written Spring 2022
He noticed the tattoos first,
black and red and violet swirls
that unfurled on tanned skin,
from his wrists to his chin,
stretched over toned muscles.
Then he took in the curls
cascading from his head,
blending seamlessly with the beard
that was neatly sheared
to complement the shape of his jaw.
Damn.
Dark hazel eyes flicked up and met his own,
and the embarrassment shot through his bones.
His eyes flicked away.
That was the first day—
truly, most of the first week.
All the time he was meant to learn,
his eyes continued to sneak
without his permission
to this human rendition
of the old gods that Greek
sculptors had admired.
But at least the green carnation
front and center on that Herculean bicep
quelled his fear of any indignation
should he eventually scrounge up enough courage
to, you know, be gay.
That courage came on a Wednesday
after a week of watching and noticing:
He doesn’t talk to others.
So he beat back the fear
that liked to ring
and remembered the words of his mother:
Just say hello, dear.
I’m sure he’d love to hear
that you like his ink
and think he’s neat.
Ah, yes. "Neat."
Maybe not the word he would have used.
He was just glad his mum didn’t think
he was half as thirsty as he was.
No mother needed to know
her son was looking through the lens of a kink
for leather and tattoos.
So he decided to be brave
and, with a little wave,
he sat down beside the man.
And, when he saw those eyes up close,
saw the depth of their beauty,
he was engrossed
and forgot how to act human.
It was only once this man,
this absolute Adonis from ancient lore,
had returned the wave of his hand
that his brain retrieved its broom and dustpan,
cleared the dust from the corners of his cranium
and allowed him to think again.
"I’m Merlyn," he said.
"Cassian," he replied.
Merlyn did his best not to sigh like a schoolgirl. Cassian. A fitting name, he decided, for this man who was consuming his every waking thought.
He nudged his elbow against Cassian's, just below that tattoo that had enraptured him from first sight, and he confessed, "I like the carnation."
Cassian gave him a slow-emerging smile, still looking a bit apprehensive. Only when Merlyn decided to stop trying to act cool and gave him a big, cheesy grin did Cassian's face gleam with comprehension. "I quite like Oscar Wilde," he said by way of explanation.
And then he disappeared,
and Merlyn feared
he'd never see those eyes again.
He stared into his own in the mirror
while brushing his teeth that evening,
the second day Cassian had disappeared,
wishing he could see clearer
the thoughts in the mind of
the man he was worshiping—
or, at least, wished to be worshiping.
He spat, rinsed his mouth,
ran a hand over the scars
that underlined his pecs,
checked his texts,
went to bed,
hoped his crush wouldn't go unsaid.
Hopefully, he'll be back tomorrow.
And after 3 days of missed class,
Cassian returned from the dead
with his eyes full of dread
and unmistakable shame.
Merlyn called his name.
Cassian sat beside him gingerly, and Merlyn asked, "Are you okay?"
Cassian hesitated, sensations from the past few days racing through his head in a millisecond. The raw skin of his wrists hidden under his flannel. His fingers, covered in mud. The odour of decay lingering in his basement. The pain of his thoracic vertebrae, malaligned and contorted from his rapid transitions back and forth in such a short window of time.
The pair's silence in that moment was heavy. Eventually, after a moment of debating how to explain any of this, Cassian settled on, "…I've been worse."
The weighty silence continued. After a few more seconds, he added, "I wasn't feeling well."
Merlyn gave him an understanding nod. "Being sick is hell, literally fighting an enemy within your own body and all that. But, uh… Next time you're on your death bed…" He tore the corner of a page out of his notebook, scribbled something down, and handed it to Cassian, cheeks rosy, not quite able to meet his eyes. "…text me to let me know?"
Cassian gave him a big, relieved grin and a nod. "Yeah," he said. "I can do that."
And in a week, when they were asked to do a group project together, Cassian invited Merlyn over to his home to plan, and Merlyn had to bite back his squeal of excitement.
It happened again the next month—
almost to the day.
