Chapter Text
Every week passes by the same way. Go out to the beach. Watch the waves. Draw in the sand. Walk through the tide. Dust the sand off your stepping stones. Maybe go fishing with your dingy fishing rod when you're bored of eating the same things brought to you every week. Or just when you're plain bored. Read a book. Clean your small living space. Sit on the beach again. Repeat.
There's not much to do… ever. Life has always been monotonous. But such is the way of living a sedentary life.
The beach never changes. The tide rises and recedes the same as always. The sky goes from purple, to blue, to orange, and then black. It's quiet, peaceful. You like it, even when it does get boring. It's why you reside here in the first place.
So when that chaotic splashing cuts into your static rush of waves and wind, your curiosity is piqued tenfold.
Your head lifts from where you're hunched over a book, one of the ones you've read numerous times but keep coming back to for some source of familiarity and comfort. There's only a small light illuminating the space of your small, cozy shack; a flame that dances with every inhale and exhale you breathe, and it dances wildly at your sudden movement. You stare in the direction of the beach, honing in on that splashing from beyond the wooden planks. You expect it to stop, for it to go quiet again and for you to resume your monotony. But it doesn't and that splashing is accompanied by the sound of whimpers and agitated grunts.
You tilt your head in curiosity, closing your book without saving your spot. It must be an animal. You make your way to your front door, opening it a crack to peer into the black of night. The moonlight glittering on the surface of the ocean provides your only source of light, but it's enough to make out the form of something large thrashing on the beach where the dark waves meet white sand.
You gasp, quick to lift the ends of your nightgown and hop along the stones that make up your path to the beaches. The silhouette of that creature gets closer and closer and yet nothing provides you more clarity on what it is. You thought it to be a sea creature. You think you see a tail, but then you see what could be limbs and you're confused all over again.
Your movement slows when your feet hit the softer sands of the beach and so does the erratic thrashing of the creature just a few steps away at the sound of your arrival. Neither of you move, you squinting into the dark of night to try and see what it is and it staying as still as possible in what could only be fear. You can't make out what it is exactly, but you deduce the situation pretty quickly. Whatever animal it may be, it's gotten itself caught in some netting, the poor thing tangled in it pretty badly and somehow washed up on your beach. It's quite a distance away from the more popular fishing grounds of these lands. That trek always tired you out on the rare occasions where you wished to visit the markets within town.
You take one step forward for more hopes of clarity, only to stop in your tracks at sharp eyes honing in on you from the short distance between you and it. Your breath hitches, your hair standing on end and a chill running down the column of your spine.
Dangerous.
A feeling in your gut. Whatever it may be, it is not docile. Its tail slithers in the sand, the shallow tide shifting with its weight and strength. It doesn't blink. Doesn't make a sound. It's eyes glow in the black of night and you gulp. You take a step to your right and its eyes dart wildly in your direction, never landing on you, but clearly panicked. You get a better understanding at what you're looking at from this angle and it is no less bizarre.
There is indeed a tail. And there are indeed limbs. Both of them at once and you don't know if you've perhaps been lacking in sleep at the sight. Their hair is long, much longer than your own and tangles itself with their arms and the netting that binds them. It is too dark to make out much else, but none of it matters when it is clearly dangerous. And no less distressed.
You gulp, not knowing what to do. Helping it is the obvious decision. You can't leave it here to die on your beach, it would be too cruel and the evidence would be there on your beach to deal with regardless. You would never leave it to succumb to a death it doesn't deserve. Rather, you're at a loss for how to help. Whatever it is, it is obvious it would not react kindly to you getting too close. It's scared and panicked. You've never seen anything like it and maybe you're not meant to.
You'll need to let it escape quickly.
You turn on your heel, causing the one in the net to splash more at your sudden movement, and hop back onto your stone steps to your shack again. The door slams dramatically at your reentry and you're quick to grab the knife off your kitchen counter.
The creature in the net panics more at your return. Its tail thrashes wildly in the water, its arms pulling and tugging at the net around its body with no use. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. You don't want to scare it more should it think of you as a bigger threat.
You make slow steps around the creature, taking advantage of its panicked splashes to make it to its backside unheard. If you release it from its binds from the back, there are less likely odds of it attacking you from the front. Another deep breath and then you're lowering yourself on your knees, side by side by its tail. The thing is quite large, fleshy and its scales glittering a beautiful blue and purple under the moonlight. It sways in the shallow water, but not as wildly as it moves its arms to try and release itself from the netting. It doesn't seem to know where you've gone, too lost in its panic to make note.
There's no moment to waste. You grab a part of the netting, lifting it to slide your blade under and pull up, cutting through the rope. The creature stops prying at the net, the upper half of its body turning around so it could peer at you. Spotted. But it doesn't lunge just yet. It stares at you, the gleam of its dark nails showing you the tightening of its fists around the gaps of the netting as it watches. Waiting. You gulp, breaking contact with those sharp eyes to lift another part of the netting, somewhere higher up its tail to allow it more freedom of movement from its lower region. With every section cut, its tail sways more as if stretching its limbs, testing its mobility and getting a scope of how much it's allowed to move.
You thought it to understand the parameters around the situation. You're helping it, and so it stays still to allow you to do your thing, cutting more and more of that rope and even going as far to bracket its body with both your legs to give you better access. But when you reach up to the points where its arms are bound and stuck, you're proven wrong.
Three cuts into the net tangled around its arms and suddenly you're being tackled into the water, a scream escaping your lungs and your knife lost in the tide. Sharp nails dig into the flesh of your arms, pushing you into the water with incredible strength and speed. You're quick to panic. The need to flee has never been so strong, especially now that it's free from its bindings. A kick to it's underbelly and you're being released from its hold, allowing you to lift yourself out of the shallow waters with a deep breath and try making a run for the beach where it likely can't follow. Your limbs scramble in the water, your splashes loud in your desperation and you scream again when the thing catches you only a few steps towards dry land, a hand around your ankle and a tug.
You fall back onto your stomach, trying to crawl through wet sand with no use as it tugs and tugs, pulling you back into the water.
"No, no, no," you plead, your voice shaky with fear. It doesn't pull you too far in though, a revelation that doesn't calm your nerves in the slightest at the feeling of its heavy body crawling over your own. You turn around, the sand shifting with your movement, and you try pushing it off. Your strength is futile though, your legs are weighed down by its tail and your pushes and shoves on its body don't move it in the slightest.
And when you open your eyes, your fear only grows at the unknown.
