Chapter Text
Waves roll gently over the sand and stones, lapping at the nearby docks and the boats moored there. Shane jogs steadily alongside the water as the first traces of sunlight peek over the distant horizon. It's early enough still that he's the only person around. This is the sort of peace he didn't think he'd find in America.
Shane has been in America before, of course. He's been all over the world. Modeling takes him across borders on a monthly basis, if not weekly. It's not that he decided to be a model, exactly, but it's what he's good at. In another life, he thinks he might have preferred being an athlete.
That's just not how things have worked out, though, and that isn't a bad thing. The quiet homophobia in modeling is rough enough. Being an athlete would have been even worse, especially if he'd kept up with hockey like he'd once wanted to. Plus, if he were a hockey player, then maybe he wouldn't have met his amazing friends.
Those friends are what brings him to Boston this time around. One of them, to be specific. Rose, his ex-girlfriend (turned best friend) from a desperate attempt to be straight a few years back, has finally invited him to meet her girlfriend.
Svetlana is perfect for her, as far as he can tell. They share interests and a sense of humor. Plus, Shane doesn't have to be attracted to her to know that Svetlana is the type of beautiful that model agencies would beg for. Even better, she doesn't seem to mind Rose's hectic schedule.
It makes him a little jealous. He'll take that to his grave, but it would be nice to find someone who suits him so perfectly. Dating isn't easy when you're an internationally famous model. So instead of sitting in the apartment and listening to their early morning activities, Shane decided to go for a run on the beach.
Now, he slows slightly as he catches sight of something large in the sand. At first, his mind can't make it make sense. It looks almost like a very large fish, except for the fact that it looks too... human.
It's not that people don't know about merfolk. They're like colossal squids in that way. Once, they were considered mythical creatures, but evidence continued to pile up until videos began to surface in the early 2000s. Their rights are a hotly contested topic in activist and political circles.
Shane has never seen a mer...person up close. He had no reason to expect he ever would. Still, that's the only word he can think of to fit the creature that has washed up on the empty beach. He stops running entirely and approaches with slow steps.
They're stunning. He can see their face now — his face, from what Shane can see — and he's as beautiful as all of the legends say. Pouty lips slightly parted, curly blond hair half-dried, and strong cheekbones... he could be a model too.
Most strikingly, his tail is a silvery blue, with a lighter underside and a drooping dorsal fin. He thinks the merman might have red markings at first, but then he realizes that they aren't patterns — they're cuts.
His breath hitches and he hurries over. There's fishing line wrapped around the merman, and it slices into him where his struggling has pulled it tight. His arms are bound against his chest, as if he got further tangled while trying to get free. Worst of all, there's a fishing hook that seems to be lodged in the meat of his tail.
"Oh my god," Shane breathes without thinking.
The merman twitches violently. His eyes fly open. They're piercing, just as blue as his tail, and Shane freezes immediately.
In a desperate attempt to protect himself, the merman raises his head and bares sharp teeth. He squirms in an attempt to get free, but that only causes the line to cut deeper into his arms and tail. A fresh trail of blood trickles into the water.
Shane puts his hands up and kneels down. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I... you're hurt. Can I help you?"
He has no idea if the merman even speaks English, but the words seem to calm him down enough that he's not hurting himself anymore.
"Yes," the merman rasps, which answers the question about English.
"Okay, I'm... I don't have anything to cut the line with," he realizes. "I'm going to run back to my friend's house and get supplies. Just... stay here, okay?"
"No, I will just swim away," the merman says flatly, startling a laugh out of Shane.
"Okay, I'll be right back," Shane assures him. Then, before he can overthink it, he turns around and begins sprinting back toward the house.
It only takes him about five minutes to get back to the little house that Svetlana owns. Luckily, it's right on the beach. All he can think of is the injured merman trapped on dry land, where anyone else could stumble across him.
"That was a quick run," Rose greets him drowsily. She sips at her coffee, but when she looks up she must catch the panic in his eyes. "What happened?"
"There's a merman tangled in fishing line," he blurts out. "I need scissors and a first aid kit. Can we even use our first aid supplies on a merman?"
"A merman?" Rose repeats, eyes wide.
"Yeah," Shane confirms. He's already grabbing for the kitchen scissors.
She curses. "Svetlana's in the shower. Let me go grab the first aid kit from the bathroom."
