Archive of Our Own

There's got to be a way to escape all of this.

Marco angrily slams his Chemistry book down on the kitchen table. He turns away from the book to go to the fridge, the thing still taunting him from afar. Grabbing a water bottle and downing half of it, he walks over to the window, feet cold on the tile. He’s known this moment would happen, has been preparing for it for a long time. College gets hard for everyone, even for people who thought they understood Chemistry, only to be faced with the harsh reality that they know a fraction of what they should. So Marco bites down on the plastic tip of the water bottle in his hands, stretches his toes into his apartment's carpet, and looks out over the lake.

Trost Lake looks like the ocean, from this angle. Marco's been living here for almost two years and he’s never stepped foot in it, but rather watched it from eight stories from the ground. It's better this way; up here he can see into the distance, where small boats pass through, carve it open just to have it close again with gentle waves. It's comforting, being next to something so vast. Helps him keep his head on his shoulders, keep him steady when living on his own seems like too much for him to handle. He's not too sure if the lake's effect is working on him right now, though.

His lakeside apartment complex is nice, at least for him. The space is probably big enough for more than just himself, but Marco likes it like this. On his own for the first time in his life. When he'd first moved in, he thought having his very own apartment was the most incredible thing to happen to him—and it is. There have been a few boyfriends and people from school who have made appearances up here, have kept him company. But really it's his own.

And it's moments like this, where he's alone with his thoughts. Moments that make him want to wrap himself in a quilt from his mom and forget that everything about his life right now is tiring and boring and utterly ordinary.

Marco turns away from the window and considers reaching for the knitted blanket draped over the back of a chair, and giving in. In the end he takes an hour long break and watches some boring reality show on the couch, just to avoid having to look at that book on the table.

 

Before he can even think of going back to his homework, there's a basket of laundry waiting for Marco at door, taunting him almost as much as that book still waiting on the desk. Muffin is lounging on top of the pile, meowing occasionally just to get Marco to look over at her and sigh. He calls over to the calico, but she's snuggled up in a pair of his sweatpants, eyes closed. Marco doesn't stop the short look of disdain that he shoots her way, wishing he could curl up and sleep the night away too.

But meanwhile, Marco's evening has only just begun. He shoos Muffin out of the basket and takes it into his arms before slipping outside. The hall is looking especially gloomy and abandoned today, like a cheap horror movie set. It's even complete with the dated light fixture that flickers menacingly outside his neighbor's door. Marco tries not to think too hard about The Shining while he locks his door behind him. In a pair of slippers and some ironic shirt Connie got him from his last visit home, Marco can admit that he doesn't look the most presentable. So he hopes to all heights that while he heads downstairs no one too important or attractive will happen to walk past him. The worst thing that could happen is his soul-mate bumping into him when he's like this.

The elevators have been broken for a week, so Marco has to walk down all eight flights of stairs to the lobby. God, did he really have to wear his slippers? In the mild bustle of the evening, Marco tries to slip past the approaching people, but ends up stopping to chat with three different acquaintances along the way. When he isn't stressed and tired and sick of college, he can be pretty friendly. The people who live here tend to use Marco as their personal diary, giving him even the excruciating detail of what they've been up to since they'd last seen each other. But now, ducking inside the laundry room, the only thought on Marco's mind is I need clean clothes.

The laundry room is buried far into the main level of Marco's apartment, and there's only one washer that really, truly works. By trial and error, Marco has finally deemed it the one. But even so, it’s terrible. Marco doesn't hate much in life, but these washing machines. He’d run every single one over with his truck any day. And then throw their remains into Trost Lake. Marco stretches out his back in futile hopes of waking himself up and getting his thoughts back into place, walking over to his washer. They're playing old seventies hits loudly over the speakers, and it makes Marco sway his hips, going over a lecture in his head from this morning and hoping that it sticks until tomorrow.

Then, in the sickly-yellow colored room that Marco could have sworn was empty, he hears soft singing along with the radio. At first thinks that maybe it's Hanji—Marco's eccentric floor-mate who's almost crazier than the guy on second floor. But this voice is rougher, braver, even as the humming of another running washing machine nearly drowns it out. Marco leans his body towards where he thinks the voice is coming from, and then sees him. A boy, maybe his age, sitting on the tiled floor, back against his rotating washer and face expressing like he's in the middle of a music video. Marco tilts his head further, holding his basket in his hands, peering around from behind a washer to get a better look. In the middle of an air guitar solo the kid sees him, golden eyes locking on Marco's, unmoving, as they're both locked in a standstill. There's something there—not exactly embarrassment, there in his eyes. Marco realizes he's staring and turns away, frozen with embarrassment himself.

"Enjoying the show?" Says the same voice behind him.

"Sorry," Marco says, noisily opening the washer and tossing his clothes inside. He's usually much more conscious about separating the colors and the fabrics, but there's a brown-eyed and golden haired boy with a messy undercut standing up slowly in the aisle behind him. Marco panics, feeling the boy's eyes on his back. "I don't think I've seen you around here before."

"Just moved in yesterday." Marco turns around again, finger still poised to press the button on the machine.

"Really?" The boy gives a curt nod, rises fully to his feet.

"Yeah. Shipped off here for a while, off to Trost Lake to relax." Marco tries to keep his smile, but the cocky, loud attitude of this kid is sort of throwing him off. Even so, this is what Marco can always do. He can do friendly conversations.

"Liking it here?" Marco asks. The kid doesn't miss a beat, gripping long fingers around the top of the bench separating their aisles.

"The apartment's nice, but the people around here seem a little off."

"Oh, yeah. We're the weird ones." Marco says with a laugh, and turns to press the button. While his laundry is going he can finally go out and get some dinner, since his apartment is barren when it comes to food and he has to wait until tomorrow to go grocery shopping. The sooner he gets some food in him, the sooner he can take a nap. So, feeling exhaustion in his bones, Marco looks back at the undercut-boy, who's kneeling with one knee on the bench, wearing red plaid flannel and looking at Marco like he should have tried a better comeback.

Marco smiles at him again, mirroring that look back at him, and the boy blinks a few times, silently staring as the machines turn round and round. He stands when Marco says nothing, huffing in a deep breath and glancing at Marco out of the corner of his eye.

"Well, I guess I'll see you around. Since you live here, and everything." He walks like he's got somewhere to be, shoulders tense, head raised a little too high. Just before he makes it out the door, he turns back around and takes a few stomping steps back inside. "And hey, I lost a sock somewhere on the way here. Tell me if you see it!" Marco doesn't even know his name. But New Guy sure does have a mouth on him. Nice lips, too, though they were almost always pulled back into a lopsided grimace. Not that Marco was looking.

