Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Somewhere in the past

The Kingdom of Elmsmere 

It started with a laugh. Not Bert’s, of course, he was hardly the type then. But him . That bright, unfiltered kind of laughter that rang through marble halls like birdsong in a storm. The court had gone still with it. Stiff spines, startled expressions. The king himself paused mid drink.

And there he stood, a scrawny thing in jester’s motley, cheeks flushed with exertion and hair damp with summer sweat, grinning as if he’d told the best joke in the world and didn’t care who thought otherwise. Bert remembered being irritated. Embarrassed, perhaps. But curious too.

Ernie.

He was a new addition to court entertainment, one of many eager faces plucked from the capital’s festival circuit. He juggled, sang, mimicked the knights with such flair that even the knights usual scowls twitched. But it was the king, Bert’s father, who laughed loudest. That was the king’s favorite kind of man, the bold, the unfiltered, the ones who dared to say what the rest of us would only whisper. Even Bert’s twin brother, Bart, snickered at his jokes. It should have been obvious, then, what would come next. 

Within a week, Ernie had been appointed to Bert’s side.

“The boy needs company,” the king declared, waving a goblet at Bert as if he were livestock needing a companion animal, “Too stiff. Too serious. Let the jester loosen him.”

Bert only frowned. 

Bart agreeing to their father’s statements didn’t help either. It ended with Bert throwing a loaf of bread at Bart’s face.

Ernie took to his new role with a baffling enthusiasm. He tailed Bert through lessons, sat cross legged during council meetings, and made up filthy rhymes about diplomacy behind his hand. At first Bert ignored him. Then he argued. And one day, Ernie was trying to tell a joke but ended up falling down and covered in birdseed, which caused the birds, Bert was feeding nearby, to flock all over him.

Bert laughed.

Truly laughed.

He beamed so brightly, Ernie could only stare in awe that he had finally gotten his grouchy Prince to show joy. He felt a different kind of success. He’d made hundreds of people laugh before, but this one felt special. 

Years go on, they’d spent day after day together. Seasons came and went, soon harvests failed, wars whispered on distant borders, and still, there was Ernie at Bert’s side. Not just as a fool or companion, but as something much like a friend. One thing being a royal couldn’t buy.

The castle gardens were still, save for the wind rustling through the hedges and the soft splash of the fountain in the center courtyard. The moon hung high and pale above the stone walls, casting silver across the trimmed hedgerows and gravel paths. Bert sat on a bench near the rose arbor, hands clasped, brow drawn tight. His ceremonial cloak lay draped beside him, forgotten. He looked like a statue carved in worry.

“Thought I might find you here,” came a voice from behind the hedge.

Bert stiffened and whipped his head around. 

Ernie stepped into view, torchless, relying on moonlight and memory to navigate the twists of the garden. He wasn’t in full jester regalia, just soft linen, his sleeves rolled, the faintest smear of charcoal on his wrist like he’d been sketching again. His grin was gentler tonight. Not teasing, just familiar.

“I’m not wanting company at this time,” Bert said, he turned away from him.

“I gathered,” Ernie plopped down beside him anyway, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, “You did not roll your eyes when I spoke. That’s usually how I know you’re listening.”

Bert exhaled sharply through his nose, “I came down here to think.” 

“Mm,” Ernie leaned back and looked up at the sky, “The garden’s good for that. Unless you’re pestered by bees, then it’s awful,” A pause, “But they’re sleeping now. Just us and the moon.”

Bert shook his head, jaw tight, “It’s all just…too much.”

Ernie tilted his head toward him, “What is?”

“My father. My brother. The court. The expectations. Every day, another lesson on how to be a king, how to smile without feeling, how to hold a sword without raising it, how to marry a woman I’ve barely met,” His voice cracked slightly, “They all talk as if it’s already decided. As if I’m ready. But I’m not.” 

Ernie was quiet for a moment, “It’s alright to be afraid, you know.”

Bert turned to him, brow furrowed, “Is it? I’m to rule a kingdom. Fear isn’t part of the job description.”

“You are mistaken, my prince” Ernie said, softly but firmly, “Fear is what keeps rulers from becoming tyrants.”

Bert glances at him. 

Ernie continued, “You care. That’s what frightens you, isn’t it? Not just failing, failing them . Failing the people. But you won’t, Bert. You won’t. Because you’re smart, and kind, and you listen.” 

“I’m not-“

“You are,” Ernie interrupted, reaching out. His hand hovered near Bert’s, unsure, “You don’t see it, but I do. Every day. You hold your tongue when others would lash out. You learn. You change. And when you laugh, the whole court feels it. They trust you. I trust you.”

Their eyes met.

For once, Bert didn’t look away.

The silence between them shifted, something unspoken thickening the air. The garden held its breath.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Bert admits, barely above a whisper.

“You’re not,” Ernie said gently, “Not while I’m here.”

The moment stretched. Ernie’s thumb brushing the bench edge near Bert’s hand, Bert’s eyes flicking to Ernie’s mouth before he looks away .

Bert leaned in. Just a little. Then a little more. He paused, as if waiting for a sign.

Ernie tilted his chin upward.

And then, finally, they kissed.

It was soft and carful. Almost unsure at first but quickly turned passionate. Years of tension, trust, and something deeper pressing together like two hands that had always meant to fit.

The moon shone down on them as if it had seen it coming all along.

Bert feels Ernie’s knuckle brush against his jaw carefully and takes note of the smell of ink and linen.

When they pulled apart, Bert sucked in a breath of air. His lips felt thingy and he couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face. Ernie was in a similar state. All smile and catching his breath.

They stayed in the garden a little longer, just enjoying the presence of the other.

There were nights they snuck from the palace to walk the gardens barefoot, just to see the moonlight hit the pond. Days they hid behind tapestries, mocking the nobles with whispered voices. He made Bert feel lighter. Less like a man carved in stone.

They stole kisses in shadows. Careful, silent, and trembling. Behind throne room curtains. In the alcoves of the library. One time, in the stables, he pressed his forehead to Bert’s and whispered, “I think we’re supposed to find each other.”

Bert didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to. But he believed him.

It happened on a rainy evening, quiet and gray, the kind of sky that seemed to warn of tragedy.

Bert had slipped away from court duties earlier than usual, citing a headache. In truth, he had gone to the eastern tower where the old observatory stood abandoned, save for one unguarded room they had slowly claimed as their own. There was a lantern, a pile of worn blankets, and a narrow window through which the stars could be seen when the clouds parted.

Ernie was already there, waiting for him, legs dangling from the windowsill.

They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to. Their hands found each other. A shared warmth. A stolen kiss. The kind that made Bert feel like maybe, just maybe, the world wasn’t entirely unkind.

But then the door burst open.

Steel flashed. Voices shouted.

Guards. Three of them. Faces grim.

Bert jumped up, heart in his throat, but Ernie was already being seized, dragged back from the window and forced to the ground.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Bert barked, trying to shield Ernie, but a hand clamped on his shoulder.

“By order of the King, this one is to be brought before the court. He’s to answer for treason and sorcery.”

“Sorcery?” Bert echoed, stunned.

They didn’t answer. 

The hall was nearly empty, save for the king, several advisors, a handful of guards, and Ernie, kneeling in the torchlight. His shirt was torn at the collar, dirt smudging his cheek. He looked battered but unbowed.

Bert stormed in.

“Father- what is this?!

The King rose slowly from his throne, robes pooling around his feet like storm clouds. His voice boomed through the chamber.

“You disgrace yourself, Bert.”

“He’s done nothing wrong!”

“Nothing wrong?!” The king’s eyes flashed, “A jester, seducing the heir to the throne? Poisoning your mind with unnatural thoughts? I’ve seen your behavior. Withdrawn. Distracted. Defiant. It ends now.”

Bert stepped forward, voice shaking, “If you’re angry, be angry with me.”

“I am . But you are my son. He is expendable.”

Bert moved to Ernie’s side, but the guards pulled him back.

“You can’t do this!”

“He will be hanged at dawn,” the king declared, he looks to his son, “Someday you will thank me, it’s for the better.” 

Bert is taken to his room and locked in.

He slammed his fists into the door. Again. And again. But the guards wouldn’t let him out. Wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t look him in the eyes. 

Ernie was in the dungeon below. Alone. Cold. Awaiting execution.

Bert paced like a caged animal, choking on rage and grief. 

At last, the door opened.

Bart.

His twin brother stood there, face pale.

“I heard,” Bart said quietly, “I came as soon as I could.”

“Do something,” Bert begged, “Please. You know him. He’s not-he’s not what they’re accusing him of.”

Bart looked away, “It doesn’t matter.”

“He’s going to die.”

“Father’s made up his mind.”

“Then change it!” Bert pleads.

Bart’s eyes glistened. He shook his head, “He won’t listen to me.”

“Then help me break him out.”

Silence.

Bart looked at his brother. Really looked. Saw the desperation, the tears threatening, the hollow ache. Never had he seen his brother so distraught. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said finally.

He turned and left. Leaving Bert with an overwhelming sense of agony.

That night, Bert took a left instead of a right after dinner. The stone steps seemed to go on forever, each one echoing with Bert’s heartbeat. The torches flickered against damp walls, casting wavering shadows that twisted like ghosts. The air grew colder the deeper he went, until finally, at the very bottom, he reached the last gate.

The dungeon.

Two guards stood watch, eyes heavy with sleep. They startled when he appeared, but straightened quickly.

“Your Highness-“

“Leave us,” Bert said, voice quiet but commanding.

They hesitated, “Prince Bert-“

“Have you no sight?” Bert uses the stern voice he was taught to have growing up, “I’m Prince Bart. I have come to question our prisoner. Now leave us.”

With uncertain glances, they moved aside, unlocking the heavy iron door and disappearing down the corridor, footsteps fading into silence.

Bert stepped inside.

The chamber was small and damp, little more than stone and straw. In the far corner, behind thick iron bars, sat Ernie, chained at the ankle but upright. His eyes casted down to the floor.

He looked up at the sound of Bert’s boots.

A smile tugged at his mouth.

“Hello," his voice sounded hoarse. 

Bert swallowed hard. His throat burned.

“I-I shouldn’t have come,” he said, “But I couldn’t…” He trailed off, the words dying in his throat. 

Ernie stood, stepping close to the bars, “I knew you would come to see me.”

Bert moved forward until he was just inches from the cell, close enough to see the bruise at Ernie’s temple and the dried blood on his knuckles.

“I’m so sorry,” Bert said, voice breaking, “This is my fault. I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve protected you.”

Ernie shook his head gently, “Bert.”

“No, listen, if they hurt you, if they kill you-“ He reached for the bars, gripping them with white knuckled desperation, “I can not bare to lose you.”

Ernie’s fingers found his through the iron, threading them together.

“You have not lost me,” he said.

Bert closed his eyes, clinging to that touch like a lifeline.

“I’m afraid,” he admitted.

“So am I,” Ernie whispered, “But I’m not sorry.”

Bert’s eyes opened.

“I would not change a thing,” Ernie said, “Not one moment. Not one laugh. Not even this,” He squeezed Bert’s hand, “Falling in love is never something to regret.”

Tears slipped down Bert’s cheeks. He pressed his forehead to the cold bars, to the place where their hands met.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Ernie smiled.

“I know. I love you too.”

They stay there, the cold iron pressing into their joined fingers, the shadows from the torchlight making their faces half lit.

After another minute of holding onto each other, Bert reluctantly slipped away, back to his room where he wept.

The rain had stopped, but the wind still howled beyond the stone walls of the castle. Bert sat on the edge of his bed, fully clothed, hands clasped tight in his lap. He hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. Every moment that passed felt like another step closer to morning. Closer to the gallows.

