Archive of Our Own

Andrew first notices that he isn’t alone on a Tuesday night in July.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the edge of the long dock stretching out into the small cove, looking down into the dark, churning water. Wind whips at his cheeks, and he has to keep a palm around his cigarette to keep it lit. The waves push at the wooden posts of the dock like a threat.

All of this is fine. Andrew doesn’t come here for peace. He’s never found the ocean peaceful; it’s too deep, too full of things he doesn’t understand and doesn’t wish to. He can’t even swim in a pool, let alone in moving water.

Andrew started coming out here when he started bartending with Nicky at Erik’s family’s seafood restaurant, which juts out over the rocky coast. The restaurant is the last thing open on Palmetto Cove on any given night. The rest of the businesses cater to tourists in the on-season — Wymack’s kayak rentals, Abby’s ice cream parlor, Hernandez’s gift shop. Bee’s cafe is the only other business open year-round. It used to be that Andrew would walk out to the end of the dock after a shift, wait until the lights went out and the headlights stopped flashing in the parking lot, and think about how clean it would be if he just fell over the edge. Now, he just comes here to remember that he’s alive.

As if to drive the point home, a wave crashes against the dock so hard that Andrew feels the sway. Irrationally, Andrew leans over the edge to examine the danger. That’s when he sees him, half-shadowed from the moonlight where he hugs the post of the dock. Wide blue eyes, full lips parted in surprise, and then the man is plunging down into the dark water, so fast that Andrew almost thinks he imagined him.

Andrew waits a moment, leaning so far over the water that he really is at risk of falling in, but the man never resurfaces. Andrew debates whether he should call someone — like, is he about to be the last to see a drowning victim? Then, he debates whether he’s finally lost his goddamn mind. He’s been teetering on the edge of that ledge, too, for as long as he can remember, but so far he’s never actually tipped into psychosis.

The wind whistles. The water roils. Nothing happens. Andrew is tired. (He’s always tired. He must be too tired, if he thinks he’s seeing strange men in the water.) He goes home.

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

For the next week, Andrew comes out to the dock to smoke after his shifts like he always does. But he can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched.

He lasts five days without giving into the paranoia, refusing to check for the monster under the metaphorical bed. But finally, in the name of his own peace, he leans over the edge. There’s a flash of movement that Andrew can’t quite make out and a loud splash. With his heart in his throat, he does see one thing: the glint of moonlight on scales as a huge tail slips beneath the surface.

Andrew sits back up, stubs his cigarette out, puts it in the plastic bag he keeps in his pocket because Bee and Ms. Klose get upset when he litters, and gets the hell off that dock.

It’s possible that something about the water is messing with Andrew’s psyche, but he can’t seem to stop himself from going back again and again. There’s no sign of whatever he saw in the water last week, even though he’s looked. The man. Or the giant fish. Might as well give the delusion a name: the mermaid. Merman? Merperson? Andrew doesn’t know anything about mermaid lore, and gender is only a construct.

Andrew talks to him sometimes. The mermaid. Mostly taunts, trying to see if he can goad him out. Sometimes he asks questions. What do mermaids eat? Can you drink saltwater? Are there other mermaids? Is there civilization? Do you even understand English?

One night, Andrew is lying on his back, drawing shapes with the cherry of his cigarette in the dark sky. It’s cloudy tonight, making it harder to see than normal — the emergency lights on the dock and the patios of the restaurants don’t offer much by way of illumination.

“You can show yourself, you know,” Andrew says. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t have enough credibility to tell the town that there’s a mermaid in the cove. They’d just have me committed. And my phone camera is broken, so I wouldn’t even be able to take a picture. Do mermaids even know what phones are?”

“I know what a fucking cell phone is,” comes a voice from under the dock.

Andrew pauses for a moment, eyebrows raised. Oh, Minyard, you’re really in it now. The hallucination is talking back. Either that, or he’s being stalked by a goddamn mythical sea creature with an attitude. Andrew flops over to his stomach, and lets his head drop over the edge.

He’s there, though Andrew can just barely make him out — same eyes, but narrowed, and lips twisted in irritation. His dark hair hangs in his eyes, stuck to his forehead and neck in damp clumps. One arm is raised out of the water to grip at a rung of the metal ladder that drops into the water, but the rest of him is submerged.

“Huh,” Andrew says. “Do mermaids have waterproof phones?”

“No,” the mermaid scoffs. “I grew up on land.”

“Did you get cursed or something?”

“Of course not,” he says, nose wrinkling. “It’s just a mutation.”

“Well, pardon me for not knowing my fucking mermaid biology, seeing as you’re the first one I’ve ever met.”

“That’s probably not true,” the mermaid says. His other hand comes out of the water to push his hair back off his face. “There are lots of people like me. Nobody talks about it, though, because they don’t want to get poached. They just stay on land. Plus, land has grocery stores and football games and cell phones. The ocean has rocks and fish.”

“You have legs?” Andrew asks.

“Sometimes.”

Andrew hums. “What’s your name?”

He purses his lips briefly before answering. “Neil.”

“You don’t sound so sure about that.”

“It’s a new name,” Neil says. “I’m trying it out.”

“Is your mermaid name, like, Triton Stormbreaker or something?”

Neil rolls his eyes. “There’s no mer names or culture or secret underwater societies. We’re decentralized and assimilated because everyone is in hiding. But I don’t get along with my family, so I don’t use the name I was born with.”

“How tragic,” Andrew says. He drops his arm that’s still holding his cigarette, taking a drag. “Do mermaids smoke?”

Neil shrugs, holding out a still dripping hand to take the offered cigarette. They both have to stretch to make the reach. Andrew watches as he places it between his lips. His eyes flutter closed as he takes a drag, shoulders sagging a bit as the nicotine corrodes away the tension in them.

The cigarette is a little damp when Neil hands it back, but Andrew sticks it between his lips anyway.

“Am I going to get sea herpes from sharing this with you?” Andrew asks.

Neil makes a face, adjusting his grip on the ladder. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of annoying?”

“Sure,” Andrew says. “But you’re the one stalking me, so I don’t think you get to complain.”

“I’m not stalking you.”

“No, you just watch me from the shadows all the time. Very normal behavior.”

