Archive of Our Own

The sun has already reached the horizon when he pushes the door, a cracked and rusty door with a flaky dark green painting. There’s a cold and damp atmosphere in the house, whose doors and windows hadn't been opened since his grandmother moved to the hospital eight months ago. But nothing changed, there still is this silly doormat they bought when he was eight, this garden gnome with his nose broken by his brother, an unfortunate afternoon.

As soon as he enters, Jeongin feels overwhelmed by his grandmother’s floral perfume, the cedar scent of the wooden floor, and the sound of the waves crashing distantly. Exactly like she told him it was before she… she…

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

He smiles at his screen while looking for the switch, fingers dusting the walls. He finds it lower than he thought it was – he grew up a lot since the last time he visited this place, ten years ago. The lights buzzles, revealing the cosy interior. It isn’t messy, but the things aren’t where he remembered them to be : this shelf wasn’t against this wall but over here, the white radio is now on the coffee table, and this flower pot – was it even here before ? In the upper corners of the rooms, the wallpaper has already started to peel off, and there are these humidity stains, which makes the patterns fade out.

But, in the end, nothing really changed.

He opens the shutters in the kitchen. The echoes of the ocean gently lands against his ears and the walls, while a cool and salty breeze enters the room, disturbing the dried flowers on the ledge. Some petals fly in the sink, where a plate and a glass are lying, forgotten. He finds the view pretty and takes a picture, before sending it to Jisung – another proof he made it alive, even if he was alone. He is so hungry, but there is nothing in the fridge nor on the shelves to eat, and he regrets not listening to Seungmin’s advice and took at least pasta and cookies.

He leaves the kitchen before getting hungrier.

His bedroom is still the one right next to the bathroom. It’s the most luminous room in the house, south-exposed, with a large glass wall. Since they weren’t visiting, his grandmother used it as an art studio. He can smell the oil pots and the rotten clay, nose crutching at the moist perfume. It isn’t that strong, but he pushes it away, throwing it outside – there is nothing to do with it. He puts his own clay on the workbench, wondering if it was a good idea to sacrifice pasta so he could bring it and modelling a little during his stay.

His eyes are closing, tired, and he decides to unpack before falling asleep.

He throws his suitcase on the bed. The clasps break when it drops on the mattress, and his clothes split and fall on the floor. Jeongin sighs, cursing himself, hands rummaging to find a clean shirt to sleep with through the mess.

Jisung helped him pack all his things this morning, in a rush because they overslept (and they were too lazy to do it before) – they were celebrating Chan’s death birthday so they stayed up late. Jeongin liked better not to think too much about what Jisung and he were doing yesterday, helping their friends to grave digging in the night, so Chan could feed and looks human, at least once a year for this so special celebration (since everyone, including him, forgot when his real birthday was – two hundred years ago, at least, as Seungmin said).

The first times it was a very weird thing to do since their friend seemed totally alive and human, and because… who celebrate their friend’s death ? And grave dig ? But as the years passed it became…

Well, normal isn't best word to describe it, but still…

Nothing is normal between the four of them – Jisung, Seungmin, Chan and him, Jeongin. But it's fine, because it's them, living in the forest between a small town and its cemetery, both among and far from humans, who all heard about the strange house named Mistwich at the edge of the so-called enchanted woods.

They never sought normality.

Or it was what they believed when they were running in the woods and down the hills at night, screaming and laughing and eating peaches and blackberries still warm from an all-day sun, tongues dark blue and sticky fingers from sugar.

When Jisung was playing the guitar while Seungmin was singing with all his heart this stupid Italian song without even knowing the lyrics, when Chan was making heart-shaped pancakes while Jeongin was filming their lives like they were in a romantic movie – the ones made for crying and cuddling, the ones they were using as excuses to do it.

