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randomweavingWorking Title: Merfic
Characters: College-aged Perry/Mer JD; Ben Sullivan
Preview Rating: PG
Summary: A very different universe wherein Perry is a 23-year-old premed undergraduate hoping to make it into med school, and JD is a merman. Yep. We went there.
Note: I know this one is a little different, but I hope y'all will give it a shot anyway. It's one that's very near and dear to our hearts.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Memorial Day meant a three-day weekend from classes, and he was actually caught up with all his studying for once. A trip down the coast to his best friend's family's beach house and a weekend of sailing had sounded like just the break Perry Cox needed to stay sane before finals.
Of course, he hadn't counted on Ben getting sick, and being diagnosed with mono as soon as they'd arrived.
"Look, it's not like I did it on purpose," the other man had said, shrugging easily. Ben, being Ben, had thought it rather cool to be officially diagnosed with an illness known in most colloquial circles as "the kissing disease."
"You knew Cynthia had it, and you made out with her at Darren's party," Perry countered, scowling.
"Yes, but I was drunk," Ben reminded him. "That officially exempts me from any responsibility for whom I kiss. Besides, it's not like you can't still have fun. We're on the beach and we're young hot college dudes with a car. Surely you can think of something to do."
In the end, Ben had convinced him, and Perry had decided to go sailing solo. He'd been careful about it, checking the weather ahead of time and making Ben run over the fundamentals once more before packing a lunch and a few books and loading up the boat. For the first few hours, it had actually worked: the weather was gorgeous, grand clouds building on the horizon, gulls soaring overhead, and the sound of the surf crashing into the beach. In short, it could not have been more perfect, and Perry found himself relaxing for the first time in months.
It ended up being his undoing.
At around noon, he'd dropped anchor in a shallow reef, settling down in the sunlight with his book and a bottle of beer, reading himself into a light doze, lulled by the warmth, the alcohol in his belly and the gentle rocking of the boat.
He wasn't sure what happened, later: if he'd tied the knot incorrectly, or if the rope had frayed on the rocks beneath the surface of the water. What he did know was when he woke up, he was no longer in the reef, the sails were snapping in a much stronger wind, the clouds that had been pleasant and picturesque on the horizon were now much larger, closer and darker--and he was no longer within sight of land.
He shot up out of his seat, fighting the urge to panic, and looked around. But there was gray water in all directions, waves turning to foaming white caps in the wind, and the boat seemed to be moving at a fairly good clip.
In a current, then. Or the wind was stronger than he thought. Or both. Didn't matter. What mattered was that he was now very likely miles away from the dock, in weather that was very quickly turning menacing, and he was at best a novice sailor.
In short: he was fucked.
Shoving the thought roughly aside, he began to quickly run over what he knew. He was about to hit rough weather. So before he could think about getting back on course, heading back to the coast, he needed to tie down the sails and secure himself in the cabin to wait it out. There was no sense, after all, in fighting weather that would just blow him off course again, or in risking damage to himself or the vessel. Better to wait it out, and head back when the wind would work with him. Besides, he had a radio--as soon as the weather let up he could probably get a signal, and send for help.
Right. So, first task: sails.
He set about drawing them in, listening to Ben's voice instructing him in his head, pleased to find he remembered most of what he'd been taught.
But he was slow, had to redo things more than once, and the sea wasn't patient enough to wait. The clouds that had been darkening the entire time finally passed over him, winds increasing, and they brought rain with them. It began slowly, but after a few minutes fell in thick sheets, obscuring his vision and making the deck and the ropes slick and difficult to handle. The ocean grew rougher, waves cast up by the wind made the boat sway and buck beneath him as he scrambled for purchase. They crested higher and higher, and when the first broke over the bow that Perry began to feel real fear, real doubt about his chances of surviving.
He glanced up. The mainsail wasn't secured, but it was rolled, and it would have to do for now. If he tried to climb up and tamp it down properly, he'd probably get washed overboard, and there was no way in hell he'd be able to fight water like this. If he went over, that was it. He was done.
Into the cabin, then. That was his only chance. Better to explain to Mr. Sullivan why his boat was a little damaged than become one of the number of idiots claimed by the sea and their own stupidity.
He grabbed the railing and began working his way back across the deck, trying not to feel sick as the boat tilted frighteningly far to one side. It didn't capsize, but it did take in more water before it righted itself, and Perry wondered despairingly if the vessel would even be able to withstand the beating it was receiving. After all, there were certainly much larger ships, steered by far more able sailors, who had been claimed by the wrath of the Pacific.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! He moaned aloud, nausea doubling at the thought that he really might die out here. In fact, it was beginning to look downright likely.
He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and began working his way along the deck again. If he could get to the cabin, he could hunker down and wait it out. Even if the boat capsized, he might be able to keep it from flooding long enough to wait out the storm. If he could seal it down, it might even stay relatively airtight. He just had toget there...
Inch by inch, he pulled himself closer, the deck still bucking beneath him. Foot by agonizing foot, the door to the cabin loomed closer.
Another wave broke over the bow, sloshing over the deck beneath his feet, making him slip and nearly fall. He retained his grip on the rail, and dragged himself back up, but didn't bother to stifle the cry of terror that worked its way past his clenched teeth.
Fuck, I don't want to die out here, I don't want to die, please, please...
One step, then another. Close.
So close...
He drew a deep breath, then lunged across the deck, reaching for the door.
He would have made it, too, if the handle hadn't been metal.
His hand closed over it, and for an instant elation welled within him. But fingers numbed by the cold of the driving rain and the wind slipped from slick metal, and his chest hit the deck, the force knocking all air from his lungs. It stunned him just enough that he couldn't make his body respond, even as he slid backwards, toward the edge of the ship and its wide open railings.
He couldn't bring his fingers to close around said railing, either, and, when he finally did manage to grab for it as he began to slide through, he was forced to watch, feeling strangely detached, as the cool metal slipped through his weakened grip, the boat tilting in the wind and spilling him, almost gently, over the edge.
The maybe a five foot drop to the waves below felt much longer. That five foot drop was his last mile, his walk from his cell to the executioner's block. His death toll, the sound of the waves slapping the hull the tap of the warden's boot as he moved toward the door of the gas chamber. The ringing in his ears was the flat line of an EKG, a silent but final pronouncement.
Over. It's over.
And as he hit the cold water and was sucked instantly beneath it, Perry realized he wasn't ready. He'd wanted to die before, so many times; as a kid, growing up with his abusive father and apathetic mother. As an adolescent teased mercilessly by his peers and shunned by all the girls. As a high school student ready to call it quits, staring at himself in the mirror for hours, reading the label on his mother's Valium, working out the exact dose it would take to make his respiratory system shut down. Working a blade free from his father's razor, examining the edge, tracing it lightly against the skin of his wrist, following the pale blue of the vein beneath the fragile sheath.
Exploring his options, eying all the exits. But never walking through any of them.
And whether it was because his life had finally begun to turn itself around, or because he realized that the pain of now was better than the horror of the unknown oblivion that waited beyond, he knew with every ounce of surety in him that he did not want to die. Not now, not like this.
