Work Text:
Even though his sword doesn't need cleaning, Izzy wipes a cloth over the blade.
The deck is quiet, except for the water and wind rustling the sails. Bonnet is somewhere in the dark, sprawled on his back, exhausted after only an hour of swordplay. Days of these pirating lessons, and he still tires too quickly. Everyone else is asleep down below. The lantern above the captain's cabin sways with the sea.
There is comfort in repetition, Izzy finds. He leans against the rail and keeps cleaning. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bonnet sit up. His sweaty face appears from the shadows, draped in yellowing light.
"Have you ever wanted to kiss a man?" Bonnet asks.
Izzy's hand falters. The cloth drifts onto the deck. "What the fuck?"
"Don't get snippy with me. It's only a question."
"Why're you even asking?"
A beat. Then, "Curiosity."
Bonnet is thinking of Edward, Izzy know, because the man thinks of little else. They have that in common, unfortunately. Izzy blinks and remembers the sliver of sunlight from the gunport, narrowing the world to Edward's mouth. The hard floor under his back. Edward's thigh between his, and a new ache in his chest that has never faded.
That was the first. Not the last. Sometimes, Izzy thinks it should've been.
"Have you," says Bonnet, prodding.
"Yes," Izzy answers, so he'll shut up.
And Bonnet does, for a minute. A blessed, silent minute—until he hums and pushes himself up. He steps out of the lantern light and into the dark, and only stops when Izzy hisses a curse. The blade juts out like a broken bone, a threatening caress along Bonnet's ribs.
Carefully, Izzy draws his sword away and sheaths it. Bonnet sways closer.
A mouth on his, startlingly warm. Soft. Not dry, stripped by wind and cheap rum. Izzy tastes a gasp on Bonnet's tongue, and he likes it. There is a hand on his face, thumbing at his cheek. His empty hands twitch.
Bonnet pulls away. Too tenderly, he whispers, "I want to."
"Figured that," says Izzy, catching Bonnet's shirt. A heartbeat thrums under his knuckles. He likes that, too. "Is that all? Nothing else?"
"Well, I," Bonnet tries, voice pulled taut. "I don't want to impose."
Laughter burns in Izzy's throat like bile, but Bonnet's mouth is sweet and his hands are eager—and later, in bed, bare skin flushed and sweaty, he makes absurd, greedy sounds, a cacophony of wanting moans, gasping, "Yes, please, yes," into Izzy's throat.
Under the moonlight, Stede fits his hand along Edward's cheek. They bend towards each other in perfect harmony, kissing like they've been doing this for years. No hesitation or fumbling. Forgive and forget.
Izzy thinks of all the years gone by. Years wasted, if he's feeling cruel. Time and effort spent thieving and murdering, fighting and bleeding for the safety that a legendary name offers. It's gone, lost to time and everything they have that Izzy doesn't, along with his fucking leg—
He turns away.
In Nassau, Izzy slips into Jackie's bar.
Crowds of drunk pirates part to let him through as he heads to the private room in the back, where Edward is relaxing alone in front of the fire with a drink. His hair is artfully messy, strands slipping from the loose bun. When he glances over his shoulder, he offers Izzy a small smile.
"Following me again?" Edward asks.
"I needed a drink," Izzy says, shrugging, and takes the empty chair beside him. Edward offers his ale. Izzy takes a sip and passes it back. "Where's Bonnet?"
"Enjoying his fame."
"Of course he is."
"Oh, speaking of Stede," Edward says, fingers drumming on his tankard. Too brightly. Not spontaneous. He wants to talk about something that's been eating away at him for days. Izzy shifts in his seat, bracing. "Why does he kiss like you?"
Izzy smothers a flinch. The truth is: Stede was terrible at kissing, mouth too stiff and puckered or a gaping maw, tongue stabbing. So Izzy corrected him, just like he did with swords and pistols and everything else Stede was keen to learn, and—
"He wanted to know what you like," Izzy says.
A raised brow, mouth hidden behind the tankard. "Really."
"Yeah."
"Guess that explains why he fucks me like you, too."
