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Alpha Wolves
The tattoos were a frequent topic of conversation in Jamie’s house and amongst extended family. Tattoos were wild and large in their family. Their parents had sleeves of tattoos that fit together beautifully when they interlocked their arms just right. Their mother also had a different tattoo on one of her hands. She liked to tease when they were children that it was for their safety when crossing the road. She said it must be a familial tattoo because she could not imagine any other romantic or sexual soulmate than her husband. Jamie secretly suspected his sister’s hand was itchy because her tattoo would complete their mother’s tattoo. He was glad his mother was not his soulmate.
“You’ll meet that special woman someday,” their father said to the oldest boy over supper.
The teenager poked at his food. “I guess.”
Jamie’s other older brother’s tattoo was on his inner right forearm. It looked complete. Their mother said that meant whomever had a matching tattoo must be some kind of business soulmate or best friend. It was called a complementary tattoo, because the tattoos never interlaced but they did go together in like pages of a picture book. Jamie’s oldest sister had a tattoo supposedly, but Jamie had never seen it.
His oldest brother’s soulmate came with the summer. The bottom lip tattoo was unmistakable. Jamie stared at it for a long moment. He was in the shops with his mother. He felt his mother stiffen beside him. She grasped his arm and pulled him back behind her. “Don’t stare at that,” she said sharply.
Jamie looked up at her. Her nose wrinkled in disgust and her eyes watched the teenager near them. “Do not tell your brother,” she said firmly.
Jamie looked back at the boy with the bottom lip tattoo and back at his mother. Her stare was intense and her eyes narrowed, daring him to say anything against her wishes. Jamie nodded.
He did not have to tell his brother. He did not have to. It was not a week later when their father dragged Jamie’s oldest brother into the kitchen and violently shoved the teenager down onto a chair. Jamie looked up from where he helped his mother and sisters prepare stew.
“I just caught him with another boy,” their father said. “Some tall, thin bastard.”
“That poof with the tattoo on his lip,” their mother said. Her nose wrinkled. “I saw him at the shop. Nasty creature.” She nudged Jamie’s sisters towards Jamie. “Girls, take your brother outside.”
Jamie stopped peeling potatoes and put his knife down. The oldest sister ushered them outside. Jamie could hear their father threatening to send their brother away before the door closed. Their brother was gone in an hour. One of their uncles picked him up and took him north. There were rumours of “correctional” facilities around the world for people whose tattoos connected them to unsavoury characters. Rehabilitating people whose complementary tattoos “led them astray” was easier than those whose intimate tattoos led them astray. It was especially hard in cases like Jamie’s brother when there was no leading astray or ill intention between the tattooed partners.
That same year in another part of Scotland, Malcolm’s palms itched along with the back of his right hand. He kept the affliction to himself, unsure of its origins. The itching began two years ago and began increasing in intensity ever since. His palms were transitioning from pink to red and he swore that the rash looked like a wolf on the back of his right hand. He saw others with similar markings when at school or out and about, but never in his family. His grandmother once mentioned her grandmother had something like this on her feet, but nobody else mentioned it after his grandmother died ten years ago. His parents worked multiple shifts. His older sister was on her own. None of them had tattoos.
“I want your hands out of your pockets,” his mother said. They were preparing to go to church as they did every Sunday. Church was as uncomfortable as his hands.
Malcolm slid his hands out of his trouser pockets and put them behind his back.
“What are you hiding?” his father asked.
Malcolm felt both of their eyes on him. He knew either he would show them now or they would make him show them now. He turned his hands to them, palms up. His palms and the undersides of his fingers were covered in marks. It looked like squiggles or waves to Malcolm, but they were inflamed and blotchy from too much scratching.
“It’s measles,” his mother said. “Of course, when he’s fourteen and it’s time to go to church.”
“It doesn’t look like the measles,” his father said.
Malcolm’s mother took his hands reluctantly and turned them over. “A wolf,” she said. “It’s a wolf.”
Now Malcolm’s father looked at Malcolm’s hands. “He’s one of those fucking queers,” he said. “He’s got that fucking mark. Surprised it’s not on his fucking arse.”
“It’s not a queer mark,” Malcolm’s mother said. “It’s a sign of a curse,” she said. “The last person in my family to have one of these marks was murdered.”
“Don’t start that load of shite,” Malcolm’s father said. “She was murdered because she pretended she had money.”
Malcolm pulled his hands out of his mother’s grasp. He rubbed his palms together try and quell the irritation. She slapped his hands sharply.
“Don’t do that. We’ll ask the doctor what to do about this,” she said. “He’ll look at you. I’m sure there’s a cure.”
Malcolm opened his mouth.
“Don’t even start,” his father said in a dark voice. “You are going to talk to the doctor about this,” he gestured to Malcolm’s hands, “thing and he’ll know what we can do about it.”
