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The matelotage ceremony is simple: a gathering on a beach, plenty of rum, and two men exchanging homemade rings made of seaweed. Ed has never seen anyone do it with pretty words and blood vows. Usually, people go into the captain's cabin and sign a paper. There's no ceremony or party. Definitely no tender kissing in front of everyone.
Maybe it's different here. The Republic of Pirates is nothing like Bristol, after all.
"Does this happen every time?" Ed asks.
Izzy takes a long pull from the rum and bares his teeth as he swallows. "Not really," he says, rubbing his mouth.
They're sitting on the beach, huddled under a flimsy tent made of driftwood and torn sailcloth. The party hasn't stopped and won't until morning, Ed reckons. There's plenty of people gathered around fires, drinking and cooking skewers of meat and fruit. Someone from another crew is leading an old drinking song. Even Hornigold is still here, waited on by his dutiful cabin boys. Above them all, the dark sky is blanketed with glittering stars.
"I like the party thing way better," Ed says, reaching for the rum. Izzy steals another sip before he passes it over. "It's nice, yeah?"
"Sure," Izzy says, but they're pressed together from shoulder to ankle, so Ed can feel him stiffen.
Might be all the questions. Izzy tends to go from relaxed to furiously annoyed in a heartbeat, especially when people talk too much. Knowing him, though, it's probably the touching. He gets weird about that. After a fight, he'll let people scrub the blood away or stitch him back together, but with anything else, he avoids it. His whole body will go rigid if Ed slings an arm around his shoulder. He doesn't like it when Jack taps him to get his attention. Once, a tavern girl slipped into his lap and he immediately stood up, knocking her onto the floor.
Ed lifts the bottle to his mouth, hiding his smile. To be fair, it was pretty funny. He laughed so hard he was wheezing, chest aching with every attempted breath. Izzy went all quiet and flushed, even after the girl told him she wasn't hurt. Ed teased him about it all night, just to see his ears turn red again.
"The fuck're you smiling for," Izzy grumbles.
"I like parties," Ed says, because he does.
Izzy jerks his head towards Jack, who is trying to coax the bosun into letting him jump over a fire. "Go join it, then."
Humming, Ed pretends to think about it. Nothing will move him from this little tent tonight. It's cozy and warm and, because Izzy draped the torn sail all over the driftwood, almost private. The fires are too far away to give off a lot of light, so people can't really see inside unless they're up close. Privacy is a rare thing in this life, except for the captain and his officers, and they're still stuck on a ship in the middle of the ocean with everyone else.
Anyway, even if they were just sitting on a log out in the open, Ed would stay, because he likes hanging around with Izzy. He's interesting. Not like Jack or Limberry, Hornigold's half-blind navigator who teaches Ed how to read charts in exchange for rum rations, or that woman in town with six husbands who knows everything about everybody—but Izzy is still intriguing. He'll eat just about anything, but he won't wear torn or dirty clothing. He spends his free time shining his boots and wittling. Even though he doesn't use his pistol that much, he cleans it regularly. He practices his swordplay daily, he's first over the boards when they chase down a prize, and he does anything the captain asks of him.
And Ed, sometimes. If he asks nicely. If he leans in close enough and makes his eyes all warm, the way he does to sweet-talk Jack into what he wants. Usually, Izzy doesn't need words; Ed just has to look at him the right way and he'll give in. That's interesting, too. People like Ed—and why wouldn't they—but no one really does like Izzy, as if it's a part of him. A real, physical thing, pulling him closer whenever Ed tugs.
"This is a party," Ed says. "You'n me. Bottle of rum."
There's enough light from the stars that he can sort of see Izzy's face, like he's looking at him from underwater. Blurry and shadowed, disappearing into the blue-gray dark. Right now, Izzy is glowering at the sand, his mouth flattened into a slim, unhappy line.
Ed nudges his arm with the bottle. Izzy doesn't budge, so Ed tucks the bottle between his legs—and if it's because he likes the way Izzy flinches, lurching into the touch, who's to know? Just Edward Teach and that dark thing inside him, the rapidfire pull-tug-yank he gets in his belly whenever Izzy is a little too close, looks at him a little too long, and he needs to see how far Izzy will let him push.
"Two people is a boring party," Izzy says.
"I'm not boring," Ed reminds him.
"True. You're many things, but boring isn't one of them."
"What else am I?"
