DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
AND Orenchi no Furo Jijou – Itokichi
MY ROOMMATE, THE MERMAN
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse my taking liberties with some character names & relationships.
This short-story was inspired by Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid, and by the manga/anime by Itokichi, called: Orenchi no Furo Jijou.
For those of you who would prefer to read "My Roommate, The Merman" in Chinese, please visit the link in my profile.
Thank-you and best wishes to the lovely and talented translator, ballightnings! :D
CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):
DENMARK — Mikkel Densen
NORWAY — Bjørn
Mikkel Densen was average. He was a nineteen-year-old boy of average fortune living in Copenhagen, studying Maritime Law. He rented a studio flat on the second-level of a bright red apartment building that overlooked the harbour in an artsy but average part of town. He got average grades, and was an average footballer, and stood just over six-feet tall—which was perfectly average for a Danish male. During the day he attended class; then, at night, he met friends and classmates for beer at a local brewery a few blocks from his flat, to joke and drink and cheer on whichever football team was playing Sweden. Then he would return to his flat, fall into bed, oversleep, and repeat the routine the next day. There was nothing atypical about Mikkel's life at all, and nothing interesting ever happened to him.
Not until the day he rescued a boy called Bjørn.
Bjørn, you see, was a merman.
It was late. The night's sky was overcast, cloaking the moon and stars. Mikkel was lollygagging as he walked along the deserted boardwalk, kicking pebbles, hands hanging loosely from his jacket pockets, and whistling softly. It was a cold night for mid-February, but the Dane walked with his coat unbuttoned; he was un-scarfed and un-gloved. The beer in his belly numbed his fair skin and flushed his cheeks. His blue eyes surveyed the black water breaking over the rocks below. It wasn't long before he spotted a figure lying against a slippery rock, body half-submerged.
"Oi!" Mikkel called in concern.
Quickly, he ran to the edge of the boardwalk and leapt over the barrier. His boots slid on the rocky decline of the breakwater, which led to the surface.
Please don't be a dead body. Please don't be a dead body, he thought anxiously.
It was a boy no older than Mikkel. He was very pale and very thin. It was hard to determine his state in the dark, but Mikkel thought he looked rather sick, as if he hadn't eaten in days, and hadn't seen the sun—ever. His skin was ice-cold, but Mikkel was not spooked. It was February and the boy was naked and half-submerged. Of course he was cold. He felt fragile as glass, as if he might shatter into a million ice-crystals if Mikkel wasn't careful.
"Oi, hello?" he said hoarsely. Please, please, please don't be a dead body.
The boy's eyes peeled open. The details of his face were obscured, but his dazzling eyes shone like violet orbs, reflecting the streetlight's glow.
Mikkel exhaled in relief.
"It's okay," he said, calculating the boy's lightweight, the angle of his body, and the steep incline. Gingerly, he slipped his hands beneath the boy's frail arms and tried to pull him up, but he lost his balance and nearly fell headfirst into the uninviting water. The boy groaned weakly. He was a lot heavier than he appeared. Briefly, Mikkel considered that he was trying to rescue a failed suicide attempt, imagining a cinderblock tied to the boy's feet, but he discarded it when the boy's soft voice said:
"Help... me..."
"Don't worry, it's going to be alright," Mikkel promised. Again, he prepared to lift the boy. "Can you reach my shoulders?" he asked, crouching precariously low. The boy didn't reply, but a moment later Mikkel felt wet fingers on his shoulders, grasping at his coat and the contours of his muscles. Slowly he straightened, lifting the boy's limp body. "I'll take you back to my place, okay? It's not far, just around the corner. I'll call an ambulance from there."
He slipped. The boy's fingertips dug in like claws.
"Can't you spread your legs a little more?" Mikkel asked, groping blindly behind him. "I can't really carry you like this."
Mikkel stiffened when he felt the boy's cold lips pressed to the shell of his ear: "No."
No?
"Are you injured? Are you—"
Suddenly, his hand landed on something long and wet and scaly. The boy shivered at the accidental caress. Mikkel drew his hand away and trudged on, holding the boy's lower-back in support. His heart pounded as he climbed to the boardwalk, where he laid the mysterious boy down in a sliver of moonlight. Then he stepped back and stared.
The boy was very beautiful. His flawless skin was opalescent and so delicate that it was nearly translucent. His face was effeminate in a soft, artistic fashion, made of gentle angles, and those big luminescent eyes, which stared evenly back at Mikkel, sparkled like precious stone. His silky hair was pale-blonde and blew like ghostly willow-the-wisps in the breeze. It kissed the column of his slender neck, where transparent gills protruded. The same gills but larger covered the bottom of his ribcage, which sloped into a flat stomach and wide hips. Just below his hips his skin changed colour and transformed into scales; glossy, jewel-like scales that shimmered reflectively. The palest were silver, almost white; the darkest were the exact same shade as Mikkel's cerulean eyes. The scales curved into a long, powerful fishtail—the length of his legs if he had had any—and ended in a gossamer fin that looked like flower petals.
Mikkel exhaled in awe.
The boy—the merman—reached out with a delicate, webbed hand. Softly, he said: "Please help me."
It was then that Mikkel saw fear in the boy's eyes.
"Don't be afraid of me," he said, tugging off his coat. The wintery breeze bit his skin, and this time he felt it. Soberly, he draped the garment over the boy's naked shoulders to shield him, testing his boundaries. The last thing he wanted was to startle the fish-creature into attack. But the boy barely noticed. He was weak and shivering. When the human circled an arm around his slender torso, careful not to touch his gasping gills, the boy leant into the safety of his body. Then, with extreme care and a little apprehension, Mikkel slid an arm beneath the heavy fishtail and hefted the boy into the cradle of his arms.
"Hurry," the boy begged. His voice was a whisper. "I can't... breathe."
Mikkel obeyed and walked fast, glad for the deserted streets.
"It's okay," he soothed, walk becoming a jog when he spotted his building. "It's going to be okay. I'll take care of you. I won't let anything bad happen to you, I promise."
That's how average Mikkel Densen ended up with a merman in his bathtub.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Bjørn," answered the merman. He was lying on his back in the sizable bathtub, which was filled to the edge with clean, warm water. The tips of his pale hair floated on the surface, his face half-submerged. He lifted his head to speak, then sunk back down to his nose, hiding. His long, scaly tail was curled against his body, like a human holding his knees to his chest. It was a defensive position. His eyes didn't blink.
"I'm Mikkel," said Mikkel. "Mikkel Densen. You speak Danish."
"Yes, I live in Danish waters."
Mikkel perched on the edge of the white bathtub, opposite Bjørn's head. The window overhead let in silvery moonlight, bathing the boy in its spectral glow. His violet eyes danced with the reflection of light on the water. He was a truly beguiling creature.
"Where do you live?"
"In the Skagerrak," he replied. "I was living alone in a sunken ship. I was sleeping when the humans came. Divers. They came to excavate the ship. My kind, we hibernate in the winter. I was deeply asleep. I was lucky to wake before they found me. I escaped, but the shock of waking overwhelmed me. I was starving and freezing. I could barely swim. The current carried me here to you. You saved my life," he said matter-of-factly. "Thank-you, Mikkel Densen."
"Uh, you're welcome," said Mikkel bashfully. The effect of Bjørn's unblinking gaze made him feel naked. "So, why were you living alone? Don't you have a family? Or, a colony—?"
"A shoal," Bjørn corrected. "I did, yes, but not anymore. I was cast out."
"Why?"
"I'm a runt, too weak. No one wanted me for a mate."
"You're a runt?" Mikkel gaped. His muscles vividly recalled how heavy the merman was. His upper-body was thin and fragile, but his powerful tail was solid.
"Yes," Bjørn sighed. "But you're not, are you? I've seen many humans, but few as big as you. Do you have a mate, Mikkel Densen?"
"Uh, no."
"Oh."
Sleepily, Bjørn leant back and let the water engulf the back of his head. He closed his eyes. The tiny gills on his neck slowly swayed open-and-closed as he breathed. It was rhythmic. In the light, Mikkel could see thin blue veins spider-webbing the fins, which looked like elegant filigree.
