Aug 10
love this albino fucking rat (Johnathan too)
seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
seen from Indonesia
seen from Türkiye
seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Japan
seen from Germany
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Malaysia
seen from France
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from United States
love this albino fucking rat (Johnathan too)
Why is this the same guy
At first I was like “what the fuck are they standing on? Where’s my boy Andy?”
Then I realized it was crabs and Andy’s sitting on them.
I wish the Deadliest Catch fandom was more active. I want to read sexy fics about the boys screwing each other :(
-Bleeeep!-
How I feel when somebody sets off the fire alarm in the dorm and it's either raining, super cold outside, or at night.
Glad irl stuff cleared up, hope everything's better! I have questions for you: which top 3 characters from each of the Cars movies have 1) left you wanting to see more of them and/or had high expectations of but didn't quite meet them [not necessarily disappoint]; 2) exceeded your expectations and/or surprised you in a positive way? btw, the Francesco short fic from the other day was A+
Thanks, anon! Things cleared up surprisingly well, given my typical shafty luck :/ I’m glad you liked the Francesco fic! That was my first attempt at writing him, so I’m glad someone liked it XD
A+ ask, btw!
Left me wanting to see more of them/had high expectations that weren’t quite met:
Cars
DRH boys - They’re only on screen for a couple minutes and then they just disappear until the credits? I NEED MORE.
Lightning - Honestly, when I first saw the movie, I expected him to be an entirely different character and I was disappointed with his arrogance and didn’t like him at all to begin with.
Ramone - This is weird, but I like, really like his character, and I always wish he had more speaking roles.
Cars 2 (can I just say this whole movie let me down at the time? I think it’s alright now, but I can still feel the disappointment from 2012)
Mack - He had like what, two lines? I need more of the big red boy.
Northwestern - Let me tell you how absolutely stoked I was to see Sig Hansen open the movie as his crabbing boat. I recognized him immediately and was practically fangirling in the theater.
Finn - Like he’s cool and all, but I really thought he’d be smart enough to see Mater for who he was.
Cars 3
Strip - I got so excited when I found out he was in it, it’s really the only reason I went to see it in theaters (all by my lonesome self) at the time. I NEEDED MORE OF HIM but I was still happy I got to see him. Some is better than none, I guess.
Bobby - WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM I NEED TO COMFORT HIM
Cal - Need I explain myself? He’s precious and he broke my heart in all of five minutes and I need him and Bobby and Lightning to all get together and honestly if Cars 4 was just a sit com of the three of them, I’d be happy.
Exceeded my expectations/surprised me in a positive way:
Cars
Doc - HE WASN”T JUST A GRUMPY OLD MAN CHARACTER AND I LOVED WHEN HE SHOWED UP AT THE RACE
Guido - the peetstop we need, not the one we deserve
Mater - I was a huge Larry the Cable Guy fan at the time and thus thought Mater was a wonderful character - funny and country-fied. If we forget about Cars 2, he still is.
Cars 2
Francesco - He was a frikkin’ gift, man. Every line he says is pure gold
Darrell - I wasn’t expecting him to be there at all BUT BLESS, HE WAS
Rod - And thus continued the trend of my love for American muscle car characters that get heavily damaged/die (am I attracted to angsty things? maybe, but only BEAUTIFUL angsty things)
Cars 3
Ms. Fritter - I totally thought she was a dude from the previews, and I was really happy (albeit confused for a split second) when she came on the screen. I have a mighty need to smash some stuff with a school bus now.
Cal - I was a little hesitant about what Pixar was going to do with his character as he was clearly the King’s successor BUT MY GOODNESS GRACIOUS WE WERE BLESSED
Louise - I just really, really love sassy old women, okay?
Ch. 18 Edgar's Flashback (Feral Little Sea Goblin)
“You know… I wasn’t always behind a bar wiping counters for a living.” said Tom one evening when it was just him, Rory and a couple of regulars in the bar.
