Oldies Station

by honey_dog

Summary:

Fifteen years after the world's messiest divorce, Izzy has found himself to be quite content with the little life he's created. He loves his friends, his work, his idyllic seaside home - and although it's been hard, he's done his best to put the past exactly where it belongs. In the past.

That is, until, his ex-husband moves in next door with the man he left him for.

Suddenly Izzy's world is thrown into turmoil once again. He'd much rather ignore him than bring up all of those painful memories, but it seems that Edward is determined to reconcile things between them in order to make up for how badly their relationship ended. It doesn't help that Izzy - although he's loathe to admit - is still hopelessly in love with the man who broke his heart, and is terrified of it being shattered all over again.

There’s no way that they can work things out well enough to be friends, and they could certainly never be more than that again, right?

…right?

Notes:

the idea for this fic suddenly popped into my head one day, and - although I love all of my literature babies equally - I don't think I've fallen in love with one so fast. something about it has just made me hyperfixate on it non-stop and I've been writing page after page with more inspiration and excitement than I've had for a long time. it's actually kind of wonderful, actually; I used to be so nervous when posting here, afraid that my work would be ignored or not well received, but this story has been begging me to be released into the universe, and I feel like I'm sharing this with a confidence in my writing that I never used to have before interacting with people on here. so - to everyone who ever has or ever will comment on any of my fics - thank you. your kind words have genuinely made such a difference in the way I view my ability to tell a story, and I'm grateful to each and every one of you <3

stating the obvious to those who know (and explaining to the folks that don't), this fic is heavily influenced by the twenty one pilots song, oldies station! each chapter is also named after + includes lyrics from their songs. if you haven't listened to oldies station yet, I implore you to do so; it feels like a warm hug from an old, dear friend, and that in itself is a lovely thing.

Chapter 1: midwest indigo | "i want love and sunny days"

Izzy's always the one who wakes up first.

He likes to lay in bed for a while - soak in the warmth of his bed, stretch out his limbs until they click in all the right places - and, even after all these years, he still relishes the gentle sounds of silence. He never knew how much he detested the racket of early morning traffic until he left it behind. Here, waking up to birdsong and the pleasant, sleepy atmosphere of the house, is bliss.

Eventually, though, he gets up. Goes to wash his face, goes back to his room to get dressed. Every now and then he remembers England - remembers those bitterly cold, snowy days that dragged over the holiday period - and is thankful once again that he made the decision all those years ago to hop on a plane and leave it all behind. Here, in early January, you can wear shorts at this hour of the morning without getting too cold. He can't help but smile as he pulls them on, because never in a million years did he think that he'd be the kind of guy to own a matching outfit like this - that was more of the polycule's style - but he does, and it makes him want to giggle.

The whole set was a Christmas gift from a few years back. Everything is a soft, muted shade of merle gray, and everything has embroidered red roses featured somewhere. It took John hours to get them all done. The hoodie, going up the arms. The sweatpants, going down the sides of the legs. The shorts - made of the same soft, warm material - on each of the front pockets. And a single one on the t-shirt, to the left side of his chest. It was a very thoughtful gift. He loves comfortable clothing - he loves roses - and he loves that someone would put so much time and effort into making something special for him.

The temperature isn't baking yet, though, so he's sensible enough to at least put on the hoodie as well.

He pads out into the dusky kitchen and flicks the jug on to boil. It's too early for any of his housemates to be up and, even though Fang’s the only other person downstairs and has proven himself to be able to sleep through a hurricane, Izzy still doesn't want to risk waking him by turning on the light. It's fine, though. He knows his way around.

Back in the day, it felt as though he couldn't survive the mornings without a strong dose of caffeine. Sometimes he'd just drink it black - fuck the milk, fuck the sugar, just give him the energy to function - but that mindset had proved itself to be too much to handle over the years, what with everything that had happened. Too many times that poisonous little voice whispered about how it would taste so much better if it had a little extra something special in it. Back when everything was okay, he'd very happily mix whiskey and coffee together without a second thought. But then it wasn't okay, just like those thoughts weren't okay, so when he finally had a stronger headspace he made the decision to cut the temptation altogether.

He's a tea drinker, now.

And it’s actually kind of great.

This morning he opts for a raspberry herbal blend, and mixes in a spoonful of lemon honey. It gave it both a sweetness and a zing that he's grown to rather love, although even now he still gets the water wrong sometimes. It's meant to be hot, sure, but he's not about to scald his tongue for it.

Once he's poured it into his thermos, he tucks his phone and keys into his pocket before quietly slipping barefoot out through the front door.

It's that interesting time of day, when half of the sky is still indigo with a loose smattering of stars, and the other is beginning to lighten with the rising sun. It's a little chilly, too, but completely tolerable. Walking warms him up, anyway, so the air around his legs isn't too bad. At least his arms are nice and toasty. And his stomach, much to his quiet delight, as he takes a sip of tea and feels it begin to heat him from the inside out. It'll keep him company on the way to the beach.

They completely lucked out, he knows that. Being only five minutes away from the ocean is phenomenal, and living in sleepy seaside suburbia means that he never has to worry about walking alone. They’ve got neighbors, sure, but they know them all by face and name and whether or not they’ve got dogs who are okay with being petted over the fence, or cats that cruise the streets unattended. Everybody knows everybody, and that was the beauty of it. The people here care about the place they live. There’s no fear of broken glass, no loose pieces of litter that need to be disposed of. It just went to show how people could come together, if they really wanted to; it was one of the first things he’d learnt upon moving here. You start taking pride in your town, in your community, in the nature that surrounds you, and you start wanting to protect it and cherish it in equal measure.

Fuck the city.

Fuck the traffic. Fuck the car horns, the road rage, the red lights and the overabundance of road cones. Fuck the potholes and the commute times and the smell of petrol fumes staining your clothes. Fuck the fear that came with walking through crowds of strangers, and watching over your shoulder every five minutes to make sure you're not about to get mugged on the morning train.

Fuck it all.

He was never going back.

He enjoys his morning walks with the deep, pleasant sense of contentment that comes with finding comfort in solitude. There are a few more birds warming up for the morning chorus - cicadas humming in the grass - a dog barking a few streets over - and the occasional rumble of a car in the distance but, other than that, there's nothing.

And it's wonderful.

The beach is also wonderful in that it's deserted; sand stretches out far in either direction, only broken by a handful of tide pools along each way, and the water is so still that it looks like rippled glass in the glow of the sunrise. The sound of the tide is so soft - like a whisper, like a song - and he listens to it reverently, breathing in the salty air with blatant adoration.

It's no surprise to find that the water is cold, sending a shivery thrill up his spine as it washes over his feet and laps at his ankles. He digs his toes further into the sand - focusing on the individual grains, the texture, the earthiness of it all - and stands there for a long time, drinking his tea and breathing in the serenity.

He's been doing this for years now. What started off as an accidental coping mechanism has simply become the start of his day. During stormy weather he has to take a literal rain check - and oh, how he pines for it - but every chance he gets, this is how he begins his mornings. When he was younger he probably would have thought it stupid, but hindsight is a bittersweet thing; Izzy genuinely believed sometimes that, if he'd had this right from the start, his whole life would have been completely different.

Young Izzy would have thought self-directed positive reinforcement was stupid, too.

This Izzy - with the graying hair, the slight ache in his joints on winter mornings, the deep laugh lines his friends have restored over the years - knows better. He tilts his head towards the sunlight, focusing on the warmth soaking into his skin.

"Today is going to be a good day," he says softly, barely above a whisper. "I have good people around me, and I am going to do my best to make good decisions."

He never thinks, fuck my younger self for not giving me this.

He thinks, fuck, if only I'd realized how much I needed it.

There are people in the distance, now; a handful going for walks, some running their dogs, one brave soul daring the cool ocean temperature for a swim. The sky is slowly but surely turning from cotton candy pink to a pale, summery blue. He takes a photo and sends it to the group chat before draining the last of his tea and trekking back up towards the low, sloping dunes. Something catches his eye on the ground - a rather interestingly shaped rock, which he picks up and stows away in his pocket - before his phone pings a few seconds later. Zheng's sent a picture of the sky in return, only hers is a slightly brighter shade, and has a few scuds of cloud rolling across it. Izzy pauses on the footpath - looks towards town, mentally maps where she'll be - and finds those same clouds. Something about knowing that she's out there, sharing her perspective of the same moment, makes him smile.

He's very nearly home - it's literally right there, close enough that he can see people moving through the opened curtains - when he finds himself slowing,  pausing once more as he passes by the house next door. They've often speculated about who could be moving in. It's been sold for a few months now, but not a single person in town seems to know a lick of information about the new homeowner. Conversation between themselves and the neighbors about the mysterious person - or people - has run itself rather dry, and anything said about it has often been repeated a few times before. What they all agree on, fair enough, is that they hope it will be someone nice. Someone who won’t disrupt the harmony of the street, or cause problems where - so far - there's been none. The general consensus, at least, is that they must be tidy; the lawns were being done each month, and that argued the case that they'd surely take care of the house just as well.

It’s a quiet town.

They found their kicks where they could get them.

He pauses only once more - this time to check the mail - and, as always, gives it a rather fond pat on top of its lid.

It used to be quite bland - like every other standard, tin mailbox - until Frenchie and Wee John had moved in, and convinced the landlord to let them decorate it in exchange for promising to buy a new one if the need ever arose. Quite frankly, all of them were content to live in this house forever, and the mailbox attested to that. It was now the type of mailbox that belonged to people who had made themselves a home, and intended to stay there.

The top had been painted a vibrant, azure shade of blue, and the body a sandy sort of color to match the beach they lived so close to. Not that it really mattered anymore, anyway, because almost every inch had been covered in stickers. The amount grew every year, and they were now being strategically overlaid in order to fit more on. It was an absolute riot of pride flags, holographic cats, glittery stars, and rather bold, interesting snippets of text. Archie managed to put one on that said BIGFOOT IS REAL AND TRIED TO EAT MY ASS. It was two weeks before any of them noticed it and, when questioned, she delightfully informed them that she’d stuck it on with glue.

The landlord either hadn’t noticed it, or was a very good sport.

He climbs the two porch steps, sits down on the little bench by the door, and uses the towel underneath to brush away the sand on his feet. They frequent the beach so often that it doesn't always work - they're always managing to find it on their clothes, and bring it inside without meaning to - but that's what a vacuum cleaner is for. Still, he scrubs his toes a bit more on the doormat before letting himself inside.

"Morning, Iz," Ivan greets him, leaning against the counter and sipping what's sure to be a mocha from his favorite gold mug. "Good walk?"

"Really good, thanks," Izzy replies. "The weather's gonna be perfect for it."

"Yeah, I saw your photo. And Zheng's. Got Fangy all excited, thinking about his pork bao."

They both chuckle, before Izzy glances around the room. "Where's everyone else?"

"Fang's getting the bags, John's in the shower, and Frenchie-"

"Is not a morning person," comes the muffled response from the couch. So disguised is he, sprawled out beneath a blanket with his head shoved face-first into a cushion, that Izzy hadn't even noticed him. He tries to suppress a grin and instead puts on a casual, aloof voice.

"Oh, well. Guess you don't want to see what I found this morning, then."

There's a beat of silence before he rolls over, cocooning himself further, and peeking over the edge of the blanket. "What'd you find?"

"Oh, no, no," Izzy says in the same tone, airily waving his hand. "I can see that it's too early for you, don't worry your sleepy little head about it-"

He's not even finished the sentence properly before Frenchie starts wriggling himself free, shuffling backwards to sit against the side of the couch and opening up his arms. It's now plain to see that he's still in his dressing gown. Izzy accepts the silent invitation, crossing the room and falling backwards into the embrace. Frenchie wraps his arms around his waist while his chin rests on his shoulder; Izzy can practically feel him vibrating as he reaches into his pocket. When he pulls out the rock, it earns a tiny gasp.

"Oh, I love it," Frenchie says, reaching out to turn it this way and that. "It looks like a duck."

Izzy's not sure it's that discernible, but it certainly has some sort of avian quality. "It could be a duck," he concedes.

"I love it," Frenchie repeats, smacking a loud kiss against his cheek. "It's going straight with the others."

A very warm, almost molten emotion fills up his gut, like he's swallowed a sunbeam. It travels up to make his chest tingle. "You'll run out of space on your windowsill."

"Ah, it's fine, I'll make room. John!" he exclaims excitedly, holding it up as the other man walks into the room with his hair still mussed from being towel-dried. "Look what Izzy found for me!"

John wanders closer and leans down, eyes narrowing as he peers at it. "It's a chicken?"

"Duck."

"Duck," John corrects himself, looking as though he's trying not to laugh.

"Goose!" Fang says, appearing from down the hall with a bundle of mismatched bags in his arms, which he drops unceremoniously onto the kitchen table. "Think that's all of them. I dunno how we manage to move them around so much."

"I reckon they come alive at night," Frenchie says. "Move themselves around. I found one in my sock drawer last week, and I didn't put it there."

"Yeah, I did," John says, pretending to smack him on the back of the head. "Because you kept forgetting to patch up the hole in it, when you said that you would."

"Oh."

"They wouldn't even be able to walk," Ivan interjects. "Bags don't have feet."

"They could - I dunno - shimmy?"

"Shimmy?"

"Never underestimate the power of a good shimmy, mate."

Ivan goes to drain the last of his mocha, and evidently over-estimates how much there is; he makes an indignant little choking noise as the last few drops spill over his chin and down his shirt. "You little shit," he grumbles as soon as he's able to, ducking his head to wipe his mouth on the hem of his shirt. He laughs, though, with the rest of them, and adds on, "Lucky it's just pajamas."

"Lucky it's laundry day tomorrow," Fang says, and then claps his hands together. "Right! If we wanna get there at opening time, team, we better start hustling."

There's a tangible excitement in the air, as there always is on a Saturday morning, and it marks their collective highlight of the week. Izzy swaps out his comfy shorts for a pair of black denim ones instead, and opts to leave the hoodie at home - the temperature always rises quickly in summer - before brushing his teeth, finding his wallet, and remembering to slip a pair of sunglasses onto his head at the last minute. Despite the assortment of totes on the table, he always brings his own backpack; it just allows him a little more freedom with his hands. Frenchie goes so far as to bring the wicker basket they use for beach picnics. Even if it's a bit bulky, it fits his vibe too well to be left behind.

They meet back in the kitchen to divvy up bags, and - bless his socks - each take the water bottle and vitamin gummy Fang offers them. He's the mother hen of the group when it comes to things like this. Almost like he's appointed himself in charge of getting the kids ready for school. Izzy loves him dearly for it.

"We've absolutely got at least two keys between us, right?" Ivan asks as they bustle around each other in the doorway, slipping on shoes before stepping out onto the porch. "We don't need a repeat of last time."

"I've got mine," Izzy says, locking the door and tucking it safely into his pocket.

"I've got mine, too," John echoes.

"And I've got a bobby pin," Frenchie puts in cheerfully. "Just in case. But you've got to admit, it was kind of funny."

Izzy scoffs. "Five grown men, and not one key between us? Fuckin' hilarious."

"I mean-" John pauses to scrunch up his nose, "we do sort of look like a sitcom, don't we?"

"A little bit, yeah."

"I'd watch us."

"What are we called?"

"Uhhhhhh-"

"If we're not careful," Fang says, gently herding them all down the steps, "we're going to be called late to the farmers market."

"That's not very catchy."

John rolls his eyes and teases, "Your bao isn't going anywhere."

"Yes it is," he replies firmly. "It's going directly into my tummy."

They've got a car between them and, although it would make getting their spoils home that much easier, they almost never use it for this unless it looks as though it might rain. It's only about a fifteen minute walk - twenty if they take their time, which they often do - and it's lovely. It's all fresh air and sunshine and roaming the streets they know like the backs of their hands. A lot of people opted to walk instead of drive. There wasn't a huge amount of parking around the market setup - you'd have to walk a couple of minutes anyway - but it's a great chance to stretch your legs and get some exercise in. Izzy likes seeing people moving in the same direction, knowing they're all headed for the same place. Makes him feel like he's part of something. Like he belongs to it.

The market itself is such a fun, vibrant, somehow homey place to be. It’s a maze of vibrant stalls and homemade produce, lovingly grown or baked or crafted by the people running them. Seller’s man their makeshift storefronts with quiet pride and a comforting sense of familiarity; they know their buyers, their buyers know them. Locals supporting locals. The handful of tourists they get during the summer season - who mostly come for the scenery - find themselves dragged into the community spirit and further contributing to the small-town economy. Even if they don’t know the locals, the charming atmosphere is influential enough to persuade them into it.

As for the five housemates, they very willingly did their bit.

You could never go overboard, they argued. Not at a farmers market.

There’s a wife-and-wife beekeeping duo who offer discounts to people who remember to bring back their jars to be reused. They sell an impressive array of products, and the boys always make sure to get there early before they’re sold out. Which, because of the quality, tended to happen rather quickly. Izzy always gets the lemon-infused. John and Ivan are partial to the blueberry, while Fang prefers his plain and simple, and Frenchie isn’t too keen on it at all.

There’s a brightly colored stall that sells a variety of homemade licorice, and Izzy frequents it so often that he doesn’t even have to give his order; he’s just handed a brown paper bag filled with chocolate-centered raspberry pieces, and a knowing grin. Frenchie is also consistent with his weekly order, in that he closes his eyes and jabs his finger at three random flavors. Today’s are sour apple, strawberry sherbet, and sweet peach. They’re the only two in the household with a fancy for licorice, but even they shy away from the plain black stuff. Zheng and Aunty can keep it all to themselves.

They stock up on fruit and whatever vegetables aren’t currently growing in their garden. Some other places would use the ‘organic’ labels to their advantage, and hike up prices accordingly in order to make more of a profit. Not here. In this town, it’s unheard of to try and charge customers three dollars an avocado. They look down on the commercial supermarkets who do so, and would snub any local who dared try.

Jam is procured - one jar of apricot, one jar of a slightly tart berry blend - and the cashew butter is ignored in communal solidarity. Frenchie stares at it mournfully until John takes him by the elbow and leads him away. Despite his body hating anything nut-related, he still loves - and frequently misses - the taste. They still keep peanut butter in the house, but do their best to only eat it when he's not home; not because he gets upset, but because more often than not he tries to convince the person eating it to kiss him on the mouth. He often claims that it isn't even a bad allergy, but they all bore witness to the Reese's Pieces Disaster of 'twenty-two. Just to see what would happen, he argued, because these don't really count as nuts, do they?

Natural curiosity couldn't be helped in Frenchie, but sometimes it needed to be curbed.

What none of them are good at, though, is curbing their spending when it comes to the bakery stalls. On the contrary, they were all horribly guilty of enabling each other to buy enough to feed a family of eight. Little treat culture gone too far.

Do they need three loaves of bread? Maybe not. But the mixed grain is great for sandwiches, and the spiced fruit is going to be wonderful for Frenchie Toast, and the crystallized ginger will be delicious as is. And, really, part of the fun of going to the farmers market is finding breakfast on your way around. At home it’s the same; you have toast, you have eggs, you have cereal. Here, it's like a scavenger hunt. You never know if you’re going to have a croissant or a muffin or a danish or, if you’re feeling rather peckish, all three. More often than not, they each get a bundle of stuff to have over the next few days. It won't be as fresh, but it will still be as tasty.

Fang's positively dancing by the time they get to his favorite stall. Auntie sees him first - rolls her eyes fondly - and nudges Zheng, who looks over and laughs.

"Good morning, everyone," she greets them, casting an appraising glance over their variously filled bags with a raised eyebrow. "Looks like you guys have been busy."

"Ah, you know us," Frenchie says. "Always willing to help out the local economy."

"And don't say it like you're shocked," John adds on, which makes her laugh again.

"True, true. The usual orders, I take it?"

“Yes please,” Fang says, all grin and crinkled eyes.

“So predictable,” Auntie calls over her shoulder, already putting everything together. She’s completely right, of course. Ever since the two of them moved to town and integrated themselves into the farmers market lineup, Fang’s been front and center for a sticky pork bao every Saturday without fail. They’d all rotated their way through the menu - the noodles and soups were equally fantastic - but Fang was besotted with the bao. The first time he tried one he raved about it so much that Zheng - who was one of those people born with a healthy amount of cynicism, like Izzy himself - had to be convinced that he wasn’t putting it on and, when she realized that the praise was genuine, became so flustered that she blushed. She was cool, calm, and collected at almost every other given time, but seemed to have a soft spot for anyone who loved her cooking so much. Not that Auntie should be looked over, either - she had just as much talent in skill when it came to matters of the kitchen - but she was a little rougher around the edges, a little more reluctant to accept the compliment. They showered her with it anyway.

“That’s ‘cos you guys make the best bao in the wo-o-or-rld,” he calls back, and snorts when she brushes away his words with an aggressively dismissive wave of her hand.

Zheng loads them up with food, and the five of them wander off in search of somewhere to sit - it’s high time they plonk themselves down to properly eat - and manage to procure an empty picnic table to crowd themselves around. It is a little bit ridiculous, really, the amount of stuff they have for their market breakfast, but they’re all very good at sharing their spoils. You offer up a chunk of cheese scone, you get a bite of pizza bread in return. They split the dumplings between them and take turns with the noodles. A blueberry muffin is broken into three, an apple crumble slice into two. It’s undoubtedly an odd assortment of food to eat during the same meal, but that - in their opinions - is what made it fun.

Izzy tenses slightly when he suddenly feels someone touch him on the shoulder - the old instinct of needing to be on guard all the time has never truly left - but immediately relaxes as the warm hand traces a familiar path down his spine, and settles against his lower back.

“Hel-lo, children,” Lucius greets them, receiving a chorus of greetings in return, before sliding in beside Izzy with Pete close behind. “Indulging ourselves, are we?”

“Yeth,” is Frenchie’s muffled response, as he slurps up the last of the broth.

“Surprised to see you out of bed before ten,” Izzy teases, to which Lucius gasps and feigns offense.

“How very dare you,” he says, pretending to bop him on the nose with his half-eaten soft serve. "I could sue you for defamation."

"You're not famous."

"And I've seen you sleep in until, like, noon," Pete puts in. "You don't even get dressed unless you're going anywhere."

"Babe!"

"What? It's true!"

"Can't believe we're watching you get a divorce right now," John says, eyes sparkling in amusement as he rests his chin on his hand. "So much more entertaining than an episode of Judge Judy."

"Judy would fucking love me," Lucius declares confidently. "We'd go for drinks and be besties by the end of the night."

"And when you show up in court, charged with being a public nuisance?" Izzy asks innocently.

Lucius rolls his eyes, but still flashes him a grin. "If they've not charged me for it yet, honey, then I don't think it's ever gonna happen."

John pretends to let out a deep, heavy sigh. "What a shame for us."

"Oh, what ever, you'd be right there with me."

"Can neither of you get arrested, please?" Ivan asks. "I don't think we have the bail money for both of you."

"Then you'll just have to choose between the two of us."

"John," the majority of them say in unison, before bursting into laughter as Lucius begins spluttering.

"Y - you are all - SO fucking rude-"

"I would come and bust you out," Pete declares. "If, like, y’know. I hadn't already been arrested too."

"Thank you," Lucius says, leaning in to give him a sweet, sticky kiss. "We'd have fantastic mugshots."

Frenchie pretends to groan. "Yu-u-uck, save it for the bedroom."

"Jealousy is a bad shade on you, darling."

"I look good in every shade," he replies stubbornly.

"And he'd have prettier mugshots than you," John smirks.

That gets them all going. The conversation quickly slips into their usual chaotic rambling, talking over the top of one another, and laughing all the while. During the vocal hubbub Lucius takes the chance to shuffle himself closer to Izzy, pressing their legs together, and slides his hand around to settle on his hip. Once upon a time he would have shied away from this type of contact, but nowadays he finds himself embracing it. Lucius shifts his mouth closer to his ear and lowers his voice.

“How are we today, lovely?”

Izzy shrugs. “Can’t complain,” he replies in the same, quiet tone. “You?”

“Absolutely fabulous. I saw your photo this morning, too. It was a nice one.”

“Thanks.”

“But you’re still a crazy old man for getting up that early.”

“You should try it sometime.”

Lucius scrunches up his face. “No thanks. I’ve got better things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Get my beauty sleep.”

“Oh yeah? Let me know if you see any improvement.”

“You are such a bastard.” But he gives him a squeeze all the same.

“And you’re a twat.” But it comes with a half-smile and a shoulder nudge.

They’re silent for a few moments, while everyone else keeps bantering around them.

“Do you have any plans next weekend?”

“I’ll have to check my calendar,” Izzy answers dryly. “Why?”

“You’re staying over with me.”

“Is that a promise?”

Lucius flashes him another grin. “It’s a threat,” he growls playfully, pressing a quick kiss to his temple. Izzy's chest never fails to bloom with warmth in reaction to his affectionate gestures. Or anyone's, really. He tucks each and every one behind his ribcage and, sometimes, the accumulated weight of them all makes him feel so wonderfully full that he wonders if, one day, he'll explode. Or - even more exciting - that his body will expand to accommodate them, and he'll be able to just keep collecting these snippets of love for the rest of his life.

Fuck, he's a sap these days.

It's wonderful.

"What flavor is that, by the way?" Izzy asks, as Lucius takes another lick of soft serve.

"Matcha."

"Is it nice?"

He tips the cone in his direction as an open invitation but, after sampling, Izzy immediately crinkles up his nose.

"No."

"No?"

"Absolutely not."

Lucius sighs, shaking his head. "Some people just have no taste."

"I know," Izzy replies, trying to sound serious, but not quite able to hide the smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I'm spending next weekend with you, aren't I?"

"Oh my gosh, you are insufferable-"

The conversation continues to ebb and flow around the table, but the sensation of easy company never ceases. In situations like this, where they found themselves together - no matter what combination of the friend circle it was - they could talk on and on for days, if time allowed. They chatter away for over an hour without even realizing, and only start making those oh, well, we'd better be off type comments when someone checks their phone and realizes that their purchased goods should probably not be out in the rising heat. Everyone lingers anyway, taking their time in standing up and stretching and hugging, and on the one hand it's funny because they'll all see each other soon enough, but on the other…it's sweet. Plain and simple, it's sweet.

And so is dessert.

The housemates spot the soft serve stall on their way out and decide, hey, what's a farmers market breakfast, without a farmers market treat afterwards? And then - lo and behold - someone notices that the little setup next door is trialing different variations of hot chocolate.

Izzy tries the black forest, which has a shot of cherry syrup and a swirl of cream on top.

It's fucking delicious.

And isn't it bliss when you don't have to choose between a tasty drink and an equally tasty ice cream? Isn't that a wonderful fucking scenario to find yourself in?

His chosen soft serve is peach.

He could just about sing.

Absolutely laden with bags of goodies and contentedly full stomachs, the five of them begin their trek home. They complain about being full - complain about having to walk so far when they feel like napping - and laugh all the while. There's always laughter between them, bright and sparkling and warm, and every joyous sound feels like sunshine in Izzy's chest, feels like a blanket wrapped snug around his shoulders. After going so long without it all those years ago - not being able to stand it, not even able to produce it - he savors every morsel he can get.

They make only one impromptu stop, but that's only because it's morally illegal to ignore Mitzy. She's a giant tabby - truly, there's either some Maine Coon or Bengal tiger in her - with huge white paws, a white marking splashing up her chest and muzzle like she's been guzzling milk, and a coat so thick you could probably make sweaters out of it. Her long whiskers are always curled and crooked, her green-yellow eyes always sharp and inquisitive. She's really quite friendly, despite her intimidating size and deep, rumbling purr, and although she's not technically owned by anybody, it's generally been agreed upon for years now that she's everybody's cat. She roams the streets like she owns them, and it's only because everyone lets her believe that she does. Any source of affection is appreciatively lapped up - whether that be in the form of food or chin scritches - and, although she hates being indoors, she unwillingly allows herself to be caught twice a year in order for a vet checkup. The town, Izzy sometimes thinks, would throw an absolute fucking riot if anything ever happened to her. He'd be in the thick of it, of course. He's wrapped around her little paw just like everyone else.

Everyone except Frenchie, anyway.

"Come on, man, she's not going to hurt you," Izzy says, crouching down to smooth his hand over her furry head. She purrs in response, ramming her jaw into his knee and smooching across his leg.

"That cat is unnaturally big," is Frenchie's serious response, from where he's standing nervously a few feet back. "And I don't trust her."

"She's never done anything to you!" Ivan says, rolling his eyes as he reaches down to scratch along her back. "She's a cat!"

"I've told you, she meowed at me once-"

"Oh for fucks sake," John mutters.

"-and then I fell over!"

"You're always falling over-"

"There was nothing to trip on!"

"-because you are one of the clumsiest people in the world."

"I am not!"

"Frenchie, mate," Izzy says, "I don't want to be rude, but I've seen you look at doorways and still walk into them."

He's beat into silence for a moment, frowning in thought, before stubbornly pushing on. "I still think there's something - I dunno - witchy about her."

"She's a cat."

"A very good cat," Fang giggles, as she nudges eagerly at his fingers.

Frenchie says nothing else about her for the moment, grumbling discontentedly until Mitzy decides that she's had enough for now and trots off, farewelling them with a wave of her plumy tail. He gives her a wide berth as she goes past, while the others pointedly chorus out goodbyes and tell her to come back soon. The grumpy pout they receive only fuels more laughter in response.

The sun is well and truly up by the time they reach their humble abode, and no one has to break in with a bobby pin this time. Everyone puts their bags on the table, and they chatter away as they go through the sorting process. Not long after Frenchie and John moved in, they came up with a cupboard system that worked for the group; everyone got their own side portions of shelf - protected by invisible Do Not Touch signs - and everything in the middle was communal storage. It's not as if they'd ever steal from each other, but there was something comforting about having boundaries anyway. Like a mutual nod of respect towards one another.

They're almost done - Izzy's tucking away his honey and licorice, Ivan's gathering the bags up to put them away, Fang and John are already talking about the next market - when Frenchie idly turns to glance out through the big bay window, and his head shoots up like a startled meerkat.

"Oh? Hello?"

He bounds away from the kitchen, nearly trips over the coffee table in his haste to dodge one of the armchairs, and almost throws himself against the glass. A loud, dramatic gasp escapes him, and his whole face is lit up with excitement as he exclaims, "Moving truck is here!"

And just like that, the afternoon is sorted.

It's not that they're nosy, it's just that it's something new. Something intriguing. They've got the right to be curious about their new neighbor and, if they decide to express that curiosity by unashamedly watching from the window, then that's their business. Izzy and John - who, over the years, have staked their claim on the armchairs closest to the view outside - turn them both around to get a better angle. Fang perches on the edge of the couch, Ivan hovers close by, and Frenchie takes up position on the coffee table whilst constantly updating the group chat. Most of the stuff being taken in is boxed up - they're too far away to make out the labels - but the unboxed items are certainly supplying food for thought.

"Okay, this person has definitely got money," John comments, pausing in his knitting to watch the movers carry in a rather large, ornate piece of furniture. "That armoire looks antique."

"The what?" Frenchie asks, scrunching up his brows.

"It's like a fancy wardrobe."

"Ah, gotcha."

"And it's like, the third one they've taken in," Ivan adds. "How many do they need?"

"Maybe they've got a lot of clothes," Fang says, shrugging.

"Or maybe they've got more money than sense," Izzy mutters.

They keep watching - at least another ten boxes are carried inside - before they all lean forward with a quiet, collective gasp. Even Izzy, who has always valued practicality over desire - people over things - feels something tug in his chest, and leans back with a quiet groan.

It's a baby grand. A custom baby grand, by the look of it. Deep and moody midnight blue, with gold trim and detailing along the sides. His fingers twitch, longing for the old touch of ivory beneath them. He owns a keyboard - another collective gift, because there was no way they could ever afford or make room for a proper piano - and although he loves it dearly, he can't help but miss the feel of a real one.

John nods to himself. “Money,” he repeats, before beginning to stitch again.

The piano won’t fit through the front door, even on its side; the group collectively hold their breath as it’s taken down the side of the house, all sensing that the accidental damage of such a thing would not be at all funny, and breathe a sigh of relief when the movers come back empty-handed, evidently successful in getting it through the back slider.

“I think I actually would have cried,” Frenchie says. “Like I genuinely felt so anxious watching that.”

“I would have committed a crime,” Izzy says.

Fang doesn’t speak, but lets out a weak sigh that seems to speak for all of them.

Time keeps passing - the truck is near empty - but there’s still no sign of the owner. Izzy’s beginning to wonder if maybe they’ve opted to move themselves in on a different day, when an unfamiliar car suddenly appears and parks smoothly near the truck. Unfamiliar, because it’s sleek and shiny and surely cost a fair whack of money. Once again, John’s assumption is proving itself to be correct. They all lean forward again, curious for the first glimpse of their new neighbor.

A man gets out of the driver's side. He’s got sunkissed skin, waves of short, golden hair, and a grin on his face that vaguely reminds Izzy of an overactive puppy. The excitement is positively radiating from him. He actually takes a moment to take a deep breath and do a little wriggle before making his way over to the movers and finding the guy in charge to talk.

“Rich retiree,” John says confidently. “I’m telling you right now, he’s a rich retiree.”

“At least he looks nice,” Fang says, sounding satisfied. “He’s got a nice smile.”

“Certainly looks happy to be here,” Ivan agrees.

“Probably doesn’t even know the price of a banana, though,” Frenchie murmurs, almost to himself, before his volume picks back up as he exclaims, “Oh, wait, hold on, there’s someone else!”

The passenger door opens. A scuffed, sickeningly familiar leather boot steps out-

Izzy’s mouth goes dry.

-followed by long legs, clad in black denim-

Panic crackles through his chest like lightning.

-brown, tattooed arms coming out from a purple shirt-

He feels his ribcage begin to constrict, heart suddenly beating out an uneven tempo.

-the mane of curls, fully salt-and-pepper now, with a close-cropped beard that no longer touches his chest-

Ivan’s mouth falls open. Fang’s hands reach up to cover his own with a strangled squeak.

-that face, that smile, those eyes, gazing about him with keen, delightful interest-

He has to believe that this is a joke.

Some sort of cruel, twisted joke - some sort of nightmare - and he’s going to wake up now, he has to wake up, because there is no fucking way that this can be happening-

It can’t be-

It can’t be-

“Eddie,” he croaks out, and then throws himself onto the floor.

Notes:

please feel free to comment!! I love reading + replying to them <33

Chapter 2: tear in my heart | "the songs on the radio are okay / but my taste in music is your face"

Notes:

back at it again with writing absolute screeds of pages before remembering that I've actually gotta update the fic in order for people to read it B)

thank you for all the support so far! much appreciated <3

They were good, at first.

Better than good.

It was something at first sight - Izzy had known that much - but he'd also been too young and stupid to realize that it was love.

They met in line at a concert during the summer of ‘88. Both of them had come alone, unable - or unwilling - to find anyone to go with. Izzy didn't mind going on his own, but it meant that the wait time to get in dragged on longer than he'd like. And he wasn't a people person - not really, not back then - so trying to make friends with the folk around him was completely unappealing. Not that he expected anyone to try and talk to him, anyway. He'd been told quite a few times that he could be standoffish - unapproachable - a bit of an asshole - but whatever, right? At least it meant that no one bothered him.

Until someone did.

After nearly two hours of waiting in line, he felt the person behind him tap him on the shoulder. He'd not taken any notice of them before - wasn't really taking notice of anybody - but the moment he clapped eyes on this stranger, he couldn't believe he'd been such a fool as to ignore them.

Never in all of his life had he ever had the pleasure of drinking in such a scene.

This stranger was tall, brown-skinned, and had a waterfall of thick, glossy black curls cascading down to brush against his shoulders. His eyes would put Bambi to shame; so bright and curious and downright gorgeous were they, on top of being framed by gloriously long lashes. He was dressed in all black; black cropped t-shirt, patched black denim jeans riding low on his hips despite the studded belt, scuffed black leather boots with matching fingerless gloves and jacket thrown casually over his shoulder. Tattoos were scattered over both arms. He looked like a walking art installation. It was hard to believe that he was just standing there, so casually, when he should have been displayed in a museum to be admired by thousands.

In short, he was stunning.

Izzy felt himself begin to blush - something he almost never did - but his cheeks only darkened further when he realized that this stranger would probably think him a creep for checking him out so blatantly, and berated himself fiercely until-

-he also realized that this stranger, in turn, was doing the exact same thing.

Their eyes met.

The stranger gave him a half-smile.

“I was just wondering,” he said, pointing to the right side of his neck, “about this.”

Izzy reached up to mirror the position of his hand, fingers brushing over the newly healed ink. “Wh-what about it?” he managed to say, forcing his vocal chords into working order.

“Did it hurt?”

“Um - yeah,” Izzy replied, trying to remember how to string a coherent sentence together. “A bit, yeah. S’more sensitive than other places. I think the lady thought I was a bit crazy, wanting my first one there.”

The stranger’s mouth turned up in a grin. “Your first tattoo was a neck tattoo?”

“Yep.”

He giggled - a truly wondrous sound - before saying, “That’s fucking bonkers. I love it.”

The blush - which had been slowly receding - came back in full force.

“What does it mean?” he asked, and then looked slightly abashed at himself. “If - if you don’t mind sharing. I know they can be personal.”

It made Izzy wonder which of his tattoos held such meaning for him.

He wanted to know.

“Sailors would get them,” Izzy replied. “It was like a tradition, to earn a swallow after every five thousand nautical miles they did.”

The stranger let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of miles.”

“Yeah.”

“You into sailing, then?”

“No," he said, and huffed out a humorless laugh. "After everything, I just think I’ve earned something to show for it.”

He wasn’t sure why he revealed so much through such a small amount of words - or why they fell so easily from his tongue, when he’d always kept privacy so close to his chest - but he did. Maybe, beyond the initial attraction, some deep, inner part of him recognized a kindred spirit.

The stranger nodded, eyes softening as he said, “Yeah. I can understand that.”

Something passed between them.

A connection, a sense of kinship.

And it was only a little moment, but it was enough.

More than enough.

The stranger held out his hand. “I’m Ed.”

Izzy took it in his own. “Izzy.”

“Are you here with anyone, Izzy?”

“Nope.”

“Fantastic,” Ed said, grinning once again. “You’re with me, now.”

Neither of them knew the weight of that throwaway comment. Neither of them knew that it would be true for the next twenty-one years. They only knew about the present - the here and the now - and that in itself was a beautiful thing.

They were in the line for another three hours, and found themselves talking non-stop. Not for a moment did the conversation run dry. No topic was off the table, and neither of them seemed inclined to waste a single second in getting to know everything about the other person. Izzy was eighteen, Ed only a year younger. They learnt about each other's hobbies, their favorite songs and colors and foods, what their schools were like, their classes, their childhood homes, and the dreams they used to foster within them. Izzy had wanted to be a 'sword-fighting guy' in fantasy films, while Ed had wanted to be a drummer. More than anything, though, they'd both wanted to get away, which they did. Izzy had worked hard in order to cross the ocean and managed to get accepted for a metalwork course, now more interested in the crafting process itself. Ed had scraped enough together for a bus ticket to get out of his small, 'shithole' town the moment he left school, and learnt to play guitar instead. When Izzy told him he played piano, Ed made him promise to give him lessons.

It wasn't a hard promise to make.

When the line got moving, they stuck close by each other as the current of the crowd gently pulled them along. It was an outdoor venue with a wide, flat expanse of land in front of the stage, and sloping hills up either side to give it the feel of a natural amphitheater. Those wanting to be close to the action were all rushing towards the stage, while those less bothered were either wandering towards the food stalls or finding a place to sit. Izzy and Ed found themselves in the middle of it all, turning to each other.

"So-"

"Do you-"

They both cut themselves off, and smiled rather stupidly at each other.

"Did you, ah…want to be in there?" Ed asked, motioning with his head towards the crowd packing themselves in around the speakers. "Or are you cool with…whatever?" He scuffed his feet as he said it, like he was nervous; like he was afraid that Izzy would up and leave him, as if that was even a possibility running through Izzy's head at the moment.

"I'm very cool with whatever," Izzy replied, and his heart skipped a beat at Ed's resulting grin.

They pooled their money to buy hot chips and a small box of cinnamon sugar donuts, before finding a spot near the top of one of the hills to settle down on. Neither of them had brought anything to sit on - neither of them would admit to the fact that they hadn't planned on sitting at all, that when they'd left their respective houses this morning they'd fully intended on spending their night down in the thick of it - but it was early summer, and the grass didn't get too dewy once the sun went down, so damp jeans seemed like a small price to pay in order to spend more time with each other.

Now that they had a little more breathing room, talk turned to deeper subjects without the fear of being overheard.

They both lost their mothers when they were in their early teens.

Both of their fathers were complete and utter dicks, but Ed also had the grim pleasure of knowing that his couldn't hurt anyone anymore.

Izzy wasn't good at making friends, meanwhile Ed had a knack for being surrounded by people and feeling as though none of them counted.

Both of them already felt like they'd known each other forever.

They watched the sunset over the venue, admiring the vibrant shades of fire streaking their way across the horizon. As the sky darkened into a calm, moody shade of blue, Ed began to point out the few visible constellations. It was one of the things his mum had taught him, and he treasured the knowledge dearly. Izzy lapped it up, curious enough to want to learn more, while being utterly captivated by the voice teaching him.

Eventually the lights on stage went up as the band came out, and any further conversation was put on hold by the welcoming roar of the crowd. The two of them whooped and cheered just like everyone else, adrenaline zinging through their veins like emotional electricity, and they put their voices to good use by singing along with the rest of the concert goers.

Izzy could sing; he knew that much.

Ed…could not. But that didn't matter. What he lacked in ability to hit a note, he made up for in enthusiasm.

They shouted along to the songs that required shouting; harmonized with the songs that needed an audience to make up the backing vocals; and Izzy wasn't quite sure if it was the songs or the volume or Ed's tone-deaf singing filling up his own ears, but it seemed like Ed didn't properly hear him.

Not until the music slowed down.

Not until the whole atmosphere shifted to embrace one of the few stripped back, softer songs of the album - one of Izzy’s personal favorites - and he didn't hold himself back. He sang along note for note, letting his voice rise and fall with the melody, so lost in the music that he didn't register that Ed wasn't singing alongside him. It was only when the song ended and there was complete, utter silence next to him, that he turned.

Ed was staring at him.

Ed was staring at him with those big, beautiful fucking Bambi eyes, lips slightly parted, cheeks noticeably flushed even in the low light.

"Fucking hell," he whispered, and then he pounced.

Izzy never forgot that kiss.

Even when he's older and gray and pining after lost memories, he's never forgotten a second of it.

Ed put his mouth on Izzy's like it belonged there.

One of his hands came up, gently brushing over Izzy’s cheek, before his fingers tangled themselves into his hair like he wanted to care and claim with equal measure. Izzy was frozen for a moment - his thought processes temporarily compromised - before his eyelids fluttered closed, and he began to kiss him back with just as much enthusiasm. His own hand came up to rest at the nape of Ed's neck, nails softly scratching into his skin, and he smiled against Ed's lips when he felt a light shudder run down his spine.

For two whole songs, they were completely and utterly captivated by each other. They didn’t hear the instruments, they didn’t hear the vocals, they didn't hear the crowd. The rest of the world didn’t exist to them. Every ounce of concentration was focused on how closely they could press themselves together, soaking in the warmth of each other's skin, and sharing space by whatever means possible. When they finally pulled away - breathing heavily, foreheads bumping together - Izzy felt as though a whole migration of butterflies had taken up residency in his stomach, fluttering around in a frenzy of nerves and exhilaration and something else that he'd truly learn the meaning of later.

They stared at each other, and then - although neither knew what set them off - they began to giggle. And once they started, they couldn't stop. Anyone within earshot probably thought they were nuts, but they didn't care. They spent the remainder of the concert with their hands finding space to rest on each other's bodies - shoulders, backs, arms, knees - and with laughter in their voices as they sang along to the last of the set. At the end of the night they cheered and hollered along with everybody else, and walked out of the venue hand-in-hand looking like the textbook definition of giddy teenagers. When they were outside, having found a quieter spot on the street to retreat into in order to steal more time, they looked at each other - once again - with blushes blooming across their cheeks.

"So-"

"Do you-"

A pause, followed by more giggling.

"Do you have anywhere else to be, right now?" Ed asked, scuffing his boot and looking up shyly from beneath his lashes. The effect was rather devastating.

"I don't, no. Do you?"

"Nope." But then his face had scrunched up. "Um. Actually - oh, I feel like a dick now, but I didn't bring any other cash with me. I'd buy you a coffee though," he added earnestly, though embarrassed all the while. "If I did, I mean - I'd buy you a really nice one. Proper café shit. If - if you wanted-"

"Or," Izzy gently broke in, suddenly emboldened by the jolt of adrenaline in his chest, "I could…make you one? Back at my place? It's only instant, but…"

"Yes," Ed replied eagerly, before clearing his throat and trying to regain some composure. "I mean, yeah, if that's - if that's cool."

“Very.”

So they intertwined their fingers once more and headed off into the night with Izzy leading the way. He stole glances at Ed whenever they passed by shop windows or underneath streetlights, rather entranced by how the glow highlighted different parts of his face. His cheekbones and his jawline and those dark, velvet eyes that kept scrunching up at the corners whenever he met Izzy’s captivated gaze. This walk was one of comfortable silence, the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife enough to fill the gap - and keep them on their toes, because you could never be too careful wandering around late - and it was a relief for Izzy to turn into the usual quiet street, and slot his key into the familiar front door.

“I probably should have warned you, but this place is tiny,” Izzy said, a little self-consciously as he flicked on the light. “It used to be a proper house until it got divided up to take on more tenants, and…well, it’s all I can really afford, honestly.”

If Ed thought anything bad about the small space, he never said. His keen eyes traveled over the room in front of him - taking in the TV, the couch, the minute kitchen, the scrap of dining table he had wedged into a corner, the partially open door leading to the bathroom - and smiled.

“It’s cozy,” he declared. “I like what you’ve done with it.”

Izzy had, in truth, done his best to work within the confines to make it somewhat homey. There was a wonky storage unit beneath the TV - he’d put that bastard flatpack together himself - filled up with books and VHS tapes. Posters adorned the walls. An upside-down crate acted as a coffee table; rough around the edges, but sturdy enough to rest your feet on. He’d found a thick, chunky knitted blanket at a secondhand store that he kept draped over the back of the couch, which was adorned with a couple of battered, albeit comfortable, mismatched cushions.

“I like it,” he repeated, running his fingers over the blanket. “Especially this thing. This looks comfy as fuck.”

“It is comfy as fuck.”

Ed picked it up and studied it for a moment before throwing it around his shoulders and plonking himself down on the couch, cocooned in the material, and looking absolutely delighted about it.

“Oh yeah. This is nice.”

Izzy chuckled, some of his nerves disappearing, and moved into the kitchen. “How many sugars?”

Ed propped his chin on the back of the couch, expression shifting into a half-grin, half-grimace. “You’re not going to believe me. No one ever does.”

“Try me.”

“Seven?”

“Seven?” Izzy repeated incredulously, raising an eyebrow.

“Told you. No one believes me.”

“You take seven whole sugars in one cup of coffee?”

“Yep. And I take fourteen in two.” His grin became a little more rueful. “S’pose I should’ve been the one to warn you. My sweet tooth will eat you out of house and home.”

Quietly, the idea of him being there long enough to do that was quite inviting.

So Izzy measured out the seven teaspoons for Ed and the usual one and a half for himself, carried them over, and carefully maneuvered himself down next to him. Ed stretched out an arm, inviting Izzy in close, and loosely wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. They had to bunch up their legs a bit in order to keep the close proximity, but neither minded. After clinking their mugs together and taking a first sip, Ed made a humming noise and smacked his lips together appreciatively.

"Perfect. That's the good shit, right there."

"That absolutely cannot taste good."

Ed held out the mug closer to him; Izzy leaned forward for a tentative taste, and immediately recoiled with a scrunched-up expression.

"That is - revoltingly sweet, Ed."

"Revoltingly delicious."

"I don't know how you can stand that."

"Let's try yours, then?"

Izzy offered his own mug, and began laughing after Ed made a small gagging noise.

"Fuck me, how can you stand that? It's so bitter!"

"I think most people take their coffees with only one or two sugars. Seven is just asking for attention."

"But it tastes a million times better!"

"It tastes like a future dental appointment."

And so it all continued - the conversation, the banter, the laughter - on into the night, with neither person worried at all about the passage of time slipping by. When the coffees were drunk, Izzy simply shifted their empty mugs to the makeshift crate table and settled himself back in so they could keep talking. It all seemed endless; it all flowed so naturally, and neither ever ran out of something to say. Eventually, though, Izzy's brain began slipping up. More and more he'd zone out to what Ed was saying in order to focus on the contours of his face, the sparkle in his eyes, the way strands of his hair picked up the light from the kitchen.

"Izzy?"

"Hm?" was his distracted response.

"You listening?" Ed asked, laughter in his tone, but then his eyes went wide as Izzy reached out to lightly run his knuckles down his cheek, tucking a few stray strands behind his ear.

"You're so pretty," Izzy whispered. It wasn't something that he'd normally say, but without a doubt it was something that needed to be said.

Ed sucked in a small, quiet breath; and then they met in the middle.

This kiss was different. Slower, and sweeter, and just a little bit deeper. They were free to take their time, comfortable in the privacy of a snug space without fear of being interrupted. It was the type of kiss people share when they know that they've got time, and aren't prepared to rush something that deserves to have its moment.

Ed's hand came to rest on the swallow tattoo, while Izzy gently twined his fingers into the baby hairs at the base of Ed's neck. Their heads tilted in just the right way, and it really didn't take much to coax each other's mouths open. There were no complaints about the coffee, then. It sent a different kind of thrill right down into the pit of Izzy's stomach to feel Ed's tongue trace the line of his bottom lip, and when he licked it in return, the responding noise was instantly cemented into his memory to look back upon in reverence.

A minute later, though, there was another noise.

Ed immediately pulled back, the flush on his cheeks darkening into scarlet. "I'm so sorry," he blurted out, just as his stomach rumbled again, but it only made Izzy burst into rather breathless laughter.

"For goodness sake, Ed, you should have said if you were hungry."

“I didn’t want to ruin the moment, it’s - it’s fine-”

“Do you want something to eat?”

“No, it’s fine, honestly, I don’t-”

“I can make you a cheese toastie.”

Ed’s mouth opened - snapped shut again - and his eyes seemed to widen and liquify into such an expression that would put a thousand puppies to shame.

“You’d do that for me?”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Izzy replied, and laughed again when Ed pounced on him for the second time that night in order to shower his face with fevered, over-enthusiastic kisses.

It should have struck Izzy as odd at how domestic they were being from the get-go, but it didn't. Because it was Ed, wasn't it? And for whatever inexplicable reason, Ed seemed to slot so perfectly into the space around him that it didn't leave room for questions. Ed being in his house didn't feel strange. Cooking them both a quick dinner felt like the most normal thing in the world, like he'd been doing it his whole life. And when Ed asked if he could use the bathroom, it was only odd to have the reminder that Ed didn't live here - had never even been here - but, universe willing, Izzy was going to change that. He'd never cooked dinner for someone before, and he found that he rather liked it.

He was nibbling on a piece of cheese, two toasties slightly crammed into his biggest frying pan, when Ed emerged from the bathroom with a rather perplexed look on his face.

"Hey, Iz, I'm not trying to proposition you or anything, but like - where the fuck is your bed? Because unless you've got some hidden door somewhere-"

"The couch pulls out," Izzy replied, vaguely gesturing to it with his hand before flipping each toastie over. A few bits of melted cheese had oozed out, and were beginning to crisp up along the edges. Excellent. "It's a little bit annoying having to do it each day, but it's alright."

"How's your back?"

He snorted. "It copes. And at the risk of sounding like I'm the one trying to proposition you, do you want me to set it up? It'd be a lot comfier while we're eating. You can choose a movie to put on, if you want."

Ed positively beamed at him before moving to rifle through the VHS tapes. Izzy smiled to himself as he unfolded the bed and covered it with the usual array of blankets, draping the knitted one over the top as a finishing touch, before returning to the stove and taking the toasties out of the pan.

"How do you like yours cut? Two big triangles, or four little ones?"

"Four little ones, please," Ed said, giggling. "I love that you asked, by the way."

"Everyone has a preference. Gotta respect that."

"I'm guessing that you're a…two triangle man?"

"I am indeed," Izzy said, sliding the pieces onto two separate plates. He placed them on the bed before returning to the sink for two glasses of water, asking as he did so, "You picked something yet?"

Ed let out a faint, rather embarrassed huff. "I'm not even gonna lie, I was thinking about setting the mood with Dirty Dancing, but like - you've got so many good choices, and - it's kinda been ages since I watched The Goonies, so - if you're up for that-"

"Completely up for it," Izzy said.

The only mood that surrounded them for the rest of the night was one of quiet, warm contentment. Izzy turned off the lights so that the room was only illuminated by the flickering colors cast from the screen. Ed happily munched through his toastie and marveled over the crispy bits. When the food was done and plates discarded, Ed was quite happy to curl up into his side, while Izzy kept an arm slung casually around his shoulders. As the night wore on they shifted themselves - slid a little further down, got a little cozier in the blankets - and eventually dozed off. Izzy woke up from his brief slumber just as the end credits were starting to roll to find Ed still snoring lightly into his spare pillow, and the button from his jeans digging uncomfortably into the soft skin of his stomach. He very carefully removed himself from the bed and, in the semi-darkness, fumbled around to change into a pair of sweatpants instead. Ed didn’t stir while he went about turning off the VHS player and putting the tape away, nor did he seem to notice when Izzy slipped back in under the covers.

