ninetoes | Noctium Inbox

[The small scuff of paper across fine wood flooring should be hard to hear in a room this size. Izzy’s never been aboard a vessel this grand. It’s like a palace on the sea, and he’d say it was disgusting if he didn’t know it had been picked out specifically for…him.

He hears it. His room is silent. No music. No tv. Nothing but the scratch of a pen as he marres the page of his journal. Izzy pauses before he pulls himself up from his desk, an ornate thing that has no right to be on the water where the salt and moisture will devour it and is far too lavish for the likes of him. Stede’s fine taste. Taste Izzy doesn’t understand if only because it has always been out of his reach. A long career with Blackbeard, more riches and raids and success than most, all of that for years and still it was out of reach.

Your class shouldn’t matter when you have freedom, but it’s a hard wound to salve all the same.

Sure would be easier to fold and let himself think he deserves nice things. Accept it how he accepts the sun will rise. That the tide will come.

It isn’t. Maybe a few weeks ago. A few weeks ago he’d been in heaven. An existence so twisted and dark and steeped in blood that it should be horrifying. The blood didn’t bother him. The taking of lives, the power, the riches, the sex. None of that. What’s horrifying to him, is the stark sobriety now it’s all gone. Getting comfortable, building something for himself for once and settling into it graciously- and then it all fell to nothing. It dropped, that nasty other boot. It always does.

Still, weighted like his boots are lead, Izzy pulls himself up and crosses his too large quarters past his too nice bed. He sees the note and bends with a small grunt to retrieve and read it. He knows who wrote it without unfolding the paper. Edward doesn’t do notes. Lucius is avoiding him. The paper smells softly of Stede’s hand. His lotion or perfume or something. Izzy hates that he fucking knows that. Makes his stomach roll.

It rolls harder as he reads.

He hasn’t forgotten either. How could he.

Izzy swallows and closes his eyes for a moment, jaw clenching. His molars creak as they grind together. What the fuck is he supposed to say, yes? Of course he’s delighted? That the ship is a dream, a fairy story, some kind of technological wonder he could never fathom in a million years. That no, he hasn’t forgotten he’d made a proposal but wishes he could more than anything. That he has no place with Stede and, painfully, probably no place with Edward, either. That he knows but he’s too weak to say anything about it so he’s been hiding in his quarters and ghosting around the ship like a phantom because he’s fucking terrified?]

Ffffuck.

[Just a hiss of the word. He folds the letter and lets it, and his hand, drop to his side.

There’s a split second where Izzy lifts like he might throw open the door. Like he might lose his fucking mind and go after Stede to.. to do what.

The momentum flags away as quickly as it arrived. He’s a coward. It’s too much. He’s lost too much. He’s gained too much. This sort of thing isn’t meant for men like him. Just like wealth, like class, like extravagance, it’s out of reach.

The door goes unanswered but not forgotten. The note is read a hundred times. Two hundred times. Obsessed about for hours. The words wound up and down and picked to pieces. Secret meanings and signs and code looked for and dissected and held to light. No secrets divulge themselves. By evening, he’s in the same spot he was hours ago, just tipsy and confused and a little angry. A little horny. Extremely wired. Treading water. Somehow managing to drown at the same time.

Pathetic.

The Dutch courage is what finally makes him move. The agony of yearning. The memory of soft kisses and softer hands and hard, raw power. Poetry in every line of Stede’s body. In his every word. In the courage of his convictions.

It’s the Dutch courage that makes him finally leave his cabin, newest clothes abandoned for his old faithfuls. Washed and dressed, hair carefully, anxiously combed into place. Beard checked over and over, the hair conditioned soft with oil gifted to him. He’d trash it if it wasn’t so nice. If he didn’t convince himself to keep it because vanity had a hold on his shrivelled black heart.

Izzy hopes beyond hope that Stede is alone when he finds him. That Edward is somewhere in the bowels of this vast floating kingdom. That they have a moment.

He brings the bottle. Knocks softly. Prays it isn’t answered and he can disappear again.]

