The first night he waits, sitting on the edge of the pier, and goes through three cigarettes. He's not bothered, not really, not /yet/ ... but the moon is thin and blocked by clouds, and the wind is cold. He doesn't stay as long as he intended.
(more) The second night it was colder, but the sky was clear. Four cigarettes this time, one after another, watching the boats in the distance until he couldn't take the temperature a moment longer.
The third night he missed, working.
The fourth night something set in, something that he tried his best to ignore, a feeling he had overwritten and blocked out. The wind was still cold off the water but not as cold as it'd been, and the sky was cloudy but not overcast. He finished a pack of cigarettes and started a new one, but still, no sign. His hands shook when he lit the last cigarette of the night.
The fifth night, he didn't go out to the water, he couldn't face its dark, unforgiving surface, the water choppy with tension.
The sixth night the storms rolled in, crackling lightning and booming thunder, wickedly loud and terrifying. His power went out for a little while, and he sat at the window and watched the waves lash the shore and wondered, /feared./
The seventh night the rain hadn't abated but the violent storms had moved on, and he stood on the dock in a soaked hooded sweatshirt with the hood up and screamed himself hoarse to the sea.
The eighth night he sleeps on the dock, cold and chilly and damp, and is woken just before dawn as a soft, wet hand touched his face. "Missed you," he says, eyes gummy as he squints, pale rosy light reflecting off of red scales."Iknow,"themermansays,andkisseshim.(less)