Chapter Text
“Fuck!” Izzy flinches at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, at the raised red scabs and welts scattered across his back. He’d only wanted to… Make use of their arrangement for once? Feel desired? Punish Ed, just a little bit? In any case, he didn’t want this.
Cursing himself, he gets out the disinfectant, sprays it on a piece of tissue paper and contorts himself until his shoulders ache with the strain just so he can dab at the worst of the damage. It stings. He deserves that. They have ointment somewhere, the kind with white and yellow flowers on the packaging. Seems fucking ridiculous, Izzy thinks, smearing something so innocent-looking on those filthy motel room scratches. Streaks left by a man with deft hands and no expectations and a name Izzy didn’t even bother to ask.
It’s a beast that rears its hungry head every other year or so. The ping of a match on his phone. An hour to kill until Ed gets back from the shop. A sudden, desperate rush of want and recklessness - warm skin and eager mouths and grasping, groping, getting carried away… That’s really all it was, nothing more. And now? He scars easily. Has always been made to be marked like blank paper - Ed loves that about him. Loved.
The scratches still burn when he lets his shirt fall over them. Ed’s shirt. One last check in the mirror to make sure nothing is peeking out. Then he’s ready to join his husband in the living room - or as ready as he’s likely to be tonight.
“Thought you’d fallen in again,” Ed snickers from the couch, somehow simultaneously scrolling on his phone and flipping through tv channels.
“Fuck off. That was one time. It was dark and you didn’t put the fucking seat down,” Izzy tries to tap into the comfortable routine of their bickering. But he can’t bring himself to sit in his usual spot. Too close to Ed, maybe close enough to smell the chamomile and antiseptic on his skin, the other man’s aftershave clinging to his hair despite the hot shower. He leans his elbow on the opposite armrest instead, half the sofa between them, empty. Ed finally settles on a documentary. Something about wolves.
…marked, signaling to other packs that a territory is taken.
Right. Just Izzy’s fucking luck. He curls up impossibly tighter, the hardwood frame under the upholstery digging into his ribs. Ed huffs at that, mildly confused.
“Do I need to take a bath or why the fuck are you all the way over there?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, just gathers his sprawling limbs and scoots closer. A familiar palm comes to rest on Izzy’s shoulder, brushes a tender spot through the light gray cotton, and Izzy’s whole body jolts like he’s poked an electric socket with a fork. “The fuck’s the matter? Tried lifting half a bike on your own again, throw out your back?”
“No, I’m-” Izzy twists away from Ed’s touch, tugs the bottom of his shirt over his knees like that can ward off the inevitable. Resolutely, he lets his eyes flit between the window and television. Anywhere but Ed. The dark sky is thick with late winter fog, the wolf on screen sniffing and licking at its packmate’s jowls, whimpering. Izzy swallows. “You’re always saying how we have an open marriage, right?” It comes out sharper than he meant it to. Ed gives him a few inches of space, cocking his head.
“Uh. Yeah?”
“Well,” says Izzy, juts out his chin. “I met someone today.” He doesn’t need to look at Ed to know his expression has gone cold.
…less dominant wolves exhibit submissive behavior by holding their tails down…
Ed hits mute on the tv remote, pockets his phone. All his attention is on Izzy now and it aches and prickles worse than the wounds on his skin.
“Show me.” It’s not a suggestion. But Izzy doesn’t buckle and go pliant, not this time. He’s not done handing out his punishments for the day.
“What, so you can go out and fuck a new guy every weekend? Invite him into our bed? Twelve years, Edward! And I haven’t said a fucking thing. So now, when I dare to extend that same freedom to myself for once, when someone wants me for a change, of course you’d have the fucking gall to be jealous-”
“Iz-” Ed interrupts, but tough luck - now that he’s started, Izzy couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.
“I’m not fucking finished, Edward. Who am I to you anymore, huh? You’re always-”
“Iz. You’re fucking bleeding.”
“What?” Izzy jerks his head around to face his husband. And there’s the stony set of his jaw, the predatory glint in his eye. But underneath that – concern, the direction of his gaze locked on Izzy’s left shoulder.
“Who did that to you?”
“Nobody. ‘s nothing.” Izzy pulls at the hem of his shirt again, knowing full-well it’s useless.
“Show me,” Ed repeats, but softer this time. And Izzy reluctantly unclenches his fingers from the fabric, allows Ed to tug the shirt over his head and tries not to jump at the predictable hissed inhale.
“Fuck,” Ed breathes, fingers gently tracing Izzy’s skin - there is no pain, like he’s being careful to avoid the marks. “Did… Did you want this?”
Izzy pulls a shroud of spite around himself. “Did at the time. Yeah.”
“And now?” Ed’s fingertips are still drawing patterns between the scratches on Izzy’s back. Izzy shakes his head, tries to blink back tears only to give up and let them run down his cheeks anyway.
Ed says nothing, but his hand constricts where it’s come to rest on Izzy’s hip bone, where they both know Ed’s canines once punctured deep enough to draw blood. The other hand travels down over threadbare sweatpants, squeezing gently at his right calf, at the patch of skin that’s permanently shiny and hairless from a blistering hot exhaust pipe. First bike they ever fixed up on their own - Izzy can still feel the wind in his hair whenever Ed touches that scar. Because that’s the whole fucking problem, isn’t it? That the thought of anything - anyone - defiling the tapestry of their life together makes Izzy want to fucking puke. And how can he possibly say that out loud without sounding entirely out of his mind?
“What is it, mate? Spit it out,” Ed prompts with another squeeze when Izzy remains frozen, stuck in his own head like a fly trapped in glue. The edge of Ed’s wedding band digs into trembling muscle. On screen, the pack is silently ripping apart a deer carcass, breath misty in the cold and snouts painted red.
“Fucked up’s what it is,” Izzy finally says. “What the fuck’s wrong with me, Eddie? Never minded when it was you. Hell, I’d let you cut me to the bone a thousand times but a little scratch from some random Grindr twat has me all… Fuck. What even am I?” Izzy’s started shaking, threatening to come apart at the seams, like all the old and new scars might split open right this second and leave him oozing all over the couch-
“You’re my husband, Iz.” Ed leans in and presses an urgent kiss between Izzy’s shoulder blades. His grip on Izzy’s leg loosens only for his fingers to curl around the golden chain on Izzy’s chest, like he’s trying to fuse it all, their flesh and the metal. “And I’m yours.” With Izzy caught between hand and mouth like that, Ed’s lips pull back to expose sharp incisors. There’s the wet-hot caress of a tongue, then the sting of skin yielding, breaking. It’s bright enough to drown out all the guilt and shame and hurt of the night. An anchor in a dark sea. A star in the sky.
The silent wolves curl up in a patch of moonlight, wet noses nestled into soft fur. The credits roll.