He thrashed in the water, clawing his way up, eyes stinging as he desperately worked his way toward the surface. His lungs already burned--he'd not refilled them after his fall, and he could already see spots. But somehow, by some miracle or accident of physics, his head broke the surface, and he gasped, drawing in a sobbing breath before another wave crashed over him and sent him hurtling back down again.
He couldn't fight it. He knew that; the rational part of his brain clucked in pity while the rest of him kept trying. There was nothing he could do. He was nothing against the power of the raging waters around him; he was as insignificant as an ant, as a flea. He was helpless, miles from the shore, caught in a rainstorm with no rope, no life-jacket, no nothing. No hope.
But still he fought. Some animal instinct within him made him claw his way up, again and again, dragging in whatever air he could before he was dunked again. Sometimes he couldn't get any; his head would break the surface and he could feel the wind, agonizing, against his skin, but before he could clear his mouth of saltwater and partake of any of it he would get shoved down again.
He didn't know how long he tried. It felt like days; it was probably only seconds, or minutes at most. But he did know that he eventually grew weary, his limbs going numb with the cold and the effort, and he simply couldn't make them move anymore. They hung, useless and weightless in the water around him, and he watched them with a strange fascination as the surface drifted further and further from him.
He'd read that drowning--once you stopped struggling--was actually a peaceful way to go. He'd always had his doubts, but now he could see why that was true. The water around him was quiet, the maelstrom above a distant roar in ears that were popping from the building pressure. His lungs burned until he let out the last reserves of air and finally drew in a mouthful of water instead, quenching the fire. His whole body felt suspended in amber, perfectly preserved, as though he would stay forever in this nothingness: this absence of sound, this perfect dark abyss of silence.
Just before the darkness closed in around him, he noticed something strange. A face, gazing back at him. Dark hair haloing pale skin, a curious tilt of eyebrows.
But he was drowning, and hallucinations were normal.
His last thought before the black took him was that it was too bad the young man before him wasn't real, as he really was quite good looking.
* * *
Waves washed over his feet, smooth, wet sand cradled his body, and Perry woke again. Groaning, he pushed himself up, feeling every bruise and strained muscle from his fight against the ocean. He scrubbed at his eyes, opening them slowly, and then blinked, once, twice, and a third time, as the Sullivan's private dock came into focus.
He lay beside it, only feet away from the wood, the house visible over the tumbled rock wall above him. What the hell...? He'd been dying, he was sure of it, and now...now he sat only a few hundred feet away from the Sullivans' house.
He pushed himself up further, shuddering a little at the recollection of the waters closing over his head, slipping cold into his lungs. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, wanting to put some distance between himself and the crashing waves. His head ached, and his entire body was covered with salty, sandy grit from being under so long. He took stock, briefly--still had on his shorts and his t-shirt, but his sandals were gone. Well, no big surprise there. They'd probably fallen off the moment he hit the waves. He reached up to his hair, then touched his chest, checking himself over for injuries, but apart from feeling sore, he seemed to be--
Wait. What the...?
He frowned, as his fingers brushed over something hanging at his throat, and realized he wore a necklace of some sort. Frown deepening, he reached behind himself and tugged the knot loose, pulling it over his head and staring at it.
A large, green stone, triangular, striped with veins of deeper green and pale yellows, at places looking almost blue lay in his hand. A small hole had been carved at the tip of one of the triangle's points, and it was threaded on some sort of tough rope or string--it reminded Perry vaguely of hemp, though it was darker, somehow. Kelp fibers, maybe? Or something else?
But...where had it come from? He certainly had never seen it before, and there was no way it had worked its way onto his neck by accident. It had been tied carefully, deliberately. Someone had put it there.
But who?
He blinked, then shrugged, holding out his hand with the intent of dropping the stone on the beach and leaving it there. But when he went to open his fist, he realized he couldn't. Something in him refused, and his fingers remained tightly curled around the braided strands, his eyes fixed on the stone as it swung lightly in the air. He drew a deep breath, and focused, trying again--and again, his fingers refused to release the stone.
All right, he thought sourly, drawing it back in and sticking it into his pocket. All right. Whatever you are, I'll keep you for now.
He turned away from the crashing waves and stared up at the dock, toward the house. Early morning, based on the angle of the sun--he'd been out here all night, then. Why hadn't anyone come looking? Or had they simply not seen him, lying on the beach in the darkness? That seemed a little strange, since he wore a white shirt and khaki shorts, but...he supposed it was possible. He moved up the beach a little ways, then frowned, noting the disturbed sands, the tire tracks. Someone had driven out here? This was private property...
As he continued to walk, he realized there was more than one set, too, and the dirt and rock higher up on the beach was disturbed as well, the grass leading to the Sullivan's porch flattened. It looked like the aftermath of a fraternity weekend, or a crime scene, or--
Or a search party?
He stopped in his tracks, eyes widening, and looked back toward the beach, to the place where he'd awoken. It was only twenty or thirty yards, at most, from where the tracks started. And he was no hunter, but those tracks were relatively fresh. They'd have to be, or the tide would've washed them away by now. So that meant either someone--or several someones--had passed within yards of him, and hadn't seen him, or...
Or I wasn't there yet, when they passed.
He blinked again, shaking his head sharply, wishing it would stop pounding. This...it wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible. He'd been drowning, and then he'd apparently spent most of the night in the water, and now...now he was alive, and none the worse for wear, really, and...
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the strange stone again, staring at it.
But...how did I get out?
As he stared at the stone, a strange sensation started in the pit of his stomach, working its way up his spine. His vision narrowed to the stone alone, the rest of the world seeming to fade, and as he stared at it, it seemed to almost glow. He almost imagined he could see it pulsing, slow and steady, like a heartbeat...his vision clouded, and a strange, haunting sound began to fill his mind--like the song of a whale, almost, but more human.
What...?
He turned, slowly, and scanned the now-placid Pacific, squinting over the waves. He'd fallen into the water...he should be dead.
And he might be still, he realized with a sudden sinking sensation, when Mr. Sullivan realized he'd lost his sailboat.
"Fuck," he whispered, pushing a hand over his knotted curls--limp and heavy with salt water--and the strange feeling that had come over him moments before vanished. He swallowed, closing his eyes, and lowered his head as the severity of his situation overcame him.
He wouldn't be able to pay for the boat, he knew that. He wasn't sure exactly how much a sailboat cost, but he was only making tuition because of his scholarships, and Ben covered most of their meals as it was.
Fuck!
He'd have to get a second job, to pay for the boat, and even then it would take a long time. And he was basically not sleeping now, between school work and his current job at the library...he'd fall behind, and his GPA would drop, and he'd be back in Pittsburgh, working at the fucking Burger King and trying to get together enough money to stay out of his father's house and in his own place.
Everything he'd worked for would be gone, just because he was a fucking idiot who'd managed to fall asleep on his roommate's family sailboat and lose it out at sea.
He swallowed, clenching his jaw furiously and blinking at the sting in his eyes. Too much saltwater, no doubt. Well, better to face the music now than wait until he made himself sick, worrying about what would happen. Not like there was squat he could do to change it, anyway.
