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I. drown
When Chrollo looked out at the sea, he saw his grave.
He would often stare at the horizon— that blurry line where the water and sky met— until it conjured up conflicted emotions so sharp that he’d nearly wince from the pain. For in the sea there lay commerce: life, food, and resources that supported society. He understood better than most just how lucrative it could be, how ripe it was for exploitation. But below the surface, in darker waters, the sea could be more. It could be a tomb. Where scavengers pick your flesh clean, where fish make their homes in your skull and algae blooms in the hollows of your coccyx. The sea could be a violent and painful death. If you weren’t careful— if he wasn’t careful— it would be all of those things.
Not that Chrollo would be undeserving of such a fate. He made his living in cruelty. In knowing exactly which ribs to slip his blade between so that the creatures drowned in their own blood. In the mutilation of their corpses. Cleaning their fishlike skin with the back of a knife so that the scales could be separated and washed, dried, and cured. Removing and categorizing their fins and gills, their teeth— one by one. Grinding their bones into a fine powder to be sold at high prices. It was filthy work that had to be done, and so his hands seemed to be eternally stained from their putrescent fishy blood.
Siren hunters did not enjoy long careers, nor was it common for them to retire from their work. There was one fate that awaited them all, and it was at the bottom of the sea. And so after a decade of hunting, it became commonplace for Chrollo to hear the townsfolk whisper about the sea's latest casualty— another hunter who had fallen prey to the sirens, either drowned or torn to shreds, or finally driven mad from the delirium of their wretched work.
That was not all that he’d witnessed over the past ten years. He’d also noticed a decline in the sirens’ appearances and sightings, no matter which thalassic island he traveled to. Perhaps he’d become too good at killing them. Perhaps they’d retreated to deeper waters. He’d once caught five of them in one night, the remnants of their shrieking he could still hear to this day. Now, he could find one siren each month if he looked hard. And so, their value on the black market quadrupled. The demand for mermaid health tonics, libido enhancers, home decor, and luxury ingredients all increased. And with each zero added to the end of his pricetags, Chrollo could hear the sea calling him back again and again, luring and tempting him to his death.
On this night, Chrollo could feel a tension in the air, a heaviness that foretold his certain doom. It was from this sensation that he confirmed one was near. There were no birds in the air to caw, no observable fish from his dinghy, and even the waves seemed to quiet themselves— in fear or reverence, he could not tell. It seemed as though every living thing had already escaped, and only Chrollo was left.
It was dark. The moon was a small crescent, a sliver of light that seemed to blacken any shadows it cast onto the waves into oblivion. He secured the cord around his body to a preserver and loaded his harpoon gun in preparation for whatever might emerge from the darkness.
Then, there was a golden light. A reflection from the moon onto nearby rocks so out of place that Chrollo did a double-take, and he reached for his binoculars to confirm what he thought he saw: a boy, washed up on a sea stack.
He was face down on a collection of rocks, his pale skin in stark contrast to his surroundings. From here, he could only see the boy’s torso. He didn’t appear to be conscious, and would no doubt be washed away by the waves if he weren’t rescued. Chrollo was wary and looked around to be sure there were no nearby sirens. They were known to be duplicitous and stage ambushes on siren hunters, finding their strength in numbers. But there were no signs of movement beneath the waves.
The boy might have been attacked, Chrollo realized. If that were the case, the siren wouldn’t have gone very far from its meal. Regardless, he could not do much from a distance, and so he decided to act.
He paddled toward the boy as quietly as he could, keeping his guard up for any sounds or sudden movements. But he made it to the small island undisturbed, and once he was close, he cast out a preserver.
“Climb on,” he whispered.
But the boy’s body didn’t move.
Could he be dead? There were no visible wounds or marks on his body. In fact, he looked quite healthy.
His milky skin was vibrant in the pale moonlight— smooth and without blemish, as if he’d never known sunlight. But the boy had legs, a fact that belied all of Chrollo’s instincts, which screamed trap. It was more than suspicious. What was he doing out here, in the dead of night, a mile off of the nearest coast?
