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Wee John doesn’t talk to Izzy as he carefully crafts his look. He never quite knows when it’s safe to talk to Izzy, and he never has, though his reasoning has changed. Whereas they all used to be a bit afraid of Blackbeard’s first mate, now, they were more concerned about hurting a fellow member of the crew. Izzy has been so fragile lately, and Wee John figures that this moment is vulnerable enough. He still remembers the first time he came up with a look. It was sloppy, made by a dumb sixteen-year-old’s shaking hand, and goddamn terrifying, but at the same time, it had freed him. And stolen the breath from his lungs. He wasn’t even sure, if he did speak, whether or not Izzy would be able to respond.
Izzy, though, as usual, surprises him. “How long have you been doing this?” he asks, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
“God, ages. Decades,” says Wee John, “Started when I was a kid. It just feels right, you know?”
Izzy doesn’t answer straight away, and Wee John doesn't press him. When he draws back, though, surveying Izzy’s magenta lip and the gold dust on his eyelids, the smaller man releases a sigh. Breath, stolen from lungs.
“Yeah,” says Izzy, “Yeah, I think I do know.”
Calypso’s birthday goes better than even he’d expected. Wee John’s only complaint is hardly a complaint at all: he was thoroughly and completely upstaged. He doesn’t mind. Not when Izzy’s that comfortable, that confident. Who knew that the little man could sing?
Frenchie, for one, is ecstatic. He practically bounces around their space after Calypso’s birthday finally wraps up, as if it didn’t end with most of them almost getting tortured.
“Did you see it, Wee John?” he giggles excitedly, going from wall to wall.
Wee John laughs, deep and vaguely drunk. “I did see it. I was there, believe it or not.”
“The song,” he gushes. Wee John shakes his head. Frenchie’s crush on Izzy is adorable at and mildly annoying at worst, and it’s relatively recent, so if Wee John is guessing, he’d say that he probably has no right to complain just yet. Besides, he’s starting to get the sneaking suspicion that he relates to Frenchie’s struggle. Frenchie continues, “And the makeup–”
“The look ,” Wee John corrects.
“I wish I could do that,” says Frenchie.
“What, the singing?” asks Wee John, “You do it all the time. It’s kind of your thing.”
“No, the look,” says Frenchie, almost timidly, “I wish I could do that.”
A grin spreads across Wee John’s face. “Frenchie, my dear,” he says, “All you ever had to do was ask.”
For Frenchie, Wee John goes for something fairly straightforward. He draws inspiration from the flowers, still planted in his hair, and paints his eyelids maroon, fading into pink. He finishes it off with some gold dusting and a winged flourish. When he finally lets Frenchie open his eyes, a grin spreads across his roomie’s face.
“ Hell yes.”
“You like it?” Wee John asks excitedly.
“Like it?” says Frenchie, “I don’t think I’m ever going to take this off.”
Wee John laughs. “As flattered as I am, you do need to wash it off before going to sleep.”
Frenchie’s face falls. “ Why ?”
“Because otherwise, you’re going to get a rash, and then you’re going to blame it on an ancient curse or something, and everyone’s going to start losing their minds. Plus, you’re going to ruin your pillow, and I’m not letting you borrow one of mine if the captains don’t give you a new one.”
“Ugh, fine,” Frenchie groans, “I might as well get some mileage out of it in the next couple of hours, then.”
“Mileage?” Wee John asks, “Do I even want to know?”
“Compliments, my dear.”
“Ah, so you’re going to go annoy the shit out of everyone.”
“Precisely. See you later!”
By the time Wee John grumbles “See you,” in return, Frenchie’s already out the door.
Wee John, in turn, goes to bed, thinking that that’s the end of it. He considers staying up to teach Frenchie how to wash the look off, but then an hour passes, and another, and his roommate isn’t even back yet, so he decides that he can’t spend his precious beauty sleep time babysitting an adult man. Even if said adult man is one of his favorite people in the whole world.
Apparently, Frenchie’s little expose took off, because Wee John gets rudely awoken the next morning by someone letting sunlight into his precious room.
“Hey,” says Jim, “You sleeping?”
“No, I’m dead,” Wee John groans, “Leave flowers and get out.” Despite his stubbornness, he does sit up and cast his eyes around his room. If there’s one person who’s allowed to wake him up from a nice night of sleep, it’s Jim, partially just because he doesn’t want to deal with the glare he’ll inevitably get across the breakfast table if he kicks them out. He notices that Frenchie isn’t there, and that his sheets are gently ruffled but definitely not slept in. “Frenchie didn’t come back?” he asks.
Jim grins. “I wouldn’t say so, no.”
