Wilford suppressed a laugh. “Why? Is this about the doctor? It is, isn't it?”

“No,” Eddy yanked him along as they walked, “It's about you. About that siren. It doesn't exist, so the body will be down there.”

“It's real,” Wilford blabbed. Shit.

Edgar only rolled his tired looking eyes, but he let go of his arm at least. Wilford still followed as he walked, and they reached the cliffs. The bar, at least, wasn't that far of a walk from the cliffs. They peered over the edge, purposely ignoring the ship in the cliffs and choosing instead to gawk at the ruddy red rocks resting below. If Wilford hadn't seen Host fall and fall the night before, bones snapping like twigs, he would've thought it was rust of some sort. But knowing that was dried, sun baked blood, made it so much worse.

Edgar stared down emptily at it before quickly beginning to climb down the cliffs. Wilford almost brought up the ship, but really, Edgar would probably rather slice his hands open on the jagged cliffs than go through the open husk of the ship. Cowardly, that man. When they first met, it was at the bar, of course, before Wilford joined the army. They drank and talked all that night, seemingly the only two people left awake in the ocean town. He talked about how the prohibition was hurting his business, but how it would get better. “Besides,” he had said, “the cops- they don’t seem to give a good goddamn about little ol’ me.”

Nobody seemed to give a good goddamn about him, the scraggly bartender that couldn’t keep himself well kept, let alone keep himself together after his wife and child died. He was just the bartender, wasn’t he? The gun felt like it was digging into Wilford’s pocket as he climbed down. How easy would it be to shoot him, say it was an accident? Or knock him down onto the same rocks Host died on?

Since when, since when was it Wilford’s decision whether or not people died? Since when was he the great decision maker, bludgeoning Bim to death with the rock, letting Host fall, even all the way back to killing Mark. But those were all accidents! (Ignoring Bim, of course, but he had to do that for Dark. For Dark.)

He made up his mind then and there, looking down at Edgar and the beach, light, frothy waves smoothing everything. Once on the beach, he would kill him. Feed him to Dark. Leave him on the beach to rot. Whatever he did, he couldn’t let him live. For Dark.

—-

The beach was beautiful as ever, the sand smooth and warm in the morning sun. The sea lapped at the beach in an endless rhythm, and Wilford was tempted to take off his shirt since the day was so hot. He would’ve, but remembering the little bites and scratches Dark had covered him with, decided against it. It wouldn’t matter in a minute, especially after the first shot is fired… What would become of the old bar after he died, Wilford wondered? Would it go up for auction just like Mark’s mansion, or would it be left to rot, old, old wood collapsing in on itself now that it wasn’t being cared for. Wilford chuckled- the bar was so much like the man who ran it.

“Wilford. Wilford!” Edgar snapped his fingers at him, Wilford jolting out of his thoughts. “He landed around here, didn’t he?”

Wilford nodded, setting his hand on the pocket with the gun in it. He turned away from Edgar, pretending to scavenge the rocks for Host’s body. Wilford took a look out at the beach, from the rocks clustered close to the cliffs that gradually shifted into the sand of the beach, then the ocean itself. Maybe Dark was watching him now, watching his fingers twitch as they craved for the jolt of a gun going off in them. Don’t worry, he wanted to tell Dark, it’ll all be over soon. Then I’ll go to you.

He turned around, feeling his heart race and his hands start shaking. Edgar was up to his knees in the ocean water, probably trying to see if Host’s body had gone out to sea. The wrecked ship loomed in the distance, down the cliff side but still standing proud despite its dilapidation. Wilford walked closer to Edgar, trying to keep his steps light in the roar of the sea. He could feel the blood pounding through his veins, every little nerve in his body alight with nervous energy and excitement, the same feelings that sent him down the cliffs to Dark, that let him kill Bim, that helped him drag Host to the maw of the ocean.

Eddy turned to face him, not doing much, just looking at him. Then, he spoke.

“You should warm people, if there’s actually a siren. I could get some people together, we could hunt it down.” He was laughing, knee deep in the ocean. “Instead of a drawing of a siren, we could have the whole damn thing. We could- hahah, we could stuff it!”

The image of Dark, still and lifeless, flashed behind his eyes. He drew his gun, holding it in one shaking hand, aiming for Eddy’s head. Messy hair. The man turned around, but Wilford couldn’t bring himself to fire. Eddy stood. Still. Shaking hands. His heart was racing in his chest as Eddy put up his hands in surrender, not saying a word. Wilford looked into the distance of the ocean, a small smile gracing his face as he loaded the gun, still squarely pointed at Eddy’s head.

“Wilford,” Eddy quietly begged, “put down the gun.”

The smile returned to Wilford’s face.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”

Edgar took a step forward. Wilford let him. The waves were pushing and pulling at them, roars sounding like the ambient sound of the war, back in the trench, back in the sea.

Eddy spoke quietly. “We won’t be finding Host’s body any time soon, will we?”

“Nope.”

Another step forward. Hands still high in the air. He looked even more pathetic like this, soaked and dirty and fearful. Another step. What was the point? Shoot the bastard. Shoot him. Shoot.

“You killed him!”

“No, I didn’t. It was an accident.”

“Then where the fuck is his body?!?”

Wilford went silent, afraid to say any more. Realization hit Edgar like a train.

“The siren…”

“Is real? I’ve told you time and time again and only now do you believe me? God, Eddy! How dense are you? Look out there! At the ocean! Nobody has ever seen the whole of it so of course there could be a siren in those waters! And there is one!”

