Work Text:
One thing about Izzy Hands: he knows what he likes.
He likes living in Manhattan, never being too far from work, being able to walk anywhere and everywhere. He likes being a stage manager, being the force that keeps order in the cacophony that is professional theatre. He likes being seen as calm, and trustworthy, and a bit of an asshole but an asshole that is fucking brilliant at his job.
He especially knows what he likes when it comes to his coffee.
On the first day of tech rehearsal for A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Revenge Theatre Collective, Izzy completes his morning ritual the same way he has for the last ten years. A small black bag with a skull and crossbones on it, advertised as “not for the faint of heart,” is taken down from the second shelf in the cupboard. Two heaping spoonfuls of grounds are dumped into the French press, enough for a cup at home and a cup to take to rehearsal. A quick scroll through the daily call while it steeps, a mental to–do list already forming. One cup poured into his Blackbeard’s Revenge branded mug, one cup poured into his thermos. No cream. No sugar. Especially no frilly flavoring. Coffee is not designed to be enjoyable. The purpose is to shock his system into the waking world, so he can leave his personal life behind and step into rehearsal with one goal in mind: success.
Except.
Well.
He’s kind of started seeing someone.
And it’s making it rather difficult to focus.
The first text comes when Izzy’s at the table, forcing himself to swallow a mediocre bagel to prepare his stomach for the coffee. He hasn’t saved the new number as a contact yet. Just a string of digits in his phone he’s part way to memorizing.
Morning sunshine🌞sleep good?
He didn’t, not really. Izzy never sleeps well the night before tech. Not helped by the fact that they’d been out late together last night. Some tapas place this Someone wanted to try that had live music. The food had been fine, the music tolerable, but the conversation was stunning. The Someone had walked him home after, his hand infinitesimally close to Izzy’s but never quite making the move to take it. Izzy had lost valuable time imagining what it would have felt like to have held that hand.
Izzy ignores the question. Responds with one of his own.
The fuck you doing up this early?
He snorts at the selfie he receives seconds later. His Someone appears to be on a treadmill, in a black tank top that leaves very little to the imagination and one of those ridiculous sweatbands around his forehead. His mouth is a perfect oh , like he’s puffing out a heavy breath, eyes rolled back into his head. A deliberate attempt to get Izzy to laugh.
The grind don’t stop
Or whatever the kids say.
Izzy puts his phone down. Sips his coffee. Lets the bitter warmth run through his veins.
Started seeing someone is perhaps the wrong phrase. More like resumed seeing someone. An on-again-off-again situation that has been resolutely off for the last five years, because another thing about Izzy Hands is that he would never date a coworker. But Izzy’s entering his sixth month at the Revenge Theatre Collective, and his Someone is two months into pivoting into a TV career, so suddenly things feel very much on .
On like fucking donkey kong , as Jack fucking Rackham would say.
The thing is, this all ought to be old news. Izzy has been in Jack’s orbit for the better part of twenty years, a gravitational force that seems impossible to fully escape. It’d started back in college, when Izzy had gotten stuck in a three-person dorm room, a side-effect of his last-minute enrollment. Edward Teach and Jack Rackham had come with the cinder block walls and the extra long twin beds, and with them came Anne and Mary down the hall. They were a chaotic mess of a friend group bonded through grueling days and booze-soaked nights, fiercely loyal to each other as a means of survival. Jack had emerged as the clear leader of their group–too loud, too bold, a red-hot temper, an inclination toward mischief, all the things Izzy resented in actors.
But Jack was made of other stuff too. Touchy-feely hands that couldn’t resist a slap on the back or a punch in the arm. A mouth that curled into a devastating half-smile when he had a trick up his sleeve. Shocking blue eyes that made you feel like the only person in the world when they met yours.
After graduation they’d drifted. When Izzy was employed, he had no time for dates. Actors like Jack hung up the show like a coat at the end of the night. Directors like Ed could breathe easy after the curtain fell on opening night. Izzy ate, drank, and breathed the project from table read to closing night. And rapidly climbing through the ranks of Broadway stage managers meant a dry spell that was absolutely for the best.
When Edward went looking for a leading man for his new musical, Blackbeard’s Revenge, Jack was the natural choice. At the time he’d been a rising star in the theatre community, praised by the critics for his sultry baritone and by the internet for that cockeyed smile. He’d done his part to bring the show to life, but he’d brought one headache after another for Izzy. A falling out with Edward two weeks into rehearsals that had almost brought the whole thing to a halt before it started. A fling with Anne after their joint Tony wins that resulted in Izzy having to run damage control when Mary found out. Frequent call-outs toward the end of his run that left Izzy scrambling and understudies panicking. No, Izzy didn’t have time for that kind of chaos anymore. He was too old for it. He had bills to pay. Order to maintain. A fucking job to do.