 

Chinese takeout sitting on the table next to him, Marco wakes up when he's been using his arm as a pillow for what feels like a century. The clock reads that he has to leave for campus in three hours, but it's still so early. He might as well get a few minutes of rest in his real bed. Marco rises from the chair at his desk, the sky violet at the horizon and everything in his apartment brushed with indigo shadows. He looks out to the lake, trying to claw those math formulas out of his head for a moment, and just blankly stares. He's alone in his apartment, alone in the world. He's got friends, sure, but it's so easy to fall into a routine of solitude at this point. After all, right now it's just him and the lake. Staring at each other through the window. Alone, so early in the morning.

He really needs some sleep.

Then Marco sees someone. Down there, eight stories below. There's a stretch of a field next to the building that leads to the drop off—a cliff covered in grass and trees that leads to the lake. And there they are, a person walking down through the field, towards the dark water. Who would be up this early? Well, besides himself.

Marco shifts closer to the window, nearly knocking his takeout off the desk. Facing away, and so far from up here, Marco can tell who it is just by the way he walks—head tilted up, those shoulders slightly raised beneath his coat. It's the boy from the laundry room. Walking to the lake at this hour.

Well, it's none of Marco's business anyway. He's new; he can do whatever he likes, explore this place whenever he pleases. Marco turns from the window, steps past his work, and wraps himself in so many blankets on his bed he thinks he might just stay here in a blanket burrito forever.

 

 

Marco parks his truck in the usual place on campus. Goes to his usual classes. Jokes with his usual friends. Smiles his usual smile. And then he parks his truck in his usual spot next to the apartment complex, and lays his head softly on the steering wheel. Another night of studying, pointless work that isn't getting him anywhere. Someday it will get better, and college won't suck anymore. Someday he'll invite his friends over instead of worrying himself about the next set of exams. Just not today.

The broken elevator is still being tampered with, so Marco throws his backpack over both his shoulders and starts up the stairs. Only eight flights, right? The lighting in here is always unsettling; another part of the old building that resembles a potential murder scene. His footsteps echo all around him, but nothing is worse than when Marco hears a door open behind him and steps following behind. He sneaks a glance behind him just as he catches his foot on the next step. “Whoa, watch out,” Undercut Boy says to him, rushing up the steps and reaching his hands out, as if to steady Marco but afraid to really do it.

“I’m fine,” Marco assures him, nervous laughter bubbling over. “I thought there was gonna be some sort of murderer behind me."

"Are there murderers in this building? Should I be worried?" He asks, laughing to himself. Marco doesn't even have to look over to see the self-satisfied look on his face.

"Not that I know of." Marco gives him a look as he starts to walk up the next few steps, the boy following behind him.  They make it up only maybe half a flight of stairs before the boy's talking again. 

"So how long have you lived here?"

"Two years now."

"Here for college or something?" Marco turns around, lets him catch up the few steps.

"Yeah, I am. I just got back from there, actually." Marco jerks his head to the book bag he's carrying on his shoulder. There's something strangely intense about the way the boy is looking at him as they walk up the steps. It makes it hard for Marco to look away for a moment. "What floor are you on?"

"Fifth. Apartment E16, to be exact." Marco nods like he knows the place while they walk up the creepy hallway together. Marco finds himself glancing at the boy beside him every few steps, hair falling close to his eyes and looking down at his shoes almost angrily. When Marco stops looking over, he feels eyes on the side of his face too.

They reach the door that bears a 5 in red paint and Undercut Boy pauses. Marco has got to stop calling him that.

"Well, I'll be sure to bring over 'welcome to the neighborhood' cookies sometime," Marco says softly. "I'm Marco Bodt, by the way." He reaches out his hand for Undercut to shake, just at the same time the other reaches out a closed fist for him to bump. Marco laughs softly, but the other's face turns so red Marco's not sure if he's actually okay.

"Um, I'm Jean. Jean Kirschtein. I'll...see you around. Because you...live here." And he walks out through the door before Marco can say anything else. Jean Kirschtein. Marco says the name under his breath just to try it out. Says it like a mantra as he walks up the next three flights of stairs.

 

He wakes up five hours, early, this time. It's still completely dark, and he has to feel around on his desk to turn on the lamp beside him. In the tiny circle of a golden glow, Marco tries to lift his heavy eyelids higher. It doesn't work, and he simply lays his head back on the wood, accepting the fact that there's no way he's going to remember all of whatever he tried to cram last night by the time finals rolls around. He just needs to sleep. He nearly hurts his head from how fast it falls back to the desk.

But then his eyes open precisely as the sunlight reaches his windowsill, and Marco finds himself staring through the glass again. And he can't fall back asleep.

He wishes his apartment had a balcony, or that the windows opened more than a crack. He wants to be out there, wants to walk by the lake to wake himself up. Coffee cooling in a Sea World mug on the counter, Marco looks at the tiny Shamu printed on the mug, the killer whale smiling at him, looking like he's having the time of his life in that cartoon water. Marco purses his lips. There's nothing stopping him from going down there by the lake. It's early and he's never done it before.

So he puts on a pair of sneakers and does it. It's like the entire world is asleep, or maybe he's the last man alive, while he walks through the lobby to the back door, out by the pool. There's the field that he has to cross to get to the drop off. Marco pulls his parka closer around him—it's still autumn, but with the water whipping wind across his face, it's winter as he trudges through the grass.

When he hits the trail to take him down to the beach, that's when he sees a person in front of him. His mind jumps to conclusions, that it's not really the apartment that's the next place to hold a murder, but the thin forest behind the damn place. But as Marco ducks to the side behind a tree, he looks through the branches, down the incline, to the stretch of sand below him. It's the boy. The Undercut Boy. Jean Kirschtein.

He's lifting his shirt over his head, wadding it in a ball and tossing it to a rock beside him. He reaches for his pants next, and Marco's eyes widen before he turns slightly out of embarrassment. Marco steps out of the cover of the trees as the kid runs forward, letting out a cry of excitement before he splashes through the water. So, Jean is out for a morning swim? In this lake? This early? In this cold of water? He does seem sort of strange, but to Marco it seemed like the weirdly-confident strange, not the dive into Trost Lake hours before everyone else is even awake kind of strange. So Marco does the only sensible thing.

He follows.

Sipping at his coffee, Marco does look out at the lake, looks out at the mist playing over the water. As he comes out from the trees, he looks for where Jean is maybe splashing around, but...wait, where is he? Marco stands perfectly still, watching the waves come in to the shore. He's gotta surface some time now. Marco takes another sip of coffee, almost anxiously.

It's been a minute now. Is he okay? Maybe he's one of those people who can hold their breath for a really long time. Maybe he's a really good swimmer?

