Chapter Text
February, 1992
The morning sun hung low on a pale sky, sparkling in calm water. The boat lay anchored, and Louis lugged heavy equipment into position on deck. Harry had stepped out of the wheelhouse soon after the motor fell silent, their first exchange of the day a wordless nod. It was a deviation from their routine that none of them remarked.
There was no shared silence over a cup of coffee. No wheelhouse banter, no morning gruff. Just work.
He begged. I made it quick? A good night’s sleep had helped ease echoes of Louis’ conversation with Hans. His mind was still tangled like a fishing line, but rest had brought some acceptance of the knots he couldn’t yet undo. He’d dealt with worse, spent hours picking apart snarled rigs until his fingers blistered. Harry would have to be handled much the same way.
That was how the observation started.
Immediately following their nods of acknowledgment, Louis noted the coffee stain. Harry’s woolen sweater was partly hidden behind the bib and brace of his heavy-duty pants, but the stain on his chest and left sleeve stood out like a sore thumb. It was a subtle change, but out of character.
Later, while crouching to secure a coil of rope near the rail, Louis caught sight of Harry’s boot. The laces had been stuffed inside, but one end had slipped loose. A small concession to his limited dexterity. It wasn’t a major safety hazard yet, and there was no point in offering to help tie them.
Harry was in a mood. While it was hard to pinpoint what exactly brewed under the surface, Louis noticed it the moment he stepped out of the wheelhouse. His movements were brisk. He was rougher than usual and had acquired a stiffness to his face that came off as artificial. Harry restrained himself.
First, Louis blamed himself. Perhaps Harry noticed his skepticism or caught wind of his conversation with Hans after church. He considered if his reluctance to wave when they met had given his turbulence away.
Then, he realized he was being ridiculous. Harry was no mind reader, he wouldn’t know from close to no interaction that Louis battled confusion.
Harry soon caught Louis observing from the corner of his eyes, but he quickly looked away and returned his focus to the task. His bad arm stayed anchored in the cradle of the pant bib, while his good arm worked on securing the lining wheel.
When Louis was first caught looking at the stiff, unmoving arm the day he’d arrived, Harry’s demeanor had shifted. At the time, Louis couldn't decipher it, but he knew now: it was pride. Every moment of attention to his disability chipped away at his pride.
Louis didn’t mean to stare, but when he caught a glimpse of a tremor in Harry’s good hand, it was impossible to look away. A clue revealed itself in how his non-dominant hand shook while adjusting the heavy bolts of the wheel, before reeling it in without his usual steadiness. Harry was tired , and was pushing through.
Maybe that was it. The mood had nothing to do with Louis at all. Maybe–
“You keeping tally?”
The flatness of Harry’s voice cut straight through Louis’ thoughts. He snapped his gaze up, startled by the sudden break in silence. “What?”
Harry paused, finally meeting his eyes. His frustration was palpable, and the stiffness in his face had eased. He could no longer hold back his irritation, even when his voice was eerily calm in contrast. “You’ve been staring at me like you’re logging my mistakes.”
A hint of guilt crept into Louis’ cheeks. “I’m not…” The denial dragged in his mouth; while not logging mistakes, he had collected a series of mental notes. “Look, I just thought maybe you could use a hand.”
Harry immediately went rigid from the unintended pun, but let out a humorless laugh. Louis wanted to correct himself, but before he got to it, Harry responded. “I don’t need your help.”
“You sure? Because…” Louis gestured vaguely toward the wheel. “That looks like a two-handed job.”
Stiffness returned to Harry’s features. Demonstratively, he shoved the bolts into place with too much force, making the metal shriek slightly. “I’ve been doing this long before you ever set foot on a longliner.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Louis said, more wryly than intended. “I can also see you’re struggling.”
Harry looked away, and Louis immediately knew pointing it out was the wrong move. Discomfort traveled through Harry, making him visibly tense, his bad arm twitching slightly. “Then stop looking.”
Louis let out a sigh, all air escaping him as he resigned. “Sorry,” he muttered as his gaze fell to the slippery deck. If his only intention had been to help, his apology might have been more performative. Instead, he genuinely felt guilty for searching for any crack in Harry’s walls, for eagerly wanting to be let in where he was not invited. Even more so, he felt guilty after being caught, and finding that no crack would let these walls come down.
Harry got the space he demanded, and Louis let the silence fall between them. It wasn’t the comfortable silence they had found over the last month. No, this was a reset. A return to square one, where Harry didn’t shake hands and made no effort to ease awkwardness.
Louis kept his hands moving, his mind still circling the same thoughts. He wasn’t trying to prove anything, wasn’t trying to win. Why did this feel like losing?
