Chapter Text
(i take this magnetic force of a man to be my lover)
Izzy liked to think he could handle his alcohol. He wasn't fifteen anymore, he knew he could handle some rum. He had almost finished his entire bottle, far from the rest of the crew—both Blackbeard’s and Bonnet’s, chatting and playing card games as one—leaning on the ship’s railing. He wasn’t that drunk.
He took the last sip, still unable to tear his eyes off the group. Not that he gave a single fuck. He couldn’t understand a single word—too many conversations happening all at once—and he didn’t know what kind of games were being played.
Nor Izzy nor anyone from the crew moved from their places for a while.
Not until, at some point, the bard got up, stumbling on his own feet, and left the deck. He came back with his fucking useless mandolin and he sat on the floor.
He started playing some soft tunes, not to drown out the conversations, while he kept talking to the others.
Now.
Izzy wasn’t that drunk.
But somehow he couldn’t rip his eyes off of his fingers. He got lost in the movements, the delicate tapping of his fingertips on the mandolin’s neck, asking himself how, as drunk as the man was—‘cause Izzy had seen him earlier, tripping over absolutely nothing and laughing his ass off because of something Bonnet told, definitely something idiot—was able to keep the music going and talk over it at the same time.
Izzy stopped hearing the dialogues altogether, the only sound filtering to his ears being the sound of the strings. So it came as a surprise, even to him, when he heard himself speaking.
“How did you learn that?”
Silence fell over the entire deck. Even the wind seemed to stop for a second, and the absence of sounds felt deafening.
The bard, Frenchie, turned to face him.
“You talking to me?”
Izzy nodded, slowly, too scared his mouth might betray him again.
“Eh, I used to work for this guy, nice man, really, taught me some of the basics in his free time and then he went and died,” he grimaced. “Not so nice of him, but I stole the thing and learned the rest on my own.”
While speaking he had resumed his movements and, as if on cue, everyone else had started talking over the music, just like before.
And just like before Izzy got lost.
Frenchie offered him a puzzled look. “Wanna try? I could teach you”
What? No. What the fuck? “What? No,” he shaked his hand, as if he could make the thought go away. “Just do it yourself, I don't care.”
“Right, sit down, I’ll teach you something,” Frenchie replied, moving closer to him, half-crawling on the wooden floor.
Maybe Izzy was a bit drunk, ‘cause he dropped to the floor without complaining any further.
Frenchie shoved the instrument in his hands.
What the fuck was Izzy doing?
“Put your index finger on the second string,” Frenchie told him.
Putting his index finger on the second string, apparently.
Frenchie kept giving instructions. “Now the middle finger on—no. Why did you move that? It was fine where it was. No the—the middle finger, do you know which is your middle finger, babe? All right. Now—no! That's not—never mind. Just how drunk are you?”
“Not that drunk,” he grumbled, more to convince himself than anything.
Finally Frenchie seemed satisfied. “Now you just strum all the strings.” He knitted his brows together. “No, wait.”
He took his right hand. Izzy automatically tried to pull away; Frenchie had no reason to touch him gently so he had no reason to expect softness. And yet.
He untied the button on his glove.
“Leather won’t make it sound good,” he murmured, as he pulled the glove away, the barest touch of their skins.
And maybe, just maybe , Izzy was very drunk, because there was no other explanation for the shiver that ran down his spine.
Then Frenchie simply decided to destroy what was left of his fucking wits by taking his—now bare—hand and hold it as he strummed all the strings.
“See? You're doing great there, babe.”
Izzy felt the need to crawl forward, into his touch, into his voice, while his mind screamed to get away. What the fuck?
Frenchie moved to his side, so that he was pressing his hips on Izzy’s right side and nodded toward the neck of the mandolin, completely unaware of what was happening in Izzy’s head. “Move the ring finger, like before.”
Izzy could do nothing but obey. There was a sharp focus in his voice, and in the way he kept his eyes on the instrument. Frenchie wasn't sober—he was clearly struggling to explain out loud the things his fingers must have had memorized for his whole lifetime. But he was so clearly enamoured with his own instrument that it was hard not to trust him blindly with it.
