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The night is quiet, gentle waves and chirping crickets filling the air with white noise as twilight finally descends, beating out the last vestiges of sunlight. Scott and Martyn sit side by side on the steps of Martyn’s back porch, silence stretching out between them as they watch the tide lapping at the shore.
Even at night, the water gleams, catching every sliver of light in the darkness and dancing with their reflections. Martyn keeps his eyes on the inky black surface, finding comfort in the endless, unknowable expanse. To some, it may seem strange—the ocean is a vast body built of salt and uncertainty, and mystery begets fear. Who is Martyn to find solace in one of the great mysteries of this planet? For Martyn, though, the ocean is not a mystery best left unsolved, but a puzzle to put together, and there is nothing Martyn loves more than finding new pieces to slot into place.
Well, almost nothing—if love is a word that even applies here.
Every minute sat outside, Martyn has been all too aware of Scott’s body next to his, emanating a gentle warmth as the evening air cools around them. Over the course of the evening, while watching the sky reflect off of the ocean as the day cycled from sundown to dusk, Scott has been inching steadily closer to Martyn. Martyn hasn’t said anything about it, but now Scott is nearly shoulder to shoulder with him, not a word between them.
Sometimes, with Scott, it’s better without words. These moments of silence, where they are both free to simply exist in each other’s presence, are something Martyn treasures beyond words. But sometimes, sometimes Martyn wonders about what’s left unsaid between the two of them. What words never leave their lips because they assume that, even unspoken, they’ve been heard.
Martyn wonders if it would break them, if they said those things aloud.
Martyn’s hand is at his side, casually resting against the wood of the deck, but he startles when something brushes over it, feather light. Martyn glances down to see Scott’s hand hovering over his own. When he looks up, though, Scott is still staring at the sea, eyes fixed on some point past the horizon line.
Martyn wraps his fingers around Scott’s, finishing the motion, and hopes he’s picked the right answer, though he’s not sure what question he’s responding to. Then he turns his own gaze back to the sea, watching as the tide ebbs and flows, pulled by a force it cannot reach but has no choice but to follow.
---
When Martyn first came to Coral Cove, it was early spring. Gray weather hung heavy overhead, teasing the threat of rain. Sunlight, when it came, was weak, trying to find its way back to the brilliance of summer after a winter spent wasting away. He wasn’t meant to stay long, just enough time for his grandfather’s funeral, and a few extra days with family. Martyn remembers going out on a small boat, just him and his closest family, and scattering the ashes out at sea. He remembers finding out that Pops had left Martyn his flower shop—his pride and joy—and his house, if Martyn wanted. And here, in the town he’d visited since he was a child, the place that always made him feel like a kid again, the place where he first fell in love with the sea… how could Martyn say no?
Martyn remembers meeting Scott. It must have been his first or second day at the flower shop, trying to figure out how to run a business and questioning his decision to stay, not for the first time. He’d been neck deep in papers when the bell on the door gave a cheerful chime.
Tired from paperwork and floundering in his own inadequacy, Martyn hadn’t exactly been receptive to company, but Scott, as Martyn quickly learned, could match Martyn’s stubbornness without faltering.
Martyn remembers looking up, a snappish remark on his lips that died when he caught sight of the unwelcome visitor. His first thought, Martyn remembers to this day, was that he’d never seen someone so colorful . Bright blue hair and vibrant attire notwithstanding, every inch of Scott’s arms was covered in tattoos. Colorful ink spiraled in sleeves from his biceps to his wrists, disappearing under his shirt and peeking back out again at his collarbones. His voice was nothing short of melodic, and within five minutes of meeting him, Martyn didn’t know whether to be repulsed or enticed. Either way, Scott had him completely hooked.
Scott has always been an equal mix of infuriating and enthralling, and for whatever reason, Martyn kept letting him come back—kept coming back to him, in turn.
---
It’s been a few years now, and visiting each others’ shops has turned to visiting each others’ homes has turned to moving so seamlessly within each others’ lives that it’s hard to remember, sometimes, that their existences are not one and the same.
Scott and Martyn live in separate houses—Martyn is very fond of the little cottage his grandfather left for him, and Scott enjoys being able to live above his workplace—but their spaces have spilled into each other until Scott’s jacket practically lives on the back of Martyn’s couch, and Scott always keeps Martyn’s favorite cereals in his cupboards, and they each have a spare toothbrush and pair of pajamas and set of day clothes at the others’ house, because they never know when they’ll need them.
