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About a quarter of a mile behind his house, there’s a sizeable lake – the river flows into it, and it’s about a mile around and shaped like one of those speech bubbles that you see in comics. Harry has spent all seventeen years of his life here, and that lake has bared witness to many things in his life, such as: first kisses, first dates, first broken bone. The works.
So yeah, the point is that the lake is kind of a big deal to him. Other people stay sane by listening to music, eating, or talking to people. Harry likes to put on his earphones, loiter by the lake, find a stick, and poke around the water bugs to the tune of Walking on Sunshine.
He’s not the best at social interaction. Well, actually, all his teachers and classmates think otherwise, because they’re always smiling and trying to make conversation with him. He doesn’t know why, whether it’s because they never have anything better to do or simply because he has a face that incites the need to converse, but he just goes along with it. He once told his parents, but that just made them worried, and now they’re constantly prattling about things like, Oh, that one boy is so nice and polite, why aren’t you friends with him? or She is so pretty, Harry! You two would make beautiful grandchildren.
(That last one might be a teensy bit exaggerated. But sometimes his mom gives him That Look and he wouldn’t be surprised if the words are on the tip of her tongue.)
People are nice and all, but there’s only so much of them you can take before you feel like you want to punch them all in the face. At least, that’s what Harry thinks. He’s sure that’s not a completely normal thing to think, but let’s digress.
“Where are you going at this ungodly hour, Harold?” his mother chides on his way through the kitchen. “Not to that lake again, are you?”
“I already ate breakfast,” Harry defends. “And I did all my chores.”
“That doesn’t mean you can go fraternize with those insects and critters that live in that mucked up place.”
“It’s nice there, Mom.” Harry pockets his iPod and skirts around the table to give her a kiss on the cheek. She flicks dishwater at him.
“Be back before lunch,” she says warningly.
Harry smiles, all dimples and promises. “Aren’t I always?”
_
The best thing about summer is that you don’t have to worry about what day it is. During the school year, Harry makes a point of maintaining a calendar, but on the first day of summer, he likes to sacrifice it to a trash fire in the backyard.
For example: today, he doesn’t know whether it’s a Monday or a Thursday, nor could he give a single rat’s ass about it. And you know what? That feels pretty darn good.
The worst thing about summer is that it eventually has to end.
For example: he can estimate that there are roughly two weeks of vacation left. Nearly fourteen days until he can return to those hallowed school halls again? What a delightful thought.
“Walkin’ on sunshine,” he hums lazily, feeling twigs and pebbles crunch under his feet as he makes his way down the path. He has to stay on the right side, because on the left, there’s a patch of poison ivy just waiting to snag at his precious, vulnerable skin.
He finds a nicely sized stick and brings it along with him to the rest of the walk. Despite that by the time he arrives at the lake, the sun is starting to peak through the gaps in the trees, it’s still unusually shady and cool for a summer day. Harry doesn’t mind, though.
His toolbox is present as ever. He keeps the pointless trinkets he finds in there, and so far, he has a nice collection of funny-shaped rocks, leaves, string, and these shiny blue things that look kind of like fake nails that had popped off. But they’re shiny and interesting looking, so yeah, he keeps them.
Still humming, he ties the string to the stick, kicks off his sandals, and starts walking around the lake to find his boat.
A more appropriate descriptor might be “tiny, hollow log.” It’s about four meters long and two meters wide, with just enough space for him and one other person, if that other person in question is a midget or incredibly narrow-boned. It only has one oar. His father bought it off their neighbors for a pretty cheap price and gave it to Harry when he won first place in the seventh grade science fair.
The first time he tried to take it out, he fell in the water in the process of getting in.
He’s better now, though. He can push it off the bank and slip onto it without getting so much as a droplet in the boat.
And that’s exactly what he does, pulling off the tarp and being mindful of the iPod clipped to his shirt. He takes his toolbox and stick with him, guides the boat to the water, hops in, and starts rowing further out.
After a few strokes, Harry puts the oar down and makes himself comfortable. The lake isn’t large enough that he has to worry about getting stranded in the middle; the only concern would be the river that flows into it, but Harry would hear the change in water early enough to change direction. Oh, and there’s that rock jutting out near the middle, but it poses no real threat unless he’s sailing six knots into it.
Harry flicks his string over the side and draws idle circles into the water. The Beatles are crooning in his ear.
When drawing eventually loses its charm, he pulls the string back in and ties one of those blue things to the end of it. He tosses it back out, lies back, and closes his eyes.
If he could, he would get an actual boat and sail across the Atlantic. He’d also learn how to properly fish. But seeing as neither of those things sound close to coming to fruition, he’s content with this for now.
He recites lyrics listlessly and basks in the warmth of the day.
Halfway through a line, something tugs on his string.
“That’s not a worm, fishy,” Harry says, merely shaking his stick and hoping that the fish understands him.
Apparently, it doesn’t; there comes a second tug, and this one is firmer.
Harry frowns, shaking the line again.
There’s a pause.
Then, the stick is completely yanked out of his hand, a faint splash resounding as it undoubtedly hits the water.
“Oi.” Harry opens his eyes and sits up, glaring over the side of his boat.
Remember how he’d lived in this place his entire life, and that the lake is a pretty big thing to him?
Right.
Now there’s some blond kid in the water, peering at him with these impossibly blue eyes, and Harry doesn’t recall seeing him around here.
“There’s seaweed on your head,” Harry says, maybe a little bit dumbly because, like, there’s a boy in his lake and the first thing he comments on is the presence of plant life in his blond tufts of hair.
