Shiro’s whole body was tense and poised to run. He laid eyes on the land man and a sort of shiver made its way through his body. In the moonlight, the man’s face was cold and pale and his hair jet black and soft. A breeze ghosted through the hair and lifted strands in ways that the currents could never lift hair of merfolk. His presence was light, yet tense and smeared with a darkness that wasn’t entirely his own. His body wasn’t strong like those he saw on the plastic littering the seabed. He held himself crookedly and he could sense the strain he was putting on the muscles he used. Something about this man was sick and it was painted on him.

Yet his eyes this time told a new story. His eyes were wild and bright with curiosity and wonder. The moonlight danced in the dark mix of blue and black and purple and Shiro found himself staring back with just as much wonder. A strange smell accompanied the man this time, masking the sickness and the darkness and somehow matching the gracelessness of his movements.

Shiro shrank back slightly when the man let out sounds. They were low and hummed with a buzz from the back of his throat. He sensed youth and a shy nature from them, but also sincerity. His gestures and facial features so closely resembled that of merfolk that Shiro found himself understanding that he was being thanked. He drifted closer as the man held Shiro’s trinket to his chest. A gesture that could only mean it had been accepted and he then noticed the conch shell sitting in front of him. A returned trinket? Perhaps this man knew more of mer-culture than he had initially thought. Shiro was close now, close enough to touch the wet wooden slats of the dock but he dared not. His instincts still told him not to get too close. This could still be a trap.

The man then picked up the conch shell and Shiro reeled back. He rose slightly and scrunched up his nose with distaste. He looked from the shell to the man and disregarded his previous thought that he could know of mer-tradition. Only lovers or families handed trinkets to one and other. He was certain that the man didn’t intend to court him. Regardless, Shiro was intrigued by the man’s offer of friendship and he slowly extended a hand from the water. He could feel it trembling as he did so, feeling vulnerable to attack, but he focused and carefully touched his hand to the man’s arm and gently guided it down to the dock. Shiro noticed that the skin felt softer than a seal and not at all slimy like the scales of a fish. His own skin was wet and rough, the skin of a shark. “Leave it here. I will take it when I leave.” He said, his voice low and gentle, his language a mix of whispers, long notes and soft clicks at the back of his throat. They sounded different above the water as the air carried them differently and completely ethereal to human ears. He locked eyes with the man again, hoping he would understand.