“I…” Neil trails off, his expression falling. “It’s not anything nefarious. I just like to watch people. And you always seem so relaxed when you sit out here.”

Andrew has never been relaxed a day in his life, but he doesn’t care enough to break the illusion.

“So you’re not trying to eat me?” he asks instead.

“I don’t eat people,” Neil snaps.

“What do you eat?”

Neil rubs his face, exasperated. “You’re out of questions for tonight.”

“So I can ask more tomorrow,” Andrew says, stubbing his cigarette out.

Neil shrugs. “What do I get out of telling you anything?”

“My relaxing presence,” Andrew says. “My sparkling conversation. A way to pass the time until we both inevitably die.”

“Hmm,” Neil says. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that,” Andrew says, starting to sit up. “I’ll let you get back to your mermaid business, then.”

“Wait,” Neil says, coming out from under the dock to stay in Andrew’s line of sight. “What’s your name?”

Andrew racks his mind for any fairy tales about the consequences of giving a mermaid your name, but can’t find any. The thought process almost makes him laugh again. He has really fucking lost it. He should show up at Aaron’s door and tell him about his new little fish friend, just to get slapped in the face with reality. He should just check himself into the hospital. But what’s the fun in any of that?

“Andrew,” he says.

“Andrew,” Neil repeats, and it sounds a little bit magical on his tongue. With a final salute, Andrew leaves the mermaid and the ocean and the dreams behind.

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

Andrew goes to Nicky’s on his way to work, when he knows both him and Erik will be out. He hunts through the copious junk in their garage until he finds what he’s looking for: a lantern from the one disastrous camping trip they took when Nicky convinced himself he needed to commune with nature.

Out on the dock that night, Andrew perches on the ledge, flicks on the lantern, and lets out a low whistle.

“I’m not a dog,” Neil says from below the dock.

“Are there merdogs?” Andrew muses.

Neil doesn’t bother answering as he swims into view, hanging onto the bottom rungs of the ladder.

“So, where do you stay when you don’t have a tail? I’ve never seen you around here before.”

“I don’t live on land anymore,” Neil says.

“Your story keeps changing,” Andrew says, waggling a finger at him. “You said mermaids don’t live in the ocean.”

“I said it’s usually safer and more convenient to just live with legs,” Neil says. “That’s not the case for me.”

“Something scary up here waiting for you?”

“Yes,” Neil says.

He doesn’t elaborate, so Andrew moves on.

“What do you do all day? Dance with squids? Sing with crabs?”

“Life is pretty busy without beds and refrigerators,” Neil says. “I can’t store food, so I have to go find it every time I’m hungry. And I’m always looking for new, safe places to sleep. In between that, I like to people-watch.”

“Of course you do,” Andrew says. “Stalker. How often do you get caught?”

“This is a first.”

“That’s surprising, since you’re not sneaky at all.”

“It took you ages to notice me,” Neil argues. “I got lulled into a false sense of security.”

“Ages, huh?” Andrew says, tilting his head to the side. “How long have you been watching me?”

Neil’s cheeks go pink. “A couple of months, at least.”

Surprisingly, this doesn’t fill Andrew with any dreadful sense of violation. It’s not like Andrew was doing anything private out here, besides occasionally craving his own watery demise. And clearly Neil wasn’t trying to assist him with that.

Instead, the information settles heavy in Andrew’s chest.

“When was the last time you got out of the water?” he asks.

Neil chews on his lip. “It’s July?”

“August 2nd,” Andrew says.

“Damn,” Neil says. “I was only a few days off.”

Andrew hums. He shakes another cigarette out of the pack, and then holds it up. When Neil nods, Andrew sticks a second between his lips and lights them both before passing one down.

“Sixteen months ago,” Neil says after a few moments. “That’s when I was last on land.”

Andrew whistles. “You never come out just for a break? To take a shower or buy a burger or something?”

Neil winces. “If I get out, I don’t know if I’ll be able to get myself to come back in.”

“It’s that bad in there?”

“Not bad,” Neil says. He hasn’t taken a drag of his cigarette yet, but Andrew watches his eyes flutter closed as he takes a deep breath of the secondhand smoke. “I like being in the ocean. But it can get lonely to stay for so long.”

“And that’s better than risking getting caught by whatever you’re running from?”

Neil sighs, leaning the side of his head against the ladder. “Yeah.”

“Hmm,” Andrew says. “Maybe you are cursed. Just metaphorically.”

“Maybe so,” Neil says with a snort.

They smoke in silence for a bit. When Andrew finishes his cigarette, he stubs it out and pulls his trash bag from his pocket.

“If it’s so important for you to stay hidden, why are you risking talking to me?” Andrew asks.

“Good question,” Neil says. He puts his half-burnt cigarette out against the ladder, then hands it up to Andrew. “I guess I’m just a little bit stupid.”

Andrew huffs. Neil’s lips tug up at the side.

“You also don’t seem like much of a risk,” Neil says.

Andrew raises his eyebrows. It’s maybe the first time Andrew’s heard someone say that. He holds up an arm, gesturing to the black band that stretches from wrist to elbow. “I carry knives in these.”

Neil’s lips twitch again. “I’m sure you’re very dangerous. But that’s not really what I meant.”

“And what do you mean?”

“Well, I mean that I’ve been watching you,” Neil says.

“As we’ve established. Creep.”

Neil shrugs. “I think you come out to this dock for the same reason I do. And it’s why you came back, even when you met a freaky talking sea creature. You’re lonely too.”

Neil’s eyes don’t leave Andrew’s face. They’re way too big, too pale, too earnest — befitting of a freaky talking sea creature. He looks like something out of a Disney movie with those eyes and those lips and that jawline, with his hair drying in thick, dark waves that brush his shoulders. Just give him a fucking seashell bra and call it a day.

“Show me your tail,” Andrew says.

Neil finally does smile then. He has a dimple, of course, because why wouldn’t he?

“I’ll take that as confirmation that I’m right,” Neil says. He puts both hands on the ladder, pulling himself up hand over hand until more of his body emerges from the water. Andrew leans to the side, dangling the lantern over the edge of the dock so that he can see better.