Through it all those blue eyes kept looking at him. Studying him. Almost like they were waiting.
But now they’d both put Blackbeard’s Revenge behind them, and this last month or so of circling each other has felt…different.
Jack’s still too loud sometimes, but it’s like someone has turned his volume down a few ticks. He’s quit cigarettes, switched to a vape pen for now, so now the smoke he blows on the sidewalk smells like bubblegum. His go-to drink is a martini, and he always pulls the palmento out of the olive, drops it in the cocktail napkin with a grossed-out shudder. The cologne he wears smells like bergamot. He talks about the old days with a rose-colored tint but he talks about the present with even greater enthusiasm. He talks about how different TV and film have been from theatre, how he feels more at home in the intense bursts of employment than the long haul run of a big musical . He’s been cooking for himself more. Going to the gym. Thinking of moving to Queens. Maybe getting a dog.
He says he’s sorry like he means it.
Jack Rackham’s softening at the edges.
And what the fuck is Izzy supposed to do with that?
You ready for today?
Ready as I can be.
They should throw roses on the stage for you by the end when you pull it all off.
Yeah. Cuz that’s how that works.
Izzy knows how tech runs go. He’ll get a firm clap on the shoulder from Edward. Probably gushing appreciation from Bonnet. He’ll be lucky if he gets a thank you out of the cast. But roses? Nah. Flowers are for other people. Not stage managers.
And it’s just as well for Izzy. Waiting around for praise is a distraction. It’s the RTC’s first public go at Shakespeare, and the first public collaboration between the resident company and the acting school. Bonnet’s in a right state about it all, and that’s got Edward on edge, so it’s up to Izzy to guide them through the next few days as smoothly as possible. The best stage management advice he’d ever gotten was five simple words: leave it at the door. Your ego, your problems, your desires, it’s all left on the sidewalk before you step into that theatre. Anything that distracts you from getting the job done has no place near the stage.
🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹
There. I did it for them.
Guys with big blue eyes and goofy smiles and gentle words were not part of that strategy.
Izzy does not like the message. Does not type a response. But he does finally write Jack Rackham’s name in the contact space, before he leaves him at the door to catch his train.
***
Another thing about Izzy Hands: he hates the goddamn subway.
Coming on twenty-five years he’s lived here and he still gets queasy if he’s on the train too long, avoided work in Brooklyn for years because of it. But the goddamn Revenge pulls him in yet again. They probably don’t think about how early he has to get up to get to the theatre in time to make their lives so easy. But that’s the job he signed up for, the job he’s grateful to have at all. No use in complaining.
He’s sandwiched between a chronic manspreader and two women with no concept of appropriate train volume. A piece of Nicorette is parked in his cheek, trying and failing to replace the morning cigarette he ought to have had before he left the apartment. Some audiobook Bonnet recommended about people-positive management is blasting in his earbuds, trying and failing to drown out the rattle of the train. His to-go cup sits warm in his hand, ready for him when he arrives. Keeps his eyes trained on the little screen that signals their stops. Deep breaths in through the nose, silently out through the mouth. Focused.
When they clatter into the fifth station, Izzy risks a glance at his messages.
What r ur 3 most recent emojis
???
perfect way to get to know someone better. Show me.
Izzy purses his lips, fires off the message (👍👎👌) before the train shoots forward and he loses service again. He tries to focus on the book, but his seat neighbors’ passionate conversation about a mysterious rash does nothing to keep his attention in one place. He glances down at his phone again at the next stop.
Ur kidding
What.
Those r the only emojis u use
What’s wrong with my emojis.
theyre just not super FUN
I don’t text for fun. I text for work.
Well. We’ll just have to change that 😈😜
Mercifully, the two women get off the train, giving Izzy a chance to slide away from the manspreader. Good thing too. His heart’s doing something funny. Not quite a flutter. Not quite skipping a beat. Maybe it’s the heat. The crowds. The caffeine. He’ll feel better when he gets off the train, out in the fresh air. He’ll walk it off.
Except the train isn’t moving.
A garbled voice from above mutters something about a malfunction further up the track. Could be a few minutes. Or half an hour.
Izzy’s fist tightens around his coffee cup, sweat prickling on the back of his neck. Not late by the rest of the company’s standards, but late for him. Not enough time to get things perfect for everyone else. Not enough time…
He hits pause on the audiobook, too distracted by his racing thoughts to process the last few paragraphs. He could pull out his binder, review his notes, be as prepared as he can be in these circumstances.
Instead, he opens his messages.
What are yours, then.
Your emojis.
The reply is instant. Like he’s waiting with the app open for Izzy.
Well after the ones I just sent you...
🌹🍆🦈
Izzy rolls his eyes. He’s around young people enough to know what the eggplant means and is far from surprised it’s at the top of Jack’s catalog.
