Harbor Boys

OOC: Happy Pride 🏳️‍🌈

2 years ago

The joke started before Ronan even realized they were talking about him.

Morning always came hard on the dock. It didn't rise soft or golden like it did in movies. It crawled in gray and cold, dragging fog over the water and salt into the back of your throat. Men were already moving before the sky had decided what color it wanted to be, boots thudding over wet wood, chains clanking, gulls screaming like they'd some personal grievance against the world. It was the kind of place that made boys straighten their shoulders and pretend they were men. Ronan usually liked that about it. The harbor gave him something to lean into. A shape to wear.

That morning, he'd a coil of rope over one shoulder and sleep still clinging to his eyes when he heard his name.

He wasn't trying to listen. He really wasn't. But his name had a way of snagging him, and his step slowed almost against his will. He came to a stop near a stack of crab pots crusted with old salt and bits of rust, hidden just enough that if Robert or Dale looked his way they might not see him right off.

Robert stood near the stern of the boat, cigarette pinched between two fingers, talking with the low rough ease Ronan had always envied in him. He looked like he belonged to the boat in a way Ronan feared he never would. There was nothing uncertain in the way Robert stood. Nothing careful. He took up space like a man who'd earned it and never once doubted it. Dale Mercer stood with him, broad and thick through the middle, one boot braced on a piling, mustache twitching every time he talked.

Ronan only meant to catch a piece of it. Just enough to know whether he should keep walking or not. Then Robert said, "A few more years and he'll be ready. I mean it. Once he's old enough, I want him taking over more of this. Learning the route, the books, the catch. Whole damn ship."

A warm flicker bloomed low in Ronan's chest, sudden and bright and humiliating in how badly he wanted it. He stood a little straighter without meaning to. His grip on the rope tightened. He could already feel the shape of it in his head, the version of himself Robert seemed to be seeing. Older. Harder. Real. Not just the kid trailing after crewmen and trying not to get in the way. Somebody who belonged there. Somebody Robert would be proud to leave things to.

Then Dale laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh. It was the kind older men gave when they thought they were saying something obvious, something so true it barely needed words.

"That boy?" Dale said. "Hell, Robert. He's softer than baby shit."

The warmth in Ronan's chest died so fast it almost hurt. He stayed where he was. That was the worst part. He could've walked away. He should've walked away. Instead he stood there like an idiot and listened to himself get cut apart. Robert didn't answer right away. Maybe that pause was only a second. Maybe less. To Ronan it felt like being skinned alive.

Dale kept going, because of course he did. "I'm serious. He ain't like the other boys. Cares more about his looks than the work. You seen that damn hair? Kid looks like he's getting ready for a school picture every morning."

Ronan's hand flew to his hair before he could stop it. His fingers brushed the dark blond strands near his jaw, the length he'd spent too much time pretending he didn't maintain. He dropped his hand immediately, face going hot with a shame so immediate and physical it almost made him dizzy.

Robert finally said, "He works."

Dale snorted. "Because you make him. That ain't the same thing."

Another pause. Another chance for Robert to say something better.

Dale looked toward the boat and shook his head. "Ship ain't some place for a pretty little boy trying to play fisherman."

That was the moment something in Ronan split open.bHe didn't wait to hear whether Robert defended him after that. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't. Ronan told himself later that he didn't care. But he did. He cared enough that not knowing ate at him all day, because if Robert had said the right thing fast enough, maybe the whole thing would've landed differently. Maybe it would've hurt less.

He turned and walked back the way he'd come, the rope still over his shoulder even though he no longer remembered where he'd been taking it. His face burned so badly it felt feverish. He couldn't tell what he was angrier at. Dale for saying it. Robert for not stopping it quickly enough. Himself for standing there listening. Himself most of all, probably, because somewhere underneath the humiliation was the ugly certainty that Dale had seen something true. Or true enough to matter.

It all stayed under his skin as he cut away from the main dock and headed toward the row of weather beaten storage sheds near the edge of the yard. Nobody bothered with that side unless they needed old tackle or broken netting. It smelled like fish oil, wet rope, and mildew. The noise of the harbor dulled back there, which somehow made it worse. There was nothing to cover his thoughts.