It’s definitely a tail. Blue scales, hints of green and purple, tapering down to wispy-looking fins that look like liquid silver. There’s no clear line of transition between Neil’s skin and tail — the scales start losing density at his hips, until they’re just scattered sparsely along his waist. Somehow more surprising than the tail are the scars that stretch across the very human skin of his torso — patches of rash and burn, ropes of poorly stitched slashes. Neil shifts, and Andrew sees the perfect outline of an iron pressed into his shoulder. The clear and brutal mark of modern technology dulls the magic of the moment. Instead, it tugs at something tired and ancient in Andrew’s chest. Something scary, he thinks.

Neil watches the path of his eyes, a challenge in his expression.

“Do you have gills?” Andrew asks.

Neil blinks, then dangles from the ladder with one hand so that he can gesture to his neck.

“They’re hard to see, but there’s some here,” he says, then taps his ribs. “And here, though my lower ones haven’t been the same since, you know…” He trails off, gesturing uselessly toward the expansive scar tissue.

“Does that affect your breathing underwater?” Andrew wonders. “Like mermaid asthma?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Neil says, amusement in his voice. He lets go of the ladder, dropping back into the water with a loud splash. Andrew has to lean back from the edge of the dock to avoid the spray.

“Must make it harder to swim away from danger,” Andrew says.

“There’s no danger in the water,” Neil says. “I’m pretty close to the top of the food chain. Mostly because I have thumbs.”

“Have you ever seen a shark?”

“Yeah,” Neil says. “They mind their business as long as I mind mine.”

“Did they tell you that? In fish language?”

“No,” Neil says with a snort. “I can’t talk to fish. I do speak French, though.”

“Hmm,” Andrew says. “Mermaids are a lot more boring than I thought they would be.”

Neil grins. “Sorry to disappoint.”

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

It’s Andrew’s day off, but he gets restless after the sun goes down.

He takes a walk, just to burn off that extra energy. The gas station at the center of town is open late, so Andrew buys a few candy bars that he shoves in his pocket. He takes the long way back, toward the coast. That’s how he ends up at the cove.

It’s quiet — at least as quiet as the ocean ever is. Waves and wind and the gentle creak of the dock. One of the fishing boats thunks against the post it’s tied to as the water rises and falls. Andrew sits down at the edge, kicking his foot against the wood in harmony with the rest of it.

He finishes a Snickers bar and a cigarette without interruption and reckons with the fact that he really might have made the last few nights up in his head. If it’s true, it’s fine. Dreaming of hot mermaids is hardly dangerous. When Andrew was younger, when he was troubled and reckless and destructive, people thought he dreamed of much more insidious things. And then, Andrew did start dreaming about insidious things; though the victim was always himself.

In comparison, mermaids are a non-issue. Andrew can live with this.

For a dream, though, Neil’s little story is quite complex. Andrew isn’t sure he’s all that creative. Maybe that’s why the hallucination has ended — his brain ran out of ways to feed it.

Or maybe it’s not a hallucination at all.

Andrew closes his eyes, fighting off a swell of nausea with a deep breath. It’s been a long time since the dock made Andrew seasick. He bags his cigarette butt and stands.

When he’s halfway down the dock, he hears a splash out of sync with the rest of the ocean symphony.

“Hey,” Neil calls, and Andrew can just barely see the silhouette of him in the water to his left. “You don’t usually come here on Thursdays.”

Andrew sits again, turning on the lantern and dangling it in the space between his knees. He leans forward, taking in Neil’s face. It’s the same as before: prettier than Andrew knows what to do with.

“That’s because it’s Wednesday,” Andrew lies.

Unease passes over Neil’s face, and Andrew nearly rolls his eyes at the guilt that trickles down his spine. He shakes his head.

“Calm down, I’m messing with you — your mental calendar is just fine,” Andrew says. “I didn’t work tonight, but I was in the area.”

“Oh,” Neil says, relaxing. His arms are spread wide, circling slowly as he treads water. “So you came to see me?”

“Aren’t you grateful for my company, lonely little fish?”

“Of course I am,” Neil says, smiling. He leans until he’s floating on his back below Andrew, folding his arms behind his head. Andrew watches Neil’s tail swirl in the water, tracks his eyes up the lines of his narrow waist and scarred chest to his face. Neil’s eyes are fixed on Andrew’s face with an intensity that Andrew’s going to have to accept as Neil’s norm.

“You have a staring problem,” Andrew says. “It’s been too long since you’ve socialized. You’re going feral.”

Neil shrugs, lips twitching. “I just like looking at you, I guess.”

Andrew raises his eyebrows. “Why?”

“I find you peaceful,” Neil says. “You sit so still, and your expression is always calm. And your hair gets shiny when the moon is bright. It’s nice.”

“Peaceful,” Andrew huffs. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

“Yeah, I understood that the moment you opened your mouth,” Neil says, grinning.

“I’m glad your expectations have been adjusted,” Andrew says, shifting to reach a hand into his pocket. He pulls out a candy bar, holding it up near the lantern. “How do you feel about KitKats?”

Neil twists so that he can swim closer, wrapping an arm around the dock post.

“I’m not usually a chocolate person, but I’d kill for some over-processed sugar right now.”

Andrew clucks his tongue as he unwraps the candy. “Not a chocolate person? Now I’m not sure if you deserve to share.”

“I did say I’d kill for it.”

“No,” Andrew says, shaking his head. “You’ve already played your cards, little fish. You said you’re harmless.”

“I said I wouldn’t eat you,” Neil corrects. “I never said I wouldn’t kill you.”

Andrew tilts his head, tapping his chin in consideration. “Have you?”

Neil blinks. “Killed?”

Andrew nods, and the playfulness fades from Neil’s face.

“Not over chocolate,” he says, voice nearly lost to the wind. “And only because I had to.”

Something scary, Andrew thinks again. His throat is tight when he says, “Me too.”

Neil sighs, eyes falling closed. Even from a few feet away, Andrew can see that his eyelashes are stupid long, fanning out over cheekbones that only look more dramatic with the shadows thrown from the lantern.

Andrew cracks the KitKat, holding half down to Neil. Their fingers don’t brush when Neil carefully takes the candy.

Through a mouthful of chocolate, Andrew asks, “If you could have any food right now, what would it be?”

Neil groans, resting the side of his head against the pole as he chews. “That’s such a hard question. Definitely fruit.”

“Fruit? You’re living off, what, seaweed? And you’re not craving a burger or something?”