“Host was your friend! And you let that siren get him?”

Eddy took another step forward. So close that Wilford could smell alcohol on his uneven breaths. Was he drunk? Did he know what was going on? Wilford silently hoped he was drunk, that he thought all of this was a bad dream. Eddy’s hands looked like they were shaking. Wilford’s finger twitched at the trigger. Gazed out to the sea again, almost expecting to see Dark perched elegantly on a rock, smiling with his beautiful fangs, and it almost looked like he had the mouth of the tiger. It almost looked like his fangs were like white crystals in a geode. It was Bim, Host, and Mark, all in one smile, all of them trapped behind pretty teeth-

The gun wasn’t in his hands anymore. Wilford reeled back as he stared in front of him, gun now in Edgar’s hands. Held steady. His hair was a mess. Had he ever shot anyone before? No, he wouldn’t shoot him.

“Edgar, we can be… friendly about this. We’re friends, right?”

“You were going to shoot me! You tried to kill me!”

Wilford grinned wildly, hysteric.

“I never actively tried to, it’s all a misunderstanding- if you could give me the gun-“

He lunged at Edgar, who yelped and fell back, both of them now in the warm water. Wilford struggled to find the gun, which was still firmly in Edgar’s hand even as he thrashed and screamed, using up the precious oxygen in his lungs. Metal. Something metal. He grabbed something metal. The gun! He had it! Knees digging into Edgar’s chest, he glared down at him, knowing he looked soaked and psychotic. Trigger, where’s the trigger, where’s the gun even pointed to? Still struggling underneath him, Edgar moved his hand to the trigger. Wilford didn’t have time to stop him-

The gun went off with a bang. The water was running red. Whose blood was it? Edgar was shifting, standing quickly- oh. Oh. Oh no.

Wilford had been shot before, he took a bullet to the leg in the war. This was worse, this was different, the bullet firmly lodged in his chest. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get his head above the water again. Edgar stared down at him, face obscured through the water. Wilford clutched at his chest, the pain so intense from the blood and the shot and the salt. Lungs burning. Everything burning. He heard a splash as Edgar dropped the gun, still looking horrified. The man pulled Wilford back bit by bit, until Wilford was heaving air and screaming, clawing at the wound. The bartender tried to put pressure on it, accidentally squeezing the wound and making it bleed worse. Idiot. Idiot! What’re you doing!

“I’m going to go get Edward,” Edgar sounded panicked, “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

I thought you cared about me, you bastard! Wilford wanted to yell, I thought you said you loved me! Stay! Save me, goddamnit!

But it was too late for that, wasn’t it..? Blood was pouring from the wound. Thick, hot blood that smelled like iron and ocean water, and he was absolutely soaked, his bag and the drawings inside it ruined. At least there was one in the bar. Hah. Edgar ran through the sand, and Wilford tried to crawl to him, being immediately blinded by pain. Blood wouldn’t stop soaking his shirt- he was losing a lot of it and it wouldn’t stop coming from the wound. Everything was dark and fuzzy as he saw a shadow streak through the water… his head rested on the sand. Light. The sun. Then, someone was on top of him. Face soft. Beautiful. Scared. No more sun. The person was casting a shadow. Dark. Dark. Dark.

“You need to go,” Wilford choked out, the pain nearly blinding to him, “He’ll come back, he’ll see you…”

When he woke up, the sun was high in the sky, and his face felt like death itself. Brushing sand from his hair, he struggled with sitting up, face still stinging and probably very, very red. His sketchbook was right by him, shut and weighted down by a rock, his bag right nearby.

“Dark?” Wilford's voice was hoarse and painful as he looked for the siren. Dark wasn't there, and Wilford felt his heart drop, especially when he realized who it was.

“What in the hell are you doing down here, Willy? I was worried sick!” Edgar cried, hat in his hand, “I saw the blood on the sand and I saw you on the sand and I- I thought-”

His southern accent was thicker than usual, words tumbling from his mouth rapidly. Wilford set a hand on his shoulder, looking in his friend’s eyes. They were filled with fear, concern, and some third thing that Wilford couldn't really place. Steady now, he reached for his sketchbook, moving the rock that Dark had placed on top of it, flipping through the pages until he came across the drawing of Dark. Exquisite. Marvelous, a work of art-

“Wilford. Wilford!” Ed shook him, Wilford's eyes snapping back onto him. “Are you hurt? Should I go get Edward? What were you doing down here?!?”

Edgar looked at the sketchbook, snatching it out of Wilford's hands.

“I can't believe you. All of this for another drawing-”

“It's not just for the drawings,” Wilford muttered, taking it back from him, protectively clutching to his sketchbook. Edgar tried to take it back, but Wilford flinched away.

“I’m fine, Eddy. You don't have to watch out for me.”

Ed looked tired. He ran a hand through his hair, still a greasy mess, and dropped his hat on the sand. Wilford watched him take in a deep breath, fiddling with the wedding ring on his hand.

“Will,” Edgar's voice sounded weighted and heavy, “I… I've lost a lot of people. I know you don't think that it means much, that I should forget Maria, forget Bryan, but, it's hard. It really is. You should know, you've lost people too- don't look at me like that. I can tell just by looking at you. We’re in the same boat, paddling along and- one second.” Edgar wiped his eyes, Wilford still staring at him. He tightened his grip on the sketchbook, just in case.

Edgar breathed in. It sounded painful. His accent was thicker, like it was brittle and ready to break.