He watches as the kid’s nose scrunches up – not cutely or anything – as he plucks at the offending seaweed. “Huh, thanks.”
Harry notes that his shoulders are bare. “Are you naked under there?””
Those frickin’ eyes blink and keep being frustratingly blue. “I was trying to get my scale back,” he says, not really answering the question.
“What are you doing in my lake?” Harry holds a hand out. As far as he knows, this guy is trespassing. Also, he took his stick. “Gimme my fishing rod back.”
Blue Eyes regards him for a few seconds, before his face finally lights up with realization. “Oh!” he exclaims. “I’ll get it!” Without further preamble, he dives under the water, and Harry sees a flash of a blue tail.
…Wait, what?
He stares at the ripples in the water, the only evidence that someone had been there just moments ago. Maybe his parents are right. Maybe proper human contact is a Good Thing and helped you stay sane.
Harry shakes his head and settles back into his boat. He takes that single oar and starts rowing.
When he reaches the bank, he moves faster than he ever did in his life: he gets out of the boat and hauls it a good distance inland. He picks up his toolbox and is two steps away when he hears a, “Hey!”
He turns.
“Don’t you want your fishing doo-hickey?”
Harry rubs at his eyes, but no, there really is a boy in the water.
And that boy is currently pulling himself on land.
And he has a tail.
And it’s blue.
Okay.
“Here you go.” In one graceful movement, the boy-fish-thing plops itself down on his tummy and sets forth the stick like it’s a peace offering. Behind him, his tail stretches out, comprising of navy blue scales that seem to shimmer in the sunlight.
His hair looks like honey dipped in sunshine and his eyes are pretty and he’s smiling and he’s, like, cute.
Harry slaps himself across the face.
The boy laughs, and it’s this wonderful sound. “I’m Niall,” he chirps brightly, folding his arms and using them to prop up his chin. He regards Harry with the same curiosity as earlier, except now it looks ten times more intense. “What? What’s wrong?” Niall frowns, patting his own head. “I don’t have more seaweed on me, do I?”
No, but you do have a little dirt on your tail, Harry is very tempted to say. He’s also very tempted to reach over and brush off said dirt on said tail. But he doesn’t, because that would be weird. (Weirder than this experience in general, anyway.)
“Have I finally gone delusional?” Harry asks slowly, eyes flickering from that face, to that tail, to the lake. Who, what, when, where, why, and how?
Niall blinks. “Well, I sure hope not,” he says, tilting his head and giving a little splash of his tail.
“You’re a fish,” Harry says.
“Am not.”
“You have a tail.”
“ ‘m not a fish.” Niall sounds vaguely affronted. “I’m a siren.”
“Uh huh. Care to elaborate on that?” Harry snips.
“Well,” Niall says thoughtfully, “I’m supposed to seduce you with my voice, lure you in, and then viciously devour your flesh.”
Harry gapes.
“Not that I’m going to,” Niall adds tactfully.
Harry may or may not have run away.
_
Spoiler alert: he does.
And once he gets home and manages to avoid the suspicious questions from his mother, he locks himself in his room, crawls into bed, and thinks about his life choices.
Then he calls up Liam, whom he’s known since third grade and is the closest thing he can call to a best friend. After the third ring, the other boy picks up. It’s kind of awkward at first, but it eases away into a conversation of how their respective summers were doing.
Then Harry is being called for lunch, so he says goodbye to Liam and hangs up.
As he walks back downstairs, he’s feeling more socialized and pretty darn sure that there’s no way he’ll be hallucinating mermaids now.
_
It’s with gusto of confidence that he returns to the lake with, the very next day. (And yes, confidence includes having mace in his back pocket. You know, just in case.)
He arrives to find it silent, the water still and the surface clear of any blond mermaids. Harry breathes a small sigh of relief and sits by the side. “I’m not crazy,” he says out loud, despite that talking to oneself is usually a sign of mental instability. (Again, let’s digress.)
Since his previous experiences, he doesn’t particularly want to go rowing out again, so he satisfies himself by lying down and plucking at the grass.
It’s a Wednesday. He only knows this because:
One, there are only thirteen days left of summer vacation.
Two, the Niall incident – as he’s started calling it – happened on a Tuesday.
Harry falls asleep on the grass and dreams of seaweed at the bottom of the lake.
_
Two days pass until he can finally shake off his nerves and get on that boat again. There haven’t been any more hallucinations about mermaids, so Harry takes it as a good sign. He rows out.
It’s a little foggy out, but then again, it’s also five minutes before six o’clock…in the morning. Harry knows he has a shit ton of errands to run today, so he reckons an early venture out can’t hurt anyone. He’ll be back before his mother gets up and throws a fit.
His iPod is sitting at home, dead, so he opts to entertain himself by singing out loud, “We clawed, we chained our hearts in vain; we jumped, never asking why—“
Does he get lonely sometimes? Kind of. And sometimes he wishes that there was someone that could, like, sit across this boat from him and they’d sing stupid songs together and just float circles around the lake. Sometimes he wonders if he’s met that person and already ruined his chance.
Then, most times, he remembers that it’s not like he’s ever felt that way about anyone. He assures himself that their town is just a thousand out of billions and that he’ll meet someone someday because there’s always somebody for everybody, and blah, blah, blah.
Meanwhile, he’ll stick to doing this. It’s nice and considerably less stress-inducing.
He’s belting out the chorus when a chill runs down his spine. He stops mid-wreck and puts down his oar.
There’s someone humming.
