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Ed tilts his glass experimentally, making the splashes of refracted candlelight move down his thighs, and then around the room. The bright spots settle on Izzy, who is lounging with his legs like a figure four. Twenty-odd years of Izzy sitting in chairs, and he sits the exact same way.
There is a map spread across the low table between them. The ink bleeds and spreads in circles where Ed sets his glass down. Ed watches Izzy look at the damaged map, chew his lip, and look away.
Ed can never be exactly sure where the line between vaguely buzzed and intoxicated is with Izzy. The best predictor is when there's an opportunity to be a pain in the ass about some useless minor detail or other, and Izzy lets it slide.
Of course, there are ways to predict when Izzy’s truely fucked up. It’s obvious and delicious when that dangerous little man is stumbling, cursing, and talking back like he wants to get hit, because he absolutely does. It feels good to give in to the frustration, then, and backhand Izzy across the mouth, choke him against a wall. Ed’s not wrong for wanting to and he’s not wrong for doing it either. And the way the tension in Izzy disintegrates when Ed hurts him? Best drug in the fucking world.
All signs point to the evening ending with his cock in Izzy’s mouth. Soon, an excuse will materialize and then for an electric moment they’ll struggle. Then, Izzy will sink into worship, perfect and obedient. His mouth practiced and expert, his hands careful and strong.
It feels good to be wanted by someone who likes him for who he is. Who he really is. Likes that he's done ugly things and who, hell, wants him to do ugly things to him. Doesn't shrink, doesn't cry out, and sometimes even seems to yearn for Ed’s more violent impulses.
Izzy, of course, would never ask for what he wants, and why would he? His actions communicate so specifically and so clearly--why bother with words at all in fact, no use ruining the fucking magic by talking it –
Ed drinks more.
fuck though. Not everything he's done to Izzy, exactly, has been exactly... requested . has it? Ed feels some type of weird way, some kind of deep weird way that is not good. It’s cold inside his chest. But, the rum still burns hot and bright going down.
Izzy refills his glass.
Izzy’s so fucking good to him isn’t he? Little bitchy man, always this that and the other thing isn’t he? Izzy is watching him, Izzy’s looking at his mouth, Izzy wants him, Izzy’s probably getting him drunk on purpose cause he wants him. That should feel nice, being wanted feels nice, right?
"If I didn't know any better I'd think you were trying to get me drunk, Iz." Is Ed flirting? who knows. He doesn't flirt with Izzy, he doesn't need to. never has. Maybe he is though.
"Could be" and it does feel nice to be wanted. Ed shrugs off his jacket in slow smooth movements. Might as well put on a show. Doesn’t need to. But he's going to. He can feel Izzy's eyes on him, sliding down his body like wandering hands.
“Iz Iz Iz hmmm, you want me, huh. Getting me drunk so you can get in my pants, eh?” It's cute. It’s fucking charming. It feels good to be wanted, and Ed's more than a little buzzed now and not slowing down -- he's going to be so wanted, fuck it’s going to feel so good to be wasted and wanted and, and good.
For some reason, though, Ed wants to hear the words, wants to know for sure.
“Fuck Iz, if you want me you can just fucking tell me.” The next swallow of rum is still hot and bright, but it’s not enough to banish the sickening, cold gnaw that is growing inside of him.
"Oh?" Izzy sounds so fucking non-commital, why wont Izzy just fucking tell him? Why won’t Izzy just talk to him? Choose your next words wisely, dog.
“You shouldn't though,” Ed takes two enormous glugs from the bottle on the table “ – Iz, I hurt you.” As he says it, he knows he sounds fucking stupid, fucking terrible, but at least the rum is warm, at least its warm for now, but that was the last of it, but at least something like pleasure still makes his movements and his thoughts syrupy, thick, and slow, it should feel like pleasure--
“I… can’t say I really mind." fuck fuck . Ed knows, Ed knows beyond a doubt this is as close as he will ever hear to Izzy saying please hurt me I want your hands on me I want the ugly parts of you, the parts of you you pretend are someone else, I want them, I want you, please— the heat of the rum subsides and the gnaw, sickening cold and desperate, crawls up Ed’s throat to choke him.
