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Scraping chalk. Blistering heat. Malodorous chemicals. Kjeldahl flasks. Grapefruit aftertaste.
As a human, Beakfish doesn’t understand how grating the sound of chalk against a blackboard can really be. Non-humans alike cringe at the sound, even joined by some humans because it’s just that agonizing. Technology exists, so why can’t they use screens instead of these outdated ol’ things?
With every stroke of the white stick of chalk against the board, Floyd’s urge to skip class increases. He feels as though his brain is being clawed at in all of its most sensitive orifices, nails sharper than his own tracing over all of the wrinkles before plunging into the deepest sulci.
Beakfish sets down the chalk, and Floyd grits his teeth. It leaves residue on Beakfish’s blood-red gloves; instead of blood upon snow, it’s snow upon blood. He gestures as he continues whatever he’s lecturing about, and Floyd can’t focus on anything but the chalky residue on his glove.
He snaps his fingers, and the chalk caked onto his leather-clad fingers explodes like a flour bag, accompanied by the most ear-splitting noise Floyd has ever had the displeasure of witnessing. A sharp hiss is torn out of him, and he reflexively clasps his hands over his ears, jaw clenching so hard his teeth painfully grit. Under the sea, sounds were much more muffled, never this bitingly sharp. Not to mention, there’s now a bit of chalk dust on Beakfish’s otherwise pristine black dress shirt sleeve.
“None of you whelps are paying attention, are you? Can someone tell me what the last thing I said was? Anyone?”
Floyd wants to take every bit of calcite in the world and dump it into the furthest recesses of the ocean, deeper than the deepest depths of the Coral Sea, so that no one, human or merfolk alike, has to worry about the existence of chalk ever again.
“—your Bunsen burners.”
Even though he’s not paying attention, it’s not hard to assume that was an instruction to turn it on, so he gets to work setting it up. He connects it to the gas jet, a practiced hand thanks to Azul forcing him to help make potions for the stupid guppies who were just smart enough to avoid becoming anemones.
Next, he grabs the flint striker. This is usually his favorite part, as most things with fire are. He loves how he has to squeeze the striker, how sparks fly from it, and how the fire comes to life.
Not today, though. Today, he is focused on the sooty substance that looks just a bit too much like chalk in the striker, white and ashen and flaky. It takes more attempts than usual to get the fire up, and even more coaxing to convince it to rise from a wimping yellow to a roaring blue flame like he needs.
His hands are drying out. They’re cracking. Burning. He doesn’t care if he’s wearing protective gloves, he knows that’s what’s happening beneath them. He doesn’t like heat; it’s only fair that heat doesn’t like him, either.
It’s so hot, though. It’s the same as usual, but it feels like he’s been dropped into the sun. He thinks his skin is melting off his bones, filling the insides of his rubbery gloves with goopy flesh. No, not goopy—Floyd likes goopy. Crackly. Decaying. Dry.
Usually, if someone likes fire, they also enjoy the warmth that comes along with it. Floyd personally loves the flame itself, but hates its heat with the audacity only a merman could have.
With a swish of Beakfish’s still chalk-stained hand, which only serves to make Floyd feel as though the fire is burning even hotter against him, chemical solutions appear at their stations in front of them. Heady, noxious chemicals flood Floyd’s senses so much that his loathing of chalk is long forgotten, replaced with whatever chemical this is supposed to be. It’s an ugly fluorescent aquamarine, prickles his nose so intensely he feels tears welling up in his eyes on reflex, and seems to sit on his tongue.
And the worst part?
It’s in this fuckass container. A Kjeldahl flask, Floyd identifies. He's well acquainted with Kjeldahl flasks. And if there's one thing Floyd is certain of, it's that he fucking hates Kjeldahl flasks. They’re such an eyesore. Why do they look like that?
(That was a rhetorical question, by the way. Floyd knows the long bottleneck is to minimize splashback and the round, stupid-looking bottom is to evenly distribute the heat and prevent hot spots. He’s not an idiot.)
Somehow, the taste from whatever solution Beakfish has presented them with sings a cacophonous, sickening harmony with the grapefruit Jade had shoved into his mouth during lunch earlier. Floyd didn’t want the grapefruit, had protested it out of aversion for its acerbity—it would completely ruin the flavor of the gummy octopi he was eating—but when his guard was down, mouth agape as he indecorously chewed and talked at the same time, Jade wrenched his jaw open and shoved a piece inside before he could even react.
Now, it dances a dance of mockery on his tongue, accompanied by chemicals so dizzying he can’t even begin to name them.
Floyd can’t do this. He has to go.
No, wait. He can’t go. Manta Ray invited some pussy to give a seminar today, and Azul said he plans on inviting the guy to the Mostro Lounge and schmoozing with him. Jade said he plans on being in the gardens today, and it’d be fun to watch him annoy Sea Lion, but he’s more pissed at Jade for the grapefruit thing than he is intrigued by the idea. And he really doesn’t want to go to the courtyard, because he’s already on fire, and the sun outside is beaming down hotter than ever.