It's a man. With its hair out of its face, brushed back and free from confinement, a man snarls back at you. But it's clearly no normal man. The fins on his ears flutter with the deep rumble in his throat, his lips pulled back into a snarl to reveal sharp teeth. His body, now bared for you to see, is decorated with swirls that glow similarly to the moonlight, the same markings pulling across the high points of his cheeks and nose bridge with his anger. And he stares back at you with malice. In the dark, it is nothing but frightful.
Your breathing quickens and you try crawling under the spaces of where his arms bracket you. He cannot follow you on land. He has a tail. You just need to escape and run. But his hand catches your wrist with a snarl and you try elbowing him in the chest in retaliation when he pulls you back. You're both a tangle of arms and legs, heavy breathing and snarls, until you successfully manage to hit him in the face and catch him off guard.
Just to cry at the feeling of daggers digging into the junction between your neck and shoulder.
You freeze all at once and the pained cry that comes out of you is loud in your shock and horror. His teeth dig harder into your flesh at your halt, his nails digging into your arms to hold you still like a warning when your hands catch onto the bare skin of his shoulders to try and push him off. When it all seems fruitless, you cannot help but sob.
You're going to die. He's going to kill you.
Your grip on his shoulders go slack with your cries, hiccups and keens making their way out of your throat. You're terrified.
And just when you think he's going to finish the job at the first sign of your submission, he seems to go still on top of you at the sounds of your whimpers. He breathes deep once, the feeling of his breath fanning across the increasingly wet area over your right shoulder, before he releases your flesh from the strength of his jaw. The release is just as painful as the initial bite and you cry harder. The pain is unbearable and you don't want to know what he plans next.
He pulls away from your shoulder then, only lifting himself high enough to hover over your face. The corners of his mouth are wet with your blood and it only terrifies you more. He's too close for your liking, the image of him blurred with your tears. He only studies you for a moment while you cry and you could only watch him with fear and anticipation for what he may do at the sight of you.
Whatever it is that he sees, it makes his breath hitch and he lifts himself up higher and away from your face. You don't let the opportunity slip. You push him with all the strength you could muster, somehow succeeding in your attempts before your feet are scrambling in the sand and you're able to run back to your shack, your left hand gripping the bleeding wound on your shoulder through the torn fabric of your nightgown and with tears streaming down your face.
You don't look back. You're too terrified to.
It's only when you're slamming the door shut to your home that you're able to slide down against that wood with shaking legs. Your chest hurts, your heart beating too fast for what strength your body could handle. And when you pull your hand away from your wound, you almost feel faint at the red that gleams on your palm, the entire expanse of it covered and dripping down your wrist, no doubt staining the white of your gown.
It's at that point that you hear the sound of loud splashing outside, followed by the silence you're so used to.
The events of the previous night fade like a dream. You'd washed your wound countless times as if operating a machine, memory of it blocked and repressed by the bandage stuck to your shoulder, the thing soaked through in a short amount of time but otherwise ignored. You'd washed the blood that trickled down your arm, finding all the small punctures where that creature's nails had dug into your arms and legs.
But when you woke from sleep, the beach was the same as always. There was no remnants of a net cut through and what rustling was done to the sand had been erased by the rising tide.
All there is are the gashes and punctures done to your skin and flesh.
You feel a bit dizzy that morning. But your gown is stained red and you don't want to waste all your water for the week rinsing it out before wash. It's just an inconvenience to your monotonous week. Nothing more.
Sunk into the teal water of your beach until your knees, you wash the red out of your gown until it goes pink. It's stained, but you'll have to live with it.
For what focus you have on your task, it could not stop the chill that runs through you over the sound of splashing further ahead.
Thrust back into your body, you gulp, lifting your head up from bright blue waters into sharp eyes.
Your breath hitches.
He is no less menacing in the light of day. His long hair floats along the surface of the water, the color of it an unnatural purple you'd never seen before, pale and bleached. The fins of his ears peak through his soaked hair and he only emerges out of the water enough to squint at you over the glittering of the sun atop shifting waves. Even with the large distance between you and him, his narrowed eyes frighten you and fill you with a sense of unease.
He is very real.
But he merely watches, his eyes narrowing and adjusting at your unmoving figure.
You shudder a breath, taking a chance to look away from him and down at your gown… where the ocean turns a slight red at your efforts. Stupid.
You lift your head again, finding him exactly where he's been and you stand to your full height, pulling the gown up with you as you lift your skirt, not wanting to wet them even more. He doesn't move. And so you back away slowly, making your way out of the water and back onto dry lands. He lets you, and you scurry back to your hut to dry your clothing.
He is not so merciful that same night.
Knee deep in the waters again, you're trying to find your knife. You're hungry and it's not so easy to eat or cook without it. You thought it would maybe be quick, that you'd find it sticking out of the sand where you'd dropped it under the tide. But you have no luck and you sigh to yourself as you lower your lamp. You're about to turn away and go to bed hungry when something's grabbing your ankle and pulling you under.
You don't even get the chance to scream. Water roars in your ears as you're dragged deeper and further in and you have no choice but to hold your hands over your mouth and nose, focused on not drowning above all else. When the grip on your ankle relents, you try swimming your way up only to thrash in panic over something grabbing your arm to turn your body. You kick at it and trying swimming upward again at the feeling of your lungs threatening to give in. Your struggle is short-lived after that. Something wraps around your waist and pulls you up until you're gasping for air and coughing up whatever water had made it into your lungs.
With one final breath and burning lungs, you finally open your eyes, face to face with none other than the same creature from the night before. Your panic comes back tenfold at the fact that you're suspended within black waters with the very being that had caused you to bleed relentlessly the night before.
You push away from him, ready to have to swim back to shore if you must. But he grips onto your arm, keeping you seated on what must be his tail under you and you panic even more at the feeling of his nails puncturing your skin once more. You do your best to struggle out of his hold, but he doesn't let you back into the water and you only stop when his grip gets stronger and he's pulling you closer into his face, meeting you with a harsh stare as if to say "stop".
You freeze under the harshness of his gaze, your own eyes wide and frozen with fear. There's no escaping.
It's quiet after the loud splashes of your attempts and you feel trapped under the mystical blue and pink of his eyes, the brightness of them captivating within the night.
You only look away when his free hand is lifting from under the water, another net caught in his fist. He pushes it towards you and you look at his face once more at his silent question.
You swallow around your nerves. Perhaps if you're honest, he will be merciful.
"Th-that's not mine," you manage.
His brows furrow and he gestures the net closer to you again with a harsh thrust. You could only shake your head fervently, trying to get the message across.
"It's not mine! I swear," you press, shaking your head and leaning away from the net in his hand.
