He's expecting dismissal, or sneering judgment, or even a baldfaced accusation of idiocy. Lucius is absolutely primed to throw any and all of that right back in Izzy's face. Instead, what he gets...is Izzy taking a sip and offering him...a shortbread cookie? Lucius reels but, then he continues and--
It's almost an apology?
"Uh--" Lucius starts dumbly and takes the little proferred cookie. It has a tiny ship debossed on it. Just like that Izzy has cut his legs out from under him (metaphorically).
"Alright," Lucius agrees, for lack of anything else to say. He takes a bite of the cookie and considers Izzy, his brow furrowed as he chews. When he swallows, he says:
"In all fairness, I should warn you: I did poison the book."
Not really idiocy if it's an point blank, accurate outrage. Lucius Spriggs is a stupid fucker but he isn't stupid.
This footing is new, though. Unsettling to say the least. For once- for once it is Lucius on the back foot is only for a second before he reels for a quip back.
Did-
Did Izzy just win this interaction? Does this set a measure of balance back into the competing ledgers? Fucking excellent!
Until of course the book comment and he knows it's a lie but oh you fucking brat. It's too early for this bullshit.
"Right-" shooing at the door. "-get out or I'll make ya fucking eat it. I will."
Fair. Lucius takes another bite of the cookie and nods as he heads for the door. He talks while chewing which is extremely rude but, on balance, not more rude than using someone to test for poison.
"Nice chat," he says. "Same time tomorrow?"
He does not want to be up at the same time tomorrow but he has his orders and...so many shirts. He gestures at the shirt on the dresser.
"The rest of them are less subdued, by the way, sorry, I just figured we ought to start off...neutral."
Lucius just keeps walking down the long, straight hallway that leads to all the other passenger rooms. He doesn't shout back because, honestly, it's 5am and that's super rude. Instead he waves at Izzy over his shoulder and wiggles his fingers as he does.
He had been dreading this but, what do you know? It looked like it was going to be a fun job after all. Tomorrow he was going to drop off something...orange and pink? Yes, orange and pink. He had a few of those.
Orange and pink like a fucking ham and cheese sandwich.
How is it those wiggling fingers are both such a threat and a symbol of normalcy.
Izzy tells himself to let it go. To go back inside and examine the shirt and book, both so fine in craftsmanship. How are these stitches so neat? How is the textile printed? And what of the book with such vivid colors forced into the paper skin. How? And how is the typesetting so neat? How is it all so fragile?
It's plenty to spend a day thinking about, with breaks between to explore and attempt to navigate the dining situation which he absolutely hates. Not that it isn't good, it is, but the variety and obscene richness of the food in conjunction with the sheer mass of it is deeply, deeply unsettling.
A simple supper then, taken alone out of habit and distrust.
And if anything there is the comfort of familiarity waiting for him in his room, a gift of Lucius fucking Spriggs.
The axis on which Izzy Hands lives his life has well and truly broken, sending him spinning into something new with no chart to navigate.
So is it bad, then, that he wakes early with purpose, if only to receive some kind of textile onslaught? Is it pathetic to look forward to? His masochism knows no bounds.
The knock today comes with more sass and resignation than the brief knocking the previous morning. This time there's no quiet retreat, it's more of an extremely banal challenge.
Lucius actually really hates the tempo of things on this ship. It's not the fault of any one particular thing, but it's weirdly hard to commit to faffing about with such a staggering multitude of neon lights and noise. Everything and nothing feels like work, time is an illusion. He can't quite seem to get the hang of when to go to sleep in this place and, thus, when to wake up.
He's been up for an hour or two already, as will be made evident whenever Izzy gets up and answers the door.
Lucius smells vaguely of chlorine, has on a truly hideous blue slogan t-shirt, and is carrying a travesty of color emblazoned on a very fine silk and cotton blend. It's got little carved shell buttons and a monogram for some reason. Lucius is also carrying a transparent plastic cup filled with a purplish slush that smells of bergamont. He has a second one.
Izzy answers, most decidedly still in his normal clothing.
Did he try on the Disney shirt? Yes. Will he die before he admits it? Also yes. The fabric felt very nice but it doesn't really fit the uniform. A little big. A little boxy. Unfitted where anyone could snag him in a fight. Even if it was his taste, it just isn't practical.
And wow there are just so many things happening when he greets Lucius with a curt nod. A shirt, okay, that was an anticipated threat. The cups, though, what the fuck is that in there.
Izzy furrows his brow. Why does it have ice, it's hot out? Why is it purple? Why is this happening. God but it smells nice and it's fascinating and ice on what will surely become a hot day would be such a luxury. Too many questions. All of them will sound stupid. Focus on the shirt then, which he takes to alleviate the load lest one of those witchcraft-level-drinks be spilled. Izzy inspects it and slows down as he backs up. My god this must be silk. The weave is exquisite. What a waste of precious cloth to paint it so garishly.
