Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 1st of February.

“Stede told me he thought he might be in love with me,” Ed says to his husband as they wash dishes in the sink. All these years and they’ve never bothered to buy a dishwasher, but Izzy doesn’t mind it much. He finds it quite meditative, actually. 

“You what?”

Edward’s face is unreadable. Izzy’s heart is in his throat. 

“We had sex and he asked me if I thought it was possible to love two people at the same time.”

Warmth drains out of his body. Should he be mad? Should he hurt? Should he be happy?

“Love is a strong word, Edward…”

“I know.”

“Wh- what did you tell him?”

“I told him I thought it was.”

“What?”

“Possible. Don’t you agree?” 

Given everything they’ve said and shared in recent weeks it’s very difficult to say no. He isn’t sure he wants to say no, but there’s still that little nagging voice that something about Stede bothers him just enough to make his feet drag. Could be how easily they all fall together. How easy it is to want to trust him. How easy it is to trust him.

“I suppose, yes, when you put it that way. Anything is possible.”

“I think we should keep him, Iz.”

He considers that for a long moment, takes a deep breath, and picks at the finger of his yellow dish gloves.

“Then we really need a plan, Edward.”

“You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.” A beat. “Was it good sex?”

“Augh, so fucking good. You’re gonna love him, mate.”

Yes, Izzy thinks to himself as he nods and goes back to work, maybe I will.

-

Thursday, 2nd of February.

Gallery Revenge LTD. is incorporated. 

A lease is signed in Mayfair, just off of Berkeley Square.

An opening date of Saturday, 4th of March is decided and announced. 

Lucius Spriggs begins his first day as Stede Bonnet’s personal assistant. 

Oluwande Boodhari and Jim Jimenez resign from their admin and security positions with Bonnet & Badminton Finance International PLC.

-

Monday, 6th of February.

Mary receives and signs the divorce papers. 

Stede is sent a PDF copy. He is free.

The Sotheby’s gala is three weeks away.

-

9pm, Thursday, 9th of February.

Stede catches Izzy leafing through a program for the Southbank Centre and pretends not to notice. When Izzy gets up to make a cup of tea, he sees the page has been left open on the programming schedule for The London Philharmonic Orchestra. Izzy hadn’t turned the page for five entire minutes. Spirits of Delight featuring Mendelssohn, Schumann, and Elgar, is playing at the Royal Festival Hall through the end of the month. 

How interesting. 

Looking around the house, Stede wouldn’t take Izzy for a man of classics. His wardrobe is almost entirely black, and half of it is ancient leather and denim with more patches and spikes than fabric. When they’re all together, the only music Stede ever hears is, he has to admit, just noise. Their library of DVDs aren’t refined at all, and the home’s collection of, mmm, statement decor can be, well, entirely overbearing. To be polite. 

But then, on the other hand, Izzy wears the watch Stede gave him. His suit is Hackett, his hair products are top of the line, and his shoes, Stede knows because he looked them up, are bespoke. Izzy listens to classical music when he thinks no one else can hear, he chose a beautiful restaurant when they first met, and he likes nice things. So why does he try so hard not to? He’s an enigma wrapped in a riddle and stuffed into a casing of self denial. And for what?

Stede chews the inside of his cheek and glances at Ed who is napping on the couch with the cat in his lap. He hatches a plan, checks his details, then saunters into the kitchen to find Izzy leaning against the counter waiting for the kettle to boil. Stede takes a moment to admire the man’s contrapposto form. The way his black turtleneck hugs his every line and bunches where Izzy’s shoved the sleeves up to his elbows. The way the collar makes the curls at the nape of his neck fluff out.

“Something has occurred to me,” he says as he announces himself with a flourish. 

Izzy looks up and raises his eyebrows. 

“Did it hurt?”

“Ah, ha ha, dear. But no.”

Oh, Stede thinks, this is so very cunning. Izzy will never see it coming. He feels like a great bard taking center stage.

“It’s just that it’s been a while since we’ve been out. I couldn’t help but notice.”

“On account of you being a stab victim. We go out all the time now you can get around,” Izzy answers and Stede detects a wary note in his voice. Perfect. So perfect, in fact, he doesn’t even rise to the bait.

“All together, yes, but never you and I. Why is that?” It’s an innocent enough question, posed as Stede rests his elbows on the kitchen island and props his chin on his hands. He looks very cute, he’s sure of it. 

“I don’t know. Are- are you asking me out on a date?”

“I believe I am.”

“We live together, we sleep in the same fucking bed.”

Which is, of course, entirely true. Stede raises his eyebrows, trusts the process, and waits. He has Izzy sussed these days, he is convinced. Izzy watches him for a long beat before he breaks, but he does break. Stede sees the corner of his mouth twitch and knows it to be success. 

“Romance isn’t dead, Izzy Hands.”

“Is it not?” 

“No. It is very much alive.”

Stede stands and rounds the island, hip checking the counter next to the other man and placing his hand so their pinky fingers touch. 

“...fine.”

“Delightful.”

“What would we do?”

And oh, Izzy couldn’t be falling into Stede’s snare better if he wrote a script. 

“That is the question. I’m afraid we haven’t very much in common, do we.”

“Not really, but for some reason it works, I have to admit.”

“Doesn’t it just.”

“Pub?”

“Bleh,” Stede pulls a face. “Dancing?”

“Fuck off.”

“Mm. Then I take it you wouldn’t be interested in a nice dinner. There’s a lovely little place I’ve seen called Kitchen Table.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It has two Michelin stars.”

“Yeah, and a two year waiting list to get in,” Izzy counters.

“Ah so you have heard of it.”

“No,” he answers, but the way he tightens means he knows he’s been caught. “Fuck off, kettle’s boiled,” Izzy grouses and pulls away, fussing with the kettle that has not, in fact, finished boiling. 

Stede waits patiently until the vessel is no longer in danger of being a weapon before he strikes, snaking his arms around Izzy’s middle and pressing up against his back. Izzy goes very still. Stede presses a kiss behind his ear before speaking. 

“You are allowed to like nice things, you know. Don’t think I haven’t seen you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? Tell me, this house with all its oddities. The skulls and spikes, are they really necessary?”

“This is a house full of old punks, so yeah. I don’t know what else you were expecting.”

“And you like them?”

“You can’t ask me on a date and insult our decorating in the same breath, you little shit. What would you rather, me covering the place with your brand of gaudy, frivolous chintz?”

Izzy tries to pull away but Stede won’t let him. He takes a teaspoon to the knuckles for his efforts, but he squeezes tighter and the man stills again. 

“I’m not trying to insult you, I’m simply curious as to why you cover yourself in all these thorns when I’ve seen you have a poet’s heart.”

“Poet’s heart.”

Izzy says it like it’s disgusting. Like it’s weak. Stede knows the tone. It’s very close to one his father used to employ. His head masters, his childhood bullies. How could a man so dedicated to the pursuit and preservation of art be so disparaging about having it in his own life? 

They’ve suddenly gone off script and veered a bit too close to the sun for Stede’s liking. This was meant to be a playful investigation but now feels far more personal. It’s insulting, actually, not to mention hurtful. 

“Izzy, I have seen your work. I have seen you care for Edward, I have felt you care for me. I don’t know why you reject softness, my tastes, my interests, when you’ve welcomed me into your life. You can’t be attempting to drive me away, so I can only come to the conclusion that you can’t allow yourself to join Ed and I. Why?” 

“Let me go.”

That isn’t the answer Stede wants. Not at all. 

“No,” he answers and tightens his grip. 

“I fucking mean it, Stede. Let go of me.”

“I heard you the first time.”

He’s met with a growl and they struggle again briefly. Izzy breaks Stede’s grip but only long enough to turn before Stede jerks him back and presses them against the counter, Izzy’s wrists firmly in his grasp. The man is bright red and seething. 

“You’re going to pass out if you keep breathing like that,” Stede says. Izzy isn’t weak, but Stede is bigger and he’s using all of his weight. The next time Izzy tries to get away, he’s stopped with a sudden, brutal kiss and that quiets the little bugger toot suite. When they part, Izzy is watching him with wide eyes and bared teeth like a caged animal. 

“We keep going in circles and it’s exhausting. Why are you still suspicious of me?” Stede asks, leaning in a bit and trying not to feel the sting of rejection too deeply. It does hurt, though. It hurts and it feels so senseless when he’s done nothing to earn the scorn. 

Izzy doesn’t answer right away and so he’s prompted by Stede muscling his leg between the other’s and pressing himself against Izzy’s crotch.

“Mm?”

“I’m not.”

“Then why won’t you let me be sweet to you?” 

“I don’t want it.”

“I think you do,” Stede says, and kisses him again. Softer this time, with slow intention. “And you liked it on your birthday.”

Izzy growls.

“Listen to me,” he continues. Their lips are still touching. “You are allowed to like nice things. That doesn’t make you any less hard or tough or rugged. Ed told me about your family, is that why you’re like this? You’re afraid you’ll be judged? That Ed might see you as anything beyond this…cavalier, devil may care attitude you hide behind?”

“Don’t.”

It’s a warning, plain and clear. Stede immediately sees it as progress and elects to ignore it entirely. 

“You told me a good life doesn’t mean an easy life, but that doesn’t mean you have to deny yourself pleasure. Let me spoil you, I want to spoil you.”

“You’re not my fucking sugar daddy-”

“Then why are you acting like such a brat?”

Any reply Izzy might have formed about deserving wealth or class structure or fear of losing everything is quickly silenced with another kiss. It’s an added bonus that Stede could use Izzy’s own words against him. A little petty, maybe, but he is what he is. 

Right now, he is entirely focused on kissing the fight out of Izzy Hands. For a wonderful, blissful moment, Stede thinks he’s won. Izzy relaxes under his grip before motioning for Stede to release his wrists. Stede does, and the man pushes his hands up into Stede’s hair. It feels wonderful and pulls a moan from deep in his chest. 

Without any prompting, Izzy grinds against Stede’s leg, kisses him more deeply, tightens the hands in his hair. It’s pleasurable until the grip becomes painfully tight and Stede hisses. He jerks back for escape but Izzy won’t let go and follows him, taking Stede’s bottom lip between his teeth and biting. Hard. 

“Ow! Fuck-” Stede yelps and slaps Izzy’s chest. Izzy lets go and, scandalized, Stede backs away until he hits the kitchen island behind him. “What was that for?” 

Izzy is staring at him with dark eyes and a smile bordering on cruel. Stede can see the erection straining in his jeans. 

“You’re terrible, you know that,” Izzy says, and his voice feels like graveled velvet as it licks against the want under Stede’s skin. “Think you know everything about me- think you know everything in the whole fucking world!”