“Hey!” Chrollo called, louder. But the boy still did not stir. He swore under his breath, readying his blade in case of attack, and once it was secure he paddled closer to the boy until the boat was even with the rocks. The waves were rough and could bring the boat smashing into the stacks at any moment. He’d have to be quick.
He watched and waited for the wave to swell, and once it reached its crest, he snatched the boy up by the arm, hoisting him easily into the boat. He quickly pushed away from the stacks and rowed back into the open sea.
Observing him now, the boy couldn’t have been much younger than Chrollo. His damp, wet hair framed his delicate face, and fat droplets of water still clung to his eyelashes, making it look as though he’d only just fallen in.
The boy was nude, and doing him a courtesy, Chrollo covered him with a piece of tarp before he put his head to his chest.
There was no heartbeat.
Chrollo began performing chest compressions and realized with fumbling, unsure hands that he’d never performed life-saving measures on another person before. He held the boy’s nose closed and covered his mouth with his own, manually blowing air into his lungs. His lips were cold and lifeless, and despite how much breath Chrollo attempted to will into the boy’s body, it was to no avail.
He was dead.
He must have gone out during low tide, unaware of how violent the waves could become as they rose and beat against the rocky shore. When Chrollo looked down at him, he was overwhelmed by that same complicated mess of emotions that he’d been trying so hard to suppress. Yet another day of the sea claiming a life. Today it was this boy. Tomorrow, or perhaps someday after, it would be Chrollo. The deceased blond was beautiful in a supernatural sense— angelic, and light, almost too bright in contrast to the dark, foggy night.
Chrollo leaned down and, despite himself, he pressed a kiss to the boy’s lips.
Later, as he reflected on this moment, he would wonder what possessed him to do such a thing. Knowing the things that he’d known about the sirens— about the consequences of kissing one— he should have been more cautious. But at the moment, all he could think about was how breathtaking the boy looked, so deserving of one final kindness after being ground up by the churning waves of the sea.
And so he kissed him— a wet, salty brush of lips against lips. And immediately, he knew something was wrong.
A pair of wet hands slid around his person, one threaded through his hair, one around his neck. They held him tightly, firmly in place, with unbelievable strength. The lifeless lips he’d been kissing began to move, ardent and intentional.
Suddenly, Chrollo was nearly blinded by the sight of two glowing red eyes, opening wide with fury. He struggled, attempting to reach for his knife when the boy’s nails pierced into his scalp and neck. The pain was too great for human nails to have caused, and Chrollo suspected that they had become razor-sharp claws.
“Fuck! ” He groaned, breaking their kiss. The boy’s claws dug in deeper, and he thrashed about wildly, never once blinking those terrifying red eyes.
“Do you no longer wish to kiss me now that I’m awake?” A voice, thin and cracked from disuse hissed.
Chrollo grunted, feeling his shirt begin to seep with blood as he remained trapped in the boy’s clutches.
“What are you?” He asked, inching his fingers toward his waistband for his blade.
“A question you won’t see answered. What sad last words you’ve chosen...” His claws lengthened and tore into Chrollo's skin excruciatingly.
“You can speak, and you have legs,” he gasped through the pain, still crawling his fingers down as he struggled. “This has never been documented for a siren. What are you doing out here?” He was rambling, he knew, but it would have to do as his knife was so close.
“More questions. You bore me, hunter. I’ll make your death quick.”
But Chrollo had bought himself enough time, having finally reached for his knife, and he sliced at the boy shallowly across the chest. The blood that oozed out was a dark purple, a unique property belonging to sirens, and it was then that Chrollo finally had his confirmation.
His harpoon gun was thankfully on his side of the small boat, and with great speed, he grabbed it and fired at the boy. It appeared to have grazed his cheek, deflecting as it narrowly missed, and already Chrollo was surging forth with his blade ready. But as quickly as he moved, he watched the world spin around him. The moon and stars below him, the water above him, and then he had plunged under the surface of the black, stygian water. The boat had been flipped.
A shrill laugh could be heard echoing chaotically, melodic and otherworldly as the sound carried through the water.