"He did," Lucius assures him with no hesitation whatsoever. He takes the space as Izzy backs up and sweeps into the room, dropping himself on the couch with a bounce. The other drink is set on the little coffee table and Lucius kicks up his feet and enjoys his own beverage. It has tapioca pearls in it but Izzy's does not, despite how tempting it is to watch the man choke a little.
"They're all bad," he adds after a beat and takes a sip of his drink. After some chewing and savoring--the Earl Grey was actually good in this. He wasn't sure a milked tea was going to be tolerable, but it was. Sweet as hell, though.
"Kind of fascinating, though, right? Just who wastes silk on something that piss ugly?"
It's a cheap shot but tell him he's wrong. Not even cheap, the shot is free.
Izzy watches the other for a moment, wondering when they got familiar enough for that sort of making himself at home became acceptable. They haven't. He is sure they haven't. Tut tut.
"Seems a crime, though. I'll never fuckin' wear this. He must know that, right?"
Asked as he comes vaguely in the same direction, it isn't so large a room that he can really go anywhere else, and sits on the edge of his bed. Maybe he can find out wherever these things come from and exchange it for something suitable.
"It's not even tailored. Do you sleep in this?"
The thought of Stede Bonnet sending him nightshirts is revolting.
His ease was intended to make Izzy mad but, apparently, that trick isn't going to work on the barge of the damned. The room isn't personal enough to qualify as invading his space, Lucius supposes, and so some of the fun of this is drained out of him. He pulls his feet back from their spot on the table and sits normally (comfortably) and looks just a little dischuffed.
"Me? Absolutely not, they actually have comfortable clothing in that nightmare maze," Lucius answers and gives the shirt a baneful look. He doesn't rise to the bait about Stede's wardrobe, though. He knows, he's the one who has to clean and repair it all. (He also knows that it's better than watching Stede Bonnet dress in the vacation wear aboard the ship. He's seen that and it was just awful.)
"As far as I know, the fabric is like the food here," Lucius explains and shakes his little drink. "It just...is something we can have. When it's free like that, why not make it a joke? Or...whatever the Captain thinks this is."
He gestures idly.
"If you flip it inside out they're usually white or black. Easy enough to take them apart for the materials and make something decent if you've got a mind to."
Oh the ease does bother him, but there's a lot of other equally attention grabbing things happening right now. He gives Lucius a look when he seems to give up and drag his feet off the table. You're disgusting.
"I'll bear that in mind."
He hasn't done much tailoring in a while and Ed's wardrobe needs very little upkeep in that way. It's mostly stitching up stab holes, driving needles through leather, and oiling the delicate little joint of his knee brace. Sometimes he swears that Ed chooses to dress like a vagrant on purpose. Other times he knows it is what is demanded of him as Blackbeard. But god you should see some of the stains he'd had to take a whump at.
Izzy looks over the shirt for another minute, marveling at the tight stitching and careful monogramming of a name that is not his. Free, huh. Free his ass.
The book Lucius gave him yesterday lays on the bedside table over Izzy's shoulder with a bit of coffee sachet used as a bookmark. He's about a third the way through. Under it is another small notebook and beside the stack lays a pen.
Right. So. What now.
This isn't awkward or anything.
Assuming correctly that the other drink is for him, he reaches in to take, inspect, sniff, and then sip. It is unlike anything he has ever had the (mis)fortune of tasting. It's amazing. Lucius can not know this.
"Plhadhf- what the fuck!? Is this- Is this meant to be tea?!"
Lucius, who is cheerfully drinking his own, is both glad and sad he didn't get one with pearls for Izzy. Then again, given his overt disgust, he might have actually stabbed him over it so...perhaps his caution was warranted.
He notices the awkwardness, of course, and is currently reveling in it. It's almost better than the hot tubs. But, he assumes, if he actually laughs at Izzy this game of his is up, so he keeps a tight lid on that.
"Definitely a departure," Lucius agrees but he seems unbothered. He chews the little pearls, swallows, and the stirs his drink with the absurdly thick, colorful straw jutting out of the top.
"It's...wait--" He looks up and gestures with one hand as he tries to remember how he had to order it. How had Darcy's little girlfriend put it?
"It's a: Milk Tea Slush, Earl Grey, With Tapioca Pearls and Extra Syrup," Lucius repeats dutifully. "Well, yours doesn't have the pearls, but you get the idea."
Yeah he got about three words out of that whole thing and god does he fuckin hate that.
What’s tapioca? Why are there pearls in tea that is obscene??
Izzy wrinkles his nose and takes another small sip as though he is so hard done by.
“Bleh.”
