For some reason or another, his move had been perceived as "ballsy" and his reputation quickly became rather wild. Grantaire had never been the cool kid before and it was kind of exhilarating. It got him watched more by the deck boss but it came with an upside that he hadn't expected.

The crew started talking to him.

The first was a double shock. One, because he'd been asked a question instead of given an order.

"What kind of artist are you?"

Second, because that was clearly a female voice.

One of the deckhands was a woman. She was short with beautifully dark skin and eyes as black as a starless sky, one strand of thick raven hair peeking out of her cap. There was some weather on her face but she was young and very pretty, a subject he would love to sketch among the architecture of Paris herself.

She rolled her eyes when she saw him staring, "I said: What kind of artist are you? What do you do?"

"I paint and sketch," Grantaire finally got his jaw off the ground, "Has anyone ever told you you're bone structure is amazing? You would look striking painted in a kind of Baroque style."

The woman drew back, gloved fingers coming up to her cheeks while her eyes got comically wide, "I'm – I'm – is that a come on?"

"No, it's the truth," Grantaire hurried, "I didn't mean to offend you. I've just never seen your face before and it kind of struck me."

"Oh, sorry," she slowly went back to putting on the straps that would keep the water out of her gloves and from going up her jacket sleeve, "I'm just not used to...that."

"What?" he chuckled, "Compliments?"

"Yeah," she ducked her head, the bill of her cap easily hiding her face, "Either they come off crude or they don't come off at all. I'm not used to simple ones, I guess."

"Don't let it bother you," Grantaire shrugged easily, "You're pretty. And I saw you throwing around that hundred pound coil earlier. You're quite something. To be fair, I thought you were a guy at first."

Her teeth were bright against her dark rose lips, "I get that a lot."

He held out his herring and ground chicken covered hand, "I'm Grantaire."

She shook it without hesitation, "Éponine."

Éponine was the most interesting girl he was sure he'd ever meet. She grew up in a poor family with three older brothers and one younger, all living in a one story with her parents not far from Cannes. She'd developed tough skin at an early age and a talent for fishing. She'd gone to the dock a lot to get away from her questionably criminal parents, though she didn't share exactly what they did. From the way she shied away big gestures, he could only assume they'd slapped her around. It broke his heart because Éponine was such a bright girl with a real spark in her, strength seemingly endless as she picked up whatever was needed and hefted it like bags of flour. From buoys to rope, it didn't seem to bother her and she never complained.

The only time she threw a tantrum was when one of the guys pushed the 'women on board are bad luck' joke too far. She'd shoved the sorting table so hard it had taken a straight shot to port, the edges knocking off the boat and bouncing back. She'd declared that the next person to say she was bad luck was going to be sharing her gender with the help of her gutting knife.

Grantaire grew half in love with her spirit and couldn't help but try to catch glimpses of her fine figure below deck when they were in more casual clothes. But she always caught him and she never let him get away with it. She had the meanest pinches and his ass was black and blue by the end of the first week. One bruise for each blatant ogling. He called it fair. They were fast friends and soon he was attached to her hip.

Combeferre told him how to bait the pots but Éponine showed him, throwing herself into the cages the moment they were open and teaching him the proper way. He didn't let her go alone and for the first seven pots or so they were side by side within the net, her doing one side so he could mimic it perfectly. She showed him how to best cut the cod, which spot on their mouths would hold, and she didn't mind getting dirty. After baiting she would throw hundreds of pounds of coil in, and together they would tie off the doors.

They became fast friends and an even faster team.

"If you were a guy, I'd ask you to marry me," Grantaire proclaimed one day as she handed him a hardy bowl of stew.

She'd pinched his cheek, a much lighter touch than the ones he'd gotten elsewhere, "That's what they made strap-on's for."

"My love!" he'd bellowed, throwing himself at her feet to the sound of the others laughter.

It was all in good fun though because, as he'd quickly learned, she was madly in love with the oblivious Marius. He'd questioned her about her tenderness for the pale youth but she wouldn't say anything on it. Nothing except the obvious.

"Trust me, I've tried. But I'm a boy to him," Éponine jammed her knife needlessly into the eye of a mangled cod, the two of them bent over the bait table together, "And we're friends."

Grantaire couldn't understand, "Isn't it maddening? Having him so close?"

"If I can't share a life with him, I'm content to share a job," she was half-lying but her smile was genuine, "He's so sweet...and sometimes, I think, being around the one you love is enough."

"Do you stay because of him?" he hadn't meant to ask but it had come out regardless.

"I'm not sure," Eponine's smile had only failed for a second, "The money's a good incentive. No faster way into a girl's shorts than a big pile of that awful smelling American treasure."

"Are you talking about their money or the crab?"

