#ghost's post

You’re cursed.

You have to be - how else could you explain how you got into this damned mess?

You were relatively new to the whole boating thing, nowhere near committed to calling it a stable trade and more so using it as an excuse to get away from land. Inherited from a relative, the boat wasn’t commercial but it certainly wasn’t big enough for more than a couple of people. It was enough for you, though, while you were still trying to figure things out.

When the weather was decent enough you’d take to the sea. Just you, your ship, and the open ocean for a couple hours until the haul was enough to justify the trip back or the weather got too extreme. You mostly went out for the space though - if you happened to catch a couple of fish to sell in the process, who were you to complain?

Besides, the local stores always appreciated the fresh produce you brought back. The extra chore to your time off was a small price to pay for the discount you got at the stalls that used your fish.

So when you’d woken up that morning, greeted by the first sunny sky you’d seen in the last couple of weeks, blinding you through the crack in your curtains, you were out the door and on the sea without a second thought. It’s not like you’d be gone for long - what was the worst that could happen?

Famous last words - ones that were coming to bite you in the ass now.

Usually you’d just let the ship’s trawler do its work, dragging along the imperceivable depths below while you whiled away the time with other stuff. It was almost entirely automated at this point, so the most you had to do was wait for the thing to catch a handful of fish, flip the controls to reel it back, and check to make sure it hadn’t gotten snagged on debris or sediment.

You’d been in the middle of flipping through a comic a friend had lent you, tucked away in one of the many cozy nooks you’d made for yourself in the cabin. Humming, you thumb through the pages, working your way up to the big cliffhanger that you just know is coming up when an almighty screech rips you away from your reading. It’s a scratchy, grating noise that has you cringing, face scrunching up from the sheer volume thoroughly pissed at the interruption right as you’d been getting invested. 

That is until you realize exactly where the sound is coming from.

“Shit, shit, shit-!”

The rickety cabin door ricochets off of the wall with a solid crack as you boot it open, entire frame shuddering from the force. However it’s the least of your concerns as you scramble towards the back of the little boat, muttering obscenities under your breath with increasing desperation.

The trawler groans beneath the weight of its haul, the line whizzing rapidly in a bid to pull itself free from the ocean’s depths on behest of the automated timer. Another sharp hiss of mechanics, this one more strained than the last, and for a moment you fear that the whole system is going to go up in smoke. The noises rend from the machine’s inner workings is concerning, enough that you have no idea whether to get closer or keep a wide berth in case it snaps - the old thing isn’t worth losing a chunk of your fingers over. But you can’t make out what the problem is if you don’t get any closer, so slowly, cautiously, you begin circling around to the far side of the machine.

“Please, please, please, please don’t be broken.” The repeated pleas are whispered to yourself like a matra, as if silently hoping that if you say it enough then it will magically revert whatever is messing with the hunk of junk back to a functional state. No such luck.

Is the pulley on the fritz? You hadn’t bothered to change it when you’d inherited it, though you’d at least maintained the upkeep as you’d been told. The old fishers at the shore who had taught you how to use the ol’ gal had explained to you that whilst it was an older make, it wouldn’t need refurbishing or upgrading for a good couple months at least.. 

“Gahh, I really don’t wanna fork out on replacing this thing before payday.” you give a defeated groan, giving the hunk of junk a cautionary nudge with the heel of your boot. Maybe a good whack’ll kick it back into gear? Not the first time you’ve done it, and it's never strayed you wrong before, right?

But then the netting veers right, dragged by an unseen force as it careens into the side of the ship and you stumble backwards, recoiling at the deafening screech it rends from the pulley mechanism. For a moment you can only watch the line jerk around, as though fighting against the pulley trying to yank it back up; that it is not the machine messing up. Your stomach drops as realization dawns that the problem isn’t with the net or the pulley.

It’s reeling something in.

You’re not even far enough out to sea to have caught anything substantial - a few minutes from shore at most, just barely enough to not risk marooning the vessel. And yet as you watch the machinery struggling to pull something up the tension builds. The corded netting pulls tighter and tighter and tighter-

Then, with a final heave the netting breaks through the water’s surface. 

The resounding wet thud rocks the entirety of the boat, forming puddles of water on the wooden surface as the writhing mass is deposited in front of you. As you feared, upon completing its final job the pulley gives up the ghost. With a hoarse sputter, puffing out a few wisps of smoke for good measure the death rattle of metals gradually fades to a chilling silence, the noise still ringing in your ears as you take in the metallic husk with a withering sigh. 

You’d bemoan the loss later, however the wriggling, lively contents of its last haul currently demand your attention.

A huge mass squirms and thrashes about within the confines of the fishing net, though at first you can’t quite make out what it is. Amongst the large shape are a handful of fish  - or more accurately what’s left of them as they’ve obviously been half eaten, reduced to chunks somewhere between the ocean and your boat. For fucks sake; something’s been at your line again - probably those damned sea lions you’ve heard are making a home further up coast. But the offending culprit that’s trapped is far from a sea lion; though when you finally make out what exactly you’re looking at, maybe a sea lion would have been better.