"Can I, uh, get you anything?" he offered, at a loss.
"I'm hungry."
"Oh, right. Okay, wait here," he said, and then mentally scolded himself. Bjørn was a merman—where could he even go? Mikkel left the washroom and went to the kitchen, where he hastily built a ham and cheese sandwich on rye. "Here," he said, proffering it to the drowsy merman, who merely blinked in reply.
Reluctantly, Bjørn took it. He held it to his face, smelling it, then he glanced from Mikkel to the sandwich in confusion. Finally, he took an experimental lick. His reaction was instantaneous. He recoiled and let the sandwich fall to the tiled floor, face twisted in disgust.
It was then Mikkel realized he hadn't asked Bjørn what it was he wanted to eat. He had simply chosen the midnight snack that he, himself, had been craving. Sadly, he looked down at the wasted food. I could've eaten that, he thought. Would it be super gross to eat a sandwich off the washroom floor—? Yeah, probably. Mikkel wanted to be annoyed, but merpeople's diets were likely different from humans'.
"Do you have fish?" Bjørn asked.
"Fish? Uh, yes. I think so—maybe." Mikkel went back to the kitchen. So, they're predators, he thought as he dug in the refrigerator, then the freezer. Foolishly, he had assumed a fish eating another fish to be cannibalistic, but it seemed to be the opposite. Lots of fish eat fish. Bjørn's not a vegetarian; he's a hunter, like a shark. He found a jar of pickled herring in the cupboard and returned to the washroom.
"Sorry," he said, unscrewing the lid. "It's all I've got. I'll go to the fish market tomorrow—"
The second the pungent scent hit Bjørn, he snatched the jar from Mikkel and began devouring the pieces of briny, spiced herring. He dug into the jar, but his webbed fingers were unable to reach too far, so he tipped the jar and his head and let the fish slide sloppily into his open mouth. The juice rolled down his chin, but he lapped at it with his tongue, the tip of which was very, very dark blue, nearly black. His teeth, too, were unlike a human's. Bjørn's canines were long and sharp and pearly-white, but he swallowed most of the fish pieces whole. Mikkel felt a little queasy as he watched the merman feed.
"Thank-you," Bjørn said, licking his lips.
Mikkel nodded. He couldn't not stare.
"You're a very strange creature," he said thoughtlessly. Bjørn looked up at him. "I mean, I've just never seen a real merman before," he amended. "I didn't think merpeople existed. But you—you're like seeing a sea shanty come to life. I must seem very strange to you too, though, right?"
"Not really.
"This is nice," said the merman, laying back. "It's so warm here, so luxurious."
"My tub?" Mikkel frowned. "You want to stay in my tub?"
Bjørn's eyes sought Mikkel's. "May I? Not forever," he added quickly, "just until spring. You see, if you send me back into the sea now, I'll die."
He said it tonelessly, stating a probable fact.
"Can't you go back to sleep?" Mikkel asked. "That's how you—your kind survive the winter, isn't it?"
"Yes, but I'd likely freeze to death first. Please, Mikkel Densen?" said the merman beseechingly. "I don't want to die yet. May I stay here in your lovely tub?"
"I, uh—yeah, I guess so." He shrugged helplessly. "But only if you stop using my whole name. It's just Mikkel, okay? Or, Mick, if you like."
"Okay." Bjørn closed his eyes in contentment. "Mick."
ONE WEEK LATER
MICK!" Bjørn yelled.
Mikkel dropped an armful of laundry and dashed into the washroom. "What is it? What's wrong?" he gasped.
Bjørn lifted a disposable flyer to eye-level. He pointed with a webbed finger. "Pickled herring is on sale at the fish market tomorrow!" he reported, excited. (Bjørn's excited face was achieved when his eyes grew wider than usual.)
Mikkel deflated.
Originally, he had been shocked at the merman's request for reading material. "You can read?" he had asked.
"Yes, I can read. It's baffling, the things you humans throw away," Bjørn said in explanation. "I taught myself the symbols—letters—but I'm not fluent. That's why I like those." He pointed to a stack of colourful magazines. "The ones with the pictures. May I—"
"No!" Quickly, Mikkel grabbed the magazines. "Uh, not these. I'll, uh, get other ones for you. Better ones," he promised, going scarlet.
Bjørn had merely blinked. "Humans are very shy, aren't they?"
He was referring, of course, to the inflatable polka-dot kiddie pool, which Mikkel had presented a couple of days ago as a solution to their having to share the bathtub. Bjørn had looked at it in disgust, as if Mikkel were stuffing him into a ham and cheese sandwich. "It's just while I'm showering," Mikkel promised, carrying the merman into the main room, where the offensive kiddie pool waited. Bjørn twisted, his tail hanging over the side. He complained about the size, the texture, and the tepid temperature. (Mikkel already regretted showing Bjørn how to operate the hot water tap. His hydro bill would be ugly this month.)
"I don't mind sharing the tub with you, you know," Bjørn had said helpfully. "My brother and I used to clean each other all the time. It's a nice feeling, being cleaned."
"You have a brother?" Mikkel asked, sidestepping the suggestion.
"Yes, but he's a baby. He still lives with the shoal."
"Uh huh, I appreciate the offer," Mikkel had said politely, "but I'll be washing my own, uh, self. Thanks."
He looked at the excited merman now, his eyes aglow as he tapped the flyer. "Okay, okay," he said, taking it. "I'll go to the fish market tomorrow."
Bjørn leant up, sloshing water onto the floor, and kissed Mikkel's cheek in gratitude. His lips were cool and satiny. In reply, Mikkel patted his silky head.
He had learnt a lot about merpeople in the past week. Firstly, they were cold-blooded, which explained the merman's trigger-happy hot water splurges. Bjørn's life was literally dependent on staying warm. And secondly, that merpeople were a very physically affectionate species. They communicated by actions more so than by speech. Bjørn, too, despite his inexpressive nature, was unabashedly physical. Mikkel discovered this the first time Bjørn had kissed him—not on the cheek. The feel of the merman's lips pressed against his had startled Mikkel, and he had shoved the fish-creature away. The look on Bjørn's face was confused and a little hurt, but Mikkel's guilt was bludgeoned by the repulsive idea of Bjørn's blue tongue touching his. But since the merman would not be convinced to stop—his kind, it seemed, were socially obliged to show gratitude—Mikkel let Bjørn kiss his cheek instead. In return, he had taken to petting the merman's head, like a dog. He wondered if it wasn't degrading, but Bjørn's reaction silenced the thought. He loved being stroked. He would lean into Mikkel's big, warm hand and close his eyes in contentment, trusting the human not to harm him. Mikkel had felt a little awkward at first, since Bjørn's upper-body was humanoid. It felt like he was petting one of his friends, but the embarrassment was short-lived. Eventually, he had found himself sitting on a bench by the bathtub, reading or studying, while Bjørn laid his head on Mikkel's thigh, letting the human gently rub his head. It was oddly soothing for both parties.
He's like the high-maintenance pet I never wanted, Mikkel thought, smiling in defeat.
The next day, Mikkel went to the fish market and stocked a half-a-dozen crates with cod, salmon, eel, oysters, shrimp, and fresh and pickled herring. At the check-out, the elderly cashier cocked an eyebrow at him in question.
"I have a pet," he said in defense.
She smiled politely. "A very well fed one, too."
He loaded a wagon, which he had borrowed from a friend, and lugged the whole lot back to the flat. Bjørn, of course, was ecstatic. He kissed Mikkel's cheeks six times, a kiss for each crate.
"Listen," Mikkel said, sitting on the bathtub's edge, watching the merman fight with a jar of pickled herring. "I bought a gift for you," he chose his words carefully. "It'll help to keep you warm."
Bjørn's facial muscles lifted in intrigue (he didn't have eyebrows).
Chivalrously, Mikkel took the jar of pickled herring and unscrewed the lid, then handed it back. "It's a cover for the bathtub," he revealed, gesturing with his hands, trying to sound enthusiastic. "It sits on top of the water, like a blanket. It's thermal, so it'll keep the heat inside."
"Why?" Bjørn asked, plucking a salty piece of fish.