“I don't want to lose you too. I don't want to wake up and not have you to look forward to, even if you can be a bit… crass. I don't want to have to look at that drawing and know you died just for a silly myth, or that you were killed by some beast and I couldn't stop it! I care about you and I don't want you to throw your life away for this! It's not worth it! I- is it money you need? We can work at the bar and- I can help, just…”

Wilford blinked, stunned, staring at Edgar, who was openly crying. It was the first time he had ever seen the man cry.

“Eddy, I’m going to be fine-”

“I love you. I- I’m in love with you. There. I said it. Take it or leave it.”

His accent made the words sound strange, almost foreign. Wilford held onto the sketchbook, bending the paper. Edgar's face was wet like the sandy beach. Wilford stared at him. He didn't know what to say- they were friends, sure, but he never thought Edgar felt anything like that. Wilford thought of the siren, his long hair and glinting fangs, red-blue tail somehow looking black in the moonlight, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Edgar took a deep breath. Wilford mimicked it. Words weren't coming, the two of them together on the beach, watching the sun hit the waves and dance on it like lovers in a ballroom, sunbeams and water instead of dresses and suits. It was quiet, an awful silence that was begging to be filled. In all honesty, Wilford wished to be under the sea again in Dark’s arms, even if that meant being swept away by the riptide.

The sun was too bright and garish, reflecting off of the waves like a mirror. It got in his eyes and stung like a bee, like the honeybees that buzzed the flowers in the spring. When summer left, then fall, then winter, the spring would bring wildflowers growing in clusters in any grassy area, reaching up to the sun with their delicate petals and leaves, swaying in the whispers of wind that tickled the grass. Edgar loved the little flowers. The sun that came with the summer and the spring, the warmth.

“You're a dear friend, Edgar.”

Eddy looked at him, face still wet and red. He wiped it with his sleeve, quickly nodding and saying some things under his breath. The sunlight danced on the ocean. Wilford's hands twitched for not his gun, but a glass with an ice cold drink in it. Sloshing whiskey and a loud bar with cracked windows letting in the heavenly light of the sun as clouds trailed on by, sharing a drink with a friend. Just a friend. Wilford opened the sketchbook and turned to the drawing, nudging Edgar.

“See? I drew him again. It took all night, but isn't it wonderful?”

Edgar nodded, barely looking at the drawing.

“You should go to sleep, Willy.”

“I've been napping in the sun for hours, can't you tell?”

Wilford gestured to his red, sunburnt face, which still stung painfully. Ed reached out and gently touched it, Wilford recoiling. Neither of them were sure if it was just from pain. Ed set his hands back in his lap, Wilford moving a little closer to show the drawing, train of thought going back to Dark, the riptide, and all the new drawings that laid ahead. He tried to ignore how Edgar was staring emptily at the wrecked ship, and delicately traced his fingers over the drawing. A body had drawn Dark to him the first time, it would work again. It had to.

Wilford hadn't noticed Dark flop over, but when he looked up from his drawing, the siren was slumped in the sand. Panicking, he dropped his sketchbook and rushed to him, fearing the worst until his tail twitched. Wilford picked the sketchbook up from the sand, backing away, expecting the old urges of the war and the hunt to come back to him, for having to convince himself that he shouldn't kill Dark, that killing people in their sleep was cowardly, but nothing came. Just the sound of breathing and waves. Peace, finally.

He stared at the sirens, the black scales that glimmered- not like an oil spill, but like fine purple obsidian- a beautiful sight. Curiously, he reached out and touched the cool scales, shocked at how dry they were. That wasn't good, was it? Dark was half human, and the drawing was almost finished, so maybe he would be fine, maybe he could just let him sleep.

But the idea of having to pose a corpse to draw instead of the living, breathing siren sent bolts of fear through him, and Wilford found himself dropping his bag and sketchbook on the beach, grabbing the sleeping siren by the shoulders, pulling him out to sea. The waves soaked his shoes and pants as he walked out, and it was cold and smelled like salt, like blood. Soon, he was waist deep in the water, shivering with the cold. He let go of Dark, watching the siren float on its back, the tide greedily pulling it away.

And soon, the tide was pulling Wilford away too. The waist high water was yanking at him as he struggled against the current. In the back of his mind, he realized it was a riptide, but survival was his first priority. The beach was rapidly moving away as he swam against the riptide, forcing himself not to panic, to keep his head above the frigid water. He imagined himself in the place of the sailor he had killed- (what was his name, Bim?) slowly sinking to the bottom of the sea, or just lifelessly bobbing, moved only by the waves and the wind.

He kept on swimming, struggling for any breaths he could get in as the waves hungrily lapped at him, pulling him, wrapping cold hands over him and yanking him into the sea- Wait. That wasn't the ocean. Those were hands, actual hands on his thigh, pulling him down. Wilford looked down, going still with shock when he saw Dark, face blank and unreadable.

Then he was fully under the water. Panic surged through him and Wilford fought against the monster, clawing and struggling against its strong arms as it swam and swam, dragging Wilford along as he struggled. The sirens claws dug into his skin, Wilford howling in pain as the last of his oxygen disappeared in bubbles.

“Stop struggling,” the siren spoke, words clear as the water, “I'm trying to save you!”

Save him? The words were meaningless. The world was turning black and dull, slipping, slipping, slipping away-

And he was back in the jungle, rifle in hand. It sounded the world was humming, bugs and wind and rain. Mark was right behind him, steps too loud for hunting, but Will could manage. The jungle was humid and hot, sweat pouring down his skin. He was wearing his old military uniform, since god, did he look good in it, the fabric clinging to his sweat soaked skin.