Rose wastes no time, giving Shane a moment to try to catch his breath. She returns only a few seconds later and pushes it into his hands.
"Go help him. Svetlana and I will be right behind you," Rose assures him.
Shane doesn't waste time arguing. He just nods and sprints back out the door. His lungs burn as he pushes himself faster, struggling through the sand. Some horrible little voice in the back of his head keeps screaming that the merman is in danger and he has to hurry.
He passes a couple of people on his way back, but the stretch where the merman is beached is blessedly empty. Those brilliant blue eyes flick back open when Shane skids to a halt at his side and drops to his knees.
"My friends are going to come help too," is the first thing he says.
"Okay," the merman rasps again. His voice is accented, but Shane can't put his finger on it. He sets that thought aside for later and sets the first aid kit on the dry sand.
"First, I'm going to try to cut the fishing line off of you. We'll deal with the hook in a bit," Shane says. The merman grunts, which sounds as close to permission as Shane is likely to get, so he gets to work.
As Shane cuts the line away, he gets a closer look at the merman. Patches of scales trail over his arms and abdomen, almost like they're growing in place of body hair. Some of the line has rubbed them away, leaving the skin raw and even bloody in spots.
His hands, which are currently pulled close to his chest, are tipped with sharp claws and webbed between the fingers. He can see the thin veins through the translucent skin.
With each cut, the line around the merman gets looser. It releases trickles of blood, but that's unavoidable. He balls up each freed piece of line to keep it from being swept back into the ocean.
As soon as his arms are free, the merman starts trying to help by cutting the lines with his sharp claws. Unfortunately, they seem to be designed for ripping, not cutting. He hisses curses in a language Shane doesn't understand.
Finally, the last of the line falls away and the merman is freed. With a grimace, he shifts to prop himself up on his elbows. He's still bleeding onto the sand, so Shane reaches over for the first aid kit and opens it up.
"I don't know how antiseptic would affect you, so for now I'm just going to try to stop the bleeding," Shane explains as he grabs a pack of gauze. He presses it carefully over the largest of the cuts on the merman's tail, earning him a pained hiss. "Sorry, sorry."
"Are you fisher man?" the merman asks suddenly.
Shane blinks. "Uh... no?"
"Then no sorry."
"Okay, then no sorry," Shane says, raising an eyebrow and putting more pressure on the wound. The merman curses again.
"Who are you?" he asks through gritted teeth.
"Me? Just some guy," Shane shrugs.
The merman rolls his eyes. "Your name. Should know if you are feeling me up."
"Oh," Shane says, flushing with embarrasment. "Uh, I'm Shane. Shane Hollander."
"Shane Hollander," the merman repeats slowly, as if testing the name out in his thick accent. His eyes rake over Shane's muscled shoulders and down his torso.
"Do, um. Do you have a name?" Shane asks, trying to be casual about it.
For a moment, there's nothing but silence as the merman gives him the most unimpressed look possible.
"Sorry, it's not like I've met a merman before," Shane says defensively.
"Ilya," he says.
Shane squints. "Are you... Russian?" Is that the accent he's hearing?
Ilya scoffs. "Am not anything. But my father was."
Any response that Shane might have had is interrupted by the sound of running feet behind him. Svetlana and Rose may not be as fast as he is, but they made good time from the house.
"Ilyusha?!" Svetlana shouts as she crashes to her knees beside Ilya. Immediately, Ilya perks up a bit, pushing himself up from his elbows to his hands, almost sitting up fully.
"Sveta!" he greets cheerfully.
"You know each other?" Shane asks, looking between Svetlana and Ilya with absolute bafflement in his eyes.
"It's a long story," she sighs, then stands up again. "Okay, he's hurt. We need to get him back to the house. Ilya, can you swim?"
"Yes. Probably, yes," he replies, grimacing at the hook still lodged in his tail.
Svetlana rattles off a string of instructions in what definitely sounds like Russian and Ilya nods. He starts awkwardly shifting himself back towards the water. Shane opens his mouth to protest, but then Ilya flips himself onto his stomach, wincing at the pain it causes. When he glances back to them, he meets Shane's eyes.
"See you soon," he says with a sharp-toothed grin and an honest to god wink. Shane's stomach flips.
"Oh my god," Svetlana groans behind him.
Before Shane can think of something to say, Ilya pushes himself back into the water and disappears.
"Okay. Back to the house," Svetlana instructs. "And then we have some things to talk about.”