“There you go. You could steal my job,” he murmured as he held his hand and played again. “But I prefer picking the strings, so we could—I don't know—taking turns, yeah?”
Frenchie sneaked his right hand underneath Izzy’s and started picking the strings, one at the time, creating a fluid melody.
And then— what the actual fuck was this fucking man doing, for fuck’s sake —he slid his left arm behind his back, to reach for the mandolin’s neck and swatting Izzy’s hand away.
Izzy’s first thought was how tall is he? Why the fuck is his arm so fucking long? His second thought was that it wasn't that bad. Being trapped between the man and the music.
Frenchie kept playing, as softly as he was holding him.
The world tilted. No one seemed to notice. Was it possible that no one had noticed? Maybe it was just the ship. But Izzy felt himself slightly sliding toward Frenchie.
Frenchie looked him in the eyes, a question barely forming on his lips. He didn't say anything but Izzy saw his gaze drop on his tattoo. The focus he had reserved for his mandolin just minutes ago, was now all there, on the ink cross, burning like the moment the needle had touched his cheek the first time.
His eyes dropped even further. And—no. He had to leave.
What was the danger? Fuck him if he knew but he couldn't really risk finding out.
He tried to stand up. Failed on his first try, but then Frenchie opened his arms and he managed to get a grip on the railing.
He walked towards the prow of the ship without a word and sat on the wooden floors where he knew it was dark enough he wouldn't be seen. Where the fuck was his fucking bottle—oh.
Empty near Frenchie’s feet.
Izzy lifted his gaze and saw Frenchie inspecting the shadows where he had just disappeared to.
His hands were on the strings. How was Izzy supposed to stop watching them? Fuck, he really wished he had some more rum.
He rested his head on the mast and forced himself to close his eyes. The music kept tormenting him, though.
He must eventually had dozed off because the next thing he knew was Frenchie— this fucking man, again? Just leave me alone, god— nudging him awake. “You should go to bed, man.”
When Stede stupid Bonnet had left the Revenge, Izzy had taken over the only other bedroom on the ship, the one he had been Frenchie’s—he only knew that because he kept complaining about the fucking room—so it was pretty odd that he was telling him to use it now. A crazy, unrequested thought crossed his mind, you should take your room back . He shook his head at the idea, because what the fuck, he was first mate, he had all the rights to that bed. “Yeah, fuck off, I’m going to.”
He could feel Frenchie roll his eyes as he left.
He groaned. What the fuck? What did he care?
He closed his eyes again.
✦
Next thing Izzy knew was the sun’s rays filtering through his eyelids. Then, fucking hell, again, Jesus Christ , Frenchie’s voice.
“What the fuck, man? I could've used my room?”
Izzy’s throat felt like sand but he managed to grumble a “fuck off”.
He opened his eyes to check the sun’s height in the sky. It was still so fucking early. Was Frenchie just trying to torment him?
As the deck and the whole ship started to wake up around him, Izzy thought about the night before. He had never been able to forget the shit he did when he was drunk—always too aware of his surroundings, always too aware of himself—he always remembered everything.
How fucking embarrassing. Why was he so intrigued by that man.
He pushed the memories away—easy enough,—got up and found some water. He started barking orders around—also easy enough.
He was so focused on keeping his usual facade that he didn't notice Frenchie’s puzzled gaze following him around the whole day.
✦
The following week, Izzy went out of his way to avoid Frenchie. Not that they had had many previous interactions, but now he was positively fleeing every time he heard his voice during the day.
Though he couldn't—wouldn't, really—ignore him when the night fell and he would sing on deck.
He was always joined by both the crews, so Izzy would simply stare from his corner in the shadows. No one could see him so he was free to let his gaze travel all over him. His fingers, so quick, his arms, his mouth and—
No. He really had to stop, he thought, feeling as drunk as that first night. Even when he had also been avoiding any kind of alcohol for a whole week.
