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It’s not Israel Hands’ day. It’s not his week; not his month, his year. Not his whole fuckin’ life, really. But today was shaping up to be especially awful. He’s standing outside the door to their— to his shitty fucking apartment, staring at it mournfully . Locked out. He’s lived there for twenty-odd years, and this is the first time he’s ever locked himself out. Edward used to do it all the time, calling Izzy at all hours of day and night to come let him in. He vividly remembers a similarly snowy night; he’d been in the middle of someone’s goddamned backpiece when Ed called. ‘It’s cold out ,’ he’d groveled, ‘ I was taking out the trash. I’ve only got slippers on. Have pity, mate. ’ He’d been forced to comp the guy’s whole piece and leave him in the chair, drive home to let Ed in. His thank-you shag that night was decent recompense, but that didn’t make it any less irritating.
And now here he is, all these years later, trash in hand. Door solidly shut. No keys, no phone, no coat. At least he had sense enough to wear his goddamn shoes.
Well. First step was to finish taking out the trash, Izzy supposes. He trudges through the deepening snow to the row of cans, kicking them lightly until he finds one that wobbles a bit; room enough to fit another bag. He pries off the lid with freezing fingers and deposits his trash. That’s sorted, then.
Izzy walks around to the bedroom window, next. He’s pretty sure Ed’s snuck through it after forgetting his keys. Hell, Jack had snuck through that window more than once. He jiggles the frame. Locked. Of course. This deep into winter, there was no chance Izzy could have left it open.
Ed had always complained about the plastic window sheeting Izzy put up in October. He’d want to open the windows for a smoke, or to let the breeze in on an unseasonably warm day. But It was Izzy who managed their finances, and he’d be damned if any more of their goddamned heat bill was sucked away through the apartment’s single-paned windows. Fuck, if he’d let Ed have his way, maybe the windows would still be unlocked. Maybe Ed wouldn’t have decided—
Fucking whatever. It’s not like he could scramble up over the windowsill anyway, not when it’s this slippery out, not with his leg. Jack and Ed always had a bit more skill with that, anyway. Their six-odd inches on him didn’t seem like much until they were vaulting fucking fences, leaving Izzy to barely scramble over them.
So that was that. Locked out, no phone, no coat. Neighbors he didn’t fucking talk to. Property management was a fucking joke, even if he could call them. Izzy sneezes, doubling over slightly. And on top of it all, he’s got a goddamn cold. Lovely.
He could walk back to the shop, but Fang was likely gone for the evening, too. Fang’s place was too far to walk, Ivan’s likewise. Bonnet’s bunch seem to like him well enough these days, but he’d only ever been to Frenchie’s house. Too fucking far.
Izzy laughs a bit manically to himself. Ex-husband’s house, it is then.
Stede’s house— Stede’s fucking mansion, more or less— couldn’t be more than a couple miles. He’d been over there more frequently, as of late. Party invites, dinners. Sex. He’s still baffled as to why he’s been invited to partake in that . Stede had said that Ed missed him — S’not like Ed had voiced that sentiment.
When the idea had first been floated, the three of them a bit too fucked on brandy, Izzy assumed that there was some deficit in Stede’s skills. Fucking just-out-of-the-closet-Stede-Bonnet . Maybe Ed was getting bored, mourning the life they’d had before missionary-every-time-Stede . But christ, that had been delusional. Stede happened to be quite gifted, both in skill and natural talent . So Izzy still wasn’t sure about his place in all this. But who was Izzy to look a gift horse in the mouth. He wouldn’t turn down the invite, once or twice a month, to come over if he was available. And if he would like to, of course. Always sent day-of, always by Stede.
Izzy half-told himself that accepting the invitation was to make up for denying Ed so much, all those years. In truth, it was mostly selfish. The sex was better than it’d been in years, since the beginning. Since it was just Ed and Izzy on a shitty mattress in some South London squat. Stede seemed to be precisely what they’d always been missing in each other, and it was fucking glorious. He always wound up feeling worse after sneaking out after midnight like a goddamned teenager, but he couldn’t help but go back, time after time.
So that was it, then. Izzy sets out in the direction of Stede’s— Stede and Ed’s, he reminds himself. Fucking horrific that Ed’s ended up in one of those nightmare gated communities they used to vandalize, but who was he to judge. At least one of them made it out of their miserable fucking apartment. Izzy remembered when they’d first found it. Close to the shop, affordable, all original fixtures and vintage charm. They were fucking ecstatic. Turns out it was perpetually cold, with pipes that endlessly knock. No in-unit laundry. Izzy wondered how his life would be different if he could have all the time he spent at the laundromat back. Honestly; probably the same. More time at home to nag Ed, maybe, make him leave, sooner. Fuck.
