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When Israel looks at Blackbeard, he sees a man he could follow.
Life at sea is tough and miserable no matter the name of the captain or the ship, no matter the flag atop the mast. Naval vessels boast of their discipline and virtue in their service to the Crown, but in Israel’s experience they seem more enthusiastic about the former and less about the latter. Merchant ships afford slightly better food and a decent wage, but they roll over at the slightest threat or provocation. This had bothered Israel, the way it upset the order that he understood, the way he had to kneel on the deck and allow a ragtag bunch of men to take their cargo. “Not worth dying for it,” the bosun had muttered to him. By the third time the Priscilla runs up the white flag after a pathetic exchange of fire that hardly counts as self-defense, it’s practically routine. At the point of a sword, he watches barrels and crates come up from the hold, his jaw clenched in humiliation from the futility of it all, fingers itching for his own blade.
The quartermaster of each pirate vessel might come aboard and recruit. Sometimes it’s voluntary, sometimes not. The first time, Israel’s heart had pounded in panic – what if they chose him?
The third time, well. What if they chose him? What if he didn’t waste his sweat and his time laboring to fill other men’s pockets? He’d already deserted the Navy, what was a further deviance from the law after that? The more he turns the thought over in his head, lying awake in his hammock, the less horrified he feels.
The fourth time, it’s Blackbeard. He’s heard of Blackbeard, of course, this young upstart who’s making a name for himself. Ben Hornigold’s protege, is the word. Israel’s not easily impressed, but that means something out here. Kneeling on the deck, he keeps his eyes up and his mouth set.
A man makes his way over one of the planks and hops down to the deck of the Priscilla, walking as if he already owns not just the contents of her hold, but the ship herself from stem to stern, even the very ocean. This can’t be Blackbeard, he’s too young, too bright-eyed.
“Almost done here, captain,” the quartermaster says.
“Great. I’m about to do some shopping of my own,” Blackbeard replies, a cocky lift at the corner of his mouth. His hair is long and loose around his shoulders, and his beard is indeed dark and thick. The way he moves can only be described as swagger, leather trousers slung too low on his hips and the ragged hem of his shirt ending too high. One hand rests on the holster of his gun, the other on the hilt of the knife at his belt. Something inside Israel tells him to look away. Something else tells him to keep his eyes exactly where they are.
“Right,” Blackbeard says. “Which of you lot has anything to offer my crew?” He strolls down the row of captive crew, out of Israel’s view as he appraises each man in turn. “I don’t take cowards or bores.” His footfalls draw closer, and Israel resolves to hold his ground, as much as a kneeling man can.
“Could use a big fella,” Blackbeard says to Wallace. The man’s over two meters and twenty stone; the only thing Israel has compared to him is all ten fingers. He tells himself it doesn’t matter, he’s safer here anyway, living within the boundaries of the law.
Wallace is silent. Israel holds his breath.
Blackbeard scoffs and continues down the line.
Israel can tell that the men to his left and right are staring at the deck. He makes himself keep his eyes up and forward, uncowed. But he can’t volunteer – if he did and somehow wasn’t taken, he’d be out of both a job and his dignity.
Stepping into his vision, a heavy pair of boots, leather-clad thighs, hands on weapons. He looks up towards the man’s amused face.
“You look fun,” Blackbeard says. Israel would laugh if this wasn’t so dire. “How’re things aboard… whatsit, the Pariah?”
“Priscilla,” Israel answers. His voice stays firm.
Blackbeard snaps his fingers. “That’s right. Priscilla. A lovely name for… she’s alright, I guess.” His eyes are dark, creased with humor and menace in equal measure. “Well?”
Israel swallows. “Pretty shit.”
“Yeah, this all must be a kick in the nuts, eh?” He gestures at the general scene, looks around the deck like they’re all in on the joke. “You up for a new gig?”
He doesn’t know how to communicate yes without words, without a gesture, in any way that makes this acceptable. Blackbeard looks down at him, seeming oddly patient, and Israel’s breath sticks in his chest.
“Hm,” Blackbeard hums, shifting on his feet, hips swaying. “Let me put that a different way, mate.” In an instant, there’s a blade at Israel’s throat, white teeth bared behind the dark beard. “Get the fuck up,” he barks. The wry humor is gone from his eyes, replaced with a fire that has Israel instantly climbing to his feet. “There you go, good man. After you.”
