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The waves rumbled beneath the hull, smooth as the desert until they were decidedly not smooth, becoming jagged at the top as the wind charged at them from the sides, pulling them over into crashing, foaming caps. The water rolled over the deck, then fanned in every direction like its fuse had run out, exploding with a sharp smack across the wooden boards. The frenzy of ocean spray and perpetual downpour mingled wildly, mixing sea and sky and swallowing the horizon into itself.
Maybe they would capsize. Maybe they already had.
Steve shook the spray off of his face, spitting salt out of his mouth and tugging at a knot along the main mast line. The boat pitched, and his feet slid around to keep balance while his hands clamped securely onto the rope. He watched water droplets swirl around him every which way until he spotted specks of yellow lights dancing along the coastline. It was just enough. They would dock before dinner time once the storm blew southward.
* * *
Steve was born for the sea, but not of it. Years of practice had made it manageable, but still his legs felt relief when they posted onto the solid dock. The tail of the storm sent down a steady rain, pulling up a mist along the darkened horizon, obscuring its razor edge.
The smell of the city, the smell of food trickled over to him and his feet stumbled along while his nose followed it. He had planned to travel north still, but the storm had delayed their entrance back onto land. He wandered the cobbles, stepping asynchronously with the bells sounding from a nearby church, until he found an inn to suit him, one not too rough, but also not plagued with insufferable knickknacks and wallpapers. A wooden sign, once painted fully blue and now peeling, heavy with rain, hung over the door.
The Spouter Inn.
Steve walked into the lobby, his eyes captured by a large painting behind the wooden counter, swirling with blues and whites, eventually forming itself into the image of a whale, monstrous-sized, ramming fully into the port side of an ill-fated ship.
“Room for one.” He stated, laying his hand on the railing.
“A sailor, eh?” Questioned the man behind the counter.
Steve nodded, knowing the question was more rhetorical than an actual question, because everyone recognized the matted hair and heavy calluses, the tired shoulders, and the salty air that hung around after months on board a ship. There was no sense in hiding it.
“You’re not the only ship in this evenin’, you know that right?” The man scribbled in a notebook, crossed it out, scribbled more.
Steve nodded, because he did know.
“They’ll all come here, they always do. Say I got the best breakfast in the mornin’.”
Steve tapped his foot, water sliding off the surface of his boot. The man looked up.
“Can’t give you a whole room, wouldn’t be worth my while. But I can set you up, if you’re willin’ to share. Give you a discount, ‘stead of turnin’ you away.”
Steve dug his fingers into the corners of his elbows, frowning. His clothes were damp from the lingering rain, and he repressed the shiver that ran up his spine from the cold.
“I’d rather not.” Steve said, although he made no motion to leave.
The man grinned. “Promise, this guy pays reg’lar. He’s no stranger here.”
Steve glared, flicking a wet strand of hair from his eyes. “No offense, but anyone too friendly here seems like they’ve… settled.”
The man chuckled, “S’pose so, sailor, but I figure you yourself passed up that ritzy hotel on the docks.”
Steve shifted his bag from his left to his right shoulder. “Can I at least know his name first?”
“Billy Hargrove.” The man said nodding, running his pen over a line of cursive handwriting. “Not a talker, really, but he gets along well enough. Crew seems to like him.”
Steve imagined the possible translations of that in his mind. Not a talker. Stand-offish. Painfully shy. Got his tongue sliced out as a child. Maybe they didn’t speak the same language. Steve couldn’t decide if that would make him more or less agreeable to be around.
“Is he in?” Steve leaned an elbow on the counter and dug his hand into his bag to retrieve his wallet, an act of silent relent that didn’t go unnoticed by the clerk, who flipped to a new page in his log book.
“He’s seein’ ‘bout a… transaction.” The clerk grinned, over-pronouncing the word, the sides of his face folding accordion-like into themselves. “Nothin’ to worry your pretty lil’ head over.”
Steve felt the weight of regret at his own hand clinking coins onto the counter. “How much did you say?”
“I didn’t, but that’ll ‘bout cover it.” The man reached out his bony fingers to slide the coins into a drawer.
Steve scowled and pressed one down with his middle finger. He nodded his head towards noise coming from an open doorway. “Leave this one for your barman.”
