Chapter Text
He’s only there because when he rescheduled three times, Fang (He's supposed to call him Kevin when he's in the Therapist Chair, but fuck him too) threatened to start charging him double for no-shows. Fang was one of his oldest army friends. And one of the only ones that went and made something useful out of himself.
“You good?” Fang asks, lounging like a gargoyle in a battered IKEA armchair, combat boots on the ottoman like this is a bar and not a therapy office with an essential oil diffuser named Calm the Fuck Down humming in the corner.
Izzy shrugs, picks at a thread on his jeans. “Fine.”
Fang narrows his eyes. “Right. Fine.”
Fang watches him for a moment longer than is comfortable. Then he says, carefully casual, “You’re off your meds.”
Izzy stiffens. “I’m between refills.”
“That’s not a thing,” Fang says flatly.
Izzy’s jaw tightens. “Pharmacy fucked it up.”
“Mmhmm.” Fang tilts his head. “And you didn’t push because?”
Izzy opens his mouth. Closes it.
Because pushing requires believing you deserve to be functional.
Because the noise is quieter when he’s tired.
Because some small, fucked-up part of him thinks this is what he gets.
Fang sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “How long?”
“…Long enough.”
“And the voices?” Fang asks, gently now.
Izzy flinches.
“They’re not—” He stops. Swallows. Tries again. “It’s just Ed. Sometimes. Not like—commands. Just commentary.”
“Lucky you,” Fang mutters. Then, softer: “What’s he saying?”
Izzy stares at the wall.
The thing is—Edward’s voice never yells anymore. It doesn’t have to
You always ruin good things.
You know how this ends.
He’ll get tired. They always do.
“It’s mostly… reminders,” Izzy says. “Helpful ones. Like why I shouldn’t trust people who are kind for no reason.”
Fang’s mouth tightens. “That’s not Ed. That’s your brain wearing his voice because it knows you’ll listen.”
Izzy snorts. “Yeah, well. It’s a convincing impression.”
“Still not the same thing as truth.”
Izzy picks harder at the thread on his jeans until it frays completely. Somewhere behind his eyes, Ed laughs—low, knowing.
See? Even your therapist thinks you’re a project.
Fang notices the change immediately. “Hey. Where’d you just go?”
Izzy blinks. The room swims back into focus. The diffuser hums. Calm the Fuck Down continues its pointless little job.
“…Beach,” he says without thinking.
Fang nods once. Files that away. “Okay. Feet on the floor. Name three things you can see.”
Izzy exhales through his nose. “Your stupid boots. The plant that’s definitely plastic. That crack in the ceiling shaped like Florida.”
“Good. Two things you can hear.”
“The diffuser. And… traffic.”
“And one thing you know for a fact,” Fang says. “Not something your brain is improvising.”
Izzy hesitates. “…You’re here.”
Fang gives him a small, approving nod. “Correct. And Ed is not.”
There's a long silence and then...
“You’re ghosting someone again, aren’t you?”
Ed’s voice slides in, uninvited: Told you. Running already.
Izzy jerks back like he’s been slapped. “I’m not— I mean—what?!”
“Don’t play,” Fang deadpans. “I know the signs. You’re too hydrated. Hair’s washed. Which means you care what someone thinks. But you’re also wearing the murder hoodie, which means you’re actively trying to become invisible.”
Izzy crosses his arms. “You’re not even trying to be therapeutic.”
“I am. I’m therapeutically calling your bullshit.”
Another beat.
“You miss him,” Fang says.
Izzy doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at the little stain on the rug by the chair leg like it’ll open up and swallow him whole.
“He brought bread,” he mutters eventually, almost like a confession. “Every time he saw me. Didn’t say much. Just… left it.”
Fang nods. “And you ran.”
Izzy clenches his jaw.
“He probably thinks he fucked up,” Fang continues, voice softer now. “And you’re here, spiraling about something he doesn’t even know happened. You’re not protecting anyone. You’re just punishing both of you.”
Izzy snaps. “I don’t know how to do this!”
It spills out with the force of a dam breaking—hands trembling, voice cracking, heart pounding against years of scar tissue.
“I don’t know how to be looked at like that! Like I’m not broken. Like I’m—enough—just ‘cause I’m breathing. He saw me. And it felt like something inside was gonna burst. So yeah, I ran! Because what if I break it? What if he realizes I’m—”
A pause. Then—barely a whisper:
“What if he stops bringing the bread?”