Izzy pulls his sleeves further down over his fingers, tucking them into his armpits. It’s fucking freezing out—Izzy desperately wishes he’d thrown on more than his shirt and vest to take out the trash. He supposes he could flag down a car to borrow a phone and call Ed— s’not like he’s forgotten the man’s number. But he could probably still make it faster on foot, even slowed down by the snow. Really, if he’d planned to take a fucking stroll he’d’ve taken a cane—the snow made it much harder to walk, having to worry about diminished stability with his prosthetic. Fuck , he wishes he’d at least worn boots with some traction.
By the time he makes it to Stede’s block, Izzy’s flagging. His head pounds in time with his steps, and his nose is running incessantly. He can barely feel his toes. It’s hardly the worst he’s felt, but that wasn’t much consolation.
Stede’s is dark. Porch light on, of course, because that’s the kind of place this was. Where everyone leaves their damn porch lights on, uncaring of frivolous things like electricity bills. But the rest of the house is dark. Izzy checked his watch—it’s only nine, they can’t have gone to bed yet. His knock yields no answer, though. Fuck .
Izzy considers breaking and entering for a moment, before remembering he’s got the garage code. They gave it to him ‘in case of emergency’, though at the time he couldn’t imagine an emergency in which he’d need to sneak into Stede and Edward’s house. This was it, Izzy supposes.
He punches in the code with frozen fingers ( Alma’s birthday, his mind supplies. When had he gotten close enough with his ex-husband’s new partner to know his daughter’s birthday? The world’s a fucking mystery. ) The garage opens with a gravelly creak, dumping its small collection of snow onto his head. Izzy hardly reacts— what’s a bit more snow, at this point.
The car is gone. So they’re out, then; hopefully just for the evening. Would they tell him if they went on vacation? At this point, Izzy doesn’t know. They’d tell him if they were flying somewhere, so he could drive them to the airport. Maybe that’s why they were intermittently fucking him: in exchange for rides to the airport, Izzy thinks a bit hysterically.
They probably wouldn’t tell him if they were gone for just a weekend, though. Why would they need to? Maybe he could just stay here while they’re gone, luxuriate in Stede’s jacuzzi for the day, wear their stupid fucking robes. A little vacation for him, too.
Izzy shakes his head, brow furrowed. God, what’s wrong with him? Getting fucking delusional about squatting Stede’s house? They’re likely just at some benefit dinner, or a date night, or with the kids. Izzy creeps in and lies down on the living room couch, shoes dangled over the arm— who knows what hell he’d have to pay if Stede found out he’d put shoes on the couch. He didn’t honestly trust himself to be able to untie the shoes, not with fingers this frozen, not with his brain fogged with chill and illness. He’d just lie here a moment, until Stede and Edward got home. They’d call him a locksmith, and this whole nightmare would be dealt with.
—-
Izzy blinks awake to Ed’s voice, comforting background noise. Not talking to him, probably on the phone with his mum, or with— Fuck! Izzy realizes with a start where he is. Not their apartment, Ed hasn’t lived there in years. He’s on Stede fucking Bonnet’s couch. And they haven’t noticed him, apparently.
Izzy suddenly realizes he could be shot for being a damn home intruder. Bonnet seems like one of those guys who’s got a case of vintage guns lying around, and wouldn’t be afraid to use ‘em. It would be just his luck to get shot with a musket ball. Really, it’s more likely Ed still carried a knife or two. Izzy certainly does, impossible to break the habit.
Propping himself up, Izzy takes a breath to call out something— and promptly doubles over, coughing uncontrollably. His vision goes spotty, pulling in air becomes suddenly difficult.
“Jesus Christ, Izzy.” Stede’s hands are suddenly on him, holding him steady. It’s rather embarrassing, but Izzy’s mostly focused on controlling his coughs. “When did you get here? Why are you here?”
Izzy manages something between a wheeze and a breath. “Locked m’self out.”
“And you walked over? In this snow?” Stede sounds a bit panicked, and Izzy barely manages to hold in a laugh. As if a couple miles in the snow is going to kill him. Ed and him hadn’t gotten a car until they were close to thirty, and shared for years after that. He’d had plenty of snowy walks. Stede once admitted he hadn’t been on a public bus until he was in his twenties—of course he’d be a fucking twat about the walk.