Inside one of the sheds, nailed crooked to a support beam, was an old mirror warped enough at the edges to make anybody look wrong. It'd probably belonged to some deckhand who shaved there before dawn, years and years ago. Ronan dropped onto an overturned bucket in front of it and stared.

He didn’t look rough around the edges, nor dangerous. Just young. His face hadn't finished sharpening yet. His mouth looked too soft. His eyes too bright. His hair too long. It curled slightly at the ends if he let it, and girls looked at it. At least he thought they did. That mattered, it had to matter. There had to be a reason he kept it.

But now all he could hear was Dale Mercer's voice, flat and certain and cruel in that way only grown men seemed allowed to be. He looked down and spotted the bait shears on top of a crate beside him, spotted with rust and fish scales. He picked them up and held them next to one side of his head.

Just cut it.

The thought came with the force of a dare. Cut it off. Hack it short. Make yourself look harder. Make it ugly enough that nobody could accuse you of caring. Go back out there and let Dale look at you now. Let Robert see that you're trying. That you're not some weak little thing with nice hair and too much feeling in his face. He imagined the first rough chunk falling into his lap. Imagined the second. Imagined walking back to the dock butchered and uneven. The shears trembled slightly in his grip.

"Whatcha doing?"

Ronan flinched so hard the blades slipped against his fingers. He turned and saw Levi Mercer leaning in the doorway. Great, of all people.

Levi was older, fifteen, and already had that lean broadening look boys got right before they became men. Dale's son. Dark hair under a knit cap. Flannel overshirt half open over a thermal. Hands shoved in his pockets. He'd that maddening lazy way of standing, like he'd never once wondered how he came across to anybody else. Like nobody had ever made him feel like he needed to cut pieces off himself to fit right.

His gaze flicked from the shears to the mirror to Ronan's face.

"Oh," he said.

Just that. Somehow that made it worse. Ronan scowled immediately, because there was no universe where he was about to explain himself to Dale Mercer's son. "Mind your business."

Levi came in anyway and nudged an empty tackle box with his boot before sitting on it. "You gonna cut it?"

"Maybe."

"That'd be stupid."

Ronan snorted, though there was no real humor in it. "Yeah...stupid. Chicks love it."

Levi's mouth twitched a little. "Yeah."

He said it in a tone that made Ronan look over.

Levi shrugged one shoulder, eyes on the mirror instead of him. "They're not the only ones."

For a second Ronan honestly thought he must've heard wrong.

"What?"

"I said keep it. You'd look dumb with short hair," Levi added after a few silent moments. "Like, really dumb."

Ronan stared at him. He was trying to figure out if Levi was making fun of him in some way, but Levi didn't look amused. He lowered the shears and set them back on the crate. "Thanks," he muttered, aiming for sarcasm and missing it by a mile.

"I'm serious."

The harbor noises outside kept drifting in. A shout. A gull. A truck bed slamming shut. Inside, the little shed stayed dim and close, dust floating in the thin bars of light. Levi slid the tackle box a little closer and sat down properly this time, not touching Ronan but close enough that the space between them had weight now.

For a while neither of them said anything. It should've been awkward. Instead it felt suspended, like the whole world outside the shed had been pushed a few feet farther away. Ronan looked at himself in the mirror again. Or tried to. Mostly he became aware of Levi in the edge of it. The rough line of his knuckles, a small scar under his chin. His own breathing felt too loud in comparison.

Levi broke the silence first. "My dad's a jackass."

Ronan almost laughed. "Yeah. I know."

"No, I mean really. Like deeply." Levi leaned back a little, his shoulder brushing the beam behind him. "He thinks if a guy takes care of himself a bit, he turns into a princess."

Ronan's mouth twitched despite himself. The shears sat untouched on the crate now. He stared at them. "Maybe he's right."

"He's not."

Levi answered so fast that Ronan turned.

There was something steady in the way Levi looked at him. Not teasing. Not pitying. Worse. Gentler. That felt dangerous immediately.

"You don't know that," Ronan said, but his voice'd gone quieter.

"I do."

That should've pissed him off. Instead it made him feel exposed. Seen in a way he hadn't asked for. Seen and, somehow, not laughed at. He planted both hands on the plank they were sitting on, fingers spread flat against the old wood. Levi's hand rested there too, not far away. A stupid detail. A meaningless detail. Ronan focused on it anyway because it gave him somewhere to put his eyes.

