Chapter Text
Martin isn’t supposed to get close to humans.
It’s a fact he tries stubbornly to push to the back of his brain as he sits on the sand inside a little cliff-hidden cove, thinking about the handsome (painfully human) stranger he’s seen about the area lately. The black-covered notebook in his lap curves and waves from water damage, like the ebbing tide lapping at his feet. He taps pensively at the page with his pen and tries to find the right words to describe how he feels.
Conflicted. Slightly guilty. More than a little bit infatuated.
With a groan, Martin drags a hand through his hair, as if to yank the adjectives from thin air to describe the object of his distant affections. Black- no, raven-dark hair, smooth and shiny like the worn beach stones Martin collected as a child. Dark complexion, a rich tourmaline to Martin’s paler pearl. The stranger has perched on a nearby grassy hill for the past few weeks writing in their own black notebook — a connection Martin can’t help but fixate on — always focused and almost entirely still, like some godlike statue of antiquity, a stone-hewn beauty no mortal can match. God, he needs some better metaphors.
Cut to the basics — they’re very pretty, they write things in a notebook too... and he’s never actually interacted with them, face to face.
Well, that’s not entirely true. He’s sure the stranger’s seen him among the waves at least once, quietly admiring. It’s just that the average seal doesn’t exactly strike one as a potential conversation partner or romantic interest, especially since Martin’s too shy to ever get very close. And talking to them in human form? Forget it.
Martin knows the dangers of humans, really. Not just talking to normal humans, but even taking their shape. Their bodies are so much more inclined to drowning than swimming, and can’t even handle a bit of cold — and that’s not even accounting for other human beings and what they might do to someone like him. He’s heard the stories. He knows his mother wouldn’t take another step on land if she could help it, not anymore. It took a long time for him to feel comfortable walking alone on the beach without anticipating torches and pitchforks at his first footfall, skin-thieves and scoundrels looking to steal him away. Was it ever a logical fear? Maybe, maybe not. But you can never be too careful. He knows that well.
Martin barely gets the chance to realize that he hasn’t written anything yet when his thoughts are interrupted by the clattering of beach rocks. Something’s coming, and quick.
No — the sounds are paced, in intervals — one, two, one, two. Footsteps. Human footsteps.
Oh, God, get your coat on, get out of here they’re getting closer what if they hear you or see you or—
Martin’s never been more glad to be sitting near the water, as, with a quick splash, he dips just out of sight before the approaching human rounds the corner of the cliff face. The shock of frigid water on his face is nothing compared to the shock of recognizing who it is.
That very same stranger huffs and puffs, out of breath — Martin guesses they don’t run much, by how winded they are — and leans against the side of the rocky cliff trying to recover. Their windswept hair falls down over their face, and Martin has to stifle his fondness as they try and fail to blow it out of their eyes.
No, no, enough with fondness. Why are they here? They never ever come down this far, and Martin’s sure he’s never seen them move faster than a brisk walk, let alone a heaving sprint. So what—
His yet-unasked question is answered when he spies a black notebook (the notebook, their notebook) snagged by its spine against a large slippery rock, its pages’ frantic fluttering in the wind reminding him of a fish twitching as it suffocates in open air. How far did it get dragged by the breeze to end up all the way over here? How long has the stranger chased it?
Said stranger is still wheezing hard, looking almost dizzy and staggering desperately towards the book before the wind steals it away again, this time into the sea. Small colourful flags and notes are already tearing away from their places among the pages like confetti. The way the wind’s suddenly picked up, it won’t be long before the book is gone for good.
Shyness be damned.
Martin ducks back below the surface, darting past underwater debris around to the other side of the rock. The book swiftly tumbles towards the surf just as Martin darts up in a burst of seafoam, grabbing it in his teeth.
Or, at least, he tries to — he’s a bit clumsy, but at the very least the book’s movement is halted by his bulk while he tries to wrap his teeth around it and close it. This is about when he remembers who the book belongs to, and he looks up again at the stranger, leading to what may be the most awkward impromptu staring contest of Martin’s life.
The stranger gapes at them, brown eyes wide in surprise. Martin’s feeling his sudden moment of courage draining from him, and he’s trying not to worry about displaying some nervous tic in front of the stranger. Odds are they don’t know seal body language, but still, it’d be just his luck if they did. Trying to project a confidence he now lacks, Martin wobbles closer, holding the book up to them.
