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Chapter Text

The ocean breathes, the swell of her breathing harsh against the hull of The Firefern as waves crash against her over and over in a relentless rage. It is both merciless and rhythmic. Each crash against the ship causes the bones of the vessel to shudder and groan, threatening to give out at any moment. The old planks sigh back into shape moments later, as if the ship herself remembers waters such as these, as if to say she remembers being hunted by the sea and will not be bested. Each swell of the waves rolls heavier than the last, spraying seafoam and salt against the edges of the ship, desperate to pull her down under the water and drown her. Then there comes an eerie stillness that hums and holds its breath. The next wave comes and the ship tilts left, rights itself to tip to the other side.

The sea is not angry.

It is hungry.

The sky above is milky with clouds, peaks of dying sun breaking through an otherwise clear day. It’s not even stormy weather, so it comes as a surprise to Aizawa, as he stands at the helm, that the sea is so angry today. The gulls are content, soaring high beyond the ocean line crying softly, their voices promising a feast as the sun begins to set. The breeze is mild even, just a gentle ruffling of Aizawa’s coat. His eye scans the ocean, smoke grey, holding back its own storm. The breeze carries the wisps of his hair and Aizawa tips his head towards the horizon.

Aizawa is made for the sea, the ocean, when gentle, suits him well. At night, when the ship rocks, he appreciates the stillness of the waters. He commands his crew with a stern voice and they listen, not out of fear, but out of devotion for their captain. They are like family, and The Firefern is his home. Named for the strange bioluminescent flora he once saw growing in the shallow pools of water off the coast; a bloom that unfurled against the strong tides, like hope, where none should have grown on barren land.

But hope is a concept. A fairytale. And Aizawa doesn’t believe in stories told to him as a child in the cradle of his mother’s arms. But the stories follow him, from port to port, like the rot that grows within the grains of sunken ships. Stories of voices under the water, of eyes glowing like lanterns in the deep, guiding lost ships. And lost sailors. They tell of men who jump ship and don’t resurface, chasing a song heard more within their heart than their ears.

They tell of wrecked ships with no storms to blame.

Of death.

Beneath the ship, something moves.

No, Aizawa does not believe in fairytales, but tonight, as the sun sinks, the sea sings to him.

It begins as a low hum, vibrating through the hull, making the wheel shudder beneath his palms. He feels it against his spine, a low pressure, melodic and frictionless. It sounds sad, like the song of someone mourning. Aizawa requests a take over as he moves towards the railing, gripping the soft wood tightly.

“What is that?” But the crew doesn’t appear to notice as they move about their duties. He’s alone wrapped within the song, feels its isolation coil around his spine.

Then he sees him.

Something moves within the water, too fast and too small to be a shark or a whale. Something obsidian and iridescent, reflecting off the setting sun. Aizawa leans over the edge, scanning the waves for a sign of movement. It’s brief. A flash of pale beauty that’s all wrong, too sharp, too vivid. Then it appears again. A mess of sea-salt tangled lavender hair, mouth curled into a soft smile. Violet eyes, sharp as purple-fluorite meet his for an instant before the face vanishes beneath the swell of the next wave.

Aizawa’s breath leaves him. “Someone’s in the water…” he whispers, more to himself. Only the gulls answer, crying loudly. Whoever it was is gone, swallowed by the ocean waves that roar once more, then still.

Three days later, the wind dies. The sea is as smooth as glass, the sky an endless expanse of blue. Even the gulls have ceased their songs. The sea is calm.

Dead calm.

The ship drifts and Aizawa does not sleep. He feels watched. He tosses and turns in his cabin as the quiet of the sea rocks the vessel. Aizawa walks the ship late at night, takes the long way around the deck and listens to the boards creak beneath his foot, the one good one. The other makes a hollow sound when he walks. He listens to the waters lapping at the prow. But all is still, not a sound other than his own unsteady heart.

On the eighth night, the storm returns with a vengeance.

It roars to life without warning, the wind screaming from nowhere. The ship groans and looms to one side as thunder claps as a warning loud above the crew. From prow to stern, the ship groans beneath the fury of the sea’s wrath. The planks below deck swell with saltwater as the ship tilts, sways like a piece of driftwood against the torrent of rain.

Men are screaming, running along the deck as the rain sweeps sturdy crew off their feet, dragging them along the sea-slick planks when the vessel careens to the side. The rigging shudders underneath Aizawa’s grip as he holds tightly to the wheel, rain slicking obsidian strands to his neck and forehead. The sails thrash violently as Aizawa hauls the ship, spinning the wheel wildly to try to regain control.