The roses he remembers. The roses were for him.
But he quirks an eyebrow at that last one…
Who were you texting about sharks?
😏
Thats for me to know and u to find out
But also
Sharks are cute
They’ve got nice smiles
Yeah they smile about how they’re about to bite your leg off.
Or maybe theyre just trying to make friends
Blessedly the train finally lurches forward, and the service falls away, and Izzy tucks his phone in his pocket before he can start to feel sick.
***
Izzy’s more on time than he thought he’d be, but his tardiness still has him feeling off-kilter when he steps into the theater. Fang and Ivan have been his favorite assistant stage managers for years, and he knows they’re perfectly capable of getting the space ready in his absence. But he feels a slight pang of guilt that the signage is hung, the tech table is set, and the actors have begun to arrive without him being there to oversee it.
Izzy tries to shake the feeling away as he sets down his belongings at his seat. The table is set up for him, Edward, Bonnet, and Buttons to give them better access to the stage before they move up into the booth. Fang’s taken care to set a series of little trinkets across the front of the table – a little toy corgi, the stuffed unicorn the crew gifted Izzy after their first opening night, and little donkey for the Midsummer of it all. For morale, Fang had said. Izzy hums bitterly, nudges the little zoo out of the way to make room for his binder. Ed can have the toys on his side of the desk. He’s got room for that sort of thing.
His phone vibrates in his pocket.
Fucking elevator broke at the fucking studio, had to run up five flights to table read 😮💨
Work out didn’t prep you for that?
Ha Ha.
You still on the train?
Just got here. Waiting for Ed.
What else is new 😉
Give the old bastard a fat kiss from me 😘😘
Izzy rolls his eyes, lip curling into a faint smile. Jack and Ed’s past was…fraught, to say the least. But the last several months of Jack’s redemption tour had included striking up a peace with Edward. Score another one for second chances. Score another one for going soft.
Izzy’s ready to switch off notifications for the next several hours, but another message chimes through.
What are your thoughts on pigeons
Again, ???
Soft Friends or Rats with Wings?
Six months ago Izzy is certain his answer would have been the latter, but sharing a booth with Buttons and his two (relatively clean) birds has had him rethinking his position. He answers:
Somewhere in between
Friends with benefits? 😏
Oh my god.
🤣🤣🤣
He could let it go. He should let it go. But then he hears the familiar rustle of wings. Speak of the devil, Karl the Pigeon has fluttered down from the light booth, perching atop Buttons’ computer monitor with a prim ruffle of his feathers. Like this is completely normal. Like a bird hanging out in the theater on the morning of tech is just a fact of life…which, Izzy supposes, it is a fact of his life now.
As stealthily as he can, Izzy zooms in on Karl and snaps a photo.
Work colleagues. We share an office. We acknowledge each other. Go about our lives. If we see each other in the grocery store we nod to each other. Maybe I’ll send a select few a Christmas card.
FUCKING BATSHIT!!!!!
Birdshit actually.
Ur brilliant.
“I’m sorry, did you just giggle ?”
Izzy slams his phone face down on the table, resolutely does not turn around to face Lucius. The kid’s got a habit of appearing when he least expects it, never sitting quite with him and Edward but always just off to one side, always listening. Always commenting . And anyway. He absolutely did not giggle. Izzy Hands does not giggle. Whatever just came out of his mouth was…breathing. Very quickly. At a slightly higher pitch. That does not a giggle make.
“You did, didn’t you!? Oh my god you’re blushing !”
And of course, Edward and Bonnet pick that moment to shuffle their way down the row to the tech table to join them.
“Who’s blushing?” Ed asks. He tosses his binder down carelessly, and Izzy has to snatch his coffee out of the way before he knocks it off.
“Ed, let the record show that Israel Hands just looked at his phone and giggled,” Lucius gushes. Stede and Ed make a curious hmmm sound in the same damn frequency, exchanging wide-eyed looks, and Izzy wonders if it’s too late to install a trap door directly beneath his chair.
“Alright, that’s enough,” he snaps. “Since you’re all right here, let’s review the plan for today.”
He rattles off the to-do list, notes the anticipated problem sections and the times when breaks for fight work are non-negotiable. He hears Lucius scribbling away behind him, and Bonnet’s making excited noises of agreement. But Edward’s…quiet. Too quiet. Izzy risks a glance to the side and he’s met with a furrowed brow and a close-lipped smile. Not like he’s being teased. Not like he’s being ignored. More like he’s being studied.
“Well, I for one am confident we are going to have an excellent day,” Stede proclaims, slapping the desk enthusiastically before practically skipping up the aisle to greet the rest of the crew. If Edward looked any more besotted watching him Izzy might just throw up.
His phone chimes again, when Edward and Spriggs’ backs are turned he risks a peek at the screen.
