Chapter Two

Kert

I woke up to the sound of traffic, people arguing, and a siren in the far distance. The unfamiliar sounds were polar opposites to the soft hum of trees and neighborhood chatter I was used to hearing in my quiet house in the Berlin suburbs.

Opening my eyes, I threw away the cover and grinned. I was in Marin’s apartment. In New Fucking York. The three white walls were a stark contrast to the remaining one portraying a stormy sea with a sunset, the red glow beautifully complementing the angry waves. The second wall had a color palette on the side, but no art on it—only a set of supplies on top of a dresser. Signs of a busy artist.

Given the modest size of the apartment and having only one bedroom, the enormous bed had to be where Marin usually slept. I buried my face in the pillow and inhaled. With a groan, I sat up. The sheets were fresh and didn’t smell of my best friend at all. We’d lived in one dorm room for five years—I’d recognize his scent anywhere. It was in the room, though—the aroma of ocean breeze and warmth of a summer day at the beach.

But he was nowhere to be seen.

I stretched and wiggled my toes. Despite sleeping in a t-shirt and nothing else, I wasn’t cold. Marin had cranked the heating way up for me. I used to get so cold at night, I’d beg him to let me snuggle into his thermodynamically-regulating body. Then in the summer, when I’d sweat like a pig, he’d be cool. Ever since I’d discovered that, I’d found it impossible not to crawl into his bed. He’d complain about not having enough space, but he’d never kicked me out either, letting me fall asleep next to him, then hauling my ass to my bed.

It all had been a blessing—I’d been snuggling with the man I had a huge crush on. But it had also been a curse—I could touch and hug him, but nothing else.

My outgoing personality helped me mask the heart-eyes I’d had for him, blaming my behavior on being a chirpy disaster. I’d been stupid to think four years of long-distance friendship would cure the way my heart beat out of my chest whenever I was near him. Over the years apart, we’d shared stories about our day, what we’d worked on artistically, people who pissed us off, news about family, but not our love life. Never that.

I’d witnessed enough girls having the night of their lives in Marin’s bed to confirm that my skinny ass had no chance with him. So I’d locked thoughts of him pinning me down and having his way with me in a closet and swallowed the key. My trips to the local kink club and house parties in Berlin had helped me scratch that itch back then, and they continued to be the best outlet for my needs to date.

A squeak of a floorboard announced Marin’s presence. Otherwise, I’d never hear him approach—he moved with stealth and grace, surprising for his bulk.

“Did you sleep well?” Marin leaned against the doorframe, wearing pajama bottoms hanging low on his hips and a sleeveless top. His black hair with its bright purple streaks was disheveled, but his chin was smooth as always. Not surprising, given he didn’t have body hair. He tilted his head to the side, showing off gills that were a darker shade of purple than his lavender skin.

I stretched and yawned, the duvet pooling at my waist. “Like a baby. I don’t remember going to bed. Did you carry me here?”

He wrapped his tentacles around his waist as he crossed his arms above them, over his chest. Did he have to flex his guns at me first thing in the morning? I didn’t want to poke holes in his sheets with my morning wood.

“You passed out on the couch and I didn’t want to wake you.”

Dammit. I wish I’d been awake to feel his arms and tentacles around me. That casual touch I remember as if it were yesterday. The tactile warmth that made my skin tingle and my heart soar whenever he’d scoop me up in his arms—when I was drunk, or when I’d fallen asleep at my desk—and deposit me safely in my bed. I missed it so much.

“Where did you sleep?” I frowned, not recalling another bedroom in the small apartment.

“Couch.” He shrugged. “You’re my guest and I will treat you like one.”

“Okay, I like the sound of that.” I happy-wiggled in my seat. “But the bed is gigantic—we could both fit.”

He chuckled; the rich sound floating around me like an aural aphrodisiac. “Yeah. But I made the house warm so you would be comfortable. You don’t need me.”

You are so very mistaken, my friend.

Here went my fantasy of snuggling up to Marin at night. As friends. I wouldn’t even ask for more. I’d been the out and proud weirdo and he’d been my straight roommate who accepted my antics and didn’t mind me hanging off him like he was my personal coat rack. Visiting him was supposed to cleanse me of my crush. I’d been so naive.

Now, I had to keep my head straight and follow the agenda that motivated me to fly over—seeing NYC during my favorite holiday season and finding new inspiration for my sculptures. With the added task of trying not to seduce my best friend in the process.

“Thanks.” I slid to the edge of the bed. “I’m ready for my first full day in New York.”

“About that.” Marin grimaced and sat next to me. “I may have to pop out for a few hours.”

I schooled my expression. “I can hang around here. Or wander around the city.” By myself. It would be stupid to expect I’d spend every minute of my stay in NYC with Marin.

“Sorry. I tried wiggling out of it.” He clapped my thigh. “Would you go with me? It’s the opening of a small local gallery, so it might be fun.”

“What? Of course!” I put my hand over his to keep it there, soaking in the warmth of his touch. “You didn’t tell me—”

“Wait, don’t get too excited. My paintings are not on display. My friend is the curator’s assistant, and she hired me to renovate the place—paint the walls, basically. She said I can bring a plus one.”

