A/N: guess who's working on 20 WIPS instead of updating his current ones lmao
This is a gift for CaptainoftheRirenShip. The wrong type of love story, surely, but that gives me an excuse to write them 20 more.
Here's some historical context for the fic, if you're interested:
This takes place around mid-18th century Portsmouth, New Hampshire, in a time where it's both too early for societal revolution and too late for political damages on both sides to be reversed. Meaning, there's still colonies, there's still an abundance of Puritans, and there's still open rebellion against Britain.
Historically, whaling trips, ranging from the smallest to largest ships, take anywhere between 6 months to 4 years to complete, with the longest whaling trip taking 11 years. The ships Levi builds would be the ones taken on those 3-4 year trips. Y'all tripping if you think I'm gonna separate Levi and Eren for that long, though, so in this universe, it's a much more laid back 3 months.
The Congregational Church was the official church of New Hampshire. After reading bits and pieces of the New Hampshire Constitution and taking the effects of the Salem Witch Trails (nearly a century prior) into consideration, I deemed it legal not to attend church, though that did elicit some sort of hostility and doubt from a few if done without a valid reason. And, of course, what fits under a "valid reason" is very limited.
This isn't meant to rewrite history in any way, nor will this be a history textbook. References to Britain and historical events are minimal, vague, and kept in the author's notes, if there comes a time or two where it's necessary. It's just shipbuilder, part-time painter Levi and whaler Eren falling in stupid love in a time when everything is grim and dull, and aggressively opposing parliament mattered more than love did. Every chapter is a new season.
I
When the nebulous heavens above would start to glow and illuminate the world below them, the birds would start to sing. They were only muted calls, usually, ones that Levi wouldn't be able to hear through the layers of hemp that surrounded him when he slept. Unless, of course, the windows were open, and the sounds of gentle, warbling calls were accompanied by a chill that men associated with the cruel tendrils of death.
So when he felt the breeze run its fingers through his hair and whisper in his ear, he instinctively nuzzled further into his blankets. He was barely holding on to the slumber that took him, grasping at threads to fall back to sleep, but another breeze came and sealed his fate. With a frustrated huff, he rose on his elbows, peeking up from the heavy covers, and saw in the midst of his blank, hazy mind that the window was open, and the sky above was faintly glowing from shielded sunlight.
The violent morning chill met him when he threw his blankets aside, and he wished so desperately that he could sleep. When he descended the stairs into the main room, he coerced himself to refrain from closing the window above the dining table, given that the fireplace was void of wood and it was his only source of light. It was only covered in ash from last night when he had trudged home, hung his coats on the wall, and threw himself in bed without even bothering to close his door. That was his mistake, he supposed, since it was typically his responsibility to replace the firewood. Shivers wracked down his spine. He'd have to return early that day to cut timber before dark.
Later, after he broke his fast with jam and slices of their diminishing loaf, he emerged from the cabin in his usual attire of gray, scratchy coats and a white vest that mirrored the pallid complexion of his skin. In his arms was a crate, heavy with twenty or so thin woolen canvases. To his right, his uncle sat rocking idly in his chair, a lit pipe in one hand and another filled with seeds to offer to the woodcock that hopped along the ledge of wood that surrounded the porch. Conveniently, there was also timber stacked along the wall just a few feet away from him, topped with a rusted axe.
Kenny greeted with a sly grin, "Morning."
"Bastard," Levi griped.
He could hear his uncle's bark of a laugh over the squelch of mud under his boots. The sight of his footprints in the muck sent a shiver down his spine, one far more unbearable than that of the cold, and he made an effort to scrape the mud off the best he could on the stones. The cruel fingers of disgust that gripped him by the neck gradually faded as he made his way down the dark road, where the trees swayed in the wind and the birds called to one another. The end of this path marked the beginning of Kenny's land - and, inevitably, Levi's land, once death called Kenny home - which was identified by the obvious line between pure, generally untouched forestry and tall, grim buildings.
Church bells rang in the distance. Their echoing calls loomed over Levi's shoulders, but he disregarded it, as did the rare few merchants he spotted lifting their curtains and dusting their windows. The city wasn't regularly busy on the Sabbath, but that day was a different day. There were more than the businessmen that rushed down the streets, or the women who purchased the week's bread, or the children who rolled hoops down the streets together. Many families, typically those of the younger seamen, gathered around the ports, sometimes even paced impatiently along the pier, and waited for their loved ones.