And it’s not like the idea of living together has never come up, either. Martyn one asked, only half joking, if Scott wanted to move in with him, since they spent so much time together in the first place, and between the two of them, Martyn had more space. It’s how Martyn knows that Scott loves his little apartment above the tattoo parlor, too much to give it up—not yet, at least. So they live separately, but their items are strewn about each others’ living space, and they both have keys to the other’s home, and—
It’s an almost sickening play at domesticity, like two lovers whose worlds are steadily merging together, entwining until they are inextricable from one another. Martyn wonders, sometimes, why that isn’t what they have—why the love he weaves into his life doesn’t look how it’s supposed to, or fit in the right boxes. But he’s tried to stop worrying about it—how can he care about a thing like that, when what he has with Scott is everything he could possibly want?
But what is it that you have? a traitorous voice pries. You don’t even know. How can you have everything you want when you don’t even know what you have, or what you want?
Sometimes, over the years, Martyn has dared to wonder what exactly his and Scott’s relationship is, but as time has gone on, those thoughts have felt far less pressing. Whatever he and Scott are, it works for the two of them. Martyn won’t risk changing anything by saying what’s been left unspoken.
---
Martyn turns away from the sea again, and finds that Scott has done the same. How long has Scott been looking at him, pulling him apart with an intensity that Martyn might almost call love?
In moments like this, when his thoughts overtake him, Martyn thinks to just ask Scott: What are we? Maybe Martyn wouldn’t care what the answer was if it meant he could know , for certain, what they were supposed to mean to each other.
There was a night, a few months ago, where Scott had gone to start the dishes in Martyn’s house, a house he didn’t even live in, and Martyn had never felt so loved and so lost . He’d almost asked— What are we? —but then he’d caught sight of Scott by the sink, aglow with contentment, a small smile twisting at his lips as he hummed over the clinking of silverware and dishes. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be sharing their lives with each other. With Scott looking like that, how could Martyn ask such a question? With Scott looking like that, Martyn almost thinks he knows the answer.
---
Surprisingly, it’s Scott who breaks the silence. “Martyn?”
“Scott?” he answers, wondering if Scott has somehow read his thoughts. Knowing Scott, Martyn wouldn’t be surprised.
“I have something I want to tell you,” Scott says. His voice is even, conversational, but he won’t meet Martyn’s eyes. Martyn doesn’t know what to make of it.
“Okay,” Martyn prompts, trying to match the lightness in Scott’s tone.
Abruptly, Scott leans in, close enough for Martyn to count every freckle on his face. “You know the folktales, right?” he asks, eyes wide with an almost desperate intensity that doesn’t match his casual tone. “About the sea. Selkies and mermaids and monsters in the depths, right?”
“Of course,” Martyn says, wholly confused but deciding to play along. Playing along is often the best course of action when it comes to Scott.
“Did you know that they’re true?” Scott says, still with that same tone, like what he’s saying doesn’t matter at all—or, at least, that’s what he wants Martyn to believe. Martyn realizes suddenly that it must be forced, that Scott is keeping things conversational to hide whatever it is he’s really feeling. It makes Martyn’s stomach twist, even before he processes Scott’s words.
“I… what?”
Scott takes a deep breath, and finally, finally , the facade drops. Eyes hauntingly serious, he reaches out. Caresses Martyn’s cheek as he says, “Watch.”
Scott breathes in again, and closes his eyes. On the exhale, things begin to change.
Martyn’s eyes can’t decide where to focus. The freckles on Scott’s face and tattoos across his body are slowly changing into spatterings of iridescent blue scales, gleaming and shifting as though they can’t decide if they want to be green or blue. Gills paint themselves onto Scott’s neck, and translucent fins unfurl in the place of Scott’s ears, matching ones appearing on his forearms and calves. The hand on Martyn’s face brushes strangely against it, and when Martyn reaches to take Scott’s hand in his, he sees that Scott’s nails have elongated into claws, and blue webbing stretches between his fingers. For as long as Martyn’s known him, Scott’s hair has always been a particularly vivid shade of blue, but now it seems to glow , emanating a soft halo of light.