There’s an honest to god man tangled up in your net, hulking bare chested frame struggling fiercley against the network of woven rope clinging to his form with little success. Any fear that you’ve hauled up a corpse flies out the window along with the barrage of curses the man spews out the second he hits solid land, words barely legible but shouted with enough vigor that you get the crystal clear picture that he’s pissed.

You’re beginning to think that you’ve accidentally scooped up a diver, but it’s while you’re in the middle of mentally debating the legalities of getting sued for picking a person up in your net (because seriously, how are you going to explain your way out of this one???) that the big mound of green he’s curled up with shifts. You swear to god, if that’s another goddamn person-! 

Oh.

That’s not a diver.

Iridescent scales glint in the sunlight like emeralds, catching in the sun as a green tail unfurling within the ratty old net. Those pretty glistening scales form intricate patterns all the way up the stranger's body, becoming sparser up along the hips until they meet skin and taper off to the very human torso of a decidedly not human man. 

A merfolk. There’s a merfolk in your trawler. Despite knowing what you’re looking at, your brain just can’t quite process what your eyes are seeing. It’s like something right out of a fairytale, coming across a mer out on the ocean. Except that mer is now swearing like a sailor and getting himself more and more wound up in what remains of your trawling net. He’s done a number on it, sure, but the ratty thing is clinging to the merman like it’s trying to get revenge for the pulley.

The hell are the chances that you’d yank up a mer of all things?! Godammit, you just wanted some fish, not this! 

Someone up there must be getting a real kick out of your suffering right now, because as if finally sensing your presence the mer goes rigid, tensing up with fingers still wound tight mid-yank into the criss-cross of ropes that won’t budge. His head snaps up, and you’re momentarily struck by the startling blue of the eyes that meet yours, pupils blown wide as they dart across your features.

Oh, damn. He’s actually kind of handsome - the defined cut of his jaw framed by a mop of dark hair, clinging to saltwater slick skin as droplets of water cling to his lashes.

Silence; for a moment not even the gulls overhead make a peep.

“OH NO!!”

Okay he is WAY too loud. The merman spins away from you (as well as he can while actively trapped), hunching over with a groan. With his back to you, you catch a flash of an odd star-shaped mark on his shoulder - a birthmark? - before he buries a hand in his hair, tail thrashing.

“Granny warned me about getting too close to the human ships. But how was I supposed to know they’d pull it up!? Aaaaah, she’s gonna kill me when she finds out!”

Aaand he’s speaking to himself. Great, just what you need; a mythical creature monologuing to himself like it’s normal. At least you can understand him, you guess. He mutters something under his breath and suddenly jolts up, immediately hissing when his back catches on the coarse entanglements.

“There’s no other option.” he declares with grave conviction. “It’s time for my secret technique.”

Instinctively, you take a cautionary step backwards apprehensive on what this ‘secret technique’ is. He looks so sure about it that you’re beginning to dread what he’s got up his non-existant sleeves. Are mers dangerous on land? Of course there’s old wives tales of them drowning sailors, as there are across any corner of the world that touches the ocean, but surely you’re safe on your ship...you hope. And yet the foreboding ‘what-if’ is enough to warrant another step away for good measure. 

The mer’s hands slap onto the deck, raising himself to as full a height as his predicament will allow. A deep breath - which only cements the lingering fear now that you know he seems just fine out of the sea- as his mouth opens with a bellow of-

“Run away!”

…You’re kidding.

If he was in the water, maybe this amazing technique would’ve worked wonders. As it stands though you can merely watch, utterly baffled, as the mer makes a poor attempt to flee back to the ocean he’d emerged from. Dropped smack-dab in the middle of your boat by the trawler however, there really wasn’t anywhere for him to go, He’s got plenty of muscle (which isn’t discerned bc you were staring at them too hard, definitely not) but progress is as slow going as you imagine it would be for a several foot tall sea creature weighed down by both a tail and a couple pounds of rope.

 As this strange man continues to flop about on your deck, the fear and panic which had once taken hold now dissolves into confusion. Your hands, initially braced to protect yourself drop to your sides and there’s no hiding the pinch in your brow as you tilt your head with silent judgment.

Wow, talk about anticlimactic.

Clearly, at some point this guy must realize that thrashing around on dry land isn’t getting him anywhere, because after what feels like far too long (but is likely just a minute or two) the merman abruptly stills, makes a drawn out, pained noise, and promptly drops down in a tangled, outstretched mess of limbs and tail to the deck.

Is he…dead? What if you were wrong, and merfolk could die if they’re pulled out of the water? This is getting weirder and weirder; however as the seconds pass and you find yourself straining more and more to gauge if he’s still breathing, you’re growing increasingly concerned with the notion that it’s not just another gimmick.

Well you aren’t going to be responsible for this guy dying on your watch - the universe would probably curse you twice over for letting some mythical half-naked fish man croak on your ship. Spurred on by that thought you spin around, leaving the too still figure in your peripherals and you stride over to your trunk. It’s haphazard, and as you wrench it open it’s still full of junk you’ve been putting off sorting, making your job even harder as you root through it.

