Grantaire yawned so hard his jaw cracked, feet dragging on the ground as he followed his beloved cousin to the docks. They passed by several large boats, all different colors and shapes and designs. At first he tried to guess which one they were heading too but eventually the fog on the sea seemed to fill up his head. The sun was barely visible, the whole town bathed in milky white and little spots of pink. He was starting to think to it was all a big joke and the place was a graveyard until he saw the dots and scurry of men on board those vessels. Some in neon easy-to-see colors while others clad themselves in black. They all had one thing in common: Their heads were lowered and they were concentrating on their job.

"There, that's us," Courfeyrac gestured forward, spreading a palm across the younger man's back, "Isn't she beautiful?"

The ship was indeed impressive. She was wide and tall, originally made for fishing by the looks of her. She was piled high with what looked like cages and his brief internet searching last night supplied him with the term "crab pots". She had a white top and a crimson bottom, like the neckline of a fair woman in a low cut dress. She was pulled close to the dock and was firmly anchored, despite soft motion of the waves that rocked it. There was a thick metal plank securing the side of the boat to the dock, creating a make-shift bridge.

There were already men in heavy shoes and caps mulling about on the boat, knotting ropes or tightening up chains on the pots. There was so much, he couldn't fathom how many jobs would need doing. He only spotted five people, all different heights and kinds milling around. They seemed lively enough for the first hour of daylight.

On the side, painted in slanted type, was the name Liberté.

"Oi!" one of the men climbed up on the ropes, peering at them from beneath his cap before smiling, " 'Feyrac! You showed up!"

"I always do," Courfeyrac went to greet the man (a boy, really) and got grabbed into a hug. They laughed and clapped each other on the back, a familiar embrace. Grantaire felt the blood rush to his face as he realized just how outside of all this he was. His cousin was greeted with more smiles and manly hugs, fists digging into his curls and hands tugging teasingly at his jacket. They seemed to be friends here, tight-knit in the way they closed ranks.

Even here he'd be alone.

"Who's this?" a skinny boy with a pinched, worried face asked.

"Joly, this is my cousin," Courfeyrac replied, gesturing for the younger boy to follow him. Grantaire stepped up onto the plank but was stopped but a sharp shout in French, an order to freeze. The crew went quiet, all eyes shooting up to the wheel house.

"Why?" the artist blurted out. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his cousin drop his face into his palm, muttering something he couldn't hear but he knew was said in exasperation.

Then he spotted him. The man from the bar.

The blonde was coming down the stairs from the wheelhouse, disappearing under the covering of machinery for a moment before emerging onto the deck like a storm. He he had a cigarette between his full lips and he was coming right at him, stride sure and carrying all the authority the other men seemed to give him. His clothes were more practical now but just as clean cut, a far cry from the rest of the crew's thick clothing.

"Why?" the man gritted out, smoke pouring out with each word, "Because this is my boat and you won't set foot on it until I've deemed you worthy."

"Is that rule for everyone or just the particularly scruffy?" Grantaire couldn't believe what was coming out of his mouth, his hand busy rubbing over the severe five 'o clock shadow he'd sprouted overnight, "I knew I should have shaved."

"You think that's funny?" the golden man plucked the cigarette out of his mouth, flicking ash with a twitch of his thumb, "Oh good, because what I look for in my fisherman is a good sense of humor. Four weeks is just unbearable without some little snot-nosed brat making painfully unfunny quips every few minutes."

"Uh..."

The older man raised an eyebrow, "Is all your eloquence in your supposed humor?"

"No, you're just really intimidating," Grantaire blurted, "And I've been told my biggest defense mechanism is my mouth, so – yeah – talking."

One of the men behind them snickered but was quickly silenced.

"Mechanism?" the captain sounded amused, "Big word for someone from – where was it?"

"Paris," Courfeyrac supplied.

"Agde, actually," Grantaire shot his cousin a withering look.

"Agde," the man seemed to taste the word, flicking ashes thoughtfully, "That's hugged by the Mediterranean. Nice water there, very calm. People have tamed that sea for decades, it's practically domesticated. You won't find that here. This lady is choppier, colder, and much more unforgiving. She eats people alive."

