The first fifteenth hour mark hit him like a ton of bricks. Baiting was more work than he'd done in years. Slaving over a painting for twenty-four hours was nothing compared to this. He hurt all over, his joints threatened to crack with every hour that went by and his lungs felt like they were encrusted with salt. If he hadn't been so exhausted he wouldn't have even cared but he'd passed by tired almost three hours ago.
His body had slipped into a true zombie mode and soon he was just getting through the motions. He threw himself into pot after pot and never complained. He wouldn't be that guy on the boat. Courfeyrac had told him in no uncertain terms that those guys never lasted. Fisherman hated bitching greenhorns.
Grantaire was almost at the bait table when hie knee gave out, sending him right into the side. He managed to grab the table at the last second to save his face but not his pride. He prayed no one saw it but like most of his prayers it went unanswered.
"Okay, that's enough for you," Éponine grabbed him around the waist, curling her fingers around his belt to haul him toward the supply room. He tried to protest but she wasn't listening. She shoved him back towards the corner and forced him to sit down.
"Stop it, 'Ponine, I said I'm fine!"
"Oh shut up, you idiot," Éponine dragged his hood over his eyes, pushing it down to nearly cover his face, "Take an hour. I'll cover for you."
"But...bu..." Grantaire trailed off, the edge of the hood blocking out the light. In the shadow his friend had created, he fell asleep.
Grantaire took a bite of the sandwich Marius had shoved in front of him and drew back, looking at it through squinted eyes. His tongue poked at the corner of his mouth, digging into his palette, wincing when he realized it wasn't the food.
"Everything tastes like salt and fish," he declared, getting a few chuckles while they shoveled down their own food, "Is that normal?"
"You get used to it," Éponine promised, "Just don't lick your hand."
Taking it as a challenge, he swiped his tongue across his knuckles. He cringed and made some kind of yelp, sticking his tongue out like a dog so he could scrub a napkin over it. Feuilly pounded his fist on the table, giving a small roar.
"I taste like a cod!" Grantaire complained, "How long does it stay like that?"
"Forever," Courfeyrac swore.
"I'll never get laid again."
"Like you were doing so well before," Courfeyrac chuckled, pushing a button he didn't know existed. Éponine saw it though, and she glanced between the cousins to see if it was done purposefully.
Grantaire just put on a smile and dug into his food, quieting down. He only looked up when he felt a hand lay across his back, skimming his spine. Éponine was smiling at him, a crooked one that made her cheek swell like an adorable squirrel. His own grin became a little more sincere and he leaned into it, taking the pressure as it was meant to be. A comfort.
They had a few short minutes between pots and most of them took it either to eat or smoke.
Grantaire ducked into the supply room to search Joly's hanging, watertight bag. It was usually packed with packets of nuts and other snacks and his stomach was growling. He was elbow deep inside it when he caught sight of the two men taking refuge deep within the room. Their hoods were shucked and their heads were together. It was their deck boss and his cousin, talking quietly to one another.
Combeferre pulled out a pack and plucked out two cigarettes along with a lighter. His cousin laughed at something Grantaire couldn't hear and took the offered stick, putting it between his lips. Combeferre flicked on the lighter and cupped the flame, forgoing lighting his own to lean in and offer it to the younger man.
Surprise parting his lips, Grantaire watched Courfeyrac grab the man's bare wrist and drag it closer. Dark curls almost threaded through whey locks as he sucked in the flame, smoke flowing between them as their heads almost touched
It was just a few seconds but the way Combeferre watched his cousin was wanting, full of longing.
Grantaire knew a hungry man when he saw him.
"Grantaire."
"Piss off, I'm busy," Grantaire shoved the older man away, going back to grinding down more blocks of frozen herring. He hadn't been paying attention and they were running dangerously low on bait.
"You need to eat," Joly scolded.
"We've got six more pots to drop, I can get through it," he promised, though his stomach was scrunching in on itself beneath his skin.