Then the fabric tears off the mainmast, the canvas splitting in two as the lightning flashes between the crack, lighting the canvas on fire. What remains thrashes violently, grommets ripping as Aizawa lets go of the helm and it spins violently unchecked. It kicks like a beast, wrenched from Aizawa’s hands when he reaches out once more to take control back from the hungry sea. The ship yawns left sharply as the rigging screams, only drowned out by the swell of the waves.

The deck is chaos incarnate, thunderous footsteps as men fall overboard. Water floods the deck as the ship lists sharply with each broadside wave. Debris, tangled lines, broken spears, cracked barrels and crates roll with every shift of the heavy ship.

Above it all, the thunder breaks, cracks open the sky, but not behind the storm, but inside of it, loud and chaotic. The storm lives and breathes, takes on a life of its own. Lightning flashes, a crackling white, then blue, but then a stranger violet colour seeps in. For a full moment, the ship's full rigging is etched in silhouette, stark against the void of the dark sea.

Then… the sea claims her.

Aizawa has no time to react as the ship lists again and his footing is lost. He barely has time to suck in a breath before he plunges into the choppy waters. The sea is a hand around his throat, dragging Aizawa down. His lungs burn, limbs feeling heavy with the shock of how cold the water is, despite his attempts to break the surface. The light begins to dim, dark shadows swimming before his eye.

And then, an arm around his waist. Amongst the murky waters, a face hovers in front of his, face barely lit by the fires of the ship sinking above. Violet eyes burning brighter than the carnage around them. Then Aizawa blacks out.

Aizawa awakes with sand in his mouth, salt crusting against his lashes, and the sun bearing down harshly with a punishing force. It shines as if a storm had never happened. When he opens his eye, he has to snap it shut tightly again, letting out a quiet, rough groan. His voice feels ravaged. His body lies twisted on the shoreline, half draped in seaweed, torn waterlogged clothes clinging to his body like second skin. Every breath rasps, dry and raw.

Somewhere within the tussle he lost his eyepatch so when he opens his eyes again, he stares unseeing with one milky eye and the other blinded by the sun slightly. He stares up at the cloudless sky, too tired to move. Aizawa’s fingers curl and uncurl against the grainy wetness of the beach, as if relearning how to touch the earth. He turns and coughs up the last of the ocean as he rises slowly to his elbows. He doesn’t remember the beach, barely remembers being tossed overboard as The Firefern had torn apart. Suddenly, Aizawa jerks up fully, his back screaming in protest at the sudden movement.

He is alone.

No, not alone exactly.

He startles when he sees him. He looks nothing like the sirens sung about in sailor’s songs. Nothing like stories told in barely lit taverns, or whispered quietly in his mothers angelic voice as a child. Wild salt-stiff locks of lavender hair frame his almost-human violet eyes. Gills flare down his neck, pulsing red like wounds. His chest is narrow, a lithe form wrapped in pale skin. Faint scars run across his arms and torso. From the waist down, his form transforms

There’s no glittering scales of rainbows or pearls. His tail is dark and muscular, shark-line with barbs that look like spikes as he lays against an outcropping of jagged rocks. Obsidian and amethyst catching the sun's rays, matte and sharp like volcanic glass. His hands are clawed, sharp and dangerous.

He is the most beautiful, and terrifying thing Aizawa has ever seen.

Then the creature speaks and when he does, it is not the voice of a creature who coos sweet death into sailor’s ears. His music is rage and salt and agony. He bares his teeth like he’s trying to be a threat and Aizawa feels it in his chest, a strange pull, an ache like homesickness for something he’s never had.

“You look awful,” the creature says, voice rough, but soaked with amusement.

Aizawa’s eye narrows. “I drowned.”

“Barely,” the siren snorts, tail coiled with tension splashing against the surf of the waves washing against the rocks.

“Why did you save me then?” Aizawa asks, annoyed.

The creature flinches and curls in on itself more. “I didn’t mean to. Just… You should have gone with it,” he says, but there’s no real bite behind his words. “Would’ve kept you from looking like the ocean chewed you up and spat you out, at least.”

Aizawa shifts, pushing himself up with some effort against the sand despite his protesting limb as he moves closer towards the creature, almost drawn by an invisible string. Closer, Aizawa can see the shimmer across his shoulders and collarbone, pale and glinting in the sunlight.

Aizawa’s lips twitch slightly. “Do you always flirt by insulting people?”

The siren’s eyes flare, something low and dangerous burning behind them. “I wasn’t-” he starts, then changes his mind. “Only when they’re stupid enough to nearly die on my coastline.”

The waves lap at the shore and neither of them move for a moment, then the tension breaks like a cresting wave. The siren sits still, watching him with guarded eyes, but does not retreat into the water when Aizawa reaches forward with slow, deliberate fingers. Then they ghost along the siren’s shoulder, touching the shimmer as if it were alive.

