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“What the bloody hell is going on here?”
Hitoshi may well be ashamed of the way his body recoils from the sudden intrusion of a deep voice, rumbling with rage, but a horribly misplaced hope blooms in his chest when the collar of his coat is released in a sudden panic. The poor fabric was already faded and tattered before this arse caught him, and Hitoshi straightens it with pointed resentment and the shattered dredges of his pride, sneering at those surrounding him.
He’s not spared a glance, however, and Hitoshi feels the heavy weight of an intense gaze prickle the back of his neck.
“Captain,” a man behind him says, respectful in his right. He wasn’t respectful a moment ago, but Hitoshi supposes that he hasn’t earned his respect. It’s very difficult for people like Hitoshi to earn respect, after all. “I wasn’t aware you’d awoken.”
“How could I not, with all of you masquerading about?” Captain questions sharply, and Hitoshi feels his light skin pale impossibly further. He wonders, distantly, if he’s supposed to bow to such a high authority. “How is a man to ever find sleep in such conditions?”
The men that surround Hitoshi seem to not know, either, and the boy snickers quietly. It’s relieving, seeing his tormenters so unsure of themselves. It certainly is a rarity.
Hitoshi quickly regrets the noise, however, when Captain’s eyes turn to him sharply. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear to the high heavens that those dark orbs flashed red. Hitoshi’s mother had always said he has an excitable imagination, after all. “And who is this?” he glances around as Hitoshi prays that it is not him whom he speaks of. “What is this boy doing on my ship?” Damn.
It’s one of the jackasses that steps up as Hitoshi tries to dislodge the sudden lump in his throat. “No one, Captain. A mere peasant boy.”
The glare becomes all the more chilling, and Hitoshi bristles, nearly shivering despite wearing his best coat.
Well, his only coat.
“Then what, ” Captain rumbles, leaning further upon the rail, “was all the noise?”
The man previously gripping his coat resumes his hold, but Hitoshi can hardly form a protest before he’s being pushed forward, falling to his knees below the Captain’s place on the next level of the ship. One beardsplitter ran out of patience, it seemed.
“He was caught trying to smuggle food from the kitchens, sir,” he says with the voice of a dimwit, and it’s all Hitoshi can do to suppress his scowl, turning his glare toward his knees. He rests his hands upon them, bowing his head in what he hopes is a show of submission, not daring to raise his eyes from his patched trousers, picking idly at the stitching. He’ll surely be punished, that much he knows, but he hopes that they have an inkling of mercy left in their empty chests. He’d rather not arrive at the Americas in such a state, and he is sure that a bruised face and torn clothes would only lessen his chances of landing a job. “The Quartermaster has ordered him flogged.”
His fingers tear through the fabric by accident, and Hitoshi’s ears burn in humiliation. He hasn’t any needle or thread to mend them.
Captain hums, but Hitoshi dares not look up at his surely-displeased eyes, flexing his clenched fists. His palms ache with the sting of a long day’s work, calloused and burned from the ship’s sturdy ropes, and his knuckles are split from the winter’s chill. He wonders if the Captain will beat him himself, and a part of him wishes he’ll merely rap his knuckles like his schoolteachers used to, even though he knows it’s a foolish dream.
Hitoshi’s old master surely would have whipped him for such insolence, probably far past the point of coherency, but if the boy hadn’t been caught, the reprieve from hunger pains surely would have been worth it. Since his passing, Hitoshi has had no master, and he’ll never have another once he is grown. He swears it.
The Captain steps down from the head of the ship, and the other men back away quickly, leaving Hitoshi in his place of shame. If he weren’t in the middle of the damn ocean, surrounded by men who’d certainly have no problem tossing him overboard, Hitoshi would surely be shouting profanities and fighting within an inch of his life as the Captain approaches him.
“What are you called, boy?”