He blinks at you just before his eyes widen, the net lowering with his revelation. Your chest heaves as you watch him nervously, unsure of what he'll do with that information. But his hand comes back out of the water, the net now gone, and he settles for grabbing your other arm, completely trapping you in his hold.
You stay as still as possible, staring back at him when he does nothing but stare at you. His grip relents, no longer digging into your flesh but still keeping you put. His brows furrow as his mind seemingly runs and then he looks from your face to your shoulder.
You could feel yourself shaking at the feeling of his hand brushing your hair away from your shoulder, just before pulling at the collar of your nightgown to reveal your still healing wound. The bandage is missing, probably somewhere in the water now, and it throbs. His fingers graze over the bite mark and you hiss at the feeling of his nails pricking at your tender and raw flesh. His hand withdraws at your flinch and you meet his eyes again, his own filled with tension.
That terror comes back when he swallows and leans in toward your shoulder. Does he want another taste? Will he bite clean through? Your mind runs with questions and dread, unable to do anything but sit still in this creature's hold.
A shudder runs through you at the cool feeling of something wet running over your flesh, the man in front of you running the flat of his tongue over your wound. Your spine goes ramrod straight and your eyes widen at the feeling. He does it three times, licking your wound slowly as if making sure he does a thorough job of it.
When he pulls away, you could only stare at him with wide eyes, his own refusing to meet yours and filled with… remorse? His brows are pulled together, his lips pressed and the fins of his ears pulled down to make him look quite sad.
You blink. It goes so quiet… so calm, and you don't know what to do. His behavior is odd, but he no longer seems hostile. You're not dead yet and it seems like it's not on the table tonight.
So you cough, clearing your throat to address the other in front of you.
"Th-the waters to the east are a popular fishing spot, I wouldn't go over there if I were you."
He lifts his head at the sound of your voice, but he frowns at your words and you repeat it again only for him to frown even more. It hits you then that he doesn't understand, because why would he?
So you point down where that net had disappeared before pointing to the east, his eyes following the direction of your finger, before you're making a big "X" between the two of you.
"The net came from the east, don't go there," you reiterate anyway.
His lips part in understanding at what you're getting at and he nods, letting you know that you got your message across well. It feels no less bizarre communicating with such a creature after the fact.
And when his lips part again, he speaks, surprising you with the pleasant timbre of his voice. If only you understood what he says.
It's your turn to frown at him, understanding nothing and he actually pouts a little at your cluelessness. He huffs just before his hand lifts out of the water again and he brushes over your wound with the back of his fingers, gentle and soft, before giving you an exaggerated sad face as a reiteration of his words. The gesture shocks you so much you bark out a laugh before you could help it. He's apologizing.
You slap a hand over your mouth in embarrassment after catching yourself. But he still stares at you with wide eyes at your laughter before looking away, his hands moving to grip your waist as he begins swimming backwards and back to the shores.
The situation is nothing but bizarre and he slides you off of his tail as soon as your feet are able to reach the sand under you. You turn towards him, studying him with curiosity at his actions. The water laps up to your chest as you two study one another, an odd sort of truce settling between you two. Perhaps you both realize neither of you held bad intentions.
So you lift your hand out of the water, giving him a little wave goodbye. "Thank you," you thank him for bringing you back, giving him a little smile for good measure to show your sincerity.
He mimics you, his hand lifting out of the water in an awkward wave before he's turning around and disappearing into the sea.
The bite wound on your shoulder heals at an incredible speed after your second encounter with that man from the sea. The first day, your skin is no longer tender to the touch, the red of the area surrounding the wound now settled into your normal skin tone. The second day, the punctures from his teeth look almost as if it had begun to fill and fade, your flesh piecing itself back together and healing. On the third day, it's almost as if it were never there, only slight bumps and ridges you could feel under your fingertips where it still needed a bit more time to recover. You could only thank the actions of the one who had injured you in the first place, his apology (though strange) being the one to accelerate your recovery. And thank him you do—in your mind—when visitors come to drop off the usual care package and a new knife for you in the next day.
And though scary, your encounters with him had been the most interesting thing to happen to you in recent days. The days drag again; eating, sleeping, walking, swimming, sweeping, bathing. It's all the same. The food gets boring. The books get repetitive. The soaps and shampoos smell as expectedly delightful as always.
You take to one of your few hobbies again. Wading through shallower waters with bare feet, you walk along the rocks and tide pools of your beach to deeper waters where your favorite rock to perch on sits the same as always. The fishing rod in your hand isn't one of the nicer ones you've seen the fishermen use when you'd visit town. But it's good enough and you don't feel it necessary to obtain a nicer one when the rod would sometimes sit unused for weeks. Not to mention your lack of strength to be able to reel in anything that would require a stronger rod anyway. But you're bored. It's not that you don't have enough food to sustain you. You're just bored. It would be fun to fetch something to descale, debone, filet, and fry yourself. The task excites you already.
But three days go by with no luck. You're running out of bait and walking back and forth to your rock perch is starting to get boring in itself. You sigh dramatically, leaning back on one hand while your other keeps your rod upright. Maybe you'll venture into the trees for some fun instead, maybe you'll find some berries and make a nice jam.
You give it a few more hours, baking in the sun while the waves ebb and flow. So boring.
The soft waves crash onto your rock, a steady back and forth rocking that puts you at ease. The water has gone an orange and purple, reflecting the sunset. You close your eyes, relishing in the cool of the breeze that flutters through your hair before a loud splash unusual from the rocking of waves resounds from your left.
You scream in shock, your free hand clutching your chest as you turn your head just in time to see a familiar head of purple hair flinching back at your scream, supposedly getting scared himself. He looks at you with uncertainty and you will your heart to steady its rapid beating against your ribcage.
"Oh," you sigh in relief, "It's you."
He watches you for a second and you set your hand back down on the rocks, looking over at him in the water. It's been some time since you saw him. You didn't expect him to ever return, but here he is now in front of you and you're curious as to why.
He seems to gain some confidence when you keep yourself turned towards him. You don't run, don't scream, you just watch him expectantly. He swims back beside your perch, pausing for another second to gauge you before his right arm is reaching over the rocks just to slide a fish beside you. Your eyebrows raise at the intent behind his appearance. The fish is a decent size, meaty and just big enough to fit in your pan. There is quite a large bite mark on its belly and you look back at the man who watches you silently, the red on the corners of his mouth indicating how.
He watches you with anticipation and you look back at the fish and him again, pointing to yourself when you ask, "For me?"