He couldn't really explain his interest fot the man—for his music. For fuck’s sake, Edward could play, he had watched him play so many times, when they were younger and they were still crafting Blackbeard’s legend. Edward never had this effect on him, had he? No, right?
Well, maybe just a little bit. But he had been fascinated by Edward’s music because it was like a secret, it was this thing only they knew. It was proof of the man behind the mask, and it was proof Izzy was as important to Edward as Edward was to him. It was the privilege of being Blackbeard’s first mate.
Frenchie, on the other hand, was no secret. His music wasn't some hidden part of him, it was is fucking job—as useless as that was, on the ship. How could he lay it bare for the crew, for the world? How could he be simply—out there? For everyone’s amusement? How was he still alive?
The music’s pace increased and Izzy’s eyes felt even more tied to the strings.
Frenchie slowly raised his head. And, somehow, he found Izzy in the shadows. The tiniest smile stretched his lips but he didn't say anything.
✦
The next day Izzy woke up early and went on deck, enjoying the cold morning breeze, dreading the moment the sun would be high in the sky. He headed toward the prow, assuming it would be empty as usual. He moved around the sleeping crew’s bodies sprawled on the main deck.
The wind suddenly changed direction and then he heard it. The stupid fucking mandolin.
He found Frenchie sitting in Izzy’s usual spot, grinning like a fucking idiot. “Morning, babe.”
“Could you please just fuck off?”
“I got here first.”
Izzy swore under his breath. Stupid fucking Bonnet’s fucking crew . “I’m asking nicely, you twat.”
Frenchie raised an eyebrow, ignoring entirely his requests. “That wasn’t exactly nice, but I appreciate the effort, darling. Also I thought you liked my music.”
Izzy sat in front of him. “That's besides the point, I still think you should leave. And no, your music's fucking useless, I don't like it.”
“I knew you liked it. You always look interested enough, at least. Since the night I tried to teach you.”
Izzy closed his eyes. “Fine. Doesn't mean it's not pointless.”
“Yeah, sure,” he replied, picking up a soft strumming. Izzy could not help himself and he leaned into the sound. “I think you should try again. Might help with your overall bitchiness, maybe might even help you relax, y’know? “
“Don't need it, shut the fuck up,” he repeated.
The music stopped abruptly and Izzy groaned. Then he felt Frenchie shoving the mandolin on his legs. “C’mon, you're not even drunk this time.”
“Didn't it occur to you that I tried because I was drunk?”
“Actually yeah, but I don't really care, c’mon.”
“For fuck’s sake, won’t you just leave me alone?”
“No, come here.” Frenchie moved to his side, just like a week before and started arranging his fingers in ways Izzy couldn't really understand.
Not that he cared to understand. He was too busy fighting the urge to crawl between Frenchie’s fingers. He was also too busy fighting off the warmth of Frenchie’s body, so very close to his own.
Frenchie was starting to name the finger positions he was showing him. It took a while but Izzy finally began to give in, listening to what Frenchie was trying to explain to him. After a few more minutes he was able to name all of the finger positions.
Frenchie suddenly moved even closer. For fuck’s sake .
“Right. Now I’ll tell you the chords and I’ll play them.” Frenchie leaned forward on the mandolin and started naming the chord’s names out loud. Izzy’s fingers obeyed, as Frenchie started picking the strings.
As they kept playing together, Izzy recognised the melody as the one he had been playing just before he had found him on the prow.
“You're gonna steal my job,” Frenchie whispered, looking him in the eyes. His gaze dropped a bit—again—and Izzy automatically slided away, holding his breath.
“Go make yourself useful,” he whispered, basically a plea, nodding toward the deck that was slowly waking up.
Frenchie got up. “Sure thing, babe.”
Once he was alone, Izzy felt like he could finally catch his breath. What and why and how the fuck? He suddenly longed for the warmth of Frenchie’s body on his. What the fuck.
He pressed his palms on his closed eyes. He knew he had to, but he didn't really want to get up.