"Because," Mikkel emphasized, "I can't afford the hot water you're wasting. I seriously doubt the Skagerrak ever gets this hot." He splashed Bjørn.
"It feels nice," Bjørn argued.
"It's a luxury, you said so yourself. I'm rationing your hot water intake as of today. You get hot water in the morning and hot water at night, that's it. This," he produced the shiny, thermal cover, "will preserve the heat."
Bjørn scowled. "It's ugly."
Mikkel rolled his eyes. "It's not like you've got anyone to impress. Besides, you're not wearing it. Here, let me show you how it works."
Ten minutes later, Mikkel found himself sitting beside Bjørn in the bathtub—undressed to his boxer-shorts. His soaked clothes lay on the floor, discarded in the struggle that had followed his well-intended attempt to cover the bathtub. "See?" he deadpanned in annoyance. "There's nothing to be afraid of." In good-faith, he pat the cover, which floated amicably atop the water, hiding their lower-bodies. "It's impossible to get trapped underneath it, I promise."
Bjørn stared suspiciously at the cover, shrinking back close to Mikkel. He didn't want the shiny material to touch his skin. Mikkel felt the merman's scaly tail brush against his folded legs. It was smooth, like thousands of tiny polished rocks. The pale-blue tailfin felt like satiny gauze. It was swishing back-and-forth in agitation, like a cat's. In reflex, Mikkel grabbed it.
Bjørn froze.
"Oh, sorry—" Mikkel began to apologize, but, before he could protest, Bjørn took advantage of the unvoiced—unintended—invitation and slid onto Mikkel's lap. He snaked his wet arms around Mikkel's neck, and rested his head on the human's broad shoulder, pressing his body close for comfort. He was trembling, though the water was hot. In a soft, sad voice, he said:
"I'm sorry, Mick. I'm sorry I'm such a bother."
Mikkel's insides twisted, seized by guilt. He's scared, he realized in surprise.
Gently, he encircled the merman in his arms. Bjørn's heavy body was buoyant in the water. "It's okay, it's not your fault," he reassured the helpless creature. "I promised to take care of you, and I will. Don't be scared, Bjørn. I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you. I'll protect you as long as you live in my tub."
Bjørn lifted his head. His violet eyes looked tender. Mikkel smiled at him, and, hesitantly, Bjørn smiled back. "Thank-you," he whispered. Softly, he kissed Mikkel's jaw. "I wish I could live in your tub forever."
Days became weeks and weeks became months, and Mikkel and Bjørn fell into a routine. Mikkel would wake early to prepare breakfast for he and the ravenous merman. Bjørn's appetite was costing Mikkel a fortune in fish every month. It was truly incredible how such a delicate-looking creature could eat so much in a day. Mikkel left lunch and a supply of snacks in the washroom, then went to class. He attended school during the day and returned to the flat in the early-afternoon (except for Wednesday, when he had a late class; Bjørn hated Wednesdays). He would sit and talk to Bjørn, describing his day: the things he had done, and the people he had seen. Bjørn spoke seldom, but he was an excellent listener. He liked watching Mikkel's expressions change when he talked, and the enthusiastic sound of his deep voice. (He loved Mikkel's voice.) And Mikkel liked having someone to talk to. He hated silence. He played loud music when it got too quiet.
Since leaving home, he missed the noise of a busy household, but even before Bjørn he never invited friends to his flat. It was his own personal space; sharing it with other people seemed too invasive. In return, he never visited anyone else's flat either. Since he had moved to the city, his interactions with friends was limited to public spaces, like the brewery a few blocks away. Despite his big, loud, animated personality, Mikkel was a rather private individual. He had never been one to open-up or be serious about himself. He was the fun guy, the party guy, but nobody knew much about him or his life. And he preferred it that way. It was nobody else's business who he was in private, a fact that only intensified since he had taken in Bjørn. Bjørn's company was the only exception. It was too hard to keep secrets when they lived in such close proximity.
Bjørn was a quiet, constant presence that Mikkel soon realized he liked. And—though he wouldn't admit it—he didn't mind taking care of the merman. In fact, he kind of liked it. Mikkel had never been the reliable guy before, (in high-school, he had been the very, very irrational, unreliable guy), but it was nice to be needed. It made him feel a little more mature. Sometimes Bjørn would ask for specific things from fliers and catalogues, and sometimes Mikkel would buy him random things for no reason at all. He spent a lot of money on Bjørn. Too much, really. It was not very economical providing for a teenage merman (Bjørn was also nineteen), and it didn't help that Mikkel loved spoiling him. He loved seeing the merman's violet eyes dance with joy when presented with a gift or treat. He loved surprises, especially if it was food, and Mikkel loved his reaction.
Lately, Mikkel found himself eating a lot of fish. To save on costs, he tended to eat what Bjørn ate, though he cooked his. Then, after the washing-up was done, he would return to the washroom to spend the rest of his night with Bjørn. He read, or studied, or watched television on the portable T.V. he had purchased for Bjørn's enjoyment. There was a bench by the bathtub—a storage space for towels and such—which Mikkel had padded with a cushion. He would lounge there while Bjørn lounged in the warm water below, and together they would talk, or read, or watch television. Sometimes Bjørn fell asleep with his head on Mikkel's leg. Sometimes Mikkel fell asleep with his limbs dangling in the water.
Once, during a power-outage, Mikkel had dragged all his bedding into the washroom and made a temporary bed on the tiled floor, because Bjørn was terrified of electrical storms. He stared wide-eyed out the window, flinching whenever lightning flashed, until Mikkel covered it with a towel.
"Calm down, you're safe in here," he said, but Bjørn was unconvinced.
"Have you ever seen lightning strike the sea? It's horrible. The electrical current dances across the water."
"Only on the surface," Mikkel dismissed. "It can't hurt you beneath the waves."
Bjørn shivered. "It's still frightening, though."
Mikkel spent the night trying to soothe Bjørn's active imagination. "What if the lightning strikes the flat, and it travels through the pipes, and it electrocutes me? What if this ugly thing," he poked the thermal cover, "attracts it?" It was exhausting, but eventually Bjørn drifted off to sleep. He was startled awake by a couple of thunderclaps, but it was late by then and he was spent. Mikkel stroked his head until he quieted, putting himself to sleep simultaneously. That morning, Mikkel awoke to find his arm resting on the edge of the bathtub, and his hand taken prisoner by the slumbering merman. Bjørn was leaning out of the bathtub, clutching Mikkel's hand between both of his and using the human's muscular forearm as a pillow. He looked uncomfortable hanging over the edge, but he would not let go until Mikkel assured him that the storm had passed.
"I told you, didn't I?" he smiled confidently. "Nothing bad is going to happen to you as long as I'm here."
Again, Bjørn said: "Then I wish I could stay here forever."
Mikkel," said Bjørn one day, leafing through a glossy magazine. "You're a very attractive human male."
Mikkel cocked a blonde eyebrow, intrigued. Subtly, he cast a glance in the mirror, wanting to see what it was Bjørn was seeing, but he was disappointed. He had not bothered to style his hair that morning—it was Saturday—so it hung in messy gravity-defying wisps over his forehead; he was wearing an old t-shirt and faded blue-jeans, so worn by the washing-machine that they were softer than flannel; and he was holding a bottle of lager to his lips. He thought he looked very average, indeed.
"Why don't you have a mate?" Bjørn continued obliviously.
"Uh, well—don't know," Mikkel said, making an indefinable noise in reply. "Why?"
Bjørn shrugged. "I just thought it was odd. You're an adult, aren't you? And you're a much better-looking one than the males in this magazine. Look," he said, showing Mikkel in example, "they're too groomed. It's unnatural."
"I guess." It was Mikkel's turn to shrug. Bjørn was pointing to Hollywood's annual list of World's Ten Sexiest Men, which featured a collective of the year's most attractive male celebrities.
"This one looks a little like you, maybe. But you've got nicer eyes." Bjørn studied the photograph. "He's got a bit of hair on his face, like you do."
Okay, so I didn't shave today. I'm lazy. I'm not well-groomed. Sue me, Mikkel thought dejectedly.