Following an impulse he didn't quite understand, he lifted the stone and tied it absently back around his neck, tucking it safely beneath the collar of his shirt to deal with it later. It was almost comforting, the cool weight of it against his skin, and he sighed, feeling something in him ease just a little.
Then he began to trudge desolately up the beach, toward the house. That's what the search party had been for, no doubt. Looking for the boat. The Sullivans probably thought he'd stolen it or something. It didn't really explain why they'd left him lying on the beach, but...well, if they weren't looking for him, maybe they just hadn't seen him.
He'd only made it halfway back, though, before the door suddenly slammed open, and Ben was tearing down the path, looking pale as a ghost.
Perry frowned as his roommate approached. "Shouldn't you be resting?" he started to ask--if Ben was sick enough to be that pale, the last thing he needed to be doing was romping around on the beach--but he only got "shouldn't" before Ben was right in front of him, dragging Perry into a crushing hug.
"Son of a bitch!" the larger man mumbled against Perry's shoulder before drawing back and staring at him, patting him down as though not quite believing he was there. "Shit, Perry, you're alive!"
Perry blinked at him, more than a little dazed. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I am, but...Ben, your dad's boat, it...I kind of...lost it."
"Screw the fucking boat!" Ben cried, looking halfway amused now that he'd apparently assured himself Perry was okay. "Jesus, buddy, we thought you were fishfood by now!"
Perry lifted his eyebrows, doubly taken aback. "How'd you even know I was in trouble...?" he wondered.
Ben blinked. "Well, you didn't come back last night," he said, "and there was a storm off the coast. That was our first guess. I mean, unless you decided to elope with a mermaid out at sea, you were either lost or in trouble, and they're basically the same thing."
"But the boat," Perry said again, sure that Ben had somehow misunderstood. "It's gone, Ben. I mean--I fell off."
"You fell." Ben stared at him.
"Yeah," Perry said, looking down, cringing. Ben understood now; would tell him that his dad would kill him. Would suggest maybe he start looking for another roommate, because it just wasn't going to work out. Would--
"You fell. Off the boat. Into the fucking Pacific, in the middle of a storm."
Perry frowned, scuffing the sand with his bare toe, wondering why Ben was insisting on dragging this out. He knew what he'd done...couldn't his roommate just cut to the chase already? The waiting was killing him. "Yeah...?"
"Why the hell aren't you dead?" Ben shook his head, eyes wide. "I mean, I love you, but I've seen you swim. You're not exactly Matthew Webb."
"Who?"
"First guy to cross the English Channel. Man, you science geeks have a one-track mind, you know it?" Ben shook his head, a grin growing on his face. "You should be dead, you lucky bastard," he said, a laugh bubbling from his chest. "I have no idea how you managed to pull this off, but you are one seriously lucky guy."
"But the boat," Perry said, perplexed. Didn't Ben get it? "The boat is gone, Ben!"
"Dude, who gives a fuck? You're alive. My dad can always get another boat, if the Coast Guard doesn't find it. We can't get another you. Come on, you look like shit, Perry, come inside. Fell off the fucking boat...God." Ben shook his head, still laughing, and tugged Perry back up the path to the house.
Unseen in the waters just off the shore, a pair of eyes watched as they disappeared; only after they vanished into the house did their watcher depart with a glint of scales and the barest of splashes in the surf.
* * *
Two hours, three blankets and one mug of herbal tea later, after being thoroughly fussed over by Mrs. Sullivan and her daughter Jordan while Mr. Sullivan spoke to the coast guard and Ben lounged in an armchair looking amused, Perry was finally confirmed alive and well, and allowed to go upstairs and shower without the assistance of any of the well-meaning but embarrassingly accommodating Sullivans.
Perry trudged up the stairs, grateful but perplexed by the attention. If he'd destroyed anything so valuable as a boat back home, his father certainly wouldn't be assuring him he was simply glad Perry was okay. Hell, he'd once spent the night in a tool shed just for breaking a dinner plate. He really liked Ben, and over the last few years he'd come to accept that the Sullivans recognized him as honorary family (he did spend almost every holiday with them, after all, and the ones he declined were not due to lack of invitation, but rather a personal wish not to intrude and outstay his welcome). But he'd never actually believed that family could really mean the things Hollywood claimed it meant--that people actually cared about each other, and all that sentimental schlock he'd always assumed was just Hallmark propaganda.
All in all, it was with an embarrassingly choked feeling of gratitude that he stripped out of clothing stiffened by dried salt water and sand and stepped under the hot stream of water in the Sullivans' shower. As he stood, allowing the pounding massager to ease his sore muscles, he finally allowed his mind to drift back to that morning, to waking up on the beach, to what he'd remembered in the water beforehand.
Try as he might, he could not come up with any reasonable explanation for his survival. He'd assumed, at least at first, that Ben's reaction had been an exaggerated one--Ben had a flair for drama, after all, to which Perry was well accustomed--but even the no-nonsense Mrs. Sullivan and the sturdy Mr. Sullivan had been shocked, when he'd recounted what he remembered of his story.
"You were out of sight of the shoreline?" Mr. Sullivan had asked him more than once, repeating it as though it might've grown false in the last five minutes. "You couldn't see anything?"
"No, sir," Perry had repeated every time, wishing they'd all stop looking at him like he was something out of Ripley's. He wasn't a miracle, he was an idiot, and the fact that no one expected him to have survived only went to prove it.
He sighed, gazing down at the grimy water circling the drain, trying to turn his thoughts away from the awed and over-bearing Sullivans. But all that did was bring him back to the burning question inside him: How had he survived?
The bathtub had no answers for him, and after soaking in the hot water until his skin began to turn red, he finally turned it off, pulling back the curtains and reaching for a towel.
It was then, for no apparent reason, that the memory flashed vividly to mind: the face in the water, just before he blacked out, the large pale eyes staring into his, the dark hair swirling around the angular face. The full lips pursed in curious contemplation, the thick brows drawn together.
It hadn't been real, surely. It was a hallucination--he'd been about to drown, after all.
But...if it wasn't real, why hadn't he drowned?
And who could have possibly been out there, in the middle of the ocean during a storm?
* * *
The split-tail was with its people once more, taken back into the strange structure above the surface. It had been worth saving it, then, for the one who'd greeted it had done so with obvious joy...Yes. A good thing.
But one forbidden.
He could hear the voices of the Elders now, once again condemning him as too curious, too reckless, too willing to risk himself in pursuit of an idea. But he didn't care. Not this time. He had watched the split-tail's ship drifting into his path, disturbing the waters along his route. True, he had traveled closer to shore than strictly necessary, even for a scout. It was unlikely the clan would need to venture so close themselves in their migration, but the pull of his wonder and curiosity had been too much, and he had traveled further and further, feeling the waters change around him.
And then the ship came, tossing in the storm above, trailing a long line, but no anchor. Ships he had seen in plenty, on the ocean floor, but this one still floated. He'd let himself swim closer, trying to convince himself he was merely assessing the threat, even as he knew he simply wanted a glimpse of a living split-tail. He'd seen them dead, their spirits gone, their flesh eaten away by time and sea, but to see one living...It was something out of legend.