The man shrugged lightly and walked around the corner of the desk. “Be my guest. I’ll move your things to your room if you’re plannin’ on waitin’ up.”
Steve’s hair felt thick as he dragged his fingers into it. He winced at the sound of a glass breaking in the other room. “I can’t decide what’s worse- having someone slip in while I’m already asleep or going to bed with someone I’ve never met before.”
The man’s sharp chuckle had the abrasiveness of an ill-fitting door latch. “Either way, doll, you won’t be the first.” He wrapped his fingers around Steve’s bags and left up the stairs, snickering as he went.
Steve stalled as long as he reasonably could, reminding himself that minutes ago he was grateful just to be on land and out of the rain. As he entered the bar, a song sprung up from an unfamiliar crew, rowdy and disjointed, and he traced around the perimeter of the room to avoid it. The seat he landed in was crowded by empty, abandoned glasses on the bartop, and Steve hoped they would provide enough fortification against the increasingly friendly crowd.
He was relieved of his hope soon enough, by a red-haired woman, limbs stretched and taut as a sturdy rope.
An arm wound over Steve’s shoulder, the fingers knotting into the muscles below his shirt sleeve. “You look awfully familiar.”
Steve downed the end of his beer- just under half of it- and looked sideways at the woman. He was sure they’d never met before. “Yeah? Spend enough time on the sea and you’ll start recognizing the mackerel, too.”
The woman laughed as she dropped her arm to signal the barman. She spoke over her shoulder. “I can tell the mackerel apart, too, no problem.” She pointed her fingers up towards her face. “I can see it in their eyes . ”
Steve laughed as he accepted the refill of his beer. “Maybe you know fish better than people, ‘cause I know you’ve never seen me before.”
“Ehh, just one of those faces, then.” The woman blinked and squinted, seemingly unconvinced. “This your first night here?”
Another song started from the corner booth and the woman turned, the first few lines spilling out of her before she trailed off. She leaned back, laughing, remembered she had asked a question, and dipped her ear to listen to Steve over the noise.
Steve took the cue. “It is my first night. I got put up with someone- they may be on your crew- are you familiar with Billy Hargrove?”
“Millie Arcomb?”
“Billy Hargrove. ”
The woman stopped mid-sip, and a lingering wetness hung in her voice. “Ahh, course I know him.” She coughed into a fist, clearing her throat. “Think that man was born on a boat, you know? Looks lost with too much earth under him.”
“What kind of person is he?” Steve wrapped his fingers around his glass, linking them on the opposite side.
The woman scratched her head. “What kind of person? He’s hardly that, I’d think. You ever read about those other gods? Not Jesus and them, all those other characters. He’s nice enough, I guess, but mostly he’s a man of stories. The man who’s in the stories” The woman leaned in close, making the motion of a whisper without bothering to lower her voice. “I heard he learned to talk to whales before he learned his first word. He could swim before he could walk on the docks. Swear it.”
A new voice sprung up from Steve’s opposite side. “Could breathe underwater before his lungs got filled out.”
The woman waved a hand dismissively, crossing her arm in front of Steve’s face to do so. “Dustbin, you know that’s your own made-up piss shit and I don’t wanna hear it from you.”
“Can’t prove me wrong.” The man tugged on Steve’s arm to get his attention, his eyes hidden under a tangle of curls that was begging to be slicked back. “He grows fish scales too, you know? I’ve seen him scrubbing them off before. You bet.”
“I do bet, you imbecile.” The woman shoved the man away by pushing her palm over his entire face. She turned to Steve. “Trust me, he’s full of shit. That moron doesn’t know a banger from his own-”
The room exploded into a cheer as a man walked through the open doorway. Steve gaped. In the gathering night and the increasing blur of his vision, the room had become a dull swirl of bodies and alcohol. While other men were sapped of their liveliness by long stretches of ocean voyage, their color pastelled after months of vitamin deficiency and hard labor, this man- Billy Hargrove, Steve assumed- was radiated by it. His skin glowed with the lingering heat of the burnt out sunset. His clothes were wet, clinging to him, but lacked the heaviness that fell over Steve when he was perpetually damp. There was something about the way Billy stood, firm and controlling, that seemed to level the rest of the world, and Steve doubted the ocean had ever been able to knock him off his feet.
