Archive of Our Own ^beta

Charles comes to with a feeling in his lungs he’s never had before. It’s like they’re stuffed with cotton, like there’s no room for anything but weight and pressure, and he has no choice but to collapse forward and heave until the feeling stops. He’s coughing up water— at least, Charles hopes it’s water and not blood— but he can’t be sure because his eyes are closed tightly against a gritty ache that Charles is adding to a mental list of “problems he can’t deal with yet but are probably important.”

When his lungs feel good enough to breathe with again, Charles opens his eyes, rubbing at them to get rid of the gritty feeling. Now that he’s taking stock, Charles’ entire body feels gritty, and when he looks down at himself— yep, he’s kneeling on a beach, body soaked through and covered with sand. The sand’s black, which is new, but it doesn’t hurt any more than the sand back home did, so Charles figures it’s fine to ignore for now. 

As Charles peels himself out of his long black coat, leaving it in a wet pile behind him, he tries to remember what led him here. He’d gone out fishing in the morning, same as he always did, and— and his father had insisted on coming with. On ‘inspecting his work,’ and ‘seeing if he was wasting the family money.’ As if Charles isn't the only reason they had any money to begin with. But Charles had swallowed his pride, allowed his father on board— feeling something inside him strain at allowing someone else aboard his one place of privacy, his one escape— and they’d only been fishing for a couple hours when they’d gotten into a fight. 

Except this time, instead of being shoved down the stairs or into a musty closet, Charles had been shoved out of his own boat, into open ocean. 

He quickly looks up, scanning his surroundings, but his boat and his father are nowhere to be seen. Behind him, the sand trails up to craggy rocks that stretch imposingly upwards, some of them oddly-shaped, like miniature castle towers. Ahead of him is the ocean, equally imposing in its vastness, in the reminder Charles gets that he has no idea where he is or how to get home, if he even should. What did his father tell his mum when he came home alone? That Charles fell overboard of his own foolishness and is drowned already? 

The thought fills him with anger, but anger won’t help, so Charles tamps it down and tries to do something useful, like scanning the horizon again for any sign of— there! Movement, close to the shore, a splash like someone diving.

“Hello?” Charles calls out, lifting his arms over his head and waving, even as his sore muscles protest. “Is someone there? I just— I just need a little help finding out where I am, and then I’ll be out of your hair, promise!”

Nothing. Charles keeps waiting, keeps his arms up high even though he probably looks like an idiot. He waits until his arms burn, until he’s opening his mouth to scream, and then— then someone pops out of the water, and—

They’re not human. It’s immediately obvious that the boy, or, well, the thing with the top-half of a boy, is something else altogether. Charles’ gaze sticks on the tail the figure has, the scales a mix of silver and such a light shade of blue they almost look like ice. 

“Oi!” Charles shouts, finally lowering his arms. “Are you a mermaid?”

The mermaid— ‘cause that’s what it’s gotta be, right? — swims closer. “There is no need to shout, I can hear you perfectly well,” he informs him, voice crisp. “And the general term is merfolk, though merperson will be acceptable when referring to me.”

“You have a name, though, don’tcha?” Charles grins. “Mine’s Charles.” He tries to stop himself from staring, but he’s not really enforcing it, cause the merperson’s proper fit. Wavy brown hair, smooth, pale skin with pink nipples, face with a sharp jawline and bushy eyebrows, eyes that look gray or green or blue depending on the light. 

The merperson makes a face like he’s sucking on a lemon. “My name is Edwin,” he answers, and when Charles can do nothing but smile— too busy tracing the curve of Edwin’s mouth as he talks— Edwin bluntly adds, “are you dying?”

“Huh?” Charles frowns down at himself, seeing nothing but wet, sandy clothes. “No? I mean, I don’t think so.” 

Edwin doesn’t look pleased by his answer. “You’ve taken seeing a merperson in stride. Have you encountered one of our kind before?”

Charles starts to shake his head, then stops. “Uh, no. Not really, I mean. But a bloke back home, Mick, always tells stories about how he used to belong to the sea, how he lived as a walrus but was granted his wish to become human, and could never return. He has loads of stories about all kinds of sea creatures, so, I guess I’m not that surprised to see one for real. Still aces, though, don’t get me wrong.” He shivers, and Edwin’s eyes narrow.

“Do you have a change of clothes? You shouldn’t stay in your wet garments for too long.” 

Charles shakes his head, trying not to flush at the thought of stripping down in front of Edwin. “Nah. Fell overboard, didn’t I? Don’t have any of my things.”

“Well.” Edwin sucks in a breath through his teeth. “That is unfortunate. I know somewhere we could go for you to rest and wait if…if you wanted.”

“Sounds brills,” Charles says, and doesn’t explain that there might not be anyone looking for him. “Lead the way, yeah?”

“Certainly,” Edwin says, and then, after a moment, a faint smile crosses his lips. “I suppose that I shouldn’t be surprised at your continued lack of fear.” With that, he grins— really grins— and Charles sees a mouth full of very sharp teeth. 

Before Charles can properly register how that makes him feel— only knowing he still isn’t scared— Edwin dives back into the water, the occasional flash of his tail Charles’ only marker to follow. Charles hastily scoops up his sodden coat and follows. The black sand doesn’t shift too much, thankfully, so Charles wipes at the drying sand on his face as he walks. 