Grantaire knew he should've been scared but the way the older man spoke about the sea made him yearn for something he wasn't quite sure of.

The captain put the cigarette back between his lips, "Let me see your hands."

He instinctively shoved his hands behind his back, "What?"

"I won't ask you again."

Grantaire slowly pushed them back out, palm up and held before the captain. The man grabbed them from beneath, sending a shock up through the ravenette's arms. He let out a small stuttery breath as cold rings grazed the back of his knuckles. The captain's fingers were rough in thick patches, rasping against his softer skin in a way that gave him shivers. The older man twisted them this way and that, analyzing them on a system Grantaire knew nothing about.

"Strange texture," he muttered around the cigarette, glancing up briefly, "What are you?"

"An artist," Grantaire replied honestly, pulling a face as he realized how that sounded.

"That's paint, then," the man flicked a fingernail into a messy nail bed, a fleck of red from his last portrait coming up. It was a few more tense moments before his hands were dropped and the captain puffed properly.

"Count yourself a fisherman as well," he finally stated, nodding to himself like an affirmation, "This is the first time we've had an artist on board. What's the harm? 'Feyrac, you'll be in charge of him. Show him the ropes. I want him scrubbing and cleaning and learning how to bait before we set out. Not on the day of, before."

"I-I got it?" Grantaire gaped, an honest shock sweeping through him.

"Don't be stupid, of course you're on," the captain scoffed, "I want you geared up and ready to start within the hour. One minute past and you'll be grinding bait without gloves, got it?"

"Is that a punishment?" he asked dumbly, getting another face-palm from his cousin.

"Fucking kids," there was a another roll of smoke, "The boys will tell you exactly how things work around here, I don't have time to screw around on the deck all day. Get going."

"Wait!"

The captain actually paused, back still toward the younger man.

"What's your name?"

"Enjolras," the blonde flicked a look at him over his shoulder, "That's 'Captain' to you, though."

The crew were still gaping and whispering by the time Enjolras disappeared into the wheelhouse, but the intercom came to life the moment he realized they were dawdling.

"I want to see movement down there! I'm not paying you to reenact a zombie movie, for God's sake."

One of the guys, the younger one that had greeted Courfeyrac so warmly, started dragging his feet with his arms held aloft and his head to the side. After a round of laughter, the deckhands sprang back to life and started back on their assigned tasks.

Courfeyrac grabbed his cousin around the neck, dragging him back off the boat, "What the hell was that?"

"I'm sorry," Grantaire staggered under the pressure, "I just didn't expect that."

They were a good distance away from the boat before he was released.

"Expect what?"

Grantaire could feel the dopey smile on his face but he couldn't help it, "For him to be so beautiful. Ow!"

A punch to the shoulder made him recoil.

"What the hell was that?"

"No."

"What?" he whined, rubbing the sore spot.

"Grantaire, I'm serious," Courfeyrac looked fearsome, "Don't flirt with my captain."

"Yours?" he echoed thoughtfully, "Are you already carrying a torch for him?"

"Not in that way," his cousin made a face, "He's my friend. He's a good, troubled man with a past I'd rather not get into. I know how overbearing you can be with your interests. I don't want you to freak him out. We both need this job and I'd appreciate it if you didn't make this weird."

Grantaire knew what he said was the truth. He didn't often half-love something. He coveted, clung, and usually scared his lovers off within the first few weeks. A sea-hardened captain who obviously took no foolishness wouldn't have time to gently let him down or (worse) play around with him.

"Besides," Courfeyrac looked horribly uncomfortable, "He doesn't actually do..."

"What? Guys?" Grantaire snorted, "Losers?"

"People."

"What do you mean 'people'?"

"He doesn't date or anything," Courfeyrac clarified, the trips of his ears flushed from either the cold or nerves, "We're pretty sure he's never had sex. Marius grew up with him and said he'd never seen him so much as kiss someone. Even in the pub, he doesn't talk about relationships."

"A virgin?" Grantaire gaped back at the rig, "That golden Greek god has never been touched by mortal fingers?"

"Maybe, I don't know. Quit it," his cousin bit out, grabbing him by the jacket and pulling him towards the shops, "Don't repeat any of this. He's your captain now too. Please, please don't mess this up this early."

