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The expanse of a blue sky stretching over the sea felt ill-fitting for the dreary air on the Revenge, even if it was a relief that Izzy didn’t have to take on another worry outside of Edward, who seemed to harbor any storm that could potentially taint the clear sky.
For a long while, Izzy had remained in the captain’s quarters with Edward, per his superior's behest. Edward had been a blubbering mess, enclosed within his structure of all things soft; nothing that could wound him further. Izzy had sat just outside of it. He'd listened to the sniffles beyond the silk linens, engulfing Edward like bandages for a ruptured heart.
A part of him he dared not look in the eye had wanted to touch the downy fabric, or to pull away the blue cushion to unveil his wounded captain. He didn’t know if he was capable of giving Ed a hug, but he’d fancied that he could try it, had he the bravery to do much more than twitch his hand toward the makeshift door, lean an inch closer.
With just as much pain squirming around behind his ribs, he’d dropped his gloved fingers, along with the notion that he could ever hold Edward in a way that mended, healed, rather than broke and bruised.
When Edward had next spoken after telling Izzy not to leave, outside of cries in a language constructed wholly of despondence, it had been to give Izzy a fucking order. He’d audibly peeled himself from the deck, his velvet gown whispering around against the bulwarks of his fortress. He’d mumbled, “Get the boy. Need something written.”
The silence that had befallen them had, in all moments prior to Edward’s speech, felt sacred, inviolate, but it had crumbled with six simple words, and Izzy had realized then that even a stretched silence could not contain the grievances they silently shared.
“Yes, Captain,” Izzy had said. He’d risen with the hollow heaviness of a skeleton, a tremble in his legs that hadn’t been there before, calling for him to drop against the deck and cry with his captain. He’d known the answer before the words fell past his lips in a manner that surely had told on him, but still, he’d tacked on, “Shall I return with him?”
“No. Just send ‘im.”
That had been that. Izzy had been dismissed, but yet he’d still fucking lingered a moment longer like Edward would change his mind before taking his leave in heavy steps, dragging with him every thought he’d not had the nerve to give voice to.
It didn’t matter now. The Spriggs boy was in there, probably doing what Izzy fucking couldn’t, while Izzy gripped the railing of the forecastle like it’d aggrieved him personally. He watched Roach exasperatedly mop the puddle of grog he’d spit on the deck. He’d hoped to expel with it all the words that caught in his throat on his way out of the great cabin.
On his way out of the great cabin now was the very same scribe that had been sent in there about twenty minutes prior. Izzy raked his eyes over him, trying to search for any signs that he’d soothed Edward in the manner Izzy had expected. He looked for a hair out of place, a flush to his cheeks, a disturbance to his clothes, but there was nothing.
Again, Izzy was mulling over shit that mattered little. Whatever the fuck Edward chose to do for his grief, Izzy couldn’t control. He could never control Edward. He never would. If it was Spriggs that could stroke the sorrow out through his prick, then so be it, because at least Edward would be himself again.
If Edward were himself again, Izzy wouldn’t have any reason to keep ruminating about this load of shit because he wouldn’t be idle. He’d be busy—ordering around a crew to make repairs or to otherwise maintain the ship’s readiness for battle. The ship needed no readiness for battle when its captain was holed up in his own shit, unwilling to face the reality that the world was still turning, the stores were emptying, the ship sinking.
“About that–”
Lucius yelped as Izzy pushed him back; at some point, he’d stopped tracking Lucius and started staring mournfully at the closed door between the stairs that led to Edward. He hadn’t even noticed the boy coming and here he was, right in Izzy’s fucking space, just what he needed.
“I don’t want to hear it,” said Izzy. Spriggs had rubbed it in his face enough that he could have the things he wanted with ease.
(A nasty part of Izzy piped up, then, that maybe that was because Spriggs had the balls to reach for what he wanted without reserve.)
“Look, I don’t want to talk to you either, believe me.” Lucius glanced toward the door Izzy had been gazing at. “But I’m, like. Concerned.”
