Chapter Text
The midday sun was a furnace, scorching the dry earth of the valley where the old mansion stood. The building, with its faded stone walls and crooked roof, looked like a forgotten mausoleum, its narrow windows reflecting the desert's cruel glare. It was a place that promised salvation but delivered only rules and silence. There, 12 orphaned or abandoned boys lived under the iron rule of two nuns, Sister Clara and Sister Agnes, who governed with iron fists and endless prayers. The mansion was a peculiar institution, an almost-male convent where the young were molded into “men of God”—or at least into ones who wouldn't bother the outside world.
Izzy Stradlin, having just turned 18, walked across the courtyard with a basket of dirty clothes balanced on his skinny arms. Sweat ran down his forehead, sticking his brown, disheveled hair to his pale skin. His gray eyes, cold as a blade, stared at the ground, avoiding the other boys who were tossing stones into an old bucket in the shade of a twisted oak. He heard the laughter, the whispers, and knew they were talking about him. They always were. His sharp tongue, his sarcasm that cut like a razor, and his refusal to bow to the mansion's hierarchies made him an outcast. Izzy didn't care—or at least that's what he told himself, as the knot in his chest grew, a mix of anger and weariness that he carried like a second skin.
He didn't belong there. Born into a wealthy family, with lands stretching across valleys and rivers, Izzy had grown up among oak-paneled halls and purebred horses. But at seven years old, everything crumbled. His parents were murdered in an ambush that reeked of betrayal, orchestrated by uncles coveting the inheritance. The will, however, was clear: Izzy would be sent to the mansion, far from greedy hands. He arrived with a small suitcase and an emptiness he never knew how to name. The mansion swallowed him, and the years that followed were a succession of gray days, marked by forced hymns, punishments that left welts on his hands, and a loneliness that settled like dust in his bones.
And of course, shame—a fabricated shame forced upon him, a guilt he'd never known before for supposedly being too sensitive, spoiled, for daring to wear jewelry, dress like a rich kid, behave at the table in a way that was supposedly so feminine. The orphanage boys seemed to search for anything in him as a pathetic excuse to pick on him.
It was in this hell that he met Dave Mustaine. Dave, then 12 years old, was a hurricane of restless energy. Red-haired, with hazel eyes that shone like the sun and a crooked smile that defied even Sister Agnes's scoldings, he was everything Izzy admired: rebellious, charismatic, with a sharp intelligence he hid behind jokes and teasing. Dave didn't follow rules, didn't bend, and his presence seemed to light up the mansion like a flame in a dark room. To seven-year-old Izzy, Dave was a hero, a beacon in the storm, chasing away the other kids and bringing a smile back to Izzy's lips.
Especially when certain conversations happened—conversations that shouldn't happen between children, but that started one night when Izzy shared a bed with Dave because he was afraid of falling from the top bunk, but sleeping on the bottom always led to the other boys playing pranks on him. So Dave started sleeping with Stradlin, and the whole problem stopped; two skinny boys fit just fine in the bed.
It was a somewhat chilly night. Dave hugged him from behind under the blankets to ward off the cold, which even both their blankets together couldn't fully warm. One of Dave's free hands analytically stroked the raven-feather-like black strands.
“So your name is Izabel?” the redhead asked softly, in whispers.“Isbell, actually,” Izzy said, scooting closer to Dave.“That's a wife's name. A really pretty name, actually,” Dave commented, stopping messing with his hair.
“Huh? Yeah? You gonna marry an Izabel?” Izzy teased, turning to fit into Dave's arms, hugging him and trying to see his face in the dark, but he could only make out the shape. “Izabel Mustaine… That's a cool name,” Izzy commented after noticing the lack of mockery in Dave's voice.
“Good thing you like it,” the redhead said before closing his eyes and stopping answering Izzy to fall asleep.
That wasn't the last time Dave brought it up.