Something hums in Izzy's ears. He nods. Edward looks at him for a long time.
The fire crackles. Outside, men shout and sing. Edward drinks his ale. Izzy watches him swallow, then says, "You're not angry."
"Nah," Edward says, and that might be true. "Want me to be?"
Izzy hesitates. Edward laughs.
Neither of them should care. It's just fucking. Izzy has shared half a dozen kisses and more with Edward over the years, mostly when they were younger and free of Blackbeard's looming shadow. Stede kissed Izzy because he was lonely, and they only kept fucking because he was delighted to learn that sex was supposed to be fun and Izzy felt a bitter thrill in touching him first.
None of it is supposed to mean something, especially to Izzy. He knows that much.
"No," says Izzy.
"Good," Edward says, and—reaches, hand tucked around Izzy's baldric. Pulls. Leans.
His beard scratches the way it did the first time, all those years ago, but he coaxes Izzy's mouth open instead of jamming his tongue in. Izzy can hardly move on his own; he's a step behind with Edward, like always. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. Everything is too fragile.
Izzy draws back, dizzy and warm. The wretched thing in his chest refuses to die.
"Me neither," Edward murmurs. His hand slips away.
After a moment, he offers his ale again. They share it in silence.
Days later, Izzy catches his breath with a sword at his throat. A proud grin cuts across Stede's face.
"Commend me," Stede demands. The hollow of his throat is damp with sweat.
Izzy ducks out of reach. "Well done."
They're still in the Republic's harbor, and the deck is clear for crossing swords. The crew is ashore, spending coin; Ed is on the quarterdeck with a cup of tea, unusually quiet. Every time Izzy glances up at him, he meets dark, lingering eyes that strip him of all sense, because he is and has always been a fucking fool.
They haven't talked about whatever the fuck happened at Jackie's. They haven't talked at all.
"Thank you," Stede sings. Still smiling, he steps back and shifts his weight. "Shall we?"
Izzy answers, sweeping his sword in a broad arc. The clash of steel is a gift, rattling the awful thing in his chest that can't be sated. He throws himself into the fight and follows Stede's moves.
It ends with Izzy's blade pointed at Stede's heart. Stede flings his sword onto the deck.
"Bit fucking dramatic," Izzy says.
"Yes, sorry," says Stede. Then, with a peculiar urgency, "I've been thinking about you."
A shiver darts over Izzy's spine. His palm sticks uncomfortably to his glove.
"So has Ed," Stede adds. The flush in his throat dips down under his shirt. Izzy knows the color is spreading over his chest. If he cuts Stede's shirt open, he'll see it.
Before he does something stupid, Izzy puts his sword away.
"We miss you," Stede says, which is fucking ridiculous. They see each other every day. "And I really—we really—"
He cuts himself off and marches forward.
What happens next is not a surprise, given how much Stede loves grand gestures, but Izzy still feels a flutter of shock when their mouths meet. Nothing in his life has made sense since Stede Bonnet wandered into it. He half-expects this to turn sideways, like everything else.
It doesn't. It's nice. It's better than he remembers. Stede's hands are warm.
As they separate, Izzy chances a look over his shoulder. Edward is heading down the stairs, spinning the teacup around his finger. Without the full beard, every emotion on his face is laid out: anticipation, joy, worry, hope. A mirror twists in Izzy's belly.
"I suppose it's your turn," Izzy says.
The worry fades away. Edward grips Izzy's jaw and holds him still, staring. The weight of his gaze hooks under Izzy's ribs and yanks.
When Edward leans down, it feels right. It always has, in hindsight. There is meaning in that, Izzy expects, and a fair amount of fucking relief. He touches Edward's cheek and feels him smile.
This is supposed to be easy. Stede said that once, but Izzy didn't believe him. He does now, or at least he wants to. God, he wants to. Maybe he can. Today is easier than the last time and the time before that, all the way back to the shadows on the gun deck. Edward's hand is hot on the back of his neck; Stede's hands fit easily over his hips.
Izzy sinks into their touch, and the aching thing in him finally splinters.