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There's an ocean.
It's expansive in front him, seeming to be a never ending void.
It's scary, a bit. It's hard not to be scared of something so uncontrollable as the ocean. This is familiar to him, though.
He steps into the water.
It's cold, stings his skin and almost knocks him over from the pull of a retreating wave.
He stays standing, though.
He gets used to the cold for a bit. It's annoying and causes him to shiver, but he stays there.
His hair touches the water, leaving its usual muted yellow curls to become an uglier gray and straight.
The sea foam clings around his legs for a second and washes away the next from a new wave, a new push and pull around him. It tempts him to fall, to join it, to let the murkiness of it cover his soul.
A fog lingers in the air as he stands. The only light visible is the one from his lighthouse, cutting through the growing blur of his surroundings.
He feels invisible, at that moment.
Simply a figure of the fog and the ocean, standing as if it had nothing more to do then watch the waves pass by.
When he dips his hands in the water it's just as cold as he expected, and it almost provides a sense of comfort. The fog grows, though, and it's trying its hardest to cover his home’s light.
Who needs a home, when the ocean is here? It's just as beautiful as any comfort you could get anywhere else.
He knows that's a lie, though. It's one he's told himself many times, and time and time again, he must resist the urge to succumb.
Cold and loneliness is his natural state. His skin used to feel of ice, and his fog surrounded him from view of anyone who may need him. But now, he's warmed by a gentle flame, and it's wonderful just as much as it is painful. He doesn't know how long he stands there, but at some point when the moon is all who's light is visible, there's someone who calls his name.
“Michael?”
The waves around him drown out the sound. The fog thickens, and he can feel the water rise and rise and fall once again in its pattern.
“Michael? Oh, gods, Michael?”
The voice cuts through the air. He had always found that to be the case. It never settled with the waves in its tone, not like Michael's.
He wants to stay in this moment, to let the cold consume him, let the ocean and fog make him one of their own.
“Please, where are you? It's late, come back to bed. Please.”
That won't happen, though. He never stays here. Whether that's a good thing or bad thing, he'd never really know. His voice blends with the sound of the water, growing ever stronger as the time goes on.
“Gerry?”
“Yes. I hear you, can you let me see you?”
The numbness of the cold seems to wear off, allowing it to bite his skin once again. He lets out a simple sigh. The surrounding fog seems to clear just a bit.
“Alright, I can find you in this, I think.”
“Mhm.”
A few seconds later, the once cold ocean seems to heat up. If it weren't for Michael, it may have boiled. Then, a gentle touch to his hand, causing a wave of heat to pass through his arm.
“Oh -”
“There you are.”
Silence. The air is clear once again, making him only feel vulnerable. The face in front of him is flushed red and looks panicked, his black hair a mess and dipped wet at the ends. The air seems to grow warmer by the second.
“..Are you alright?”
Hesitation.
“Maybe.”
Gerry sighs, then grabs Michael’s hand properly.
“Thanks.. let's get you out of here, now.”
The hand pulls him, though he walks slow and stumbles. He feels himself trying to be dragged back to the nothingness, to let himself fall to the fog and the void of the waves.
But, however much the sting of cold and loneliness feels familiar, the slight red tint being given to his hand as it's held is better. It’s new.
So, he follows the trail of boiling water and sparks left in the sand, cooling each with his steps and presence.
Because Michael isn't lonely, not anymore. And, he isn't cold, not the same way he used to be.
He follows into a house, a home, and a bed.
Into burning arms and a warm soul.
The waves taunt him from the ocean, but he's felt that before.
He hasn't felt the safety of palms fitting with his own, heating his body like a gentle fire. Not like this.
So he lets himself deny the pull, and instead relish in the comfort he feels beside someone’s side.