Legends of horror, told by mothers to frighten their younglings, of the creatures above who lived at odds with their world, enslaving the animals and the elements to their whim, breaking the harmony into which they were born. Their crimes were well known, and many parts of the sea had become sick, dying and dangerous, thanks to their willful neglect. It was well known they could have no true sensitivity, no true feeling. Not and live the way they did.
But still, he'd been fascinated by them, by their creations, and had longed for a glimpse of the world above the surface. The ancient stories told of mers who had gone ashore, and then returned, but they were not believed now. Still, he'd hoped...and hadn't been able to resist, when the opportunity finally arrived.
At first he'd been disappointed, seeing no split-tails on the ship from his place underneath it, and his curious daydreams were not enough to take him above the waves, to see if the legends were true.
Not until the split-tail fell overboard.
He'd been unprepared for the rush of pure feeling from the creature, as it hit the waves, the cascade of images of a world he'd never truly believed existed, even with his daydreams. He'd been taught that split-tails couldn't feel, couldn't understand the vital truths that made a life worth saving, worth protecting. But in those first moments of its thrashing in the water, he felt it all.
And felt the peace that descended over the split-tail as it grew too weak. But it was an unwilling peace, and he knew the creature would've fought more, if it could've.
Even knowing all the customs and rules, knowing how unthinkable it was, he hadn't been able to resist. He'd swum up to the split-tail, met its gaze, planning only to look...and had been unable to resist pulling it to safety, when eyes with as much intelligence and feeling as any mer's met his.
He pressed his lips against the split-tail's, drawing water from the creature's lungs but keeping more from following. Then, closing his gills off for a moment, he let a long rush of air pass from his lips and into the creature's mouth. He felt the heart, which had begun to falter, begin to beat strongly once more, and in that joining, more images flashed into his mind, of a place of wood and rock and light and air, above the surface. He sunk deeper into that awareness, felt the place, and found it.
And found something else, as well. Something he'd never have expected. The shock made him pull back, staring at the split-tail again, his own eyes going wide. And then, hesitantly, he pressed his lips to the creature's again, sinking his awareness once more into the other's heart. There was no doubt...this was his bondmate. Already he could feel the stirrings, feel his own heart reaching out, trying to stitch their souls together. His heartstone pulsed strongly, and his fingers curled around it.
What should he do? A bond was sacred, could not be refused when the need for it came. But this was a split-tail, an outsider, and anathema. The last thing he should do was bond with one...
He bit his lip, breathing for the split-tail again, and finally let out a moan of song, pulling away. He had no choice. The Lady's laws were higher than any clan's, and it was the Lady who created bondmates. Singing the words of joining, he pressed his lips once more to the split-tail's, letting their souls, their hearts, intertwine and join, until the one could touch the other from any distance.
Trembling in fear at what he'd done, he untied his heartstone from around his neck and put it on the split-tail, following his Lady's laws as he knew he should. But he could take no joy in the further rush of shapes and images and feelings in his mind. Not when he knew how many of his clan's customs he'd broken. He simply kissed the split-tail again, breathing for him once more, hoping it was worth it.
After that, he didn't let himself think at all. Just gathered the split-tail close in his arms, and struck out, his tail moving quickly and strongly, pushing them both through the waters, waters that grew lighter than any he had known. His lips pressed against the other's, giving breath when needed, his arms stayed steady around him, and he swam, pushing himself as quickly as he could, knowing he must return before he was missed.
Finally, when the sun--brother of she who controlled the tides--began to rise in the sky, turning the waves to molten gold above his head, he felt sand against his fins, and his head broke the surface for the first time in his life.
He didn't think on it, on the laws he'd broken, merely pulled the now heavy split-tail up, pushing him above line of waves. And there, though he'd planned to leave immediately, he found himself caught for a long moment, touching the other's hair, his eyelids, his mouth. So like a mer's, though his ears were oddly blunted, his skin pale and scaleless...his fingers caressed his heartstone again, thinking it looked right, on the strange figure, and hoping he could return.
The sudden heat of sunlight on his skin brought him sharply back to himself, and he pushed himself away, retreating to the ocean once again, shivering. To be sun-touched was forbidden, but he couldn't regret the necessity of it, couldn't regret saving his bondmate.
Even his fear couldn't pull away, not completely. Not until his split-tail was found and taken care of. He watched as he rose, as he found the heartstone, and examined it. For a too brief moment, their souls connected fully, and he sang his name, his hello to the other, but the split-tail merely shook his head, seeming not to understand.
When the other split-tail came out, he realized why. The sounds they made were nothing like the language he knew, the songs of the clan. They sounded odder even than dolphins! He had to keep himself from laughing aloud and betraying himself.
"Per-ry," he tried, the name of the split-tail tasting strange on his tongue. He giggled again, watching as his Perry moved up the beach, and finally pushed off beneath the waves, hoping the elders wouldn't be able to tell he'd been sun-touched.
But even if they could...the world above no longer seemed like such a frightening exile.
* * *
The Coast Guard found the boat early Monday morning, and towed it back into the harbor, looking a little worse for wear but mostly intact.
"If you'd stayed on, you would've been just fine," Ben said, standing on the dock as Perry helped Mr. Sullivan bail the rain and seawater out of the boat.
"I am just fine," Perry reminded him, dumping another bucket overboard. Mr. Sullivan had tried to get him to rest, but Perry had felt bad enough, and wanted to help reverse what damage he could. As they worked, he felt better and better--most of the damage was going to be easily fixable, fortunately. His mood lightened considerably, and he even began to tease Ben, relaxing and making jokes with his roommate as he worked on the boat.
The Coast Guard had taken down the account of his story, giving him incredulous looks when he told them what he remembered (leaving out the part with the strange face he'd seen in the water--the Sullivans actually seemed to like him, and the last thing he needed was for them to think he was crazy). They'd said the same thing everyone else had said: that he was lucky to be alive, and they didn't know how he was.
And while certainly grateful for the fact that he wasn't dead, he was also very glad when Monday evening rolled around, and it was time to drive back to campus, where no one would look at him strangely and tell him about how miraculous his survival was.
Ben stayed behind, on doctor's orders to do so for at least two more weeks; Perry wrinkled his nose at him, giving him some light-hearted jibe about his major being easy enough that he should have no problem making up two weeks' worth of coursework, and Ben had just laughed.
"You're just jealous that I get an extended vacation," he retorted, and Perry had stuck his tongue out at his roommate, but in reality had felt pretty good about going back.
"Nothing like a near death experience to put organic chemistry into perspective," he murmured to himself with a smirk, tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the radio station music as he drove.
He wasn't sure how it happened, nor was he particularly interested in dwelling upon it, but whatever gods of fate and luck had spared him, he decided he wasn't going to waste it being bitter any longer. Fuck, he had it pretty good, all things considered. It was time he started appreciating that fact.
