Chapter Text
Robert follows Chad as he leads them closer to land. The beach Robert had been resting on was one side of a long strip of rocky and thin cape, and the first step on the journey was apparently going to be getting past it.
Chad finds a thin area, scouts the other side to make sure nothing is lying in wait, and then helps him across. Like he did with the nest.
Hunting on this side is sparse, but not really, the water swarming with smaller fish that draws in modest behemoths and sharks from deeper in the sea en masse. However, the bigger species seem to be rare. Occasionally, there's seals on the rocks they pass, barking loudly at the perceived intruders.
It's almost obnoxiously safe compared to open water. You'd have to range quite a ways for something like tuna or marlin, let alone big things like whales.
(Not that he's ever had any of those. Both of those are too fast, and whales too smart for him to be comfortable hunting. They made good friends for some, but he mostly just avoided them.)
There's even thick patches of purple urchins on the rocks. It's tailor made to fit Robert's palette, and by the shy look on Chad's face when he comments on it, that's on purpose.
It's a good location, too, when they come up on it properly. Wild water grasses swathe the wide edges of a lagoon, providing cover, and there's thick vegetation on the bottom. The whole area swarms with life of all kinds, but most prominently, it's a nursery for fish. Perfect for guppies just barely learning to hunt.
There's a thin sandbar bordering the water they came from, only about the length of Chad's body when it's stretched out, that should keep the guppies in and the majority of predators out.
Of course, it's not without flaws, but Robert can work on that. He swims to the far side of the water and pokes his head out to take a look at the inland side.
A sandbar of about the same size blocks it off, but past that, a huge salt marsh seems to stretch for as far as Robert can see, and he hops on top of it to see better. Tall, fat-bottomed trees dot algae-choked lakes, and he can see things, far away in the shadows of the water, that move slowly with mass. He doesn't recognize what, but he hopes they're aggressive. Means he won't need to chase them down and can put all his strength into stabbing whatever weak points he can find.
If this place is a nursery, in there, it'll be insanely populated.
Robert can see the potential already.
He could carve the dead wood into stakes and block off almost all the approaches for this little lagoon, and fortify it into a safe place to have the kids. There's plenty of room, and places to sleep, and the water is at least twenty feet deep at the lowest parts.
Chad watches him inspect it nervously, always just a foot behind, analyzing the inspection with the demeanor of a man facing down his death. He keeps combing back his hair, grooming himself, picking nervously at absolutely nothing under his claws. He's not really doing anything, and in fact, is kind of getting in the way as Robert starts actively considering where to put things. He's still not used to the new bulk in his stomach, and it makes him a kind of wobbly swimmer. It'd be best if he could get Chad out of the way for a while, somehow.
His stomach gently gnaws at him, reminding him that he hasn't eaten breakfast.
Robert slides back off of the sandbar and, a bit pointedly, comments, "You know, I could eat something small. Would you mind. . .?"
Chad lights up like even the suggestion of getting to hunt or gather for him means the world, and even though it's only natural, Robert almost feels guilty for taking advantage of his eagerness.
"On it. Anything you're craving?"
Robert tries to consider it seriously. Despite how he talked about it before, he doesn't usually have the luxury to crave anything specific. Sharks are hard to carve into, but easier to kill when they're hungry, and their meat can get deceptively rich. Urchins are pretty good, and you can just eat a bunch of them them right off the rock until you're full if you come across a large patch. Honestly, anything with a shell doesn't react to him until the very last moment, and by then it's usually too late.
He's not sure the kind of seaweed he likes will be this close to land, but he probably should have some to keep his diet balanced. Once the eggs hatch and the guppies start developing inside, he'll need even more. There might be some kinds Chad knows that he won't. And there's probably vegetation in that marsh they're both unfamiliar with.
Seals are always good. Heavy meat, and the blubber could keep Robert going for ages. He likes to keep a little bit for later when he can. If he had rocks to dry some of it on, sometime he'd make little. . . stashes, for when times got lean, woven and stuffed between rocks or hung off tree branches to keep away scavengers, but he hasn't had the time do to that in ages. Since they—he is going to be here for a while, it might be wise to start stocking up.