The crewmen around him were used to all that, already, and were more interested in the large bag of coins that Billy had dropped in front of the barman, signaling the serving of another round. Steve, whether by design or in confusion, was graced with another full drink between his palms, and he sipped it idly as he snuck glances at his designated roommate.
Eventually, the woman made her way to Billy, tugging at his arm and gesturing in Steve’s direction. Their eyes met and Steve was greeted with the tumultuous blue of an incoming tsunami. Struck dumb and with too much distance to exchange any words, Steve slipped a hand away from his glass, giving a small wave.
Billy didn’t wave back, but laughed instead, and Steve hoped it wasn’t at his expense.
Some minutes later, the crowd began to clear, finally giving into the invitation of the beds upstairs. Steve finished his drink and wandered over to Billy, more waywardly than he would’ve liked, with all the confidence of someone’s lost toddler.
Up close, Billy’s intensity was even more apparent, and he glowed with the mystifying aura of an immortal. His hair, curling as it released its dampness, hung around his head in a halo, and his profile looked like it was stripped from a storybook illustration. Or, a more likely story, Steve’s extra drink was untethering his dormant knack for creative exaggeration.
Billy stared at Steve before turning unceremoniously towards the stairs. It was then that Steve noticed- finally, as he had been apparently blind to it earlier- the thickest and heaviest harpoon he had ever laid eyes on was strapped securely to his roommate’s back.
“Isn’t that-” Steve stumbled over his words as his foot caught the corner of a rug. “They don’t allow weapons up into the rooms.”
Billy looked over his shoulder and Steve caught the flash of teeth. “They don’t take eyeglasses from a man who can't see.”
The sharp flue of the weapon was pristinely maintained, but Steve still imagined that he spotted specks of blood in its shadows. This wasn’t anything like eyeglasses. He began to protest as they stepped upwards. “Eyeglasses aren’t weapons -”
Billy turned, halting Steve’s protest before he reached the top of the stairs. A hand caught Steve’s chin, and as a sailor even he was baffled at the callouses he felt against his skin. Billy leaned close, towering from his upper ground, and smiling with utmost displeasure. “Take it from me then.”
The stairwell swirled as Steve shook his head out of Billy’s grip. “There’s no need for-” was all he managed to spit out before he realized, terrifyingly, that the stairwell wouldn’t stop swirling, and his feet, which had been charged with going up the stairs, were confused by this sudden delay and now had abandoned all hope of regaining their balance. He felt the world slipping beneath him.
Before it did, the rough grip of a calloused hand wrapped around his upper arm, giving him enough time to right himself at the top of the staircase. Billy didn’t make any remarks, but Steve could see his lips, pressed tightly together, betray the slightest bit of amusement.
God, Steve needed to go to bed.
They entered the room, and Steve claimed the nearest side of the bed, which also conveniently had his bags stored next to it. He eyed Billy sidelong, half expecting him to challenge this decision. For fun, maybe. Instead, Billy was in the far corner of the room, absorbed in his nightly ritual of cleaning his ridiculous blade.
The warm air congregated on their floor, and while the wind could be heard out the window, it barely stirred a draft within their room. Steve peeled off his shirt and decided to sleep with the minimal amount of clothing he could reason- roommate be damned- since there was a slim chance it’d be getting any cooler.
He tucked into his side of the bed, curling away from his companion in order to imagine that he wasn’t there at all. This, along with the alcohol, put him fast to sleep, and he was already snoring lightly by the time Billy crawled in next to him and turned off the light.
* * *
Steve awoke well past the sunrise the next morning, his joints achingly expressing their utter lack of movement through the night. He blinked into the dim light, head pounding dully, grateful to be on the side of the building foreign to the dawning of the day. The bed creaked as he stirred, rolling his shoulders, but as he did he registered a new weight, draped heavily over his side and breathing softly at the back of his neck.
Billy Hargrove.
He had forgotten he wasn’t alone, and his eyes snapped open to examine the arm thrown over him, heavy with sleep. The hand, turned upwards towards the ceiling, lay thick and calloused in front of him, the skin and muscle molded like rock under a waterfall, beaten into shape through years of constant pressure. Steve curiously brushed his finger over cracks in the palm.