"You need a real meal," the man's eyes were serious, "You can't live on a few meal bars. You're fucking your sugar up."
"I don't need anything," but Grantaire had spent their last thirty minute food break sleeping and he was feeling it. Joly frowned at him before he disappeared, leaving deck without a word otherwise. The crew wordlessly shifted rotation, Combeferre taking over hydraulics and Éponine moving to pot duty so the artist had to swing the heavy coils into the pots along with the pair (her usual job).
Two pots later, the loudspeaker crackle to life.
"Grantaire," Enjolras's voice broke over the deck rather clearly, "I want to see you up here."
Fuck, he abandoned the bait table, making his way toward the steps. He passed the doctor, his glare replaced with a look of self-satisfaction. The ravenette rushed past him, yanking open the door to the wheelhouse and stepping in.
It was warm and smelled of laundry detergent, the air vent from the dryers feeding into the L-shaped room. There was a long counter along the wall dotted with three decks, windows above it, the deck clearly visible through them. A few feet from door was the staircase that led below deck, and around the that corner was the captain's chair and set up. He slowly walked toward the man, hands busy pushing back his hood.
Enjolras hadn't made any indication that he knew he had walked in. There was a heaping plate of food in front of the chair closest to him, books had been pushed aside to make room for it.
He swallowed nervously, "Captain?"
"Sit," the blonde's finger flew over a keyboard as he seemed to mark where they were dropping their pots, "Eat."
That couldn't be right, "Sir?"
"Did I stutter?"
Grantaire jumped to obey, though he was careful when sitting down in the mounted chair. He unhitched the latches of his securing sleeves, laying his gloves down where they wouldn't get anything wet before picking up the utensil that had been left for him. He'd swallowed two bites of fluffy eggs when he started shaking, fork clattering loudly against the plate as he started to really shovel it down. The rush of nutrients made him light-headed.
"Well," Enjolras leaned back in his chair, still watching the others go about dropping another pot, "I hope you've learned to listen to Joly more carefully."
"I'm sorry, sir," Grantaire took a few breaths between bites, "I just wanted to finish."
"I admire your enthusiasm, I do, but Joly already knows your limits better than you do," he could feel his captain's piercing stare cutting into his shoulder, "You want to do your best, don't you?"
Grantaire froze, staring down at his food with his fork mid-air. There was a flicker of pleasure low in his gut, those words bringing back the faint memory of the princely blonde and his tight boots. This whole situation – being fed, getting scolded, holding authority over him – was pushing all his buttons. Enjolras had no idea what kind of territory he was stepping into.
He wet his lower lip, catching a bit of the warm spice that had been added to his food, "I...I want to be good."
"Then be good and listen to who I tell you to listen to," the skipper's voice was like silk over steel, hiding his edge of concern over a patronizing tone, "Finish that and then get back out there."
Grantaire scarfed down every morsel that he could, feeling his strength return with every mouthful. Once the plate was clear, he swiped his thumb across the plastic and picked up a few remaining droplets of juice. He lapped them up, savoring the last minute of warmth and content. He started strapping on his gloves again, feet taking him to the door that led right out onto the deck.
There was a flick of a lighter, "Grantaire?"
"Yes?"
"Slow down a few steps," his captain took the first drag off a fresh cigarette, "This is the end of your first week. You have plenty of time to prove yourself to me."
Grantaire couldn't swallow down the little oh in time, releasing the soft sound into the air.
Yes, he would prove himself to Enjolras, or die trying.
Courfeyrac was called up to the wheelhouse but his cousin thought nothing of it.
Grantaire was wedged under the sorting table, shoulder-to-shoulder with Éponine as she tested the bolts. She'd been sure that something had come loose and she wanted to find out what it was, plus teach the greenhorn how to do it. He'd lost track of time and was just getting into the rhythm of finding all the bolts when someone grabbed his shoe, dragging him across the slick deck until he was blinking up at the open sky.