He shoved all of his confused thoughts away and pretended the day had just started.
✦
The next day Izzy’s feet led him, against his will, on the prow.
Frenchie was there. “I knew you liked my music.” Izzy told himself not to get close. “C’me here.”
He did.
That became their routine for weeks. Izzy had gotten so used to Frenchie’s touches and gazes that he was able to tell himself that they had no effect on him. But—lord help him—they did. Even after all this time he was still leaning in them, like he had that very first night.
He told himself every fucking morning that he had to stop and he never did. His feet always found their way to Frenchie.
After a few weeks Izzy started to feel slightly insane. Was he imagining Frenchie’s lingering gazes? Was he doing the exact same thing to him? Was he imagining Frenchie leaning into their touches? Did Frenchie know that he was the only person Izzy would voluntarily touch? And they weren’t purposeful touches, they were casual. Izzy couldn’t remember who had been the last person he had casually touched.
Did Frenchie know how much Izzy wished for—for what? Their meeting to be longer? Their bodies to be closer? What did Izzy wish for?
Fuck him if he knew.
He just wished. He just waited.
✦
A month and some successful raids later, the crew was drunk again on deck.
Like the last time, Izzy had hidden away in the shadows. Like the last time, alcohol was flowing. Like the last time, Frenchie was playing.
He could tell those three things were dangerous. But so it went. He grabbed his rum.
He didn't even fight it, this time, and his gaze went straight to Frenchie. He let his eyes roam on his whole body. Like he didn't already know that they would stop on his fingers.
“Fuck,” he mumbled to himself, as he drank again.
He didn't know—didn't care—how much time had passed when the crew started stumbling below deck. Disgustingly enough, Edward and fucking Bonnet had disappeared to the captain's quarters.
Frenchie though, never moved from his spot. And Izzy knew that as long as he kept playing he also wouldn't be able to leave. It would've been physically impossible.
Even when they were left alone on deck, Frenchie didn't stop. He probably didn't even notice him in his corner, he thought, not without a hint of disappointment.
A few minutes passed before Frenchie spoke. “My fingers are burning, I thought you would come and help me, man.”
Izzy got to his side in a heartbeat, a small, almost insignificant sigh of relief leaving his lips. He had seen him.
They fell in their usual position, like it was all they've ever known. Like always, Frenchie started naming the chords and, like always, Izzy's hands obeyed.
Well, not like always. He was too drunk and tired to hit the strings correctly and his fingers kept falling on all the wrong places.
Frenchie laughed softly as he tried to help him and Izzy felt his lips stretch in a smile. How fucking annoying. That it took so little to make him grin like a fucking moron.
Frenchie kept his hands on Izzy’s, helping him through the chords. He stopped paying attention, focusing only on the feeling of Frenchie’s warm skin on his own.
Izzy’s eyes wandered on his focused face and he removed his own hands, to let him play freely—to allow himself to get lost on his mouth, when he started humming a soft melody.
All those days spent on his fingers, when his face was just as lovely.
Izzy, trapped between Frenchie and the mandolin, figured he would simply watch him play and sing from a different perspective. Time dilated and the songs went on for forever, helping clear his thoughts a bit, though his head kept spinning. Hard to say if it was the rum or Frenchie’s presence.
“How can you—how do you do it? You're as drunk as me, you can’t possibly play it correctly.”
“I don't really have to think, music's just flowing through my fingers,” he replied with a big, satisfied smile, turning to face him.
“Do you ever think?”
“Oh. Wow, how smart,” he replied, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “How quick-witted, how amusing. You're so hot, I swear, fuck me, babe.”
There was a moment, a heartbeat of pure silence and the whole ocean seemed to stop its motions.
Gladly , Izzy thought, but he luckily managed to say “Shut the fuck up.”
He grabbed Frenchie’s scarf and dragged him in a kiss that was all but delicate.
When Frenchie didn’t move Izzy felt a bit like throwing up. Fuck . He slowly moved away.
