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Izzy is lurking on deck, watching the crew pretend to work and brainstorming threats to use when he goes over there to yell at them, when Ed calls out to him. ‘Izzy! Been looking everywhere for you.’
Izzy doubts that. Still, he finds himself standing at attention. ‘Captain. What do you need?’
‘I need your help,’ Ed says. Izzy doubts that even more. ‘I’m planning a fuckery!’
Izzy wonders if this is some stupid new game invented by Bonnet, where the objective is to say things that are blatantly untrue.
‘What for?’ Izzy rolls his eyes. ‘We don’t even raid anymore. There’s no need for fuckery.’
‘It’s more important than a raid, mate,’ Ed says, his dark eyes serious. Against Izzy’s best wishes, something in his chest flutters as he’s pinned under that intense stare. Instead of stalking off like he knows he should, he finds himself rooted in place, waiting to hear what Ed has to say next. ‘Stede’s sick, as you know.’
Izzy hadn’t known, actually, but it certainly explains why he’s been having such a good week. He’d assumed that Stede had been holed up in his cabin with Ed, the two of them being disgustingly in love, talking about silks and tea and whatever other frivolities Stede had used in order to ruin Blackbeard. The image of Stede, sick and miserable and bedridden, cheers him up almost instantly.
‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything, Captain.’
‘There’s that party in the Republic of Pirates a few nights from now,’ Ed says. ‘Stede really wanted to go, but now he can’t, ‘cause he’s sick.’
‘Tragic.’
‘And then I thought, what if he doesn’t have to miss out?’ Ed stares at Izzy like he’s waiting for him to collapse in awe of his genius. Izzy stares back, unimpressed, until Ed huffs and says, ‘How do you think we’d go about that? Making sure Stede doesn’t miss out even though he’s stuck in bed?’
Izzy can’t even pretend to care about this conversation. ‘I don’t know.’
Ed rolls his eyes. ‘Come on, man, use some fucking imagination. Give me something.’
‘I don’t know, you— you go and then tell him how it went?’
‘Exactly!’ Ed claps his hands together. ‘You and I go—’
‘I said you go—’
‘— together, pretend to be a couple, and then report the whole thing back to Stede the morning after.’
Izzy likes being a pirate. It’s a simple life: there’s structure, and communication is easy. It’s either direct orders barked across deck, or simple-minded jokes told in the mess hall to try and distract from the unappealing food. In contrast, talking to Ed — or anyone else on the Revenge, really — makes him want to bash his head in.
‘That makes no sense, Captain,’ he says, which really is the politest thing he can manage in the moment.
Ed sighs deeply, like Izzy is the one being unreasonable. ‘Party. Need to go. You come with me, as my boyfriend. We report back to Stede. What’s so fucking hard to understand?’
Izzy speaks very slowly, how he imagines one might speak to a child. ‘I don’t see why we have to pretend to be a couple. Why can’t you just go to the party yourself?’
‘Well, ‘cause that’s the fuckery,’ Ed shrugs. ‘Plus Stede wanted to go and do couple-y things there. We gotta give him the full experience; I’m not just gonna half-ass it.’
‘The fuckery,’ Izzy repeats, ‘is us… going to the Republic of Pirates, full of people who know us already, where we pretend to be boyfriends, so that you can tell your actual boyfriend all about the party later?’
His voice is loud enough to carry. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Frenchie and Black Pete’s heads snap up to watch him and Ed. Fuck.
‘Yeah,’ Ed says, an infuriating little half-smile on his face. ‘Glad you’ve finally caught up, man.’
‘Edward, this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,’ Izzy says. ‘Besides— Bonnet has an entire crew of fucking idiots that would trip over themselves to go with you. Can’t you take one of them?’
‘Nah, it’d take too much planning,’ Ed waves his hand, dismissive. ‘It’s easier for you to go with me— it’ll be like old times, remember?’
Izzy does remember. It was a stupid thing they’d do when they were younger; drunk, stumbling around Port Royal arm-in-arm and wearing each other’s jewellery, pretending to be a couple. Sometimes it was to get into an exclusive bar, or to get someone’s attention, or to claim a couple’s discount being offered somewhere. Izzy never cared about the reason, happy enough to have Ed’s arm around his shoulders or his waist, Ed’s breathy laughter in his ear. Back then, it had been enough.
He feels sick at the idea of doing it now, for Bonnet’s benefit.
‘Can’t I just go as your first mate?’ Izzy asks, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.
‘No, man, weren’t you listening? It’s for the authenticity! Anyway, I gotta go. Come find me later, we’ll talk more about it.’ Ed gives him an infuriatingly cheery little wave as he wanders off across the deck.
Black Pete and Frenchie shuffle closer. Izzy counts backwards from ten.
Frenchie opens his mouth.
‘If you two don’t get to work right now,’ Izzy snarls, ‘I’ll tell Roach you ate the last of the cake that was supposed to be for the captains.’
Frenchie shuts his mouth.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Izzy snaps.
Lucius is leaning against the ship’s rail, dispassionately hitting it with a small hammer at irregular intervals. He’s fixated on Black Pete, repairing a sail a few metres away.
Lucius reluctantly turns his gaze to Izzy and says, ‘I’m working.’
‘You’re putting dents in the railing!’ Izzy says, voice rising until he's almost shouting. ‘If you can’t make yourself useful, Mister Spriggs, I’ll have you thrown in the brig. Are we clear?’
Lucius doesn’t even blink. ‘Mm, yeah, sure. Are you gonna do that before or after your little date with Ed?’
‘I’d recommend focusing on being useful to your captains, instead of worrying about things that don’t concern you.’ Izzy says through gritted teeth.
‘I’m just saying,’ Lucius continues, as if Izzy hadn’t spoken, ‘putting me in the brig takes a lot of energy. You might want to save that for Ed, if you catch my drift.’
‘Just— get back to work!’
Lucius picks the hammer up again, apparently content to continue staring at Pete.
Izzy is called into the captain’s cabin a few days later. They’re making preparations to dock in the Republic of Pirates, and Izzy really should be on deck with the rest of the crew. But, as usual, no one else seems to care about the functioning of the ship, least of all its captains.
Stede is laying in bed, looking pathetic. He’s pale and sweaty, surrounded by a truly repulsive number of pillows, drowning in heavy-looking blankets. He looks like a little lordling, wasting away in his castle, rather than a pirate captain with a cold.
When Stede speaks, his voice is nasally and thick. ‘Thank you for agreeing to this, Izzy.’
Izzy lip curls in disgust. He used to be a real pirate, once, and now the biggest adventure he’s going on is attending a fucking party. ‘For the record, I didn’t agree. I think this is the stupidest idea you two have had so far, which is a fucking marvel considering the track record you’ve got.’
Stede chuckles, and then immediately dissolves into a coughing fit. Ed, sitting on the edge of the bed, holds out a teacup. Stede drinks from it gratefully, and Ed pats his knee. Izzy wants to upend the contents of the teacup over them and then smash it on the floor.
Ed turns to look at him once Stede’s calmed down. There’s an amused twinkle in his eye that Izzy hasn’t seen in a long, long time. ‘You didn’t have to agree. You’re not refusing a direct order from your captain, are you?’
As if he could. As if Izzy is capable of anything but obediently trailing after him, indulging every stupid whim, regardless of the personal cost. Ed could ask him to cut off a finger, and Izzy would ask which one long before he even thought to say no.
Which leaves him in situations like this, where he’s going to be forced to suffer through some stupid evening full of people he can’t stand, pretending to be Ed’s boyfriend in some unnecessary, convoluted plan. Edward Teach has no regard for anyone’s feelings but his own, and yet Izzy is stupid enough to follow him anyway.
It was different, before — when it had just been the two of them, inseparable. When it had been Ed-and-Izzy instead of Ed-and-Stede. Back then, it had been easy to imagine that it was real, even for a moment; that Ed’s smiles and casual affection meant something. Inevitably, Ed’s attention would latch onto something newer and shinier and more exciting, and Izzy would be alone again. Eventually, Ed would get bored and come back to him, and Izzy told himself it was enough.
He really thought Stede was going to be the same; another short-term distraction that Ed would eventually get bored with. But they’ve been here for months, now, and Ed is — different. He’s quieter, and happier, and more relaxed than Izzy has ever seen him. He’s realised by now that Stede is not, in fact, going away. He’s somehow managed to win Ed’s heart, and the frustration of it all is almost enough to drive Izzy to insanity. He’s spent years trailing after Ed, trying to be exactly what he needs, waiting to be noticed, and Stede fucking Bonnet managed it in a matter of weeks. As if that isn’t betrayal enough, now he’ll have to surrender this: Ed’s arm in his, Ed pulling him in by the waist, Ed’s quiet laugher as he leans in to kiss Izzy’s cheek. All of it a performance for Bonnet.
‘Why am I here?’ he asks, when it becomes apparent that Ed isn’t going to do anything other than fuss over Stede.
‘The party’s tonight,’ Ed says, like it’s obvious.
When he’s not busy devoting his entire life to Ed, Izzy would actually quite like to strangle him. ‘It’s hours away. We’re docking now.’
Ed rolls his eyes. ‘The crew will be fine for ten minutes. You need to learn to relax, mate. Anyway, Stede mentioned we should probably figure out our story.’
‘Our story?’ Izzy is at a loss. Stede opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, and is immediately overcome with another coughing fit. Izzy is forced to watch as Ed frets over Stede again, going so far as to hold the teacup when he drinks from it. When he’s done with the tea, Ed readjusts the blankets and cards his hand through Stede’s hair until he settles again.
Izzy is old friends now with raw, aching jealousy. He’s felt it so often throughout the years, watching helplessly as Ed pursues someone else when Izzy is right there, that he barely registers it anymore. To be Ed’s first mate means to have his heart ripped out over and over again.
What he can’t stomach is the indignity of it all. It would be an easier pill to swallow if Stede was, at least, worthy. If he were some accomplished pirate, quick-witted and smart and successful. Instead, Stede is a bumbling idiot who can barely keep his ship afloat, who can’t handle life at sea when he’s not being coddled through it, who’s laid low by a common fucking cold. Izzy has spent years by Ed’s side, steadfast and unflinching, and this is what he lost Ed to.
‘You know,’ Ed says, waving his hand vaguely, ‘how we met, how long we’ve been together. That sort of thing. It’s what makes the fuckery exciting.’
‘Edward, we’re going to an event full of people who already know us. We can’t make up a fake story. They’ll see right through it.’
‘I guess,’ Ed says, and Izzy sees the way he deflates, the slight slump to his shoulders. Stede watches both of them, silent, but Izzy can feel the judgment radiating from him. It’s a miracle the others can’t see it — they all think of Stede as some affable, well-meaning idiot, but Izzy knows the truth. Stede is incredibly bitchy and passive-aggressive, and Izzy can’t stand it.
‘We met fifteen years ago,’ he says, and Ed’s head snaps up to look at him, ‘when the ship I was on was boarded by pirates. We fought, and I was good enough at it that you convinced me to join Hornigold’s crew, so I did. We— got together, I don’t know, while planning the mutiny against Hornigold to install you as captain. We’ve been together since.’
It’s close enough to the truth that it’ll be easy to remember, and Ed can embellish it however he likes.
Stede gives him a considering look. ‘A clever story.’
‘Shut the fuck up, Bonnet.’
Ed’s face has broken out into a smile. ‘Sounds perfect, Iz.’
‘Yes, truly, I—’
‘Don’t strain your throat too much, love,’ Ed coos, fussing with the pillows and pressing his hand against Stede’s forehead. Izzy feels cold; the brief moment of Ed’s admiration lost, so that he can go back to playing nanny for the most useless man Izzy’s ever met. Privately, Izzy hopes that Stede does them all a favour and succumbs to fever during the night.
They don’t notice when he leaves.
Ed doesn’t emerge from the captain’s cabin until they’ve docked. The sun is quickly dropping below the horizon and most of the crew are relaxing on deck, chatting amicably about the upcoming event. Surprisingly, they’re working out a schedule amongst themselves so that they can take turns going into town while others stay on the ship and keep watch. Izzy, reluctant to admit that he’s impressed with the forethought and efficiency, stands far enough away that he can at least pretend he can’t hear them.
‘Izzy!’ Ed grins. The entire crew stops to watch them. ‘Ready to go?’