Another minute passes. Did he bring scuba diving equipment out there with him or something? Marco can't even look up from the water anymore. Jean Kirschtein might be hurt out there, might have hit his head on a rock and drowned—

But Jean bursts out from the water then, water spraying with how fast he comes up, much further out from the sand than Marco remembers. He swims side to side, still unaware that Marco is watching him on the shore. God, now he's the weirdo. Someone's just going for an innocent early morning swim while he watches it like the morning's cartoons. He should just go back inside—

Then he sees something reflecting off the water, as Jean's legs kick him quickly through the waves. But, as Jean dives back underwater, the reflection isn't coming from a swimsuit covering his lower half. That's a tail.

Marco takes half a step back. That's really a tail, a tail like a fish slicing through the water and making gentle ripples as Jean lays on the surface of the water, chest facing the sky. Marco doesn't stick around to see any more of it, because just as Jean's had his tail at the surface for more than a few moments he locks eyes with Marco on the shore, who's holding his coffee in shaking hands and wearing pajama pants covered in tiny monkeys. 

Jean says something as Marco heads back up the trail but doesn't turn around to ask him to repeat it. He ducks through the trees, speed-walks across the field back to the apartmnet. He hears a distant splashing behind him, and feels like the boy might come chasing after him at any moment, with a tail like a fish and teeth like a shark.

He's a mermaid. Wait, mer-man? Are there mermen? Well, obviously, because Marco's just seen one, but wait, no. There's no such thing as mermaids. Er, mermen.

But he saw a tail. It was bluish gray and very much a tail. And Jean saw him. Damn it, Marco thinks as he books it up the stairs. He's never going to be able to leave his apartment again. He'll have to avoid the laundry room for the rest of his life.

 

***

 

Class is impossible later that day. Marco's no artist, but even he can tell when his doodles become mermaid tails in the margins of his notes. When he's on his laptop in the library, he stops re-studying the periodic table to google search 'mermen'. It's all cartoons or Photoshop; it's not real. But Marco's still got a good head on his shoulders, even if college has the ability to make him feel like an asylum patient. He knows what a fish tail attached to a human being means. Mermaid. Merman.

Jean Kirschtein is sitting in the lobby when Marco gets back from classes. Through the glass door, Marco can see him sitting there on a bench against the wall, staring down at his phone, eyebrows creased together. Marco grips his keys in his hand. He'll just walk around to the back, unlock that door and continue his plan in avoiding him forever. But then he shakes himself out of it, staring at the concerned look on Jean's face as his fingers tap away on his phone. Marco wants answers above anything else. And if he has to come up to Jean to get those answers, then so be it.

He unlocks the door and Jean looks up quickly, horror crossing his face. Marco lifts a hand into a wave.

"Jean Kirschtein. From the laundry room, right?" Marco asks, knowing that he's turning red as he smiles. Maybe he dreamed it all. Maybe Jean won't say anything.

"Yeah," Jean says, intense gaze seeming to focus on Marco's soul. "That's me. And you're Marco Bodt, the guy who saw me in the lake this morning." No, he hadn't dreamed it. Jean stands, and even though he's slightly shorter, Marco feels himself tense up, ready for a punch or the sinking of shark teeth into the side of his neck.

"That's me," Marco says, throat nearly closing up. Jean leans towards him then, lifting his hands, bright eyes still boring into him. Marco can't stop looking at those lips as they start to move.

"Whatever you think you saw—"

"Marco!" Both of them turn in unison to see Erwin Smith, co-owner of the entire apartment walking briskly toward the taller of both of them. He looks both intimidating and ridiculous in a suit and tie, from how Marco's used to seeing him when he's still in his pajamas behind the front desk every morning. They're probably now about to have a long, one-sided conversation, from how he's excitedly walking across the tile to say hello. He's one of Marco's diary-acquaintances—this could be a conversation that lasts for hours. Marco greets him and turns away from Jean for a second, but once Erwin starts talking, loud voice booming across the high ceiling, Marco knows Jean is gone.

 

He nearly can't do it, but it's a challenging meow from Muffins that finally puts Marco over the edge, gets him to break out the chocolate chips from the cupboard.

He knocks on apartment E16 seven times, telling himself just to get it over with.

“Marco Bodt,” Jean says, as he opens the door. He looks down and eyes the cookies in Marco's hands. “Those for me?”

“Yep. As promised.” Jean looks down at the cookies, then back up into Marco's nervous eyes. He's not sure, but Jean maybe even looks impressed.

“Come on in.” Jean says at last. As he walks past Jean in the doorway, it's all heaviness in the air between them, like they both haven't said anything they want to. Which is true. But Marco walks inside, and instantly gets distracted looking around to an apartment that is so bare he almost gasps. There's a futon and TV against apposing walls, and unpacked boxes sitting in a row against the wall. And that's it. It's appalling. “So…this morning,” Jean starts. Marco has to break himself from looking around the blank white walls.

“This morning.” Marco repeats. He grips his plate of cookies tight.

"I don't think I can tell you that what you saw wasn't what you think it was."

Marco rushes to explain himself. “I didn't tell anyone, if you're worried about that. I just, I came outside in the morning and I saw someone by the lake, and it was you, and, yeah.”

“And now you wanna know if you really saw me with a tail.”

“Oh, I know I saw you with a tail. It was right there. I want to know…how?”

“Here, sit down. You wanna drink?” Marco shakes his head, even if his throat is dry with how much it took to come down here. Jean looks through his fridge for nearly a minute, not saying anything, before he starts. Marco sits down on the futon, hating the plainness around him. He could've sworn that the second day he moved in himself he was already hanging family pictures across the walls, out buying cute decorations for his very first apartment. Then Jean starts talking.

“I’m a merman. I get submerged waist-down and I have a tail instead of legs. My dad was one, so was my grandfather. Bit of a Kirschtein family tradition.” He says, loudly, brashly, like he's not afraid of what Marco might say. But Marco can see it behind his eyes, as he's not looking directly at Marco for the first time since they met. The gentle panic behind those irises. Marco just blinks. “I’m sorta in hiding, though.” He grabs a can of some sort of fancy iced tea from the open fridge before finally looks up.

“I haven't called any aquariums or anything, if that's what you mean.” Jean nearly chokes on the stuff, and they look at each other for a while, Jean's lips slowly turning up. Marco doesn't think he's in too much trouble anymore.

“Marco Bodt, I think you might be the first stranger to ever know my secret.”