The thought hits and Ed’s voice pounces.
There it is. The test. Let’s see how long he lasts.
Izzy squeezes his eyes shut. For once, he doesn’t answer the question.
Fang taps his pen once against the armrest. “Iz?”
Izzy doesn’t answer.
“Iz,” Fang says again, sharper now. “You still with me?”
Izzy’s mouth opens. He means to say yeah. Or sorry. Or fuck off. Something that belongs to now.
Instead, the hum of the diffuser warps. The room tilts—just slightly—like a boat losing its anchor.
[Flashback]
The smell hits first.
Burnt coffee. Old carpet. Despair.
The chair under him is wrong. Too stiff. The walls are closer. Yellowed. The air heavier, stale with sweat and something sour.“Iz…”
Ed’s voice. Not Fang’s.
The motel is cheap and smells like burnt coffee and despair.
Ed’s sprawled across the bed, still in uniform, boots half-on, eyes red and unfocused, staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him.“You know, Iz,” Ed says lazily, “you can chase people across oceans. Across years. Across whole bloody wars…”
Izzy is sitting in the corner. He knows because his knees are too close together, because his spine is locked straight, because he’s holding two beers and they’re already warm.“And still end up sittin’ here wondering if they ever wanted you in the first place.”
Ed laughs. Rough. Joyless.
Izzy’s throat tightens. He tries to speak.
Nothing comes out.
Fang’s voice cuts in, distant. Filtered. Like it’s coming through a bad radio.
“Izzy. Look at me.”
Ed rolls his head to the side. Smirks faintly.
“Always thought people left ‘cause they were too blind to see what they had,” he continues. “But maybe they did see.”He turns just enough to look at Izzy.
“And just decided you weren’t worth keeping.”
The words lodge deep. Familiar. Worn into muscle memory.
Izzy’s hands shake around the bottles.
“Izzy,” Fang says, closer now. Louder. “You’re dissociating.”
Ed snorts. “Am I wrong?”
Izzy swallows. His mouth tastes like metal.
The motel light buzzes overhead. The carpet stain stares back at him. The rules snap into place: Don’t react. Don’t argue. Don’t make it worse.“I didn’t say—” Izzy starts.
“You didn’t have to,” Ed cuts in smoothly. “You always stay.”
Fang’s hand appears in his vision—wrong hand, wrong room—hovering, careful.
“Feet on the floor,” Fang says firmly. “Iz, name something you can touch.”
Ed’s smile sharpens.
“You don’t have to,” Ed adds, almost kindly. “But you do. That’s on you.” Izzy nods.
He doesn’t know which of them he’s agreeing with.
His chest constricts. The present flickers.
The diffuser hum fights the motel light and loses.
"Izzy,” Fang snaps his fingers now. No patience left. “Stay with me.”
Ed exhales, slow. Satisfied.
“See?” he murmurs. “Even now.”
Something inside Izzy breaks.
The beers slip from his hands—
—or maybe it’s the pen clattering to the floor—
—or maybe it’s both, stacked wrong in time
Izzy gasps, sharp and sudden, like he’s just surfaced from deep water.
The motel vanishes.
He’s back in the chair. Fang’s crouched in front of him now, boots on the floor, eyes locked on his.
“There you are,” Fang says quietly.
Izzy’s heart is pounding hard enough to hurt. His hands are empty. Cold.
“…He was talking,” Izzy rasps.
Fang nods once. No judgment. Just fact. “I know.”
Izzy drags a hand down his face. His voice shakes despite him. “He never yells anymore.”
Fang’s expression tightens. “That’s usually when it’s worst.”
Izzy laughs weakly. “Yeah. He sounds real reasonable.”
Silence settles back into the room. Thicker now. Heavier.
Fang doesn’t rush it.
When he finally speaks, it’s low. Steady.
“This is why we don’t skip refills,” he says. “And this is why you’re not dealing with this alone.”
Izzy stares at the floor. The carpet is clean. No stains. No beer.
“…He was right, though,” Izzy mutters. “I always stay.”
Fang shakes his head, just slightly. “No. You survived.”
He waits until Izzy looks up.
“And you don’t have to keep doing it the same way.”
The silence after Izzy comes back is… different.
Not the careful, professional pause. Not the “we’ll unpack this later” kind.
Fang stays crouched in front of him. Doesn’t retreat to the chair. Doesn’t pick up the pen.