“Will. Will! Can we go back to the camp now?” Mark whined. William turned around, raising an eyebrow at his hunting companion. They hadn't even gotten anything for the entirety of their trip, due to Mark being so goddamn unhelpful. Drunk or useless, good old Markie. Things had changed since the war, for some reason, Mark had gotten closed off and quiet (but only when sober, which was rare nowadays. Even now, Will could see Mark reach for the flask in his jacket. No wonder his wife left him.) Suddenly, a flash of orange. A tiger, a majestic, beautiful thing.

“Mark. Mark!” Will whispered, pointing to the tiger, “Look!”

Mark emptied his flask with a final swig, squinting at the clump of leaves where the tiger hid. Suddenly, Mark stepped in front of him, leading the charge to the tiger. Will stayed back, letting Mark flush the tiger out, even though the bumbling idiot would probably end up driving it away. Will took aim, pointing the gun at where the tiger would be when it lunged at Mark, which it would. Will would maul Mark if he was the tiger.

And lunge it did, right at Mark. William Wilford Warfstache took aim, pointing his gun right at the beast, pulling the trigger and feeling the rifle kick, then hearing the tiger roar, Mark scream, all at the same time, and there was blood all over the ground, soaking Marks uniform, and the tiger was long gone.

And then Mark was the boy on the ship, the corpse in the ocean. Bim? Same dark hair and warm brown eyes. The boy wriggled under stone and tiger skins and dog tags as Mark steadily bled. Wilford fell to his knees. He couldn't move. But he could feel steady hands on his chest, pushing, shoving at him, warm lips on his, breathing into his lungs, more pushing, forcing him back to consciousness. Panicked, he sat up, hacking violently and looking around. Dark was looming above him, long strands of hair sticking out from his braid. The beach. He was on the beach.

“I'm alive.” He realized. Mark’s body hitting the ground replayed over and over in his head. The boy wasn't there, at least. Dark smiled, all pointed white teeth, the tiger of the sea.

“Of course you are, Wilford.” He purred. Wilford laid back down, the words oddly relaxing to hear.

“I would never let you drown. You're my artist, Wilford. My soldier. I saved you, and you're safe. Aren't you?”

Wilford dumbly nodded, feeling his eyes slip shut, siren’s magic coursing through him like painkiller he was given when he was shot all those years ago, lulling him. It was sweet, like the siren’s voice, as heavy as the siren’s tail on top of him. Heavy. Secure. Wait.

“Why did you save me?” Wilford found himself asking. The sirens magic fell away like a veil being torn, and Wilford opened his eyes. Dark was staring right at him, brows furrowed with annoyance, a look that seemed to be common for the siren. His mouth was twisted in a frown, and the long black hairs seemed to be dripping from his head like ink. Beautiful, like the Mona Lisa without the smile. What was his question?

“I’ve seen humans revive other humans like that, breathing air for them,” Dark’s voice was steady and confident, but lacked the magic that was pulling Wilford into a deep sleep. He took a shaking breath.

“I saved you. I used to be… nevermind. I saved you. Now rest. Let me sing for you.”

Used to be? Used to be what? Wilford opened his eyes to ask, but Dark’s honeyed voice was back in his ears again, making everything softer and sweeter in a haunting melody. The sand was soon a soft mattress, Dark’s song a blanket, covering him and keeping him safe. Wilford didn't fight it, just closed his eyes and let the dragging pull of sleep take him under. In the back of his head, he felt a pair of lips touch his forehead, the splash of Dark swimming away, but by then he was already asleep. The sun rose while he slept, and there was peace.

When they returned to the village, the sun was lowering in the sky. It had to be around six o'clock, since it wasn't yet sunset, but too dark to be the afternoon. They didn't walk through the ship, Edgar refused to, so they climbed up the rocks to the top of the cliff. Somehow, Ed beat him to the top, but that could be because Wilford was still sore and tired from his excursions. The village was alive and unshaken, moving on as if there was no shipwreck in the cliff and not a care in the world, people and tourists going from tiny shop to tiny shop with bags in their hand, men with slicked back hair and women laughing at their attempts to seduce them. Wilford pulled his bag closer to his back, extending a hand to Edgar.

“Come on, I’ll help you open the bar up, old friend.”

“You just want a free drink.” Edgar deadpanned. He looked weird without his hat- Wilford could get it on his next trip down to the beach.

“And I always get one. Don't worry, I'll pay for the other drinks too this time.”

Ed rolled his eyes but took Wilford's hand, Wilford excitedly pulling him through the town, dodging people left and right as they ran, leaving the confession at the beach behind them; mostly, at least. Wilford looked behind him at Edgar, his face red and spotty but smiling, and wondered. In another time, one without the siren. Would he have loved him back? If he wasn't snared in the siren's net, then maybe. Only maybe. Dark was beautiful and mysterious, as if there was some sort of veil around him, hiding what he was actually like to him. What was the fun in an open book, read page by page over and over again? Looking at the same pictures, the same text, bit by bit. Wilford felt Edgar give his hand a squeeze as he pulled him.

“Hey, Wilford! Earth is calling!” Edgar called. Wilford jolted, looking back to his short friend.

“What is it?”