Izzy pushes himself into something closer to sitting. “Yeah, I walked over. Locked my fuckin’ phone and keys inside, what else was I going to do?”
The frown that plasters Stede’s face makes Izzy feel a bit shit. “S’not that far, really.” He adds, raking a hand through his hair.
Ed’s been suspiciously silent through the whole conversation, still hovering behind Stede. He’s dressed up, they both are. Charity benefit, then. Fancy dinner party isn’t off the table either, Izzy supposes.
“Can you just call a locksmith for me?” Izzy asks. “I’ll be out of here soon.”
“Oh nonsense,” Stede says, patting him on the shoulder. It’s not unlike the way one might placate a child who’s lost a football match. “You’re ill, why don’t you stay here for the night? We’ll get a locksmith tomorrow.”
Izzy glances at Ed. This whole experience is disconcerting as it is, and it feels as though Ed wants no part in it.
“It’s fine, mate.” Ed offers him a smile, though it’s a bit forced.
“I really should get back,” Izzy tries. “Have to open the shop tomorrow, don’t want to put you both out.” Izzy realized he’s fucked up with that last bit; ‘don’t want to put you out’ will only make Stede double down, the stubborn twat.
“Not at all.” Stede grins, suddenly. “Emergency locksmiths are expensive. If you wait until tomorrow, it’ll be much more affordable.”
Izzy prickles a bit over ‘ more affordable ’, even if it wasn’t meant as a dig. But Stede does have him there. Overnight locksmith would cost a fucking fortune—he can certainly afford it , but it doesn’t mean he wants to.
“Yeah, fine.” Izzy says, trying to keep the petulance out of his voice.
“I’ve still got shop keys,” Ed offers. “You can take ‘em, open up tomorrow.”
Izzy snorts softly. “Still need my fuckin’ phone and car keys. Can’t exactly make use of them.” A small look of hurt crosses Ed’s face, at that.
Izzy attempts a softer tone. “Thank you, though. S’nice that you kept ‘em.” Izzy shivers slightly—he’s still damp from the walk over. It’s strange, Bonnet usually over-heats the house.
“Let me get you some dry clothes,” Stede says, brushing a hand over Izzy’s. They’re always touching him— it’s disconcerting as hell, but Izzy can’t deny that the contact is nice. “Ed, why don’t you help Izzy get out of his wet things?”
“Course,” Ed nods, finally stepping closer.
Stede leaves them to stare at each other in silence.
“I can leave tonight,” Izzy says quickly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your fuckin’ date night.”
“No—” Ed says, seemingly louder than intended. “No, don’t go. Sorry. Fuck. I don’t want you to go. It’s just weird, S’all.”
“Yeah. For me too.”
“Do you need help—” Ed trailed off, gesturing vaguely at Izzy.
“M’not a fucking invalid—,” Izzy starts to day, before stopping himself. He’s attempting to be nice; he’s asking for a favor— things would be a whole lot easier if he could manage to not antagonize Ed for once in his goddamn life. “I’ve got it,” Izzy substitutes.
He unbuttons his vest and shirt with clumsy fingers, feeling self-conscious in front of Ed. It wasn’t being naked— He’d had Ed’s cock in him last week. Stede’s too, for that matter. It was the vulnerability of it all. Ed had always hated when Izzy got sick. For all that Izzy understood about Ed, that fact had always left him puzzled. Ed wasn’t squicked by the physicality of it—he certainly didn’t mind holding back Jack’s greasy mop when the man vomited. In fact, he’d been fine when Jack crashed on their couch for a week with the flu. It had to be Izzy, then.
Some of the only times Izzy can remember Ed picking up extra shifts was when Izzy would catch colds. He’d wake up, delirious, to Ed creeping in late. He’d hover, smooth Izzy’s hair back, wipe his forehead, but only while Izzy pretended to sleep. Once Izzy woke, Ed would largely ignore him. At best, leave out a bowl of lukewarm soup. It wasn’t exactly that Izzy minded—it confused him, more than anything.
All these years later and Ed’s still shifting awkwardly, looking like he wants to bolt at the sight of a sick Izzy.
Izzy resolutely does not look at Ed. He shrugs the vest off, leaving his shirt unbuttoned, then leans down to work on his shoes. The motion of it sets him off coughing again, trailing off into wheezing breaths.
Ed keels down at Izzy’s feet. “I got it, Iz. Just sit back.”
Izzy wants to argue, but he doesn’t reckon that bending over again is a good idea.
Ed struggles with the laces for a moment, before yanking the boot off his foot. He looks up at Izzy, eyes doe-wide. “Do I take the other one off? I mean, does it come off?”