She'd laughed so hard and so long that they'd both gotten yelled at by Combeferre.

Unfortunately for their deck boss, that only made her bray louder.

Ah, their deck boss. Combeferre was a man who knew exactly what to do and exactly when to do it. He'd been on the boat the longest and he knew how to soothe Enjolras's temper when it flared. He was second in command and if you had an issue to take to the captain, you went through his first mate to do it. Though born and raised in the city of Bordeaux, his grandparents had both been from Sweden and it showed in his flaxen hair and bright azure eyes. He was strongly built but he was obviously educated, when he spoke in their native tongue the high-class could almost be tasted in the air.

Grantaire speculated that his parents were wealthy and over a quick lunch the older man admitted that he went to the Université Pierre-et-Marie-Curie. His parents had paid out for a philosophy degree that he only used to outwit idiots and muse about in cafes. He'd met Enjolras there and the two had grown close, they'd done a lot of political rallies and protests together while there.

"Our captain's a political agent?" Grantaire had interrupted.

Combeferre had actually grinned, his boss persona gone under the light of a half hour break in tossing pots, "You have no idea."

Two years after they'd parted ways he'd gotten a phone call. Enjolras needed someone he could trust to help him run a fishing boat. After one year on deck, he'd been hooked. This was his fifth year, his second as deck boss. The guys respected him almost as much as the captain. When he wasn't giving orders topside, he was pretty soft spoken and his laugh was nice to listen to.

Grantaire had made it his personal mission to get him to laugh as much as possible.

The third in command was a tie between his own cousin and Feuilly, a dark haired man with thick sideburns and kind eyes. His hands were thick and scarred up, a piece of his pinky missing from an accident his first year on board a ship. He didn't talk a lot while they were working but he was friendly enough down below. He was the most knowledgeable of the Liberté's guts. He was their engineer and damn good with those calloused hands.

Grantaire learned secondhand that he was an orphan from a nameless town along the Seine river. He'd grown up hard, harder than Éponine even, and had taught himself everything. Including finding the identity of his Polish birth mother. He'd learned everything he could about the country in order to feel closer to her but he'd never actively sought her out.

"The idea of her is better," Feuilly had shrugged, up to his elbows in grease down in the engine room, "Now hand me that wrench."

He'd dropped out of high school early to go to the city and get a job as a mechanic, quickly developing an interest that went from cars to RV's to semi-trucks and eventually to boats. He was fascinated with how things worked, and he knew almost as much about boats as he did about his true motherland.

Feuilly was the oldest out of all of them, nearly thirty-one. He'd worked on a crab boat before solely as an engineer, he knew the Bering Sea a little better than Combeferre but he never asserted his opinion. It was always asked, but never did he push it.

Enjolras had found him by chance.

"So this piece of shit boat, the Marion, had me employed for a season. I go, I do my job, but for some reason the captain doesn't like how I do my job. I never botched it, not once. But on a unloading trip he left me behind. I can't make this up! This bastard left me standing on the dock with my stuff thrown off the boat," Feuilly told the story with great passion during a cigarette break, "So I'm standing there in the middle of opie season-"

"What's an opie?" Grantaire butted in, getting a jab in the arm from Éponine.

"They're smaller crap, they're next season," Feuilly waved him off, "So I'm standing there, gaping, freezing, and have no idea what to do. I didn't have enough money to stay anywhere for the rest of the season and I sure as hell didn't want to start asking for charity at the harbor. Then this big red boat pulls up, anchors down right in front of me, and this guy I've never seen before comes out of the wheelhouse."

"There were a couple hundred boats back then," Marius supplied, struggling to light his zippo, "Not like now. Rationalization took them out."

"I bet it took the Marion with it," Feuilly scoffed, "This blonde guy walks out, leans on the railing, and starts eying me. To be honest, I thought he was some sort of prostitute running a cathouse-boat...thing."

"Feuilly!" Combeferre burst out laughing, Courfeyrac coughing beside him from where he'd choked on his cigarette.

"It's his own fault!" the engineer laughed with him, "He was wearing incredibly tight jeans and looked like a Glamour model, what was I supposed to think? All the captains out here look like bears wearing human skins!"

Marius was on his knees he was laughing so hard, hat falling off to show off his shock of ginger-blonde hair.

"This model walks out, starts staring at me. And I go, 'I'm not interested'. He gives me that look," Feuilly tried to contort his broad features into their captain's signature judging expression but it just looked ridiculous, "He asks me what I'm doing, I tell him the truth. He kind of looks out where the Marion's in the distance and then looks back at me. He asks me what I am and I tell him I'm mainly an engineer. He says he has a few problems with his engine and I was welcome aboard for the rest of the season but, get this, only if I was okay with working with a bunch of Frenchman."