Once his eyes had adjusted, Izzy found himself captivated by this man all over again.

Some parts of his face were obscured in shadow, while other parts were highlighted in gentle, barely-golden relief from the glow of the streetlight seeping in through the curtains. His eyes followed the relaxed set of his mouth, the curve of his lips, the way his inky black curls fanned out around him and framed his gently sleeping expression.

Part of him was scared that this was all a dream.

That when he woke up, he’d be alone; that this would all have been some vividly bizarre hallucination, some fantasy that his repressed loneliness had conjured up inside of his brain in order to give him a moment of company, a moment of companionship.

But - in the morning - he found that it wasn’t so.

Because that mouth was pressing against his neck, and those lips were smiling into his skin, and that hair was tickling his nose and making him want to sneeze. Those tattooed arms were wrapped around his waist, and those hands were gently turning him over, and - oh fuck, those eyes - those eyes were looking down at him, sleepy and bright and beautiful, so fucking beautiful - and then Izzy couldn’t help himself from pulling him down for a kiss, and Ed hummed so sweetly into the touch that it made Izzy swoon, and and and-

And they had breakfast together, knees bumping under the tiny table while they chatted over scrambled eggs and buttery toast.

And they took turns showering before curling up on the bed, spending a lazy morning in each other’s arms and newly-beloved company.

And Izzy walked Ed home so that he could get changed, grab some more cash, and treat them both to a takeout lunch.

And they spent the afternoon together.

And they spent the evening together.

And they had dinner together.

And they watched another movie before falling asleep together.

And they were good.

Better than good.

Right from the start, they were in love.

They were young, and they were stupid, and even though they didn’t know what it was at first, it never stopped them from doing it with their whole hearts and bodies and souls.

They loved each other, simple as that.

They didn’t know what the future would bring.

They didn’t know that it would leave them in ruins; heartbroken and estranged, relationship in tatters, emotions nearly severed beyond repair.

How could they?

They loved each other.

They only knew about the present.

The here and the now.

And that, Izzy still thinks - when he submerges himself in memory, when he allows himself to reminisce over those glorious, youthful days - was the most beautiful, beautiful thing.

Notes:

please feel free to comment!! I love reading + replying to them <33

Chapter 3: the hype | "nice to know my kind will be on my side"

Notes:

content warning; panic attack

for anyone who struggles with anxiety/panic attacks and finds that the 4/4 or box breathing methods don't work for them, I'd definitely recommend the tummy technique! the science is that breathing into your chest during these times can actually keep triggering your flight or fight response, whereas breathing deeply into your stomach instead can help more to bring those adrenaline levels down :)

side note - if anyone also happens to be reading TROIH as well, I know it's been a hot second since I last updated but I'm aiming to get another chapter out within the next couple of weeks ^^"

There's a slight ringing in Izzy's ears when his brain begins to come back to itself. It's still blank - still gray and thoughtless like it always is when he panics like this, only able to hear sounds rather than process them - and it's scary.

He can't even remember his own name.

It's the sensation of his mind being in a chokehold; nothing really gets in, nothing is able to get out, and he just can't think. Can't figure out how to, can't jog himself enough to remember what words and feelings and sensations are.

He waits.

There's nothing else to do.

Eventually he becomes aware of things; short bursts of internal commentary manage to make themselves heard, try to mold themselves together into something coherent enough to understand.

His breathing feels uneven; tight and ragged and verging on gasping.

His chest hurts.

Everything is dark.

Correction, actually, his eyes are closed.

His shoulders are warm.

There are voices in the room, low and murmuring and concerned.

Something is clutching at the top of his shirt - oh, no, wait, that's him. He can feel the little embroidered rose beneath his fingers. The texture is comforting, so rubs his thumb against it. Then his body wants a little more, and he remembers that he's in the lounge - he's on the floor, that's right, he's sitting on the floor - so he slowly stretches out his legs from where his knees have been tucked up until his toes brush against the soft, ropey material of the woven rug they have laid out in here. His brain quickly latches onto the item and starts firing off bits of trivia for the sake of trying to kickstart itself again.

It's handwoven.

It's patterned with triangular lines in cream and dusty blue.

It's rectangular.

It has tassels on the short ends.

It was found in a secondhand store.

John and Frenchie brought it when they moved in, and it fits the space so perfectly it's like it was always meant to be there.

He scrunches his toes into the familiar material a few more times, grounding himself that little bit more.

The rapid rise and fall of his chest relaxes by a fraction.

Someone shifts beside him.

"You coming back to us, love?" they ask softly.

Izzy frowns slightly - tries to wrap his mouth around the word trying, but it won't come out - and it sends a fresh wave of panic flowing through his body strong enough to make his fingertips tingle and his palms begin to sweat.

"It's okay," they whisper reassuringly. "You just take your time. I am going to move your hand though, okay? See if we can get you tummy breathing instead."

Their hand comes up to cover Izzy's own where it's still gripping his shirt like a lifeline - gently unfurls his fingers - and guides it lower, until it's pressing into his stomach. Izzy knows the technique, given to him by his old therapist, but it doesn't mean that it's the easiest thing to do. He concentrates, though - frowning once again - and tries to channel each harsh intake of breath past his chest and further down into his abdomen, before letting it out shakily through his mouth. There's a science behind it that he can't quite remember, but it helps. As always, it feels a little weird at first - feels like he's stretching muscles, making them work, and that's normal because people are naturally chest breathers, yadda yadda - but it really, really does help him. The air actually has a chance to circulate instead of being huffed rapidly enough to make him feel lightheaded, and concentrating on the motion gives his frazzled brain yet another helpful thing to focus on.

He breathes - and breathes and breathes and breathes - until each motion becomes something close to normal, and it feels as though he's getting enough air through his nose alone without having to suck it down into his lungs through his mouth. The tempo of his pulse is still faster than normal and there's an ache in his chest that feels as though it's settled in for the day, but it's better. It's an improvement.

His eyes feel damp.

He opens them.

It takes some blinking for shapes and colors to settle back into their proper places. The TV, the slightly cluttered coffee table, the matching couch and armchairs. His brain, trying to be helpful, supplies him with the memory of the day John attacked the upholstery with needle and thread and fiery determination. They'd been comfortable, sure, but he could only take their original, drab shade of brown for so long. Izzy's sure he'd only been living with them for less than two weeks when he asked permission to make them over. Now they were a fun, fitting ocean blue, like the color of the sea on a clear summer morning. They made the place feel more homey. He and Frenchie had added a lot of touches like that around the place - just like the rug - and Izzy's still so, so glad for it.

He thinks about looking around to see where everyone is.

After a few seconds of delay, his body responds by allowing him to turn his head.

Frenchie's perched on the arm of the couch, rapidly typing on his phone, while John's still in his usual armchair and glowering out of the window. Ivan's sitting on the floor, staring down with a faraway, rather shell-shocked expression as he absentmindedly chews on a fingernail. Then there's Fang, pressed in close to Izzy's side - that's why his shoulders are warm, Fang's got his arm around them - with eyes full of concern and care and a small, tentative smile on his face.

"Hey," he says, still in that soft, soothing tone. "You still coming back?"

Izzy doesn't trust his tongue to work properly, so he nods.

"That's good. Take your time."

His eyes sting and threaten to start watering again, so he ducks his head down into Fang's shoulder to avoid having to look at him. A kiss is pressed to the top of his head. A few sneaky tears manage to escape.

"So, like…" Frenchie speaks up, seemingly to the room in general, although Izzy knows that it's really directed at him. "People want to come over. Obviously. I think Lucius and Pete are already on their way. Is that okay, or should I tell them to leave it for a while?"

Suddenly the situation comes back to Izzy in full force. He sucks in a quiet, trembling breath, and manages to ask-

"Is…i-is it really h-him?"

Everyone is silent for a beat.

"Yeah," Fang whispers. "Yeah, it's him."

Izzy's eyes close briefly. He tries to swallow - it feels like the movement gets stuck in his throat - and jerkily nods his head in response to Frenchie.

"You sure, mate?"

Izzy nods again, and his voice is a little steadier, albeit croaky, as he says, "They'll all show up anyway. Saves them from having to break the door down."

Frenchie fires off another message before setting his phone down next to him and letting out a long, weary sigh. He doesn't even need to say that he's sorry, because it's written so clearly across his face. All of their faces, actually. Izzy’s not sure what his own looks like. Probably for the best.

His brain is still ticking over, trying to get back online, and both the speed and clarity of his thoughts slowly begin to increase the more he comes back to himself. His pulse is still fast - the ache is still there - and he feels vaguely like he either wants to throw up or nap or both, but he keeps on breathing through it.

More questions begin to emerge from his mental fog.

"Did he…did he see-?"

"No," Fang replies, giving his shoulder a little rub. "Probably best the three of us stay out of sight until…until we figure out what to do."

What to do.

Right.

That probably involves talking, because apparently they're neighbors now, but what the fuck are you supposed to say to someone after fifteen fucking years-

He takes a few more deep, shaky breaths into his stomach, and lets them out slowly through his mouth.

"Who - who's with him?"

"I don't know," Ivan suddenly says, coming out of his little trance, and looking even more apologetic. "I've been trying so hard to remember - you know I only saw him the once - but I just…I can't picture his face clearly enough. Probably wouldn't even recognize him now, it's been so long." He chews on his bottom lip for a moment and concedes, incredibly reluctantly, "...it could be him."

It could be him.

It could be the man he was left for.

It could be the man that - after knowing him for all of five fucking minutes - Ed was ready to throw away their marriage for.

Twenty one years spent together, for some bloke he met at a coffee shop.

He tips his head back against the wall and tries not to cry.

It had been such a good, good day, and now - now this.

None of them speak for the next few minutes. Frenchie and John keep to their posts, watching through the window with varying expressions; Frenchie still looks downcast, while John looks like he's stewing over it all. He's picked up his knitting again, and the movements are just a touch more aggressive than usual.

A car pulls up outside.

The engine has only been turned off for a nanosecond before the front door flies open without the courtesy of a knock. Fairly common, in this household. Lucius sweeps into the room and all but throws himself down on Izzy’s other side - bad back be damned - links their fingers together, and kisses him on the cheek.

"I'm so sorry, darling," he murmurs, pressing another to his temple. "Oh, I could absolutely throttle him."

"We saw him outside," Pete says, trailing in after him. "I mean - we're assuming it was him, with the boots and the hair and stuff - and he kind of looked over, but we pretended not to see."

"I thought he'd be taller," Lucius says with a disdainful sniff, like even Ed's height is offensive to him.

"I reckon I could still take him though, if you wanted me to," Pete offers. "My ass-kicking services are at your disposal."

Despite feeling like an emotional shipwreck, Izzy still manages a wobbly smile.

"The truck only has a handful of things left to move in," Frenchie says, still staring intently through the glass. "And I think they've got some stuff in the car, but it shouldn't take too long to empty that out. Hopefully then they'll go inside to unpack for a while, and then we won't have to see them for a bit."

"A long while," John mutters, almost to himself.

Izzy briefly hopes for that, too, before wondering if it would even make a difference. Who cares if they don't see them for a few hours? Until tomorrow, next week, next month? They'd still be there. A literal stones throw away from this beloved, cozy little home - this house of love and laughter and comfort - and even though he feels safe between these walls, it can't hide the fact that Edward Teach is just over the garden fence. He was convinced that he'd never see the man again, and suddenly he was moving in next door at that very moment.

His stomach churns uncomfortably, and he idly wonders if the stress of it all really will make him throw up.

"It's not just a holiday home, is it?" Fang asks, somewhat miserably, like he already knows the answer. "Not with that amount of stuff."

"You wouldn't move a baby grand to a holiday home," John replies grimly, before sighing. "I think they're here to stay."

"Or…or maybe they're just super loaded?" Frenchie puts in hopefully. "Rich people are weird, maybe they would do that if they had the money. It wouldn't be so bad if they weren't here all the time."

They're only saying these things to try and make Izzy feel better, he knows, and - although he appreciates their efforts - it doesn't help in the slightest. Even if by some slim, miraculous chance they would only be here for part of the year, it would mean that that would become the part of the year he'd learn to dread. He'd grow scared of it; he'd count down the days until they might be coming, because he'd never know when they were going to come and go. He doesn't want summer ruined - or spring - or autumn or winter, or any season at all. At least if they were here all year round, he'd have a better chance of vaguely figuring out their routine and doing everything in his power to avoid them.

It all sounds so dramatic.

It sounds like something a more mentally stable person would scoff at, but - if it's two things that Izzy's learnt over the years - it's that he's not always mentally stable, and that there was nothing wrong with keeping within his comfort zone. That's why it was called a comfort zone - because it was fucking comfy, and he had a right to live in it.

His eyes are stinging again.

He blinks the urge away, and tries to find something to distract himself.

The way Lucius keeps rubbing his thumb over his knuckles.

The way that Fang still has an arm around his shoulder.

His gaze strays back to Ivan's troubled expression - he's once again staring down at the floor through narrowed eyes, idly chewing on a different nail - and something about the way he looks breaks through Izzy's internal humdrum and reminds him that he's not totally alone in this situation. Ed left behind bad memories for other people to deal with, too.

"Are you okay?" Izzy asks, and his voice comes out raspy. He tries to clear it, but the sound is slightly choked. It takes Ivan a second to register the question, and then another for him to realize that it's directed at him. He blinks in surprise.

"What?" he says, and lets out a short, humorless laugh. "We're here for you, Iz, not me. Don't worry about me."

"I'm allowed to worry about you," Izzy protests, giving Fang's shoulder a little nudge as he does. "Both of you. He was your friend, and he just fucked off and left. It wasn't fair."

"It wasn't, no," Fang says quietly. "But what he did to you was so much worse."

Ivan doesn't respond in words, but his eyes soften as he nods in agreement.

The conversation is kept from going any further by the sound of another car pulling up outside. Izzy very nearly smiles again when he imagines the polycule clambering their way out of Archie's bright orange mini. It's completely impractical, but she loves it. It doesn't even have four doors; the front seats fold down, and it means the passenger has to get out in order for anyone to access the back. There's a bumper sticker slapped on the rear reading THESE ARE MY CLOWNS, AND THIS IS MY CIRCUS. Truly there was no better description.

Once again, without knocking, the door is opened as they let themselves in. Oluwande, with his trademark crocs and orange beanie; Zheng, looking her usual sleek and stylish self despite a morning spent hustling at the market; Jim, impossibly cool as always, with a dangling dagger earring to match the one inked on their right forearm; and Archie, who's wearing mismatched socks with her chunky secondhand store sandals.

He’s offered murmured greetings and sympathetic smiles from both Oluwande and Zheng, who make themselves comfortable on the couch. Jim takes up Ivan’s usual chair, which is furthest from the window, with a face like thunder and the aura of someone who was very much in the mood for committing a crime. Archie - always full of boundless energy - bounces down onto the ground in front of him and grabs his ankles.

“Are you alright?” she demands, but - before Izzy gets a chance to open his mouth - carries on, “That’s a stupid question, actually, don’t bother answering,” and kisses each of his knees in turn before moving over to sit next to Frenchie and staring unabashedly through the window.

“Auntie sends her love,” Zheng says. “And if you need anything, just let her know.”

“Thank her for me. I appreciate it.”

“Does anyone know where Swede is?” Frenchie asks idly. “I thought he would’ve seen the messages by now.”

“It’s his day with Jackie, remember?” John reminds him. “He probably won’t check his phone until later.”

“Oh, right, yeah, I forgot.”

“Shame Buttons isn’t here,” Oluwande says, attempting to lighten the mood with a bit of humor. “Could’ve used the good vibes. Might’ve even thrown a hex or two, if we’d asked nicely.”

“Guarantee he’ll already know by the time he comes back next week,” Ivan says. "The moon would've told him, or something like that."

"I felt it in me waters, boy," Archie mimics in a gruff, Scottish accent, to which a few people giggle.

"Honestly, I'm still not even sure what a lunar retreat even is," Lucius says. "Or why it has to go for a whole month."

"It has to go for a month because it revolves around the lunar cycle, hence the name," Zheng lightly defends it. "It's all about tapping into your spiritual connection with the moon and embracing the changes of your mind, body, and soul."

He's silent for a beat.

"Wow," he eventually replies. "Someone paid attention in class. Are you reading that from a flash card?"

"We talked about it a lot at our last Tai-Chi session, and I for one thought that it sounded very interesting."

"And the fact that the entire thing is done in the nude?"

She hesitates for only half a second before the usual self-assured smile returns to her face, and she asks in an equally silken tone, "You mean that you wouldn't want to be surrounded by undressed men? You wouldn't want to be able to openly admire the various forms of male physique? Imagine the sketching potential, Lucius."

His mouth opens.

His mouth closes.

His brows furrow together.

"Exactly how often did he say these retreats were going to be put on?"

Suddenly, there are footsteps on the porch.

The front door opens again.

Roach strides in, a large covered dish in his hands, and sets it down on the table.

“I have brought quiche,” he announces solemnly.

John gives him a fond look. “You absolute dear, you didn’t have to-”

“Do not deny me my love language. Good food is a necessity during a crisis, and I doubt that anyone here has any interest in making lunch."

"How'd you make it so fast?" Archie asks distractedly.

"I pulled it out of my ass," is the dry response. "Did you forget that I work in a bakery, and have access to everything in it?"

"Oh, yeah. Little bit."

"Silly goose."

"Honk honk," she murmurs.

Jim still looks like a stormcloud personified, but Izzy doesn't miss the way their mouth twitches up slightly at the corners.

"Who here is hungry?" Roach questions, to which half of the group make some sort of noise to indicate that they are. He nods. "I will serve up. Everyone else, do as you will with it later."

"I'll help you," Ivan says.

"I know where your plates are."

"And I know that I'm getting stiff sitting down here," he replies, stretching out his back. "Coast clear?"

"He's getting something out of the car, but if you hurry it'll be fine," John says.

Ivan hauls himself to his feet, a few joints clicking on the way up. His phone slips out of his grasp as he does so. Automatically he leans back down to grab it - Frenchie and Archie suddenly become rigid, both exclaiming warnings over the top of one another - but it's too late; he straightens up without thinking, glances through the window, and freezes in place.

"Oh, fuck," he breathes.

Izzy's chest begins to tighten again.

"Has he seen you?" Fang asks anxiously.

"...yeah," he says quietly. "Yeah, he's…he's seen. He's looking at me." His throat bobs, and his own anxiety looks for a moment as though it's getting the better of him. "What - what should I do?"

"Maybe - maybe you don't - oh, no, he's done a little wave," Frenchie interrupts himself, cringing slightly. "Oh, that is an awkward little wave."

"That's the wave of a guilty man," Archie says grimly.

Ivan's hand does something that might be considered a returning gesture, although Izzy thinks that he'd probably rather it be a different type of gesture altogether.

"Should I - go out and talk to him? How long are we supposed to keep standing here like a couple of muppets?"

"Do you want to?" John asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I - well, no, not really, but - kind of have to at some point, right? Maybe I should just get it over and done with."

"What are you going to say?"

"Haven't got a fucking clue, mate."

Fang let's out a small groan. "I really wanted time for us to plan this."

"You and me both, bruv. Oh - oh, fuck me, he's taken a step, he looks like he's going to come over-"

Izzy's breath hitches in my throat. Lucius squeezes his hand tighter, bringing it to his mouth and peppering reassuring kisses onto each finger. "He's not coming inside," he whispers, pressing another to his cheek. "Not on our watch."

"He sets one foot on the property, I'm going for him," Jim warns, flexing their fingers.

"I'll back you up," Pete says confidently. As if Jim would possibly need it.

"I - I'm gonna have to-"

"Wait!" Archie suddenly exclaims.

Everyone turns to look at her.

"Frenchie, call Ivan's phone."

His brow furrows in confusion. "What?"

"Just do it, yeah? Ivan, you answer it - yep - Frenchie, put yours on speaker - keep the call going - and now we'll be able to hear the conversation."

A few raised eyebrows and appreciatively surprised murmurs ripple throughout the group, while she puffs up like a proud rooster.

"Thank you, thank you. I am more than just my good looks, after all."

"You've also got exactly one brain cell," Jim says.

"Exactly."

Frenchie places his phone in the middle of the coffee table, and everyone falls silent as Ivan makes his way outside. They listen his footsteps - hear something hushed muttered under his breath - and Izzy can't help but pull his knees up a little tighter, like he'll be able to protect himself from-

"Hey!"

His whole body seems to jerk at the sound of Ed's voice, and another rush of emotions flood his brain once again.

He hates that fucking voice.

It's his most favorite voice in the whole world.

It forces up memories of pain and anger and heartache.

It makes him remember the home they once built together.

"Hey," Ed repeats, and he's trying to sound cheerful, but there's an obvious strain behind the upbeat tone. "I mean - wow. What are the chances, eh? I - I haven't seen you for - well, fuckin' ages, y’know-"

"Fifteen years," Ivan responds flatly.

"I…yeah," he says, and his tone falters for a second before he tries to pick it back up again. "So, um - you live here?"

"Yeah."

"How long for?"

"Just over eleven years."

"Oh!" The answer is obviously unexpected. "That's…wow. That's cool. You've really set down roots then, huh?"

"Mhm."

"Yeah." Izzy can hear the awkwardness, can almost hear him mentally calculating how to carry the conversation forwards.  "Yeah, uh, we're hoping to do the same. Seems like a real nice little town."

"It is," Ivan says, something deliberately measured in each of his words. "It's a close community. Everyone knows everyone, and we look out for each other. We take care of our own."

It's a perfectly lovely statement at surface-level, but it would be hard to miss the implication of a deeper meaning underneath; Ed just doesn't know what it is.

"That's…good," he replies after a beat. "Not like the city, then."

"No. Not like the city."

Neither of them speak for a moment.

Izzy can imagine how Ivan is probably standing; staunchly and standoffish, arms crossed, waiting to see how Ed will continue.

And Ed-

No.

He doesn't want to imagine Ed.

He's wasted too many years doing that already.

"So - um-"

Ivan suddenly makes a noise - a small, surprised little noise - verging almost on alarmed - that makes some of the group tilt their heads in confusion, and the others look towards where Frenchie, John, and Archie are still poised by the window. Frenchie leans forward like he'll be able to see better.

"What's he looking at?" he whispers.

"I don't know," Archie whispers back, eyebrows scrunching together. "His hand, I think? But I don't know-"

She cuts herself off abruptly, shoulders stiffening, a high-pitched sound coming from somewhere in the back of her throat. Her panicked eyes dart over to meet Izzy's for a split second before flicking back to the scene outside, like she can't bear to hold his gaze for any longer than that. Frenchie seems to understand what she's seen; he buries his head in his hands, watching timidly from between his fingers.

A sickly, heavy weight begins to pool at the bottom of Izzy's stomach, filling him up from the inside out, because - even in its muddled state - his brain can still figure out the puzzle without a picture.

There's only one reason his hand would get such a reaction, and that's if it were wearing something.

"Oh," Ed's voice comes softly through the phone. "Yeah. We…yeah."

Izzy feels people's eyes on him.

Feels his own begin to fill with tears.

Ivan's silent for a painstakingly long moment.

"How long ago?" he eventually asks, and now it's his turn to sound strained.

Izzy closes them tightly, dreading the answer.

"Twelve years."

And oh, it's a blow.

It's so much worse than a blow.

He could have dealt with a year - two years - five years - maybe even ten, if he really pushed himself - but twelve?

Three years after Ed had left, Izzy was still trying to drag himself out of rock bottom.

And Ed was off getting married.

Part of him wants to leave. To find solitude in his room - to burrow down amongst the blankets and the sheets and howl into his pillow - but he's got Fang and Lucius either side of him, holding him steady, offering reassurance and affection and grounding him in the present, giving him just enough willpower to keep sitting and suffering through this secondhand conversation.

He's glad he stays, because Ivan asks the question-

"Is he the guy you left for?"

-and as much as it's going to hurt him, he needs to know who exactly is living next door.

The group hold their collective breath.

Ed's reply is so quiet it's barely audible.

"Yeah."

Izzy feels like he's been kicked in the teeth and spat on. It might have been better if it was someone else - if Ed's infatuation with the coffee shop stranger had worn off just as quickly as it began, if his guilt had won over, if he'd stayed away because he feared the inevitable backlash and instead found another man compatible enough to be with, but this-

It's worse.

It means that the infatuation didn't wear off.

It means that the guilt didn't eat away at him.

Could very possibly mean that the guilt never bothered him at all.

That he never felt any at all.

It means that the man he left him for turned out to be so wonderful - so much better - that he put a ring on it, and never looked back.

This man was an upgrade.

And now - each time Izzy saw him - he'd just be reminded that he wasn't good enough.

Hot, stinging, salty water drips down his face.

Lucius brushes them away with his thumb.

Fang squeezes him a little tighter.

Jim, very casually - far too casually - gets up from the armchair, and drifts over to the window.

Someone outside takes in a quiet, steadying breath.

"Listen," Ed begins awkwardly. "I - I know that things didn't - that I didn't - things were a bit messy, yeah? And I know we didn't exactly leave off on good terms, so…I'm sorry. For everything. I was a real dick about the whole thing, and I regret it. Honest."

He's met with cold, stony silence.

"Oh, he looks pissed," John murmurs.

Time seems to drag out between them and, when Ivan does speak, his voice is full of barely-supressed rage.

"Messy?" he echoes in a disbelieving whisper.  "That's how you're choosing to describe it? Fucking - messy?"

You can almost hear Ed gulp.

"I-"

"You've got no fucking idea what you did, do you?" he snaps, and it's been a long time since Izzy's heard him sound this angry. "Messy? It was fucking awful! You were fucking awful. You were mean - and you were cruel - and - and you were so bad to him, so unkind, and I know that things were rocky between the two of you, but to do what you did - to do that, after everything-"

"I know," Ed says pleadingly. "Please, I know, I-"

"Don't you fucking interrupt me, Edward Teach. I'm not done with you yet."

"Yes!" Archie hisses, with obvious relish.

Lucius nods to himself and mutters, "Pop off, sis."

"I've waited fifteen fucking years for this, so I think I'm more than entitled to tell you how much of an asshole you were. How could you just up and leave? Fang and I were your friends. Izzy was your husband. We thought we knew you, but how fucking wrong were we, huh? How stupid were we to trust you, and think you cared about us? Because none of us ever - ever - thought you could abandon us like that. Packed your shit and left without even thinking about us."

"I did," he whispers desperately. "I did think about you-"

"Oh, really? Were you thinking of Izzy when you dropped that bombshell on him, and moved out that afternoon? Left us to pick up the pieces? Were you thinking of Fang when you didn't return any of his calls? Were you thinking of me when you came by the shop to get the last of your stuff, and barely said a goodbye? Didn't you feel anything? Not even an ounce of guilt about the way you treated us?"

Ed's breathing is audible; fast and wet and a little bit gaspy, like he's trying not to cry.

"It - it was complicated-"

"What exactly is complicated about being a decent human being?" Ivan cuts him off again, hard and fast and furious. "You tell me that, Edward, because I would love to know."

If Ed opens his mouth to speak, nothing comes out. Eventually, after an uncomfortable wait, all he can manage is a heavy sniff and another whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah. So you fucking should be."

"I am - fuck, Ivan, please don't look at me like that, I am," he begs, and there's something in his tone - raw and vulnerable and pained - that makes Izzy inclined to believe him. They may not have spoken for over a decade, but it doesn't mean that he's forgotten each and every one of Ed's little speaking mannerisms. As much as he's conflicted, he knows that what he's hearing is the truth. "I know I fucked up, but you've got no idea how much I regret the way everything played out. Leaving the way I did was the biggest mistake of my life, and it has been eating at me ever since."

"Then why did you do it?" Ivan demands. "If you felt so badly about it, why didn't you try to fix things?"

"I - I don't - ngh!"

Izzy can picture him, much as he doesn't want to; the frustration in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way a hand will be scrunched up in his hair before giving it an irritated ruffle.

"I just - did it, okay? And then once I'd done it I couldn't take it back - I couldn't undo any of it - and I knew that if I tried to smooth things over it wouldn't have gone well, it probably would have made things worse, and I was sad and angry and confused about the whole thing and I didn't know what to do, I wouldn't have known what to say, and by the time I finally got my head together it'd already been however many years and I knew that I'd missed my chance, it'd been too long, and I didn't - come on, man, what the fuck was I supposed to do? Even if I had said sorry right after, what good would it have done? Even if I'd tried-"

"That is the good that you could've done," Ivan growls at him. "You could have tried. Even if it had gone badly - even if we never spoke to you again - at least we'd be able to look back and say, hey, he might have been an absolute dickhead, but at least he had the guts to apologize. At the very least he was decent enough to try."

The weight of it all presses down between them, as it does on the people in the room. Everyone looks very somber, staring down at hands and laps and feet, and processing each sentence as it comes through. Izzy feels very tired all of a sudden. Tired and drained and, quite frankly, ready for this day to be over. He wants his bed - wants to sleep - wants to give his poor mind a rest from the amount of thoughts jostling for space inside of his overcrowded skull. There's only so much it can handle, and it's very rapidly nearing capacity.

"I'm sorry," Ed repeats quietly, only this time his voice is dull and defeated. Like he's realized, in a sense, that he was right; he can apologize until he's blue in the face, but it doesn't change anything. Not really.

Ivan's silent for a beat longer.

"Thank you for apologizing," he responds coolly, "but I'm sure you'll understand when I ask that we don't associate more than we need to."

"Go, Ivan, go," Frenchie whispers.

"I accept that we're neighbors," he continues in the same businesslike tone, "and therefore I'll treat you with the same respect that I give everyone else, but after everything that's happened I don't think it would be feasible for us to pursue anything further. I'm sure you understand."

John nods his approval. "Absolutely dominating this board meeting."

"I'm sure you'll also understand when I ask that you and your - your partner - keep your distance from us, and don't bother anyone."

Ed's voice is cracked when he says, "No, no, I - I get it, I understand, I - I'll stay away, and - and you don't need to worry about Stede, I'll have a chat to him-"

"Stede?" Archie exclaims, completely and utterly forgetting to keep quiet. "He left you for a fucking horse?"

Everyone freezes.

She realizes what she's done after a second of delay and claps a hand over her mouth.

No one utters a word.

Eventually - after what seems like an age - Ed says, very tentatively, "Did…did your phone just yell at me?"

"...um-"

"Oh, he's looking," Frenchie says anxiously. "He's looking over here, there's eye contact being made as we speak-"

"Should I flip him the bird?" Archie asks, quite seriously. "Make a statement, sort of thing?"

"I'd flip him a double."

"Two in the hand, none in the bush?"

Personally, Izzy thinks that Jim and John are making enough of a statement as it is. Jim's standing there - arms crossed, openly glaring, chin jutted out in silent challenge - while John's knitting has taken an even more aggressive turn, and each stab of his needles seems to be its own threat.

"...you've got people inside."

There's yet another pause.

"Yes," Ivan replies, because there's really no choice other than honesty now.

"And…they've been listening in the whole time?"

"Yes."

"...right. Um." He shuffles around. "Look, I don't…I know I've been a dick, but I dunno how I feel about you broadcasting this conversation to strangers. I think I've got a right to my own privacy. Like, I don't - I don't even know these people, so it feels weird that they already know stuff about me."

Ivan sounds like he begins a sentence, but cuts himself off after the first syllable.

"What? Why are you looking like that?"

"He looks too guilty," John murmurs. "Ed's gonna guess."

And, once again correct with his predictions-

"I - I don't know any of them, do I?" he continues, now with a noticeable edge of panic. "I don't…Ivan?"

Izzy feels his own surge of adrenaline, but breathes steadily through it. His gut is still churning and his chest is still tight and aching from the overexertion, but his subconscious has already resolved itself to the fact that Ed was always going to find out he was here. Of course he'd find out. It would be impossible to live next door and not realize he was sharing a fence with the three people he abandoned so many years ago. He steels himself for the revelation that is surely to follow.

"Ivan?" Ed whispers, strained and fearful. "Who's inside?"

Izzy’s not sure if Ivan's letting the silence speak for him, or if he genuinely can't think of the best way to respond. In reality, there probably isn't one.

"Is…is Fang here?"

No response.

Ed makes a quiet, distressed little noise.

Everyone knows the question that's coming next.

"...Izzy?" he breathes hoarsely.

No response.

This noise is louder; choked and whining and undeniably pained. It makes Izzy's heart ache, and he berates himself profusely for it.

"Oh my gosh, he's - he's crying," Frenchie says, slightly bewildered, and unknowingly making Izzy feel that much worse. "Like actually crying."

"Serves him right," Jim says, completely unsympathetic.

"Welp," Archie mutters. "The spaghetti has most certainly been spilled now."

"I never gave you permission to use that," Roach says, speaking up for the first time since the call began.

"Copyright, schmopyright."

Izzy's got no idea what they're talking about. He exchanges a mystified glance with Fang, who seems equally confused, and then at Lucius, who rolls his eyes at him.

"Group chat thing," he whispers. “You’ll see later.”

Izzy nods.

“And just remember that I love you very much and always have your best interests at heart.”

He goes to nod again - pauses halfway through the movement, narrows his eyes in suspicion - but Lucius is the picture of innocence, despite the fact that he can’t quite make eye contact.

“Ivan,” Ed whispers again, and his tone has switched into something serious and desperate. “Please. I know they’ll hate me and I know I don’t deserve it, but I need to tell them-”

“You need to leave us alone,” Ivan replies softly. “For everyone’s sake.”

“I need to tell him-”

“I think you should go.”

“But-”

“You made your choice. Now go home to him.”

It’s a punishing statement, but it’s true. Ed lets out yet another small noise - maybe a gasp, maybe a sob - and a moment later they hear his footsteps retreating.

Now Izzy feels like he might really be physically sick.

Ivan lets out a loud, weary sigh as his own feet trudge back along the footpath and up the porch steps. He opens the door and, despite everyone looking at him, his own eyes remain downcast. His face looks like it’s aged in the last ten minutes. Izzy’s heart goes out to him as it pangs with sympathy; it might have been a hard conversation to listen to, but it must have been so much harder to actually have. It shouldn’t have been a weight only carried by his shoulders. Pushing his own tumultuous feelings aside, he hauls himself up off the floor and crosses the room to embrace him. It’s a tight hug, filled with the things that they can’t put into words, and a second later Fang scrambles up in order to join them. People give them their moment - give them the chance to silently reminisce, to acknowledge the shared trauma from all of those years ago - but, to no one’s surprise, they can’t really help themselves when it comes to a cuddle huddle.

Lucius is behind him on one side, while Frenchie crowds up on the other. Someone’s hand squeezes his shoulder, someone’s fingers brush over his own. Oluwande has his chin resting on Ivan’s shoulder. Zheng cozies up between him and Fang. Everyone finds a little place to squeeze themselves into and, if they can’t find one, they make one for themselves. It’s cozy - and it’s comforting - and it feels like a safe space. Despite so many warm bodies pressing in around him, Izzy finds that he can breathe a little easier.

“We’d be awful at a rugby scrum,” Archie says cheerfully from somewhere to his right, and the vibration of laughter is physically shared between them all.

“I will get that quiche served up now, yes?” Roach asks, as they extract themselves from one another. “I think a pick-me-up is in order.”

“Anything made by you is a pick-me-up,” Frenchie says earnestly.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

So they eat, and they make idle chatter while trying to get the mood back up to something that's at least room temperature. No one talks about what’s just happened. Every other mundane, lighthearted topic they can think of is up for discussion, but not that. It’s too soon. Izzy, for the most part, stays quiet. He only manages about half the piece given to him, but Roach still nods his approval. Ivan eats about the same amount. Fang - who is a comfort eater - finishes off their plates with no qualms. Everyone, at some point, can’t seem to help themselves from glancing out of the window, but there’s nothing to see. Judging by that earlier interaction, Izzy wouldn’t be surprised if they saw neither of them for at least a day or two.

Frenchie’s managed to drag people into a debate about the so-called Fruit Loop conspiracy - he’s still utterly convinced that each color does have its own flavor, whatever the ‘cereal scientists’ might claim - when Izzy feels Lucius sidle up beside him.

“Can we go for a chat?” he murmurs close to his ear and, after Izzy nods, the two of them slip away down the hall and make their way to Izzy’s room.

There’s an irony, he knows, in how much he loves the beach - and yet he opted for his room to be dark. Every bedroom in the house has carpet the color of weak tea, and every bedroom started with coastal tones; blue, sandy, sunrisey colors. The landlord had agreed, though, upon them signing the rental contract, that they were allowed to make cosmetic changes as long as they could be reverted back if ever they moved out and new tenants were to move in. In short - they could paint the bedrooms whatever way they wanted, as long as they’d be willing to change them before leaving should the landlord wish so.

Which means that Izzy’s room is now a deep, rich foresty green.

He's always had a thing for green. He loves every variation of it - albeit one - but feels a stronger pull towards the darker end of the spectrum. If he'd been the type of man to care, he might have wondered if this particular color scheme would be too much - but either way, it works. Much like a cuddle huddle, it feels cozy. It feels like a space that can embrace you. There are no bright lights, no sterile walls, nothing vibrant enough to rattle your senses. It's lovely and dark for drifting off to sleep, and it lets you wake up in much the same way. His bedcover and pillowcases are in the same range, albeit a few shades darker, and he's on the hunt for matching sheets.

He might not be able to stomach any shade resembling emerald anymore, but he absolutely refused to let Edward Teach take enjoyment from his favorite color away.

When the door is closed behind them, Lucius holds out his arms and Izzy willingly steps into them. Away from the others, their embraces are always different; a little more intimate, a little more close. It's the type of hug shared by people who are familiar with each other not just in mind, but in body. Their hands know the contours of each other. They're comfortable to touch each other in ways that they wouldn't with other people, and it makes it feel special. Izzy used to be afraid of opening himself up to any sort of intimacy - after everything, it was surely understandable - but he's so thankful that he's let some of it back into his life, because it means that he gets to have moments like these.

Lucius pulls back slightly and shifts one of his hands up to cradle Izzy's cheek against his palm. "May I?" he asks, lightly tapping his thumb against Izzy's lower lip. He nods in response, and a second later his eyes flutter shut as Lucius leans down to press a sweet, tender kiss against his mouth. Both allow the touch to linger, indulging in the warmth and comfort it brings. It's a reassuring kiss - grounding, in a way - a silent declaration of I'm here. Eventually they have to pull apart, but neither make a move to step away from each other. Lucius presses a quick kiss to the tip of his nose before his hand moves back to Izzy's waist, and he bumps their foreheads together.

"What are we feeling?"

Izzy frowns. Chews the question over. "Everything," he eventually replies, which earns a sympathetic half-smile.

"I can imagine."

"I'm upset. And I'm angry. And I'm scared. And…"

"Go on."

"It's kind of stupid."

"I love stupid. Tell me."

Izzy bites his bottom lip before admitting, "I'm fucking pissed that I didn't get to enjoy that quiche as much as I should have."

Lucius bursts out laughing, ducking his head down and pressing it into Izzy's shoulder to muffle a snort. Even Izzy manages a small chuckle, sensing that his body is in need of some form of comic relief; an emotional crisis may be at hand, but a bit of humor can still manage to work some wonder.

"Okay, well, you know the drill," Lucius eventually manages to say, his giggles subsiding. "Your feelings are valid, you're entitled to feel them, and you know that we're all here for you if you need us."

Izzy wraps his arms around him a little tighter, laying his head against his chest, and listening to the steady beat of his heart. "Mhm."

"Any time, any place, any reason."

"Same goes to all of you."

"Which is incredibly appreciated, of course, but I'm sure that none of us would have the audacity to add our own drama into the mix."

"You love drama."

"I love watching it on TV," he clarifies. "It's fun to see how petty people can become."

"Does it make you feel better about yourself?"

"Good to know that your charm hasn't been affected."

But it's said with a kiss planted on top of his head, which makes Izzy smile to himself.

"Now," Lucius says, and his tone becomes more brisk. "Normally I'd invite you back to spend the night at ours. I want to, actually, but we the jury have ruled in favor of you staying here. You cannot let that man run you out of your own house. He's not allowed to do that, and you're not allowed to let him. You're worth more than that."

Izzy's gut fills with a warm, slightly odd tingling sensation; a combination of the praise and the reminder of who's next door. He's conflicted just as much as he is relieved over the fact that the decision has already been made for him. In truth, he would like to run away for a little while. It wouldn't solve all of his problems, he knows, but at least he'd be further away from them. But they're right - he knows they're right - in saying that he can't set this type of precedent from the get-go. He needs to stand his ground. He needs to stay, for the sake of making a statement to both Edward and himself.

"Yeah, alright," he sighs. "But I still want to come over next weekend."

"Oh, absolutely," Lucius agrees readily. "You’ll deserve a good bit of pampering by then. I'll let you be a pillow princess the whole time, no matter how it plays out."

"Is that a promise?"

"You have my word."

"How much is that worth?"

"It's priceless, honey."

Izzy snorts, and then laughs when it earns him a smack on the ass.

"So rude," Lucius mutters, but the tone is indicative of a smile. "Now - do you want to go back out, or wait a little longer?"

Izzy hesitates - thinks about how he'd feel returning to the group, thinks about how comfortable he feels right now - and shifts his head to burrow it into the warm crook of Lucius’s neck. "Five more minutes," he mumbles into his skin, and feels the responding chuckle vibrate through where their chests are touching.

"Whatever you want, darling," Lucius murmurs, idly rubbing at his lower back. "Whatever you want."

Eventually they make their way back out, and the afternoon goes by in good company. Izzy can't quite decide whether or not time is moving faster or slower than usual. For a while he thinks that each minute is dragging on for twice as long as it should, stretching out this absolutely bonkers day for hours on end - but then suddenly the sun is setting, gently pulling the day to a close, and conversation begins to drift into dinner territory. People don't want to go, but they've got to get themselves fed; they want to stay, but there's a silent agreement that maybe it's time for the housemates to have the place to themselves again. A bit of peace and quiet after such a day. There are a lot of hugs - a lot of kind words shared, with Archie's trademark wit working its way in - and then they're gone for the night.

Everything seems so quiet in their absence.

Not necessarily a bad sort of quiet, just…quiet.

The five of them sit in their respective places and, as if scripted, all let out their own deep, weary sighs.

They look at each other.

A ripple of tired laughter spreads throughout the group.

"Right," Frenchie says, slapping his knees. "Food. Dinner. Let's sort that out. I'm thinking…something edible."

John hums and pretends to think about it. "I dunno…that sounds pretty wild."

"Call me a revolutionalist."

"I don't think that's a word, dear."

"Ah well," Frenchie replies with a dismissive wave of his hand, hauling himself up and padding into the kitchen. "Every word was invented at some point. Now, let's see…" He starts rummaging through the pantry, muttering under his breath, before giving a triumphant cry and holding up a packet of pasta. "Lasagne, anyone?"

"Yes please."

"Sounds good."

"I'm in."

Izzy - who's found himself in a rather comfortable position curled up in his armchair, somewhat swaddled in a throw blanket despite the warm evening temperature - gives a thumbs up in response.

"We haven't got any meat out, so it'll have to be with eggplant," he says, pulling more bits and pieces out onto the bench. "But we've got a heap of other stuff from the garden, so it'll be nice and scrummy."

"The tomatoes have been really good this year," Ivan idly comments.

"And the spinach," Fang adds on, standing up and stretching, before wandering into the kitchen to lend a hand. "Wasn't much fun when that bug got into it last summer."

"That spray concoction Buttons whipped up has really worked a treat."

"Y’know, he still won't tell me what's in it."

"Probably best not to ask."

Majority of the time, Izzy likes to help out in the kitchen; he still likes the feeling of being useful, even though he's gotten past the 'I'm only worth what I can offer' stage of his life, but more so nowadays he just enjoys the act of making good food to share with the people he cares about. Tonight, though, he's content to just sit. No one asks him to do anything. Someone puts the lights on when it starts getting dark, and then the TV for a bit of background noise, but no one really concentrates on it. Ivan stares at the screen, but his eyes are lost in thought. John carries on with his knitting. Izzy feels so drained from earlier that he actually finds himself dozing off on multiple occasions. At some point he properly nods off, because he wakes up to a hand on his shoulder and Fang quietly informing him that they're going to skip the formality of a table and eat from their laps tonight instead. Izzy's very pleased to hear this; he's so 'comfy-cozy', as Frenchie would put it, that his sleepy brain is trying to tempt him into staying here for the rest of forever. Even shuffling up into a proper sitting position takes a lot of self-motivation. But then he's given a plate and oh, doesn't it smell wonderful, and he finds that it's just as pleasing to have a comfortably full stomach.

By the end of the meal he's motivated himself enough to do the dishes - he's got to do something, at least - but the moment he goes to move John fixes him with such a look that he immediately drops that plan and consigns himself to the chair. Maybe John's right, even if he didn't say it out loud. Maybe Izzy does deserve a night off.

Fang pulls out the fudge ripple ice-cream and chops up some strawberries for dessert. They've had a bumper crop of the fruit this season - Frenchie spilled a packet of seeds by accident, so the garden has been positively blooming with them - which was great for the Christmas pavlova, and has also been great ever since. They eat mostly in companionable silence, every now and then someone making an idle comment about what's on the screen, but it feels like everyone is ready to put the day behind them. Izzy certainly is. Part of his brain is still fizzing and sparkling away like a wire's come loose, but he's too exhausted to do a proper maintenance check on himself. The knowledge of who's next door beats in the back of his mind like a pulse - Eddie's here, Eddie's here, Eddie's here - but it's pushed to the side, brushed away, swept under his mental rug to better be examined in the morning light.

He finds himself dozing again, and doesn't do anything to stop it. Every now and then a voice or a sound will filter into his eardrums without too much interest as to what it is. At some point he's aware of people moving around - of quiet yawns and brief conversations - but he keeps drifting back into that blissful, dreamless state, until Fang gently wakes him up again and tells him that it'd probably be best if he went to snooze-town in his own bed.

There are hugs shared at the foot of the steps with the upstairs crew - a lovely warm one from John, a nice and squeezy one from Frenchie, and one from Ivan that feels as fiercely protective as the ones from the old days - before the three of them trudge upwards with many a goodnight and sweet dreams thrown back and forth. Izzy and Fang take turns in the bathroom. As is to be expected, Izzy thinks he looks rather terrible. He scrutinizes himself in the mirror; sees his tired eyes, the shadows beneath him, and the weary lines that have etched themselves across his his skin once more. They're actually not as prominent as they used to be, despite his many years of wearing a perpetual frown. He's found that a good amount of sun and laughter has done wonders for turning back the clock. Tonight, though, he looks old. Feels old, right to the very marrow of his bones.

He draws in a deep, slow breath, and lets it out steadily through his nose, taking a small moment with himself, before reaching for his toothbrush. Ideally he would have a shower - he always does after a panic attack, like he can scrub the lingering unpleasantness away - but his body is begging for rest, so he has to settle for washing his face and putting on a dab of moisturizer instead. He'd never even touched the stuff before they'd moved here, but John gave them such a TED Talk on the benefits of skincare that he soon had the whole household doing it. Frenchie - already converted - had no issues with wandering about throughout the morning with 'scrubby pink goop' on his face until someone reminded him to wash it off. Every month or so they partook in a team bonding ritual, once again initiated by John, which basically involved him pampering everyone silly just for the sake of a fun, giggly time, and any excuse to gad about the house in their robes and slippers. There are pictures on Frenchie's phone that Izzy hopes never see the light of day.

He exits the bathroom, and meets Fang in the hallway.

They look at each other.

"Do you want to sleep with me tonight?" Fang asks.

Izzy thinks about it - opens his mouth - hesitates while trying to find the rights words-

"You want some space," Fang says softly, finishing his thoughts for him. "I get it."

"If I start overthinking, I might join you later," Izzy warns him, trying to sound lighthearted, but slightly missing the mark. "But…thank you."

The for everything is silent, but both of them still hear it.

"Are you…I mean, are you okay?"

Fang gives him a smile, but it's a little bit strained around the edges. "I'm fine. Fine as I can be, I guess. Certainly never expected to see him again, but…guess we'll just have to figure out a new normal. Find something that works."

Decoded; we'll have to figure out a way for the three of us, especially you, to not be triggered every other day by the mere presence of That Bastard and the apparent show pony he's gone and married.

Izzy doesn't say any of that out loud, but he still hums in agreement. They indulge in a long, comforting embrace - Fang always gives such big and warm and fatherly bear hugs - before murmuring goodnight to each other, and retreating into their respective rooms.

He takes his time in getting changed, folding his clothes away nice and neatly before slipping into his pajamas, and it's only when he turns around that he realizes that someone's already been in here. There's a glass of water on his bedside table, and a lump under the covers; when he pulls back the blankets, it's to discover that Frenchie's tucked one of his plush pals between the sheets for him. This one is a large, fat baby seal, who Izzy can confidently name as being Chub Norris. Chubby for short, naturally. He's not entirely sure when he learnt all of their names off by heart; he just knows that, over time, Frenchie sold all of their personalities so well that it felt rude to not start remembering what they were all called, considering they were basically acquaintances by that point. He's not sure if it's reciprocated - not sure if it can be, if one half of the party is made from fabric and stuffing - but the smile Chubby's giving him is certainly endearing, so he supposes that they're on good terms. It's actually really nice to have something to hold; something to touch, something to squeeze, something to keep him company on a night like this.

He switches off the bedside light and all but crawls into bed. His room is dark, the moon hardly more than a cat's claw in the sky, and barely any light filters through under his curtains. Despite the exhaustion still tugging at the corners of his head, part of his brain is still decidedly switched on and cycling through random snippets of the day. Sounds and images and random words from various conversations drift back to him. He can hardly believe that the day started with such a pleasant farmer's market. It's too much for his dog-tired mind to handle.

Some vague recollection from earlier prompts the memory of Lucius mentioning a 'group chat thing', and he realizes that he hasn't checked his phone since coming back home. He picks it up - squints slightly, turns down the screen brightness until it's more comfortable on his eyes - opens the group chat, and is utterly bombarded with messages. They seem to keep coming even as he’s scrolling up, and eventually he finds where the idle moving-in commentary was abruptly cut off.

 

fronch fry: GUYS

fronch fry: GUYS

fronch fry: GUYS

archie comics: what?????

fronch fry: CODE RED

fronch fry: IMMEDIATE CODE RED

fronch fry: THE REDDEST OF FUCKING REDS

archie comics: bro calm down use your words

fronch fry: UTS ED

fronch fry: IT'S

fronch fry: ED

archie comics: NO

fronch fry: YES

jimbles notronbo: Ed as in like ED Ed? Izzy’s Ed??

fronch fry: YES

queenie: You have got to be fucking kidding me

queenie: Is he okay?

archie comics: WAIT WAIT WAIT

archie comics: is the other guy the one he left for???

fronch fry: no he's not okay, and I don't know if it's the same guy. Ivan only saw him the once in his car and doesn't remember his face well enough

pete-a bread: okay Lucius is having a mild mental breakdown but he wants to know how Izzy is and how soon we can come over

pete-a bread: IVE GOT THE PHONE TELL ME HOW MY DARLING IS

fronch fry: currently on the floor having a panic attack. fang is sitting with him. give him some more time to come down from it

jimbles notronbo: Let us know when and we’ll be there.

archie comics: I can swing by and pick you and Oluwande up?

jimbles notronbo: Yes please

queenie: Could you pick me up too? I’m nearly done at the shop

archie comics: 👍

rooch: I LEAVE MY PHONE FOR FIVE MINUTES AND IT ALL TURNS TO CUSTARD

archie comics: what are the chances right

archie comics: fuck

fronch fry: fuck indeed

rooch: In all seriousness though, do we need a contingency plan?

jimbles notronbo: We should probably make one, yeah

pete-a bread: he’s welcome to come and stay at ours for the night, but Lucius says he kinda doesn’t want that to happen because he shouldn’t be run out of his own home

queenie: That’s completely true tbh. I love him but he needs to stand his ground

queenie: I mean obviously don’t force him - if he really wants to get away, we should support that - but I think it would be better if he stayed

fronch fry: nah I think you’re right. even if he bunks with one of us for a few nights, I do think it’d be best if he stayed

rooch: Agreed

jimbles notronbo: We’ve gotta make sure someone’s always with him, yeah? I know he likes his alone time, but I’d feel better knowing that he’s alone with someone in the next room

fronch fry: that shouldn’t be too hard, there’s always someone home and at the shop

fronch fry: we should respect the early morning beach walk though

jimbles notronbo: Oh yeah of course, they’re sacred

fronch fry: honestly guys I think the only other thing we can do is be here for him. just keep reminding him that we're here and that we've always got time and space ready for when he needs us. he's so much better about it nowadays but I still think that he sometimes doesn't believe that it's there, or that he deserves it

archie comics: :(

queenie: Bless his self-deprecating stubborn little socks

pete-a bread: Lucius again. I can attest to this. It's a combination of him still not believing it + not wanting to be a burden + his sense of self-worth being the absolute pits sometimes

pete-a bread: Oh fuck I've just remembered that this is the group chat and he's going to read all of this

pete-a bread: Izzy sweetheart I love you, sorry for spilling your emotional beans :(

jimbles notronbo: We all kinda already knew tbh

archie comics: why's it always beans? and what kind are they anyways?

pete-a bread: ?

jimbles notronbo: Little off-topic babe

rooch: No no, that's a fair question

fronch fry: I think cannellini. yummers

queenie: Not sure that 'spill the chickpeas' has the same vibe

rooch: Spaghetti might?

archie comics: SPILL THE SPAGHETTI, I'M TRADEMARKING THAT

rooch: That's blatant thievery >:(

archie comics: pirates life for me bro 🤪

queenie: Ew

jimbles notronbo: Please never use that emoji again.

archie comics: you can't stop me?

archie comics: 🤪

fronch fry: okay okay he's coming out of it, he's grounding on his own, and fang is getting him to tummy breathe

pete-a bread: we'll be there in five, Lucius is already in the car. even if he's not ready when we get there we'll just wait on the porch

archie comics: I can get me and the cule there in ten-ish?

jimbles notronbo: We’re all set

queenie: Ready and waiting :)

rooch: I'll be about 10-15 walking. Do you need anything?

fronch fry: he said he's good for people to come because he knows you'll all show up anyway. and nah I don't think so, thank you though

rooch: Alrighty, see you soon

archie comics: ditto ☝️

 

His heart aches, but in a much sweeter way than before.