Courfeyrac sounded truly worried and it made his chest ache. It was as close as the older boy had ever gotten to being disappointed and he couldn't handle it. He could let this one go. Discovering the depths and untouchable beauty of Enjolras's soul wasn't worth having his cousin upset with him to any degree. He could let this fresh feeling go, no matter the temptation.

"Alright."

The hand fell from his arm, "What?"

"I said, alright," Grantaire laughed, "No chiseled face is worth your good graces."

"Thank you," his cousin let out a huge breath, like he'd been holding it since they got off the boat, "I'm going to buy you all the gear you'll need. Boots, hat, jacket, oil skin. Don't look at me like that, you'll pay me back by doing well. Later I'll teach you how to put it all on."

"I can dress myself, 'Rac."

"This is my first time training a greenhorn, don't spoil it for me."

"What in the hell is a greenhorn?"

"It's a new person on a crab boat," his cousin gestured vaguely, "Training one means you're pretty important and reliable. Handling you is the captain's way of saying he trusts me and I'm not about to muck it up by blurring over the details. By the end of this month, you're going to be the best fisherman Dutch Harbor has ever seen."

His new boots grabbed the ground so well they couldn't even leave a black streak on the store's tile floor. They were probably the best pair of shoes he'd ever worn.

Grantaire caught sight of himself in the shop window and he had to stop.

"This is so wrong," he muttered, turning to get every angle. His cousin had shoved him into a black hoodie that hugged his neck and shapeless orange pants held up a tight belt and suspenders. The straps were thick and off-black, laying tight across his chest and shoulders. He looked more rugged and he was warmer, that much was certain, but the way the whole thing cinched his waist made the whole thing come off...soft. Courfeyrac looked like a real fisherman, he just looked like a kid playing in his big brother's clothes. Apparently they didn't come in 'narrow-waisted'.

"I think I'm disproportionate," he declared after a long minute of inspection.

"You look good," Courfeyrac pinched at the roll of his belly that showed, "You'll work off the puppy fat in a week."

Grantaire slapped his hand away, cheeks coloring up, "Piss off!"

"I didn't mean it that way, R, don't be like that," his cousin instantly soothed, "There's nothing wrong with your body. You've always had a tummy."

"You're an asshole," Grantaire picked at the cloth over his stomach, "Forgive me for not wanting to starve myself to fit societies twisted sense of male beauty."

"R-"

"Weights are the anchor of the soul and the bench press is the throne we will ride into ego and inevitable self-destruction."

"Just hurry," but Courfeyrac was smiling.

Grantaire had never moved around so quick in his life, especially with two layers of clothing on. At first he'd felt weighed down, congested, but then the cold wind had picked up and he'd become grateful. His nose was numb but his hands were toasty all strapped up into his thick gloves. He'd grown an inch all over and ten pounds of clothing, but after an hour or so he barely felt it.

Courfeyrac showed him around under and above deck, quick on the former with an explanation that he'd see it enough. The top deck was an intricate system of towering seven hundred pound pots and pulleys and hydraulics. There was a crane, a sorting table, and a hundred ways to die that had nothing to do with going overboard. He learned that more than six minutes in the water was almost a guaranteed death sentence.

There was enough rope to wind a thousand nooses and every bit of it needed to be tightly coiled and stuffed into pots or containers. Courfeyrac carefully talked him through the process he'd be expecting, showing him step by step how to haul a pot and anchor it down before shaking it loose and pouring the crab (or whatever came up) into the table before sorting it. He found out how to open the tank and how it worked, his cousin's earlier lessons on boat anatomy and care getting built upon as he was shown each new thing.

Grantaire was never more thankful for his artist's memory than he was when learning his new job. Everything was complicated and there were steps and names of equipment he'd never seen and would be expected to use the moment they were out on open sea.

He only got overwhelmed once and his compassionate cousin let him squat at the side of the boat to catch his breath.

"This is...there's so much," he didn't want to complain this early but it was hard with zero fishing experience under his belt.

"No one expects you to be a master right away," Courfeyrac laughed, rubbing his back sweetly, "You just have to keep up and pull your own weight. If you don't know what to do, say it. Never guess, though. Guessing leads to accidents."