“What is your name?” Aizawa asks as his fingers brush across iridescent skin, warm despite how cold the sea is. He brushes his fingertips across the sun-dusted constellations scattered across his collarbone, the scars as soft as stars look. He feels impossibly human for something otherworldly. The skin beneath his touch flinches, but only slightly, taut with tension.

“Hitoshi,” the siren answers quietly.

The name is not a song within itself. It’s not a lure. Just a name given to Hitoshi by himself, most likely, although Aizawa is remiss to know the lore. Aizawa has been warned about creatures of the depths, and he’s not a foolish sailor.

“Hitoshi,” Aizawa repeats finally, barely more than a breath, like if he says it too loud the moment will vanish and Hitoshi will splash back into the water. The siren eyes him warily, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans into the touch just enough for Aizawa to notice.

Aizawa’s fingers slide down the curve of Hitoshi’s chest, linger just above his heart, feeling not only warmth, but his pulse, steady and strong. His hands travel across the planes of his slight muscles, gliding over the scars, pale and faded like driftwood washed upon shores. There’s one, near his ribs, that looks fresh, angry and hot to the touch when Aizawa ghosts his fingers over it.

"Was this from the wreck?” he asks quietly.

“No. That was something much uglier than a ship sinking,” Hitoshi sucks in a sharp breath as Aizawa’s fingers gingerly touch the wound.

Aizawa doesn’t press. Instead, he trails his hand lower where the skin gives way to what should be impossible, the threshold where the human ends and the siren begins. The scales that armour Hitoshi’s hips shimmer faintly, matte in the shadow, but flaring lavender in the light. They feel rougher under the pad of his finger tips; his finger catches beneath the scale and Hitoshi twitches, not quite a flinch, but more like he’s holding himself back. His tail waves in the shallow water, restless.

“You’re warm,” Aizawa marvels, more to himself.

Hitoshi’s mouth lifts in a coy little smile. “What, you expected me to be cold and slippery like some pretty little fish?”

“Well, you certainly are pretty.”

He watches as Hitoshi’s eyes widen a little, a soft rosy pink dusting his cheeks. Aizawa hesitates, breathing shallowly. He can feel his heart thundering inside his chest, louder than the waves cresting behind them. He’s close enough he can feel that heat radiating off the creature, a stark contrast compared to the cold air from the sea.

He’s close enough to see the way Hitoshi’s wet lashes cling together, how his mouth is parted slightly, salt shining on his lips. Every instinct he’s harboured over the years of traveling on the sea screams at him to move, but his body won’t obey. Hitoshi’s eyes flicker from his, down to his mouth, then back again.

Then Hitoshi growls, low within his throat, an impatient sound, and fists the front of Aizawa’s wet shirt, fabric tearing a little more from his claws as he yanks him forward. The kiss hits with the intensity of a storm, sudden and with little warning, although the signs were there. Like the rustling of the sails. Or dark clouds that look too far away to be any real danger.

Aizawa gasps against his mouth, startled. But Hitoshi doesn’t let up, he drinks Aizawa’s breath like it’s water. His sharp tongue snakes out and licks the salt from Aizawa’s mouth. For a heartbeat, Aizawa doesn’t kiss back, too frozen to move. Then his hand lifts to rest on Hitoshi’s hip, fingers splayed across skin and scale as he anchors himself. A soft shudder runs through his body before he kisses Hitoshi back, tentative at first, then deeper, as if being pulled in with the tide.

Hitoshi’s grip on Aizawa’s shirt tightens, dragging him tighter against him with sudden force in a violent, urgent need to be even closer. It steals the breath from Aizawa’s lunges. Then his body folds willingly into the hunger radiating off the siren. Lips part, then collide again, wet with seawater and need. Hitoshi kisses like he’s starving. His lips are firm, greedy and part just enough that his sharp teeth catch on Aizawa’s lower lip in a nip that feels cruel. Blood spills from the small cut created by Hitoshi and Aizawa groans, feeling Hitoshi’s tongue slide out to lap at the wound, shivering at the metallic-iron taste.

Hitoshi’s tail suddenly coils around them, jerking Aizawa closer so he loses his balance and has to reach his hands out against the sharp rocks to catch himself. Pain explodes as the rock digs into his palms, scratching hard enough that fresh blood flows down his wrist. Aizawa’s other hand travels further down Hitoshi’s forearm and Hitoshi tenses against him.

Hitoshi breaks the kiss and one clawed hand snakes out to snap onto Aizawa’s wrist, dragging it up towards his mouth. Aizawa watches in horror and unfortunate arousal as Hitoshi’s barbed-tongue trails along his forearm, all the way to his palm where he trails over the new wound. Aizawa melts into it, letting Hitoshi take from him, just to see the wild look in the creature's eyes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this is dangerous.