“I know. You’ve mentioned you fished a bit.” she replied
“A bit.” he scoffed comically “Try twenty years!”
“Really? That long”
“Mhm. Long before you were even a glint in your mothers eye”
“What boats were you on?”
“A few. But I spent one season on the Northwestern.”
“Wait, with Sig?”
“With his father, actually. Sverre. Hard bastard. Fair, though. Man could read weather the way priests read scripture.”
“And Edgar?”
“He was a kid back then. Always fixing something that didn’t need fixing. Hands black with grease, face black from giving some guy bigger than him attitude.” he shook his head disapprovingly.
“That tracks.” She thought of the long hours he spent in the garage.
“Sverre used to chase him out of the engine room and onto the deck every damn hour. The kid was mad to do anything but haul pots. Little did we know he’d end up running a third of the operation.” he chuckled. “Of course, Sig was already easing into the wheelhouse then. Edgar wasn’t even supposed to be on deck yet.
“Why not?”
“He was fifteen. Maybe. Hard to tell, he had that face that looked young until you looked at his eyes.”
“Fifteen… on a crab boat?”
“Mm-hm. Got himself into some trouble in Seattle. Next thing, Sverre had him working winters and summers both. Crab in January, salmon and trout in July. No breaks.”
“That’s… a lot for a kid.”
“He wasn’t really a kid anymore. Life had already roughed him up. Boat just did the sanding.”
“Was… was Matt there then?”
“Matt Bradley? No. Not back then. He was Edgar’s shadow in Seattle, though. Thick as thieves, those two. Mostly trouble, occasionally good decisions. When Matt finally signed on the boat later, it made sense.”
“What made you stop fishing?”
“One bad storm. Boat pitched so hard I kissed the ceiling twice. Friend of mine went over the rail. I never saw him after that.”
“…Tom. I’m sorry.”
“Cost of the job, kid. I crawled off the boat after that trip and told myself I’d find something that didn’t try to kill me every week. Me Ma was happy about it too.”
“Do you miss it?”
“The sea? Sure. The money? Sometimes. But the danger? The drinking? The feeling that your life’s balanced on a 20 ton skip? No. I don’t miss that.”
Edgar’s Flashback
The Northwestern rocked gently at the dock. Edgar clumsily stepped onboard, he hadn’t learned where to put his hands yet. Fifteen. Too young to look tired, but he did. His jacket was a size too big, sleeves frayed at the cuffs from being chewed nervously between his teeth.
Sverre was already on deck, arms crossed and Jaw tight. He didn’t say hello. Just looked his son up and down.
“You run out of places to cause trouble, or you planning to do it here too?”
Edgar kept his eyes on the floor.
“I said I was sorry.”
Sverre didn’t answer. He reached out, grabbed Edgar’s upper arm, not gently, and steered him toward the bait station.
“Sorry doesn’t mean a damn thing out here. You work. You listen. You don’t embarrass me.”
Edgar stumbled a little but caught himself.
“I said I wouldn’t”
A sharp crack of sound cut him off, Sverre’s palm striking the back of Edgar’s head. Not hard enough to knock him to the ground but strong enough to cause him to hold back tears and make the message clear. Maybe this was his families boat but it wasn’t his he had no right to be here.
Edgar stiffened, breath catching. He didn’t look at his father. Didn’t dare.
Norman winced from the rail. Sig’s jaw clenched tight, but he said nothing.
“First job. Bait. You do it alone.”
Edgar swallowed hard.
“All of it?”
“You gut and hook every cod in that freezer and you don’t sleep until it’s done”
Edgar looked at the mountain of frozen cod and bait jars.
Sig finally stepped closer.
“Dad,let him at least-”
Sverre held up a hand. Sig stopped mid-sentence.
“Boy wants to act like a man? He earns his place like one.”
He turned to Edgar again, voice low, the kind of tone that doesn’t echo, just sinks in.
“You’re not here because you’re ready. You’re here because you ran out of chances at home. Don’t run out of them here.”