“That wasn’t just a memory,” Fang says quietly. “That was a full re-entry.”
Izzy swallows. His hands are still shaking. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” Fang cuts in. Not unkind. Firm. “You didn’t choose it.”
He sits back on the edge of the ottoman instead, close enough that Izzy can’t disappear without climbing over him.
“How often is that happening?”
Izzy hesitates. Opens his mouth. Closes it.
Fang waits. No pressure. No rescue.
“…More,” Izzy admits. “Since the meds stopped.”
“Daily?”
Izzy nods once.
“Multiple times?”
Another nod.
Fang exhales through his nose. Not frustrated. Focused. Like someone switching from theory to triage.
“Okay,” he says. “Then we’re not doing once a week.”
Izzy blinks. “What?”
Fang finally picks up the pen, but instead of notes, he flips the page over. Clean slate.
“I’m blocking my mornings,” he says. “Short sessions. Every day. Just this week.”
Izzy stiffens. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” Fang says. No room for argument. “Because right now your brain is lying to you using a very convincing voice, and you don’t get to be alone with that.”
Izzy’s chest tightens. Not panic this time. Something worse. Something like being seen too clearly.
“That’s not how therapy works,” Izzy mutters.
Fang shrugs. “Good thing this isn’t textbook.”
“This is the part where you tell me I’m being difficult,” Izzy adds quietly. “Or manipulative. Or that I need to take responsibility.”
Fang meets his eyes. Holds them.
“This is the part where I tell you that you were conditioned to survive by staying, and now your nervous system doesn’t know what to do when someone doesn’t leave.”
Izzy’s breath stutters.
“And we’re gonna teach it,” Fang continues, steady as bedrock, “that people can show up without you earning it by bleeding.”
Something shifts.
Not relief. Not healing. Orientation.
Izzy rubs his face, scrubbing hard. “I don’t know how to… do this.”
“You don’t have to,” Fang says. “You just have to show up. I’ll do the holding until your meds are back online.”
Silence stretches. Not heavy this time.
“…Every day?” Izzy asks, almost afraid of the answer.
“Every day,” Fang confirms. “Same time. You cancel, I show up anyway. You no-show, I text. You spiral, we ground. That’s the deal.”
Izzy lets out a shaky, incredulous laugh. “You’re gonna hate me.”
Fang snorts. “Buddy, I survived your cooking in 2009. You’ll be fine.”
That does it.
Izzy’s eyes burn. He looks away fast, jaw clenched, but it’s too late. The crack is there.
Fang doesn’t comment. Doesn’t point it out.
Just says, softer now: “This week is about teaching you one thing.”
Izzy swallows. “What?”
“That when the voice comes back,” Fang says, “it doesn’t get the last word.”
And for the first time, Izzy believes that might actually be true.
Morning Session — Day Two
Izzy arrives early.
Not punctual. Early in the way soldiers are early—like being late would be a moral failure.
He sits before Fang finishes setting the kettle down. Back straight. Boots planted. Hands folded so tightly the knuckles have gone pale.
Fang clocks it immediately.
“You didn’t have to be this early,” he says mildly.
Izzy shrugs. “Didn’t want to risk traffic.”
There was no traffic.
The room smells faintly of eucalyptus and something citrusy today. The window is cracked just enough to let in salt air from the harbor. Fang settles into his chair, notebook closed. This isn’t a note-taking session.
“How was last night?” Fang asks.
Izzy answers without pause. “Uneventful.”
Too fast.
Fang lets the word sit. “Uneventful how?”
Izzy blinks once. A microsecond too long.
“Productive,” he corrects. “Cleaned. Prepped meals. Slept four hours. No nightmares.”
Ed’s voice hums under that list, crisp and approving: Good. No wasted motion. Keep it tight.
Fang doesn’t challenge the content. He challenges the cadence.
“You sound like you’re giving me a report,” he says.
Izzy’s jaw tightens. “You asked.”
“I asked how it was.”
A pause. Izzy’s eyes flick, just once, to the window. Exit scan. Distance. Wind direction.
Don’t over explain. Over explain gets you killed.
“It was fine,” Izzy says finally.
Fang nods, as if accepting that. Then: “Did anything feel difficult?”
Izzy exhales sharply through his nose. Almost a laugh.
“Existing?” he says. “Sure. But that’s not new.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
Silence stretches. Izzy fills it before Fang can.