‘Yes, Captain,’ Izzy replies. Lucius gives him a little wave as they climb into the dinghy.
‘I’m excited,’ Ed says as they make their way into town. ‘Haven’t been to one of these in ages. You think it’ll be any good?’
The last time they’d come to one of these festivals in the Republic had been years ago, back when Ed hadn’t quite made a name for himself as Blackbeard yet. He’d dragged Izzy through the streets, crowing about how interesting everything was, grinning widely enough that it made Izzy weak in the knees.
They’d eventually stumbled on a man offering tattoos. Ed had insisted they should get matching ones, and Izzy had been helpless to do anything other than agree, rolling up his sleeve without a second thought. He’d listened with half an ear while Ed described what he wanted, more focused on the way Ed waved his hands as he spoke.
‘Fuckin’ love anchors, Iz,’ Ed had slurred, his head resting on Izzy’s shoulder. ‘They’re stable. Grounding. You’d be fucked without them, y’know?’
He’d had a look on his face, then. Something faraway that Izzy has since learned to associate with his low moods. It had felt important, in that moment, in a way that Izzy didn’t quite understand. He’d hummed in agreement and slouched further against Ed, and the fact that Ed didn’t push him off had felt important, too.
But none of that matters now. Half the skin on that hand has been burned off since then, an unfortunate accident when he’d been standing too close to a powder keg during a raid. He doesn’t remember much from the intervening days — just the quiet disappointment when he’d looked down at the raw, burnt flesh, his tattoo warped and half-gone. Ed had sat by him while he healed, and his face had done something funny as they’d both looked down at the place where the tattoo used to be. He’d seemed upset, maybe like the tattoo had meant as much to Ed as it had to Izzy.
But Izzy hasn’t been important to Ed in a long time. Now, Ed’s attention is focused solely on Bonnet, and it’s becoming increasingly obvious he’ll never look at Izzy like that again.
Izzy shrugs, tugging at the leather glove. ‘Maybe. Place has changed, though.’
‘Yeah,’ Ed says, oddly subdued. ‘Guess so.’
From the second they leave the shore and set foot in the Republic of Pirates proper, there’s enough noise to make Izzy’s head spin. There’s stalls and vendors yelling over the biggest crowd Izzy’s ever seen, and the sound of cheering in the distance. Bizarrely, there’s even a band stationed in an alcove between two ramshackle buildings. They sound terrible, all out of tune and too drunk to be focusing properly on their instruments. There’s lanterns hung on every street corner, a weak attempt at decorations to liven up the place.
‘Just like old times,’ Ed says.
‘Where’s all the street fighting?’ Izzy asks. He’d actually enjoyed that part quite a lot.
Ed wrinkles his nose. ‘Heard they’ve got specific areas for it now. Trying to keep the streets safer, or something.’
Izzy shakes his head in disbelief. Trying to keep the streets safer. In the Republic of Pirates. Bonnet would be having a fucking field day.
‘Check this out, Iz,’ Ed says, amused. In front of them is a large wooden board, crudely painted to look like a map of the Republic. There’s little symbols dotted around the place; Izzy can see food items, and a bottle roughly where he knows Spanish Jackie’s is, and a variety of other symbols he can’t really recognise. ‘They tried to make a map.’
A fucking map. For a street festival. Izzy hates what his life has become.
‘Where to first?’ He asks.
Ed swings his arm around Izzy’s shoulders. ‘Let’s go get a drink.’
Izzy tries not to flinch at the weight of Ed’s arm, nearly unbearable after being ignored for so long. Ed used to be free with his affection, before: he’d punch Izzy in the arm, or grab his hand, or lean against him when they were sitting together. It’s been so long since anything like that happened that he’s almost dizzy at the sudden contact. He’s tempted to push Ed’s arm off. He’s also tempted to grab Ed’s wrist and keep him there. Paralysed by indecision, he does neither. Instead, he lets Ed do whatever he wants, as always.
For all that Bonnet is a useless idiot, he’s never been shy about what he wants, and it rankles Izzy that he’s got any enviable qualities at all. Izzy had been disgusted by his brazen, open flirting at first, but now he wonders — is that part of what charmed Ed? If Izzy had been a little braver, would he have had a chance?
‘Your best idea yet,’ Izzy says, and is rewarded with a bark of laughter from Ed.
They find Spanish Jackie’s tavern, inexplicably, closed. Instead, she and two bartenders are manning a decorated stall directly out front. There’s a long line of people waiting patiently for their turn to be served. No one’s pushing in, or swearing, or even trying to start a fight. Instead, everyone is making polite small talk and keeping a respectful distance from each other.
It’s fucking awful.
Ed happily joins the end of the queue. ‘Stede’s gonna love hearing about this.’
‘What the fuck?’ is the first thing Izzy can think to say when they finally reach the counter. Jackie pointedly looks at Ed’s arm, and raises an eyebrow.
‘What the fuck, indeed,’ she replies. He’s tempted, for a moment, to push Ed off, embarrassed — but, almost as if Ed can read his mind, the arm around his shoulders tightens.
‘You have a fully functional bar in there,’ Izzy says instead, nodding toward the tavern. ‘What the fuck is this?’
Jackie rolls her eyes. ‘I was asked to put together a stall. For the vibes.’
‘The vibes,’ Izzy repeats quietly to himself as Ed cheerfully orders a drink for each of them.
‘Gentrification’s a bitch,’ Jackie says. Her eyes drift back to Ed’s arm, and she smirks. ‘Enjoy your night.’
‘D’you reckon she bought it?’ Ed asks, as they leave the stall. ‘The fuckery?’
Izzy speaks without thinking, too distracted by everything happening at Jackie's stall. ‘I don’t know? We didn’t really do anything to indicate that we’re a couple.’
Ed nods, even as Izzy cringes internally. Of all the things he could have said… ‘Yeah, we’ll have to ramp it up. Be more convincing. Let’s make out near the entrance.’
‘Or we could just keep walking around,’ Izzy suggests, voice strangled.
Ed looks strangely disappointed. ‘Yeah, all right.’
They wander down a few narrow side streets, taking in the sights. There's little games set up in the mouths of alleyways, with people bobbing for apples and throwing darts. Ed moves away from Izzy in order not to spill his drink as they make their way through a particularly crowded street. Izzy is granted a brief, disappointing moment of respite before Ed reaches out and holds his hand.
‘Ooh, look,’ Ed says, like he’s not in the process of ruining Izzy’s life, ‘arm wrestling.’
There’s two men, large and muscular and grim-looking, arm wrestling at a low table as a crowd of onlookers gather to watch. Coins are being exchanged, the crowd cheering the men on in turns. It’s an incredibly tame activity for a festival in the Republic of Pirates, but everyone’s shouting and carrying on like they’re doing something incredibly fun and dangerous. Ed seems happy enough to stay and watch, undoubtedly committing everything to memory so that he can recount it to Stede later.
For a horrifying moment, Izzy wonders if Ed will want him to help describe everything to Stede. Knowing Ed’s penchant for the dramatic, it’s just as likely that Ed will ask him to act it out. If he has to participate in an arm wrestling match for Stede’s entertainment, he’s just going to resign, consequences be damned.
Eventually, one of the men wins, and even more coins exchange hands. The crowd starts to disperse, and Ed pulls them both to the front of the crowd.
‘Me next!’ he announces cheerily.
‘Holy shit, is that fucking Blackbeard?’ Someone says.
The crowd goes silent. The winner, who was in the process of flexing his muscles for a group of delighted pirates, suddenly looks very afraid. He starts shuffling away from the table.
‘Yeah, I’m Blackbeard,’ Ed says easily. He lets go of Izzy’s hand to stand at the table, beckoning the winner forward. ‘And I’m dedicating this match to my boyfriend.’
And then he winks at Izzy.
Almost everyone turns to look at him, and Izzy resists the urge to shrink away from them all. He’s Israel Hands – he’s made entire taverns go silent with fear before. Attention isn’t new to him, but this level of curious scrutiny definitely is. Briefly, he wishes that he’d suddenly drop dead just so he doesn’t have to deal with this anymore.
‘Good luck,’ Izzy manages, trying not to sound strangled. Ed blows him a kiss. Izzy would rather cut off his own hand than pretend to catch it.
‘Aww, that’s kind of sweet,’ someone behind Izzy says.
‘They look like a nice couple,’ another voice adds.
‘Feel free to get on with it,’ Izzy says loudly.
Ed wins instantly. The other man, who’d looked incredibly large and intimidating before, is clearly trying to shrink away from Ed as much as possible. His arm muscles don’t even twitch as Ed slams his hand down on the table to cheers from the crowd. Despite how awful of a time he’s having, it’s enough to bring a small smile to Izzy’s face. Ed’s always liked winning.
‘That’s so cute,’ a voice to his side says. ‘He’s been scowling the whole time, and as soon as his boyfriend won, he smiled!’
‘I didn’t even know Blackbeard had a boyfriend.’
‘I wonder how they met.’
‘I’m his first mate,’ Izzy says without turning around.
‘That’s so romantic,’ someone sighs behind him.
Ed makes his way back to Izzy. The crowd parts without him even having to try. ‘How about a kiss for the victor, then?’
‘Not in front of these louts,’ Izzy murmurs, face burning. There are a few disappointed sounds behind him.
‘Off to celebrate elsewhere, then!’ Ed announces. There’s scattered laughter and whooping from the crowd. Ed grabs his drink out of Izzy’s hand and passes it to a young boy gaping at them. He stares up at Edward as they walk past, awestruck.
Izzy knows how that feels. He tries not to startle when Ed takes his hand again.
‘They seemed to believe that,’ Ed says, as soon as they’re a safe distance away. He looks pleased. He swings their joined hands, looking for all the world like this is an entirely normal thing for the two of them to be doing. Like it’s not some ridiculous, barely comprehensible scheme while Ed’s actual boyfriend waits for them aboard the Revenge.
‘Yeah,’ Izzy says, feeling slightly hollow.
The worst part about the whole thing by far isn’t even the prolonged, emotional torture Ed is subjecting him to. Izzy’s used to desperately pining after Ed, only getting Ed’s attention when he needs something. The salt in the wound is, instead, the way that the entire event has been sanitised. There are fucking safety protocols in place: street brawls are now relocated to specific, fenced-off areas around town, with rules and a referee, and safety nets. Duels to the death, Izzy’s favourite event, have apparently been outright banned. Shooting moving targets used to be one of Ed’s favourite pastimes, but it’s met the same fate as the street brawls — rather than being allowed to shoot at anything or anyone, it’s now a specific, monitored sport where participants have to shoot at motionless sandbag dummies. Izzy is bored out of his mind, and unable to think of anything other than how charming Stede would find the whole thing.
Ed seems to be having fun, though. He’d found Lucius and Pete lining up for the newly-reimagined target practice, and happily joined them. He’s laughing with Pete while the security guard eyes them nervously. Neither of them are paying attention; Ed is focused on some showy trick he’s attempting with the pistol, and Pete is too busy blinking, starry-eyed, up at Ed. It’s been a long time since Izzy’s seen Ed laugh that freely, and something twinges in his chest. He wonders if that’s how they looked together, back when they were younger. Ed, always slipping through his fingers, and Izzy, enamoured, reaching desperately for him anyway.
It used to delight him, Ed’s smiles and casual affection. It’s slowed down, over the years, as Ed became unhappy — first with himself, and then with Izzy. Now, any kind of affection is fleeting, and painful. Izzy knows that it doesn’t really mean anything; that Ed does the bare minimum to keep him around, unable to bear the thought of being abandoned. But Izzy’s heart is traitorous and stupid and illogical, and can’t help but ache a little every time Ed so much as smiles his way; can’t help but wonder each time if this is, finally, this is the time that Ed actually sees him.
‘You’re looking miserable,’ Lucius says.
‘That’s just my face,’ Izzy replies. He stares harder at Ed’s back, watching the way the leather jacket shifts when he moves, silently willing Lucius to stop talking to him. He follows the movement of Ed’s arm and watches as he claps Pete on the shoulder. Idly, Izzy wonders how Ed’s knee is faring with all the walking — should he suggest they stop and sit down after this?
