#i know next to nothing about lighthouse keeping in the late 1800s so

[appalamutte]

hi i used parvuls’ new writing prompt generator to write this small little thing

trope: enemies to lovers setting: lighthouse word: potato

“I see you’ve finally taken to the bed.”

Mr. Zimmermann nods over to the wrinkled sheets on the bed, setting the crate of produce and bread on the small table in the middle of the room.

Eric rolls his eyes. “Yes,” he says begrudgingly, crossing his arms, “you were right. The bed was much needed once the frost came in. Though it’s still a pity sight for sore eyes.”

With his back turned, Eric can only hear Mr. Zimmermann’s hum, though he’s sure Mr. Zimmermann’s mouth is twitched in that subtle way of pride. “Very well,” is all Mr. Zimmermann says, and when he turns Eric can find no such trace of pride left. Not that he looks very hard, though.

“There are a few sacks of grain and flour in the jolly,” Mr. Zimmermann continues, briskly crossing to the door, “and a satchel of potatoes from Londonderry.”

“Londonderry?” Eric asks, following him down the stairs.

“Up in New Hampshire,” Mr. Zimmermann says, and how he says it flares Eric’s chest with anger, like how he always says it when Eric thinks they may just be past their animosity. He says it like Eric’s just another senseless Southerner with no meaning to be in Massachusetts after the war, even though Eric’s family fled to New Haven at the first word of Fort Sumter and spent years donating as much of their monthly earnings as they could allow to the Union’s troops.

It’s always been like this, though, for as long as Eric’s been the keeper at Cape Samwell. The Zimmermann’s own a swath of lighthouses up the coast, all the way to Maine, and at first Eric had thought he struck gold when he was accepted for the position. Robert Zimmermann is one of the few businessmen Eric’s met who values well-being as highly as profit, and his wife Alicia vows as much to pageantry as she does to goodwill. They’re not perfect by all means, but they regard Eric’s family with the respect most others can’t seem to give, and for that Eric is happy.

Then he had the misfortune of meeting Mr. Zimmermann’s sole heir, who wouldn’t even shake Eric’s hand the day they met. Jack Zimmermann is a breathing contradiction from his parents, callous and cold and not at all charismatic. It’s just Eric’s luck that Jack asked to personally deliver the monthly supplies to Eric’s lighthouse, supposedly doing so as soon as Eric was hired, no matter that he’s never done so for any other lighthouse before. It’s a selfish demonstration of how much a nuisance he is, something he won’t even admit, and—well, Eric is able to send his parents his earnings, which makes it bearable.

They reach the bottom of the stairs and Mr. Zimmermann all but shuts the door in Eric’s face in his haste to get outside. “Well, Mr. Zimmermann,” Eric says once he’s standing atop the stoop, cheeks surely red in distaste, “Thank you for your family’s continuous generosity. You can just leave the grain and potatoes here at the door.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Zimmermann says from the dock.

“I like to believe it’s in both of our best interests if you did so.”

Mr. Zimmermann lifts two sacks of flour, the seams of his sleeves pulling taut around his arms as he does so, and carries them back to the stoop with near grace. He stops short of Eric, one step below him so that they are almost of the same height. “I cannot deliver these to your quarters with you in the way,” he says.

Eric doesn’t give a reply. His mother would surely have his rear with the impoliteness.

Mr. Zimmermann raises an eyebrow, and for a moment it is only the salty breeze ruffling his hair, the sea reflected in his eyes, the dry pink of his lips that draws Eric’s unwilling attention. It’s no secret Mr. Zimmermann is handsome, be it that half of Boston’s daughters have been vying for his hand in marriage ever since he turned of age, and sometimes when he gets near enough like he is now, Eric feels this pull high up in his stomach near his lungs that he never likes to acknowledge.

That is, until he remembers this is Mr. Zimmermann, and the pull dissipates as quickly as it comes. How unfortunate it is that such an ugly-acting man can be so beautiful.

“Fine,” Mr. Zimmermann suddenly says, dropping the flour to the wood and turning, “I shall let you see to it these make it up to your quarters then.”

He retrieves the rest of the grain and the satchel of potatoes, and it’s only when they’re all sat at Eric’s feet and Mr. Zimmermann is halfway to his jolly that Eric finds his words. “Thank you again, Mr. Zimmermann. Please send my gratitude to your parents,” he all but yells.

Hoisting up the first bag of grain, Eric maneuvers himself to shoulder open the door to the stairs, wondering in the back of his mind why his stubbornness always wins out. The grain is always heavier than he remembers it being, and the stairs are always longer, and yet every time Eric can’t fathom the thought of Mr. Zimmermann being in his quarters longer than necessary.

“It’s Jack!”

With the door nearly shut behind him, Eric quickly leans back and peers back outside. “Pardon?”

Mr. Zimmermann is still at the dock, his jolly yet to be unmoored. “Enough with the formalities, Eric,” he yells. “My name’s Jack!”

Eric will haul his body over the coals himself if he were to ever openly refer to Mr. Zimmermann in such an informal manner. It’s undeserving and, frankly, far too intimate. He still politely smiles, though, and yells back, “Safe travels, Mr. Jack!”

The door shuts behind him, and as it latches Eric thinks he hears Mr. Zimmermann laugh, but the wind plays tricks on his ears all the time.

As if Mr. Zimmermann knew how to laugh.