“Come on, come on. Don’t tell me I left the goddamn thing back home again- AHA!”

A triumphant shout, followed by the hefty slam of your toolbox. It’s an amalgamation of tools and tiny knicknacks stuffed away and half-remembered, and you shove your hand into the uncoordinated mess in a bid to feel around for the tool you know you have in there somewhere.

Immersed in fishing through your kit, you’re only half paying attention when a low, drawn out squeak makes you freeze mid-pillage. Whipping your head round, your gaze falls back to the ‘dead’ merman splayed on on your deck - he’s in the exact same position, but there’s a drag in the drying splotches of water on deck, and you could almost swear that he’s a little further away from you than he was before.

You hesitate before turning your back again, slower this time as you return to searching. This time, you’re actively listening out for any further movement; so when it happens again you’re quicker on the uptake. Still not fast enough to catch him in the act, but the marks are longer and he’s definitely further from where he had been.

Suspicions confirmed; he’s playing dead. And getting impatient too, as this time it’s barely a second after you’ve turned away that you hear that same squeaky noise. A deep exhale, calmness only betrayed by the slam of your hands rattling the toolbox as you spin back to face the mer.

“Listen, I know you’re moving!”

Silence. He’s really trying to milk the whole playing dead thing.

“I can SEE the drag marks on the deck you know!”

The ruse is up - and seems to ‘miraculously’ spring the guy back to life. With an indignant huff, the mer rolls onto his back and pushes himself up onto his shoulders to glare at you as though you’re the problem. A glare that’s looking mighty pathetic from behind the cross-knitted ropes he’s still covered in.

“You could have at least pretended to be fooled!” his expression’s wound in a scowl, one that you mirror as you throw your hands up in the air.

“Pretended?!You fu-I thought you were dead!” 

“You were supposed to! Aren’t you humans dense or what?”

“Of all of the-ugh! That’s it!” You paw at the toolkit behind you, blindly grabbing till you feel a familiar weight in your hand and take long strides towards the mer.

Immediately he bristles, that cocksure attitude replaced by a reflection of the panic that you’d no doubt expressed just minutes before. He looks ready to bolt, if that was even an option, eyes flickering between your approaching form and the small safety cutter now brandished in your hand.

“O-Oi, hang on, don’t do anything stupid-” 

“Oh hush.” you snort, amused by the notion that for a second he actually thought you posed any danger. “Relax; I’m going to cut away the net, and all that thrashing is a good way to lose a fin.” 

The mer startles as you drop to your knees before him. His tail still thrashes, but it’s significantly slower than it once was - either he’s getting tired or you’re beginning to get through to him, but you don’t want to risk getting closer in case that tail hits you. Still, he makes his protest known, and this close it’s enough to make your ears ring.

“How about letting me go! Throw me overboard and we’ll pretend this never happened!” it’s more of a demand than a request, and a stupid one at that considering his current predicament.

“And what are you gonna do about the rope? Wait for it to just miraculously disappear; or let it drag you down to the bottom?”

That shuts him up. Smug satisfaction wells in your chest watching the mers mouth fly open with another witty remark, only to snap shut because you both know that you’re right. It takes effort to hide the grin tugging at the corner of your mouth as you shuffle closer, reaching out for

“Exactly. Now can it and hold still.”

His body’s wound up, visibly tense as your hand slips through the gaps in the net to pull a portion of it away from his skin. The rope itches in your grasp, coarse and soggy from its stint underwater much like present fishy company. No wonder he was trying so hard to get out - this thing is uncomfortable so torn and tattered. 

Once it becomes apparent that you aren’t actively causing him harm, you watch the mer’s form slowly ease, the twisting of his tail settling enough that it’s finally safe to dare getting closer for a better look. Surveying the state of it, you click your tongue at the state of your fishing net. He’s done enough damage tangling himself up that the netting has folded over itself in places and knotted at awkward angles. Perhaps you could have tried to save it, but it doesn’t take a genius to piece together that it’s clearly a lost cause.

You work in silence, for the most part. For how much of a chatterbox he was before he’s eerily silent now, attentively watching over you as you work at the netting around his tail. It’s tedious, long winded and your fingers are already feeling sore by the time you’re even halfway up the bright green appendage with so much more to go, and yet you don’t stop for a second.

A section pulls too sharp when you tug, and the mer hisses at the unpleasant friction when the rope catches. It’s the only thing to break the silence and you immediately still, a quick ‘sorry’ murmured as you ease up, taking more care not to be too rough.

A mutter catches your attention. For a second you fool yourself into thinking he’s talking to himself again when you catch him blatantly staring at your face. You glance up, pausing momentarily in your cutting.

“Huh?”

“What’s your name?” a blunt question posed by the mer you’re working to free. “You’re a human; you have one of those too, right?”

You can’t tell if he’s joking or not about the name thing. But with no better way to make time go faster, you decide to indulge him.

He repeats your name under his breath a few times, as though practicing how it sounds. Apparently he must like it, as you hear him do it twice more in the few seconds it takes for you to finally cave and chime in.

“I’m guessing you have a name too.”