Grantaire puffed out a great cloud of smoke, chuckling.

"I told him, 'But I'm French!'," Feuilly stood up, throwing out his arms as he got caught up in it, "He looked me up and down and said I wasn't, I couldn't be. I sounded like a native!"

The engineer was giddy, they were on their twentieth hour of no sleep, "I shouted at him in French that I'd been living in Anchorage for a year, what did he expect? He grilled me about my parentage and then told me to get my ass on board."

Grantaire had never known a man to work as hard as Feuilly and after showing him that he wasn't above learning anything he could about the boat's engine, he could call them tentative friends.

The only one who didn't warm up to him right away was Joly. But after he learned a little about the man, he wasn't surprised. Joly was a good guy with a big, nervous heart. He suffered from sometimes crippling anxiety and type one diabetes, an insulin pumped stuffed deep into his rain gear.

Enjolras had him in charge of stock, hydraulics, and health. He was a medical graduate who hadn't the stomach to take his certification to a hospital. He'd met Éponine at a clinic while he was still in school and after hopelessly pursuing her, they'd become friends and had stayed in touch. When she'd decided to try and make her way into the lucrative business of crab fishing, he'd gone with her on impulse just to make sure she didn't get hurt.

Enjolras had needed a doctor on the ship and, as a pair with the strongest woman he'd ever met, was hired aboard only two weeks after arriving in Alaska.

Despite hating everything about crab fishing, Joly had an unwavering bond of loyalty toward their captain. Enjolras had hired Éponine after she'd been rejected from almost thirty other ships. He'd taken a chance of bad luck to hire his friend and he'd been more than grateful to see her flourish. He hated the lack of sleep, the lack of food, and the hard conditions they were put under. But every season for nearly three years he'd come back, hoping each time that Enjolras didn't get wise and fire him.

Everyone knew that they were one man over stock but their captain wanted the doctor aboard, nerves and all.

Grantaire only officially met him after an almost-accident on board. He was cutting into a cod when the knife slipped and clattered to the deck. Before he could bend down and get it, Joly was on him. Grabbed his hands, holding them out, examining them while asking him question after question. Did he feel any pain? Was he bleeding? Was he woozy? When was the last time he ate?

"I'm fine," Grantaire promised, spinning around and holding up his arm, "See? No cuts."

"Oh thank God, I thought you'd torn your wrist out," Joly sighed, pushing back his hat.

"That's kind of extreme."

"It happens more than you think!"

That was kind of Joly's catchphrase. Getting crushed by a pot, blood clots forming in their legs, losing their fingers, crab taking your eye out – happens more than you think. He may have only been twenty-four, the same fresh age as Éponine, but he knew how to take care of someone. He had at least four med kits stashed around the boat along with the huge designated one, and two mini ones in his pockets. Also hidden in his gear were snacks. Mostly to keep his sugar in check, but also to sneak to the crew members every five hours or so. Enjolras would sometimes bark at him to keep his mind on his work, but Joly always made sure the edge off their hunger.

Not enough to satisfy them, but enough to keep their health up.

As Marius laid their meals in front of them, Joly made sure to hand each of them a vitamin to take with it. He also had a stash of chewable ones for when they were on deck.

Enjolras may have signed their checks, Combeferre may have kept them in line, but Joly was the one who kept them all going.

The greenhorn before him, Eponine's love, was Marius. He was a wide-eyed, bushy-tailed guy only two years older than Grantaire himself. He had freckles from the tips of his ears to the ends of his fingers, fair skinned despite the constant wash of sun. He was pure Parisian, born and raised, and had the thickest accent out of all of them. He'd grown up with Enjolras, the two of them life long friends.

Marius had graduated college with a lack of purpose and guilt hanging on his shoulders. He'd been a trustfund baby, he'd been handed everything his entire life, and he'd begged his best friend to give him a chance to learn something useful. He'd only been on a year but already the crew loved him and his work ethic. He was pleasant and he fast on deck, taking to his sea legs faster than anyone had ever seen.

Free of his greenhorn status, he took up new tasks like running crab to further tanks and jumping into the pots while the rest of the crew were sorting crab on the table. He had a gentle touch and he managed to pluck free the little crustaceans that were stuck in the net without ripping off their legs. Grantaire didn't understand why he bothered at first but Éponine explained to him in the pot that every crab was worth about two or three dollars, and that after a while it added up.

"Marius earns us fifty more dollars a trip. It's worth it."

But Marius's most important job, at least what the Parisian boy declared it to be, was cooking. He'd go down about an hour before their meal break and whip them up something filling and warm. He made stews, savory roasts, and as much variety as he could rustle up. With his secret flat of spices he kept hidden in the back of the pantry, he managed to grill/stew/bake/fry them up something worth the ten hour streaks of snacks and sea air.