It’s silent as he crosses the gangplank onto Blackbeard’s ship – not a sound of protest or farewell from his old crew. Israel doesn’t know if he should take offense or be relieved. Blackbeard shoves him at the very end, and that’s how he arrives, stumbling onto the deck of his new home.
“Whew,” Blackbeard says once they’re out of sight of the Priscilla’s crew. “What a bunch of sticks in the mud.” He holds his knife casually, toying with the blade but not sheathing it. “Just so we’re clear, that was a yes from you, yeah?”
Israel blinks, smooths down his shirt. Blackbeard changes tack almost faster than he can keep up, and then he realizes: as far as his former captain and crew know, he was forcibly taken. They all saw it. Nothing he or anyone else could have done to stop it without bloodshed.
He smiles faintly.
“It was.”
“Oh, good,” says Blackbeard affably, and puts his knife away. “Welcome to my crew, then, Mister…”
“Hands,” Israel says, taking the one Blackbeard offers, calloused and long-fingered. “Israel Hands.”
- - - - - - - - - - - -
When Izzy looks at his captain, it stokes a fire inside of him that he’d never known before.
Here, his dedication is appreciated. His consistency and restraint are noteworthy in a profession teeming with drunkards and layabouts. He grows more proficient with his sword, and more dispassionate from the violence he renders with it. He has no particular love for bloodshed, but he takes satisfaction from the way his own discipline and strength keep him alive. At thirty-seven, he feels like he’s finally found his place.
“Come to the pub tonight,” Blackbeard says, a couple of seasons into his service. “I need sharp eyes.”
“A deal, captain?” Izzy asks. He’s acted as bodyguard for Blackbeard a couple of times before.
“You know how it is,” says Blackbeard darkly. “Enemies all around.” Izzy nods, even though he doesn’t exactly know. “You’ll keep an eye out. I know you won’t get fucking sloppy.”
That much, Izzy can handle. He sits at Blackbeard’s side nursing a single pint of shitty ale all night long, glowering at anyone who gets too close. But Blackbeard doesn’t just want a bodyguard; he nudges Izzy with his elbow to get his attention, he engages him in the stories he’s telling to the table. He even makes a joke or two about Izzy to anyone he doesn’t want joining them.
“Yeah, I’d invite you to sit except for Izzy here,” Blackbeard drawls. “No, don’t mind him, it’s just that he’s got only two facial expressions, and the other one’s the last thing you ever see.”
Izzy deadpans, “That’s right, boss,” and watches the unwanted company slink away while Blackbeard laughs like the devil.
It all happens in a rush after that, like a river spilling over a cliff. He’s promoted to quartermaster within a few months, when the previous fellow is lost in a storm. Blackbeard keeps him close at hand for all matters, claiming he needs someone with discretion, or attention to detail, or a strong stomach. One time he calls upon Izzy to read something for him, and Izzy has to let him down.
“Why the fuck did I think you could read?” Blackbeard says, looking stricken, like someone had told him, no, the sky’s actually been green all this time.
Izzy shrugs. He can recognize a few words, can read practical things like the signs for streets and shops, but he’s not fucking educated. “I dunno. Sorry, boss.”
“Well, come here anyway, I’m sure we can figure it out,” Blackbeard says, and goddamnit, Izzy tries, squints at the letters over Blackbeard’s shoulder until they manage to crack it.
Drinking with Blackbeard at the pub turns into drinking with him in the captain’s cabin too, and here Izzy can actually loosen up a little, not having to be on high alert at all times. He likes the dim, smoky room, prefers it over the noise and the rabble of the tavern, how it’s just the two of them. He feels safe there, relaxed. Often they’ll share a bottle; sometimes it’s Blackbeard’s pipe passed between their lips.
“Ugh,” Blackbeard says to him one night, limbs sprawling out from his favorite chair. “It’s Edward in here, mate. Or Ed. Not Blackbeard.”
Izzy nods. He’s a bit fuzzy around the edges from the rum, just enough to amplify the little thrill that goes through him at this offer of familiarity from his captain. “You got it, boss. Edward,” he corrects himself, and Edward grins lazily at him.