Malcolm closed his mouth. He followed his parents out of the house. Even though it itched terribly, the tattoos felt natural. He did not want the doctor to make them disappear.
It was five years later. The itch began tiny, almost unnoticeable. It felt ordinary even and stuck to a small spot under Jamie’s right shoulder blade. In the past four months, it had grown large and demanding. Scratching did not help. Lotions did not help. There was a rumour that baking soda and vinegar diluted in some water would quell the reaction, but it just made his skin softer and did not ease the itch. As the itch persisted and its size and shape grew with every passing month, Jamie came to horrible realization. The red lines was a large wolf’s head and neck but in the fur of the neck was a large blank spot that was shaped like a hand. The hand was larger than Jamie’s hand and the fingers longer. It looked like a man’s hand the more the tattoo grew and changed as Jamie navigated puberty.
He stood with his back the mirror and used one of his sister’s hand-held mirrors to look at the mark. The hand-shaped gap was male. Jamie knew it was. Jamie had not seen nor heard from his oldest brother since the night their parents sent him away. Every time family asked Jamie if he was itchy or he felt anything strange, he lied. He did not know what he could do. He did not want to disappear. Jamie became more active in the church where he felt like he had more control over his compulsions and impulsions. As he got older, the thought of going into seminary seemed logical. It felt like the only way to ensure he would not disappear.
It was ten years later. A design that looked like a story ocean swirled across Malcolm’s palms and the undersides of his fingers. The wolf tattoo on the back of Malcolm’s right hand looked like an Alpha wolf howling surrounded by something that was dark. Malcolm could not tell what it was. It looked like dark fur or possibly rain. Malcolm honestly could not tell and he did not care. Neither tattoo seemed to serve any purpose except attract attention. He wore makeup on his hands to cover up the tattoos. It was a habit instilled in his since his parents discovered the markings could not be cured. He did not even think about the makeup any more. It was routine like brushing his teeth. Malcolm saw many tattoos over the years, but none matched the one on top of his hand and there was nothing that looked like it remotely went with his palms. These tattoos were a child’s game and he was almost thirty.
It was near Christmas and Malcolm covered politics for a newspaper. One of the MPs was at the podium and his handlers of varying ages gathered nearby. Throughout the entire question and answer session, Malcolm’s tattoo itched. It was not like the itch when it developed, but a quiet, mild itch that flexing his hands seemed to satiate enough. The tattoo had not itched since he was a teenager. Malcolm wondered if he finally developed an allergy to the makeup on his hands.
The itch took Jamie by surprise. It was mild and if he actually listened to the MP at the podium, he could almost ignore it entirely. His mother told them growing up that when you were near your soulmate, when you could see them from afar, the tattoo would know and it would try to stretch and tingle to get your attention. The irritation would subside once you recognized your significance with one another and it would increase in intensity if the soulmate connection went ignored for a long period of time. Jamie glanced at the journalists around them. The majority of them were male though there was one female near the middle of the room. Her hands were small.
After two years of seminary, Jamie moved to politics. He was completing his degree while working with his party. He remained standing still. His eyes kept returning to a man with longish, curly brown hair near the front middle of the journalists. Jamie knew his name was Malcolm. Everyone knew about Malcolm. He was the type of journalist who was going to grab the MP by the balls and squeeze.
When the MP finished, he left the podium and the journalists stood. Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm saw Jamie. Malcolm found his eyes moving up the back of Jamie’s jacket. He shook his head and looked away. Malcolm did not want to know why he did that. Malcolm was not single and Jamie looked like he was just a baby compared to everyone else in the room. Malcolm headed off in the opposite direction.
It was time for the next election cycle. The irritation moved from news conference rooms to the office a year ago. It made Jamie irritable, even more so than he might normally be. Jamie did not understand it. At first, he thought it was connected to Malcolm, but Malcolm’s hands were devoid of design. Jamie began to pace around the hotel room they shared. It was on the both of them to come up with something communications could run with and hopefully get out of eleven years of opposition during their leader’s tour. They needed to make the leader of their party seem like the next prime minister.
Malcolm looked up from his notes. “What the fuck are you doing?” His hand felt more irritated than ever. It made Malcolm feel more irritable.
“Thinking,” Jamie said.
Malcolm idly scratched the top of his right hand. The tattoos on his palms were fine, but his right hand felt like an allergic reaction. He frowned and then got up from his chair. “We can’t let them fuck us up the arse again,” Malcolm said. He went over to the sink in the room and used a makeup cleanser from his bag to clean the makeup off, not sure if that would help the irritation or not.
Jamie flopped down on his bed. He looked at the ceiling. He wanted to find something they could run with that the party did not try five years ago. He looked over at Malcolm. It looked like Malcolm’s skin was melting away from his hands. “Jesus,” Jamie said and he sat up. There were black lines all over Malcolm’s palms and the top of his right hand. The only part of Malcolm’s right hand that was not covered was the sides of Malcolm’s fingers and the sides of his hands, marking a clear break in-between the tattoo on the palm and the tattoo on the back of his hand.