“Concerned,” echoed Izzy. “Why’s that?”
“Why’s that?” Lucius then repeated, incredulous. Izzy groaned at this excuse for a conversation. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you?”
“Yeah.” Izzy lowered his voice. “A fucking right mess, he is. Weren’t you there to fix that?”
“Was I expected to?” Lucius’s eyebrows raised, eyes wide. “Sorry, I might be the single one on this ship with emotional intelligence, but that doesn’t qualify me to deal with that. I’m fantastic at breakups, but this is worse. This is– I’m out of my fucking depth, here, Iggy.”
“What the fuck did you do in there, then?” hissed Izzy, steeling himself for an answer he still wasn’t sure he wanted to hear. The thought alone made him shake with rage. “Did he not find it comforting to have your hand– on his prick, or did you put it–”
“What,” Lucius interrupted, making a cutting gesture, “the fuck do you think I did in there?”
It hadn’t occurred to Izzy that Lucius might’ve just fucking done what he’d been bid, but there was this look of comprehension that dawned over the boy’s face, a frown that pulled far too close to pity for Izzy's comfort. He bit the inside of his cheek.
“I wrote lyrics, you little fucking psycho,” Lucius scoffed, acting fucking affronted as if he was above jerking off his captain.
Fuck knows Izzy wasn’t—anything to put Edward to rights again.
“He had this sad little fucking song, and it didn’t even rhyme, it was like poetry – god, you’re pathetic, aren’t you?” Lucius blew a sigh out of his lips as Izzy’s fingers twitched to his sword hilt. “Anyway, I’m worried.”
Resisting the urge to flay the boy to fucking slices of meat, Izzy asked thinly, “What was the song?”
“I don’t know, let me–” Lucius sifted through the notebook he’d been holding to his chest like it’d be torn from his hands and read aloud by the largely illiterate crew of the Revenge. He sifted through its pages and, as much as Izzy would’ve loved to look away from the five other portraits like Fang’s, he had to make sure none of them were Edward’s. He stopped on a page where Lucius's flowery penmanship made it near illegible.
“The fuck?” said Izzy as his eyes roved over the lines.
“Oh.” Lucius pulled a face. “I didn’t know you could read.”
“Of course, I can fucking read. Someone has to simplify the maps for Edward.”
‘Right.” Lucius looked at Izzy in a strange way that made him feel like he was being picked apart. Izzy held his stare, refusing to let the boy win the tacit contest just by gawking at him longer. Lucius broke first. “Well, anyway– he seems… bad.”
“Could’ve told you that,” Izzy said bitterly. He read the song, over and over, of holding on, letting go, each line plucking the veins of his heart like harp strings. If he spat then, he reckoned the deck would be spattered with the frothy, ruddy mix of spit and blood.
“Feel familiar, maybe?”
Finally, Izzy’s eyes darted from the page to Lucius’s face, but the sneer he worked onto his face faltered when he got an eyeful of pity.
“Fuck off.”
“Didn’t judge him– well, I did a bit, at first, but–”
“You make one hell of a fucking sales pitch,” spat Izzy, caustic.
“Look– if you want to be miserable on your own, go ahead.” Lucius slammed the notebook closed. “I think it’d do you some good to talk –”
“I’m not fucking–”
“I’m not done,” Lucius snapped, loud enough to get the attention of the crew, who dawdled around the main mast. Izzy would’ve glared a warning their way, but Lucius stole his eyes back with a step closer before he could.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower:
“To talk about it, or to at least acknowledge that it’s there—that you’re fucking hurting, and that you’re sullying everything else with it. It doesn’t have to be with me, but if you can’t confront your shit on your own, then you’re just as sorry a man as Blackbeard, crying and clutching pillows to his chest. Not even just as, but sorrier, if you’re not even able to express your fucking emotions. Do you ever cry, Izzy, or is that for pansies?”
