Chapter 10: A Little Shell Nest, neatly marked “For Wen Chu Only”…

Wen Chu stared for a while at the crude, out-of-place necklace hanging at Xiu’s neck, and only then reacted.

He defended himself softly, “I won’t cry.”

Xiu sat on the rock with his tail curled, his posture lazily sated in the aftermath. “Mm, true enough. How could a jellyfish possibly cry?”

“I’m Wen Chu,” Wen Chu repeated. “Even if I weren’t a jellyfish, I wouldn’t cry.”

The doctors had said he’d been plagued by illness since birth, which was why he had to stay in the hospital. He’d had many problems—no arms, no heartbeat, wrong blood color—that were all resolved by the doctors. Only two remained unsolved: he couldn’t feel pain and he had no tears. So even as a human, he wouldn’t cry.

Xiu answered, “Alright, Wen Chu.”

He had clearly misunderstood, thinking Wen Chu’s concern was merely that he hadn’t called his name. Xiu hadn’t meant anything by it. After all, fish didn’t have names, and calling a jellyfish by a human name was odd. But—

Xiu glanced at the jellyfish, thinking. So be it. Compared to Wen Chu’s bizarre healing ability, a jellyfish having a name was the most ordinary of oddities.

Wen Chu assumed Xiu had understood and didn’t explain further.

The kiss had cost them some time. Xiu quickly finished shucking the remaining shells for him. Wen Chu was now a size larger than Xiu’s head; when he went “om nom” he could swallow Xiu’s entire hand, leaving wet, sticky traces on his long, fair fingers.

After feeding him, Xiu casually wiped the slime off his hand with the jellyfish and said, “Let’s get back. The narwhal must be anxious.”

“Okay.” Wen Chu expertly settled onto Xiu’s shoulder.

Because he had grown, Xiu’s shoulder could no longer fully hold him, and a bit of him floated off the edge.

Xiu raised a hand and tucked him closer, and a few of Wen Chu’s tentacles hooked around Xiu’s neck. They’d grown long enough to loop fully around his neck or dangle to brush his chest.

The very chest he’d turned red and swollen the first day.

With so many tentacles, it was inevitable that one or two would flick lightly past. Xiu felt a cool tickle at his chest and looked down at Wen Chu.

Wen Chu jolted and hurriedly gathered all his tentacles, clutching Xiu’s neck tightly. “I’ll be good. I won’t touch your chest again. From now on I’ll only kiss you.”

Xiu: “…”

And that’s supposed to be praise-worthy?

He sighed, and after the sigh let a single “Idiot” fall, then started back with the jellyfish.

On the way, Wen Chu didn’t forget to confirm with Xiu, “Can we take Grandma Narwhal to the Arctic with us?”

“We can. Makes no difference if we take one or a few,” Xiu said.

He didn’t mind. Since they were going to the Arctic anyway, bringing a few fish along was no trouble.

Wen Chu was thrilled. All his soft tentacles wrapped around Xiu’s neck, giving him a jellyfish-style hug. “Thank you, Xiu. You’re so good.”

Xiu scoffed. “I’m good to you?”

He’d almost turned Wen Chu into a cold-dressed jellyfish salad and hadn’t exactly been gentle with his words. And now, simply agreeing to take him to the Arctic because of his ability counted as being “good”?

“You are,” Wen Chu said as if it were obvious. “You agreed to take me to the Arctic, you fed me, you let me sleep with you, and you kissed me. You’re really good.”

He remembered being called a “bother” and added, “I can feed myself now. You won’t have to be bothered by me later.”

Xiu fell silent, neither agreeing nor refusing. He just muttered another “Idiot” and swam on with Wen Chu.

By then, the narwhal had been waiting for two hours.

She was getting used to two-hour delays from Xiu and Wen Chu. Calm as still water, she even started amusing herself by counting the coral fragments on the beach.

She was a well-traveled whale with strong powers of acceptance. After a brief shock, she had quietly accepted the coral’s sudden revival and death.