There’s a two or three hour gap in between before the chat starts up again.

 

archie comics: good work today team! I think that went pretty well!

luci-lou: You mean the part where you blurted out about Ed's partner being a horse and immediately gave away the fact that we were eavesdropping?

archie comics: yah

jimbles notronbo: I could have throttled you

archie comics: and yet you bought me dinner LMAO

jimbles notronbo: It was a cule dinner. You got to enjoy it by default

archie comics: and I did 😊

luci-lou: Considering it's us, it actually did all go a lot better than expected tbh

rooch: Did you have a good chat with him?

luci-lou: And a lovely little cuddle, yes. He also really liked that quiche btw, he was just too emotionally compromised to offer the usual compliments to the chef

rooch: The compliments are well received nonetheless. I shall make more 😤

queenie: Anyone from the household lurking in the chat who can give an update, please?

archie comics: COO-EEEEE

mini john: I have been summoned. Mother is here, children

jimbles notronbo: 🙏

queenie: ✨️

rooch: 🎉

luci-lou: 💅

mini john: There's not a lot to update on tbh. Everyone ate dinner fine, which is good, because Izzy and Ivan definitely didn't have enough for lunch. They've both been very quiet. Fang's trying to keep upbeat, bless him. I think he's less worried about seeing Ed, more worried about how Izzy's going to react if they ever have to interact. I'm hoping that Ivan's warning works and we're left well alone

mini john: And yes I know everyone else in the house is going to read this. Hi. Hello. Frenchie this is your reminder AGAIN to sew up that tote I left in your sock drawer

jimbles notronbo: That man sets one foot in the wrong direction, and I'll take the whole leg.

luci-lou: 😬

rooch: What would you do with it?

jimbles notronbo: Uh

jimbles notronbo: Mount it on a plaque like a stuffed game trophy

rooch: Nice

archie comics: you reckon you could make it move and sing like one of those fish thingies?

luci-lou: Do you

luci-lou: Do you mean the novelty singing bass 😂

queenie: Oh my gosh

archie comics: yeah those things!! that would be AMAZING

mini john: That would be fucking hilarious

rooch: I would pay a serious amount of cash for that

jimbles notronbo: Oluwande is losing his shit right now

jimbles notronbo: Like actually crying

jimbles notronbo: "What if it played the five hundred miles song"

jimbles notronbo: The man is in shambles

archie comics: the leg does a showgirl kick every time it goes DA DA DAA

queenie: STOP

mini john: I'm trying so hard to keep quiet right now you've got no idea

rooch: Let your laughter be free my friend

mini john: I can't, Izzy's fallen asleep in the armchair

archie comics: AWW

luci-lou: My baby 🥺

mini john: We’ll get him off to bed soon, he needs a good sleep

mini john: Although I think we all do in fairness

jimbles notronbo: Plans for tomorrow?

mini john: I think we’ll just play it by ear, see how everyone is feeling. Might make it a duvet day. At the very least I’m fairly confident we’re still doing laundry lol

luci-lou: Ah, the blissful mundane

mini john: Have you ever used a washing machine in your life?

luci-lou: EXCUSE YOU YES I HAVE

archie comics: did you get stuck in it

queenie: 😂

luci-lou: HOW VERY DARE YOU

luci-lou: I mean

luci-lou: Do you think I could? 🤔

jimbles notronbo: You are literally claustrophobic, Do Not Do That

rooch: At least if it breaks, Pete will know how to fix it

queenie: The perks of marrying a handyman

luci-lou: He ABSOLUTELY lives up to the job title, too, don’t worry about that 😏

jimbles notronbo: We weren’t.

mini john: 🤢

luci-lou: 🤪

archie comics: YEAH!!

jimbles notronbo: NO

swedish fish: Hello everyone! I am late in seeing this but please give Izzy our love. Jackie says if Ed tries anything she can come over anytime to sort him out :)

archie comics: swede!!! 😀

queenie: That is such a politely worded threat

jimbles notronbo: It’s the little smiley that does it for me

mini john: How was your day with Jackie?

swedish fish: It was very nice :) I am loving my husbandly duties

archie comics: aw <3

queenie: You guys are soo cute

swedish fish: Thank you!

luci-lou: Okay everyone, Pete’s nodding off on the couch, so that’s probably our cue for bed. Nighty-night!

mini john: Yeah, we’re all gonna hit the hay as well. Night everyone

archie comics: sweet dreams!!

queenie: Goodniiigghhhtttt

jimbles notronbo: Happy snoozin

rooch: A wonderful honk-shoo honk-shoo to us all

 

Each message fills him up - makes him feel warmer, makes him feel whole - and he loves them.

He loves them, he loves them, he-

 

beach-boy: I love you guys.

beach-boy: Thank you for today.

beach-boy: For everything.

beach-boy: I love you all so, so much.

 

He knows it’s late - isn’t expecting any immediate replies - but of course, they come regardless.

 

jimbles notronbo: Love you, Izzy <3

archie comics: love you!!!!!

rooch: Always here, little man

jimbles notronbo: You know he and I are basically the same height, right?

rooch: And we are also always here for you, little them

jimbles notronbo: 😌 

luci-lou: Love you Izzy my sweetheart my darling my precious old bastard. Now go the fuck to bed and get some sleep ❤️

 

He’s still smiling when he sets his phone down, despite the low undercurrent of nerves still churning away in his gut, and forces himself to take in a few deep, calming breaths, before drinking a sip of water and curling up properly under the covers with Chubby pressed against his chest. Another technique given by his previous therapist is pulled out of mental storage; a distraction technique to keep the mind busy, by trying to see how many types of fruit you can think of for each letter of the alphabet. It’s a little bit tedious, but that’s the point. It keeps you occupied without keeping you stimulated, so your body can switch into rest mode without having to try too hard; no overthinking involved. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t.

He gets lucky this time and drifts off somewhere around persimmon.

Next door, Edward Teach continues to remain wide awake.

Notes:

please feel free to comment!! I love reading + replying to them <33

Chapter 4: navigating | "when our fingers touch, I feel my way back home"

Notes:

content warnings; there's a little bit of implied spice but nothing properly explicit :>

*banging pots and pans together* I love this fic!! I love it!! ahhh

They lived in each other's pockets until they could actually live together. Ed's current roommate Jack was a dick, but Ed wasn't the type of guy to up and leave someone in the lurch like that, so he stuck it out for another couple of months until the lease was up. Jack was pissed about the whole thing and said a few choice words which fractured their fragile friendship even further, but there was no love lost on Izzy’s part. Jack was a prat, simple as that. Izzy spoke to his landlord about other properties he was renting out, and he and Ed were offered a little one bedroom unit not too far from Izzy’s current place. After so long in the equivalent of a studio, having an actual bedroom felt like a luxury. Heck - even having an actual bed felt like a luxury. There was an odd sense of freedom that came from knowing he didn't have to make up the couch at night and tuck it away each morning. Of course there was a bed to be made, but that wasn't so bad with two people.

The place came decently furnished. There was a place to sleep, and a place to sit, and a place to eat, and cutlery to eat with - what more could they want?

Izzy brought his homey little touches; the wonky storage unit, the makeshift crate coffee table, the knitted blanket Ed adored so much. Ed brought his guitar, his posters, and a jar of his favorite marmalade. Their clothes lived together in the dresser. Half the time they wore each other's socks without even realizing. Any intentional shirt thievery was carried out by Ed; back in the early years he was a beanpole, compared to how broad-chested Izzy already was, so he often swanned about in hoodies that didn't actually belong to him. Izzy didn't mind. Every now and then he'd catch Ed sniffing the material with a fond expression in his eyes, and it made his guts feel all warm and squirmy on the inside.

Very early on - within the first week, perhaps - it became apparent how very little skill Ed had in the kitchen. His nose scrunched up in embarrassment when he admitted that, for the most part, he and Jack had been living on ready-meals. It wasn't budget-friendly, but it was all they knew. Ed was scared of gas cookers - terrified of somehow burning the place down - and his mum had only been able to teach him the most basic of recipes, most of which he'd forgotten, because of how little they could afford. Izzy, on the other hand - knowing that he'd be striking out on his own as soon as he could - had taught himself as much as possible before leaving home. He'd learnt about budgeting, he'd learnt about meal planning, and he'd learnt about how to make food go further in order to get his money's worth for it. Ed had been slightly awed - and possibly even a tiny bit ashamed - that he'd never thought to do any of that.

It was soon quite clear that he wasn't really made for any of it, despite now having access to an electric stove.

Izzy did his best to teach him to cook and, for sure, a lot of the lessons did stick - eventually. Sometimes it was a bit…tedious, perhaps, or - trying, actually, might have been the better word. Basic things - toasties, scrambled eggs, the ability to put meat in a pan and get it to a place between raw and burnt - were fine. They were quick, they were easy, and they were simple. Anything that took longer than fifteen or twenty minutes seemed too much for his attention span. He'd get bored rather easily, or get sidetracked by something else and walk away while the frying pan was still on. If things ever went wrong, he didn't react well. Izzy didn't quite understand. Why sulk over a grainy sauce? Why get so angry over your pasta being a bit overcooked? Why try to give it up so readily?

They irritated him - both Ed's reactions, and his own lack of understanding towards them - but there were no heated arguments, yet. He had fire in him back in those days, of course, but it was being tempered by love and affection and the thrill of being able to share a kitchen with someone like Ed in the first place.

On the whole, it was easier to relegate Ed to prep duty.

The man could cut vegetables just fine, even if he couldn't quite get the knack of sautéing them.

Throughout all of this - the moving, the cooking lessons, the general act of settling into their humble abode - life still moved around them. It kept moving and, although they'd rather have spent their days doting on each other at every possible minute, they had to keep up.

Ed got a job cleaning at a local B&B. He said if that type of work had been good enough for his mother, it was good enough for him. Izzy idly wondered if he'd only been hired because the owner knew that cleaners, more often than not, weren't seen by their customers. The tattoo collection had already lost him quite a few work opportunities. Ed never seemed to care, though, so long as he was getting paid at the end of the day.

The majority of Izzy's income came from his student allowance - the irony being that a big chunk came out to pay off his student loan - but every now and then, he'd manage to snag a shift at a local restaurant whenever they were short-staffed and needed a dish dog.

Izzy was still enjoying his courses; almost as much as knowing he had someone to come home to after classes had finished for the day. Sometimes their schedules didn't quite meet up - sometimes Ed didn't get home until after him - but it didn't matter. They loved talking about their day with someone who was actually interested. Ed liked to hear about whatever parts of metalwork Izzy's class was currently studying, and was rather fascinated at how much work went into the creation of a single knife. He got a little lost when it came to the science - numbers and timings and stuff like that weren't really his strong point, as shown by his cooking skills - but he admired Izzy for having the type of brain that could process it all so well. On the flipside, after having spent hours cramming his skull with all those bits and pieces of knowledge, Izzy liked hearing Ed's mundane work stories. He'd laugh and scold in equal measure about Ed's habit of nicking soap whenever he could; but, as long as he didn't get caught, it meant a tiny saving on the shopping bill.

And oh, how grocery shopping had become such an experience.

Ed didn't like lists. Ed liked free-roaming the aisles like a kid in a candy store, drifting towards whatever tickled his fancy and sidling up beside Izzy with puppy-eyes sweet enough to melt chocolate. Sometimes Izzy could resist - if one thing could turn his mood sour, it was big brands trying to make a stupidly large profit - but other times he couldn't, and the shopping list would have to be slightly altered in order to accommodate whatever Ed had managed to slip into the trolley. It was worth it, though, to see his smile.

For the most part, Izzy was in charge of the list - he did the majority of the cooking, so it only made sense that he should plan out what they needed. He was used to doing it for himself anyways, but - unexpectedly - having to alter the usual purchases so they could both get what they wanted felt like a new way of getting to know each other. It was one thing to know that your partner liked tea, but it was another to learn what specific brand they preferred - what snacks they liked - what vegetables they refused to eat, even as adults.

They got the cheapest tea and coffee, but Ed also drank Milo, regardless of the price.

Izzy liked red licorice and trail mix - Ed liked potato chips and anything covered in chocolate - they both had a thing for cashews, even though they could rarely afford them.

Ed detested celery.

Izzy's guts didn't like capsicum.

They didn't have a car - if they literally couldn't pay for peanuts, they certainly couldn't pay for a vehicle - so they loaded up bags and backpacks, and bussed their way back after each shopping trip. Izzy quite liked those little moments. Squashed up next to each other on the seats, knees pressed together, watching buildings and people flit by while they journeyed home. Just knowing that that's where they were going - home - together - a place that they shared - a place that was theirs, and theirs alone.

Often, Izzy would smother Ed's face with kisses before they had a chance to unpack anything. He was confused, at first - laughing all the while - and it didn't matter that Izzy didn't know how to explain how he was feeling; eventually it just became routine, and the act of it was explanation enough.

It was fair to say that they lived in their own little bubble. They moved along with the outside world, but they just…didn't feel a need to interact with it more than strictly necessary. Their honeymoon phase was still in full swing. It was the thrill of finding someone they shared such a connection with - of having that person, and being wanted by them in turn - of going to sleep with them and waking up with them - of sharing first times and experiences and making memories with them.

What more could they want?

There were only two things that they continually danced around; those three beautiful, significant, unifying words, and what was then believed to be ‘proper sex’.

Back in the day, a lot of society had a bee in its bonnet about sex being that you had to, essentially, put something in something else. There wasn’t as much freedom around the matter - about what constituted such an act, about the fact that it didn’t have to follow those guidelines and only be achievable by them. Perhaps if they’d known a little differently, they would have thought a little differently.

Oh, they’d absolutely explored each other; with teeth and tongue and roaming hands, with curious mouths mapping out the curves of one another, with ears and fingertips that absorbed the accompanying sounds and vibrations. But they hadn’t done more - had thought about it, but had been too shy to bring it up - because neither of them had ever gone any further.

Ed had fooled around with Jack a few times, just to try and get the hang of things so he wasn’t a complete novice, but the idea of sex with him was…well, rather unappealing, actually. His subconscious had warned him that it would be a terrible first time, so he’d steered clear of things ever going too far.

Izzy had dated one guy back home, in a very loose sense of the word; much like Ed and Jack’s situation, they’d liked each other enough to experiment with things, but they hadn’t had time to do more than what could crudely be referred to as ‘hand and mouth stuff’ before they went their separate ways. The other boy, to university, and Izzy, to the other side of the world.

And then…there were those words.

Three of them.

The longest one no longer than four letters.

Only one syllable each, but they seemed to hold the weight of the world.

Izzy had felt the feeling of them growing in his gut ever since he laid eyes on Edward Teach. It took him a little while to figure out what they were, having never felt such things before, but when he knew - when he finally realized why his heart skipped a beat whenever Ed walked into a room, why his chest filled with sunlight whenever he laughed, why he was so completely and utterly devoted to the man he was sharing his home and his bed and his life with - it didn’t actually come as a shock. Didn’t rock his world, didn’t feel like a revelation. It just…made sense. If anything, it was just satisfying to finally fit that piece of the puzzle into place.

There was a little bit of fear, too.

Fear, because he didn’t know how Eddie felt.

What if he didn’t feel the same?

What if this devotion was one-sided, and destined to leave Izzy heartbroken?

Was he deluded?

Was he a fool?

Sometimes his brain argued this point - but, sometimes, it argued the latter.

Because sometimes he’d catch Ed staring at him with an expression so familiar, and yet so difficult to describe; an expression that held feelings that couldn’t be quite translated into words. Sometimes it would seem as though Ed was going to say something - the words right on the tip of his tongue - but then the moment would pass and he’d swallow them back down, smile, look at him with those dark, velvet eyes that spoke them on his behalf.

So - sex and love confessions.

The two things they desired most in this moment in time.

They celebrated their six month anniversary by achieving both of them.

Neither of them pressured - neither of them planned - the two of them combined resulting in one glorious moment of elation, hearts and bodies bursting with euphoria.

I love you, Izzy panted, face flushed, toes curled into the mattress.

I love you, Ed gasped, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the swallow on his neck.

And then the afterglow - tangled up together in the sheets, sharing lazy kisses and giggles and those words, repeated, both hardly daring to believe it, neither able to get enough of them.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

In their naively young, rose-tinted minds, no couple were ever more besotted with one another than them. They lived each other - breathed each other - indulged in each other every moment of every day, thinking of each other even when they were apart, coming together as soon as they were within touching distance.

They hit more anniversary milestones - seven months, eight months, nine months - and it was sometime around then that the essence of a thought - not quite fully-fledged, but silently taking shape in the background - began to form.

It was quite possible that they’d like some friends.

In the outside world, there were plenty of people their age who were 'living it up' by going out to parties each night and drinking their weight in someone's else's alcohol - some would have said that this was the norm, and to be outside of it was strange - but the truth was, Izzy and Ed were outside of it. Not by choice, but because they didn't know anyone else well enough to invite them out. Izzy had, at this point, been in the country for about a year and a half, but didn't really interact with anyone outside of his classmates. He'd admitted it before - he wasn't great at making friends - and didn't know how to go about it. Ed, who had moved to the city only slightly less than a year ago, had found himself pulled in by Jack's crowd and wasn't keen to repeat the experience. He had a natural knack with people, but that whole experience had put him off trying.

They didn’t say it out loud - didn’t even really think about it at all, to be honest, because they were still so wrapped up in each other - but nonetheless, the subconscious yearning for a little more social interaction grew, and manifested itself more presently in the form of the local dog walker.

They had no idea if he was new to the city, or just new to the area - they hadn’t seen him before, and knew virtually nothing about the man - only that he seemed about Izzy’s age, always had a smile, and was always surrounded by at least three or four canine companions. Once he began to recognize their faces, he'd throw a smile if one or both of them happened to be outside as he was passing. Then it became a wave, then a cheery 'good morning', and all of those things somehow transformed into casual small talk. Izzy was inwardly aware of his own exterior, which tended to lean towards 'scowly' if he felt uncomfortable in a conversation, but it never seemed to put the other man off. His sunny disposition always shone through, no matter what clouds were hovering around Izzy's shoulders that day. Lucky for the both of them, Ed was a natural at water cooler chat. The two of them were quite happy to natter away for a minute or two while Izzy quietly tried to pat four dogs at once. Ed had warned him near the beginning that he wasn't a pet person, so Izzy took the opportunity for a puppy cuddle whenever he could.

This routine built up and carried on for almost a month before it felt like the ice had been well and truly broken, so they finally - after realizing they hadn't already, laughing at themselves for it - exchanged a little more detail with one another.

His name was Fang.

He moved to the city a few months ago just to 'try it out', and for the sake of employment opportunities. He'd been studying business administration remotely but, now that he was closer to the campus, it means that he could attend the classes in-person, and hopefully get a nudge in the right direction. He was already terribly homesick, though, and he and Ed both agreed that the air here smelt awful compared to that of their old rural neighborhoods.

As it turned out, his classes weren’t all that far from Izzy's own.

The two of them met up for lunch one day - which turned into once a week - which turned into almost every time the timing of their classes matched up. Depending on Ed’s work schedule, he’d come and join them. On their free days, which Izzy and Ed usually spent solely with one another, they found that they now had the option of hanging out with a friend instead. Fang proved himself to be excellent company. In a way, his qualities mirrored the dogs he cared for so much; sweet, loyal, always up for a bit of fun, and not one to say no to a biscuit. A huge bonus was that he had a car and a license that wasn’t expired - which meant that Izzy and Ed’s bubble got a little bit bigger.

They went to the nearest beaches and walked barefoot across the sand and through the shallows. They went to the hiking trails in order to breathe in air that didn’t smell like petrol fumes, and touch grass that wasn’t the token strip left next to the footpath. They explored places within the city outside of the bus routes, went to the least shitty bars they could find where their meager budget could afford a couple of drinks and decently cooked wedges, sang and laughed freely along to the radio. It changed the dynamic between Izzy and Ed - shook it up slightly, added something new - but it was good. It was healthy, to realize that there was a world outside of themselves and each other.

It was almost as if, now that they’d done it once, they were subconsciously confident enough to keep the ball rolling.

Ed’s collection of tattoos kept growing and, since Izzy always went with him to appointments, it meant that the both of them became friendly with two of the women who worked there. Anne and Mary were firecrackers who’d only been dating a few months, but bickered as though they’d been married forty years. There was a running joke that they’d either end up throttling each other or settling down as a couple of middle-aged lesbians who ran an antique store, or something else that straddled the line between mundane and bizarre. Izzy and Mary were the more sensible ones in their relationships, who knew how to reign in their partners after the third drink. Ed and Anne weren’t made for societal cages; they were just born to be free.

They made friends with a couple of guys at the bar they frequented most often. ‘Steakie’, as he was called, was six-foot-something ridiculous and, had he been for sale at the butcher’s, would be one of the primest slabs of meat that money could buy. Izzy and Ed both agreed that, had they been single, they would have quite thoroughly jumped his bones by now. Bill, on the other hand, was…well. A little bit weedy and a little bit weird, in all honesty, but he was harmless enough.

They were all good fun - all nice enough to be around, have a laugh with, and so on - and they all referred to each other as mates, but none of them clicked quite as well as Fang did. Sometimes Izzy and Ed worried about when it was just the three of them, whether or not Fang would feel like a third-wheel, but he never seemed bothered - never complained - and so things carried on the same.

Time passed.

Birthdays, holidays, remembrance anniversaries.

They finally got a car - a little secondhand thing with quite a few scuffs, but bloody good mileage considering the price - and one of the first things Ed did was take Izzy on a very solemn road trip to, as it were, meet his mother. It was very quiet, but it was very special; and Ed spoke openly, lovingly of Izzy, and Izzy silently promised her that he’d take care of her son.

They couldn't do the same for Izzy’s mum, but they still lit candles and shared those moments together.

More relationship milestones were achieved.

One year turned into two - and then into three, and four, and five.

The honeymoon phase still lingered, but was more so intertwined with the steady, domestic bliss that came with the routine of everyday life.

Fang completed his admin course and, after shopping around for a long time - businesses didn’t seem keen on hiring someone so fresh from uni - managed to land himself an internship that put decent money in his pocket, which eventually led to being offered an equally decent job. It wasn’t exactly as he’d imagined - the role given to him wasn’t totally to his taste - but, while he quietly kept looking around, he was content enough for now.

Ed stopped cleaning at the B&B, and instead started cleaning at the tattoo parlor Anne and Mary worked at. The business had expanded in those five years, so they’d had to hire someone who was quick at wiping things down between customers and knew how to sanitize properly - enter Edward Teach, who sold himself as something of an extraordinaire on the subject. It suited him much better than the old job. He got to be with his friends, he got to meet new people - he actually became rather good at putting nervous clients at ease by vouching firsthand about the quality of ink they’d be receiving - and, as it turned out, he was rather skilled with a pen. He’d always been a doodler, always scribbling out designs whenever he got bored, but something about the environment sparked his creativity into another level. People began to take notice of his designs. Took notice, and - to his joy and bewilderment - wanted them permanently drawn on their skin. He started designing flash sheets, and earned a percentage from each sale. The act of tattooing itself wasn’t exactly his cup of tea, being rather adverse to the idea of physically hurting people, but Izzy was so proud - so in love with the small successes he was accumulating for himself - that he begged Ed to ink something onto him. He didn’t want anyone else’s hands to do it, only Ed’s, whatever he wanted as long as he was the one marking his skin. It came in the form of a little x beneath his eye; a tiny declaration of love, a place to press kisses, a way for Izzy to feel even further as though he belonged to him.

Izzy himself found work in a little factory that produced nails, screws, bolts, and the like, for building supplies. It wasn’t the most exciting job - not where he wanted to be for too long a time - but it would do for the present. It was steady work with a steady paycheck, and he valued the stability greatly. His dream of being able to create swords and knives and other weapons wasn’t as strong as it used to be, although he still definitely had an interest in the things themselves. A small part of him still clung to that as an end goal because, really, what else was there in the world of metalwork that he could settle for?

But then, along came Ivan.

Izzy had swung back around to his old campus - he was still in occasional contact with a couple of teachers who'd taken a shine to him, who gave him tip-offs on potential job offers and one-off courses he might be interested in - and was on his way out, when he happened to see him standing by the noticeboard. There was something intriguing, if not slightly amusing, about how fiercely this boy was glaring at one particular piece of paper. Izzy wasn’t overly curious by nature, but this time it won out.

“What’d that board ever do to you?” he asked, wandering over.

The boy glanced at him, before casting his eyes down with a quiet huff. “They won’t let me take one of the courses.”

“How come?”

“I’m not a student.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.” It was said too quickly, too defiantly, and was followed by a slight moment of hesitation. “Almost. In a few weeks.”

“You don’t want to enroll?”

“Nah. I don’t wanna do all the other courses. Just this one.”

Izzy followed his gaze and studied the poster that this boy’s attention was so honed in on. Huh. Stained glass. He hadn’t known they’d done that here. Maybe it was new. It was only a three-day thing; you got taught the basics, you made a few designs, and you got to keep the end results. In his mind, it was probably just a lot of cutting and soldering. He’d scored quite well in soldering, actually.

"No other places offering classes like this?"

"Not that I've found," he replied and then, muttered under his breath, "nothing I could afford, anyway."

Izzy studied his face more closely. There was something in his expression he recognized - a set to his jaw, determination burning in his eyes to show how much he wanted it - and hearing about cost issues was all too familiar. Izzy knew that he and Ed were lucky to get what they did. They could even afford the better brand of coffee now, and biscuits that didn't vaguely resemble cardboard. Izzy looked at this kid - saw a little bit of himself reflected there - and, to his surprise, felt something in him soften.

"What's your name?"

"Ivan."

"Well, Ivan, I'm Izzy. I used to go here. I still know some of the staff. You want me to have a word with them, see what I can do?"

Ivan's head had snapped around to look at him - firstly wide-eyed with disbelief, then narrowed in suspicion. "What do you want?" he asked warily.

Ah.

They really were cut from the same cloth.

"Nothing."

"So you'd just - what, help me out like that, even though I'm a stranger?"

"I can't guarantee anything, but I'll try."

"But - but why? What are you getting out of it?"

It was a great question. Izzy mulled it over in his head for a minute, trying to come up with a response that was truthful without being too much for a first interaction.

"When I was your age…" he said slowly, "I never had anyone help me out with this sort of stuff, so…I think my past self would kick my ass if I didn't help you."

Ivan frowned slightly, pondering his response, and eventually gave a small nod.

It took a few coaxing conversations and a tiny bit of coercion in the form of a six-pack of cider, but Izzy managed to talk one of his old teachers into organizing what was essentially a 'free pass' for Ivan to attend the course - on the condition that Izzy attend, too, and took responsibility for his actions. Izzy was a bit miffed - not at having to do it, but because Ivan clearly wasn't a child who needed babysitting - even though Ivan himself was over the moon about the whole thing. Ed declared that it was downright sweet what Izzy was doing, while Fang idly wondered whether or not Ivan would end up joining their friend circle.

Izzy barely ever missed a shift at work, so it wasn't hard to secure himself the three days off in order to attend the course. He wasn't irritated about the whole thing, per say - he just didn't like wasting his time, and he was fairly confident that he wasn't going to glean anything from these classes. Compared to Ivan's eager enthusiasm, Izzy seemed downright sullen.

However, by the end of the day, he was prepared to hold his hands up and say that he had been completely and utterly mistaken about stained glass.

So wrong was he, in fact, that he was very nearly ashamed of himself.

The precision! The tools! The need for concentration, for steady hands, for numbers and measurements and the application of gentle pressure that brought such a sense of satisfaction when each little goal was achieved. He'd worked at the factory long enough for the tasks to become almost mindless - he could switch to autopilot quite safely, and let his mind wander elsewhere - but this was different. This felt like it was waking up a part of his brain that had been asleep for the past few years. It was mentally stimulating in a way that he hadn't experienced for a long while - maybe even since his campus days - and he found that, actually, he was really fucking enjoying it.

Ed almost didn't know him the first night. Who was this person raving about stained glass, of all things? Who was this man with the sparkle in his eyes - the flush in his cheeks - rambling on in that shyly excited tone of voice? It made quite a change, since Ed was the one who usually waffled on about this or that or the other thing for hours on end, so to have their roles be reversed was strange. Not in a bad way, though; Izzy painted it in such a way that Ed found himself rather fascinated.

By the end of those three days, Izzy almost felt as though part of him was entirely new.

He’d felt various forms of pride before; pride in completing his courses, pride in being able to sustain himself in the house that he could afford to rent, pride in having Edward as his partner. But this - bringing home the pieces he’d made during those classes, finding places to display them within their home, hearing Ed marvel over the colors and the linework…this was different. This was something he’d not quite felt before.

It was a little bit scary.

He confessed it to Ed one night - curled up in the comfort of his arms, feeling safe enough to share the revelation - that perhaps he’d been wrong all these years, and the branch of metalwork he’d been pursuing wasn’t strong enough to hold him anymore; a new dream had taken root in his mind, and he wanted to see how it could grow.

Eddie - who was not a man of logistics - told him, without any trace of hesitation, to go for it.

Izzy introduced Ivan to the group, the two of them having forged quite a rapid friendship over those three days, and it didn’t take long for them all to realize that he clicked - just as Fang had - and within a month, they were as tight as if they’d known each other for years. Ivan snagged a job at some fast food place while Izzy kept going at the factory, and in their spare time they pored over books from the library and filled up their own folders with notes and designs. Izzy loved Ed dearly - loved him more than the world itself - but it was rather refreshing to be working alongside someone who was like-minded when it came to money. Ivan knew just as well as he did that ‘going for it’ wasn’t as simple as that. They needed to figure out costs - the practicality of pursuing such a niche business venture - and although the numbers were incredibly daunting, something in them pushed them to keep going.

Ed would not openly admit to jealousy, but Izzy knew him too well. They were both fully aware of their own possessive streaks. He finally got him to admit it one day, after being in a mood that was moodier than usual, that he wasn’t jealous in that type of way - he wasn’t suspicious, he wasn’t annoyed, he didn’t resent what they were doing - but it felt like Izzy was exploring this whole new potential pathway in his life, and Ed…well, he felt a little on the outside. Because he didn’t have the head for numbers - he didn’t understand the technical terms they threw back and forth - and, quite frankly, he knew that whatever this thing was going to be, it wasn’t his. He just didn’t know how to process that.

It was somewhat of a conflicting moment for Izzy. Ever since they’d met, he and Ed had done everything together. Five years on and they were still happily living in each other’s pockets. So - yeah. It was strange, actually, to think about the fact that he was planning such a big idea with somebody else. But in saying that, it didn’t feel like a bad thing - felt almost good, in a way, to be planning it with someone else - and just because Ed wasn’t at the core of it all, it didn’t mean that he was completely out of the loop, right? Izzy continually tried his best to keep Ed updated on their plans, keep him involved in as many ways as possible, because - even if this whole thing fell apart - he knew that Ed would still want to be there, helping to pick up the pieces.

They had a heartfelt conversation over dinner that night. Laid out their hopes and fears about it all, their reservations and ambitions, until they were sure - without a doubt - that each person was reassured and on the same page.

Having come together in that way, they then took themselves to bed in order to thoroughly take each other apart. By the next morning, both Eddie - with fingernail marks down his back and hair like a bird's nest - and Izzy - with bruises decorating his neck and the insides of his thighs - felt a lot better about the whole thing.

The following two years passed in a whirlwind.

Izzy and Ivan saved up in order to pool their money together and buy resources. Izzy’s old contacts came in handy once again; they put him in touch with someone who could supply basic colored glass, and then that person gave him the number of someone else who could source pieces with various shades and textures. The two of them collectively wailed over the cost of soldering but, at the very least, the campus let them borrow some equipment on-site, as long as they had supervision. None of their past students had ever ventured into the world of stained glass like this. The man who’d taught their three-day course was mighty pleased with himself when he heard.

Ed’s own imagination actually served as a foothold in the creation process, giving him more of the involvement he’d craved near the beginning. He came up with some of the designs - some of which had to be simplified - but they were unique, they were bold enough to appeal to a wider audience, and Izzy soon developed the knack of transferring the ideas onto gridded paper in order to actually figure out how to make them. What tiny stained glass market there was mainly centered around old, traditional designs, and classic window installations you’d see in old houses. Izzy and Ivan were creating smaller pieces - things you could hang on the wall, things that served no other purpose than to be purely decorative, things that you could both hold in your hands and hold up to the sun and admire as a work of art.

This side hustle of theirs had to work around their actual jobs, because there were still bills to pay and their own mouths to feed. They made a list of every upcoming market and, for those that accepted them, hauled their asses up bright and early to set up their stall and cross their fingers that people would actually buy something. The first couple of times, they lost money. For a long while after that, they were barely scraping over the admittance fee - while it was nice to not be out of pocket, it didn’t really feel like an achievement when any profit was immediately used to pay off the petrol it had taken to drive there in the first place.

Ed knew if it had been a bad day without Izzy having to say a word.

He’d wrap the knitted blanket around Izzy’s shoulders, sit him down on the couch, and make them both a cheese toastie for dinner.

Izzy was so in love with him it almost hurt.

Then came a day - a gloriously unexpected, but nonetheless hoped for day - when they turned over a profit.

Like, an actual profit.

Admittance fee paid for - petrol paid for - and there was still fifty bucks leftover to split between the two of them.

They’d thought there’d been a mistake, at first.

That they’d miscalculated.

So they went over the numbers - again and again and again - before it finally began to dawn on them that they’d been right the first time.

To say that they’d been excited was the understatement of the century.

And then - and then! - at the next market, the same thing happened.

A profit!

They made another fucking profit!

The way they reacted, you’d think they’d just won the lottery. To them, it felt better than winning the lottery - better than being given something by chance - because they’d worked for this, they’d put so much time and effort and their own money for this, put so much on the line for this, and-

It was working.

And it kept working.

As time went on, they began to make a name for themselves. Well - the business was becoming a recognizable name more than them - but what did that matter? They’d found their niche market - found the right purchase-to-produce ratio - even found themselves with a few repeat customers because, as they said, no one in the area was making stuff like them.

The internet was still finding its feet in those days, and was not at all a viable advertising option. Instead they took out an ad in the newspaper once a month, got Ed to help them make up a few posters to place around the city, and coaxed the owner of the tattoo parlor to hang up a few pieces as a means of free product placement. It was all they could do, really.

By far the most exhilarating day came when, against all odds, Izzy and Ivan realized that they were making enough to start thinking about leaving their jobs. The business had proven itself for the last few months to be a steady source of income, and the idea of doing it full time - of taking the plunge, of dedicating their whole work days to it - was thrilling, just as much it was terrifying. But they wanted it - wanted it so, so bad - and both Ed and Fang were nothing but supportive, having been their biggest fans through each and every up and down, so they sat down and began planning their next steps.

If this was going to keep being a viable business, they needed a proper premise. Somewhere that they could create and sell in-store - preferably with a desk, so they could stop cluttering up their own dining tables with paperwork. And, once they had that, they’d need proper equipment. No more borrowing from campus. The tools were pricey - added up, they’d take a hefty chunk out of the bank account - but, assuming sales continued as they did, they could pay them off in a few months. It could work, they realized. It could really, actually work.

A little shop unit came up for rent a few streets away from the tattoo parlor - Mary had seen it and told Ed, who came home beaming like the fucking sun - and, after many anxious discussions and an equally nerve-inducing bank loan - they were handed over the keys. There was a front shop space with a serving counter, a completely clean slate of a back room, and a tiny bathroom whose paint job had seen better days. What the place lacked in size, it made up for in - well, just the fact that they could call it theirs, mainly. Ed designed the sign. Izzy felt like bursting when he first saw it hanging in place. Fang, who had always been the most emotional out of the four of them, might have cried just a wee bit. Ivan did a little dance.

They took things slowly, cautiously; only had the shop open for half of the week, and dropped to part-time at their other jobs until they'd got settled in. After about a month, they handed in their two-week notices and put their financial faith in the business and in each other. No one could ever say that they didn't work hard for what they had. Ed and Fang helped out where they could - Ed by coming up with more designs and rambling about it to every tattoo customer that walked in, Fang by lending his business knowledge whenever they found themselves a bit stuck. He was also great for manning the front desk because, quite frankly, his customer service skills were off the charts.

This led to one of the biggest tipping points in their career.

They had a woman in one day asking for a custom piece - something floral and pastel, she wanted, as a wedding gift for her daughter - only, she had to head down to the venue before it would be ready. She convinced them to send it by post, knowing the danger for potential disaster but unable to think of another option, so - accordingly - they made it, padded it up to within an inch of its life, and sent it on its merry way. They didn't have a proper work phone, not yet needing it, so they gave her Ivan's home phone instead so she could let them know when it arrived safely.

Only, it didn't arrive safely.

Fang happened to be over, and answered her call while Ivan was in the bathroom. She was obviously distressed - sobbing her poor heart out - because the glass was in pieces. She knew by the packaging that it wasn't their fault, that it was the mail service who was to blame; but the wedding was tomorrow, and would it be possible to make another? She'd pay for the replacement - she'd pay for overnight shipping - she'd risk it, because she was so set on being able to give this to her daughter, no matter what it took.

Well.

Fang was having none of that.

It wasn't often he got anything close to bossy, but he very calmly and very gently put his foot down with Izzy and Ivan, and told them that they'd better get that replacement made quick smart. He'd pay for it - no way was he letting her do that - and he'd already decided that the mail service couldn't be trusted again, so he was going to deliver it himself. They half thought he was joking, but no; the very next day he got up before the sun had risen, and drove five and a half hours to take it to her. Apparently she'd been stunned into silence before bursting into tears all over again. Her daughter had been over the moon about the gift and, quite rightly, was also thoroughly taken aback at what he'd done for them. They insisted on him taking a slice of cake, and a week later a whole bakery box was delivered to the shop with a thank you note attached. Izzy was really rather proud that they'd collectively managed to do such a nice, genuine thing for someone. Ivan declared Fang to be the unofficial employee of the month, and Ed pressed a sticky jam-and-cream kiss to his cheek while he giggled.

The funny thing was that, genuinely, they hadn't been thinking about image.

They hadn't been thinking about publicity.

But still, it seemed as though the universe - or a very heartfelt article, at least - wanted to repay their kindness.

Because the woman had friends.

And one of them wrote for a magazine.

It was only a few paragraphs, sprinkled in near the back within some columnist bit, but the store was named - a small photograph of the finished piece included - and it worked a treat. They didn’t even realize, at first, why they had the increased influx of customers until someone mentioned reading the story in a magazine, and they scrambled to get their hands on a copy to see for themselves. They were, simply put, rather dazed. It spoke of the quality - the design - and the impeccable customer service supplied by the team. What else was there to do, other than cut it out and keep it as a precious memento?

With more business came more requests - other people wanted their own custom pieces, for weddings and birthdays and such - and within a month, they realized that they needed to get a proper phone installed. So they did, which was cause for celebration, but it didn’t take long for them to also realize that the dynamic wasn’t quite working anymore. Between answering the phone, manning the desk, organizing stock, and creating the pieces themselves, it became apparent that they needed someone with a business-savvy mind to help them out.

Fang said yes on the spot, and handed in his notice that afternoon.

Although Ed was the only one who technically wasn’t on the payroll, he still did his best to be involved as much as possible, and they encouraged any and all ideas he threw at them. That hint of jealousy sometimes made itself known - little moments, here and there, that Izzy quickly picked up on and tried to soothe - but it hardly ever turned into anything more. Not back then. Because he could choose his own days and hours, Izzy always made sure that there was at least one day - if not two - that coincided with Ed’s, and they’d spend that time wrapped up in each other like they did near the beginning of it all. Things weren’t exactly the same as before, but they were still good.

Ed came home one day positively bouncing off the walls, because that band - the one they’d gone to see when they first met - was finally on tour again, and they abso-fucking-lutely had to go and see them again.

Izzy, of course, wholeheartedly agreed.

There were four of them, this time; because Fang and Ivan were family now, so how could they not all go together? They’d done it plenty of other times before, at various venues with various acts performing. It did feel as though this time was a little different, though. These grounds were special - this band was special - and something about the combination of excitement and nostalgia made him feel giddy. Like he was a teenager all over again. Ed was much the same, practically vibrating the whole time they were in line, and always making sure that he had at least one hand on Izzy at all times.

It was hard to say for sure if they managed to snag the exact same spot on the hill, but they got pretty darn close. They’d come more prepared this time, with a picnic blanket and some snacks, but that didn’t stop them from buying more hot chips and cinnamon donuts just like the first time. It was almost strange to think that, the first time they’d shared something close to a meal, they were still getting to know each other; they hadn’t even touched. Now, they knew each other inside and out. Izzy was free to lick his thumb and dab away tomato sauce at the corner of Ed’s mouth, while Ed was more than eager to press sweet, sugary, giggly kisses against Izzy’s own.

The sun went down - the stage lights went up - they cheered along with the rest of the crowd, just the same as they had all those years ago.

Izzy found his back pressed against Ed’s chest, knees bracketing him on either side while his own were stretched out, Ed’s arms snug around his waist with his chin alternating between his shoulder and the top of his head while they sang along to the songs they knew so well.

Then the soft song began to play, and once again Ed fell quiet while Izzy sang along with it. He tightened his embrace, keeping his ear right by Izzy’s mouth, and - whether it was intentional or subconscious - ever so slightly rocked them from side to side. Izzy had barely finished the last note before Ed was kissing him; his hair was longer now, providing them with some privacy from the rest of the world, which was probably a good thing considering how long they both lingered on each other’s lips.

"Fuck, you're incredible," Ed breathed.

"You're wonderful."

"You're gorgeous."

"You're everything."

Another kiss; slower, even sweeter than before.

"I love you."

"I love you."

"Always will." Ed let out a quiet chuckle, the motion vibrating softly through Izzy’s bones. "Always have, too, if I'm being honest."

The corner of Izzy's mouth curled up in a smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Another laugh, this one a touch more embarrassed. "I was gone on you right from the start. Right when you sang that song. I couldn't stop looking at you. Couldn't stop thinking about how there was no way in hell I was letting you leave here alone. And I know some people would say that's way too fast to fall in love-"

"You lasted longer than me."

There was a beat of silence between them; and then, tiny and hopeful-

"Yeah?"

Izzy twisted around a little more, cupped Ed's cheek and pressed a feather-light kiss to his lips."Yeah," he whispered.

"How long - I mean, when-?"

"Moment I clapped eyes on you."

Ed's own eyes widened slightly.

"Didn't know what it was then," Izzy continued in a low murmur. "But I do now. Couldn't help myself." He paused to let out his own slightly breathless chuckle, and brushed his nose against Ed's. "I meant what I said, Eddie. You're everything."

Ed kept staring at him.

There was a slight, tangible shift in the atmosphere; wheels were turning in his head as a certain something - an astronomical decision - suddenly clicked into place. Some internal decision had been made and was beginning to shine out of his face like starlight.

"Izzy," he said, and the change in tone was enough to make Izzy feel far more alert than he had only a few seconds ago. He sat up a little more, turned around further, unable to put his finger on just why his stomach was fluttering with an unexpected wave of nerves.

It really was like one of those moments you read of in books; when time slows down, when you forget where you are - the lights, the colors, the sounds, they all melt away - and the only thing that seems to exist is you and your beloved.

"Izzy," he repeated - paused - licked his lips nervously before continuing - "can we please pretend that you're standing up?"

It was such an odd request - so odd, yet something in his voice eluded to what was coming - but Izzy still whispered, "Why?"

"So that we can pretend that I'm down on one knee."

He'd known - he'd known - some strange instinct in his gut had known - and yet it still took him by surprise; he sucked in a sharp breath, half gasp and half sob, while his brain frantically tried to catch up - to understand - to believe that someone would want to-

"Marry me."

It was Izzy's turn to stare. His mouth was suddenly very dry, his fingertips tingling.

"Eddie-"

"Marry me," he said again, even stronger this time, both hands coming up to cradle Izzy's face between his palms. Ed spoke the words so clearly - so confidently, so sure - that they made Izzy's eyes begin to sting. He spoke them loud enough that Fang and Ivan, who'd been very polite in giving them some space, could hear them over the music. Izzy was vaguely aware of a gasp, a squeak, an 'oh my gosh!' spoken in an excited whisper. All Izzy could do was focus on Ed - drink in his expression, commit every possible detail to memory - and idly wonder if his chest was going to burst with the strain of how much love it contained.

"Are you - are you sure?" he couldn't help but stammer.

"I've never been more sure about anything in my life."

Izzy let out a shaky exhale - his whole body seemed to be trembling - and he wasn’t a crier, wasn’t one to shed tears at the drop of a hat, but he could feel them building up - wet and warm and becoming increasingly desperate to overflow - and his voice was so raspy when he finally managed to whisper out the word-

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Ed repeated, face and eyes and mouth beaming. “Yes, you’ll marry me?”

“Yes,” Izzy said again, and then he was giggling - and crying - and maybe slightly hysterical, maybe a bit mad from the amount of emotions pummeling him in the gut and the chest and the heart. “Fucking hell, Eddie, YES!”

Then there was hugging - holding each other so tight their arms ached from the effort - and more tears, and more laughter, and the other two were laughing alongside them, cheering, clapping their hands together in excitement, and if anyone around them had happened to hear them over the sound of the music - had turned their heads, confused by the joyous outburst - they would have seen love; love in the way they gazed at each other, love in the way their limbs were intertwined, love in the way that they kissed each other like they were the only two people in the world; they would have felt love radiating from them like sunshine, pouring out of them in waves of adoration and devotion and just a hint of disbelief - because was this really happening, they were asking themselves - do I really get to have this person, forever and ever and ever?

Yes - yes - oh, unequivocally, without a doubt, yes.

Their minds were still naively young; still rose-tinted, still living in the home they’d made for themselves in each other’s pockets.

At that time, there was no doubt that they were made to be together.

In that moment, they were everything.

Notes:

please feel free to comment!! I love reading + replying to them <33

Chapter 5: fake you out | "i'm so afraid of what you have to say"

Notes:

trying to get better at posting more regularly but you know how it is ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
(posting without fully editing but I really wanted to update the story so forgive any spelling mistakes etc I'll come and sort them out later lmao)

also this might be a really odd comment, but I genuinely think my fics are getting less views since I gave myself a pfp? which shouldn't be related at all but I've noticed a decent drop in hits/activity which is a shame because I really like interacting with people who comment :')

I know these are trying times, but please do your best to keep yourself + those around you as safe as possible! <3

Very rarely does Izzy sleep past designated beachwalk time, but - when his tired eyes blink awake to the sight of sunlight already pouring in beneath his bedroom curtains - he finds that he doesn’t mind. Would’ve gone back to sleep if he’d woken up early, anyway. Some strange mix of anxiety and brain fog has taken up residence inside of his skull, and he doubts that he’ll be able to shake it for a little while. He lets himself stay in bed, curled up beneath the warmth and safety of his blankets, trying not to think about what the day might bring.

Trying not to think about whether or not Edward's up.

What he's going to do today.

Whether or not he'll see him.

It's already warm, but he pulls the blankets up above his chin and hugs Chubby a little bit closer.

About half an hour later, there’s a soft knock at the door.

“Yeah?” he says, voice croaky; he forces himself to sit up and take a sip of water.

The door opens, and Fang pokes his head in with a warm, somewhat hesitant smile. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

He moves further into the room, perching on the edge of the bed. “How’d you sleep?”

“Um…alright,” Izzy replies. “Kinda feels like I didn’t sleep at all, though. Still tired.”

Fang makes a sympathetic noise in response.

“What about you?”

“Bit of tossing and turning, but we got there,” he says with a shrug. “Ivan was the same.”

“He’s up, then?”

“Everyone is. We were waiting to see if you felt up to Frenchie Toast, or if we should leave it for another day.”

Izzy feels a surge of guilt flow through him. “You shouldn’t have waited, you shouldn’t sit around hungry because of me-”

“We want to have breakfast with you,” Fang interrupts gently. “No arguments. So - yay or nay?"

"Yeah," Izzy says, not necessarily because he wants it, but because he knows that the others will. He won't let them go without just for his sake. "Yeah, go for it. I just wanna have a shower first."

"It'll be all ready by the time you're done," is the cheerful response, and Izzy forces himself to give the most convincing smile he can muster.

It's a relief to step into the bathroom and lose himself for a little while beneath the hot water, confident that no one will mind if he's in there for longer than usual. He washes his hair - he scrubs every inch of skin with soap - then he goes over himself again with bodywash. It's mango and coconut at the moment. Convincing enough that you almost want to eat it. He remembers this one time, when they were in some gift store, and the body scrub smelt so strongly of coffee that Ed almost-

No.

He turns the shower off.

None of that.

For a moment he hovers in a strange sort of limbo - plush towel wrapped around his shoulders, hair dripping, trying to find the willpower to move - before taking in a deep breath, toweling himself off, and focusing on the simple task of breakfast. Food might not help the anxiety simmering away in his stomach, but it'll give him fuel to keep it at bay. He's dressed and at the door when he remembers to moisturize. Even in an emotional crisis, he knows John will still insist that skincare is a priority.

As promised, the food is being served up as he joins everyone in the kitchen. They all, blessedly, don't mention yesterday - or Edward - or anything at all even remotely related to either of those topics. He's glad, now, that he agreed to Frenchie Toast. Even if its namesake is rather clumsy in any given situation, the man was remarkably knacky with this particular meal. He always gets the bread just right - they're using the spiced fruit loaf, so there's a slight caramelization you don't get with other types - and knows how to turn it out soft without being soggy. The accompaniments work a treat; golden syrup, strawberries, sliced banana, and - for the sake of a savory option, or to have separately - scrambled eggs and bacon. A hundred times better than anything you'd find in a café, and a thousand times cheaper.

Although, Izzy supposes, in a café, you wouldn't have the chef making a sandwich out of everything.

He insists that it's good, but no one else has been too eager to try it yet.

It all goes down a treat - Izzy thought that he’d only be up for picking at a few things, but he actually manages a decent portion - before the conversation shifts, and they skirt around the edges of what their plans are for the day. No one will leave the house, he knows that. They’ll probably drift around and come together in equal measure. That’s usually what happened on lazy days. John will sketch up some dress designs - Frenchie will try to capture that elusive tune he’s recently gotten stuck in his head and put it to paper - but then he’ll get bored, and pull Fang in from the garden - Izzy from his book - Ivan, if he’s not taking a nap - and coax them into a few rounds of Mario Cart, where he will lose spectacularly, while Izzy’s steady hands kick all of their asses on Rainbow Road. By this point John would have drifted downstairs to take up residency in his armchair, knitting needles in hand, to commentate whenever he looks up long enough to see what’s happening on screen. Throughout this time there will be snacks - and lunch - and eventually the sky will turn pink, the sun will set, and they’ll turn their thoughts to dinner.

All in all, it’ll be a pretty good day.

He tries not to dwell on the fact that he thought that yesterday morning, too, before it all turned to shit.

The only consolation is that Ed can’t reach him here. Not physically, anyway. He’ll be too scared of Ivan stuffing him headfirst into the recycling bin.

Before anything else, though, they get their laundry into the washing machine. Izzy half forgot that their backyard can be seen from the upper floor of the house next door, just as they can see next door’s from their own, but Fang braves the outdoors without a second glance over the fence - over which is head is very much visible - in order to peg things up on the clothesline. The indifference is a power move. If anyone is watching, they’ll know this.

Oddly enough - or perhaps it’s not odd, considering the circumstances - despite the fact that two whole human beings moved in only yesterday, you could almost delude yourself into thinking the house was still empty. Windows have been opened, yes, but you’d be hard pressed to find any other signs of life. No movement, no sound. The only conclusion he can come to is that Ed must be hiding, and has convinced Stede to hide alongside him.