‘Everywhere I go, people are talking about Blackbeard and his boyfriend,’ Lucius continues, undeterred. Izzy does not understand how Lucius and Stede are so beloved by the rest of the crew, when they are capable of such unconscionable evils as forcing Izzy to endure their company. ‘Apparently you two make a lovely couple.’
‘I’ll pass on the feedback,’ Izzy says through gritted teeth.
‘Thanks for waiting, babe,’ Pete says, appearing at Lucius’ side and very possibly saving his life.
‘Yeah, babe,’ Ed echoes with a wink. Izzy seethes quietly and ignores the smug look Lucius is giving him. ‘What are you two doing next, anyway? Now that the fighting is lame, I don’t know where to take Izzy.’
Izzy barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. None of this is about him. What Ed really means is that he thinks Stede wouldn’t like to hear about the fighting.
‘There’s a little alleyway market thing just over there,’ Lucius says, pointing vaguely over his shoulder. ‘That’s where we’re headed.’
‘Fuck yeah, mind if we tag along?’ Ed asks. ‘It could be a double date.’
‘Wait—’ Pete starts with a frown.
‘Sounds great,’ Lucius says loudly. He very obviously stomps on Pete’s foot.
‘Ow, babe, what the fuck—’
‘We would love to have you join us on a double date, which is a very normal thing for the four of us to do. Together,’ Lucius says, staring pointedly at Pete.
‘It’s not though—’
‘What do you think, Iz?’ Ed asks. He’s leaned in close, voice low in Izzy’s ear as the other two squabble.
Izzy wishes he knew how to say no to Ed. It might’ve made things easier over the years, if he was capable of being his own person instead of living desperately off the scraps he’s offered. The torture of watching Edward pretend to be in love with him pales in comparison to the knowledge that he’s about to be put on parade in front of Pete and Lucius, essentially guaranteeing that he’s going to be the crew’s gossip fodder for the foreseeable future. He can almost hear Lucius now, laughing with the others about stupid, heartsick little Izzy. It’s no wonder they don’t respect him, not with how pathetic he must seem in their eyes.
‘Yeah, whatever,’ he says.
Izzy had been expecting a row of dodgy stalls selling stolen items, or maybe a single merchant ready to scam them out of their money. Instead, he’s dragged into a side street lit up brightly by an alarming amount of lanterns, hanging from every available rooftop, and stalls crammed beside each other running up both sides of the street. There isn’t a single merchant that Izzy recognises as selling black market goods. Instead, they’re all craftsmen selling handmade, artisan wares. It’s like the Republic of Pirates has transformed, for an evening, into exactly the kind of fairytale bullshit Bonnet expects: good behaviour and fights with rules and fancy marketplaces. Izzy wonders if he’s the only real pirate left on the ocean at this point.
It’s almost an insult, he thinks, just how safe and, frankly, boring this place has become. This isn’t what Izzy signed up for. If he’d wanted stupid, safe hand-holding and little trinkets, he wouldn’t have become a pirate in the first place. He enjoys the simple, hard living piracy provides him and yet, somehow, it seems Bonnet’s sphere of influence has extended beyond the Revenge and ruined it all for him.
Pete and Lucius have walked ahead to fawn over some stall advertising knitted blankets. Izzy barely keeps from rolling his eyes as he watches them admire the brightly-coloured patterns. It’s not the most impractical thing they could be looking at, but Izzy can already tell the blankets aren’t worth the money. They’re pretty now, but the colours won’t keep for long: they’ll get dirty at sea, and no-one will bother with the upkeep required. Eventually it’ll fade and become another scratchy, filthy, unpleasant blanket in the pile they already have. If either of them had a brain, they’d be looking at the plain ones; cheaper, but functionally the same, and that way they could afford one each. But everyone on Bonnet’s crew was apparently a magpie in a past life, obsessed with aesthetics over functionality, even when it might be a detriment to them later. Naturally, Bonnet wouldn’t understand, holed up in his cabin every night with his fancy feather quilt, worth more than all of their miserable lives put together.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Ed asks, bumping his shoulder against Izzy’s.
‘Blankets.’ Actually, he’s thinking about the logistics of strangling Bonnet with the shredded remains of his expensive quilt. Wisely, he decides to keep that part to himself.
‘Do you want to go have a look?’ Ed’s already taking a step forward, heading toward the stall where Pete and Lucius seem to be haggling with the merchant.
‘No,’ Izzy replies. He reaches out and grabs Ed’s wrist, urgently. The idea of having to stand there and listen to the three of them banter while Lucius sends Izzy knowing glances is too much for him. ‘I— want to go over there, instead.’
Vaguely, he points toward another stall. Ed, who had been staring down at Izzy’s hand, looks up and grins. ‘Books! Fuck yeah, Iz, you’re a genius. We can get Stede a little souvenir.’
Izzy sighs but says nothing as they make their way toward the stall. Izzy doesn’t let go of his wrist, and Ed doesn’t ask him to.
‘How are we gonna know what to get him? Neither of us can read.’ Ed’s hands are hovering over the frankly daunting amount of books in front of them. On top of the piles on the counter, there’s extra shelving nailed to the front of the stall that’s been crammed with books. There’s waist-high piles on either side, and even more stacked behind the merchant — an older man, short and wizened, barely visible amongst the clutter and tall stacks. Ed picks up a book idly and then sets it down again. The stall groans under its weight.
Izzy picks a book up at random. The cover is a pleasing dark green, the text on the front hand-written in a looping, elegant hand. The ink looks almost gold in the low light. It’s pretty, and expensive-looking, and just the kind of thing Bonnet would like.
‘A book on reading the stars,’ the merchant says. ‘A fine choice for the discerning sailor.’
‘Yeah?’ Ed’s eyes light up. ‘Let’s get that one then. What d’you reckon, Iz?’
‘It’s not about astronomy,’ Izzy says, eyeing the cover with a frown. ‘It’s about ducks. I doubt he’d want that.’
Knowing Bonnet, he might very much enjoy a book about ducks. Izzy can almost picture it, Stede rambling on at length about the buoyancy of a duck or its flight patterns or whatever the fuck he might learn from the book, Ed listening attentively, as if ducks are the most fascinating subject in the world. Izzy wants to claw his eyes out just at the thought of it.
The merchant is starting to glare at him, and Izzy stares coolly back.
‘Yeah, probably not,’ Ed agrees. ‘Let’s find something else.’
He takes Izzy’s hand again as they walk, and Izzy is so distracted by it that he doesn’t complain when Ed starts steering them back toward Pete and Lucius.
‘Hey,’ Ed says suddenly. ‘How did you know it was about ducks?’
Izzy does not look at him. ‘There were pictures.’
‘Fucking pictures,’ Ed says, with feeling.
‘You’re the best,’ Lucius says, aiming a fond grin at Pete. He’s holding a new leather journal, the front embossed with L+P. It’s a good gift, Izzy admits begrudgingly; practical, functional, but still a little sentimental. It’s something Izzy can appreciate. But the way Lucius is looking at Pete like he personally brought down the entire British navy so Lucius could have a fancy book is a little excessive and, frankly, nauseating. Being in love, Izzy thinks, must come with the caveat that both parties have to also surrender their common sense.
‘That’s nice,’ Ed nods at the book. Pete beams.
‘Have you, uh, bought anything for— for Izzy, yet, Blackbeard, sir?’ Pete asks, shrinking away from Izzy’s glare.
‘Nah, not yet,’ Ed says. ‘We’re trying to find something for Stede, though.’
Lucius gives Izzy a meaningful look, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes. He doesn’t need fancy trinkets from a stupid festival. He’s not so vapid as to be easily swayed by meaningless little gifts the way Lucius and Stede are. He certainly wouldn’t accept the bare minimum like Lucius has. Honestly, a journal. How unoriginal could Pete be? Any moron on the ship would know to buy him one — surely, from his partner, it would be an insult. Couldn’t Pete come up with anything more clever and romantic than a gift related to Lucius’ job?
‘Fuck yeah, Izzy, that guy’s selling swords,’ Ed says, pointing. ‘Let’s go get you one.’
Izzy hates the way his stomach swoops at the idea of Ed wanting to buy him something. ‘Sure.’
‘Mate, there’s seaweed caked onto the fuckin’ thing!’
‘It’s a feature!’
‘Oh, and Neptune told you that, did he?’
The stall, as it turns out, is mostly full of half-rusted, damaged weapons that seem, to Izzy’s eye, like they’ve been picked up from the seafloor and brought directly to the stall. Izzy listens with half an ear while Ed argues with the merchant, who insists that the rusted swords are specialty weapons delivered from Neptune himself. Ed seems to be enjoying himself, talking circles around the poor merchant, but Izzy is still ready to step in if need be.
They’d been told to leave their weapons on the ship, which Izzy had taken extreme issue with — who the fuck goes into the Republic of Pirates unarmed?
He’s wearing concealed weapons, of course; he’s not stupid. He would just prefer to not use them. Surely nothing is worse than having to suffer Bonnet’s stupid fucking face, his poorly-disguised disappointment when their recount of their adventures ends with and then Izzy got us kicked out because he stabbed a merchant trying to sell us shitty swords.
It’s lucky Bonnet isn’t here. Izzy can almost guarantee he’d have believed the merchant, and spent their dwindling coin on useless swords. And then Izzy would have had to kill him, and Ed would have been upset, and it would just be more hassle that Izzy could've avoided if they had simply never met the simpering idiot in the first place.
‘It would be an excellent gift for your husband!’ The merchant yells, waving his hand in Izzy’s direction.
‘Fuck off, I’m not buying my husband a shitty sword that’s going to get him killed—’
Izzy decides Ed can handle himself, actually, and wanders off before he has to hear the words my husband again.
There aren’t many things that make Izzy regret agreeing to be Ed’s first mate all those years ago, but this stupid fucking street festival makes him wish he believed Frenchie and Buttons and all their talk about witches. Maybe he could find one, and she would take pity on him, and send him back to that first moment they’d met so that Izzy could kill Ed instead of taking his hand.
And then Izzy would do it all again anyway, and end up in the exact same position he’s in now, because he’s stupid and incapable of letting Ed go.
He spots Lucius shouting at an artist, restrained by Black Pete. He wanders over. Maybe Lucius will get punched, and Izzy’s night will improve.
‘… No integrity!’ Lucius says shrilly.
‘Babe, it’s not that deep—’
‘Yes, babe, it is!’ Lucius hisses. ‘You can’t just sloppily put together a sketch in ten minutes and call it art!’
‘It is art!’ The artist cries. He’s a young man, tall and lanky, with a thin, reedy voice. Beside him, Lucius somehow manages to cut an imposing figure.
‘So if I put a single line down on paper and charged a million dollars, you’d buy it?!’
‘I would,’ Pete says. ‘I want to support you.’
‘You don’t even have a million dollars,’ Izzy can’t help butting in before Lucius says something disgusting and soppy in return. If he has to watch the two of them continue to be romantic he’s going to get violent. ‘How the fuck are you going to buy his stupid drawing?’
‘I’ll get the money together!’ Pete insists. ‘I’ll steal it, or raid as many ships as it takes.’
‘That’s really sweet,’ Lucius says through gritted teeth, ‘but not the point—’
‘If you have such a problem with his art, why don’t you open your own stall?’ Izzy asks, just for the satisfaction of watching Lucius turn to him in speechless fury.
‘That’s such a good idea,’ Pete says, oblivious to the way Lucius is about to burst a blood vessel. ‘We should come back and do that next year. You can do sketches and I can, like, whittle stuff.’
‘What are we doing next year?’ Ed asks. Lucius deflates a little, eyes zeroed in on the way Ed places his arm around Izzy’s waist.
‘Nothing,’ Izzy says. ‘But I found a gift idea for you. This man here does quick portraits.’
‘Oh, that’s cool,’ Ed says, while Lucius makes a noise like a dying animal. ‘How much?’
The artist can’t even look him in the eye. ‘For— for the great Blackbeard, my services are free! I’ll do as many as you want!’
‘Sweet. Iz, c’mere, let’s get one together!’
Lucius, who had been advancing on Izzy, journal held aloft like a weapon, freezes.
‘Better luck next time, Mister Spriggs,’ Izzy says. He leaves Lucius there, spluttering and outraged, Pete patting his shoulder sympathetically, to follow Ed.
