Kirishima did not know very much about humans. He knew they lived in groups with other humans, groups ranging from a dozen to thousands. He'd swum enough shores to see the greatness that humans could create: castles and palaces with towers stretching to the sky, cities that stretched further than his eyes could see, innumerable rooftops and streets. And the ships – ships like towns on the ocean, ships that cut through waves Kirishima thought nothing could weather.

He knew the things humans created, but he did not know humans. He'd sat as a seal on beaches where humans swam and played, and listened a little; he even, once or twice, had hidden his skin and ventured into cities, just to see what they looked like on the inside. They were loud and overwhelming. Humans themselves weren't very different from selkies were when they took on their human form, but there were just so many of them, and that meant everything about them was more intense: the smell, the noise, the way crowds pressed in on all sides until he felt like he had to leave just to breathe freely.

Humans seemed frighteningly, overwhelmingly all-or-nothing. Either you avoided them, or you had to deal with the huge groups, the sprawling towns, the noise and bustle. Even fishermen's boats, though usually small enough that they were not intimidating, often came out in groups, and of course each boat had several men on board.

So this was Kirishima's first chance to really see a human up close, one single human, and study him not as a species but as an individual. At first Kirishima referred to him mentally as the human, but it didn't take long – just a day or two – for him to begin thinking of him instead as Bakugou, because Bakugou was unique.

Bakugou was immensely helpful because of his strange ability to call fish (or rather the way he attracted fish. It was not something he did consciously, but rather something that happened to him passively, whether he wanted it to or not). Kirishima had never had so much to eat in his life, and all without expending any effort. Normally he ate in his seal form, hunting in the sea and eating the fish raw, but now he had no need to hunt. He could instead cook the fish and savor the flavor of it, sitting beside the fire with Bakugou.

Bakugou was immensely helpful but completely unwilling to accept so much as thanks; gifts, Kirishima was fast learning, were absolutely out of the question. They made Bakugou mad. Kirishima was pretty sure – no, absolutely certain – that this was not normal human behavior. Humans gave gifts to each other. They made far bigger shows of it than Kirishima had, and yet. And yet.

It hurt a little, the rejection of his offering, but it also intrigued him. But, if humans were anything like selkies in this regard, Kirishima knew that asking "why" would be futile. Selkies did not like to spend time talking about their feelings. This was one way in which Kirishima had always felt un-selkie-like. He wanted, always, to ask why, to leave no question unanswered.

Selkies, on the whole, lacked curiosity; it was one of the things that kept them alive. The selkies that stuck their noses into the business of others, particularly that of humans, often suffered for it. Selkies did not build towers reaching to the sky, or write books, or even very often go to war. They had no written language, and rarely even built shelters, immune as they were to the elements in their seal form.

The more time Kirishima spent with the human, the more human-like he felt himself becoming. He had half expected himself to grow tired of Bakugou's presence, to leave once the rush of easy-to-catch food wore off. In fact, the opposite happened. Kirishima found himself wanting to be with the human more and more. When they were apart, he thought of Bakugou nearly constantly.

They slept on the beach together. Kirishima wasn't used to sleeping in his human form, and found it uncomfortable, but he would think This is what Bakugou is feeling, too, and not let himself change to his seal form. If the air was too cold for him, it was too cold for Bakugou. If he felt terribly exposed out there, on the beach, Bakugou did too; so after a few days he took to building a lean-to at the edge of the beach, where the sand turned to grass and forest, so he didn't feel so much like prey lying out in the open. If it meant a longer walk to the edge of the water during low tide, that was fine. They could pile leaves and beach-grasses around themselves, could meld the sand to fit their bodies for comfort.

On the third day of eating nothing but fish, Kirishima was growing bored, so he swam out again as a seal and gathered more things he knew he could eat a human – seaweed and oysters, the same things he'd gotten for Bakugou the other day and had ended up throwing away. He wondered what things there were in the forest for him to eat, wondered if Bakugou could hunt land animals for him to taste.