Eventually, they come to a spot where the craggy walls of rock split open, the sand washed away by a strong current that leads into a cave. Charles splashes into the water, knee-deep, side-by-side with Edwin. Edwin’s movements are a bit mesmerizing, honestly. It goes beyond gracefulness or elegance. It’s like Edwin moves with the water, flawlessly anticipating each change in current and speed, turning into it almost before it happens. 

The cave has a high, curved ceiling that causes Charles’ splashing footsteps to echo loudly. He’s glad to find a crescent-shaped ledge of smooth, dark rock that encircles the pool within the cave, climbing up to restart the process of drying off.

“This a common hangout spot for merfolk?” Charles asks, finally taking a moment to shake out his wet curls. “Should I expect to meet more of you?”

Edwin pauses at the center of the pool, lifting out of the water. “No,” he calls out. “I, ah, I tend to keep to myself.”

“Me too.” It feels wrong that someone as kind as Edwin isn’t surrounded by friends and family, but Charles doesn’t think he has permission to pry.

Edwin swims closer, his eyes lit with a soft blue-green glow in the dim light of the cave. “There should be a light behind you, among what I’ve scavenged over the years.”

“Cheers, mate,” Charles replies, straining his eyes until he makes out the shape of a torch, which he flicks on and places upright to provide maximum light. In addition to the torch, Charles can now see a rusted-over thermos, a couple anchors, several wool blankets, and a stack of books that are only slightly swollen with water damage. “I like your collection.”

Edwin smiles again, showing just a hint of teeth. “It was a bit of work, but worthwhile. The books especially. You are, ah, welcome to the blankets while we wait.”

Charles thanks him, wrapping himself up in them until he feels pretty cozy. “What’dya like about these books, then?”

Edwin’s all the way to the ledge now, his arms crossed on the smooth surface, head resting on them. “I rather enjoy mysteries,” he admits, and it could be the low light, but Charles thinks he might be blushing. “Do you have any favorite stories?”

Now it’s Charles’ turn to blush. “Not really. Not much of a reader, am I?”

The gasp Edwin lets out is so perfectly posh and affronted that Charles can’t help but laugh. “Sorry, mate. Just don’t have much luck following the story when it’s a bunch of words on a page.”

“Hmmm.” Edwin points to the stack of books. “Would you hand me the blue volume from that stack?”

Charles reaches into the stack, only half-paying attention to what book he’s grabbing, keeping his eyes mostly on Edwin’s handsome face and bright eyes. 

“Does that look blue to you, Charles?” Edwin asks, one eyebrow raised teasingly.

Looking down, Charles realizes the book he’s holding is not blue, but bright pink. Now, it’s his turn to blush. “Right. Um, lemme just…” he turns, valiantly ignoring the heat in his cheeks and Edwin’s low, fond chuckle as he locates the correct book. 

When he turns back, Edwin is even closer, hands grabbing the edge of Charles’ blanket in order to dry them. He freezes when he sees Charles looking at him— and bloody hell, Charles feels like a right creep starting at his soft, wet mouth and strong hands— but after a moment, Edwin reaches up and brushes the rough pad of his thumb along Charles’ chin. 

“You had a bit of sand stuck,” Edwin explains, sounding a bit breathless as he shows Charles his thumb, coated in sand. 

“Thanks,” Charles replies, a bit breathless himself.

He loses track of time after that, Edwin explaining the plots of his favorite books, how he’s learned to search for them the fastest during shipwrecks so they don’t get ruined from water damage. Intermittently, Charles brushes the drying sand from his arms and clothes, amassing a small pile and drawing aimless patterns through it as Edwin talks. 

“Are you an artist?” Edwin asks at one point. 

Charles huffs a laugh, until he looks up and realizes Edwin isn’t joking. “Nah, mate. Just a simple fisherman.” 

“I do not think there is anything simple about you, Charles.” Edwin’s voice is terribly, wonderfully sincere, and it puts an ache in Charles’ chest. “I…suppose you will want to head home?”

Brushing the sand aside, Charles scoots closer, drinking in Edwin’s handsome features. “I don’t think anybody’s comin’ for me,” he admits, his voice dropping to a whisper. It hurts to say, but…not as much as it would if he were alone. 

“Then…” Edwin swallows, licks his lips. “Perhaps you’d like to stay?”

Edwin’s skin is soft and cool under Charles’ lips, and he doesn’t even realize he’s pressed his mouth to Edwin’s cheek until he pulls away, taking in Edwin’s small, surprised smile. “I want to stay,” Charles says, and the words make Edwin’s smile grow.

Charles is briefly left alone while Edwin catches them each a salmon for supper, tearing the skin off with his teeth and blushing when Charles calls him a messy eater. He falls asleep with Edwin’s voice low in his ear, weaving stories the way he weaves through the water, and dreams of silver melting on his tongue. 

In the morning, Charles and Edwin emerge from the cave to find Charles’ boat moored along the black sand, filled with his belongings and a long letter from his mother. Charles doesn’t read it, not yet— the thought of his mother coming out here alone and rowing her way back fills him with a swell of emotion he doesn’t want to untangle just yet— so instead he smiles, nurturing the fluttering hope in his chest. 

Edwin stares at the boat with wide eyes. “Charles, this is—“

“Mine,” Charles says, and thinks about all the ways he wants it to be true. “Wanna see how she sails?”