Though it sure takes him a moment to set it back on the table.
The awkwardness in the room is growing. It isn’t like he and Lucius have a rapport. What are they gonna do, lay around gossiping about their respective masters and how much they suck most of the time?
Hardly. (But wouldn’t that be so freeing good god imagine- no!).
He settles on watching his guest instead, not entirely welcome at all, and wondering how fast he might leave were Izzy to take that stupid coloured straw and put it up his stupid nose with a sharp jab.
“Right. I’m sick of you now. Do us a favor n’ piss off.”
"Lovely chat as always," Lucius fawns, as though Izzy hasn't just kicked him out five minutes after letting him in. He swings himself up from the seat and takes another long, annoying, straw-burbling drink off his slush, and then meanders toward the door.
"So tomorrow...cookies or tequila sunrises? I'm debating but I don't have a shirt that matches either," Lucius asks idly as he turns and leans on the wall by the door. The message is clear: he is going to keep doing this, regardless of Izzy's feelings about it.
Why? That is impossible to say.
He just is.
"Oh, maybe the aloe towels from the spa, those are a good morning treat," Lucius declares but mostly to himself.
"A black shirt and tequila straight," Izzy answers, as though he literally has any say in the matter. If Stede is going to force this on him the least he can do is pick something that won't go to waste.
Besides the point of the 'joke' he supposes, but a man can try.
"I do have a black one," Lucius muses thoughtfully at the door. He hauls it open and drums fingers on it as his other hand swirls his stupid frozen drink. That also gets a glance and he perks up. Izzy's already kicked him out, though, so he doesn't offer any other comment before meandering out the door.
The rest of the day passes uneventfully and, as predictable as clockwork, Lucius is back the next morning.
Today he's dressed in his own awful shirt. It's not unlike his usual striped shirt in cut, though given the raw edge on it he may have ensured that personally. Tragically, the shirt is not the same muted colors as his normal attire--this one is an excruciatingly bright purple with a clashing yellow and orange sunrise scene painted on the front of it. His linen trousers are replaced with awful matching (clashing?) cargo shorts and a pair of flippy-floppy-sandals are on his feet.
When Izzy opens the door, Lucius will toss him the folded black shirt he has in hand. It is an order of magnitude more tolerable than the rest of the shirts Stede had picked out for him. It's still hideous of course, the plants are printed across it in a garish, searing neon blue, but it's mostly black.
Unfortunately, today he can't stay and chat. He doesn't toss the bottle of colorful skull tequila at him, but it's a near thing.
"Back later, still not poisoned," Lucius tells him and dips out quickly.
If Izzy is still around in an hour, Lucius will return, dressed normally with a basket of folded laundry under one arm.
He is in fact still there an hour later and opens the door with the full expectation that it is Lucius. Honestly, no one else knows where he lives. No one has asked.
But here are two facts for you:
1, there is tequila on Izzy's breath as he snorts upon greeting. The bottle is open on the coffee table behind him and he is significantly looser in stature than normal.
2, he is wearing the shirt.
Bonus, it isn't actually that bad on him.
"Is this a day in your life, then?" Asked as he leans up in the doorway and folding his arms over his chest all casual like. The one glove looks even more out of place with his short sleeves but it does give glimpse of some new tattoos and muscular arms.
"Well, this and work, yeah. Until all the torture starts, it's usually pretty uneventful around here," Lucius replies offhandedly as he drops his basket of folded cloth in the entryway and meanders in. He'd thought about fucking off and taking a nap but, frankly, he wanted to try some of that tequila. He hadn't had time to crack the bottle open before he shoved it at Izzy.
It is a bit telling that this qualifies as something other than work but the distinction is a casual one and Lucius does not clarify. No, he just gestures at Izzy who is, shockingly, wearing the shirt he dropped off. It looks absolutely absurd but everything from that store looks absurd on everyone at all times, so it's not really an Izzy thing specifically. On the scale from silly to catastrophic, though, he's certainly closer to the former than the latter.
"Got a second glass or are we just taking pulls right out of the skull?" Lucius asks and gestures to the table.
"I'm not sure we're doing anything," as he nudges Lucius' unmentionables in against the wall and closes the door.
"Guess this is happening. Just the teacups if you're that sort."
But he is not, and it has been slugging from the bottle.
Izzy tells himself he should shut this down right here and now. Do them both a favor and have Lucius return the unknown, terrorizing number of shirts so they can get on with their lives.
It makes sense, of course it does, but their lives are now very, very different and to be honest he doesn't feel as though he has much of one. A little daily contact, even with someone so endlessly frustrating and challenging and reluctant to fall into line. Seeing the man gives Izzy that little spark of normalcy.
Makes it that little bit easier to ignore the gnawing boredom and loneliness. Edward is busy with Stede and whatever bullshit it is they're playing house about right now, so where does that put him?