A thousand options and endless possibilities present themselves. Stede wets his lips and decides the best course of action is direct assertion. 

“That, Israel, is no way to speak to your daddy,” 

Then something amazing happens: Izzy looks like he might explode for the way he weathers a hard shiver, but no violent outburst comes. Instead, he swallows hard and wets his lips. Stede notices his pupils are very large. 

“Did you like that?” He can’t help but ask, despite wondering if it was slightly gauche given the fact Izzy’s actual father recently passed.

Izzy doesn’t answer, but he pushes off the counter and closes the distance between them, letting Stede turn and press his back against the kitchen island. 

“I think it’s time we made good on our promise, what say you, Izzy?” 

“I say you shut up and fuck me.”

“Oh no,” Stede answers. He feels empowered, now. Assertive and, quite frankly, a bit sick of taking the brunt of Izzy’s insecurity. Ed’s told him that Izzy likes it rough, but that isn’t what this is about. This is about accepting softness. This is about accepting gentility. He’s already wrestling with the buttons of Izzy’s jeans. “We’re going to do so much more.” 

They’re going to make love. 

Without any consideration for the logistics, Stede all but manhandles Izzy across the room until he hits the dining table with the back of his thighs. Stede shoves mail, sketchbooks, and Edward’s assorted collections (doom piles) roughly to the side. Half of the papers flutter to the floor. He doesn’t care because he’s pressing Izzy down on his back into the fine, waxed mahogany and tugging down his trousers. 

Izzy seems to still think this is a struggling situation and kicks at Stede’s hip. That simply won’t do. Stede tuts as he grabs and pins Izzy’s knee to his chest, then reaches for the bottle of olive oil he’d shoved away just before, grateful they’re the old school types who keep condiments on the table as standard. Onehandedly, Stede unscrews the lid, looks Izzy’s dread in the eye, and upends the bottle to pour between his legs with a pleasing glugging sound. 

“What the fuck are you doing, the table!” Izzy barks, but doesn’t make a move to get away or kick Stede with his other foot. 

“The table will survive,” Stede answers and casts the bottle aside, smearing his fingers through the mess he’s made all over Izzy’s cock and balls. It really is everywhere, thick and slick and richly fragranced. A delicious Sicilian variety, if he remembers correctly, that pairs great with ciabatta. Generously, he coats his fingers, before dropping them down to play a slow circle around Izzy’s hole. 

They never break eye contact.

“You don’t have to,” Izzy says, and it sounds like Ed’s words in his mouth. 

“Yes I do,” he insists, and presses in. 

Izzy makes a small, deep noise that pulls a warm shiver down Stede’s spine. He’s never done this before, but he’s read plenty and remembers what Ed did for him with perfect clarity. Begs the question, why would Izzy want to skip ahead when it had been so very nice?

“Do you not like this?”

Perhaps he should have asked before. Breaks the moment, though. 

“I didn’t say that.”

“Does Ed not do this for you?”

“No.”

No… Well that won’t do at all, will it. Stede tuts again as he crooks and drags his finger upwards, nice and slow, getting a feel for what he’s doing. A second one soon joins and the noises coming out of Izzy are breathtaking. Why on earth does Ed skip this with him?

“Stede- Please just- fucking get on with it!”

Ah. Perhaps that’s why. 

“No,” he answers and delights as Izzy makes the most incredibly frustrated whine. 

“Why?!”

“Because I want you to know how much I appreciate you, even when you are being a horrid little monster. You give so much of yourself and ask for so little in return.”

“I’m- fuck, I’m asking for you to fuck me and you won’t-”

“No,” Stede says again and adds his third finger, stretching Izzy wide. He takes it so easily, how marvelous. “I won’t.”

“What?!”

It’s almost pathetic, that squawk of indignation. It makes Stede grin and sends waves of wild energy through him. All that buildup and Izzy is still pushing back. He really is such a little brat. 

“You know,” Stede says conversationally, as if he isn’t fanning his fingers wide in a man’s arse right now. “I really think you ought to show me a bit more credence.”

A bit of respect for your captain, he thinks and doesn’t stop to question it. 

Izzy wheezes and Stede pushes as deep as his fingers will go, right to the last knuckle. He must do something right because Izzy yelps and arches his back hard before trying to kick him again, easily seen and evaded.

“Fucking power play-”

“Yes,” Stede agrees and tucks his pinky before plunging back in. Izzy keens loudly and drops one hand to his cock only to be slapped away immediately. Izzy doesn’t even have to be told and reaches back to grip the table, instead. So well trained. “You aren’t the first person to tell me the things I like are bad or weak or worthless. My taste isn’t worthless. Liking what I like doesn’t make me inadequate or any less of a man, and furthermore-” 

He pauses, both for dramatic effect and because he truly is getting a bit upset, “I really think I know what’s best right now and I’m asking you to trust me.”

“You’ve got your fist in my- fuh- ” 

“Nearly,” Stede agrees and supposes that is  a form of trust. Still, “Why don’t you trust me?”

“Stede please-”

“Answer me.”

“Stede-”

Stede ignores the plea and increases the pace, shifting his weight to lean harder on the knee he’s still pining against Izzy’s chest. 

“Why don’t you trust me?!”

“No!”

“ Why?! ”

“Because you could take everything from me!” 

The words burst into the air and fall like a wall of arrows at war. It’s startling, but not so startling that Stede stops. It’s encouraging even, if anything. Finally, some actual answers. It’s like pulling bloody teeth with Izzy sometimes. 

“I won’t do that.”

“But you could- you told Edward-”

“Told him what, exactly ?” Stede doesn’t mean for his voice to take such a sharp turn, but that sounds awfully like a threat. 

“That you love him!” the man spits back like it’s some great, horrible thing. Like it’s an axe hanging over Izzy’s head.

“I do,” He answers and then curses himself for being so stupid when clarity clangs him between the eyes. Of course Izzy would be cautious and backslide. Thirty years he’s been by Edward’s side, watching him fall in and out of love with anyone who took his fancy. 

Izzy doesn’t know that they’re connected. Izzy doesn’t know that this is different, or the depth of the web woven between all three of them. 

That Stede has no intention of being a homewrecker. That this is fate. 

All Izzy sees is the threat Stede poses if it all goes wrong. What it might be like for Ed to choose Stede over him instead of in addition to. 

He keeps trying to allow Stede in and then seizes back up because he’s scared. That is a devastating realization. 

Stede retracts his fingers and tugs so Izzy’s half hanging off the table and has no choice but to hook his legs around Stede’s hips for support. He presses in close, completely ignoring the oil which will stain his chinos forever, and bends down over him so they might be face to face. He sees how red the other man’s face is. That his eyes are wet and shiny. That he can’t quite bring himself to meet Stede in the eye until Stede physically turns him by the chin. 

“Izzy,”

“Don’t, please. Just fuck me and then you can decide what you want with Ed. I can’t-”

“Izzy,”

“Leave it. Forget I said anything.”

“I can’t do that. Did he tell you what else I said? I asked if he thought it was possible to love two people.”

Stede pauses and watches very carefully. Izzy presses his lips into a tight, thin line, a move he suspects is to keep from crying. Fair, perhaps, as Stede is forcing the man to flay himself open on command. 

“I have room in my heart for two, Izzy. That’s what I meant. You said you’d have me, so have me. Accept that we’re in a relationship already, for God’s sake! I have done nothing but try to prove myself to you.” 

Izzy takes a sharp, rattling breath. Stede doesn’t put him through the pain of having to answer, and presses their lips together. Izzy gives something like a whimper but that doesn’t stop anything. Stede kisses him softly, then deeper, then deeper still. He wriggles his hand between them for more oil, then slicks himself down and nudges the head of his cock into place. The tone of all this has shifted dramatically again, but the meaning remains the same. If he needs to prove he is capable of love through money and sex then so be it. Maybe someday Izzy will see there is more to him.

“Let me be sweet to you, Izzy,” he whispers against the other’s lips. “Let me love you.” 

Izzy pants against him with an open mouth. Now that Stede knows what Izzy’s fear looks like, he can see it written all over the man. A new goal joins his initial mission for the evening, and Stede resolves to fuck this man so thoroughly that he’ll never doubt Stede’s motives again. 

“Ready?”

“Y-yeah-” Izzy breathes, and Stede lets himself sink in all the way to the hilt with one fluid motion. Izzy feels like heaven, hot and tight around him, arching upwards and keening brightly into Stede’s mouth. He gropes for Izzy’s hands and guides them close in hopes Izzy will get the idea and embrace him back. He does, and it feels perfect. 

A small moment is given for them to simmer in the sensation, and then Stede hoists Izzy’s hips, draws out, and then plunges back in. 

“Fuck-” Izzy wheezes, and Stede has to agree. 

Sex with Izzy, to Stede, is very similar to sex with Ed. It is slow at first, caring, emotional, and considered. It is asking them to trust him with their bodies and hearts. It is begging to be let in through the cracks of a hard, sharp shell. But whilst Ed let him in easily, Izzy has put up quite the fight, and where Ed goaded him into fucking like a beast, Izzy’s challenge now falls to the side and they move together sweetly. 

Stede hopes they’ll both decide he’s worth it.

He sets a rhythm, stays consistent, and uses his full length to piston in over and over and over again.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” Izzy rasps at one point. “I like it rough. You could choke me-”

“Shh,” Stede breathes but does rest his hand at the side of Izzy’s throat. “Another time.”

They don’t fuck, he was serious about that.

They make love, warm and sweaty and tender. 

They make love, and can barely breathe for the reluctance to separate their mouths. 

They make love, with millions of threads of connection knitting between them, and when Stede comes, deep in the body of his partner, he feels as if the web they are only just beginning to see has completed itself. 

It isn’t a web , he realizes when he moves his hand between them, stroking Izzy off, hips still pumping lazily, making sure the other man comes feeling more cared for than he could ever articulate, it’s a safety net. 

Stede doesn’t explain when he thumbs the tears away from Izzy’s eyes. Izzy doesn’t say a word as he echoes the gesture. 

Stede wasn’t aware he’d been crying. 

-

Monday, 13th of February. 

Work begins at Gallery Revenge.

Lucius spends 14 hours shifting through submissions. 

Stede reconsiders his ‘show everything submitted’ policy. 

Stede, Izzy, and Edward attend suit fittings in Saville Row.

-

Tuesday, 14th of February.

Stede is standing in the kitchen inspecting a series of kitchen gadgets when Izzy and Ed get home from work. Ed heads upstairs, and Izzy furrows his brow as he quietly drifts in. He hasn’t been able to come near the kitchen without thinking about what happened the other night. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it at all.