Missed that.
Missed what?
Your sense of humor. Good to know it’s still in there.
And there goes his stupid fucking heart again. Doing that little somersault. That little uncontrollable leap. Maybe when tech is over he should get it checked out.
Rehearsal’s starting.
Me too. Godspeed, sailor. Knock ‘em dead 💪🌹
That might just be it. That might just be enough to send him into the stratosphere.
There’s not enough time for that today. If he can’t do this job because of some guy he’s got no business calling himself a stage manager.
Izzy turns his phone all the way off, lets it sink to the bottom of his backpack.
“Right!” he yells, with two quick, sharp claps. “Let’s get started.”
***
Things do not go as planned.
Izzy’s been doing this for a long time. He knows how to plan for the typical things that go wrong during tech rehearsal. The point of tech is to work out bugs, after all. He can handle the usual flubs: holding for light cues to be reprogrammed, timing out costume changes that take longer than expected, props gone missing in action.
This does not prepare him for what happens barely an hour into rehearsal.
“Remember, the stakes in comedy are just as high as they are in tragedy!” Stede is saying to the actors. “We may be doing Midsummer but all the characters should think they’re in Macbeth.”
In all his years of stage managing, Izzy has never heard a theater fall silent so fast. Thirty pairs of eyes all turn to Stede at once. Ed gasps out a pained “Oh babe you didn’t” at the same time Izzy moans, “Oh Bonnet, no…”
What follows is approximately forty-five minutes of curse-breaking techniques that Izzy is powerless to prevent. There is much knocking on wood and searching for salt to throw over shoulders. There are prayers chanted to spirits and assorted gods. There is a mad dash outside to spin in circles three times each. Stede stays in a right snit about it, and it takes both Ed and Izzy to convince him that a curse is a curse and once it takes hold…well, it takes hold.
But even when Stede offers a genuine apology and swears to only say The Scottish Play from now on, everyone is rattled. People start dropping lines, missing entrances, running into each other, snapping at one another over dumb mistakes, which only puts them further behind schedule. Ed and Stede are constantly jumping onto the stage, moving things and people around in ways that just seem to fluster the actors more. People are rushing up to Izzy’s table constantly asking for clarification and peeks at the notes. Between that and the side conversations he hears through his headset, Izzy’s brain is swimming in circles by midday.
Onstage, Bonnet and Ed are attempting to re-block a scene to accommodate a set piece, Fang and Ivan frantically scribbling down the changes on their clipboards. Izzy takes advantage of the lull and risks a glance at his phone. No messages. Huh. Well. Makes sense, he supposes. It’s Jack’s first day on a new project. He’ll be busy. Just like Izzy is busy. And that’s fine! That’s...
u on a break?
Shit. His heart again. This is getting serious. Is he really that stressed?
Sort of. You?
Ooo texting in rehearsal. Naughty 😜
And yeah I’m on a twenty.
Fuck off. First time I’ve taken a breath all day.
Twenty minute breaks are stupid.
I like them!! You have time to go buy coffee.
And time to come back and bother the stage manager.
Exactlyyyyy 😜
ANYWAY
Check the front pocket of your backpack.
???
Just check it Hands, it’s not gonna bite you.
Ed and Stede don’t look any closer to resolving this staging issue, so Izzy reaches down into his backpack.
Chocolate. Little Dove chocolates with purple foil. At least ten of them.
Hellooooooo???
Oh shit did they actually bite you!?!
When did you do this.
Last night at dinner.
You said last week you didn’t like super sweet things but that you didn’t mind dark chocolate.
And I still don’t fully believe you btw.
Everyone needs sweet things once in a while.
Something in Izzy threatens to melt. Jack was listening to him. Not just listening, hearing him. Going out of his way to do something nice. Fuck it, no one is looking, why shouldn’t he take a minute to unwrap a piece while he’s still hunched halfway under the table. Why shouldn’t he…
The loudest noise in recorded history echoes through the theater. Everyone gasps and covers their ears, heads whipping to the back of the house. A metal water bottle has clattered to the floor, and Frenchie is scrambling over the seats trying to catch it, but it keeps rolling, all the way down the auditorium…until it bumps right into the side of Izzy’s table.
Everyone is watching him. Caught red-handed and distracted with several pieces of chocolate in his mouth.
Icy shame floods through him, and the melting thing inside him freezes right back up. Yeah. This is exactly why he shouldn’t. It’s a distraction. It’s unprofessional. He doesn’t like sweet things, he can’t like sweet things, there’s no time for sweet things, especially not sweet things from Jack…
“Take fifteen.”
Izzy’s barely aware of the words leaving his mouth as he yanks off his headset. He snaps his script shut, kicks the water bottle further down the aisle as he storms toward the back of the house. He dimly hears someone calling his name.