Edgar opened his mouth, but was cut off as Wilford was suddenly hit in the leg with something… stick like? Looking up from the ground, he was face to face with Host, who was smiling at him with that odd, tight-lipped smile that was so warm, but so unsettling. The smile took him back to cold meals and colder ground, Host with the butt of a cigarette between his teeth, looking out with golden eyes over no-man's land. Wilford remembered Host stole a general's lighter when he needed a light for his cigarette. Maybe he still had it, collecting dust on a shelf in his house, or buried in a pocket of his trench coat- something to remind him of the good old days.

“William, my friend,” Host spoke in a clipped tone, “how are you on this… sunny? Sunny day. I can feel the warmth on my skin.”

Wilford snorted. “I feel it on my face.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Wilford saw Host’s little doctor come running down the street, stumbling over his feet and clutching the bag of trinkets and tinctures, a lengthy linen bandage fluttering behind him as he ran. The doctor finally reached them, stopping by Host and straightening up, wiping sweat off of his forehead. Goddam, he was tall, especially compared to how short Host was. The doctor opened his mouth to speak, brows furrowed, but lightened up when he saw Wilford.

“Ah! You must be the Mr. Warfstache that Host told me so much about! It is very good to meet you!” His accent was strange, familiar sounding but odd nonetheless. It wasn't overly pronounced, like Edgar's accent, but subtle and sweet. Wilford couldn't place what it was- french, maybe? Italian? But his voice sounded soft and light.

Wilford shook his hand.

“Good to meet you too, Doctor-”

“Doctor Edward Iplier.”

Edgar stepped out from behind Wilford, looking up at Doctor Iplier, who smiled and waved down at him. Edgar waved back, clearly a bit flustered. It was from the run, probably. Wilford let go of Edgar's hand, looking at Edward and Host, standing side by side. Host was holding Edwards arm with one hand, his cane with the other, standing perfectly still. If he had eyes, they'd be gold- they used to be. The doctor, however, was a bit fidgety, looking over the bloodied bandages that were wrapped around Host’s head, fingers twitching. It was much like how Wilford’s hands twitched, except Edward was yearning for a medical thing of some sort, not the steady weight of a revolver.

“We were thinking of getting some drinks,” Host said plainly, “And now that you two are here, would you care to join us?”

Wilford felt the corners of his lips turn up, more memories coming back.

“The last time we got drinks together, you had to carry me home after I kicked that guy’s ass!”

“He was the one kicking your ass, if the H- if I remember that correctly, which I do.”

Edward took Host’s hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. Host turned his head up at the doctor, smirk warm on his face. Huh. Weird. Host almost seemed fond of his little doctor, the two locked together in an eyeless gaze as intense as the lowering sun.

Edgar coughed.

“I, um, well- the bar, I should probably go in, open up… what time is it? Has the sun been setting sooner? It's March, right? Or, um…” He ran a hand through his hair, laughing awkwardly and looking at the bar in front of them, ignoring the Host and his Doctor. Wilford raised an eyebrow at Edgar, it wasn't like him to shy away from conversation with anyone, even the deadbeat drunks that would drink him dry of beer, whiskey and patience. Hell, Wilford didn't even pay for his drinks, and yet he and Edgar could talk for hours and hours about everything and nothing all at once, listening to the waves crash like bombs onto frozen ground as they shared a bottle of whiskey or wine or the fancy Russian shit that tasted like nothing but fire.

Maybe it had to do with what happened down on the beach. The confession was more than fresh in Wilford's mind, and stung like the- what was it? Vodka? The vodka on his throat, making him cringe and cough at the strong taste. Maybe it had nothing to do with it, and Ed was just tired, but what did it matter? Images of Dark, lounging on the seabed, watching little fishes and the sun-stained water flow in an endless rhythm invaded his head again, and Wilford smiled. Maybe his siren would chase the little fishes, swimming and watching them scatter around in bright colors, tail flicking and gleaming like waterfalls of jewels on a rich ladies neck.

In his imagination, Wilford was swimming along with him, Darks powerful tail coiled around his legs as he held onto his waist. Long, beautiful claws caressing his face, combing through his hair. The siren smiling with pointed teeth as Wilford leaned in closer, lips meeting the cool skin of his cheek before moving along, pulling back for only a second before leaning in, Darks lips a whisper against his-

“Wilford! Hurry up! Aren't you coming?” Edward called out. Wilford snapped out of his head, looking to see that the other three were far, far ahead of him, already walking to the bar. He could show them his drawing, framed up in the bar, and talk about Dark all through the night, or at least until he was too drunk to talk or think straight.

He jogged to catch up with them, standing next to Host as Edgar unlocked the door, stepping into the old bar. Wilford smiled at the familiar atmosphere, eyes quickly finding the drawing of Dark, now proudly posted up on the wall. God, it came out better than he thought it had, but the one in his bag was even more beautiful than that one- he had spent much more time on it, adding detail to all the odd scales, using black, red, and blue to perfect them, paying more attention to the wisps of hair that stuck out from his waist long braid.

Host bumped up against him, grabbing Wilford's arm.

“There's a picture on the wall. What is it?”

Wilford stared at it.

“It's one of my drawings it’s…” he trailed off, staring at the blind man at his side, not knowing how to describe something so marvelous, something as divine as the siren on the rocks. The beautiful mystery wrapped up in scales like a king in a cloak, a general in his uniform. Dark had seemed so fascinated by the dog tags- how much about humans did he know? He could wear his uniform the next time he visited him, Dark would certainly get a kick out of that, touching all the metals and buttons, the worn, blood stained fabric that felt like home and smelled like gunpowder.

“It's a drawing of the full moon. It's all silver, the sea is blue, and the stars are beautiful, like gems. There are roses growing.”

