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It's the middle of summer, sticky-hot outside. The sky is clear, and the air smells sweet and clean, the way it always does after a big rainstorm. It's been raining for weeks on the quiet Maine coast, but the sun has finally started to shine in earnest. The harbor is buzzing with activity: boats are bobbing up and down the shoreline and the pier is crammed full of people, men and women and children, all laughing and strolling and fishing, a clamor of noise almost as loud as the waves against the sand and the whip of sea-breeze wind.
Richie Tozier is ten years old, and his father is taking him deep-sea fishing for the first time.
He's carrying his rod proudly, careful not to poke or prod anyone with it. He's supposed to be carrying the tackle box, too, but he's practically trembling with excitement and his father decided it would be safer to hold it himself. Richie is keeping a careful eye on it, though, making sure he doesn't run too far ahead so he can keep tabs on his dad and the sturdy dark-green box.
This is how he manages to run into the largest, most intimidating woman he's ever seen in his life.
She's not much taller than him, but she's very wide and her fleshy face is pinched and shrewd. She looks at him like he's no better than the sardines that will be squirming on the end of his line soon enough. Her eyes are beady and blue, and her hair is thin and unkempt, tangled around her round face. She's wearing a coat despite the heat, clutched close around her throat. It's brown and smooth, the only beautiful thing about her.
"What where you're going, young man," she says in a voice so sickly sweet it makes his teeth ache.
Richie wants desperately to assure her that she's much too big for him to miss and it's just unfair to expect him not to run into her when she's practically blocking the whole pier, but he's struck suddenly silent by the boy that peeks around the woman's massive rear.
He's tiny and timid-looking, made smaller by the tree-trunk legs he's hiding behind. Everything about him is a soft-looking shade of brown, his eyes and his skin and his hair. His eyelashes are very long and there are about a thousand freckles dotted across his nose and down his arms. He parts his lips as if to say something, and his teeth are sharper than Richie expects, dangerous-looking. Maybe Richie should be afraid, but he isn't. There's nothing all that frightening about the boy, despite his strange teeth. Mostly, he just looks sad.
Richie's dad has caught up to him by then. "C'mon, Rich," he says, his hand on Richie's shoulder. He nods to the woman and gently pushes Richie out of her way. Richie goes, but his eyes stay firmly on the boy, who stares openly back.
Something about him makes Richie feel strange. He has the weirdest desire to take the boy's hand and run. But that's just stupid. His dad would be really mad, and so would that horrible, mean lady.
His father is still guiding him firmly along the pier. The woman has moved on, too, her hand gripping the boy's upper arm. He looks like he wants to yank away but he doesn't, following a half-step behind her, his head hanging down.
It all happens very quickly. Richie watches them almost disappear into the crush of people, his eyes stuck on the boy as if he's magnetic. There's not enough room for a woman that size to dodge the crushing crowd, and she's jostled several times. The coat draped across her shoulders loosens, then slides off, slick-looking and heavy. The boy's eyes get very wide and he grabs for it, but the woman still has him by the arm and he's jerked away before he can reach. The coat hits the ground and is trodden on by several people who don't seem to notice anything has happened.
Richie, without thought, jerks out of his dad's grip and dodges through the throng of people. He picks the coat off the ground. It's a strange texture, like silk but much heavier. It's even more beautiful up close. Richie has a strange, unbidden thought that he should just run off with it, but then he looks up and the boy is staring at him, his eyes huge and dark. He looks half-terrified, and he's not even paying attention to the lecture the woman is giving him.
"Excuse me," Richie says, interrupting the woman mid-sentence. She looks at him, then looks down at his hands. Her eyes go wild. She makes a mad grab for the coat, but Richie is much faster and he avoids her hands.
The boy's mouth opens, baring those dangerous teeth. "Please," he says, and Richie doesn't really know what he's asking for but he shoves the coat at him anyway, almost on reflex.
The woman gives such a wretched cry that several people stop and look at them. Richie's father is shouting his name, sounding angry. But the thing Richie hears the most is the tiny, choked-up noise the boy makes, clutching the coat with desperate fingers.