“I’m doing what we agreed,” he says, voice clipped. “I’m here. I showed up. I didn’t cancel. That’s… progress, right?”
There it is. The bargain. Attendance as penance.
Fang leans back slightly, careful not to crowd him.
“Yes,” he says. “And I’m glad you’re here.”
Izzy nods once. Accepts the statement like a stamp on a form.
Fang waits another beat. Then gently: “What’s the voice been like this morning?”
Izzy stiffens.
“That’s not—” he starts, then stops. Jaw flexes. “It’s… manageable.”
“How?”
Izzy’s hands clench harder. The left thumb digs into the scar on his knuckle, pressing until there’s a dull spark of pain.
“He keeps me in line,” Izzy says.
Fang doesn’t react. Doesn’t validate. Doesn’t condemn.
“In line with what?” he asks.
Izzy’s eyes darken. His voice drops half an octave.
"Efficiency. Control. Not fucking things up by hesitating.”
Ed’s voice cuts in his mind, sharper now: You hesitate, people die. Remember the beach. Remember your hands shaking.
Izzy’s leg starts bouncing. He doesn’t notice.
Fang does.
“And what happens if you don’t listen to him?” Fang asks quietly.
Izzy swallows.
“I freeze,” he says. “Or I fuck it up. Or I—” He cuts himself off. Shoulders tense. “It’s not helpful to speculate.”
"That sounded less like speculation,” Fang says. “And more like memory.”
Izzy’s breathing goes shallow. In. Out. In. Out. Too fast.“I’m not here to relive shit,” he snaps. “You said this was about stability.”
“It is,” Fang agrees. “And right now, that voice is part of how you’re staying upright.”
Izzy relaxes a fraction. A concession.
“So you’re not trying to take it away,” Izzy says. Not a question. A warning.
"Not today,” Fang says.
Ed purrs approval. Smart man. He knows when to back off.
Fang shifts slightly forward. Not looming. Just present.
“But I am curious,” Fang continues, “whether it’s helping you rest.”
Izzy scoffs. “Rest is a luxury.”
“There it is,” Fang murmurs.
Izzy looks up sharply. “What?”
“That belief,” Fang says. “That rest has to be earned. Or is dangerous.”
Izzy’s mouth opens. Closes. He looks genuinely startled—like he didn’t know that thought was out loud.
“That’s not—” He stops. Presses his lips together. “That’s just how it is.”
Fang watches his hands.
“I’m going to ask you something,” Fang says. “And you can say no.”
Izzy nods stiffly.
“Can you unclench your hands?”
Izzy looks down.
His hands are white-knuckled. Trembling now, barely.He tries.
Nothing happens.
He frowns, like the command didn’t register.
Don’t let go. Let go and you drop the weapon.
“I am,” Izzy says, strained.
Fang doesn’t contradict him. “Okay. Then just notice them.”
Izzy’s breath stutters.
“They hurt,” he says, surprised.
“Yes,” Fang says gently.
Another silence. Heavier now.
Izzy’s shoulders start to creep upward, like he’s bracing for impact that never comes.
“I don’t like this,” he mutters.
“I know.”
“This is why I don’t stop moving,” Izzy says. “If I stop, everything catches up.”
Fang nods. “That makes sense.”
Izzy’s eyes flick up again. Searching. For judgment. For orders.
“What do you want me to do?” Izzy asks, desperate.
The question lands wrong. Ed’s voice sharpens, suspicious: Careful. Don’t give him command.
Fang notice the pattern.
“I don’t want you to do anything,” Fang says slowly. “I want you to notice what happens when you don’t.”
Izzy’s breathing spikes.
“No,” he says immediately. Too fast. “That’s not safe.”
“What feels unsafe about it?”
Izzy shakes his head, small and sharp. “We’re not doing that.”
Fang doesn’t push.
“Okay,” he says. “Then we won’t.”
Relief flashes across Izzy’s face—followed immediately by something else. Guilt. Disgust. Weakness.
Ed sneers: Fucking weak. You couldn't even do that
The session winds down after that. Carefully. Neutrally.
Fang gives him grounding. Feet on the floor. Name three things in the room. Name the date. The time. Izzy complies flawlessly.
Too flawlessly.
At the door, Fang says, “Same time tomorrow.”
Izzy nods. “I’ll be here.”
At the door, Fang says quietly, “You’re not failing at this, Izzy.”
Izzy doesn’t answer. He doesn’t trust himself to.