“Don’t start,” Malcolm said. “Having one of these is like fucking a barbed cunt.” He did not know what would happen if his palms began to react like the back of his hand was.
Jamie could not see the designs clearly. Malcolm was still cleaning off the makeup. “Yeah?” Jamie asked. He still told people he did not have one. Only his classmates and anyone he ever had sex with knew.
“Yeah,” Malcolm said. “When it first came in, it itched to fucking hell, now it’s like some never-ending rash.”
Jamie frowned. He still could not see the pattern. “Has anyone ever seen it?”
“Yeah,” Malcolm said. “Family, cunts at school.” He washed his hands properly once all the makeup was gone. “Some girlfriends.” He dried his hands off. “It’s been one big fucking magical misery tour. These things make everyone angry.”
Jamie remembered his father slamming his brother down into one of the kitchen chairs. He could remember his mother’s sneer at his brother’s soulmate in the shops. He nodded. “Yeah, they seem to.”
“Look at these things,” Malcolm said. He held his hands up. The stormy oceans was unexpected, but Jamie was not prepared for the wolf on the back of Malcolm’s hand surrounded by what looked like the fur of the wolf on Jamie’s back. Both of their wolves looked like Alpha wolves. Jamie’s wolf was a black wolf while Malcolm’s wolf was not filled in by markings.
“What’s it mean?” Jamie asked. “Everyone seems to have some meaning.”
Malcolm tossed the towel towards the sink so it landed on the countertop. He sat down on his bed. “This girl I dated made me go to some psychic cunt once. He told me the wolf is some sort of leader, fucker, partner, bastard. He said if I found whatever the dark shit around it was from, it’d tell me more than my hand could. He told me the water is angry and I need to find a rainy, calm sky. Whatever that means. It’s a bunch of bollocks.”
Jamie looked away from Malcolm’s right hand. The more he looked, the more he swore the hand looked like the right size and shape. It was ridiculous. All Malcolm talked about in a sexual context were women. Then again, that could mean anything. Scotland had only decriminalized homosexuality twelve years ago and Jamie still was not used to it being legal even though he was sixteen when it occurred. It was easy to look at Malcolm. Jamie’s eyes always found Malcolm in a crowd. He wondered if it was attraction or the draw of the tattoo.
Malcolm rubbed his face. He felt Jamie staring at him. It always felt like Jamie was staring at him, but Malcolm figured it was because of the tattoos this time. Malcolm knew when he was younger he stared similarly before he started to feel his own appearing. Malcolm wondered if Jamie’s family were devoid of tattoos as his was. “We need to get back to what we’re supposed to be doing,” Malcolm said.
Their party leader did not become prime minister. The next general election cycle approached when Jamie saw a familiar person standing outside of the office building. Jamie would not have recognized him except for the striking tattoo on the man’s bottom lip. The tattoo had not full developed its darkness when Jamie first saw it, but now it was very deep, very bold and an unmistakable half of a lovers knot.
“Are you Jamie MacDonald?” the man asked.
“Yeah,” Jamie said. He paused. “I remember you.”
“Good, that makes this easier,” the man said. “I don’t want to contact him if it’d fuck up his life, but what happened to your brother? I only talked to him once and then your dad caught us.”
Jamie frowned. “I don’t know. They sent him to one of those correctional facilities before they were shut down. I’ve not seen him since.” He used to think that his brother had found his soulmate and they were off somewhere together. It was better than thinking of alternative scenarios.
The man nodded. “Do you know which one?”
“No,” Jamie said. He never thought to look.
“Thanks.” The man headed off on his way.
Jamie watched him leave. When Jamie returned from lunch, he began to probe where his brother might have gone. Not to tell his brother’s soulmate, but for his own need to know.
It was not long after that Malcolm’s family fell into turmoil. His mobile rang on a Sunday afternoon, which usually meant a political emergency. Instead, it was his niece.
“Ma’s being weird,” she said after greetings and pleasantries.
“Your ma’s always been weird,” Malcolm said. He stretched out on his sofa. It was rare that Malcolm’s niece called him. He talked to her on the phone many times, but it was usually because her mother called him on a holiday.
“No, I mean,” the twelve-year-old tried to find the right words, “she wants me to take twice the recommended dose of Benadryl kind of weird. I can take all the Benadryl in the world, it does fuck all.”
“Start talking like that and you’ll get both of us in trouble,” Malcolm said. He paused. He looked at the tattoo on his hand. Since it was a Sunday there was no need for the makeup routine. “How long have you had this rash thing?”
“Two years,” she said. “Why?”
“Is it blotchy or does it have lines?” Malcolm asked.