Izzy wheezes a short laugh. “Yeah, the boot comes off the fuckin’ prosthetic. You’re not g’na pull my leg off.”
Undoing the laces, Ed works his second boot off significantly more gently. “S’alright, right?”
Mercifully, Stede returns with a mug of tea and a bundle of clothes. “That must be better, Israel. Still feeling cold?”
He is still feeling cold, but isn’t sure what sort of coddling he’d be subjected to if he says as much. Izzy settles on a shrug.
Stede puts a hand to his forehead. “Izzy,” he says, admonishing. “You’ve got a fever. Why didn’t you say something?”
“It’s fine,” Izzy says, gravelly. “It’ll be gone tomorrow.” Not fucking likely, but he’s worked through worse. Izzy’s always been a bit sickly, but he’s no stranger to ignoring it. He’ll be sick either way, he might as well get some work done.
Stede touches his hands next. “Jesus, man, your hands are freezing. Temperature gradient like that can’t be good for you.”
“M’just sick. It’s fine, Bonnet. S’just how I get.”
“Let’s get you in the shower, I think. Warm up your fingers, maybe it’ll burn off your fever.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Izzy mumbles, but the idea of a hot shower sounds too good to really dispute. The chill has soaked into his bones by now, numbing his extremities. His face feels a bit flushed from the fever, but he’s otherwise frigid.
Stede pats him on the arm, beckoning him to follow to the bathroom. As if he needs to be led to their bathroom— it’s not like he hasn’t been in their bathroom plenty. Pissed in it, mopped Stede’s fucking cum out of his chest hair in it. But he follows anyway, trying to focus on breathing evenly. If anything, he hopes that the shower will clear out his lungs. His current phlegm load is fucking untenable.
Stede pulls a towel from the closet and hands it to him. “Oh,” Stede says suddenly. “Can you wear your leg in the shower?” He frowns. “I can draw you a bath if that would be better?”
“It’s fine.” Izzy crosses his arms, leaning against the bathroom counter. The leg is relatively waterproof—he’s got a shower chair at home, but can manage without. The slipperiness of the tub floor is more of an issue, but he’ll be fine if he’s careful.
Stede’s face lights up. “Wait, I think I’ve got just the thing,” Izzy watches him root through the cabinet under the sink until he pulls out a tiny footstool, triumphant. “From when Louis was potty training,” Stede clarifies.
“Lovely,” Izzy says, deadpan. “The stool that your son used to reach the toilet.”
“It can be washed,” Stede protests, running it under the bathtub tap before lathering it with a bit of bodywash. Stede’s using his fancy fuckin’ lavender bodywash to wash a potty training stool. Christ, what does Ed see in this man? ‘ What do you see in this man ?’ a voice in the back of his head asks, right back. Unfortunately, the voice has a point.
After finally managing to shoo Stede out, Izzy finds himself sitting on a comically small Bluey stepstool in the shower. Hardly better than sitting on the floor of the shower, but Izzy’s too relieved by the shower’s heat to gripe. Of course Bonnet would have one of those showers that feel like rain. Maybe that’s how he gets his hair silky-soft. Usually, Izzy really would prefer the scalding heat of his own shower, water pressure like a fucking jet against his back. But he can’t deny the warm rain is quite lovely now. He’d go for the lavender bodywash too, if he didn’t feel so shaky. Now that he was alone, the fog of his cold was starting to really kick in.
Izzy felt a sudden surge of longing for Ed. It wasn’t the nausea or the aches, but the fucking helplessness got to him. It was always easier when Ed was there— Ed meant safety, security. Now he’s sitting in some posh twat’s shower alone, feeling like he’s halfway to passing out.
Washing his face could help revive him. Izzy leans into the spray, hanging his head to let water run through his hair. It does help, a bit. Thoroughly dripping, he settles back, but the motion of it is suddenly too much , sending a familiar nauseated jolt through his gut.
“Fuck,” Izzy groans, taking a breath. Hoping it’ll settle his stomach.
No such luck. Izzy staggers upright, hopping out of the still-running shower to fumble over to the toilet. If he was going to hurl, it wasn’t going to be all over Bonnet’s fancy fucking shampoos.
He’s only managed one pathetic retch before Stede’s knocking on the door.
“Alright in there, Iz?” Ed knocking, then.
“M’fine—” Izzy starts, before he’s heaving again, bile and the half-sandwich he choked down for lunch.
Ed makes a sympathetic noise, hard to hear over the shower. “Can I come in?”