He looks at Richie, and his deep, fathomless eyes have welled up with tears. "Thank you," he says, and, clutching the coat to his chest with one hand, reaches out with the other, touching Richie's cheek. "Thank you."
He turns, then, and disappears, almost faster than Richie can see. Richie stands on his toes to try and find him in the crowd, but there are too many people and, besides, Richie's father has caught up with him, grabbing him firmly by the shoulder so he can't escape again.
His father cancels their fishing trip, complaining the whole while about Richie's behavior and how he never listens, but Richie tunes him out. He follows his father back to the car, strangely silent, and thinks about the boy and the beautiful silky coat that had so perfectly matched his tan, freckly skin.
Richie never quite gets the hang of fishing, too anxious and impatient and loud, but he loves the ocean. He loves the salty breeze, the sun-warm sand, the push-pull crash of waves against the shore. His father owns a small boat and keeps it docked year-round in the marina, and sometimes if Richie has been especially good, he's allowed to take her out.
He never sails with any particular purpose. He just likes to get away, rocked delicately by the sea, guided by the current. He doesn't swim often, mostly because it's too cold for most of the year, but he sometimes dangles his feet in the water and stares into the depths, both fascinated and haunted by what might be beneath his toes.
It's mid-summer, and his father has agreed to let him take the boat for the day, because Richie is seventeen now and more than capable of sailing by himself, and because it will get Richie out of the house for awhile. Beverly is joining him, like she usually does. Richie has known Beverly for a long time, and they're about as close as two people can be. His parents think they'll get married one day, but Richie privately doubts that. Beverly is his soulmate, but his heart belongs elsewhere.
Sometimes he jokes that his only true love is the ocean. Sometimes he believes it.
They're on the dock, loading the boat with food and fishing tackle and a few bottles of liquor that Richie pilfered from his mother's secret cabinet. Richie has just knelt down to unwind the ropes tethering the boat in place when someone quietly clears their throat behind him.
The boy standing there is so strangely familiar that Richie clambers up to face him fully, taking him all the way in.
He's probably the same age as Richie, but he's smaller, probably a full head shorter. His hair curls sweetly around his ears, soft-looking and brown. His eyes are nearly the same color, reflecting almost gold in the sunlight, and his skin is healthy and tan, constellated with freckles. If he smiled, Richie knows his teeth would be sharp.
There is no reason Richie should remember this boy from that one time on the pier, but he does.
"Oh," he says, rather lamely. "Hi."
"Hello," the boy says. His voice is not as child-soft as Richie remembers it, but it is still rather high-pitched, melodic. It reminds Richie of the whisper-gentle sound of waves lapping the side of his boat. "Do you remember me?"
Richie nods, feeling sort of dazed.
The boy smiles at him, and yes, his teeth are sharp. "I remember you, too," he says. He takes a step forward and reaches out, enveloping Richie's hand in both of his. His skin is smooth, like silk. "I'll never forget you."
Richie honestly has no idea what is happening. His mouth opens and, without thought, he asks, "Would you like to come with us?"
He motions to the boat with the hand the boy is not holding, where Beverly is watching them with interest. The boy regards her, expression suddenly wary, and he releases his grip on Richie's hand.
"Is that your wife?" he asks.
Richie laughs, even though the boy doesn't sound like he's joking. "No. That's my best friend, Beverly." Beverly, hearing her name, waves. The boy slowly raises his hand and returns the gesture, looking very cautious about it. "I'm a little young to be married, don't you think?"
The boy raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "My mother was married when she was very young," he says. "Fourteen years."
"Your mom got married at fourteen?" Richie demands. "No offense, but that makes your dad kind of creepy."
The boy waves his hand dismissively. "She wasn't married to my father then."
"Oh." Richie contemplates that. "So she got divorced? Good for her."
"Divorced," the boy repeats quietly, almost like he's testing the word. He gives a firm nod. "Yes. Something like that."
Richie gets the distinct feeling he's missing something vitally important. Talking to this boy sort of makes him feel like he's standing on uneven ground, fighting to stand upright. The boy looks very amused by Richie's visible struggle, a tiny grin playing at the corner of his mouth. He's unnaturally pretty, sun-kissed and smiling, and Richie can't help but gesture at the boat again and say, "Please come with us."
