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“I’m not like you,” little Israel says.
“No shit,” Izzy says.
For one thing, Israel lets people call him Israel still, as if hearing those syllables from the wrong mouth won’t kill him quicker than a sword to the gut. His hair’s all black, doesn’t even have the streak of silver he sprouted just shy of 25, the one that Edward mocked for weeks even when he was twirling it around his fingers. It falls to his shoulders, which means Israel’s past 18 - but not much, because if he were sailing with Calico Jack he wouldn’t have it half-up in that little bun Jack said made him look like a girl. Twenty, maybe. All of twenty years old, and nose-to-nose with his silver-haired, scarred, that’s First Mate Hands to you self.
Fuck’s sake, what a nightmare.
As soon as Israel had stopped trying to stab everyone on the crew, and Edward had stopped laughing his ass off long enough to ascertain that yes, this was that Israel fucking Hands, although no, no one knew how he’d gotten tossed 30 years into the future on a wave - the moment Edward decided he was done with Israel, Izzy had grabbed his past self by the scruff of his neck and dragged him below to his quarters. He’s not angry, exactly, just embarrassed on his own behalf and on behalf of this cocky little shit who can’t look at Edward without wearing his heart in his eyes.
So now here they are: Izzy and Israel, face-to-face.
“What’s with the collar?” Israel demands. Izzy’s hand flies to his cravat. Fuck, that’s too much of a tell. It brings the ring on the cravat to Israel’s attention too. Israel stares at it for a long time, long enough that Izzy considers tossing him overboard and letting him drown even if that would kill him too. “Did - “
“Fuck off. Was I really this nosy?”
“I’m right here. ”
“Unfortunately.”
“Why do you hate me?” Israel’s gaze is piercing, formidable. Izzy wonders if his own is the same. Wonders if it’s more his face and less his yelling that makes the crew scatter when he approaches. Israel’s North Star tattoo by his eye is healed. Definitely 20, then. Edward had just turned 16 when he carved it into Israel’s skin.
“Why do you care?” Izzy asks. He doesn’t remember caring what other people thought of him. Well, at least not most people. Why would he?
“Because I literally just got here, you old fuckin’ bilge rat, and I thought maybe, you being me and all, you might have some relevant information on how to fuckin’ survive on this poncey ship until I can get home, yet all you’ve done is drag me around like an errant fuckin’ cabin boy.”
Because every time you open your mouth or even think about Edward you reveal more about the both of us than anyone on this ship needs to know, Izzy thinks. Aloud, he says, “I’d forgotten how bloody stupid I was when I was young. And arrogant. And - “ Izzy flicks the gold earring dangling from Israel’s right ear - “ completely unsubtle.”
“Hard to make a name for yourself when you’re being subtle.”
Izzy scoffs. “You’re not making a name for yourself, you’re making a name for Blackbeard.”
“Who?”
Oh, right, teenage Edward had maybe three scruffy patches of facial hair. “Edward. You’re making a name for Edward. You’ve already made that agreement, haven’t you? He’ll be the mysterious captain with all his fuckeries and dalliances while you carve a path for him with your fuckin’ sword.” Israel goes stiff, his expression suddenly closing off. His gloved hand dives for his belt before he realizes Jim still has it after disarming him when he washed up on the ship. Israel’s throat bobs when he swallows. “What, you scared?” Izzy asks. Israel swallows again.
Then Izzy remembers: twenty. Before the mutiny. Still on Hornigold’s ship. Israel’s not sleeping at this point, if Izzy remembers correctly; when he dozes it’s with a blade in his hand and a pistol on his hip. So much careful planning went into that mutiny, months and months of set-up to ensure Edward would come out as king of the fucking ship. It so easily could have ended with them both gutted and used as flags, or hanging dead from nooses.
Izzy laughs, not unkindly. “Look whose ship you’re on, boy.”
Israel glances around Izzy’s quarters before looking back at Izzy. His eyes linger on the cravat and ring before he stands up straight and meets Izzy’s gaze. “Edward’s.”
“Edward’s. And has been for nigh on 30 years.” Well, not this particular ship. Fuckin’ Revenge. Fuckin’ Bonnet, who watched Israel wash up on deck with a horrible kind of glee. Still, it’s Blackbeard’s flag flying from the mast.