When they were accidentally caught by humans in the cemetery, grave digging at 2 AM and screaming with Dalida on the speaker, and Seungmin, as the cemetery caretaker, had to invent an emergency sanitary check which can’t be done during the day because – what was the reason, again ?

When Jisung begged Jeongin to accept in their family that yellow big (and ugly) lizard they named Salad because he always came back in their vegetable garden (or worse, the house) to eat anything he could find, despite their efforts to keep him away.

When Jeongin accepted.

When Salad ate Chan’s pancakes and got sick and Jisung was crying while rubbing Salad’s belly, because why did Chan let him eat it ? And why Seungmin was laughing like that ?

When, when, when.

He missed them.

Seungmin was already statuefied and Chan hid in his vault when Jisung and he woke up, so he couldn’t kiss them goodbye and the chaotic roommates had to pack his suitcase by themselves… and not very well – there was practically nothing (especially : his toothbrush) and only dirty clothes. And his clay and his laptop, of course. Thankfully, Jeongin didn’t needed much stuff, since he was only cleaning the house and packing up his grandmother’s belongings after she passed away, one month ago.

He wished he didn’t have to.

Wished that she was still alive, first, that he could still talk to her. But also wished that the house would stay theirs, for at least one or two years. That he could come here with his friends, and show Seungmin the sea they talked about that night, in January.

At first, his mother didn’t want him to take care of that matter since she never wanted him to go to the cottage again, but she didn’t argue that much in the end when he stood by his decision, not letting her decide for him again. It wasn’t that difficult, probably because she was the one who didn’t want to see the house again, rather than him, who always wanted to return.

She always rejected everything he loved, especially if it was related to his father, or his father’s mother. Jeongin knew it was because his father passed away offshore, abandoning her, taken by the sirens, they said – maybe it was just a silly expression, but his mother believed it. She changed a lot after his death, when Jeongin was twelve, never talking about the ocean in kind words – the bitterness in them always hinted at a resentment against it and its creatures, a quiet accusation ; they were the reason her husband never came back.

Monsters, she called them, monsters !

Which was quite and sadly ironic since they were faes, hiding among humans, who had no shame calling them like that.

He never saw the cottage again, not before this night. She disliked this place so much that she never returned from the city with her sons, but, at least, she didn’t forbid him to call his grandmother and let her visit sometimes. They just never saw the sea in ten years.

She didn’t even ask him when he was leaving, nor how long.

He pretended to Jisung that he didn’t care.

✸

He wakes up around 8 am by the rumble of the storm and the rain soaking his bed. He swears, pulling himself out of the blanket, shuts the window, eyes still half-closed, and heads his way to the kitchen, bumping into each piece of furniture. He didn’t attach the shutters well and now, they’re flapping loudly against the walls. He struggles a little and finally manages to make them stay still.

It’s one of those heavy summer weathers, with grey shadows darkening the sky, and sometimes the sun would spread its rays through the clouds and hit the sea, making it shine.

Because he can’t go back to sleep when he’s already awake, he looks for coffee or tea, some forgotten biscuits maybe, behind empty packages and surprising artefacts his grandmother apparently collected. But, despite little cat lucky charms, a broken egg-shaped timer and a lost knight from the wooden chessboard on the coffee table, there is really nothing to eat. Since he only has a bike, he decides to wait for a sunny spell to do his grocery shopping.

He switches the white radio on and adjusts the frequency. A hesitant cello starts playing through the crackled line, and it’s all he can have, so he starts humming randomly with the melody, trying to guess where the music would go when it isn’t stopping abruptly because of the bad reception.

Something hurts his back as he throws himself on the couch – a binder, hidden under the light green checked blanket. The cover is black leathered, without any decoration, but the wear on the sides hints that it was frequently opened, so he opens it as well.

His mouth falls open : it’s a photo album, of which the first pictures are him and his brothers, playing on the beach or in the living room. His snail plushie laying on the floor. The fountain where they discovered an old coin. Here, the gnome with his broken nose, which was in his brother’s hand, or his other brother, sipping an orange juice in their mother’s arms. She was here, yes, smiley and happy, hugging him or buttering sunscreen on his crying brother.