‘Just a little closer together, please!’ The artist chips. He seems to have finally found his backbone and is now cheerfully ordering Ed and Izzy around like they aren’t the most terrifying pirates on the island. ‘Turn your faces toward each other a little more.’
‘Bossy little thing, isn’t he,’ Ed murmurs. Their faces are pressed awkwardly against each other, Ed’s nose digging into Izzy’s cheek. He’s half-standing, half-sitting in Ed’s lap, occasionally swaying as he loses his balance. Ed is leaning forward, arms stretched uncomfortably around Izzy. His arms shake with the strain of holding the position. Izzy can’t imagine that this is going to make a particularly attractive portrait, but the artist is still smiling at them like they’ve just invented romance.
‘You two make a lovely couple,’ the artist says. ‘How long have you been together?’
‘Twelve years,’ Izzy says, at the same time that Ed says, ‘Like, two weeks.’
The artist laughs nervously, looking between the two of them. He tucks some of his curly hair behind his ear. ‘It sounds like an interesting story.’
Izzy resists the urge to kick Ed. ‘Took him a while to get with the program.’
‘I’ll say,’ the artist says, focusing back down on his easel. ’Not much longer.’
‘Sorry, Iz,’ Ed mumbles. ‘Forgot about our cover story.’
‘No shit,’ Izzy hisses. ‘He probably thinks I’m fucking crazy, now.’
Ed stifles a laugh. ‘We should rework our story. Start telling people I’ve only become aware of our relationship in the last two weeks.’
‘All done!’ The artist says with a wide smile before Izzy can reply. He turns his easel around, to reveal a sketchy portrait of the two of them holding each other, awkward and stiff. Despite the fact that the artist had forced them to press their faces as close together as humanly possible, they aren’t looking at each other. Instead, in the image, they’re staring straight ahead, expressions blank. It’s an uncanny likeness, and they look more like posed corpses than a couple in love.
‘Fucking excellent, mate,’ Ed says, voice wavering as he tries not to laugh. ‘Love it.’
‘You should get another one just of yourself, for Bonnet,’ Izzy says under his breath. As much as he hates the idea of suggesting a gift for Bonnet, the temptation of watching Ed struggle through posing for another awkward, dead-eyed portrait is too great.
‘Fuck no, I need to move before my knees give out,’ Ed says. ‘I’m keeping this one, though.’
‘It’s fucking terrible,’ Izzy groans, ignoring the affronted look the artist sends him.
‘I know!’ Ed says, delighted.
‘Maybe we should make something for Stede,’ Ed muses. They’re at the mouth of an alleyway, a brightly-lit offshoot of the market stalls, that boasts a wide variety of craft tables. Buttons and the Swede are happily taking a painting class. The instructor is painting a beach landscape. Buttons is painting an incredibly realistic portrait of Karl while weeping openly. The Swede’s canvas is a mess of brightly coloured splotches, applied so liberally that the paint is dripping onto the ground.
‘We could make him a painting,’ Izzy suggests, unenthusiastic. He’s starting to become numb to the whole experience, now. Sure, of course there’s a painting class in the Republic of Pirates. Of course Blackbeard’s crew is already there, making their own paintings. Of course Izzy is going to join in. The entire profession has devolved into a troupe of kindergarteners playing pretend, and Izzy can only hold out for so long.
‘Nah,’ Ed says, to Izzy’s relief. ‘He’s already got a painting, from his ex-wife. I wanna give him something else.’
Izzy hasn’t heard much about Mary. The crew have theorised about her in scandalised whispers while on deck, but he’s stayed out of it. It’s poor form for him to be caught talking about his captain’s wife — for all that his role matters on board the Revenge — and he also, frankly, is disgusted at the idea that Stede somehow found two separate people willing to tolerate him. He imagines her as another silly, rich idiot, just as intolerable as Bonnet.
‘She tried to kill him, you know,’ Ed says conversationally, as he waves to the Swede. ‘With a skewer.’
Izzy’s estimation of Mary rises by several notches.
They end up squished in together at a table where a young couple are making lopsided bowls out of clay. Ed is focusing intently on shaping his clay into a teacup, and Izzy is half-heartedly pressing his clay down into the vague shape of a saucer so that they can make a matching set for Stede. Ed had been so excited about the idea, eyes alight and smile wide as he explained the vision to Izzy. Privately, he doesn’t think Stede would particularly appreciate a gift from Izzy when he could have two from Ed, but he’d been unwilling to ruin Ed’s fun. Instead, he’s determined to do such an awful job of making a plate that Stede will simply throw it away.
‘I don’t think plates are supposed to be that lumpy, mate,’ Ed says, staring doubtfully at what could only be called a saucer in the most generous of terms.
‘It’s abstract,’ Izzy replies. ‘Focus on your own project.’
‘Does abstract mean you can’t use it for its actual purpose?’ Ed asks. He stares down at his teacup, misshapen and awkward, but clearly a teacup. Izzy’s lump of clay is a saucer in the way that one might say Stede Bonnet is a successful and intimidating pirate captain. ‘Because to me, there’s abstract, and then there’s whatever the fuck that is.’
‘You’re not being very respectful of my creative decisions,’ Izzy says, a testament to the fact that he’s lost his mind.
‘Here, let me help—’
‘Fuck off, I’m not criticising your stupid fucking cup—’
‘If we’re gonna make Stede gifts they should at least both work,’ Ed says stubbornly, and pushes himself all the way into Izzy’s space, his hands touching Izzy’s as he helps to reshape the clay. Something in Izzy’s brain misfires at the sudden proximity and he goes quiet. Ed, focused on the task at hand, thankfully doesn’t notice Izzy’s distraction, or the way he’s staring dumbly at the way Ed’s hands are covering his.
Sitting across from them are two young women, talking and laughing quietly as they make their bowls. Like Lucius and Pete, they’re focusing only on each other as they work, taking occasional breaks from the clay to stare romantically at each other.
Love, Izzy thinks, is a plague. Things like this never happened to him before they met up with Stede and his crew of fools, and now the general insanity and determination to be happy and in love has leaked from the ship and infected the entirety of the Republic of Pirates.
‘You two are very cute together,’ the woman across from Izzy says. Her hair is long and bright red, and she keeps flicking it over her shoulder to keep it out of the clay. She can’t be older than twenty-one, Izzy thinks; her face is still young and unlined, her expression open, her smile easy. There’s no tension in her shoulders, and she’s remarkably calm for having started a conversation with a total stranger. Both women seem carefree and cheerful, like the world hasn’t sunk its claws into them yet, and it makes Izzy feel impossibly old. He can’t remember ever smiling that wide or laughing that freely.
‘Bickering like an old married couple,’ the other one adds. Her hair is tied back, and she’s watching with amusement as her girlfriend continues her futile attempts at not getting clay in her hair.
Disgusting, Izzy thinks. They’re basically finishing each other’s sentences.
‘We basically are at this point,’ Ed nudges Izzy. He wants to crawl under the table and hide from all three of them. ‘How long have we been together now?’
‘Twelve years,’ Izzy replies tightly, while the young women coo at them.
‘And you’re still making time for each other!’ One of them says, smiling. ‘That’s so nice.’
‘And important for a long-lasting, healthy relationship,’ the other one says wisely. She’s a child, Izzy thinks with a surprising amount of bitterness. What does she know?
‘Absolutely,’ Ed agrees, as if he hasn’t spent the last few months ignoring Izzy entirely to focus on Stede. Making time for each other was something they did before, back when they were proper friends, and Ed still cared about him. Before, he had the privilege of occasionally being invited into the captain’s cabin at night, where they’d talk and drink and maybe play a round of cards if Ed was in the mood. Some days Ed would call Izzy to his side and explain cloud formations to him, while Izzy nodded and pretended to understand. Other times, Ed would listen while Izzy talked about the stars and the stories behind them. They’d spend their shore leave together, going from tavern to tavern until they eventually stumbled back to the ship, arms around each other, laughing until they cried. But all that is long gone, now — Ed’s entire world has narrowed down, focused entirely on Bonnet, with no room for anyone else.
‘I think you’ve upset your boyfriend,’ the redhead notes, clearly misinterpreting Izzy’s sour expression. ‘It wasn’t very nice of you to take over his project like that.’
‘Sorry, Iz,’ Ed says cheerfully, pulling Izzy impossibly closer and kissing him on the cheek. The girls laugh and aww at them, while Izzy tries not to die. They’re sitting in the Republic of Pirates with two young women who clearly don’t recognise either of them as Blackbeard or Israel Hands. Instead, the four of them are sitting here and making things out of clay and trading jokes like it’s a double date. Like they’re normal people, instead of bloodthirsty pirates. Of all the ways Izzy imagined his life might go, this was never on the list.
‘You’re getting clay on my shirt,’ he grumbles, and Ed has the decency to look sheepish as he moves away.
‘It’s cute that you’re making a matching set,’ the girlfriend says. Her hair is light blonde, almost reminiscent of The Swede’s hair. Strands of it are starting to fall out of her ponytail.
‘It’s for my— our other boyfriend,’ Ed stumbles, sending Izzy a wink. The girls perk up.
‘Your other boyfriend?’ The redhead asks. Ed preens, clearly ready to tell a story.
‘Iz and I have been together for ages,’ he says, nudging Izzy playfully with his shoulder. ‘And then, a while back, we met this other guy.’
‘Who’s the fucking worst,’ Izzy can’t help but interrupt.
‘He and Iz didn’t get along at first,’ Ed says. ‘I think Iz was a bit jealous, actually. I was so distracted by the new guy that I stopped paying him as much attention.’
‘That would be hard to deal with,’ the redhead says sympathetically. The end of her hair is trailing in the wet clay as she listens. Izzy decides not to mention it.
Ed puts his arm around Izzy’s shoulder, careful not to get clay on his shirt this time. He pulls Izzy closer to him as he talks. ‘Things got a bit dramatic there for a while. Iz challenged him to a duel and then stabbed him.’
‘Stabbed him?’ The blonde one gasps.
‘Pinned him to the mast,’ Ed says, nodding.
‘He wasn’t very good at fighting,’ Izzy says.
‘Iz is one of the best,’ Ed says fondly. ‘He thinks everyone’s shit at fighting.’
‘Was he angry about it?’ The blonde one is leaning forward, eyes wide. What kind of pirate wonders if their opponent was angry?
‘A little,’ Izzy says, conscious of Ed’s presence at his side. ‘We got over it.’
‘Things just sorta settled down after that,’ Ed says with a shrug. ‘The three of us worked it out. He’s sick at the moment, otherwise he’d be here with us too.’
‘I can’t believe you impaled your own boyfriend to the mast during a duel,’ The girl across from Ed says, laughing at Izzy. Ed sends him a plaintive look, clearly begging him to play along.
‘Circumstances were different then,’ Izzy says. He would much rather peel every single one of his fingernails off than have this conversation.
‘That’ll be a story to tell the grandkids one day,’ The redhead says, sighing as she finally notices the clay in her hair. She and her girlfriend busy themselves fixing her hair before turning back to their clay bowls. Izzy works in silence, ruining the plate Ed had fixed as much as he’s able to without getting caught. He imagines the story the way Ed described it, a convoluted, reciprocated love triangle. A duel that was dramatic and romantic, rather than devastating. He imagines spending time in the captain’s cabin, this time with Ed and Stede, complaining about Stede’s fancy china while they indulge him, or playing cards and helping Ed cheat against Stede. With a dawning horror, Izzy realises he doesn’t hate the idea.
Stupid fucking Stede Bonnet, he thinks miserably. Ruining everything, as usual.
‘Our other boyfriend?’ Izzy asks, as soon as the girls across from them pack up and leave with a cheery wave. ‘Really?’
Ed shrugs, frowning down at his teacup. His shoulders are hunched and he looks strangely defensive. ‘Dunno. Figured it’s whatever.'
‘It’s whatever?’ Izzy repeats, incredulous. He focuses back down on his lumpy plate. The clay has dried, and now they’re attempting to paint their projects. Ed is putting blotchy flowers along the outside rim of the mug. Izzy is streaking different colours of paint across the saucer and watching them turn muddy. It’s not as satisfying as he thinks punching Ed might be, but it’s helping to take the edge off. Of course Ed wouldn’t think twice, wouldn’t understand why Izzy might take issue with the fact that their lie has progressed from a simple lie about the two of them being boyfriends to a long, ridiculous story about Izzy falling in mutual love with both his captains.