Izzy watches Israel’s shoulders drop. He doesn’t relax, exactly, but he’s looking at Izzy with less vitriol and more curiosity. “So we won.”
“Of course we did.”
“Then what the fuck did you do to me?”
“Excuse me?”
Israel grabs Izzy’s cravat and wraps it around his fist. “What. The fuck. Did you do to me.”
If anyone else were touching Izzy’s cravat, their hand would be removed from their body right about now. But Izzy highly suspects that whatever he does to Israel will have ramifications for himself, and he likes his hand where it is, thanks. “We’re alive. You’re welcome.”
Israel yanks him forward until their noses touch. “You call this fuckin’ alive? We were supposed to be Edward’s right-hand man. We were going to have a whole fuckin’ fleet! We were going to captain our own ship under Edward! We’re supposed to - ” He cuts himself off, dragging in great gulps of air.
“Go ahead,” Izzy says softly, dangerously. “Go on and say it, boy.”
Israel rubs his thumb over Izzy’s ring. “I know this isn’t his,” he hisses. “I know it’s not, because if it were you would have fucking told me. If it were you wouldn’t be ashamed to have me up on deck. You’d be fucking proud. He would have been happy to fucking see me. ”
Izzy keeps himself still. He wants to scream in Israel’s face, but more than that he wants to see him squirm. Make him reconsider grabbing First Mate Izzy Hands by the throat. He expects Israel to spit at him a little. It’s what he thinks he would have done. Instead, Israel’s face goes pale, then red and splotchy around the eyes.
“So that’s it,” he rasps. “We win, and then we - we spend thirty years being fucking miserable?” He doesn’t let go of Izzy’s cravat.
“ No, ” Izzy snaps because it’s not fucking true. “We win, and we take the best of the crew with us. Fang - one of the gunners - he’s still with us today. We sail alone for a while before we start putting together a fleet. Form an alliance with Calico Jack for a while.” Israel bares his teeth. Izzy grimaces back. “Yeah, sorry, Ed still gets shit for brains around him. Not ideal. Then we sail alone again. Terrorize the whole coast. Anytime we dock at the Republic of Pirates, we get anything we want. If we dropped you off there, you could walk into any pub and say you’re sailing with Blackbeard and get enough free rounds of drinks to have you deep in your cups before suppertime. When we raid ships most of them surrender the second they see our flag.”
“Edward says we’ll live like kings.”
“We do, when we sail peaceful waters.”
“Well, kings still fight wars.”
That startles a laugh out of Izzy. “Suppose you’re not wrong.”
“But he doesn’t…choose me.”
“I’m First Mate Izzy Hands,” Izzy says. “I run this ship with an iron fist. Anything Edward decides, I carry out.” Most of the time, anyway.
Israel slowly releases the cravat, only to press his thumb into the swallow on Izzy’s neck. “How many of these do you have?”
“Can you count that high?”
Israel raises an eyebrow. “As if you don’t know I’m the only one on Hornigold’s ship who knows how to balance a ledger.” He digs his thumb into Izzy’s neck. “So thousands on thousands of miles, then.”
“Thousands of miles. Thousands of raids.” Hurricanes, night raids, British and Spanish navies. Sickness so profound it wiped out everyone on the ship aside from Ed, Izzy, and Fang. Rations running low. Men losing teeth and hair to scurvy. Attempted mutinies. Weeks Edward couldn’t get out of bed for reasons he never explained to Izzy.
And beautiful dawns viewed from the prow of the ship. Evenings in the crows’ nest with Edward, passing his pipe between them. The one time Ivan - just a cabin boy at the time, young enough he was still missing a top tooth - pleaded with Izzy until he sang. The whole crew had stopped and listened, even Edward. Not a single one had laughed or teased, just listened intently in a way they never did. When Izzy finished, Edward clapped a hand to his shoulder and squeezed.
“And you’re telling me you’re not miserable?” Israel says it like a challenge, but Izzy hears the real question beneath it. Fuck’s sake, he doesn’t remember being this earnest at 20. Then again, he is talking to himself. Maybe that makes a difference.
“There’s always misery in sailing,” Izzy says. “We’re pirates, for fuck’s sake.” But he takes another look at Israel and says, “No. I’m not always miserable.”
“What about Edward?” Israel asks.