They were inseparable, running through the fields, stealing bread from the kitchen, and whispering impossible plans under the starry sky. Dave told stories of outlaws and gunslingers, of lands where freedom was the only law. “One day, Izzy,” he'd say, pointing to the horizon, “we'll grab two horses and leave this place behind. Just the two of us, against the world.”
But at 14, Dave ran away. On a starless night, he climbed the mansion wall, leaving only a scribbled note on a crumpled piece of paper: “I can't take this life anymore, much less am I able to take you with me. I'll find my way.” Izzy, 10 at the time, found the note hidden under his pillow. He held it with trembling hands, the paper tearing under his fingers as he read and reread those words. The world seemed to collapse. He cried until his throat hurt, until there were no tears left, but the pain didn't go away. It turned into something darker—a low-burning anger, like embers under ashes, and a bitterness he kept like a secret.
Without Dave, the mansion became a nightmare. The other boys, who already suspected his reserved nature, saw his protector's absence as a chance to attack him. Teasing turned to shoving, whispers to open insults. Izzy learned to defend himself with words that hurt like knives, but that only made things worse. He became the outcast, the boy everyone loved to hate.
Now, at 18, he was facing his last year in the mansion. Next year, he'd have to choose: leave for a world he barely knew, with no money or allies, or stay, take the vows, and become a “man of God.” The idea made him laugh, a dry, humorless sound. God? If He existed, He'd turned His back on Izzy long ago.That morning, the mansion was in an uproar. Dave Mustaine had returned. Not the skinny, insolent boy from before, but a 24-year-old man, with a wide-brimmed hat, worn boots, and a reputation that echoed through the western towns. He was a cowboy, they said, an outlaw who robbed stagecoaches, dueled at noon, and rode under the stars. The nuns, usually rigid as statues, melted into smiles. Sister Clara, with her face wrinkled like parchment, offered him tea with trembling hands; Sister Agnes, younger but with hawk eyes, laughed like a girl when Dave told about a horseback escape in Blackwater. The boys crowded around him, eyes shining, begging to touch the ivory handle of his revolver, to hear one more story of shootouts and saloons.Izzy, sitting in a corner of the dining hall, watched it all with disgust that masked an old pain. Dave was different—taller, with broad shoulders under his leather vest, a stubbly beard covering his chin, and a laid-back way that hid something hard, something broken. But to Izzy, he was the same traitor who'd abandoned him, who'd promised the world and run off without even bothering to deny it. When Dave looked his way, with a hesitant smile that seemed to say “Are we still friends?”, Izzy looked away, staring into his watery stew. His stomach churned, not from hunger, but from a rage he couldn't name. It was as if every laugh from Dave, every word, was a knife twisting in a wound that never healed. And during the day, it's not like Mustaine managed to reach him—after all, to talk to Izzy, the despised one, he'd have to pass by and disappoint the other 14 boys in the mansion, so staying away all day was easy.
Dinner was the breaking point. Dave, at the center of the table, was telling an exaggerated story about a shootout in Valentine. He gestured wildly, mimicking the gunshots, and the boys laughed, banging the table. Even the nuns, seated at the head, let out little giggles. Izzy felt something snap inside him, like an over-tightened guitar string. He slammed his fork on the table, the sound cutting the air like thunder. Everyone turned, silence falling like a curtain. “You're a hypocrite,” he said, voice low but sharp, each word dripping venom. “You come back here like you're some hero, showing off with your stupid stories. But you're nothing but a coward. You ran away, left everyone behind, and now what do you want? Applause? Worship?”The air grew heavy. Sister Clara choked on her tea, coughing into a napkin. Sister Agnes frowned, her lips pressed into a thin line. The boys murmured, some snickering softly, others shooting looks of contempt.
Tom, the 17-year-old brute who led the group, grinned sideways, like a wolf smelling blood. Dave said nothing. His green eyes, now without their old shine, held Izzy's for a long moment. There was something there—guilt, maybe, or sadness, or a silent plea. Izzy didn't want to figure it out. He shoved his chair back, the wood scraping echoing in the hall, and stormed out, slamming the door. The sound of the other boys' snickers followed him to his room, where he locked himself in, chest tight, rage burning like acid.
