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It was his own fault, really. He had his face buried in one of Stede's jackets, and he was crying--sobbing, really--so he didn't immediately register that someone had entered the auxiliary wardrobe until it was too late, and he took his face out of the silk and saw it was Izzy standing there, just as surprised as he was.
"Edward," Izzy said, then flinched. Old habits died hard.
"How did you find me?" Edward asked.
"There was a noise behind the wall," said Izzy, looking like he'd rather bite his own tongue off than call it crying. "And then--there's this stupid fucking befrocked doll built into the fucking bookcase. It's really fucking obvious, without any fucking books."
"Yeah," said Ed. "Should probably do something about that. A secret room's no good if it's not that secret." His hand itched to wipe the tears, the snot, the smeared paint from his face, but Izzy was still there, still watching, and he'd find it more pathetic if Ed thought he could hide the evidence.
He dropped the jacket for the bottle of rum. The rum made him feel better. It made him feel less. Feeling less was better, these days. "Either come and drink with me," he said, patting the spot to his left, "or get the fuck out."
Izzy sighed and crossed the room, skirting any contact with any of Stede's things like he was afraid of contamination, or his hatred extended that far. He sat, leaning his head against the wall, and held out a hand for the bottle.
Ed gave it to him, surprised. Izzy had never been much of a drinker. Bit of an oddity, for a pirate. It'd taken a year after Izzy had joined his crew for Ed to get Izzy drunk, properly drunk, and he'd thought he'd cracked the case--Izzy Hands was an affectionate drunk and didn't want anyone to know it--only to discover, the second time he and Izzy got drunk, that Izzy was only a cuddly drunk around Blackbeard. Around everyone else, alcohol only made Izzy more miserable and belligerent.
Izzy drunk from the bottle, and deeply. He coughed and handed it back.
Ed was already drunk, but he could always get drunker. He drank.
Izzy took the bottle back. "Would it help," he said, knuckles white on the neck, "if you were to cut off another--"
"I don't want your pity toes," Ed snapped.
"Fine." Izzy's gaze shifted to the pile of Stede's clothes. "So--" He nudged it with one of his boots and for a second Ed was lost in the memory of Stede asking him what the plan was, and how much that hurt. Blackbeard was supposed to be this brilliant fucking strategist, but Ed had been over and over every detail of their time together at the privateering academy and he still couldn't figure out what he'd done wrong. What had made Stede leave. "--the way I see it, we've three options for this lot: dump it in the ocean; put it into a boat, set the boat on fire and adrift, and watch it all burn down; or stuff it with rags and use it for target practice."
Izzy hadn't asked for a plan since September first. Ed knew where he'd gone wrong there, at least. He'd spent the whole day so sure of himself, looking forward to the look on Izzy's face when he realized that Ed'd been planning this since the morning, when he'd asked Izzy what the clouds looked like. It would be like the old days again.
But it wasn't. He'd come up with another plan, on the actual second of September, and that had also gone spectacularly wrong. He'd taken a break from plans. Wouldn't have known what to do in front of Stede's firing squad if Izzy hadn't given him the idea. Should have known the escape would have gone spectacularly wrong but Stede had kissed him back, and had said Ed made him happy, and that had made Ed feel like he could do anything.
"I'll think about it," Ed said. "Let you know what I decide."
Izzy snorted, but he didn't say what they both knew: if he left this to Ed, the clothes would just stay here to be cried over. He kicked the clothes, and Ed grabbed the rum back, determined not to look. He didn't feel like arguing with Izzy, not now; he felt tired and wrung out and was willing to let Izzy grind his bootheel into Stede's waistcoat if that meant they could keep drinking together.
The rum was rough, much rougher than the brandy Stede had introduced him to. But that brandy was either at the bottom of the sea or washed up on a beach somewhere by now, along with so many other of Stede's fine things. Stede had a surfeit of fine things, and Stede could always get more. Stede had so many luxuries: the fabrics, the marmalade, the tchotchkes, the brandy, the books, his love--and Edward had thought that Stede sharing all these precious things with him had meant something, but they'd just been fucking crumbs from a banquet of a lifetime of having so much you could share all these things and just walk the fuck away like it all meant nothing.
