Blues and Greens and Slivers摘

The dogs lay on the balcony, a couple of them perched on the available chairs, the rest of them huddled together around their legs.

Hannibal looks down at Will as he drops his head on Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal looks at him swirl his wine slowly before bringing the glass to his lips, barely wetting his lips with it. Hannibal wants to kiss the taste of dark cherry, and licorice off his lips, and lick the aftertaste of vanilla off his palate.

Will blinks slowly, his eyes drooping as he admires the incredible view Istanbul offers them under the clear, starry sky. Hannibal is mesmerised by his eyelashes caressing his cheekbones each time his eyes flutter close. It takes him a minute to realise Will is humming softly, so quiet it almost gets lost under the sound of the city night life climbing up to the bubble of warmth of their balcony. He recognises the delicate, languorous prayer of Casta Diva.

Hannibal leans down to kiss the crown of his head. “I take it you liked the opera,” he whispers against Will’s soft curls.

Will hums his approval, snuggling closer to Hannibal’s side. “If there’s something humans do right, it’s music.”

“I thought music was merfolk’s speciality. All legends agree that you mastered it to the point that you can use it to control human minds.”

“We also tell our young of a time when our voice alone could enthral humans,” Will says softly, taking a sip of his wine. “Myths and legends passed down from our ancestors millennia ago.”

Hannibal brings his own glass to his mouth, smelling the wine. “So it isn’t real.”

“It might have been. Who knows? It fills our young’s dreams.” Will extends a hand to grab a pastry in the box on the table. He nibbles on the baklava slowly, appreciating the sweet taste of hazelnut and honey. “Doesn’t matter whether it is real. It teaches them the importance of language. Our society evolved the way it did because we can communicate complex meanings,” Will says, looking up at Hannibal, and extending his hand to give him the rest of his pastry. “I guess it’s pretty much the same for humans.”

Hannibal nods, and takes the pastry into his mouth, chewing slowly. “We transcript thoughts and emotions through articulated speech. It is the foundation of our society and its rich, complex structure.”

In the distance, a few cars start honking. Some of the dogs lift their heads, yipping. Will shushes them and they settle down again.

“How do merfolk communicate underwater?”

Will considers his answer for a second. “Whistles. Chirps,” he says, “We use pitch and frequency to convey meaning. It’s why music is such an important part of our culture. If you can sing, then you can speak.”

“Doesn’t it limit the range of meaning you can convey?”

Will shakes his head. “Not at all. Our language is different from yours. For humans, for a given moment and context, one word has a meaning—or several—set in stone. The complexity of a meaning matches the complexity of the structure. For us, the structure isn’t as important as the meaning. Pitch and frequency variations can convey both simple and complex ideas.”

The sound of police sirens and ambulances add themselves to the cacophony of honking and screeching tires. This time all the dogs perk up. Ellie and Harley manage to bark once before Will clicks his tongue sharply and they all settle down again. Hannibal looks at the city spread below then. He can tell where the commotion comes from but the tallest buildings mask his view.

“I think they found your little gift,” Will says, reaching into the box of baklava again, taking out two round pieces. He presses one to Hannibal’s mouth and pops the other in his own mouth.

Hannibal hums around his mouthful. “Structure is how you convey a meaning,” he says after swallowing. “How do you specify a complex meaning without any kind of complex structure?”

“You think like this because humans need blueprints for everything. Which isn’t a bad thing. When everything is neatly arranged in labelled boxes, it facilitates the learning process. But it quickly limits the possibilities for development.”

“Structure isn’t an obstacle to development. We create on existing, sturdy foundations.” Hannibal leans over to take another baklava, this one with pistachio, and brings it to Will’s mouth, who eagerly bites into it, almost taking a piece of Hannibal’s fingers along. “Thousands of new words are created every year.”