“Lines. Why?” she asked.
“You don’t have a rash,” Malcolm said. “You have a tattoo.”
“But only gay people get them. I’m not gay,” she said.
“I know an MP who’s got one on his ear and his wife’s got one on her tongue like some kind of lock and key,” Malcolm said. He held his left hand up and studied his palm. He could not remember a time he had ever been around his niece without makeup on his hands.
“Ma keeps taking me to a doctor that doesn’t listen,” the niece said. “I thought these things were natural. Why am I the only person in this family with one?” She sighed. “I rang because I need you to talk sense into Ma and Dad. He wants to leave her. He doesn’t have a tattoo either. I have his gigantic nose. Of course, I’m his daughter. This is so stupid.”
Malcolm flexed his hand and then he said, “I have two tattoos.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. “That’s not possible.”
“Of course it is. Stop sounding like your ma for two seconds,” Malcolm said. “I’ve got one of my palms and one on my hands. Whatever’s going on with you, I’m sure it’s normal.”
“They think I’m cursed or allergic to everything!” She sighed. “The next time you see them, can you show them? Can you tell them this is normal if it’s so normal?”
Malcolm pressed his lips together. “Yeah,” he said. The makeup seemed ludicrous now. It was like acne wash, a remnant from his teens that he needed to stop because it made no sense to do something he no longer needed to do. “If they keep this up, give me a ring. I’ll see what I can do.” He could remember his mother’s constant, sour displeasure towards the end of her life. He could remember his father call him a jobby jabber until the end of his life. It was all because of the tattoo. Malcolm’s jaw tightened.
“Thanks,” his niece said. “I have to go. Talk to you later. Maybe.” She hung up.
It took months to find the right information. Jamie tried to be discreet. Eventually his brother’s case file sat on his desk unopened. The woman on the phone with the records cautioned him that he might want to open it at home. He frowned. “Fucking hell.” He picked up the envelope and opened it. He pulled out the file and opened it up. There was the standard admittance forms and a picture of his brother on the day he was admitted. The correctional facility was called St. Mary’s Rehabilitation Centre. It was in Thurso. Jamie looked at each page as it came in the file. Most were psychologists’ notes. There was evidence of experimental laser treatments to remove the tattoo. It ended in blisters and sores, all documented. Jamie’s nose wrinkled at the photographs. He felt his blood pressure increase and his rage build. He neared the end of the file. The file began in 1973. The centre in Thurso did not properly shut down until 1980. The dates on the documents Jamie now read was 1975. His brother did not respond well to the therapy. Jamie did not see how anyone could respond well to what looked like torture.
One of the last few pages chronicled things getting to the point that his brother bit one of the doctors. That earned his brother a place in isolation. Jamie lost track of how many times he brother was in isolation in the documents. Jamie turned the page. There were more photos. He was not prepared for them.
Jamie heard the door open. In one swift motion, he closed the case file, which scattered the pictures across his desk and onto the floor. “Fuck. Fuck.” He looked up. It was Malcolm.
Malcolm looked down at Jamie. He picked up a photo on the ground. He frowned. “What kind of shit are you in?” he asked. The photo was of some university-aged kid hanging from the rafters in what looked like a horror movie’s idea of asylum living. The photo looked maybe twenty or more years old.
“Nothing,” Jamie said. He got up and took the photo from Malcolm, put it back in the file, and then stuffed the file back in its envelope. Malcolm found the least distressing of the photos. There were autopsy photos included at the end of the file.
When Jamie took the photo, the tips of his fingers touched Malcolm’s wolf tattoo. It was weird. Every handshake they ever hand, every casual touch between them, made Malcolm’s wolf tattoo feel like it was inflamed. It made Malcolm feel more aware of Jamie. He rubbed the wolf’s hand to quell the sensation.
Jamie scratched his back absently and then straightened out his suit. His mind kept going back to the photos. The last thing on it was that touching Malcolm without confronting the tattoo issue made everything worse, more irritated. It was exactly as his parents told him. The longer a soulmate connection went ignored, the more intense the tattoos reacted to one another. Some people said that it was a curse brought about on a dozen early families eons ago before the ice ages. Others claimed it was God’s way of providing a map to necessary connections in a person’s life. Still others thought it was Satan’s work meant to distract from healthier pursuits. Once the tattoos were interlocked, Jamie’s mother claimed that the itch would become a reoccurring, dull ache for the rest of their lives.
“What cunt are you targeting?” Malcolm asked.
“I’m not targeting any cunts,” Jamie said. He put the envelope in his desk and locked the drawer. He held Malcolm’s gaze, deciding if he should admit anything. “That was my brother.”
Malcolm held Jamie’s gaze. Jamie’s fists were clenched so tight that they trembled. Jamie’s jaw was tense. Malcolm could feel Jamie’s rage rippling in the air.
