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Elias did not cry. He was on the edge of it, sure. There was the tightness to his sinuses, the pressure behind his eyes that signified that he was close to tears. He would keep any visible indication deep within himself. He could not risk his tears hitting the water.
That was one of the more absurd versions of the stories behind the selkie, the woman who sat and cried into the sea, and once her seventh tear hit the water, her lover had returned. He internally sneered at the notion, ridiculous. The ocean would hardly notice seven extra salted drops joining it.
...But. Perhaps Peter would be able to sense the loneliness behind the gesture. Would the tears turn to mist? Would he be able to feel the tug of their meaning, even so far away? He wasn't sure. There was only so far the Lonely could see, especially when Peter wasn’t paying particular attention.
Elias knew he wasn’t. Not to him. The obligation of the cool metal on both of their hands didn’t change that fact. But still, he didn't cry. He didn't usually.
He sat on the docks, tipping his head back to the stars that had just started to peek their way through the dusk. It was starting to get cold, now. Dark. And there was no sign of the ship that would signal his lover’s return.
He told himself it didn’t matter. He leaned back, legs dangling off the edge, and closed his eyes.
Sleep was an interesting thing as an avatar of the Eye. He dreamed of fog and mists, black fins and silver whiskers beneath the merciless, but deceptively calm, waves.
When he drifted back into consciousness, there was the tell-tale heat of drying water on his cheeks.
He felt the vibrations of the boots before he heard them, walking across the wood with a purpose, causing it to creak and groan from the effort of the weight of a single man. The boots stopped, and Elias opened his eyes.
There was the familiar face above him, handsome and rugged. Upside down. He needed a shave, or at the very least a trim, and Elias suspected he would have to fight him for it. Peter always did dig his heels in for the most infuriating things.
Did he have more freckles than before? His cheeks were red from the sting of the ocean, or from the burning of the sun, Elias couldn’t tell. His contemplative, observant, silence wasn’t kept for long, as those pale blue eyes stared into his. They almost seemed to glow in the dark, with the moon to reflect their lighted colors. Peter’s weight shifted, uncomfortable from being seen. He no doubt wondered if Elias was taking the opportunity to delve deeper, unearth some secret deep in his brain. Even so, he didn’t look away. A little satisfaction brought itself into Elias’ tone. “Hello, Peter.” Peter’s eyebrows were drawn together with confusion.
“Elias.” Is there something you needed? He could practically hear it in the echo of the hiss of the s in his name. Elias sighed, tearing his eyes away and sitting up.
“No, Peter.” He felt a twinge in his neck, how long had he been sitting there? His tone turned disapproving, rubbing at the spot with a sour expression. “You’re late. ”
“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“I asked when your ship would make port.”
“Yes, but you didn’t say anything else.” Ah, there it was. That stubborn, petulant response to being told he’d missed something. A social cue that Peter felt entitled to not pick up, and entitled to a lack of blame associated with it.
Elias didn’t push it. He extended a hand out, up to Peter.
“Help me up.”
He didn’t feel the need to cry anymore when the hand closed around his without hesitation, hauling him to his feet. He felt the tension bleed away, exhaling in satisfaction. It was always endearing when Peter did what was asked of him.
“And?” He added. Peter snorted, draping the coat over Elias’ shoulders. Elias wrinkled his nose, feeling cold water soak through his blazer. It almost completely overshadowed the feeling of power that he got from its return. He had no doubt that was intentional, and imagined Peter 'accidentally' dropping it into the water before returning it. One of his less extreme rebellions, but Elias voiced his displeasure anyway. “This is wet , Peter.”
“Is it?” Peter asked, innocently. “Maybe if you had been patient and waited a few minutes before demanding it, it wouldn’t be!”
“You’re an awful man.”
“You knew what you were getting!” Was the cheery response.
Elias sighed and began to walk. Peter fell into step beside him. His steps didn’t make any noise, this time. It was only Elias’ oxfords, which he placed down carefully, avoiding any particularly pungent wet spots as they made their way to his car. Fish, brine, it didn’t matter. Elias did not wish to bring it with him.
A thumb brushed his cheek, and a question was uttered from its owner.
Elias didn’t grace it with a response.