Outside, the air feels too bright. Too open. Izzy exhales slowly, checking himself like someone counting their limbs after a fall.
As he leaves, Fang watches the way Izzy’s shoulders lock back into place the moment the door opens. How his steps fall into cadence.
Functional. Controlled. Hollowed tight.
And Fang writes one line in his notebook after all:
Monitor closely.
Izzy walks into the morning air with Ed’s voice steady in his head, pleased.
Good work. You held the line.
And somewhere deeper, quieter, something in Izzy has already stopped moving.
Another Morning Session (later that week)
Izzy doesn’t arrive early this time. He arrives exactly on time, which for him feels like a small failure.
He looks more tired than before — not dramatic, not unraveling. Just… softened around the edges. Like someone who slept, technically, but not cleanly. Like rest happened to him without permission.
Fang notices that too.
“How’s today?” Fang asks once they’re seated, sprawled in his usual way, boots claiming the ottoman like squatters’ rights.
Izzy shrugs. “Same.”
“Same how?”
Izzy thinks about it longer than usual.
“Tight,” he says finally. “Like everything’s… closer together.”
Fang hums. Doesn’t translate it. Lets Izzy hear himself say it.
They sit quietly for a moment. Izzy’s leg bounces, fast and automatic. It stills the second Fang’s gaze flicks down to it. Izzy forces it flat against the floor.
“How’s the voice?” Fang asks.
Izzy snorts. “Persistent.”
“Loud?”
“No,” Izzy says. “That’d be easier.”
He drags a hand down his face, like he’s trying to pull himself back into alignment.
“Morherfucker its calm,” he says. “Which is worse.”
Fang tilts his head slightly. “Why worse?”
Izzy hesitates. “Because when he's calm, it sounds reasonable,” he says. “Like it’s just… pointing things out.”
Fang waits.
“It keeps noting patterns,” Izzy continues. “Like how I’m wasting time here. Or how if I was actually handling my shit, I wouldn’t need this much… support.”
The word hangs there, unfamiliar.
“There’s no yelling,” Izzy adds. “No threats. Just… reminders.”
Fang’s expression shifts — not alarmed, but alert. Like a man recognizing a terrain change.
“And when you hear that,” Fang asks, “what do you feel?”
Izzy opens his mouth.
Closes it.
“I don’t,” he says. “That’s the point.”
That gets Fang’s full attention.
“What happens instead?”
Izzy looks down at his hands.
“I get very still,” he says. “Like if I don’t move, I won’t make it worse."
“Does that help?” Fang asks.
Izzy shrugs. “It used to.”
There it is. “Used to,” Fang repeats, gently.
Izzy swallows. His throat works like he’s holding something back.
“It doesn’t anymore,” he admits. “I still do everything right. I don’t fall apart. I don’t—” He makes a vague gesture. “Impose.”
Fang raises an eyebrow.
“But,” Izzy continues, frustrated now, “it feels like I’m disappearing while I do it.”
The room goes quiet in that particular way that means something real has landed.
Fang leans forward a fraction. “Say more.”
Izzy’s hands curl loosely in his lap — not fists, not relaxed.
“It’s like—” He exhales. “Like I trained myself for a very specific kind of disaster.”
“What kind?” Fang asks.
Izzy doesn’t answer right away.
“Being needed,” he says finally. “Being useful. Being the one who stayes.”
Ed's voice slips in, smooth and familiar: You were good at that.
Izzy’s jaw tightens.
“And now?” Fang prompts.
Izzy lets out a short, humorless laugh.
“Now no one’s actively leaving,” he says. “Which should be good.”
“But.”
“But my body doesn’t buy it,” Izzy says. “It keeps waiting for the moment it all drops out.”
He presses his fingers into his thigh, grounding.
“So I stay ready,” he goes on. “I don’t want things too much. I don’t settle. I don’t—”
He stops.
“Don’t what?” Fang asks.
Izzy’s voice lowers.
“Don’t relax.”
Fang watches him carefully
“What happens when you accidentally do?”
Izzy frowns. “I don’t.”
Fang doesn’t argue. Just waits.
Izzy exhales, slow.
“There are… moments,” he admits. “Little ones.”
“Like?”
Izzy shrugs, defensive already. “Stupid stuff. Quiet mornings. Someone making space without asking questions. Things being… predictable in a non-threatening way.”
Fang says nothing, but something like understanding flickers across his face.