“Is that how you killed my sisters? With that gun and blade of yours?” His voice asked. “I will not be slain so easily.”
Chrollo’s head popped up for air into complete and utter darkness, and after a few panting breaths he ascertained that he was underneath the capsized boat. The searing pain in his head and neck coupled with treading water had exhausted him, and he realized he didn’t have long at all if he wanted to survive this night.
To kiss a mermaid was to court death.
Many siren hunters had met their end in this way. Driving them mad by an unquenchable thirst, and visions, the siren’s curse was an unbearable yearning and desire that forced men to walk into the sea. And the only way to avoid this fate was to kill the creature who caused the affliction.
As Chrollo tread water he could feel his legs being brushed against periodically by something large and scaly— a tail— and it grew apparent to him that he was being toyed with. He still gripped his blade tightly, and just as he began to take a deep breath, his ankle was suddenly yanked, hard, and he was swallowed by the water once more.
The boy— the creature— was fast, dragging Chrollo along as he darted under the waves, and in just a matter of seconds, he could no longer see his boat. His safety line had maybe 10 feet of length left before they’d begin dragging the boat behind them.
Chrollo thrashed about with his blade, cutting and slicing into the darkness around him until he felt it make contact with the creature. A howl sounded, and then he was let go. Chrollo darted for the surface, following the bubbles of air he breathed out until he saw the shimmering moonlight above. The tips of his fingers had just made it out of the waves when a pair of arms wrapped around his neck from behind, hugging him, and he was dragged back down into the oblivion of the sea.
This time, the boy plunged downward, so fast that Chrollo’s head felt as though it would split from the increasing pressure. He had almost run out of breath and could feel his lungs shriveling with each passing second. The boy was pressed against his back, his lithe figure somehow restraining Chrollo’s entire body as he navigated them deeper into the blackness.
He began to grow lightheaded, and he had to forcibly remind himself not to inhale, not to open his mouth, or this would be the end.
And so, he twisted around in the boy’s arms, breaking himself from his grip. Chrollo’s hands were finally free! This was his opportunity— he could stab the boy, drown him in his blood and secure his safety from the siren’s curse. He drew his blade…
… and he let it go.
The blade disappeared into the dark waters. Chrollo grabbed the boy, the siren, who was stunned at this incomprehensible act, and he embraced him tightly. And then he kissed him again— properly this time.
“What are you-?” The boy said, cut off by Chrollo’s mouth. “Do you want to hasten your death?”
Perhaps he was oxygen-deprived, or perhaps he’d given up. Chrollo didn’t know what he was doing at this point, only that he breathed air into this boy’s lungs, and maybe he could take some back.
He kissed him wantonly, letting their teeth clash and his tongue wander, prying open the boy’s lips and suctioning their mouths together. As he kissed him, the lightheaded feeling began to grow, until all he could feel were cold, soft lips, and all he could see were furious, scorching red eyes.
As far as ways to die went, this wasn’t the worst, Chrollo thought. He envisioned something more violent and ugly. But this… was almost beautiful. The boy’s iridescent blue tail was magnificent in length and luster. His golden hair mixed with Chrollo’s, floating, sinking, weightless around them. And those eyes. Captivating to behold. The sea could be beautiful.
Soon the ease of unconsciousness began to eat away at the edges of his vision until he faded away into that eerie red light before him.
II. even
When Chrollo awoke the next morning, it was not at the bottom of the sea.
Somehow, he was in bed. The first few rays of morning light had begun to strain into his shack, illuminating a dusty, cluttered room. Groggily he sat up— much too quickly— and felt his head begin to pound. He reached for it, only to discover his forehead was wrapped in some sort of gauze.
As he threw his legs over the side of the bed, Chrollo could feel that the mattress was soaking wet. Actually, he was soaking wet. His hair was plastered to his face. His clothes were the same as the ones he’d worn last night, and they were damp enough to wring out. He rose to his feet and found that his neck was also bandaged up neatly.
