Summary:

Grantaire didn't know where his life was going, all he knew was that he didn't want his father in it. Cutting out all his family but his cousin Courfeyrac, he finds himself poor and in financial strife. Thankfully his beloved cousin has a solution - working wit him on a crab boat in Dutch Harbor. In the states, he spots an Adonis among sheep but can't bring himself to go up to him. As it turns out, the golden beauty is his cousin's captain - his captain.

How will Grantaire hold up to being stuck on a fishing boat with the man he promised his cousin he wouldn't love?
And how will Enjolras - the virgin skipper with less than innocent thoughts - handle the whirlwind that is Courfeyrac's baby cousin?

Warnings:

Fishing, Crab Fishing AU, Les Misérables References, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe, Dangerous Situations, Will be boring at first, Eventual Smut, Wet Dream, Light Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Boss/Employee Relationship, Boot Worship, French Characters, America bashing, Daddy Issues, Age Difference, kind of Daddy Kink, Royalty kink

Courfeyrac had his gloves clutched between his hands, wringing them until they squeaked. He watched his captain with a close eye, trying not to see too eager.

"Jehan was an idiot," the older man reclined in in his seat, steel blue eyes set out the window, "Is this boy an idiot?"

"No, sir."

"How hold did you say he was?"

Courfeyrac watched the man light up a cigarette, taking an almost delicate puff that barely made the end glow, "Twenty-one."

"Another child," was huffed out on the end of a laugh, "You want me to bring a kid onto my boat? Isn't it bad enough I let a woman on board, do you want me to invite every ill omen?"

"He can be a hard-worker-" he winced at his choice of words.

"Can?" this laugh was full force, "You're out of your mind."

"He just needs some guidance," Courfeyrac corrected himself, "A firm hand is all it will take to put him back on track. He's a good kid and I have faith in him to exceed both our expectations."

"Considering mine are rock-bottom, that wouldn't be hard," the captain flicked through the pack of resumes he'd been sent, "I have twenty other Frenchman ready to go. Some with years of experience. What makes you think I should give this kid a chance?"

"Because he's my family," Courfeyrac pointed out, "No one's ever given him a chance. His father's never treated him right and I'm all he has in the world. At least all that will talk to him. He won't stray to a different boat, he won't blab secrets, and once he's decided to give his all it's impossible to break that determination. I'm taking him five thousand miles from home and I guarantee he won't put up any more than a token protest. You can't buy that kind of loyalty."

"You said his last name was Blagden?" the older man took another hit off his cigarette, sneering at the taste, "I think our fathers know each other."

Courfeyrac's eyes fell shut, "And if you mention that, he'll bolt."

"It's that bad?" the captain's voice was uncharacteristically soft, startling the younger man.

"Y-Yes, sir."

Another sigh, another puff.

"Bring him," a strong finger was jabbed in his direction, "But don't expect anything. If I don't like the look of him, he's going back."

A large grin broke out across Courfeyrac's face, "Of course!"

"And try not to look so damn pleased about it!"

He forced it down a notch, actively avoiding the captain's blazing stare, "Yes, sir."

"You can't make money like this."

Grantaire took a long drag off his cigarette, the low tip threatening to burn the cradle of his fingers. He huffed the smoke out like a dragon, letting it linger around his head like a temporary veil. His cousin, Courfeyrac, was rifling through his sketches and half finished painting. Courfeyrac, like the rest of his family, thought he was wasting his life here in his studio. It was the same story every time they spoke of it and if they didn't change their tune a little he was going to stop listening.

Fuck the lot of them.

Courfeyrac plopped down on the floor, running a weary hand over his face. Some of the charcoal from his deer sketching smeared across his cheek. It made him smile.

Okay, maybe not 'Rac.

Courfeyrac was a good guy. Honest, strong, passionate, and particularly charismatic in the way Grantaire could never be. Truth be told they were very different men who just happened to share a mop of tar curls and mothers who were sisters. But they'd grown up together, their moms had been practically codependent. They'd lived across the same street, gone to the same schools, and still spoke every day despite the distance. They were real friends, a rare thing in this harsh life, and a little friction over his career wasn't going to drive a wedge between them. If dropping out of college hadn't destroyed them, nothing would.

"Your rent's due," the older man sighed, "I ran into your land lord at the foot of the stairs."

"You shouldn't have done that," Grantaire drawled, stretching his toes into the beam of sunlight that had snaked through his blinds, "I've been successfully ignoring him all week."

"You're lucky he knows how your dad is," Courfeyrac set aside the stack of drawings, "If he didn't think you'd be homeless, he'd kick you out today."