They start planning raids together, poring over maps until the small hours of the morning, deciding which shipping lanes to target. Edward has a flair for the dramatic, starts painting his face and sticking fuses in his beard so smoke clouds around his head as if he’s a demon straight from hell. It’s absolutely insane, and Izzy tells him so. And he keeps telling him so until he starts hearing stories in the pub, about the mad Blackbeard, who has eyes of fire and a head made of smoke. “Told you,” Edward says smugly, so Izzy supposes he can begrudge him the occasional singed spot in his beard.
Whatever he asks for, Izzy helps execute, including men. He used to keep track of the black marks against him, but after a few years it’s impossible. Sometimes they burn the ships, sometimes it’s done personally. “Handle this,” Edward says to Izzy, and he does. Edward nods to Izzy, and he cuts a prisoner’s throat. Edward maims some poor bugger, and Izzy puts him out of his misery. Izzy is both Blackbeard’s right hand and the weapon it holds. It’s a proud realization, one that becomes as much a part of his identity as his own name.
The tattoo is given the night that Edward decides he needs another promotion, names him first mate. It’s a change only in title, not in duties, but it feels significant even before Edward leans over him and begins to mark his skin. Instead of the relaxation he usually feels under the needle, he feels anxious and short of breath, but Edward’s fingers splaying over his cheek remind him to remain steady and take it. He’s hyper-aware of the closeness, how the warmth between them is making his skin dampen with sweat, shirt clinging to his chest.
Then it’s over almost as soon as it began, just a little X at the tip of his cheekbone. He can’t decide if he wants to stay in that strange, squirming space, or if he’s glad it’s over. Either way, Izzy opens his eyes to see Edward wiping his cheek clean and gazing down at him with a peculiar expression. “Above all else,” Edward says, hushed and rough, like he’s just finished a pipe, “is loyalty to your captain.”
“You have it,” Izzy says. The moment seems to hang suspended in time, anticipation crushing so thick and heavy on Izzy’s chest that he’s barely breathing. Edward shifts forward an inch in his seat–
Then he leans back, reaching for a bottle for them to share. His smile is thin, but it puts Izzy enough at ease that he can sit up and take a couple of slugs, until he feels right in his body again, until he’s fully cognizant at his captain’s side.
Izzy has never felt allegiance towards anyone like this. He does everything for his captain, even stands watch outside the door at the brothels. Steeling himself against the lewd sounds from behind the door, he stands cold and still, back straight, eyes forward, and jaw set. He knows too much about Edward's preferences, what he likes in a whore, what he sounds like at his moment of crisis. But above all else is loyalty, and he’ll make sure Edward gets what he requires.
"You pick, I'm gonna go upstairs. My usual room," Edward says sometimes, leaving Izzy behind with his coin purse like he's let him off in port with a shopping list. Some kind of power thing, Izzy guesses. When you're important enough, you don't have to do anything for yourself, even intimate things. Women are pretty in a distant sort of way, like stars, and men aren't for looking at like that, but Izzy does his best for Edward while the madam taps her foot.
"And for yourself, sir?" she says, businesslike, but only the first couple of times. He shakes his head and takes his position outside the door to find out if he chose well.
He usually does.
It's gratifying when Edward comes out, still buckling up his trousers, and slaps Izzy on the back. "Nice one," he says. "Let's get some grub." Sometimes it's, "You gotta try this one, Iz. My treat," and Izzy deflects, points out how they have business to get to. "Well, you're fucking missing out, mate."
Once, five years into his service, he gives in for higher stakes.
"Iz, come inside," Edward says, hushed and urgent, poking his head into the corridor. All Izzy can see is the left half of his naked body, from shoulder to ankle, and all seems quiet. Hand on the hilt of his sword, Izzy steps quickly into the room. He scans for threats, but everything appears normal. No fire, no accident, no dispatched assassin on the floor. Just the merry crackle of the fireplace and Minnie lounging on the bed, robe untied and hanging loose around her body.
"What?" Izzy presses, still wondering what the danger is.
"Izzy, you know Minnie," Edward says casually.
"Hey, Mr. Hands," she says, waving from the bed. Of course he knows her, she's one of Edward's favorites. He laughs a lot when he’s with her.
"What's happened?" he says again. "Is there a problem?"
"The opposite of a problem," Edward says, putting his hand on Izzy's shoulder and steering him away from the door. "Stand down, man, don't scare her." Minnie doesn't look scared, but Izzy takes his hand off his sword. "There, that's better. Now, our lovely and talented companion for the evening has agreed to take care of both of us."
