As it happens, the next time that Marcus comes over it's not to take Esca fishing, but instead out to the largest pier in town where a local holiday is being celebrated with a festival of sorts- vendors renting out street carts to sell their food or trinkets, contests and competitions of all kinds taking place, and a fair share of streamers and lights strung all across the store fronts. The whole town comes alive in a way that Marcus knows belies these rigid people and their behavior and he can see a kind of giddiness bubbling up inside of Esca at the chance to get out of the house.
They use the pick-up to get into town, grabbing Cottia along the way, and the three of them get along surprisingly well as long as the conversation is kept light and shallow. But it's hard to avoid the elephant in the room as they draw nearer and nearer the hub of activity- people milling about the streets peering into their car windows as they drive by. One person, emboldened by the anonymity of the crowd shouts out for them to ask for forgiveness, causing a few more to bang against the side of the truck, egged on. Marcus' shoulders tighten up at this, Cottia sinks as far back into her seat as she can manage, and Esca can't do much but stare listlessly at his hands.
Behind him, Cottia huffs loudly and kicks at his seat. "They should show you some respect you know! A creature such as yourself gracing them with your presence." There's no hint of irony or teasing in her tone, and Marcus wonders if she might actually be looking for something else so desperately in her life, that she genuinely believes Esca could be a supernatural being.
He can't exactly deny that there's something strange and… wonderful about the boy, but Marcus has always made sure to try and ground himself in reality, the thought of Esca being a magical creature is laughable, even if it does give him pause some days. Esca never really likes to talk about it, doesn't like the mentions of his lost past, and you can see his patience wearing thin. "Cottia- please." It comes out a little clipped, but still quiet and polite.
"Did you know your kind can even grant a wish- make someone's dream come true."
"Cottia- don't. I don't want to talk about this." Esca's staring resolutely out the windows, meeting the curious and judgmental gazes head on and Marcus can see him trying not to lose him temper. He awkwardly drums his fingers on the steering wheel, not knowing what to say, but still feeling the need to pitch in his own opinion. After a few long moments of the tense silence, Marcus turns to look at him again and Esca seems troubled, brows knit and mouth pulled into a frown. It doesn't suit him and Marcus wishes he could do something to smooth the discomfort away.
"If you're a selk you can! It's true I swear." Her voice is begging him to let her have this, to let this bit of mysticism dally so that maybe this place doesn't seem so harsh. Marcus can see the tipping point, can see the cracks in Esca's resolve splinter and he knows the boy's been pushed too far.
"Then I'm not a selk!" Esca snaps, turning in his seat to convey the heat of his words through his eyes. She shrinks back from him, but the determination in her eyes speaks nothing of fear and it has Marcus questioning what's going on between the two of them, what's going on inside their heads.
Marcus finally finds a place to park along the street, and he pulls in haphazardly, calling for everyone to pile out of the truck. They walk in silence for a few moments, allowing the cool fresh air and the open space to dissipate the tenseness from their dispositions. Marcus buys them each a basket of fries and shoulders a space open through the crowds so they can idly watch the giant tug of war going on across the way, or the men straddling planks over the side of their ships, bashing each other with padded oars and trying to outlast the other.
A multitude of flags are hung from the railings of the pier and strewn across the water, tied at the other end onto one of the many ships docked in the harbor. Marcus throws an arm around Esca's waist, for once not really caring whatever anyone thought or said. The boy gives him a funny look at first, but when Marcus just offers a goofy smile in return, he seems to relax into it. Marcus thinks that he might have finally found his place here and though he's not quite there yet, he can feel contentment worming its way into his heart.
The outdoor activities start to wane as the sun dips lower in the sky, and the majority of people start to move into the heart of the city, gathering in bars and homes, perhaps trying to find someplace open to grab a bite to eat. Esca's been taking an immense amount of pleasure in playing with the seals moseying around the waters. They bark and clap, and he laughs in delight as he tosses fish their way, imitating their sounds. Marcus has been happy just standing back and watching the odd affinity they have for one another, and he turns to tell Cottia she just might be right about the boy being a seal person, but she's disappeared from his side.
He cranes his neck and scans through what's left of the crowds, trying to see if she just wandered off, grown bored with his infatuation. When he finally catches sight of her though, she's climbing the railing at the end of the pier, turning to find Esca along the shore. "So you're not a selk?" She calls out to him, and flashes a dangerous kind of grin. "Prove it!" She starts to strip off her outer layers, and Marcus' heart clenches in his chest. For all her knowledge, Cottia doesn't know how to swim.