What and who is he without Edward's shadow to carefully tidy up behind?
A haunting question he has never once needed to ask before this. The one time it came close Ed needed saving from himself and Izzy rained down the full fury of The British Navy to make it happen. If he thought that was even remotely a possibility right now then he would do it.
So this is the best the Serena Eterna has to offer, is it.
Lucius fucking Spriggs.
Without whom he would not have so few small pleasures as a cup of tea of delightfully sinful purple whatever drink (another two of them having been procured later in the yesterday when he was certain no one he knew was around).
Yep. Guess this is happening.
Terribly, he supposes it could be worse.
"This torture thing," he asks and resigns himself to the reality of the moment, coming back to sit on the end of his bed facing the coffee table.
Lucius ignores the tipsy rudeness (ignores might not be the right word? Revels in is perhaps closer) and moves to pluck up the fancy little skull bottle. He can barely smell the alcohol wafting up which is either very promising or very foreboding--if Izzy's had a bit, though, it can't just be a bottle of novelty garbage, can it?
Lucius, who has absolutely no compunctions regarding putting his mouth on things that other people have, hoists the bottle and tales a drink directly from it. It goes down like water and, oh dear, he can feel the searing burn down his throat. This is dangerous.
"I have extremely good taste," Lucius crows as he lowers the bottle. He does not, but he is extremely lucky. Mostly.
But, Izzy has asked him something, hasn't he? He glances at the other man, proper Pirate Israel Hands, who is begrudgingly wearing a stupid shirt and looking a little too resigned as he sits on the edge of his fluffy, properly mattressed bed. He questions him about the torture and, really, Lucius might have expected that. He offers up the colorful skull for Izzy and goes to stand by him.
Lucius is bold but he's not about to drop onto Izzy's bed next to him.
"Well, last time, it was...divided?" Lucius says. He's not sure if he's told Izzy all this. He expects his first day was overshadowed with terror and awe, so perhaps it bears repeating.
"Half the ship went to an island, the other half was stuck here. The island folk were, apparently, forced to slaughter one another," Lucius explains and his gaze drifts upward as he tries his best not to recall the specifics. That apparently sticks out like a sore spot and he avoids prodding at it like he avoids actual work.
"Over here--you know all those little, those?" Lucius asks and gestures at the television. The ones in the rooms aren't little, not by any measure, but they looks similarly enough to the other screens scattered about the ship. Most of the others are just playing banal nonsense, ship news, slideshows of vacations or menus, that sort of thing.
"Every single one on the ship played...their deaths. In graphic detail we got to watch. Had to watch, really. Over and over and over. Everywhere. For days. They played...very chipper music behind it and had...funny sounds to accompany the--" He grimaces and a little shiver climbs up his spine. No he cannot remember this without more alcohol. Even with, just the description has him paling a bit.
There was a passing talk of torture but not with detail, which is what Izzy actually wants. Quite rightly he was filtering and organizing a million thoughts and questions and shock after shock after shock that day.
This is better.
Clearly not better for Lucius but he's willing to talk so it's good enough, and for his valiant efforts Izzy shares the drink (and his space) with no further objection.
Now, he doesn't know more people on this vessel than he has fingers on his hands. No more than Lucius has fingers on his hands, even. He doesn't think he would particularly care if he saw their deaths but he is also not a man who takes active pleasure in murder. Mostly. Sometimes they really, really fucking deserve it but the rest of the time, he's just doing his job. It's a way of life. He doesn't get off on it, but it is what it is and so he accepts that and moves forward.
He also appreciates that he might feel a bit differently if he gave a shit about anyone here besides like one- maybe two people. Watching Lucius murdered over and over again wouldn't be enjoyable, really. Seeing Edward die? It would turn him absolutely fucking feral.
Lucius is a chatty fellow. Social. Flirty. He probably has a great many friends, so 'Suck it up and get over it', doesn't feel appropriate to say and really... That's always been more Ed's line, anyway. He takes the bottle once Lucius has helped himself and uses the pause of drinking to reflect for something less... heartless.
He isn't a heartless man. Far from it, actually, he just lives and operates in another plane of existence to the crew of The Revenge.
And so Izzy re-offers the bottle of what is, yes, a very fine choice.
"Must have been difficult. Watchin' all that. Feeling powerless."
"Oh, I did my level best to watch none of it," Lucius tells him immediately, primed to point that out, if only so he doesn't have to speak too much more on it. It's only after he speaks, after that drink of water-smooth tequila hits his stomach, that he recognizes the delicacy Izzy is employing. He doesn't understand it, of course, but he appreciates it nevertheless.