“They sent him away,” Jamie said and looked to the objects on his desk. “He fucking died.” He picked up his stapler, but he could not decide if he wanted to smash it against the desk or rip it apart. “He died because they couldn’t handle it.” His wild eyes found their way back to Malcolm.
“Who couldn’t handle what?” Malcolm stayed where he was. Malcolm’s hand felt numb the more Jamie struggled against the emotions swirling within him.
“Our parents. They couldn’t handle who his soulmate was,” Jamie said. “They wanted to condition him against it.”
Malcolm frowned. They lapsed into silence. Malcolm felt his hand relax and the level of irritation go from numb to a mild tingle. Jamie took deep breaths, put the stapler back on his desk, and rubbed his face.
“We’re out of opposition,” Jamie said. “That’s why you came in here, right?”
“Yeah,” Malcolm said. “I’ve got something to show you.”
Jamie followed Malcolm out of his office.
It was three years later. Malcolm scuttled down the hallway on his way to find an MP that might be imploding. For the first time in his adult life, the tattoos on his palms itched. Malcolm glanced at a group of people waiting for job interviews. One of the women was rubbing the palm of her hand idly as she tried not to watch the clock too much. Malcolm slowed and then walked over the applicants.
“Why are you here?” Malcolm asked her. She was young. He suspected she probably had maybe three to five years’ experience already.
Sam looked up at him. “There’s a secretarial position open on the first floor.” Her face was honest and kind. She took a deep breath. “Do you –”
“Come with me,” Malcolm said in a soft tone. “We can talk after I confront someone.” He started down the hall. Sam gathered her things and hurried after him. It felt right. It made no sense, but it felt right. He introduced himself and got her name on their way towards the MP’s office.
Malcolm left Sam in a hallway so he could harangue the MP. When he stepped back out into the hallway, he looked at her. “Let me see your CV.” The paper had anything he might want to know and things he could care less about on it. Her typing speed was to be expected and her education good. This would not be her first secretarial position either. “Forget the position upstairs,” he said. “I want you for my personal secretary.”
“What?” Sam asked.
“Unless, you want to be secretary to four people,” Malcolm said. “I won’t stop you.”
“No, I want to,” Sam said. “I can take your offer, but what about your current secretary?”
“She leaves on Monday,” Malcolm said. She gave notice last week. “I go through one a year.”
“So then, I’ll try to last more than a year,” Sam decided.
Malcolm offered her a hand so they could seal their verbal agreement. When they shook hands, a spark seemed to shoot through their bodies from the point of contact. Sam let go and stepped back at the pain.
Malcolm’s palm ached dully. He flexed his hand. “What was that?”
“I don’t….” Sam looked at her own hand. She held it up to him. Across the bottoms of her fingers and her palm was a calming sky pattern fully of clouds, some dripping rain. “I have this on my left hand too,” she said. Sam changed which hand held her purse so she could show Malcolm her left palm.
Malcolm reached out with his left hand, holding her gaze. He looked away to make sure that their palms touched. This time there was not jolt, just a pleasant, encouraging feeling. “This is fucked up,” Malcolm said quietly.
Sam gingerly touched the pads of her fingers to the pads of Malcolm’s fingers. “Someone told me once that I should find someone who was like the ocean,” she said. “That I could help an ocean as much as the ocean helps the clouds.”
“Do you really believe that?” Malcolm asked. He reluctantly pulled his hand away. His whole body felt warm, comfortable.
“I think it’s a way of saying a politician needs a secretary as much as she needs him to have a job,” Sam said. She held her purse with both hands now.
“I need you here on Monday,” Malcolm said. “I’ll make sure it happens.”
“Thank you,” Sam said.
They parted ways. Walking down the hall, Malcolm glanced at the waves etched onto his palm and fingers. He was drawn to Sam the moment his palms reacted. It did not make him believe in the tattoos on his hands, but it did make him more aware of how irritated the wolf tattoo felt when he was at work as opposed to when he was home. It also reminded him how the wolf tattoo used to react in certain places when he was still a journalist.
Six months later, Malcolm approached Jamie. It was late and they were the only people in the building. Jamie was on the stairs. It was time for both of them to go home. They met up every Friday for drinks and alternated between their homes. Today was Wednesday and they would go to Malcolm’s house on Friday.
Jamie paused on the stairs and looked back at Malcolm. He waited for Malcolm to catch up. The tattoo on his back felt raw and it had for at least six months now. He knew Sam was Malcolm’s business soulmate. Ever since she arrived, it felt like Malcolm’s tattoo demanded Jamie acknowledge it. Jamie continued to deny his own tattoo’s existence. It was subconscious self-preservation.
Malcolm flexed his right hand. The wolf tattoo felt raw. The closer to Jamie he approached, the more the irritation increased. It no longer itched; it stung. “I know,” Malcolm said when he was two steps away from Jamie.