Now, he’s seen enough horror movies with the obscured landscape and an unknown monster and the clueless protagonist who more-or-less waltzes right into that monster’s grips. Harry absolutely, positively refuses to be that dumb protagonist, so he takes his oar and—
–fumbles and drops it over the side of the boat.
How peachy.
He’s still moving, carried by the gentle lull of the water. He’s just debating using his hands to paddle when he sees an outline in the distance. He recognizes the shape: it’s that rock. He, however, does not recognize the shape on top of it. But he’s ninety-nine-point-ninety-eight percent sure that that’s a human figure.
The boat carries him closer, and he knows he’s really falling into the “dumb protagonist” stereotype now, but he can’t help it. The humming is so— sweet and it doesn’t even cross his mind that it might be a vicious man-eating monster.
It turns out to be pretty close. It’s Niall. He’s sitting there with his blond hair and his blue eyes and his tail and he’s humming the tune to Wrecking Ball.
“Oh my god,” Harry mutters sharply under his breath.
The mermaid stops and turns quickly, just as the boat is passing him by.
This next thing happens in a blur.
“No, don’t listen!” Niall yelps, and then he throws himself at Harry. The boat, the poor boat that can barely hold two people sitting still, sways, and Harry is flailing and trying to ward off this flesh-eating beast, but it’s too late. In a grand splash, they tip overboard.
It’s not like Harry was given a three second warning before being so rudely dumped into the water, so his mouth starts filling up with water, fast. He feels himself sinking and he’s thinking, Well, I’d hoped for a more dramatic death, but before he can further lament his anti-climactic ending, there’s something snaking around his waist and pulling him up.
He breaks the surface in a fit of gasps, desperate to get air back into his lungs. He shakes his head wildly and blinks the burning sensations in his eyes away. The overturned boat is within arm’s reach, and he grabs the wood and slumps against it, chest heaving.
“Are you okay?” a new voice asks, and then startlingly blue eyes are assessing him and Harry shrieks and shoves away.
For his troubles, he gets another mouthful of water. He resurfaces a little more gracefully this time, and the mermaid is gone and he’s terrified out of his mind and he just wants swim back to the surface.
He catches the boat again, swiping a hand roughly across his face to clear his vision. Very, very carefully, he cranes his neck to look over the other side of the boat.
He’s not surprised at all to see the top of the mermaid’s head, as if he’s cowering away from him. Before Harry can push away again, the head slowly lifts, and he finds himself looking into wide, watery blue eyes.
“Are you okay?” It slips out thoughtlessly. Harry can think of a hundred things wrong about this picture, but only one of them really matters: Niall doesn’t look like he should be crying.
“Yeah,” the mermaid mumbles, rubbing at his eye in a way that makes Harry want to gather him into his arms and kiss his head and tell him cutesy, fluffy things. But he doesn’t, of course. Because this is still a man-devouring creature and he’s naught but skin and bones and a potential meal. “Are you?”
Harry coughs, spitting the last remnants of water from his mouth. “I think I almost had a heart attack. But yeah, I’m fine.” He frowns. “What’d you do that for?”
Niall’s eyebrows knit downwards into an expression of puzzlement. “I was trying to keep you safe,” he says, and Harry notices the accent for the first time. It sounds Irish, and if he’s right, he wonders what the boy is doing so far from home.
“You threw yourself at me,” Harry accuses.
“You were going to crash into the rock!” The puzzlement gives way to a small pout. Niall crosses his arms obdurately.
“I was just fine,” Harry argues, “until you tipped us over, idiot.”
The insult doesn’t seem to faze the mermaid much. “I’m a siren,” he says. “I’m s’posed to sing you to your death. But I swear, I didn’t know it was you. I thought— I didn’t think you’d be coming back.” And his eyes start looking watery again, so Harry has to switch tactics because he doesn’t think he can handle seeing tears. “I’m really sorry.”
“I want to go back,” Harry tells him.
So Niall helps him turn the boat over and keeps it steady as he hauls himself back on. Then the mermaid – no, siren, whatever that is – helps pull him back to shore.
“I’m sorry,” the boy repeats, voice wavering. “I really am.”
Harry gives him this strangled little nod. He’s not sure how else to react, honestly. He draws the boat aground and starts walking, doing his best to ignore his sopping wet clothes and the small request of, “Please don’t leave,” that comes from behind him.
_
Google does an A-plus job with educating him about sirens.
“The sirens,” Harry reads out loud, “were dangerous and beautiful creatures who lured nearby sailors with their enchanting music and voices to shipwreck on the rocky coast of their island.”
He only skims the Wikipedia article (he’s still experiencing the aftereffects of shock), but from what he gathers, sirens are half-bird women who sat on rocks and sang to sailors. The sailors would be so captivated by the beauty of their voices that they’d sail into rocks like dumb little protagonists. Other sites claim that the sirens would lure them ashore and then make a snack out of the poor victims.
But if there’s one thing that all those sites have in common, it’s that they all label sirens as one thing: mythical creatures.
So.
Why is there one in his lake?
“Are you okay, sweetie?” his mother asks over dinner. She and his father busily cut up their food, oblivious to their son’s turmoil over that day’s earlier events.
“You know how he is, always stuck with his head in the clouds,” his father grumbles. It’s obviously good-natured, because Harry is lucky to have parents like them, but he’s pretty sure they wouldn’t be so good-natured about hearing that their son met a siren.
Harry forces a laugh, almost choking on his mashed potatoes in the process. His parents look at him strangely, but he gives them a nonchalant shrug. “I’m just thinking about stuff.”
“Teenagers,” his father says with a shake of his head.