Host nodded, lips twisting into a frown. His bandages were a rust colored red, probably from the flood of blood that poured from his eyes like a river.

“It must look beautiful.” He whispered.

Suddenly, music began to play from the record player in the corner. Wilford turning to see Edgar putting the needle onto a record, giving it a slight tap before the music kicked up, a very light, fast song that sounded like one of the bands after the war ended, one of the parties with all that booze and shouting, kissing pretty girls and boys, ending up with a woman on his arm and a man in his lap, all drunk and feeling him up as the band played on and on in a victorious song. Maybe Dark would like to try some type of booze, maybe he'd like whiskey, or maybe something sweeter.

Wilford tugged Host closer to him, awkwardly escorting the blind man closer to the bar, sitting right at the seat near the carving of his initials. The doctor soon joined them, muttering something in before sitting next to Host, Edgar slipping behind the bar, looking oddly happy.

“What will it be?”

Wilford grinned, locking eyes with Host. Well, locking where his eyes would be, at least.

Wilford grabbed the bottle from the grass, taking a large gulp from the bottle, feeling as fire scorched down his throat. A way to get rid of the body, a way out, a way out of everything. Stumbling through the tall grass of the cliffside, he turned and looked down at the sleepy little village. Why, oh why, would they want to build their houses there, not overlooking the mighty sea? Falling, maybe, worry of falling down down down onto the rocky beach, bones and houses withering into sand and salty whisky that burns with the waves.

Wilford drank again, stumbling to the wrecked ship, far down the cliffside. Oh, that happy skeleton, the only way down that didn't involve cut palms and aching arms, a metal hull with torn open pieces like a broken ribcage waiting for another heart. The bottle was less than half full. He jumped onto the deck of the ruined boat, grip on the bottle tight. He didn't have anywhere to put it, since he left his bag at the bar, right? Yes, that's where he left it, leaving a kiss on Edgar's cheek as well as he staggered through the door with Host, ignoring how the pathetic barman seemed to tear up at the tiny gesture.

What was in the bottle? Whisky, something stronger? Liquid fire burning through his brain? Wilford giggled, grabbing onto the handrail as he went into the underbelly of the ship, noticing a speck of white in the dark hall. Unsure of his own balance, he didn't bend down to pick it up, only looked at it. It was a playing card, a four of hearts. Four hearts for the broken-open rib cage. One for Mark, one for Bim, one for Host, one left over, one for whoever had the highest price, one for the next to die, but who would win that auction? Execution. Auction. Wilford laughed again. He wasn't making sense, nothing was except for the fiery whiskey on its way down his gullet, which he took another drink of.

Wow. Wow! This shit is strong! Stronger than when he spent a night at Mark’s old mansion, a night of whisky and wine and poker, teaching themselves how to dance and fucking his butler when the night got late and the alcohol ran dry, talking and talking, drinking more, Mark crying over the war and leaning on him… unpleasant things. Bad to dwell on, or he’ll end up crying again. Not in the dead ship. Not for Mark. He picked up the playing card. Tearing it to tiny shreds, he scattered it on the ship floor like rice at a wedding, like dirt onto a grave.

Soon, there was a pile of rocks, collapsed in on itself. Wilford passes it without a second thought, ignoring the copper scented memories that pulled at him. How was it that he drank to forget, but always remembered? He grabbed the neck of the bottle so tightly he thought it would break. He had to push on. The hole in the hull seemed to glow with the moonlight pouring through it, and Wilford stumbled onto the beach, sand in his shoes even after one step. He could see the corpse of the Host laying on one of the rocks, coat wrapped around him like a burial shroud.

The high tide would wash away the blood, but not the body. Wouldn't it? Wilford would have to do that by hand. Host was always scared of the ocean, it was a shame it would be his grave, in a way. Only in a way, though. When they were serving together, Host said time and time again that he hoped their boat wouldn't sink, sink like all the other ships that had been reported as having sunk. At least Host didn't drown. He was always scared of drowning, choking on water and blood as he slipped into the oblivion.

Soon, Wilford was staring down at his corpse. His back was bent at an unnatural angle, so was his neck. There was blood staining all of his face and his coat like water running over a river bank, flooding everything. Good, that would work. He grabbed the body by the ankles and pulled, pulled with all his might, dragging him off of the rocks, down onto the sand, down close to where the mighty sea frothed. It was hard to do with only one hand, but letting go of the whiskey sounded like a bad idea.

Ankle deep in the salt of the ocean, the cold water was the only thing that felt real. Everything else felt oddly far away, like he was reading everything out of a book, everything happening to some tragically heroic character. Dragging him through the sand, blood trailing behind Host and staining his coat and the beach. Wilford drank more of the whiskey before the corpse was in the water, starting to bob with the waves and dye the sea red. Wilford waited. Let the body go, memories and thoughts still clinging to him as it peacefully floated off into the distance.

Host was yanked underwater by an unseen thing, water churning and boiling red with blood, scraps of fabric that once was the trench coat he held so dearly being tossed about, the water still frothing and reddening in a brilliant color Wilford hadn't seen since the war, since Mark, since the soldier under the rubble, rocks breaking and snapping bone like a dam caving under the force of water. Wilford drank more whiskey as the frothing subsided, a shadow streaking under the water, nearing the shore. He sunk down to his knees, the waves splashing idly against him, as if they weren't aware what was happening, like it was another normal day, another normal corpse eaten by another normal siren.