He’s stuck. For once in his life, Floyd is utterly stuck, holding this fucking Kjeldahl flask with tongs as his skin crisps away and his taste buds are traumatized and chalk dust gets everywhere and his senses are so overloaded by chemicals and—
And everything is just too loud.
He sets the flask, only slightly heated from the short amount of time he managed to hold it above the flame, onto the rack. He does it gently and carefully, unwilling to draw any attention. Next, he turns off the Bunsen burner with trembling hands, removing the tubing from the gas jet once the flame has died.
His eyes sweep the room, locating Beakfish with his back turned at two o’clock, and he takes the window of opportunity to slink out of his lab coat, hanging it up on his hanger, and taking off his gloves and goggles. Good, his skin is still intact.
Floyd thinks he’s home free, even if he isn’t sure where ‘home free’ is yet, a step away from the door when—
“Leech? Where do you think you’re going?”
Eyes. Eyes on him. Everyone’s eyes are on him. Beakfish’s eyes, everyone else’s eyes, they’re all on him. Watching his every move. Waiting to strike.
Morays are cowards by nature. They don’t strike unless it’s from the shadows, and they don’t strike unless victory is certain. Right now, neither of these things is true for Floyd.
He curls up into a ball and buries his head between his knees. It’s the next best thing. If he can’t see them, they can’t see him.
“Leech?” Beakfish’s tone is less clipped, a bit softer but still wary. He’s lost his harsh edge, though. Floyd can hear the heels of his dress shoes clacking against the lab room epoxy. He hears how they squeak when Beakfish crouches, the tip of his pointer tapping against the ground. “Is everything alright?”
Stay still. Stay utterly still, or they’ll notice you. They’ll attack. Victory is not ensured.
When he hears them begin whispering, he knows he’s not staying still enough. Maybe he’s too big. Maybe, he thinks as his hands rise to clutch around his ears, he needs to find a better hiding spot.
Mackerel has that spell with the cauldrons, right? Maybe Floyd can do the opposite of that. Floyd lifts his head, squinted eyes ignoring the harsh light flooding his vision and Beakfish at his side. His eyes dart around, searching, before locking onto an empty cauldron in the corner of the room.
A second later, he is inside of that cauldron.
Good. Good, he’s less noticeable here. He adjusts his position to curl up once again, gangly limbs pressing against the rounded iron. It’s cool in here. Dark. Sort of comfortable. It reminds him of the nook near their house he used to snake his way into whenever he was getting scolded by his parents when he was smaller; Jade was the only one who ever found him there. By the time they became friends with Azul—he remembers when Azul was just Octy to him, isn't that funny—he had grown too big for it.
Floyd might stay here for a bit.
Beakfish tries talking to him, but now that he’s in the cauldron, he knows nothing can get to him. He’s safe in here. No one can see him, except for maybe Beakfish. He’s fine.
“Leech,” he manages to process Beakfish saying amidst all of the other words he says that he isn’t quite able to translate in his scrambled state of mind, “If you truly need it, I will exempt you from today’s class. Does that sound alright to you?”
Floyd almost whips his head up to give his enthusiastic affirmation but jerkily stops himself midway through the motion. It could be a trap. He deflates at the thought, instead curling back into his sad ball.
A heavy sigh escapes Beakfish; Floyd can feel his fingers drumming along the rim of the cauldron. He hopes the action doesn’t leave behind chalk dust. “I’ll give you a pass for the rest of the period. You can choose whether you wish to take your leave or stay here. I don’t mind either way.”
With that, Beakfish leaves Floyd alone in the cauldron, a slip of paper sitting on his head. Floyd waits, knowing better than anyone what a mistake it can be to claim victory too early, merely sitting still in the cauldron for a few more minutes before tilting his head forward to let the slip of paper fall into his hands. It’s a pass for him to go to the library, but the listed destination never means much on these slips. No one ever looks that closely.
Floyd straightens ever so slightly, peeking his head over the top of the cauldron to observe what everyone else is doing. No one is paying him any mind, anymore, save Beakfish tossing him a few occasional, cursory glances.
Still, despite the get-out-of-jail-free ticket Beakfish has bestowed upon him, Floyd doesn’t want to leave. He’s not sure why—maybe it’s because he doesn’t know where to go, maybe the cauldron is just that comfy. Floyd never looks into why he feels things, though; that’s boring. He simply acts upon his feelings. He wants to stay, so he’ll stay.
His mind floats away to another plane of being as he savors the cramped space, motionless except for the patternless drumming of his fingers on his knees. His eyes are shut, and he can imagine he’s back home in his good ol’ nook. When he discovered he had grown too big to fit it, he had fallen into a distraught snit for the entirety of the following week. Maybe the answer was obvious all along. Maybe Floyd just needed a cauldron.
A bigger one, though. His little human form can fit this one, but his merform is a different story.
“Leech?” Floyd stiffens before registering it to be Beakfish’s voice and relaxes ever so slightly, though he remains on his guard. Beakfish’s tone still carries that earlier softness, and now that Floyd’s consciousness has been dragged back to the here and now, he realizes that no one else is here. “Class is dismissed. If you wish to go, you may go.” Beakfish pauses for a second before adding, “If you wish to stay, though, I’ll be here for the next few hours.”