“Know what?” Jamie asked. That could mean anything. Jamie was the Senior Press Officer now and Malcolm would likely become the Director of Communications after the next general election. It was Malcolm’s job to know everything and Jamie had a few things of his own to pull off without Malcolm’s intervention.
Malcolm reached out and his right hand hovered in front of Jamie, starting at Jamie’s head and moved through the air steadily downward. Jamie felt that tattoo on his back become so numb, he almost could not feel his flesh, the closer Malcolm approached the spot one hundred and eighty degrees in front of the hand-shaped gap on Jamie’s back. Malcolm’s hand rested in the air just under Jamie’s ribcage.
“There,” Malcolm said. His hand felt numb and his stomach hot. “That’s where it is.”
Jamie felt his heart rate increase the longer Malcolm’s hand remained hovering. “You said they were children’s stories.”
“I can’t feel my fucking hand,” Malcolm said. “I don’t care what we do after this. It has to stop.”
Jamie sighed. “Then do it. If you know where your hand goes, put it there,” Jamie said. He braced himself to be turned around sharply, but instead Malcolm pressed his hand to Jamie’s upper abdomen. The essence of their tattoos collided and churned together, but without the proper alignment, the energy had nowhere productive to travel. The heat in their stomachs increased to a nauseating level and Malcolm abruptly staggered back. He was going to vomit. He could feel it. He felt hot and sloshy.
Jamie lost his balance. He had not anticipated Malcolm reading the energies incorrectly. His stomach felt too hot and he knew he was going to vomit as he slid down the stairs on his ass. Jamie heard Malcolm throw up when Jamie reached the bottom of the stairs. Jamie rolled over in time to throw up on the ground rather than while lying on his back. “Fucking Christ, Malcolm,” he hissed. It was hard to move.
Malcolm found his feet. He walked down the stairs towards Jamie. He gripped the railing tightly when his knees buckled. “What the fuck was that?” He thought the electric shock with Sam was bad. This was much worse. Malcolm felt the urge to vomit again, but he had nothing left in his stomach but frothy, pale ooze.
Jamie’s arms trembled. He could not feel the skin on his back that was covered by his tattoo. He closed his eyes and concentrated on settling his stomach. Jamie rose to his feet after a long time. He looked at Malcolm. “Come with me,” he said. Jamie’s house was closer. They were in no shape for public transport.
It was a thirty-minute walk. By the time they reached Jamie’s home, their footsteps were firmer and they could feel their tattoos again. Jamie’s tattoo itched as it used to when it was fresh. Jamie fumbled with his keys and then let them inside. His house was smaller than Malcolm’s was and his aesthetic was earth tones with red accents. Jamie put his keys back in his pocket. It was hard to ignore the itch. Jamie prided himself on his ability to ignore his tattoo. He felt like he might vomit again.
Jamie led the way to the sitting room and turned on a lamp for minimal lighting. He collapsed into one of the chairs and put his feet up. He left the sofa for Malcolm, knowing Malcolm’s tendency to stretch out if allowed. Malcolm settled into the corner of the sofa and let his feet dangle off the cushion. Neither spoke for a long time.
“I want it to fucking stop,” Malcolm said. “The itching, the numbness, the fucking nausea.” He flexed his right hand. He sat up and looked at Jamie in the dimly lit room. “My palms stopped fucking up when I shook Sam’s hand. There has to be a way to make this stop.”
Jamie lowered his feet and sat up in the chair before leaning forward to rub his face. He flexed his back. “We have to line up the tattoos like a fucking puzzle.” Jamie held his right hand up so his fingers were in the same position as the gap on his back. “It could fuck us up for the rest of the night if we fuck it up again.”
“We’re already fucked,” Malcolm said. “I want to stop feeling fucked over.”
Jamie nodded. The tattoos wanted to be complete. Jamie knew that since they waited so long to combine their tattoos, the physiological reaction would be intense. He took a deep breath. Putting it off any longer, might kill one or both of them. Jamie undid his tie and cast it aside. “The tattoo is on my back,” he said. Jamie stood up and began undoing the buttons of his shirt. Jamie pulled his jacket off and then his shirt. He put them over the back of his chair. Jamie turned his back to Malcolm.
Malcolm looked. He got up and moved closer, turning on the other lamp in the room for more light. Jamie’s wolf head stretched from his lower back up towards his right shoulder like a dark wolf howling. Malcolm reached out with his left hand so he could touch the raised scars without disturbing the energy from the tattoos in the air.
Jamie’s heart rate increased at the touch. He felt Malcolm’s fingers trace along the tattoo. Jamie’s shoulders flexed. He had many partners who touched the tattoo similarly, but his hair had never stood so straight and it had never been so hard to remember to breathe.