‘It’s not like it’s real,’ Ed says, and Izzy nearly flinches.
‘Yes, Edward,’ he replies through gritted teeth, ‘I’m fucking aware.’
‘So I don’t get what the big deal is,’ Ed shrugs, packing up the supplies as he leaves his teacup to dry. Izzy carelessly tosses his paintbrush to the side, and Ed says nothing as he packs up Izzy’s paints as well. He still refuses to look at Izzy.
He can’t tell Ed the truth, that it bothers him because he’s jealous. That he’s spent the whole night desperately clinging to every bit of false affection Ed has deigned to give him, that it hurts to watch Ed sit and tease strangers and happily talk about their pretend relationship. He can’t stand all the little cheerful comments about Izzy being his boyfriend or his husband or whatever idea Ed has decided to pursue in the moment. He can’t admit that even the mention of Stede hurts — the constant, needling reminders that Izzy will never have what he wants, even as Ed spins a pretty tale about how the three of them managed to overcome adversity and find a middle ground that allows Ed and Izzy to be together anyway. It’s stupid, and unrealistic, and Izzy wants it so much that it makes him sick.
A tired-looking old man, the one who’s been running the clay tables, comes to check on their projects. He gives an approving nod at Ed’s cup, and wisely says nothing about Izzy’s plate. Ed and Izzy stay quiet as the man packages both of their items in some leftover scrap fabrics.
‘Thanks, mate,’ Ed says when he’s done, and they shuffle off quickly.
‘It’s just annoying that you keep changing the story,’ Izzy says as they walk aimlessly through the street. Ed’s hooked his arm through Izzy’s after a particularly rowdy crowd of pirates separated the two of them.
‘Yeah, I get that,’ Ed says, in the tone he uses whenever he absolutely does not agree with Izzy, ‘but it’s probably more realistic this way, since, like you said, a lot of people already know I’m with Stede anyway.’
‘It would have been nice if you’d decided that before you made me come up with a stupid fucking backstory we aren’t even using,’ Izzy says lowly, leaning into Ed as they walk past another group. Some of them turn to look as they walk past, and Izzy knows they’ve been recognised.
Ed rolls his eyes. ‘It’s not that big of a deal, Iz. This was Stede’s idea anyway so we might as well include him in the story.’
Izzy stops so suddenly that Ed stumbles a little when he tries to take another step. ‘This was Stede’s idea?’
Ed cringes a little at whatever he sees in Izzy's expression. When he speaks, there’s a note of challenge in his voice. ‘I was just, y’know, telling him how we used to be friends and stuff, and he thought we should get closer—’
‘And he decided the best way to do that was for us to pretend to be boyfriends at a stupid fucking party?’ Izzy hisses. Ed shakes his arm a little, and Izzy realises he’s holding Ed’s forearm in a death grip. He relaxes, but doesn’t pull away. Of all the things Bonnet has done to ruin Izzy’s life, dangling this in front of him in some misguided attempt to bring them closer together is possibly the worst transgression so far. When they get back to the ship, Izzy’s going to kill him, and he's going to make sure it sticks this time.
‘Not like that, Iz, fucking relax for a minute,’ Ed says, exasperated. ‘He said that before the party shit came up, and then we both figured it would be a good idea. You’re always so wound up.’
‘You’re always so fucking unpredictable!’ Izzy replies. ‘You change shit around at the last minute and you keep important information from me! I would’ve liked to fucking know beforehand that this was Bonnet’s stupid idea—’
‘Yeah, but then you would’ve said no,’ Ed says, petulantly. He sounds like a spoiled child, whining about wanting to get his way. It infuriates Izzy. Ed gets his way all the fucking time, and now Bonnet’s indulged him enough that he can’t even handle the idea of the word 'no' from anyone.
‘There were so many other people you could’ve taken,’ Izzy says, trying very hard to keep the anger out of his voice. Based on the way Ed huffs and turns away from him, he’s not very successful.
‘Yeah, but I wanted to go with you,’ Ed says, like Izzy’s stupid.
‘It’s not always about what you want, you fucking—’
‘Ooh, trouble in paradise,’ a particularly drunk pirate coos at them, sloshing a colourful fancy cocktail from Jackie’s stall over his boots as he sways in place. ‘Blackbeard upset his boyfriend!’
Ed turns a glare on him so fast that Izzy sees the pirate shrink back. He’s intimidating like this, posture straight, eyes wide and angry and feral. It’s the kind of glare that brings grown men to their knees in fear. It makes Izzy weak in the knees for entirely different reasons.
Almost instantly, two more pirates appear, stammering apologies as they drag their friend away before Blackbeard makes an example of him.
‘Sorry, Blackbeard, sir! He’s just drunk! He didn’t mean anything by it! Please don’t kill us!’ one of them calls over his shoulder as they retreat.
Ed deflates and turns back to Izzy. He sighs, looking a little contrite. ‘Sorry for not telling you, Iz. I just really wanted to hang out with you, and I knew you’d hate the idea of this place if I asked you normally. I took advantage of Stede being sick to come up with the fuckery.'
Izzy exhales, the fight draining out of him. Ed’s the most infuriating person he’s ever met, but Izzy finds it almost impossible to be angry at him for long. As much as he wants to complain about being used and having to bend to Bonnet’s will, he can’t. Not when Ed is looking at him so hopefully. Not when this whole scheme apparently came about because Ed wants to spend more time with him.
Izzy’s missed him desperately, these last few years. He’d do anything to get Ed back, even if it’s not in the way he wants. A few hours of painful hand-holding is nothing in the face of potentially regaining Ed’s friendship.
‘It’s fine,’ Izzy says. ‘Let’s just keep walking. Go look at some other stalls. Or whatever.’
‘There’s more craft shit down that way,’ Ed says, nodding his head. ‘We can probably go find more gifts.’
As they walk, Ed threads their fingers together. Izzy accepts the fact that he’s fucked.
Wee John and Frenchie wave cheerily to Ed and Izzy as they walk past, squished together at a low table covered in scraps of fabric and sewing supplies.
‘Evening,’ Ed calls. ‘What are you two up to?’
‘We’re making little dolls of each other,’ Frenchie says. Now that Izzy looks closer, he can see that the dolls are, in fact, miniature versions of the two of them. They grin proudly as they hold their dolls out for inspection.
‘Izzy,’ Ed starts, eyes alight. He tugs on Izzy’s hand like an excited child.
‘No,’ Izzy says firmly. Ed rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue. He lets Izzy lead him past the rest of the craft stalls, toward the end of the alley where the crowd is thinning out.
‘Where are we going?’ Ed asks, swinging their hands idly. Izzy notices that Ed’s limp is starting to become more pronounced as they walk. He knows Ed would never admit to needing a break, unwilling to be weak — but he’s never had to. Izzy’s always kept a watchful eye on Ed, and tried to anticipate his needs. He remembers the stupid map they’d seen on entry, remembers the juvenile images used to depict food stalls near the water.
‘Figured we may as well see what’s going on further down the beach,’ Izzy replies. Ed hums.
In truth, Izzy wants a break, too. This isn’t the Republic of Pirates he’s used to, and the constant onslaught of affection from Ed is starting to wear him down. He knows it’s not real, knows he should be making the most of it because he’ll never have it again, but he can’t. He can’t find it in him to enjoy any of this — the crafts, or holding Ed’s hand, or Ed loudly proclaiming Izzy to be his boyfriend or his husband, when he knows that Bonnet is going to be hearing about it later. Not only that, but he’s certain the entire fucking crew is going to be gossiping about it too: talking about Ed and Izzy’s relationship, or making jokes at Izzy’s expense.
For a moment, he lets his heart ache, lets himself wish fervently that it were real.
He takes a deep breath, squeezes Ed’s hand, and pushes forward through the crowd toward the beach. Ed squeezes back, and stays quiet until they finally pass the buildings and step out onto the sand.
There’s trailing lanterns leading from the streets out onto the beach, strung up on tall poles, and picnic blankets spread out on the sand. There are stalls further down selling different types of food. Even though they’re still a fair distance away, Izzy can already smell the spices and smoke. A few rickety old tables and chairs have been dragged from various establishments in the Republic to create a rest area. There are a few pirates milling about, stretched out on picnic blankets or sitting at the tables, eating and talking and laughing. It’s nice here, on the beach — quieter and more relaxed than the bustling streets of the Republic.
As much as he likes being a pirate, it’s a hard life; the seas are harsh and unforgiving, the work is exhausting, and he's spent a lot of his years at sea going hungry. He might resent the idea of craft tables and street fairs, but the food stalls please him. It’s nice to see sailors relaxing and enjoying the fruits of their labour. It’s nice knowing that, despite all the hardships, there are some bright spots; some rewards to be enjoyed.
Izzy supposes that for some people, craft activities and fun little cocktails are a reward, too, in the same way that a hot meal might be. But those people are stupid, and Izzy doesn’t have time for them.
‘I’m fuckin’ starving,’ Ed says, looking interested as he peers further down the beach. He’s always had a considerable appetite, stealing leftovers and whatever food scraps he could get his hand on. When Izzy could get away with it, he’d surrender half his rations to Ed; his grateful smile and the delight with which he tore into his food was always enough for Izzy. On shore leave, he’d wander between whatever taverns and bakeries they could find, wide-eyed and covetous. More than once, they’d pooled their savings to buy a sticky bun or pastry to share. They’d make an afternoon of it, eating it slowly to savour the taste. At least, Ed was — Izzy’s never had much of a sweet tooth, never seen the appeal of fancy cakes and pastries. He doesn’t particularly like them, but he always liked the ritual of it; hiding somewhere with Ed, the two of them sitting together and talking for hours, sharing whatever they’d managed to buy like it’s a prize, Ed grinning at him the whole time, giddy with the excitement of their shared secret.
He misses it, suddenly. Misses their closeness, the way it had felt like the two of them against the world.
‘Let’s go see what they’ve got, then,’ Izzy replies. Ed grins at him, wide and excited, looking twenty years younger for a moment.
Izzy’s heart aches as Ed drags him forward, clearly trying to hide his limp. He wants to let go of Ed’s hand. Wants to go back to the ship and very carefully stuff all his feelings back down, and bury them under layers of frustration and anger that he takes out on the crew. Wants to pretend this isn’t happening.
But he’s weak, and he can’t help himself, and it’s been so long since Ed looked at him instead of through him. So he follows, quietly, and wishes he could hate Ed.
There are a few stalls selling various foods on wooden sticks, or small portions in bowls. There’s a pig on a spit where they, predictably, find Roach chatting to the pirates cooking it. He offers them both a nod before turning back to his conversation. Izzy likes Roach; he’s competent and no-nonsense, and doesn’t make him suffer through painful small talk the way the others do. Especially now, exhausted and filled with an almost unbearable nervous energy, he appreciates it more than he can say.
‘Anything you’re in the mood for?’ Ed asks, a critical eye roving over the stalls.
In truth, Izzy would be happy with anything. He just wants to sit down and decompress for a while, and focus on something that isn’t Ed. He glances at the stalls, the various packaged foods available, and tries to pick something Ed might like. Further down the beach he spots a dessert stall, strung up with lanterns and colourful garlands made out of fabric scraps, the counters piled high with pastries and candied fruits.
‘Yeah,’ Izzy says. He can already imagine Ed’s reaction: the delight, the wide smile, the way he’d tear enthusiastically into the sweets while insisting that Izzy has to try them. ‘There’s a spare table just there. You go sit down, I’ll surprise you.’
His knee must be starting to really ache, because Ed doesn’t complain. Instead, he sinks down onto the empty bench with a quiet groan, stretching out his leg. Izzy frowns, already wondering how they’re going to get through the rest of the night. Ed would never accept it if he thought they were leaving early because of his bad knee. Maybe after they eat, Izzy will feign a stomachache from the sweets and force Ed to take him back to the ship. He’s sure Ed will complain about Izzy ruining their fun. He’ll happily wear it, if it means Ed looks after himself.
The stall is almost overwhelming up close. The air around it is cloyingly sweet, a mixture of sugar and cinnamon and fresh fruits. There’s an incomprehensible amount of pastries spread out on shelves around the stall, beautiful and glossy with melted sugar, topped with bright berries and fruits Izzy’s never seen before. For a moment, Izzy understands the appeal; he can see why Ed covets sweets the way he does.
