“Fuck!” Mitch slipped down into the water runoff as the rain soaked his clothes and seeped into his skin. There was nothing he could do to stop the transformation, and no way for him to drag himself out of the ditch. The storm was too heavy; he would never be able to get dry enough to regain his legs.
His jeans were destroyed, washed away by the stream, taking his phone with it. Mitch couldn’t call for help even if he wanted, not that he had anyone he could call. Mom is going to kill me.
There were too many cars passing on the road for Mitch to remain where he was. The rain was heavy, but it would only take one person looking over the edge and seeing him for him to end up in some government black site getting vivisected. Mitch has seen enough movies—thanks to Stiles’ morbid sense of entertainment—to know what to expect. Even though it disgusted him to do so, he pulled himself deeper into the water and dove under.
It was filthy like sludge where it passed through his gills, making him cough. Nothing like the clean salt-water of his home. The murky water was hard to navigate, and Mitch had to ignore the trash floating by. He needed to find his phone.
The device was protected by an otter box so it would survive the water, but Mitch could barely see twelve inches in front of his face, let alone what might be hiding in the trash-filled bottom of the runoff ditch. For all he knew, a catfish had already eaten it. Do catfish live in these things? It was big enough that some could, about the size of a soccer field. And those fuckers would eat just about anything.
Miraculously, after what had to be an hour of searching, digging his hands through the disgusting floor of the ditch, Mitch managed to find his phone. Clutching it, he swam back to the surface and gulped in sweet, clean air, and coughed up murky water. God, he could feel the grit stuck in his gills. It was almost as bad as the time he got caught in an oil spill when he was seven.
Mitch rubbed his gills with one hand, having to fight the urge to scratch that particularly infuriating itch. He’d have to wait until he got back to school to properly clean them. With his other hand Mitch clicked on his phone and stared at his contact list. He really, really didn’t want to do this—and he knew his mother really would kill him for it—but he had no other choice.
Mitch pulled up Stiles’ contact and hit ‘call’.
Stiles scowled at his phone and picked it up. “Dude, where the hell are you?” he asked by way of greeting. “It’s almost curfew and I can only cover for you for so long!”
“I need help. I got stuck in a fucking drainage ditch.”
“Don’t you think I would have? I need you to come get me.” Mitch paused, the silence heavy. “Bring towels. And some clothes.”
“Dude, what were you even doing down there?”
“I slipped. Just hurry up, I’ll explain later.”
“Fine, fine, I’m coming. But you owe me!”
“Whatever, I don’t care!” Mitch hung up, and several seconds later Stiles received a text; Mitch pinned his location and sent it. Stiles grabbed his keys and headed out.
This wasn’t going to go well. Mitch already knew that. Stiles was prone to freaking out over everything, and he’d be lucky if his roommate managed to keep his mouth shut for even a day once he found out about Mitch’s scaly secret. Sure he could compel him not to talk, but Mitch couldn’t be around him all hours of the day, and it would eventually wear off.
“I should’ve stayed home,” Mitch groaned, glaring up at the stormy sky. He was sitting at the edge of the ditch with just his tail in the water to keep it hidden. At least the rain cleaned his skin somewhat, but he still smelled like stagnant water. Disgusting.
Stiles’ rickety old jeep pulled off the road and Stiles got out. “Tell me again why you couldn’t just get out on your own?” Stiles asked, looking down into the ditch. It was a maybe fifteen foot incline, and not so steep that climbing out would be impossible. He wouldn’t even need to use his hands.
“I broke my ankle,” Mitch lied. He didn’t even try to sound convincing. “Come help me out.” Stiles groaned, but skidded down the incline anyway. He wrapped his arms around Mitch from behind and tried to haul him out, grunting with the effort.
“Why are you so fucking hea—” Stiles dropped Mitch when he pulled him out of the water just enough to see his tail, falling onto his ass and scrambling back. “What the fuck is that!”
