duty. He had ordered them to protect him. This small leg should never have been allowed to break.
Calyx recalls Simon kneeling before him, begging for punishment.
A straightforward man, asking to be punished because this happened while he was fooling around with him. The son of Duke Licht—once Calyx’s greatest patron—and someone he’d known since childhood. By all logic, it was hard to say the fault lay with him alone, and forgiveness would’ve been the proper response. But the anger boiling up inside him strangled those words before they could leave his mouth. He’d only ordered Simon to leave.
Kii—
The boy whimpers softly, twisting in his sleep. Calyx gently strokes him and presses his lips to the small black head.
To think such a tiny body could shake a person so completely…
***
“Nabi, does it hurt a lot?”
Julia asks as she brushes me. Her voice is thick with concern. I answer with a spirited “Meow,” reassuring her. Making women worry is what bad men do, after all.
I’m getting brushed right now.
Because of the cast on my front leg, I’m not sitting in my usual elegant posture. Julia holds my casted paw with one hand and brushes me carefully with the other. I try my best to remain calm and composed as she grooms me, but honestly, inside I’m mortified.
I haven’t bathed in three whole days already. I’ve been placed under a strict no-bathing order until the cast comes off. That damned palace physician said it first, and my patron nodded along. I slapped my patron across the face with my perfectly fine front paw, but he didn’t budge an inch.
I’m a clean man. And for a city man, cleanliness is life itself. A man who showers once a day—that’s what a true city man is.
Breaking my front leg while fooling around is already humiliating enough, but if my fur gets clumpy too, how am I supposed to show my face? I couldn’t stand it and even tried sneaking after my patron when he went to bathe—but I got kicked out instantly. Naturally, I vented my anger by slapping him across the face again.
Anyway, that’s why my fur’s gotten clumpy.
Well, to be precise, it’s not bad enough to truly call it “clumpy” yet. But I’ve lost my always-fluffy, glossy, immaculate perfection. It’s only been three days—that’s why it’s still tolerable. Let more time pass, and I’ll definitely become a greasy cat. I might even get dandruff. White flakes on black fur—that’s truly horrifying. And there’s no Nizoral here, either.
“All done.”
Julia says, patting my rear lightly. I respond with a gentle “Meow,” praising her flawless brushing. If anyone else dared to pat my butt like that, I’d slap them on the spot—but Julia is the one woman who has the right.
My patron approaches and carefully lifts me into his arms.
Cradled quietly against him, I leave the bedroom. Normally, I’d be walking proudly beside him or perched atop his shoulder with a smug expression. But right now, I have no choice but to be carried. It bruises my pride as a man a little, but it can’t be helped. I can’t exactly limp along the floor, either.
My patron’s steps are slower than usual.
Normally, he strides forward boldly, every inch the Crown Prince—but now he walks so gently there’s barely any vibration at all. He’s being mindful of me in his arms.
Ever since I got hurt, my patron has been treating me like I’m made of glass. Even when he pets me, he only strokes the fur lightly, never pressing down. It frustrated me so much I told him to pet me harder, but he wouldn’t listen. The soft-hearted bastard must’ve been deeply shaken by seeing me injured.
Cradled in his arms, I carefully scan the passing hallway. But even today, I don’t see Simon anywhere. By now, he should’ve come to visit at least once—but he hasn’t shown his face for days. It was the same when I got hurt fighting the orc cat. I cursed him out for not visiting then, too—only to find out later he’d been lingering outside the bedroom. But now, even coming out into the hallway, I can’t see him anywhere.
I lift my head slightly and glance up at my patron.
It seems pretty obvious my patron chewed Simon out. Before, too, Simon had only hovered around the corridors. Back then as well, he couldn’t bring himself to enter the bedroom after falling out of favor. This time must be the same—my patron definitely gave him a subtle dressing-down. After all, it makes no sense for him not to come visit when we share such deep manly bonds.
I want to demand that Simon be called in immediately, but… we can’t exactly communicate that clearly. I could probably make him understand if I really tried, but I doubt my patron would like it. He’s already a mess over my injury. I don’t want to upset him further for no reason. Better to not see Simon for a few days than make my patron sad. Friendship matters, sure—but my precious junk matters more.
When my patron enters the conference room, he sets me down on his lap.
His thighs are wide and sturdy, so lying there isn’t a problem. But tired of lying down all day, I lean my back against his stomach and sit up instead.
The meeting begins, and the voices of the old men fill the room.
I should be sticking my head over the table to keep an eye on those geezers, but that’s difficult right now. I could do it if I really wanted to, but my patron fusses over even the slightest movement I make, so I give up. And honestly, even if I did peer over in this cast, it wouldn’t scare anyone. How much damage can a casted cat really do? At least until my leg heals, they clearly won’t be afraid of me.
Hmm. Now that I think about it, this is a problem.
I need to give Simon his allowance, but I have no incoming income. I do have a pile of gold coins saved up—but that’s savings. No matter how desperate things get, you never touch your savings.
Then again, I’d need to meet him to give it to him anyway…
A faint sigh slips out as worry suddenly wells up.
I wonder if poor Simon is even eating properly. I’m probably the only one giving him allowance. Honestly, I hope he’s at least taking money from that old Duke Licht bastard.
I force myself to stop worrying about Simon.
He was doing just fine before I ever started giving him allowance—missing a few days won’t kill him. He is, after all, a knight commander. He’ll eat well at the knight barracks. Of course. Of course.
That aside…
I lift my head and sneak a glance at my patron.
Judging by his expression, he’s completely absorbed in the meeting. Seeing my chance, I carefully turn my head and begin gnawing on the bandages tightly wrapped around my right front leg.
This damned cast—today’s the day I finally get rid of it. Just you wait!
I chew as quietly and subtly as possible, suppressing all movement and sound.
Under the assault of my sharp canines and molars, the bandage starts to fray bit by bit. If this were the compression bandages or casts back in Korea, I wouldn’t stand a chance—but the ones here are pathetically flimsy. Just cloth wrapped around and around. If I keep at it, I can tear the whole thing off.
Crunch, gnaw—the fabric tears with small, soft sounds as it comes apart between my teeth. Excited, I keep ripping into the bandages. I’m shedding this uncomfortable, humiliating cast today, no matter what—and I’m taking a bath.
Fracture or not, I absolutely refuse to become a greasy cat.
