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As two of the youngest aboard Hornigold’s ship, Izzy and Ed became fast friends. The former couldn’t help but look up to the latter… what with being nearly six inches shorter and all.
…Plus there was Ed’s bright smile of tiny, straight teeth, unmarred by gaps or gold. Eyes like tumbled obsidian. Middle-parted wind-tousled mess of black hair grazing his shoulders. The way the pitch of his voice would rise to near-boyish levels when he was excited by the shape of a certain cloud, or drop to a threatening bark when he faced off against an enemy. He didn't take the cheap shots that others did, didn't feel the need to pick on an easy target like Izzy to make himself feel like more of a man. He was so sure of himself, uninterested in proving anything to anyone. His enthusiasm for any caper was infectious, and Izzy saw great potential in him. He’d recently admitted to himself he was more protective of and loyal to Edward than he was to their own cold captain. Sometimes this complex cocktail of feelings threatened to spill over the brim and spell out something… else.
Fortunately (or was it torturously?) Edward was generous with touch. A morning clap on the back, a one-armed hugged goodnight, a playful elbow or shove with every punchline. But Izzy always wanted more.
Most of the crew had smatterings of tattoos, and most were done on the ship, with no patience for visits to the pros in bustling port cities. Ed was swiftly amassing his own collection — a dagger, a skull, an anchor. Izzy watched covertly each time. He noticed there was something… intimate about the way canvas and artist would sit so close, pound rum to numb the pain, wince and laugh and touch and bleed and shoot the shit. It was an experience he coveted. It was a sanctioned way to be touched. And hurt. And claimed.
It could act as a rite of passage, too, he hoped. Might get him taken more seriously by the seasoned shipmates and not viewed as just another of the dozen scrawny teens they recruited for cannon fodder.
And so he mustered up the courage to ask Ed to tattoo him. He tried his best to sound casual, as if this was a whim or a dare and not a struggle to keep his raspy voice from wavering. Ed, of course, was gung-ho as ever. He’d never done it before, but that never stopped him from any other endeavour. Izzy said he wanted a simple X right on his cheek, two straight lines. Ed’s first thought was how a crewmate had tattooed his arm bands a few months back, and they turned out nice and straight enough despite the motion of the ocean. But Izzy had asked Ed for this personally. Trust was placed in him, and he didn't want to shove him off onto someone else. He would do this for his friend.
For the best light, they’re sat on barrels on one corner of the deck. There’s another hour or two before sunset and they don’t want to rely on candlelight in any of the more private crannies below. Ed asked around this morning and assembled the necessary kit: a pot of precious India ink snuck from the scribe, a thick sailmaker's needle, and a third of a bottle of rum. He runs the needle across his lips, wetting it with spit. It plunges into the ink and back up, aimed at Izzy. Ed drags his barrel closer to the other boy’s, hovering, leaning this way and that, trying to find the best angle of approach. At one point he’s holding his right elbow in his left palm to try to steady his hand. Finally, he huffs.
“Hrm. This won’t work.” Izzy’s heart begins its descent to the pit of his stomach, thinking the plan is over before it’s begun, but Ed collects all the bits and bobs and slides off the barrel, onto the weathered deck floor. He pats the space next to him. An invitation. Izzy’s expression asks a question.
“Get here. Need to be directly over you to see what’m doing to your face,” Ed explains. Izzy hesitates. “Come on,” Ed huffs again, half rolling his eyes. Right. Right. He’s got better things to do. Of course. Izzy scurries to sit next to him. Ed scoots even closer and pushes a palm against Izzy’s chest. The smaller teen looks down, then up at Ed’s face, back and forth a few times before Ed applies pressure and pushes him backward to rest on his elbows.
Izzy looks like a lost puppy, with his unevenly-chopped black hair poking up at all the wrong angles, a few freckles globbing together into premature sunspots along his nose, his strong straight brows twisting up into another confused expression.
“Second thoughts? Aw mate don’t worry, I’ll be gentle. Or. I’ll try, I mean.” Izzy can barely appreciate this muttered promise before Ed crawls forward and pins him down. In an effortless instant his bony knees are digging in on either side of Izzy, straddling him, his crotch resting just above Izzy’s bellybutton. Izzy’s eyes widen but he can’t find any words to fire off half-hearted protests. Besides, how could he, as Ed takes off his button-up vest and bunches it into a makeshift pillow to slide under Izzy’s head. “That’s better, yeah?” There’s that fucking smile. Ed rolls up the sleeves of his stained grey undershirt and leans forward until their noses nearly bump.
Izzy folds his hands on top of his chest to keep them from wandering. The warm crushing weight of Ed that he's dreamed about for months is finally here. Play it cool. Play it cool. This is the closest they’ve ever been, practically trading breath. Come to think of it, he hasn't been straddled by anyone since the days of schoolyard bullies spitting in his face. His eyes are locked onto Ed’s… That is, until Ed roughly turns Izzy’s head to the side, pressing his right cheek flat into the splintering wood below.