Floyd lets out a noise from deep within his trachea, a low trill that normal human vocal cords are incapable of achieving. It’s the first noise he’s made since entering this room, aside from the aggravated hiss. He’s a little surprised by it, himself, but he supposes Beakfish is just making him feel real comfortable right now. Funny, because normally Floyd can’t stand Beakfish, always barking about this important lab he missed when he was skipping or that major test he turned in blank. Maybe it’s because Beakfish is being so quiet now, so calm, like the gently lapping waves of the sea at shore—the kind of waves that make humans appreciate the ocean, not knowing the horrors that lie beneath.
He lingers by the side of the cauldron. “If you’re going to stay, is there anything you need? Or anything I can help you with?”
When Floyd doesn’t respond after about ten seconds, Beakfish sighs, drumming his fingers along the edge of the cauldron. Floyd’s eyes snap open, jerking his head upward. Beakfish reels at the sudden movement, and his gaze trails down to where Floyd’s eyes are locked—his gloves.
“Is something wrong with my gloves?” he asks. Floyd merely continues to glare with the intensity of the burning sun outside. Another grumble reverberates from his throat, this one less pleased than the last, and Beakfish frowns down at his glove as he attempts to interpret what Floyd is trying to communicate.
“Ah,” he muses, running his opposite pointer finger over one of his chalk-coated digits. “Is it the chalk dust?”
Floyd’s growling stops once Beakfish dusts off his gloves with a handkerchief, going so far as to clean the particles that had stuck to the edge of the cauldron, as well. Everything is right in the world.
“I’ll be working at my desk, then,” he tells him, slowly backing away. “I have candy if you would like some—it’s meant to be for when one of you whelps do well, but it’s such a rare occurrence that I’ve built up quite the stock.”
A soft trill escapes Floyd, and Beakfish returns a rare smile as he sits down at his desk. Floyd watches as he pulls out a sleek ballpoint pen and drags a stack of papers toward himself. His eyes flicker up every so often, connecting with Floyd’s, but they never linger for long. Floyd finds himself content with sitting in the cauldron and watching from afar as Beakfish grades papers, hands swishing with a fluidity reminiscent of the ocean as he writes.
His stomach noisily growls, and he begins rising, joints cracking from having been in such a tight position for so long. He stands inside the cauldron, stretching his arms above him, in front of him, behind him, eliciting more popping.
Beakfish looks up, and he instinctively freezes. His lips purse into a thin line—maybe a smile, maybe of exasperation, maybe some secret third thing—before his attention falls back to his papers. Floyd waits a few seconds to be safe, and when Beakfish makes no sudden moves, he slowly steps out of the cauldron. One foot. Beakfish isn’t watching. Both feet. Beakfish still isn’t watching. No one is watching; he’s not being pinned down like prey. He’s a predator on the prowl for food.
A tiny noise, not quite a laugh but bordering on one, escapes Floyd at the dramatic imagery; he’s just sneaking to Beakfish’s drawer for candy.
When he reaches Beakfish’s side, Beakfish chances an askance glance at Floyd. His nondominant arm rests atop the paper he is writing on, obscuring the student’s name. Floyd’s lips curl into a grin. Bummer that he can’t pin a name to whoever the owner of this abysmal quiz is.
Beakfish’s red-gloved hand taps the third drawer on the side of his desk, and Floyd gasps as he opens it, revealing a treasure trove of candy. He has sour gummies, lollipops, chocolate—and pop rocks! Floyd loves pop rocks!
He grabs a fistful of candy from the drawer, ignoring the half-humored sigh from his professor, and shoves everything but a packet of bright red pop rocks into his pocket. He’ll give the rest to Jade and maybe Azul if he isn’t a bitch about it, but probably just Jade since Azul’s always a bitch about everything.
Using the pointed edges of his teeth, he tears the plastic packaging open and squishes it slightly to stare at the vivid red 40-saturated crystals. They catch prettily in the lights of the lab room, which he hadn’t even noticed have been dimmed until now, and he raises it to his lips before tilting his head back and dumping them all inside of his mouth.
Frizzling noises explode in his ears as sugar explodes on his tongue, and he lets out happy hums as he bounces on the balls of his feet and squeezes his fists into tight balls. A memory washes over him: the first time he saw a fire up close. He was surprised by how loud it was, drawing him in more than the sight so bright it burned his retinas. He knows humans like to talk about sirens alluring them into the depths, but he can imagine a fire fairy drawing him in like a moth to a flame. Maybe Floyd is a moth, not a moray.
“Thanks, Beakfish,” he says, giggling at how thickly his voice comes out because of the egregious quantity of pop rocks still melting on his tongue. “I’mma head out now.”
“Good to see you’re feeling better,” Beakfish responds, waving his hand somewhat dismissively, but he catches Floyd’s eye when he looks up and matches Floyd’s toothy grin with a slight upward curve of his lip. “Hopefully, tomorrow, you’re in a better mood to study. Maybe you’ll even be willing to make up what you missed today.”
“Aw, Beakfish, you’re gonna ruin my mood again!”