The morning settled into a familiar rhythm. Eventually, Louis was back at pulling the line, Harry greeted the fish with his usual knife before pushing them into the water bath on deck.
The seagulls overhead began circling impatiently, adding to the atmosphere with their shrieking song. It should have been grounding. Instead, it left Louis adrift as he stole another glance at Harry. His good hand trembled more now, whether from exertion or irritation, the knife shifting just slightly in his grip. He was pushing through. And Louis, despite himself, still wanted to reach out.
Louis contained himself, and they worked in tense silence. Louis reeled in another length of line, tossing the catch behind him. He had the hang of it now, swiftly rebaiting and casting each line as he pulled them in.
As Louis coiled a length of line near the stern, a sudden swell hit the boat unexpectedly from the side. It wasn’t violent, just sudden; a sharp, unexpected jolt after the morning’s stillness. It caught them both off guard and caused Harry to lose his balance. The knife left his hand and slid across the deck as his good arm flailed for purchase as he stumbled sideways.
Louis moved on instinct, catching Harry by the shoulder and waist before he could go down. For a split second, Harry’s body tensed but didn’t pull away. Their faces were unexpectedly close, Louis could nearly taste the mint of Harry’s chewing gum as their breaths mingled between them. Something flashed in Harry’s eyes, causing a momentary softening of his features.
Then, just as quickly, Harry’s expression hardened again. He jerked away from Louis’ grip with surprising force, but didn’t step far enough away for his radiating energy to miss Louis. “Don’t touch me.” Harry’s voice was low and tense. “Stay back.”
Louis stood frozen, hands suspended in the air where Harry had been. Harry stood frozen too, right outside the embrace he escaped. His voice had held no anger, but rather something akin to fear. Not of Louis specifically, he thought, but something deeper and less tangible.
Louis stepped back, palms raised in surrender. “You were about to fall.” Even with the fear, and the defensiveness in Harry’s stance, Louis would do it again if he had to. No doubt.
“I would have caught myself,” Harry said, though they both knew that wasn’t true. He was steady on rough sea, but the lurch had come out of nowhere, he’d likely have hit the deck hard.
The sting of rejection stunned Louis. It wasn’t so much about the help, he’d accepted Harry’s unreasonable desire for independence. This was something else, though; Harry couldn’t bear the proximity, the momentary vulnerability of human contact without a bottle of whiskey and full control of the situation.
Louis lowered his hands, pressed his lips into a thin line, and nodded; a delayed reaction to Harry’s claim before turning on his heels and getting back to work.
The tone was set: a strained silence that followed them throughout the rest of the day. Louis kept at the line, stealing glances when Harry wasn’t looking. As the hours wore on, Harry’s movements turned reckless, almost as if to mask the cramps and fatigue.
Twice, Harry dropped the knife. Louis tried to avoid any acknowledgment of his struggle, but the second time the knife hit the deck, Harry must have kicked it. The clatter of metal cut through the silence, persuading Louis to glance up. By that time, Harry was already storming off to the wheelhouse.
By the time the motor started running, the sun had already crept below the horizon and Louis had reeled the last line of the day and was gutting the fish. His focus was so narrowed down to the repetitive motion of the work that he jumped when the wheelhouse door flew open.
“We’re behind schedule, you better speed up,” Harry said monotonously, the first words between them in hours.
Louis nodded. “Hans won’t be pleased.”
Harry shrugged, only his good shoulder moving as he was already closing the door again. “Hans is never pleased.”
When they entered the passage between the breakwater and the marina, their lights had already started blinking, dimmed by the lingering twilight. The blue light flickered, swallowed by the twilight, barely answering the green’s call.
Hans’s silhouette was unmistakable before they even reached the dock. Once they arrived, his arms were crossed over his bloated chest, his weathered face set in lines of disapproval. Louis couldn’t think of a single time Hans had been unpleasant to him, but he felt a flicker of defensiveness on Harry’s behalf. The intensity of it surprised him, fueled by a day of watching Harry’s struggles too closely for anyone’s comfort.
“You’re late,” Hans called as the motor died, his accent thicker than usual. “Trouble on boat?”
Louis was already halfway over the railing to jump off and moor the boat, and Harry quickly went out on deck to supervise the knots (as if Louis didn’t have it down pretty neatly by now). He was visibly tired, even with both hands tucked into his pockets to conceal any tremor. There was no concealing his pale, worn-out face, though, or the lack of spirit in his voice as he spoke. “Nothing you need to worry about, Hans.”
He wasn’t rude, exactly. But the uncharacteristic briskness caught both men’s attention nonetheless. Louis saw Hans bristle immediately, his back straightening as if he’d been slapped.