“Of course! It’s Joseph.”

“Joseph, huh?” That’s…not the name you were expecting from a mythical sea beast, honestly. But then again, what did you expect? Your expression must paint a picture though, as Joseph’s expression sours in the wake of your response.

“What?” 

“Nothing. Just-” you choose your next words very carefully, pausing for a second too long before settling on, “It suits you.”

Joseph halts mid rebuttal, for a moment looking truly stunned till what you say sinks in. You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone preen before, but the brunet mer looks positively chuffed, grinning like a fool at the compliment. He puffs up his chest, making a move to straighten up as if getting ready to boast about it. That idea is nipped in the bud with a firm reminder to stop squirming before he loses scales as you keep cutting away at his bindings. 

Your warnings don’t seem to curb his restlessness however, a slow, overly dramatic sigh making you regret saying anything in the first place as he huffs.

“Are you done yet?”

“Not yet. Getting there though.”

A pause.

“...How about now?”

“Still no, Joseph.”

“...Now?”

“No”

“...Now?”

“Yes.”

“Really?!”

“No.”

“Aaaah! This is taking forever!”

You can’t help it - Joseph falls for it hook, line and sinker, oblivious to your snickering in favor of flopping back onto the deck to complain more about his fate. While messing with him a little bit longer is a tempting idea, you decide for your own wellbeing to go easy on him.

“I’m kidding. Look-” A few more slices at the remains of the netting fall away between your fingers, joining the scattered pieces that once made up the merman’s confines. “Tada; you’re a free man.”

Without thinking you brush some stragglers off of his tail, the bits falling off with ease in the wake of your hand. Up close the green of his scales is somehow more stark, and though you expected them to be rough to the touch they’re instead pleasantly smooth against your open palm. Streaks of sunlight still catch on the iridescent tail, revealing faint yellow tones that pattern along the underside exposed to the sun. There’s no denying that they’re beautiful, if not unfortunately attached to such a cocky mer.

“Kinda pretty.” you muse aloud, quiet but not quiet enough.

Joseph makes a curious noise - somewhere between a whistle and a click. You’ve got no idea what it means but his smile spells bad news. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” is shot back too quickly. “I didn’t say anything.”

“No, no you definitely said something.” He’s leaning closer, any hint of the fear or distrust a far cry from the smug grin he’s sporting. “What’s pretty-?” 

You reel back in response, making a grab for the tattered net at your feet. “I’ll throw this back on you-”

Joseph makes distance between you two immediately, hands thrown up in defense. “Okay, okay! Yeesh, are all humans this testy?” 

“That’s a funny way to say thanks for cutting me free, but you’re welcome.”

Satisfied that he’s not going to make another move, you push yourself upright. Your knees groan in protest, stiff from how long they’ve spent shoved against the deck for far too long. Joseph looks himself over, patting himself down as if to ensure that he’s not short of any of his extremities and letting out a sigh of relief to find out that, true to your word, you’ve left him in one piece.

Right on time too, it seems. He’s beginning to dry out in the sun now, no longer the wet mop of a mer you’d initially dragged up. Joseph’s hair is starting to curl a little at the ends, and the sheen on his skin has dried in favor of a pinkish hue in light of the sun. 

“Probably a good idea to get you back in the water.” you suggest, taking a step back and nodding your head towards the stern of the ship behind him. “You’re free to go; I gotta head back. Need to let the stalls know I’m empty handed this time.”

Joseph looks genuinely confused at that last remark, cocking his head. “Why’d you need to do that?”

“Well taking into consideration that my net is a loss, and the fish I did catch have been eaten.” The pointed glare in his direction is met with a sheepish hunch and glance away (because, honestly, how was he doing to explain the fish bits you’d hauled him up with?). Sighing, you shake your head, turning your gaze back out to sea in the direction of shore.

“I’m out of options. They won’t be mad, but I hate letting ‘em down when they’re expecting-”

“I can help.”

That…wasn’t what you expected. In fact, the offer genuinely takes you off guard.

“Joseph, I can’t take back the half-eaten ones.”

Joseph looks genuinely offended that you think that’s what he’s propositioning. “Not those, duh.” he snaps, broad hands gesturing to himself as though the answer is staring you in the face. “Merman, remember?”

In response you arch a brow, hands falling to your hips as you stare back at him. “You? Really? You’re going to catch me fish?”

“What do you mean, fish love me!” somehow you don’t entirely believe that, but Joseph isn’t deterred in the slightest.

“Give me some time - I’ll get you enough fish it’ll knock you off of those weird legs of yours!”

For the first time you look at him, really look at him. At that haughty overconfident smile and those bright blue eyes glinting as though he knows something you don’t. And you’re sure he does - you’ve just met the mer, afterall. But something pulls at you, a feeling that whispers that he means it - that you can trust him.

“Okay, fine.”

That smile breaks into a full on grin, the light in his eyes crinkling at the corners when you squat back down and offer a hand. “I can stay a couple more hours, but you’ve got yourself a deal, Joseph.”

“Great!” His hand clamps around yours, careful not to catch you on the sharp cut of his nails as he uses the momentum to prop himself up. 

