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shadows they call

Summary:

When he arrives at The Marrows, head hurting after the accident, mind as disoriented as it can be, and the Mayor asks him who he is, he simply says: “The Fisherman”.

Because that’s the only thing he truly knows about himself: he can fish. He is the Fisherman. Somehow that is enough, and for a few weeks he does just that: goes fishing, sells fish, gets money, buys things to make his boat… liveable. And tries to ignore that some of the fish he catches looks… strange. Feels strange.

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It’s weird, but Fisherman doesn’t remember his name. What a strange thing for a person — to not remember who he is, what name he has been given at birth.
When he arrives at The Marrows, head hurting after the accident, mind as disoriented as it can be, and the Mayor asks him who he is, he simply says: “The Fisherman”.

Because that’s the only thing he truly knows about himself: he can fish. He is the Fisherman. Somehow that is enough, and for a few weeks he does just that: goes fishing, sells fish, gets money, buys things to make his boat… liveable. And tries to ignore that some of the fish he catches looks… strange. Feels strange.

Actually, there are many strange things going on, but he chooses to ignore them. He doesn’t go to the sea at night, as told. He doesn’t eat the wrong fish — who in their right mind would eat something like this?! He just… blends in.

Until one time he finds himself at the open sea after midnight, and he’s panicking. There’s something about the purple lights, about the way they move, their colours… bright, too bright, and they are whispering to him, and he sees the land, the light —normal, yellow, warm — at the shore, and he moors there, trying to catch his breath and slow his crazy heartbeat.

That’s how Fisherman meets him. The Collector. Fisherman doesn’t know if that man, The Collector, doesn’t know his own name as well, or just chooses not to tell it. But that feels right, like… like not having names makes them somehow connected.

The Collector doesn’t talk much at first, but then, after Fisherman brings him the first Relic, something changes. Well, more like everything changes, because now Fisherman feels like he needs to go back to that man, like he’s drawn to him. First, he blames it on the abilities The Collector has been giving him, those weird little powers, that helps Fisherman survive, even at night. But deep down, he knows there’s more to it. He likes being there, at his company. Likes slow, dark nights, when they talk at the Mansion, or just… not talk. The Collector looks at him like Fisherman means something, and it feels good. Feels warm.

“Why don’t you go there yourself and find the Relics? I’m sure you know these waters better than I do,” Fisherman says once, when they drink burning hot tea, and The Collector’s glasses gets foggy from the steam. He looks… sad.

“You are The Fisherman,” says The Collector like it explains everything, and then adds, “and the ocean doesn’t like me anymore.”

Fisherman decides not to push further, and reaches out with a silly gesture, covering The Collector’s cold hand with his own. It’s the first time he sees The Collector flinch. He almost moves his hand away, when something even stranger happens: The Collector smiles. It’s not a happy smile, but it’s something, and Fisherman falls, and falls, and he feels like there’s no bottom to this fall.

One of the Relics proves to be hard to gather, and there are more than a few times when Fisherman thinks he’s not gonna make it. He thought he wouldn’t be afraid of death, but he is, and he uses the Manifest power before he can even think about it. He hates himself for going back empty-handed, but his wounds hurt like hell, his boat is almost sunken, and he just needs a moment of peace.

He manages to get to the Mansion, his feet are like heavy stones and his head is like cotton wool. All he can taste is blood, and he swallows it, and tries to breathe. The Mansion is empty, though the heavy wooden door, that splinted in half, is not locked. He spends the last of his strengths to push it open, and then there is only darkness.

He rocks on the waves, and the water is warm and welcoming. The water knows him inside and out, and he belongs there, in the waves. He hears whisper and the familiar voice is telling him, no, commanding him to come back. And he does. Fisherman opens his eyes and sees The Collector's face — frowning, brows furrowed, sweat on his forehead.

“I thought you left,” is it even his voice? It’s like he hasn't spoken for days. I was terrified that you left me alone, left without even saying goodbye. He doesn’t say it out loud.

“I was at the Workshop,” The Collector shakes his head and looks worried, and sad again, “I shouldn’t have pushed you this much. Shouldn’t have rushed you to find them all this fast. It was selfish of me, and I am sorry.”