“I’m fine,” Izzy repeats, louder this time. Not exactly an explicit no, but a reasonable attempt to dissuade. He leans his forehead against the cool porcelain. Can’t be that gross, Stede’s likely got regular cleaners.
Ed comes in anyway. Of course he does. The man doesn’t like to be told what to do, certainly not by Izzy.
He squats beside Izzy, putting a hesitant hand on his back. “Sorry, mate. Know how much you hate this.”
Izzy doesn’t move from where he’s pressing his forehead against the toilet rim. “Everyone fuckin’ hates spewing their guts,” he mumbles.
“I don’t think it’s so bad,” Ed muses, running his hand down Izzy’s back. “Usually feel much better afterwards.”
“That’s ‘cause you only puke when you’re drunk as shit.”
“Hm. Yeah, good point. Always feels good to get the schnapps back out,” Ed says, settling down, criss-cross next to Izzy.
“If’you stopped drinking sugared-up booze made for teenagers, maybe you—” Izzy’s interrupted by his own retch, bile trickling into the toilet bowl.
“Sure mate. The man actively vomiting must give good advice on how to avoid it.”
Izzy grumbles weakly.
Ed’s voice softens. “Do you need anything? Some tea? a Tums?”
“Just turn off the fuckin’ shower. I’ll likely throw up anything you give me.”
Ed does as he’s asked, then gets a towel and fills a cup at the bathroom tap. He drapes the towel over Izzy’s shoulders, and offers Izzy the water. “Should drink this, probably. Seems like a good thing for a sick person to do.”
Izzy shrugs, but takes a small sip to appease Ed. It doesn’t make him immediately vomit, which is probably a good sign. The towel is a nice touch too—he’s still naked and dripping water onto the bathroom tile, but s’nice to be a bit covered.
Ed seems to pick up on what Izzy’s thinking. “Stede left clothes,” he starts. “Think you’re ready to get dressed? Or are you gonna keep puking?”
Assessing, Izzy tilts his head up. No major nausea, thank fuck . “I’ll take the clothes, yeah.” He shuts the toilet seat and levers himself up to sit on it, taking the clothes from Ed.
The sweatshirt is Ed’s, from some band he used to drag Izzy to see. It’s a hand-printed thing he remembers Ed picking up at the merch table, band logo an incomprehensible scrawl.
The pants make Izzy bite his lip. They’re a worn pair of flannel pjs, green and blue plaid. He resolutely does not look at Ed as he works them on. Once upon a time they’d had matching pairs. The pants were bought by Ed’s mum, given as a Christmas gift when the boys were in their late teens. They’d visit her every year in the dingy tenement where Ed had grown up, their own little Christmas tradition. The pants were one of the only gifts Izzy could remember Ed’s mum giving him; she’d never had much to spare. It was sweet though, the implication of the gift. I may not completely understand what you boys are to each other, they said. B ut I love you, and I want you both to be warm. Ed had worn his until they were threadbare and torn. He’d always complained that Izzy didn’t wear his own pair much, not understanding until years later. When Ed’s finally fell apart for good, Izzy still had a perfectly good pair to give him. They were a bit short, sure, but Ed had loved them all the same.
Izzy wondered if Stede had just grabbed the pants because they seemed closer to Izzy’s size, or if Ed had told him the story behind ‘em. Izzy shook his head, slightly. Most likely, they were just the topmost thing in the drawer.
Ed brings him his leg and liner without being asked, and Izzy fits it on without too much trouble. He can feel himself flagging, illness, fatigue and dehydration starting to catch up. He’s sickeningly grateful to be here, and not at his lonely fuckin’ apartment, right now. He can’t tell if the awkwardness of the situation has actually burnt off, or if he’s too feverish to care. Either way, he’s not going to complain. S’nice to be taken care of.
Izzy takes Ed’s offered arm without complaint, pulling himself upright and limping beside Ed. When Ed turns toward the bedroom, Izzy stops him. “I’ll get you both sick,” he protests. “I know you’ve got a guest room.”
In lieu of a response, Ed tucks a hand against the nape of Izzy’s neck, kissing him roughly until Izzy finally yields to allow Ed’s tongue in.
There,” Ed says smugly. “Not a problem anymore, is it?”
“Fucking twat. I hope Stede doesn’t have any obligations, or he’ll be fucked too.”
“Some people are willing to take sick days,” Ed says, grinning. “I don’t reckon he’ll mind.”
