Work Text:
They’re just finishing off their dinner when Stede says, out of nowhere, “Izzy’s been in a bit of a sulk today.”
Ed thinks for a minute. He hasn’t actually seen Iz much since dawn, when he’d come to the captains’ cabin armed with tea and the list of shit that Ed is supposed to deal with, or at least authorise Izzy to deal with.
“A sulk?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t noticed,” Stede says.
“Why,” Ed says, “what’s he done?”
“Oh, nothing dreadful,” Stede assures him. He lays down his knife and fork, neatly side-by-side, on his plate. “He was quite his usual self, except—I don’t suppose you’ve noticed that things have been rather quiet?”
“Quiet?”
The Revenge is never quiet. Right now, Ed can hear hooting from up on deck, the sounds of the weekly evening card game in full force. It’s a crew-only game, no captains allowed, which is why Stede’s designated tonight date night. It’s supposedly different from every other night that he and Stede eat together, though Ed’s not sure how.
He reaches for a bread roll from the basket in the centre of the table and begins ripping it apart.
“Well, perhaps quiet’s the wrong word,” Stede says. “What I should have said is that there’s been a sight less yelling than usual.”
“Oh.” Makes sense. Izzy’s shouting is like the patter of rain on a window; it’s easy to tune out once you’ve had enough practice. But Stede’s still getting used to it. “Yeah, I dunno. Maybe there wasn’t anything worth yelling for?”
Even as he says it, Ed knows that can’t be it. If everyone had been doing their jobs perfectly, Iz still would’ve found something to have a go about—and the Revenge’s crew remains a long way below Izzy’s standards at the best of times.
“I find that unlikely,” Stede says.
“Mm.”
“And besides,” Stede continues, “when I asked him how he was, he said fine. Fine! Not a fuck off, Bonnet. Not an I’d be better if I’d never had the misfortune of meeting you, you posh twat. Not a—”
Ed holds up a hand, partially because Stede’s Izzy impression would offend anyone born north of the Great Ouse, but also because, “He still says all that shit to you?”
“Oh, no, it’s not like that. I know he says it with love.”
“He says fuck off, Bonnet with love?”
“Yes,” Stede says, with a surety Ed can’t really account for.
“Mate, I don't know what to tell you. Maybe he just felt like not being a dick for once?”
Stede folds his arms. “This is serious!”
“Stede. Love. You’re telling me Izzy’s in a bad mood.” Ed pauses for effect. “Izzy’s always in a bad mood.”
“Not like this!” Stede insists. “Think about it. On a normal day, when Izzy is…dissatisfied, what does he do about it?”
“Comes and bothers me.”
Stede gives him a significant look.
“Doesn’t prove anything,” Ed says, though he can feel something happening in his chest, like cold water dripping down from his heart into his gut. Dread, he realises. He puts down the half-dismantled bread roll, uneaten, and asks, “What day is it?”
“Tuesday,” Stede says.
“No,” Ed corrects himself, “day of the year.”
Stede claps a hand to his mouth. He’s always quick on the uptake, which is nice, since it means Ed doesn’t have to come right out and say it.
“It’s the seventh of April,” Stede says.
Ed drops his head into his hands. “Fuck.”
“Izzy,” Ed shouts, pounding on the door. “I know you’re in there. Open the door.”
Stede, beside him, wrings his hands. “Should I really be here?” he asks. “When you think about it, I had no way of knowing it was his birthday!”
Ed shoots him a glare and says, “Co-captains.”
“Oh, alright.”
“Izzy!” Ed yells. It feels like the way to go, so he keeps on: “Izzy! Izzy! Izzy!”
The door opens. Izzy isn’t dressed, and his hair is all mussed, and he keeps blinking at them like he’s not sure what’s happening.
“Were you asleep?” Ed asks.
“I was,” Izzy says. “Why didn’t you just come in? Door wasn’t locked.”
“Yeah, I was going to—”
“It’s not polite!” Stede interrupts. “Ed and I want you to know that we value your privacy, Izzy, and your personal space. And your—”
“Toes,” Izzy finishes.
“Well, I wasn’t going to say it,” Stede grumbles.