* * *
Continued in Part 2
Characters: College-aged Perry/Mer JD; Ben Sullivan
Preview Rating: PG
Summary: A very different universe wherein Perry is a 23-year-old premed undergraduate hoping to make it into med school, and JD is a merman. Yep. We went there.
Note: I know this one is a little different, but I hope y'all will give it a shot anyway. It's one that's very near and dear to our hearts.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Memorial Day meant a three-day weekend from classes, and he was actually caught up with all his studying for once. A trip down the coast to his best friend's family's beach house and a weekend of sailing had sounded like just the break Perry Cox needed to stay sane before finals.
Of course, he hadn't counted on Ben getting sick, and being diagnosed with mono as soon as they'd arrived.
"Look, it's not like I did it on purpose," the other man had said, shrugging easily. Ben, being Ben, had thought it rather cool to be officially diagnosed with an illness known in most colloquial circles as "the kissing disease."
"You knew Cynthia had it, and you made out with her at Darren's party," Perry countered, scowling.
"Yes, but I was drunk," Ben reminded him. "That officially exempts me from any responsibility for whom I kiss. Besides, it's not like you can't still have fun. We're on the beach and we're young hot college dudes with a car. Surely you can think of something to do."
In the end, Ben had convinced him, and Perry had decided to go sailing solo. He'd been careful about it, checking the weather ahead of time and making Ben run over the fundamentals once more before packing a lunch and a few books and loading up the boat. For the first few hours, it had actually worked: the weather was gorgeous, grand clouds building on the horizon, gulls soaring overhead, and the sound of the surf crashing into the beach. In short, it could not have been more perfect, and Perry found himself relaxing for the first time in months.
It ended up being his undoing.
At around noon, he'd dropped anchor in a shallow reef, settling down in the sunlight with his book and a bottle of beer, reading himself into a light doze, lulled by the warmth, the alcohol in his belly and the gentle rocking of the boat.
He wasn't sure what happened, later: if he'd tied the knot incorrectly, or if the rope had frayed on the rocks beneath the surface of the water. What he did know was when he woke up, he was no longer in the reef, the sails were snapping in a much stronger wind, the clouds that had been pleasant and picturesque on the horizon were now much larger, closer and darker--and he was no longer within sight of land.
He shot up out of his seat, fighting the urge to panic, and looked around. But there was gray water in all directions, waves turning to foaming white caps in the wind, and the boat seemed to be moving at a fairly good clip.
In a current, then. Or the wind was stronger than he thought. Or both. Didn't matter. What mattered was that he was now very likely miles away from the dock, in weather that was very quickly turning menacing, and he was at best a novice sailor.
In short: he was fucked.
Shoving the thought roughly aside, he began to quickly run over what he knew. He was about to hit rough weather. So before he could think about getting back on course, heading back to the coast, he needed to tie down the sails and secure himself in the cabin to wait it out. There was no sense, after all, in fighting weather that would just blow him off course again, or in risking damage to himself or the vessel. Better to wait it out, and head back when the wind would work with him. Besides, he had a radio--as soon as the weather let up he could probably get a signal, and send for help.
Right. So, first task: sails.
He set about drawing them in, listening to Ben's voice instructing him in his head, pleased to find he remembered most of what he'd been taught.
But he was slow, had to redo things more than once, and the sea wasn't patient enough to wait. The clouds that had been darkening the entire time finally passed over him, winds increasing, and they brought rain with them. It began slowly, but after a few minutes fell in thick sheets, obscuring his vision and making the deck and the ropes slick and difficult to handle. The ocean grew rougher, waves cast up by the wind made the boat sway and buck beneath him as he scrambled for purchase. They crested higher and higher, and when the first broke over the bow that Perry began to feel real fear, real doubt about his chances of surviving.
He glanced up. The mainsail wasn't secured, but it was rolled, and it would have to do for now. If he tried to climb up and tamp it down properly, he'd probably get washed overboard, and there was no way in hell he'd be able to fight water like this. If he went over, that was it. He was done.
Into the cabin, then. That was his only chance. Better to explain to Mr. Sullivan why his boat was a little damaged than become one of the number of idiots claimed by the sea and their own stupidity.
He grabbed the railing and began working his way back across the deck, trying not to feel sick as the boat tilted frighteningly far to one side. It didn't capsize, but it did take in more water before it righted itself, and Perry wondered despairingly if the vessel would even be able to withstand the beating it was receiving. After all, there were certainly much larger ships, steered by far more able sailors, who had been claimed by the wrath of the Pacific.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! He moaned aloud, nausea doubling at the thought that he really might die out here. In fact, it was beginning to look downright likely.
He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and began working his way along the deck again. If he could get to the cabin, he could hunker down and wait it out. Even if the boat capsized, he might be able to keep it from flooding long enough to wait out the storm. If he could seal it down, it might even stay relatively airtight. He just had toget there...
Inch by inch, he pulled himself closer, the deck still bucking beneath him. Foot by agonizing foot, the door to the cabin loomed closer.
Another wave broke over the bow, sloshing over the deck beneath his feet, making him slip and nearly fall. He retained his grip on the rail, and dragged himself back up, but didn't bother to stifle the cry of terror that worked its way past his clenched teeth.
Fuck, I don't want to die out here, I don't want to die, please, please...
One step, then another. Close.
So close...
He drew a deep breath, then lunged across the deck, reaching for the door.
He would have made it, too, if the handle hadn't been metal.
His hand closed over it, and for an instant elation welled within him. But fingers numbed by the cold of the driving rain and the wind slipped from slick metal, and his chest hit the deck, the force knocking all air from his lungs. It stunned him just enough that he couldn't make his body respond, even as he slid backwards, toward the edge of the ship and its wide open railings.
He couldn't bring his fingers to close around said railing, either, and, when he finally did manage to grab for it as he began to slide through, he was forced to watch, feeling strangely detached, as the cool metal slipped through his weakened grip, the boat tilting in the wind and spilling him, almost gently, over the edge.
The maybe a five foot drop to the waves below felt much longer. That five foot drop was his last mile, his walk from his cell to the executioner's block. His death toll, the sound of the waves slapping the hull the tap of the warden's boot as he moved toward the door of the gas chamber. The ringing in his ears was the flat line of an EKG, a silent but final pronouncement.
Over. It's over.
And as he hit the cold water and was sucked instantly beneath it, Perry realized he wasn't ready. He'd wanted to die before, so many times; as a kid, growing up with his abusive father and apathetic mother. As an adolescent teased mercilessly by his peers and shunned by all the girls. As a high school student ready to call it quits, staring at himself in the mirror for hours, reading the label on his mother's Valium, working out the exact dose it would take to make his respiratory system shut down. Working a blade free from his father's razor, examining the edge, tracing it lightly against the skin of his wrist, following the pale blue of the vein beneath the fragile sheath.
Exploring his options, eying all the exits. But never walking through any of them.
And whether it was because his life had finally begun to turn itself around, or because he realized that the pain of now was better than the horror of the unknown oblivion that waited beyond, he knew with every ounce of surety in him that he did not want to die. Not now, not like this.