His deck boss's face came into view, light hair hidden by a dark ball-cap.
"Go check on 'Feyrac," Combeferre ordered, helping him to his feet, "And make sure it's nothing serious."
Grantaire started to obey but he was curious, "He's with the captain, so-"
"Tell them I want to know if we're lost or there's a mayday or something," the older man cut him off, shoving at his shoulder to get get him going faster, "I don't like this silence."
The artist threw his hands up, surrendering to the whims of his superior. He cut through the supply room instead of the stairs, passing through the galley to grab a cup of coffee to wake himself up a bit. Thankfully it was already brewed and it was a quick, the liquid going down smooth as he continued on to the staircase that led up into the wheelhouse. He tried to be quiet when he heard Courfeyrac and Enjolras in deep conversation, finishing off the coffee and throwing the paper cup over his shoulder carelessly.
Grantaire got to the top and peered over the half wall that separated the staircase and the room, spotting the two men. His dark brows shot up as he saw his captain in casual clothes. There was a grey wool hat pulled over his hair, the start of golden curls peeking out along his ears and forehead. A white Dutch Harbor t-shirt clung to his wide shoulders and his thick hips, laced with muscle, held up the band of true stone washed jeans that were frayed at the bottom and the knees. Half-gloves covered his hands, dark frames over his eyes as he bent over a fold-out table covered in maps. Courfeyrac was beside him, jacket and gloves off and laying on the counter so he could more accurately draw out something for his captain. They were speaking more lowly now.
"Knulle! Baiser!" Enjolras cursed suddenly, striking his palm on the table, "You've seen the tests pots we've pulled. They're blank. There's nothing."
"This ridge did well for us last year," his cousin pointed out something on the map, "E, listen, it's been a season between. I think it'll work. Even if it doesn't, I've never seen us work so fast. We've bought you enough time to keep feeling it out."
"Maybe, maybe," Enjolras muttered, head shooting up when he heard boots creak on the stairs.
Grantaire tried to duck but he was already seen.
"R?" his cousin called.
Grantaire stood to his full height, a sheepish smile pulling his lips, "Uh, hi. Combeferre wanted to know if anything was wrong up here. He's kind of worried, I guess."
He couldn't quite meet his captain's eyes at first so when he finally did he saw the man had a strange sort of smile on his face.
"Get back down there, boy," Enjolras commanded, "Tell 'Ferre I'll return him in a minute."
Grantaire nodded and mumble an affirmation, feet taking him back down the stairs.
If he learned anything that day it was how hard it was to adjust a swelling cock through four layers of clothing.
The few pots they'd been pulling had, indeed, been blank. Grantaire hadn't seen more than five crab in those seven hundred pounds cages. They'd dropped a string of pots on the ridge Courfeyrac had suggested to their captain and had let them soak for a good eight hours. The artist had made the mistake of greenhorn before him, he'd relaxed. Five full hours of sleep, a sit down meal, and he'd forgotten to stay on his toes.
One hundred of their one hundred and fifty pots were in the water and ready to pull.
The first pot they pulled was packed with crab. Courfeyrac and Combeferre dumped it out onto the table, Marius jumped inside to clear it out, and it was time to sort. His cousin gave him a caliper that had already been set and told him that if it touched each end of the crab's body or bigger, to keep it. Anything less, throw it in the tank.
Grantaire barely heard the advice over the roar in his ears. Pure panic swept through him. Everyone was moving with quick, practiced grabs. Though he'd been shown twice, suddenly the females and males looked the exact same. He knew it was illegal to haul the girls an juveniles, Fish & Game had a hefty fine for it. He didn't want Enjolras to get in trouble, he didn't want to get them charged. If he made too many stupid mistakes he'd be taking money right out of their pockets. Feuilly had two kids, Éponine sent cash to her younger brother, and he needed to pay rent. Who else among them would be out on the street if they didn't make their quota?