He nods once and you're actually surprised. You could only guess he's been watching and noticing your lack of catches. You give him a smile, genuinely touched.
"Thank you."
His eyebrows raise at the two familiar words and he disappears into the water before you're able to see more of his reaction. It's a short-lived interaction. But it's enough to tell you that he's still here.
And perhaps that's why you come back to your perch the next day despite your initial plan to abandon fishing all together for the time being. He doesn't come that day and you're a little bummed about it. But he comes the next, still surprising you with his appearance and you give yourself a mental pat on the back for not screaming this time.
He slides a glass bottle next to you this time instead of a fish and you're more confused about the intent behind this offering.
"Uh," you grab the bottle, looking at him with confusion. He only gives you a hard stare back, not particularly as nervous as he'd been about the fish, before disappearing back into the water with a harsh flick of his tail that splashes seawater onto the fabric of your pants.
It's another fish the next day, something he slides next to you more slowly than the last gift, a purse of his lips that tells you he's nervous about your reaction. Perhaps it's because it's a little smaller than the previous fish.
"Thank you," you give him a smile, still touched. It's better than you could've done.
He perks up at your words and disappears.
It's your old knife the next day and his lips twitch into an almost smile at your gratitude despite knowing that a newer, better knife sits at home. And then it's a glove. Then a handkerchief. Then a broken trinket box. It's at his harsh stare with these "gifts" that you realize he's "giving back" human things he'd find in the ocean, forcing you to deal with the trash he finds in the water. You're happy to dispose of them appropriately. And it's at his timid demeanor, the downturn of the fins on his ears and his pressed lips that you're able to decipher when one is an actual gift to you.
He slides over a seashell this time around and you gasp at the sight, a smile blooming on your face. His fins perk up at the optimistic sound and he watches you with anticipation.
You pick up the shell, turning it to observe it's iridescent underside.
"Very pretty, thank you," you smile at him. He frowns at the two unfamiliar words and you take it upon yourself to clarify.
You lift the shell higher, turning it back and forth so that it gleams in the sunlight. You point at it again. "Pretty."
His lips part in understanding and he nods, disappearing for the day once more.
You've come to anticipate your unlikely friend at this point. It's clear that he's just as intrigued about you as you are for him, seeking you out while you similarly encourage him to keep visiting you. You're lonely and he's been kind thus far. Perhaps he's lonely too.
When he returns the next day, his arm reaching over the rocks again, he drops something much more delicately than his previous gifts. You turn in your seat, shifting your fishing rod to peer over at your new gift this time around. You're even more surprised than before.
You hold your rod between your knees, reaching over to grab what appears to be jewelry. It's seashells again, but strung together by some string that your friend had likely found.
"Thank you!," you beam happily.
You expect him to turn away and dive back into the water as usual, but he stays there, his clawed hands gripping the edge of your perch as he stares at you expectantly. And so you slip the necklace over your head as he so clearly wants and his lips curl into a soft smile, still watching.
He makes no indication of leaving yet and so you turn towards him more fully, provoking more conversation. You gesture to your necklace, looking down at him in the water.
"How is it?," you ask. The shells dangle between you and him, hanging off your neck and still dripping water from the sea.
"Pretty."
Your eyebrows raise at his response. It's the first thing he's said to you since that first time you heard his voice. Not only are you surprised to hear him speak again, you're surprised when he speaks your language. It's a single word, but he communicates clearly.
"Pretty?," you reiterate softly, letting him know that he uses the word correctly and you're touched by the sentiment.
He nods once, his lips pursed and looking a little nervous, especially when he breaks eye contact to look somewhere off to the side suddenly. But he doesn't leave and you can't help smiling at the side of his face. He's clearly a little timid and you don't blame him; just as he is the first of his kind you've ever seen and interacted with, you're probably the same to him. It's an unusual friendship, but not unwelcome.
"Thank you," you say it again and he looks back at you, just enough for you to see a slight flush on his cheeks.
He slips away into the water after that.
You don't stick around the beach once he's gone, gathering your things as you wade through shallow waters and back to the shore with a smile on your face. The shells bounce on your chest with every step, a reminder of your new found friendship and the most exciting part of your days as of recent. You'll need to repay the sentiment. You're his friend just as much as he is yours.
He returns to your side much earlier than usual the next day, you only having cast your first line for the day. You hear that gentle splash of water from his emerging figure, turning your head to your left just in time to watch him brush his wet bangs away from his face and look at you with a soft smile as greeting. He slides another shell towards you, his fingers returning to hold onto the edges of your rock when he's done.
"Thank you," you set your rod flat on the rock to your right, picking up your gift before turning back to him, "I have something for you too."
He tilts his head a little in confusion, too many unfamiliar words strung together for him to understand. You gesture for him to come closer and he does so hesitantly, swimming closer to your perch until you're able to look directly down at his swimming figure. There's a slight pinch to his brows, wary of what you're up to and you don't blame him. All you could do is give him a gentle smile as reassurance.
You reach down, ready to slip the necklace over his head for him. He leans back a little when your hands get too close and you pull your arms back, meeting his eyes when he looks back at you with uncertainty. When you do nothing but wait patiently, he tilts his head down again. The trust he has in you is nothing but a marvel. You slip the necklace over his head slowly, not ignorant of the way he tenses over something slipping around his neck or the way his fins flick when your fingers accidentally graze over them. But his shoulders visibly relax at the realization of it being jewelry, the chain of it intentionally chosen to be long and loose, its pendant sitting in the middle of his chest.
You pull away when you're done, setting your hands in your lap as you wait for his reaction.
He grabs the pendant, bringing it up to his face in a way that's almost comical. He studies it at a distance that seems way too close, his eyes almost going crossed by how closely he holds it to his face. But he studies it with wide eyes, interest and apparent approval in his expression. You didn't have time to go into town for something new and so you resorted to gifting him one of your own pieces of jewelry. A simple chain, the pendant in the middle a pressed metal with the image of a flower in its center. If he were to give you a gift from the sea, you will give him a gift from land.
"Pretty?," you ask when he does nothing more than stare at the pendant. His eyes tear away from the jewelry at your voice, letting it drop back onto his chest as he swims closer to nod at you again, a little "mhm" resounding from his throat.
He grips the edges of your rock as usual but surprises you when he hoists himself up instead, water falling rapidly off his form as he moves to sit next to you on your perch. You forgot how big he is, especially since you've done nothing but stare down at him in the water until now. But he stares down at you this time, water dripping from the ends of his long hair and his face exuding nothing but intrigue at the sight of you next to him. You meet him face to face, a little too close and intimate but not shying away even when he does tower over you. He's your friend. You will not be scared of him. Even if he does seem to hold different societal cues than yourself.