Ed stands, not sure where he’s going. He stumbles, the room spinning, (somewhere in the back of his mind he's pleased that he's managed to get so fucked up, it takes a lot these days) but the room refuses to settle. Either the ship’s moving or his insides are. He fucking hurts, his insides hurt, he hurts inside, and he can’t he can’t make it stop, he can’t make it stop—
"Iz" and Izzy is there.
of course Izzy is there, always there, again and again. Then, injured, limping, Izzy carried him, and lifetimes ago, scared, witnessing, Izzy held him, and meanwhile drunk, stumbling, Izzy steadied him and sometimes, in between, like a lover, Izzy touches him again. Hungry and reverent.
Ed’s legs don't obey his arms don't obey but it doesn’t matter because the floor is welcoming, solid and soft. Ed rests his face against the warm worn leather of Izzy’s thighs, settling at his feet. Hmmm, it's been a good long time since he last looked up at Izzy, and there’s Izzy's face, well worn with concern, but with a faint tint of pink creeping up out of his shirt.
"izzzzzhhhh" god, Ed's fucked up. nothing’s real maybe, or this is the only real thing and everything else isn't real, Izzy. Izzy's legs,,,, strong and wiry, they feel small with Ed's arms wrapped around them. Izzy was always small, and now he's aging like jerky, the softness going out of his limbs with the years. Ed’s mouth floods with saliva, he wants to chew on him, salt him, and save him for later.
He could swear he can smell Izzy’s cunt through his leathers. Ed imagines him groaning as he presses inside with his tongue, with his fingers, with his metal cock. No one touches Ed like that if they value their life, but Izzy, Izzy loves it. It’s a special exercise of power, of intimacy, to make Izzy come from the inside, to feel him shaking, clenching, delirious with pleasure. Ed shifts, seeking relief of the pressure building in his trousers. He finds his hand has wandered well ahead of his viscous thoughts, sliding up between Izzy’s thighs.
"you want me?" Ed slurs. The answer is a low affirmative rumble somewhere inside Izzy, and Ed wishes he was inside Izzy where the sound came from, down his throat or up in his cunt or tangled in his guts. It must be really fucking nice to be the sound.
"Fuckign say it Izzzzssdy sayyy it" and what if he doesn't say it? And what if Ed’s wrong? What if Izzy won't say it? It feels possible, terribly possible that there is nothing–
A hand tightens in Ed's hair.
Pulling, pulling?? Heat, delicious heat surging swelling inside Ed's abdomen, thickening his cock.
Ed’s knees will ache in the morning, probably, but for now he can’t feel them, only the soft give of the gentle floor boards and Izzy's legs, and now Izzy's fist, unexpected and assertive in his hair.
"Yes Edward, I want you." Izzy says, as if comforting an unreasonable child. and Ed’s almost offended, but offense takes energy and offense takes sense of self so instead he is fucking comforted.
and then Izzy's hand is on his face, thumb tracing down his jawline and over his lips and slow, focused. His broad thumb pad, luxurious in its softness and overwrought in its textures, slips inside. And Ed opens for him. He feels the heaviness of power he wears like a mantle slide off of his shoulders and puddle around him on the floor. He floats into the sensation. Anchored, safe.
Helpless.
“So good for me.”
Home.
“Aren't you, Eddie?”
That name, that name on Izzy's lips, that name reaches into Ed's chest and right back across the years. He’s a young man again, and Izzy is showing him how.
Izzy’s hand in his mouth is a simple center of the universe. Opening himself for Izzy is an easy single purpose. it’s the kind of thing not even Ed can fuck up.
Izzy says something and Ed agrees. Izzy's fingers curl, forceful and certain and sure. Ed moans into Izzy’s hand. Izzy holds the bones themselves inside of his face, laying claim to the soft animal underneath–the vulnerable creature that Ed knows he is, that he gives over to Izzy, thoughtless and safe.
Ed opens his eyes to see several candlelit Izzys with their hands down their trousers. He blinks and the Izzys lazily merge into one handsome old man touching himself.
Izzy wants him .
And then Izzy's glistening, salty fingers are pushing into Ed’s throat, and his throat doesn't want them, but fuckkkk, Ed absolutely does. He tastes the sharp acidity of his arousal as Izzy paints his slick across the broadness of his tongue.
“What do you say?”
The fingers slide out of his mouth and Izzy is expecting something, and Ed doesn't know what. And he's going to disappoint Izzy. He always disappoints Izzy. Ed's going to fuck this up . Ed tries to retreat but there's nowhere safe inside, not now, not anymore, never was.