The boy's smile fades and he sighs, a longing, bittersweet sound. "I can't," he says. "I have to go. But I'll see you again."
Something inside Richie aches at the thought of this boy disappearing again. He still remembers how it felt the first time, staring into a crowd of people, hoping against hope for another glimpse of him. "You're not going to make me wait so long this time, are you?" he asks, caught between playful and pleading.
The boy's expression does something strange, dipping into sorrow before smoothing into serenity. "I'm happy to see you," he says, and he touches Richie's face, the same way he did the first time they met, when Richie returned his coat.
"Wait!" Richie cries when the boy starts to turn away. The boy hesitates, looking at him with those ocean-deep eyes. "What's your name?" he asks, sounding as strangely desperate as he feels.
The boy regards him for a long moment. "Eddie," he finally says.
"Eddie," Richie repeats, just to taste it. "I'm Richie."
"Richie," Eddie echoes, and looks very pleased. He flashes those too-sharp teeth, a fond smile, and says, "I'll see you soon, Richie."
Eddie disappears as quickly as Richie remembers, loping down the dock until he's out of sight. Richie stares after him for a long time, startled back to reality only when something touches his shoulder. It's Bev. Her eyes are soft and worried, and she touches his face in the same place Eddie did. Her hands are rough by comparison. "Who was that?" she asks.
Richie doesn't know how to explain, mostly because he doesn't really understand it himself. "His name is Eddie," he tells her, and guides her back onto the boat before she can ask anything else. He loosens the ropes and steers the boat into the open water, looking back at the shore several times until it finally disappears from sight.
Richie really thought he would be out of this town by now.
He promised himself he would leave as soon as he turned eighteen. That didn't happen. And it didn't happen the next year, or the next.
And now, here he is, twenty-four years old, stuck in the same place he was born.
It feels almost like he's trapped.
Or like he's waiting for something.
He still spends all the time he can on the sea. He has his own boat now, and more often than not he sails out late at night, lying on the deck underneath the endless stars, rocked to sleep by the waves. He always wakes up to the glaring morning sun in his eyes and a crick in his neck and a smile on his face.
It's not a bad life, all things considered. But something's missing.
It's the middle of June, warm but not yet hot, and he has a rare morning off work. He's determined not to waste it. He calls his friends to make plans, but Bill and Mike are working and Stan never answers his phone when Richie calls, the bastard. Ben is out of town, which means Bev is home alone with the kids. Richie is good with her two girls, arguably the favorite uncle, but she won't bring them out because she gets all anxious about them being out on the open water despite that being the exact way they themselves were raised. Richie privately blames this on Ben, who moved to town from big-city Chicago and had never seen the ocean before in his life. Richie likes Ben, liked him even before Bev married him, but he can't help but pity the poor man, who has a strange, unnatural fear of the water.
Richie sits on the dock and dips his feet in the glistening sea and can't imagine ever being afraid of it.
Someone sits beside him, cross-legged, making no move to swing their feet next to his in the water. Tan skin gleams in the sun, dark and freckled. Richie knows exactly who it is before he even fully looks up.
Sure enough, Eddie is there, smiling at him with his strange teeth in full view.
"Hello again," he says, his voice quiet and familiar, like it hasn't been seven years since Richie has seen him.
"I thought I dreamed you," Richie replies, which is not at all something he actually meant to say out loud.
Eddie laughs, and the sound is like music. He leans in so that his shoulder brushes Richie's. "I'm real," he promises, and he feels like it, too, solid and warm and so much more than the ghost that has lived in Richie's head and haunted his dreams all these years.
"Where have you been?" he asks, his voice sort of scratchy and broken-open.
"I wanted to come back," Eddie says, and it's not quite an answer but then Eddie reaches out and takes his hand and he forgets the question. Neither of them say anything for few long seconds. Eddie stares at the ocean, and Richie stares at Eddie. There's a strange look on Eddie's face, caught somewhere between longing and sorrow.