As his anxiety took over, his hands kept moving. With his eyes too clouded to see more than too much in front of him, he was surprised when Marius grabbed him by the hood of his jacket and told him to stand back. The greenhorn moved out of the way, chewing harshly on his lower lip as the redhead took over his spot.
Once the crab was clear, Marius took him into the supply room. He tipped off his hat and knocked his hood back, trying to smile.
"Do you understand why I pulled you off?"
Because I'm a waste of space and I get in everyone's way.
"Yeah."
"You got mixed up a little there," Marius gestured out toward the deck, "You were putting the good ones in the dump hole and the juveniles in the tank. You're just dumping you're own money back into the ocean and I don't want that."
"I'm sorry," his hands curled into fists at his side. He could almost hear himself blurting out some excuse about being confused but the whole time the words worthless and so stupid drowned out anything else. If he couldn't even tell male from female, what kind of future did he have?
When he finally stopped talking, Marius still had that sincere look on his face.
"Just be more careful and go slow if you need," the older boy urged him, " 'Ponine and I are fast enough that we can pick up whatever slack you make until you get the hang of it."
"Thanks."
For taking care of an idiot.
"No problem," he smacked the side of the artist's arm, "You're still learning. Let's just try again."
The day got worse, every hour piling on that many more mistakes. Combeferre got on his case for dragging his feet and then Feuilly added on. Marius got fed up with him and told him to just stay off the sorting table. Even Joly lost patience with him, barking at him from the hydraulics to hurry up when he couldn't get the used hooks and bait boxes out of the pots after they'd removed the crab.
Éponine asked him if he needed to be shown again how to unhook and sort everything but he just shook his head, anxiety swallowing up his voice.
A constant stream of negativity went through Grantaire's mind, worse than what the crew threw at him. He couldn't keep up. He was weak, physically and mentally. With his nerves getting the best of him, he was faltering on the simplest tasks. It was worse because he'd been doing so well for the past few days. The insults inside and out were getting progressively worse and soon enough he couldn't even bring himself to raise his head. It was an old defense mechanism. If he didn't meet their eyes, they couldn't see how terrible he actually was. If he looked like just another person, maybe they wouldn't realize how horrid he was at even the simplest thing.
The pressure in his chest burst and tears started leaking from the corner of his eyes. He kept it quiet, pulling his hood down as far as it could go so the spray of the sea hid his shame.
While trying not to meet anyone's eyes, his foot caught on the edge of a board and he went down.
"Fuck all," Combeferre scoffed loudly, "Get your ass lazy ass up and moving, kid!"
He couldn't get up. He didn't deserve it.
Let a wave take me. You'd be better off.
The loudspeaker clicked on, "Thirty minutes, guys. Get in here and eat."
Grantaire only got up because Éponine hooked their arms together and dragged him, trying to laugh it off while telling him that the deck was almost too slippery to get back up properly. That artist stayed quiet all through stripping off their gloves and outer jackets, dodging so he didn't even bump elbows with his fellow fisherman. He got a big mug of coffee and some rolls packed with meat and cheese, something that Marius cooked up quick and tasty.
"Greenhorns always start off strong and then fall off when it's time to start hauling pots," Feuilly commented from where he stood by the fridge, "Every time without fail."
"I'm sorry," he croaked, bent over his coffee. He stared into the inky depths and breathed in the sweet smoke rising out of the mug.
"Don't be sorry," Combeferre ripped his own bun in half, "Just don't be useless."
Useless.
The word struck him so hard a fine tremble went through his fingers, making his coffee splash up dangerously. A silent sob racked his chest, the only sign of it in the quiver of his mouth.
"I can't," Grantaire couldn't believe that was his voice, it sounded so rough.
Feuilly took a big swallow of his own coffee, "Don't tell me you're quitting?"
"Everybody, shut up!" Courfeyrac demanded, kneeling down in front of his cousin. The artist was perched at the very end of the booth, head still tucked down. He pried his fingers down around his chin, coaxing his face up.