You make it a point to break eye contact, a show that you're not afraid to let down your guard, and you look down at his tail now partially out of the water, its glittering blue and purple looking beautiful next to the bare skin of your legs. The end of his tail reaches below the water still, swaying with the steady rock of waves while your own legs are barely submerged by your shins. Very large, indeed.
You look back up at him with a grin and his eyes widen ever so slightly at your excitement. You could see the intricacies of the markings across the high points of his cheeks like this.
"You could keep me company."
He makes no indication of understanding what you said and you leave the conversation at that, the two of you enjoying each others company in silence other than the comments you have here and there over your catches, even when he doesn't understand what you have to say about the few fish that you do catch. But he sits there with you, alternating between crossing his arms over his chest with interest when he gets to see you reel in your line for the first time and leaning forward with his hand planted between you two, surprised when he actually sees a fish at the end of it. He listens to you when you make comments, but there's no response back or indication of him even registering what you're getting at. But that's okay with you, you're just happy to have someone there with you. It seems like he has nothing on his agenda anyway.
"I think that's enough for today," you break the silence once the sky has started to go dark, wanting to go back before you trip on a rock on the way to your shack.
Your fishy friend tilts his head, clearly confused when your comment seemingly has nothing to do with fishing. You've already withdrawn your line and you've placed your rod down to the side. You point backwards where your home resides.
"I'm gonna go back now," you clarify.
He blinks down at you before looking over your head where you're pointing. He seems to get it.
He looks back down at you and nods, uncrossing his arms to give you an unsure wave. You could almost laugh with fondness. For all his claws, sharp teeth, and fins, he's quite charming.
You wave back at him. "I'll see you next time."
He doesn't respond to that, slipping back into the water and disappearing into its dark abyss in no time.
He doesn't come to your rocks the next day or the next and you're not afraid to admit you're a little worried he's lost interest in visiting. Fishing is not all that fun without a friend to surprise you anymore and you've gone back to reading your books again. If he really wanted to see you, maybe he'll appear closer to the beaches when he's back. You have all the time in the world to wait.
It's another uneventful evening. A candle burns atop your dining table, floral scents wafting through the air as you sort through what foods will spoil first in your pantry, ready to have to make meals with them later. It's a welcome change from all the fish you've been eating as of recent, honestly. Your desperation to make friends has come to your fingers and cutting board smelling for days. You're just glad its faded by now.
A stomach full of food and freshly bathed, you find yourself wrapped up in blankets at the first sound of splashing. It's a little embarrassing how fast your heart skips a beat at the sound. It could be any animal or just a harsh wave, but you've hardly any visitors and the possibility of it being your one and only friend fills you with glee. You wait it out, not wanting to embarrass yourself if you were to go out to be met with nothing but your usual black beach during the night.
But another splash resounds soon after, your excitement immediately squashed when a pained whimper follows.
You hope you imagined it, swinging your legs off your bed as you rush to your front door to peek into the night with a rapidly beating heart. You squint into dark, finding nothing where the moonlight reflects off the ocean. But another whimper lets you know that something's there and you're quick to lift the ends of your nightgown, hopping along your stone steps to the beach.
You can't help but gasp in horror when you find him.
He's not in the water, having crawled himself out to lay on his side among the wet sand where water licks at the shore. The muscles of his arms are tense, staring down at the sand while he breathes in pain. A look down his large body and you see why. A fishing spear is embedded in the fleshy part of his tail, blood oozing out of the wound and onto the sand before the tide washes it away. You swallow anxiously at the sight. Above all else, the impressive length of his hair is notably gone. The silhouette of his body feels much more apparent like this… his hair uneven and choppy by the shoulders, as if haphazardly sliced through in a panic.
You take another tentative step forward and his head snaps up at the sound, immediately going tense at the sight of you. You take in his wide eyes, the slight pull of his lips into a snarl. Intimidating if he so clearly weren't putting half the effort into looking scary, the pain too much to commit. He's scared. But he came here in his vulnerability and you have to think it means something.
You put your hands up, a gentle smile on your face despite your own worry.
"I'm going to help, okay?"
His lips press into a thin line, not understanding your words. But his shoulders relax the smallest bit at the sound of your voice and you take it as a sign to step closer. He doesn't back away when you get closer and you're able to sit on your knees beside him. His breathing is quickened, his brows pinched together as he eyes you warily. You have to remind yourself that to him, you're the unknown much as he is to you. He doesn't know your intentions.
You give him another reassuring smile. The fins on his ears are down turned and his expression is so pained you could almost feel it yourself. When he does nothing but watch you, you take it upon yourself to get a better look at the spear embedded in his flesh. The spearhead is completely lodged in, the scales of his tail punctured and some broken surrounding the wooden shaft of the spear. Much of the shaft is already broken off, probably by himself, splintering at the ends but otherwise still stuck. The rapid bleeding is enough to tell you that it was too painful for him to remove it himself. You meet his gaze again with a sad smile. He was more likely than not mistaken for a large catch.
You take a deep breath, wanting to remain calm for him. But when you reach for the broken shaft of the fishing spear, only grazing it with your fingertips, he flinches aggressively. His tail spasms and he jerks back, teeth bared and a low grumble as warning in his chest. You're quick to pull your hands back to your chest, meeting his hard glare with your own wide eyes.
You both stare each other down, neither of you backing off. You give him that moment to calm down, remaining steady for him as your nightgown soaks in saltwater and sand.
"It hurts, right?," you ask, making sure your tone is gentle as if speaking with a kitten. You reach for the spear again. "I'll help you."
He looks back up at you with worry when the tips of your fingers touch the wooden spear again, a flinch but he doesn't run from your fingers. He watches you with wide and unsure eyes but holds otherwise still.
You decide to be quick with it. You grab the shaft fully with your right hand, ignoring the pained cry of the man next to you just to yank the spear out as fast as you could manage.
You only blink before the feeling of daggers embeds itself into your forearm, with it a sense of déjà vu. Tears flood your vision instantly, your fingers flexing around the wooden spear in your hand and causing the muscles of your arm to contract around familiar teeth. It takes everything in you to not rip your arm out of his jaw and run. You hold still while your lip quivers, not wanting to scare him with your cry of pain… but it hurts so bad. His teeth are sharp and they pierce deep.
Your breathing turns heavy but you let your blood pool, staring down at that head of purple hair.