"Spent a week hiding in corners and the far ends of the ship. Some of the others, the Captains, my roommate, the like, they sat and watched. Not sure how they did it," Lucius continues, carries on with the dedication of a man who would really like to see the other side of this topic.
"Well, Captain didn't do so well with it--Bonnet, that is. Blackbeard seemed alright, if...throwing bar stools and bottles is alright. Fun story, turns out that if you break things? They just...grow back. Like a lizard's tail or a limb on a starfish."
He doesn't want to demonstrate, not really, but he clearly considers taking that skull and just hurling it at the television to see what happens. He doesn't, but the clear and present desire to do actual violence is a strange look on Lucius Spriggs.
"Apparently there was a party after, didn't go to that, but it sounds like it was a really dreadful bloodbath," he adds with a shiver.
He considers all that for a moment, waiting for another pass of the bottle. They're going to get wasted if they aren't careful. This stuff is far too goo for the bottle it came in.
Though the bottle is quite good.
"Death in a place you can't stay dead. Seems hollow if you ask me. It's the end of the road for a reason."
And if you remove that, then what honor or structure means anything?
Death is the one thing that men can not escape forever. It is coming, relentlessly, for every single soul. To remove that fear is to remove the boundaries of reality. Just his two cents, anyway.
"You would think, yeah?" Lucius agrees but his tone has a slightly unhinged quality. He doesn't care for this subject, not at all, and the tequila has done the opposite of calm his nerves. All the alcohol has done is make him edgy and freer with his tongue.
"Turns out, though, there's nothing exceptionally noble about dying, despite how it gets advertised in all the holy brochures," Lucius explains with a rough grimace. "It's just messy, abrupt, ghoulish, and traumatizes everyone around you for a variety of reasons."
He takes another pull and then promptly presses it back into Izzy's hands. This is far too heavy for this early in the morning. It takes him a moment to swallow all that he has in his mouth and, when he does, his eyes are watery.
"I heard something about the ship feeds off misery, or whatever? Good job of it, then, aye? Letting us...be murdered and pop back to watch it with a slide-whistle attached?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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It's almost an apology?
"Uh--" Lucius starts dumbly and takes the little proferred cookie. It has a tiny ship debossed on it. Just like that Izzy has cut his legs out from under him (metaphorically).
"Alright," Lucius agrees, for lack of anything else to say. He takes a bite of the cookie and considers Izzy, his brow furrowed as he chews. When he swallows, he says:
"In all fairness, I should warn you: I did poison the book."
He didn't but it's very bad.
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This footing is new, though. Unsettling to say the least. For once- for once it is Lucius on the back foot is only for a second before he reels for a quip back.
Did-
Did Izzy just win this interaction? Does this set a measure of balance back into the competing ledgers? Fucking excellent!
Until of course the book comment and he knows it's a lie but oh you fucking brat. It's too early for this bullshit.
"Right-" shooing at the door. "-get out or I'll make ya fucking eat it. I will."
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"Nice chat," he says. "Same time tomorrow?"
He does not want to be up at the same time tomorrow but he has his orders and...so many shirts. He gestures at the shirt on the dresser.
"The rest of them are less subdued, by the way, sorry, I just figured we ought to start off...neutral."
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"What do you mean the rest of them-"
Following Lucius. whether or not the man stops is entirely his own prerogative.
And even after Lucius begins down the hall-
"What do you mean the rest of them!??!"
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He had been dreading this but, what do you know? It looked like it was going to be a fun job after all. Tomorrow he was going to drop off something...orange and pink? Yes, orange and pink. He had a few of those.
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How is it those wiggling fingers are both such a threat and a symbol of normalcy.
Izzy tells himself to let it go. To go back inside and examine the shirt and book, both so fine in craftsmanship. How are these stitches so neat? How is the textile printed? And what of the book with such vivid colors forced into the paper skin. How? And how is the typesetting so neat? How is it all so fragile?
It's plenty to spend a day thinking about, with breaks between to explore and attempt to navigate the dining situation which he absolutely hates. Not that it isn't good, it is, but the variety and obscene richness of the food in conjunction with the sheer mass of it is deeply, deeply unsettling.
A simple supper then, taken alone out of habit and distrust.
And if anything there is the comfort of familiarity waiting for him in his room, a gift of Lucius fucking Spriggs.
The axis on which Izzy Hands lives his life has well and truly broken, sending him spinning into something new with no chart to navigate.
So is it bad, then, that he wakes early with purpose, if only to receive some kind of textile onslaught? Is it pathetic to look forward to? His masochism knows no bounds.
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Lucius actually really hates the tempo of things on this ship. It's not the fault of any one particular thing, but it's weirdly hard to commit to faffing about with such a staggering multitude of neon lights and noise. Everything and nothing feels like work, time is an illusion. He can't quite seem to get the hang of when to go to sleep in this place and, thus, when to wake up.
