Beach Talk

Who: Anton + Melia
Where: by the lake
When: very early morning

It was early—too early, in his book—but Anton couldn’t sleep anymore. He was pretty certain he didn’t want to sleep anymore, even with this cold business still lingering about. Sure, it was that sort of hour where there was nothing else to do but go back to bed, but that required him trying to get comfortable on a bed that simply would not have him. He had no interest in reading; the words just got lost in his mental fog, anyway. Even tea was unappealing to him, and that was officially the worst feeling in the world.

Miserable as he felt, Anton had grabbed a jacket and wandered out for a walk anyway, determined to clear up his head. His mind was still getting poor reception from reality, his thoughts disjointed and fuzzy from restless sleep and those horrible dreams… which might’ve explained why it took several wrong turns and a loop around the block before he was finally steering toward the lake. And why he stopped so many times to nervously investigate bushes rustling in the wind. Somewhere between the cloudy thoughts, he was halfway convinced he was still asleep. No sane part of him would ever deny tea, afterall. Or hear sourceless noises, either.

He drifted across the streets like a ghost, leaving no trace. Well, not until he took an ungraceful skid down a sandy trench. His bottom left a nice trail and promptly filled his shoes with sand. Regardless, Anton clumsily trudged his way across the dark, empty beach—still free of the early beach joggers and the dog walkers.

Surely, he was still asleep. Yes, he had to be safe at home, curled up in his bed, and merely dreaming of sleeplessness and the dream-sounds that were still following him in the waking (unwaking) life. Either that, or he was going completely insane.

Am I even conscious yet? he asked himself.

If you’re asking that, then you most likely are, right?

No problem, old man.

Anton fumbled with his shoes, kicking them off and leaning over to roll up his trousers to his knees before standing up agai—ohh, no, dizzy. An unsteady outward reach was the one thing keeping him from a breakfast consisting of wet sand. He toddled off toward the freezing waves, shoes in hand, and splashed down the shoreline… and he felt immediately better. He now had the biting cold to focus on instead of his aches, for starters.

Melia hadn't seen very many humans who walked like they didn't know how to use their legs, but this one was certainly trying to top that small list. Even she could walk better, and she hadn't even been born with legs!

She observed him from her spot on the beach, sitting in the sand with her back to a rock. She'd gone exploring in the town that night, wandering around until she found the place where Caleb lived... but she hadn't gone up to the human dwelling. She didn't know why, but instead she'd turned around to head home. She was still dressed, having spotted the human before disrobing to get back in the water, and decided he was interesting enough to keep watching for a little bit before she went back to the lake. If anything, it was funny to watch him stagger around.

Wading through the water aimlessly, Anton suddenly faltered, a foot disappearing into a sinkhole in the sand. He staggered—flailed—around in a trapped circle for a moment, barely managing to stay upright while he wiggled his foot free. Made quite a splash, while he was at it.

Glancing down in dismay—he was now hopelessly soaked, so much for trying to keep his pants dry—something caught his attention in the corner of his vision and hey! it was a someone. How odd, he’d hardly expected anyone to be out this early.

Hesitating briefly, Anton fecklessly tried to wring out lake water from his trouser leg before opening his mouth. “Hello?” was what he had intended to say. What came out was a groggy, incoherent croak, leaving him with nothing more than a blank face. And three… two… one… self-consciousness hit him like a brick, and his pale face suddenly flooded with color.

Goodness, he was entertaining! Melia watched the human's barely-controllable antics with glee, shoulders shaking with a fit of silent giggles. Her grin widened when his face turned that strange shade of red and she lifted a slim hand in a little wave, fingers waggling playfully at him. Poor human, didn't even know how to use his own legs.

Blast. Anton forced up a grumbling coughing fit to help his throat—and cover for his abashed silence—while he finished squeezing what water he could out of his clothing. His ears were practically a beacon in the low light, though, burning an unhappy shade of crimson. Ooh, this blasted cold.

Trying to pick up the pieces of his confidence again, Anton glanced back toward the person near the rock as he crawled onto the beach again—which he found to be quite dry, and he could appreciate that. On closer inspection, though, he determined two things: one, the someone was a lady (on her own? at this hour?), and two, she looked a little …cold. But maybe it was just the lighting.