The day passes as he expected it to; taking moments alone when he needs them but, ultimately, always finding himself in good company. Even though he's not quite up to dipping his toes into the group chat, he and Lucius still message on and off about whatever comes to mind. Nothing serious, only lighthearted. He helps with dinner. He manages to laugh, and get down another good meal despite the little anxious knot still residing in his stomach. A glance out of the bay window shows that there's a light on next door - he's got no way of telling which room - but the curtains are drawn, and then theirs are, too. They settle themselves into their usual seating arrangement and watch reruns of The Office, bickering about who in their friend group matches up to which character. There's a general consensus that if you combined Jim and Buttons, you'd get someone pretty close to Dwight.

Frenchie doesn't ask for Chubby to be returned, so Izzy keeps him for another night. He's still not entirely sure what he's feeling. His emotions are all churned up, all tangled and confusing and blurry around the edges, and he's got no idea how to pick them apart in order to process them. Part of him is worried that it will always be like this - that every day he'll wake up anxious, that every day will feel like a waiting game until he sees Ed again - but he knows, deep down, that it will get easier. He eventually adjusted to life without Edward Teach so, eventually, he'll adjust to having him as a neighbor, too.

Sooner rather than later would be preferred.

He wakes up at his usual early time the next morning, and isn't nervous about going to the beach. If Ed's sleeping patterns are still similar to how they were he probably wouldn't be up until at least nine and, even if he had miraculously become an early bird during their fifteen years spent apart, Izzy would risk it anyway. Both his mind and his body need it. It's a relief to feel the cold water lapping over his feet, the grains of sand beneath his bare toes, the salty breeze ruffling his hair and filling up his lungs. It feels like he can breathe a little easier out in the open. Sometimes the walls at home are too restricting. Here, where it's water for miles on end, he feels something close to limitless.

He goes back home, feeling rejuvenated enough to take on the day - to get that second glimpse of Ed over and done with - but…it doesn't happen.

Nor the next day, or the day after that.

A whole week goes by without Edward being seen.

The one and only time they see Stede is when he walks off down the street, and returns twenty minutes later with a loaf of bread and a bottle of milk.

All in all, it's not very exciting.

Possibly, their lack of appearance could elude to one of two things; that they worked from home, or they were set up well enough to genuinely be the rich retirees that John had initially guessed them to be.

If they worked from home it would make it a little trickier to guess their schedule, but Izzy would still try to figure out if there were any particular times he should keep himself inside.

If they were retired, well…you'd only retire in a place like this for what the town could offer, right? Namely easy beach access, and a whole lot of peace and quiet. It would make their routine a tad more unpredictable, but it might narrow down the places they could be - most likely either in the comfort of their own home, or enjoying the oceanfront view firsthand.

He's not sure which option he'd prefer.

When Saturday rolls around - yet another fine day for the farmers market - Izzy finds himself afraid all over again at the prospect of bumping into them there. He wants to go - even if he might not be able to eat as much, he doesn't want the enjoyment being taken away - but John soon offers reassurance. From their bedroom window he could partially see Stede sitting on the back porch, engrossed in whatever book he's reading, and that knowledge helps to soothe some of the nerves in Izzy's stomach. If Stede's settled in, and with the way that things are, he can't imagine Ed going anywhere alone. So - coast clear. Fantastic.

By the time they're ready to leave, he's actually managed to coax his brain into getting a little bit excited about going out. For the past week he's continually alternated between work and home, unwilling to venture out of the comfort zone of his usual routine, and this part of it - despite happening every Saturday like clockwork - feels more so like a treat than normal. He inwardly thinks the others are glad, too, that he's showing a decent level of enthusiasm in regards to venturing outside. None of them say anything, but he can tell by the little looks and smiles that they're trying to hide.

"Right," says Ivan, standing by the door and addressing the group, "have we got everything? All the bags?"

"Aye, aye," Frenchie replies, attempting to salute with his wicker basket.

"Fangy, you've got your keys, yeah?"

"Correct-o-mundo," is his response, with a finger gun thrown in for good measure.

"Jolly good, lads. Let's get g-OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"

He clutches his chest, eyes closing briefly, leaning away from both the open door and the slightly disheveled, wide-eyed man he just came nose-to-nose with on the doormat.

"Buttons!" Fang greets him cheerfully, completely ignoring Ivan's plight. "You're back!"

"Good to see you, mate," Izzy says.

"How was your retreat?" Frenchie asks.

"You look refreshed," John adds on.

Buttons doesn't respond to any of them - he holds up both of his hands, palms facing outwards, seemingly calling for quiet. He breathes in - does an odd thing with his tongue, like he's tasting the air - and makes a small, disgruntled sort of noise.

"Are all yer windows shut?" he asks.

"Uh-"

"That's okay, I can do 'em," he says before anyone can respond properly. Without a fuss, the group allow themselves to be gently herded outside, and don't question the matter when Buttons pulls some white sage and a sprig of lavender out of his pocket before closing the door in their faces. Honestly, with him, it's nothing really out of the ordinary. They lounge around on the porch for the next five or so minutes, making idle chatter while Ivan recovers from his jumpscare. Buttons was just a little too good at sneaking up on people, whether intentionally or not, and he was the type of person who'd never quite grasped the concept of personal space. Still, he was a good friend - and never, ever boring.

The door opens as he steps outside, quickly shutting it again to keep what are surely the 'good vibes' trapped inside; a waft of that semi-familiar floral, smoky scent reaches Izzy's nose, and he idly hopes that the house won't reek too badly of it by the time they get back.

"That'll do some good," Buttons informs them with a satisfied nod. "Clear the air, reset the energy flow."

"Thanks, mate," Frenchie says, because what else can you do? Whether you believed in that kind of stuff or not - which Frenchie wholeheartedly did - it was all done with good intent, and that's what mattered.

"Someone's told you about what's happened, then?" John asks.

"Nae," he says, which isn't really a surprise. "I've only jus' returned from me journey last night, an' I've not seen anyone else in our circle besides you all. I jus' had an inkling this house was in need of a good cleansing. Felt it in me waters."

Buttons tended to feel a lot of things in his waters.

At this point, it was a fair guess to say that most of him must be made of liquid.

Izzy remembers the joke Archie previously made and tries not to laugh; very quickly, though, any trace of a smile leaves him as Buttons turns his piercing blue gaze onto his face. They narrow slightly, a low hum briefly emanating from deep within his chest, and - like something out of E.T - he lifts a single finger to first point at the space over Izzy’s heart, and then to the middle of his forehead.

"You're all muddled up in there, lad," he says, and there's still something so unnerving about the fact that he just knows things.

It's also strange how he's got the knack that makes people feel as though they can open up to him. Maybe it's a subconscious thing; maybe on instinct, they know he can sense any attempt at a lie. He's good to talk to, though. And a good listener. Izzy knows that firsthand.

"Edward moved in next door with the guy he left for," he responds honestly, not bothering to beat around the bush. He actually manages to say it quite calmly, without any sort of tremor in his voice. Gold star for that one.

Buttons stares at him for a moment - turns his head slightly to look at the neighboring house - before leaning forward, voice dropping, and very seriously asking, "Would you like me to hex them for ye?"

Not for the first time, Izzy inwardly acknowledges the fact that he really does love this absolutely bonkers human being.

"Um…not right now, thanks," he replies, trying to match the solemn tone, "but I'll definitely keep it in mind."

"Make sure that ye do," Buttons says, nodding, before his gaze fixes on a point just past Izzy's shoulder and he stares off into the middle distance. "We must all look out for our own."

The silence drags on for just a little too long to be comfortable.

"So, uh…" Ivan begins, hesitantly breaking it. "Shall we get cracking again? Buttons, you coming to the market?"

At the sound of his voice, Buttons snaps back to this reality - Izzy's half convinced that he exists in more than one - and reaches down to pick up a slightly faded, woven harakeke bag, and a floral straw hat. He hikes the former over his shoulder, and places the latter on his head.

"Absolutely, lad," he says, and his tone immediately transforms from 'unsettling beach mystic' to 'cheerful middle-aged man'. "The retreat was lovely an' all, but you know what they say. No place like home."

"C'mon then, Dorothy," John laughs. "Everyone's gonna be happy to see you again."

"Likewise, aye."

They question him about the retreat on the way over. He rabbits on about the lunar cycle and aligning his chakras and strengthening his soul-connection with that of his cosmic mistress. Apparently it also allowed him to deepen the relationship with his earthbound love, that being the ocean, and made him realize how much he craved her ‘salty, tender embrace’. Frenchie listens quite earnestly, and asks the most questions out of all of them. Everyone else is content to just listen and nod and make one-word comments in the right places. Izzy fully understands that, to the outside listener, it all sounds absolutely mad - and that’s before you learn about the stark-naked moonbathing. He also understands - and made his peace with it long ago - that even if it does sound something close to crazy, he’d fight anyone who dared call him as much. Buttons had the right to exist exactly as he wanted to.

They're almost there - only a minute away, they can see it in the near distance - and Buttons has drifted back to walk beside Izzy, when he suddenly makes a soft exclamation. "Almost forgot," he says, digging into his pocket and pulling something out. "Here ye are, laddie. All nice an' charged."

It's the necklace Buttons gifted him so many moons ago; a pale, pretty rose quartz pendant attached to a thin but durable cord. Every now and then he'd take it back to 'charge it up' beneath a full moon. Izzy had consented to him taking it to the retreat - the longest he'd been apart from it - and, upon seeing it again, he realizes how much he's missed it.

"Thanks, mate," he says, slipping it over his head and tucking it beneath his shirt. Buttons always insists on skin contact. Whether or not Izzy believed in crystal properties - of which Buttons was a walking encyclopedia - he did believe in the power of placebo, and can't deny that the warmth of the quartz immediately eases some of the tension in his chest. Suddenly it feels a little easier to straighten his shoulders and face the day ahead.

As always, the market is bustling. The more they wander between the stalls, the more Izzy finds himself relaxing into the usual routine. He still looks over his shoulder every five minutes as if he's going to spot Ed's familiar curls in the crowd, but - between buying honey and licorice, loading up on baked goods and fresh produce, getting their usual orders from Zheng's stall, and watching Fang drool over a pork bao - it's hard not to settle from the familiarity of it all. Once they find a picnic table to sit themselves around, he's even worked up enough of an appetite to, like the rest of them, overindulge in their communal breakfast. Today the usual dumplings and noodle bowls are accompanied by a cheese and bacon pull-apart loaf; lemon and blueberry scones; oatmeal and raisin cookies.

It's a good morning. It's always a good morning, when it's spent in a place like this. Izzy almost doesn't want to leave - wants to stay in this bubble, stay in this moment - but eventually they have to head back. So they make the trek home with their laden bags, chatting all the while, and the nerves in Izzy's stomach begin twisting again the closer they get to the house, but…there's nothing to worry about. Next door remains silent, continuing to feign emptiness, and it’s relieving just as much as it's a bit perplexing. Izzy isn't entirely sure if they're all missing each other by complete accident, or if Ed's dug his toes in and really has decided to become a hermit.

Either way, the walls of his own home offer refuge - a sense of security - but he's barely finished putting away his weekly treats when his phone pings with a message.

luci-lou: I'll be there in half an hour. Pack an overnight bag. My pillow princess is getting her promised pampering ♡

Welp - if this house was enough to make him feel safe, the further proximity of someone else's should do wonders.

And who was he to say no to a bit of pampering?

luci-lou: Okay but that was genuinely a really good alliteration

luci-lou: Fuck I'm talented

Even if it was going to be given by a little prat.

He grabs his backpack, and lets the others know that he won't be home for dinner.

 

---

 

"My gosh, your shoulders are tense."

"Oh, gee, I wonder why."

"And you've got some kinks."

"Well, if you didn't already know that by now-"

He breaks off with a hiss as Lucius digs his thumb into the soft spot beneath his shoulder blade, trying to work out the knot within the muscle.

Supposedly the oil is unscented, but Izzy's still convinced that there's an underlying smell - something mildly sweet that he can't quite identify, which irritates him because he knows he recognizes it - but it's subtle enough that he barely notices it after a while. Lucius has been rubbing it into his back for almost ten minutes now, methodically warming it up beneath his hands as they press and glide across his skin. Izzy will grant him that, even if he seems to be allergic to manual labor, the man knows how to give a good massage.

Considering it's Lucius, this information shouldn't actually be all that surprising.

After a bit of attention the knot he's working on melts away like butter, and Izzy lets out a muffled groan into the pillow beneath his head.

"Now, now," Lucius chides gently, the smirk evident in his tone. "Let's save some of that for later. I want you to be ni-i-ice and relaxed first."

Izzy is relaxed - and slightly turned on already - but both of those things are temporarily interrupted whenever Lucius finds tension that needs to be smoothed away. Naturally, with everything that's been going on, he keeps finding more of it.

“Missed this one-”

His thumb presses down hard into the place where Izzy’s neck and right shoulder connect, eliciting another groan - albeit slightly more painted this time - and Lucius tuts in response.

“I think you need a professional doing this.”

“Why would I pay a hundred bucks when you’re willing to do it for free?”

“Are you calling me cheap?”

“I mean, if that’s the first word that came to your mind-”

He laughs when Lucius smacks him on the ass, and then sighs when the attention turns to his lower back. “You are genuinely very good at this, you know.”

Lucius’s fingers tug the waistband of his underwear a few centimeters lower.

“Although your code of conduct might get you fired.”

“Only if someone complains,” Lucius murmurs, leaning forward to kiss the back of his neck, before trailing the same gentle touches down his spine and back up again to the soft spot behind his ear. Then he shifts himself upwards from where he's been straddling Izzy's thighs, lightly tugging at his hips until he rolls over, and settling between his legs. As he leans over him Izzy finds himself rapidly aware of the close proximity of their bodies; the heat radiating from his skin, the telltale flush in his cheeks; those pretty green eyes and slightly parted lips mere inches from his own.

"Do you have any grievances that you'd like to share?" he whispers, fingers tangling loosely into his hair.

Yep. Definitely turned on.

"None at all," Izzy breathes, and there's not a huge amount of talking after that. Lucius’s mouth is slightly slicked from the oil. Their tongues meet, their hands wander, their last shreds of clothing are promptly discarded in favor of achieving the closest contact possible. Izzy loves that it's so easy to lose himself in the moment; to have his brain only focused on feeling, on movement, to chase the high as it builds and builds and builds until it peaks - and crashes - and he's nothing more than a sweaty, writhing mess, capable of producing only obscene language and positively filthy vocalizations.

Everything with Lucius is easy.

Izzy didn't think it would be, back when this all started. It was hard to believe that it all stemmed from an accidental one night stand. He'd been afraid at first - of fucking up the group dynamic, of fucking things up between the two of them before they'd even become friends, of feelings becoming involved - but all of those worries proved to be for nothing. Pete knows about the arrangement, obviously, but no one else is privy to this side of their relationship. They probably all suspected - maybe even assumed - but years on, their privacy was still respected. In regards to Lucius himself, the man never let things get awkward. He talked. He forced them both to be so open with communication that there was never anywhere to hide from what they were thinking. He had a knack for soothing worries and making people feel listened to. For a 'besties with benefits' situation, as he so put it, it was a winning combination.

As for feelings, well…

Izzy loves him.

Loves him as a best friend. Loves him as a physical partner. Loves him with every platonic fiber of his being. It might not be the most conventional relationship in the world, but it works for them, and that's what mattered.

He'd once thought that this type of intimacy would never be possible for him again, but he'd been proven so wonderfully wrong.

The afterglow is always nice. That coming down period where everything is tingly and warm, thoughts thoroughly fucked-out and in a state of blissful reprieve. They're curled up against each other - Lucius, with an arm wrapped snugly around his waist, and Izzy, with a leg hiked up over his thigh and his head tucked in against his neck - and for a long time neither of them speak, breathing alongside one another while they come back to their senses.

"You good?" Lucius eventually murmurs, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Izzy hums in response.

"Felt like you needed that."

Sometimes, they get together for the sake of fun and pleasure.

Other times, it's because Izzy's mind and body crave something physical - something to distract them - something that focuses on feeling rather than thinking.

Lucius always knows the difference.

Izzy hums again, but there's a change in tone; Lucius carefully rolls over so that they're facing each other, a hand coming up to brush over his cheek. Izzy can't quite meet his gaze, keeping his eyes downcast and closing them briefly in response to the gentle touch.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

There's a long pause before Izzy quietly replies, "I don't know."

"That's okay."

"It's hard."

"I know."

"And it's complicated."

"I know," he repeats, softer. "I'm so sorry it's like this."

"I want-"

The sentence cuts itself off before it can get any further. Izzy grinds his teeth together. Even now, all these years later, it's hard for him to articulate want sometimes. Lucius is patient, though, while he internally tries to put words together - tries to order them into a proper sentence, and coax his mouth into making them coherent.

"I know he'll find a way to apologize. He's stubborn enough that he won't stop trying until he does. And - I want that - but it's the - the getting it." He pauses again, frustration presenting itself as a frown, because that didn't sound right-

"You want the apology, but you don't want to talk to him."

"I - yeah." He sighs. "Yeah."

"And that is completely fair." Lucius leans forward slightly to kiss away the furrow between his brows. "You deserve an apology - after everything that man put you through, the least you deserve is him owning up to his actions - but…honestly? I don't like the idea of him talking to you, either. I'd really rather just kick him in the balls."

"You ever done that before?"

"Not yet, but everyday is an opportunity. I think it would be rather enjoyable."

"Wear steel-capped boots."

He snorts out a laugh. "Oh, that is devious."

"Jim's got those ones with the spikes on the toes-"

"Stop it, don't tempt me." It's his turn to sigh. "They'd never let me borrow them, anyway."

"They're too cool for you."

“Jim, or the boots?”

“I’ll let you decide.”

Lucius is also very good at detecting the need for a subject change, and knowing when to quietly pull back from a conversation. They spend the afternoon lounging around in bed, alternating between dozing and making idle chatter about anything trivial that comes to mind. When the sun begins to dip, Lucius - despite Izzy’s complaints - hauls himself out of bed for the sake of finding his underwear, and the need to cook dinner. He’s got a nice ass, Izzy will happily grant him that. Nice to look at, nice to grab, and nicely shaped by the snug black material. The charm is only slightly marred when Lucius picks up Izzy’s own pair and slingshots them at his face, which is promptly followed by a dressing gown.

It’s more of a summer robe, if Izzy had to guess what Bed, Bath & Beyond had named it in the catalog. Breathable, sage green cotton, with a florally embroidered sash to tie around the front. His only complaint is that it’s a little bit short, but that was probably one of the reasons Lucius bought it for him. Izzy doesn’t necessarily keep a drawer here - they keep these sorts of activities strictly to the spare bedroom - but he knows that the robe is his, and his alone. A little token kept in this room so that he always knows that he has a claim to it.

Lucius’s one is made of a rather decadent pastel pink silk, and Izzy would give him more shit about the price - he argues it was on sale, but surely it cost more than common sense - if it wasn’t so fucking lovely to touch.

Both of their robes have seen things.

Poor bastards.

Lucius and Pete’s house is decently smaller than the housemates’, so they bump into each other more while they move about the kitchen, but neither mind. Izzy likes the excuse of being able to exchange so many little touches. During most visits Lucius doesn’t like Izzy helping - not because he’s a nuisance, but because he likes being able to take care of him - but this time his craving for pasta wins out and, because he’s not quite mastered the knack of making dough, that job is relegated to Izzy. At least Lucius knows how to fry mushrooms and make a decent sauce.

They eat cuddled up on the couch together, sharing a lightweight blanket between them, and watching a few episodes of Bridgerton. Lucius has already seen them, but insists on him catching up whenever he comes over. Izzy knows he could watch them at home - get up to speed, so Lucius wouldn’t have to suffer repeats - but he doesn’t, purely because he knows that Lucius loves to provide commentary. He’s very vocal about the goings-ons of these fictional characters, as though he knows each and every one of them personally, and honestly? It’s almost more entertaining than the media itself.

Lucius isn’t much of a baker, but he surprises Izzy by pulling out two palm-sized homemade apple pies ready for the oven. Handmade in a loose sense of the word - without a doubt they’re crafted from frozen pastry and a pre-made tin of filling - but the thought and the effort still earn him a kiss, which keeps going and going and going until they barely remember to grab them out before the edges start to burn. There’s ice cream, too - the good brand of vanilla - and it makes him feel comfortably full in more ways than one.

They wind up sprawled on the couch much like they were in bed; legs loosely tangled, Izzy settled across his chest with his nose tucked into the crook of Lucius’s neck. The warmth of him soaks into his skin like a balm. One hand is nestled between his shoulder blades, the other stroking his hair like he's petting a sleepy, overgrown cat. In fairness, Izzy does feel like he could start purring at any moment. His mind is drowsy enough that his thoughts become muddled, blurring together around the edges, and he's fairly confident that he's going to fall asleep in the next few minutes.

Probably would have, to, except a snippet of their earlier conversation drifts back to him through his subconscious.

The least you deserve is him owning up to his actions.

Which is true, undoubtedly, but…

Izzy’s not entirely guilt-free, is he?

He said a lot of things he still regrets. A lot of things he doesn't, for sure - he left Ed with some fierce and fiery words thrown his way - but before that, when things weren't broken yet…there were a lot of times when he could have said something better. Done something better. But he didn't - back then, neither of them possessed a decent level of perspective and self-reflection - and hindsight may be a bitch sometimes, but it sure has taught him a lot of lessons throughout the years of Edward's absence. He was still carrying the guilt of it all. And he'd been so convinced, too, that he'd never see Ed again - would never be able to make things right, no matter how much the idea of speaking to him made him recoil - but if Ed was prepared to apologize…

Ah, fuck.

Izzy lets out a deep, resigned sigh.

Lucius makes a questioning noise beneath him.

"I was just…thinking."

"What?" he mumbles incredulously, the frown evident in his tone. "Why would you do that? Stop it."

"If I tell you something, can you please not react to it?"

There's a pause. "Okay," is the sleepy reply, although there's a subtle note of trepidation trying to keep itself hidden.

Izzy chews on his bottom lip for a moment.

“I want to apologize to him.”

The soothing motion between his shoulder blades stutters.

“Please don’t stop,” Izzy whispers, almost begging, and the rhythm picks back up after a delayed few seconds.

Lucius’s voice is more alert as he quietly says, “I think you’re going to need to explain this one to me.”

Izzy tries to burrow himself in even further, like the close proximity will somehow help to ease the weighted tension in his chest as he begins to speak.

“I wasn’t perfect. You know I wasn’t. I fucked up as good as he did, sometimes, even if I never…even if I never would have left like that. I couldn’t have ever done it to him. But I don’t…I can’t use that as a get-out-of-jail-free card. I can’t. I don’t want to hide behind it. I caused my own harm, and I should own up to it. I’ve already got so many regrets about how it all fell apart. So much guilt. I don’t think I can handle any more.”

Anxiety churns in his gut, only growing the longer it takes Lucius to respond, and Izzy hates the fact that he’s silent for an unnerving amount of time. Makes him want to shrink down and crawl out of his skin, type of thing.

“Okay,” Lucius eventually says. “If that’s something that you feel like you need to do, then…none of us can stop you. We can only support you.” His arms wrap around Izzy in a tight embrace. “Can you try to promise me something, though? Two something’s?”

“Hm?”

“Promise me that you won’t apologize until you feel ready to talk to him, and promise me that you won’t do it until he’s apologized first.”

Izzy mulls them over - decides that they’re fair - and nods against his chest.

“Good.” He feels a kiss pressed against his forehead, and his eyes slip closed. “Now let's get you to bed, old man.”

 

---

 

Sunday morning is a wonderful blur of soft morning sex, late breakfast in bed, and sunshine pouring in through the windows. They linger in their robes and in each other’s company as much as possible before finally relinquishing to the fact that Izzy should probably go home at some point. Their Monday schedules clash just enough that him staying another night doesn’t usually work out, although occasionally someone will shift things around if the extra alone time is especially needed.

Izzy will want to get up early for his beach walk, whereas Lucius will want to sleep in until somewhere around nine - which is when Izzy and the boys open up shop - and by the time he’s done with his emails, Lucius won’t actually get to his studio until about noon. Besides, Pete deserves to have access to his own house again. Not that he ever minds giving it up for the weekend, of course; someone’s always willing to have him for a sleepover and a bit of guy time. It took Izzy awhile to process how relaxed Pete is about the arrangement. Took even longer, too, to realize how this whole dynamic would work - how okay it was, how good it was going to be - and he’s so grateful that he was adopted into a group who were able to teach him just how open and versatile love actually is.

So Izzy goes home - after more than his fair share of cuddling and kisses - and, although he’s initially worried about any developments from next door, he’s met with a twisted sense of relief upon hearing that the house has remained as seemingly vacant as it has been since they moved in.

Early the next morning, he sees nothing of them during his walk to and from the beach; none of them see any movement during breakfast; and, when it comes time to head to the shop, the only telltale signs of any neighboring inhabitants are the pulled-back curtains and a few open windows. Otherwise, there’s just…nothing.

It’s unnerving. Not just to him, but to all of them. Like they all know that there’s a storm brewing - a conversation that is determined to be had - but none of them know when it will finally hit.

Izzy takes refuge in the studio.

He feels safe at home, because he knows that the walls and the forged family he lives with will protect him. That, and there’s a big-ass bay window to spot him coming a mile away.

He feels safe in other people’s houses, simply for the fact that he knows Edward can’t touch him behind their closed doors.

The studio is…different.

Different, because ever since they opened it - and even more so now, after Ed’s return - it’s felt like a giant fuck you to everything that’s happened to him. The grief, the drinking, the depression, the overwhelming weight of it all. It’s a reminder that the heaviness didn’t crush him. That, despite the hardship, he’s still here - still creating - softer in spirit than he ever has been in his life, and yet indestructible all the same.

He very nearly gave it all up.

Couldn’t stand the idea of doing this without his beloved by his side.

It took years, in fact, until that itch came back to his hands - that incessant, unyielding desire all artists feel at some point in their lives when they’re filled with the desire to make something - and with some gentle encouragement, he suddenly found that he could stand the sight of colored glass on the table without feeling the need to smash it. Found himself doodling in sketchbooks, coloring in new designs - fuck you, Edward Teach, for ever saying that he didn't have imagination - and, ultimately, making new pieces with the people who'd stayed loyally by his side for all of those troubled years.

The studio is like a sanctuary.

Smaller than the one that they left in the city, but cozier all the same. Things had certainly changed, compared to how they used to run the business back in the day. The front of the shop is dedicated to being just that - a shop - but it's a small space, and really only there for the sake of tourists and to showcase their creations. Only one of each design is displayed along the walls - glass is expensive and, if people are rough handling them, easily damaged - so it's safer to keep the merchandise out back. You ask for what you want, they find it in storage where it's already been safely and snugly wrapped up in protective packaging. Simple.

What's leftover from shop and storage - so a good half of the space, separated by a divider - is purely for creation. Sometimes Izzy and Ivan work on pieces at the same time, so they need the desk space to each have their own tools and supplies and breathing room. Fang readily rolled with the times and is still a whizz when it comes to managing their supply, their orders, and anything to do with the website. The majority of their sales come from there now. Izzy's not one for social media - Lucius helps them out with that - but he can't deny that it's been invaluable to the business.

The building itself is located on a street that's long been nicknamed the Artist Alley, because of how many creative persons have taken up residence within each available storefront. The whole thing is a hit with tourists. They love the colorful bunting strung up across the road, the painted benches and planters, the variety of products one small town has been able to produce from its local residents. Every year in December they close off the street and drape the whole thing in fairy lights, vendors decorating their shop windows for people to admire as they walk through. Some of the food stalls from the market will set themselves up to serve dinner and dessert. Donated prizes are raffled off at the end of the night, and all ticket proceeds are donated to a charity that helps to feed and give practical gifts to unhoused folk during the holiday season. All in all it's one of the highlights of the year for everyone in town.

He loves the studio, too, because he likes sharing this specific space with both Ivan and Fang. They went so long without it - it was just something that Izzy couldn’t handle, and he still carries an awful amount of guilt in knowing that they felt as though they had to give it up, too - and their company is never, ever something that he takes for granted anymore. Their working hours alternated between idle chatter, companionable silence, and deep, meaningful conversation; you never knew what you were going to get.

“I think,” Fang says solemnly, bringing the gingernut held between his fingers up to his face for close inspection, before dipping it into his tea, “that these might be the perfect dunky biscuit.”

Obviously, this is part of the ‘deep and meaningful’ category.

“They’re just made for it,” he continues. “Depending on how long you keep it dunked for, it’s a different experience every time. Could be soft. Could still be a little bit crunchy. It’s like you get to choose your own adventure.”

Izzy, perched at the counter to keep an eye on the door with a sketchbook and handful of colored pencils in front of him, turns his face away to hide a smile.

Ivan makes a humming noise, frowning slightly in concentration as his fingers skim over the rows of glass until he finds the color that he needs. “I mean…yeah, you’re right, but I think they’re too small. You’ve gotta have at least two or three to last you the whole cup, otherwise it’s not a - a continuous experience, y'know? I’d rather have one big biscuit.”

“You think it’d make a difference?”

“I think for me it would.”

Fang nods slowly, and seems to seriously ponder his words before asking, “What about you, Iz?”

“I’d rather have cake,” he replies. “Feels like more.” Not that he was fussy in any way - he’d take any sweet treat offered to him - but he could quite seriously start drooling if he started thinking about Roach’s cakes for more than five minutes. What could he say? The man had a gift.

Fang takes time to ponder this, also, as he contemplatively dunks the second half of his biscuit.

“What about tarts?” Ivan asks.

“Talking about me?” Izzy says, to which Fang giggles in response.

Ivan rolls his eyes, but he's obviously fighting to keep a grin from his face. "Eating tarts. Roach was talking about making some new one, seeing how it went in the bakery."

Fang's eyes light up, before his head jerks down as he remembers the now-soggy piece of biscuit he's still holding. Saved in the nick of time. A few more seconds, and it would have made for a very crummy tea.

"When was this?" Izzy questions. If Roach was making something new, he reckoned they ought to know about it. Where else would he find such willing and humble taste testers?

"Uh…few days ago? I dunno. He mentioned it to me at some point."

"What kind?"

"Blackberry and vanilla, I think."

Fang makes an appreciative noise.

Izzy feigns looking shocked. "You're telling me that there could be a blackberry and vanilla tart in the bakery at this very moment, and we're all just sitting here?"

The three of them look at each other.

"S'pose we could go and have a look," Fang says slowly. "Pick up some lunch from there, too, before it's all gone. Don't want to miss out."

"A walk and a bit of fresh air is always good as well," Ivan agrees, nodding along.

Izzy points out the obvious by saying, "Someone has to stay and watch the place."

They all look at each other again.

"Dibs not!"

"Dibs not!"

"Dibs - oh, you bastards," he growls out, no heat in his words as the other two laugh and grab their phones. "Absolute wankers."

"We'll get you something nice," Fang promises, still giggly enough that his smile pushes his cheekbones up into his crinkled eyes. "It'll be a fun surprise."

"Shouldn't even be complaining," Ivan scoffs, slinging a tote bag over his shoulder. "You're getting a free lunch out of us, mate."

"Just like you both got a free one out of me last week?"

"We'll be back so-oo-n," Fang sings, both of them choosing to ignore that last statement as they head out the back door. Izzy rolls his eyes and turns back to the sketchbook with a fond shake of his head. Most of the time they brought lunch from home, but it was never hard to give in to the temptation of 'supporting the local economy'. He hoped that there was still a good selection of sandwiches. Roach made a rather delectable chicken, brie, and cranberry concoction that he was particularly fond of. Not that it really mattered - anything would be tasty - and overall, there was something nice about the local bakery being only a ten minute walk away. It always took more, though. When you lived in a small town, there was always someone to stop and say hi to.

Right. Back to work.

His current project is trying to solidify a design commissioned by the honey wives from the market. They've given him a lot of creative freedom - as long as there's a bee and some type of floral element, they're happy to leave the rest up to him - and the problem isn't a lack of ideas, but too many to choose from. He's already got five designs sketched out, and narrowing them down is proving difficult.

Maybe…if he draws them up properly. Sees the full proportions, rather than the condensed versions. That sometimes helps. Besides, there was every possibility one or two of the 'rejects' could be recycled for the store. A lot of people really seemed to have a thing for bee motifs nowadays.

He gets up and shifts further into the back to rummage around in their shape cutter draw. They have quite a collection of them, originally intended either for clay or cookie dough, but they've found that they work just as well for drawing out any tricky shapes they can't quite manage themselves. Circles are the main one. Absolute buggers to get right without some sort of help. They've got at least thirty cutters in total, so surely there's some sort of hexagon in here to mimic honeycomb…

There's a little jingle from out front as the door opens, setting off the overhead bell, which is immediately followed by a voice mid-sentence.

"-have a quick peek - oh! Oh my, aren't they all stunning? The neatness of the linework! The way the light plays with the colors! And oh, this piece…"

There's a soft, breathy sigh.

"Mary would adore this lighthouse."

Izzy feels a warmth tingling in his gut, and a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He was open with himself about the fact that he enjoyed praise - who didn't? - but there was always such a thrill at hearing those sorts of compliments. Someone who appreciated their work enough to come up with things like that rather than just say that they were nice or pretty. This was the type of admirer he appreciated-

"You should get it for her, then."

-and just like that the tingle in his stomach twists into an emotional cramp, and his body very seriously considers the idea of throwing up.

His palms break out into a sweat, feet frozen in place as he mentally does a few quick and blatantly obvious calculations.

Edward is in the shop.

Edward and Stede, assumingly, who is out there admiring some of Izzy’s work.

Fang and Ivan are not here.

Might not be back for a good little while.

Which means that he's on his own.

Don't panic, he tells himself, already sick with the feeling of it.

There's a quiet pause in the shop.

"We can leave, if you want to," probably-Stede says softly. "Or I can come back by myself. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable."

There's a shuffling sound, like Ed scuffing his feet.

"M'not uncomfortable," he mumbles, and Izzy can picture the shrug of his shoulders. "I told you, I don't mind being in here. S'just…weird. Seeing stuff like this again. Memories n'shit."

"I can imagine."

There's so much care and understanding in his voice that it makes Izzy want to punch something. Or cry. Maybe both at the same time.

"You should get it though," Ed says, clearing his throat and trying to inject some bounce into his tone. "You're right, she'll love it."

Probably-Stede hums before making a small noise, like something else has caught his attention. "This sunrise piece is lovely, too…"

Izzy's brain, firing on all shaky cylinders, runs a few more calculations.

They've not connected the dots between this place and him.

If he moves to text anyone, they'll probably hear him - will probably say something - and he might just freak and run out the back door. Not his most awful idea.

Not going out there would feel like a defeat, though. There's nothing to be won, yet he knows that hiding away will not be a victory.

Edward…might try to apologize. But he also might not, because he's not alone and has been caught off his guard, so maybe he'd just spook and leave. That'd be good. If he runs, probably-Stede will follow.

How to get out there, though?

How to join the scene without actually making a scene?

His mental capabilities are working just well enough to remind him that the sunrise piece is hanging in the display window.

If they're looking at it, they're facing away from the counter.

Trying to ignore the trembling in his hands, he dares to peek around the divider, and - he's right. They're not looking. He can just slip over to the counter - walk right on over - fucking - walk.

The mind is barely willing, but the flesh is still in a state of shock.

Another thought suddenly flashes through his mind - the idea of sitting there, ignoring them, maybe even seeming bored by their presence - like it doesn't affect him, like they're easy to overlook.

Edward would fucking hate that.

The flesh is suddenly a little more eager to move.

Neither of them notice as he silently shifts himself back behind the counter. One hand picks up a pencil - not that it's stable enough to draw anything, but he can pretend - and the other pulls out the rose quartz pendant from beneath his shirt for the sake of something to play with. It's quite soothing, being able to twist it around and rub his thumb over the smooth, faceted edges. Easy to imagine that the warmth is there to provide a sense of calm, rather than have come from resting against the heat of his skin. He does idly wonder if this was the right decision. His eyes are slightly unfocused and his skin is prickling and he might very well pass put, which would be a bit of an annoyance, considering the current company.

But then - when they shift and the atmosphere suddenly sharpens into laser focus and Ed sucks in a tiny gasp - he thinks he made the right one. Because this is the easiest for everyone, right? Izzy stands his ground. Ed can take the opportunity to leave. Stede can follow and avoid being the third wheel in what is surely going to be a painfully strained, if not potentially explosive conversation. Because of course Ed's not going to apologize right now, is he? Not with both his current and former husbands in the room. He's spontaneous at the best of times, but he also loves grand gestures and, if the little speech he gave Ivan is anything to go by, he'll have a lot to say whenever he chooses his moment.

Which is definitely not now.

But why the fuck is he still here?

Izzy can feel Edward's gaze - the intensity of his attention enough to make him want to crawl out of his bones - but he seems locked into place. Like his feet, too, have been temporarily welded to the floor.

The thought flashes through his mind again; pretend to be bored.

It takes every ounce of willpower to mask any emotion on his face - to keep his expression as stoic as though he's been carved from stone - but he manages it, and dares to glance up.

Seeing him through a window however many meters away was one thing.

Seeing him so close in the flesh is another.

The sight of him is so familiar, and yet somehow so painful.

His skin. His curls. His tattoos. Every line, every curve of his body. The way he stands and the way he holds his hands when he's nervous. His mouth, his nose, the set of his brows. Those eyes. Those beautifully big stupid fucking doe eyes, with those pretty lashes and irises as deep as oceans.

It hurts.

Physically tightens his chest like his lungs are being constrained, makes his heart ache, makes it hard to fucking breathe.

But breathe he does.

He draws in a singular, long breath - past his chest, right down into his abdomen - and, as he lets it out, he drops his gaze back to the sketchbook.

Ed makes a quiet sound like he's been punched.

Good.

It's awful.

That'll show him.

He hates himself for it.

The poor bell doesn't stand a chance with how fast Edward all but throws himself out of the shop, letting out a sharp, unmusical jingle of protest.

It feels like a physical blow.

The pencil in Izzy’s hand almost snaps clean in half with how tightly his fingers clench around it.

He takes a few seconds to make sure he's not about to cry before daring to glance up again, like somehow the empty space where Ed used to be will somehow be better than when he was filling it, and realizes with a start that Stede hasn't left.

He looks…sad, Izzy thinks. Sad, and maybe a little bit frustrated as he looks towards the door with his mouth pressed into a thin line. As though sensing his gaze his eyes flick towards the counter and, to Izzy's surprise, he's offered a rather tight-lipped but undoubtedly sincere apologetic smile.

That's…unexpected.

As he turns to leave his eyes are once again drawn to the lighthouse piece that had captured his attention in the first place - his earlier praises circulate through Izzy's thoughts - and there's a genuine expression of longing on his face as he reaches for the door.

Call it a moment of madness.

Call it being mentally discombobulated.

Messy. Irritatingly curious. Emotionally fucked up. Whatever.

Something takes hold of his tongue and makes him speak before he can think about it too much.

He doesn't know why.

He just does.

"Why would Mary love it?"

Stede's hand hovers above the handle, but doesn't close the gap to turn it.

"You said she'd adore it," Izzy continues, inwardly yelling at himself to stop. "That's quite a strong word to use."

There's a long beat of silence.

Stede's hand drops to his side as he turns, clearing his throat before warily beginning to speak.

"It…is a strong word, yes," he replies. "She painted me a lighthouse many years ago, as a gift. She's an artist. She was still discovering her passion back then, experimenting with different styles, and that particular piece incorporated a lot of angular shapes…a bit like some stained glass pieces, I suppose. It reminded me of it. I thought she would appreciate the gesture - remind her of how much I love it - if I returned the sentiment this way. If that makes sense."

Oh, it does.

It makes perfect sense.

Fucking beautiful, symbolic sense, and it pisses him off because he loves that sort of shit nowadays.

"I - I have a photo," Stede blurts out, before a self-conscious blush begins to stain his cheeks. "If you…if you wanted to see…"

Bad idea.

Izzy nods anyway.

Stede pulls out his phone - fumbles, nearly drops it twice - before approaching the counter in the same way one might approach a rather volatile lion. He doesn't even dare to come too close at first, just puts his phone down and slides it nearer to Izzy. The proximity feels strange. All of this feels strange. But he looks down at the screen anyway.

He understands where the connection between the two pieces came from; the painting certainly has a stained glass feel to it, what with the solid colors and the composition…very easy to imagine where you'd solder the lines. Overall, the style is certainly interesting - nonetheless pleasing to the eye - and despite the fact that he doesn't know Mary from a bar of soap he does believe, somehow, that she'd like the lighthouse piece residing here.

“It’s nice,” he says. “It’s…unique. In a good way. Refreshing to see something a bit different now and again.”

For a fleeting moment, Stede positively beams at him; Izzy loathes the obvious secondhand pride - how over the moon he looks at someone complimenting his friend’s work - because with anyone else, it would make Izzy warm to them immediately.

What is quite possibly a very stupid decision is right on the tip of his tongue.

Don’t forget he might have known, he reminds himself. He might have known Edward was married and chased after him anyway.

“She’ll be so pleased to hear that,” Stede says, his infuriating smile becoming endearingly nervous. “I think she was a bit self-conscious about that one - she hadn’t been painting long, and I didn’t know all of the right things to say, so I probably came across as a dunce when it came to supporting her…but, ah yes. No. Sorry. I’m rambling a bit there. Thank you, is what I’m trying to say. On behalf of her, it’s very much appreciated.”

Or maybe he knew nothing.

And if that just doesn’t make the decision for him-

“You can still get that for her, if you want,” he says, nodding towards the lighthouse piece. Stede follows his gaze - as if Izzy could possibly be referring to anything else in the store - before glancing back with an apprehensive expression.

“I don’t…I mean, if you…I don’t want to overstep boundaries.”

Izzy shrugs, despite the fact that his heartbeat feels anything but steady. “You’re buying a meaningful gift for your friend while supporting the local economy. Nothing wrong with that.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Stede says quickly, once again blurting out the words, and then looking faintly mortified for doing so. “I - I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be.” Izzy feels some of his own composure slipping, and sighs as his shoulders slump. “This whole thing is uncomfortable, regardless of…” He makes a vague gesture with his hand. “S’just another drop in the bucket, really.”

And there Stede goes, looking all sad again. Like he’s a friend listening to Izzy’s confided woes, rather than a virtual stranger married to his ex-husband.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, softer this time. “For everything.”

The atmosphere in the room shifts.

It occurs to Izzy that, if he wants some answers from the person who is potentially middle-ground, now is the time to ask questions.

He swallows hard and manages to ask, hoarsely, “Did you know?”

For those few seconds of silence, he’s gripped with a sensation of fearful apprehension - so afraid of what the answer will be - and his heart skips twice before Stede replies-

“No.”

Izzy lets out a short, heavy breath.

No.

The back of his brain idly realizes that he’s been waiting fifteen years for this answer. About whether or not this other man was an intentional homewrecker of sorts, or someone oblivious who found themselves caught up in the fallout.

But if he didn’t know, then that-

That means Edward-

“But he also didn’t lie,” Stede continues, his tone light and careful, as though he’s navigating conversational eggshells. “That part was…both of our faults, really, due to an unfortunate combination of misunderstanding and omission. I told him, back then, that his past was his business - I respected that - but I was under the impression that…while still being legally married…you two were no longer involved with one another. Edward found the whole thing very hard to talk about, but he also didn’t realize that he hadn’t explained the situation thoroughly enough, and, well…it took longer than it should have for us to get on the same page. Faults on both sides for not communicating clearer. We’ve, ah…butted heads over it a few times, I can assure you. I wasn’t at all happy when I found out. And I know I’ve got no right to ask you to believe me, but…”

He takes in a deep breath, and the sincerity in both his eyes and voice is undeniable.

“If I had known, I never would have pursued the relationship as things stood. I didn’t know how much damage it would cause, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. For everything.”

Izzy…doesn't know how to feel.

Like his emotions have emotions, and it's taking all of his brain power to unravel and understand them.

There is no excuse for Edward's actions.

That much remains explicitly clear.

But…Stede wasn't happy about them, either. Argued with him, by the sounds of it - maybe they even had their own fights. Maybe it wasn't all sunshine and roses and running off into the sunset, which is what Izzy used to delude himself into thinking.

Stede didn't know.

And although he's probably supposed to hate him on principle - that's what happens most of the time in books and films, right? - he doesn't. If anything, Stede's unknowingly laid the groundwork for a begrudging sort of respect to form. He's being open, and honest, and although he's surely feeling quite awkward about the whole thing - Izzy is too - he's stood his ground and refused to run away.

How's Izzy supposed to hate the type of behavior he admires?

It’s… noble, almost.

Please, fuck, don’t let that be his last name.

He draws in a breath and lets it out slowly, absentmindedly playing with the pendant hanging around his neck. His chest is tight, fingers trembling slightly, but he holds himself fast and manages to keep those overwhelming feelings in check.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "For telling me."

"Of course," Stede replies softly. "You have every right to know."

Coming from him, those words are a little too much to handle right now. Izzy averts his gaze - blinks a few times - clears his throat, and asks, "Did you, um - you still want the-"

"Oh, um - only if you don't mind," Stede says, and risks a tiny chuckle.

Izzy moves into the back in somewhat of a daze, mind and body whirling as he forces himself to concentrate on the task at hand, and it takes a full ten seconds of staring at the word Lighthouse before the letters click into place and he pulls one from the storage unit. He's especially glad that they pre-package things nowadays, because he doesn't think his hands would be stable enough to maneuver any of the packing tools.

When he returns it’s to find Stede looking over the pages of his open sketchbook, head tilted slightly to the side as he admires each design. “These are all lovely.”

“Thanks. I’m, uh…trying to narrow them down.”

“New piece for the shop?”

“Commission, actually. The honey wives-”

Stede glances up with a quizzical expression.

“Sorry, um - local couple, they sell their honey at the market - they want a piece for the business. They promote me, I promote them. Win-win.”

“Local supporting local.”

“Exactly, yeah.”

His gaze shifts back down to the page for a moment and, when he speaks, Izzy can tell that he's doing his absolute best to sound casual. "I've heard about that market through the grapevine. Supposedly it's quite wonderful."

Izzy can see where the conversation is going a mile away.

"Yeah," he still says, knowing where this will lead. "Yeah, it's really great."

"We've both been quite eager to attend, only…we don't know what time would be most suitable."

Stede glances up for a moment - their eyes meet - before pretending to concentrate on the sketchbook again.

Izzy can't quite believe that this is happening. Something about the tone, it's just…he knows that the decision is being given to him. What time they go - or if they even go at all - to accommodate his need for space, to try and prevent another meeting like this. It's so fucking considerate - infuriatingly so - and undeniably just as appreciated.

If this is how he was when Edward met him, no wonder he was considered an upgrade.

But Izzy's different now; he still has lingering, bitter memories, but he himself isn't bitter anymore. It doesn't corrupt him like he used to. So he could warn him off, right here and right now, but he won't - because he's better than that, and believes that kindness deserves kindness.

"It opens at nine," he says slowly. "We usually get there around that time. It can be a little bit crowded depending on if it's tourist season, but it usually calms down a bit by ten. Technically it closes at noon, but you'll probably want to try and be done before then. Stock sells out decently fast. Sellers are really good, though, so if they're out of something you wanted, you can ask if they'll reserve some for next time.”

"That's all very good to know,” Stede replies, flashing him a tentative but nonetheless genuine smile. “Thank you.”

The lighthouse is slid across the counter.

Stede swipes his card through to pay for it.

And Izzy - unable to hold the question in any longer - can’t help but blurt out, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

There’s a brief silence between them, a slight crease between Stede’s brows as he ponders the question. When he speaks, it sounds as though he’s still testing out each word as it comes. “I…can’t help feeling as though I’m the other man, so to speak. I’ve never quite been able to shake that. Even if it was unintentional, I…I’ve felt very guilty about it all these years. I don’t like the fact that I unknowingly played a part in what was undoubtedly a very hard time for you. I know that I can’t do anything to change the past, and I know that neither of us ever expected to wind up in a situation like this, but I figure that the least I can do is show a bit of common decency. I, for one, want to make sure that all of your boundaries are respected.”

Well, that settles it.

Stede is proving to be a really decent guy.

Polite and thoughtful and all the other shit that comes with those personality traits.

Probably going to be a good neighbor, too.

Bugger.

Izzy goes over his words a second time - picks apart that last sentence in particular - and wonders if he’s implying that Ed’s chomping at the bit to do something that might break those boundaries for the sake of trying to apologize. Although, if the way he ran out of the shop is anything to go by, he’s evidently afraid to actually do whatever it is he’s got in mind. Hopefully Stede will be able to reign in any grand gestures.

He subtly shifts his weight from foot to foot, trying to figure out how he’s supposed to respond.

“Will you - um - at least let me know that this gets safely to Mary?”

Stede offers another smile, less hesitant than before. “Of course.”

Izzy opens his mouth to say something else - although he’s got no idea what it might be - but movement catches his eye and draws his attention to the display window, where he sees Lucius pressed up against it, wide-eyed, hands splayed out over the glass and undoubtedly leaving smudges. His lips press together in a disapproving line.

Following his gaze, Stede lets out a small sound of surprise. “Oh! Is that a…friend of yours?”

“Yeah. He has a studio just along from ours.” He sighs. “And he's a nosy git.”

“Ah.”

“Fair warning that the moment you leave, he’s going to be in here asking for details.”

“Gotcha. Edward mentioned something about how there were…other people on the line, during that phone call the day we moved in. Seems like they’re a protective bunch.”

“Yeah,” Izzy says again, voice softening. “They are.”

“Good.” Stede nods firmly, completely sincere in that one word, and carefully picks up the packaged lighthouse piece. “Thank you again for letting me purchase this.”

“Thank you for being honest with me.”

There’s an exchange of slightly awkward smiles as they part ways; Izzy stays standing at the counter as he watches Stede leave, and the door doesn’t even have a chance to close before Lucius bolts inside and very nearly takes down a floral piece in the process.

“What-”

“You’re going to need to clean that window, y’know. I can see your fingerprints from here.”

“-was that!?”

“What did you see?”

“I was in my studio when I heard someone run by - didn’t think anything of it - but then a few minutes later I see him pacing around outside looking particularly distressed, and I figured that he must have seen you in here and was debating on whether or not to come in - I was this close to confronting him - but then he ran off again to go tear his hair out somewhere else, I suppose, so I came over to see if you’d seen him - and instead I see you talking to Stede! No wonder Edward looked like he was in the grips of an emotional crisis, I didn’t know what the fuck to do, either.”

“How long have you been standing there?”

“A couple of minutes, maybe? But forget about that.” He slides around the counter, wrapping his arms around Izzy and pulling him in for a tight squeeze. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“I…” Izzy begins, and then immediately trails off.

He’s not entirely sure how he’s feeling, nor has his brain fully processed the interaction he and Stede just shared. It might have been that he was blocking his emotions at the time, because they seem to be coming thick and fast now.

“Can we…wait until Fang and Ivan get back? They went to the bakery, but they shouldn’t be long, I just…I don’t want to have to start over halfway through telling you, if that makes sense, um…”

“Of course it makes sense,” Lucius murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Sounds like you need a minute to get your thoughts together, anyway.”

It’s true, he does.

They’re rattling around like a bag of marbles.

By the time Fang and Ivan return, Lucius is all but in Izzy's lap - the weight restriction on the chair being the only thing stopping him - and Izzy might possibly have come to grips with things. It helps that he has a cup of tea now. The glazed ceramic is warm between his hands, the subtle sweetness from the extra half teaspoon of sugar helping to settle both his nerves and his stomach.

Everyone is quiet while he explains about the unexpected encounter, with varying degrees of expression as he does so. Lucius’s gaze is intensely thoughtful, Ivan's brows are set deep in a frown, and Fang just looks apologetic.

"I'm sorry that we weren't here for that," he says, shaking his head slightly. "No idea so much would happen during a bakery run."

"It's fine," Izzy says. "Honestly, don't be sorry. I'm kind of glad that it happened. I feel…better, I think, knowing that he didn't know. I'm not saying we're going to be friends or anything, but it's nice that I don't have to waste my energy on being angry with him. And it's nice to think that he's going to try and keep Edward in check."

“He fuckin’ better,” Ivan grumbles.

“Or he’ll have us to deal with,” Lucius adds on, nodding firmly. Izzy tries not to smile. There’s no doubt that Ivan was intimidating when he wanted to be - the man lifts, and he could probably fold Ed in half like a piece of paper - but Lucius…well. He didn’t exactly have that aura going for him. His secret weapon would probably be to annoy Edward until he lost his mind.

“Do you think he’ll try and come back, now that he knows we work here?” Fang asks. “We’re not exactly inviting him into the house for a cuppa.”

“I don’t know,” Izzy replies. “He’ll know it’s the easiest place to find us, but I’m not sure he’d want to risk pissing us off by coming during work hours. Knowing him, he’ll want neutral territory.”

“I reckon he’ll want you both alone,” Lucius says, indicating with his cup towards Izzy and Fang in turn. “He looked like he was shitting himself while Stede was in here, so I don’t think he’ll want anyone else around - no chance of being ganged up on, or anyone else getting in the way of what he’s got to say.”

Izzy hums and takes a thoughtful sip of his tea.

The rest of the day feels…well, strange, after all of that. How could it not? Their day in the studio follows the same routine - cutting, soldering, packaging, ticking off orders - and yet the space itself isn’t quite the same, because Stede was here. Technically Edward, too, even though he only managed two minutes in the store before bolting. Every time Izzy looks into the front space, his imagination places them there. The walls of this sanctuary have been breached, and somehow it’s not at all as devastating as he thought it would be. It’s sad and bittersweet and a little bit anxiety-inducing, but he’s not falling apart over it. That’s something.