They stared at each other, Izzy’s heavy breaths the only sound between them.
Frenchie didn't leave. Instead he took Izzy’s face in his hands, stroking his cheek, a movement almost imperceptible, and brushed his hair back. He examined his whole face, like he was searching for an answer. “I don't want you to hate me, tomorrow morning. Not because of a late night mistake.”
Izzy didn't reply. He didn't know how to explain—neither to Frenchie or to himself—the certainty that nothing could've made him hate Frenchie.
Frenchie’s hands left his face to slide them around his body and started playing again.
They didn't say anything else.
“I thought your hands were hurting,” murmured Izzy, after a while, after he was almost completely melted in the hug.
“Nah. It's not so bad. I kind of—kind of lied, y’know? Earlier. I just wanted you here.”
“Oh.”
When he knew he couldn't take it anymore, he spoke again. “I'm not drunk enough for this to be a mistake. And I won't hate you.” He turned to face him. “I just really want to—”
Frenchie let out a sigh. Was it relief?
Then he fucking finally kissed him, knocking all the air out of his lungs. Fucking finally kissed him back.
He only stopped to carefully move the mandolin away from their legs.
It was the first time—Izzy thought—he was glad the music had stopped, he was glad for the silence, because it meant that Frenchie was only focusing on him. It meant that Frenchie’s hands held his hips and dragged him closer; it meant that Frenchie’s lips were on his own; it meant that—god, fuck.
That Frenchie could drag his lips on Izzy’s neck, kissing and biting and murmuring against his skin. “I knew you liked it when I shut up, but we could've arranged this way sooner, babe.”
“I ask you all the”—a soft moan escaped his lips— “all the time.”
“Yeah, guess you're not that good at giving orders ‘cause I never understood you meant ‘shut up’ like this,” he replied, biting his skin.
“Well, excuse the fuck out of me,” Izzy said, as he moved his knees around Frenchie’s body, so that he was sitting on his thighs. He held his face as he spoke. “I’m fucking great at giving orders.”
Frenchie’s nails dug into the skin of his hips, grounding him closer, the most annoying grin spreading on his face. “Oh, no. No, babe, I take it all back; you are magnificent, ‘cause right now I’d do whatever you say.”
Izzy snorted. “You better.”
He grabbed his face and kissed him, again and again, and sighed against his lips when Frenchie’s fingers found the skin underneath his shirt.
He had watched them for weeks now. He knew what they could do, he knew how lightly they could move, he knew how gently they could touch something, but he also knew how strong they had to be.
His own fingertips had begun to burn every time he played with Frenchie, the metal cutting through his skin, while Frenchie’s were covered in calluses that made the strings bearable. He had thought of those calluses everyday and now they were tracing his skin, digging in his body, making him louder than he should've been.
“You know what—”
“Anything, babe.”
“I think we should move—”
Frenchie dropped his hands and the corners of his mouth followed. “What, why—?”
“For fuck’s sake, shut the fuck up and let me finish. No. Don't you even fucking try , you're not allowed to even think your stupid jokes.” Izzy actively decided to ignore Frenchie’s pout. “I think we should move this to my room.”
Frenchie frowned. “ My room, you mean.”
Izzy kissed him again, as he got up on his knees. “ My room, you twat.”
Frenchie didn't move. He just smiled as he watched Izzy trying to regain his balance.
“What the fuck are you looking at? Get going.”
“Gladly.” Frenchie stood, definitely less clumsily than him. Then he grabbed him by the hips, making their bodies collide. Izzy just leaned on him, happy to have something to hold on.
Frenchie’s hands hooked behind his thigh and ran up to his ass. He lifted him, bringing all of Izzy’s weight against his body.
Izzy startled and held Frenchie’s shoulders even tighter, while he kissed Izzy’s throat and then his mouth, swallowing the moans he let out. Izzy felt his hands all over his body, never stopping, never letting go.
When Izzy started to slide down Frenchie grabbed him again—that took his breath away—and shoved him against the mast, definitely knocking all the air out of his lungs.