So it was a ruse. "Ed,” he huffs, “You had me thinking–"
"Both of us at once. I'll even let you pick."
"I’ll just wait out–"
"Mouth or cunt?"
What he’s saying sinks in. Frozen, Izzy's eyes flick to Minnie, who's shrugging at him and absently twisting a curl of her hair around her finger. "Eddie's already paid, so you might as well. No refunds."
Izzy doesn't know if he's more aghast at Eddie or the idea of her using her mouth on either of them – the small fortune it must have cost, in addition to what he'd already handed the madam downstairs.
"Or you can just stand outside and listen like usual," she says blithely. "Whatever's your pleasure."
Edward cocks a cheeky eyebrow, nudges Izzy in the arm, and an uncomfortable, shameful heat crawls down into his gut. "C'mon, mate, it'll be fun. Change of pace." His eyes are dancing in the firelight, bright with the spark of madness that makes Izzy helpless to do anything but hang on and follow.
"Cunt," he says pointedly at Edward, watching his captain’s face settle into a satisfied smirk. He sets his baldric and sword at the side of the bed, close enough to be within reach should anything happen, and begins unlacing his trousers.
"No shoes on the bed," Minnie tells him, as if she can read his mind. A woman like her, dealing with men all day, she probably can.
"Do this proper, man," Edward says, gesturing at his own naked body. He sits on the edge of the bed, nearer to the top. He's graceful in his nudity, long and slim and golden even in the dim light, cock resting against his thigh. All things Izzy's seen before.
Izzy sighs and starts undressing.
"We've all been wondering what's under there," Minnie teases. "Not as many tattoos as I'd thought."
"See? They've thought about you, Iz," Edward says.
"I'm honored," says Izzy flatly. He folds his clothes and gets on the bed. It's been a long time since he’s done this, but it's not like the mechanics have changed.
"You remember the rules, love?" Minnie confirms as she gets the three of them comfortable. They could have done this another way, but she's on all fours in the middle, Edward and himself facing one another across her back. They're going to have to do this while staring at each other.
"Yeah," he manages, focusing on that instead. No marks, nothing rough without prior arrangement, no finishing inside.
"Izzy's good at rules. Loves rules, he does," Edward's voice isn't helping – warm and playful and eager, and Izzy can't for the life of him understand why.
"Are you gonna talk the entire fucking time?" Izzy grouses. He feels stupid arguing with his dick in his hand, not even hard yet.
"Might. Don't have to if you don’t want."
Minnie makes an impatient hum. "If it's all the same I'll get started. Ready, Eddie?"
"Sorry, love. One ticket to heaven, please." He does a weird little wiggle that renders Izzy speechless before Minnie takes him into her mouth. Then Edward's eyes are fluttering closed, his mouth dropping to let out soft moans. Izzy hasn't witnessed this particular act before. It’s too unclean to fathom, especially at sea, and the lewdness of it makes Izzy's cock stiffen as if it's him that Minnie is sucking.
Get on with it, he thinks, and he does. He spits into his hand, rubs it on the tip of his dick, and pushes in.
The sex is fine. Edward seems to be enjoying his vulgar little indulgence, making enthusiastic sounds that Izzy has only heard through the door. Once he’s inside he closes his eyes. There doesn’t seem to be anywhere else safe to look. It’s still overwhelming, the wet sounds of Minnie’s mouth and cunt, Edward’s high gasps and low moans filling his ears. Izzy is working himself towards a gradual peak when a prickle of awareness makes him open his eyes.
Edward’s gaze is fixed on him, dark eyes nearly black with lust, so intense that Izzy feels like he’s been punched in the gut. He sucks in breath, pinned under Edward's eyes until he realizes that the punched feeling is his climax cresting. “Fuck,” he swears, pulling out in the nick of time to spill over Minnie’s behind. Edward's smolder turns to a smile, and he’s laughing, almost giddy. He thrusts a few more times before pulling back and finishing himself off in his hand.
Izzy’s face burns, humiliation thickening in his throat as he very deliberately avoids meeting Edward’s eyes again.
He cleans himself up silently, tells Edward he’ll meet him in the bar. He’s dimly aware of Minnie attempting to break the tension with a joke, which Edward meets with a forced-sounding laugh. He can barely hear the words over the rushing in his ears.