Anton blinked at the girl, then muttered out a quiet, scratchy, “Er, ‘allo.” It was only polite, afterall. Though, judging by the way he was eyeing the way he had come from, he didn’t seem keen on sticking around to make a further embarrassment of himself.

Melia stood as he spoke, the faint glow to his skin intriguing. She'd seen a human or two do that before, but she never really knew what caused it. Sometimes it was heat, sometimes from laughing, sometimes from something else. It wasn't hot and he wasn't laughing, so it must be something else. She meandered over to him with an amused smile and waved again, reaching out to poke curiously at his very red ear. It was good, at least, that he'd come farther away from the water. The last thing Melia needed was to step too close to a stray wave and end up on the ground in fins in front of him. Then she'd have to kill him and that would be a shame; he seemed interesting.

All right, no, it wasn’t the lighting. Poor thing, she looked positively blue.

Anton was all ready to offer up his jacket as she approached, until oh, hey, that was weird. He unconsciously slid a foot backward as she came close—too close—freezing as she reached a hand out. Was there something on his face…? Fly away hair? No, just… a poke to his ear—which was quite hot, radiating body heat like, well, all of him. Thanks, head cold.

“Er,” Anton started uncertainly, pausing to reach a hand up and trying to wrap it around hers—gently, of course. How odd. He rather preferred a classic handshake, but if that's what kids were into these days, well… “Ah, er. May I help you, darling?” At least his voice was a little less scratchy now, since he could afford to speak in whispers with, what, her invading his personal space and all that.

He was warm. Melia couldn't feel cold, but that didn't mean she didn't appreciate a good wash of heat now and again. She didn't bother to hide a smile as she saw she was making him uncomfortable. Poor little human; so many of them didn't quite know what to do with her.

Her grip changed as he took her hand, a brief shake as she peered curiously up at him. She grinned and shook her head. He couldn't help her; she was just curious about him. She briefly mimed his little struggle with what she assumed to be a hole under the waves, eyes showing amusement without any real malice.

Really, Anton was at a loss. Putting on a blank state at her game of charades, he couldn’t make sense of what she was trying to do. What, was she mocking him? Bah. He was less than amused, considering the fact that he was all wet now.

Best way to get away from that topic was to change it, as a thought struck him. “You do not… say much, do you?” he mused quietly. For a moment, Anton idly wondered if she was a foreigner, but no, she seemed to understand his last question. So he tried another one.

“Are you all right, love? You look a little, er…” strange “cold.” A pause. “Mm, you may borrow my jacket for a bit, if you would like.” He was feeling too warm for it now, anyway.

Goodness, he was just sharp as a tack, wasn't he? Melia shook her head, tapping her throat and then drawing her hand across it in a cutthroat motion - not to indicate that she'd had her throat cut, of course, but just to let him know she couldn't speak. At least, not as she currently was.

She shook her head again, raising an eyebrow at him. She could have been standing hip-deep in snow and not been cold, a perk of being what she was, but there was no way for him to know that she she supposed she could look a little pale in what little light there was. She'd have to spend more time sunning on rocks. Looking curious, she pointed to him, indicated the area they stood, then lifted her hands in a questioning gesture. In short, what was he doing here so early?

Ooh, it was too early for these sorts of games. Anton rubbed at his face as he watched her movements, grunting wearily. He really needed to sit for this… In the pause that followed, one could practically hear the sluggish little mental gears turning away, clickclickclickclick.

Me, the beach, er, a question, though perhaps she mean— “Oh,” he murmured, blinking with realization. “Er, I could not sleep. Feeling mm, under the weather, so I thought a walk was in order. That is why I am here.” Which was entirely true, save a few missing details. Yes, right.

Frowning a bit, Anton tried clearing his throat… and ended up with a worse rasp than before. “I feel I should mm, be asking the same of you, darling. This is no hour for a pretty lady to be out on her own, mm?” His voice ended on an unhappy creak, which he tried to bring back too late by sucking in his lower lip and grimacing. Blast it. Leave me alone, cold.