Izzy panted. “We should—should—”
Frenchie kissed his words. “Yeah.”
He tried to get back on the floor but Frenchie didn't let him. “C’mon, babe, I could lift you with my pinky, let me do the honours.”
He clearly could not—Izzy could feel him pant under his weight—but he squeezed his legs around his waist and lowered his lips on Frenchie’s jaw, digging his fingers in his shoulders. Frenchie stumbled to the room, where he let himself fall on the bed, never freeing Izzy from his grip.
Izzy sat on his lap again, while Frenchie found his way underneath his clothes.
“Oh my fucking god, just hurry up,” said Izzy unbottoning his own vest.
“No, no. Let me do it.”
They both froze and looked each other straight in the eyes. Frenchie seemed genuinely happy at the idea of—of not just rushing through this thing.
Was it possible that he was enjoying this as much as Izzy was? Izzy couldn't tell, but he couldn't—wouldn't—change Frenchie’s mind right now. He would've let him do anything.
Frenchie lifted Izzy again and laid him on his back on the bed. He kissed his lips, so softly and slowly Izzy felt himself going insane.
He made his way to his neck. Frenchie didn't even touch him, his hands placed on the bed for balance. Izzy wanted to complain—he was about to—when Frenchie sucked, hard, the base of his throat and all that left his lips was a way too loud moan. He could feel the smile curving Frenchie’s mouth when he kissed him again.
Then he sat on his lap, grounding him to the mattress. His hands lowered on his chest and he finished unbuttoning his vest. So. Fucking. Slowly.
Izzy was breathing so fast his head was spinning. Sure, it might've been the fact that they were on a ship on the open sea, or the fact that he still felt a bit tipsy.
He helped him out of his vest and started to undo his necktie.
Frenchie didn't really touch the ring, he just carefully placed it on the bed stand with the necktie. Izzy had always been hyper aware of where the ring was; a piece of his brain was constantly conscious of its place, so removing it from his neck usually made him nervous and even more aware of its whereabouts.
Now, he couldn't remember the last time he had been so relaxed about parting from it, even if it was still in his reach.
He forgot it the moment Frenchie kissed the empty spot it had left. He forgot everything the moment Frenchie’s fingers found their way under his shirt.
Once he was free of that piece of clothing, Frenchie sat back, still straddling his hips.
“What?” Izzy breathed.
His eyes just travelled his body, pausing on every piece of ink that marked his skin. “Nothing. I just like pretty things.”
The air left the room, there was absolutely no way air was still there, ‘cause Izzy couldn't breathe it in. He tried to get up, to touch him, to kiss him, to undress him, to do anything .
Frenchie placed his hands on his chest and kept him from moving. “Just let me—oh.” He paused. “I forgot this.”
He took his right hand, still gloved, opened the button and slid two fingers underneath the leather, as he took to his lips to kiss the soft skin on the inside of the wrist.
He removed the glove and Izzy felt utterly and completely naked.
Frenchie kissed his knuckles, kissed in between his fingers, kissed his fingertips. He traced the scars on the back. “I’ve wanted to do this since that first night, when I saw them. When I felt them,” he corrected. “But I knew I couldn't ask. I couldn't touch, or you would've cut my head off, so I didn't—didn't do anything, really. Didn't touch and didn’t ask. Not like I would've wanted, anyway.”
Izzy found he—once again—wasn't able to talk, to think, to do anything.
Frenchie laughed. Izzy’s own lips stretched in a smile. Fuck, do it again , he thought. “Has it always been this easy to shut you up?”
“Fuck you,” Izzy murmured, his voice bent by the effortof suppressing his grin.
Frenchie rolled his hips against his, making him stifle a loud moan. “Sure, babe.”
He took his other wrist and pinned Izzy to the bed, finally—finally—kissing him deeply.
His fingers slid through Izzy’s but his lips drew away. “You really are pretty.”
Why the fuck this man has this effect on me? How the fuck does he knows what to say? And—god help him—he could've listened for hours if he kept going like that.