“So you’re pissed,” Ed says, because Iz only brings up his toe when he wants Ed to leave him the fuck alone. It had taken a few months before any mention of it didn’t have Ed fleeing to the cool embrace of the bathtub—and Izzy had wielded the power to his full advantage, especially since a side effect of Ed running off was that, generally, Stede followed him.
“I’m not pissed, Edward,” Izzy says. “I’m tired.”
“But it’s your birthday!” Stede contributes.
Izzy sighs and rubs his temple. “Yes,” he says, “it’s my birthday. Congratulations, Bonnet, you got Edward to remember for the first time in six years. Can I go back to sleep now?”
“Whoa, hey, six years?” Ed objects, at the same time as Stede grabs him by the arm and says, “Six years?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Izzy says.
“I remembered it last year,” Ed says. “I swear I did.”
Stede pats him on the forearm. “Did you…wish him a happy birthday?”
“No. Lame.”
“Get him a present?”
Ed remembers dithering in a market on Tortuga, trying to think of anything Izzy liked. That had been—either last year or the year before. Definitely no more than five years ago. He’d left empty-handed.
“Izzy doesn’t like presents,” he says, shifting his weight onto his good leg.
Izzy nods, but Stede lets out a truly magnificent squawk. “Everybody likes presents!”
“They're useless pieces of shit, most of ’em,” Izzy says.
Stede isn’t deterred. “It needn't be an object. Why, breakfast in bed, that’s a gift!”
“It's a bit late for that, mate,” Ed points out.
“It was just an example,” Stede responds waspishly. “You could think of something, if you’d put some effort in.”
This—Stede denigrating Ed on Izzy’s behalf—is so unexpected that there follows a long silence during which Ed and Izzy only blink at him, stunned. Stede seems a bit surprised by his outburst, too, but he stands firm.
The pressure on, Ed racks his brain for things Izzy might want from him. A ship of his own—that might make up for six years of missed birthdays. But then Iz would be gone. Ed could give him gold, jewels—except Izzy’s never wanted any of that stuff. He takes his fair share on raids, but he’s never flaunted it or really done anything besides trade it for coin at the first opportunity. There’s the usual shit you’re supposed to get people, he supposes, but Izzy doesn’t like ornaments or clothes or books. Iz likes swords, and violence—but he likes his sword, and is very particular about the circumstances of violence. For instance, Izzy would probably not appreciate watching a turtle fight a crab.
“It’s not like Iz gets me anything for my birthday,” he says eventually, stumped.
Stede releases a heavy breath. Izzy’s eyebrows form a shadow over his eyes, and Ed realises abruptly what a dick he’s being.
On Ed’s birthdays, Iz comes to the captain’s cabin later than usual. He mixes honey into Ed’s tea, though still no sugar. He doesn’t scowl as much. And he always has the ship spotless, the crew on their best behaviour. It’s not his fault that Ed ends most birthdays crying into a bottle of rum, remembering the cakes his mum had scraped together when he was young: the sweet, grainy taste of them. There’s something about turning a year older that always makes him feel lonely and pathetic, trapped in the life he’s made.
But that doesn’t mean Izzy hasn’t been there through them all, trying.
“Yeah. It doesn’t matter,” Izzy says roughly, and goes to shut the door.
“Wait!” Ed puts his foot in the way. “What do you want?”
Izzy frowns.
“I don’t—I’m sorry, Iz, that I don’t know what to give you. I need you to tell me.”
Izzy shakes his head, a harsh, serrated movement. “I don’t want anything. Bonnet’s gotten in your head. As usual.”
Turning back to Stede, Ed widens his eyes beseechingly.
“Nonsense,” Stede says. He’s got that voice, the I’m going to sort everything out one. It never bodes especially well. “Everyone wants something on their birthday."
“I don’t,” Izzy insists.
Ed, caught uncomfortably in the middle of the two most stubborn people he knows, says, “Come on, Stede, let’s leave him alone.”
The words come out sounding so defeated, so regretful, that Ed’s surprised with himself. Stede’s resolve visibly hardens.
“We'll take this to the captains’ quarters,” he says, brooking no argument. “You two go on ahead. I’ll have Roach mix up some hot chocolate—bitter, Israel, the way you prefer. And while I’m gone, I expect you to talk.”