"R?" he saw the shimmer of wetness clinging to the younger man's scruff, "R, look at me. You're not useless. You're not worthless or whatever else you're thinking."
"You shouldn't have brought me," Grantaire shook his head, knuckles white around the mug, "I can't do it. I-I can't. I want to so bad, I'll try. I'll be better."
"Hush," Courfeyrac shot a glare at their deck boss, "Get Joly."
Combeferre rushed out, bringing the medic back with one of those kits in his hands. Joly pushed the others aside, telling them to get back to eating and there was nothing to see. He knelt down beside Courfeyrac, laying down the box and cracking it open.
"What is it?" Joly glanced between the cousins, "What's wrong?"
"He has anxiety," Courfeyrac tried to keep his voice down but he knew there was no real privacy on a boat, "He always has, ever since he was young. I think he...fell into it."
Joly dug around his box for a bottle, shaking two white pills out into his palm and holding it up, "Open."
Grantaire shook his head so hard his curls bounced, his cousin grabbing his shoulders just a second before he started trying to pull away, "No! No medicine, I'm fine. I'll do better."
"It's okay," Courfeyrac tried to persuade, "You took medicine before, remember? It wasn't so bad."
"Please," but his cousin's hands were too strong, "Don't drug me."
"You can't have an episode on the boat," Joly protested gently, "The waves, the stress, it's not good for anyone. I don't want you stumbling back out onto the deck. Just take these and sleep it off."
"Please," he tried again, wide eyes still stuck on the pills, "Joly, please, I don't want to."
"You'll feel so much better," Joly promised, that 'perfect calm' in his voice that his therapists used to use, "You're worked up right now. If you could see yourself from our side, you'd understand. I don't want you hurting yourself."
The medic raised his hand a little closer and the young jerked back, "No!"
"What's going on here?"
All heads turned toward the stairs, where the captain himself was descending. Grantaire squirmed out of Courfeyrac's hands, crawling away until he was curled into the farthest part of the booth. He buried his face between his knees, praying it would all be over soon. Maybe they would drop him off at St. Paul, at least from there he could catch a plane home and just hide himself away on some French park bench with no more thoughts of the Bering Sea or his beautiful skipper.
"He's anxious, captain," Joly tried to explain, "I was just trying to give him something to calm him down."
"It's like depression," Courfeyrac explained nervously, "But more – uh – desperate, I guess."
"I know what the hell anxiety is," Enjolras grabbed both their shoulders, "Move."
Courfeyrac jumped away but Joly lingered a moment, gathering his stuff before backing off. Path clear, Enjolras scooted into the booth a little bit at a time like he was trying not to scare him. Grantaire peeked out from behind his hair, wondering just how much trouble he was in for screwing up.
"Don't make me," he pleaded.
"I won't," Enjolras's gaze was softer than usual as he moved closer, "Just tell me what's wrong."
"I couldn't sort crab and then I couldn't...couldn't do anything," Grantaire finally picked up his head, though his eyes were on the older man's mouth, "I cost you money. I couldn't tell the difference between crabs and I put everything wrong and I was too slow."
His breath ran out and he stopped.
"I wish you'd told me you suffered form this condition," the word condition didn't sound like a harsh sentence in the blonde's timbre, "I didn't see that in your record."
"My father kept it off the files," he replied as evenly as he could. He could feel the others staring at him, judging him, picking him apart. They knew he didn't deserve to be here.
"Okay, alright," Enjolras sounded as if he'd made a decision and the other wasn't sure if it was in his favor or not, "Grantaire, can you come out here for me?"
"Do I have to take the medicine?"
Please don't tell me to. I'll do it, for you, to fix what I did.
"I'd be upset if you did," Enjolras replied, shooting a glare at his medic, "Since no one should be forced to take medication if they don't want it. For God's sake, Joly, you know better."
"He was getting hysteric," Joly defended weakly, "I was afraid he'd hurt himself."