One morning, Cassian was there,
feeling fine,
talking notes while Merlyn pined,
and the next,
gone.
But at least this time, Cassian texted.
I'm sick was all he said,
so I won't be in class today.
That was how, four weeks after they had exchanged phone numbers, only about 8 weeks into knowing one another, Merlyn ended up on Cassian's porch. In his hands was a quart of chicken noodle soup, packaged into a weak plastic container from the last time he'd ordered Chinese takeout.
When he rang the doorbell, there was no sound inside.
He knocked. Still nothing.
He was half-debating leaving when finally, the door cracked open, and in the doorway stood Cassian with his plaid flannel unbuttoned, revealing a tantalising sliver of his hairy chest.
He stepped back to give Cassian his space as the latter asked, voice gritty, "What are you doing here?"
Merlyn held out the soup. "You said you felt poorly. I made you soup."
Cassian's only response was a terse, "Now's bad."
Merlyn flushed, brows furrowing. "But… you're just home sick?" he asked, feeling dense. He suddenly wished he could spontaneously combust so that he didn't have to stay here any longer, making a fool of himself in front of his crush. He felt that there was something he was missing, but, well, he just couldn't read Cassian's mind… no matter how much he may have wanted to.
But at least Cassian looked equally flustered. His eyes were begging, pleading for Merlyn to understand, but understand what, he had no idea. Cassian stammered, "I—it—you'll catch what I have."
Merlyn wasn't convinced that was Cassian's primary concern. Either way, he pulled the KN-95 from the back pocket of his jeans. Holding it aloft, dangling from his index finger, he said, "I'll survive."
A groan of frustration
as Cassian's face turned skyward.
You don't understand. Someone
will get hurt—probably you.
Merlyn scoffed. That's absurd.
Cassian met his eyes. You've never seen
me at my worst.
I'm cursed.
Well, I certainly don't believe that.
A flash of pain across Cassian's face
just made Merlyn want to hold him.
You don't know all there is to know about me.
We've all got secrets, Merlyn said,
but with a toothy half-smile, half-grimace,
Cassian shook his head.
Not like mine.
Merlyn shrugged. That's fine.
A sad sigh. It's really not.
Merlyn was growing frustrated.
Even as Cassian had opened up over the weeks,
there was always this wall up where he forbid
Merlyn from seeing whatever he hid
in the depths of his mind
lest he think he was some kind of freak.
But he was sure whatever was Cassian's sin
would make him no less inclined
to love him.
Well, I certainly wouldn't know
if you refuse to tell me, he remarked, voice tight.
The effect on Cassian was slow.
His face smoothed out,
the tension replaced with surprise.
With his voice still filled with doubt,
he met Merlyn's eyes.
Do you really want to know?
Merlyn huffed. "Do you really think I would have brought you a whole-ass quart of chicken noodle soup if I didn't want to know you?"
Cassian gave a surprised laugh. He repositioned himself so he was standing in the doorway, half-inside, half-outside. How poetic, Merlyn thought.
"You'll never see me the same," Cassian warned him.
Merlyn rolled his eyes, but before he could reply, Cassian jumped in, holding his palms up in surrender. "Yep. Doesn't matter. I know." He took a deep breath, and his brow furrowed again. After a solid thirty seconds of stammering, of starting and abandoning his sentence half a dozen times, he finally said, "I, uh, I'm kind of a werewolf."
Merlyn just blinked for what felt like a long moment. He wasn't quite sure whether this was some kind of elaborate prank or not, or if Cassian truly expected him to believe that, but then he took one good look at the fear on Cassian's face and realized… yeah, he believed him.
He set the quart of soup on the railing of the deck where he and half of Cassian were standing. "How?" he inquired.
Cassian hesitated once again. "Well, uh, it turns out, some women don't take it well when you reject them… even if it's because you're gay. And… some of those women are witches. And, uh, some of those witches are… surprisingly malevolent."
Merlyn's jaw dropped. "Some straight girl got so mad that you didn't want to fuck her that she turned you into a werewolf?!"
