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Izzy wanders below deck, in search of Frenchie. The crew’s planning a big fuck-off party for ‘Calypso’s birthday’, and Stede had been all for it, rushing the ship ashore immediately to shop for supplies. The twat seemed to be the only one who didn't realise there was no such thing as ‘Calypso’s birthday’, but at least everyone’s getting a party out of it. And Izzy has an idea of his own.
He finds Frenchie quite easily, simply following the lilting plucks of the man’s lute that lead him the jam room, sprawled out on one of the ridiculous fucking hammocks Stede had insisted on installing. Izzy pauses in the entrance, leaning against the doorway while he listens to the tune.
His eyes are closed as he strums away - how the fuck is he still managing to play? - and Izzy takes the opportunity to appreciate the gentle sounds. The man’s all warm freckled skin and long limbs, one leg curling off the edge of the bed, and like this he looked peaceful, relaxed, a miracle of a thing after the last few weeks of their lives.
He’s broken out of it as Frenchie stops playing, realising Izzy’s watching him, and he sits up. Izzy’s surprised he didn’t hear him coming. “Oh hey, Iz.” Frenchie greets, reaching over and pulling a notepad and quill from next to him on the hammock. It’s still odd to hear the crew call him by his name. Not bad odd, just... odd.
Izzy tips his chin at him, and steps over to the hammock, trying not to rush himself. “What are you doing?”, Izzy says, mentally cursing himself out for asking such an obvious fucking question. ‘Oh, I’m just practicing a couple of songs for the party later. I’m the musical entertainment.’ Frenchie smiles at him, a sweet, excited thing - Izzy always feels weird whenever it’s directed at him, like it’s a mistake - and goes to write something down on the paper.
Only, there are no words on there at all, just a series of drawings that Izzy can’t quite wrap his head around. “What’s- what’s all this, then?” Izzy gestures to the pages of doodles, almost afraid he sounds rude. It’s not something that’s ever bothered him before, but- but he doesn’t want to be rude to Frenchie.
“Oh, well, y’know I’m not the strongest writer. Or reader, really. At all.” Frenchie explains, shuffling up a bit so there’s room for Izzy to sit down next to him. The hammock dips further under their combined weight, and they end up sitting so close their arms are almost touching. Izzy can’t find it in himself to mind.
“So what I do is, for the notes I need and how to play them – an' some of the lyrics sometimes - I draw pictures of things that I know start with the same letters.” Frenchie points one long finger at a poor drawing of a cat.
“See? That one’s a cat, so it’s a C. It helps me remember them better, as well. Plus, y’know how I feel about cats, and C is an absolute bitch to play, so it makes sense.” Izzy cracks a smile at that, and Frenchie smiles right back, a thing brighter than the moon and stars. The force of it makes Izzy sway a little, and he feels warm around the edges.
“Do you know the song La Vie en Rose?” Izzy asks, jumping straight into it. Frenchie’s brows crease in thought. “Is that Spanish? Uh, no, don’t think so. How come?”
“French, actually.” Izzy smirks with the irony of it. He doesn’t want to tell Frenchie exactly what he’s planning, so he goes with an almost-complete truth. “I was going to ask you to play it tonight. One of my favourite songs, that’s all.” Frenchie’s eyes light up at that, and Izzy can’t quite work out why.
“Oh, I mean, I can definitely learn it. Can you hum it for me, now?” Now Izzy’s brow crease up. “Is that going to be enough?” Frenchie looks at him curiously then, like he’s trying to work out if Izzy was joking or not. “Yeah? I do it all the time. Did it for Lucius and Pete the other day.”
Izzy tries not to look too impressed at that. He’s a bit embarrassed, actually; he’d known Frenchie was talented, but he didn’t know just how talented until now. He shakes it off quickly, because Frenchie’s still staring at him with those deep brown eyes and waiting.
“Alright then.” Izzy replies, clearing his throat a bit awkwardly. Frenchie’s picking up his lute again and looking up at him expectantly, so he starts humming the song.
The sound feels too loud in the otherwise silent space, and Izzy’s tune wavers a little, he doesn’t want to be too loud, but it’s quickly interspersed with Frenchie strumming and plucking different notes, mixing them together and on top of each other, and he stops occasionally to write - or rather, draw - some things down.
As Izzy finishes humming the song, Frenchie scribbles another quick picture down before grinning at Izzy. “Thanks, mate. That was great. And I got a lot of it down first time, which is good.” Izzy’s lips quirk up at that – he's still not used to this, to casual conversations and compliments and being a part of things. “Can you do it one more time?” Izzy nods and begins all over again. His sound doesn’t wobble this time, strong and soft as he focuses in on the plucks of Frenchie’s strings and the quiet scratch of quill on paper.
‘Alright! I’m gonna practice it a bunch before tonight, obviously, so it’s gonna be great.’ Izzy returns Frenchie’s smile with a small one of his own in thanks, but it doesn’t feel like enough. He needs to do more – the man’s doing something nice and unnecessary for him, so he needs to return the favour.
He reaches tentatively for Frenchie’s paper and quill, eyebrows raised. “Can I?” The taller man hands them over in agreement, even if he looks slightly confused at what he’s getting at. Izzy points to each of the drawings in turn, asking Frenchie for their meanings. Most of them are groups of notes, others are descriptions of where fingers go or which way to strum the lute.
Izzy listens to the explanation of each drawing, and writes out what they mean beneath or next to them. He notes Frenchie’s exact words down, keeping his letters as clear as possible, and tries to make them larger than his normal writing when the space allows it, so they’re be easier to read. It takes him a while - there are pages of drawings for this song, and his hand starts to cramp a bit, but he decides it’s absolutely worth it when he hands the papers back to Frenchie, even if his hands are shaking a bit awkwardly.
Frenchie just stares at the paper, flicking through each one to gawk at all the writing adorning the pages. His eyes are wide, and he doesn’t speak, and a jolt of panic runs through Izzy. What if he’s done the wrong thing? What if Frenchie thinks it’s rude, or useless, or he’s just ruined all his work? The shorter man clears his throat.
‘I- I just thought it might help. With the - er - reading, and writing.’ Izzy finishes around the strange lump in his throat, staring at the wall opposite them.
He almost jumps when he felt a warm hand on his upper arm, and he turned his head to look at Frenchie then. ‘Iz, this is… probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’ His voice is incredulous, and Izzy doesn’t like that, doesn’t know how to react to it.
‘Yeah, well don’t go fucking spreading it around’, Izzy snarks, but there isn’t a hint of cruelty behind it. Frenchie chuckles softly, a lilting melody of its own, and Izzy’s lips curl up. For a brief moment, there’s nothing else in the world, and everything fades away until it’s soft around the corners.
Izzy’s the first to break it. ‘Right, well, I’ll let you get on with it.’ He punctuates it with a stilted nod to Frenchie’s lute and stands, one hand on the doorframe to help him. It’s still awkward and uncomfortable with his leg, but he’s getting used to it – he's moving around better than he was. And he had Frenchie and the crew to thank for it. He still can’t quite wrap his head around it.