“TAKE FIFTEEN. EVERYONE. NOW.”
Silence falls again, and Izzy slams the door behind him.
***
Autumn slaps Izzy in the face the moment his feet hit the pavement, a sharp, bitter wind sweeping down the tunnel of the buildings. There’s a cluster of pigeons pecking at a discarded bagel in the gutter, and they barely even fucking flinch when Izzy stomps past them, don’t even ruffle their feathers when a car zooms past.
“You are rats with wings,” he spits. “Filthy fucking things, don’t even know how to be scared when something tries to kill you.”
He plants himself on the curb, back resolutely to the theater, out of sight out of mind, but there’s something dangerous buzzing right beneath his skin. Fucking hell, he needs a cigarette. Something bitter. Something poisonous. Just to rough up his edges again. Just to tamp down that buzzing so he can get back to work. Just to get that damn chocolatey sweetness out of his mouth. Except he quit, because he’s responsible, he always has to be responsible, so he rips the stupid fucking foil packet out of his pocket, pops a piece of stupid fucking Nicorette into his mouth and parks it in his cheek and just. Breathes.
For about fifteen merciful seconds, he breathes.
“...Izzy?”
He clenches his teeth around the gum so hard they scrape together, the nasty acidic taste flooding his mouth. He hadn’t even heard the door open, that’s how distracted Jack’s got him.
“I’m on a break,” he chokes out, not daring to turn around to face Spriggs, lest he lose his grip on what’s left of his sanity.
“I know I know, and I really do respect that, I just have an extremely quick question…”
“I said I’m on a fucking break. Am I not allowed to take one blessed moment to myself? Or is the roof gonna burn down if I don’t have the answer to every fucking question for fifteen fucking minutes?”
He’s being unreasonable and he knows it – this is the job he signed up for after all – but for the love of god those texts were so nice and the chocolate was so sweet and the string holding him together is nothing but a bunch of frayed threads right now. But Spriggs doesn’t run away screaming. Plops himself right down next to Izzy on the curb, and when Izzy turns back to bark at him again he finds he’s being looked at with – for fuckssake – concern.
“Are you okay?”
What a fucking question. He’s not, of course. But…why isn’t he? He’s had shit days before. He’s weathered harder storms. There’s no bloody reason for him to be having a fit over this.
“I only ask because Frenchie dropped a water bottle and you fled the theater and now you’re yelling at the pigeons. Seems like a lot. Even for you.”
It is a lot. It’s way too much. Too much for Spriggs. Too much for the crew. Definitely, definitely too much for Jack.
“It’s not about the water bottle is it.”
Izzy finds himself slowly shaking his head, wondering if a spontaneous sinkhole opening up beneath him is within the realm of possibility.
“Is it, maybe, I’m just spitballing here, the person you were texting? The person who put chocolates in your backpack?”
“That’s private.” Izzy suddenly remembers how to speak. He turns sharply back toward the street, where the pigeons are still scuffling in the gutter over their bagel.
Spriggs makes a sound between a snort and a laugh. “Babe, I don’t know what kind of theaters you were at before but this is the Revenge. Privacy stops being a thing when one of our own is clearly going through it.”
Izzy scrubs his hands over his face, exhales an exhausted sigh into his palms. Spriggs shuffles closer to him, not quite touching him.
“Who is he?” he prompts. “Is he a dick? Do we need to beat him up? We’re a little scrappy but I think all of us could take him, especially if we get Jim involved…”
“He’s not a dick,” Izzy cuts off. His head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds as he lifts it. He spits the horrible gum into the paper, runs a hand through his hair, and thinks of roses, and sharks, and fucking pigeons. “He’s not a dick at all.”
Spriggs hums, rests his chin in his hands expectantly. “Tell me about him.”
“He’s…loud. He can turn the shittiest things into a joke. He can make you feel like the only person in the room when he’s talking to you. He sings like a fucking lark, even when he’s just walking down the street. He texts with way too many emojis. He’s learning how to bake. He looks at the world like it’s…like it’s something good.” And Izzy realizes he’s smiling. He’s smiling talking about Jack Rackham. “He’s sweet. He’s just…really, really sweet.”
“And this is a problem because…?”
“Because I don’t have fucking time for things like that.”
“Don’t have- okay, I was trying to be understanding but GOD Izzy it’s not like you can put falling in love in a color-coded schedule. These things just happen .”
“Yeah, they happen to you. ”
“Oh okay, then what am I?” Lucius snaps, more frustrated than Izzy has ever heard him. “Someone who doesn’t work hard? Someone who isn’t exhausted? My boyfriend is a Broadway swing. He works the days everyone else in the world has off. When I’m in rehearsal too I see him maybe two hours a day. You think that means I shouldn’t love him? You think Jim and Olu and Archie shouldn’t love each other? Or Ed and Stede? Just cuz they’re busy sometimes?”