Richie stands, pulling Eddie to his feet. "We have to do something," he says, perhaps too earnestly. "Who knows when I might see you again?"
"Another seven years, maybe," Eddie replies, and it's almost a joke but not quite. Richie ignores the anxious way his heart jams up in his throat at the thought of Eddie disappearing yet again. Richie has spent so long trying to convince himself that Eddie was a figment of his imagination that he can't bear the thought of watching him slip through his fingers now that he's here.
"Exactly," he says. "If you're going to stay away so long, I have to make sure you remember me."
The look Eddie gives him is suddenly somber, his hand clutching tight around Richie's. "I could never forget you," he murmurs, his voice low and insistent. Richie feels sort of strangled. He wonders helplessly how he can feel so much for someone he doesn't even know.
He clears his throat and starts to lead Eddie from the dock.
"Wait," Eddie says suddenly, and pulls his hand out of Richie's grip. Richie is half-afraid he's going to disappear again, but all he does is reach behind a nearby stack of ropes, freeing something dark and wet and soft-looking. Richie has not seen the coat in over a decade, but he remembers it. He remembers the silky-soft way it melted under his fingertips, as warm as something alive. Without thinking, he reaches out and touches it.
Eddie goes stock-still, staring at him with those huge eyes. His fingers are gripped tight around the coat, white-knuckled, like he's afraid Richie is going to tear it away from him. He looks terrified, but when all Richie does is give an appreciate hum and draw his hand away, his whole boy sort of... collapses, and he sways into Richie's space, lips parted and panting. Richie wants to ask what's wrong, but he doesn't get the chance before Eddie kisses him, full on the mouth, deep and searching. Richie is helpless to do anything, shell-shocked, but the kiss doesn't even last long enough for him to return it before Eddie is looking at him, eyes heavy-lidded.
"Thank you," he says, a whisper.
"I don't know what I did, but remind me to do it again," Richie returns, his voice very soft. He can't bear to break the delicate tension between them, the pulsing tenuous desire.
Eddie smiles and, just as suddenly as he darted in, pulls away. He drapes the coat across his shoulders and laces their fingers together, motioning for Richie to lead the way.
They spend the day together, doing everything and nothing. Richie shows Eddie around the town. Eddie apparently spent several years there as a child, but he hasn't been back in a long time.
"It's a lot different than when I was young," he says, and he looks sort of sad about it, a little lost. Richie hates it, so he takes Eddie to the ice cream parlor that's been around for forever and feeds him from his own spoon until Eddie looks pink and pleased.
The day goes too quickly. At the end of it, when the sun has just dipped down over the horizon but everything is still illuminated by a hazy shade of reddish-orange, they stand on the beach together, face-to-face, wrapped up in each other's arms like lovers.
"Why do I feel like this about you?" Richie whispers without really meaning to. It just makes no sense. He's dated girls, and he's dated boys, and none of them have ever made him feel like Eddie does.
Which is patently ridiculous, considering Richie has met Eddie just three times in his entire life.
Eddie's eyes sparkle like the ocean in the dim evening light. "How do you feel about me?" he asks.
"Like I've known you my whole life," Richie admits. His voice is quiet, almost overpowered by the pounding waves, but Eddie hears him, his eyes all lit up, his lip bitten delicately between his teeth. "Like I'd wait another seven years to see you again."
Eddie's entire body trembles, and the coat shifts on his shoulders, like it might fall to the sand. "Would you?" he asks earnestly. "Would you really?"
Richie wants to say that he'd probably wait a hundred years if Eddie asked him to, but he's almost afraid Eddie would take him up on it. He nods instead, his hand cupped gently around Eddie's jaw.
Eddie kisses him then, for the second time ever. Richie is much more prepared this time and he manages to kiss back, firm and fervent. They stand just like that for awhile, twined together, sharing secret smiles until Eddie finally untangles himself. "I have to go," he says. He does not look at all happy about it. He clutches his coat around his shoulders and looks out at the ocean for a long moment. "I wish you could come with me."
