Grantaire groaned so loud he yanked himself out of the dream, the blanket tangled up around his legs and sweat slicking his chest and forehead. He was out of breath, fingers aching from how tightly he had been gripping the sheets. He sat up, dropping his head onto his knee as he tried to remember where he was. It had felt so real. The bite of the carpet in his knees, the rubber tugging on his roots, the commands ringing in his ears. Enjolras's shoes had felt so real beneath his mouth, his lips were still tingling.
He wormed a hand underneath his bedding and clothes, blushing hotly when he felt something thick and slick along his cock and the inside of his underwear.
"Will you be my good boy?"
"Fuck!" Grantaire cursed, falling back onto the mattress.
Éponine grumbled, half asleep with her head buried under her own pillow, "Shut up before I face fuck you."
A week and a half on twenty hour days went by like a blur.
Grantaire forgot what it was like to be clean and well-rested. It was gloriously exhausting.
Enjolras ordered them on a forty minute sleep break while they jogged to the next string. The crew lumbered into the supply room, fingers aching from sorting crab and dragging pots.
Grantaire watched Combeferre collapse against a wall, sliding down until he could sit properly. His deck boss crossed his arms over his chest and dropped his head. Courfeyrac knelt before thudding down in front of the older man, laying on his stomach where their wet boots had been. Their breathing seemed to sync up for a moment before they fell asleep, faces hidden to the light.
"It's not worth taking anything off," Éponine explained, trudging up the stairs to the second level. The artist shrugged before following her up to the upper tier where a lot of the machine parts were stored. The woman curled up next to a water heater, tugging down the brim of her cap before laying her head against the smooth metal. He stretched out on his back just a few feet from her, taking five relaxed breaths before he too fell asleep.
Grantaire woke up with a rough shift of the boat. His eyes popped open and he immediately winced, the light harsh enough to sting. He sat up and stretched, letting his muscles breathe. The others were still asleep where they fell, bodies stretched out over the floor or propped up against the wall.
In that moment, he thought of their captain. Alone up in the wheelhouse, intense eyes on the sea and ears perked for reports of the weather stopping or becoming worse. Enjolras must have been getting tired, he'd been up as long as the rest of them. There were plenty of jobs to be done, there always were on a crab boat, but he wanted the crew to sleep while they could. And while imagining his captain all alone, fighting exhaustion, he couldn't help but beg a question.
Who was taking care of Enjolras?
Grantaire picked through them, being careful not to jostle anyone. Nothing would get him thumped on the head harder than waking a crewman mid-nap. He headed into the galley and shucked off his gloves and oil-slick, laying them over the nearest chair. Checking the time and deciding he had enough, he got in the cabinet and pulled out a fresh bag of coffee. The ship gave a little heave and he fell into the counter.
"Damn, baby, I'm only trying to take care of our captain," Grantaire rubbed the nearest cabinet like he was petting an animal, "Calm down, will you?"
The artist-turned-fisherman got busy brewing a new pot of coffee, suppressing yawns and rubbing at his eyes. After a drowsy minute or two, it beeped and finished up. He brought down the largest cup they had and filled it up, hesitating at the end. How did the captain take his coffee? He'd seen the man grab his own and the others shuttle some up to him, but he couldn't remember what they'd put in it.
"Use the good vanilla cream."
Grantaire startled at the surprisingly soft voice. He turned and spotted Marius's ginger hair peeking out from the booth they used as a dining table. The boy sat up a bit and clover green eyes were exposed, blinking at him while his large mouth curled up into a sleepy smile.
"Enj likes his coffee warm and sweet," Marius looked like a little brat with a secret.
He added the cream, stirring it in, "Thanks."
"Welcome," the older boy dropped back down into the booth, sighing softly as he started to drift back off. Grantaire took the steps up to the wheelhouse, watching the mug closely so as not to spill even one drop. The wheelhouse was dark, the only brightness coming from the sodium lights mounted to the mast. Crimson and teal poured out a soft glow that cast striking shadows over Enjolras's tan face, the man vigilant but weary around the eyes. He was too busy making notes on the next few hours of nautical conditions to notice the greenhorn's presence.