It takes a long time for Edward to come find him, and when he does, they don't discuss it.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
When Izzy looks at Edward, his stomach clenches in resentment.
Edward might be able to fool the crew with his anger and his blackened face, might have even fooled Izzy during his nighttime visit with the shears, but it doesn’t last. Just when Izzy had thought things were going back to normal, he'd walked in on Edward curled up in Bonnet's quaint little sleeping nook, shaking and weeping. He had turned on his heel and left, sickened disappointment pulsing inside of him, in perfect time with his throbbing foot.
The second time, he mutters, “For fuck’s sake” to himself before leaving; Edward stirs on the bed but Izzy doesn’t wait to see his reaction. He can’t sleep that night, half expecting Edward to burst into his cabin again, half hoping he will just because something is better than nothing.
The next time, Edward coughs wetly and rolls over to face him. God, he looks like shit. "Did you come here for a reason?"
He stands up straighter, makes his face stay neutral. "We scheduled a meeting." There's an uncomfortable pause as he watches Edward try to remember. Is he drunk, or just so far down in the darkness that he can't recall? "I can come back later if you'd–"
"No," Edward says loudly. "If I said we're having a meeting, then we're having a fucking meeting." He starts to haul himself up. He's still wearing that garish velvet robe, but it's gone dingy, with black streaks on the sleeves and neckline. Izzy watches Edward lurch over to the desk, all bare feet and lank, untidy hair. He unrolls a few maps until he finds the one he wants. "Fuck are you waiting for? Come look at this. We're meeting, yeah?"
Izzy joins him. It's a map of Jamaica and Hispaniola, with the busiest lanes marked by dotted lines branching out from the harbors at Saint Domingue and the burgeoning Kingston. They've amended some of these routes themselves, after Port Royal burned beyond any hope of salvation. The two ports don’t trade much with each other since the exports are all the same: sugar, coffee, cotton. Ships that sail between them usually carry passengers and little more, so instead they'll catch the export ships as they head north, bringing their goods to Florida or further up the coast.
"Here," Edward says, tapping a point that is decidedly not north, and much closer to land than they usually chance. "Remember that party I went to? On the French ship?"
He remembers, though he doesn’t follow. He'd tied little bows into Edward's beard, tucked sprigs of flowers into his hair. "Yeah?"
"Pleasure vessel," Edward says. "Bunch of posh dicks having a party at sea. Fuck knows why."
"You burned the ship, as I recall," Izzy says. He hadn’t minded that bit.
"Exactly." Edward's eyes are dull but resolute behind the streaks of black paint. "Passenger ships for toffs. Pleasure vessels. That's what we're targeting."
Izzy relaxes. Finally, it’s a directive. Maybe not the one he would have chosen, but he's not going to lose any more body parts by arguing.
They hit one little ship, and it's almost fun, almost like old times. There's something gratifying to it, like they’re finally getting theirs again, taking it out on a bunch of rich fops after a different rich fop nearly fucked it all up for them. They don’t kill any of them outright, but they do sink the ship, and it’s anyone’s guess whether there were survivors. Izzy certainly isn’t shedding any tears over them.
Then they hit another ship, and it's less cathartic. "We can't sell this shit," Fang comments to Izzy as they rifle through potential loot. Jewelry, yes, and anything that's real gold or silver. But the rest – trinkets and art and china sets and clothes – none of their usual fences can move. It’s one thing to deal in cargo, another to deal in clutter. “How about a couple of hostages?”
“I don’t want them on my ship,” Edward snaps when Izzy suggests it. They attack more ships, robbing, sinking, or burning as Edward’s whims demand, and Izzy realizes that Edward isn’t in this for profit. It’s spite, it’s revenge for its own sake, and it’s going to get them all killed if they keep at it. The law doesn’t take kindly to those who target civilians, he tells Edward.
“Then you’d better make sure we don’t get fucking caught,” Edward says.
Izzy scowls, and his simmering discontent boils over into a flash of rage. “You think I’m not trying? You think I fucking want to swing for this shit? Not a man on this ship shares your death wish, Edward.”
Edward moves in immediately, one hand fisting the front of Izzy’s shirt and the other grabbing him by the jaw. He shoves Izzy into the wall, face twisted into a snarl. “I’m your captain. You fucking live or die by my word, dog.” He puts his face right up to Izzy’s, close enough that Izzy can nearly see his own reflection in his eyes. “And get my name out of your mouth. It’s Blackbeard.”