Scott opens his eyes, and his sclerae are darker than the night sky.
Martyn tries to speak, but any words shrivel up on his tongue. Moving without thinking, he raises a hand to Scott’s face before remembering himself.
“Can I…?”
Scott gives a half smile, looking at Martyn with an unmistakable fondness. “Yes, you can touch them, Martyn.”
Martyn brushes his thumb over the scales on Scott’s cheekbones. They’re firm and, well, scaly, and slightly cool to the touch, scattered about like the freckles Martyn has always known Scott to have.
As the foreign sensation registers, curiosity washes away the last of Martyn’s shock. This must be breaking some sort of rule, one of the unspoken tenets of their relationship, but Scott’s expression remains calm and affectionate. Right now, what remains unspoken is the last thing on Martyn’s mind, when one of the mysteries between him and Scott is finally out in the open for Martyn to know, to understand.
Martyn’s not sure how he looks to Scott, as he traces his fingers over these new features. Reverent or confused or any of the numerous emotions that he can’t put a name to. Or maybe he just looks impassive.
But Scott keeps watching him, with eyes as dark as the midnight zone. He follows Martyn’s finger with his gaze when it’s visible; he lingers on Martyn’s face when it isn’t. As always, Scott is hard to read, but Martyn tries not to let that phase him. He knows Scott, something he’s never been more certain about, and Scott knows him, and even as Martyn struggles to wrap his mind around the fact that Scott is a mythical sea creature, he is acutely aware of the trust that has just been handed to him.
Martyn runs his hand along Scott’s arms. Unlike his face, the scales are far more dense here, covering his arms like the tattoo sleeves Martyn has always known Scott to have. It’s as disorienting as it is comforting, that even when Scott has turned his world upside down, Martyn can’t help but find familiarity in every part of him.
Scott finally puts an end to Martyn’s curious exploration when Martyn reaches to trace over the membrane stretching between Scott’s fingers. Scott stops him by twining their fingers together—as best as he can with webs, anyways.
Breathlessly, Martyn meets Scott’s eyes. Scott, for his part, seems almost amused, but the ghost of apprehension still lingers behind his expression.
“You’re a mermaid?” Martyn finally splutters.
At this, Scott lets out a laugh. It’s a small thing, but it still makes Martyn’s heart lift. Whatever worries Scott was holding back earlier, Martyn can only hope they’ve been assuaged.
“Not a mermaid,” Scott corrects dryly. “A siren. There’s a difference.”
“Right, you don’t have a tail,” Martyn muses, thinking out loud.
Scott laughs again, but then his expression sobers. “So?”
“So…?” Martyn parrots, not understanding.
Scott groans. “So, I’m a mythical creature! Don’t you have anything to say about that?”
And, well, really, some part of Martyn thinks it’s kind of hot, but he’s not going to say that for fear of crossing an unspoken line in their unspoken relationship.
Good grief. Somehow, Scott being a siren is the least confusing thing about him.
“It’s cool,” Martyn says, instead of voicing all of this. Then he slaps himself, mentally. “I mean, that is to say—I don’t mind. You’re still my… you’re still Scott, yeah?”
Martyn hadn’t noticed it before, the tension coiling in Scott’s shoulders all night, but watching the way Scott relaxes, it feels impossible to miss.
“Yeah,” he affirms, with what Martyn knows is a genuine smile.
And then, because Martyn’s filter is unreliable at best and because apparently it’s a night for sharing secrets, Martyn lets the words that had lived in the back of his mind for so long spill over.
“Scott?”
“Yeah?”
“Scott, what—what are we?”
Scott’s eyes widen for a second, but his grip on Martyn’s hand doesn’t falter. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, we—” Martyn feels crazy, trying to put words to something that’s been left unsaid for so long. “We spend so much time together, we basically live at each others’ houses, we hold hands and cuddle, and don’t get me wrong, I love it, I love everything we have, but what does it mean ? What are we , Scott?”
Scott, to his credit, thinks for a second, thumb rubbing over the back of Martyn’s hand. Martyn takes the moment to continue taking in his appearance. Scott looks absolutely ethereal, scales glinting in the moonlight, hair swaying in the breeze. For a delirious moment, Martyn thinks that Scott looks like the ocean itself, every piece of the thing that Martyn loves so much bottled up in the shape of a man.