Some memories come back to him, and he smiles, teary eyes watering his cheeks. For the most part, he didn’t even knew his grandmother had taken a picture. It feels strange to see these moments from another point of view, with different colours and more clearly than he remembered them.

And there is his father.

He recognizes him, even if, oddly, it’s like he’s looking at a stranger, because he doesn’t have any picture of him at home. Jeongin couldn’t do anything but see the memory of his face, his scent, and even his laugh and the little things he used to love becoming more and more blurred year after year. The picture brings back some of these features, but, in the end, it’s still just a 240p photograph, taken against the light on a sunny afternoon, with a film camera.

He doesn’t recognize the two guys in the next picture, both from behind, seated on the ledge of a cliff, legs probably dangling over the sea, while their hands seem to be holding. One is blond, the other black-haired. The second one is looking at the first, laughing. He assumes it was two strangers his grandmother photographed during a walk, as she seemed to like to do : there is a lot of pictures of her everyday life, from the village, the beach or the cottage itself.

There are also some self-portraits, in the mirror, single-handedly, and some with the self-timer. She didn’t change that much in her last days, wearing the same smile with drills of joy in the corner of her eyes, but Jeongin finds her… happier, complete, in these pictures. No doubt it was because she left. Maybe she could have stayed here instead of going to the hospital, where the walls weren’t that decorated and the windows weren’t open on the sea, but on the parking.

Here’s another picture of his grandmother, dressed in an off-white dress with light blue flowers, covered by a brick red cardigan. Jeongin recognizes where the picture was taken : from the exterior of the glass wall of his bedroom. She’s standing with a paintbrush in her hand – she was left-handed, Jeongin felt stupid not knowing it – smiling at the guy seated on the ledge in front of her, but with the angle of the camera, focused on his grandma, Jeongin couldn't see the bottom of his body. It’s apparently the same blond-haired guy from one of the previous pictures, but this time with a big shell in his hands, smiling brightly – like the sun, a smile which can make you smile, Jeongin thinks – eyes closed like crescents. His freckles are making his skin a little darker, like he’s suntanned – but it was winter, without a doubt, according to the big puffer jacket the guy is wearing, making him even smaller.

As he turns the pages, Jeongin discovers two close-up portraits of the same blond guy. Who is he ? And the other guy ? He turns over the pictures, looking for a name, a location, but nothing is written. He discovers that these two guys were frequently at his grandmother’s home, and there are also some drawings, tucked between pages, and a portrait of his grandmother, both signed “H.” in the corner.

Who was “H.” ?

Maybe, when he’ll start to clean the house and pack up, he’ll find some answers. Looking at these pictures felt like he’s discovering the secret life of his grandmother. It’s strange, he almost feels like he’s invading her privacy – maybe curiosity will kill the cat, but he can’t stop.

He’s still there when, one hour later, the screen of his phone lits up beside him. Four unread messages from Jisung.

He calls. 9:23 am. His sleepy roommate appears on screen, wrapped in his blanket with Salad on his chest, himself wrapped in the crochet blanket Jisung made for his last birthday. Jeongin smiles at this familiar view.

“Hi you. You two.”

“Hi Innie. Say hi, Salad.” Jisung responds, waving their lizard’s leg, who doesn’t even open his eyes. “Salad is sleeping.”

“You’re not ? You rarely wake up before 10.”

“I did, I guess. Not a lot. I ended up watching a documentary about trilobites.”

“Don’t even think about asking me to adopt even one specimen.”

“But they've been extinct since, like, 250 million years !” Jisung laughs with this heart-shaped smile of his, but silently, careful to not wake their lizard.

“Oh. I feel relieved then.”

“What are you even saying ? We saw that in class. And you like taking care of Salad.”