He thrashed in the water, clawing his way up, eyes stinging as he desperately worked his way toward the surface. His lungs already burned--he'd not refilled them after his fall, and he could already see spots. But somehow, by some miracle or accident of physics, his head broke the surface, and he gasped, drawing in a sobbing breath before another wave crashed over him and sent him hurtling back down again.
He couldn't fight it. He knew that; the rational part of his brain clucked in pity while the rest of him kept trying. There was nothing he could do. He was nothing against the power of the raging waters around him; he was as insignificant as an ant, as a flea. He was helpless, miles from the shore, caught in a rainstorm with no rope, no life-jacket, no nothing. No hope.
But still he fought. Some animal instinct within him made him claw his way up, again and again, dragging in whatever air he could before he was dunked again. Sometimes he couldn't get any; his head would break the surface and he could feel the wind, agonizing, against his skin, but before he could clear his mouth of saltwater and partake of any of it he would get shoved down again.
He didn't know how long he tried. It felt like days; it was probably only seconds, or minutes at most. But he did know that he eventually grew weary, his limbs going numb with the cold and the effort, and he simply couldn't make them move anymore. They hung, useless and weightless in the water around him, and he watched them with a strange fascination as the surface drifted further and further from him.
He'd read that drowning--once you stopped struggling--was actually a peaceful way to go. He'd always had his doubts, but now he could see why that was true. The water around him was quiet, the maelstrom above a distant roar in ears that were popping from the building pressure. His lungs burned until he let out the last reserves of air and finally drew in a mouthful of water instead, quenching the fire. His whole body felt suspended in amber, perfectly preserved, as though he would stay forever in this nothingness: this absence of sound, this perfect dark abyss of silence.
Just before the darkness closed in around him, he noticed something strange. A face, gazing back at him. Dark hair haloing pale skin, a curious tilt of eyebrows.
But he was drowning, and hallucinations were normal.
His last thought before the black took him was that it was too bad the young man before him wasn't real, as he really was quite good looking.
* * *
Waves washed over his feet, smooth, wet sand cradled his body, and Perry woke again. Groaning, he pushed himself up, feeling every bruise and strained muscle from his fight against the ocean. He scrubbed at his eyes, opening them slowly, and then blinked, once, twice, and a third time, as the Sullivan's private dock came into focus.
He lay beside it, only feet away from the wood, the house visible over the tumbled rock wall above him. What the hell...? He'd been dying, he was sure of it, and now...now he sat only a few hundred feet away from the Sullivans' house.
He pushed himself up further, shuddering a little at the recollection of the waters closing over his head, slipping cold into his lungs. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, wanting to put some distance between himself and the crashing waves. His head ached, and his entire body was covered with salty, sandy grit from being under so long. He took stock, briefly--still had on his shorts and his t-shirt, but his sandals were gone. Well, no big surprise there. They'd probably fallen off the moment he hit the waves. He reached up to his hair, then touched his chest, checking himself over for injuries, but apart from feeling sore, he seemed to be--
Wait. What the...?
He frowned, as his fingers brushed over something hanging at his throat, and realized he wore a necklace of some sort. Frown deepening, he reached behind himself and tugged the knot loose, pulling it over his head and staring at it.
A large, green stone, triangular, striped with veins of deeper green and pale yellows, at places looking almost blue lay in his hand. A small hole had been carved at the tip of one of the triangle's points, and it was threaded on some sort of tough rope or string--it reminded Perry vaguely of hemp, though it was darker, somehow. Kelp fibers, maybe? Or something else?
But...where had it come from? He certainly had never seen it before, and there was no way it had worked its way onto his neck by accident. It had been tied carefully, deliberately. Someone had put it there.
But who?
He blinked, then shrugged, holding out his hand with the intent of dropping the stone on the beach and leaving it there. But when he went to open his fist, he realized he couldn't. Something in him refused, and his fingers remained tightly curled around the braided strands, his eyes fixed on the stone as it swung lightly in the air. He drew a deep breath, and focused, trying again--and again, his fingers refused to release the stone.
All right, he thought sourly, drawing it back in and sticking it into his pocket. All right. Whatever you are, I'll keep you for now.
He turned away from the crashing waves and stared up at the dock, toward the house. Early morning, based on the angle of the sun--he'd been out here all night, then. Why hadn't anyone come looking? Or had they simply not seen him, lying on the beach in the darkness? That seemed a little strange, since he wore a white shirt and khaki shorts, but...he supposed it was possible. He moved up the beach a little ways, then frowned, noting the disturbed sands, the tire tracks. Someone had driven out here? This was private property...
As he continued to walk, he realized there was more than one set, too, and the dirt and rock higher up on the beach was disturbed as well, the grass leading to the Sullivan's porch flattened. It looked like the aftermath of a fraternity weekend, or a crime scene, or--
Or a search party?
He stopped in his tracks, eyes widening, and looked back toward the beach, to the place where he'd awoken. It was only twenty or thirty yards, at most, from where the tracks started. And he was no hunter, but those tracks were relatively fresh. They'd have to be, or the tide would've washed them away by now. So that meant either someone--or several someones--had passed within yards of him, and hadn't seen him, or...
Or I wasn't there yet, when they passed.
He blinked again, shaking his head sharply, wishing it would stop pounding. This...it wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible. He'd been drowning, and then he'd apparently spent most of the night in the water, and now...now he was alive, and none the worse for wear, really, and...
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the strange stone again, staring at it.
But...how did I get out?
As he stared at the stone, a strange sensation started in the pit of his stomach, working its way up his spine. His vision narrowed to the stone alone, the rest of the world seeming to fade, and as he stared at it, it seemed to almost glow. He almost imagined he could see it pulsing, slow and steady, like a heartbeat...his vision clouded, and a strange, haunting sound began to fill his mind--like the song of a whale, almost, but more human.
What...?
He turned, slowly, and scanned the now-placid Pacific, squinting over the waves. He'd fallen into the water...he should be dead.
And he might be still, he realized with a sudden sinking sensation, when Mr. Sullivan realized he'd lost his sailboat.
"Fuck," he whispered, pushing a hand over his knotted curls--limp and heavy with salt water--and the strange feeling that had come over him moments before vanished. He swallowed, closing his eyes, and lowered his head as the severity of his situation overcame him.
He wouldn't be able to pay for the boat, he knew that. He wasn't sure exactly how much a sailboat cost, but he was only making tuition because of his scholarships, and Ben covered most of their meals as it was.
Fuck!
He'd have to get a second job, to pay for the boat, and even then it would take a long time. And he was basically not sleeping now, between school work and his current job at the library...he'd fall behind, and his GPA would drop, and he'd be back in Pittsburgh, working at the fucking Burger King and trying to get together enough money to stay out of his father's house and in his own place.
Everything he'd worked for would be gone, just because he was a fucking idiot who'd managed to fall asleep on his roommate's family sailboat and lose it out at sea.
He swallowed, clenching his jaw furiously and blinking at the sting in his eyes. Too much saltwater, no doubt. Well, better to face the music now than wait until he made himself sick, worrying about what would happen. Not like there was squat he could do to change it, anyway.