“I’d go for a burger,” Neil says. “But not as my first choice. And kelp isn’t great, but I eat a lot of snails and clams, too. It’s almost fancy.”

“It’s definitely not,” Andrew says.

Neil laughs, licking chocolate off his fingers as he thinks.

“Fat, crispy grapes,” he decides. “No seeds. Green, preferably.”

“It’s your fantasy,” Andrew says. “Don’t settle for red.”

“Definitely green, then,” Neil says.

Andrew finishes his KitKat and licks the wrapper clean before shoving it into his trash bag.

“There’s going to be a farmer’s market this weekend,” Andrew says. “First Saturday of every month, fruit as far as the eye can see. My brother and his girlfriend run a composting thing, so they go to try to coax people into giving them their apple cores. It’s all very glamorous.”

“That sounds nice,” Neil says, smiling softly.

“You could come.”

Neil shakes his head, his smile wistful. “I told you, I can’t risk it.”

“Not even for grapes?”

“Not even for grapes.”

Andrew whistles, low. It’s probably for the best: if Neil came to the farmer’s market, everyone would probably finally discover that Andrew has been talking to himself. The image in his head falls flat, though, compared to the way Neil is looking up at him.

It is very, very hard to believe that Andrew is making Neil up.

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

Andrew fills a takeout container with fries before the kitchen closes the next night. He leaves them sitting on the bar as he serves his last customers, kicks out the stragglers, and starts cleaning up. Mrs. Klose calls out a goodbye when she leaves, flicking off the majority of the lights. Andrew nods in her direction as he finishes wiping down the countertops. When her car pulls out of the parking lot, Andrew grabs the fries and heads out, locking the door behind him.

Neil is waiting in the water near the end of the dock. Andrew drops the lantern and the takeout box before sitting down cross-legged next to them. Neil climbs a few rungs up the ladder, eyeing the box. Andrew shoves it toward him, flipping open the top.

“Oh, god,” Neil moans, and Andrew would like to erase that sound from his memory. Or hear it again. (And again, and again.)

“They’re probably cold,” Andrew warns as Neil takes a handful before dropping back down toward the water. He keeps his elbow hooked over the first dry rung, holding himself up.

“Don’t care,” Neil says. “French fries are on my favorites list, somewhere under the best fruits.”

“A favorites list comprised entirely of fruits and vegetables,” Andrew scoffs. “That’s weirder than the tail and gills.”

“Potatoes are not vegetables.”

“Botanically, they are.”

“In reality, they are not,” Neil argues. “Because I hate vegetables.”

“Are you five years old?”

Neil wrinkles his nose. “I don’t understand why people say that. It’s not like vegetables get better as you get older; adults just start to feel like they have to lie about liking them.”

“I’m sorry that you have no taste, but that’s literally not true.”

“You’re telling me that if you had the choice to get those nutrients elsewhere, you’d still eat, like, asparagus?” Neil asks.

“Yes,” Andrew says. “The restaurant does a grilled asparagus to go with the salmon — if I had to choose between the fish and the asparagus, I’d choose the asparagus.”

“I don’t believe you,” Neil says.

Andrew shrugs. “Suit yourself. Live in a lie.”

Neil rolls his eyes, he pops his last fry into his mouth, then climbs up to grab more.

“If you came out of the water, would your legs just come back automatically?” Andrew asks.

Neil drops back down until his tail is submerged again, the fins flapping once against the surface.

“It takes a minute,” he says with his mouth full. “But yeah, pretty much.”

“And then every time they’re wet, you go into fish mode? How do you take showers?”

Neil snorts. “I have to cross my ankles for the tail to build. It’s a whole thing.”

“Hmm,” Andrew says. “How do you piss with a tail? Or, like take a shit? You might be magic, but everything poops. Especially things that eat french fries.”

“It’s not magic,” Neil says. “You ask too many questions.”

“I’m trying to wrap my head around you,” Andrew says, a sentence he means in more ways than one.

“Good luck with that,” Neils says.

“Wouldn’t you have questions if you met, like, a werewolf or something?” Andrew asks. “Wait, are werewolves real too?”

“Not to my knowledge. And I don’t know, I tend to just mind my own business.”

“Except when it comes to stalking me.”

Neil smiles. “I guess so.”

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

The next time Andrew comes to the dock, he brings a pair of navy blue swim trunks.

“What are those?” Neil asks after he’s finished the peanut butter cup Andrew had tossed down to him.

Andrew throws the trunks down too — they almost hit the water before Neil catches them. He looks up at Andrew, brow furrowed.

“I want to see your legs,” Andrew says. “Technically, you wouldn’t be leaving the ocean unless you used them to walk down the dock to shore.”

Neil’s expression darkens. “You know, I’m not a science experiment.”

“No one said you were.”

“Why are you always trying to get me to get out of the water?” Neil asks, voice harsh.

“I don’t care if you get out.”

Neil shakes his head. “Every time you come, you try to convince me, even though I’ve told you that I can’t. Why?”

“Because you’re a fucking tragedy,” Andrew says. “You’re miserable in there, and yet you stay anyway because of some phantom threat.”

“I have to stay.” Neil’s voice breaks. “It’s not phantom. It’s how I stay alive.”

“Is this really a life worth living?”

“You’re one to talk,” Neil spits back. He looks vicious like this — eyes narrowed and sharp, those full lips curled in disgust. “You come out here every day — even before you knew I was here. No other plans, always alone. How are you any different than me?”

Andrew stands up then.

“You have no idea what it took for me to get the life I have,” he says, meeting Neil’s glare with his own. “Don’t pretend you know me.”

“Don’t pretend you know me either,” Neil says, tail slashing in the water behind him.

Andrew shakes his head, turning away.

He leaves the swim trunks behind.

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

Instead of going down to the dock the following night, Andrew walks to the grocery store.

It’s been a while since he’s done a proper shop — he mooches most of his meals off the restaurant, or out of Aaron’s pantry. But it’s about time he had at least a few packets of Ramen in his cupboard. He fills a basket with stuff that looks good, then veers back toward the produce section. A clerk announces over the intercom that the store is closing in five minutes, but Andrew only needs one more thing. Once he hauls his groceries home and puts everything away, he stands in his kitchen, staring at his open refrigerator.