“Does sand count as part of coral fragments? A lot of sand is what parrotfish poop out after eating coral…”

As she was puzzling over it, a clear young voice came from afar.

“Grandma Narwhal—”

The narwhal looked up. Not far off, a blaze of gold was swimming toward her.

It was Xiu.

And clinging to his neck was the transparent jellyfish who had called out.

Had Wen Chu grown again?

She wasn’t sure.

Wen Chu had arrived with Xiu. “Grandma Narwhal, Xiu agreed to take us to the Arctic! We’re leaving right away!”

“Ah?” The narwhal thought she was hearing things. “To the Arctic?”

“Yes, the Arctic.” Worried Wen Chu might say too much, Xiu spoke first. “You saw it too. Wen Chu has a special ability to revive the dead. But it takes a lot out of him. We discussed it and decided to take him to the Arctic so he can recover and keep using his ability.”

The narwhal stared.

Even with her strong acceptance, two big shocks in a row had her asking faintly, “Really?”

“Really,” Wen Chu poked his head out from Xiu’s golden hair. “I can show you. Are you hurt somewhere? I’ll heal you.”

“No,” Xiu and the narwhal said in unison.

Xiu lifted him from his shoulder and gave him a cold look. “If you act up again, I won’t save you.”

The narwhal shook her head too. “I don’t need it. Don’t waste your ability on me.”

Their strong reaction startled Wen Chu. He looked at Xiu, then at the clearly-tired narwhal, and agreed.

“…Okay.”

No need is no need—why so loud?

Held in Xiu’s hand, Wen Chu watched Xiu find a rock, pick up a shard, and draw two circles, one above the other.

“We are here—Southeast Asia along the Pacific’s western edge.” Xiu marked a little triangle at the lower-left of the bottom circle.

“This is our destination.” He drew a small flag on the top circle.

Then he circled the part where the two circles almost touched and wrote “Bering Strait.”

“The shortest route is straight across the central Pacific to the Bering Strait. Through it, and you’re in the Arctic Ocean.”

“I remember a powerful undersea quake in the central Pacific,” the narwhal said. “Back when I was in the aquarium, TV still worked, and that’s what the news said. Was Atlantis also then—”

“…Sorry.”

She realized her gaffe and quickly apologized.

Xiu’s tone was calm. “Yes. That’s when Atlantis was buried. It’s not taboo. No need to apologize.”

“And that’s the key point. There are still frequent submarine landslides in the central Pacific. It’s dangerous. Nearshore, the continental shelf may have nuclear leaks, oil spills, and other risks. I travel the seas, but I can’t know exact danger zones. You choose which way.”

Wen Chu didn’t choose immediately. He hesitated and asked, “Can Atlantis come back? It was your country, right?”

He knew only what the narwhal had told him—by her account, a flourishing undersea world. Learning that it had been buried and turned into ruins made Wen Chu a little sad.

Sad for Xiu.

Xiu glanced at the narwhal. His face finally showed a trace of feeling, a helpless look. “What did you tell him?”

The narwhal looked sheepish. “Just a little about Atlantis, what my mother told me. You know, all fish longed to go there and hoped it would expand.”

“All fish longed for it…” Xiu repeated softly, then patted Wen Chu’s bell.

He even smiled slightly, thin lips lifting in the faintest curve. “When you can revive all life in the ocean, Atlantis will be back.”

“So don’t overthink it. Grow up first—have you decided which route to take?”

“Along the continental shelf,” Wen Chu answered without thinking.

The narwhal nodded. “Me too. Nuclear or oil leaks can be avoided, but submarine slides are hard to detect. The shelf is safer.”

Wen Chu nodded repeatedly.

He hadn’t thought it through; he simply didn’t want Xiu to pass the path to Atlantis. He didn’t want Xiu to be reminded. He wanted Xiu happy.

“Good,” Xiu agreed. “Then rest a bit. I’ll bury the dead fish on the boat, and we’ll set off.”

“Bury?”