He's been up for an hour or two already, as will be made evident whenever Izzy gets up and answers the door.
Lucius smells vaguely of chlorine, has on a truly hideous blue slogan t-shirt, and is carrying a travesty of color emblazoned on a very fine silk and cotton blend. It's got little carved shell buttons and a monogram for some reason. Lucius is also carrying a transparent plastic cup filled with a purplish slush that smells of bergamont. He has a second one.
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Izzy answers, most decidedly still in his normal clothing.
Did he try on the Disney shirt? Yes. Will he die before he admits it? Also yes. The fabric felt very nice but it doesn't really fit the uniform. A little big. A little boxy. Unfitted where anyone could snag him in a fight. Even if it was his taste, it just isn't practical.
And wow there are just so many things happening when he greets Lucius with a curt nod. A shirt, okay, that was an anticipated threat. The cups, though, what the fuck is that in there.
Izzy furrows his brow. Why does it have ice, it's hot out? Why is it purple? Why is this happening. God but it smells nice and it's fascinating and ice on what will surely become a hot day would be such a luxury. Too many questions. All of them will sound stupid. Focus on the shirt then, which he takes to alleviate the load lest one of those witchcraft-level-drinks be spilled. Izzy inspects it and slows down as he backs up. My god this must be silk. The weave is exquisite. What a waste of precious cloth to paint it so garishly.
"Now, are you pickin' these out or is he?"
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"They're all bad," he adds after a beat and takes a sip of his drink. After some chewing and savoring--the Earl Grey was actually good in this. He wasn't sure a milked tea was going to be tolerable, but it was. Sweet as hell, though.
"Kind of fascinating, though, right? Just who wastes silk on something that piss ugly?"
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It's a cheap shot but tell him he's wrong. Not even cheap, the shot is free.
Izzy watches the other for a moment, wondering when they got familiar enough for that sort of making himself at home became acceptable. They haven't. He is sure they haven't. Tut tut.
"Seems a crime, though. I'll never fuckin' wear this. He must know that, right?"
Asked as he comes vaguely in the same direction, it isn't so large a room that he can really go anywhere else, and sits on the edge of his bed. Maybe he can find out wherever these things come from and exchange it for something suitable.
"It's not even tailored. Do you sleep in this?"
The thought of Stede Bonnet sending him nightshirts is revolting.
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"Me? Absolutely not, they actually have comfortable clothing in that nightmare maze," Lucius answers and gives the shirt a baneful look. He doesn't rise to the bait about Stede's wardrobe, though. He knows, he's the one who has to clean and repair it all. (He also knows that it's better than watching Stede Bonnet dress in the vacation wear aboard the ship. He's seen that and it was just awful.)
"As far as I know, the fabric is like the food here," Lucius explains and shakes his little drink. "It just...is something we can have. When it's free like that, why not make it a joke? Or...whatever the Captain thinks this is."
He gestures idly.
"If you flip it inside out they're usually white or black. Easy enough to take them apart for the materials and make something decent if you've got a mind to."
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"I'll bear that in mind."
He hasn't done much tailoring in a while and Ed's wardrobe needs very little upkeep in that way. It's mostly stitching up stab holes, driving needles through leather, and oiling the delicate little joint of his knee brace. Sometimes he swears that Ed chooses to dress like a vagrant on purpose. Other times he knows it is what is demanded of him as Blackbeard. But god you should see some of the stains he'd had to take a whump at.
Izzy looks over the shirt for another minute, marveling at the tight stitching and careful monogramming of a name that is not his. Free, huh. Free his ass.
The book Lucius gave him yesterday lays on the bedside table over Izzy's shoulder with a bit of coffee sachet used as a bookmark. He's about a third the way through. Under it is another small notebook and beside the stack lays a pen.
Right. So. What now.
This isn't awkward or anything.
Assuming correctly that the other drink is for him, he reaches in to take, inspect, sniff, and then sip. It is unlike anything he has ever had the (mis)fortune of tasting. It's amazing. Lucius can not know this.
"Plhadhf- what the fuck!? Is this- Is this meant to be tea?!"
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He notices the awkwardness, of course, and is currently reveling in it. It's almost better than the hot tubs. But, he assumes, if he actually laughs at Izzy this game of his is up, so he keeps a tight lid on that.
"Definitely a departure," Lucius agrees but he seems unbothered. He chews the little pearls, swallows, and the stirs his drink with the absurdly thick, colorful straw jutting out of the top.
"It's...wait--" He looks up and gestures with one hand as he tries to remember how he had to order it. How had Darcy's little girlfriend put it?
"It's a: Milk Tea Slush, Earl Grey, With Tapioca Pearls and Extra Syrup," Lucius repeats dutifully. "Well, yours doesn't have the pearls, but you get the idea."