_
Three days later, Harry returns to the lake equipped with elbow pads, knee pads, tape, and two packets of crackers. He also brings his mace, but throws it out halfway upon realizing that it’s empty.
He doesn’t have to wait long until Niall appears some ways from the shore, waving excitedly to him. “Hi, hello! You’re back!”
Harry kicks off his shoes, rolls up his trousers, and wades into the water until it’s up to his thighs. Niall comes as close as he can, flitting about with ease. Every few seconds, Harry catches a glimpse of blue as his tail moves underwater.
“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” Niall stops his restless pacing – swimming? – and props his chin up on the heels of his palms. “I thought I’d scared you away and that I’d lost my chance. Lou said I was being stupid, but you’re back now, which means he was wrong and owes Zayn ten urchins to the chest.”
And yeah, this throws Harry off-guard. He doesn’t know who Lou and Zayn are and if that means there are even more of them, nor does he knows what ten urchins to the chest means. But it’s not even two minutes into this meeting and his plan’s already been derailed.
(His plan? He was going to distract Niall with crackers; one of the websites said that sirens like munching on bones, and saltine crackers surely had the same crunch to them. Then Harry would take the opportunity to drag him onto land, and Niall would be powerless as Harry tied him up. There’d be a whole interrogation scene, and Harry would make him vow to leave and never come back again; he’d untie him and Niall would flee and never return.)
(It seemed like a good plan, an hour ago. But now he’s looking at this boy with stupidly bright hair and stupidly bright eyes, and he finds that the only reason he’d want to put his hands on him is to touch his hair and his tail and maybe his face.)
(God damn it.)
Niall is staring at him like he’s expecting him to say something.
Harry takes out the crackers from his back pocket. “You want some?” he asks lamely, tearing the packet open and offering it to the siren.
“What’s it?”
“Crackers. They’re kinda like bones.”
“Bones?” Niall shoots him a dubious look. He accepts one, scrutinizes it for a good minute, and takes a microscopic bite on the corner.
The reaction is instantaneous: his mouth falls agape as he stares down at the cracker in newfound awe. In a blink of an eye, the rest of the piece is gone.
“Whoa,” Niall says through his mouthful of cracker, “this is good!”
Harry listens to the crunching noises and wonders if bones make the same sound when they’re being munched on. He pushes that thought away, because it’s disturbingly morbid, and this boy in front of him looks nowhere near capable of hurting a fly.
Then again, looks could be deceiving, right?
Harry hands over the rest of the crackers, stuffs the wrapper into his pockets, and wades back out of the lake. Niall pulls himself along, and when Harry takes a seat on the dry grass, the siren isn’t too far away, on his stomach and looking at him like he’s the coolest thing since sliced bread.
“Who are Lou and Zayn?” Harry asks as he slips off his elbow and knee pads, feeling a little ridiculous now. He tosses them off the side.
“My friends,” Niall answers, licking cracker remnants off his fingers.
“And what did you mean, you thought you lost your chance?”
“I thought I’d messed up and we couldn’t be friends anymore.”
Out of every possible answer, Harry will admit that that’s one he had least expected. “You wanna be friends?” he asks. He can’t help his suspicious tone.
Niall splashes his tail down. “Yeah,” he says, now looking a little embarrassed. His cheeks go splotchy pink and it’s kind of endearing. A lot of stuff he does is endearing, Harry thinks. “Is that okay?”
Harry studies him. “Do you just want to eat me?”
Niall looks disturbed. “No…?”
“I googled you, and all the sites said that you kill people. You make them crash into rocks, and sometimes you eat them.”
“You what me?” Niall adopts that same confused expression. “We don’t eat people. Well, some of us kill people, but I don’t.”
“I googled you,” Harry repeats for his benefit.
“I…” The confused expression intensifies. “I don’t think I understand.” He lifts his head, regarding Harry with hopeful eyes. “Does it mean you’d like to be my friend?”
“What do I have to do?”
“Huh?”
“If I was your friend. What would I have to do?”
“Well, you’d have to let me call you my friend, and we’d have to talk, and…oh! I’d have to know your name, ‘course.” Niall gives him a smile and he just looks so guileless. Harry wonders if he hasn’t misidentified himself and is actually a mermaid (merman?) instead, because sirens sound like such vicious creatures and this boy had even saved him from crashing into a rock. “And you’d have to tell me about your world and what you humans do.” He pauses. “Also, bring me more of those crackers. What about you? Do you have any conditions to add?”
A small laugh escapes Harry’s mouth before he can stop it. “We’re trying to be friends, not signing a treaty.”
“But you wanted to know what you’d have to do.” Niall pouts.
“Semantics.” Harry runs a hand through his curls, silently debating his life choices. Maybe it’s the siren’s voice that’s making him so agreeable – or maybe he’s just stupid. He thinks it may be more of the latter. He says, “Okay. Friends,” and offers a hand.
Niall smiles and it’s blinding. “Friends,” he concurs, and instead of completing the handshake, he takes Harry’s hand, laces their fingers, and gives a little squeeze.
That day, Harry learns how sirens greet each other.
It’s a Monday.
_
It becomes a routine for Harry to finish his chores, eat lunch, and head out to the lake with a packet of crackers in hand. Actually, he wouldn’t call it a “routine,” because the word suggests that it’s something monotonous and repetitive; spending time with Niall is anything but monotonous and repetitive.
He’s not sure how to describe Niall.