Kirishima lay the seaweed on flat rocks to dry, the way he'd seen humans do it, and ate the oysters immediately, raw. Bakugou, who'd been drowsing in the sun, sat up and watched him.

The oysters were good. Kirishima decided he still preferred fish, but it was nice to have a change. When he was done, Bakugou scoffed at him. "You ate them all? Geez…"

Kirishima turned his head and stared at him. Bakugou's eyes were tired from sleep, but mostly awake now, and glinting red in the sun. He met Kirishima's gaze and did not lower his eyes, as if offering a challenge, though he was smiling.

"I got as many as I knew I'd want," Kirishima said slowly, unsure what this was about.

"Tch," Bakugou said, shaking his head. "Whatever."

Kirishima stared at him even after the human looked away. "I don't understand."

"Hah?"

"I said, I don't understand," Kirishima repeated, knowing perfectly well Bakugou had heard his words. That sound Bakugou made, which Kirishima had initially thought meant "I didn't hear you," actually meant "I don't believe what you're saying" – Kirishima understood that now. Still, he found it easier, more often than not, to just repeat himself rather than trying to guess what about his words Bakugou didn't get. "Why does it matter how much I ate?"

Bakugou blinked at him, then laughed. "I don't care how much you ate," he said.

"Then why did you bring it up?" Kirishima said, feeling as if the two of them were speaking different languages. "Why even say…" He thought about it. What had Bakugou said exactly? You ate them all…

"You wanted some," Kirishima said slowly, looking into Bakugou's face for the answer. He wasn't sure if he was right.

Bakugou blushed, looked away. "No I didn't, stupid."

Humans were frightfully deceptive. At least this one was. He lied all the time. Some of his lies were understandable, but he also lied when Kirishima could see no reason for him to lie, and this was one of those times. Why are you lying? Kirishima wanted to say, but that word – why – would only irritate the human more.

So Kirishima made a mental note: Bakugou did not like gifts, but he did like to be shared with.

When the seaweed was dry, they ate it together. Kirishima immediately regretted it.

"This is awful," Kirishima said, feeling like the taste of it was stuck to his tongue.

"Are you trying to poison me?" Bakugou said, coughing.

"No! I ate it too!"

But Bakugou was laughing. He hadn't meant it, Kirishima realized. "No more seaweed," he said.

"No," Kirishima agreed.

xxxxxx

Kirishima wasn't a good selkie. He never had been. When he met other selkies, he whined at them to stay with him, swim with him, hunt with him, but that wasn't how they lived. Selkies were solitary, meeting only to mate. Children stayed with their mothers until they were old enough to fend for themselves, then swam away and, more often than not, did not see their mothers again.

In the early springtime they would meet on beaches, almost always in their seal form, and bask in the sun, in groups of up to several hundred. Sometimes real seals would join them too. Selkies could smell the difference between seals and other selkies, just as they could smell the difference between selkies and humans, and it always seemed like the seals could do this as well. They always let the selkies be, and were even content to coexist with human-form selkies, because selkies never ate seals.

Kirishima knew they stayed in their seal form for warmth – spring or no, the water was still painfully cold for human bodies that time of year – and for protection against humans, who were often overly curious about selkies. But he wished they didn't always stay in their seal form, or that they met again in the summer when it was warm enough without the thick layer of blubber, because selkie-form seals did not talk. Even when he transformed into his human form and walked amongst them asking questions, they merely looked at him with their huge dark eyes, never more than mildly annoyed, but never changing into human-form to join in his conversations either.

Of course, the lack of speech was probably another reason they always took on their seal forms when they gathered in groups. Selkies were quiet and intensely personal. You might find a mate and spend several weeks together, both in seal- and human-form, and never learn the other's name, and that was normal.