He flinched when he felt Bjørn's wet index-finger gently trace his jaw. "I like it," he said thoughtfully. "I don't have need for body-hair, but you obviously do." Mikkel frowned, but Bjørn didn't notice. It was rare for him to start a conversation, especially about his species, so Mikkel let him talk. "Merpeople choose mates based on skills, not looks," he explained. "Humans think we're vain creatures, but it's not true. We like to be clean; so do birds. It doesn't make us vain. I had a suitor once who told me that I was beautiful. It was nice to hear, but I would have been more flattered if he had complimented something I had any control of."
"He—?" Mikkel asked.
"Yes, he," Bjørn confirmed. Noting the perplexed look on Mikkel's face, he said: "Don't humans of the same gender mate with each other?"
"Not typically, no."
"Oh, I see. Well, we do," he said, uninterested in human mating preferences. "In fact, my suitor was a big and strong merman, not unlike you, Mick, but your face is more handsome." Carefully, he dragged his finger over Mikkel's unshaved cheek.
"I don't get it," Mikkel said curiously. "If you don't, uh, mate with a female, then you can't reproduce, right?"
"Correct."
"Then, why—?" He let the question hang.
Bjørn withdrew his hand and cocked his pale head, beads of water sliding down his temple. "Do humans only take mates to breed offspring?" he asked.
"No."
"Then why do you expect it from merpeople? I can base my decisions on feelings of love just as much as you can," he said indignantly. "I'm not a beast, you know. I have feelings. I come from a civilized culture."
"I didn't mean it offensively," Mikkel hastened to explain, "just that, I thought you lived based on nature."
"Yes, we do. Are you implying that it's unnatural to love someone of the same gender?"
"No, no, I just—I don't know," he admitted sheepishly. He had never really considered it before. "I guess it's just different for different species. It's easier for you."
"It's easy because we don't pretend to be something that we're not. Yours is the uncultured civilization, Mick. Things like this," Bjørn tapped the magazine, "have confused your perception of love and beauty. Why let them define it? Why not let your heart choose what it loves?"
Bjørn's words were poetic, but his tone was not. He spoke, as always, in a matter-of-fact way that reminded Mikkel of his professors. Bjørn's world was black-and-white: you either wanted something—loved something—or you didn't. It was straightforward. But Mikkel's world was nonlinear. Most of the time, Mikkel didn't know he had wanted something until an advertisement told him he did, and didn't realize he had loved something until it was gone. Let my heart choose? he thought uncomfortably. He disliked self-reflection; it always revealed the worst of himself. Frankly, he was better at letting his stomach choose.
"You sound like The Little Mermaid," he teased, breaking the tension.
Bjørn blinked. "Who is she?"
"You don't know The Little Mermaid, the Hans Christian Andersen fairytale?"
"No. Tell me," Bjørn ordered, resting his head against Mikkel's leg.
Mikkel's fingers absently threaded the merman's pale-blonde hair. "It's an old story. I don't remember all of the details, but it's about a mermaid who falls in love with a human prince. She loves him completely, but she knows that they can't be together if she's not human, too. So she makes a deal with a witch. She trades her voice for a human body—legs—and goes to find the prince. It's painful for her, if I remember right. Something about knives stabbing her feet with every step... But she loves him, so she perseveres. She has to get a confession of love from the prince, but she only has a short time to do it. Three days, I think. In the end, she doesn't and she dies."
"That's—"
Sad, very sad, Mikkel thought secretly.
"—stupid," said Bjørn.
Mikkel looked down at Bjørn in shock. "Are you calling the great H.C. Andersen stupid?" he asked in mock-horror. "How dare you."
"The mermaid," Bjørn said logically, "why would she want to be human?"
"Because she was in love with a human."
"So, love demanded that she change herself completely? The prince couldn't have loved her as she was?"
"Well, no," said Mikkel, as if the fact was obvious. "He was a human, she was a mermaid. They were different species. How could they have been together?"
"You're a human, and I'm a merman, and we're together right now," Bjørn argued.
"Yeah, but we're not... you know," he blushed, "mates."
"We could be," said Bjørn, determined to prove a point. "If I loved you, and you loved me, then why couldn't we be life-mates?"
"Because we couldn't have sex!" Mikkel snapped in frustration. "I mean, uh, we couldn't—" He made a lewd sign with his hands. "It's like, it wouldn't really work, you know?"
"I know what you mean," Bjørn rescued him. Swiftly, he placed his webbed hands on Mikkel's thigh and used the leverage to push himself up. He stared at the human, eye-to-eye. "The prince," he said coldly, "he couldn't love the little mermaid because he couldn't have sex with her, is that it? The price of winning his affection was a self-sacrifice. She had to change herself, torture herself, in order for him to fall in love with her. But was it she that he really wanted, or just sex with her?"
Mikkel shook his head. "What do you mean?"
"If she loved him, and he loved her, then the only difference between them would've been physiology, yes?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess so."
"So, there's no excuse then." Bjørn lifted his chin in victory. "The only reason the mermaid had to transform was to appease her love's sexual desires. If he had accepted her as a mermaid, she wouldn't have died."
"So, in your version," Mikkel puzzled, "she stays a mermaid and he goes celibate—? That's your happily-ever-after? Somehow I don't think that would've sold as many copies."
Bjørn rolled his eyes and slid lazily back into the bathtub. "You're letting sales corrupt even your fantasies," he grumbled. "But if that's what human's value..."
"What?"
"Sex, of course. It's what you all crave, isn't it? It's why you're all so vain." He gestured to the magazine and Hollywood's list.
Mikkel eyed him skeptically. "You're telling me that you could happily be in a lifelong relationship and never have sex?" he asked.
"I have to be, it's my biology. I don't have a choice. I'm a fish, Mikkel." There was a sharpness in Bjørn's voice that Mikkel had never heard before. He had never referred to himself simply as a fish. "Fish breed by laying eggs, not by exchanging bodily fluids. And I prefer males," he added in afterthought. "I'm a runt, and I won't ever breed. If I do ever take a mate, it'll be solely for love."
"Sorry—"
"Don't be," Bjørn interrupted. "It's not a weakness, or a punishment. Not to me. If you want to pity someone, Mikkel Densen, pity yourself. Be sorry for your own biology that drives your human desires. I only wondered why you didn't have a mate because I thought you would make a very good... Never-mind," he lowered his eyes. "If sex is more important to you than love, that's your choice. I won't say another word about it, as long as you stop looking at me like I'm defective," he said, annoyed.
"Okay, I get it," Mikkel mumbled. "But I think you're being unfair. It's not that simple, you know. Or, maybe it is simple for you because you've never felt what I have," he said ambiguously, "but it's not something to be ashamed of. You're making it sound like sex and love can't coexist. Like we choose one or the other, but it's not like that. Not for everyone, anyway. Different people feel physically attracted to each other because of—"
"Nature," Bjørn finished. "Human nature."
Mikkel opened his mouth to argue, but closed it when he saw ice in Bjørn's violet eyes. A thought struck him, then, and he changed tactic. He asked: "What happened to you?"
"I don't know what you're asking."
"Something bad happened to you, didn't it?" Mikkel pressed. "Something involving a human. That's why you hate us."
"I don't hate you."
"You criticize us. You think you're a superior species, but you live in complete fear of us. Is it just you, Bjørn, or do all merpeople hate humans?"
"I don't hate you," Bjørn repeated. He sounded distressed. "I like you, Mick. But you're the only one."
Bjørn's confession took Mikkel off-guard. It sounded sad. The fight left Mikkel and his posture deflated. In a gentler tone, he asked: "Why?"
Slowly, Bjørn lifted his head. If the merman had had tear-ducts, Mikkel thought he would have cried.
"Because," he said in a soft, choked voice, "the rest of them are just like the prince."
I was very young," Bjørn began. He was sitting upright in the bathtub with his tail curled close to his body. Mikkel had moved to the floor so that he wasn't staring down at the merman. Bjørn already looked small. His voice was resigned. "I was only thirteen; not a baby, but not an adult. One day, I was swimming in the fjords in Norway—that's where I'm originally from—and I got caught in a net. The sailor who found me was not a nice human. That's the real reason I was cast out of the shoal, because I came into contact with a human," he confessed, risking a nervous glance at Mikkel. "It was an unforgivable mistake, especially after what he did to me. He hurt me."