[Stede dithers in the hall for a moment or two longer, but soon absconds back up to the master suite he shares with Ed. He spends the next several hours pacing the room, sitting down with a swirl of his coat only to stand right back up again and prowl back and forth in front of the window like a caged panther. Ed is in the control room with the ship's manual Stede had finally tracked down, leaving Stede to fidget and worry and glance at his device every few minutes as if Izzy would do anything so ridiculous as text him. He finds himself lying in the middle of the frankly massive bed and remembering how empty it feels, just the two of them, once he'd gotten accustomed to sleeping with Ed and Izzy. Now the empty space just burns, a jangling in his nerves of right-wrong that he's come to associate with Izzy over time.

He feels...conflicted. Clearly, Izzy had had he and Ed under some kind of vampiric hold. A thrall. He'd known as much as soon as he'd snapped out of it, and his ears burn now at the thought of everything that had transpired between them. The blood, and the sex, and the promises, his cheek pressed to Izzy's knee, and what had followed after...

It had all felt so real, so easy and right. And even though he knows it was all wrong, all skewed, a thin veneer over the reality of what they really are to each other...he misses it. Misses how simple things were, for a little while. He hadn't felt conflicted about wanting Izzy, because it had felt like the most natural thing in the world. But now, he's not so sure. Can't even begin to know what Izzy is feeling, whether or not he regards it all as a huge mistake. An embarrassment.

Impossibly, there's a knock on the door. Stede's heart, mercifully beating once more, flies into his mouth, and he leaps to his feet only to turn in a little circle and sit right back down. It's probably Lucius, he tells himself sternly. Don't get excited.

All the same, he pushes his golden curls away from his face, and straightens the collar of his peacock blue satin-lined dressing gown, draped over the day's outfit like a security blanket.]

Come in, [he calls, trying and failing to sound like a normal, unbothered human being.]

[Yeah, perfectly normal. Sounds about as perfectly normal as Izzy would, if he thought about it. There's still an opportunity to leave. To turn on his heel and go back to his sickeningly quiet bunk and lay there swimming in shame. There's time.

But while this is a large ship, it isn't large enough to just. Never see or speak to anyone ever again. Sooner or later he and Stede will have to be in the same room with each other for more than a few awkward minutes and sooner or later they will have to talk about this. There's not even a crew for Izzy to boss around, instead, this is so bullshit.

The doorknob turns. Izzy lets himself in and closes it quietly behind him, as though making noise would somehow announce his crippling, anxiety as well as his presence. He isn't sure what to say. He isn't sure there's anything to say. If Stede was going to banish him off the boat then he could have done that with the note. Edward, surely, would have come with him. There would have been a confrontation. There would have been something more than an invitation to talk- fuck. He doesn't know. It's too hard to fucking think as Izzy drifts into view from the bed - tightly laced and looking ready to come undone at the seams any second.]

[The moment he hears the door close, a muted sound that he only hears because he's listening for it, Stede is on his feet again. The nerves vibrating under his skin won't allow him to sit. Not for this, not for something this important.

For a moment, all he can do is look at Izzy, try to reconcile the tightly-wound little man in front of him with his vampire sire, gracious and generous and relaxed. God, it had been so good to seem him relax. To keep him company while he'd read a book, to share soft and hidden moments in the wee hours of the morning before curling up to sleep through the day, the three of them.

Stede swallows, heavily, and finally manages to break the ice.]

You came.

[A very astute observation, but truthfully he's just sort of dazed that Izzy actually came up here. Presumably to tell him to fuck off, but still. God, he feels sick, his stomach twisted into knots while he wrestles with his many conflicting feelings.]

You called.

[Fuck off. That would be the easy answer, wouldn't it. Shut it down. Put whatever the fuck happened between them in a little box and toss it over the railing. Let it rot on the bottom of the ocean for good measure.

He should say it. He should. Since when has Stede summoning him ever been a priority to answer. His throat is so dry.]

This is a fine ship.

[Not.. not exactly the same sentiment. then again, he's never been as in control of himself as he thinks. Iron will, iron force, iron constitution- yeah. Okay. Sure. But under it? there's still soft flesh and so many emotions he might burst if you bent him just slightly wrong. It's been happening more and more since he came here. Why the fuck was he ever, ever brought here.

Izzy swallows. He doesn't know what to do with his hands and they flex a few times before he joins them behind his back. Like he's at attention. Like this is a report. It's easier. It will be easier. He hopes.]

Enormous..Far too modern and far too flashy, but it's... It's nice. You made a fine choice. To answer your question.