“Stay still, ya worm.” There’s an affectionate laugh rolling beneath the last word but Izzy realizes he wouldn’t mind if there wasn’t. His eyes flutter closed. Was it sad that this may be the best moment of his short life?
Ed’s engrossed in concentration. His tiny pink tongue is poking out of his chapped lips, curling up, pointing to his eyes — focused, narrowed, somehow blacker than the ink pot by their sides. He spreads the skin of Izzy’s cheek tight and flat with one hand and, with the other, he pushes the dripping needle in for the first time. There’s a sharp hiss of pain and Izzy screws his eyes shut tight, but he steels himself. He grits his teeth, preparing for more. Bitten nails dig into his clammy palms and in this moment he wants nothing more than to untuck Edward’s shirt and rest his hands on the tan skin of his hips, thumbing along the V that dips under the waistband of those leather trousers. But, alas, he’s not even afforded the privilege of looking.
Ed’s more nervous than he lets on. With close to no experience writing, he’s not confident in his penmanship, let alone something as permanent as this. Still, he stays laser focused, holding the skin taut with his left hand, plunging the needle in deep with his right hand, over and over like a pecking sandpiper.
Suddenly Ed grimaces. It’s just for a flash, but Izzy notices.
“What? What is it?” he chokes out.
“Welp, ‘ey, if I muss it up we can just say issa lightning bolt. Still pretty badass.”
“Edward I swear to god—”
“Shh.”
The command makes Izzy’s breath catch in his throat and he stills, staring out past the ship’s railing and up into the clouded sky. Going elsewhere in his mind. Blood beads rise to the surface of his skin and hot tears collect in his eyes, unbidden. He’s afraid to inhale, afraid to have the swell of his chest push against Ed’s elbows bearing down on him with such delicious pressure. Minutes pass this way.
Ed’s right hand continues to work but his left is no longer spreading the skin. Instead, it has somehow found its way upward, threading through the other boy’s hair rather absent-mindedly. Izzy tries to stifle a moan, clears his throat to cover it up. He dares to glance sideways, up at Edward, up at the sweat beading between his brows, up at his wet tongue running across his lips again, an oblivious taunt, and Izzy practically whimpers.
“Aw, poor fellow. Almost done, almost done,” Ed soothes with a new tone of voice, assuming pain is the source of Izzy’s outcries and squirms.
Izzy’s head is swimming and he can feel himself getting hard, rocking almost unnoticeably slow beneath Edward’s hips, and shame swirls low in the depths of his belly, coloring his insides in a flood of black. Why the fuck was he wired all wrong? It happened once before — when he was getting flogged as punishment for sneaking food — but he was able to quell his unexpected arousal in a minute or two. No such luck this time. Every bone in his body is aflame with need, and his best friend’s lips are so close, as within reach as they’ll ever be for the rest of this century, but Izzy will not allow himself to move. This touch is enough of a blessing in itself. Take this mark, this token, this honor, and be sated, damn you.
“All done!” Ed cries practically sing-song, leaning back. He reaches behind for the bottle and pours a splash of rum over the open skin before Izzy can even anticipate this fresh new flavour of agony.
“Fockin’ hell,” he snaps, but Ed just holds his chin firmly in his hand and wipes at his cheek with a mostly-clean rag like a doting mother. Ed rises to his feet, extends his hand to help his friend up, then leans in to squint centimeters away from his handiwork.
“Cheers! S’all swollen and red now but we’ll check it out proper in the morning. Took it like a champ, you.” Ed wraps one lanky tan arm around his friend to dole out a little congratulatory jostle and Izzy feels new goosebumps rising to attention at this crumb of praise. “Should we find a mirror?”
“No, that’s…” Izzy’s voice is small now and he wants so desperately to flee the scene and tend to himself before Ed can notice. He scrambles for an excuse. “I’ll trust you,” he spits out, eliciting a wide tight-lipped smile from his friend. It’s not quite time to turn in for the night, but Ed’s got chores that need finishing up. “Right. See ya then, Iz.”
There’s a friendly nod and Ed’s practically rocking back and forth on his heels before he bounds away below deck, chuffed with the proof of his new art skills.
Time stands still and Izzy doesn’t know how long he stays in one spot, holding the vest Ed accidentally left behind. His cheek never stops throbbing. He touches his fingertips to the surface and feels the heat of his skin, flushed for more reasons than one.
Colloquially, X wouldn't come to represent a kiss for another fifty-odd years. For now, X marked the spot for treasure, but X was also how many of the crewmen signed their names on documents. It could be anyone’s signature. But Izzy knew whose it was, seared into his flesh and his reflection, reminding him daily.