"Did you struggle when you started?"

"Oh yeah," Courfeyrac pushed up his sleeve, revealing a puckered scar laced across his milky forearm, "I was climbing on pots I'd just tied together but my knots weren't tight enough and I fell between them. A latch caught on my arm and I dragged it all the way down before I realized what was going on. I've threaded the wrong lines, I've nearly gone overboard, I've fallen into the tank, I've even put others lives at stake with my stupid choices."

He ran a hand through his younger cousin's matching dark curls, "That's why I want to teach you everything I've learned. I don't want anything to happen to you."

"Then why'd you bring me here?" again, he sounded ungrateful when he was anything but.

There was a faraway look in the older man's eyes before he slapped on a grin, hiding his concern behind mirth, "To make money, of course!"

Grantaire stared openly at the blonde standing in front of him, trying not to cower under the hard stare.

"Uh, hi."

The man sighed, "Hi, bait boy. I'm Combeferre."

"Bait boy?"

"Don't do that," Combeferre closed his eyes briefly, like he was fighting the urge to hit him (which was a normal reaction to his stupid questions), "Don't repeat things in questions. It's stupid, it's annoying, and it slows everyone down. You'd do better to just shut up and listen to what I have to say."

"Aye, aye," he muttered under his breath.

"You're going to take this," he handed the younger man a crowbar, slapping his other hand on the boxes stacked against the wall, "And break up those frozen blocks of herring and ground chicken. You want the mix to stick when you ball it, and if it smells off come to me. We've got a specific blend of bait and one bad batch can fuck up an entire string. You grind it, put it in these cups," he held up a square cup with a secure-able lid, "You slice two fresh cod down the middle, shove a hook through their mouths, and then latch one box and one fish about a shoulder width apart inside the pot. Got it?"

Grantaire nodded quickly, clutching the prybar to his chest. He could see what he had to do in his head butt he knew the moment he climbed in that contraption he would forget every word. Fuck.

"Just break it up right now and spread it out on this table," he shook the side of a silver table pressed up against the ship's wall, "We don't bottle it up until we're ready to start laying pots."

"Is that my job?"

"Until you're told otherwise, kid," Combeferre adjusted the cap on his head, "Your cousin and I are going to be down in the tanks double-checking for weak spots. Do you think you can handle this or does Marius need to watch over you?"

Grantaire glanced over at the fresh-faced youth who was shoving pieces of the deck back in place from a check-up, "I think I can handle it."

"Good. Get to it."

"And when I'm done?"

A brow was raised at him.

"I'll just ask around if anyone needs help."

"Good idea."

Grantaire had never slept as soundly as he did that night.

He dreamed of the sun being poured into a shot, and woke to the echoing sound of silver rings tapping on glass.

The next day was rather boring. The Coast Guard came aboard and walked them through safety procedures, informing them of what to do if the boat turns over and other emergencies on board. By the time they got to the survival suits, Grantaire knew how to handle a fire and activate a life raft. He knew what an epirb was and where it was housed on the ship. He learned at least ten more ways to die and some of them he doubted were even possible but he wasn't going to argue with the Coast Guard. They were very serious men with a stern set to their brows. He didn't hold it against them, they probably fished stupid "greenhorns" like himself out of the ocean every other day.

He hoped the next time he saw them, he as alive enough to thank them.

Grantaire pointedly didn't watch his captain don his ridiculously tight survival suit. Even in the unsexiest thing man ever made, the man's legs were serious business.

Grantaire tried his best not to sneer as the crew gathered in the wheelhouse to listen to the blessing of the fleet. A priest read a prayer for their safety over the radio. He was standing at the top of the stairs, hat off but eyes rolling. He wanted to walk past the others and turn it off, explain to them that no one was watching over them but them, but his cousin's eyes were fixated on him.

With a scowl, he obediently lowered his head and pretended. With his eyes on the floor, he didn't notice his captain's knowing gaze.

The day they were planning to set sail, Grantaire found out just how formidable his captain was.

Courfeyrac was a bundle of nerves as they scarfed down their breakfast before the sun was even fully up, the diner food heavier than he was used to but welcome. Grantaire took his first swig of American coffee and found it too burnt for his taste.