“I’m the only one who's taking care of Salad, if I may…”

“What ?” Jisung frowns, scoffing at the audacity. “Who feeds him everyday ? Even if it’s with bugs ? Who bathes him each week ? Who made this blanket ?” He’s outraged, but Jeongin knows that he isn’t upset, because it’s true that Jeongin is the one who would treat their lizard if he’s wounded, the one who’s in charge of the vegetable garden where he planted edible and healthy things for him to eat (instead of their pizza), the one who would understand Salad the most, all of that thanks to his fairy predispositions.

“You’re just a false dad.” His roommate adds, pouting.

“You’re just a false dad.” Jeongin imitates him, mimicking his tone, falsely annoyed. “I’m sure you didn’t clean his aquarium. And you forgot to mist him. Anyways.”

“I did ! Why are you like this ?” Jisung sighs, his little eyebrows making circonflexes on top of his head. “Just admit you miss us. And that you’re scolding me because you wish you were here.”

“I do miss you. Happy ?”

“Really ?” Jisung is genuinely surprised by this sudden admission.

“Yes. But I’m glad to be back here, I just wish you were with me, that you were all here with me. I wish I could show you everything. Maybe it would be easier for me as well, because… It kinda feels like home too ? And I feel a little overwhelmed by…” He gestures in the air, “everything”.

His friend nodds. “Oh. I get it. I don’t really get it, because, you know… I don’t have a somewhere like that. But I can understand that feeling of being overwhelmed.”

Jisung is smiling gently, hand brushing Salad’s back. Jeongin remains silent, mind floating a little. His hands are still on the photo album, opened on the blond-haired guy and his grandmother. He really wants to know who it was. Maybe he could ask the villagers, they surely know everyone, maybe he could speak with him, about his grandmother or anything else – somehow, he just needs to speak with someone about this part of his life he never had the opportunity to know.

His roommate’s voice brings him back from his thinking.

“Maybe we could come after my viva next week. Like, three or four days, and help you pack your things. I’m sad that you’re not here to listen to me too. You know… since neither Chan nor Seungmin could because… Yeah.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t have much time left before they put the house up for sale. They told me that everything, or most of it, had to be packed before their venue in two weeks.”

“That’s so sad. Why are they in a rush like that ?” Jeongin can feel that Jisung’s sincerely disappointed for him, but at the same time sad that he couldn’t attend his viva.

“I think my mother wants to get rid of the house. Maybe she thought I wouldn’t have time to go, since I had my viva three days ago and I was supposed to listen to yours.”

“It sucks. Did you speak with her ?”

“Yes. For nothing. You know how she is about it. Actually, it’s a miracle she didn’t oppose me that much from coming here.”

“It’s a good sign, isn’t it ? Maybe it’s her way to help you… you know, mourn.”

Jeongin never thought about that. In fact, he convinced himself she agreed because she knew this had to be done, and because she didn’t want to do it, without any other purpose. Jisung seems to realise that thought made him sadder, and asks “Do you want to talk about something else ?”. Jeongin shrugs, “If you want”, he says, “but look at this first”, he adds, showing Jisung the photo album, the page opened to his baby pictures.

“What is it ?” Jisung squints his eyes, “Oh it’s you !”, shaking gently Salad, “Look Salad, this is Jeongin !”, but Salad, as expected, doesn’t care at all.

“I found it on the couch. This is really… interesting. Look.” He shows the blond-haired guy portraits. “I think my grandmother took them.”

“He’s really pretty. You didn’t told me that she was a photographer !”

“I didn’t knew it myself. I discovered it like, one hour ago.” He turned the pages. “You see that guy ? And this one, too. They appear frequently. I don’t know them at all.”

“Must be her friends ?”

“Yes, but– they seem really… young. Around our age. I know it means nothing and they can be her friends. I’m just surprised. She never told us about them. She would, don’t you think ?”