"What did he do?" Mikkel asked.
"What didn't he do?" Bjørn countered. "He kept me in the net tethered to his boat like a prize, and he pulled me up when he wanted to—play with me. I was his experiment. He poked at me, and he cut me just to see what colour my blood is. He ripped off my scales to sell. He taunted me, and starved me, and suffocated me so many times. He was a sailor who had heard too many folktales, I think; tales like The Little Mermaid. He tried to sate his fantasies in me and was very angry when he discovered that he couldn't. That, at least, was a small comfort. But he violated me in other ways. Ways I'd rather not discuss."
Mikkel didn't know what to say. Bjørn was upset. He stared passively, almost vacantly, at the still water as he recalled his past. He looked uncharacteristically vulnerable. Mikkel wished he could crack a joke or witty comment to ease the merman's nerves, but none would've been appropriate. He couldn't erase the trauma of Bjørn's past, or make him forget the injustice he had suffered. All he could do was reach into the bathwater and take his distressed friend's delicate, webbed hand.
"Bjørn," he said seriously, "were you ever afraid that I would do the same thing to you?"
"No." Bjørn squeezed Mikkel's hand, drawing strength from it. "His eyes were cruel, yours have always been kind. The night you found me, I was afraid of dying—but not afraid of you."
"Do you trust me?"
"Yes."
"Good. Come here," Mikkel said. Bjørn hesitated, then moved wordlessly into the circle of Mikkel's arms. "I want you to know, I would never hurt you."
"I do know, Mick. And, believe me, I don't want to hurt you either. You're the most wonderful friend I've ever had."
Can I sing for you?"
Mikkel looked at Bjørn and ineloquently said: "Huh?"
The merman was lying back in the water, his tail hanging languidly over the edge. He held a rubber bath-toy between his webbed hands and was staring absently at the quizzical expression of a cartoon duck. "I want to sing," he said, a nostalgic note in his voice. "Singing is a big part of our culture, you know. We—merpeople—sing together. It's celebratory and unifying and intimate. And lots of fun," he added, smiling a little. "I miss that feeling of community, singing for family and friends and life-mates. Each merman's story is different and he communicates it through song. It's communal, but also very personal. It's something I want to share with you, Mick. I was never the best singer in the shoal, my brother's vocals were always better than mine, but I'd really like to sing for you... if you want to listen?"
Mikkel felt touched. Bjørn's words made his heart swell; he felt warm and fuzzy. He sat down on the bench, and nodded. "Okay."
Bjørn reached out and Mikkel took his hand. He pulled the merman out of the water, one-handed. His tailfin splashed back into the tub as he balanced on the bathtub's edge. He had never looked more like a siren, sitting on the slippery edge, his long tail curving into the water. Mikkel could imagine his body twisted like that, perched on a rock in the sea. Once situated, Bjørn let go of Mikkel's hand, and Mikkel was a little disappointed. Instead of showing it, he braced his elbows on his knees and leant forward, ready to listen.
Bjørn lifted his chin, and then glanced back-and-forth between Mikkel and the mirror. He looked a little lost, as if trying to decide what to focus on; where to look. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He pursed his lips. Then, at once, his sun-starved forehead creased, and he said:
"I've never felt self-conscious about singing before. It's you, you're staring at me."
"Oh. Okay, I won't stare." Deliberately, Mikkel looked down at his hands, but Bjørn was unsatisfied.
"No," he said distrustfully. "Close your eyes."
Mikkel sighed in feigned exasperation, but obeyed. He closed his eyes.
And he was instantly swept away by the sweetest sound that he had ever heard. Bjørn's singing voice was a cascade of perfect melody. It was vibrant; it sounded like colour. He sang in a foreign tongue, but he sang with feeling. It was indescribable, familiar and mystifying all at once. Mikkel felt a rush of intoxicating emotions: he felt happy and giddy and lucky, like confidence incarnate. He felt invincible. He felt himself smiling goofily, but he kept his eyes shut and just breathed, listening to the merman's song, hoping it would go on forever.
But it didn't. Eventually, the melody quieted and Bjørn's voice faded, and then it was gone altogether. It took Mikkel a minute to realize that Bjørn had stopped singing and was awaiting the human's verdict.
"That was beautiful," he said, awed.
Bjørn tried not to look too pleased. "I'm glad you liked it."
"Liked it? I—yes, yes I did. Will you sing for me again sometime?"
"If you like."
Bjørn smiled, and Mikkel smiled back. And for a moment it was perfect. Then Mikkel asked:
"That was a song in your native language, wasn't it? What do the lyrics mean?"
Bjørn's violet eyes softened before he looked away. He was smiling, but his voice sounded a little sad when he said: "I don't want to tell you."
Hey, Mikkel," said the bartender curiously. She served he and his friends every week. "You been working out?"
Mikkel cocked an eyebrow and grinned lopsidedly. "Nope, I'm all natural," he said, flexing his arms in jest.
"Seriously, those arms," she smiled in approval. "You sure you haven't been lifting weights?"
Nope, just a merman.
"All natural," he purred, winking as he took four mugs of beer back to his table.
That night, it poured. It was coming down in ice-cold buckets by the time Mikkel got home. He was soaked, but felt invigorated. It might've been the beer; in fact, it probably was. He loped happily into the washroom and knelt by the bathtub's edge, and poked Bjørn's soft cheek. The merman's eyes swiveled to the flushed human. He set his magazine aside.
"It's raining. I have an idea," said Mikkel, wiggling his eyebrows playfully. "Come here."
He scooped Bjørn into his arms and lifted him with ease, then waltzed into the main room. There was a large, single window overlooking the harbour, which Mikkel pushed open. The roar of the rain was loud, but Mikkel settled on the wide ledge, Bjørn perched on his lap. Bjørn let his tail hang outside, swishing back-and-forth in peace. When he shivered, Mikkel leant back and grabbed a blanket off his bed, and cocooned the merman against his own flushed body. The gills on Bjørn's neck breathed gently—the air was heavy with moisture—and he sighed contentedly.
"Look, Norge," said Mikkel, using Bjørn's birthplace as an affectionate pet-name. It was the only pet-name that the merman allowed. His head was resting on Bjørn's crown and he extended his arm, pointing. "Look at the city lights reflecting off the water, all distorted from the rain. It looks like a painting."
"It's beautiful," Bjørn said.
They stayed there all night, bundled together as they watched the rain sweep the city.
By lunch the next day, Mikkel was feeling very unwell. His head felt like it was going to explode. This is what I get for sleeping with the window open, he thought ruefully. He dragged his feet throughout the whole day, refusing to bail out of class early; refusing to admit that he was sick. He couldn't concentrate, but he feigned cheerfulness. He did, however, refuse an invitation to the pub afterward. All he wanted to do was go home. He went straight back to his flat and began the routine of making supper, muffling his coughs in his shirtsleeve to avoid Bjørn's questions. But the merman was perceptive (and the human was not as subtle as he liked to believe). Mikkel was just setting water to boil on the stovetop when Bjørn called for him.
"Mick, you're not well," he said, touching Mikkel's face. His eyes were so big. "What's wrong?"
"It's just a—a—achoo! a cold. I'll be fine."
He finished preparing supper, but didn't eat it. He managed to hand Bjørn a jar of pickled herring and a fork before falling into the lumpy heap of blankets on the washroom floor, where he had been sleeping for the past month. He tossed-and-turned for a while, but he couldn't sleep. He moaned every time he moved. Eventually, he felt Bjørn's hand stroke his head.
"Mick? Go to bed, your real bed."
"Norge—"
"Go."
Mikkel slept fitfully for a half-an-hour, then awoke hacking and coughing. He developed chills, and spent the whole night shivering. By morning, his throat was raw and he was so congested he couldn't breathe. He forced himself to get up and dragged his feet to the refrigerator. "Norge," he groaned in exhaustion. He placed a jar on the bench, but his hands were shaking so badly it fell and smashed on the floor. Bjørn awoke with a start.
"Mick? Oh, you look horrible," he said, pushing off the bathtub cover. "Why are you out of bed?"