“And how does your system react to that?” Fang asks.
Izzy’s brow furrows.
“Badly,” he says. Then, after a pause: “Or—no. Not badly. Just… confused.”
He shakes his head, annoyed with himself.
“It throws everything off,” Izzy says. “All my instincts say I should pull back. Get sharper. Because comfort never used to mean anything good.”
Ed's voice agrees instantly. Comfort is how you get sloppy.
Fang leans back. “And yet,” he says, “you look more exhausted now than when everything was on fire.”
Izzy opens his mouth to argue. Stops.
“…Yeah,” he admits.
They sit with that.
“What scares you about wanting something?” Fang asks.
Izzy answers without thinking.
“That it’ll make me careless.”
“And what scares you about not wanting anything?” Fang asks.
This time, Izzy doesn’t have a ready answer. When it comes, it’s quieter.
“That one day I’ll wake up,” he says, “and realize I didn’t actually live. I just… managed.”
That tightness in his chest isn’t panic.
It’s grief.
Fang nods slowly. “That makes sense.”
“It does?” Izzy asks, skeptical.
“Yeah,” Fang says. “Because you’re still using tools meant for emergencies.”
Izzy stares at the floor.
“And emergencies don’t last forever,” Fang continues. “But the tools will hurt you if you keep gripping them like they do.”
The session winds down without spectacle. No breakthroughs. No clean resolutions.
As Izzy stands to leave, Fang adds, casually:
“Whatever’s been making your shoulders drop like that? It’s not the enemy.”
Izzy freezes. “They don’t—” he starts, then stops. “I’m not—”
Fang just smirks. “Didn’t say you were doing it on purpose.”
Izzy leaves unsettled. Not worse. Not better.
Just aware — dimly, irritably — that something warm and steady has been interfering with his old survival math.
And that for the first time, the interference doesn’t feel like a threat.
It feels like a problem.
One his old methods don’t know how to solve yet.
And that confusion — quiet, creeping — is what makes room for the truth about Ed to finally surface in the session that follows.
They had been talking about the flashback he had in Fangs office. He's able to talk about it now, Methodical. Facts, What happened it's basically the same that he saw, minus the fog and confusion. It was a few days after they learned they would be sent back home. It was over for them. He should felt relieved, he thought Edward would be, instead he went numb.
He remembers that version of Ed now. The hollowed-out one. The Ed who would hurt him where he knew it would hurt the most. And that version of himself too, who kept searching for someone who never sent breadcrumbs back.
And suddenly, he feels like Stede might’ve been doing just that. Leaving little trails home. That Izzy has been too scared to follow. Not asking. Not demanding. Just leaving markers. Consistent. Patient. Terrifying in its gentleness.
Fang doesn’t speak right away. He’s good at that—knowing when silence is heavier than any question. He’s learned that over years. Over sessions where Izzy needed time to translate feeling into words. Where pushing too fast meant losing him entirely. The air buzzes gently with the scent of eucalyptus and salt.
Izzy is hunched over now, elbows on knees, hands clenched. Red-eyed, not from crying but from not blinking enough. Like if he does, everything will collapse.
“I know he didn’t love me. I'm not stupid you know?”
Fang looks up, but says nothing. Just waits. He’s said pieces of this before. Circled it. Approached it sideways. But never like this. Never without armor.
Izzy swallows hard, stares straight ahead.
“Ed. He didn’t. Not really. Not in the way people say in movies or in songs or whatever. He needed me. Sometimes even wanted me. But love? The kind that stays? That sees you on the worst days and still picks you anyway?”
His voice cracks.
“He didn’t have that for me.”
Another pause. Then a bitter little laugh, one with too much gravity.
“And I stayed anyway. Kept choosing him. Even when he ran. Even when he lied. Even when he put a gun in my hand and asked me to shoot him.”
Fang flinches. Doesn’t interrupt.
“I told myself it was loyalty,” Izzy continues, voice going somewhere far away. “But it wasn’t just that. I think I wanted to believe that if I stayed long enough, if I was steady enough, he’d change his mind.”
He closes his eyes. Breathes in slow, shaky.
“I let go of the idea that it was all because he was sick. Or hurting. Or high. Or lost. Maybe all that was true. But he still chose to go. Chose to not love me. And that’s not something you can fix.”
Silence again.
Until Fang finally says, “That sounds like something you’ve been holding onto for years.”