Billy grunted, a soft mmph, and Steve felt the noise on the skin at his hairline. Startled, he rolled out from under Billy’s arm, and landed crouching on the floor. As he stood upright, his roommate stirred but kept his eyelids laid shut. Steve backed away slowly, avoiding the squeaking cracks in the floorboards, and pulled on his clothes for breakfast.
* * *
“Ferry to Nantucket’s out for repairs.” The red-haired woman, Maxine, spoke through the doughy layers of a fresh biscuit. “Jumped the gun on docking yesterday and scraped up her side. Should be up and running in a few days. Soon enough, I’d say.”
Steve’s fork ran lines through the gravy on his plate. Maxine took another bite, scraping her teeth on metal as she did. “I know a whaler set to leave tomorrow morning, she won’t act friendly for you but she always pulls monsters from the sea. I could-”
Steve interrupted her with a wave of his hand. “I’m going to Nantucket.”
Maxine huffed out her nose. “What is it with that place?”
“It’s known for its whaling.” Steve’s chair creaked as he straightened against it. “They’re a different breed up there.”
Maxine’s hair tossed back and forth as she shook her head. “What’s that even mean? It’s a different breed every place you go. I keep telling that south-sea idiot the same thing.”
“Who?”
“Billy.” Maxine reached for her coffee and looked dismayed that it was already empty. “He’s set on Nantucket too, but he might try to swim there once he finds out he’s delayed. Not really. Well, not probably. It doesn’t make sense. Whaling is a global enterprise.” Maxine tucked her fork under her index finger and gestured widely with her hands. “Means you don’t have to haul up to Nantucket just to get on a ship.”
“Delayed?” Billy’s footsteps landed heavily behind Steve, and a third, softer thump of his harpoon staff followed along with them. He lifted the weapon, and drove the blade over Steve’s shoulder and into a plate of sausages at the center of the table. Steve recoiled away from it.
“Ferry to Nantucket.” Maxine answered. “You and this dullard are stuck here for a few days.”
Billy hummed as he pulled a sausage off his harpoon, biting off the end of it. He stabbed another, eyeing Steve as he walked with it out the door.
* * *
The town market was bustling with a customary politeness that never found itself among sailors. Steve replenished his supplies, haggling the prices whenever the moment felt right but otherwise avoiding any menial conversation. Afterwards, he found his way to the docks, figuring he should confirm the status of his ill-fated ferry himself before settling into town. Unsurprisingly, he spotted a familiar figure already there forlornly dangling his feet over the water.
“Any news?” Steve asked.
Billy’s eyes lingered on the water beneath him, like he was having difficulty pulling his gaze from it. The breeze picked up his curls, framing them tightly around his face as he turned away from the sea. “Only one night, most likely. We can leave at midday tomorrow. The craftsmen around here make good time.”
Steve nodded, looking over the people dispersed between the ships. With only waiting to do, he wandered over to Billy’s side and took a seat with his feet over the water. The salty air rolled at his back, and he tipped his head back into it. “Why Nantucket?”
Billy grinned at the horizon, taking in a breath. “I didn’t come up from the south seas to enter the realm of whaling.” A mist of seawater sprang up from below, leaving droplets hanging on Billy’s collarbone. “I came to find its king .”
That explanation wouldn’t be enough for Maxine, he supposed, but it made perfect sense to Steve. Nantucket’s whaling prowess was passed down like a monarchy. It could be imitated, sure, but the Nantucketers held whaling in their blood like other people held green eyes or a cleft chin.
“You?”
A wave, perfectly average in its height, rolled in underneath the dock and was cupped by the rocks underneath. The resulting pop of water resonated strangely, playing a brief melody on nature’s whimsical new instrument.
“I heard in another country, they get together once a year to let the bulls run like mad through the streets of the city. So they can go about chasing everyone. A celebration, I guess.” Steve drummed his fingers at the wood beneath them. “Now, when I was young, I made the mistake of visiting a farm, and some bull decided he didn’t like the looks of me.” He raised his eyebrows as he glanced sideways at Billy, who was listening intently to him. “We ran like mad, sure, but it didn't feel at all like a celebration."
Billy chuckled, casually pointing his harpoon in Steve's direction, like it was a natural extension of his arm. “Least someone gets it, I could stick the next person who tells me I'm too picky.”
"Well, thank god I chose the right answer." Steve responded, pushing Billy's hand out towards the water to get some distance from the tip of the blade. “Just doesn’t feel like whaling, outside of Nantucket.”