“It’s an egg slicer,” he says, announcing his presence. Stede jumps a hair and looks up, letting the slicer dangle between his fingers. 

“You startled me, Izzy.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

“I’m sure you have.”

Izzy lets that rest for a moment, gaze flicking from Stede to the dining table and back. Stede seems to follow his train of thought and raises his eyebrows. 

“I said some things the other night. Things I regret. I don’t think you’re chintzy or terrible.”

That hangs in the air for a moment. Stede seems to be considering something but doesn’t speak, which feels pretty awful and so Izzy takes that as the need to elaborate.

“You were right, I do like things, it’s just hard. Feels like a waste, even when I want it. You were right about everything you said, actually.”

Izzy wets his lips and hopes Stede will take that for what it is. That he’ll understand there is a very real fear of losing Edward in all this. Of losing his entire life as he knows it. He wants to do better, he really does. He just doesn’t know how. Stede doesn’t say a fucking thing and it’s starting to make Izzy’s heart pound. Fuck, this was such a mistake. 

He gives an awkward nod and turns on his heel to run, stopped only by Stede snagging his elbow at the last moment. 

“Wait,”

“Nah I’m good.”

“Izzy, stop.”

He stops, cursing how effective the command in Stede’s voice truly is. The man tugs him close and into his arms, burying his face in Izzy’s hair and breathing in deeply. 

“I adore you,” Stede murmurs. 

“I’m a bastard,” Izzy hears himself mutter back.

“Yes. But you’re my bastard. Go change your shirt, we’re going out after.”

“After what?” They literally just got home. 

“Don’t you know what day it is?”

“Thursday?”

“Oh you poor fool,” Stede croons and lets him go. Izzy would be blind not to see the mischief in his eyes, which makes the sudden shift even more confusing. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

“Hey Stede?!” Ed calls from upstairs. “Why are there roses’n shit all over the bed!? What’s this rubber sheet for!?”

“It’s for the baby oil!” 

Izzy’s brows shoot high with alarm as Stede grins wider and shouts back to Ed, not breaking eye contact. Christ, he’s got a set of pipes on him. Christ, he’s got a dirty fucking mind. 

“You’re a dark horse, aren’t you.”

“Oh Izzy,” Stede answers and offers his elbow, “You have no idea. Shall we?” 

He’s never gotten so hard, so fast, in all his fucking life.

-

Wednesday, 15th of February.

Izzy and Ed start tutoring Stede in art, art history, and conservation theory. 

Izzy makes flashcards and drills him whilst Stede rails Ed from behind. He does surprisingly well, all things considered.

-

Friday, 17th of February. 

Izzy receives a brick in the post at work and knows it to be a warning. 

Museum security are given a description of Samuel Hands that Fang and Ivan pass through the leather community, just in case. A couple of their boys are police. A couple of their boys are the opposite. None of them have patience for this kind of bullshit. 

Ed digs out his extremely illegal brass knuckles. 

Izzy stitches a razor blade into the brim of his flat cap. 

Neither of them tell Stede as he explains the various functions of a 42 piece place setting later that night.

-

Monday, 20th of February.

Izzy’s paintings disappear from the guest room.

A selection of paintings disappear from the studio. 

Ed googles whether it’s legal to have a three way wedding. 

-

2:30pm. Friday, 24th of February. 

Izzy turns off the lights and closes the door of the conservation department in the National Portrait Gallery at half past two in the afternoon. Edward, keen to race home and change, is already waiting outside the employee’s only side entrance smoking a rollie and bouncing on the balls of his feet. It seems stupid to beg off work early, but they haven’t very much to do right now and Stede hasn’t shut up about the impending doom that is the Sotheby's Impact Gala for days. 

He still doesn’t want to go. In fact, Izzy would rather eat his own fucking toe, but there’s a bespoke suit waiting for him and no way out of attending short of death, which has very little appeal. They are going for Stede’s gallery, he tells himself. That, and he hasn’t seen Ed this excited in yonks. 

Also bears to mention they’ve paid five thousand pounds a person for the luxury of attendance. 

Stede didn’t tell him the cost when he replied to the invitation. Izzy only knows because Stede let it slip in bed the other night during a particularly intense round of flashcards, and the only reason Izzy didn’t lose his mind was because Ed was sucking him off at the time. 

When the fuck did this become his life? 

They decide to skip the tube and hail a cab home, lest Izzy’s brother decide today is the day. Blissfully, Sam is still nowhere to be seen. When their cab pulls up outside the house, Lucius is just leaving with an arm full of packages and they trade nods as he snags the taxi to take him off home to Kensal Green. It’s a trendy place to live now, apparently. Izzy recalls it being the sort of place you didn’t go alone after dark. 

“Stede? It’s us,” Ed calls as they tromp in the door and hang their coats. 

“Oh good! It’s a tight schedule but I think we’ll just make it if we start now!” Stede calls back in sing-song, appearing at the top of the stairs in- oh fuck off, that’s Izzy’s robe. 

Why does he like the fact Stede’s wearing it?

“Already?” Ed asks with disbelief and shakes his head, “Man I was gonna take a nap. All I’ve gotta do is shower.”

“Absolutely not,” Stede perries and descends the stairs like he’s gearing up for a monologue. Maybe because he is. “Tonight is about a presentation. You’ve schooled me well, you two, and now it’s time for you to enter into my domain…”

Called it. Izzy doesn’t listen to a damn word as he eases past to shower and shave. He has absolutely no intention of speaking to anyone tonight so it doesn’t matter what his opinions about tennis and couture are.

The gala, like all annoying things, has a theme. Because of course it does. This year, the theme is Jewels and Jazz, which is an absolute heap of word spaghetti without any clear instruction of what they actually want to be worn. Not being a man of fancy dress, Izzy has left it all to Stede with the exception of the fitting, but even then the suit he’d tried on was calico and covered in big red stitches he doesn’t know the purpose of. 

Apparently, dressing fancy just means taking forever to get ready and feeling stupid the whole time.

The suit he takes out of its bag is emerald green velvet, double breasted, and the buttons fucking glitter. 

“No, no you’re not seeing it, Izzy!” Stede insists through his reflection in the mirror, distractedly  combing pomade through his curls to make a weird sort of wave pattern. “They’re black diamonds.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“It’s a power move. Jewel tone suits, 20’s cut, we couldn’t fill the brief better if we tried.” 

A moment of consideration is given to shimmering stones in his buttons.

“Are these really diamonds?”

“Don’t insult me, of course they are.”

Izzy thinks they look like idiots as they pile into the cab: him in his emerald, Edward in his amethyst, and Stede in his aquamarine. This is going to be deeply embarrassing, he’s sure of it, but the other two look so happy as they excitedly fuss with Ed’s matching earrings that he can’t bring himself to say something mean. He slips his wedding ring off the chain around his neck and carefully secures it into the knot of his tie, making sure its deep green stone is visible.

It feels right. 

They pull up outside Sotheby’s London in their shiny black cab just before six. A valet opens the door and out they pile, one by one, onto a red carpet. A jazz band is playing by the door, filling the street with Cole Porter’s Let's Misbehave as they present their invitation and gain entry into the long white foyer beyond. 

White marble floors extend forever, supporting stark walls covered with art. Intricate stone columns hold up the vaulted ceiling every twenty feet or so, and a troupe of dancers wearing feathers and decadent, beaded flapper dresses are performing in the middle of the room. 

It isn’t the worst place Izzy has been. He supposes he might survive if he keeps his mouth shut, doesn’t engage, and sticks to watching them. It wouldn’t be that far off a cabaret if you turned the lights down. 

There must be a hundred people milling about laughing and talking, and all of them look like they’ve just finished a technicolor production of Chicago. Hm, at least they’re not over dressed. 

“Well, here it is; high society in all its grotesque glory,” Stede says as he and Ed fall into line beside him. “If you’re feeling overwhelmed we can cancel the plan and leave.”

Izzy glances over and raises a brow. He’d never considered the idea that Stede might not want to be here. He’d been talking about this fucking thing for days, schooling them endlessly on dances and dinners and fashion trends. Had he done all that for Ed? Come to think of it, this is a very stupid, very expensive way to go about a networking evening. 

“No,” Ed says, and shakes his head. “I never turn my back on a challenge.”

He doesn’t turn his back on canapes and champagne, either, of which there is plenty. Izzy decides to leave them to it and take a lap around the walls to inspect what’s on show. He’d only glanced through the literature and the catalogue was less than inspiring with its promises of early 20th century master works. Granted, Sotheby’s does sell some wonderful things, but they are also in the business of fleecing rich pricks.

Izzy finds his boys again an hour or so later, appearing at Edward’s elbow as he holds court with a group of laughing, drunk imbeciles hanging on his every word. It doesn’t go unnoticed that Stede, standing on his other side, looks a bit pale. 

“So there I was with a pack of deranged madmen under the bridge in Camden when one of them gets out this bag of tabs, right. They insisted, insisted I have a go.”

“No, surely you didn’t!” a woman gasps.

“I didn’t have much choice mate, It was that or go in the water.”

Izzy tries to figure out what the fuck Ed is talking about, but Stede speaks up before he can locate that particular nightmare memory.

“That reminds me of a rather amusing anecdote. I too have spent time on the water, in Barbados of all places-”

“Oh come on,” a man says, and chuckles, “who hasn’t been to Barbados? It’s the new Ibiza. So common.”  

The group laughs. Izzy identifies one of them as a board member from work, someone they categorically can not fuck off. His skin begins to crawl. 

“Edward,” he says, and they all glance at him. “I hate to steal you away but there’s a piece I think you might find interesting.”

“Oh yeah? Shit, lead on.”

They pull away from the group and Izzy picks a piece at random to start towards. 

“Ed,” he hears Stede half whisper behind him, “This really isn’t the crowd to be telling stories like that.”

“Aw, you’re just sore they like me more’n you.” 

Just before they can get to the painting Izzy has chosen, a clinking glass calls everyone’s attention and they change direction to be herded into the dining room like posh cows. 

Of their large, round, ten seat table, Izzy knows one person besides his…partners. Jacquotte Delahaye is a well known collector who takes enormous personal delight in the meticulous and methodical torture of art dealers. They’ve met a handful of times at auctions, and if he weren’t gay, he would be madly in love with her. Devastatingly, she is sitting opposite him and too far for any real conversation, but they trade glances through their eight courses and she has the audacity to flick a pea in his direction. He resolves to win whatever it is she bids on next time they do battle, if only to see her squirm. 

Also devastatingly, that is the only interesting thing that happens through dinner, extremely boring speeches, and calls for fundraising to help whatever charity it is they’re already helping with the world’s most expensive meal. 

It isn’t until they’re excused that things get interesting. 