He'd have to haul some rocks over first, though. So maybe he won't do it this time.
"Brown kelp. Maybe something crunchy. Or seal." Robert decides. "But a small one, okay? Take my bag, you won't be able to carry all of it."
He doesn't offer the stone with a crystal on it. Chad can find something just as sharp on his own, or use his claws.
Chad puffs up a little at the insinuation that he wouldn't be able to swim just fine, probably about to claim he could tow a whole tuna or something on top of another mer his size, but deflates when Robert holds out the bag.
He opens and examines it, looking curiously at Robert's tools inside. Some stuff for making more bags, others for descaling, one or two lesser cutting implements wrapped in seal pelt. The rock Chad gave him is better, those are dulling, only useful for cutting your claws short. He closes it, and then turns it over, examining the tight weaving.
"How'd you make this so well? I tried, but I suck at it. And it's different than the one you used to have."
"Uh, just a little trick my dad taught me." Robert deflects with a nonchalant shrug. His dad had been obsessed with that kind of stuff—advancing the species, he called it. He'd gather enough dry wood to boil down a ton of brown kelp, then before he started, head deep, deep down, to where he said the 'brine' was. He'd bring it back up in containers, and then use the sun and catch what evaporated off. He had this white stuff he ground down and baked near this super hot cone deep underwater, too, and then he'd mix it in with the brine and separate it back out. It was dangerous work, so Robert wasn't allowed to see that part.
His dad had called it a 'volcano', and to never, ever go near one if he didn't know how hot it could get. And that eventually, after a while, he and the other merpeople in the area wouldn't be able to use it anymore, because it'd become an island.
Now that had blew kid-him's mind.
Robbie tended to reuse the liquid as much as he could since it was so complicated and risky to make, though, so mostly he just boiled kelp.
Robert had only gotten to come along for brine collecting once, because he was the only guppy in his clutch and the strongest one available at the time. They'd gone down, down, down, until the entire world felt like it was pressing in on his eyes and gluing his gills shut. His job had been to hold shit while his dad poked at the edge of thick, white pools filled with the sunken remains of dead things that'd gotten too close. By that point, Robert had already acquired a nick in his right fin by mishandling a knife.
The end product, after steadily dripping the kelp into the brine for hours followed by a long soak, was long, thick threads he, Robbie, and his mom wove into nets to catch fish, and bags, and all sorts of stuff that lasted for months or years. It eventually broke back down into sludge, but it was very useful while it lasted.
Robert couldn't really do all that. But he still learned how to weave, and just used live kelp instead. His stuff was much bulkier, and it couldn't catch fish really, but it worked, and it didn't need all of that infrastructure. Sometimes he used seal pelt, too, like the wrappings. It made for a good way to keep water off of things or prevent something from cutting anything, or for warmth. But he didn't really have much cause to make things like that.
. . .He might, now. The warmer he was able to get, the faster the eggs would grow.
Anyways, Robert zones back in to Chad struggling to put the bag strap over one shoulder, clearly unused to wearing one, and cursing under his breath.
"Here, I'll just—" Robert reflexively puts his hands on him to help adjust it to sit naturally while they're both treading water, tails brushing from proximity, and Chad goes still. He lets Robert rearrange him, and Robert sneaks a glance at his face.
He can't quite read it, but it almost looks like hesitation. Like he thinks if he moves or speaks, Robert will remember not to act too familiar with him. Nevermind the fact Robert's cock was inside him not even three hours ago, and vice versa two months ago.
Robert untangles his arms (how the hell had he managed that?) and pulls them all the way through so the bag will sit on Chad's hip.
"There." He slaps his shoulder, just a couple inches away from the raw bite mark, and watches him flinch with a self-satisfied grin.
Once he's back, Robert is going to eat, and then he's going to put another bite on him, on his back, this time, just to make sure he doesn't forget he's supposed to come home.