The humiliation burns hotly, coursing through his chest as he flinches back, only because the Captain is much closer now. His voice is deeper than the sea, surely, and he’s probably two full heads taller than Hitoshi. “We’ve not been given a name for him, sir. His master passed in a tragic fire, and he required work-”
“You are not a boy, are you?” Hitoshi bites his inner lip, keeping any childish glee to himself. He imagines the man shaking his head with embarrassment. “Then I was not speaking to you.” He hears movement, and worst of all, he feels those eyes turn to him. “Stand up, boy. What is your name?”
It is not a conscious effort that makes Hitoshi move, rather, a seemingly invisible force that forces him off his knees and to standing. He tucks his hands behind him, feeling more scrappy and inexperienced than ever.
But he forces himself to clear his throat, still parched beyond belief in spite of snagging a drink from one of the crew’s canteens, and tries to make his voice sound deeper when he forces the words through clenched teeth and chapped lips. “It’s Hitoshi, sir.”
The Captain hums again. “Very well. I am Captain Shouta Aizawa, as you are likely aware. And your surname?” He wasn't aware. The other men have kept him below deck for the duration of their journey, cleaning their quarters and handling all the heavy lifting he could.
The burning in his chest arises once more, and he risks a quick peek at the man’s face, though he finds nothing but firm stoicism. Hitoshi wonders if the Captain is angered by him, because he may well be standing in a disrespectful manner, as many have said before. He doesn’t know whether to tuck his hands behind his back or in front, or perhaps he’s meant to stand with them at his sides in fists, as he’s seen many men do before him.
His silence could earn him more punishment, as well, but the boy doesn’t want to know what may happen if he responds with honesty.
“Sir, if I may,” a voice recognizable by its idiocy pipes up. Hitoshi lifts his head slightly to look at the man, or perhaps glare, his dirtied cheek still throbbing from where he’d been backhanded by the imbecile.
This man was the one to find him sneaking extra porridge, and Hitoshi is sure he’ll have bruises from being thrown to the ground and sufficiently kicked.
The Captain nods, despite Hitoshi’s internal pleading for him to refuse the request, and he hears a few quiet chuckles amidst the crew. “We believe his mother to have been a whore,” he explains, and amusement laces his voice like the poorest silk. The boy can’t help but bristle, standing up straight at long last, but the Captain tilts his head, not paying Hitoshi any mind. “His old master’s other servants say she died when he was but a child. A tragic case of influenza, you see.”
If he were still in his comfortable alley in the city, safe and not without escape routes on land, he’d spit and scream and kick these boot-lickers for tainting his mother’s name so. As it stands, he watches the Captain nod again in understanding, gesturing for him to carry on with a wave of his hand, his brows furrowed.
“The boy is clearly a bastard, sir. He is without a-”
“And I could say the same about you!” Hitoshi finally bursts out, crouching low to the deck without real consciousness of it. Perhaps he’s gotten into too many street fights, but his illegitimacy is humiliating in its own right, and this man is a bastard, if Hitoshi has anything to say about it.
Street orphans aren’t the lowest of scum, after all.
“That’s enough,” the Captain says mildly, but the weight of his gaze bores into Hitoshi. The boy near-shivers with it, but he stands his ground like a man, glaring up at the bastard who dared insult his mother. “How old are you, boy? You’re surely a fickle youth.”
He is not ‘fickle’, but with no one present to defend himself or his family, he will not simply concede. “Almost thirteen, sir,” he barely manages past gritted teeth, turning his head to stare directly at the Captain’s chest. Despite his inexperience, Hitoshi knows that he does not bear the typical uniform of a ship’s captain, donned in a long black waistcoat and matching boots that nearly reach his knees. His white shirt is tucked into tan trousers, at least, but his hat is an unusual jet-black, hair tucked into a ponytail at the base of his neck.