What should carry on into dancing and drunken loutishness alongside the tail end of the silent auction in the main hall, is abruptly stopped by the high, foppish call of Stede’s name as they make towards the side of the foyer. 

“Stede?! I say, Stede Bonnet, is that you?” 

Izzy and Ed look at Stede, who has frozen stiff. 

They turn and are approached by a tall, blond man in a suit of navy blue with blocky white and gold detailing. Izzy passively likens the bloke to Donald Duck. 

“Nigel-” Stede answers and sounds stunned, no, scared?

“Oh my god, it is you. What on earth are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in ages .” 

“Yes, well. Things change. I fancied something new.”

Nigel, apparently, laughs far too loudly and claps Stede hard on the shoulder. 

“I haven’t seen you in so long. Tell me, who are your friends? You’re all so…colorful together. Like a little Rainbow Brite, isn’t that so cute.”

“Well it was the theme,” Stede answers indignantly. “Allow me to introduce Edward and this is Izzy. They’re-” A pause, “Colleagues of mine.”

What the fuck-

Nigel doesn’t blink an eye.

“You know, I heard a vicious rumor that little Baby Bonnet ran away from his perfect, cushy little life at head office to be a big bad art conservator. I couldn’t believe it. I thought it was a joke!”

“Oh?”

Stede sounds breathless. His fists are clenched. Izzy changes his mind about Donald Duck. Nigel looks like a cunt. 

“He’s actually pretty good,” Ed says. “Really knows his shit.”

“Well there’s a first time for everything,” Nigel answers, waits for a laugh that doesn’t come, then explodes into laughter, himself. A waiter passes by, and the man takes a glass of dark red wine. “Imagine, you with your dainty little fingers all over important art, haha! Oh, you do make me chuckle. Bohemia must be treating you so well. You’re so- so shiny . My god, I can’t wait to tell Chauncey.”

If someone were speaking to Ed like this, they’d be missing their teeth by now. If someone were speaking to Izzy like this, they’d be on the floor. But Stede? He just fucking takes it with a grimace and does what he’s fucking told. They’re going to have to chat about this later. 

 “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Nigel asks like they’ve been having a wonderful time and none of them want to violently murder him. “Or has darling Baby Bonnet forgotten all his widdle manners already?” 

“Of course, my apologies,” Stede says, and Izzy is fucking seething. “Chaps, this is Nigel Badminton.”

“Of Bonnet and Badminton,” Nigel adds. 

“We’ve known each other a very long time. Funny though, I haven’t seen you since we were fifteen.”

“Oh god no, I had to get out of that place, didn’t I? Went to Eaton, of course, then took over the London office.”

“Of course,” Stede answers. He looks like he might be sick. 

“Our dear fathers are such good pals that we went off to school together,” Nigel explains and takes a sip of wine through his teeth, gesturing with the glass as he speaks. “Stede, Stede do you remember that time we made you kiss a horse? That was such good fun, wasn’t it?”

“Uh, no. I don’t seem to recall-”

“Oh oh, or that funny time we caught you picking all those posies and fed them to you?”

“It wasn’t very funny,” Stede answers weakly, “they were quite poisonous as it turns out-”

“It was hilariously funny!” The man insists and waves his wine again, this time coming dangerously close to the painting they’re standing in front of, currently priced at £81,000. 

“Nothing you just said sounds very funny to me,” Edward growls but Stede lays a hand on his arm. Izzy can very clearly see something dangerous and violent flash in his husband’s eyes and he braces himself for a fight. Nigel sighs heavily and waves the whole thing off. 

“Ah, to our youth and misadventures,” Stede declares, but the look on his face is pleading. Edward, to his credit, stands down while Stede continues. 

“So, Nigel. Tell me, what brings you here tonight?”

“Oh, just a bit of pocket money to get rid of. Balance the old tax book, you know the drill. I’m actually here to buy that ugly old thing,” he says, and points to a painting behind them. They all turn to view what is, in all honesty, a stunning piece by Georges Lepape entitled Mam’zelle Victoire . “I like the big cock. Thought I might put it in the loo in case we run out of paper.” 

No. 

Absolutely not. 

There is no way in hell, Izzy decides, that this fucking cad is allowed to own a Lepape. How had he even missed that one? He and Edward catch each other’s eye and Izzy knows in an instant that they’re thinking the same thing: fuck this guy. Fuck his whole head and the neck he rode in on. 

Nigel begins a long, annoying story as he writes increasing numbers along the bidding sheet in increments of fifty pounds. The point, Izzy knows, is to use up all the space so no one else can bid. It’s such a prick move but he can’t look away as the man does it, talking and laughing and forcing Stede to join him on a terrible jaunt down memory lane all the while. 

They’ll have to jump him later, Izzy thinks. They can’t start a brawl in here and he’s sure Stede can only take so much. It’ll be that, or they’ll have to leave because he can feel fire rolling off Edward in dark waves and they’re running out of time before everyone gets chucked out and into the ballroom, anyway. 

The longer Nigel talks, the more animated he gets, and the more a crowd gathers to listen. Every punchline is delivered with a wide sweeping motion and sends his wine closer and closer to the painting, sloshing about and jumping out of his glass onto the floor. The moment feels like a powder keg ready to explode at any second, and then three miraculous things happen:

1, Nigel gestures a little too hard, and sends the contents of his glass arcing through the air, but before the enormous splosh can make contact, Stede’s hand intercepts and hits downwards- sending the wine and the glass smashing to the floor. 

2, Everyone in the vicinity gasps.

“I’ve had just about enough of you, Mr. Wavyglass!” Stede snaps sharply. “Say what you want about me but I won’t tolerate your utter disrespect in this gallery. You’ve nearly just ruined this piece, get out!” 

Nigel looks dumbstruck before he balls his fist and swings at Stede, who quickly dodges. The punch has so much power behind it that Nigel takes a step forward, slips in the wine, loses his balance, and goes careening face first into broken glass and unforgiving marble floor. 

3, Chaos erupts around them as the stupid fuck starts screaming, and in some kind of incredible cosmic timing, a steward announces the end of the auction. Stede grabs the ticket off the wall and produces a fountain pen from his breast pocket, scrawls a number at the bottom, and turns on his heel towards the auctioneer’s station. 

They go home with the painting.

The ride back is quiet and Izzy watches the way Stede clutches the painting against his chest  and bounces his knee for fifteen long minutes before the silence breaks. 

“I’m sorry,” Stede says to no one in particular. 

“For what? That was wild,” Ed answers and rests his hand on Stede’s thigh. It stops the bouncing but he doesn’t look any more relaxed. 

“That was horrible, Ed. I- If I’d have known he’d be there I never would have let us go.”

“What, and miss out on our cock painting? You earned that.”

They fall silent.

“I was a coward. I told him you were my colleagues.”

“He doesn’t deserve to know,” Izzy answers before Ed can, but knows he’d say the same. “You don’t owe the prick anything.”

“You aren’t mad?”

“Nah,” Ed says, and Izzy nods in agreement. “Besides, we gave out so many cards tonight, our opening is gonna be ten times better.”

“Do you think?”

“Yeah, man.”

“We should put a sign on the door barring his admission,” Izzy suggests. 

It’s a stupid joke but Stede laughs and it makes him tingle as he reflects on what happened. Stede didn’t slap Nigel for being a cock, he slapped him to protect the work. He was in a position of incredible personal stress and when it came time to act, he acted in defense of the painting. Not himself, the painting . That realization sits in Izzy’s chest and finds a place amongst admiration and respect. He doesn’t yet know if he can call it what it is.

-

10am, Sunday 26th of February. 

Stede wakes up with Ed’s hair in his mouth and Izzy’s elbow in his back. Bright, morning light streams in between the drapes that run along the vast bay window of the master bedroom, casting thin rays across the walls and hanging art. Their party clothes are still strewn across the floor, his body aches in the most delightful way, there are two wonderful men in bed with him, and he is happy. 

Despite anything Nigel brought up. Despite the horrible clawing insecurity just seeing the man produced. 

Nigel Badminton and everything he represents, Stede decides as he wriggles to get Izzy’s elbow out of his vertebrae, is hereby fully rejected from Stede’s life. Forever. Izzy was right, he doesn’t owe the man a damn thing, and in fact the best revenge he could possibly have, would be to live well. Live authentically. So he resolves to. That started this weekend in bed with the two men who now mean more to him than anything else, and will continue as he pulls Izzy against his chest and wakes him with a loud, sudden raspberry to the neck. 

Izzy yelps and flails, bolting up before Stede catches him round the middle and pulls him back with a thump. He hears Ed behind him laughing and wriggles backwards with his catch in tow to press against the length of him when Izzy’s fingers find their way into his mouth and press for release. 

“Why!?”

“My coulfnt helf myfelf-”

“What? Ew-” 

Izzy withdraws his fingers. 

“I said I couldn’t help myself. You’re too easy, darling.”

“You attacked me in my sleep.”

“Mm,” Stede hums. “That sounds like a personal problem.”

“Fuck off,” Izzy groans. 

“Afraid not. Besides, you and I have a busy day.”

“Do we?”

“We do. We’ve got a date.” 

A secret date, of course, born from his very astute sleuthing two weeks before and assisted by Edward who is, as it turns out, very good at keeping secrets and wholly encouraging of some bonding time between them. After the stress of the gala and the subsequent destressing yesterday, Stede can admit he’d like to have a little jaunt about town with a man on his arm. As a treat. He had invited Edward along as well of course, but knew it was a lost cause the second he said where it was they were going. 

Really and truly, there’s just something calling him to do this, and so he is. After everything that’s happened, who is he to question instinct? 

They lay in bed a while longer, luxuriating in the warmth and company before taking brunch and suiting up. Neither he nor Ed will tell Izzy the plan, and it is a bit fun (if not a bit mean) to watch his confusion grow as Stede pulls out Izzy’s nice black suit and elects to wear his blue ensemble from the gala. He thinks they look very fine side by side as they shrug into their heavy, winter wools and step out to hail a cab off the high street. 

Kitchen Table has their place waiting at 6pm on the dot. 

“How?” Izzy asks as they’re seated in the low, warm ambiance of the intimate restaurant. 

“I have my ways,” Stede answers with a wink. 

“You bought our way in.”

“Oh no, I had Lucius call and demand a table for visiting royalty. If anyone asks, I’m the crown regent of Barbados’ brother by marriage twice removed.” 

Izzy blinks. 

“I didn’t know Barbados had a royal family.”

“It doesn’t. Lucky for us, whomever took the booking didn’t check.” 

“Fucking mental…”

“A bit, yes.”

And dinner is, in a word, perfect. 