He sighs, grabs the plastic bag from the fridge, his keys, and the lantern, and heads back out the door.

The air is thick with cloying humidity, hot even though the sun has been down for hours. It’s slightly better at the shore, but not enough to stop the sweat from dripping down Andrew’s temples and lower back.

A silhouetted figure at the end of the dock makes Andrew pause, but he flicks on the lantern and moves closer. Neil turns, and the light catches half his face. His lips part, but he doesn’t say anything as Andrew sits next to him, setting down his things.

Hanging off the edge of the dock are two very human legs. Andrew stares at them — scarred knees, freckled thighs, lean calves. Neil is wearing the trunks Andrew left. His arms are folded over his torso, shoulders hunched. His expression looks almost pained, eyes fixed on the bag of green grapes sitting on the dock between them.

“I kind of wanted to see it happen,” Andrew says.

Neil blinks up at him. Big, pale Disney princess eyes under thick lashes, waves of nearly-dry hair curling into his face. It’s jarring to see Neil this close. Andrew wants to reach out and touch textured skin or frizzy hair — to test if he feels as real as he looks.

“What?” Neil asks.

Andrew jerks his chin toward Neil’s legs.

“Oh,” Neil says. He straightens his legs, flexing his toes. A few of his little ones are slightly crooked — breaks that didn’t get a chance to heal right. Andrew’s left pinky toe is the same. “It’s kind of gross, like I’m molting or something. This one was particularly intense because it had been a while.”

“That’s fucked up,” Andrew says. “I still want to see.”

Neil snorts, hugging his arms tighter around his chest.

“I didn’t know if you’d come back tonight,” Neil says.

Andrew doesn’t have a reply to that. Instead, he opens the bag of grapes, popping one into his mouth. There’s an audible crunch when he bites down. Neil slowly uncurls. He digs around in the bag, looking for the perfect grape. When he slips it between his lips, his eyes fall closed, and Andrew has to look away.

“I have a proposition,” Andrew says, watching a buoy bob out at the mouth of the cove. “Truth for a truth. Question for a question. You can start.”

“Hmm,” Neil says, shoving three more grapes into his mouth. He holds a finger up until he finishes chewing. “I feel like I should get extra questions, since I’ve answered so many.”

“Don’t push it.”

Neil lets out a small laugh.

“Okay,” he says. “You said your brother lives in town. What’s he like?”

It’s not what Andrew expects. He peels the skin off of a grape, just for something to do with his hands as he considers.

“He’s the opposite of me,” Andrew says. “Except for looks. We’re identical twins.”

“That must have been fun when you were younger,” Neil says.

Andrew shakes his head. “We didn’t meet until we were sixteen. Our biological mother was a fucking mess. She kept Aaron, but I grew up in foster care.”

“How did you find each other?”

Andrew throws a grape at Neil. It bounces off his cheek and into the water. “Wasteful,” Neil mutters.

“You’ll have to save that question for your next turn,” Andrew says.

“Fine,” Neil says. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t have to take my turn now.”

Neil rolls his eyes.

“Do you wanna see how my tail forms?” Neil asks.

“Does this count as my turn?”

“No, I was going to show you anyway.” Neil crosses one of his ankles over his knee, then brings the lantern closer. “Can you see the scales there?”

They’re faint — sheer, shimmery patches on the inside of his ankle that could easily be mistaken for dry skin or scar tissue. Andrew nods.

“When I line them up underwater, it’ll start to build up my tail,” Neil says. “The rest kind of happens from there. You won’t really be able to see it happen, unless you want to come swimming.”

Andrew wrinkles his nose. “Pass.”

“Fair enough,” Neil says, then tips forward off the dock. In the water, he tries to hold his legs up near the surface, but it’s too dark for Andrew to see until the glimmering tail splashes up over the water.

“It really would be better if you were in the water,” Neil says. He holds up the swim trunks he’d been wearing. “Maybe next time, you could use these.”

“Not a chance, little fish,” Andrew says. He hangs the grapes over the edge. “Should I leave these with you?”

“I don’t have anywhere to put them, and I’ll get sick if I finish them now,” Neil says, then hesitates before adding: “Bring them back tomorrow?”

There’s no point in pretending.

“I will.”

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

It’s hot again the next night, but the wind has picked up over the sea. Andrew sits down at the dock’s ladder, resting his feet on the top rung and holding the lantern out over the waves. He almost jumps when Neil’s head pops out of the water right beneath him. Neil pushes his hair out of his face, climbing a few rungs of the ladder. All quiet sadness is gone from his face as he smiles up at Andrew.

“Did you bring my grapes?”

“This is why they tell you not to feed the wildlife,” Andrew says. “You’re becoming too reliant on people food. It’s going to ruin the ecosystem.”

“Okay,” Neil says easily, flicking water up at Andrew with his tail.

Andrew glares, but twists to grab the grapes. He holds one out, and Neil catches on immediately, opening his mouth. As Andrew drops the grape and Neil catches it, Andrew decides he does not like this game.

“Come get them yourself,” Andrew says, shifting over and leaving the bag at the top of the ladder.

“You just want to see me molt,” Neil says.

Andrew shrugs, but Neil laughs as he climbs up the ladder, the light from the lantern bouncing off the glittering scales from his tail.

Neil settles next to Andrew, drawing the grapes into his lap. Andrew shifts to face him. Neil sighs happily, and the gills on his neck expand and contract. Andrew holds a hand out to them on impulse, stopping himself inches from Neil’s skin.

“You can,” Neil says, eyes on Andrew’s face.

Andrew’s finger’s touch down next to the gills instead, on beads of water trailing down Neil’s neck from his hairline. Neil tilts his head to the side to give Andrew better access as he runs his fingers across Neil’s skin. He’s entirely solid, with skin surprisingly warm despite the cold water he spends his days in. The gills are subtle ridges under the pads of Andrew’s fingers — they flutter as Neil takes a breath, and Andrew draws his hand away. Instead he hovers them over the scales of Neil’s tail, meeting Neil’s eyes until he nods. The tail is warm, too, and smooth as glass under Andrew’s skin — that is, if glass had a pulse. Andrew spreads his fingers out wide, then curls them, fascinated by how the scales shift below him. Almost hysterically, Andrew is reminded of one of Katelyn’s sequin throw pillows.