It was the third Sabbath of March, a day before the year rolled into spring, and the day the whalers returned home.
Those were the breadth of Levi's customers; the whalers and sometimes the fishermen, and conveniently, their wives and children, who all took a liking to the bright, vivid colors of his paintings. He had attracted many different kinds of customers throughout the years, typically those who were younger, who were more open minded, who were quiet dissenters and brilliant students. He eventually built his own stand, which would stay barren for three months at a time, at the mouth of the largest pier. No one payed it any mind, thankfully, as the docks were often thrumming with business of varying sorts, when none had time to pay it any mind.
While setting up, families and workers alike poured in. Then came the whaling and fishing ships themselves; they were all vast ships that moved slowly across the water, ones that gradually halted with low, echoing moans of straining wood that rung in Levi's ears. Salty water splashed up onto the floorboards as the anchors fell and sunk into the abyss below, where they would stay smothered until the ship was picked clean and the seamen returned for another trip east.
Over time, customers came and went, most of which would look, admire, then leave, which elicited a faint, quiet anger. If anything, Levi would set up a gallery with the amount of browsing and the significant lack of buying, but by the end of the day, he would be left with only five or six of the initial twenty or so that he brought. It was a different feeling altogether, parting with his works, watching people run their disgusting hands over them and either put them back or take them away.
He remembered filling each one, remembered the dull, tacky smell of the paint jars when he twisted them open, and the way the dark, thick colors would swirl and dissolve into lighter hues and gentler tones when he mixed them into water. He remembered the way the paints would sink into the threads of cotton, mix with one another, produce deep velvets and bright oranges and soothing pinks that would breathe as much life into him as he would into them.
They were only memories, though; it was a nice pastime, but not as rejuvinating as it used to be, not as stimulating as it was mind-numbing now.
Mind-numbing or not, there were certain things that he couldn't quite desensitize himself to, nor ignore as he did with everything else, only ever responding to inquiries on the price or actual exchanges. There weren't many remarkable things in Portsmouth. It was gray, cold, and dead. It was nothing new, nothing particularly engaging, nothing that Levi wanted to be involved with, nor anything that drew his attention.
There were many people that Levi saw every day. Faces never stuck, because they were all the same, all cold and dead, all the same gray and harsh blue of the frigid sky above. The man before him was no different in that aspect, with cracked lips, frayed sleeves, and fingers scratchy and stony from handling the ropes that formed intricate webs on the ships.
But dear God, his eyes.
Levi licked his chapped lips, realizing how dry his mouth had gone.
They were large, almost protuberant, and lit with the fire of a divine sort of youth, of vigor, of a vehemency that Levi typically recognized in the younger fishermen. Except, unlike most of the other men, whose eyes were a bland, stony gray like Levi's, or a dark, mundane brown of the general population, this man's were bright. So bright that, even when Levi only glanced for a few seconds, he could see the speckles of gold that swam within the ocean of jade green.
Those large eyes, far more enrapturing than any foamy ocean side, than any giant beauty he had ever sent out to sea, focused on a canvas to Levi's right. The man's brows, seemingly stuck in an angry furrow, finally softened.
Something melted in the pit of Levi's stomach when the man asked, "What do you call this beauty?"
His voice was robust with hard work, and equally as vigorous as the fire that raged in those enrapturing eyes of his. It betrayed him, however, with its boyish rasp. Of course he was embarrassingly young - and foreign, Levi assumed, judging by the harshness of the accent that lingered in the subtle roll of his tongue. There weren't many sailors that were so lively, so different, so happy.
Whatever fascination Levi felt at such a rare sight was smothered as he skeptically inquired, "You've never seen a pheasant?"
"Pheasant," the boy repeated to himself, softly, curiously. Levi was right to assume he was foreign. "Do these creatures fly?"
As the boy leaned down closer to inspect the painting, Levi saw the thin, yet remarkably strong shade of forest green that burned into the lining of his irises.
"They do," he murmured, and the boy lit up. "but not often. They tend to just run like hell."