The menu is sumptuous and worth every penny and both of its Michelin stars in his opinion. Then it’s back in a cab and across town to the Southbank Centre. It’s a shame, Stede thinks, that the market is closing for the day. He’d quite like to have a nose around and see what’s on offer. Alas, that also runs the risk of getting stabbed and that he could do without for a while, thank you very much. 

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here or not?” Izzy asks as he jogs to catch up, having insisted on paying for the taxi. 

“I think you know what we’re doing here,” Stede answers and feels like the slyest fox in the world as they head towards Royal Festival Hall. “Tadaa!” he exclaims with pride as he gestures to the enormous banner over the grand entrance.

“The orchestra?”

“Well sussed! Come on, I’d like a glass of wine before we sit.” 

Izzy seems frozen with disbelief. Stede finds it incredibly sweet and laces their fingers, coaxing him to come. 

He’s in public holding hands with a man, on a date, going to the orchestra. He is full of wild thrill and no one is batting an eye at them. Suck on that, Nigel! 

“Have you ever been here before?” he asks later as they take their seats, a beautiful private box in the upper circle. 

“Just once. Seemed sad to go alone again.” 

“There’s nothing sad about enjoying music alone. I find it a perfect solitary experience, but I am glad to share it with you this time.”

“Bit better with someone,” Izzy agrees and Stede knows he’s won. This was a very good idea, indeed. 

“What’s your favorite piece? I’ve been wanting to ask you.” 

“Tonight?”

“In general.”

“Biber,” Izzy answers simply. “The Rosary Sonatas.” 

“I’m not sure I know that one.”

“I’ll play it for you when we get home.”

When we get home. Stede takes that to heart and revels in the sense of belonging it creates. Oh, he is so far gone and wouldn't change a damn thing. 

The house lights dim, the stage lights illuminate the mighty proscenium arch, and then it all goes black before bright warmth and moving velvet curtains reveal the London Symphony Orchestra in all its glory. 

The show is phenomenal by virtue of being one of the best orchestras in the world, but what Stede finds even more phenomenal is the look of awe on Izzy’s face as he listens. The man watches with rapt attention for a while before closing his eyes and sinking down in his large, plush chair. Stede can see him relax in full and stay that way. Watching Izzy is a symphony in itself, lush with rapture and emotion, finishing with pure joy when the man’s hand creeps over in search of Stede’s. 

He gives it, closes his eyes, and lets the music take him away to a place only they can go. 

It ends too soon for his liking, as beautiful as the night has been. It’s half nine by the time the house lights come back up and just past ten by the time they leave, freshly libated with another glass of wine on the way out. Piercing, frigid air is rolling in off the river. It’s freezing, and the whole world glimmers with a fine coating of frost, casting an ethereal blanket over everything around them. It’s the sort of frost that hangs thick in the air and makes time feel meaningless. 

Stede is poorly versed with low temperatures, but he can’t feel it at all in the face of all his awe and Izzy’s arm linked around his. 

“How beautiful,” Stede marvels aloud. 

“Very,” Izzy agrees, but when he looks over he finds Izzy looking at him with a tenderness he has never seen in his direction. Stede soaks in that for a long moment before leaning in for a kiss. Izzy’s lips are searing hot against the cold. A cozy, soothing balm. 

“Thank you,” Stede murmurs when they part, “for letting me love you.”

It feels right to say, despite the way it sends Izzy searching for a response. 

“Likewise,” comes the answer, and it is, he thinks, as close to an admission as he’ll get. It is enough, and Stede squeezes Izzy’s hand before turning them to start towards the cab rank. 

It really is a pity that the market has long closed, but there are a few determined entrepreneurs under the dotted streetlights. There’s a man selling sausages and caramelized onions from a cart, a caricature artist offering quick sketches with mittened hands, and two women selling single roses to couples passing by. Stede is tempted by all three options but doesn’t think Izzy will want any of them, and forges on. 

“Spare a coin for the homeless?” A man calls out as they pass another streetlamp. The light overhead is flickering. Stede does sometimes donate when he’s able, but he’d given his last note to the bartender and suddenly wishes he’d been a bit less giving before. Under the nictitating glow, Stede can make out the shape of a person dressed in, well, rags if he’s honest. Rags that don’t look like anything from this century. Stede can’t see his face, but he sounds on the older side with a thick, rasping, northern accent. Beside him lays a single crutch and to his other side is a small blanket with a variety of trinkets and frames leaning up against the lamp pole. 

“I’m sorry,” Stede begins to say before his date takes a few steps forward and crouches down over the collection on offer. 

“You shouldn’t be out here in this cold,” He hears Izzy say. 

“Hurts less if I am,” the man answers and gestures to his knee. 

“What happened?”

“Shot by a mate.”

“Shot?”

“It was a long time ago, boy.” 

Izzy snorts as he flicks through the bigger items in the back and Stede pulls his coat a bit tighter as he approaches. Izzy is inspecting what looks to be a collection of vintage pictures, but it’s hard to make out the details with the light playing havoc on his eyes. 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” the old man says. “I’m glad you’re going about it right this time.”

Stede notices he can only see Izzy’s breath puffing in the heavy air. How strange.

All at once the air turns hot, so hot Stede can barely breathe. He feels travel sick, stifled, burning and freezing all at once. The light above them flickers faster and faster with an increasingly loud whine and then it bursts- raining bright, shimmering sparks down upon them. 

It bursts, and they’re plunged into darkness. 

It bursts, and he hears Izzy gasp with pain. 

Stede yelps and wonders if they’re going to die. 

“Izzy!” He yells, lurches forward, and feels hit in the chest with a wall of vertigo. Wave upon wave of the stuff crashes through him into the void behind, and Stede is absolutely helpless against the drag of the invisible riptide.

Drowning, he thinks. This is what it must feel like to drown. 

Then, very suddenly, the sensation is gone. Stede blinks, and when he does, he's still standing where he’d just been. Izzy is sitting on the freezing ground, back to Stede, staring at something he’s holding. 

They are illuminated by an entirely whole bulb above.

The man is gone. 

Stede is frozen through with shock until Izzy takes a deep breath and lets it out through his teeth. 

“Oh my god, oh my god Izzy-” Stede says as he closes the small distance and crouches down by his side. “Are you hurt? Where’d that man go!?”

“Stop, get the fuck- I’m fine , Stede!” Izzy barks and it’s so sudden and sharp that it shocks Stede into letting go immediately. He can tell by the tremor in Izzy’s voice that he’s lying and decides he has to take charge. 

“Well I’m not! Did you see that? How can a man move that fast?!”

“Shut up-”

“Did you see which way we went?”

“Stede I am begging you to shut up, don’t you ever shut up!?”

Stede shuts up.

He tries not to be wounded, fails, and feels at a loss when he looks around. There is no trace that the man was ever there to begin with. No blanket, no crutch, no collection of random old tat save for the single, solitary painting in Izzy’s gloved hands.

Stede spies it and gasps, feeling that horrible, suffocating heat pass through him again. The pavement feels like it’s tipping out from under his feet. A sharp pain pierces his left side and Stede hisses, holding himself tightly. It is the first place Izzy ever touched him. He doesn’t know why that matters as he takes a deep breath to focus on the portrait Izzy’s holding.

It is the portrait of a young man, about twenty or so, with deep, wary eyes and wild brown hair tied back in the formal style and dress of a naval officer. 

In that instant, Stede is sure of two things:

1, The painting hadn’t been there a moment ago.

2, The painting looks a hell of a lot like Izzy.

-

9am, Monday, 27th of February.

For the first time in many years, no one taps their pass to the card reader on the employee’s only entrance of the National Portrait Gallery and strides down the hall towards the conservation department. No lights come to life, no music is turned on, and no coffee is corralled within the ten foot dedicated space by the door. It is dark, quiet, and empty.

It feels wrong. 

It feels wrong, and yet, Izzy can’t bring himself to move from the sofa where he, Stede, and Edward have been sitting since last night, staring at the painting propped up on the coffee table. 

For hours they have gone around in circles, looking over every inch, trying to decipher its secrets. There is no name, no signature, not a scrap of provenance to be found. 

Together, they have decided it is of historical age, but haven’t been able to agree on much else. 

The sun has been up for hours. Stede is asleep and snoring softly on Izzy’s shoulder, but he can’t imagine resting in the face of shock. No, Izzy feels fucking wired as he tries not to flat out panic. 

He has been trying not to panic since it happened, and it doesn’t matter how many times he tells the story, it never makes more sense. 

Edward hums lightly to his other side and tugs a photo out of an old album, holding it up for reference against the canvas. It’s a photo of Izzy just after he moved to London, wearing his first leather jacket and throwing devil horns at the camera. He can’t be more than eighteen. In fact, he knows he was because that polaroid was taken by Edward towards the end of First Year outside a vintage kilo sale in the East End.

“Would you give it a rest?” he snaps and closes his eyes. 

“Not until you admit it looks like you,” Ed answers and the noise of the plastic album page crinkling makes Izzy want to lob the whole fucking thing across the room. Again. 

“It doesn’t look like me.”

“It really does, mate. The sooner you admit there’s something going on, the sooner we’ll be able to figure this out.” 

Izzy doesn’t understand how Edward can be so calm about this. How could he be so creeped out about the second painting, but now it’s Izzy turn it’s fine again? Fuck off. It isn’t fine. None of this is fine .

“What’s there to figure out unless someone is specifically doing this just to fuck with us, and if that’s the case I’m gonna rip their heads off.” 

“Does sound like a lot of work,” Edward agrees and turns another page. Crinkle, creak, crack. “Gotta respect the long game if that’s right.”

“Of course it’s not fucking right!”

He doesn’t mean to explode, but can’t help it. Stede jolts awake with a flailing arm before scrubbing his eyes with his fists.

“Any progress?” he asks, and Izzy wants to kick him off the couch.

“No,” Ed answers before laying his hand on Izzy’s thigh and turning to look at him. Really look at him. When he speaks, it is with the practiced command that makes Izzy go absolutely boneless. Weaponized perception. 

“Iz, we’ve been at this all bloody night. Let’s just accept it’s happening and move on. Just accept it’s you, man.”

“It’s not me.” 

“It could be you.”

“It could never be me.”

He is lying. 

It is the spitting fucking image of him and they all know it. What Izzy takes issue with, is the way the portrait seems to think it’s okay to air all his dirty fucking laundry all over the place. What Izzy takes issue with, is the completely unnecessary, completely bizarre way in which this has happened that doesn’t make any fucking sense.  

What Izzy takes issue with , is the bone deep, unavoidable feeling that something enormous is lurking under them all, ready to swallow the world up at any moment, and he is powerless to do anything about it.. 