Blinking at him, the stranger reaches out and gently takes the notebook, holding it close to their chest as they catch their breath. And, to Martin’s surprise, they talk. To him. He has to look down slightly to check that yep, he’s still a seal, this isn’t some strange misunderstanding.
“Well, t-thank you, good sir, for your help. That was very kind of you,” they enunciate in a rich, over-accented voice, like they’re talking to an esteemed academic peer, and not a random pinniped with anxiety. Oh, but they have such a nice voice, all deep timbre and smokiness. Martin’s sure it’s the sort of voice sailors’ stories might ascribe to a luring siren.
Martin is distracted by thoughts concerning voices before he realizes the stranger has walked a short distance back the way they came, battling against the biting breeze and slight rain as they go. Their end of their scarf flicks and snaps whip-like in the wind, and Martin can’t help but feel enthralled as he watches. He just interacted with the stranger face to face, and he didn’t even get that scared! They had a whole one-sided conversation he’ll be thinking about for weeks now. As if he didn’t have enough pining material already...
Making sure the stranger’s turned the corner and trekked far enough away, Martin removes his skin once again and almost bounces back up to where he first sat. He’s never felt such giddy excitement, like his smile could split his face and he wouldn’t even care. Neither his hair tugging in the wind nor the incoming downpour above could ruin his mood. And there’s nobody around to see his unbridled joy — he can just be, with no judgment, and it’s amazing.
The sun dips down into the clouds and embraces the sea, and as Martin watches and sits down to retrieve his abandoned notebook he notes the other perk of humans’ shape: something he’s learned is known as prescription eyewear. Some land glass set in metal frames lets him see with a strange clarity he can only call a miracle. It’s not perfect, he thinks — they’re only his because some unlucky soul left their pair on the beach one day — but it’s certainly an improvement. Martin gazes at the sinking sun among darkening clouds, droplets of mist and rain ghosting over the glass lenses, and he feels something light and airy in his chest, a joy he can’t name.
And then his hand grasps the notebook, and finds it far less water-damaged and wavy than it’s supposed to be.
Oh, no.
With a start, Martin leaps to his feet and drops the book in his panic, and the way the note-laden pages flutter open where it lies confirms his worst fears. Far from his calm demeanour just moments ago, he feels like he can’t keep his breath in his lungs — yet another flaw of human anatomy. Stupid! How could he let a mixup like this happen? Now the poor stranger’s still missing their book after all that, and—
But the stranger still left with a notebook. His notebook.
Martin’s stomach lurches with dread. The self-indulgent thought of seeing what the stranger likes to write about has long since dissolved into panic. His notebook is in the stranger’s possession — and they’re going to see his poetry, his innermost feelings—
Clattering beach stones and the crackling of thunder ring out around him and herald his desperate chase. Murky seafoam pulls at the sand beneath his feet, the incoming tide trying to drag it all into the drowning deep. The rain, once a gentle sprinkle, an indulgence, almost deafens him with its deluge. It’s painful and prickly in a way he doesn’t normally feel when submerged underwater, but it doesn’t slow him down. It can’t slow him down. Martin doesn’t even stop to hide his skin properly. His only focus is on returning the stranger’s book and retrieving his own.
He should be hiding safe underwater, or in a cave somewhere, not taking off on unfamiliar limbs after someone he barely knows and has no idea which direction they went in!
When did the weather even get this awful? The morning’s carmine sky was a beautiful warning, sure, but it had been dull and dry not that long ago, right? How could he not notice? Did the wind and waves come on that quickly? He’s never felt more out of his depth, only desperate adrenaline and heaving breaths keeping him upright anymore. One foot forward, then the other, one, two, one, two—
Why does he even care so much? He should just quit and go home before things get any worse, before nature revolts against him once again, another ship-battering gale knocking him back or spray of salt and mud in his mouth—
Oh, you really want to talk about revolting against nature? You?
No! Just shut up already—
The cacophony of crashing waves and screaming wind around him comes to a terrible crescendo as the ground before him grows dark as night, and he looks to the sea to find he stands in the shadow of the most monstrous wave he’s ever seen.
Martin is aware of only three things in this moment — the fear chilling him to his very bones as the wave hits, the all-encompassing ache of overexertion sharpening to a sudden acute agony, and a single pinprick of light in a distant window like a star before his world fades to darkness and murk.