Then, a knock.

It was soft. Rhythmic. Familiar.

Three taps. A pause. Two more.

Bert crossed the room and opened the door.

Bart stood there in full uniform, the crimson sash of his station drawn tight around his waist. His face was unreadable in the torchlight, tired, but clear eyed. He didn’t speak.

He simply reached into his cloak and handed Bert a folded scrap of parchment.

Bert opened it.

Inside, a rough sketch of the castle’s layout with a single word written in Bart’s neat hand.

Stables.

Then, aloud, Bart said quietly, “Take only what you can carry.”

Bert looked up, heart in his throat. He’d imagined a speech. A lecture. A warning. But there was none. Just this, direct, precise, and laced with something deeper than words.

For the first time, Bert looked at his brother not with rivalry or resentment, but with full, aching gratitude.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Bart held his gaze for a second longer, then turned.

No farewell. No embrace. Just duty, this time, for love instead of law.

Bert moved quickly through the castle’s back corridors, his cloak drawn low and a satchel slung over one shoulder. The castle felt different now, not like a home or prison, but something already beginning to fade behind him.

At the base of the eastern tower, two guards stood posted. Bart was there, speaking to them, something about a breach at the southern wall. He gestured widely, pulling their attention just long enough for Bert to slip through the shadows and into the courtyard.

He reached the stables breathless.

Inside, a single lantern was lit.

And Ernie stood waiting.

No chains. No guard. No blood on his face this time.

Just him. Just Ernie.

Their eyes met.

Neither spoke.

They didn’t need to.

Bert crossed the stable floor and pulled Ernie into his arms. For a moment, the world was only the sound of horses shifting and rain dripping from the rafters.

Then Bert pulled back and handed him a cloak and the satchel.

“We ride east,” he said.

Ernie took the cloak, eyes shining.

“You are really doing this?”

“Aye, it is already done.”

They left before dawn. East, toward the sea. They don’t know what they expected to find, only that Bert couldn’t bear his life without Ernie’s voice in it.

And for the first time, they were free.

Chapter Text

Bert liked the sea best when it was quiet.

When the wind was still and the water turned to glass, and all he could hear was the soft creak of his ship’s mast and the occasional splash of something unseen. He liked the silence. The solitude. The company of his books and the comfort of his maps. He liked knowing he was alone.

Or so he believed.

The Minerva was no grand vessel, just a single masted cutter, strong in frame and simple in design. It had room enough for supplies, a sleeping berth, a worn chair at the helm, and the chest where Bert kept his collection of star charts and journals. A sword hung near the door to the cabin, mostly out of habit.

He wasn’t a pirate. Not exactly.

He ferried odd goods from island to island, spices, dried ink, paper, rare fruits, rarely speaking more than he had to, and never staying anywhere long. The sea didn’t ask questions. Neither did Bert.

At night, he’d light a small lantern and sit out on the deck with his telescope, charting constellations he already knew by heart. The sky never changed. That was what he loved most about it.

Which was why it unsettled him the first night he noticed something in the water.

A flicker of movement, just past the edge of the light.

A ripple where there shouldn’t be one.

He told himself it was a seal. Or a curious fish. But it returned the next night.

And the one after that.

Always just out of reach. Always just watching.

Ernie was careful.

He knew how easily sailors spooked. He’d seen boats turn and flee at the sight of a shadow, heard tales about devils of the deep and sirens with teeth like knives. He wasn’t like those stories. Not exactly.

He just liked to watch.

The man on the boat was different. Quiet. Serious. He didn’t sing or shout. He didn’t drop nets or throw things overboard. He sat under the stars like he was part of them. And he read. Every night. For hours.

Ernie didn’t know what he was reading, he couldn’t get close enough to see. But the man’s face changed with the words. Sometimes he frowned. Sometimes he smiled, though only a little.

That smile was what got Ernie hooked.

He’d been watching for six nights now. Keeping low, hiding behind the curve of the hull, holding onto the ropes or floating just beneath the surface. His green and yellow scales shimmered in the moonlight, but he never let himself rise too far.

The seventh night brought wind.

Not much, but enough to ruffle the sail and unsettle Bert’s sense of calm. He stood at the helm, arms crossed, staring out over the black horizon. The lantern swayed gently beside him, casting gold across the deck and the surface of the water.

He heard it again.

A splash. Small. Deliberate.

Bert spun around, eyes narrowing. Nothing.

Just ripples fanning out from the side of the ship. Like something had tapped it.

He stepped to the edge and leaned over the rail. The water was smooth again, quiet

Too quiet.

Bert frowned and muttered to himself, “Just a fish.”

Behind him, there was a soft thud.

He turned again.

One of his books, an old leather bound journal, was lying open on the deck where he’d left it closed.

Bert narrowed his eyes, crouched, and picked it up. The page was creased. Wet.

A drop of seawater struck the wood beside his boot.

His gaze snapped upward, to the rigging.

No one.

Bert rubbed his eyes, maybe he was tired.

Ernie bit his lip to stifle a laugh.

He clung to the underside of the hull, just out of sight, legs curled and tail flicking lazily in the current. That had been fun . A little splash here. A nudge there. Move a book. Tap the rail. See how long it took before the quiet sailor started talking to himself.

“He’s so jumpy,” Ernie whispered to the sea, “It’s adorable.”

He drifted upward again, just far enough to peek over the railing, his fingers barely catching the edge. He watched as Bert set the book back down and scanned the horizon like he expected to find pirates or thieves.

So serious.

Ernie tilted his head. His hair was dripping. His scales caught the faint light and shimmered, a dull gleam of emerald and gold.

“Just look down,” he whispered, almost begging, “Come on.”

But Bert didn’t.

Instead, he moved to the cabin door, cast one last glance at the sky, and disappeared inside. Ernie sighed quietly, disappointed, but not discouraged. He would just need to try again later. He swam down and disappeared under the water.  

That night Bert couldn’t sleep.

Something was wrong.

It wasn’t just the book. It was the way the lantern flame had flared earlier. The strange bump beneath the hull. The sound, like a laugh, echoing faintly across the water.

He sat at his desk, sword within arm’s reach, and scribbled in his logbook,

Sighting again tonight. Movement in the water. Odd disturbances on deck. Possibly stowaway-

The ink dragged across the page as the boat rocked sharply to the side.

Bert shot up, heart pounding. A shiver ran down his spine.

From the deck, clear as day, came the sound of something knocking.

Three sharp taps.

Knuckles on wood.

Like someone politely asking to be let in.

Bert wasn’t a superstitious man.

He believed in things he could see. Stars. Currents. Steel. Logic.

But the sea had always been a place where logic stretched thin.

He spent the next day preparing.

He said nothing aloud. Moved normally. Ate, read, and pretended not to notice the missing lemon from his rations or the damp corner of his logbook. He even left the lantern burning a little longer than usual.

But that night, just before midnight, he stayed awake.

He sat behind the cabin door, sword resting across his knees, a blanket draped loosely around his shoulders to look like he was asleep at the desk. He kept one eye on the deck through the crack of the door.

Nothing moved.

The sea was black velvet under the moon, smooth and silent. The only sounds were the creak of the mast and the distant cry of some gull that hadn’t learned night was for sleeping.

Minutes passed. Then hours.

Bert’s eyes began to drift shut. The sword slipped slightly in his grip. His breathing slowed.

And that’s when it happened.

A small clink on the deck.

Bert’s eyes snapped open.

He rose silently and stepped out into the cold, gripping the hilt of his sword. The deck looked empty, same as always. But the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

He crept toward the edge where the sound had come from.

A rope had been nudged. A coil of it now dangled overboard, swaying gently in the water.

He leaned over.

At first, there was only reflection. His own furrowed brow. His lantern’s glow stretched out like a molten trail.

Then movement.

Just beneath the surface, something flicked.

Fast. Shining.

Fins.

A glimmer of green, touched with yellow, arcing like silk through the waves before vanishing into the dark.

Bert inhaled sharply, “What in the-“

But it was gone.

No splash. No ripple. Just a trace of shimmer disappearing into black.

He stood there, frozen, eyes wide and breath uneven. Sword forgotten in his hand.

Not a seal. Not a fish.

