The first thing people noticed about Chris Mocha wasn't his laugh or the way he seemed to talk with his entire body. It wasn't his habit of slapping his hands against the table like a cartoon villain every time he got excited.
It was the cat head.
A massive, snow white, grinning cat head with big glassy eyes and perky ears that never bent. He wore it like other people wore glasses or jewelry. Breakfast? Cat head. Grocery store? Cat head. Doctor's appointment where the nurse needed to check his blood pressure? Cat head.
It had been this way since high school, and by now, most people in town had stopped asking questions.
Most people.
Donavan Latte was not "most people."
"You know what freaks me out?" Donavan asked, his voice flat as he shoved open the door to their favorite corner diner. "That you eat pancakes in that thing. Like do you even wash it? Or are you slowly suffocating under a decade of maple syrup fumes?"
Chris twisted the cat head toward him, then tilted it dramatically to the side. "That's classified information."
Donavan gave him a long, unimpressed stare. "Translation: you've never washed it."
The bell above the door jingled as they entered. The diner was quiet, the sort of place where retirees camped out with bottomless coffee and waitresses remembered your order after two visits. Everyone inside turned at least once to look at the cat head. They always did.
Chris didn't care. He strutted past the booths like a Disney mascot with too much free time.
Donavan followed, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, muttering, "One day I'm gonna snap and put that thing in the washing machine. With bleach. On extra spin."
They slid into their usual booth. Chris, true to form, didn't just sit, he flopped sideways, one arm draped across the backrest, the giant cat head staring at the ceiling as if contemplating life's greatest mysteries.
The waitress, a woman with pink nails and a sharp smile, appeared with two menus. She didn't even blink at the cat's head anymore.
"The usual?" she asked.
"Double stack with extra butter for me," Donavan said, handing the menu back without glancing at it.
Chris lifted the cat head slightly, just enough for his muffled voice to escape. "And a root beer float. For breakfast."
The waitress smirked. "It's nine in the morning, sugar."
Chris leaned forward, the oversized cat face inches from hers. "Nine is just upside down six. Six means dinner. Dinner means dessert. Checkmate."
The waitress blinked at him. "I'm bringing you water, too."
As she walked away, Donavan shook his head. "You're going to die before thirty. And I'm not dragging your furry corpse out of here."
Their food arrived quickly. Chris stabbed his pancakes with a little too much enthusiasm, syrup dripping down the side of his plate. He paused mid-stab, tilting his head toward Donavan.
"You ever think about how wild it is? Our names. Mocha and Latte."
Donavan didn't look up from his fork. "Every day. It's a curse. People think we're a coffee shop."
"No, no, hear me out." Chris gestured wildly, the cat head bobbing. "If you opened a coffee place, and I opened a rival one across the street, imagine the chaos. Mocha vs. Latte. A caffeine civil war."
Donavan chewed slowly, then swallowed. "I wouldn't sell coffee. I'd sell tea. Just to spite you."
Chris slammed his fork onto the table, startling the couple in the booth behind them. "Betrayal!"
"Business," Donavan corrected calmly.
This was their rhythm. Always had been. Chris, the human firework, bursting in every direction at once. Donavan, the human fire extinguisher, deadpan and steady until he decided to drop a sarcastic comment that could floor Chris harder than any punch.
They'd been like this since middle school, though back then it was more fistfights and insults than banter. Somewhere between all the chaos, though, Donavan had decided Chris was his problem. His friend. His responsibility, even when Chris refused to take responsibility for himself.
Donavan didn't say that out loud. Chris would just make a joke out of it.
But as Chris leaned back in the booth now, humming through a mouthful of pancakes with syrup streaking the underside of his cat head, Donavan felt that old heaviness. The reminder.
Chris hadn't always worn the mask.
"Hey," Chris said suddenly, snapping Donavan out of it. "Guess what."
"No."
"You didn't even let me say it."
"I don't have to. It's going to be dumb."
Chris leaned across the table, the cat head almost knocking over Donavan's water. "I signed us up for karaoke night."
Donavan blinked. "You what?"
"Tonight. Eight o'clock. Winner gets a free pizza."
"I hate you."
Chris clapped his hands together. "You love me."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
The waitress reappeared with the check, catching the tail end of the argument. She placed it on the table and shook her head. "You two sound married."
Chris gasped loudly through the cat head. "Finally, someone understands!"
Donavan slid out of the booth before Chris could continue. "I'm not paying for your float."
They walked home after breakfast, the town buzzing quietly around them. Chris narrated their journey like they were in an action movie.
"And here," he said, pointing dramatically at the laundromat, "is where we'll stage our heroic last stand against the evil army of sock thieves."
Donavan didn't slow his pace. "If you start stripping in front of that place again, I'm not bailing you out."
Chris wagged a finger at him. "That was one time."
"You had a crowd."
"They loved it."
"They called the cops."
By the time they reached their apartment, the sun was higher, the day already threatening heat. Their place was a mess sock on the couch, empty ramen cups on the counter, a precarious tower of soda cans on the windowsill.
Chris kicked his shoes off and immediately dove onto the couch. Donavan sighed, picking up the shoes and setting them by the door.
"Latte," Chris called, muffled by the cat head buried in the cushions.
"What."
"You think anyone would still like me if I took this thing off?"
Donavan froze.
The question had come out of nowhere, tossed casually like one of Chris's jokes. But there was something underneath it. Something heavier.
Donavan set the shoes down carefully. "…Yeah. Of course."
Chris turned his head toward him, the cat's glassy eyes unreadable. "Even if I'm not funny?"
"You'd still be annoying."
Chris snorted, rolling onto his back. "That's basically love."
Donavan didn't answer. But he stayed standing there a moment longer, watching Chris drum his fingers against the cat head, humming nonsense to himself.
That heaviness lingered, pressing against the room like an unwelcome guest.
Because Donavan remembered the hospital.
He remembered the way Chris had stopped talking for weeks.
He remembered the first time the cat head appeared and how Chris never took it off again.
And he remembered the promise he'd made to himself.
If Chris was going to live in chaos, then Donavan would stay in it too.