“Now help me get off of this thing. I don’t have all day!.”

The sun hangs high overhead as you make your way down to the docks, humming along to a nonexistent tune as you swing the loop of your keys around a finger. The warmth beats at the back of your neck, the heat offset only by the pleasant breeze that’s becoming more prevalent the closer you get to your destination.

It’s the same day every week, a practiced routine that you fall into easily. Your pack hangs heavy with the spoils of the day, picked up from home and the many storefronts that line your commute. It bounces at your hip in the wake of your brisk pace as the waters edge comes into view, and you bring your hand to brace beneath it as your steps break into a jog to close the remaining distance.

The sweet nonna’s who take their lunch at the waterfront cafe catch you as you go, giving their usual fearful warnings between bites of tramezzini and washed down with sips of coffee. They’re fretting over your safety with such fond concern that of course you have to stop by to assuage their fears. 

“Be careful piccola,” they fret in unison, voices dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as if afraid of being heard over the lapping tide. “You know the Scolio’s boat capsized just last week! Who knows what could be in those waters.”

And just like always you’d flashed that same placating smile, patting away sweet Ms. Abbatini’s hand who, despite all delicate appearances, has your arm in a vice that takes genuine effort to slip free of. “I’ll be fine nonnina;I always am.” you assure them with a confident chuckle as you disappeared down the walkway, waving and calling back, “The sea is on my side today!”

Their doubtful expressions are understandable. After all, tourists and locals alike knew better than to brave the deep waters alone. And yet you stride down to the ramp to where your beloved boat stagnates with all the confidence of one who knows better than both, allowing your pack to flop onto the deck with a hefty thud as you start up the engine and direct it seaward.

The ocean air whips at your face; the scent of saltwater straight from the open sea forms a pungent tang that welcomes you like an old friend. It perks up your senses, nipping away at whatever tiredness still clings to your bones, and you already feel lighter than you did back on land. 

It isn’t until the shoreline is an amalgamation of rooftops and silhouettes that you cut the motor and drop the anchor, taking a moment to survey the land you’d come from. 

The ocean stretches wide and vast as far as the eye can see, the light catching shades of teal and marine in a kaleidoscope of blues and greens that almost glow beneath the reflection of the sun overhead.

Nothing disturbs its surface, and gives no indication of what could hide underneath but that’s fine; that only means that you still have some time to kill. Hoisting the rucksack into your arms you amble towards the stern of your ship. There’s a small setup - a pop up tray table and a single lounge chair facing out to the ocean which you’re quick to make use of. Sliding the bag onto the table, you’re careful to ensure that it doesn’t sag off of the edge with its weight. If it was any cooler you’d take the time to spread out the contents, but reason that it’s probably better to keep them out of the sun; instead you opt to drop down into the chair, stretching out until you’re a content gangle of limbs, soaking up the warmth of the sun as you wait. 

And wait.

…And wait.

……And still wait.

…Huh.

Time drags by; the warmth upon your skin is beginning to morph into an uncomfortable tingle. You squint up at the sun through your fingers, wiping the sweat from your brow with a sigh. With any luck, you’ve got two, three hours before the heat grows too much to stay out on the open water, and there’s still no sign of him. 

You regret not bringing a parasol, and though the thought or turning back to go grab it is tempting you think better of it. Chances are you’ll get an earful from the marina guards for the repeated trips - you’re already on their shitlist for making these rides out to sea unattended, like you haven’t defied their warnings since the moment you first inherited your precious ship.

Rumors run rampant through the town, and have for the better part of a couple of decades at least. From tales of poachers to sea monsters, there’s been enough speculation as to what lurks beyond the shore to generate superstition and caution. There’s designated spots that the local fishermen avoid like the plague, no matter how good the pickings are; places on the water that not even the most daring tour guide could be paid to risk. 

While there aren’t any signs or official laws, the word of mouth is enough to spread the unspoken rule that permeates your beloved home. Respect the ocean’s rules if you value your vessel.

Not that you need to worry about that. At least, not anymore.

As if on cue the sound of dull scraping comes from underfoot, snapping your attention downwards. You can’t see a thing, but your ears prick up as your eyes tail its imagined path below deck. Wait, no, it’s not just scraping - knocking. Three quick raps against the vessel, followed by the drag of a fine sharp edge catching along the underside from bow to stern.

You know that sound.

Springing from your seat, you make a dash to the portside but you’re not fast enough. You barely catch a flash orange in the water before it vanishes below the underside of the boat so fast you could almost believe you imagined it, if you didn’t already know better.

You shoot across to the other side, grappling for the railing to keep yourself from going overboard in your haste. What greets you this time is more than a splash of color. A pair of deep green eyes stare back from the depths, slitted pupils trained on your face as though they’d been expecting you. There’s an intelligence behind them that makes you bristle, for a moment stunned silent as your gaze pieces together what few features you can make out distorted by the ripples in the water.

Then the tension drops from your shoulders. You huff, “About time. I was thinking you weren’t going to show, Formaggio.”

