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Joe has always known Nicolò was lying to him.
It’s never really bothered him. At first it was because, when a naked man washes up on shore during the worst storm in living memory, there are higher priorities than worrying about his story not making any sense. Later, when everything had settled and Joe only had to host him until the supply ship came back, it became a bit of a game to keep a running list of the holes and inconsistencies in his history, and Joe hoped he might just give it up and tell the truth voluntarily.
And now? Now Joe just doesn’t care, because this is Nicolò. Nicolò who is so solicitous of Joe’s comfort and happiness, it’s easy to forget who’s helping whom. Nicolò who listens to Joe’s jokes and anecdotes and philosophizing with not only infinite patience but infinite interest. Nico, with his inexplicable dislike of shoes and his obnoxiously long baths and his uncanny skill as a fisherman. Nicky who has the ocean in his eyes, who laughs like a gull and snores like the surf and has Joe writing poetry again. Nicky who did not take the supply ship back to the mainland, who doesn’t seem to want to leave any more than Joe wants him to go.
Sometimes Joe imagines that the sea made Nicolò just for him, in gratitude for all his years of attention and care. One night he dreams of Nicky swimming out beyond his sight, returning to the water he came from, and he wakes distraught. Soft breathing from the other side of the room soothes him back to sleep, and by morning the dream is forgotten.
“Oh now this is interesting.”
Nicolò smiles down at the shirt he’s mending. Joe in possession of a new and interesting fact is good for a whole day’s entertainment. Sometimes two. “What have you found?”
“Some scholars speculate that mermaid legends came from manatee sightings.”
Nicky’s laughing almost too hard to speak. “Manatees, Joe? Really?”
Joe isn’t entirely sure what’s so funny, but the laughter is infectious and he struggles to keep a straight face. “Manatees,” he confirms seriously. “And dugongs. And possibly seals.” He pages quickly through the journal. “They neglect to say how long you’d have to be at sea to think a seal looks like a human.”
“And this is what your scholars do with their time? Make up stories to explain what needs no explanation?”
“I don’t know, I find it fascinating. The stories have to come from somewhere, don’t they? And so many cultures tell them.”
“Yes, but everyone knows that- “ Joe just looks at him blankly, and the last of his laughter curdles in his throat. He feels like he’s just swum over a trench, cold and darkness and unfathomable depths below him where there should be sand and stone. Everyone doesn’t know. Joe doesn’t know. Has it really been so long since his last visit? Have landsmen just…forgotten? How can a people simply unknow a fact they have always known?
Joe is still looking at him. “Never mind. What else do they say?” For once, he lets Joe’s voice wash over him without listening and instead runs the past few moons over in his mind. He’d thought it was a joke, a game they were both playing, because of course Joe knew what he was and that his hastily made-up human persona wasn’t real. All those knowing looks and half-smiles… He isn’t sure what would be worse, for Joe to have believed everything or for Joe to think he’s been lying this whole time.
Suddenly he can’t breathe. His gills are clogged and there’s no water pressure to hold him together and the room is closing in and he can’t breathe. Joe looks up, startled, as he struggles to his feet. “I’m sorry, I need to go…out.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine, I just…”
Joe has learned to be patient, has grown accustomed to his behavior (his strange behavior, so strange for a human, because Joe doesn’t know) and he knows not to hover around him. He just smiles kindly. “I understand. I often go for a walk or a swim when I’m not feeling like myself. It’s very grounding.”
Nicolò is already out the door. Feeling grounded is the last thing he needs.
The bed creaks under him, and the shutters creak off to the side, and he can tell by his breathing that Joe hasn't been able to fall asleep either. They're both exhausted, physically and emotionally, but far too tense to sleep. He wishes - well, he wishes for a lot of things right now, but he particularly wants some way to tell Joe that he still wants to be here, that there's something between them to return to even if they can't get there yet.
He's racking his brain, trying to find the right words, or any words, when he hears a soft huff of laughter from the other bed. "At least it would explain how you're such a terrible cook."
He covers his face and groans, exaggerated and delighted. "One time, Joe. I ruined your supper one time!"
"Because I only let you in the kitchen one time!" They're both laughing now, with relief as much as amusement.
"It all smells burnt to me! I don't know how you expect me to tell the difference between good burnt and bad burnt. I think maybe you can't tell the difference either; you just like to torment me."
Joe is suddenly quiet and serious. "Is it torment? Eating cooked food? Have I not been feeding you - "
"No, no, it's fine, I like burnt food, really." He says it teasingly, but Joe doesn't laugh. "Your food is perfect. It's still such a novelty."
"Because you normally can't cook your food."
"Yes."
"Because you're a - "
"Yes, Joe."
A deep breath, as though Joe plans to say more, or perhaps start yelling again, but instead he sighs and rolls over and stays quiet.
Nicky listens to the wood creak and holds the sound of Joe's laughter in his head until he finally falls asleep.
He misses dancing.
The seafolk dance in their own fashion, of course. Far more graceful than anything landsmen can do. They would laugh, some of them, if they had seen him clumsily stomp from one foot to the other. But he misses it. He misses the weight, the staccato beats of the steps, the contrast between the restrictions of moving against gravity and the freedom of moving through air.
He misses dryness, and all the different textures that go along with it. Friction and roughness. The shock, to go from touching someone’s dry skin to touching the intimate wetness inside. Kissing is so different on land. Kissing and… other things. He misses them.
He misses Joe.
As soon as the weather breaks, Joe goes out to survey the damage. The lighthouse itself is fine, of course; the whole point of a lighthouse is to stand against the sea. But the area around it… This is why Nile had begged him to come back to the mainland ahead of the storm. Most of the footpaths are blocked, and some of them can’t be cleared by him alone. It takes him a few hours just to open up the path to the pier, and when he gets there he finds the pier unusable.
It's going to be difficult to repair, and until it’s repaired it will be difficult to get additional supplies. He can’t bring himself to care much. Andy’s going to be furious with him for leaving himself stranded and vulnerable, but for the first time since he met her the thought of her anger leaves him unmoved.
He could have gone. He should have gone. He knows that. But… Nicky came to him in a devastating storm. He couldn’t not be here, if there was even the slightest chance that Nicky might return in one too.
Rather than pick his way back up the path, he goes down to the beach and walks along the shore. Trash, vegetation, the occasional dead fish – it’s going to take a long time to clean up. Add it to the list of things he needs to do but feels no motivation for. He reaches a stretch that’s a little more sheltered, where the slope up from the beach is a little gentler. The rubble has been disturbed in places, almost as though it’s been pushed aside.
Joe tries to think of what kind of tidal phenomenon could have produced such an effect. He holds his breath and slowly, carefully moves closer to look. He finds the print of a bare foot, already half worn away. Nearby, another.
He breathes for what feels like the first time in years, and walks inland.