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“Let me be your apprentice!”
Iceburg blinks slowly, looking down at the young blond boy who’s fists are clenched as he stares up at him with determined eyes. Taking a slow, deliberate sip from his drink, Iceburg hums. Setting his glass aside, Iceburg leans back into the bar, resting his elbows on the bartop behind him.
The boy swallows, shoulders heaving as he breathes heavily, watching Iceburg. He can’t be more than 16, scrawny and scrappy looking but there’s an undeniable fire in him that reminds Iceburg too much of himself.
“Apprentice?” Iceburg asks, a small amused smile playing at his lips. It’s not like this kid is the first to ask him. Being Tom’s oldest (and only, a bitter voice reminds him) student, and with a reputation like his, he’s gotten a few requests. But, the difference being, this is the first kid that Iceberg thinks he might actually say yes to. “Why do you want to be my apprentice?”
“Why?” he splutters, looking a bit put off. His cheeks flush a splotchy red as he scratches the back of his neck nervously, eyes darting away before looking back at Iceburg. He grins, looking much too earnest, “I want to be a great shipwright. I want— I want to be like you and Tom!”
At the mention of his mentor, and the still raw ache of his recent loss, Iceburg stare hardens. It had only been a few months since Tom was brought to his death by his own life’s work. Transported to his execution by the very work that was supposed to save him from the Marine’s clutches. The Puffing Tom.
It had only been a few months since Iceburg lost Tom and Franky on the same day.
With every passing second, the kid flushes a deeper and deeper red, from embarrassment or the ever stretching silence, Iceburg doesn’t know. Iceburg pushes the looming thoughts away and focuses on the face in front him, comtemplating.
Despite the clear overeagerness, Iceburg sees something in this kid. Maybe the something he sees is just himself. An alternate version. A could’ve been or should’ve been. And Iceburg thinks of Tom again. About how once, Iceburg had that eagerness and that determination to be anybody else but himself.
“Right,” Iceburg says finally. He turns back around, facing the bar with his back to the kid. He goes to pick up his glass but finds it empty and he signals the bartender. The blond boy is still behind him. Despite the low chatter of the bar, Iceburg would hear the click of his black boots on the wooden floors if he walked away. Iceburg presses his lips together.
“Meet me at Dock 1 tomorrow morning at noon.”