Work Text:
The night’s silence is broken by distant cars, little more than a whisper to his ears. Who they contain and where they are going, he’s not sure.
The hour is late, a little after 1am if the clock is to be believed.
From his perch, leaning against the open window, he’s got a view of the sleeping city, illuminated by Christmas decorations - an array of gaudy lights and inflatable characters. It’s surreal to see the city so quiet and peaceful when it’s usually the opposite.
Somewhere in the neighbourhood, he hears the call of the nocturnal wildlife - a fox, maybe.The phone lines sway in the gentle midnight breeze.
With their neighbours away visiting family, there’s no noise from the adjoining property. Few souls are awake at this time, even fewer whose intentions are pure.
The world is silent, and Israel Hands is alone, in every sense of the word. It’s the third night in a row his slumber has been plagued by his insomnia.
In his youth, his father would brush it off as excitement for the festivities or another weak excuse to ignore something that dismantled any routine he tried to create. Ageing into his teens and early adulthood, the battles with his mental health were cast aside, ignored with weaker excuses that never answered the question of why he feels this way.
Married, he’s living the life he once dreamed of, having his own home and a beautiful husband - what more could he need?
If he knew that, he might understand why he hasn’t rested in days, and why he hasn’t felt whole for so long.
Leaning against the window frame, he lets the gentle breeze wash over his torso, a calming reminder of his reality.
Minutes pass by like seconds, but drag like hours, taunting his sleep-deprived psyche. There are no stars in the sky, shielded by a layer of clouds and dimmed by artificial light.
Even the moon is nowhere to be seen.
A shame, truly.
The only awakened minds are the boy racers in the distance, speeding towards their inevitable doom. He never understood the joy in those high speeds - what enjoyment could be worth the risk?
Coming face-to-face with mortality is a high that many can’t say they’ve faced. That is the thrill.
He can’t confess about his experience with that either, not in its entirety. Self-infliction is a cold mistress.
Silence befalls the world around him.
Cars stop, the foxes are no longer calling for their mate, and the night is still. At the hour so late, where can he find companionship? How can he find comfort in his self-imposed isolation?
Lowering his gaze, his eyes land on a photo frame.
In the low light, it’s a challenge to make out the shapes and their faces. But it’s a photo he’s seen countless times before; one he adores and cherishes. His husband is by his side; it’s a candid snapshot of their wedding day.
“Iz... that you?”
Turning around, he finds Lucius sitting up in bed, with the duvet low around his waist, and Lucius rubs sleep from his eyes.
“Yeah, Lu, I’m here,” Izzy whispers, stuffing his hands into his pyjama bottoms.
The floor creaks as he takes a shaky step closer to the bed.
“What’s up?” Lucius asks, folding the duvet back and turning to face his husband.
Any arguments about Lucius going back to sleep will fall flat – they both know that. It’s not the first time they’ve had this discussion, and it won’t be the last.
Remaining still, Izzy watches his husband’s exhausted movements as Lucius yawns deeply and stands from the bed.
“Nothing,” he eventually whispers, a weak lie and a weaker excuse, but he’s quick to follow it up, “I just needed some air...”
Lucius doesn’t need to say the words for him to hear ‘uh huh’ uttered with a level of sass only he can muster.
An arm comes to rest around his waist; his husband is as close as he can be, and warmth flows from his fingertips on Izzy’s waist.
Izzy lets his mind drift in Lucius’ tender embrace, a touch that no other can enjoy.
“Been needing a lot of air this week,” Lucius comments, his gaze somewhere distant, looking out of the window.
Implications remain unspoken, and Izzy nods, remaining silent to that which he keeps buried deep inside.
He can’t bring himself to talk about it – he doesn’t know what’s going on or why he’s had this issue since childhood, seemingly without a cure.
His mind is thrust back to the first time he saw a psychiatrist, several months before he met Lucius, and the words that were spoken in the appointment.
There is no cure for it.
A malicious disease, invisibly devastating, as tragic as most illnesses are. The hardest to diagnose, impossible to cure.
His only hope is medication, though the usual laundry list of changes to his lifestyle and diet was suggested.
Exercise, get more fresh air, talk to people, and socialise more.
They say those things knowing he’s living with a disease, which makes the mere thought of such activities something closer to a nightmare.
Years have passed since those days. He quit smoking, started running, and joined a gym and fitness classes.
He started medication and joined social clubs, meeting the man who would become his husband in an art class.
But the disease has worsened, progressing far quicker than he realised. If it were visible, they’d diagnose him as terminal.
If it were obvious how ill he really is, he wouldn’t be expected to carry on as he is. People would see the fatigue and the illness, and they’d tell him to take time to recover.
But his illness isn’t visible. It’s a ghost, the fleeting movement of a shadow out of the corner of his eye, lurking in doorways and around corners when he turns.
“I’m okay,” he lies, fingertips grazing the waistband of Lucius’ sweatpants, “promise...”
He shouldn’t make a promise that he can’t keep, he shouldn’t make a promise based on a lie – it’s not fair to Lucius.
He’s exhausted, pulling himself out of bed to see to his husband at this time of night, like it’s no big deal.
But Lucius’ arms remain steady around his waist, holding him as seconds tick by. And Lucius is warm, wrapping him in an embrace so comforting that Izzy could fall asleep like this.
“Let’s lay down,” Izzy eventually whispers, mustering the courage to speak at a time when it feels right to simply say nothing.
He’s lifted in Lucius’ arms and carried the few steps towards their bed.
“My beautiful husband...” Lucius whispers, gently laying Izzy onto the bed.
Crawling onto the bed, he watches Izzy settling against the mattress, and Lucius clamps down on the smile pulling his cheeks. He’s barely lying on his back before Izzy has curled up against his chest, holding him close in an embrace that’s almost too tight.
Reaching for the duvet, Lucius presses his lips to his husband’s forehead as he covers them with the warmth.
“Do you want me to close the window?” Izzy offers, listening to the sound of Lucius’ heart beating. The repetition distracts him from the noise in his mind; it calms him.
“No,” Lucius answers, combing through his husband’s hair, “you, uh, you needed some air, so leave it open. I’ll be here to keep you warm...”
Izzy nods, trying to hide the tears in his eyes by burying his face against Lucius’ neck.
“I know this time of year is difficult,” Lucius whispers, “more difficult than the rest of the year... if there’s anything I can do...”
Izzy curls closer and nods, silent. It’s not that he doesn’t know what to say, but he doesn’t know how to say it. He’s spent his life denying his illness, persevering when he should have taken a break.
With his husband, he’s forced to have that downtime, and he doesn’t feel guilty that he’s not running himself ragged because it’s often a request from his husband.
“I love you...”
It’s the only thing he can think to say, insufficient for how he feels about the man holding him. His feelings are bigger than he can comprehend, something complicated and convoluted.
Love, anxiety, fear, adoration...
“I love you too,” Lucius whispers, stroking his palm along Izzy’s spine, “even when you don’t love yourself...”