The stall is being manned by two people, a tiny old woman, her dark skin wrinkled and sagging, and a tall young man whose smile is sweet and genuine and reminds Izzy vaguely of Fang when he was younger.
‘What are you after?’ The young man asks. He has six earrings in each ear, and Izzy watches the lantern light glint off the gold hoops as he moves around. He tidies the stall while he waits for Izzy to answer, his hands working quickly and surely. Izzy looks at the array of sweets in front of him, overwhelmed. He can’t recognise any of them, doesn’t even know where to begin.
‘Um,’ he says intelligently. The man behind the stall laughs.
‘There’s a lot to choose from,’ the old lady says. Her hair, wispy and white, floats about her face.
’There is,’ Izzy agrees. ‘Maybe— your best sellers? For two.’
‘Sharing with someone?’ the old lady asks. There’s a small smile on the old woman’s face as she begins selecting pastries from the piles around her, compiling them neatly in a small box. Some look plain and flaky, others are covered in excessive amounts of cream and berries. The two of them are left alone as the young man moves to serve someone else who’s just come up to the counter. ‘Tell me about them.’
‘My, uh— he’s my—’ Izzy wonders how this was so easy for Ed before. He’s not a terrible liar by any means, but the words stick in his throat. He can’t bring himself to say boyfriend. If he allows himself to say it, gives himself the luxury of falling into the fantasy even for a moment, Izzy knows he won’t be able to come back from it. This tiny bit of resistance is possibly the only thing standing between him and immense heartbreak.
‘Someone special, then,’ she says knowingly. There’s no judgment in her face, even as she looks at Izzy, amused by his stuttering.
‘Very,’ Izzy says. That, at least, is the truth.
‘You don’t strike me as someone who likes sweets,’ she observes. Izzy tries not to grimace.
‘I don’t, but he does.’ Izzy looks down, staring at the small sliver of the wooden counter he can see between all the cake stands. The next words are difficult, almost painful. But there’s something inviting about the old woman, and he’s never had the chance to talk about Ed before, never been able to put into words the depth of what he feels. He wonders if Ed felt this kind of obsessive need to talk, earlier, with the girls at the pottery stall. ‘I like it when he’s happy.’
It feels almost insulting to boil it down to something so simple. Izzy would do nearly anything to see Ed happy. He’s stayed by his side, steady and unflinching, for years now; looked out for him, killed for him, tolerated stupid parties for him. The depth of it is too much for him to try and explain to someone else. The words choke him, and leave him silent and flailing.
She smiles at him indulgently and hands him a small, over-full box. ‘Here. You might like the plain ones in there.’
‘How much?’ Izzy asks. She waves her hand as if to ward him off, even as he reaches for his coin purse.
‘Take them. Your payment can be telling him how you feel. And then coming back to tell me how it goes.’
‘I’d really rather just pay you,’ Izzy says, and she cackles, accepting a handful of gold coins. He’s probably overpaid, but he can’t find it in himself to care.
‘I’m old,’ she says, ‘and I love drama. It gets boring, running a bakery sometimes. If I can help to shuffle along young love, that would be a greater reward than money.’
‘Money is still a nice reward though,’ the young man frowns, having turned back to the conversation. ‘We definitely would prefer the money.’
Izzy prays quietly that Lucius doesn’t make it to the beach to meet her. They’d be insufferable together.
‘Holy shit,’ Ed says, eyes wide as Izzy triumphantly opens the box. ‘You’re the fucking best.'
Izzy tries not to preen, watching Ed excitedly inspect the pastries, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch them. Eventually, he selects a tart covered in strawberries, and dutifully breaks it in half, doing his best to catch the filling that leaks out. Ed makes a noise as he bites into it, eyes closing in delight. Izzy gingerly takes a bite.
‘Just like old times,’ Ed says.
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full,’ Izzy says around a bite of the tart.
Ed rolls his eyes, but finishes chewing before he speaks again. ‘How much was all this?’
‘I’m not actually sure,’ Izzy replies. ‘I talked about how much my boyfriend likes sweets, and the old lady just wanted to hand them over— all right?’
‘Fine,’ Ed says, coughing, his face oddly red. ‘Just, choked on a bit of the tart. You told her I’m your boyfriend?’
Izzy feels suddenly like he’s misstepped. ‘That’s the whole reason we’re here right now, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ Ed says hastily, shoving the rest of the tart into his mouth. Izzy offers him the rest of his piece, and Ed takes it gratefully. ‘Just, didn’t expect you to follow through while I wasn’t there.’
Izzy frowns, picking a plain bun out of the box. ‘It’s a job. I’m good at my job.’
Ed sighs particularly heavily for someone in the middle of eating his body weight in sweets. ‘Yeah, I know.’
Izzy stays quiet as he picks apart the bun. The bread is soft and slightly sweet, exactly the kind of thing Izzy prefers. It’s plain and boring in comparison to the fruit tart Ed’s got, filled with cream and piled high with glossy strawberries, and he feels silly holding out half to Ed. He probably wouldn’t even want it anyway, not when there are so many other, nicer things for him to choose from. But it’s tradition for the two of them to share their food like this, and Ed snatches it out of his hand before Izzy can even second guess himself.
‘When was the last time we did something like this?’ Ed asks. ‘It’s been fucking ages, right?’
Izzy makes a noise of agreement. ‘At least ten years.’
‘No, really?’ Ed asks. ‘Can’t have been that long.’
Izzy nods, noncommittal. He’s felt every second of those ten years, watched with increasing desperation as Ed pulled further away from him and withdrew into himself. He knows exactly how long it's been, because he remembers the last time vividly. Ed had spent shore leave in bed, nearly catatonic with misery. Izzy had tried everything to get him up and about; he’d wheedled and threatened and pleaded, but Ed had remained impassive.
Weary, he’d said, ‘C’mon, Ed, if you get up we can go to that bakery you like. The one with the peach cakes. You don’t have to talk to anyone, I’ll go get them. We can just sit on the beach for a while. Wouldn’t that be nice?’
Ed had remained silent for a few long minutes. Eventually, in a small, tired voice, he’d said, ‘Just go away, Izzy.’
Izzy had stopped trying after that. Stopped consulting Ed on decisions, stopped trying to get him out of bed. He started to focus instead on keeping the ship running, barking orders at the crew and stretching himself thin trying to be both captain and first mate at the same time.
He wonders if Ed remembers it, if he blames Izzy for giving up on him. Maybe that’s why he’s gone so stupid for Bonnet. He’s cheerful, and sensitive to Ed’s feelings, and indulges him when he chooses to stay in bed all day by bringing him tea and biscuits instead of making him get up and work. Maybe, if Izzy had had more patience, had been more understanding, had been better—
‘What are you thinking about?’ Ed asks. He’s already finished half of Izzy’s bun and fished out another flaky pastry covered in berries. Izzy takes his half absently.
‘Nothing,’ Izzy says.
‘Bullshit,’ Ed replies. ‘You’ve got your brooding face on.’
‘What? That’s not— I— that’s— I don’t fucking brood, Edward.’
‘You so do,’ Ed insists. ‘You’re always like, oh woe is me, I’m Izzy Hands, I’m so bossy and dramatic, let me go sit in the corner and brood about everything. Fuck.’
‘Fuck off,’ Izzy says, picking a berry off his portion of the pastry and throwing it at Ed. It tangles in his beard, and Izzy laughs as Ed grumbles about his beard being sticky.
‘You think you’re funny, huh?’ Ed pouts.
‘I’m hilarious,’ Izzy replies.
Izzy is a hardened sailor, first mate to one of the most terrifying pirates in history. He’s faced countless foes, and is deadly in battle. He does not yelp when Ed tackles him off the bench and onto the sand.
‘Prick,’ Izzy says, doing his best to push Ed’s arms away from where he’s currently attempting to shove the rest of the pastry in Izzy’s face. ‘Your fucking— knee, Ed, get off.’
‘You started it,’ Ed teases, but leans back to take the weight off his knees as Izzy struggles to sit up. Izzy can’t find it in himself to be annoyed. How long has it been since they’ve laughed and joked and played together like this? How long has it been since Ed seemed like he genuinely enjoyed Izzy’s company?
Ed rests his weight on Izzy’s lap, apparently content to sit there and watch intently as Izzy wipes pastry flakes off his face and out of his beard. Izzy stares up at Ed, feeling vaguely nauseous as his heart beats double-time.
‘What?’ he asks dumbly.
‘Nothing,’ Ed replies, eyes never leaving Izzy’s. ‘’S just nice here.’
‘In my lap,’ Izzy says. He tries to sound dry and unaffected, but even he can hear the strain in his voice. This is not what he was expecting, and he doesn’t quite know how to handle it; doesn’t know how to cope with Ed being so close, and yet so infuriatingly out of reach.
‘Yeah,’ Ed says, a hint of challenge in his face. ‘And? What if I wanna sit here?’
‘I’m not Bonnet,’ is all Izzy can manage, pinned under Ed’s stare. His chest aches, heavy under all he’s had to carry these last few hours. He knows, likely, that it’s just Ed getting carried away. That he’ll remember himself and draw back, laugh it off and move on, while Izzy pretends to be unaffected. And yet, despite knowing the truth, he can’t help but hope that some part of Ed does mean it; that their years of friendship and devotion meant something to Ed. That Izzy meant something to Ed. That he hasn’t been carrying this flame alone for the last few decades.
‘I know who you are,’ Ed leans in, voice soft and serious. ‘Iz, I—’
‘Captain!’
Ed flinches so hard that he falls backwards off Izzy’s lap, blinking in surprise as the Swede as he sprints up to them. Ed looks annoyed, the corners of his mouth pulling into a frown. The Swede’s hair is choppy and uneven, one side significantly shorter than the other, like it was hacked off. He looks close to tears.
‘What?’ Ed snaps.
‘Captain, I went to one of the barber stalls, and look—’
‘’Scuse me,’ Izzy says quietly as he gets up. It’s taking all of his self control not to shake and fall apart in front of both of them.
‘Iz,’ Ed reaches out toward him, expression unreadable. It’s all he’s ever wanted.
Izzy knows with terrible certainty that he can’t stay beside Ed, can’t finish out the night masquerading as his boyfriend.
‘You deal with that. I’ll see you later,’ Izzy mumbles, unable to look at Ed’s face. Instead, like the coward he is, he abandons Ed and the Swede there, pushing his way through the groups of people lingering on the beach, until he’s far enough away that he can’t hear Ed calling for him anymore.
Izzy wanders miserably through the Republic of Pirates, aimlessly making his way down the winding alleys. He’s tired and desperate to get away from anyone who might recognise him, or be even vaguely affiliated with the Revenge. He hates all of them, with their stupid, illogical ship and infuriating determination to have feelings. He hates the way they all seem to be happy and in love; the way that everyone except Izzy, apparently, is deserving of easy, comfortable, reciprocated love. It just feels so deeply unfair; Izzy has sacrificed blood, sweat and tears to climb his way to the top of the proverbial ladder in the pirate world, to carve out a comfortable life for himself and for Edward. And yet Edward willingly — gladly — sacrificed it all for Stede Bonnet’s floating circus, and expects Izzy to not only survive off the barest scraps, but to thank him for it.
Sullenly, Izzy hopes they leave without him. That Edward returns to the ship and to Bonnet, and realises how much better off he is without Izzy, and sails off into oblivion to leave Izzy to rot on the shores of a pirate town that used to make sense.
He wanders just far enough that he starts to leave the designated festival area. The alleyway he’s in is as cramped and dirty and foul-smelling as the rest of them, but it’s blessedly free of lanterns and decorations. There’s a tavern on the corner, seedy-looking enough that even Izzy is hesitating. It’s familiar territory, and Izzy feels some of the tension bleed out of him and he feels slightly calmer than a few moments ago. It’s not much, but Izzy is accustomed now to taking the infinitesimal victories where he can get them. He steps into the tavern.
It’s dimly lit and hazy inside from the smoke of cigars, or pipes, or whatever other implement the patrons have decided to use. There’s a puddle near the doorway, unidentifiable in the near-dark as Izzy steps around it. The smell is strong enough that he can guess what it is anyway. Izzy considers turning around and heading straight back to the market.