"I wish I could make you stay," Richie returns. Eddie's hands fist around his coat tightly, and Richie thinks for one strange moment that he's going to remove it, but instead he envelops himself more firmly inside it.
"I'll see you soon, Richie," Eddie says.
"Not soon enough," Richie says. He wants more than anything to chase Eddie down and beg him to stay, but he doesn't. Instead, he stands on the beach and digs his toes into the sand and watches Eddie walk away until he's just a dark shadow, and then nothing.
By the time Richie turns thirty-one, he expects Eddie to return. He doesn't know when it will happen, exactly, but he has faith that it will.
It's mid-November, almost too cold to be out on the water. Richie has stubbornly continued returning to the dock, even after most everyone else has abandoned the marina for the winter. He doesn't mind the chill, even when the icy breeze off the ocean stings his eyes, even when his hands go numb on the ropes, even when he has the first thread of doubt that Eddie might not come back.
He does.
He's waiting for Richie beside his boat early one morning, while it's still mostly-dark out and very cold. Richie is just tired enough to think maybe it's another dream. For a long moment, they simply stare at one another.
Then Richie has Eddie wrapped up in his arms, hands feeling all across his silky skin. "I missed you," he sighs. He presses his face into Eddie's hair, where it smells like salt and home. "I missed you."
Eddie clutches him hard, shaking. It suddenly doesn't feel so cold.
He takes Eddie home with him. It's the first time Eddie has ever seen where he lives, and he spends a long time exploring the place, running his fingers over the spines of books, fiddling with the knobs on the stove like he's fascinated by the spark of flame. He tidies Richie's cutlery drawer and washes out the few dishes left from Richie's breakfast, ignoring Richie's half-embarrassed protests. He sits on Richie's bed and looks like he belongs there.
They sleep together, then fall asleep together, tangled in the bedsheets.
When Eddie wakes, it's in a blind panic. "What time is it?" he demands, and Richie groggily gropes for the clock on his nightstand. Eddie only relaxes when he realizes only a few hours have passed and it's just now nearing sundown. Richie knew he wasn't going to stay, but it's the first time he realizes there's a time limit, that Eddie doesn't want to leave but has to.
Richie rolls onto his side and props himself up on his elbow, looking at Eddie's sun-kissed body, stark against the sheets. "You're not human, are you?" he asks. It's not the first time he's had the thought.
Eddie looks caught somewhere between surprised and resigned. "I'm not sure what you mean," he says, but his voice wavers.
"You're a mermaid," Richie accuses. He's heard of them before, beautiful creatures who seduce unwitting sailors. He's never believed in them, but if he can fall in love with someone he's met a handful of times, then mermaids can certainly exist.
Eddie's face relaxes and he raises his eyebrows, lifting the sheets and looking pointedly beneath them. "I have legs," he points out.
Richie pauses. "Good point," he says begrudgingly. He rolls over on top of Eddie, pinning him to the mattress. "Then what are you?"
Eddie does not look at all displeased by the change of position. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he says, his hands coaxing delicately through the mess of Richie's hair. He spends enough time in and on the ocean that it's forever rough and tangled, but Eddie manages to guide his fingers through without tugging. Richie thinks he's supernatural for that alone.
"I'd believe anything you told me," Richie says.
Grinning, Eddie says, "The sky is green."
"And what a beautiful shade of green it is," Richie replies.
Eddie says, voice full of laughter, "The ocean is orange."
Richie, feigning outrage, says, "I'll fight anyone who dares say otherwise!"
Eddie's expression goes from fond to fearful to fearless in the span of a few seconds. "I love you," he says.
It's sort of like all the air gets sucked out of the room. Richie feels a little light-headed. "Tell me that one isn't a lie," he says, voice faint and imploring.
Eddie touches his face. "I love you," he says again, more firmly.
Richie believes him. "I love you, too," he admits. Eddie looks like maybe he's going to cry, but instead he gathers Richie to him and kisses him deeply, desperately.
Richie wants love to be enough to keep Eddie from leaving again, but it isn't. He gets dressed amidst slow kisses and refuses to let Richie follow him from the house. He collects his coat and gathers it around his shoulders. Richie's hands skate over it when he cups the back of Eddie's neck, drawing him in for one final kiss. It's as silky as Eddie's skin, the exact same tan-dark shade. There are several dark marks spattered across it, almost like freckles.