When they get home he retells the story to Frenchie and John, who weigh in with their own opinions, before updating the group chat. Do not, he warns the collective, I repeat, do NOT go busting anyone’s balls over what I’m about to say. The warning is mostly directed at Jim, who gets the message without their name even being mentioned and responds with the eye-roll emoji.

Izzy’s not sure if it’s in the air or just in his head, but it feels like the atmosphere has shifted. Like Stede has somehow broken the ice - thawing out something rigid that had been sitting in his chest - and he feels less…tense, he supposes. As though his shoulders are carrying a bit less weight. He finally knows the answer to a question that’s been gnawing at him all these years, and he knows - fairly confidently - that, circumstances aside, Stede is going to be a decent neighbor. Fuck, he’s probably going to be good for the economy. Rich bloke living in an artsy seaside town with money to spend? Stall owners at the market are probably going to love him. Even if he does come with Edward in tow, they could’ve done a lot worse when it comes to someone new nestling themselves into their familiar streets.

And with Edward…

Yeah, fuck, he’s still a bit terrified of what he’s got to say - what he’ll wind up saying in return - but it’s kind of nice to know that Ed’s just as scared. If anything, his talk with Stede has made the whole process seem slightly less daunting. He wants an apology just as much as he wants to apologize, and now he’s much more sure than he was that, once it’s all over and done with, he’ll feel better. They can go back to keeping their distance and figuring out what their new normal is going to look like. He’s not entirely sure what he wants to hear, nor is he entirely sure what he himself wants to divulge, but - oddly enough - after the events of the day, his mind has made an unexpected amount of peace with the fact that it will happen. They will talk, and it will undoubtedly be messy and painful and emotional, but it will happen nonetheless.

He also knows, with steely resolve, that Edward will not be the one who decides when and where they do this.

Izzy refuses to be cornered - to not have a choice in the matter - to be at the whim and mercy of him.

No. If Edward Teach has the right to run away, then Izzy has the right to refuse any form of conversation until he’s ready to have it.

Whether it takes days - or weeks - or months - it doesn’t matter. He’s not budging.

And everyone else can just bloody well deal with it.

Chapter 6: backslide | "i'll take anything you have, if you could throw me a line"

Notes:

hi everyone...I know it's been a hot second since the last update, just been trying to manage personal issues + mental health + the general state of the world. this fic is still being worked on, and I still love it very very much. big thanks to people keeping up with this story & to anyone new that jumps on board. comments and such are always very appreciated. I know the world is scary right now, but I hope you're all doing your best to keep yourselves and your loved ones safe. be kind out there <3

fair warning, emotionally heavy chapter

Looking back, Izzy can't pinpoint for certain when they began to deteriorate. It happened gradually; like dust collecting on the tops of drawers, cupboard hinges beginning to rust, hairline cracks splintering across the ceiling paint. The beloved home they'd once built with and around each other softly but surely falling into ruin.

They got married at their local park.

Emotionally, anyway. It was - in essence - a marriage ceremony, despite the fact that they had no permits, no celebrant, no one who could legally verify the afternoon's events.

What could they say?

They didn't want the fuss, and proper weddings cost a lot of money.

So they had a picnic by the pond, and everyone brought a plate, and they all chipped in to buy one of the big fancy cakes from their favorite bakery. They were a bit of a rowdy crowd, but who could blame them? They didn't cause any trouble. Anne might have cackled louder than the geese, and Bill might have accidentally sat on a sausage roll, and Ed might have been gently told off for trying to feed the fish cake crumbs, but so what? It was a day to be joyous - a day to be celebrated.

They did, admittedly, splurge on the rings. Not enough to empty the bank, but enough to leave a sizable space. Silver bands, with a small gemstone in each; Izzy had an emerald, Ed had a ruby. They were not traditional people, and so traditional wedding rings were never going to cut it.

They made jokey little speeches to one another; Izzy promised to take him despite the snoring and the wet towels he left on the bathroom floor after showering, and Ed promised to love and cherish the stick up his ass when it came to organizing the kitchen cupboards. Anything softer - sweeter, deeper, more meaningful - had already been said in the comforting privacy of their own home.

The Polaroids were Mary's idea. Her aunt had a camera she'd allowed her to borrow, and then she'd lucked out by finding another in a secondhand store. The wedding present was everyone pooling money for film in order to take a million and one photos of each other. Quite possibly, they'd been the ones to invent selfies. A lot of them were rubbish, but a good handful were positively golden.

A group photo where no one was blinking. Annie and Mary with their arms around each other, for once not bickering like an old married couple. Fang and Steakie with their eyes all screwed up, tongues poking out, with half of Ivan's face in the background. Bill pouting at the squashed, aforementioned sausage roll; Ed managed to throw up a cliché, slightly blurred bunny ears gesture behind his head.

There were plenty of Izzy and Ed, of course.

They were the stars of the show after all.

Izzy's two favorites were - and still are - almost the exact same shot, taken on both cameras and only two seconds apart. In the first, Ed had tucked a little blossom behind Izzy's ear; they were gazing at each other, stupidly happy and adoring and so utterly and obviously in love. In the second Izzy's grinning, his nose scrunched up while Eddie kisses him right between the eyes. The pair of them, well…they're fucking precious, aren't they? All of them are precious.

They went for dinner at their local pub that night - got a discount via the owner, who was on friendly terms with them all, and congratulated them on the big day - had a few drinks, took a few more photos with the last of the film, and called it a night.

Izzy and Ed all but danced up their footpath, giggling like a couple of teenagers, and eager to get each other into bed. It felt different, having rings on their fingers. Everything felt different.

Fang and Ivan were their witnesses at the registry office. There wasn't really much pomp and ceremony to it. You pay a couple hundred bucks, you sign some forms, you repeat some words, and then someone declares you married. Done and dusted by midday. Quite convenient, actually.

Things went back to a sort-of normal after that - back to work, back to the grind, back to the weekly grocery shop and calculating bill payments - but despite the usual routine, marital bliss still reigned supreme in their household.

And then, about two months after their wedding, Ed’s old roommate Jack caught wind of the celebration.

It was a running theme, with him, to only discover things after they’d happened whenever he decided to pull his head out of the gutter long enough to take notice. When he heard, he decided to pay them a visit. To congratulate them, supposedly.

Now, Izzy didn’t hate a lot of people.

He only had so much patience for rudeness and general stupidity, so if people ever found themselves in his bad books, he opinioned that it was their own fault. If they thought the same of him, it was only because he gave as good as he got. None of that was ever driven by hatred, though; a spectrum of dislike, yes, but not hate. Very few people were really and truly hated by Izzy Hands.

But Jack Rackham was one of them.

As a human being, he was a bit shit. That much had to be said. He was loud. He was obnoxious. He made people uncomfortable, and laughed whenever he was called out on it. He swung wildly between smelling like someone who hadn’t showered in a week, and someone who thought they could mask it by dousing themselves in cheap deodorant. He hit on people who didn’t want to be hit on - although he’d been thankfully subdued during his last visit, when he ‘playfully’ slapped Annie on the ass and she bent his index finger so far back one of the bones snapped clean in two. He drank entirely too much. Most annoyingly, he just never seemed to get the hint that he blatantly wasn’t wanted.

The thing that made Izzy hate him, though, wasn’t the culmination of those things - although that list in itself would have done it for anyone else.

No - the thing he despised Jack for the most was the influence he had over Eddie.

Jack quite possibly saved his life, once. That much could be said for the man. Yanked him back when he didn’t look properly before crossing the road, and stopped him from getting absolutely smashed by a car whose driver also wasn’t paying attention and doing at least eighty in a sixty zone, to boot. Ed never forgot that moment, because Jack never let him.

None of their friend group liked Jack.

Eddie himself didn’t even like Jack.

But whenever Jack rolled around, Ed never told him to leave.

So two months after getting married, Jack showed up - full of swagger and crude jokes and the only piss-poor booze he could afford - to which Ed forced a smile, and Izzy mentally began cracking his knuckles. They hadn’t seen him for at least a year, but it was obvious nothing had changed with him. He was surprisingly good, those first few days - even apologized to Annie for what had happened last time he was around - but he could only put up this sort of front for so long. Izzy heard the things he said to Ed when he thought no one else was listening. Asking what the fuck he was doing, settling down at their age, was he turning into some sort of fucking housewife, making dinner and doing the dishes and bending over backwards for her husband, why on earth was he choosing to stick with one person when there was a whole ocean of people to explore?

Izzy very nearly went for him, but Ed held his ground.

He got married because they loved each other.

He didn’t want anyone else.

He was happy.

And he would make an excellent housewife, fuck you very much.

Jack said, I didn’t save your life for you to waste it like this - to become boring.

To that, Eddie flinched.

Said he wasn’t wasting it.

Said he wasn’t boring.

So Jack said, prove it.

And poured him a shot.

The night spiraled. Too much drinking, too much bickering, too much metaphorical dick-measuring. Suddenly there was a bike - a Harley, no less, which should have been an immediate giveaway to being stolen, because no way could Jack Rackham ever afford such a thing - and Izzy should have tried harder to convince Ed not to get on it, should have put his foot down hours ago, but Ed was trying to prove something - trying to get Jack off his back, trying to do something Izzy understood but couldn’t put into words - but all too quickly things descended into the sounds of crashing metal and yelling and chaos and the smell of burnt rubber.

Izzy was not one to hate, nor was he one to inflict violence.

But Jack left that night with blood gushing from his broken nose, scrapes on his shoulders that would take weeks to scab over properly after being thrown to the concrete, a cannonball-sized bruise from where a strong punch got him in the gut, and a potential hairline fracture in one of his lower ribs that he never bothered getting checked out and which, mercifully for him, healed fine on its own.

Izzy’s knuckles were a bit damaged, but he felt it was a small price to pay.

They never saw Jack again.

It didn’t take away from the damage that he’d already caused, though. After a late-night trip to the emergency department, followed by a rather confronting series of x-rays, Ed underwent surgery the next day to repair his broken kneecap. Izzy knew right away that Ed would loathe any sort of restrictive brace - and he did. From the moment he blinked open his eyes, propped slightly upright in a hospital bed while the effects of the anesthetic were still wearing off, he fixed his bleary glare on the offending cast and croaked out, “Fuck you.”

Izzy was just relieved to see him awake, and kissed all over his hands and fingers and forehead and mouth until he finally coaxed out a smile.

That didn’t last long, however, once he was informed that the cast would most likely stay for a good five or six weeks.

Then he’d shift to a more flexible brace.

Then he’d have to attend physio appointments.

And, most likely, the knee would need continued support for…well, forever.

It was a pretty rough break.

Ed didn’t like that one bit - complained a little or a lot, depending on how he was feeling - but he was still charming even while he was sulky, and most of the nurses developed a soft spot for him within a week. It didn’t give him any benefits, but at least he made them laugh.

Izzy took time off work in order to be with him each day, right from when visiting hours started and through until they politely kicked him out each night. The different meal times and early morning doctor visits were throwing Ed’s sleeping schedule all out of whack, which he also grumbled about. The food was…okay. You couldn’t really expect too much, could you? Everyone who came to visit brought something with them when they did - sandwiches, pies, various sweet treats from the local bakery - so, really, he had it pretty good. Keeping him occupied was somewhat of a mission. Izzy could easily supply conversation, as could everyone else who came, but it was when he was by himself that Ed struggled. They gave him wordfinds, crosswords, books, magazines, a small sketchbook and a pack of colored pencils. There was nothing in there to spark his creativity but he still tried hard to come up with more flash designs to sell in the tattoo parlor, because - even if he didn’t have a head made for pondering financial matters - he still understood that, between him being stuck in hospital and Izzy visiting as often as possible, they needed what income they could get.

It was a little easier once Ed was discharged to come home. He was still confined to the cast, and got around the place on crutches and a wheelie chair. Izzy made them cheese toasties the first night, for which he was kissed absolutely silly, and it was such a relief to have someone else in the bed again. He'd hated waking up by himself; a cold, empty space where Ed should have been, and only one set of dishes to wash each night. For almost a week after getting him back, Izzy basically slept on top of him. Ed certainly didn't have any complaints about that.

He did, however, have complaints about being stuck at home.

He hated the feeling of being confined - always had, always would - and they all knew that he wasn't built for sitting idle. Without stimulation, he just…crumbled. He hated that he couldn't drive, and had to rely on Izzy to take him anywhere. And Izzy really did do his best - they still went to the park, to the grocery store, to wherever else Ed took a fancy to - but it all had to fit in around work. Most days Ed whined to be at the shop with them, because he couldn't go back to the tattoo parlor yet, and he'd drive himself up the wall with boredom if he was left home alone for too long.

It was…fine, at first.

He chatted with customers. He worked on his flash sheets. He watched everyone work, and he helped himself to biscuits at break time.

But it wasn't enough.

Something about the cast was getting to him. Something about the lack of mobility - of control, of freedom - was slowly but surely chipping away at his mind. He had more mood swings, and they became…well, moodier than usual. Almost like he'd done when Izzy and Ivan had started pursuing the business, only this time the jealousy stemmed from them being able to move around as normal while he was stuck watching them. Looking back, Izzy actually thinks that Ed wasn't as confined as he thought; his body was temporarily hindered, yes, but it was his mind that truly seemed to cage itself in.

Along with the irritable mood swings, he also had some that seemingly consisted of a lack of emotion instead - hours, days at a time spent sullen and quiet and disinterested in the world. Izzy wasn't as clued in about mental health back then, so he thought Ed was just moping. When he tried asking Eddie how he was feeling, he was often met with some snappish remark, or a despondent shrug of the shoulders. He put it down to stubbornness. He didn't realize that Ed didn't know how to put those sorts of feelings into words, because he never said he was struggling in that way. Izzy wishes that he'd tried harder. That they both had.

It was the beginning of the beards, too.

Ed hadn't shaved during his stay in hospital, and had actually rather liked the way it looked. Izzy agreed - said that the scruff suited him - and it felt different to kiss him, but certainly not in a bad way. Over time, though, it seemed to become less about growing a proper beard, and more about…not having the motivation to trim it in any way. Insisting it was intentional when, really, he just couldn't be bothered shaving at all.

Izzy's came from stress; from feeling as though he was so mentally clogged up with work and bills and keeping Eddie happy - or at the very least, keeping him content - that he didn't have time to spend ten minutes in front of the mirror in order to deal with the stubble blooming across his skin. He did keep it shorter and tidier than Ed's, so that was something.

When he thinks about that time, he can honestly say that he really did - to the best of his past abilities - bend over backwards to try and make things okay.

Hindsight is bittersweet in that he knows all the places where they both went wrong with each other.

At the time, though, they were different.

Things were different back then.

They were both struggling, even if they didn't know how to express it. Taking Ed to work started to feel like a chore - something to dread, because when he was in a bad headspace it affected everyone else - and Ed was tired of it too, even though he refused to stay home despite the fact that half the time he sulked once he was there. He was brighter for a few weeks when the cast came off and he switched to the more flexible brace, but it was only temporary.

"My knee's fucked," he snapped at Izzy one night. "There's no point in pretending that it's not, because it is. It's never going to be okay - I'm always going to have a stupid fucking brace - it's probably gonna give me grief down the line, which means it's always going to be a fucking problem-"

"Physio will help," Izzy tried to soothe him. "It will make a difference, Ed, the guy said so, and we'll get you a really good brace that won't annoy you-"

"It's always going to fucking annoy me, because I'm gonna have to wear it for the rest of my fucking life!"

His voice had been raised - cheeks flushed, eyes narrowed into a glare - but just as quickly the moment passed, and his expression morphed into one of guilt as he slumped backwards into the couch cushions.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I - I didn't mean to shout. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Izzy said, forcing down his own frustration with a deep breath. "I get it. I'd be pissed off too. I'm just…trying to help."

"I know you are." He'd held out his arms and, even though Izzy still felt frazzled about the whole interaction, it didn't stop him from curling up into the familiar embrace and inwardly beating himself up for not being able to do more.

They’d never argued before.

Bickered, yes, as couples tend to do sometimes.

But the bickering was beginning to change; it was taking on an edge, so subtly and so slowly that neither of them noticed until it burst out of them in moments of overflowing emotion.

“Do you want to come in today?” Izzy asked one morning - it was part of the routine, now, and you could hear it in his voice. The tiredness, the exasperation. Usually he was met with a sigh, or maybe a weak smile depending on Ed’s mood, but this time he was met with something close to defiance.

“Do you want me to?”

The question took Izzy by surprise. He actually had to pause and register the fact that he hadn’t been given the standard ‘yeah, okay’ type of response. “What?”

“Do you want me to come?” Ed repeated, and there was an undertone that Izzy didn’t like. It felt as though he’d been plodding along just fine, and had suddenly been thrust onto a conversational knife edge.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked cautiously.

“I dunno. You don’t sound like you want me to.”

“Of course I do.”

He tried to sound convincing, but it only half worked. You could tell that it was forced. Ed’s eyes had narrowed slightly, and Izzy - in an attempt to be honest without ruffling any feathers - said, “I do, Eddie, I just don’t want you to be bored.”

“Because I’m annoying?”

“What? No!”

“Well, you sound annoyed.”

His own irritation began creeping in. “Literally all I said was that I don’t want you to be bored - what’s wrong with that answer?”

And Eddie shrugged - a moody, huffy little shrug - and for whatever reason, it just made Izzy’s temper rise.

“Do you not want to come?”

“There’s nothing better to do.”

“I’m sorry that it’s not exciting enough for you, alright? I’m sorry that I can’t take away what’s happened to your knee - I’m sorry that you can’t go back to work yet - and I’m fucking sorry that this is all I can fucking offer! I’m doing my best over here, if you hadn’t fucking noticed!”

It was the tiny noise - maybe it was a scoff, maybe it wasn’t - combined with Ed deliberately turning his head away that did it.

“Okay, you know what, Ed?” Izzy growled out, snatching his keys from the table. “Stay here. Fucking mope around the house all day, I don’t care. I’ve better things to do than keep your attitude in check.”

And he didn’t slam the door, but it was a near thing.

His anger simmered beneath his skin throughout the drive to work, blocking out thought in favor of emotion, and it was only when he got there and Fang asked, quite innocently, “Ed not coming in today?”, that he realized what had happened between them.

The first thing he did was use the phone to call home.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, the moment it was picked up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t - I didn’t mean to speak to you like that, I just…lost my cool.”

There was silence from the other end for a moment before Ed’s muted voice reached him. “So did I. I’m just…frustrated. I know you will be, too, so…I’m sorry as well.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The argument was shelved - they got takeout for dinner - they watched a movie, and they laughed, and they pretended that it had never happened.

But it just…kept happening

Kept happening, because they never sat down and talked about things properly.

They didn’t talk about the fact that Ed’s sour moods brought down the morale within the shop. They didn’t talk about how it negatively impacted not only them, but the people around them. They didn’t talk about their mental health, because they didn’t know what the fuck it was, or how to fix it, or how to bring it up in the first place.

There was a stupid fight about a shirt - a dark, short-sleeved button-up floral shirt, of all fucking things, that appeared in Ed's wardrobe one day. It was a nice shirt. Suited him well, too. But he'd never expressed an interest in floral print before - never even said that he'd bought it - so Izzy had been confused. He thought he knew Eddie's tastes, and this seemed…out of the norm. He liked routine. He liked structure. Things were already becoming precarious, and it seemed that the addition of a shirt into their household was enough to start a frayed conversation.

Izzy asked him about it, but apparently in the wrong tone.

Ed got huffy and told him to forget about it, just leave it, it's nothing.

It was confusing, because it was such a small thing - small, but it seemed so much bigger, felt like it was actually something else, but it wasn't voiced.

They - did - not - talk.

Brushing things under the rug is never going to fix things.

It just hides the mess you keep making.

And to this day, Izzy still gets himself worked up thinking - believing - wondering - about whether or not he somehow missed the fact that his husband liked floral, and if that somehow would have changed anything.

Arguments became part of the routine, as did the ways that they tried to smooth things over.

It was slow, at first - an argument once a month, maybe - which became once every few weeks - once every two - every one - every other fucking day, if they could find the fire to fuel them.

Even after Ed could go back to work, even after they had space between them.

Space, which they’d never craved before; not when they were so content living in each other’s pockets.

Those days seemed long gone.

Sometimes it was hard to live under the same roof.

This damaging routine stretched out over years.

Good things happened during this time, of course. More birthdays, more holidays, more anniversaries. Ironically, they actually moved sometime in the middle of it all. Finally scraped enough together to put down a deposit on a nice place and chip away at the mortgage each month. It was a milestone for them - they were proud, it kept them in a good place for a while - but it didn't last. How could it?

Not when they were up against years of gradual deterioration - their house slowly but surely crumbling, so slowly that they didn’t even notice at first.

You can paint over the mold, but the mold is still there.

You can tape up the pipes, but the pipes are still rusty.

You can hang posters over the cracks - clean the dirt on the windows - mow the lawns without pulling up the weeds - and, ultimately, it does nothing.

Just drags the process out even further.

Makes it hurt, makes it harmful.

You both keep spitting out metaphorical asbestos, don’t be surprised when the air you breathe together becomes toxic.

What made it worse was how they managed to drag each other’s character traits into things. The quirks that they used to love - used to accept as being part of them - that they fucking declared to have and to hold and to cherish forever and ever and ever, you may now kiss your fucking husband - now used as ammunition in the most heated moments.

Izzy was horrible

Why can’t you fucking sit still, Ed, why can’t you fucking control yourself like a normal human being? Why can’t you concentrate for once in your fucking life?

Can you please get your ass out of bed before noon, and not mope around the fucking house all day?

I literally just told you, why I do need to repeat it? Maybe if you actually listened to me for once, your memory wouldn't be so shitty all of the time.

You’re such an asshole sometimes, Eddie, you know that? I can’t fucking stand to be around you when you’re like this.

But Ed was horrible, too, and gave as good as he got.

You’re one to fucking talk, huh, Izzy? You’re just as big an asshole as I am.

Why do you have to be such an uptight little bitch about everything? Why can’t you just fucking relax?

Fucking hell, you’re so hard to deal with sometimes, you know that? It’s like pulling teeth with you.

I can't stand being around you half the time, too, and that's no one's fucking fault but your own.

There’s one comment that sticks with Izzy for years to come.

They were arguing about designs for the shop. Ed, while in one of his good moods, had happily agreed to help with sketching up some ideas for a new collection. Only, it had been a few weeks - his mood had dropped - and Izzy should have had those designs by yesterday, so that he could transfer them to the proper grid and get a few mockups made. He kept poking, and prodding, and was almost to the point of begging, because come on Ed, please, you said that you’d help, we were counting on you to come through-

“It’s not my fault you’ve got no fucking imagination!” Ed had shouted at him, and the words came at Izzy like a slap to the face. “This is your fucking job, not mine, so maybe you should just bloody well be better at it!”

It was a step too far.

Because Izzy had admitted to Ed, back during the early days - and many days since - that he had worried before about not being good enough for this job that he loved so much, that he struggled sometimes to come up with things, that he got himself all worked up and stressed over the idea that his creativity wasn’t…well, creative enough. And Eddie had been wonderful - had soothed those worries away, and reassured him that he was wonderful, he was skilled, he was too in his head about it, and needed to believe in himself.

To hear these words from him - his partner, the man who’d been such a rock to him for so many years, who had always been his biggest supporter and number one fan - was…devastating.

Eddie knew that he’d crossed a line, too. You could see it in his face - the instant regret, the remorse, the mortification.

But he didn’t say sorry.

He’d been saying that less and less, over the years.

Would try to smooth things over - buy him a present, make him dinner, something to show how apologetic he was - but his stubbornness had changed over time, morphed into something he couldn’t control, and he wouldn’t say the word.

He didn’t say sorry.

So Izzy slept on the couch that night.

Yes, he woke up to find Eddie squashing himself in next to him.

Yes, he allowed himself to be wrapped up in his arms - allowed kisses to be pressed to his cheek, his forehead, his mouth - because deep down he was lonely, and more and more found himself scrambling to find any ounce of affection he could get his touch-starved little hands on.

But he did not forgive him.

And nothing was truly fixed.

Because the arguments kept happening.

The resentment kept growing.

The feeling of not being heard, not being listened to.

They’d been on the same page for years, and now it was like they were reading from two different languages.

It wasn’t fair on the people around them, either, no matter how well they'd learnt to mask their problems. They put up a good front in public, sure, but their friends knew that they weren’t quite right. Every now and then they asked, but they were given no proper answers. It's not something so easily put into words, is it? That you and the love of your life are descending into chaos and ruin.

Izzy was the one to break first.

Fang caught him off guard one day, when he was still feeling open and vulnerable from that morning's spat, by very gently asked if he was okay.

The answer was no.

He was very, very far from okay.

Izzy wasn't a crier - not back then - but that simple little question held the weight of so much, and there really wasn't anything else to do other than burst into tears.

It all came flooding out, in as few mangled words as possible.

We fight all the time.

We're always angry.

He never listens to me anymore, but he says that I'm never listening to him.

I don't recognize him anymore.

I don't recognize us.

I'm scared of what I see.

I'm scared that he doesn't love me.

And when faced with the gentle, tentative question of - do you still love him? - the answer needed no thought.

Yes.

Of course he did.

It was automatic; like blinking, like breathing.

Even if they were at each other's throats every other day, Eddie was still his everything.

The idea of marriage counseling was floated.

Maybe if they couldn't figure out how to solve their problems, someone else could.

Izzy thought about it all that day - on the way home - far into the evening, while he waited for Ed to come home from helping out the girls with some late clients - and, during that time, found himself pulling out the Polaroids.

Ed found him bawling on the bedroom floor.

To his credit, Eddie was so good to him that night.

Most likely it was the shock of seeing Izzy with tears streaming down his face, and how each attempt at speech was interrupted by either a sob or a gasp or a hiccup. A rare enough occurrence that any animosity was immediately pushed aside in favor of nurture, of care. Ed scooped him up, bad knee be buggered, and bundled him up nice and warm on the couch with the knitted blanket around him. Made him eat at least half of a cheese toastie for dinner, and chocolate biscuits for dessert. Pulled him onto his lap and held him close, held him tight.

They hadn't been this affectionate with each other in months.

Longer, maybe.

Even kisses had started to feel like part of the routine, lately; something they just did out of years of habit, rather than them meaning anything.

It shouldn't have taken something like this to make them suddenly affectionate again.

It should have come from happiness, not heartache.

Whether or not it was out of pity or fear or a genuine desire to try and make things right, Ed agreed to the marriage counseling.

Neither of them were sure of what to expect, and the whole concept is…interesting. Awkward and revealing at the same time, giving permission to a stranger to scrutinize every aspect of your marriage when, in fact, they don’t really know anything about you. It would probably be less daunting to just strip off completely naked rather than lay all of the ugly bits out on the table for everyone to see.

The first session was taken slowly. The counselor - a nice woman, by all means - tried her best to ease them into it, tried to help them feel ‘comfortable’ when this whole situation was anything but. In all honesty, they weren’t very helpful. Izzy didn’t know how to express himself so openly to someone he didn’t even know, and Eddie in general was reserved in a way that made it obvious he was only there because he felt he had to be.

As the routine dictated, it wasn’t really talked about once they went home.

But, on Izzy’s insistence, they went back a second time - just to be sure on whether or not it could work, or whether they should throw in the towel and try something else.

They’d had a spat that morning about something stupid, as per usual, so the both of them were already feeling emotionally cracked when they sat down on her couch.

She drove in a wedge, and managed to break them open.

Oh, it all came out so much easier now that they were pissed off at each other, and that in itself said a lot. The usual arguments they kept behind closed doors came flooding out; accusations of ignorance, sarcastic remarks, and passive aggressive insults flew back and forth like some fucked up tennis match. The counselor’s eyes kept flicking between them, mouth pressed together in a thin line like a referee waiting for the players to shut up for a second so she could put her two cents in.

She said it was quite obvious that their two main problems were miscommunication, and the way in which they argued. It was like they went into these things looking for a verbal fight, rather than with the intent of debating things out for the purpose of finding a solution to whatever problem had come between them. They let their frustration build up until it had to be let out - and, unfortunately, they were taking it out on each other instead of seeking a healthier outlet. They’d become like codependent punching bags. Unable to be without each other, but unable to come together. A form of toxic symbiosis.

Their homework for the week was to walk away from whatever argument arose - cool off elsewhere, so that the anger couldn't be directed at each other - and try to talk things out without raising their voices. Maybe, if things went well, actively practice being affectionate with one another again.

They walked away three times, stayed for another two - which was better than if they'd stayed for each round of verbal brawling, although none of it sounded good when spoken out loud - and Izzy was tired enough one night to fall asleep on Ed's shoulder while they were watching TV, but it wasn't intentional, so it probably didn't count.

At their third session, she made them play the 'I Feel' game. Very simple; they just had to take turns saying how they felt. No emotions off the table, no interrupting each other, nothing invalidated.

A lot of the usual things came up.

"I feel like you never listen to me."

"I feel like you're never hearing what I'm saying."

"I feel like you don't take my opinions into consideration."

Once things got flowing, however, their mental tongues loosened and allowed new words to come to light.

"I feel like you focus too much on work."

"I feel like you're emotionally unavailable half the time."

"I feel like you're always itching for a fight."

"I feel like I don't recognize us anymore."

The structure of the exercise fell away, until the point where they were just…talking.

"I don't like that we're different. I don't like change."

"I know. I know you don't. But I don't like being still, because I don't like being bored. I'm not good when I'm bored."

"You think we're boring?"

"No, I just…it feels like everyday is the same, now. It's draining. I'm tired."

"Of us?"

"Of everything. Some days, it's like…everything is grey, and I don't know how to fix it. I don't know how to fix us."

"Neither do I, but…that's why we're here."

"I know."

"I miss you."

"I miss you, too."

Silence had fallen in the room. It was like their counselor was afraid to even breathe too loudly, for fear of interrupting what was the most open conversation that they'd had in years.

And then Izzy had said - with his subconscious taking the reins, without giving his mouth any form of permission to speak-

“I feel like you don’t love me.”

The silence that followed was, to this day, one of the most awful silences that Izzy ever endured. Because if it had been the other way around, Izzy would have answered without thinking - it would have been the most automatic thing to say, of course I still love you. And the fact that Edward Teach, his husband of twenty one years, had to take that pause for a moment to think about how to respond, made him feel physically sick.

“I feel…like…I don’t always know how to, anymore.”

Truly, it felt as though someone had pulled the rug from beneath his feet.

His whole body lurched, like he was having to catch himself from falling.

As it was, it felt like he’d been shot in the chest.

Because-

Because-

Because what the fuck was that supposed to mean?

Was he saying that Izzy was hard to love?

Unlovable?

What does it mean, when your partner says that they don’t know how to love you anymore?

Was he really so awful that those feelings had disappeared?

Ed had said and done his fair share of damage, too, but Izzy still loved him - loved him without question, loved him undoubtedly, loved him unconditionally.

But if…if Eddie didn’t know how to love him…if he couldn’t anymore, then…

Who could?

If not him, then how could anyone?

Maybe they didn’t.

Maybe people only cared for him out of pity.

Maybe no one loved him.

Their counseling session ended quickly after that.

Izzy was not one to be silent about his feelings, and the fact that he said nothing - not a word on the way home, and only the bare minimum over dinner - seemed to scare Ed a little bit. He tried to take back what he’d said, tried to reword it. Said that he did love Izzy, only that it was hard sometimes when things were rough - when they were fighting - and yeah, that was every other day, but he still loved him those days - only it was harder to show it, harder to feel it - not that he never felt it - it was just different, and-

-and Izzy really and truly didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

Ed was persistent. Kept up his rambling to try and drive it home, even though he was trying to make three different points at once and kept tripping over his own words. Eventually gave up on speech in favor of action. Coaxed Izzy’s mouth to move against his. Got him undressed, got him into bed. But even then, it didn’t…it didn’t feel like love. It felt like remorse.

It felt like guilt.

It took a few days for Izzy to drag himself out of his emotional headlock and, when he did, he found himself angry.

Angry, because despite everything - despite all the bullshit they’d thrown at each other over the years - he still would have given Ed the world on a silver platter if he’d so asked.

He was angry that this sentiment wasn’t shared anymore.

And he was also angry, because he was afraid - he was terrified - that he was the reason why.

That he’d become so tainted and bitter over the years that Ed only loved him out of duty, and that the word didn’t even mean anything to him anymore. Nevermind that Ed had been just as bad, no; time and time again, Izzy mentally placed Ed on a pedestal and convinced himself that he belonged there.

Ed got angry, too, but his stemmed from stubbornness - defensiveness - the notion that had lodged itself in his brain that he’d done his best to make up for what he’d said, and that he hadn’t exactly been wrong in saying it, had he, because things were difficult and ugly and why couldn’t Izzy just get over it and move on?

He actually said those words - genuinely asked why Izzy couldn't get over being told that his husband doesn’t always know how to love him - and honestly, how they weren’t issued a noise complaint from the following argument is beyond them.

It's the last proper scrap they ever had.

Izzy stayed angry, and Ed became distant. Favored spending more and more time out of the house, like he couldn't be bothered with arguing anymore and wanted to avoid the possibility entirely.

He came home one day, and there was something…off about him.

Izzy couldn't put his finger on it.

Nothing was really achieved in their next counseling session; only that their counselor also seemed slightly concerned by Ed's sudden emotional withdrawal, and nothing she said managed to coax much out of him. He got defensive when openly accused, but…he didn't do it in a way like he was actually trying to defend himself. More like it was instinct, a subconscious reflex. He was combative because that's what he'd grown used to being.

They were supposed to be trying to fix things, but in the week that followed it felt like Izzy was the only one pulling his weight. He was prepared to put that last argument behind them, even though it still stung, but he wasn't being met halfway. It worried him. Scared him, too; a little bit, at first, and then a lot.

Even their friends started saying it.

He was distant.

That was the word everyone kept coming back to.

Izzy went against all good advice and tried to start fights on purpose - trying to break him out of this headspace and, selfishly, to try and get any scrap of attention he could - but…nothing. Oh, sure, there'd be half-hearted rebuttals every now and then, but on the whole Eddie refused to bite. It made Izzy feel like he'd become part of the furniture.

Like he'd become nothing to him.

He'd never felt this unloved since he was in his teens.

Twenty-one years worth of intertwined lives shouldn't have felt so…empty.

So sad, so anxious.

Looking back, he knows that there weren't any of the usual signs. No sneaking off at odd hours, no secret texting, no coming home smelling like somebody else's aftershave. That's why - when that fateful day crashed itself into Izzy's orbit - his whole world felt as though it had been destroyed.

Their marriage counselor was facing them.

They were sitting on the couch.

Izzy distinctly remembers tiny, useless little details. Her nails were painted red. The sky was overcast, but the temperature was still warm. Eddie was wearing odd socks. A reed diffuser on one of the shelves made the room smell like sandalwood.

He remembers, mentally, reaching a breaking point.

Even he could only take so much.

So he cried, much like he did with Fang. Choked out about how unloved he felt. About how this man was his world - his everything - and how desperate he was to fix things, because they'd been so distant from each other lately, and it felt awful. It felt like part of him was being ripped away and crumbling before his very eyes, and he couldn't stand it anymore. He'd do anything to get them back to how they were; anything to make things right between them again.

He poured his fucking heart out, and Edward said…nothing.

Just sat there, looking as though he was only half paying attention, while idly chewing on a fingernail.

Now, obviously, you have to train to be a marriage counselor. Izzy was quite confident that you'd have to be coached on keeping your cool, on keeping neutral, and not taking sides in any given situation.

For just a second, her expression flickered with very obvious irritation.

“Edward?” she asked, maintaining the calm in her voice, while her eyes reflected Izzy's own frustration.

“Hm?”

“Would you like to respond to that?”

He was silent.

“Anything at all?” she pressed. “Izzy has done a really wonderful job at opening up and being honest with you, so don't you think that deserves something like that in return? A bit of mutual respect?”

He was silent again, but this time with remorse.

Reluctance.

Guilt.

Maybe a bit of shame.

The silence of someone who has intent to speak, but has no idea how to say it.

Doesn’t want to say it.

There was purpose in that silence - purpose and fear and something…something else…something Izzy has never been able to put a name to, but something that was tangible. He felt it in the space between them, and whatever it was made his blood run cold before Ed had even opened his mouth to say it.

“I’ve…met someone.”

People don’t often think about it, but - statistically - how many humans have had their lives ruined by a sentence?

You might be shattered by something you witness.

Something you experience.

But you can also be so easily broken by something you’ve heard.

Something you’ve been told.

“Someone…else.”

And what are you supposed to do?

You can’t unhear the sentence.

Can’t deny it, when it’s fact.

Can’t ignore it, can’t pretend it was never said, can’t do anything about it but-

But-

But-

Well.

Grief is a funny thing, isn’t it?

Everyone has their own way of reacting.

Izzy stared at him.

Stared, and stared, and stared.

“What?” he eventually managed to croak out.

Oddly enough, he’d never imagined this sort of scenario. Despite everything, he had always really and truly believed that this - the concept of Ed meeting someone else, of wanting to be with someone other than Izzy - wasn't something to worry about. Had never even occurred to him. Not because he was vain, no; but because in his world - and therefore the whole world itself - that just wasn’t a possibility.

There was no Ed without Izzy, no Izzy without Ed.

The alternative couldn’t exist, and yet…

And yet.

In truth, he doesn’t remember the immediate events following this shattering revelation.

He doesn’t think they were billed for that session. Most likely their counselor felt so bad for him, she let them have it for free. He thinks…vaguely, in the back of his mind, when he tries to get a grasp of what happened during that time…she might have tried to get in contact, to check in and see how he was. Bottom of the barrel, by that point. He’s not entirely sure, but he thinks Fang might have reached out to her however many months later, just to let her know that he was alive. It was sometime during his rehab days. Most of them are a blur. He doesn’t like to reminisce, and he doesn’t want to ask because he knows it’ll dredge up those repressed memories.

They…got home, somehow. Him and Eddie. Except…it wasn’t their home, was it? Hadn’t felt like home in a long time. Maybe Ed had finally gotten tired of living in such an emotionally ramshackle house. Izzy was tired of it, too, but he would have happily slept in a cardboard box if it had meant keeping him.

Eddie said things, but Izzy was too overwhelmed to hear them; in a state of shock so severe, he didn’t even know how he was functioning. It felt like his brain was imploding, like his chest was eating itself from the inside out. How his heart continued to beat during that time is a mystery to him. It was aching so much it felt like it was going to burst open. Maybe that would have been a good thing. Would have let Ed see that there was still love inside of it.

He only started to come back to himself when his vision registered the duffle bag.

Ed’s leaving, he dully realized.

Edward Teach had packed a bag and was going to leave.

His husband was going to leave.

That’s when the shouting started.

He doesn’t count it as their last argument, because he was the only one yelling. Filled with fire and brimstone and fear - so much fear, so much anguish - but it was met with nothing. Just a slightly pained expression and forcefully averted gaze. He wouldn’t even look Izzy in the eyes one last time before he left. Izzy called him a fucking coward for that, even though he didn’t really mean it. He was crying by this point. Sobbing, begging. Went so far as to grab him by the shirt, pulled him close, breathed him in and told him he loved him, he loved him, please don’t go. Please don’t leave me, Eddie.

But there was no comforting arm around his shoulders.

No lips pressed to his forehead.

Ed just stood there, impassive - unmoving - before prying himself away and heading for the door.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, but never explained what it meant. Izzy would overthink those words for years to come - chew them over, spit them out, try to figure out what exactly he’d been talking about. This, as in put up with more arguments? This, as in their relationship? This, as in he’d finally run out of ways in which he could try to love Izzy again?

“Where will you go?” Izzy heard himself asked - some part of his subconscious still worried for him, still caring, despite the scene playing out before him.

“I’ll be fine,” Ed replied, like that was all that mattered. “I’ve got somewhere.”

Didn’t ask if Izzy would be fine.

Didn’t seem to care that he already wasn’t.

Then the second part of that statement clicked into place, and Izzy’s fingers - which had been tangled into Ed’s shirt only moments ago - clenched into tight, angry fists.

“With him?”

No response.

That answered that.

“Where did you meet?”

“Does that matter?”

“Yes.”

A beat of silence had followed.

Ed still refused to look at him.

“Coffee shop,” he eventually responded.

Somehow, it felt like a blow.

The two of them had met by chance and spent the night together - the week together - the past twenty one fucking years together - all of it started by a whirlwind romance that felt like something out of a movie, something you could only find in books, and all of that…all of that history, the magic of their beginning and the glorious times that had followed…

All of that gone, for some guy at a coffee shop.

“How long ago?”

It made him feel sick to ask.

Made him even sicker to imagine what the answer must be.

He was thinking months - maybe years, if Ed was sneaky enough - something substantial, something that he could maybe, possibly, wrap his head around - an amount of time that could be deemed appropriate for leaving your husband, leaving all of those memories behind.

He was not expecting Edward to say-

“A couple of weeks.”

A couple of weeks.

A couple - of - weeks.

Twenty one years gone for a

couple

of

weeks.

Something inside of him felt like it had caught on fire.

Raged burned through him, bright and burning.

It felt good.

Felt good to be angry.

Idly crossed his fingers that it would incinerate him from the inside out so that he wouldn’t have to feel any of it anymore.

He shouted a few more things. Not entirely sure what. His ears were ringing too loudly for him to hear his own voice.

When Ed turned to leave, Izzy fired his last shot.

“Your mother would be ashamed of you.”

That made him stop mid-step. There was a visible flinch to his shoulders, even if Izzy couldn't see his face. It was true, too. They both knew it.

But Eddie didn’t turn back.

“Well,” he said, keeping his tone infuriatingly blank. “Guess that’s that then.”

Izzy will remember those words.

Will think about how, after everything, they were so disgustingly inferior and weak and pathetic that they weren’t even worth the breath wasted on speaking them.

He’d never felt so small.

So…worthless.

Like he was nothing.

Like he was no one.

He let out a strangled, agonized shriek of rage before ripping off his wedding ring, hurling it out into the hallway, and slamming the door shut with such force that it rattled in its frame. He stood there for a moment - dragging in lungful's of deep, trembling air - before the first, howling sob forced its way out of his throat and he collapsed into a shaking heap on the floor, tears overflowing, noises never ceasing until his voice eventually gave out.

Outside, the sun set and rose and forced him into a new day.

But Ed wasn’t there to greet it with him.

Chapter 7: shy away | "don't circle the track, just break the cycle in half"

Notes:

hello everyone! I do hope you're all doing well (despite the state of. Everything) and doing your best to keep yourselves and those around you safe and supported. drink water, pack a to-go bag in case you need to leave in a hurry, don't ever stop fighting, be kind, and have hope.

reminder that people's ages in this fic don't necessarily match the canon show ages, if that makes sense

side note but if anyone is also reading TROIH there IS another chapter coming soonish, I'm doing my best to get it out, writers block has just been kicking me around like a tin can and I'm trying to get back into the swing of things with it ^^"

A month goes by.

Stede, for all intents and purposes, seems to keep his word.

They catch glimpses of them at the market a couple of times; Stede eagerly checking out the available produce with Edward trailing along behind, looking simultaneously overstimulated and as though he's a lost child.

Once, their eyes made fleeting contact.

Ed took a hesitant step forward.

Izzy turned away.

Out of his peripheral vision he saw Stede very firmly take him by the elbow and lead him in the opposite direction.

So…Saturday's aren't ruined.

Even if his stomach churns a little bit while eating his dumplings, he's still able to buy his licorice and honey and get home without a fuss.

That's something.

Stede himself pops into the shop once more, but only - as Izzy requested - to let him know that the lighthouse had been safely delivered to Mary's doorstep. She had been delighted, so he said, and had found a place to display it almost immediately. It makes Izzy glad that he let him purchase it for her. Even if this whole situation is a tangled, complicated mess, at least someone out there is enjoying looking at their art.

John and Frenchie, whose room has the best viewpoint into the neighboring backyard, report that Ed and Stede appear to be attempting the beginnings of a garden. It doesn't quite make sense, no offense to them - perhaps Stede possessed a green thumb, or Ed had developed one over the years - but neither seemed the type of person to willingly get dirty. Perhaps they only wanted to grow flowers; those were easier than growing fresh produce. Or maybe they'd been sneaking peeks over the fence, and had become inspired. Izzy's quietly confident that they won't be able to achieve what their household has managed to. It had taken a lot of time and effort, trial and error, to get the bountiful cornucopia they had right now.

That, and the special spray that Buttons provides them with.

They're still not entirely sure what's in it.

People report any sightings to the group chat, like the two of them are an elusive species everyone is trying to keep tabs on. Monitoring their whereabouts to avoid confrontation wherever possible.

They just left the bakery, from Roach, only five minutes before the usual workplace lunch run. Good timing. Bought a loaf of rye, an orange poppyseed cake, and a little treat each. I have nothing but contempt for Edward but even I will admit that I've never seen someone inhale a custard slice so quickly.

They came by the stall, from Zheng once one of the markets had wrapped up. Stede is aggressively polite but something makes me think he could be a bitch if he wanted to be. In a good way, I mean. There was hesitation after that - triple dots continually appearing and disappearing while she deliberated on the next message - before finally deciding to hit send. Edward was kind of sad. Made some comment about how you'd be really happy, Fang, because you love pork bao. I don't think he meant to say it. Don't even know if he realized.

Izzy and Ivan got to watch in real time as Fang read the message, frowned before looking guilty, and kept himself deliberately busy for the next half hour before working through whatever emotions were running through his head and replying to her.

He's right - I do love your pork bao! Going to yours and Auntie's stall is always the best part of a Saturday :)

So lovely on the surface, but he was quiet for the rest of the day. Just went to show how easy it is to pretend to be fine as long as you've got a screen to do it through.

Izzy's not sure how he's going to feel on Valentine's Day - he used to despair of it, those first few years after Ed leaving, but now it's just another bittersweet ache to manage. It's helped by the fact that the singles in their friend group insist on turning it into Palentine's Day instead.

“Why should they have all the fun?” Frenchie had insisted however many years back, when first floating the idea to his skeptical audience. “We've got love to give, so let's give it to each other!”

So despite the old ache - which is even stronger this year, unsurprising considering that the cause of it is living next door - it's still a rather enjoyable, albeit slightly hectic day.

It's their household of five plus Roach, who brings the baking, and Auntie, who - despite thinking the original holiday is a load of corporate rubbish, which Izzy's inclined to agree with - is a business tycoon at heart, and can't resist a rousing game of Monopoly.

Rousing probably isn't the right word.

Chaotic might be better.

They've combined two sets together in order to make the board bigger, and to make sure that there's enough money to go around.

There's almost always an argument broken by rock-paper-scissors over who gets which playing piece. It would make it easier if they took the same ones each time, but Frenchie likes to ‘jazz up’ his playing experience.

Neither Ivan nor Frenchie are allowed to be the banker because they cheat.

Auntie isn't quite as obvious, but - if she gives slightly less than what she owes and you don't notice - she's certainly not going to point it out.

Roach continually makes the mistake of spreading himself too thin and buying too many properties, which he inevitably has to start selling around mid-game when he realizes he's low on funds.

John’s focus is always on getting his properties to be worth as much as possible, to the point where he toes the line between ‘risky financial investment’ and bankruptcy.

Fang’s just here to have fun. He has to be, because he’s got a real knack for constantly throwing doubles and landing himself in jail.

Honestly, Izzy thinks he's the most sensible out of the bunch.

Often they’ll argue, but it’s only ever light-hearted; even when raising their voices, they’re laughing all the while. Izzy was scared of any form of arguing or confrontation for a long, long time - couldn’t stand shouting, couldn’t cope with the feelings it brought up - but this is different. This is banter. Compared to what he’d grown used to all those years ago, this is a relief. They never make him feel like he can’t breathe. He loves that they can do this with each other.

This year, the game goes on long enough that they have to order takeout for dinner. The fact that Roach doesn’t even object to non-homemade pizza speaks volumes. It gets down to him and Izzy, battling it out for the metaphorical crown while their audience watches the board, captivated, but ultimately Roach’s method of purchasing en masse is his downfall yet again. Too many properties, too little investments; when he lands on one of Izzy’s properties, upgraded to the max, there’s just nothing he can do but concede a humble defeat.

He might huff and swear and immediately demand a rematch, but Izzy’s sure the good intent is there.

And, he’ll later realize once he’s in bed - for a whole afternoon and evening since their new neighbors moved in - he didn’t think about Edward once.

 

---

 

That very quickly changes the following morning.

He goes for his morning walk as usual. The weather is nice, the ocean is welcoming. A picture of the peach-colored sky is sent to the group chat to be appraised later when everyone else is awake. And he’s on his way back - thoughts idly wandering, minding his own business - when there’s a sudden commotion from up ahead at Ed and Stede’s house. It’s usually the one place he hurries to pass but, in this instance, his footsteps slow out of impulsive curiosity.

Neither of them are ever awake at this hour, that he’s aware of. Ed was never an early riser, and Stede seems the type of man to wear a silk eye mask and sleep in until well after sunrise. But there’s definitely a noise - more of it, the closer he approaches, like things are being knocked over - and as he stops outside of the front gate, stuck between flight and freeze mode, he hears a back door open and shut.

Something large and furry gallops around the side of the house.

Mitzy’s eyes are alight with mischief as she runs - leaps - and hauls her bulk up onto the wooden fence, flecks of dirt decorating her large white paws. Her long, curled whiskers almost appear to be quivering as she turns back to stare at the little path she just came from. Ed rounds the corner looking like he’s just crawled out of bed; hair messy, one side of his face creased from his pillow, clad in seemingly nothing but a dressing gown and decoratively embroidered slippers. He’s muttering under his breath - you’re an absolute little creature, coming in here, fucking around with our plant pots - but pulls up short, body snapping to attention and eyes going wide when he realizes that Izzy is standing there, watching him.

They stare at each other.

Izzy tries to keep his face impassive, while hating himself for the traitorous little thought of fuck, he’s still so beautiful.

Ed does nothing to hide the emotion on his own. Pain, grief, fear, wonderment; they’re all there on full, unashamed display.

An hour goes by.

In actuality it’s only about ten seconds or so, but that’s what it feels like.

Ed shuffles his feet slightly - seemingly doesn’t know what to do with his hands - takes in a deep breath and, much to Izzy’s horror, looks as though he’s about to speak.

No.

No, no, no.

Not ready, not ready, no-

Mitzy butts him in the arm with her head, mewing and demanding attention.

He takes the opportunity and runs with it.

“You alright, Mitzy?” he says, turning his full attention to her, and out of the corner of his eye he can see the wind absolutely deflate from Ed’s metaphorical sails. It hurts just as much as it feels good. He pushes forward despite the bittersweetness. “Getting up to a bit of trouble, are we? Good girl.” She rubs the side of her jaw along his fingers and lets out a deep, rusty purr when he scratches under her chin. “You want some breakfast?” he asks, and both her eyes and ears perk up at the mention of the word. “Yeah? Come on, then.”

Without looking back in Ed’s direction, he forces his feet to walk away. Mitzy drops down and trots along beside him, her plumey tail waving in the air like a flag. She noses his hands while he uses the designated towel to wipe away the sand on his feet, and mews impatiently while he unlocks the door and steps inside. His skin is prickling, a slight tightness taking up residency behind his ribcage, but he still manages to function enough to fix her a plate with some leftover chicken and a dribble of cream. Spoilt little stray.

He sets the plate down out on the porch, since she refuses to step foot indoors, and casually puts his head on an angle that allows him to see next door out of his peripheral vision. Ed’s gone back inside. Good. He’s sent him a message, and that’s…that’s good. Really good. So good, in fact, that it’s made him feel like complete and utter shit.

It’s been awhile since he’s crawled into the comfort of Fang’s bed. The other man stirs - half opens one eye when he feels the cool, quivering bedroom intruder snuggle in next to him - but says nothing, just hums in acknowledgement before slipping back into a doze. Izzy doesn’t sleep, although he does try to close his eyes for a bit. It doesn’t help. He just keeps seeing Edward’s face.

After half an hour or so, once the room is a bit lighter, Fang stretches and yawns and bundles Izzy closer, pressing his cheek to the top of his head.

“Not a good morning?”

“I saw Ed.”

Fang stiffens slightly beside him.

“I was coming back,” Izzy continues quietly, trying not to think too hard as he does so, “and I stopped outside of their house, because I heard a noise. It was Mitzy. She must have been doing something in the backyard. Anyway, she ran around to the fence and Ed followed her - woke him up, I guess - and we just sort of…looked at each other. For a bit. Before he tried to say something.”

“What did he say?” Fang asks gently.

And now, Izzy feels a prickle of embarrassment stain his cheeks a pale pink. “He didn’t get a chance to say it. I, um…I started talking to Mitzy instead.”

There’s a beat of silence between them. Izzy can feel a slight tremble in Fang’s shoulders, and realizes that he’s trying hard not to laugh. The absurdity of what he’s just said begins to dawn on him, too. You’re married to someone for over two decades, you go through a horrendously messy divorce, they move in next door fifteen years later, and when your ex-husband finally gets you alone and potentially tries to give an apology speech…you don’t let him, because you start talking to a cat, instead.