“I’m honored." Marco says, not sure if he really does mean it. This kid really is something else, even on dry land. His angular jaw tightens, his fingers tighten around the can in his grip. He's lanky, but Marco can see muscles in his arms. From swimming, probably. He's good-looking. Marco tries to add a tail to the boy standing across the room from him, but it just doesn't seem real. “You’re like…a mythical creature, you do realize that? I’m standing in a room with the equivalent of a unicorn.”

“Unicorn? Don't be ridiculous.” But Marco get's the playful look in those amber eyes. “Look, Marco. I trust you. I know that's strange, but a butterfly could act more threatening than you.”

“Thanks.” Marco deadpans. He might not seem not too intimidating if he's standing next to the other boy in this room. 

“So I'm gonna eat some of those cookies I can't stop thinking about, and you can ask me anything you want.”

“Getting to know my merman neighbor? Of course.” Marco adjusts on the futon, and Jean sits next to him, almost too close. But it’s strange. Jean trusts him, already, and Marco finding himself doing the same. Marco can put his trust in a lot of things, but with Jean, it happens across the course of the conversation. It happens as he compliments the amount of chocolate chips in Marco's cookies. It happens as his eyes lose the defensive intensity and he starts looking around himself as he speaks.

Jean is incredible. Marco learns this in a tiny apartment like his that's bare on the walls and strangely warm. Jean has never been to a pool party, or a pool in general, and he cannot communicate with dolphins, contrary to popular belief. But then he gets up, stands to the side and lifts his shirt up past his ribs. And Marco sees the gills, carved into his sides, fluttering when he breathes.

“I have to go out there every day to let them breathe,” he says, cookie crumbs falling out of his mouth. “Or else I'd have to go sit in the bath. And that sucks.” Marco stares at him, curious smile tugging at his lips. He raises his hand from his knee. “Wanna touch?” Jean asks, like he can read Marco's thoughts. Marco looks up at him, nods quickly. He reaches his fingers and Jean pops a hip towards him, the gills sputtering again as Jean takes a deep breath in. Marco feels them quickly; he doesn't want to hurt them, plus he doesn't even know their owner very well. And then he takes his hand off them. It's strangely intimate. Jean is looking at him.

“Wow…I sort of wish I was part fish now. I mean, I don't even know how to properly swim.” Jean looks at him like he's just confessed that he, too, is a mythical creature.

“You can't swim?”

“Well, I can doggie paddle. I took lessons when I was a little kid. I don't know, I've always preferred to be in pools where my toes touch the bottom." Jean purses his lips, thinking it over.

“Well, since you like creeping on mermen when they're trying to have some time alone, why don't you wake up early tomorrow and I'll teach you?” Marco tries not to think too hard about the first part. He tries to focus on the playful look and the finger tapping on Jean's chin instead.

“I…I'd love that. But I go to college in the morning—"

“Tomorrow night, then. Here, I'll give you my number. You have to learn. I'll teach you!” Marco lets Jean write the numbers on his hand just so he’ll touch it. Watches him smile all the while his eyebrows are still drawn in. Marco likes him. It's irrefutable. Even with his two-toned hair and habit of interrupting. “And I'll get your life story tomorrow too, yeah? I feel like I didn't even let you talk, fuck. Sorry.” Marco's in the doorway, but he nods softly.

"Yeah, okay." They say goodbye to each other, but Marco reaches out and stops the door before it closes, one last thought coming to mind. "What's it like...when you...transform? Is there like, magic surrounding you or something?" Jean's eyes light up from Marco's pointed gaze, before he softens right then and there. Marco wonders if he's even seeing the same boy from the laundry room. But his shoulders lift back into place and he raises one eyebrow slowly.

"You're just gonna have to find out."

 

Something comes up with Jean the next night, a friend coming to town apparently. And Marco is left at home alone, just him and reality TV while he refuses to study. The next day there's no text from Jean at all, and Marco thinks he might've forgotten about him completely. It's fine; a mermaid has got better things to do than hang out with someone so terribly normal, after all. It's fine. He's fine with it all.

Marco walks into the lobby and sees Jean walking around the corner, towards the vending machines. “Hey!” Marco shouts before he can think twice about it, and as Jean turns, Marco feels something swell inside him. Shivering, like he's just touched cold water. 

“Hi! Oh, Marco." His smile falls into something deathly serious, coming to stand only inches away and starting to explain himself. "I was gonna text you. My friend Eren came up to visit and I had to meet him and—”

“It's fine.”

“No, it's not. I said I would text you,” The fact that he actually looks defeated about it makes Marco reach out, shake his shoulder, bunch the fabric of his shirt in his hand.

“It's okay." Jean lets himself be rocked back and forth, still looking like he's disappointed in himself. "Is tonight okay?” Jean seems a little taken aback with how Marco squints his eyes with a grin. What'd he think, that Marco would never want to see him again? He's a fucking mermaid.

“Yeah. Tonight's great!”

“I'll bring my swimming floaties.” Marco says, letting go of Jean's shirt. Jean laughs as they part ways, after Marco initiates a gentle fist bump between them. Marco thinks he can feel Jean looking at him even after he's turned around, and he tries to fight the smile that still tugs eagerly at him.

 

Marco doesn't have swimming floaties. He does, however, have a pair of green swim trunks and a black sweatshirt, which he's still throwing on as he walks downstairs to the lobby. He crosses the field as his stomach churns with excitement. This is sort of a date. Sort of a date with a merman. Sort of a date with a merman who has golden eyes and likes the way he bakes cookies.

Marco walks down the half-paved path for the second time in his life, down to the lakefront. He can already see Jean is waiting for him, sitting in only a pair of shorts on the sand. It looks different out here at night, with the moon the only light in the sky. Marco's used to looking out at the lake at night from his window. This is more than different. Nothing can describe the way moonlight looks like on water when you can't tell where the shimmering surface ends.

“Psst” Marco whispers, coming out of the trees, taking in Jean's defensive gaze when he turns around. It softens when he sees who it is, fingers digging into the sand.

“Marco,” Jean says, smiling when he starts to turn back towards the water. Marco likes the way his name sounds coming from Jean's mouth. He really does.

“Ready for this?”

“Yes. My gills are driving me crazy.” Jean reaches for the waist of his shorts before he realizes, looking back towards Marco. “Oh, um, my tail will rip my clothes if i wear them—”

“Not looking,” Marco says, covering both eyes. Marco hears Jean laugh to himself before Marco assumes he takes off his pants. Marco wishes, blush hidden in the dark, that he'd snuck a peek. He's not even going to kid himself.

“All right. You're good.” Marco opens his eyes, and Jean is covering his junk with one hand and standing nearly hip deep in the water. Marco feels himself pulling in a breath, eyes locked on where Jean's hand is. “Don't freak out when you see it, okay?”