“Someone’s playing with me,” he murmured to the sea, “And they’re winning.”

~~~~~~

The sea the next day had been calm, suspiciously so.

Bert had read the signs like he always did, the cloud patterns, the wind’s hush, the way the gulls had circled then vanished. But nothing screamed danger. Just a heavy silence, like the ocean had paused to breathe.

By twilight, clouds had begun to gather, thin and distant on the horizon, tinted lavender and gray. Not unusual. Not threatening.

So Bert dropped anchor near a small, uninhabited isle and let the Minerva rock gently as he settled in for the evening.

He didn’t notice the sudden drop in pressure.

He didn’t notice the shift in the wind until the lanterns flickered.

Then the storm hit.

It came like a beast in the dark, no warning, no time. Winds howled across the deck, tearing ropes loose, flinging barrels and supplies into the surf. Rain slammed down in sheets, soaking Bert to the bone in seconds. The boat pitched hard as waves crashed against the hull like fists.

He scrambled toward the mast to reinforce the sail, shouting curses into the wind, rope burning against his palms. He knew storms. He knew how to handle them.

But this wasn’t a storm.

It was a tempest.

The boat lurched sideways, one massive wave slamming broadside. Bert lost his footing. His shoulder cracked against the railing.

He's falling.

Then nothing.

The sea swallowed him whole.

The world became silence. Salt. Darkness.

Bert thrashed, but he couldn’t tell which way was up. His chest burned. Something cold and strong tugged at him, pulling him deeper. Like the hands of the ocean itself wanted to claim him as it's own. 

His vision blurred and the last bit of strength in his body left. His mind replayed his life, from being a small boy held tight in his mother's arms, to his teenage years hiding away in an abandoned church to read about lands beyond the sea, to right now. Alone in the dark of the salty waters, dying. 

Suddenly he felt arms. Something smooth, scaly, and strong. 

Not rope. Not current.

Arms.

A firm grip under his arms. A flash of green and gold moving through the black. Like a holy light lifting him upwards. 

Something cradled him. Moved fast. Faster than any man could swim. He tried to open his eyes but the salt stung too much. Tried to speak but he only choked.

And then they broke the surface.

Bert gasped, coughing, as wind lashed against his face. Rain still pelted the sea like stones, but the grip on him didn’t loosen. He blinked through water and starlight and finally saw-

A face.

Soaked curls. Wide brown eyes. And behind him, shimmering scales, green and gold, arcing like waves as he tread the water with impossible power. 

Bert tried to speak but he was caught between coughing and gasping for air.

The face grinned, almost sheepishly before everything went black.

The storm had passed.

The sky outside was washed clean, pale with morning light. Rainwater still pooled on the deck, and the sail hung in tatters where the wind had torn it. But the Minerva floated steady once more, anchored like a survivor in the calm after battle.

On the deck, Bert stirred.

He groaned, breath catching as he tried to sit up. His head throbbed. His limbs ached. His clothes were still damp. 

The last thing he recalled was water.

And a face.

He blinked, vision still fuzzy, heart pounding like a drum as he took in the low lit cabin around him.

I dreamed it, he told himself, I hit my head. Hallucinated. That’s all.

Then he turned his head and saw him.

Sitting casually on the edge of boat was a stranger, and yet not a stranger at all.

Hair still wet. Gills on the side of his neck. Bare chested that lead down to glints of green and gold scales, all caught the morning light where they curled along his arms and lower back. His tail long, sleek, powerful, rested curled against the cabin floor, water slowly dripping from the tips of his fins.

Bert rubs his eyes and blinks hard. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. 

The creature gave a small wave, “You’re awake,” he said, smiling his teeth were bright and slightly sharper than what's considered human, “Good. For a while there I thought I was too late.” 

Bert bolted upright, a cold shiver ran over him “You-You’re-“

Ernie’s grin widened, “A hallucination? A ghost? Or your handsome savior? Pick one.”

Bert scrambled back until he hit the wall, breathing hard, “I-I thought…no one’s supposed to-“ He stared, eyes wide, heart hammering in his chest, “Mermaids aren’t real.”

“Merman,” Ernie corrects and raised an eyebrow, “but tell that to the part where I hauled you out of the water while you were unconscious and muttering about rope knots and sea charts.”

Bert’s mouth opened, but only a hoarse sound came out, “I’m…sorry. I-I didn’t mean to-I’m just…”

Ernie held up a webbed hand, cutting him off, “Don’t worry about it. Honestly, I was expecting more screaming.” Bert blinked, still trying to gather his thoughts. He feels to mesmerized to be frightened. 

Ernie shifted a little closer and added, “Is that really how you greet someone who saves your life?”

Bert looked down, suddenly ashamed, “No. It’s not. I just…I didn’t know you were real.”

“Most people don’t,” Ernie said, “But you’re not most people, are you?”

Bert looked up at him again, uncertain. Still afraid, but something in him flickered. Recognition, maybe. Or the memory of being held in the sea by someone who didn’t let go.

Ernie shifted slightly, tail curled around the floor in shimmering coils of green and gold. The sunlight caught on the scales like it was reflecting off treasure or something else far more precious. 

Bert tried to sit straighter, still dazed, eyes flitting from Ernie’s face to his tail, then back again, as if unsure where it was polite to look.

Ernie didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed delighted, almost proud, “So,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “I know this probably seems odd. Me. Here. Talking. Tail and all. But I swear, I’ve been keeping my distance. You caught my attention.”

Bert gaps at him,” I caught your…attention? Wait, you're the one who's been watching me." 

“Yeah!” Ernie beamed, “You’re different from the others. Most humans are loud, you know? They yell over the wind, throw things into the water, sing off key, and call it music, and they never read. Ever. But you?” He pointed a finger at Bert’s chest, “You read maps like poetry. You don’t throw your trash overboard. And I saw you help a gull untangle itself from your line instead of eating it, which was frankly the moment I decided you might be my favorite person on the surface.”

Bert opened his mouth to respond, but Ernie had already launched into a ramble, animated and wide eyed, “And don’t get me started on how you talk to your boat like it’s alive, very charming, by the way. Do all humans name their ships? Do you name everything? I heard once you name storms, too, which is wild. I mean, what kind of logic is that? ‘Let’s name the sky hen it’s angry!’ Brilliantly weird.”

Bert stared, brain struggling to keep up, “This is the first time you’ve spoken to a human?” he carefully stepped closer, even thought his whole body ached. 

“This close? Absolutely. I usually just watch. I’m better at watching. But you nearly died, so. Here I am. Ruining the mystery.” He grinned, all teeth and joy.

Bert couldn’t help but look down again, gaze caught by the slow flick of Ernie’s tail on the cabin floor. The scales were intricate up close, small, neat, and shifting subtly with every movement. It looked strong and delicate all at once. Unnatural. Beautiful.

He realized he was staring. And so did Ernie.

Ernie followed his gaze, then looked back up with a crooked little smile, “You can touch it, if you want.”

Bert blushed, “What?”

“My tail,” Ernie said, “I don’t mind. You’ve been staring like it’s going to vanish if you blink too hard.”

“I wasn’t-I mean, I didn’t mean to stare-“ he looked away. 

Ernie laughed, it sounded so sweet to Bert’s ears, “You’re allowed to stare. I have a tail. It’s kind of the centerpiece.”

Bert hesitated, then slowly reached forward. His fingers hovered, uncertain, until Ernie gently shifted his tail closer, the fin resting lightly against the wooden floor.

Carefully, Bert touched the scales.

They were smooth. Warmer than he expected. They shifted slightly under his fingertips like layered silk, not sharp but strong. He brushed his hand along the edge, then paused. It's exactly how it looked, magnificent. 

Ernie was watching him now, not teasing, not smug. Just watching.

“That’s incredible,” Bert breathed. 

“You’re telling me. You’ve got two legs and I’m still impressed.”

Bert almost laughed. Almost.

But instead he just let his hand rest gently against Ernie’s tail, as though anchoring himself to the one thing in the world that didn’t make sense, but felt real all the same.

Bert finally pulled his hand back, shaking slightly. He stood upright, still drenched and shivering a bit, but alert.

“Uh, I’m Bert,” he said, “I don’t think I mentioned that.”

Ernie grinned, chest puffing slightly with theatrical flair, “Ernie! At your service,” he said with a flourish, “Lone wanderer of the reef, collector of shiny things, breaker of surface rules, and admirer of strange human habits. It’s very nice to meet you.”

Bert gave him a baffled look that barely masked a twitch of a smile.

Ernie tilted his head. “So what now, Bert?”

“I, um need to check my supplies,” Bert took a couple steps, a little unsteady on his feet, brushing his damp shirt down. He looked around. The storm had tossed everything about. Barrels had rolled loose, ropes knotted themselves in odd places, and his water barrel had tipped on its side.

Ernie slipped easily into the water again, swimming backward with a graceful flip of his tail, “I’ll help!”

“You don’t have to-“ Bert started, but Ernie was already gone with a splash.

Moments later, the merman resurfaced beside the hull holding a small wooden crate in both arms.

“Is this yours?” he called. “Smells like…oh, oh is this cheese? You brought cheese to sea? I’ve only ever seen and smelt it from afar!”

Bert leaned over the side, “That’s for trade,” he said, reaching to haul it up, “And eating. But not soaked.”

Ernie passed it up carefully, “Cheese. Incredible.” He dove again, then popped up with something else, eyes wide.

“And this? It’s got these little tiny nails sticking out, wait, is this a torture device?”

“That’s a scrub brush.”

“Oh,” Ernie looked at it again, “Still feels sinister.” He handed it up, then reappeared with a tangled bundle of rope, " What’s this for? Lassoing clouds? Binding krakens? Holding your pants up?”

“It’s rigging. For the sails.”

“Right. Boat ropes. Not kraken ropes. Got it.”

Bert shook his head faintly, but his mouth twitched again, “You really have no idea what any of this is?”

Ernie beamed. “Not a clue. But it’s fascinating. You have so many things. We just use shells and seaweed, sometimes drift wood. You’ve got brushes for planks and cheese for trading. Do you always live like this?”

Bert knelt at the edge of the deck, watching Ernie float with arms resting on the side of the boat. His hair was wet, curly, and clinging to his forehead, his grin was wide.

“I live alone,” Bert said, “I like it because it’s peaceful. Most people can be…too much.”

Ernie nodded, “Yeah. I can see that. But don’t you get lonely?”

Bert hesitated, “Sometimes,” he glances out over the water, “so where’s your family? Do you travel in groups like regular fish?”

Ernie swims in lazy circles, “Nope! It’s just me.”

They were quiet a moment, the sea lapping gently now as if trying to hush them. The sky was still gray but calming. The kind of stillness that follows a storm.

Ernie’s tail flicked beneath the surface, just enough to stir ripples. “Well,” he said brightly, “for what it’s worth, I’m glad I got to meet you, Bert the Human. Even if I did nearly give you a heart attack.”

“You did,” Bert replies, “I’m still recovering.”

Ernie grinned wider, “Don’t worry. I’m very good at apologies. I could serenade you later if you like.”

Bert gave him a look, “No singing,” he said flatly.

“Suit yourself,” Ernie replied with a shrug, “Your loss.”

~~~~~

The next day went on and Bert wiped his forehead with a rag, the sun now pushing through the remnants of the storm. His clothes were drying on him, stiff and salt heavy, but he was refreshed. The boat was no longer in chaos. Ropes were coiled again. Supplies were stacked. The sail was repaired and tied neatly.

Ernie, however, hadn’t stopped talking for more than thirty seconds at a time.

“So when you turn the wheel, it shifts the rudder?”

“What do you do if you run out of food?”

“Do humans always sleep lying down?”

“Wait, what’s the purpose of socks, exactly?”

“Is your sword just for show or-“

Bert sighed loudly and turned from the mast, “Do you ever stop talking?”

Ernie grinned from where he floated beside the boat, arms hooked over the edge, “Not really.”

Bert gave him a long look, then finally asked, “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

“So,” He gestured vaguely, “You. Constant questions. Nonsense jokes. Always swimming around and touching everything.”

Ernie didn’t look offended. He actually looked pleased. Maybe he didn’t know that he was suppose to take Bert’s words as rude, “Because I’m curious.”

Bert raised an eyebrow, “About everything?”

“Yeah. Why not? Your world’s full of weird and wonderful stuff. Why wouldn’t I ask?”

Bert crossed his arms, “Then let me ask something.”

Ernie looks at him surprised, “You want to ask me questions?”

“Yes. Why are you alone?” That made the grin on Ernie’s face falter, just slightly, like a candle flickering in the wind. He looked away, eyes following the soft ripple of the waves. For a moment, he was just a silhouette in the light, all scales and shadows.

“Oh,” he said softly. Bert waited, he almost regretted asking with how it changed Ernie's whole demeaner. 

Ernie sighed and leaned his cheek on his forearm against the side of the boat, " I don’t have a family,” he said at last, “Never did. And merfolk don’t really do community the way you humans do. Especially not the ones like me.”

Bert frowned, “What do you mean like you?”

Ernie didn’t answer right away, “Just…different,” he said finally, a shrug rolling through his bare shoulders, “Too nosy. Too odd. Too loud. Too curious for the currents. I don’t really belong down there. So I swim up. And I watch.”

Bert’s arms slowly uncrossed. Ernie gave a small smile, eyes still fixed on the sea, “You’re the first person I’ve ever had who even tried to answer my questions.”

The words hung there for a moment, quieter than the wind. Bert opened his mouth, then closed it. He reached down and wordlessly passed Ernie a chunk of cheese.

Ernie grabs it eagerly, “For me?”

“Most of it is waterborne, and you said earlier you never eaten any before.” Bert said.

Ernie takes a small bite and his face lights up, “It’s delicious! The best thing that's ever touched my lips!” He eats the rest as Bert watches amused. They sat in silence for the first time since Ernie had pulled Bert out of the ocean. The waves lapped gently against the hull, and the sky was clearing to a soft blue.

After a moment, Bert sat down on the deck beside Ernie and, in a quieter voice, said, “You can keep asking questions. Just, please, pace yourself.”

Ernie smiled. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” he gives him a mock salute. 