Really, Ed, he can almost imagine Bonnet saying, can’t we go somewhere a little more… hygienic? These clothes are hard to maintain, you know!
Izzy makes his way toward the bar. Hopefully, if they come looking for him in the morning, Bonnet will break out in hives before they get this far.
He tries to sit on one of the stools at the bar, and it creaks so alarmingly under his weight that he stands back up with a grimace. No one looks his way, not even the barmaid.
Just as Izzy’s debating whether he’s willing to take a chance with his regrettably delicate constitution on the unidentifiable drinks behind the counter, a gravelly voice speaks up beside him. ‘How’s the tattoo?’
‘What?’ Izzy frowns, squinting hard. There’s an old man sitting, quite bravely in Izzy’s opinion, on the bar stool beside him. From what Izzy can see, there’s a few wisps of white hair clinging stubbornly to his otherwise bald head, and his visible skin is wrinkly and dotted with sunspots. Despite the rough, warbling voice, he’s broad-shouldered and strong. Izzy imagines he might have been quite intimidating in his youth, naturally terrifying in a way Izzy has always envied.
‘The tattoo,’ the man gestures with his tankard at Izzy’s hand.
‘The spade?’ Izzy asks with a frown. Jack had given him that one, years ago. He doesn’t remember much, other than the uncomfortable burn of cheap rum and the delighted laughter of both Ed and Jack as he’d lost a round of cards. He can’t imagine why some old creep in a bar knows about it.
‘No, you fucking idiot,’ the man growls, ‘the anchor. I did it for you.’
Izzy squints at him in the dim light, but doesn’t recognise him. He’d spent most of the night staring, enraptured, at Ed — as he spent most of his days back then. The man stares back at him, impassive and almost grim, and Izzy thinks that something about his hands seems familiar.
And, well, it’s not like he’s got anything better to do.
‘Fucked up that hand in a raid, most of the tattoo’s gone now,’ Izzy replies. ‘Do you have any openings?’
Following a stranger from a bar almost too squalid for Izzy fucking Hands into a small, dingy tattoo parlour is not the smartest idea he’s ever had. But even as he stands in the cramped little room, watching the still-unnamed man silently prepare his needles and inks, Izzy has the vague feeling that he’s been here before.
Things have changed in the intervening years, but he sort of remembers the uncomfortable, hard chair and the rough wood-grain of the table he rests his arm on. He can almost picture Ed in the corner, young and carefree and smiling widely, taking large swigs from his bottle of rum as he watches Izzy get tattooed.
He almost turns around and walks out, even as the tattoo artist takes a seat across from him. This is a stupid idea, pathetic and sentimental. He knows he’ll regret it almost as soon as it's done.
But, what better excuse could he give for avoiding Ed and the ship for a few hours more?
‘It’ll be a little more difficult to redo over the burn scars,’ the man says, inspecting Izzy’s hand closely. He’s bent over so far that Izzy’s back twinges just looking at him. ‘But not impossible.’
‘Sure,’ Izzy says. ‘Go ahead.’
He sits quietly throughout the tattoo, watching the needle rhythmically poking into his skin.
‘How’d you recognise me?’ Izzy asks.
The man rolls his eyes. When he speaks, his tone makes it quite clear that he thinks Izzy is incredibly stupid. ‘I recognise all my clients, and I remember all their tattoos. Your friend has come back a few times since then. Blackbeard.’
‘He has?’ Izzy asks, distracted. His hand twitches, and the man scowls at him until he settles down again. ‘What did he get?’
Ed is nearly covered in tattoos, most of them wobbly and illegible, done by either Jack or Izzy while they’re half-drunk and unable to see straight. Some of them are upside down and wonky, inked in by Ed himself while he’s bored. He’s never been particularly precious about his body, never cared that much about the appearance of his tattoos. Izzy knows that Ed likes the look of them, the chaos of crowded designs along his limbs and the shoddy linework.
Izzy is much fussier about his tattoos. He’d allowed Jack to ink the small spade into his hand, and he’d let Ed give him the little star on his cheek. But all of the larger ones, the swallows dotted along his torso and the ship on his thigh, were professionally done. He likes the sentimentality of having ink done by Ed, but he prefers the straight, sharp lines and dark colours the professionals are able to produce for him.
As far as Izzy knew, Ed has only ever gotten tattoos done properly when he wanted Izzy to come along and get one too. The idea that he’d gone on his own sits strangely with him.
‘Came to get that funny little hangman tattoo on his arm,’ the old man says. ‘The one with six spaces underneath.’
Izzy remembers a night, a few weeks after the mutiny against Horingold. He and Ed had been drinking and laughing and playing stupid card games together in the captain’s cabin. They’d been on top of the world, then, drunk with victory, bolstered by their new crew and new roles as captain and first mate.
‘Let’s make the next round a little more interesting with a wager,’ Izzy had said, words slurring a bit. They’d had far too much to drink, but he’d allowed himself to enjoy it; to go too far, just this once. A reward, and a toast to new beginnings.
Ed had leaned forward, interested — Izzy was not even remotely a gambling man, but Ed loved a challenge. ‘Go on, then, what are your terms?’
‘Loser has to get a tattoo, at the discretion of the winner.’ Izzy replied, knowing Ed would love the idea. And he had; he’d brightened up, and laughed, and clapped his hands together.
‘I’ve won the last five rounds, mate, you’re fucked. I’m gonna make you get an ugly little mermaid, right on your forearm,’ Ed had cackled. ‘Gonna give her Jack’s face.’
He’s sure, now, that Ed had only said it to get a rise out of him; Ed always liked to tease, to push Izzy’s buttons. ‘You’re the fucking worst, Ed.’
‘Go on,’ Ed shuffled forward, bumping their knees together. ‘If you win, what’re you gonna give me?’
‘If I win, you’re gonna get a tattoo of my name,’ Izzy had replied, feeling brave. He can’t remember Ed’s expression. He’d been too hazy with drink at the time, and it’s been far too long to try and piece together what it might have been.
‘Well, then,’ Ed had said, suddenly much more serious than he’d been before, ‘you’re on.’
Ed had lost spectacularly, and Izzy had teased him about it for the rest of the night, inventing new and increasingly inappropriate places for the tattoo. They’d passed out at the table not long after, and the last memory Izzy has of the evening is solemnly promising that Ed will have to get Izzy tattooed across his forehead while Ed laughed and laughed.
They’d sobered up the next morning, gone about with their day, and Ed never mentioned the tattoo again. Izzy assumed Ed either forgot, or didn’t want to get it, and tried to ignore how upset the thought made him.
‘He was still a young man, then,’ the man says, jolting Izzy back into the present. ‘Came in, introduced himself as Blackbeard. Gave me this ridiculous little speech about how he normally did his own tattoos, but this one was too important. Thought he was a little insane, when he said he wanted a stick figure and a word. Is he still crazy?’
‘Worse, now,’ Izzy says, trying not to sound fond. ‘What— what word did he get?’
‘He asked for a name,’ he replies, leaning back. He stretches and Izzy tries not to wince when his back cracks loudly. ‘I don’t do names. I’ve seen too many sailors get a name tattooed, just for the relationship to go sour. Then they come back and try to make me cover it. I don't like covering up my work, see, so I've just stopped doing them. I said he could do that bit himself. He insisted I had to do it, ‘cause he doesn’t know his letters. Wouldn’t hear of going to someone else for the tattoo. We compromised, in the end, with the spaces. There, all done. Do you like it?’
‘What? Yes, it’s fine, looks great,’ Izzy says, barely glancing at the freshly-done anchor. The tattoo artist frowns, clearly disapproving, but Izzy can't bring himself to care. ‘What name did he want?’
‘A bit of an odd name, if I’m honest, and I’ve seen some names in my time,’ the man replies, and Izzy’s about to lose it if he doesn’t get a straight fucking answer— ‘He asked for Israel.’
The crowds are thinning by the time Izzy stumbles out of the little tattoo shop. He walks, dazed, through the streets, making his way back to the festival area by muscle memory alone. If pressed, he wouldn’t be able to give any significant information — he’s not sure what he paid for the tattoo, can’t fathom a guess at the time. In all his distraction, he wouldn’t even be able to say confidently that he’s in the Republic of Pirates. All he can think about is Ed, sneaking off on shore leave to beg for Izzy’s name to be tattooed onto his body. Begging a professional to do it, even, because it was too important to be left to chance. Begging the specific professional who’d done their matching tattoos. He thinks about all the times he’s seen that stupid little hangman tattoo, the way he’d scoffed at the design, remembers how Ed always evaded the question when he asked, derisive, what stupid word he’d nearly tattooed on himself.
Izzy thinks he might be sick.
There’s a lot of activity on the beach. The food stalls are packing up, the picnic blankets are being rolled up and carried off the sand, the tables and benches are being carted back off to the taverns they originally came from. A few unlucky pirates are perched high on wobbly ladders, pulling down the string lanterns and blowing them out, one by one, before lowering them into the sand. The shoreline is busy, filled with people waiting to head back out to sea. It’s much later than Izzy realised. It’s very possible, then, that Ed and the others have left already, headed back to the Revenge in the rowboats they’d taken to shore.
Which is fine, Izzy thinks firmly. It doesn’t matter that Ed left him here, they’ve split up plenty of times before. He can easily make his own way back to the ship; catch a ride with a friendly face, maybe, or pay to rent a rowboat of his own. He’s a fucking pirate, he’ll steal one if he has to.
But then the crowd at the shore parts just enough for Izzy to spot Ed. He’s sitting alone in a rowboat, hunched over and frowning. He looks strangely lonely, and doesn’t look up as Izzy approaches.
‘Hey,’ Izzy says, feeling awkward and wrong-footed and strangely panicked.
‘Hey,’ Ed says, voice blank.
‘Were you waiting long?’
‘What? Waiting? Nah,’ Ed says, eyes darting around. ‘I wasn’t waiting for you, or anything. Was just sitting here. I was thinking, like, man, we should just hang out in rowboats more often, so that’s what I was doing. Didn’t even notice that you hadn’t come back yet.’
Izzy can’t help but feel incredibly, stupidly fond. For all that he’s self-centred and shortsighted, there’s something about Ed Teach and his particular brand of ridiculousness that Izzy just can’t resist. He holds out his scarred hand, tilting it so the fresh tattoo is visible in the moonlight. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to take as long as I did. Just got a bit distracted.’
Ed goes very still. He reaches out slowly, and when he takes Izzy’s hand, his touch is unbearably gentle. He traces around the tattoo, careful of the sensitive skin, almost like he can’t believe that it’s there.
‘You got it redone,’ he says quietly.
Izzy shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. He’d been so sure of everything, back when he’d stumbled out of the little shop, hand stinging. It had made sense, and he thought he’d finally understood. Finally seen Ed, reaching out the same way Izzy had been.
But now, standing in front of him, he’s nervous and unsure. He’d allowed himself to forget, for a few moments, how long ago Ed had gotten that tattoo, forgotten how much has changed over the years. They’re not young any more, inseparable and fiercely loyal to each other. They’re older now, and Ed is sick of him because he’s tired and haggard and too boring to keep Ed’s attention. Instead, he has Stede Bonnet, who loves him and cares for him and indulges all the silly little whims Izzy didn’t know Ed had. What could Izzy possibly offer him, now?
Izzy moves his hand out of Ed’s grasp, and doesn’t let himself look at Ed’s expression. ‘It’s late. We should head back, make sure everyone’s all right.’
There’s a beat of silence. When Ed speaks, his voice is soft in a way Izzy hasn’t heard for years. ‘Sure, Iz. Whatever you want.'
They push the boat into the water together, and Ed picks up both oars before Izzy can object. They sit together quietly while Ed rows them back to the Revenge, just as the first pink rays of sunlight peek over the horizon.
‘…And then we came back to the ship and went to sleep, and now we’re here, and Izzy and I have gifts for you!’ Ed says. Izzy blinks and tries to focus on the conversation at hand. Unfortunately, Bonnet had been feeling much better by the time they showed up to present their report. Izzy had hoped to make it quick, lingering by the doorway under the pretence of not wanting to get sick, and escaping as soon as he was able.