“I've seen it once, I think be be okay.” Marco does hope they're talking about Jean's tail. Jean takes those few steps back and falls into the water. And nothing changes from Marco's view. There's no magic glowing, no screams of pain, just Jean underneath the water. He stays there for almost a minute as Marco waits for a sign of him. Suddenly, far from the beach, he leaps out of the water and flips backwards, diving cleanly back into the water and disappearing again. Marco watches in awe, trying to process the vision of Jean's tail shining from the moon. It's still bluish-gray, still long and scaled, reflecting spots of light across it like the sky above them brought down to Earth.

It's beautiful.

“Okay, now come in.” Jean says, after he pops back up near the shore. Marco sheds his sweatshirt and comes calf-deep into the water, swearing in his head. It's freezing, hell, this isn't even worth it.

“Cold,” Marco hisses, and Jean swims up to him, nearly beaching himself on the sand. Drops fall from his hair.

“Suck it up! Come on, Freckles.” It's not the first time Marco has heard that nickname, but for some reason it makes him raise a hand to his cheek, frying to hide a slight blush.

"I think I'll just watch you," Marco says, starting to back up. Jean reaches out and grabs his leg. The fin of Jean's tail angrily splashes the top of the water.

"Please?"

 

Marco does get in the water, eventually. Jean has to stay where Marco can still touch the mud at the bottom of the lake, and he complains about getting his tail dirty in the muck half the time, but there's no way in hell Marco can survive swimming out in the deep. So, to prove him wrong, Jean teaches him how to float on his back first. Then to attempt a backstroke through the cold water. But through it all, Marco can't stop getting distracted, staring down at Jean's tail. Not just because it's a tail. Because it's a beautiful tail that Jean doesn't even seem to notice. Marco can't help but look at it. Marco thinks Jean has caught him twice now, when he doesn't respond to one of his questions and sees Marco eyeing the water. But he hasn't said anything.

The moon is almost right above them, white and looming. "Now just tread water—yeah, kick your legs, move your arms—" Jean's lesson is broken off by Marco screaming, throwing himself towards Jean and splashing him in the face in the process. The fish that had brushed against his foot was massive and coming to eat him. This is what he gets for coming out past where he can touch the bottom. Jean has his arms half-wrapped around Marco, the other curled up like a child.

"Sorry." Marco nervously laughs, watching the dark shadow swim away below him, and Jean doesn't really say anything as Marco pushes off of him. "I think a fish touched me." Jean tilts his head to the side, and Marco gets it. "A real fish. A full fish."

 

Marco tells Jean a little about himself, even though his ears are underwater in a back float and he's probably shouting. He's been studying journalism for two years, but he still has to take bullshit classes that make him want to tear his hair out. He rants about Chemistry until Jean tells him to shut up, so Marco talks a bit about his family instead. How they cry every time they come visit him. How his last boyfriend told him part of the reason why it was over between them was because the apartment gave him the creeps.

Then Marco tells Jean that he wishes that he was more. He doesn't know why he says it. It's a nearly constant thought on his mind, but he barely knows this merman he's talking to. But Jean is different. He could say anything to him right now. So Marco says it. And doesn't regret it directly after.

“What do you mean, more?”

“I mean more than just who I am. Like you—there's nothing ordinary about you, Jean." Even though he's on his back looking up, he tries to shoot a glance at the tail coming from Jean's hips. "I just want to be more than…more than just another fish in the sea.”

“I don't think that's how you use that expression.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I think you're more.” Jean says, almost like it falls out of his mouth. Marco watches him as his eyes go wide, and he can't tell what's going on inside Jean's head as he stays perfectly still for a moment. He almost looks like he got hit with a realization. Finally, he blinks a couple times and that lopsided grimace comes back, and it's late, so Marco doesn't question it. Maybe if it was light out, and they were looking each other in the eyes like this, it would be different. Jean continues, eyes falling away to the water, almost like he's ducking away. “You’re kind. You looked at me in the laundromat like I wasn't obnoxious.” He's flustered now, and Marco tries not to smile. "So, yeah. For what it's worth. I think you're more."

“Thank you,” Marco says, and means it. He's slowly sinking now; he's come down from his back float and has been struggling to keep himself upright. But he kicks his feet harder, treading water the best he can. Jean is now watching the path where they came down here, far over to their right, and he hasn't said anything. And Marco is filled with gentle anxiety and strange feelings for this boy mixed up into the feeling of butterflies. So he pushes his arms out in the silky cold and plunges himself underwater for the first time.

It's so quiet. It's quieter than when he can't sleep, the noisy fan that rotates above him in his room all night preventing this kind of silence. Down here, eyes squeezed closed and nose trickling bubbles back to earth, it's really quiet. Marco savors it, the heartbeat in his ears the only noise around him. He cracks his eyes open, blinking a few times as he searches for the light. Jean's tail is next to him, flicking softly back and forth. Despite himself, he really wishes he could touch it now. Marco traces his eyes up the shimmering tail, to where the scales are melted away into human flesh, and there's Jean, head underwater too, watching him. The light reaches his face, and while Marco's trying to keep his eyes open, Jean simply blinks at him once, his hair floating in all directions around his pale face. Marco floats up then, gasps once, air pouring back into his lungs.

"Wish I could breathe underwater,” he says as he spits water from his mouth, reaching for another breath.

“Me too.” Marco opens his eyes, and Jean is waiting there. "It'd make this whole part-mermaid thing a little less lonely."

"I'd stay down there forever," Marco says in between a breath, and Jean doesn't answer him. Instead, he swims closer.

“Here, I'll try something. Hold your breath." Marco warily pulls in an exaggerated breath, and then without warning Jean pulls him under. In the silence again, Marco slowly opens his eyes to see Jean's amber ones looking back, inches from his, bubbles rising from both of them in the stillness. Jean sucks in a huge breath under the waves, waits for a few seconds, and then Marco flinches as Jean presses their lips together and pulls Marco's chin down with his fingertips, blowing air inside of Marco's lungs. It's the strangest feeling, and some water trickles into his mouth, but Jean's lips are on his, and he can't close his eyes, even if Jean's are delicately closed. Jean's lips are soft, and his fingertip is callused, and Marco sighs out all his extra breath until he needs to surface.

Two figures bobbing in the gentle waves, Marco turns to look at Jean and speak through his wet lips.

“What was that for?” he asks, much softer than he intended. And Jean actually blushes. Marco feels his fin brush against him from how it's nervously twitching underwater.

“You said you wanted to breathe underwater! Sorry I didn't ask, I should have asked—”

“Do it again.” Marco says. There's a pause. And Jean doesn't even respond, just slowly wraps his fingers around Marco's wrist and takes a deep breath with him in unison. Marco thinks he remembers something about mermaids drowning unsuspecting victims, but so be it. If he could die being pulled down in the silence with Jean next to him, it wouldn't be too terrible, would it?