Enjolras turned his attention back to the artist, holding out his hand, "Take it."
Grantaire flinched, a phantom pain shooting up his arm and through his socket.
Take my hand, son.
A snap, a cry.
No, father, please! You're hurting me!
"I'm going to take you back to your room," Enjolras's soothing voice cut through the flashback, "And you're going to sleep for a few hours while Joly takes over bait."
Grantaire nodded, slowly sliding his fingers across the blonde's rough palm before completely taking his hand. His captain seemed pleased as he slowly tugged him out of the booth, leading him past the others and toward the three bedrooms. He didn't ask how the older man knew which one was his.
"Let's take all this off," Enjolras ran a finger over his overalls, "Sit down and we'll get your boots."
"Don't have to," he was already drifting, the relief of not having to take the medicine knocking out the last of his strength, "I can do it."
"Be quiet," but the scolding was light.
Grantaire managed to shrug off the straps and take off his hat as the blonde knelt down in front of him, eyes downcast as his strong fingers make quick work of the laces on his shoes. He could feel the faint tugging through the heavy leather but it was enough to make him blush. His captain, this great Greek god of the seas, was doing him the service of unlacing his boots. Oh, to have it the other way around. He would gladly do this every day for Enjolras if he would allow it. Remove his boots, massage the tension from his shoulders, give his lengthening locks a thorough washing.
He was pulled out of his little fantasy by the older man ordering him to lay down. Feet free, he acquiesced. The pillow was cool against his cheek, a blanket was pulled over him.
"I want you to promise me that if you ever start going through this again, you'll go to your cousin or myself," the man was sitting beside him now.
"I will," Grantaire nodded into the cloth, hiding his face as best he could, "I really am sorry."
"Don't be sorry," Enjolras shifted, voice pitched just a bit lower like an order, "Just promise."
"I promise."
"You can't do beat yourself up like this, boy, it's not good for your heart or your nerves," the captain's hand crept through his hair, petting the curls in a way that made his back arch up. Grantaire desperately hoped he wasn't dreaming. It felt so good, like acceptance and damnation all at once. The man may have well just have stroked his heart so tenderly. The artist tilted his head up, blinking up at his captain. He watched the man's expression go from content to worried in just a second or two.
The hand drew back, "My apologies."
" 'S okay," he slurred, head falling back into the pillow.
"Sleep. I'll have your cousin come wake you when you're needed back on deck," Enjolras rose and he immedietely missed his comforting weight, "Make sure to eat something before you go back out."
But Grantaire was already asleep.
"Go. And have Combeferre come out."
Joly left with his tail between his legs, looking properly scolded. He'd be thinking twice before trying to enforce medication on another member of this crew.
Enjolras has just stubbed out his cigarette when his deck boss appeared.
"Take off your jacket."
"Sir?" there was a note of panic in the other blonde's voice.
"I'm not firing you, 'Ferre," Enjolras watched the man's shoulder slump in relief, "I want to talk as men for a moment."
Both jackets and gloves came off until the larger man was only in his sweatshirt and suspenders. His hat was clutched between his hands, fingers twisting it into a shapeless mess. It was very rare he had to do this with his second in command and it was a new situation for both of them.
"I don't question how you run the deck," Enjolras switched the boat into autopilot, turning to face the younger man, "You've done nothing short of excellent work on this boat. I know you could leave any moment, that there are prospects out there for you. Maybe one day I'll lose you to some woman with the promise of a family. But until that day, you're my deck boss and I trust you to keep the men in line."
Blue eyes narrowed, "That includes yourself."
"I know, sir."
"Marius told me exactly what happened and for the first time, I'm ashamed of your actions."
"Feuilly-"
"Feuilly with get his turn once I'm done with you but I've yet to start!"
Combeferre snapped his mouth shut with an audible click, fingers hidden in the curve of his cap.
"Making excuses," Enjolras ground out, "It's like you want me to give your job to 'Feyrac."