Edgar nodded once. Then again, harder. Then grabbed the knife and set to work, hands shaking so badly he dropped the first piece of bait.
Sverre’s voice snapped like a whip.
“Pick it up. Do it again. Correctly this time.”
Edgar bent to pick it up. Sig looked away. Norman muttered under his breath. Edgar said nothing. Just kept cutting. Kept breathing. Kept trying not to cry where anyone could see.
After a couple of hours he heard his fathers voice. “Get below. Norman’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”
Edgar nodded, gratefully, maybe he’d get some sleep after all.
He followed Norman down the narrow metal stairs. Norman moved with easy familiarity. Edgar moved like his legs hadn’t caught up with the rest of him yet. Norman paused at the end of the engine room, wiped his hands on a rag.
“Here.”
Edgar blinked. There was no bunk. Just a steel shelf between the main engine and the generator, a folded blanket, and his duffel bag someone must’ve tossed down earlier.
“…This isn’t- this is the engine room.”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s my bunk?”
Norman hesitated, eyes softening for half a breath. “Dad wants you down here.”
Edgar looked at the blanket. Then at the pipes overhead. The heat. The noise. The feeling of being put away somewhere no one had to look at him.
“Is this… because of Seattle?”
Norman exhaled through his nose. “You know it is.”
The engines hummed loud enough that Edgar didn’t trust his voice. He just nodded and set his bag down on the metal shelf.
They hit open water by afternoon. The deck was chaos the way only a crab boat could be. Sverre pointed at the 20 pound pile of coils of line.
“You. Move those.”
Edgar stared then bent down, grabbed a line, and dragged it across the deck. The coil thudded behind him like a dead weight. Every few feet he had to stop and adjust his grip. Sig watched from the wheelhouse. Norman watched too, leaning against the bulkhead. Neither stepped in. This was their father’s deck. Interference wasn’t allowed.
After hours of dragging line and hauling gear, Edgar was called to the bait station. It was cold His hands were so stiff, he kept dropping the knife. Sverre pointed a finger.
“Bait until I say stop.”
Meanwhile the older deckhands, men who’d been doing this since before Edgar was born, were stacking pots, moving like a machine. Edgar wasn’t part of it. He wasn’t trusted. Not yet.
He sliced bait until his fingers burned.Then went numb. Then burned again.
As night fell, he crept back into the engine room. The metal was warm from the machinery. The air smelled of oil and salt and loneliness. He shoved his duffel under the shelf and sat down, back against a vibrating bulkhead.
Norman appeared in the doorway, not quite stepping inside.
“You did alright today.”
Edgar didn’t look up.
“Dad hates me.”
Norman was quiet for a long moment.
“He doesn’t hate you. He’s trying to keep you alive.”
Edgar wiped the back of his hand across his face.
“By making me sleep next to a diesel engine?”
A faint smile tugged at Norman’s mouth.
“He knows you can sleep anywhere.”
Edgar didn’t smile back.
Norman’s voice softened.
“Just get through the season. That’s all you gotta do.”
Edgar swallowed hard.
“I can do it.”
“I know.”
Norman turned to go, then paused at the stairs.
“He’s harder on you because you’re his. Remember that.”
Edgar didn’t answer. He just laid down on the metal shelf, pulled the thin blanket over himself, and listened to the hum of machinery drown out everything else.
2 Weeks Later
Sverre found Edgar there, curled up on the metal shelf he was calling a bed. The blanket pulled up to his chin. The boy wasn’t asleep. Just staring at the pipes overhead like they held all the answers he needed.
Sverre stood in the doorway for a long moment before he spoke.
“Cold down here.”
Edgar didn’t look at him.
“I’m fine.”
Sverre stepped inside.
“You worked hard today.”
“Not hard enough.”
Sverre sighed, the kind of sigh that only fathers who don’t know how to talk say.
“Harder than most your age.”
Edgar swallowed.
“Why do you make me sleep down here?”
Sverre rubbed a hand over his beard, searching for words he didn’t often use.