He threw himself onto the narrow bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. The room was small, with cold stone walls and a single window overlooking the courtyard. He stared at the ceiling, the cracks in the wood tracing maps he'd never follow. The anger didn't fade. It was more than Dave, more than the mansion. It was the feeling of being trapped, of being a stranger in his own life. He thought about the note, that damn note, and the void it left. He thought about his parents, faces already starting to fade in memory. And he thought about himself, a boy who didn't know who he was, but knew who he didn't want to be.
The next morning, revenge came. Tom, with his bull-like shoulders and a smile promising cruelty, announced at breakfast that Izzy would do the “girl chores” that day. Washing clothes at the lake, scrubbing sweat and dust stains until his fingers bled. It was planned humiliation, and Izzy knew it. He saw it in Tom's eyes, in the way he laughed with his cronies—Luke, skinny and venomous, and Caleb, quiet but with heavy fists—that there was more coming. They wanted to break him. Throw him in the water, maybe. And that afternoon, Izzy was held by two boys while the third yanked off his clothes and forced him, despite his kicks, into a pink dress—scandalous, vulgar, the kind only a whore from that era would wear. And to drive the nail of humiliation home, his lips were painted a sinful crimson, terribly smeared from Stradlin's struggle.
Of course, mysteriously his spare clothes vanished, and the sisters said it was shameful what he was doing and even more irresponsible not to have spare clothes, as if they didn't know Izzy's situation.
He carried the basket of clothes to the lake, the scorching sun burning the back of his neck. The path was long, the dry dirt trail winding between low hills and thorny bushes. Every step was a reminder of his loneliness, his anger. He imagined Tom and the others laughing, plotting, and his stomach twisted. But there was no escape. If he refused, the nuns would punish him—lashes on the hands until the skin split, or days locked in the room with bread and water. He reached the lake's edge, the water gleaming like a mirror under the sun. He threw the basket down, dust rising in clouds, and knelt, dipping the first shirt into the icy water. His fingers, calloused from years of chores, trembled—not from cold, but from a fury he could barely contain.
He scrubbed the clothes hard, as if he could unload his rage into the fabric. Water splashed on his face, mixing with sweat. He thought about Dave, the easy smile, the exaggerated stories, and the pain came back, as raw as the day he found the note. Why did you come back? He wanted to scream, but the words died in his throat. He thought about the future, the emptiness waiting outside the mansion. He remembered the laughs, the stares, and felt bile rise. He wasn't weak, never had been, but there, alone on the lake's edge, he felt small, like the seven-year-old boy who cried his first night in the mansion.He was so absorbed he didn't hear the footsteps.
“Need some help, sweetheart?” Dave's voice was deep, with that teasing edge that always made him sound like he was laughing at the world.Izzy froze, the shirt slipping from his hands and floating on the water. He didn't turn. “I don't need you for anything, Mustaine,” he said, voice cutting, but with a crack he hated noticing. It was anger, yes, but also something more—a pain he didn't want to name.
Dave laughed, the sound light but not cruel. He took off his hat, tossing it on the grass, and crouched beside Izzy, so close Izzy could smell leather, tobacco, and something else—maybe gunpowder. Stradlin shivered when Dave's hand lifted a strap that was falling from the too-big dress on his skinny body, with no breasts to fill the bodice, making Izzy wonder if it could really be the sister's dress. “What a clumsy girl. If a pretty lady keeps showing off her breasts like this outdoors, I won't be able to hold back.” He teased, low, close to Izzy's ear, who just shrugged and swatted him away like an annoying insect.“You're exactly the same, you know?” Dave finally said, dropping the teasing tone, grabbing a pair of pants from the basket and dipping it in the water. “Always with that face like you're about to kick like a horse.”
“And you're like a peacock,” Izzy shot back, snatching the pants from Dave's hands and scrubbing harder. “Strutting around like the king of the West, spinning yarns to impress a bunch of idiots. Why'd you come back? To show off? To laugh in my face while those morons plan to dress me like a clown?”
