Chapter Text
If somebody were to ask Simon if he believed in the stories his sisters were told before bed– monsters and shite– then he'd respond with a completely serious yes.
From early childhood, he'd been raised with stories of monsters and Sidhe, his mother raising him to be respectful of nature and the supernatural, always telling him to mind his manners, never tell anything his real name, and to always carry silver, sage and white rosemary.
And that's exactly what he did, through every voyage, every clash of steel and fire of cannon aboard his father's ships; his pockets laden with herbs and metal.
Simon had salt in his blood and steel at his back from the moment he could walk a deck. Son of a merchant, they called him, though *merchant* was a generous word for the kind of trade his father dealt in—smuggling, shadow deals, cargo that changed hands in the dark of night and never saw a ledger. Their fleet was sleek and fast, armed just enough to outrun or outgun whatever trouble came calling. And trouble always came.
Simon had been raised for it. Not with kindness, but with command—taught to fight before he could write, to navigate storm and skirmish alike with the same cold precision. He earned his place not through blood, but through sweat and scars, through loyalty that bordered on obedience. On deck, he was silent and sharp, the perfect weapon his father could point at anything that threatened their reputation.
But summer was his escape.
Every year, when the sea routes quieted and the risk waned, Simon left. Not in defiance, but in a quiet agreement he and his father never spoke of. He came to the island manor, where no one called him "son" with expectations wrapped in iron. Here, the sea was something gentle. The sun, not a threat of exposure, but a balm. And the silence wasn’t a tactical pause before violence—it was just… quiet.
No orders. No fights. No waking in the middle of the night with the echo of swords and gunfire in his ears. Just the wind through the cliffs and the distant call of gulls, long afternoons and evenings playing in the grounds with his step sisters, taking them down to the beach and the market on the south of the island for sugared citrus and chocolate almonds.
It wasn’t freedom, not entirely. But it was the closest he’d ever come.
And gods, he clung to it.
And while he'd never gotten full confirmation of monster-folk existing when he'd been younger, he did now.
Sunbathing on a large rock, the selkie was laid out, bare as creation, his seal skin laid beneath him. Oh and how gorgeous he was….chestnut hair,corded muscle and blue ink and sweet saints his mouth started to water.
He'd been shocked, gasping in awe at first; of course he’d heard of them, but never imagined one would stray this far south, to the warm waters of Myrth. Simon’s feet tripped him over the rocks before he could compose himself, sending the beautiful creature splashing back into the tide.
From then on, he'd done his best to befriend him.
His name was Johnny…or Soap as he offered instead. And though Simon was not able to squeeze very much of his past from him; he’d gathered that he was from RathKell, up in the north sea; though he would not say what had carried him all the way down to their little island bathed in the warmth of the world. At first, he spoke little—just nods and short answers, his green eyes guarded, always measuring. Trust wasn't something he gave easily Simon had come to conclude; it had been broken too many times before. But over time, the silences between them grew less heavy.
The other man didn’t push, didn’t pry—just stayed close, steady and unchanging, like the tides they sat by in those long afternoons in the sun. They shared quiet moments: a fire crackling between them, the occasional shared joke that brought the smallest smile to his face, that made that scar tug his lip up in a quirked shape and oh how jealous Simon was of that twisted pink tissue that got to constantly kiss him…
Simon never asked for more than the moment offered. Never pushed this sweet creature into giving more of his story than he wanted to.
It started small. A shared laugh over something stupid. A sidelong glance that lingered a second too long. One afternoon, in the warmth of the high sun, when the world outside felt far away and the quiet made it easier to speak, Soap let something slip—a half-formed memory of mortals and chains and the theft of his skin, a sharp edge of pain buried deep. His breath caught as soon as the words left his mouth, looking like he may bolt back into the deep. And though Simon’s heart ached to hear this story, he let Soap go on, the words spilling easier than the wine that Simonhad stolen from the manors kitchen for the pair.
That was the turning point, though neither of them named it. The wall didn’t come down with a crash; it softened, cracked, shifted. Soap started talking more—not much, but enough. Enough to be seen. Enough to feel the weight on his shoulders lift just a little. He found himself listening in return, offering his own quiet steadiness back in the presence of the stories of Simon ’s father. And in those slow, steady exchanges—glances, words, silences—they built something between them. Not perfect. Not easy. But real. Something like trust. Something that felt, to Simon anyway, more home than the walls of his beloved summer house.
It threw him off a little, if he was completely honest with himself.
Simon made his way down the narrow, winding path that led to their secluded beach, the early morning light brushing the sea in soft gold. The cliffs above still held the coolness of night, but the promise of warmth clung to the breeze that tugged gently at his cloak. Each step was quiet, the crunch of gravel underfoot muffled by the hush of waves below.
He walked slowly, not in a hurry to reach the shore—more drawn than driven, as if something waited for him there. Or someone. His thoughts, as they often did lately, circled back to him—the way he sat with his skin and eyes full of still water; the way he listened without interrupting, without trying to fix anything. Simon wasn’t used to that. Most people rushed to fill his silences, to smooth things over. Soap didn’t.
As he reached the sand, the tide low and stretching far, Simon paused. The sky opened wide above him, and the sea glimmered with that strange, quiet kind of beauty that made you feel both small and infinite. He exhaled slowly, letting the air fill his chest, then leave it again.
He thought about the way Soap had looked at him the night before—not with expectation or confusion, but with something simpler while he spilled his past out at his feet. Something steady. It unnerved him, the way it made his chest ache and ease at the same time.
Standing there alone with the morning, Simon realized he didn’t come down here to enjoy the silence anymore.
From the water, Soap watched him.