Suspended in the middle of the lake, the light barely reaching them, Marco reaches out to touch Jean's tail. Jean connects their lips and passes the first breath to Marco, who takes it as smoothly as he can. Even with the new oxygen, Jean keeps pressing tiny kisses to Marco's mouth, and Marco returns them the next time he needs a refill on air. He knows Jean's secret, and Jean is kissing him and keeping him alive underwater. Marco touches his tail lightly, smooth and a little slimy, under the water. It's a secret he's more than willing to keep.

Marco is a merman, for a moment. He's been under here for probably five minutes. The next time their mouths connect Marco's tongue brushes softly against Jean's lip and turns the other into a blushing mess even underwater, kissing him hard close-mouthed in the inescapable silence.

 

***

 

They swim together again the next night. And the next. Marco stays up until he sees the sun to finish homework, goes to class while trying not to collapse, sleeps until midnight. And then he meets Jean at the beach.

Jean leaps off of one of the taller rocks in the deeper part of the lake, butt-naked, throwing his hands to the air in glee as he hits the water. They may not have known each other for very long, but Marco knows the sigh of relief that escapes Jeans lungs as he breaks through the water, tail binding his legs together, finally free and breathing. He belongs here, Marco knows that. he belongs with the sort of magic that both he and the sparkling water hold.

The magic to make Marco feel less alone.

Marco's standing on a lower rock, looking down at Jean slithering just beneath the crystal water. Jean swims closer just as Marco takes one step forward and his foot slips beneath him. He falls off his rock and collides with the water, still wearing his shirt. He thinks he hears Jean yell "watch out!" before he hits the surface, like that would stop him.

“What if I'd had my phone?" He cries as he surfaces. Jean is cackling, flinging water from his hair. "Shut up, goddammit." He takes off the soaking shirt and throws it as far as he can to the sand before splashing Jean with a sweep of his arm.

After the first time Jean kissed him, he seemed like he was afraid to do it again that next night they saw each other. So it was Marco, shivering and filled with butterlies, who kissed him right there in the water, just to show him that he wanted it. Pulled him underneath, pressed their lips together. Marco accidentally got water up his nose and sputtered for minutes. But it got the point across.

This time, though, Jean just swims over to him within a few flicks of his tail and twirls him around in the water, kissing him sweetly as Marco tries not to smile through it.

"I love your freckles," Jean says, their foreheads brushing. He takes both of Marco's hands in his and then traces his fingers up Marco's arms, fingers pausing to press into the dots along the way. "They're like stars."

"Cheesy," Marco says, and kisses Jean's nose anyway. He would tell jean that he loves his tail, that it's his tail that really captures the night sky, but Jean pulls him away into a kiss before he can, and Marco eventually forgets what he was thinking.

 

On the first weekend they're together, Jean brings all the food in his apartment and they head to the other end of the lake for the weekend. It means sleeping in the back of Marco's truck and eating day-old sandwiches from a bag, but like either of them care. In a secluded lagoon with nearly-bare trees falling around them like a canopy, car parked up on the bank, Marco gets in the water first.

"Jeez, it's even colder."

"The lake won't freeze over, will it?" Jean asks him tentatively. Marco turns back to look at Jean like he's insane. Of course it will. He has to remind himself that Jean has never lived through a winter by Trost Lake, that he doesn't know that somehow the lake covers itself in a sheet of ice in the winter months.

"Well, yeah, it'll freeze over. Winters over here can get pretty bad."

"Great," Jean says, his toes barely touching the water. "My parents sent me here to hide while they're off doing international studies, trying to find others like me. They couldn't have shipped me off somewhere warmer?" He reaches over and snaps a branch from a tree in between his fingers, staring hard at the sand. Marco feels his heart sink despite himself.

"Well, sorry you're so miserable having to be here." Here with me. Jean catches how he's upset, and Marco barely tries to hide it with a smile as Jean comes over to him.

"I'm sorry, I'm an ass." He takes Marco's face in both his hands. "You're the only thing making it awesome." Marco rolls his eyes, thinking that of course he'd want to be anywhere else. Jean is still looking at him with that intensity, and Marco is finally starting to see what this look really means. "Marco, you're so much more than what you think you are." Jean touches his cheek and looks at him almost sadly. "And I like being here."

 

Jean tries to teach Marco to perfect his backstroke, though Marco still feels like he looks stupid doing it. When they get distracted and Marco snakes his arms around Jean's neck to pull him closer, he forgets everything Jean was trying to tell him about technique. The boy has a tail, after all. What does he know about swimming with human legs?

They sleep in the back of Marco's truck on the shore, a nest of blankets wrapped around them, simply wrapped in each other's arms. Marco wakes to the sound of migrating birds above them, each of their noses pink from the cold, eyelids droopy with sleep.

When they're taking a sunrise swim, Marco touching Jean's chest lightly and loses his mind in Jean's lips. He lets his hands drift lower into the water. He still loves touching Jean's tail, even if he hasn't told him that yet. When Marco slides his hands across the sides of it as Jean sucks on his bottom lip, he moves his hands to a different place—and Jean lets go to make a tiny moaning noise in his throat. Marco pulls back, shocked. Not shocked that Jean could make such a lewd noise, but shocked that he did.

"Sorry," Jean pants lightly. "Mermaid anatomy. Its weird." And then Marco understands. He laughs softly to himself, really understanding it now. From the look in Jean's eyes, he knows that they should probably just head to breakfast instead of Marco trying to ask questions.

But as they eat cereal out of paper bowls that morning, Jean is still blushing whenever he catches Marco looking.

 

***

 

Two weeks later, Jean is lying face down on Marco’s carpet. "I wanna swim,” he whines into the floor. Marco’s gonna step in his drool later, he knows it.

“Last worksheet, I promise,” Marco says, as sweetly as he can. He pulls out his calculator, a piece of paper covered in unfinished math problems in front of him.

"If you wanna be a journalist so badly, why are you wasting your time doing that? You could just take a shot of me swimming around in the pool out there and get filthy rich.” Jean rolls over onto his back, and Marco looks over at this boy on his floor, this extraordinary boy, and frowns.

“Isn't that what you’re trying to avoid?”

“If it means you can stop staying up 'till sunrise and sleeping through my texts, it’ll be worth it.” Marco presses down hard with his pencil. Can’t he just work for a few minutes in peace without actually considering that offer?

"Just go down there, I’ll meet you once I’m done.” Jean grunts as he stands, goes to put on his shoes.

