As made inherently evident by Boulevard's living space, he could care less if he was horribly dirty or squeaky clean. But one feeling disgusted him above all else. The feeling of crust. An unwanted and uninvited fake layer atop the skin that would harden if not taken care of. When he was around seven, due to drastic problems needing drastic solutions, he was placed inside of a dead Glutton. He blended into a horde that lasted half an hour. Boulevard counted every second. After he escaped, he attracted every straggler from the pack by screaming to "get the blood off of my back!" From that point forward, he was an introvert. Boulevard had learned that words are unpredictable in attracting the attention of the dead and the living.
When Boulevard met new people, he would let them do what they wanted. Conflict always begets more conflict, as he learned from observation. If they were nice, he would accept their hospitality. He liked having people who liked him in the vicinity. That's all he wanted. If they wanted his stuff, he'd give it to them. He could plant or hunt for more. If they wanted to hurt him, he'd let them do what they must (shiv in sleeve, of course.)
Soil and muscle can be scrubbed off, but Boulevard's hair was another story. It hadn't been properly washed in years. He'd spend so long tugging and forcing his fingers in between his chest length, brown, thin strands that he almost forgot to come up for air on days when he decided to "wash" by rubbing his hands over his body in the murky water. This dip in the ocean is a good enough bath for Boulevard. He knew of shampoo and conditioner, but who's he going to impress?
Boulevard nodded to himself as his theory that Glutton flesh will forever be the new form of bait was proven. Small fish crowded around him and began to eat the thick, rot flavored muck that came out from his crevices. "I'll go on a run in approximately one hour." He spoke.
Boulevard forgets to come up for air sometimes when he's bathing; he also forgets that he's underwater. All remaining air in his lungs was shown in front of him in the form of multiple fist sized bubbles going to the surface and popping when they reached the top. Why is that? Why don't the bubbles pop underwater? He decided to research this later. It was interesting and it took up time he wasn't allocating for anything else.
He was distracted again. Boulevard's legs moved forwards and his head moved back to see the sun. The ball of gas was made beautiful by the water. Those solar rays now moved with the waves and the light illuminated Boulevard's pale skin. That warmth felt otherworldly. He could sleep here.
The same seven fish who had lunch off of the hermit started to encircle him. They played tag, spiraling around the dying man. Wait, was he dying? At that moment, he was reminded of the mission he gave himself. These fish pale in comparison to what he'll catch. He had to catch it. Right?
Boulevard's eyes widened as his lungs realized they were ready to implode. He scrambled for the surface. A man who's never been out of breath truly panics at what it actually feels like. Running and fighting were commonplace in his early life, so he knew what it was like to be strained for a dire breath. Boulevard was being strangled. No matter his efforts, he would not rise.
What a melancholy feeling. To die with regrets. He'd seen many humans get ripped to shreds by multiple foaming mouths or by light machine guns on top of heavily armored military vehicles. Said members of humankind were fighting for something. To avoid the fear of death? For power? For someone? Why was Boulevard grasping onto life? For this lie he concocted out of survival instinct? About a super rare fucking fish? No, that wasn't it. Why was he alive? "I can't let them down." Boulevard's fractured mind acknowledged.
Boulevard lunged upwards with adrenaline fueled power and the tips of his fingers scathed against the leather hilt of his machete atop the yacht's edge. He was able to grasp the blade and - with one last burst of energy - he pierced the boat as the steel molded into the exterior like a hot knife in butter. The fading man hoisted himself upwards into the sun's radiance.
That first breath when breaching the surface made Boulevard realize two things. That drowning would be very painful and that this feeling that filled him was bliss. Up and down and up and down his chest went as he breathed. He did this for seconds on end, cherishing the life that flowed in him.
Boulevard caught his heart in his throat when he choked on such a meaty gasp. "My bait!" He yelled as he scurried over into his living quarters and slipped, hitting his head on the wooden table. He held himself upright for a second and then - slumping back down - he said, "I think I'll take a power nap." Boulevard slept for the rest of the day.