It didn’t feel like something to laugh about, at the time. Didn’t feel funny at all.

But it does sound a bit ridiculous when you put it that way, doesn’t it?

So he lets out a little snort - his own shoulders begin to shake - and Fang takes it as permission to burst out into giggles. It’s a lot better than crying. Better than wallowing in what is actually going to be quite a good story to tell over breakfast. And it’s over, he thinks; the moment is gone, he made it quite clear that he didn’t want to talk, and hopefully that would be enough to keep Edward at bay for a while.

He’s wrong.

The next morning, on his way back from the beach, he swears that he sees the curtain twitch upstairs.

The morning after, he’s sure of it.

This goes on for almost a week, and then - like he’s been trying to pluck up the courage all that time - the front door opens as Izzy reaches the gate.

Izzy doesn’t stop to look. Just quickens his pace and doesn’t stop until he’s home.

That happens for two more days, and then stops.

It’s not a cause for celebration.

Because when Izzy goes to leave the beach, he finds that Edward Teach has fucking followed him.

Is sitting on the dunes, watching him, looking anxious and scared and once again like a shy, lost little boy.

Izzy fixes him with a glare that should, theoretically, burn him alive - as it does, it makes Ed flinch - because no one, absolutely fucking no one, is allowed to ruin this for him.

Edward gets half of the message.

Next morning, he’s sat at one of the picnic tables over the dunes, away from the beach itself and one of many scattered around the place. Out of Izzy’s line of sight when he’s having his time in the water, but there when he crests the tiny hill and begins walking the path back home. Like that’s a fucking compromise.

The bastard doesn’t even say anything.

Just watches, hopeful - like he’s waiting, desperate for Izzy to make the first move - and then the light is snuffed, his shoulders slump forwards with a sigh, and he trails Izzy at a distance while they return to their respective houses.

Izzy doesn’t blame Stede for this. Knows that Ed can only put up with a metaphorical leash for so long before he starts testing his limits, trying to break the restraints. Stede can’t keep tabs on him twenty four hours a day; might not even know what Ed’s doing or, if he does, might well be thoroughly disapproving of it.

He’s angry at Eddie for intruding on his daily ritual, yes.

But he’s also furious with himself.

Because he doesn’t tell him to stop.

At no point does he make it explicitly fucking clear that this type of behavior is not okay because, well…it feels a little bit good. Not in a good way. Good in a very much bad way. A mean way, a selfish way. Let Edward run himself a bit ragged, Izzy thinks to himself, knowing full well it’s twisted reasoning. Let him keep being disappointed. Give him a taste of what it fucking feels like, being desperate for someone to talk to you - asking for crumbs, asking for anything - and not getting any of it. Let him get nothing until he gives up.

He’s convinced that Edward will. Give up, that is. That he’ll eventually tire of this unspoken game that they’re playing - this bitterly distorted version of cat and mouse - and eventually, he’ll stop. He’ll get the message. He’ll stop.

Once again, Izzy is wrong.

Yawning and evidently sleep deprived, Ed follows him.

Even in a drizzle, Ed follows him.

The weather turns oddly cold for a few days, but Edward follows him - just wraps himself up a bit tighter in a thick, fluffy dressing gown.

Follows him - sits down at that bloody picnic table - and waits.

It’s exactly his brand of the Edward Teach stubbornness, and Izzy hates it. Loves it. Has missed it for over fifteen years. Doesn’t know what to do now that he’s faced with it again.

The others know. Of course he’s told them. They were all concerned, at first, about what it might do to him, but…they’re less so, now, because he’s actually handling it rather well. No breakdowns, no urges. Edward may have initiated this, but he’s essentially given Izzy full control over the situation, and that helps. Most people tell him that the best thing to do would be to tell him to stop. Don’t let the cycle continue, don’t keep circling the same track.

He nearly does.

Nearly convinces himself to break it.

But then there’s a morning where the sunrise is brilliant; looks like molten fire along the horizon, streaking through thick clusters of cloud and draping them all in brilliant gold. Probably means it’ll rain later. For now, though, it’s beautiful - it’s exquisite - and when Izzy drags himself away from the view, makes his way over the dunes, he almost trips over his own feet and smacks face first into the ground.

Ed’s on the picnic table. On the actual tabletop itself, not the seats, which is usually something to tell people off about, but…oh, he’s a fucking vision. Leaning back on his hands, fingers splayed across the wood, head tipped skyward and curls cascading over his shoulders. He’s enraptured by the view - eyes big and doe-like, lips slightly parted - and he’s so captivated by the scene above him, that he doesn’t even notice Izzy for the moment.

He takes that moment, because he’s a selfish bastard, to look at him.

He’s so beautiful that it hurts.

And then Eddie realizes that he’s there; turns to him with slight surprise in his expression but, for the most part, his face stays the same.

Keeps staring at Izzy the way he was staring at that sunrise.

It’s too much to handle.

He doesn’t run home, but it’s a very near thing.

Curls up into the safety of Fang’s bed again, lets the warmth soak into his bones, and lies - says it was something he thought about, nothing to do with Ed following him. Because he’s awful - and he’s selfish - and he thinks, maybe - hopefully - completely against his will - that there’ll be another chance to look at him like that again.

It’s wrong, he knows.

But he doesn’t tell him to stop.

And so the cycle continues.

 

---

 

“Stop it. Stop - stop moving. Stop. Sto-o-o-p. Stop rotating. Stop - yes, good, stay still, stay - nobody fucking breathe, okay?”

“You’re literally the only one talking,” Izzy points out, and is immediately shushed. He watches Lucius circle around the new rounded glass design hanging in the window - born from one of the sketches that he didn’t end up using for the honey wives, altered enough so that they’re not too similar - which is apparently misbehaving while he tries to take promo shots. Izzy quite likes this one, actually. He likes the challenge of insect legs, and attaching them to something that isn’t one of the beetles they carry in stock. People will like that they can ask for specific flower colors. These ones are pink, but he’s experimented with shades of blue and white that go down a treat. The transparent background was definitely the right choice; it makes everything else stand out. This is all lost on Lucius at the moment, of course. He always temporarily loses love for the pieces that refuse to stay still.

“There,” he says with no small amount of satisfaction. “I reckon that’s enough. You don’t pay me enough for this, by the way.”

“We don’t pay you at all,” Izzy says, while Fang giggles and says, “Come and show us, then!”

Ivan drifts over once Lucius has placed his phone on the table, swiping through the different photos and getting their opinion on each. Personally, Izzy thinks that they’re mostly all good - not that he knows a huge amount about photography - but there’s always at least ten or fifteen options that they have to cut down to a maximum of five. Lucius and Fang are the ones who know about advertising, not him. It’s easier to let them take the reins and figure out which angles look the best for each piece.

“Alrighty, I’ll get those posted now,” Lucius says, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the side of Izzy’s. When Izzy brushes them off, they just get determinedly plonked onto his lap instead. He sighs, decides it’s not worth it, and lets them stay.

Which means all of him will stay.

Lucius has a habit of this, on the slower days when he’s craving company. Even if he’s not doing anything business related, he’ll swing by with some excuse - or no excuse at all, he’ll just walk in like he owns the place - make himself comfortable, and spend a few hours chatting away about whatever comes to mind. It’s been going on long enough that he’s even got a sign to put up on the door of his own shop; If the store is closed with no one inside, check next door in the stained glass studio. Last April Fool’s Izzy had added on in pencil underneath, I’m probably chewing their ears off. Lucius had tried to rub it out, but there was still a faint indent of each letter.

He updates their website, posts the photos to their social media, and then - a few minutes after announcing so - lets out a curious little, “Oh?”

Fang turns to him from where he’s manning the desk, tilting his head in silent question while the other two look at him.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that I’ve just found Mary. She’s posted a picture and tagged the studio account.” Then he lets out a small, huffy laugh. “I should start slipping my own business cards in with yours. I'd love some more attention.”

Izzy feels an odd sensation in his guts - like they’re wriggling around, making themselves nervous - but it’s not an unfamiliar feeling, so he pushes the feeling back down.

“Are you sure?” Ivan asks, shifting out of his seat to grab some of their packing equipment. “We’ve had a few lighthouses sell in the last few weeks.”

“Definitely sure,” Lucius replies, nodding. “She’s done it with her own store account. Her name is in the business’s name.”

“What’s she said?”

“Just that it’s a really good piece - no, sorry, I’ll use her words, it’s phenomenal - genuinely that’s what she’s said, phenomenal craftsmanship - really blowing smoke up your asses, obviously-”

Izzy rolls his eyes and snorts.

“-and that it’s a really lovely gift to give someone, so people should check you out. I mean, I’ve got that covered, I check you all out everyday, but there’s a lot of positive feedback from everyone who’s commented.”

“That’s very nice of her,” Fang says happily, eyes scrunching at the corners.

“Shall I post a response?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Usual stuff? Glad she likes it, looks great where it is, etcetera?”

“Mhm.”

Lucius’s thumbs dart across the screen while he types - pauses while he reads it over - and posts. Then he looks thoughtful for a moment, tapping his fingers idly on the back of his phone. “Should I go snooping?”

“What, through her photos?”

“Through her art account.”

Fang pauses, thinks for a moment, and then shrugs.

Lucius glances at Izzy, who mimics the gesture. Can’t hurt, he supposes. It’s only an art account.

Thus the snooping commences - although it can’t really be called that, can it, when the account is public - and, as Lucius idly narrates what shows up, he turns his screen around every so often to show off a piece that’s particularly taken his fancy. There’s certainly an abstract, raw edge to some of her newest pieces, in the way that each brush stroke feels very intentional, and the way that some places are left unblended to let colors sit boldly next to each other. A lot of them revolve around florals and artistic nudes, like she’s got a fascination for both kinds of natural beauty. Her throwback posts are fun; they much more resemble the lighthouse painting Stede showed him when he came in. Izzy likes those ones best. Reminds him of their own work.

And then, Lucius goes quiet.

That should have been the first indicator that he was getting up to no good.

The small furrow between his brows should have been the second.

If nothing else, the startled yelp that suddenly slips out of his mouth is a blatant giveaway.

He slaps a hand over his mouth, like he’ll somehow be able to take back the noise, but it’s too late; three pairs of eyes are looking at him, while his entire face speaks of guilt and trepidation.

Izzy frowns slightly. “What did you find?”

“Nothing,” Lucius says, far too quickly.

His frown deepens.

“Nothing you want to see,” he carries on, still with that nervous babbling tone. “Honestly, I shouldn’t have been digging that far, I shouldn’t have found - hey! No, don’t!” he exclaims as Ivan - who had been quietly sidling up behind him - reaches over his shoulder to pluck the phone from his hand and retreats to the other side of the room. He stares at the screen, his own expression shifting into a frown of obvious confusion.

“Who is-” he begins to ask, and then cuts himself off as his eyes start reading something. He’s quiet for a moment before lowering the phone, like he’s unable to look at it anymore, and regretting ever taking it in the first place.

“Who’s who?” Fang questions.

“Nothing. No one.”

“But-”

“Let’s just leave it, Fangy, please-”

Izzy holds out his hand.

The room goes silent.

“Ivan,” he says softly. “Give me the phone.”

“I don’t think you should-”

“Give me,” he repeats slowly, adding emphasis to each word, “the phone.”

He hesitates - opens his mouth to speak, snaps it shut again - and very evidently thinks that this is an exceptionally bad idea as he reluctantly hands the phone over. Izzy places it on the table, staring down at the screen and trying to make sense of it. He feels Fang move closer to hover over his shoulder.

It’s a photo. With people. Six of them, to be exact. Out for breakfast. Lunch. Brunch, maybe. Does it matter? It doesn’t matter.

Eddie’s one.

Stede’s another.

There’s also a man with a light blue paint stain on his shirt - a woman with a slightly messy brown braid over her shoulder - another woman, younger, maybe in her early twenties, with her sandy blonde hair pulled up into a loose ponytail - and a boy, the youngest of the lot, maybe eighteen, who looks similar enough to be her brother. The young woman is the one taking the photo. Selfie. It doesn’t matter. She’s beaming. The woman has been caught mid-laugh. The man has a pleasantly happy smile on his face. The boy looks slightly embarrassed, like he doesn’t enjoy being on camera. Ed’s got his nose scrunched up, poking out his tongue. Stede’s looking at her like he’s the proudest man in the world.

That’s not enough to cause this kind of reaction.

His hand trembles slightly as he scrolls lower.

Celebrating my birthday with the people I love most in the world. I couldn’t ask for a stronger, more resilient mother - a funnier, headstrong little brother - and I am so, so lucky to have not one dad, but three of them who compliment each other so well! Doug is steady, and he’s always ready to be my rock - Eddie’s my wildchild father, always full of adventure and life advice - and Dad has helped to shape me in so many ways, teaching me the importance of never letting other people dictate who I want to be. Love you all so much. Can’t wait to see where our next adventures take us ♡

Izzy stares at the screen. Processing. Not understanding. Someone puts their hand on his shoulder - Fang, maybe - but he flinches so violently that they quickly remove it. Going into the comments section is probably a very bad idea. Lucius lets out a soft, barely audible groan when he does it anyway.

The first comment he sees is from a man who, judging by the tiny glimpse of his profile picture, is the same man from the photo. Doug. So proud to have you in my life, sweetheart. It’s an honor to watch you grow and change and reinvent yourself, and I’m so excited to see where life will take you and be a part of that journey. It’s sweet. Sickeningly sweet. Sweet enough to make his teeth ache, to make his chest ache from never having had anything close to that in his childhood.

The next comment - again by going by profile pictures - is the woman with the braid. Alma my darling - my steadfast, independent girl - you and Louis are by far the most wonderful things that I have ever created, and ever will create. Love you to the moon and back, and then some xx. Again, it’s sweet - so sweet - but there’s something itching in the back of his brain, like his frazzled mind is having trouble with putting pieces of a puzzle together, and he feels himself go rigid when they finally click.

The username has Mary in it.

Mary.

This girl - this Alma - named Ed and Doug.

She didn’t call Stede by his first name.

Called him Dad because that’s what he is.

Stede has children - two children - two children with Mary, his friend - his friend who would adore the stained glass lighthouse, who has it on display in her home - he’s got two children with her - oh shit, he can see the resemblances now - he is a dad - no wonder he looks so fucking proud - and he is married to Ed, which means that - which means that he's-

Izzy doesn’t actually remember standing up. Doesn’t recall leaving through the back door, hurrying to get away from the voices calling worriedly after him. Only comes to his senses when he realizes that he’s walking - seeing his feet place themselves one after another, completely independent of instruction - and begins to register where that dark, repressed part of his brain is trying to take him.

Jackie wouldn’t let a single drop past his lips, he knows, and he loves her for that.

But he’s back in control now - grabs hold of the wheel, hauls himself to a halt - and pivots, striding off towards the paths that will lead him to the beach.

The sun is warm. He doesn’t have anything to drink. Doesn’t feel up to buying anything - facing people - so he tries not to think about it. Focuses on getting to the dunes, taking off his shoes and socks, and making his way down the sandy slope. There are people around, yes, but not as many now that they’re in the middle of February. Most of the tourists have gone home. He walks ankle-deep in the shoreline. His eyes are stinging, not from sand or sea spray. The breeze smells like salt. Brine. He breathes it in deep and tries not to cry. Tries to figure out why this particular discovery is affecting him so much.

His feet carry him down the beach, to the outer edge of this side of town. Not as many houses, not as many people. Locals or strangers. Doesn’t matter. There’s a friend, here. It’s not the first time Izzy’s seeked him out in times of emotional trouble.

The house is small. Looks a bit dilapidated, but the bones are good and strong. The paint is weathered, the wood faded, and looks as though it’s been plucked from some fairytale fishing village. Little wooden deck - the boards are a bit warped, but there’s enough room to house a small table and two mismatched chairs - with an overhang for shade, decorated with windchimes made of seashells and old discarded netting washed up by the beach.

He climbs up the three rickety steps and raises his fist to knock on the door.

It opens before he gets a chance.

“Ah,” Buttons says, in the tone of someone's who's just discovered the answer to some unknown question. “Had a feeling I'd be getting a visit from one of ye today. Wasn't sure who, but me waters don’ lie. Come on,” he adds in a cheerful tone, taking Izzy by the shoulder and guiding him to the porch table. “Sit down, make yerself comfortable. Soup's almost done.”

Izzy's not in the headspace to try and figure out the magic of Buttons.

Is fairly confident that no one will ever figure out the magic of Buttons.

But he is able to understand food - and comfort - and the strange healing properties of silent company. That's how they end up having lunch together; mopping up soup with homemade bread, listening to the waves gently crashing against the shoreline, and the quiet clacking of the chimes above them. Whatever sobs had been rising in his chest on the way over have been quelled. Receded like the tide, ebbing and flowing as they so often do when he's in this state. He doesn't cry - not enough to prevent him from eating - but he does have to reach up to rub at the corners of his eyes every minute or so. At some point he remembers to message someone to let them know that he's safe, but doesn't wait to see the response before putting his phone away.

Time passes.

Izzy gets hold of himself, and then his voice.

“Ed's a step-dad.”

Buttons says nothing, staring out to sea, but nods slightly to show that he's heard.

“Lucius found out. You remember how Stede bought that lighthouse piece for Mary, yeah? He found her art account online, and then - well, I don't know what he did - but he found her daughter. She'd posted this photo with…with them. Her and Mary and her brother and…and Stede, and Ed, and…and Mary's partner, maybe, I don't know…”

He lets out a gusty sigh. Tries to get his words together.

“Stede is her dad. Her and her brother's. They all looked really happy. She - the daughter, I mean - she said really nice things about everyone. Said that Ed had given her a lot of life advice. I think…that he really must be different. Must have changed. Because if he hadn't - if he was still like he was - I don't think Stede would have married him. Don't think he or Mary would want a step-parent to not be good with their kids. And it's - it's just-”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, emotions building back up in the base of his throat.

“It's a lot to take in. Something about seeing that, it's…it's really hitting home that so much time has passed. There are so many parts of him that I don't know, now. He might be a whole different person. Might not be how I remember him. He looked so…so happy, in that photo, like he…like he belonged there, and…and he does, doesn't he? He's got a whole life. A whole family. It's just…” He sighs again. “It's a lot to take in.”

His eyes are still focused on the ocean, but Izzy can tell that Buttons is taking in this information and pondering it piece by piece. More time passes. Eventually he leans back in his chair, feet coming to rest upon an upturned pot plant.

“It is a lot to take in,” he agrees, nodding solemnly. “An’ I imagine that Edward is feeling much the same way, if yer able to take any comfort from that.”

That throws him a bit. “What?”

“Well, lad, yer feeling this way over one photo, aye? An’ that's fair - that's fair - but he saw that wi’ ye the first day he arrived, an’ he's been seeing it everyday since.”

Izzy lets that sink in, and discovers…well, it's not wrong.

On day one, Ed had to take in a lot of information, didn't he? His ex-husband and old friends were next door - had been there for over a decade, had built a life for themselves in this wonderful seaside town without him - had obviously made connections, made a family, that didn't involve him - and all of that has been staring at him straight in the face ever since.

The difference, Izzy realizes, is that Edward isn’t shying away.

He’s forcing himself to stare at it, every single day when he follows him to the beach.

Izzy doesn’t know how to feel about that.

Doesn’t really know what to feel at all.

“I know you wan’ to feel ready to talk to him,” Buttons continues gently, “but at some point, it will happen. Avoidin’ will never work. Not in the long run. Neither of ye can keep up the dance forever, an’ at some point…you'll both have to come to terms wi’ the fact that yer not entirely the same people that you were all those years ago. Nothing to do but accept it an’ move forward.”

It's not the first time that Buttons has rivaled all of his past therapists.

Surpasses them, in one case. No offense.

The man just happens to have the wisdom of someone who's lived a thousand years, and learnt every lesson along the way.

Izzy knows it's true, too.

Things can't carry on as they are.

It's not sustainable - not healthy - and eventually, unless something gives, something else is going to break.

Maybe he should be the one to break it.

He draws in a deep breath - tastes salt on the breeze, feels his resolve harden - and lets it out slowly.

“Thank you, Buttons.”

“Anytime, laddie.”

The two of them sit in companionable silence for a while longer and, all the while, Izzy comes to terms with what must happen.

They need to talk.

Chapter 8: cut my lip | "i keep on going back / even though it's me i abuse"

Notes:

hello all of you darling creatures, I hope you're keeping well despite these Trying Times. there's stressful times in our household at the moment BUT we keep doing our best, and keep on pushing through. drink water, take a nap, don't forget to take your meds + take care of yourselves <3

still debating whether to change the title lyrics to "rust around the rim, drink it anyway" or keep as is because both fit into this context really well. hmmm

content warnings; (this chapter is a lil bit darker than the others, as will the next flashback chapter be, so fair warning)
alcoholism/alcohol abuse, hospital/medical setting (for alcohol poisoning), s/icidal ideations (scattered throughout, rather than heavily focused on)

Fang and Ivan came to investigate. They had to because Izzy was always there to open the shop first, and they found it locked when they arrived. No message to say that he’d be late, which wasn’t like him, so they went to find him. There they found his own door unlocked - a cold and quiet house - and what resembled a human being curled up in the fetal position on the floor.

He'd cried himself out at some point. It’s not that he wanted to stop crying; it’s just that he had to wait for his body to replenish its stores. It didn’t occur to him that he was dehydrated, and that was why he was having such a hard time producing any form of emotional liquid. Nothing was really occurring to him at all. His mind - at least for a sweet few hours, anyway - had succumbed to a state of total blankness. It couldn’t tell him that his back was hurting because, in that moment, he hardly remembered that he had any bones at all.

Then all of a sudden there were voices - people touching him, trying to sit him upright - and it made his brain kick into a sluggish first gear. He recognized Fang’s worried face, Ivan’s steady hands holding him up despite the rush of dizziness coursing through his body, and - and - and - he started thinking - started feeling - started remembering that Eddie was - that Eddie had-

Dehydration or not, the tears came back in torrents.

He could hardly give a proper explanation, but he managed to garble out enough words that eventually made sense.

Edward is gone, Edward has left, Edward Teach has packed a bag and left, he has left Izzy, he has gone somewhere else, he is going with someone else, there is someone else and he is leaving Izzy to be with him-

Things…happened. Afterwards. He remembers some of them. He doesn’t know if he remembers them in order, or if he just…remembers. His first therapist once told him that that was enough; the act of remembering, instead of repressing. Even if the timeline might be helter-skelter, what matters is that he’s aware that they happened.

He’s quite sure that there are things that he’s forgotten, too.

Forgotten, or that his memory never bothered to commit to itself.

Ivan packed Izzy’s own bags while Fang sat with him, trying to coax something drinkable into his numb body. It genuinely could have been water, or it could have been tea, or it could have been anything. He thinks he drank some of it. Then they took him back to their place to stay for a few nights - or a week - or however long he needed, because they didn’t think he should be alone. Looking back, Izzy’s not sure if it would’ve made a difference; either place was a reminder that Ed was gone, so he would’ve started losing his mind no matter where he slept.

Of course, their friends had to be told. Anne and Mary were furious and heartbroken, because he’d seemingly cut them off as well; their calls wouldn’t go through, he didn’t try to contact them in any other way. They gave their sincerest sympathies while also nursing their own hurt over the situation. Steakie, for all that he was built like a brick shithouse, had a puppy-soft soul and was also wounded by what Ed had done, not just to Izzy but to everyone. Bill processed things in his own way, getting irritated from then on if Eddie’s name was ever mentioned, but his expression would turn melancholy whenever he thought no one was looking. All of them offered their support to Izzy. He’s got no idea what - if anything - he said to them in return.

The idea of work didn’t exist. The concept of getting up - going to their shop - making pieces as if nothing had happened, being in a space where Ed once simultaneously lit up the room and wreathed it in shadow - was inconceivable. It will be many, many years until he can pick up stained glass without feeling sick. Fang and Ivan, for the time being, downscaled the business enough to keep themselves afloat. They were holding out hope that Izzy would return, because they didn't know what was coming. That’s not their fault. None of them did.

Izzy still got a paycheck - albeit smaller, which was only fair since he contributed nothing during this period - but it didn’t really matter, because he could no longer afford the mortgage payments on his own and consequently had to sell the house.

This memory is a strange one, because he remembers nothing of it besides feeling.

Sharp, jagged, cutting emotions; the sensations of fear, of anger, of sorrow.

It’s not a memory he allows to resurface often.

Too afraid that he’ll slice his fingers if he tries to handle it too much.

Ed stopped by the shop a couple of weeks after leaving. Had left some stuff there, and wanted to collect it. Stede was in the car, waiting and watching. None of them knew what his name was back then; just that he was the one Ed had chosen over Izzy. It was only Ivan in the shop, because Fang had ducked out to get something. There was a fiercely heated one-sided argument, because Ivan was angry enough to indulge in multiple felonies, and Ed had chosen to keep his expression as impassive as possible. Uncomfortable, yes, but he gave nothing else away. Barely said two words other than asking for his belongings. Said nothing of if he was going to keep in touch, if they were leaving the city, anything. When told about Izzy not being able to afford the mortgage - this was before he’d sold the house, when he was still in the depths of despair and refusing to think of it as being a possibility - Ed had replied that he should do it. Sell it. Izzy could keep all the money, Ed didn’t want his half. It might have been guilt - comforting himself to think that he was leaving Izzy as financially stable as possible - or it might have been him trying to wash his hands of the last traces of their relationship. Who knows.

And then he left.

It will be fifteen years before they see him again.

So Izzy did sell the house, and properly moved in with Ivan and Fang. They had a spare room, they didn’t mind; all the better for keeping an eye on him. The funny thing - or unfunny, depending on how you wanted to look at this situation - perhaps ironic is a better choice of wording - was that despite the close proximity, no one noticed all of the little signs, at first.

Izzy was, quite bluntly, an emotional wreck. He wasn’t eating properly, wasn’t sleeping well in his empty bed, only thought about showering and shaving when someone prompted him into doing so. Most days were spent curled up in bed, or sitting and staring at the wall. He didn’t pay attention to anything on TV. Couldn’t stand music, couldn’t stand movies. Like his self-preservation was cutting himself off from all the things he loved, because they were so inexorably twined with Eddie that it hurt to even think about them.

Everything was such a blur during that time, he can’t even be quite sure when it truly began.

Was it when the whiskey started slipping its way into his morning coffee?

When it went from one glass to two to three in order to settle his head before bed?

Perhaps when he started intentionally stashing away the bottles he brought from the liquor store, so that no one else could touch them?

Would see them, would know about them, would try and tell him to stop?

There are some addictions that smack you upside the head and ruin your life right from the get-go, and there are others that sneak their way in and make themselves at home before you realize they’re there.

Alcoholism…crept up on him.

And it was easy for people to make excuses for him at the beginning, right? Poor bloke’s husband of two decades has just run off with some guy he’s known for all of five minutes, he’s had to sell their house, he’s upset and angry and mentally fucked up…of course he wants to have a drink, he deserves it after all that, let him get a bit wasted and forget about it all for awhile.

It’s not a good culture.

It’s toxic, in fact.

But if you get good enough at hiding booze in your room and sneaking in mouthfuls every chance you get, keeping that perpetual buzz going while it numbs the back of your skull and helps you to forget, you get good at hiding the toxic parts.

You hide it for as long as you can, because there’s not a problem, right?

There’s no problem.

I don’t have a problem.

I absolutely do not have a fucking problem.

Said to yourself on your way to buy more, said to yourself in the middle of the night when you’re drinking in the dark and crying over all the things you’ve loved and miss and are trying desperately to burn out of your system.

He hid it for as long as he could until one day, he couldn’t.

But by then it was too late.

And by then he didn’t care.

Things went from bad to worse, steadily heading south in the downhill slope he’d handcrafted for himself. He started going out, already well on his way to being drunk, and dragging himself home in the early hours of the morning, completely and utterly shitfaced and barely able to remember his own name. It was good. Felt good, not being able to remember things. People. Himself, most of the time. And the best cure for a hangover? Don’t let yourself get sober. Keep topping yourself up, and you won’t have to deal with those consequences.

There was a night when his feet were so unsteady that he tripped - fell - and found himself sprawled on the cold, hard ground, half on the footpath and half on the road. Idly, he wondered if a car would come and run him over. He wasn't afraid of this, and - if he'd had enough cognitive function to actually think - that little thought should have been setting off alarm bells. Maybe the police found him by chance - maybe someone called them - but he got hoisted into the back of a car, managed to not throw up on their seats, and somehow slurred out the address coherently enough to be taken home.

Fang and Ivan were worried sick.

First when he started going out, and then all of the time.

Every single minute of every single day, their fear grew.

They tried talking to him - tried to get their friends to talk to him - but the conversations never went well, and he’d storm off in a huff and come back pissed enough that they’d be too scared to try again in case they accidentally drove him into doing something stupid.

He did do something stupid, actually.

The stupid thing was driving.

He hates people who drink and drive. Hated them then, and hates them now - although he now feels a begrudging amount of sympathy for the ones who need help, because he understands what alcoholism can do to the mind. Law enforcement is very quick to brand you a criminal because you’re driving under the influence, and they’re right. You are. But hardly any of them ever stop to think about if you’re under the influence of an addiction, and even then, probably none of them would think to help. If they did, maybe the statistics wouldn’t be quite as bad.

So, he drove - or tried to, anyway - and he was incredibly fucking lucky that the road wasn’t busy, and that he only made it one mile before needing to pull over and throw up into a bush. Something…happened when he got back into the driver’s seat. Like a tiny, disconnected part of his brain was still functioning well enough to make him see his fumbling hands try to work the key, to start screaming that this was an awful, terrible, potentially life-threatening idea. To him, and to everyone around him.

Another part of his brain said that there was nothing stopping him from driving into a ditch.

A tree, or a wall, or wrapping himself around a power pole.

This thought was fleeting, but it was still there.

In time, he won’t remember if he actually had that thought, or if his subconscious is being strange and placing it there. Telling him what he thought at the time, when he was too wasted to know that he was thinking it.

Once again, the alarm bells were muffled by the booze in his bloodstream.

He’s fairly confident that someone did call the cops that time. When they pulled up beside him, they found him bawling his eyes out. Crying wasn't something he did as often, at that point; he either drank to push the emotion back down, or he let it build up until it exploded out of him like this. There were two of them - a man and a woman, if he remembers correctly - and the state of him was unexpected enough that they reacted with tentative kindness rather than harsh tones.

The car wasn’t locked, so they opened his door. He didn’t fight back when someone gently prised the keys from his shaking fingers. His face was wet and snotty enough for one of them to grab a wad of tissues, press them into his hands, and encourage him to mop himself up. They asked for his license - he said it was in his wallet - and when they asked where his wallet was, he looked to the passenger seat and started crying all over again because he thought he’d put it there, and now it was gone. It had actually fallen off and slid under the seat - the man found it after a quick search - but for whatever reason, it just made Izzy cry harder.

Doing a breathalyzer would have been useless; he could barely blow his own nose, let alone blow into a tube.

They hauled him out of his car and into the back of theirs. Did up his seatbelt, had someone in the back next to him to make sure he didn’t hurt himself. As if he obviously hadn’t done that already. Back at the station, they helped him into a cell - his legs could barely hold him, let alone allow him to walk in a straight line - and pulled his phone from his pocket so they could try and call someone. One of them coaxed him into drinking half a glass of water. They didn’t offer a full one, knowing that his shaking hands would have sloshed it all over the floor.

Fang and Ivan both came. They were kind. Ivan knew that he’d gone out without a jacket, and had brought one so he wouldn’t get cold on the ride home. Fang got tearful, and - although Izzy didn’t hear most of the conversation and processed even less of it - did his best to explain why he was in such a state. Not as an excuse, just for context. It didn’t stop the DUI, the suspended license, the car being impounded - and all of these things were completely fair.

They just didn't stop him.

What should have been a wake-up call was marred by Edward's birthday being the following week, so having no vehicle just meant a longer walk to the liquor store. That was the day he was arrested for being drunk and disorderly in public. He didn't hurt anyone, just kept trying to shove himself away from a couple of well-meaning strangers who tried to help. They only called the police because they were worried; they weren't expecting to see him slapped in handcuffs, and hauled back to the same station.

It was still Ed's birthday.

He was too much of a mess that night - howling and crying and carrying on like an animal - so they didn't call anyone to come and pick him up, only to let them know he was safe, and that it would be in everyone's best interest if he slept it off in the cell.

You can't sleep it off, though.

Same thing happened again a couple of weeks later. The soft song came on the radio - the one he and Eddie had their first kiss to, the one playing during the proposal - and that just sent him over the edge all over again. Another arrest, another night in the cell. Fang picked him up in the morning and tried - really, truly tried - to have another talk with him. Begged him to stop, told him how worried everyone was - but to Izzy, during that time, he barely heard it. What he did hear sounded like a joke. That voice was still running rampant in his intoxicated head; who the fuck could love him, if his own husband couldn't?

Looking back, the initial intent was obviously to get as drunk as possible in order to make existence a little easier.

Then - without him realizing, without him being aware of the shift - the intent became to cease existing altogether.

He was tired.

So, so tired.

And then things changed, yet again.

A breaking point, but not his own.

He went out to get drunk - nothing new.

He was trying to stumble his way home when a police car rolled up beside him - also nothing new.

It was that female cop. The one from the night he tried to drive. The one who'd been nice to him. She recognized his disheveled face, even remembered his name, and offered to drive him home. No point in taking him down to the station when he wasn't bothering anyone. Better to get him home so his friends could get him to bed.

In the vaguely functioning part of his mind, he was aware that something about him felt…different. Off. His eyes were somehow more unfocused than usual, his vision unusually distorted. It wasn't a particularly cold day, but his skin was breaking out in goosebumps. He was quiet, too. Holding his stomach, which had started to feel rather queasy. The woman's concerned gaze kept flicking to him in the rear view mirror. She managed to get him back to the house - Ivan saw through the window, and came outside - and they'd both gotten him to his feet for all of five seconds before he started to heave. Vomited all over the footpath. More than usual, and more violently, too.

Suddenly he was shaking. Suddenly his knees gave out. Suddenly he was sitting awkwardly on the tiny scrap of front lawn, black spots dancing around his vision while he tried to regain his breathing, except…it wasn't coming back to normal. Everything in his body felt sluggish, lungs included. Each breath was slow, and too far apart.

They didn't bother to ring for an ambulance.

They hauled him back into the car, she slapped on the siren, and Ivan did his utmost to keep him conscious.

He threw up a lot more once they reached the hospital - which was good timing, because no one had thought to grab a bucket, but they managed to get his head shoved into a toilet bowl before he could make a mess of the floor - and, wouldn't you know it, when a cop fronts up at A&E with someone, things move surprisingly fast.

That's not disrespect towards medical staff.

It's slight irritation because he got seen so quickly, when other people had probably been waiting a lot longer.

Most of the night was a blur. His blood got taken so they could determine how much alcohol was in his system. Spoiler alert, it was a lot. He was hooked up to an IV and some other complicated looking machine that continually monitored his vitals. Ivan was allowed to stay past visiting hours because Izzy responded to him more than the staff while they kept him awake until the danger passed. He felt exhausted, but they were afraid that he wouldn't just sleep - he'd be unconscious. If he'd drunk a bottle or two more, would've been in coma territory. That information won't mean anything to him until months later.

Fang wanted to come. Had cried over the phone when Ivan rang home, and insisted on driving over anyway, despite the fact that they wouldn't let him in. He was content to sit in the carpark and wait; at least that way, he'd be close if they needed anything. Ivan told Izzy this, while he coaxed him into taking sips of lukewarm water. Again, this won’t mean anything for a while; and then it will mean everything.

Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, they decided it was safe enough for him to sleep. Ivan was sent home to rest up, promising that he and Fang would be back as soon as they were allowed. They did, too, but Izzy was asleep for most of their visit, and through the following night. When he properly woke, he was ravenous - but not for food. It was the first time in…well, he had no idea how long, but his bloodstream was finally cleared of most - if not nearly all - traces of alcohol. His body did not like this. His groggy head throbbed in time with his pulse, his body ached all over, his skin was pale and clammy while it worked its way through sporadic bouts of shaking. The beast that he’d been feeding all this time opened its jaws, demanding sustenance and drowning out every other thought that struggled to make itself heard. He didn’t want food - he didn’t want rest - he didn’t want comfort or warmth or friendship-

he

wanted

a

fucking

drink.

A doctor sat on the edge of his bed, and - oh, fuck him - he was sober enough to hear them. Process what he was saying; that Izzy needed help, needed to stop this downward spiral because he was damaging himself - his heart, his liver, his brain - the damage could stop if he stopped too, if he gave his body the chance to rest and heal, because if he kept going as he was he was on a fast track to killing himself, and is that what he wanted?

Izzy did not respond in words, but he shrugged because this did not bother him.

It bothered the doctor greatly.

It bothered Fang and Ivan even more.

They couldn’t stop him from leaving. Three days in hospital was enough; they needed the bed, they needed him gone. Izzy knew what would happen upon discharge. He would be taken home, and there would be attempted talking - reasoning - begging - but there might also be an argument, and he was still terrified of those. Terrified of loud voices and the things people might say - of what he might say in return - and the consequences it could cause.

That dark, starving beast that had taken up residency in the back of his brain told him that he would end up hurting people. Would say the wrong things, because that’s all he’s good for - fucking up, and doing wrong. Why put them through that? Why make them suffer?

Useless, useless, useless.

Good for nothing.

Eddie’s gone. Eddie’s left.

Unlovable, unlovable, alone, alone, alone-

Quiet the voices.

Quiet your mind.

Have a drink.

Have a drink.

They don’t need this.

They don’t need you.

Have a drink.

He still had the clothes he’d been wearing when admitted, tucked in a little locker next to his bed. So he got changed in the early hours of the morning, spoke to no one, and left.

Still had his wallet and money to spend.

Was thoroughly hammered again by lunchtime.

Didn’t go home.

Wouldn’t go home.

Too scared to go home.

Slept on a park bench that night.

Maybe two nights, he’s not sure.

Time’s a funny thing when you’re intentionally making yourself intoxicated enough to barely remember your own name.

Got kicked out of somewhere for being too much to handle.

Kept finding himself with a bottle in his hand.

Anything to keep the beast at bay.

Anything to keep him from thinking about Eddie.

Steakie found him by chance, curled up in the mouth of an alleyway. Izzy didn’t even recognize his face at first, and how awful is that? This man had been his friend for years. This man went to his wedding. His wedding with Ed. He was married to Ed. Now Edward was gone, and he was alone, and he did - not - want - to - remember.

He was dragged back to Steakie’s house and had the bottle taken from him, regardless. It wasn’t much of a fight. Izzy was wasted, and Steakie was big enough to fold him in half like a paper plane. He and Eddie used to make jokes like that. Back when things were okay. This memory pierced through the fog - this memory hurt - and he cried because Steakie wouldn’t give the whiskey back, wouldn’t let him numb the feelings.

Izzy had no idea what was waiting for him. No idea that - while he’d been out on a continuos bender, night after night since leaving hospital - since he got fucking alcohol poisoning - people had been busy. People - his friends - his loved ones who still loved him, even if he did not believe this - had finally reached their own breaking points, and had been putting things in motion ever since he disappeared on the day of his hospital discharge.

He didn’t suspect anything when Fang and Ivan came to pick him up, but was very vaguely confused by Steakie’s choice of wording when hugging him - “I’ll see you in a while, yeah?” - before helping to load him into the car.

There was guilt once he was home and inside, but he felt no confusion by Fang and Ivan hugging him in turn. This was something that happened sometimes. If he’d been more aware of their expressions, he would have found plenty of things to make him feel unsettled. He would have felt their nervous energy, would have started questioning what was going on.

They made him have a shower. He was uncoordinated and stumbling like a newborn fawn, but he got himself clean. The water lessened his stupor enough that he was able to dry himself off, too. The clothes they left for him were comfortable - a loose cotton shirt and soft shorts, which were missing the drawstring, but he didn’t notice - and they coaxed him into brushing his teeth for the sake of rinsing the sour taste from his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d brushed them. Dental hygiene wasn’t high on his priority list.

“You know we love you, right?” Fang asked once he was out, to which Izzy automatically shook his head. Of course he didn’t. Those were just - words. Nice things you say to the creature you pity. He didn’t mean them.

“We care about you,” Ivan said, taking Izzy’s head between his hands and forcing him to make eye contact. “We want you to get better, yeah? And we want you to remember that. We’re doing this because we love you.”

His brain - still swimming - registered those words, tried to place meaning to them. Even the beast had perked up its ears, hackles slightly raised, but too inebriated to click context into place.

He was led to his room - gently pushed inside - and then the door was closed behind him.

Closed, and locked.

Such a quiet noise, which sounded so loud in the sudden silence.

For a few moments he stood there, swaying slightly, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

It was his room, but…not.

There was no bed, anymore - just a mattress, made up with no sheets and only blankets. A pillow with no case. No other furniture. No other belongings, besides a metal bucket. The handle had been removed. His curtains had been replaced; this, for the moment, surprised him more than anything. They used to be a sort of beige - they'd come with the house and not been replaced - but now they were black. Heavy-looking, too. Like you wanted to block the sun or noise or both. Then his bleary vision finally latched onto the things behind the curtains, and that made his brain start struggling to think clearer.

There were - bars.

Fucking - actual fucking metal bars - drilled into the wall, and blocking full access to them. You could open the window, you just couldn't use it to get outside.

To escape.

It was about that time that the realization started to sink in.

He turned, fumbling for the door handle, but it was locked. Of course it was. He heard them lock it. Then came the next realization - his door hadn't been able to be locked before. This was a new door. Much more solid, much harder to break down, and with a lock that could evidently only be used from one side. He stepped back a few feet, blinking in shock, taking it all in - and that's when he noticed the…the little glass circle about a quarter of the way down. Viewing height. Some sort of little peephole, so they could see in. Watch him.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck, oh no-

“Let…let me out?”

He couldn't help it coming out as a question. So baffled was he - and still quite drunk - that it was using a lot of energy to try and process everything. They weren't…they wouldn't actually do this, would they? This…this wasn't happening, right? Right? But they didn't answer right away, and so his panic spiked. “Guys, c'mon, fuckin’ - what's going on? Let me out.”

“We're sorry, Izzy,” came Fang's voice through the door, and he truly sounded as though he meant it. “We just couldn't think of any other way. We're so worried about you - that doctor who talked to you, too, he spoke to us and he was really scared that you might…that you might be trying to…you could end up…”

Here he'd trailed off, unable to continue for the moment, so Ivan took over.

“We're not going to stand by and let you ruin yourself,” he all but growled, and even in this state, Izzy's brain managed to register surprise at the fierce tone. “And yeah, we should have done something sooner - we should never have let this go on for as long as it has, and I hope one day you'll forgive us for that - but this is stopping now, whether you like it or not. If this is what we have to do to get you sober, then so be it.”

“We love you,” Fang added on, repeating his earlier sentiment. Contrary to Ivan, his voice sounded on the verge of tears. “And we're going to take care of you.”

Izzy stood there - alone, in the bare bones of his room - and said, “No.” He wasn't sure what he was refusing. The love, the care, or the terrifying prospect of sobriety. Being sober meant thinking and feeling and functioning, and these were things he didn't want to do. “No,” he said again, this time in a higher, more fearful pitch. “No, you can't - you can't do this.”

“Legally? No, we can't,” Ivan replied, far too calmly, as if he'd already thought this over. “But we're going to do it anyway. It's for your own good.”

Izzy was, simply put, completely fucking dumbfounded. Some distant part of his brain knew that they hated him drinking - were always upset, always frustrated and scared but unwaveringly gentle - but he'd never imagined that their patience would snap in this sort of way. He never thought…well, they were essentially keeping him prisoner, weren't they? Confined against his will?

There was still a hefty amount of alcohol coursing through his bloodstream, and now this was blending with anger.

Anger, and more fear.

“Let me out.”

“Not until you're sober and ready to get help.”

“Let - me - OUT.”

“Not until you're ready to-”

“FOR FUCK'S SAKE, YOU CAN'T DO THIS, NOW JUST FUCKING LET ME OUT!”

Silence, silence, silence.

And then - so softly, so sincerely - “We love you.”

Chapter 9: truce | "the sun will rise and we will try again"

Notes:

content warnings; talking about stuff from past chapters (mental health issues, alcoholism, brief mention of past s//cidal ideations)

very much trying to post chapters more frequently but I'm currently on meds for a ☆ suspected stomach ulcer ☆ and waiting to hear back about a scope referral that's been sent off so :) that while feeling the weight of the world has just had me a bit blegh over the past month or so. I'm trying to get back into the swing of things, though! aiming to get a new TROIH chapter posted in the next couple weeks, and there's another fic in the works for the domesticity au. feels good to be slowly but surely working my way through the writers block. if you're still here reading, I appreciate you very much ♡

as usual, comments are very welcome and beloved!

When Izzy leaves the house the following morning, it's with a stomach full of fear and determination.

He apologized to everyone for running off - just got overwhelmed, needed some space, the usual - but he hasn't told anyone about what he's going to do.

Try and do.

Because there's a very real possibility that this will all turn to shit, and he doesn't want to have to tell people he couldn't do it.

He's going to do his best, though.

He is going to try and be strong.

It's important that he's in control right now. That much is key. If he starts feeling too out of his depth, he's going to drown. Edward has been good - he knows it's not the right word, but can't come up with another - at allowing Izzy to be in charge of the situation, and in that he will not speak until he's spoken to. It's a better tactic than trying to force his company, and it means that - to a miniscule degree - Izzy is trusting him to keep that up.

Things can't keep going as they have been. He's established that already. What he's also decided, though, is that this rinse and repeat part of the morning ritual has to change. If he's taking charge, he's taking charge.

That's why when Ed peeks through the curtains to see if he's gone past, he's very obviously startled to find that Izzy has planted himself outside the front gate. His cautious optimism is back, brows pulling up in the middle slightly - fuck, Teach, don't do that, of course he's fucking weak for that - but Izzy forces his expression to remain neutral, if not slightly set in a frown.

They stare at each other for a long moment.

Eventually Izzy inclines his head, just slightly, but it's enough to tell Ed to follow.

He doesn't walk as far back, this time. Not close enough that they're side by side, but enough that Izzy can hear his breath. He fixes his gaze firmly on the path ahead, keeping his breathing in check, and trying to dispel the nerves writhing around in his chest.

When their feet touch beach grass, he turns on his heel to point at the picnic table. “Sit.”

The command is very willingly followed.

“Have you eaten this morning?”

This causes confusion. Ed's brows scrunch up now, head tilting slightly. “Um…no? Why-?”

Izzy pulls out an extra, smaller thermos from inside the pocket of his hoodie, as well as a pinwheel scone from the bakery he picked up yesterday after his lunch with Buttons. Ed won't care that it's a day old; Roach’s baking could last a millenia and still be good. He places both on the tabletop and pushes them towards him.

“Eat.”

“I don't un-”

“Eat,” he repeats, with a bit of extra growl. “You're terrible on an empty stomach.”

It's true - they both know it - so Ed pulls them closer; pushes open the top of the thermos, peeks inside of the paper bag. Satisfied that he'll probably devour the lot within the next two minutes, Izzy turns around again.

“Stay,” he calls over his shoulder, and heads up and over the dunes.

He needs this. Needs this before they talk; to soak the saltwater into his skin and use the clarity of the cold, familiar waves to try and unravel the tangle of emotions in his head. He's not running on entirely enough sleep - obviously he had trouble drifting off with so many things running through his head - but even after all of his overthinking, he's still unsure on what he wants to say. The old Edward could be…unpredictable. No telling where a conversation could lead. But this Edward? This older, grayer version of the man Izzy once knew? Is he the same? Is he different? And in either case, how? In what ways?

Izzy likes plans - and he likes routines - and he likes knowing.

This is…none of that.

It was never going to be.

The sky is cream and rosy pink and pale blue. Despite the situation at hand - or maybe because of it, as a means of distraction - he takes a photo of it and sends it to the group chat with the comment look Jim, it's you. They'll laugh, he knows. Maybe not so much when they find out he's decided to talk to Edward without putting supports in place, but…oh well.

He knows his way home, and he knows that if he walks the shoreline far enough the tide will lead him to Buttons, and that's enough.

Probably.

On second thought, he pulls out his phone again and shoots a quick text off to Fang. Gonna be late back this morning. If I'm not home by nine, please come and find me. Might lose track of time. Love you.

When he returns to the picnic table, the paper bag has been scrunched up into a ball. Ed's rolling it around with one hand, holding the thermos with the other and taking intermittent sips, but he immediately stops when he sees him. His eyes track Izzy's every movement, but - when he notices him hesitate, realizes that this much attention is uncomfortable - his gaze switches focus to the paper ball again. It makes it a tiny bit easier for Izzy to take in a deep, self-encouraging breath, before sitting down beside him.

Neither of them say anything for a long while.

“Thank you,” Ed eventually says, low and soft, like he's not wanting to startle him. There's something else there - something like affection - but that would be too much to handle, so Izzy pretends that he hasn't heard it. He's not even entirely sure what he's being thanked for; the food, or giving him the time of day.

Izzy shrugs, thinking that a nonverbal response might be the safest option.

“You're right,” he continues. “I'm useless when I haven't eaten.”

To that, Izzy huffs. “Not useless,” he mutters, because he's learnt that useless can be a harmful word when applied to people. “Just a twat.”

Ed makes his own huffing noise, although his sounds more like laughter. “You still make a really good tea.”

“Of course I do. I'm hardly going to forget seven sugars, am I?”

“Still not met anyone who takes that many?”

“No. Still have all of your original teeth?”

At this, Ed's nose crinkles. “I don't, actually. Had to have one of my back ones removed. Dentist was mortified when I told her how many sugars I take. And that's just in tea, that's not counting everything else throughout the day.”

“I thought she would've encouraged you. Guaranteed some future business.”

“That's basically what I said. Don't think she saw the funny side of it, though.”

“Shame.”

“Hm.”

They lapse into silence for a few minutes.

Izzy thinks about the fact that they've spoken - they've possibly exchanged banter - and nothing feels like it's falling apart. Not yet. There's still time for the conversation to implode, but…it's not as horrible as he imagined it would be. He wouldn't be surprised if that changed rather soon, though, considering that the conversation isn't what it needs to be yet, but it's an easy start to what's sure to be a difficult time.

Ed, possibly thinking along the same lines, runs a hand over his face and sighs, cupping his chin in his palm while his elbow rests on the table. “I'm gonna be honest here, I don't…I don't even know how to start. I've tried to rehearse this over and over and over again but it never comes out right. I'm scared it's all going to come out messy.”

“It's messy because it is a mess, Ed,” Izzy replies wearily. “Let's just call it what it is and try to clean some of it up.”

Ed jerks his head in a nod - takes in a breath - hesitates - and just as quickly switches positions, head being cradled by both hands, fingers tangled in his hair like he wants to tear it out, groaning.

“I'm sorry,” he says, and his voice is rough now. Like sandpaper. “I'm sorry that I didn't try harder. I'm sorry that I didn't know how to talk about things. I'm sorry that I didn't try hard enough to learn. I’m sorry that I forgot how to say sorry, and I’m sorry that I never tried to say it after what I did. I’m sorry that I convinced myself that it wouldn’t do anything. I'm sorry that you found out about Stede the way that you did. I'm sorry that I left. I'm sorry that I left so suddenly, just - fucking left like none of it had ever mattered - you, and Fang, and Ivan, and the others, and the business, and our home - because it did matter, it was everything, all of it - and them - and you - were my entire fucking world, and I just…left.”

The last word comes out as a hiccup.

Izzy's chest and throat are aching so hard they hurt. It's painful. Necessary, but…painful all the same.

“I regretted it. If you believe nothing else I ever say, please believe me on that. I regretted my actions so fucking much, but I didn't - I felt so burnt out, and - there was no fight left in me. At the time, it felt easier to run away than to fix things. Brush it all under the rug, pretend it's not there, y’know? But that doesn't do anything. Just leaves a bigger mess to clean up later. Fixing things means acknowledging them, and it took…took me years to start doing that. Fucking hell, you'd think it would be a dentist that takes all my money, but it was my poor therapist instead. Once she cracked me open, I used her like a bloody confessional. She was great, though, because she gave me a proper verbal walloping and a kick up the ass and said Edward Teach, you're going to burn yourself out all over again with the amount of energy you spend repressing your past, and do you really want to do that? Do you really think you can outrun yourself forever? And the answer is no, obviously. Just took a long time for me to be able to look at it all - lay it out properly, take responsibility for what I'd done - without feeling like…I don't know, like I was going to explode. Fucking shatter all over the place and leave people to clean up my mess all over again. I hated myself. Hated what I'd done. Hated knowing that you were gone - that I'd never see you again to try and make things right - but that you wouldn't even want to see me, anyway. Why would you? The last time we spoke I treated you so, so badly, and…and…”

He has to stop; his throat is working too hard. He takes a sip of tea, obviously trying to ease some of the tension, but it doesn't do much. His laughter is choked and bitter; hoarse and choppy, like he's barking it out and biting it off at the end.

“You were right,” he continues, still in that same self-loathing tone. “My mum would be ashamed of me. The things I did…that wasn't the boy she raised. I let her down. Let you down. And that's something I'm not sure I'll ever forgive myself for.”

Now he just sounds…miserable. Completely, utterly miserable. Looks it, too.