“Maybe ? Maybe they didn’t stay in touch ? And maybe she just wanted to keep it to herself, or focus on her family during her last days. You can’t know, Innie.”

“Yes… there’s also these drawings. I really love this one,” he says, showing his grandmother’s portrait, “It’s signed by ‘H.’. Do you think it’s our guy ?”

Talking about these discoveries with Jisung is funny. They feel like detectives, secret spies investigating a mysterious case, like the anime they watched last week. They laugh, the storm long forgotten – the rain had stopped a long time ago when they hang up, promising each other to call very soon, Jeongin kissing exaggeratedly the camera to reach Salad, still sound asleep on Jisung’s chest.

He finds his grandmother's bike, all rusty and deflated, in the garden hut. He painfully inflates the wheels, under a shy sun which warms his cheeks ; he smiles, strangely happy by this impromptu rendezvous. The road is bright, covered with an iridescent water veil which splashes around under his wheels and soaks his trouser bottoms, but he doesn’t care, following the empty and rolling road.

He parks his bike in front of the supermarket, praying to see it again on his return because he forgot the lock. As he’s going to enter the shop, he feels a hand gripping his shoulder, and jumps, swearing by surprise. A man waves a flyer under his nose, smirking.

He takes it, dumbfounded and silent. It’s an invitation to the fishing contest this afternoon.

The man says, almost shouting, “You better come, my boy. This is the event of the year ! Everybody in the village will be there !”

Jeongin blinks, a little bit taken aback by all this enthusiasm, “Oh, huh– what ?”

Another man – his friend, Jeongin assumes – adds, equally excited, “Yes come ! Young as you are, you may catch one of these demons and win the Grand Prix ! You’re well built, it wouldn’t be difficult at all !”

Jeongin flinches, more awkward than flattered by the praise. “These demons ?”

The man huffs.

“You know, those ocean whores, mermaids we call them now. Fucking demons. I killed two of these monsters, ya know !” proud of himself, he is, “They almost fooled myself, a sailor ! Me !” He’s pointing at his own chest with his finger, “But I killed them with my own hands ! They couldn’t do anything !”, eyes wide open and palms presented to Jeongin, who’s still silent, blinking dumbly, shocked.

“Their scales are what we sell the best down here. Critch treasures we say, and killing one of them would make you the man of the year.” The first man adds, winking. He doesn’t seem to care about the fact that selling any creature, dead or alive, is illegal, because he adds “You could impress your girl !” bumping Jeongin’s shoulder, a knowing smile on his lips.

Jeongin wants to escape.

“I don’t have a girl,” he starts, “And–”

“What ? Come on, with a face like yours, how is it possible ? Anyways, you could easily score one or two at the contest.”

That he could doesn’t mean he should, but he keeps his mouth quiet, not wanting to argue with them. What was the point when they are already convinced that they are the voice of reason ?

Anyways, he isn’t interested in girls, he knows that now.

Back then, Jisung always made fun of him for being the campus crush, always with a pretty girlfriend, perfect son-in-law, but– even if they told him they loved him, and this, and that, it never felt… like he thought love would feel like. And it never ended well, just tears and lost friendships he regretted to mess up by not knowing how to say no.

“Erm–And I- I don’t know how to…”

He doesn’t know how to decline their offer politely. Because he’s hesitant, the second man takes over for him.

“Fishing or flirting ?” The man scoffs. “I could teach you. Both. When it’s about fishes and girls I know what to do, believe me,” still smirking, he is, “After all, it’s the same ! You just have to bait them, I’ll show you. Humans like us have to help each other, don't they ? Don’t be shy, my boy.”

Everything sucks in this discussion and Jeongin swallows, trying to stay calm.

“Sorry, I don’t have time and I’m not sure I would fit in an event like this,” he says, harsher than he wanted.