“iszhhh I need..?” Something! Definitely! But Ed can’t name it, he's only a fucked up middle aged man on his knees, about to cry, when Izzy's open hand cracks across his cheek.
Ed collapses. His sharp brittle edges tear through each other as he folds in on himself. His cheek burns. It hurts and the pain glows, illuminating the cavernous ache within him. Izzy hurt him. Izzy hurt him. Izzy hurts him when he deserves it.
And he feels the truth in that, the real easy clear truth, and the room swims and closing his eyes makes it worse and opening his eyes makes it worse and–
“You say thank you, sir.” Ed’s insides reorganize themselves into obedience, service, surrender. Safety.
“thank you, sir.”
“That’s my good boy.” And yeah, Ed is his good boy. Nothing else. Doesn’t have to be.
Izzy sits back down in his chair, knees splayed open, and Ed follows. It’s so fucking easy to be good for Izzy, strange that Ed's ever been anything else. Izzy tugs him by his hair and he moves however Izzy wants him. Ed finds himself fixated on the texture of Izzy's trousers against his cheek and under his tongue. His cock throbs, slick and sensitive between his thighs.
”Do you want something? Captain?” Izzy asks. And ‘captain’ feels diminutive, like a pet name. And yeah, Ed wants something.
Izzy's fingers are in his mouth again, exploring Ed’s untouched insides. And it’s easy again. all of him, Izzy’s. And Izzy’s fingers track under and around his teeth, pushing deep into his softness. Then Izzy is opening him as wide as he goes, pressing down, fingernails digging in behind his molars, forceful, sharp. Ed gasps. Shivers. Pleasure runs down his spine.
The room tilts and begins to spin a little. Ed sags against Izzy's legs. Izzy's fingers pause at the back of his throat.
Ed’s hand has found its way into his leathers, rubbing his cock, and it's not enough, it's really not enough, he needs more, more somehow? He sinks a thumbnail into his dick but there’s a certain dull-edged quality to the feeling, to everything, he needs something to feel. He suspects somewhere inside there is an ache growing into an enormous void, and that with each understimulated moment he slides closer to the edge. If he could just feel something, something, something —as if Izzy heard him, he rams his fingers down his throat.
Ed's body spasms, tensing hard enough to crack his spine. The rum burns on the way up like it did on the way down, and goddamn if this isn't something to feel .
Izzy's fingers plunge again, his hand ramming itself between Ed’s teeth. Ed chokes and gasps and shakes. Rum and stomach acid splash out against his beard. His insides are awash in waves of nausea. Between retches, liquid creeps up his throat and into his mouth, dripping and spilling over his lips.
And Izzy inside of him still, claiming his useless body. Izzy splattered with his stomach acid, telling him he wants him. Izzy down his throat, telling him he's good. Ed’s just a helpless body reacting, and Izzy says he's good.
When Izzy removes his hand, Ed vomits on himself, on Izzy, on the floor. He breathes in liquid, and chokes again. He can’t breathe, can’t breathe, coughs, and collapses against Izzy.
He has swallowed some of his own hair, and feels it slither back up his irritated throat as he paws it out of his mouth. He’s a fucking mess. Isn't he. Is he? Ed waits for something like shame, but it never comes.
“Shh, you’re okay, shhh.”
Izzy’s seen worse. Izzy knows who he is.
Izzy knows. He has always known, he's seen it all,
“I'll take care of you, hmmm?”
All of the worst parts, the unforgivable things he's seen him do, the unforgivable things done to him too. Izzy's seen it all. And?
Somehow, Izzy chooses him again and again. Still. And maybe, maybe that choice is, is something. Could be love, not that Ed would know, but it could be. Inside, the burning spreads out through Ed’s chest, down into his core. It hurts and it's warm and it's welcome. It's going to crack him open, right here in front of Izzy, and maybe that's okay. Because Izzy chooses him. And it's, something.
“You're going to clean up your mess for me, aren't you?” Izzy asks.
Ed licks the leather clean, swallowing the bitter taste.
All these years, it’s been something.
Every close call Izzy said ‘we are going to live through this,’ and then they did, again and again. And every unlikely scheme Ed said ‘this is going to work,’ and then it did, again and again. It worked. They lived. And every moment in between when Ed found himself glad to be alive, he looked for Izzy, hoping he felt it too. And even as those moments grew few and far between, his first thought, still, every time: Izzy Izzy Izzy, come check this out.