His heart'd started doing something humiliating in his chest. Like it'd gotten too big for his ribs all at once. He told himself he was just angry. Just embarrassed. Just still worked up over what Dale had said. Levi shifted slightly. The side of his leg brushed Ronan's knee for a second before settling. Ronan went still. Absolutely still.

He became aware of every part of himself in the worst possible way. The heat in his ears. The tightness in his throat. The way his hand felt too present where it rested on the plank. Then his hand moved. Only a little. An inch, maybe less. He didn't mean to do it. Or maybe he did and hated himself for it immediately. Levi's hand moved too. The gap between them shrank in pieces so small they almost didn't count. First their pinkies brushed. Then the side of Levi's hand touched the side of Ronan's.

Neither of them pulled away. Ronan's whole body'd gone rigid by then. He could hear the blood in his ears. He couldn't tell if Levi could too. Then Levi turned his hand and laid it over Ronan's. Just there. Warm and sure and impossibly natural. The whole world seemed to stop. The gulls outside. The boatyard. The stupid shed. Dale Mercer. Robert. Everything. For one impossible breath, there was only the pressure of Levi's palm over the back of his hand and the horrible, shocking fact that Ronan liked it.

That was what broke him.

Not the touch itself.

The fact that he liked it.

Panic hit him so hard it was almost a physical blow. His hand jerked back so fast their skin scraped. The bucket beneath him screeched against the boards as he shot to his feet, chest heaving. For one wild second he looked like he might swing at him.

"What the hell?"

Levi looked up, the color draining right out of his face. "Ronan—"

"You gay or something?" The words came out loud and mean and way too quick, as if by saying them first, by making the thing disgusting fast enough, he could outrun what'd just happened inside his own chest.

Levi stood up too, but slowly, hands visible, like he was approaching an animal that might bite him. "Ronan, shut up."

"You are." Ronan took another step back, making space like he needed air. "You are."

"Don't say it like that."

"Like what?" Ronan snapped. His voice'd gone raw now. "Like it's weird? It is weird."

Levi glanced toward the doorway immediately, panic flashing over his face. "Please," he said. "Please don't say anything."

That made Ronan freeze for a different reason.

Levi swallowed hard. "My dad can't know."

All at once the whole thing became larger than the little shed, larger than them. Dale Mercer's laugh. Robert's silence. Men on the boat. Men in town. School. Every single thing boys were supposed to be and every cruel little word waiting if they weren't.

"He won't look at me the same," Levi said, looking at the floor now. "Please, man."

Ronan wanted to be cruel. He really did. Cruel felt safer than anything else. Instead, for one sickening second, all he could think was that if anybody'd seen his own hand not move away right away, if anybody'd seen the way he'd just sat there and liked it, they wouldn't look at him the same either. That thought made his stomach turn over violently. He laughed once, short and ugly. "Yeah? And what am I supposed to do with that?"

Levi didn't answer.

His silence made Ronan angrier than an insult would've. Anger was better than shame. Anger had edges. Shame just crawled. So Ronan grabbed the first sharp thing he had and used it.

"That's messed up," he said. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Levi flinched.

Good.

Ronan hated that it felt good.

He snatched the bait shears off the crate and slammed them back down hard enough to rattle everything on it. "Forget it."

"Ronan."

"Forget it."

He shoved past him and out into the daylight so fast his shoulder clipped the doorframe. The harbor seemed too bright now, every noise turned up too loud. Men yelled to each other from the dock. A gull cut overhead. Somewhere, somebody laughed, and Ronan felt it like an accusation.

He marched back toward the boatyard with his shoulders squared and his face set hard, one hand coming up to drag through his hair and then staying there for a second too long. He didn't cut it. He couldn't tell if that made him feel better or worse.

The rest of the day he was unbearable.

He worked like somebody was timing him. Snapped at everybody. Hauled crates harder than he'd to. Swore louder. Laughed meaner. When a waitress at lunch smiled at him, he smiled back too long and made sure Levi saw. He talked to two girls that afternoon in town and turned his voice lower, rougher, trying on something that felt more like what he thought a real man ought to sound like. Every move felt performative and desperate and he knew it, but he couldn't stop.

Because if he stopped moving, he thought, he might remember too clearly. That one second in the shed. The warmth of Levi's hand and the fact that he hadn't hated it.