Yet, similar to you, he seems to freeze the second it happens. The initial bite was a blur, but his shoulders are tense now that you sit still, his teeth buried in your flesh without a fight. You watch as he tilts his face up, angered brows relaxing once he gets a good look at you, teary eyes, quivering lips, and all. You stare right back at him. Even through this, you stay by his side. A few drops of his blood drips off the sharp end of the spear and so do those few tears that hang onto your lower lashes with your fortitude. He watches your tears roll down your cheeks before meeting you with wide eyes.
He releases your arm slowly. And just as slowly, you drop the spear, moving to cradle your arm with the opposite hand. Your fingers quiver, shaking all over in disbelief. You swallow hard, trying not to focus too hard on the deep punctures in your arm but it bleeds quick, your own red joining his in the sand. You shudder a breath, trying to remain calm for both you and him.
"S-stay here."
You stand on wobbly legs, walking back to your hut before coming back with your bottle of alcohol from your first-aid box.
You sit beside him on the sand again, your cheeks wiped of their previous tears in order to focus on the task at hand. He looks at you with a worried frown that you try hard to ignore if only to keep your mind off the state of your right arm.
You lift the bottle. "It's going to hurt," you warn him and his frown deepens, supposedly recognizing the word "hurt". "It's going to hurt," you reiterate, "but it's good for you." You try using simpler terms, hoping he'll recognize them from when you'd comment on your catches.
You tip the bottle over his wound, letting its contents spill and work over his damaged flesh. He hisses in pain, his eyes squeezing shut through it. But he actually does his best to hold still for you and for that you're grateful to not add another bite to your body.
His body curls in on itself through the pain and you try placing your hand on top of his for comfort. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you rush out apologies, hurrying to pour out the rest of the bottle. His hand grips yours in desperation, cold and clammy, yet never nicking at your skin with his nails.
You toss the bottle away once you're done, studying his face for any more signs of discomfort. You don't know if it's sweat that's accumulated on his brow or lingering wetness from the sea, but none of that matters when his eyelids start fluttering heavily. You panic a little.
"No, no, don't sleep," you urge, reaching up to pat his cheek. He's lost a lot of blood already, slowed now by your work, and you struggle to figure out what to do next. You can't send him back out to sea like this, he's clearly not in a state to be able to fend for himself and you worry someone or something might just finish the job.
There's only one other option. You stand on your feet, positioning yourself behind him to lift under his arms and begin dragging him back to your shed. He's heavy and your arm screams in pain, begging for you to stop and let go. But you don't want to leave him to die. You have to grit your teeth through the pain in both your arm and chest. You knew this would be too much strain on you, but it won't kill you. You're just glad the sand helps with the slide of his too large body.
He's surprisingly compliant with being dragged further away from the water and back to your home, loose in your hands and otherwise quiet aside from those few grunts. A trail of red follows the two of you back, white sand stained and carried onto the wooden planks of your floors. Your place isn't very big. Just a door that leads to your dining table, kitchen counter along the back wall, your bath along the right wall and your bed along the left. You find it very hard to not bump along chairs and cabinets onto the way to your tub. He's much too big to accommodate here alongside yourself, but you haven't much choice.
"Wait here for a second," you say as you settle the larger man onto the floor, letting him catch himself on his hands. He looks around the space in curiosity, the end of his tail flicking up and down with his interest. You take it meeting you has been a lot of firsts for him.
You return to the room with clean water, quickly filling the tub to allow your oceanic friend somewhere to rest that seems a bit more familiar. He turns his head toward you at the noise, crawling across the floor to grip onto the edges of your tub and peer inside. Smart as he is, he seems to get the hint, pushing himself up and flopping inside with little finesse. You gasp when his tail whacks against your partition, rushing to drop your bucket and catch it before it falls and breaks. You gauge his reaction after setting the partition against the wall, finding him quite content despite being entirely too large to properly fit into your human-sized tub. His tail spills out over the edges, the end of it hitting the floor. His arms rest over the edges and he sits up against the other end, watching what you're doing with curiosity.
There's blood and sand tracked all over your floor, the water of the tub going red quite quickly.
You frown, stepping closer to the tub before sitting on your knees, now eye level with him.
You gesture down to his tail, meeting him eye to eye with worry. "I don't know what to do," you say, making it a point to shake your head in order to convey your level of loss.
He blinks at you and actually gives you what seems to be a reassuring smile back despite being the one with a gaping wound in his flesh. He lifts a hand up, shaking his head before saying something short in response. You meet his eyes and he meets yours back with a level of calm that contrasts how you'd met him along the shores just earlier. You don't understand him, but something tells you that he's going to be okay now.
You nod, moving to stand and take care of yourself, stopping only when dark nails gently catch the wrist of your right arm. Your breath hitches, eyes suddenly trained on the way he eyes the bleeding bite on your arm. He pulls you closer with the gentlest nudge and you're trapped under worried eyes and down turned ears.
"It hurts?"
Your eyebrows raise. He catches on to your words fast.
You swallow before giving him a jerky nod, willing your voice to remain steady when you respond. "Yes. A lot."
His lips press together, remorse flashing in his eyes before he breaks off from maintaining eye contact with you.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, sounding unsure of his words as a mimicry of your own.
But you give him a little wobbly smile, letting him know that he's right in his usage and that you're receptive of his words. "It's okay, you were scared."
His eyes are still heavy with lethargy, but his determination hardens when he pulls your arm closer to his mouth. His tongue darts out to lap at your wrist, making your breath hitch as you merely watch. He catches the blood that's trickled down your arm, a single lap before he's dragging the flat of his tongue up the expanse of your arm until he reaches the source of that warm sanguine. His eyes dart up to catch yours for a second, gauging your reaction as if making sure you're okay, before he's running his tongue along your wound like he had those many nights ago. It makes your skin tingle, a shiver running down your spine at the feeling of someone working on your skin in such an intimate way. His tongue works over your wound thoroughly before he moves to clean the blood that's traveled along the sides of your arm and a part of you worries that—aside from helping you as an apology—he's genuinely enjoying the taste.
His tongue travels down your arm again, licking you clean until he's lapping at the tips of your fingers. You can't help the twitch of them when he gets down there, cleaning the last of your trickling blood. That same blood pools under your cheeks, your breathing gone heavy. But you have to swallow. He doesn't know the same intimacies as your own.
He surprises you with a kiss to the back of your fingers when he's done and it feels like you've stopped breathing all together. His hand cradles your own, your arm now clean and no longer bleeding. His grasp on you is as light as a feather, the tips of his sharp nails just barely grazing the underside of your wrist. He looks back up to gauge your reaction once he's done, waiting for a sign of approval.