Oh, well. Yes. [He supposes he did, after a fashion. Offering to talk, and all. His hand flutters uselessly near his lapel, trying to resist the urge to clutch at it. Stede swallows heavily, clean-shaven of all his golden stubble save for the beginnings of a mustache.

Despite all his trepidation, he smiles when Izzy finally speaks again, a hopeful little wrinkle in his forehead that he's blissfully unaware of.] You think so? I have to agree, she's a fine vessel—

[He cuts off as the other continues, blinking a few times. Critical, certainly, but with a definite overtone of approval. His expression hangs on the precipice of hopeful, but he's still guarded, still wary of what's to come.]

...Well. I'm glad to have your approval. You know, we still haven't come up with a name for her. Nothing feels quite grand enough. [He clears his throat, licks his lips.] Any ideas?

[He figures it's only fair to include Izzy in the decision, considering it's technically, just technically his ship. Not that Stede will own up to it. He's still co-captain, damn it all.

His gaze drops to the bottle in Izzy's hand, and when he meets his eye again it's cautious, with a question.]

Let me get you a glass?

[Oh he- oh.. yeah. Yeah he did bring that with him, didn't he. Fucking embarrassing, Israel get your shit together.]

If you'll have some.

[He can pretend that the bottle was to share. Some kind of peace offering? Does he want peace?

He doesn't know what he wants, except for these fucking feelings to fuck off. Or maybe not, maybe it's nice to have some recognition, maybe it was nice to not be at Stede's throat for once (haha), maybe it was fucking nice to be a person for a little while why should he have to give that up!? FUCK he can't decide anything-

As for the name of the ship.. that.. yeah that doesn't feel like a him decision. His ship, or not. His ship. As if. As if until he needs to pull that card. We'll burn that bridge when we get there, shall we. He waits for Stede to go for a glass before speaking again. this is awkward. Maybe it will be easier without eyes on him.]

I'll have to think about a name. Anything Richard would be a bit gauche.

Of course. Here, allow me—

[Truthfully, he could use the drink, whether or not Izzy was intending to share. It helps to turn his back on the man for a moment; when he's within view, Stede finds it hard to look anywhere else. Before, when he'd had zero carnal knowledge of Izzy, it had been easier to dismiss whatever fleeting attraction he might have felt. To pass it off as strong dislike. But now that he knows—

God, he wishes he could un-know. It would make all this so much simpler. They could go on trading sneaky, hate-fueled blowjobs alongside all the misnomers and insults.

He hands over a crystal tumbler, its twin in his right hand.]

So I take it 'Big Richard's Revenge' is out, then? [He sniffs, holding out his glass.] We'll think of something good. [A pause, while he seems to calculate the risk of being up-front about all of this.]

I assume you'd like to talk? Since you're here and all.

[Big Richard’s Revenge get tf outta here Stede.]

I don’t want to talk.

[Talking would mean doing something like examining feelings. It would mean being even more vulnerable than he is already. It would mean laying himself at Stede’s feet asking for some kind of mercy. It make kill him.]

What’s there to say? Unless you’re asking me to leave in which case you can get fucked.

[Stede's glass is tipped halfway back into his mouth when Izzy contradicts him entirely, and his brow wrinkles into a frown aimed into his glass. He swallows with a slight shudder, which he ignores in favor of expressing his confusion.]

What do you mean, 'you don't want to talk'? [He's indignant, as if Izzy has broken some unspecified rule.] I told you to find me if you wanted to talk, and here you are, so you must want to. At least...a little bit?

[He can't help the puppy-dog lilt to his voice, like he's ever been able to sway Izzy Hands with his big hazel eyes and the slight jut to his lower lip. It rarely works for him as a grown man, with the exception, perhaps, of Edward. He adds, in a murmur,] I wasn't going to ask you to leave.

But you might now, yeah. That's the threat?

[He's moving before he can think better of it, closing the distance between them with the very same vitriol he had the first morning he ever appeared in this fucking hell hole. Raw off the back of a hard conversation with Edward, more vulnerable than he'd ever been, and hinging on Stede for the next play.