Izzy snorts. “Edward’s gloriously happy all the fuckin’ time. It’s disgusting.”
“Good. That’s - good.”
Izzy shakes his head. “That’s all you care about, isn’t it? If Edward’s happy, you’re happy.”
“Of course I fucking care if Edward’s happy. My job is to make him happy. You know this. You’re his First Mate. ”
A few months ago, Izzy had said much the same to Stede: It's my job to make sure that Edward is content. One missing toe later, Izzy knows that’s an impossible task. “My job is to keep this ship afloat. To keep as many of us alive for as long as possible. That includes Edward. His happiness is - “ He almost says Stede fuckin’ Bonnet’s responsibility, but Israel doesn’t have the context required to understand, and Izzy refuses to ruin his younger self by talking about Stede fuckin’ Bonnet. So he says “His happiness is his own responsibility” instead because that’s pretty close to the truth.
Israel wets his lips. His eyes keep flickering down from Izzy’s eyes to his cravat before hovering around his mouth. Izzy realizes with a jolt that maybe Spriggs isn’t lying when he says Izzy’s always staring at people’s lips. What the fuck. Has he had this tell his whole life?
“But,” Israel says. “But if we’re not making him happy. Are we ever truly happy?”
“I already told you we aren’t always miserable. Happiness isn’t generally found on the high seas.” Unless you’re Ed and his prissy little man. Or Spriggs and Black Pete and Fang. Or Jim and Boodhari. Or the rest of this fucking ridiculous ship, apparently. Izzy doesn’t say any of this to Israel, though. He doesn’t want him getting the wrong idea: that happiness is something either of them can ever grasp. No point in getting Israel’s hopes up so soon after dashing them.
But the thing about Israel is he’s fucking intelligent, because Izzy’s fucking intelligent, and he can see right through Izzy’s bullshit because he is Izzy. “I couldn’t get a very good look at your crew before you dragged me below deck like someone’s fuckin’ disappointed father, but they seemed pretty happy to me. Laughing. Joking.” Israel’s lip curls. “Could do without them laughing at me.”
“Good luck,” Izzy grumbles.
“So…then where does that leave us?”
Izzy can see Israel mapping out his life in his mind. Those cogs are always turning; god, Izzy wishes he could keep his cogs from turning all the time. His whole life’s been the next scheme, the next raid, the next command from Edward.
It’s not horrible. He’s pretty proud of his life’s work. Keeping Blackbeard alive? Helping build that legend? Not many people can lay claim to that - not more than two people can, and one of them is Blackbeard himself. Izzy isn’t a soft man, but he wants to reassure his younger self that his life has meant something.
And. And.
Izzy Hands is fucking tired.
He might not have remembered how fanatical his younger self really was, but he can never forget how desperate that boy was for another man’s touch. It’s why he watches Lucius and Pete and seethes, sometimes silently and sometimes aloud; it’s why every time Bonnet braids Edward’s hair he wants to explode. Izzy reaches out, slowly enough to telegraph his motion because he’s still trying to keep both hands, and grips the back of Israel’s neck.
“I’m alive at fifty,” he tells Israel. “I’m a damn good pirate. A loyal First Mate. I wear that with fuckin’ pride. ”
Israel takes a breath. Nods. Pulls away from Izzy’s grip before leaning into it again. “You scruffed me like this earlier,” he says.
“I know how to make myself listen.” Izzy can feel Israel’s pulse against his fingers. It’s pounding as if Israel’s been running. Israel’s eyes are wandering again. Izzy bites back a laugh - at the ridiculousness of this situation and also at how unsubtle Israel is. He’s - he’s attracted to Izzy. He thinks Izzy’s attractive. Izzy hasn’t thought of himself as even a little appealing in years. Certainly not since he first boarded the Revenge.
Well then.
Izzy shakes Israel by his neck, just slightly. “I know what I like.”
“Oh.”
“And since you’re so concerned about our happiness….”
Israel lets out a soft ‘oh’ of comprehension. “You don’t think this is fuckin’ weird?” he says. He doesn’t specify what this means. He doesn’t have to.
“No fuckin’ weirder than seeing myself from thirty years ago wash up on deck.”