Following an impulse he didn't quite understand, he lifted the stone and tied it absently back around his neck, tucking it safely beneath the collar of his shirt to deal with it later. It was almost comforting, the cool weight of it against his skin, and he sighed, feeling something in him ease just a little.
Then he began to trudge desolately up the beach, toward the house. That's what the search party had been for, no doubt. Looking for the boat. The Sullivans probably thought he'd stolen it or something. It didn't really explain why they'd left him lying on the beach, but...well, if they weren't looking for him, maybe they just hadn't seen him.
He'd only made it halfway back, though, before the door suddenly slammed open, and Ben was tearing down the path, looking pale as a ghost.
Perry frowned as his roommate approached. "Shouldn't you be resting?" he started to ask--if Ben was sick enough to be that pale, the last thing he needed to be doing was romping around on the beach--but he only got "shouldn't" before Ben was right in front of him, dragging Perry into a crushing hug.
"Son of a bitch!" the larger man mumbled against Perry's shoulder before drawing back and staring at him, patting him down as though not quite believing he was there. "Shit, Perry, you're alive!"
Perry blinked at him, more than a little dazed. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I am, but...Ben, your dad's boat, it...I kind of...lost it."
"Screw the fucking boat!" Ben cried, looking halfway amused now that he'd apparently assured himself Perry was okay. "Jesus, buddy, we thought you were fishfood by now!"
Perry lifted his eyebrows, doubly taken aback. "How'd you even know I was in trouble...?" he wondered.
Ben blinked. "Well, you didn't come back last night," he said, "and there was a storm off the coast. That was our first guess. I mean, unless you decided to elope with a mermaid out at sea, you were either lost or in trouble, and they're basically the same thing."
"But the boat," Perry said again, sure that Ben had somehow misunderstood. "It's gone, Ben. I mean--I fell off."
"You fell." Ben stared at him.
"Yeah," Perry said, looking down, cringing. Ben understood now; would tell him that his dad would kill him. Would suggest maybe he start looking for another roommate, because it just wasn't going to work out. Would--
"You fell. Off the boat. Into the fucking Pacific, in the middle of a storm."
Perry frowned, scuffing the sand with his bare toe, wondering why Ben was insisting on dragging this out. He knew what he'd done...couldn't his roommate just cut to the chase already? The waiting was killing him. "Yeah...?"
"Why the hell aren't you dead?" Ben shook his head, eyes wide. "I mean, I love you, but I've seen you swim. You're not exactly Matthew Webb."
"Who?"
"First guy to cross the English Channel. Man, you science geeks have a one-track mind, you know it?" Ben shook his head, a grin growing on his face. "You should be dead, you lucky bastard," he said, a laugh bubbling from his chest. "I have no idea how you managed to pull this off, but you are one seriously lucky guy."
"But the boat," Perry said, perplexed. Didn't Ben get it? "The boat is gone, Ben!"
"Dude, who gives a fuck? You're alive. My dad can always get another boat, if the Coast Guard doesn't find it. We can't get another you. Come on, you look like shit, Perry, come inside. Fell off the fucking boat...God." Ben shook his head, still laughing, and tugged Perry back up the path to the house.
Unseen in the waters just off the shore, a pair of eyes watched as they disappeared; only after they vanished into the house did their watcher depart with a glint of scales and the barest of splashes in the surf.
* * *
Two hours, three blankets and one mug of herbal tea later, after being thoroughly fussed over by Mrs. Sullivan and her daughter Jordan while Mr. Sullivan spoke to the coast guard and Ben lounged in an armchair looking amused, Perry was finally confirmed alive and well, and allowed to go upstairs and shower without the assistance of any of the well-meaning but embarrassingly accommodating Sullivans.
Perry trudged up the stairs, grateful but perplexed by the attention. If he'd destroyed anything so valuable as a boat back home, his father certainly wouldn't be assuring him he was simply glad Perry was okay. Hell, he'd once spent the night in a tool shed just for breaking a dinner plate. He really liked Ben, and over the last few years he'd come to accept that the Sullivans recognized him as honorary family (he did spend almost every holiday with them, after all, and the ones he declined were not due to lack of invitation, but rather a personal wish not to intrude and outstay his welcome). But he'd never actually believed that family could really mean the things Hollywood claimed it meant--that people actually cared about each other, and all that sentimental schlock he'd always assumed was just Hallmark propaganda.
All in all, it was with an embarrassingly choked feeling of gratitude that he stripped out of clothing stiffened by dried salt water and sand and stepped under the hot stream of water in the Sullivans' shower. As he stood, allowing the pounding massager to ease his sore muscles, he finally allowed his mind to drift back to that morning, to waking up on the beach, to what he'd remembered in the water beforehand.
Try as he might, he could not come up with any reasonable explanation for his survival. He'd assumed, at least at first, that Ben's reaction had been an exaggerated one--Ben had a flair for drama, after all, to which Perry was well accustomed--but even the no-nonsense Mrs. Sullivan and the sturdy Mr. Sullivan had been shocked, when he'd recounted what he remembered of his story.
"You were out of sight of the shoreline?" Mr. Sullivan had asked him more than once, repeating it as though it might've grown false in the last five minutes. "You couldn't see anything?"
"No, sir," Perry had repeated every time, wishing they'd all stop looking at him like he was something out of Ripley's. He wasn't a miracle, he was an idiot, and the fact that no one expected him to have survived only went to prove it.
He sighed, gazing down at the grimy water circling the drain, trying to turn his thoughts away from the awed and over-bearing Sullivans. But all that did was bring him back to the burning question inside him: How had he survived?
The bathtub had no answers for him, and after soaking in the hot water until his skin began to turn red, he finally turned it off, pulling back the curtains and reaching for a towel.
It was then, for no apparent reason, that the memory flashed vividly to mind: the face in the water, just before he blacked out, the large pale eyes staring into his, the dark hair swirling around the angular face. The full lips pursed in curious contemplation, the thick brows drawn together.
It hadn't been real, surely. It was a hallucination--he'd been about to drown, after all.
But...if it wasn't real, why hadn't he drowned?
And who could have possibly been out there, in the middle of the ocean during a storm?
* * *
The split-tail was with its people once more, taken back into the strange structure above the surface. It had been worth saving it, then, for the one who'd greeted it had done so with obvious joy...Yes. A good thing.
But one forbidden.
He could hear the voices of the Elders now, once again condemning him as too curious, too reckless, too willing to risk himself in pursuit of an idea. But he didn't care. Not this time. He had watched the split-tail's ship drifting into his path, disturbing the waters along his route. True, he had traveled closer to shore than strictly necessary, even for a scout. It was unlikely the clan would need to venture so close themselves in their migration, but the pull of his wonder and curiosity had been too much, and he had traveled further and further, feeling the waters change around him.
And then the ship came, tossing in the storm above, trailing a long line, but no anchor. Ships he had seen in plenty, on the ocean floor, but this one still floated. He'd let himself swim closer, trying to convince himself he was merely assessing the threat, even as he knew he simply wanted a glimpse of a living split-tail. He'd seen them dead, their spirits gone, their flesh eaten away by time and sea, but to see one living...It was something out of legend.