As the time waxes on, and months start flying by, Robert's energy settles firmly into being expressed in short bursts. For example, one day he carves ten stakes, falls asleep, wakes up to Chad tenderly feeding him, fucks him, lines the edges of their lagoon with more stakes, and passes out again.
The distance he can travel comfortably gets increasingly smaller as the eggs grow as well, body leaning harder and harder into its ambusher habits to stay still and wait for food to come to him, like a soft limit. Restlessness settles in, because he can't help but repeat his schedule over and over, feeling like he's constantly swimming in circles.
Wake up, fortify the lagoon, go to sleep, wake up to being fed, sing and prepare some food stores with Chad for when the guppies come, weather the smothering attention until he flips Chad over and fucks him until he passes out for a break, go to sleep halfway through a task, wake up to Chad bringing him a gift of spiky purple crystals he found in a sunken thing made of wood from the east, bury the crystals in the sandbar facing the salt marsh, sing, eat, sleep, wake, sing, fuck, sleep, and it goes on, and on, and on.
Robert almost wishes he'd get jumped again by someone coming after him for his awful singing, just to break up the monotony by getting to see Chad get into a fight instead of smelling the blood on him later.
It's after waking up with a seal skin on him, feeling heavier than he's ever been in his life and knowing objectively that the next spawning season must be looming close at hand, but unable to feel it because of the kids that have probably fully developed by this point, that he finally breaks.
He needs to get out of the lagoon and hunt something down, fight something, anything to to get this energy out other than just repeatedly tackling Chad when he comes back and using his cock to drive him into the nearest surface. He fucking loves how easily Chad bends for him, of course, the way he caresses his stomach, how he takes it like he was the one full of eggs and begging for more, but even the wonderful thrill of manhandling his mate is starting to go stale.
The swamp. He can explore in there. Probably won't be anyone else in there, he can hunt, and right now the water is high. It'll be lower later, but it'll help keep him hidden. God, sometimes he thinks he's gonna pop any day now.
His body can still dart like a motherfucker and isn't just stuck on the bottom of the nest, so he's probably not actually as heavy as he feels and still has some time to go, but tell that to the way his body is complaining at him as he tries to drag himself across the stake-studded sandbar to the wooded waters beyond, a bag on his waist, the courting gift inside wrapped in leather.
"ROBERT." Chad sounds exasperated, but Robert doesn't allow himself to be herded.
He keeps crawling. He's still got plenty of energy, he stubbornly tells himself.
"What the fuck are you trying to do?"
"Hunt." Robert grunts, and behind him, the newest gift Chad's brought home falls into the lagoon with a splash, and then a larger one follows as Chad hauls himself onto the sandbar and pursues.
"You are not hunting." Robert guesses that if he looked back, Chad would be glowering. But Robert's been nice for months. He kind of wants to be a dick again, just to reclaim a little autonomy.
Robert slides into the marshy swamp water, and Chad follows after before he can swim away. The water in here is choked with debris and plants, lending a quick-turning explorer an advantage over a fast one.
"I am." It is as final as Robert can be.
Robert flicks his tail to dart forward, and runs into Chad's chest instead. He'd anticipated it, and moved swiftly to block his path with his body.
Chad glares down. "It's too dangerous."
Robert swiftly jukes him to the left, a little sluggish but still quick, and it takes Chad a second too long to react.
He gets past into the choked swamp.
"Unless you pin me down and fuck me like the first time, I'm going." Robert calls casually over his shoulder, sliding deeper into the shadows of the trees and already thinking of what he'll find hiding in the roots and logs there.
Chad doesn't speak, and Robert takes that as implied permission.
It is not.
Water sloshes, and to Robert's irritation, Chad follows, keeping pace behind him. It takes at least twenty seconds of tense and relatively silent travel to get to where the water deepens, and approach a point where the lagoon could pass out of sight at any moment. Adrenaline trickles into his system, and his fins flex with excitement.
He finally feels alive for the first time in weeks.
And then, as Robert crosses the final boundary that separates the familiar from the unknown, Chad acts.