Kirishima wasn't actually sure he was supposed to be a selkie. He felt, now and again, like there had been some strange mix-up before he was born, that his brain was supposed to go into a human or some other species. He'd never had a mate, but he wasn't sure he could do it – the intense closeness, the fun and passion of it, then the inevitable split. The risk that you might never see that person again as long as you lived, or that, even if you did, they would simply choose a new mate the following year, without even warning you. The risk, if you were male, of having children you never knew about and would never meet. It all seemed terribly sad to him, so much so that he'd deliberately avoided taking a mate, although of course he still joined the large groups when he could.

He did not realize exactly how un-selkie-like he was until he began to live with Bakugou, and began to feel that he would be perfectly content to live with this human boy for the rest of his life. When he had that realization – on about day four or five of their acquaintance – he held it at arm's length for a while, turning the thought over and over again in his head. It was extremely un-selkie-like. Selkies did not have friends like humans did, selkies did not have lifelong mates or marriages or family units like humans did.

So Kirishima wasn't sure exactly why the thought didn't frighten him more. His delight at Bakugou's presence was a combination of having another person around in general, and the specific person he had around – odd, confusing, eye-catching, interesting Bakugou. Bakugou was more entertaining than a selkie was, not because selkies were boring people but because they kept their interestingness locked up far below the surface.

He knew he would survive if Bakugou left. He'd survived before, after all. However, he also knew it would not be as fun as having the human around would be, and he would miss him. Kirishima tried not to think of how much he'd miss him. Days and nights of solitude no longer seemed quite as bearable as they had before.

I will divide my life into Before Bakugou and After Bakugou, Kirishima thought. After Bakugou left him, he knew he'd be different. He felt himself changing already. He spent less and less time in the water, until there were entire days he didn't go into his seal form at all. He found himself getting used to his human form, even preferring it sometimes. This body was more sensitive, in both bad and good ways. Food tasted more intense. His vision was better, and much more colorful. Extreme temperatures affected him much more strongly, particularly cold; he never needed to curl up next to a fire in his seal form.

He didn't mind being in his human form. He could see himself spending more time this way and growing even more used to it – growing to like it more than his seal form. It would take some getting used to. He hoped Bakugou would stick around long enough for that to happen.

Maybe I will find another human, someday, after he is gone.

That thought stung. Kirishima did not expect it to, but it did. It stung so much it nearly brought tears to his eyes. He sat next to the fire with Bakugou. It was nearly time to sleep, but they were both just killing time, lazing about within the ring of warmth that surrounded the fire.

He must have done something odd because Bakugou's eyes found his and the human said, "What?"

"Hmm?"

"You made a weird face," Bakugou said.

"Oh." He reached a hand up to touch his own cheek. His hand had been resting under the sealskin on his lap, and the air felt terribly cold, so he quickly stuck it back underneath. "Sorry."

Bakugou snorted. "Don't be sorry, I'm just wondering why you made such a weird face."

Kirishima looked at him, thought how beautiful he was with the firelight shining orange and gold on his skin. He was so fair, his skin had burned and peeled; his hair was greasy and sandy, his lips chapped raw. But he was beautiful. His eyes were clear and inquisitive, his face endlessly interesting and expressive. Kirishima had never felt so close to anyone his entire life, and Bakugou had only been living with him a handful of days.

I never want to make him scared to ask questions, Kirishima thought, thinking of himself and the way he felt around other selkies. I never want to make him reluctant to ask why. I never want him to question his questions. If anything, Kirishima wanted more questions from Bakugou. He wanted Bakugou to want to know. He wanted Bakugou's curiosity and interest, craved those eyes focusing on him – a feeling that always made his pulse beat a little faster.

"I was thinking of what I would do in the future, when you eventually leave," Kirishima said, looking into the fire as he spoke. He half wanted to look at Bakugou's face, but was also afraid of seeing revulsion or annoyance there. Kirishima had no idea how Bakugou would react. "I thought, maybe someday I'll live with another human again, and the thought made me unexpectedly sad."

