Chapter 4

FOUR

B ruce takes him down to the docks first. Simon tries to hide how his first step off solid land onto raised, soggy wood is unsteady, but Bruce still reaches out and rests his wide palm against Simon's lower back. The touch sends a jolt through him, an unexpected surge of adrenaline, but it's gone too soon. Bruce pulls away and Simon swallows his nerves.

They were fighting what—twenty minutes ago? And now Bruce is reaching out, catching him when he stumbles?The man's attention hits him like a drug.

"My boat is over here," Bruce says and trudges down a long length of dock, stopping in front of a sturdy-looking fishing boat. Painted on the side in old, chipped letters is the name ‘ARGO'. There are nets and ropes all over the place, draped over the edges and hanging from the masts, and Bruce swings aboard and immediately starts doing convoluted knots and loops Simon presumes are preparations.

Simon's been on boats before. He's from Boston, he's spent his whole life in New England, of course he's been on boats. But this rusty old bucket, with a massive cooler set into the middle of the deck? It feels like something he's seen on TV, something from a crab fishing show where someone dies between every other season and they play taps over the credits.

"Is this thing safe?" Simon asks tentatively as Bruce heads into the small cabin, presumably to get the boat started.

"Well, I'm out here every day, sometimes twice a day, and I ain't been drowned yet," Bruce calls back. His voice feels different when he's speaking louder, less like it fits in his chest

"Alright, but if I die," Simon says warily and climbs onto the boat, peering over the bow, "my friend in Boston knows where I am. She'll call the cops."

"Do I look like a serial killer, Simon?"

The voice comes from directly behind him, husky and low, and Simon jumps.

"Fucking christ," he spits and grabs onto the railing on the edge of the boat, his heart thudding out of his chest. "Don't do that, I'm nervous enough already."

Bruce heads back to the cabin, laughing softly the whole way.

Fishing is alright. It seems like Bruce does it on his own every other day, so Simon ends up standing by the front of the boat and watching Bruce haul nets of squirming silver fish into the boat.

The cooler in the middle of the boat opens up and Bruce stores the fish in there, tossing back a couple that Simon's untrained eye can't distinguish from the rest. After they've puttered around to a few buoys, Bruce tosses an old rusted anchor overboard and sets up a few lines over the edge. He doesn't ask Simon for help, so Simon just sits back and watches, allowing himself to briefly admire Bruce's thick arms, round stomach, and toned back as he heaves industrial fishing equipment—the purposes of which Simon has stopped trying to parse—in and out of the water. Eventually Bruce stills and leans against the edge of the boat, lighting a cigarette.

"Is that safe out here?" Simon asks.

"We're surrounded by water," Bruce replies and takes another long drag. "It's about the same as smoking in the truck, and you didn't have a problem with that."

"I just want to make sure you're not going to shipwreck me out here or something," Simon mutters and stands, settling in against the railing a few feet from Bruce. After a few moments of silence, Simon speaks up again. "You're not from up here, not originally, right?" It's a question that has plagued him since he met the other man, due to his incongruous accent, dress, and demeanor. His beard and flannel scream New England hipster and his quiet, gruff, southern-tinged voice is a fascinating anachronism.

"No," Bruce confirms and takes another long drag. "I'm not."

He doesn't add any more, just slowly works his way through his cigarette, spitting smoke out into the clear, sea air.

"Where are you from, then?"

Bruce crooks an eyebrow at him and taps a small cloud of ash off of the burnt end. "Nowhere, really. My dad was Air Force, so I grew up all over the place. We stayed the longest in Alabama, out near Maxwell. Picked up a bit of the twang, I guess."

"It's not a bad thing," Simon says. In fact, he rather likes Bruce's voice. It's low and gritty, coarse from smoking but smooth when it counts.

"Y'think so?" Bruce asks and raises a brow at Simon. He notices a small scar bisecting the hair, an old, faded line right in the center of Bruce's left eyebrow. There's another beside it, a small, pockmarked gleam of scar tissue between the dozens of dark freckles across Bruce's skin, which he stares for a beat too long before responding.

"I do," he says and clears his throat. "Suits you."

Bruce huffs out a quiet, breathy laugh and stubs out the butt of his cigarette on the metal beneath their hands. "You're from Boston, born and bred, mm?" he replies and walks over to the cabin. He picks up an empty Folgers can from what Simon supposes would be the dashboard of the ship and tucks the cigarette butt inside before setting it back and returning to Simon's side.

His hand is closer than before now, with only a few inches between his and Simon's on the edge of the boat, and it takes Simon a moment to realize he's expecting an answer.

"I am, yeah," he says after a beat too long. "A certified Masshole."

"Mmm," Bruce hums, "you don't seem like too big an ass. Just a businessman."

Simon snorts. "I thought you New England hipster types thought they were one and the same."

"Nah. You're brainwashed, not stupid. Cocky, not an asshole."

Simon snorts at his word choice and Bruce's lips almost quirk up. Almost. "You barely know me," Simon says and it comes out all too soft.

"I think I know more than you'd think," Bruce replies. He reaches up and tugs Simon's beanie off, then reaches around Simon's body to slide it into his far jacket pocket. His hand is warm even through the lining of Simon's jacket, and Simon's mouth falls open.

"What do you know about me, then?" he asks before his bravery can leave him.

Bruce drags his fingers across the back of Simon's jacket as he withdraws his hand. "You're a city boy," he starts and turns back to look out at the ocean. "You've never done hard work a day in your life. I'm sure you work something remote, something with computers—marketing, maybe. Sales. Something that makes you think you'd be good at this kind of thing, renovating. Selling."

"Impressive," Simon murmurs and pulls his glasses from his face to wipe away a blur of water. "I work in data management for a wholesale flooring company."

Bruce curls his lip. "Of course you do," he mutters and looks back out at the sea. "You watch a lot of HGTV. You came out young, when you were still a teenager."

"What makes you say that I'm gay?" Simon retorts, ignoring the other comment, and Bruce lets out a barking laugh.

"Sorry, Simon, but I think that might be obvious," he says and looks Simon up and down, stopping briefly on his boots and his hips before turning his warm gaze back to Simon's flushing face. "Aren't I right?"

Simon tries to look disgruntled, but Bruce's wry look cuts the act short. "I came out when I was fourteen," he admits. He doesn't ask back and Bruce doesn't offer. The wind tugs at the loose strands of Simon's hair and he lets the sunlight beam down on his face. It's warm despite the cool air and Simon thinks he could get used to the crispness of the atmosphere out here on the ocean.

"You're lonely," Bruce says after a while.

"And you aren't?" Simon replies.

They're out on the sea for a few hours. A lot of it is spent in silence, Bruce too busy heaving heavy equipment and ropes in and out of the water to make much conversation.

"The wind is picking up," Bruce notes as the sun begins to creep towards the horizon and tents his hand over his brow to peer out at the approaching clouds. "That storm is coming in quicker than I thought."

"Should we head back?" Simon says and Bruce nods, straightening up quickly and moving to reel in each of the lines on the edges of the ship. He doesn't ask for help, and Simon doesn't offer.