A face breaches the surface tension, flashing you a smile that’s biting sharp with too many teeth.

“Aw come on, you’re missing me already, amica? Sounds like you need new hobbies.”

You don’t take the bait, moving away from the edge and giving him a wide berth of space. “Get up here - the food’ll spoil in the heat if you don’t.”

“Hello to you too.” Formaggio scoffs, rolling his eyes. Still he follows your lead, muscled arms speckled with bronze and silver slinking out of the sea to grapple for the railing, pulling himself up.

The boat lurches, dipping under his weight as Formaggio hoists his bulky frame on board. He brings half of the sea with him too as saltwater rushes in alongside him, sloshing around up to your ankles as his torso crosses the threshold of the vessel.

His tail kicks up a spray of seawater to propel him over, the appendage brightening from a muted ash to a vibrant orange the further down you look, all blotted with the same dark spots splattered on his back. The caudal fin still hangs over the edge, because of course he can’t be bothered to set himself upright when lounging across the entire width of your deck and getting under your feet is an option.

Still you maneuver deftly over the bulk of his tail back to your lounge chair, slumping into the worn wood waiting for Formaggio to finally settle enough that you don’t risk stepping on his fins. Only once the shifting stops and those eyes are back on you, expecting again, do you play your next hand, gesturing over to the tray table that’s miraculously stayed upright during all of his squirming. 

“Picked up some more of those sandwiches from Camberts’,” you note, tone light. “I figured you like them, since you ate yours and mine last time. So have at it.”

The jab is met merely with a shrug, waved off with a hand as Formaggio’s attention strays away from you and over to the rickety little table. “Not my fault you were too slow. You’ve got to be faster than that to catch anything good.”

Sea water runs in rivulets down his face and shoulders, a steady stream of droplets soaking into your pack as he crowds around it that will no doubt take hours to dry later, even with the heat. You hadn’t bothered to bring an icebox for the cooler foods, not that you’d need it. Formaggio’s appetite’s voracious; whether that was just a mer thing or a Formaggio thing you had no clue.

He tears into the packed lunches with little regard for the integrity of your rucksack; good thing it was heavy duty, or you fear Formaggio’s clawed fingers would pull it to ribbons. Clearly conversation isn’t the highlight of today’s ‘visit’, so your gaze begins to drift, landing on the strip of his neck as he cranes his head this way and that. 

His gills look as though they’ve been carved with a fine knife, blending so seamlessly into his tawny skin that you only catch them flutter as he breathes in the contents of his latest gift. A flash of white and your eyes dart up just in time to see the curl of his lips, revealing those rows of sharp teeth that you find yourself staring at longer than you should with the realization of exactly what you’re now sharing a boat with.

How did you even get into this? This entire arrangement was bizarre. 

You’d mistaken him for some weird fish the first time you’d run afoul of the mer several months back - he sort of reminded you of the leopard sharks you’d seen in old science books, if it wasn’t for the odd coloration and imposing size.

Formaggio, apparently, had been planning to sink your ‘little toothpick of a boat’ when you’d first met (a title that had earned him a kick to the flank when he’d casually thrown it in mid-conversation the month after because goddammit that’s your toothpick). That was until his interest had been piqued by the charcuterie board left unattended when you’d moved over to the bow of the boat for a drink. 

Of course you’d nearly had a heart attack when you’d turned back to find the monster of a mer picking at what was left of your lunch, but aside from the bottle dropped in your shock that had taken days to scrub fully from the deck, Formaggio had caused no further damage. In fact, he actually stuck around.

Lucky for you (or not), apparently he’s developed a taste for human food. God knows how you convinced him to take that over tanking your boat for the hell of it, but now you’re dragged into giving him impromptu ‘offerings’ roughly once a week. 

He says it’s protection pay. You call it an unexpected jump in your grocery bill.

You wonder if Formaggio does the same to the rest of his pod to keep them off of your back. There’s at least several more of them that you know of from what he tells you, and how he convinced them to let you stay is anyone’s guess. You find yourself mulling it over, long enough that your mouth is moving before your brain’s caught up. 

“Hey, ‘Maggio?” There’s a noise of acknowledgment heard vaguely around a mouthful of food - you take that as a sign to continue.

“How do you know one of your podmates isn't going to mistake me for some fishing boat and capsize this thing? You’re not here all the time, and I can’t always work around you, you know?” The thought crossed your mind before, despite assurances,  and you really want to know for sure that the next time you take to the waters for non-mer related reasons that you won’t be reduced to splinters.

Formaggio shrugs, not bothering to look up from the basket. “Capo has a system. What ships can pass through, which ones that can’t, and tagging the ones worth hitting.” Somehow you suspect that there’s more to it than that, but if there is, Formaggio makes no effort to elaborate. 

He pauses to pop a grape between sharp teeth, chewing thoughtfully before adding, as if as an afterthought, “Besides, they know which mark to look for.”

That gets your attention; you straighten up in your seat. “Mark? What mark?” you prod for more, and now it’s Formaggio’s turn to look confused, tilting his head.

“How else did you think you were staying protected without me?”