Izzy rolls his eyes, but allows Ed to take him to their bedroom. It’s strange to be here without the pretense of sex— if he was any less fucked, he’d probably be a bit turned on; pavlovian response and all. This sick, and he’s mostly looking forward to lying down.
He’s peeling his leg off, once again, when Stede appears with a little tray of tea and pill bottles. Stede’s the type to have little trays lying around; one memorable time he’d been invited by for ‘nighttime activities’, there’d been a little fuckin’ tray of dildos laid out on the bed. Can’t the man just keep ‘em in the nightstand like the rest of us? Christ.
“How are you feeling, Israel?” Stede asks gently.
Izzy resists the knee-jerk ‘fine’. “Alright. Shower helped some, I think. Could probably use some paracetamol, if you’ve got it.
Stede hands him two tablets and the tea, and Izzy swallows them efficiently.
Stede gives him a thermometer, next, ignoring Izzy’s exasperation. “If you’d prefer, I can use the in-ear type for babies,” Stede threatens. “Or we can test out other orifices?”
“Christ.” Izzy dutifully puts it under his tongue until the beep. 38.4. Not ideal, but he’ll be alright.
Stede purses his lips, and hands him another paracetamol. “Do you often have this high a fever when you’re ill?”
“Yeah, always got sicker than I had any right to be. It’s pretty normal.” Izzy looks to Ed, who’s gone back to that deer-in-the-headlights expression from earlier. It’s fuckin’ weird.
“Ed, will you look after him a bit? I’m late to videoing the children tonight, Mary’s been texting.” They’re on some tropical vacation, Izzy’s mind supplies. Barbados, maybe? He’s surprised Mary has the patience to wait for Stede to call—the man is notoriously late—but it’s sweet, all the same.
“Don’t need to be looked after.”
“Stede gives Ed a pointed look, and Ed nods, looking serious. They’re fucking ridiculous, the two of them.
Izzy gets into bed properly, scooting to the window side. Bonnet had this ridiculous custom bed built into the wall. Izzy can’t deny that it’s cozy , but fuckin’ hell, it’s not ideal for three. There’s enough rearranging every time they’re in bed for a shag, Izzy can’t imagine what it’ll be like to spend a full night sleeping in it.
Ed crawls in after him, laying nearby but not touching. He’s lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Ed questions softly.
“Yeah.” Izzy gathers the courage to touch Ed’s arm lightly. “What’s wrong, Ed? I really can go home if this isn’t what you want. M’not going to die in my sleep, y’know.”
Ed shudders at that, and Izzy feels immediately bad. “I’m trying to get it, is all. We talked about trying to listen to each other, right? Stede said things would be better if we talked it through, so I’m here to listen.”
“It’s fine. It’s stupid,” Ed says, voice small and wet.
Oh. Izzy scoots into Ed, carding a hand through his hair. “S’not stupid, Eddie.”
“Remember when you got sick—we must have been fuckin’ fifteen or sixteen, living in that punkhouse down in Hackney?”
Izzy does remember, though not well; it was easily the sickest he’d ever been, and most of it was recalled in a feverish haze. He’d eventually ended up in A&E with pneumonia. The next month or so was spent trying to hide from the truancy officers who’d caught onto his scent while he was in hospital, and trying not to wheeze his damn lungs out.
“Yeah, barely. Fuckin’ miserable, that was.”
Ed nods against him. “I wanted to take you to my mums, but you worried about getting her sick. And you told me not to take you to the hospital, didn’t want to get sent back to your da. So I didn’t. I tried to take care of you.” Ed trembles slightly, Izzy feels it. “Stole medicine and shit, but it didn’t work, you just got worse and worse. And finally you were just lying there, and your breathing was all fucked up, and Jack had to take you away to A&E because I wouldn’t give you up. I didn’t want them to send you away. I didn’t want to lose you.”
Ed’s crying proper now, the little sniffles that mean he’s trying and failing to hold it in.
Izzy pets Ed, gentle as he can. This wasn’t what he expected, not in a million years.
“And then you were in the hospital and I couldn’t check on you ‘cause I wasn’t family. They wouldn’t even tell me if you were okay. ”
“Yeah.” Izzy chooses his words carefully, trying to emulate Stede’s therapy-speak. “That had to have been scary.” Izzy feels the regrettable urge to apologize for having been sick, apologize for being sick right now. He wishes he’d realized how distraught Ed had been back then.
“Yeah,” Ed sniffs. “I remember when you showed back up at the house. You were still so pale, said you snuck out before they could send you away.”
“Near fuckin’ miss, I reckon.”