You hope the flush on your cheeks isn't noticeable in this lighting. "Thank you…"
"Rafayel."
Your eyebrows raise. "Hm?"
He plants his free hand on his chest, meeting your eyes with intent. "Rafayel."
Your eyes widen ever so slightly with revelation. His name.
"Thank you, Rafayel."
And suddenly you're beaming at him, elated to finally put a name to the one you've been declaring a friend. You plant your free hand on your chest as well, happy to give him your name in return. He repeats it after you and you feel your bond with him deepen ever so slightly.
"Pretty," he comments after, letting your hand go. You can't help the fluttering of excitement in your chest. Conversation has never flowed smoother.
But then he's gesturing back out towards the sea, rambling in that foreign tongue in what appears to be a dramatic retelling of a story with wide arm gestures and varying facial expressions. It's the most you've ever heard him speak at once and you understand none of it.
You give him a little grimace when he's done, happy that he felt comfortable enough to share but a little upset at the language barrier between you and him.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're saying," you wring your hands in front of you.
He blinks at you, the upturn of ear fins drifting down slightly before he sighs with a big huff, arms draping back over the tub as he looks away. You let him rest for the remainder of the night.
You wake him accidentally the next morning by the sounds of your scrubbing, the other splashing in the tub with a jolt. You look up towards the tub with mild fright, your hair pinned away from your face and suds under your hands that pick up the red that remains after you'd already swept out all of the sand. Rafayel looks around the space frantically, forgetting where he is until his eyes land on you with a squint before widening with realization.
You give him an awkward smile, lifting up your scrub brush to show him. "Sorry, I'm just cleaning."
He doesn't say anything, but he does shift to drape both arms over the tub in your direction, resting his chin on the edge of it to watch you with interest. He does that for the entirety of your floor, your living space now clean and free of blood and sand.
"All done," you turn to him with a smile and you don't think you imagined the tiny upturn of his mouth at your announcement. One of his arms lifts then, gesturing toward your right arm as he beckons you over. You stand from your knees, walking over to the tub and giving him your arm. The bite has healed significantly already, much faster than the first one and you could only guess it has to do with how quickly he's acted on it this time around. He turns your arm back and forth before nodding lazily in approval at the condition of your healing bite.
"Looks good, huh?," you ask, taking a look at your arm yourself when he lets go.
He nods, understanding your simple question as he runs a hand through his hair. He freezes before he's able to run his fingers anywhere past his shoulders, wide eyes staring down at his hand when there's suddenly no more hair to grab. He turns away, trying to peer down into the water with no luck at seeing a clear reflection.
You scurry away to your vanity real quick, grabbing your hand mirror to give to him at his clear concern over his appearance. He grabs it out of your hands hurriedly once he sees what you're offering to him, holding it out so that he could get a good look at himself. He turns his head back and forth, fingers of his free hand carding through his much shorter hair, uneven and in choppy layers. He doesn't look pleased in the slightest, his lips parted and down turned in what could only be disgust.
When he turns to look at you, all you could do is give him a little look of pity and sympathy. You thought him to be sad and distraught over the loss of his longer, quite beautiful hair. But his ears turn red quickly before it travels over to his cheeks. He drops the hand mirror over the side of the tub to his right, turning to his left to face the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and a dramatic huff.
You have to bite your bottom lip to prevent yourself from laughing as you stare at his back. He's embarrassed over his appearance.
"Do you want me to cut your hair?"
He turns slightly to peek at you, a furrow to his brow in his confusion. You grab a lock of your own hair, pretending to cut it with your fingers as clarification. He points to himself in question and you nod. He seems to seriously consider your question, a tilt to his head as he stares as a random point in space before he turns the grip the edges of the tub, looking up at you with a nod.
That's how you find yourself with a chair pulled up behind the tub and your scissors in hand, carding through his colored hair to give him a style more suitable for appearances. He's lucky you have lots of experience cutting your own hair as a result of your sparse visits into town. It took time, but you'd say you're good enough. You decide to keep the length for him considering his hair was much longer than this, only helping to even out the length before trimming the rest of his hair into tapering layers just barely past his shoulders.
You ruffle his hair from behind when you're done, amused at the way it flares out at the ends.
"All done," you announce, handing him the hand mirror once more.
He tilts his head back and forth again, getting a good look at your work with raised eyebrows that you could see in the reflection of the mirror.
"Do you like it?," you ask.
He drops the mirror, tilting his head back at you to give you a nod that makes you laugh. You stand from your seat, going around to face Rafayel from the front and get a good look. You help with laying the tapering ends of his hair over his shoulders, pretending to consider your work with your chin caught between your thumb and forefinger.
"Hm," you hum, fiddling with the ends of his hair once more before giving him a grin, "Wow, so pretty."
His face turns red and he looks away with a pout. You can't help but laugh. He's easily flustered.
You let him know you're going to be outside for a bit after, pointing towards the door to which he gives you a thumbs up in response, leaving you to silently marvel to yourself about how such a gesture seems to be universal on land and in water. The sun beats on your skin, changed out of your nightgown now into short bottoms and a top that leaves your arms much room to breathe. After cleaning inside your home, all that was left was to get rid of the trail of red that led from the sea to your front door. It's an easy task that consists of you kicking sand up until no tracks remain.
But so distracted by your sudden and temporary roommate, you'd forgotten to take your medications for the morning. You feel yourself getting tired already after only doing as little as clean your floors, trim Rafayel's hair, and kick around some sand. The sun feels as if it's beating you down and you've worked up quite a sweat. You inhale as deep of a breath that you can, that capacity hurting your lungs as they press against your ribcage when your breathing has gone shallow against your own mental fortitude.
You admit defeat, dragging your feet back to your shack when you could no longer take the way the world seems to push down on your shoulders.
Rafayel perks up at your return, smiling at you with sharp teeth that drift downward when you ignore him to go straight to your cupboards. It's easy to avoid explanation when you drop those medicinal herbs into your mouth with no way to communicate anyway.
It's when you change the water of Rafayel's tub when you learn that he heals quickly, the gaping red in his tail now a paler pink as his flesh pieces itself back together. He gives you another thumbs up at your quizzical brow and you have to wonder then why humans haven't evolved to heal in such a way too.
It's later that evening when you realize how sensitive someone of his kind is to being out of the water for too long. The sun shines through your window with its curtains drawn, the orange of the sunset filtering in and hitting Rafayel's tail enough to highlight the way it's gone paler with dryness.
You hover a hand over his dehydrated scales, looking back at him with a worried expression.
"Does it hurt?"