“Where is he?”
“With Izzy.”
“Damn.” No elaboration needed. “Good for them.”
“Yeah. I think they bonded over the whole makeup thing.”
“It’s a look, darling,” Wee John corrects, “Call it a look.”
“Okay, sure. They bonded over their looks. ” Jim stops talking, but doesn’t move.
“I’m sorry, can I help you with something?” he asks, “Or did you come all the way here at… whatever early hour it is, to tell me that my best friend is sleeping with the first mate?”
Jim smiles and laughs, almost bashfully. Very Jim-like. “Nah, I just… wanted to tell you… I just wanted to tell you that it’s cool, man. The… look thing. I think it’s cool. That’s all.”
Wee John lets the awkward silence hang in the air for a second. Jim doesn’t back out of the room. “Jim,” Wee John tries, “Are you trying to make a request here?”
Jim sighs. “Yeah. I think I am.”
“Alright.” He doesn’t ask for more, but Jim keeps talking.
“It’s just… when I was a kid. I didn’t have that many friends my age, but when I did meet other kids… the girls always looked a certain way, the boys always looked a certain way.”
“Ah.”
“I didn’t love the idea of being one or the other. But I knew what people saw me as, and when I thought of dressing up like the girls, it kind of made me want to peel my skin off. Not because I hated anything about the style – I mean, sure, I was uncomfortable with it – but more than that, I just really didn’t want people to interpret something about me that wasn’t true.” Wee John doesn’t interject, not even to tell Jim that he knows how they feel. “I always thought that if I looked a certain way, then people would think I was a certain way, even if it wasn’t true. But maybe…” They hesitate. “Maybe… if Izzy and Frenchie can do it, and no one thinks any differently of them…”
“Then you can do it too?” Wee John finishes. “You can do it too.”
“Yeah,” Jim says. They gulp. “Yeah. I think I want to try it. I mean, even if I hate it, that’s just one more thing that I know about myself, right?”
Wee John laughs. “Trust me, you’re in good hands. You’re not going to hate it.”
For Jim, he goes with something a bit more out there than he would have planned a few months ago. Based on everything they just told him — unprompted, no less — and based on the fact that they’ve already been painting their face as a part of Blackbeard’s secondary crew for months, he figures that there’s no point in holding back.
He draws wings around their eyes, edged like knives, and goes for a sunset color gradient, with some glitter on the finishes. It’s the perfect balance of sharp and showy. Just enough to drag Jim out of their comfort zone while also leaving space for them to be themself. He pulls back and hands them the little mirror that sits on his vanity.
“Holy shit,” they whisper.
“You like it?”
“I… love it.”
“And it doesn’t make you want to peel your skin off?” he asks, repeating their lovely, tasteful phrase.
“Not at all. It feels good.”
“Wonderful.” Wee John pats their shoulder. “Now get out. I’m going back to sleep.”
The next time Wee John is disturbed, it’s later in the day, around noon. The sun is high in the sky, the heat has hit its week-long peak, and Lucius is doing that thing where he barges into a room without knocking. “Hey, are you busy?”
“Never, apparently,” says Wee John, “I suppose it’s your turn?” In truth, he’s already brainstormed some ideas for Lucius. So his heart sinks a bit when the boy shakes his head.
“Not really my thing,” says Lucius, “It’s way too much work to put on and take off, plus I don’t love what it does to my pores.”
“Fair enough.”
“The captain, however…” Lucius grins, like a child who’s just been told that he’s going to the beach.
“Just to clarify…” Wee John asks, “Which captain?”
“Oh! Stede. Captain Stede. Stede captain.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I just…”
“I don’t think Ed’s quite there yet,” says Lucius.
“Which makes sense,” says Wee John, crossing his fingers and praying that he’ll get to design a look for the legendary Blackbeard someday. Purple, he thinks. He’d want to go with purple.
Lucius interrupts his train of thought. “Right, so, Stede’s in the captain’s chambers, whenever you have a second.”
“I’m sorry?” Wee John asks, incredulously, “Stede wants me to come to him ?”
“Well, yeah,” says Lucius, “He is the captain, after all.”
“And I’m the artist,” Wee John insists, “If he desires my services, he can come here.”
The air hangs thick between them for a second. It’s an impromptu staring contest, and Wee John wins. The only reason he pushes the envelope so hard is because he knows Stede will be fine with it. Though, to be honest, if Stede wasn’t so laidback, Wee John probably would have just stuck to his guns even more. Like how he was before Stede grew on him. Still, it’s nice for once, to be under the leadership of someone who’s down to venture away from their home base.
“Ugh, fine,” says Lucius, “I’ll go get him. I will never understand why you’re so stubborn.”