Wilford moved into the waves, until he was up to his waist in the water, bottle still in hand. He drank again. It tasted like salt. The shadow got closer, and Wilford couldn't help but feel comforted as a clawed hand grabbed onto his arm, a heavy tail in his lap. Dark’s entire front was stained red with blood, probably from the chunk of meat he was still chewing on, tearing away at it with razor sharp teeth. Wilford drank.

“Dear artist.” Dark purred, voice like honey.

“My siren.” He drunkenly slurred.

Dark raised his eyebrows at that, chewing and swallowing the final bit of meat before wiping off his front, great tail flicking.

“Who ever said I was yours?”

“I just did.”

Dark leaned in closer, Wilford could smell iron on his breath and see glints of moonlight in his eyes. Dark’s hair was still pulled into its lovely braid, all Wilford wanted to do was undo it, see how the inky strands would frame his face, the moonlight accenting his muscular body, built from years of swimming, scales like roses and miniature lakes, shards from the night sky itself reaching all the way down to his strong tail that flicked with the waves in all of its shadowy glory. He was still smaller than Wilford by a good amount, but all that muscle and the scales just wanted to make Wilford reach a hand up, caress the gills that shuddered against gray skin, flushed cheeks and kiss blood-stained lips-

“I'm drunk, Dark. Have mercy on me.” Wilford begged.

Dark looked at the bottle in Wilford's hand, taking it from his lose grip and considering it only for a second before taking a large drink from it, Wilford focusing on the lovely sirens throat and how pretty his lips looked wrapped sinfully around the neck of the bottle. His mouth would taste like blood and whiskey. Host’s blood. Wilford shuddered, but he didn't know why. Was it because of the streaks of blood down the sirens chest, the bits of flesh caught in its pearly fangs, or was it because of the siren’s perfection?

Dark finished drinking, Wilford taking the bottle and examining it, eyebrows shooting up.

“You drank it all! The hell!”

Dark licked his soft looking lips. It was silent for a bit, Wilford resting his hands on the sand behind him, ignoring how his arms and pants were absolutely soaked with water. The waves pushed at them. Wilford moved his hands to where skin turned to the scales of Dark’s tail, listening as Dark sucked in a sharp breath, tried to brush it off as a cough, claws brushing up against Wilford's hands.

“I haven't had anything to drink in a long, long time, not until the start of that war. Those sunken ships didn't have anything good on them, nothing as good as this. Your friend, the… cowboy, is that the word?” Dark looked quizzically at Wilford.

“He's not a cowboy. He owns the bar I got this from. I could get you more, if you want.”

Dark raised an eyebrow, shifting slightly in Wilford's lap.

“Really? Giving alcohol to something that can easily kill you? Me, the vicious siren? Goodness, is there a brain in that pretty little head of yours?”

Wilford huffed as the siren ran his claws through his hair, scratching his scalp ever so slightly. It didn't hurt that much, but it sent shivers down his spine.

“Well, I have a brain, you do too- how different are humans from sirens?”

Darks face went blank.

“Not at all, besides the scales. Same skin, albeit mine is a bit… discolored, same hair, same brains, hearts, every little bit. Except for the tail.”

“Except for the tail,” Wilford echoed. “Does it ever get boring, just swimming about? I mean, the ocean is giant, but just swimming?”

Dark had the funniest look on his face.

“What about walking? I barely remember walking, but I remember it being boring, tiring, foot to ground, foot to ground, over and over again. Swimming is much more efficient, much faster. Especially without feet.”

Wilford drank from the bottle again, thinking of the time when he and Host snuck from their barracks and swam in a near frozen lake, still wearing their helmets just in case there was enemy fire. It was when Host still had his eyes, but after he stopped wanting to be called Author. That whole year felt like some weird in-between period, like the time it takes to have a pot of water boil, waiting and waiting.

“What would ya’ know about feet?”

“I used to have them,” Dark sounded far away, as if he was talking underwater, “I used to walk around the town and dodge carriages as I ran through the streets. It is 1924- is it not? 1924. I know the war is over, the ocean isn't flooded with bodies. I can feel another one brewing. I remember the war, the smell of blood drawing me to the shore like I'm being pulled. Before that, when I had just become what I am, I tried eating a sailor alive. I was so young, so stupid. I didn't even try to drown him, I was so hungry….”

Wilford wanted to ask him to slow down, but the siren kept talking.

“The war seemed to cling to me. It ran their hands on my scales. It's always going to be wars, always men fighting over and over again. Guns, tanks, mines, torpedos. It makes sense to have a soldier as mine, to know such a brave man… I used to be a coward. A coward that died with my humanity. Oh, Wilford, you remind me of what I was, the warmth of the land. Never, never have I felt so warm, so human like.”

“Dark-” Wilford felt his heart melt at Darks flowery words.

The siren smirked with sharp, fanged teeth that shone like… something shiny. Wilford let go of the bottle, hearing it splash in the ocean. He brought his hand up to Dark’s face, caressing his cheek with his thumb. He could feel his heart banging in his chest as the siren leaned into the touch, wondering how it's only been two days, only two days since the ship. Dark’s face was right in front of his, eyes dark and speckled with silver.

“My soldier, I am your muse.”