To his immense surprise, Bakugou let out a sharp laugh, a "Ha!" that was almost a bark. "Aren't you getting ahead of yourself?" he said.

Kirishima looked at him at last. Bakugou was smiling, his eyes sparkling. Not repulsed, then. Kirishima let out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. "I suppose," he said. Then: "What do you mean?"

"Who said I'm going anywhere," Bakugou said.

Kirishima refused to let his hopes get too high. "I just assume you will, at some point. Humans want to live with other humans. I'm sure some day you'll leave."

That made Bakugou look at him more sharply, his eyes narrowing. "You say stuff like that," he said. " 'Humans'…"

Kirishima was silent, waiting for him to finish the thought. He was almost certain Bakugou had seen him transform into a seal, but even if he hadn't, didn't he wonder about the sealskin, didn't he see him go out and spend hours in the water? Was he unobservant, or did he merely think Kirishima had been swimming?

Kirishima waited. He expected Bakugou to ask him what he was, if not human, but there was only silence. Bakugou said nothing. Kirishima's heart sped up, wondering what Bakugou was thinking. The fire was getting low, so he stood, leaving his skin on the sand, and went to the beach to gather more driftwood.

When he came back, Bakugou was wrapped in it. Kirishima felt suddenly warm, almost embarrassed; he wasn't sure if it meant anything to other selkies to let someone touch or borrow your sealskin, although of course they were always warned not to give them to humans or let humans take them, because stealing things was what humans could be counted on always to try and do. But Bakugou had always given it back when Kirishima had asked, or let him take it back without fuss as soon as he was done using it.

He had no idea what it was, then.

Kirishima realized he was standing in front of Bakugou, who still sat cross-legged on the sand. He held the driftwood in his hands, forgotten, the fire growing still dimmer behind him.

"Something wrong?" Bakugou asked.

Kirishima was silent.

"Is it because I stole this?" Bakugou shifted beneath the skin to emphasize. Kirishima shivered, as if he could feel an echo of the touch on his own human skin, although that was of course nonsense. "It's… what, seal? It's really warm," Bakugou went on.

"Yes," Kirishima said, trying to keep his face blank. Bakugou had to be pulling his leg, right? Trying to get a rise out of him?

"I can give it back if you want," Bakugou said, although he didn't move.

"No," Kirishima said. "It's okay."

He wanted to touch Bakugou. He wanted so, so badly to reach his arm out and run his hand up the boy's face, down the fragile skin of his neck to his collarbones, his chest, the flat plane of his stomach. He thought of the parts of Bakugou's body the sealskin was touching: shoulders, back of the neck, upper and lower back, arms. Kirishima thought about casting the sealskin aside and taking its place, threading his arms around Bakugou's neck and pulling him tight, letting Bakugou wear his body like a cloak over his shoulders.

Then, all at once, he realized where he was, what he was doing, what he'd gotten up to do in the first place. He turned around and tossed the wood into the fire. Sparks leapt out, one or two landing on his calves and stinging like biting flies.

"My point is," Kirishima said, sitting down in the now-cold indentation he'd left in the sand before he'd stood up in the first place, "my point is, you'll probably get lonely with just me for company, and want to go back to a city or whatever, where you can be around more people." He'd nearly said human city, and had only at the last moment left out the extra word.

Bakugou thought about it for a moment. Kirishima was relieved to see him considering it seriously. "People are stupid," he said.

That sentence seemed to carry a lot of weight. Bakugou meant a lot more than stupid, Kirishima knew. Bakugou meant cruel, bloodthirsty, vicious. Kirishima had not brought it up, but he still remembered why Bakugou had ended up at that distant beach to begin with.

"And yeah, I might start to miss…" Bakugou made a gesture with his hand that Kirishima wasn't sure how to interpret. It seemed to encompass something broad. "…all that. Doesn't mean I'm planning on leaving. Even if I had anywhere to go to. Which I don't."