Sirens have been known to sink ships.

Have been known to drown men.

Aizawa’s free hand glides down the smooth scales, feeling them twitch beneath his palm until he finds what he’s only read about in lore. A small, slick opening that is somewhat sticky and when his fingers dip against it, Hitoshi makes a soft gasping noise and his body reacts, tail slapping harder against the water. The hole seems to want to suck Aizawa’s fingers inside, he can feel soft tendrils stroking against his fingers and his eyes widen.

Something sounds in the distance and both snap their heads up. Hitoshi looks at Aizawa confused, eyes narrowed. “You heard that?” It sounds again, angrier this time. Hitoshi’s eyes are scanning the sea before he’s suddenly pulling away from Aizawa.

“The sea’s calling,” he says, the words reluctant. “I don’t get to ignore it.” Hitoshi turns and dives into the water, disappearing from view.

They find Aizawa three days later, curled beneath a battered lifeboat that had washed ashore farther down the coastline, half-starved, sunburnt, and silent. The crew recognize him by the black coat clinging to his back, torn and caked in salt, but otherwise unmistakable as Captain Aizawa. He speaks only when necessary, answering questions with a nod or a grunt. When they ask about The Firefern, he says gone. When they ask if anyone else survived, he says no.

He doesn’t mention the siren.

Not Hitoshi. Not the kiss. Not the heat of that body pressed flush against his or the arousal he felt when his body pulled him in. Not the claws on his waist or the taste of salt and blood.

Back in the nearest harbor town, they give him a room above a tavern and let him rest. The tavern below is dim and noisy, filled with fishermen and dockhands slamming mugs and shouting about tides, whales, and women. Aizawa avoids them all. He takes a bottle of something sharp and amber and drinks alone at a corner table near the back wall, a seat with a view of the door and the sea beyond.

He drinks slowly, eye half-lidded, the other covered by the new patch gilded in gold. He drinks and remembers everything he swore he wouldn’t. The glow of Hitoshi’s skin under the sunlight. The ridges of scarred muscle beneath Aizawa’s palms. The way his tail coiled around his legs, possessive. That kiss, like drowning in something too impossible to resist. Aizawa closes his eye and tilts back the last of the glass. It burns down his throat, but it’s not enough.

He thinks he might have imagined it all. The wreck. The voice. The body that trembled against his just before it vanished.

Around him, sailors and friends alike roar with laughter, their mugs slamming on table tops with every new tale of adventure, but Aizawa drowns out the noise. When the door bursts open like a violent gust of wind, a young merchant stumbles inside, eyes wide.

“Something’s washed ashore!” He shouts, breathless and trembling. “Looks human, but it ain’t!”

The tavern erupts in noise, chairs scraping and tankards spilling as men rise like the tide, pushing past each other towards the door, eager for the spectacle. Aizawa knows before the man even says another word. As he lay chasing sleep that never came at nights, he swore he heard a morose song calling him.

Now he knows for certain.

Hitoshi.

His Hitoshi.

Before another thought can finish forming, he’s already on his feet, chair toppling over behind him as he heads for the shore, carrying the weight of the secret of the sea that he’s tried to keep to himself.

Chapter Text

Boots strike the cobblestones, slick with salt from the sea and the rain that’s picked up seemingly out of nowhere. The night air hits him sharp in the lungs, and somewhere between the tavern and the docks, he starts to run. Pain spikes along his hip as he walks with an uneven limp, damning his missing leg for constantly slowing him down, but he pushes through the pain. The sound of the sea grows louder with every step and he can hear the waves pounding the shore like an erratic heartbeat.

By the time he reaches the shore, a crowd has already gathered. Local fisherman and from far-away sailors, locals drawn by rumour that something had washed ashore. Lanterns flicker within trembling hands; there is talk about a monster and the locals are uneasy. They whisper of the ones they call the undrowned, although that name is colloquial at best. The lore says the undrowned rise from the dark places between currents, where the bones of shipwrecks rest and the sun never reaches.

While many men have claimed to see these creatures, most live in legend. They say their faces are sculpted from the last yearning thoughts of the men they claim. Their bodies shimmer faintly, so pale it looks like they are lit from within, and their eyes the colour of distant storms draw in even the most faithful of men. They hold their victims in long, intimate embraces beneath the water's surface, until the thrashing stills and the sea is calm again.

The legend says the men they take remain with them forever, their spirits whispering through the tides, their longing folded into the next song.