With that, the siren leaned in impossibly closer, and Wilford shut his eyes as their lips met. Dark’s lips were as soft as they looked as they moved against his, Wilford tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Almost immediately, he felt Dark’s fangs lightly scratch his lips, a feeling that Wilford could get drunk on much easier than the whiskey. Wilford moved his hands from Dark’s face, resting them on his chest as the siren grabbed his hips, still trying to pull him closer, his claws digging into his skin. The taste was a blur of whiskey and the slightest tinge of blood on his lips, something salty like the cold ocean, a taste that Wilford drank up as he kissed him, kissed him with his whole heart. Dark was leaning fully on him, and soon they were under the water, Wilford not breaking the kiss even as he was fully soaked with cold, salty water. He wrapped his legs around Dark’s tail as the siren broke the kiss, smiling at him.

Wilford opened his mouth to try to say something, but started choking on the ocean water, tapping Dark’s shoulder to get him to let him up. He shot up out of the water and sucked in a lungful of air, Dark looking smugly at him.

“I hope you don't kiss and tell.”

Wilford smiled, leaning in close for another kiss.

“Wouldn't dream of it, darling.”

As the night went on, people poured through the doors like beer from a keg, and the drinks kept on coming as he tried to drink Host under the table, the bar littered with glasses of drinks that Wilford knew he would never have to pay Edgar for. Everything was a bit fuzzy, but now he was on the cliff side with Host, side by side with a bottle of something in between them. Wilford couldn't remember when they had left the bar, but now they were outside. He drank a bit of whatever was in the bottle. There was still a lot left. Good.

“What- what're the stars like, William? I can't remember. How many years has it been?”

Wilford flopped onto his back.

“It's…. its fuckin’... uh… 1924? It's 1924. The war’s been over for… years? Remember that one guy? That freaky ass bastard that knew fuckin… everything? The one with the weird last name.”

“...Google?”

“Yeah, that fucker. I couldn't stand him.”

Host laid down, eyelessly staring at him.

“Why did you start wanting to be called by your middle name, William? That's like…” Host starred giggling, ”that's like me asking to be called Peter! What a silly thing! The Host doesn't understand…”

Wilford’s brows furrowed as he stared at Host, but decided not to question it as Host stood suddenly and walked around, drunkenly stepping like he was dancing a waltz with a one legged man, trying to keep them both upright.

“The sea must be beautiful. It's always pretty, pretty, blue and fine. Oh, the waves of endless salt crashing into the beach, being rained upon, the earth tasting itself… are you sure it's 1924? It doesn't feel… it doesn't feel like it's been that long. I still feel like I'm breathing in chlorine. Maybe- maybe this is an eternal war, a thing that doesn't really leave. Fuck, I'm.. I'm really drunk. How much did I have? I drank the oceans dry and I'm standing upright! Look at me! Ha! I'm drunk! But I still can hear them, hear every little whimper and the pulling of hairpin triggers even though the Host drank only to forget those things. The Host… doesn't feel steady. Is anything steady, though? The world is spinning, the galaxy, the universe the… the… the Host feels sick-”

Falling to his knees, Host gagged and coughed, Wilford staggering over to his collapsed friend.

“Hey, hey Isaac, you- you good? Host? Isaac? What's wrong? You're- you're not making any sense.”

Host took a few deep breaths, and it seemed like an eternity until he stood, face turned up to the stars. Wilford stood by him, looking out over the cliffside. The ocean was dark but smooth looking, like the whisky they were drinking. The bottle was still almost full, and the wrecked ship was like a skeleton in the distance.

“The Host doesn't know what's wrong, what's right. If there is a right. Exhaustion weighs on me, dear friend. Dear, dear friend. Why… why don't you trust me? You lied to the Host about the picture, Edward told him that the picture was of a beast, a fish-man. Is that what you were doing that day you told the Host you were alone at home, drinking? How many times have you lied to the Host, William? How many times have you lied and kept things from him? How much did he drink?”

Host was surprisingly steady for a drunk man, stepping away from Wilford, wind blowing his hair. His hair. There was a gold streak in it, how hadn't he noticed?

“You’re not making any sense, you had too much to drink-”

“Look at the Host, Wilford. Look at him! How long have you known me? He remembers you skinning your knee and crying over the pain. Your mom bandaged the cut but you went outside again, pushed your luck and ended up with blood covered shorts. The Host was there, even though he doesn't feel like he was. Nothing feels like he was there. Is the Host here? Is he? Look at him, look!”

With one grand gesture, Host tore off his bandages, revealing the empty caverns of his eyes. They were bleeding red and hot, and as he slowly continued to step backward, they stained his face, raining down on his cheeks like tears.

“You were serving with him! For years, years you were with him and yet you do not trust him more than you trust yourself, cannot, cannot, cannot! Do you remember playing cards with him? The generals lighter? All those cigarettes you shared with him- he… he can't see himself as who he was, as the friend you had, but was he your friend? Truly? The Host-”

It happened in a moment. An instant. The blind man took another step back into the nothingness at the edge of the cliff, pebbles cascading down onto the rocks alone, the sand so soft looking, but so, so deadly from the top of the cliffs as Host fell, wind blowing his coat like bird’s wings trying to catch a thermal. Wilford stumbled to the edge of the cliff and watched, watched as him fall, grabbing blindly for something, anything to hold onto.

Wilford leaned over the cliff edge, Host laying on the rocks, still and statuesque. Like one of the corpses on frozen ground, back with the trenches. And oh, the dead, the flood of blood pouring out from his empty eyes turned up at the stars, endlessly staring into the heavens. Empty. The waves pulling at the sand, but not touching the body of his dear friend on the beach. In the back of his alcohol-addled mind, Wilford waited for the regret, the anger, the sadness to hit, to overwhelm the shock.