Fisherman tries to sit up, but The Collector puts his palm on the Fisherman’s chest, stopping him. The palm is cold, really cold, and Fisherman wants to warm it with his breath.

“Don’t be. It was my choice. I want to find them for you.” Even though I know you’ll probably leave after I do. He doesn’t say it, either.

The Collector starts saying something, but Fisherman reaches forward and kisses him, stopping him mid-sentence. There is a terrifying pause when The Collector is frozen, his lips are unmoving — cold and slightly salty. Fisherman’s heart pounding in his chest so hard and fast, that he is sure The Collector can feel it with his palm, that are still pressed to Fisherman’s chest.

What is wrong with him? There must be something deeply, terribly wrong. He is wrong.

And then The Collector is kissing him back.

His mouth tastes like the ocean, and Fisherman leans in, deepens the kiss. The Collector kisses like he wants to taste every corner of his mouth, it’s teeth, and tongue, and almost too much — and not enough.

Fisherman moans in his mouth, and then The Collectors moves away — only to take off his glasses and carefully put them on a night stand. Only now Fisherman realizes that he is in bed, somewhere inside the Mansion, and he totally does not remember getting there.

“You brought me here?” He says, voice is hoarse, and it’s almost pathetic how turned on he is just from one kiss. Though he doesn’t have a lot of experience, as far as he can remember. Memory is a strange thing.

“Obviously, I wasn’t keen on letting you die in my main hall.” The Collector smiles, and without his usual glasses he looks younger, and somehow even more… charming.

“Oh, so you rather I die in your bed?” Fisherman laughs, and it’s weird — he can't remember the last time he laughed this genuine.

The Collector raises his eyebrow and shakes his head, although he is, too, smiling, and his eyes are crinkling.

“I rather you don’t die, Fisherman. I need you.” The Collector looks at him with something absolutely unreadable in his eyes. “Next time you decide to be reckless, or a hero, just remember that one thing. I need you.”

The Collector kisses him first this time, and it is slow, like deep calm waters. Fisherman isn’t sure he had ever kissed men before. He probably has, but this is different. The Collector moves on top of him, presses him to the bed, and he is still cold like stones that sometimes whispers to Fisherman, asking to press his hand onto their surface.

But it’s not unpleasant, nothing about The Collector is, and Fisherman gasps for air when the cold hand moves down his body, unzips his pants. The Collector moves confidently, surely, and Fisherman thrusts his hips up, when The Collector’s palm wraps around his cock. It feels… right. Feels incredible. He wants more. He kisses the Collector, and it’s sloppy, and wet, and with too much teeth, and The Collector lets him, moving his hand up and down Fisherman’s throbbing shaft, pressing just right, encircling the head.

“Fuck, I’m close, please… please…”, there’s a name in his head, it almost forms, but then he cums, and everything is swiped away with hot waves of pleasure.

When he comes down from his high, The Collectors pulls away, and Fisherman stops him, catches his wrist — suddenly thin and delicate — and turns them both on the bed, smiling triumphantly.

“My turn,” he has no idea why he’s suddenly so confident, probably he’s still overwhelmed after his orgasm, but he wants nothing more than to make The Collector feel as good. The latter looks like he didn’t expect it, and Fisherman smiles again, sliding down his body. He has no idea how to suck someone’s off, but he managed to deal with Mind Suckers, so… He laughs in his head with his own stupid joke.

And then he doesn’t laugh, because he pulls off The Collector’s pants, and he is sure it’s a first time he sees someone’s cock this close. It’s hard, and thick, and veiny, and Fisherman takes it in his mouth, feeling a spark of joy, when he hears a strangled moan. He hollows his cheeks and sucks, swirling his tongue around the salty head, around the shaft.

It doesn’t take long until The Collector starts thrusting in his mouth, and his hand moves to grasp Fisherman’s hair. And then he cums, and Fisherman swallows, and swallows, and it tastes like the sea.

The Collector pulls him up and kisses again, licking into his mouth, and then whispers, almost too quiet, but Fisherman hears him anyway: “When you’ve done with the Relics, I’ll ask you to come with me. And for your sake, I hope you’ll say no.”

Fisherman smiles and settles onto the bed, feeling The Collector’s heartbeat and closing his eyes.