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What’s tapioca? Why are there pearls in tea that is obscene??
Izzy wrinkles his nose and takes another small sip as though he is so hard done by.
“Bleh.”
Though it sure takes him a moment to set it back on the table.
The awkwardness in the room is growing. It isn’t like he and Lucius have a rapport. What are they gonna do, lay around gossiping about their respective masters and how much they suck most of the time?
Hardly. (But wouldn’t that be so freeing good god imagine- no!).
He settles on watching his guest instead, not entirely welcome at all, and wondering how fast he might leave were Izzy to take that stupid coloured straw and put it up his stupid nose with a sharp jab.
“Right. I’m sick of you now. Do us a favor n’ piss off.”
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"So tomorrow...cookies or tequila sunrises? I'm debating but I don't have a shirt that matches either," Lucius asks idly as he turns and leans on the wall by the door. The message is clear: he is going to keep doing this, regardless of Izzy's feelings about it.
Why? That is impossible to say.
He just is.
"Oh, maybe the aloe towels from the spa, those are a good morning treat," Lucius declares but mostly to himself.
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Besides the point of the 'joke' he supposes, but a man can try.
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The rest of the day passes uneventfully and, as predictable as clockwork, Lucius is back the next morning.
Today he's dressed in his own awful shirt. It's not unlike his usual striped shirt in cut, though given the raw edge on it he may have ensured that personally. Tragically, the shirt is not the same muted colors as his normal attire--this one is an excruciatingly bright purple with a clashing yellow and orange sunrise scene painted on the front of it. His linen trousers are replaced with awful matching (clashing?) cargo shorts and a pair of flippy-floppy-sandals are on his feet.
When Izzy opens the door, Lucius will toss him the folded black shirt he has in hand. It is an order of magnitude more tolerable than the rest of the shirts Stede had picked out for him. It's still hideous of course, the plants are printed across it in a garish, searing neon blue, but it's mostly black.
Unfortunately, today he can't stay and chat. He doesn't toss the bottle of colorful skull tequila at him, but it's a near thing.
"Back later, still not poisoned," Lucius tells him and dips out quickly.
If Izzy is still around in an hour, Lucius will return, dressed normally with a basket of folded laundry under one arm.
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Or Izzy just got lucky.
He is in fact still there an hour later and opens the door with the full expectation that it is Lucius. Honestly, no one else knows where he lives. No one has asked.
But here are two facts for you:
1, there is tequila on Izzy's breath as he snorts upon greeting. The bottle is open on the coffee table behind him and he is significantly looser in stature than normal.
2, he is wearing the shirt.
Bonus, it isn't actually that bad on him.
"Is this a day in your life, then?" Asked as he leans up in the doorway and folding his arms over his chest all casual like. The one glove looks even more out of place with his short sleeves but it does give glimpse of some new tattoos and muscular arms.
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It is a bit telling that this qualifies as something other than work but the distinction is a casual one and Lucius does not clarify. No, he just gestures at Izzy who is, shockingly, wearing the shirt he dropped off. It looks absolutely absurd but everything from that store looks absurd on everyone at all times, so it's not really an Izzy thing specifically. On the scale from silly to catastrophic, though, he's certainly closer to the former than the latter.
"Got a second glass or are we just taking pulls right out of the skull?" Lucius asks and gestures to the table.
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"Guess this is happening. Just the teacups if you're that sort."
But he is not, and it has been slugging from the bottle.
Izzy tells himself he should shut this down right here and now. Do them both a favor and have Lucius return the unknown, terrorizing number of shirts so they can get on with their lives.
It makes sense, of course it does, but their lives are now very, very different and to be honest he doesn't feel as though he has much of one. A little daily contact, even with someone so endlessly frustrating and challenging and reluctant to fall into line. Seeing the man gives Izzy that little spark of normalcy.
Makes it that little bit easier to ignore the gnawing boredom and loneliness. Edward is busy with Stede and whatever bullshit it is they're playing house about right now, so where does that put him?
What and who is he without Edward's shadow to carefully tidy up behind?
A haunting question he has never once needed to ask before this. The one time it came close Ed needed saving from himself and Izzy rained down the full fury of The British Navy to make it happen. If he thought that was even remotely a possibility right now then he would do it.
So this is the best the Serena Eterna has to offer, is it.
Lucius fucking Spriggs.
Without whom he would not have so few small pleasures as a cup of tea of delightfully sinful purple whatever drink (another two of them having been procured later in the yesterday when he was certain no one he knew was around).
Yep. Guess this is happening.
Terribly, he supposes it could be worse.
"This torture thing," he asks and resigns himself to the reality of the moment, coming back to sit on the end of his bed facing the coffee table.
"What's it like?"