Frenchie didn't let go of his hands as he lowered his head to kiss Izzy’s cross tattoo, a kiss so light he might've imagined it. He didn’t let go of his hands as he moved to his neck, kissing the bird there.
Izzy gasped when he started to lick the edge of it, drawing it again, marking his way into the skin all over again. He arched under his touch.
Then Frenchie’s lips found their way to other tattoos, found their way to old scars, making them burn and ache like the first time.
They rested on the bundle of scars on the right side of his stomach. Frenchie let go of his hands—Izzy wouldn’t have moved anyway—and looked at him, his head resting on his hip bone, as his fingers ran along Izzy’s belt. “Are there some tattoos I am missing underneath this thing? A scar will work just fine.”
Izzy thought of the small tattoo on his thigh. And he definitely had scars all over his legs.
He propped himself on his elbows, in a rush of clarity. “I don’t know, are there? I can’t remember.”
Frenchie looked up grinning.
✦
Izzy woke earlier than usual. He normally would wake up when light started to filter through the grating, but now it was still pretty dark outside.
It took him a while to understand what had woken him up—the weight of a hand on his chest and a warm breath behind his neck.
He stiffened, without changing position. He started to think of a way to leave without waking him up, but the moment he tried to move, Frenchie pressed him even closer to his chest.
Izzy couldn't fight it anymore, as he simply felt his muscles liquefy.
How long has it been? Since he woke up with someone in his bed? He didn't want to think about it and closed his eyes.
He had just fallen half-asleep again, when Frenchie started moving his finger along his chest. He lightly tapped on his skin, as if he was hammering the strings of his mandolin. Izzy couldn't see his face but he knew he was smiling.
Frenchie ran his fingertips along the side of his body, making him shiver, making him think about all the ways that fingers had touched him the night before, all the ways they had dug into his skin.
He turned to face Frenchie, without really leaving the embrace.
“Morning, sunshine.”
Frenchie kissed the groan about to escape Izzy’s lips. Izzy just sighed into the kiss and cupped his face, as Frenchie’s hands on his waist dragged him closer.
How long has it been?
Frenchie drew away from the kiss and held Izzy’s right hand, running his thumb back and forth on its back.
Suddenly he stopped, a soft gasp leaving his lips.
“What?” Izzy whispered.
Frenchie brought the hand in front of his face, to show him what had made him gasp. “I can't believe I forgot about this one, last night.”
Izzy shrugged. “I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself right now.”
“Was about to,” he replied, before placing a kiss in the middle of his palm.
Izzy sighed. It seemed the only thing he was able to do right now, he thought.
Frenchie kissed between his fingers, before reaching his goal; the small tattoo between thumb and index. He traced it more gently then the other tattoos, the night before.
Frenchie intertwined their fingers together and resumed his soft stroking. “I like it. But I think it goes without saying that my favourite is this one.” He leaned forward to kiss the cross on his cheekbone. “I know it's supposed to be an ‘x’ but it really looks like a star to me.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Didn't say it did.”
Someone on deck started pacing around and the sound filtered through the grate. Izzy knew he should've gotten up now, but really didn't care. Not today, not when his bed was so warm. He hid his face in Frenchie’s neck.
✦
Izzy was leaning on the railing when someone smacked him behind his head. “What the fuck —”
“Get a grip, man, for fuck’s sake,” Jim’s voice said. “And maybe stop looking at Frenchie like a starstruck teenager, sí ?”
Izzy—suddenly aware that it was exactly what he had been doing—turned to them. He had really meant to hit them back but they weren't wrong so he couldn’t move. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he simply growled, desperately trying to ignore the heat on his cheeks.
Jim groaned. “ Dios mio , you've been watching him for weeks, like he hung the fucking stars in the sky. I'm glad you just got laid, man really, but now you're just being useless.”
“Shut the fuck up.” he replied, leaving them alone.
They grinned when Izzy turned to give Frenchie another quick glance out of habit.
Fuck .