Izzy shoves Edward off of him. He expects a fight, but Edward just stares at him with eyes that are growing glassier by the second. Izzy’s own eyes are stinging, too.
“No, it’s not,” he says, and storms out of the cabin.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
“Who the fuck do you think I am?” Edward’s mouth is downturned, eyes wide and plaintive. Izzy had been so close, almost in the dinghy, almost gone. “I don’t want you gone. No one’s telling you to go.”
“No one has to,” Izzy says, fidgeting with the strap of his ditty bag, stuffed with his second shirt, his two extra pairs of socks, his shaving razor. He knows he’s outstayed his welcome, now that Bonnet is back and the Revenge crew is one big idiot family again. He can see the signs of Bonnet here in the cabin, even though the man himself has buggered off to the galley while the two of them have it out.
“So you want to go?” Edward says, accusatory. “You wanna go be someone else’s first mate?” Izzy huffs out a shaky breath and rubs his eyes with his free hand. “What?”
“Why would I want to be someone else’s first mate?”
“I dunno, ‘cause you’re good at it?”
“You’re so fucking thick,” Izzy says, shaking his head. “It’s always all about you.”
“What’s about me?” Edward’s voice grows more agitated. “I’m talking about you, fuckbrain.”
Izzy didn’t want to argue, tried to leave discreetly on purpose to avoid it. His throat goes gritty, voice scraping out. “No, I’m trying to fuck off, and you’re bitching about me being someone else’s first mate instead of yours.”
The grim line of Edward’s mouth softens. Maybe all the talking it through with Bonnet is having an effect. “Sorry, Iz,” he says, like he means it. “It was always you and me, you know?” He sinks down onto the divan, elbows resting on his splayed knees. His beard is filling in again, thick and grey. It suits him. “Good times, bad times. I don’t know what we are now.”
“We’re not anything,” Izzy says tightly.
“But I know that’s not true, I just…” Edward looks at the wall. “I used to know what you saw, when you looked at me. Now… I don’t know.”
“Oh, stop with the fucking self-pity. Last time I told you what I saw, you–” He lifts the toe of his left boot.
Edward’s eyes snap sharply to him. “You were being a dick.”
Izzy sighs. “Yeah.” He had wanted to be. He’d seen their shared life slipping through his fingers, wanted to snap Edward out of it, ended up choosing a rope around the neck to bring him back from the edge.
Edward nods unhappily, twists his fingers together. “I wish you hadn’t said that shit, man.”
You know we share our feelings on this ship, Edward had said, right before Izzy had given him a piece of his mind. This is the first real conversation they’ve had since then, the first one where Edward seems like himself. Izzy had wanted a fight, then. The fingers around his neck and the air knocked from his lungs had seemed necessary; like resetting a bone, sometimes the only way to fix things was painful.
Most of the fight has gone out of him, now.
“Me too,” he says, and it’s like dropping a heavy weight, like cutting the line to a stuck anchor.
“Iz,” Edward says, like he’s been tied to the same anchor all along. “What I did was fucked, too.” Izzy can’t look him in the eyes; they’ve suddenly gone bright and glassy. “Izzy,” he says again, standing up.
“It’s fine,” says Izzy.
"It's not fine."
"It is," Izzy insists. "It– I don't want to talk about it. Fucking sit back down, it's done." It's too much to think about, what an apology from Edward would mean. Izzy had overstepped, and Edward had corrected course. That was all. That made sense, in Izzy's mind: action and reaction, insubordination and consequence.
But Edward is still standing there with those big doe eyes, waiting for an answer that he likes better. If only he'd stop fiddling with his hands and just throw a punch already, Izzy would know what to do. As it stands, it looks like he's on the verge of something worse.
"We can talk about it another time," Izzy says, and it’s worth pushing the words from his reluctant lips to see the way that Edward’s face relaxes.
“So you’ll stay.” Edward looks like he needs to hear it, fingers still restless. He doesn’t look like a wretch or a monster or a legend anymore these days. Just a man.
Maybe that was all either of them had ever been.
