Chapter Text
The beach house is painfully pastel. Of course it is. Stede had grinned like a golden retriever when he found it online—“It’s perfect, Izzy! Right by the water, and it’s even got a porch swing!”—and Izzy hadn’t had the heart (or the vocabulary) to explain why those words tasted like salt and stale rum in his mouth.
He'd almost cancelled. Twice. But Lucius threatened to show up and drag him by the ears, so now he's here. With his too-nice suitcase. In his very-soft linen shirt. Staring at an ocean that used to mean running. Hiding. Hurting. It’s different now.
It’s quiet. Not silence—just quiet. Stede humming in the kitchen, trying to slice mangoes like he’s in a cooking show. A seagull laughing somewhere far off. The gentle clink of glass on wood as Stede brings out two cold lemonades.
Izzy’s legs are stretched out on the porch swing, one knee bouncing. The sunshine feels suspicious on his skin—too warm, too kind. But it doesn’t hurt. And that’s new.
Izzy doesn’t say “I love you.” Not yet. But he—packs Stede’s ridiculous sunhat so he won’t forget it. Offers the last churro bite without even being asked. Washes the sand off their feet before bed. Lets Stede hold his hand. In daylight.
That night in the beach house, Stede rolls over, kisses the back of Izzy’s shoulder, and whispers, “You’re doing so well, love.”
Izzy swallows. Doesn’t speak. Just reaches back and pulls him closer. But his fingers shake with how badly he wants to say it. With how close it is. With how much he means it.
[Unicorn Watch 2.0 🦄 🏖️ Chat: 27 New Messages]
[Lucius: Update for you guys that will arrive tomorrow: They're gross now. like, disgustingly happy. Also Izzy wore LINEN. white linen. i need hazard pay.]
[Frenchie: Pics or it didn’t happen.]
[Lucius: attaching now. prepare yourselves.]
[photo.jpg attached]
Izzy: barefoot, in said linen shirt, sitting on a porch swing with an unlit cigarette, glaring into the horizon like he’s waiting for the war to start again—but Stede is next to him in flamingo-print shorts and smiling like it’s a romcom. Their knees touch.
[Jim: Looks like he’s going to kill someone. but like… lovingly? protective war criminal chic.]
[Olu: They’re so married.]
[Roach: Has he eaten?? (I packed three bundles of emergency tamales in his bag. CHECK THEM.)]
[Lucius: Yes roach. he ate. he grumbled about the texture and then asked if there were more. I nearly cried.. Also i caught him putting sunscreen on stede’s bald spot. if that’s not love idk what is.]
[Buttons: The sea knows. The sea remembers.]
[Lucius: okay honestly? same.]
[Frenchie: sooooooo when’s the wedding? bc i have a hat. and vengeance to unleash on the open bar.]
It was supposed to be a light conversation. They were lounging under the striped umbrella, feet in the warm sand, Stede sketching in his journal, Izzy chewing on dried mango (complaining about it, of course, but still eating it). They were talking about old jobs— Stede didn't really know anything related to work before the gallery, before the crew.
The conversation drifted toward sunburns and dehydration and Izzy, in that half-bored, half-sardonic voice he uses when he’s trying to seem unaffected, said:
"Worst one I ever got was in training. Heatstroke, hallucinations. Left tied to a fence post in direct sun to 'teach me a lesson'. Cunt forgot me there for six hours."
There was an awful silence. Everyone exchanging horrified looks with each other. Stede reaches, placing his hand on Izzy's shoulder “That’s—Israel, that’s not—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Izzy waved it off. “Just how it was.”
They shifted in the sand. Stede returned to his sketching, and Izzy chewed thoughtfully on his mango, letting the conversation drift. “Funny how some injuries stick with you,” he said quietly, almost as an afterthought. Not joking, not looking for sympathy. “People assume it’s war, of course. Most don’t ask. They don’t need to.”
He flexed his foot under the umbrella, the pinky toe missing, almost invisible. “Years later, after we’d built the houses, run the business, gotten everything in order… someone made a mess of things. Sold off everything without telling me. I was moving furniture in the only house left, alone, trying to keep it together, and the staircase gave. Whoops toe didn’t make it.”
He shrugged lightly, laughing like he just said something funny and chewing the last piece of mango. “Small. Stupid. Unnecessary. You survive, you learn not to let it happen again.”