Still, Hitoshi knows that captains are instinctually blessed with the ability to pick up on the slightest of lies, and although the boy has been called a master manipulator and a lying thief, he will not risk his skills on a man that could so easily take them away. He only turned twelve this summer’s past, and his embarrassingly small, pre-pubescent stature may well give him away, but he’s scrappy, at the very least. He can still handle the work of the grown men, as he’s done for most of his life.
Captain hums slowly, but the boy doesn’t dare tense further than he already is, despite his shoulders begging to creep up toward his ears.
“The sea is no place for a young boy,” he says, though it is muttered in a tone like the coldest stone, sending an icy chill into Hitoshi’s soul. It’s too low to be the voice of a captain, but when Hitoshi dares a glance, the man is staring at him with the sharp eyes of an eagle.
The ice burrows deeper, though the look is strangely… well, strange. It is not the look of a vexed man or a pitying woman. It is contemplating, perhaps, and the sharp lines around his eyes and mouth seem to soften.
Yes, Hitoshi’s mother was right. An active imagination, indeed.
“I’ll see to him, then,” the Captain says with such decisiveness that Hitoshi thinks he must have misheard. “One of you inform the quartermaster. I will not have a child working on my ship.”
Hitoshi’s hackles are instantly raised, and he stumbles back on instinct when his bicep is grasped in the firm hold of a man who’s spent his life at sea. The expectation of being thrown on the ground and, once again, sufficiently kicked is enough to draw a high, unmanly sound from him that makes his face heat like a swooning woman.
But it is not to be, for in the next moment, he is struck with another horrible realization. One undoubtedly worse than being sufficiently kicked.
“C-Captain, sir,” he stumbles over his words, and the men behind him fade from his immediate memory. He can only feel the biting chill of the winter air, and even that is a difficult feat, what with the numb coursing through him. Though he still shivers as he’s guided closer to the edge of the ship, standing on his toes as much as the grip on his arm will allow, the angry waves thrashing this way and that.
He pushes, pulls, a sort of franticness tugging at the edges of his consciousness, through the numb and the cold and the panic. “Y-You need not do this, s-sir. Please, I can… I can help, please.”
The man looks at him, a furrow in his brow, and Hitoshi pulls down sharply between his thumb and forefinger, just as his brother had taught him. He falls onto the deck, now away from the prying eyes of the crew, though he can still hear them chattering and swearing and laughing a ways away. His backside crashes harshly upon the hardwood, but he does not allow himself to fret, scrambling backward in needful haste.
He hasn’t any time to get to his feet, because the Captain will surely grab him again in a brief second, so it is all he can do to throw his arms up in desperate pleading, however pathetic that may be. Hitoshi may be without a father, but he’s certain the man would frown upon him now, perhaps disown him for such weakness. Hitoshi wouldn’t blame him.
But Hitoshi waits, and a blow never comes. Perhaps Captain is waiting for the boy to lower his guard enough to discipline him swiftly. It would undoubtedly be a better outcome than the slow, agonizing, humiliating discipline that had been planned for him, but Hitoshi knows what will surely follow.
He spreads his fingers slowly, peeking up toward the man above him, and Captain’s hand is still partially-outstretched as if to catch him, though that is quite the ridiculous notion. A Captain wanting to catch him.
“What on earth are you blabbering on about, boy?”
It is of great surprise that the words aren’t shouted into his face, and Hitoshi allows himself to revel in that victory for a brief moment, because the Captain merely seems confounded, perhaps even concerned - though that thought is even more ridiculous than the Captain wanting to ensure his safety. Absolute rubbish.
“I, just…” His voice tapers off, and Hitoshi can almost feel his old master cuffing the side of his head for such incompetence. He stands slowly and gulps down the salty air, a part of him fearful of angering the Captain further, but the man’s crossed arms do not unfurl, and his hands are still tucked away, not forming fists. “Please don’t t-throw me overboard, sir. I’m perfectly capable of work, and I’m quite good with figures-”
“ Overboard? ” the man snaps like a flogging whip, and Hitoshi flinches back as if it is just that. He nearly covers his face once more, but a preservation for his dignity and physical wellbeing stops him from making such a foolish effort. “Why the bloody hell would I throw you overboard, boy? Have you done something of which I am unaware?”