As if to set an example, Formaggio drags his knuckles against the railing, that same knock-scrape motion you’ve heard him make when he boards your ship. His nails catch on the surface, and even a light graze is enough to leave the beginnings of a faint gouge. The lightbulb goes off and your expression twists, mouth dropping agape as you scramble for portside. 

He didn’t. He wouldn’t-

“That’s what you’ve been doing to my boat?!”

Of course you can’t make out anything below the waves no matter how far you stretch. Only the sloshing saltwater, lapping languidly at the sides and distorting the view of the boat, are all you can make out; but that doesn’t make you any less indignant about the fact that he marked up your beloved vessel.

Formaggio tuts as though the answer had been obvious, smacking a webbed hand to the deck. “Relax, amica; it’s not like it’ll sink your stuzzicadenti. Solid stuff, for a human ship.”

“I can’t believe you-!”

Running a hand down your face, it takes a deep breath and a whole lot of patience you don’t have to not cuss him out. Your groan through gritted teeth doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest; in fact, the lull in conversation means that he can focus on what he deems far more important.

Formaggio turns his attention back to what’s left in the basket, picking apart a cold cut with his claws and tilting his head back to drop the shreds into his open maw while you stifle the urge to toss him overboard. 

Would it do anything but piss him off? No. Would it still make you feel better? Definitely.

Gradually, the panic along with the frustration subsides, and you return to sinking into your chair.

“I…guess I can live with that.” albeit reluctantly. “So long as they’re okay with that too.”

Silence, which around Formaggio typically doesn’t exist. “...They are still okay with that, right?”

Formaggio doesn't answer, too invested in picking some leftover bits from his teeth with one of his nails. Your frown deepens, and you hunch over in your seat, hands clasped.

“Mag-”

“Relax, relax!” your concern is waved off again, his response too quick. “I vouched for you, right? We’re good.”

Good god. Your blood pressure is going to get you before anything else if he keeps this up.

“I mean…” Formaggio trails off, choosing his next words carefully. “Ris has been getting tense recently. Something’s brewing south that he says is too close for comfort.”

That…doesn’t sound good. At all. What the hell is he talking about? The expression on your face must give away the apprehension stewing, as just like that he’s twisting to face you fully, tail slapping up another spritz of water across your legs that you don’t so much as flinch at. He’s grinning again, but it’s obvious from the twitching in his tail that he’s just trying to play off the serious territory your conversation had been about to stray into.

“Nothing for you to worry about, yeah? We’ll handle it!”

Aaaand just like that the stress is back again.

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

Your knowledge is limited, from bits and pieces that the mer has let slip around you. (you guess you’re a confidante now???) Apparently there was some sort of territory dispute going on between all of the pods that called this minute corner of the world their home. Formaggio’s group's last bid to expand had gotten two of their podmates gravely wounded - alive, but barely just - and the rest of the team had been forced to drop back to recuperate the loss. 

Who or what could have done that? Formaggio’s nothing to scoff at, dwarfing even the tallest human you know. So the thought of something being able to leave two as big as him on death’s door sends a burning chill straight through you.

“Tch-”

You blink, centering your focus back to Formaggio who wags a finger at you with all the exasperation of chiding a child.

“There it is. I told you not to worry.”

Indignant, you glower at him, “I’m not worrying.”

“Tell that to your eyebrows.”

On instinct you clap a hand across your forehead, but you’ve already lost. Shit, you really don’t like admitting that he’s right - he’ll hold it over you for weeks.

Formaggio laughs at his own teasing, shaking his head with a fond exhale. “So easy to rile up. You know, you could give Ghia some stiff competition. Sure he’d freeze your ass off, but hey, you’d probably make the others’ day!”

The mention of his podmate provides a momentary reprieve from his poking fun; you’re quick to jump on it.

“Could I?” you cut in, voice firm.  “Meet the others, I mean.”

The shift in conversation is abrupt - it’s the first time you’ve been bold enough to ask him outright. Formaggio hums, expression suddenly pensive. He folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the railing, eyes trained skyward eyeing what few clouds crawl across the vast expanse overhead. And for a time all you can hear is your own pulse, and the gurgling of the waves undulating softly; you can’t bring yourself to cut in - to take your request back, or crack a joke, or even breathe too loudly. You merely watch the shark mer with a dawning realization.

Holy shit, he’s actually considering it. 

And giving it some serious thought, too, with the way his brows knit together as he strokes along the cut of his jaw.

When Formaggio finally, finally answers, you release a breath you didn’t even realize you’d been holding.

“I suppose I could convince Illuso to come if he’s in a good mood. Stroke his ego, though. It’ll be better for you if you get on his good side; he’s not as good with people as yours truly.” 

Yeesh, if he’s the social one what are your chances here? You don’t voice that aloud though, settling for just nodding along. He continues, “Play it like you mean it and you’ll be fine. Now, Melone…” Formaggio halts and makes a face, nose scrunching up in discomfort. “He’s got a…thing about humans.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah it’s a whole thing - merda, especially with the legs-”

“Don’t.” you stop him there, wishing that you could go back five seconds to save yourself from the mental image that conjures. “On second thought I don’t want to know.”

