Page 33 of Siren Song

“I don’t,” I start, and then try again. “This is new. Whatever we’re doing. I don’t totally understand it, or you, or if you have any boundaries about, you know, being seen with me. Or if you even want to hang out with me. I know you’re coaching me, and I think you want me, you know, physically, and maybe our, uh, kinky needs line up.”

I glance over at him then, only to find him already staring right at me. There’s a hint of concern in his eyes, but mostly there’s a big, sappy smile making his already handsome face even more stunning.

“I’m trying not to assume you want me tagging along with you all the time.” I rush to get through this part, because even though these thoughts and worries are a constant in my head, there’s something nauseating about saying them out loud. No one wants to be with someone plagued with insecurities. “I don’t want to be holding you back from your life and the people you want to hang out with, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to drag me along if you need time alone with your friends.”

“Aleks.” Javier’s sandals scuff on the path as he moves to stand in front of me. There’s dark hair on his toes and on the tops of his feet, and I wonder what they look like covered in wet sand after a day on the beach. I wonder if Javier ever wears a Speedo—he’d look fucking hot with his big belly and chest out in the sun and a tiny slip of stretchy fabric covering his junk. Maybe he’d let me put sunscreen on his back. Maybe he’d rub sunscreen on mine.

“Aleks. Are you listening to me?”

I look up, finding Javier watching me, obviously amused. “No?”

He smiles and shakes his head. “And here I was saying very reassuring and romantic things.”

“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed I’d missed whatever he’d said.

“The summary is: I find you enchanting, I want you to come to dinner with me, and trust me to tell you if I ever need space.”

“Oh,” I say, and it comes out a little breathless. “That’s…that’s good.”

“Yes, boy, I would say it is.” He reaches for my hand, threading our fingers together. “We should consider not putting our relationship on display in public places. People will talk, and until we hear about your solo, I do not want to risk jeopardising your ability to compete.”

“Yeah, for sure.” I try to hide my disappointment. Of course he’s right, although with every day that passes I think the committee is less likely to reject my solo performance. They wouldn’t, with the competition only days out.

For a second I’m tempted to say I don’t care, that getting to be with Javier out in the open is worth whatever bullshit the artistic swimming committee might have to say. The thought of pretending Javier isn’t my…someone important to me, makes me feel sick.

A firm hand grips my chin, angling my face down. Brown eyes look at me, an almost aggressive intensity to the way he watches me. “I see you making up stories,” he murmurs, voice low. “Give me a chance to say my piece before you decide we are not worth it.”

I open my mouth to tell him I do think we’re worth it, and that’s the whole fucking problem, but he’s not done.

“A part of the dynamic I want, the kind of relationship I need, is the absolute joy and privilege of seeing the person I care about accomplish the things they hope and dream of. Seeing them—seeing you—get the chance you have been fighting for? That brings me more pleasure than my own success. So, when I say I do not want to risk your chance to compete, it is because I care about you, more deeply than you can imagine.” His thumb drags over my cheek, and his eyes follow the movement. “This will only work if you trust my feelings for you, Aleks. Just as I have to trust your feelings for me.”

I swallow, and nod. He makes it all sound easy, like trust is something simple that can be turned on and off. I want it to be that easy.

His lips brush my cheek and he steps back. “Now, I am starving, and we need to get you fed. Come.”

I fall into step beside him, slowing my stride so my long legs don’t leave him behind.

Our dinner companions turn out to be three intimidatingly hot merpeople.

Javier introduces me by name to the group: Zephyr, a massive, built athlete with a chest to rival the minotaurs I’ve seen wandering around the campus, Cadmus, his equally large brother, and Amara, Cadmus’ wife, who has the largest biceps I have ever seen.

The table sits abutting one of the many pools for the aquatic beings on the edge of the dining complex. Javier and I sit on one side with our thighs pressed together under the table. Across from us, the three merpeople eat more sushi than I can imagine putting away in one sitting.

Javier is comfortable with them, easy jokes and banter tossed back and forth throughout the meal. They are from the Mazarine Coast, a place I’ve only heard stories about. From their descriptions, the black sand and freezing waves couldn’t be more different from the tropical waters I’ve always known. There are inside jokes about their time together, memories from past competitions and from having intertwined lives for many years.

I get it—he was their coach, and as adults, the barriers of friendship between coaches and athletes tend to blur. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel like a loser kid who doesn’t know what is going on.

“So, Aleks,” Amara asks, pointing a tempura-fried carrot at me. “What’s your story?”

I shrug. “I’m a trans guy who lives in the Central Lowlands. I like to swim, sometimes I have fins, my song is deadly, and apparently I don’t know when to shut my mouth.”

The merpeople laugh, and I grin, pleased at their response. Javier shifts in his seat beside me.

“I’ve always wondered,” Cadmus asks. “About the song. Sirens always look badass wearing the—” he cuts himself off, gesturing his hands around his face and looking at me with a question in his eyes.

“Vocal filter,” I offer.

“Right, the vocal filter,” Cadmus continues. “See, I always heard the reason sirens wore them was to protect the audience members from being lured into the water and, you know, drowning.”