Bert shook his head, but this time, he was smiling too.

~~~~

The morning sun sparkled off the sea like shattered glass. Bert had just finished tightening the ropes when Ernie poked his head up at the side of the boat, grinning wide.

“You’re up early,” Ernie chirped. He tilts his head as he snickers at Bert’s bed head hair. 

“You’ve been watching again, haven’t you.”

“Always,” Ernie replied without a hint of shame.

Bert rolled his eyes and leaned on the rail. “You know you’re very nosy for a sea creature.”

“Better than being grumpy for a land one." 

Bert gave him a look. Ernie smiled wider, then tilted his head, " Hey, I’ve got something to show you.”

“What, more trinkets from the deep?” Bert asked, folding his arms.

“No, something better. I want to show you something in my world.”

Bert’s brow furrowed, “Your world?”

Ernie nodded, then asked, a bit more carefully, “You’re a strong swimmer, right?”

“I can manage. Why?”

“Because you’ll need to hold your breath for a bit. I’ll take you down.”

Bert stared at him, “You want me to go underwater. With you .”

“Yes.”

“You’re not planning to drown me, are you?”

Ernie smirked, “If I wanted to drown you, I’d have just let the storm do the work.”

Bert narrowed his eyes, “Fair point.”

He hesitated for only a moment longer before unfastening the heavier parts of his clothing and climbing down into the water. It was cool and clear, and the salt stung faintly at a cut he hadn’t realized was still open. Ernie floated nearby, watching with eager eyes.

“Okay,” Bert said cautiously, water up to his shoulders, “What now?”

“Now,” Ernie said, “take a deep breath, and hold on.”

Bert did as instructed, and Ernie slipped his arms around him, not tightly, just enough to guide. And then they dove.

The world changed.

Sunlight filtered down in golden ribbons. Schools of fish darted around them like living silver threads. The pressure curled around Bert’s ears, but not unbearably. And Ernie was beside him, always just near enough to steer them, always glancing to make sure Bert was okay. Bert could see the gills on the side of Ernie's neck breathing in the water. 

They swam deeper, just enough for the light to dim into a cool green, and the ocean floor revealed itself, coral that bloomed in impossible shapes, a half submerged cave mouth framed by kelp that swayed like curtains in a breeze. Pearlescent shells lay scattered like coins. Strange creatures flitted in and out of cracks and holes.

Bert’s eyes widened, his lungs started to burn.

Ernie grinned.

This was what he wanted to show.

They surfaced in an underwater air pocket inside a rocky cavern, hidden, hollow, and somehow warm despite the stone. Bert gasped in fresh breath as he blinked at the chamber, smooth ledges, bioluminescent plants clinging to walls, the sound of trickling water from somewhere deeper within.

“What is this place?” Bert breathed out.

“My hideaway,” Ernie said, climbing up onto a flat stone shelf, “It’s where I come when I want to be alone. Or not alone, now, I guess.”

Bert joined him, water dripping off both of them. His heart was still pounding, not just from the swim, but from the awe. From the quiet beauty. From the way Ernie was watching him, as if this moment had always existed and had just been waiting for them to arrive in it.

“Why me?” Bert asked softly as he looks around, “Why show me this?”

Ernie shrugged, “Because you look talked to me and you’re not treating me like something to catch and sell.”

He paused, then added with a grin, “Also, you’re the only human I’ve ever liked enough not to prank too hard.”

Bert laughed softly. He’s never met someone who’s made him laugh so much. 

And for a few minutes, they just sat together in the quiet hush of the underwater world, two strange souls. One from below and one from above. Realistically they should've never met at all.  

Bert sat beside Ernie on the smooth stone ledge, both of them dripping and breathing slowly in the dim, glowing quiet of the underwater cavern. The sounds were distant, just the gentle drip of water and the soft pulse of the ocean beyond the cave walls. The world above felt impossibly far away.

Ernie leaned back on his arms, his tail curled lightly over the edge of the ledge and swishing in the water. For once, he wasn’t talking. Just looking up at the ceiling and its shimmering reflections.

Bert glanced at him, “You’re quiet,” he said softly.

Ernie shrugs, “Even I have limits.”

Bert gave him a sideways look, “Hard to believe.”

Ernie grinned faintly, but it faded quickly. He picked at a small barnacle on the stone beside him, not meeting Bert’s eyes, “You asked why I’m alone.”

Bert looks at him. 

“I think…” Ernie said slowly, “I’ve always been alone. There are others like me, but they don’t stay close. They don’t stay long. Some are mean. Some are scared. I guess I’m not quite like them.”

He looked up at Bert then, his eyes softer than Bert had ever seen, “But then I saw you. This sailor, drifting around with his nose in a book, talking to the stars like they were old friends. You looked lonely, too. Are other humans like you?”

Bert stared at him, heart thudding. Then shakes his head, “Not really, that’s why I’m at sea. So maybe I can forget how different I am.”

Ernie reached out and touched his hand, just lightly at first, but when Bert didn’t pull away. It was strange, cold webbed fingers interlacing with warm human hands.

“Woah,” Ernie awed. Sometimes Bert forgets that he’s just as foreign to Ernie as Ernie is to him. Bert didn’t speak. He just squeezed Ernie’s hand. Ernie flicks his tail in the water and Bert matches the action by kicking the water with his feet. 

"So what's it like having legs? Two things to control instead of one," Ernie glances at Bert's feet, "I'd always wondered." 

Bert tries to think of a way to explain it, "Think of your arms but underneath you." Ernie makes a face but accepts his answer, "did you want a closer look?"

Ernie perks up, "Really? You don't mind?" 

Bert pulls up one foot to where he's sitting and Ernie touches his thigh gently, it made Bert shutter. Then Ernie moved his hand down his leg to his feet. He pokes and examines all while Bert wiggles and finally pushes his hand away, huffing out. 

Ernie looks at him, "Did I hurt you?" his voice carrying genuine concern. But Bert shook his head. 

"No, no, sorry it just tickles." Bert said. 

Ernie smiles and laughs softly, "Feet are ticklish? I wonder how you aren't laughing every time you take a step! Human's are strange." 

Bert rolls his eyes, "Us? Well explain to me how you have gills but half the time I see you, you are breathing in air."

A splash from Ernie's tail soaks Bert's face, "My gills are for water and I can breath air but only for a few hours before I need water again." 

Bert wipes his face, "Really?" he ponders it, "that's amazing." 

Ernie feels a warmth creeping up his neck, "I mean...not really. We can't go on land or anything like that. Say, humans have mermaid tales don't they?" 

Bert nods, "Sure, plenty of sea stories. I've read most of them. Why?"

Ernie hums, "Tell me, what do ye old wise humans say about us merfolk?" 

Bert sighs, "Mostly that mermaids are bad luck, drown sailors, sink ships, seduce-"

Ernie laughs, "No way! I have never even see another merperson around humans." 

Shrugging his shoulders, Bert replies, "Most of them are just stories, warnings to scare people." 

Ernie hums, "Well it's all interesting anyways, we have stories about humans too. It's funny because they are also told as warnings to scare us away from the surface." 

Bert and Ernie sit in the quiet for a moment, soaking in the new information. 

The moment stretched, quiet and warm in the watery glow.

Then, finally, Ernie gave a soft laugh, “Come on. I better get you back before you get all pruny.”

Bert snorted, “That’s rich coming from someone with gills.”

“Hey! I’m radiant.”

Bert didn't disagree as he followed Ernie back into the water, and Ernie wrapped an arm around him once more, guiding them gently upward. The light grew brighter, the water warmer, until they broke the surface beside the boat again, this time together.

And this time, Bert wasn’t alone when he climbed aboard. 

The rest of the day passed gently.

Ernie darted in and out of the water like a dolphin, laughing as he chased the lines Bert cast into the sea, occasionally offering tips, “Try further out, grouper’s family hangs out near that rock shelf!” Bert rolled his eyes more than once but smiled despite himself. Ernie’s enthusiasm was impossible to resist.

When Bert brought up a small catch, Ernie poked at it curiously before returning it to the water with a quiet apology, “He looked like he had plans.”

Bert chuckled, “What kind of plans?”

“Probably dinner with his cousin. You just interrupted a family reunion.”

“…Right.”

They asked each other questions in between, Ernie wanted to know how fire worked, what boots were for, why humans wore hats. Bert asked about coral cities, what mermaids sang to each other, if sea monsters were real.

Ernie’s answers were part nonsense and part awe.

Bert’s were part science and part wonder.

When the sun began to dip low and the sky faded from gold to deep blue, Bert sat on the deck with a blanket around his shoulders and a mug of tea in his hands. Ernie hoisted himself up beside him, tail stretched out and shimmering in the moonlight, and curled up like a cat next to him. Bert had to force himself not to stare. 

They sat in silence for a while.

Then Ernie looked up, "You don’t get stars like this underwater,” he said, voice soft.

Bert followed his gaze, “No. I guess you wouldn’t.”

“There’s light down there, glowworms, algae, magic, whatever. But not like this. This feels different. Like the sky’s breathing. Looks like a whole another sea."

Bert looked at him, “Do you want to know what the stars are?”

Ernie tilted his head, his curls damp and soft against his brow, “Sure.”

Bert shifted slightly, pointing upward, “That one, see it? That’s Polaris. The North Star. Sailors use it to find their way.”

Ernie’s brow furrowed, “A star that helps you find things? Clever.”

Bert nodded, pointing out some more, “And that cluster there, that’s the Pleiades. Some people call it the Seven Sisters. And over there, the belt of Orion. He’s a hunter.”

Ernie looks at him, “You’ve named them?”

“Not me. But people have for thousands of years. Stories, maps, myths. We look up and find patterns and meanings. It helps us feel less alone.”

Ernie looks back at the sky, “That’s beautiful,” he said softly. “The way humans do that. Make stories out of lights in the dark.”

He turned to look at Bert, his voice barely above a whisper, “I think I like the stars now too. They are pretty.” 

Bert swallowed, heart tightening. Even in the dark he can see Ernie’s eyes shinning, reflecting the moonlight that covers them, “Very pretty…”

Bert offered him a corner of the blanket.

Ernie scooted closer, the chill of night brushing their skin as they sat shoulder to shoulder, staring at a sky full of ancient stories, making a new one of their own.

~~~~ 

Weeks passed like waves, slow and steady, full of rhythm and wonder.

Every morning, Bert would rise with the sun, check his sails, tidy the deck, and, without fail, look over the railing with quiet anticipation. Ernie was always close, somewhere beneath the surface, and always made himself known with a splash, a grin, or an apple he’d stolen from someone’s cargo net just to see Bert scowl.

They had fallen into something like a rhythm. A routine.

And that scared Bert more than he wanted to admit.

He tried not to notice the way his eyes lingered when Ernie pulled himself onto the deck, water trailing in thin rivulets down his shoulders. He tried not to notice how his heart picked up when Ernie laughed or when he’d say something unexpectedly thoughtful and sincere.

But he did notice.

He noticed everything.

And it was becoming harder to pretend he didn’t.

One afternoon, Bert was fixing a line when Ernie floated nearby, quiet, unusual for him. His tail swayed lazily with the current, his chin resting on folded arms as he watched Bert work.

Bert glanced over, “You’re not talking.”

Ernie hums, “Just thinking.”

“That’s new.”

Ernie rolled his eyes but smiled. He was quiet again for a moment, “Do humans ever get strange feelings? For someone?”

Bert blinked, caught off guard, “What kind of strange?”

Ernie frowned in thought, floating onto his back, “Like…you want to be near them, all the time. You want to know what they’re thinking, if they’re safe, what makes them smile. Like your heart gets all twisty when they’re not looking, and all floaty when they are.”

Bert’s hand paused on the rope,”…Yes,” he said slowly, “Humans get that.”

“Is it dangerous?” Ernie asks. 

“Sometimes.” Bert says. 

“Is it bad?” Ernie asks carefully. 

Bert looked at him fully now. The sun lit up Ernie’s face, golden on his wet skin, the green of his tail almost shimmering like glass.

“No,” Bert said softly, “Not bad.”

Ernie was quiet again. Then he looked at Bert with something unfamiliar behind his usual curiosity, something gentler, “I think I feel that way about you.”

Bert’s breath caught and his heart jumped. Ernie added quickly, “I didn’t mean to. It just happened.” He looks away, almost expecting Bert to reactive negatively. 

Bert looked down at his hands. His heart was beating so hard it hurt. He thought of Ernie’s laughter, the way he asked a hundred questions, the way he sang nonsense songs when he thought no one was listening. The way the deck felt emptier without him.

“I think,” Bert said carefully, “I feel that way about you too.”

Ernie’s smile broke across his face like the tide rolling in, wide and unstoppable.