“Hey, gal. Don’t need to be this rude to your hyungs, eh. Youth, these days.” Jeongin smiles, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He holds the flyer out to them, but the man stops him “Eh, no. Keep it, in case you change your mind. Think about my proposition.”

They leave, accosting other peasants with the same energy.

Jeongin shrugs and enters the shop, which isn’t that big, but he still gets lost. What he’s looking for, already ? Toothbrush. Coffee. Where are the toothbrushes ? Why aren't there any of his usual brands here ?

What is that fucking fishing contest ?

It’s so exhausting. He tries to focus on his groceries. Among his usual errands, he buys fish-shaped breaded fish in case Jisung decides to come in the two weeks Jeongin stays, and three bags of Parmesan cheese for himself – everyone has a guilty pleasure. He also buys flower-perfumed candles, the lavender ones he likes.

“Hi”, he greets the cashier, putting his articles on the conveyor belt. When he’s about to pay, he asks, “I wondered… Do you have cardboard boxes ? I’m moving.”

“I don’t know. I’ll ask my manager. Wait here”, the cashier answers, removing his cap, hand brushing his hair off his forehead. Jeongin gasps – he hadn’t looked very attentively before, but the guy is blond-haired, with freckles. The guy of the album? His gaze might be insisting because the guy seems to notice and, as he turns around, “See something else you’re interested in?”, a flirty smile on his lips – which Jeongin, him, doesn’t really acknowledge, focused on studying the guy’s face. It definitely is a freckled boy, but not that freckled boy, with his crescent eyes, and even if his smile is bright, it isn’t sunny. He feels a little disappointed, but keeps his smile, murmuring “No, thank you.”

The guy comes back with three empty boxes, folded. “Sorry. That’s all I could find, we sent everything to the tip this morning. But if you want, you can come back tomorrow,” he says, giving him the cardboards. “I wouldn’t be displeased, too.”

Jeongin lifts his head, blushing. “I- I’ll think about it.”

He unfolds his shopping bag, puts the boxes in it and waves goodbye, flustered, before leaving quickly, pedalling energetically in the rises. He doesn’t stop smiling on his way back, not really knowing why, he just feels like it. He should ask Jisung what to think about this, because Jisung is the one who always knew everything about– what, again?

He’s still smiling while he’s eating his ramyeon, looking at the sea by the window. The weather is still great, so, after having three cups of coffee and a custard, he walks along the bay, watching seagulls waltzing in the dark sky, cackling noisily. Sometimes, one of them would collide with a sunshine ray, making him half close his eyes because of the reflection.

It’s a chilled afternoon, and he leans on the rail, scrutinising the surface – wondering if there are sirens here, as his grandmother swore to him there were, once upon a time ; as these fishermen told him they were looking for, a few hours ago.

A wave of anger rises in his guts, his fists clenched without him even thinking of it. He thinks about their words, “Ocean whores”, really ?

He gets down to the beach, bare feet on the wet sand. It helps him calm down a little. From here, he can see the house, partly hidden behind the dunes and the quitch grass. He seats on a rock, playing with the winkle he just picked up between his fingers. It’s pretty, with golden stripes on its off-white armour, even if the tip is broken. He could add it to his grandmother’s collection, on her desk.

He’s starting to relax when a gust of littoral wind tangles his hair. There are dark clouds in the distance, with rain curtains falling silently. The tide is higher and suddenly, he feels cold and wants to go back home, before the storm begins.

✸

While he’s climbing his hill, fifteen minutes later, he hears some shouting and cheerings from the coast. From here, he can see the trawlers far from the land, and the crowd, a black little cluster (“All the village”, they said, but he was certain there wasn’t everyone) gathered on the docks. The famous fishing contest. He hopes mermaids – and fishes – aren’t in these waters right now.

