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Lucius taught Fang something new.
Taught him something to absolutely, utterly, fantastically annoy Izzy with.
He could kill them both. Bury them in the backyard and tell the neighbors that their graves are only Halloween decorations. Unfortunately he would have to kill Pete, too, for witness purposes and he was actually starting to really like the boy.
And it wasn't even that Fang did it all the time. There were only certain circumstances he brought his big, meaty finger up to Izzy’s face, gently tapping the tip of his nose with it. It was almost like Lucius taught him that the most inappropriate time to do that is when Izzy’s pissed off, and that he should only do it at the most inappropriate time.
The nose boop itself isn't even the problem. He's not annoyed at the soft flick against his nose, he's annoyed by his reaction to it. When he's mad, he wants to stay mad. He wants to sit with his anger and ruin his entire day with it. He enjoys seething, it’s like a hobby or sports event to him. So when he's angry, and Fang has clearly had his fill, and he boops his fucking nose and Izzy immediately calms?
It isn't normal.
It isn't right.
And Fang is fully aware of this new loophole, now. And he definitely uses it to his advantage.
“It's not my fault you're a colossal waste of space. You’re going to fix this, and if you don't, I'll make sure breathing is the only fucking thing you’ll be able to do.”
Gone are the days when you can slam your phone down, but Izzy taps the little red circle as hard as he can. It's so hard to find good, competent help these days. This is the reason he hasn't retired, the reason he can't give his books over to someone else. He can only rely on himself.
He stalks out of his office and down into the kitchen, mumbling and grumbling to himself as he grabs a glass of water. His face and chest burn in anger. He slams cabinets and dishes, which attracts Fang pretty quickly.
“Izzy,” his voice is Fang harsh, like he's speaking to a toddler who’s just been drawing on the walls with a marker.
“What.” He doesn't want an answer, even if he knows he’ll get one.
“I just got Lucius down and now you're being loud.”
Irritation blooms, “oh, for fuck sake. He's a fucking thirty year old man, Fang.”
“So? You're fifty-seven and I still have to put you down.” Izzy’s a fish out of water, gaping at Fang for having the fucking audacity, “are you going to tell me what’s wrong or do I have to guess?”
He doesn't need to guess or know what's wrong because it's not like it matters. Izzy wants to be angry. He wants to be annoyed that his staff can't work worth a damn. He wants to be bitchy over the fact that he's old and tired and ready for a nap. He deserves it! He's earned his rage. He can be a menace all he wants.
Izzy gulps down his water and slams the cup on the counter so hard it vibrates in his hand. Lucius can suck his ass, or get a job, or work harder at the job he has, not take a delicate little baby nap at two on a Tuesday.
Fang closes his eyes briefly and Izzy's pretty sure it's to summon all of the patience he has left. He wants to be exhausting. He wants to give Fang a run for his money when he's in a mood like this. If it was anyone else that caught him being this way, they would have been thrown insults and regrettable phrases, but Izzy can't do that to Fang. He can't call him a cunt or tell him he's useless.
When Fang crosses the kitchen, Izzy backs up. If he can dip to the left at just the right time, he can avoid being caught. He tries it, and misses his chance, feeling a hand curl into the fabric at the neck of his shirt.
Fang hums, “getting slower, Iz.” Damn him. He twists against his own shirt and growls like a dog caught by the collar, “stop fighting.” God, he is getting older. He used to have fun with this, forcing Fang to chase him around the house, fighting against his grip when he was caught. He takes care of himself, works out and eats good food but he's still so…tired. He stops, arms dropping heavily to his side. “I'm gonna ask you one more time, Israel. What's wrong?”
Izzy mumbles, which isn't an answer.
“Nothing is going to get better, unless we,” he boops Izzy’s nose, “make it,” another boop, “better.”
It's like a fucking switch. The first tap shuts him down until the second tap elicits burning fucking anger, but the third turns him down again and he drifts into the weirdest calm. He feels like he's drifting between an orgasm and the best sleep he's ever had but he's wide awake and in no mood to come in his pants.
Izzy takes a breath, his body feeling heavy. He falls into Fang with a small thump and he gladly takes him in, strong arms taking hold of him. He doesn't even do anything, just nuzzles into his chest and breathes him in.
“I need to retire.” He grumbles against Fang’s shirt. Hands coast up and down his back comfortingly, causing him to hum in appreciation.
“Okay!” Fang sounds cheery about it, for some fucking reason.
“I can't retire,” Izzy adds, because apparently he has to say that.
“Why the fuck not? You let me retire.” Yeah, because he loves him. Because he worked three jobs to put Izzy through school. Because he kept him sane (ish), safe and satiated. Because he deserved to rest. Izzy doesn't deserve to rest, “you know we can afford it.”
It isn't about the money. It's about the control. It's why he started a business in the first place. If he's CEO and fucking chairman he can make any decision he wants. He loves being the neck, turning the head any way he wants. It was also about trust. He doesn't trust anyone to take over for him.
“Will you at least think about it?” Fang tries to pull back, to no doubt look Izzy in the face when he makes him promise, but he's not falling for that. He sticks close, even wrapping his arms around him so he can't let go. He mumbles against his shirt. “I'm sorry?”
Izzy growls, “I said fine.”