Once decided, Stede hadn’t even given Izzy time to get dressed, so the moment Izzy steps into the captains’ quarters he says, “Can I have one of those fucking poncey robes, at least?”
“Sure, mate,” Ed says, grabbing the one he’d been wearing earlier from its crumpled resting place in the armchair and pressing it in Izzy’s direction.
Izzy wrinkles his nose. “Was Bonnet wearing this?”
“No,” Ed says, “I was. Can get you a fresh one, if you’re worried about—”
“It’s fine.”
“Cool,” Ed says. He sits down on the couch and pats the space beside him. “Come on. Better get this sorted before Stede gets back.”
“There’s nothing to sort,” Izzy says, irritable. “Fucking—wish me a happy birthday if you have to, but I’m not going to indulge Bonnet’s nonsense.”
“Iz,” Ed wheedles, “sit down.”
There’s a moment of resistance, but Izzy does as he's told. The settee is small, which is usually a selling point when it's just him and Stede—but with the fabric of the dressing gown falling over Ed’s knee, he realises it’s the closest he’s been to Iz in a while. He’s not sure he’s even touched him since Stede got back.
“Edward,” Izzy says, “you forget your own birthday half the time. This isn’t—it’s nothing. It’s just a stupid fucking—distraction.”
“From what?”
Izzy nods his head at the clear remnants of Ed and Stede’s date night. There’s a candle burning in the centre of the table, a vase of pink and purple flowers that Stede would know the names of. Ed feels himself getting defensive, but Izzy’s expression isn’t what he expects. It isn't derisive. It’s—
It’s longing.
Ed takes a deep breath. He feels like he’s going to fuck this up without Stede around to help, but he also knows that Iz would never let his defences down in front of Stede. There’s a balance, here.
“You’re not a distraction, Izzy,” he says.
In response, Iz jolts away from him, pressing himself against the arm of the chair.
“Fucking—shut up, Edward,” he says.
“No,” Ed says. “You’ve stuck around, yeah? You know you’re in for more of Stede’s way of doing things. He’s probably down there planning a surprise party with Roach.”
“I don’t need a party.”
Ed drags his hand through his hair. His fingers get caught in a knot, and he makes a rough sound of frustration. “Yeah, I know you don’t need it,” he says. He gets his hand unstuck and gestures around at the state of the captains’ cabin, which is currently undergoing a redecoration in the combined styles of its inhabitants. “This fucking mad ship’s about more than just what you need, Iz. You’re allowed to want things.”
“Fine,” Izzy says, mulish, “I don’t want a party.”
It’s probably not a lie; Iz has never been the partying type.
“I mean, it’s probably happening anyway,” Ed says.
Izzy sighs. “Probably.”
“Hey,” Ed continues, buoyed by this small display of acquiescence. He nudges Izzy’s knee with his own. “You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is you want. I’ll give it to you.”
“You can’t.”
Izzy’s voice rings with certainty. His head is turned away, and it looks for all the world like he’s fascinated by the arm of the couch. There's some fancy stitching on it, actually, but nothing that would capture Izzy's interest.
"I'm still Blackbeard," Ed says. "I'll find you water from the fucking Fountain of Youth if you want it, Iz. Gold from El Dorado. Just say the word."
Izzy doesn't say anything in response. Ed peers at him, and watches as a droplet of water rolls down his nose and splashes onto the back of his hand.
For the second time since dinner, Ed feels like an absolute dick.
“Iz…”
“Shut up.” The back of Izzy’s neck has gone furiously red.
And Ed knows, is the thing, because up until a few weeks ago, if someone had asked him what it was he wanted most in the world, he would’ve said Stede. And now, if that same someone asked, Ed would say—
“You’re gonna have to give me something to work with here, Izzy, or I’ll end up looking like a right twat.”
“You’re always a right twat,” Izzy says.
“Fair,” Ed says, and then he reaches out and takes Izzy’s hand.
Izzy’s entire body spasms, like a rabbit caught in a trap. Ed’s stomach sinks; he’s gotten it wrong. Of course Stede’s musings about the nature of Izzy’s loyalty were off-base—what does Stede know about any of it? Ed’s been sailing with Iz for twenty-five fucking years, he’d know it by now if Izzy wanted to hold hands.