He floated closer, resting his arms on the edge of the boat, looking up at Bert with a light in his eyes that made Bert’s chest ache.

“Well,” Ernie said softly, “That’s something.”

Bert allowed himself to smile back, “Yeah. It is.”

~~~~~

They were sprawled on the deck again under the stars, Ernie with his tail curled under him, propped up on his elbows, and Bert leaning back against a barrel with a cup of lukewarm tea in his hands.

It was quiet, peaceful. The night smelled like salt and cedarwood.

Then Ernie broke the silence, “Hey, Bert?”

Bert hummed in acknowledgment, not looking up from the stars he was tracing with his eyes.

“Do humans eat each other?”

Bert nearly choked on his tea and turned to look at him. “I-what?”

Ernie tilted his head, “Do you eat each other? Like, is that a thing? Or is it frowned upon?”

Bert shakes his head, “What? No, Ernie, no! Cannibalism is-we don’t eat each other.” 

Ernie frowned, genuinely puzzled, “Really? Huh.”

Bert stared, “Why would you even ask that?”

“Well…” Ernie looked thoughtful, “I’ve seen humans doing that thing where they…put their mouths on each other’s faces? And move them around a bunch? It looks like they’re trying to eat each other.”

There was a beat of stunned silence before realization dawned on Bert, “Oh,” he said slowly, “You mean kissing.”

“Kissing?” Ernie echoed, like it was a brand new word.

“Yeah. It’s…affection. Intimacy. It’s not eating.” Bert rubbed his neck, “It’s something people do when they really like each other.”

Ernie raised his eyebrows, “So it’s not some kind of feeding ritual?”

“No!” Bert gave a short laugh, “Though I guess sometimes people feed each other with their mouths, like…if they’re being romantic or silly.”

Ernie squinted, “That still sounds a bit like eating.”

Bert couldn’t help the amused smile tugging at his lips, “It’s not. It’s…It’s kind of hard to explain.”

Ernie rolled onto his side, tail flopping against the deck with a wet thump.

“Merfolk don’t kiss,” he said. 

“That sounds sad,” Bert said, watching him. 

Ernie was quiet for a moment, gazing up at the stars, “So,” he said eventually, “have you ever kissed anyone?”

Bert hesitated. “Once. A long time ago.”

“Did you like it?”

“Um, I wanted it to be someone else.”

Ernie glanced over at him, surprised, and their eyes met.

A moment passed.

Then Ernie asked, with curious innocence, “If I asked you to show me…would you?”

Bert’s breath caught and he almost drops his drink, “E-Ernie,” he said, he’s thanking the stars it’s dark because he’s sure his face is red, “it’s not something you just ask like that. Not if it doesn’t mean anything.”

Ernie frowned, confused, “But it does mean something. You’re the most important person I’ve ever met.”

Bert stared at him, heart thudding hard in his chest. He reached out slowly, brushing a lock of damp hair back from Ernie’s face.

“Are you sure?” Bert asks. Ernie nods his head and scooters closer. 

“Show me!” 

Bert swallowed and glanced around the quiet, dark deck. No one but them. The stars above. The hush of the ocean.

“Okay,” he said softly.

Ernie lit up like he’d just found a chest of treasure, “So, how do we do it? Do I just…lean in?”

Bert chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, “Not so fast. It’s not a race.”

“Right, right! Sorry, I’m just, nervous. Excited. Nervous and excited.”

“You’re not the only one,” Bert muttered. 

Ernie tilted his head, “You’ve done this before, though!”

“Once. Badly. And I was sixteen.” 

Ernie snorted. “Well, I’ve never done it, so I guess that makes you the expert.”

Bert rolled his eyes, “Hardly.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Bert reached out, gently cupping Ernie’s cheek with one hand. His palm was warm and a little rough from rope and wood. Ernie leaned into it without hesitation.

“Okay,” Bert breathed, “Just follow my lead…”

He leaned in slowly, carefully, until their lips met.

It was awkward at first. Bert moved too cautiously, and Ernie too eagerly. Their noses bumped. Ernie accidentally giggled into his mouth. Bert pulled back an inch, cheeks flushed, and muttered, “Sorry.”

“No, wait, don’t stop,” Ernie said, wide eyed, “I can fix it! I think I got it.”

He tilted his head slightly and leaned back in, mirroring the way Bert had done it. This time it landed softer, more in sync.

Bert let himself sink into it, the tension in his shoulders melting away. His hand drifted to Ernie’s hair, fingers brushing salt soaked strands. Ernie’s hand found Bert’s and held it tightly between them.

The kiss deepened gently, slowly, like the tide easing into shore. Bert heard people describing strong emotions like fireworks or explosions. But with Ernie it felt like when the sea hits against the shores. Or that moment when the sun brightens up the darkness of night.  

When they finally pulled apart, Bert kept his eyes closed for a moment, catching his breath. Ernie’s smile was the biggest he’s ever had, his whole body shuttered like tiny fish were swimming all over it.

“That was really nice,” Ernie whispered, “I think I like kissing.”

Bert chuckled, dazed, “Yeah. Me too.”

"I like this much more than cheese," Ernie nuzzled his nose against Bert's, “Can we do it again tomorrow?”Bert opened his eyes and looked at him, his eyes and the shimmer of his tail in the moonlight.

”Absolutely.” 

Chapter Text

Bert locked the front door of his bookstore with a practiced flick of the wrist, the bell overhead giving its familiar, crisp jingle. He adjusted his coat collar against the evening chill and straightened his hat with a gloved hand, giving one last glance to the neat lettering on the window: Harper Street Books . The letters were hand painted, tidy and serifed, just the way he liked things.

His steps along the sidewalk were precise and even. Bert took the long way home, as he always did, cutting through the park so he could feed the pigeons. He had a small bag of crumbs in his coat pocket, day old rye from the baker down the street. The birds fluttered toward him in greeting as he sat on his usual bench. He didn’t speak to them, of course. But he liked the quiet company.

His brownstone was just three blocks from the shop. Narrow, clean, and plain faced, it suited him. His apartment was the ground floor unit, it was good for avoiding stairs, better for staying unseen. He preferred it that way.

He’d just taken off his shoes and opened the latest Hemingway when it started.

Jazz.

Loud jazz.

The ceiling shook with a blaring trumpet and the thump of dancing feet. Laughter echoed down the stairwell like a train passing too close. Bert stared at the ceiling with a look of pure betrayal.

He waited. One song. Two. The music did not stop. A shout of laughter directly above him made him flinch.

He closed his book with a tight snap. He'd just go to bed early and read tomorrow night. 

The next night, it happened again. And again the night after that. 

At first, he tried to ignore it. Perhaps the neighbor upstairs was just new to the city. Perhaps it was a housewarming party, a birthday, a mistake. But by the fifth night, the parties weren’t just a disruption, they were a pattern.

Bert stood in his kitchen in socked feet, hands gripping a tea cup he hadn’t touched in hours. The walls vibrated with laughter and some lively piano tune, “Sweet Georgia Brown,” he thought, bitterly. The entire apartment smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and burnt something or other wafting down through the vents.

He put the cup down. Firmly.

“That’s it,” he grumbled, adjusting his suspenders and grabbing his robe, “Enough is enough.”

Bert marched up the stairs, the music growing louder with each step. A saxophone wailed as though being murdered in celebration, and someone above laughed like they were being paid by the decibel. Bert’s slippered feet tapped impatiently on the wood.

The second floor landing was dim and narrow, the hallway illuminated only by a buzzing sconce. He raised a fist, ready to knock.

And then-

The door burst open, and someone came barreling out, arms full of what looked like empty glass bottles and a pie tin.

They collided.

Bert’s world jolted as he stumbled backward, lost his balance, and landed ungracefully on the floorboards. A soft clatter echoed around them as the other man’s armful of items scattered across the floor.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” The man scrambled to his knees immediately, grabbing for the pie tin and bottles while shooting Bert a sheepish, crooked grin, “That was all my fault. I never look where I’m going. A re you alright, mister?”

Bert blinked. His heart was still thudding from the impact, and not just from the fall.

The man had a face that was all warmth and mischief, brown curls tousled like they’d been in a rush to dry, and freckles that dotted his nose like sunlight through leaves. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and he smelled faintly like cinnamon and tobacco.

For a second, just a second, Bert thought Oh my.

Then he shook the thought out of his head like a fly from his ear and straightened his robe with a huff, “Yes, I’m fine. Quite fine. Thank you,” he said stiffly, “Now, if you wouldn’t mind-"

“Oh! wait, wait,” The man extended a hand, “I’m Ernest. I just moved in upstairs. You must be the bookstore fellow that lives downstairs?”

Bert hesitated, then took the hand briefly before standing, “Yes, Bertram."

“Well, it’s swell to meet you! Sorry again about the crash landing,” Ernie chuckled and began gathering the last of the bottles, still sitting on the floor like this was all very normal.

Bert smoothed his shirt and cleared his throat, “Yes, well. That brings me to why I’m here,” His voice took on its practiced, polite but firm tone, the same one he used on customers who dog eared pages, “I’ve been patient. Five nights of jazz and stomping and revelry and, well, sheer cacophony. I understand people have…friends and fun. But every night? It’s become quite impossible to read, let alone sleep.”

Ernie blinked up at him with wide, guilty eyes, then gave an apologetic little smile, “Oh. Geez, I didn’t realize it was keeping you up. I guess I got a little carried away. It’s my first time living in New York, y’know?”

Bert opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything.

“I’ll keep it down, I promise,” Ernie said, standing up now and brushing his knees, “You’ve got my word.”

Bert straightened his posture, “Good. Thank you, uh, and goodnight, Ernest.” He turned, robe swishing behind him, and descended the stairs just as the music dimmed.

Behind him, Ernie lingered in the hallway for a moment, watching the retreating figure with a small, curious smile, "G'night Bertram!" He grabs the last of his trash and takes it out as planned. 

The last of the guests trickled out sometime around three. The hallway was quiet again, save for the occasional creak of floorboards or a hiccupped snore from the tenant down the hall. Ernie stood in the middle of his apartment, surveying the aftermath. Lipstick smudged glasses, confetti on the floor, a half eaten cake leaning like a collapsed building. Jazz still murmured faintly from the record spinning in the corner, but it had grown too tired to bother anyone now.

He sighed and rolled up his sleeves.

The kitchen light flickered once, then held steady. He gathered up empty bottles, wiped down the counters, scooped cigarette butts from the windowsill into a tin. He hummed as he worked, not because he felt particularly cheerful, but because silence made the room feel bigger. And when it felt big, it felt empty.

That was the whole reason for the party, really.

Not because he liked crowds so much ( though he didn’t mind them ), or because he wanted to impress anyone. It was just better than being alone with the quiet. Quiet let in the thoughts. The echoing ones. The ones that made him remember how much space there was when no one else filled it.

He picked up the dropped pie tin from earlier, bent slightly at the corner. The one he’d meant to bring downstairs before colliding with Mr. Bookstore.

Bertram. 

Does he ever go by Bert? Ernie thought and chuckled softly. He leaned against the sink. What a character, he thought, remembering the look of pure disapproval on Bert’s face. Like he’d been personally insulted by the volume of joy in the building.

But there’d been something else in his face too, just for a second. Something that flickered and vanished before Ernie could place it. Surprise, maybe. Curiosity. Or maybe just the startled reaction of a very tidy man being knocked to the ground by a very untidy one.

Still, Ernie didn’t take it personally. The interaction was brief but he kind of liked how odd Bert was. Proper. Rigid. Buttoned up like he was made of starch and schedule. Ernie had met men like that before, usually they never stayed long at his parties. But they were interesting in their own way. Like puzzles. Or books you had to read slowly.

He wondered if Bert ever laughed. If he has a quiet huff or maybe surprising boisterous laugh. 

Maybe what Bert needed wasn’t quiet.

Maybe what he needed was a friend.

And if Ernie was good at anything, it was making friends. He always had been.

He tapped the pie tin against the counter thoughtfully.

“Maybe I’ll bring this by tomorrow,” he said aloud, to no one in particular.

Then he smiled and went back to sweeping confetti off the floor.