Dave went quiet, the silence heavy between them. His fingers stopped in the water, the pants floating forgotten. He looked at the lake, his green eyes reflecting the water's shine, and when he spoke, his voice was low, almost a murmur. “I came back because I missed you, Izzy. Because this place is hell, and I know that better than anyone. Because I wanted to see if you were okay... and because I hate myself for leaving you behind.”
Izzy snorted, throwing the wet shirt into the basket with a slap that echoed. “I'm great, can't you see?” He laughed, a bitter sound that cut his throat. “Living the dream, washing bums' underwear while they plan to humiliate me. You don't know anything, Dave. You don't know what it was like staying here after you...” He stopped, swallowing the words. His eyes burned, and he hated it, hated the weakness creeping under the anger. He stood up, tossing the washboard onto the grass. “Get out of here. Go back to your horse, your robberies, and leave me alone.”
Dave didn't move. He stayed there, crouched, looking at Izzy with an intensity that made the air feel heavier. “I know I messed up,” he said at last. “Running away was cowardice. I thought I was saving my own skin, but leaving you... that ate me alive, Izzy. That's why I came back. Not to show off. To get you out of here, if you want. To fix my mistake.”
Izzy opened his mouth to curse, to throw all the anger he'd held, but something in Dave's voice made him hesitate. It was the same voice that told stories under the stars, that promised freedom. Before he could reply, Dave suddenly stood, grabbed him by the shoulders, and jumped into the lake with him. The icy water swallowed them, a shock that knocked the breath from Izzy's lungs. He surfaced spitting, hair plastered to his face, and cursed with all his might. “You son of a bitch! Are you crazy? I'll kill you!”
Dave, laughing, held him by the arms as Izzy struggled to break free. “Easy, kid! Just giving you a humility bath!” He was soaked, vest clinging to his body, but his eyes sparkled with that restless energy, that fire Izzy had admired so much years ago. “Relax, Izzy. It's just water.”Izzy thrashed, rage exploding. “Let me go, you idiot! You think this is funny? Think you can come back and pretend everything's fine?” He tried to punch Dave's chest, but the water slowed his moves, and Dave just laughed, holding him firm.
Then Dave got serious, his eyes catching something on the shore. He gently pushed Izzy behind a clump of reeds, hiding him. “Stay quiet,” he whispered, voice low but firm. Izzy, confused, obeyed, the anger momentarily muffled by curiosity.
“Hey, Mustaine!” Tom's voice echoed, full of malice. He was on the shore, hands on hips, cruel smile gleaming in the sun. “What're you doing in there, man? Fall in the lake?” Tom asked, looking around before spotting the laundry basket; he frowned. “You seen Izzy? He's supposed to finish his punishment.”
Dave, still in the water, flicked his wet hair back and grinned, like he didn't have a care in the world. “Just swimming, Tom! Izzy? Think he finished the clothes and headed back to the mansion. Why? Miss him?”
Tom laughed, a guttural sound that made Izzy clench his fists underwater. “Miss him, no. But we found an old dress of Sister Agnes's and made him put it on. Gonna make him parade in it for everyone. What do you think, cowboy? Wanna watch the show?”
Dave pretended to laugh, tilting his head like he found it amusing. “Sounds fun. I'll think about it.”
When the kid left, Izzy surfaced, face red with rage and shame. He shoved Dave hard, nearly knocking him over in the water. “I don't need your pity,” he hissed, voice shaking. “You think you can come back and fix everything? Save me like I'm some damsel in distress? I'm not weak, Dave. Never was.”
Dave grabbed Izzy's wrists, not hard, but firm, stopping him from pulling away. “I don't think you need saving,” he said, voice low, almost husky. “You're the toughest guy I know, Izzy. Always have been. But this place... it suffocates you. I see it in your eyes. And those idiots? They ain't worth the dirt under your boots. Let me help you. Not out of pity. Out of friendship. Because I owe you that.”