"Fine. But I’m taking this.” He takes Marco’s favorite sweatshirt off the coat rack, lifting it to his nose with a soft smile, while Marco grips his pencil tighter. His eyelashes flutter closed and Marco bites his cheek.

“Whatever, Fishboy.”

"Shut up,” Jean says, muffled by the sweatshirt in his hand as he closes the door behind him.

Just as the apartment settles into silence, Marco gets an idea. Perhaps a really, really stupid idea, but once he’s finished with his work, he does it anyway. It’s probably freezing out there, but Marco goes shirtless underneath his parka, and doesn't put on his swim trunks. Yep, He just pulls on a pair of sweatpants and leaves. Muffin might’ve been giving him a look of encouragement from on top of the couch as he winks a goodbye to her. Or maybe it was doubt.

 

He finds Jean in the water, magnificent tail cutting through the water close to the shore, over by one of the taller pile of massive boulders that litter the cliff. Once he gets Jean's attention up on one of the rocks overlooking the water, he shucks off his parka as Jean starts to laugh.

“So we're doing that kind of swimming, huh?” Marco takes off the rest of his clothes less sexily than originally planned, tossing them on the rocks and then tossing himself into the water. He hits the surface, blows water from his nose, then reaches his arms back up to swims back towards oxygen.

“Graceful entry,” Jean says sarcastically, and Marco splashes him. He cannot believe that he’s been spending all night thinking of this boy, of all people. Also, he can't believe that the boy he’s been thinking about all day has a six foot long fish tail at the moment, keeping him upright in the water while Marco kicks his legs.

“A little help here,” Marco says, the deepest he's ever been in the lake and trying to spit cold water out of his mouth. He's still not good at keeping himself afloat, even with Jean's lessons. Jean lifts his eyebrows as if it's just occurred to him they're not both half fish, and rushes over to hold Marco just above his waist. Eye level again and heart beating madly, Marco kisses him hello.

He tastes the water on his lips and reaches to pull lightly on Jean's hair. Marco's still kicking his feet despite being held, so he thinks to himself what the hell, and wraps his bare legs around Jean's tail. Jean makes a noise of surprise, tail flicking in the water as Marco's tongue does the same to his lower lip. Being in the water has him shivering, but Jean is so warm; warm hands holding him up, warm breath breathing against his cheek as they break apart.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” Marco asks, glancing down at his legs. Jean waves his tail and brings them out further into the water, blue scales throwing reflections onto Marco's bare legs.

“No, you’re…you’re perfect.” Marco smiles as he leans to kiss him again, and Jean deepens it, moving his hands slightly further down his hips and Marco gasping a laugh into Jean's mouth. Their hold on each other tightens, and Marco feels the water on his dick change to something else, something slippery, scaled. Marco rubs it again against Jean's tail, groaning slightly, open-mouthed. Jean makes a smaller noise, leaning his hips forward so Marco doesn't have to buck so far. The texture is amazing, and with the water surrounding him too Marco gives in to a few thrusts against the scales, hard and rubbing and forgetting to kiss for a few moments.

“Tell me…how this mermaid anatomy thing works,” Marco says, slightly shaky. He forces himself to stop so he can catch his breath. “I’m not just gonna get off while you swim here holding me.”

“Okay,” Jean says, still bashful behind his sly grin, and Marco tries to stop his hips again. “I’m gonna hold you slightly higher, there’s a bump—” Jean's hands move, cupping Marco's ass now, the freckled boy half a head taller in the water. And Marco's dick feels it first, a bump in the smooth scales. “Jesus,” Jean hisses, breath going absolutely ragged, as Marco rolls his hips flush against the raised area. Marco could live a thousand lifetimes looking at the way Jean's head falls back, Adam's apple bobbing with a swallow. So Marco does it again. Another thrust of his cock against Jean's tail, and Jean clenches his jaw.

“That's more like it,” Marco says, and kisses the boy below him, who’s looking up at him in a way that Marco wants to frame in the back of his mind. But there's the feeling of a building flame in his lower half, unable to keep himself from bucking against the blanket of water around them and Jean, sighing. Jean thrusts along with him until they have a good rhythm going, especially from how they're starting to make waves around them.

“Wait,” Jean says, after Marco is feeling like he might topple over with the waves. Jean lowers Marco down from his grip, Marco's shoulders slipping back into the water. Jean pecks him once on the lips, and Marco looks back at him, confused and horny, before Jean dips his head under the water. Marco figures out what he’s up to just as his fingers gently pry his legs open, Marco starting to float onto his back, reaching for a nearby rock to grip onto behind him. Jean's lips, usually used to make sarcastic comments or to stay permanently pursed in a frown, kiss the tip of his dick, and Marco gasps up on land.

Under the waves, Jean wraps those lips around him, hand working the rest, and Marco writhes worthlessly in the water. Oh god, he’s sweeping the flat of his tongue up the base and sucking the tip—and he was already so close to begin with. It's all too much, the water cold and his cock wrapped in wet warmth and Marco shudders as he comes. And Jean's mouth stays there, swallowing him down as Marco looks up at the stars, feeling the same thing within him.

Jean comes back to the surface, wicked grin across his face, and Marco blissed out beyond belief. Jean kisses him and Marco tastes his own saltiness, the kiss getting messier and Jean pressing closer to him. But Marco presses a hand against Jean's chest—and pries him off.

“Not finished with you yet.” He sweeps his hand up Jean's tail until he finds the protruding bump again, hand working around it while Jean gasps for air. Marco feels around it, exploring, finding a spot in the bottom that when he presses into it, has Jean shaking.

“Fuck, Marco. Fuck oh god oh god.” Marco flicks the spot again, then rubs the bump with his entire palm, watching for Jean's reaction. The other boy grabs Marco and shoves his tongue anywhere he can, licking into Marco's mouth as the other drags one final finger across the scales.

“Come up on the rocks, I'll return the favor.” Marco whispers to him. Jean swims up to the rocks, still trying to slow his breathing, cheeks flush and looking at Marco like he hung the moon behind them. But he still props himself up, tail falling away, smooth skin replacing scales. As soon as his legs are separate Marco widens them, Jean's cock hard and dripping. Marco's mouth waters despite himself, but he moves slowly, so slow that he thinks Jean's about to stat begging. So he lowers himself down, swirling his tongue around, lifting off to jack Jean a couple times, get him to nearly sob.

“Close,” Jean breathes. So Marco dives back in, takes him into his mouth, closes his eyes softly so Jean can watch him as he takes him down with a few swallows.

Jean falls back onto the rock while Marco pants, on his hands and knees above him. They're smiling softly to each other when a particularly freezing breeze whips against their bare skin, gets them both shaking to the bone.