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Lucius, who has absolutely no compunctions regarding putting his mouth on things that other people have, hoists the bottle and tales a drink directly from it. It goes down like water and, oh dear, he can feel the searing burn down his throat. This is dangerous.
"I have extremely good taste," Lucius crows as he lowers the bottle. He does not, but he is extremely lucky. Mostly.
But, Izzy has asked him something, hasn't he? He glances at the other man, proper Pirate Israel Hands, who is begrudgingly wearing a stupid shirt and looking a little too resigned as he sits on the edge of his fluffy, properly mattressed bed. He questions him about the torture and, really, Lucius might have expected that. He offers up the colorful skull for Izzy and goes to stand by him.
Lucius is bold but he's not about to drop onto Izzy's bed next to him.
"Well, last time, it was...divided?" Lucius says. He's not sure if he's told Izzy all this. He expects his first day was overshadowed with terror and awe, so perhaps it bears repeating.
"Half the ship went to an island, the other half was stuck here. The island folk were, apparently, forced to slaughter one another," Lucius explains and his gaze drifts upward as he tries his best not to recall the specifics. That apparently sticks out like a sore spot and he avoids prodding at it like he avoids actual work.
"Over here--you know all those little, those?" Lucius asks and gestures at the television. The ones in the rooms aren't little, not by any measure, but they looks similarly enough to the other screens scattered about the ship. Most of the others are just playing banal nonsense, ship news, slideshows of vacations or menus, that sort of thing.
"Every single one on the ship played...their deaths. In graphic detail we got to watch. Had to watch, really. Over and over and over. Everywhere. For days. They played...very chipper music behind it and had...funny sounds to accompany the--" He grimaces and a little shiver climbs up his spine. No he cannot remember this without more alcohol. Even with, just the description has him paling a bit.
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This is better.
Clearly not better for Lucius but he's willing to talk so it's good enough, and for his valiant efforts Izzy shares the drink (and his space) with no further objection.
Now, he doesn't know more people on this vessel than he has fingers on his hands. No more than Lucius has fingers on his hands, even. He doesn't think he would particularly care if he saw their deaths but he is also not a man who takes active pleasure in murder. Mostly. Sometimes they really, really fucking deserve it but the rest of the time, he's just doing his job. It's a way of life. He doesn't get off on it, but it is what it is and so he accepts that and moves forward.
He also appreciates that he might feel a bit differently if he gave a shit about anyone here besides like one- maybe two people. Watching Lucius murdered over and over again wouldn't be enjoyable, really. Seeing Edward die? It would turn him absolutely fucking feral.
Lucius is a chatty fellow. Social. Flirty. He probably has a great many friends, so 'Suck it up and get over it', doesn't feel appropriate to say and really... That's always been more Ed's line, anyway. He takes the bottle once Lucius has helped himself and uses the pause of drinking to reflect for something less... heartless.
He isn't a heartless man. Far from it, actually, he just lives and operates in another plane of existence to the crew of The Revenge.
And so Izzy re-offers the bottle of what is, yes, a very fine choice.
"Must have been difficult. Watchin' all that. Feeling powerless."
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"Spent a week hiding in corners and the far ends of the ship. Some of the others, the Captains, my roommate, the like, they sat and watched. Not sure how they did it," Lucius continues, carries on with the dedication of a man who would really like to see the other side of this topic.
"Well, Captain didn't do so well with it--Bonnet, that is. Blackbeard seemed alright, if...throwing bar stools and bottles is alright. Fun story, turns out that if you break things? They just...grow back. Like a lizard's tail or a limb on a starfish."
He doesn't want to demonstrate, not really, but he clearly considers taking that skull and just hurling it at the television to see what happens. He doesn't, but the clear and present desire to do actual violence is a strange look on Lucius Spriggs.
"Apparently there was a party after, didn't go to that, but it sounds like it was a really dreadful bloodbath," he adds with a shiver.
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Though the bottle is quite good.
"Death in a place you can't stay dead. Seems hollow if you ask me. It's the end of the road for a reason."
And if you remove that, then what honor or structure means anything?
Death is the one thing that men can not escape forever. It is coming, relentlessly, for every single soul. To remove that fear is to remove the boundaries of reality. Just his two cents, anyway.
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"Turns out, though, there's nothing exceptionally noble about dying, despite how it gets advertised in all the holy brochures," Lucius explains with a rough grimace. "It's just messy, abrupt, ghoulish, and traumatizes everyone around you for a variety of reasons."
He takes another pull and then promptly presses it back into Izzy's hands. This is far too heavy for this early in the morning. It takes him a moment to swallow all that he has in his mouth and, when he does, his eyes are watery.
"I heard something about the ship feeds off misery, or whatever? Good job of it, then, aye? Letting us...be murdered and pop back to watch it with a slide-whistle attached?"
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