“But only a fifth of them are widespread enough to make it into the dictionary. Because those new words will be printed in black and white, you want their meanings to be stable and unanimously agreed upon. But a meaning doesn’t have to be structured to be stable and unanimously agreed upon.”

“No?”

Will hums thoughtfully, bringing his glass to his lips and taking quiet little sips. “Think about art,” he says after a moment. “Sure, you have to acquire a set of principles, learn about technique, colour, balance, composition... But ultimately art is all about meaning. Structure isn’t the defining factor. Once you’ve learned the rules, you can play with them as you please.” Buster, who lays just beside his feet, stand up and rises to put his tiny paws on Will’s thigh, wagging his tail. Will reaches for the plate of home made dog treats on the table and gives Buster one, rubbing his ears as he chew. “Have a hundred artists draw a clam, you’ll end up with a hundred different clams, but clams all the same.”

Finally the police sirens relents, and only the sound of the two ambulances can be heard. Hannibal sighs in content and brings his glass to his mouth, taking a sip of his wine. “That limits the representation to simple concepts.”

“Have a hundred artists represent love, you’ll end up with a hundred different representations of love, but love all the same,” Will says, feeding Max a treat as well when he drops his head on Will’s thigh.

“That’s because we have preconceived ideas and symbolism of love, and recognise their representation.”

“Blueprints and labelled boxes,” Will says, waving his hand dismissively. “Is love a God? Is love a heart? Is love soft colours and faded edges? You may see it as such, someone else may not.”

Eventually, the sound of the ambulances recedes and all that remains are the colourful lights of the police cars flashing amongst the city lights, probably setting up their tape and questioning possible witnesses. Once again the only sound audible is the quiet buzz of the city night life, and the occasional soft whines of the dogs.

“Does that mean merfolk languages are all about interpretation?”

“You could say that.”

“How do you understand each other if you don’t interpret what the other person is saying as the way they want it interpreted?” A gust of wind passes over them, and Hannibal feels Will shiver slightly. He wraps an arm around his shoulder, pressing them closer together. His thumb traces slow circles on Will’s upper arm, over the soft fabric of his shirt. “An artist could draw a clam and I could interpret it as a leave. They could use red for love and I could interpret it as anger,” he says against Will’s hair.

Will turns his head to nuzzle Hannibal’s cheek. “That’s not a problem because this is a conversation. Communication,” he says, “If I see a clam and you see a leave, we’ll know. If you see anger and I see love, we’ll know. Because these are the meanings we’ll convey to each other. The structure you use doesn’t change the meaning of the subject being discussed. Just like the interpretation of an artwork doesn’t change the artwork.” He takes another long sip of his wine, letting it linger on his tongue.

Merfolk culture is as obscure as it is fascinating. Hannibal brings his glass to his mouth, smelling the wine before taking a sip as well. “Merfolk languages seem difficult to both learn and speak.”

“Well. We practice from birth,” Will says, returning Hannibal his words.

Hannibal smiles at him, leaning down for a long, leisurely kiss of black cherries and licorice. Will quietly laughs in the kiss, his shoulders shaking with each huff, as Hannibal finally gets to lap the aftertaste of vanilla on his palate, the taste of honey and hazelnut from the pastries only adding to the sweetness of the kiss. When they part, Will licks his lips and places one last peck on Hannibal’s mouth.

“I’d love to hear you speak in your language,” Hannibal whispers against Will’s lips.

“We don’t speak, we sing. Although it doesn’t sound the same underwater and on land.”

Hannibal leaves a trail of kisses on his jaw, until he can nuzzle the short curls behind his ear. “Will you sing for me then?”

“You’re not afraid you might try to drown yourself in the Bosphorus?” Will teases, looking at Hannibal from under his eyelashes.

“Have some faith in me.”

Will huffs out a laugh. He readjusts himself against Hannibal’s side, inhales slowly, and on the exhale a string of soft, melodious, bell-like sounds resound around them.

Blues and Greens and Slivers摘