#but i thought this little and mostly light(er)-hearted snippet would be fun to share

[im-not-corrupted]

I was consumed by the idea of Merman!Hob in the last few days and now I'm writing a Dreamling fic about it so have a small, 1.7k snippet from the much larger fic :)

Includes: near-drowning, near death experiences, perhaps many medical inaccuracies because I am not a doctor and haven't edited yet, Merman!Hob, Prince!Dream and some light angst.

---------

He awakes with a gasping, heaving breath. His lungs are greedy things, sucking in air with desperation, and he presses a hand to his chest. Beneath his palm, his heart races. Adrenaline and panic both fill his veins and his hand shakes. His lungs feel full, but as he coughs mostly involuntarily, nothing comes up at all.

It takes a bit for him to calm down. When he does, when his lungs stop heaving and he stops coughing and he is left with nothing but an ache in his lungs, his head and a rawness in his throat, he looks around himself.

He sits on a beach, the sands golden and kissed by the sun. It shines down on him, blessing his face with its light. His clothes are soaked through and no doubt ruined, and before him—before him is the ocean.

It holds none of the fierceness he saw earlier, and he stares at it blankly. It looks as welcoming, as lovely, as it did the day he stepped onto the ship. His mind had been occupied, yes, but he had enough awareness to acknowledge the sea’s beauty.

Not enough awareness to acknowledge its dangers, though. He remembers in startling clarity the coldness of its waters, the ferocity with which it drowned him, the storm that waged and threw him overboard.

He should’ve been more careful.

It is not just the ocean that lies before him, but a man, too. A man, staring at him with honey-eyes that catch the sunlight as though they were made for it, with a curiosity on his face that, if it weren’t for the sudden anxiety twisting his all-too empty stomach, would’ve endeared him immediately. His skin is tan, golden like the sands, and some distant part of his brain wants to press his lips to that skin and find out what it tastes like for himself. Like ocean salt and sweat and the sun itself, he thinks, and then considers the possibility that he may have suffered some brain damage due to oxygen deprivation.

It takes him a bit to find his voice. During that time, the man—sitting in the ocean as though he belongs there, ignorant of its gentle waves lapping at him—continues to stare, head tilted like a particularly curious bird. “Who are you?” he asks, wincing at the hoarseness of his throat. It feels scraped raw, and he thinks he would like to simply not speak for a while, only—only this is rather strange, isn’t it?

The man’s shoulders shake with laughter. He is a beautiful creature, this man, with chestnut hair framing his face. Laughter, and amusement, becomes him. Distantly, Morpheus is aware that he should probably take offence at the man’s laughter, only—only he doesn’t really have the energy. If anything, he thinks he’d much rather sleep. “The one who saved you, obviously. Or did you forget you nearly drowned?"

He has half a mind to scowl at the strange man in the water, but only just has enough energy to narrow his eyes. "You saved me," he repeats dumbly. In his defence, he did nearly drown, and sleep calls to him now. Nearly drowning is, apparently, rather exhausting. "We were in the middle of the ocean. We weren't even close to any land. How did you—"

Come to think of it, he can't recall having seen this man's face before. Though perhaps that's explained easily. He was distracted on the ship, after all, and it wasn't like he went out of the way to remember the entire crew. Both Telute and Lucienne always said he should try to interact with people a little more than he does, but he thinks recent events made him exempt from that rule these last few months.

Still. The man's statement doesn't really make sense. They were in the middle of an ocean, and in a storm no less. It would've been impossible for the man to save him then, at least not without a boat or ship of his own.

Thinking of it made his head hurt more. For a moment he feels ready to simply shrug and accept the nonsensical answer as truth in the hopes that maybe the man would leave him to rest. Logically, he knows that isn't what will happen at all. If this man knows who Morpheus is, if he recognises him, then there will be some kind of demand. A boon for saving the Prince's life.

He can't do anything about that now, though, and the idea of laying on this beach and letting himself wither under the sun's heat seems very appealing. He doesn't even know where they are, or how close he is to his kingdom. How he's supposed to make it back in this condition, he doesn't know. The task seems impossible, in all honesty.

The man does not leave him to rest, not even when Morpheus simply nods stiffly and says, "Sure. Saved me. Alright." He remains in the ocean actually, the waves lapping at his torso, and continues to stare at him blankly as though expecting something a little more. Eventually, he rolls his eyes—Rude, Morpheus thinks, but hardly cares at all in the moment—and moves a little closer. It looks almost like the ocean parts for him, but that's ridiculous.