"Let him," the artist muttered around the stick, glaring at nothing in particular, "The park's nice this time of year. I'll sleep on a bench until I find somewhere else."

"Don't you get it, R? There is nowhere else."

Courfeyrac wasn't wrong. He'd hit up every city south of Paris trying to find a place where no one knew his father or his family, but with the man's fat fingers in everything it was hard to get a good job going without his employer discovering who exactly he was. The moment he was on the radar his father found him, sending a car or a lackey to try and bring him home.

Agde was as far as he could get from Paris without toppling into the sea. The town was small and wrung out, barely twenty thousand people in twenty square miles. There was room to breathe here and the people didn't care about his last name. Unfortunately, he'd burned every bridge to get there. He'd shut out life-long friends, snubbed family, gone through every art dealer in every city but by the time they agreed to buy or show his work his father had already found a way to them and warned them off.

Despite Agde's beautiful setting and history, no one was interested in what he was putting out. It didn't help that lately he was in a rut.

"When was the last time you sold something?" Courfeyrac sat on the bed across from him, head cocked down to meet his eyes, "When was the last time you ate?"

"I'm not coming to live with you," Grantaire protested weakly. It was the same thing every time he came down, an adjustment to his family's song that he didn't mind. His cousin had a nice house in Lyon that he filled with beautiful people and too much wine. He would thrive there, he always had in his visits, but the last thing he wanted to do was become a burden.

"Grantaire. My baby cousin," the older boy put a fist under the other's chin, tilting it up, "I can't let you sit here and rot without money. You're so tired, and scruffy."

He ran a thumb through his cousin's dark rasp of beard, "Look at this."

"I'll have you know this makes me look quite serious!" Grantaire laughed, shoving the man's hand away.

"There's a smile," Courfeyrac leaned back on his hands, "So...what are you going to do?"

"Move again, I guess," he shrugged, leaning against the wall and bringing his cigarette up again, "Maybe go east this time. He won't find me in Germany, I'm sure."

"You'd leave France?" dark brows shot up to his hairline, "You love her."

"I do," Grantaire sighed out a thick stream of smoke, "But I'm...I'm just not doing well here, 'Rac."

They were quiet for a long time, simply sitting and smoking and thinking. By the time Grantaire finally stubbed out the bud, his cousin was shifting nervously and plucking at the edges of his knitted blanket until a few of the threads came loose.

"I can get you a job," Courfeyrac spoke softly, knowing how easily his cousin got upset.

"No," Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest, digging his feet into his bed in his own little tantrum, "I'm an artist."

"R-"

"I'm also complete shit at any other occupation," the boy finally admitted, lower lip quivering for just a brief moment, "I'm a klutz, you know that. I drop and break everything, I can't follow orders, and no boss I've ever had has liked me. I get bored with everything too fast and nothing seems...I don't know. Challenging, I guess."

The boy's dark brow furrowed, "You can rock climb, can't you?"

"I can free run," Grantaire corrected, "It's called parkour. I've told you about it."

"Well, I have an opening at my job," Courfeyrac scrubbed a hand through his hair, curls going astray, "It's dangerous, it's exciting, but you can smoke all you want."

The younger glanced over at him, "I'm listening."

"You'll get hurt, a lot," Courfeyrac made a face, "I wouldn't want you to do it if the money wasn't stunningly good. You've got to work with a lot of machinery. Not right away, though, you'll have to work your way up. If you're not careful, you could...R, you could die."

"Jesus," Grantaire bristled, though his nerves were alight for a different reason, "How do you do it?"

"I can function on two or three hours of sleep," the taller boy shrugged, "I'm young, I'm strong, and the heavy work load keeps my mind clear. Between the adrenaline rush and the constant moving, you don't have a lot of time to wonder what you're doing with your life."

"Don't tell me the wonderful Courfeyrac has doubts about his life decisions? Don't tell me he's human?" Grantaire jested though his mind was buzzing with the prospects of a job that would test him. It sounded like a chance to really prove himself but that seemed too good to be true.

"It's quite a trip from here," the older tisked, "It's almost a full day's flight. It's a big commitment if you agree. It'll be a week if you don't get it, four weeks of work if you do."

"Four weeks?" the artist's nose scrunched up in disbelief, "How much are we talking about here for only four weeks of working?"

"I made a little more than eleven thousand euro in my last trip," Courfeyrac revealed.

Grantaire whistled lowly, "That's impressive. That's more than I make in a year."

"The captain guarantees at least nine thousand every trip or else he endorses you for your time."