Kirishima hadn't even thought about that. He wondered if everyone had died, or only most. If there was anything left.

Kirishima understood that to live in a human city, surrounded by many human beings – not only your family, but others as well – and then having that city destroyed and those people killed would be awful. He understood it in a logical, distant way, and could not comprehend the awfulness of it. He thought about the pain he'd feel if Bakugou was killed in front of him, the horror and grief he'd feel, after just a few days of knowing the boy. Multiply that by however many humans lived there. Kirishima could not even begin to know that kind of pain. He found himself suddenly grateful that Bakugou did not speak of it, because he wasn't sure he wanted even to know its scope. He certainly didn't want to know how deeply Bakugou was actually suffering. Kirishima felt surprised, to realize they were already at the point where Bakugou's pain would affect him as well.

In a way, though, to know that Bakugou had nowhere else to go made him happy. That gave him a rush of guilt, guilt that mingled with the happiness but did not reduce it. Bakugou had no one but Kirishima to rely on. He wanted that, wanted Bakugou to need him as much as he already needed Bakugou. He knew it was very humanlike of him to want this, not selkie-like at all. Selkies broke bonds as often as they made them, and lived without the grief that separation caused. They lived as much as possible without this feeling of needing another person at their side. It would really only be felt by a mother for her children, and by children who lost a mother too soon. All other bonds were made to be broken.

Kirishima's wanting was human in its intensity. It filled him to the brim, made him want to laugh or cry or pound his fists into the sand. "I'm glad you're staying," he said, although Bakugou knew that. "Look, Bakugou…"

"Yeah?"

"If you leave," he wanted to say "when" but didn't want Bakugou to interject with the same arguments again, "can you tell me beforehand?"

"Why, so you can…"

Kirishima's face must have fallen at the insinuation that he would do anything to prevent Bakugou from leaving that Bakugou didn't even finish the sentence. He cleared his throat. "Sure," he said, his tone more subdued. "Yeah. Sure."

"Thank you," Kirishima said.

He wasn't sure that Bakugou was telling the truth, or just saying whatever he had to say to shut him up for the time being. Bakugou, of course, lied often. Humans in general did. But Kirishima believed he was telling the truth, although he couldn't put his finger on what made him believe that.

"Well, I'm fucking tired," Bakugou said. "And you're going to let me use this tonight, yeah?" He was talking about the sealskin.

Kirishima made a mental note: while Bakugou did not like gifts, he did like to possess things, borrow things. Use things. Kirishima's things. Kirishima's sealskin.

Does he know? Kirishima wondered again, not knowing why Bakugou would make such a big deal about it if he didn't. Well, it was comfortable and warm. Or maybe he just liked getting a reaction out of Kirishima.

He realized sharply that Bakugou was still waiting for his answer, and nodded. "Yes. That's fine."

"You gotta get yourself another one," Bakugou said, and Kirishima laughed aloud in surprise.

Maybe Bakugou didn't know, then. He wasn't sure if the idea gave relief or anxiety. In truth, he'd half been hoping Bakugou had known all along, and that his relaxed attitude just proved what a good human he was.

In the end, this just meant Kirishima was going to have to tell him outright. That was the only way he'd know for sure that Bakugou was truly aware of what he was. Bakugou seemed to think either he was a human being, acting strangely, or that he wasn't human, but Bakugou didn't know what he was.

As long as he doesn't leave with my sealskin, Kirishima thought, not daring to finish the thought because of the thrill of terror it sent up his spine.

"I'm going to sleep now," Bakugou said. Kirishima had been staring into the darkness, lost in thought. He turned to see Bakugou snuggling down, the skin around his shoulders. An embrace.

Kirishima couldn't sleep for a long time thanks to the feeling that pooled in his stomach – nerves and something else, mixing and flowing through him and making his heart beat fast, even long after Bakugou was asleep.