It was at this point that Chrollo realized he couldn’t immediately recall how he’d made it home. He padded over to a handheld mirror and found that it reflected a rough and haggard appearance. He was covered in bruises, cuts, and claw marks that stretched across his chest and down his back. They were all superficial, save for the ones on his head and neck.
Upon closer inspection, his bandaged wounds appeared to have been treated with a thick, gelatinous salve. It was soothing and had a cooling effect, so he didn’t remove it.
Wincing, he sat back down on his waterlogged bed and thought back to the night before with concerted effort. He’d been hunting, and…
He’d come across a boy.
A boy who he kissed.
A boy who was actually a siren.
A siren he then kissed again.
And then he… drowned?
From what he could remember, the siren should have dragged his body to the bottom of the ocean. He should be food for the fishes. Ignoring the protests of his body, he got out of bed again and looked out the window. His boat was secured on the dock beyond the shore, mystifying him further. Had he paddled himself back here and treated his wounds? But what of the boy?
Could it be that he brought Chrollo back here and dressed his wounds? He pictured the boy lying in bed next to him, dripping wet and watching him, unconscious. But the more he pictured this scene, he could not help but wonder if it was instead a memory.
Chrollo hauled his mattress outside into the sun to hopefully air dry. This was a mystery to which he could see no clear answer. And so he spent the rest of his day investigating, first looking through the contents of his boat (there were none, save two paddles) and then finding his first-aid kit torn open on his kitchen table.
Once the day was spent, Chrollo collapsed in his chair opposite a crackling fire with a book and a bottle of rum in hand to numb the throbbing pain in his head. He watched the tips of the flame twist and flicker, dancing, bright red, not unlike like the eyes of the boy he’d met last night.
A siren with glowing red eyes. It was a sight that sent chills down his spine to recall, but he could not shake the image. Chrollo didn’t realize it at the time, but this was merely the first of the symptoms that would come to plague him. He opened his book, vaguely titled Aquatus Vol. II, and flipped through to a page he’d hoped never to require.
"The Siren’s Curse
To be haunted by thoughts of mermaids. Caused by mouth-to-mouth contact with a sea siren. The afflicted first report symptoms of chills, night sweats, and a loss of appetite, which quickly escalate to hallucinations, night terrors, sleepwalking, and finally, death. There is only one known method of reversing the disease’s effects…"
The book was tossed into the flames, which burned up around the words and reduced them to ash. Of course, Chrollo knew what this reversal method was. He’d have to kill that boy. That boy whose name he did not even know, and yet, when he closed his eyes now, he could still feel the softness of his lips and the way he went from hostile to pliant in his arms.
When he opened his eyes, he noticed he’d unconsciously touched the tips of his index and middle finger to his lips. He retracted them immediately.
The fire was hot. Too hot. Chrollo smothered it with baking soda and opened the windows to let in the cool night air. He retrieved his mattress from outside and put it back on the bed, hoping to get some rest.
But he hoped in vain.
Because Chrollo wouldn’t receive an ounce of rest for quite some time.
The night sweats were only the beginning of his torment. Each morning he awoke slick with sweat, a surge of pure dread and fear in his veins as though his dreams had been intensely upsetting; and yet, he could not remember their contents.
Throughout the day he would find himself losing time. It occurred whenever he would catch a glimpse of the sea— one moment it would be day, and the next, night. For this reason, he shuttered himself inside. He stopped eating, stopped doing anything but thinking. About the boy, and about the day that he’d finally make a grave out of that quiet, still water.
After 10 days of this torture, the hallucinations began, each more horrifying than the last. At first, it manifested as red, glowing eyes, just outside his window, peering into his shack. Chrollo knew it to be a vision. Nonetheless, he ran to the door, ready to confront the boy. But there was no one outside. Eventually, it evolved to night terrors, where the boy would lay on top of him, his tail curled up above them and dripping black water. He’d trace his claws along the silhouette of Chrollo’s forehead tattoo and smile, knowing the man was paralyzed and unable to move. And then, he’d kill him. In different ways, each night. Ripping his throat out, strangling him, mauling him, it went on and on.