“Oh, so you need a fake date?” I threw an arm over my eyes. “Oh, to be the arm candy of my straight bestie!”

I expected him to laugh, but he grew quiet. “Well, not really—”

“Not arm-candy? I’m joking. You can introduce me as your friend or whatever you need me to be.” I stuck a tongue at him and sprang out of bed. “Tell me how you got the gig? Sounds interesting.”

He propped himself back on his tentacles, looking at the ceiling. His abs showed through the thin fabric of his sleeveless shirt, which was fighting for dear life to avoid splitting open in the middle and revealing more of his lavender-toned skin. His tanzanite gem necklace encased in intricate silver swirls rested between his pecs. Was I jealous of a necklace? Maybe.

“When I came to the city, I took many jobs for simple wall painting, one of which was DeeDee’s house. She gave me freedom to come up with the decor and ended up loving the paint job and the Mexican motifs and style based on her family home. Then a few months ago, she convinced the curator to hire me to prepare the gallery space she rented.” He flicked his tentacles in his equivalent of a shrug.

“Let’s go and see how much people love your walls.” I clapped my hands. “And make more connections in the art world. You need to mingle, mein Schatz .”

“Yeah. Professor Müller told us that at every lecture. I sort of promised DeeDee I’d be there. You know how I hate pushing my art on people.” He sighed, shoving a hand through his hair, making it stick out even more. “I’d love for you to come with me. I don’t know why I haven’t led with that.”

“That’s okay. I’d go anywhere you wanted to take me.” I cleared my dry throat. “While I’m here.”

“I have some other things to do this month, stuff I couldn’t finish before your arrival. Sorry, I’m used to living alone, so I’ll need a moment to adjust.”

“Aww. You can’t bullshit me.” I poked his shin with my foot. “You missed me, Marin.”

“Yeah. I missed spending time with you in person.” He shoved my chest with his tentacle.

I snapped my teeth at it and he snagged it back. “A gallery opening as my first night out in the Big Apple sounds awesome. What time is it at?”

“Eight. So we have a few hours left, since you slept till noon.”

“Shit.” I looked around for my phone and found it on the nightstand, fully charged. Of course Marin would plug it in. “I should have set an alarm.”

“Let’s hope you slept through the jet lag.” He smirked. “And you looked so peaceful that I didn’t want to disturb you. I planned to take you to a few touristy places, but we won’t have time today. So, is there anything you’d like to do before the opening tonight?”

“Something you’d do if I wasn’t here.” Take care of your morning wood? “Take me around the neighborhood or show me the corner store and the local spot you’d eat brunch at.”

He pushed himself off the bed with his tentacles and stood up. “I know just the place. Let’s go.”

Dressed in a thick sweater and a parka, I followed Marin to a German bakery a short walk from his apartment.

Despite my red skin tone and Marin’s two tentacles out and proud, only several people turned to look at us.

The word Cryptid stuck as if people still couldn’t believe we existed, but we were reclaiming Monster as an alternative. The older generations who’d survived the oppression were not using the expression, though. Our parents and grandparents had fought for our rights so we could be out in society in broad daylight, not hiding under the beds like my dad had to.

It warmed my heart to see several human-presenting people wearing the Cryptid Alliance badge on their lapels or backpacks. This included the bakery owner—though he blinked with triple eyelids and didn’t hide the scales on his neck which placed him somewhere in the alligator-adjacent cryptid category.

We sat by one of four tables in the cramped space that smelled like my grandma’s kitchen when she baked on Saturdays, munching on freshly-baked goodies.

“I come here when I miss the good bread. You can’t buy stuff like that in an American supermarket, unlike in Germany. Or Greece. A Greek couple has a small restaurant nearby too. Their food reminds me of my parents' place so I visit once a month or so.”

I poked his foot under the table. “It’s not so bad being an immigrant if you can find food you love here.”

“Yeah. It’s neat. The Ukrainian couple next door said the same thing about the Eastern European supermarket a few blocks over.” He took a healthy bite of his twisted bagel. “But the bread here reminds me of the one we used to have for breakfast in the dorm.”

“But then you’ll take me to try all the American stuff, like you promised.” I munched on my cottage cheese sandwich.

“Yup. I guarantee a bellyache, and I’ll get a syrup for that too.”

Smug bastard. “Will it be that bad?”

“Depends on the portions.” He grimaced. “Remember when I told you I had six tacos from Taco Bell the first day I came here?”

“Oh, shit. Yeah, I remember.”

“Exactly.”

We burst into laughter. “So let’s start easy.”

We sat reminiscing on the days we shared the meals my dads prepared for us in the tiny fridge in our dorm room and the snacks his parents sent in a parcel every month.

It had been easy to grow close, to become best friends and rely on each other. I’d been the weird queer kid, and Marin was the Greek guy who struggled with pronouncing German words. We’d shared a passion for art and studied what we wanted, not what our parents had told us to. It had been five years of chaos, late hours studying and helping each other. It warmed my heart that Marin came to a bakery that reminded him of those times.

With bellies full, we ventured to a corner store to compensate and left with bags of American snacks.