Work Text:
Izzy had been having a fairly tolerable day at work. It had been one of those rare days where everything had gone right for him. He’d woken up before his alarm, with enough time to shower and sit smugly in the kitchen with Stede’s coffee waiting for him. They’d actually gotten to have a conversation before he’d left, and being able to spend part of the morning with his new (well, it’s been six months, now) boyfriend actually sent him to work in a good mood. So good, in fact, that he’d actually accepted Fang’s offer to join him and Ivan for lunch at the cafe down the road.
If he’s honest with himself, he should’ve known better than to think it would last the whole day. Shit has a habit of going wrong the moment he fucking relaxes even slightly. It had happened as he was finishing up tidying his inbox, when he received a text from Stede.
[From: Stede Bonnet, 14:48] We ought to talk. I’ve booked us a table at the Ivy for 6:30, your work clothes will be fine.
Well, fuck.
And the worst part is, Izzy doesn’t know if Stede’s about to propose to him or break up with him. The man is fucking terrible at conveying tone over text, and Izzy can’t believe that he of all people feels justified in judging him for that. Izzy has mentioned to him countless times that the way he texts is ominous as fuck, but Stede’s evidently yet to have picked up the message. He glances down at his work clothes, which are allegedly ‘fine’. His slacks are covered in dust from where he had to dig something out of the archive room, and there’s a small but noticeable stain on the cuff of his shirt, courtesy of a ketchup bottle at lunch. He can roll his sleeves up, he supposes, to hide it, and the dust will come off eventually. He grumbles to himself as he starts batting uselessly at it. He types out a short ‘okay’ reply, and tries to distract himself with his work instead. He’s got shit he really needs to have done by the end of the day, and he’s not going to let Stede’s fucking text messages throw him off his rhythm. He takes a deep breath, as though he’s doing something that actually takes some mental fortitude, and tries his best to put all his attention on what he’s actually supposed to be doing.
It doesn’t work and the day drags on.
He’s up and down every five minutes, it feels like, for another coffee or outside for a cigarette. He checks his phone when he gets the chance, even though he’s put it on Do Not Disturb so he can pretend nothing’s coming through, and there’s nothing from Stede. Jesus. He’s probably preparing a fucking speech or something , Izzy thinks to himself, and he’s not sure which option is more terrifying. He’d proposed to his fucking ex after eight months, and that had gone to complete shit. Sort of. They still send birthday cards.
But the point is, he really, really doesn’t want to lose what he has with Stede. Never in a million years did he think they’d get together; when Stede showed up to audit his workplace and was overly particular about the notation on the files, Izzy thought he fucking hated him. And then, he couldn’t stop thinking about him, and one completely accidental dinner date later after running into each other at a party so shitty they both wanted to leave, they were tentatively pacing around the idea of being together without being exclusive. That was something Izzy found much, much easier to get used to than he’d thought, too.
He checks his watch and it’s a minute past five; half an hour and he can get the fuck out of here and find out whose heart is ripped out tonight.
By the time he’s finally wrapped up his work, and sorted his clothes out (thank fuck for Fang and his lint roller), he’s waiting outside his building for an Uber because he knows he’s going to be needing wine tonight. The car shows up and the driver is mercifully quiet – whether that’s due to Izzy’s one-word answers or the look on his face, he’s not sure. He slumps against the leather seats, smoothing back any loose strands of hair and cursing himself for forgetting that he has a tub of pomade in his locker for this precise reason.
More of a precautionary thing, really; it’s not like he typically gets invited on many same-day, post-work dates.
He bounces his leg, and clenches his fists, telling himself to get a fucking grip. It’s probably a perfectly normal occasion as far as Stede is concerned – a celebration of five hundred years of the first ship in a bottle, or something else so bizarre that no one else in the world would ever even think about it, let alone go out to celebrate it. That’s a Stede sort of thing to do. Yeah. That’s all it is.
Izzy definitely, absolutely believes this. He isn’t stressed at all because he fully believes this and isn’t trying to convince himself of it and his fast heart rate is a fucking coincidence.
He feels like a fucking idiot, honestly, acting like this at his age.
Unlike the rest of his day, the journey to the restaurant passes in no time at all, and Izzy cannot decide if that’s a good thing or not. He mutters a quick ‘thanks’ to the driver and tips him the full five pounds purely because he didn’t try to make conversation with him, and wonders if he has time for a quick cigarette to calm his nerves. He checks the time. He doesn’t, but he lights one up anyway. Fashionably late, or fucking whatever. He leans against the wall of the building and smokes quickly but without rushing, watching the other patrons enter the restaurant and wondering why the hell Stede chose this place. He’s been before and it’s far more aimed at the younger crowds, hen parties and the like, and the food is stupidly overpriced. Although, that’s everywhere Stede likes to take him. He’s still not over his absolute horror at seeing fish and chips on a menu for twenty pounds. They’d gone elsewhere after that.
