Wishful Thinking

Duncan looked down at his clammy hands, clasped too tight in his lap. Across the table, Oliver’s body remained loose and relaxed as he laughed at something that Duncan had already forgotten. Now was the time to tell him.

Duncan cleared his throat, his lips curving in amusement he didn’t feel. He unlocked one hand from the other and then convulsively grabbed his glass of water. It was a miracle that he didn’t end up with the contents in his lap.

Oliver quirked an eyebrow. “You look serious—and you haven’t heard a word I’ve said all night. What’s going on?”

Duncan drew breath to speak and then just kept holding it. The words clung to his tongue. He managed a squeak.

Oliver tilted his head. “Serious and nervous. You’re not going to propose, are you?” When Duncan didn’t respond, Oliver’s expression shifted to outright horror. “You are not going to propose to me in an Applebee’s!” he hissed. “Have some self respect! Hell, show me some respect!”

“I’m not going to propose,” Duncan said at last, and watched Oliver sag in apparent relief back into the maroon vinyl booth. “I want to share something with you, and it’s important—but it’s difficult.”

Ever mercurial, Oliver’s expression shifted again. “Is it... hard... this thing you want to share with me?” he teased, reaching across the table to touch the back of Duncan’s hand. It was this that finally gave Duncan the push he needed to speak—because that sweetness and dirty mind were the major ways Oliver had snuck into Duncan’s heart. Duncan’s last relationship had imploded spectacularly because of secrets. He was determined to avoid making the same mistake twice.

He looked down at his lap, as Oliver’s fingers toyed with his. Duncan took a deep breath and said, “You’re important to me, Oliver. I have a... let’s call it a medical condition, and I think you should know about it.”

He glanced up, receiving a warm nod and a sharp, “Well, get on with telling me, then,” as encouragement.

Duncan blurted out the truth. “I’m... I’m a vampire.”

Oliver’s hand stilled, and Duncan immediately regretted telling him. It was too soon! What had he been thinking?

“Duncan,” Oliver said slowly, “There’s no shame in being positive. You can call it what it is. I want you to know that.” With a deliberate motion, he took Duncan’s hand. “And besides, that’s ridiculous. Look at you.”

Duncan could only gape. “No, I’m not—” This was not one of the first three ways he thought he could screw this up. It wasn’t even in the first ten.

“I mean, that full beard? All that body hair? Not that I’m complaining, believe me. But if you’re going to be a supernatural creature, you’re a werewolf. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

In all of Duncan’s planning for this moment, he had not considered Oliver cheerfully deciding he was a werewolf. Duncan blinked, more than a little flummoxed as to how he should proceed.

“I mean, you wear plaid! Which you pull off—but a vampire in plaid?” Oliver sighed, his cheer fading. “Don’t look at me like that. There’s nothing wrong with—but we’re getting away from the main point. How long have you known?”

Since Oliver still hadn’t let go of his hand, Duncan tried to throw off his confusion. He wasn’t going to let this chance slip away. “Ten years, just about. I was with someone, and I thought I could keep it from him. It was stupid. I should have trusted him, but I thought...”

“You thought he’d run,” Oliver answered, and Duncan nodded.

“So I snuck out to feed at least a few nights a week, and I lied about where I was going, and he finally demanded to know what was going on. I tried to explain, but I just scared the crap out of him. I don’t want—you’re—you deserve to know.”

Waiting for Oliver’s response, Duncan thought again about Harper. He remembered the disgust in the other man’s eyes and how he’d fled their apartment. Duncan had handled it badly—drinking blood in front of Harper had been the worst possible way to explain. At the time, he’d thought that nothing less would satisfy his lover’s furious demand to know what Duncan was doing if he wasn’t seeing someone else.

“You’re not even in a club and yet you swim five nights a week? How can you expect me to believe that you’re not hooking up with all those hot young men in Speedos?”

So Duncan had extended his fangs and sunk them into a blood bag he pulled from his pocket.

Harper had managed to scramble out of the room without ever turning his back on Duncan or losing his expression of panic and loathing. “No! No, no, no—I can’t—I just... ugh!” And then he was gone.

That visceral reaction was part of the reason Duncan had chosen this restaurant for this talk. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to be rejected in his own home again. Duncan knew Oliver well enough to know that a chain restaurant wouldn’t stop him from making a scene if it suited him—but Oliver wouldn’t feel trapped, and that was important.

Please, don’t let him walk away from us, Duncan thought.

“Are you sure you’re not a werewolf?” The other man asked wistfully.

Duncan shook his head. “After this long, I’m sure.”

“Ten years,” Oliver said then. His voice was soft, almost drowned out by the murmur of conversations and the clink of silverware. “I hadn’t realized you were so new.”

New? Not for the first time, Duncan tried to figure out how he’d wrong-footed the conversation. “So you’re not surprised?” It wasn’t the wit he’d hoped to summon, nor the coherent explanation he’d wanted to present. “You do understand what I’ve told you, don’t you?” He paused. “I can’t tell if you’re just taking this really well or you’re about to call me a liar and bolt.”

Oliver smiled, for once completely serious. His grip was firm. It was only as Duncan saw his lover’s eyes flash yellow that he understood. “I suppose I just hope that someone gets to tear their clothes off and we can howl at the moon together,” he said. Oliver waved at the waitress with his free hand. “Check, please.”

Rachel Unger thinks that now is an excellent time for us all to be kind to each other. Yes, really. She spends her days excavating stories from the dirt, staring down a microscope, and daydreaming about her next bike ride. Her fiction is published or forthcoming in On Spec, Broadswords and Blasters, and the Night's End podcast. You can find links to her work at www.rachelunger.com and her occasional thoughts about writing at @rachelunger.bsky.social.

Copyright © 2024 by Rachel Unger

Published by Orion's Beau