Izzy just nods. Doesn’t trust his voice to work.They’ve mapped it before. The loyalty reflex. The way Izzy confuses endurance with love. The way his nervous system settles into familiar pain faster than unfamiliar safety.
Fang leans forward, elbows on knees now too. Matching posture. Leveling the field.
“You didn’t deserve to be someone’s loyalty test.”
Izzy huffs a broken sound. “I fucking volunteered.”
“Still doesn’t make it fair.”
They sit with that for a bit.
Maybe it’s not healing, not yet. But it’s honest. And that’s the first step toward letting someone else in—for real this time.
Another session, same week. Because after the last one Fang insisted it was necessary. Not because Izzy was suddenly “worse,” but because something had shifted—and Fang wasn’t about to let his brain snap back into old grooves without support.
Fang taps his pen gently against the armrest. “Can I ask something?” he says finally.
Izzy gives a tired shrug. “You’re the one getting paid.”
Fang doesn’t take the bait. “What’s the difference between the last time Ed walked away… and the last time Stede showed up?”
Izzy blinks. That name again. That too-bright, too-kind man with the ridiculous sweaters and the dog who likes to nap against Izzy’s boots when he’s too overwhelmed to move.
“He… he keeps leaving bread,” Izzy mutters.
Fang lifts an eyebrow.
“Like, actual bread. Fresh stuff. Bakery warm. Leaves it near my door, or on the bench outside. Sometimes with a note. Dumb ones. ‘Day-old like me, but still soft.’ Or ‘for the crumbs that matter.’ Stupid shit.”
Fang give him one of his soft smiles. “And you haven’t told him to stop?”
Izzy scowls. “I haven’t told him anything.”
A pause.
“But he’s still doing it,” Fang says.
Izzy doesn’t reply.
Instead, a memory surfaces—uninvited, warm, and painful:
[He’s standing in the kitchen of the old place, years ago. Ed’s nowhere to be found. There’s an ashtray overflowing on the table and Izzy’s been holding his phone for an hour, waiting for a call that won’t come.He’s standing in the kitchen of the old place, years ago.
The house is too quiet. Not the peaceful kind — the kind that hums, thin and wrong, like the air’s been sucked out and never came back.
Ed is gone.
Not late. Not out drinking. Gone.
Izzy knows this. He’s known it since the door didn’t slam. Since the bag wasn’t where it always was. Since the silence stretched past the point where excuses work.
There’s an ashtray on the table, overflowing. Cigarettes crushed down to the filter, some burned crooked like they were abandoned mid-drag. The smell is stale, bitter, soaked into the walls.
Izzy’s phone rests in his hand.
He isn’t checking it.
That would imply uncertainty.
The screen is dark. He knows there won’t be a call. No message. No explanation that sticks.
Still, he doesn’t set it down.
Because if Ed does call — if something’s wrong, if he’s hurt, if he needs him — Izzy will be there. Answering on the first ring. Like always.
The clock on the microwave reads 2:14.
It’s been 2:14 for years.
Izzy stands where he last saw him. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe right.
Waiting not because he expects Ed to come back.
Waiting because leaving would mean accepting that he already hasn’t.]
And now, in contrast: Stede. Leaving a note under a loaf of sourdough that says, “No expectations. Just carbs.”
“I think he cares without asking for something back,” Izzy says, almost like he’s surprised to hear the words come out of his own mouth. It’s not a romantic conclusion. It’s an observational one. Data, finally lining up.“He just… keeps showing up. Doesn’t push.”
And for the first time in a long while, Izzy doesn’t flinch at the thought. Doesn’t brace for disappointment. Doesn’t feel the familiar twist of being abandoned before he even opens the door.
Fangs lets the silence sit a moment. Then, gently: “Sounds like someone who wants to stay. Not run.”
Izzy doesn’t trust that hope. Not yet. But maybe—maybe—he doesn’t have to trust it yet. It’s enough to just notice it.
“I don’t know what to do with that,” he admits.
Fang stands, taking that as the sign the session is closing. “You don’t have to do anything with it yet. Just… let yourself feel it. Maybe let yourself miss him a little. See where that goes.”
Izzy doesn’t move. But as he stands to leave, he hears Fang again, voice softer now:
“You didn’t scare him off, Izzy. He’s still knocking.”
And for the first time in weeks, something in Izzy’s chest doesn’t twist—it softens.
Not trust. Not surrender.
Just the absence of bracing.