"Do they let it smolder in those pots? For the sake of all that is holy," the artist spat, shoving another piece of bacon into his mouth to cover up the taste, "Am I going to be drinking this swill the entire time?"

"No way," his cousin promised, "Captain Enjolras buys the good stuff from back home. Parisian strength and it goes down smooth. That's all you care about when you're out at sea."

" 'Captain Enjolras', indeed. What a mouthful."

"He'll take 'sir' or 'captain' just as easily."

Grantaire's pulse picked up as he thought of what else the handsome skipper could take, "What do you call him?"

" 'E'," Courfeyrac bit off a corner of toast, "But only in the wheelhouse when we're talking as equals. Otherwise, he's my boss. He's made me a lot of money and I couldn't disrespect him like that in front of the crew."

He leaned heavily on the counter, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, "So what do the others think of me?"

"They think you're fresh meat," Courfeyrac grinned as the younger groaned and dropped his head onto the table, "Come now, R, what did you expect? How many of them have you even spoken to?"

"Truly? Combeferre and Marius."

"You'll get to know all of them soon enough. It takes time," Courfeyrac was fond of that saying, along with all that matters on the boat is, "We're out there for weeks. You get close fast. I consider them my second family. They're all good people with fair humor and strong backs. They've got history. You spend enough time on a rig, you get to know one another."

"Some of them won't even look at me," he grumbled into the cheap wood of the counter.

"You haven't made an effort," Courfeyrac flicked the pale ear sticking out of his cousin's hair, "Your good looks won't get you anywhere here."

"They haven't got me anywhere before because I conveniently don't have any."

"You're always so harsh on yourself," the older slurped down the dregs of his own cup, "I just mean that you'll have to prove to them that you're there to stay. You have to show them how good you are."

"I've been trying to do that my entire life and so far no one's bought it," Grantaire lifted his head, rubbing at the red mark on his forehead, "Do you think they'll like me?"

"They'll love you," Courfeyrac assured him, "Finish up. We're due."

When they got back to the boat, the younger was shoved under the boat and was put to work sorting food and supplies into all the cabinets and crannies he could find. He got his hands on one of the packages of coffee and found it was a brand he had tasted before. It was the good stuff his cousin had promised. He had just finished shoving it all away when there was a shout from above deck. The thin man in charge of the supplies, Joly, immediately dropped the bag of applies he'd been holding and rushed to the stairs. Grantaire was right on his heels, wondering if they'd somehow managed to destroy the boat before they'd even left the harbor.

Up top, he spotted Courfeyrac by the side of the boat (starboard, right, whatever) parked next to the dock. He went to his cousin's side and braced his hands on the rail, following his stare to the makeshift metal bridge they used to get on and off the rig. There were a few men he'd never seen gathered there, standing in front of stacks of crates. Blocking them from getting on was none other than the captain, flanked by their two biggest guys – Combeferre and some man called Feuilly he'd never spoken with. They were a stalwart barricade.

"What happened?" he asked under his breath, leaning into the other man so as not to be overheard.

"We had a lot of buoys destroyed by sea lions on the last trip," Courfeyrac answered just as softly, "The captain ordered a new set. We were going to put them on nearly an hour ago but they were late."

"So?"

"The captain doesn't like to be late. Plus, look," he pointed at one of the open crates, where what looked to be a blue balloon was poking out, "Imagine trying to see those from a hundred feet or more."

"Did he order them like that?"

"What do you think?"

"They're useless," Enjolras pointed out.

"You ordered a dozen buoys, we brought you a dozen buoys," the man had a strong Alaskan tang to his voice that the locals dared call an 'accent', "It's not our fault you don't like the color."

"Red," Enjolras articulated, "I ordered red buoys. Red as in a contrast to the water we're going to be shoving them into. What kind of fisherman wants anything blue in the water?"

"What kind of fisherman, indeed," his buddies laughed at his supposed joke.

"I'm not paying for this," the blonde captain scoffed, flicking his cigarette to the ground and digging his heel into the ember, "I'm not letting this junk on my ship."

"Come on, Frenchman," the supplier griped with a wave of his thick hand, "You should like blue. It matches your flag."