“Well, we’re Scott and Martyn,” Scott finally says. Like many things that Scott says, it’s as frustrating as it is reassuring.
“Well, I know that,” Martyn quips, but it doesn’t sound half as joking as he’d like.
“I don’t know,” Scott says, and it isn’t mean. “I mean, we’re not boyfriends. I don’t want to be your boyfriend.” A sudden flash of apprehension falls across his face. “Do you want to be boyfriends?”
Martyn does have to take a moment to think, but eventually, decisively, he shakes his head. “No, I don’t,” he says. “I don’t want to kiss you, and I’m not in love with you, or anything like that.” Martyn pauses, then adds, “I do love you, though. Is that okay?”
Scott tells Martyn he loves him all the time, but Martyn rarely returns the sentiment. How can he, if he doesn’t know what it means to him? It is far easier to show Scott the ways that he cares, and let him draw his own conclusions. In this moment, though, Martyn thinks he just might know what love means to him. It is Scott, washing dishes in a house that is his in all but name. Coming to bother Martyn during his lunch breaks. Curling into Martyn’s side after a long day. Sitting in front of him, here and now, with scales scattered across his body and eyes that stare straight into Martyn’s soul—though that isn’t something that’s changed. That’s love. It must be. Maybe not in the traditional sense, in the way it’s supposed to be, but who decides what that is, anyway?
“Of course,” Scott replies without missing a beat. “I love you too. Is that enough?”
And it should be, of course it should be, but Martyn hesitates.
And Scott sees right through him, because he wouldn’t be Scott if he didn’t.
“What?”
And there they are. At the root of it, the crux of every insecurity Martyn has, every hesitation and second guess. All that’s left is for Martyn to say it.
“I don’t know,” he finally admits, and it feels like a weight off of his shoulders in spite of the guilt it awakens in his gut. “It should be. But…”
“But?” Scott prompts when Martyn takes a moment too long to continue his train of thought. There is no judgement, no hurt, only unadulterated curiosity and concern.
Martyn finds himself thinking that this must be what it means to be loved. It is a thought he has often, with Scott. Somehow, without either of them realizing it, Scott has become Martyn’s definition for love. Where does that leave them?
“But that still doesn’t explain what we are to each other,” he finally finishes, fixing his eyes to the ground as the words finally fall from his lips and take shape in the world.
“Does it have to?” Scott asks gently, after a moment’s thought. “We both know what it means.”
Scott’s dark eyes are so earnest. Martyn can’t bear to look at them for too long.
He wants to agree with Scott.
He should agree with Scott.
“But what if that’s not enough?” After a silence stretching far too long to be comfortable, those are the words that Martyn finds to contain this mess of feelings he has for Scott.
Scott looks at him questioningly, encouragingly. But Martyn can’t find words for what he wants, whatever that may be. He shrugs helplessly.
“Okay,” Scott eventually says, when it becomes clear that Martyn isn’t going to say anymore. “What do you want us to be?”
“I—what?” It’s a logical question, but it’s somehow one Martyn wasn’t expecting. “I don’t—I don’t know. I don’t want to be your—your boyfriend, or your lover, Scott, but I don’t think we’re just friends . But what else is there?”
Scott seems to seriously think about this.
“Partners,” he eventually says, decisive. “Not boyfriends, not lovers. Partners.”
“Partners in crime?” Martyn suggests, grinning like a fool. Partners . He really likes that.
“No, no, like—life partners.” Scott knows Martyn’s just trying to push his buttons now, but he still responds seriously. It makes Martyn’s heart swell. “Is that okay?”
“Perfect,” Martyn responds. Then, with a wink and a smile and the worst southern accent imaginable: “Howdy, partner.”
Immediately, the care on Scott’s face flips to annoyance. “Martyn, you’re a menace .”
Martyn grins again. “I try.”
There’s been far too much sincerity for one night—for a year, really, if you ask Martyn. And he feels better, he does. It’s like all the questions he’s been holding onto for far too long have finally been answered, every unspoken thing finally cleared from the air between them. There are still questions unanswered: what being partners means for them, what it changes (if anything), what Scott being a siren means—because Martyn is definitely not over that!
But for now, they sit and watch night fall over the sea, shoulders knocking together and hands finding each other without hesitation.