This is worse, though. the last month had been exquisite, with Stede playing no small part. This ship is testament, and if Izzy were any more self destructive than he already was he might view it as something of a betrothal gift. That's how it all went down. That conversation, Steed at his knee, soft, careful words and true intention before they fucked right there on the fine silk carpet. When Izzy, riding this beautiful, compliant, bizarrely charming pain in the ass, lent down and asked him for a ship.

This is so much worse.]

We don't need to talk about what happened. It was some...curse, right? We're opposite ends, you'n I. Why would that change?

[Why is he half scared that he wants it to.]

No! [Stede interjects quickly, with a look that's a bit reproachful.] Just meant...I wasn't.

[He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought of the ship in much the same way. Making good on a promise. He couldn't possibly forget it, the night he'd asked Stede to make vows with him. The way they had crashed into the rug, Izzy's bespoke suit stripped off in a hurry so he could impale himself on Stede and ride him to within an inch of his life. Nor can he forget the way he had leaned down so gracefully, and asked Stede for a ship as if it were the easiest thing in the world. It was easy, saying yes. Spoiling Izzy a little in the process, because somehow he can do that here despite having started over from scratch.

Now he feels foolish, with his huge ship and confused feelings, looking forlornly at Izzy and completely unable to figure out how to fix it. Of course Izzy wouldn't want things to change. Stede resists the urge to drop his gaze, but his mouth draws into a frown.]

I suppose I thought it was all rather...nice.

[Blood and death included. He's a weird guy. He finally breaks Izzy's gaze, tears himself away from those flinty eyes he hasn't yet learned how to read, despair souring his stomach. Fool. Greedy fool.]

Foolish of me to think it could be like that again.

Edited 2022-10-08 02:34 (UTC)

[Two things cut Izzy at the knees. First of all, crushing Stede enough to force him to demure doesn't bring nearly the payoff he was expecting. In fact, it's the opposite. It feels disgusting and isn't that horrifying. Soft. Pathetic. Begging for scraps.

Secondly, foolish is right but the reason why is like a slap to the face. It doesn't make sense. Especially not from Stede. Izzy is a homewrecker. Izzy is the straight and narrow. Izzy is the course towards Sirius. This thing that happened to them? Some kind of beautiful dream, but he isn't stupid enough to think that it could last after the return of their breath.

In Izzy's experience, suddenly being offered everything you want is always, always a trap.]

W-why would you want that?

[With him. Who would ever-]

You have what you want, why taint it?

Edited 2022-10-08 02:43 (UTC)

[Stede can only stare at the carpet and clutch his glass for a long moment, his heartbeat erratic in his chest. Why indeed? He can't explain it. It doesn't make sense. He and Izzy, they're opposites, like he said. And the physical stuff, that was just...blowing off steam. Venting the pressure so they didn't explode. Just sex, until it wasn't. Until it became more. Something soft and quiet and delicate. And now that he's had more, why would he want to settle for less?

Why would Izzy? The thought rises unbidden, but Stede can't let himself hope just yet.]

'Taint it?' That's... [His brow wrinkles.] Not how I'd have put it. More like...adding to it.

[He makes himself look Izzy in the eye again as he says it, not knowing what he'll find there but unable to help himself any longer.

[Because that soft, quiet, delicate intimacy wasn't real. Was it?

Couldn't possibly be.

Admitting that it, in any form, was real... well that would mean admitting that they contain the capacity for it as they are now. It would mean admitting that they are compatible in an arena other than one built for blood.

So why does this still feel like they're there, in that arena, covered in each other's blood. Why does it feel like a war with no end. How do you win a war when the objective has been removed and replaced with the terrifying prospect of peace? With kindness.

He's still staring at Stede, something complex shuttering behind his eyes.

In Izzy's experience, suddenly being offered everything you could ever want is always a trap. Kindness is a trap. And when you live your entire life out in the cold, suddenly bring presented with warmth doesn't give you relief. It hurts more than the bitter, freezing desolation ever could.]

I.. I don't understand. All of that all the- we weren't ourselves.

[He'd been so much more, in any case. Felt like so much more. Felt like a different person. One he would give so, so much to be again. A better him. He doesn't know how to get back to that. If it's even possible.]

We aren't those people, why would you want that?

[Why would you want me?]

[We weren't ourselves. There it is again, that glaring reminder that if they had been themselves, it never would have happened. It cuts through Stede's chest like a dagger, icy steel.