“Jesus,” Lucius said from the other side of the umbrella, shaking his head, though his tone was light. “And here I was worried about stubbing my toe in sandals.”
“Exactly,” Olu added, grinning. “Let’s hear about the time you actually survived your own stupidity, huh?”
The group laughed, the tension easing.
"Ash, excuse me! I have impeccable balance!!" Lucius answer all fakes indignace.
The conversation flowed again, moving to sunburns, clumsy pets, spilled drinks—lighter stories that made room for everyone to chip in—while Izzy leaned back, letting the gang carry the mood. The sun warmed his shoulders, the sand sifted between his fingers, and for a while he could just be part of the laughter.
But the beach never quite let him forget. Decades of memory—from Afghanistan to the reckless years after, all the chaos and sand-strewn mistakes—sat like grit beneath the surface. He managed it, contained it, smiled with the gang. By the end of the afternoon, he’d still be standing, joking, helping pass the chips, laughing at Lucius’s dramatics. But he carried it all quietly, the tension never fully gone, the sand always a little heavy under his skin.
But even as the laughter carried on, Stede noticed small things: Izzy’s hands lingered tensely on his mango, flexing the sand between his fingers a little too deliberately; he answered questions with clipped humor, just a touch too fast; his gaze drifted to the waves, then back, as if scanning for something unseen. The sun that had felt warm earlier now pressed against him like a weight he couldn’t shake.
During dinner, when Roach’s tamales made their third miraculous appearance (Lucius had snuck them into the beach house fridge, of course), Izzy brushed off Stede’s shoulder squeeze, claiming the sun had drained him. The group laughed, stories flowing, but Stede could see the tension in Izzy’s posture, in the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot. The beach—the sun, the sand, the memories it carried—was a quiet storm he kept locked away all day.
By nightfall, the storm broke.
Stede woke to the sound of gasping. Not the usual snoring-grunt that had become strangely endearing, but a low, panicked whimper. Izzy’s legs were tangled in the sheets like he was trying to escape, and his hands were clenched so tight his nails had left tiny crescents in his palms.
For a brief, fleeting second, his mind darted to the staircase, the pinky toe—the careless chaos that had left a permanent mark. Small, stupid, unnecessary. And yet it had stayed with him, just like this.
“Hey. Israel. Love—it’s me. It’s just me.”
Izzy jolted upright, blinking wildly, chest heaving.
“I—I was back there. Fuck. I couldn’t move.”
Stede didn’t speak right away. He sat beside him, slowly, giving him space but not going anywhere. “I know,” he said softly, hands in his lap, not reaching unless asked. “I remember what you said earlier. About the sun. It’s not nothing. It’s not something you’re supposed to just carry around. Not alone.”
Izzy pressed his palms to his eyes, voice raw.
“I don’t even know why I said it. Just came out. Like it’s normal. Like I’m still fucking there.”
“You’re not,” Stede said. “You’re here. You’re safe. You’re with us. And I don’t need you to tuck those stories away like they’re just anecdotes. I’ll listen. As many times as you need to tell them.”
A long silence. Izzy leaned into him at last, head resting on Stede’s shoulder. He was still shaking, but it was beginning to slow.
“You didn’t try to fix it,” Izzy acknowledged him.
“No." Stede whispered. “See? I’m finally learning!"
Izzy let himself be held and chucked a little "Yeah you are, soon you'll be top of the class!
Lucius found Izzy on the back porch, next morning. Staring at the fog like it owed him something. A half-drunk mug of coffee rested on the railing, the cooled steam hinting it had been untouched for a while.
“Hey, grumpy,” Lucius said softly, stepping barefoot onto the wooden boards. “You look like you wrestled a kraken in your sleep.”
Izzy didn’t laugh, but he didn’t snap either. Progress.
“Didn’t sleep much,” he muttered. “Stede fussed over me. Wouldn’t let me go back under.”
Lucius settled beside him, wrapping his hoodie tighter around his chest. “That’s kind of sweet. In a weird, old-married-couple way.”
Izzy scoffed. “It’s not— We’re not—” He waved a hand vaguely in the air. “He’s just... There. Made sure I didn’t choke on my own tongue or swing at shadows.”
Lucius glanced at him sideways. “You talk about it more now.”
Izzy shrugged, jaw tight. “If I pretend like the memories are not happening, they just gets louder.”
Lucius nodded. “Yeah. Brains are like that. Like: oh, you’re ignoring me? Cool, I’ll scream then.’”