~~~~~

The bell above the bookstore door jingled in the late afternoon hush.

Bert looked up from his ledger, pencil paused mid column. The day had been quiet, just a few regulars drifting in and out, a couple of tourists thumbing through the poetry section before deciding not to buy anything. He was halfway through reorganizing the nonfiction shelf by subtopic when the door opened.

In stepped Ernie, a pie tin cradled in his hands and a sheepish grin on his face.

“Hey there, neighbor!” he announced like they’d known each other for years.

Bert blinked, with expression crossed with confusion and surprise,  “It’s you.”

“Sure is,” Ernie said brightly, stepping further inside, “I, uh, I slept clean through the morning. You ever party so hard you forget where you put your other sock? I found it in a potted plant. Not even mine. Just, there it was. Anyway.”

Bert stared quietly.

Ernie held out the pie like a peace offering, “I wasn’t sure what kind of apology pie you’re supposed to make, but I figured apple’s safe, right? Sort of the vanilla ice cream of pies. Classic. Not too risky. Kind of like, uh, bookstores, actually.”

Bert arched an eyebrow, "I beg your pardon?”

“No offense! I like bookstore,” Ernie said quickly, “I mean, I don’t buy a lot of books. I just kind of drift in and drift out.” He glanced around at the towering shelves, “But yours is different. It smells like real wood and old paper and solitude. Like a church. But for bookworms.”

Bert still hadn’t taken the pie, " Is this a bribe?” he asked, tone dry.

“Well, technically, I already committed the crime, so I guess it’s more of a post apology peace treaty pie?” Ernie said with a grin. Holding out the pie for him. 

Bert looked at the pie. Then back at Ernie. Then, without a word, stepped out from behind the counter and carefully took the tin from his hands, “Thank you,” he said stiffly.

Ernie rocked on his heels, eyeing the shelves, “So this is your store, huh? It’s quiet.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Right, right. You like quiet,” Ernie nodded, “I guess I kind of crashed your personal sound barrier the other night.”

“And the night before,” Bert muttered, then sighed, “And likely tonight, too.”

Ernie scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a few less people coming tonight. You know. Just close friends. A pianist. A trumpet player. A girl who does this thing with spoons, actually, you’d probably hate it.”

Bert folded his arms and gave him a long, unreadable look.

Ernie, undeterred, wandered toward the closest shelf and pulled out a book at random, “ Birds of the Hudson Valley, ” He flipped it open, “Hey, you ever meet someone who reminds you of a bird? I had this aunt once who was definitely part parrot. I've been told I'm very duck like, say what kind of birds do you like?"

"Pigeons," Bert replied, then walked over and plucked the book from his hands, “Please don’t wrinkle the pages.”

Ernie held up his hands in surrender. “Right. Of course. No wrinkling. Just…browsing.” 

There was a long pause. Bert watched him like someone might watch a dog wander into a China shop. Ernie just smiled.

“Do you-” Bert started, hesitating, “Do you want something? I’m closing soon.”

“Nope,” Ernie chirped, “Just wanted to say hello. Drop off the pie. Be neighborly.”

Another pause.

“…You’re very strange,” Bert said at last.

“Thank you,” Ernie replied, entirely sincerely. He smiles brightly before leaving out the store entrance. 

The shop was empty again. After Ernie left, trailing a breeze of chatter and that inexplicable energy that lingered long after the door had closed behind him, Bert found himself still standing behind the counter, pie tin in hand, frowning down at it like it might open its flaky crust and offer him answers.

He wasn’t sure what had just happened.

That man had walked into his bookstore like he owned the place. Talked like they were friends. Left like it hadn’t mattered at all. And yet, he hadn’t been unkind.

That was the part Bert kept circling back to.

He’d been mocked before. For being stiff. For being quiet. For not drinking. For not dating. For keeping too neat an apartment. For saying no. Always saying no. People found it funny, the way he tucked in his shirts and catalogued his record collection alphabetically. They joked about how he was probably the sort of man who would die alone, buried under books with no one there to notice.

He’d learned to recognize the setup to a cruel joke. But today hadn’t felt like that. Not quite.

Bert stared down at the pie. He carried it into the back room, peeled off the foil, and retrieved a fork from his desk drawer. The crust flaked apart under the tines, the scent warm and cinnamon sweet. He took a small, cautious bite.

It was good.

He took another, then sighed and sat down heavily in his chair.

The pie was still warm in his chest when he locked up the shop that evening and made the quiet walk home. Dusk had settled on the street like a hush, the warm golden light dimming to lavender shadows. The jazz spilling from upstairs was quieter than usual. Slower, maybe. Less chaotic.

Bert stood in front of Ernie’s apartment door for a long moment.

He raised his hand to knock.

Paused.

Lowered it again.

He didn’t know what to say. “Thanks for the pie”? “Sorry I scolded you”? “You’re not as irritating as I thought”? None of it sounded quite right. And the idea of Ernie’s easy grin, his quick laughter, his way of making silence impossible, it made Bert’s stomach twist, just a little.

So instead, he pulled a folded scrap of notepaper from his coat pocket, he always kept paper on him, just in case, and uncapped the fountain pen clipped to his lapel.

He hesitated, then scribbled quickly:

Thank you. The pie was very good. –B

He leaned down and slipped the note under the door. Then straightened his coat, cleared his throat to no one, and walked away.

~~~~

The sun poured into Ernie’s little apartment far too early, prying through the crooked blinds like a nosy neighbor. He groaned from where he was sprawled across his couch still in half of last night’s clothes, a record spinning fuzz at the end of its play. Empty glasses on the table. One lonely party hat askew on a lamp.

He sat up slowly, rubbed his eyes, and shuffled toward the door to check for the morning paper.

But there was no paper.

Just a single folded note, crisp and small, resting on the floor like it had crept in on tiptoe.

Ernie blinked. Bent down. Picked it up.

The handwriting was neat. Slanted. Careful.

Thank you. The pie was very good. –B

Ernie stared. Then read it again. Then suddenly, he was grinning so wide it actually hurt.

A note.

From Bert.

A thank you. From Bert.

He spun around in a slow, giddy circle right there in his undershirt and socks, holding the note like it might float away if he wasn’t careful.

“This is progress!” he said aloud to no one, then laughed. Thrilled that he hadn't made his new neighbor his enemy. 

With a buzz of energy under his skin, Ernie dashed into his kitchen and hunted down a notepad. Something colorful, with a cartoon duck in the corner, he figured Bert would hate that. But maybe he’d smile a little too.

He scribbled:

You’re welcome. Next time I’ll try cherry. Unless you hate cherries. Then I’ll try peach. Unless you hate peaches. You’ll have to tell me what you don’t hate.

-Your loud upstairs neighbor, Ernie

He underlined “loud”, grinning to himself.

Then he tiptoed, barefoot and still tousled, down the stairs to Bert’s apartment and slipped the note under his door.

And just like that, Ernie’s day was made.

Bert was already up before dawn, like always. He liked the quiet hours, the ones where the world was still groggy and hadn’t yet decided what mood it would be in. His tie was already done, his newspaper open, a cup of coffee cooling beside his sink.

He nearly missed the piece of paper under his door. At first he thought it was a flyer, maybe something slipped in from the wind. But no, the cartoon duck gave it away before he even picked it up.

He sighed. Then hesitated.

You’re welcome. Next time I’ll try cherry. Unless you hate cherries. Then I’ll try peach. Unless you hate peaches. You’ll have to tell me what you don’t hate.

-Your loud upstairs neighbor, Ernie

Bert stood there, staring at it. His lips twitched before he caught himself. It was absurd. Juvenile, even. He was a grown man. A business owner. Not the kind of person who exchanged duck stationery. 

Still...

Still, he folded it neatly and tucked it in the top drawer of his desk.

The feeling rose in him again. That heat in the chest. The kind that wasn’t quite embarrassment and wasn’t quite longing but somehow both. He’d spent years learning how to ignore it. How to train his face to stay neutral and his voice measured. This kind of behavior, pie and notes and teasing charm, it wasn’t appropriate.

But maybe it didn’t have to be.

Maybe it was just a game.

Like playing pretend.

He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and sat at his small kitchen table with a blank notecard, the kind he used for orders and inventory. After a moment’s thought, he wrote,

I don’t hate cherries. Or peaches. But I do dislike loud jazz at 3 a.m.

-B

He added a small underline under “dislike,” though it felt almost…playful.

As he slid the note under Ernie’s door, he told himself it was harmless. Polite. Necessary for neighborly relations. He told himself he was just being courteous. He told himself a lot of things.

But by the end of the week, they were leaving notes every day.

Sometimes twice a day.

Sometimes tucked into books or slipped between the banister rails. Bert started using lined paper and fountain pens. Ernie started doodling ducks in the margins. Their notes grew longer. Rambling. Curious. It went from discussion of pie flavors, to Bert pointing out Ernie's ducks being quite childish for a grown man, Ernie simply pointed out maybe his love of pigeons was old man-ish. That got a small amused huff from Bert.  

They never spoke aloud when they passed each other on the stairs. Just little nods. Tight smiles. But Bert could feel it, some quiet thread tying their days together, some secret little rhythm just for the two of them.

A quiet, private thing.

The kind of thing he hadn’t let himself hope for in a long, long time.

~~~~~

The ticking of Bert’s bedside clock felt louder tonight.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

He shifted in bed, sat up, rubbed his face. The room felt too still, too full of thoughts. Not even a book could quiet them. They pressed behind his eyes, made his chest feel tight. It wasn’t like him to be restless, he lived by schedules, by predictability.

But tonight he almost wished there was a loud party to distract himself. But Ernie kept his promise and it’s been quiet for days. Only hearing some soft music upstairs and people coming and leaving every now and again. 

He pulled on his heavy wool coat and scarf, practical and plain. The air held fall, and even the city’s noise was muffled under the hour. He left his apartment with a purpose he didn’t question, climbing the creaky stairwell all the way up past the top floor.

The roof door groaned open on its hinges.

Bert expected to be alone. He hoped, maybe, for a little silence to shake the nerves off.

But someone else was there.

Ernie sat cross legged near the edge, coat slung over his shoulders, the usual mischief gone from his face. He wasn’t looking up at the stars or the skyline, but down, at his lap, hands fidgeting with a loose thread from his sleeve.

Bert froze, one hand still on the door.

Ernie looked up when he heard it. His eyes were wide, startled, but his shoulders relaxed a little when he realized it was Bert. 

“Oh,” he said, “Didn’t think anyone else came up here.”

“I don’t,” Bert replied stiffly, “I couldn’t sleep.”

Ernie nodded once and looked back down, “Me neither.”

Silence stretched out, soft and awkward.

After a pause, Bert took a few careful steps forward, “May I sit?”

Ernie glanced over at him, “Sure, it’s not my roof.”

Bert settled beside him with a sigh, pulling his coat tighter against the wind. It wasn’t quite cold, but the breeze held a warning. Autumn would pass soon. Then winter.

Ernie spoke, not looking up, “I thought about knocking on your door tonight.”

Bert looked over, “Why?”

Ernie shrugged one shoulder, “Just felt like…I don’t know. Like maybe you’d be up too. I know we write but we always seem to miss each other."

Bert didn’t respond right away. He wasn’t sure what to do with that kind of honesty. But he doesn't want to leave an open pause, "Why are you up here instead?"