The other fisherman looked like he'd been slapped.
"You're a good-hearted man," the blonde leaned back in his chair, fingers resting on the slope of his jaw, "I know you feel bad about yelling at that child, but I want you to know that I won't tolerate behavior like that again."
"I didn't know he suffered like that," Combeferre contested, "He didn't tell anyone."
"Would you have?"
Combeferre shrugged, a silent and unwilling admit to defeat.
"You trained Éponine into one of the best workers I've veer had so I'm not saying anything about your methods being off. But I don't want you kicking the greenhorn while he's down," Enjolras rectified, "Do you understand? You need to observe who you're yelling at and if they can't take it, you set them straight and tell them how it is."
Enjolras's eyes flickered out the window, "I won't have that boy gasping himself into shock in my galley again. He looks up to you and Feuilly both and I'm sure it hurt to hear some of those things."
Combeferre doubled-checked to make sure no one was listening in from the stairs before he spoke, "You're babying him."
"Excuse me?" the edge was back to his voice.
"You heard me," thick arms crossed over his chest, "You're swaddling the kid. I've never seen you so gentle with anything other than a dog! You practically tucked him in. Did you think no one would notice?"
"I'm doing what any other captain would do to diffuse a bad situation."
"You're lying right to my face," Combeferre awed, jaw dropping, "If we're speaking as friends, you're being a poor one."
Enjolras's fingers dug so hard into the arms of his chair that the leather creaked. But just like that, the tension snapped. He slumped, dropping his face into his hands and bracing his elbows on his knees.
"Enj? Are you okay?" Combeferre went up to his captain, laying a hand on his shoulder, "I didn't meant to get on you like that."
"No, no. You're right," Enjolras admitted, voice muffled by his palms, "I think I'm developing a certain...fondness for him."
He dropped his hands enough to see his friend's shocked face, "But nothing more! Wipe that look off your face!"
The authoritative tone set the younger man straight, getting him to step back.
"Plus, I don't want him suing you once we get back to shore," Enjolras sat up, "Now get back on deck. And tell Feuilly I want to speak with him."
Realizing he'd lost the battle, Combeferre gave a brief yes, sir before shoving his gear back on.
Eight hours later, when Enjolras's head was growing heavy and he was contemplating taking a nap, there was another visitor in his wheelhouse.
It was Grantaire. The boy was wet from the waves that had splashed up on deck but his hat was off, each droplet of water shining like crystal on the tips of his curls. He was flushed and clean shaven, looking better than the shivering boy he'd put into a coat a while ago. He'd been out there for a while and the night air seemed to have done him some good.
They had a short jog to the next string, the boy should've been smoking or sitting with the rest of the crew in the supply room.
"What is it, boy?" Enjolras snapped, heel braced on the table as he switched off the weather report he'd had on to keep him awake.
"I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am for freaking out on everyone," Grantaire's lower lip was red from chewing, it stood out against his pale skin, "I'm usually a lot better than that."
"You already apologized. Quit wasting my time," his fingers traced over the switch, ready to flick the radio back on.
"But this time I mean it," Grantaire retorted, "Whatever I say when I'm like that, it's usually only what I think someone wants to hear. Thanks to you I feel a lot better, and the guys seem to understand why I didn't say anything about it before."
The boy gathered himself together, cutting off his ramble, "I shouldn't have put any of you in that situation. Next time, I'll try to nip it in the bud."
Tan fingers dropped from the toggle, "You're still learning. Give yourself some slack."
The artist's grin was cheeky, "Is that an order, sir?"
"You bet your ass it is," he threw his chin at the door, "Get back down there."
"Aye, aye," he gave a salute and then was gone, bounding off like a rabbit.
That kid has a lot of energy when he wants to, Enjolras smiled to himself, turning the report on once more, I bet he can go for hours.
It took a few minutes before the captain colored up to his ears, realizing what he'd though.
Good lord, that boy is going to give me an aneurysm.