"Our flags have the same color, jackass," Feuilly snorted out, sounding surprisingly American.

"Who gives a shit what color they are?" the man was clearly starting to lose his patience.

"My men! When they try to hook them!" Enjolras was simmering but he was threatening to boil, "I'm not paying one red cent for it."

"You paid with francs and bread and shitty wine, what do we give a fuck?"

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes clenched shut as he tried to comprehend the level of stupidity he was dealing with, "The Swiss use the franc now, you complete idiot."

The dealer made a move forward, "Listen here you little pussy-ass, cock-smoking-"

Combeferre slapped a hand on the man's chest, shoving him right back and away from their captain, "Don't try it."

Grantaire saw it coming. He'd been in enough bar fights to know when a burly guy like that had reached his limit. There was a smell to them like ozone, a new set to their shoulders, a tick to their jaw. The artist quickly scooped up a piece of brick off the deck, aiming as carefully as he could before chucking it. It struck the dealer in his clenching fist, making him draw back from the punch he was going to deliver.

"Oi!" Grantaire shouted, catching all their attentions, "If you take a swing at our captain, you take a swing at us all!"

Courfeyrac rose to his full height beside his cousin, silently backing him up.

"You stay out of this, you French faggot!" one of the men behind the dealer barked at him, trying to muscle his way past the group with his eyes on the artist. Before the two deckhands could do anything, Enjolras grabbed the interloper by the collar and dragged him into a solid punch. Something crunched under his sure fist and the guy staggered, falling hard onto the dock. Pink leaked through the fingers he had clutched over his face, and after a moment there was a thick gush of blood that had the man sputtering.

The dealer and the greenhorn were shocked by the captain's quick attack.

"I better have red buoys within the hour or you're going to get a lot more familiar with the taste of this dock," Enjolras turned sharply, flicking his fingers, "If any garbage gets on board, boys, you have my permission to give it to the sea."

"Yes, sir," Combeferre's smirk was razor sharp, like he was eager to get his claws into the yanks.

Courfeyrac dragged his cousin back below deck before he saw how the rest of the scene play out.

" 'Rac!"

"That was stupid and reckless," his cousin scolded him quickly before he broke into a smile, "And really cool. I think you impressed Enjolras for a second."

"A whole second?" Grantaire replied flippantly, elbowing the other in the side, "What a shock. Quick, I'm fainting, grab me a couch!"

But on the inside he was glowing. A second of pride felt like a balm on his long bruised and battered soul. A band-aid, a brief fix, but enough to fuel him back to the galley to stock and sort.

When he came back up, there were shining new red buoys ready to be hooked onto the pots.

They set sail just before noon, all hands still busy coiling and pushing and sorting out the deck. They left the dock without anymore pomp and circumstance than a shout and the deep bellow of the horn.

Sweat was pouring down Grantaire's neck. His fingers ached, pangs were going down his back, and he was pretty sure he'd pulled his shoulder out of its socket trying to push the sorting table aside by himself. Hundreds of pounds did not slide well, even on a slick deck. He was already certain he was going to twist his ankles trying to get from one end of the boat to the other, the sea was constantly splashing and flowing through the top deck. If something wasn't gritty, it was wet.

And the artist was loving every moment of it.

Grantaire pulled off his solid red beanie, shaking his hair free before settling his hands on the port side. He tilted his head up toward the sun, taking big lungfuls of the ocean air. The wind dried his sweat, leaving him refreshed. The Liberté was jogging away from Dutch Harbor and the little town was growing smaller, soon enough they'd be out to open sea. The thought of being surrounded completely by water was a stimulating one. The anticipation had his stomach bottomed out in the best way.

The rig jumped and rocked up, a splash catching him right in the face. He laughed, wiping his eyes and shaking himself to cast off heavy drops.

When he licked his lips, he tasted true sea salt.

Every few minutes or so, Enjolras would tear his eyes away from his set up of screens and the scatter of papers on his desk to check on the deck. The crew kept busy and their face was fine so he left them to it, trusting Combeferre to keep everyone on task. He was still unsure where exactly he was was going to lay his his one-fifty pot string and every minute out at sea dialed his nerves up just one notch further.