The boy radiates this sort of brightness, and with his blond hair, Harry can’t help but liken him to the sun. His voice lilts in the most pleasant of ways and Harry never finds himself bored of his stories, even if most of them don’t make sense. His eyes seem perpetually wide and full of curiosity and he’s not very good at sitting still, hands always itching for something to do. Once Harry gets over the initial paranoia that he’s friends with a siren, he lets Niall pick at his shirt when the fabric is particularly interesting.
It looks tedious for Niall to have to pull himself onto land every time they meet, so Harry takes to using the boat. Without the oar, he can’t control it much, but Niall is more than happy to guide him, and that’s how they talk, with Harry in the boat and Niall swimming along beside him.
On a Wednesday, Niall brings him seaweed and insists that he tries it. “I have to repay you for all the crackers you give me,” he reasons.
Harry refuses as subtly as he can. Niall pouts and eats it himself, but the moodiness lasts for a record thirteen seconds before his mind wanders off to another topic.
On Thursday, Harry asks, “Why don’t you have feathers?” and Niall gives him one of Those Looks again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.
“The myths say that sirens are part birds, and in every picture of a siren I’ve seen, they all have these wonky bird legs.”
Niall hums in understanding. He pops the last bit of the cracker into his mouth and swims over to rest his arms on the side of the boat. “You read an awful lot of those myths,” he comments. “I don’t have ‘wonky bird legs.’ That was just my great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother.”
Harry counts off the “great”s on his fingers. “And what happened to your great-great-great-great-great grandmother?”
“Great-great-great-great-great-great,” Niall amends charitably. “She and her sisters got into this singing contest with the Muses, which was kinda stupid because everyone knows that the Muses are really good singers. They lost, and the Muses plucked their wings and wore the feathers as trophies.” He sighs, like he’s imagining an eidetic scene. “Since they couldn’t fly anymore, they figured they could always swim instead. So half of their bodies turned into tails, and I guess that’s how we’ve been ever since.”
“Ah,” Harry says understandingly even though he doesn’t really understand. Niall’s voice is just nice to listen to, and the siren hasn’t tried to lure him into any rocks at all, so he thinks it’s okay.
On Saturday, Niall asks, “What’s it like up here?”
They’re having a lazy swordfight with a pair of sticks they’d found. At first, Niall was terrified at the prospect of trying to stab each other, but after Harry explained that it was just out of fun, the boy tentatively went with it.
“Up where?” Harry asks, hitting his stick back and forth. Sometimes he becomes aware of how seamlessly they transitioned into this easygoing relationship and it scares him. But more than that, it gives him fluttery feelings and makes him glad he said yes to being Niall’s friend.
“In your world, dummy,” Niall says with a mock-exasperated sigh. “Do you live in a house? What are you parents like? Do you have friends?”
By now, Harry is used to the rapid-fire nature of the siren’s questions. “Of course I live in a house,” he answers. “It’s not far from here. My sister moved out last year, so it’s just me and my parents now, and they’re nice. Sometimes I think they think I’m crazy, but I love them and they love me. I have friends, yeah. Lots of friends.” And the only reason he lies is because he doesn’t want Niall to think he’s some sort of loser, if sirens even cared about such things.
“Lots?” Niall echoes.
“Lots,” Harry confirms.
Niall’s face turns unreadable and Harry wonders if it might have been the wrong thing to say after all. “I have friends too,” the blond says softly, his mouth slowly lifting into a smile. “I only have three, and they’re you, Louis, and Zayn. It’s not very many, but they mean a lot to me.”
Harry lifts an eyebrow, a tease on the tip of his tongue.
Niall’s face goes red and before Harry can make a jab, he squeaks and ducks underwater.
“Aw, Niall,” Harry calls, leaning on the side of the boat as much as he can without tipping it. “I wasn’t gonna tease you, honest.” The water bubbles, but otherwise, there’s no reply. He’s not even sure if Niall can hear him, but he continues, “And I was lying. I don’t have a lot of friends, either.”
With a loud splash, Niall suddenly catapults out of the water and tackles Harry overboard.
“Hey!” Harry shouts indignantly, coughing water out of his mouth. He glares at Niall, who’s suspended over the boat and grinning cheekily. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“Because,” Niall says smugly, “you lied t—“ Unfortunately, the boat doesn’t take well to sirens hanging over it; in one comical moment, it tips over, sending Niall flopping into the water with an, “Ah—!”
Harry laughs when Niall reappears in front of him, shaking his hair free of water.
“Serves you right,” Harry tells him, and it’s his turn to sound smug now.
…And Niall inches closer and slips his arms around his middle.
Harry tilts his head at Blue Eyes suddenly in his arms. He thinks it’s some form of retaliation, but then Niall says against his shirt, “I’m your friend. It’s okay.”
Every now and then, he feels Niall’s tail brush against his legs. He reckons he should think it’s weird, but…it’s not that bad. He thinks he can get used to it. And Niall is surprisingly warm against him. “Wasn’t that the deal?” he asks with a wry smile, looping his own arms around the silly boy and ruffling his hair.
Niall pulls away to look at him with his own sheepish smile. “I guess.”
And he bites his lip in this way that makes Harry want to lean forward and just close the distance between them and—
Oh.
This isn’t good.
_
Then Harry has to start his senior year.
The first day of school is a Thursday, and he doesn’t get the chance to visit Niall at all. He wakes up late and has to rush to be on time. His new teachers don’t seem to understand the common concept of no homework on the first day of school, because he comes home with a review packet for physics and a get-to-know-me essay to do for English.
He also has chores. Basically, he runs around like a madman all day, trying to get everything done – and once things are all squared away, it’s five minutes to eleven and his parents wouldn’t take kindly to him sneaking out this late. They’ve been suspicious enough already.
