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It’s only on the full moon. Perhaps some would consider it a blessing, and others a curse, but for Harry, it’s simply a way of living. Once a lunar cycle he gets to coexist between planes, step out of the water like the first curious fish of eons ago, and walk between the reeds and daffodils and then, further along, amongst humans.
He’s never really sure what to make of them. Humans, that is. They generally just kind of leave him alone most of the time, if there are even any about in the dead of night. It suits him fine when the streets are bare; he enjoys spending time with the moon.
He passes by someone, a woman with medium-length hair, who looks at him with a curious brow. He recognizes her, and he can tell she vaguely recognizes him and is desperately trying to place him. Of course, the last time he saw her he had a very different body with very different parts, so tonight he just offers a polite smile and moves on. That was a very fun night, but he shouldn’t push his luck with her a second time.
It’s always a tossup what he’ll get when he leaves the lake, what the daffodils decide to gift him with as they kiss his scales away. Humans are weirdly particular with presentations, which is something he has never understood. It doesn’t really seem very fun that way.
Nymphs are -- well. Not really different, as presentation is incredibly important, but it’s in a much different way than humans. Focused more on algae collections and the school of colorful fish that swim in one’s hair than on the mating parts. Not that nymphs really cared about making bits match up regardless. Mating season is just one big mass of the entire lake’s population over the nest of eggs and it all ends up working out. Only a few weeks away, that. Always a fun time.
Harry passes by a neon sign; it catches his attention because it’s new. Definitely wasn’t there last time. Humans move so fast, here to there and up and down, never stopping very long to reflect and think: maybe we should leave that alone. There was a time, once, when things seemed much slower; it took decades to accomplish something rather than just one year, or even less, these days. Harry swears he saw a new building come up on the far side of the city between one full moon and the next.
There’s more people than usual walking along the pavement, so he has to politely excuse himself past a group before he can get a closer look at the new establishment. Decades ago his favorite karaoke bar had been here; then it turned into a bookstore, and then a record store, and then for a short while a laundromat run by one of the funniest women Harry has ever met in his life, and then it lay empty for a long time. He’s noticed, too, with the upcropping of things to actually do in downtown (clubs, mainly), people tend to stay out much later.
“Obito Sushi” is on the front door, painted in gold. “OPEN 24 HOURS/7 DAYS A WEEK” is just under it in a dark green that reminds Harry of the daffodil stems in the moonlight. When he pushes the door open, a bell tinkles, followed by the woman at the counter calling out that she’ll be with him in a minute.
He rustles in his pockets for a few moments, coughing as he conjures up a bit of magic to turn some spare scales into money. He’s the only one in the establishment, except for the cashier at the counter and the chef in the kitchen. Harry’s had sushi before, he’s not stupid. He wishes he could go to Japan to try the real thing but this is as close as he’ll ever get.
“What can I get for you?” The cashier asks. She’s pretty. Blonde, but Harry thinks it might not be natural. Olivia, her name tag says. Her voice reminds him of salmon roe; there’s a gentle salt, a succulence, there.
“Um,” Harry looks at the menu briefly. “A dragon roll, I think. And something with salmon. I don’t care what.”
“Anything else?” She asks, ringing in his order.
“Just some water, please.”
“Great. It’ll be out shortly.”
Olivia cashes him out, hands him his drink, and leaves him to select his own table. He’s got the pick of the litter, really, so he chooses the booth by the window in case he wants to do a bit of people watching. He rubs his fingers together in his pocket, muttering to himself, until he conjures up a book he’s been trying to work his way through for the past few full moons. Books don’t exactly work well underwater, so these nights are all he gets with them.
When Olivia comes back from the kitchen, she has four plates and a soda bottle.
“Mind if I take my break with you?” She asks, except not really, because she’s already sat down.
“Sure,” Harry says anyway, because he’s not sure what else he can say.
“Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” Olivia remarks through a bite of her own sushi roll.
“I only come into the city once in a while.” Harry finds it easiest to leave it vague. He follows up his answer with a drink of water, hoping she’ll let him leave it alone.
“What for?” She takes the hair tie around her wrist and puts her hair up into a ponytail.