“Because those bunks kill greenhorns.”
Edgar frowned, confused.
“What does that mean?”
“Means if you’re down here, you’ll wake at every sound. Every shift in the engine. Every change in the boat. You’ll learn her heartbeat better than you know your own.” He paused. “The boat is the best teacher.”
“You think I’m gonna screw up.”
“I think you’re fifteen and being your father scares the hell out of me.”
Edgar looked up at the man infront of him for the first time all day.
Sverre reached into the pocket of his jacket and set something on the metal shelf beside Edgar’s head. A small, battered flashlight. The kind he’d carried for twenty years.
“For nights you can’t see your own hands.”
Edgar thumbed the switch. The beam flickered, then glowed steady.
“…Thanks.”
Sverre nodded once.
“Get some sleep. You’ll need strength tomorrow.”
Edgar Earns His Bunk
The Bering Sea had gone soft for once. No wind. No ice. Just a slow, rolling swell.
Edgar was seventeen now, two seasons older, three seasons tougher, and ten seasons more tired. He’d worked through storms, cut bait until his fingers went numb, and lugged gear so heavy it nearly tore his shoulders out.
And still, every night, he climbed down into the engine room and slept beside the machinery. On that metal shelf with that same thin, fraying blanket.
Tonight, he was crouched near the fuel filters, hands black with grease, when he heard boots on the stairs.
Norman.
He stopped halfway down, leaning on the rail, watching Edgar work the way older brothers do, proud, but pretending not to be.
“You planning to sleep down here forever?”
Edgar grunted, still tightening a bolt.
“Doesn’t bother me.”
Edgar kept working.
“What do you want?”
Norman tossed him a clean rag.
“Dad said to bring you topside.”
Edgar paused mid-wipe. Slowly looked up.
“…Why?”
Norman didn’t answer. Just jerked his head upward. Edgar followed him up the stairs, heart tapping like loose gear against steel.
The galley was warm. Sig sat at the table with a mug of coffee, watching Edgar with that quiet, knowing expression of his. Sverre stood, arms crossed, face unreadable. Edgar stopped in the doorway.
“Did I do something wrong?”
Sverre didn’t speak for a long moment.
“You finished your work fast today.”
Edgar blinked. “Yeah. I… tried.”
“Not just today. Every day.”
Norman settled on the bench behind Sig. Sig raised his eyebrows at Edgar, a tiny, wordless just listen.
“You don’t cut corners. You don’t complain. You don’t slow this boat down. You’ve earned something.”
Edgar swallowed, confused. “Earned what?”
Sverre walked into one of the cabins and reached down to pull aside the curtain to one of the lower bunks. A clean pillow. A folded navy blanket.
Edgar stared.
“…That’s mine?”
“If you want it.”
Edgar looked at the bunk, then at his father, then at Sig and Norman, both watching him with quiet pride.
His voice cracked before he could stop it.
“I…I’ve never had one.” Sig smiled into his coffee.
“You sure as hell earned it.”
Norman nodded.Sverre cleared his throat.
“You’re not green anymore, kid. You’re crew. Act like it. Sleep like it.”
Edgar looked down at his hands, scarred, calloused, burned, grown.
Then he reached out and touched the bunk like he needed to make sure it was real.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Sverre didn’t smile. But something in his face softened.
“Get some rest. ”
Edgar shook his head. “I’m not finished draining the bilge yet” Sverre nodded approvingly. Edgar turned and climbed back down into the engine room to finish what he had started. Sig and Norman gave each other a look of disbelief.
feral little sea goblin
“Someday… I’ll buy my own boat.” declared Edgar boldly in the galley one evening while they were having dinner.
Everyone stopped chewing.
“For my wife. And kids. So they always have someplace to live.”
Sig blinked slowly.
Nick choked on his coffee.
““Ed, what are you talking about?” replied Sig, shaking his head.
Edgar shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “What? A boat’s… home. Isn’t it?”
Sig set his fork down. “You think your wife is gonna want to live on a boat?”