Why would he want that? The way Izzy says it makes Stede feel like an idiot for wanting it at all. He turns, steps abruptly past Izzy and toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows lining the far wall, hiding the turmoil on his face. He'd thought it would be simple, thought it would be an easy enough conclusion to come to, but that was clearly a mistake.]

Well, if that's how you feel about it, [he begins, his voice a little strained,] then just...forget I said anything.

[He wishes he could forget, could ignore the feelings that rear their ugly head every time he and Izzy are in the same room. In a bare murmur, he adds,] I'm afraid I've misread the situation.

[Stede hasn't, which is the wild thing, here. The situation is quite clear, but it is a situation in which Izzy must admit that though they were altered, they were still, at their core, true.

That is terrifying. It is weakness. He doesn't know how to allow for it, to pull at the fabric and ease that sort of razor in amongst the few stitches still holding him together at the seams.]

How I feel is you are a fuckin' idiot.

[Izzy works his jaw for a moment. Clenches and unclenches his free hand before setting his bottle or glass or whatever the fuck he's holding down on the ground by his boot and crossing after Stede to stand just at his back. to speak over Stede's shoulder, watching him in the reflection of the glass.]

You drive me absolutely fucking mental... and yet, for some inexplicable reason, here I still am because I'm drawn to you in a way I can't hope to understand. What I do know, what you did to Edward, you're doing it to me.

[There's a tremble in his voice. A shuttering of emotion he is too frightened to riposte.]

I can not allow that. You can't mean this, you can't mean any of this.

[Stede's shoulders draw up taut when the first insult flies; he doesn't so much as flinch, though. He's been called worse names in his day. A childhood of taunts has trained him not to let it show how much the words hurt. They hurt even more when he's being rejected romantically...

Or. Or is he? Izzy's right behind him, he can feel his body heat radiating against his back, his breath on his neck. Confused, Stede meets the specter of Izzy's gaze in the windowpane, digesting all of this as quickly as he can.]

You think I'm...?

[Are we really back on the bewitching Edward train? Does Izzy really think Stede has done the same to him? Why would he—

—It hits Stede all at once. The words Izzy is really saying, the way he's really saying them. The soft tremor in Izzy's throaty voice, floating over Stede's shoulder. He half-turns, looking at Izzy only out of the corner of his eye, his breath caught in his lungs for a moment while he remembers how to speak coherently.]

What if I did, though? What then?

[It's like a dance, the way they speak in code. The beat isn't easy, but there is one, fighting for dominance with every turn and dip.

It's thrilling, really, under all the frustration and, well, fear.

Stede plays his hand and for one terrifying moment Izzy nearly chickens out. He gives a small puff of breath. Disbelief. He can't be a coward. What if Stede means it. Interested. In him. Actually. He as he is now. He as he is at all. When has that ever happened. why the fuck is it Stede fucking Bonnet or all fucking people?

Cruel fucking irony is what it is.

Izzy lays his hand on the small of Stede's back. Pauses. He can scarcely breathe.

There aren't words for the torrent roaring through him, but now there's contact he can feel that discordant buzz between them ringing. Intoxicating. He presses his face into the back of Stede's shoulder.]

[Stede waits with bated breath for an answer, still only half-looking at Izzy, afraid to turn all the way and find something in Izzy's expression he doesn't want to see. For a teetering moment, he's afraid he'll just leave—

—and then Izzy's hand finds the small of his back, and Stede can't help the soft, shuddering inhale he takes, noisy and obvious, at the minute spark of Synchrony between them.

And then stronger, as he feels Izzy's face press warm into the back of his dressing gown. His shoulders deflate, tension bleeding from them, and he nearly, nearly smiles.]

Izzy, [he says, almost a whisper, almost a plea.] Let me see you. Please?

[Its such a dual-edged question that Izzy can’t be sure what kind of see Stede means.

Physically? Because he’s weak? Because he’s scared and can’t take the intensity of being vulnerable? Because the concept that Stede, Edward’s bloody husband, feels…something towards him makes him hide his face like a child? Pathetic?

Or is it emotionally? Let Stede see him? That’s like asking Izzy to give Stede his own sword. Guide the blade against his own neck and trust he won’t put them both out of the misery that is Izzy fucking Hands. Show himself. Drop the armor and give his soft underbelly, something he can barely do with Ed.