"B-breakfast," he said, pointing to the mess. "S-s-sorry."
"Mick, go back to bed."
A day later, Mikkel was no better.
Bjørn was getting worried. He had heard humans sneeze and cough before, but never like this. Mikkel wasn't his usual happy, healthy self. He looked diminished, colourless, and weak. Bjørn hated seeing him like that. He hated the cold, clammy feeling of his skin; the raw, wet redness of his nose and eyes; the dryness of his lips; and the way he moved, clumsy and sluggish and groaning. Bjørn wanted to help. He wished that he could go to Mikkel and take care of him, but he couldn't leave the washroom, not alone. But maybe he could bring Mikkel to him.
"Mick!" he called.
Mikkel shuffled groggily inside, thinking Bjørn needed him. "Yeah—?"
"I drew a bath for you," Bjørn said. He had dragged forth the dreaded kiddie pool, filled it, and then hauled himself into it. Then he filled the big bathtub with steamy-hot water and chose a citrus-scented oil to perfume it with. (Mikkel had bought a sample collection of bottles after Bjørn spotted it on sale in a catalogue.) "Sleep here," he said to the ill human, pointing at the bathtub. "The hot water will warm you up and the steam will help you breathe."
"You did this?"
"I want you to get better, Mick. So—here." He handed Mikkel his red swimming-trunks. "I know how shy you human's are."
Mikkel took the trunks and got changed, then climbed into the bathtub. He stretched out and rested his head on Bjørn's pillow. He exhaled. "Okay, this feels really good," he admitted. "But what if I fall asleep? I could drown."
"I won't let you," Bjørn said softly. "It's okay, Mick. It's my turn to take care of you, now." Gently, he brushed back Mikkel's damp hair. He reached down and pulled the cover across the water to Mikkel's shoulders, like a blanket. "Just relax, Mick. I'm here."
Mikkel closed his eyes.
"Norge?" he asked drowsily. "Will you sing for me?"
"Yes."
Bjørn sang Mikkel to sleep. Then he just sat there in the kiddie pool beside the bathtub and watched over the human as he slept. Mikkel was beautiful. Bjørn had never seen such an attractive human male before; he couldn't stop staring. He wanted to touch Mikkel, who looked so peaceful now that he wasn't sniffling and coughing. His wide chest rose and fell rhythmically as he breathed. We're so fundamentally different, he thought. He needs oxygen to breathe, I need water. Mikkel's human body was a mystery to Bjørn, who was secretly fascinated by the anatomical difference. He had seen nude humans before, of course. Human males often bathed in the sea, but knowing didn't quell his desire to see Mikkel's body—his whole body. I wonder what it would be like to be human? Would Mikkel find me attractive then? If we were the same species, would he consider me as a potential mate?
No, likely not.
He recalled the conversation he and Mikkel had had about how humans of the same gender didn't typically mate with each other.
We really are different, he sighed. It was better not to dwell.
He wanted so badly to touch Mikkel, but he refrained. Mikkel had taken care of him countless times; Bjørn would never betray his trust and touch him while asleep. Not in the way he wanted to, anyway. Gently, his thin fingers combed through Mikkel's thick blonde hair. It felt nice against his sensitive skin, heavy with the residue of styling-gel, but soft. Then, slowly, he let his hand wander to Mikkel's left bicep and lingered. He loved Mikkel's arms. There was no better feeling in the world than being held in those strong, warm, muscular arms.
Bjørn reached beneath the surface and took Mikkel's hand. He threaded his webbed fingers with Mikkel's as much as he could, and applied the gentlest pressure.
"Please," he whispered, lips close to the human's ear, "get better. I don't know what I would do without you, Mick. And not just because I'd be trapped in here. If you died—"
He stopped, pursed his lips.
Merpeople didn't get sick, so Bjørn didn't know what to expect from Mikkel's illness. It's why he was scared.
"Please, Mick," he said, leaning his head gently against Mikkel's. He squeezed the human's hand. "Don't go. I don't want to be alone."
By morning, Mikkel's chills were gone. He had slept through the night and felt much better, having rested. He skipped class again, but felt well enough to get showered, dressed, and make breakfast. Bjørn monitored him carefully, eyeing the bowl of soggy cereal in Mikkel's lap, as if silently urging him to eat more. He kept feeling Mikkel's forehead to test his temperature. Mikkel whined about Bjørn's fussing, insisting that he was not a baby, but secretly he quite fancied the attention. It was nice to have someone looking after him for a change. After lunch, he bundled himself into the pile of bedding on the washroom floor and had a nap while Bjørn watched a subtitled Swedish crime drama. (His Danish had improved a lot since the portable T.V. was purchased.) Mikkel woke, drank half a bottle of cold syrup all at once, and then passed-out until well after dark.
"Oh, you must be starving," he said by way of apology.
"A little hungry, yes."
Mikkel grabbed a container of raw oysters from the refrigerator, then ordered take-away for himself. While Bjørn indulged in one of his favourite salty treats, licking his fingers and his lips like a satisfied cat, Mikkel ate a bowl of vegetable soup from the Chinese restaurant down the street.
"Mick, you're a big male, you should eat more," Bjørn said, looking concerned as Mikkel set the bowl aside.
But Mikkel's stomach still felt wobbly, so he refused. He hadn't eaten for forty-eight hours, after all.
"I'm fine," he said.
Bjørn reached for Mikkel's forehead to gauge his temperature, but Mikkel grabbed his wrist.
"Norge," he said, "I'm fine, really. The worst is over, and I have you to thank."
Bjørn turned his head, hiding a blush.
He jumped in surprise when Mikkel affectionately pecked his cheek. He stared at the human, wide-eyed.
Mikkel grinned. "Thank-you," he said.
I love it when you touch me."
Mikkel flinched at Bjørn's words. The merman's violet eyes were large and innocent, but his voice was sultry. His fingertips on Mikkel's chest were cool. Mikkel stiffened at his touch. His heart was racing wildly. Bjørn's slender body glistened with beads of pearly, scented water, only inches from his own naked torso. His lovely lips were parted slightly, and wet; his pale lips were always wet. For a moment, Mikkel's cerulean gaze was fixated on those glossy lips. As the merman's delicate fingers slid down in exploration, Mikkel felt a stirring in his lower-body. Oh, no. Oh, please no! He panicked, horrified by his body's reaction, and quickly stumbled away.
"Don't!" he snapped. "You're all wet and scaly!"
"Mick—"
"Don't touch me!"
Bjørn shrank back into the bathtub, looking hurt and confused.
Mikkel was immediately seized by guilt, but he ignored it. He felt flustered. "I-I'm a human, you're a fish!" he yelled rashly, as much to himself as Bjørn.
"I know that," said the merman in a small voice.
"G-good!"
Angrily, Mikkel stormed out, slamming the washroom door hard behind him. With Bjørn shut safely inside, he crossed the flat to his bed and sat down, his heart pounding. He felt guilty and confused and a little disgusted as he reached into his boxer-shorts and began pumping his hand up-and-down to relieve the pressure building in his lower-body. He's a fish. Bjørn's a fish, and yet I'm—Hard. Oh, God. What am I doing? It had been a while, but the nineteen-year-old's hand worked habitually, unsupervised while his mind was preoccupied. This is sick and wrong, he thought, fueling his arousal with the memory of Bjørn's touch, picturing the merman's pretty face. He's a male, and a fish, but I'm—I'm—"GAH!" He threw his head back and groaned through his teeth in frustrated release.
Oh, God. He fell onto his back and stared at the ceiling in disbelief. What in hell is wrong with me?
THE NEXT DAY
I'm sorry." Mikkel knelt by the bathtub, feeling self-conscious. "I'm sorry I called you a fish."
"I am a fish," Bjørn replied. His posture was defensive, tail curled against his body. "A wet, scaly fish."
"No! I mean, yes, technically, but I shouldn't have said that."
"But it's true," said Bjørn tonelessly. "It's how you feel—"
"No, it's not!" Mikkel argued. "Look, last night I was an idiot. I hurt you, even though I promised not to, and I'm sorry. I don't think you're a wet, scaly fish, Norge. The truth is, I think you're beautiful."