The fire in his eyes sparked. "They run?" The thought seemed to fascinate him. "Don't they swim?"
Levi wasn't sure whether he was serious or not, but eventually, the lack of any sort of amusement on the boy's countenance brought a surge of annoyance. He leaned forward a bit, the chair beneath him creaking, and pointed to the thin legs of the bird. Lower, towards the grass, were equally thin toes and gracefully curled talons.
"Do they look like they fuckin' swim to you?"
A noise left his lips, soft and a seemingly choked off, as if taken aback at the abrupt deadpan. He straightened up a bit, but oddly enough, there was no threatening roll of the shoulder or clench of the jaw. Instead, he looked thoughtful, the tilt of his head revealing a strong jawline that was traitorous to his youthful mask. Genuine wonder was evident in his countenance when he offered with a small hum, "Any animal can can swim if their life depended on it, though. They're not all mindless beasts, right?"
Truth be told, Levi was quite taken aback by the response. Whatever expression he made must have frightened the boy, because that expression, that light in his eyes that would typically accompany the pleasure of answering a complicated question correctly, faltered quickly. His voice, previously confident and eager, was cumbersome with meek hesitance as he questioned, "Or do you not agree?"
Levi briefly wondered why there was a slight twinge in his chest at the loss of such a beautiful fire. "I do agree." The wave of relief nearly elicited a sigh when he saw the boy smile. "I don't, however, agree with you standing here asking me stupid ass questions as if it's a gallery. Don't waste my time. Are you buying or not?"
"Oh!" The boy reached into his pocket and produced a small leather pouch. "I'll take -" Suddenly, he stopped, turning his head over his shoulder towards the distant, high ringing of iron chains scraping against the metal linings of the ship. "Well. You'll save this for me, yeah?"
The arrogance!
"It'll be the first painting I sell, boy." He halted. Of course the emphasis on 'boy' grabbed his attention, of all things. "I hold no reservations. Whoever comes by and wants it will get it, given they pay the right amount."
The angry furrow that had previously melted away returned. He had already spun on his heel, however, and was already distracted towards the beacon's ringing call, but he threw back angrily, "Well, if I'm just a boy, then you're an old wretch." A few steps later, he paused, then spitefully added, "And your bird is fat!"
A short, amused breath left Levi's lips, puffing out before him in a white cloud. He watched the boy march off, only lingering long enough to see him remove his hat and tuck it under his elbow upon greeting another young man.
The tangled mess of brown that hung down to his shoulders was revolting.
Oddly enough, the beginnings of Spring were marked by the inexplicable drop in temperature.
That didn't stop Levi from roaming outside in the forest, a small basket in hand, and a pouch of seeds sitting within it. He went about his usual route, finding a few feathers along the way. Most were those of a pheasant, long and tapering, fading off from a strong, red-tinted bronze at its base to a delicate white at the tip.
A long time ago, he had felt an ounce or so of guilt for abandoning work in favor of retrieving feathers in the forest, but after awhile, he realized that it didn't matter. That was another thing he enjoyed about the changing of seasons; the following Monday tended to be extremely slow, and naturally, with the slowed workflow and the lull in productivity on the day following the whalers' return, Levi didn't bother wasting his time.
He also didn't want to waste time at that moment, not when the skies above were darker than usual, broodier than they had been days prior. Soon, a storm would be raging overhead, and all the feathers would be lost.
But that wasn't something to worry about anymore. There were more pressing matters now, the most dire being the soft sound of metal scraping against metal. It was faint, almost imperceptible in the forest at this time of day, but it called to him like a beacon in angry waters. Not too far away, out of his usual path marked by the absence of wildlife, a man crouched hidden behind the bushes.
In his hands, aimed perfectly out into the clearing to an oblivious moose, was a musket.
A few feathers dropped from Levi's basket as he rushed forward and knocked the musket out of focus. It still fired, its roar echoing throughout the forest, deafening enough to stop the world in its tracks. The moose bolted the other direction, and Levi found himself being shoved aside in momentary alarm.
A familiar voice started, "What the absolute -"
Something in Levi twisted when his eyes met raging, lively green. That boy, that same arrogant boy just a day prior who had disappeared in the sea of whalers, seemingly never to be heard of again until next season - or, if he was unlucky, until the funeral - suddenly stood up, stumbling just a bit as he did so.