Grantaire quickly found out that Enjolras babied him even though the boy was only five years younger than him. Marius hated it and often huffed his way up to the wheelhouse after his friend had called him to come in, knowing that his captain wanted to offer him a break he wasn't going to give to the others. To the kid's credit, he almost always refused.

Every odd job was handed over to the kid and Marius took it with a grin, just happy to help.

It took a few days for him to really decide, but in the end he decided he liked Marius.

They were a good group of people. Lively, passionate, and all of them wanted to be there.

Still, he was their greenhorn and therefore their whipping boy.

And then there was Enjolras. Their captain, their leader, their employer. The crew was the life blood of the Liberté, and Feuilly may have arguably been her heart, but Enjolras was the brain. In the first week Grantaire learned how attentive their skipper was, how meticulous. He poured over dozens of maps, some older than him, and constantly danced form one machine to the next. He had few allies in the fleet so he had to do the work of three partner boats, relying on familial maps and migration reports to get them where they needed to go.

Enjolras was beautiful but the mind inside of him was endlessly fascinating. When he had a moment to think, Grantaire just marveled over how intelligent their captain was. Though he was still a wealth of mystery, every time he opened his mouth to speak the greedy artist drank up every word. He couldn't find out much from the others without being obvious so he took what little detail he could and locked it up tight.

One day, Joly was getting so shaky that he had to step away from the hydraulics. He refused any help and shoved everyone away who tried to help him. Enjolras had practically kicked down the wheelhouse door and had romped down the stairs, shouting in some smooth language that sounded like butter to his ears. He was stunned by the language and didn't really remember what happened after, but by the time Combeferre elbowed him in the side the whole thing was over and Joly was back under.

Later, he asked Éponine what that was.

"It's Norwegian," Éponine shoved a plate of sausage in his hands, "His father has thick roots in Norway that got back who knows how long."

"I heard his dad was from an old family that's been linked with the Vikings," Courfeyrac added, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth, "He owns the Frihet, you know? It's one of the bigger crab fishing boats. It's out there right now."

"Enjolras?"

"No, his dad," the reply was kind of muffled, "Fishing has been on that side of the family for generations. They're a big name in this industry. They've got old, crab money."

"Crab money," Marius laughed, though he wasn't disagreeing.

Combeferre checked the hall both ways, making sure their captain wasn't in earshot, "His father's fine and all but it's his mother who's the most interesting."

Grantaire leaned over the table, "Tell me."

"No!" Marius protested, but it was light, "Don't bring that up. If Enj finds out-"

"Shut up and he won't," Éponine shoved the boy good-naturedly, nearly making him fall into the stew pot, "What is it about his mom?"

"She's a third cousin in the Bourbon family," for the first time, Combeferre seemed positively youthful in his gossip, "By blood, if you can believe it."

A lot of them gaped but Grantaire was left in the dark.

"Bourbon?"

"Come on! Where have you been? Is Agde under a rock?" Combeferre shoved his head down playfully, "The Bourbons? The unofficial royal family? They're not legally in charge anymore but they take their genealogy very seriously."

He couldn't believe it, "No!"

"Yes," Marius moaned, like he'd been threw this a dozen times before, "But don't tell him you know that!"

"Why not?"

"His mother isn't really...in the picture," Courfeyrac made a face, voice down to a whisper, "She left when he was really young. But he has this really fat trust fund from her and he used it to fix this boat up."

"He takes his heritage very seriously," Feuilly put forth, "Both sides."

Grantaire couldn't stop himself from frowning, "So he's some kind of freedom fighter?"

"That's a way of putting it," Éponine nodded along, "I went to one earlier this year. He's all about equal rights and world peace. I thought it was endearing."

"So he fights against everything his maternal side has worked so hard to build up?" he scrunched up his nose, "Talk about bad blood."

Marius suddenly cleared his throat, an unspoken signal that the captain was coming. Enjolras entered the galley to a sea of carefully blank faces. After some brief questioning, he grabbed his coffee and let it go.

That night, Grantaire fell headfirst into an all encompassing dream of a Norwegian dauphin seated upon a silver throne. Crimson silk over tan flesh, a smirk carving deep lines into a handsome face as eyes the color of the Bering sea seared marks into his flesh. Long legs were crossed over one another, skin-tight boots laced up them to the knee. They were black and had a hundred eyelets with thick laces pulled through them, heavy soles weighing them down.

Down, boy.

Grantaire was shaken awake by his deck boss, telling him his break was over.

Even out on deck with the sea in his face and the ache in his legs threatening to take them out from under him, he could still taste leather on the back of his tongue.