That earned a breath of a laugh from Izzy. “Pretty much.”
They watched the mist curl off the shore for a moment. From inside, the clatter of dishes and Stede’s soft humming carried faintly through the air. Lucius nudged Izzy’s shoulder with his own.
"You know, you don’t have to be okay to be loved, right?”
Izzy went still.
“I mean it,” Lucius continued. “Stede fussed because he wants to. Not because you earned it. Not because he’s waiting for you to snap out of it. Just... because he gives a shit.”
Izzy didn’t look at him, but his fingers flexed around the mug. “Yeah. And what do I do?”
“You let it happen,” Lucius said. “You drink your grossly strong coffee and maybe don’t bite people who care about you. That’s a good start.”
Izzy huffed, then finally took a sip. Still warm enough. “You always talk this much in the morning?”
“Only when people are clearly brooding dramatically in beach mist, like a tortured novel protagonist.”
Izzy rolled his eyes. “Takes one to know one.”
Lucius smirked. “Exactly.”
They stayed there a while longer, quietly watching the world return to color. After a very long moment of silence—a real one, and honestly unnerving coming from Lucius Fucking Spriggs—Izzy glanced sideways.
Lucius wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t talking. Just staring out at the surf, lip slightly pressed between his teeth like he was trying to hold something back.
“…You good?” Izzy asked, quiet.
Lucius exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. I just—” He ran a hand through his messy curls. “You ever have one of those moments where someone says something and it hits a nerve you didn’t even know you still had?”
“Every fucking time Stede calls me ‘dear,’” Izzy deadpanned.
Lucius snorted softly. “Not what I meant, but… fair.”
Another pause.
“My dad used to try to beat the gay out of me,” Lucius says suddenly, eyes still on the mist. “Waterboarded me in the sink once"
Izzy's feels the immediate tension creep back to his shoulders.
"Said he was cleansing me.” His voice didn’t wobble, but there was a tension in his throat that made Izzy’s stomach clench. He deliberately unclench his hand around the cup he's holding.
“Shit.”
“Yeah,” Lucius shrugged, tone way too casual for what he was saying. “I got good at performing straight. Until I didn’t want to anymore. Until I stopped caring if it made me a target.”
Izzy didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t offer empty words or cliches. Just sipped his coffee and let Lucius talk.
“I think I used to wear my trauma like glitter, you know?” Lucius said, voice a bit raw now. “Like: 'Hey, look! Sparkly pain! Pay attention!’ But seeing you…” He turned slightly to look at Izzy. “You carry yours like a blade. Not for show. For survival.”
Izzy blinked at him. “That’s either the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten or the best one.”
Lucius smiled, sad and warm. “Maybe both.”
They fell quiet again. But this time, it wasn’t heavy. Just shared. And when Izzy finally said, “You made it out Lad, didn’t you?”
“So did you.”
Izzy looked at him then, really looked. Lucius raised his mug like a toast. “To you, indestructible little fucker”
Izzy clinked his against it. “To being stubborn enough not to stay broken.”
The mist had lifted completely by then, and the day was starting to shine.
When Lucius came back to his and Pete's room his boyfriend is already ‘hunting’ for breakfast
"Morning, Babe" Said Lucius as he kisses his cheek.
"Hey, sunshine! Sleep well?"
"Yeah. Had a chat with Izzy on the porch earlier.” Lucius flops onto one of the couches.
"Everything okay? What kind of juice you want to drink today babe? “
"Orange please. Better than okay. We talked about... past stuff. I shared about my dad, the things he did. Izzy listened. Really listened."
"I'm so proud of you, Babe!!” Pete lift his head so he can see his “proud of you” face, while trying to cut an orange I'm half.
"Babe, mind the fingers!! Thanks. It felt good to open up. And Izzy, he gets it. More than I expected."
"He's a tough one, but there's depth there." Said Pete, squeezing the orange into a pink glass.
"Yeah. It's nice, connecting like that."
Lucius took the pink glass from Pete and tipped it carefully, sniffing the bright citrus. “Perfect,” he said, grinning.
Pete chuckled, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Only for you, Babe.”
Lucius smiled, letting himself lean back against the couch, glass in hand. “Yeah… only for me.”
They sat there for a moment, quiet, sipping juice, letting the morning stretch out around them Gossiping and laughing, no crises, no ghosts—just breakfast, sunlight, and each other.