That's something .
Izzy murmurs sweet affection, gently stroking his hair. He is good. He is good .
Tears well in Ed’s eyes and spill over. Izzy's softness for him? Always. The softness at the center of a dangerous man, and, and, his unflinching commitment, his loyalty, his faith—that meant something. That means something. Didn’t it? Doesn't it? Really should have realized somewhere among the years of survival and collaboration, between the seasons of conflict and amity, that the warmth of Izzy's praise, of Izzy’s body, is the last good feeling. And he loves it, he loves him like he loves the sun on his skin. Trivial and obvious and, and, not the kind of thing you confess to. Instead, he’s loved him all along in the small shared joys, loved him like a cat bringing home a bird, loved him with the quiet parts of his whole life.
And maybe all this time he should have been on his knees with confessions, but he wasn’t; maybe he should be now, but he isn’t. And maybe he should say something, but he’s sure he won't. And still, maybe if he can do this exactly right, Izzy will understand. Understand how it is for him. How it's always been.
The void inside him opens, then, but Ed survives the free fall into nothingness, tethered to the sensation of Izzy's leathers under his tongue, the simple task at hand.
Izzy is the last good feeling
And he feels so fucking good.
The room spins again and blurs. Ed is licking, kneeling, folding in half. His teeth clink against the buckles of Izzy’s boots.
Izzy will understand.
It gets quiet inside Ed’s mind. there aren't words. only the sensations of his body and the comfort of surrender to someone he can trust. who chooses him. Who loves him in a way that matters.
Izzy rumbles with praise, guides him with careful and trustworthy hands.
Later, Ed finds himself splayed out on the table, his back sticking to the map, map tearing with his movements. Then Izzy on top of him, kissing him. Inside his mouth again, in Ed’s mouth with his tongue like he tastes good, like Izzy wants to swallow him, how could Ed have ever doubted that Izzy wanted him? And fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Izzy’s biting his neck, swallowing and swallowing and Ed can’t Ed can’t, fuck fuck fuck , just enough teeth, sharp-edged and hot, Ed's hips buck in response, and he swallows the vomit in his mouth.
And then Izzy’s between his legs, his pants are already around his ankles. Izzy sinks and worships, his mouth hot and dripping, his tongue pulsing against his cock. Ed's legs fall open and his eyes close, accepting the way his insides roll and shift as if he is adrift at sea because Izzy's hands around his legs hold him steady, keep him safe. Izzy’s mouth is warm, wet pleasure going nowhere, pleasure for its own sake.
and then.
pain .
Ed's legs slam shut
Izzy wouldn't
Izzy? Izzy would never, and – he is
And it's happening
Izzy wouldn’t, but Izzy is, and Ed is helpless, helpless, helpless.
if he could move his mouth, a word would stop him, but his tongue is clumsy against useless lips, his body heavy with weakness, his mind,
drowning in fear, helpless,
It's happening
It's happening
It does not stop happening.
Izzy said never.
But then Izzy says “let me fuck you how I want to.”
And Ed realizes he’s going to let him.
What else can he do?
Izzy said never, and still Izzy’s unbearably inside his cunt, tearing him open like a dog with a corpse.
He fucking hurts, and he can’t he can’t make it stop, he can’t make it stop,
And still, Izzy’s being so careful with him, telling him he's so good. His movements are slow and controlled and maybe that's worse, maybe that makes it worse, but if anyone could love him, Izzy loves him.
Izzy loves him still, and it shouldn’t really matter what Ed wants. if he's loved, if he's good. If he's wanted,,, if he's what Izzy wants?
Izzy wants him
Izzy loves him
Izzy says “let go, I’ve got you”
it's not all bad. to lose himself. to wail and cry with one trustworthy witness. some things need to be broken.
yet sobbing, shaking, he's helpless still
unsafe, spiraling, out of control
all of him limp and obedient as he's torn apart.
loss loss loss cry out, lonely, as if for the touch of a lover,
but Izzy loves him,
Izzy touches him,
and Ed is a captive in his body, experiencing.
choking on panic and vomit and tears
nowhere safe inside, nowhere safe outside, and the last good feeling in the universe
Is breaking, tearing, burning from the inside.
but this is being loved, isn't it? isn't it?
(it is because it has to be)
“that's it, cry for me Eddie”
then Ed's just a kid.
knowing, as it happens,
that he won't remember this.