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Bruce was told that if he stood quietly at the edge of the coast where the ocean met the shore in its own triumphant call of waves, if he stood for long enough to watch the world swing through time, he would find something glimmering beneath the surface. He would see it shining, reflecting rays of light bright enough to hurt the eyes of those who admired it. Bruce was told to keep an eye on the glimmering hope until nightfall, when everything fell quiet and wildlife became dull. Where the ocean kept beating on while the world stilled for a moment in time.
Bruce was not at all disappointed, taking a few steps towards the shoreline once he caught sight of a white diamond flickering in the waves. He sat and watched, nibbling on the edge of his hastily made sandwich, the reflection of purity moving across the way, back and forth, side to side, farther from the sand and closer to Bruce. It was a pattern, a story telling in the form of motion, something Bruce couldn't detect. It was unfamiliar, unbeknownst.
The sun died down, the moon taking its place high above the clouds, casting a ring of pale light in its glory. Now all of the ripples in the bouncing waves shared the same silver light as the myth told him about, dancing along to the beat of the ocean's heart. As the moon rose higher, so did the waves, the gravitational pull acting as a puppeteer to its own creation.
He laid to rest, wondering if it all was just a myth, a lacework of careful lies told to innocent children to keep their hopeful and imaginative spirits alive before they all came crashing down like waves submerged by the firth.
That was when something emerged yards from the mainland. A figure. Long hair glowing white in the moonlight.
Bruce sat up, watching with wide eyes, reaching for the bits of cookies and crumbs he had saved. He observed intently, the figure bounding in and out of water, splashes of water flying off, a fountain head surrounded by a marble sea. Bruce stood, stepping towards the shallow waves, wading in a pool of abyssal unknowns.
The figure swam to him, fully submerged until it approached the bed of the sand. Bruce knelt to take a closer look, a thoughtful approach as to identifying what was ahead of him. He dug into the sand, the same way the figure's hands were buried deep in rich, golden crystals just inches before his own, another earthy ancient sea. Bruce gazed into eyes that sparked like the rivers of electricity in a storm. The same coat of blue in a cloudless sky. Bruce couldn't get enough.
"What are you?" He found the words escaping him breathlessly, hesitantly, as if he were afraid of disrespect and foreign mannerisms. He dropped the measly crumbs, his heart following along in a steady pace, and held out a hand, wanting to caress the droplets of water melted onto pale skin, to get a hold of a fantasy from the deep. To brush through blonde locks, twirl them between his fingers like flimsy rope.
The creature did not respond, instead lifting himself out of the deep blue. His tail, serpentine in its form, was casting a light, mirroring from scales that held no visible hue. It was a silver and black painting of whatever loomed above, faint lights flickering in view. Bruce got a look of his physique, something strong, toned, and broad, everything Bruce wasn't.
The gentle plop of droplets falling into the pool drowned out Bruce's own heavy breathing, the creature taking Bruce's hand into his own, their fingers lacing together like an odd concoction of slick and smooth with rough. A smile spread across a bearded face. It was an odd fit, not perfect by any means, yet the miniscule gaps showed light. A hive of dark and day. The creature let go, shuffling back until all that emerged from the water was the faint glow of gold, a metallic shine bobbing in and out of the water.
As it was no more, Bruce had had both his breath and his heart taken away by the waves.
He returned to the stage the following night, awaiting yet another performance, a spectacle for his own private eyes. The sun boiled down to a figment of imagination and the moon soared once more, taking its throne in a cloudless and star-filled sky. Bruce remained patient, settling onto the cooling bed of sand. It would appear again from backstage.
It would.
Bruce reluctantly let his eyes fall shut, chanting a mantra in his mind, holding onto any last hope. He awoke with droplets of water landing on him, on his chest, his neck, the lids of his eyes, clinging onto any surface. His vision adjusted to the world around him, still dark and muddy, yet focusing on the one painting hung before him.
It was him.
A deep chuckle that sent sparks to Bruce's heart, a storm harboring a dock of mighty ships and ravenous seas. A hand cradling Bruce's cheek, a gaze so complex, any one alignment of stars would never explain it. Bruce took no notice of the flashing signs in the back of his head, the voice telling him every decision he ought to make would not end well. He took a fistful of surprisingly dry locks, tugging them towards him, and met the creature with a fantasy of his own.
Bruce's head spun, a rogue planet torn about on its own axis, struggling to regain control of breathing. They slid and locked together like the tide and its beach, a roaring tidal wave of fire bringing sheer heat. Wet, like the ocean. Dry, hot hands like the sand at noon.
Dawn broke free and the gulls cried, the world wakening in its morning glow. Bruce never stopped, never tried to stop, never tried to break free of whatever spell was cast upon him. The tide lowered, as did his body, laying flat on the sand, arms weak from holding his frame. In its morning glory, the creature did not wreak havoc, but instead divinity, a halo of enticing fervor all that Bruce could see.
As the waves parted from the shore, so did the creature, turning back into whatever abyss he crawled out of, leaving Bruce to hold his own and rethink the last few hours.
Bruce waited again that night and the night after, hoping to regain a taste, a sample, of what he tried in the early morning.
It never came back.