He throws Esca a panicked look, and it seems to convey all he needs because the boy takes off, dashing down the wooden planks, pausing only to take off his shoes and heavy jacket, crying out when she jumps into the brine. Only a few seconds behind, he dives right in after her, not a moment's hesitation, and rockets down through the water, in a way that few can. The seaweed is thick here and the water is murky, but it doesn't take long for him to find her, wrap his arms around her waist, and kick as hard as he can.
The seconds are agonizing as Esca swims towards the sky and to Marcus it feels like an eternity. He can see their shapes beneath the water, but they seem as though they're moving so slowly, much slower than he's accustomed to with Esca. Usually the boy is an unearthly force in the water, so fast and graceful, and Marcus panics when he thinks that the weight of Cottia might be too much for Esca. He doubts the boy for just a split second, just for one second, but then they seem to hit the glimmering sun spot on the water and break through. It creates the illusion of the water shattering around them, and Marcus finally understands why Esca so frequently refers to his emergence from the waters as a rebirth.
There are men waiting just a few arms lengths away, reaching out from their rowboats, electric blankets being pulled from first aid kits. Esca holds her tight and treads over, looking thankful when Marcus makes it down and lifts her from his arms. The pair of them look at her for some kind of explanation, some method to the madness, and she flashes an utterly self-satisfied grin. "Guess I was lucky huh?"
"What?!" Marcus draws her close to his chest and tightens the blanket around her shoulders.
"That he breathes underwater."
The two of you maintain a fragile silence the whole ride back to the cove. Marcus doesn't quite seem like he's angry- at you or her- but more ill-at-ease. His hand twitches loosely by his side as you both navigate the trail down the hill and to the shack. You can sense that he wants to say something, but maybe just isn't quite sure what that is yet. It's not that hard for you to stay quiet, a certain amount of guilt still sitting heavy in your stomach. It's been growing ever since you were found out, but you keep trying to tuck it back into your mind. So far you've been unsuccessful.
That sense that you don't really belong here, that you're upsetting the order of things, sounds ridiculous in your head, but makes you heartsick all the same. "Why- why did she do that to herself?" His voice is quiet, but it still startles you and it takes you a moment to gain enough momentum to answer.
"To test me, maybe. See how far I could go, how much I would do." You hesitate at the door for just a moment, taking a deep breath and marveling at how natural it feels to be here. Knowing that you're not in danger of being found, you always leave the door unlocked, the windows open, and when you walk inside, shrugging off the electric blanket, you can't help but feel at peace. "Strange. It feels like home."
Marcus freezes in the doorframe at this, catching your eye for only a moment before turning his back to look out into the night. He seems tired, energy spent, but nonetheless as though he's trying to make a great decision. So you leave him there to dwell in his thoughts while you put the kettle on and move to change out of your wet clothes.
"You said… would the second time. How much would you do- to help her… or me?" The question feels a bit like a stab in the back, a sharp, hot slice between your ribs. Calmly you take your boots off and drop them to the floor, but pull that stupid, greasy jacket he first gave you even tighter.
"So now you're testing me too?" You rub ineffectually at your shoulders, and wait for his response. The kettle's just starting to steam and right now the bubble of the water seems louder than it's ever been before, and when it finally whistles, the shriek feels like it's piercing your ear drums. You rush to take it off the stove and the second you do, a lofty 'sorry' floats over Marcus' shoulder. You decide to just let it go for now, knowing there could never be purposeful malice behind his words. "Why a restaurant?"
It's perhaps the single most unsubtle topic switch the world has seen, but Marcus' shoulders shudder with a chuckle so you go back to making your tea. "My dad wasn't around much when I was little, upright left when I was seven, so my mother had to work a full-time job to pay the bills. She didn't get much time off, and when she did I'd usually just let her catch up on sleep. But every Sunday we'd make these giant dinners to share with the neighbors and she'd try to teach me something new every week, so I could take care of myself when I was alone.