The thought of Niall waiting all day for him dredges up the worst sense of guilt. He hasn’t told Niall about school yet, but he resolves to do so the next day.
_
Except on Friday, he doesn’t get to go to the lake, either. He has a dentist appointment and it’s a two hour’s drive away, and then there’s a ridiculous amount of traffic and he can swear that the whole world is conspiring against him.
He gets home around eight and his dad’s gone off to work. Harry would have gone then, but his mother is sick and he feels bad for leaving her alone, so he just stays and takes care of her.
It’s not like he promised Niall that he’d come every day, but that’s the way it’s been for a while, and yeah, he feels bad for suddenly breaking it.
Saturday is, thankfully, relenting. Harry wakes around six o’clock and heads out with his iPod and the customary packet of crackers.
When he gets to the lake, Niall isn’t there, but Harry can hear his voice.
“He’s nice, okay? You don’t even know him, so you shouldn’t be saying things like that about him!”
A pause.
“I don’t care, Louis. I like him and he likes me and he’s coming back and you can go bugger off.”
Another pause.
“No, you can’t pelt him with sea urchins, what the heck is wrong with you?”
Harry walks around the perimeter until he finally spots Niall near where the lake ends and the river begins. He’s looking at something that Harry can’t see. “Ni?” he calls, tugging his earphones off.
The siren whirls around. “Harry!”
He doesn’t look upset at all. In fact, he looks excited.
(That just makes Harry feel worse.)
“Who’re you talking to?” he asks, coming as close as he can to the water.
Niall glances back at the mystery person again, then dives underwater. Harry waits until he resurfaces close enough that they can talk without yelling at each other. “That was Louis,” he says, looking embarrassed. “How much did you hear?”
Harry bites back a smile. “Eh,” he says. “Just enough for me to worry about your sanity.”
“Did you think I was talking to myself?”
“No, I thought you might’ve been talking to your fish friends.”
Niall grins. “Nah, we don’t communicate out loud,” he says easily.
“Right,” Harry says. He sits down and crosses his legs, watching Niall curiously. “Were you fighting with your friend?”
“He doesn’t like that I’m spending so much time here.” Niall shrugs. “It’s nothing,” he adds, but it doesn’t sound like it’s nothing. “He should just go back to holding hands with Zayn. That’s all they ever do now, anyway.” Yeah, he definitely sounds upset.
Harry shifts uncomfortably. “Do you, um, like Louis or something?” The words are pretty difficult to get out of his mouth, because just the thought of it being true makes him feel unpleasant things.
“Louis?” Niall says, and Harry can’t tell if he’s incredulous or about to laugh. “No! He likes Zayn, and Zayn likes him back. They’re awful, always holding hands and kissing each other’s cheeks. Gross.”
At that, Harry finds it a little easier to breathe. “Gross?” he questions, amused.
“Yeah. You should see them. They were already pretty bad before, but ever since they officially got together, they’ve been even worse! They’re always whispering and touching noses and they do stuff without me.” Niall certainly doesn’t look so mirthful, sinking into the water until all Harry can see is the top of his nose and eyes.
It occurs to him that Niall’s been feeling left out. And Harry had gone and left him alone for two days.
There goes the guilt again.
“Well,” Harry says in a fit of courage, “we can be gross together, too. Just to get back at them.” In a flash, the courage is gone and he’s left mentally smacking himself because wow, what did he just say.
Niall straightens up. “Me and you?” he asks, like he’s seriously thinking about it.
Harry swallows. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” Niall’s cheeks flush and he fidgets, looking as if he’s about to hide underwater. He doesn’t, though. He looks Harry in the eye and says: “Just to get back at them, right?”
Daring to push his luck, Harry agrees, “Of course.”
“Okay,” Niall says again. His eyes flicker uncertainly to the water, then back at Harry again. There might be a hint of a smile on his lips. “I—“ His cheeks turn even redder. “I don’t think it’s gross when it’s me and you, though.”
And then he dives underwater.
“Oh,” Harry says to an empty lake. He thinks about the implications of Niall’s words and repeats, a shit-eating grin on his face, “Oh.”
_
On Sunday, he arrives to a very peculiar scene: Niall is a few meters away from the lake, sitting on the ground with the tarp wrapped around him. “Harry!” he calls. All self-consciousness from the previous day is gone, replaced by an unmistakable sense of excitement. “C’mere, quick!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Harry pretends to grouse, shoving his iPod into his pocket. “What are you doing out here?”
Then Niall—
—stands up.
“Look at me, Harry!” A laugh bubbles out from Niall’s throat, and he stretches out the arm that isn’t keeping the tarp around him.
“Niall?” Harry asks, bewildered and unable to keep it out of his voice.
Niall actually takes a step towards him, and the tarp briefly flutters open and offers Harry a glimpse of legs.
Said legs buckle, and Niall yelps as he crashes down. Harry has never moved faster in his life, stepping forward and making sure the boy doesn’t land on the cold hard ground. “Niall,” he says, and it’s not that he isn’t overjoyed by this development, but how—? “What happened?” His mind immediately reverts to The Little Mermaid and he demands, “Did you sell your soul to a sea witch for these legs?”
For a few moments, Niall is too busy laughing and squirming and trying to regain his balance to really answer. When he’s standing properly again, he shoots Harry a grin and asks, “What’d you say?”
Distressed, Harry repeats his question.
“Sea witch?” Niall says dubiously. “Please, Harry. I don’t have nearly enough scallops to afford such a service.” He lowers his head, the grin dying down to a shy smile. “Is this okay?”