All Izzy could do, for a long fucking time, was stand there and breathe, which is all Lucius did, his chest rising and falling with the exertion of his tirade. Izzy’s hands, which he’d balled into fists, now shook at his sides. He wanted to push the boy into the fucking sea for ripping him open, exposing the nasty infection behind his ribs.
He must’ve been silent awhile because Lucius’s harsh anger was softened, his face falling. “Fuck. That was, um. A lot.”
“Shut up,” said Izzy, his voice low and quavering. He backed away, out of the view of the crew, leaning his back against the foremast and facing the bow. He swallowed what crawled up his throat as Lucius awkwardly followed him in fewer steps. “Fuck off.”
“Izzy.” Lucius held out a hand, stiffly, and Izzy beat it away with ferocity. His eyes burned when Lucius didn’t move back.
“Fuck off,” repeated Izzy, desperate. “Leave.”
“Don’t think I’m going to do that.”
Izzy rubbed his hand violently over his cheekbone as he felt the first hot droplet fall. “Why?”
“I reap what I sow,” Lucius answered, a softness in his eyes that made Izzy want to throw himself overboard instead.
“Leave,” he said again, weaker.
The moment a sob broke from his chest, Lucius pulled him forward, the sound trapped by the secure wrap of his arms.
Izzy hadn’t thought himself capable, but there was some instinct, a living thing that beat against his bones as it tried to escape, that brought his arms up to fold around Lucius’s torso. He clutched the threadbare fabric of Lucius’s striped shirt, frantic.
“Okay,” Lucius said. “Let it– yeah, there you go.”
It wasn’t often that Izzy cried. He could remember the last time he had. It was recent—right in this spot, hiding behind the foremast from the crew, that he’d buried his face in his sleeves. He’d cried silently, having lost his place on the ship and, thereby, with Edward. No one had followed him there, all too busy celebrating his loss, or that twat’s victory. It had purged enough weakness that, when he left by morning, he felt only anger.
At the memory, he cried harder, an ugly sound tearing out of him and onto Lucius. Every moment, he waited for Lucius to retract with some shit like I told you so, a sassy little remark to twist the knife as he left Izzy to cry, but he never fucking did it and, for some fucking reason, that just made Izzy’s sobs get violent, his fists clenching.
He’s not leaving because you’re gripping him too fucking tight.
Izzy dropped his hands, inhaling shakily.
Lucius stayed. One of his hands had risen to cradle Izzy’s head closer.
“I’m sorry,” Lucius said. “That was really fucking harsh, wasn’t it?”
Before Izzy could think of answering, another sob coursed through him. It seemed answer enough because Lucius sighed, his hand stroking the soft ends of Izzy’s hair. Izzy could feel the one rigid wooden finger among the tender, curling flesh.
It took ages for the tears to stop. Izzy’s hands still hung loosely in the air, Lucius stayed and held him. His hand stroked through Izzy’s hair until Izzy pulled himself back against the mast, breaking Lucius’s gentle hold. Lucius rubbed tears away. Izzy watched the blurry blue sky, obstinately avoiding looking at him.
“You needed that,” said Lucius. It wasn’t a question, but Izzy tipped his head once in a nod. “Thanks.”
“What?”
“For letting yourself have it,” Lucius explained, a weird look on his face that Izzy couldn’t place for the fucking life of him. “For letting me give it to you. You’re not as scary as you try to act, you know. Maybe if you stop trying to intimidate the crew–”
“You’re pushing it, Spriggs.”
“Well.” Lucius stepped in close, crowding Izzy against the mast, a smirk playing on his lips. “Maybe next time, I’ll do what you expect.”
Lethargic from his release, Izzy couldn’t move in time to dodge it when Lucius took his face in his hands. He pressed his lips to the tear-sticky skin below Izzy’s eye, right over the mark of Blackbeard. It was brief, chaste, but the look in Lucius’s eyes betrayed his intentions as well as his words did. He pulled back, then stepped down from the forecastle with a coquettish wink Izzy’s way.
He tracked Lucius, watched as he kissed Pete like he’d fall sick without it, and wanted.
Feeling light, Izzy looked back to the sky. It fit.