“That’s why I need your help! Freak out later, we need to go before someone sees me,” Mitch insisted, flicking his tail irritably.
“Do I look like a woman to you?” Mitch snapped. It was enough to have Stiles go from freaked out to snarking.
“I mean, with that hair, maybe.”
“Hey, you called me for help, dude!”
“Yeah, but you’re not helping!”
“Because you’re a fucking mermaid! Excuse me, but I need a second to process that!”
“Time’s up,” Mitch said flatly. Stiles gave him a shrewd look, but cautiously stood back up and approached again.
“Don’t do anything weird,” Stiles mumbled, wrapping his arms around Mitch again.
“What do you think I’m going to do?”
“I don’t know.” It was a struggle to drag Mitch out of the ditch, because there wasn’t much he could do to help. And he was heavy. Mitch tried to push against the ground with his tail, but it really wasn’t meant for that, and all his squirmy just made Stiles drop him. Several times. “For the love of God, stop it, or I’ll leave you here.”
“I’m just trying to help,”
“Stop helping! Jesus.” Stiles was panting from the exertion. “I’m not doing this again. Next time I drop you, that’s it, you can get yourself out.”
“Dick.” Mitch hung there limp, feeling like a bait fish on a hook. They finally reached the top twenty minutes later, where Stiles unceremoniously dropped Mitch on the gravel shoulder, then collapsed down beside him, gasping for breath. “You need to get me in the car before someone sees me,” Mitch insisted, looking around them. It was late, but there was still the occasional car driving by. Mitch was mostly shielded by the car sitting between them in the road, but he didn’t want to take any chances.
“Ugh, you’re so demanding.”
“Sorry that I don’t want to get disected by crazy government scientists like one of your stupid movies!”
“Ugh.” Stiles got up. At least the ground was flat, now. He opened up the back door and picked Mitch up in a bridal carry, then unceremoniously stuffed him into the back seat.
“Don’t touch my tail,” Mitch snapped when Stiles tried to pick it up and shove that in too. Mitch scowled at him and pulled all six feet of scale and muscle in by himself. Stiles slammed the door—almost catching one of his tail fins, bastard—and stormed around to the front.
“Here,” he said, and threw a pile of towels back at Mitch. He started the car but didn’t go anywhere. Mitch mostly ignored him. He stripped out of his wet jacket and shirt, and worked to get himself dried off as fast as he could. It took a few minutes before his tail finally melted back into a pair of legs, only for Stiles to squawk at him, “Are you naked!”
“Why do you think I wanted the clothes, dumbass?” Mitch shimmied into his clothes as best he could with the limited space available. Even without the tail, his legs were long and trying to put on his pants with partially-damp skin was still a struggle.
After he was dried off Mitch got out of the jeep and mopped up the remaining water left on the vinyl seats. A small olive branch. When he climbed into the passenger seat Stiles was staring out the window in shock. “You can’t tell anyone,” he said seriously.
“That you’re a mermaid.” Mitch sighed. That was like calling a zebra a horse; they may look similar, but were in fact not the same thing.
“A siren, actually.” Stiles nodded numbly.
“Cool. Totally. Makes sense.”
“No! None of this makes sense!”
“Let’s just go back to school before we get in trouble for breaking curfew.”
“Oh, that ship has already sailed.”
“It’s a saying, not a joke!” Stiles’ knuckles were white where his hands were clenched around the steering wheel. It was a lot to spring on someone, Mitch would give him that. Stiles finally put his car into gear and pulled back onto the road. After a few minutes of silence, he asked, “Are you even religious? Shouldn’t you pray to, I don’t know, Poseidon or something?”
“Sirens are Greek,” Stiles pointed out.
“I’m not,” Mitch testily repeated. “And anyway, my father was Catholic, but I don’t really practice anymore.”
“A Catholic siren, who’d’ve thought.”
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
titsay
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
tangentwithtanner
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