They were a couple miles out when he looked up to find their greenhorn braced against the side, dark hair getting whipped around his pale face. The sea was rather calm this close to shore so he wasn't worried about the idiot getting swept away but it was a new sight on his rig. From here he couldn't decipher the young man's expression.

Intrigued, Enjolras took up the mic to the intercom mounted to the wall by the bait table. He didn't want to announce to the deck that he was (maybe) staring at their newest member.

" 'Feyrac?" he called down, eyes still glued to the ravenette as he was splashed in the face. The young man drew away but not far, his hand rubbing over his soaked face.

"Yes?" came after a few moments.

"What's your baby cousin doing?" Enjolras inquired, "Is he sick already?"

Courfeyrac's warm laugh came over the speaker, "No, sir. He loves the sea but he hasn't been on a boat since he left home. I think he's greeting her again and apologizing for being gone so long."

Enjolras laughed to himself but quickly smothered up the sound, "The Mediterranean didn't forgive him?"

"It's been a long time since he's let himself enjoy something."

The confession was soft, even across the rough system.

Enjolras flicked off the mic, frowning as he watched the boy slide his hat back on and start toward the hydraulics where Feuilly was checking the hoses. He must've shouted an order because the greenhorn grabbed a toolbox out of a crate and hurried it over to him.

The blonde shook off the strange feeling that had settled over him and put the mic back, turning his eyes back to the log book in front of him. He'd set it up then get back to finding a route. At the moment, he needed the busywork.

"Test pots?" Grantaire echoed, following his cousin to the stacks.

"It means we'll be dropping two or three pots in one location, go a few miles, then drop a few more. You do this between ten to fifty miles," Courfeyrac started climbing, their deck boss already waiting at the top, "Wait here. We're going to loosen these up and then we'll all get strapped up in the rest of our gear."

"Does that mean he doesn't know where the crab are?" Grantaire watched the man go, moving quicker than he thought he could across net and metal bars.

"He's just feeling out the sea," Courfeyrac hauled himself over the side and onto the flat top, "She's fickle and the crab roam in packs. It's just a precaution, dear cousin, nothing to worry about!"

Grantaire frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, fingers itching to claw into the strong crisscross of the pot-wall. With the constant sway of the boat (which he was still getting used to) it was probably a little more complicated to climb than a chain link fence. He wanted to test his strength on it but Combeferre had distinctly told his cousin to keep him off it. At least for now.

Barely four hours out at sea and he was already being told to keep his hands off the best toys, including their Adonis of a captain.

There was a commotion up there and he could hear the two men shouting.

"The chain won't give!"

"Then where the hell's the second fastener?"

It was his cousin who gave a growl of frustration, "Where the hell else do you think? On the side!"

"Are you kidding me?" Combeferre appeared on the edge, dropped to one knee as he peered over the deck, "Who fastened the starboard pots?"

There was no answer.

"Who the fuck put the chain on backwards!" the blonde shouted, "Who thought it was a good idea to put the backup fastener on so it faced the fucking sea? I want an answer! Now!"

It was Marius's hand who went up.

"Fuck!" Combeferre got up, kicking at the edge of a pot, "Get a life vest on and get up here! You put it over there, you're crawling over the side to get it open. Move, kid!"

"I'm not hanging off the side!" Marius protested, a genuine look of fear coming over his face.

Grantaire sprang at the opportunity, already heading over to where the stack of pots kissed the starboard ledge. There were a few shouts from the others but they were swallowed up by the roar of the sea, and with just a spare second to compose himself he was he up. He kept his fingers dug deeply into the webbing, his slim-fitting gloves fitting easily between the diamond spaces. His feet were small enough to fit perfectly on the edges of the pots, and with that leverage he climbed sideways in search for the clasp.

In the wheelhouse, Enjolras was just getting back from taking a leak. He went to his chair, picked up his coffee, and took a long drink. He was in the middle of swallowing when he saw a man on the side of the pots, brow furrowing up. The men knew he liked to be told when one of them got into a position like that. He always watched, always monitored the waves, just to make sure it was the safest situation they could be in. He set the cup aside and grabbed the intercom mic, ready to scold what looked like Courfeyrac, and then he realized the man on the side had a stupid neon red hat on and the lack of something very important.