He loosens his grip, starts to pull away. They’ll write this one off: Ed will give Iz a bottle of fancy brandy for his birthday, and then they can both drink enough to forget this ever happened.
He’s so into this plan that he almost doesn’t notice it when Izzy grabs for him, clutching onto Ed’s hand tight enough to hurt. Ed can feel his bones grinding into each other.
They’re both silent, breathing the way they do after they’ve been in a fight. And it takes a while for them to calm down, but eventually Izzy’s grip loosens, little by little, until it’s almost like holding Stede’s hand. Free of resistance, their hands drift to the small valley in between their thighs. Izzy keeps staring determinedly at the arm of the chair, even as Ed begins to rub his thumb back and forth over the spade tattoo, soothing.
It goes on for long enough that Izzy starts to relax into the settee, his head tipping back for a bit and then tilting, curiously, in Ed’s direction. He’s got a little confused pucker in the middle of his eyebrows. Ed thinks about smoothing it away with his thumb. With his lips.
That’s probably a bit much to start with, though. Stede would be saying shit about taking things slow. Easing him into it.
Ed thinks out how to ease him into it.
“Could wrap myself in a bow, if you want?” he says. He raises his eyebrows suggestively.
Izzy startles into a laugh. “Jesus Christ, Edward.”
“I’d look hot,” Ed says. “Bow and nothing else.”
He says it hoping for another laugh, but Izzy abruptly sobers. “What about Bonnet?”
“Oh, just pretend I’m not here,” says Stede.
Ed nearly falls off the couch. He knows he’s not doing anything wrong by holding Izzy’s hand, but he still feels caught out. Thirty-odd years spent honing his senses so no one could sneak up on him, and this is what it’s come to.
“How long have you been there?” he asks.
Stede is in the doorway, holding a silver tray.
“Well, you left the door open,” Stede says. He comes closer, three cups rattling on the tray. “And you seemed to be having a lovely moment. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Izzy, beside Ed, is completely frozen. Ed would try and snap him out of it, but Izzy motionless is a lot easier to deal with than Izzy running around and trying to deal with his feelings by stabbing someone. Ed squeezes his hand reassuringly.
With admirable faked obliviousness, Stede sets the tray down on the side table and takes his own cup. “I’ll just be tidying up the table if you need me, darling,” he says, and kisses Ed’s cheek. “Pretend I’m not here!”
This, of all things, seems to snap Izzy out of it. He looks frantically into Ed’s eyes. Ed looks steadily back at him.
“What the fuck is happening?” Izzy whispers.
“We’re holding hands,” Ed whispers back.
“I fucking know that, Edward.”
“You know, mate, if you’re this freaked out over the hands, we might never get to the good stuff,” Ed says.
“I don’t know about that,” Stede says, breaking his pretend I’m not here streak after a record ten seconds. “We can certainly have you kissing by Christmas.”
Izzy’s mouth drops open. And then his eyes drop, without an ounce of subtlety, to Ed’s lips. Ed pokes his tongue out.
“Not that you should feel pressured, Izzy,” Stede adds.
“How about it, Iz?” Ed asks. “Could do a kiss for every birthday I’ve missed.”
“Ten, then,” Izzy says. He sounds dazed.
“Thought you said six.”
“Six in a row. Ten in total.”
Ed winces. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Izzy says, still staring at Ed’s mouth.
“Eh. Ten’s a whole different matter,” Ed says. “Ten deserves something special.”
The pucker between Izzy’s eyebrows is back, deeper than before, but before he can work himself up into a proper state Ed’s bringing up his free hand, fingers grazing the tense line of Izzy’s jaw.
“Happy birthdays, Iz,” he says, and kisses him.
They’ve been making out on the couch for probably half an hour when Stede clears his throat and says, “I do hope you know that this won’t be an acceptable substitute for birthday presents in the future, Ed.”
“Yeah it will,” Izzy says, breathy, his hand clamped tight on the back of Ed’s neck, thighs nudging up around his hips. “What the fuck else would I want?”