The old lighthouse swings its beam across the water, cutting through the darkness, each sweep illuminates the foamy waves. Aizawa pushes his way through the cluster of onlookers, eyes sweeping across the shoreline, scanning the surf for any sign of what was seen, or rather who.

But there’s nothing, only the wreckage from the tide, driftwood, and seaweed, the carcass of a gull. People murmur to one another, disappointed. Someone swears they saw something move and Aizawa searches, but it’s only the reflection of the lighthouse dancing over the waves.

Aizawa’s leg sinks into the wet sand as he moves closer to the surf, the salty spray biting at his face and sweeping his hair against his neck. One by one, the others begin to leave when there is nothing to be seen. The tide’s rising, they say. There’s nothing here. They drift back towards the warmth of town, lanterns bobbing and disappearing over the crest of the dunes, leaving Aizawa in the darkness.

He wades deeper into the water standing knee-deep as he stares out into the endless dark, waves crashing against his legs as if trying to push him back to shore. As if to warn him. The lighthouse beam swings again, washing him in pale light for a moment, and he swears he sees movement out past the rocks, a shadow slipping beneath the waves, long and sinuous, gone before the next sweep of the light.

He stays until his legs go numb, until his coat grows heavy from the waterlog and the night begins to leech all the warmth from his bones. His eyes remain fixed on the rolling black waves that have already taken so much from him. His ship. His crew. When the next flash of the lighthouse comes, it lights his face, wet with seawater and then the light moves on.
He’s alone again.

Sleep evades Aizawa for several nights afterwards. He feels too warm, and the bed is too hard, but really every time he closes his eyes, he’s back at the sea. The pull of the undertow, the sharp sting when he would breath in the salty air. He tosses and turns, sheets twisting around his leg, sweat dampening the collar of his shirt.

When the wind rattles the shutters, he hears his voice, faint and low, being carried by the tide. He hears the song as it crashes against the waves beyond the cliffs, and if Aizawa didn’t know any better, he’d think he was going mad.

Most captains often do.

On the fourth night, his dreams begin to take shape. He’s standing in the shallows with the surf breaking around his ankles. Hitoshi is there, eyes burning violet under the water’s surface. His lips move, but the words are drowned by the rhythm of the tide. Aizawa reaches for him, fingers brushing along the surface of the water, and Hitoshi’s hand lifts, palm open, beckoning him.

His sound rises, melancholy and sweet, and Aizawa gasps awake, pulse pounding and shirt clinging to his sweaty skin. The room is dark and the sea is silent just outside his window, and yet… the song hasn’t stopped. Aizawa sits up and feels the melody call to him. It feels like it’s inside of him now, pulling him from the bed before his mind can argue otherwise. He swings his leg over the side and reaches for his artificial leg, securing it in place before hoisting himself up.

The floorboards creak as he moves through the dark, making his way down the rickety stairs and out the front door of the inn. Aizawa doesn’t bother with his coat or his boots as he pushes out into the night. The song is louder now, weaving through the empty streets, and every note seems to guide him down the worn path leading towards the water. The smell of the sea, damp and decaying, grows stronger with each step.

The lamplights fade behind him as he carefully makes his way down the wooden pathway, his hip screaming in protest. He walks until the shoreline changes from sandy dunes to pebbles and the land is untamed, forgotten and dredged with seaweed and driftwood. The water laps at his ankles as he walks, spurred by the song as it crests, carried by the wind.

Aizawa scans the dark horizon; the sound is closer now, close enough that he can feel it within his chest, thrumming beneath his ribcage, perfectly in sync with his own heartbeat. As the next wave curls forward, he sees a shadow break the surface, shimmering beneath the moonlit sea.

“Hitoshi!” Aizawa calls, barely heard over the roar of the surf.

He waits, heart pounding, but there’s nothing but the rustle of the wind across the dunes and the waves crashing against the shore.

“Hitoshi!” he tries again.

For a moment, it seems hopeless.

Then, beneath the next swell, something shifts. The water parts, soft ripples pushing towards him. A figure emerges, slow and as fluid as the water around him. His hair is wild around his head, dripping with silver iridescent droplets from the water. His eyes are luminous, catching the dim light of the lighthouse as it sweeps past. He watches Aizawa for a moment, a half smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Took you long enough,” he says with the same voice that’s haunted Aizawa’s sleep.

Aizawa snorts, almost sounding like a laugh. He takes a step forward before he thinks better about it, feet sinking into the murky sands beneath him. The cold surface of the water licks at his calves, his pants clinging to his skin, and Hitoshi tilts his head, watching him curiously.

“You came all this way and you’re still standing on the edge? What are you afraid of, Captain?”

He gestures lazily to the waves around him, shoulders dipping below the surface, the faint outline of his body shifts beneath the water. “It’s warmer the deeper you go.”