This is it. He’s losing his fucking mind. He’s finally cracked. Edward’s already on the rocks, they can’t both be mad. It isn’t fair to Stede, it isn’t fair to any of them. He has to keep it together otherwise he’s gonna end up drooling in a cell somewhere, pissing his pants until he dies alone. Maybe he’ll just run off and curl up in a nest of rags on the street like that bloke by the river. 

Izzy Hands, a beggar on the streets of London. Wouldn’t that be so fucking rich. 

Sounds fucking awful, actually. 

His stomach hurts. 

He doesn't want to die, but he would like very much not to exist for a bit. 

Is that bad? Maybe. 

“What’s going on in there?” Stede asks and tugs Izzy over to lay his head on Stede’s lap. At this point, Izzy’s too tired to fight being manhandled or the gentle, rhythmic hand that starts petting his hair. Part of him hates that it makes him feel like a child. The rest of him is upset and needy enough to enjoy it. 

“I think I’m losing my mind,” he says after a moment of silence and tenses for whatever judgment may come. “Real, proper doolally.”

Stede gives a soft noise and continues to pet his hair. The air feels tense. He imagines it’s because the other two are watching each other, silently conversing about what size straight jacket he’ll need. Medium will do fine. 

“Doolally how?” Ed asks and Izzy tries not to flinch when his husband’s hand finds his hip. Izzy takes a breath and holds it as he watches the painting, then lets it out slowly. 

“Ever since that first painting arrived I’ve felt off. For some-” he searches for the word, “inexplicable reason. Like I had a connection to that painting. To the man. And then Stede turned up and it’s become so-. It doesn’t make any sense. Nothing about these paintings make sense.” 

“I agree,” Stede murmurs. “But you aren’t the only one, and it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I’ve been having some very strange dreams, and Edward’s paintings have been trying to tell him something.”

“Fuck knows what, though,” Edward says. “Wait, Iz, are you saying you’ve been seeing things?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ve seen.”

“All this time and you never said anything?”

“What was I gonna say, Ed? How was your day, mine was fine, I think I had a mental break and thought I was on a fucking sailing ship, shall we have chips for tea?” 

“Mate…”

Edward doesn’t sound mad. He doesn’t sound scared. He sounds disappointed, and that feels so, so much worse. Izzy feels himself getting ready to nose dive off the ledge of sanity into the great fucking void when Edward begins to laugh. 

It’s something near a giggle at first, but grows in volume and intensity until hysterics fill the room and shake the couch. It is manic. 

Izzy bites his lip for a moment before looking over, and the second they make eye contact is the seconds Ed bolts up from the seat and circles around to stand behind the coffee table. 

“I’ve figured it out,” he wheezes and slaps both his hands on the table’s glass surface, sending the painting onto its back. “Stede was right, Stede was fucking right, don’t you see it Izzy?!”

No. He doesn’t. He doesn’t see anything, but he does frown deeply and pull himself to sit upright. Glancing over, Stede looks less perplexed and more frightened. 

“What am I looking for, Edward?” For all Izzy’s skills, this isn’t one of them. 

“Us, man, us! Fuck- Stede said he had dreams about knowing each other in another life, right?”

“Something like that,” Stede admits and flinches when Izzy gives him a harsh look.

“It’s fate!” Edward insists and waves his arms. He looks wild as he paces back and forth. “I met Stede three times, there are three of us, there are three paintings, that’s how this all works!”

“Wait-” Izzy interjects and holds up his hands. “Are you honestly telling me you think these paintings are actually us.”

“Yeah man, I think they are! Why else would they find us?! Why else would they keep appearing the way they do- fuck, maybe it was that guy you met. Was that God? Did you meet God? Awuugh, I shoulda fucking come with!” 

Manic energy fills the entire room as Edward pieces everything together aloud. Izzy wonders if he ought to set up a corkboard and get a ball of red twine, but stays quiet as his husband connects things about his paintings, about the dreams he’s had, about the dreams Stede’s had. He coaxes Izzy into talking about the vision he’d experienced in the gallery before Sam showed up. About the unexplainable connections he’s felt with Ed and even Jack through the years. About feelings from the other paintings, last night, and that moment after dinner by the Thames. 

“I felt it, too,” Stede says, and touches his hip. “You know, I think past you may have stabbed past me at one point. I’m not sure I deserved it.” 

“I wouldn’t have stabbed you unless you did,” Izzy clips back.

“Agree to disagree.”

It is insane, it sounds insane , but try as Izzy might to justify the madness, it also doesn’t sound entirely wrong. There have been too many overlapping events. Too many bizarre instances of happenstance. 

It’s too much to think about. It’s too big. 

“Do you really believe all this?” Izzy asks Stede and is only half surprised when he nods. 

“I think we’ve done all of this before,” he says. “I think we’re meant to know each other, in one way or another, no matter what.”

“Like-” it sounds ridiculous to say. He can’t, but Edward can:

“Soulmates?”

“I don’t know,” Stede answers and looks between the two of them. “It does sound like that, doesn’t it.” 

“Right,” Izzy says abruptly and gets up. His joints scream from sitting on the couch all night. 

“Where are you going?” Edward asks and begins to follow. It’s a bit too fast for Izzy’s liking.

“I’m putting the fucking kettle on,” He answers and stalks out. I need to breathe , he means. 

I can’t fucking think!  

Izzy fills the kettle with filtered water and sets it to boil, then rests with his head and forearms on the kitchen counter. They’ve all fucking lost it for sure. Soulmates? That isn’t a real thing, and even if it were, three of them? How? Literally how?

Too many questions and possibilities present themselves in Izzy’s tired mind, and by the time the water’s hot, he thinks he might give up and ride his impending panic attack all the way to the kitchen floor. 

He doesn’t, he makes tea and piles it onto a tray to bring into the other room, but it’s very tempting. Something deep, deep down inside his chest poses the question that, if everything Stede and Edward were suggesting was true, would it be so bad?

Would it be so terrible to know your connection to someone was so strong that you were able to follow each other through death and out the other side? That it might always have been this way? That you might have lived a dozen lives together? A hundred? A hundred thousand? It is the stuff of poetry. The aspiration of every star in the night sky. Izzy still thinks it’s more likely they’ve all eaten something very off, but if it were true, if it were possible , he would be honored and humbled to have been chosen.

Perhaps it’s time he trimmed his thorns, afterall. 

Izzy returns to the lounge and sits, handing over cups of tea before taking one and sitting back to regard his painting with fresh eyes. 

Both Edward and Stede are watching him very closely, and whilst it’s annoying, he understands. 

Sapere aude, He thinks and takes a sip from his mug, a breath, and then decides to get on with it. 

“Bit of damage on the corners,” he says, and moves himself into the mindset of any other job. “The way the cracking pulls suggests it was painted on British canvas. We ought to get it flat and on the heat table before we have a go at the colors, and there’s a shedload of overpaint on that hand where it meets the sword.”

Just like that, the world makes a little bit more sense. 

“Do you think I could have a go with the filling putty?” Stede dares to ask excitedly and Izzy scoffs. 

“Not a chance in Hell.”

Stede pouts. Izzy doesn’t even need to look over to know he’s doing it. God, fucking fine . 

“You can help me clean it though, yeah?” 

He feels better having a plan. It’s the only way Izzy can hope to grasp some sense of control over his wildly filipendulous life. They agree a short nap, and once they wake, they’ll go into the office to get started.

-

As it turns out, a small nap means several hours, and it’s half past two by the time they wake and trundle into the office. Ed feels like a fire has been lit in his bones, consuming the marrow to make room for all the chaotic mysticism that seems hellbent to consume them. 

He doesn’t believe in things like God, but if he did, this would be the time to look upwards and scream. Remind him on the next full moon, who knows what might happen. 

Izzy and Stede immediately set to cleaning the painting, and Ed watches with fascination as he tries to guess what Previous Izzy might have been like. 

“With a getup like that you might’ve been important, I reckon,” he says. “And that is a good ponytail.”

“Ponytail’s got fuck all to do with anything,” Izzy grunts as he rolls cotton swabs. 

“You looked great with a ponytail in uni.”

“Obviously, but also has nothing to do with anything.” 

“He has a clean face, though,” Stede pipes up. “That does tell us something.”

“Oh?” Ed asks, awash with wonder as he watches his two favorite people work in collaboration. For all their bitching, they sure do get along when they want to.

“Well, polite society deemed clean cheeks,” Stede explains. “Your portrait is the outlier there. A beard, the leather, you must have been a real rebel.”

“You did say you thought we were pirates,” Ed says, and feels even more wistful before he remembers the depths of sorrow and fear in his visions. “I’m not sure my guy was that great. Feels a bit, I dunno. Uncomfy.”

“Life was hard back then,” Izzy says without looking up. “I don’t wanna know what would happen if you lost your telly programs.”

“Don’t ever threaten me about losing my ladies,” Ed warns, but doesn’t really mean it. 

Stede perks with alarm before looking at Izzy who murmurs Golden Girls . It’s American.

“I’m not ashamed,” Ed says. “I’ll fight anyone. Izzy’s Dorothy, you’re definitely Rose, Stede.”

“I do like roses,” Stede answers and Ed snorts with laughter. 

“Such a fuckin Rose thing to say.”

Izzy looks up and arches an eyebrow but says nothing. They’ve had this conversation before. Fuckin’ Dorothy move, right there. 

“Maybe I was a pirate,” Ed continues and gets back on track, musing aloud as the other two work. “And Izzy, maybe you were the prick Navy captain chasing me. Maybe Stede was your wealthy benefactor, bent on my sexy capture.”

Izzy scoffs as he dips a swab into cleaning solution and begins to guide Stede’s hand. 

“Doubtful.”

“Why? You were clearly in the Navy.”

“Because in that thing I had I know was first mate.”

“Yeah, on a Navy vessel.”

Izzy seems to consider it, but looks like he’s chewed on something bitter and shakes his head. 

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh come off it and admit you don’t know what you’re on about, you just don’t like the idea of working for The Man.”

Izzy gives him a filthy look and Ed knows he’s fucking right. Or hit a nerve. Or something. Curious.

“Why does that bother you?” Stede asks, and it isn’t until Ed’s seeing it from the outside that he makes the connection. 

“Oh shit, because Sam’s in the army.”

Izzy flinches and Ed knows he was right about the nerve thing. 

“Fuck mate, forget it, okay? Doesn’t matter.” 

If Ed was getting told he was like his dick brother in another life he would fucking lose it. Izzy presses his lips thin but doesn’t answer until he’s dipped and used another swab. 

“It was almost me,” he says, and it’s so small that Ed nearly misses it. His hearing isn’t too great these days. 

“What?”