It eventually occurred to Chrollo that he might be in hell. Would this not be a fitting punishment for his cruelty to the sirens? Perhaps he had drowned, and his body was already taken and torn into pieces by those creatures. But it didn’t explain why his wounds had been treated with that balm, which Chrollo deduced was a topical antibiotic. It didn’t explain why he didn’t feel dead. And yet no matter which way he looked at it, he couldn’t explain why the siren would have saved him.
In the blink of an eye, four weeks had passed since he’d been cursed. Chrollo was like the walking dead, afraid of falling asleep, but teetering on the brink of exhaustion. And then it happened.
The sound of seagulls roused him from his sleep one morning. When he opened his eyes, he found that he was standing up, outside, ankle-deep in the water. He turned around and found that the shore was several meters behind him.
Sleepwalking was the final phase of the siren’s curse, as it eventually compelled men to walk into the ocean. This would be Chrollo’s fate sooner than he’d anticipated.
That night, rather than wait for it to come to him, Chrollo rowed out to meet death. At the same hour and under the same foggy conditions as before. There, in the middle of the sea, he retracted his oars and let the waves carry him toward his fate. For about an hour, he drifted.
He heard no ripple of the waves, no splash or droplet, and yet when he blinked, there was the blond siren, peering at him from the edge of his boat. His eyes were that unmistakable scarlet color that radiated a terrifying aura. And yet, vision or not, he was pleased to see the boy, and so Chrollo’s eyes drank in the sight of him here.
“Hello,” Chrollo whispered.
“What are you doing here?” The boy said, an irritated edge to his voice. “Is it your death that you seek?”
“If it is you, then I do seek it.” Chrollo had already exchanged more words with him than he had with any siren he’d killed. Each word ticked on and on in his mental counter.
The siren seemed nonplussed when faced with Chrollo’s honesty. Then confused. He disappeared below the waves, with a -dip, and after a few seconds reappeared on the opposite edge of the boat, starboard side.
He asked plainly, “Have you come to kill me?” And so Chrollo chose to respond as plainly,
“No. I don’t have any weapons on me.”
“Are you foolish?”
“No, I’m cursed.”
The boy startled and then looked away, the first time those lucent red eyes had left Chrollo’s person.
“I awoke on the shore this morning with no memory of how I’d gotten there,” Chrollo said, looking out at the waves now, as calm as they were earlier today. It looked soothing, like a bath that he could just slip into at any moment. “There is no way to end the curse but to kill you. So I’ve come here to ask you to kill me instead.”
“You’re wrong,” the boy said. Chrollo lobbied an inquisitive look at him.
“There is another way.” He appeared to be debating whether he should say more. “Of course, you humans wouldn’t know it, because it cannot be achieved through brute force or murder.”
“Then I have no hopes of achieving it,” Chrollo said dryly. The boy studied him closely.
“It depends. Can you return the lives that you’ve stolen?” He waited for Chrollo’s reply.
“I cannot.”
The boy swam around the edge of the boat, inching closer toward Chrollo.
“Can you undo years of oppression, so that we may live freely and without fear for our lives?”
“No.” Chrollo’s prospects were looking dimmer with each question.
Again the siren looked away, this time, it appeared, down at his reflection in the water.
“Maybe I’m asking too much of you.”
“Ask whatever you like,” Chrollo encouraged. “I’ll give you what I can. The rest of my days, although I don’t have many, in devotion to whatever cause you’d like.”
He watched the boy cast one final glance down at the water before he looked back up at Chrollo.
“Give me a hand.”
So Chrollo reached out to the siren, who was wet and cold as he hoisted him into the dinghy. He observed as the boy’s tail became two legs in a matter of seconds, a marvelous sight that was both natural and supernatural to behold. Chrollo removed his jacket and held it out to him to cover himself. After a beat, the boy took the jacket.
“You confuse me,” he said seriously.
“I could say the same.” Chrollo agreed.
“You’ve killed so many, and yet when you had the opportunity to do the same to me, you…didn’t. Why?” The boat drifted aimlessly with the current, but not too far from where they’d been. Chrollo decided to anchor them there.