Looks exactly how Izzy feels.

His chest feels so tight. So wound up, so constricted with emotion. He’s got a hand over his mouth - it was a preemptive thing, in case he started sobbing - and he might not be doing that, but he is crying. His eyes are positively overflowing, in fact, until everything is blurred enough to be coming at him through a wet, watercolor lens. Dripping down over his fingers, falling onto the tabletop below. It’s not something that can be helped.

Edward Teach has learnt how to apologize again.

Fifteen years too late.

Has learnt to communicate - learnt to express himself - learnt to face himself even if he can’t forgive himself - and it’s all coming fifteen years too fucking late.

He takes in a deep breath through his nose, holds it, counts to five.

No.

He exhales slowly.

No, it's not too late.

Too late for their relationship, yes, but not too late in the grand scheme of things. In life. Isn’t that what he himself has been learning all these years? That an old dog like him can still learn new tricks? Learn to use his words, to treat people kinder, to be there for himself when he needs it? It’s sad and it’s awful and it’s every other word in between, but - if anything good has come out of such a terrible time - it’s that they themselves are actually better.

He hates the concept of it - that they needed to be ripped apart in order to heal parts of themselves - but that’s exactly what’s happened.

Izzy is a friend and a lover and an artist and someone has who has been through many, many years of hardship and struggle, but has come out the other side to find joy in the little things; early morning beach walks with herbal tea, farmers markets with his friends, the act of caring and being cared for.

And Ed…well, a lot of him is still a mystery. Not one that Izzy imagines he’ll ever get to truly know again - how could he, after all this time? - but right now, he knows enough. Ed still likes his sugary drinks and leather boots and has kept those familiar mannerisms from years gone by. He’s matured enough to acknowledge his faults. He’s gained enough wisdom to be able to pass it to his step-children.

Buttons was right; neither of them are who they were fifteen years ago.

So…no.

Their changes haven’t come too late.

It would only be too late if they discovered one day that they’d never really changed at all. 

Edward Teach has apologized, and he means it, and that in itself means a lot.

Izzy takes another breath - holds it - and lets it go.

“Your mum would be ashamed of me, too,” he says, and doesn’t bother to clear his throat. Let his voice be cracked and raw; let the emotion seep through in every syllable. “I promised her that I’d take care of you, and I didn’t. I treated you just as badly. I didn’t know how to talk - I didn’t know how to feel - and neither of us should have taken it out on each other, but we did. I played my part. I was half of the problem. I didn’t know how to process what was going on, and it made me angry. Constantly angry, because I could feel it all changing - feel you slipping away - and I didn’t know how to hold onto you, didn’t know how to make us better. I started fights just to get attention from you, because I didn’t know how to get it otherwise. I…I missed you.”

He almost chokes on that word, because deep down he knows it’s a lie.

There is no past tense.

The feeling has never stopped.

“You tried to fix us, though,” Ed murmurs. “You were the one who dragged us to counseling, not me. I would’ve just let things keep going. Wouldn’t have known what else to do. And I shouldn’t…I still can’t believe…” His head is in his hands again, eyes squeezed shut. Izzy keeps doing his best not to glance at him; it only makes him feel more wretched. “I can’t believe I left things the way that I did. I can’t fucking believe that I just - dropped that into the middle of a fucking session, like what the fuck.”

“It…wasn’t exactly your finest hour.”

“Out of all the dick moves I’ve ever pulled, I think that was my worst one.”

“Part of your top five, yeah.”

“You’ve ranked them?”

“Sort of. It was a method my first therapist used with me. Everything was too overwhelming to think about at once, so she got me to break it down into pieces. Helped me work through them one at a time. Made things a little bit easier.”

“How many therapists have you had?” Ed asks, and then immediately pulls a face. “Sorry. That’s invasive. You don’t have to answer that, it was just - an impulsive question. Sorry.”

Izzy shakes his head, sighing wearily. “We’re trying to be open and honest, right? Learning how we fucked each other over, laying it all out on the table and apologizing for it?”

Ed gives him a look that he can’t quite decipher - somewhere between hesitant and sad - before nodding, once.

“Okay, well, I’ve had three of them. First was my favorite. Second didn’t quite gel with me. Third was the one I had the longest, who I talked to before we moved - then we stopped for a while - but started up again maybe a year after we’d settled in here. I would’ve liked to have kept my first the whole time, but that wasn’t how it worked. She was more of a…package deal. Part of the rehab team.”

He wasn’t even making any noise but, somehow, Edward grows even more silent beside him. Their shoulders aren’t anywhere close enough to be touching - at least a foot apart, if not a bit more - but Izzy can still feel them tense, just the same as he would if they had been.

“So…yeah. I’m an alcoholic.”

That earns a sharp breath in and a quiet, wounded noise on the exhale.

“Are you…are you really?” he asks, rather stupidly, in a tight, shaky little voice.

Izzy feels a flicker of irritation - does Ed seriously think he'd make up something like that? - but takes a moment to check himself, to not let his own initial emotions warp what was actually said, and replays the question in his mind. Takes in the tone, quickly glances to his right to gauge the expression on his face.

Not disbelieving in an accusatory way, he realizes.

Disbelieving because - having seen none of it - he's finding it hard to imagine.

“Yes,” he says, and manages to keep his voice even. It’s an admission that he’s made many times before - often to himself - and it doesn’t scare him like it used to, doesn’t make him feel ashamed, but…it’s different, telling Ed. Telling the person who’s departure sparked the whole fucking fiasco.

“When…when did you-”

“Started drinking right after you left,” he cuts him off, rather bluntly. It doesn’t really matter. Nothing is going to be gentle about this part of the conversation, anyway. Might as well tell it how it is. “Couldn’t face being sober without you, so I didn’t let it happen. Stopped working. Stopped eating properly. Just spent every waking moment trying to get shitfaced before sleeping it off and starting the whole thing over again. Got a DUI. Had my license suspended, the car impounded. Didn’t stop me. Just meant I had to walk further to buy more booze. Got arrested a few times for being drunk in public. Slept in a cell a couple of nights. I think they felt sorry for me, though, because it was always Fang and Ivan coming to get me out, and they told them everything that was going on…trying to get them to take it easy on me, I guess. Alcohol poisoning once - no idea how it wasn’t more - but that was a few days in hospital, and enough to start getting withdrawals. They couldn’t stop me from leaving, though, so the cycle just…kept going.”

He allows himself a moment of pause, and the chance to slowly take a few tips of tea. His bones feel jittery but there’s a part of him that feels good, too, from getting this out of his system again. It’s like continually revisiting an old wound and finding that you’ve become stronger each time.

Beside him, Edward is trembling slightly.

“You’re not going to like what I’m about to say next,” Izzy warns him. “But I’m going to say it anyway because it’s important, and it needs to be said, and you need to hear it.” Another deep breath. “If it wasn’t for Fang and Ivan, I would be dead.”

Ed’s whole body flinches like it’s been struck.

“I don’t mean that in a metaphorical way,” he continues. “I mean that in the most literal sense possible. I would have drunk myself into the grave - I wanted to, I wanted things to be over, I wanted to fucking die, even if I didn’t fully realize that at the time - but they didn’t let me, and I will never, ever be able to repay them for the things that they did. The sacrifices they made and the shit they put up with to keep me fed and watered and functioning. They were the ones who organized the rehab, and they were the only reason I stuck it out. They found themselves jobs out here - financially took care of me - gave all of us a fresh start away from the city, even if it was never going to be a clean break. They made me keep living until I wanted to be alive again, and…I’ll never be able to thank them enough for that.”

He’s crying again - fuelled by old despair, thoroughly saturated in present day love - and this time, so is Edward. A lot, actually. Izzy’s not sure what kind of reaction he was expecting, but this…this torrent of broken, hiccuping little sobs…definitely wasn’t it. His face is distraught, but his eyes are troubled. Disturbed, when they're not squeezed up like he's in pain. It reignites the urge to reach out and touch him - comfort him -  but he doesn’t. Instead he pulls a tissue pack out of his pocket, because he’s still nothing if not a practical bastard, and passes it over. Ed’s fingers fumble to pull one out and mop at his face.

It takes a good few minutes for him to calm down enough to get his breathing under control, although there’s still a faint rattle in the base of his throat, and say, in a thick voice, “I’m so sorry.”

“So am I.”

“That was all my fault.”

“No it wasn’t.”

“Yes it-”

“It wasn’t,” Izzy snaps out, a little sharper than intended. “You were the cause of my emotions, but I was the only one who got myself drunk. No one forced it down my throat. Yes I became addicted - yes I needed help - but I can’t blame someone else for my actions. That’s part of the process - acknowledging what you’ve done, and taking responsibility for it. Even if you were the one who loaded the gun, I’m the one who fired it.”

Ed just shakes his head, eyelashes wet, bottom lip trembling, and Izzy remembers a conversation with his first therapist. Oftentimes, the first instinct of friends and families is to blame themselves. To wonder about what they could have done differently, and to drive themselves up the wall with all the ways in which they could have prevented your actions. They're not trying to take away from what you're experiencing - they're trying to take the blame, because they love you. They love you, and they're kicking themselves that they can't do more. They think that it'll be easier on everyone if you hate them instead of yourself, because you're already going through so much, and they don't want self-loathing to be part of it. Most don't realize that, though. Love, and grief, and guilt…they're subconscious things, sometimes. They're part of us.

“I was such an asshole,” Edward rasps out, shaky palms wiping at the corners of his eyes as he sniffs heavily. “An absolute fucking asshole.”

“Ed-”

“Don't, Izzy, I was, you know I was-”

“Oh, yeah, I know. I wasn't arguing. I was actually about to agree with you.”

That pulls him up short.

They glance at each other - Izzy keeps his expression neutral, Ed looks a bit like a possum in the headlights - but then the corner of Izzy's mouth twitches, and the tension in Ed's shoulders loosens as he lets out a tentative, shaky laugh.

“That's…that's good, then. Glad we're on the same page.”

“I was an asshole, too. Let's not forget that.”

“...yeah. Okay you were, yeah,” Ed admits. “We were a pair of dickheads to each other.”

“Couple of top tier bastards.”

“Super scummy.”

“But we're not those people anymore, are we?”

“No,” Ed replies immediately, a bit of strength returning to his voice. Maybe even a hint of pride, too. “No, we're not those people.” Then he hesitates for a moment, biting his lip. “I know that doesn't…it can't change the past. It can't make up for anything that's happened. If I could find a way to take things back…to change things, to go back in time…”

“I know,” Izzy says softly. “I know, Ed. I feel the same way. If Cher couldn't do it, though, I'm not sure how great our own chances are.”

He shrugs, and there's a hint of a smile that briefly flickers across his mouth. “You never know. Technology has come a long way since that song came out.”

“Not that far.”

“She’d be one of the first to know, anyway.”

“Undoubtedly, yeah. And you'd have to wonder whether or not we'd actually use it.”

“A time machine?”

Izzy hums in agreement.

Now Ed looks cautious again, but there's some curiosity mixed in as well. “You…wouldn't change what happened?”

“Well, it's…it's hard, isn't it?” Izzy says slowly, trying to get his words together as he speaks. “I mean…there's a whole lot of pain and anger and heartache we could have avoided, yeah, but…it brought me here. Led me to a family, and led me to a home. I wouldn't want to be without either of those things. I love them too much. And I’m sure that you’ve got people and places and things that you love, too, that you wouldn’t ever give up.”

He doesn’t mention his step-children. Aside from the fact that he’s not about to admit to Lucius’s snooping, they’re not his thing to bring up. If Ed ever wants to talk about them, that will be his decision. Izzy’s not taking that away from him. He’s sure that Ed’s thinking about them, though; something in his expression has shifted, and his eyes have gone all soft.

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s almost a whisper. “Yeah, that’s true.”

Izzy idly wonders how far away from them they are, now. If brunch was ever a regular thing with the kids, or if they’re both off working - studying - being young, experiencing the world - and it’s only a thing that happens when time allows. Does their blended family do birthdays together? Christmas, and other holidays?

In any case, he’s…sort of glad that Ed got over him, even if the thought makes him cringe. He’s always carried around such conflicting thoughts in regards to their split; wanting Ed to feel guilt and pain and anger, just a taste of what Izzy went through, while simultaneously - despite hating himself a little bit for it - hoping that he never felt like that at all. Because despite everything, he still has enough of that four-letter word left to want nothing but happiness for the man who broke his heart. Oh, sure, Ed’s just poured a bit of his own heart out - so there was a huge amount of guilt, yes, which is actually relieving to know - but it hasn’t stopped him from building a new life. He found new people to love - people who aren’t Izzy - and that’s…well, it doesn’t feel okay, but Izzy knows that Ed’s full of it - full of love - even if it comes out a bit distorted sometimes. It’s nice to think that he’s found others to give it to, instead. If Izzy can’t have it, someone else should.

Edward suddenly sighs, digging his knuckles into his eyes and rubbing, before blinking again while his vision adjust back to the morning light. “Listen, um…if we’re getting shit out on the table, can I tell you something?”

Because that’s no cause for anxiety at all. “Yes.”

“It’s - like, it’s not an excuse, I just…I dunno, I think maybe it’s something you should know? For context?”

“Okay.”

He dithers, looking awkward about how to proceed. “It’s - um - well, it’s like - um-”

“Just spit it out, please.”

“I’ve, um-” He takes a steadying breath. “I’ve got ADHD, and-”

“Oh,” Izzy says, and feels instant relief. “Yeah, I know.”

“-it means that - what?” Ed interrupts himself, turning to Izzy in open shock. “How did you know?”

Izzy shrugs meekly, his turn to appear a bit awkward. “One of our group - Archie - she’s got it, too. Hers presents in a similar way to yours, and we got talking about it one day. She explained all the…brain mechanics, and…yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t know back then, but I’m still sorry. You’re not lazy. Your memory not retaining stuff isn’t your fault. None of that is your fault. It’s just how you were made.”

Edward stares at him, lips slightly parted - that earlier affection returns to gaze - but again it’s too much to handle, so Izzy turns away and focuses on the dunes instead.

They’re silent for a long moment.

“Thank you,” Ed eventually says, and the words are small and soft. “Not everyone is…as understanding as that.”

Izzy shrugs again. “Yeah, well…some people are twats who can jolly well fuck off about things they don’t know about.”

Ed’s mouth presses together like he’s trying to suppress a grin, eyes crinkling at the corners, before his whole expression twists into something a little more sad. “Does that mean I’m allowed to say I know you had depression?”

“Yeah.” He sighs. “Yeah, I did. So did you.”

“Yeah. It’s a bitch.” Ed pauses before asking, in an excessively nonchalant tone, “How, uh…how's that going for you?”

It's such an absurd question that Izzy can't help but snort, but he knows that there's kindness at its core. Ed lets out a quiet, huffy chuckle, looking slightly embarrassed.

“It's, uh…better,” Izzy replies. He doesn't mention the anxiety. Doesn't know how to say you leaving changed the entire trajectory of my life, altered my brain chemistry, and now every so often I have panic attacks so bad I physically choke on my own emotions. He's allowed to keep some personal things to himself. “Not had an episode in a long time. Few years, now. It's…a lot easier being around people who notice when your head's going downhill a bit. They pick up on things. They pick me up, when I need it.”

It could easily be taken as a dig, he knows, but Ed's got the wisdom to take it gracefully on the chin instead.

“It is a lot easier,” he agrees, a tender note entering his voice. Izzy can't help but feel the sting - that tone used to be for him - but he's not where he is now without having gotten some of his own wisdom, so he does his best not to dwell on it. After everything, it's good that they both have people. It's not each other anymore, but that's…that's okay. That's fine. After fifteen years, it has to be fine.

“So, um…how about you?”

Ed shrugs. “I have my moments. Mostly I’m good, but sometimes I’m not. Used to take meds for it but I didn’t like the way they made my head feel. Sort of like…they were suppressing everything. Tried a few different ones but none of them fit, so I just stopped altogether.”

Izzy makes a humming noise. “I’ve heard similar stories.”

“You never got put on anything?”

“I got the diagnosis in rehab, and they were scared that I’d try and, um…take more than I needed to.”

There’s another beat of silence between them, the sound of the gentle surf breaking along the shoreline in the near distance. Somewhere far off, a seagull calls out.

“Right,” Ed eventually says, very quietly. “Right.”

The silence stretches onwards. Melancholy, but not uncomfortable. Ed folds his arms on the table and lays his head on top, frowning down at the woodgrain. Izzy props both elbows on the table, twining his fingers together to rest his chin upon. Frenchie calls this position the chin hammock. It’s cute. He glances up towards the sky, which is now more blue than anything else, and cloudless. There’s hardly a breeze. Good day for fishing.

“You really were right, by the way,” Ed suddenly says. “Mum would be ashamed of me.”

Izzy remembers their last encounter - the vitriol he spat - and feels a dull flush of shame, although not a huge amount of regret. “She’d be ashamed of me, too. I promised to look after her son, and I didn’t.”

“You didn’t do what I did, though. You never abandoned me.”

Which is…true. If they’re being honest, it’s true.

“I wasn’t always good to you, though. That was bad in itself.” Izzy feels a twinge in his gut - feels words crowd themselves in the back of his throat, feels his teeth grind themselves together of their own accord to prevent them from being spoken - so it half sounds as if he’s being strangled when he finally manages to force out, “I miss - her. Visiting. I light a candle for her now. Like I do with mine. I’ve never forgotten.”

Edward closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, his lashes are wet. “Thank you,” he croaks out. “She’d like that.”

“You still go every year?”

“Yeah. It’ll be a longer trip now that we’re here, but…yeah.”

Izzy hears the plural. Now that we’re here. A we that doesn’t involve him, but…someone else. It makes his eyes tighten around the edges, makes him shift uncomfortably while he lets out a short, sharp breath. The movement doesn’t go unnoticed; Ed’s expression shifts into something more curious, asking without asking.

“It makes me feel sick,” Izzy admits, going back to brutal honesty, “the idea of you taking someone else to see her.”

Surprisingly, Ed’s mouth turns upwards into a half-smile, but it’s as bitter as anything. “Couldn’t do it for at least five years,” he says, following suit with his own unflinching confession. “I felt too guilty. I was too scared, too ashamed. I went alone. The first time I took him, I was so bad that he asked if maybe it would be easier if he just…didn’t ever come with me again. Gave myself a kick up the ass and said that it was my emotional bullshit to work through, not his, and that I’d deal with the consequences of my own actions. He didn’t deserve to be left out just because I felt so shitty about the whole thing. I still feel guilty. Every time we go, I feel like she’s just sitting there and judging me. Saying something like, I didn’t know you were that kind of person. The unfunny thing is that I didn’t, either. Not until I went and fucked it all up.”

Izzy rubs at his eyes, digging the heels of his palms in until he's almost seeing stars, and pulls them away once the urge to comfort him fades away. It doesn't leave entirely, but he resists doing something stupid; like putting a hand on his shoulder, or trying to make things sound less bad than they actually are. It doesn't surprise him that one of his first instincts is to try and make things better. Some old habits just never leave.

“At least you're trying to…unfuck things?” he offers, nose scrunching up slightly. “That's gotta count for something. She’d be proud of that.”

Ed turns his face into his elbow, snort muffled by the material. “Maybe. She’d be proud of you too, then,” he adds on. “You’ve done your fair share of unfucking.”

“I’m doing my best. All I can ask from myself.”

“You’ve gotten so wise.”

“I blame the extended household. They’ve rubbed off on me.”

“They’ve done a good job.”

“They have, yeah.” He sighs. “Doesn't mean I always listen, though. I was born to be a stubborn old goat.”

“So…that means you were a stubborn kid at some point?”

It seems like such a bizarre question - out of left field, and surely one that has a blatantly obvious answer - but Ed's peering at him over his sleeve, a sparkle in his one visible eye, which makes Izzy pause for a moment before the wording clicks into place and he lets out another, longer sigh. “Yes, Edward,” he replies wearily, and he can hear giggles being repressed before he's even finished the sentence. “The stubborn kid turned into a stubborn goat. Although if you want to get technical-”

“I don't.”

“-a goat is a goat regardless of age. The male ones are billies. Or bucks. Either is fine.”

“Like the billy goats who try to cross over the troll bridge.”

“That's them.”

“Are you a goat aficionado?”

“Unwillingly. Frenchie - he's in the house with us - got it into his head a few years back that he wanted a goat.” He's feeling rather emotionally drained, and maybe it's such odd timing to bring up a story about people who Izzy loves but Ed has never met, but he still smiles at the memory. “Tried to convince us that it'd be a good investment. A living, lovable lawnmower I believe was his pitch. Made a PowerPoint for us and everything.”

Ed lets out a low whistle. Tries to, anyway; his current position makes it come out a bit wonky. “He really put the time and effort in, huh?”

“Yeah. He sulked for a couple days when he got outvoted. Fang was the only one on his side. Aside from the fact that the yard isn’t big enough, the garden would’ve been wrecked. Frenchie says it would’ve been a compliment. If Billy eats the tomatoes, it means they were really good. I get the logic, but still.”

“He was going to name it Billy?” Ed asks, and Izzy can hear the smile in his voice.

“Yeah. Billy T Goat. His middle name was going to be The.”

At that, Ed bursts out laughing. Izzy sort of feels like he’s been punched in the chest. It’s such a sudden, genuine burst of mirth, that there’s no room for awkwardness. It’s the same laugh that used to bubble up and out of him back during the old days. Izzy half-smiles in response - or maybe it’s a grimace - and idly reaches up to rub at his chest, like his subconscious is trying to soothe the ache away.

“Your friends sound like a hoot.”

“Oh, they are,” Izzy says, and manages to keep his voice relatively normal. “A bit savage during game night, but they’re all rather phenomenal human beings.”

Edward hums - a fond sort of noise - and rests his chin back on his folded arms, eyes slightly unfocused as he stares off into the middle distance. “I’m glad,” he murmurs, and his own little smile is once again bittersweet. “I’m glad that you have them.”

There’s something…wistful, in his tone? Longing? Izzy’s not entirely sure what it’s from; the fact that he has these friends independent of him, or the fact that they both know - but are unwilling to audibly admit - that Ed would get along just as well with them. If circumstances were different, Izzy knows that Ed - and therefore Stede, by extension - would probably already be attending the usual brunch dates, or accompanying them on the weekly farmer’s market walk. They’re all the types of people that Ed could get along with, and if it wasn’t for their shared history…well. They'd've been two more to join the crew, wouldn’t they?

“I am, too,” Izzy replies quietly, and then adds on - quite honestly - “I don’t know where I’d be without them.”

Ed lets out a small breath through his nose. Not enough to be a sigh, but enough to carry the weight of one. His fingers start scrunching into his sleeve. “What, um…what do they think of you doing this? Talking with me?”

It takes Izzy a moment to answer, deliberating on what to say, because he hadn’t anticipated that particular question to come up. “They, uh…they don’t actually know that I’m here,” he admits, which earns a surprised glance from the corner of Ed’s eye. “Wasn’t sure if I’d even do this today - nearly bottled it a few times, thinking about it - so I didn’t want to say anything in case I backed out. I thought it might be easier without the expectation.”

Ed hums again, this time in understanding. “Didn't want to feel pressured.”

“Yeah.”

“I'm sorry if you felt like that, anyway. Like you had to talk to me.”

“I did, though,” Izzy points out. “This town is only so big. We couldn't keep avoiding each other forever. And I know that you would've done this day one if I'd let you, but I wasn't…I couldn't…”

“You weren't ready,” Ed finishes quietly. “I get it. It would've been stupid to try and talk to you when I first realized you were all living next door. My head was like a bloody tornado and it felt like I'd been slapped with all my regrets at once, so I know that I would've fucked it all up. Said the wrong things, gotten too emotionally wound up, probably buggered any chance of speaking to you ever again. I'm glad you made us wait this long. And I'm sorry about messing up your walks, by the way,” he says. “I just felt desperate enough to convince myself that maybe if I followed you and got you alone we could do something like this, and I know that you were pissed that first day, but you didn't…I dunno, tell me to go? It was probably a dick move on my part to butt into your routine, but I thought that - that - fuck, I don't even know what I was thinking, maybe I just wanted to feel like I had a chance at making things right, or - fuck, maybe I-”

“Ed,” Izzy interrupts softly, which shuts him up in a nanosecond. “I get it.”

There’s a beat between them.

“You do?” is the hopeful response, which makes his chest ache all over again.

“I think I do. You wanted to make things right. The beach is sort of…neutral territory. And you're right; I didn't tell you to go. I was…curious…to see how long you'd keep it up for. Maybe to see if you were going to mean whatever it was you wanted to say.”

“I do mean it,” Ed says immediately, with a slight strain in his voice. “I swear, Iz, I've meant every word. And I swear, too, that if you'd told me to fuck off, I would've. I wouldn't have stopped trying to apologize, but I would've done it in another way. It's like you said - none of this is comfortable - but I wanted you to feel comfortable enough for us to at least try and talk things through.”

Izzy takes in a deep breath - holds it - lets it out slowly. “I…appreciate that. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Of course. Spoken in a tone like the kindness is a given; like he couldn't imagine this being done in any other way. The tone of someone who's been damaged enough to know when gentle hands are required. Izzy feels a little bit sick at the thought.

“I appreciate this, too,” Ed continues. “You. Talking to me. I was half afraid that it'd turn into a yelling match, but…yeah. Guess we really have changed.”

Izzy doesn't answer. Even if he could think of one, he doesn't think it'd be able to come out.

A small gust of wind ruffles the grass. The waves are a little louder, softly roaring as they lap at the sand. Time passes. Above their heads, the sky has become pure cerulean.

“What happens now?” Ed eventually asks, shifting himself into a more upright position.

“What do you mean?”

“Small town, right? Like you said. We're…gonna keep seeing each other, aren't we? At the farmer's market. Whenever Stede takes a fancy to visit all the artsy shops. How do you…want to…like, manage that?”

The honest answer is that Izzy doesn’t know. To think that Ed could be living next door for - well, ever - is overwhelming in itself. He’ll have to see him - hear him - possibly even interact with him - and most likely he’ll never know when these moments will occur, or how he’ll be feeling at the time, and what sort of effect that’s going to have on him in the short and long term. He just doesn’t have a fucking clue.

“We’ll just have to…figure it out as we go,” is his half-hearted answer. “Not too different to how we’re muddling along now.”

Ed doesn’t offer any stellar advice on top of that, so Izzy’s willing to bet that he’s in the same mentally discombobulated boat. What he does say though, rather hesitantly, is, “And if we’re wanting to…talk again, like this…how do we go about that?”

Once again, Izzy is taken by surprise. He hadn’t even been aware that another chat like this was on the cards. “I - um-”

“I’m not wanting to jump to conclusions,” Ed says hurriedly, “or - y’know, back you into a corner or anything - I just figured that if I have more questions then you probably do, too, but you’re looking pretty tired and I know that I’m feeling a bit emotionally beat, so…we should maybe park the serious stuff for another day? When we’re both feeling better?”

Currently, Izzy feels as though his head is spinning on its axis. Somehow in all of this he hadn’t expected Edward to have follow-up questions - or maybe queries entirely unrelated, who knows - but, if he’s being honest with himself, there is more that he wants to know but that hasn’t come up in this conversation, and he does feel too drained to ask any more serious questions right now. It feels like enough for one day.

Which means that there will be others.

Oh, he really hadn’t planned for this.

“Um…”

“I can keep getting up early, if you want,” Ed offers. “Check in while you're on your way past. Or I could…signal you, somehow? It wouldn't be as cool as in the Batman movies though. Or, uh…I could…put the doohickey up on the side of your letterbox? And if you want to talk to me, you can put it up on ours? Although it might get a bit confusing for the mail lady…”

“Our letterbox doesn't have one of those whatsits,” Izzy says vaguely, some part of his brain noting that Ed hasn't once floated the idea of texting. Obviously it would be the easiest solution, but what's also obvious is that Ed is trying to stick to boundaries. He's not pushing to take up any more space in Izzy's life, no matter how small, which is…ironic, actually. Izzy never deleted his number. Just couldn't bring himself to do it.

But no one needs to know that.

Instead, another part of his brain latches onto the mailbox idea, and - remembering what his plans are supposed to be for the morning - a tiny spark of inspiration manages to fizzle its way to the surface.

“We could…exchange…rocks?”

Ed cuts himself off mid-ramble to cock his head, brows furrowing. “What?”

“We could do a rock exchange,” Izzy repeats himself, knowing that he probably sounds a bit bonkers. “So, like…if I put mine in your letterbox, I want to talk. If you put yours in mine, then you want to talk. Then we can…do this? The next morning? Weather dependent though, um…I don't do this when it's raining. Learnt my lesson on that.”

He's very aware that his prattling probably sounds rather ludicrous - made even more apparent by the blatantly blank stare he's receiving - but, to Ed's credit, he rallies himself quite well.

“O-oohkay!” he says, starting off confused, before quickly flipping his tone into something more upbeat. “That's - a plan. That can be our plan. Whatever you want. Whatever, uh…whatever works.”

Izzy scrunches his nose slightly. “I know it's a shitty idea-”

“Nah, it's - it's a good idea, love that idea-”

“-but my head feels like scrambled eggs, so. It's the best you're going to get from me.”

At that, Ed's shoulders drop slightly as he lets out a small laugh. “Yeah. I'm feeling a bit soft-boiled myself. Did you want me to, uh…provide one of the rocks, or…?”

“No, it's fine, I'll take care of it. Frenchie wants us to do some rock painting this morning. I'll get them then.”

That earns some more staring. “...rock painting,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

“You’re going to do…rock painting.”

“I am.”

“You. Rock painting.”

“I’ve changed, remember? It’s actually very relaxing.”

“I…imagine it is, yeah.” He pauses for a moment. “My - uh...someone tried getting me into soap making a few years back. It was a hobby they wanted to try out and they wanted some help with it. Said it might help my mind switch off a bit, having something to concentrate on.”

Izzy idly wonders if it was one of his step-children. “How’d that go for you?”

“I ate the soap.”

Somehow, Izzy’s not totally surprised. “What do you mean, you ate the soap?”

“The lavender one. Smelt yummy enough that I wanted to take a bite. Just to see what it would taste like, y’know?”

“Like fucking soap, I imagine?”

“Yeah,” Ed says, a little forlornly - like he’s disappointed in that answer - but he brightens up when he adds, “They all came out pretty good, though. No bite marks in any of the others.”

“That’s the achievement? That you didn’t try to eat the other ones?”

“I think so, yeah. The mandarin was very tempting. Chemical additives aside, and all that.”

“Buttons makes soap,” Izzy says without thinking, but - upon quick reflection - reminds himself that advertising his friends' businesses isn’t a crime. “He’s a mate of ours. Has his own little shop, and sells at the farmers market. All natural ingredients, if that’s what you’re into.”

An interested gleam comes into Ed’s eyes. “All natural ingredients, you say?”

“Yeah, he - don’t you dare think about eating any.”

“Does he give out free samples?”

“Edward.”

“I could wash my body, and have a shower snack?”

“This conversation is a fucking shambles.”

Ed tips his head back and laughs, and Izzy is once again caught up in the sound; the familiarity of it, despite having only heard it in his head for the past fifteen years, feels good. It scares him to think of how much he’s missed it. Scared, too, to think how easily he’s still able to make Ed react in such a way. He needs to tread carefully here. Needs to remind himself that fifteen years has passed - of course it fucking has, he’s got both the mental and physical scars to prove it - and that things are different now. It’s not his place to make Edward laugh anymore, and it’s certainly not his place to covet such a thing.

Hasn’t stopped him doing it this whole time, but hey; if he can repress those desires for almost a decade and a half, he can keep doing it now. He can keep his resolve strong, and steady, just like he’s been taught and trained himself to do. Never again will he let himself fall apart over Edward Teach.

“Do you think that maybe we should wrap this up?” Ed asks, squinting briefly up towards the sun. “Not that I’m trying to be pushy or anything - I hope you know how badly I’ve wanted to talk with you - I just don’t want to do too much too soon, and I don’t want people to get worried or anything - come looking - we’ve been here for awhile, but obviously, um - if you wanted to keep going-”

“It’s fine,” Izzy interrupts him gently. “I think we should have a break, yeah, before they start sending out a search party. Let’s…leave this for a bit. Maybe a week. Get our heads back in order.”

“Okay. Whatever you need.”

He’s people-pleasing. Trying to put Izzy’s needs above his own, probably doing it for the sake of proving a point - that he’s sorry, that he’s listening, that he’s trying to be considerate. That’ll have to stop. Half of their problems came from the same good intent, and they can’t have history repeating itself in any way. Not like that. Izzy doesn’t say anything, though - they’ve already said so much, and he’s not in the headspace for another deep and meaningful - but he’s content in knowing that asking for a week’s break will benefit the both of them, whether Ed acknowledges it or not.

They both stand up, make their way back to the path, and almost - almost - walk side by side.

The silence is actually quite nice, for a minute.

Ed breaks it with a little high-pitched noise, before his cheeks quickly tint pink with embarrassment. “Sorry. Um. I’ve just remembered something else I wanted to ask. I don’t want you to think I’m taking the mick though, after this morning.”

“Ask away.”

“Was that cat born in a nuclear power station?”

The corner of Izzy’s mouth twitches up. “I’m assuming you’re talking about Mitzy?”

“She’s a behemoth. Titan-sized. She should’ve been named Mothra.”

“She’s very lovely once you get to know her.”

“Who does she belong to?”

He shrugs. “Everybody, I suppose. She’s basically the town mascot. Everyone chips in with feeding her, and making sure she’s got a warm place to hide during winter. The vet does her check-ups for free.”

Ed nods slightly, almost to himself. “So…everyone loves her, but she doesn’t belong to anyone?”

“Basically yeah.”

He nods again, looking awkward. “Which means that…no one can tell her what to do?”

Izzy gives him a querying glance.

“It’s just - she keeps knocking our pots over in the back, and we’re trying to grow a garden but she keeps on shitting in it and we don’t know what to do-”

Call it the stress of the situation, or the adrenaline rush-and-crash of their conversation, but Izzy - at the end of the day - is only human; and the image of that is too much to handle.

He laughs.

Properly laughs; it bursts out of him without warning, much like the way it bubbled out of Ed earlier, and it’s relieving in a way. Like he’s letting some pressure out, and letting a bit of warmth back in. He laughs like he really means it, and he does. Like everything is okay between the two of them; like they’re teenagers all over again.

It’s a good thing that he doesn’t catch Ed’s expression when he does this.

His resolve would’ve crumbled in an instant.

“I’ll, uh…I’ll try and have a talk to her about it,” he eventually manages to say, surreptitiously wiping at the corner of his eye. It’s a complete and utter lie, of course; when he sees Mitzy again, he’ll give her a nice little treat for being such a good girl. “You might want to try netting in the meantime. Keep her and the birds out. Maybe put your stuff inside at night so she can’t get to it.”

“I’ll try anything,” he says grimly. “I wasn’t wearing gloves the first time I realized she’d left us a present.”

“Oh,” is all Izzy is able to choke out.

A whole chicken. That cat is getting a whole fucking chicken.

They slow once they reach Ed and Stede’s house, but don’t stop until they’re past it; by some unspoken agreement, it feels right to park themselves, and the conversation, halfway between their respective homes. Izzy can’t quite tell what he’s feeling right now. Everything and nothing, probably. Maybe a tiny bit delirious from so many thoughts jostling for space in his overfilled mind.

“So, um…” Ed begins, sounding awkward again. He glances down, shoves his hands in his pockets, scuffs his bare feet against the footpath. “I guess I’ll, um…see you around?”

Izzy feels a slight tightness in his chest, a tiny lump forming in the base of his throat, but he pushes it back down. “I guess so, yeah.”

There’s a pause.

Neither of them know where to look.

“Paint me something cool on my rock, yeah?” Ed says, trying to force his tone into something lighthearted. Ending this moment on something close to a high, instead of a low.

“Any requests?”

“Something colorful. No bugs.”

There’s another pause, but this one is slightly more…playful.

Ed lets out a mock sigh. “You’re gonna paint a bug on it, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Izzy says casually. “I dunno.”

“No centipedes, please.”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

“Izzy,” Ed whines, and Izzy has to fight to keep the smile from his face. “You know I don’t like insects, they’ve got too many legs-”

“I’m gonna go,” Izzy interrupts him, backing away. “You know how it is. Breakfast to eat, definitely not bugs to paint.”

Ed lets out a growly huff, ruffling his hair as he does so, but there’s no real frustration in his voice. If Izzy didn’t know any better, he’d say that he was enjoying the banter just as much. Maybe even more. “No centipedes,” he repeats. “And no millipedes, either, you little shit.”

“Can’t hear you,” Izzy replies, already standing on his front porch and toweling sand from his feet.

“Yes you bloody well can-”

“Can’t. Going through a tunnel. Interference, and all that. You’ll take what you get and be happy with it.”

Ed flips him off.

Izzy returns the gesture.

He hates how easily it feels like they’re in their twenties again.

Hates it, loves it, is terrified of it.

He’s got no idea what sort of his expression is on his face when he opens the front door.

Inside, all four housemates are staring at him.

Chapter 10: car radio | "i'm forced to deal with what I feel / there is no distraction to mask what is real"

Notes:

content warnings; (as previously mentioned, this flashback chapter is also dark in places) alcoholism/alcohol abuse, references to s/icidal ideations (scattered throughout, rather than heavily focused on), depression + anxiety, a small amount of insomnia and hallucinations, discussion around rehab

do you remember when I was like 'oh yeah my creativity is coming back and I'm writing more yay!!'. who the heck was that lmao. anyways yeah I'm not gonna get into it there's just been Stuff going on (and still going on) so writing in general was put on the backburner, and my motivation for it just sorta...withered. trying to nurture it back to its former self. I am still working on the next troih chapter (I know it been a long time since an update) but in the nicest way possible, you'll get it when you get it lol. been easing back into things by cooking up a cutesy neighbors/community garden/steddyhands goodness fic which has been a fun thing to put energy into. not sure when that'll be up - I think I'd rather have most of it done before starting to post chapters, so people aren't left in the lurch for months on end waiting for the next update - but it's really quite sweet, so I hope people will enjoy that when it comes out.

as always; stay kind, stay hydrated, stay hopeful. comments always welcome and appreciated <3

At around about this point, Izzy went a bit berserk. Banging on the door until his hands were bruised, screaming like a mad thing, scratching at the walls with his blunt fingernails like he'd be able to claw his way to freedom. Rampaged around the room with the full intent to tear it apart, piece by piece. Of course he couldn't do much. He could punch and kick his way through the drywall, sure, but that lasted all of five minutes before his energy gave out. Regardless of whatever fuel the booze gave him, it couldn't make up for the physical state he was in; thin, undernourished, with only remnants of the muscle he'd had before letting it waste away into nothing. So he shrieked and cried and carried on for as long as he could before the beast could no longer hold him up, and he collapsed both onto the mattress and into sleep.

When he woke it was from some sort of nightmare - couldn't remember details, just the feeling of fear - and, in his confusion, automatically reached for the whiskey.

There was none.

The sense of fear persisted.

His head spun, throbbing with his pulse, and there was an ache all up the back of his neck. Everything swayed in his vision, and more than once he felt as though he was going to topple over. His stomach heaved; evidently, that's what the bucket was for. It was morning - he'd slept the whole night - and it probably shouldn't have been cold, but he was shaking enough to wrap a blanket around his shoulders. He was still furious, yes. But his mouth also tasted like sandpaper, and he needed to piss.

He crawled over to the door, the ache in his neck spreading to all of the other joints in his weary body, and leant heavily against it. “Fang?” he rasped. “Ivan?”

There was a shuffling noise, followed by a quiet yawn. “Izzy?” Fang replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a fucking car.”

“I know,” came the sympathetic murmur. “I know.” And then, in his normal tone, “What do you need?”

The answer came out unbidden. “You know what I need.”

There was a beat between them.

“No,” Fang said softly. “No, you don’t need that. Try again.”

The beast was awake. Gnawing at his stomach, digging holes in his chest, trying to rip his head away from his neck. From its point of view, there was nothing else worth needing. It was afraid, and it was making him afraid, too.

“Bathroom?” Fang prompted, which - yes. He didn’t really want to piss in the bucket he’d just thrown up in. His standards were rock bottom for himself by that point, but he knew that the smell would only set to make him hurl again. And maybe, once they let him out - if he moved fast enough and got to the door - but no, fuck, he didn’t have his wallet anymore, they’d taken it - where would they put it-?

“Yeah,” was his delayed response. Fuck it, he’d just wing it.

He stood up, clinging to the door frame for support, and despite the fact that his legs were shaking and his teeth were chattering he was still intent on making a run for it, but-

Ah, no.

Not with Ivan blocking the hallway, muscular arms folded, and ready to stop any attempts of escape in their tracks.

The beast howled, but Izzy wasn’t stupid enough to willingly throw himself into a headlock. Maybe the key was to gain their trust, instead. They wanted him sober, right? So after two, maybe three days, they’d let him out. Then he could leave, and he wouldn’t make the mistake of being captured twice. Trying to appear meek - which wasn’t hard, when he looked like a pile of soggy newspaper - he allowed himself to be led to the bathroom.

His brain idly took note of the little bed made up in the hallway, crafted from blankets atop a few slabs of thick, rectangular pieces of foam.

Initially he felt a flicker of anger, that they would go to such lengths to keep him held hostage; they would literally sleep outside of his door to prevent him from leaving.

The idea that they could instead be doing it out of love doesn't occur to him yet. He's still too lost in himself to consider such a heartbreakingly tender concept.

He couldn't even stand up to use the toilet; had to sit, because his knees wouldn't hold him upright. As he was washing his hands a wave of nausea and bile rose up from his stomach, and he threw up a bit more into the sink. Easy to wash away, at least. He was aware of his body enough to be bothered about the lingering taste on his tongue, so he brushed his teeth again and was careful to avoid looking into the mirror.

Once he was back in his room they gave him a cup of water - the door cracked open a foot, watching while he sat on the mattress and obediently sipped away - and coaxed him into eating the bare minimum of one salted cracker. Neither of these things felt right in his body. They weren't what he wanted, what he needed. He was not craving this type of sustenance; was craving the bliss of oblivion, of downing something harsh and lovely until he couldn't feel that his throat was burning all the while.

They took the cup back and locked the door again.

Part of him wanted pain relief - he was still cold, still trembling all over - but he knew that it wasn't really what he was after. It might take the edge off the physical ache, but not the one that actually mattered.

He fell asleep again for a brief time and had another nightmare. It was all blurred shapes and colors and chattering voices - some far away, some whispering right by his ear - and when he woke with a start, sweating and gasping, the voices persisted for a couple of minutes into wakefulness. He'd experienced auditory hallucinations a few times before, but not to this extent; only for a few seconds before he freaked out and washed them down with a bit of vodka. A good drink could solve most of his problems, but that was the thing - there was nothing to drink in here. Nothing to drink, and nothing to do but be left alone with his thoughts.

That alone caused a fresh wave of panic to course through him.

He couldn't do this.

He couldn't stay here with the walls pressing in - trapped like some fucking animal - and the beast agreed, the beast drove its fear into him, told him that he needed to find a way out-

Back to the door he staggered, and began pounding on it with his fist again. “Let me out,” he rasped. “Let me the fuck out, now.”

“We can't do that,” came Fang's voice, still with that same sympathetic regret. “Gotta get that stuff out of your system first.”

The beast, who fed solely on that ‘stuff’, started all but frothing at the mouth.

As it was, Izzy started up again like he had before; scrabbling at the door, fiercely yelling until his words ran into each other and became incoherent, trying to break down the door with his fists. His hands were still sore from the earlier attempt, but that didn't stop him. He'd throw his whole body at this fucking thing if it meant breaking it down.

“Let me out!” he tried shrieking again, to no avail. “LET ME-”

The last word broke off in a quiet whimper. He's still not sure why he thought smashing his head into the door would do any good but, hey, he'd been drinking himself into ruin for long enough now that none of his ideas were particularly good. It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd not managed to hit the right side of his forehead into one of the hinges. With a fair amount of force, too, so - once the dizziness subsided, and his addled brain managed to get a grip on himself - he reached up to touch the sharp, stinging spot, and brushed his fingers against something warm and damp. When he lowered them down to eye level he spent a stupid amount of time just staring at the blood smeared on his skin, like he couldn't understand what he was seeing.

Decades later, he'll still carry the remnant of that scar.

“Izzy, I'm gonna get you a bandaid, alright?” Fang told him and, after a moment of more intense confusion, he belatedly remembered the peephole.

Never mind all that the beast gibbered, stretched and taut and absolutely fucking aching all over, forget that you're bleeding, forget that you're hurt, they're going to open the door and this is your chance to escape, let's get out and go and run and hide and find a drink, let's find a drink, I need a fucking drink-

To his credit, he tried.

It was a shitty attempt, but he tried nonetheless.

The door opened - he tried to force his way through the gap - but Ivan was waiting for him, steady as a rock, pinning his arms to his sides while he yelled and thrashed and raged and begged. Adrenaline and exhaustion waged war within his body, giving him sudden bursts of energy that burnt him out within a few minutes. He couldn't keep up the fight, no matter how loudly his subconscious was screaming at him. A craving like his - that had turned his willpower to dust, ground it into nothing - had done much the same to his physical strength. The state of himself, coupled with the effects of withdrawals, was never going to win in a situation like this.

Once he was all tuckered out - limp and shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, teeth chattering and skin slicked with sweat - Ivan sat down with him. Quite literally sat cross-legged on the mattress and pulled Izzy into his lap, the act of immobilizing his arms at odds with the sweet gesture of resting his chin on Izzy's shoulder, pressing their cheeks together. It made his eyes water.

Fang kneeled down in front of him. He used the damp half of a cloth to wipe away the blood, and the other half to dry around the cut. It was only small - maybe about an inch - but it was beginning to sting more, and did nothing for his headache. Fang applied the bandaid so carefully, so tenderly, that it made Izzy want to bawl his eyes out. Somewhere within the current cacophony of his brain, a little voice wondered why on earth he was being treated with such kindness when he'd done nothing to deserve it.

They made him drink another glass of water and eat one more salted cracker. He was allowed to use both of his hands for this task, although Ivan kept a firm grip around his waist. Izzy didn't think it was to restrain him, at that point; not with the way he was slumped back against his chest, like an exhausted puppet whose strings had been cut. Maybe as a reward for settling down, or maybe because he was a good boy in letting Fang tend to his forehead, they also gave him a piece of chocolate. It was sweet and made the back of his throat burn a little bit in the complete wrong way.

They left him with the intent to let him sleep, but he didn't. His head was throbbing to the point where he could feel his pulse in his eyelids. He was tired - so, so fucking tired - but sleep evaded him. Danced around the edges of his vision, much like the blurriness that persisted in distorting the things around him, but his brain felt like a live wire; sparking off at random moments, sending pulses of panic through his bloodstream in place of liquor and causing his hands to shake. Anxiety continued to gnaw at his near-empty stomach. It wasn't rational, he knows that now, but during that time it felt like - if he didn't get a drink in him soon - it would be the end of the fucking world.

After hours of tossing and turning and pacing and collapsing back onto the mattress when his shaking legs couldn't hold him up, he caught a bit of not-quite sleep. Basically, it was something between a nightmare and a hallucination. Because sometimes he knew that his eyes were closed, but other times he swore that his eyes were open when he saw things moving around. When he heard those voices whispering in and around his head. There was one so close that he felt - or at least, imagined he felt - its breath against his ear, and it terrified him into wakefulness. He was too scared to start the process over again.

It was awful. All of it was awful. For almost five days it was the same fucked up rinse and repeat cycle. Some of the usual hangover symptoms faded; he stopped throwing up somewhere between day two and three, and the headaches eased back from migraine territory into something more manageable. Mostly those were caused by lack of sleep. Fang and Ivan refused him any sort of pain relief in the form of a tablet, but they managed to get their hands on liquid paracetamol that they allowed him to take twice a day. It didn't cure them, but it took the edge off.

The blurriness in his vision persisted, as did the shaking. Sometimes he only trembled, other times it was like a high magnitude earthquake sending tremors through his bones. He found it hard to concentrate on anything besides the unbearable, irrepressible urge to pour alcohol down his throat, so convinced was his body that it would be his salvation. Somewhere in the midst of it all came intense, panging moments of despair, and helplessness, and…nothing. Sometimes, beyond the craving, his emotions just became…void.

Sleep was the worst part. Trying to, anyway. There were nightmares and voices and things that slipped from his subconscious into those initial waking moments, sometimes for seconds but sometimes for full minutes. Eddie featured in most of them. He was so scared to fall asleep, and the fear - coupled with the craving - made him into somewhat of a makeshift insomniac for a solid three days. Enough that the exhaustion made him confused, made him irritable, made him break down in tears over nothing and everything at the same time.

Every so often it would all become overwhelming enough that he'd start raging around the room again, throwing himself at the door and desperately trying to find a way out while shouting all the while. He was tired and out of his mind enough that he wasn't always in control of what came out. Wasn't aware of what he was actually saying, just knew that he was saying words. Sentences. Things like that. He didn't know that some of the stuff that came out of his mouth was spilling out of some deep, dark, repressed part of him, and it scared the people on the other side of the door. If Izzy could have heard it, he would have been afraid for himself, too.

He would have understood why they didn't let him shave or have sharp cutlery or why they insisted on keeping such a close eye on him.

Fang and Ivan, true to their word, took care of him. Slept outside his door and brought him food and made sure he brushed his teeth at least twice a day, more if he'd thrown up and needed to get rid of the gritty feeling in his mouth. They progressed from only offering water to allowing him a small glass of apple juice. His unreliable vision made it too easy to see the color, imagine it being something else, and inevitably feel nothing but anger and disappointment when it turned out to be refreshing and sweet and nothing at all like he wanted. Around day three they started coaxing him into having at least a few bites to eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Quarter of a piece of toast; half a scrambled egg; three spoonfuls of mac and cheese under close supervision. Anything to get a bit of fuel into his system, and his stomach used to regular meals again.

The turn of the tide came about a week after being confined to his well-meant enclosure.

He managed to snatch a couple hours of sleep without nightmares; just regular bad dreams, the type you didn't remember well when you woke up, and he could handle those. Compared to the alternative, they were nothing.

The shaking subsided into the occasional tremble, mostly confined to his hands and shoulders. The nausea all but disappeared. He still felt a bit yuck some mornings, but his stomach kept its contents in check. Meals became a bit more exciting - and a bit more substantial - but he was still restricted to wooden cutlery only, except in the case of spoons. Fang and Ivan ate with him. Brought in cushions to sit on, the three of them in a loose circle with Izzy cross-legged on his mattress. Always between him and the door, though, because every so often the beast had seized control and made a dash for freedom. Izzy hadn't tried that for a couple of days, now. That burning, insatiable craving was still there, but slightly less…violent. Maybe he'd gotten used to it, or maybe - with the alcohol well and truly gone from his system - it didn't have the same amount of strength as before. Especially now that it was competing with the very thing Izzy had been trying to repress all this time.

His brain was fucked, but clear enough to think. His body tired - drained and ill treated and emotionally weary of the world - but it was feeling things again. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Even if the memories of the last however many months were blurry, he could still remember what had happened before; what had made him turn to this crutch in the first place.

Eddie had left.

Eddie was gone.

Eddie…had not been in contact, besides that one time he came to pick up his stuff from the shop. No one had seen him around, no one had heard from him. It was like he'd disappeared off the face of the earth with his upgrade in tow. That's how Izzy thought of him as being; an upgrade. If you were throwing away that many years of marriage, this guy must have been perfect. Absolutely fucking sensational man, top fucking tier. He didn't want to imagine them together, but his imagination conjured it up regardless. Edward and his mystery man. Ivan had gotten a glimpse - said he was white, somewhere between regular and strawberry blond, maybe, he wasn't sure - but no one had seen his face, so the man in Izzy's head was sort of…blurry, in that regard. No distinguishing features. Still, he wondered about what they could be.

Did he have a nice nose? Ed always liked his nose. Kissed it whenever the fancy took him.

Could he sing? Or, perhaps more appropriately, would he sing, regardless? Would he belt out songs along to the radio whether he was tone deaf or not? Match Ed's enthusiasm, make him feel at ease with his own pitchy notes? If he could sing well, Izzy hoped that their voices were nothing alike.

Did this man understand that Eddie would always add to the shopping list? Did he know how sacred grocery shopping could be? Did he know what flavors of spicy two-minute noodles to buy? The right brand of coffee? To double check what Ed had snuck into the trolley - scold him for it - and buy it anyway?

Did he know how and where Ed liked to be touched? Did he know how to make his toes curl? Make him whine, make him beg, make him pant his name over and over and over again?

Did he know just how fucking lucky he was to share a bed with him? Share a house, share space, create memories?

Did he know that loving Edward Teach was the greatest honor in all the world?

There was nothing to distract him. Blank walls, dark curtains, two people giving intermittent company because they were so obviously afraid that too much stimulus would break him. It should have been more obvious that Izzy was breaking, anyway. It was only a matter of time.

The voices came back, but this time they were his own.

Edward has gone - he has left - and he doesn't want you anymore. He left because he doesn't want you. He doesn't love you. The one person in all the world who was supposed to love you is gone because he doesn't love you. Because he cannot love you. Because you are difficult - you are difficult to love - you are too hard to love and therefore you are unlovable.