He blinks slowly at you, processing your words before coming to an understanding of the one word he recognizes. He shakes his head before pausing to ponder his answer again. He changes his answer, tilting his head back and forth with a sort of comical expression as if to say "not really" just before leaning forward to scratch a part of his tail that spills over the side of the tub.
You snort at his response and he gives you a scandalized look at the way you seem to make fun of him.
"It's itchy?"
He doesn't respond to that, merely blinking at you with a passive expression. You take it upon yourself to dip a spare rag into the same water he sits in, drenching it before hovering over his tail again in silent question. His eyebrows raise at the implication behind your question and he gives you a nod to let you know that he's consenting.
You sit on your knees, running that soaked rag over his tail to rehydrate his scales for the time being. You hope he hasn't caught on to your lack of any other priorities. You've sat around him all day, going from reading to checking on the state of his wound to cutting peaches to eat and offer him to sweeping your stepping stones to reading again. And here you are now, taking the time to meticulously wipe down his tail with nothing else to do than to attend to him. Not really because you're just bored, but because you want to and it's a good use of your time to make him smile.
The pale blue of his scales return to their deeper shine with every wipe and you can't help but be mesmerized by the sight. Up close, his tail glimmers with a purple-ish gleam when the light hits it at the right angle and they shift and slide with every subtle movement from him. One glance back up at his face lets you know that he's enjoying the treatment very much by the way he leans his head back against the edge of the tub, slid down enough that more of his tail spills out over the edge and that the water laps around his collarbones. For being a stranger to your kind, he's surprisingly nonchalant in your company. Even after the previous scare the night before.
You reach the end of his tail in relative silence, only a soft hum from him every now and then. As much as it is relaxing for him, it's quite satisfying to you seeing the stark difference between his hydrated and dehydrated scales. You work mindlessly, wiping over his scales until you get to where his tail tapers to the elegant fins at the end.
It's relatively silent until you're grazing over the junction between his tail and fin, a sudden burst of laughter joined by a thrash that almost has his fins slapping you in the face. You jerk backwards at the sudden movement, your heart rate skyrocketing with your shock that matches the same look on Rafayel's face when you two make eye contact after you've already fallen back on your bottom.
He covers his mouth with one hand, his eyes wide and face flushed as he looks down at you on the floor. It takes a second for it to click, but once it does, you can't help but laugh. He's ticklish.
He seems to get more embarrassed at your reaction, sliding down into the water more until the bottom half of his face is submerged.
You try stifling your laugh, covering your mouth to control the sounds as you settle back on your knees by his tail again. For as big and scary as he is, he's so unbelievably… cute.
You beam at him again, catching him watching you warily still with that deep blush on his cheeks. The fins on his ears flick occasionally, betraying the way he so obviously is pretending like he didn't just embarrass himself. To think that he's embarrassed about such a thing… his kind and yours must be similar in some aspects of person to person interaction.
"I'll be gentle this time," you smile at him in an attempt to reassure him. He must catch onto the humor that still lingers in your tone, resorting to blowing bubbles into the water as a response. You giggle to yourself and continue wiping down his tail, trying your hardest to not react to every twitch of his tail over particularly sensitive areas.
You take it that his time with you will be short at the speed he's been recovering, and so does he when he seems keen on learning as much as your language as possible while here. While also seemingly in no rush to leave as he lounges in his too small tub of water. He takes advantage of his time, eating new foods to him and getting to learn about the tasks of humans all while watching you.
"This is a strawberry."
"We're eating."
"Rafayel is your name."
"I'm sweeping. This is a broom."
Some of the vocabulary he asks about doesn't seem all that useful to someone of his world, but he insists on learning and by the fifth day of his healing he's learned a significant amount. While he can't hold fluid conversations with you, he's learned enough to be able to ask questions.
He lifts the glass cup in his hand as silent question this time around, getting your attention when you seem to be finished with eating your meal. You look up at him from that short distance between your seat at the dining table and his tub, meeting him with a smile. You've enjoyed sitting close to him during times like this, especially when he doesn't seem bothered at having no choice but to be your companion with lack of mobility.
"That's a cup."
He brings the cup up to his lips, taking a few gulps of its contents.
"You're drinking water."
He points in the direction of the ocean past the closed walls of your home.
"Yep, that's also water. We call it the ocean."
"The ocean," he repeats, muttering it softly a few more times in order to burn it into his memory as he has with other words he's come to learn.
"Mhm, you live there. I live here," you point downwards, gesturing to your own home.
"When you're," he makes a fishing motion suddenly, mimicking your posture when you're reeling in your line, "What's that?"
"I'm fishing."
"For?"
"Fish."
He laughs. "Oh," he comments sarcastically at the creativity of the name, a part of his personality that's made itself known to you now that he's obtained the few words and expressions to express himself. He's quite the playful type.
"You're a fish," you try joking with him, a smirk on your face when you lean in closer to him.
He gives you a weird look, understanding your words with amazing comprehension speed. "Uh, no I'm not."
"Yes you are." You gesture to his tail.
He clicks his tongue, the end of his tail flicking with his irritation. "And you are?," he gestures towards your legs under the table.
"Human."
"Hm," he mutters the word a few more times, his chin caught between his thumb and forefinger before he's looking back at you again with earnest eyes, "You're a good human."
You tilt your head. "How so?"
"You're nice to me. Everyone else is mean." He gestures lazily towards his hair with an exasperated expression.
"I like you," you smile with you're explanation, "We're friends."
He doesn't ask what that means this time around, supposedly putting two and two together himself.
"I'm not a fish. I'm a Lemurian."
"Lemurian," you repeat with a excitement, happy to learn more about him.
He nods, "Mhm, we… live… in the ocean." He makes use of the new vocabulary he's learned, looking at you with a slight furrow between his brows while he waits for your approval of his sentence structure.
"You do," you keep conversation flowing, letting him know that he's correct in his use of words. "Why do you come up so often if you live in the ocean?," you point upwards as his only hint of your question, testing him to see if he could comprehend more complex sentences with what words he knows.
He turns towards you then, leaning in until you're nearly forehead to forehead with him, something you've also come to learn as a habit of his. He likes to get in real close. Perhaps it's a Lemurian thing. But you haven't the heart to tell him that it's a bit too close for typical human to human interactions.
There's a teasing smile on his face, his eyes raking up and down your features when your breathing seems to go heavy and your lips press together.
"I like you," he answers your question, mimicking your previous statement and you huff, looking back down at your empty plate while he laughs. You've also come to learn that he likes to tease. You could only imagine what he'd be saying to mess with you if you understood his own native language.