Billy put his hands back on the dock and moved to stand. “Exactly.” He lifted his harpoon and arranged it on his back. At his full height, he looked herculean again, and the intimidation crawled up Steve’s spine. “I’ll be back later, I have things to take care of in the city.”
Steve squinted up and nodded. He wanted to pry, but waffled in the confusing intimacy of having shared a bed with a stranger. There was a casual closeness between them, but not one that strung along any obligation to each other. Plus, now that they knew each other, he was hesitant to spoil the possibility of a peaceful night of sleep. He watched Billy walk into the city, the crowds subconsciously leaving a space around him, until he disappeared into a side street.
* * *
It was after dinner when Steve arrived back at the room, and the setting sun, shaped by the open window, projected a dim rectangle across the ceiling. Billy sat at a corner table with a mirror, harpoon in hand. A lit candle was set out in front of him, along with a bowl of something that smelled like eucalyptus and pine.
Steve watched in horror as Billy lifted the harpoon to his own neck, the blade glinting in front of the candle, and managed to spit out “don’t -” before the bags he was carrying tumbled out of his hands.
Billy only smiled and tipped back his head. Steve imagined blood, bits of flesh sprayed over wooden slats like a fish gutted on the deck of a ship. He stumbled forward, slowing as he watched Billy drag the blade across his jawline in a tight, controlled motion.
Shaving. Billy was shaving.
“There’s a barber across the street, what are you-” Steve trailed off, gaping as he waved his hands in Billy’s direction.
“Ship captains are more trusting of men with clean-shaven faces.” Billy swiped the harpoon again at his jaw, slightly higher this time.
“I think they’re more wary of harpoons than a bit of facial hair.” Steve sat on the edge of the bed, watching Billy intently but keeping his distance.
Billy dipped a hand into whatever salve he was using and turned his chin to inspect his work. “Yeah, well, I can only change one of those things.”
The draft from the window wafted the eucalyptus smell over to Steve, who was waiting, on edge, for Billy to be finished. He didn’t speak, because Billy’s ability to hold a casual conversation made him anxious for the man’s neck. After he was finished, Billy scrubbed his face and swiped a towel over his blade. Steve admitted, dismayed, that it was as good a job as any barber would’ve done.
Billy kicked an empty wooden chair away from the table and grinned in Steve’s direction. Steve looked back and forth between them before clamping a hand over his own stubble. “Oh no.” He held up his other hand. “I’m perfectly fine with finding a barber in Nantucket-”
The harpoon rested against the table as Billy stood up and walked towards Steve. His hands landed on Steve’s back, urging him upwards and forwards into the corner of the room. Steve protested, but his feet kept moving, and he marveled at how working against Billy’s force felt akin to toppling a great statue. He landed stiffly in the chair.
Billy set to work quickly, before Steve could tell him off, and Steve felt the cooling sensation of liquid under the thick pads of Billy’s fingers. As Billy reached for the harpoon, Steve was intent on remaining apprehensive, but found it difficult under the firm and steady grip of Billy’s hand. The blade ran across Steve’s skin, drawing a line as confident and predictable as the path of the sun rising in the eastern sky.
Steve sighed, relaxing his shoulders. Billy noticed, but said nothing, and his only reaction was a slight curl to the corner of his lip. Otherwise, his face was collected, putting on a show of intense focus that was likely more for Steve’s sake than it was for Billy’s. From this distance, Steve could make out the ripples and tides of Billy’s irises, made bluer by the red wash of windburn laid into his cheeks.
Billy finished, tossing a rag over Steve’s head and ruffling it into his hair. “See? Works as well as any city barber.”
Steve scrubbed at his face. “You’re a heathen.”
Billy pulled a kit from his bag, beginning the full extent of his harpoon maintenance. “I’m efficient.”
The orange light fled from the room as the sun dipped below the horizon. A chill breeze reached in from the window and Steve walked over to it. “It’ll be a cold night.” He commented as he latched it closed.
Billy nodded absently, now focused on his new task, and Steve wandered over to his side of the room. His nightshirt was secondhand, soft and worn-in but with sleeves that hung past his fingertips. He slipped it on and crawled under the blankets, bracing himself against the oncoming cold.