He’d been asking himself the same question repeatedly over his sleepless nights.
“I supposed I would much rather kiss you than kill you.” He saw the siren flinch at his words.
“Even in your final moments?”
“Apparently.” Chrollo was at as much of a loss as he was. The boy sighed discontentedly.
“I should let you drown yourself in your sleep. It would be a kinder fate than you’ve afforded us.”
Chrollo could not rebut his point. He’d always thought these things privately, and to have the boy say them so casually, as though it were a known fact— it was like the sea itself was delivering him a guilty verdict. And yet the boy didn’t seem angry, just resigned to the events of the past. With a dainty finger (no longer the sharp claws Chrollo had been previously acquainted with), he poked Chrollo.
“I want you to teach me things.”
Chrollo hadn’t expected to hear this.
“What would you like to know?”
“A lot. Everything you know, to start. Then, everything you don’t.”
Chrollo laughed, liking the confidence with which he spoke. “Can you see where that might become an issue?”
The siren smirked. “Are you so incapable?”
“Fine,” Chrollo said, successfully goaded. “I’ll teach you.”
This appeared to satisfy him. It was quiet again, with only the occasional sloshing of waves against the boat to remind them of where they were, of who they were.
“Do you have a name?”
“You ask terrible questions,” the boy laughed softly. “Of course I have a name. It’s Kurapika.”
Chrollo ignored his palpitating heart and instead felt an overwhelming gratefulness surge through him. He’d never known sirens to have names, not that he would have had time to ask. But this one chose to give him his name.
“It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Kurapika,” he smiled.
And so they talked. About the sea. All the things they’d grown to love about it and all the things they’d hated about it. As they spoke, the moonlight shone brightly on the water, illuminating its surface like a mirror. He learned that Kurapika could only walk on the land for one week each month and that it was a transformation most sirens did not live to see. It was one of many sobering facts Chrollo learned about Kurapika’s life that night.
They talked until they were hoarse, until they’d run out of things to talk about, until the moon disappeared beyond the horizon. When Chrollo awoke in his dinghy the next morning, Kurapika was gone and had left no trace. Paddling back to shore his back ached, but it was a pain that he savored— this was another day alive, a new dawn.
When he flung open the door to his shack by the sea it was only then that he realized how dreary he’d let the room become— cobwebs began to sprout in the corners of his window sills, which collected a grimy sheen of dust. His desk and countertops had accumulated many years’ worth of trinkets that stood like mini sea stacks. So he went to work cleaning. For a week it was sweeping and mopping, dusting and scrubbing, polishing and wiping until he could make out his reflection in the surfaces. The next week he organized, gathering together all of his siren hunting equipment, the leftover products he hadn’t yet sold, and all of the little odds and ends he’d picked up over the years with his avaricious eyes.
He had quite a few items left in his inventory of mermaid products, items that he wouldn’t want Kurapika to see if he were to be visiting in a month’s time as he said. So that night Chrollo took all of his remaining siren products and gear to a black market dealer about 3 days’ travel east.
When he made it to the seller, though, he was struck by an uneasy feeling. Perhaps this wasn’t the best place for the sirens’ remains. Instead, he waited until the storefront was closed and broke inside, taking their remaining inventory of mermaid products.
It was remarkably easy, stealing.
And so Chrollo found that his supply of mermaid products doubled overnight. He hauled the new stock home, anxious throughout the entire 3-day journey about how Kurapika would receive them. So anxious that he made a plan to meet the blond at the shore as soon as he arrived home.
It was nighttime, a couple of hours before midnight, and Chrollo was preparing his gear to haul outside when he heard a knock at the door. He readied his knife, wondering how quickly the black market sellers would have caught on to his theft. But his wondering evaporated soon once he’d opened the door and peeked out to see Kurapika, legs and all, and without a strip of clothing. Still dripping wet from stepping out of the sea. He left a small puddle at his feet and shivered lightly.
Chrollo let him in, finding a blanket to wrap him in.