Something in Richie's brain unlocks, but before he can ask, Eddie is gone.
Richie has done his research by the time he sees Eddie again.
It has taken him years of devoting his spare time to textbooks and fantasy novels and old ship logs, anything he can get his hands on. Mike helps sometimes, and so does Ben, both of them far more intimately acquainted with the local library than Richie is, but for the most part Richie keeps his research to himself. The last thing he needs is to let someone else in on Eddie's secret.
Eddie returns to him on his thirty-eighth birthday. He thinks maybe it's a coincidence, but Eddie says, timidly, "I have a present for you."
Richie doesn't know what more he could ask for besides Eddie's return, which is by and far the best present anyone has ever given him. But then Eddie slowly, painstakingly takes the coat from around his shoulders and presents it to Richie. Richie accepts it with careful hands, cradling the silk-soft skin, dragging his thumb over a particularly dark mark he can remember kissing on the curve of Eddie's shoulder blade, a full seven years ago.
"I know what this means," he says, his voice low and tremulous. He's very near the edge of overwhelmed tears. "I know what you are."
Eddie does not look all that surprised. His face is mostly expressionless, except his open eyes, as deep as the ocean and just as fathomless.
"What am I?" he asks.
"You're a Selkie," Richie says. Eddie's face scrunches up tight, looking almost disgusted. "What? Did I say it wrong?"
Eddie shakes his head, expression uncoiling into a small, amused smile. "That's the word your people use, not mine."
Richie considers that. "What should I call you, then?"
Eddie stares at him. "You should call me Eddie," he says. He takes a step closer and closes his hands over Richie's holding them tightly so that Richie's fingers sink into soft silk. "You should call me yours."
"Mine," Richie repeats helplessly.
Looking very pleased, Eddie nods. "Yours," he agrees. He looks down at the coat between them. "This is yours, too."
Richie licks his lips nervously. "I don't want to keep you prisoner," he says.
Eddie looks back at him, his brow creased. "What?"
"I've read the stories," Richie tells him. "I know that you can't leave if I have your coat."
Of all the things Richie expects Eddie to do, he does not at all expect Eddie to laugh.
"Oh, Richie," Eddie sighs sweetly, smiling up at him. "I don't want to leave."
And, really, the only way for Richie to respond to that is to kiss him. It's a slow kiss, unhurried.
For the first time in their lives, there's no time limit.
Eddie settles in surprisingly well to life as a human. He’s excellent around the house, passionate about cleaning and cooking. He loves to read. He loves music. He loves to sit on Richie’s lap and kiss him senseless.
He loves Richie, and that’s the best part.
Sometimes, he’ll visit Richie at the marina like old times, and Richie will catch him staring out at the ocean, a longing look on his face. Richie will quietly remind him that his coat is carefully, lovingly stored in their shared closet. Eddie never hesitates to shake his head. “I miss the water,” he says every time, “but I’d miss you more.”
Three months after Eddie comes to stay with him for good, Richie comes home with a small, crushed velvet box.
“What’s this?” Eddie asks him when presented with it. Richie doesn’t go down on one knee because he’s already nervous enough, and besides, Eddie wouldn’t even really understand the gesture. He just takes Eddie’s hand and places the box there, leaving him to open it for himself. He gasps quietly at the ring inside, glittering under the light, like the sea reflecting the sun.
“I don’t have a coat to give you,” Richie explains when Eddie looks at him, rubbing a nervous hand over the back of his neck. “This is the best I can do.”
Eddie looks between him and the ring for a long time, then flings himself at Richie, arms tight around his neck. They hold each other for awhile, and then Eddie pulls away to fit the ring on his finger, flexing his hand to watch it shine in the light. He puts it on the wrong hand entirely, on his index finger, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all.
According to the storybooks, with Eddie’s coat hanging up in Richie’s closet, Richie owns him.
Watching Eddie beam up at him and then down at his ring, he realizes that Eddie owns him, too.