“Well,” Hans said, even colder now, “I no worry either if I barely working, and just coasting along like you.”
All the air left Harry in a quiet hiss as if he’d been gut-punched. The sound was too faint for Hans to catch it, but Louis did. He saw the shift in Harry’s posture, his masseter vibrating from the tightening of his jaw.
Anger was an appropriate response, Louis wouldn’t have second-guessed it for a second. The immediate silence after Hans spoke gave room for it. For a moment it looked like Harry might erupt into speech, his lips parted as if he wanted to respond. But then, like the tide pulling back from shore, the fight drained from him. His chin lifted slightly, eyes flicking past Hans as though he hadn’t spoken at all.
“Louis, please attend to the winch,” he said, fully in control. And then he turned, stepping into the wheelhouse without another word.
Louis strapped up the pool of fish and connected it to the winch, following the instructions given. A flooding river of thoughts ran through his mind as he bit down his exasperation.
Despite the rattle of the winch, Louis heard Hans’ clicking of his tongue as he shook his head in disapproval. “He’s always like this,” he declared when he knew he had Louis’ attention.
“He think he better than us,” he added.
Louis had just spent the entire day watching Harry work himself to exhaustion, only to be faced with snide remarks that held no truth upon returning home. His own hands ached from gutting fish in the frozen cold, but they worked. He hadn’t spent hours slicing through cramp after cramp, dropping his knife, keeping it up like sheer willpower could make up for what his body wouldn’t let him do.
Hans had it wrong, his words were off the mark. In a flash, Louis revisited the softness in Harry’s eyes in the brief moment of closeness when he lost balance. He thought of the way he’d flinched, softened, and pulled away like he’d been burned.
Better than us? No, that wasn’t it at all.
“I don’t think it’s quite like that,” Louis said as the pool hit the wooden dock and the winch stopped shrieking.
Hans snorted. “You don’t know him.”
“And you do?” Louis countered, surprised by his own boldness.
Hans had already started on the chains attached to the pool but paused. He tilted his head, gaze sharp with something that resembled amusement. “Nobody do,” he finally said. “And there is reason for that.”
Hans didn’t anticipate a response and returned to his work. It should have been the end of it. It was the end of it, technically. Something Louis should let slide, just like Harry had let Hans’ words slide just moments before.
And yet, the words itched under Louis’ skin, catching on to something that had been brewing for a while. Hans could blurt out ridiculous remarks about the KGB or Harry coasting along, and it was easy to dismiss, to write off as nonsense.
But this–
Hans was right. His words chewed down on a nerve already raw with frustration: Nobody knew Harry. Not the villagers, not Hans, and not Louis either.
It was by Harry’s design. It shouldn’t have bothered Louis. It shouldn’t have mattered.
But it did.
Louis just now managed to acknowledge it, the sinking feeling of rejection. It was systematic, from their very first day. He’d been on the receiving end of fleeting moments of softness. It would slip through the cracks before Harry caught himself, before he pulled back.
His fingers had clenched around Louis’ whiskey-shaken wrist that first day, both of them breathless, tense, wanting. He’d looked at Louis like he could see him fully before a new day came and he buried it under cold politeness.
Constant little moments, small glances, little gestures of care that came to a halt just the second Louis noticed: like the wheelhouse warmth, the gloves from Astrid. Every little offering of softness was quickly exchanged by distance.
And then there was today.
Louis had hesitated. He hadn’t shown up for their usual coffee in the morning, he’d avoided Harry’s eyes. Rattled by the story of a drunken Harry and the weight of everything his word could have meant, Louis dove into work, and Harry dove into a state as frozen as the arctic tundra.
Harry withdrew from Louis as if burned from the briefest moment of closeness.
Louis’ jaw clenched. The conversation was over, Hans was long gone, but Louis simply wasn’t done. His pulse hammered as he turned toward the wheelhouse, footsteps quick and certain.
The confrontation was overdue.
Lights were dimmed inside the wheelhouse. Harry sat by the kitchenette table, hunched over a glass of amber liquid. The day had worn down every fiber of his being, and by now he didn’t muster to lift his head and face Louis as he burst through the door.
Louis’ heart was hammering in his chest, both from his conversation with Hans, and from hours of watching Harry shut him out.
“You’re a real piece of work, y’know that?” Louis stepped closer as the words spat out of him.
Harry exhaled. His body didn’t shift, he didn’t look up at Louis, but his fingers tightened around his glass. He gave no response.
Louis scoffed, shaking his head. “Christ, Harry! You just lock yourself away, don’t you? Let them talk, let them think whatever the hell they want… Let Hans of all people figuratively spit in your face as if it’s his human right!”