Aizawa hesitates.

Every story, every whispered tale of sirens and the men they lure to ruin, filter through his mind. But there’s something else tugging at him. Perhaps curiosity; but, it’s more like longing.

He takes another cautious step forward, and then another, the tide pulling until it soaks his hips. The water is cold at first, but beneath it, there is a warmth. Then Aizawa feels it, a whisper of a movement around his leg, the brush of smooth scales curling lightly against the fabric of his pants.

Hitoshi’s tail coils possessively, tracing the curve of his thigh before loosening again. “Don’t look at me like that,” Hitoshi teases. “I’m not going to hurt you.” His eyes catch the moonlight, deep violet, nearly black, and for an instant, Aizawa almost believes him.

Almost.

Then Hitoshi smiles and hums softly, a low euphonious sound that seems to wrap around Aizawa and tug him forward, invisible strings wrapped around his heart. It sounds haunting, like grief has been given form. His tail glimmers as it coils languidly through the water, then in an instant, the tail wraps around Aizawa again. Aizawa barely has time to suck in a breath before the sea is closing over his head.

Ice-cold water crushes him from all sides, the sudden force shocking the breath from his lungs. Hitoshi’s grip is unyielding, possessive in its hold as it drags them both deeper underneath the currents. For a disorientating moment, Aizawa can’t tell which way is up, the darkness surrounds him with every twist of his body. Even when his limbs thrash, kicking against the pull, Hitoshi moves faster, fluid as the tide that pulls them along. He holds him close, keeping him from vanishing into the dark nothingness.

They break through the surface once, Hitoshi pulling them with a violent surge that shatters the silence of the night and Aizawa gasps, coughing up salty water. The lighthouse beam slices briefly across the surface as a fog begins to roll in over the water, heavy and further disorientating Aizawa.

He barely has enough time to suck in another breath before he’s dragged back down into the water. He catches a glimpse of violet scales, a shock of lavender hair pale against the black water. The sound of the siren’s song vibrates through him, less sorrowful now and more seductive. It wraps around his mind like silken chains, shackling him to the undertow.

Claws, sharp and curved like obsidian hooks, grip Aizawa’s shirt, the fabric tearing easily under the siren’s eager scratching. Hitoshi’s eyes gleam with arousal as his hands trail lower, claws slicing through Aizawa’s pants in jagged, sharp lines, nicking his skin in the process. The material hangs in ragged strips, drifting like seaweed around them. Hitoshi’s claws graze against Aizawa’s exposed chest, creating faint red welts as he attempts to drag the man closer.

They crest the surface once again and this time Aizawa is able to suck in a sharp breath before being dragged back down. Water swirls around them as Hitoshi presses his body, half-human, half-mythical against Aizawa’s. Whether it’s the song inside his head, or something entirely biological, Aizawa will never know as his cock stiffens against Hitoshi’s glimmering scales.

Snaking an arm around his torso, Hitoshi pulls their chests flush together and being this close, Aizawa can see Hitoshi’s gills fluttering with excitement. Using his free hand, he explores the human’s body, stroking his length with careful precision so as not to cut the preferred flesh, coaxing it full hardness. Hitoshi wraps his tail around Aizawa in a way that allows him to position their bodies in a suspended underwater dance.

Underneath the scales, a slick hole pulsates and without wasting any more time, as it’s clear to Hitoshi, Aizawa is struggling underwater, so he guides the man’s cock towards his entrance. Tendrils inside the hole quiver in anticipation and Aizawa’s hips buck instinctively, sinking into the warmth as he breaches the hole. The tendrils extend immediately, coiling around Aizawa’s cock, pulling him deeper with insistent tugs.

Hitoshi’s claws dig into Aizawa’s back, anchoring him against Hitoshi’s body while his hole clenches around him, the inner muscles gripping his aching cock. Aizawa’s back arches, the sensation overwhelming. A hot, wet suction teasingly strokes along his cock, flicking along the sensitive underside and it has Aizawa thrashing; although, it’s more because his lungs burn and he feels his vision darkening.

Hitoshi’s song shifts to a throaty moan, echoing within Aizawa’s skull, urging him to thrust harder into the siren’s depths. Aizawa is hardly in control of his own body as he thrusts harder, his cock burying deeper inside of Hitoshi while the tendrils multiply their efforts, some wrapping around the base to squeeze him while others probe at the slit at the tip of his cock curiously. In the midst of it, Aizawa’s hands find Hitoshi’s shoulders and he squeezes weakly, fingers digging into the pale, shimmering flesh.

Somewhere inside his mind, he knows he’s drowning.