Izzy nods, and Edward’s open expression floods over him like sunshine breaking through clouds. Edward sways a bit, like he wants to touch Izzy, but ends up sitting down and patting the cushion next to him. Izzy doesn’t know what it means, that Edward keeps stopping him from leaving, that Edward can’t decide whether he wants to keep them close together or drive him away.
He sits.
It’s quiet for a few moments, just the sound of water and wind outside the cabin, the soothing creak of the hull.
“Just a sec,” says Edward, rising again and stepping behind the divan to rummage for something. Izzy can hear the telltale clink of glass and the pouring of liquor, and he instinctively accepts the glass from Edward when he comes back around. How many times have they shared a drink together in a cabin like this one? How long since the last time?
He takes a sip, finds that it’s smooth and smoky on his tongue. Not the swill that Edward was drowning himself in for so long. Three guesses whose it is, though the man claims to have given his money away, to have left it all to his wife and children as if he had well and truly died this time. Izzy thinks on the Widow Bonnet, what she must be like, whether she knew she could never be enough for her husband. Izzy doesn’t often spare thoughts for strangers, but he finds himself harboring a vague wish for her contentment, now that her husband is someone else’s problem.
Izzy takes another sip, swallows. A man might share his thoughts over a drink. “When I–” he starts. Edward turns towards him a little too eagerly. “When I look at you,” he continues, staring down into his glass. “Now, I mean. I see a man in love.” He doesn’t want to see Edward’s expression, looks instead at the swirl of amber inside the tumbler. “I didn’t know, before.”
“I think it’s for real,” Edward says, very softly. “I want it to work out.” He takes a drink, and Izzy doesn’t have to look to know that he’s white-knuckling the glass. Edward angles his body, knee almost knocking against Izzy’s. “Iz, I’ve been wondering something. And if I’m wrong you can tell me to fuck off.”
Izzy glances over, hooked like a fish again on Edward’s gaze. “Probably will,” he says, and Edward smiles.
“Just don’t get pissed off and leave, okay?” Izzy shrugs. Whatever stupid question he wants to ask about Bonnet, or the Navy, or any of it, he can go ahead. It doesn't matter what Izzy thinks anymore, or what he's done. "Okay," says Edward. "Fuck, I don't really know how to say this. It's something Stede said." He's resting his drink on his knee, pressing the bottom edge of the glass into the fabric of his sleep pants. "And once he said it, I started thinking about it, and I guess I kind of always knew."
"Spit it out, man," Izzy says, because whatever Edward is going to say can't be worse than this awful waffling.
"Um," Edward says, not quite there yet. "Well. What you said before, when you look at me, you said what you see. And I guess I'm wondering if I'm seeing the same thing. Or if I used to, maybe. When I look at you," Edward concludes, anxious eyes fixed on Izzy.
Izzy's stomach drops. He knows it won't help the sudden queasiness, nor the way all his blood seems to be rushing out of his fingers and into his face and chest, but he knocks back the rest of the drink. "Don't," he says. His throat all but closes up, as if to protect him from saying the wrong thing.
Don't be ridiculous.
I never called it that.
It's not the same.
His face is hot and his eyes are wet, and he holds it all in behind gritted teeth like he always does.
"Iz," Edward says, so horribly concerned, like Izzy's distress is hurting him too, like he didn't pick the scab off and stick his fingers inside to satisfy his own curiosity. "I used to think–"
"No. You don't get to do this now," Izzy says. If he looks at Edward he’ll embarrass himself, so he keeps his eyes to the front, up at the overhead, above Bonnet’s stupid, hazardous fucking fireplace. “Twenty fucking years,” he mutters.
He blinks.
The cold fireplace is blurry.
“Izzy,” Edward tries again.
“You’re a fucking twat,” Izzy says.
“I know. C’mere, mate,” he hears, and then Edward is pulling him onto his shoulder, an arm wrapped around him.
“The fuck’re you doing,” Izzy grumbles, but it comes out muffled and soft.
“You can stab me about it later if you want.”
Izzy hasn’t shed tears in front of anyone in his entire adult life. He still isn’t, technically, with his face hidden against Edward’s shoulder. Edward’s voice is warm and low, and he smells so comfortable and familiar. Izzy wants to resent him, this infuriating man that is much a part of him as the sinew connecting his bones, as his own ugly heart.
He’s too tired to manage it.
Silent but for his shaky breaths, Izzy weeps onto the shoulder of the man that he loves.