Sadness and rage had been his constant companions since the night Stede left him, and yet he still felt so fucking lonely.
"I think," said Ed, "maybe I'd like to give each of those options a trial run. See which one feels the most satisfying."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. If you're not going to drink, Izz, give me the fucking bottle."
Izzy drank, gave Ed the fucking bottle.
Ed drank, did the mental arithmetic. Izzy'd probably had enough to welcome Ed into his personal space, so Ed leaned his head against Izzy's shoulder. Sitting felt hard, breathing felt hard, everything had felt hard since that night on the dock, the dawn when he finally accepted that Stede wasn't coming.
Izzy tensed. "Sir?"
Fuck. "You were going to let me feed you another of your toes not an hour ago," said Ed. "Don't tell me this is crossing a line."
"Suppose not," said Izzy. He reached out with his left hand and tucked Edward's hair behind his ear. Ed could feel his fingers trembling.
Ed was drunk, but he'd been much drunker and never tried anything before. It was the loneliness, pushing him forward until his mouth met Izzy's in a desperate kiss.
Izzy, hand still in Ed's hair, tightened his grip and yanked Ed's head away, said, "No," fiercely, like Edward had always known he would. The pull on his hair hurt, as did the fury in Izzy's gaze, boring into his. "I will drink with you, I will sit with you, I will fucking follow you to the ends of the fucking earth and fucking burn everything down along the way, but I will not be your fucking stand-in for Stede fucking Bonnet."
Ed closed his eyes and shoved at Izzy until Izzy let go of his hair and Ed dropped his head onto Izzy's shoulder again, like things could go back to how they were before. He heard the glug of the bottle and opened his eyes and found himself staring directly at Izzy's tattoo.
He remembered the night Izzy got it, years ago when both their beards were still black and Izzy still worshipped him. They'd passed the five thousand mile mark earlier that month and Ed wanted to commemorate it with the traditional tattoo, but Izzy needed to be badgered and cajoled and teased into it, which was fine because Edward enjoyed badgering and cajoling and teasing Izzy. He took himself so fucking seriously that sometimes all Edward wanted to do was get under his skin.
Ed got his bird done first, and sat back to watch Izzy stretched out in the chair and slapping away the artist's hands, insisting he wanted it on his neck. "It'll be painful," the artist said, and Izzy glowered and might have knifed him if Ed hadn't held him down, Izzy grimacing and intense with pain despite all the rum.
They staggered back to the ship, Izzy leaning against Ed and swearing as he stumbled.
Ed dragged Izzy belowdecks, turning around to find Izzy fidgeting with the bandage. "Don't pick at it, they cover these things for a reason."
He'd caught Izzy's hand at an awkward angle, their fingers slotted together. Izzy's gaze was locked on his and even though there were men on deck and the sea outside, all those noises seemed suddenly very far away. "Yes, sir," Izzy said.
Ed shut the door. "Take off your boots and get onto the bed. If I let you back out there you're going to start a fight and I'm going to wake up to find three men are needlessly dead or maimed and you've fucked around with the bandage even though I told you not to."
Izzy took off his boots and got on the bed, Ed took off his own boots and got on the bed, arranging himself so his own aching arm didn't hit the mattress the wrong way, and it was quiet again. Ed thought Izzy had fallen asleep, until he said, "You know, sir, some of the men, they say these tattoos are good luck. Because swallows return to their nests every year. They say that if you've got one tattooed on you, you'll always be able to find your way home."
It sounded like superstitious nonsense, but nice superstitious nonsense. The sort of thing Izzy would scoff at if sober. But Izzy wasn't sober. His hair was falling into his face and his voice was thick with drink and he was smiling the tiniest bit. Ed shifted in bed. "Edward," he said.
"Sir?"
"That's my name. Edward. You can call me Edward."
"Edward," Izzy repeated softly to himself and then again, looking him full in the face, "Edward."
Ed patted his cheek. "Good. Now go to sleep; I'll be here in the morning."