Then—well, then things get even stranger. Which also seems impossible, but—there they are. The man shifts in the water and brings what looks like a tail out of the ocean, all golden scales and fins. Beautiful, he thinks, knowing he's staring but seemingly unable to help it. Of course the man's tail would be golden. That only makes sense when the rest of him could've been carved from sunlight.

A little belatedly, he realises just what he's staring at. Which is the man, who had a fish's tail.

Hallucinating. He is hallucinating, then. That makes sense. Still, he can't help but laugh quietly—it makes him wince, his lungs still raw and aching, but the pain is temporary and certainly doesn't matter much if he's hallucinating—and says, "You're a merman."

The statement is ludicrous. Morpheus wonders just how much damage nearly drowning can do to a person, and then figures he doesn't want to know at all, actually.

"That is what you call us, yes," the man agrees easily.

Sure. Why not. "Why did you save me then?"

He shrugs softly. “Too pretty for death,” the—the merman, of all things, tells him. It sounds almost petulant.

He is losing his mind. He had swallowed a lot of water. A merman. “One can be too pretty for death?” he asks weakly, his throat hoarse and his chest tight with pain. The ridiculous nature of the question at least makes that pain easy to ignore. It will get him later, he knows that much, but he lets himself be distracted by his amusement at the situation for a while.

The merman blinks at him, expression entirely serious. “You are.”

”Right.” Right. Of course. Too pretty for death. That makes sense. As much sense as a merman fishing him out of the water does.

Whatever energy let him carry this conversation leaves him suddenly and he falls onto his back on top of the sand, his elbows failing to hold him up any longer. The sun glares down at him and he gazes back up at it blearily. Exhaustion clings to him just as the beach does to his sea-soaked clothes. Sleep seems like a wonderful, bright idea.

He let his eyes fall shut. It isn't very effective for blocking out the sun’s rays—it remains insistent, and closing his eyes doesn't give him the satisfaction of darkness that he dearly wants. Still, while that would’ve been a problem any other time, his body yearned for the void, to let the dark take him. It would be easy to simply lay here and wither, until either the tide takes him or someone finds him. Whichever came first. He didn’t mind either way.

Then the merman spoke again. “Are you dying, pretty one?”

It took a great deal of effort, but he grunts, “No.”

”Are you sure?”

He is not, actually. But that is no concern of this mermaid, and he merely answers, “I am certain.”

Silence follows that statement. Morpheus lets himself relax, lets himself hope this is it. He can sleep now, he thought—and is quickly proven wrong, for the merman states, “You look like you’re dying. Does anybody look for you?”

He hardly cares. Distantly, though, he thinks Lucienne might be. Jessamy and Matthew, too. “Perhaps,” he says after a couple of minutes pass, when he realises he has not yet replied. "I would like to sleep now."

The merman makes a considering noise. "I do not know much about humans," he said slowly, and Morpheus can practically feel the concern in his voice now, "but I'm pretty sure that's a bad idea. I'll stay and talk to you until you're found."

"Must you?" he asks, a desperate edge to his voice. The merman's voice is pleasant enough, yes, but rest is the preferred option here, regardless of what he says.

"Yes," he confirms. Morpheus's eyes are still closed so he can't actually see but he can imagine the smile on his face easily enough.

He sighs heavily and wonders what he did to deserve this. Then figures this is some weird, twisted kind of punishment for all that happened with Orpheus and Calliope and resigns himself to his fate. "Very well."

The merman talks, almost endlessly, until the sun is low in the sky. It is, truly, an impressive amount of talking. Morpheus doesn't remember much of that afternoon. At some point, he regains just enough energy to sit up, to listen more attentively. The merman, whose name he doesn't learn, seems to appreciate that. And just when despair begins to eat at him—I will not be found, he thinks and despite his inaction while he sank into the ocean, the idea panics him, I will die on this beach—there are calls of his name from behind him. They are voices he recognises and his heart picks up its pace when he turns around to see Lucienne, Telute and Jessamy walking down the beach towards him, each of them looking a little rough but all of them alive.

When he turns back to the ocean, the merman is no longer there, and Morpheus wonders if he dreamt the whole thing up. He does not mention it as Jessamy helps him to his feet, as Telute pulls him in for a hug, as the three of them begin to make it back home, to their duties, but he does not forget the kind eyes of the man who saved him from drowning.