Really and truly, during that time, he believed himself unlovable. And when you think that - when you believe that you are unlovable - it transforms your perspective into thinking that you don't deserve love in the first place. That it would be wasted on you, unlovable creature that you are, and you are able to convince yourself that you also don't deserve the things that love manifests itself through; things like kindness, and care, and compassion and thoughtfulness and empathy. You don't expect these things from others - don't believe you deserve them - and so you don't give them to yourself, either.

What's wonderful is that - regardless of these beliefs - the people who love you will keep doing it, anyway.

They told him every day. Every fucking day, multiple times a day, ‘we love you.’

We love you, we love you, we love you.

Kept trying to fill that void in his chest - the one Eddie had left behind, gaping and sore and seemingly beyond repair - until one day something within Izzy snapped, and he couldn't bear to hear it anymore.

“Stop it,” he whispered, the next time one of them said it. It was all his raspy voice could manage. “Stop - saying that. Stop lying to me.”

At that, Fang and Ivan had exchanged a slightly surprised - but no less wary - glance between themselves.

“Stop saying what?” Fang asked, straddling the line between genuine and cautious confusion. “That we love you?”

The words felt like pin pricks in his ears, sat awkwardly in the space between them, made his body recoil away from their bluntly soft meaning. “I - yes. That.”

“But…we do love you. And we want you to know that.”

His eyes had closed briefly, cheek twitching in response. “No you don't.”

Ivan had huffed out a short, humorless laugh. “Hate to break it to you, Iz, but we do. Why d'you think we're doing all this?”

Because you feel sorry for me, he thought. Because you feel pity for this sad, pathetic excuse of a man who used to be your friend, and it's your consciences driving you to do this - not love. It cannot be love, after everything I've put you through.

That was all part of this process, too - the realization of how much he'd fucked up. How much stress he'd put these two wonderful human beings through. They'd been so good to him - were still being good, going above and beyond - and yet he had failed them, time and time again. How on earth could they still love him, when for so long he hadn't been giving an ounce of that love back?

Words wouldn't come when he tried to speak, so he just shook his head instead; a little more forceful than necessary, like he was trying to dislodge them somehow.

“You're just gonna have to deal with it, mate,” Ivan said. “S'just a fact. Water's wet, sun's in the sky, we love you even if you don't think we do. Or want us to. Makes no odds, really.”

It occurred to Izzy that actually, no, he didn't want them to. It would make everything so much fucking easier if they didn't; he could ruin himself in peace, and not have to worry about cleaning up the pieces. He wouldn't have to be punched in the gut with guilt every time he saw them. So much simpler, if he was as alone as he felt.

“You should hate me,” he said. He hadn't meant to - it had just sort of slipped out - but that had been happening a lot recently, so it wasn't a total shocker. “You probably do, too. Just won't admit it.”

Ivan's mouth pressed into a thin, concerned frown. Fang looked sad. Guilt, guilt, guilt. Churning away in his stomach, making him feel sick. He pushed his plate away. Even the food blatantly expressed care; you didn't make risotto from scratch for someone if you hated them. But it was easier, for him, to keep convincing himself otherwise. He was fragile, and hurting, and the weight of love was hard to bear.

“We don't hate you, Izzy,” Ivan replied softly. “We hate some of the decisions that you've made, and what the drinking has done to you…and we hate that it's had to come to this, yeah, because we should have stepped in earlier - seen more of the signs, intervened months ago to try and avoid all this - but we don't…we don't hate you. This isn't…” He paused, sighing. “We know you, Izzy - we've known you for years - and this…this isn't you. You're not yourself. We're trying to figure out how to get you back. You need to be you again.”

“And we miss you,” Fang added, with a tentative, wobbly smile. “We want you back. Even if things aren't how they were before…y’know…things can still be good. I know you probably can't see that right now, but it's true. We're going to help you get through this.”

They were so good, and patient, and kind - to this day, they are still all of those things - but in that moment, that headspace, they were too much to handle.

Izzy's face had scrunched up, baby tears beginning to stick in the corners of his eyes, and he'd made a choked, whining noise - had curled up into himself for a moment, fingers in his hair and nails digging into his scalp - before something took over, and he bolted for the door.

Fang caught him this time. Arms tight around the middle, hauling him backwards. Izzy had fought hard; scrabbling at his hands, trying to pry them away, writhing like an eel caught in a net. He had more energy now, see. They’d been feeding the creature they were trying to tame. Then Ivan was there, helping to restrain and soothe him in equal measure. In truth, Izzy didn't want to stop. It felt good to let some of this madness out. To kick and scream and cry - oh, yes, his brain was very preoccupied, but at some point it noted that his face was wet - and it also felt good to speak what was, at that moment in time for him, the truth.

He kept flailing, kept throwing himself around to try and free himself from Fang's vice grip, when he stumbled on the edge of his mattress. Fang lost his balance, too, and the two of them toppled over. At least it was a soft landing. It certainly didn't work out in Izzy’s favor, because now he was well and truly pinned. With one person's hips firmly straddling his thighs, and another person kneeling near his head in order to keep a firm grip on his wrists, he wasn't exactly in prime position to win. Still, though, he tried. Stubbornness persisted in all versions of himself.

They asked him to stop in voices that were too kind, too soft, and he hated it. He wanted their anger - wanted bruises instead of tenderness - wanted some feeling beat back into his body, to be treated in the way that he thought he deserved.

He screamed a little bit more. Sometimes words, sometimes just noises. Feelings. Putting sound to what he couldn’t articulate. The guilt of being loved - the way grief mangles the heart - the anger that comes with these things - the way human flesh and skin and bones can only contain so many of these emotions before they need to find their release in whatever way possible. It felt good to shriek and wail and expose himself like this; relieving, just as much as it was terrifying. By now, though, his brain had a knack of disconnecting itself from his mouth, so he himself was never quite sure of what was going to come out. Didn’t remember half the stuff he’d said in days and weeks and months gone by. Still hadn’t clicked as to why he wasn’t allowed to shave or eat with proper utensils.

“You hate me,” he sobbed, believing that with his whole chest and everything in it.

“No we don’t,” Fang said, trying to keep his shoulders pressed into the mattress so he couldn’t pull anything.

“Yes you do!” Breath heaving, ribs aching. “Yes you do, you fucking hate me, everyone fucking hates me-”

“No one hates you.” Ivan grunted slightly, keeping his grip firm around his wrists, but trying hard not to squeeze too tightly. “We want you to get better. All of us. Me and Fangy, and Mary and Anne and Steakie and Bill. We’re gonna do whatever it takes. We love-”

“NO YOU DON’T!” Tears streaming down his face. Throat aching, burning slightly with the pitch volume. “No you DON’T, you CAN’T, you don’t fucking love me, no one fucking loves me, you fucking hate me - everyone fucking hates me - I fucking hate me-”

Another truth, which should have been fairly obvious to everyone by this point.

Of course he fucking hated himself.

There was a slight shift in the room, a shift in tactics. Questions, instead of trying to force care down his throat.

“Why do you think we hate you?” Fang asked gently, and the answer to that sort of question is funny, isn’t it? Because someone can treat you with nothing but kindness - openly express their concern for your wellbeing, the desire to see you treat yourself better - and yet you pretend that a ‘gut feeling’ is correct in telling you that this isn’t true. Chances are, they don’t hate you; you’re just projecting.

In that moment, Izzy was confused. It seemed…obvious, to him, that they should hate him after everything he’d put them through. Because of who he’d become as a person. He just didn’t know how to voice this. It made him pause in his struggling, giving everyone a brief rest from the situation.

“Why do you think we don’t love you?” Fang tried again, flipping the question around.

Izzy pondered this, too, and came up with nothing. Just felt that same hollow, bitter worthlessness that had been steadily gnawing away at him from the inside out for too long a time to remember. Well, no - that’s a lie. If he tried, he could probably pinpoint it to a time before Ed left; whenever he started feeling as though he wasn’t enough for him anymore. The memory stabbed at him, harsh and twisting, and he involuntarily grimaced in response.

“Why would you?” he whispered, while he tried and failed to suppress the beast - which had lain dormant for a short time while he was distracted - as it ramped up its efforts to take control. Told him, again, to escape - to run - to find something to burn the memory away. Use a pain he could control to replace the one that he couldn’t.

“Why wouldn’t we?”

That hurt, too, because it was said so sweetly, yet he could feel a hundred different reasons poised on the tip of his tongue. Given more time, he could’ve come up with a hundred more.

The beast was impatient, incessant - demanding he pay attention to its hunger - but not one drop of liquor had passed his lips in a week, and it meant that its grip wasn’t as tight as before. A chokehold, rather than straight suffocation. Only part of his brain was focused on the craving, while the rest of it was trying to grapple with both the past and the present.

An image of Eddie’s face flashed through his mind. Even with eyes wide open, the image of him lingered there; like he’d looked at a bright, beautiful thing, and it was still resonating in his vision even though it was gone. His face screwed up.

“He hates me.” Not even a whisper; just small and tight and barely audible. “That’s why he left.”

“He doesn’t - he didn’t hate you, Izzy.” Ivan risked holding down his wrists with just one hand, while the other brushed a few strands of hair from his sweat-damp forehead. The gesture made him feel sick. “He left, yeah, and he shouldn’t have done it the way that he did, but it wasn’t…it wasn’t hate.”

“You don’t know.” He was barely able to swallow; the sound got caught in his throat. “I do. I know him.” A fresh wave of pain, dampness returning to his eyes. “I knew him. He got tired of me. He hated me. So he left.”

A beat of silence.

Fang was hesitant when he next spoke, aware that they were venturing further into volatile conversation. “That's what some of this is about? Not just forgetting about him? You think he hates you, so…that means everyone hates you?”

Izzy's mouth opened - closed - his teeth ground together - he tried to breathe normally, but couldn't. Each intake was almost a gasp. “If he couldn't, then how can - and he left - he left me - and if he can leave, then - then-”

“If he can leave, then anyone else can too,” Fang finished softly, and sighed. “You think we're going to abandon you, too. Because you think we hate you. You think we hate you because if Edward doesn't love you, then no one can.”

It had made sense in his head, all that time.

Hearing it out loud - spoken by a voice other than his own, in such a weary and sympathetically disbelieving tone - made it lose some of its conviction. But he nodded regardless, because the alternative was still too much to think about.

He was idly aware of Ivan brushing away more hair, but - no. The movement was too rhythmic. Stroking, not brushing. Trying to soothe him, trying to give comfort through this small gesture. And the thought occurred to him - not for the first time, but now through a painfully sober lens - that he and Eddie used to do this with each other, and now they never would again.

No more holding hands. No more grocery shopping, no knees bumping against each other on the bus like back in the old days. No more singing together in the car on the way to work. No more sharing meals, sharing a bed, sharing space. No more borrowing each other's clothes. No discovering new music together, watching new movies, reading new books. No new memories to be made. There were to be no more kisses - none on the cheek, or nose, or forehead or fingers or mouth or thighs or stomach or knees or neck - and no more waking up to those big, beautiful, liquidy velvet doe eyes he'd fallen in love with twenty one years ago.

There was to be no more love from Edward Teach.

And yet, Izzy Hands found in that moment that he still had so much more to give.

“Izzy,” Fang said, only partially breaking through his thoughts. He was working very hard not to have a complete and utter breakdown. “Please listen to me when I say this, alright? I know you're upset - I know that that word doesn't even begin to cover it - and I understand that you've got a lot of big emotions going on right now, but - just because one person doesn't love you, it doesn't mean that you yourself are unlovable. Okay? You - are not - unlovable. I know that, because I love you. Ivan loves you. We all love you. And we're going to keep telling you that until you believe it, because it's true.”

There were tears in his eyes while he spoke. His mouth was wobbling. Izzy stared up at him in stunned silence, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, before deciding - bugger it - a complete and utter breakdown it is.

Ivan wasn't expecting him to move so quickly; to suddenly twist, wrenching himself free, and pushing himself upwards in one swift motion. It was okay, though. He didn't need to worry. Izzy wrapped his arms tightly around Fang, bunching his fists into the back of his shirt, and began to sob. Really howled in earnest, like a wounded animal. Of course that set Fang off - and then Ivan was huddled up behind him, trying to stretch his own arms far enough to encompass the both of them. It was a breaking point, just as much as it was a healing one. The beginning of the end for one thing, and the beginning of the beginning for another. It was time to change. It was time to hear those achingly lovely words, and try to believe in them.

They ordered takeout for dinner - rice and vegetables and crispy chicken pieces smothered in some sort of sticky honey glaze. No one could be bothered with the making of a proper meal, and this filled a gap in the right way. Izzy managed to eat at least half of his portion. Kept it all down, too, despite still feeling emotionally sick. Drained. Exhausted. All of it. It was one of those times where he felt all of it.

The next day, he managed tea and toast for breakfast. A sandwich for lunch. His takeout leftovers for dinner. It was the most he'd eaten in weeks.

The day after, he kept it up - three small but decent meals - and the beast hated that day because it had so many competitors. Izzy found it easier to ignore when he had a contentedly full stomach and a decent amount of energy. It was helped by the brain fog, which had returned - he still had moments, sometimes hours at a time, where he felt emotionally blank - but the beast had trouble with this, because barking and snarling at nothing gets you nowhere.

Ivan and Fang took to sleeping with him. Someone still took up position outside the room, but the other shared his mattress to keep him company at night. This gesture was very appreciated, and well received even if he had trouble processing it. He found it easier to face the persistent ache of loneliness when he wasn't so alone. Along with this, as a sign of trust, they stopped locking his door a few days later.

There was a morning where he woke up early - although was still half asleep, really - managed to slip out without waking Ivan and, yawning, took himself to the bathroom. Simple as that. Went in there, pissed, washed his hands, and returned to bed. Curled up and went back to sleep like nothing happened. If he had known that Fang had watched him from the hallway bed the whole time, and was now quietly doing a little dance to himself, he would have realized that, actually, the fact that running away hadn't crossed his mind once was a fucking milestone.

After about two weeks, they started to return his furniture. The bedframe, the bedside table, the dresser. Once they read up on how to plaster walls, the window railing was removed and the resulting holes patched over. He actually opted to keep the darker curtains, because they were helping him to sleep better if he had a headache. The majority of his clothes were returned, although it took a little longer before he saw his belts and shoelaces again. At the time he was a little confused, but the reality of it would hit later on. To this day he can't remember what he said to make them both so scared and, since he himself has always been too afraid to ask, they've never told him.

Regular cutlery was reintroduced. They began to eat at the table for meal times. He was allowed to get his hands on a razor in order to shave, although it was a shaky process from both the physical and emotional sides of things. Physically, because his fingers still had a habit of trembling at times; emotionally, because he finally had to look at himself in the mirror and face the person staring back. He could see the toll that everything had taken on his body; the new lines etched into his pale skin, the dullness of his eyes, the way he seemed to sag from his own bones. How was he supposed to apologize to himself? How to even begin making up for everything he'd put himself through? Not only him, but everyone around him?

That was answered somewhere near the three week mark. Fang and Ivan decided - with his consent - that he was up to having visitors. Anne was first through the door and, having always been the more affectionate one, swept him up into a hug. Mary followed hot on her heels with a shorter hug, which was no less fierce, and two boxes of pizza. “Just in case they've been feeding you prison food,” she declared, to which Izzy said he was surprised that she could pay for it considering how tightly her wallet was always shoved up her ass, and they laughed more than the joke warranted because of how nice it was to hear him make it. Steakie and Bill were there too. When were they ever going to pass up the opportunity for a free meal? And they cared for him too, of course. Of course they did.

On the one hand, Izzy was glad to see them - was overwhelmed at being able to see their faces again, to talk and laugh like everything was normal - but he found it hard to look at them, to meet their eyes, because none of this was as normal as it should have been. It’s one thing, trying to apologize for a simple mistake. It’s another, trying to apologize for months worth of toxic behavior. Where to start? How to even begin?

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out - regardless of the fact that they were in the middle of a conversation - when he could take it no more. “I’m so sorry. For everything. For putting you all through that. For making you put up with me-”

“Oi, no, none of that,” Mary interrupted him. “You didn’t make us put up with anything - we stuck by you because we wanted to.”

“Even if you did make it hard,” Anne chipped in; not a dig, just stating a fact. Izzy took it on the chin. He couldn’t help but sigh, though, and slump further into the couch.

“I’m…never going to be able to make it up to you. Any of you.”

There was a moment’s pause before Steakie said, in that gentle, deep voice of his, “We don’t want to see you like that again. We don’t want you to…go backwards.”

Izzy wanted to promise that he wouldn’t - no chance, never again - but…he couldn’t. Not with something like this. He couldn’t make that promise, and they all knew it, and it caused him physical discomfort. Made him feel sick, made him hate himself all over again.

“I’ll try,” he whispered, in a very small voice. It was all he could do.

There was an exchanging of significant glances around the room; he saw them and frowned slightly, worried somehow that he’d said the wrong thing-

“Would you be open to…a bit more help?” Fang asked tentatively. “We think it would be good for all of us if you were.”

Izzy was confused for a moment, because hadn’t they already done enough? Hadn’t they sacrificed enough on his behalf?

“What kind?” he asked warily, even though it probably should have been obvious. Blame the brain fog and the beast still prowling around inside of his skull.

“We’ve…got you a place for you, if you want it.”

There was more initial confusion - what, like, a new place for him to live? - until the penny finally dropped and he said, quietly, “Oh.”

“We went back and spoke to some people at the hospital,” Ivan explained. “Just sort of told them…how you were…why you were last admitted, and all that, and they gave us some residential places to look at. We all got together and decided on one we thought would be the best fit.”

“It’s supposedly really good,” Bill said, doing his best to sound eager. Like they were trying to talk about some holiday retreat, and not rehab. “An old mate of mine had a cousin who went there, and it really helped her out. Thirty days, all meals provided, the rooms are nice, they’ve got therapists and stuff…”

“They don’t allow visitors, but you get a phone call every day,” Fang continued, “and it’s only about an hour from here so, if you really needed us, we’d be there. We won’t be far away. If…y’know. You’re willing to give it a try?”

Izzy was trying very hard to process things - trying hard not to get overwhelmed - but looking around at all of their hesitant, hopeful faces, how could he refuse? In the wake of all they’d done for him, how could he possibly choose to hurt them more than he already had?

His mouth had suddenly gone dry. He licked his lips in a subconsciously nervous gesture. The beast, suddenly sensing that its days could be numbered, began to howl.

Everyone was still looking at him.

He took a deep breath, and forced himself to nod.

Chapter 11: RAWFEAR | "life is just forever grippin' feels"

Notes:

content warnings; panic attack (not a big one, though, and there's a lot of sweet silliness that follows)

has it been a hot second since I posted here? yes. has there been a lot going on? yes, but I'm not gonna go into it. is there still stuff going on? yes. am I incredibly stressed and concerned about the state of the world? yes. am I still working on this fic? yes. am I still working on other fics? also yes. I'm aiming to get another chapter of troih out sometime this month, and there are also two other multi-chapter fics I'm working on; a stizzy/gentlehands thing involving arranged marriages and horses (probably not what you think, but I really love where it's going) and a somewhat-slowburn cutesy steddyhands community garden/neighbors type of thing. the former is quite story-driven, while the latter (obviously also revolving around the plot) is probably more like something you'd read to relax before bed.

not guaranteeing when the next chapter will be posted - with all due love and respect to the people still reading, you'll get it when you get it - but I will say that breach coming out has been a huge help in shifting some writers block + getting the creativity flowing again, and for that I'm thankful. I'm also grateful to everyone who's sticking around to see this story through with me, and for anyone who picks it up along the way. comments and support are always welcome and appreciated <3

also, if you've got any ideas for silly names in their group chat, those are also welcome - I'm probably gonna change them up each time the chat comes into play, and I'd very much love some more options for when those chapters come around ~

The silence is deafening.

They just keep staring at each other - time ticking on, blurring around the edges - and it's quite evident that no one has a single fucking clue of what they're supposed to say.

Suddenly the weight of the morning starts to hit him.

Suddenly it settles into his stomach like lead, and there's a small part of him that starts to genuinely feel quite sick.

Something must show on his face, because Fang reacts to it - has seen it before, knows how to deal with it - and he asks, “Have you eaten?”

Izzy shakes his head mutely.

“Then you need to eat.”

He licks his lips in a nervous, subconscious gesture. Frenchie’s brows are furrowed. Ivan's got his arms crossed. John's eyes are slightly narrowed, appraising him. Fang ignores all of them.

“You need to eat,” he repeats, firmer. “We'll have breakfast first.”

Ivan glances at him.

“We will have breakfast first.”

And since there's absolutely no room for argument in his tone, that's what they do.

It's an awkward meal.

He's overly aware of everyone at the table being overly aware of him. Frenchie takes a leaf out of Fang's book and starts prattling on about the rock painting they'll be doing and oh, won't it be fun, it's such a nice day to be outdoors, and he thinks he'll make a family of caterpillars. Ivan says nothing. John looks skeptical, as though such a whimsical task can't possibly be taking place this morning when there's obviously a much bigger issue at hand to deal with.

But they have to paint rocks, don't they?

Izzy has to paint two for himself and Edward.

Because they're going to talk more.

Him and Edward.

Like they did this morning.

He spoke to Edward this morning.

Oh fuck, did he really speak to Edward this morning?

The toast in his belly starts chasing the scrambled eggs which start chasing the herbal tea he drank with Edward which starts chasing the apple slices that Fang so lovingly cut up and fried in cinnamon butter, and then he really thinks he might throw up.

But he doesn't.

He flosses his teeth and brushes them and finds comfort in the flavor of peppermint toothpaste.

He washes his face and moisturizes like a good boy, all the while avoiding eye contact with himself in the mirror.

By the time he's done doing those things, they're already setting up outside; Frenchie’s laid out a picnic blanket and is carefully arranging paint pots and brushes in the middle, while John lays out some cushions in a circle so they'll all have something comfortable to sit on. Ironic, really, since the inevitable conversation they'll have will be anything but.

Fang makes sure he's sitting next to him, lightly squeezing Izzy's knee before reaching for a rock.

After a moment of hesitation, people follow suit.

Everyone makes…small talk.

Well - they do. Izzy just sits there and tries to ignore the churning in his stomach as he paints. He's decided that his letterbox rock will have a butterfly on it. The transformation symbolism is poignant in his case, he feels, but - aside from the poetry - you've just gotta have respect for an insect that essentially turns to liquid in a self-made sleeping bag before emerging as an entirely different creature. It's bizarre, but it's cool. And he's not necessarily any good at painting them, either, but he knows that the intent is the thing that matters. Regardless of the wonky wings and uneven antennae and the fact that the green markings don't quite match up on either side, it's still a butterfly.

Fang times his question when Izzy's working on some of the fiddly details; when he'll have something to concentrate on while he answers.

“So,” he begins pleasantly, hesitantly. “How was your walk this morning, Iz?”

His hands stutter for a moment before resuming their task. “It was - fine.”

“Mhm.”

“Edward…was there.”

“He followed you again?”

“I…invited him. Sort of.”

Silence.

“Did you know you were going to do that?” Fang asks lightly.

“No. Sort of. Um. I’d been thinking about it. I didn’t know for sure when I was going to do it, but I just - did. This morning. Decided that I wanted to get it over and done with.”

“You didn’t mention him in that text you sent me.”

“I know.” This time, his gut churns with guilt. “I'm sorry.”

“How come you chose not to?”

Izzy pretends to concentrate on fixing up one of the wings when, really, he's trying to find an answer that sounds half decent. Even with the stalling, it's not enough time to come up with anything remotely satisfactory. “I'm not sure,” he replies honestly, feeling a small wave of fresh shame wash over him. “I think I was afraid of breaking the moment, somehow. If you knew what I was doing there'd be…I don't know, expectations. I'd have to come home and make an announcement about how it went, and I didn't…I didn't want that.”

“You wanted to have time to sit with it. Process it all, before you talked to us.”

“Yeah.”

“You could've done that anyway,” Fang says softly, and Izzy can't bear to meet his gaze. “We wouldn't have pushed you. We just like to know that you're safe - you could've waited as long as you wanted to before talking it through.”

There's a tightness in his throat now, baby tears in his eyes. “I know,” he whispers hoarsely.

A flash of anger sears through him; at himself, his actions, the stupid rock in his hand. Suddenly he despises this butterfly that he's tried to paint. All he can see are the imperfections, all the places where he's fucked up, and he hates it.

The hand holding it twitches, fingers flexing around the small chunk of stone as he fights the urge to throw it.

Ivan leans over and plucks it from his grasp without a word. Doesn't even look at him, just sets it aside and replaces it with a blank one. Izzy stares at it.

What's supposed to be Edward's letterbox rock.

He doesn't know whether to try and throw this one, too, or paint as many legs on it as possible.

“May we ask about how it went? No details, if you'd prefer. Just whether or not it was…productive.”

Idly, Izzy notices that Fang's the one doing all the talking. It makes sense; he's good at using a gentle voice, soothing down people's anxieties like he's trying to reassure a startled animal. He'd probably try and stroke Izzy's hair, if he thought it would help. He's actually done that a few times before. It's nice.

“It was…”

-absolutely fucking terrible, he cried his fucking heart out over me like I did for him all those years ago, because he's sorry and he means it - he's finally learnt to apologize - he's taken responsibility for his actions and he's learnt from them, he's changed, he's better than he was but he's still the Eddie I remember and he still made me laugh and he's still beautiful, and I'm terrified of him.

“...okay, I think. We talked a lot about what happened. We both said sorry. He knows what he did, and he's learnt from it, and he's better. And I believe him.”

Fang nods slowly, pondering his words. “So…what do you think things are going to look like, from now on? What do you want them to look like?”

Oh, isn't that a question.

“We…are going to talk more,” he replies slowly. “Because there's still stuff that needs to be said.”

“Are you okay with him being there for your morning walk?”

“...yes? Um…we're gonna put a system in place. So we'll know if the other person wants to…meet up. He's not going to spring it on me.”

“That's good.” He's trying to sound encouraging. “I'm glad you've thought to do that.”

“I…yeah.” Izzy shifts slightly, discomfort continuing to creep up on him. “He'll probably want to talk with you, too. Clear the air as much as he can.”

“He can wait until I'm good and ready,” is Fang's firm response. He squints at his rock - holds it in a different light - and carefully paints on some tiny detail, the tip of his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. Izzy looks down at his own blank rock, and tries his best to exhale some of the simmering frustration he still feels. You've gotta do this, he tells himself. You've gotta talk more to get closure, so you've gotta paint the rock.

Such a bizarre thought, when taken out of context.

He'd like to say that he genuinely considers doing a centipede, but he doesn't. Ed's always been freaked out by too many legs on insects and, even if he might deserve the jumpscare - just a little bit - Izzy would never do it to him. He's a bastard, but he's not mean. Trying not to think too hard, he picks up a new brush and dabs it into the red. Ed likes the color red. He can have a ladybug.

Something about the shade he's chosen niggles in the back of his mind.

Five minutes goes past in which no one says anything. The sun is warm, there are birds chirping overhead. The waves are evidently too relaxed to be heard from this distance, but it's comforting all the same to know that they're there. Every now and then he catches a whiff of salt on the breeze.

And then, as he's finishing the last little detail on the ladybug and placing it down next to the butterfly, that niggle returns. A miniscule something in the back of his brain pinging off with recognition. He stares at the two of them - feels himself get frustrated, the longer he's unable to figure out the connection - but eventually it clicks into place, and the frustration drops like a lead weight in his belly.

Their two favorite colors.

Green and red.

Emerald and ruby.

He's painted them in the colors of their fucking wedding rings.

Slowly but surely, he feels the shift within himself. Tries to keep his breathing steady, but that familiar tightness starts tickling his chest - it's not too hot outside yet, but there's a tiny layer of sweat breaking out and prickling uncomfortably across his skin - there's a whole world to look at, but those two stones are the only thing filling his vision. As it is they seem to be swimming slightly, making his head dizzy.

Belatedly, he realizes that Fang is saying something. He's not even sure when he started speaking.

“-really appreciate it if you tell one of us next time, yeah? Just so we can be on standby if you need a…a cuddle afterwards, or a shoulder, or to talk…because maybe one of you will blunder a bit, but maybe it'll go really well! Fingers crossed and all that, but um…yeah. I think that would make all of us feel a lot better.”

Izzy knows that he's supposed to respond - obviously he's meant to reply, meant to formulate some sort of decent answer - but his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth, and every coherent word has left him. Almost all of his concentration is focused on maintaining a steady rhythm of breathing, but he's not sure that he's doing the best of jobs. He can't even manage any stomach breathing, and that's the only technique that ever works.

Five seconds go by.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen.

He still hasn't responded.

As the silence drags on, people begin pausing their work to look at him. Studying him like he's one of the bugs they're painting.

“Iz-”

Someone touches him on the arm. With good intent, yes, but it's too much. Suddenly it's all too much - Edward, this conversation, the fucking rocks - so he's up, he's moving - he has no memory of scrambling to his feet but he's walking - he's on the back porch - he's inside, down the hallway, into the kitchen - why the kitchen, why not his room? - he doesn't know - doesn't know - he doesn't-

His feet guide him to the fridge like maybe drinking water will help, but his hands won't work properly; they fumble with the handle, numb and tingling and sweaty, and then part of his panicked brain tells him to go and sit down but he can't, his feet won't move, it's all he can do to keep himself leaning upright against the counter, and he's just trying to breathe - in, and out, but it feels like an effort, feels like he's doing it wrong, feels like he can't-

Strong, comforting arms encircle him from behind. His shaky legs threaten to give out so he's guided to the floor, right there in the middle of the kitchen, and the warmth of Fang's chest radiating through to his skin is like a salve, like a soothing balm warming across his back and shoulders. “It's okay,” he whispers, beard tickling against the shell of Izzy's ear, and - not for the first time in recent months - those little words are enough to have him bursting into tears.

There's just too much to try and process right now, too many questions that need answering, and he doesn't know how to put them in order. All of those lessons from past therapists have temporarily fallen out of his head. All he can think about is Edward - and what things are supposed to look like - and, oh fuck, how he feels about it all. The brief glow from their conversation that morning has well and truly worn off. Now he's just tired, and confused, and angry - with himself and everything - and mourning what he's lost all over again. He doesn't regret the conversation itself, but he feels completely and utterly stupid for thinking that maybe, just maybe, he'd feel okay afterwards.

Of course he doesn't feel okay.

He's not felt okay about Edward for a long, long time.

“I think you've had a day,” Fang says gently, which makes Izzy choke out something close to a laugh because it's not even noon yet, and they've barely delved into the emotional pit he's wallowing in. The sound makes Fang squeeze him tighter, tilt his head to press a brief kiss to the part of Izzy's cheek he can reach. “We can talk about it, if you want,” he whispers, beginning to softly rock them from side to side. “Just the two of us.”

It's not that none of the others are bad listeners - they're all fantastic, and they offer affection just as well - but Fang has a…a quality to him that draws people in; he's always had it, right from when they first met. When Izzy tries to speak, though, the words all crowd themselves at the back of his throat and refuse to come out coherently, and the only noise he makes is a garbled mess.

“One feeling at a time,” Fang murmurs.

“Sad,” he manages to whisper. It's so raspy it sounds like he's been eating sand. And it's not the right word, either, but it's the easiest one to say that encompasses everything else attached to it.

“That's understandable. I would be, too. I am,” Fang corrects himself upon reflection. “I am sad that things are this way. They won't always be like this, though, so that's something. Even if it hurts, all of this is gonna get easier again.”

“Hurt,” Izzy echoes hoarsely, still keeping his voice low.

“Yeah, you will be feeling hurt,” he agrees, matching the low, solemn tone. “And that upsets me, too. You've been through enough hurt. You don't deserve any more.”

Izzy cries a little bit more over that before managing, “S-scared.”

“Of talking to Edward again? Or just…all of it?”

“Allofit.” It comes out in a quick, gusty breath, like he's afraid to admit it. The admittance itself isn't scary, but everything it entails terrifies him. Of course it does. He's already agreed to speak to Ed again - no backing out of it now. But what are they going to say? What does Ed want to know, and what will Izzy think to ask? They're stuck in some weird relationship limbo because they simultaneously know each other, but also don't know each other at all. Not the current versions of themselves - some parts are the same as before, but others are so, so different - and it all feels like some uncomfortable, fucked up paradox. They're not nothing to each other, but what are they? He knows that he doesn't want them to fall out again - he doesn't think he could handle another blow up like last time - but at the same time, even if they argued, what would be lost? Not friends, not lovers, just…two people who used to know and adore the bones of each other, forced to be neighbors after fifteen years of radio silence in some bizarre, cosmic twist of events.

His fingers clench helplessly into fists, a fresh wave of baby tears pricking at his eyes.

“Angry,” he whispers.

“At Edward?”

So, so angry.

“And me.”

Because he's been nursing hurt and heartache for fifteen fucking years, and all it took was one conversation with that man to bring back all of the sweeter memories that he's been trying to put to bed all this time.

“Why are you angry with yourself?” Fang asks gently.

Izzy squeezes his eyes shut.

“I miss him.”

He misses their banter. Ed's laughter. Ed's hands, his teeth, his nose. Those velvety doe eyes he fell in love with at first sight. The tattoos on his skin. His crinkly grins, his soft smiles. Every good joke and every stupid one, too. Kissing his knuckles, his forehead, his pretty mouth. His shitty culinary skills and his leather boots sitting by the door and the way he'd sneak food into the trolley when Izzy wasn't looking. The ride home from the supermarket back in the early days, knees pressed together on the bus. Sharing a meal, sharing a bed, sharing a life.

He'll never get any of that back.

He shouldn't even want it after what Ed did to him, but he does.

Even after everything - after all this time - he's once again being forced to face the fact that he does.

And he doesn't know what kind of person that makes him.

Fang is quiet for a long while before whispering, “I know.” And then, after another pause, “I miss him, too.”

They all missed him after he left. There was an Ed-shaped hole in their friend group that could never be filled up - he brought so much vibrancy to their circle - and the ache of his absence never truly went away for any of them. Everyone got on with things, sure, but the feeling never disappeared. He knows that it's not an uncommon thing; he's read many similar posts online, with people expressing how strange it is to carry memories of someone - carry emotion for them - but have no idea what to do with it. Years later, catching yourself thinking they would love this song, or this sweater is their favorite color, or I wonder what they're doing now - if they think of me - if they miss me as much as I do them.

It's sort of…different, though, in Izzy's case. He thinks it has to be because of what he and Ed used to be. Fang and Ivan miss their friend, but - although they've expressed multiple times just how much they would've loved things to have stayed good, for the old Ed to still be around - they've also somewhat made their peace with the fact that it didn't happen, and left it at that. They wouldn't change where they are or who they have in their lives, now.

Izzy wouldn't either.

He wouldn't.

And yet - despite all the hurt and heartache - despite loving his town, his home, his beautifully chaotic found family - he still feels Ed's absence just as keenly, and there are still times he feels as if he'd do anything to get him back.

It's something he rather hates about himself.

It feels so fucking disrespectful to want anything like that; after Fang and Ivan sticking by him, dragging him kicking and screaming into sobriety, after everyone forking out for the sake of a decent rehab, after moving away for a fresh start, after being nursed through countless depressive episodes, after being unwaveringly supported and cherished and loved by so many people and returning each and every precious sentiment to them…after everything, how on earth could he still want Edward Teach?

Well.

That's fairly obvious, isn't it?

Even if he doesn't want to admit it, he's still-

He still in-

He's never stopped-

“Do you think I'm a bad person?” he whispers, not entirely sure that he wants to hear an answer. “For still…caring about him?”

For still loving him?

“No,” Fang replies, soft and soothing. “I think because you…cared about him for so long, it became like second nature to you. And human nature isn't always something that can be changed.”

He wants to say, I don't want to love him.

That would be a lie, though, because he's too afraid of that old love leaving him; he's loved him for so long, for all these years despite everything that happened between them, that he fears he would be different if that part of him disappeared. Harboring those feelings, even if he doesn't openly express them, has become so entwined with his actual personality that he doesn't know if he could untangle them without serious damage. Cora, his first therapist, explained it all through much prettier metaphors than he's able to come up with.

Let's say you're a painter. You spend nearly every hour of every day with your favorite brushes in your hand, creating beautiful things on your favorite canvas on your favorite easel. You do this for twenty years, and your relationship with painting is complicated - because sometimes it's easy, sometimes it's hard, sometimes it's beautiful, sometimes you cry, and sometimes you get frustrated - but you would never give it up for the world, right? Because you're a painter. But then one day it's gone. Your brushes, your canvas, your easel. There's a big blank space where they used to be, and your hands are itching from how empty they are. Hours go by - days, weeks, months, years - and you never get them back, but you never stop missing them. Never stop craving them. Because at the end of the day you're still a painter, aren't you? It's ingrained so deeply into your psyche that nothing will ever change that. Even if you don't paint anymore, there's still a part of you refusing to let go of the brush.

He knows that they're divorced. He knows that Ed has remarried - that he's a husband, a step-father, something that Izzy cannot have - shouldn't even want in the first place - but it doesn't change the fact that a tiny, tiny part of his brain, repressed as it may be, is refusing to let Edward go. And he doesn't think that it ever will.

That in itself feels dangerous, though, because how is this all supposed to go? They can't be friends. After everything, it feels like the most obvious thing to acknowledge. How could they be, after all this time? And he doesn't want to be, anyway, because that would just be a cruelty towards himself. It's easy to say that they'll just talk until they've gotten all of their emotional baggage out in the open before drifting back to being neighbors with minimal contact, but what then? Will Izzy start craving his company again? Seek him out, try to wring more information out of him for the sake of spending time together? He can't - he can't - because that road leads to nowhere. Leads to a fucking cliff with sharp rocks at the bottom, and he's fallen enough times to know that he doesn't want to fall again. Fang's right; he thinks he's hurt enough throughout the past few decades, and he doesn't want to hurt again. Not if he can help it.

“I still need to talk to him,” he murmurs aloud, his voice quietly roughened and hoarse. “We both have stuff that needs to be said. We…deserve that, from each other.”

“Like closure,” Fang says.

Izzy cringes slightly.

“Or not,” he amends quickly. “More like, uh…finishing a chapter, yeah? Is that better?”

After pondering on it for a moment, Izzy eventually nods. It's not as frightening with that wording. It's not implying that the book is finished - it's not over, not closed - but it means that maybe, perhaps, he'll finally get the answers he's been craving over the years, and be able to put them to bed. Acknowledge them, turn the page, and move forward in his story.

It sounds so pretty like that.

Poetic, almost, even though he's sure it will emotionally resemble a pile of torn, crumpled up pieces of paper, more than anything else. Rough and messy, rather than polished and clean.

But such is life, right?

He's got his family. He's got tools, he's got things and people in place to keep him on the right track. If he wobbles, they will catch him. He's got willpower to a certain degree. Strength and softness to see him through, and safe spaces he can hide in if the world feels too scary to face for a little while. He can do this - he has to do this - he will speak with Edward, he will receive answers and give some back as best he can, and then he will make peace with their situation. Ed will be his neighbor. Nothing more, nothing less. He has to be okay that. He'll make himself be okay with that, for the sake of his own sanity.

Big breath in.

Hold.

Let out slowly.

Repeat - and repeat - and repeat.

Breathe, and breathe, and breathe.

Some of the tension leaves his body. His chest is still a bit uncomfortable, eyes slightly itchy and probably red-rimmed as well, but that sense of overwhelmingness has receded into something manageable. He relaxes further into Fang's embrace, enjoying the warmth of other man nestled up behind him. Izzy's not sure how long they've been sitting on the floor together, but he times another ten minutes on the wall clock before he feels steady enough to move. Fang makes him drink a small glass of water and eat a piece of chocolate, and they share a proper hug before going back outside to join the others.

Everyone is very well versed by now. No one comments - no one stares for too long - no one acts any different than if they'd just popped inside for a bathroom break. Their rocks and paints and brushes are right where they left them. Izzy decides that he doesn't hate the butterfly after all. It's a bit wonky, yes, but that makes it all the more fitting.

“We're trying to settle a debate,” Frenchie begins as they sit down. Whether or not that's true or if he's doing it for the sake of keeping things light, Izzy can't be sure. “About what color a bees bum is. Now, John says it's probably yellow because that's what color their heads are-”

“I think that's what they are, and theoretically speaking if they've got an odd number of alternating stripes, it should land back on-”

“-and Ivan says it all depends on the type-”

“And I'm right, for fucks sake, there's a species in the states that's blue!”

“-but I think that maybe bees don't even have bums at all, therefore the argument is a moot point, and we should be discussing what color their rump is instead,” he finishes, nodding firmly to himself.

John rolls his eyes with a scoff. “Next you're gonna be saying something else silly like, zebras aren't white with black stripes, they're black with white stripes.”

Frenchie rolls his own eyes in response. “Um, no, actually, I have seen Madagascar, thank you. I'm not that silly.”

“We leave you alone for five minutes, and this is what we come back to,” Izzy mutters, tsking and pretending to shake his head in disappointment. Fang purses his lips for a moment, looking thoughtful, before pulling out his phone.

“No, no, no, listen - listen!” Frenchie insists. “I've got a good argument, right?”

Both John and Ivan, who've clearly had all they can tolerate of this good argument, determinedly go back to painting their rocks.

“So, like, bees aren't mammals, are they? They don't have the same parts - no dicks or fannies or anything - so if they don't pee, they probably can't shit either, right? So they probably don't have any bums. They've got a rump, because their stinger has to go somewhere, but-”

“Bees have bums.”

Frenchie stutters for a second as the wind rapidly drops from his metaphorical sails. “What?”

“Bees have bums,” Fang repeats, eyes skimming across the screen. “They sort of have a…well, sort of like what birds have, I think. Comes out the same place. And Ivan's right in saying that it depends on the species - bumblebees have black heads and…either white or pale grayish bums, it looks like, and the regular bees you're probably talking about actually have a…brownish? Head? With stripes on the back half of their bodies.” He reads a bit more, and subsequently makes a surprised noise. “Huh. They've got three tummies. Who would've thought it.”

“What?” Frenchie demands incredulously. “You're telling me they've managed to fit three whole tum-tums into those tiny little bodies?”

“Yep. Foregut, midgut, and hindgut.”

“Almost as many as a cow,” John remarks idly.

Frenchie stares at him like he's spontaneously grown a second head.

Izzy bites back a smile. “I take it you didn't know that cows have four stomachs?”

“You're usually the first to know weird shit like that,” Ivan puts in. “You're slipping, French.”

He begins stuttering again, but breaks off when Fang scrunches up his face and makes an appropriate sound to match, a quiet hiss through his teeth. “Yikes. When a male honeybee mates with a queen, his penis explodes out of his body.”

There is absolute silence in the backyard. Even the birds seem to have fallen mute, processing this new information.

“...go on,” John eventually says, albeit with a degree of caution.

“Once they're latched on they become paralyzed, and the force of the ejaculation is so powerful it just - explodes out of him. It stays inside the queen while he falls down to the ground. Sometimes it's forceful enough to be heard by the human ear. A popping sound, apparently.”

Izzy's thoughts briefly wander to earlier that morning - his heart to heart with Edward, coming home, having to try and explain his thoughts and feelings, Fang comforting him during his mild kitchen breakdown - and he can't help but wonder, exactly, how all of it has led to this exact conversation. The universe works in mysterious ways, he supposes.

“Exploding beenis,” Frenchie whispers, almost in awe.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

“Oh, there's a joke!” Fang carries on excitedly. “What do bees use to go birdwatching? Anyone?”

“Their eyes, hopefully,” Ivan replies dryly.

“Close! Their beenoculars.” As expected, the punchline is followed by him leaning back and laughing wholeheartedly, while Frenchie follows suit by cackling much louder than the joke warrants. In fairness, these two would laugh at pretty much anything. The first time they heard that cows don't have feet because they lactose, they reacted as if they'd just witnessed the birth of comedy.

Time drifts along - with more silly jokes, more painted rocks, and enough sunshine and laughter to eventually soothe most of the frazzled ache in Izzy's chest. Despite also creating a few other garden critters, he decides to stick with the butterfly and the ladybug being the letterbox choices. There's nothing to read into. He likes green, Edward likes red, and he's not about to be afraid of colors of all things, just because they happen to be similar to their old rings. It's a coincidence, and it means nothing.

While they're all laying out to dry, they put away their painting circle equipment and head inside for a spot of morning tea. There's always a nice nibble to be found in their cupboards, and - maybe it's the sugar giving him a boost - Izzy tries not to think too hard while updating the group chat. He would've had to tell them all eventually. Might as well get it over with.

slut-tea: So, listen. Ball busting still isn't allowed. But I talked to Edward this morning, and it was a productive conversation, and we're not going to avoid each other like we've been doing which is a good thing, okay? We're going to sort things out as best we can and stop being the world's most awkward neighbors. I repeat - this is a good thing.

Once his phone starts rapidly pinging off with responses, however, he finds himself conveniently distracted by everything and anything that doesn't involve reading people's messages. Since they're all part of the group, every phone in the household starts pinging, too - Fang pointedly ignores his, Ivan puts his on silent, and John hides his between the couch cushions. Frenchie is the only one who actively keeps tabs on the conversation. It unnerves Izzy whenever he giggles.

It's not until after lunch that he plucks up enough courage to read everything. John's knitting, Fang's pottering around the kitchen whilst humming to himself, and Frenchie and Ivan are replaying Wind Waker together. The household is calm once more, and he finally feels settled enough to open up his phone again. As expected, it’s a little bit shambolic.

delucius: I BEG YOUR FUCKING PARDON

archiebald: manners my dude

delucius: I beg your fucking pardon /please

archiebald: better

peteroot: babe cmon this is a good thing let's be supportive

peteroot: I want everyone to know that he just threw a couch cushion at me

archiebald: why are you both messaging if you're literally in the same room as each other?

peteroot: I like to feel involved

roachyroo: Did the cushion hit or miss?

delucius: Of course I missed I'm gay, do you honestly think I have a single ounce of sporting prowess in me?

delucius: ANYWAY

delucius: Details PLEASE before I lose my mind

peteroot: I'm getting out of the firing line

frenchie kiss: he is very deliberately ignoring his phone right now lmao the whole house is

delucius: W H Y why would you drop a bombshell like that and just LEAVE

archiebald: if you turn off your phone screen rn you'll see your reflection and also the answer to your question

frenchie kiss: OH HEY THOSE RHYME thank you archie!!

archiebald: 👍

peteroot: reflection and question? 🤔

roachyroo: Now THAT could be a hit or miss depending on how you sing it

delucius: I literally do not understand how you are all so calm about this WHY AM I THE ONLY ONE REACTING THIS WAY

archiebald: because you're you and you love overreacting?

delucius: I AM REACTING EXTREMELY APPROPRIATELY ACTUALLY

roachyroo: I trust Izzy. If he says the conversation went well and that they are going to keep smoothing things over, then I am happy for him

frenchie kiss: yeah I mean I was there when he told us, he got a bit emotional over it all but Fang had a quiet moment with him in the kitchen and he's seemed alright since then. he's eating and drinking and we all spent the morning doing some rock painting. all in all I think he's handling it quite well

delucius: WELL THAT'S

delucius: THAT'S GOOD

archiebald: what'd you paint?

frenchie kiss: garden critters mostly, and john did some flowers. they're drying rn so I'll send pics later :)

frenchie kiss: OH OH OH guess what!! we also found out that male beeses dicks explode out of their bodies when they have sex!!

archiebald: WHAT

peteroot: THAT'S AWESOME

jiminey cricket: This is not what I was expecting to read when picking up my phone. The revelation of speaking with an estranged ex-husband, and bee penis

frenchie kiss: beenis

archiebald: BEENIS

jiminey cricket: Genuine question - was Izzy telling us to open up conversation about it, or was he just letting us know for the sake of knowing? If you guys are being disrespectful I'm gonna beat you all up, starting with YOU Archie

archiebald: why me??

jiminey cricket: You didn't rinse your dishes this morning AGAIN and you KNOW how I feel about that

archiebald: oohhh yeah my bad lmao

delucius: Seconding Jim's question because I really do feel like we've moved on far too quickly compared to what was said

frenchie kiss: I don't think he was expecting a full discussion?? he put his phone down pretty quick after all the notifs started coming through and he hasn't touched it since. I don't think he'll mind the banter, I think he just wanted to let everyone know

roachyroo: Do you know when they will be speaking again?

frenchie kiss: nah, they haven't figured that out yet, but he said something about how they're gonna put a system in place so they can let each other know when they wanna chat. avoid jumpscaring each other with conversation ig

roachyroo: I can imagine that they will have a LOT to talk about

archiebald: don't even want to imagine sifting through fifteen years of emotional trauma :/

jiminey cricket: Izzy when you read this just remember that I can kick his ass if you need me to, okay? I Can Kick His Ass

jackiehammer: Lurkin while workin but remember that I can too if you need me to, baby, you just let me know

delucius: The idea of you two together is so genuinely terrifying

archiebald: -ly arousing?

jiminey cricket: 👌

jackiehammer: 😏

archiebald: step on me 🥵

delucius: They need to invent a spray bottle emoji for you, honestly

archiebald: 💦💦💦

delucius: THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT

jiminey cricket: It's not like this will ever be a thirst-free zone with YOU here

delucius: Yeah whatever I'm a horny bitch sometimes what of it

jiminey cricket: It means that we also retain the right to be horny bitches, too

archiebald: yeah, you ✨️ manwhore ✨️

delucius: I want that on a shirt IMMEDIATELY

jiminey cricket: That's your birthday present sorted, then

delucius: 😘

The banter goes on for a bit before tapering off. Izzy doesn’t know whether to roll his eyes or grin or bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing so he does all three, to various degrees, because he loves them all dearly, and it probably would have been so much worse if he’d opened up the conversation again to find it all completely serious. He knows that they’re not making light of it - they’ve acknowledged it, they’ve understood that he doesn’t want to dwell for the moment, and that’s that.

slut-tea: Yes, I am handling the interaction as best I can - we both said our piece, we apologized, and he was very sincere in taking ownership of his part of what happened. He’s grown and changed a lot in the time we’ve been apart, as have I, and we’ve agreed that if we’re going to be living next to each other for the foreseeable it’s best if we get everything out in the open, work through it, and be amicable moving forward. Yes, we’ve worked out a system so we don’t jumpscare each other with wanting more deep and meaningful’s. The plan is to maybe talk again in a week or so, so we've got time to let today's information settle. I don’t know how things are going to look between us as time goes on but I’ll happily take being civilized neighbors over how we’ve been acting around each other thus far. It was tedious and straining and I’d rather just get this chapter closed and move on to the next one.

slut-tea: Also; Archie, rinse your dishes. Lucius, stop throwing things at Pete. Jim and Jackie, thank you both for the threat of violence, I’ll keep it in mind in case it’s needed <3

delucius: Yes, mum 🙄

archiebald: hey you can’t blame me for forgetting boring stuff like that, I’ve got a colander for a brain

jiminey cricket: There’s a sign above the sink, we put it there especially for you

archiebald: I’ve got absolutely no knowledge of this supposed ‘ sign ’

jiminey cricket: YOU’RE THE ONE WHO DECORATED IT

archiebald: hmm nah absolutely no bells are ringing

jiminey cricket: I’M GONNA RING YOUR BELLS

archiebald: oh my gosh babe come on save it for the bedroom 😚

delucius: (insert spray bottle emoji)

frenchie kiss: hey off topic but did you guys realize that the light you direct in one of the wind waker temples makes a W ?? like, for wind waker ?? that’s cool

peteroot: wait which one?

frenchie kiss: uh idk might be the earth temple, kinda zoned out for a minute there while ivan took over

archiebald: are you sure that it doesn’t stand for wumbo?

delucius: Oh fuck, here we go

frenchie kiss: WUMBOLOGY??

peteroot: THE STUDY OF WUMBO??

archiebald: IT’S FIRST GRADE SPONGEBOB

And so the afternoon goes on.

While people are distracted with organizing an afternoon snack and finding places for their rocks - now sufficiently sun dried - Izzy takes his chosen two and slips outside, placing the butterfly into the back of their own letterbox, and the ladybug into Ed and Stede’s. Not too long after, when he’s back in his armchair watching the Wind Waker saga continue and nibbling on some pretzels, he notices movement out of the corner of his eye. No one else seems to notice, so he’s the only one who watches Ed from the bay window as he ventures outside. He has to bite back a laugh at Ed’s hesitation - the way he hovers nervously, hand jerking a few times before he plucks up the courage to actually open the letterbox, and - when he finally does and pulls out what’s inside - he genuinely looks so relieved, it’s as if he was expecting there to be a live centipede in there rather than a painted one.

Izzy once again finds himself biting back a laugh.

But then Ed brings it close to his face, studying it closely with an expression akin to delight, and Izzy's chest feels a bit funny in response. He's not sure how to explain it - whether it's good or bad or both - but he feels it nonetheless.

After a few more seconds of curious scrutiny, Ed puts the rock back in the letterbox and turns towards his front door. Takes one step - two - pauses on his third, and suddenly looks towards the window. Whether to check if he was being watched or because he sensed Izzy's gaze, he's not sure.

Their eyes meet.

Ed gives him a small, slightly awkward smile, and nods his head.

Izzy returns the gesture, and keeps watching until he's disappeared inside.

Now his tummy feels weird, too.

Filled up with more feelings, no doubt.

He doesn't like that one bit.