Yes, yes. I am back (sort of). I've been hanging out on tumblr. Feel free to visit me there. Link on my author's page.
This story, in fact, was first published on tumblr for Mertober.
Pairing: EngCan
Warnings: AU, mercreature, slash, OCCness
Matthew's father buys a merman's when Matthew is six years old.
The child watches from his father's side as the creature slowly floats down to the bottom of the enormous tank that spans three floors of the house. The creature looks upwards, towards the opening, first, then at the sand and then at the vibrant fishes that dart around. He, finally, then turns to look at the pair and Matthew steps forward, eyes wide.
Eventually, Matthew rushes forward when the stray light catches the merman's tail, thousands of glittering scales sending a smattering of light into the room. Matthew goes right up to the glass, slightly on his tiptoes, and stares at the creature, more than a little out of breath.
He laughs, delighted, when the merman shoots forward, eyes flashing, and Francis scoops up his son, arms wrapping around him despite the foot and half of enforced glass.
"We must not get too close, darling." He scolds, one hand smoothing over Matthew's curls. "He is about as pleasant as a shark."
"Look at his teeth." Matthew wriggles and whines when Francis begins to walk away. "But, papa—"
"Quiet. We should let the beast rest."
"He isn't a beast." Matthew protests. "He's so pretty."
Francis smiles, indulgent, and pats Matthew's head. "Child of my own heart."
Matthew spends hours in front of the tank after that. He talks, endlessly, and leaves tiny fingerprint against the glass, smudges that never quite fade even in time. He lays on his stomach and colors, sometimes, feet up in the air, endless babble to accompany the scratch of his crayons.
The merman curls up at the bottom of his tank, tail drawn up to his chest, the mangled gossamer threads of his fins tucked away.
Matthew smiles at him. The merman merely frowns and turns away.
It doesn't deter the child.
"He's sick." Matthew says one day, hands pressed against the glass. He frowns and looks at the listless merman. "And he's sad."
"He's a fish." Francis reproaches. "He can't be sad."
"But he is sick." Matthew turns. "You should take him to the doctor."
"He is perfectly healthy, my love." His father replies. "If anything, he is sulking."
Being the son of an eccentric, obscenely wealthy mogul like Francis allows Matthew to lead a privileged life.
For a six year old, that means he can demand to go to the pet store without asking twice because everyone assumes he wants a puppy.
He does play with the puppies for an hour but he leaves with a goldfish, its plastic prison tucked away in his bright red jacket.
He sneaks up to the third floor where the merman's tank's opening is located and goes right up to the intricate metal bars line the edges.
Matthew dips his fingers into the water, not breathing.
The water ripples and, then, the merman appears, dark hair plastering his forehead, green eyes sharp.
"Child." The merman's voice is harsh, hushed.
"My name is Matthew." He leans forward, the metal pressing against his cheeks. "What's yours?"
"Arthur." The merman tilts his head. "Or, at least, that is the closest your language comes to my name."
"Are you happy?"
"Stolen away from my home and kept in this wretched place like a household pet, why, yes, I am happy."
Matthew blinks at him and Arthur sighs.
"Never mind."
"I brought you a friend." Matthew pulls up the goldfish and tries to push the bag through the space between two bars.
Arthur raises an eyebrow and takes the bag, unties it and upends the fish into the water. The little goldfish starts to swim away.
"Her name is…" Matthew trails off, having already forgotten the fish's name. He grins, a little, and shrugs.
"Thank you." Arthur gives him a curious little look and then disappears back into the water.
Matthew looks up one day and sees the merman devour a fish.
He snatches it as it swims by and tears it open with his teeth, blood dissipating into the water when he jerks his head away, chewing almost angrily.
Matthew stares, mouth trembling, and he scoots back, carpet scraping against his legs.
The merman catches his eye, swallowing. He stills, fish still up to his mouth. Then, suddenly, with a push of his tail, he disappears from sight, just sand settling where he once lay.
Matthew doesn't finish his supper that night.
"Did you eat Fishy?" Matthew can't hold back the sob and Arthur gives him a very strange look.
"Of course not." He comes up to the bars, webbed fingers wrapping around them. "He is doing quite well. He's just too little to see sometimes."
Matthew sniffles loudly, wipes his nose on his sleeve. Arthur reaches out, wet fingers lightly petting Matthew's curling hair.
"I would never eat Fishy." Arthur says seriously.
Matthew smiles at him and Arthur returns it.
For the next few years, Matthew spends more time with Arthur than other people.
Francis doesn't notice, immediately, but once, on a rare day off, he searches for his son and finds him on the third floor, tall enough to see over the metal bars if he stands on his tiptoes.
Arthur has pulled himself up and Matthew is touching his gills.
"Come away from there!" Francis cries out, rushing away from the door.
Matthew starts and Arthur scowls, disappearing into the water. Francis grabs Matthew by the arms, taking his face in his hands and examining it, voice hysterical when he asks, "Did he hurt you?"
"Arthur wouldn't!" Matthew insists, voice muffled when Francis pulls him close. "He wouldn't!"
He doesn't understand why Francis sends him to boarding school after that.
Matthew never quite forgives Francis for sending him away, though he tries very hard. He can't quite quell the burst of bitterness, the sour taste in his mouth, when his father tries to soothe over the hurt with gifts and kind letters.