Melia's nose wrinkled faintly; the human was sick. Well, that ruled him out for dinner. She didn't eat diseased meat. Shame; she was a little hungry. She'd have to swim to one of the other human cities and catch something for dinner because she was bored with fish. She realized he was talking to her and tuned back in to hear his last question. She preened slightly, pleased to be called pretty, but laughed silently at his polite concern.

Her attempt at sign language got a little vague, her familiarity with human culture not really being up to par, but she did what she could to indicate that she was fine, was out here all the time and had never come to harm. Minus the time with that human with the gun, but she wasn't going to tell this human about that. Not that he'd probably understand if she tried.

Anton tipped his head a bit at her er, explanation, maybe gleaming half of what she meant from it. Something about being all right with the time, or, er… oh well. No matter.

Exhaustion was really starting to catch up with him, though. He had to pause to stifle a yawn, and his attention wandered toward finding a place to sit down before he fell over. Sure, he had the entire beach, but he had his fill of sand already, just ask his shoes. Though, there had been those rocks she’d been sitting by before, too… they were destined to be at least a little less sandy.

Anton started for the rocks, glancing back at her over his shoulder for a moment. Couldn’t just leave the poor thing there on her own, right? Smiling softly, he motioned for her to follow because hey, look, he could play this game, too.

Melia raised an eyebrow, then shrugged internally and followed him to the rocks. He was an interesting enough human to pass some time with, and she had a few hours before she had to be back in the water. Besides, the rocks were drier than the sand where they'd been standing, which meant less chance she'd have a change forced on her by accident. Or design; who knew what strange customs humans had at the beach?

She sauntered along behind him, finding a little nook in which to seat herself comfortably. She looked to be perfectly at home, too, giving credence to her earlier silent statement of frequenting this place. Wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her upturned knees, Melia tilted her head slightly and regarded him curiously. She was here; what now?

Anton clumsily—inelegantly, complete with slipping feet and a bit of helpless squirming—pulled himself onto a nearby rock that looked somewhat accommodating. See? There. That was better. And he was less likely to make a fool of himself if he was sitting and not stumbling around any longer. Setting his shoes aside, he took to the task of brushing sand off of his, well, everything.

He glanced toward her when she gave him a look, quirking an eyebrow himself. “Just mm, needed to sit down, love,” Anton murmured, in the process of shrugging off his jacket. He paused thoughtfully, then took to the task of dusting off his jacket as he spoke again, hoarse as ever, “Would you happen to have a name, darling? Or mm, will I have to just make one up?” A teasing smile followed.

He was a rather awkward human, wasn't he? Melia felt a tiny bit of pity for him, but not all that much because if she ever ran into him when she was hungry and he was healthy, his clumsiness would undoubtedly work in her favor. She frowned slightly at him when he asked her name and made his teasing little sally; he mostly certainly could not make up a name for her. She wasn't a pet and she liked her own name.

She floundered for a moment, having no paper with which to write, and instead settled for leaving her perch long enough to scrawl her name - M-e-l-i-a, just the way she'd learned it long ago - not particularly neatly in the sand. Her handwriting was messy and uneven like a child's, because she'd never really bothered to practice all that much. When she was done she resumed her seat, leveling a curious gaze on him, the question in her eyes obviously asking him the same thing.

Blinking, Anton leaned over a bit when she got up to draw in the sand, watching with interest. “Mel-ah,” he repeated, then gazed toward her with a sheepish smile. “Er, am I pronouncing it correctly?” Right, another strange name to wrap his tongue around somehow.

He settled back, looking forward to using that rock behind him as a lean-to and oh, wait, no, ouch. Wincing faintly, Anton took a moment to fish out a set of keys from his back pocket, then wiggling them into a jacket pocket. Bad thing to leave behind, afterall. “I am Antonin,” he said, noting the look as he settled back. Though, what use was that for someone who couldn’t speak? “Mm, here.” Picking up his shoes, he dumped out the contents between them, scratching his name—in neat, vertical, curvy writing, no less—into the pancake of sand.