“Just to be a tourist for a bit.” He breaks open his chopsticks and picks up a dragon roll piece, eating the entire thing in one bite. Harry moans a bit at the taste; it’s incredible.
“Good, right?” Olivia asks. “The head chef during the day is the owner, he was raised in Japan, and the chef back there now, Brandon, is his son-in-law. Between you and me, Brandon makes the better sushi.”
Maybe he doesn’t need to go to Japan for perfect sushi after all. He’s never had anything more delicious in his life.
“Very good,” Harry agrees in the understatement of the century, taking another bite. He becomes engrossed in the sushi, in the way the flavors explode on his tongue; the perfect spice of the sauce, the crispness of the nori, the softness of the rice, the way the unagi and the shrimp come together in his mouth. Incredible.
“So, what do you do when you come to the city?” She takes a swig of her soda, her ponytail swinging behind her.
“Um,” He pauses to think. And think. And, well - “Not much. Walk around. See what’s new since last time.”
“Anything new, then?”
“Yeah. Here is new. It was empty for a while, and a laundromat before then.”
Olivia creases her brows.
“Laundromat?” She looks up and stares at him for a few moments. “How old are you?”
He remembers when the Romans invaded and then left, remembers how much Excalibur gleamed at the bottom of the lake and then in his own hands and then in Arthur’s, remembers listening to Shakespeare write his plays by the far side of the lake and how he’d say the lines out loud just to see how they sounded. He desperately tries to remember how old he’s supposed to look, here, now.
“Twenty…eight?” He guesses. Olivia’s bemused smile tells him what he already knows - he was unconvincing.
“Okay. Sure. You’re twenty-eight, then.” She steals one of his salmon rolls, even though he’s a customer and she’s an employee. He doesn’t mention it. Doesn’t even really mind. “Twenty-eight and somehow knew a laundromat was here.”
Billy Joel’s “Scenes From an Italian Restaurant” starts to play over the speakers. A bottle of white, a bottle of red, perhaps a bottle of rosé instead… It weirdly seems like Billy Joel himself has dropped by to save Harry the embarrassment of trying to navigate that conversation.
“Bit of an odd song to play in a sushi place, isn’t it?” He smiles wryly, and Olivia laughs.
“Yeah, Brandon back there loves to put on all kinds of stuff. We were listening to country music the other day, then disco, and now apparently Billy Joel. He always picks something fun, it’s great.”
“You like working the overnight shift?” He pushes the conversation further away from where it had been.
“Much better than daytime, yeah. I like that it’s usually dead so I have time to read, or listen to a podcast, or something. Mostly I write, though.”
The air conditioning cuts on, even though it’s cold outside. Harry buttons his jacket up a bit more.
“You write?”
“Screenplays, yeah.” She nods, smiling. “Maybe I’ll let you read one some day. If I ever manage to finish one.”
Harry smiles back at her, thinking of Shakespeare and how he used to worry about the same thing. Will it ever be done? Will it ever be good? Will anyone care?
“I’d love that.”
And on the night goes, the music on the speakers in this sushi restaurant providing a perfect soundtrack for their conversation. Billy Joel to Fleetwood Mac to Phil Collins to Elton John. Olivia shares with him that she’s recently divorced and living with a friend and trying to figure things out; Harry shares pieces of his family and friends (sans Nymph-centric details, of course). They share their love of stories, and how connections can be made across the years with long-dead authors that once shared one’s same struggles and passions. How much they love music, and dancing.
Brandon comes out of the kitchen then, and tells Olivia she can go home early if she wants. He can handle the rest of the shift alone. She gets up, taking the dishes to the kitchen, and hangs her apron and hat up a few minutes later. When she comes back to the table her hand outstretched.
“Wanna go for a walk?” She asks. Harry is more than happy to take her hand.
The moon is halfway through its nightly rotation, and if he times things right, he has about four hours left with her. He can make that work. He and the moon are old friends.
The streets are much quieter at two in the morning, but all the lights are still on. They pass an occasional person but for the most part they’re very much alone, wandering around. Olivia points out things to him that he’s never noticed about the city before; having only one night every few weeks isn’t enough for him to notice everything, clearly.