Lucius is out of the room before Wee John can shrug and say why not ?
A few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door, and in his deepest, most authoritative register, Wee John beckons, “ Enter. ”
Stede, despite his apparent passion for the theater, does not respond in kind. “Hello, Wee John,” he chirps excitedly, “Thank you for agreeing to see me today. This is a lovely space you have! You live here with Frenchie?”
“Yeah, we nicked it from Jim when they left.”
“Gosh, that seems like ages ago,” says Stede.
“It really does.” Wee John soldiers on before the silence has a chance to get sad. “So, from what I hear, you’re looking for a look of your own?”
“Yes,” says Stede, with just a hint of apprehension, “I never really thought about it before, you know? There are a lot of things that wouldn’t have been okay back in Bridgetown. God knows my father never would have stood for it. But…”
“Anything goes at sea,” Wee John finishes. He knows what Stede is talking about. Wider society wasn’t exactly kind to a little boy whose main love was making dresses with his mother.
“Exactly,” says Stede, “So, I’ve been thinking up some ideas for my look–”
“Have you?” Wee John asks.
“Is that alright?”
“Yeah, it’s great, I’m just not used to it. Usually I’m the one doing the thinking.”
“Ah, well–”
“Let me guess,” Wee John interrupts, “You’re looking for something blue.”
“It has become a bit of a signature color for me, hasn’t it?”
“It is the signature color for you, yes. In fact…” He stops to think. “I have an idea.”
“Alright,” says Stede, “Like you said, you’re the professional. My life is in your hands.” He spreads his arms out in a slightly nervous shrug.
“That’s what I like to hear,” says Wee John, “Take a seat, anywhere you’d like.”
The fact that Stede has a vanity mirror in the Captain’s Quarters makes Wee John’s life a hell of a lot easier. He takes his brushes and his paint and gets started. He remembers when he first met Stede, somewhere by the docks, advertising his pirate adventure like the salesman that he is – was. Back then, Wee John had mentally compared his future captain to a peacock: loud, preening, fancy and teal. Though he means it with a hell of a lot more respect now, something closer to admiration, it’s still true.
So he starts by accentuating Stede’s cheekbones, then he scatters silver glitter under his eyes. He paints his eyelids blue and green, with just a hint of purple in the corners, and draws a line of silver above his eyelashes, to make them pop. The whole time, Stede asks questions about the process, clearly hoping to recreate it on his own time someday, which Wee John is more than happy to encourage.
As a finishing touch, he fluffs up Stede’s hair to its full potential, and then he pulls back. “Alright, that’s pretty much it,” says Wee John with a flourish, “What do you think?”
For the first time in the hour, and perhaps in their entire time knowing each other, Stede goes silent. Then, he pulls Wee John into a surprisingly firm hug.
Wee John laughs. “That’s positive feedback, then?”
“Thank you,” Stede mutters, still muffled by Wee John’s chest.
Something warm blooms behind Wee John’s rib cage. “You’re welcome,” he says softly.
After that, things are quiet for a little while. By a little while, Wee John means pretty fuckin’ little, because around midday, he gets approached again. He can hardly complain, though. Not about any of them, but especially this one.
“Hey, man,” says Ed, “Just want to say that you made Stede look fuckin’ gorgeous last night. Good job. I mean, not like it’s hard, but… still.”
“Why, thank you,” says Wee John, “When is it your turn?”
For a second, he worries that he’s overstepped his limit, judging by the way that Edward’s face falls. His sad expression, however, is accompanied by the largest puppy dog eyes that Wee John has ever seen. “Wh– I— I never really — I can’t just — I wouldn’t…” The legendary Blackbeard coughs, glances at his feet, and collects himself. “I don’t think that’s necessarily my thing.”
“Yeah, alright,” says Wee John, “Just asking.”
Ed all but runs down the length of the deck. Wee John smiles to himself. He’ll be back.
The next morning is slow. Wee John, by some trick of nature, wakes up early. He goes to linger on the deck so as to not wake Frenchie with his fussing, and who should already be there but one of the Revenge’s glorious co-captains?
“Hey,” says Wee John, still too exhausted for anything else.
“Oh, hey,” says Ed, “I’m glad to run into you, actually.”
“We spend every second of every day on the same boat,” Wee John points out.
“I mean alone.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah. I just…” Ed fidgets with his hair absentmindedly. “I feel bad for brushing you off yesterday.”
“Oh, it’s no big thing, don’t worry about it.” In all honesty, Wee John had kind of forgotten about their awkward moment until now.
“I have thought about it, to be honest,” says Edward, “Having a look.”