With a shrug, Cassian replied, "Throw in some slurs and, yep, that's essentially what happened."
Merlyn shook his head. "So that's why you miss a few days of class every month. The full moon, right?" He pointed up toward the sky.
Cassian nodded.
Merlyn sighed. "I hope you know I'm not gonna turn my back on you for that, right? Like… okay, you're slightly different than I thought you were. But I'm certainly not going to judge you for that." He thought of his own scars, currently hidden under the breast pockets of his winter coat, and he added, quieter, "I mean… I'd only hope you wouldn't judge me for that kind of thing."
Cassian let out a little, airy laugh. "Of course I wouldn't. But I don't think you'd be able to come up with something of this caliber even if you tried."
Without even thinking first, Merlyn blurted out, "I'm trans."
Cassian cocked his head slightly to the side. "You're certainly going to have to try harder than that."
Merlyn huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "No, seriously. You're not the only one who isn't what you seem. I am transgender."
Cassian shrugged. "That doesn't matter to me. And… that's still not the same caliber. Being trans isn't dangerous."
The noise of frustration that Merlyn let out was almost a growl. "Neither are you!" he argued. "Like, it's not contagious, is it?"
Cassian's brow furrowed. "No, it's not, but I could hurt you, Merlyn. The only things I'm physically capable of thinking about while I'm transformed are food and sex… and I've only figured out how to combat the hunger." He gave a quick glance over Merlyn's shoulder to the rapidly setting sun. "And that means that you need to go. Like, now."
Merlyn rolled his eyes. "And what, just leave you to do God knows what? Surely you'll be safer if I keep an eye on you than if you're completely alone? Like—what do you even do to protect yourself?"
Cassian shook his head. "It's far less about keeping myself safe than keeping others safe," he said. "I just… well, it sounds stupid now that I'm saying it out loud, but I put some shackles in my basement and just… eat a whole rotisserie chicken, down twice as much Benadryl as is recommended, and chain myself up for the night. I can usually just sleep through it, and even if I wake up, at least the hunger's staved off."
Merlyn tried to suppress his laugh at the mental image of this modern-day Zeus eating a whole chicken and downing enough allergy medicine to sleep through an entire werewolf transformation. He wished he could have avoided the drawn-out process of his own transition in such a manner. Picking up the quart of soup again, he said, "Well then, do that. I'll put this in your fridge for tomorrow, and I'll stay on the couch tonight to make sure you're okay."
Cassian was visibly flustered as Merlyn gently pushed past him into the house. Trailing behind him as he made his way to the kitchen, he protested. "I don't think I'll be able to sleep with you here."
After setting the quart carefully in the fridge, Merlyn turned to him and leaned against it, crossing his arms. With a one-shouldered shrug, he said, "I won't disturb you."
Cassian frowned. He spoke slowly, clearly contemplating every word. "Remember what I said about food and sex? The rotisserie only helps with one of those things," he admitted, eyes trailing seemingly unconsciously over Merlyn's frame.
Merlyn felt himself flush but did his best to seem confident as he again shrugged. "And?"
Cassian shut his eyes and let out a groan. If Merlyn thought his had been half-growl, this noise made him rethink that assessment. "I won't be able to control myself around you, Merlyn!" Cassian insisted.
"I think you have more control over yourself than you think you do," Merlyn countered.
Cassian huffed. "That's not a part of a werewolf's nature. All it knows is take."
Merlyn did his best to maintain an air of nonchalance, but his heart skipped a beat, face flushing. With a gulp he tried to hide, he replied, "Maybe I'm okay with that."
Cassian's scowl deepened. "I could hurt you!" he continued to protest.
Merlyn let out a quick breath. This was getting ridiculous. He took a step toward Cassian, letting his hands drift to the collar of his companion's shirt, just barely grazing his neck along the way. Cassian took in a sharp breath, eyes darting to Merlyn's lips. "Cassian," he purred. "Maybe I'm okay with that."
When he saw the change in Cassian's eyes, he knew he had finally gotten the point.
Cassian grabbed his wrists.