Ernie rubbed at the back of his neck, “Sometimes I stay up here and think too much. Doesn’t help, but I do it anyway.”

“What were you thinking about?” Bert asked before he could stop himself.

Ernie gave a crooked smile, “You.”

Bert’s breath caught in his throat. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. A blush spread across his face rather quickly. 

“I mean-not in a weird way,” Ernie added quickly, realizing how he sounded, “Just about how you’re different. Not bad different. Just…quieter. You make me feel like I should sit still once in a while.”

Bert lowered his eyes, “You make a lot of noise.”

Ernie chuckled softly, “I know. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“It’s not always bad,” Bert said, and the words felt strange in his mouth, “Just unexpected.”

They sat again in quiet, the sounds of the city distant and softened below them.

Then Ernie turned his head slightly, “Do you ever feel like you don’t quite fit where you are?”

Bert looked at him. The way he asked, there was no flippancy in it. No joke. Just raw sincerity.

“All the time,” Bert said quietly.

Ernie nodded, eyes soft.

The wind tugged gently at their coats.

Neither of them moved for a while.

But for the first time in weeks, Bert didn’t feel like he was trying to push something down. He just let it be.

Let the silence sit between them. Shared, not lonely.

Let Ernie stay beside him. Quiet for the first time since they met. It was almost tooo bizarre. Bert caught himself stealing glances at Ernie, wonder what could be running through his mind that he would be stilled. And now, Bert wondering why he felt the urge to soothe and comfort this strange little man. 

~~~~~

The rain had started sometime before dawn, soft at first, then heavier. It rattled against the windowpanes of the bookstore like impatient fingertips. Bert stood behind the counter, tea cooling beside the register, staring at nothing in particular.

In his pocket were folded slips of paper. He hadn’t meant to keep them. Not at first.

It started with the pie note. Then the silly one about the weather (“Rain tomorrow, good thing ducks like puddles!”). Then one asking about Bert’s favorite soup, and another suggesting he try cinnamon on toast.

Bert had tucked each away out of habit. He was a man of habit. He told himself he was just being tidy.

But this morning, when he’d pulled open the drawer where he kept his gloves and scarves, he’d found them again, every single note Ernie had ever left him. Neatly stacked. Kept.

He didn’t read them, not exactly. Just unfolded a few, glanced at the handwriting. The slanted loops, the little doodles in the margins.

He’d felt it then, curling hot in his chest, giddiness. Like a boy. Like a fool.

And then shame.

He pressed his hand over the notes as if to hide them from himself.

What was he doing?

What sort of man, what kind of grown man, keeps another man’s notes like they’re something precious?

He didn’t need to ask. He already knew the answer, but he didn’t like the shape it made.

Bert shut the drawer and turned away sharply, pretending he hadn’t just spent ten minutes standing still, thinking about Ernie’s smile.

A gust of wind rattled the door, and then it opened.

“Bert!”

Ernie burst in with a gust of rain and laughter. His curls were soaked, shirt clinging damp at the collar. He looked like he’d run the whole block. Water dripped onto the floorboards, and his shoes squeaked with each step.

Bert startled like a schoolboy caught dreaming.

“Ernest,” he gasped, “You’re soaking wet.”

“Yup,” Ernie said, brushing rain from his sleeves with no urgency at all, “Caught in the downpour right outside. Thought I’d melt, but turns out I’m not made of sugar.”

He grinned, cheeks flushed from the wind.

Bert’s heart made a strange, traitorous thump.

“You’ll ruin the books if you drip everywhere,” he managed, frowning more than necessary.

“Aw, c’mon, I’ll dry off in the poetry section,” Ernie joked, moving toward the back, “They’re already sentimental.”

Bert pinched the bridge of his nose, “You can’t just-” But he stopped himself.

It was no use. Ernie was here, cheerful and alive in all the places Bert felt careful and closed.

And he looked...cute. His hair all out of place. That spark in his eyes.

Bert felt the shame coil again. Warm and familiar. He shouldn’t let this happen.

But then Ernie turned, eyes bright, “Did you get my note about the stew?”

“I did.”

“Well?” Ernie pressed. 

“I tried it.”

“And?”

Bert hesitated.

“I liked it,” he admitted.

Ernie beamed, “Then I’m one for one on improving your day. Not bad, huh?”

Bert didn’t reply, but his lips threatened to curve.

And somewhere behind his ribs, the fear and fondness wrestled again, louder now than the rain.

The rain hadn’t let up. If anything, it had grown worse, pounding against the windows like it meant to be let in. Thunder grumbled in the distance, and Bert, ever practical, lit the fire in the small back room behind the shop where he kept a few chairs and a kettle.

Ernie had taken off his wet jacket and socks, now curled barefoot in the threadbare armchair by the hearth. His feet were tucked beneath him, steam rising from the mug cupped in his hands.

Bert sat in the chair across from him, one leg crossed neatly over the other, hands folded in his lap around his own tea. He had resisted this, Ernie being here, Ernie being anywhere beyond the polite confines of neighborliness, but resistance was exhausting. And the tea was hot, and the fire warm, and Ernie…well, Ernie had a way of talking that filled the silence before Bert could resent it.

“…so then I tell the butcher, ‘Sir, that’s not a cut of pork, that’s a shoe,’ and he just looks at me like I’m the crazy one!” Ernie laughed, slapping his knee, “Turns out I was in the cobbler’s shop. I guess the hanging lightbulbs confused me. Or I just don’t know what meat looks like anymore.”

Bert blinked, “You tried to buy a shoe as food?”

“Well not tried. More like, accidentally almost succeeded," He grinned into his cup, “It’s a skill.”

Bert sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Thanks, pal.”

There was a pause. Not an awkward one. Just space for the fire to crackle, for the tea to cool a little. Ernie took it as an invitation to keep going.

“My mother says I talk too much,” he said cheerfully.

“She might be right,” Bert said, but without malice.

Ernie chuckled,  “I just like talking. Makes me feel like I’m not alone in my own head, y’know?”

Bert glanced at him. Ernie’s voice had softened, not joking now.

“Is that why you throw all those parties?” Bert asked.

Ernie looked at him over the rim of his mug. His smile faded just a little, “Busted, huh?”

“I’d assumed they were all your friends.”

“Nah,” Ernie said, shrugging, “Most of them don’t even know my name. They just like the music. And the bathtub gin. And that I let them dance on the furniture.”

Bert raised an eyebrow, absolutely baffled, “You let people dance on your furniture?”

“Not on purpose,” Ernie shrugged, “Truth is, it’s easier having a room full of strangers than sitting by myself. When it’s quiet, everything feels heavier. Thoughts get louder.”

Bert didn’t answer right away.

He looked down at his tea, at the gold rim of the porcelain. He could feel Ernie watching him, waiting.

“I know that feeling,” he said finally. His voice was low. 

Ernie’s expression changed. Less mischievous, more tender, “Yeah?”

Bert nodded, “I keep the shop open late even when no one comes in. I tell myself it’s for bookkeeping, but sometimes I just don’t want to go home.”

Ernie leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, “Then maybe we’re not so different.”

Bert looked at him, really looked. The firelight lit his face, turned his hair to gold and shadow. There was a dimple in his cheek Bert hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe he had, but had tried not to.

“Maybe not,” Bert murmured.

“I like this better,” Ernie said.

Bert tilts his head, “What?”

“This,” He gestured between them, “Tea and fire and talking. You and me.”

Bert's heart jumps in his chest against his will, "Better than dancing on furniture?”

“Well, you haven’t seen me dance yet,” Ernie said with a wink.

Bert let out a short, surprised laugh. He looked down, embarrassed, and stirred his tea to hide it.

But something in the room had shifted. Not loudly, not suddenly, but gently. Like something lonely cracking open to let the light in.

The rain had finally thinned to a damp mist, leaving the cobblestones slick and shining under the weak glow of the streetlamps. After hours tucked away in the back of Bert’s bookstore, their conversation had run from books to neighbors to nonsense, until a glance at the clock startled them both.

The street was hushed as they walked side by side, their coats buttoned up against the chill. Ernie’s steps fell into an easy rhythm with Bert’s, and after a block he let his shoulder rest lightly against Bert’s arm, just enough to feel his steady presence. The contact was warm, grounding. In the halo of lamplight, Bert’s profile caught Ernie’s attention, the slope of his nose, the quiet focus in his gaze, the way his mouth curved when he was listening.

Ernie didn’t realize he’d been staring until Bert turned his head. Their eyes met for a fleeting second, and Bert’s composure seemed to falter, his brow twitching in something between curiosity and self consciousness.

They reached the stoop of their building far sooner than Ernie wanted. The familiar separation loomed, the narrow staircase leading to his apartment above, the hallway to Bert’s shop below.

“Night, Bert,” Ernie said, lingering on the step. He added with a crooked grin, “Don’t stay up reorganizing your books, or they’ll start filing complaints.”

Bert gave the faintest huff of amusement, “Goodnight, Ernest.” 

Ernie smiles at him, “You know, Ernie works just as well. Better, sometimes.” 

Bert blinks before nodding his head. A nickname that fits so well and yet strangely intimate. Even if Ernie’s quick transition to calling him Bert instead of Bertram hasn’t been called out on. 

Neither moved at first. Then Ernie took the stairs, glancing back over his shoulder halfway up. Bert was still there at the bottom, watching, his hand in his coat pocket. Their eyes caught again in that unspoken moment, before they both looked away, each turning toward their own door.

~~~~~
Their notes became more consistent. When it was the weekends and Bert wasn’t attending to his store, he would pace his floor and wait for the slip of a note under his door. 

It’s funny because, Ernie was always around and available to write. Bert wondered for the first time, what did Ernie do job wise? He always had so much time. 

The little brass bell over the bookstore door jingled just as Bert was sliding the last stack of poetry books back onto the shelf. He didn’t need to look up. Only one person in the world breezed in this late in the evening without so much as checking the “Closed” sign.

“I come bearing pie,” Ernie announced, holding a bakery box in both hands like it was a treasure chest, “And before you say anything, no, I didn’t eat half of it on the way here.”

Bert arched an eyebrow from behind the counter, “That’s very specific for something you’re ‘not’ guilty of.”

Ernie grinned, strolling toward the back of the shop like it was second nature, “C’mon, I know you’re just about to close up. And I found us the perfect spot, oh wait, it’s the same spot as always.”

Bert shook his head, pretending to sigh as he flipped the sign on the door to Closed, “You know, some people like to go home after work.”

“And some people like to make sure their friends eat dessert and don’t turn into old book hermits,” Ernie said over his shoulder, heading straight for the worn little table in the back corner.

It was their corner, half hidden behind tall shelves of history and travel books, with just enough room for two chairs and a stack of mismatched plates. Bert followed with the small pot of tea he always made for closing time, setting it down while Ernie unpacked the pie.

“This one’s peach,” Ernie said, slicing generously, “You’re gonna love it.”

“Mm hm,” Bert replied, trying for flat disinterest. But inside, he felt that ridiculous lightness he always did when Ernie came around, like the shop was brighter somehow, even with just the dim glow of the green shaded lamp above them.

As they ate, Ernie kept tossing in his usual quips, about the dramatic faces on some of Bert’s dust jacket authors, about how the bookstore’s “mystery” section really should include the odd umbrella that had been sitting untouched by the door since June. Bert rolled his eyes, muttering responses that sounded irritated, but the corners of his mouth kept twitching upward.

Every now and then, Ernie would lean back in his chair, watching Bert with that easy, warm grin that made Bert feel like maybe the day’s work had been worth it just for this moment.