But hasn’t he done that already? He just hadn’t felt scared. He’d been in control, then. He isn’t in control now. And yet, here he still is. Sharpening the blade he’s about to hand over.

He gets it now, at least partially. The magnetism of this ridiculous man. And so Izzy pulls back, reluctantly. Just enough that Stede might turn and Izzy hand let his hand slide round to the other’s hip, unwilling to break contact. If he does, he’ll flee.]

[There's another long, agonizing moment where he thinks he's fucked it up, asked too much. Gone a bridge too far, where Izzy can't follow. But slowly, blessedly, he pulls his face away, and Stede turns in a tight circle to allow him to clutch at his hip if he likes. Pulls him in close to his chest, his arms circling around his shoulders. His breathing is shallow, verging on panicky because this man in his arms is—

infuriating, rude, impossible

—somehow so important to him, despite all of that. And he can't mess this up. Won't.

He lowers his face, brushes his lips against the crown of Izzy's head. Smells the hair pomade and something that's just Izzy.]

Let me be sweet to you. [He inhales, ragged, and goes on before he can lose his nerve.] When's the last time someone was sweet to you?

[Another impossible question brought with more questions behind it.

Izzy wets his lips, watching Stede very closely with a mixture of want and braced confusion. His guard is lowered, but only just, and ready to slam back up the second he feels a threat.

When was the last time? Here? During their illness, probably. Before? Home? He couldn't say. Men like them aren't sweet to each other. Jack, maybe, god rest his stupid fucking soul. Edward...not for a long time. Things were different when they were young and stupid. They learned fast to account and correct for it.

Maybe that's why this feels like such a trap. Men like him don't deserve sweetness. He is a rotten, rotten fruit, and well past ripe.]

Why?

[That's the thing he really can't understand. The thing holding him back so forcefully. Why him? Why bother? Why complicate?]

[Stede's hands press flat and warm against Izzy's back, one right above the other; gently, he lets one thumb drag in slow strokes along his spine. He swallows, his throat dry and tight, as he considers how best to answer.

Maybe it's easiest if he puts it in the same terms Izzy himself used? Stede tries to recall the words.]

Because I...well, I've found myself drawn to you. The same as you are to me. And I think you deserve a little sweetness.

[He clearly has been deprived of it for a long time, this hard, angry man. But he's more than that, Stede is learning. He's clever, and sarcastic, and observant. He cares, so much that he's willing to let his care consume everything he loves. Stede has found himself missing that care, these past weeks. With Izzy in charge of them, things had felt so wonderfully safe and secure. What if they could find their way back to that, the three of them?

He doesn't know if it's possible. But damn it, he wants to try.]

[Izzy doesn’t think he deserves sweetness. On the list of things he thinks he deserves, sweetness isn’t even on there. It has never occurred to him.

Respect, loyalty, transparency. Those he deserves. Authority, reliability, dedication. He’s worked hard enough. Maybe even power. Ed promised him that, once. It was a lie, in the end, and the one time Izzy had it he handled it extremely poorly (allegedly). These things are all on the list.

Kindness? Sweetness? Affection?

Those are for another list. A small scrap tucked away, scrawled in messy ink, smudged before it could even dry.

Those things he wants so desperately but couldn’t consider. Couldn’t work towards without risking his neck.

You can only do that once, can’t you. There’s no trying again after it’s been slit.

So forgive him while he searches for the words, dragging his own mind over the coals and rolling his thoughts over and over and over again to try to make sense of it all. To try to justify a concept as delicate as Stede Might Fancy Him. In what fucking world?

..this one, apparently.

It has to be fake. Stede is confused, surely. Or cross with Ed and using Izzy as a wedge. Maybe it’s a play to make Izzy leave, seeing as force doesn’t work. It’s got to be something like that. That makes sense.

So then why are they thrumming with such powerful energy. Why is the gem in the hollow of his throat crying out so fucking loudly to submit?

I don’t, he nearly answers. It’s right on the tip of his tongue but he can’t quite get there. Doesn’t need to, really, it’s written all over his face.

Up until the point he crumbles and closes the space between them, eyes crushed closed, lips capturing lips with a desperate little whine.]

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