Edgar blinked, confused why this was a question at all.
“Yeah? I mean… where else would we live?”
Norman slapped his hand over his mouth, trying and failing not to laugh.
“On land, you feral little sea goblin.” shouted Norman laughing
“Lord above, this child is BROKEN.” mumbled Nick.
Edgar frowned defensively. “Boats are stable. Reliable. You always know where everything is. Easy to clean. And if you have an argument you can just go outside.”
Nick shook his head disappointedly. “That’s not normal”
Edgar huffed. “It was normal for us.”
Everyone went quiet.
Normans grin faded and he stopped eating. Sverre, who had been ignoring the conversation, lowered his fork. Because there it was… that tiny sentence that cracked open a piece of truth about the Hansen boys no one ever said out loud. Growing up on boats. Raised by tides and engines. Home being steel, not drywall. Arguments echoing off bulkheads. Life shaped by decks, not driveways.
Nick Mavar's voice softened. “Kid… a wife’s gonna want a house. A kitchen. A couch. Not a diesel engine blubbering away”
Edgar stared at the table. “…I never thought about it.”
Norman reached across the bench and shoved Edgar’s shoulder gently, affection disguised as annoyance.
“That’s why you need someone who drags you off the boat now and then.”
Norm nodded. “Makes you walk on grass.”
Sig chimed in. :“And teaches you how to use a stove that isn’t bolted to the floor.”
Nick grinned again. “And buys curtains. Women love curtains.”
Edgar groaned. “Alright, alright, maybe she can have a house near water.”
Norman smirked.
Nick nudged Sverre “Look at that. He’s learning.”
Edgar rolled his eyes, cheeks pink with embarrassment and muttered. “I hate all of you.”
Year Three
By the end of his third year on the Northwestern, Edgar barely remembered what Seattle looked like.
He’d been home for maybe three weeks total in the last three years, spending a handful of nights on a couch in Ballard, a few mornings wandering around his mother’s kitchen like a stranger, and one uncomfortable dinner where his father hadn’t said much of anything.
The rest of the time?
Boats. Water. Engines. Cold.
He stood on deck now, eighteen and exhausted, hands calloused to the point they no longer felt the cold.
Norman watched him from the rail.
“You’re getting skinny.”
“I’m getting fast.”
Norman snorted.
“Some muscle is what you need.”
Edgar kept coiling. No wasted motion. He didn’t talk much anymore. Didn’t laugh, well not the way he used to. Didn’t get into trouble either. He didn’t have time.
The sea had beaten him down to the bone.
Sig came down from the wheelhouse, mug of coffee in hand.
He studied Edgar for a long moment, quietly, like he was trying to figure out who his brother was turning into.
“You coming ashore when we hit Dutch? Or you staying on?”
Edgar shrugged. “Depends if Dad needs me.”
Sig’s mouth tightened. “He always needs you, Ed. Question is whether you want it.”
Edgar didn’t answer. He didn't know how to. What he wanted and what he owed had never been different things.
Norman leaned in, voice low. “You know it’s okay to take a break.”
Edgar tied off the line, pulled his gloves off with his teeth, and wiped his face with the back of his hand.
“Break from what?”
Norman exchanged a look with Sig. The same look they shared every time they realised Edgar had jumped a step or two and somehow become a lifetime fisherman at the age of 18.
Below deck
Edgar sat on edge of the metal shelf between the engine and the generator he used to call his bunk. He stared up at the ceiling listening to the hum around him, he could hear a loose bolt rattling.
He’d been on this boat so long it felt more like home than any building on land. He knew every creak. He could tell who was walking above him by the weight of their step. Which bolt was loose by the pitch of a rattle. Whether the weather was turning by the tone of the generator.
Norman appeared in the doorway, rubbing his beard.
“You sleep at all these days?”
“Couple hours here and there.”
“That’s not sleep. That’s a nap stretched over a week.”
Edgar shrugged.
“There’s work.”