* * *
Steve awoke in the darkest stretch of the night to the sound of wind whistling through cracks in the window. He shivered. The first drop of autumn had taken the city by force, and had seeped frostily into their tidy little room. He blinked, expecting only darkness, and was surprised to find he could make out his surroundings flickering in front of him. He rolled over, gripping the blankets with him, and found Billy lying at an angle, his face both illuminated and obscured by the sturdy pipe he was holding to his mouth.
Smoke billowed from his lips in a thin plume. “You weren’t lying about the cold.”
Steve gripped his fingertips into the ends of his shirt sleeves, stretching the neck of it down below his collarbone. “I wish I had been.”
A gust rattled the latch on the window and Billy looked over to it. He was shirtless, which, along with the dropping temperature in the room, attested to the powerful force of his sleeping habits. In spite of the temperature, the tan of his skin radiated heat, and it was careful not to give away even the slightest shiver. Perhaps he didn’t get cold, as normal people do, and Steve would add this impenetrability to the many myths surrounding Billy’s persona already. Then again, if he were so unbothered by the cold, it’d be unlikely that he’d preoccupy himself with a pipe in the dead of night, and Steve gathered that the white grip of his fingertips along its stem was stepping in for any other outward signs of discomfort. Even so, the relaxation in the rest of his muscles looked inviting, and Steve imagined an arm draped over his side, his body aching for the steady warmth of it.
Looking sideways, Billy tilted his pipe in Steve’s direction, a silent offering. He held it in his right hand, across his body, while his left hung lazily along the base of the headboard. Steve curled in front of it, dragging his cocoon of blankets with him, and settled in closer than necessary, his body relaxing into the dull warmth of proximity.
“Thanks.” He muttered, grasping the pipe between his fingers and taking a long drag. He welcomed the burn in his lungs, hoping it would disseminate long enough to reach the chill across his shoulders. He breathed out slowly and handed back the pipe, holding still a moment before he spoke. “I heard a few rumors about you.”
Billy smiled as he absently bit the lip of his pipe. “And what rumors were those?” His mouth closed around it as he breathed in.
“Something about speaking to whales, one about breathing water.” He dragged his eyes over Billy’s torso and landed them back on his face. “I don’t see any fish scales, so I suppose that one’s out.”
Billy snorted, coughed. “People get quite imaginative when they’re out at sea for too long.” He swallowed and passed the pipe. “Or maybe they’re just bored.”
“Is any of it true?” Steve pressed a hand into the mattress, straightening himself slightly.
The blue of Billy’s eyes narrowed with the clicking of his tongue. “My mom said I rolled into a lagoon as a baby, and seeing as I didn’t drown, I guess you could say I swam before I walked.” He ran his fingers into his hairline. “Other than that? I don’t think I’m anything special.”
Steve breathed out slowly, letting the warmth of the smoke gather over the cold tip of his nose. “We don’t see many people from the south sea make their way so far north.”
Billy reached across his body for the pipe, sliding gently against Steve’s side, and the warmth of their contact made Steve thankful that he didn’t try to reestablish their distance. He felt the cold fingers of Billy’s other hand, caught underneath him, tangle themselves into the bottom hem of Steve’s woolen shirt. “Yeah? Well I’ve never seen a northerner south of Capricorn.”
“What’s it like there?” Steve asked, tilting up his chin.
Billy tapped the pipe under his fingers. “The birds are different. I think they hang in the air longer. And it smells different too. Less… earthy maybe. Everything here smells like grass and dirt until you escape the mainland.” He breathed in, briefly, and Steve noticed the dimming glow of the bowl, Billy’s features barely outlined in the shadows. “Oh-” he continued, setting the spent pipe on the side table, “it’s a hell of a lot warmer, too.”
With the last of the light extinguished, and the cold air still running at the window, Steve laughed as he pressed his face into Billy’s chest. The skin was cold against his cheek. Billy, obscured by the darkness and free to drop his facade of indifference, wrapped himself around Steve’s body and his messy lump of blankets. His fingertips, feeling nearly frozen under the covers, dug desperately until they reached the warmth of Steve’s skin, at his hip, his collarbone. And finally, Billy’s nose pressed into the top of Steve’s head, as a breath of warm relief huffed out sharply into his temple.
And so, Steve began his own story tangled in the limbs of a mysterious harpooneer.