"Is that normal?"

"Of course not!" Courfeyrac barked out in a laugh, "He's just particularly ruthless in success. If he doesn't get it, he blames himself. It's a hard system but it's worth it."

"For that kind of money, it is."

"Will you try?"

He looked into his cousin's doe eyes and didn't know how to refuse, "I don't have much of a choice."

"Excellent!" Courfeyrac jumped up, dragging the younger boy up into a fierce hug, "You're going to love it! Pack warm, get your shaving stuff, your passport, and grab as much food as you have. I'll take care of everything! I'm going to go buy the tickets now! We don't have a lot of time, the season starts in just a week."

Courfeyrac was halfway out the door before he managed to ask the real question.

"What do you do?"

The dark haired boy paused at the door and shot him a wink, "I'm a fisherman."

"Crab fishing?!"

It was not the first time Grantaire had screamed the phrase and it wouldn't be the last. Not since his cousin had explained just what kind of fisherman he was. After some googling on his Courfeyrac's tablet he was horrified by what awaited him in Alaska of all places. All that he owned was in the duffel strapped across his back, everything from his wallet to his only hair comb. He'd converted all his money to (ugh) US currency and it all came down to forty bucks.

"Crab fishing in the states," Grantaire trailed after his fast-paced companion, "In America of all places. Are you insane? There are documentaries made about how lethal this is! You've been doing this for how long without telling me? Does your mother know? Does mine?"

"Not really," Courfeyrac admitted, fists deep in his pockets as they headed down the sidewalk with a heading toward the dock, "Mere thinks I'm just catching catfish or bass on a small rig just outside of Wales. As far as she knows, I have a girlfriend out here and we're getting along swimmingly."

Courfeyrac laughed at his own joke but now was not the time.

"I can't believe you fish in October," Grantaire zipped up his simple black jacket, the sky clear and the weather nice but the wind was starting to nip, "This is crazy. This is insane!"

"But that's half the fun," Courfeyrac declared, turning around briefly to flash his cousin a grin, "Come now, where's your sense of adventure? It used to be stronger than mine. What happened to the boy who chased faeries in the woods and dreamed of becoming a pirate? You've always loved the sea."

Grantaire cast his eyes toward the vast Bering Sea that stretched out toward their left, where the town gave way to the boardwalk. The dock seemed to dominate a large chunk of the island and it was quickly coming into view. The sea churned and slapped, filling the air with saline and the sound of the ocean. It was rougher than the Mediterranean sea he was used to, the Bering seemed to have a bit more personality to her. The longer he looked the more he spotted, rusted hauls laying on their side in the water where they hadn't quite made it back to port in one piece. It should've been chilling but he found a different kind of tingle working through him, something akin to excitement.

It was strange to see his cousin in camouflage. With that smile on his face and the high-necked jacket kissing his jaw, he looked almost American.

"It's better to blend in," Courfeyrac reminded him, plucking at the collar his cousin was staring at, "All those English lessons have paid off. We can all almost pass for a yank."

"Who's 'we'?"

"The crew," the older man rolled his eyes, "The captain only hires Frenchmen. He says they're the only trustworthy ones. The yanks don't like that he has a successful boat. Their mostly natives here, a lot of the bigger rigs are run out of Seattle or...some other large city in the states. I'm not sure. Their geography is all garbled over here. I don't know how they find anything. Anyway, they give him and his family a hard time. He's always at odds with them."

"And they really treat him like that because...?"

"Because he's French."

"That's ridiculous," Grantaire scowled, finally catching up, "Listen, 'Rac, I have jetlag from hell and the sun's going down. Can't we get something to eat before this mysterious captain of yours evaluates my worth? I'd rather not get torn down on an empty stomach."

Courfeyrac wanted to assure him that it wouldn't be like that but he couldn't lie to his cousin, "There's a pub the boys usually go to. They've got great burgers."

"Greasy, American food," he spat, fishing out his pack of smokes, "How's the beer?"

"Pretty good."

Two smooth, dark beers in his gullet and he was feeling right at home.

"I fuckin' love this," Grantaire shoved more fries in his mouth, lapping salt and ketchup off his fingertips, "If there was a God, I would be praising his name because this is the best food I've ever had."

"Cheers to that!" Courfeyrac knocked their mugs together, slurping down some more, "You better get your fill now. There's no drinking on the ship."

"Whatever," he rolled his eyes, taking another bite of heavy burger, "This guy is going to take one look at me and shove me off the dock. I'm young, stupid, and I'm not half the size some of these guys are."

