He dug out those words from the depths of his memory—words he'd been forced to study, tedious yet usable, and hadn't been deleted—and began to scribble furiously on the wall.
A few minutes later, he threw down his pen, staring at the reversed writing before him. He knew the scientists wouldn't miss this; they were watching him closely, relentlessly.
John would be back soon.
He sat back down on the bed, surrounded by the scientists' watchful eyes. He waited anxiously, his fists clenching tighter and tighter. He couldn't explain his unease. Was it simply because he couldn't trust those so-called scientists? They could suddenly send John here, and they could just as easily take him away. Was their encounter destined to be short-lived? These few days felt like they'd consumed his entire life.
Perhaps, in a way, this was his entire life. Since meeting John, he felt his life had truly begun.
Still no John.
He kicked the glass, but no one paid him any attention.
"How much longer?" he asked impatiently. "You promised."
You promised me.
He began pacing again. It was like torture. The unknown is far more terrifying than waiting. How could he allow himself to be in this situation? He was always a loner, needing no one to get in his way, yet now he was losing his composure over a male human—his human partner.
His fists pounded against the glass, the cell door, the walls; he screamed and kicked. He wanted to get out, he wanted John! They would apologize, regret their foolish act of isolating their werewolf partner. He would make them pay.
His nails scratched across his arms and chest, leaving bloody marks on his skin. He wallowed in the pain, trying to distract himself from his overly focused attention. He needed something else; he couldn't keep thinking about John, John, John.
What if they hurt him? What if they suspended him on various instruments to test his pain tolerance? What if they touched him in strange, unbearable ways? No, no one could touch his John.
John, John, John. Where are you?
Is this what it feels like to be bound together? Is this what it feels like to be forced apart? Or is something wrong? What is wrong with him? Was this punishment for his long-term, deliberate neglect and malicious rejection of his instincts? Would he always be like this, clingy, emotional, and reckless?
No, he was much stronger than that. He wasn't some ordinary wolf, not at all.
He forced himself to sit down, leaning against the wall, raising his legs to his chest with his knees bent, his hands gripping his drooping head tightly. He could endure it; just a little longer, just a little longer and John would be back.
He would definitely be back.
He was trying his best to control his emotions, urging himself to calm down. At that moment, the outer door opened.
Three hours and nine minutes, his internal biological clock precisely ticked. But none of
that mattered; John was back. He watched John slowly approach, flanked by two security guards in public. It was obvious he had showered, combed his hair, and his shaved chin looked much cleaner. He was dressed, simply in athletic shorts and a T-shirt. He also noticed that the way those people were staring at John was very strange.
Their eyes met almost immediately, and John, standing in the large room outside, gave him a gentle, slightly apologetic smile. He knew two hours had passed. But could he understand what that meant to him? Could he see it in the way he stood, the bloodstains on his skin, the despair in his eyes?
He took a few steps back, not even considering escape, his mind consumed by the thought of John returning quickly. If taking a step back would bring John back to him even a second sooner, he would do it.
They opened the door, and John walked in. Now he could feel him, hear him, smell him again. He took two steps forward and embraced the short man, pulling him into his arms, his fingers tracing the fabric of his shirt on the back. He smelled soap… and, they—the scientists. It was distracting, unbearable, so he forced his nose to inhale the original scent of the body hidden by the clothes.
He haphazardly tugged at John's T-shirt until another steady hand pulled it off for him. He hugged him tightly, his arms wrapped around his bare skin, burying his face in the crook of his neck to breathe deeply.
"It's alright, I'm fine," he heard John reply. John held him close, running a hand through his messy curls. "Mmm... I'm back. I'm here. Everything's alright. Look at me." John cupped his face, lifting his cheeks so their eyes met. His eyes were filled with John, his John, his smile, and those warm blue eyes. "See, I'm fine. Everything's alright."
He nodded, slowly calming down. His frantic heartbeat subsided, and his tense body gradually relaxed. He lowered his head again, his nose brushing against John's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I... I can't..."
"It's okay." He heard John's comforting words. "That was hard for you, wasn't it? But things are getting better, it will get easier. I'm back, I'm not going anywhere."
He had an extraordinary, illogical possessiveness towards this man. This fragile and dangerous emotion that he had once ridiculed was now giving him a completely new experience. It seemed that as long as John was by his side, he was a complete person, a better person than ever before. He enjoyed this novel experience and hoped it would last forever.
He kissed John's skin, licking and nibbling. He was trying to remove the extra scent from John, to make him smell more like himself. Then everything would return to normal, and he could start thinking again.
He heard John's panting and felt the body in his arms gradually softening from his caresses. For a moment he felt a little confused, why John could so easily accept and tolerate his "little interests," but then he suppressed it in frustration and continued to mark his partner's body.
They lay on the bed, he hugged John from behind, his hands clasped over his chest, trapping him between his body and the wall.
"They are reversed." He almost missed what John
said. In fact, he was focused on the marks on John's body, a faint ligature mark on his wrist. They had bound him with a leather strap about three inches wide. He had struggled more than once, clearly enduring more than a simple experiment. He was strapped to a chair, similar marks on his arms, his legs bound to the chair legs, his hands gripping the armrests. This wasn't a physical examination; they needed him to sit while ensuring he couldn't launch any attacks. Had he resisted? Were they interrogating him? What kind of questions? Had he answered? What did he say?
"Hmm?" He suppressed his thoughts, tilting his head to meet John's gaze. Oh, those notes, his final masterpiece: "You want them to recognize them?" he said. Reverse, but to scientists they were forward; he didn't want them to decipher them so easily.
"What's written on them?"
He reached out and ran his hand over the bruise on John's wrist, rubbing it gently. He knew he would read it to him if John insisted, but then it wouldn't just be a matter of words.
"It's a quote," he replied, "more or less."
"Tell me. " He
closed his eyes, rolled over, and sank into the mattress.
"I am a wolf," he said softly. "Do wolves not have eyes? Do wolves not have senses, limbs, feelings, emotions, or blood? Don't they eat the same food, are harmed by the same weapons, and healed by the same medicine? Don't they feel the same cold in winter and the same heat in summer, just like humans? If you stab us with swords, don't we bleed? If you tickle us, don't we laugh? If you poison us, don't we die? So if you wrong us, won't we… seek revenge?"
He remained still, letting John's hand soothe his chest, a moment of silent solitude.
"The Merchant of Venice," John finally said softly.
"Yes."
They nestled together, quiet and comfortable, in a state neither dozing nor fully awake. Then, John's other question caught him equally off guard.
"Who are you?" John went straight to the point.
A wolf, he immediately thought.
He didn't answer.
The next morning, they took him away from the cell. This was expected, so he didn't bother to resist.
They gave him a full-body examination, scrutinizing every inch, but found no obvious changes. They spent too much time on his genitals, trying to get him erect but to no avail. They couldn't understand that there was only one person in the world who could arouse his desire, making him willingly submit to his instincts.
They made him run on the treadmill, then cycle. He endured it as usual, but recoiled when they tried to touch him. They made him shower and shave, and the thought of John grooming himself there the day before made him feel better. The scientists' actions made the impending farewell simple and routine, especially since they didn't need to go through many farewell scenes.