“I… I-I stole from the kitchens, sir,” he reminds stiffly, eyes cast to the side against his will. “You asserted that you will not have a… you will not have someone like me on your ship.”
Dark eyes bore into his very soul, but Hitoshi is careful to remain unflinching, wishing not to anger the Captain further. His old master surely would have strangled him by now, and worse yet, made a spectacle of the ordeal.
“I said I will not have a boy of your age working on my ship,” the man corrects with a knitted brow, whether it be in vexation or confoundment, Hitoshi knows not. “I will not just throw you to the sharks, boy.” Hitoshi does know it’s impolite to stare, but he cannot help it, gaping at the side of the Captain’s face.
The Captain sighs, sharp and loud despite the roaring of the sea and the gibbering of the crew, and Hitoshi’s shoulders twitch back. Eyeing the boy, perhaps for his moment of petty weakness, the Captain at long last uncrosses his arms and shuts his eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Close your mouth, Hitoshi,” he says eventually, oddly softer now. Too soft to be the voice of a respected captain. “You’ll catch flies in it.”
Obediently, Hitoshi’s mouth shuts firm, and without a moment’s pause, the Captain’s large hand settles guidingly on his shoulder rather than constricting around his bicep. He’s led up toward the man’s quarters in an unfortunately pointed manner, but it matters not, for when the man opens the latch to his chambers, Hitoshi is much too preoccupied for such unimportance.
Possibly due to the mountain of food stretched across the table in the Captain’s large cabin, from freshly-baked bread to cheese and meat and, Lord almighty, wine.
“That is not for you, boy,” the Captain cuts in before Hitoshi loses his scant hold on himself, and it could be the famine, but the man’s tone almost seems to be colored in amusement of all things. A preposterous and presumptuous notion, really, and the boy slumps, chest burning with snuffed-out excitement.
He forces himself to loosen, glancing around the Captain’s quarters for what will surely be an implement of sorts, perhaps a riding crop, if he’s lucky.
His attempts are likely not as surruptitious as he’d hoped, evident in the Captain’s raised brow. He says nothing, however, merely guiding Hitoshi around the cabin and gesturing vaguely. “Obviously, these are my quarters, where you will be staying for the remainder of the journey. I am not like other captains, and I will not allow working boys on my ship.”
Hitoshi manages to keep pace with him, only a half-step behind despite his embarrassingly short legs, as the Captain leads him around to another table with a large map stretched across it. He slaps his palm onto the worn paper, using his remaining hand to stick a fringer in front of Hitoshi’s face.
“This is how we live long enough to reach land. Do not touch the atlas, and do not so much as near it. I will have the servants place a spare cot on the opposite end for you, so you should have no need to come within this general vicinity. Is that understood, boy?”
Hitoshi’s throat, suddenly drier than his humor, veinly forces a swallow. He nods his head, nearly willowing beneath the heavy gaze, but it is hardly a moment before the oppression is gone. “Yes, sir,” he croaks, voice but a whisper.
The Captain’s nod is a sharp, approving thing, but there is no more to be said of the matter. The man guides him around the rest of the cabin, up the small stairs that lead to the utilities, and Hitoshi is already excited at the very prospect of going up the stairs every day, if the Captain permits him to use his toilet.
His old master had stairs in the house, but Hitoshi had to sleep in the barn to keep a keen eye on the livestock, though it was still great fun to slide down the rail when his master was out. He’d gotten himself slapped for it quite a few times when found out, but it hardly turned him away. Some painful things are worth the fleeting pleasure it brings.
And when the Captain tells Hitoshi to help himself to the food on the table, though not the wine, the boy thinks that attempting to steal from the kitchens really was worth it.