Neil shifts under Andrew’s touch, so Andrew pulls away.

“It’s fine,” Neil whispers. “Just tickles.”

Andrew huffs, shaking his head. “When does the gross part start?”

“Once I dry off,” Neil says, popping more grapes into his mouth. Andrew reaches over too, letting his knuckles bump against the back of Neil’s hand as he dips his hand into the bag to break off a stem for himself.

“My turn,” Andrew says. “How did you find out you were a mermaid?”

“It runs in the family,” Neil says, mouth full.

“Your family that you don’t get along with.”

“My mother was… complicated,” Neil says. “For a while, it was just us. And we spent so much time in the water. She was always kinder in the ocean than on land.”

“So she taught you your fishy ways,” Andrew says, gesturing to Neil’s tail. It has lost its scaly sheen, and the structure of it looks like ice cream melting in the sun — seeping sideways. Andrew scoops up a handful of the goo before it oozes toward his knee, holding it up to the lantern so that he can examine it. It’s translucent — only a hint of the glittering blue and green — and very, very sticky.

“If I put this in my mouth, would it taste like fish?” Andrew asks. “Or is it more of a cannibalism situation?”

Neil wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know. Regardless, you would be eating my rotting flesh.”

“Fascinating,” Andrew says. He tries to shake the goo off his hand into the water, but most of it stays stuck to his fingers. Neil snorts as he manages to scrape some of it on the edge of the dock.

“It dries eventually,” Neil says. “It’s easier to get rid of it when it’s crustier.”

Andrew tries very hard to not make any comparisons.

“Wait, can you, um…” Neil trails off, gesturing to the bag in his lap. Andrew drops his eyes, then realizes the problem — Neil’s tail has fallen away completely, leaving only bare skin.

Andrew turns his face up, fixing them on a star somewhere to the east, still squeezing at the remaining goo in his hand.

“Give me one second,” Neil says.

There’s crinkling, and then a splash as Neil jumps back into the water. It’s only a few moments before Neil is climbing up the ladder again, now wearing Andrew’s trunks.

“I tied them to the dock post,” Neil explains, shaking out his hair like a wet dog as he sits back down. He sweeps the remainder of the hardening tail goo into the water, then looks over at Andrew.

“Why are you still playing with that?” Neil asks, exasperated.

“The texture is interesting,” Andrew says, rolling it between his fingers. He feels like one of those thirteen-year-old slime makers on Instagram that Nicky follows. He could get famous with this shit, he thinks. Maybe next time, he’ll bring glitter and beads to fold into it — maybe they could monetize the whole thing. It’s almost funny, and then it’s not, because it’s actually Neil, and when he thinks about it this way it’s all a little bit too intimate for Andrew’s brain to process.

Instead, he grabs more goo off the dock and lifts it to his lips, meeting Neil’s eyes in challenge. Neil slaps his hand away.

“That is so gross,” he complains.

“It’s just your body.”

“And?”

Andrew shrugs, using the edge of the dock to scrape some of the goo off his palm. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve put in my mouth.”

When Neil takes too long to respond, Andrew looks up. His face is blank, lips parted. Andrew raises an eyebrow.

“Wow,” Neil says, shaking his head slowly. “Is that how you flirt?”

Andrew pushes at Neil’s shoulder. He laughs, so Andrew pushes harder — Neil grabs at the ladder pole to keep from tippings into the water.

“I’ll pull you down with me,” Neil warns. Andrew shoves him again, and Neil’s hand catches on the sleeve of Andrew’s T-shirt — they both teeter toward the edge until Andrew rocks back, preventing them both from falling.

“I can’t swim,” Andrew says, fist closed around Neil’s wrist.

Neil tugs once at Andrew’s sleeve before relaxing his grip. “Then why the hell are you always out here alone at night?”

Andrew shrugs, and Neil’s eyes narrow.

“I’m taking my turn,” he says.

Andrew sighs. He takes out his cigarettes, lighting two and handing one to Neil. “For the last six or so months, I just come out because it’s quiet,” Andrew says. “And because the risk reminds me that I don’t particularly want to die.”

Neil’s lips part, questions on his tongue that he holds back. He slides his hand through the circle of Andrew’s fist so that he can wind his fingers around Andrew’s, squeezing lightly. Neil’s cigarette burns down in his other hand.

“Why don’t you smoke them?” Andrew asks, placing Neil’s hand on the dock between them and wrapping his arms around his own knees.

Neil lifts the cigarette, considering. “It reminds me of my mother.”

Andrew has more questions too, but he lets them settle in his throat for the night. It’s going to take time to get enough information out of Neil to figure him out.

And they have the time.

For the next month or so, Andrew comes to the dock every night. They share fruit and french fries and candy and truths. Under the lull of the ocean and the moonlight and Neil’s calm gaze, Andrew gives Neil secrets that he’s never shared before. There are the hard ones that have always been easy to recall in the dark. But then there are other things Neil reminds him of, fireflies against the black sky, brighter memories that he forgot he had.

Neil unravels too, bit by bit. He’s a puzzle from a box with no picture, but with each truth Neil gives him, Andrew starts to understand what he’s looking at. He presses his fingers to Neil’s scars, clicking pieces into place as their horrible origin stories are whipped away in the wind.

Andrew is pretty sure he’s not crazy. He can’t imagine a world in which Neil isn’t the realest thing in it.

And if he’s wrong, well…

He is pretty sure he’s not crazy.

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

Andrew can see his breath as he locks the door to the restaurant.

It makes him pause, long enough for a too-cold breeze to tickle the back of his neck. The air is dry and harsh on his mistreated lungs as he jogs home. Usually, Andrew likes this — that first crisp night that spells the coming of autumn and the end of humid nights kicking sheets to the bottom of the bed and glaring at his useless ceiling fan. Tonight, though, the chill settles uneasily in his chest.

He’s inside long enough to grab a couple of hoodies and a pair of joggers. When he’s almost to the door, he turns around and grabs a pair of thick, fuzzy socks.

Neil is sitting cross-legged at the end of the dock, just as he usually is. Andrew drops the clothes into his lap before he unpacks the lantern and snacks from his backpack — it’s Girl Scout cookies today. Well, sort of. Walmart brand Thin Mints that Nicky keeps buying in bulk.