"I loved spending those evenings with her, keeping things basic, but still making something… magical to share with others by the end of the night. It seemed to bring everybody together, heal the rift between folks for just a few hours. So I kind of developed this love for food, and I'd always wanted to make dinner mean something to people again." He shrugs and brushes at his nose, kicking at the ground. "And though I kinda went through some bad times, I figured if I could just get back to that, everything would be as it was again." He smiles, a little sadly, but finally turns to look back into the house.
His expression changes when he looks at you and it leaves your mouth dry. Nervously you twiddle with the spoon in your mug and keep an eye on him as he shuts the door and meanders over to stand in front of you. He uses the back of one hand to brush at the line of your jaw and with the other he takes the tea from your hands and sets it on the table. "Are you dry?" If you hadn't been so intensely focused on his every movement, the subject of his stare, the pace of his breathing, you wouldn't have heard him speak. Gently he tips your chin up to look into your eyes, and it draws a hitch in your breath.
You nod dumbly as the opposite hand comes up to brush through your hair and grip at the back of your head. He leans into you, oh so slowly, an agonizingly delicate few seconds stealing the breath from your lungs. First your foreheads press together and his fingers tighten in your hair. Your noses brush as he angles his head and you can feel his lashes sweep across your cheeks as he slopes forward, and then your lips touch.
The first time it is just the briefest brush of skin, but he doesn't stop, pressing just a little bit harder, a little more fully with each kiss. His hands float down to grip at either side of your jacket, and he pushes it down and across your shoulders. He starts to move you back towards the bed, undressing you as he goes, and when the rough calluses of his palms catch on your bare skin, you can't help the sharp intake of breath, the nearly painful whine that slips out. "D-didn't Cottia tell you? When a selk makes love to a fisherman, he weeps. Salt tears."
Your chest is heaving now and the harsh sound of your breathing fills the room with a stifling kind of heat. His hands are roaming the expanses of your torso and he seems content to let you talk as he takes his time going over every last bump and blemish on your body. When your knees hit the edge of the bed, you offer no resistance and fall back against the mattress, hands grasping desperately at the sheets as he kneels between your legs and discards the last of your clothing.
There is no more room for talk, hardly any room for thinking as instinct takes over and the wanton throws of your voice are cast about, pouring out of you with unabashed desire. He presses the entire length of his body across yours, easily slotting the odd grooves and edges. His skin is feverish against your own, and the chords of his muscle strain in effort.
He seems to cover you entirely, a sweltering cage that radiates pleasure in an excruciating symphony. Light, breezy touches set your skin to shiver. A slick and clever tongue leaves sensitive trails in its wake to be manipulated by the flighty sensation of his ragged breath. He marks with blunt teeth and nails, pillages with his hands, and subjugates with the strength of his thighs.
He is purposeful and intent, driving to your core and making sure he never has to ask permission by always knowing where he needs to be. Your senses are engulfed, eclipsed by the feel, the taste, the sound, the very idea of him, and when he takes you over the brink you throw your head back and arch into the solid presence of him, hands scrabbling at his back and heels dug painfully tight into the meat of his buttocks. He finishes not long after you and gently coaxes you back into awareness, his eyes a tad unfocused and his body still quivering with aftershocks.
He brushes the damp hair plastered to your forehead back and away from your eyes as he collapses onto his back, tugging at your skull. You rest your cheek on the flat of his stomach and let your fingers idly trace through the line of hair that starts just above his navel, thickening on its way down. "You said you died- in the water." His voice is thick and rough, a special kind of grit coloring his tone. "How many lives do you have?"
You look up at him and try to clear your throat, testing out your raw vocal chords while you think up what kind of answer might be appropriate. You don't want to sound starry-eyed and desperate- drive him away with the intensity of your feelings, but your heart kind of runs away with your mouth. "For you? I can't count." You lick your lips and pray that you haven't overstepped, read this the wrong way.
A kind of glorious anguish pushes at his features and he brushes through your hair, again and again. He doesn't seem capable of a response just yet, so you force yourself from the bed and move to the window. It has begun to rain again and the smell of it is so fresh, the frigid air, cooled by its presence feels startlingly electric across your sweat-slicked skin. The water calls to you as always, the droplets singing in harmony- a magnificent opus to your glowing consummation.
You step out into the downpour and let it wash over you. Marcus watches, rapt, from the bed. Distantly the lighthouse throws everything into a stark contrast, every few seconds, when the signal turns. The sight of him, laid bare and vulnerable, attention focused solely on you, is burned into your memory forever.