Israel looks at Izzy’s mouth again, and that’s it. Izzy hauls him in for a kiss. Israel kisses hungrily, hands scrambling to find a grip on Izzy’s shoulders. Izzy nips his lips a few times before he gets the message to slow down. Nobody’s going to come bother them, even if they don’t have a clue what Izzy and Israel are up to. The crew has just enough sense to leave Izzy alone, and Edward at least must assume Izzy’s interrogating Israel to figure out how to get him back to his ship. They’ve got nothing but time.
Israel’s not a bad kisser once he calms down a little. This leads Izzy to believe he must be a decent kisser, which is nice to know, considering he rarely gets the opportunity to kiss anyone anymore. He clings to Izzy’s cravat and drags him closer. When he presses against Izzy, he’s already hard. Fuckin’ hot-blooded kid, Izzy thinks. God, he’d forgotten all about that. He used to go off like a rocket if someone looked at him just right.
Izzy pulls back from a particularly intense kiss to say “Let’s try something.”
Israel licks his spit-wet lips. “What?” Izzy drops to his knees. “Oh. Oh - “
“That a yes?”
“I’m going to make a fool out of myself.”
Izzy snorts. “What does it matter? You’re the only person in this room.”
Israel seems to turn that one over in his mind. Slowly, he nods. He lets Izzy unlace his trousers - cloth for now, not yet leather - and take him right down to the root. “Mother fucker, ” Israel gasps. His hands clutch at Izzy’s hair. The pain’s so good that Izzy’s eyes water with it. He doesn’t bob his head at all, just swallows around Israel while he thrusts frantically. “Jesus fucking Christ if you fucking laugh at me for this I will - ”
Izzy swallows every bit of Israel’s cum. He’s tasted it before. A few of his dalliances have had a habit of feeding it to him. The taste doesn’t surprise him anymore, but Israel’s dick-drunk expression does. Izzy clears his throat and hauls himself onto his cot. “Too old to be kneeling on the fucking floor,” he grouses. “If you want more, strip and get me out of my boots.”
“Get out of your own boots,” Israel says faintly. He sways on his feet while he takes off his shirt. Izzy focuses on getting his own vest and shirt off and starting on his trouser laces so Israel won’t clam up - he knows he panics if someone looks too closely at him when he’s stunned from sex. Israel’s in a headspace now where he’ll want to be good. Want to obey. Izzy’s intensely familiar with that space. When he nudges Israel’s leg with one booted foot, Israel crouches and starts working the boot off.
Israel takes forever getting Izzy’s boots off. Even once he’s set them aside, he keeps crouching there, just staring at Izzy’s feet. Izzy kicks at him. “What?”
“What the fuck happened to your toe?”
Ah. Right. “Edward,” Izzy says.
Israel nods. He looks up at Izzy, frowning. “What did you do?”
“Kept him alive.”
Israel heaves a sigh. “Yeah, he hates that shit, doesn’t he? Fuckin’ idiot. It didn’t fuck with your balance, though, did it? You can still fence, right?”
“Better than anyone on this ship,” Izzy says. He shucks his pants before pulling Israel onto his lap. He’s a skinny shit - those years before the mutiny were lean and miserable. The cigarillo burn scars that Hornigold left on his shoulders are still pink, barely healed over. “Except Jimenez, maybe. They’re the one who had you at knifepoint.”
“I guess that’s fine,” Israel says grudgingly. He tweaks Izzy’s nipples. “Did we ever get these pierced?”
Izzy grunts. “Give it a couple years and you’ll find out.”
“How come you’re not wearing them then?”
“One got ripped out during a raid.”
“Jesus fuck.” Israel’s fingers find the warped part of Izzy’s right nipple. “Maybe I won’t, then.”
“Nah, still get ‘em pierced. Was worth it while they lasted.” Izzy ducks his head to suck one of Israel’s nipples. He’s not really a chest guy, but he knows from experience that Israel’s tits are fucking sensitive. Sure enough, Israel whines and arches into it. “Good boy,” Izzy mumbles.
“Fuck off.” Israel drags Izzy up into a searing kiss. When they break apart, Israel’s frowning at Izzy’s neck. “Hey.”
“What?”
Israel tugs at the cravat. “Take it off.”
A shiver runs through Izzy. “No.”
“If it’s not a sign of matelotage, it’s not that important. Take it off.”
“No.”
“Then what is it? Hmm? What could it possibly mean?”