“Thank you,” Neil says, picking up the sweatshirt. He spreads the front of his over his lap, running his fingers over the fox paw logo at the center of it.

“Do you even get cold?” Andrew asks.

Neil looks up, quirking an eyebrow as he stands up to put on the joggers. “I’m still warm-blooded.”

Andrew hums as Neil sits back down, pulling on the socks and then tugging the sweatshirt over his head. His hair, dry and fluffy and harassed by the wind, is in his face when it emerges from the fabric. Andrew reaches out to tug at a chunk of it, making Neil laugh and weakly attempt to swat him away. Andrew changes course, pulling Neil’s hood over his head and tightening the strings until they cinch around his face. He keeps his hands on the strings as Neil pushes his hair out of his eyes, tucking it back under the cotton edge at his temples.

“How do you handle the cold in the water?” Andrew asks. “Do you adapt to it?”

Neil’s smile fades as he shakes his head.

“My mom and I spent a lot of winters in the Mediterranean,” Neil says. Andrew does not much like Neil’s mother, but he keeps his reaction to her mention restricted to a twist of his lips. Neil ignores it — neither of them want to have that argument tonight. Instead, Neil brings his hands up to rest lightly on Andrew’s wrists, grip getting firmer when Andrew doesn’t object.

“Last year, I went south, off the coast of Mexico,” Neil says, voice so quiet that Andrew almost doesn’t catch it.

Andrew tugs at the strings again, not hard enough to affect the cinch. “And will you go there again, little fish?”

“I should,” Neil says, long lashes made longer by their shadows asnd he looks down at Andrew’s hands. “I don’t know how long I can handle the cold. And I know I can come back in the spring. But I—”

Neil’s voice breaks, and there’s panic in his eyes when he looks back up at Andrew. “I don’t want to leave.”

Andrew shakes off Neil’s hands, loosening the hood enough to grip Neil’s chin.

“You do not have to,” Andrew says. He drops his palm to Neil’s knee. “There is a way for you to stay.”

Neil’s eyes squeeze shut as he takes a shaky breath. “You know I can’t,” he says. “He’ll find me.”

Andrew despises Neil’s father. On this, they are in agreement.

“Is it really worth it?” Andrew asks, digging his thumb into Neil’s chin. “Staying alive just to hide from him?”

Neil’s next breath is unsteady. The following one a gasp. “I can’t let him find me,” Neil chokes out. “I can’t. My mom gave everything to keep me away from him. She died for it. I can’t, Andrew—”

Andrew plants his hand on the back of Neil’s neck, squeezing. Neil inhales sharply as his muscles go lax, his forehead taking a controlled fall to Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew holds him there, watching clouds float over the nearly full moon as Neil fights to control his breathing.

When Neil’s breathing slows, Andrew asks, “What is his name?”

Neil makes a small sound, shaking his head. Andrew lifts both his arms behind Neil’s back, digging under his sweatshirt sleeves so that he can pull off his arm bands. Neil starts to pull away, but Andrew drops his hand back onto his neck. Neil relaxes again, resting his temple against Andrew’s shoulder to watch as Andrew drops the fabric onto the dock next to them. Andrew rests his free hand palm up in his lap, right in Neil’s line of sight.

“Truth for truth,” Andrew says. “We’re breaking out the big guns.”

Neil huffs a small, shaky laugh. He hesitates with his fingers a breath from Andrew’s sleeve, waiting for Andrew’s whispered, “Yes.”

Neil is gentle as he rolls up his sleeve. It must be hard to see in the dim lamplight, but the pads of Neil’s fingers ghost over the ridges of scar tissue on Andrew’s forearm. They pause on the thickest one, right near Andrew’s wrist.

“This one was deep,” Neil whispers.

“I wanted it to be.”

Neil shivers, walking his fingers up Andrew’s arm again.

“They’re all healed,” he says.

Andrew nods, and Neil takes Andrew’s hand in both of his, holding on tight. He buries his face into Andrew’s hoodie again, takes a deep breath, and gives Andrew his biggest secret.

When Andrew gets home that night, he opens his laptop and Googles Nathan Wesninski.

He expects to find the faux real estate business that Neil described, or pictures of the historic mansion he grew up on. The headlines he finds are much more interesting:

Windsor Hills shootout brings light to organized crime in Baltimore

A mob boss in our midst: How did Baltimore go years ignoring the monster ruling our streets?

Mortgages and murder: How Wesninski Realty served as a front for a violent crime ring

Andrew clicks the first link. It details the unexpected invasion of the Wesninski home by what is thought to be gang rivals. The results? Nathan and several of his inner ring dead, others in custody, cutting deals that the FBI says will allow them to track down the rest.

The article is dated to almost eight months ago.

“This fucking idiot,” Andrew mutters, then goes hunting for more.

True crime fanatics are all over this — Andrew stumbles onto forums that have been active as recently as the last twenty minutes. He finds leaked photos of Nathan’s body in the gory basement where he was found, transcriptions of interviews with someone named Romero Malcolm, and conspiracy theories about what happened to Nathan’s wife and son. Most people think they’re dead. Most people think he killed them. Not one person seems to have proposed that they could have escaped using their ability to breathe underwater.

Andrew texts Aaron: can i use your printer

its 2 in the fucking morning, he answers instantly.

and look at that, youre awake, Andrew types. im coming over.

Aaron hovers around Andrew the whole time he’s there, asking too many questions and complaining that Andrew is using all his color ink and generally making his irritation known. When the last screenshot prints, he salutes Aaron and takes off again.

Back at home, Andrew packs clothes and shoes into his backpack. Nicky is always giving him recipes in neat sheet protectors, so he dumps them out onto his kitchen counter and shoves the printouts into them for waterproofing.

It’s approaching dawn when Andrew finally gets to the cove, the dark sky fading away. Luckily, it’s too late in the season for most of the places to be open, but Bee opens the cafe every day at six. Andrew is running low on time.

“Neil!” he calls as he jogs down the dock. “Neil! Get your scaley ass out here.”