 

***

 

Winter finals are in three days. Jean has temporarily moved into Marco's apartment, an air matress blown up on the floor next to the window. He says it's so he can be closer to Marco than three floors below, but Marco thinks it's just so he doesn't have to unpack those cardboard boxes still littering his own place. Jean hasn't even touched the mattress set up for him, either. Not that Marco's complaining.

With a new batch of groceries and the radio turned on in the kitchen, they eat real food and enjoy it. Jean isn't that terrible of a cook, despite the profanities that he yells towards the oven every time his casserole burns at the edges. Every meal is a romantic date with the single candle they bought, and Marco's apartment feels full, now. Not just because Jean throws his clothes everywhere.

 

"It's freezing over," Jean says uneasily, looking despairingly out of Marco's window. He loves the way Jean looks in his apartment, even if he's just standing there, looking upset about the current temperature outside. He loves the way Jean's sticks out his lower lip as Marco remembers to answer.

"What happens when it does?"

"Then you have to deal with a very miserable me." Muffin jumps up to the couch to rub her side against Jean, who gratefully bends down to nuzzle her back. Marco swears that cat loves Jean more than him, even after all they've been through together. He's only a little bitter about it.

"Well, if you can tolerate me before finals, I'm sure I can tolerate you without water."

"Oh, save it. You're delightful. Even when you haven't changed out of that stained shirt for two days." Marco looks down. Shit, he's right. He hadn't even noticed. "You keep studying, put on a playlist or something. I'm making us dinner."

"Raw fish?" Marco deadpans. He asks that every time, and every time Jean comes over and wrestles him to the ground until he begs for mercy. But this time Jean goes behind the counter to the fridge, pulling out packaged sushi from inside. His eyes are absolutely on fire.

"How'd you know?"

 

Marco thought Jean went back to his own place, after his first day of finals. But as he opens the door to the apartment with a pounding headache, there's singing coming from the bathroom at the end of the hall. It's an old seventies ballad, Jean's favorite genre, and Marco rolls his eyes to Muffin across the room. She twitches her tail in agreement. Marco takes his time, tired from all the tests, listening to Jean singing to himself, sounds of splashing coming from the bath. Marco huffs a laugh under his breath as he stretches himself out. Jean might be a mermaid, but his voice is anything but a siren song.

When it's too much, Marco finally walks down there and opens the door. Jean is lying inside the porcelain, six feet of a mermaid's tail piling up the wall and the rest of him sitting serenely in a tub filled with water. He does have to to fill his gills at some point, but Marco just hopes that he doesn't flood the apartment.

"You're home!" he says excitedly, stopping his dramatic performance mid-word and smiling up at him. Marco makes a noise of defeat, rocking back onto his heels, and the fin of Jean's tail twitches.

"Finals suck?"

"Yes," Marco says, rubbing a hand over his face. And he can't take standing here anymore. He takes off his shirt, then his pants, folds them and puts them on the counter.

"Good luck trying to fit in here," Jean mutters to him. But Marco just watches Jean's gaze stick to one spot as Marco fully strips and then steps into the tub, squeezing next to Jean's tail and leaning himself back against the tiled wall.

"I love you," Marco says, closing his eyes. Jean's hand finds his, sitting under the warm water. It's quiet, besides the gentle hum of the heater. Never quite that impossible silence Marco can't seem to find anywhere else.

"Love you too."

 

***

 

Jean is pretty unbearable when it starts to snow, though.

"Oh, my god. My gills are fucking pissing me off."

"Are you gonna die?"

"No, but your bathtub is too small. Fuck. Fuck."

"Jean. Please just watch the movie with me."

"The chick dies at the end," he says, and buries himself in Marco's chest. God, Marco loves him with all of his heart but get this boy to a body of water before Marco snaps him in half. He's been reduced to spoiling every movie that Marco's tried to watch.

The conversation continues as they both do their laundry, the fluorescent lights making Jean look half-insane. He's drinking his coffee too quickly out of Marco's Sea World mug, looking like he's ready for death and not helping at all with the clothes. "A bathtub just isn't enough. What if I fed you the crust of a pizza instead of the whole pizza?”

“The crust is the best part.”

Jean looks like he's about to become the murderer in this horror movie of an apartment for a moment. “Oh my god, ew. No. Why do I even like you?"

 

 

So Marco does the only thing he knows for a fact will help. His winter break lasts for two more weeks, and Jean has started just simply staring out windows like the lake will never thaw. Marco hates seeing him like this. He misses the water too, if he's being honest. He keeps having dreams of growing his own tail, of Jean hugging him tight as he realizes he too grew gills on the side of his ribs. He'd woken up slightly empty, as well. It seems like the water had become his home too, in the end.

And so he takes Jean's hand one morning in bed and says "I have a surprise."

"What?" Jean asks, raising his head from the dent he's made in one of Marco's pillows.

"Go get dressed and pack enough stuff for a week. We're going somewhere."

"Somewhere," Jean repeats. "Somewhere where?"

"Somewhere warm." Jean lights up, the tips of his hair glowing white in the light behind him, the snow falling the same color outside Marco's bedroom window.

 

The elevator has been fixed for nearly a month now, but they still take the stairs, hand in hand, synchronizing their footsteps while they walk down the steps. Their bags of belongings bump against their hips and Jean's sniffle echoes across the walls, but that's peaceful too. The lobby is bright and the sun coming in through the windows is nearly blinding. Marco wordlessly squeezes Jean's hand as they walk past the people waiting around in the lobby. Marco waves to a few familiar faces, Erwin saluting him from behind the desk. Walking through the door into the brightness feels like a breath of fresh air, icy all the way to his lungs.

They load up the truck. Marco's been preparing for this all weekend, but Jean seems to be just fitting all the pieces together now. The soft, knowing smiles Marco's been giving. The amount of prepared food that Marco's been hiding in the fridge.

"Where are we going?" Jean asks one more time, coming up to the truck. He throws his bag in the back and Marco pulls Jean's hood up over his head just so he can kiss him underneath it. He can't wait to watch him, touch him, kiss him underneath the water again. He can't wait to stay in the shallows while Jean makes it his goal to touch the bottom of the sea. He can't wait to escape all of this, even if just for a little while.

Marco walks over to the car instead of answering, gets in the driver's seat, waits for Jean to follow and sit beside him. His Chemistry book is lying in the place Jean's supposed to sit, so Marco takes it and tosses it gently in the backseat, hatred burning only slightly less bright. Jean slams the car door, looks over at Marco's hands hugging the steering wheel. His eyes burn bright, child-like eagerness across his face. Marco doesn't feel ordinary at all.

"Well?"

"You're just gonna have to find out."