But instead, Bonnet was back to his usual, infuriatingly chipper self, and had ushered Izzy in and instructed him to take a seat in one of the many extremely unnecessary plush armchairs in the captain’s cabin. And now, instead of doing anything remotely useful or at least licking his wounds in private, Izzy is forced to sit and listen to Ed recount their entire evening. He even gets the unparalleled joy of watching Bonnet unwrap his gifts. Truly, Izzy’s life is now complete.
‘Oh, Ed, you made me a teacup,’ Bonnet says, eyes wide and cheeks flushed with delight. ‘Thank you.’
‘I painted little flowers on it, too,’ Ed says proudly. ‘So it matches the rest of them.’
‘This one is much more special than those old things,’ Bonnet replies, sickeningly sweet. Izzy seethes. Those teacups are extraordinarily expensive — he would know, he’d tried to sell them off a few times before getting caught — and yet Bonnet, in all his excess, is able to wave them off as old things.
He wonders idly where he ranks on Bonnet’s list of things, then.
‘Izzy made you something, too,’ Ed says, giving Izzy a smirk.
‘How delightful!’ Bonnet says, unwrapping the gift. It’s even worse now, in daylight, lumpy and unbalanced. The paint job, Izzy thinks proudly, is terrible. It’s so thin that it’s flaking off, with a few globs of paint so thick that they haven’t dried fully. It’s easily the worst thing he’s ever seen. ‘It’s such a wonderful, um…’
‘Saucer,’ Izzy supplies politely. ‘To match your teacup.’
‘Lovely,’ Bonnet says, less enthused than he had been a few moments ago. Ed turns away, clearly holding back laughter. Izzy resists the urge to kick him. ‘I suppose, with its unique shape, it might make a rather attractive paperweight.’
And then, to Izzy’s dismay, he sets it down on the corner of his desk with a satisfied nod.
‘Thank you, Izzy,’ Bonnet says. ‘Did you have anything else you wanted to add?’
‘What?’ Izzy asks. He’d allowed himself to get distracted, momentarily, by imagining all the ways he could accidentally break the plate on his way out of the room.
‘I heard the evening from Ed’s perspective, what about yours?’ Stede asks. He and Ed are both gazing at him with interest, and Izzy realises this must be his punishment for the ugly little saucer.
‘We went, we did crafts, we ate food, now we’re here,’ Izzy replies, deadpan. ‘I’ve never had so much fun in my fucking life.’
Stede frowns a little, but Ed laughs.
‘His favourite part is the fighting,’ Ed tells Stede, sounding fond. ‘He was disappointed that they made it boring.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Stede says. ‘That’s a shame. I’m sorry you missed out on your favourite part, Izzy. I appreciate you going on my behalf regardless.’
He looks so genuine that Izzy has to fight to keep the scowl off his face. He’s certain that Bonnet is making fun of him, can feel it lurking behind the bland, polite tone. Bonnet doesn’t have the stomach for violence, and he also doesn't tend to bother with other people's feelings. And yet here he is, trying to pretend like he cares about whether or not Izzy had a good time at the stupid little festival he only went to in Bonnet’s stead. Izzy has no idea what Ed sees in this man.
‘It’s fine,’ Izzy says, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. ‘May I be dismissed?’
‘Oh, I was hoping you’d join us for some tea,’ Bonnet says. ‘If you have the time.’
He’s got that unbearable sad, puppy-dog expression that usually gets Ed to cave instantly. Izzy stares back, unimpressed. He’s never felt a positive emotion toward Bonnet before, and certainly doesn’t intend to start now.
‘I don’t have time, actually,’ Izzy says. ‘I’d like to get back to work.’
Bonnet deflates. ‘Yes, well, perhaps next time then—’
Izzy is out of the room before Bonnet can finish his sentence.
Ed finds him later, angrily coiling a rope that he’s watched four other crew members walk past without so much as batting an eye. Izzy can’t tell if it’s wilful ignorance or terminal stupidity, or a mix of both. All of them were watching him and Ed during the stupid fucking party like hawks, but now they can’t see a simple fucking rope on the deck. Briefly, he considers uncoiling it and leaving it where it is. With any luck, one of them will trip and break their neck. But then Bonnet would be upset, and Ed would be upset that Bonnet is upset, and the rest of the crew would mope, and Izzy would have to deal with it all until he went mad and set the ship on fire.
With a sigh, he continues coiling the rope.
‘Need any help?’ Ed asks.
Izzy rolls his eyes. Ed hasn’t helped with basic chores in at least a decade. Likely, he’s going to start helping, half-heartedly doing whatever task Izzy assigns him until he gets distracted and wanders off a few moments later, leaving Izzy to finish the work while he fantasises about the ways he could kill Lucius.
Except that Ed continues to stand there, watching intently as Izzy finishes coiling the rope and puts it away. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, and shuffles quietly behind Izzy as he does his rounds.
Izzy sighs and gives in. ‘What do you want?’
Normally, he’d be standing at attention, formal and serious, waiting for whatever order Ed is going to give him. But he’s exhausted from the stupid party, worn out even further by overexposure to Ed and Stede both. He’s feeling too exposed; allowing himself to pretend that his feelings might be reciprocated has flayed him open, and he’s terrified that the others can see it. He reads into the curious looks from the crew, wonders what they thought about their whole display. Wonders what they think of him, and even worse, what they think of him and Ed together. He regrets the stupid anchor tattoo every time he looks at it, wonders if he revealed too much. He’s even started to wonder what Bonnet thinks, for fuck’s sake. It’s getting embarrassing, and all he wants is a few days alone to collect himself. Instead, he gets Ed trailing after him on deck while Lucius edges closer in Izzy’s peripheral vision, clearly wanting to eavesdrop.
‘I had fun, the other night,’ Ed says. Lucius makes a painful wheezing noise. ‘Did you? Have fun?’
‘It was fine,’ Izzy says blandly. The worst part is that it was fine. He’d complained in the moment, furious that he was there on Bonnet’s behalf, but the night itself hadn’t been terrible. If they’d gone as themselves, just to spend a night together on shore leave, Izzy thinks he might have even enjoyed himself. But nothing is ever that simple with Ed.
‘We should do that again, sometime,’ Ed continues, shuffling closer. The wheezing sound gets louder. Privately, Izzy hopes that Lucius dies from the excitement. ‘It was nice. I’ve missed you.’
Izzy sighs and suddenly feels very, very old. To say he’s missed Ed’s company would be an understatement. He’s barely felt like himself the last decade, trailing with increasing desperation after someone he doesn’t recognise anymore. In his weaker moments over the years, he let himself imagine a conversation like this. He always thought it would be a relief, the first desperate breath of air after nearly drowning. Instead, he just feels tired. Any joy he may have felt is soured by the knowledge that it only happened because Bonnet requested it. If he hadn’t, would Ed have even thought to try and spend time with Izzy? Or would they have gone to the market together and left Izzy, quiet and lonely, on the ship without a second thought? Is his repayment for years of undying loyalty to exist only at Bonnet’s command? How long will it be until Ed gets tired of him again, remembers all the reasons their friendship fell apart the first time? Will Bonnet be generous enough to push them back together the next time this happens, or will Izzy be alone again?
‘Could go get another tattoo,’ Ed says. ‘It’s been a long time, could go for some new ink.’
‘You don’t even have any space left for new ink,’ Izzy says.
‘There’s always my forehead,’ Ed jokes, an oddly desperate note to his voice.
‘Maybe,’ Izzy says, because it’s easier than saying any of the things he’s thinking.
Ed smiles, clearly relieved. Izzy tries to smile back. It feels wrong and unfamiliar, his face stretching awkwardly in ways he’s not quite used to anymore. He imagines it must look odd and ugly; an unpleasant grimace compared to Ed’s bright, easy smile.
Ed doesn’t seem to mind.
It continues like that for a few weeks: Izzy tries to go about his duties, Ed doggedly follows him around the ship and does his best to be a nuisance, the crew continues to speculate openly about the nature of their relationship. Horrifyingly, the only one who’s been normal since the whole fuckery is Stede. Izzy is almost relieved to hear his ridiculous chatter on deck, the nauseatingly cheerful good morning, Izzy! that he never replies to. It’s a comfortable routine that he’s starting to appreciate
Even the idea of thinking something positive about Stede leaves Izzy disgusted with himself. He’s spent this long resisting the thrall of Bonnet’s insanity, he has no intention of succumbing to it now.
‘Stede wants to talk to you,’ Ed says, nudging Izzy away from the helm.
‘I’m busy—’
‘No you’re not,’ Ed says loudly, prying Izzy’s hands off the wheel. ‘See? I’m taking over. Go talk to Stede.’
Izzy folds his arms and doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to see Bonnet, doesn’t trust Ed’s sudden insistence on being around him all the fucking time.
‘It’s important,’ Ed wheedles. ‘C’mon, Iz. For me?’
Izzy sighs and stomps towards the captain’s cabin. One day that’ll stop working on him. Hopefully.
‘Izzy,’ Bonnet says. He’s smiling, but it looks strained around the edges, like it’s hard for him to try and be polite to Izzy. He knows the feeling. ‘Thank you for coming.'
‘What do you want?’ he snaps.
‘I need your help,’ Bonnet says, wringing his hands. He looks nervous, pacing around the cabin while Izzy stands, arms crossed and unimpressed, near the door. It’s exhausting watching him wander from one side of the room to the other, so Izzy keeps his gaze trained on the desk.
‘No.’
‘I haven’t told you what I need help with yet!’ Bonnet says. There’s an infuriating whine to his voice that makes Izzy’s skin crawl.
‘I don’t care,’ Izzy says. ‘Get Edward to do it.’
‘That’s part of the problem,’ Stede says, coming to a stop. ‘Edward can’t do it. This is incredibly important, and it needs a… delicate touch. You have the right skills for the job.’
Izzy knows that it’s most likely mindless flattery, but he can’t help preening a little bit. After suffering the general incompetence of the crew for so long, it’s nice to be appreciated. Even if the person that’s appreciating him is Stede Bonnet, of all people.
‘And what’s that?’ Izzy asks, barely restraining a sneer. ‘Do you need someone to fan you while you read? Peel your grapes before they’re hand-fed to you?’
In a testament to how serious the situation is, Bonnet doesn’t take the bait. He just ignores Izzy and resumes his pacing.
It’s a little discomfiting, to see Bonnet this visibly ruffled by something. Everything in Bonnet’s life seems to fall into place, regardless of how undeserving he is, and he’s normally too stupid to understand when he should be worrying about something. Izzy stands a little straighter, uneasy. Ed had said it was important.
‘Captain,’ Izzy says. Addressing Bonnet as such makes him want to gag, but it’s enough that Bonnet stops pacing and looks at him. ‘What is it?’
‘Well,’ Bonnet says, hesitant. ‘I’ve received an invitation to a school reunion. For my graduating class.’
‘I thought you faked your death,’ Izzy says. ‘I remember the newspaper clipping. There was a jungle cat involved.’
‘Yes,’ Bonnet says.
‘So how do they know you’re alive? How do they know where to send a fucking party invitation?’
‘Well,’ Bonnet looks somewhat uncomfortable now, ‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’
‘It’s incredibly fucking relevant! You’re a pirate, which is against the law, and yet people know where and how to contact you for parties! When you’re supposed to be dead!’
‘That part is a bit inconvenient,’ Bonnet concedes. ‘I suppose I’ll have to be careful.’
‘Tell me you’re not going,’ Izzy says, dread in his stomach. Based on Bonnet’s guilty expression, he knows that the idiot has likely already sent his RSVP.
‘That’s why I’ve called you in here,’ Bonnet replies. ‘I agreed to bring a plus one with me, but Ed doesn’t want to go. He had a bad experience at the last high-society party we went to, and I’m not keen to upset him again.’
‘I’m not going to be your fucking bodyguard at some stupid reunion that you shouldn’t be going to,’ Izzy snaps. ‘If Woodes Rogers shows up to arrest you and have you hanged, it’ll be your own fault.’
Bonnet waves a hand. ‘He was quite nice to me in school, I’m sure it’ll be fine.’
‘Tell me you have not agreed to attend a party with Woodes fucking Rogers—’
‘Anyway,’ Bonnet says loudly, the way Ed does whenever he’s trying to interrupt Izzy throwing a tantrum. The bastard has clearly been taking note of how Ed speaks to him. ‘I don’t need you to go as my bodyguard. I need you to go as my boyfriend.’
Izzy buries his face in his hands and screams.