When he’s finished it, he drops the cigarette stub behind him and crushes it with the heel of his shoe, before heading in. It’s instantly overwhelming, the decor from three different time periods and about seven different countries all converged into one overly-crowded, orange-lit room. He looks around for Stede and sees a familiar face in a turquoise shirt tucked away in one of the booths in the corner. Weird. The place is busy as fuck and somehow Stede’s got a table that big? Izzy sees Stede smiling as he approaches, and he stands up when Izzy’s by the table, leaning down to peck his lips.
That’s a good start, Izzy supposes. The kiss is welcome, the touch of Stede’s lips doing a little to banish the anxiety in his stomach.
“Thank you for coming at such short notice, darling,” Stede says, sitting back down in the middle part of the booth. Again, fucking weird that this place didn’t take away the third plate.
Izzy shrugs off his coat, letting it rest behind him. “‘S fine,” he says, “though I wish you’d fucking told me this morning, could’ve brought some better clothes.”
Stede tsks, shaking his head, a blonde lock falling over his forehead. “Don’t be silly, dear. You look lovely as always.”
In spite of fucking everything, Izzy feels his cheeks heating up. He’s never been great at taking compliments and Stede’s very much one to give them out like it’s fucking nothing. “Fuck off.”
“Absolutely not, it took a lot of work to win you, you’re not shaking me off that easily,” Stede replies breezily. Izzy absolutely cannot get a read on what’s fucking happening, here.
He looks at the menu, scanning for items which he isn’t allergic to. Pretty much all of the starters are out, bar a soup that looks too filling to be appealing anyway. Even bread here is fucking expensive (it isn’t free, that makes it expensive), but he’ll settle for it. He squints, the small text and the low lighting doing absolutely nothing to help him actually read anything. He can hear Stede humming tunelessly under his breath as he scans the wine list. Izzy will leave that part to him; Stede’s the one who used to tour vineyards as a fucking hobby. Izzy’s own knowledge is more angled towards which cheap wines taste the least like vinegar.
The waiter comes over and Stede orders a bottle of… something Izzy has never heard of, but is assured is on the drier side, and then smiles across the table at Izzy. Izzy tries his best to smile back, but the whole thing feels fucking performative. Stede really asked him over here with a fucking ‘we ought to talk’ message and acts like nothing’s wrong? It’s clear something is showing on his face, because Stede frowns, reaching over and brushing his hand over Izzy’s. Izzy freezes.
“Is something the matter?” Stede asks, voice full of concern, meeting Izzy’s eyes.
Izzy’s been trying to manage his emotions better. He really has, but it’s all too fucking much. “Out with it,” he says, sharply enough that Stede draws his hand away and sits back, shocked, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. “Shit,” Izzy says, quietly, “didn’t mean to snap, just… that message you sent me? What the fuck was that about?”
“The message?” Stede asks, before he blinks in realisation. “Oh – the invitation?”
“Yes, the fucking invitation,” Izzy sighs. “What’s with the cryptic shit?”
“I… was rather hoping we could talk about this over dinner,” Stede says, sitting back against the cushion, “but I suppose we could have the conversation now.”
“Fucking please .”
“Alright,” Stede says, taking a moment to compose himself. He shuffles in his seat, angling himself to face Izzy. “So, you understand that we’re not exclusive , yes?”
Izzy nods. If Stede’s about to introduce him to a new fucking partner, he could’ve just said , surely?
“Well… I met someone.”
“And you couldn’t have told me this over text?” Izzy asks, not believing what he’s fucking hearing. “Do we have to announce it over dinner every time we’re fucking someone new?”
“No, no,” Stede says, quickly shaking his head. “This one is… different.”
Izzy narrows his eyes. “Different how ?”
“I… think I’m going to let him explain that,” Stede says, suddenly looking more nervous than Izzy has ever seen him, and isn’t that fucking saying something? “It’ll make sense,” he quickly adds, “I promise.”
Somehow, Izzy highly doubts that. But he keeps his mouth shut and warily eyes the empty seat opposite him.
When no one arrives at seven, Izzy is secretly thrilled. But he sees the way Stede keeps glancing at the door, standing up, almost spilling his wine glass at one point, looking out for whoever the fuck it is. Maybe he’s one of those fashionably late types? Izzy can’t fucking stand them, his one exception being the man he almost married. He was fucking known for it. Izzy wants to smack his head against the wall because why the fuck is he thinking about him right now?
The irony of that thought could’ve fucking killed him.
Stede is standing, waving frantically, and as much as Izzy wants to look behind him to see who’s there, he’s frozen in place at his seat. Stede leaves the booth and walks a little way into the restaurant, to greet whoever the fuck has shown up. Izzy can’t hear anything other than the indistinct chatter in the background, the gentle tingling of glasses, and his own fucking heartbeat.
He hears two sets of footsteps approaching – one light, barely audible, that’s definitely Stede’s, and the others heavy, as though whoever the fuck this man is, is wearing heavy boots.
“Hey, Iz, long time no see.”
Izzy swears his heart stops. He’s never felt so tense in his life, but he turns around.
“Edward?”