The rain starts pouring again as soon as he passes the entrance. Serves you, the fishing contest ! He takes his shoes off, lightens two lavender candles, scrolling mindlessly through their group chat, where Jisung spammed with funny Salad’s photos and selfies of him, desperate with his viva, trying to prepare the best he can even if it’s demotivating, since everyone is already on holiday and Jeongin isn’t home. Chan just replied with hearts and cheering words, and a picture of the tomb he’s decorating with the new seedlings Jeongin gave him before he left. He even added the rocks Jisung and Seungmin collected in the river last month.

His phone dies abruptly before he can even react with a few emojis and type his message, so he plugs it in and leaves it in his bedroom. He could watch a movie or read this book Seungmin lent him, but he’s too lazy and let his gaze wander by the window, captivated by the dancing lightning illuminating the wrath’s ocean. His hands rests on his thighs, and he stares at the dunes below, absently, safely tucked in his blanket in the darkness of the house, now that the storm is back.

Something catches his eyes between the waves – a light, heckled by the tempest, and Jeongin, horrified, understands that it’s a boat. Maybe one of the trawlers of this stupid fishing contest, drove here against its will, where it isn’t supposed to sail. It’s dangerously close to the coast, and he knows the rocks, down the hill and before the beach, are pretty sharp – his grandmother told him mermaids made them to protect their house from enemies, and he saw it himself during his walk. A shiver runs down his spine when the light disappears, engulfed by the sea. A loud crack echoes – maybe it’s just the storm, but Jeongin doesn’t hesitate.

Without even taking a coat, not even his phone, he rushes along the bay, where dark waters are crashing against the cold sand under his feet, retreating loudly in the thunderous night. He screams, looking for an answer, but there is none. The backwash striking his ankles is violent, carrying sharp shingles and seashells, hurting despite the softness of the foam. He retreats, fearing to be taken by the sea if he isn’t careful. He should get back home. Quickly.

The lightning strikes again, and, a few metres from him, he distinguishes the body of someone, laying on the sand. Not moving.

“Oh my god.” He runs towards the outline, breathing shakily. “Oh my god. Okay. Are you al-”

He stops himself when he realises that it isn’t a human, but–

A siren.

A siren.

He can’t believe his eyes.

It’s his first time seeing one. A real one. Not in a book, nor in a museum – which is pretty sad, seeing a creature exposed like that, but they aren't humans (he has to remind himself) – monsters, they are, monsters !

But– are they ? Since he was a child, Jeongin has never ceased being curious about mermaids, nereids, sirens (repeating in the snugness of his bedroom these words like magical spells, familiarising himself with their melody) – perhaps the stories his grandmother told him confidentially on the phone were not so uninvolved with that. The idea of being interested in something his mother told him he shouldn’t be as well.

So he read books. Watched videos, movies. Asked everyone to tell him legends, wanted to become a privateer, or better, a pirate ! Dreamt of ruling the seas on a caravel, even if he barely knew how to swim. He learned everything about their seductive voices, their enchanting eyes and how dangerous it was to give your name to one of them, because it was easier for these sea witches to lure you – and if you were, you were already dead.

But, despite the danger, he couldn’t help but be enthralled by (how he pictured in his head) the iridescent colours of their scales, their knowledge of the ocean and its species, or the trivial fact that even their skeleton was pretty. He would never admit that, even if Jisung was teasing him for always returning to the only siren specimen of their museum for drawing it, learning by heart each bone.

After all, he never sought normality.

So, that’s why he’s sitting here, under the pouring rain, as the sky darkens, instead of running away. Almost smiling, fascinated, intimidated as well, just by looking at the creature. He falls on his knees beside it. His fingers brushes the grey-blue strands of hair away from the siren’s face, feeling the softness of its skin, the relief of the collar bone, where a shell necklace is resting. He can only see its profile, with this gentle curve of its nose, eyes closed, lips slightly parted.

A fragile and divine beauty hiding some cruel intentions.

He realises that it’s a young man. He gasps, taken aback – why did expect it to be a woman ?

It doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. Perhaps, it was even worse.

So, there he is. Still is.

Running his fingers down the scales, making them shine under the thunderbolts as his index draws his way between the wounds, where some blue blood, and some secrets, may be lay. He’s holding his breath – he doesn’t know why, but this moment feels solemn, sacred.

But the fascination evaporates, replaced by worry when he notices how serious the long blue trickles of blood are, probably caused by the rocks and… a net. He’s sure of it, looking quickly at the cuts. He closes the smallest ones with his magic, and places his hand on its chest, on its neck – no heartbeat (but do mers have a heart ?), not even any warmth emanating from it.

Maybe it’s already dead.

His stomach twitches.

“Hey, hey,” he tries to wake up the creature, cupping its cheek in his hand, “Do you hear me?” No answer. He looks around him, looking for help, but – who would be there, by the weather and at this hour? Maybe there is someone else who needs his help, but he can’t leave the siren here. Fishermen would come, and chop it up to retrieve the scales and sell it.

Carefully, he tries to lift the body.

And the siren turns its head at him, opening its eyes.

Blank eyes.

Don’t touch – don’t touch me, a voice whispers, in his head, charming and appealing, clearly perceptible despite the storm.

Look at me. He freezes. Look at me. Hear me.

A soft humming starts spinning in his head, filled with warmth and something else he couldn’t describe. Something like – longing.

Yes, listen, listen.

A hand brushes his own, and his heart flutters. He never felt like that, like someone wanted him, to listen, to –

Let me talk to you, to you about the sea.

A lightning strikes the sky and he regains consciousness. What? He tries to step aside from the creature, slowly beginning to understand what was happening, that this, this, is dangerous. But the siren tightens its grip, not letting him go.

Do you know our secrets, our secrets?

He tries, he really tries, but he can’t stay away. He can’t, so he fights with the urge of breaking the spell, to tear his eyes away from its gaze – because it’s too mesmerising, too easy to lose his mind in those really, really pretty eyes.

Feeling good, human?

Do you want, do you want?

The siren’s hand on his throat – Look at me, look at me, – strangling him – Monsters, monsters ! was spitting his mother’s voice along with the bewitched melody caressing his ears – how could he believe her when he’s about to– to–

His lungs are burning, Those ocean whores, ya know, oh, are they ?

Do you want me to take you, take you to the sea ?

He’s gasping, searching for air. Starts to blackout, panicking, thinking about anything to stop the secrets about the sea from overflowing his mind, striking him like waves, driving him into the abyss. He feels desired, desired and called by those depths, ashamed by his willingness to say yes –

But despite its extraordinary strength and its magical powers, the creature’s weak, severely wounded, wailing in pain.

Jeongin feels his senses coming back and his body obeys him again, his mind still clouded and his head now hurting him like hell. He manages to slip away from the grip around his neck and massages it painfully – it will leave marks, he’s sure of it.

He has to get back home. He should have done it sooner.

He stands up, hands searching for anything to help him get to his feet, finding a rock. He walks a few metres away and crashes on the sand, already exhausted and horrified by what just happened. His heart is racing, hurting his chest to its very core. He never experienced something so hurtful.

He rests his head on the floor, eyes opening slowly to the sky, where he finds some stars shining shyly between the light clouds. In the conflict, he didn’t even notice that the rain had stopped pouring.

In fact, he couldn't focus on anything else but this honey voice whispering to him the secrets of the universe.

He doesn’t know how long he stays here, maybe until the cold starts to reach him because of his damp clothes. He rolls on his side, trying to get up again. He coughs.

The pain in his throat reverberates through his body and strikes him so strongly that he has to pause a little before managing to stand up.

As he’s about to definitely run away from that monster, he takes the risk of looking at it and realises that the siren has passed out, stunning blank eyes finally closed in silence, unable to harm someone, but still beautifully dangerous.

He can’t leave it here, can’t he ?

✸