Malcolm expected touching Jamie’s tattoo to cause his own to sting, but he felt no pain or and the irritation began to subside as though to encourage Malcolm onward. Malcolm felt an inner warmth, but not the hot, sick heat from the stairs. Malcolm’s left index finger traced along the edges of Jamie’s tattoo where Malcolm’s hand was meant to rest. The hand-shaped gap was aligned the way Malcolm would naturally place his hand against the small of Jamie’s back. Malcolm could see how things would align so that his wolf would be engulfed by Jamie’s wolf, both turned upwards in a shared howl.
Malcolm changed hands and let the tips of his fingers on his right hand where neither of his tattoos existed skim down Jamie’s shoulder blade to the centre of his back before Malcolm’s right hand rested against the small of Jamie’s back where it belonged.
Jamie swore he heard a noise that did not exist before he fell forward. It felt like a kick to the chest. His back stung like red ant bites. He bowed his head and caught his breath. After a moment, the intense pain gave way to a dull ache. Jamie looked over his shoulder at Malcolm. “Fuck.”
Malcolm was flat on his back and his eyes were closed. His right arm was bent at the elbow and his hand was rigid, his fingers stuck in the position where they touched Jamie’s back.
Jamie knelt down beside Malcolm. “Fuck. Fuck.” He rested his fingers against Malcolm’s neck. There was a still a pulse.
Malcolm’s fingers twitched. They wiggled slowly. His eyes blinked and he looked at Jamie blankly. His elbow relaxed and his arm dropped to the floor without warning. Malcolm looked around. He was not home. He was not at work. Jamie was shirtless. Malcolm felt like someone kicked him in the chest. “What the…?” his voice trailed. He flexed his fingers, trying to ease the pain in his right hand.
Jamie stopped kneeling and sat on the ground instead. He flexed his shoulders, trying to encourage the pain to go away faster than it was. “Do you know where you are?” he asked Malcolm.
Malcolm blinked and then sat up very slowly. “Yeah.” He noticed that while they sat very close, it was not closer than they ever sat previously. Their hands were almost touching, but not quite. It was not the first time he saw that either. It made him wonder if his closeness to Jamie was organic or caused by the tattoo’s influence.
Jamie moved his hands and rubbed his face. The pain subsided. There was no irritation. He felt like he did at home when Malcolm was not near. His shoulders relaxed. Jamie’s eyes wandered, finally inspecting Malcolm’s tattoo visually. He never had a good excuse to look at it since the hotel years ago.
Malcolm moved his hand so Jamie could touch it if he wanted. Jamie’s fingers touched Malcolm’s skin where the wolf pelt was suggested by few lines. He ran the tip of his finger along the lines that made up Malcolm’s wolf and then the lines that completed Jamie’s wolf. Jamie’s finger almost slid off the tattoo and along Malcolm’s wrist, but he moved his hand away instead. “It’s fucking weird,” Jamie said. He would have expected his impulses to touch Malcolm to be stronger, but they were the same. Jamie stood up and his fingers touched Malcolm’s shoulder briefly. “You can stay here,” he said. It would not be the first time one of them had to spend the night at the other’s home.
It was three years later. Malcolm was on the phone with his niece. Since he activated his tattoo with Jamie, their relationship carried on as it always had. They still saw each other for drinks once a week. They still harassed their colleagues. The difference was the lack of irritation and dramatics from their tattoos. Malcolm was more aware of Jamie’s presence and mood swings than he had ever been.
Malcolm’s phone rang. He expected it to be a colleague, but it was his niece. She called him once a week since her tattoos began to become more prominent and obvious. It was two days earlier than she might normally call.
“I just wanted you to know,” his niece said after greetings and hedging, “that I won’t be able to call you for a while.”
Malcolm frowned. “What happened?”
“I met someone,” she said. “He has two sleeves like I do, and I know this sounds weird, but it’s like we’re meant to join arms with a third person.” She was quiet for a long moment. “It was the last straw for Ma. I can’t go home.”
Malcolm sat up. He ran his free hand through his hair. “You could come here until you’re on your feet.”
“It’s going to be fine,” his nice said. “I mean that’s the point of these things, right? Find the person; make it work. If it’s shit, then it’s shit. Nobody said soulmates were perfect, right?”
Malcolm honestly did not know. He sighed.
“I’ll talk to you when I can,” she said. “You’re all the family I have.”
They said their goodbyes. Malcolm ended the call and set his mobile aside. He flinched. It felt like something was biting the palms of his hands and the undersides of his fingers. He looked, but his hands looked normal. He felt the pinching all along the ocean tattoos. “What the fuck?” he murmured. The stinging subsided as soon as it began. He flexed his hands. They still looked normal.
Monday morning found Malcolm beside Jamie watching the prime minister do a radio interview behind a pane of glass. They were both half-listening. So far, nothing was abnormal except Malcolm’s hands.