Slowly, Bjørn's violet eyes met Mikkel's blues. "Really?" he asked distrustfully.
"Yes," Mikkel said confidently. "I know you don't care about your looks, but to me you're the most beautiful creature—person I've ever seen."
Bjørn bowed his head, but his silky hair was not long enough to hide his face. Mikkel saw a rosy blush colour the merman's pale cheeks. It made him irrationally happy.
"I got you something," he said. Reaching back, he produced a large jar of pickled herring. "It's a new flavour," he teased, smiling as he dangled it just out of Bjørn's reach.
The merman looked up, staring at the human through his long eyelashes.
"It's an apology," Mikkel admitted. "Will you forgive me?"
Bjørn extended his hand, took the jar, and set it aside. Instead, he sandwiched Mikkel's hand between both of his. "Yes, I forgive you. But..." He hesitated self-consciously. "Do you really hate my touch?" he asked softly.
"No. Not at all."
"That's good, because I love yours." Bjørn bowed his head and pressed a tender, feather-soft kiss to Mikkel's knuckles.
Mikkel's heart skipped a beat.
Mikkel, wait!"
Mikkel was leaving school, but stopped when he heard his name. One of his classmates was jogging toward him, waving as she did. Her name was Danika, a friend-of-a-friend, whom he had been partnered with for a project. Absently, he glanced at the school's clock tower—nine o'clock—wondering if he had forgotten to do his share of the work. When she was close enough, he smiled in a friendly way, and said:
"Hey, Danika, what's up? Did I forget something?"
"Uh, no," she said, trying to fix her long hair without looking like she was trying to fix it. "Actually, I was just wondering if you wanted to have a drink with me?"
"Oh, I, uh—" Mikkel tripped over his tongue. Am I being asked-out? he thought in surprise; then wondered why he was so surprised. "I kind of have a—a thing," he said, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, trying to focus on anything except the girl's hopeful face.
"Oh?" she inquired, feigning interest.
"Uh, yeah, but—"
Why am I hesitating? Danika was a lovely girl: smart, athletic, attractive. A friend of Mikkel's had called her a perfect nine-point-five (withholding the last point-five because she had rejected him). But Mikkel felt apprehensive. He hadn't been on a date in a long time, not since before meeting Bjørn. Bjørn. A picture of the merman swam before his eyes, making his stomach knot. It was Wednesday, and it was already late. Bjørn would be expecting Mikkel home soon, but Danika's gaze was imploring. She is pretty, he acknowledged, trying hard to feel something beyond plutonic affection for her. And she's a human girl, not a fish. It'd be perfectly natural if I desired her, he thought, recalling the horrible shame he felt every time he masturbated to Bjørn. If it was Danika, he wouldn't have to be ashamed anymore.
"Okay," he said on impulse, faking a leisurely smile.
"Really?" she exhaled in relief, as if she had been holding her breath. "Your, uh, thing—?"
Mikkel shrugged. "It can wait."
Bjørn tried to focus on a crime drama, but his mind was elsewhere. He hated Wednesdays because of Mikkel's late class, which meant a late meal and then early to bed for the tired human. (Bjørn was something of an insomniac; he preferred staying up late, and couldn't sleep too early.) For the umpteenth time, he glanced at the digital clock that sat on the countertop. Occasionally Mikkel was late to get home, but, even so, it was nearly eleven o'clock now, and Bjørn hadn't heard from him at all. He listened intently for the telephone to ring. Usually, if Mikkel knew that he was going to be late, he called the flat and left a message on the answering-machine for Bjørn to listen to, but tonight the phone was silent. He listened for the sound of footsteps in the corridor, and got excited when he heard a door opening, but it was only the next-door neighbour. Disappointed, Bjørn sighed and laid back in the bathtub, his tailfin swishing back-and-forth anxiously.
Where are you, Mick? I'm hungry. I'm lonely.
I miss you.
He felt ashamed of his childishness, pining for Mikkel as if it had been weeks and not hours since he had left. But it was odd. Mikkel often spent the evening with friends, but he always warned Bjørn beforehand. He always made sure the merman was fed and taken care of. He never left Bjørn to wonder—worry—where he might be.
What if something bad happened to him?
The thought seized Bjørn like a fishing net, sending an icy chill down his spine. The human world was such a cruel place, after all. What if Mikkel had happened upon trouble? What if he was hurt, or trapped?
Bjørn felt sick. He pulled himself up and leant far over the bathtub's edge, trying to see the dark flat beyond the washroom. It was quiet. The only sound came from the low volume of the television perched on the bench. Feeling annoyed, Bjørn turned it off and was immediately engulfed in silence. The clock tick, tick, ticked. Bjørn didn't know if the clock or his anxious heartbeats kept better time. He watched the minute-hand circle the clock face: eleven-thirty; eleven-forty-five; midnight.
Bjørn was frantic, now. Mikkel had never left him alone for so long before. Something must have happened, and he had to know what.
I'll call him, he decided, hauling his clumsy body out of the bathtub. His slender arms were not strong and he buckled under the weight of his own tail, falling face-first to the tiled floor. It was cold, but Bjørn ignored it. He pulled his body with effort across the floor, scraping his scales on the tiles, then the hardwood; several peeled off, leaving a shimmering trail. His gills gasped as he panted, not used to such physical exertion. His body was drying quickly as he dragged it across the floor, chilled by the coolness of the un-steamed air. Finally, he reached the table where Mikkel's telephone sat. He grabbed the receiver, fumbled it, dropped it, and grabbed it again. He felt dizzy. The keypad doubled in front of his eyes, but he punched in Mikkel's cell-phone number. He closed his eyes as he listened to the dial-tone, breathing slow and deep and hard.
Please answer, he begged. Please let me hear your voice and know you're okay.
An automated voice said: "The customer you are calling is unavailable. Please record a message."
Bjørn squeezed his eyes shut. If he was human, he would have cried. Into the receiver he gasped: "Mick—!" but that was as far as he got.
The receiver fell from his hand as he collapsed on the floor.
Mikkel was enjoying the night. He and Danika had walked to the brewery, ensconced in friendly conversation for the whole duration. There, they ordered several rounds of drinks, met a couple of mutual friends, and played a couple of rounds of darts. Danika laughed flirtatiously as Mikkel corrected her posture, holding her wrist to help her aim at the target. She touched him at every chance she got, and he let her, hoping her feminine wiles would take effect and prove to him that he was, in fact, a perfectly average teenage male. When he spotted the tropical fish tank behind the bar, he momentarily felt guilty for leaving Bjørn, but he drowned the creeping unpleasantness in beer and bar-games and the girl making eyes at him. He indulged in the attention she gave him (he was, admittedly, a bit of an attention-whore), but, try as he might—Nothing. He didn't feel even an inkling of arousal, which irritated him. His unguarded mind kept drifting back to the violet-eyed merman of its own accord.
Finally, at midnight, their mutual friends left the brewery, and Mikkel offered to walk Danika home.
It was a much quieter walk than before, his mind occupied elsewhere, but Danika didn't seem bothered. She basked in the warmth of Mikkel's big body, hugging his arm like an escort, flushed with drink, and humming softly to herself.
Bjørn's voice is so much sweeter—
Mikkel shook his head.
On the front steps of her flat, Danika kissed him. She tasted like beer and pastel lipstick. Mikkel tried hard to concentrate on her lips, which were less full and less moist than Bjørn's. He tried not to go too slow or too fast; trying to apply the right amount of pressure; wondering where to put his hands. He couldn't stroke Danika, could he? No. At a loss, he let his arms hang awkwardly at his sides. Had it really been so long since he had kissed a girl? Yes, it had, he realized in embarrassment. And, apparently, it wasn't like riding a bicycle. It needed practice.
Danika giggled.
"I never would've expected you to be shy, Mikkel," she teased him in misunderstanding.
He frowned. Shy, me—?
She took both of his hands and began leading him suggestively up the steps when, suddenly, his cell-phone vibrated. Relief flooded him as he reached for it, but by the time he disentangled her playful hands to answer the call had gone to voicemail. One-handed, he saw that a message had been left.