“Yeah,” Edward says softly, as though Izzy could possibly have forgotten the man he shared every ‘first’ with. “Like I said, long time, no see, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Izzy says, shortly. He can’t help it. Last time he saw Edward, Edward was giving back the emerald ring Izzy had picked out especially for him, telling him things weren’t working even though Izzy had been certain that they were. Edward flinches slightly and Izzy immediately feels a pang of guilt, because, fuck, he knows better than to snap at Edward like that.
Stede moves back to his place to sit down, and Edward slides in after him, directly opposite Izzy and Izzy doesn’t know where to look. If he looks in Edward’s gorgeous eyes again it might just kill him.
“Can I..?” Edward asks, reaching for the wine bottle where it sits in its cooler.
“Go ahead,” Stede says. He pauses. “Although, I think we may owe Izzy an explanation.”
I’ll fucking say , Izzy doesn’t say.
“Yeah,” Edward says, and Izzy watches him get comfortable, stretching out his bad knee under the table. “Izzy, I know we… I know we didn’t end things well.” Izzy snorts. He can’t help it. “And I can’t apologise enough, I… I loved you as best I could, but it wasn’t enough.”
“It wasn’t,” Izzy says, shortly, “or you would’ve stayed.”
He hears Stede softly gasp to his side, trying to keep quiet.
Edward breathes through his nose. “Yeah. Or I would’ve. But, Iz, you know something?”
Don’t call me that , Izzy doesn’t say.
Edward continues. “Since the day I did it, I felt like I fucked up. Like, really fucked up. But it was only when I met Stede, that I realised just how fucking much.”
“He’s the man who fixed my car,” Stede says, quickly, filling in the gaps that Izzy absolutely is not in the headspace to intuitively fill on his own. He remembers Stede going on a few dates with him, but he’d never said his name and Izzy didn’t feel it was his business to ask.
“Yeah,” Edward says, “I was. And it was one night, when I was with him, that I… I realised how I felt. About– about you, about us , about…” Edward taps his bare ring finger and Izzy is so fucking glad he doesn’t say any more. His chest feels tight and he grips the crushed velvet of the seat with both hands.
“Why did you come here?” he manages to say, forcing out the words. “Why the fuck would you want to tell me here? And why did you –” he looks at Stede, now, “help him fucking set it up?”
“Because Edward asked to see a picture of the man I’m in a relationship with, one day,” Stede says, cool as ever. Credit to the man, he might not know how to use a fucking microwave, but he has a way with mediating conflict that Izzy does genuinely admire. “And when I showed you, he couldn’t believe it. He told me that the two of you were almost married, and he regrets calling it off.” He says it so matter-of-factly that it almost brings tears to Izzy’s eyes. What the fuck .
He looks directly at Edward. “Is this true?”
Edward nods, and even in the shit lighting Izzy can see that his eyes are wet with tears. “It’s true, Iz. It’s true.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Stede says, reaching out a hand to both of them. Izzy tentatively takes it, not feeling fully in control of his body’s movements. He sees Edward do the same. “I have a great deal of affection for both of you. You’ve both made my life infinitely better; it’s easy to be around the both of you, it’s like breathing, even.” Stede smiles, squeezing both their hands. Izzy squeezes back, not loosening his hold when Stede does. As much as he fucking hates to admit it, it feels nice , being wanted like this. He doesn’t fucking need anyone, but he really does want someone. “And I know the two of you still care a great deal for each other.”
Izzy takes a second, then sits up straight, looking between the pair of them. He can’t believe what he’s fucking hearing. “Are you seriously fucking saying–”
“It’ll take time,” Stede says, squeezing Izzy’s hand again, “and we wouldn’t be rushing into anything.”
“Just dates,” Edward says, before quickly adding, “or… hangouts, whatever the fuck this is.”
Izzy just sits in silence.
“You don’t have to agree to anything you don’t want to, my darling,” Stede says, brushing his thumbs over Izzy’s knuckles, and Izzy tries to steady his breathing in time with the movement. “But I know how much you care for him, and how much he cares for you. There’s no pressure. No pressure for anything more than sitting at the same table, certainly not for… intimate practices.”
Izzy snorts at that, and at how red Stede’s face is turning. He’s seen that man naked more times than he can remember, and yet the very idea of fucking is enough to turn Stede into an embarrassed wreck. And while there’s not a soul on earth who could get this information out of Izzy, he has to admit that it’s fucking cute.
“But, Iz, we could… we could get to know each other again. Remember that night we went stargazing in Phoenix?”
Izzy remembers that trip, of course he does. “The one where we were so fucking jetlagged we forgot it was the Fourth of July and all we could see was fireworks?” Izzy asks, smiling slightly at the memory.
“Yeah,” Ed laughs, “yeah, that’s the one. We had some great times.” Ed leans forward, then, palm upturned on the table, inviting but not demanding. Izzy glances at it and sips his wine.
“Ed…”
“Izzy,” Ed says quickly.
Izzy looks from Stede to Ed, and for the first time, truly realises what the world he’s been introduced to has to offer him. He places his hand in Ed’s.
“No promises,” he says, “but we can fucking try.”