Izzy swallows. “Edward put it on me when I became his First Mate.”
He supposes Israel will find that romantic, or compelling in some other disgusting way. He’s not expecting the way Israel’s expression hardens. “Like a fucking collar?”
“No, like - ” Like a promise, Izzy thinks, but what’s the promise then?
Israel’s hands loosen the cravat’s knot. Izzy doesn’t stop him. He eases the knot down until the cravat is wide enough to pull over Izzy’s head. Israel sets the cravat on the side table just like that, ring and all. He cups his hand around Izzy’s throat. “That’s better.”
“Not quite.” Izzy shifts Israel’s hand. “There. Go ahead.”
Israel focuses on choking Izzy the way he focuses on maps and blades: with intent. He holds pressure until Izzy’s vision goes spotty, and then he eases off so Izzy can gasp. “Like that?” Israel checks. Izzy can’t quite find his voice, so he takes Israel’s hand and puts it on his hard cock. “Okay, yeah,” Israel breathes. “Must be like that.”
“Let me show you,” Izzy says, and flips Israel so he’s on his back on the bed. Israel tenses up when Izzy touches his neck. Izzy caresses his pulse point. “Trust me,” he says. “I’ve kept us alive this long.”
Israel tilts his head back and lets Izzy press the air out of him. Izzy keeps careful count while he chokes him - precision always matters when someone’s life is in your hands, especially when that life is your own. After three rounds Israel is back to full hardness. Izzy grinds against him until Israel whines.
“I can’t remember,” Izzy rasps. “Have you fucked someone yet? Or will that happen later?”
Israel digs his fingers into Izzy’s back. “Fuck. Uh, no, that must be - that must be later.”
“Want a treat?”
“I’m not a dog,” Israel says, gripping Izzy’s ass. He shifts up the cot when Izzy pushes him, though, takes a trembling breath when Izzy digs a bottle of oil out of his side table. “You really want….”
“Do you?” Izzy asks. He wants to be sure - he’s happy to hurt himself, but not like this. Israel nods so frantically that Izzy laughs. He preps himself quickly, avoiding anything that might make him feel too good too fast, and barely touches Israel to slick him up with oil. He remembers his real first time fucking someone - Fang, actually, the night Edward and Calico Jack decided they’d be sailing together - he came after two and a half thrusts. Fang had been very polite about it, only laughing a little, and had happily accepted an apologetic blow job. Still, Izzy doesn’t think it would be wise to embarrass his younger self. And truthfully, he really wants to get fucked.
“Don’t move,” Izzy warns. He knows Israel will listen. He holds his cock steady and slides onto it in one slow go.
They stay still for a moment, or as still as two men who keep trembling can. Israel’s eyes flutter shut. His chest works like a bellows. Izzy aches to move, he’s ready to take it, but he holds steady, waiting.
“Fuck,” he says without thinking. “I really do curve left.”
Israel bursts out laughing. He throws an arm over his face, but Izzy can still feel the laughter shuddering through him. He grins. Israel thumps his hip with his fist. “Fuck you, old man. Move.”
Izzy’s good at sex. Probably not as incredible as other people on the ship, but he’s good in a way that’s occasionally aided negotiations with allied pirate captains. He knows what men like, and he knows what he likes. He follows that course as competently as he guides a ship through water. He rides Israel’s cock the way he likes it, up slow and down fast, but he throws in a few moves that he’s always liked when someone’s riding his cock: a swirl of his hips every few thrusts, the occasional extra-filthy grind when he’s bottomed out.
After a minute, Israel’s hands come up to grip Izzy’s hips tightly enough to bruise. “There he is,” Izzy says appreciatively. Israel bares his teeth, growls, and moves.
Fuck, yeah, Israel’s good at sex. It might be his first time fucking someone rather than sucking someone or being fucked himself, but he knows what he’s doing. He fucks like he’ll get scored for it, like he’ll get paid for it, like if he does it well enough someone might finally choose him.
Israel’s beautiful, Izzy realizes. He’s fucking gorgeous with his hair spread around him like a dark halo. He’s already scarred and bitter but he’s hopeful and powerful, too. He doesn’t just fuck Izzy like he means it; he fucks Izzy like he wants Izzy to come first, like Izzy’s pleasure matters. He wraps his gloved hand around Izzy’s throat and bare hand around Izzy’s cock and squeezes.