"Uh, sorry," he mumbled, pressing the cell-phone to his ear. Danika pouted, but he ignored her. The message crackled as it played, just dead-air for a while, and then the faintest, most heartbreaking sound:
"Mick."
Bjørn's voice sent a shock of cold fear through Mikkel's whole body.
"I'm sorry," he said, retreating quickly down the steps. "I have to go. My friend, he—I'm sorry."
Danika might have replied, but Mikkel didn't hear. He was already running.
Bjørn was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. It was cold and dark and quiet and dry. He knew he ought to move. He knew he was suffocating to death, but he didn't have the strength. He couldn't feel his body; it had gone numb. His vision was fuzzy, clouded with black shapes. In the distance, he could hear the faint tick, tick, ticking of the clock.
Mick, he dreamt, submerged in a half-conscious reel of mental images. He pictured the handsome human in his mind, trying to remember what it felt like to be touched, held, stroked. What would Mikkel do when he found Bjørn dead on the floor? What would he think? Would he be relieved to finally be free of the obligation Bjørn forced upon him? Or, would he mourn the merman's passing, like a cherished friend? Mikkel had been the best friend Bjørn had ever had, and he was grateful for the few short months they had spent together. He couldn't have asked for more. Mikkel had redeemed the merman's lost faith in humanity, something he never could have imagined. If he regretted anything, it was only that he had never told the human the truth of how he really felt.
I hope he's sad, Bjørn thought selfishly as the breath went out of him. I hope he misses me when I'm gone.
I'm sorry, Mick.
He closed his eyes.
I'm sorry I never told you... I love you.
Mikkel flew into his building and leapt upstairs, skidding to a halt outside his flat. Hastily, he shoved his key into the lock and turned it forcefully, feeling the tumblers release. He pushed the door open and stalked inside, running to the washroom like a man possessed. "Norge?" he called, standing in the doorframe. Frantically, his blue-eyed gaze swept the small space, but the bathtub, the whole room, was empty. Mikkel's heart pounded as he stumbled out and called again: "Norge! Norge!" A dozen horrible scenarios played through his mind as he whipped his head from left-to-right, searching for clues. Bjørn could have left, escaped, ran away. He could have been kidnapped. He could be trapped, or hurt. He could have been abducted by that sick sailor who had wanted the merman only for a toy. He could have been found by a neighbour, or the authorities, and shipped off to some aquarium or laboratory!
No, no. Not my Bjørn, please no.
"No, no," he chanted absently as he scanned the floor.
A shiny scale caught his eye. Mikkel dove for it, holding it tight in his fist. Then he saw another, and another. He followed the glistening trail to a dark shape at his bedside. He had initially mistaken it for boxes, or piled clothes—Mikkel was not the neatest housekeeper—but as he drew nearer, he could see the long, elegant curve of Bjørn's tail. A pale, webbed hand lay flung out beside the disconnected telephone receiver. The long, cold body was motionless. The gills were dry and limp, unmoving. The lips were parched, half-open. The eyes were closed.
Bjørn.
Mikkel's heart stopped.
THREE DAYS LATER
Mikkel sat on the floor by the bathtub, wondering which deity you had to flatter to bring a merman back to life. Bjørn was breathing, at least, but he hadn't woken. Mikkel held his submerged hand, stroking it gently in an effort to cease his own shaking. He had been like that for days, fighting back the tears that flooded his eyes whenever hopelessness overwhelmed him. Guilt churned his insides, but he deserved it. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have left him. I should've been here with him. If Bjørn never woke, if he died, Mikkel would never forgive himself. He felt empty as he watched the merman's beautiful face. He looked tranquil, like Snow White in her glass coffin.
Stupid fairytales, he thought, blinking away angry tears even as he leant down. Acting on irrational impulse, he pressed his lips gently to Bjørn's, wishing he would wake.
He didn't, of course, and Mikkel sobbed in despair.
"Please," he said, voice raw. "Please, wake up. I need you to wake up, okay? You're my best friend, Norge. I need you. Please," he begged, hot tears falling into the bathwater. "I-I—I'll buy as much pickled herring as you want. I'll buy an Olympic swimming-pool and fill it with hot water, and bubbles. I know you like bubbles. Or, I'll buy a boat. A houseboat, and I'll live on the sea like a pirate and we can be together. Always. I-I—I'll do anything, Norge, so please wake up. Please," he cried, squeezing Bjørn's hand. "I can't lose you.
"I was a jerk before, I'm sorry. But I—"
He shook his head. How could he have ever been ashamed of Bjørn?
"I didn't know why I was scared before, but now I do. I can't go back to my life before you, Norge. Bjørn. I-I—
"I love you."
At sunset on the third day, Bjørn awoke.
He blinked his wet eyelashes in confusion, but the instant he saw Mikkel everything came flooding back.
"Mick!" he gasped, voice soft in disuse. He reached for Mikkel, pulling the human down into a relieved hug. "You're alive!"
Mikkel pulled back. "I'm alive?" he gaped in shock. His blue eyes were red, ringed with bruises of fatigue. For a moment, Bjørn worried that he had caught sick again.
"I was so worried," the merman confessed. "I thought something horrible had happened to you."
"To me?"
Mikkel was looking at him strangely, as if seeing him anew. Bjørn felt uncharacteristically self-conscious, but he pulled the human down to place a grateful kiss on his cheek. It was warm and unshaved. Bjørn suppressed a smile and kissed Mikkel again, then again. He didn't care if Mikkel was looking at him oddly, Bjørn was overwhelmed with the desire to touch him, to be close to him, to feel beneath his webbed fingers that the human was alive and well.
"Mick, I—"
Bjørn was silenced suddenly by Mikkel's lips crashing against his. It took him completely by surprise, the feel and taste of Mikkel's full lips pressed desperately to his in a kiss—a real kiss. It felt good, better than he could've ever imagined (and he had done so often). Bjørn sunk unresistingly into it, leaning wantonly into Mikkel's strong body, the circle of his embrace, replying in kind to the reckless affection. Mikkel pulled briefly apart, gasping, then forced open the merman's lips with his tongue, thrusting it inside. Bjørn made a throaty noise that he had never made before as he surrendered to the wet dance. His tongue was slick and cool; Mikkel's was hot. Bjørn's teeth grazed him playfully, but didn't strike. He wouldn't hurt Mikkel, as he knew Mikkel wouldn't hurt him. The human's muscular arms could have crushed his fragile torso, but they didn't. They held Bjørn protectively, as if he was something worth protecting. As if he was the most precious thing in the world.
Finally, Mikkel pulled back. He said:
"I love you."
"I love you, too," Bjørn replied.
"No," Mikkel shook his head, short of breath, "I'm in love with you, Norge."
Bjørn's heartbeat skipped in happiness. "Really?" he dared to hope.
"Yes, really. I love you," he repeated earnestly. "I didn't want to admit it, but it's true. I'm so in love with you, Norge. When I saw you lying there—when I thought you were dead, I felt my whole world come crashing down. I don't want to live without you, I know that now. I know that we're different, but I don't care. I don't care that we can never have sex. I love you, and I want to be with you. Forever."
"Mick," Bjørn whispered, taking the human's face in his hands, "I want that, too."
"Good," Mikkel smiled. "I'll make it happen. I'll figure something out, I promise."
"We'll figure something out," Bjørn corrected, "together. I'll take care of you, my handsome human. I won't let you go unattended," he said, stroking Mikkel's cheek. "We'll just have to be a little... creative." Seductively, he leant toward Mikkel, lips gently brushing the human's as he whispered: "I'm pretty good with my tongue."
Mikkel's breath was hot as he chuckled. His eyes met Bjørn's and lingered, blue gazing into violet. "I believe you," he said, kissing the merman gently.
"I love you, Bjørn: my beautiful, intelligent, talented little runt of a merman.
"My treasure—?" His voiced lifted slightly in question.
Bjørn smiled at his love. "Yes, Mikkel Densen?"
"Will you be my life-mate?"
"Yes."
That is how the exceptionally average, nineteen-year-old Mikkel Densen fell in love with his roommate, who was, as it happened to be, a rather typical merman, himself, called Bjørn.
THE END
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