She shows him more than one used bookstore that he makes note of to check out next time; a record store that specializes in picture discs only; a comics shop; a local jeweler and watchsmith; a printmaker; a pet shelter with the tiniest kittens he’s ever seen sleeping in the window.
When they walk past a soft pretzel stall that is still somehow open, they get a regular soft salted pretzel and a sweet cinnamon pretzel, with a cheese dip and a bit of honey, to split. Eventually, they make it to the fog filled park, sitting down on a bench to watch the stars.
“So,” Olivia starts after a few moments of peace and silent reflection, “my grandmother owned the laundromat.”
Harry chokes on his pretzel.
“So I’m assuming you’re not actually, y’know, twenty-eight or whatever. She believed in all kinds of things; ghosts, vampires, witches, magic, and she loved nothing more than telling me about it. My dad didn’t like it but I could never get enough. It all just seems so…” Olivia pauses, and sighs, wistful. “It all seems so romantic, y’know? The idea that anything’s possible.”
Harry nods.
“The laundromat closed when she got pregnant with my dad and had to move. She told me all about it before she passed a few years ago; said it was her biggest regret in the world.” She pauses for a few moments. “Can you tell me about it? Do you remember her at all?”
Harry does remember, so he tells her. Stories from that weird period in his life where he went to the laundromat once a month and pretended to wash a random article of clothing just to chat with the owner. She was kind and sweet and took the time to get to know people; not unlike her granddaughter, Harry notes.
“It’s weird hearing you talk about her like a friend. Like you’re some vampire or something.” Olivia squints at him. “You’re not, right?”
“No. I’m not. ” Harry laughs.
“What are you, then?” And when he meets her eyes, they remind him of the lake. Of home.
Harry looks up at the sky; not much time left , the moon whispers.
“I can show you,” Harry offers. “I need to get going soon. I can explain on the way.”
Olivia nods, and they leave the park hand in hand.
By the time they get to the lake, the moon is setting.
“This is, um,” Harry awkwardly gestures at himself. “This is the part where I have to give the clothes back.”
“Back?”
“To the daffodils.”
“Right,” Olivia nods, like it makes any kind of sense. “Where do they get the clothes from?” She asks, and Harry shrugs.
“I don’t know. They’re usually just there, at the end of the path for me. I used to not wear them, a long, long time ago, but I figured out pretty quickly that humans don’t really care for that.” Olivia laughs at that. “I’ve wondered where they come from a few times, but like most things in my life, I think they’re just part of however this thing works.” He begins unbuttoning his jacket and folds it up, giving it a small kiss, and putting it into the daffodils. The kiss isn’t required, he doesn’t think, but he likes to give these items a special goodbye. His shirt next, and then the trousers.
The daffodils kiss at his bare skin, scales erupting where they touch him, blooming around until he has steadily-growing patches.
She lays a hand on his arm, stopping him before he takes his pants off. They pause a few moments in this touch, the precious seconds dripping away from them.
“You’ve been around...a long time, right?” She asks, voice hesitant. Harry nods. “Do nymphs ever stop aging?”
“Only when they’ve found their mate.”
She takes a deep breath.
“And how can you tell when that happens?”
“When we notice we’ve aged.”
Olivia sighs. “Right. So not for a while, then.”
Harry slides his arm through her hand until he can take it in his own.
“No, not for a while.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to her cheek. “Although, we usually get a pretty good idea.”
The moon slips below the horizon, and he steps away. His body is beginning to change, and he needs to get into the lake.
“My grandmother always said she could see the future in daffodils. That their faces gave everything away,” Olivia whispers, like she doesn’t dare to break the still of the night. Just them, the wind on the lake, and the daffodils.
“And what future was revealed to you? When you looked?” Harry asks, slipping into the water backwards, trying to face her for as long as possible. He relishes in the feeling of wet rushing over his gills as they spread from his ribs. His scales are a rippling, deep green that camouflages him in the algae.
“All I saw were scales. Little, shiny scales,” she says, reaching her hand out and stroking over Harry’s cheek. He can feel where a few get dislodged on her fingertips; she pulls away and when she presses her fingers against her lips in some kind of transferred kiss, the scales glisten.