He slung the musket over his shoulder, sounding astonished as he dumbly announced, "You're the painter. From yesterday."
Heat surged in Levi's blood.
"Yes, and you're the shitty brat that insulted both me and my work." He lurched forward and grabbed the boy's collar, relishing in the surprised yelp and the muted thud of the musket dropping to the floor. "This is private property," Levi growled, "and you dare come in and attempt to kill an animal on our soil without permission?"
The boy desperately clutched and tugged at his wrists, spluttering, "I - I didn't know, I swear it! I -"
"Wield arms on our land again and nothing on God's green earth will ever be able to find you. Do you understand?"
The boy nodded vigorously, and with that, Levi shoved him backwards onto the ground. He scrambled up to his feet again, clutching his musket and holding it close to his chest, but he didn't dare point it at Levi. Instead of running like Levi expected, however, he cleared his throat and offered breathlessly, "I'm sorry." Levi took a step forward, and immediately, he took four steps back. "I mean it! I do! I'm sorry."
The anger that filled Levi's veins with white-hot heat was dying rapidly. In previous encounters, long ago when he had first moved onto this land, there were men who dared to challenge him, men who had even attempted to murder him in their outrage. Those situations would end badly - for them, of course, but Levi didn't like the soreness in his knuckles, nor the crushed plants beneath them afterwards. This boy was vastly different in a way that was genuinely confusing.
"If you're sorry, you'll turn around and never come back into this forest."
The lack of any real malice in his voice eased some of the tension in the boy's posture. "Yes, but . . . it's a lovely forest."
Levi rolled his eyes. "Lovely forest or not, I won't hesitate to beat you if you press the boundaries. Take your musket and leave."
Levi found himself under the hard gaze of those large eyes, as if they were searching, pondering, before the boy asked with a small grin, "With what? Your basket?"
"You fuckin' -"
The boy jumped out of his reach with a laugh. It didn't sound as if it had been done in a mocking gesture, however, and when Levi looked up from his now empty basket, the boy certainly didn't convey any cruel scrutiny on his face. He sounded genuine. Excited, as if it was a game.
Levi noticed, past the perfect smile and brilliant eyes, that the hair that previously framed his face was shorter, and the tangled mess that sat upon his shoulders was gone. It was no longer revolting, but enticing. The urge to touch arose.
Another step forward, and the boy was gone, taking Levi's breath with him.
Besides the brief inquiry about the gunshot, Levi didn't talk to his uncle that day, nor the next. Instead, he spent most of his time locked away in his bedroom, pacing back and forth, dipping his brush in the paint jars and then drowning them in water when he continuously changed his mind.
Infuriatingly enough, his brush always hovered over green. Bland, boring green, that lacked creativity, that lacked vigor. His muse insisted on it, however, so after long moments of pondering ways to wash out the green, he abandoned the canvas with an angry huff.
He considered it a day wasted.
The rest became a blur; it was his routine, the consequence of his oath to hard labor. Wake up to the cruel talons of the cold weather, walk down an old path, lay down his blueprints on an old table, rebuild the same old ship unless he discarded the plans in favor of creating a new one, a better one. It was also infuriating that, while he peered out into the docks, where men walked upon the skeleton of the ship with tools and more wood, he didn't see green.
It was bland, boring gray, not bright, vigorous green.
The only time the gray changed was when it dimmed into an inky black once the sun dipped over the clouded horizon. By the time he returned home, with blueprints tucked under his arm and his front covered in sawdust, the sun had fully set, and the porch was illuminated with a soft, gentle light from the inside where the fireplace burned strong.
Heat welcomed him when he entered the cabin, and immediately, fatigue clamped down on his shoulders and pulled him to the earth with its weight. He ignored dinner and the coat hanger, reluctantly stopping when he heard his uncle called out from his seat in front of the fireplace, "Oi, kid. Your friend came by earlier."
Levi turned, mumbling, "What?"
Kenny shrugged. "He said you owed him a pheasant."
Levi didn't bother responding before he ascended the stairs to investigate. Something fluttered in his stomach when he saw that the painting was gone, and in its place, a pouch of shillings and a handful of feathers that he thought he lost in the storm yesterday.