Ed nods. He’s quiet a moment before speaking. “Were you mad? That Jack had to take you in? You never talked about it; seemed so distant afterwards.”
“What? Eddie, no, I wasn’t mad.”
“I thought that you were. That you hated me for not taking good enough care of you, or for letting it get that bad.”
Izzy stifles a wheezy laugh. “Sorry. Fuck. Sorry. I wasn’t mad, jesus christ. I was just embarrassed, I didn’t want to be the weakness that got us both caught. And what fifteen year old wants to be seen spewing their guts out in front of the boy they’ve got a fucking crush on?”
“Oh.” Seems like it’s sinking in for Ed.
“Yeah. I wasn’t mad, course not. Wish I remembered you looking after me. Sounds sweet.”
“Really?” Izzy can hear the relief in the word.
Izzy nods. “That’s why you hate when I’m sick, then?”
“Don’t hate it,” Ed tries to object. “I thought you hated it, I guess. Thought you wanted me to stay away, ‘cause I was shit at taking care of you.”
Izzy shakes his head, amusement ghosting his face. “We’re a right pair, aren’t we. Should’ve been listening to Bonnet’s drivel the whole time.”
“What about Bonnet’s drivel?” Stede says from the doorway.
“Oh, Izzy’s just admitting he likes talking it through .”
“Like fuck I am.”
Stede makes a noise of skepticism, stripping out of his formalwear and into a pair of sleep pants. He sits on the bed to check Izzy’s temperature once more. “Need anything else before bed?” Stede asks.
“Just for you twats to leave me alone,” Izzy responds, which earns him a soft kick from Ed.
“I suppose that can be arranged.” Stede crawls in on Izzy’s other side, boxing him in against Ed. “Paracetamol's on the dresser, and be sure to wake us up if you get sicker. Oh! And there’s a bowl under the bed in case you need to throw up again.”
“It’s also the popcorn bowl,” Ed adds cheerily.
“Of course it is.” Izzy deadpans.
——————————
Izzy groans. Awake, again. He’s been in-and-out for most of the night, burning throat keeping proper sleep at bay. 2:30 am, according to his watch. Ed and Stede are still on either side of him, Ed curled against his side. Stede’s laying on his back, almost motionless. Snoring lightly. It’s rather sweet, really. Historically, Izzy couldn’t stand snoring, but Stede’s was faint enough to fall under the umbrella of white noise. Comforting to have a bit of background sound, especially out here where road noise is practically nonexistent. Izzy can’t help but smile. As shit as he feels, he’s here. Ed’s hair is tickling his cheek, Stede’s letting off heat like a goddamn radiator. Not the worst way to spend a restless night.
It would still be nice to have a bit of a distraction. Sleep seemed pretty fuckin’ unlikely at this juncture. And there weren’t many options without his phone. There was a time where Ed’s phone was fair game, but that was years and a divorce and a leg ago. Izzy propped himself up slowly, trying not to jostle Ed awake. Sitting up against the pillows was a bit of an improvement. His head still pounded, but his sinuses started to clear. He glanced to Stede’s nightstand. A pile of hardbacks, matching bookmarks poking out of most of them. Of course Stede would have coordinating bookmarks. Izzy’d been using receipts, pocket trash, and coupons as bookmarks for as long as he could remember. Ed dogeared on occasion, but likely hadn’t read a book through since reading The Outsiders in fuckin’ secondary school. He used to bring it up sometimes—said Iz was the Johnny to his Dally. Izzy wondered if he even remembered the crux of the fuckin’ book—the two of ‘em died. Couldn’t live without each other. Forty-odd years later, and the comparison made more sense than ever.
Ed snuffled beside him, blinking slowly awake. “Y’alright?” he says, unfocused and muzzy.
“Fine, yeah. Congested s’all.”
Ed nods, scooting closer to Izzy. He presses his nose into Izzy’s shoulder, slinging an arm over his stomach. “Stede still asleep?”
“Think so.” Izzy glances over, double checking. “Sleeps like a fuckin’ Victorian orphan, on his back like that.”
Ed stifles a giggle. “Fuck, he does, doesn’t he. At least I convinced him to stop wearing a sleep mask and nightie to bed.”
Izzy lets out a horse laugh. “ No . Christ, you’re fucking with me, aren’t you.”
“Dead serious. He called it his nightshirt, said it helps his skin breathe.”
“Really something, isn’t he.”
“Yeah,” Ed says tenderly.
“You love him.” It comes out without Izzy really meaning to say it. It’s true though; as undeniable a fact as the ocean’s tides.