Harry thinks about everything they can do now: he can take Niall with him on drives, he can show him around town, he can have him meet his parents, he can have him stay over and lend him some clothes to wear and they would probably be too big on him and—
“Yeah,” he manages, “this is more than okay.”
And Niall’s face is right there, cheeks a rosy pink and lips parted, and god, he wants to kiss him.
“I promise I’ll get better at walking,” Niall says, pulling away first.
He’s still smiling and it automatically makes Harry smile, too. “I’ll teach you,” he tells the blond. “That’s what friends are for, right?”
_
He runs back to the house and gets Niall some clothes. When he returns to the lake, Niall is still using the tarp as a cloak as he admires his new toes.
“This is so weird,” he hears the blond whisper as he wiggles them.
“Hey, your tail wasn’t the most normal, either,” Harry reminds him with a short laugh. “Here, try these on.” He hands over the clothes.
It turns out that Niall has a lot to learn, including how to put on a shirt. After the fourth time Harry has to stop him from putting his legs into the sleeves, he finally says, “Let me.”
He tries not to stare as Niall drops the tarp and lets him guide his limbs into the right clothes, but it isn’t that difficult of a feat; his bright blue eyes effortlessly keep Harry’s attention the whole time.
When he’s all dressed, Harry quirks a smile and asks, “Feel like taking a walk with me?”
“Can we hold hands?” Niall asks.
It’s a little redundant; Harry’s already reaching for his hand.
_
It turns out that Niall didn’t make a bargain with any sea witch; he’s capable of switching from tail to legs by himself, though the process takes about an hour.
“Why’ve you never done it before, huh?” Harry teases.
Niall looks good in his clothes. Actually, Niall looks good in just about anything (or nothing).
“My parents always told me not to,” Niall answers quietly. He’s staring at his feet, concentrated on the action of putting one in front of the other. “You have all these myths about us being killers... We have the same stories about you. I… My parents were killed by humans. Louis’s been taking care of me, and we…we’ve never talked about shifting before, you know? About coming up here. He worries a lot, that you’re dangerous and I’ll get hurt too.” He doesn’t look at Harry. “But I trust you.”
Harry stops, turning to him. “Niall,” he says gently.
“No. No, it’s okay. It’s been years now, and I’ve accepted it.” Niall casts him a sideways glance. “Lou’s done a good job of taking care of me, and. Yeah. I’m fine.”
“I’d never hurt you.” Harry leans down to catch his eye, because he needs Niall to understand this. “And I wouldn’t let anyone else, either. You’ll be safe with me.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” Niall says thickly. “I know.” He squeezes Harry’s hand, and Harry squeezes back.
_
When they’ve walked three laps around the lake, Niall tells Harry that he doesn’t want to go back in the water; for a lack of anything else to offer, Harry asks if he wants to come home with him. Niall agrees.
“Will your parents mind?” the blond asks, teeth worrying his bottom lip.
“My dad’s at work,” Harry tells him, “and my mom would love you, I think. We have a spare room that used to be my sister’s, so you could probably use that.” Quickly, he adds, “If you want to, I mean. I’m not sure how long you want to stick around, but there’s always a place for you when you need it.”
When they reach the house, Harry has to pull Niall away from his fascination with the mailbox. “This is how you receive your letters?” the smaller boy asks in astonishment. “You don’t use clams?”
“No,” Harry replies laughingly, “no clams around here. Now come on, I swear there are cooler things inside.”
He lets them in, and not too long after their entrance he hears his mother call, “Harry! Your dad’s almost home, please set the table!”
“Coming!” Harry answers, kicking off his shoes.
Niall makes this low noise of terror. “Maybe I should just go back to the lake,” he whispers urgently as Harry tries to pry his fingers off. “I shouldn’t trouble your parents like this, really, I—“
“Niall. Shut up. You’re fine.” Harry does laugh this time, leaning over to peck the other boy’s cheek as some way of pacification.
Immediately, Niall looks at him with wide eyes, and Harry falls into another relapse of mentally smacking himself. He barely gets out an apology when his mother appears in the vestibule, wiping her hands on a dish cloth. “Harry, are you—“ She stops when she sees Niall. “Oh, you didn’t tell me you invited someone over.”
“It was a spontaneous thing,” Harry explains. “Mom, this is Niall. Niall, this is my mom. She makes the best mashed potatoes you’ll ever taste.”
“Hello,” Niall basically squeaks. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“You too, Niall.” Her gaze flickers down to his hand that’s still holding onto Harry’s arm, and then she shoots Harry one of Those Looks. “You and Harry are friends?”
“Yep!” Niall chuckles nervously.
“He’s new this year,” Harry pitches in, because his arm feels like it’s getting strangled. “Just moved over the summer. He’s who I’ve been visiting. His parents are out of town for the next few weeks, so I thought he could stay over.”
“Oh! Of course, we have a spare room for him.” His mother breaks out into a smile, stepping back and gesturing for them to enter. “I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to meet you, Niall. Harry’s been keeping you from me, hasn’t he?
“Mom,” Harry whines.
His mother hushes him. “You go set the table,” she says. “Niall, do you have any allergies?”
“Um.” Niall releases his arm (thankfully). “No allergies, but I’m not a big fan of seafood,” he says. He doesn’t sound as panicked now, just polite and maybe a bit timid.
“Good. You should be all right with tonight’s menu, then. I made my specialty pot roast, and I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I’ve been told it’s one of the best.”
“Mom.”
“What are you still doing here, Harry? I told you to go set the table.”