“Lay them to rest. Resting means stay put and get your essentials ready.” Xiu was used to Wen Chu’s life-experience-free questions.

“Oh.” Still in Xiu’s hand, Wen Chu lifted a tentacle and looped Xiu’s wrist.

Ready—his essentials.

.

In the end, Xiu pried off Wen Chu’s tentacles before going to bury the fish.

The water there was worse and crawling with parasites. Xiu wouldn’t let him near. Wen Chu could only wait with the narwhal, watching the golden figure from afar.

“Does Xiu bury them every time fish die?” he asked.

“Maybe? I’ve only just met Lord Siren,” the narwhal said. “But it looks that way.”

“Oh…”

So Xiu had seen mass death countless times? And buried fish schools countless times?

“Xiu works so hard,” Wen Chu said.

He didn’t understand why Xiu gave so much to the life of the ocean; he simply felt it was too much work for Xiu.

The narwhal sighed. “Yes. May it all end soon.”

After a short rest, they set off.

At first, Wen Chu lay on Xiu’s shoulder. But the waves washed over and his tentacles flew about, and after they tapped Xiu’s chest a few times, Xiu impatiently moved him onto the narwhal’s head.

With the earlier lesson, Wen Chu lifted Xiu’s hair for a peek as he was lifted away.

Sure enough, Xiu’s ears were red with irritation.

So Wen Chu wisely closed his mouth and sat quietly, a jellyfish ball on the narwhal’s head.

The narwhal was quietly amused.

She looked at the crude seaweed knot behind Xiu’s neck and the little braid by his ear and whispered, “The hair and the necklace—your work?”

Wen Chu answered seriously, “No. I only braided his hair. The necklace he made himself.”

The narwhal was surprised. “Made it himself? Lord Siren likes such ornaments.”

“I think so?” Wen Chu wasn’t sure. “He put the flower I tucked in his hair into a shell. I wanted to throw it away—the flower got ugly. I was going to pick him a prettier one.”

The narwhal: yikes.

If Wen Chu didn’t sound so innocent and matter-of-fact, she’d think he was flaunting it.

Not in a relationship, huh? Looks like you are.

Before she could comment further, Xiu’s voice came from ahead. “So that’s why you were messing with my hair—braiding it.”

The coldness of his tone made Wen Chu stand bolt upright.

“My fault,” he apologized smoothly. “Please don’t be mad.”

Xiu raised an eyebrow. “So you know you made me angry.”

“I didn’t before,” Wen Chu said earnestly. “But after I braided your hair, I saw your ears get red several times. So now I know.”

The narwhal actually “yiked” out loud.

Xiu was probably truly angry now. His tail was twitching. Wen Chu saw him reach back and yank out the braid, letting the golden hair fall and cover his ear again.

He guessed Xiu didn’t like having it braided.

Xiu smiled without warmth, grabbed him off the narwhal’s head, and lifted a fistful of tentacles. “How did you braid it? Show me. I’ll braid your tentacles right now.”

Wen Chu missed the subtext. He dutifully extended three tentacles to demonstrate. “Like this, the two sides alternate into the middle. If you’re angry, braid me. Just don’t refuse to kis—mmph!”

He couldn’t finish because Xiu pinched him.

Those transparent blue eyes gazed down from above. Xiu growled, “Say one more word and I’ll eat you alive.”

Wen Chu thought: you’re bluffing, Xiu.

With that look, Xiu couldn’t bear to eat him alive.

But he was still angry. At worst he’d slice him first, then eat.

The narwhal was laughing quietly behind them. Watching a siren and a jellyfish tussle in the silent sea made her remember what her mother once told her long ago.

“Lord Siren is cold and hates rude fish. If you ever meet him, be respectful and polite, or you’ll anger a god.”

He clearly wasn’t.

The ocean’s god stooped to lift every fish, put a shell necklace on a jellyfish, flushed at his ear tips, and simmered with embarrassed anger.

.

No matter how the narwhal looked at it, Wen Chu hadn’t figured out Xiu’s complex feelings.