Izzy went silent, water dripping from his hair, heart pounding so loud he thought Dave could hear it. He wanted to curse, to hit Dave, but something in his voice—the raw sincerity, the overflowing guilt—made him pause. He looked at the lake, the forgotten floating clothes, then at Dave, waiting without his usual smile, just those green eyes that seemed to see right through him.
Izzy looked at him like a wary cat eyeing the hand offering food, but soon shrank a bit and nodded. “Fine…” he said just because he didn't want to seem insecure to Dave.
Dave smiled, a real smile, without the arrogant veneer. He held out his hand, wet palm gleaming in the sun. “Deal, partner.”
Izzy hesitated, but shook Dave's hand, feeling the warmth of his skin against his own, and then suddenly Dave pulled him close, lifting the brunet a little. “You still can't swim?” He teased, and Izzy got confused.
“I learned after they dumped me in here so many times.” He said, looking at the redhead as he carried him in his arms to the lake's edge, sitting him on the grass before climbing up, falling on top of him laughing, faces close, Dave's wet red strands falling over his shoulder like a waterfall. “... Dave.”
“... You know, you once told me your last name was something like Izabel, right? That's a pretty name for a wife.” Dave laughed. “You in that dress could easily pass for a grumpy woman.” He said, leaning down, getting their faces even closer, leaving Izzy confused. He slapped the back of Dave's head in warning, though smiling and looking away before glancing back at Dave up close.
He was nothing like the little brat from when they were kids; in fact, if someone asked Izzy if Dave would turn out like this as an adult, he'd never even imagine it, maybe even mock it, because it'd be like showing a cocoon to a layperson and then saying it'd turn into a butterfly. The features were strong and masculine; unfortunately he was really handsome and charming with red hair like a lion's mane shining in the sun, looking almost angelic like the Devil using their beauty to make someone fall in sin.
“Shut up.” He pushed his chest and stood up, realizing he'd stared too much.It wasn't unusual back when they were younger for Dave to tease him for being so skinny and short and having long hair that “looked like a girl's,” always making jokes like that. The funny thing was now he had short hair and Dave had long.
And yet the idea had always stuck in his head: Izabel “Izzy” Mustaine, Dave's wife. That kind of joke always made his insides buzz positively, not that he was that kind of man—God forbid and forgive—men who dress as women and lie with other men is a heinous, sick crime.
But the idea, especially planted so early in his head, was so tempting; to belong to Dave, to the man who'd been his home as a child, it was just too much, a more-than-desired fantasy.Stradlin barely noticed when Dave's arms lifted him from the ground, walking back to the mansion through the back until near the second-floor balcony, where luckily it was empty due to the witch hunt for Izzy.
“I'll help you up; they probably hid your clothes in the chest in the pantry,” Dave said.
“How do you know?” Izzy asked.
“Because I always hid your stuff there and you never found it.” The redhead grinned mischievously like when they were kids, and Izzy didn't feel that much anger and let himself accept the help to climb with some difficulty onto the tile to reach the balcony. “I'll open the door from inside for you,” Dave warned and entered the mansion.
Izzy watched him go and soon went to the narrow window overlooking the pantry, since the door to the hallway was too risky running into Tom and his friends. With more difficulty than when he was a child, Stradlin climbed and jumped inside; at least being underweight was useful sometimes. And as said, the chest he always thought was locked after failing to open it just once wasn't only open but had his clothes, along with other items like a slingshot that mysteriously vanished when he was a kid after hitting more cans than Dave, and other things that “mysteriously” disappeared when he was younger.
Izzy dressed quickly and left the wet dress on the floor anyway, going to the door upon hearing a click. Opening it, he faced Dave Mustaine grinning arrogantly before pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. “Clean yourself up properly, Izzy.” He teased and wiped the smeared lipstick off the brunet before holding him by the chin. “Come on, it's dinner time.” Dave said, extending his hand which was accepted by Izzy.