Harry gives Niall a trying smile before he leaves the blond at the mercy of his mother in favor of setting the table.
Ten minutes later, his father finally arrives. Harry introduces Niall to him, and then they sit down and eat. Harry helps his mother put the food onto the table, and he swears that Niall’s eyes grow wider by the inch at the sight of everything.
Harry sits next to him, and everything’s fine until his father asks, “How old are you, Niall?”
Niall answers brightly, “A hundred and sixty-seven, sir!” He pauses. “Actually, it might be a hundred and sixty-eight. I’m not sure. I’m awful at keeping count.”
There’s a general pause around the room, and Harry gapes in horror.
Then his mother starts laughing; a few seconds after, so does his father, and then Niall joins them, despite himself.
“Aren’t you a funny lad,” his mother coos, and Harry can predict the conversation they’re going to have after this:
(“I like him, Harry! You two would make such beautiful grandchildren!”)
(“Oh my god, Mom, we’re both guys.”)
Niall sneaks him a furtive glance, as if to ask, Was that okay?
Harry almost had a heart attack, but his parents must like Niall now. So he gives him a small nod and nudges his knee as a silent way of saying, You’re fine.
_
His parents let Niall use Harry’s sister’s old room, and Harry lends him a pair of pajamas and Niall looks so soft in them.
“You gonna be all right?” he asks before he leaves the room.
“I’ll be fine, Harry,” Niall replies, but he’s either lying or overestimating himself because an hour after lights out, Harry feels a second person slip under his covers with him.
“Hey, Ni,” he says with a yawn, making room for the other boy.
It feels so…natural, to be doing this. He likes it.
“The tree kept wanting me to open the window for it, and it wouldn’t leave me alone,” Niall whispers, arms snaking around Harry’s middle. It reminds him of that day in the lake. “Sorry.”
Harry figures he must mean the tree outside the other room, the one with the long branch that his sister always complained about tapping incessantly against her window. “It’s okay,” he says, tugging the blanket over them both. “You’re safe from the tree here.”
“Thanks.”
And Niall burrows into his chest and Harry gladly holds him, and under his arms, he can hear the boy’s breathing, feel his warmth and the steady rise and fall of his chest. This way, Niall feels so human and vulnerable and Harry finally caves and leans down and kisses him. “I’ll keep you safe,” he mumbles in between their lips, and Niall slowly cups his face and kisses back.
Harry will. He swears it.
_
For the next week and a half, Niall becomes a fourth member of Harry’s household. When his parents ask why Niall doesn’t go to school with him, Harry explains that he’s homeschooled. So while he leaves for class every morning, Niall stays back and helps around the house.
He’s pretty sure his mother knows that Niall sneaks into his room every night. But she’s also become ridiculously close with Niall after the boy gladly volunteers to help her in the garden, so she never says anything about it.
When Harry first hears that Niall is actually taking showers, he nearly breaks the bathroom door down in his hurry to get to him. He’s two minutes into his rant about being careful when Niall decides to tell him that his legs don’t shift unless they’re in the water for an extensive amount of time. (“That’s why it takes so bloody long for me to change.”)
But eventually, Niall has to go back home.
“Where is that, by the way?” Harry asks as they’re walking to the lake. "Where you live?"
“It’s in the river,” Niall says, and gives no further specifics, so Harry just imagines him having a little home with Louis underwater.
He sits with Niall as the boy soaks his legs and waits for them to change. “You’ll come visit more often, right?” Harry asks. Their hands are within millimeters of each other, so he figures, Might as well, and interlaces their fingers.
“I can’t believe you have to ask,” Niall says. “So long as you keep visiting me here.”
“Deal. My mom really likes you already,” Harry confides.
Niall laughs, ducking his head in sheepishness. “I’m glad. She’s very nice.” He smiles to himself, turning to Harry. “Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you really like me, too?”
Harry scoffs. “I can’t believe you have to ask,” he mirrors in a deadpan, and then to prove it, he leans in and kisses him.
_
The hour comes surprisingly quickly. “It’s so pretty,” Harry murmurs, when Niall’s legs have given way to a familiar blue tail. He runs his fingers along the scales, and, upon realizing something, grins. “So those blue things were your scales,” he muses.
“Mm?”
“Nothing.”
Niall gives him one last peck on the cheek before pushing off, disappearing underwater. Harry stands up and waits for his boyfriend – oh, that sounds nice – to come back up.
A few seconds later, Niall does…along with somebody else.
“Louis!” Niall greets the other boy – a feathery-haired brunet with sharp features that look more fitting for a nymph than a siren – with a hug. “What are you doing here?”
“To escort you home, of course,” Louis scoffs. “Hera knows how many times you get lost.” He turns a critical eye to Harry. “So you’re the human.”
“His name is Harry,” Niall admonishes. “Harry, this is Louis. Louis, Harry.”
Harry smiles and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Is this the part where you threaten me if I hurt him?”
“Yeah.” Louis nods. “But you look like you already get the gist of it.”
“I do,” Harry says. “I don’t have any plans on hurting him, though.”
“Good.” Louis smirks. “Otherwise I’d be singing you into the river with Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”
“Louis,” Niall whines, tugging on his friend’s arm. He turns back to Harry with an embarrassed smile, his cheeks flushing the same pretty pink that makes Harry wonder what he’s done to deserve this. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Just like always,” Harry returns, smiling back. He watches as Louis dives under first; before Niall follows, he calls to him, “Don’t forget how to walk, Blondie.”
Niall shoots him a grin. “I won’t,” he says, and then he’s gone without another word – but Harry knows that it’s a promise.