Claws rake down Aizawa’s sides and Hitoshi lets out a high-pitched sound that pulses against Aizawa’s temples. The tendrils pulse along with it, secreting a thick lubricant that eases the breeding rhythm and prepares for the flood to come. Aizawa’s body seems to obey the command, hips snapping forward, cock burying to the hilt and staying pressed in tight. Tendrils explore further, one pressing slightly inside the slit of his cock to taste the salty pre-cum. Shocks of pain and pleasure shoot through Aizawa’s core.

Hitoshi leans forward and grazes his sharp teeth along the human’s neck in a possessive bite that draws a thin line of blood that mixes with the sea. The siren’s hole convulses, tendrils tighten, and Aizawa sinks into the warmth.

Breeding instincts override all else as Hitoshi’s body craves the seed. Aizawa’s orgasm slams into him like a wave crashing against the rocks during storm season. The tendrils stroke, urging release and milking him dry. Aizawa can’t hold back from flooding Hitoshi’s hole as he feels his body going limp.

Hitoshi’s claws dig into Aizawa’s ass, pulling him impossibly closer, forcing the deeper penetration. The siren’s song peaks in a crescendo as Hitoshi’s body shakes. The tendrils latch on, absorbing every drop and wriggling in ecstasy. Hitoshi’s body shudders, his hole clamping down to hold every drop inside, breeding himself with the human’s unwilling offering.

The last thing Aizawa remembers is the song, fading, fading…

When Aizawa wakes, the sun is gleaming along the dunes, barely casting a soft glow around. His throat burns and he rolls over, coughing up salty vomit. He can hear the roar of the waves further out on the coast and feels the gentle lapping of the waves rocking his body. He’s sprawled in the sand, cold and shaking, his clothes torn, sand clinging to the cuts all over his body. Dawn is breaking on the horizon, but offers little warmth in the moment.

There’s no trace of Hitoshi. No violet shimmer, no song other than the one sung by gulls. There’s no evidence he’d been there at all. Aizawa drags himself upright and stares at the endless horizon over the water.

He half expects the sea to sing again.

But it’s silent.

Achingly silent.

Weeks pass in strange silence, the sea more quiet than Aizawa has seen in years. Although Aizawa walks the shores each morning and each dusk, scanning the waves for a flash of violet and obsidian, nothing is ever there; just the shimmering of the waves reflecting off the dying sun.

To distract himself from the unease growing inside of himself, Aizawa throws everything into rebuilding the Firefern, this time he names her the Lavender Lure. The hull rises from the dockyard in shades of dark wooden planks, reclaimed timber, a somber monument to all that’s been lost to the sea. His crew works late into the lights, laughter and hammering echoing off the dunes, but Aizawa rarely joins them.

His mind is elsewhere, adrift at sea.

One evening as the sun slips low behind the dunes, he hears it again.

The song that once lured him beneath the tide. It threads along the waves, crashing into the shore over and over, almost desperate. Aizawa’s hands pause, fingers wrapped around a nail and hammer. His gaze turns towards the water before he glances around at his crew. They don’t seem to hear, and they don’t notice when Aizawa sets the hammer and nail down and walks down to the shore. The melody fades as he nears the shoreline, replaced by the rhythmic whisper of the waves.

There’s no sign of Hitoshi.

The sea stretches before him and although he scans the horizon until it blends with the sea, Hitoshi does not appear. Frowning, Aizawa turns back towards the docks when something catches his eye, glinting amongst a rocky outcrop.

A small, opaque round shape rolls lazily with the tide, caught between the rocks so it’s not able to be carried back out to sea. It’s opalescent against the dark rocks and as Aizawa wades closer, thinking it might be some driftwood or other sea debris, he’s not expecting to find it smooth and buoyant.

An egg, there’s no doubt.

Aizawa has seen hundreds of shark eggs during his time on the open ocean and washed up along shore. When he kneels and reaches for it, he finds it’s smooth and the size of his palm, shimmering with faint, soft lavender hues. His head snaps up and he searches the beach frantically, calling Hitoshi’s name against the wind.

Unsurprisingly, there’s no answer.

It’s as if Hitoshi had come and left this for him, a message, or a burden. Perhaps both. The egg feels warm under his touch and Aizawa feels uncertainty twist sharply in his chest. He doesn’t know what he’s expected to do; but, he can’t leave this here. Soon enough a hungry gull will come by and have a feast.

So he brings it home.

He reads what little of the old lore offers, combing through tattered journals and weathered leather bound books. There’s nothing about sirens laying eggs, nothing about what they will hatch into, and nothing tells him if he’s preserving life or damning it. But he fills a wooden bucket with seawater and places the egg delicately into it. Every morning, he changes the water and every night he checks it for changes.