For a few breathless moments, Andrew thinks Neil won’t hear him. He doesn’t even know if Neil is in the cove — maybe he’s deep in the ocean. Maybe he’s halfway to Mexico. (He’s not. He wouldn’t leave without telling Andrew.) It shouldn’t matter; Andrew can come back tonight. But the idea of waiting all day to find Neil has his heart hammering in his chest.

With one last, “Neil!” Andrew thinks about giving up. But then he hears a splash, and suddenly Neil’s face is surfacing near the ladder.

“What’s wrong?” Neil asks, confused.

“Get out,” Andrew says, holding a hand down to him. “I need you tail-less before Bee shows up.”

Neil’s brow furrows, but he lets Andrew pull him up onto the dock. Andrew drops to his knees next to him and unzips his backpack. He tosses the clothes to the side, where they won’t get caught in Neil’s goop, then pulls out his printouts. Neil’s eyes are on Andrew’s face when he looks up, big and concerned. It’s almost disconcerting to be able to see Neil so clearly in the dim light of the pale blue sky.

“Don’t freak out,” Andrew says, then hands Neil the papers.

Neil’s hands drip over the sheet protectors as he takes them. His expression blanks out as he reads the first article, then flips to the second.

“It can’t be…” Neil trails off, swallowing. “He’s too clever. It’s probably an act.”

“Look at the pictures,” Andrew says.

Neil keeps flipping through the stack. He makes an awful noise when he finds the photo Andrew needs him to see, and the sound echoes and twists in Andrew’s chest. Andrew pulls the papers out of Neil’s shaking hands, putting them back in his bag. His pants soak through at the knees when he shuffles closer to Neil, casualties of the mess that is Neil’s dissolving tail. Andrew takes Neil’s face in both of his hands, forcing Neil to look at him.

“It’s over,” Andrew says. “You can come out of the water. There is nothing to hide from anymore.”

Neil’s eyes are wild. “I don’t have anywhere to go,” he says brokenly. “I left everything I had on that beach.”

Andrew digs his fingernails briefly into Neil’s cheeks. “You’re an idiot. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I can’t let you drop your whole life for me.”

“What life?” Andrew asks. “You said it yourself. All I do is work, hold my family at arms length, and come out to this dock. I’m not dropping anything.”

“No,” Neil said, trying to shake his head despite Andrew’s rigid grip. “I was wrong when I said that. You deserve more than that. You—”

Neil stops talking when Andrew kisses him. One of his hands grabs at Andrew’s sleeve.

Andrew pulls back immediately, a rare bit of shame creeping up the back of his neck. Neil’s lips are slack, his eyes are wide. The sun is rising behind him, and Neil’s drying flyaways look red against the pinks and purples.

Andrew drops his hands.

“Why did you…” Neil trails off, looking lost.

Andrew doesn’t have an answer to that.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” Andrew says. “Or if you do, it can be just as long as it takes for you to figure out what’s next. Or you could stay with my cousin, or with my brother. There are options. You do not have to go back into the water.”

Neil still looks bewildered, but there’s a resolve settling in his expression. He reaches both hands out to touch Andrew’s face, slowly, waiting for Andrew to stop him.

Andrew doesn’t.

Neil pulls his face closer, waiting again.

“You don’t have to,” Andrew whispers. “That wasn’t part of this.”

“I know,” Neil says, then kisses him.

Neil starts out tentative, but Andrew’s never known how to wade in gently. He can only jump right into the deep end and hope that no one drowns. Neil’s fingers curl against Andrew’s jaw as his mouth opens, and then he’s kissing back. Like this, Neil is the opposite of drowning. He’s a flame without the burn.

Andrew threads his fingers through Neil’s hair when they break apart, foreheads crashing together as they catch their breath.

“I want to stay with you,” Neil says. “If that’s okay.”

Andrew pulls hard at Neil’s hair, then uses a hand at the back of Neil’s head to pull his face into the crook of his neck. Andrew drops his nose into Neil’s hair, closing his eyes as he inhales the scent of salt and brine and Neil.

“It’s fucking cold out here,” Andrew murmurs.

“I’m very aware,” Neil says. The movement of Neil’s lips against his neck makes Andrew shiver. “I’m naked.”

Andrew huffs, then releases his grip and shifts back to sit on his heels.

“Let’s go home,” Andrew says, and Neil’s face morphs into something that Andrew can’t stand to look at.

He gestures to the pile of clothes as he turns away so that Neil can change. He wipes the last hardening bits of Neil’s tail into the water, rubbing his hands together until the goo in his palms balls up and falls away too.

“I’m not sure if I remember how to tie shoelaces,” Neil says. He’s crouched down, paused with the laces of the sneakers in his hands. Andrew bats his hands away so that he can tie them for him.

“You’ve got a lot of relearning to do, little fish,” Andrew murmurs as he finishes.

Neil hums in affirmation, fingers tapping at the bottom of Andrew’s chin until he looks up. Neil presses another, brief kiss to his lips before he stands, smiling.

“Thank you,” he says, and Andrew thinks that the last five minutes are harder to believe than anything about Neil’s mer-genetics.

That thought only intensifies as he watches Neil walk up the dock ahead of him. It makes him feel like he did that first day he saw Neil. Andrew Minyard, did you hear he finally cracked? He held out for so long, but now he’s gone and convinced himself he’s lured some beautiful sea creature out of the ocean.

“Good morning, Andrew!” Betsy Dobson calls when they come around the back of the restaurant. She’s watering the flower bushes that line the front of her cafe, grinning at him with a hand on her hip. “Tell me you haven’t been out on that dock all night.”

Andrew glances at Neil, who seems to have shrunk several inches. His shoulders are hunched, hands buried deep in his hoodie pocket as he stares at the pavement.

“Hi Bee,” Andrew says, drawing his attention away from Neil. “Just went out to see the sunrise.”

He almost exhales in relief when Bee’s eyes flick to Neil. Amusement plays on her features, but Andrew doesn’t care what she thinks she knows, as long as she can see Neil at all.

“I haven’t run into you around town before,” Bee says to Neil. She holds a hand out to him, friendly as ever. “I’m Betsy — I own the cafe here. And you?”

Indecision flashes on Neil’s face. Andrew meets the churning blue of his eyes, but the storm in them calms when Andrew nods.

Neil turns back to Bee with a small smile and shakes her hand.

“I’m Neil,” he says. “I just moved here. It’s nice to meet you.”