Izzy is quiet. He reaches for the bottle but doesn't pick it up; he just wraps his fingers around the neck of the bottle and thumbs at the lip. Ed waits, trying to be patient. He's not good at that—never has been—but he makes a decent attempt. He keeps his eyes on Izzy and doesn't let his mind wander to any of the sights and sounds around them: people walking around with plates of food, Jack's bellowing laughter as men frantically put out the fire on his shirt sleeve, the newly made matelots walking with their faces tucked close together.
"Better," Izzy says, finally. "Better than the rest of 'em."
He picks up the rum, muttering, "Better than me," into the bottle before he takes a long pull. Something in his neck cracks when he tips his head back. He lowers the bottle, grimacing, and rolls his right shoulder back. Even that small movement makes his shirt collar drag over the swallow tattoo on his neck.
Not many men have that mark. It means Izzy has sailed more than any of them, even the old salts who started pirating long before Henry Avery sailed into Nassau and bribed the governor with his plunder. He got the tattoo the year he signed onto Hornigold's crew, people say. Hornigold doesn't tolerate thieves or liars on his ship, so Izzy must have earned it properly.
And on his neck, too. That's a tough place to get a tattoo. Sutton, a carpenter's mate who joined up a few weeks after Ed, tried to get a nautical star in the same spot, but the pain was too much. He lived with two unfinished, lopsided triangles on his neck for nearly a year before he went overboard in a storm. Maybe he would've found his way home if he had the full star.
Ed stares at the swallow tattoo. Shadows make the wings flutter. His fingers twitch, ready to catch and trap.
"What're you looking at?" Izzy asks.
"You," Ed says, reaching with an open palm.
In the dark, Izzy's glittering eyes widen. He goes completely still, rum bottle dangling from his fingers. Ed can feel him start to swallow—then hesitate, throat lurching under his hand. He drags his thumb along the swallow until Izzy's pulse settles and the rum goes back in the sand.
Ed looks at the tattoo. Izzy looks at him. The sailcloth stirs with the wind.
"I want one of these," Ed murmurs, because he does. Tattoos are cool. He has a few on his arms, but nothing pretty like this bird.
"Sail long enough," Izzy says, his voice too flat and neat, "and you'll earn one."
"Does it have to be a swallow?"
"Yes."
"What if I want a different bird? Like an owl. Or a hawk."
"Then it won't be the same," Izzy says. His mouth is pinched awkwardly, like he's trying not to smile, but there's something different about his eyes. They dart all over the place, never lingering.
Ed glances over his shoulder, past the sailcloth. Nothing, nobody. He turns back to Izzy, who has gone pale, almost sickly in the murky dark. Shadows of a nearby fire's flames flicker over his face. He doesn't say a word.
Waiting, Ed realizes. For a reply or a question or—an order, maybe. Something to do. Someone to serve; Izzy has always been good at that. Anticipation burns in Ed's belly like he's crossing the boards, sword in hand, smelling smoke. He pushes his palm higher, fingers tracing the line of Izzy's jaw, and Izzy lets him. Izzy will let him do anything.
Ed grips Izzy's face, waiting for the anger that never comes, and returns to the throat. Leans closer and squeezes, just to remind himself he can. Izzy's mouth is wet. Ed can feel the slow breaths on his cheek. The tent devours them both, burying them in shadows.
Like a prayer, Izzy whispers Ed's name.
There are several answers: lies and half-truths, dismissals, cruel jokes that Izzy will forgive him for. Anything can happen in the dark. Ed knows this; Izzy must know this.
But Ed likes this place, lingering between expectation and satisfaction, so he says, "Have another drink."
Ever obedient, Izzy reaches for the rum. There's not much left. Ed can still taste alcohol on his tongue, but his head is clear. He tips Izzy's head back for him, because he can. Izzy's throat is still, relaxed; Ed only knows he's drinking because he can hear the rum trickling out of the bottle. He rubs his thumb over the swallow. Everything rushes in his ears.
When there's nothing left, Izzy throws the bottle away and takes a short, shuddering breath. His mouth is wet again. Ed wants to lean closer and taste it and swallow Izzy's gasp and feel the mark of a practiced sailor fluttering under his thumb.
Instead, Ed says, "You've got the right tattoo for that trick."
Izzy's eyes are bright. He pushes himself deeper into Ed's grip, wanting and waiting.