And Wee John’s interest is piqued again. He’s more than willing to leave someone be if they’re just not that into it, like Lucius. But someone who’s hiding… well, that’s a whole different story. “Yeah?”
Ed sighs, his gaze fixed firmly on the ocean. “It’s just…”
“Go on,” says Wee John after a pause.
“The last time I put anything on my face, I was purposefully trying to make myself seem like a monster.” Ed rushes the words out as if they’re going to burn him. “But there was this one time, when I was a kid, I got into some of my mother’s powder and…” His eyes go slightly glazed, just a little far away. He swallows, hard, and for the first time that Wee John has seen, the legendary Blackbeard looks like a terrified little kid. “Well, let’s just say my dad wasn’t happy.”
Wee John, who grew up with only his mother, is starting to wonder if the establishment of fathers should be dismantled altogether.
“I don’t think you should have to live with that fear,” he says.
“It’s not fear,” Edward mutters under his breath.
“Whatever it is,” says Wee John, “Whether it’s fear, pain, rage, sadness, or some disgusting cocktail of a lot of things, you have the right to heal from it.”
“I’ve already healed, Wee John. I’ve just healed up all wrong.”
Wee John’s mind conjures up visions of limbs bent in the wrong direction, limbs reshaping where they shouldn’t. He takes how Ed feels and he pushes it away. He can’t fix all of that on deck at dusk. He probably can’t fix it at all, and Ed is probably overdue for a deep conversation with Lucius. But there is one thing that Wee John can do, if only Ed will let him.
Ed fidgets, brushing his hair back, drumming his fingers on the dock, exhaling deeply. “I mean… if you happen to have any ideas…”
Wee John laughs. “I have had ideas for you since the day I helped Izzy. You’re lucky I’m such a sensitive, lovely person. Otherwise I definitely would have chased you around the deck by now.”
Ed smiles, all nervous relief. “Well, in that case, I’d hate to watch your hard work go to waste.”
“Oh yeah,” said Wee John, “Because this is definitely all about me.”
Ed talks the entire time that Wee John is doing his look. This is not exactly unexpected. Wee John, who isn’t exactly a chatterbox himself, lets Ed do whatever makes him feel most comfortable. As Wee John paints his eyelids a sparkling hue of lavender, Ed explains the weather patterns and what needs to be done on the Revenge to weather an oncoming storm. As Wee John glues rhinestones to Ed’s cheeks, Ed tells him about his mom, the stories she used to tell. As Wee John paints Ed’s fingernails dark crimson, Ed wonders about what Roach is planning to make for breakfast the next morning, and he hopes aloud that it’s going to be oatmeal. Wee John makes a note to pass his rambling on to Roach, who will surely make oatmeal if he knows Ed’s wish.
More than half of the time, Ed talks about Stede. No, he doesn’t talk. He gushes about Stede. It’s enough to make Wee John just a bit sick, while also causing something warm to take hold behind his ribs and bloom.
Eventually, Wee John finishes, pulls back to give Ed an unobstructed view of himself in the mirror, and gestures. “What do you think?” It’s only then that Edward goes quiet. Completely and utterly silent, like he’s just seen a ghost, or died. Wee John’s nerves get the best of him, and he steps back in. “You know, if you hate it, we can just wash it off, and you never need to do this ag–”
Wee John, who is used to giving the bone crushing hugs, not receiving them, is not prepared for Ed to throw himself into his chest and squeeze.
“Thank you,” says Ed, his voice being muffled by Wee John’s body and– are those tears? “Do you want me to do your hair for you?”
“No thanks.” Those are definitely tears. “Stede usually braids my hair before bed, I don’t want to make him feel like he shouldn’t.”
“Well, if that isn’t just the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.” Ed laughs wetly. “Crying will mess up the look,” Wee John warns, “And I’m not going to redo it for you. I am officially done, for the next several days at least.”
As it turned out, Wee John was not, in fact, officially done. The next day, he designed a mostly gold look for Oluwande, taught Stede how to do his look on his own, brainstormed some new ideas with Frenchie, and so on, and so forth. He pretended to be annoyed. He rolled his eyes whenever he was approached and groaned as he came up with fresh ideas for each and every one of his friends. But at the end of the day, he designed a look for everyone who asked. It was all for that moment, when he was done, when the air in the room changed, their shoulders relaxed, grins spread across their faces, and they ran off to show off for everyone else. That was what Wee John had discovered when he was younger: that while having a look was about the fun stuff – the glitter and the sparkles — it was just as much about finding yourself, and amplifying yourself a hundred times over, until all the other bullshit was silent. And no matter how much work it was, Wee John would never really complain.