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He looks like he’s waiting for something. This is your first thought when you spot the stranger sitting on the curb, chin settled on his knees, fingers tapping a beat against the concrete under his hands. This is not a very good first thought about this particular stranger, but you only realize this once you get close enough to see him through the heavy mist, see the scars, the pit of his eye socket and the way his lip is drawn back. His teeth look awfully sharp and that is when you finally suddenly halt. But your shoes drag along the gravel and the sound almost stops your blood pusher.
He turns glacially slow to look at you, like he is unconcerned, like there is nothing in the whole world that could threaten him. And his other eye is a familiar purple and he still has one of his fins. You watch it flare and nervously swallow something that feels like your nutrition sack, but he only laughs, bright, high and as bitter as you have ever heard.
He is a ghost. He must be. How many nights have you been out telling your moirail about them, making up their stories, and now it’s real. As real as anything is to you anyway. Your own laugh is awkward and soft, and as he moves to stand you take a step back even though he raises one long fingered hand, hushing you. The other hand rises – you flinch – and he blows off something held between his fingers. A glass eye, you realize, as he slides it in place and finally looks at you like a slave trader judging his latest catch.
You cannot help the way your gaze drops nor the way you wrap your arms around yourself like it might keep you safe from an adult. An adult and a seadweller, even if he is damaged. You know you will not get out of this alive.
Except he’s shockingly delicate with you as he takes your jacket, shaking you almost fondly as he straightens it out. His fingertips under your chin draw your eyes back up, though you regret it when you end up staring into a smile that is all shark teeth and nothing like kindness.
What’s yOur name?
kalfOur~ He hushes you again with a finger against your lips this time when your voice shakes, humming some low sea shanty as he looks you over, closer now. You both sway to the familiar beat and for a moment you are twins, brothers, but you do not want to be anything like him. This is one of the few constant things in your life and you will not abandon it for a song your lusus used to sing you.
You try to twist away from him and his grip finally tightens, too tight, sharp enough to pierce your skin if you weren’t a sudden, violent flash of strength and a nasty growl that gets you a few steps distance from him. You expect to die then and there for your insolence. You can’t decide if it’s worse or better when you look up and his smile has just grown all the wider.
YOu’ll take the wOrld apart if yOu Care tO! he announces, spreading his arms like he’s offering you the sky. You shake your head, eyes dropping, and this time his laugh is genuinely amused and it goes on for much too long. Your skin prickles in the wet air. You wish he would kill you, but more and more you think he won’t. You are trying very hard not to be disappointed about this!
And then he’s close again and you have to look up and up and up to meet his eye. It’ll COme tO yOu, dear bOy. and he takes your shoulders, crouching down to your level. It is much too friendly and you squirm until his claws start to prickle through your clothes. This time there is no flash of violence, and you are quietly thankful for this. There will be a girl, my dear. RedblOOded, wild--
preta~ you say, as faintly as you can in case he doesn’t appreciate the interruption. And for the first time, he looks… not angry so much as nonplussed, as if he didn’t expect you to know what he meant already. You are ready to flinch, but he just stands again, tucking his hands into the shallow pockets of his tailcoat. It takes him a moment to recover. You get the feeling he is used to being allowed to monologue uninterrupted, and you feel sort of bad for messing up his rhythm.
Finally, he clicks his tongue against his teeth and nods. Yes, Preta, I suppOse. YOu knOw, she will die sOOn. It dOesn’t seem sOOn nOw – yOu’re yOung nOw – but it will be. Try nOt tO let her break yOur heart tOO badly. Try nOt tO waste tOO much time. It gets easy when yOu have sO much Of it.
He looks at you again, and the air is heavy like he expects a thanks for his advice. But when you do not give it to him, he only shrugs easily and sets off, brushing past you, ruffling your hair and drawing a finger down the length of your horn. The heels of his shoes click against the road, and suddenly he is a silhouette fading into the mist. It happens much too quickly, you think, and you try not to let it bother you.