Norman leaned against the bulkhead.
“…You know most guys your age are out drinking or chasing girls, right?”
Edgar gave a hollow smile.
“Good for them.”
Norman sighed, not frustrated, not mocking…just sad.
“You’ve been out here nearly 36 months straight. That’s not normal, Ed.”
Edgar looked down at his hands. Split knuckles. Scars. Permanent grime that never washed out fully.
“Normal never worked out for me.”
Norman stepped inside the engine room.
“This boat… it’s eating you alive.”
Edgar shook his head.
“It’s the only place I don’t feel like I’m messing everything up.”
Norman went quiet, the kind of quiet that hurts.
“…You’re not messing anything up.”
Edgar didn’t believe him but couldn’t say so.
Sig’s voice drifted down from the ladder. “Dinner.”
Edgar stood, pulling his boots on.
Norman watched him then said quietly:
“You’re turning into Dad.”
Edgar paused. Not angry. Not offended. Just… unsure how to feel.
“…Is that bad?”
Norman’s eyes softened.
“Only if you forget who you were before the boat got you.”
Edgar didn’t answer.
He climbed the stairs, boots thudding lightly, a young man already moving like someone twice his age
Jerry Rigging
“Well, that’s shot. We’ll have to scrap the string and head towards town.” shouted Norm kicking the launcher angrily.
Sig swore under his breath from the wheelhouse ladder. “We don’t scrap anything. Not this close to making quota.”
Edgar stood behind them, leaning on the rail, chewing his lip the way he did when he was thinking hard. He stared at the launcher. Then at the pile of spare gear. Then at the busted cleat on the bow they’d removed earlier. Then back at the launcher.
Norman noticed the look. “Edgar. Don’t even think about it.”
Edgar was already walking. Barely eighteen. Hair plastered to his forehead. Cold wind slapping his red face.
He dug through a crate of scrap metal, cursed once when something sharp cut his palm, then hauled out a bent steel bracket, a length of frayed line, and a rusted shackle.
Norman stared.“You’re not serious-”
Edgar knelt beside the launcher, jaw clenched.
“The arm’s pulling too far inward because it lost its upper brace. If we give it a counterpull to the rail-”
“Using that?” Sig shouted, cutting him off.
“Temporarily.” Edgar explained.
Sig opened his mouth to argue, but Edgar was already threading the frayed line through the bracket, tying the kind of knot only a boy who’d grown up on the Bering Sea could, fast, ugly but most important unbreakable.
He wedged the bracket into the launcher frame, hammered the shackle into place with the side of a wrench, and kicked the whole thing to test stability. It held.
Norman blinked. “…That shouldn’t work.”
Edgar wiped rain from his face. “Lot of things shouldn’t work.”
He pulled on the line, anchoring it tight to a rail post. The launcher straightened, not perfectly, but enough to haul pots without killing someone.
Sig leaned down, inspecting the contraption. A homemade brace of mismatched steel, rope, and one dangerously improvised knot.
Sig looked at Norman.
Norman shrugged.
“Hell of a patch.” he nodded approvingly.
Sig turned to Edgar. “How long will it hold?”
Edgar shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Long enough.”
Norman laughed under his breath. “Long enough for what?”
Edgar didn’t hesitate. “For us to make quota.”
Sig stared at him for a moment, that quiet, heavy stare captains give when they’re silently impressed but refusing to say it.
Finally…“Get back to work.”
Edgar nodded and jogged across the deck, hair soaked, grin small and private. The boat rolled. The wind slapped him again. Pots kept coming up. The launcher kept running.
Norman muttered to Sig as they watched Edgar go…“Kid’s going to be dangerous when he realises how good he is.”
Sig didn’t take his eyes off him. “…Yeah. Let’s hope he never does.”
The Elbow Room
Edgar walked off the dock with his duffel slung over one shoulder. He’d slept maybe eight hours in the last week but wasn’t feeling tired at all. The rest of the crew had already scattered but his brothers were still on deck.