Formaggio nods sagely - understanding your pain all too well. “Smart choice.”

There’s another lull, and this time you’re the one to start pitching candidates - racking your brain for names.

“What about Ghiaccio? Or Prosciutto?” 

Formaggio bellows a laugh at that, loud enough that you jump in your seat staring wide-eyed watching him throw his head back. Another blink and his face is deadpan, making a slicing gesture across his throat with the flat of his hand. 

“Yeah, no chance. He’s foul enough with the heat, never mind throwing a human at him. I was serious about him freezing your ass off, and I’m guessing you can’t grow any of those back." He gives a vague motion towards your limbs and despite the scorching heat the mere mention of it makes you shudder.

Well, that’s a firm no if you’ve ever heard it. Safe to say meeting Ghiaccio just tanked on your list of priorities.

“Prosciutto? Maybe, but then you’d have to deal with Pesci too. That guy follows him around like a suckerfish, and he can be a real pain. You’d probably scare the shit out of him, honestly. Ris could probably-ah, no. On second thought he might scare you off - size and all.”

Alright, that’s it. “Size?!” you balk, “Jesus christ, ‘Maggio. Is there anyone you know who isn’t a behemoth?”

Or isn’t questionably freaky, for that matter. That question you keep to yourself.

He snorts, hands shooting up in mock surrender. “Hey, you asked. Consider it a friendly warning - in case you’re serious.”

If his goal was to thoroughly disabuse you of the idea of meeting any other mer for the sake of self preservation then he’s knocked it out of the park. You slump back with a long exhale, as though pushing every ounce of air from your lungs will somehow undo the mental anguish that Formaggio has an uncanny knack for inflicting on you. When it doesn’t, you settle for basking in the sunlight, limbs splayed out to take full advantage of the heat you’ll no doubt be regretting later.

Too bad you neglected to account for the present company.

“Well, since you brought it up, when are you going to introduce me to your pod?”

…Huh?

You crack an eye open to squint at him, head cocked, “I…don’t have one?”

Looks like that was the wrong answer, from the look the merman gives you. “Sure you do. There’s plenty of you humans down by the water every day; why not put in a good word for me?”

“That’s not the same, ‘Maggio, - they’re…” Damn, how do you go about explaining this in a way that isn’t going to end up confusing the both of you?

Formaggio takes that as his cue. The deck squeaks as he shifts around with a deceptive speed, using the guard rails to pull himself closer to you. He’s already taking up most of the stern’s space on your dinky little boat, but once you’re face to face your entire field of view is full of nothing but orange and silver and bronze and that lazy shit-eating grin.

“You wanted to see mine, and I want to see yours. A fair trade, right?”

Okay, now he’s back to just messing with you. He’s got no intentions of going shoreside, but pulling your leg about it to see you sweat? That’s got Formaggio all over it.

Well two can play at that game. 

“You know what? You’re right - I think you’d be a real celebrity to people back on land.”

Formaggio looks pleasantly surprised, moreso that you agreed with him, and his expression blanks for a beat gauging if he heard you right. A hand braces against your knee to keep himself upright, making your chair groan under the added weight as he leans in. Though the sun has done plenty to soak up the excess moisture the webs between his fingers are still damp and tepid to the touch. 

You try not to think too hard about how weird the membrane against the skin of your leg feels, and especially don’t think about how the cool scales in contrast to your own overheating flesh is actually kind of nice. You focus instead on meeting Formaggio’s eyes as he quirks an angled brow, his grin splitting at his cheeks.

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. “Mhm - got a couple of guards down by the docks who would just love an introduction.”

The excitement drops from his face as fast as the glee rises to yours, his smile flattening to a frown. Green eyes narrow into slits - clearly he didn’t find it as funny to have the tables turned back on him.

“You’re no fun.”

“What? I could put in a good word for you!” you cast your reach wide, arms outstretched with a mock gasp. “Oh, I get it - if the nonnas are more your taste I can always ask Ms. Abbatini what her thoughts are on fish-”

“You little shi-”

That does it. In a second you’ve got a sneering muscled mer tussling with you, clawed hands pinching your cheeks and rattling the arm rests. There’s no actual intent to harm you - you’d be dead three times over if you didn’t know for a fact that Formaggio got a kick out of the back and forth banter. 

The extent of his malice is limited to swiping your chair in the hopes of knocking you flat on your ass. In retaliation you brace both feet against the nearest solid surface, refusing to budge and overconfident that your leg up on the shark is more than enough to keep steady.

That is until you feel a sharp tilt - and it’s not the chair. You hadn’t even noticed that Formaggio had shifted his weight to the one side of the deck in the midst of your play fighting. Surely that wasn’t on purpose-

But his broad grin says otherwise. Oh, you’re going to kill him-

“FORMAGGIO, THE BOAT-”

It’s too late. Formaggio’s triumphant cackles drown out your shrieks of “cheater!” as a torrent of sea water gushes on board, drowning every dry inch of flooring and dragging out everything not nailed down as its spoils, your poor chair and you included.