“Are you cold? Do you need to get warm?”
Kurapika nodded, and Chrollo went to work getting a fire set up. It would warm the room up in just a few minutes. Cocooned in the blanket, the blond stood and watched in awe as it crackled and grew. After warming up two cups of tea, Chrollo set up some pillows on the ground and settled in next to Kurapika by the fireplace.
“Do you have questions?” Chrollo asked.
Kurapika nodded again, biting down lightly on his bottom lip as he stared at the flames. Chrollo summoned every scrap of information he knew about fires: the science behind combustion, how humans use fire to do everyday tasks, fuel sources, the different fire lights and lamps, and-
“Would you… kiss me again, like you did when we met?” Kurapika asked hesitantly, his words drifting into the air and dissipating like smoke in Chrollo’s ears.
He swallowed dryly.
“You mean when I almost died?” His tone was light.
“Yes, like that.”
Of course he could do that. It was all he’d been fantasizing about doing ever since kissing him. He looked at Kurapika, the firelight dancing across his face, and felt a sense of impending doom that made his heart race.
And so he and Kurapika spent much of that first week kissing.
First, he took Kurapika to the town square and kissed him discreetly behind menus and window shutters. As they shopped for clothing that suited him he kissed him in changing rooms and between racks of sweaters and dresses. And eventually, they forewent any excuse to leave Chrollo’s shack and just kissed there.
He couldn’t get enough of him, and after five days of this, Chrollo wondered if what he was experiencing was any different than the siren’s curse. Had he exchanged one for another? It seemed his thoughts were more consumed by Kurapika now than ever.
At the end of the week, the two stood by the shore, watching the sunrise. Kurapika slipped his hand into Chrollo’s and leaned against his shoulder.
“Next month?” He murmured. It felt too long for Chrollo.
“I’ll row out to you every day if you’d like.”
“I know,” he said, smiling softly. “But I want to properly honor these remains you’ve given me with my family.”
Chrollo nodded. He took Kurapika in his arms and kissed him, lingering on those perfect lips one last time before he’d have to go a month without them.
“Even as you hold me now, I wonder if you’re just looking to get me in a vulnerable state before you slit my throat. Wouldn’t that be easier than what we’re doing now?”
“What are we doing now?” Chrollo asked.
“Kissing until our lips are swollen?”
Now that he looked closely, Kurapika’s lips had indeed darkened to a red, plum-like color. And yet he pecked at them again.
“Possibly. We’ll never know, now.”
“Are you so certain?”
“I am.”
What he was asking was clear to Chrollo: is it foolish for me to trust you? And it was equally clear to Chrollo that if Kurapika were a fool for trusting him, then he was equally a fool for trusting Kurapika. He watched the boy blush at his words, possibly the most human he’d looked in all their time together as his complexion reddened.
“Then… I’ll see you in a month’s time, Chrollo.”
It was the first time he heard Kurapika say his name, and it somehow made his heart sink to the bottom of his chest. Because he knew that in another life, one where he was less cruel, he might have heard Kurapika say his name more often and without reservation. He would do anything to see this become a reality, and yet the weight of his sins seemed too great to overcome. So all he could say was,
“I’ll wait for you here.”
“No,” Kurapika said, turning to step into the waves. It looked like the water was opening to him, greeting each of his steps. “You’re going to find more remains and help me return them.”
He dove in and did not resurface.
And so began another period of isolation for Chrollo, in which he was tormented by his thoughts of the siren.
On the one hand, he didn’t find himself sleepwalking anymore. Instead, he found himself constantly tormented by the most mundane of ideas. For example, next month, would he teach Kurapika to write? And while teaching him to write, might he take his hand to help him hold the pen properly? What would this closeness provoke in Kurapika? Would he flush red? Would he pull away?
It was these thoughts that sustained Chrollo as he traveled abroad in search of more siren remains. His cunning skills had transferred easily to the work of a thief, although he hardly viewed his actions as uncharitably as his former profession. At least now it was in service of something: he was fighting to live, for once.