Jamie thought the ocean tattoos looked strange. Malcolm kept setting his hands so the interiors were hard to see. It looked like the tattoos faded like a newspaper in the sun too long. Jamie frowned. He saw that symptom before with the complementary tattoo his brother had on his arm. Jamie tensed.
“I’m…I’m going to be honest,” the prime minister said and then he did the last thing anyone sitting where Malcolm and Jamie were wanted him to do. The prime minister told the truth about not only his displeasure with a health policy the party wanted to implement, but his own declining health. “I’m know I’m going to die soon,” the prime minister said, which was news for his staff as well as the nation. “My wife is losing her tattoo. It’s fading away. What else could that mean?” The prime minister and his wife had never shown their tattoos to the nation. There was a rumour that their tattoos were on one side of their hips and fit together in a very specific position.
Malcolm rubbed the palms of his hands together absently. “We’re fucked. He’s fucked. Everyone is fucked.”
Within two hours, the prime minister resigned. Nobody knew who would stay, who would go. There was a rumour that Tom would take over the leadership. It was late at night and Jamie finally made it back to the office. He was trying to secure his position, but everything felt like he was standing in melting ice cream.
Malcolm approached and reached out to touch Jamie’s arm when he passed. “Come with me.” Malcolm did not slow down.
Jamie followed.
“You need to get the fuck out of here,” Malcolm said.
“What?” Jamie kept stride with Malcolm.
Malcolm looked around and stopped walking. He pulled his hands out of his pockets. His ocean tattoos were the colour of scar tissue and flaking off like a bad sunburn. “The prime minister said his wife’s tattoo is in response to his death. Sam’s hands look like this too. She won’t leave. My wolf’s still dark. You’re going to survive, so you should fuck off before whatever’s about to happen.”
Jamie frowned. He shifted his weight. “I’m not fucking off There’s no reason to fuck off.” He held Malcolm’s gaze. “You’re not dying, Sam’s not dying. It means you’re not going to see each other again.”
Malcolm made a face. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“A complimentary tattoo fucks off once you’ve got your job done. You do what you’re supposed to do, and then it’s over,” Jamie said. “You’ve got a day, maybe two left. Then she’s gone.”
“Or I’m gone,” Malcolm said. His shoulders tensed. “This is bollocks. Complete fucking bollocks.”
“At this rate, we’re all gone,” Jamie said. “You can’t predict what that cunt Tom will do.” Jamie frowned. He did not know what he was going to do if he was out.
Malcolm did not know what he would do either, but several possibilities swirled in his head. He reached out and put his hand on the small of Jamie’s back. He watched Jamie’s shoulders relax. Malcolm’s shoulders did the same.
Jamie sighed. He could feel it. Something was going to happen soon. He did not think he would like it. He stepped away and let the tips of his fingers slide along the wolf on Malcolm’s hand since no one was anywhere near them. “I’m going to fucking fight,” he said. “I know you will too.” He had to go find his allies in the steadily sinking ship the prime minister created.
Jamie was out. Malcolm was out. Their secretaries were unemployed. Jamie went back to Scotland. One of his former classmates needed help with his local campaign. Malcolm stayed in London and began a political column. They became so busy that ten years passed without warning. They lost touch.
Jamie returned to London, following his former classmates’ career. He almost got married. It was three years since the broken engagement. Jamie walked down the pavement, leaving the House of Commons. He wanted a fag. The nicotine patches only did so much.
Malcolm never left London. He was walking towards the House of Commons. He just came from a lunch with his niece and her partners. It made his wolf tattoo ache. The tattoo always ached if he thought about Jamie too long. Malcolm could still see the ocean on his hands, but it was faint and he needed bright light to find the lines. As Jamie said, Malcolm had not seen Sam since Tom became prime minister and then lost the position. Everything moved so fast since.
Jamie felt the tattoo across his back ache. He closed his eyes against the dull, nagging pain and walked past Malcolm. His lunch meeting with the MP he worked for ran through his head. He took five more steps and then paused and glanced over his shoulder.
Malcolm focussed on where he was going. He passed by Jamie, thinking about his intent in going to the House of Commons. He could see other journalists ahead. Malcolm paused and looked back. He felt eyes on him.
There were too many people in between them. Jamie did not know what he expected to see. Malcolm’s eyes scanned the people and then he saw Jamie’s dark curls greying near the temples. Malcolm felt something inside him swell, an involuntary reaction demanding Jamie look his way.
Jamie’s eyes were drawn towards the direction where he left the MP he worked with a few minutes ago. He saw Malcolm’s hand and then his hair. Malcolm’s intense gaze stared at Jamie through his glasses. Jamie felt his tattoo ache and his stomach turn from cold to a pleasant warmth. Jamie nodded his head and Malcolm gave a small wave. Then they went their separate ways, both too busy to stop for much longer. They did not have to stop now. There would be plenty of time to find each other again, and when they did, it would be time to talk.
The End