Izzy bites his lip. When it’s put like that…yeah, that does make him sound like a colossal asshole, not a productive one.
“Sorry,” he mutters sheepishly.
Lucius sighs, but his tone softens a bit. “All I’m trying to say is, when you’re with the right person it’s not just an extra thing you have to do.”
It’s true, is the damn thing. The time he’s made to see Jack has never felt like an obligation. It feels like an extra layer of warmth, a thing he looks forward to, an excuse for the tight knot of stress that lives just below his sternum to unravel for a few hours. To have that all the time? Every day? What would he even become?
“We’re barely even dating,” Izzy chokes out. “I’ve barely let him hold my hand.”
“And what would happen if you did?”
“I’ll get so…”
“So what?”
Izzy digs his fingernails into the palm of his hand, swallows around the lump building in his throat. Lucius sighs patiently, shifts infinitesimally closer to Izzy on the sidewalk.
“So soft. ”
Izzy spits out the word despite how sweet it feels on his tongue. He waits with clenched fists for the next clever retort. He watches the pigeons. One is now trying to fly away with the bagel now, can’t seem to understand he’s too small to carry that weight.
The retort doesn’t come. Lucius inches even closer, so that his shoulder is pressed into Izzy’s.
“It took a lot for Pete to open up to me, and for me to open up to him,” he begins softly. “I know I didn’t go to some fancy conservatory like you and Ed did, but I know how much this industry can fuck you up. Make you think you don’t deserve the same things other people deserve, make you think the best thing you can be is suffering. It’s fun to talk about how we’re all dying at work, but it’s way more fun to actually be living. It’s absolutely bloody lovely to come home to someone and all you have to be is yourself. And denying yourself that feeling that doesn’t make you stronger. It just makes you bitter. And life’s way too short for that.”
The wind whips around them again. Izzy’s grateful for the excuse to wipe his eyes.
“Plus this bunch? Very willing to forgive errors in the name of lovesickness. If anyone got word that you’re making yourself miserable for the sake of some toxic standard of productivity, they’d be planning a full intervention and a series of meetings about company culture involving improv games, so be grateful I’m the one telling you all this.”
It startles a laugh out of Izzy, forcing him to thaw just a little. When he risks a glance at Lucius, the dramaturg has a soft smile on his face.
“So come on now, what’s the name of this man who’s rewiring your brain at your advanced age?” he presses.
“Fuck you,” Izzy says without heat. A stubborn smile tugs at the corner of his lip. “Jack. His name is Jack.”
“Well perhaps Jack ought to know sometime that your brain is in the middle of being rewired so he doesn’t give up on you. Healthy communication is healthy.”
“You’re very wise for your age, Mr. Spriggs.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hands, it’s called trauma.” With a playful nudge, Lucius stands and waves to the theater behind them. “Don’t rush. I’ll tell them you need a minute.”
“Thank you, Lucius.”
“Don’t mention it. Seriously, don’t. I’ll deny it.”
After Lucius disappears back into the building, Izzy takes out his phone. He films a quick video of the pigeons, who have resorted to all-out war over what’s left of the bagel.
Brunch brawl.
A series of laughing emojis appear, and there’s a flutter in Izzy’s heart that he lets himself feel, and notes that it actually feels good, not lethal.
SEE how could you NOT love the little fuckers!!!???
Shit. Yeah. How could he not.
Thank you for the chocolate. It was really nice.
💚💚💚💚💚💚
❤️
New emoji 👀
I like it.
🙄
😘😘😘
***
After that, the day does begin to turn around. While Izzy and Lucius had been having their little therapy session, Ed and Stede had gotten the company together and kindly but firmly told everyone to straighten up and fly right. And fly right they have. After the lunch break, everyone locks in, takes the changes and fumbles in stride, and by 5 pm they’ve managed to run the first half of the show. Right where Izzy hoped they’d end. Miracle of miracles.
As the crew files out for the day, every single person stops at Izzy’s table to thank him for getting them through the day with a handshake or a hug. He wonders what Ed and Stede threatened them with, but he can’t find a trace of obligation in their gestures. They all seem to mean it. He hugs them back. Says you’re welcome.
“Good work today, captain,” Edward says as he collects his things from the table. “Think we’re actually gonna pull this off.”
“Don’t have much of a choice,” Izzy responds. As he packs up his bag, he notices the little animals have migrated back to his side of the table. Instead of pushing them aside, he straightens them in a neat line.
“Got any plans tonight?” Ed asks.
Izzy snorts. “Heating up leftovers and going the fuck to sleep.”
“You should make some plans. Chill plans. With someone who makes you giggle at your phone.”