The mic dropped, whining faintly as it swung on it's chord. The wheelhouse door slammed.

Grantaire popped the latch, still grinning even when a wave crashed against his back. It shook him against the netting but his grip never faltered. Someone up top hauled the heavy-duty chain up, finally freeing the pots. He was just as careful getting back but he couldn't help swinging around the side with a triumphant yell, arms held high above his head.

"Did you see that? That was so awesome!" Grantaire's arms fell when he saw his skipper making a beeline toward him, "Oh shit."

Enjolras grabbed him by his suspender strap, dragging him across the deck and slamming him against the wall of the supply housing. Grantaire winced, those heavy hands coming up to fist in his collar and haul him up so far he had to strain on the tips of his toes just to stay standing. Enjolras looked enraged and gorgeous, pearly white teeth flashing in an feral display of dominance.

"Are you insane?" the skipper demanded, knuckles digging into the younger man's neck, "You don't go out on the stack. Period. Do you have a death wish? I'm not going to play host to some artist's whim of suffering for their muses! I won't have it! Not on my boat!"

The swell of Grantaire's throat bobbed, the breath stolen from his lungs by the sheer intensity the other was giving off.

"There are rules here," Enjolras shook him like a wayward pup, "If both your feet aren't on the deck, you have to have a life jacket on if you want even a chance of us scooping you out of the water. And you only get on the stack if I'm watching. I had no warning, no notice, and no idea that our new brat was hanging off the side without so much as an oil slick on! One rogue wave and you're gone."

"I had a good grip, and the water was-"

Grantaire was cut off by a forearm in his throat, the captain pinning him so hard to the wall he let out a strangled gasp. The pressure was enough to remind him who was in charge and make him a little dizzy, but light enough to have his cock swelling in his shorts just from the small contact and proximity.

"You. Will. Die." Enjolras's words were curt and they stung, "I'm not going to let that happen but you need to obey the laws I've put down. Do you understand me, boy?"

He swallowed a few times just to feel the blonde's muscle against his neck, unable to speak.

Enjolras let the kid go, taking a step back. Without warning, Grantaire slid down the wall onto his ass with legs starfished out in front of him. The boy's head fell back, revealing wide eyes that were colored almost the same shade as his own. He saw that gaze everyday in the mirror, though he knew his own held more aggression and authority than the soft one aimed at him right now. A gloved hand rose up and the neck he'd just been pressing was touched with the tips of black fingers, the red mark stroked over almost reverently.

"Yes, sir," the little artist rasped out, one finger pressing down hard in the hollow of his throat.

"Good," Enjolras started back toward the boathouse, grabbing Combeferre by the nape of the neck when he came up to him with a rushed explanation. The taller blonde snapped his mouth shut as he was held, a finger held up warningly.

"You," the captain reigned himself in enough to keep from shouting, "You and 'Feyrac each keep one eye on him. This little shit is getting back home in one piece. I don't care what you have to chain him to, just see it done! Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir," Combeferre's utterance was less arousing and it helped cool his temper.

"If that kid goes overboard, you'll owe Courfeyrac a thousand dollars every trip in repentance," Enjolras lowered his voice and patted the man's shoulder, getting a faint smile out of him, "Just watch a little closer."

"He was fast."

"I believe you," Enjolras stared toward the chairs, throwing an order over his shoulder, "Back to work!"

Back in the safety of his wheelhouse, Enjolras collapsed in his chair. There was a new tightness to his pants and he rubbed his palm over it, hoping to ease the ache but only ramping it up further. He bit down on his lip, swallowing a moan. That little brat got his adrenaline going, making him think he was going to lose a man. Then he had the nerve to look up at him like that, like he was some great dealer of punishment (he didn't dare compare himself to God, that would be pushing it, but it was close). There had been something more than the usual respect in his eyes, something deeper than that. The way he'd looked up at him, the closeness of it all, it had gone straight to his cock.

No one had ever gotten a reaction like this out of him. At least, never this quickly. Any other time he would just jerk off with a blank mind, satisfy his body and then put the residual frustration into his log books. But this time those blue eyes wouldn't leave his mind. That rough little Yes, sir had put fire in his blood in more ways than one.

And that terrified him.