Harry didn’t move.
Louis gestured with his arms, trying to get Harry’s attention. “I’m talking to you.”
Harry straightened ever so slightly as he tipped his head up, gaze flat and unreadable. “I’m listening.”
That steady, controlled patience only stoked the fire in Louis’ chest. “You’re fucking unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. His chest tightened from the lack of response, from the frustration that saw no resolution.
“You hear the things they say about you?” Part of him wanted to be more precise, to confront Harry with the story of his drunken confession. It fueled speculations that even lodged in Louis’ mind like a splinter. He didn’t speak of it, though. Even in the heat of the moment, the larger part of him didn’t want to know, didn’t want anything to be confirmed.
Harry looked at him without answering. By now, Louis wasn’t even really expecting an answer.
Louis grabbed onto the newel post of the two steps in the wheelhouse. His hands were increasingly sweaty and tightened around the ball cap as the words started tumbling out faster now, pent-up frustration sharpening his tone. “You know they don’t like you. You know they don’t trust you. Of course you do, but you don’t even care, do you?” He let out a sharp breath. “You just let them believe whatever the hell they want, let them think the worst of you. And you don’t let anyone close enough to know better!”
Harry didn’t speak, but lifted his glass and took a slow sip of his whiskey. Even in complete silence, Louis could feel the weight of his undivided attention.
Louis swallowed, feeling the heat rise to his ears as he was closing in on some kind of boiling point of the confrontation. “Why, Harry?” he pressed. “What’s the fucking point? You don’t trust them? Fine. But you don’t trust anyone, do you?”
Still, Harry didn’t respond. He sat like a man waiting for the storm to pass.
Louis’ grip on the pole loosened, and his blue eyes met Harry’s green. Desperately, he searched them for anything that could relieve his frustration, before his voice dropped. It was a mere whisper when he spoke again. “Not even me? You push me away.”
The words slipped out before he even knew he was going to say them. And they landed right in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly, he himself realized it wasn’t just frustration brewing. A passing sensation he never intended to turn into a lingering thought, had now unexpectedly been put into words.
It was followed by a moment of absolute silence.
Nothing. Silence stretched long enough for Louis to think that it was Harry’s answer yet again. It seemed clear: Harry wasn’t going to say anything at all. But then, finally, Harry exhaled, and he spoke in a steady murmur.
“I know.”
Louis frowned. “You know what?”
Harry didn’t look away, didn’t shy away from the conversation. “That I do that.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek, the only betrayal of something stirring underneath. He lifted his hand as if to scratch the side of his neck, but it never quite reached. His fingers barely brushed his collar before he let them fall back to the whiskey glass.
This time, Louis didn’t know how to respond. He let out a breath and felt the tension in his shoulders ease ever so slightly. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t this. Harry presented no arguments, no justifications. Just a quiet, almost apologetic acknowledgment.
Most of the fight drained from Louis, the sharpness was exchanged with a softer sense of discontent. He dragged a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Harry.”
Harry watched him, eyes tired and waiting for something Louis couldn’t know what was. Louis let out a long breath, then sat down on the bench beside Harry. They were next to each other, like they had been after that first day of fishing.
Silence embraced them, different now. It wasn’t the awkward kind of earlier in the day, nor the comfortable kind they’d found over the last month. This one was charged with something that wasn’t quite tangible yet.
After what felt like an eternity, Harry moved. He reached for his glass, lifted it to his lips, and took a slow sip. Then, instead of setting it back down in front of him, he placed it in front of Louis, nearly grazing his hand as he placed it close to his resting grip on the table.
Louis’ fingers twitched, but he didn’t move at first. The glass sat between them, the amber liquid catching the dim light, carrying the ghost of Harry’s touch.
There was a moment of hesitation. Then Louis picked it up, his lips wrapping around the crystal where Harry’s lips had just been. The whiskey burned on his tongue, sharp and lingering.
They sat in silence, letting it rest between them with a presence that was neither awkward nor uncomfortable, just present. Eventually, Harry stood. He didn’t take his drink back, didn’t say anything, just left. The door clicked shut behind him.
Louis stayed, staring at the glass. The taste of whiskey and confusion lingered on his lips, the warmth of the liquid came with no answers.
Part of Harry stayed in the room with him. Everything felt different now, but even if the bench grew cold next to him, the moment wouldn’t pass in its entirety. It pressed at the edges of his thoughts, refusing to dissipate, no matter how he tried to let it slip away.
Louis exhaled, slow and measured. Another sip. The taste of whiskey and the most intimate version of Harry stayed with him for the rest of the night.