“You’re beautiful,” Izzy gasps even as his vision goes spotty. Israel eases off, eyes snapping wide with surprise. Izzy leans into Israel’s hands to get him to squeeze again, but before he does he finds himself speaking an aching truth: “People should call you beautiful just as much as they do Edward.”
“No - “ Israel bucks into Izzy and comes. Izzy feels the warmth hit for just a moment before Israel’s hands spasm on his throat and cock and he’s coming too. He can’t breathe to speak, so he presses his own gloved hand against Israel’s throat and just holds it there without squeezing.
For a moment Izzy and Israel’s heaving breaths are the only sound aside from the waves and the muffled chatter of the crew up on deck. Izzy wants to collapse right where he is. He knows from decades of experience that waiting for the other guy to pull out leads to a cold sticky mess. He grits his teeth and climbs off of Israel to flop down beside him.
“Are we cuddling?” Israel asks. Anyone else might interpret his toneless voice as disgust. Izzy knows better. He slings an arm over Israel’s shoulders.
“Might as well, at least until we have to clean up. No different than lying in your hammock at night.”
Israel leans his head against Izzy’s temple. He takes Izzy’s gloved hand and holds up his gloved hand to it, comparing. “I don’t lie,” he says.
Izzy snorts. “That’s a lie right there.”
“I don’t lie unless I have good reason to, then. I don’t lie to Edward, for example.”
“No,” Izzy says. “No, typically I don’t lie to Edward.”
“I don’t think I’m in the business of lying to myself.” Israel lets their hands drop. “Maybe deluding myself. But not lying to myself on purpose.”
“Neither am I.”
Israel lifts his head to look Izzy in the eye. “People should call you beautiful too.”
Izzy scoffs. “You’re the young one here. Full of life. People should be begging to be with you, to hear you sing. I’m just an old dog.”
“You probably don’t remember,” Israel says thoughtfully. “When we docked at Nassau, and Edward saw that older captain with his sloop. The one with earrings all up and down his ears.”
“Oh, God, now you’re really testing my memory.” Izzy frowns at the ceiling, thinking. He recalls Nassau for sure; it’s where he’d discovered that Edward could play a few chords on the guitar. If he concentrates, he can briefly conjure up that captain, a man with gray hair plaited down his back and a fascinating mermaid tattoo on his ankle. “I think I recall.”
“D’you remember what Ed called him?” Israel nudges Izzy and grins, a truly wicked look. “Silver fox.”
“Shut up.” Izzy smacks Israel’s shoulder. “Go get a cloth and clean us up.”
“Okay….silver fox.” Israel springs off the cot before Izzy can really get him. Izzy watches, hot-faced, as he gets a cloth and dampens it with water from Izzy’s carafe. He wipes Izzy clean with tenderness that might surprise a stranger but doesn’t shock Izzy one bit. He’s always had manners, just maybe not the same manners as everyone else. Once they’re both clean, Israel lies by Izzy again. “Now what?”
“We’ve got to get you back where you belong, else I’m afraid of what might happen.”
“How?”
“Fuck if I know. Ask Buttons, he’s the fuckin’ mystic.” Izzy rubs his face, then stops and groans. “Oh, that’s fuckin’ horrible. You really are going to have to talk to Buttons.”
“Buttons?”
“Naked man wearing a seagull as a hat.”
“Fuck that. You’re not serious.”
Izzy groans and drags himself upright. He puts on his shirt, vest, and trousers. Israel slides off the bed and helps him into his boots before Izzy can say a word. “Man’s insane, but Edward says he put a real curse on Calico Jack, and I’m inclined to believe Edward.”
“I’m inclined to believe Edward too,” Izzy mutters, tugging on his trousers.
“Good. That’s a good instinct,” Izzy says. Izzy pauses with his shirt halfway over his head and squints at him. “It’s an instinct that’s kept us alive for longer than most landlubbers, let alone pirates,” Izzy points out.
“Yeah. All right then.” Israel shoves his feet into his boots. He yanks the tie out of his hair and pulls all of it back into a businesslike ponytail. “Let’s go see your absolutely mad bird guy so I can get back in time for the mutiny.”
“That’s the spirit.” Izzy claps Israel’s shoulder once before they go up to the top deck together.