“It was almost me,” Izzy says again, louder and full of vitriol. “Before I knew you, before I left, when everything was shit? That was my option. It was dying, running, or joining the armed forces.”

Ed knows Izzy chose to run. He knows Izzy squirreled away money for ages, then emptied his parent’s pocketbooks and fled like a thief in the night, just like he knows Izzy orchestrated it all to fall in time with uni halls opening so he didn’t have to live rough for too long once he got there. Pretty clever actually, to give the man some credit. He probably would have been a decent soldier with his hard-on for authority and rules. But then they never would have met, and Ed can’t think about a world where someone else got to have Izzy over him. 

“Back then, I think the only place you could run to was the sea,” Stede says out of nowhere. “It was lawless. Half the attraction of piracy was people being able to do whatever they wanted. Finding a new family at sea. Crafting new lives for themselves.”

Ed doesn’t think that sounds half bad. Sounds pretty fucking great, actually. He taps his fingers on the worktable a few times as he thinks. 

“I’ve done a bit of reading,” Stede says, and Ed isn’t surprised in the least. What a dork. He loves Stede so much. 

They spend the rest of the day like this, lounging and thinking and posing questions that are impossible to answer as they work on the portrait. There isn’t too much to do, and by the end of the day it’s repaired and drying for Ed to retouch tomorrow. Stirling work, as always. 

By the time they get home, all of them are exhausted. They order chinese, eat it half asleep, and pass out long before usual, curled together as one single unit.

Ed wakes, he thinks, sometime mid morning but the air is thick and hazy. He’s already dressed and sitting in a leather chair with a high back and a smoldering pipe in his hand. Confused, he lifts it to his nose and sniffs but it’s just tobacco as far as he can tell. Somewhere behind him a door opens, and he knows before he even looks that it’s Izzy. 

“You are not gonna fucking believe what’s just happaned,” his husband says, and Ed can’t help but notice the outrage in his voice. It’s the most exciting thing to happen in fucking days. 

“Go on,” he answers without answering and the voice feels like an echo, eyes tracking his hand in slow motion as he takes a drag of his pipe and exhales. The smoke is thick as fog, rolling, rolling, rolling out. He is so bored. He is so fucking bored.  

The conversation shifts, time is meaningless, he smokes and watches the shreds of fabric blocking his tilted windows. The room, he realizes in something like a drunken stupor, is tilting. No, swaying. 

They’re on a ship. 

“Oh Edward,” Izzy whines, “Can’t we just send the boys?” 

“No,” he answers and has already lost the point of the conversation. What were they talking about? Someone? Who- Where’s Stede? He can’t breathe. Something heavy is on his chest and he can’t breathe. The floor falls out from under them, through fluttering lengths of brightly colored silk and thick, black tar. 

When he finds footing again, it’s on an island. Stede is there. They’re kissing. 

Then he blinks, and he’s on a dock under the full moon. Alone. 

Pain, swift and cold, clouds everything. Loss, bitter and sharp as horehound and citrus, drains him of everything left. There is nothing. He is back on the ship and begging for it all to end. All the armor that became skin, became flesh, became bone, fails. Armor in the shape of a thousand things. In the shape of a bleeding heart on black canvas. In the shape of a bleeding foot and gore cut from fealty. In the shape of an empty, rolling jar of marmalade - helpless against the rocking of the ship. 

The jar travels on its side along the vast, empty expanse of a room and clinks against the wooden wall as they lean hard to port. The water, laughing and dark and endless, sends them back the other way and the little jar reverses its journey to the other side. Over and over again. 

Roll, tink. 

Roll, tink. 

Roll, tink-

-Stopped, for the last time by the heel of a heavy boot smashing it to smithereens. 

Ed wakes with a gasp and sits bolt upright. His hair is wild and stuck all over his sweaty skin. It feels disgusting, and the last traces of his dream make peeling his hair into a bun feel like he’s self-flagellating some horrible vestige of sin he didn’t commit. 

Didn’t he?

He doesn’t know. 

But he knows he can barely breathe, gasping for breath and detangling himself from the duvet to pitch forward and press his face into the cool cotton at the foot of the bed. 

He knows it’s not a moment before a hand finds his back and he jumps. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” Stede says, and he wishes it were. 

Ed gives a horrible, pitiful whine and refuses to relax. 

“I had a dream,” he manages and feels so weak for admitting it. It’s just a bad dream, who cries about having a bad dream!? Not him. 

Maybe him. 

“So did I,” Stede says. “About you. It was horrible.” 

That’s the only reason Ed allows Stede to pull him into his lap. That’s the only reason he tells him. Because Stede had one, too. Because he isn’t alone. Because this is bigger than all of them. 

“What was that?” He hears Stede ask, but he hadn’t said anything. 

“I said, so did I,” Izzy says, and clears the sleep from his throat. 

Gently, slowly, Stede coaxes Ed to lay back down. He feels sick. He feels dizzy. 

“I don’t think we were good people,” he whispers aloud and hates the way it sounds. 

“No,” Stede agrees. 

“We were awful to each other,” Izzy adds and it hurts like a knife to the ribs. 

“But,” Stede again. Ed can hear his voice shaking. Feel his hands shaking. They’re all about to fucking lose it, aren’t they? “I think we had good hearts. And I think we can do better this time.”

Ed takes a wet breath and nods. He has never understood the meaning of a double edged sword more than he does right now. 

They lay there for a long time, pressed close as they breathe and collect their minds. The dream they had was shared in complete, he finds as they discuss bits and pieces. Somewhere in the distance, Ed swears he can still hear that jar rolling around. 

They get up, shower, and go out the door. 

Izzy and Ed steal kisses from Stede and turn off towards the gallery while Stede carries on towards his own. Opening night is getting closer and closer, now. Pretty soon they’ll be up to their eyeballs with fancy art pricks living their best lives at Stede’s whim. Ed thinks it’s neat, the way Stede will pick something insane and jump in with both feet. Coming to London, dating them, starting his business. He doesn’t know anything, but he’s out there making it happen. A lunatic with a dream, a fat wad of cash, and more confidence than you could ever beat out of a man. It’s inspirational, really. It’s original. It’s so rare to find anyone out here doing anything original these days. 

Together, he and Izzy descend into the belly of the museum and open the door. They flick on the light and their music, Izzy offers to get the coffee for once, and Ed takes his place at his easel. 

The portrait is waiting, watching him with the same sharp scowl that Izzy’s always had. It’s odd to see him so young, again. It’s odd to see him clean shaven and dressed up proper, but the longer he looks, the longer he knows deep in his bones that it is Izzy. That this happened for a reason. 

Ed maps out his plan of action and begins pulling colors from his pigment chest. He grabs the usual and then selects a nice raw umber, gold ochre, and Payne’s grey, before going back for just a hint of emerald to bring a spark to the ring in the man’s cravat.

Just like Izzy , Ed thinks, and shakes his head with a laugh. It’s so fucking obvious.

Carefully, he dabs and mixes the pigment on his palette. Carefully, he chooses an easy win to get started. Carefully, wets his brush and sets to work. 

This isn’t just restoring a portrait. Ed is restoring real, physical proof of their existence. It is proof that they belong together. That everything that’s ever happened to them, happened for a reason. He’s always liked the idea of fate. Not, like, someone telling him what to do, hate that shit with a vengeance, but the idea that something larger has his back when the infinity of existence is so fucking vast and ineffable. 

He breathes in, and a thick fog crawls up the back of his neck, over his head, and into his eyes and mouth. 

He breathes out, and presses pigment into the careful, flat patchwork by Izzy’s own hand. 

Ed works smoothly, guided by a career’s worth of knowledge and a universe’s worth of instinct. The skin, the hair, the background all come back to life piece by piece. 

Hello, old friend, Ed thinks to himself. I’ve missed you. You look well, my love.

“Iz-” Ed calls without thinking and doesn’t look up from his work. Izzy doesn’t answer, but he hears his husband’s chair roll back, and the unmistakable sound of his boots crossing the floor and he comes close to stand over Ed’s shoulder. 

“He looks nice,” Izzy says after a moment. 

Ed looks up with a smile and purses his lips for a kiss, given easily and upside down. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too, Edward.” 

God, that feels nice. He smiles and goes back to work. Izzy stays and watches for a bit while he muddles Payne’s grey into the rich shadows and sky. 

It suits Izzy, he thinks. Payne’s grey is is a workhorse. It’s dramatic, it’s elegant, and has the secret ability to enrich the depth of any other shade without marring the color. Sort of, Ed muses, how Izzy’s presence enriches the lives of everyone around him, one way or another. 

They kiss once more and Izzy excuses himself. 

“I hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go,” Ed purrs after him and delights in the cheeky wink and middle finger he gets in return. They go back to work in comfortable silence, listening to The Oh Hellos. Something modern for a change. It’s nice. 

When Ed’s finished, there is a strong, handsome man looking back at him, and he lays down his brush to scrub his eyes with the heels of his hands. The rich sunlight streaming in from behind suggests it’s well past noon. Ed stands from his chair, works his stiff knee, and stretches loudly with his hands up over his head. He feels good.

Nothing has compelled him to fling paint across the walls and scream. Nothing has dragged him into a current and pushed him down. There’s a sense of judgment in the face of the portrait, that is true, but knowing Izzy the way Ed knows him, it’s easy to transfer the notion to coming from a place of adoration. Izzy isn’t perfect. He’s bossy and nosy and has so many ideas about who and what Ed should be, but he knows it comes from a place of concern. From a place of love. 

It’s hard to be annoyed about someone loving you to the ends of the earth and back. It’s hard to be annoyed about someone loving you so much that they’ll follow you into another life just to do it all again. 

Maybe, Ed thinks, Portrait Izzy is just cross because he hasn’t met Portrait Ed yet, and hasn’t learned the meaning of a good time. Yeah , he thinks and saunters across the room to fish a snack out of their very fancy snack drawer. That’s why.

By the time they leave for the day, Izzy has made and mounted the portrait into a frame and wrapped it up for transport. It feels weird to be taking paintings in and out of the place all the time, but it’s not like they belong in the museum, these are private collection. Seems a shame, though. Him and Izzy being at home with Stede stuck upstairs alone in the gallery. 

Ah, well. What can he do?

It’s a thought that passes quickly as they head back to help Stede get his shit together for the big opening in a few day’s time. 

Time that passes very quickly, as it turns out. 

Between their normal office hours all the extra shit, Ed is exhausted by the time Gallery Revenge opens on the 4th of March. They spend all bloody day setting up and Stede is so high strung he’s almost impossible to be around. 

Bless that boy Lucius for dealing with it all. The guy looks ragged as he runs after Stede trying to put out fire after fire. 