Just make sure they remember yOur name! he shouts at last, waving lazily over one shoulder until he disappears down the road and the only thing left of him is his voice, humming his shanty song. Your throat closes with uncomfortable memories of your lusus.
Slowly, you realize you understand very little about what just happened.
He turns glacially slow to look at you, like he is unconcerned, like there is nothing in the whole world that could threaten him. And his other eye is a familiar purple and he still has one of his fins. You watch it flare and nervously swallow something that feels like your nutrition sack, but he only laughs, bright, high and as bitter as you have ever heard.
He is a ghost. He must be. How many nights have you been out telling your moirail about them, making up their stories, and now it’s real. As real as anything is to you anyway. Your own laugh is awkward and soft, and as he moves to stand you take a step back even though he raises one long fingered hand, hushing you. The other hand rises – you flinch – and he blows off something held between his fingers. A glass eye, you realize, as he slides it in place and finally looks at you like a slave trader judging his latest catch.
You cannot help the way your gaze drops nor the way you wrap your arms around yourself like it might keep you safe from an adult. An adult and a seadweller, even if he is damaged. You know you will not get out of this alive.
Except he’s shockingly delicate with you as he takes your jacket, shaking you almost fondly as he straightens it out. His fingertips under your chin draw your eyes back up, though you regret it when you end up staring into a smile that is all shark teeth and nothing like kindness.
What’s yOur name?
kalfOur~ He hushes you again with a finger against your lips this time when your voice shakes, humming some low sea shanty as he looks you over, closer now. You both sway to the familiar beat and for a moment you are twins, brothers, but you do not want to be anything like him. This is one of the few constant things in your life and you will not abandon it for a song your lusus used to sing you.
You try to twist away from him and his grip finally tightens, too tight, sharp enough to pierce your skin if you weren’t a sudden, violent flash of strength and a nasty growl that gets you a few steps distance from him. You expect to die then and there for your insolence. You can’t decide if it’s worse or better when you look up and his smile has just grown all the wider.
YOu’ll take the wOrld apart if yOu Care tO! he announces, spreading his arms like he’s offering you the sky. You shake your head, eyes dropping, and this time his laugh is genuinely amused and it goes on for much too long. Your skin prickles in the wet air. You wish he would kill you, but more and more you think he won’t. You are trying very hard not to be disappointed about this!
And then he’s close again and you have to look up and up and up to meet his eye. It’ll COme tO yOu, dear bOy. and he takes your shoulders, crouching down to your level. It is much too friendly and you squirm until his claws start to prickle through your clothes. This time there is no flash of violence, and you are quietly thankful for this. There will be a girl, my dear. RedblOOded, wild--
preta~ you say, as faintly as you can in case he doesn’t appreciate the interruption. And for the first time, he looks… not angry so much as nonplussed, as if he didn’t expect you to know what he meant already. You are ready to flinch, but he just stands again, tucking his hands into the shallow pockets of his tailcoat. It takes him a moment to recover. You get the feeling he is used to being allowed to monologue uninterrupted, and you feel sort of bad for messing up his rhythm.
Finally, he clicks his tongue against his teeth and nods. Yes, Preta, I suppOse. YOu knOw, she will die sOOn. It dOesn’t seem sOOn nOw – yOu’re yOung nOw – but it will be. Try nOt tO let her break yOur heart tOO badly. Try nOt tO waste tOO much time. It gets easy when yOu have sO much Of it.
He looks at you again, and the air is heavy like he expects a thanks for his advice. But when you do not give it to him, he only shrugs easily and sets off, brushing past you, ruffling your hair and drawing a finger down the length of your horn. The heels of his shoes click against the road, and suddenly he is a silhouette fading into the mist. It happens much too quickly, you think, and you try not to let it bother you.
Just make sure they remember yOur name! he shouts at last, waving lazily over one shoulder until he disappears down the road and the only thing left of him is his voice, humming his shanty song. Your throat closes with uncomfortable memories of your lusus.
Slowly, you realize you understand very little about what just happened.