By the time the Lavender Lure is finished, he stands at the docks, gripping the metal handle of the wooden bucket. As the crew loads the supplies, Aizawa carries the bucket onboard, settling it near the stern where the light can touch it and it can hear the ocean, if it can hear at all As a final precaution, he covers it faintly with some burlap and warns the crew to steer clear. He makes his way to the top deck after completing his task and stares at the ocean. He can’t help but wonder if somewhere out there, beneath the surface, Hitoshi is watching.

Aizawa’s captain’s log fills slowly over the course of nearly a year, 356 days of steady travel, and storms weathered, and oceans crossed. Each entry is meticulously inked, and although life at sea never seems to still, Aizawa’s thoughts never leave the wooden bucket tucked away on the top deck. The egg has changed over time in strange yet beautiful ways. What began as an opaque violet, squishy shell, has grown thinner, more translucent. At night, it seems to glow faintly, but that could be Aizawa’s eye playing tricks on him.

Fine lines, almost like veins coral over the eggs surface now as well. And inside, he can almost see something moving. A shadow, fluid and slow, curling and uncurling with a grace that reminds him too much of Hitoshi’s tail beneath the waves. The egg also grows larger, the casing growing with it, and Aizawa is forced to secure a larger vessel to hold it.

On the 357th day, things change.

The morning is calm, like most are, the water like glass as the ship cuts through the surface, but by dusk, the horizon has begun to blacken. The Lavender Lure groans as the first wind lashes across her deck, and then the rain begins to fall. Lightning cracks clear across the sky and the waves crash against the ship's hull, battering her with fists of salt and seafoam.

Aizawa fights the wheel as his crew scrambles, shouting above the roar of the storm. In every flash of light, Aizawa sees it, the wreck of the Firefern. His hands blooded and he chokes on the sting of his lungs as the salty ocean filled them.

Above all else, he sees Hitoshi’s violet eyes gleaming from the deep.

The storm this time is worse.

It feels personal.

The Lavender Lure lurches violently as a monstrous wave slams into her side. The ship pitches and Aizawa clings to the rigging. Hair plasters to his face and he shouts orders that get swallowed by the thunder. His mind fractures between the past and present. He can almost hear the melody again, faint beneath the chaos, like the sea is calling his name.

Then he sees him and knows he is not hearing things this time. Through the black water, there amidst the whitecaps and spray of the ocean, a shape breaches the surface. The glint of obsidian catches in the lightning frame and it lights Hitoshi’s wild lavender hair and sharp eyes. The sea coils around him almost as if by command.

Aizawa’s chest seizes as he lets go of the rigging and staggers towards the railing to get a better look. The rain blinds him, but the song carries through.

Below deck, the egg begins to stir, the water in the bucket sloshes violently with the motion of the ship. There’s a small pip in the thin casing of the shell, but Aizawa doesn’t know what’s happening as he leans over the railing, shouting Hitoshi’s name into the storm. A final, deep rumble shakes the ship and when the lightning cracks across the sky, for one brief instant, Hitoshi is illuminated completely, smiling, sorrowful, and beautiful.

Then the ship tilts nearly fully and Aizawa thinks she’s going to go under. The bucket slides across the deck and tips into the ocean with one last perilous tilt, but Aizawa doesn’t notice that either. Seconds later, the sky parts and the sun peaks through the dissipating clouds and the ship settles with a thunderous splash.

The sea is calm once more.

And it is empty.

When he goes to check on the egg, he finds it gone.

At least he didn't take his ship.

The storm that nearly claimed the Lavender Lure becomes rumor among the crew, whispered over jugs of rum, blamed for sleeplight nights, and some crew abandon ship at the next port town. The months bleed together and sometimes late at night, when he can’t sleep, he finds the song never really leaves him anymore. It seeps through the walls of his cabin and pulses underneath his skin. It washes along the ocean as it follows the ship, and intertwines around his soul so elaborately that he can’t tell any longer where the sea ends and he begins.

Yet lately, the song has changed. Or, not exactly changed… It’s not alone anymore. A second melody joins it, softer and higher, almost trembling in its uncertainty. It weaves through the first strong with a strange familiarness, filling the air late at night when the sea is calm and the ship rocks gently.

Aizawa finds himself sitting awake in the dark, simply listening.

He tells no one of what he hears, lest they start a mutiny, claiming insanity of their Captain. But some nights, Aizawa imagines the glow beneath the waves, a father and a child moving together through the deep. Some nights, he dreams of following that sound, of slipping wordlessly into the water, letting their tunes take him wherever they may lead him.

The songs rise and fall, calling him home in two voices that belong to the same heart, and Aizawa thinks there might be something in drowning and calling it devotion.