By the time the pie was nearly gone, Bert was pouring them both another cup of tea, careful not to let the look in his eyes give away just how much he didn’t want the evening to end.

Bert sat at the little kitchen table, fork poised with almost ceremonial care before he took another bite of the pie. His eyes closed briefly, a sigh escaping before he remembered himself and straightened, chewing with more restraint.

Ernie, for his part, hadn’t made it far past the tip of his slice. He was leaning on one elbow, chin in hand, pretending to eat while mostly watching Bert. It wasn’t the pie Ernie found satisfying, it was catching those fleeting moments when Bert forgot to be reserved, when a little joy slipped through the cracks.

“You know,” Ernie said casually, “I saw you had that book about…what was it? Bookworms?”

Bert’s fork froze halfway to his mouth, “Anobium punctatum,” he said instantly, a spark lighting in his eyes, “It’s actually a common name for several species, though technically, they’re not worms at all, just wood boring beetle larvae that-”

And just like that, Bert was off. For the first time since Ernie had moved in upstairs, the words poured out without hesitation. He gestured with his fork, describing the lifecycle, the damage to bindings, the painstaking restoration processes.

Ernie leaned back, setting aside his plate and instead holding the teacup Bert gave him earlier,  letting him go on. A smile tugged at his mouth, not mocking, but warm, almost indulgent. He liked this side of Bert. It wasn’t quiet, it wasn’t cautious, it was full and unguarded.

When Bert finally paused, realizing he’d been talking for several minutes, he cleared his throat and reached for his coffee, muttering, “My apologies. I got carried away.”

Ernie shook his head, “Don’t be. I like it when you talk like that.”

Bert was more at ease than he’d been with anyone in well, maybe ever. His shoulders had loosened without him noticing, and for once the silence between them wasn’t awkward, it was cozy. He was focused the empty plate in his lap, until the weight of a gaze made him look up. 

Bert blinked, “What?”

“Nothing,” Ernie said with an easy grin. “I just like watching you,” He tilted his head, “I could watch you all day.”

Bert’s ears went hot, his usual wariness creeping back in, “You-” He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat, “You probably shouldn’t say things like that.”

Ernie’s smile falter, “Why not?”

Bert ducked his head, brows furrowing, “Someone could take it the wrong way.”

Ernie's gaze shifts into something more prudent, "And we...wouldn’t want that?” 

Bert’s gaze slid toward the window, toward anything but Ernie, and he smoothed his vest front as though it might keep his voice steady, “We shouldn’t…talk like this,” he mumbles, each word placed with care.

Across from him, Ernie’s fingers rested on the rim of his teacup, tracing it slow, the faint scrape of porcelain under his thumb marking the seconds between them. He leaned forward, just a fraction, as if the motion itself were a question, “Maybe not with them,” he said softly, “but with you? I think I can.”

Bert shifted, his heel pressing into the rug, jaw tightening as if he could hold back the warmth rising to his cheeks. “That isn’t how the world works,” he said, low, his eyes fixed firmly on the brass hands of the clock.

Ernie’s smile faltered, but his eyes stayed on Bert, steady, searching. His thumb stilled on the cup, and for a moment he simply breathed, as though weighing the cost of silence.

Bert cleared his throat and sat back, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve as if it were suddenly too tight, “You know, I really ought to, uh, get the pie recipes from you. Try to bake my own so you don’t have to be bother to do it.” 

Ernie tilted his head, watching him, “Funny,” he said quietly, “that’s not what you were just thinking about.”

Bert’s eyes flickered to his, then away, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do,” Ernie replied, still gentle but with that steady way of looking right through him, “You’re quieter all of a sudden. Not your usual 'grumpy keep to yourself' kind either. Like you’ve got something on your mind you’re not saying.”

Bert’s fingers fidgeted with the seam of his sweater. Shame bubbles under his skin, a fear pang in his chest, “Some things just…don’t need saying, Ernie.” 

“Why not?” He presses. He leans forward, arms resting on his legs, “I’ll listen.” 

Bert drew in a breath, his voice low, “Because we’ve got a good…friendship here. The way things are…it works. Better not to stir it up.”

There was no word for it, in the air between them, but it hung there anyway. Or maybe the word was something that scared them both. 

Ernie frowns, the light dimming just a little, “Is what people want more important than…what makes you happy?,” he asks. He leaned back, but his eyes stayed on Bert, searching for cracks in that careful wall.

Bert stared at the floor, pretending he didn’t feel the weight of that gaze.

“Ernest…” Bert closes his eyes and breaths out through his nose slowly.

Ernie’s furrows his brows in concern, is he back to Ernest now? 

Bert closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose, slow and measured, as though steadying himself before a plunge. His hand curled around the arm of his chair until his knuckles blanched.

“You make it very hard, you know,” he said at last, his voice low and strained, “I don’t…I can’t risk losing this. You. Even if it means I don’t get…” He stopped himself, lips pressing together as if the next words might burn him.

His gaze flicked to the window, to the world beyond, “Men get ruined for less, Ernest. They lose their jobs, their friends…everything. I couldn’t stand to see that happen to us.” 

Ernie leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying Bert with a steady warmth that didn’t waver, “Maybe the rest of the world doesn’t have to know,” he said softly, “but you don’t have to pretend with me.”

Bert’s eyes darted toward him, sharp with a warning, but Ernie didn’t look away. “If this is all we ever get, quiet talks in the dark, passing each other on the stairs, just knowing…then I’ll take it. I’d rather hide from everyone else than from you.” 

“Why do we need to discuss this?,” Bert asks suddenly. He feels as if the room is closing in on them. 

Ernie sits up straighter, “Because you are an honest person, Bert. It’s something I admire about you. And I want to know how do you feel about us.”

A feeling like bugs crawling under Bert's skin made him shift in his chair, "I don't see why that matters."

The shorter sighs, "Do you like me?" the question seems simple enough. But there is a weight to it. 

"I-I like you just fine!" Bert stands up from his chair, "now that it's late, we should clean up. I don't want a filthy back room when I come into work tomorrow." 

Ernie stands up and it seems they both have forgotten how small the room actually is. Because they are less than a foot apart now, standing face to face. Bert's face burns and Ernie looks at him. 

"I like you too, if you were wondering," Ernie's voice is more serious than Bert's used to hearing, "and I'm not scared."

Ernie brushes their hands together. Bert finches away and it makes Ernie's heart sink to the bottom of his stomach. Bert watches the hurt flash through Ernie's eyes.  

Ernie clears his throat and smiles, tight and false, "I'll get out of your hair then, it's getting late...and like you said, we both have work early tomorrow." 

Bert watches his friend slip past him and he follows him down the hall of books to the front entrance. Ernie grabs the jacket he left the last time he visited that had made a temporary home on Bert's desk. He pulls on his jacket and doesn't turn around to meet Bert's gaze, filled with a mix of emotions. 

"Ern-" Bert is cut off. 

"Bertram, it's okay," the way Ernie says his full name makes Bert's heart clench, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pushed you. That wasn't appropriate of me."

Bert stands there, caught between his brain telling him to let them drop the whole interaction, and his heart, urging Bert to rush over and reclaim Ernie's hand. Instead he stands there speechless. Ernie nods his head politely and slips out the door without another word. He disappears into the night. Leaving Bert standing there with an empty feeling. 

~~~~~

Bert made a mistake. 

But he wasn't prepared for it to happen at all. He always assumed he would live alone with his books and die that way. Content. Alone. 

Now he's alone but not content. It was like stepping into the sun for the first time in his life. A bright warmth spreading over his whole being. Making him forget how cold those cloudy days alone are. Ernie's notes gave him something to look forward too, his weekly visits something to think about afterwards fondly. 

Life could be easy now, the notes stopped coming, after two weeks and not a single visit from his upstairs neighbor. Bert hates the silence now. The quiet being a reminder that this is how he's doomed to feel forever. 

Bert tried leaving a few notes, at first it was casual. 

I saw ducks back in the park today while feeding the pigeons. Have you been out there? I'm sure they'll be gone soon when they migrate. 

-B

No reply.

I've been meaning to ask you what you did for a job. I can't imagine it's anything with books, especially with how you stumble your way around my store. 

-B

Silence. 

Ernie, I'm the one who should have apologized that night. Please allow me to explain. 

-Bert

Bert waited and waited but there was not a word nor note from Ernie. He finally went up the stairs and knocked on Ernie's door before the courage could leave his chest. His heart felt like it might burst out and he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. 

Nothing. Bert tried to lean in and listen for any footsteps but it was completely silence. Bert frowns and makes his way back downstairs. Was Ernie purposely ignoring him? It made sense if he needed a few days or a week to himself. But Bert hasn't even seen him in weeks. 

He missed the jokes, the pies, and the silly notes with ducks on them. Bert missed Ernie. 

Bert started staying late in his store, just incase Ernie would walk in. He hoped and prayed that he would see his familiar smiling face spring through the door. He started sleeping in the back room. His antique chair was stiff and uncomfortable but Bert couldn't shake the feeling that maybe he'd come back. 

But after three days Bert got tired of nibbling off stale bread and cold tea. So at the end of the day, he closed up and slumped home. It had recently rained and the world around him was damp. A cold chill blew through making Bert wished he had worn a bigger coat. 

When Bert stepped into his apartment he heard a faint crumple under his shoe. He looked down and picked up a small slip of paper. 

Meet me on the roof.

-Ernie

Bert didn't even close his front door as he quickly ran up the stairs to the roof. He's didn't even care that he probably looked like a madman on a mission. When he got up to the top his breath caught in his throat.

Ernie was sitting there, wrapped up in a light coat. He turns his head and sees Bert. Bert walks over slowly, he didn't know if the tremble in his hands were his nerves or the cold. He stopped just a few feet from Ernie.

"Where have you been?" Bert asks, his voice shaking slightly.

Ernie's breath leaves a white fog in the air, "I went home for awhile, to see my family," he explains, "I thought you needed space. Then I found all your notes."

Bert frowns. So Ernie had been away this whole time.

"But...why didn't you at least tell me?," Bert asks, trying no to sound hurt.

Ernie shivers, “I thought you were still upset with me, I'm sorry, Bert."

Bert steps closer and shakes his head, "No, I'm sorry, Ernie. I've spent my whole life trying to avoid how I feel because…I was ashamed of myself," Bert continues, "but having you gone felt so much worse than being scared."

It feels like weight is lifted off Bert's shoulders. He feels exposed, but lighter than a feather.

Ernie's face changes, even in just the glow of the moonlight, "You missed me that much?" he tries to joke. To ease the tension.

Bert bites back on his anxiety building up and slips Ernie's hands into his own. His hands are cold from being exposed, Ernie's hands must have been in his pockets because they are warm. Softly than Bert's expected. Ernie gasps in surprise and looks down at their intertwined fingers.

For a moment, every muscle in Bert’s body told him to pull back, to retreat into the safe, quiet shadows where no one could see. But his fingers refused to obey. They stayed curled around Ernie’s, greedy for warmth. 

"So very much," Bert's voice softens, "i-is this okay?"

Ernie looks at him and squeezes his hands, "Yes, it's very okay."

Bert relaxes just a little, "Are we okay now?" Ernie nods his head and steps a little closer.

"Bert, if it isn't to bold of me, I really like holding your hands, but it's freezing outside." Ernie smiles sheepishly.

"We can go inside, I can make you some tea?" Bert suggests, his heart still beating fast, and Ernie nods.

"That would be great, and Bert?"

Bert tilts his head, "Yes?"

Ernie smiles and leans up on his toes to plan a kiss on Bert's cheek, "Nothing. Just wanted to do that."

As Ernie walks with Bert still holding his hand back down to his apartment, Bert's head feels dizzy and if his face wasn't pink from the cold before, it was now.