Norman nudged him. “You coming in? Just for one?”
Edgar hesitated. “I’m not 21 yet”
Norm laughed. “You think that matters in the elbow room? C’mon.”
The Elbow Room’s was filled with sleep deprived fishermen with bleeding hands celebrating the end of their season. Edgar fit right in.
Norman slapped his back. “Two Rainiers,” he told the bartender. “And a ginger ale for the baby.”
“Hey,” Edgar muttered, defensive. “I’m not drinking that”
But then three older deckhands from another boat called out
“Hey! Hansen kid!” “The little mechanic!” “Get over here!”
They waved him over like he was already one of them.
Norman smirked. “You’re popular.”
He walked over. The men were loud and drunk. One shoved a shot glass into his hand.
“You earning your keep yet, kid?” “Still sleeping in the damn engine room?” “You’re built like a scarecrow. Drink something.”
“I’m good,” Edgar said. “Norman’s getting-”
“Drink,” one insisted, lifting the glass to Edgar’s lips. “It’ll put hair on your chest.”
Edgar laughed awkwardly but a need to prove he wasn’t a kid took him over. He tipped the glass back.
The vodka burned like fire. His eyes watered. The men cheered. A hand clapped his shoulder. He tried not to gag
.“There he is!” “Kid’s meant to be a crabber!”
Norman put a pint of beer down in front of him and took a seat at the table.
One drink became two. Two became three. By the fourth, Edgar wasn’t cold anymore. He wasn’t fifteen pretending to be a man. He wasn’t worried about what anyone else thought of him. He felt… nothing. And nothing felt incredible.
By midnight, Edgar was unsteady, leaning too hard on the pool table as he lined up a shot.
“You good, kid?” someone asked.
“’Course,” Edgar said, though the cue didn’t quite hit the ball.
Norman grabbed the stick from him. “Alright, champ. That’s enough.”
Edgar shoved his hand away. “Don’t baby me.”
Norm froze. “I’m not babying you.”
“You always doo,” Edgar slurred. “You and Siggg and Daad. Eeeeveryone acts like I’m just some kid who can’t handle aaanything.”
Sig stepped between them. “Okay. Time to go.”
Edgar shook his head, stumbling back. “No. I’m staying. I like it here.”
Sig watched him walk back to the bar and order another drink.
Norm sighed. “We created a monster.”
The brothers laughed.
*FLASHBACK* Year Three
By the end of his third year on the Northwestern, Edgar barely remembered what Seattle looked like.
He’d been home for maybe three weeks total in the last three years, spending a handful of nights on a couch in Ballard, a few mornings wandering around his mother’s kitchen like a stranger, and one uncomfortable dinner where his father hadn’t said much of anything.
The rest of the time?
Boats. Water. Engines. Cold.
He stood on deck now, eighteen and exhausted, hands calloused to the point they no longer felt the cold.
Norman watched him from the rail.
“You’re getting skinny.”
“I’m getting fast.”
Norman snorted.
“Some muscle is what you need.”
Edgar kept coiling. No wasted motion. He didn’t talk much anymore. Didn’t laugh, well not the way he used to. Didn’t get into trouble either. He didn’t have time.
The sea had beaten him down to the bone.
Sig came down from the wheelhouse, mug of coffee in hand.
He studied Edgar for a long moment, quietly, like he was trying to figure out who his brother was turning into.
“You coming ashore when we hit Dutch? Or you staying on?”
Edgar shrugged. “Depends if Dad needs me.”
Sig’s mouth tightened. “He always needs you, Ed. Question is whether you want it.”
Edgar didn’t answer. He didn't know how to. What he wanted and what he owed had never been different things.
Norman leaned in, voice low. “You know it’s okay to take a break.”
Edgar tied off the line, pulled his gloves off with his teeth, and wiped his face with the back of his hand.
“Break from what?”
Norman exchanged a look with Sig. The same look they shared every time they realised Edgar had jumped a step or two and somehow become a lifetime fisherman at the age of 18.