“Yeah, I love him,” Ed says softly. “T’be pretty hard not to.”
It doesn’t hurt as much as Izzy expects. Stede was created to be loved, like one of those goddamn teddy bears you make at the mall. He comes with all the expensive accessories, too. Izzy can hardly begrudge Ed for giving the man his little cloth heart.
Ed tightens his arm around Izzy. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love you, too.”
Izzy’s whole body spasms, like a rabbit caught in a trap. Fuck. He can’t do this, doesn’t think he can take it. He’s only just come to terms with this all, learned how to be Ed’s fucking friend. He’s violently grateful he’s turned slightly away from Ed. He doesn’t think he can survive looking Ed in the eye.
“You don’t— you can’t—” Izzy grinds the words out.
“C’mon, Iz, you gotta turn over if we’re gonna do this,” Ed reaches a hand out, stroking gentle fingers against the soft spot behind Izzy’s ear. Like he’s comforting a panicked animal. “Izzy,” Ed pleads again, softly.
Izzy wordlessly turns to face Ed. They’re not touching anymore, heads on separate pillows. Fuck, Izzy thinks. Ed’s gorgeous. He’s so beautiful, it almost hurts to look. Like one of those oil paintings of medieval women, the kind that leaves you tearing up on the slotted wood bench in the corner of the museum. Unsure of what you’re even crying about.
“You left me,” Izzy says, helpless.
“We were miserable,” Ed counters. “It had to change. C’mon, Iz.”
“You were miserable, Ed. I didn’t hate our lives.”
Ed frowns. “Were you happy? Like actually happy?”
Izzy licks his lips as if to speak, but stops, taking a breath. When he does speak, it’s careful. “It was alright. I hated that you were miserable though. I was so fuckin’ angry that you didn’t want our life anymore, or that you’d never wanted it in the first place.”
Ed tries to speak, but Izzy silences him. “You’re allowed to change. Didn’t get it then, but I do now. By the time you left the second time, I think I just wanted you to be happy. If that meant Stede, I’d survive.”
“Stede’s not my happiness, Iz. I’m my happiness. Wanted a different situation, not different people. Can’t I love—”
Izzy cuts him off. “ Love ? You tried to fuckin’ kill us.”
“Yeah.” Ed’s voice is small. He’s got that little furrow in his brow, the same one he used to have when he was trying to get them out of some shit. Like he was searching for some way to fix it.
Finally, Ed lets go of the pinch in his brow. He’s still looking at Izzy. “Yeah, I did. Wanted you to understand how bad it all hurt. And I reckoned if I died, I didn’t want you walking around here without me. ‘S that fucked?”
Izzy shuts his eyes a moment, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, Ed, that’s fucked. ‘S’alright, though.” He reaches out, tucking a piece of Ed’s hair behind his ear. “I know you,” he says softly.
Ed grins, a hesitant little thing. He bumps his forehead softly against Izzy’s. “I never stopped loving you. Swear it, even during the worst times.”
It’s real, Izzy can feel it. “I love you,” he replies softly.
“Course you do.”
“Oh fuck off,” Izzy mumbles, but there’s no bite to the words. He pulls Ed in, chest-to-chest, intertwining their legs. It’s a goddamn wonder, really, to hold Edward Teach. To be loved by him. It feels like one of those fuckin’ Eucharistic miracles. Could probably sustain him for the rest of his life, surviving off love alone.
Izzy’s half-dozed off before he realizes that Stede’s snores have stopped. “Bonnet, you can stop pretending to be asleep.”
Stede lets out a conspicuously false snore, making Ed laugh against Izzy’s chest. “Yeah mate, Izzy’s right.”
“You two were having such a lovely moment,” Stede says. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You’re a part of this too,” Izzy says, stretching out from where he’s curled against Ed. “C’mere.” He waits for Stede to scoot in before relaxing into sleep, warm between the two of them. It feels good against his fever-chilled skin; reminds him of the dinner where Alma had excitedly told him about her pet gecko. ‘He spends the winters basking under his heat lamp’ , or something of the sort.
“Feel like Arthur,” Izzy mumbles, pulling up the blankets a bit.
Ed lets out a questioning noise, but Stede seems to get it immediately. “Laying under the heat lamp?” He asks, smiling against Izzy’s hair.
Izzy nods. “Yeah. S’nice.”
“Good. Sleep well, my little gecko.” Stede’s the only person who can manage condescension and endearment, all in one.
Izzy hums noncommittally. But he’s halfway to sleep, already, fever aches fading to the background.