The morning light caught on the surface in ripples of gold and pale blue, softening the world into something dreamlike. Half-submerged, just beyond the reach of the waves, Soap floated in the hush of the sea, his seal skin clinging close beneath the water. Only his eyes broke the stillness—dark, watchful, unwavering—as they followed Simon ’s slow descent down the cliff path.
He came like he always did, shoulders slightly hunched against the soft wind, hands buried under his cloak, no doubt bringing more from the house to show the selkie, gaze cast downward as though each step held some unspoken weight. But Soap saw more than the morning weariness—he saw the quiet grace in Simon ’s movements, the way the sun caught in his dark hair, the faint crease between his brows that softened only when he reached the sand.
Soap watched him the way the tide watches the moon—drawn, instinctive, helpless in the quiet pull.
A pull in Soap’s chest he didn’t quite have words for—not human ones, at least. It was more than curiosity now, more than the thrill of watching a creature so unlike himself. It was the way Simon stood at the edge of the shore like he belonged to neither land nor sea, like he, too, carried something old and aching inside.
Soap swam a little closer, just enough to see his face more clearly. Simon wasn’t smiling, but there was something looser in the lines of him this morning. A softness. A quiet that matched the rhythm of the tide.
He wondered, not for the first time, what it might be like to stand beside him on shore, not on a hidden strip of sand and rock, not hidden in the waves, not cloaked in the old magic of the sea, but real—seen. Known.
He hadn’t meant to linger this long, hadn’t meant to keep returning day after day, but Simon … Simon had a way of making the shore feel less like a boundary and more like a promise.
Simon paused at the water’s edge, the early light catching in his hair, a faint glow outlining the sharp line of his jaw. He stood there for a long moment, gaze sweeping across the rolling tide, his eyes thoughtful—searching. Soap held still, just beneath the surface, but something in the air had shifted.
And then—Simon looked directly at him.
No fear crossed his face. No surprise, not really. Just a quiet recognition and a soft smile, like he’d been waiting for this moment without knowing it. Slowly, Soap surfaced, his dark hair slicked back, seafoam clinging to his skin. His seal coat lay hidden behind the rocks, but even without it, the wildness of the water still clung to him.
They didn’t speak at first. Simon only offered the faintest of smiles and crouched down, slipping off his boots and stepping into the shallows. The cold bit at him, but he didn’t flinch. Soap watched him come closer, cautious but open, as if testing the shape of something fragile between them.
“I thought I saw you before,” Simon said quietly, his voice nearly lost in the wash of the waves. “Up on the cliffs. Thought maybe I imagined you.”
“You didn’t,” Soap replied, his voice low and even, like stones turned over in the surf. He’d considered it, more than a few times- Simon ’s offers of inviting him up to the house always overhanging like a welcome shade when the sun burnt salt into his skin from staying near the surface too long.
They stood there, still, the silence no longer a barrier but a shared space. And then, without fanfare, Simon sank down onto the damp sand, folding his legs beneath him. He reached into the canvas bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out two worn books, their pages softened by time and salt air.
“I didn’t know if you could read,” he said, almost apologetic. “But I thought… maybe you’d want these.”
Soap stepped forward, water trailing off him like a second skin. He sat beside Simon , close enough to feel the heat radiating from his shoulder, close enough to smell the faint scent of ink and old parchment. He took the books gently, reverently, as if they were offerings from another world.
“I can read,” he murmured, fingers brushing over the covers. “Not much, but I like it.”
The sun rose slowly behind them, painting the sea in hues of amber and rose. Together, they sat in the growing warmth—one born of morning light, the other from something more human, more tentative.
Simon leaned back on his hands, letting the sun touch his face. “Then maybe I’ll bring more.”
Soap turned the book in his hands, the corners of his mouth tugging into a rare, quiet smile. “I’d like that.”
And for a long time, they said nothing at all—just the waves, the books, the morning, and the slow, steady rhythm of two people beginning to share something they hadn’t known how to name.
The afternoon unfolded like a dream too soft to disturb.
They stayed long after the sun had climbed, the warmth of it sinking into their backs as the tide slipped in and out like a slow breath. Soap had read in silence at first, his eyes tracing each word like it was something precious, foreign and sacred. Simon leaned back on his elbows beside him, occasionally glancing over—not at the book, but at Soap’s face, catching the way his brow furrowed when he focused, the way he smiled when something clicked.
Eventually, the book was closed, the sand beginning to cool beneath them. Soap had shifted closer, knees drawn up, arms looped around them. Simon passed him an apple from his bag, and they shared it between laughs that came easier now, natural and warm, carried on the sea breeze like gull cries.
Simon had just finished telling a story about the manor’s creaky stairwell and how a painting once fell in the middle of the night—“nearly took me with it”—when Soap grew quiet. His fingers toyed with a piece of driftwood, gaze fixed on the horizon, lips parted slightly like he was weighing something delicate in his mouth.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said at last, voice low and careful, like testing the feel of it out loud. “About what you said. About the island. The house.”
Simon straightened a little, heart giving a quiet thud.
Soap looked over at him, sea-glass eyes steady. “I want to see it. The rooms, the shelves, everything. I’ve only ever watched from the water… and I think—” He paused, a faint flush rising to his cheeks despite the chill. “I think I’d like to know more. About what’s on land. About you.”
The wind lifted Simon ’s hair as he searched Soap’s face, caught somewhere between disbelief and something too big to name. He’d made the offer weeks ago, almost casually, not expecting it to land. But now, here they were, and the space between them felt suddenly smaller, the world around them a little less separate.
“I’d like that,” Simon said, soft and certain.
And Soap smiled, not wide, but real—like a door finally opening inward.