Izzy tries not to dignify the comment with a response, but for all of Ed’s abundant charms, knowing when to stop talking is not among them. “He texted me about you earlier, you know. Ask me if you’d bite his head off if he did something nice for you.”
Izzy swallows, keeps his eyes fixed on the table. “What’d you tell him?”
“That last I remembered he was never afraid to swim with the sharks.
Three recent emojis flash in Izzy’s mind. “And…what did he say back?”
“You should ask him yourself.” Ed throws his bag over his shoulder and starts to scoot past Izzy toward the aisle. He lingers, shoving his hands in his pockets, looking uncharacteristically hesitant. “A while ago you told me that you were ready to take a risk and fall again. That doesn’t just have to apply to work. You know that right?”
Yeah. Izzy did say that. Sounded pretty damn wise when he said it too, given how he’d just quit his job and been trying to patch things up with his best friend after a very long five years. He had been ready for a risk, a professional one that is. Personal risks, though, sounded more Edward’s speed. It suits him, this kind of happiness.
“Falling’s been going well for you then?” Izzy asks.
Their gazes wander toward the back of the house, where Stede is animatedly talking with Lucius. A calm settles over Ed’s face that Izzy’s rarely seen before. Like all the racing thoughts that usually plague him are going quiet.
“Falling is pretty fucking great. I highly recommend it.” Edward winks, clapping Izzy on the shoulder as he passes. “Night Iz.”
He makes his way up the aisle to where Bonnet is waiting, gives him a kiss on the cheek that makes Stede’s whole face light up like a Christmas tree. Izzy watches them leave the theatre hand in hand, and doesn’t feel annoyed so much as wistful.
***
Predictably, the subway is packed, and Izzy just barely manages to nab the last seat. He usually opts for an audiobook or a podcast on his commute over music; music is work, after all, and commuting means work is done. But an old tune’s popped into his head that he hasn’t thought of in years, and maybe a little melody to distract him from the drudgery won’t kill him. Maybe.
Izzy slips in his earbuds, hits play. It’s a gentle song, easy to swallow, no hidden messages, no underlying pain. Just an easy, floating melody, simple as birdsong, layered with seamless harmony. And damn if it doesn’t stir something in him. Izzy leans his head back against the wall of the train, closes his eyes, and lets it stir him.
Lida Rose, I’m home again, Rose
To get the sun back in the sky.
Lida Rose, I’m home again, Rose
About a thousand kisses shy.
He puts the song on loop, lets his mind wander to fantasies of a life that for so long has felt unattainable. Mornings where he has nowhere to be spent together in bed. Meals cooked side by side with care instead of haste. Basic chores completed with company instead of alone. Maybe little trips on days off where he doesn’t fret about paperwork. Maybe a bigger apartment. Maybe a dog. Tangled up in those fantasies are a pair of bright blue eyes and a broad smile and long fingers linked with his. He can hear the laughter, smell the cologne, taste the sugar. And is that so much for a person to want in one short life?
Ding dong ding
I can hear the chapel bell chime
Ding dong ding
At the least suggestion I’ll pop the question
By the time Izzy gets off at his station, he’s started humming. As he walks down his street, he’s whistling. As he rides up the elevator he’s singing under his breath.
Lida Rose I’m home again Rose
Without a sweetheart to my name
Lida Rose I’m home again Rose
And I am hoping you’re the same.
The message he’s typed and deleted three times stares up at him as he makes his way down the hall. Are you free tonight? It’s such a simple question, demanding a one-word answer, but it holds so much for Izzy his fingers shake as they hover over the screen. But he is so sick of denial. He wants life, and one thing about Izzy Hands, he finds a way to get what he wants.
As he nears his front door, he hits send, feels his heart leap into his throat and does not bite back the smile on his lips.
So here is my love song
Not fancy or fine
Lida Rose oh won’t you be mine.
When the song ends, Izzy stops in his tracks.
His text will go unanswered.
Because Jack fucking Rackham’s on his doorstep, arm raised mid-knock.
He’s thrown a brown button-up over a black t-shirt, swapped joggers for dark-washed jeans and – fucking hell – sneakers for a pair of black cowboy boots with shaky white stitching. His hair is combed back from his face, clean-shaven except for the mustache that looks impeccably groomed. He whips around when he hears Izzy’s footsteps, lights up like a bloody Broadway marquee, and oh god Izzy adores him, wants to be the only one that makes him smile like that for as long as he’s got left on earth, and that overwhelming feeling doesn’t terrify him. It thrills him.
“Aw man, I beat you!” Jack sighs in faux-disappointment. “You were supposed to be home already and you were gonna open the door and I was gonna say ‘honey I’m home!’ It was gonna be so cute. Oh well. Guess that only happens on TV for a reason yeah?”