He spoke of the other patrons. Hardy men with beards and ball-caps, thick shoulders under cotton hoodies. English and some other garbled tongues passed through them all and groups laughed at bawdy jokes. Calloused hands pinched the rears of the dark eyed waitresses and the bar gleamed with shine and spilled shots. It was a man's pub. Courfeyrac seemed to blend in nicely, his cousin said he lifted weights in his spare time and he'd carved a fine body for himself.

But Grantaire knew what laid beneath his clothes. A soft tummy from too much liquor, Skinny muscles that got used to sculpt and paint, and legs that only had enough strength to launch him over trashcans. He was good at free running, he really was. He could climb a staircase sideways with only fingerless gloves and some chalk. There was strength inside his body but it was hidden.

"Another round!" Courfeyrac called, waving at the bartender and getting a thumbs up, "Their gestures are so strange. A thumb."

"It's catching on. Thank the internet," Grantaire finished up his beer, digging back into his fries with a gusto, "So what's the plan?"

"I'm going to present you to the captain tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn," his cousin explained, pausing to thank the waitress as she delivered their beers rather swiftly, "If he approves, you'll meet the crew and start preparing the boat for the journey. We'll need food, we have to clean the boat down, gear and bait needs prepared. Unfortunately, we're late. Fortunately, we have permission. The crew might give us a hard time."

"I'm used to that," Grantaire slowed, swirling a fry through the red sauce. He could still avidly remember the harsh playgrounds of his youth, the way the boys would tug at his hair and call him girly or weak just because he was pale. He'd always been compact and kids were cruel. They'd thrown his backpack into the river, shoved him into snow drifts, and would shoulder-check him in the hall whenever they had a chance. It slowed as he got older but those middle years had been pure torture. Getting a little ribbing from fully grown adult men was pale in comparison to having a class laugh at you for botching an answer in front of the teacher.

"Hey," the older man laid a hand on his shoulder, catching his attention, "If they go too far, tell me. I've been on this boat a while and I've got some pull. The guys respect me and if they push it, I'll fill their shoes with shredded cod."

That got a grin out of his cousin.

"You'll get their respect too. It just takes time on these boats."

"Again: This guy is going to hate me," Grantaire's grin became exaggerated, cheeks pulling, "If you haven't noticed, I'm kind of homeless looking. I'm a miscreant. If he lets me on his boat, he's an idiot."

"You're a shit," Courfeyrac glanced down at his watch, "We'll finish this and then head to the hotel. We're going to need a full night's sleep for tomorrow. Go pay the tab."

Grantaire accepted the strange bills and coins, trying to remember everything he'd ever learned about the dollar. It had been so long since he'd had money, let alone seen foreign currency, that he was struggling to remember all the rules. He scooted out of the booth and headed up to the bar, leaning on the dark wooden surface with his weight on his elbows and toes. He gave a little whistle at the barmaid and she scowled in return, pointedly looking away. He shot her two fingers before he remembered that it didn't mean the same here in the states.

"Stupid Americans," Grantaire muttered, settling in for a wait. His eyes skittered along the bar, passing over the hulking forms until they fell on the end. The far side was nearly bare except for one patron. A man, a young one. He was clean shaven and sun-kissed, his hair golden and a stark white collar framing the graceful line of his neck. Most artists Grantaire knew would've called him too strongly boned, too severely featured, the laugh lines carved into his cheeks making his face appear too long. Useless as a model.

Grantaire would've clocked them all in their stupid jaws and declared them wrong. The creature at the end of the bar was...breathtakingly tragic. Handsome, immaculate, every feature carved out of marble and perfectly smooth. The man moved to look behind him, eyes glazed from alcohol, and by doing so showed off the muscular line of his body. Oh, what a physique he must have had beneath that half-ass suit.

Any other time, Grantaire would've lost his head and gone up to the man. Introduced himself, told him how handsome he was, and would ask for a date or a pose. He wanted at least a sketch of the beauty in front of him. It would be a true mistake to let an opportunity go.

But the man looked tired, worn down by the world and her worries. Two silver bands, wide and thin, shined on his ring and forefinger. He tapped his digits against the bar, one finger lingering on the rim of an empty shot glass.

Grantaire couldn't bother someone like that, not someone so beautiful. The last thing the golden man needed was some cocksucker who stank of beer and desperation mooning all over him. Not tonight.

So with a silent farewell and a muted kiss in the man's direction, Grantaire left their money on top of check and headed back to his table. And as the two cousins finished off their beers and traded stories, he had force himself not to keep looking at the bar.

Eventually the man disappeared and all was forgotten.