Kon hears the merman’s heart speed up, on the right side of his chest rather than the left; beating in a rhythm different from both his own and that of most humans, slow and sweeping; almost like gentle waves rolling onto the shore. With a breathy, nervous laugh, Tim meets his eyes and adds, “Mostly because messing with you humans is just too much fun to pass up.”
“You think you’re so clever, don’tcha?” Kon drawls, a hint of Midwestern colouring his accent. It’s a souvenir from all those weekends that Clark’s taken Kon home to his parents’ farm with him, a mark in the shape of Kansas; etched deeper into his bones with every time Ma ruffles his hair and every time Pa tells him, ‘Good job, son!’ after a long day of working the fields.
Kon licks his lips and leans in close enough to spot the constellation of tiny, indigo freckles scattered all over Tim’s nose and cheeks; darkening further as his cheeks do, until they’re so blue they’re almost black. With one, final wink, Kon makes a show of breathing in a big lungful of air that he doesn’t need— and lets his body sink back beneath the waves.