Matthew keeps them, though, because he isn't the type to hold grudges.
He just remembers.
"Any lovely women in your life?" Francis asks him as they return from the airport. He's wearing the same impeccably tailored suit but there are new lines at the corner of his eyes that cannot be erased and his gait is a little slower.
"No." Matthew shrugs. "Katya makes a better friend."
"Katya?"
"She has large breasts. You might approve."
"She sounds familiar."
"Braginiski's oldest daughter. I believe he owns mines?"
Francis makes a noise of despair, slumping against the leather of the seat. "Are you trying to put me in an early grave?"
Matthew grins at him, eyes bright, and Francis bemoans about sons usurping their fathers.
Matthew waits until after dinner to ask about Arthur.
Francis eyes him thoughtfully over the rim of his wine glass and then shrugs, mouth in a thin line.
"I know you will sneak out after I fall asleep." He gestures with his wine. "Go on. He's always been more your pet."
"Not a pet." Matthew mutters, pushing away from the table.
Matthew pauses, suddenly, outside of the room, hand on the knob. He wants to go in, wants to see his merman, but something makes him falter and he can't quite push himself to enter.
"I wondered when you would come see me." Arthur doesn't rise to peer over the bars.
Matthew hesitates a few feet away.
"I thought…you might be angry." He says quietly. "I understand a lot more now."
Arthur smiles at him, softly, fondly, and then he does rise to peer over the bars. "It seems school was not a waste on you."
Matthew takes his familiar spot on front of Arthur's tank, this time with a thick novel. Sometimes he glances up, sees Arthur watching him.
On the third time, he gets up and sits against the tank and places the book in his lap.
He knows that Arthur is looking over his shoulder.
Matthew falls asleep in front of the tank, one night, and the housekeeper spreads a blanket on him, letting him slumber in the green-blue light of the tank.
Arthur watches her leave and then comes up to the glass, looking at the sleeping human, the line of his nose, curve of his cheek.
He turns away, sending up a burst of sand and curls up on his rock. He closes his eyes and remembers the other's tentative press of fingers against his gills years ago.
Matthew is old enough to lean over the bars and hover over the water.
Arthur is old enough to know better so he pushes the boy away until he is safely standing on solid ground.
"Foolish child." He frowns. "You have your world and this is mine."
"But I prefer the world where we are together." Matthew whispers.
Arthur doesn't speak to him after that, stays at the bottom of his tank and no matter how many times Matthew taps the glass, the merman refuses to look at him.
So, Matthew jumps into the tank.
Arthur drags him up and shoves him against the metal bars, wiping the sodden curls off Matthew's face, smearing tendrils of gold across his cheeks.
"Stupid, stupid child!" He snaps. Matthew is heavy, his jeans and shirt weighing him down. Arthur presses up against him, heavy tail pinning his legs in place in case his strength fails. "You would have drowned."
Matthew has the decency to look ashamed, eyes bright. "You wouldn't have let me."
"I should." He retorts, fingers tracing the curve of Matthew's cheek. "I could. I come from a long line of murderous wretches."
Matthew shivers and Arthur tries not to look at the tremble of his mouth. Instead, he helps him out of the tank, steadies him so he doesn't fall back into the water.
"I am ages older than you." Arthur says the next time they meet. "Ages and ages and you will die before I grow a single grey hair."
"I missed you." Matthew says, in that sweet way of his, and Arthur quiets, gills fluttering. "Did you—"
"Do not ask stupid questions." Arthur snaps. "I miss you desperately and in the most unspeakable ways."
"Unspeakable?" He says it with a smile.
"Unspeakable." Arthur's voice wavers at the end and Matthew's mouth fits so nicely against his so Arthur kisses him twice.
Matthew thinks, often, about setting Arthur free. He knows his father could just as easily fill the tank with dozens of exotic fish, with scales far more luminous than Arthur's and with far sweeter dispositions.
The problem lies with Arthur's tail and the mangled fins he now lives with. The ocean currents would drag him away and to his demise and Matthew can't bear the thought of his merman drowning in the endless dark of a trench.
And Francis, despite being a terrible sort of person, is not so cruel to let a majestic creature die.
And, by some grace of the divine sort (most likely), Arthur didn't deteriorate in captivity. He didn't thrive, either, but he was safe and well fed and rarely bored once Francis started dumping his ex-wife's jewelry into the tank.
(It became very entertaining to flick pearls against the glass walls of his tank during the long months Matthew was away at school.)
"I've never been able to control that child." Francis tosses some shrimp into Arthur's tank. Arthur tosses it back at him. "You bewitched my son, you terrible thing."
"Your son has terrible taste in paramours." Arthur retorts.
"You tell me what I already know." Francis sulks, tossing another shrimp. "He inherited his mother's sense along with her loveliness. He inherited my stubbornness, however. I pity you."
"You could be mine." Arthur says, one day.
"I am yours." Matt frowns, sitting at the edge of the tank. Francis finally removed the metal bars because he realized that Matthew would be more likely to get injured by them than Arthur.
(Francis still gave the tank a wide berth.)
"No." Arthur shakes his head, arms folded. "One day you will want a life outside of here."
"I want a life with you."
"You say that—"
"I've been saying it for years. I think I knew it before I could say it." Matthew laughs, bittersweet. "You've been my world since I was a child. You're all I know. How could I know anything else?"