Grantaire cleared his throat, "Sir?"
Enjolras sat upright, eyes flickering up from the paper, "Grantaire? What is it? Is something wrong?"
"No, uh," he walked up to the older man, setting the steaming mug on the clearest spot beside the man, "I thought you could use this. You've been up a while."
Enjolras stared down at the coffee like it had started singing or sprouted limbs, "You...brought this for me?"
Grantaire nodded, taking a step back to respect the other's personal space, "I brewed a new pot. It should keep you going."
"Well," he reached for it, fingers curling around the warm handle, "Yes. Thank you. I appreciate it. Very much so."
Grantaire cracked a smile, "Is there anything else I can do?"
"You can spit-shine my shoes, if you're feeling generous," Enjolras jested lightly, raising the cup to his lips.
Color rose in high points on the artist's cheeks but the smile stayed, "If that's what you want, sir."
Enjolras paused, fatigue fading as a hot flash of lust shot through his chest and down between his legs. He looked the ravenette up and down, gauging him, trying to figure out what exactly he was playing at. Grantaire's posture was open and he looked earnest enough. For all intents and purposes he looked like a wide eyed boy, eager to please.
If I asked him to get on his knees right now, he would, Enjolras realized with a breathless rush of power. It was followed by a roil of apprehension, their positions of authority siting wrong with him. Even if he wanted Grantaire like that, the thought of him doing it to keep his job made him sick.
"Why don't you finish your nap up here?" he found himself asking.
Grantaire cocked his head, considering the offer. He'd get to sleep in the same room as Enjolras, that was the biggest draw. The scent of flowery detergent still clung to the carpet and walls, but there was just a bit of brine floating through the air (like it did everywhere else).
"If that's alright with you, you're majesty."
Enjolras sputtered, nearly spilling the entire mug down his shirt. The captain glared at the younger man, who's smile had morphed into a large grin.
"You little shit," he cursed, wiping the back of his hand over his lips.
"Like anyone can keep a secret on a ship," Grantaire sat down on the floor, leaning against a desk, "I've learned that much."
Enjolras took a long drink before setting the mug aside, "You've learned more than that."
But the kid was already snoring.
Enjolras waited until the last minute to wake the boy up. Everyone was already out on deck and they were probably aggravated because the greenhorn got to sleep an extra few minutes. Courfeyrac had already come up asking about his cousin, and when he'd seen the boy propped up against the wall he'd clammed up. No doubt Combeferre's own worries had run through his but unlike his deck boss, the younger had kept his mouth smartly shut.
He put on the autopilot and eased out of the captain's chair, rubbing the heel of his hand into the small of his back. Every year he felt the ache a little more. One day he'd end up like his father, taking five pain killers in the morning just to get out of bed. He took a moment to stretch and get everything realigned before making his way over to his youngest crew member.
"Grantaire?" Enjolras dropped down to one knee, shaking his shoulder lightly.
"Wha...? What's wrong?" the boy sounded so sweet and quiet, dark lashes hanging heavy as he tried to rouse himself.
"Nothing," Enjolras rubbed the growing muscle, "It's time to head back on deck."
"Yes, sir," his voice was still soft as he struggled to get up, his legs wobbling like they were asleep. Enjolras helped pull him up on his feet, quickly grabbing his waist when he nearly fell over. As Grantaire started apologizing, Enjolras couldn't help but run his hands over the boy's cinched waist. He'd seen the greenhorn climb and throw himself into pots but he was still soft around the middle, the flesh yielding when his palm slid over it. It just reminded him of how painfully young the kid was.
Seven years, Enjolras, seven years, the blonde tried to remind himself, setting the artist off toward the door, He's a child. He's barely legal to drink in this state. This is nothing.
Even after he shut and locked the door, he couldn't quite believe it.
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