A commission I did for @stephschoices featuring her werewolf!MC Cyra and male Morgan. It was originally 500 words but got out of hand lol!
The dried blood is sticking your shirt to your upper arm in a way that you know will be painful when you rip the cloth off. Then the mostly-healed wound will be torn open, and you’ll be right back where you started. Nevertheless, you shimmy halfway out of it, mourning the cute blouse for a moment before gripping it tightly as you brace yourself to pull.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Morgan avert his gaze, hesitant and unsure. You nearly laugh; he’s seen far more than this…but that was before. Before, not now. You’re hardly strangers, no longer lovers; you exist in some odd in-between that threatens to crack every rib to devour your heart.
Back to the matter at hand, you remind yourself with force. Your throat bobs as your hand jerks. The shirt flies off with the fresh scabs, leaving your right shoulder raw and bloody once again. Those claws had gotten you good, and now you feel the marks as if they’re being freshly carved into your skin once more.
“Cyra, are you-?” Morgan croaks as you slam your hands down on the top of your vanity, your fingers curling into fists at the pain.
You bite your lip, sharp canines pinching and gnashing as you choke down a scream. Your mom is asleep in the other room; waking her up is not an option.
“Cyra?” Morgan repeats, hovering nervously at your side.
Already the flesh is stitching itself back together, your accelerated healing both a blessing and a curse. You force a thin smile, not wanting to worry Morgan any more than you already have.
“I’m fine,” You say, though it comes out more as a wheeze, “Really.”
His brows knit together, his hand hovering over your back as if fearful of initiating contact. You can feel the cold of his skin radiating before he even touches you, a stark difference from your own warmth.
“I don’t believe you,” He whispers.
You glance up and meet his eyes in the mirror. His skin is pale, his green eyes dark; he’s a ghost of who he used to be. That’s fine, you think; you always knew you’d love him even in death.
His gaze drops down to your shoulders, to your wound, and he freezes. You see how his pupils dilate, and you frown, twisting slightly so you aren’t just watching his reflection.
You hesitate to ask, “Is it-?”
“No.” He snaps out of it, shaking his head sharply, “It’s not…I’d never…”
“I know,” You say, as softly as possible.
“It was…the tattoo. I saw the tattoo.” The words are clumsy as they escape him, “That’s new.”
The tattoo on your left shoulder isn’t actually new at all; you’ve had it for almost two years. You recall how you’d stumbled into the tattoo parlor in your college town about a week after Morgan’s funeral, bordering on a breakdown. You’d asked for a rose through a haze of tears, trembling from the cold and grief.
A rose, because Morgan was born in June.
He had gotten a daisy tattooed on his forearm right after you graduated since you were born in April. You had thought at the time that a matching sentiment might connect the two of you across life and death. The rose helped in some small way, even though you’d thought its counterpart was six feet under.
It wasn’t, though. Morgan stands before you, and you can see the furling leaves of the daisy peek out from under his rolled-up sleeves. Never in a coffin, never beneath the dirt, but still not close enough for you to touch. He stands barely a foot away, yet it feels as insurmountable as six.
“So you…” He blinks, rolling his lips together, “I don’t want to assume-”
“It was for you.” You interrupt firmly.
The grief of what you both lost is thick in the air, but you don’t have much time to linger in your melancholy. The words hit him like a physical blow, and he takes a staggering step back before collapsing.
You go to your knees with him, sinking down without reservation to finally, finally pull him into your arms. He shakes in your grasp, so you just pull him tighter to your chest, trying to physically express what words can’t even begin to.
His hands reach up and grasp at where the tattoo is, leaving your skin chilled but flush at his touch. It’s thrilling to feel his skin against yours after going so long without it. You card your fingers through his hair, so much shorter than in your memory, and ignore the ache of your knees against the hardwood floor.
“Cy,” He whispers into your shoulder, his voice breathy, “Cy, Cyra, I’m-”
“You’re okay,” You press a kiss into the crown of his head, “You’re with me, and you’re okay, do you understand?”
It only breaks him down further, and he just about goes limp in your grasp, his body sagging against yours.
“I’m sorry, Cy,” He practically whimpers, “I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” You insist, your voice kind but firm, “It was never your fault.”
“I’m different-” His voice catches, “I’m-”
You deny the notion fiercely, “You’re Morgan.”
He doesn’t speak anymore; if it’s because he’s unable or simply too tired, you’re not sure. You stay curled around him on the floor of your childhood bedroom, surrounded by memories and haunted by what could’ve been. You block it all out, too focused on the version of the man you’re presently holding to be bothered by his ghost.
You know the truth, lodged in your heart like a bullet that cannot be dug out, and that’s the fact that you never got over Morgan. You never could have, even if you’d tried. Now, as the grief in your heart migrates back to love, you know you’ll hold him close for as long as you both need.