Legends of horror, told by mothers to frighten their younglings, of the creatures above who lived at odds with their world, enslaving the animals and the elements to their whim, breaking the harmony into which they were born. Their crimes were well known, and many parts of the sea had become sick, dying and dangerous, thanks to their willful neglect. It was well known they could have no true sensitivity, no true feeling. Not and live the way they did.
But still, he'd been fascinated by them, by their creations, and had longed for a glimpse of the world above the surface. The ancient stories told of mers who had gone ashore, and then returned, but they were not believed now. Still, he'd hoped...and hadn't been able to resist, when the opportunity finally arrived.
At first he'd been disappointed, seeing no split-tails on the ship from his place underneath it, and his curious daydreams were not enough to take him above the waves, to see if the legends were true.
Not until the split-tail fell overboard.
He'd been unprepared for the rush of pure feeling from the creature, as it hit the waves, the cascade of images of a world he'd never truly believed existed, even with his daydreams. He'd been taught that split-tails couldn't feel, couldn't understand the vital truths that made a life worth saving, worth protecting. But in those first moments of its thrashing in the water, he felt it all.
And felt the peace that descended over the split-tail as it grew too weak. But it was an unwilling peace, and he knew the creature would've fought more, if it could've.
Even knowing all the customs and rules, knowing how unthinkable it was, he hadn't been able to resist. He'd swum up to the split-tail, met its gaze, planning only to look...and had been unable to resist pulling it to safety, when eyes with as much intelligence and feeling as any mer's met his.
He pressed his lips against the split-tail's, drawing water from the creature's lungs but keeping more from following. Then, closing his gills off for a moment, he let a long rush of air pass from his lips and into the creature's mouth. He felt the heart, which had begun to falter, begin to beat strongly once more, and in that joining, more images flashed into his mind, of a place of wood and rock and light and air, above the surface. He sunk deeper into that awareness, felt the place, and found it.
And found something else, as well. Something he'd never have expected. The shock made him pull back, staring at the split-tail again, his own eyes going wide. And then, hesitantly, he pressed his lips to the creature's again, sinking his awareness once more into the other's heart. There was no doubt...this was his bondmate. Already he could feel the stirrings, feel his own heart reaching out, trying to stitch their souls together. His heartstone pulsed strongly, and his fingers curled around it.
What should he do? A bond was sacred, could not be refused when the need for it came. But this was a split-tail, an outsider, and anathema. The last thing he should do was bond with one...
He bit his lip, breathing for the split-tail again, and finally let out a moan of song, pulling away. He had no choice. The Lady's laws were higher than any clan's, and it was the Lady who created bondmates. Singing the words of joining, he pressed his lips once more to the split-tail's, letting their souls, their hearts, intertwine and join, until the one could touch the other from any distance.
Trembling in fear at what he'd done, he untied his heartstone from around his neck and put it on the split-tail, following his Lady's laws as he knew he should. But he could take no joy in the further rush of shapes and images and feelings in his mind. Not when he knew how many of his clan's customs he'd broken. He simply kissed the split-tail again, breathing for him once more, hoping it was worth it.
After that, he didn't let himself think at all. Just gathered the split-tail close in his arms, and struck out, his tail moving quickly and strongly, pushing them both through the waters, waters that grew lighter than any he had known. His lips pressed against the other's, giving breath when needed, his arms stayed steady around him, and he swam, pushing himself as quickly as he could, knowing he must return before he was missed.
Finally, when the sun--brother of she who controlled the tides--began to rise in the sky, turning the waves to molten gold above his head, he felt sand against his fins, and his head broke the surface for the first time in his life.
He didn't think on it, on the laws he'd broken, merely pulled the now heavy split-tail up, pushing him above line of waves. And there, though he'd planned to leave immediately, he found himself caught for a long moment, touching the other's hair, his eyelids, his mouth. So like a mer's, though his ears were oddly blunted, his skin pale and scaleless...his fingers caressed his heartstone again, thinking it looked right, on the strange figure, and hoping he could return.
The sudden heat of sunlight on his skin brought him sharply back to himself, and he pushed himself away, retreating to the ocean once again, shivering. To be sun-touched was forbidden, but he couldn't regret the necessity of it, couldn't regret saving his bondmate.
Even his fear couldn't pull away, not completely. Not until his split-tail was found and taken care of. He watched as he rose, as he found the heartstone, and examined it. For a too brief moment, their souls connected fully, and he sang his name, his hello to the other, but the split-tail merely shook his head, seeming not to understand.
When the other split-tail came out, he realized why. The sounds they made were nothing like the language he knew, the songs of the clan. They sounded odder even than dolphins! He had to keep himself from laughing aloud and betraying himself.
"Per-ry," he tried, the name of the split-tail tasting strange on his tongue. He giggled again, watching as his Perry moved up the beach, and finally pushed off beneath the waves, hoping the elders wouldn't be able to tell he'd been sun-touched.
But even if they could...the world above no longer seemed like such a frightening exile.
* * *
The Coast Guard found the boat early Monday morning, and towed it back into the harbor, looking a little worse for wear but mostly intact.
"If you'd stayed on, you would've been just fine," Ben said, standing on the dock as Perry helped Mr. Sullivan bail the rain and seawater out of the boat.
"I am just fine," Perry reminded him, dumping another bucket overboard. Mr. Sullivan had tried to get him to rest, but Perry had felt bad enough, and wanted to help reverse what damage he could. As they worked, he felt better and better--most of the damage was going to be easily fixable, fortunately. His mood lightened considerably, and he even began to tease Ben, relaxing and making jokes with his roommate as he worked on the boat.
The Coast Guard had taken down the account of his story, giving him incredulous looks when he told them what he remembered (leaving out the part with the strange face he'd seen in the water--the Sullivans actually seemed to like him, and the last thing he needed was for them to think he was crazy). They'd said the same thing everyone else had said: that he was lucky to be alive, and they didn't know how he was.
And while certainly grateful for the fact that he wasn't dead, he was also very glad when Monday evening rolled around, and it was time to drive back to campus, where no one would look at him strangely and tell him about how miraculous his survival was.
Ben stayed behind, on doctor's orders to do so for at least two more weeks; Perry wrinkled his nose at him, giving him some light-hearted jibe about his major being easy enough that he should have no problem making up two weeks' worth of coursework, and Ben had just laughed.
"You're just jealous that I get an extended vacation," he retorted, and Perry had stuck his tongue out at his roommate, but in reality had felt pretty good about going back.
"Nothing like a near death experience to put organic chemistry into perspective," he murmured to himself with a smirk, tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the radio station music as he drove.
He wasn't sure how it happened, nor was he particularly interested in dwelling upon it, but whatever gods of fate and luck had spared him, he decided he wasn't going to waste it being bitter any longer. Fuck, he had it pretty good, all things considered. It was time he started appreciating that fact.
* * *
Continued in Part 2
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Date: 2 Dec 2007 21:56 (UTC)unhealthilyobsessed with Changeling. [sarcasm]Yeeeeeees, we're going to hate it and immediately unfriend you.[/sarcasm]Come ON! This is fabulous!