His taxonomy of emotion was simple: positive or negative. Xiu’s mood was negative, so Wen Chu assumed he’d made Xiu angry. If you make him angry, you have to coax him yourself. Even offering his tentacles to be braided—or braiding himself into a rope—didn’t calm Xiu down.

Because any time his tentacles so much as brushed Xiu, even a little, Xiu flicked them away without mercy.

It was still that way when they stopped for the night.

“What should I do…” Wen Chu stared at Xiu’s back in the distance, falling into gloom. Would he die from lack of kissing?

Meanwhile, Xiu was searching the rocks for something the jellyfish could use as a bed.

He was not letting the jellyfish sleep on him tonight.

Wen Chu’s wild thrashing in dreams was one reason. Something else was more important…

Xiu raised a hand and roughly rubbed his ear under his hair.

He couldn’t convince himself this was purely rescue and beneficiary. Wen Chu being ignorant was one thing—but why was he going along with it? It wasn’t more than a regular… oral feeding—so why did he react so strongly each time?

He glanced at his sapphire tail and pressed his lips together, recalling his morning dream.

In it, a massive jellyfish pinned his tail. Thick, arm-wide transparent tentacles bound him tight. Wen Chu tried to nuzzle him with his bell like a spoiled child, and knocked him back onto the rocks. Good thing there were tentacles to hold him. Bad thing there were tentacles at all. While his chest was being wetly sucked, the cloaca beneath his genitals was pried open.

He woke the instant the scales were levered apart.

Xiu touched his ear again. He’d never noticed the heat there before. Feeling the burn under his fingers, he pinched his earlobe in frustration.

This entanglement with a jellyfish was too twisted.

And being upset over it made him feel even more twisted.

It was wrong, something that shouldn’t happen. He shouldn’t react to the touch of a jellyfish’s tentacles. This morning had been a special case, but he reaffirmed his decision from earlier:

Keep a safe distance from Wen Chu—aside from the routine oral feeding. No touching, no sharing sleep.

As he thought this, he found a large white shell spread like a basin among the rocks.

Its meat was long gone. The shell was rough, its luster lost, and mottled with green moss. Clearly, it belonged to a creature long dead. But it was clean enough.

Xiu picked it up and checked its size. It would fit Wen Chu. He tore off seaweed and scrubbed it, and soon it was clean again.

It still bore pits from the scouring currents. Xiu considered, then picked up a pebble and scratched four characters on it, covering most of the scuffs: “For Wen Chu Only.”

Then he gathered soft seaweed to line the inside and brought the finished shell-bed to Wen Chu, who was perched on the bleached coral behind him.

He set it down by the jellyfish. “You’ll sleep here tonight.”

The half-transparent jellyfish looked at the shell nest, then at him, and asked, very softly and pitifully, “You really won’t sleep with me?”

Xiu’s fingers clenched, but he held the line. “No.”

Wen Chu said nothing. He remembered he’d made Xiu angry. He climbed obediently into the shell and used a tentacle to close it.

So obedient it felt wrong. Xiu quickly stopped the shell from closing and asked awkwardly, “Comfy in there?”

Wen Chu’s muffled voice sounded, “It’s cold. And hard. It pokes me and it hurts.”

Xiu paused, not relenting in tone. “The princess and the pea, are we?”

He snorted, but pulled more water weed over.

“Out. I’ll fix your bed. Stop faking being delicate.”

Wen Chu lay on the coral, watching him work.

The shell wasn’t really cold, and the bedding was soft enough. He should have said it was fine. But it wasn’t.

After sleeping on Xiu’s soft chest, the shell felt very cold and hard. He liked sleeping with Xiu. That’s why the lie slipped out.

But Xiu only focused on fixing the bed.

When he opened the shell to straighten it, Wen Chu saw the neat characters scratched inside: “For Wen Chu Only.”

He could read.

The jellyfish floated up and gently landed on Xiu’s shoulder, thinking, This is what’s really “for Wen Chu only.”