“What are you-” Izzy falters, because he’s forgotten how to speak, how to breathe, how to think, in the presence of this ridiculous man. But then he notices Jack’s got three overstuffed tote bags hanging limply in his left hand. “What’s all this?”
“Oh!” Jack holds up the bags like he’s forgotten he had them. “Uh, it’s dinner! This one is a garlic chicken thing with parsley, sage, rosemary…well you know how the song goes. And I’ve also got roasted carrots and brussel sprouts – I’m part of this community farm share thing, fall harvest goes crazy. This is sourdough bread from that bakery down the block from me, haven’t been brave enough to make my own starter yet cuz it’s kind of like raising your own little alien…”
“You made all this?” Izzy sputters.
“Well yeah. Except the bread.” Jack huffs a little laugh that Izzy could swear sounds shy. “I just know how easy it is to treat yourself like shit when you’re in tech. Get stuck eating box mac and cheese and Trader Joe’s, which is fucking great, but sometimes you just need a home-cooked meal yeah?”
Izzy swallows thickly. “And the third bag?”
Jack grins, tipping the tote forward with an awkward flourish to show Izzy the tupperware inside.
“This is dessert! It’s a strawberry shortcake. I know I know, you don’t always go for sweet things, that’s why I thought this would be a good compromise. Got the strawberries and whipped cream separate, so you can control how much sweet you want with the toppings.”
All Izzy can do is stare. He wills his brains to string a sentence together but every molecule within him is crying out to hold on and never let go.
Because the thing about Izzy Hands, the thing he would die before he admitted to anyone, the thing that he has buried under years and years of constant work and self-sabotage, is that he is greedy. Damn near gluttonous in fact. And right now, he wants every single crumb of sugar and spice and everything nice that is Jack Rackham.
But Jack is sputtering, shouldering the bags and running hand through his hair. “This is a lot. This is too much, yeah. Way too much. Sorry. Yeah, you probably wanna go straight to bed and I’m just, yeah. I should probably just…”
Izzy steps forward. Takes bags from his shoulder. Sets them gently on the floor with his own backpack.
Wraps his arms around Jack and kisses him on the lips.
Jack gasps into him in surprise at first, but quickly catches Izzy’s face in his hands. It’s a soft, chaste thing, something Izzy hasn’t experienced in years, maybe ever, but damn it if it doesn’t make his knees go weak. Jack’s mustache tickles Izzy’s lip, he smells like bergamot cologne, he tastes like bubblegum, and Izzy can’t stop drinking him in. Thank you, Izzy hopes he’s saying. Thank you thank you thank you.
When they part, Jack doesn’t go far, leans down to rest his forehead against Izzy’s and draws a shaking breath, eyes still closed.
“This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” Izzy whispers.
“Well that’s shitty,” Jack huffs. “I mean, damn, people should do nice things for you more often.”
Izzy’s not sure who leans in first this time, but they come together again like magnets. It’s still a tender thing, their lips barely parted, but it might as well be rotting Izzy’s teeth with how sweet it all is, and god help him he loves it.
“Jack? I don’t…” Izzy hates the way his voice wobbles, but Jack just cups his cheek, silently grounding him. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You’re doin’ pretty good so far.” Jack smirks, Izzy can’t help but smirk back.
“I mean, I don’t know how to do…” He gestures between them. “This.”
Jack snorts. “You say that like I do. Maybe we can, I don’t know, figure it out together?”
Izzy nods, which makes their noses bump together, which makes Jack smile. “Yeah. Think I’d like that. A lot.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Jack pecks his lips again, winds his fingers back over Izzy’s hair.
“You’re really not scared of sharks?” Izzy asks softly.
Jack shakes his head. “Not in the slightest. Like I said, they’ve got nice smiles.” Their next kiss is deeper, warmer, longer, stirring something deep in him that Izzy thought was long dead. Izzy wonders if they’re even going to make it across the threshold when his stomach grumbles between them. They break apart with gentle laughter, Jack reaching to link his fingers with Izzy’s. The touch sends sparks all the way up Izzy’s arm.
“Can I warm you up your dinner?” Jack asks. “We can start there?”
Izzy nods, smile still etched on his face. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be…sweet of you.”
And later, as they eat their dinners on the sofa and share the twists and turns of their days, bouncing between laughter and eye rolls and playful shoves and intertwined fingers, Izzy wonders why on earth he was so frightened of this.
And even later, when he’s full and sleepy and Jack is on top of him on the couch pressing kisses down his neck and over his collarbone, Izzy thinks it may not be so bad, to sand down the rough edges of himself into something just a little smoother.
And the next morning, when it’s time to take the train back down to Brooklyn and do it all over again, after Izzy untangles himself from Jack, after he lays one last kiss on Jack’s forehead just to see him smile in his sleep, he adds a splash of milk and a spoonful of sugar to his coffee, just because.