Come 7pm, all the paintings are hung but covered and waiting for a special reveal. The fancy chandeliers are lit, the even fancier little cakes are being passed around, there’s champagne, live music, and guests pouring in through the door. 

Stede and Lucius are wearing white suits, which, good for them. Izzy is wearing his black one and Ed? Well it seems a shame to own a purple, satin jazz getup and not wear it to a fancy posh art party at a fancy, posh gallery owned by the guy he sleeps with every night. He’s got satin spats and everything. 

Ed watches as Izzy sticks a small card onto the front window and backs out to read it, laughing wildly at the bold, cramped writing: 

No Admittance to Nigel Badminton

(Fuck off)

It’s perfect, and Ed immediately comes back inside to show Stede. 

Come to think of it, he hasn’t seen Stede in a while. That’s weird, his party is about to start. Jim hasn’t seen him and neither has Oluwande, who points him towards Lucius - currently fucking about with a stack of papers and looking very stressed. When asked, he flaps his hand towards the back, and Ed lets himself through to the office. 

The place is a mess. Packing papers are strewn all around amongst stacks of boxed canapes, grates of hired glasses, and bottles of wine. There, with his eyes crushed closed and fists balled tight, is Stede. 

“Hey,” Ed says softly as he approaches, not wanting to spook him. “Are you alright back here? Party’s starting.”

Stede opens one eye before closing it again. 

“I just need a minute,” comes the strained answer and, oh. He sees what’s happened. 

“Nervous?”

“A little.”

“First time’s always the worst, but It looks fucking incredible out there, mate. Izzy and I are right here with you. Take a deep breath.”

Ed sets his hands on Stede’s shoulders and the man lets out the breath he’d been holding, immediately deflating and pressing his face to Ed’s shoulder. What else is there to do but bring him close? Maybe give the top of his head a few kissies. 

“Stede, you’ve got this. Let’s go show all those rich pricks who the new king in town is, huh?”

“Who’s the new king?”

“You are, mate. Stede fucking Bonnet, yeaaah!”

Ed laughs brightly and shakes his boyfriend by the shoulders until Stede caves and relaxes. 

“Okay,” he says after taking a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

Their fingers lace and squeeze, holding for a moment before he follows Stede to the front. Stede nods to Lucius who signals the music to stop and clings a crystal glass for attention. 

“Honored guests,” he calls and Ed can’t help but smile. This is so naff and he’s eating it right up alongside everyone else. “Please allow me to introduce the host of this evening. Cream of The Caribbean, luxury curator of Gallery Revenge, Stede Bonnet!”

There is a polite round of applause and Stede steps out, hands up in welcome. He gives a nice speech that Ed doesn’t totally take in, welcoming them and explaining the mission of their premier pieces. All one of a kind, all local. Like a conductor, he holds up his hands.

Dramatic string music fills the air as the hired quartet move into action. The lights dim, catching the cut crystal of the chandeliers and throwing sparkling prisms over the space. 

“Three,” Ed can hear Stede whispering, “Two, one-”  

Stede gives a wide gesture of action and all at once the cream, silk drapes on the walls go flying across and into the ceiling on wires, a manic reveal in perfect, criss-crossing formation. It’s ridiculous, but it’s fascinating, and feels a bit like magic. The guests laugh and cheer, the lights and music crescendo before pulling back again, and everyone spreads out to take stock of the art on display. 

It’s hard not to whoop and holler with glee. Fuckin’ incredible. 

“I was wondering where those went,” Ed says as slides up to Stede’s side and nods towards the right where several of his pilfered pieces have been hung. 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I needed them. They’re only for sale if you want them to be.”

“See what offers you get. Nothing silly,” Ed answers and looks around. He hasn’t seen any of the art, come to think of it. There’s a whole bit with Izzy’s watercolors, hung as far away from Ed’s work as possible. Given space and nothing loud in competition, he supposes they look quite serene. 

“Oh, and look at this,” Stede says suddenly and takes Ed by the arm, leading him over to his own work to point at the artist’s bio mounted on the wall. 

“What is that?” he asks and squints at the photo where his headshot should be. 

“I took that. When you said we’d met three times I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what the first one was, but then I remembered you said something about a bus. I had some film developed and found this. Quite striking, isn’t it? Very mysterious.”

Ed leans closer to get a look. Half of the picture is white, blown out from a flash hitting something shiny. Beyond that is the blurry shape of a building and there, just by the door, is the figure of a man, head obscured by a cloud of smoke. 

It’s him. He remembers it with perfect clarity: standing outside having a cigarette and seeing the bus go by. Taking stock of the passengers as he blew clouds into the air. He remembers the flash going off, seeing Stede and thinking of the portrait, how badly his knee had hurt after trying to chase him down. 

“Fuck me, Stede. I love it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I look like a ghost. Look, my head’s made of smoke.”

“Have you seen the state of that quartet?” Izzy asks suddenly as he appears at Stede’s other side. “Where did you find them, a skip?”

Just like that, the moment breaks. Ed looks at the picture a moment longer before glancing over at the musicians in question. They don’t seem wrong or anything, and he has to wonder if Izzy is just looking for a fight because he’s nervous, too. That wouldn’t be unusual. Izzy really wants this to go well for Stede. Ed does, too. 

“Nonsense, Izzy. There’s nothing wrong with electric strings,” Stede says in defense. 

“If Schubert heard Death and the Maiden played like that he’d roll over in his fucking grave.”

“It’s perfect,” Stede insists. Yeah, Ed thinks, time to put a stop to this.

“Hey Iz,” he says, and nods to the wall opposite where Izzy’s paintings are hanging. “Have you seen? They look good.” 

Izzy turns, and it’s absolutely fucking incredible to watch the look on his face as he sees his work hung in public for the first time in a decade. Maybe longer, Ed’s never really kept track of that stuff. Maybe he should. There are people gathered all around the little pictures and Oluwande speaking with a few of them, smiling as he gestures. 

In real time, with his real eyes, Ed watches as the man produces a small sheet of round, gold stickers and places one on the title card of three separate pieces.

“Fuck off,” Izzy breathes and Ed reaches to squeeze his hand. Izzy takes it like a vice but he doesn’t mind. It feels good to feel good about his husband’s work. Fuckin’, imagine that. He’s never tried before. He should try more often. He will try more often. 

“Well, would you look at that,” Stede says excitedly and claps them both on the shoulder. It reminds Ed that this isn’t just a win for Izzy, it's a win for Stede, and that makes it a win for all of them. Shit, that feels good. 

“Should I go and talk to them?” Izzy asks. It’s probably a good idea. Meet the artist and all, you know. The uszhe. Stede shakes his head no.

“In a bit if you like, but first I want to show you two something really, really special.”  

Stede loops his arms around them both, and turns them around to face the back wall. There, behind the till and sitting pride of place under the large, gold letters of the gallery’s name, are three portraits. 

“Holy shit, Stede,” Ed breathes and steps forward to place his hands on the cash desk. He can’t stop looking at them. Izzy on the left, Ed on the right, and Stede right there in the middle. 

“How the fuck did you manage that?” Izzy asks and Ed can hear the horror in his husband’s voice mix with unmistakable awe. It feels like being in a dream. It feels like being somewhere holy. Actually holy, not regular holy. The paintings are all the same size even, how had he not noticed that before?

“It was quite easy, really,” Stede chirps, sounding extremely proud of himself. And, to be fair, he has every right. 

“Royalty again?” 

Ed doesn’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean, but Stede seems to and chuckles as he shakes his head. 

“They drove a hard bargain but, as it turns out, even museums will sell a piece on occasion. Especially if there’s no artist and it’s not particularly special.”

“It’s special,” Ed says without thinking. “They have no idea how special it is. I can’t believe they sold it to you.” His head is spinning. Seeing them all together like this is incredible. More than incredible it’s-

It’s right. 

It’s meant. 

“I can be very convincing, and it was worth it,” Stede says with absolute certainty. “We should be together.” 

Ed couldn’t have said it better, himself. 

The world soulmate rolls from side to side between Ed’s ears. He hasn’t been able to let go of the thought since Stede said it. It’s a big, wishy-washy concept but he has to admit that it’s gripped him tight. He’s scrolled through mountains of words on the subject. Most of it’s trash, but one theory has stuck:

The theory that said soulmates are made of the particles and energy created during the Big Bang. Those little bits of element and matter that sat next to each other when existence came to be and were blown apart by cosmic winds before finding life. Because there’s a finite amount of energy in the cosmos, those particles move, they become different things, their current forms die, they’re reborn, they die again, but they’re still the same stuff. They’re still the same bits of stardust. 

Finding your soulmates is the reunion of those particles. After long, long last, your bits are all back together where you were when you were made. It’s science. It makes sense. 

Everything, for the first time ever maybe, makes sense. 

“Promise me something,” Ed says suddenly and forces himself to look away from the paintings to focus on the living men incarnate. “Promise me it’s always gonna be this way, yeah? No matter what happens, we’ll find each other again. That we’ll always come home to each other where we belong.” 

It’s a big ask, but he has to. There’s no other option. 

“I promise,” Izzy answers first without any hesitation. 

“I promise,” Stede echoes. 

“I promise,” Ed finishes, and it feels right. 

A pulse of something hot rolls through his chest and Ed can see the others feel it, too. He reaches out and takes their hands, not caring about anyone watching. They don’t matter. None of them matter. The only thing that matters is the right here and the right now of infinite return. 

His hands feel hot, but warm and safe in the grasp of his partners’.

They stand there for a long moment, saying nothing and everything at the same time. 

When the heat passes and they break the chain, his hands tingle and he knows without any doubt that no amount of actual separation will break them from each other. 

It isn’t a chain, it’s a ring. A ring they all wear. A ring they are all a part of. 

After that, the party passes in snapshots of clinking glasses, gold stickers, laughter, and warm embrace. The opening is a success, everyone is satisfied, and by the end of the night it’s just them and their paintings, staring back as proof that incredible things really can happen to men like them. 

The feeling of knowing comes back to rest and fill Ed’s chest. He exhales hard before breathing deep to let it in. He isn’t scared anymore. He knows what it is:

It’s the familiar feeling of a freight train, that unstoppable force, that impossible riptide. 

It’s knowing that feeling and letting it in with complete surrender, catching the sensation and gripping tight as it becomes a blooming surge of relief. 

It’s knowing that Impossible Thing isn’t something to fight, it’s something to grab on to and hold tight as they take each other through to the next pass. 

Ed can feel it, now. He feels the connection of it all. He feels the absolute certainty of knowing they will, no matter what, find each other again. 

Of a promise made a thousand times across a thousand lives, renewed on each and every pass. 

Be it in pigment, blood, or dazzling stardust, they will always come home to each other.