And fight he did. Traveling across the globe Chrollo uncovered networks of underground trade and alleviated them of their mermaid products. Once the month was almost up, he returned home with his supply, eager to have pleased Kurapika.
Did he feel genuine remorse for his crimes against the sirens? He couldn’t decide. But it didn’t appear that Kurapika cared about this. Instead, he cared about what Chrollo did moving forward in service of him. It was transactional; it was an exchange. Something Chrollo understood very well. Thus, Chrollo waited for that tentative knock at the door, that light rhapsody that would send his heart racing again.
Kurapika arrived as he said he would, dripping wet and holding his hand out expectantly for a blanket.
In the time since he’d last been there, Chrollo had changed his quaint shack up quite a bit. There was now a bigger bed, a wardrobe for Kurapika, and a window-watching telescope that he’d use to look out at the water. All of which Kurapika took delight in, his smile crinkling his eyes into half-moons.
That week, Chrollo taught him things properly. Reading and writing, dancing, self-defense. Other things, too. Like the ways that humans pleasure each other—how they hold one another, and crash into one another violently, like waves.
III. lovers
When Chrollo looked out at the sea now, he saw his lover.
He saw Kurapika’s rosy lips and wet eyelashes. He tasted his salty kisses and felt skin that was so soft yet could harden into scales under his touch. It no longer pained him to look out at the horizon. Now, it excited him. For the horizon brought another day in his new life.
It was one year into this new life— one where he’d spend three weeks out of the month hunting for black market siren products, and another entangled with Kurapika— that his lover touched his fingers lightly to Chrollo’s lips, and told him,
“Your curse is broken.”
They lay on a blanket in a grassy field on a breezy, cloudy day. It’d stormed heavily the previous weeks, battering the coastline, and had only just begun to dry up. It took Chrollo a moment to fully comprehend what Kurapika was saying. His brows furrowed.
“Just like that?”
Kurapika rolled his eyes.
“Did you expect something more magical? Should I wave my hands around?” He wiggled his fingers for good measure. Chrollo looked around, appraising his surroundings and himself. He certainly didn’t feel any different.
“I mean, how can you tell? Did it happen just now?”
Kurapika smiled, seemingly enjoying Chrollo’s curiosity.
“Does it matter?”
“No,” he answered honestly. “I’m only curious how it works since it isn’t documented anywhere.”
“That’s not surprising.”
Chrollo thought back to what Kurapika had initially told him about breaking the siren’s curse.
“It cannot be achieved through brute force or murder.”
The blond rolled on top of Chrollo and kissed him sweetly. There was no sea salt remaining on his lips since he’d been on land for four days. Instead, he tasted like the fig jam and honey from their picnic, and so Chrollo licked into his lips hungrily.
“It requires love,” he whispered, interrupted by Chrollo’s mouth again. Chrollo had quickly forgotten what they were talking about. He took a moment to regain his line of questioning but did not cease kissing him. He merely grew languid in his pace.
“Love,” he murmured. On whose behalf, he wondered. Both parties? Or just one? “How long has it been broken?”
He held Kurapika closely and rolled them over on the blanket so that he was on top. He continued to ravage him with kisses. Kurapika sighed into his embrace, humming as he thought.
“Hmm. How long have we known each other?”
“One year.”
“Then,” he panted, “It’s been broken for one year.”
This seemed impossible to Chrollo. He’d been thinking of one person alone for a year, tortured by emotions so intense that they had to have been supernatural. But it quickly dawned on him.
“Are you mad?” Kurapika asked, slightly amused and slightly cautious.
Chrollo smiled.
“No, I’m in love.”
Many years later, in a town by the sea, the townspeople would whisper about the young couple who lived by the shore.
About the man with the cross tattoo who rowed out to the middle of the open seas in the dead of night, and his wife, who only came out of their home for one week out of every month. Eventually, they found it odd enough that a rumor even came about— that the man’s wife was in fact a mermaid who had seduced him and stolen his heart. This was, of course, ridiculous, and no one believed it. For never in recorded history had a man been cursed by a siren and lived to tell it.